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It’s a beautiful night out and Astarion is wasting it by standing in front of Gale’s tent. He sighs and takes a moment to attempt to smooth out any lingering creases from his night clothes. He has been restlessly unable to meditate for longer than he cares to admit, and he would prefer that the clever little wizard doesn’t smell the unease that is projecting from him in waves.
Gale might be smart, but he is equally oblivious. Thank the gods for that. Makes it easier for Astarion to ask what he’s about to ask. “Knock knock,” Astarion says through a grin, resolutely not touching the tent. “You have a guest at your tower, wizard! Let me in and I might even give you a snack!”
Gale groans. Through the thin fabric of the tent, Astarion recognizes a faint blue glow and a Gale-shaped shadow flicker in through the darkness. “Astarion…?” He sounds groggy, perhaps even a bit miserable.
“Be a good host and let me in, will you? I don’t need permission anymore, but it’s still nice to have.” Gale makes a lot of frustrated high-pitched noises which effectively distracts Astarion from his frayed nerves.
When he finally opens his tent, Gale is greeted with Astarion’s delighted grin. “I have half a mind to tie you to a chair and force you to sit in a moonbeam until I go back to sleep.”
“Kinky.” He shoulders his way inside. “Close the flap, my dear, you are letting the bugs in.”
Astarion hears Gale take a deep breath. He holds it in – a form of meditation, probably, and how delightful it is to know Astarion’s presence caused that reaction – before exhaling and turning to him.
“What the hells did you come to my tent for?” His mysterious little chest tattoo glows ominously as he spits out the words in a rush.
“A devil’s bargain, so to speak.” Astarion holds up a hand. His long, pale fingers starkly contrast the heavy onyx ring that sits on his middle finger. “I came across this a few days ago and to my delight I realized it possesses a not inconsequential amount of power. Something to your refined taste, I presume?”
Gale’s eyes snap to the ring. The facial expression Astarion sees there is one he recognizes - hunger. How perfect. The wizard tears his eyes away from the ring to gaze at Astarion warily. “You want something.”
“So astute! How did you know?” The sarcasm is laid on so thick that hopefully his overwhelming nervousness is masqueraded. Considering Gale’s harsh, unimpressed state, Astarion thinks he is successful.
Gale slumps back on the ground. “Spit it out, Astarion.”
“I want to ask you about soulmates.”
Through the dim light of the tent, Astarion can see the wizard’s eyebrows raise. “Really? You want to ask me about soulmates?” He lets out a breathy, surprised laugh. “You, of all people? What happened to calling me a helpless romantic and an idiot?”
“Here’s the deal. You get a tasty little treat, no questions asked, if you answer a few of my questions and keep what we’ve talked about between you and I.” Astarion leans forward, palms on the ground, as he drops his voice into something dangerous. “And if I find out you’ve told anyone, next time I’ll come in here unannounced and kill you. Got it?”
The proclamation is greeted with silence. “Let me reiterate. You cause a ruckus outside my tent, wake me up from a lovely dream, barge in here and order me around, try to bribe me into helping you and then threaten to kill me?”
“Glad you’ve been paying attention.” Astarion fidgets to try and get more comfortable on Gale’s pillows - not because he is suddenly hit with a wave of nervous energy. “So?”
“Fine. Alright.” Gale might sound unenthused, but Astarion can tell he has piqued his interest. The wizard looks at him curiously. It makes Astarion squirm. “Ask your damn questions.”
“Wonderful.” Astarion looks at his shoes. Feels a canine sink into his bottom lip. Rubs the tips of his fingers on the jagged, broken nail of his thumb.
“You can start anytime you’d like.”
“I know,” he hisses, chagrined. “Let me just… Give me a moment.”
Gale’s eyes narrow. Astarion can see the cogs of Gale’s unfortunately brilliant mind turning, looking for patterns and answers in Astarion’s thoughtless movements. With a frown Astarion turns his face away from him, looking pointedly at a lightly illuminated staff by the wizard’s messy bedroll.
The staff consists of a shattered crystal on the head of sleek wood. The light emitting from it is dimmer than it should be. It used to be powerful, once, but now it is a glorified nightlight. “Our heroic friend Wyll has made a pact with a devil.”
“I don’t see how that is relevant.”
“You don’t see a lot of things,” Astarion grits through clenched teeth, “but not to worry, I’ll explain this one to you.”
There is an incredulous huff. “By all means.”
