[I would, if it meant saving you, Astarion stubbornly reiterates throughout one bridging whisper, impressed soft against a salt-rough cheek. Languages and sentiments. Shaky-legged rituals as a stand in for self-soothing while the sun's still far from risen, and the hairs along the back of his own neck won't settle, more certain by the second that there's more to come (adrenaline draining through the tips of his fingers, leaving a disorienting sense of pins-and-needles numbness in its wake; emptier than he's felt in ages), bleeding out in the streets a second time.
But gods, he won't lose the life he's built to this.
Not the wolf hushing her packmates. Not the warm hands straining to find him in the dark, all too beautiful to the broken vampire that'd beat his hands bloody over iron, begging for a scrap of mercy. Another voice beside him. Anything to defy the cruelty Cazador made law.
Anything.
He nods to that request. Hikes one leg up into the softness of the mattress and what remains of its torn bedding just to (carefully) rearrange Leto's alignment, wrapping himself (arms, legs, ankles and clawed fingers— even his profile he buries) against his wounded hero. Still dashing as ever, as it so happens.] Until the others arrive and patch your wounds properly, compared to my own shoddy handwork.
[A nosing nudge. A bit of care to avoid the damage to that shoulder whilst they wend into each other, and then:]
Are you in pain....?
[Does it hurt?
Questions he'd never asked anyone before, save.... ]
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But gods, he won't lose the life he's built to this.
Not the wolf hushing her packmates. Not the warm hands straining to find him in the dark, all too beautiful to the broken vampire that'd beat his hands bloody over iron, begging for a scrap of mercy. Another voice beside him. Anything to defy the cruelty Cazador made law.
Anything.
He nods to that request. Hikes one leg up into the softness of the mattress and what remains of its torn bedding just to (carefully) rearrange Leto's alignment, wrapping himself (arms, legs, ankles and clawed fingers— even his profile he buries) against his wounded hero. Still dashing as ever, as it so happens.] Until the others arrive and patch your wounds properly, compared to my own shoddy handwork.
[A nosing nudge. A bit of care to avoid the damage to that shoulder whilst they wend into each other, and then:]
Are you in pain....?
[Does it hurt?
Questions he'd never asked anyone before, save.... ]