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“I don’t think I am kind.”
Astarion’s arm halts mid-throw over his head.
“Where did that come from?”
The elf looks as puzzled as Durge feels. Truthfully, he has no idea himself. He only spent far too much time reliving those cryptic words Astarion had uttered on the riverbank ages ago. Though it has been many weeks since then, Durge supposes it is in his nature to fixate on life’s mysteries. It is only in this disparate moment, staring into the ocean’s glimmering calm, that the answer sprang to his mind, startling as the cool surf against his sun-warm scales.
“You said you only ever knew one kind person.” Durge says, thumbing the smooth, flat stone cupped in his palm. “I just figured out you meant me.”
Astarion snorts audibly beside him. Air whizzes by his horns. Another rock leaps from Astarion’s hand to skip across the crinkled water.
“After all this time? Durge, dearest…”
“You weren’t exactly forthcoming with explanations.”
“Nonsense, I always use as many words as necessary. No more, no less.”
“Really? And here I thought you loved the sound of your own voice.”
Astarion’s bare, sandy toes jab him in the calf, just as Durge hurls his own rock towards the ocean. It flies in an arc into the water, breaks surface, and is never seen again.
“You ruined my shot.” He complains, feigning more indignance than he feels.
“I ruined nothing” Astarion sticks his tongue out at him. “You haven’t succeeded once.”
“Okay, you are sabotaging my fledgling proficiency, then.”
“Maybe you’re just a very poor student. Ever considered that?”
“My deepest apologies then, Master Stone Skipper, sir.” Durge says in his worst Upper City accent. “For this incompetent fool is unworthy of your tutelage.”
Astarion’s laughter rings like the clearest of bells, sweet and bright with joy. Durge can never get enough of it. Prior to their meeting, he had never thought of himself as particularly amusing. But with each day, he finds himself trying for every opportunity and excuse to hear Astarion laugh again. Sometimes this is achieved through cracking jokes, other times it is making himself look or sound foolish. He doesn’t always succeed, but the elf’s exasperation at his antics is almost as good. No reaction from Astarion is ever unworthy of the effort.
“Your impressions are the best.” Astarion’s mirth still crinkles the corners of his eyes. “And by that I mean horrendously awful. Never do that again.”
“I disagree. It might just be my best work yet.”
“Right. Maybe you can be a mummer, if not a professional stone skipper.”
Durge files the accent away, his mind quickly running through ideas to make it even more awful for a later opportunity. Astarion grabs another flat stone from the pile they gathered, winds up, and launches it. Another successful throw. The stone skids along the water’s skin, bouncing four, five, six times before dipping below the surface. Durge buries his toes deeper into the soggy, warm sand, dislodging a handful of tiny sand crabs and empty seashells.
“So you don’t think you are kind?” Astarion asks, his gaze lingering where his stone just disappeared.
A short, wind-swept pause.
“I don’t.” Durge replies.
“You must have a very strange notion of kindness. I can’t think of any other way to describe someone who’s so self-sacrificial, just to spare their family some inconvenient discomfort.”
“I wouldn’t call being mindful about my magic use kindness.”
“Well, you work to provide for them, too, don’t you? What do you call that?”
“Being responsible.”
“Slippery little…” Astarion grumbles, nudging his calf again. “Grant me this: I don’t think anyone unkind could take on responsibility the way you do. I mean, I tolerate my family as well as anybody, but you won’t see me spending all my time in The Wide for them.”
Durge casts another stone. Thrown by his hapless hand, it also immediately sinks. A handful of hungry seagulls circle unhappily over where it hit the water.
“That is different, I think.” Durge says after another pause. “I am… indebted to my family, in every sense imaginable. Trying to make their lives easier is just the natural thing to do.”
Even if in truth, he does not feel his efforts make much of a difference to their circumstances. The bookstall pays just enough to keep starvation at bay. Dragonborn are supposed to mature quickly, yet Durge never feels like he is growing fast enough. If only he had the strength to work harder, for longer. If he were better at magic, maybe then his halted education could resume under the guidance of some arcane master, free of charge. For now, he hesitates to live if it means diverting focus from helping them all survive. Not when he has already owed them so much.
“What do you owe me, then?” Astarion leans closer, his large eyes bright, intensely blue as the cloudless summer sky. Questioning, but not unkind.
Durge hesitates.
“…Your company?” A pallid response.
“Wrong. I pay you for that, remember?”
“You spoil me with books.”
“Which you borrow. And quite promptly return each time, I might add. You are one ravenous reader, I will give you that.”
Durge’s mouth falls open, closes. He is suddenly unable to form words, choked up by the surprising enormity of an adequate answer. As the silence stretches on, Astarion’s face breaks into a cocky grin.
“Looks like I won.”
The abrupt declaration promptly dispels the curdling tension in his gut.
“I didn’t know we were competing. How did you win, exactly?” Durge chuckles.
“I was right!” Their shoulders bump together. “No escaping your designation as a kind person, my bullheaded lizard.”
Something about the way Astarion refers to him as ‘his’ makes Durge’s stomach swoop a bit.
“You make it sound almost like a bad thing. I would say you are quite kind yourself, Astarion.”
“Boo. You can have that one. Kindness doesn’t get you anything in life.”
“You really think so?”
“I told you, didn’t I? About how the patriars of the Upper City are horrid people? They probably have to be, to win their stations.” Astarion huffs, reaching for another stone on the pile. “I don’t want to be kind; I want to win.”
Their fingers graze each other atop the same stone. Instinctively, Durge tries to move away to leave it for Astarion, but the elf’s hand catches his wrist. Their gazes connect once more. His questioning, Astarion’s pensive, and strangely determined.
“Wait. Here.”
The stone under their hands is picked up and placed neatly in his palm. Astarion loops an arm around his back to adjust his posture. Durge scarcely dares to breathe, fearful that any misplaced movement would cause the contact between their bodies to dissipate.
“No wonder you were failing this whole time. Hold it properly, like this.” Astarion’s hand is supple, unhardened by labour. His fingers still sport some childhood’s plumpness, but are slowly lengthening into graceful, slender digits. His hand is also considerably smaller, yet it wraps firmly around the back of Durge’s in confident guidance. “And… go!”
The stone flies from Durge’s supported grip. It manages to bounce off the water three whole times.
“I did it.” He exclaims, awed by the scattering trail of concentric circles left in its wake.
“You finally did.” Astarion echoes fondly.
Before Durge could turn to his friend for further celebration, the hand that has just guided his own is on the side of his head. The brush of Astarion’s lips on his cheek lasts but a fraction of a second, fleeting as a butterfly, yet its phantom touch lingers on his skin well into the subsequent moments. Durge’s stomach swoops again, warmth blooming under his skin.
“That’s congratulations. For winning.”
Astarion’s cheeks are stained the colour of dusk-spun clouds.