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illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
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no subject
It isn't wanton or alluring. Or at least— not intentionally so.
There's no helping being attracted to one another (something Astarion damned well hopes still holds true even on the worst of days between them), but for the moment, they're only talking. Only circling the idea of a shared past that's now a link, despite the fact that it might as well be oil slick across a dampened canvas. Mostly a blurry smear of color and sensation and whatever feeling it evokes.
But at least in that, they're on the same page there.]
I spent....a long time pretending that I wasn't capable of feeling. [His own fingers rise and flex, if only briefly— gesturing alongside expression before dropping back across his chest, laced.] Self-preservation, I suppose. It wasn't a conscious choice, though I know I don't need to tell you much about those.
[Pot, kettle. No accusations here.]
The point is, do anything long enough and the mind starts to follow suit. Hells, even when I was with Riftwatch, I still behaved for so bloody long like Cazador was right there, perched over my shoulder. Some days I could almost see him. Smell him. Waited for his voice to see me through one direction to the next.
You changed that.
[Old habits.]
But they die hard, don't they? And when I snap back out of dreams of a life and place I can't for the life of me recognize in a body that's no better, it feels....like I need to protect myself again. Something in me just gives in to it— I don't know. [Tsk.] Couldn't put a voice to it if I tried. It just....
It's like a trap, I think.
no subject
Understand: there's never a time when he isn't drawn to Astarion for sheer physical thrill alone. Even when they're snarling at one another, it's so easy to admire the curve of his mouth or the hang of his cock— and after three years, he doubts very much that physical allure will ever fade. So in that sense, yes, he is attracted to him, and he will likely always be attracted to him.
But there's another way to think about it. One Leto thinks of now as they draw inexorably towards one another by unspoken command, his hands on Astarion's thighs and his vampire's breath cool against his lips. It's attraction in the sense of inexorable force: attraction in the way a magnet loves metal, the two of them drawn together no matter the outlying circumstances. Let me help, let me be near you, and it's something in their souls, perhaps. Some bit of them that whimpers it's you, it's only ever been you. It's what leaves them scuffing and nuzzling so fiercely late at night, butting foreheads and noses as if they might somehow manage to find a way to grow even closer than they are; it's what drew Leto to the right door when he was lost in the Fade.
And it's what draws them together now: his hands on Astarion's thighs and Astarion's breath cool against his face, Leto arching up as Astarion leans down, the two of them in slow, unspoken synchronization. Their bond made deeper still by the ghosts of Astarion's past lingering in his mind, dancing their endless waltz as Leto tries so hard to commit that feeling of belonging to memory. ]
Mm.
[A small hum to show he was listening as Leto digests that. It isn't such a strange feeling, not when Astarion puts it that way. Not at all.]
I know what you mean, I think. Or at least: I know what it is to fall back into that behavior. To protect yourself first, using the things you knew kept you safe . . . [His palms slide smoothly against soft fabric.] It took me a long time, when I first met Marian, to understand why she would always come calling. For orders and mercenary work, yes, I understood that— but she and Isabela made a habit of dropping by at least once a week. To share a bottle of wine, or to get away from their usual bolts . . . I was unpleasant company at first, I will admit. There were times— not always, but after a bad nightmare— where I treated them as I had treated the other slaves, cold and indifferent. Or I would refuse them, sure that they meant only to lower my guard for . . . I don't know. I do not think I knew back then, either. But I was so afraid, and I knew what had kept me alive those past few decades.
[Another pause, and then:]
But I will always be here to bring you back. To remind you of what it is to feel and think and be on your own, without his influence.
[Another pause. Another slow pass with his palms, his eyes soft as he stares up at his amatus.]
When we return to the city soon . . . let us find things about you. I know we planned to visit your grave, and indeed, I would like to that soon. But even finding dates, or details about old parties . . . guests or families or anything. I— understand: I do not mean to force you, and I will abide by your limitations. But . . . perhaps it will help you find some of that feeling again. Not because you will become who you were— but because you will have a surer sense of what you are now, and how you arrived there.
[Does that make sense? Does that ring true? He isn't certain and his voice betrays that, his eyes darting to the side for a moment. It's just that all Leto can think of is his own past, and how precious few fragments remain: no one records the birth or death of a slave, or which elf whelped another. And he's spent years and years telling himself it wouldn't make a difference either way; that not knowing who his father was or whether his mother was Dalish doesn't affect him, but—
It does make a difference. And there's so much more they might uncover— memories included.]
no subject
He's no idea if it will ever come.
