Rather, it does, but only the world Astarion is glad to watch shrivel up and die— eclipsed by a replacement with more patience than perversion to its name. The overlap shrinking whilst flint bites into his fingers through thick leather, and his hazy stare can't stop gawking at the handsome thing before his eyes.
Not outraged. Not incensed. Soused, perhaps, and close enough to evoke a certain dryness in his throat, but— gods, there's something in that stare he's never seen before. (Again. Again. Someday he'll stop being taken wholly by surprise by Fenris' ability to carve out first after first in the catalogue of never known experiences,) But for a palmful of silent seconds Astarion feels....
Oh, stupid. Dumbstruck, with a literal emphasis on the term dumb, because he ought to be rejecting this disarmament. Waiting for the hammer to fall in any which way it might, finally catching the curtain call that's been beckoning it back to center stage: Astarion is feeling again. Astarion's gone weak. Astarion's fled his lead again, and now—
He blinks before his head tilts down, glancing up once more to be sure it's still all right— then back towards the hearth and its debris. The flint held in his hand. The mess of tinder there to light, scarecrow remembering the gesture when he enacts it: a rough click-clack snap of steel against stone and an ensuing hiss of sparks.
Ultimately lifeless.
It doesn't take.]
Tsk.
[Just his luck.]
It's defective.
[Astarion. Sweetheart. Flint and steel can't be defective.]
no subject
Or—
Rather, it does, but only the world Astarion is glad to watch shrivel up and die— eclipsed by a replacement with more patience than perversion to its name. The overlap shrinking whilst flint bites into his fingers through thick leather, and his hazy stare can't stop gawking at the handsome thing before his eyes.
Not outraged. Not incensed. Soused, perhaps, and close enough to evoke a certain dryness in his throat, but— gods, there's something in that stare he's never seen before. (Again. Again. Someday he'll stop being taken wholly by surprise by Fenris' ability to carve out first after first in the catalogue of never known experiences,) But for a palmful of silent seconds Astarion feels....
Oh, stupid. Dumbstruck, with a literal emphasis on the term dumb, because he ought to be rejecting this disarmament. Waiting for the hammer to fall in any which way it might, finally catching the curtain call that's been beckoning it back to center stage: Astarion is feeling again. Astarion's gone weak. Astarion's fled his lead again, and now—
He blinks before his head tilts down, glancing up once more to be sure it's still all right— then back towards the hearth and its debris. The flint held in his hand. The mess of tinder there to light, scarecrow remembering the gesture when he enacts it: a rough click-clack snap of steel against stone and an ensuing hiss of sparks.
Ultimately lifeless.
It doesn't take.]
Tsk.
[Just his luck.]
It's defective.
[Astarion. Sweetheart. Flint and steel can't be defective.]