Well. Nothing, really, beyond a vague, bleary understanding that some kind of argument is taking place. Astarion's tone (and Gale's subsequent amusement) informs him that he need not pay attention, and so he simply lingers a little behind his vampire, half-asleep and ready to be guided. Don't eat my teacher, amatus, he thinks he mumbles in Tevene, but it's honestly hard to say.
Sooner or later, the scent of breakfast lures him away. Gathering both juice and plate (with a grumble of thanks towards Gale, still smiling beatifically as he fends off Astarion), he ends up tucking away in a nearby corner, quiet and, if not unobserved, at least out of the way of everyone's stares.
Which means he can stare at them in turn.
He doesn't know where to start. The demoness, maybe, for it's her that gets his hackles up, even if no one else seems bothered by her presence. She reminds him of a desire demon, in truth: beautiful, but unnervingly so. There's something deliberately alluring about her figure and form; he grimaces when she winks at him, his mouth twisting into a thin line. Whatever her business here, Leto thinks, it will not be with them; if someone else has made a deal with her, more fool them, but Raphael is troublesome enough without this demon added to the mix.
The aasimar is next, and her stare he minds much less. If the demoness filled him with a nameless unease, the aasimar is her opposite: there's something assuring about seeing her there. She stands like a warrior, legs braced and her gaze sweeping over the room with a watchful air; she offers him a respectful nod when their eyes meet, and he returns it. Aveline, he thinks, and the comparison makes his heart twinge fondly.
Which leaves only the tiefling to consider. The most normal of the bunch (though Leto is still growing used to the sight of red skin and black horns), and the only one who hasn't made a point of looking him over. He's never seen him before, Leto is certain, but there's something about him that evokes a feeling of warmth. Comfort. Not affection, exactly, but an odd sense of relief, and Leto can't think of what it reminds him of, only that it's a good thing.]
What brings you here?
[He asks it once he makes his way over to the tiefling, who finally peers up at him. Marking his place, he offers a little half-smile, friendly if not reserved. 'Of all the people here, you're asking me? Don't get me wrong: I'm flattered. But I would have thought the child of Selûne would have caught your eye first.'
Leto shrugs as he takes a seat. It's true, but here they are nonetheless, and the tiefling chuckles quietly. 'I owe him a debt,' he explains, his voice easy. 'He and his companions saved my life, not to mention the lives of my people. They freed me when they could have abandoned me to death and horror, and for that, I owe them a great deal indeed.'
The tiefling— Zevlor, Leto will learn later— glances over at Astarion. It's the same look Gale had given him during their first meeting; it's the same look everyone keeps giving Astarion, equal parts fond and a little distant. 'I hear he doesn't remember any of us,' Zevlor adds.]
It's . . . he does not, no. But it's complicated.
[We came from another world, he almost says, but bites his tongue. He still doesn't know how such a statement would be received, and beyond the core group, perhaps it's best to keep that fact to themselves. Still, Zevlor seems to grasp the shape of what he isn't saying, for he nods.
'These things usually are,' he says. 'Still: if by my sword or my experience I can aid him, I will. And there are few better causes than wiping out a vampire lord.']
Your experience?
[In truth, Zevlor doesn't strike him as a warrior— or at least, if he was, it was a long time ago. Though even as he thinks it, Leto realizes that no— no, the tiefling is fit. His frame is larger than he first thought, his bearing more poised than not; it's just that he gives off the impression of being a professor, not a fighter. It's a clever bit of deception, and he cocks his head.
'Indeed. I may not look it, but I was Commander of an elite cavalry unit once.' Leto's ears twitch upwards, his interest apparent, and Zevlor chuckles. 'It was a long time ago,' he demurs, but the damage is done.]
What can you tell me of it? Are you versed in tactics, then? I have been attempting to plan, but my expertise is in singular fighting, even against a mob; I'm less coordinated with a group.
[It's Zevlor's turn to look surprised, though he smoothly covers for it a moment later. It's not often an adolescent speaks so matter-of-factly about battle, much less with the air Leto carries: that of a man talking to a respected peer. 'Well,' he says slowly, and frowns as he gives himself over to the thought, 'to begin with, I'd ideally like to see how many entrances this palace has . . .'
The discussion goes on. Zevlor is a surprisingly knowledgeable source, and pleasing to talk to besides; Leto ends up spending more than a few hours settled near him, the conversation melding from tactics to weaponry to Zevlor himself (though the tiefling is, if not cagey, at least a private man, and Leto can respect that). At some point, some of the others return laden with bags: an even split between battlements and luxuries, for there are as many blades and arrows as there are treats for all of them. Astarion is gifted a few changes of clothes, as well as a parasol from Karlach (for the sun, yeah?, she explains, waving a hand over her head helpfully). Gale exclaims happily upon seeing just how much food they'd bought, digging through bags and declaring he'll cook for them all tonight; Scratch has to end up grabbing Montressor by her scruff to stop her from leaping into said bag, desperate to take advantage of a man foolish enough to leave food on the floor.
The common room fills as the sun heads westward. Everyone has a designated spot, it seems, and though the room has become full, it doesn't feel overcrowded. Simply populated in a comfortable way (at least for Leto). Soon enough the scent of Gale's cooking (admittedly alluring) fills the air, and tepid chatter provides a pleasing background as Leto sits next to his amatus once more.]
Well?
[He speaks low, though at this point privacy is, Astarion had pointed out, mostly performative. Still: he doubts anyone will hear them beneath all the other cross-chatter happening.]