He's no idea how this will end when they return, other than the fact that he's willing to fight. To risk so much— and conversely: that there is one thing he is unwilling to risk, it if comes to that (the precipice he comes back to again and again after the bitter creep of sulfur into their seclusion; part and parcel of claiming anything for himself, that Cazador always follows. A throughline he can track from Thedas, to Toril, to here). It's etched into the fine lines of his face under thin swaths of pearl-pale curls. His past. His present train of thought, immersed solely in listening. One intersecting the other somewhere just between his brows. But considering all of that....
Perhaps there's only one way this next section of their conversation could go.
A glint of garnet eyes, uplifted. Flickering. Lashes darker than a shade in close quarters. He doesn't know why his tongue pins in tight across his fangs before he manages to pull it loose.]
The magic— [err. ] My darling, the spell you—
[No, wait, he's sliding headlong past this gentle offering. This fragile balm. This moment, perfect as it is. Stop, Astarion. Refocus, Astarion.
He leans closer. Chances a single scrape along the slope between their bridges in slow gratitude to let sentiment show through even in segue. A clearer head, albeit not a cavalier one.]
Would you cast it again, I mean. With cause.
[Before he agrees. Signs his glass heart over to a dream he might not touch, alluring as it is, there's something he needs to know first.]
no subject
The touch is enough. The press of their foreheads and noses together in adoring language all their own is enough. I hear you, I understand, I'll think about it, thank you for saying so, and words too often feel inadequate. Better to combine that all into one gentle gesture, understanding returned with every slow nudge of Leto's own.
But oh, that request . . . and yet though Leto braces for the inevitable internal backlash, it never comes. Perhaps because Astarion shared his own mind first; perhaps because it's asked instead of demanded, the words fumbled so sweetly that it's confirmation Astarion knows the weight of what he asks. And to that end . . . yes, and he answers with action rather than words: magic glinting once more at his fingertips and his eyes fluttering closed as he focuses on the memory of—
Oh, but it's jumbled, you see? He's torn in too many directions. For a moment Astarion sees himself (doused in adoration and worried affection, his every feature lovingly committed to memory, safe warm loved darling protect perfect, each word an impulse of emotion); then it shifts, blurring until it's Kirkwall. The Hanged Man (Astarion might know the interior from his own explorations, for Leto had refused to step foot in it from the moment he returned to the city). Isabela (brown skin and ample curves, gold glinting in the low light as she throws her head back and laughs at some joke Varric is making) on his left, her body warm and comforting as it presses against his own. Soothing. There's something so soothing about any kind of touch, an acknowledgement that you are here and so am I and I trust you with this—
Which jolts him into fainter memories of the past. And whereas the picture of Isabela was a painting, this is more of a sketch, sensations and colors smeared. A woman whose face Leto can never recall cupping his cheeks and stroking them with her thumbs; Varania still a baby, rotund and with only a scrap of red hair, her little body surprisingly dense as he holds her with both arms. Flagstones cold against his bare feet, her body a small bundle of heat, and all of Leto melting for how much he adores the woman before him. And then again it blurs once more, so that he is older now, sitting in the sunlight in Danarius' courtyard, his hands busy with work he can't recall, watching with amusement as Varania races around endlessly, dizzying in her energy. And then again—]
Err.
[Hang on, hang on.]
Perhaps . . . tell me what you wish to see, and that will make it easier.
no subject
Foreign loses meaning in familiarity. Secondhand only, but not the way it dances on his tongue with every taste.
Surrendering himself to that comes more naturally than his own existence.
Dingy tavern rooms and the acrid smell of iron supplanted by names he commits readily to every scattered image: out of order and yet perfectly aligned. Isabela. Varania. Sunlight fasta vass but he's missed sunlight), threaded with the sensation of a flickering pulse— pain, if just the sweetest kind— by any other context: love.
And he sees himself at its center. And—
They're both fumbling things, under their own specific circumstances. Astarion's is naked vulnerability. Honesty. And it has its hooks in him already (and in that divide: touch— thank the gods themselves for that. Slim fingers wrapped around one fine-boned, tattooed wrist, though he can't remember when it was that happened.)]
