[How long does it take? But it doesn't matter. Time never matters when they're tucked away in their home (the mansion in Thedas, the flat above the pub in Evereska, their roving apartments in Baldur's Gate). The minutes melt into hours melt into days unheeded, ignored in favor of sorrow or pleasure, joy or grief, for there is nothing more important than the two of them.
Thus: Astarion nestles beneath Leto's chin, his little body finding the places that feel safest, and lingers there for as long as he needs. Leto knows better than to say anything, but his hand comes up often: first for that wet little snout to snuffle at and recognize (you know me, you remember this scent), and then to gently pet when it seems he's wanted. His attention stays nominally focused on his book, for sometimes being perceived is too much to bear— even when most of your life has been spent begging for a scrap of attention.
Perhaps especially then.
There's no fanfare for when it ends. The only motion Leto makes is to sit up, watching Astarion as he finally comes back to himself.]
Nothing. The tiefling noticed me, I think, but she looked at me as much of the city did: with bemusement, not recognition or shock. I ran, and they neither of them followed.
[He checked. He made sure. Over and over, he made sure, circling endlessly in a wide perimeter around their home, using every bit of old training and newfound senses to make sure that no gleaming set of red eyes was involuntarily taking note of them.
(And the joke is: he did miss something, but Korrilla is so much more subtle than any spawn could ever hope to be).]
There was a drow, too.
[The question hangs silently in the air, but he won't utter it just yet. Better to let Astarion tell him their names, their stories, their views (if such things even exist; if they are anything more than fellow slaves— but they must be. Siblings, and Leto— Fenris— knows better than anyone how many memories such relations trigger).]
no subject
Thus: Astarion nestles beneath Leto's chin, his little body finding the places that feel safest, and lingers there for as long as he needs. Leto knows better than to say anything, but his hand comes up often: first for that wet little snout to snuffle at and recognize (you know me, you remember this scent), and then to gently pet when it seems he's wanted. His attention stays nominally focused on his book, for sometimes being perceived is too much to bear— even when most of your life has been spent begging for a scrap of attention.
Perhaps especially then.
There's no fanfare for when it ends. The only motion Leto makes is to sit up, watching Astarion as he finally comes back to himself.]
Nothing. The tiefling noticed me, I think, but she looked at me as much of the city did: with bemusement, not recognition or shock. I ran, and they neither of them followed.
[He checked. He made sure. Over and over, he made sure, circling endlessly in a wide perimeter around their home, using every bit of old training and newfound senses to make sure that no gleaming set of red eyes was involuntarily taking note of them.
(And the joke is: he did miss something, but Korrilla is so much more subtle than any spawn could ever hope to be).]
There was a drow, too.
[The question hangs silently in the air, but he won't utter it just yet. Better to let Astarion tell him their names, their stories, their views (if such things even exist; if they are anything more than fellow slaves— but they must be. Siblings, and Leto— Fenris— knows better than anyone how many memories such relations trigger).]