[By the time Gale leaves, Astarion gets it. Remembers it, more accurately, the damning details leading up to his involuntary departure from this world.
That said, three years of freedom is such a long time in terms of iron trust: he's not the fretful thing he used to be when they first met, constantly looking towards his partner and seeking out approval (or assurance, whichever worked best), afraid to stray too far from what was always desirable for how it might divide them. They've grown close enough these days that they qualify as ingrown by design: irreversibly intertwined, almost grotesquely so— because where sweetness reigns, there are those days when Astarion can't bring himself to leave or sit alone. Can't stop thinking about where Leto is, or what he might be doing on his own. Not jealous, but restless. A true vampire would never be that soft.
They could confess anything. Ask anything. Do anything— and where love (never) ends devotion overtakes. Not a question. More than instinct. Deeper than the tightest bond.
Admitting the truth in that hadal bay of understanding is, by any stretch, easy.
....but the way Astarion moves to pull of his shirt and redress for bed rather than company is a telltale sign he's stalling. Putting it off by seconds. Keeping his hands and eyes and focus busy, though his voice is even enough to read as disinterested when he finally makes use of it.]
We don't, but you're sweet to offer. [Balls his shirt up between clawed fingers, tossing it into a satchel hung higher than the pups can reach— dirty laundry only. Threats of bite marks or piss on silk keep him tidier than he would be otherwise.]
They're monster hunters. The clan that Gale mentioned, that is. The ones that are willing to help us fight back, if I understood his hints correctly. [And he does think so, alludes the underscoring glance across his shoulder, catching Leto's eye.] Most are....
[Tsk.]
Vagrants, for lack of a more revolting term. The sort to take on odd jobs of any shade— much like the Gur that killed me. That's what sets this pack apart, and what set them in Cazador's sights as a nuisance, before Thedas was kind enough to offer my freedom from his rule.
[A plaintive pause; he isn't looking anymore. Only staring down into his clothing dresser, distant for that single, solitary beat.]
He took their children from them.
[He took, but it's no far reach for any slave to remember that it's never the master's own hands that commit to any work.]
no subject
That said, three years of freedom is such a long time in terms of iron trust: he's not the fretful thing he used to be when they first met, constantly looking towards his partner and seeking out approval (or assurance, whichever worked best), afraid to stray too far from what was always desirable for how it might divide them. They've grown close enough these days that they qualify as ingrown by design: irreversibly intertwined, almost grotesquely so— because where sweetness reigns, there are those days when Astarion can't bring himself to leave or sit alone. Can't stop thinking about where Leto is, or what he might be doing on his own. Not jealous, but restless. A true vampire would never be that soft.
They could confess anything. Ask anything. Do anything— and where love (never) ends devotion overtakes. Not a question. More than instinct. Deeper than the tightest bond.
Admitting the truth in that hadal bay of understanding is, by any stretch, easy.
....but the way Astarion moves to pull of his shirt and redress for bed rather than company is a telltale sign he's stalling. Putting it off by seconds. Keeping his hands and eyes and focus busy, though his voice is even enough to read as disinterested when he finally makes use of it.]
We don't, but you're sweet to offer. [Balls his shirt up between clawed fingers, tossing it into a satchel hung higher than the pups can reach— dirty laundry only. Threats of bite marks or piss on silk keep him tidier than he would be otherwise.]
They're monster hunters. The clan that Gale mentioned, that is. The ones that are willing to help us fight back, if I understood his hints correctly. [And he does think so, alludes the underscoring glance across his shoulder, catching Leto's eye.] Most are....
[Tsk.]
Vagrants, for lack of a more revolting term. The sort to take on odd jobs of any shade— much like the Gur that killed me. That's what sets this pack apart, and what set them in Cazador's sights as a nuisance, before Thedas was kind enough to offer my freedom from his rule.
[A plaintive pause; he isn't looking anymore. Only staring down into his clothing dresser, distant for that single, solitary beat.]
He took their children from them.
[He took, but it's no far reach for any slave to remember that it's never the master's own hands that commit to any work.]