No— [Astarion asserts in that too-swift way of his, coming as a sort of verbal hand upheld rather than obtuse (or acute) objection or rejection, quickly mellowed down into his private laid-back tenor:] —no, not a poor idea.

[Singular skipped beat slid somewhere in in-between that thought and the next.]

But a large one. Yes. That I do believe.

[It doesn't surprise him that there's a stark difference in perspective to be had there between them, either. Not when they were always as divided as they were aligned in their beliefs and wants and needs— one step in perfect stride and then the next entirely out of sync— because as this conversation so defines, it was never a perfect mirror.

Nor should it be, he thinks, catching a wayward tuft of hair curled just in front of Leto's ear and rolling it between his claws before it's laid soft with its fellows.]

Swear on all the gods and nightmares that I've known, I am grateful for this, my Leto. All these memories. These exchanges. Things I never knew existed— [strewth—] things that'll take ages to process properly, if I ever manage it without falling right back into the bliss of knowing your extraordinary thoughts just the way they are.

But— those were our memories. Mine relayed to you. Yours relayed to me.

[Maybe it goes without saying. Maybe all of this does, but still:]

I can't give you an artificial pulse. I can't restore what isn't there on your end, and what exists in mine is....very, very bright. That is to say: you were bright. And wondrous. And unsurpassed to this day, even as I know you better.

Because I know you better.

[And so, with a false breath that's worn for some feigned sense of mortal comfort than for air, Astarion underscores his bottom line.]

I don't want to ruin you with a tainted surrogate.

[One you won't be able to forget.]