[His eyes dart about Astarion's frame, drinking in the way he's curled in on himself.
And it really is just like that first night, isn't it?
Take your pick as to which he means, for two memories clamor for attention all at once. The first time (and he will always count it as the first time) they met. When he'd followed Astarion home and revealed the depths of his bitterness and his rage; when his kadan, in turn, had shared the details of his enslavement. I did better on my back than my heels; two hundred years, that's how long I was leashed to his side, and Leto can still remember the nauseating way his stomach had dropped to hear those facts. So much worse than anything he'd gone through, he'd thought but hadn't said, for comparison would only have been taken as pitying, not sympathetic.
And then again, Leto thinks of the first time in Rialto. Once the sweat had cooled and they were more interested in exploring other kinds of intimacy; when revelations about the web of scars adoring Astarion's back had come to light, and the topic had turned once again to their respective pasts. I always thought I knew just how bad it could get, Astarion had said hoarsely, and Leto had all but panicked in how vehemently his soul rejected such a notion. Two decades and a handful of memories were nothing compared to two centuries, he'd thought, and it had taken no small amount of soothing from Astarion to convince him that it was not a competition. That neither of them had it worse; that they were both such miserable, broken creatures, and that to compare would be foolish.
And it was.
And it is.
But perhaps, Leto thinks now, it's more difficult when you feel instinctively as though you did get the better deal. When you have woken your beloved from so many screaming nightmares; when you have heard him sob for the bitterness and grief of all the years stolen from him . . . oh, it feels the height of selfishness to insist I hurt, too.
Slowly, the tension eases out of Leto's frame. He makes no sudden movements, but nor does he keep that rigid posture of before. Instead: he uncurls. One leg drifting out, stretching along the bed until it rests beside Astarion. Not touching, not yet— but there all the same, and easy to lean into should Astarion want it.]
Well, yes.
[He says it so mildly it might almost come across as a joke, save for the quiet but fierce sincerity in his expression.]
I will not argue. I did deserve to be happy. And while I will not say I have no joyful memories of my early childhood, I suspect you're right: they don't compare to the luxury of parties or dancing. And I deserved better than what I had.
[His head cocks. And then, gently:]
But two mere decades of being my master's adored favorite doesn't compare to two centuries of competing among six siblings just so you could survive another day. Having your skin flayed from your body over and over might well compare against having lyrium forcibly grafted into your marrow and muscle— but then again, I only went through that process once, and I cannot imagine how many times you were left to shiver in agony. Getting to don pretty clothes as you went out to seduce victims does not compare to an iron collar in Tevinter's heat— and having to rut each victim, enduring their hands and mouths and vulgar desires, is far, far worse than the days when my master would force me to run behind his carriage.
I could compare every horror we have ever suffered against one another, Astarion, and who knows who would win? Neither of us, I suspect. For we have never compared. We have never played the game of who had it worse, for the answer is that we both did in our own ways. And the horrors you suffered were no greater or lesser than my own, not when it comes to how much we have both suffered.
[He takes in a shallow breath, and then, softer still:]
We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.
I am happy that you were happy, not because I do not wish the same for my own life— but because it would bring me no joy to know that you were miserable. You deserve that happiness just as much as I did, and do. And just as you would not begrudge me what few happy memories I have with Varania or my mother . . . so too do I not begrudge you the simple joy of a mere party, kadan.
[Understand, and he does not know why he suddenly feels a hint of a lump in his throat. His eyes aren't wet, he isn't about to cry, but desperation thrums through him. Understand, please understand, because he cannot allow this memory to be lost under a crashing wave of self-loathing and snarling defeat.]
no subject
And it really is just like that first night, isn't it?
Take your pick as to which he means, for two memories clamor for attention all at once. The first time (and he will always count it as the first time) they met. When he'd followed Astarion home and revealed the depths of his bitterness and his rage; when his kadan, in turn, had shared the details of his enslavement. I did better on my back than my heels; two hundred years, that's how long I was leashed to his side, and Leto can still remember the nauseating way his stomach had dropped to hear those facts. So much worse than anything he'd gone through, he'd thought but hadn't said, for comparison would only have been taken as pitying, not sympathetic.
And then again, Leto thinks of the first time in Rialto. Once the sweat had cooled and they were more interested in exploring other kinds of intimacy; when revelations about the web of scars adoring Astarion's back had come to light, and the topic had turned once again to their respective pasts. I always thought I knew just how bad it could get, Astarion had said hoarsely, and Leto had all but panicked in how vehemently his soul rejected such a notion. Two decades and a handful of memories were nothing compared to two centuries, he'd thought, and it had taken no small amount of soothing from Astarion to convince him that it was not a competition. That neither of them had it worse; that they were both such miserable, broken creatures, and that to compare would be foolish.
And it was.
And it is.
But perhaps, Leto thinks now, it's more difficult when you feel instinctively as though you did get the better deal. When you have woken your beloved from so many screaming nightmares; when you have heard him sob for the bitterness and grief of all the years stolen from him . . . oh, it feels the height of selfishness to insist I hurt, too.
Slowly, the tension eases out of Leto's frame. He makes no sudden movements, but nor does he keep that rigid posture of before. Instead: he uncurls. One leg drifting out, stretching along the bed until it rests beside Astarion. Not touching, not yet— but there all the same, and easy to lean into should Astarion want it.]
Well, yes.
[He says it so mildly it might almost come across as a joke, save for the quiet but fierce sincerity in his expression.]
I will not argue. I did deserve to be happy. And while I will not say I have no joyful memories of my early childhood, I suspect you're right: they don't compare to the luxury of parties or dancing. And I deserved better than what I had.
[His head cocks. And then, gently:]
But two mere decades of being my master's adored favorite doesn't compare to two centuries of competing among six siblings just so you could survive another day. Having your skin flayed from your body over and over might well compare against having lyrium forcibly grafted into your marrow and muscle— but then again, I only went through that process once, and I cannot imagine how many times you were left to shiver in agony. Getting to don pretty clothes as you went out to seduce victims does not compare to an iron collar in Tevinter's heat— and having to rut each victim, enduring their hands and mouths and vulgar desires, is far, far worse than the days when my master would force me to run behind his carriage.
I could compare every horror we have ever suffered against one another, Astarion, and who knows who would win? Neither of us, I suspect. For we have never compared. We have never played the game of who had it worse, for the answer is that we both did in our own ways. And the horrors you suffered were no greater or lesser than my own, not when it comes to how much we have both suffered.
[He takes in a shallow breath, and then, softer still:]
We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.
I am happy that you were happy, not because I do not wish the same for my own life— but because it would bring me no joy to know that you were miserable. You deserve that happiness just as much as I did, and do. And just as you would not begrudge me what few happy memories I have with Varania or my mother . . . so too do I not begrudge you the simple joy of a mere party, kadan.
[Understand, and he does not know why he suddenly feels a hint of a lump in his throat. His eyes aren't wet, he isn't about to cry, but desperation thrums through him. Understand, please understand, because he cannot allow this memory to be lost under a crashing wave of self-loathing and snarling defeat.]