Don't you dare opt to be so needlessly dramatic you sharp-toothed little thing.
You're not me.
And sitting in the sunlight without me at your side isn't exactly what I'd call nannying or a gilded cage either, but what do I know? Mine had iron bars and blood magic for its make.
[It's a smear across the page, beginning from the u outwards where his knuckles must've scraped against his wording— abruptly cut short in a doubletake still forming, still rearing, still beating hot between his frigid ears like the pulse he doesn't have.
Don't hitch, something in him hisses, don't pause, don't fall headlong into silence, imitating a voice he hasn't heard in years; protective mimicry, the diseased form of imitation, only perpetuating what he's striven to forget. Only making it a part of him by proxy—
Though perhaps it was part of him to begin with.
In bed, aside from the occasional noise from the broader section of their rented tavern lodgings— someone rustling through paperwork or shuffling in to dress and dine before the evening settles in— and the whimpering of a pup (growled at by a wolf), he can hear it all too clearly. But the book between his fingers— the drawled lines and all their conveyed fretfulness— is his backstay. His horizon.
It isn't for old memory that he angles the silver of his quill nib against parchment.]
[His writing is a scrawl, jostled for the way he's walking and writing all at once. Darling heart, precious thing, his eyes locked on the smear of ink and the ring heavy in his pocket.]
Gaudy, I think, is the term. Well-meant, but too obvious. It—
[There's a long moment where he tries and fails to scribble out an example, and then scrawls it out.]
It had a giant ruby in the shape of a heart, with a lot of little "diamonds" and "sapphires" surrounding it— though for the price, I suspect they used colored glass.
[There's a pause, and then:]
We can return the one I bought, if you find you do not like it. I will not be offended.
[But that amused incredulity pales before the true subject at hand. What softens his sharp features and takes the fanged edge out of a smile that only knows sincerity.]
I know you won't.
[The little half-breath held imitates the one he'd take in life if they were speaking:]
You were always kinder than myself in that regard.
[Oh, and he nearly causes a fight in the streets for how he stops on his heels, staring down in awe and growing pleasure at those words. Oh, and he thinks again of that bloody cloth left in Thedas. The weight of it tied securely around his wrist, as much a part of his daily attire as his sword or his armor, and how right it always felt to have it near. He got into such a habit of worrying at it, you know. Touching it with two fingers or tying and retying it, pleased each time it reminded him of his beloved.]
You know you need not fear such a thing. Not when your taste in fashion is so much more select than mine. Besides: you know my tastes.
I doubt I'll ever take it off.
Did you find it yourself, or did Karlach aid you too?
[Absently, he brushes his thumb over his ring finger, a little smile on his face. He can feel the lack already, he thinks. There's a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, a growing giddiness that makes him pick up the pace as he heads down the street.]
[It's going to be a dreadful nightmare trying to keep the thing from getting scuffed under Leto's metal talons, he realizes, casting a sidelong glance towards the little nightstand table where he'd hidden it beneath well-worn overhangs. Years of wear and tear will likely get to it regardless, and he's already more than prepared to have to set himself to stealing replacement gems for the one that inevitably goes down in a barfight or dockside brawl.
The thought brings a smile to his face.]
Wylliam.
[Wyll he means, as he's reasonably certain the young Duchal heir isn't actually sporting the name as a shortened variation, but a crow can never resist an opportunity to tease.]
He had it commissioned on my behalf from one of the local jewelers to avoid arousing suspicion from anyone the Szarr palace and its beneficiaries might employ, and I suppose given his heritage, that equated to skipping the line when it comes to turnaround.
I'm not complaining, of course. I've never had a ring spring fully to life, let alone be delivered to my doorstep, in the span of a single day and night.
Someone really ought to make a business out of it.
[They're both teasing little things, and he wouldn't love Astarion half as much if he didn't adore that sense of humor.]
Suggest it to him. If Baldur's Gate undergoes a violent revolution and he's left wanting for a job, jewelry delivery boy might just suit.