Astarion licks his lips. He feels his own nerves crawl at him like electrical pulses, some burst of adrenaline that makes him want to run away. Vulnerability, even when masqueraded as he has done now, makes him feel miniscule. He brings his unsteady knees to his chest and feels his long-healed scars stretch across his back. A reminder of the reason for his questions.
“Wyll sold his soul to a devil. I am simply wondering what that means for his soulmate. Can he even have one? Could he lie to them? Is his soulmate’s soul consigned to that she-devil as well?” His head tilts forward as he looks towards Gale again. “I simply… wonder if we should trust a man like that. A man willing to give his soulmate away.”
“It seems like you’ve put a lot of thought into Wyll’s personal life.”
It’s not a question, so Astarion elects not to answer it. Gale sighs. “I’ll keep this brief because I want to go back to sleep and you clearly would rather be anywhere but here. Yes, he can have a soulmate. No, unless some infernal magic is involved, he should still have to speak the truth to them. And to your last question – Mizora does not have Wyll’s soul completely. Yet.”
Astarion feels himself perk up at that. “Elaborate.”
“The standard contract for these types of deals is that the soul fully belongs to the devil once the mortal passes away. Instead of having his spirit ascend into the afterlife, it will be repurposed in the hells. Typically this is as a foot soldier in their wars.” Gale’s mouth quirks up curiously. “So no, you wouldn’t be part of this pact. Your soulmate would just eventually be… a lemure, or something of that nature.”
His soulmate? A lemure? That would just be the cherry on top of this whole situation, wouldn’t it? Gale continues. “I will say, this whole scenario is a fascinating thing to consider. Is the soul technically the same after the physical transformation? Would their soulmate continue to be connected to them after the change? Or would their soul be so altered that it would be a complete transfiguration, akin to the death of the old soul?” He hums. “A very interesting scenario indeed. But hopefully a scenario we don’t end up examining with our own companion.”
Unexplainable uneasiness churns within Astarion’s gut at the thought of Wyll becoming a lemure. “There will be no need for that.”
“It’s nice to hear you be so certain.” When Astarion meets Gale’s eyes again he doesn’t like what he sees. The human looks at him with a very soft expression.
Astarion flings the onyx ring at Gale’s chest and delights in the little sound of pain that comes from Gale as it makes impact. “This conversation stays between you and I,” he says with more bravado than he feels. “Or I gut you.”
Gale just grins at him. It’s unsettling. “Of course. I won’t tell a soul.”
With narrowed eyes, Astarion gets up and approaches the door. He freezes at the front of the tent, wondering for a horrified moment, does Gale know…?
He closes his eyes. Takes an unnecessary breath. When he opens them, he decides it doesn’t matter, because nothing will be coming from it, anyways. Let Gale think what he thinks. Astarion has no interest in Wyll’s soul.
***
Astarion can’t stop thinking about Wyll’s soul. The musings come at the most unexpected and inopportune moments, such as when they are accosted by several impish monstrosities in the Underdark. Astarion reaches down to pull a dagger from the concaved skull of one of the ugly little creatures when a startling image flashes in his mind – Wyll, wielding a rapier, standing gallantly on a picturesque little cliff, the vision of heroism and justice, but then his skin begins to sop off his bones, and his eyes become yellow and dull, and his rapier clangs to the ground but the ground is hot and awful, and it smells like sulfur and viscera –
Astarion leaves his dagger in the imp’s skull. Strangely, he finds himself too weak to pull it out.
“Need a hand?” Astarion tries not to jump out of his skin when Wyll’s amused voice comes from behind him.
Astarion takes a moment to think of something technically true to say. “Yes, actually. I would prefer not getting my hands dirty.” He looks at Wyll, making a show of leering at him from head to toe. A performance. He’s good at that. “Seems like you have more experience with this type of thing anyways.”
Wyll’s skin is notably still attached to his skeleton. Even with the horns, he looks handsome and princely as he reaches out to dislodge Astarion’s dagger from the imp’s corpse. “Killing imps?” He softly laughs, taking Astarion’s teasing in stride, as he always manages to do. “Astarion, I was taking on full devils. I typically never bothered with imps. They are awful little creatures, though. I can see why someone like you wouldn’t want to deal with them.”
The side of Astarion’s mouth quirks up in a grin. “Someone like me?”
As Wyll slides the dagger out of the imp, Astarion notes his heart rate increases by a touch. Wyll looks away, fidgets with the dagger, and his cheeks darken. Astarion’s subtle smile becomes a real thing. “Well, yes. You don’t need me to tell you that you are a handsome man. You know that very well.”
