My sweet, [and it echoes with the ring of so many times spent alone like this together: the breathless ones and miserable, all. Possessed of pet names enough to put Lorroakan's libraries to shame, sweet was never one he used until it was given to him first by way of a pair of rough-edged lips still caked shallowly with salt. And when it came to him again and again, Astarion started to turn to it warmly without realizing— the slight embarrassment of becoming a bit like a potted plant pressing forward towards the sun rather than some all-powerful monstrosity or fascinatingly befanged elf, not a match for the slow burn that always hit to hear it, until one day it just fit inside his mouth as well (like qunlat; like Tevene; like Maker and Andraste). Vocabulary shifting one last time to prove— regardless of what comes— that he was loved.
So when those same sweet lips find him in ways that make him want to shatter (—gods, he's never been like this before— ) and come apart within those arms with wracking sobs for warmth and life and—
Maker.
He exhales against that mouth. Against that pretty, fringe-flocked profile. The answer's right there, isn't it? Pushed slow and steady against his skin; swimming softly in his skull.
He's homesick.
He's so bloody, stupidly homesick. For Leto. For adopted visions of small fingers clasped around his own and the smell of Seheron or the cramped decay of Lowtown heat funneled into cheap ale and rotted decks of cards. For life, all of it.
Everything that was theirs.
My sweet, he starts again after seconds (or: forever), their profiles kept flush.]
You know I really wish I could.
[The twist of cold fingers around warmth, matched knuckle for knuckle.]
How does—
[Hm.]
How do you stand it? [Astarion asks around the soft set of his throat, trying and failing to perceive more of what's behind his lover's lidded stare. Nothing to be gleaned without effort, apparently, now that the magic has up and faded.] I thought parties and fine wealth was the epitome of comfort to be longed for. So much so that I— [or perhaps Cazador] —cut it out to save myself.
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So when those same sweet lips find him in ways that make him want to shatter (—gods, he's never been like this before— ) and come apart within those arms with wracking sobs for warmth and life and—
Maker.
He exhales against that mouth. Against that pretty, fringe-flocked profile. The answer's right there, isn't it? Pushed slow and steady against his skin; swimming softly in his skull.
He's homesick.
He's so bloody, stupidly homesick. For Leto. For adopted visions of small fingers clasped around his own and the smell of Seheron or the cramped decay of Lowtown heat funneled into cheap ale and rotted decks of cards. For life, all of it.
Everything that was theirs.
My sweet, he starts again after seconds (or: forever), their profiles kept flush.]
You know I really wish I could.
[The twist of cold fingers around warmth, matched knuckle for knuckle.]
How does—
[Hm.]
How do you stand it? [Astarion asks around the soft set of his throat, trying and failing to perceive more of what's behind his lover's lidded stare. Nothing to be gleaned without effort, apparently, now that the magic has up and faded.] I thought parties and fine wealth was the epitome of comfort to be longed for. So much so that I— [or perhaps Cazador] —cut it out to save myself.
You didn't.