[Clever darling, Leto thinks, his bias unmistakable. Clever, clever darling to go to such efforts to hide this. And oh, as for Wyll himself: he'll have to find some way to make it up to him. Offering him praise or a free lesson in how to wield a proper blade (for all that rapier business is pretty, but not particularly effective, not to Leto's eye), maybe. He's grateful to him. More grateful than he can say.]
I'll be even more impressed with the ring once I see it— but right now, I think I may be more in awe you managed to corner him and convey all your specific instructions without cluing me in.
[He won't pen it out loud for all eternity in ink, but unlike some people, he knows how to choose jewelry that'll flatter sunset skin and bright green eyes.]
But don't be too impressed, I gave him drawn instructions.
I'm about to come home and put a ring on your finger— a ring that I spent weeks picking out, catering to all your expensive and expansive tastes— and that still isn't enough?
I may lack an appetite for mortal courses, and we can't exactly take a night out on the town for very obvious reasons till our forces are all mustered. [It's a playful exaggeration, but not too far off from reality in truth: it's been years since Astarion strolled the Szarr Palace— what might've changed, he doesn't know, and going in blind might be disastrous for their allies. Nevermind it'd be expected, parrying the blow already struck.]
But it's hardly a great ask to request my consort-husband meet with me for dinner in the tavern halls below. Especially when it's for an exchange as valuable as this.
[Oh, he thinks for the second time in an hour, and bites his lip to keep from grinning in the stupidest, most besotted way.]
Yes.
But make it a late dinner, so that we can be left alone. I'll ask the kitchens if they'll indulge us. I suspect, given how much money your friends have spent here, they'll be inclined to favor us— particularly if I bribe them. And I will find us candles.
[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.]
[It is already perfect. Amongst the dog hair and wolf sheddings and the sleep deprived groaning of his protesting limbs— sore within their joints in a way that hinges very nearly on mortal (he hasn't fed properly in days, and he will in time, trust that spite is an excellent motivator even beside worry's timeless immobility), but acclimation comes in sips. In painful angles, like growing aches, where he doesn't know how to sleep across an unfamiliar mattress or predict which noises set him off. There's so much he finds grating, worrying, vexing, but now it bounces off the better pieces of this newfound picture as daylight spread itself across those rooftops where they stood together. Shaded, a little blinded, but no more worse for wear in actuality.
Better for it. ]
You've gotten better at your flattery.
[Starlight. He'd be twirling his own curls round clawed fingers were he a few centuries younger....and still living.]
I haven't yet decided. The great pup-wolf-after-midday war interrupted my internal debate, and I've yet to recover that lost time enough to ponder anything else even half as vital as the question: red or gold.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
You're not me.
And sitting in the sunlight without me at your side isn't exactly what I'd call nannying or a gilded cage either, but what do I know? Mine had iron bars and blood magic for its make.
no subject
2/2
no subject
you tell me if you think two weeks could ever be enough.
2/2
no subject
And here I just bought you a ring.
[And here he is, getting up and turning towards home, for what other option does he have when faced with a statement like that?]
Shall I return it? Only I spent several minutes arguing with Karlach over what would appeal to you.
no subject
[It's a smear across the page, beginning from the u outwards where his knuckles must've scraped against his wording— abruptly cut short in a doubletake still forming, still rearing, still beating hot between his frigid ears like the pulse he doesn't have.
Don't hitch, something in him hisses, don't pause, don't fall headlong into silence, imitating a voice he hasn't heard in years; protective mimicry, the diseased form of imitation, only perpetuating what he's striven to forget. Only making it a part of him by proxy—
Though perhaps it was part of him to begin with.
In bed, aside from the occasional noise from the broader section of their rented tavern lodgings— someone rustling through paperwork or shuffling in to dress and dine before the evening settles in— and the whimpering of a pup (growled at by a wolf), he can hear it all too clearly. But the book between his fingers— the drawled lines and all their conveyed fretfulness— is his backstay. His horizon.
It isn't for old memory that he angles the silver of his quill nib against parchment.]
what sort of design did she pick?
no subject
Gaudy, I think, is the term. Well-meant, but too obvious. It—
[There's a long moment where he tries and fails to scribble out an example, and then scrawls it out.]
