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It happened so fast that you didn’t have time to think about it. You'd been in enough fights to know that any weakness would be exploited. The raised sword before you would follow a natural trajectory into Astarion's turned back. He was never supposed to be that close to the fight. The only reason he’d advanced is because you hadn’t done your job. You hadn’t been a good soldier. You’d gotten careless, and you knew it. You weren’t about to let him pay the price. Even with all your strength, the swordsman was too close for you to parry the strike. Instead, you stepped in front of it. White-hot fire ripped through your body, then there was nothing. You were dead, then you were awake again and more or less mended.
“You know,” You hear a familiar voice somewhere off to the right say, “Your need to be a hero is quite unnecessary, darling. Withers could have just as easily brought me back.” He smiles at you. It’s full of warmth, a stark contrast to his perpetually cold skin. Truthfully, you’re surprised that he’s here when you wake up. It makes everything seem too real.
“I know,” You test your movements, wiggling your fingers and toes. They’re a little stiff, but then, you had just been brought back from the dead. There was bound to be some period of recuperation, however brief...
“I assure you, I’m not worth the trouble.” For the slightest fraction of a section, his eyes flit down to your chest. You look down at your body and realize that you’re still wearing the clothes you died in. They still bear the bloodstains from the wound that killed you, dried brown and rusty. You remember a few weeks back, you’d cut your thumb cleaning a dagger. He’d stared at you, eyes dark, fists clenched in a white-knuckled grip until you offered him your wound to lick. Neither of you spoke about it after.
“I’m sorry, it must have been unbearable.” You reach for him, hoping to comfort him, but he’s too far away.
“It was,” he admits, darkly.
“All that blood,” You continued, “I can’t imagine how it was for you.”
From the look on his face, you can tell you’ve said the wrong thing.
“Do you honestly think I’d see you run-through and think only of feeding on you?” He laughs, but it sounds forced. “Darling, I know I’m a monster, but that’s a little gauche even for me, wouldn’t you say?”
He steps closer. almost, you think. Then his hand lands softly in your hair. finally. It doesn’t last long. He opens his mouth again, perhaps to say something, but appears to change his mind. Instead, he makes his exit. Part of you wishes that he’d stay, but you know he won’t. He’d never admit it out loud, but he’s more sensitive than anyone else at camp.
You could have spent the whole day lying in bed. You were certainly sore enough to do so, but there was work to be done. As you rose to your feet, every muscle in your body protested, but you did your best to ignore them. First things first, you rifle through your things for clean clothes. Or, at the very least, clothes without bloodstains. The ones you’re wearing now would be ruined even without the slash through the front. Organization was not one of your strong suits, but you’re able to locate one mostly clean, very wrinkled shirt and a pair of pants with only a few patches. You rinse off the best you can with the basin of water you kept in your tent, scrubbing off most of the muck and blood from the day before. Dressed in more suitable clothes, you amble outside, still wishing you had chosen to convalesce for a while longer. By the position of the sun, it’s early afternoon, which means you need to start on dinner soon or you’ll all be subjected to Karlach’s cooking again. You didn’t know what you’d do without her, but a chef she was not.
Hoping for a distraction from putting your foot in your mouth earlier, you busy yourself mincing vegetables. Pickings have been slim the past couple of weeks, but you still have a few bulbs of garlic left. The beef might have the texture of shoe leather, but at least you have something to add a little flavor. You dump your massive pile of vegetables into the simmering pot, along with the last of the beef. As it cooks down, you’re acutely aware that you’re cooking for everyone at camp except the person whose well-being concerns you the most. Absentmindedly, you feel for the puncture wounds on the side of your neck. They, too, have been inadvertently healed by Withers. You stir and you wait. Stir and wait, until you finally have something resembling a hearty meal. Astarion is absent through dinner. You don’t blame him. Now that everyone knows about his condition, there’s no reason to keep up the pretense, and the smell of food is nothing but a cruel reminder of what he can’t have.
You find him sitting on the bank of the river, dipping his fingers into the running water and watching the sunset. He pretends to be underwhelmed by the vibrant fire in the sky. You let him.
