Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

In the shaded safety of Bloomridge Park, Durge patiently waits for Astarion to collect himself. He knows Astarion likes his personal space, though it is difficult to give him much with the other boy’s fingers still hooked firmly around his wrist. Their eyes do not meet, Astarion seemingly fearful of being asked to explain himself. Durge resolves not to compel him.

“Do you feel up for cheese?” He asks to end a protracted silence. When in doubt, offer food.

Astarion chokes.

“Cheese?” He parrots. Durge is glad to see the tension on him replaced by incredulity.

“Yes. I brought some, just in case.”

“…In case of what?”

“In case we need some?”

Durge produces the hard, pale yellow wedge from his pack. Astarion eyes it with suspicion and confusion.

“That’s not… How do you even… Just cheese?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, it is hardly appropriate as a snack, is it? Neither is it sufficient as a meal on its own. I mean, who eats cheese without at least a cracker, a couple cold cuts, fruits, anything. And what even is this variety—”

“Would you like some cheese, Astarion?” Durge repeats his offer.

Astarion’s lips snap close, aware that all of his arguments have just slid clean off Durge’s back, even if he does not look any less convinced of his own objections.

“…Give me the cheese.” Astarion holds out one begrudging hand.

Durge happily breaks off a piece and places it in his palm. Astarion takes a cautious bite, makes a face, but does not find it so contemptible as to warrant spitting out. He takes more bites, each a bit less hesitant than the last. Durge tries not to smile too wide at his sulky eating. Compared to his own, Astarion’s bites are delicate as a mouse’s. It takes him a while to polish off half the cheese, long enough for his gaze to turn inward and melancholy again. Durge searches his mind for some other way of providing comfort. He finds it in memory: A gentle hand on his egg’s shell, stroking the top of his head.

Durge puts his own hand on Astarion’s head, mussing the snowy ringlets there with each awkward pat. Astarion stops munching.

“What are you doing?”

“Are you feeling better?”

“…Is this supposed to cheer me up?” Astarion looks unimpressed. “You’re flattening my curls. Also, why are you patting my head when I am clearly the older one between us?”

“I didn’t mean to imply… I’m sorry.” Durge frowns, doing his best to rearrange Astarion’s hair. His thick fingers and snagging claws only dishevel it further. “It’s just something that always makes me feel better when I’m down. You seemed like you needed it, or something equivalent to that.”

Astarion’s expression softens.

“Well, it didn’t help.”

“I see.”

“…But I appreciate the thought, nonetheless. ”

Their shoulders brush against one another.

“I appreciate you… For trying. For putting up with—” Astarion hesitates. Durge waits for the rest of the sentence. It never materialises. “Well, no one else does, usually.”

“Does this mean I have license to keep trying to cheer you up?”

Genuine laughter bursts out of Astarion. Durge thinks he is in very real danger of doing just about anything to hear Astarion laugh again and again. Astarion leans just a bit more into his space, soft and prickly as an alley kitten.

“Very shrewd. I’m almost impressed.” Astarion grins up at him, his mood successfully brightened. “In fact, I am just impressed enough to concede: Yes, you may continue to amuse me.”

“Terrific.”

“Actually, do you know what would make me feel a lot better?”

“What?”

“Actually hanging out. Come on, let’s go.”

They leave Bloomridge Park to wander the market on the Gate’s outskirts. Astarion swipes a hard boiled egg from a street vendor to prove that he could (Durge certainly did not dare him to; that would have been irresponsible, though he can admit to having expressed… innocent curiosity). Durge surreptitiously drops a few coins in the unwitting man’s hip pouch before the theft is noticed, which finally convinces Astarion to abort his nascent pickpocketing spree. They loiter by the window of a clothing store. Astarion comments incessantly on the displayed pieces’ seamwork, while Durge is transfixed by the metallic embroidery on the expensive fabric.

They come upon a wild crabapple tree whose high branches speckle with plump fruit. Astarion insists on picking some himself to taste. Failing to dissuade him, Durge paces anxiously under the canopy as Astarion scales the gnarled branches.

“Be careful.” He calls out. “Test each step before you put your full weight on it.”

“Yeah yeah. I know how to climb a tree, alright?” Astarion’s legs dangle perilously as he fully straddles a spot where branch meets trunk, stuffing his pockets with handfuls of red-green crabapples. Once satisfied, Astarion begins negotiating his way down. Just as his foot nestles in the sturdy elbow of a lower branch, a storm-heralding gust sweeps past. The whole crabapple tree rattles in a great shiver, causing him to slip.

Durge springs into action immediately. Rushing under Astarion, his arms open wide to catch the falling elf. Some part of him knew this was bound to happen; his body was braced for this exact scenario the moment he caught Astarion eyeing the jewel-like fruit. It is not the first time in the day they have tumbled into a heap together. But for the first time, sprawled over the yellowing grass with Astarion lying on his chest, something close to protective anger takes hold of him.

“You’re making a face.” Astarion flicks at the frills on his cheek, nonchalant.

“I told you to be careful. You could’ve been seriously hurt!” Durge scolds. His displeasure only seems to amuse Astarion further.

“But I’m not. I’m fine, aren’t I?”

“You could’ve not been had I not been there.”

“But you were, and so valiantly came to my rescue, too.”

Durge continues to scowl despite the flattery. Astarion’s sly smile only widens, his legs swinging playfully behind him as though he had not just come dangerously close to breaking his neck.

“Oh come on, you grump. Here, have some of the delicious spoils I’ve won for us. It’ll make you feel better.”

Before he can protest, Astarion has popped a crabapple into Durge’s mouth. The moment its skin splits under his sharp teeth, Durge feels his entire face pucker.

“You’re making an even funnier expression.” Astarion unhelpfully remarks.

“It tastes bad.” An understatement, given the shocking astringency filling his mouth.

