[CLOSED] AND YOU'LL KNOW THE NEXT TIME I WAKE UP SCREAMING

[illithidnapped]

WHO: Astarion, Fenris, Bastien, Emet-Selch, Mobius, Ellie, Dante, Loki
WHAT: fear spirits are no joke when you're a bag of broken glass
WHEN: backdated to Crossroads plot hours
WHERE: the Crossroads
NOTES: so many content warnings: mind control, slavery, torture, blood, mutilation and abuse of every conceivable/literal shade, possibly more warnings to be added later, not joking this is a very horrible space. There's a reason why I'm divorcing this from the main log; Astarion's canon is, in short, unkind.

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Comments

[doggish]

[He's silent as Astarion struggles to remember, and exhales softly once nothing surfaces. He knows that struggle immensely; knows the awfulness of having something, so faint it might as well not count at all, and not being able to recall more. A word, a voice, a scent . . . it's worse than having nothing, if you ask Fenris, because you can almost see the shape of it. You're so intimately aware that you're missing something, and no amount of desperate attempts will ever let you recall it. It's why he doesn't flinch away from that pinning hand, knowing how badly it's needed. Knowing how lonely it is, not having any kind of past to cling to, god, does he know that well.]

I would like that.

[Quite a bit, and it matters more than Fenris can rightly say to hear it offered. The thought of the rifts reversing it . . . incomprehensible, truly, though by all rights it oughtn't be. Why shouldn't they reverse? What's to stop them? But ah, something to think about later. Not tonight. Not when they've both gone through too much; he can't bear to think of being torn from his home.

(From—)]

A word for a word. Or a phrase for a phrase, if that suits you better.

[His fingers curl up, pushing against Astarion's hand companionably.]

You must have a favorite or two.

[illithidnapped]

[A favorite or two. Why his mind flicks immediately elsewhere at the prompting of those words is—

Mm. Doesn’t matter. Fondness overtaking him alongside wine and warmth, he doesn’t let it get the best of him. But he keeps that hold all the same, thumb to the center of Fenris’ palm, just narrowly avoiding the scoring lines of lyrium in order to fit itself to rough skin instead.]

A favorite implies I used the language often enough to enjoy— well, any of it, I suppose.

But all right, fine. Admittedly there were a few phrases here and there that always stuck out as being decidedly useful.

Le van lerina fui. [Artful, the sound of it. Flowing. Not clumsy like how he follows along in the footsteps of Fenris’ Qunari or Tevene, but fully practiced in its fluidity. Either Astarion’s spent a long time acquainting himself with the phrase (since youth, perhaps) or simply throughout hundreds of years, he’s grown accustomed to its flowing lilt.

His fingers tighten, giving Fenris’ hand a playful little squeeze— for the first time in days it’s a spark of all his usual devilish coyness, rather than the shaken outline of his past.]

It means, are you free tonight.

[doggish]

[He tries to guess, as he listens intently and tries to memorize how Astarion's mouth shapes itself around those words, what Astarion might be inclined towards choosing. A greeting? A saying? His mind skims towards possibilities— but of course he ought to have guessed.

Maker's breath, and it's awful, but he chuckles all the same.]

Yes, that sounds about right. And so very useful: I will be in another world, without money or connections, but at least I can slip into some elf's bed that night.

[HA HA THIS IS FINE.]

Le von— van? — larine fui?

[Points for near-memorization, but ah, the pronounciation leaves a lot to be desired. He is no natural at this, and the syllables flow differently than they do with short, practical Qunlat or archaic Tevene. He knows even as he says it that it isn't entirely correct, and you know what, it's fine, but still: he likes to get these things right.]

Mm. Say it to me again. And then tell me what the correct response is.

[illithidnapped]

Of course. [Astarion exhales easily, a sweeter sound of amusement that is— that isn’t— 

Ahah, why is the thought of his own would-be joke suddenly such a nagging, thorny thing? He knows better. And he hasn’t the right or the room to be jealous, no. It isn’t even real. And even if it was, that’s certainly Fenris’ right. It always has been. It always will be. It's not as if Astarion hadn't known before now the man was more than capable of fucking perfectly well whenever it suited him.

He's heard her name before on his lips, after all. So many times.]

2/2

[illithidnapped]

[...Strewth, what an idiot he’s making of himself, greedy fool.
 
Thankfully it’s all in his head, so....small mercies for wicked hearts, at present.]

At the very least it’ll set their hearts all aflutter, more than just having a Bladesinger in their midst might. Could even fetch you allies. Gold.

Never overlook the power of seduction, darling.

[Coy, when he pinches Fenris' palm one last time (at the very same moment his nose crinkles under the pressing weight of a lopsided grin), pulling that hand away and letting it reach higher to yank soundly on a wayward tendril of Fenris’ hair— far from cruel, but far more tail-tugging than kind.

