[His eyes close when nimble claws play with his hair, quietly pleased by the familiar habit. Astarion has always had a minor fixation with playing with his bangs; he's never pointed it out, for fear that it would stop. It's a comfort to feel it now.]
I know.
[He does. That pinch to the ear, equal parts scolding and immensely fond, underlines Astarion's stark words and drives them home. You are nothing like him, and no matter what guilt might linger— swept away in the light only to seep back in on sleepless nights— those words will be a boon against them.
But he isn't the only one in need of comfort. His palms slide firmly down Astarion's sides, soothing and grounding both, as he regards him. My love for you. And only you, and he tries to echo that with touch, calloused hands that refuse to leave bare skin for a moment.]
Neither are you.
[Not at all. Not for a moment. Not even when his mouth is hot with stolen blood and his past is littered with all the corpses of those who hadn't deserved their fate, oh, Leto believes it wholeheartedly.]
And I am not leaving you, come what may. There is no revelation from your past that would drive me from your side, and there is no world in which I do not love you with all my heart. I am devoted to you, amatus. I wore your mark in Thedas and I would do it again here, for there is no one more important to me.
[But they've done this before, haven't they? I cannot be your consort, and though they'd worked it out, the memory— the misunderstanding— still stings sometimes. His hands rise, cupping both of Astarion's cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over the curve as he catches his eye.]
Tell me now, if you feel a distance. If you fear that I will leave. I—
[How does he say this? He thinks for a moment, then:]
It is harder, I said, to understand what you need and what I should and should not ask of you. But the fault is mine. The distance to make up for is mine. And I do not wish for you to lie if you are hurt, or feel rejected, simply to make sure I don't leave.
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I know.
[He does. That pinch to the ear, equal parts scolding and immensely fond, underlines Astarion's stark words and drives them home. You are nothing like him, and no matter what guilt might linger— swept away in the light only to seep back in on sleepless nights— those words will be a boon against them.
But he isn't the only one in need of comfort. His palms slide firmly down Astarion's sides, soothing and grounding both, as he regards him. My love for you. And only you, and he tries to echo that with touch, calloused hands that refuse to leave bare skin for a moment.]
Neither are you.
[Not at all. Not for a moment. Not even when his mouth is hot with stolen blood and his past is littered with all the corpses of those who hadn't deserved their fate, oh, Leto believes it wholeheartedly.]
And I am not leaving you, come what may. There is no revelation from your past that would drive me from your side, and there is no world in which I do not love you with all my heart. I am devoted to you, amatus. I wore your mark in Thedas and I would do it again here, for there is no one more important to me.
[But they've done this before, haven't they? I cannot be your consort, and though they'd worked it out, the memory— the misunderstanding— still stings sometimes. His hands rise, cupping both of Astarion's cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over the curve as he catches his eye.]
Tell me now, if you feel a distance. If you fear that I will leave. I—
[How does he say this? He thinks for a moment, then:]
It is harder, I said, to understand what you need and what I should and should not ask of you. But the fault is mine. The distance to make up for is mine. And I do not wish for you to lie if you are hurt, or feel rejected, simply to make sure I don't leave.