[Glowing, Dante says. And though it's not an intentional joke, Astarion finds himself given to laughing all the same. The barest little breath of a thing, abandoned not long after in favor of easing into the quiet of this moment. The sound of the waves, the isolation that thrives here compared to the nightly mess of Kirkwall's bustling. It might be cold this time of year, true, but between Dante's constant heat and Astarion's own circulation, he doesn't really feel it beyond the faintest nip across his toes where his boots have dug shallowly into the sand.]
...I did miss him. [And isn't that a funny thing to be able to admit out loud, arched fingertips trailing light as they brush absently across Dante's own. The words are there before he even knows they've left the tip of his tongue, let alone his subconscious.
Maybe tonight's doomed to be filled with guilt. Unsightly truths and all their snarling ends, because he hears Dante's kind-hearted offer, appreciating it for how he knows it is (unlike promises made by so many others) sincere. But he's still hanging on his own confession, and the heavy weight that feels as if it's been dead-dropped into the center of his chest.
Like something he either needs to swallow or simply spit out.
And while normally he'd opt for the former without a second thought, Dante's earned himself the latter, by now. A thousand times over.] More than I probably ever wanted to admit.
That night in the Mire. When we were attacked, and you— [one ragged little hitch] were kind.
When you risked your neck for mine. [Because that's what it was, even in hazy memory there's no denying it.] I was mourning his loss. I thought he'd left without a word— that he chose to leave, rather than being pulled away or...I don't know. It doesn't matter.
I was upset.
[There. There, he thinks to himself stiffly, that's a start.]
I wanted to bite back at everyone within reach. Everything, too. [His forehead tips forward slightly, nestling just against Dante's jawline, though the pressure's light. Small. He isn't certain how much touch is fair for something like this.
Confessions that aren't all false drama or honeyed words.] I found the cargo we fought so hard for while you were still asleep, recovering from your injuries.
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...I did miss him. [And isn't that a funny thing to be able to admit out loud, arched fingertips trailing light as they brush absently across Dante's own. The words are there before he even knows they've left the tip of his tongue, let alone his subconscious.
Maybe tonight's doomed to be filled with guilt. Unsightly truths and all their snarling ends, because he hears Dante's kind-hearted offer, appreciating it for how he knows it is (unlike promises made by so many others) sincere. But he's still hanging on his own confession, and the heavy weight that feels as if it's been dead-dropped into the center of his chest.
Like something he either needs to swallow or simply spit out.
And while normally he'd opt for the former without a second thought, Dante's earned himself the latter, by now. A thousand times over.] More than I probably ever wanted to admit.
That night in the Mire. When we were attacked, and you— [one ragged little hitch] were kind.
When you risked your neck for mine. [Because that's what it was, even in hazy memory there's no denying it.] I was mourning his loss. I thought he'd left without a word— that he chose to leave, rather than being pulled away or...I don't know. It doesn't matter.
I was upset.
[There. There, he thinks to himself stiffly, that's a start.]
I wanted to bite back at everyone within reach. Everything, too. [His forehead tips forward slightly, nestling just against Dante's jawline, though the pressure's light. Small. He isn't certain how much touch is fair for something like this.
Confessions that aren't all false drama or honeyed words.] I found the cargo we fought so hard for while you were still asleep, recovering from your injuries.
And... [Well. No turning back now.]
...I was the one that destroyed them.