Chapter Text
It hadn’t been far from their camp. Rather close, a bit past the Grove and along the Risen Road.
It was violent. Nothing Astarion wasn’t used to, no, he was a fan of bloodshed even outside his nature, simply disgusting. Gnolls had littered the path with rotting corpses. The blood was foul. It smelled like bile. He could almost swear he could taste it in his mouth.
A gnoll snarls at him, charging forward as he succinctly stabs into its neck with a dagger. Twisting, trying to drag the blade, but it refuses. It will not slit the creature’s throat. It had nestled in too comfortably.
The gnoll, immediately yowling and gurgling in pain, grabs at Astarion’s hair with the last of its strength. It smashes his head into the ground as it falls beside him.
Astarion lags just a moment behind. Enough for the gnoll to thread its claws through his armour, right before they both fall limp.
A brief, painful scream is all that Wyll hears in the midst of battle. There were only a few of the gnolls left, he was sure the rest of them could take care of it while he investigated.
He thrusts his blade backwards, sliding out of the gnoll it had pierced, and doesn’t bother to sheathe it as he runs towards where he had heard it coming from.
Karlach was accounted for. He’d seen her heaving her axe through the gnolls but a minute ago besides Lae’zel. Gale had sat this day out, as well as Shadowheart, both in camp. They’d been in a rather empty area. It wouldn’t be a civilian. That leaves.. only one person it could possibly be.
Wyll shouts, "Astarion?"
There he is, with a gnoll’s claws deep in his belly.
They both lie still.
He kneels by the elf, the rest of the fight no longer relevant to him. Karlach and Lae’zel were perfectly capable of handling themselves. He taps him on the shoulder gently.
Astarion stirs, although with a far off look in his eyes. He blinks, looking up at Wyll.
“Astarion!” he repeats, shaking him.
"..What?" the elf asks, his voice soft and shaky, almost scared. He looks past Wyll, like he doesn't recognize him at first.
Wyll's expression grows worried. "Astarion, you took quite a tumble there. You’ve been punctured. I’m going to take the claws out, okay?”
He barely acknowledges anything. Wyll grips the gnoll’s paw, still warm and twitching- eugh - and pulls backwards. Astarion moans in pain. The claws are snagged inside. Carefully, and extremely disgusted, Wyll has to peel each finger out. Its curved nails are covered in dark blood. He throws the arm, rolling the dead animal away from him.
“Okay. Can you see correctly? How many fingers am I holding up?"
He holds up two fingers, watching Astarion closely.
Astarion blinks over and over, stalling his answer. "..Three. No, two. Fuck-" he struggles to sit up, "Fuck, my stomach." He ghosts his fingers over the wound. "Wyll," he mutters weakly, pulling his hand away as his fingers drip blood.
"Damnit-" Wyll lets out a curse when he sees the severity of it, and his expression grows more panicked. "Try not to move. Just... give me a moment."
He looks around for his pack, reaching into the pockets for a healing potion to give him. It's the last one he has.
"Wyll," Astarion says again, just as weak as before. His eyes follow the other's movements as he can't do much himself.
"It's okay, Astarion. I'm here."
Wyll unhooks the cork from the potion, then gently lifts Astarion's head up to make it easier to drink. "Try to drink as much of this as you can. It'll help."
He puts the potion to Astarion's lips, gently tilting the bottle so the liquid pours into his mouth.
Astarion gulps down the potion like his life depends on it– actually, it does. His eyes are shut tight and brows furrowed in pain.
Wyll gently brushes some of the elf's hair out of his face with his other hand. "That's it. Just relax. The wound should heal up soon. You'll be good as new in no time." He pulls the empty potion bottle back, keeping his free hand still resting on the side of Astarion's head.
Magically, the wound on his stomach seems to barely heal itself from the inside out. The bleeding slows, the deep gash still very noticeable and painful, but more manageable for the time until they get to Shadowheart. He leans his face into Wyll’s hand, eyes fluttering open. He looks straight in the other's eyes. A wordless Thank you.
Wyll's tense expression morphs into a sigh of relief. He lets out a deep exhale and manages the faintest of smiles. It had done less than he hoped, but it was certainly better.
"That's better." The human keeps his hand resting on Astarion's face, gently caressing it with his thumb.
Astarion's smile is wobbly. He feels around for Wyll's shoulders until his hands find themselves there, squeezing gently with all the strength he had. "Camp," he mutters, "Take me. Now .”
"Okay, okay. Let's- let's get you back to camp then, alright? We'll get you comfortable."
Wyll slips his arms under Astarion's, gently scooping him up. One arm under his back, the other hooked under his thighs. He holds Astarion close against his chest and rises to his feet.
"Lean on me, if you need to. I've got you."
“I’ll get blood on-”
“Blood will wash out.”
“But your-”
“My pack is not as important as a friend.”
Astarion sighs in Wyll's arms, having nothing to quip back. He leans against his chest.
Wyll tries his best to ignore the fluttering feeling stirring in his chest as Astarion relaxes in his arms, and starts making his way back to camp. The others have already packed up and are anxiously waiting for them.
"What took- Oh gods, what happened now? How is he?" Shadowheart asks as they approach.
“A deep cut to the stomach, I’m afraid. Gnoll claws. As for how he-”
"Tired," he mumbles against Wyll. "Put- put me down on a bedroll so I can trance." He lifts his head, with great effort, to look at Wyll. "Please."
"Of course."
Shadowheart follows them to his tent, “He’ll need bandaging, you know.”
“I’m certain he will. Can you do that while he’s laying down?” Wyll asks as he slowly lowers Astarion onto his bedroll.
She clicks her tongue. “He’ll have to roll over.”
Wyll looks at the pitiful expression on the rogue’s face. “How about I hold him upright, and you do it while he sits?”
“That certainly sounds easier.”
Astarion fades in and out. One moment, he’s in pain, being carried, another he’s listening to two people talk incessantly. He can’t quite make anything out.
The next moment Astarion comes to, he’s lying down on his bedroll. There’s a light pressure around the wound. He glances at it, all bandaged up, his shirt had been discarded at some point. He groans.