“Surely it can’t be that bad. How can something so tasty looking be…”

Astarion’s face scrunches up after one bite. Unlike Durge, he has neither the constitution nor gallantry not to immediately spit it out. They send the rest of the crabapples down river in a procession of strange, bobbing green-red orbs. Adding to the absurd tableau, the fattening rainclouds over their heads ominously rumble. A pinprick of pain flares behind Durge’s eyes. As the storm draws near, he has also grown a bit lightheaded. Wisps of darkness hang off the corners of his vision, fine as inked lace.

“…Durge. Are you listening to me?”

With a blink, the dark tendrils retreat. Durge’s momentarily clouded eyes clear to the sight of Astarion’s face—sullen, with a touch of concern.

“Ah, sorry. You were saying?” Durge shakes off the last of his budding headache. His skin prickles with static charge.

“You were zoning out again, weren’t you? You keep doing that now and again. It’s bad manners.” A pause, as though Astarion awaited refutation. When none comes, the elf’s irritation becomes tinted with anxiety. “…You’re okay, right?”

“Hmm, I’m fine. It’s just… my magic.” Durge settles for a close-to-accurate explanation. “You know how I’m good at making thunder and lightning and electrocuting fish, and the like?”

“Sure?”

“I think it also makes me a bit restless with storms. Like storms are where my power comes from, so their presence also makes my magic a bit funny. And I also feel funny.”

Astarion looks reassured, though doubt lingers on his face.

“…Do other stormy wizards—”

“Sorcerers.”

“Do other stormy magicmen zone out and look like they’re in pain when the weather turns?”

“…Maybe? Perhaps I just lack the proper training not to.”

“Why didn’t you get the proper training, then?”

“We can’t afford it.”

“Oh…” Astarion’s guilty gaze drops to the tips of his shoes. “…Look, if you don’t feel well, we can call it a day? We’ve already done plenty.”

Astarion has clearly done his best to sound steady, even chipper, with his generous suggestion. Too chipper. Durge feels the ghost of a silk handkerchief over his scraped arm. A little hole in the garden wall, under the mottled shade of a great oak tree and jaundiced lamplight. A tenuous offer of friendship, presented to him like a quivering hatchling cupped in small, tremulous palms—warm and impossibly frail.

It dawns on him suddenly and far too belatedly: the manner in which they departed Ancunin Manor. No one in Astarion’s family knows where he is, whether he is safe. They will be livid upon his return, maybe enough to sequester him away for a long, long time. Durge might not see him again for weeks, even months, granted not even a glimpse of him brooding behind a windowsill, let alone an opportunity for another intrepid escape. The realisation fills his heart with gloom, then frustration at himself for such miscalculation. He will not have their one precious day end with Astarion’s disappointment like this.

“You know, I think it’s about time we got on with the day’s main event, before it starts really coming down on us.”

“Are you sure you’re… Wait, main event?” Astarion asks, trepidatious.

“Yes. I’ve been preparing something fun for us. We might as well end the day with a bang, right?”

At the mention of ‘fun’, Astarion becomes fully distracted as intended. His eyes turn bright and curious, vibrant as two shards of summer sky.

“What did you do? Tell me.”

“I’ll show you when we get there.”

“Tell me!”

“We don’t get things by demanding them more loudly.” Durge lectures. “It’s not far from here, just a couple blocks before the harbour’s loading docks.”

“Pedant.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” Astarion sticks his tongue out at him before breaking off into a sprint, headed for the docks. “Race you there!”

“You’re on.” Durge grins, dashing after him, easily catching up with his longer strides. “Whoever loses is a leaky bladder!”

“You’re disgusting!”

.

They sit huddled together, squeezed into a little corner by the mildewed wall of a ramshackle building, barricaded in by a disparate collection of crates and barrels. Their spot perches at the very edges of polite society, where the streets’ once snugly laid cobblestones begin to gape—products of cheaper labour by unskilled or uncaring hands. Rumours abound of criminal activity in these parts. The menagerie of decaying buildings all around them attest to as much: Some have half-collapsed, all stricken with a ruination that only befalls structures standing outside the palm of governance, likely having borne witness to more illicit dealings than provided shelter for anyone in their lifetimes.

Durge needs not put stock in idle rumours; he knows them to be true. He also knows that one entrance to the heart of the criminal underworld lays hidden somewhere nearby, knows personally the names and faces of the orphaned urchins the Guild has taken under their wing, who—at his own age or even younger—are contributing directly to its mercantile operations. He has learnt from them which parts of these slums are off-limits when, how not to invoke the Guild’s ire, which areas to give a wide berth. Careful preparations are needed for this activity, especially when they are almost certain to anger a few people.

“This is it? Do we have to do it here? This place feels…” Astarion’s nose wrinkles, leaning over the crates lining the overpass’s railing to inspect the loose-bricked streets below. They prove as decrepit as their smatterings of destitute and drunken pedestrians. “Icky.”

“Yes, it has to be here.” Durge says, calmly inspecting the crates. “It is either this, or the walls atop the portcullises. Those are in constant view of the guardsmen’s watch towers.”

“Why?”

“Because… let’s see… ah hah! Because of these.”

Durge pulls free the lid of a small crate tucked close against the wall, once concealed by its larger brethren. Within lies a crumpled mess of cloudy white laminae, emitting a strong, distinctive odour that quickly disperses. Astarion’s grimace deepens.

“Ew… what is that?”

“Fish swim bladders.” Durge supplies proudly.

“Fish bla— I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“Butchers and fishmongers and the like usually have plenty of odds and ends they can’t sell. One only needs to ask for them.”

“I’m getting the impression that you ask pretty often.”

Durge has never thought of it as overtly strange before, but the mild disgust on Astarion’s face likely falls somewhere closer to common folk’s sense of what constitutes ‘normal behaviour’. He certainly does not scavenge this way out of necessity, being perfectly capable of hunting for meat. No, these “odds and ends”—bones, fur, and viscera—he curates out of a range of nagging, comorbid fascinations.