“Just because I know it doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear you say it,” he purrs. “Tell me, what do you find handsome about me? Preferably in detail.”
“Unfortunately for me, I like your confidence,” he mutters to himself as he stands back up. He places the hilt of the dagger in Astarion’s hand. “But with that settled, I think it’s time to return to our companions.”
It’s an easy out. The conversation, while fascinating, is putting Astarion on edge. He feels as though he is on the precipice of a steep, horrible drop, and that one stiff breeze might blow him into freefall. “Will you be busy tonight?”
For a moment Astarion considers lighting himself on fire. The agony of such thing would be preferable to the horror he feels after suggesting what he might have just suggested.
“Not at all,” Wyll responds, looking at him in a curious manner that Astarion doesn’t entirely recognize. Astarion undoubtedly will think about it for the remainder of the day, pick it apart until the image of him is unbound threads in his hands. “I’ll find you after dinner.”
Wyll walks away. Astarion watches him go, clutching the hilt of his dagger hard enough to create an indentation of the intricate design on the palm of his hand. He brings his white-knuckled hand up to his face, tilts his head forward, and breathes. A faint hint of Wyll’s smell lingers on the metal, now hopelessly intertwined with his own, and the effect of both scents together makes Astarion bite the soft swell of his lips to muffle an embarrassing sound.
What he feels – he doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t recognize it, can’t put a name to it, and he is horrified. He wants to be around Wyll, wants to speak to him and know him in a way he hasn’t known anyone before, but still finds him so frustratingly naïve, so unable to recognize that his optimistic perspective is inaccurate to the nature of people. The world is a cruel one. Astarion bled on the street, on the precipice of death, and was given a hell he knows he did not deserve, and that’s just it, really. No one gets what they deserve. Astarion didn’t deserve to be a slave. He didn’t deserve to find his soulmate now. He doesn’t deserve to be plagued with these feelings, not when his life is in danger and he is fighting for survival every day.
Wyll doesn’t deserve this either, really. Wyll doesn’t deserve the parasite, the contract, none of it. And if they make it out of this alive, Wyll would deserve a happy existence, a partner who could match his ridiculously peppy outlook on life and save the world together or whatever virtuous folks like him do.
But we don’t get what we deserve, Astarion thinks bitterly. Wyll got him.
***
“I’ve got you,” Wyll says as he holds the soft part of Astarion’s arm to keep him from busting his ass on the rocks. For some gods-forsaken reason they are scaling a rocky hillside on the outskirts of camp to get to some quaint little lake that Wyll insisted they visit. It will be so beautiful, he said, and the sun will set in an hour, and it’s the best view, you must come with me to see it, and Astarion would prefer to be forcefully knocked into unconsciousness than hike during his off-hours but Wyll had looked at him so damned earnestly that he found himself saying, of course, that sounds wonderful.
Awful. What in the hells is wrong with him.
It was hard to stay mad when the warmth from Wyll’s hands burn into his arm. He feels the heat of it spreading through him, gentle and easy. “If I fall and die out here, I am going to kill you.”
Wyll laughs, and Astarion must forcefully make the corners of his mouth not curve upward in response. It’s difficult. “I know you would. Spite itself would bring you back from the dead, I think.”
“If only,” Astarion sighs. “I have quite a lot of spite, and I wouldn’t call myself alive.”
One last gentle press from Wyll has them on level ground. There is a clear, glimmering lake in front of them, surrounded by grey stones and wet moss. The top of the water kisses the bleeding orange-red sky – a sky that casts a beautiful glow on the man Astarion came here with.
Wyll removes his hand from Astarion’s arm. Astarion tries not to miss it. “Would you want to be alive again?” Wyll asks, looking at him curiously.
Astarion frowns. The answer he wishes he could say is no. It would be easier if people believe that he is happy with what he is. There are benefits, surely – he is lethal. Precise. He can sense a heartbeat from several feet away and he can smell blood from a few yards out. The tadpole removed a lot of the downsides, too. No home is unbreakable. No river is uncrossable. No dawn is unwalkable. He can sit around Gale’s garlic heavy cooking and not bleed out of his eyeballs. Karlach accidentally threw a vial of holy water on him a tenday ago and it felt the normal amount of bad instead of really, really bad.
“Of course I would,” Astarion has to say, and he grits his teeth as he says it. “But I understand that it would be impossible. There is no use in daydreaming about things I can’t have.” Under his breath he mutters, “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a masochist.”
