[Truthfully, he hadn't considered such niceties as views or space when finding a room for Astarion. Prowling down the hallways, gathering blankets and stealing pieces of furniture from old guest rooms, Leto had brought them back to the only room he had ever considered for his companion— the only one that made sense, really, when the two of them have grown so used to falling asleep together. Right next to Leto's own, only a single wall (and doorway, locked for the moment) between them.

Stay close to me. Even here. Especially here.

His eyes flick over to Astarion as he stands there. He can't quite see his expression, but he doesn't have to, not for this. He remembers the awe he had felt those first few weeks after Danarius' death, when he had realized that the mansion was truly his own. Understand: it hadn't been before that. Oh, he'd squatted there for years happily, reveling in the ruins, fighting against the lingering ghosts that remained, audaciously smashing bottles or tearing up paintings, but it wasn't his.

But after his death . . . oh, then he had realized it was his own. Oddly gained, perhaps, but (after a few well-place bribes and some fortuitous legal advice from Varric) it's Fenris' name on the deed now. No one can take it from him; no guards can drag him out, no matter how his neighbors disapprove of an elf living among them. His, his to wreck and ruin— and here, now, his to fix up. To share. To offer to the one person who matters above all else, and it is not nearly enough to repay him for all he has done, but it's a start.]

Change it, if you like. Paint it or add a rug, throw out all the furniture . . . it is yours, and I will not begrudge you making it your own.

[He hesitates, but then:]

Here.

[Quiet. A cold bit of metal placed into Astarion's palm— a key, iron and slender.]

I would not ask you to give up your flat. But you will always have a place here, too. A door that always opens for you.