We can discuss it while we hunt, if you wish for company tonight. But what do you think of them?
[It's an easier question than is this utterly overwhelming for you, to be in a room full of people who assume they know you? That, perhaps, Leto will save until they're truly alone, if he says it at all. But maybe it comes out in the undercurrent of his tone, or the way he leans in, bumping their shoulders together in gentle affection. I'm here. I'm here, I know, I'm here, less soothing and more assuring. I will not make the same mistake they are, no matter how well-intentioned.]
[He does wish for company tonight— just not a wealth of it, so to speak, melting against the nudge he's been met with before casting a sidelong glance towards the others all spread out in their own space (at ease in it in all directions, as if they're used to this: the bustling constancy, the electric buzz of life and softer sound of skittering paws, crackling fire— whispers that vampiric ears can track, and conversations held with no awareness of that fact, knocked against his thoughts like waves), kind, of course, but much as the rest of all those efforts....
He turns a silk blouse between his fingers, smoothness gently rustling under friction— a bloody shade of red: exactly the right color, one he would've chosen for himself had he been involved. Even the sizing is correct; inlaid tailoring exquisite.
When his head turns a second time, it's to scuff his brow along the downwards slant of Leto's temple.]
I'm feeling peckish now. [Astarion murmurs, releasing that shirt in favor of deliberately twisting his clawed fingertips round the stem of his gifted parasol, weighing its sturdiness in his palm.
It's unwise to leave the concept of safety in numbers behind, he knows, but in the middle of the day when the sun is at its brightest? Oh, he'd be hard-pressed to fear anything on the rooftop terrace of the inn they're presently inhabiting. One floor up and one sturdy awning in the way of even brighter shadow, he guards his skin with thick cloaks, a high collar, gloves, a parasol, and shade.
Akin to staring out a doorway at a distance, but he can feel the warm sea air against his cheeks and brow, and the view of the city this time of day....]
It's strange, isn't it? [Spoken indirectly, it carries a doubled meaning. Something he doesn't doubt Leto comprehends.] Being known without being known.
....arguably not being known at all.
[His scoff is mild, it borders on a facsimilie of a laugh.]
And yet entirely on the nose. [Red eyes shift Leto's way; they strain to be reflective in shadow on their own, though the midday haze is a distant glare across the surface.] Not all that unlike your second return to Kirkwall, I imagine.
[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.]
[Astarion's scoff is featherlight when it twists the corner of his mouth higher. Something done before Fenris sets in close— ]
I dogeared all those books, you know. Long before you vanished into thin air— and twice as often afterwards. [Though he'd put them on the highest shelf in his closeted excuse for a flat: never out of reach or mind, but sight, at least, he could obscure until his thoughts had him tugging down another broken spine from its moors and parting battered pages.
It's the memory he's holding onto before something sweeter supersedes it. A whisper of a thing at first, nudging at the borders of awareness, and then— once let in fully— blissfully all-encompassing in ways he'll forever struggle to describe: like a cool wash of liquid down his parched throat, only heavy with a presence logic scarcely pinpoints as the past. It feels very much his own. It feels natural. Less like slipping into someone else's skin and more akin to becoming.
Being.
He hardly feels Leto's fingertips in the midst of it all, but he clings to them with all the devotion of an anchor burrowed deep, squeezing through the remainder of one last bickering game of Wicked Grace— and the overturned table brought about not by said arguing, only the excited bounding of a formerly dozing mabari that'd tucked itself beneath their feet and jolted from its dreams. (He's acclimating through each one of these experiences; embracing discomfort and kinship alike when all he's known of either was what bridled him in darker spaces— and threatened him in better ones).]
And now....? [He asks wryly, forcing his own eyes to open just to find himself again. Do they overwhelm you too? -is the question that he asks without lending sound to it, driven in by the lifting of his brows, the deliberate cant of his stare.]
I know you. The way you loiter in folded arms and little conversations until you feel at ease.
[He huffs a laugh for the accuracy of that claim, no matter that it rankles some adolescent part of him to be so called out. He does sulk on the edges, it's true. He fusses and frets and shies away like a pup, reluctant to join in until he's assessed the situation and found it pleasing, for he is no social creature even on the best of days. And of course it's nothing to do with age and everything to do with personality, but still: he rides that wave of adolescent aggravation, letting it tint his tone as he speaks.]
And now: they overwhelm me.
[Matter-of-fact and tart— tarter than he feels, in truth, but let Astarion cling to this. He squeezes his hand, his thumb stroking against his glove in silent assurance: this tone isn't for you. A squeeze, too, for that quiet confession about the books, and trust Leto wants to go back to that . . . but this first.]
I approve of them, do not mistake me. But they look at me as your kittenish conquest, delicate and childish, and I do not like that. They will learn, but it irks me to see the way Karlach fusses and dotes. [Baby bird indeed, and never mind that was directed towards both of them, for Leto's nose still wrinkles petulantly.] Gale is patronizing, Shadowheart is smug, and Lae'zel does not know how to mind her own business. And as for Wyll— the pups may have a crush on him, but he is full of heroic righteousness the likes of which I have not seen since Sebastian, and even with Sebastian, it would grate.
They are loud, and noisy, and full of personality, and it is a great deal to manage when I barely know them all, never mind like them. I have grown used to our privacy; I have grown used to the way we operate, solitary and contained, and I miss it already.
[He means every word, but there's something a little exaggerated in the scowl settling on his face. Not false, not at all, but . . . it's rare Leto deliberately leans into his own teenage aggravation.]
