Chapter Text
Maybe it was because Wyll had denied Astarion a taste of his blood. Maybe it was because their places in life were so subversive to each other’s that by nature, it just couldn’t be. Maybe it was because no matter how hard Wyll fought to keep the trust he’d spent years earning, he still looked the part of a devil.
Whatever the reason was, Astarion hated him. Wyll was certain of it.
They hadn’t gotten along at first, not by any means. But they’d grown more civil, they’d opened up to each other some, and they had more in common than either of them realised. By the time their group of misfits had managed to slay the last of the goblin leaders and grant the tieflings safe passage from the grove, Wyll had assumed - or, perhaps, hoped - that they had buried the prickly hatchet and could at least be good acquaintances, if not friends.
Wyll certainly admired Astarion as much; the man had skill, and good looks to boot, but Wyll also found him incredibly charming, and thought Astarion was one of the funniest people he’d ever met. He should be frustrated with Astarion’s lack of morals - and, at first, he was - but now he found it endearing, a challenge of a sort. Astarion’s complaints of their activities, despite going right along with them, amused him. For all their different opinions, Astarion opted to follow Wyll regardless, and it warmed something in his chest each time.
The man certainly knew his flattery, too. He was the only one of their group who didn't try to tiptoe around Wyll’s new devilish features, and he poked fun at them as much as he complimented them. Wyll found banter with Astarion easy, and entertaining. He felt confident they could make shots at each other in jest, and they’d still have each other’s backs in battle.
That was, until the night of the tieflings’ party, when Wyll’s hopes for friendship with Astarion went up in flames.
Wyll had isolated himself to the lakeside in the hopes of giving everyone the celebration they deserved, free of a devil’s presence. The Blade of Frontiers didn’t sulk, but Wyll was a bit too sober to deny the heavy pit in his chest. And when Astarion eventually found him, he’d let himself get so lost in his head it took too long to plaster on a convincing smile. He could tell Astarion saw through it immediately.
“Sulking, are we?” Astarion drawled, moving to stand beside Wyll.
He was close enough that, had he been alive, Wyll would feel his warmth against his own sleeveless arms. As it was, Astarion had no warmth at all, and it was a bit unnerving. Or at least, it would be, if Wyll could focus on anything other than his heart that had begun beating out of his chest at their proximity.
“The Blade doesn’t sulk,” Wyll explained, rehearsed and firm. “I was merely letting the tieflings have their fun without a devil around to ruin their mood.”
Astarion gave him an exaggerated pout, and slung an arm over Wyll’s shoulder. Astarion was only an inch or two shorter than him, not much at all, but his damned horns made their difference in height all the more noticeable. Wyll suddenly felt the weight of the horns on his head with even sharper focus, as if an invisible force was yanking them down. He sighed, leaning into Astarion’s touch in an attempt to distract from the unwelcome obtrusions extending from his forehead.
“I find your new look to be utterly fetching, you know,” Astarion drawled. “Not that you were lacking before, but now…”
Astarion trailed off with a breathless sigh, and Wyll felt his cheeks heat up under the lascivious gaze the vampire levelled him with. Wyll wasn’t in the mood for this at the moment, he really wasn’t, but he had to remind himself of as much as Astarion leaned in further.
“Astarion, please,” Wyll whispered.
He moved to grasp Astarion’s hand in order to gently remove his arm from Wyll’s shoulder, but Astarion practically jumped away when Wyll began reaching for him. He looked almost frightened, though with what, Wyll had no idea. Then the wide eyes were gone, and Astarion’s characteristic smirk returned as his eyes roved over Wyll’s body. But Wyll was a professional at this very same game, he had been for years, and so when Astarion attempted to lean in again, Wyll anticipated the facade.
He was scared of Wyll, clearly. But the fact that he seemed to be forcing himself to appear kind before the man was a new low, even from Astarion, and Wyll felt sick. Did all of his new friends think they needed to perform to not incite Wyll’s blade? Had he really lost all of their trust with the simple addition of some horns and ridges? Astarion was a charming cad, but Wyll could spot his manipulations from a mile away, and he didn’t have the strength to deal with it now.
