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INBOX II

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[Their sleep schedules are going to be fucked and Leto doesn't care, not when everything suddenly feels so right. A sharp contrast to his harried haste a moment before, every cultivated instinct whispering that he wasn't where he ought to be now swiftly silenced. Astarion curls up into his arms, small and contained and protected, yes, this is where they both belong.

It's been so long since he's gotten to do this, but that only means he tends to his duty more vigilantly, determined to offer Astarion a comforting space and steady ground to stand upon both. His chin lifts, making room for his mate to curl into, his fingers combing slowly through loose curls as his other arm settles heavily against his form, keeping him close. I will keep you safe, I will help you as best I can, all of him so intimately aware of how hard it is to recall bits and pieces of one's past.

And soon enough, there is an answer to his question. Puffs of tepid air against his neck as Astarion speaks in a tone that's reserved only for them, intimate and vulnerable.]

Oh, yes.

[Snapshots of sensation more than a clear start-to-finish: the sour scent of ale and unwashed bodies filling his nose as he'd peered over the edge of his tankard, grinning as Astarion showed off how easily he could pick a pocket. Gold glimmering between his fingers before being safely stowed away; it's a kind of magic, see? drawled out in Fenris' ear, and the teasing swat Astarion had received for such a joke was received with a barking laugh. Liquor so potent it stung his tongue as they'd egged one another on with bets over— oh, who could even remember? Sexual favors and teasing kinks drawled out as potential rewards, and by the end they'd gotten so worked up they'd left the bar just so they could rut in the alley nearby— only to encounter a few members of the Undercuts who wanted to lighten their purses. And so they'd fought (clumsily, drunkenly, and yet still far outclassing their foolish attackers), and fucked, and drank some more . . .

It's all blurred. He can remember snatches of the night, sentences picked out without context, smears of color and sound woven with a general feeling of happiness. Joy. Love, warm and content and delighted by how well the night was going.

And here and now, Leto suspects he knows where Astarion is going with this, and so adds:]

Bits of it, anyway.

[Diligent little heart, beating with more years than he looks from the outside in. Moments like this, they'd have to seem absurd to any uninformed observers (scarcely any wonder the buckish herd his amatus runs with can't seem to figure it out in any sense): watching a lanky moon elf barely grown into his ears and limbs comforting a full-fledged vampire with a worldly show of care— the streaks of silver in that hair companion to the laugh lines dappling his cheeks. Track marks for exhaustion beyond exhaustion.

(Laugh lines. Gods. What an ironic name, considering how Astarion earned his doing anything but that.)

But it wasn't long ago that the tables were reversed in their arrangement, and it was Leto who stood unshackled and prodigious in his ultimacy against a tapestry of horror that would swear it was a front. A lie. A game. No one could be that kind. No one would be that gentle, that fierce, that knowing, not without another motive— and yet he was: Astarion could barely keep up in his shadow, and Hells if he didn't know whether he wanted to be like him back then in those first few strides of buckling freedom, or with him.

Laid out like this, purring like an overgrown cat for all the attention that he's getting against soft skin and softer curls, he still isn't quite sure the answer isn't both.]

Oh—

Well that's more than I expected, at the very least. [Playful, the canting of his voice. The tipping of his chin, his lips— angling to kiss (to nip) the underside of Leto's jaw.] You could barely stand by the end of the night....

Though that gorgeous cock of yours certainly didn't have the same problem in my hands. [Hand, accurately: after a certain point all Astarion remembers is pinning Leto to a wall with his wrist aching for the angle of his buried strokes beneath rucked trousers. Breathing hot across pale markings that tasted like glass to his tongue, and almost seemed to buzz each time he tasted them.

He has to change the subject to keep from losing himself to homesickness, a sudden dead drop in his gut.]

Best parts of our adventures aside, it was....well, no. It wasn't like that, but— [His eyes dart upwards towards the ceiling, exhaling once. Twice. (Each puff of air cold as the corners of their sheets.)] My recollection is.

The patriar I danced with were young. In dreams, their faces blur, and I have no idea whether it's masks they don or my own failing recollection, but I know that I was happy. Thrilled. Eager to prove myself, and everything smelled like it did in Thedas, still: no copper tang polluting everything around me, no pricking myself when I laughed.

There was still ambition in me, whatever that was worth.