Fun. He's having fun, despite everything.]

Le van...lerina fui. [Slower, this time. Patiently. Each word left hanging.

Only when he feels as if Fenris has it mostly committed to memory, does he add:] An ilcë, inyë voro ná lerina.

[Portions broken into smaller fragments, repeated as many times as necessary until Fenris seems to catch on, arched fingers finding their way to the half-finished bottle of wine in the meanwhile— though he doesn't pull himself away from Fenris' lap for it.] You're not half bad, you know.

Another century or so and you’ll practically be fluent.

[The sip he steals from the bottle is a little halting— a little dry— owing to the angle and how he has to lean into it not to spill it all over himself, but he manages it well enough before lifting it in offering to Fenris once more.]

Are you tired yet?

[A pointless question; they haven’t slept since the Crossroads. Not properly, at least. It goes without saying they’re both exhausted—

But with things being what they are, willingness to submit to sleep is another thing entirely.]

[doggish]

[It's a pointless question, perhaps, but a good one, for it forces him to acknowledge what his body is screaming at him to pay mind. He's tired, oh, yes, he's exhausted, his eyes stinging and his coordination clumsy (he nearly ends up dripping wine all over himself as he tries to drink and stare down at Astarion all at once). The nightmares are going to be awful, a dreadful inevitability that the wine will not stave off, and yet they will have to face it sooner or later.

He nods. There's no use in putting it off longer, and better to sleep here than alone in the mansion. But ah, that reminds him . . .]

I would . . . if you would permit it, I would lie with you tonight.

[Just as they had that first night. And you know, he really doesn't feel bad about asking, because this isn't some insidious way to fool Astarion into offering him some false bit of comfort. They'll have their own separate blankets, lying with a firm inch or two between them— but still, all one of them will have to do is glance to the side to see the other there.

He won't be disappointed if Astarion says no. Proximity is enough, really, and his little nest is getting more comfortable by the day now that Astarion has (with absolutely no acknowledgement) left him a few more blankets and comforters to burrow in.

But it would be nice, not weathering this alone.]

[illithidnapped]

[Warm lighting does wonders, you know. Conceals a great many things— like the stupid flush that crawls its way up along the edges of his ears at the sound of those words (he hadn’t been looking, hadn’t quite been listening under the heavy haze of sleeplessness), and while yes, he catches on a moment later, it’s still a moment too late to stop his own thoughts from leaping to the first easy, immediate conclusion that's very much within his own tirelessly predictable reach.

And then he exhales.

Audible. Light. Fond. Expression bleeding into a softer thing that’s like the tamed docility of a wild animal being called home.

He gets it now, what Fenris is asking for.

Granted, he doesn’t show any of it, of course, not when he rolls up to stretch his arms out for the first time in a good few minutes— feeling how exhaustion creeps throughout both his shoulders— turning around in the seconds that follow, fitting an upturned smirk just over the slope of his own shoulder.]

Thought you’d never ask, darling.

[A tip of his head. A yank at the edges of his blankets on one side, and he’s made that accommodating space once more. Just the same as before, and chased by a sturdy pat to the mattress itself.]

C’mon. You first.

[Gentle, his voice. Not gilded. Not high.

Only him.]

I’ll keep watch a little longer, just until you’ve drifted off.

[doggish]

[Ah, and he bites back his pleased smile, his heart warming as Astarion says that so gently. I'll keep watch, and he knows without a doubt he will fall asleep all the faster for it. What can touch him when Astarion is there, after all? What can he possibly fear, when the bolt is drawn and they're locked away in this little sanctuary? Nothing. Nothing at all, for so long as Astarion is near, Fenris knows, nothing will truly hurt him.

There will still be nightmares, of course. Fearsome ones, and he will wake not an hour from now, clawing at the sheets and whimpering out Danarius' name. But that's for later. Right now, all that Fenris feels is a cozy sort of contentment, a security that he cannot remember the last time he felt.]

All right.

[He strips off his shirt and leans over the edge of the bed, nabbing his favorite of the blankets Astarion has deemed his. Returns to settle on his side of the bed (left, always, to the point where it would feel strange if he took the right) and settles on his side. His eyes are already half-closed, but still, he takes a few moments to simply drink in the sight of the other elf. His slender silhouette framed against the firelight, the scent of spiced wine overridden by the scent of Astarion embedded in the very sheets and pillows, the low murmur of his voice as he speaks into his crystal . . .

Safe. When was the last time he ever felt truly safe with anyone?

Not in years. Not since Hawke, but maybe not even then, not really. Not like he does now.]

Good night, Astarion.

[He says it softly, and rolls over in the next moment, finally allowing his eyes to close.]