He reaches for something- anyone. He knew someone was probably still in the tent with him. His fingers brush a hand. "Thank you," he mumbles sleepily.
Wyll lets out a small, soft chuckle- he could tell just by the laugh- and gently holds Astarion's hands back. He smiles warmly at the drowsy behaviour.
"You're very welcome. Just try to rest now, alright? You need it."
He quickly tightens his grip on Wyll's hand. "Stay," he says, struggling to keep his eyes open.
As Astarion's fingers tighten around his own, the desperation makes it next to impossible for Wyll to refuse.
"Of- Of course. I'll stay right here with you. You can rest now."
He smiles, satisfied with the other's cooperation. His eyes flutter shut as he slips into trance. His grip on Wyll's hand relaxes, but still holds on to him.
Once Astarion drifts off into trance, Wyll sighs. He gently lowers their hands beside his body, then sits down on the edge of the bedroll. He uses his free hand to brush some of the hair out of the elf's face.
He sits there for a moment, simply watching Astarion rest.
He trances soundly, not squirming a bit. He wakes about thirty minutes later. It wasn't a full rest by any means. He usually slept upwards of four hours, five if he needed, but the short reprieve helped. He groggily opens his eyes, squeezing Wyll's hand.
As soon as he feels the slight pressure against his hand, Wyll snaps out of his own thoughts and looks down at Astarion. He's relieved to see that he's awake again and seems to be at least a little more refreshed now.
"How are you feeling?" He asks gently, giving Astarion's hand a reassuring squeeze back.
Slowly moving his gaze to look up at Wyll, he murmurs something not quite intelligible.
"Wyll," he smiles, his voice uncharacteristically soft and genuine. "Hurts," he emphasises by glancing at his bandaged stomach, "but it's better."
"That's good," Wyll replies, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
"I'd expect it to hurt for a while, but at least the healing magic took well. Hopefully, it won't take much longer to recover..."
As Astarion looks up at him, wincing, he can't help but be charmed by the elf's softer demeanour for a moment. He looks and sounds so much more... vulnerable. And it's endearing, in an odd, unexpected sort of way.
Astarion, on the other hand, is still shaken up from the whole thing that he doesn't notice. He looks up at Wyll like he's the only thing in the world. He blinks slowly, tracing his features with his eyes.
As Wyll feels Astarion's gaze lingering upon his features, he begins to feel flustered.
Despite that, he can't help but be affected by the intensity of Astarion's stare, especially with those sharp, deep red eyes... those weren’t natural for elves, were they?
"...you're staring at me," he says quietly after a brief moment.
"Sorry," Astarion mumbles. He turns his gaze to their hands. "You stayed. Thank you." He moves to sit up, to look at Wyll at an equal angle.
As he moves, Wyll instinctively places his free hand on his lower back to help him. He keeps his palm against Astarion for support, wanting to usher him back into laying down.
"Of course I stayed," he says softly. "I told you I would, didn't I?"
Now face to face, Astarion's smile widens. He leans in towards Wyll, languidly throwing one arm around his waist. His motions are off since he's still 'waking up' from his trance, but he's trying to hug him.
As Astarion's arm wraps around his waist, Wyll instinctively wraps his arms around the elf's body in return, embracing him firmly but carefully, mindful of his injury.
This feels strangely intimate, but it's not unwelcome. In fact, he can't deny that he's actually enjoying it.
"You're very... thankful. Are you always like this when you wake?" He chuckles.
"Mm," he hums. "Wouldn't risk finding out. That's why I wake an hour before everyone else." His eyelids are fluttering closed, but he tries to stay awake, tightening his grip on Wyll. "Maybe it's just the blood loss. Thank you, Wyll. For saving me."
As Astarion's grip tightens on him, Wyll's heart skips a beat. It's like he's almost afraid to let him go.
"No wonder we wouldn't see this normally."
He gently pats the elf's back, as he tries not to pay too much attention to the rising heat in his cheeks.
"It really wasn't that big of a deal. I'd do it again for any of you."
"Was a big deal to me," he mumbles, turning his face away. He yawns, catlike, one fang sticking out over his lower lip. "'M not feeling the best right now, so I'm not focusing on... keeping up an image.. or whatever." One of his ears flicks. "I don't like people seeing this."
As Astarion yawns and turns his face away, it's impossible for Wyll not to notice how... cute he is behaving right now. A stark contrast to his usual demeanour.
"That so?" He asks, still keeping his arms wrapped around the elf. "You don't like people seeing this side of you? The... real one?"
The elf shakes his head.
“I’m sure Karlach would get a kick out of you being all cuddly. After all, I’ve rarely seen you relax. The vulnerability looks good on you, my friend.”
"Being vulnerable has only ever gotten me hurt," he mutters. He lets his head fall against Wyll's shoulder, "I guess it's nice when I know I'll be okay. Can't really stop it."
Wyll's heart aches a little when he hears Astarion's words. And the way he's currently leaning against his shoulder, so soft and vulnerable, only adds to that feeling tenfold.
And once again, he's caught off guard by how strangely he feels about the whole thing.
"Well, you are okay. You're safe here." He reassures the elf, gently rubbing his back.
"I know I am." He arches his back a bit, into Wyll's gentle touch. The action draws a soft sigh from Wyll's lips. "I want.. I wanna trance again," he slurs, obviously fighting sleep. "If I lay down, will you lay down?"
He gently rubs the elf's back again, then answers his question. "...Yeah," he replies, "If that's what you want, I don't mind laying down with you. Although... I'm not sure we'll both fit onto your bedroll."
He nods lazily in agreement. "You can get yours. First, 'm.. 'm gonna lay down.." he mumbles, slowly easing himself down onto the bedroll with a sigh of relief.
"Okay," he says, keeping his hand on his back to set him down.
Once Astarion is lying comfortably on the bedroll again, Wyll takes a moment to look at him, then sighs.
"Alright, I'll get mine. Don't you dare fall back into trance again before I'm back," he teases, although there's a hint of worry behind it that he can't quite conceal.
Wyll exits the tent only to notice two people looking straight at him.