[But. With all of that said . . . he exhales slowly, and then:]
But . . . I had those same complaints when it was Hawke and all her— our— friends. And that did not lessen my love for them, even if it took some time for said love to grow.
Not the Fenris that Astarion uses in shared company regardless of who that company happens to be, but the creature it protects with its existence (calling Fenris 'broody' or 'a lone wolf' wasn't an assessment as much as it was a challenge posed to one rightfully guarded nature— to raised hackles and crueler muscle memory— urging it to let itself go. To lay itself down. Less Fenris, more....this).
It reverberates back across the line in fractal patterns, a copy of a copy of a glimpse into the past, Astarion thinking of being shown what it was like to be so bitter and so welcomed. Astarion thinking of what it was like to be so bitter and so welcomed. And when Varric's warmth staring down the ire of an elf twice his height melts gently into Gale's patiently raised hands underneath one of Kirkwall's many (many) unmarked piers, attempting to befriend the enraged vampire before him with the words I know you, we were friends— it isn't some intentional tit for tat, or an obligatory, hemmed-in expression of show me yours and I'll show you mine— it isn't intentional at all, in fact.
Only the sober shiver of his own unobstructed thoughts while the Weave hums between their fingers.]
Well.
If you didn't murder your friends for daring to care for you in the utter thick of it, however abrasive and intruding that it was....
[Another twitch of a sincere smile, kept angled off towards the skyline— reeled back for its own punch line (that isn't a punchline; his kin would say he reeks of fear, but he doesn't feel it on the rooftop with them).]
....maybe I can avoid murdering mine this time around.
[(Another snap of memory seeps in, but it's— quick. Or small. Or shuttered. Something like the scent of ale seeps in, only nothing like the sort from open windows down below. A snapshot disconnect between past and present, gone as quickly as it came.
Astarion doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't show it.)]
Perhaps I ought to tell them the truth about you. Your age, for starters, if you're wiling.
[A thin, downwards exhale. An expansion on that smile.]
Maybe if they understood you better, or— if they understood what I am because of you, beyond the memories I can't recall— I might be less inclined to shut them out.
[It's nothing his heart didn't already know on instinct alone, but still: if they understood what I am because of you, and something warm and adoring swells in his chest as he hears that. I'm a different person for having known you, I'm a better person for having known you, and while Astarion didn't say the latter, Leto knows it to be true regardless— for the same can assuredly be said in reverse.
After all: the bitter, reclusive elf from Thedas would not have taken well to the subtle swell of magic vibrating between them. He wouldn't greet the familiar scent of his husband's arcane signature (cold and tinged with a metallic taste, it always reminds him of the first snowfall of winter); he wouldn't subtly welcome it, allowing sparks of magic to slip their way into his mind and probe gently at the edges of his memory. That elf would have snarled, Leto knows. He would have raged and seethed and pushed Astarion away, accusing him of the worst kind of subterfuge, and been all the worse for it.]
Agreed.
The clarity about my age would be good, yes. Yes. [The emphasis subtle, but there; he very much does not want to be treated as a child. But ah, back to the point:] But if they learned who we are— who you were in Thedas, and what we have both gone through in the past three years— it will be a great deal easier all around.
And I will admit, Astarion . . . it would be nice to speak of Kirkwall again.
[He widens their connection just a touch, nudging against Astarion's magic with a hint of his own. Nothing concrete flits through his mind, but rather the emotions and sensations. Flits of moods and snatches of sentences; the earlier resentment, and then the adoration. The repulsion of being approached in his vulnerability, are you all right, no, I'm not all right, his teeth bared and his lip curled in a snarl. The hideousness of being offered a way out, join my crew, and his own panicked, sharp shut-down of such a solution, hating Isabela for daring to offer something he couldn't possibly take. His stiffening at the mage's offer of healing, repulsion bitter in the pit of his stomach; Varric's repeated teasing, and his own bafflement over the fact anyone would ever try and tease him.
But then . . . the relief, too. The quiet surprise of Hawke remembering his favorite drink and paying for it all without asking; Isabela coaxing him out after a miserable night, disguising her worry under a coy line about wanting eye candy while she shopped. The ease of falling into wry quips and light mockery instead of talking to Varric about his past; the strange, oddly bittersweet rarity of being able to empathize over some shared pain with the mage.]
Tell them, and then shut them out, if you need to.
[His voice is a little distant, nostalgia coloring the edges.]
It will come in time. And if they are as loyal as they seem, they will wait until it does.
[Astarion's narrow world: not so narrow any longer.
If years in Thedas didn't do much to weld shut the vulgar, abject cracks in his half-maddened personality (it did. Oh, trust that it did— the hollows buried deep still shudder at the press of every cross-cut breeze, but the shadows that once prowled beneath his eyes are gone, the socketed gauntness in his cheeks has for months now given way to something that brings him closer to the living noble Cazador drew in that fateful night. Closer to the adolescent heart beside him, caught between his cinching fingers), he stands here closer to a life he never lived yet grasps the warmth of just the same: that suffusing smell of day-touched dust and light and heat and life, so vibrant that he bends to it on instinct, pitching like a plant along a sill.
It sets him apart from his false siblings. Makes him unrecognizable to those who knew him best, including the fretful shadow of his own past self. It straightened the bow in his spine; raised the sunken angle of his chin.
Granted him something he'd risk anything to keep safe.
