Wyll They, Won't They? - draculastarion (2024)

Chapter 1: A Stitch In Time Saves Nine

Chapter Text

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Astarion

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Astarion feels a fool for it, but he can’t stop thinking about Wyll.

It would be fine if he were ruminating over his failed seduction and plotting to try harder to bed their fearless leader. Instead, he’s stuck thinking about soft lips, the faint scrape of facial hair, the coy way Wyll pulled away before Astarion could slip his tongue into his mouth.

Before he can find out whether there is a forked tongue and fangs he can discover, hidden within.

It’s childish. To obsess over something as simple as a chaste kiss, alone on a beach, away from the drunken revelry of overjoyed tieflings. It should be a drop in the ocean that is Astarion’s experience with relationships; sex is far more compelling than a kiss.

Especially when Astarion had been angling for sex in the first place.

He’d never even gotten around to his proposition, distracted easing Wyll’s mind about his changed features, cajoling him into realising that he’s just as handsome —even more, if Astarion is honest— than he was prior to Mizora’s punishment.

There’s something different about Wyll now. He’s taller and broader —technically, the horns give him extra height, yes— but he used to be almost eye-to-eye with Astarion, whereas now Wyll has to duck his head to meet Astarion’s eyes. He can see it, too, in the way Wyll’s clothes don’t fit as well; they are too small at the shoulder seam and tight around his biceps.

He makes himself seem smaller, bows his head and curls in on himself so he doesn’t take up as much room, but Astarion thinks it means the others haven’t noticed the change because of it.

Maybe they’re distracted with their own issues; all of them seem riddled with secrets and unfinished business, and in fairness to Karlach and Lae’zel, they’ve only just joined the group.

Lae’zel was actually the first person Astarion had met on the horrible mindflayer vessel, but once the thing crashed, she disappeared.

Astarion and Shadowheart had met Wyll in the grove and had warily asked him to join their group. It had been evident from how he’d helped the hapless tiefling children that he was more a leader than either of them. Despite their similarly abrasive personalities, both of them were used to deference. Diplomacy was difficult; doing the right thing and ignoring self-interest was almost impossible.

Their best chance of surviving this parasite was to defer to someone like Wyll, someone charismatic who could get them help with a bashful smile and a sincere retelling of their harrowing tale.

Between him and Gale, who they found in a malfunctioning portal later that same afternoon, they had a solid team of people who knew how to make plans. Lae’zel didn’t add much diplomacy, but at least she was good at killing things, and even Shadowheart could concede that her knowledge of Illithid was invaluable to their situation. Karlach was another ray of sunshine type, becoming fast friends with everyone, even Astarion, who wasn’t looking to make friends.

Even Wyll, who had been seeking her out to kill her.

Astarion finds himself glad that Wyll didn’t do it. He wonders whether Wyll feels the same or if he regrets it sometimes.

He knows that Wyll hasn’t seen himself, not really. He wonders if he’s avoiding mirrors so he doesn’t have to face reality. Because he’s terrified of the monster he’s become, appearance-wise, or because his fiendish appearance will remind him of those slain in his years of adventuring.

Will he see the humanity within himself and start to wonder if any of the monsters he ruthlessly cut down were innocent victims, just like Karlach?

Devils lie. Everyone knows that. Has Wyll been naive to assume that Mizora didn’t twist his contract to suit her needs whenever she wished?

“What do you think, Astarion?”

Astarion blinks out of his musings; his fingers still pressed to his lips. When his eyes refocus, he’s staring at the crude maps Gale has copied from some of his books about the Sword Coast. They highlight the mountain path — one of the two routes the giant archdruid has told them may take them through the Shadow-Cursed Lands on their way to the Moonrise Towers.

Wyll looks at him expectantly, eyes imploring. They’re lovely: the unique stone eye and the newly black sclera and fiery crimson iris of his remaining eye.

However, Astarion finds himself missing the deep, rich brown of his natural eye. There had been something so magnetic and compelling about his eye —the type of innocent, long-lashed doll eyes that made lesser men kill— and Astarion has always been a lesser man.

“The mountain pass would surely be safer,” Gale argues, jabbing a finger against the map. “There are too many unknowns with the Underdark; we don’t even know where the entry point is! It’s a waste of time, and time is of the essence!”

“You know I’d prefer the sunny route,” Astarion concedes, leaning back on his hands and tipping his face up so he can bask in the orange rays of the late afternoon sun. “I’ve had more than enough of skulking in the dark.”

“Thank you!” Gale says, relieved.

Astarion holds up a hand, halting his premature celebration. “That said, the archdruid seems a strong fellow, and he advised us to go through the Underdark because it’s safer. If he thinks the Underdark is safer than the mountain pass… I think we should take the easy route.”

Wyll beams.

It does not make Astarion’s stomach flip.

Lae’zel crosses her arms, baring her teeth at him. “T’rac! We have to get to the crèche; if we do not get to the zaith’iskfor purification—”

“Halsin said these were not ordinary Illithid parasites.” Wyll’s voice is calm and measured in the face of Lae’zel’s spitting fury. “With all due respect, Lae’zel, I’m not sure the usual method of removal will work with these things.”

“The hag seemed confident until she realised it was tainted with Netherese magic,” Astarion adds, still bitter that the evil fey creature had plucked out one of his eyes, and he didn’t get anything but a worse eye out of the bargain.

As awful as the experience was, he’s glad the sorry excuse for a bard they rescued from the goblin camp replaced the hideous, milk-pale eye he’d been left with. His ersatz eye is more practical, allowing him to see invisible enemies.

“Besides,” Wyll rubs the back of his neck, bashful, “while I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a Githyanki before you…” He looks up at Lae’zel under his lashes, the imp. “You said yourself that a Gith less charitable than yourself would cut any of us down without hesitation. So you can imagine none of us are eager to walk into a crèche crawling with them, banking on your presence to deter them from striking.”

Lae’zel watches him warily for a moment but concedes he has a point. “Tell me of this Under Dark,” she asks abruptly after a moment.

Despite his misgivings, Gale lights up at the opportunity to impart his wealth of knowledge to anyone unfortunate enough to ask.

Astarion tunes him out, watching Wyll as he always does.

Wyll’s shoulders slump a little, and he lets out a relieved breath.

It must be taxing, Astarion thinks, to care about what other people think. To keep everyone happyinstead of doing what you want and dealing with the fallout later. Astarion doesn’t know how he can live like that, constantly walking a tightrope where a single wrong move can alienate one side or the other, send Wyll careening down into the abyss, scrambling to set things back into balance.

“Good job, mate,” Karlach murmurs, reaching out like she’s about to clap him on the shoulder but thinking better of it at the last moment.

