It's been alluded to. Mentioned. Little snatches of breathed out half-jokes, or vague references keenly understood with a single glance and a trailed-off sentence. That first night in Rialto, when Leto had confessed that he had been fooled by Danarius' attentions at first. They'd danced around it then, hadn't they? Talking about how it was always better to be favored than forgotten . . . I imagine you must have been lonely, Astarion had said, his skin warm beneath Leto's questing fingertips. I was, too.
And then the conversation had veered. Who had it worse, it must have been you, and they'd gotten so lost in their mutual assurance that they hadn't touched upon the rest.
Here and now, Leto thinks, is the second half of that conversation. Not a revelation, not really— but there's such a difference between suspecting something in your heart and hearing it spoken aloud. Oh, Astarion . . .]
It was the days that he praised me I loved the most.
[Soft. Gentle. I know, I understand, for he does. Oh, he does. There were only a handful, but oh . . . when the wind blew in the right direction and Danarius' mood was just right; when he would say sit, my lad, come join me, and offer him a glass of wine, asking his opinion on this or that . . . and it wasn't to be cruel, but to be kind. Some jagged impulse somewhere deep in the rot of his soul, a twisted impulse to be sweet that never lasted. Like offering a prized hound an extra treat or two when you've had a good day, it only makes the fall worse.
And Cazador was more cruel still. Leto will not say that Danarius never had manipulation and dependency on his mind during those days, but oh, Fenris was already his. Jaggedly loyal and barely a person at all, so fanatically loyal to his master that there was little need for reinforcement, save for the occasional reminder. But Cazador . . . oh, no. That was a far nastier game, with the most nauseating consequences imaginable, stretched out over years and years and years . . .
How many times, Leto wonders, did they go back and forth? You're nothing, you're everything; my little consort, my stupid fledgling . . .]
It is . . . difficult, not to want that.
[Soft. Roughened, but all the more honest for it.]
Difficult, too, not to revel in it when it happens— no matter how you might wish you had known better in the aftermath.
Difficult not to think that you are in love, when it happens.
[A savior swooping out of the night sky, rescuing you and changing you, prioritizing you, adoring you . . . oh, how could anyone resist?]
Tell me.
[Those first few weeks, or months, or years. When he was Cazador's prize instead of his puppet. Or afterwards, maybe: that fall from grace when he was left among his seething, sneering cohorts, the very same one he'd jeered at before falling from his ivory tower.]
What was it, to be his favorite? To have that preference?
no subject
It's been alluded to. Mentioned. Little snatches of breathed out half-jokes, or vague references keenly understood with a single glance and a trailed-off sentence. That first night in Rialto, when Leto had confessed that he had been fooled by Danarius' attentions at first. They'd danced around it then, hadn't they? Talking about how it was always better to be favored than forgotten . . . I imagine you must have been lonely, Astarion had said, his skin warm beneath Leto's questing fingertips. I was, too.
And then the conversation had veered. Who had it worse, it must have been you, and they'd gotten so lost in their mutual assurance that they hadn't touched upon the rest.
Here and now, Leto thinks, is the second half of that conversation. Not a revelation, not really— but there's such a difference between suspecting something in your heart and hearing it spoken aloud. Oh, Astarion . . .]
It was the days that he praised me I loved the most.
[Soft. Gentle. I know, I understand, for he does. Oh, he does. There were only a handful, but oh . . . when the wind blew in the right direction and Danarius' mood was just right; when he would say sit, my lad, come join me, and offer him a glass of wine, asking his opinion on this or that . . . and it wasn't to be cruel, but to be kind. Some jagged impulse somewhere deep in the rot of his soul, a twisted impulse to be sweet that never lasted. Like offering a prized hound an extra treat or two when you've had a good day, it only makes the fall worse.
And Cazador was more cruel still. Leto will not say that Danarius never had manipulation and dependency on his mind during those days, but oh, Fenris was already his. Jaggedly loyal and barely a person at all, so fanatically loyal to his master that there was little need for reinforcement, save for the occasional reminder. But Cazador . . . oh, no. That was a far nastier game, with the most nauseating consequences imaginable, stretched out over years and years and years . . .
How many times, Leto wonders, did they go back and forth? You're nothing, you're everything; my little consort, my stupid fledgling . . .]
It is . . . difficult, not to want that.
[Soft. Roughened, but all the more honest for it.]
Difficult, too, not to revel in it when it happens— no matter how you might wish you had known better in the aftermath.
Difficult not to think that you are in love, when it happens.
[A savior swooping out of the night sky, rescuing you and changing you, prioritizing you, adoring you . . . oh, how could anyone resist?]
Tell me.
[Those first few weeks, or months, or years. When he was Cazador's prize instead of his puppet. Or afterwards, maybe: that fall from grace when he was left among his seething, sneering cohorts, the very same one he'd jeered at before falling from his ivory tower.]
What was it, to be his favorite? To have that preference?