He supposes there is a reason he has only been eager to tell Astarion about his magical self-education, his favourite chapters from the books Astarion loans to him (of which Astarion has not read a single page himself), of his favourite places to fish and trap deer and watch ducklings pad across the water. He has not told Astarion about his bone-cleaning projects: the stripping, boiling, bleaching. Nor has he mentioned the pleasure of burrowing his claws into fresh organ meat, or trapping freshly extracted, still-beating snake hearts in alcohol he has learnt to distill himself.

There is less of a justifiable point to these exercises; Durge simply feels compelled to by a tormenting, unknowable hunger. He also has enough sense to identify them as wrong, knows that he is left equal measures enthralled and dirty by them each time. More importantly, he is not ready to articulate any of this. Especially if there is even a slight chance of Astarion reacting with revulsion.

He settles on a noncommittal shrug. Astarion takes it dubiously, but does not press further.

“In any case, I sure hope you are not expecting me to touch the fish guts myself.”

“You can choose not to. But then you wouldn’t be able to do this.”

Durge holds a swim bladder in his hands, muttering a short incantation. In the pale blue glow of his magic, the bladder quickly fills up with water and inflates. As the light fades, it is fully plump and sloshing. Durge peeks over the barrier of crates and barrels concealing them from pedestrians heading under the overpass. His eyes lock onto an approaching merchant—a stout, red-faced man snapping the reins of the donkey on whose back he perches with a veritable amount of cargo. The creature looks determined to set its own pace, seemingly in no hurry to arrive wherever they are headed even a second earlier than it means to despite its master’s impotent threats and insults.

One hoof at a time, man and donkey eventually make it very near, just below where they are seated. Feeling the weight of the water-filled bladder, Durge winds up his arm, aims, and flings it directly at the man. It bursts against his head with a loud, wet splat. Ironically, it is the abrupt cessation of vulgarities hurled its way that alarms the donkey. Its great ears perk up, front legs lifting off the stilted cobblestones (the man very nearly topples off its back) as it brays a shrill, fearful note. The creature gallops straight through the overpass. The trail of its master’s screams left behind almost drowns out Astarion’s hysterical guffawing.

“That was amazing!” Astarion claps excitedly. “Oh, oh, make another one, give me!”

“What happened to ‘not touching the fish guts’?” Durge teases.

“Fine, maybe drenching a couple of fools is worth it, okay? Another one! Oh, make a whole bunch!”

Durge gladly makes more water balloons from the swim bladders, lining them up on the ground like a battalion of little plump soldiers. Astarion picks up an armful, quickly spots their next victims—a trio of drunks stumbling towards the overpass—aims, and makes his shots. His marksmanship is impeccable, as expected. Slurred obscenities bounce off the stone under their feet. Failing to identify their assailants, the drunks angrily stagger away. Durge lures a noble out of their man-pulled carriage with some illusory smoke. Astarion hits their swiveling powdered head with a bladder the moment it pokes out of the cabin.

More drunks, hapless pedestrians, more merchants herding cattle into the city when they are not meant to. Most subjected to their swim bladder assault react with fury, some with confusion, fewer with jaded nonchalance. Astarion seems to take the most pleasure from victims who react explosively, though he is so giggly that Durge usually has to pull him back down behind the barricade after a successful shot. For those who do begin to suspect the overpass, a conjured illusion or two can easily draw their attention elsewhere. Despite trying to act the part of the more sensible one between them, Durge soon gives up on reining in Astarion’s energy. They both laugh and cause mayhem until they are pink in the face.

As the swim bladders deplete, Durge reaches deeper into the crate for one of a different kind. This one is larger, its membrane thicker. Compared to the fish-derived variety, more prominent, dark red veins crawl across this one’s milky pink surfaces.

“What’s that?” Astarion asks.

“Pig’s bladder.” Durge says. “There was an opportunity to get some.”

“Pig…” Astarion’s already large eyes are almost bulging out of his face. “The piss kind? Ew!”

“It’s cleaned and cured. But you can stick to the swim bladders if you want.” Durge chuckles. “I’ve never tried this with pig’s bladders before. Just wanted to see what would happen.”

“I can’t believe you’re even willingly touching that!” Astarion acts unnecessarily scandalised, only to immediately follow up with, “Throw it.”

“Hmm, I’m reconsidering…” Durge murmurs, conjuring water into the thick membrane until it has swollen to twice, then thrice the size of an inflated swim bladder. He balances the oversized sack of liquid in his hands. It sloshes menacingly. “Might be difficult to aim with this.”

“Too bad I’m still not touching the piss bladder.” Astarion crosses his arms. “So you have to throw it.”

“You’re certainly enthusiastic for someone so thoroughly disgusted by piss bladders.”

“I want to see what happens!”

“Alright, alright, patience.”

Astarion does not have to be patient for long. A lone half-orc soon appears from behind a street corner headed in their direction. Durge clutches the pig’s bladder to his stomach. It feels substantial as a halved melon. The blissfully unaware half-orc draws near.

“Do it!” Astarion hisses.

Durge hurls the pig’s bladder with both arms and all of his strength. It flies in a shallow curve, hitting the half-orc square in the head with a loud smack… and bounces off it to roll onto the cobblestones, unexploded. The half-orc staggers in place for a few moments, then collapses on his face next to the unscathed giant water balloon. The thing decides now to slowly deflate, leaking a tiny but steady stream of water across the ground.

“Oh shit…” Astarion mutters, clutching Durge’s arm. “Did we kill that guy?”

Durge squints.

“No.” He’s relieved to see the half-orc’s body rising and falling steadily. “Might be concussed, though.”

“So that’s what happens when you use the piss bladder. Pretty funny, if a bit anticlimactic.”

