[Without thinking, Leto tips his head, pushing against Astarion's fingers in one subtle gesture. The press of them are cool against Leto's flushed skin, his skin soft in all the ways Leto's own fingers aren't. It's an impulse, there and gone, and in the next moment he covers for it: tugging his mask free with more fumbling than is strictly required, giving Astarion time to pull back.
(He doesn't regret it, though. Not for a moment).]
Did he now?
[Oh, his expression is growing warmer, losing some of that sulkiness in favor of amusement. There are few things that perk up his mood more than undercutting some Tevinter noble— even when said noble is, well, fictional. And now that Astarion is here—
But perhaps he's being too hasty. His eyes go from green to white and back again as a breeze picks up the leaves in the terrace, moonlight rippling over both their expressions.]
Are you done for the night?
[It's soft, for his ire truly isn't with Astarion, not at all. And in case some of that tension threads its way through, he distracts again: reaching to pluck that bottle deftly out of Astarion's fingers so he can pry it open.]
no subject
(He doesn't regret it, though. Not for a moment).]
Did he now?
[Oh, his expression is growing warmer, losing some of that sulkiness in favor of amusement. There are few things that perk up his mood more than undercutting some Tevinter noble— even when said noble is, well, fictional. And now that Astarion is here—
But perhaps he's being too hasty. His eyes go from green to white and back again as a breeze picks up the leaves in the terrace, moonlight rippling over both their expressions.]
Are you done for the night?
[It's soft, for his ire truly isn't with Astarion, not at all. And in case some of that tension threads its way through, he distracts again: reaching to pluck that bottle deftly out of Astarion's fingers so he can pry it open.]