[It's easier up here. To speak, yes, and to listen in turn, but most importantly, to simply be. No longer are they two halves of an odd curiosity, fondly regarded but still bewildering; nor are they jointly locked together, a vampire and his beloved mate, a united front by necessity and comfort both. Now he's simply Leto, who slips off his boots and savors the sun-warmed stone beneath his bare feet as he settles in next to Astarion. One knee to his chest, the other leg drawn out, and his expression still as he listens.]
Not unlike it, no.
[Not at all.]
Though in truth, Astarion, I would deem this more difficult. I was fond of Abby and Ellie . . . Loki. Bastien. A fair few of the others. But I never looked at them as— as companions, beloved and trusted without a second thought. And they, in turn, only knew me on a surface level, and treated me as such. It was not so hard to pretend that they knew of me in the same way the people of Thedas sometimes do: as a character out of one of Varric's tales, full of assumptions and misconceptions.
[It's a far cry from something so fitting as a shirt that's tailored in size and taste both. It's a far cry from something so thoughtful as a parasol, given to a creature who longs for sunlight. Leto tips his head back, his eyes going hooded as he stares out at the city. A faint breeze stirs, and absently he pushes some of the loose braids away from his face.]
They love you. Of that I have no doubt. And they are loyal to you. That, too, is clear.
But you do not have to love them in return.
[He glances over, catching Astarion's gaze.]
Not unless you wish to— in your own time, at your own pace.
[A memory slips through his mind as he looks at his husband: Arlathan. Astarion's cool hands pressing against his ribs, his nose bumping gently against Leto's own as he'd demanded his attention and his focus. He'd scorned the Dalish with such a light tone, validating all of Leto's fretful, lonely anger in one fell swoop . . . and then, as gentle as a breeze: but . . . one might wonder whether or not you care what they happen to think of you in turn.
It was a mercy, that statement. Direct enough not to feel like pandering, and yet soft enough not to cut when it landed, and yet so, so good to talk about. That tone helped more than Leto could ever articulate, and here, now, he thinks of it as he reaches over and takes one gloved hand in his own.
I'm here, as their fingers thread. I'm here, and I am not going anywhere, and you are not alone in this. He does not have Astarion's cleverness nor his deftness with words, but there's something familiar in his voice as he adds gently:]
And even if you did know them, and love them . . . such devotion can be overwhelming. Especially in a group.
[How many times had he snarled at Hawke? How many times had he sulkily responded to Isabela, or petulantly refuted Varric's offers of safety? Not because he didn't want them, but because it was too good, too safe, too comforting, and he was still so unused to the notion of good things coming without strings attached.]
no subject
Not unlike it, no.
[Not at all.]
Though in truth, Astarion, I would deem this more difficult. I was fond of Abby and Ellie . . . Loki. Bastien. A fair few of the others. But I never looked at them as— as companions, beloved and trusted without a second thought. And they, in turn, only knew me on a surface level, and treated me as such. It was not so hard to pretend that they knew of me in the same way the people of Thedas sometimes do: as a character out of one of Varric's tales, full of assumptions and misconceptions.
[It's a far cry from something so fitting as a shirt that's tailored in size and taste both. It's a far cry from something so thoughtful as a parasol, given to a creature who longs for sunlight. Leto tips his head back, his eyes going hooded as he stares out at the city. A faint breeze stirs, and absently he pushes some of the loose braids away from his face.]
They love you. Of that I have no doubt. And they are loyal to you. That, too, is clear.
But you do not have to love them in return.
[He glances over, catching Astarion's gaze.]
Not unless you wish to— in your own time, at your own pace.
[A memory slips through his mind as he looks at his husband: Arlathan. Astarion's cool hands pressing against his ribs, his nose bumping gently against Leto's own as he'd demanded his attention and his focus. He'd scorned the Dalish with such a light tone, validating all of Leto's fretful, lonely anger in one fell swoop . . . and then, as gentle as a breeze: but . . . one might wonder whether or not you care what they happen to think of you in turn.
It was a mercy, that statement. Direct enough not to feel like pandering, and yet soft enough not to cut when it landed, and yet so, so good to talk about. That tone helped more than Leto could ever articulate, and here, now, he thinks of it as he reaches over and takes one gloved hand in his own.
I'm here, as their fingers thread. I'm here, and I am not going anywhere, and you are not alone in this. He does not have Astarion's cleverness nor his deftness with words, but there's something familiar in his voice as he adds gently:]
And even if you did know them, and love them . . . such devotion can be overwhelming. Especially in a group.
[How many times had he snarled at Hawke? How many times had he sulkily responded to Isabela, or petulantly refuted Varric's offers of safety? Not because he didn't want them, but because it was too good, too safe, too comforting, and he was still so unused to the notion of good things coming without strings attached.]