The warmth from Wyll’s hand is entirely gone now. Astarion feels very aware of how cold he is.
“There is nothing wrong with wanting things that feel impossible to get,” Wyll says, leaning closer to Astarion, “and sometimes they aren’t impossible at all.” Astarion looks up at Wyll, startled by his proximity. Aware of his heat.
Astarion suddenly feels angry and hopeless. Like a bug in a jar that has been rattled. Wyll speaks of hope, like the young human he is, but he doesn’t know Astarion’s pain. How could he? He’s a son of a Duke, fed from a silver spoon his entire life, and hasn’t been alive long enough to know the meaning of suffering. He can’t even comprehend it. Through his teeth he hisses, “Rich coming from you. You sit there and allow Mizora to use you, to own you, and you do nothing to save your own soul. If nothing is impossible, then get the hell out of your contract!”
Wyll deflates. Astarion feels a flash of regret, but he buries it in his anger. It’s easier to be angry. “I have thought about it often. I want nothing more than to be free of it, but Mizora is cunning, and the contract is solid. There are no loopholes - the only way I can get out is if she lets me out.” His mouth quirks up in a grin, but it’s resigned. “Something tells me she won’t let me go easily.”
That is, perhaps, the only thing Mizora and Astarion have in common. It is hard to let Wyll go. “Try harder, then.”
“What do you suggest I do?” Wyll breathes out a laugh, but that too is devoid of any humor. “If I endanger her, there will be consequences. If I kill her, I am instantly brought to the hells and turned into a lemure.”
Astarion shudders. Not the damn lemure. “Think, you idiot!” He fists the threadbare linen of Wyll’s shirt and pulls him closer. “She tricked you! Find a way to trick her back. Outsmart the devil, get her to revoke the contract.”
Wyll is close, so close that Astarion could tilt his head up and brush his nose against his. Feel the human’s breath against his lips. Taste him, maybe, in ways he didn’t think he wanted. He wants it very badly now.
Perfectly round eyes stare into Astarion’s. Wyll looks shell-shocked and it is such a ridiculous face that Astarion almost laughs. Wyll, the calm, level-headed, noble human looks at Astarion like he grew an extra head and started speaking gnomish. Maybe he did. Astarion feels wild, half-mad, like he might shake out of his skin.
Shakily, Wyll nods. “Okay.” He puts a burning hot hand on Astarion’s. Astarion bunches his shirt tighter in his fist, pulling him closer. “Okay.”
Suddenly, Astarion has to know. He has to know if Wyll has had sleepless nights wondering if his soulmate would mourn his soul. He has to know if Wyll ever worried about him, in the dead of night, when he thought of impossible things. “Your soulmate…” he can’t finish the thought, voice almost an inaudible whisper.
A warm thumb brushes against his cheek while the other cups the side of his jaw. Astarion feels like he’s on fire. Wyll looks at him with such focus that Astarion holds in breath that he does not need. “I don’t care what my soulmate thinks.”
Complete crushing devastation. It’s like someone throws a bucket of ice water on him. He recoils from Wyll, letting go of the shirt and taking a step back. He knows he must have a stupid expression on his face – it takes altogether too long to reel it in, to force on a mask of neutrality.
“Astarion–“
“No.” Astarion doesn’t want to answer whatever question Wyll is about to ask. He doesn’t want to be flayed open by him anymore. No more forced honesty, no more sunset confessions. Not when he knows Wyll didn’t consider... He doesn’t care…
Of course he doesn’t care, Astarion thinks. It’s you. Maybe deep down Wyll knows his soulmate is something monstrous. Two mortals turned monsters, destined to be together. Poetic justice.
“Are you okay? Did I say something wrong?” He looks so wrongfooted, so confused, Astarion almost feels bad. But he can’t feel bad – not when he is grasping whatever pieces of composure he still has left.
He tastes the words. Thinks about them for a second, two seconds, and then his mouth curls into something mean. “You didn’t say anything I didn’t know already.” As Wyll blinks in confusion, Astarion turns around. “I’m leaving. Don’t follow me.”
That warm hand reaches for his arm again but Astarion bats it away. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls at him, and walks off before he can humiliate himself further by doing something like cry. Fuck all this.
His meditations that night are listless. He flits in-between memories, moments of his life he is forced to relive every night as his brain resets. It’s all cold – cold crypts, cold blades, cold touches of loveless lovers, cold rats in his hands with rancid blood. It’s all sterile and frigid but there is a memory like a sunbeam that warms him, and it looks like an orange-red sunset and earnest mismatched eyes.