I—
[Should he deflect? Try to apologize by way of explanation? His eyes scan Leto's— Fenris' (oh memories have him)— no, Leto's face]
Just wanted to see what it was like, as it so happens. Your friends. The way you'd described it. The way you described them.
[He didn't mean to drive a hundred private sensations out of Leto's head. He didn't mean to pry (and coming from him, well....) which is saying something. Something too important to overlook. His head is swimming. He feels unstrung.]
The things you were offering, to me, I couldn't comprehend it— not abstractly. Not truly. Not in any sense.
[And despite the fact that he's reeling enough to feel like a voyeur crossed with a thief (crossed with someone pining for a wondrous loss he never understood, and grips Leto all the more deeply for it) apologetic and appreciative both:]
I suppose I might possess an inkling, now.
no subject
But already Astarion is retreating. Not in body (oh, thank the gods for that grip, and he twists in it only to return it, his fingers squeezing tightly around Astarion's wrist), but in speech. I just and I might, his ears twitching down and his eyes darting about Leto's face— oh, he realizes belatedly, he thinks he's done something wrong.
And he hasn't. Not at all. It was no violation, not when there are so few memories that Leto would mind sharing— and not when it was Leto's magic that prompted it in the first place.]
I— wait.
[For there's a flutter of fretfulness in the pit of his stomach: the sensation of a chance slipping out of his fingertips.]
Simply . . . wait.
[For him to have a moment to allow his sluggish thoughts to gather. For him to breathe, slowly and clearly, and hush the tangle of anxiety rising within him, incomprehensible and bizarre. He runs his thumb against the inside of Astarion's wrist, quiet for a moment.]
I did not realize . . . I was thinking of lost memories, and the things I had recovered. But I would show you my companions. The things I felt, good and bad— and all the ways in which I felt their companionship.
Let me show you more than an inkling.
[Please, the word softly invoked as he stares up at his mate.
But he won't cast until he knows that Astarion is all right with it. That he wants it. Perhaps this was too much; perhaps he has spoiled this moment, fumbling in his own anxiety (and why hasn't that faded? Why is he still so jittery? Magic shouldn't be an issue, not anymore, not here and now— but oh, he'll figure it out later).]
no subject
And from the outside in, they might be right.
But not here.
Not like this.
Here, in the circle of slight silence and lowing traces of spent magic, it's a different breed of pressure he's employing: only enough to feel the flutter of his lover's pulse.
Astarion lacks a metronome, you see. Even the trickle of stolen blood in his veins is too weak to work for calmness in any sense or iteration. So if he wants to— needs to ground himself before stepping off the nearest ledge into an ocean of unknowns, the only recourse is to borrow one from someone else. Someone very dear, and very safe.]
Pergentes itinere, then. [He breathes, feeling the sharp tips of his fangs kiss his lips around the half-remembered shape of Leto's own.]
no subject
It's still a string of memories— but whereas his recollections earlier were chaotic things, voices layered atop emotion atop sensation all scrambled together into one confusing cacophony, this is smooth. One memory leads to another, each a rich, brief burst of sights and sounds and feelings all neatly stitched together.
If Astarion's memory began with warmth, Leto's begins with cold: there's an eternally present chill when you camp on the coastline in Kirkwall, even during high summer. Sand cold beneath his feet and the endlessly whipping wind colder as it bites through his clothes; the roar of the Waking Sea echoes in his ears as it crashes rhythmically against the jutting rocks. Anders looks pale and wan beneath a half-moon, his earring glittering as he turns to face Fenris. It's a rare moment of civility, Anders' voice low and sardonic as he drawls out a joke about Merrill and Marian sharing a tent; it's a rare moment of returned camaraderie as Fenris huffs out a laugh, amused despite himself. For a moment they exchange a wry expression, adolescent and amused, but he can see the warm surprise that fills him reflected back on the mage's face—
And then it shifts, night into day, the sea into the city: Lowtown as it was before the Qunari invasion and the Rifts, full of vendors and endless crowds eager to spend coin. Marian kneels in front of a dwarf, methodically unpacking all the useless junk she'd picked up on their last expedition. It adds up, her voice musical and her expression glittering (and for a moment the memory veers, Astarion's voice replacing Marion's, his home in Lowtown and all the glittering magpie heaps fondly recalled). Anders grousing on his left side and Sebastian on his right, his grin bright against his tanned face and his blue eyes piercing as he'd caught Fenris' own. There's plenty who'd admire all you've accomplished, his compliment so fiercely direct that it sparks an anxious fluster, Fenris' mind torn between scoffing disbelief and delighted surprise— and then, after that, a shock of realization and subsequent self-examination, am I that, am I so admirable, his mind whirling even as he awkwardly replies, I haven't accomplished anything, you're being kind, and he'd spent so long ruminating on those compliments in the aftermath.
