[He faces forward as they speak, though some part of him wants to glance back over his shoulder. It's not just so he doesn't disrupt Astarion's process (his vampire can and will scoldingly nip if Leto pushes too much with an injury), but because perhaps it's a little easier to speak of such a topic like this. It's not a matter of trust or intimacy, nor even about shying away from vulnerability, for they have been far more raw in front of one another before.
But then again: it's one thing to compare similar scars and familiar battlewounds (did he ever starve you, how often did he call you to his bed, and they can turn old nightmares into a joke in an instant). It's another to talk about something that so starkly highlights their differences. And perhaps that's why Leto himself is a little put out at not facing Astarion: it's strange to be removed from him, and all the more so when they're speaking of something he cannot fully understand. My kind, his lover says. My kind, his laugh performative and not quite real. And though Leto knows what he means, knows that their bond is too strong to ever shatter, knows that Astarion means nothing by using such a term—
Gods. He still isn't used to there being such a divide between them. Mortal and vampire. Elf and undead. He tries never to think of them in such a way, but nor will he shy away from the truth when he has to face it. My kind, Astarion says, and he is not wrong.
But it's a small discomfort, a discordant note during an intimate symphony. This unease is not new, and it ebbs and falls from day to day. And so though some quiet part of Leto squirms in discomfort, it's equally easy to settle back and enjoy this for what it is: intimacy and caretaking all at once. He settles in his lover's lap, his spine relaxing as he submits to those gentle ministrations. Talons carding dotingly through his hair, and he waits patiently as he hears the gauze behind him rip.]
I know the feeling.
[Craving action instead of stillness . . . oh, yes. He tips his head forward, ignoring the urge to hiss as salve first stings and then soothes against his wounds.]
It is— frankly, it is not dissimilar to how I sometimes feel in this body. [Wry, that. But then:]
My first year in Kirkwall, I would go out near nightly in search of a fight. It mattered little who I found: so long as they gave me even half a reason to fight, I would happily set my blade upon them. And I was vicious . . . more than some of them deserved, I suspect.
[He speaks without guilt or self-pity; it happened, and he's long since moved on from it.]
It was a poor way to cope with my rage and terror. But I found that anything was better than simply staring at the walls for hours on end, stewing in paranoia and feeling that restless energy crawl beneath my skin. If I could find no victims, I would train— and if I could not stand doing something so ritualized, I ran. Up and down the city, over the rooftops . . .
[A pause, and then he exhales.]
Mangle me if that is what you need. Bite at me. Fight me if it all becomes too much, for I can defend myself against you, Astarion.
[He says it calmly and confidently: a fact, not a boast.]
I have learned this body, I know what it can do— and I would not see you constantly fight for self-control if you need relief instead.
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But then again: it's one thing to compare similar scars and familiar battlewounds (did he ever starve you, how often did he call you to his bed, and they can turn old nightmares into a joke in an instant). It's another to talk about something that so starkly highlights their differences. And perhaps that's why Leto himself is a little put out at not facing Astarion: it's strange to be removed from him, and all the more so when they're speaking of something he cannot fully understand. My kind, his lover says. My kind, his laugh performative and not quite real. And though Leto knows what he means, knows that their bond is too strong to ever shatter, knows that Astarion means nothing by using such a term—
Gods. He still isn't used to there being such a divide between them. Mortal and vampire. Elf and undead. He tries never to think of them in such a way, but nor will he shy away from the truth when he has to face it. My kind, Astarion says, and he is not wrong.
But it's a small discomfort, a discordant note during an intimate symphony. This unease is not new, and it ebbs and falls from day to day. And so though some quiet part of Leto squirms in discomfort, it's equally easy to settle back and enjoy this for what it is: intimacy and caretaking all at once. He settles in his lover's lap, his spine relaxing as he submits to those gentle ministrations. Talons carding dotingly through his hair, and he waits patiently as he hears the gauze behind him rip.]
I know the feeling.
[Craving action instead of stillness . . . oh, yes. He tips his head forward, ignoring the urge to hiss as salve first stings and then soothes against his wounds.]
It is— frankly, it is not dissimilar to how I sometimes feel in this body. [Wry, that. But then:]
My first year in Kirkwall, I would go out near nightly in search of a fight. It mattered little who I found: so long as they gave me even half a reason to fight, I would happily set my blade upon them. And I was vicious . . . more than some of them deserved, I suspect.
[He speaks without guilt or self-pity; it happened, and he's long since moved on from it.]
It was a poor way to cope with my rage and terror. But I found that anything was better than simply staring at the walls for hours on end, stewing in paranoia and feeling that restless energy crawl beneath my skin. If I could find no victims, I would train— and if I could not stand doing something so ritualized, I ran. Up and down the city, over the rooftops . . .
[A pause, and then he exhales.]
Mangle me if that is what you need. Bite at me. Fight me if it all becomes too much, for I can defend myself against you, Astarion.
[He says it calmly and confidently: a fact, not a boast.]
I have learned this body, I know what it can do— and I would not see you constantly fight for self-control if you need relief instead.