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There was nothing particularly off about the way Astarion’s delicate fingers circled his wrist. Nor the way he glanced up at Kyren through his snowy lashes. Not even how he led him away from the group and into the night, towards a cliff's edge.
The pair would usually partake in this little song-and-dance. After their nightly campfire meal, the camp would all tuck themselves into their respective tents for the night.
All except Kyren, who would wait by the fire for the brush of pale fingertips against his skin, ready to lead him off somewhere they could be alone.
Not for anything particularly scandalous, however.
They simply wished to be alone.
Some nights, Kyren would bear his neck, a source of energy for his undead lover.
On other nights, they would just talk, staring up at the stars, sharing thoughts, and the occasional kiss or two.
Nothing more, though. They still hadn’t spoken about Astarion's particular affliction to sexual intimacy. But Kyren did not mind; he would not press the elf. Having Astarion by his side was more than enough. If Astarion decided he never wished to have sex again, Kyren would feel no sorrow.
To Kyren, sex was no more intimate than what they were already doing. If anything, the words Astarion spoke to him in the dead of night showed far more vulnerability and trust than any sexual connection could.
So no, these were all normal circumstances, Kyren thought, as he allowed himself to be led. So why did he feel so on edge?
Maybe it was the way Astarion's grip seemed slightly tighter than usual, his nails catching on his skin in a way they never usually do.
Or perhaps it was the way he stared straight ahead, silent. Walking a pace faster than Kyren. When they usually walked side by side, feet slow, eyes catching on one another, while they spoke quietly as if the stars would overhear.
Or it could be the slightly exaggerated sway of his hips with each step. Yes, of course, Astarion walked with a sway in his hips. He was perhaps the flirtiest elf Kyren had ever met. And more often than not, Astarion would use his looks to get people to do his bidding. However, he seldom felt the need to keep up the act once they were alone.
So yes. Something was off.
Paranoia was not an uncommon feeling for Kyren; however, it rarely led him astray.
Kyren stared at the back of Astarion’s head as he racked his brain for anything he could have done to upset the elf.
They hadn’t had any particularly hard-hitting conversations in the city today. Though they had spent an unreasonable amount of time in the sewers, so maybe the elf was about to chew him out for the stench lingering on his clothes.
The night before, Astarion’s siblings had come by to chat, which, as per most things in their lives, ended up in a bloody scrap. But, regardless of the circumstances, Astarion did not seem particularly torn up about it. They had even talked about it after, and nothing seemed amiss. Nor had he brought it up today.
Perhaps he found out some new information about Cazador, and it has him on edge. Though usually, Kyren was the first to know about these things. But, then again, maybe that’s what Astarion was dragging him out to talk about.
Just as he had started to piece some convoluted conclusion together, they came to an abrupt halt. Though not quite at their usual spot yet.
They had made it beyond the city lights and into the small patch of trees before their usual haunt when Kyren found himself pressed up against a large oak tree.
A breath of shock punched out of his lungs as he met Astarion’s gaze.
His eyes looked so foreign to how Kyren was accustomed to seeing them. They usually held a fragile softness, or crinkled with laughter, or welled up with tears he tried to hide, or even glinted with bloodlust.
But this expression was one he hadn’t seen on Astarion’s face since the Tiefling party, back in the Emerald Grove.
Hunger. Lust.
His eyes were dark with it, as he fit his body against Kyren’s, pinning him against the tree head to toe with his own form.
“Star? What?-“
“Shhhh,” Astarion hushes him, lips brushing his pointed ear. “Hush now, my dear. The fun is only getting started.”
Kyren’s eyes widen, and he sucks in a surprise breath.
The fun? Surely he didn’t mean sex? Astarion hadn’t even touched him in a sexual manner since before Moonrise Towers. Let alone pressed him against a tree and whispered in his ear promises of sex.
No, something must’ve happened to make him act this way. But what? Astarion had admitted that he used sex as a tool to get what he wanted. When he’s scared or threatened.
But Kyren, no matter how much he racks his brain, cannot think of why he would feel this way. Not towards him.
Just yesterday, they were out here, tipsy on an over-aged bottle of red wine, giggling and sharing thoughts under the stars. At no point during that had he mentioned feeling unsafe.
No, something must’ve happened recently. Today.
