[Invitations. Sunlight. Water. Stakes, and it goes in the same place all his most vital information about Astarion goes, right alongside the scent of vanilla or herbs, or when wood gets too hot in plain sunlight and each and every one of the horrors Cazador has inflicted on his beloved. It's information that he does not think about on a day-to-day basis, but rather that he allows to sink into his mind, informing his daily behavior. Before, in Thedas, it came out in different ways: he will flinch when we sink into the bath, but is not opposed to it; don't mention razors, not without warning or good reason. Little adjustments, easily made and happily ceded to, for (as Leto has discovered) that is what it means to have a lover.
Now it will emerge in other ways: running water will be dangerous, so mind yourself when you have a glass. We have to find a room without windows soon, we cannot risk sunlight, not even a little. There's nothing he can do about the lattermost point, not right now (dawn cannot be far), but he can at least work to make things more assuring for today. Leto stands, his mouth still aching from that kiss, and goes to strip the sheets from the bed, intent on pinning them behind the raggedy curtains that hang over the sole window in his room. It's far from perfect, but the more layers, the better.
He's a terror, Astarion murmurs, and oh, yes: they will have to consider that, won't they? Astarion would not act so casual if Cazador were on his heels, but still. Even Fenris had not dared to linger in the same city as Danarius; if Cazador lives in Baldur's Gate, they will need to act quickly, either in flight or fight. He will not risk his amatus being taken again, nor indeed, for them to be caught off-guard.]
You are a menace.
[He says it off-handedly over his shoulder, an idle response made by an aching mouth as he ties fabric to jutting nails. He doesn't bother following up on it, either: just waits until he's finished, then turns, focusing on the other el—
Ah. Not the other elf, is he . . .?]
How much of a threat is Cazador?
[Understand: he wants so desperately to fall into Astarion's arms. He's dreamed of nothing but that these past three weeks, vulgar and chaste, cuddling giving way to heated gasps and arched backs— but this first.]
Tell me what I need to know. Is he in this city? How quickly do you imagine he will track you? Now that I have found you, I care little for where we flee— and while he will need to be dealt with sooner or later, there is need for us to confront him immediately.
[It's a little too intense, a little too much— but he remembers what it is to be hunted. He remembers what it is to have one's master breathing down your neck, wandering ever-closer, sending all manner of mercenaries and bounty hunters to chase after you— not just because you are his favorite, but because you are his, and his ego cannot withstand such an insult. They have an advantage in that Cazador (presumably) doesn't know Astarion is back, but that will only last so long.]
no subject
Now it will emerge in other ways: running water will be dangerous, so mind yourself when you have a glass. We have to find a room without windows soon, we cannot risk sunlight, not even a little. There's nothing he can do about the lattermost point, not right now (dawn cannot be far), but he can at least work to make things more assuring for today. Leto stands, his mouth still aching from that kiss, and goes to strip the sheets from the bed, intent on pinning them behind the raggedy curtains that hang over the sole window in his room. It's far from perfect, but the more layers, the better.
He's a terror, Astarion murmurs, and oh, yes: they will have to consider that, won't they? Astarion would not act so casual if Cazador were on his heels, but still. Even Fenris had not dared to linger in the same city as Danarius; if Cazador lives in Baldur's Gate, they will need to act quickly, either in flight or fight. He will not risk his amatus being taken again, nor indeed, for them to be caught off-guard.]
You are a menace.
[He says it off-handedly over his shoulder, an idle response made by an aching mouth as he ties fabric to jutting nails. He doesn't bother following up on it, either: just waits until he's finished, then turns, focusing on the other el—
Ah. Not the other elf, is he . . .?]
How much of a threat is Cazador?
[Understand: he wants so desperately to fall into Astarion's arms. He's dreamed of nothing but that these past three weeks, vulgar and chaste, cuddling giving way to heated gasps and arched backs— but this first.]
Tell me what I need to know. Is he in this city? How quickly do you imagine he will track you? Now that I have found you, I care little for where we flee— and while he will need to be dealt with sooner or later, there is need for us to confront him immediately.
[It's a little too intense, a little too much— but he remembers what it is to be hunted. He remembers what it is to have one's master breathing down your neck, wandering ever-closer, sending all manner of mercenaries and bounty hunters to chase after you— not just because you are his favorite, but because you are his, and his ego cannot withstand such an insult. They have an advantage in that Cazador (presumably) doesn't know Astarion is back, but that will only last so long.]
But I would not have us be caught unawares.