[Soft. Gentle. And it's not that he doesn't mean it (oh, he does, oh, it did feel like that, so unbelievable that he fears he might never find it again), but sometimes words are the least of ways in which they communicate. For he cannot say they would have loved you (but oh, they would have, Isabela would have adored him, two birds of the same flock that they are). He cannot say I wish you had this too (for they don't compare and wishing does nothing). He cannot even say that he feels the same crashing wave of guilt and grief that Astarion must have felt a few moments ago, for of course his vampire must know that already.
No, no words, not yet. Instead:
His lips brush gently over first one eyelid, then the other. A kiss to the soft span of Astarion's cheek, the line of his jaw, until at last their lips ghost against one another. Not a kiss meant to incite, but soothe: I know. It hurts, I know. His hands itch to roam over Astarion's body, palms broad and warm, but he bites the urge back; right now, they're both a little fragile. Words are too much; even a touch might teeter them over the edge, rendering his gesture into unintended pity.
Better to stay like this. Better to press together, warm breath against cool skin and gentle nuzzles. Not urging Astarion to move past this, for he will do that on his own, in his own time— and until he does, Leto does not mind waiting.
It takes time for him to speak again— and when he does, it's soft. Easily ignored if needed, but meant all the same.]
Tell me?
[Whatever it is he's thinking. Whatever ghosts haunt his memory or bitterness clashes against desire— tell me, for though he can guess, he wants to hear it.]
no subject
[Soft. Gentle. And it's not that he doesn't mean it (oh, he does, oh, it did feel like that, so unbelievable that he fears he might never find it again), but sometimes words are the least of ways in which they communicate. For he cannot say they would have loved you (but oh, they would have, Isabela would have adored him, two birds of the same flock that they are). He cannot say I wish you had this too (for they don't compare and wishing does nothing). He cannot even say that he feels the same crashing wave of guilt and grief that Astarion must have felt a few moments ago, for of course his vampire must know that already.
No, no words, not yet. Instead:
His lips brush gently over first one eyelid, then the other. A kiss to the soft span of Astarion's cheek, the line of his jaw, until at last their lips ghost against one another. Not a kiss meant to incite, but soothe: I know. It hurts, I know. His hands itch to roam over Astarion's body, palms broad and warm, but he bites the urge back; right now, they're both a little fragile. Words are too much; even a touch might teeter them over the edge, rendering his gesture into unintended pity.
Better to stay like this. Better to press together, warm breath against cool skin and gentle nuzzles. Not urging Astarion to move past this, for he will do that on his own, in his own time— and until he does, Leto does not mind waiting.
It takes time for him to speak again— and when he does, it's soft. Easily ignored if needed, but meant all the same.]
Tell me?
[Whatever it is he's thinking. Whatever ghosts haunt his memory or bitterness clashes against desire— tell me, for though he can guess, he wants to hear it.]