Work Text:
It wasn’t the first time Staeve found Astarion in this state, but he never got used to the painful jolt through his chest every time.
Staeve doesn’t need to see his face to know that Astarion isn't quite there, sitting on the plush, crimson sofa in the middle of the small library.
One can often find the vampire there. He has made a second home-within-their-home, curled up into the corner with a large book nestled in his palms.
It hasn’t been home for long. This one has lasted for nearly three months. The previous for about five, yet the pair seemed to settle nicely in the bungalow sitting just outside of the main city.
Only this time, he isn’t twisted deep in the contours of the cushions. Up ramrod straight with his shoulders too square, and his back too tall to classed as comfortable. Even though Staeve is facing the back of his head, Astarion is staring at a whole lot of nothing on the opposite wall, unless he’s decided to take a keen interest in the blackened logs in the fireplace.
Staeve’s rather confident that isn’t the case here.
He rattles a knock at the door frame, followed by a sing-song “Guess who’s back?”
Predictably, the elf before him doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even acknowledge his presence.
Any other day, any other time, Staeve would tease Astarion on his lack of manners. Time and time again, the distracted elf would take a second or two to reply and receive merciless jibs because of it. Only this is not one of those days, nor one of those times.
As he steps into the room, Staeve catches a whiff of spiced soap of rosemary and bergamot. There’s still steam tangling around itself in the air and a slight glisten on Astarion’s bare shoulders. Yet, the vain bastard still found some energy to dry and style his hair.
“You wouldn’t believe the trouble I went through to get this,” Staeve exclaims lightly as he drops a large cloth sack on the table next to the door. A loud jangle of metal fills the silence of the room, but it’s not enough to stir the vampire.
“People really don’t respect the art of a good con,” he continues, keeping his voice playful and inviting.
Staeve likes to set himself up for a snarky jab from his partner. Most would say it’s their most common form of communication.
Yet, nothing comes from Astarion, not even a slight tilt of his head or an unamused hum.
This is going to be a tough one, Staeve confirms.
The first time this happened was their first night in the tavern. A cool hand was pressed to his shoulder, and before he knew what was happening, a very naked Astarion was straddling him and kissing a hot line down Staeve’s neck.
“I have been waiting too long to have you like this, darling,” he remembered Astarion murmuring in his ear.
Everything in his movements and voices was so deliberate, and in those first few seconds, Staeve was completely intoxicated, but there was something rigid throughout his body and something about his movements that was too languid. Too practised.
So, Staeve gently stopped him with a palm to the centre of his chest and stared into blank, crimson eyes.
“Not like this,” Staeve said as he carefully moved the shell of his lover before him to sit and wrapped a furred blanket over Astarion’s shoulders. His body was so pliant that it made Staeve sick to his stomach, given the context.
After fifteen minutes, it was clear there wasn’t much Staeve could do to coax him out of it, and reluctantly stood to clean the room to ease some of the restlessness but wasn’t quite comfortable to leave Astarion out of his sight.
After another thirty and nearly running out of things to clean for the third time, he heard a small shuffle, followed closely by two arms wrapping around his torso.
“Ah, he returns,” Staeve greeted.
“Hello, dear,” Astarion responded, voice thin but focused, “I’m… I’m sorry for… that.”
“Don’t be. I know when it’s you.”
Staeve really does, or at least he does now. It may have taken a little bit of time, but no thanks to Astarion's many masks he places. They both have grown comfortable to reveal their truer, deeper selves, and he’s seen these enough times to know Astarion is not one to be coddled.
Shaking away the memory, he moves to face the vampire, still firmly seated on the red sofa. Pale hands clutches the cushions with such force that there might be holes when he eventually lets go.
Whatever has triggered Astarion, it must have happened when he was halfway dressed, judging by the loose, cotton trousers he is wearing.
“It’s not like they were using any of that shit anyway. I actually plan to make good use of pawning it off!” Staeve continues, forcing a tremor down when Astarion doesn’t consider him.
He squats in front of Astarion, trying to find his eyeline.
“There is a live fowl downstairs just for you, babe. Want me to bring it up?” he whispers to him.
That seems to have done something because Staeve only just notices a twitch in his ears, and his brows furrow slightly.
“Alright, I’ll be right back,” Staeve replies and rises off his haunches.
Guilt climbs up his chest as he descends down the steps. He knows that time will get Astarion out of this, but it doesn’t change how it pains him.