“Couldn’t stay away, could you, dear?” He asks.
You manage a small smile as you take a seat on the ground next to him. “Maybe I missed you.”
“It’s only been a few hours. You really must find a better way to spend your time.” His words bite.
You take a deep breath, preparing yourself. He was a difficult man at the best of times, and you weren’t sure if you had the right words to reach him, but you wanted to try. “Earlier, I was only trying to be sympathetic to your condition. I did not mean to imply you couldn’t control yourself.”
His expression is unreadable. “I suppose I shouldn’t blame you. You know as well as anyone that vampires are governed by hunger.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. His eyes stay purposefully focused somewhere in the distance.
Your voice softens, but you make no moves to comfort him. The space between the two of you is sacred, and you always waited for him to close it. “You’re no more governed by hunger than anyone else. It isn’t your fault your hunger is only satiated by blood.”
He smiles the smile he saves for when something hurts. “You know, back when I was still Cazador’s...” he trails off, but the meaning is the same. “I think, if he’d ever fed me properly, I would have done anything he wanted.” He swallows hard. “I suppose it doesn’t matter very much. I did everything he wanted anyway.”
You hear the words he didn’t say. What good is a pretty plaything if it stays on the shelf? You’d seen flashes of Cazador, through his memories. He’d told you enough to make you weep for him. Every time your minds connected, you could feel his self-loathing. “I think you’d be hard-pressed to find a starving man who wouldn’t betray himself for food, Astarion. Your sins aren’t any heavier than anyone else’s.”
He scoffs. “With all due respect, darling, that is a bold claim from someone who doesn’t know how much my sins weigh.”
“And if I told you I don’t care?”
“Then I’d say you were an idiot with no sense of self-preservation.”
“Luckily for you, Barbarians aren’t known for their intelligence.”
The silence hangs between the two of you. Physical intimacy was one thing. The two of you had already crossed that line more than once, though it had been a while. Emotional intimacy proved to complicate things. You wanted nothing more than to tell him the full truth of how you felt about him, but you were worried he’d run at the first hint of real feelings. Although, you weren't sure how much longer you'd be able to keep your mouth shut anyway.
When at last he speaks again, it’s to ask you a question. “When I came to your bed the first time, teeth bared, why did you let me feed on you? Anyone else would have pulled their blade on me at the very least.”
You’re afraid your answer is too simple to be satisfactory. “Because I’m the camp cook. It’s my job to make sure everyone’s fed and looked after. And,” you add, a little less confident, “Because I know what it’s like to be hungry.” Your thoughts travel back to that forbidden place of your childhood. You were born into the losing side of a war. Sometimes months would go by before new shipments of food were able to cross the barricade. You had done shameful things to eat, too.
He lays his hand atop your thigh. Tentatively, you lay your hand atop his, stroking his cold, pallid skin with your thumb. His fingertips are like ice. They always were. Your instinct is to warm them between your palms, but you know his skin would only cool again the moment it stopped touching yours. You do it anyway. He lets you.
Then you have a question for him. “Is it ever enough? The blood?”
“No,” He says.
You try to imagine never-ending hunger. Your mind conjures his memories. A dark, damp room. Water dripping onto stone. Vermin and the stench of decay.
“You know,” you nudge him with your shoulder. “Any time it gets unbearable, all you have to do is ask.”
“I...” He sighs. “Whatever obligation I’ve pushed onto you, I release you from it. I’m more than capable of hunting for myself.” His face holds a level of sincerity you aren’t used to seeing from him. It’s strange given the things you’d done together, but the two of you had rarely talked like this. He knows the location of every scar on your body, he knows what kind of sounds you make in bed, and how and where you like to be touched, but not your story.
“Listen,” You begin. “I’ve been training to fight for as long as I can remember. They put a weapon in my hands as soon as I learned to walk. I was on the battlefield before I even became a man, and I was good at it. Everyone I have ever met has counted on me to leave a trail of death and destruction in my wake. My legacy is a pile of crushed skulls and broken bodies.” You wait for his eyes to settle on yours again. “You, however, only asked for something to eat.”
