[There's a moment of hesitation. A moment where Astarion is deathly still at the center of Leto's focus, pinned less by the heat burning behind his ears and more by every waking word he struggles just to drink in— their perfect inflow all he wants to drown beneath, no matter that his chin is barely above darker water. The noxious wash of history he never conquered so much beat back and shut away without once imagining it'd catch him so off guard as this (how— how is it that he forgets so easily, when picking out the thorns always leads to splinters underneath their skin for days), when contentment's so far given them a chance at bliss beyond bliss provided that they stick to the routine: the cues were so predictable till now, the warning signs were there. If Leto has nightmares where he's shrieking, don't press in the next day; if Astarion's too restless to stand still, he needs to go— to kill— to hunt until the burning boil of his thoughts subsides; let your consort chase monsters, shut the door if need be on those nights when you still think that you should breathe; be patient, be trusting, have faith.
You've never steered each other wrong before, if not a few degrees off course when falling between worlds.
And so there's that moment of hesitation. There's Astarion deathly still, drinking in whatever he can take of those words and this scene and the way Leto looks so ridiculously beautiful trying to untangle the threading they're caught up in. And while not comparing the nightmares is— not necessarily easy, only easier in practice: soot to ash, blood to bone, it's too stark— too potent— compared to macarons and molding handfuls of passed-off millet. Processing that, coming to terms with it....
(It never bothered him before.)
Full years away from the first time he felt the divide stretch out like a chasm driving them apart, but the first time he's noticed it before twisting like a cat to set it straight: thumbs pushing over Leto's face as if pantomiming wiping away the tears that aren't there.
That don't come.
(They try to keep forging ahead. Keep opening doors within themselves. Is it any wonder that what stumbles out from the other side aches and maddens when it finds them?)]
Maker and Adraste damn it. [His thumbs press a few degrees too hard without him noticing as he strokes along sharp cheekbones, leaving faintly reddened track marks in their wake. His voice, on the other hand, is sober. Sane.
Mournful, maybe, even as the corner of his mouth pulls higher on one side.] Stop being so clever.
[Warm. Warm. Fond as the heat of sunlight that clings to moonstone skin, kissing the pads of all his fingers.] You make me look an utter fool.
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You've never steered each other wrong before, if not a few degrees off course when falling between worlds.
And so there's that moment of hesitation. There's Astarion deathly still, drinking in whatever he can take of those words and this scene and the way Leto looks so ridiculously beautiful trying to untangle the threading they're caught up in. And while not comparing the nightmares is— not necessarily easy, only easier in practice: soot to ash, blood to bone, it's too stark— too potent— compared to macarons and molding handfuls of passed-off millet. Processing that, coming to terms with it....
(It never bothered him before.)
Full years away from the first time he felt the divide stretch out like a chasm driving them apart, but the first time he's noticed it before twisting like a cat to set it straight: thumbs pushing over Leto's face as if pantomiming wiping away the tears that aren't there.
That don't come.
(They try to keep forging ahead. Keep opening doors within themselves. Is it any wonder that what stumbles out from the other side aches and maddens when it finds them?)]
Maker and Adraste damn it. [His thumbs press a few degrees too hard without him noticing as he strokes along sharp cheekbones, leaving faintly reddened track marks in their wake. His voice, on the other hand, is sober. Sane.
Mournful, maybe, even as the corner of his mouth pulls higher on one side.] Stop being so clever.
[Warm. Warm. Fond as the heat of sunlight that clings to moonstone skin, kissing the pads of all his fingers.] You make me look an utter fool.