[His heart is beating in his chest, elated (and afraid, like it always is— only distantly this time; only because as he feels that metal slip into his palm he realizes he has something to lose, now), trying to swallow around the shape of it while Leto tells him he’s free to do as he likes with those high walls. With sweeping floors and a somewhat damaged (yet beautiful nonetheless) ceiling that doesn’t leak with cold or invite in animals, and he wonders if that’d been fixed deliberately. If there was damage here before, and Leto made certain it wouldn’t bring misery to his friend.
'A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.']
...Fuck it.
[A little absent. A little dazed, still. Staring right past (right through) Leto as crimson eyes lift to trace the ceiling overhead, swept up in the sight of it all. Feeling it heavy on his shoulders in the best way possible.
—but right. Leto won’t understand unless he says it aloud, so, attention snapping back towards his companion at last (pale fingers curling around that key) he shakes his head.]
Fuck the damned flat.
[Concise.]
That place is vile. I pay tithe for a hole in stone walls with my damned weight in gold, to a letch that never fails to look disappointed by the process. [Astarion always suspected the man was eagerly awaiting the day when the pale elf couldn’t make his payments— more fool him, for Astarion’s no penniless city wretch.]
The only benefit of it is that the sea air rolling in from the port doesn’t carry the stink of Lowtown with it in that particular spot. And that it isn’t the Gallows.
It was exciting, being on my own for the first time since I left Cazador behind. [Truly, it was.
But it was lonely, too. And a different sort of danger than being an elf in Hightown.]
I’m done with that now. Had all the fun I could stomach.
[A pause, and then:]
Although I know you enjoy it as an escape from these walls. [A thought he turns over for a beat, now that the thrill is— not dying down, but leveling, in a sense. Feeling undeniably real at last.]
If you want to keep that as an option, have some other place to den yourself down, I’ll keep it, you know.
Happily.
[And it isn’t a placating offer. Nothing pitying or eager— just there. Knowing. Open as an outstretched hand: I won’t take this away from you in exchange for your gift.]
[An immediate answer right at the tail end of Astarion's question, but it's not something he has to think about.]
It was you that was the draw, not the location. I will not pretend I did not use it as an escape, but . . . it will be different, I suspect, if you are to live here with me.
[It doesn't seem real until that moment. Live here with me, not just for a night (nor indeed several nights in a row, as has been their wont these past few weeks), but always. It's thrilling and not all at once— for though he is too used to having Astarion exist within his orbit, the two of them rising and fading each morning and night, never once has it felt so solid. This isn't an extended visit, and neither of them will be tentatively waiting for the other to get sick of them and order them home. This is their space now, divided in equal measure, a permanent place for the two of them to find one another.
It's the difference, he thinks faintly, between a house and a home. He had not understood that until now. The mansion has always been a worthy source of shelter from all the horrors of the city, but never once has Fenris looked forward to going back into it. Never once has he been giddy to wander these haunted halls or return to his carved out little space.
But he might be now, now that he knows someone will be waiting for him. A candle in the window, another set of footsteps against the stone tile . . . oh, and he had not realized until this moment just how much he craved that companionship.
He's smiling, Fenris realizes. Faintly, stupidly, but he is, his heart singing.]
We can bring your things up tomorrow, if that suits you. Magpie that you are, it may take more than one trip, but there's plenty of space to store it.
[Maker, yes; they could house half of Riftwatch here without any trouble.]
And in all the ways that matter, Astarion . . . you are still on your own. [Mm, no, that didn't quite come out how he meant it. Sometimes it's endlessly easy sometimes to articulate how he's feeling, and then again sometimes his tongue ties, his meaning becoming muddled. Ugh. He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand, dismissing that sentence.] You still have independence, is all that I mean. This is not charity, but a choice. And this room is as much yours as the flat was.
[So. There. Unsure if his meaning came across and too annoyed with himself to try again, he ducks forward, stepping into the room proper, shoving his hair back away from his face as he does.]
In any case. I will offer you a tour when you wish. The kitchens are not far, nor is the bathroom. But it is easy to get lost.