“It’s about time you came out here,” Shadowheart says. Her tone is firm, but it's clear that she’s simply teasing.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “My deepest apologies. He’s keeping me quite.. busy.”
“Oh, yeah?” butts in Karlach, with her mouth full of food. “What’s he want?”
Wyll sits down next to the two, gently basking in the warmth of the campfire. “Hm.. company. I can’t say I’m the best choice, but..”
Karlach swallows. “Aw, come on, man. You’re great!” She punctuates with a soft punch to Wyll’s shoulder.
“Regardless of that,” interrupts the half elf, “all he wants is company?”
“It seems so. He refuses to let go of me- I’m surprised I got out for a moment!” he laughs.
“I told him that you’d get a kick out of seeing it, Karlach. Did you know that’s the reason he wakes up so much earlier than everyone else?”
“Huh,” she smiles. “Cuddlebug Astarion. That is weird to think about!”
Shadowheart nods in agreement. “Extremely. I might have nightmares,” she laughs. “How is he otherwise?”
“He’s still in pain. It’s hard to gauge how much, but resting will definitely do him good.” His eyes widen a bit, “That reminds me.”
Wyll braces his hands on his knees as he stands up, walking to his tent. “I’ll be back in a moment!” he shouts.
“What are you doing?” Shadowheart shouts back.
He’s already rolling up his bedroll, tucking it under one arm, picking up a few books from his personal stash. “He wants to sleep with me.”
Gale looks up from his book with furrowed brows. Lae’zel continues to sharpen her sword without even sparing a glance. The two women by the fire share tentative glances before Karlach exclaims, “Woo! Fuck yeah!”
“No- No, none of that,” he gestures wildly. “He wants to sleep next to me. Sorry. A bit frazzled from it all.” His cheeks feel warm thinking of just sleeping beside him.
“Aw man. No, I get it. You’re a sweet guy. You wouldn’t romp around,” she laughs loudly.
Shadowheart sighs. “ Karlach ,” she says, placing one hand on the other’s shoulder, “We should let Wyll get back to Astarion. Though, please tell me you’re not reading him the mermaid book as a bedtime story,” she gestures to the books tucked under his arm.
The tiefling looks between them. “The mermaid one? What mermaid one?”
Wyll silently shakes his head ‘no’ while Shadowheart whispers into Karlach’s ear.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Oh. That.. alright. That’s weird.” She huffs, cracking her knuckles. “Wyll, say hi to fangs for me, huh?”
“I will.”
“Yeah. You Wyll.”
He shakes his head, laughing his way back to Astarion’s tent.
By the time Wyll comes back, he's still conscious. He smiles at him dopily. "You're back," he says, deadpan and quiet, although his smile makes it genuine. Wyll can't help but let out a small laugh at the elf's dazed demeanour. It's quite... entertaining to see him this way, and the smile on his face is surprisingly endearing.
"Of course I'm back. Did you really expect different?" He responds amusedly, as he rolls his own bedroll out beside Astarion's and lies back on it. He’s tucked the books aside in the corner.
"No," he hums.
“Good. Karlach and Shadowheart say hello.”
Astarion smiles. “Aww.” He turns his head to look at Wyll, "Can you hold me again? Until I..?"
Wyll blinks, and once again, he's a little thrown off-guard by the request. But the sleepy, almost needy look on Astarion's face is too much to resist.
"Of course," he says quietly, "Come closer, then, and I'll hold you as long as you want."
He moves closer, melting into his arms. His eyes flutter shut as he yawns again, both fangs sticking out now. "Thank you.." he whispers. He slips into trance almost immediately.
As Astarion moves closer and settles into his embrace, Wyll can't help but feel a sudden wave of unexpected tenderness. He holds the elf close, one arm wrapped around his back with his hand gently rubbing it in a soothing manner, while his other hand rests in his hair, gently and slowly tracing his fingers through the silvery locks.
The sight of the elf's fangs stuck out from his yawn is strangely adorable, and it brings a soft, affectionate smile to Wyll's face.
A few hours pass before Astarion stirs again. It's odd, since he doesn't breathe, simply laying there like a rock. He groans, stretching his legs out and nuzzling against Wyll's hand. He squints one eye open, taking in the sight of his own tent.
As Astarion wakes, Wyll lets out an amused hum. He looks down at the elf, watching as he slowly wakes up again.
"Well, well, look who's awake again." He says softly, still brushing his fingers gently through the elf's hair. He then grins as he notices the dazed look on Astarion's face. "Had a good trance?"
For a moment, he forgets his usual persona and cadence, taken back by Wyll's beauty. He stares up at him, mouth agape. It's a strange but real affectionate side.
"I.. yes, thank you."
If he was still alive, he'd be blushing. He quickly remembers himself, clearing his throat, and pushing himself up to a sitting position. "Gods, this will mess with my schedule. What time is it?"
As Astarion sits up, Wyll watches him with a hint of fascination in his gaze. Despite the fact that the elf is trying to act like his usual self, there's still a hint of that vulnerable, soft demeanour lingering behind the facade. It's subtle, but Wyll can tell that it's there.
He takes a moment to check the time, and answers the question. "It's just about midnight. But... don't worry too much about your schedule. You're supposed to be recovering, remember?"
Astarion scoffs. "Ugh. As if I could forget." He rubs his eyes with one hand before gesturing with it, "I get that there's nothing to do , but I don't want to sleep all the time away."
Wyll chuckles at Astarion's response, finding his grumbling to be strangely endearing. "I know, it can be boring to just sit around all day."
He pats Astarion's back, gently. "It'll only be like this for a little while. You'll be back to sneaking around in the shadows and trying to get people to fall for your charms soon enough."
He lets out a short laugh. "Ha! Trying . I'll have you know I'm rather successful in that department. Not that you would know, with your.." he gestures towards the books in the corner, "fluffy romance novel bullshit. Honestly, I don't understand how anyone could read those.."
Wyll raises an eyebrow, mildly insulted by Astarion's comment. He folds his arms across his chest and gives the elf a mock glare.
"Excuse you, romance novels are.. romantic." He says, trying to sound indignant. "Just because you don't appreciate the beauty of a well-written love story doesn't mean they're all bullshit."