“Go enjoy the party,” Wyll demanded, his tone sharper than he’d intended. “Save your disingenuous quips for someone who might fall for them.”
Astarion’s grin fell as his brow furrowed prettily.
“Disingenuous?” he echoed. “You’re one to talk, oh heroic Blade of Frontiers.” Astarion crossed his arms over his loose-fitting shirt with a scowl. “Feeling sorry for yourself and playing it off as attending to the feelings of the tieflings,” he scoffed, “please. This little act of yours doesn’t fool me, darling.”
Wyll gave him a tight lipped smile, and bowed his head. So it was true, then. If Wyll had ever held any favour in Astarion’s eyes, his transformation had lost it entirely. Monsters seeing monsters, Wyll thought bitterly.
“I see despite my isolation, I’ve still spoiled some of your fun tonight,” Wyll replied. He kept his words even, and diplomatic, void of any of his hurt. “Please, go find company that can properly appreciate you. I’d hate to have put a damper on your mood.”
Astarion maintained his glare, but seemed grateful for the easy out, as his scowl softened. He huffed and turned, without another word, to stomp away.
The crashing of gentle waves onto the sand and the trills and croaks of wildlife did little to muffle the joyous sounds of celebration behind Wyll as he sat down to await the night’s end.
~
By the time they’d entered the Underdark, any hostility that Astarion had harboured for Wyll seemed to dissipate, somewhat. There wasn’t much distance either of them could keep from each other in such a small group, but Astarion had been giving Wyll the silent treatment for the better half of a tenday since the party.
Wyll knew the man was angry with him, but Astarion had given him little chance to broach the topic. Now, however, with nothing to entertain them during their turn taking watch save for some glowing mushrooms, the boredom seemed to win over Astarion’s hurt feelings.
“Has your dear patron said anything at all, lately?” he asked quietly, picking at his well-manicured nails.
“Not a word,” Wyll replied. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall of the cave in which they’d taken shelter for the night. “It’s as much of a nuisance as it is a relief.”
Astarion scoffed.
“How could it be a nuisance?” he asked, following Wyll’s lead and reclining against the cave wall. “Having to hear her pretentious drawl even the once was too much for me, personally.”
Wyll nodded, smiling as he inevitably did when it came to Astarion.
“Because it means she’s only biding her time,” Wyll explained. “Her absence has always filled me with a sense of apprehension, never knowing when she’ll expect me to drop everything and do her bidding. But, ever since Karlach, I…” He pursed his lips, choosing his words carefully, minding his inability to discuss the terms. “I do not look forward to her next set of orders, whatever they may be.”
“Do you think she’s done that before?” Astarion asked, the genuine curiosity in his tone catching Wyll off guard. “Ordered you to kill someone who’s actually innocent, I mean.”
Wyll inhaled deeply and held it. The thought had plagued him endlessly, and he still had no certain answer.
“I don’t know,” he breathed. “In the past, it has only ever been monsters. Displacer beasts, manticores, minotaurs, basilisks.” He huffed a laugh that lacked humour. “The A through Z of beasts and terrors, if you will. There have been a few cambions and imps, of course. Some at her order, but not always. I’m free to slay whichever monsters I deem worthy, even without her say-so, and when fiends escape the hells, my blade sends them right back.”
Astarion made a small noise, like an aborted laugh, and Wyll paused. Still, Astarion said nothing, so Wyll chalked it down to an accidental reaction rather than a taunt, for his own sake.
“I will say, this is the first time she seemed frantic about me following her orders,” Wyll admitted. “I wonder if she had to face some punishment from Zariel for my failure.”
I hope she did.
“No use worrying about it now, I suppose,” Astarion dismissed.
He’d resumed picking at his nails, though Wyll assumed it was more to keep his hands busy than anything else. They really did look perfect already.