[It was you, Leto says, and again, Astarion finds himself so childishly struck by it that he simply stands there, turning the key over in his fingers— reality something he now has to touch to know it’s there (like the flexing of his fingertips; like the way he once counted painted stars, only better), he needs those precious seconds in silence. Needs the feeling of cold metal across his palm, and the sight of Leto standing just across from him, pulling stray strands of overgrown hair from his own eyes.
Two hundred years old and he’s as senseless as a newborn pup. It’d be shameful if he cared about appearances.
But he doesn’t. Not anymore.]
Darling, you’re a mess.
[All right, maybe some appearances— just not his own right now. The words low and absurdly overfond as they roll from his tongue. Key pocketed, abandoning astonishment entirely when he takes his first stride across the threshold in order to slip silently in at Leto’s side, reaching up with two fingers to fix one delicate tangle of white hair now half-tucked behind a downturned ear.]
When was the last time you saw to this growing little mane of yours?
[Which is to say yes, tomorrow is the perfect day to move. Yes, he’d like a tour— a real one, rather than how they limped through it before, bloody from fighting and thoroughly exhausted.
But his benefactor—
No, his friend is looking more wild and unkempt than the wolf left trotting around through open corridors.
[He stills, just for a half-second, as Astarion's fingers tuck his hair behind his ear. It's an absently intimate gesture, a there-and-gone touch that leaves his skin tingling as all of him aches for more. He's touched so rarely, and oh, he must really be starved for it if that's enough to leave him reeling.
Foolish. At least he didn't flush.]
I am not—
[Well, no, okay, he sort of is a mess, and Leto huffs faintly.]
An undercut is difficult to trim on one's own.
[But he hears the offer implied in Astarion's words, and honestly, he's grateful for it. It is difficult to care for one's hair on their own— and truthfully, Leto has never really gotten into the routine of haircuts. Oh, he'll trim it on occasion, but sometimes it's easier to just let it grow how it will. But ugh, long hair is a pain with the heat, and spring is coming. He'll resent long hair then, so yes, best to get it over and done with.
Scissors are easy enough to find, as is a basin of water and a towel. A razor is slightly more of a challenge (what use would he have for one, after all, unable to grow a beard as he is?), but eventually he locates one. They settle in Leto's room in front of the hearth, the door between their bedrooms hanging ajar.]
Have you ever cut hair before?
[Things to ask before you're settled in front of your crush when he's armed with scissor and razor, but eh, it's fine. He bows his head forward, feeling Astarion's eyes on the back of his neck.]
You ought to have seen it when I was younger, here in Kirkwall. It was far longer than I wear it now.
[The line between a solid set of bangs and hair that just sort of hangs in front of your face is pretty thin.]
[Deft hands nudge Leto’s head forward a few degrees more, mostly by way of the edges of his knuckles— little and ring fingers guiding him as the others stay curled around tarnished shears that somehow aren’t ruined with rust.
This’ll be easier now that he’s not allergic to scorched by water, and there’s careful time taken to wet and align and comb back slickened strands as he talks, towel used to keep trickling paths from snaking down underneath Leto’s collar, which would only make the experience uncomfortable otherwise. The weather too gross for errant spots of wet cloth and clammy skin, being far away from summer still.]
Oh. Far longer?
[He asks, his mind immediately flitting towards Thranduil’s flowing locks, cascading like a sort of waterfall about his back and shoulders. The mental image of Leto like that, though...
Hm. Hard to accurately picture. Either he must’ve looked shockingly regal (and handsome, but he’s not acknowledging that right now, thank you very much), or he looked a half-step away from communing with the wilds and wiggling his toes through dew-touched earth. Or both? Maybe both.
A small section of silver strands are combed out before he makes his first cut. The softest little snip of a sound.] And I did, yes.
For my master. For his guests— and the other spawn, too, though that was only ever when ordered to on occasion, as I never cared much for those wretched creatures.
By which I mean at all.
[Snip snip— the soft little plops of falling pieces of damp hair as they land across Leto’s shoulders.] We were like squabbling dogs, most days. Envy practically lived beside us, brought on by Cazador’s games and cruel favor alike.
It was only survival, in a sense. [Harsh necessity.] But that doesn’t mean we pitied each other, either. [No, not pity. They were only cutthroat. Resentful. Mean. hounding one another surely as their master and his ilk hounded them— and Astarion wasn’t any different.]
Awful beasts. I hope they’re rotting at his side.