[Another pull of air, and then:]

After Cazador....not so much.

[He can imagine it so easily.

Astarion young and proud and bright: lips wet with droplets of champagne that glimmer gold in the enchanted candlelight, his eyes gleaming as he'd danced with some strapping younger son or pretty elven girl. Hands meeting hands as gossip is exchanged behind veiled pleasantries; flirtations gliding off slick tongues for no other reason than fun. Or perhaps it had been more daring: Astarion's face half-hidden behind a mask, the only thing visible a wicked smirk as he'd slipped his fingers beneath a hem or palmed pointedly up one thigh. Perfume brushed through his hair and his clothes so perfectly tailored, nothing on his mind save having fun and showing himself off to the world all at once.

It's familiar. Not just because Leto is used to such parties (albeit from a vastly different viewpoint, though Rialto gave him a taste), but because he knows the flaws in those recollections so well. Blurred faces and snatches of emotion disconnected from any larger backdrop . . . and how strange it is to recall. To have a snapshot portrait of who you were and how you acted, what you thought and felt and were, and yet to have no greater context to which to apply it . . . oh, it's disorienting. Nauseating. Overwhelming, and yet not so much so that you wish to never have remembered at all— gods, no. No, he held on (Astarion will hold on) to those memories with white knuckles, going over every detail again and again until he has gleaned every bit of information possible from them.

Leto knows the feeling. Gods, does he ever.]

No, I imagine not.

[He murmurs it gently, sympathetic acknowledgement without lingering for too long on it. For it would be so easy to get lost in bitterness of all that came afterwards (he knows), but that isn't the point right now. His hands keep up their steady motions, his heart warming as he feels more than hears the contented purr rumbling low in his lover's throat.]

Ambition to succeed as a magistrate? Or ambition to prove yourself regardless?

[A few seconds pass, and then Leto adds softly:]

I'm glad you were happy.

[Gods, he is. More than he can properly say.]

And perhaps some of those details will sharpen in time. Perhaps not who you danced with, but . . . I have found some come and go. What color you wore, maybe, or what you drank that night . . . such things have a strange way of cropping up.

[Leto's voice rings with it, understanding.

It strips Astarion to the marrow in an instant, unintentionally on either end of their array. Has him tight-lipped around the flexion catch of his softly clenched jaw, dry heat bubbling in his nose, swimming angrily around the backs of his eyes. He wasn't ready for it. For the heavy lay of sentiment like that, one foot wedged in past and present.

He feels like a bloody fumarole.

Ashamed even in absolute privacy— with the only person he'd ever trust with secrets this fragile to begin with— and the sheer absurdity of that comprehension somehow makes it worse. The words I'm glad you were happy having already hooked hard under fractured ribs, leaving him unguarded for a promise so sweet it scalds his tongue. His throat. His fingers. He doesn't know why.

(He should be warm. He should be kindled, burning from the inside out with that feeling of appeasement always shared to know his only lover understands. Not this. This wet, sick knot of rote taxation, upset at the promise that Leto heard some half-muttered story about a spoiled magistrate while his family and their hollow stomachs waited in the wings to play their written part, and offered, still— )]

Don't—

[Astarion cuts hotly.]

Don't. Say that.

[The words leave him wrong; that isn't what he meant. He's sat up somewhere along the way, though he can't remember when.

Something loitering on the tip of his tongue when he looks back.

It doesn't come unstuck.]

[It's like triggering a trap on Sundermount.

One wrong step, a click, and then that awful split-second where you have just enough time to realize how fucked you truly are before the flames begin. A singular misstep that might lead to disaster if it isn't handled correctly— and gods, but he does not want to misstep here. Not when this is such a vitally important conversation.]

What is it?

[His voice is low and unassuming, his body still as he forces himself not to leap after Astarion. For it reminds him, too, of those early days— gods, it was the first week they'd known each other, wasn't it? When their trust was still so tentative, and it was a daring thing to sleep on Astarion's floor instead of returning to that lonely mansion. Astarion had woken in a terror, so panicked and overwhelmed that any move Leto would have made would have set him off further—

And so he'd gone still. Quiet. No sudden movements, no abrupt cries or demanding questions . . . like how you'd treat a spooked animal, not wanting to make everything worse. He keeps his eyes locked up on his amatus— and unlike that nightmarish first night, he does not hide away his own emotions. Worry and surprise and concern above all, hungry to help and utterly unsure of what had gone wrong.]

