[He plans on asking for more. More details. More facets of Leto’s life— he’s become insatiable over the last few months in a way he never was before: what once was endlessly respected privacy, now is everything that fascinates him. Leto whittles. Leto hates fish. Leto likes dogs. Leto has a sister. Leto knows how to hold a raz—

Ah.

Ah, stop that train of thought there.

(Some things, so much like rats and their glittering eyes, he still dislikes for memory alone.)

But his smile stays regardless, and he leans back once more: heels planted on the floor at the edge of his bed facing the fire, bracketing Leto’s body. Short along the sides, long on top. Easy. So very— ]

Hm?

[His hands stop, fingers stilling.

Do you call everyone that?

Yes. And no. Yes and not at all, and the complexity of it is....well, it’s complex, obviously.]

...no. Not exactly. [Light, his voice. Not quite cagey per se, but laced with the sort of caution that comes from anything that’s relatively fragile as far as truths go. A sign of honesty, if Astarion has any tells at all (and he does).]

I lean on pet names regularly out of habit, it’s true, but….

You are mine, you know. [He says almost absently, combing his way through that confession.] I’d never strangle you with a chokehold, of course, but there’s a difference between the companionship I’m obligated to keep...

And the sort I take for myself.

[Mine.]