He interjects, “Darling, that is a gross oversimplification of—”
“What I mean,” You cut him off. “Is that it’s good for me to be asked to do something that preserves life, rather than ends it. It’s why I enjoy cooking for everyone. It’s why I want to be the person you come to when you’re hungry.”
“I could bleed you dry without even meaning to,” He fires off too quickly, his words nothing more than a defense.
“I’m stronger than you, I wouldn’t let you.” You counter, just as quickly. “Has it really not occurred to you that you don’t have the capabilities to take anything from me?”
Bristling, he leans closer to you. “I’m not looking for someone to lord over me. I’ve dealt with that quite enough.”
“I have no intention of lording over you. I thought you knew by now that I prefer things the other way around. I’m telling you that you don’t have to feel guilty.”
“I don’t feel guilty,” He objects, indignant.
“Then why did you insist you weren’t worth saving?”
“Because you’ll only want something in return,” he whispers, “and I don’t want to be indebted to some oafish barbarian.”
You know what he’s doing, trying to hurt you before you hurt him. You aren’t going to let him. Instead, you do something you’re very good at; the same thing that got you into this mess. You keep talking. “Is that what you think is happening? That I’m just falling over myself to do you favors so you’ll keep sleeping with me? I don’t mean to offend you, but there’s nothing you can give me in bed that I couldn’t get from any strapping young man who crossed my path. You’re pretty remarkable, sweetheart, I’ll admit that, but that’s not the reason I seek you out. The moments when I find you to be truly inseparable from my happiness come after, when you let me see what you’re like when you aren’t so scared...when I’m still reeling from the wonder of what it’s like to be with you and you lay your head on my chest, look up at me with that sly grin of yours, and make me laugh at some truly horrible joke about whatever unlucky bastard we came across that day.” The vampire rolls his eyes. You stay your course. “That’s the sort of thing I miss when you’re gone. That’s what keeps me coming back.” He scoffs. You still keep talking. “You are a terrible flirt... a pompous, egotistical braggart... a heinous, insufferable bitch, and I’m afraid that I find it all to be incredibly endearing. I like you, Astarion. Beyond that, I care about you. I didn’t take that sword blow so I could hold it over you. I don’t wish to possess or control you in any way. It wasn’t strategic. I did it because I’ve realized that I can no longer stand to see you hurt.”
“Careful, that bleeding heart is going to get you into trouble one day.” He doesn’t smile, but the sweetness has almost returned to his voice. Almost.
You move your hair to the side, showing off the freshly healed scar on the side of your neck. “I think it already has.”
The last muted flashes of color burn through the sky. The oranges, pinks, and purples run together into the murky gray of dusk, then the deep blue of nightfall. The moon is full tonight, and the sky is sprinkled with stars like diamonds tossed a swath of velvet. You’d taken the easy transition from day to night for granted for so long. After all, what good is a sunset to a soldier? You’d watched more of them in the short time you’d traveled with him than you ever had in your whole life before this ordeal.
At long last, you decide to leave him on his own. Dying had left you more or less exhausted. and it seemed like Astarion was done talking. For better or worse, you’d said your piece. You bid him goodnight and get ready to start the walk back to camp, satisfied with your attempt at damage control, but he catches your wrist before you even take a step. “I am fond of you,” he admits. “When you said it must have been unbearable, that’s what I thought you meant— that I’d ache at the loss of you. Because I suppose, as it happens, I have also come to care about you, but I...” He waves his hands with a flourish, then lets them fall back by his sides. “I don’t do relationships.”
“I understand.” You feel like someone stabbed you. Again. “I’m going to bed.”
“Let me finish, darling.” he softens.
“Alright then.” You cross your arms. “Go on.”
“What we've been doing is comfortable for me. I know how it's meant to play out when it's “only sex.” That's a language I speak very well. That’s the language Cazador taught me. The rest of this is new to me. I don't know how it's supposed to work when it moves beyond that. I don't know how to be a partner at all, much less a good one. I don't even know if that's what I want. I've never had the opportunity to think about someone in terms of love and romance,” He looks away from you and his eyes get that sad glint, the one that tugs at your soul and makes you want to do anything for him. “...but I want to try.”
