[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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[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.]
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]