Another shift, another memory: the mansion as it used to be, dilapidated but warm thanks to the fire roaring in the corner. The hand of cards Fenris holds isn't worth very much, but Isabela and Varric don't know that; with a false smirk he raises the bet, amused by Isabela's subsequent pout. Donnic's long since folded; he and Anders bet instead on who will win, goading and cheering their subsequent picks in turn. The world is blurred and soft in that way it gets when he's tipsy, and as he watches Isabela try and fail to distract Varric via a suggestive swig of her beer, something a little like joy flutters in his chest. Belonging, that's what this feeling means. Understanding all the jokes and knowing how to play with the others; knowing that they enjoy his company just as much as he enjoys theirs (yes, even Anders). Feeling as though he could say almost anything and be listened to, and what a relief that is after years and years speaking to no one at all—
And there's more. Snatches of memories of Merrill and Marian, Carver and Bethany, snippets fondly recalled if not lingered upon, and always, there is that longing ache. I miss them, I miss them, I miss them all, and time has made the mantra more sweet than bitter, though it will never stop hurting. Until at last the connection ebbs and Leto opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) to stare up at his amatus.]
Like that?
[It's not a real question. Just a way to break the silence, his expression soft and a little unsure.]
no subject
'Beauty is always bittersweet, darling,' Astarion had confidently crowed to the delicate slant of Dalyria's upturned face, rigorously working a line of kohl beneath her eyes with his thumb to smear its cleanliness by degrees before they set in on their prey: a guarantee she'd look alluring. That spoken truth more real than ever now that he's wracked with a sense of belonging he'd never known before this moment. Will never know, in fact. And like the ballrooms and splendor he'd offered up to tattooed palms it isn't grief that swims in to fill the void left behind by Leto's past, per se. But he is—
Lacking. And he can see that now.
(The only thing he has to offer are those memories of her— and maybe on occasion the others in their forced flock, though scarcer still— like the smooth slip of kohl under his thumb or the feeling of her tending to the worst of him with every iteration of needle and thread. It isn't like beaches and moonlit silhouettes and compliments from striking eyes. Warm smiles. No, none of that. Only bickering and arguing and raw skin. The agitated wounds they were instructed to inflict, or self-imbibed regardless.
Monsters.
They, all of them. The closest thing he has, are monsters.)
But at least now there's this. Something to pretend that was his own, through Fenris. (For what have they ever not shared? And, with those words still clinging fiercely to the forefront of his mind:)
'We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.'
So:]
Like that. [Astarion mirrors back. Not a real answer, just a means to break the silence while the world spins hard on its own axis in the too bright in between. Trading echo for echo, and solidifying something for his thoughts to stand on. Like stitchwork, there has to be a foundation first— otherwise it falls apart. He falls apart, barely mended creature that he is. And he feels so thin right now, bottled up with too much he wants to cling to. Wishes he could keep a little longer.
Embarrassing, the way his own eyes twitch under closed lids. Jerking like the spell might just keep going if he asks for it.
That way lies danger, clinging hard to wan illusions. He knows it all too well. (Oh, put it aside, Astarion. Pull yourself together, Astarion.)]
It must have been like living a dream.
[He can still smell it. Home.
His eyes stay shut. Like that, he can't tell if they're hotter. Wetter.]
For what it's worth, I'm glad it wasn't one.
no subject
[Soft. Gentle. And it's not that he doesn't mean it (oh, he does, oh, it did feel like that, so unbelievable that he fears he might never find it again), but sometimes words are the least of ways in which they communicate. For he cannot say they would have loved you (but oh, they would have, Isabela would have adored him, two birds of the same flock that they are). He cannot say I wish you had this too (for they don't compare and wishing does nothing). He cannot even say that he feels the same crashing wave of guilt and grief that Astarion must have felt a few moments ago, for of course his vampire must know that already.