When he wakes, his tongue tastes of salt and water. He presses unsteady fingers to his cheeks and they come back wet.
He hasn’t cried in centuries. He didn’t know he still could. Impossible things, he muses. Perhaps they are not so impossible.
***
Mizora of Avernus, a devil of Zariel’s inner circle, a cambion of immense power and beauty, and holder of Wyll’s soul is stuck in a tube in a nasty, undulating underground hole that smells like piss and rot.
Astarion can’t help it – he laughs so hard that he can’t speak.
“This isn’t funny,” she sneers, all menace and venom, but her voice is muffled by the tube, and it really makes the whole thing much less intimidating. “Wyll, get me the hell out of this. And silence your useless spawn!”
Astarion collects himself, takes a deep breath, and grins with teeth. “You are in no position to call me useless, devil.”
Wyll is standing in place, frowning at the buttons on the machine. After a moment he moves towards it, but Astarion grabs his arm. “Wait.”
Wyll startles, like he forgot Astarion was there. “I have to do this. I can’t kill her, Astarion.”
“He’s correct,” comes Mizora’s muffled voice. “The contract is clear about that – if Wyll destroys me he gets sent to hell. Now come help me, pup, I haven’t got all day.”
The contract – well, maybe something can be done about that. Astarion pulls Wyll close enough that he can whisper in his ear, “She’s trapped and at your mercy. Now’s your chance – get her to void the contract.”
Wyll’s eyes widen in surprise, and then narrow in contemplation. After a brief moment, he moves a step away from Astarion, squeezes his shoulder once (warm, Astarion’s mind unhelpfully supplies), and turns to Mizora. He stands taller now, more confident than he was a second earlier.
“I’ll let you out under one condition.”
“Oh, you’re bargaining with me now, pup? Did you grow a backbone during your dalliances in the woods?” She looks at Wyll like he’s nothing, like he is completely and utterly beneath him. Which is very insane, considering she’s stuck in a tube. “Don’t forget who owns your soul, Wyll.” Her eyes dart to Astarion and she grins right at him.
Astarion knows what she is trying to say. Don’t you forget who owns his soul, either. Mizora’s known Astarion was his soulmate from the moment she laid eyes on him, after Wyll spared Karlach’s life. It haunted Astarion enough to seek out Gale’s help many weeks ago.
“If I left you in here, I technically wouldn’t be the doing anything to you,” Wyll says, as calm as ever. “I’m not physically harming you in any way. Nothing in my contract punishes me for hurting you with my lack of action.” And Wyll – he grins. The conniving, cunning human smirks and Astarion feels a rush of something so profoundly affectionate that the ground under his feet feels unsteady.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would, actually.”
“I will get out of here anyways and figure out a fitting punishment for you.” She says it with confidence, but there is worry in her words. She is unsettled.
“I’m not sure you would.”
Mizora simmers for a moment before rushing out, “Fine. If you let me out, I’ll void to contract.” Wyll doesn’t move, the beautiful bastard. “I swear.”
For a moment Wyll looks shocked that it worked. Astarion watches his face transform – he brightens as he walks towards the buttons, pressing the one that opens the pod. His steps even look lighter. The impossible made possible, Astarion thinks in wonder. Of course Wyll of all people could manage it.
Mizora takes an unsteady step forward before her wings unfurl to help regain her balance. She straightens, looks at Wyll with a grin, and adds, “In six months, of course.”
“What?” Astarion seethes, barely restraining himself from lunging at her in his fury. “You bitch, you swore–“
“Please silence your creature,” Mizora interrupts, looking at Wyll and ignoring Astarion completely. With a flick of her wrist, the contract appears. “Under Clause X: Any renegotiated contract has a terminal period of six months. It’s in the fine print, pup. Not my fault you didn’t read it.”
The brightness on Wyll’s face is gone. Astarion finds himself mourning it.
“Well, this has been fun, but I’m going to get out of here. I’ll be seeing you later, pup.” Her voice lowers as she takes a step towards him and runs a grey hand down his arm. Astarion wonders if the touch brands Wyll too, if her hellish heat lingers on his skin like a living mark. “You’re not rid of me yet.”
She vanishes in a puff of sulfur and ash, leaving only heavy silence and a sense of unease behind.
***
“You know, six months really isn’t that long of a time.” Astarion passes Wyll a long-necked wine bottle. As usual, it tastes like vinegar. Not as usual, Wyll takes a massive swig.
