Work Text:
Wyll daydreams about hair.
He spends a lot of time on his hair, twisting his easily and securing the ends with a bead or a piece of twine. He takes pride in his neat appearance, despite roughing it in the woods most of the time, fighting monsters, feeling the heat of his patron’s hands on his shoulders. Heat and good hair don’t really mix. Wyll always smooths his hair with some herby oil when she’s gone, twisting patiently, feeling the oil sink into his scalp and fill the air with earthy fragrance.
That's all this is. A healthy and normal appreciation of hair. The whole party has good hair. And that happens to include Astarion.
Stark white, almost startling, as pale as his pale skin. In sunlight, he seems to glow. His hair is curly, the curls moving and flowing as he walks a little ahead and Wyll brings up the rear. He likes it best when they’re walking through the woods, the sun beaming intermittently through the cover of trees overhead, the dappled light striking the white curls now and then, and like a strike of lightning Wyll’s eyes are immediately drawn to the back of his head.
Once or twice he turns to glance behind him and meets Wyll’s already steady gaze. His red eyes narrow as if he’s trying to read him, then something like a smile curls his lips like his hair curls around the sharp points of his ears. Wyll has to close his hands into fists to keep from reaching forward, closing the gap between them, and running his hand through Astarion’s hair, feeling the curls between his fingers, feeling them catch under his palm.
“Perhaps you will want to paint a picture,” Astarion calls behind him, as if he can see Wyll’s struggle, as if he can read his mind. “It’ll certainly last longer, darling.”
Wyll chuckles, his face heating up. “If I was a painter of any talent, I would attempt to capture the way the sunlight hits your hair, Astarion. I doubt I could do it justice.”
Astarion slows his pace and Wyll falls into step with him easily. “At least someone here appreciates my work,” he says. He runs a hand through his hair, and the sound of his skin slipping against his curls skitters down Wyll’s body like a chill. “I rather like the little twisty things you do with your own hair. Perhaps you would like to teach an old codger like me.”
“Perhaps,” Wyll says, trying not to seem too eager.
Astarion gives him another gracious smile but it doesn’t touch his eyes, eyes that remain narrowed, as if he’s analyzing Wyll, as if he doesn’t believe him.
.
Wyll still thinks about hair even as his hands touch the sensitive skin around the horns that have popped out of his forehead. They curve in such a way that makes his old methods of twisting his hair impossible now. He will need entirely new techniques, just one more thing to add to the pile of new things to get used to now that he’s a devil.
It's almost comforting to look across the campfire and see, through the haze of heat rising from the fire, Astarion’s beautiful hair and the impossible way the orange and red and yellow of the flames is reflected on the hair, the white eagerly absorbing the other colors, each lock picking up a warmth and depth that even sunlight couldn’t pull. He’s transfixed, staring, jarred out of his spiraling thoughts, eagerly latching onto this familiar daydream. Touching Astarion’s hair. Feeling the curls under his fingertips. Letting his nails scratch at his scalp lightly. Would Astarion like that? Would he make a sound, a sigh perhaps?
Astarion’s eyes flicker up to meet his suddenly, as though by magic, and Wyll’s face feels warm enough to melt away. He gets to his feet and approaches, pulling up his practiced bravado, despite the new weight on his neck from the horns giving him an uneven and strange new posture. He straightens his back. Astarion’s eyes drift down to his shoulders.
“Still getting used to everything?” he asks.
Wyll nods, and even this is new and different, a simple tilt of the head, the shadow of his horns falling over his face for just a moment until he rights his head and looks straight again.
Astarion closes the book he was reading. “However will you do your hair now? Those pretty twists I like.”
“Well.” Wyll watches a sudden shower of embers emerging from a split log reflect in the red of Astarion’s eyes, flicker in the white of his hair, and almost loses his train of thought. He barrels through quickly, before he can lose his nerve. “Well, I was wondering if you could help with that.”
“With your hair?” Astarion blinks, caught off guard. “Oh. Well, if you recall, you never taught me. You kept the secret of your twists to yourself.”
“It’s not hard. I just… the angles are all off now because…” he trails, tilting his head again, feeling the weight shift and shift back again on his neck.
Astarion nods slowly. His face is neutral, but Wyll can see some thoughts moving behind the careful red gaze. After a moment, he sets his book down and says, “Why, of course I will help. Let’s go by the creek. I prefer to have access to water when working through my own hair.”
.
When Wyll was a nobleman in training, he would sit for the housekeeper on a little stool between her legs and feel her learned fingers twist and pull at the tight curls on his head. He came to dread her heavy hands, the tightness of her twisting, her impatience to get back to real housework. In the Frontiers, the wilderness, he could be as gentle with himself as he wanted. It took more time to detangle, separate, twist, oil, and set his hair than the housekeeper would bother spending, but it was his time now and time, he considered, well spent.
As he sits between Astarion’s legs, his back against the fallen log by the creek, Astarion’s knees on either side of his head, he wonders what kind of treatment he will receive. And his question is answered as soon as Astarion’s cool hands touch his head gently, fingers moving over the twists, pressing softly against his scalp, and a sigh escapes him that he can’t hold back.