What's wrong?

[It sounds so agonizingly stupid. So bloody trite. So—

Strewth, he doesn't damned well know what it sounds like, other than nothing Leto needs hounding him from the rabid maw of luxury itself, even if it did fall from grace nearly two centuries ago. Purgatory thereafter might've stripped away his skin, his bromidic sense of scepterdom, his sense, his hope, his very life— even the crude color of his eyes (which can't have been crimson; no high elves sport that shade)— but it didn't undo it, either.

And now what?

A kind gesture— the sweetness of conversation gifted to him by someone with the scent of sunlight still on his skin— yanked back to swim inside a handful of inches of empty air. Knees folded over, back hunched in a sullen arch. Leto's body language gone to stone, alerted to a catalyst he can't possibly know.]

You—

[Oh come on, Astarion. Come on. Think straight. Say something. Say anything. Don't leave him laying there like this.]

You should've been happy. If either of us deserved that before— everything, it was you.

[To mouth out something as absurd as 'I'm flinching because you tried to be kind to me' is about as reasonable or fair as spitting on closeness. On comfort. On love.

He doesn't want to be that.

Doesn't want to do that.]

[His eyes dart about Astarion's frame, drinking in the way he's curled in on himself.

And it really is just like that first night, isn't it?

Take your pick as to which he means, for two memories clamor for attention all at once. The first time (and he will always count it as the first time) they met. When he'd followed Astarion home and revealed the depths of his bitterness and his rage; when his kadan, in turn, had shared the details of his enslavement. I did better on my back than my heels; two hundred years, that's how long I was leashed to his side, and Leto can still remember the nauseating way his stomach had dropped to hear those facts. So much worse than anything he'd gone through, he'd thought but hadn't said, for comparison would only have been taken as pitying, not sympathetic.

And then again, Leto thinks of the first time in Rialto. Once the sweat had cooled and they were more interested in exploring other kinds of intimacy; when revelations about the web of scars adoring Astarion's back had come to light, and the topic had turned once again to their respective pasts. I always thought I knew just how bad it could get, Astarion had said hoarsely, and Leto had all but panicked in how vehemently his soul rejected such a notion. Two decades and a handful of memories were nothing compared to two centuries, he'd thought, and it had taken no small amount of soothing from Astarion to convince him that it was not a competition. That neither of them had it worse; that they were both such miserable, broken creatures, and that to compare would be foolish.

And it was.

And it is.

But perhaps, Leto thinks now, it's more difficult when you feel instinctively as though you did get the better deal. When you have woken your beloved from so many screaming nightmares; when you have heard him sob for the bitterness and grief of all the years stolen from him . . . oh, it feels the height of selfishness to insist I hurt, too.

Slowly, the tension eases out of Leto's frame. He makes no sudden movements, but nor does he keep that rigid posture of before. Instead: he uncurls. One leg drifting out, stretching along the bed until it rests beside Astarion. Not touching, not yet— but there all the same, and easy to lean into should Astarion want it.]

Well, yes.

[He says it so mildly it might almost come across as a joke, save for the quiet but fierce sincerity in his expression.]

I will not argue. I did deserve to be happy. And while I will not say I have no joyful memories of my early childhood, I suspect you're right: they don't compare to the luxury of parties or dancing. And I deserved better than what I had.

[His head cocks. And then, gently:]

But two mere decades of being my master's adored favorite doesn't compare to two centuries of competing among six siblings just so you could survive another day. Having your skin flayed from your body over and over might well compare against having lyrium forcibly grafted into your marrow and muscle— but then again, I only went through that process once, and I cannot imagine how many times you were left to shiver in agony. Getting to don pretty clothes as you went out to seduce victims does not compare to an iron collar in Tevinter's heat— and having to rut each victim, enduring their hands and mouths and vulgar desires, is far, far worse than the days when my master would force me to run behind his carriage.

I could compare every horror we have ever suffered against one another, Astarion, and who knows who would win? Neither of us, I suspect. For we have never compared. We have never played the game of who had it worse, for the answer is that we both did in our own ways. And the horrors you suffered were no greater or lesser than my own, not when it comes to how much we have both suffered.

[He takes in a shallow breath, and then, softer still:]

We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.

