Ellis has, after all, seen Astarion’s scars. Somewhere inside the skull of a fighter lies the knowledge that the elf has had— by almost any standards— more than a handful of unpleasant nights. More than most, in fact.
So it’s either a clumsy conversational shift, or...
“...you don’t want to know. Or, I suppose I should say that if you do want to know, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
But as they say, one good turn deserves another:
“Call me curious. What do you have a taste for these days?”
—was true once. (It has not been true for some time.)
But it isn't followed by a return to his earlier question. The deflection stands, without any rebuttal as to Ellis' intentions.
Yes, he'd seen the scars. Astarion has a fair view of some of Ellis'. But scars aren't always an unfailing indicator. Ellis emerged from the worst day of his life without any lasting mark on his skin to remember it by.
"Why did you leave the Gallows?" is equally blunt. As if this a game, question for question while Astarion's chin digs into his thigh and the chill of his palm keeps the pain in his side at bay.
“For the same reason I don’t do well with being bossed around for anyone else’s benefit.” He sighs absently, taking a longer sip this time.
“My former master is gone. Far, far out of reach, or— I’m out of his. Either way, the point is, I needed something for myself. Something I could own, even if only partially.”
His fingers flex against Ellis’ side, repositioning by degrees, and surprisingly gentle about the ordeal: contrary to popular belief, Astarion has it in him to be kind, when he wants to be.
“The other elves can rot in their Alienage. I’m going to do better. Go farther.”
Astarion's answer is like a story recited third-hand. Parts of it ring true, but there are crucial differences that keep it from being the same as a sentiment plucked forward from the boy Ellis had been once.
There is a shade of difference here. He considers it, looking down into Astarion's face, breath carefully steady under the repositioning of Astarion's hand. Does his palm ever warm? Perhaps not. Ellis considers and discards the question.
"I understand."
Even if Ellis can no longer summon such a desire. However, rather than pick at tender subjects—
"I should leave you, to whatever else occupies your evenings."
"Leave if you want, but I think it's rather obvious there's no one else and nothing else here to occupy my time."
The last of his wine goes down smoothly with a tip of his head backwards, briefly drawing his chin away from the comfortable warmth of Ellis' leg. And when he sets the empty goblet to one side it's on the floor somewhere just beyond the space where they're sitting, another piece of the clutter rearranged for yet another day.
This invitation, it's not unfamiliar. They have tread here together more than once, and it is not far from the table in a restaurant where Astarion had gestured to a chair beside him. It is not even so far removed from the forests of Hasmal, Astarion's hand on his side, close in the dark. Ellis studies his face in the dim light. The sensation of Astarion's chin dug in at his thigh has lingered, even though Astarion has sat up and ceded the territory.
"You've offered before."
Not a yes or a no. Only observation, as Ellis gathers his own thoughts.
"But we'd be better served if I make my way to the ferry," Ellis tells him, setting his palm over Astarion's hand. There is light pressure, and then a turning, Ellis catching hold of Astarion's palm within his hand.
“How tiresome it must be, always fighting to keep everyone else at arm’s length.”
His chin lifts, his posture shifting— he slips his weight sidelong to one heel before the rest of him follows, rising. A little stiff from sitting idle, but his muscles remember grace well enough to make that truth far from transparent in the moment
When he pulls his hand from Ellis’ own, it’s not unkindly.
There are a half dozen places he might catch hold of to anchor Astarion in place. His hand opens and closes in the space between them, briefly indecisive.
But instead, he follows the example. Straightening, breathing deeply, observing the twinge from beneath the bandages, before he says, "Maybe."
His hand passes briefly over the bandages, then reaches to hook his shirt where it had been laid. There is a splotch of blood that will need some attention, lest it become a stain.
"Thank you," is more straightforward. Ellis' gaze is steady when he lifts his eyes to Astarion. "For your kindness."
“Don’t mention it,” Astarion says, the words light as silk— though the look he fixes Ellis with out of the corner of his eye is too focused, too unblinking. It’s punctuation for what might otherwise be interpreted as a joke.
