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Kelyn had been thinking about a lot of things. Most of all, he’d been thinking about freedom. More specifically, Astarion’s.
Cazador was dead now. Well and truly dead, little more than a forgotten pile of ash and dust blowing around the empty halls of his palace; they’d made certain there was nothing left to rise behind them, tenacious as vampires were.
Astarion had come to the same conclusion that Kelyn himself was reaching now, once he’d had some time to recover, and think, and plan. There was still the slight matter of their tadpoles to deal with...but once that part was handled, he was well and truly free, after two centuries victim to a monster.
It was everything he deserved. How could Kelyn bear to give him anything less?
He couldn’t say if he was too distracted to be paying the proper mind to his surroundings, or if Astarion was naturally that quiet without even trying, but the fact of the matter was he didn’t notice the elf approaching until he sat down beside him.
“Is something the matter, darling?”
Kelyn looked up in startled surprise, then away before he could meet Astarion’s eyes. He let out a breath in a slow sigh. Had his mood been so obvious to everyone else? Probably. Apparently, if Astarion had taken it upon himself to seek him out.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I know you,” Astarion answered, with a flat dryness that meant he was probably doing that thing: where he quirked an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose at you, judgmental and scolding and a little taken aback all at once, like he couldn’t believe your sheer audacity in thinking you could fool him.
Kelyn inhaled slowly, casting his eyes upwards. It was early morning, and he’d retreated—slunk, if he was being honest—outside to the roof of the Elfsong. This early, it felt like nobody else in the city was awake: maybe nobody else in the world. The silence helped. It gave him space to think, and to realize something he should have—had—known...maybe months ago, even.
He was being stupid, and selfish, and he needed to stop.
All the same, he couldn’t help the brief, selfish desire to flick his eyes to Astarion, for a moment, and...gods, he was so pretty, even now, looking concerned in the early morning light. It made everything all the worse; he was so pretty, and so sweet, and there was so much good in him, finally being uncovered under the years of trauma and who he’d had to become to survive, and he deserved the world. Kelyn would have given him that: he would have given him anything. So...he had to give him this, then.
Freedom.
“Talk to me, my dear.” Astarion’s hand settled on his knee, sliding to the inside to cup around it in a gentle, grounding squeeze. He was frowning, far too pretty and far too worried for the likes of him. “Looking so troubled doesn’t suit you.”
Kelyn took a breath, lacing his fingers together tightly so his hands wouldn’t shake. He looked away, and loathed his own weakness. Astarion deserved that, to have Kelyn look him in the eye when he said this. But he just couldn’t; his sinuses already burned, his throat clenching tight and painful, even without looking at him. If he tried to look at him, how would he manage to say anything at all?
One more thing to hate himself for. He thought it in a distant, observational way that was almost funny.
“We...” He swallowed, and willed his voice not to shake; he thought he heard the tremble anyway. “We need to end this. Us. Whatever this is.”
“Oh.” Astarion jerked his hand back, sucking in a breath. “Oh, shit. I—” The rest came out in a rush, panicky and sharp, before Kelyn could stop him: “Did...did I do something wrong? What—” He'd started to move, to lean forward, to touch him—and caught himself, stopping short and pausing. He took a breath, and finished, his voice tight: “What...what changed?”
And Kelyn couldn’t keep avoiding his eyes, not after that, and—
Oh. Astarion’s expression was guarded, hurt, and worst of all, scared. Nothing Kelyn had ever done had inspired that in him, not even...
“No,” he blurted, before he could think, “no, Astarion, please, you didn’t—” He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment before looking away with a shaky breath. “You never did anything wrong, I swear. Please don't think that.”
Astarion was quiet for a second, his breath audibly shaking, and in the moment before he spoke again, Kelyn remembered he didn’t even need to breathe at all.
“...why, then?” The question was simple and soft and confused, and so sad. “At least...at least tell me that.”
“Because— I— You—” Kelyn took a breath, reaching up to rake a shaking hand through his hair; he hadn’t yet put it up for the day, and he twined some of it around his fingers, tugging sharply on the black-and-white strands. It didn't hurt as much as he deserved.
“Because I might kill you, Astarion,” he said, his voice going shrill. “I almost did once! I shouldn’t...I shouldn’t be around anybody, but you— Gods, you make yourself vulnerable around me, you trust me, and you shouldn’t, and if I hurt you— If I hurt you—” He dragged a ragged breath between his teeth. His throat hurt, like being choked. “I can’t be someone else who hurt you, and worse, I could kill you—”
“Kelyn.” His name startled him into silence, and he looked up in surprise, his vision blurry. Astarion moved, gently taking his hands, untangling them from his hair. “I...may be guilty of embellishment here and there, but I’m no liar. When I told you we’d save you, I meant it: we will save you.”
“I’m Bhaalspawn, Astarion,” Kelyn answered, his voice tight and his breath shaking as tears spilled down his cheeks. He sucked in a harsh breath, pulling a hand free to angrily wipe them away.
Didn’t he understand? Didn’t he know, what that meant? But then, how could he? Maybe Kelyn had hidden it too well from him, from everyone. So much of it he fought, tooth and nail, to keep in his head: of course Astarion couldn’t understand. But Kelyn had to make him.
