[There's no real answer Astarion could give, Leto knows. Enthusiastic agreement or snarling denial don't suit in equal measure, and likely Leto won't get an answer until they're within the city itself. It's too hard, he knows, to plan so far ahead and hope against hope that it will work out. It's too hard to face so many things from your past when they aren't certain; it's far, far too difficult to overcome that rising wall of doubt and fear that erects in both their minds whenever something feels too good to be true.
The touch is enough. The press of their foreheads and noses together in adoring language all their own is enough. I hear you, I understand, I'll think about it, thank you for saying so, and words too often feel inadequate. Better to combine that all into one gentle gesture, understanding returned with every slow nudge of Leto's own.
But oh, that request . . . and yet though Leto braces for the inevitable internal backlash, it never comes. Perhaps because Astarion shared his own mind first; perhaps because it's asked instead of demanded, the words fumbled so sweetly that it's confirmation Astarion knows the weight of what he asks. And to that end . . . yes, and he answers with action rather than words: magic glinting once more at his fingertips and his eyes fluttering closed as he focuses on the memory of—
Oh, but it's jumbled, you see? He's torn in too many directions. For a moment Astarion sees himself (doused in adoration and worried affection, his every feature lovingly committed to memory, safe warm loved darling protect perfect, each word an impulse of emotion); then it shifts, blurring until it's Kirkwall. The Hanged Man (Astarion might know the interior from his own explorations, for Leto had refused to step foot in it from the moment he returned to the city). Isabela (brown skin and ample curves, gold glinting in the low light as she throws her head back and laughs at some joke Varric is making) on his left, her body warm and comforting as it presses against his own. Soothing. There's something so soothing about any kind of touch, an acknowledgement that you are here and so am I and I trust you with this—
Which jolts him into fainter memories of the past. And whereas the picture of Isabela was a painting, this is more of a sketch, sensations and colors smeared. A woman whose face Leto can never recall cupping his cheeks and stroking them with her thumbs; Varania still a baby, rotund and with only a scrap of red hair, her little body surprisingly dense as he holds her with both arms. Flagstones cold against his bare feet, her body a small bundle of heat, and all of Leto melting for how much he adores the woman before him. And then again it blurs once more, so that he is older now, sitting in the sunlight in Danarius' courtyard, his hands busy with work he can't recall, watching with amusement as Varania races around endlessly, dizzying in her energy. And then again—]
Err.
[Hang on, hang on.]
Perhaps . . . tell me what you wish to see, and that will make it easier.
no subject
The touch is enough. The press of their foreheads and noses together in adoring language all their own is enough. I hear you, I understand, I'll think about it, thank you for saying so, and words too often feel inadequate. Better to combine that all into one gentle gesture, understanding returned with every slow nudge of Leto's own.
But oh, that request . . . and yet though Leto braces for the inevitable internal backlash, it never comes. Perhaps because Astarion shared his own mind first; perhaps because it's asked instead of demanded, the words fumbled so sweetly that it's confirmation Astarion knows the weight of what he asks. And to that end . . . yes, and he answers with action rather than words: magic glinting once more at his fingertips and his eyes fluttering closed as he focuses on the memory of—
Oh, but it's jumbled, you see? He's torn in too many directions. For a moment Astarion sees himself (doused in adoration and worried affection, his every feature lovingly committed to memory, safe warm loved darling protect perfect, each word an impulse of emotion); then it shifts, blurring until it's Kirkwall. The Hanged Man (Astarion might know the interior from his own explorations, for Leto had refused to step foot in it from the moment he returned to the city). Isabela (brown skin and ample curves, gold glinting in the low light as she throws her head back and laughs at some joke Varric is making) on his left, her body warm and comforting as it presses against his own. Soothing. There's something so soothing about any kind of touch, an acknowledgement that you are here and so am I and I trust you with this—
Which jolts him into fainter memories of the past. And whereas the picture of Isabela was a painting, this is more of a sketch, sensations and colors smeared. A woman whose face Leto can never recall cupping his cheeks and stroking them with her thumbs; Varania still a baby, rotund and with only a scrap of red hair, her little body surprisingly dense as he holds her with both arms. Flagstones cold against his bare feet, her body a small bundle of heat, and all of Leto melting for how much he adores the woman before him. And then again it blurs once more, so that he is older now, sitting in the sunlight in Danarius' courtyard, his hands busy with work he can't recall, watching with amusement as Varania races around endlessly, dizzying in her energy. And then again—]
Err.
[Hang on, hang on.]
Perhaps . . . tell me what you wish to see, and that will make it easier.