“Might turn out different next time.”

“Try another one?”

“Sure.” Durge goes back to the crates for another, eager for experimentation.

The gloomy sky shreds open in a blinding flash. Durge’s vision bleaches, darkens, an afterimage of the pig bladder’s veins spider-webbing rust-red over his burnt retinae. Thunder in his ears. Or is it his own pounding blood? His mouth floods with the taste of ozone and iron. Static. The red haze returns.

Familiar agony beats behind his eyes, heralding his nightmares dragged into the corporeal. Durge sees Astarion like a reflection from a rippling pool of blood, his pretty mouth parting, yet nothing it unleashes manages to rise above the rancorous whispers. Though he can’t hear him, Durge recognises the shape of his name on Astarion’s lips. Even that comfort is no match for a single word, repeated over and over and over in his mind, ever louder with each faceless utterance.

Kill.

Astarion on his knees next to him (when has Durge keeled over?), his face all worry and contemptible innocence, rising panic sweeter than the sweetest overripe fruit. Astarion’s hand on his shoulder—oh, Durge could hardly feel it, yet he knows it to be soft. Soft and small and terribly, awfully breakable. He grabs it with his own. Crushes it. The delicate bones crunch delectably in his grasp. Just a bundle of twigs.

Durge hits his head on the cobblestone, screaming.

“Durge! Calm down!” Astarion sounds panicked. “You’re fine.”

A hand on his shoulder. Durge thrashes away from it. Pain radiates from all over as his body crashes into the crates and barrels. Sharp sensation clears his head slightly. Durge’s vision is still half-filled with static, yet it is at least free of blood-drenched darkness, just enough for him to see Astarion’s hand—each finger soft and elegantly tapered as he remembers them. Whole. Unharmed. Still, there is a distinct look of hurt on Astarion’s face that his current faculties aren’t quite capable of processing.

“You’re okay. You’re alright. You have to be...” Astarion’s voice trembles. All Durge sees is the other boy on his knees, mirroring his wretched vision. He nearly vomits.

Somewhere in the periphery of his fractured awareness, blue sparks dance. He slowly begins to regain sensation. His face is soaked with rain.

“It’s just… your magic. Come on, we have to…”

Somewhere else, between the roiling sickness in his gut and the storm’s utterly drenching their clothes, Durge lets himself be guided to a warmer place. The pelting rain lets up over his throbbing skull. A roof. Astarion has chosen a sufficiently dry spot in a ruined building for them to nestle into. As Durge settles into the corner chosen for him, roaring rain and screeching wind mercifully smother the last of the haze behind his eyes. The dancing blue sparks appear to be his own. Magic simmers close under the skin, cool and electric. He feels like he could flatten the whole block. He’s never felt more ill in his life.

Astarion sits cross-legged on the dirt floor, one arm’s length away in the opposite corner formed by ruined wall and piled rubble. His face is unsettlingly void of expression as he stares out into the storm’s swaying grey curtains.

“Astarion…”

Astarion turns, his throat emitting a single, inquisitive hum. Durge is reminded of a cat’s ears perking high in alertness.

“I’m here.” Astarion says, like he half-expects Durge to not see him still. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

Astarion leans close, and only the wall behind Durge’s back stops him from leaning away. There goes that familiar flash of hurt.

“Well, you are calm now at least. You were screaming, you know. For like a full minute or two.”

This disturbs him greatly. Durge only heard himself screaming for the final second of the nightmare, his throat scratched raw as he burst out of that bloody dreamscape.

“Did the magic hurt that bad?”

“…It is a bit unpleasant, but not really.”

“Are you sick? We can go see a physician. My family knows some good ones.”

“No, no. I don’t need a physician.”

“What is it, then?” Astarion’s concern flows into frustration, then, shakily, something akin to childish fear. “Did that disgusting fruit make it worse? I shouldn’t have made you eat one… I might’ve hurt you, then...”

Astarion. Hurting him. The notion is so absurd next to whatever putrid premonition was forced into Durge’s head earlier, he could laugh.

“You didn’t. I’m certain you didn’t hurt me.” Durge says emphatically.

Astarion is looking at him, anxious, anticipating further reassurance. For once, Durge has none to give. It is taking all of his remaining energy to keep the stricken ghost of his dear friend from superimposing over Astarion’s real, living face. He breaks eye contact, curling tighter into himself.

“Stop being weird!” Astarion cries out, exasperated. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I…” Durge groans. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it well.”

“Try, then. Give me something to work with! How do I make your sickness go away?”

Twinges of his headache return. He has never felt more weary sitting completely motionless, drained by the effort of pushing back the red fog, maintaining conversation, and scrabbling for bits and pieces of his sanity. Durge draws a long breath, paces his own heartbeat. And chooses all the wrong words.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Astarion freezes. Durge immediately regrets opening his big mouth, regrets existing. The crack splitting Astarion’s unflappable self-confidence gapes, then yawns like a continental fissure. Slowly, excruciatingly, Astarion removes himself from Durge’s space. Durge wants to grab his hand and pull him back in. He’s also terrified of crushing it.

“Astarion—”

“Did I do something wrong?” Astarion says, his voice watery. “Did I say something? You know I’m always saying the wrong things.” A forced, shaky laugh. “But you have to tell me, okay? I won’t say stupid stuff again if you just tell me—”

“No! You didn’t say or do anything wrong. It’s just… I think it would be safer for you if we stopped hanging out, at least for a while.”

“Why would it not be safe to hang out? You haven’t put me in any danger!”

Not yet.

“I really, really don’t want to see you hurt.” He tries again, desperately, inarticulately.

“You’re just messing with me, aren’t you? None of what you’ve said makes a lick of sense…” Astarion bites his bottom lip, hard enough for it to turn momentarily bloodless. “This doesn’t even have to do with your sickness. If you hate my guts, just say it. Feigning concern for my well-being… always just looking for excuses to cop out. I’d rather you be honest. Nobody in these stupid realms seems capable of just admitting their distaste for me to my face, when it is the easiest thing in the world. Look, I’ll do it right now.”

