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A bee is hovering over the crocus bed. No, bees. Little dots of black and yellow flitting from bloom to bloom, their fat bodies flecked with orange pollen. They move swiftly, dipping under the arches of petals and rising above the sea of flowers for but a fraction of a second each time. No wonder that one would easily miss the whole colony weaving through the flowerbed, the bees’ collective buzz drowned out by the nearby fountain’s steady gurgles. Durge watches, rapt, as one bee alights upon a single bloom, its tiny furred legs so delicate the petals barely shift under their touch. For no discernible reason, he buries a hand into that floral carpet. The thought only dawns on him as the disturbance causes a group of bees to take to air: the whispers in his head are quiet today.
The crimson haze has returned since that first night. It visits his nightmares now and again, bringing these dreadful envoys to plague his waking moments. Durge would find himself weary and disoriented the following day, his limbs unwieldy and prone to destruction. Not out of clumsiness, mind. The voices tell him to, compel him, promising sweet relief once his hands are doused in another’s blood. Durge goes hunting for game more often; his hands seem to take more life than they give, these days. As promised, the headache and whispers would abate once his marks fell dead, leaving his body awash with a euphoric rush that also pulled sickening bile up his throat once it faded.
Without all that poison pouring into his ears, might his touch be just as light as these insects’? His hand comes away leaving a few petals crinkled and bruised. How disappointing. Hunting more might not be the answer, either. Mel, his younger sister, has started to complain about all the rabbit and pigeon that have begun to feature in their every meal.
White curls and piercing azure eyes slide abruptly into his view. Below them, the frowny beginnings of a pout.
“Astarion, you’re crushing the flowers.” Durge remarks.
“So what?” Astarion retorts. “You shouldn’t be staring at flowers; you should be watching me. What happened to keeping me safe whenever we’re out and about, hm?”
Right. But it is a little excessive to be on guard every minute when the whole of Bloomridge Park seems perfectly peaceful; nor is there any reason to take it out on the flowers. Durge knows reason would not appeal to Astarion, however, no matter how sound. Sound reasoning has never convinced his impetuous little friend of anything before.
”You’re going to get grass stains on your doublet.” He tries a different approach.
Like something very close to magic, Astarion springs up and out of the flowerbed, very nearly headbutting him in the muzzle.
“Are they there?” Astarion demands nervously, spinning around to show Durge the back of his doublet. “The grass stains?”
Durge holds back a snort. The humour of Astarion’s antics very nearly eclipse his growing lament at the flattened flowers.
”None, maybe.” He says, picking twigs and fallen leaves out of the elf’s downy curls.
“What do you mean maybe?”
“It’s a lovely emerald green throughout.”
”Why, thank you. The perfect choice for a summer outing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but that makes it hard to detect any grass stains.”
Astarion whirls back around, the pout now in full force.
”Can’t you just… Presgigita… whatever it’s called, away?”
“Prestidigitation?”
”Yes, the cleaning spell!”
Durge bites back the correction already perched on his tongue. Humble cantrip it may be, Prestidigitation is not just a ‘cleaning spell’. Instead, he pulls in a long breath. Lets it loose in a sigh.
”Alright, hold still.”
Silvery light pours from his palms and washes over Astarion’s body, dissolving into… not a single visible change. Except for Astarion looking extremely self-satisfied, that is.
“Ah, I feel cleaner already.” The elf says in his poshest tone, chin held exaggeratedly high.
“You’re welcome, my lord.” Durge chuckles, lowering himself in a theatrical bow.
”As reward for your commendable service, my most loyal servant, you may have this.”
Seemingly out of nowhere, Astarion produces a garland of crocuses. They’ve been somewhat clumsily braided but are still in the unmistakable shape of a flower crown.
”You were meaning to make something like this, weren’t you? That’s why you were staring at the flowers with that dazed look on your face? With this, you can stop being distracted and keep your eyes on me, right?”
It’s rare for Astarion to ever sound any less than absolutely sure of himself, and yet there it is - an anxious thread weaving through his words, slight as spun silk. He’s dodging eye contact, his sky-blue gaze fixed on his own thumbs twiddling with a grassy knot along the flower crown’s spine.
Just as the Astarion’s hands begin to falter under the weight of uncertainty, Durge takes them in his own. Astarion’s skin is soft, too thin to mask the rapid pulse beating under his wrists. Durge finds his own heart racing to match that rhythm. Startled by the touch, Astarion’s eyes lift back up.
“Well? Are you taking it or not?”