“For you, maybe. You’re immortal.” He says the word slowly, really savoring the taste of it. Then Wyll laughs, like it’s all very funny.
Astarion gapes at him. “Are you drunk?”
“Probably.” He pauses, and then giggles. Wyll Ravengard, Blade of the Frontiers, paragon of honesty, and savior of little refugee children giggles. “Actually - yes. I am definitely drunk.”
“Probably? Have you not been drunk before?”
“Not like this.” Wyll moves to stand from his perch on the thick ledge of Moonrise Towers. He stumbles for a moment and Astarion instinctually reaches to steady him, heart in his throat as Wyll gets his balance back. “Oops! Don’t wanna fall from this height!”
“You idiot,” Astarion seethes at him, and puts a hand on his shoulder so he sits back down on the ledge instead of standing on it, like a drunken fool. “We just won the damn fight, don’t go getting yourself killed.”
“Awe, you care.” Wyll takes another swig.
“Of course I care, you ridiculous man. Sit your ass down and hand me the bottle.”
Wyll does sit his ass down but he does not hand Astarion the bottle. “Do you actually mean that?”
It’s an unexpected question, and it isn’t helped by Wyll’s broken, sad voice asking it. The man hugs his knees to his chest and looks anywhere but at him. Astarion is glad for it, actually – he would rather Wyll not look at him right now.
The question confirms his suspicions. Wyll does not know Astarion is his soulmate – yet. “Yes, Wyll, would you like me to say it again? I’m not lying about it.” There is a loose thread on the cuff of Astarion’s white linen shirt. He picks at it, thinking about the stiches it might need when he gets back to wherever they end up sleeping in this hulking monolith of a tower.
“I’m sorry. I just never know where I stand with you.”
“In high esteem, despite my best efforts.” Wyll laughs at that, and Astarion can’t help but respond with a pleased grin.
Wyll shifts the bottle from hand to hand before turning to look at Astarion with the full intensity of his stare. Being on the other side of his gaze is like having a spotlight shone on him in a dark room. Astarion stares back, skin prickling with nerves. “You know, I expected it to feel different. I thought getting out of the contract would fix everything for me.” The fidgeting stops and Wyll is just… still. Motionless and stiff on the side of the ledge. “But I feel the same. I was played the fool, again. After a while you just end up feeling like a complete failure. How many times can one person get tricked by the same devil?”
“Many times, if those childhood cautionary tales have any merit to them.” It feels odd, and Astarion’s body instinctually tries to fight the gesture, but he ends up placing a hand on Wyll’s shoulder. He squeezes it, thinking of the moment in the mindflayer colony where Wyll did the same to him. “But six months really isn’t that long of a time.”
A sigh. “I guess you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. When am I not right?”
“In most situations.” Astarion can hear Wyll’s smile even though he’s not looking at him.
He means to say I resent that, but what comes out is “You are very charming.” Luckily, the genuine confession is masqueraded with sarcasm. “Give me the wine, you are done for the night.”
Wyll purses his lips, like he’s thinking about it. “Nope,” with a pop on the ‘p.’
“Really, Wyll, give me the bottle before you do something stupid.”
He’s grinning now. Something mischievous settles in his eyes. “I’d rather keep it, I think.”
“And I would rather not be covered in old blood from our fight earlier, but here I am, talking to you and not taking a much needed bath.” Astarion reaches for the bottle. “Give that to me.”
Wyll, the absolute menace, holds it above his head. “You’ll have to take it from me.” Astarion feels the borrowed blood in his body vibrate within him as the words are said – if he was mortal, he has no doubt he would be blushing. For a moment he is immensely grateful that he isn’t one.
He reaches a hand up to grab it, feigning nonchalance and apathy, but when Wyll pulls the bottle away from him and causes Astarion to pathetically grasp at air, his hackles are successfully raised. “Not good enough,” Wyll says quietly, and when Astarion turns to look at him he sees his gentle smile and eyes that look too raw to handle.
Astarion pounces. He pushes Wyll against the ledge so that the flat of his back lays against the hard stone and straddles him, feeling the heat of Wyll’s chest soak into his thighs. Wyll’s hand falls back in surprise – the bottle falls with it, crashing against the stone and breaking clean in half. Red spills around Wyll’s head like a bloody halo.