I am happy that you were happy, not because I do not wish the same for my own life— but because it would bring me no joy to know that you were miserable. You deserve that happiness just as much as I did, and do. And just as you would not begrudge me what few happy memories I have with Varania or my mother . . . so too do I not begrudge you the simple joy of a mere party, kadan.

[Understand, and he does not know why he suddenly feels a hint of a lump in his throat. His eyes aren't wet, he isn't about to cry, but desperation thrums through him. Understand, please understand, because he cannot allow this memory to be lost under a crashing wave of self-loathing and snarling defeat.]

[There's a moment of hesitation. A moment where Astarion is deathly still at the center of Leto's focus, pinned less by the heat burning behind his ears and more by every waking word he struggles just to drink in— their perfect inflow all he wants to drown beneath, no matter that his chin is barely above darker water. The noxious wash of history he never conquered so much beat back and shut away without once imagining it'd catch him so off guard as this (how— how is it that he forgets so easily, when picking out the thorns always leads to splinters underneath their skin for days), when contentment's so far given them a chance at bliss beyond bliss provided that they stick to the routine: the cues were so predictable till now, the warning signs were there. If Leto has nightmares where he's shrieking, don't press in the next day; if Astarion's too restless to stand still, he needs to go— to kill— to hunt until the burning boil of his thoughts subsides; let your consort chase monsters, shut the door if need be on those nights when you still think that you should breathe; be patient, be trusting, have faith.

You've never steered each other wrong before, if not a few degrees off course when falling between worlds.

And so there's that moment of hesitation. There's Astarion deathly still, drinking in whatever he can take of those words and this scene and the way Leto looks so ridiculously beautiful trying to untangle the threading they're caught up in. And while not comparing the nightmares is— not necessarily easy, only easier in practice: soot to ash, blood to bone, it's too stark— too potent— compared to macarons and molding handfuls of passed-off millet. Processing that, coming to terms with it....

(It never bothered him before.)

Full years away from the first time he felt the divide stretch out like a chasm driving them apart, but the first time he's noticed it before twisting like a cat to set it straight: thumbs pushing over Leto's face as if pantomiming wiping away the tears that aren't there.

That don't come.

(They try to keep forging ahead. Keep opening doors within themselves. Is it any wonder that what stumbles out from the other side aches and maddens when it finds them?)]

Maker and Adraste damn it. [His thumbs press a few degrees too hard without him noticing as he strokes along sharp cheekbones, leaving faintly reddened track marks in their wake. His voice, on the other hand, is sober. Sane.

Mournful, maybe, even as the corner of his mouth pulls higher on one side.] Stop being so clever.

[Warm. Warm. Fond as the heat of sunlight that clings to moonstone skin, kissing the pads of all his fingers.] You make me look an utter fool.

[He huffs out a laugh that isn't a laugh at all, mingled grief and relief both flooding through im as he turns his head into one palm. The drag of his thumbs is a little too rough and Leto doesn't care, not when every fitful press serves as evidence that he was heard. His eyes soften, his expression just as mournfully warm as he stares up at his amatus; it's hard, I know it's hard, and it is. It will always be hard, and they will always hit snags, guilt (and, be honest, perhaps some quiet resentment) flaring in both of them for any moment in which the other suffered marginally less. But the clarification matters. The fact that they both of them deserved whatever happiness they could eke out before or after their masters is worth affirming. And they will do it again and again for as long as they need to, until perhaps centuries from now the message will finally sink in.

But oh . . . some of that mingled relief and grief, too, is for the deliberate oath that slips past Astarion's lips. Maker and Andraste, unexpected and yet relished all the more for it. Of all the things he's given up when coming to this world, his old religion is the least of them— but it's like a sudden breeze on a hot day to hear those words now. And it suits, doesn't it? As they think about their pasts and their futures . . . oh, it fits. Even if it's only ever in this room, even if it's only for now, he savors it.]

You can repay the favor when next we discuss my past, hm?

[For make no mistake: there will be a time when their positions reverse once more. It's always the way with them. He presses his hand over Astarion's own, fingers gently sliding over his wrist. Gently, then:]

Come tell me more.

Details you can recall, or other memories . . . but it is important, kadan. And on a more selfish note . . .

[He meets Astarion's eyes, trying to ensure that his vampire knows how sincerely he means this.]

