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Astarion tapped his foot against the stone walk of the pier impatiently. It had long been Uk’el’s routine to check in with everyone in camp once they’d all parted ways post-supper, and with Astarion having no need to partake in meals, their selfless cleric would usually make the vampire spawn his first stop. Every night without fail, Uk’el would generously offer to host him for a bite in private later. And every night without fail, Astarion would graciously accept, never letting the true depth of his relief show. Tonight, however, Uk’el was certainly taking his sweet time to make his rounds.
Closing his eyes, Astarion focused in on the sounds of the harbor, relying on the same acute sense of hearing that made him such an effective rogue. In the peace of twilight, he should have been able to at least pinpoint which of their companions was hogging their fearless leader’s time, yet all he heard was the lap of waves against the docks and the soft thump of wood against stone as ships bobbed in the water. It wasn’t as though Astarion had anything pressing to discuss, but he’d been patiently waiting in front of his tent for well over an hour and didn’t want to give the impression that he could be made to wait forever. He had to maintain some semblance of dignity.
Setting aside the book he’d been pretending to read, Astarion made a circuit of the camp in search of his partner. Gale wasn’t aware of any plans out of the ordinary. Wyll and Halsin were doing their best to appear cheerful despite the circumstances, but each was doing so alone. Minsc was playing idly with Boo, and Jaheira was turning a sending stone over and over in her hand, deep in thought. At the end of the dock, the horrid freeloading menace, Volo, was busy with a quill and parchment in hand. Peeking around the corner to avoid getting dragged into conversation, Astarion found Karlach doing stretches - also alone. He didn’t have to check on Lae’zel. The incessant whine of her grindstone could be heard for miles, and if she had been speaking to anyone, everyone in that same radius would have been able to hear it.
Frustrated, Astarion closed his eyes again with a huff and turned to his sharpened sense of smell instead. The hunger from not having fed yet helped him key into the scent of blood running beneath warm, thin skin. Uk’el was close. Just not in any of the spots Astarion had expected.
Pushing open the door to the abandoned church, Astarion found his mark sitting among the dusty pews. Torch-light threw deep shadows over the half-orc’s chiselled features and stone-grey skin. His head was down, but not in prayer. Rather, he was staring intently at something in his hands.
As Astarion approached, he expected to find their devoted leader deep in study. Uk’el’s favourite camp-time activity had always been reading and cataloguing the veritable mountain of scrolls they pilfered throughout their adventures. This night, however, it wasn’t a scroll the cleric was silently burning a hole through with his eyes, but a helmet. And not just any - he was staring down the horned helm of Sarevok himself.
Astarion had never seen Uk’el so burning with righteous fury as in their fight against Sarevok. It made sense, though; everything he stood for was in direct opposition to Uk’el’s own beliefs. And while Sarevok had built a miniature empire for himself in service to his god, it was nothing but castles in the sand before a man willing to tattoo his convictions on his face for all the world to read. Uk’el had claimed Sarevok’s helmet as though it were his crown. Now, though, rather than revelling in his victory, he had shut himself away in silent contemplation. And that was simply not acceptable to a partner as nosy as Astarion.
Unfortunately, Uk’el showed no sign of turning his attention from the helmet to his gorgeous partner who was so patiently waiting for him. Unwilling to wait any longer and with only a hint of indignance, Astarion smoothed the front of his dinner jacket, combed his nails through his curls, and sauntered over.
“What’s the matter, my little magpie?” Astarion cooed. “Not shiny enough for you?”
When Uk’el finally looked up from his staring contest with the helmet, Astarion could tell right away that whatever was eating away at him, it had to be serious. Uk’el, typically the first to fall on his sword for any sorry jackoday with a sob story, didn’t even bother mustering a fake smile to put him at ease.
“No, nothing like that.”
Uk’el wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but his sense of humor rarely faltered. If he was willing to give up the chance for a silly reply to such a ripe set-up, then his concern over the helmet was likely some deep moral quandary. Little else would have troubled him this deeply.
Astarion wrinkled his nose at the only guess to cross his mind.
“Oh gods, don’t tell me you feel bad about killing a monster like Sarevok.”
“No, no.” Uk’el waved the suggestion off, clearly consternated by the mere suggestion. “It is a matter of appearances, but…”
“You’re disappointed that your cool, new trophy would clash with that obnoxious, gold plate mail you run around in like a ray of sunshine with legs?”
Uk’el blushed and looked askance. Astarion had thrown it out as a joke, an opportunistic jab at their resident goody-two-shoes’ awful taste in fashion. Was something as simple as color coordination really bothering Uk’el to the point of such distraction?
“Would it be ridiculous for me to say ‘yes’?” Uk’el asked.
“Hilariously so. But, well, so much of what you do is already ridiculous. Why stop now?”