“Then we’ll try.” You take his hands, folding them into your own like petals that have yet to bloom. “And you should know that no matter what happens, you have my protection. That is, unless you run off with Shadowheart to join the cult of Lady Shar.”
He laughs, a little more sure of himself. “I don’t see much chance of that. I’m quite content being without a master. I'm not overly anxious to ascribe myself to a new one.”
You lean in close. He's beautiful. Frozen in a moment of perfection, the thin lines around his eyes where he'd only just started to age were the only remnant of his mortality. “...And I’m content with you as mine. My blood is your blood. My body is your protection. My heart is yours to hold in your hands.”
He kisses you, and you’re as charmed as always that he has to get on his tiptoes to reach your lips. He wasn’t a small man. You just happened to be quite a large one.
“So what happens next, dear?” you ask him, looking warmly into his wine-dark eyes.
He smiles, and you now have the satisfaction of knowing it’s the one he saves for you. “Will I have negated this entire exchange if I ask you to come to bed with me?”
“No,” You kiss the top of his head. holding him against you, “Not as long as you’re sure that’s what you truly want.” You two hadn’t slept together since you’d learned more about his past with Cazador. Since then, you'd been worried that you were somehow pressuring him into something he didn't want, and he didn't know how to say no.
“It is.” He says, “I’ve chosen you. I won’t let him stop me from enjoying it. He isn't here. You are.”
So you let him lead you back to camp, back past everyone's prying eyes and into his tent, and then the momentum stops. Every time before this, neither of you could wait to tear the other to pieces. It was always quick and dirty, all bared teeth and bruises. This time, he undresses without any fanfare, so you do the same, and you don't get any farther than being pulled down on his bedroll beside him.
“I should savor this more,” he says, snuggling against you. He drapes an arm lazily across your chest and pulls you closer. “All the warmth I ever feel comes from you.”
“Are you cold?” You ask him on instinct, already reaching for the blankets.
“I’m always cold.” He lets you tuck the blankets around him. “It's just that I don't feel any of the discomfort I would expect if my heart were still beating. But I enjoy your warmth. So many things are numbed for me now, but it is still pleasant to feel the heat of a living thing.”
“So what you're saying is you want to cuddle with me,” You tease, wrapping your arms around him even tighter and attacking him with a barrage of quick kisses. “You want to get bear-hugged by your “oafish barbarian” lover?”
He groans. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Hey,” you tilt his face up toward yours. “I’ll hold you. I'll keep you warm. If you want, we can spend the whole night tangled together like this. I'll stroke your hair until you fall asleep, and when you wake up, you will still be safe in my arms.” You press a kiss to his cool forehead, hoping he feels comforted and not coddled. “You are safe. I hope one day you’re able to believe it.”
“Perhaps,” he agrees. “For now, and for reasons I don't fully understand, this is where I want to be. That matters a great deal.”
“Careful, my love,” the pet name slips out before you can think to stop it, and then there's nothing you can do. “It almost sounds like you've gone soft on me.”
“Don't tell anyone,” he says sleepily. Then, eyes half-lidded, he kisses a line down your jaw. You know what his destination is, and it's no surprise when his lips land on the side of your neck in a clumsy, wet kiss. His mouth stays there, teeth grazing your skin as he sucks bruises to the surface. It's a mere pantomime of what he needs. After all, you’d been chewed up and spit back out on the other side good as new, and he still bore the cuts and bruises of a fight well won.
You slide your hand up to the back of his head, tangling your fingers into soft, silver curls. “It’s alright. Go on.”