Astarion wonders whether Wyll’s fiendish transformation has made him more resistant to fire. It would be nice if there was a positive outcome to it, to make him feel better about it all.

And then he thinks of the natural conclusion to that line of thought. Of Karlach, who hasn’t touched anyone in a decade; Wyll, who has never touched anyone at all. The two of them finding a nice, private place to indulge in touch. It’s an intriguing visual, but something about it makes Astarion feel restless, irritated.

Maybe he’s just pent-up. It’s been far too long.

Shadowheart huffs, taking a seat next to Karlach. “It’s getting cold,” she complains, as though her camp outfit doesn’t expose half of her torso with its plunging neckline. “Warm me up?”

Karlach slides as close as she dares, her eyes wide.

Shadowheart crosses her legs primly. “I agree with Wyll,” she says, studiously avoiding Lae’zel’s beady gaze. “Though I’m loath to return to that cursed moon-witch’s temple to find an entry point.”

Wyll shrugs. “It’s a lead, but it’s not the only one,” he concedes. “Let’s retire for the day, gather our resources and be ready to move out at first light tomorrow. If we must, we can camp in the ruined temple while searching for an entry point.”

Shadowheart’s pretty face twists; she’s not thrilled at spending more time than necessary in the Selûnite temple, even though the thing has been desecrated.

“I suppose I’ll begin prepping for dinner,” Wyll says after a brief silence.

Gale is still mid-lecture, explaining the wonders and terrors of the Underdark with an increasingly irritable Lae’zel. His arms are waving like he’s trying to paint a mental picture for her.

Her arms are crossed, her brow pinched and her foot tapping. It doesn’t look like she appreciates his verbose descriptions of dark, fungus-filled vistas aglow with bioluminescence.

“I’ll help,” Astarion announces, standing and following Wyll to the campfire nearby and the enormous flat rock Karlach and Halsin had dragged over so that the camp had a makeshift table to make enough food for everyone the night of the party. Astarion ineffectually brushes some of the blackened soot left behind by Karlach’s hands before hopping to sit on the bench. He wordlessly holds out a freshly sharpened knife for Wyll to use.

Wyll places a large satchel on the stone bench, blinking at the shiny knife Astarion holds aloft, handle-first. “Oh.” He carefully takes the blade and sets it near his bag before rummaging for some vegetables. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble, darling.”

Wyll piles carrots, potatoes, onions and mushrooms on the stone.

“Huh. That’s more vegetables than I’ve seen since we all crashed here; I didn’t know we had such variety at hand.”

Wyll produces a slightly battered cabbage from the bag and puts it aside, rolling his eyes fondly at Astarion. “Gale is quite the camp cook, but the man has clearly never eaten a vegetable if he could help it. I’m hoping to sneak them in before he realises I’ve taken over cooking duties for the night.”

Astarion hadn’t actually intended to help —it’s not like he can eat any of it— but finds himself hoping Wyll succeeds, even if it means he’ll have to distract Gale and endure an incredibly boring sermon himself.

Astarion says thoughtfully, “I can’t imagine having such diversity in your diet and deciding to be picky about it.”

It’s strange to be able to speak openly of his affliction. Especially with a self-proclaimed monster hunter, someone who rightly should have staked him the second he realised what Astarion was.

He didn’t know what he had been thinking that night, hovering over Wyll’s sleeping form, salivating over the maddening sweet scent of his blood, like a siren song to his unquenchable thirst. He hadn’t been thinking, honestly. His trance hadn’t been restful; a nightmare of Cazador, of his wretched master’s commandments, and he’d felt like a poor, pathetic prey animal, a small sickly rodent, frozen in terror under the watchful gaze of a rearing viper—

So he’d been panicked and so very hungry but also… curious.

Hadn’t he broken his master’s rules already? Hadn’t he disobeyed Cazador’s orders by not immediately heading for Baldur’s Gate? Wasn’t he leagues away from Cazador without permission?

And… he’s eaten. Drained a boar dry, and while he doesn’t necessarily believe they’re the most intelligent creatures… it was still a thinking creature, was it not? It had still been alive when he’d drained it, its blood still warm, heating his frigid insides.

Could he drink from a person? Had the tadpole gifted him the ultimate freedom?

So he wasn’t thinking when he’d crouched by Wyll, dazed with want and paralysed with indecision.

That Wyll had allowed him his pathetic defence was a miracle. That Wyll had allowed him to live and to stay? Entirely unheard of.

That Wyll had allowed him to drink…

Astarion thinks there is no greater fool in all of Faerûn than Wyll Ravengard, the heroic monster hunter who allowed a monster to feed from him and then kept him close by, as if Astarion couldn’t —wouldn’t— turn around and drain him dry at the earliest opportunity.

Still… Astarion feels indebted to him, and usually, his debts are paid with his body. It’s irritating that Wyll didn’t go for it at all and only accepted a paltry kiss. It doesn’t feel like equal payment.

Astarion realises sadly that Wyll really is a prince-type. It’s not an act in the slightest; he really does want to find someone with whom to share a slow, sappy courtship. He wants to kiss their hands and dance with them, probably proposing to them before he’ll even lie with them.

Astarion doesn’t understand those who save themselves for marriage and wonders how many of them shackle themselves together only to find themselves incompatible yet unable to free themselves from their premature entanglement.

Wyll clears his throat, chopping through his pile of vegetables with precision and speed bourne of practice. “I’m curious.” His tone is even, but how he focuses on his task instead of looking at Astarion betrays how curious he is. “While you don’t have the variety of a mortal diet, there are a few creatures you could consume the blood of. Do they… do they taste different, or is it all just… blood?”

Astarion shrugs. “I haven’t the experience of a wide range of samples, my sweet,” he reminds Wyll, inspecting his fingernails casually. “Rats and insects are disgusting. Considering the paltry blood they contain, they are not worth any time and effort. I didn’t exactly have much of a choice. Boar is good, but I’ve nothing to compare it to, except…”

He lets his eyelids droop, looking over to Wyll speculatively from beneath his lashes, darting his tongue across his top lip so quickly he thinks Wyll might miss the motion entirely.

Only Wyll has frozen, is no longer focused on his task, and his mismatched eyes follow the movement of Astarion’s tongue with undisguised interest. Though his dark complexion hides his blushes from a mortal gaze, Astarion’s vision is sharper, seeing the subtle difference as blood pools at his cheeks and in the faintly pointed tips of his ears.

Astarion’s lips quirk up, lopsided, revealing one fang. “Goblins,” he says to break the growing tension. He makes a disgusted noise. “Gods, they taste as bad as they smell.”

Wyll sputters into helpless laughter, lurching forward against the table. “Goblins,” he repeats, his smooth voice coloured with mirth. “I suppose you did sup on quite a few of them when we raided their camp. I’m surprised you kept eating them if they tasted so bad.”