[Anyway—
He leans slightly forward there, just across the edge of Leto's shoulder.] Just how short did you want this, my darling?
A close cut along the side and back of my head. But leave the front long.
[His fingers gesture, drawing lines against his scalp in indication. It's a distracted motion (he really should take the state of his hair more seriously), for his thoughts linger on what Astarion. It is not a revelation, exactly; he had known there were countless other spawn, and it makes sense that Astarion was occasionally called to tend to them. But still . . . it's odd to think of him doing something so intimate to someone he despised.]
Danarius would have me do that for him at times. When he would leave Castellum Tenebris— his fortress— on business, he trusted only me to hold a blade to his throat.
[How many times had Leto thought about killing him? How many times had his hand trembled, his eyes wide as he fantasized about what it would be to tip the blade just so, sinking into soft flesh? Ah, but of course the answer is simple. Never. Not once. He was still obedient (still stupid) in those days, his thoughts only ever filled with how best to please his master and avoid his wrath.
It's an idle fact, offered up as a sort of exchange, and Leto falls silent after he says it. Eyes closing, he allows himself the quiet pleasure of focusing on those touches. They're brief things, minute little brushes of Astarion's fingers against the back of his neck, nudging his head to tip this way and that, but oh, he savors them. Behind closed lids, he watches the firelight from the hearth dance and flicker; feels the warmth seeping into his skin, chasing away the last of the spring chill. Slowly the perpetual tension eases out of his shoulders, his guard lowering even as Astarion slides that razor near his scalp.
There's something to be said, he thinks sleepily, for trusting someone so much. Would he allow anyone else this close? Not likely. Certainly not with his back turned; he'd be on high alert the entire time, just in case. But it's always so different with Astarion, and he's beginning to notice that more and more.]
Do you call everyone that?
[It's low. Not upset, nor indeed overly pleased. Just curious, a quiet question to break the silence.]
[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...
[It's an odd relief that Astarion does not dance around the question, nor pretend that he does not single Leto out in some way. That above all else disarms him, so that when the actual answer comes about, he isn't going in with his hackles raised. You are mine, Astarion says, and Leto—
He expects a rush of anger. Repulsion, perhaps. Mine is such a shackling word, after all, and he has heard it plenty of times before. How often had Danarius asserted the same thing? My dear little wolf, jealously hoarding him like a jewel, wrapping a collar around his throat and unleashing him only ever to bring glory to his master.
He expects the same now. The feeling of iron wrapped thick around his throat, panic rising within him, screaming at him to squirm free of whatever expectations Astarion holds, but— no.
No. Nothing of the sort. Instead: a quiet shiver of pleasure running up his spine, a swell of satisfaction as his heart beats a little faster. For mine is what Astarion says, but . . . yours is what Leto hears.
His to protect. His to cherish. His to spoil and serve and love. To be a former slave is to know exactly what it is to give all of yourself to another, and perhaps it breaks something irreparably in them, for Leto knows that feeling so well. Devotion and adoration, a desire to hoard and keep and protect that which you have found on your own. It isn't possessiveness, and then again it isn't selflessness, either. They cling to each other with white knuckles, so desperate not to lose the only thing in their lives that has ever made sense.
Leto knows. He does, truly.]
It goes both ways.
[He does not mean to say that. He means to offer something better— some wise reflection about possessiveness, perhaps, or a quiet assertion that he understands what Astarion means. But the words slip out of him nonetheless, and he does not take them back, for they are true.]
[Later on, he’ll be glad he didn’t start by shaving the sides of Leto’s head. Later on, he’ll smile a little each time he catches sight of the spot just at the back of what he's styled, where longer sections of hair have a single, offset counterpart: a few wispy strands cut at an odd angle, so much shorter than the rest that it sticks out. Just a bit.
For now, though, the moment Leto’s words catch—
Those scissors slip.
He sucks in the sharpest breath imaginable in the very second that the blades of those shears snap closed, clipping the strands he’d been holding far too high (and far too soon), leaving Astarion utterly frozen when he subsequently gasps out:]
[Of course, given that Fenris can't actually see what Astarion's done, it probably only sounds like disbelief. Like the shaken, unanticipated impact of being claimed in return by someone so utterly vital to his world, narrow as it’s become in these last few months. Broad and wondrous as it seems, too, now that he knows he’s not alone.