At your prompting, he sinks his teeth into your vein, so fast it's almost painless. Almost painless. What sting you felt, you’d come to enjoy, mostly because it was accompanied by his closeness and vulnerability, and was the only time you felt like you were actually successful in your mission to help him. Still, he was most like the monster he pretended to be in times like this, governed by something out of his control. You take a deep breath, relaxing into the odd sensation. As you inhale, you breathe in the acrid smell of your own blood mixed with the citrus and spice scent of the cologne he uses to cover the stench of a blood-fed creature. With every quickened beat of your heart, more blood rushes into his eager mouth. The only sounds inside the velvet walls of the tent are your stifled breaths and his desperate swallowing. You let him sate himself on you until spots form at the corners of your vision, bringing with them the now-familiar feeling of floating just outside your body that let you know it was time to unlatch his lips from your throat.
With your waning strength, you grab his shoulders and pull him off of you. He snarls at you as you do, blood dripping down his chin as he loses himself for just a moment. He no longer frightens you in this state. You simply swipe the blood— your blood— off his chin with your thumb, then press the digit to his tongue. “There we go,” You say as he licks your fingers clean. “Good ‘til the last drop.” This ritual had become commonplace for the two of you, and you refused to feel any of the shame that was meant to be associated with it. In the morning, you wouldn’t even bother to cover the reopened scar. He smiles, after, blood still staining his teeth, and you let him kiss the taste of it into your mouth, still holding him like something precious. He grabs your hand and presses it to his stomach instead, where your blood has warmed him from the inside out, and you can’t help but be satisfied with yourself.
“Full?” you ask, staring up at him. With the candlelight glinting off his face, setting his skin aflame with gold, he might as well be the sun.
“For now,” He answers softly, “How do you feel?”
You shrug. The pains of blood loss become dulled over time. Like anything else, you get used to it. “A little bit woozy, if anything.” You try to sit up, but you move too fast and your vision closes in again. The top half of your body sways forward until he catches you against his chest. You laugh at yourself, just a little, as the lightheaded feeling fades. He holds you steady against him. “Easy, darling. Don’t get too confident, you nearly let me drain you dry.”
“I did not,” You protest, indignantly. “Unlike you, I actually have self-control.”
“Oh, yes. You’re the one with self-control. That’s why Withers’ purse is so heavy right now and mine is nearing empty.” He narrows his eyes at you. “If I blew on you, you’d fall over.”
“Most likely,” You concede, still leaning on him for support while he climbs onto your lap, knees bent and thighs pressed to either side of your hips. You tilt your head forward to kiss his chest, right over his dead heart, more content than you've ever been.
“Cazador wasted you,” you say, eyes widening in panic when you realize you'd brought him up in such a rare, peaceful moment. You feel him tense up, shaken from his contentment.
“What do you mean by that?” He asks, and the tone of his voice is kept purposefully ambiguous.
“He could have had this instead.” You continue.
“I don't understand.” He whispers.
“I wish that he had loved you instead, that I had met a version of you who had experienced two hundred years of tenderness. I know that version of you would have never sought me out, but I would be content to lose you if it meant that you had never experienced that horror. Why someone would savor your screams instead of your laughter is beyond me. How could someone squander two hundred years with you? How could someone spend so long in your presence and never once discover that the satisfaction of making you happy is stronger than even the purest whiskey? Whatever pleasure his rotted soul derived from your torment, I'm certain that it pales in comparison to what I feel when I see you smile. You are precious to me, Astarion.”
“We can't change the past, Darling.” You can tell he's lost in some dark memory. Perhaps one day, he'd share the full weight with you, so as not to bear it alone. For now, he volunteers nothing. “But I am hopeful for the future, that I will continue to retire into gentle arms instead of cruel ones,” then he grins, “And that Cazador's ugly head will find its way onto a pike.”
“If I have the chance, I'll put it there.” You say it to make him laugh, but you mean it.
“You always know the right things to say,” he jokes, his usual flirtatious melodrama making an appearance again. Then, he pulls you back into his arms, where you belong.
Everything that follows is easy. For now, the theatrics you'd both employed in bed in the past were gone. There was a time and place for them, but tonight had a different purpose. It was more of a consummation than your usual romp. The mechanics are the same, but this time, it's slow and gentle, a different kind of pleasure. It's a sweetness that neither one of you had seen nearly enough of in your lives, a brief glimpse at what might, one day if you're both luckier than you deserve to be, become love.