[There, now. There he is, and Leto nestles himself within that protective hold: wrapping his arms around Astarion as his chin tips up to make room for that burrowing. Come here, whispered as his vampire settles atop him protectively. Come here, come be with me, me fortes amatus, his lips brushing against his forehead as he draws Astarion in close. Their legs intertwine, their arms lock around one another— and though the danger has never been closer to their doorstep, still, here and now, Leto feels some part of him quietly exhale.
It's always been them against the world. Thedas or Toril, Riftwatch or Cazador . . . so long as they're together, there's nothing they cannot handle.
At his side, Ataashi has taken to licking both the pups, settling herself and them both with uncharacteristically affectionate grooming. So, too, does Leto settle in with Astarion: his fingers coming up to card through his hair, stroking through silver curls patiently, nuzzling and nosing at his forehead all the while. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, as much a comfort as the steady beat of his heart or the slow rise and fall of his chest.
And then there's that question.
Spoken with such devastating, tender tentativeness— so much so that his heart aches to hear it. On sudden impulse he turns his head, kissing Astarion's forehead with as much devotion as he can muster as his arms wrap even tighter around him. For a moment he thinks of lying— but ah, what good would that do either of them?]
Not as much as before.
[It's true: the bleeding has stopped. Pain thunders through him, but it's hot, dull pain, easily accepted and ignored.
He's quiet for a little bit. And then, softly:]
Tell me what you're thinking.
[His voice is pitched low enough that Astarion can ignore him if he wants. His fingers keep up their steady rhythm, carding through his hair as Leto stares up at the ceiling. This late at night, the only light comes from the dappled patterns of the lanterns on the street, flicking so faintly you might mistake them for stars.
Beloved, oh, beloved, and his heart aches for how distant Astarion's voice sounds. Not cold, but dissonant. Part of him isn't here, Leto knows, but in a palace in the Upper City, where the air smells of iron and no light nor joy ever reaches.]
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It's always been them against the world. Thedas or Toril, Riftwatch or Cazador . . . so long as they're together, there's nothing they cannot handle.
At his side, Ataashi has taken to licking both the pups, settling herself and them both with uncharacteristically affectionate grooming. So, too, does Leto settle in with Astarion: his fingers coming up to card through his hair, stroking through silver curls patiently, nuzzling and nosing at his forehead all the while. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, as much a comfort as the steady beat of his heart or the slow rise and fall of his chest.
And then there's that question.
Spoken with such devastating, tender tentativeness— so much so that his heart aches to hear it. On sudden impulse he turns his head, kissing Astarion's forehead with as much devotion as he can muster as his arms wrap even tighter around him. For a moment he thinks of lying— but ah, what good would that do either of them?]
Not as much as before.
[It's true: the bleeding has stopped. Pain thunders through him, but it's hot, dull pain, easily accepted and ignored.
He's quiet for a little bit. And then, softly:]
Tell me what you're thinking.
[His voice is pitched low enough that Astarion can ignore him if he wants. His fingers keep up their steady rhythm, carding through his hair as Leto stares up at the ceiling. This late at night, the only light comes from the dappled patterns of the lanterns on the street, flicking so faintly you might mistake them for stars.
Beloved, oh, beloved, and his heart aches for how distant Astarion's voice sounds. Not cold, but dissonant. Part of him isn't here, Leto knows, but in a palace in the Upper City, where the air smells of iron and no light nor joy ever reaches.]