Chapter Text
Wyll clears his throat.
“It seems our luxuries have been cut short.” The strap of his adventuring pack slides off his shoulder with a thud. “You can take the bed, I promise I won’t hold it against you. It's certainly not the worst place I’ve slept– nor the first.”
Astarion laughs, short and haughty. “Darling, I assure you, it's more than fine. You'll hurt your back." He pats the mattress expectantly. "I promise I don't bite," he says with a wink.
Wyll scoffs and shakes his head, amused. ”Is that so?” he says, looking up from his boots.
Astarion flashes a coy, toothy smile. “Why? Do you want me to?” he asks, his voice lowering a register.
The way Astarion leans so casually against the pillows looks like he’s done it a thousand times before. He probably has. Wyll doesn’t deny it, even if he’s a little embarrassed, but he grins and lets the question linger for a small while. Then, he moves over to the bed. He sits against the mattress, making the springs creak beneath him. “Not particularly.”
The elf rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun. If you’re that averse to being next to me, by all means, sleep on the floor.”
“I’m not..” Wyll sighs, mixed with a breathy sort of laugh, “I figured you’d be more comfortable by yourself. Nothing against you.”
This seems to appease the other, at least for the moment. "Good." Astarion stretches his arms out and yawns. "I do hope you rest well. We need you to be strong, don't we?" A lilt of his voice implies teasing.
Wyll looks at him, how he lays there with the utmost ease. Like he’s not being watched at all, or rather, like he’s putting on a show.
“Of course,” he yawns back. “Just be glad I’m letting you have the bed rather than digging up a coffin.”
Astarion’s elegant posture slumps as he jumps up. Before, he looked refined. Seductive, even, with how his undershirt shirt fell across his chest, and how he draped himself across the bed. He glares at Wyll, laughing nervously.
“Wyll? Ex-cuse me?” He says this as he props himself up on his elbows. “Has that tadpole begun eating at your brain?”
The Blade grins. “I don’t know, are you a vampire?” he asks, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Astarion was rather.. vampiric in nature. The red eyes, pallid skin, not to mention those canines.
"Of course not, Wyll. Gods, a real vampire would've drained the whole lot of you by now." He pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to seem convincing. "I don't even need sleep, being an elf and all. I was just trying to be nice .”
“Ah, well…”
Wyll scoots a little closer to the middle of the bed, looking at Astarion. He can tell he struck a nerve, which means the vampire is either incredibly defensive or incredibly honest.
“I’ve had a long day,” he says with a sigh, “and I’m assuming we both feel a little more than just tired. So, I’ll see myself to the floor while you..” he trails off.
“Trance?”
“Yes. I haven't held the company of many elves in my life, I apologise.”
Astarion leans back into his relaxed posture. "It’s fine.” He seems to stare off. “It only lasts a few hours, anyhow." One of his ears twitches.
“It sounds interesting,” blurts the warlock. He turns his head, looking down at his boots before standing up, “I hope it’s alright to say that. I’m sure you find sleep strange as well, no?”
The other shrugs lazily. “I suppose. It just looks like you’re lying there, honestly. A bit boring.”
Wyll begins undoing his armour, like he should have many minutes ago before being distracted. “Does trancing look different?”
“I don't know, does it fucking look like I can watch myself?” snaps Astarion, with no true bite behind his words.
“I could.”
Astarion stays quiet for a moment before loudly guffawing. "Ha! Oh, Wyll, you can’t be serious... are you?" He mimes the action of wiping a tear from his eye before continuing. "By all means, if you want to watch me that bad.." he idly traces circles on the sheets with his fingers, "I guess you could. Not much I could do to stop you."
Wyll slips his tank top over his head, turning to face him. “You make it sound so horrible. I was merely offering another perspective. Some insight, if you will.”
“No, you Wyll.”
He laughs dryly. “Haha. Very funny. I’m serious.”
