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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"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.