Astarion, after all, doesn’t care to be known for traits like mercy or compassion. It tarnishes. Troubles.
And he has enough trouble as it is.
“Ever.”
They’re even now, the both of them. They can leave it at that.
Meaning taken. It's nearly unnecessary. Ellis is hardly given to chattering about his evening exploits, much less the exploits and actions of those accompanying him.
"Good night," comes more quietly, as Ellis draws the laces of his tunic closed, makes for the door.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t offer to follow— not that there’s much room to be had in a space as narrow as this one, watching those footsteps in near-contemplative silence.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Ellis has, after all, seen Astarion’s scars. Somewhere inside the skull of a fighter lies the knowledge that the elf has had— by almost any standards— more than a handful of unpleasant nights. More than most, in fact.
So it’s either a clumsy conversational shift, or...
“...you don’t want to know. Or, I suppose I should say that if you do want to know, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
But as they say, one good turn deserves another:
“Call me curious. What do you have a taste for these days?”
no subject
—was true once. (It has not been true for some time.)
But it isn't followed by a return to his earlier question. The deflection stands, without any rebuttal as to Ellis' intentions.
Yes, he'd seen the scars. Astarion has a fair view of some of Ellis'. But scars aren't always an unfailing indicator. Ellis emerged from the worst day of his life without any lasting mark on his skin to remember it by.
"Why did you leave the Gallows?" is equally blunt. As if this a game, question for question while Astarion's chin digs into his thigh and the chill of his palm keeps the pain in his side at bay.
no subject
“My former master is gone. Far, far out of reach, or— I’m out of his. Either way, the point is, I needed something for myself. Something I could own, even if only partially.”
His fingers flex against Ellis’ side, repositioning by degrees, and surprisingly gentle about the ordeal: contrary to popular belief, Astarion has it in him to be kind, when he wants to be.
“The other elves can rot in their Alienage. I’m going to do better. Go farther.”
no subject
There is a shade of difference here. He considers it, looking down into Astarion's face, breath carefully steady under the repositioning of Astarion's hand. Does his palm ever warm? Perhaps not. Ellis considers and discards the question.
"I understand."
Even if Ellis can no longer summon such a desire. However, rather than pick at tender subjects—
"I should leave you, to whatever else occupies your evenings."
no subject
The last of his wine goes down smoothly with a tip of his head backwards, briefly drawing his chin away from the comfortable warmth of Ellis' leg. And when he sets the empty goblet to one side it's on the floor somewhere just beyond the space where they're sitting, another piece of the clutter rearranged for yet another day.
His hand, however, remains fixed in place.
"I won't complain if you decide to stay."
no subject
"You've offered before."
Not a yes or a no. Only observation, as Ellis gathers his own thoughts.
"But we'd be better served if I make my way to the ferry," Ellis tells him, setting his palm over Astarion's hand. There is light pressure, and then a turning, Ellis catching hold of Astarion's palm within his hand.
no subject
His chin lifts, his posture shifting— he slips his weight sidelong to one heel before the rest of him follows, rising. A little stiff from sitting idle, but his muscles remember grace well enough to make that truth far from transparent in the moment
When he pulls his hand from Ellis’ own, it’s not unkindly.
no subject
But instead, he follows the example. Straightening, breathing deeply, observing the twinge from beneath the bandages, before he says, "Maybe."
His hand passes briefly over the bandages, then reaches to hook his shirt where it had been laid. There is a splotch of blood that will need some attention, lest it become a stain.
"Thank you," is more straightforward. Ellis' gaze is steady when he lifts his eyes to Astarion. "For your kindness."
no subject
Astarion, after all, doesn’t care to be known for traits like mercy or compassion. It tarnishes. Troubles.
And he has enough trouble as it is.
“Ever.”
They’re even now, the both of them. They can leave it at that.
hovers bow over this thread menacingly
Meaning taken. It's nearly unnecessary. Ellis is hardly given to chattering about his evening exploits, much less the exploits and actions of those accompanying him.
"Good night," comes more quietly, as Ellis draws the laces of his tunic closed, makes for the door.
ties it for you
“Look after yourself, darling.”