Had it been anyone else, Astarion would have been ready to dodge a - possibly earned - fist, or at the very least to weather a rueful glare. Uk’el, in contrast, relaxed his shoulders and went back to staring sadly at the helmet in his hands. That was just the sort of relationship they’d developed in the short time they’d known each other - and the even shorter time that Astarion had been fully honest with both Uk’el and himself. The cleric had grown accustomed to even Astarion’s most unusual expressions of affection. Hells, sometimes he seemed to understand what Astarion meant better than the vampire spawn himself did, loathe as Astarion was to admit it.
“Since when have you worried about fashion, anyway?” Astarion continued, his curiosity now genuinely piqued. “It isn’t as though your wardrobe has ever had a cohesive theme.”
By day, Uk’el led their party into battle clad in resplendent plate mail, complete with a kite shield in one hand and the gleaming Blood of Lathander in the other. Even his headband of intellect fit the aesthetic. It may have been a bit scuffed, but it added the impression of a halo to the half-orc’s bald head. Honestly, the only things that didn’t mesh were his gothic makeup and tattoo.
Said tattoo - a personal creed composed by Uk’el himself and inscribed into his flesh as a rite of passage within his sect - was permanent, so it made sense that it would be there regardless of what clothes or armor he wore. But the dark eyeliner, smokey tear trails, and dark purple lipstick he wore were a deliberate choice. Every morning was a chance to switch it up, pick something in a hue that better suited the image of a knight in shining armor Uk’el seemed to be cultivating. And yet every morning, he diligently applied them with a comically fine brush from his little box of cosmetics. If he didn’t mind the incongruity between that and his armour, why the concern over a mismatched helmet?
By night, the aesthetic whiplash was even more jarring. No one who saw Uk’el at work in the day would ever guess that his camp clothes consisted of a black-and-purple leather vest in the Drow styling, paired with black, skin-tight leather pants that hugged every curve of his musculature tighter than a scandalized noble clutching their pearls.
Uk’el sighed, and Astarion rolled his eyes. How a simple question of aesthetics could be unspun into a quagmire of doubt deep enough to drown in was a riddle only their devoted Ilmatari could manage.
“It’s…really cool. Really badass.”
“Have the hells frozen over? I could have sworn I just heard you cuss!” Astarion joked.
“To wear something like this into battle would be so…empowering.”
“So? Do it. It’s not like Sarevok’s sweat infected it with evil humours. Or is there something in the Ilmatari code about not stealing from the dead, even if they’re despicable assholes?”
Uk’el looked at Astarion, dark brown eyes pleading for something the elf didn’t know how to give.
“You don’t understand.”
“Because you’re being obtuse.”
“Or maybe my head’s just - how did you put it? ‘Empty as an ogre’s skull’?”
Having his own words thrown back in his face was like a knife in Astarion’s back.
“I apologized for that!” Astarion contested, crossing his arms defensively. “You can’t hold it over my head forever.”
“That isn’t my point. You’ve gotten better, yes. You’re putting the work in, yes. But the rub is that you weren’t the first and you won’t be the last. It isn’t just humans and elves, either. No matter where you go, the stereotypes are the same: orcs are all brawn with no brains. We’re violent, greedy, cannibalistic, simple-minded savages. We raid and pillage and plunder. The best you can hope for is an obedient simpleton to haul crates or pull a plow. The only advantages we have over oxen are opposable thumbs and the capacity for speech. Not for intelligent conversation, mind you; not to seek input from. Just to marginally better understand orders.”
Uk’el sneered back at the helmet’s gaping, toothy maw, all four of his tusks on prominent display.
Astarion was silent. Even if it wasn’t solely levied at him, he knew he’d been guilty of holding such beliefs in the past. He’d passed countless judgements in court with such ideas front of mind. And granted, he’d had his “No-True-Mirabarran” phase with Uk’el as well, but that was all part of the growing pains. Astarion was now proud to be enlightened and corrected - much as he hated to admit that he’d ever been wrong. Still, when you stick around for hundreds of years, he told himself, there are bound to be a few misconceptions you end up needing to unlearn.
“What does any of that have to do with fashion, though?” Astarion asked, preferring to sweep past his personal discomfort.
“You know how much it informs first impressions, how people perceive you. Even in how you feel about yourself.”
Astarion crossed his arms and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly interested in every nook and cranny of the old church’s internal architecture. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d made a scene at Carm’s Garms over Uk’el trying to buy him a suit as a present. Before that, in the scope of his life thus far, it hadn’t been so long since he’d been tarting himself up before going out at night - or, more accurately, being let out at night - in order to lure in victims for Cazador to feed on. It had always been appropriately modest for the age, but the purpose behind it had poisoned the joy of fine garments for him for a time.
Longer ago - far, far too long ago now - Astarion could still vaguely remember the first time he’d pulled on his magistrate’s robes and strode into the courtroom in Baldur’s Gate. The way everyone had looked at him with respect, admiration, jealousy, and even fear had made every late-night study session and 2gp law book purchase worth it.
Astarion clicked his tongue in annoyance.
“Ugh. Fine, you have a point. So…what? You’re secretly a dorky goth like Shadowheart, but you prance around dressed up like Tyr’s gift to mortalkind?”