Astarion’s chest is warm at Wyll’s bright smile turned towards him, but he elects to ignore it. “Yes, well. Even the rancid blood of a goblin is better than the desperate gnaw of sanguine hunger.”

A shadow passes over Wyll’s face, his brilliant smile fading as he takes in Astarion’s words.

Astarion kicks himself for losing that expression. The way Wyll’s eyes crinkle at the corners, deepened by his scars, and the brilliance of bone-white teeth against the dark rosy-brown of his full lips. He finds himself eager to win that expression back, somehow.

“Of course,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, playing at sincerity. “All those things pale compared to the smallest sample of your blood, my sweet.” He tilts his head back, almost baring his throat, looking down upon Wyll, where he practically kneels at Astarion’s feet. However, his eyelids are low and submissive despite sitting higher. “A single drop from you… Nothing else I’ve sampled could even come close.”

Wyll swallows audibly, his lips parting as he looks up at Astarion like he’s at the feet of something celestial. He looks lovely like that, like there’s nothing he’d like more than to have someone put him in his place, make him kneel for hours and tell him how good he is for following instructions…

Astarion is getting ahead of himself. Wyll is painfully chaste, painfully romantic, painfully vanilla. No matter how delectable he looks on his knees, he’s not that kind of man, so Astarion needs to adjust his expectations.

Expectations?

He supposes he does have expectations for Wyll. He owes Wyll a debt for letting him feed. He also desires connection and protection so that he’ll be safe should any of the others decide he’s not worth keeping around anymore. At this rate, he doesn’t think it likely anymore, but he’s not about to count his chickens, as they say.

He needs someone to be invested in his position in the group, and Wyll, as their leader, is the only person worth pursuing. He’s too deft a hand at persuasion for Astarion to consider anyone else. If he loses favour with Wyll, he’s finished.

The man could probably persuade Astarion that he’s evil and needs to be staked for the good of the Sword Coast.

Seduction had been a no-go with Wyll. He’s into courtship, whatever the hells that entails… Astarion has always been very good at charming total strangers, though, hasn’t he? How difficult could it truly be to play along with Wyll’s romantic tendencies, to plot out a slow, romantic form of seduction to save his own skin?

Wyll could be more inclined to protect him from Cazador when they inevitably wind up at Baldur’s Gate again. If he thinks they’re romantically linked, that Astarion is in love with him…

There’s no way he’d allow his lover to end up enslaved once more, is there?

“You can feed on me tonight if you’d like,” Wyll blurts, blood rushing to pool in his cheeks and ears once more.

Astarion’s thoughts are derailed at the idea of tasting him once more, supping that sweet nectar straight from the source. But no, he’s not some lowly Ziran addict, unable to function without his next fix. He refuses to rely on the charity of someone to feed him, even someone as authentic and noble as Wyll.

“It’d be a lie if I said it wasn’t a tempting offer,” he sighs. “Too tempting, my dear. I want nothing more than to taste you again, but I can’t rely on you for all my meals, can I?”

Wyll’s expression dims again, but he doesn’t seem offended by the rejection. He almost seems pleased. “The offer still stands,” he says, too honest. “I don’t want anyone going hungry if I can help it. If you ever need to feed, just ask. And I’ll keep offering, even if you don’t need it.”

Astarion gives a high-pitched, ugly giggle rather than his refined and pleasant fakery. He’s thankful when Wyll doesn’t recoil at the hideous noise. “You can help me in other ways,” he purrs, throwing an exaggerated wink Wyll’s way.

Wyll misses it, having returned to his cooking. All his thinly chopped vegetables end up in a pan, which he covers in some fragrant oil before taking it to the fire. He turns back to Astarion once he’s settled it onto the flames, crossing his arms. “You know I’m not that kind of man,” he says sternly, but his mouth is tipped up at the corners.

“Oh, I know.” Astarion hops down from the bench and saunters over to Wyll. He makes sure his shoulders are curled inwards, like he’s unsure of himself, vulnerable. “I’ve… never courted someone before.”

Wyll’s eyebrows fly up, and his gaze flickers over Astarion, taking in his slumped posture. “Neither have I,” he admits, reaching out to take Astarion’s hands in his own. “We could… We could learn together, couldn’t we?”

Astarion tips his head down, acting flustered. “I would like that. Although, er, we should shelve this conversation for later, or your dinner will burn.”

Wyll drops Astarion’s hands, spinning into a graceful crouch before the fire in an impressive show of agility and precision.

It means his tail, awkwardly stuffed into his tattered camp trousers, smacks into Astarion’s legs with surprising force.

That, annoying as it is, gives Astarion an idea.

“I’m going to hunt,” he says airily, turning towards the trees before Wyll can acknowledge his words.

And he does think it would be nice to find another boar or perhaps something more considerable. Instead, he circles back to the grove. The tieflings had meant to leave at first light, but the late-night revelry had left more than a few of them in no state to travel, and Halsin insisted they stay one more day to rest up.

It gives them more time to gather precious resources and sell off whatever they can afford to do without. He doubts they have any clothing to spare, but…

He makes his way through the harried group of refugees, grimacing and gritting his teeth through pleasantries. He’s still uncomfortable with how they fawn over him, and he is not exactly sure why that is.

He thought being treated like a hero would be novel, and it would make him feel valued for something other than his body and the pleasure it could bring others, but it just made him feel old and jaded.

He doesn’t feel sympathy for these people, doesn’t know if he has the capacity for such kindness anymore. But they don’t deserve to live like this; defenceless civilians constantly under threat by everything the Sword Coast has to offer, their numbers dwindling by the day.

Astarion is pointed towards a tiefling woman acting as a merchant, who offers him some underclothes in various sizes, all second-hand but freshly laundered and clean enough to pass muster.

He tries to offer her payment, but she staunchly refuses. “We’re alive because of your lot,” she insists, her fuschia eyes aglow within pitch-dark sclera. “These are for him, aren’t they? The devil-touched man. The Blade.”

“He’s not a devil,” Astarion says, hackles raising immediately.

She rolls her eyes. “He’s sure not a tiefling,” she snarks. “He’s pacted to a devil; he chose that path where we tieflings were born like this. We didn’t get a choice. That’s why we fear him, you realise. Even if we’re forever indebted to him for his assistance with the goblins, no good man would ever choose to become… that.”

Astarion huffs, amused. “He didn’t have a choice, either, darling.” He tilts his head up, looking down his nose at her. “I’m sure one day, you’ll realise the world is not quite so black-and-white. Good men will walk around with devil horns, and bad men will walk around wearing pretty armour and wielding holy swords. You’ll do well to remember that if you want to survive Baldur’s Gate.” He turns away before she can respond. “Thank you for the clothes.”