“Astarion,” he starts, palms finding the elf’s shoulders and gently pushing him off. “We still haven’t talked about this yet. Did something happen?”
In the dim light, he can see Astarion’s dark eyes roll at him. “Darling, I don’t know how you do it. Personally, I’ve had more than enough talking for today. I think I’m more in the market for action.” He leans in close, their lips brushing, as he slots his knee between Kyren’s legs. “Don’t you agree?”
Kyren’s body locks up as he stares down at the elf, eyes wide and lips parted.
Surely not. This is an entirely different Astarion than the one he had shared soft, innocent kisses with last night.
This Astarion was the one he met on the road near the Nautaloid crash site. The one who propositioned him after three days of knowing one another. The one who took him to the forest and ravished him in the leaves. The one who lied. To both Kyren and himself. The one who shivered with each touch, not from pleasure, but revulsion.
This was not his Astarion.
The one who lay in his arms under the clear night sky, tracing lazy circles on his chest. The one who sipped red wine and laughed like a hyena. The one who waited until their nightly excursions to give him a rundown on all the camp drama. The one who teased him relentlessly, and kissed as softly as a daydream. The one who shivered from nothing but the cold night air. The one who whispered secrets to him so softly that the wind almost carried them away. One of those secrets was the reason why he was repulsed by sex. He also whispered apologies, of which Kyren quickly shushed. For they were not necessary.
Somewhere during the time Kyren was lost in thought, shocked into stillness, Astarion’s lips met his.
Never during their time together had Kyren noticed the vampire spawn’s fangs when kissing. People don’t often enjoy knowing that they are kissing someone with fangs, so Astarion had centuries of practice ensuring that they remain unnoticed. Then, it simply became a habit.
So no, kissing Astarion was not much different from kissing someone without fangs.
Until now.
A sharp jolt of pain shoots through Kyren’s spine as fangs slice his bottom lip, drawing a trickle of blood, which drips down his chin.
Instead of slowing him down, however, this only seems to encourage the vampire.
His hot tongue traces the wound as he deepens the kiss, pressing Kyren’s skull back against the uncomfortable bark of the tree.
The pain finally snaps him out of his stupor, and he brings his palms up to Astarion’s chest this time, pushing him back almost too harshly.
When their lips are torn apart by the force, Kyren heaves shallow breaths through his blood-smeared lips. He stares at the elf, pupils blown, eyes wide and searching.
And yet, there is nothing to be found.
In Astarion’s eyes, there is no remorse, no sign of conflict, or regret. There’s nothing but annoyance. From being pushed off, Kyren assumes.
But Astarion would never do something like this. Or so he thought… He had assumed that, as someone who knew what it felt like, Astarion would never force himself on another. Or show annoyance at one of his attempts being shot down.
Kyren was so confident in that assumption that…
That…
That this must not be Astarion.
“Orin.”
As suddenly as the words leave his lips, a cold blade finds his neck. The bloodied lips of his lover form a sick smile, twisting in a way that must be painful.
“My dear slaughter-kin. How easily you fall for his sweet words.” Her hand cups his cheek, almost lovingly, until she uses it to force his head back against the tree once more, bearing his neck to the blade. “Foolish lamb, ready for slaughter.”
Now he can see her. Her glint of vitriol, the promise of pain, all hidden behind his lover's eyes. It should’ve been obvious. It was obvious. She had gotten him so wrong, despite her usual skill at acting. And yet he had still fallen for it.
Now he will pay the price.
“Orin. What have you done with him?” Kyren croaks from how her hand had migrated to his throat and was now squeezing harshly above the sting of the blade.
“Don’t fret, brother. Your sweet pet has not sung for me yet. What a waste of a pretty face.” She sings, dragging her knife over his sternum, leaving a line of blood in its path. “He would look so beautiful covered in fresh carrion.”
Kyren snarls, leaning forward as much as he can under her grasp.
“You leave him alone.” He spits, eyes piercing into hers. Blood drips down his chest from where the knife dug in deeper with his movements. The sound of his blood hitting the leaves beneath their feet echoes through the silent forest. “Don’t even think of touching him, or I will make mincemeat out of you.”
A giddy peal of laughter rips from Orin’s mouth. “But you make it so fun. I would keep him alive, just for you. Hung from the ceiling, a pretty ornament. Painted in blood, carved with blades. Oh, how I long to hear him scream.”