I enjoy hearing about you being happy. At a party or anywhere else, but it brings me joy to know you were happy.

[A laugh that isn't a laugh at all, sweet and sliding from his tongue like the hollow chuffing of a big cat who's far too long forgotten how to purr (though Astarion can manage both, in all fairness, speaking purely from experience).]

I'll do better than that, you troublesome little sliver of starlight. [It feathers once it slithers past his lips in what passes for both a promise and nod of acceptance all at once, something like reflex taking him over in a way he doesn't have strength left to fight despite the easy smile prying at his knife-edged cheeks: yes, they'll talk again; yes, the scales will tip— for as is so often the way of conversations centered around any breed of sanity, Leto is right. Vetted equilibrium proves there's little more worth trusting in than a bottom line still coiled underneath their knuckles. Sealed there by a reckless pair of former slaves clutching hands so fiercely their skin went purple for days after staving off the Crossroads' worst accumulating magics. And just like it had before, the moment Fenris speaks with a voice well past his fragile years, rote madness quickly slithers back into its narrow excuse for a den, barely able to serve as a distraction. Hardly a detour.

They're on a new path, now.

One that leaves Astarion winding into Leto's outline, weaving back together what his rabbiting mind tore open. Knees under hips— thighs pushed overtop their heavy brace— straddling one leg as he keeps his contact fixed across those cheeks in circling passes of ivory-pale talons.

This isn't a placating game.]

Go.

Fetch the book of arcane spells Talindra gave you. [A kiss that turns into a bite, a nuzzle, a push—

He needs a second to recover from being overcome by something more stunning than rampant acerbity. (And more than that:) they've talked enough:]

It's time for something new.

Edited 2024-04-09 19:18 (UTC)

Oh, is it?

[His tone doesn't quite manage to hit playful the way he wants it to, but it's genuine all the same. There's a difference, Leto has learned in the past three years, between moving on from a topic naturally and shoving past it in a fit of fear. And while some part of him whines nervously, fretful of Astarion losing any minute detail of this memory, he ignores it. This isn't for him to dictate, nor is it his memory to covet. I was sixty, I danced, I was happy, and those details alone are enough.

So he gives himself over to that roughened affection: bucking up into every touch, nuzzling back with such intense adoration that they nearly end up knocking foreheads. Lips brushing against one another, Astarion's weight pleasantly heavy against his thigh, and it takes him a few extra seconds to find the willpower to tear away. One more kiss (his hands settling atop lithe hips, fingertips digging into firm muscle), and another (their teeth clicking as he nips roughly at his vampire's bottom lip once, twice), until with a little groan he pulls away.

At least he doesn't have to go far. The book is just on the edge of his nightstand; with a soft grunt and a little lunge he manages to reach for it without actually having to move. And give Talindra credit: when she gives gifts, she gives them well. The book is a beautifully bound thing, a red cover with gold thread gently stitching featherlight pages together. Each spell is carefully typed out, but it's the little handwritten notes that Leto loves most: Talindra's spidery scrawl appearing the margins of most spells, offering tips and notes for her reluctant student.]

If you wish for magic, Astarion, ask first.

[He says it as he goes and gets the book anyway, but, like, still. And yet he still runs one hand affectionately up the line of Astarion's thigh, so what is the truth, Leto.]

[Nothing folds easily— least of all them. Resilient framework their only saving grace, even when they buckle (slipping forwards into each other; into the games they play and the comforts they know with an almost ritualistic familiarity), it's never as simple a transaction as it appears on the surface: what someone else would see as two elves teasing— talking— nosing at each other with a few muted swipes here or there, is the footpath of a hundred little voiceless conversations.

The way they communicate runs deeper than blood, and gods above, there's such a balance to it.

Astarion grins to feel his lover's lean weight shift. Sharper still to what then follows.]

Mother may I?

[Oh he's a misbehaving thing, though there's something said for the fact that he would never refuse to ask in the first place.]

[Brat, and Leto scoffs out a laugh, amused and (falsely) indignant all at once. Impertinent little brat, and he eases into the familiar back-and-forth like he sinks into a hot bath, soothed by it and all that it represents. Yes, I know, coming out in the way their eyes meet and the firm press of Leto's fingers against Astarion's thigh. We're all right, this is all right, and while they'll inevitably circle back again later, it's no bad thing to sink into distraction.]