"’Romance novels are romantic.’ And water is wet.” He rolls his eyes playfully. “Maybe it's just a generational thing. I know I don't look it,” he runs one hand through his curls, “I’m flawless, obviously, but I am older than you. Remind me how old you are again? Thirty?"
Wyll lets out an amused huff at Astarion's teasing tone. He can't help but be slightly amused by the playful banter between them.
"Thirty? You think I'm thirty?" He replies, putting on a mock offended look. "I'm not a day older than twenty-four, I'll have you know."
"Twenty-?!" He cuts himself off, in genuine shock. He looks at Wyll, taken aback. "Gods, you're serious." He mumbles, to himself, "With you in here, I look like a cradle robber."
Wyll grins, relishing in Astarion's shocked expression. He finds the moment oddly amusing.
"What, is my youthful charm and dashing looks too much for your refined palate?" He chuckles, clearly enjoying the reaction.
"Refined?! You-" he cuts himself off again, exasperated. He worries his lip while planning his next words carefully. "No. You should be doing something better with your life, shouldn't you? Whatever. It doesn't matter." He says to himself, again, "Twenty four. Gods. You should be at the tavern."
Wyll laughs again at Astarion's reaction, finding the whole thing to be very amusing. He can practically see the gears turning in the elf's mind as he tries to process the revelation.
"What's the matter, does the idea of me being younger than you bother you? Are you afraid I'll steal the spotlight?" He teases, his tone lighthearted and playful.
"I'm done with this conversation," he retorts playfully. He tries standing up, much to no avail, clutching his stomach in pain. He falls back down against the bedroll, gently running his fingers over the bandages and wincing. "This is horrible. I can't do anything for the next.. however long this takes to heal."
However long it takes to heal . He knew it wouldn’t, not at this moment. He hadn’t fed in weeks. There was no way his body could possibly heal itself when he was starving. In this condition, he couldn’t exactly sneak away to go hunt, either.
Wyll's teasing grin quickly fades as he watches Astarion.
He moves closer, placing a gentle hand on the elf's shoulder. "Hey, take it easy. You're still recovering, remember? You shouldn't be pushing yourself like this."
"I know, I know. I just wish I wasn't confined to my own fucking tent," he sighs. "I mean, things like this are usually better soon after Shadowheart's work. I don't know what makes this different."
He bites his tongue. He knows damn well why.
Wyll can sense the frustration in Astarion's voice, and he can't help but feel a pang of empathy. He understands how difficult it must be for the usually active and independent elf to be confined due to his injury.
"I know it's frustrating," he says sympathetically. "But you have to remember, you've been through a lot. Your body needs time to heal. And her magic can only do so much."
Astarion nods solemnly. Being restricted to one area, he's been in this situation before, albeit much more sinister. When still within Cazador's clutches – he's not entirely sure if he's free from it yet – he would be imprisoned in the kennels for weeks on end, sometimes months. One time, a year. He's used to being in one place, especially while injured. It's a shame the taste of his newfound freedom almost made him forget about that.
As Astarion thinks, their tadpoles connect for a brief moment. Pain rushes through Wyll’s mind and body, clawing at his back, yet he can’t quite make anything of the visuals. Chains, confinement, bones breaking and healing wrong. Someone speaking- shouting. A brief glimpse of faces. Never-ending pain.
Astarion severs the connection.
Wyll hesitates for a moment, trying to choose his words carefully, before gently breaking the silence.
"You, um... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to see that.”
"It doesn’t matter," he replies dourly. "It truly doesn't matter. I'll.. make the most of this, I suppose." His ears tilt downwards, a betraying sign of how he truly feels.
Wyll can see through Astarion's attempts to brush off the matter. It's clear that the topic is bothering him more than he's letting on.
"Hey," he says gently, leaning in slightly closer to the elf. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it. But... you don't have to pretend like it doesn't bother you, either. I can tell something's on your mind."
"I'm just saying I'd rather be out and enjoying life. And don't-" he sighs. "'I can tell something's on your mind'", he says mockingly. "Don't act so kind to me. I assure you, I'm just feeling off from the deep gash in my stomach."
Wyll raises an eyebrow at Astarion's mocking tone, but he doesn't take the bait. He can tell that the elf is just trying to deflect.
"..Okay. You can try to deny it all you want, but I can see through that flimsy disguise you're trying to hide behind," he says. "You don’t have to say anything now, but we will have to speak about it at some point.”
Astarion says nothing, instead flopping down on his bedroll again with crossed arms. He brings one hand to his head at the sudden dizziness. He huffs in annoyance that he does in fact need to recover.
Wyll lets out a small laugh at Astarion's petulant behaviour. Despite the elf's attempts to act tough, it's clear that he's still feeling the effects of his injury.
“You really should be treating yourself more gently," he says, still amused. "You're going to make yourself even dizzier if you keep acting like a spoiled child."
Astarion instantly stiffens. " Don’t .. call me a child." His voice is firm, yet the smallest bit shaky. He recalls how Cazador would force him and the other spawn to refer to him as their 'father'. He hated being a part of that sick ‘family’. Being the favourite- Cazador's favourite to torture.
"..I do have to take it easy, don't I," he asks dryly. "Not much I can do about it, it seems."
Wyll immediately senses the change in Astarion's demeanour. He quickly realises that he's hit a sensitive spot and he mentally kicks himself for it.
He moves closer, his expression turning remorseful. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I didn't... I meant that you need to take better care.”
He says nothing for a moment, ears barely twitching by the sides of his head. Then, he leans into his pillow, away from Wyll.
Wyll looks at him, eyes tracing the outline of his spine and ribs. Gods, Astarion was skinnier than he seemed. Malnourished at worst, or at least underweight. Does he eat enough? he wonders. He leans closer.
“I didn't realise it would upset you like that,” he says gently.
The elf is still turned, his back facing Wyll. Scars peek out from over the bandages in an intricate circle. They seem deep- not recent, but not fully healed.
Wyll can’t stop himself from frowning. “You don’t have to talk to me now. I’ll leave if you wish me to.”
