I am not a sore loser. I only make the wholly valid argument that perhaps, little pup, that if I am to suffer I would at least like a single reason left to me to whine.
Do you remember the last time you gave the girls treats?
And how when Ataashi buried hers, montressor dig them up hours later and nearly choked trying to fit wolf-sized biscuits down her tiny little gullet, which thus necessitated a cycle of taking away anything uneaten— to which all three of them bayed their outraged protest?
[It actually takes him a moment to understand where the thrice came from. And it's not that he isn't competitive; it's not that he doesn't understand what it is to get too invested in petty competitions. But still, Leto frowns faintly down at his book.]
Fair enough, and I grant you your point. Though of all things we have competed on, I suspect this matters the least by a significant percentage.
[Hm.]
Everything aside, Astarion, tell me truly: are you actually bothered— or simply enjoying the metaphoric baying?
[Because tone is hard over text— and while some part of him regrets potentially ruining a silly little spat with a serious inquiry, now he wants to know. This isn't the first time this kind of fuss has come up.]
[All the times he devolved into hissy fits, yet it's the moments when he's asked without fuss or fanfare when he feels most wracked with anxiousness he hasn't felt in years.
Funny thing, that. ]
Both [Is the question he posits to himself with a little ink lot tucked across its end in lieu of the question mark loitering around inside his skull.]
[And it blots as he hesitates. He hates doing this over the notebooks, in no small part because it's so damned hard to read Astarion's emotions right now. His lover might be scoffing playfully, offering him that sweetly puzzled look he gets whenever Leto is in a contrary mood. It's certainly possible; this isn't exactly a traumatic issue. But Leto cannot shake the feeling there's more to it than that.
Not like there's some deep, dark secret related to drawing cocks, but . . . mmph. It's something there, he thinks. Something about competition, no matter what. Something about sulking like a child whenever he loses, when Leto knows damned well that any slave quickly learns there's no room in life for things like fairness. And something to do, maybe, with being the favorite . . . or being one of seven.
Maybe. Maybe not. And he hates not knowing if he's reading too much into it or catching a thread.]
Yes. And no.
The passion and the bitterness I understand. But less so when the challenge could not matter less.
And, [hmm,] I do not mind you fussing, so long as you know I will tolerate it only to a point, and certainly not curb my own competitiveness. Make Gods know I sulk and fuss over things too.
But I simply wish to be sure it isn't something more that I'm missing.
Oh for Maker's sake— [Is sign enough that Astarion is, very much, rankled at the present. Bristling like the very wolf he cited, albeit not enraged if he's willing to speak at all.]
Of course the challenge matters. The challenge always matters. Your slander matters.
Don't tell me you'd be so bloody generous were I the one sitting here gnawing on all your foolish little— [audible, the restless catch in his interruptive sigh] flaws.
I have plenty. You still haven't seen me at my worst.
[It's the first thing he can think to say. It's a little distant, if only because he's too busy thinking. He isn't always built for emotions, and loving someone dearly isn't always enough to know how best to proceed.
In the end, he goes for what he knows best: blunt honesty, albeit spoken a bit more gently than he'd use for anyone else.]
[Is Astarion's response to the former, assertive and crisp across his tongue. Whatever sins or slights lie in Leto's past, they're too far in now for it to tip the scales— nothing will tilt a thing in Astarion's eyes.]
[Oh, they're going back to that flaws conversation, just you wait. Because he doesn't let things go sometimes. A lot of times. Most times.]
Why do you think?
[A beat, and he scoffs, adding:]
Speaking of flaws . . . but it is my nature, too. And, if you need a third reason: because I don't wish to hurt you, or upset you, or vex you— and if I am, then I would know.
[His groan is audible. Loud. Pained as anything and muffled by the presence of his hands.
There— there— do you see it, Leto? One more shining example as to why he loves you? Why you're so damned perfect that it stings? Why he feels— so often— like the nightmare in your shadow, and, if not that, then at the very least the embittered beast that makes things difficult. Haunted by the chatter of Leto's packmates on a good day, and by the echoes of his past on all the worst.
Must you. Must you. Must you.]
Well you do upset me. And hurt me. And vex— you vex.
[The reality of caring. Of love. Of life, beside a broken thing that is and always will be broken.]
....and not a drop of it is your own bloody fault.
[A beat, slow in the throat and even smaller:]
I'm a ruined wretch of a thing, done in by lifetimes without praise or warmth or love. It should hardly shock either of us that I happen to prove eternally incapable of taking a joke. [I can't be like you, unspoken. Half-held.]
So there. There you go, without a drop of fanfare: that's why. And it'll always be why.
[That's not true. The bit about it being not his fault— that's not true, Leto thinks. He doesn't know how to say it, not at first; his tongue feels too thick in his mouth, clumsy and inelegant in a way he normally isn't. But it's a little bit his fault, if only for the foolishness of pursuing this.
