[In reality, only a few seconds have passed. Astarion's hand still lingers against the back of his neck, a familiar weight cool against overheated skin. The memory of that doeish stare and startled smile lingers in his mind's eye, but so does Astarion's teasing scold. Leto expects the bite of cold steel; he expects to hear a shuddering inhale behind him as the scent of blood fills the air—
But there's nothing.
And they have been together for too long for Leto not to understand.
After all: there's such a difference between a scrappish fight and deliberate slices. There's such a difference between fighting and flirting all in one breath, skidding about on a rooftop at dusk as you feel something like joy for the first time in forever— giving as good as you get, blood pumping and hearts racing, until at last there's a burst of pain that lasts only a moment . . . and this. Lying on a bed, waiting blindly for the first slow slice that parts skin and muscle. Barely daring to breathe, knowing that even the slightest movement will ruin things; that it will hurt, and it will hurt again and again, over and over for gods only know how long, for it takes a deep wound for scars to form . . .
And it's not the same. The associations are so different in Leto's mind, for one was an act of selfish cruelty and petty spite, and the other a show of adoration and love. And likely, Leto thinks, they're different in Astarion's mind too— but sometimes it's so hard not to see the similarities. Sometimes it's so hard to not think of the past, no matter that you want only to see the future.
He arches his back, rising up against that steadying hand so he can brace on his forearms and glance behind him. The urge is there to roll over entirely (to tug that knife out of Astarion's pale hands and set it next to his sword; to gather up his vampire in his arms and run his hands over his scarred back in soothing strokes), but he doesn't want to overreact.]
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[In reality, only a few seconds have passed. Astarion's hand still lingers against the back of his neck, a familiar weight cool against overheated skin. The memory of that doeish stare and startled smile lingers in his mind's eye, but so does Astarion's teasing scold. Leto expects the bite of cold steel; he expects to hear a shuddering inhale behind him as the scent of blood fills the air—
But there's nothing.
And they have been together for too long for Leto not to understand.
After all: there's such a difference between a scrappish fight and deliberate slices. There's such a difference between fighting and flirting all in one breath, skidding about on a rooftop at dusk as you feel something like joy for the first time in forever— giving as good as you get, blood pumping and hearts racing, until at last there's a burst of pain that lasts only a moment . . . and this. Lying on a bed, waiting blindly for the first slow slice that parts skin and muscle. Barely daring to breathe, knowing that even the slightest movement will ruin things; that it will hurt, and it will hurt again and again, over and over for gods only know how long, for it takes a deep wound for scars to form . . .
And it's not the same. The associations are so different in Leto's mind, for one was an act of selfish cruelty and petty spite, and the other a show of adoration and love. And likely, Leto thinks, they're different in Astarion's mind too— but sometimes it's so hard not to see the similarities. Sometimes it's so hard to not think of the past, no matter that you want only to see the future.
He arches his back, rising up against that steadying hand so he can brace on his forearms and glance behind him. The urge is there to roll over entirely (to tug that knife out of Astarion's pale hands and set it next to his sword; to gather up his vampire in his arms and run his hands over his scarred back in soothing strokes), but he doesn't want to overreact.]
. . . we need not do this tonight.
[No. That's not right. Gentler, then:]
We need not do this at all.