[It's strange marker for how happy he is (and just how much he loves Astarion) that Leto answers the way he does: by emitting one soft, utterly pathetic groan. Whiny and dissatisfied, and yet in the same breath assuring— for he wouldn't have it in him to whine if he were truly unhappy.

Besides: having Astarion near helps. Feeling cool hands against his sweat-soaked skin is blissful— but so is the feeling of being tucked in, snuggled close against a soft chest and strong arms that will hold him just as long as he likes. And the pups help, little lumps of nestling heat that they are; he can feel their little bodies rise and fall as they breathe, unusually patient as they learn this new routine. And oh, Ataashi helps immensely, her steady bulk endlessly assuring to the elf who still thinks himself protector after all these years.

So he groans, yes, and he is a miserable thing as he shivers beneath the sheets— but he also smiles at that moniker, his heart still so full. With a little sigh, he tips his head, pressing his face against Astarion's shoulder for a long moment. Then, muffled:]

It will be easier in the morning. And the pain still does not compare to winter in Thedas.

[So there's that. Raising his head again (and alas, leaving behind a small damp spot), he adds curiously:]

I realize I may know the answer before I ask, but . . . do vampires have an equivalent to getting sick? It seems something I should know before we're wed.

[Gods, he's never going to get over saying that.]