[His thumb keeps up its steady stroke against Astarion's scar; his left hand drifts down: calloused fingertips sliding against soft skin until they find Astarion's hand and blindly lock around his ring finger. He needs to find them rings, Leto thinks distantly. There's been no ceremony (for what gods do they believe in?), no oaths of devotion (for they have long since sworn deeper and more meaningful ones than mere I do's). There were no friends invited, no family to bear witness or show good faith. And it is what it is, but some part of Leto still wants something traditional. Something to show that there was a transition in this relationship beyond simple agreement.

It doesn't matter, not really. It doesn't change anything between them, for their souls are intertwined, and always will be. And yet somehow, on some subatomic level deep in his heart, it does matter. There is a difference, though if asked Leto couldn't name it. And he will mark that difference with a ring, for perhaps the weight of it will bring them both some comfort.]

Now that, [he says, and nuzzles deliberately against Astarion as he says it,] I do not fully believe.

[He isn't trying to catch him out. This isn't a trick. Don't reel from me, as he brushes their lips together again.]

Perhaps they are fleeting, or only come when I am not near you . . . or when the silence of your coffin is too much to bear alone. But it is no sign of ill-faith to have fleeting doubts or fears, even for me. Even if all of you knows better.

[He hesitates, and then:]

And you would not be alone in that. Or did you assume my apology from earlier was wholeheartedly from simple reflection?