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[hallowleaf]

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@thirsted | tfln

[hallowleaf]

[ previously. ]

[ She hadn't expected such a relatively straightforward answer in return; truly she'd rather hoped he'd retreat back to their mutual comfort zone, wherein he flirted with questionable sincerity and she shot back some friendly snark and neither of them touched upon anything that might be an actual feeling for more than a handful of seconds, tops. It leaves her floundering for a moment, questioning her own sanity for saying as much as she has. But, having gone this far, she may as well follow through. ]

You've never been truly unkind to me; I know you could strike harder than you do with those verbal barbs if you meant to.

[ Another pause, and then - ]

I do understand, you know. If the flirtation doesn't mean anything. It's not what drew me to you.

ty ty~

[thirsted]

[ That's the difficult thing, isn't it — she's opened a door, and as much as he finds himself reluctant to step through it, it isn't as though he can back away from it, either. The latter leaves room for hurt feelings, and where he might not have cared about such a thing before—

—at the very least, it's not what he'd call an ideal outcome. To wit, even through text, he seems suddenly more cautious, uncertain of exactly how to navigate an honest conversation. ]

I wouldn't say it doesn't mean anything. Just, perhaps, that I hadn't realized you were in earnest.

[hallowleaf]

I'm not sure I realized it at first, either.

[ She's not entirely sure when it became something more for her; sometime after she'd allowed him to bite her, she thinks -- there were a few moments in which his off-the-cuff comment seemed to reveal a sliver of honesty, and she found herself reacting in kind. It all remained very much in the real of the hypothetical, except of course at some point she realized she wouldn't mind if it were more. ]

Should we do anything about it, do you think?

[thirsted]

[ There's a question that hangs uncomfortably in the back of his mind — the question of why she'd think him worth that attention, why she'd choose to be honest with him when honesty is the one thing he's generally proven himself to be allergic to. Such are the wounds left open by a two centuries of essentially manufacturing affection. ]

I suppose there's no harm in trying.

[ Granted, it'd be an understatement to say that he thinks there absolutely could be — opening oneself to another is to trust them not to twist the knife — but he's surprised, too, to find himself not outright saying no. ]

What did you have in mind?

[hallowleaf]

[ It's not a question she could easily answer if he were to ask it; she's not sure what's prompted this honesty save perhaps the inherent ease of sending the message this way, where she can't see the inevitable moment when he finds it too much and something in his expression shutters over, granting her no further glimpse of the Astarion she's started to grow fond of at a slight distance. ]

I am not certain that's at all true, but I imagine we're both cautious enough that it's a small risk.

[ A pause as she considers; she doesn't want this to be about sex to start with, though she suspects Astarion is more used to beginning and ending there. ]

I can't say I had a plan. Maybe just spending some time together, getting to know each other? Though I think I can count the things I know about myself for certain on one hand.

[thirsted]

[ The fact that it's what he's used to is what makes it something of a relief that she doesn't mention it — though it leaves him at yet another loss. Even in his mortal life, he hadn't gotten much further in terms of emotional intimacy, though he can't remember if, then, it had been for lack of trying. ]

Well, it seems as though we'll have to lift that veil together.

[ Not, perhaps, the level of enthusiasm one might hope for upon embarking on a— whatever this is, but they've known each other long enough that she ought to know the words aren't offered lightly. His isn't a personality immediately inclined toward patience or helpfulness. ]

Count me through them, then. The things you think you do know about yourself.

[ He's curious, himself, as to how she'll answer — whatever he thinks he's divined about her only exists in concert with her perception of herself, after all. ]