Funny, when he himself had just poured his heart out and offered it to Astarion on bended knee. It's not that he doesn't want it to be reciprocated, for he does, desperately. But understand: so much of his life has been framed by loss. So many times has he had something he thought was real only to helplessly watch it trickle between banded fingertips (his family, the Fog warriors, his Kirkwall companions, oh, nothing ever stays, no one ever lingers, and sometimes he feels he is no more stable than a leaf on the wind, battered by gusts, desperately clinging to anything for a handhold). It's easier not to try to hold onto anything at all, and yet here he is anyway, and how had it come to this?
There's a terrible, teetering moment in which he feels a protest rise within him like bile, thick and acidic. Don't, not because he thinks Astarion will deliberately hurt him, but because it's too good, and he does not know if he can bear the loss if it comes. Don't, for he cannot take his heart shattering into pieces again; he cannot live in a world in which he does not have this comfort. Devotion is one thing, but reciprocation is another; his aching ardor has no limits, but that does not mean the same for Astarion.
But it never makes it to his lips. Leto Astarion says, and it might as well be an invocation, for the moment Astarion murmurs it he is lost. Leto, and the rest washes over him, easing his terror, leaving his heart aching for a very different reason. I've spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, and he realizes in that moment that what he is terrified of has already come to pass for Astarion. Fenris was the one who left. Fenris was the one who had forgotten him. I waited for you, and how hard must it have been that first time, to wake up one day and realize he was gone with no real explanation or farewell? How many hours did Astarion spend grieving, mourning, raging—
And yet still they stand here again. Drawn to one another like moths to a flame, and perhaps it is simply an inevitability. Perhaps, Leto thinks, his eyes closing and Astarion's breath gusting against his lips, perhaps they were always fated to find one another again. Bound to each other by some invisible string, and he reaches out to him, snagging a bit of cloth with his fingers, keeping him close. You've been too good to a wicked thing like me, and that, that he cannot help but answer.]
I do not know what I did to deserve someone like you.
[It isn't cloying. It isn't pretty. He isn't offering him some sweet line in reciprocation, no, he truly does not know what he did to deserve someone so devoted, but oh, he treasures it. Maker, does he ever, and he could have happily spent the next few hours pressed against Astarion like that.
But it's good he steps away. Maker only knows what he might have done if they had stayed locked like that, his heart aching with joy and all of him thrilling with proximity and adoration. He sucks in a slow breath, his eyes flicking down and away for a few moments as he orients himself.]
1/2
Funny, when he himself had just poured his heart out and offered it to Astarion on bended knee. It's not that he doesn't want it to be reciprocated, for he does, desperately. But understand: so much of his life has been framed by loss. So many times has he had something he thought was real only to helplessly watch it trickle between banded fingertips (his family, the Fog warriors, his Kirkwall companions, oh, nothing ever stays, no one ever lingers, and sometimes he feels he is no more stable than a leaf on the wind, battered by gusts, desperately clinging to anything for a handhold). It's easier not to try to hold onto anything at all, and yet here he is anyway, and how had it come to this?
There's a terrible, teetering moment in which he feels a protest rise within him like bile, thick and acidic. Don't, not because he thinks Astarion will deliberately hurt him, but because it's too good, and he does not know if he can bear the loss if it comes. Don't, for he cannot take his heart shattering into pieces again; he cannot live in a world in which he does not have this comfort. Devotion is one thing, but reciprocation is another; his aching ardor has no limits, but that does not mean the same for Astarion.
But it never makes it to his lips. Leto Astarion says, and it might as well be an invocation, for the moment Astarion murmurs it he is lost. Leto, and the rest washes over him, easing his terror, leaving his heart aching for a very different reason. I've spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, and he realizes in that moment that what he is terrified of has already come to pass for Astarion. Fenris was the one who left. Fenris was the one who had forgotten him. I waited for you, and how hard must it have been that first time, to wake up one day and realize he was gone with no real explanation or farewell? How many hours did Astarion spend grieving, mourning, raging—
And yet still they stand here again. Drawn to one another like moths to a flame, and perhaps it is simply an inevitability. Perhaps, Leto thinks, his eyes closing and Astarion's breath gusting against his lips, perhaps they were always fated to find one another again. Bound to each other by some invisible string, and he reaches out to him, snagging a bit of cloth with his fingers, keeping him close. You've been too good to a wicked thing like me, and that, that he cannot help but answer.]
I do not know what I did to deserve someone like you.
[It isn't cloying. It isn't pretty. He isn't offering him some sweet line in reciprocation, no, he truly does not know what he did to deserve someone so devoted, but oh, he treasures it. Maker, does he ever, and he could have happily spent the next few hours pressed against Astarion like that.
But it's good he steps away. Maker only knows what he might have done if they had stayed locked like that, his heart aching with joy and all of him thrilling with proximity and adoration. He sucks in a slow breath, his eyes flicking down and away for a few moments as he orients himself.]