“Don’t tell me I’m already hurting you,” Astarion says.
Wyll can feel the vibrations of Astarion’s voice, his proximity like a pleasant weight on his shoulders, a welcome counterweight to the horns. “No, it feels good.”
Astarion unties the ends and begins untwisting. “This doesn’t seem as complicated as it appears. A clever little deception, to make it seem that you spend more time on this than you actually do.”
“Hmm.” Wyll closes his eyes, feeling the soft tugging on his scalp, Astarion’s hands slowly growing warmer as he touches his too hot skin. “This is good.”
Astarion chuckles under his breath. “Falling asleep, are you? I didn’t realize I have such a light hand.”
Wyll reaches up to touch one of his twists and his hand meets Astarion’s cool knuckles. He quickly puts his hand back down onto his lap.
“Don’t disrupt me, I’m finding my rhythm,” Astarion admonishes.
“Sorry, sorry. I wanted to see how you’re doing it despite the horns.”
“Well, it’s ruining the flow. We may keep the teaching for next time.”
Wyll’s stomach churns with the sound of “next time.” He smiles without thinking, glad that his back is to Astarion. The sounds of hair moving between fingers, of clothing shifting against skin as they readjust on the log, of water moving softly along the creek, lull Wyll into a stupor. He leans back against Astarion, against the coolness of his body. Astarion’s hands still in his hair but only for a moment before they continue their rhythmic movement, twisting, tying off the ends, then moving on to another twist, over and over until he leans back suddenly and says, “I believe I’m done.”
Wyll blinks, coming back to himself, to the weight on his neck, to the strange cartilage that raises bumps on his skin, to the squirming tadpole just behind his eye. He turns to face Astarion and touches his hair hesitantly, feeling the twists, gauging the tightness of them.
“Wow,” he says, impressed. “You did a wonderful job. I didn’t even share any direction with you.”
Astarion looks down at his nails, but a smile tugs on his lips even as he pretends to be unaffected by Wyll’s praise. “I pick things up easily.”
“Evidently. Thank you so much, Astarion. Your hands are so soothing, I almost fell asleep right here.”
Astarion turns his hand palm up and looks at it, and Wyll looks too, seeing the slight sheen of oil on his white skin, the long, tapered fingers that were just in his hair. A shiver runs through him, and he touches his twists again, trying to hold onto the feeling of those long fingers in his hair.
“Soothing,” Astarion repeats, still looking down at his hand. “Yes, I suppose. I suppose I can be.”
Wyll sees the facade fade for just a moment. He is keenly aware of the lines that suddenly appear on either side of Astarion’s mouth. A soft frown pulling at his lips. It passes in a moment and Astarion puts his hands behind him, looking down at Wyll and saying, “I should charge you for my service. A bottle of red. Two bottles! I’ll consider a white only if it’s an acceptable vintage.”
“I’ll see what I can pull off a goblin corpse,” Wyll says patiently.
Astarion runs his hand through his own hair, slipping easily through his curls with his still oiled fingers. Wyll watches as each curl bounces back to its original position, curling around his fingers, curling around the sharp point of his ears, falling at the nape of his neck.
“You have… such beautiful hair,” he says haltingly.
Astarion’s eyes bore into his, narrowed, analyzing, and Wyll submits himself to the analysis, to be read, to have his sincere compliment held up against the light and turned this way and that. Wyll thinks that perhaps Astarion, in his unusual and secretive city life, has not had cause to trust others. He stands as straight as he can, still feeling the ghost of Astarion’s hands on his head, and looks directly into those piercing red eyes, willing him to believe him.
“Aren’t you sweet?” Astarion says eventually, with an easy smile.
.
Wyll ties off a twist with a bead, looping it once through the carved piece and twisting it in place. He runs his palm between his horns to feel the twists. There’s some unevenness to the twists, the straight lines he once prided himself on now a little out of reach, but he’s happy with the results.
Across the campfire, Astarion reads a heavy looking tome, open on his lap with his chin resting on his hand. Wyll glances at him once or twice as he puts his comb and jar of oil away, wiping his hands on his lap. The third time he looks over, it’s to find Astarion already looking at him, eyes fixed on his hands as they reach up to touch his hair again.
“Thoughts?” he calls over.
Astarion blinks a few times, as though waking up from a daydream. “Fishing for a compliment?” he asks.
Wyll shrugs. “One wouldn’t hurt, that’s for sure.”
Astarion shifts on the ground, and the book closes easily on his lap. He leans back on his palms, his eyes scanning Wyll, lingering on his head, at the uneven parting of his hair. At the horns on his forehead. Wyll feels his eyes on him as if a physical touch. He wants to squirm under the piercing gaze and holds himself straighter instead.
“You look good,” Astarion says, his voice low, almost disappearing into the crackling of the fire between them.
A flutter of something shifts in Wyll’s stomach. Oh, he thinks. Butterflies.
“Why, thank you,” he says.