No, no words, not yet. Instead:
His lips brush gently over first one eyelid, then the other. A kiss to the soft span of Astarion's cheek, the line of his jaw, until at last their lips ghost against one another. Not a kiss meant to incite, but soothe: I know. It hurts, I know. His hands itch to roam over Astarion's body, palms broad and warm, but he bites the urge back; right now, they're both a little fragile. Words are too much; even a touch might teeter them over the edge, rendering his gesture into unintended pity.
Better to stay like this. Better to press together, warm breath against cool skin and gentle nuzzles. Not urging Astarion to move past this, for he will do that on his own, in his own time— and until he does, Leto does not mind waiting.
It takes time for him to speak again— and when he does, it's soft. Easily ignored if needed, but meant all the same.]
Tell me?
[Whatever it is he's thinking. Whatever ghosts haunt his memory or bitterness clashes against desire— tell me, for though he can guess, he wants to hear it.]
no subject
So when those same sweet lips find him in ways that make him want to shatter (—gods, he's never been like this before— ) and come apart within those arms with wracking sobs for warmth and life and—
Maker.
He exhales against that mouth. Against that pretty, fringe-flocked profile. The answer's right there, isn't it? Pushed slow and steady against his skin; swimming softly in his skull.
He's homesick.
He's so bloody, stupidly homesick. For Leto. For adopted visions of small fingers clasped around his own and the smell of Seheron or the cramped decay of Lowtown heat funneled into cheap ale and rotted decks of cards. For life, all of it.
Everything that was theirs.
My sweet, he starts again after seconds (or: forever), their profiles kept flush.]
You know I really wish I could.
[The twist of cold fingers around warmth, matched knuckle for knuckle.]
How does—
[Hm.]
How do you stand it? [Astarion asks around the soft set of his throat, trying and failing to perceive more of what's behind his lover's lidded stare. Nothing to be gleaned without effort, apparently, now that the magic has up and faded.] I thought parties and fine wealth was the epitome of comfort to be longed for. So much so that I— [or perhaps Cazador] —cut it out to save myself.
You didn't.
1/2
[The softest demure as he stares up at Astarion, his expression as unguarded as he can make it. There's nothing he won't share with his mate, nothing he'll ever deny him— but that's different than the two of them being able to understand each other without a single word. Grief lines Astarion's face, misery making his eyes overbright and his mouth soft, but Leto cannot fully guess the source. Not yet, anyway.]
Come here, sweet . . .
[Petname intentionally echoed as he gathers him up more fully: leaning back against the bed and urging Astarion to fall further in his arms, so that the vampire isn't straddling him so much as sitting in his lap. Leto wraps his arms around him, kissing his forehead, his cheek, each motion gravely doting. He won't patronize, not now of all times— but gods, Astarion deserves some comfort.
Only once they're settled does he resume with a sigh.]
I did cut it out. All of it. After Kirkwall . . .
[A beat, and ruefully:]
I forget often that you did not know me back then, for at times it feels as though you have known me forever. But after Kirkwall's destruction . . . Astarion, you are more remarkable than you understand, for until you, I did not let a single person close to me.
[His mind drifts back. He does not like to think about those years, not if he can help it; they were long and lonely and hard, and the only good thing he can say about them is that he was at least useful during them.]
I was so hurt, and in my rage and confusion and grief, I became bitter. I wandered the wilds endlessly, desperate to find anyone and anything I could take my emotions out upon. I refused to go back to Kirkwall; I refused to allow myself the pleasure of any kind of company. Eventually, I found bitter satisfaction at killing slavers . . . and I will not say I did not get pleasure out of freeing their captives, but it was no altruism that motivated me. I was bloody and vicious and mean, and what allies I gained I kept at an arm's length, treating them like subordinates and little else.
[For the first time in a long, long time, his mind flashes to Shirallas. Perhaps if he had . . . but he has long since learned not to ask what if. What if I had been more to him, what if I had taught him better, what if, what if, what if, but who can say? For a moment Leto's eyes dart away, his brow furrowing— but though it is a painful story to relate, perhaps it will help.]