Mm, better.

[He leans back, flashing a sharp grin of his own to match the one Astarion sports. Opening the book, he idly thumbs through the pages (his own scrawl evident here or there, indignant notations and exasperated explanations).]

Though I still haven't heard please.

May I is better than please, in terms of politesse. [Astarion puffs back, sly as the fox he mimics through a grin that's all fangs and pale, bone white— one finger hooked along the book's seam to yank it free of Fenris' hold.

Provided the moon elf actually lets go.]

But if I must....

[The book's already in his palm (Leto's hand still a pleasantly crawling weight across his thigh, warm and wanton both); he's already thumbing through in search of something in the midst of all that scrawl, tactile claws leading the way.

A flash of crimson as reddened eyes lift under dark lashes, before:]

Pretty please.

And don't you sound so sweet saying it?

[A drawl as sincere as Astarion's own voice, Leto's mouth quirked up in an irrepressible grin. Bratty thing . . . and yet he cannot help but reward him for it. Both hands now freed, he devotes himself to touching his mate: both palms sliding slowly up the line of Astarion's thighs, thumb digging into lean muscle as he keeps up a steady pattern. It's an oddly soothing action, not unlike a cat kneading a favorite owner; he likes to touch him for the simple sake of touch alone.

Curiosity wins out over patience, however, and he leans up to peer over the edge of the book as he adds:]

What are you looking for, exactly? She organized it by spell name, not magic type.

[And he's nosy.]

Only the best for my favorite tormentor. [Chuckle a slow-rolling thing, washing through him while he course corrects with the new information he's been given (and tries desperately not to shudder underneath the well of that attention, perfect as it is— hells, he's not a child or a lapcat— he can control himself....

But it feels so bloody good.)

And then comes the peering shadow over that book, and Astarion can't help but laugh again, forgetting everything that came before it. Precious thing.]

Here. [Alphabetical: that makes it easier to snap back towards the near-middle of the tome in hand, dragging his claw towards— ]

Detect thoughts.

[Shallow, the tapping of his talon over bored-in ink.] That's what you'll need to use.

On me, if you please.

[Leto's stomach drops, his smile not so much fading as draining as he realizes abruptly what it is Astarion's after. Not a bad idea, at least not in theory— why tell someone when you can show them, after all? And perhaps it would help. Perhaps it would offer more clues to Astarion's past, or at least guarantee that someone else can recall what scant memories he has.

But it's one thing to consider that in theory. Quite another to contemplate it when it means having to cast magic upon Astarion. And not just any magic, no, but something intimate. Something that sinks beneath his skin and seeps into his core, drawing out his memories as though they're little more than pages for Leto to thumb through and gawk at as he sees fit. Not a violation, exactly, not when Astarion is the one asking for it— but gods, that's what it feels like. A violation of his privacy and autonomy all at once, and that's to say nothing of how wary Leto is of casting magic at all.]

You . . .

[He licks his lips, his eyes darting away for a moment as he tries to think of what he wants to say. Not no, but then again not yes, either.]

Has it been cast upon you before?

[He knows the spell, at least in theory. But let him buy a little time with meaningless chatter before he has to dissect what it is he feels.]

[Oh, that's a look he's not seen in—

It's been a while, hasn't it? And for all the comfort of growth and adjustment, it's always a different beast that inevitably comes home to roost on a tail end of a stutter like that (irony far from lost on him, considering why they've wound up here like this). Ebb and flow. Tide and echo. Astarion's not unsympathetic. Least of all for his sole chosen companion and beating heart. Least of all when he still feels the fall line of his prior distress, aligned now with Leto's own.

But he's not one to belittle him, either. And he's no desire to lie.]

Not insomuch, no. Not for a very long time, anyway, and the last time it was, it was just some perceptive little gambler in the Flophouse hoping to catch my hand.

[His smile is sly and practiced, his eyes are soft and entirely sincere; he lifts one knuckle just to brush it along the edge of Leto's own akin to rapping on a door.]

You're nervous?

You are not that difficult to read at cards.

[He mumbles it, an inane statement that isn't even true (for Astarion is a deft hand at cheating, it's just that Leto knows his tricks by now). But he's listening, and gods, does he appreciate Astarion for not lying. No, not really, but he knows what he's asking for. He knows what he's inviting Leto to do. And in all likelihood, Leto thinks, he'll know what it feels like if it goes right— or not.