Immediately, Astarion rolls over. He looks up at the other, trembling. "Stay. Come closer. Sit down with me, or.. something." His demeanour is partially back, but the softness is slipping through like sand through fingers.
Wyll is taken aback by Astarion's demand, but he quickly covers it with a small smile. He can see the vulnerability slipping through the elf's usual cold and guarded exterior.
He nods, moving his own bedroll closer, it’d shifted during his sleep. "Of course," he says softly. He sits down again, careful not to accidentally bump into the elf's injured body. "Is this okay?"
Astarion gives a small nod. His expression is hard to read. He runs his fingers over the fabric of the pillow, as if calming himself.
"..How long do you think I'll need to stay put?" He asks, idly tracing shapes on the pillow with his finger.
Wyll watches, pondering for a moment before answering the question.
"Well, it's hard to say for sure. Shadowheart's healing magic is powerful, but your injury was serious. I wouldn't expect you to be fully healed for at least several days. A week or two, perhaps." He pauses for a moment, studying the elf's expression. "Why do you ask?"
His ears droop and his lips wobble as he hums in response. "Mm. A week or two. I'll have to stay here for a week or two. In my tent. With nothing to do," he sighs. "Alone."
He’s more worried about the fact there’s no way he could properly heal without revealing he’s a vampire. If he did, Wyll would surely kill him on the spot.
Wyll can sense the restlessness in Astarion's voice.
"We won’t leave you alone, but it's important to let your body heal properly," he replies, trying to reassure the elf. "You can't be going around fighting monsters with a gaping wound in your stomach, now can you?"
And yet, Astarion thinks, what was it worth? If he could barely do anything himself, what was the harm in telling anyone? He’d be doomed either way.
Astarion frowns, almost pained. His gaze is focused on his own hand. "Wyll.." he starts, exhaling shakily, "you.. you know , right?"
Wyll raises an eyebrow, sensing the weight in Astarion's voice. He tilts his head slightly, looking at the elf with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"I know what?" he asks, his voice gentle.
The elf lets out another choppy exhale. "That I'm.. I'm.. a vampire?" His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, like he's scared of the answer. "This isn't going to heal how it would for.. for a normal person."
Wyll's eyes widen in feigned surprise, but he tries to keep his expression neutral. The pieces had fallen into place way back when they met. It was all very obvious; his pale complexion, the nocturnal tendencies, the fangs for fuck’s sake, but he never could have imagined the other telling him so blatantly. He pauses, that old thought returning to him and twisting into something new. What good of a monster hunter was he if he was here kneeling over one, nursing him to health?
"I... I had my suspicions," he lies, his voice just as quiet as the elf's. "But I didn't want to make assumptions. Is the injury not healing properly because you’re..?"
He swallows nervously. Wyll had taken the information much better than he'd expected. "No, not exactly. Since I joined you all, I've.. I've been starving myself." His voice becomes shaky again. "You know, I- I didn't want you all to think I was a monster, but- I suppose that's what I am." He squeezes his eyes shut, his face against the pillow as he sniffles and tries to regain composure. "I’m starving. That's why it's not healing."
Wyll feels a pang of sadness in his chest at Astarion's confession. He hadn't realised that the elf had been depriving himself of what he needed to survive, just to avoid being judged by the rest of the group.
He reaches out, placing a gentle hand on Astarion's shoulder. "Hey, shh," he says softly. "You're.. Well, you’re not a monster in the traditional sense.”
Astarion can’t form a word before Wyll starts again.
“And you don't have to starve yourself for our sake. You... you need blood to heal, don't you?"
He nods, ever so weakly. "I- I know this is rather stupid. Telling the monster hunter this, of all people. I just- I thought, maybe-" He cuts himself off. "It doesn't matter," he whispers. "I.. I can't do much as of now, so.. I'll just have to trust that you'll let me live."
“Look at me,” Wyll asks, “The monster hunter. I’m still by your side, aren’t I? Still helping you.” Wyll gently squeezes Astarion's shoulder, his expression one of sympathy. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve grown attached, so I won’t be staking you anytime soon. How long has it been?”
Astarion's expression softens, clearly relieved. He pauses to think, idly licking his upper lip. "Since I joined you all..?"
Wyll nods, encouraging Astarion to provide more information. "Yes, since you joined the group. How long has it been since you last fed?"
"No, I.. I haven't fed since I joined you all. That's my answer." He seems to be counting in his head. "I think that's a few weeks."
Wyll's eyes widen in surprise at Astarion's reply. A few weeks? How the hell had he managed to go that long without feeding?
"A few weeks?" he repeats, incredulous, immediately softening his tone again. "You haven't fed for a few weeks? Is that normal?"
"Well.. no, it’s not." He shrinks in on himself a bit. "It's nothing new to me. I've gone much longer without. It was just nice to be part of a group. I didn't want to fuck it up for myself."
Wyll notices Astarion's shrinking form and his heart clenches. He can't imagine what it must be like to go weeks without feeding, and the fact that Astarion had grown so used to it that he was more afraid of being exiled from the group than the familiar ache breaks his heart.
"You're not going to 'fuck it up', Astarion," he says firmly. "You're not going to lose your place in this group. Not yet. We're not going to kick you out or treat you differently just because you're a vampire."
He says nothing, simply nodding along. His eyes dart around for a few moments before he speaks again. "That’s so stupid. Thank you."
Wyll reaches out and gently lays a hand on Astarion's shoulder, hoping to provide some small measure of comfort. "You don't have to thank me," he responds gently. "Please, don’t thank me. Just promise me one-"
“Anything,” the elf cuts him off. Astarion meets his gaze, his pupils huge and eyes wet like he could cry at any moment.
Wyll's eyes soften as he notices the vulnerability and desperation in Astarion's eyes. He gently squeezes the elf's shoulder before speaking.
"Promise me that you won't let yourself starve again," he says quietly. "Not just for us, but for yourself. You need to feed, Astarion. It's not healthy to go so long without."
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, still extremely cautious. "..Okay. I promise." He quickly adds on, "It doesn't have to be much, either. I would- I would be more than happy just for a small rodent, or something. When I recover, I could even get it myself. It won't be a bother for anyone, I promise," he pleads.
