[I don't miss him, and Leto hums softly in response: I know. He does, just as he knows that assurance isn't really for his sake. But it helps to hear agreement. It helps to have someone else nod their head and affirm that assertion, so that late at night, when all the wild thoughts run through your mind, you can fall back on that surety. Leto agreed, and gods know Leto does not mind being the rock upon which Astarion builds this particular foundation.
And maybe they'll go back to this topic— no, almost certainly they will. For now the poison is out, the unspoken given words, and yet the issue will not go away just because they've given it form. The next time Astarion slips a collar around his throat, they'll speak of it. Or perhaps next time they fuck angrily, biting and snarling and seething, Astarion's cock fucking cruelly into his throat before the vampire ends up mewling and panting as he begs on his knees for forgiveness . . . in the aftermath, when they're spent and sweating, they'll speak of it. But it will be easier, then.
Just as speaking of Hadriana will be easier. This is not the last time he will bring her up, Leto knows. He doesn't want to talk of her, but he must— just as he must speak of Danarius. Of Cazador. All the pain, all the trauma, all the grief— this is how they manage to deal with it. By slowly but surely speaking of it, one topic at a time.
People lie. People leave.
But not them.
Still: he chuckles softly as Astarion nips gently at him like that, recognizing toothless play for what it is.]
Ah, well. You gave me your token in the aftermath. How could I do anything but chase after you?
[Oh, he misses that bloody cloth, just as he misses his sword. Ataashi. Most of the rest of it was incidental, little things that can be replaced, but ah . . . some of it still smarts. Leto stares out at nothing— and then, more sincerely:]
I am glad you brought this up. And I am glad, too, we could speak of it. All of it. And I will tell you as many times as you wish that your desires are not akin to wanting him back.
Know that there is nothing I don't trust you with. The past. Hadriana. All of it.
And there is nowhere in all the worlds that you could be stolen that I would not find you again, kadan.
no subject
And maybe they'll go back to this topic— no, almost certainly they will. For now the poison is out, the unspoken given words, and yet the issue will not go away just because they've given it form. The next time Astarion slips a collar around his throat, they'll speak of it. Or perhaps next time they fuck angrily, biting and snarling and seething, Astarion's cock fucking cruelly into his throat before the vampire ends up mewling and panting as he begs on his knees for forgiveness . . . in the aftermath, when they're spent and sweating, they'll speak of it. But it will be easier, then.
Just as speaking of Hadriana will be easier. This is not the last time he will bring her up, Leto knows. He doesn't want to talk of her, but he must— just as he must speak of Danarius. Of Cazador. All the pain, all the trauma, all the grief— this is how they manage to deal with it. By slowly but surely speaking of it, one topic at a time.
People lie. People leave.
But not them.
Still: he chuckles softly as Astarion nips gently at him like that, recognizing toothless play for what it is.]
Ah, well. You gave me your token in the aftermath. How could I do anything but chase after you?
[Oh, he misses that bloody cloth, just as he misses his sword. Ataashi. Most of the rest of it was incidental, little things that can be replaced, but ah . . . some of it still smarts. Leto stares out at nothing— and then, more sincerely:]
I am glad you brought this up. And I am glad, too, we could speak of it. All of it. And I will tell you as many times as you wish that your desires are not akin to wanting him back.
Know that there is nothing I don't trust you with. The past. Hadriana. All of it.
And there is nowhere in all the worlds that you could be stolen that I would not find you again, kadan.