[Gods, what a language Astarion speaks in. And not just him: his friends, his family, all of them so fluent in it as to almost become mundane. Meanings softly veiled behind gauzy misdirection, just so they all of them can have the deniability of not being truly sincere if it backfires. But unlike all those months ago, Fenris has found he's becoming more fluent in it. He can hear the meanings hidden beneath layers; he knows to look more to the softness in Astarion's silver gaze than listen to the words that slip past his lips. I don't want you to forget me, and oh, he hears it. He knows it. I'm scared. I don't want to lose you. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, I can't stand the thought of losing you, and perhaps he oughtn't take too much credit, for it's the same song his own heart is whimpering.]
Hah . . . no, I imagine not.
[He murmurs it as he stares at the ceiling. The thing is: he is not of Astarion's class. Knowing how to bite your tongue as a servant or a slave is one thing; it's quite another to speak it fluently. And now that he knows he will not face repercussions for speaking his mind (at least around Astarion and his friends), ah, he won't waste the opportunity.]
. . . and I would be sorry to forget you.
[No. Say what you mean. It's just that it's a little terrifying, but it's worthwhile too.]
I would mourn your loss, Astarion. More sorely than I am able to say . . . more sorely than I could comprehend if it were to happen.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes. And it doesn't matter that the ground beneath them is uncertain, nor that they're still figuring out what they are. He says it because Astarion is mouthing at the edges of his joke of a life; because he keeps asking questions, picking at the loose threads for no other reason than he frets. Because the word courtship keeps echoing in the back of his mind; because of the way his heart had all but stopped when he heard glass shatter. Not you, it can't be you, please, and he has never felt so weak protecting anyone before. His heart has never screamed in terror before, not like that.
I don't want you to forget me, and it goes both ways. They're two fragmented beings clinging to each other with both hands, desperately trying to keep a spark alive in the darkness. What matters more than that?
But ah, ah: he cannot be too emotional. Fretful anxiety and gnawing uncertainty mean he clears his throat, ignoring the heat in the tips of his ears as he adds:]
But as I recall . . . mph, it happened most often after I failed, yes. Or if I grew too agitated or frustrated . . .
He called them symptoms of the concussions. And he would call a healer, though I do not know who he was. He never spoke to me.
[Never looked at him. Never once addressed him like a person instead of a bit of livestock, there to have his teeth checked and his stamina increased.]
no subject
Hah . . . no, I imagine not.
[He murmurs it as he stares at the ceiling. The thing is: he is not of Astarion's class. Knowing how to bite your tongue as a servant or a slave is one thing; it's quite another to speak it fluently. And now that he knows he will not face repercussions for speaking his mind (at least around Astarion and his friends), ah, he won't waste the opportunity.]
. . . and I would be sorry to forget you.
[No. Say what you mean. It's just that it's a little terrifying, but it's worthwhile too.]
I would mourn your loss, Astarion. More sorely than I am able to say . . . more sorely than I could comprehend if it were to happen.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes. And it doesn't matter that the ground beneath them is uncertain, nor that they're still figuring out what they are. He says it because Astarion is mouthing at the edges of his joke of a life; because he keeps asking questions, picking at the loose threads for no other reason than he frets. Because the word courtship keeps echoing in the back of his mind; because of the way his heart had all but stopped when he heard glass shatter. Not you, it can't be you, please, and he has never felt so weak protecting anyone before. His heart has never screamed in terror before, not like that.
I don't want you to forget me, and it goes both ways. They're two fragmented beings clinging to each other with both hands, desperately trying to keep a spark alive in the darkness. What matters more than that?
But ah, ah: he cannot be too emotional. Fretful anxiety and gnawing uncertainty mean he clears his throat, ignoring the heat in the tips of his ears as he adds:]
But as I recall . . . mph, it happened most often after I failed, yes. Or if I grew too agitated or frustrated . . .
He called them symptoms of the concussions. And he would call a healer, though I do not know who he was. He never spoke to me.
[Never looked at him. Never once addressed him like a person instead of a bit of livestock, there to have his teeth checked and his stamina increased.]