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The ring around Astarion’s finger glimmers dull in the low candlelight of his tent. He can’t stop looking at it, turning his hand this way and that way to catch the flickers of light on the slightly marred ring.
———
Astarion’s busy wiping off a thick black ichor from his dagger when he hears Dahriel call out for him. The tiefling fighter has an easy smile on his face, beckoning him closer with a gauntleted hand. As Astarion approaches, he notes Dahriel’s other hand remaining suspiciously closed. There’s a slight twitch to his idle tail wag, a hint of Dahriel unconsciously moving his weight from one foot to the other. He’s nervous, Astarion concludes.
Coming to a stop in front of the fighter, Astarion looks up with an expectant look, accompanied by a dramatic annoyed frown. Dahriel’s smile is no longer easy, hesitation showing in the way the corners of his mouth twist down. Astarion waits a moment more for Dahriel to speak. Right as Astarion was about to cut in, the Tiefling finds his voice.
“Open your hand,” he prompts in that gentle tone.
“Whatever for, I wonder,” Astarion muses aloud, mouth pinched to the side. He still brings up his hand, palm open to the sky. Trust.
“Humor me,” Dahriel smiles again, genuinely. If Astarion was a braver (or hopeful) man, he’d connect the glaringly obvious dots between the ease of Dahriel’s smile and the presence of Astarion.
The soft thump of something small landing on his palm wrenches him out of his thoughts. Dahriel’s hand covers his, so Astarion can’t immediately see what just got pressed into the palm of his hand. He lets out an impatient huff when Dahriel insists on curling Astarion’s fingers closed over his palm as well.
“Are you quite finished?” Astarion’s annoyance doesn’t carry into his tone fully, Dahriel’s ears the only ones trained enough to catch that detail. Dahriel grins, a twinkle in his blue eyes, as he lifts Astarion’s closed fist up to his warm lips. Astarion doesn’t blush at the tickle of Dahriel’s scruff against his fingers, and especially not at the soft kiss pressed there as well.
Shooting Astarion a mirthful look from beneath his eyelashes, Dahriel pulls back. “Now I am,” waiting patiently as Astarion gathers his scrambled thoughts enough to check what all the fanfare is about.
In his palm rests a simple golden ring, a little dull and marred from age and dirt. He picks it up to inspect the engraving on the inside of the band. “You hold my heart,” he reads aloud, curious eyes flicking back to Dahriel. The tiefling is holding a matching golden ring between his fingers.
“Where’d you find these?” Astarion murmurs, casually testing the sizing against his own fingers. For no reason.
Dahriel simply points to the rotten casket on the ground next to them, wood disintegrated after years of wear and the effects of the Shadow Curse.
“Corpse wedding rings,” Astarion says deadpan, “darling, you truly are a romantic, huh?”
Dahriel can’t help to properly laugh a little now, a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. Astarion lightly shoves him, noticing how Dahriel tucks his own ring away in a secure pocket of his armor, instead of tossing it in his general pack. Huh. Interesting.
———
Astarion looks over to the warm body next to him, Dahriel soundly asleep after their nightly bloodletting session, otherwise known as his dinner. His gaze travels lower, watching Dahriel’s hand rise and fall where it rests on his chest, a similarly dull and marred gold ring around his finger catching the low flicker of candlelight. A warmth blooms in Astarion’s chest as he settles under his blanket.