Well. All of it, really. But that’s par for the course: no one would deny the elf’s possessed of so much more than what any one creature should have. It’s almost unfair.
Astarion exhales from his own perch, transfixed for a beat by it. He’s felt so much since he’s come to this strange world: the memory of shared warmth huddled beneath a single coat beside a man that smelled of fresh linen and faint solvent, Derrica pulling him to her chest, her heart beating rapidly, her hands soft as she caressed him, as though they’d known each other for an eternity— Tiffany’s whispers, the way she’d called him lovely without thinking, Adrasteia’s fingers at his throat, heat against cold, and gloved hands smoothing across his bare chest in the dark, ancient gold eyes ever so bright. All beautiful. All rare, fleeting fragments to be coveted, just like the rest of his own scattered collection now strewn about their feet.
All but one.
“The first person I find willing to do fair business with an elf.” He says, red eyes utterly transfixed in their drowsy, hooded stare.
Eventually he pushes his cup away, rising for a single step, and sinking down across the mattress beside the open floor where Fenris is drawn up like a wolf in its den.
His arms fold, he sets his chin atop them, watching.
“I suspect I’ll be stuck with our dear Lord Misshapen Inbred for quite some time.” Only a half-breath lives there before Astarion adds, lightly.
Fenris, oblivious of thoughts as deep as these, continues to prepare himself for sleep. No, Astarion did not invite him, but he doesn't consider his presence may be unwanted for a short time, both of them tired.
"I've no taste for art," he says with a laugh. His eyes slip closed.
Ever a step too late. Or— well, maybe not. Because it’s no small truth that Astarion wants as much as he can possibly get. That he could, admittedly, nudge the poor creature awake in those first few seconds: the pivotal ones where sleep starts to settle heavy as a wine-drunk shroud, visible in the eased contours of his face.
He never does.
Instead, when his own slender fingers dangle over the side of the bed— meandering between selfishness and greed— it’s only to brush his own knuckles, light as a breeze, against the tip of a metal feather. The very edge of his mouth twitching with faint warmth.
Selflessness was never his forte. It certainly isn’t now. Two hundred years of isolation have left him starved for more than what he's met with in this moment.
So why he, of all people, finds contentment in the sight of what’s perpetually out of his own reach is anyone’s guess.
And maybe that’s just it. For the first time, he simply doesn’t care about something slipping through his fingers.
His exhale is low. Easy. His thoughts are a blank slate beyond the simplest contentment, wine still buzzing in his ears. He lifts himself with no terribly taxing effort, and collapses against the pillows on the opposite side of the bed, slumped in a perfectly useless heap.
And that night, all the usual nightmares never seem to find him.
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no subject
Well. All of it, really. But that’s par for the course: no one would deny the elf’s possessed of so much more than what any one creature should have. It’s almost unfair.
Astarion exhales from his own perch, transfixed for a beat by it. He’s felt so much since he’s come to this strange world: the memory of shared warmth huddled beneath a single coat beside a man that smelled of fresh linen and faint solvent, Derrica pulling him to her chest, her heart beating rapidly, her hands soft as she caressed him, as though they’d known each other for an eternity— Tiffany’s whispers, the way she’d called him lovely without thinking, Adrasteia’s fingers at his throat, heat against cold, and gloved hands smoothing across his bare chest in the dark, ancient gold eyes ever so bright. All beautiful. All rare, fleeting fragments to be coveted, just like the rest of his own scattered collection now strewn about their feet.
All but one.
“The first person I find willing to do fair business with an elf.” He says, red eyes utterly transfixed in their drowsy, hooded stare.
Eventually he pushes his cup away, rising for a single step, and sinking down across the mattress beside the open floor where Fenris is drawn up like a wolf in its den.
His arms fold, he sets his chin atop them, watching.
“I suspect I’ll be stuck with our dear Lord Misshapen Inbred for quite some time.” Only a half-breath lives there before Astarion adds, lightly.
“—unless, of course, you want him.”
no subject
"I've no taste for art," he says with a laugh. His eyes slip closed.
no subject
Ever a step too late. Or— well, maybe not. Because it’s no small truth that Astarion wants as much as he can possibly get. That he could, admittedly, nudge the poor creature awake in those first few seconds: the pivotal ones where sleep starts to settle heavy as a wine-drunk shroud, visible in the eased contours of his face.
He never does.
Instead, when his own slender fingers dangle over the side of the bed— meandering between selfishness and greed— it’s only to brush his own knuckles, light as a breeze, against the tip of a metal feather. The very edge of his mouth twitching with faint warmth.
Selflessness was never his forte. It certainly isn’t now. Two hundred years of isolation have left him starved for more than what he's met with in this moment.
So why he, of all people, finds contentment in the sight of what’s perpetually out of his own reach is anyone’s guess.
And maybe that’s just it. For the first time, he simply doesn’t care about something slipping through his fingers.
His exhale is low. Easy. His thoughts are a blank slate beyond the simplest contentment, wine still buzzing in his ears. He lifts himself with no terribly taxing effort, and collapses against the pillows on the opposite side of the bed, slumped in a perfectly useless heap.
And that night, all the usual nightmares never seem to find him.