He lingers on that anger first— his red eyes shut for just a moment— familiar as a fine, harsh vintage, and ends with the overlaid reflection of catching one low-set dwarven smile in the bottom of a wine glass, its image upside down amidst a mess of coin and cards.
And like a tide it roams. Recedes.]
You'll enjoy speaking of Kirkwall till the questions turn endless, you mean. [Wry, and insincere for all its teasing, his voice is thready. Stays angled off elsewhere, towards the city's risen spires, and how brightly gold and terra-cotta mix in the hottest swells of the afternoon's glare.
And when they do, I will let you answer them instead. You lived there long enough, and are as much a native as anyone else.
[It's a placid answer, a smile in his voice and on his face both. And though it isn't in his nature to be affectionate like this when they aren't secluded away, Leto shuffles over, pressing thighs and hips together so he can rest his head gently on Astarion's shoulder. Hello, my love, as he watches the sun glint off dazzling metal. Hello, darling thing, as they drink in the sight of the city together.
It's beautiful. Far more so than Kirkwall, at least to Leto's eyes. No place is perfect, but there was always such a taint to Kirkwall's streets, as if the city herself could never quite be rid of her origins. Blood soaked into the cobblestones and the anguish of a hundred thousand slaves hanging like a miasma around each gate . . . there's none of that here. Leto can't quite put words around it, but it feels cleaner here somehow. Less depressing, certainly. A city of wonders and fresh starts, where there is more good than evil roaming the streets.
(Though not every street. Somewhere out here, he knows, Cazador lurks. He has stared for too long at the glittering palaces and mansions in the Upper City, wondering which once housed his beloved).
His mind drifts in such a fashion: touching on past and present, old and new. Flitting between what was and what is and what will be, and the connection stays thrumming between them, quiet and steady. Let Astarion see the flashes of thought; it's nothing he hasn't heard before. Snatches of laughter and tears, smears of color and shapes, Varric and the sickly green glow of a rift; the azure glow of Astarion's mark and his own lyrium filling a cramped apartment in Lowtown . . .]
Thank you.
[He murmurs it, not glancing up.]
For not assuming anything when I first came back. For not trying to make me into something I was not, no matter how much it must have hurt. For not looking at me the way your companions look at you now, searching for recognition.
[Even if those memories of their first true meeting are slowly coming back, it's a hazy thing, distant and a little removed. They're as much the result of Astarion's own memories as his own, though that's no bad thing.]
[Cazador beat the failings out of him in that regard; the stillborn click-click-click of memories he won't allow past the damming wall of self-restraint— each time the chill of mortared rooms creeps in or the sour split crack of chastising calls beside sharp, digging pain, he stamps it out quicker than it can root.
Ergo there's no difference, then, compared to now.
His smile doesn't buckle; his voice is an even hum, stitched whole by powerful affection. Hundreds of years beneath his belt and he still can't fake the latter with an artist's keen precision, yet unlike the broken little creature sucking in night air as surrogate for freedom, these days it's a point of pride. An odd mercy.
That there's something in him never tainted by dishonesty. So egregiously flawed that it can't help offering the truth— perpetually snared by handsome, tattooed fingers. The rest of him can run, but not this. Never this.]
I searched every infinitesimal measure of your expressions— your stare— for the thought you might remember me. [Slow start. Past the stopgap of resistance, there's a trickle of remembrance funneled through. The old scent of a backed-up dockside fireplace in too small lodgings, intermingled with lilac and leather oil and the cloying smells of stolen perfumes, hoarded treats; the glimpse of Leto's profile reflected by firelight against frozen window panes, at an angle owing to Astarion's half-suspended excuse for a bed.]
That I'd ever meant something to you, rather than being the hapless fool you tripped over unseen.
[Bittersweet elfroot on his tongue, the smoke burns in conjunction with sweet wine, but gods, it was a gentle bliss.]
[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.]
[To the first of Leto's sentiments, not the last, though he's too adrift in Kirkwall's phantom memory to realize that it could be misconstrued. In memory he only felt a knife-sharp pang when Fenris slipped back onto his heels in stark confusion. In memory the rest was simple as any other misfortune that he'd tumbled headlong into: unideal, not insurmountable. Not crushing. Not even bruising aside from the places where they'd touched under worn awnings, swept up in raw adrenaline.
Leto brushes over him in little strokes of his rough thumb, and Astarion reminds himself it's in the present, that soft-throated sensation.
(He doesn't regret where they stand, but you know, he really would've liked Antiva.)]
I think I was just glad that you came back.
[The beat he holds is narrow. Brittle as spun glass.]
[His eyes flick up, glancing over to catch Astarion in profile as he gently disagrees. He will not say it's a relief to hear, for what guilt curdles in him is small and easily shoved away (emerging on dark nights where he can't sleep and his mind is intent on punishing him). But it's good to know. It's good that Astarion does not regard those weeks and months as wholly awful, another stretch of hell in a lifetime full of it.
He straightens up, ducking his head so he can catch Astarion's eye. But that isn't good enough; in the next moment one hand catches him by the cheek, turning his head gently so what Leto says lingers.]
I will always come back.
[No matter how long it takes, no matter how far they are . . . I will always find you, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of his cheek.]
Tell me what it was like for you, when I first came back.
For my part . . . I was drawn to you. I was from the start— both starts. The first time, it was admittedly posturing, thrilling in getting to protect you, but . . . that faded quickly. After we reached Kirkwall, I found myself thinking of you for days at a time, wondering if you were thinking of me. If it would be strange for me to find you— and after a week, I could not stand the distance either way.