Crimson eyes meet mismatched ones. Wyll takes in stuttered gasps of breath – Astarion can feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath him. Astarion can't barely remember how he got here or what they were fighting about. He lets his back curve as he brings his mouth to Wyll’s cheek, allowing his breath to caress the skin behind his round, human ear: “Is this good enough?”
Wyll cards his hand in Astarion’s curls, brings his mouth to his own, and lets him know that it is.
***
“Look who comes sauntering over! It’s the sacrificial lamb, ready to march to his tomb.” Mizora manages to make sprawling on their campground look elegant; she lays in front of a thick log branch that is unreasonably close to Wyll’s tent, which means Astarion has to pass her every time he walks over there.
She’s been a permanent fixture in their camp since Wyll rejected her proposal to save his father in exchange for his soul, and she has decided to make every moment of their limited free time as uncomfortable as possible. Which is why she stops Astarion a few feet away from the safe haven of Wyll’s bedroll to bring up whatever horrible thing she is determined to antagonize him with tonight.
“You must be quite unpopular in the hells if you are so determined to spend your time stalking around our meager campgrounds.” Astarion speaks to her with forced indifference, which isn’t as hard as it used to be – he finds his rage for her is not as intense now that she no longer has his soulmate’s very being in her talons.
Mizora scoffs. “A conclusion like that just shows how small minded you are. I adore this,” she says with teeth, leaning forward from her sprawl on the ground and letting the slit of her dress expose a bare thigh, “and I love watching you both flounder around each other. You really are a perfect match.”
It’s the first time she said it out loud. Astarion freezes up and hates himself for it.
“It’s really amusing that you keep it a secret from him. Are you ashamed of him? Do you think he is a broken man? Or…” Her face tilts to rest on elegant, lethal fingers in a mocking empathy. “Are you not good enough for him?”
“Shut your damn mouth,” Astarion says, moving to hold his hands behind his back to keep them from visibly shaking.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about, spawn. After all, you two are perfect for each other.” A long finger taps on her chin as if she is deep in thought. “Wyll sold his soul, and what’s left of yours is reserved for Mephistopheles. Give it a few days and, poof! That will be taken from you, too!”
She stands on her feet, now, and Astarion is keenly aware of her height. She is barely taller than him but it feels like he has to crane his neck to look at her. “I wonder what Mephistopheles is going to do with all those souls – I wonder what he’s going to do with you. And best of all,” she leans in close, hot breath against Astarion’s ear, and its unbearable, “I wonder what lengths Wyll will go to get your soul back.”
“Nothing will be happening to me,” Astarion barks at her, feeling that familiar anger wash over him, but something else is there. It’s fear, he realizes – fear at the idea that Wyll would do something terrible to himself for him. “Cazador will be the one who will suffer.”
Astarion wishes he could kill Mizora right now – he wishes he could wrap his hands around her delicate little collarbones and sink his nails in there, he wishes he could introduce his dagger to her pretty little neck, and he wishes he could watch her as she suffered, bleeding out against that stupid log.
But Wyll was technically still under contract until the six months were up. Hurting Mizora would be hurting Wyll. Astarion hisses out a breath through his teeth - this is agony.
“Your overconfidence in something nearly impossible is another thing you have in common with my little pet. How cute.”
“He’s not your pet. He’s not yours at all,” Astarion takes a step forward, ears ringing with rage.
“Oh? And is he yours, then? Does he bow down to the little slave that broke from his master’s domination, straight into the arms of a mindflayer? You go from one master to another – what a pity. You’ll never be free.”
The devil’s index finger trails the length of Astarion’s arm. Where it touches leaves his skin prickling with unease. “I’ve heard you talk about it. You want this power for yourself, don’t you? You want to take all the souls, give them to Mephistopheles, and become Ascendent. What poetry! Wyll sold his soul to a devil, and now you get to sell so many more to another one!” She laughs – it makes the hair on the back of Astarion’s neck stand on end. “If you manage to live, of course. Which I think is doubtful.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion. You know nothing about me.”
“Sure, I know nothing about you,” Mizora runs her finger up the length of Astarion’s neck. He represses the urge to flinch away. “But I know everything about him.”
This time Astarion flinches and Mizora notices.
“I know that he will loathe you if you take the power. He will weep for how he failed you, how you failed him, and he will never forgive himself for not stopping you. He will see everything he hates within you… And he will be right.” Her fingers reach his curls and he bats them away, but it only makes her laugh.
She grabs the roots of his hair anyways, pulls down to move his head back so his neck is exposed, forcing him to look at her and succeeding in making him feel very small. “And if you manage to survive and stay as you are? A pathetic, whimpering, decrepit little spawn?”
