Work Text:
“sweetheart?”
astarion’s voice and a knock at the door makes you freeze.
“are you alright?”
tears trickle down your cheeks. damp spots darken the inn’s worn bedlinen, and you struggle to find your voice amidst a congested nose and tight throat. your knuckles curl around the blanket that you’ve thrown over your head. grey clouds creep across the horizon, foreboding a downpour at any second.
“i- ah-”
in an attempt to clear your nostrils, you sniffle and snort back thick mucus. it hits the back of your throat and you go into a coughing fit. astarion shifts his weight uneasily behind the door, hand hovering over the doorknob.
“can i come in?”
he speaks softly; warily.
“yes. please.”
your words come out like a plead. the door squeaks on its hinges as astarion pushes it open to your room. you see nothing but bleak rays of candlelight that creep through the threadbare blanket, yet you know the vampire approaches you judging from the quiet shuffle of his feet across the wooden floorboards.
“whatever is the matter?”
the edge of your bed sinks down under his weight. your teeth dig into your lower lip, heart beating against your chest. somehow, you’re embarrassed to show astarion your face (and more than that, perhaps. all of the reasons that had caused your poor heart to shatter into pieces leave your mind in an instant and you feel silly – a fool, for crying over an assortment of nonsensical reasons). astarion’s hand rests on your shoulder, even as you lay curled up with your back to him.
maybe he would take you for a child. immature: one who knows nothing of the world but flowers that bend to a spring wind’s will and gentle, foamy waves that kiss sandy shores. you imagine astarion might even be upset. perhaps you should have told him something was wrong earlier, or he would get frustrated that you were crying in your crib like a newborn babe.
your mind swims with a hundred tales to excuse your tears, but before you can utter a single word, you feel astarion’s warmth press against your back and his arms wrap around you.
“you don’t have to say anything, my dear. cry all you need.”
fresh tears rise to your eyes and you instinctively clam a hand over your mouth, stifling the sobs that make your shoulders tremble.
“i will be here – with you, for you.”
the coil in your chest relaxes. astarion holds you close as you shatter apart once again.
.
at some point, you turn over in bed and peel back the covers. your eyes meet. yet, astarion’s gaze does not change from one of love to that of disgust, of frustration. his thumb gently wipes away a last tear that clings to the inner corner of your eye. your eyelid flickers shut in response, and you sniffle once more.
“i’m sorry,” you choke out.
“for what?” he replies, almost incredulously.
astarion seems puzzled. your bottom lip quivers as you rest your head on his chest, still encased in your blanket cocoon from the shoulders down.
“i got snot on your shirt.”
he pauses. then astarion lets out a soft huff of amusement, hand finally coming to rest on your lower back.
“why would you ever apologise for that?”
he leans forward and presses a kiss between your brow. before you can reply with a halfhearted ‘i don’t know’, astarion rests his head in the curve between your neck and shoulder. his curls tickle your cheek, but you stop him.
“i have all of eternity. so please take your time, my love. all of mine is yours.”
astarion’s warmth feels like that of the sun meeting the earth, glowing rays spilling across the cusp of the land. you stand barefooted in the plains of faerûn. as grass blades tickle your ankles and birds leave their nest to cry the morning forth, the astarion offers you his hand.
you take it.