But the second time . . . perhaps there was some part of me that remembered. For even as I met everyone else in Riftwatch, the only person I felt . . . I felt safe around was you.
[That was the feeling, wasn't it? Safety. Security. A feeling of not having to be someone he wasn't, pleasant or palatable or nice; the feeling of knowing that his past was intimately understood and accepted, no matter what unpleasant behaviors might come along with it. He can still remember the feeling of relief of turning into Lowtown and seeing that familiar scratched-up door with an orange glow all around, knowing that Astarion was still awake, that he could creep in like a cat and curl up by the fire, burrowing down and finally exhaling all the stressors of the day.]
Who knows? Perhaps I was drawn to you, whether through past memories, or past . . . past lives.
[A concept he's still struggling to wrap his mind around, truthfully, but they aren't talking about him right now.]
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Well. Nothing, really, beyond a vague, bleary understanding that some kind of argument is taking place. Astarion's tone (and Gale's subsequent amusement) informs him that he need not pay attention, and so he simply lingers a little behind his vampire, half-asleep and ready to be guided. Don't eat my teacher, amatus, he thinks he mumbles in Tevene, but it's honestly hard to say.
Sooner or later, the scent of breakfast lures him away. Gathering both juice and plate (with a grumble of thanks towards Gale, still smiling beatifically as he fends off Astarion), he ends up tucking away in a nearby corner, quiet and, if not unobserved, at least out of the way of everyone's stares.
Which means he can stare at them in turn.
He doesn't know where to start. The demoness, maybe, for it's her that gets his hackles up, even if no one else seems bothered by her presence. She reminds him of a desire demon, in truth: beautiful, but unnervingly so. There's something deliberately alluring about her figure and form; he grimaces when she winks at him, his mouth twisting into a thin line. Whatever her business here, Leto thinks, it will not be with them; if someone else has made a deal with her, more fool them, but Raphael is troublesome enough without this demon added to the mix.
The aasimar is next, and her stare he minds much less. If the demoness filled him with a nameless unease, the aasimar is her opposite: there's something assuring about seeing her there. She stands like a warrior, legs braced and her gaze sweeping over the room with a watchful air; she offers him a respectful nod when their eyes meet, and he returns it. Aveline, he thinks, and the comparison makes his heart twinge fondly.
Which leaves only the tiefling to consider. The most normal of the bunch (though Leto is still growing used to the sight of red skin and black horns), and the only one who hasn't made a point of looking him over. He's never seen him before, Leto is certain, but there's something about him that evokes a feeling of warmth. Comfort. Not affection, exactly, but an odd sense of relief, and Leto can't think of what it reminds him of, only that it's a good thing.]
What brings you here?
[He asks it once he makes his way over to the tiefling, who finally peers up at him. Marking his place, he offers a little half-smile, friendly if not reserved. 'Of all the people here, you're asking me? Don't get me wrong: I'm flattered. But I would have thought the child of Selûne would have caught your eye first.'
Leto shrugs as he takes a seat. It's true, but here they are nonetheless, and the tiefling chuckles quietly. 'I owe him a debt,' he explains, his voice easy. 'He and his companions saved my life, not to mention the lives of my people. They freed me when they could have abandoned me to death and horror, and for that, I owe them a great deal indeed.'
The tiefling— Zevlor, Leto will learn later— glances over at Astarion. It's the same look Gale had given him during their first meeting; it's the same look everyone keeps giving Astarion, equal parts fond and a little distant. 'I hear he doesn't remember any of us,' Zevlor adds.]
It's . . . he does not, no. But it's complicated.
[We came from another world, he almost says, but bites his tongue. He still doesn't know how such a statement would be received, and beyond the core group, perhaps it's best to keep that fact to themselves. Still, Zevlor seems to grasp the shape of what he isn't saying, for he nods.
'These things usually are,' he says. 'Still: if by my sword or my experience I can aid him, I will. And there are few better causes than wiping out a vampire lord.']
Your experience?
[In truth, Zevlor doesn't strike him as a warrior— or at least, if he was, it was a long time ago. Though even as he thinks it, Leto realizes that no— no, the tiefling is fit. His frame is larger than he first thought, his bearing more poised than not; it's just that he gives off the impression of being a professor, not a fighter. It's a clever bit of deception, and he cocks his head.
'Indeed. I may not look it, but I was Commander of an elite cavalry unit once.' Leto's ears twitch upwards, his interest apparent, and Zevlor chuckles. 'It was a long time ago,' he demurs, but the damage is done.]
What can you tell me of it? Are you versed in tactics, then? I have been attempting to plan, but my expertise is in singular fighting, even against a mob; I'm less coordinated with a group.
[It's Zevlor's turn to look surprised, though he smoothly covers for it a moment later. It's not often an adolescent speaks so matter-of-factly about battle, much less with the air Leto carries: that of a man talking to a respected peer. 'Well,' he says slowly, and frowns as he gives himself over to the thought, 'to begin with, I'd ideally like to see how many entrances this palace has . . .'
The discussion goes on. Zevlor is a surprisingly knowledgeable source, and pleasing to talk to besides; Leto ends up spending more than a few hours settled near him, the conversation melding from tactics to weaponry to Zevlor himself (though the tiefling is, if not cagey, at least a private man, and Leto can respect that). At some point, some of the others return laden with bags: an even split between battlements and luxuries, for there are as many blades and arrows as there are treats for all of them. Astarion is gifted a few changes of clothes, as well as a parasol from Karlach (for the sun, yeah?, she explains, waving a hand over her head helpfully). Gale exclaims happily upon seeing just how much food they'd bought, digging through bags and declaring he'll cook for them all tonight; Scratch has to end up grabbing Montressor by her scruff to stop her from leaping into said bag, desperate to take advantage of a man foolish enough to leave food on the floor.