It had a giant ruby in the shape of a heart, with a lot of little "diamonds" and "sapphires" surrounding it— though for the price, I suspect they used colored glass.
[There's a pause, and then:]
We can return the one I bought, if you find you do not like it. I will not be offended.
1/
[All heart.
Utterly zero sense in fashion or decor.]
no subject
I know you won't.
[The little half-breath held imitates the one he'd take in life if they were speaking:]
You were always kinder than myself in that regard.
3/3
no subject
You know you need not fear such a thing. Not when your taste in fashion is so much more select than mine. Besides: you know my tastes.
I doubt I'll ever take it off.
Did you find it yourself, or did Karlach aid you too?
[Absently, he brushes his thumb over his ring finger, a little smile on his face. He can feel the lack already, he thinks. There's a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, a growing giddiness that makes him pick up the pace as he heads down the street.]
When did you do this?
no subject
The thought brings a smile to his face.]
Wylliam.
[Wyll he means, as he's reasonably certain the young Duchal heir isn't actually sporting the name as a shortened variation, but a crow can never resist an opportunity to tease.]
He had it commissioned on my behalf from one of the local jewelers to avoid arousing suspicion from anyone the Szarr palace and its beneficiaries might employ, and I suppose given his heritage, that equated to skipping the line when it comes to turnaround.
I'm not complaining, of course. I've never had a ring spring fully to life, let alone be delivered to my doorstep, in the span of a single day and night.
Someone really ought to make a business out of it.
no subject
[They're both teasing little things, and he wouldn't love Astarion half as much if he didn't adore that sense of humor.]
Suggest it to him. If Baldur's Gate undergoes a violent revolution and he's left wanting for a job, jewelry delivery boy might just suit.
[Clever darling, Leto thinks, his bias unmistakable. Clever, clever darling to go to such efforts to hide this. And oh, as for Wyll himself: he'll have to find some way to make it up to him. Offering him praise or a free lesson in how to wield a proper blade (for all that rapier business is pretty, but not particularly effective, not to Leto's eye), maybe. He's grateful to him. More grateful than he can say.]
I'll be even more impressed with the ring once I see it— but right now, I think I may be more in awe you managed to corner him and convey all your specific instructions without cluing me in.
Silver or gold?
1/2
2/2
[He won't pen it out loud for all eternity in ink, but unlike some people, he knows how to choose jewelry that'll flatter sunset skin and bright green eyes.]
But don't be too impressed, I gave him drawn instructions.
[The drawings were terrible.]
no subject
[Oh, he's so aware of his husband's abilities, please let him see them. But then:]
Silver is precisely what I wanted.
1/2
2/2
I know it is.
no subject
Needy thing.
Tell me what it would cost me.
no subject
I may lack an appetite for mortal courses, and we can't exactly take a night out on the town for very obvious reasons till our forces are all mustered. [It's a playful exaggeration, but not too far off from reality in truth: it's been years since Astarion strolled the Szarr Palace— what might've changed, he doesn't know, and going in blind might be disastrous for their allies. Nevermind it'd be expected, parrying the blow already struck.]
But it's hardly a great ask to request my consort-husband meet with me for dinner in the tavern halls below. Especially when it's for an exchange as valuable as this.
Say yes.
no subject
Yes.
But make it a late dinner, so that we can be left alone. I'll ask the kitchens if they'll indulge us. I suspect, given how much money your friends have spent here, they'll be inclined to favor us— particularly if I bribe them. And I will find us candles.
Tell me what you'll wear, so I might match it.
no subject
It tries now. Avidly.]
You'll need more than a day to prepare if you want to match my wardrobe.
[....And yet.]
Feathers.
Black silk.
Starlight.
Only the best for your presence.
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.]
no subject
Better for it. ]
You've gotten better at your flattery.
[Starlight. He'd be twirling his own curls round clawed fingers were he a few centuries younger....and still living.]
I haven't yet decided. The great pup-wolf-after-midday war interrupted my internal debate, and I've yet to recover that lost time enough to ponder anything else even half as vital as the question: red or gold.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)