[There's attraction and attraction, the same word for two different forces.
Understand: there's never a time when he isn't drawn to Astarion for sheer physical thrill alone. Even when they're snarling at one another, it's so easy to admire the curve of his mouth or the hang of his cock— and after three years, he doubts very much that physical allure will ever fade. So in that sense, yes, he is attracted to him, and he will likely always be attracted to him.
But there's another way to think about it. One Leto thinks of now as they draw inexorably towards one another by unspoken command, his hands on Astarion's thighs and his vampire's breath cool against his lips. It's attraction in the sense of inexorable force: attraction in the way a magnet loves metal, the two of them drawn together no matter the outlying circumstances. Let me help, let me be near you, and it's something in their souls, perhaps. Some bit of them that whimpers it's you, it's only ever been you. It's what leaves them scuffing and nuzzling so fiercely late at night, butting foreheads and noses as if they might somehow manage to find a way to grow even closer than they are; it's what drew Leto to the right door when he was lost in the Fade.
And it's what draws them together now: his hands on Astarion's thighs and Astarion's breath cool against his face, Leto arching up as Astarion leans down, the two of them in slow, unspoken synchronization. Their bond made deeper still by the ghosts of Astarion's past lingering in his mind, dancing their endless waltz as Leto tries so hard to commit that feeling of belonging to memory. ]
Mm.
[A small hum to show he was listening as Leto digests that. It isn't such a strange feeling, not when Astarion puts it that way. Not at all.]
I know what you mean, I think. Or at least: I know what it is to fall back into that behavior. To protect yourself first, using the things you knew kept you safe . . . [His palms slide smoothly against soft fabric.] It took me a long time, when I first met Marian, to understand why she would always come calling. For orders and mercenary work, yes, I understood that— but she and Isabela made a habit of dropping by at least once a week. To share a bottle of wine, or to get away from their usual bolts . . . I was unpleasant company at first, I will admit. There were times— not always, but after a bad nightmare— where I treated them as I had treated the other slaves, cold and indifferent. Or I would refuse them, sure that they meant only to lower my guard for . . . I don't know. I do not think I knew back then, either. But I was so afraid, and I knew what had kept me alive those past few decades.
[Another pause, and then:]
But I will always be here to bring you back. To remind you of what it is to feel and think and be on your own, without his influence.
[Another pause. Another slow pass with his palms, his eyes soft as he stares up at his amatus.]
When we return to the city soon . . . let us find things about you. I know we planned to visit your grave, and indeed, I would like to that soon. But even finding dates, or details about old parties . . . guests or families or anything. I— understand: I do not mean to force you, and I will abide by your limitations. But . . . perhaps it will help you find some of that feeling again. Not because you will become who you were— but because you will have a surer sense of what you are now, and how you arrived there.
[Does that make sense? Does that ring true? He isn't certain and his voice betrays that, his eyes darting to the side for a moment. It's just that all Leto can think of is his own past, and how precious few fragments remain: no one records the birth or death of a slave, or which elf whelped another. And he's spent years and years telling himself it wouldn't make a difference either way; that not knowing who his father was or whether his mother was Dalish doesn't affect him, but—
It does make a difference. And there's so much more they might uncover— memories included.]
no subject
Understand: there's never a time when he isn't drawn to Astarion for sheer physical thrill alone. Even when they're snarling at one another, it's so easy to admire the curve of his mouth or the hang of his cock— and after three years, he doubts very much that physical allure will ever fade. So in that sense, yes, he is attracted to him, and he will likely always be attracted to him.
But there's another way to think about it. One Leto thinks of now as they draw inexorably towards one another by unspoken command, his hands on Astarion's thighs and his vampire's breath cool against his lips. It's attraction in the sense of inexorable force: attraction in the way a magnet loves metal, the two of them drawn together no matter the outlying circumstances. Let me help, let me be near you, and it's something in their souls, perhaps. Some bit of them that whimpers it's you, it's only ever been you. It's what leaves them scuffing and nuzzling so fiercely late at night, butting foreheads and noses as if they might somehow manage to find a way to grow even closer than they are; it's what drew Leto to the right door when he was lost in the Fade.
And it's what draws them together now: his hands on Astarion's thighs and Astarion's breath cool against his face, Leto arching up as Astarion leans down, the two of them in slow, unspoken synchronization. Their bond made deeper still by the ghosts of Astarion's past lingering in his mind, dancing their endless waltz as Leto tries so hard to commit that feeling of belonging to memory. ]
Mm.
[A small hum to show he was listening as Leto digests that. It isn't such a strange feeling, not when Astarion puts it that way. Not at all.]
I know what you mean, I think. Or at least: I know what it is to fall back into that behavior. To protect yourself first, using the things you knew kept you safe . . . [His palms slide smoothly against soft fabric.] It took me a long time, when I first met Marian, to understand why she would always come calling. For orders and mercenary work, yes, I understood that— but she and Isabela made a habit of dropping by at least once a week. To share a bottle of wine, or to get away from their usual bolts . . . I was unpleasant company at first, I will admit. There were times— not always, but after a bad nightmare— where I treated them as I had treated the other slaves, cold and indifferent. Or I would refuse them, sure that they meant only to lower my guard for . . . I don't know. I do not think I knew back then, either. But I was so afraid, and I knew what had kept me alive those past few decades.
[Another pause, and then:]
But I will always be here to bring you back. To remind you of what it is to feel and think and be on your own, without his influence.
[Another pause. Another slow pass with his palms, his eyes soft as he stares up at his amatus.]
When we return to the city soon . . . let us find things about you. I know we planned to visit your grave, and indeed, I would like to that soon. But even finding dates, or details about old parties . . . guests or families or anything. I— understand: I do not mean to force you, and I will abide by your limitations. But . . . perhaps it will help you find some of that feeling again. Not because you will become who you were— but because you will have a surer sense of what you are now, and how you arrived there.
[Does that make sense? Does that ring true? He isn't certain and his voice betrays that, his eyes darting to the side for a moment. It's just that all Leto can think of is his own past, and how precious few fragments remain: no one records the birth or death of a slave, or which elf whelped another. And he's spent years and years telling himself it wouldn't make a difference either way; that not knowing who his father was or whether his mother was Dalish doesn't affect him, but—
It does make a difference. And there's so much more they might uncover— memories included.]