[He blurts the word out without meaning to, his attention suddenly and swiftly focusing in on that hesitation. The other possibilities ricochet endlessly in his mind, technology, magic, a device embedded in your skin, each more nauseating than the last— each more plausible than the last. How many times had Danarius called him in for upkeep? How many times had Fenris sat and endured endless inspections, nameless liquids hanging heavily in IV bags while prying fingers moved him this way and that…
Gods, it need not even be so subtle. Perhaps it was something planted within both he and Hadriana from the start, waiting to be used. Some extra line of code: a last failsafe from a magister eternally determined to keep one step ahead of the world.]
Tell me. What else do you think it might be?
[It’s a plea, not a command. He has to know. No matter how abhorrent, he has to face it.]
We'll find out together. I'll take you to the healer the second this is over, Fenris.
[It isn't empty air. It isn't unwillingness to play the hypothetical game of supposition (his mind is racing behind the placidity of an expression pinned against his own guard's shoulder in the windowless dark, already wondering how long it's been), knowing there could be barely any time till dawn— if it isn't here already, heralding the steady rap of knuckles at the door insisting that Lord Ancunín needs his hound.
And that's the crux of it, really. There is no time.
No time, no calm, aside from what they've scraped up from the wreckage of broken glass and shallow cuts.
It feels like those thin milliseconds all over again. The shattering span between a bullet whizzing through the air, and the hard slam of the ground rushing up to meet them, not knowing if it was safety or ruin that guided them down.]
If he did something to rewire or— or to control you, we'll figure it out. [Insists the elf with too-large ears curled up tight against his side, too short to keep his knees from digging into Fenris' thighs when he shifts to take that face in both his hands.] We'll undo it.
I don't know anything about magitech, but I have more than enough money to find people that do, so there's that, at least. And it won't be long before whoever was careless enough to shoot at us will be found. [His thumbpad traces over a banded line of lyrium, glowing from soft friction (weaving him wondering at what might lie beneath)....] They were stupid for that. Almost as stupid as your old master.
And the Ancunín line won't suffer either. Trust me on that.
Not just because of the fear (though that twists within him, his stomach writhing in knots as his heart whimpers what if, what if, what if over and over, a thousand questions with no immediate answers tormenting him), but the sincerity. The aching urgency woven in Astarion's voice that's so unfamiliar that he nearly flinches from it. Care and concern fill silver eyes, echoing in the soft press of his hands— I will fix this, his charge tells him. I will make it better, I will take care of you, I will keep you safe, I promise, I promise, and the sentiments pile on, each one layered atop each other in an almost unfathomable tower.
It doesn't erase the terror, but it does muffle it. We'll find you answers, and despite all his experience, despite his centuries of good sense, despite all his mistrust in masters and nobles and their intentions, it takes nothing at all for Fenris to believe him.
He presses his hand over one of Astarion's own as he gathers his thoughts, relishing the chill of his fingers and the softness of his palm. His arm throbs in time with his thundering heart, the bandage pulled too tight and his lyrium aching beneath that gentle touch; he'd suffer so much more if it meant that Astarion wouldn't stop this gentle caretaking.]
It is not the Ancunín line I put my trust in.
[A soft rumble. His thumbs strokes slowly against Astarion's hand, his emerald eyes soft. It's nothing they haven't implied before, adoration for one another and resentment for Lord Ancunín all tangling in one— but it's one thing to imply it. Quite another to verbalize it so starkly.
Echo that back, and you'll have the undistorted truth.]
You know how many people would call you crazy for that alone?
[Deflection's just the temporary means to swallow. To blink. To remember how to breathe for those few seconds when thumbprints wash over his face, carrying with it the weight of worth he's never had before: being needed— relied on. For the little boy that was either an expectation or a burden inside walls where small fingers had strained for comfort, it means....
Oh, it means everything.
Outlined by a windowless room. A guarded sense of quiet and a locked door and a given gift soon to be taken back come dawn, there's no forgetting what he looks like to the world outside this room.
He can't escape it.
Except for when he looks at Fenris— when Fenris looks at him. When words like that slip underneath his ribs to pry him open even to himself, and you know, as much as it stings to have the rust knocked off of his perception when it's all grown in so deep around his offered mien, it's also the most remarkable relief. Like he's been waiting years to feel it, every time.
(Hells, he really has though, hasn't he?)]
The Ancunín line the first of them, in fact.
[Said with a soft clicking of his tongue, already squeezing in tighter for good measure against Fenris' side as he starts to fix that bandage again. Its borders going faintly red from pressure already.]
