[Cazador beat the failings out of him in that regard; the stillborn click-click-click of memories he won't allow past the damming wall of self-restraint— each time the chill of mortared rooms creeps in or the sour split crack of chastising calls beside sharp, digging pain, he stamps it out quicker than it can root.
Ergo there's no difference, then, compared to now.
His smile doesn't buckle; his voice is an even hum, stitched whole by powerful affection. Hundreds of years beneath his belt and he still can't fake the latter with an artist's keen precision, yet unlike the broken little creature sucking in night air as surrogate for freedom, these days it's a point of pride. An odd mercy.
That there's something in him never tainted by dishonesty. So egregiously flawed that it can't help offering the truth— perpetually snared by handsome, tattooed fingers. The rest of him can run, but not this. Never this.]
I searched every infinitesimal measure of your expressions— your stare— for the thought you might remember me. [Slow start. Past the stopgap of resistance, there's a trickle of remembrance funneled through. The old scent of a backed-up dockside fireplace in too small lodgings, intermingled with lilac and leather oil and the cloying smells of stolen perfumes, hoarded treats; the glimpse of Leto's profile reflected by firelight against frozen window panes, at an angle owing to Astarion's half-suspended excuse for a bed.]
That I'd ever meant something to you, rather than being the hapless fool you tripped over unseen.
[Bittersweet elfroot on his tongue, the smoke burns in conjunction with sweet wine, but gods, it was a gentle bliss.]
no subject
[Cazador beat the failings out of him in that regard; the stillborn click-click-click of memories he won't allow past the damming wall of self-restraint— each time the chill of mortared rooms creeps in or the sour split crack of chastising calls beside sharp, digging pain, he stamps it out quicker than it can root.
Ergo there's no difference, then, compared to now.
His smile doesn't buckle; his voice is an even hum, stitched whole by powerful affection. Hundreds of years beneath his belt and he still can't fake the latter with an artist's keen precision, yet unlike the broken little creature sucking in night air as surrogate for freedom, these days it's a point of pride. An odd mercy.
That there's something in him never tainted by dishonesty. So egregiously flawed that it can't help offering the truth— perpetually snared by handsome, tattooed fingers. The rest of him can run, but not this. Never this.]
I searched every infinitesimal measure of your expressions— your stare— for the thought you might remember me. [Slow start. Past the stopgap of resistance, there's a trickle of remembrance funneled through. The old scent of a backed-up dockside fireplace in too small lodgings, intermingled with lilac and leather oil and the cloying smells of stolen perfumes, hoarded treats; the glimpse of Leto's profile reflected by firelight against frozen window panes, at an angle owing to Astarion's half-suspended excuse for a bed.]
That I'd ever meant something to you, rather than being the hapless fool you tripped over unseen.
[Bittersweet elfroot on his tongue, the smoke burns in conjunction with sweet wine, but gods, it was a gentle bliss.]