“What’s done is done, and you spared Karlach at your own expense like a good little hero,” Astarion continued. “I’m sure Mizora won’t try something like that again, if you’re this adamant about sacrificing yourself for others. Honestly, if she wanted a perfect soldier, she should have known better than to go after a fairytale prince.”
Wyll blinked. The words, tone, and overall gesture were all kind; certainly more kindness than he’d ever expected to receive from Astarion. But it was that fact alone, that Astarion despised him and yet uttered sweet words now, that put Wyll on edge. He shifted slightly, clearing his throat.
“Astarion, I…”
Astarion raised an eyebrow at him, and Wyll suddenly felt like he was scrambling for his words.
“I do apologise, for that night at the tieflings’ party,” he managed. “I had not meant to insult you. I was not myself that night.”
“I don’t need your apology, darling,” Astarion said, and the endearment was as bitter as it had been that night. “I’m not a fragile waif who can be brought to tears by some brooding human’s insecurities.”
Wyll sensed he’d somehow misstepped, again. Words had once been, if not easy, then at least natural, with Astarion. But ever since that night, Wyll felt he’d had to choose his words to Astarion with the same careful consideration needed to disarm a volatile trap.
“Right,” he said simply, at a loss for how else to salvage this. “Sorry.”
Astarion scoffed and pushed himself to his feet.
“I do think it’s our turn to switch watch shifts now,” he said sharply.
Wyll nodded bitterly, accepting defeat as Astarion stalked back into the cave. He missed when he could just mess with the other man without having to worry about upsetting him. But clearly, he’d been upsetting Astarion all the while, and Astarion had only become fed up with pretending to tolerate Wyll.
~
Despite Astarion’s blatant hatred for Wyll, or perhaps because of it, Wyll found himself seeking Astarion’s company more and more. When they weren’t arguing, his elation at holding conversations and bantering with Astarion again made him feel like a young scoundrel with a crush.
Wyll recalled his first kiss at The Blushing Mermaid, how the boy had teased Wyll for never being kissed before doing it himself, and thought maybe he just had a thing for people who were inclined to mock him.
Wyll could almost forget that he and Astarion had ever been at odds when Astarion shielded Wyll from a painful duergar blow, or they had both inhaled too many haste spores and laughed uncontrollably together over the stupidest of things, or Astarion admitted to him yet another one of the horrors Cazador had put him through. But then he’d close up and spit some empty insult and retreat to his tent or to the arm of another one of their companions, and Wyll would be reminded that Astarion only suffered his presence, rather than enjoyed it the way Wyll did his.
It was foolish, and futile, for Wyll to hold onto his growing feelings for Astarion when it only served to hurt him in the end. But he couldn’t help it. He was getting to see, up close and personal, how Astarion came to life the longer he was away from Cazador. Wyll got to appreciate Astarion’s skill in battle, he got to hear the common complaint freely given or the rare laugh hard earned, and it was impossible for him not to revel in it all. He thought sometimes that Astarion forgot how much he despised Wyll, and in those moments, they seemed closer than ever. Then Wyll would go and say something a bit too heartfelt, and Astarion would scowl at him, and call him foolish, and run off.
It was clearly a one-sided friendship, and now it was growing into a one-sided affection that Wyll just couldn’t get himself free of.
When they finally made it to the Shadow-cursed Lands, Wyll hardly noticed the suffocating darkness around them with how forlorn Astarion’s continued hatred of him made him feel. Then that first night, Mizora finally showed herself at their camp to demand yet another thing of Wyll, and Astarion… argued with her. It caught Wyll so off guard he accidentally let his tadpole connect with Astarion’s, and it was only a bit, but enough to convey his shock and see Astarion’s determination sent back.
Astarion got Mizora’s word that she would end Wyll’s pact if they freed Zariel’s asset, and Wyll was left gaping, searching for some clue as to why Astarion would ever bother. Maybe he was just tired of Wyll being a liability. After all, being pacted to a devil had put them in danger before, so it would make sense if Astarion chose this course of action over just trying to kill Wyll and be done with it all.