Kyren lunges at her. To hell with the dagger. She’s dead.
They topple to the forest floor, Orin’s blade slotting between his ribs as he lands above her, one hand on her throat, the other pinning her free hand down.
Kyren’s lungs seize, but in his blind rage, he feels nothing, sinking his weight against her neck, nails biting at her pale skin.
“You’re dead.”
In response, she only grins sharply back at him. All of the beauty of Astarion’s features now tainted under her control.
The usual softness in his ruby eyes has given way to a manic bloodlust. The laugh lines and teasing crinkle of his nose have vanished and are replaced by a furrow of malice. His charming smile now looks stretched, distorted, and unhinged.
Kyren’s blood now pools between them, painting Astarion’s crisp white chemise a deep crimson. It really is a testament to how much blood he has lost that almost the entire shirt is dyed red. As well as how he feels his limbs start to shake and fail, where they prop him up.
When his strength finally starts to weign he hears a melodious voice call out from beyond the trees. He can’t quite make out the words through the ringing in his ears, but his head snaps in the direction of it.
Orin seizes the opportunity, slamming her arm against his elbow, causing him to buckle, as she uses the momentum to swing Kyren off of her. She scampers to her feet, pressing a foot into Kyren’s pelvis, where he lies flat on his back on the forest ground, sky spinning above him.
Pressing down hard with her heel, she grasps the handle of the blade, still lodged in his ribs, and janks it out. Drawing a wet gasp from the drow beneath her.
Leisurely, she wipes it on the only still white part of Astarion’s blouse before turning her gaze back to Kyren.
“See you again soon, slaughter-kin. Try as you might to keep him safe, I’ll be watching.”
And with that, she vanishes into smoke, leaving Kyren writhing on the forest floor, gasping for air through mouthfuls of blood.
The silent forest now sounds as though it’s become home to a swarm of bees humming around his head.
Through the constant ringing, and humming, and wet gurgling of his lungs, he hears the distant cry of that voice again.
His head lolls in its direction as his eyes struggle to stay open.
Just as he begins to drift, a glimpse of white emerges from between the trees, followed by the sound of a cry.
Kyren’s eyes snap back open as a presence appears at his side.
Through the blur, he can only see a white figure, fuzzy around the edges.
“…..ey- …. -ren!…”
Kyren blinks rapidly to try to clear the blur from his eyes, as the ringing in his ears muffles the world around him.
“….hear-…. ppened?….. Kyren!”
His eyes finally seem to focus as he locks eyes with the figure above him.
The elf above him has an angelic ring of snow white curls framing his pale face, wide eyes like polished rubies, haloed by white lashes, and plush lips stained dark, as if with red wine.
The elf is, in simple terms, absolutely gorgeous.
The elf is-
Kyren jolts out of his haze, flinching backwards and grasping the wrist of the pale hand that was reaching for him.
Orin.
Kyren snarls at her, any attempts to sit himself up and get into a position that isn’t that of a dog bearing its stomach in submission flys out the window when he feels the sting on the wound in his ribs.
Gasping in agony, he attempts to slide away from Orin, but she simply pins him down by the shoulder with her free hand.
Kyren grimaces and braces for pain, but… none comes.
If anything, the hand on his shoulder is… gentle, timid. As if she doesn’t want to cause him anymore pain, and is only trying to keep him still.
He blinks his eyes back open and stares up at her.
Through the dark halo of his vision, he can see that her lips are no longer stained with Kyren’s blood, and neither is the blouse, nor either of her hands. Not a speck, not even etched under a fingernail.
Their eyes meet. Hers are blown wide, flickering around his face and torso, as if scanning for injuries. Not dissimilar to the way the real Astariion would look at him after a particularly rough battle.
Oh. This isn’t Orin.
Astarion.
Adrenaline floods from his body, and his head drops back against the forest floor, bearing his neck and showing off the ring of bruises and cuts, as he lets out a huff of relief.
“Kyren, my love?” Astarion questions, voice oddly small, timid almost, in a way Kyren has never heard him sound.
The elf loosens his grip, now that he can tell Kyren isn’t going to try to run away. In return, Kyren lets go of Astarion’s wrist, instead fitting their palms together and lacing their fingers.
The vampire’s eyes drink in Kyren’s state, fanged teeth nipping at his lower lip in anxiety.
