rustedmoons
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Robby laughs, or maybe he sobs. Jack thinks the latter from the way his voice warbles. He shrugs in that typical Robby way: hands still in his pockets, shoulders up to his ears, another shake of his head. “There’s nothing to talk about anymore.”
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“—your birthday?” Karlach claps him on the back. “You never said, Fangs!”
Had he said that out loud? No. But it seems the blasted tadpoles had other ideas.
If the rest of camp hadn’t heard him in his mind, then Karlach made sure they did.
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“If you would allow me the sentiment of saying something you may not wish to hear,” Gale says, and he pauses, waiting for Astarion to nod. When he talks again, it is a murmur behind Astarion’s ear. “You made the right choice.”
“A choice that may have cost me the opportunity of my immortal lifetime, what could have been mine.” Astarion scoffs, but it sounds thick in his throat. He reaches behind to brush against the edge of his scar. “With the reminder to match.”
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It’s not healthy, what they do. Neither would leave the other without saying anything afterwards if it were.
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No matter how hard he tries, Verso cannot remove the image of Maelle’s paint-corroded face from his mind.