Astarion sighs dramatically. “If you’re that keen on wasting your time, I’d suggest watching a gnoll learn to read. Although, if you ever want to stare at my beautiful face, just say the word,” he winks.
A soft laugh falls from the human's lips. “‘Beautiful’ is a bit generous.”
The vampire rolls his eyes playfully. "Whatever you say. You're a grown man calling himself The Blade of Frontiers." He stands up and begins unlacing his undershirt, turned away from Wyll. He stays oddly quiet while he focuses on removing it. He speaks up again once he lifts it up over his head. "Is that all, or can we go to bed?" he says with an ungenuine chuckle.
“One more question, if I may," Wyll asks with a tilt of his head.
“Hm. Go on, won't you?" he asks as he slips his shirt off over his head. His ribs are showing, bruises near his hips barely peeking out over the waist of his pants. He turns to dig through his pack to find his nightshirt. "If it's the vampire thing again, I’ll slap you."
“No, no. It’s not the… vampire thing,” the warlock half laughs, half sighs. He did want to ask about that, but he's quickly distracted by the motion of other man looking through his bag, his gaze drawn to the bruising on his hips. “Nevermind it. You’re hurt,” he says quietly. “Those look like they sting…”
The elf’s shoulders shake as he chuckles softly. “Observant, aren’t you? They’re old. Nothing to worry about.”
His spine is visible. His ribs too, he's sure, and his skin is littered with scars and marks he could only imagine what caused. Wyll is only partially listening to him, reaching out to place his hand on his hip, over one particularly big bruise.
Astarion turns around almost immediately, letting Wyll’s hand drag across his skin. He looks into the other’s mismatched eyes. His own seem to show nothing despite his grin. Not lust, or even shallow interest. “My. How forward.”
He gently recoils his hand. “I didn’t intend to come across like that. They-”
A cold hand grabs his, guiding it back to his pale hips. “Go on.”
“Astarion, ” he whispers, sternly. “I’m flattered, but you don’t want this.”
That coy smile drops as his lips flatten into a line. “A shame. I promise, you’re nothing I can’t handle.”
“No, that’s not what I- You clearly don’t want this.”
Astarion stills for a moment. "Fine.” He lets go of the other’s hand, and Wyll almost misses the contact. “As for the bruises, don't get too caught up in something that doesn't matter." His voice seems a bit colder. Defensive. He slips his nightshirt on before moving past the other.
Wyll frowns at the tone of Astarion’s voice, hearing the difference immediately. Something about it feels odd; like the elf’s suddenly trying to distance himself from whatever memory he has about those bruises. He slowly follows him to the bed. “It does matter,” he says quietly. “You’re part of my team, and if you get hurt on my watch, the blame is on me.”
"It wasn't on your watch. Do us both a favour and drop it. I hope you sleep well," he says with a bite in his tone.
The elf’s ears twitch, pinning back almost like an animal. Like prey. Seeing it makes Wyll hesitate. He isn’t sure exactly what those bruises are from, but it clearly isn’t something good. A small, minuscule part of him hopes that it was just the aftermath of an adventurous night with a lover. And the way he was responding… it’s sensitive. Wyll doesn’t want to push any further. He doesn’t want to cross the line. But it worries him, truly. He sighs, and his voice is soft. ”…Alright. I’ll drop it.”
The pale elf moves towards the bed and lays down silently, curling a bit in on himself, away from Wyll's current position. He doesn’t even bother to lace up his nightshirt. The large, billowy fabric makes him look so skinny- no, underweight, Wyll corrects his thoughts. "Thank you. Now get in here before I do make you sleep on the floor." He nuzzles his head into one of the pillows.
Gods, there’s the snarky tone Wyll usually hears from him. It makes him feel more at ease. He chuckles, moving over to the bed and laying down beside the other man. He stays on his side of the bed, not wanting to be too close, but rolls over to look at him.
Astarion’s eyes are already shut.