Work Text:
It’s not like Astarion wants his body to have kept the whole score.
He doesn’t actually want to bear the scars of centuries, to forever be a flayed, disjointed doll with his stilled heart pried from his ribs, presented to him with a sallow smile.
But to have had every bit of it erased every time, like it was all a simple dream? Every incision made with awful care, every rent in skin and muscle and bone made in rage? It all evaporated in the end, like the morning dew, like it never—
Oh, he is being ridiculous. So often when it is too quiet for too long and his thoughts break their tethers, Astarion circles around and around this foolish notion.
But he goes on gnawing at it. He comes to wonder how much less pathetic he would be if the whole of him, including his mind, had been born anew each time. If the horrors, removed from the surface, had not stuck in his brain like knives.
If he was only as perfect as his body.
This body. It is his everything: his currency, his pride, his value. He is a virtuoso in its uses. But it has always belittled him. It has glossed over every hurt that haunted him and made it feel a lie. Destroyed the hard evidence that would prove his suffering, prove that he shouldn’t be ashamed for the tears, the howls, the never-ending fear. Even now, this body silently chastises (stand up straight, boy) while memories threaten to burst out of him obscenely.
These thoughts churn as Astarion rots on his bed, arms hugging around his ribs, fingers brushing the back of his fine linen shirt, brushing against the exception that proves the rule: the marks Cazador permitted to remain. Infernal script circling his spine, marking him for consumption. And the marks on his neck, too: the two punctures through which his master had stolen his natural life.
He had said such brave words in that ritual chamber about being more than what Cazador made. But, in the end, this body is still Cazador’s. Had always been Cazador’s. And even though Cazador has since become a burned-out carcass, still he clings to Astarion’s immortal flesh: his greatest gift to his errant son. Are you not grateful, boy?
Astarion lies on his side, still as true death as he watches from somewhere outside of the body that haunts him. He sees his surroundings: his lavish bedroom in this lavish palace, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the tall windows. Slivers of light shine between them. Their slant tells him it is mid-afternoon.
Weeks ago, now, when Wyll ascended as Duke in deserved pomp and circumstance, he had cautiously asked if Astarion would prefer rooms out of the sun; after all, there were nice apartments in the underground level. Astarion, who had been feeling so easy and gracious that day, reverted immediately back to a grasping, snappish creature. No. He may not be able to walk in the sun quite yet, but he wouldn’t be shoved underground again. Not ever. Embarrassment at his outburst had risen in him like a sickening tide. He feels the echo of it now. But Wyll had only smiled warm as summer and said, of course, and placed Astarion’s apartments right across from his own.
As Astarion’s mind spins endlessly, the body weighs heavy on the gold-embroidered bedspread. Maybe it will sink down to the cellar despite his shrill protests. Sink back to where it belonged.
Astarion has never really managed to escape from under the Szarr palace, anyway.
Because, though his mind is not caught out of time like his body, it still refuses to move forward. It is a sludge-filled, unchanging mire. It still sulks even with the anticipation of the ball tonight. It should be enough to cheer Astarion: lavish events are now a favorite pastime of his after all, now that he is on Wyll’s arm. He relishes watching the great and ridiculous from his safe perch where no one can touch him. Not like before.
Fangs grind suddenly on fangs, catching the inside of his lip as his mind fills with depraved leers, laughter, searching hands passing him around to—
Astarion is tugged back to the present by soft footfalls outside the door. Right on time. So reliable, his Wyll, he thinks testily as he shudders against the touch of memory.
The knock comes. Three strokes.
He can simply call out a refusal. But if Astarion says nothing, Wyll will assume he is asleep and enter. This arrangement had been reached one evening in whispers abed. Wyll wanted to see Astarion in the daytime; the nights alone were not nearly enough. Astarion had slyly said that he did not blame Wyll in the least for his insatiable appetite. Then came the softly serious reply: I don’t wish to disturb; I only want the sight of you. More than their physical exertions, this had made Astarion turn as deep a pink as the blood in him allowed.
Astarion curls in on himself tighter. He has only to say something. And he should, for Wyll’s sake. To keep the one he loves well away from his wallowing.
But he lies still and silent. So the door handle softly clicks. Hinges swing, whisper-quiet.
Astarion is turned facing away, but he can picture it perfectly. Wyll padding in soft leather shoes, enveloped by the eternal twilight of the room. His formal jacket is cast off somewhere, shirtsleeves pushed up and neck fastenings undone, baring his collarbones.
Slowly then all at once, the scent of his lover crests over Astarion. Oh, the slight spice of Wyll’s sun-warmed skin; it makes his eyes squeeze shut in longing. Another saccharine notion that Astarion had tried not to scoff at when Wyll suggested it—him soaking up the sunshine to bring to Astarion in his chambers. In this moment, however, Astarion wants nothing more than to press into Wyll and bathe in the warmth greedily, from both his lover and the sunlight he brings.