There was . . . an elf I knew once. A Dalish, believe it or not. Shirallas was his name . . . we worked together for some time freeing elves who had been captured and were heading to the slave markets. He was full of rage, just as I was, and that suited us both. I saw a great deal of myself within him, but he was young and inexperienced with magisters and their ilk.
There was a night by the fire . . .
[How do these things go? A touch, a glance, words unspoken and questions unasked. Roughened fingertips brushing curiously against his thigh, and Fenris—]
He made an overture, and I rejected him. I did not just demure, but warned him off so sharply he did not dare try it again. What might have been friendship or, indeed, even something more became a tense working relationship. And it was not long after that he disobeyed my commands and followed his own mad plan to take down a magister.
[A few moments pass, and then Fenris sighs heavily.]
He tried to go undercover. We knew there was a magister who was training slaves to become mage-killers; he wanted to pose as a captured Dalish and learn their secrets. But the magister saw through him in an instant, and I could not free him. I thought him lost, until years and years later . . .
[Another pause.]
The magister had found Danarius' notes. The sarcophagus he used to sear my flesh and prepare it for lyrium. And when I found Shirallas, trying to rescue him, he told me that he was close. That he wanted that power for himself. He deluded himself into thinking that his master wasn't pulling his strings, and that he was still undercover.
He got his wish, in a way. But whereas Danarius had used pure lyrium for me . . . he used red lyrium for Shirallas. And it drove him mad.
[Gods. Leto's face has gone grim, his eyes distant. Then, abruptly:]
I put him down. [Friend, he whimpered questioningly up at Leto, and years later, it still hurts to recall.] Beheaded him and buried his corpse . . . and I was all the more closed off for years after that.
2/3
That only changed with you.
Even then . . . I feared losing you for so long. I feared my feelings would repulse you; that you would think of me as no different than those in your past. And I feared for myself. I feared you would leave; I feared that I was acting a fool and it would all end in heartbreak all over again.
Kirkwall and all my companions . . . I cut out any notion of companionship for nearly a decade because it hurt too much to let it in again. But I could not resist you, despite my heart screaming out warnings each time we met. Even now, with that idiot pack I run with, I fear losing them.
I stand it by remembering you. And, admittedly, by letting no one save you close to me. Whether that means I have recovered or not . . . mph. I don't know.
3/3
[He realizes abruptly that they've veered off the topic, and gods, he does not want to make this about him. He tips his head, nuzzling faintly against Astarion's forehead again.]
My point in all of this is merely that . . . it is not so easy as I make it sound. And it is a loss that hurts and affects me even to this day.
no subject
For Leto— for them— it's only real. Worn in sunken swaths of his expression. Etched into the way he can't sit still, even in retelling. It swims beneath Astarion through the muscle he's laid against. The places of Leto that he's folded into or over, and it rattles in that voiced washed out in sips against his curls. Making it one set of memories Astarion is glad he didn't see.
(How childish is that, some aspect of him hisses like the sickly reflex it is. All the nightmares he watched. All the gruesomeness he swore to never look away from, only to make certain the lesson of it always came home: beauty is so fleeting. So pointlessly fleeting. Three years of only one set of hands later and now suddenly he's too spoiled to handle a beheading in weathered retrospect.)
Dull it. Clip it down to the quick. The shape of this exchange is too tender— too wanted— to deserve to bear the weight of bitterness too. Astarion's hand slides instead towards the center of Leto's chest, slow and meandering through the borders of his palm. Cool to warm. Warm to hot. Cheek along one shoulder, and it's nice to remember that he can here— do this, that is. No glassy lines to avoid. No agony in his lover's face each time the weather changes.
I am sorry about your—
About all of them.
He'd say in another life. But sorry never fits well in his mouth. ]
Does anyone ever really recover?
[Nestled in the low end of his chest, it's a gentle observation. A toothless sort of wryness that seeps through to coax them out into the figurative light after they've both burned down to the wick.
He turns their fingers over one another. Kisses the border of marked knuckles, off center.
An old habit.]
no subject
It helps. To feel familiar weight against his chest, the two of them fitting together as naturally as anything; to hear that steady voice, no matter what words slip out. It keeps him grounded in the present instead of lingering in the miserable past— and it means that he can huff out a wry laugh in response to that observation.]