He finds Dammon next, packing up what little is left of his makeshift forge.

“Ah, Astarion!” He wipes his sweaty brow and grins widely. “I was honestly expecting Wyll might come by, so I left aside the last of my good wares if you want to have a look.”

Astarion shrugs. “I’m looking for some decent light armour.” He feigns disinterest. “And, if you happen to have a sewing kit you could spare…?”

Dammon beams. “You’re in luck! Mattis pawned this off earlier today, though I daresay it might be too large for you as it is. It’ll prove handy for your next adventure if you’re willing to make some adjustments.”

The armour is definitely leagues better than the plain padded set Wyll has been wearing. It’s studded leather, woven and reinforced, but light and flexible. It would work well for someone like Wyll, who, like Astarion, prioritises agility and precision over everything else. It’s not ugly, either; the leather is a mix of beige and taupe, while the more supple fabric underneath is dyed indigo, a little faded from the sun but still pretty.

The shoulders and torso are too broad for Astarion, but while the plate, studded and stitched together with metal and metal-lined cord, will be challenging to unravel, the straps will be easier to adjust.

“This will do nicely,” Astarion says, inspecting the breeches. They’re the same indigo as the rest, though less faded as the leather faulds covering waist to thigh have protected them from the sun. It will be simple to add a slit for Wyll’s tail to rest more comfortably in the pants, though he’s not sure whether the faulds overtop will pinch or otherwise undo his hard work. Thankfully, there are plenty of experts he can consult. “Can I ask you something?”

Dammon’s smile dims a little, his eyebrows arching up. “Is there something wrong with it…?”

“No, dear, of course not.” Astarion holds up the faulds. “Would this be uncomfortable for you to wear? With the tail?”

Dammon looks down at it, inspecting it with furrowed brows. “Well, I suppose it would be. If one of my fellow tieflings were to wear it, I would undo the stitching along the back here to create a vent for ease of movement. Then, add a slit to the breeches for the tail, but maybe add some form of belt or something to make sure they don’t fall down.” He nods at the burlap bag Astarion already carries. “Shopping for Wyll, then?”

Astarion nods. “I don’t think anyone in camp knows how to sew,” he says, in case Dammon starts to get ideas that Astarion is doing this out of the goodness of his heart or something equally nauseating. “If I get the sewing kit, I can add holes to the clothes he already has, but the armour he’s using now…”

Dammon nods. “The padding would likely spill out everywhere,” he agrees. “Leather is definitely a better choice here.”

Astarion hands over enough gold to cover the armour and the sewing kit, which is more extensive than he needs, but that’s not bad. Maybe he’ll take to embroidery again in the tedious hours when everyone is asleep, and he’s run out of books to read.

Dammon clears his throat. “Um. Can you thank Wyll for me, by the way? I doubt I’ll see him before we leave, and well… Those binders he gave me were a generous gift.”

Astarion files that little tidbit away to ruminate upon later, his face studiously impassive. “I’ll pass along the message. Good luck on your journey. Hopefully, our paths will cross once you’ve reached the Gate.”

Astarion doesn’t think his tone reads as sincere, just a throwaway goodbye and a meaningless remark, but sometimes he forgets he’s dealing with nice people here. People who take words at face value; naive creatures who may have been through Hell, some even literally, but have yet to learn not to trust so easily.

“I hope so,” Dammon says earnestly, his pale orange skin flushing with pleasure. “I… Can you tell Karlach…” His voice catches, and then he bites his lip. “Actually, do you think Karlach would mind if I visited? Said goodbye before I go?” He stuffs Wyll’s new armour into his pilfered burlap sack.

Astarion laughs. “Please, she’d be thrilled!” He tilts his head, watching Dammon. “Do you mind… not mentioning the armour when you go? I haven’t altered it yet, so I’d like it to be a surprise.”

Dammon beams. “Of course! Not a word from me!” He mimes locking his lips and tossing away a key.

It is, sadly, adorable.

Astarion finds his way back to the remote clearing he had intended to bring Wyll to the night of the party. It’s still and quiet, late enough that the sun is mid-set, and diurnal creatures have found shelter for the night, but nocturnal creatures have yet to wake. It’s like nature is holding its breath.

Astarion glances around, but the clearing seems safe enough for now. He can leave his work here and come back for it after he’s eaten. The lack of light won’t make his work much harder; darkvision allows him to see well enough that his stitches will be as neat and precise as if he works on his project now.

Still, he’s hungry, and he’ll need a few things if he wants Wyll’s clothes to fit.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

“Karlach!” Wyll cries the following morning, hurrying over to her tent eagerly.

Astarion looks up, startled out of his reverie. He’s been trying to read, but the tome he’d swiped from the druid grove is painfully dull. He finds Wyll in his new armour, looking dashing. He flits across camp like he’s lighter than air.

His tail pokes out of the newly formed vent in the back of the faulds, slipping through the leather skirt to bob around more animatedly than it has been since he’d been cursed to grow it.

He looks much more comfortable, and Astarion is relieved to see it.

“Ey up!” Karlach calls, beaming at Wyll. “Oh, don’t you look nice?!”

She’s not wrong. The colours suit him well, but Wyll is the type of man who could pull off almost anything. The sleeker leather does a better job showing off his lithe figure, highlighting his tiny waist, trim hips, and impossibly long legs. The pauldrons aren’t attached to the chestplate, but the gap between the plates highlights how broad and strong Wyll’s shoulders are.

“Hm.” Shadowheart appears at Astarion’s side. Her eyes droopy as if she’s only awoken, but she’s watching Wyll and Karlach intently. She’s in her uncomfortable-looking sleep clothes, her mace in her slack hand, like she’d anticipated an attack.

Across the camp, Wyll does a little twirl.

Karlach laughs loudly, clapping her hands.

“Did they pull you from your beauty sleep, darling?” Astarion asks, unable to stop a corner of his mouth from ticking up.

“I thought we were under attack.” Shadowheart scowls at him. “Ugh, you’re looking too smug this early in the morning. What did you do, eat an entire nest of baby piglets?”

Astarion turns a page idly. “I daresay that would be a litter, not a nest.” He flashes a fangy smile at her.

She makes a disgusted noise and stomps back to her secluded corner of the camp.

Emerging from his own tent, Gale makes his way to his usual haunt in the mornings, sitting by the campfire, stoking the coals into a crackling blaze. He forages through their growing collection of food for something he can prepare.

The tieflings had gifted them with a few dozen eggs they didn’t think would survive transport to Baldur’s Gate, and Gale decides gleefully that eggs are the special of the day.

Astarion snaps his book shut and walks over, sprawling artfully on a log across from their resident wizard, who’s too cheerful for someone doing something tedious like cooking.

