His brain is brought to a screeching halt from the mere sight of her, this ethereal creature that is his kadan and yet not all at once. His tongue is suddenly thick, his eyes darting about her face frantically as he realizes what she's done. Somehow he manages not to trip over himself as he heads from the street to the alley, dodging people in a daze as his eyes stay locked on Astarion.]
You—
[And he can't explain it. He can't understand why he's suddenly so flustered, the tips of his ears reddened and his eyes as wide as saucers, looking every inch the adolescent he appears to be as he stands in front of his mate— save maybe that she's so beautiful.
Stunning. Breathtaking. Astarion is always attractive, Leto swears, but this is so new. The sleek lines of her face are softened just slightly, her scarlet eyes more doeish than normal as she glances up at him through dark lashes. It's so hard to see the shape of her beneath her cloak (and trust he looks, eager to see all of her); Leto's eyes flick down, up, down, and then finally up again, his expression nothing short of delightedly bewildered.]
It's . . . when did you—?
[Murmured in Tevene, and the undercurrent is: it is you, isn't it? It must be. It has to be. She smells the same, looks the same down to the arrangement of freckles and moles, her hair longer but with the same curl pattern and her lips curved in the most familiar smirk— oh, it must be Astarion, and yet Leto's hand hesitates just once before cupping her cheek.
Small, he thinks in unconscious echo as he turns her head up to face him. Not absurdly so, but there's a difference there, and it thrills him to realize it. Small, their height difference suddenly widened by a matter of inches, her frame slighter and softer than he's used to. His thumb strokes gently over the curve of her cheek again and again, his body already angling to stand between her and the street in unconscious bid at protectiveness.]
How did you— when did you— how did you get here?
[Oh, gods, he sounds inane, but he can't help it, not when his mind is still struggling to play catchup with current events. He wants to kiss her and doesn't dare, not just yet, gripped with a shyness he still struggles to understand.
He also can't help the way he keeps trying to get a glimpse of her beneath that cloak: not crudely so much as avidly (and drunkenly) curious about how this potion treated his lover. More to the point: what bits of her it emphasized, and where, and how much. He wants to know, but . . . oh, to hell with it, he'll find out soon enough, he thinks, and focuses back up on her face once more.
no subject
[Honest to gods, he forgets how to talk.
His brain is brought to a screeching halt from the mere sight of her, this ethereal creature that is his kadan and yet not all at once. His tongue is suddenly thick, his eyes darting about her face frantically as he realizes what she's done. Somehow he manages not to trip over himself as he heads from the street to the alley, dodging people in a daze as his eyes stay locked on Astarion.]
You—
[And he can't explain it. He can't understand why he's suddenly so flustered, the tips of his ears reddened and his eyes as wide as saucers, looking every inch the adolescent he appears to be as he stands in front of his mate— save maybe that she's so beautiful.
Stunning. Breathtaking. Astarion is always attractive, Leto swears, but this is so new. The sleek lines of her face are softened just slightly, her scarlet eyes more doeish than normal as she glances up at him through dark lashes. It's so hard to see the shape of her beneath her cloak (and trust he looks, eager to see all of her); Leto's eyes flick down, up, down, and then finally up again, his expression nothing short of delightedly bewildered.]
It's . . . when did you—?
[Murmured in Tevene, and the undercurrent is: it is you, isn't it? It must be. It has to be. She smells the same, looks the same down to the arrangement of freckles and moles, her hair longer but with the same curl pattern and her lips curved in the most familiar smirk— oh, it must be Astarion, and yet Leto's hand hesitates just once before cupping her cheek.
Small, he thinks in unconscious echo as he turns her head up to face him. Not absurdly so, but there's a difference there, and it thrills him to realize it. Small, their height difference suddenly widened by a matter of inches, her frame slighter and softer than he's used to. His thumb strokes gently over the curve of her cheek again and again, his body already angling to stand between her and the street in unconscious bid at protectiveness.]
How did you— when did you— how did you get here?
[Oh, gods, he sounds inane, but he can't help it, not when his mind is still struggling to play catchup with current events. He wants to kiss her and doesn't dare, not just yet, gripped with a shyness he still struggles to understand.
He also can't help the way he keeps trying to get a glimpse of her beneath that cloak: not crudely so much as avidly (and drunkenly) curious about how this potion treated his lover. More to the point: what bits of her it emphasized, and where, and how much. He wants to know, but . . . oh, to hell with it, he'll find out soon enough, he thinks, and focuses back up on her face once more.
Sincerely, then:]
You're so . . . you're beautiful.