She leans forward. Her lips curl in a smile. “Well, what’s there to love with that?”
She lets go of his hair. He manages to recover from stumbling back fairly well, considering. “It’s a lose lose situation, spawn. You get one of those, or you die. Again, my bet is on dying.”
“Fuck you,” he responds eloquently. “You are a pathetic creature, writhing in the misery of others.”
“Of course I am, you idiot. I’m a devil.” And she sits back down and ignores him, as though she didn’t just break him apart.
Astarion stares at Wyll’s tent, only a few steps away, before turning around and walking the other direction back to his own.
***
“Knock knock,” Wyll says in front of Astarion’s tent. “May I come in?”
Astarion opens his eyes. He got exactly no meditation done in the few hours he has been laying in his tent alone, but he still considers faking it to get out of the imminent conversation.
He can hear Wyll shuffling from foot to foot outside the tent, like he’s nervous. Astarion sighs, letting his eyes fall closed in defeat. “Yes, I am unfortunately awake. Come in.”
There is the sound of shuffling, the crackle of a match being lit, and then Astarion can sense the room lighten around him behind his closed lids. Then, he feels Wyll – his thigh presses against Astarion’s, letting him know he is sitting right beside him. “You didn’t come over,” he says, and there is a question there.
“My mood was ruined,” he puts bluntly. He might as well. “Your ex-patron decided to regale me with her presence.”
“I am so sorry, Astarion.” Wyll moves to lay on his side. At the press of Wyll’s arm against Astarion’s, he reopens his eyes. “I hate that she is here and is giving you a hard time. It’s to mess with me, to make me miserable.”
Wyll sounds so earnest with his apology. Astarion was never mad at him – how could he be? “I don’t understand how you can stand having her here. She’s insufferable.”
Wyll’s mouth quirks into a lopsided grin. “It helps that she doesn’t have any real power over me anymore. She can say what she wants and insult me how she pleases, but now she is just a devil with no contract.” Wyll’s hand brushes against Astarion’s arm and Astarion allows himself to relax into the touch. The unease left from Mizora’s hands starts to fade away.
“It must be so nice to be free of her. No more servitude, no more ridicule and punishment…” His mind drifts to Cazador, as it often does now that they are in the city and have hardly any space to hide from him.
“It’s… odd.” Wyll’s hand stops. “I thought revoking the contract would fix this sense of loss within me. I would daydream about it and how wonderful it would feel to be free of the burden of my promises. But now…”
“Now what?” Astarion’s voice comes out strained. He feels taunt, stiff, on the edge of a freefall.
“Well, I have this… dread, I suppose, within me. It has stubbornly remained there despite the contract being terminated. And I think that might always be there, and that I’m just going to have to live with it.”
Astarion’s hand moves to hold the hand on his arm tightly. With a fragile voice: “It will go away.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps not. It would take time and healing for it to go away, I think.” He laughs, and Astarion moves his other hand to the ground to hold on to that too. “You can defeat a monster, but it leaves behind wounds.”
“You’ll feel better.” Astarion suddenly feels desperate to make sure Wyll understands that. He moves to sit up and runs his own hands up Wyll’s shoulders to the sharp lines of his jaw. “You are free now. You aren’t bound by her.”
“That’s true. I am my own man.” Bright, happy eyes look into Astarion’s own, and it calms the roiling pit in his gut. “I chase my happiness and I make my own decisions.”
Astarion gives him an odd look at that. “Alright. Good on you, love.”
“And when people tell me I’m making an awful decision, and that the decision will quite literally bite me in the ass, I can tell them they have no idea what they are talking about.”
Astarion opens his mouth and then closes it again. “What?”
“And if that decision is in front of me, looking very cute and bed rumpled,” which causes Astarion to finally blink in understanding, “I can kiss him.”
Warm arms wrap around Astarion. They hold him tenderly, gently, and Astarion knows the softest movement would allow himself to break free. He doesn’t move. He sits in the warmth and allows himself that graciousness. Wyll presses his lips to Astarion’s cheek, and it’s all almost too much, but it’s also not enough at all.
“I would like to spend my newfound freedom loving you.” Sheepishly, Wyll adds, “If you are amenable to that.”
And Astarion laughs because it’s the only way to handle the warm, fluttery feeling that seeps through his body, spreading through his veins like lifeblood.
As Astarion brings Wyll’s mouth to his, he thinks about a few possibilities that might not be so impossible anymore.