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
[Another kiss to silver curls, and this time Leto lingers there, comforted by the familiar scent.]
Recover in the sense of going back to how one used to be . . . no, I think not. I will never be the person I was before Kirkwall— nor, indeed, the person I was before Shirallas. Or the Fog Warriors.
[A breath, and then:]
But recover in the sense of learning how to become something more than just a scarred creature reeling from his hurts . . . yes, I think so. It may take time, but . . . it took me seven years to recover from Danarius and all the effects fleeing had on me, and even then, I was not fully healed. But in the past three years . . . I have watched both of us grow and recover. I have seen you become so much more than you were . . . so much more than Cazador or Riftwatch ever gave you credit for.
You are kind, Astarion. To me you are, [he insists, knowing what protest Astarion will offer.] Thoughtful. Devoted in ways that I did not ever dream I was capable of having. You are clever in ways I am not, [and there's a little smile for the memory of the day that Astarion had tried and failed to teach Leto even the basics of picking locks.] You face your fears rather than flee from them, and that is more than I could ever accomplish when I was only three years out of freedom.
I told you once that I was in awe of how well you functioned only a year free. I still stand by it.
I will not say that our enslavement hasn't left scars. [He catches Astarion's cheek with his palm, tipping his head up and drawing back so their eyes can meet.] And I will not dare pretend that it is not a deeply embittering thing to look back at recovered memories, wondering what might have happened if you had not been broken and suffered the way you did.
It hurts. It hurts to see what you might have had, whether via my memories or yours. But do not mistake that for thinking you are broken irreparably.
You cut those things out to save yourself. And yet now, slowly, you are allowing them back in. Piece by piece . . . and there is no rush.
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[Well.]
In most things, anyway.
[Not all.
But he can't keep the rest at bay forever. And when it settles back in his expression stays sober this time. Somber, more accurately: fragile as a narrow pane of glass and caught in the vice grip of his own slow-breathing, and it isn't fair, he thinks, that to endure the beauty of dear kindness, he has to train his body down the same way he did for the knife.
And yet.
Avoidance never lasts.
(If it had, where would they be now? Not here. Not like this. Shelved up and cornered by worser fates— pass. Pass, and no thank you, and not ever again, if Astarion gets to have his say. Which: gods favor them for once, he does.)]
Come closer, little menace. You know I hate it when you're far. [Groused as if he isn't already pressed in like the bloody tide at dusk: somehow managing to wind himself further in over his mate's own relaxed form. Mostly in the angles of their hips and shoulders; most of all in the way his profile— his mouth— stubbornly squeezes itself in flush along the slant of Leto's neck beneath the frenzy of that grown-out fringe.
Like this, at least, he can talk without looking.]
I won't fight you on that. Not a word of it, provided you find it in yourself to grasp that I'm only kind to you because I'm smitten— and always have been when it comes to you.
But you can't go blinding yourself with your love for me, either.
[Slow, the onset of his breathing. Just a way to bridge one sentiment to the next without running out of air, and still, he takes his time. Enough weight in it to carry everything he wishes he knew how to properly say.
Everything he's been trying to say for three years now.]
I would've run. I would've kept running on and on, right into the arms of ruin if it wasn't for the miracle of finding you in freedom.
If it wasn't for you.
[A beat, tentative. He leaves his eyes shut.]
You didn't fail Shirallas.
He didn't listen.
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The rest of it is, if not easy, at least bearable. He nods faintly as cool breath hits his neck, agreeing gently with every word: yes, he knows that his lover has flaws. That he would have kept on running if he hadn't run into Leto— and there is no disagreement there, no matter how highly he thinks of Astarion. Leto himself would never have stopped running if it hadn't been for the Fog Warriors, for Hawke, for Kirkwall; they neither of them exist in a vacuum. He does not miss the significance of what Astarion says, nor how tentative his lover's voice has gone as he whispers that sentiment, but oh, he understands it too well not to take it in attentive, adoring stride.
But it evokes emotion. It makes his heart ache in ways that he still isn't used to, even years later. And those last two sentences slip between his ribs like a knife.