The common room fills as the sun heads westward. Everyone has a designated spot, it seems, and though the room has become full, it doesn't feel overcrowded. Simply populated in a comfortable way (at least for Leto). Soon enough the scent of Gale's cooking (admittedly alluring) fills the air, and tepid chatter provides a pleasing background as Leto sits next to his amatus once more.]
Well?
[He speaks low, though at this point privacy is, Astarion had pointed out, mostly performative. Still: he doubts anyone will hear them beneath all the other cross-chatter happening.]
We can discuss it while we hunt, if you wish for company tonight. But what do you think of them?
[It's an easier question than is this utterly overwhelming for you, to be in a room full of people who assume they know you? That, perhaps, Leto will save until they're truly alone, if he says it at all. But maybe it comes out in the undercurrent of his tone, or the way he leans in, bumping their shoulders together in gentle affection. I'm here. I'm here, I know, I'm here, less soothing and more assuring. I will not make the same mistake they are, no matter how well-intentioned.]
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He turns a silk blouse between his fingers, smoothness gently rustling under friction— a bloody shade of red: exactly the right color, one he would've chosen for himself had he been involved. Even the sizing is correct; inlaid tailoring exquisite.
When his head turns a second time, it's to scuff his brow along the downwards slant of Leto's temple.]
I'm feeling peckish now. [Astarion murmurs, releasing that shirt in favor of deliberately twisting his clawed fingertips round the stem of his gifted parasol, weighing its sturdiness in his palm.
It's unwise to leave the concept of safety in numbers behind, he knows, but in the middle of the day when the sun is at its brightest? Oh, he'd be hard-pressed to fear anything on the rooftop terrace of the inn they're presently inhabiting. One floor up and one sturdy awning in the way of even brighter shadow, he guards his skin with thick cloaks, a high collar, gloves, a parasol, and shade.
Akin to staring out a doorway at a distance, but he can feel the warm sea air against his cheeks and brow, and the view of the city this time of day....]
It's strange, isn't it? [Spoken indirectly, it carries a doubled meaning. Something he doesn't doubt Leto comprehends.] Being known without being known.
....arguably not being known at all.
[His scoff is mild, it borders on a facsimilie of a laugh.]
And yet entirely on the nose. [Red eyes shift Leto's way; they strain to be reflective in shadow on their own, though the midday haze is a distant glare across the surface.] Not all that unlike your second return to Kirkwall, I imagine.
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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.]
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I dogeared all those books, you know. Long before you vanished into thin air— and twice as often afterwards. [Though he'd put them on the highest shelf in his closeted excuse for a flat: never out of reach or mind, but sight, at least, he could obscure until his thoughts had him tugging down another broken spine from its moors and parting battered pages.
It's the memory he's holding onto before something sweeter supersedes it. A whisper of a thing at first, nudging at the borders of awareness, and then— once let in fully— blissfully all-encompassing in ways he'll forever struggle to describe: like a cool wash of liquid down his parched throat, only heavy with a presence logic scarcely pinpoints as the past. It feels very much his own. It feels natural. Less like slipping into someone else's skin and more akin to becoming.
Being.
He hardly feels Leto's fingertips in the midst of it all, but he clings to them with all the devotion of an anchor burrowed deep, squeezing through the remainder of one last bickering game of Wicked Grace— and the overturned table brought about not by said arguing, only the excited bounding of a formerly dozing mabari that'd tucked itself beneath their feet and jolted from its dreams. (He's acclimating through each one of these experiences; embracing discomfort and kinship alike when all he's known of either was what bridled him in darker spaces— and threatened him in better ones).]
And now....? [He asks wryly, forcing his own eyes to open just to find himself again. Do they overwhelm you too? -is the question that he asks without lending sound to it, driven in by the lifting of his brows, the deliberate cant of his stare.]
I know you. The way you loiter in folded arms and little conversations until you feel at ease.
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And now: they overwhelm me.
[Matter-of-fact and tart— tarter than he feels, in truth, but let Astarion cling to this. He squeezes his hand, his thumb stroking against his glove in silent assurance: this tone isn't for you. A squeeze, too, for that quiet confession about the books, and trust Leto wants to go back to that . . . but this first.]
I approve of them, do not mistake me. But they look at me as your kittenish conquest, delicate and childish, and I do not like that. They will learn, but it irks me to see the way Karlach fusses and dotes. [Baby bird indeed, and never mind that was directed towards both of them, for Leto's nose still wrinkles petulantly.] Gale is patronizing, Shadowheart is smug, and Lae'zel does not know how to mind her own business. And as for Wyll— the pups may have a crush on him, but he is full of heroic righteousness the likes of which I have not seen since Sebastian, and even with Sebastian, it would grate.
They are loud, and noisy, and full of personality, and it is a great deal to manage when I barely know them all, never mind like them. I have grown used to our privacy; I have grown used to the way we operate, solitary and contained, and I miss it already.
[He means every word, but there's something a little exaggerated in the scowl settling on his face. Not false, not at all, but . . . it's rare Leto deliberately leans into his own teenage aggravation.]
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But . . . I had those same complaints when it was Hawke and all her— our— friends. And that did not lessen my love for them, even if it took some time for said love to grow.
