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Morning light teases the hazy skies, and you haven't plunged a stake through his heart—yet.
Astarion senses your curiosity. Your questions are short but selected with care, falsely nonchalant yet dipped in poorly camouflaged interest. He indulges you to a limit, aware that it might be the price to pay for the draining you graciously agreed to the night before.
Moments later, traveling under the noon sun biting at shoulders and exposed necks, you surprise him—as you often do.
“What color were your eyes, before?”
For a short second, it feels like he might laugh, inject cruel disdain into his response to disguise the sting of the acidic truth—he does not remember the color of his eyes. Centuries have passed, grains of sand sparing his skin from scratches and scars, his perception of himself faltering along with it, flowing to the bottom of the hourglass. He tells you the truth—why shouldn't he? The taste of your blood still lingers under his tongue, metallic and sweet.
Finds himself asking back, “Which do you think would suit me best?”.
And for you to answer: “Hard to pick just one. Hells, red doesn't even look bad on you. You just have one of those faces.” A shrug, your attention swiftly broken by the winged, buzzing creature tickling your ear. It's a thing you do, kindness thrown so matter-of-factly, making it impossible to believe it flattery or a lie. Makes him feel terrible about his own flowery words, meticulously crafted feathers of unctuous hypocrisy, destined to brush and cajole, a means to an end, reliable, hollow as common reed stems.
“Just say I'm beautiful and we'll call it a day.”
You grin, but keep quiet, chasing the insect away with a hand, smile so eloquent you might've just spilled your thoughts on his lap like honey.
The next day, you're looting one of the corpses, crouched over a fallen drow like a vulture, elbows deep into his pockets. Astarion wipes his soles of blood on the grass, spying on you from the corner of his eye. You're exhuming a bottle, heavy with sloshing, thick liquid, glass reflecting the sharp light of day onto your nose. You hand the potion to Shadowheart, but your fingers still fidget afterwards, toying with something so small he barely catches its outlines.
A moment later, enjoying a break in the shade of ivy eaten ruins, you're extending your palm to him. The stone is cracked, but its blue hues shimmer, gentle yet vivid, reminiscent of waves playing and crashing through a veil of white foam in the harbor of Baldur's Gate.
“Found your eyes.” Your voice half swallows the joke, tongue twisting around the words, throwing them in haste. Your tone is timid—not timid, wary. What can you possibly fear, you who just sent a pack of gnolls to their divine makers?
You slip the ring into his hand. The bronze band of the jewel feels warm, still infused in the glowing heat of your skin following the effort of combat. The gesture leaves him hesitant, bewilderment that only lasts mere seconds. That sly grin on his lips, again.
“I understand you find me irresistible, but a ring, darling, so soon? Let's take things a little slower.”
Eyes rolling, you scoff. Your hand, like an agile a spider, gently pinching his finger, mimicking the jewel's hug around his digit.
“On second thought, I'm not sure blue works that well on you.”
Astarion pries his hand and the gift away from your claws. “Then I suppose you'll have to dig out more for me to try on. I'm certain we'll find my color, eventually.”
A nod, your amused smirk. “Something green, next time, perhaps…”
He thought you fearless. It only takes him a couple more days to understand you're not. Your terror is discreet. It is the slowed blinking, the watery eyes, the palpitation of a vein on your neck. He watches you steady your breathing, restrain your hand from shivering, knowing your own stance will inspire your companions' bravery. If you aren't afraid, they won't be either. Better than fearless, you're courageous. Astarion sees you biting your tongue and swallowing your terror, hushing it away like an undisciplined stray cat. After the fight, it catches back to you. You step away from camp, seeking the gentle purr of a stream, hoping to drown your anguished thoughts in the murmurs of the wilderness. Body collapsing, legs shaking, trying to recompose yourself, away from familiar eyes. The pride of victory barely overshadows the fear gnawing at your stomach, fear of making the wrong choices, of losing an ally to a cunning blade or a vicious spell. You don't hear him approach—perhaps he notices that, purposely stepping on a dry twig, causing it to snap for you to turn around.
“Thinking of making a run for it, my dear?”
Getting closer. Can't let anything happen to you. There they are, those two pokes holes, still visible on your neck, slightly darkened in comparison to the tint of your skin. Not just a blood source, but a shield. You like him, he thinks, and if you like him, you'll make sure nothing happens to him. So he shifts his body next to yours, shoulder bumping against your own. Makes you laugh with wit and gossip, wipes the residual fear away. Because he needs you strong. That's all there is to it.
Bantering. He likes that you bite back. Your words are sharp, but they don't wound. Your tone teasing, nibbling at him.
“Don't break a nail now, we don't have time to fetch a healer.”
Your gaze embraces Astarion's hands, as he picks at the rusty lock on a chest.
“Trust me, darling, nobody's ever complained about my fingers before.”
The chest surrenders its secrets, cracked open with barely a squeal from the tools. A whispered “well done” as you brush against him to examine the treasures, praise inaudible to anyone except him. Such small words, yet he can't help but pick them up like pebbles, tucking them into a corner not too far.