The gently brush of cool skin against his own makes him glance up, catching Astarion's eye ruefully.]

I . . . yes.

[Yes, he is. And yet the word doesn't quite fit. What is he nervous about, anyway? That it will go wrong? Perhaps. That's always a vague worry, though it's lessened as he's learned more and more. Talindra has shown him time and again what it means for a spell to fail— there are consequences, yes, and they have the potential to be catastrophic, but only if he's working with enormous spells. Low-level ones like conjuring flames or, indeed, even detect thoughts, ought to have minimal backlash. Likely the only thing he risks is giving himself a migraine, and even then, perhaps not.

So if not that . . . what? He keeps up the steady rhythm of his hands, comforted by the routine, and takes his time in answering. Until finally:]

Apprehensive, perhaps, suits more. I . . . it makes me uneasy to cast magic, still. Especially upon you. I know you will not be harmed— indeed, I know I am capable of the spell. I simply . . .

[Mm.]

I suppose it just . . . it reminds me of Tevinter, still.

[All of it. All the countless years spent watching fledgling apprentices and aged masters cast their spells and weave their charms, the world changing at a twist of their fingertips. It didn't matter if what they did caused harm or not, for it repulsed him all the same. And magic is different in this world, he knows; Talindra has taught him more than enough control to keep himself safe, he knows. But . . .

The association is there. And each time he lifts his hand up and calls magic to his fingertips, he cannot help but taste turmeric on the back of his tongue.

But he wants to see this. He wants to share this with Astarion, even if it pains him a little to do so. Leto takes in a breath, slow and steady, and nods just once: all right.]

You're—

[No, he won't ask him again. Astarion knows what he wants. Leto lifts his hand, watching as the fat sparks of azure light roll lazily up his tattoos. And with a low murmur, he casts the spell.

And it's so easy. As easy as standing up to get a glass of water; far easier than it has any right to be, and yet there they are. In an instant Leto feels himself become more, mmph, aware, for lack of a better word. Like listening to a noise at the very edge of hearing; like seeing a hair glinting in sunlight— it's a deft trick and yet not to turn his thoughts towards Astarion's own, slipping beneath the surface and gliding uneasily there.]

Show me . . .

[The first step is the hardest. That moment prior to action when everything is at a standstill in the jaws of dread.

And then it ebbs.

Maybe Leto still feels that apprehension. Maybe he's still afraid of something here twisting into old horror— or new ones, unintended. Either way, what seeps into his mind when that magic finally takes hold is warm. Bright. The warbling of attending crowds in golden halls. The vibrant echo of their voices— consonants sharp— as they patter off of painted plaster and smoothly polished stone. Perhaps in some ways it is like Tevinter: the food is rich in its arrangement, the tannin smell of wine is strong (but sweet). Only something else overshadows the setting, doing more to distort old echoes than either fashion or half-blurred focus.

A sense of belonging.

Deep. Unshakably deep. So concrete he could walk on it and never fall, carrying him through a haze of conversations had with younger shades. Excitement framed by hushed gossip, eager invites. Something like a fraction of a dance or the press of a palm against his own, silk-on-silk and laced with praise. Words he might recognize. Some he won't.

And when it ends in a minute or so, it's a quiet bleed that carries Leto back into the present, away from Astarion's mind. Severing the bond, but not the weight of those pale fingers still nesting along the edge of suntanned knuckles.]

Welcome back.

[Oh, he wants to know what Leto thought— how it felt— but first: the moon elf needs to breathe.]

Thank you.

[The thing is: it doesn't feel like he thought it would.

He'd thought it would be like . . . oh, like rising from the water, perhaps. A gasp of air, a sudden shock as his environment changed— this is who I am, this is what the present is, a lurching dissonance as he went from Astarion's own memories to reality. Instead: it's like reading a sentence from a book. Yes, he went somewhere else for a moment, and yes, you can argue that might he need some reorientation, but it would be strange if he did.

It's so easy.

It's too easy, to his mind. Too easy to slip in and out of someone's memories; too easy to blink and glance up and say yes, I saw that, I heard that, and with no one the wiser. And Leto doesn't really know what to do with that feeling save push it away, adding it to the pile of uncertainty and distrust he has when it comes to magic.