“Morning, Astarion!” Gale gives him a cheery wink and returns to his work. “It’s a shame you don’t eat with us because this morning’s breakfast will be the best yet!”

Astarion snorts. “I’m sure it will be scrumptious, dear. To someone with my physiology, though, it would taste like bile, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately!” Gale hums a happy tune.

Gods, it’s dreadful. The fact that Astarion is stuck with people like him for the next however-long defies all reason. He’s surrounded by cheerful, heroic people and itches with the need to break something or steal something… cause some chaos to balance things out just a little.

Still, he’s not trapped in Cazador’s mansion. He’s not being tortured, kept in the kennels, or otherwise mangled to the point where death seems a kinder fate than the possibility of living through the pain. His bones are all intact, his skin is clean and unbroken, and he’s even fed at night. There are much worse states he could be in.

Gale, like most of his companions, is insufferable. Being annoying is a considerable step up from living with his so-called siblings, though. His so-called loving father.

Even with some unknowable entity trapped behind one of his eyes, digging into his brain the longer it’s allowed to stay in his head, he doesn’t feel scared of his possible fate. He doesn’t exactly want to become a mind flayer. Not only would it be another form of servitude, but the things are absolutely hideous to look at.

Even becoming a slave to an elder brain is better than being a slave to Cazador Szarr.

“Well met.” Wyll takes a seat next to Astarion. He’s smiling wide, his good eye sparkling with good humour. “Check out my new threads!”

Astarion glances over them, choosing not to linger. “Mm, don’t you look delectable?”

Wyll’s tail flicks in a wide arc behind him, the tip brushing Astarion’s fingers where they support his weight behind him. “You like it? I already feel it will be a fantastic set for travelling; it’s a damn sight less stifling than the padded set.”

“Looking good, Wyll.” Gale nods from across the fire. “When did you get it?”

Wyll smiles softly. “Oh, it was Karlach,” he says fondly. He stands and spins to show Gale the adjustments for his tail. “Look at this!I had no clue how much better I’d feel with clothes that fit this thing properly!”

Astarion freezes, staring up at him in horror. Karlach? He thought Karlach had—?

He slowly turns, looking for the oversized tiefling, but she must have gone off to bathe. He’s seen the tattered, poorly sewn leathers that she sports; surely there’s no way Wyll thinks she altered his clothes…

But then, who else would?Astarion hasn’t advertised his less-useful skillset, and he doesn’t know much about tiefling anatomy. It had been a passing thought, more a whim than anything else.

Damn it all.

Okay, so this courtship thing might be more complicated than he first anticipated. Having to admit to his good deeds sounds mortifying when he should be able to sit back and allow Wyll to come to the natural conclusion that Astarion is the one doing nice things because they are trying this courting thing.

He desperately loathes the idea of asking, but…

He might need some help.

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Chapter 2: There's the Rub

Chapter Text

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Lae'zel

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Astarion almost writes off asking Lae’zel entirely.

Githyanki are still a mystery to him, and she doesn’t have much time to spare for him or his questions. He knows she values strength and combat prowess above all else, and his style of combat—the sneaking and trickery—is not necessarily something she understands or values.

He remembers their first skirmish on the Nautiloid, him using a terrible bow he’d snatched up from the wreckage and dull arrows to shoot feral imps out of the air before they could try to ravage her.

“You prove surprisingly adequate in battle,” she’d sneered, flicking black imp ichor off her shining silver sword.

He still doesn’t know if she had been paying him a compliment or mocking him.

So he’s not sure how well she’ll react to him asking her for advice, but he doubts she’ll blab about it to everyone, which is more than he can say for some of his companions, who he’s happy to leave until he’s desperate, thank you.

So, when they set off for the demolished goblin camp, Astarion doesn’t go ahead, looking for anything of interest that he can squirrel away. It’s not like any new treasures will have appeared overnight; he’s seen it all before, and Lae’zel has a habit of taking point, leading the party as they travel, so she’ll be the main target if they walk into an ambush.

Astarion thinks that it’s silly when someone more perceptive like himself or Shadowheart could help her avoid such a situation altogether. Still, she operates how she operates, and he’s not going to tell her what to do.

He stays at her side, twirling his newly sharpened and polished daggers and humming to himself until his presence irritates her.

It doesn’t take long.

“What do you want, spawn?” Her voice is so foreign and interesting, a rough, sibilant hiss that stumbles awkwardly over Common despite how fluent she is for someone who seems young.

At least, younger than she’d like all of them to believe.

“I’ve had precious few chances to talk to Githyanki,” Astarion muses, glancing sideways at her. “I understand your lot are quite insular, but I wanted to know something in particular. Would you indulge my curiosity?”

Lae’zel’s lip curls, and she watches him warily. “I suppose that depends. Are you going to ask me something imbecilic?”

Astarion laughs, high-pitched giggles that he’s sure don’t alleviate her concerns. “Oh, heavens no!” He tosses his dagger into the air without looking and swipes it out of midair with precision, throwing her an exaggerated wink as he does. “I am just curious. It’s true that Githyanki hatch from eggs, correct?”

Lae’zel nods slowly. “Yes,” she confirms. “We do not grow the way istik do, coddled by birth-givers. Githyanki young are born together in the crèche. We grow together, fight together. Those who are too weak to handle training are cut down.”

Astarion winces. “Delightful. I suppose what I’m curious about is…do you partner up? Does anyone produce eggs, or is it just certain Gith?”

Lae’zel’s eyebrows crinkle, and her head tilts. “Only shu’kyanibear young. Those chosen by Vlaakith.”

“So, do Githyanki form partnerships? Get married, or have an equivalent of? Or is it just… military service forever?” Astarion’s not sure whether it’s worth asking after her explanation.

Lae’zel shrugs. “There are no rules against partnerships,” she says, sounding bored. “Not, as Wyll put it… love. More mating. For the sake of—”

“Carnal pleasure.” Astarion’s lips twitch. “Yes, I heard that little tidbit.”

She hesitates. “To… prove your worth, you would duel,” she reveals, her voice low. “A trial by combat, to prove that you are equals. Zhak vo’n’ash duj. If I were to find someone and wanted to…”

Astarion hums, intrigued. “That seems fitting for someone such as yourself,” he muses. “It would be difficult for someone of your skill level to find an equal, however.”

She crosses her arms, scowling. “You seem very invested in Githyanki partnerships all of a sudden,” Lae’zel snarks. “Don’t tell me this is a pathetic attempt to warm my bed.”

“No, darling,” he laughs. “I suppose I’m curious; you don’t seem the type to settle down one day, and I know Githyanki are long-lived. I wondered if there’s anything you do other than fight.”

