[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.]
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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.]