Better to focus on the memory itself. For that . . . oh, that was well worth the effort. The details do remind him of Tevinter, familiar in the strangest way: countless parties served standing dutifully behind Danarius' seat, and they weren't all torturous. He will never say he recalls them fondly, but not every single moment in enslavement was a misery, either. His own memories amalgam: he can almost feel the marble beneath his bare feet, smell the sharp scent of wine and listen to the idle gossip of who was caught dallying with who and what it all means . . . and all the while, the endless glide of dancers fixed in their waltzing patterns stretched out before him. Pretty and pleasant and a little dull, but all the more welcome for it.

But that sense of belonging, that sense of rightness, so firm and unyielding that you could build an empire upon it— that, he has not ever felt. Not once. Perhaps he had a shadow of it with the Fog Warriors, but even then, it was a feeling build on shifting sand. And it's nothing to do with misery, understand; it's nothing to do with feeling as though he doesn't fit in. But there is such a difference between finding kinship with a group of individuals (with a vampire, Leto amends warmly, and turns his hand to catch Astarion's fingers and stroke them with his thumb) and that. That sense of belonging not just in this party, but in this society. This role. This world, where all the rules are laid out and all you ever have to do is play along.

Gods, who would ever want to give it up?

And Leto tries so hard to hold onto that thought, for it is not often he understands why nobles are the way they are.]

It felt wonderful, Astarion.

[Start there, warmly and sincerely, for it did. And then:]

Is it a bittersweet thing to recall? Or merely happy?

[For frankly, both could apply to his own memories of his past. And he has further thoughts, you know. Questions he wants to ask, details he wants to point out— but start there. Start with the tone of it, for that will dictate how this conversation goes.]

Your guess is as good as mine. [Astarion chuckles smoothly somewhere along the borders of awareness, letting relief sweep him from one sense of present insight to the next: focused on himself first as he reattunes to three hundred or so years later in the span of a few blinks, and then to Leto— and the brush of those roaming fingers.

It isn't hard to remember that he likes the here and now better for its benefits— even with his fangs and wicked eyes.]

Some days I swear I've forgotten what it is to be happy or to grieve. For anything. There was—

[Hm.

He pauses, angled up at nothing. Blinking as he squints only to think.]

When you return, I know I'm better than I was. When you're here, I don't feel saddled with inanition in any sense. But dreams? Hells, it's like being out of my own skin when I wake up, for a little while, at least.

I don't know that I feel anything, other than not wanting to go back.

[One slow beat, before:]

But you felt it, didn't you? [Wonderful, he'd said. The nightmare of Tevinter; the bane of nobility that forgets its own keen frailty; Blue Wraith; cruel wolf.]

Purpose. Belonging. Acceptance.

[He nods with each of those words, confirming Astarion's question. Purpose, belonging, acceptance, and with each one, the memory of it only sharpens: that sense of rightness. Of being so utterly and completely at ease within his own skin, knowing he was precisely where he ought to be, knowing that everyone in the room wanted to either be him or be with him, and that everything was assured. Nothing could go drastically wrong, not really, because that's just how life was.]

I did. And I admit, the feeling is . . . I would not give it up. Not willingly.

[Gods, who would? He keeps up his slow stroke, thumb pressing pleasantly firmly against the muscles of his palm.]

It must have been like living a dream. I have never . . . such a feeling is strange to me. But it seems comforting to the extreme, to know you are exactly where you belong. To know that your purpose is laid out— indeed, that your life is laid out only in the best of ways.

[So utterly opposite from the horror of their doomed lives within enslavement stretching out before them . . . gods. Little wonder Astarion doesn't know quite how to respond, for Leto cannot imagine the grief and rage and bittersweet joy that recalling such a thing must bring. To know you had something so wonderful can be a boon and a curse both (and perhaps it wasn't merely wariness that had him delaying meeting Varania for so many years).]

. . . tell me what you mean, when you speak of dreams. Of not knowing how you feel . . .

[His eyes flick up, searching Astarion's face.]

Because of vampirism? Or enslavement?

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me going to reread my tag from yesterday to check its flow and realizing it never sent and is gone

OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO listen i am damned sure this rewrite is *even better*

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OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO listen i am damned sure this rewrite is even better