There’s something almost like longing in Lae’zel’s gaze, so she averts her face from his view.

Astarion pretends not to see.

“Just fighting,” Lae’zel says firmly. “Once we’re free of the ghaik parasites, I will prove my worth, and I will Ascend.”

“I have no doubts you will, my dear,” Astarion says, and means it.

So, asking Lae’zel didn’t really help. He’s not about to ask Wyll if he’s interested in a quick roll in the hay. As for the duel… He doesn’t want to spar with Wyll. Not just because Wyll might trounce him, the monster hunter he is, but because he doesn’t want to hurt Wyll. Even if they’re just training.

Still, what she said about being equals… maybe there is merit in that.

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He finds Wyll long after the sun has set, once they’ve made camp in the ruined Selûnite temple and everyone has scurried off to bed. Wyll has yet to retreat to his tent, offering to take watch despite them being in a more defensible location.

He doesn’t see Astarion coming, his head downturned as he carefully pinches his brow between two recently-claw-laden fingers.

There’s a tense set to his shoulders and rigid line of his neck, down to the tail emerging from his newly altered camp clothes — also rigid with tension, coiled as if waiting for a blow. Wyll quivers, the fire’s light highlighting the horns where they erupt violently from his skin. They look angry and inflamed.

Astarion realises they pain him, and he’s been doing well to hide it.

Until now.

He moves forward, not concealing the sound of his footsteps.

Wyll jerks upright, his eyes snapping open. Pretending everything is fine.

“You don’t have to take watch, darling,” Astarion says, keeping his voice casual. “There’s no way I’ll be able to find dinner in this place; even the rats have fled.”

Wyll looks up at him pitifully. “You know you could always—”

Astarion looms over him, smirking. “Oh, I know, my sweet.” He reaches out and takes Wyll’s chin in one hand, tilting it up. “As delectable as you are, we need you in good shape tomorrow if we’re to find a way into the Underdark, hmm?”

Wyll is so obedient, leaning into Astarion’s grasp and blinking slowly up at him.

It makes Astarion wonder whether he’s the kind of man who likes to be ordered around, one of those precious few Astarion has experienced who go all hazy and unfocused when they’re domineered.

But that’s another thing he can file away for another day.

“Do you think you’ll be any help like this?” Astarion continues, tracing the deep scar marring the left side of Wyll’s face. “Concealing your pain and acting as though nothing is amiss?”

Wyll blinks back to himself, tensing up once more. “What?”

Astarion huffs, gently pressing the tip of his index finger to the base of Wyll’s left horn.

He flinches back, horrified. “That’s—” he tries, hugging himself. Then he sees Astarion’s expression and slumps. “They’re… they’re heavy. I feel like they’re dragging me down all the time.”

Astarion bares his teeth at him. “So let me help you,” he insists. “Don’t be a martyr, darling. It isn’t cute.”

Wyll laughs, startled. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not cute,” he says, rolling his eyes.

Astarion stares at him, crossing his arms to indicate he won’t let Wyll avoid this conversation.

“Help how?” Wyll asks after a lengthy pause, twisting his hands together.

Astarion slips behind him, taking a seat. “You said they’re heavy, that they’re dragging you down. Allow me to soothe the ache, at least. I’m good with my hands.”

Wyll swallows hard, and his tail flickers like he’s apprehensive —maybe at having a creature with fangs right behind him, close enough that he’s vulnerable— but he shuffles so that he’s directly in front of Astarion and waits.

Astarion starts small, resting each hand on Wyll’s biceps and rubbing up and down soothingly. “Do you have a headache, or is it just… tension from the weight?” He’s not sure he makes sense, but it might be easier to soothe the ache if he knows where it is, more specifically.

Wyll shrugs. “Both, I think. My… my brain feels like it’s being squeezed or like my skull is too small, and it’s trying to claw its way out. I wasn’t sure if it was the horns or, y’know, the tadpole.” His arms are bare thanks to his threadbare camp clothes, and the lovely burnt umber of his skin glows copper-gold in the fire’s light. He radiates more heat than all of the others, with the obvious exception of Karlach.

Astarion wonders if it’s new, another change brought on by Mizora, or if he’s always been like this. Either way, he finds himself drawn to that compelling warmth.

“Sometimes my little passenger squirms, sure, but not like it’s scrambling to escape,” Astarion says. “It sounds like these things are giving you a migraine, my dear. I… I know some remedies.”

He slides his hands up to Wyll’s shoulders and starts to massage properly, pressing his fingers into knotted muscle until it loosens. He begins at Wyll’s shoulders and then works his way down Wyll’s back and then back up to Wyll’s neck, which is especially tense.

“You do?” Wyll asks, his voice slow and soft. “Did you, er, have you had them before?”

“Aurelia,” Astarion admits. “One of my siblings—well. Fellow, er, spawn. She’s a tiefling.”

Wyll breathes slowly, deliberately. Calming exercises. “We’ve little potions to spare,” he says, “I don’t want to waste them—”

Wyll slumps back towards him increasingly with each knot of tension that Astarion bullies out of existence.

“It’s not a waste,” Astarion insists. “We only need a minor health potion, an elixir of force resistance, and either a potion of sleep or vitality.”

Wyll snorts. “Astarion, that’s three separate items that could be put to better use—”

“Stop,” Astarion snaps. “Stop being all… noble. Let me take care of you.”

Wyll flinches but quiets. He obediently allows Astarion to continue his massage without protesting about their scarce resources.

“Better,” Astarion says roughly. “You deserve your fair share of the spoils, my sweet. I won’t willow you to deny yourself.”

Finally, Wyll is all but leaning against Astarion, his head thrown over Astarion’s shoulder as he slowly blinks up at the crumbling ceiling. His breathing is deep and even, like he’s asleep.

Astarion would believe it if he couldn’t see Wyll occasionally blinking in his peripheral vision.

Astarion massages Wyll’s scalp, avoiding the horns. He drags his fingers through each row of Wyll’s hair, noting they aren’t as neat as they were almost two weeks ago when the ship crashed and they all found each other. Either Wyll hasn’t had time to maintain the careful canerows, or his hair grows fast and needs more maintenance than Astarion had realised.

“How often do you have to redo your hair?” he asks, his curiosity overwhelming his reluctance to break the peace and quiet.

Wyll hums thoughtfully. “Usually every six weeks or so. I mean, sometimes I’ve been fighting, and things get messy, so I can only go a month… Sometimes, I can afford to stretch it out to about eight weeks.”

Impulsively, Astarion leans down and presses a kiss to Wyll’s temple. He’s worried that Wyll might pull away, holding his breath after. It’s not that he needs to breathe; it’s mostly a habit. He needs the air to talk, though, and he does love to talk.