Regardless of intention, and regardless of Wyll’s own inability to believe it will actually work out, he had to thank Astarion. It was the least Astarion deserved for sticking his neck out for Wyll.
He approached Astarion’s tent, and knocked lightly at the canvas outside.
“Astarion?” he called. “Can we talk?”
“Come in, darling,” Astarion called back, his voice muffled in his tent.
Wyll frowned. Astarion had never allowed Wyll inside his tent before. Maybe something was wrong.
“I wanted to thank you,” Wyll began, lifting the tent flap slowly as he stepped inside. “For what you said to-”
His words failed him at the sight of Astarion half-naked and lounging against his pillows with a sultry grin aimed at Wyll.
“Perfect timing, Wyll,” Astarion drawled.
“I- I’m sorry,” Wyll stammered, ducking his head and staring resolutely at the ground. “It’s late, I’ll just-”
“Not fond of the view?” Astarion asked. “I’m hurt, darling.”
Wyll frowned, and hoped to gods he put no faith in that Astarion wasn’t able to smell the blood rushing to his face. What is he doing?
“Astarion, you are very beautiful, but I didn't mean to-” Wyll cleared his throat abruptly, and turned his gaze to the ceiling of Astarion’s tent. Adopting his Blade voice, he continued: “I wanted to thank you for sticking up for me to Mizora. I’m not sure why you did, but it’s the most anyone has ever done for me, and I am grateful.”
“That’s the most anyone has ever done for you?” Astarion practically screeched. “Honestly, Wyll, I was just being my regular brand of catty to that wretch. It was easy work, really.”
Wyll bit back a grin, still refusing to look at Astarion.
“Right,” he nodded, “even still. I don’t doubt Mizora will put up more of a fight when the time comes, but thank you.”
“Gods, Wyll, you can look at me,” Astarion snapped.
The hurt in his voice startled Wyll, and he met Astarion’s eyes as if in reflex.
“I was looking away out of respect for you, Astarion, nothing else,” Wyll explained, tilting his head with a frown.
Astarion scoffed, and sat up.
“I let you in, didn’t I?” Astarion bit out, his scowl back in place.
Wyll blinked at him. This was how it always happened; Wyll would say something genuine, and Astarion would react as though he’d been grievously insulted. Wyll had no idea what he’d said wrong, or how, but Astarion always found something to be upset over when it came to Wyll.
“If you’re so sick of me, Astarion, why would you bother sticking your neck out for me at all?” Wyll asked sharply.
His tone caused Astarion to raise a brow at him, and Wyll winced internally. Now was not the time to present vulnerability to Astarion. He took a step back, halfway out of Astarion’s tent.
“I don’t let kindness go unacknowledged,” he continued. “And you of all people deserve to know when your actions are appreciated.”
Astarion laughed, but it was poisonous and shrill.
“Spare me your pity, oh Blade.”
Wyll clenched his jaw.
“Right, of course, how dare I experience gratitude,” he snapped. “Good night, Astarion.”
Wyll removed himself from Astarion’s tent with battle-ready haste and stormed to his own tent on the other side of their camp. He ignored Gale’s inquisitive gaze as he walked by, opting to come up with an excuse tomorrow.
He couldn’t recall a time he’d ever felt so frustrated in his life. First Astarion defends him, then he gets upset when Wyll thanks him for it. Hadn’t Wyll proven to Astarion yet that he wasn’t the devil he looked to be? Hadn’t Wyll more than earned the vampire’s trust by now? What could Astarion possibly be angling for?
Wyll fell onto his bedroll with a huff and glared at the roof of his tent until sleep eventually claimed him.
~
Before entering the Shadowfell - the last thing on their to-do list before confronting Ketheric Thorm - they decided to take a long rest just in case. The trials of Shar had been taxing, the battle against Yurgir exhausting, and a few miscalculations and bouts of bad luck had left them almost completely at their wit’s end.