Astarion pauses, his fists trembling and white-knuckled. His lips flap once, twice, like a beached fish.

“I Hate You.”

It stings less than it should. Though Durge wants Astarion to favour him more than anything, the transparent lack of genuine dislike in those stilted syllables only fills him with a heavy, blunted sorrow. His younger siblings, across so many of their early childhood tantrums, have said they hated him plenty, too. They meant it just as little every time. He has lived long enough as an oddity among people to recognise when he is treated with real distaste.

“Well?” Astarion goads, the rims of his eyes pinkening.

“Well… what?”

“Say it back.”

“Say what?”

“How much you hate me.”

“I won’t.”

“Coward!”

“That’s false.” Durge retorts, suddenly defensive. He instantly feels immature. Astarion has a way of making him feel and act more childlike when they are together, for better or worse. “You’re just saying that to bother me.”

“You can’t stand me yet you can’t admit it. That’s right; I noticed your disgust when I almost touched you earlier.” Astarion continues with his accusations. “Coward. Craven. Chicken.”

Durge takes another steadying breath. Astarion also means none of it, he knows, each insult sounding less convincing in its vitriol than the last. Astarion is just trying to get him to say what he already thinks. But Durge will choose better, this time.

“I won’t say it because I don’t hate you, Astarion.”

Astarion flinches, as though it would have been less painful to hear an admission of hatred.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t think I could ever hate you.” Durge admits. “No matter how many mean things you call me.”

“Stop that.”

“I don’t want to make you upset, either.”

“Shut up!”

Astarion finally crumples under the weight of all that has transpired since the overpass, tears streaming freely down his cheeks.

“Why are you like this? Stupid, confusing, idiot. Just…” Astarion sobs, wiping his eyes and nose with his sleeves. A futile exercise, as they are already water-logged. “Just say we can’t be friends anymore and be done with it.”

Durge procures a handkerchief from his pocket, realising just then that it is also water-logged and that he indeed looks the part of an idiot, as Astarion’s accused. He wrings it out as best he could before using it to wipe Astarion’s face. His fingers still dally, fearful of the portended consequences of physical touch between them. Astarion offers no resistance. The damp cloth is a reassuring barrier between their skins. He wipes the other boy’s cheeks gently, carefully. This, at least, is familiar territory for them: Durge fussing over Astarion; Astarion allowing himself to be cared for.

Nothing bad happens even when Durge’s bare fingers graze the soft skin of Astarion’s cheeks. Nothing yet. He pulls back anyway, once the tears have subsided. Astarion remains where he is, puffy-eyed and sullen.

“I still want to be friends.” Durge says, after a long, rain-battered silence.

“Then why?…” Astarion asks limply.

Durge closes his eyes, notices how the crimson edges of his darkened vision have receded to a thread-thin margin. Perhaps now, he can finally articulate. It is no use trying to force distance between them, after all. Astarion deserves to know all of him. Once he does, it will be easier for him to decide of his own accord if theirs is not a relationship worth keeping.

“I wasn’t disgusted by you, earlier. It was… the nightmare.”

Astarion is silent.

“I seem to have fallen into it, when the storm hit, like a stray step off the sheer edge of a hidden cliff. It likes to visit when I’m least in control of myself. That means in my sleep, usually. I guess my magic surging now counts among such instances. It was especially vivid this time. When we touched in the nightmare, I…” Durge winces, bile pulling up his throat at mere remembrance. “I seriously hurt you… even felt like I wanted to… like all my self-control...no, like I was fading away, my mind and body puppeted by some monstrosity that was… also me. It felt so real I thought I was about to hurt you after ‘waking up’, too…”

One at a time, his accounts follow each other like staggered drops of the season’s first rainfall: thin and halting at first, then more easily, steadily. Unstoppably. He tells Astarion everything. The dreams choked in red fog. The headaches that only vary in intensity, but never seem to fully go away. How he has felt more and more drawn towards the idea of death, especially since his father’s disappearance. His failed experiments in taxidermy. Leftover innards. Playing surgeon on carcasses with no particular ailment he was seeking to cure in mind. His bleached bone collection, or what is left of it. He suspects a dog dug half of it up from where he had buried it behind the local washhouse. He even thought of adding said dog to his collection, for a time. There is clearly only one explanation behind all this: He must be a monster.

Astarion quietly takes in his ghastly confessions. Aside from his eyes growing wider and wider, there is no guessing what else he thinks. Durge does not evade or sugarcoat; he only keeps forging ahead like a firewalker through hot coals. There is terror in anticipating rejection, but also catharsis. At least there will be one person in the world who will know of his monstrous self. As his words drift back into silence, he waits for the reproach that would surely come. Holds his breath for the true termination of their friendship, like a throbbing neck waiting for the executioner’s axe. Yet, Astarion almost seems… relieved?

“So, did you ever find that dog?” Astarion asks, light as air.

“…What?”

“The mutt that stole half your bleached bone collection.”

“Uhm… no.” Durge feels as if he just took a blow to the head. “I never found it. A crafty dog, it must have been. I found some paw tracks that led to water, which was where they disappeared, so…”

“A shame. I would have liked to see a taxidermied dog.”

“For real?”

“Yeah.” Astarion remains nonchalant, looking shockingly less crestfallen than he was prior to Durge’s gruesome tale. “I’ve seen plenty of stuffed things, you know. Most of them adorning partriar women’s fashion. My mother has a couple of dead mink in her dresser. At balls I’ve seen foxes, ermines, peacocks, even cats, but never dogs.”

