[He does intend to finish that sentence, but it's hard to focus when Astarion is tugging at his bandages. There's something uniquely wonderful about feeling those slender fingers tend to him. It's a soft feeling, warm and contented, glowing in the center of his chest, endearing him with every touch. Fenris watches, amused at the fastidious way Astarion picks at the knot, warming for the careful way he rewraps soft linen. Every brush of skin-on-skin is its own euphoria, quiet and yet resonating all the more.
I will take care of you, and someday, that sentiment will not surprise him.
He gathers Astarion up when he finishes: tugging him in clumsily, tangling their bodies together until Astarion ends up half atop him. It's as much for his own comfort as it is anything else: the security of having him there, right there, tangible and warm and real within the boundaries of his arms. And whether that's because it's assurance that Astarion is alive and well (oh, he will have nightmares tonight, waking with his hand shoved over his mouth as visions of a corpse linger in his mind) or simply because he, himself, needs someone to cling to is up for debate. Both, perhaps, is the right answer. Both, as the terror from before ripples through him once more.]
There are not many people out there who know you as I do, I suspect.
[No, they don't. They know the facade Astarion puts on: not wholly false, not at all, but it's still a facade nonetheless. It's the Ancunín heir, the noble firstborn; it's the brat who stripped in front of Fenris his very first night, teasingly tempting him just to see if he'd be like every other guardian he's ever had. It's all the ways in which Astarion shores up all the necessary defenses in the world he lives in, and they are not false, but oh, it's not him.
But when Fenris thinks of Astarion, he thinks of the gun range. Of the breathless eagerness in his voice as he'd pleaded for another hour, wait, I can keep going, so pleased to learn a new skill. He thinks of the word courtship; he thinks of the clumsy way their mouths had met, fierce longing overcoming good sense. What would all those nobles know of that boy? That bright, clever, frustrated little starling, his wings clipped and all of him so eager to fly.]
And they do not know what an ally they are missing.
[His head tips, his lips pressing against the top of Astarion's head in something not quite a kiss.]
I— Astarion, there will be times—
[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by a sharp knock. Filit, Talindra's voice calls softly. It's time. And then, louder: Fenris. The lord of the house wishes for you.
And there's nothing for it. He cannot delay, not in this house, not if he wants to keep within his lord's good graces. Fenris allows himself the luxury of one more kiss, his lips brushing sweetly against Astarion's forehead, before he rises.]
no subject
[He does intend to finish that sentence, but it's hard to focus when Astarion is tugging at his bandages. There's something uniquely wonderful about feeling those slender fingers tend to him. It's a soft feeling, warm and contented, glowing in the center of his chest, endearing him with every touch. Fenris watches, amused at the fastidious way Astarion picks at the knot, warming for the careful way he rewraps soft linen. Every brush of skin-on-skin is its own euphoria, quiet and yet resonating all the more.
I will take care of you, and someday, that sentiment will not surprise him.
He gathers Astarion up when he finishes: tugging him in clumsily, tangling their bodies together until Astarion ends up half atop him. It's as much for his own comfort as it is anything else: the security of having him there, right there, tangible and warm and real within the boundaries of his arms. And whether that's because it's assurance that Astarion is alive and well (oh, he will have nightmares tonight, waking with his hand shoved over his mouth as visions of a corpse linger in his mind) or simply because he, himself, needs someone to cling to is up for debate. Both, perhaps, is the right answer. Both, as the terror from before ripples through him once more.]
There are not many people out there who know you as I do, I suspect.
[No, they don't. They know the facade Astarion puts on: not wholly false, not at all, but it's still a facade nonetheless. It's the Ancunín heir, the noble firstborn; it's the brat who stripped in front of Fenris his very first night, teasingly tempting him just to see if he'd be like every other guardian he's ever had. It's all the ways in which Astarion shores up all the necessary defenses in the world he lives in, and they are not false, but oh, it's not him.
But when Fenris thinks of Astarion, he thinks of the gun range. Of the breathless eagerness in his voice as he'd pleaded for another hour, wait, I can keep going, so pleased to learn a new skill. He thinks of the word courtship; he thinks of the clumsy way their mouths had met, fierce longing overcoming good sense. What would all those nobles know of that boy? That bright, clever, frustrated little starling, his wings clipped and all of him so eager to fly.]
And they do not know what an ally they are missing.
[His head tips, his lips pressing against the top of Astarion's head in something not quite a kiss.]
I— Astarion, there will be times—
[But whatever he was about to say is interrupted by a sharp knock. Filit, Talindra's voice calls softly. It's time. And then, louder: Fenris. The lord of the house wishes for you.
And there's nothing for it. He cannot delay, not in this house, not if he wants to keep within his lord's good graces. Fenris allows himself the luxury of one more kiss, his lips brushing sweetly against Astarion's forehead, before he rises.]