All things considered, this isn’t really the time or the place. They’re at the heart of the storm, so to speak, surrounded by risk and ruin. The faint rise of that thought is a sliver of something. A splinter too small to be seen, stinging only under pressure.

And it's only then, with startling clarity under abrupt scrutiny, that Astarion reaches a single, horrifying realization; memories that felt concrete go cold and fragile, like the sudden cracking of breaking ice. His world under binding rule was only ever a reflection of what he’d been told.

It was in dreams that he confessed everything. In dreams where stern words turned to stumbling southern-set footsteps. He wanted this because he was told to want this. He was certain it’d be fine because— why would he ever feel at ease here. Here, where the stench of suffering and decay runs so thick as to be cloying. It’s like a sprung trap, he only feels the bite of it once it’s far too late.

Cazador’s gotten smarter.

Or crueler.

He wants to open his mouth, to warn Fenris with outstretched fingers. To stop him. He knows. But he only smiles under the weight of that kiss, keeping his footing easy and his fingertips feather light as they roam high, coursing across the angles of Fenris’ armor, fitting themselves to his jawline, his cheeks, the fringe of his hair. His lips roam lower, sinking by degrees nearer to Fenris' throat.

The carved bit of antler slung around his neck biting into his skin for how deeply he leans into it.

“Well. I’ve certainly missed you, too.”