“I’m not sure if I would do a very good job, truthfully. Stitchlines are tricky on short-haired skin. Though if you’ve seen a stuffed fox, you have probably seen something close—” Durge checks himself. This was meant to be serious. “Wait. Why are you bringing this up?”

Astarion blinks.

“Should I not be?”

“We were talking about my… my… sick tendencies. About me being a secret monster. How I might harm you in the future. You should be…” He flexes his jaw, tries to grind out the words, and fails.

“What, passing judgment? Disgusted?” Astarion inches closer, almost taunting. “Afraid?”

“…Yes.”

Just say we can’t be friends anymore and be done with it.

But Astarion’s lips only press together in a tight line, and... Is that the shadow of a smile? Durge grows more confused by the second.

“For a smartass, you’re such a fool sometimes.” Astarion’s pale brows furrow mightily. “Trying to cut me off over this… You made me think it was something serious.”

Durge’s jaw hit the ground.

“How— I am probably cursed and might be compelled at some point to hurt everyone I care about! How is that not serious?”

“Curses are no excuse for friendship breakups! I thought it was something worth agonising over like… like…” Astarion’s hand comes to cup his elbow, slightly protective. “Like if you’ve secretly hated me this whole time, or something. Shittier kids do that, you know. Pretend to be friendly with you because of your rich parents, but would stick out a leg when you pass their table at the soiree.”

Out-of-place anger surges within him. He would like to break whosever leg that was and add it to his bone collection—no. This is hardly the time.

“That’s… unjust, and awful.” Durge stomps down that single flash of bloodlust. “But it’s hardly the same.”

“Of course it isn’t! You can never un-dislike somebody, but you can break curses.” Astarion says, full of conviction fed to him by at least a dozen fairy tales. “There is not one curse that has no way of being broken, I’m sure of it. Ending our friendship is not the only solution, you hear me?”

“I don’t even know if it is a curse.” Durge retorts grimly. “What if it is just who I am? You know I don’t know who my parents are, or where I came from. What if I was made horrible?”

“That’s a load of bull. Your parents are your parents: former adventurers who kicked ass, though your mother did it a little better, from what I’ve heard from yourself.” Astarion shrugs. “And no one made a rule that says curses can’t be from birth.”

Part of Durge wants so badly to acquiesce, to let himself get swept up by Astarion’s inarguable logic and blinding hope. Only a half-rational, deep-rooted belief in his own innate monstrosity stops him. The nightmare yet lingers. Durge looks into the deep, deep lagoons of Astarion’s eyes, finds the unspoken plea there reaching out to him—no, crying out at him.

Let’s break the curse, together.

He nearly falls in. The horror-stricken face of nightmare-Astarion flashes before his eyes. Durge breaks eye contact as if burnt, reaching for his tail and clutching it to his chest—a self-soothing habit he has not caught himself doing since molting his first scales.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know if it is worth the risk… I might hurt you before we succeed at fixing… whatever this is.” His tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his mouth. “I will never forgive… no, I will never be able to live with myself, if you come to harm for my selfishness.”

Astarion looks disappointed, and it stings far worse than any insults Durge heard from him earlier. The elf shuffles back into the opposite corner, his blazing determination clouded over. The lit spark of hope in Durge’s heart winks feebly, through tar-thick doubt.

“...We might not see each other again for a while, you know. After this.” Astarion remarks colourlessly, his gaze wandering back out into the rain.

“I know. I shouldn’t have… stolen you like that. I’m sorry.”

After the stunt they pulled today, vanishing without a word of announcement, Astarion would likely not be left without close supervision for some time. And he will be kept safe and far away from Durge, for that time. He finds some solace in the fact, even if it is no less tart than Astarion’s crabapples.

“I don’t just mean that.” Astarion’s pulls his knees to his chest. “They’re marrying me off, I’m pretty sure. My parents, that is.”

Marriage. Durge hears it like thunder directly overhead. Astarion. Getting married. The words hardly register as belonging to the same sentence. The timeline of their coming separation stretches to twofold, threefold, infinitely longer than he dared to imagine. Astarion’s melancholy hours before. He was too foolish to even consider…

“Who… how?” His jaws flap, managing two whole words.

“I caught them… negotiating the terms of my ‘purchase’, before you arrived.” Astarion sneers. “And make no mistake, it is a purchase. Took me a while to pull all the details from memory, but I know the family whose son they are trying to match me with—the Bormuls. Upstarts among the Gate’s nobility, though wealthy enough no one can deny them a plate at any function, in case all that silver mine and vineyard money might trickle into their own coffers one day. I guess my parents thought to give them the biggest plate of all.”

“The Bormuls have money, sure, but not the prestige of old families that would earn them true respect. Meanwhile, our family is old as dirt. It’s not hard to see how such a union might mutually benefit both parties. I just didn’t think we were hurting for cash enough to warrant the trouble, you know. Maybe we are. Maybe my father just found a convenient way to be rid of me and an opportunity to stuff our vaults. He’s always been an efficient man, after all. He’s also said that on my own, I would never amount to anything.”

Each revelation is acid in his mouth and fire in his gut. Already, Durge’s own troubles feel like distant, inconsequential trifles.

“Your father is wrong.”

“Is he though?” Astarion cocks his head, half-sarcastic, half-wondering. “In some ways, I think I understand where he’s coming from. I don’t exactly care for my studies. I rarely obey. I don’t aspire to anything worthy of time or attention. Nor do I excel at anything but being ungovernable. If I were him…”

Astarion makes a face of exaggerated revulsion here, and Durge almost laughs, despite himself.

“Eugh… I would rue the day… but if I were him, I would not want to leave the family fortune and good name to such a failure of a son, either. The most useful I would be is at the arm of some dead-eyed, crooked backed whelp with fat wallets. Father probably wouldn’t even have to pay for most of the wedding.”