Uk’el grimaced, but it wasn’t the panicked look of pain he gave every time Astarion’s fangs pierced the skin of his neck to feed. That look never failed to send a tingle of exhilaration through Astarion’s body. No, this was a tired pain, a beaten-down pain - a long-suffering pain.
“I never wanted to give them an excuse. When I was young, I lived up to exactly the kind of violence they expect from me. I felt like I had to make up for that and more.”
Astarion sat down next to him on the pew and placed a comforting hand on Uk’el’s arm. This, he understood.
“You weren’t exactly in a position to do much else,” Astarion pointed out.
“I know. But it made my desire to change that much stronger after the church took me in. Once I was shown that there was another way to live - by my people, for my people - I wanted to represent that hope and way of life with pride. Not live every day worrying that when people look at me, all they see is a beast. So I learned to speak their visual language. If they couldn’t read my words, I wanted to speak their language to avoid any misunderstanding.”
Ukl’el passed a hand over the tattoo that ran the length of one side of his face. ‘BY MY WORDS OR BY / MY HAND - PEACE’. It was a remarkably powerful and straightforward proclamation. Sadly, few people outside of specific regions could read Orcish, even in metropolitan centres like Baldur’s Gate.
Astarion floundered for a response, something witty and insightful that would win him points while easing the cleric’s mind. As he arranged and rearranged the pieces in his mind, however, something unexpected clicked into place.
Unpleasant memories bubbled to the surface, making Astarion’s skin crawl. Memories of eyes, all upon him. The way people had looked at him in those seedy bars where he had gone to hunt. He shivered as he felt those eyes rolling over his body, caressing him. He felt slimy - filthy in a way that couldn’t be scrubbed clean with soap and water. He felt powerless; powerless to stop them because he needed their attentions to survive in a very literal sense. And he’d been equally powerless to escape the circumstances that created that need.
Astarion wanted to force those memories away, to resurface in the present with Uk’el, who respected him more than he even respected himself. He wanted to pack all of those feelings away and burn them to ash. But he didn’t. Not this time. He wasn’t powerless, not anymore. In fact, Astarion realized that he had a unique opportunity before him to return the kindness Uk’el lavished on him.
And so he pivoted, still holding onto the memories. How would it have felt if, instead of lust, all of those eyes had looked at him with fear and suspicion?
Great actually, Astarion decided. Fantastic even. After all, he did so love to keep the upper hand all to himself whenever possible.
Astarion fumed silently. He’d failed, catastrophically, to put himself into Uk’el’s shoes, but even so, Astarion knew one thing for certain: if it made the cleric feel anywhere near as alone, trapped, and violated as the gazes of random strangers had made him feel, then Astarion couldn’t fault him for whatever seemingly silly act he liked to put on as a shield against those prying eyes.
“Fuck that.”
“Excuse me?” Uk’el blinked at him, taken aback.
“Fuck that! Fuck anyone who thinks they know you from one look and fuck whatever little story they tell themself about you in their head. You shouldn’t have to bear a cross they threw on you just because they’re jumping at shadows, thinking demons are out to get them at every turn. So: fuck them. Wear whatever you damn well please! If people are going to piss themselves over you - the world’s biggest stuffie - going into battle in black and silver instead of blue and gold while you save all their ungrateful asses, then that’s their problem. Not yours.”
Uk’el stared at Astarion in shock. Suddenly, he burst out laughing so hard that tears beaded at the corners of his eyes. Astarion crossed his arms, pouting.
“What? What’s so damned funny? I’m trying to be supportive, and you’re laughing in my face!”
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Uk’el composed himself.
“Sorry, sorry. It’s just…very you. If our places were reversed, I suppose I would give you the same advice. Though, perhaps not in so many words.”
Re-considering the helmet, Uk’el slipped it on. It fit like a glove.
“Well? How do I look?”
Astarion made a show of deeply considering the question, tilting his head one way then another and holding his chin thoughtfully between two fingers.
“Positively terrifying, my love.” Astarion eyed Uk’el with a hungry smirk.
“That’s exactly what I don’t want,” the cleric groaned. “Although, you don’t actually seem put off by it.”
“Well, terrifying in concept. You’re still far too harmless for it to take.” Astarion had to reach up to cup Uk’el’s cheeks in his hands. The metal of the helmet was as cold to the touch as the undead’s own flesh. “I say: if it makes you happy, then wear it. And let your actions speak for themselves.”
Crows' feet formed at the corners of Uk’el’s eyes as he smiled down at Astarion. As he leaned in for a kiss, Astarion gently pressed his fingertips against his partner’s lips.
“Handsome as you are in it, the helmet brings the total number of teeth on the outside of your mouth above my comfort level. Navigating your standard four is a thrilling enough challenge for me as is.”
Removing the helmet with a laugh, Uk’el leaned in again, and Astarion closed his eyes for a soft and tender kiss in the musty dark of the empty church.