Maybe it’s because Astarion’s anxiety is so palpable; maybe Durge is simply dazed by the sunlight draped over the green grass in such dazzling patchwork. Maybe it’s the little elf’s fledgling bravery threatening to buckle, to skitter back behind his dozen layers of caustic armour, taking the flower crown with it.
“Yes.” Durge says hurriedly, fingers tightening around Astarion’s delicate wrists with purpose. “Yes, I would like to have it. Thank you.”
Astarion’s eyes are sparkling sapphire pools. Durge would stare into them forever were they not so hastily lowered. Try as he might, there is no hiding the cherry-red tips of Astarion’s ears poking out of his own snowy curls.
“Good! Then… let go for a second, will you?”
”Right. Sorry.”
”Don’t apologise. Just sit still.”
Hold still he does, stiller than stone while Astarion props up on his knees and places the flower crown on his head. Astarion seems to take his time positioning it this and that way, negotiating with the keratinous base of his horns. Eventually, he seems to manage. The crown feels balanced on Durge’s head as Astarion backs away. The fresh petals are cool and satiny on his scales - smoothness atop smoothness.
Before Astarion has even fully settled back down, the flower crown slides down the natural slope of Durge’s head and falls into his lap. Astarion’s cheeks puff out in bitten back laughter.
”Wait, don’t move yet. Let me try again.”
”Okay…?”
Durge obediently sits still again, back ramrod straight, even holding his breath this time lest his smallest movement disturbed the new configuration. Astarion tries to maneuver the crown into a more stable position, but once again, their eye levels have hardly met when the thing begins to slip. This time, it doesn’t fall into his lap but dangles off the point of his muzzle. Astarion bursts into raucous laughter.
“I’m starting to think this ‘gift’ of yours is just payback for my five whole seconds of inattention earlier.” Durge tries and fails at sounding offended. It doesn’t even occur to him that removing the flowers from his nose might strengthen the pretense.
“My poor friend, cursed with geometric features.” Astarion wheezes. “And such unfortunate smoothness of the head.”
“My head is perfectly shaped.” Durge huffs, taking the crown into his hands. “Unattached to so much fine hair as to catch every bit of soil and plant matter you happen to roll through.”
”Now you’re just trying to make baldness sound flattering.”
“Why not, if it makes my head less liable to housing some stray critter? Be careful that you don’t attract a family of squirrels, Astarion. I saw one eyeing you from that treetop. They might decide that your hair makes for a perfect home.”
”Lies.”
”Nuh-uh.”
”Don’t ‘nuh-uh’ me, you overgrown lizard.”
Despite what he said, Durge finds pleasure in carding his claws through Astarion’s mess of curls to help remove any more debris caught in it. Laughter has coloured Astarion’s face pleasantly pink. The afternoon sun spins gold into the elf’s lambswool hair, lines the soft curvature of his cheeks with rosy amber. For a moment Astarion appears some manner of fey creature, possibly born from the innumerable incandescent sunpools surrounding their picnic blanket: ethereally, achingly beautiful.
Durge’s limbs are acting on the stray thought before his mind has even fully formed it. Plucking a crocus from the flowerbed, he slots its stem behind Astarion’s ear. Unlike his flower crown, the violet bloom stays obediently in place, accentuating the brilliant blue of Astarion’s widened eyes.
“Now I can admire both at the same time.” Durge says softly.
”Both?” Astarion echoes, dumbfounded.
”You and the crocus.”
Astarion’s cheeks quickly turn a shade of red to rival the nearby thicket of summer roses. For perhaps one of the very few times in his young life, he seems stunned into inarticulation.
”G…good.” Astarion stammers. It seems to take great effort for him to collect himself. Even then, his newfound composure is a shaky thing over the evident swells of emotion roiling under its brittle surface. “B-but it’s hardly fair that you still don’t have any blooms to decorate your great, smooth head.”
”I’ll live.” Durge chortles, resisting the further impulse to reach out and tuck away a few of Astarion’s stray curls. An excuse to brush at the elf’s bright pink eartips, perhaps. Or to better show off the crocus’ loveliness, meagre as it is next to Astarion’s own. “And I think flowers suit you much better, anyway.”
”Flatterer.” Astarion mutters, squirming in the short pause that follows. “…Maybe it wasn’t your head. Maybe I just didn’t make it right. You should teach me.”
”Teach you?”
”Yes. To make a flower crown. A better one.”
Durge doubts very much that a “better” flower crown could be more easily coerced into staying in place. Yet, while the rare gift of Astarion’s earnestness does not make his head any less geometric, it fills his chest with warmth and his mind with the determination that anything is possible.
”As you wish, my lord.”