[He barks a soft laugh against the side of Astarion's head, not expecting such a blunt (but not inaccurate) answer.]
They have their suspicions, I expect. And none of them close to reality.
[Oh, yes. A set of sex-crazed bounty-hunting elves madly in love and giddily enjoying a decade-long honeymoon . . . there are worse reputations to cultivate. For all that he had such a sulky attitude earlier this week when it came to being overheard, there's something quite nice about having such benign rumors floating around them. It's nice, Leto thinks, to be regarded as amusingly ordinary.
Unseen, his eyes flutter shut. His fingers curl absently against the curve of one shoulder, all of him so utterly content in this moment. Pain is a flickering thing, sharp bites of it smoothed out and soothed by the press of cold fingers around each of his wounds. Astarion is a steady weight beneath him, protective and adoring both. Sweat beads against Leto's bare skin, each droplet felt as it slowly evaporates; he turns his head just slightly and noses at the sharp line of one upturned ear, buried contentedly in Astarion's familiar scent.
Peaceful. Warm and content and together, and it matters little what unconventional rituals they enact, for the end result is just the same. I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, always, always, always, and their love language has always been rough around the edges, preferring blades and blood over flowers and chocolates.
And it works. For them, it works. And that's all that matters.]
It feels good to have them back.
[The phrasing deliberate. Not just I'm glad, for that's only a fraction of what he feels. But ah, perhaps better said:]
It feels . . . right in a way I did not expect. Not just a return to my old body, but . . . I don't know. As if something lost has been found again. I did not realize how much I missed them until now.
[His fingers stroke absently against his shoulder in lieu of touching Astarion's scars.]
Though I am glad you have a matching set. That, too, feels right.
no subject
They have their suspicions, I expect. And none of them close to reality.
[Oh, yes. A set of sex-crazed bounty-hunting elves madly in love and giddily enjoying a decade-long honeymoon . . . there are worse reputations to cultivate. For all that he had such a sulky attitude earlier this week when it came to being overheard, there's something quite nice about having such benign rumors floating around them. It's nice, Leto thinks, to be regarded as amusingly ordinary.
Unseen, his eyes flutter shut. His fingers curl absently against the curve of one shoulder, all of him so utterly content in this moment. Pain is a flickering thing, sharp bites of it smoothed out and soothed by the press of cold fingers around each of his wounds. Astarion is a steady weight beneath him, protective and adoring both. Sweat beads against Leto's bare skin, each droplet felt as it slowly evaporates; he turns his head just slightly and noses at the sharp line of one upturned ear, buried contentedly in Astarion's familiar scent.
Peaceful. Warm and content and together, and it matters little what unconventional rituals they enact, for the end result is just the same. I love you, you're mine, I'm yours, always, always, always, and their love language has always been rough around the edges, preferring blades and blood over flowers and chocolates.
And it works. For them, it works. And that's all that matters.]
It feels good to have them back.
[The phrasing deliberate. Not just I'm glad, for that's only a fraction of what he feels. But ah, perhaps better said:]
It feels . . . right in a way I did not expect. Not just a return to my old body, but . . . I don't know. As if something lost has been found again. I did not realize how much I missed them until now.
[His fingers stroke absently against his shoulder in lieu of touching Astarion's scars.]
Though I am glad you have a matching set. That, too, feels right.