Signs are there, yet you're not sure he likes you. Elaborate performances tire you, make you nervous. It's the first thing you've noticed about him, your perception whispering to be careful. Charming smile, gracious poise, so well studied, so precise in their intent to seduce, to entrance. He's like that with most people, you let it go at first, thinking it'll glide over you like water over rocks. But rocks erode, and more than once, you find yourself running off with a pretext, before the heat in your cheeks turns you dumb. Tension melting into frustration. Why should you worry about such things, about him liking you? Your fingers ghost over your throat, feeling the bumps where his lips once were, drinking from you. Offering blood should earn you truth, earn you honesty. You feel shame at your own sense of entitlement. Friendship shouldn't be earned, it is a gift, effortless, natural as the bee rubbing pale pollen on an autumncrocus.
You're picking a fight with Astarion over something mundane. A displaced quiver, bloody spatters on your bedroll—who cares, trifles you'll forget about the next day but that feel deadly important at the moment. He says you're a spoilsport and you call him difficult. Your steps carry you to the opposite of the camp, grunting something about “leaving before you say something you'll regret”. You don't remember who apologizes first. Maybe the effort comes from both, maybe Wyll gave it a push. It's like watching two kids forced to shake hands after one fed the other dirt. You're both annoyed and frustrated, tired from the long day. Unsure about what to say. Shared discomfort settles it better than words ever could, putting the matter to rest before you even need to open your mouth.
Hostility feels out of place between the two of you.
“I'm sorry for calling you difficult.”
And his smile, canines catching ivory moonlight.
“You're cute if you think I haven't been called worse.”
Two voices humming—yours and his—mixing with the cracks of the fire, heads leaning towards the other like conspirators under the darkened skies. Couldn't sleep, so naturally, you've dragged your bedroll closer to his. He tells you of Cazador and the night he grew fangs, of life in the palace, feeding on rats and roaches, the hissing whip, digging into his flesh. Forced to hunt for souls in the city, sacrificing them on the altar of a cruel executioner, night after night after night. Survival and its bitter taste. Among complex mixtures of anger, outrage and sadness, you feel the poke of something different. Gratefulness, that he trusts you enough to confide in you. You try not to press, sensing he doesn't enjoy this, the dwelling on the past, digging up rotting pieces of his own history before your very eyes. You accept those pieces as they are. Him, as he is.
He asks if your neck still hurts.
You answer you haven't thought about it at all, even if it's a lie, that the memory has been creeping up on you more often than you care to confess. You try not to think about it too hard, his body bumping against yours, nose brushing the side of your jaw, whiffs of jasmine, cloves and iron, hushing your reason away, stronger than a glass of liquor, silver locks dropping down, caressing your cheek. Your wounds aren't quite healed yet. He notices you scratching there from time to time, pressing the pads of your fingers against them. Newly acquired mannerism.
Goblins are nefarious creatures—the pulsating cut on your arm attests to it. But Astarion's the one who got splashed by the rays of a fire arrow, hastily patched up on the side of the road. The cry he let out when the flames kissed his skin still rings in your ear.
“It's just a scratch. I'm not made of sugar, you know,” he assures as you kneel next to him at camp.
“With your repartee, I can safely say nobody here thinks you're made of sugar,” you gently mock, to hide your worry.
One would think a soul as dramatic as his would've made this wound a more general and pressing matter, but you recognize his behavior because it echoes yours. It's that tired habit of retreating away like a wild animal, to lick its wounds in peace, incapable of accepting any sign of pity.
Your eyes fall to the lesion, and he notices it.
“I promise it's nothing,” he swears with a hint of impatience, sewing needle loosely held between his fingers, trying to patch up the damage made to his clothing.
“I believe you,” you concede.
Silence drifts as you diligently watch the progression of the thread in the garment. Eventually, your index rises, smooths away the undisciplined wisp of hair hanging before his eyes, worried the strand might bother him in his work, earn him a prick of his needle. Your gesture holds the opposite effect, halting Astarion at once, shattering his focus. His irises meet yours, gazes entangling. Silence stretches. It takes effort to break; you're the first to try.
“You can feed on me tonight, if you wish.”
His eyes linger on your throat a second too long. The faintest shadow of a smirk creeps at the corner of his lips, but uncertainty floats in the depths of his eyes.
“Are you certain your neck will survive that ordeal?”
Your hand intuitively flies to your throat, over the two rounded scars flourishing on your skin, barely perceptible. Is it weariness you sense in his voice, hidden behind the jesting?
“What do you mean? You're as gentle as a flower,” you snap back.
Laughter spills from his lips. It's the sort of sound you wish you could bottle up, to listen to on rainy days. You feel it then, in the warmth of the gaze he wraps you in. Familiarity. Safety. That red string woven between the both of you, by your hands, over the course of the weeks. In this instant, it isn't just blood that you're offering. Astarion understands this. As you stand up, he calls your name, catches you with the simplest words, tone slow, deliberate, like savoring a ripe fruit.
“Thank you.”
The intensity soaks you to the bone, presses your throat, folds over your heart. Your soul wriggles under his gaze, your voice slightly hoarse when you respond.
“Of course. What are friends for?”