[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.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
[He blurts the word out without meaning to, his attention suddenly and swiftly focusing in on that hesitation. The other possibilities ricochet endlessly in his mind, technology, magic, a device embedded in your skin, each more nauseating than the last— each more plausible than the last. How many times had Danarius called him in for upkeep? How many times had Fenris sat and endured endless inspections, nameless liquids hanging heavily in IV bags while prying fingers moved him this way and that…
Gods, it need not even be so subtle. Perhaps it was something planted within both he and Hadriana from the start, waiting to be used. Some extra line of code: a last failsafe from a magister eternally determined to keep one step ahead of the world.]
Tell me. What else do you think it might be?
[It’s a plea, not a command. He has to know. No matter how abhorrent, he has to face it.]
no subject
[It isn't empty air. It isn't unwillingness to play the hypothetical game of supposition (his mind is racing behind the placidity of an expression pinned against his own guard's shoulder in the windowless dark, already wondering how long it's been), knowing there could be barely any time till dawn— if it isn't here already, heralding the steady rap of knuckles at the door insisting that Lord Ancunín needs his hound.
And that's the crux of it, really. There is no time.
No time, no calm, aside from what they've scraped up from the wreckage of broken glass and shallow cuts.
It feels like those thin milliseconds all over again. The shattering span between a bullet whizzing through the air, and the hard slam of the ground rushing up to meet them, not knowing if it was safety or ruin that guided them down.]
If he did something to rewire or— or to control you, we'll figure it out. [Insists the elf with too-large ears curled up tight against his side, too short to keep his knees from digging into Fenris' thighs when he shifts to take that face in both his hands.] We'll undo it.
I don't know anything about magitech, but I have more than enough money to find people that do, so there's that, at least. And it won't be long before whoever was careless enough to shoot at us will be found. [His thumbpad traces over a banded line of lyrium, glowing from soft friction (weaving him wondering at what might lie beneath)....] They were stupid for that. Almost as stupid as your old master.
And the Ancunín line won't suffer either. Trust me on that.
no subject
Not just because of the fear (though that twists within him, his stomach writhing in knots as his heart whimpers what if, what if, what if over and over, a thousand questions with no immediate answers tormenting him), but the sincerity. The aching urgency woven in Astarion's voice that's so unfamiliar that he nearly flinches from it. Care and concern fill silver eyes, echoing in the soft press of his hands— I will fix this, his charge tells him. I will make it better, I will take care of you, I will keep you safe, I promise, I promise, and the sentiments pile on, each one layered atop each other in an almost unfathomable tower.
It doesn't erase the terror, but it does muffle it. We'll find you answers, and despite all his experience, despite his centuries of good sense, despite all his mistrust in masters and nobles and their intentions, it takes nothing at all for Fenris to believe him.
He presses his hand over one of Astarion's own as he gathers his thoughts, relishing the chill of his fingers and the softness of his palm. His arm throbs in time with his thundering heart, the bandage pulled too tight and his lyrium aching beneath that gentle touch; he'd suffer so much more if it meant that Astarion wouldn't stop this gentle caretaking.]
It is not the Ancunín line I put my trust in.
[A soft rumble. His thumbs strokes slowly against Astarion's hand, his emerald eyes soft. It's nothing they haven't implied before, adoration for one another and resentment for Lord Ancunín all tangling in one— but it's one thing to imply it. Quite another to verbalize it so starkly.
It's you I trust. It's only ever you.]
Do you know that?
no subject
Echo that back, and you'll have the undistorted truth.]
You know how many people would call you crazy for that alone?
[Deflection's just the temporary means to swallow. To blink. To remember how to breathe for those few seconds when thumbprints wash over his face, carrying with it the weight of worth he's never had before: being needed— relied on. For the little boy that was either an expectation or a burden inside walls where small fingers had strained for comfort, it means....
Oh, it means everything.
Outlined by a windowless room. A guarded sense of quiet and a locked door and a given gift soon to be taken back come dawn, there's no forgetting what he looks like to the world outside this room.
He can't escape it.
Except for when he looks at Fenris— when Fenris looks at him. When words like that slip underneath his ribs to pry him open even to himself, and you know, as much as it stings to have the rust knocked off of his perception when it's all grown in so deep around his offered mien, it's also the most remarkable relief. Like he's been waiting years to feel it, every time.
(Hells, he really has though, hasn't he?)]
The Ancunín line the first of them, in fact.
[Said with a soft clicking of his tongue, already squeezing in tighter for good measure against Fenris' side as he starts to fix that bandage again. Its borders going faintly red from pressure already.]
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.]