[Gravity has Astarion leaning closer than he should be by the time Leto starts to turn away. An involuntary pull through the nothingness of vacant space that's short enough to yank across his senses like a tether, tempting with its tautness. Making him long for slack. Making him wonder what the other man might scent of beneath the pervasive kiss of split ozone.
—strewth.
He's too bloody drunk, isn't he? His mind out here running senseless loops in search of warmth; not quite caring where he finds it save that he finds it before morning, and in his altered state even Astarion can't tell whether that's a matter of old habits dying hard once more, or....
He lifts the bottle to his lips. Pulls. Relaxes in its backwashed heat, feeling every drop of tightness slip away. Tilts his head towards the stars and lets one ankle stretch out long and loose across the rooftop where he sits, smirking idly to himself.]
You couldn't exhaust me if you tried.
[Is a lie. But a charming one, at least.]
Mm. [Slides his thumb across the label, dry paper aiding in his search for recent memory via feeling, letting oscillating movement tap deeper than the surface.] But do you know— two hundred years, and I can't remember a single person using them in earnest. Being called sweetheart by stumbling riffraff with too much cognac in their voice never inspired enough affection or ire, and my master's favorite— boy— was his and his alone.
[ Ah, but he's strangling the mood in its cradle, isn't he? Taking a sweet gesture and mangling it in the way that any creature possessed of claws inevitably must, not knowing how to handle something delicate with care. To his credit, he's aware of it. Quick to correct it, lifting his thumb before he drinks once more.]
A pity. I'd like to see you safeguard my gentle dignity from the odd, aspiring Antivan.
[Not a lie. And charm hardly matters in the shadow of its borders.]
no subject
—strewth.
He's too bloody drunk, isn't he? His mind out here running senseless loops in search of warmth; not quite caring where he finds it save that he finds it before morning, and in his altered state even Astarion can't tell whether that's a matter of old habits dying hard once more, or....
He lifts the bottle to his lips. Pulls. Relaxes in its backwashed heat, feeling every drop of tightness slip away. Tilts his head towards the stars and lets one ankle stretch out long and loose across the rooftop where he sits, smirking idly to himself.]
You couldn't exhaust me if you tried.
[Is a lie. But a charming one, at least.]
Mm. [Slides his thumb across the label, dry paper aiding in his search for recent memory via feeling, letting oscillating movement tap deeper than the surface.] But do you know— two hundred years, and I can't remember a single person using them in earnest. Being called sweetheart by stumbling riffraff with too much cognac in their voice never inspired enough affection or ire, and my master's favorite— boy— was his and his alone.
[ Ah, but he's strangling the mood in its cradle, isn't he? Taking a sweet gesture and mangling it in the way that any creature possessed of claws inevitably must, not knowing how to handle something delicate with care. To his credit, he's aware of it. Quick to correct it, lifting his thumb before he drinks once more.]
A pity. I'd like to see you safeguard my gentle dignity from the odd, aspiring Antivan.
[Not a lie. And charm hardly matters in the shadow of its borders.]