The drow under him is in quite a state, with the collar of bruises freshly forming around his neck, the smeared blood on his lips and chin, the still pilling cut trailing from his neck down to the middle of his ribs, where, most worryingly, a deep stab wound rests.
Astarion lets out a shaky breath before pulling back briefly to remove his light overcoat and press it to the wound. With his free hand, he digs in one of his waist pouches, fingers struggling to undo the tie holding the pouch shut with how much they are shaking, and retrieves a small vial of auburn liquid.
He plucks the cork out with his teeth, and, forcing his hand to steady, he pours half of the contents on the wound before bringing the remaining up to Kyren’s lips, prodding at them with the rim of the vial.
“Open your mouth, you fool.” He snarks, though his voice trembles too much for his liking.
Kyren parts his bloody lips, and the elf slowly streams the liquid into his mouth before tossing the empty vial behind him.
“Swallow.” The elf orders, glaring at the drow beneath him. To which Kyren complies. “Good boy”
Laughter bubbles out of Kyren’s lips, and he reaches for Astarion’s blouse, hoping to bring the elf closer, but only succeeds in smearing blood all over him.
Kyren grimaces, “Sorry.”
Astarion huffs, haughtily, “Darling, I don’t care about the blood, I only wish it wasn’t yours.” To keep his hands busy, Astarion lifts the coat to check on the bleeding. He lets out a satisfied sigh when he sees the clot starting to form.
The elf presses the coat back down, causing Kyren to wince, before turning to glare at the drow. “Tell me, my dear. Why is it always your blood?”
Kyren smiles up at him sheepishly, “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are from this angle?” To which he receives an unamused stare from the elf.
“Fine! Fine! Sorry!” Kyren huffs, a soft smile playing on his lips before it slips off at the thought of what actually did happen. “It was Orin.” He spits, voice full of disdain.
“Orin?” Astarion parrots. “How did she get you all the way out here?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it…” Kyren looks away, unable to make eye contact. “Great question…”
“Kyren,” Astarion warns.
“She disguised herself as you,” Kyren admits, still staring at the stars rather than the elf.
“Me?”
Kyren sighs, disappointed with himself. “I knew something was off. You were acting weird. I mean, not super weird, not until…”
“Until?” Astarion questions, eyebrows furrowed in worry and confusion.
“It’s nothing. But before that, you were just… off. The way you were walking, the way you looked at me, the way you were so quiet. I mean, it’s you! You love talking!” Kyren exclaims, arms gesticulating in frustration. “I was just being stupid. I thought maybe you were upset at me. Or had something on your mind. Or… I don’t know!”
“Darling,” Astarion starts, fingertips catching on Kyren’s chin and gently tilting his face towards him. “It’s hardly your fault. That’s what she does, she plays games and imitates people. Of course, you fell for it.”
“But it’s you! I should know you well enough by now!” Kyren huffs, eyes flickering around Astarion’s face. Restless. Frustrated.
“You do. And you did know something was wrong.” Astarion cups his jaw gently and uses his thumb to wipe away the blood on Kyren’s chin. “How did you know? What happened?”
Kyren squeezes his eyes shut, ashamed. “She… She pinned me against a tree and started… whispering to me. She alluded to… sex.” Kyren’s stomach twists in discomfort, and he feels the need to cross his legs as it dawns on him that it was Orin doing those things to him.
“Oh…” Astarion starts, but Kyren cuts him off with a gentle squeeze of the wrist.
“I tried to talk to her. You and I haven’t had that conversation yet, and I didn’t want to do anything until we had. And you were, or she was, acting so weird already, I was… unsure.” Kyren swallows dryly, “The way she spoke sounded nothing like you. It shocked me, I couldn’t move… you… um, she kissed me anyway.”
Astarion stares down at him, eyes wide, a familiar feeling building in the base of his throat as he hears what his lover went through. The way he felt. The way Astarion, even if it hadn’t really been him, had made him feel.
“When you and I kiss, you never cut me with your fangs… but I suppose she had less practice because she cut me, and I guess that startled me enough that I finally snapped out of it and pushed her off.” Kyren finally opens his eyes and meets Astarion’s gaze. “And I knew it wasn’t you because of the look on her face.”
The drow slips their hand over Astarion’s, which still cups his jaw, and laces their fingers together before drawing their joined hands to his chest.
