[Grief twists like a knife in his heart, and he tightens his grip involuntarily, as if holding on to Astarion might make up for all the pain in the past. An odd sort of guilt hovers in the back of his mind, removed and yet still present. It doesn't matter that Astarion has never taken it out on him (my darling, you know I don't blame you for it, you couldn't have fought it any harder than you did), for on his worst days Leto blames himself anyway. The reasoning varies depending on the day— for being too stupid to see a trap, maybe, or for being so foolish as to walk away from something so wonderful, or just—
Just, maybe, it boils down to this: that he hates the thought of causing Astarion so many months of anguish, no matter how inadvertent.
For a moment, a thought flickers through his mind, there and gone: Astarion staring at him with cool indifference, all the adoration and warmth and love gone from his expression. And of course, Fenris would stay close. He would have protected him to his dying breath, and never mind if he ever got a scrap of affection in reward. But it would have killed him, day by day. It would have hurt so badly, and made him even more bitter than he was.]
It must have been a misery.
[He says it quietly, his thumb stroking against cool leather. Astarion keeps his memories dammed behind a wall, and so too does Leto keep his guilt locked away, pushed to the side in favor of aching empathy. He wants to hear this, and guilt will only make the conversation about him.]
When did it change?
[When had grief turned into something more? For those memories were not wholly tinged with misery, insofar as Leto can feel. The snatches of sensations evoke a nostalgia within him, warm and quiet. Some of that is his own recollection, he knows: those days and nights were a relief, for he never felt more at ease than when he would curl up on Astarion's floor.
It's little things that filter through. The glimpse of his own profile against frozen window panes; the sight of Astarion framed in firelight, standing guard while Leto's eyes fought sleep for just a few moments longer. An airy voice rising and falling with no real words as he curls deep within a heap of blankets, warding off the night air. A feeling of safety, of adoration, of a growing need to be close to this person, this singularly unique person, who evokes feelings he has never once felt before—
And then further back still, sparks instead of flames, flickers instead of notions: the shock of companionship. The desire to do more, be more, for this elf who tumbled into his life. An end to his loneliness, a desire to linger, to stay— Antiva, and he would have gone. He would have gone in a heartbeat.
You always meant something to me, even from the start.]
no subject
Just, maybe, it boils down to this: that he hates the thought of causing Astarion so many months of anguish, no matter how inadvertent.
For a moment, a thought flickers through his mind, there and gone: Astarion staring at him with cool indifference, all the adoration and warmth and love gone from his expression. And of course, Fenris would stay close. He would have protected him to his dying breath, and never mind if he ever got a scrap of affection in reward. But it would have killed him, day by day. It would have hurt so badly, and made him even more bitter than he was.]
It must have been a misery.
[He says it quietly, his thumb stroking against cool leather. Astarion keeps his memories dammed behind a wall, and so too does Leto keep his guilt locked away, pushed to the side in favor of aching empathy. He wants to hear this, and guilt will only make the conversation about him.]
When did it change?
[When had grief turned into something more? For those memories were not wholly tinged with misery, insofar as Leto can feel. The snatches of sensations evoke a nostalgia within him, warm and quiet. Some of that is his own recollection, he knows: those days and nights were a relief, for he never felt more at ease than when he would curl up on Astarion's floor.
It's little things that filter through. The glimpse of his own profile against frozen window panes; the sight of Astarion framed in firelight, standing guard while Leto's eyes fought sleep for just a few moments longer. An airy voice rising and falling with no real words as he curls deep within a heap of blankets, warding off the night air. A feeling of safety, of adoration, of a growing need to be close to this person, this singularly unique person, who evokes feelings he has never once felt before—
And then further back still, sparks instead of flames, flickers instead of notions: the shock of companionship. The desire to do more, be more, for this elf who tumbled into his life. An end to his loneliness, a desire to linger, to stay— Antiva, and he would have gone. He would have gone in a heartbeat.
You always meant something to me, even from the start.]