“Why can you not let it rest?” Astarion snaps, his fingers still perched across those bite marks in mending, voice pitching sharp as though something sensitive and wounded's been brushed the wrong way.
As if he’s the one that has to endure the sting of mending.
And then he sighs, inhales without need. Eyes drifting shut as he draws that rag away now that the last of his efforts are finished.
“I don’t know. Maybe I just want the satisfaction of lording over everything that ever mattered to him.” The thought is vivid. Beautiful in its allure as much as he finds it distasteful. Is that strange? His brow line pinches, he forces his eyes open after a beat.
“We can discuss this in more depth later. You need sleep.”
"I am not skilled with resting," Fenris says, even as his eyes are half-lidded, his body loose with fatigue, his gaze unfocused.
But even he can acknowledge the urge as fair. No one can justly deny their right to pettiness. At the very least, Fenris cannot scoff without making himself a hypocrite.
His eyes slide closed. "I will trust your judgement. But please be cautious."
He tries to work himself into Fenris’ arms, to steal a rare opportunity for blissful slumber— the first he’ll truly know since before long fangs first kissed his throat in bloodied streets. The silence is oppressive. He shifts again, nosing in so that his cheek rests against Fenris’ collarbone, considering the merits of trying to wake him. They should be celebrating their way into dreams together. They ought to be reveling. Now he can’t get his mind back into the gilded span of relief, away from hollower pits of self-reflection.
He doesn’t love the idea that beneath all of his bravado, something still sits faintly out of place.
Cazador is dead. Isn’t that enough? Is this what it felt like for Fenris when Danarius died?
He tries to kiss that shoulder, but the scent of injury tempts teeth. And with a faint noise of discontentment he gives up and simply lies on his back, leaving Fenris space to sleep as the dead do, rather than the undead creature at his side.
In sleep he dreams not of Cazador for once— but of Fenris. Cast in sleek shapes by longing, reaching for him with steady fingertips. Willing, when he lifts his neck to Astarion. The beat of his pulse sweet in its adoring, unrushed tempo as he’s bled.
Beyond moderation. Beyond danger. Until those fingertips go cold and lifeless, his eyes glassy, still snared in a loving embrace.
—Astarion jolts when he wakes, sitting upright with the taste of blood in his mouth.
But it’s just his own. The edge of a fang must’ve nicked his tongue in his sleep, and panic gives way to waking reassurance, Fenris warm and resting beside him: it was only a dream.
Damn this wretched place. Maybe Fenris was right about burning it after all.
Sleep is dreamless, but filled with sensation. He remembers the ache of closeness and holds it there, wanting more and not being able, in the depths of sleep, to attain it. Something shifts on the bed, and-
Fenris wakes with a start, hand grasping for something in the darkness. The movement ends in a blow, landing on empty air. He's slept, but he's still off his game. He breathes slowly, trying to assess the damage, waiting.
No attack comes, but he can see the outline of Astarion's form. "Astarion," he says, blinking against the lack of light. He wanted to say something else. What was it? The thought flees from his mind, and only concern replaces it, a mounting dread he can't identify until he remembers where, exactly, they still are.
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As if he’s the one that has to endure the sting of mending.
And then he sighs, inhales without need. Eyes drifting shut as he draws that rag away now that the last of his efforts are finished.
“I don’t know. Maybe I just want the satisfaction of lording over everything that ever mattered to him.” The thought is vivid. Beautiful in its allure as much as he finds it distasteful. Is that strange? His brow line pinches, he forces his eyes open after a beat.
“We can discuss this in more depth later. You need sleep.”
no subject
But even he can acknowledge the urge as fair. No one can justly deny their right to pettiness. At the very least, Fenris cannot scoff without making himself a hypocrite.
His eyes slide closed. "I will trust your judgement. But please be cautious."
no subject
He doesn’t love the idea that beneath all of his bravado, something still sits faintly out of place.
Cazador is dead. Isn’t that enough? Is this what it felt like for Fenris when Danarius died?
He tries to kiss that shoulder, but the scent of injury tempts teeth. And with a faint noise of discontentment he gives up and simply lies on his back, leaving Fenris space to sleep as the dead do, rather than the undead creature at his side.
In sleep he dreams not of Cazador for once— but of Fenris. Cast in sleek shapes by longing, reaching for him with steady fingertips. Willing, when he lifts his neck to Astarion. The beat of his pulse sweet in its adoring, unrushed tempo as he’s bled.
Beyond moderation. Beyond danger. Until those fingertips go cold and lifeless, his eyes glassy, still snared in a loving embrace.
—Astarion jolts when he wakes, sitting upright with the taste of blood in his mouth.
But it’s just his own. The edge of a fang must’ve nicked his tongue in his sleep, and panic gives way to waking reassurance, Fenris warm and resting beside him: it was only a dream.
Damn this wretched place. Maybe Fenris was right about burning it after all.
no subject
Fenris wakes with a start, hand grasping for something in the darkness. The movement ends in a blow, landing on empty air. He's slept, but he's still off his game. He breathes slowly, trying to assess the damage, waiting.
No attack comes, but he can see the outline of Astarion's form. "Astarion," he says, blinking against the lack of light. He wanted to say something else. What was it? The thought flees from his mind, and only concern replaces it, a mounting dread he can't identify until he remembers where, exactly, they still are.
no subject