But Astarion remains unmoving. It is bad enough he didn’t send Wyll away. He will not let himself drape over the man and take and take. Won’t let this cursed body have what it wants.
I knew you weren’t asleep.
Astarion peels an eyelid open. Wyll swims into view like a vision, smiling as usual. But there is a crease of worry on his brow. You were too still, he says low. You’re troubled.
Astarion’s usual brush-off sits on his tongue. But he falters. Scrambles for something better. Then, without warning, hard words burst out instead.
I shouldn’t be here.
It isn’t often Wyll’s mismatched eyes widen in surprise. An old young man, his Wyll.
Here? You don’t want us to be in the palace? Wyll says it slow.
I said ‘I.’ Me. I’m not fit for you. Fit for—for a full life like this. I’m a millstone, hanging round your neck.
This isn’t the first time Astarion has flailed with doubt. But it’s the first time he’s let it out in full view of his lover. Wyll hesitates. Then, he crouches down, folding his corded forearms on the edge of the bed, propping up his chin. Eye-level and deadly earnest, as always.
I quite like it when you’re hanging round my neck, you know. Wyll’s voice has that purr to it that runs straight up Astarion’s spine. But the signal gets jumbled in Astarion’s thickening despair. Desire turns to distress. He buries his face in the pillow, so Wyll can’t see. It’s not Wyll’s fault he’s so broken.
Oh, no. I’m sorry. I misjudged—
The honest anguish in Wyll’s voice is too much. Astarion chokes a sob down. Still doesn’t look.
So Wyll waits. With his sage-like patience he sits in the haze of discomfort, in the self-loathing that must be rolling off Astarion in waves.
Time stretches. Astarion’s distress abates, slightly. He peeks an eye out again.
What’s wrong, my love? Maddeningly soft.
You— Astarion stops. Wyll is the farthest thing from the problem. He begins again. I can’t get out of myself. Out of all the memories. I’m a pile of sucking muck. And I don’t want you spending your life trying to get out of it.
Wyll reaches out. Casually places a sword-calloused hand in Astarion’s reach. There’s no demand behind it, like he’s placating a flighty animal. Gentle as he always is with Astarion. And the gentleness grates because Astarion needs it. He loves it, the weak thing that he is. He wants to reach out and take what’s offered, twine between the warm fingers. But he holds firm. He means it, this time.
Oh, Astarion. It comes out of Wyll so quiet, and Astarion hears Wyll’s heart break even quieter underneath. Two hundred years, he murmurs. All that poison. I wish I could suck it out of the wound.
You’re a fool, Astarion whispers. I am that poison.
No, you’re not. The low growling edge that came complimentary with the devilish looks bursts out. You’re not the muck. You’re not the poison. They’re in you. But they’re not you.
Wyll’s conviction is always a thing to behold. Astarion has even been swept up in it himself, on occasion. But here and now, he is too heavy.
I thought I had shut the memories out, you know, he says at last, staring out into the space next to Wyll. Thought I had gotten so good at tucking it all away neatly. But I’ve failed. If I had… if I had just made myself not feel, back then. Made myself forget, like this body does. I wouldn’t be like this.
Wyll tilts his head. How he can still look achingly sweet with great curving horns and those eyes and the ridges under his skin, Astarion will never know.
But if you had, Wyll says. If you had made yourself not feel. If you had been the consummate spawn, the one Cazador wanted, you would not be you.
Wyll’s eyes flicker with disquiet, with the last few words unsaid. Astarion voices them. And you would not have me, then.
Wyll glances away. Yes. But I’m not about to make your burdens about my wants.
Through his murky grief, a smile blooms on Astarion’s lips. Wyll and his want, the thing he tries to hold at arms’ length at all times.
Astarion can see that Wyll has sensed the shift. But still his lover presses on. He will not be stopped when he has a point to make. I’ve always admired that about you, you know, Wyll says. Your sense of self, despite everything. It made me less afraid of what I’d become, after what she did to me.
Praise still settles on Astarion uneasily, despite Wyll’s constant efforts to expose him to it. A thousand self-deprecating barbs spring up. With determination, he swallows them down.
He forces himself to confront Wyll’s words instead. To make himself believe this strange person who so believes in him. Who now looks at him with bare, hungering love.
Astarion levers himself up, reaching forward, past the offered hand. The pads of his cool fingers graze Wyll’s cheek instead. Wyll sighs into the touch, closing his eyes.
So, you want this mess?
I want you. Wyll’s voice quakes in his throat. He nuzzles into Astarion’s hand, pressing it firmly with his own.
The longing touch sets off a fire Astarion’s belly, burning through the creeping despair. The next moment Wyll is clambering forward, and Astarion pulls him in greedily. They end atop the bed in a tangle of limbs. Undignified. Perfect. Wyll holds him like a precious thing. Astarion noses into his warm neck, breathing in the scent of love and sunshine.