Wyll can sense the desperation in Astarion's voice, and he can't help but admire his dedication to not being a burden to the group.
" Astarion . You don't need to go scavenging for rodents," he replies firmly. "We'll find something for you to feed on. Just focus on getting better for now, alright? And no more sacrificing yourself."
He's so shocked by Wyll's genuine kindness that he has no witty retort to sling back. He nods slowly, tears gathering by his eyes.
Wyll notices the tears gathering in Astarion's eyes and his heart squeezes again. He gently pats the elf's shoulder.
"Hey, come here," he says softly, gesturing for Astarion to move closer.
He does, whimpering as he tries his hardest not to cry. Strangely, despite all of his.. experience, he's never felt more loved. Although, his 'experiences' Cazador forced him to lay were just sex, so perhaps they don't count as love at all.
Wyll instinctively wraps an arm around his shoulders, gently pulling him closer in a loose embrace. He can sense the vulnerability in the elf, and his heart aches for him.
"Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, rubbing Astarion's back comfortingly. "You don't have to hold back. You don't have to put on a brave face here. Just relax."
Astarion's back stings, the scars always hurt whenever they make contact with anything, but this time is different. Wyll's touch is good- wanted . It's soothing. He begins to cry silently, speaking as quiet as a mouse.
"Please don't tell them yet. That I'm a vampire. Please."
Wyll is almost certain that everybody knows. He feels the scars on Astarion's back peeking over the bandages, mind racing between what could have possibly happened. He continues rubbing his back as Astarion begins to cry.
"I won't tell them. I promise," he replies quietly, his voice just as gentle as the elf's. "You do have to feed eventually."
"I know," he replies, "I know. I won't. Believe me, I'd.. I'd love to if I could right now." He leans in, hugging Wyll tighter.
Wyll feels Astarion lean in and hug him tighter and he responds in kind, wrapping his arm around the elf's slender form and holding him close.
"I believe you," he murmurs. "And I promise, we'll find a way for you to feed. I’ll.. I’ll try and make sure none of them notice."
“Thank you," he says shakily. "It'll heal once I do, it's always worked like this," he pleads. "Gods, you don’t understand- Thank you.”
As Astarion clings to him, Wyll’s heart aches. Despite his vampiric nature, he's surprisingly vulnerable and in need of comfort. And for some reason, Wyll feels compelled to provide it.
"You don’t need to thank me," he replies firmly, "And you don't need to beg for a few drops of blood. I said I'd find something for you to feed on, and I will."
He holds Astarion a bit tighter, trying to provide some comfort and reassurance.
“I promise.”
He whines, biting down hard on his lower lip to stifle his cries. He runs his tongue over the punctures- he didn't mean to bite through his own skin- and speaks again. "Thank you. Thank you, Wyll. Gods. Thank you."
Wyll sees Astarion's teeth sink into his own lip as he tries to contain his tears. He gently rubs the elf's back, feeling the scars under his fingertips.
"Shh, you don't have to thank me," he replies softly. "And please don't bite yourself.”
He flattens his lips into a line, embarrassed. It was a knee jerk reaction to try and stay quiet. One he’d practised and perfected over the years. "Wyll? Is it too much of me to ask.. um.. when I'll.. when you'll get me something to eat?"
Wyll takes a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking.
“Gods, forget it, that’s selfish of me, you’re already agreeing to let me stay -”
"Astarion," he replies, his voice gentle. “Shh. It’s not too much to ask.”
He pauses for a moment, then continues, “I’m not sure. I’ll have to get it for you if we don’t want anyone else knowing. Yet.. I don’t exactly wish to leave you alone right now.”
He speaks again. “I... I have a proposition for you, if you’re amenable."
"Yes, it can be something small," he answers automatically. "I told you. Mas-" he cuts himself off, before continuing quieter, "My old master let me have a rat every week if I was good. I promise, it can be something minuscule."
Wyll notices Astarion's slip-up, frowning about the mention of a ‘master,’ but decides not to press the issue at the moment. "No, that's not what I meant," he says gently. “No more rodents for you.”
He takes a deep breath before speaking again, his voice more serious. "I was thinking... if you need something to feed on… immediately, that is.. I could offer my own blood."
Astarion pulls back, eyes wide and eyebrows knitted in fear. His pupils retract, into slits, a brief glimpse of his true nature as a vampire. A ruthless predator.
"No, I-" he whines, blinking repeatedly to try and keep himself in the moment. "No.. no, no, no, no, Wyll, I can't- I'm not allowed. I can't." His lip wobbles as he fights with himself internally. "I’m not allowed. My master would be furious.”
Wyll feels a pang of sympathy as he sees the fear in Astarion's eyes. He reaches out to gently cup the elf's face in his hand.
"Hey, shh, listen to me," he says gently but firmly. "Your 'master' isn't here. And I'm offering voluntarily. You won't be doing anything wrong."
"But, what if he- what if he found out? I don't want to be punished, Wyll, please," he begs.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Astarion.”
Gods, how those words fill his heart.
He stutters, "Y-you're right. He.. He isn't here. He can't compel me from such a distance." He meets Wyll's gaze. "Maybe I really could."
Wyll can practically see the war waging inside Astarion's mind as he struggles. He continues to hold the elf's face in his hand, his gaze fixated on Astarion's.
"Yes, you really could," he says, his voice laced with a gentle authority. "And I'm giving you permission. You won't be punished."
“How can you be so sure?” Astarion cries. "He only allows us to eat when we behave. Something very small, a rat, once a week. Never a person. I.. I need you to promise me this isn't a trick, that you won't try and get me to do this just to- to drive a stake through my heart." He licks his lips in idle anticipation.
Wyll feels a pang of sadness at Astarion's words. He can sense the fear and desperation in the elf, conditioned by his former 'master.' He shakes his head, his gaze firm and sincere. He can't say it, I can't be sure, you'll have to trust me, he can only tell what he knows.
"I promise, on my honour as The Blade of Frontiers, that this is not a trap. I'm not trying to trick you, Astarion. I want you to recover. This is what you need, is it not?”