But even more worrying to Wyll was how Astarion had seemed to lose all control of his limbs entirely the past few days, to the point of suffering wounds that could’ve easily been avoided and missing hits that would normally be effortless to the quick and cunning rogue. Astarion had grown quieter as well, and even his barbs and taunts sounded weaker than ever before. Wyll had at first dismissed it as apprehension over Astarion’s semi-deal with Raphael, but even when that had been completed, his weakened state remained.
Wyll approached him once they’d all gotten their tents set up. Well, all except for Astarion, who was now struggling to even hold a stone steady enough to drive the tent pegs into the cold dirt. The hollow look in Astarion’s eyes stirred something in Wyll’s mind, and his eyes widened as a thought occurred to him.
He hadn’t seen Astarion feed once since they’d entered the Shadow-cursed Lands. The man was probably blood-starved. Sighing to himself for not noticing it sooner, Wyll cleared his throat to get Astarion’s attention.
“You need blood,” Wyll remarked.
Astarion gazed at him coolly, unamused.
“Figured that out all by yourself, did you?” Astarion retorted, but it lacked half of his usual venom.
“Why didn’t you say anything to us?” Wyll asked, frowning. “We could have helped you.”
“Helped me what?” Astarion stood, drawing in his shoulders as he glared at Wyll. “Helped me find even more undead things with no blood? Or perhaps you would have given me a rousing speech to encourage me forward, despite my gnawing hunger?”
“We could have given you some of our blood, if it came to it,” Wyll insisted. “You didn’t have to starve, Astarion!”
“Right, because you were so eager to help me feed before,” Astarion replied sarcastically. “No, I remember quite well your threat that should my teeth ever come near any one of your necks again, you’d sheathe a stake in my pasty white chest.” He giggled cruelly. “I’d rather be starving than permanently dead, you see.”
“We’re your friends, Astarion,” Wyll implored. “You could have at least asked.”
“I suppose this means you’re offering now?”
Astarion had gotten close enough that Wyll could feel his stale breath against his cheek. Despite Astarion’s fury with Wyll, he stared at Wyll’s neck hungrily.
“I am,” Wyll replied, using his Blade tone again. “With the understanding that you will not take a drop more than you need.”
Astarion glanced up at Wyll, his eyes widening in surprise. He seemed to be hearing Wyll for the first time as his sneer fell away.
“You’re serious?” Astarion whispered.
Wyll nodded, holding his gaze. When Astarion realised he meant it, he deflated, almost falling into Wyll.
“I- alright.” Astarion pressed his lips together firmly, glancing occasionally at Wyll’s neck. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Wyll replied, genuinely pleased to finally be getting somewhere.
“Get comfortable in your tent then, darling,” Astarion instructed. “I promise to be gentle.”
He knew Astarion was loading on the niceties so as not to risk Wyll rescinding his offer, and while it wasn’t necessary, Wyll wasn’t exactly going to tell him to stop being pleasant.
They left Astarion’s failed attempt at his own tent behind and entered Wyll’s together. Wyll reclined onto his pillows, adjusting them to keep his horns off of the ground. Astarion watched him, the hungry gleam in his eyes never leaving no matter what part of Wyll he looked at. The sight was enough to speed up Wyll’s heart just a bit, which would probably be helpful for Astarion anyway. Anything to make it easier, of course.
“You’ll stop if I say, right?” Wyll asked as Astarion began leaning over him.
“Of course, dear,” Astarion practically gasped.
Wyll took a steadying breath and stilled his body. Astarion moved one hand to cup the back of Wyll’s neck as the other clutched the ground beside Wyll’s head for support, and dipped his mouth into the crook of Wyll’s neck. Wyll suppressed a shiver as Astarion’s lips ghosted his skin, feather-light.
The sudden prick of Astarion’s teeth almost caused Wyll to yelp, but he managed to hold it back. The pain quickly gave way to a numb warmth, like the rapid forming of a bruise. He could feel the slight tug of his blood as it entered Astarion’s mouth, and it was unnerving, but he tolerated it. Then Astarion let out a moan so forceful that Wyll almost jerked away, his eyes widening. Suddenly he couldn’t quite feel anything else but the heat in his face.
