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The campfire has burned itself low, leaving only the lazy glow of embers and the soft night hum of distant insects. Astarion lounges nearby, half lit by orange light, half swallowed by the shadows, like he’s been painted in a way that refuses to give the full truth of him.
He watches you approach, a sly smile already forming before you’ve even said a word.
He always seems to anticipate your presence, as if he can sense the shape of your footsteps before you make them.
“Back for more of my irresistible company?” he drawls, arranging himself in that effortless theatrical way, chin lifted, lips curled, eyes glittering. “Careful. Someone might think you’re getting attached.”
His tone is light. Teasing. Familiar.
But you’re tired tonight, not physically but in that soft, emotional way where the heart feels bruised by its own hope.
You sit beside him, close enough to share the glow of the fire. “Are you capable of saying anything serious,” you ask quietly, “without turning it into a performance?”
He hums, amused. “Of course I am. I can say everyone’s three favourite words with absolute sincerity.”
He leans forward, lowering his voice into something falsely intimate.
“I love you.”
It lands with a startling softness. Beautiful, even. Too believable for what it is.
And the worst part, the part that twists something painfully in your chest, is that he says it like he could mean it. Like he’s rehearsed the line a thousand times and learned to wear it perfectly.
You look away, breath catching. For a second, you let yourself imagine it was real.
But Astarion sees everything. Every flicker. Every foolish drop of yearning.
And it terrifies you how skilled he is at mimicking something you want so desperately to trust.
“You’d be lying,” you say, because the truth feels like the only shield you have left.
He freezes, only slightly. But for Astarion, who always moves like flowing silk, even a slight pause is seismic.
“Lying?” he repeats, a defensive lilt entering his voice. “Darling, I lie beautifully.”
“That’s the problem.” Your voice comes out softer than you intend, fragile, quiet. “You say it so well that for a moment I almost believe you. And that’s…dangerous. For me.”
He scoffs but there’s no real bite to it. “Oh, please. Am I to blame for being convincing?”
“Yes,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. “Because you’re trying so hard not to feel anything real…that the closest I get is whatever mask you decide to put on.”
Astarion’s smile falters.
For a heartbeat, the mask slips, not fully, not dramatically but enough for you to see the raw, uncertain thing trembling underneath.
“Real feelings are…inconvenient,” he murmurs, eyes shifting away. “Messy. Binding.”
A humorless chuckle. “Dangerous, I suppose.”
“For who?” you ask.
“For me,” he says, almost inaudibly.
You swallow. “Then don’t say things you don’t mean. Not like that. Not when you know how much it could hurt.”
His jaw tightens. The firelight makes his expression sharper, almost vulnerable despite his posture.
“Would you prefer I say nothing at all?” he asks.
“No,” you admit. “I just want you to say what’s true. Even if what’s true is that you don’t love me.”
The camp goes quiet.
Astarion looks at you like he’s standing on thin ice, unsure which direction leads to safety or whether staying still will break him all the same.
Finally, he says, voice low and strangely careful,
“I don’t know what I feel. But I…don’t want to lie to you about it.”
There’s no charm in his tone this time. No theatrical flourish.
Just a simple, trembling truth.
You let out a slow breath, shoulders softening.
“That’s all I want,” you whisper. “Honesty. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”
Astarion huffs, looking away as if the ground is suddenly fascinating. “You ask so much of me,” he murmurs.
But his voice is no longer guarded.
It sounds almost…relieved.
You inch closer, close enough that the fire’s warmth blends with your own.
“I know,” you say gently. “But you can give that much, can’t you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
But when he looks back at you, eyes softer, unguarded in a way that makes your chest tighten, it’s clear he’s trying.
Trying for you.
Astarion’s eyes flicker between yours and the dying embers.
A silence settles, not heavy but delicate, like something that could shatter if either of you breathes too loudly.
“So,” you say softly, “were you trying to make me believe your lie just now? When you leaned in?”
Astarion stills.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifts back.
A retreat.
A withdrawal.
A tell.
The movement is subtle but knowing what you know now, it lands like a confession.
His lips twitch, not in amusement but in a tiny, defensive grimace. “Observant little thing, aren’t you?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Hells,” he mutters, leaning back further, creating space, creating safety, creating that invisible wall he hides behind when emotions get too sharp.
He looks elegant in retreat but it’s the elegance of someone who wants to vanish behind velvet curtains.
“You use it,” you continue, tone gentle. “Forward when you want me close. Back when you’re afraid I might see something real.”
He scoffs but it’s thin. “Body language is a weapon like any other.”
“And you use it on me.”
He looks you over, eyes narrowing in that calculating way, the way he assesses threat and vulnerability and advantage all at once. For a heartbeat, it’s as if he’s debating whether to run or strike.
Then he leans forward.
On purpose.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like he’s demonstrating a technique.
“You make it sound sinister,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something silken and low, “when it’s simply…effective.”
There’s that performance again.
But this time, you recognize the pattern.
You see the exact moment he slips back into the mask.
You hold his gaze.
“And now?”
Astarion blinks.
You ask quietly, “Is that the mask or you?”
The question hits him like a thrown stone.
He rocks back slightly, not dramatically but enough to break the illusion of closeness he had just conjured.
He straightens, creates an inch more space between you, as if unwilling to let you read the truth in his posture.
“That’s…none of your concern,” he says, but the words lack heat.
“It is,” you counter gently. “Because if I can’t tell which part of you is real…how am I supposed to trust any of this? Even a little?”
He inhales sharply through his nose, gaze darting away. His jaw works as though he’s chewing on something difficult, pride, maybe. Fear. Self-preservation.
“You’re asking me to give you honesty,” he whispers. “But you’re also asking me to stop defending myself.”
“I’m asking you to let me see you,” you murmur. “Just for a moment.”
Astarion’s throat bobs in a swallow.
He looks at you again and for the first time tonight, neither leans forward nor back.
He stays still.
A rare, precarious equilibrium.
“I leaned in because it’s what I do,” he says at last, voice soft and stripped of charm. “Because getting close makes the lie sweeter. And it makes the mark want to believe it.”
Your chest tightens.
“And you leaned back,” you whisper, “because the truth scares you.”
Astarion holds your gaze and something wounded flickers behind his carefully maintained poise.
“Yes,” he says, a single, fragile, honest word.
He doesn’t lean away this time.
He simply stays where he is, no manipulation, no trick of proximity, letting you sit close enough to feel his warmth.
And for him, that unmoving stillness is more revealing than any lie he could pull you into with a practiced lean forward.
“Thank you,” you say gently.
He shakes his head, looking almost dazed. “Don’t thank me,” he murmurs. “I’m not doing this for your sake.”
“Then whose sake?”
Astarion swallows.
And this time, when he leans forward, it’s slow, shy, almost hesitant, completely unlike the seductive precision of before.
“For mine,” he says.