“How long has it been since you did them last?” He asks, smoothing his fingers over the rows between Wyll’s horns.

“Mm, about seven weeks. I was due last week, but everything with the grove…”

Astarion snorts. “You were distracted by our predicament,” he allows before finally tracing the edge of the angry, raised skin where Wyll’s horns erupt from his skull.

Wyll flinches initially, but his body relaxes again at Astarion’s gentle, soothing touches. “I suppose that’s part of it,” he concedes. “And, well… this body is different, now. I… I haven’t tried to braid my hair, but I imagine it will be more time-consuming than it used to be.”

Astarion nods, even though Wyll can’t see him. “Managing to manoeuvre your hands about these troublesome things might be challenging for a time. But you’re a capable man. More capable than most, I imagine. I’m sure you’ll have it all figured out swiftly.”

Wyll tips his head back to look at Astarion, his eyes wide. He has excellent eyelashes, long and fluttery and inviting. He’s too innocent to be a tease, but he still looks lovely, his expression coy and his lips trying but failing to stop tipping up into a tiny, pleased smile.

“How do you feel?” Astarion asks, brushing the base of Wyll’s horns again.

Wyll’s cheeks might be redder than usual, flushed with embarrassment or even desire, but it’s impossible to say what the cause is this early into their… courtship.

Wyll lets out a long, relieved breath. “So much better.” He struggles to sit upright instead of lounging over Astarion. “You… you didn’t have to, but thank you. I appreciate what you did for me. Really.”

“Anytime, my sweet,” Astarion says, leaning back on his hands.

Wyll gets to his feet less stiffly and gingerly than he has been for the past few days. “I… I suppose I’ll head to bed then.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re sure you don’t need to feed?”

Astarion desperately wants to taste Wyll on his tongue again… but he owes Wyll a debt, and until that debt is repaid in full, he doesn’t want to add to it. “I’m sure,” he says, casually allowing one of his knees to fall open.

Wyll’s eyes flick down, whip-quick, before he fixes his gaze on Astarion’s face again.

“I have other appetites that require sating,” Astarion quips, arching his back a touch.

Wyll flusters instead of doing the obvious, like pushing Astarion down and having his wicked way with him. Pity. “I’m, um, that’s…! Good luck, then! I’ll see you in the morning…?”

Astarion pouts but doesn’t try to coax him further. “Sleep sweet, my prince.”

Wyll tries to respond to that, too flustered and tongue-tied to manage anything coherent. He eventually gives up, fleeing for the safety of his tent.

Astarion is left alone in front of the fire, wishing for once that Wyll was a little less lovely, a little less virtuous.

But then he wouldn’t be Wyll.

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Chapter 3: Don't Judge a Book...

Chapter Text

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Gale

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Gale is… well. Gale is not Astarion’s favourite companion, though he is the most fun to rile up. He’s too pompous, condescending, and elitist for Astarion’s taste, though he is easy on the eyes… for a wizard.

Astarion isn’t fond of how he delights in overexplaining things, less enthusiastic about sharing knowledge and more about proving to everyone how very clever he is.

Still, he managed to catch the eye of a goddess. The way he speaks of Mystra is reverent, as one would expect of a man who fell in love with an actual deity…

Astarion wonders whether he treated his partner with as much worship as one would expect of a devout follower. Whether he treated her as something worth treasuring and worth the highest esteem or, conversely… if she coveted him because he treated her like she was human.

He thinks Wyll, as a kind and good man, deserves someone who would treat him with respect and praise, love verging on veneration. He doesn’t know how to do that, but maybe Gale does.

He doesn’t get an opportunity until they’re in the thick of the Underdark, huddled not far from the relative safety of the strange Myconid Colony and taking a long rest before they venture forth again.

Astarion thinks they’ve earned their rest.

The way down had been strenuous, a ladder that seemed to go on forever. At one point, Astarion believed the ladder led into a bottomless pit, an endless expanse they would never be free from. And just as he’d started verbalising his theory, Wyll had called out from below that he could see the faint glow of bioluminescence underneath them.

That had been bad enough, but then they’d had to find a way out of the Selûnite Outpost they’d found themselves in. Astarion had been stressed out of his mind trying to prevent his imbecilic companions’ increasingly dire ideas to get past the statue protecting the gates. The very same statue that had easily incinerated an entire minotaur, yet Wyll thought he was fast enough to avoid.

“Absolutely not,” Astarion had said, his protests falling on deaf ears.

“Worth a try,” Karlach had mused simultaneously, nodding sagely.

At his wit’s end, Astarion had turned and shot an arrow at the stupid effigy because sometimes, to relieve stress, you had to break things. His aim had been true; the projectile dislodged the brightly glowing moonstone. He had sighed as the glaringly bright light disappeared, the ache of it against his eyes vanishing with it and allowing him to think.

He’d scowled at the shattered stone on the floor. The stupid gem had smashed like glass upon hitting the floor, and any potential value was lost.

“Astarion,” Wyll had said behind him, breathless with wonder. “How did you even know that would work?”

Astarion hadn’t known; he had just been frustrated and worried about Wyll putting himself in unnecessary danger. A stupid and irrational feeling that he wished he could carve out of himself, but he didn’t want the others to know that.

“I tried to tell you,” he had said, shouldering his bow and crossing his arms defensively over his chest. It had taken everything to prevent himself from pouting like a child. “None of you were listening to me.”

Wyll had looked sad, then.

Which had made Astarion more irritated. “It’s fine,” he’d said preemptively before Wyll could apologise. “Let’s just venture forth.”

And then they’d been all of five minutes into the actual Underdark and had been attacked by a pair of non-vapourised minotaur.

That had been a vicious battle; Astarion had never been more grateful to Wyll for sparing Karlach because the woman is a beast, practically on par with a minotaur herself. Between her, Lae’zel and Wyll drawing attention to themselves, Astarion had been free to play sniper, clambering up onto a safe rocky outcrop.

Gale and Shadowheart were also handy ranged attackers. Though Shadowheart’s preferred weapon was a mace, she was a skilful melee attacker as well. Between their magic and Astarion’s sniping, the more offensive in their party had made it out exhausted, but mostly unscathed.

So yes, they’ve earned their rest for the day, though Astarion’s not sure what time it is in this place, whether it’s still early afternoon or closer to sundown.

Astarion slumps next to Gale, pretending he’s too exhausted to move rather than actively seeking out Gale’s company. He watches Wyll, seated on the other side of their small fire.

Shadowheart’s healing a nasty gash on his bicep and admonishing him for his recklessness.

He laughs and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

She’s right, though. A rapier is hardly a weapon Astarion would choose if he were going up against a minotaur, and everyone knows now that Wyll is a warlock with eldritch abilities.