“I don’t understand. But you’re not even…”

Durge pauses, his eyes scanning Astarion head to toe before he can stop himself. He has always been looking at Astarion all this time—his dearest friend in the world—through all these seasons, yet has never truly looked. His doll-like button nose is beginning to straighten to a fine point. The baby fat in his cheeks slowly fading, promising the start of a refined jawline. Even his large eyes have grown more proportional to his face, even lengthening, gaining a wickedly sharp angle to them.

Astarion has been shedding his juvenile features so gradually and gracefully, he barely noticed. How much longer will their childhood remain? A stab of envy springs from his heart, directed at the dead-eyed, crooked backed whelp Astarion was promised to. Then immediately after, a hot lick of shame.

“But you’re not old enough to marry.” Durge says with more conviction than he feels.

“Eh, nobles have their ways.” Astarion shrugs. “Marriage among patriar-kind is long-term business, planned years upon years in advance. It was a matter of time, really. I would be considered old for getting promised to someone; I suspect Mother had something to do with that. Usually, they sell their children to each other when the babes are still rocking in their cribs. If it’s going to be archaic, it might as well be lucrative for all involved. Even the children get some life-long insurance out of it, after all, and a hideously hedonistic party for their wedding, if they have any sense.”

“Do you want that?”

Astarion snorts. There is bitter humour in his smile.

“What, to be some dullard’s trophy wife? What do you think?”

“Then I’d ruin it. Your wedding.” Durge says. He has never felt surer about anything in his life.

“You would… ruin my wedding?” Astarion apes, incredulous. “And do what, exactly?”

All right, maybe Durge has not thought that far. Not much beyond destroying the closest, most tangible source of Astarion’s unhappiness. Since Lord Ancunin and Astarion’s faceless betrothed are off limits, the wedding itself shall have to do. But Astarion is still looking at him, curiously, expectantly. He pushes on blind.

“I would ruin all the festivities.” He proclaims, emboldened by a surge of zealotry barely recognisable as his own. “Rip apart your expensive flowers and decor, send all your guests running and screaming.”

“Hmm, it might actually happen. I doubt most of them have seen a dragonborn before,” Astarion seems thoroughly amused. “Let alone one as fearsome as you. Tell me more, my dear monster. What else would you do?”

“I would steal you away.” He bares his teeth. “Right in front of your betrothed and your father. I would steal you again.”

“My, that’s incredibly gallant and dashing, even… dare I say it…” Astarion’s smirk grows thin, foxlike. “…selfish of you. Someone more ungenerous might even presume your rescue plan is less than altruistic, that you want to make me your pretty little bride instead.”

The way Astarion looks at him right now makes Durge dangerously comfortable indulging his worst impulses. He feels suddenly, foolishly brave.

“Would you like that?”

“What?”

“Being my bride.”

A short pause. Astarion’s teasing expression slides off his face, forced by Durge’s unflinching earnestness to confront what was meant to be an inconsequential taunt. His lips part, close, then part again. Something like shame dusts his cheeks and eartips bright pink. He looks like someone who just stumbled backward into their own snare.

“I… I would… not be opposed to the idea…” Astarion mumbles quickly under his breath, tearing his eyes from Durge’s. “But that means you are also not against us being together, yes?”

“If you would not come to harm.”

Astarion groans, throwing his hands dramatically in the air.

“You’re impossible. Look, we can bargain. You get to trash my ill-conceived wedding when it happens if we at least try to break your curse. Deal?”

An incredibly tempting proposition, with Astarion’s future freedom also on the line.

“But meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile, I promise not to let you hurt me and we continue to be friends. You’re not as slick as you think you are, you know. I’ve recognised for a long time now, whenever you start to go into one of your episodes. Next time it happens, I’ll shake you real hard. If that doesn’t snap you out of it, I’ll run for cover. How does that sound?”

A trashed wedding for a broken curse. It sounds… good, in a nebulously hopeful, incomprehensibly distant sort of way. Durge has never thought of a future for himself, let alone one far ahead enough for two whole miracles. One with Astarion in it.

“I’m not afraid of you, okay? You don’t get to decide how scared I should be, either. I’ve had enough of people deciding things for me.” Astarion reconnects their gazes, his voice faintly tremulous. “You came to me when I didn’t have a friend in the world, so I won’t let you feel alone through this, either. It’s that simple.”

Lord Ancunin is indeed more wrong than he can possibly fathom. His son is, for one, a terrific negotiator. At last, Durge responds to Astarion’s courage with his own.

“Deal.”

Astarion lunges at him, knocking the air from Durge’s chest with a crushing hug. His next inhale is in a faceful of rain-damp curls, honeydew and sweet osmanthus, a hint of sweat from their rambunctious activities. Astarion’s arms encircle his waist in a desperate vise. Durge has to rebalance them both to stop his horns from knocking against the back wall.

“You are sure?” Astarion’s voice is muffled against Durge’s chest.

“I am.”

“A deal is a deal. No take-backs.”

“Never. My word is final once given.”

“Then I am holding you to it. Forever.”

“I thought until we break my curse and I ruin your wedding?”

“Hmm, further negotiations can be arranged… But would you not rather it be forever?”

When they finally untangle from each other, Durge is confronted with the startling force of Astarion’s joy, so unalloyed his usual self-protective veil of sarcasm fails to mask completely. To think he struggled to conceive of a long-term future before, when even ‘forever’ now feels criminally fleeting.

The sky churns, power roiling in its dark belly and under Durge’s skin. His pulse once again beats against his temples, magic humming within, threatening to burst free from his body. With alarm, Durge notices the blue sparks’ return all around him. He tries to move away from Astarion only for his back to hit the cragged wall. Even more alarming is the fact that Astarion refuses to move himself. In fact, he is closing the distance between them anew.

“Astarion, don’t… You might get hurt.” There is not enough room for Durge to evade Astarion’s reaching fingers before they are on either side of his pounding head.