Not like a wound deliberately inflicted, cruel and callous; not even like the shuddering statements of forgiveness that they offer one another, it wasn't your fault, you aren't to blame, the balm so sweet it stings. Rather: it reaches into his soul so deftly, slicing through skin and muscle to find the quick of him and brush against it with cool, kind fingers. You didn't fail him, and it's nothing Leto didn't know; it's nothing he hadn't told himself in the aftermath. There's no disagreement there, so why does it hurt?
Friend? he thinks again. Shirallas' bloodshot eyes and the teeth-aching wrongness of both their lyrium clashing against one another, red meeting blue, corrupt meeting pure. And what had his crime been? Devotion. Fanaticism. Desperation. An aching desire to see all magisters torn down, their sins exposed and their horrors repaid . . .]
He did not listen.
[Echoed softly after a long moment of quiet.]
And I will always wish that he had.
[But he didn't. He didn't and he's dead now, his corpse long buried and his spirit gone, and who knows what comes after? Vaguely, he hopes without hope at all that the elf found the peace he was denied in life, and knows even as he does that he doesn't believe it.
But there are more important things to focus on. Astarion's nose brushes against his neck, his eyelashes a faint tickle as he closes his eyes. He feels so small in Leto's arms right now, narrow shoulders and slender limbs. And he thinks about it: about Astarion finding him. About that first meeting that he cannot recall, that he is always so bitter over not remembering. Painful in a way that leaves a lump in his throat, I would have run right into the arms of ruin if it wasn't for you, so pivotal and yet not shared.]
. . . . will you show me?
[Soft. More tentative than he can ever truly say.]
How we met. How . . . how I helped you stop running. The first time . . . the first meeting, and all that came after before I left.
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And it was fine, you know.
It would always be fine.
One more thing they paved over with the promise that it was a step forwards and little else. Unimportant. And everything.
So somewhere in the middle of holding his amatus and processing every word, Astarion runs still. Forgets to suck in air. Corrects that.]
I—
—yes.
I suppose I actually could, couldn't I....?
[Hells' teeth.]
Is that what you want?
[Are you certain? -being the part of that unspoken: like all of this thus far, there's no going back once done. No putting the lid back on the tin or the cork back in its bottle, and forever staining Leto's own impression of himself through a set of blood red eyes.
It could be wonderful.
It could make him feel so small.]
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You think it a poor idea.
[It's a question and a statement all in one.]
Why?
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[Singular skipped beat slid somewhere in in-between that thought and the next.]
But a large one. Yes. That I do believe.
[It doesn't surprise him that there's a stark difference in perspective to be had there between them, either. Not when they were always as divided as they were aligned in their beliefs and wants and needs— one step in perfect stride and then the next entirely out of sync— because as this conversation so defines, it was never a perfect mirror.
Nor should it be, he thinks, catching a wayward tuft of hair curled just in front of Leto's ear and rolling it between his claws before it's laid soft with its fellows.]
Swear on all the gods and nightmares that I've known, I am grateful for this, my Leto. All these memories. These exchanges. Things I never knew existed— [strewth—] things that'll take ages to process properly, if I ever manage it without falling right back into the bliss of knowing your extraordinary thoughts just the way they are.
But— those were our memories. Mine relayed to you. Yours relayed to me.
[Maybe it goes without saying. Maybe all of this does, but still:]
I can't give you an artificial pulse. I can't restore what isn't there on your end, and what exists in mine is....very, very bright. That is to say: you were bright. And wondrous. And unsurpassed to this day, even as I know you better.
Because I know you better.
[And so, with a false breath that's worn for some feigned sense of mortal comfort than for air, Astarion underscores his bottom line.]
I don't want to ruin you with a tainted surrogate.
[One you won't be able to forget.]
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And he understands. He almost doesn't want to, but he does, for even as Astarion speaks some strange shadow of jealousy rises within him. A mixture of bitterness from his own lack of memories combining with the knowledge of brightness unsurpassed (and he knows what Astarion means, he has memories like that himself, but oh, it twists something within him all the same, too faint to be called hurt). It's the strangest mixture of emotions.
Finally, he glances up to meet Astarion's eye again.]
Tell me what happened first.
[They're so tangled up together already, and yet still Leto feels the urge to squirm in impossibly closer. Instead he focuses on those fingers playing with his hair, letting his own fretfulness be soothed by the steady action.]
Before anything else . . . I know the broad overview, but . . . I would hear the story itself first. And then I will decide.