And for that, Astarion pauses. Not hung up on the notion of Emet-Selch opting to remain Emet-Selch even with nothing at all left clutched within his grasp, but for what chases after it: it's not a denial, it's not even a deflection—
It's an offer.
And it means that for a moment Astarion doesn't quite know whether he should sit up or stay exactly where he is, half-sprawled in the Ascian's lap, heel folded across his knee, fingers twisted together beneath the rise of his own chest.
In the end, he decides sitting up would only make the whole thing seem too formal. Too...forced.
It's companionship that Emet-Selch is lacking now, and it's likely companionship he's looking for by figuratively tipping his hand.
After everything else that's happened in the last half year, maybe he's finally earned it.
"...all right." Astarion says, caution living in his expression, light and wary and entirely peripheral— as if stepping along the edge of splintered ice.
no subject
It's an offer.
And it means that for a moment Astarion doesn't quite know whether he should sit up or stay exactly where he is, half-sprawled in the Ascian's lap, heel folded across his knee, fingers twisted together beneath the rise of his own chest.
In the end, he decides sitting up would only make the whole thing seem too formal. Too...forced.
It's companionship that Emet-Selch is lacking now, and it's likely companionship he's looking for by figuratively tipping his hand.
After everything else that's happened in the last half year, maybe he's finally earned it.
"...all right." Astarion says, caution living in his expression, light and wary and entirely peripheral— as if stepping along the edge of splintered ice.
"Agreed."