[He huffs out a laugh that isn't a laugh at all, mingled grief and relief both flooding through im as he turns his head into one palm. The drag of his thumbs is a little too rough and Leto doesn't care, not when every fitful press serves as evidence that he was heard. His eyes soften, his expression just as mournfully warm as he stares up at his amatus; it's hard, I know it's hard, and it is. It will always be hard, and they will always hit snags, guilt (and, be honest, perhaps some quiet resentment) flaring in both of them for any moment in which the other suffered marginally less. But the clarification matters. The fact that they both of them deserved whatever happiness they could eke out before or after their masters is worth affirming. And they will do it again and again for as long as they need to, until perhaps centuries from now the message will finally sink in.

But oh . . . some of that mingled relief and grief, too, is for the deliberate oath that slips past Astarion's lips. Maker and Andraste, unexpected and yet relished all the more for it. Of all the things he's given up when coming to this world, his old religion is the least of them— but it's like a sudden breeze on a hot day to hear those words now. And it suits, doesn't it? As they think about their pasts and their futures . . . oh, it fits. Even if it's only ever in this room, even if it's only for now, he savors it.]

You can repay the favor when next we discuss my past, hm?

[For make no mistake: there will be a time when their positions reverse once more. It's always the way with them. He presses his hand over Astarion's own, fingers gently sliding over his wrist. Gently, then:]

Come tell me more.

Details you can recall, or other memories . . . but it is important, kadan. And on a more selfish note . . .

[He meets Astarion's eyes, trying to ensure that his vampire knows how sincerely he means this.]

I enjoy hearing about you being happy. At a party or anywhere else, but it brings me joy to know you were happy.