But he did. And now it's on him to rectify it as best he can. His first inclination is to move past it, blunt but not uncaring: it is what it is, accepting the fault instead of attempting to soothe it. Gods know that worked for both of them in the past. And yet . . . mmph, no, that isn't the right move here, some small part of him senses. They are not what they were— and while he runs the risk of Astarion lashing out for what might be perceived as pity . . . it's worth the risk.]
You are not ruined. Not in any sense of the word.
[Soft. Adoring, though he does not say it as opinion, but fact.]
You bear scars, and they run deep. Three years of love and praise and warmth are not enough to eradicate those centuries of grief and pain. And perhaps it will always be why, each time we compete, it matters.
But that does not make you ruined. It most certainly does not make you done in. It makes you a sore loser, and a pain in the ass to compete against at times— but there are far worse flaws to bear.
[It's toothless nipping, the verbal equivalent of one of the pups nosing and gnawing at her sister. He says it not to rub it in, but because he does not want to lean too far into soothing and fall into coddling— and Astarion will not appreciate a lie.
More seriously, then:]
You are my amatus, and I have never used that term lightly. You know that. But beyond me . . . you are so much more than you once were. You have grown in ways that I don't think you are capable of seeing, not the way I do. You have learned how to let your guard down. You have learned empathy, and how to form friendships that cherish you based on your own merit— and there is a great deal to cherish. You're clever in ways I will never be, and you flourish in circumstances that others would rot in. And you have mastered three different forms of existence— as a spawn, a Theodosian elf, and a vampire lord— within the span of three years. Not only that, but you have learned to temper the lattermost one, fighting against instinct on a daily basis, keeping yourself in check with willpower I can only imagine.
I never doubt you. Not in anything. And it isn't because I am blind to your flaws, but because I do know you, your shortcomings and your numerous merits both. There is never a day that goes by that I do not trust in you fully— and there is no one else in any world that I can say that about.
[Another pause, and then, with less surety:]
And I meant what I said, Astarion. You have never seen me at my worst, only at my best. You have not heard the things I told Merrill, or Anders— or even Hawke. But I will tell you them someday, if you wish. I will tell you all about how flawed I am— and how viciously spiteful a creature I can be, if I'm so inclined.
[Now or later. They're not talking about him, but he cannot let that go fully unchallenged.]
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[And, thank the gods, they're growing out of the teething stage. Fortunato has the idea down, but Montressor . . . well, she tries.]
And I replaced those buttons.
If it truly distresses you, I'll bring them to a tailor. It cannot be that hard to mend.
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I am NOT
[Ahem.]
I am not a sore loser. I only make the wholly valid argument that perhaps, little pup, that if I am to suffer I would at least like a single reason left to me to whine.
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Very well. Whine away.
[A pause, and then:]
Is it losing that bothers you, or the fact I teased you over it? You must know I meant nothing by it.
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And how when Ataashi buried hers, montressor dig them up hours later and nearly choked trying to fit wolf-sized biscuits down her tiny little gullet, which thus necessitated a cycle of taking away anything uneaten— to which all three of them bayed their outraged protest?
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[Ataashi's furious lectures had lasted for days, and Leto got an earful whenever she realized he could properly understand.]
But I fail to see the relevancy.
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Intent, solutions. All well and good, but we're competitive beasts at heart, and you've just trounced me thrice.
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Fair enough, and I grant you your point. Though of all things we have competed on, I suspect this matters the least by a significant percentage.
[Hm.]
Everything aside, Astarion, tell me truly: are you actually bothered— or simply enjoying the metaphoric baying?
[Because tone is hard over text— and while some part of him regrets potentially ruining a silly little spat with a serious inquiry, now he wants to know. This isn't the first time this kind of fuss has come up.]
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Funny thing, that. ]
Both [Is the question he posits to himself with a little ink lot tucked across its end in lieu of the question mark loitering around inside his skull.]
Both. [Is the answer that he sticks with.]
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Because you lost? Or because I teased you about it?
The baying I understand.
I would understand the other half of it too.
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Ugh. Lost. Enough with that word. Really, Leto, must you keep rubbing it in?Of course you would, we're aligned creatures with good reason. Part of that being fierce and fiercely passionate, no less.
Fiercely bitter, too.
Come now, you had to know how this would end when you posed your challenge.
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[And it blots as he hesitates. He hates doing this over the notebooks, in no small part because it's so damned hard to read Astarion's emotions right now. His lover might be scoffing playfully, offering him that sweetly puzzled look he gets whenever Leto is in a contrary mood. It's certainly possible; this isn't exactly a traumatic issue. But Leto cannot shake the feeling there's more to it than that.