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Not the Fenris that Astarion uses in shared company regardless of who that company happens to be, but the creature it protects with its existence (calling Fenris 'broody' or 'a lone wolf' wasn't an assessment as much as it was a challenge posed to one rightfully guarded nature— to raised hackles and crueler muscle memory— urging it to let itself go. To lay itself down. Less Fenris, more....this).
It reverberates back across the line in fractal patterns, a copy of a copy of a glimpse into the past, Astarion thinking of being shown what it was like to be so bitter and so welcomed. Astarion thinking of what it was like to be so bitter and so welcomed. And when Varric's warmth staring down the ire of an elf twice his height melts gently into Gale's patiently raised hands underneath one of Kirkwall's many (many) unmarked piers, attempting to befriend the enraged vampire before him with the words I know you, we were friends— it isn't some intentional tit for tat, or an obligatory, hemmed-in expression of show me yours and I'll show you mine— it isn't intentional at all, in fact.
Only the sober shiver of his own unobstructed thoughts while the Weave hums between their fingers.]
Well.
If you didn't murder your friends for daring to care for you in the utter thick of it, however abrasive and intruding that it was....
[Another twitch of a sincere smile, kept angled off towards the skyline— reeled back for its own punch line (that isn't a punchline; his kin would say he reeks of fear, but he doesn't feel it on the rooftop with them).]
....maybe I can avoid murdering mine this time around.
[(Another snap of memory seeps in, but it's— quick. Or small. Or shuttered. Something like the scent of ale seeps in, only nothing like the sort from open windows down below. A snapshot disconnect between past and present, gone as quickly as it came.
Astarion doesn't seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn't show it.)]
Perhaps I ought to tell them the truth about you. Your age, for starters, if you're wiling.
[A thin, downwards exhale. An expansion on that smile.]
Maybe if they understood you better, or— if they understood what I am because of you, beyond the memories I can't recall— I might be less inclined to shut them out.
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After all: the bitter, reclusive elf from Thedas would not have taken well to the subtle swell of magic vibrating between them. He wouldn't greet the familiar scent of his husband's arcane signature (cold and tinged with a metallic taste, it always reminds him of the first snowfall of winter); he wouldn't subtly welcome it, allowing sparks of magic to slip their way into his mind and probe gently at the edges of his memory. That elf would have snarled, Leto knows. He would have raged and seethed and pushed Astarion away, accusing him of the worst kind of subterfuge, and been all the worse for it.]
Agreed.
The clarity about my age would be good, yes. Yes. [The emphasis subtle, but there; he very much does not want to be treated as a child. But ah, back to the point:] But if they learned who we are— who you were in Thedas, and what we have both gone through in the past three years— it will be a great deal easier all around.
And I will admit, Astarion . . . it would be nice to speak of Kirkwall again.
[He widens their connection just a touch, nudging against Astarion's magic with a hint of his own. Nothing concrete flits through his mind, but rather the emotions and sensations. Flits of moods and snatches of sentences; the earlier resentment, and then the adoration. The repulsion of being approached in his vulnerability, are you all right, no, I'm not all right, his teeth bared and his lip curled in a snarl. The hideousness of being offered a way out, join my crew, and his own panicked, sharp shut-down of such a solution, hating Isabela for daring to offer something he couldn't possibly take. His stiffening at the mage's offer of healing, repulsion bitter in the pit of his stomach; Varric's repeated teasing, and his own bafflement over the fact anyone would ever try and tease him.
But then . . . the relief, too. The quiet surprise of Hawke remembering his favorite drink and paying for it all without asking; Isabela coaxing him out after a miserable night, disguising her worry under a coy line about wanting eye candy while she shopped. The ease of falling into wry quips and light mockery instead of talking to Varric about his past; the strange, oddly bittersweet rarity of being able to empathize over some shared pain with the mage.]
Tell them, and then shut them out, if you need to.
[His voice is a little distant, nostalgia coloring the edges.]
It will come in time. And if they are as loyal as they seem, they will wait until it does.
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If years in Thedas didn't do much to weld shut the vulgar, abject cracks in his half-maddened personality (it did. Oh, trust that it did— the hollows buried deep still shudder at the press of every cross-cut breeze, but the shadows that once prowled beneath his eyes are gone, the socketed gauntness in his cheeks has for months now given way to something that brings him closer to the living noble Cazador drew in that fateful night. Closer to the adolescent heart beside him, caught between his cinching fingers), he stands here closer to a life he never lived yet grasps the warmth of just the same: that suffusing smell of day-touched dust and light and heat and life, so vibrant that he bends to it on instinct, pitching like a plant along a sill.
It sets him apart from his false siblings. Makes him unrecognizable to those who knew him best, including the fretful shadow of his own past self. It straightened the bow in his spine; raised the sunken angle of his chin.
Granted him something he'd risk anything to keep safe.
He lingers on that anger first— his red eyes shut for just a moment— familiar as a fine, harsh vintage, and ends with the overlaid reflection of catching one low-set dwarven smile in the bottom of a wine glass, its image upside down amidst a mess of coin and cards.
And like a tide it roams. Recedes.]
You'll enjoy speaking of Kirkwall till the questions turn endless, you mean. [Wry, and insincere for all its teasing, his voice is thready. Stays angled off elsewhere, towards the city's risen spires, and how brightly gold and terra-cotta mix in the hottest swells of the afternoon's glare.
It's beautiful. He'd missed it.]