It happened for the second time when they returned from Szarr’s palace, and it was like a switch went off in Astarion. One moment he was sort of there. The next, gone.
For almost an hour, Staeve sat with him in the washroom, cleaning crusted blood from his face, hair and body until the water went cold and pale red. Tears endlessly streaming down his lover’s face but not a single sob nor shudder ran through his body.
The fowl is still stunned when Staeve grabs it off the table and makes his way back up.
Best to keep moving.
“Psst,” he whispers when he enters the door and places the limp fowl on the narrow table by the door.
Miraculously, Astarion’s head turns to view the angled profile of his face.
Staeve walks over to run his fingers through silvery locks and plants a kiss on the centre of Astarion’s forehead.
“Are we back yet?” Staeve asks into the kiss.
“Just about, my dear,” Astarion replies like it takes some effort.
“Well, guess I’ll just have to wait till I have all of you,” Staeve counters.
He moves back to sit cross-legged before Astarion. His crimson eyes a little clearer, but only just.
Staeve brushes his fingers on top over his lover’s knuckles in the hope it will ease the vice-like grip he still has on those pillows.
“Wanna talk about it?” Staeve urges but only gets a small shake of a head as a response.
So, they stay silent for some moments, something unnervingly trance-like about the position Staeve is in.
There’s a creeping of cool fingers twisting into Staeve’s hand, and when Staeve looks up, those crimson eyes are looking straight at him. Really looking at him.
“I don’t know why this keeps happening?” escapes from Astarion. It's too quiet and shaky for Staeve to be used to.
He knows better than to say something now. Once the tangled threads of Astarion’s emotions begin to unravel, any word could make them snap.
“All I did was get changed. Looked at my own body. I want… I don’t want to keep feeling this anymore,” Astarion continues and shifts his eyes to his lap, “I don’t want you to keep dealing with me like this. It's a mystery to me why you do.”
There it is. The dreaded invitation to leave that he offers, but Staeve knows he doesn’t want.
This is not the first time Astarion has given an out for Staeve. It might not be the last, but Astarion sucks at apologies and asking for help, so Staeve will use what he’s got.
Even if it annoys his lover.
“I’m afraid, babe, you’re stuck with me,” Staeve replies back, “And for as long as you’re stuck with me, I’ll be here to deal with all the shit that comes with it.”
“Staeve, dearest, I-“
“Astarion, please,” Staeve interrupts because, frankly, he’s having none of it, “I’m serious. You having a moment isn’t going to make me go away because you think it’s too much or whatever. I stay because I want to.”
He reaches out to cup Astarion’s cheek and coaxs his head forward, so they are looking at each other.
After a moment, Astarion nods and turns to kiss Staeve’s palm.
It’s not a confirmation, really. Steve knows this is all Astarion can muster right now, and this isn’t the last time something like this will happen.
If Staeve knows anything, life doesn’t move linearly. Not really. Two steps forward, five back, another ten to the left or whatever. You just keep moving.
“Good. Now come on, have your breakfast. It’s gonna wake up soon,” he says, pulling Astarion up onto his feet.
“Oh, darling, you really shouldn’t have,” Astarion flattered, each word sounding more and more like himself, “but if you insist.”
“Sooner rather than later, I want to show off all the goodies I nicked,” Staeve rushed, gently pushing Astarion by the shoulders over towards the fowl.
“As long as I can keep something.”
“As long as it’s not the most expensive one, I still want five tenday’s worth of coin from it.”
“Darling, with your haggling skills, we would be lucky if we got enough to buy ourselves a cheap drink.”
“Hey!” Steave protested while attempting to force the grin off his face, “That’s how you’re going to talk to the man that just brought you food.”
“Just saying, lover,” Astarion responds before sinking his fangs into the fowl and drinking, completely transfixed in the blood it gives.
When Astarion finishes and raises his head, the wild glint sparks in his eyes like every time he has feasted, and his grin reveals speck of red on his fangs.
“If you’re so confident, why don’t you do it then?” Steave provokes mischievously.
“Don’t tempt me, darling. You might crumble from the loss,” Astarion brags back, dropping the bird unceremoniously onto the floor.
“Wanna bet?”
“The loser gets to dress the other for an entire tenday.”
Before he even thought about it, Staeve moved forward to catch Astarion’s lips in a kiss, tasting blood on his tongue but, more importantly, feeling the same passion that Astarion put in. The warmth that comes from him and not one of his many masks.
“It’s on.”