Not like there's some deep, dark secret related to drawing cocks, but . . . mmph. It's something there, he thinks. Something about competition, no matter what. Something about sulking like a child whenever he loses, when Leto knows damned well that any slave quickly learns there's no room in life for things like fairness. And something to do, maybe, with being the favorite . . . or being one of seven.
Maybe. Maybe not. And he hates not knowing if he's reading too much into it or catching a thread.]
Yes. And no.
The passion and the bitterness I understand. But less so when the challenge could not matter less.
And, [hmm,] I do not mind you fussing, so long as you know I will tolerate it only to a point, and certainly not curb my own competitiveness.
MakeGods know I sulk and fuss over things too.But I simply wish to be sure it isn't something more that I'm missing.
voice;
Of course the challenge matters. The challenge always matters. Your slander matters.
Everything fucking matters!
2/2
....If you had any.
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I have plenty. You still haven't seen me at my worst.
[It's the first thing he can think to say. It's a little distant, if only because he's too busy thinking. He isn't always built for emotions, and loving someone dearly isn't always enough to know how best to proceed.
In the end, he goes for what he knows best: blunt honesty, albeit spoken a bit more gently than he'd use for anyone else.]
Tell me why it matters.
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[Is Astarion's response to the former, assertive and crisp across his tongue. Whatever sins or slights lie in Leto's past, they're too far in now for it to tip the scales— nothing will tilt a thing in Astarion's eyes.]
I don't damned well know why it does— it just—
It just does, all right? I—
2/2
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Why do you think?
[A beat, and he scoffs, adding:]
Speaking of flaws . . . but it is my nature, too. And, if you need a third reason: because I don't wish to hurt you, or upset you, or vex you— and if I am, then I would know.
Because that matters.
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There— there— do you see it, Leto? One more shining example as to why he loves you? Why you're so damned perfect that it stings? Why he feels— so often— like the nightmare in your shadow, and, if not that, then at the very least the embittered beast that makes things difficult. Haunted by the chatter of Leto's packmates on a good day, and by the echoes of his past on all the worst.
Must you. Must you. Must you.]
Well you do upset me. And hurt me. And vex— you vex.
[The reality of caring. Of love. Of life, beside a broken thing that is and always will be broken.]
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[A beat, slow in the throat and even smaller:]
I'm a ruined wretch of a thing, done in by lifetimes without praise or warmth or love. It should hardly shock either of us that I happen to prove eternally incapable of taking a joke. [I can't be like you, unspoken. Half-held.]
So there. There you go, without a drop of fanfare: that's why. And it'll always be why.
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But he did. And now it's on him to rectify it as best he can. His first inclination is to move past it, blunt but not uncaring: it is what it is, accepting the fault instead of attempting to soothe it. Gods know that worked for both of them in the past. And yet . . . mmph, no, that isn't the right move here, some small part of him senses. They are not what they were— and while he runs the risk of Astarion lashing out for what might be perceived as pity . . . it's worth the risk.]
You are not ruined. Not in any sense of the word.
[Soft. Adoring, though he does not say it as opinion, but fact.]
You bear scars, and they run deep. Three years of love and praise and warmth are not enough to eradicate those centuries of grief and pain. And perhaps it will always be why, each time we compete, it matters.
But that does not make you ruined. It most certainly does not make you done in. It makes you a sore loser, and a pain in the ass to compete against at times— but there are far worse flaws to bear.
[It's toothless nipping, the verbal equivalent of one of the pups nosing and gnawing at her sister. He says it not to rub it in, but because he does not want to lean too far into soothing and fall into coddling— and Astarion will not appreciate a lie.
More seriously, then:]
You are my amatus, and I have never used that term lightly. You know that. But beyond me . . . you are so much more than you once were. You have grown in ways that I don't think you are capable of seeing, not the way I do. You have learned how to let your guard down. You have learned empathy, and how to form friendships that cherish you based on your own merit— and there is a great deal to cherish. You're clever in ways I will never be, and you flourish in circumstances that others would rot in. And you have mastered three different forms of existence— as a spawn, a Theodosian elf, and a vampire lord— within the span of three years. Not only that, but you have learned to temper the lattermost one, fighting against instinct on a daily basis, keeping yourself in check with willpower I can only imagine.
I never doubt you. Not in anything. And it isn't because I am blind to your flaws, but because I do know you, your shortcomings and your numerous merits both. There is never a day that goes by that I do not trust in you fully— and there is no one else in any world that I can say that about.
[Another pause, and then, with less surety:]
And I meant what I said, Astarion. You have never seen me at my worst, only at my best. You have not heard the things I told Merrill, or Anders— or even Hawke. But I will tell you them someday, if you wish. I will tell you all about how flawed I am— and how viciously spiteful a creature I can be, if I'm so inclined.
[Now or later. They're not talking about him, but he cannot let that go fully unchallenged.]