[That isn't an answer, but what had he expected? Of course Astarion isn't all right. He must be feeling a thousand things, each more overwhelming than the last, and none of it easy to parse, never mind articulate. Leto knows better than to ask that, but now, years later, he can finally appreciate why Hawke had once asked him that very same question. It doesn't mean are you okay, but rather: come here, come fall apart on me.
A better answer: the way their profiles touch. Leto leans up into that butting affection, his eyes closing as he returns every nuzzle with as much love as he can muster. Come here, come here, and he isn't quite aware of what it does for their scents (how his own becomes smothered gently by Astarion's once more, claiming and protective in equal measure), but there's something to be said for the comfort of touch.
It ends too quickly, and Leto's eyes follow Astarion as he draws back.]
You wouldn't dare.
[It's offered mildly, the retort more about breaking the silence than any real banter. He wishes he knew what to say, and knows even as he thinks it that there isn't anything to say. Tell Astarion to leave and he'll gnaw on himself in bitter, miserable rage; beg him to come down on the bed and he'll grow frantic over Leto's injuries, overwhelmed by the scent of blood and the sight of gore. Beg him to share how he feels and he'll snarl and snap, but ignoring it doesn't feel right either.
And so Leto waits. Patiently, his eyes soft, and shifts accordingly each time his mate needs him to. Cold fingers brush feather-light against the gouges on his stomach, measuring their span before he presses another sheet to his torso. At one point, Ataashi leaps up onto the bed, her massive paws so careful as she makes sure not to jostle either of them. Her bulk is a comfort, even if she shivers in belated fear as she beds down next to them. She even manages to quiet down the pup's crying: craning down off the bed and grasping them carefully in her mouth so she can bring them up one by one, nuzzling at them each time they get it in their tiny heads to try and wander towards Leto.
It's quiet for so long. Long enough that his shoulder begins to clot; long enough that Astarion can begin to wrap a bandage around it rather than just stem the gushing flow. And when he does, finally, Leto breaks the silence to murmur:]
Will you lie with me soon?
[He wants to hold him. He wants to kiss his forehead and nuzzle against the top of his head, holding him close as he shakes himself into terrified, enraged pieces; he wants to hear that those were Astarion's enslaved siblings, each an unwilling enemy. But not yet. Not until his mate is ready.]
no subject
A better answer: the way their profiles touch. Leto leans up into that butting affection, his eyes closing as he returns every nuzzle with as much love as he can muster. Come here, come here, and he isn't quite aware of what it does for their scents (how his own becomes smothered gently by Astarion's once more, claiming and protective in equal measure), but there's something to be said for the comfort of touch.
It ends too quickly, and Leto's eyes follow Astarion as he draws back.]
You wouldn't dare.
[It's offered mildly, the retort more about breaking the silence than any real banter. He wishes he knew what to say, and knows even as he thinks it that there isn't anything to say. Tell Astarion to leave and he'll gnaw on himself in bitter, miserable rage; beg him to come down on the bed and he'll grow frantic over Leto's injuries, overwhelmed by the scent of blood and the sight of gore. Beg him to share how he feels and he'll snarl and snap, but ignoring it doesn't feel right either.
And so Leto waits. Patiently, his eyes soft, and shifts accordingly each time his mate needs him to. Cold fingers brush feather-light against the gouges on his stomach, measuring their span before he presses another sheet to his torso. At one point, Ataashi leaps up onto the bed, her massive paws so careful as she makes sure not to jostle either of them. Her bulk is a comfort, even if she shivers in belated fear as she beds down next to them. She even manages to quiet down the pup's crying: craning down off the bed and grasping them carefully in her mouth so she can bring them up one by one, nuzzling at them each time they get it in their tiny heads to try and wander towards Leto.
It's quiet for so long. Long enough that his shoulder begins to clot; long enough that Astarion can begin to wrap a bandage around it rather than just stem the gushing flow. And when he does, finally, Leto breaks the silence to murmur:]
Will you lie with me soon?
[He wants to hold him. He wants to kiss his forehead and nuzzle against the top of his head, holding him close as he shakes himself into terrified, enraged pieces; he wants to hear that those were Astarion's enslaved siblings, each an unwilling enemy. But not yet. Not until his mate is ready.]