And if it sounds that way, that’s because it is.
He has a room. He has a home. Not just in the spires of Hightown, for all that Astarion had outright dreamed of dwelling within its gilded streets, but in the gaps between Leto’s ribs. In the space beside his heart and the nest of his thoughts— there, Astarion has a home. Gods help him for being weak to it.
For wanting nothing else.]
....I do now.
[And like a flood, he feels the words rise high to meet the back of his tongue, welling too quickly to be stopped.
He’s beyond the point of holding back now, anyway.]
Phasing right through the fireplace, tongue lolling from her great maw as she foists herself eagerly into Leto’s lap, tail swishing in the beats before she settles down to drape across him once more, having finished her adventure throughout the mansion itself.]
Hmph. [Astarion scoffs lightly, the softest smile etched across his face as he returns to combing and cutting away once more.
The gentle care shown to a thing so dearly loved.]
What a pack we make, long lost creatures that we are.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
;v;
'A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.']
...Fuck it.
[A little absent. A little dazed, still. Staring right past (right through) Leto as crimson eyes lift to trace the ceiling overhead, swept up in the sight of it all. Feeling it heavy on his shoulders in the best way possible.
—but right. Leto won’t understand unless he says it aloud, so, attention snapping back towards his companion at last (pale fingers curling around that key) he shakes his head.]
Fuck the damned flat.
[Concise.]
That place is vile. I pay tithe for a hole in stone walls with my damned weight in gold, to a letch that never fails to look disappointed by the process. [Astarion always suspected the man was eagerly awaiting the day when the pale elf couldn’t make his payments— more fool him, for Astarion’s no penniless city wretch.]
The only benefit of it is that the sea air rolling in from the port doesn’t carry the stink of Lowtown with it in that particular spot. And that it isn’t the Gallows.
It was exciting, being on my own for the first time since I left Cazador behind. [Truly, it was.
But it was lonely, too. And a different sort of danger than being an elf in Hightown.]
I’m done with that now. Had all the fun I could stomach.
[A pause, and then:]
Although I know you enjoy it as an escape from these walls. [A thought he turns over for a beat, now that the thrill is— not dying down, but leveling, in a sense. Feeling undeniably real at last.]
If you want to keep that as an option, have some other place to den yourself down, I’ll keep it, you know.
Happily.
[And it isn’t a placating offer. Nothing pitying or eager— just there. Knowing. Open as an outstretched hand: I won’t take this away from you in exchange for your gift.]
no subject
[An immediate answer right at the tail end of Astarion's question, but it's not something he has to think about.]
It was you that was the draw, not the location. I will not pretend I did not use it as an escape, but . . . it will be different, I suspect, if you are to live here with me.
[It doesn't seem real until that moment. Live here with me, not just for a night (nor indeed several nights in a row, as has been their wont these past few weeks), but always. It's thrilling and not all at once— for though he is too used to having Astarion exist within his orbit, the two of them rising and fading each morning and night, never once has it felt so solid. This isn't an extended visit, and neither of them will be tentatively waiting for the other to get sick of them and order them home. This is their space now, divided in equal measure, a permanent place for the two of them to find one another.
It's the difference, he thinks faintly, between a house and a home. He had not understood that until now. The mansion has always been a worthy source of shelter from all the horrors of the city, but never once has Fenris looked forward to going back into it. Never once has he been giddy to wander these haunted halls or return to his carved out little space.
But he might be now, now that he knows someone will be waiting for him. A candle in the window, another set of footsteps against the stone tile . . . oh, and he had not realized until this moment just how much he craved that companionship.
He's smiling, Fenris realizes. Faintly, stupidly, but he is, his heart singing.]
We can bring your things up tomorrow, if that suits you. Magpie that you are, it may take more than one trip, but there's plenty of space to store it.
[Maker, yes; they could house half of Riftwatch here without any trouble.]
And in all the ways that matter, Astarion . . . you are still on your own. [Mm, no, that didn't quite come out how he meant it. Sometimes it's endlessly easy sometimes to articulate how he's feeling, and then again sometimes his tongue ties, his meaning becoming muddled. Ugh. He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand, dismissing that sentence.] You still have independence, is all that I mean. This is not charity, but a choice. And this room is as much yours as the flat was.