Just as the first pinpricks of lightheadedness teased his vision, Wyll tapped Astarion’s arm, and Astarion pulled himself away with a gasp. He dove back in again to lap at the lingering blood on Wyll’s neck, and Wyll had to bite his cheek to keep from pushing up into Astarion’s touch. It was a truly embarrassing situation he’d found himself in, and utterly unexpected. As Astarion panted over him, Wyll spent that time panicking and attempting to calm down from his very inappropriate response.
“Gods,” Astarion gasped, undoing all of Wyll’s efforts to calm down in an instant. “You are… delectable.”
Wyll shuffled to the side so he could sit up without clocking Astarion in the head with his horns. His face was still unbearably warm, his heart was still racing, and he didn’t even want to acknowledge anything going on lower than that. Astarion’s delighted tone made his admission twice as flattering, but Wyll refused to let it go to his head. Either head for that matter.
“It was good?” Wyll asked, and while he had attempted to sound friendly instead he sounded breathless and hopeful.
It was utterly unfair how Astarion could still make him feel this way.
“It was perfect,” Astarion promised. “You… you are perfect.”
Wyll blinked at him in shock. Astarion seemed to realise what he’d said was odd, and he shook his head as if clearing his thoughts.
“I knew you’d taste sweet,” Astarion continued, sounding much more sure of himself now. “But I hadn’t expected you to taste so rich as well. It was like…” Astarion scrunched up his face in consideration, and Wyll tried and failed not to find it adorable. “Oh, who am I kidding, I don’t remember what any foods taste like. But I imagine you taste better.”
Wyll cleared his throat, sharp and efficient.
“Are you- do you feel satisfied?” Wyll asked, suddenly feeling like his already fraying shirt collar was still too tight.
“I’m more than satisfied, darling,” Astarion said with a smile. “I’m… happy.”
Damning the flutter that stirred in his chest, Wyll nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Everyone deserves that.”
“You’re so very wrong about that, my dear,” Astarion replied coolly, but his smile remained. “But… thank you.”
Wyll couldn’t hold back a smile of his own any longer.
“You’re welcome.”
Quiet settled between them, and Wyll’s logical thinking finally caught up.
“Of course, this will only happen when absolutely necessary,” he added firmly. “I won’t let you starve, but I need my blood, too.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll more than content myself with vagrant chickens,” Astarion teased. “And the occasional cultist.”
“Good.”
Wyll didn’t know what else to say, and the blood loss was starting to make him feel a bit woozy, but Astarion was still gazing at him with an almost manic hunger. He’d claimed to feel satisfied, but perhaps his starvation had been dragged on for so long that real satisfaction wouldn’t be found until he’d fed from several necks.
Astarion’s eyes flickered over Wyll’s face, before settling on Wyll’s mouth. When Wyll noticed a muscle clench in Astarion’s jaw, he took that as his cue to get Astarion out of his tent before he tried to bite Wyll again.
“Right, well,” Wyll spoke a bit too loudly in his eagerness and startled Astarion a bit, but he couldn’t feel too bad about it, “if you are done-”
“Yes, of course,” Astarion replied, moving to get up.
He paused just as suddenly, meeting Wyll’s eyes again.
“This is a gift, you know,” Astarion said, his voice surprisingly soft. “I won’t forget it.”
Wyll could only nod as Astarion finally left his tent. It occurred to him belatedly that he should also offer to help Astarion set up his own tent, but Astarion had already skipped away, and Wyll didn’t think it would be appreciated.
He closed his tent flap and fell back onto his pillows, sighing heavily. He ran his fingers over the bite wound Astarion had left him, and while it no longer hurt, the skin was still raised and tender. He tried pushing on it, but when that immediately sent a jolt to his groin, he yanked his hand away.
Wyll forced his breathing to slow, embracing the warm grasp of sleep at last.