Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
no subject
Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
That was a very good secret, Astarion. Thank you.