[ There's more Godfrey would have said, of course. Not all conversations needed to happen tonight - he saw no reason yet to mention his daughter to Astarion, for instance, for he knew that no relationship which did not prioritize her could last. But all the same, Godfrey had more to excavate; he had planned to unearth more grief, more hardship. Perhaps even reassure him, gingerly, that he held no expectation that he might try to place him in the hole Vladimir had left in him, Godfrey's sadnesses felt paltry when put next to Astarion's, yes, but sadnesses still they were, and he had no desire to oblige Astarion to them.
This is before he feels the touch of Astarion's hand, cool and soft, on his cheek.
Godfrey stops. His thoughts, chest, mouth - all, for a moment, stop. He can't remember when last he felt another's touch like this, only who it came from. He regards Astarion with a gentle trepidation and, slowly, exhales. Releases. The grave and serious resolve on his face gives way to what waited underneath. Soft, warm yearning.
And so far, the moment lives long enough for Godfrey to begin to think that all of his concerns, perhaps, mattered less than he thought they did.
The tent is quiet, but for his own soft breathing. Godfrey presses Astarion's hand gently with his own, leaning just slightly into this tiny piece of affection. His eyes slip closed.
He turns his face into his palm, grazing the edge of his pale hand with warm, living, even breaths. He kisses its heel. Then, the still inner of his wrist.
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This is before he feels the touch of Astarion's hand, cool and soft, on his cheek.
Godfrey stops. His thoughts, chest, mouth - all, for a moment, stop. He can't remember when last he felt another's touch like this, only who it came from. He regards Astarion with a gentle trepidation and, slowly, exhales. Releases. The grave and serious resolve on his face gives way to what waited underneath. Soft, warm yearning.
And so far, the moment lives long enough for Godfrey to begin to think that all of his concerns, perhaps, mattered less than he thought they did.
The tent is quiet, but for his own soft breathing. Godfrey presses Astarion's hand gently with his own, leaning just slightly into this tiny piece of affection. His eyes slip closed.
He turns his face into his palm, grazing the edge of his pale hand with warm, living, even breaths. He kisses its heel. Then, the still inner of his wrist.
He says nothing. ]