“Easy. I’m not afraid, so there’s no reason for you to be.” A singular wince as the sparks sputter onto Astarion’s skin, so fleeting it could have been a trick of the light. Astarion keeps pulling him closer, his face now perfectly composed even as more sparks latch onto him, pulling him in to share with Durge the orbit of their frantic dance. “See? Nothing bad is happening.”

With great difficulty, Durge allows himself to be guided onto his back. Astarion’s thighs cushion the back of his aching neck, carefully positioned so his horns hang safely off one side. Every muscle in his body is still locked tight.

“Try to relax.”

“I’m trying...”

He can’t feel the red fog creeping in, this time, but his breathing still catches with every blue spark that leaps from his body onto Astarion’s. They are turning Astarion’s curls a bit frizzy, he notices—a twinge of amusement lancing through the dread. The headache eases as Astarion’s cool hand finds the slope of his head, patting there clumsily but gently.

“Does this help?” Astarion asks. “You said you enjoyed this, right?”

Warmth unfurls in Durge’s chest.

“Yes. To both. Thank you”

“Good. Then enjoy it thoroughly; I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

“I am terribly honoured, maestro.”

Astarion is shocked into laughter at the return of his hideous Upper City accent. He has missed the sound dearly, the sight of Astarion expressing uncomplicated happiness. Durge even dares to think himself quite good at inducing it, certainly better than that the so-called ‘dullard’ who is apparently entitled to the rest of Astarion’s life. The thought makes way for an even more ridiculous one.

“Per patriar tradition, you would need your parents’ approval to marry, right?”

“Ugh, can we not mention them right now? You’re ruining the moment.” Astarion rolls his eyes, already halfway to a pout. “I don’t like to think of myself as needing their approval, but it is their money being spent on the festivities, so technically yes.”

“I was just thinking… Short of trashing what would be a very expensive party, what if I try something else first?”

“…Where are you going with this?”

“Like, if somehow they manage to approve of me, we could just… be together, couldn’t we?” Heat rises to his cheeks from mere insinuation. Saying the word ‘marry’ out loud still feels like a bit too much. “Legitimately, I mean.”

Astarion’s hand freezes mid-pat, and Durge mourns the sudden loss of rhythm. That, and the fact that he has clearly said something Astarion finds foolish.

“Legitimate… Hah!” Astarion barks. The sardonic laughter morphs into a grimace, as if Durge has just presented him a spoonful of something unappetising. “You mean to… ask for their approval?”

“Maybe they are just worried that you might not be well cared for, marrying the wrong person.” Durge presses on. “If I can convince them that we will be quite content together, they might reconsider. If there is a proper way of doing things, I would like to try it first. After all, they are still your parents. I would hate to disrespect them preemptively.”

Astarion is quiet for a moment.

“You are talking pure delusions.” His hand resumes stroking Durge’s head slowly, contemplatively. “With Mother? Maybe. I never quite know with her, but whatever she thinks is almost certainly going to get vetoed by what Father wants, anyway.”

“Why? Does he mistreat her?” As if Durge’s dislike for the man were not already considerable.

“Not that I’ve witnessed. I suppose noblemen try not to beat their wives where polite society can see, though I hardly count among polite society in his eyes. She’s just… always acted around him as though she owed him the world. In any case, you would be a hard ‘no’ from Father.”

“What if I prepared and presented myself very well?”

“Very cute.” Astarion taps his snout. “Nothing you do would matter. Unlike you, Father preemptively hates anything I fancy. But beyond that, he would certainly not be pleased with the idea of… you, in general.”

Of course. Who in their right mind would entrust their son to a clanless dragonborn child from the slums… whose mind also might be housing something terrible. Durge frowns, yet the impulse to ‘do things the proper way’ still nags at him. He can surely try. Can even see himself cleaned of the mud of every day toil, neatly if not luxuriously dressed, with persuasive argumentation on his lips before Astarion’s parents. Lord and Lady Ancunin, though materially I appear meagre amidst the abundance of your abode, I swear to you your son shall not want for anything for the rest of his days by my side, if you would grant us your blessings. He would say, hat held over his breast with one hand, the other clasped in Astarion’s as proof of their bond.

“I’d like to try it at least once, still, if there is ever the opportunity.”

“I told you it’s pointless. I would rather we straightforwardly eloped… unless you no longer intend on ‘stealing’ me.”

“Of course not. If your parents do not approve, I will steal you away.”

Durge reaches for Astarion’s hand on his head, envelopes it gently but firmly within his own—the sparks have long subsided, yet Astarion never stopped caressing—pale and fine-boned as a dove, but it no longer feels precariously brittle in his grasp.

“I wonder why I so often feel this way, being with you.”

“What way?” Astarion murmurs, flexing his waxen digits, threading them through the gaps between Durge’s thicker fingers.

“I guess…” Durge turns the word over in his mouth. It takes on an unfamiliar shape, used to describe himself. “Selfish. I don’t usually covet so much for myself.”

“I know. Criminally so.” Astarion acknowledges. “But you don’t sound displeased.”

“I’m not. It doesn’t feel as bad as it should.”

“Funny you should say that. I feel strange when I’m with you, too.”

“How so?”

Astarion’s fingers curl against the back of Durge’s hand, pulling their palms snug against each other. Their hands mould together easily, as though they were always meant to be entwined in this way, sculpted for this exact purpose.

“Scheming to trash my wedding and confront my father, saving me time and again… You make me feel like I’m worth a damn.”

“You’re everything.”

For a fraction of a second, Astarion seems to crumble inward, the threat of fresh tears pink around his eyes. One, two blinks, and that look is gone, its evidence remains only in the glowing tips of his ears. Durge closes his fingers over Astarion’s grasp, reassuring, proprietary, settling into his newfound selfishness.

Outside their dilapidated shelter, the rain slowly lets up. Puddles of light pool between the scattering clouds.