[And not out of suspicion that initial passing mention had been a lie, but because time served isn't exactly life. Because what if there was more beyond that stretch, when everything else seems so brittle according to phrases like memories of my past are cloudy at times. Repeated concussions. (Repeated concussions doing what? Fighting? Training? Being beaten? Punished? Protecting an entire line the way he's stuck doing the same damned thing now, just for a bunch of elves instead?) Stupid, the way Astarion reaches to pull those fringe-heavy bangs out of Fenris' eyes just to squint at him like something might be visible behind autumnal eyes or their housing, but also consider in reverse: he doesn't care. He doesn't care about futility or whether or not he matches its intensity in terms of playing the role of an overinvested idiot—
Maybe there's a crease somewhere. A wrinkle in the right place; a lack of one in another; a memory rattling around in that unsettlingly attractive head. Something waiting to be glimpsed.]
Recruitment could've been a bloody lifetime. Or— mm.
[Pulling back with a scoff, he resituates himself: pulling up off his own now-asleep heel (ow) and wiping rapidly drying fingers on his shirt as he drops back to lay down fully.]
Maybe I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.
[The bed's so cramped. There's barely any room for laying parallel; Astarion has to wiggle more on his side so he can knock at the empty space beside him in a demand for Fenris to come too.
It's been a long night. He's still loitering at the edge.
no subject
[And not out of suspicion that initial passing mention had been a lie, but because time served isn't exactly life. Because what if there was more beyond that stretch, when everything else seems so brittle according to phrases like memories of my past are cloudy at times. Repeated concussions. (Repeated concussions doing what? Fighting? Training? Being beaten? Punished? Protecting an entire line the way he's stuck doing the same damned thing now, just for a bunch of elves instead?) Stupid, the way Astarion reaches to pull those fringe-heavy bangs out of Fenris' eyes just to squint at him like something might be visible behind autumnal eyes or their housing, but also consider in reverse: he doesn't care. He doesn't care about futility or whether or not he matches its intensity in terms of playing the role of an overinvested idiot—
Maybe there's a crease somewhere. A wrinkle in the right place; a lack of one in another; a memory rattling around in that unsettlingly attractive head. Something waiting to be glimpsed.]
Recruitment could've been a bloody lifetime. Or— mm.
[Pulling back with a scoff, he resituates himself: pulling up off his own now-asleep heel (ow) and wiping rapidly drying fingers on his shirt as he drops back to lay down fully.]
Maybe I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.
[The bed's so cramped. There's barely any room for laying parallel; Astarion has to wiggle more on his side so he can knock at the empty space beside him in a demand for Fenris to come too.
It's been a long night. He's still loitering at the edge.
Come here.]
....do you often struggle with memory issues?
Aside from the past, I mean.