[He's going to come home and change, he knows already, and maybe a bath too— but still, he sort of regrets wearing his scuffed boots out now. Oh, well.]
You always wear starlight, dazzling thing that you are. And you look stunning to me no matter what you wear.
But tell me more. Black silk and feathers and starlight . . . what of your makeup? Tell me what you aim to put on, for I know you must have planned it already.
[All their things are still half-packed away, a jumble of boxes that double as storage, but Leto knows where his good clothes are kept. The ones that Astarion has bought for him, his lover having a far better eye for fashion than Leto ever will. And they're fine and good, of course, and he has a striking set in mind already, but . . .
Mm. He hesitates, and then:]
I will be another hour. But I am close by— listen for my heart, you should be able to hear me from there. You might even be able to see me if you peer out the northern windows.
But black silk will not be so hard to match— and I do mean match, arrogant thing. You are no longer speaking to the elf who once dragged his heels to dress for a party in Rialto.
[Admittedly, he still drags his heels, but . . . less so. He's picked up a fair bit over the past few years. He won't be so frivolous as to buy a whole new outfit, but even just a shirt . . . something flattering, for he wants to give Astarion the gift of something new and deliberate. And lucky them, for the Elfsong Inn is in the heart of the market district, full of people (who would surely notice a kidnapping) and vendors (who are more than eager to sell fashion to a young elf who still has quite a bit of gold left over from their raid on the Bitch Queen's temple).
It doesn't have to be perfect. Whatever tonight will be, will be perfect, for their love is so much stronger than one formal dinner. But Astarion deserves to be catered to. He deserves to have someone who thinks of him and dresses for him and makes an effort— and besides all that, Leto simply wants to.]
no subject
You always wear starlight, dazzling thing that you are. And you look stunning to me no matter what you wear.
But tell me more. Black silk and feathers and starlight . . . what of your makeup? Tell me what you aim to put on, for I know you must have planned it already.
[All their things are still half-packed away, a jumble of boxes that double as storage, but Leto knows where his good clothes are kept. The ones that Astarion has bought for him, his lover having a far better eye for fashion than Leto ever will. And they're fine and good, of course, and he has a striking set in mind already, but . . .
Mm. He hesitates, and then:]
I will be another hour. But I am close by— listen for my heart, you should be able to hear me from there. You might even be able to see me if you peer out the northern windows.
But black silk will not be so hard to match— and I do mean match, arrogant thing. You are no longer speaking to the elf who once dragged his heels to dress for a party in Rialto.
[Admittedly, he still drags his heels, but . . . less so. He's picked up a fair bit over the past few years. He won't be so frivolous as to buy a whole new outfit, but even just a shirt . . . something flattering, for he wants to give Astarion the gift of something new and deliberate. And lucky them, for the Elfsong Inn is in the heart of the market district, full of people (who would surely notice a kidnapping) and vendors (who are more than eager to sell fashion to a young elf who still has quite a bit of gold left over from their raid on the Bitch Queen's temple).
It doesn't have to be perfect. Whatever tonight will be, will be perfect, for their love is so much stronger than one formal dinner. But Astarion deserves to be catered to. He deserves to have someone who thinks of him and dresses for him and makes an effort— and besides all that, Leto simply wants to.]