“I knew it wasn’t you because you would’ve never looked at me like that. Not for that reason. You would’ve never forced yourself on me like that. And you would’ve never glared at me like she did when I pushed her off.”
Astarion didn’t even register that his eyes were welling up until the first tear fell. Singular. Slipping down his cheek and dropping off his face to land on the bloodied fabric of Kyren’s undershirt.
He silently curses himself for his weakness, screwing his face up and squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to stanch the flow.
“You would never treat me like that,” Kyren whispers into the stillness between them.
More tears spring loose and drip down his face as he brings their joint hands up to his lips and presses Kyren’s hand against them.
No. He would never treat him like that. No matter how cruel Astarion could be, Kyren would never be the target of it.
“I’ll kill her.” Astarion musters, through tears. His voice was as steady as he could make it.
Kyren cracks a smile, “Sorry, Star. You’ll have to get in line. She threatened you to my face. I can’t let that go.”
Astarion lets out a tear-wet laugh and kisses his hand again. “I’m sure we could come up with a compromise. Together?”
“Sounds perfect,” Kyren murmurs contentedly. “Now, give me a real kiss. I need a palate cleanser.”
“Palate cleanser?!” Astarion shrieks in mock outrage. “I’m far more exciting than that, my dear.”
“Mmm,” Kyren hums in agreement, “More like a four-course meal.” He concedes, smiling up at the elf before grasping his blouse and tugging him down into a passionate kiss.
______________
When they finally trudge back into the clearing, Kyren’s bloody arm strung around Astarion’s shoulders, they are met with the entirely unimpressed gaze of Shadowheart.
“And here I thought you both were off in the woods ravishing each other.” She snarks, “Little did I know you were trying to eat him in a different way.”
“You are terribly funny, my dear.” Astarion deadpans back at her, “Now, I think our poor companion is in the market for a cleric.”
“Well, if you insist on taking such horrible care of him, I suppose I have no choice but to take him off your hands.” She replies as she helps him settle Kyren down by the fire.
“Not to fret,” Kyren purrs, “there’s more than enough of me to go around.” He aims a wink at both of his companions, earning matching groans.
“What happened?” Shadowheart questions as she begins casting healing spells on his wounds.
“Orin.”
Her eyebrows raise, but she shows no other signs of shock. “Who’d she impersonate this time?”
Astarion glances anxiously over at Kyren, but the drow seems unbothered.
“Some little girl. Came up saying she was lost and stabbed me when I knelt to help. Nasty little thing.” Kyren replies, and it’s moments like this that remind Astarion just how good a liar the drow is. If he had not been there, he might’ve been inclined to believe him.
Shadowheart hums into agreement acknowledgment, “You and your bleeding heart, it’s about time you got tricked for it.”
“Honestly, I’m surprised it took me so long,” Kyren grins up at her. “Knowing my luck.”
Shadowheart lets out a soft laugh before withdrawing her hands. “Should be good to go. Let me know if any more children decide to beat you up.”
“Will do. Thanks, Doc!”
She shakes her head before washing off her bloody hands in a water barrel and ducking into her tent.
Astarion places a gentle hand on the small of his back, “Let’s get you cleaned up and in bed.”
Kyren practically melts into his touch, smile softening. “Please.”
____________
When they finally settle down together in their shared makeshift bed, blood washed off and clothes changed, Astarion pulls Kyren into his embrace.
Usually, it would be Astarion’s head cushioned on Kyren’s chest, but he doesn’t want to strain Kyren’s wounds by lying on them. Besides, it feels rather good to be able to comfort and protect his lover, even if the only protection he’s providing is from the lumpy pillows.
It’s the thought that counts.
His pale fingers trace slow circles on Kyren’s back, catching on the ridge of his spine.
Staring up at the roof of their tent, shared warmth seeping into his bones, Astarion is feeling rather sentimental.
Like he has something to lose.
Of course, he knew that before, but seeing evidence of a close call is… startling.
It’s also rather… novel. In the last two centuries, he hasn’t had anything to lose. Other than more of his dignity and sanity, that is.
But having something solid. Tangible. It’s a new concept. Something he’s reluctant to discard.
Not that he plans to.
“You’re right.” Astarion whispers, a murmur amongst the gentle breathing of his partner. “I would never treat you like that, my love.”
“I know.”