He feels like he could cry again. With a weak smile, he mouths 'thank you' before leaning in to press a soft kiss to Wyll's neck. He rests his head against Wyll for a long while, lips against his skin but no bite comes yet. His body shakes as he no longer has any tears left to cry.
It takes a few minutes before he gathers the courage to lightly prick Wyll's skin. As soon as he laps up the blood droplet that's gathered up by the wound, he lets out a shaky cry of relief. It tastes wonderful. He's had nowhere near enough, but it tastes wonderful.
He can hardly trust himself to keep going, so he doesn't. He just rests his forehead against Wyll's shoulder and sighs.
At the slight prick of fangs, Wyll suppresses a shudder, eyes fluttering shut. The cry of relief that Astarion lets out tugs at his heart. He gives in, letting himself shiver at the contact. He reaches up to gently rub the back of his head, encouraging him.
"I don't trust myself to continue," he mumbles against his neck. "I've never drank from a person before. You're sweet."
Wyll can feel the coldness of Astarion's breath against his neck and shivers again, his hand gently rubbing the elf's hair.
"Really?" he replies with a slight chuckle. "Never thought I'd hear that from a vampire."
"Your blood," he explains. "It's sweet. You're sweet. Gods," he whimpers low in his throat. "I really don't trust myself to continue."
Wyll feels a strange sense of satisfaction at hearing his blood described. His grip on Astarion tightens involuntarily.
"You can continue," he says firmly. "I trust you. You won't lose control."
Astarion nods slightly, placing his lips back on Wyll's skin. He inhales shakily and then bites down. The blood immediately flows into his mouth, down his throat, it's sweet, it's warm - His pupils blow wide like that of a sated predator.
Wyll feels Astarion's fangs sink into his skin and he gasps, a sharp intake of breath. The sensation of Astarion drinking his blood is strange and unexpected, but there's an odd sense of satisfaction and pride that wells up in his chest.
The vampire hungrily laps at Wyll's throat, drinking his fill. He brings one hand up to grasp at Wyll's other shoulder, clawing at it in an attempt to ground himself. It was so good .
"There you go," Wyll murmurs, his voice a bit ragged. "That's it. Slow, you’ll choke."
A low growl rises from his throat as he continues, not once taking his mouth off of the wound. His eyelids flutter closed in bliss. One of his ears flicks, like an animal, as he drinks and drinks.
Eventually, he seems to realise how much he'd been taking, whimpering against Wyll's skin and throwing himself back. His mouth- no, his lower face is completely covered in his blood. His pupils go from large and dilated to slits over and over in a sick loop as he tries to compose himself.
When Astarion finally pulls back, Wyll sees him completely covered in his own blood. That strange feeling of pride wells up again. He looks dazed and disoriented, his pupils constricting and dilating rapidly as he tries to regain control.
Wyll is concerned by the sight, but he reaches out and gently grabs Astarion's shoulders, steadying him. "Hey, hey," he says softly. "You okay?"
Astarion whimpers softly at the touch on his shoulders, clamping his eyes shut. He opens them again, revealing the thin pupils that focus so intently on Wyll, tears threatening to fall down his face. He goes to speak, or tries to, but the words fall short and all he manages to vocalise is a soft cry. He’s drooling like that of a wild animal.
Wyll feels a pang of concern at Astarion’s response to his touch. He notices the intense, focused look in the elf's eyes, and can see the struggle on his face as he tries to speak.
"Hey, hey... shh, it's okay," he murmurs, his grip on Astarion's shoulders firm but gentle. "You don't have to speak. Just... just focus on taking deep breaths, okay?"
He rubs his thumbs gently back and forth over the elf's shoulders, trying to soothe him.
His panting becomes laboured breath becomes almost silent, how it usually was. He really didn't need to breathe, being a vampire, but it seemed to bring him comfort.
His pupils slowly dilate once again, the state of fierceness shedding away like scales. He slumps forward, bringing his hands to Wyll's face and caressing him.
Wyll feels the tenseness in Astarion's body gradually melt away, and he notices the way the elf's panting breath becomes soft and silent. He watches as Astarion moves his hands to his face, caressing him gently.
He reaches up and covers one of Astarion's hands with his own, his grip firm but gentle. "Feeling better?" he asks softly, his eyes studying the elf's face.
"Yes," he murmurs. "Thank you." He brings the hand not entwined with Wyll's to his own mouth, wiping the blood before licking it off his finger. The bandages on his stomach show almost no sign of injury underneath. "Gods. That was perfect." His eyes trail up Wyll's body, settling his gaze on the others.
Wyll lets out a small sigh of relief at Astarion's answer, feeling a bit of tension leave him. He watches as the elf wipes the blood from his mouth, licking it off his finger with a satisfied look.
"Glad to hear it," he replies, his voice still soft. He glances down at the bandages on Astarion's stomach and notices the lack of blood seeping through. He looks back up at Astarion's face, meeting his gaze. "You look a lot better too."
"Mm," he hums. He gestures to the bandages on his stomach, "I'd like to take these off as soon as possible.”
Wyll follows the gesture to the bandages on Astarion's stomach and nods. "That seems simple enough."
“Wyll, how could I ever thank you for this?”
Wyll pauses for a moment, thinking. "You don’t need to.”
Astarion frowns. “You saved my life, you know. Please, just let me do something.”
He hesitates, then says with an uncomfortable smile, “Well, I could ask a few questions. You needn't answer any of them if it's too much."
Astarion thinks, already lying down in preparation. "You take the bandages off while I answer your questions. Deal?"
Wyll nods in agreement. "Deal," he replies, moving closer to Astarion. He begins carefully unwrapping the bandages around the elf's stomach, being gentle and methodical as he does so.
"Tell me if anything hurts.”
“I will.”
“Alright. My first question, if you feel like answering it, is… this 'master’ of yours, who is it?”
Astarion tenses, focusing his mind on the soft calloused hands gently caring for him.
“His name is Cazador Szarr. Baldurian noble. An awful man, truly.”
Wyll carefully unwraps the last of the bandages, his fingers gently touching the now exposed skin of Astarion's stomach, making sure to be gentle. His ribs are so prominent, Wyll wonders how long he truly has not fed.