[So. There. Unsure if his meaning came across and too annoyed with himself to try again, he ducks forward, stepping into the room proper, shoving his hair back away from his face as he does.]
In any case. I will offer you a tour when you wish. The kitchens are not far, nor is the bathroom. But it is easy to get lost.
no subject
Two hundred years old and he’s as senseless as a newborn pup. It’d be shameful if he cared about appearances.
But he doesn’t. Not anymore.]
Darling, you’re a mess.
[All right, maybe some appearances— just not his own right now. The words low and absurdly overfond as they roll from his tongue. Key pocketed, abandoning astonishment entirely when he takes his first stride across the threshold in order to slip silently in at Leto’s side, reaching up with two fingers to fix one delicate tangle of white hair now half-tucked behind a downturned ear.]
When was the last time you saw to this growing little mane of yours?
[Which is to say yes, tomorrow is the perfect day to move. Yes, he’d like a tour— a real one, rather than how they limped through it before, bloody from fighting and thoroughly exhausted.
But his benefactor—
No, his friend is looking more wild and unkempt than the wolf left trotting around through open corridors.
And that’s something he can fix.]
no subject
Foolish. At least he didn't flush.]
I am not—
[Well, no, okay, he sort of is a mess, and Leto huffs faintly.]
An undercut is difficult to trim on one's own.
[But he hears the offer implied in Astarion's words, and honestly, he's grateful for it. It is difficult to care for one's hair on their own— and truthfully, Leto has never really gotten into the routine of haircuts. Oh, he'll trim it on occasion, but sometimes it's easier to just let it grow how it will. But ugh, long hair is a pain with the heat, and spring is coming. He'll resent long hair then, so yes, best to get it over and done with.
Scissors are easy enough to find, as is a basin of water and a towel. A razor is slightly more of a challenge (what use would he have for one, after all, unable to grow a beard as he is?), but eventually he locates one. They settle in Leto's room in front of the hearth, the door between their bedrooms hanging ajar.]
Have you ever cut hair before?
[Things to ask before you're settled in front of your crush when he's armed with scissor and razor, but eh, it's fine. He bows his head forward, feeling Astarion's eyes on the back of his neck.]
You ought to have seen it when I was younger, here in Kirkwall. It was far longer than I wear it now.
[The line between a solid set of bangs and hair that just sort of hangs in front of your face is pretty thin.]
no subject
This’ll be easier now that he’s not
allergic toscorched by water, and there’s careful time taken to wet and align and comb back slickened strands as he talks, towel used to keep trickling paths from snaking down underneath Leto’s collar, which would only make the experience uncomfortable otherwise. The weather too gross for errant spots of wet cloth and clammy skin, being far away from summer still.]Oh. Far longer?
[He asks, his mind immediately flitting towards Thranduil’s flowing locks, cascading like a sort of waterfall about his back and shoulders. The mental image of Leto like that, though...
Hm. Hard to accurately picture. Either he must’ve looked shockingly regal (and handsome, but he’s not acknowledging that right now, thank you very much), or he looked a half-step away from communing with the wilds and wiggling his toes through dew-touched earth. Or both? Maybe both.
A small section of silver strands are combed out before he makes his first cut. The softest little snip of a sound.] And I did, yes.
For my master. For his guests— and the other spawn, too, though that was only ever when ordered to on occasion, as I never cared much for those wretched creatures.
By which I mean at all.
[Snip snip— the soft little plops of falling pieces of damp hair as they land across Leto’s shoulders.] We were like squabbling dogs, most days. Envy practically lived beside us, brought on by Cazador’s games and cruel favor alike.
It was only survival, in a sense. [Harsh necessity.] But that doesn’t mean we pitied each other, either. [No, not pity. They were only cutthroat. Resentful. Mean. hounding one another surely as their master and his ilk hounded them— and Astarion wasn’t any different.]
Awful beasts. I hope they’re rotting at his side.