“This is...” He gestured at himself, his hands trembling. They were clean, but he thought he could feel the blood on them, if he tried: the guilt of a hundred thousand lives he’d taken, of ones he still wanted to take. “This is what I am. It’s all I am. There’s nothing else here to save.”
“I know what you are,” Astarion cut him off, firmly. He reached up, cupping his face and forcing Kelyn to meet his eyes. “You’re the kindest, gentlest man I’ve ever met. You’re a wretched tailor, and a brilliant violinist. You like stories and songs and making people smile, just because you can. And you can convince anyone of anything, which I know because you’ve convinced yourself that you’re a monster.”
“I am,” Kelyn retorted, short and sharp and desperate. “The things I’ve done— The things I want to do—” He took a shaking breath, his vision blurry. “Even now, right now, I can’t look at you without— W-without—”
“Without trying to leave me so it’s harder for you to hurt me,” Astarion finished for him, his voice firm. Kelyn had no answer for that, and Astarion took the brief silence to pause. He swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment before he continued, softer: “Cazador used his tortures to strike terror into me, and he was endlessly creative. But even with two centuries of the worst he could dream up, I have rarely ever felt fear like I did the night I thought Bhaal might have claimed you for good. Not because of what you might do to me: because of what you might lose. What I might lose.”
He brushed his thumb across Kelyn’s cheek, frowning as he leaned in, his voice gentling. “But he didn’t. You fought him off, like every other time. If I have learned anything at all in this little adventure, it’s that we can’t let our lives be ruled by fear, or we’re not really living at all. And I’m not afraid now, Kelyn. Not of you, not of your darkness, and not of our future. Because we are going to have a future, and it’s going to be one where I can see you smile without being afraid of yourself.”
Kelyn’s breath shook, hitched sharply, and he swallowed before slumping into the elf, his breathing hard. Astarion pulled him in with a murmured shushing, wrapping his arm around his shoulders, and Kelyn buried his face in his shoulder, his fingers clenching in his shirt.
“You’re so sweet,” he managed, his voice unsteady, and Astarion laughed, sudden and short and relieved.
“I am!” He brushed his other hand up Kelyn’s arm, into his hair. “And beautiful. Not enough people mention that.” He breathed out a short sigh. Before Kelyn could answer, he gently twined his fingers into his hair, pulling his head off his shoulder.
“I told you once: this will not have you. He will not have you.” He leaned in, pressing his lips to Kelyn’s forehead. “And I am not going anywhere, Kelyn.”
Kelyn swallowed, taking a breath before answering. “But...what if...”
“But nothing,” Astarion cut him off. “I’m not afraid of you hurting me." He took Kelyn's left hand, lifting it to brush his lips across his fingers. "You remember this? You were very insistent about it." He bumped his nose briefly against one of his rings: a golden band, set with a blue stone that shimmered with magic. Before Kelyn could answer, he moved his own hand to lay against the drow's: the same hand, with a matching ring. The stones brightened for a moment at the proximity. "You didn't want to touch me or even be near me for days, because you were terrified of what you'd do. And when I insisted, you only agreed..." He trailed off, and Kelyn swallowed.
"As long as you wore the ring," he continued the thought, very quiet. Astarion nodded, his expression expectant as he gave a prompting little tilt of his head; Kelyn took a shaking breath before he continued, his voice wobbling a little: "So if...if anything happened, you would be safe from me."
"Exactly," Astarion answered, soft. "You've tried so hard to protect me, love. And that's why I'm not afraid of you hurting me. You won’t. Every time you could have, you've fought it.” He snorted, then added, airily, “Besides, if you ever do manage it, then I’ve obviously gotten sloppy and probably deserve it anyway.”
Kelyn choked out a short laugh, leaning in to butt his forehead back into Astarion’s shoulder. “Please don’t say that.”
“Hm.” Astarion didn’t answer for a moment, simply pulling Kelyn against him in silence. Somewhere in the city, a bird began to sing, and Astarion tipped his head to lean on Kelyn’s.
“I love you,” he said finally, his voice soft, all traces of teasing humor gone. “And it’s going to take more than just an impotent, dead god to keep me away from you.” He tilted his head, nudging Kelyn’s head off his shoulder to kiss his cheek. “It’s going to take even more than you, you ridiculous, beautiful man.”
Kelyn snorted at that, even as something hot and murderously angry unfurled in his chest at the insult. He ignored it, quashed it back into submission, and shifted away from Astarion to rub his eyes. “Oh, stop. The flattery is too obvious. I’m sure I look like a complete wreck, right now.”
“You do,” Astarion agreed cheerfully, before pulling him back to kiss him. “Probably best you go put yourself together, then. We can’t let everyone else see you like this, gods forbid. What would people think?”
Kelyn snorted again, but let Astarion pull him to his feet without protest. The elf’s hand fell to his, his fingers intertwining tightly with Kelyn’s as he led him off.
Kelyn couldn’t bring himself to even consider pulling away, and as they left together, he thought about freedom.