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[It's a placid answer, a smile in his voice and on his face both. And though it isn't in his nature to be affectionate like this when they aren't secluded away, Leto shuffles over, pressing thighs and hips together so he can rest his head gently on Astarion's shoulder. Hello, my love, as he watches the sun glint off dazzling metal. Hello, darling thing, as they drink in the sight of the city together.
It's beautiful. Far more so than Kirkwall, at least to Leto's eyes. No place is perfect, but there was always such a taint to Kirkwall's streets, as if the city herself could never quite be rid of her origins. Blood soaked into the cobblestones and the anguish of a hundred thousand slaves hanging like a miasma around each gate . . . there's none of that here. Leto can't quite put words around it, but it feels cleaner here somehow. Less depressing, certainly. A city of wonders and fresh starts, where there is more good than evil roaming the streets.
(Though not every street. Somewhere out here, he knows, Cazador lurks. He has stared for too long at the glittering palaces and mansions in the Upper City, wondering which once housed his beloved).
His mind drifts in such a fashion: touching on past and present, old and new. Flitting between what was and what is and what will be, and the connection stays thrumming between them, quiet and steady. Let Astarion see the flashes of thought; it's nothing he hasn't heard before. Snatches of laughter and tears, smears of color and shapes, Varric and the sickly green glow of a rift; the azure glow of Astarion's mark and his own lyrium filling a cramped apartment in Lowtown . . .]
Thank you.
[He murmurs it, not glancing up.]
For not assuming anything when I first came back. For not trying to make me into something I was not, no matter how much it must have hurt. For not looking at me the way your companions look at you now, searching for recognition.
[Even if those memories of their first true meeting are slowly coming back, it's a hazy thing, distant and a little removed. They're as much the result of Astarion's own memories as his own, though that's no bad thing.]
It must have been difficult.
[He squeezes his hand again.]
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[Cazador beat the failings out of him in that regard; the stillborn click-click-click of memories he won't allow past the damming wall of self-restraint— each time the chill of mortared rooms creeps in or the sour split crack of chastising calls beside sharp, digging pain, he stamps it out quicker than it can root.
Ergo there's no difference, then, compared to now.
His smile doesn't buckle; his voice is an even hum, stitched whole by powerful affection. Hundreds of years beneath his belt and he still can't fake the latter with an artist's keen precision, yet unlike the broken little creature sucking in night air as surrogate for freedom, these days it's a point of pride. An odd mercy.
That there's something in him never tainted by dishonesty. So egregiously flawed that it can't help offering the truth— perpetually snared by handsome, tattooed fingers. The rest of him can run, but not this. Never this.]
I searched every infinitesimal measure of your expressions— your stare— for the thought you might remember me. [Slow start. Past the stopgap of resistance, there's a trickle of remembrance funneled through. The old scent of a backed-up dockside fireplace in too small lodgings, intermingled with lilac and leather oil and the cloying smells of stolen perfumes, hoarded treats; the glimpse of Leto's profile reflected by firelight against frozen window panes, at an angle owing to Astarion's half-suspended excuse for a bed.]
That I'd ever meant something to you, rather than being the hapless fool you tripped over unseen.
[Bittersweet elfroot on his tongue, the smoke burns in conjunction with sweet wine, but gods, it was a gentle bliss.]
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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.]
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[To the first of Leto's sentiments, not the last, though he's too adrift in Kirkwall's phantom memory to realize that it could be misconstrued. In memory he only felt a knife-sharp pang when Fenris slipped back onto his heels in stark confusion. In memory the rest was simple as any other misfortune that he'd tumbled headlong into: unideal, not insurmountable. Not crushing. Not even bruising aside from the places where they'd touched under worn awnings, swept up in raw adrenaline.
Leto brushes over him in little strokes of his rough thumb, and Astarion reminds himself it's in the present, that soft-throated sensation.
(He doesn't regret where they stand, but you know, he really would've liked Antiva.)]
I think I was just glad that you came back.
[The beat he holds is narrow. Brittle as spun glass.]
....you were the first to ever come back.
And the first to keep your promise.
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He straightens up, ducking his head so he can catch Astarion's eye. But that isn't good enough; in the next moment one hand catches him by the cheek, turning his head gently so what Leto says lingers.]
I will always come back.
[No matter how long it takes, no matter how far they are . . . I will always find you, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of his cheek.]
Tell me what it was like for you, when I first came back.
For my part . . . I was drawn to you. I was from the start— both starts. The first time, it was admittedly posturing, thrilling in getting to protect you, but . . . that faded quickly. After we reached Kirkwall, I found myself thinking of you for days at a time, wondering if you were thinking of me. If it would be strange for me to find you— and after a week, I could not stand the distance either way.
But the second time . . . perhaps there was some part of me that remembered. For even as I met everyone else in Riftwatch, the only person I felt . . . I felt safe around was you.
[That was the feeling, wasn't it? Safety. Security. A feeling of not having to be someone he wasn't, pleasant or palatable or nice; the feeling of knowing that his past was intimately understood and accepted, no matter what unpleasant behaviors might come along with it. He can still remember the feeling of relief of turning into Lowtown and seeing that familiar scratched-up door with an orange glow all around, knowing that Astarion was still awake, that he could creep in like a cat and curl up by the fire, burrowing down and finally exhaling all the stressors of the day.]
Who knows? Perhaps I was drawn to you, whether through past memories, or past . . . past lives.
[A concept he's still struggling to wrap his mind around, truthfully, but they aren't talking about him right now.]