And unlike Leto's own pause, it truly is a matching gap of fuller minutes. Some sprawling span where the silence in the wake of those tender written words implies— ah, but it could be anything, could it not? Perhaps the clinic opened after all, and Astarion, rapt with a swell of care and concern for his bedsick mate after a full night of drawn out bickering (and love, and both are one and the same when the line between snapping and sweetness is— the thinnest band of threadbound intensity beyond intensity itself)— fled inside before the poor healer could so much as hang her weathered sign; perhaps it's simply still more proof they're both fumbling things for longing, unable to string together words while drowning deep beneath the tide of sensation overblown.
Perhaps it's rougher round the edges.
Perhaps he's overwhelmed, and wasn't ready. Bleeding as the scars that they both bear.
Either way, it's silence.
Before every last damn pup and wolf within those walls startles out of sleep and leaps up, barking, yapping, struggling in a fit to pull free of the covers.
Their front door opens, and Astarion— breathless as death itself— stands with his hand wound tight over its frame. Disheveled curls and mussed-up coat a promise of just how far he'd traveled in less than a handful of minutes.]
no subject
And unlike Leto's own pause, it truly is a matching gap of fuller minutes. Some sprawling span where the silence in the wake of those tender written words implies— ah, but it could be anything, could it not? Perhaps the clinic opened after all, and Astarion, rapt with a swell of care and concern for his bedsick mate after a full night of drawn out bickering (and love, and both are one and the same when the line between snapping and sweetness is— the thinnest band of threadbound intensity beyond intensity itself)— fled inside before the poor healer could so much as hang her weathered sign; perhaps it's simply still more proof they're both fumbling things for longing, unable to string together words while drowning deep beneath the tide of sensation overblown.
Perhaps it's rougher round the edges.
Perhaps he's overwhelmed, and wasn't ready. Bleeding as the scars that they both bear.
Either way, it's silence.
Before every last damn pup and wolf within those walls startles out of sleep and leaps up, barking, yapping, struggling in a fit to pull free of the covers.
Their front door opens, and Astarion— breathless as death itself— stands with his hand wound tight over its frame. Disheveled curls and mussed-up coat a promise of just how far he'd traveled in less than a handful of minutes.]