[Anyway—
He leans slightly forward there, just across the edge of Leto's shoulder.] Just how short did you want this, my darling?
no subject
[His fingers gesture, drawing lines against his scalp in indication. It's a distracted motion (he really should take the state of his hair more seriously), for his thoughts linger on what Astarion. It is not a revelation, exactly; he had known there were countless other spawn, and it makes sense that Astarion was occasionally called to tend to them. But still . . . it's odd to think of him doing something so intimate to someone he despised.]
Danarius would have me do that for him at times. When he would leave Castellum Tenebris— his fortress— on business, he trusted only me to hold a blade to his throat.
[How many times had Leto thought about killing him? How many times had his hand trembled, his eyes wide as he fantasized about what it would be to tip the blade just so, sinking into soft flesh? Ah, but of course the answer is simple. Never. Not once. He was still obedient (still stupid) in those days, his thoughts only ever filled with how best to please his master and avoid his wrath.
It's an idle fact, offered up as a sort of exchange, and Leto falls silent after he says it. Eyes closing, he allows himself the quiet pleasure of focusing on those touches. They're brief things, minute little brushes of Astarion's fingers against the back of his neck, nudging his head to tip this way and that, but oh, he savors them. Behind closed lids, he watches the firelight from the hearth dance and flicker; feels the warmth seeping into his skin, chasing away the last of the spring chill. Slowly the perpetual tension eases out of his shoulders, his guard lowering even as Astarion slides that razor near his scalp.
There's something to be said, he thinks sleepily, for trusting someone so much. Would he allow anyone else this close? Not likely. Certainly not with his back turned; he'd be on high alert the entire time, just in case. But it's always so different with Astarion, and he's beginning to notice that more and more.]
Do you call everyone that?
[It's low. Not upset, nor indeed overly pleased. Just curious, a quiet question to break the silence.]
My darling.
no subject
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.]
no subject
He expects a rush of anger. Repulsion, perhaps. Mine is such a shackling word, after all, and he has heard it plenty of times before. How often had Danarius asserted the same thing? My dear little wolf, jealously hoarding him like a jewel, wrapping a collar around his throat and unleashing him only ever to bring glory to his master.
He expects the same now. The feeling of iron wrapped thick around his throat, panic rising within him, screaming at him to squirm free of whatever expectations Astarion holds, but— no.
No. Nothing of the sort. Instead: a quiet shiver of pleasure running up his spine, a swell of satisfaction as his heart beats a little faster. For mine is what Astarion says, but . . . yours is what Leto hears.
His to protect. His to cherish. His to spoil and serve and love. To be a former slave is to know exactly what it is to give all of yourself to another, and perhaps it breaks something irreparably in them, for Leto knows that feeling so well. Devotion and adoration, a desire to hoard and keep and protect that which you have found on your own. It isn't possessiveness, and then again it isn't selflessness, either. They cling to each other with white knuckles, so desperate not to lose the only thing in their lives that has ever made sense.
Leto knows. He does, truly.]
It goes both ways.
[He does not mean to say that. He means to offer something better— some wise reflection about possessiveness, perhaps, or a quiet assertion that he understands what Astarion means. But the words slip out of him nonetheless, and he does not take them back, for they are true.]
Do you know that?
1/3
For now, though, the moment Leto’s words catch—
Those scissors slip.
He sucks in the sharpest breath imaginable in the very second that the blades of those shears snap closed, clipping the strands he’d been holding far too high (and far too soon), leaving Astarion utterly frozen when he subsequently gasps out:]
—strewth.
2/3
And if it sounds that way, that’s because it is.
He has a room. He has a home. Not just in the spires of Hightown, for all that Astarion had outright dreamed of dwelling within its gilded streets, but in the gaps between Leto’s ribs. In the space beside his heart and the nest of his thoughts— there, Astarion has a home. Gods help him for being weak to it.
For wanting nothing else.]
....I do now.
[And like a flood, he feels the words rise high to meet the back of his tongue, welling too quickly to be stopped.
He’s beyond the point of holding back now, anyway.]
3/3
Phasing right through the fireplace, tongue lolling from her great maw as she foists herself eagerly into Leto’s lap, tail swishing in the beats before she settles down to drape across him once more, having finished her adventure throughout the mansion itself.]
Hmph. [Astarion scoffs lightly, the softest smile etched across his face as he returns to combing and cutting away once more.
The gentle care shown to a thing so dearly loved.]
What a pack we make, long lost creatures that we are.