#she'll get that music box some day but not tonight .. 😔

[wellfell]

 dried tears starting to feel irritating under her reddened eyes , the left one already starting to sting despite akina openly ignoring it . contrasted gaze fixed upon his movements — for a moment imagining all the things he'd do to her if he wasn't . . . astarion . if he wasn't astarion who somehow managed to build himself a little house of lofty dreams in his mind , called it akina , astarion who had somehow fallen into her web when she's been nothing but off-putting and aggressive with him . never thought that'd catch his attention , actually she had thought about ending her clever plan at some point because he was way too far away from her reach ; an elf , high elf , who twitched his nose in disgust when she and karlach shared glasses and spoons . that's what friends do but astarion didn't even have friends – akina wasn't expecting him to bend to her will so quickly because she's simply out of his league . there are the prettiest elf maidens out there writhing for his attention and here he is , awkwardly sitting her down in his fancy , secretive tent to hand her a music box .

 she can already feel the longing that'll squeeze her chest for this exact moment when it ends , knows how she'll miss it and astarion . the scent of something like freshly picked orange , the soft cushion under her and the tune that plays in the music box . akina holds it like it's her treasure , strokes the lid like it's astarion's flesh , & smiles like she's on the altar . house of lofty dreams , promises of impossibilities . her brows flick up slightly in a tender surprised with some beats of the gentle music , a few minutes ago she was actually thinking that he'll bash it against her head and go out and tell gale she did it herself . because she's angry and mad , not even sure how many people would refuse to believe him if he did . is this elven music ? the design seems like it , when it stops she wants to play it again . perhaps that wouldn't be the wisest thing to do when he sits there and looks at her like a kicked puppy – did she kick him ? heavens , she didn't . ❛ . . . i don't have anything valuable to loot or give to a wizard . ❜  she tries to joke her way out of this . this sadness suits astarion , his heart breaking in his chest and yet , he's as gentle as ever .

 ❛ i probably have twenty something years to live , then i’ll be gone . my soul is like a seed under soil , it's not going to grow much . ❜  she laughs a little . you shouldn't count on me that much . with a small smile , she closes the lid , and places it back on the pillow . akina mori , the kozakuran human with twenty something years left for her , shouldn't take this gift . perhaps let someone else have it , someone who will match his years and wisdom , someone who knows love is far more greater than all these mind games and even death itself . so she leaves the box on the pillow and gets on her feet to look around , hands behind herself , going about the things in his tent like she didn't reveal what she wanted to do to him . ❛ i guess that means we had change of plans . . . hah . no horses , no carriages , no coffins . maybe we can find something for your sunlight problem . there are hundreds of spells and runes out there – ❜  she stops to kneel down against his long coat and take it to her lap to examine . it's beautiful , vibrant . ❛ i’m sure i can find something . there are other ways of going around the nature than some parasite in your brain . . . hey . can you wear this for me ? ❜  the last part comes out so suddenly , she holds out the coat with both hands , toward him , with a big grin .

their arms around each other felt like a grim ceremony that neither truly wanted any part of. her readiness to hurtle towards wrong conclusions sent the vilest crawl over his skin, too, but he made no effort to correct her.  he shouldered her silent sobs, resisted stroking her hair;  took her smaller hands when she was ready;  looked into her wet eyes and thought, ‘til death. astarion’s tent is his sanctuary, the one place that’s just for him in this entire camp or, frankly, the world.  he’s conflicted about her presence, dreads her absence, but they require privacy tonight and she unfortunately remembered what he said earlier. he invites her to stay awhile, ignoring the rowdy others and ducking in first;  sparks a lantern for a warm, hospitable touch and then secures the flap shut once she’s come fully inside, situated herself.

akina’s last visit was some time ago and the floor was all dirt and wooden stretcher then, a mere few pillows to share between them.  nigh every inch is cushioned now, comfortable;  no simplistic endeavour in such a setting, so his grasp had to remain ever-sticky for any plush or pretty thing to appear before him.  he’s achieved a level of improvised decadence that makes him happy enough and the space is cozy, redder than ever, bruised with occasional maroon and purple accents.  one unchanged aspect is the air, hints of citrus, cedar from the posts keeping the canvas upright, a dab of brandy.  he always keeps some around ...  on a typical night—as in, seven or more ago—he’d simply kick down to his lesser layers, offer up some of that brandy.  this night, he sits there across from her, fully dressed in his doublet, chausses, and boots, glancing around like he hasn’t been sufficiently acquainted with his own place. lap butterflied and spine strait, palms curved over his knees, he’s unsure how to carry on from where things were left.

he meant to fuck with her pretty head, be nasty, make it a long, terrible night.  have his just bout of passive-aggression, perhaps wind things down with a glorious hate-shag if she was keen, but instead of stoking his flames, she doused them with tears. all he could do was hold her, wait for her, wish he actually hated her.   “tell me, darling.”   hushed; ever the lover, seeking her gaze with solemn sincerity.   “if i’d been the one plotting against you this entire time, how would you have dealt with me?  be honest.  you’d not have been sweet, right?”   he grabs that stupid, sentimental gift he’s been harbouring for her in a lonely corner.  a circular duskwood music box covered in elven vine motifs.  if wound, it’d play a wistful tune.  astarion does not wind the thing.  he holds it up to the light, envisioning:   “you’d have taken something like this, rammed it into the back of my skull a few dozen times.”   in contrast to his hypothesis, he rotates the box rather gently between the ends of his fingers, sardonic quirk to his lips.   “but, here.”   his opposite hand plucks it from his palm and places it onto a cushion beside her, hollow lid revealing a complicated silver mechanism within.   “do whatever pleases you.”