I'm an overachiever. [Astarion fires back slyly— a bulwark against the slow rise of something much like heat in the basin of his chest.] I love rushing.
[Well.]
In most things, anyway.
[Not all.
But he can't keep the rest at bay forever. And when it settles back in his expression stays sober this time. Somber, more accurately: fragile as a narrow pane of glass and caught in the vice grip of his own slow-breathing, and it isn't fair, he thinks, that to endure the beauty of dear kindness, he has to train his body down the same way he did for the knife.
And yet.
Avoidance never lasts.
(If it had, where would they be now? Not here. Not like this. Shelved up and cornered by worser fates— pass. Pass, and no thank you, and not ever again, if Astarion gets to have his say. Which: gods favor them for once, he does.)]
Come closer, little menace. You know I hate it when you're far. [Groused as if he isn't already pressed in like the bloody tide at dusk: somehow managing to wind himself further in over his mate's own relaxed form. Mostly in the angles of their hips and shoulders; most of all in the way his profile— his mouth— stubbornly squeezes itself in flush along the slant of Leto's neck beneath the frenzy of that grown-out fringe.
Like this, at least, he can talk without looking.]
I won't fight you on that. Not a word of it, provided you find it in yourself to grasp that I'm only kind to you because I'm smitten— and always have been when it comes to you.
But you can't go blinding yourself with your love for me, either.
[Slow, the onset of his breathing. Just a way to bridge one sentiment to the next without running out of air, and still, he takes his time. Enough weight in it to carry everything he wishes he knew how to properly say.
Everything he's been trying to say for three years now.]
I would've run. I would've kept running on and on, right into the arms of ruin if it wasn't for the miracle of finding you in freedom.
no subject
[Well.]
In most things, anyway.
[Not all.
But he can't keep the rest at bay forever. And when it settles back in his expression stays sober this time. Somber, more accurately: fragile as a narrow pane of glass and caught in the vice grip of his own slow-breathing, and it isn't fair, he thinks, that to endure the beauty of dear kindness, he has to train his body down the same way he did for the knife.
And yet.
Avoidance never lasts.
(If it had, where would they be now? Not here. Not like this. Shelved up and cornered by worser fates— pass. Pass, and no thank you, and not ever again, if Astarion gets to have his say. Which: gods favor them for once, he does.)]
Come closer, little menace. You know I hate it when you're far. [Groused as if he isn't already pressed in like the bloody tide at dusk: somehow managing to wind himself further in over his mate's own relaxed form. Mostly in the angles of their hips and shoulders; most of all in the way his profile— his mouth— stubbornly squeezes itself in flush along the slant of Leto's neck beneath the frenzy of that grown-out fringe.
Like this, at least, he can talk without looking.]
I won't fight you on that. Not a word of it, provided you find it in yourself to grasp that I'm only kind to you because I'm smitten— and always have been when it comes to you.
But you can't go blinding yourself with your love for me, either.
[Slow, the onset of his breathing. Just a way to bridge one sentiment to the next without running out of air, and still, he takes his time. Enough weight in it to carry everything he wishes he knew how to properly say.
Everything he's been trying to say for three years now.]
I would've run. I would've kept running on and on, right into the arms of ruin if it wasn't for the miracle of finding you in freedom.
If it wasn't for you.
[A beat, tentative. He leaves his eyes shut.]
You didn't fail Shirallas.
He didn't listen.