He listens intently to Astarion's words, his expression turning somewhat grim at the mention of Cazador Szarr. "Baldurian noble... awful, you say?"
Astarion sighs in relief, taking a deep breath without those constricting bandages. "I would say so, yes. Given the fact he tortured me for two centuries."
Wyll's expression darkens further as Astarion describes the torture he endured at the hands of Cazador Szarr. "Two centuries of torture..." he repeats, almost incredulous. He sets the last of the bandages aside and looks down at Astarion, his gaze concerned. “I didn’t mean to sound dismissive. He’s worse than awful- A vile excuse of a man. You never should have gone through that.”
The vampire's expression softens. In this moment, he truly feels loved. Held, cared for, fed, he's never felt more alive in his unlife than with Wyll.
"You think so?"
Wyll nods, a quiet determination in his eyes. "I know so," he replies firmly. "You've been through a hell most can't even imagine."
He gently runs his fingers over Astarion's ribs, taking in the sight of the now exposed skin.
“It’s not my place to ask, but if I may,” he begins, waiting for the other’s approval. Astarion nods.
“You’re.. You’re very thin. Is this because-”
“Because he starved me?” the other supplies. “Yes.”
“I see,” Wyll frowns. “You should eat more- no, drink? Enough to sate you, at least. I’ll make sure of it.”
Astarion blinks, pondering the fact this might be the most romantic thing he’s ever been told.
The warlock immediately flushes, looking away.
Ah. The tadpoles must’ve connected for the brief moment.
“I’m flattered,” is what the other croaks out while the blush rises up to his ears. He truly is a gorgeous man, but flustered, he’s delicious.
"Ah, I- I didn't.. mean for you to hear that. I really do appreciate it, Wyll." He rubs his eyes, embarrassed. The tips of his ears flush with the new blood in his system- Wyll’s blood. "In a normal way," he tacks on.
Wyll chuckles softly at Astarion’s flustered reaction, his heart still fluttering in his chest. “If I may return the compliment, your blushing is quite a sight," he teases, a playful glint in his eyes. “And now you’re the one being sweet.”
He perks up, confused. "Blushing? But I don't have any-" he groans in realisation, covering his face completely with his palms. "..Blood. Ugh. I forgot I.. had.. some," he chokes out, oddly flustered. Astarion was always better with flirting when it came to sex. Now, being faced with simple romance, he doesn't know how to act.
Wyll can't help but smile at Astarion's flustered state. He reaches out and gently pulls the other's hands away from his face, still sticky with blood, uncovering it. He leans down, bracing his arms beside the elf's shoulders.
"You look lovely when you blush," he says, his voice low and a bit flirtatious. "Especially with some of my blood in your veins."
Astarion gulps at the realisation that, yes, it is Wyll's blood in his veins. Despite his vascular system no longer having a purpose- since his death and soon after vampirism- he was still able to blush, just until his body absorbed the blood. His ears are red, but a soft hue unlike his piercing eyes darting around. His mouth feels dry.
Wyll runs a hand down the side of Astarion's face, the pad of his thumb gently running over the elf's lip. "My blood has never looked finer than having dyed your lips and cheeks a pretty shade of red," he remarks, his tone low and genuine.
"..My.. apologies," he says with an awkward laugh. "That was a.. line I'd read, in a novel. I'll admit it sounds better on paper."
A weak sound escapes his throat. His unbeating heart is swell with joy, with love, it's quite possibly the sweetest and dorkiest thing he’s ever heard. Only a man like Wyll Ravengard would be flirting from recited text. "Wyll," he whispers, "You read vampire novels? Gods. You've horrible taste."
Wyll lets out an indignant huff at that, though it's playful rather than offended. "I- I do enjoy the gothic romance genre," he admits a bit sheepishly, his hand still gently cupping the other's face. "There's much more variety than just the vampire tropes."
He chuckles, "And my taste is fine , thank you."
“Atrocious if you think I’m lovely.” Lovely . He had never been praised so earnestly. "You.. you'll have to read them to me sometime," he says quietly, staring into the other's good eye. "Just so I can point out the mistakes, of course."
Wyll nods in agreement, a warm smile on his face. "I could do that," he says quietly. "And I'll make sure to have a pen nearby for you to make notes on the inaccuracies."
He lifts his hand from Astarion's face and brings it to his hair, his fingers gently going through the soft tresses. "I'll even read you the one I quoted a minute ago, just so I can hear you complain about it."
The elf laughs, gentle and warm. "Such a sweetheart. Tell me, what happens after that? After that line?" He blinks slowly, not unlike a cat. "Does the vampire say how cheesy it is? Or, do they keep talking?" He whispers, "Do they kiss?"
Wyll laughs too, a light, happy sound. He continues to gently brush through Astarion's hair, his fingers gliding softly over the silky strands.
"Mmm, I can't recall," he teases, feigning ignorance as he feigns a pondering look on his face, "I remember they did talk about it. Maybe the vampire found it so charming that he pulled the other into a kiss. Or, maybe it was the human. I'm not entirely sure, Astarion. It's been quite a while since I read it."
Astarion raises his hands to frame Wyll's face, thumbs resting on his cheekbones, gently ushering him to close the gap between them. "Mhm? I bet you five gold it was the vampire," he murmurs before leaning in.
A harsh beam of sunlight shines on both of them. They both turn their heads.
“Chk. You are not mortally wounded.”
Wyll’s face feels horribly warm. “Lae’zel. I was just..” he looks down, where Astarion lays underneath him, faintly flushed and lips parted in surprise. His one hand gently touching Astarion’s cheekbones, Astarion’s both caressing his. Astarion, blood on his face and still shirtless. It had been discarded when they first did the bandages. Their legs intertwined, faces inches apart.
Gods, it looks so much worse than it is.
“I was taking his bandages off,” he stutters. Astarion nods hastily in agreement.
“He was. Scout’s honour.” He stares directly at Lae’zel, who was squinting at him with disgust. She mutters something, harsh consonants clashing together- it must be gith- before turning and walking away from their tent. The elf lets out a sigh of relief, still staring at the part of the tent where the fabric makes an opening.