Were he wiser, he would hang back with the ranged attackers, flinging his force spells from a more strategic vantage point… but even Astarion knows he won’t do that.

Wyll is the hero type that needs to be close to the action. Not for the glory, never that, but so that he can fling himself in harm’s way if one of his companions is in danger. A self-sacrificing idiot, a classic sign of a true hero.

“Could do with a snack,” Karlach announces from next to Astarion, stretching like she’s warming down from a daily workout rather than a difficult battle.

Asatrion idly watches the push and pull of her scarred, sculpted abs, wondering how it feels to be so strong and confident in your durability that you don’t need intact leathers to feel safe.

Then again, he can feel and even see the heat radiating off of her, evident in the misty chill of the Underdark, her hot skin steaming gently from the amount of water suspended in the air and clinging to everyone’s skin and clothes. She runs so hot that she can’t wear more protective armour even if she wants to. Anything more would just burn off from her high internal temperature.

The best she can do is try to protect her modesty and repair her scraps of durable leather every time they snap under the strain of her battles.

He wonders if he can construct something better. He hardly has the time for such a project, though, not with everything going on with the Absolute and the little monsters in their heads. He’s wistful that he won’t be able to try, but such is life.

“I’ll cook up something.” Gale gives a lopsided grin, looking through their rations for something they can all replenish their energy with.

Almost all. Astarion wonders if there’s anything worth eating in this place. He supposes he could sneak off and gorge himself on the dead minotaurs if he must; cold, coagulated blood will be unpleasant, sure, but at least it’s not diseased rats. And he’ll be able to rest more contentedly with a full stomach.

He leans back on his hands, relishing the feeling of grass under his fingers even if he’s currently bereft of sunlight on his skin. “Mm, it still feels early,” he whines, only loud enough for Karlach and Gale to hear. “Say, Gale… you collect books, do you not? Surely, you’ve found something interesting to read during our travels.”

Gale looks up from the mystery meat he’s cutting into chunks. “Of course I have,” he says, his tone verging on offended. “I’ve managed to find some quite fascinating treatises on all manner of subjects—”

Astarion winces. “Gods, how dull. I’m talking about good books, darling. Delightfully trashy smut.”

Gale’s face twists in horror, peering at Astarion. He stops cutting entirely, so horrified by Astarion’s request that he forgets his current task. “Astarion,” he tries, glancing up at Karlach as if to share his horror. “Smut is hardly literature; even if I had encountered some during our travels, I wouldn’t have kept it.”

Astarion huffs, pretending to be disappointed. “Well, do you at least have anythingfictional?I’m bored.”

“Fic—fictional…?” Gale looks gobsmacked at the notion of reading something that isn’t dry and factual, or worse still, educational.

“Aren’t many of those types of books in Avernus, either,” Karlach says mournfully. “The pages would burn.” She swallows audibly. “Though I probably shouldn’t read them anyway, seeing as I’d, uh… get too hot.”

Gale flushes ugly red, turning back to his preparation. “Well, I think there are better tomes I could carry around,” he says pointedly. “Books that could be helpful to our situation, in particular. B-besides, there’s more to relationships than just sex. It’s not even the best part!”

Karlach crouches next to Astarion, her eyes aglow with humour and curiosity. “Oh?” she asks, invested. “What’s the best part then? Cuddles? Heavy petting? Oh, foreplay!”

“Mystra, save me,” Gale mutters, startling slightly when he looks up. Karlach and Astarion are watching him and waiting for him to elaborate. “You don’t… Love, that’s the best part. Love is so much more than just sex.”

Karlach glances at Astarion, just as confused as he is. “Explain how,” Karlach demands, not unkindly.

Astarion is pleased she’s doing all of his work for him. These types of questions would be hard to play off as casual conversation. Even so, a little encouragement can’t hurt. “He can’t, darling,” he tells Karlach, placating. “Everyone says the same thing. You’ll know it when you feel it. It’s a feeling unlike anything else. Love will prevail where all else fails.”

Gale pinches his brow. “It is hard to explain. It’s… finding someone who is your counterpart. It’s two becoming one, figuratively and… with the help of the Weave, sometimes more literally. It’s a feeling of safety, deep contentment, and knowing that you’ll be with that person forever…” He trails off, his face falling.

Astarion winces.

Gale had expected to be with Mystra forever—not just his entire mortal life, but true forever. He had foolishly anticipated that Mystra would allow him to ascend his mortal body and join her in godhood. Maybe she had loved him in her own way… but not enough to let him transcend humanity.

Karlach hums to herself, clearly deep in thought. “I think…” She looks up at Gale. “You know, just because things didn’t work out doesn’t mean the love wasn’t real. For you, or for her. I’ve had unrequited feelings, mate. The way you talk about her, I think she really did love you. Probably still does.”

“You’re probably right,” he sighs. “And I pushed too far, too fast. Or too far in general. She had boundaries, and I completely ignored them to stoke my ego. Now, I am but a humble wizard with only a fraction of the power I used to wield at her side. Maybe… maybe this situation is what I deserved for my hubris.”

Astarion doesn’t know what to say to that.

He’s unsure if he believes in divine retribution the way Gale implies. If he did, surely someone like Cazador would be struck down by a divine being for his evil acts. Not just being a wicked creature, but his abhorrent treatment of Astarion and his ‘siblings.’

Then again, as a vampire spawn, maybe no higher being intervenes for Astarion because he isn’t a mortal being but something lesser. Another type of evil creature that is not worth the effort and power it would take to strike down.

And Astarion and the others had always tried to be careful when hunting, choosing those with no family, connections, or money. People that wouldn’t be missed, even by the gods themselves.

So Astarion had spent a long time praying to any and all gods; those he knew, those he’d barely heard of, and for all his pleading, he received nothing in return. Not even his pleas to the Dead Three bore fruit, but as harbingers of strife, tyranny, death and murder, maybe they were pleased with Cazador’s efforts to sow chaos.

He tunes out Karlach’s attempts to console Gale, trying not to drift off into dark places. Instead, he analyses Gale’s words and tries to glean something useful from them.

Gale had spoken of equals like Lae’zel, so that was moot. He had been trying to do so already.

He was happy to let Wyll lead their party forward. He didn’t question his decisions, even if he voiced disapproval over some of his choices. He almost respects Wyll, which is more than he can say for most people. He trusts him, which is definitely more than he can say for nearly anyone else, and not just because they have a telepathic connection.

He doesn’t trust Shadowheart or Lae’zel and is still leery about Gale. Karlach and Wyll don’t seem like they could manipulate anyone. They’re too… nice. And that makes them trustworthy in Astarion’s eyes, which is a nauseating thought.

More than equals, however, Gale had mentioned counterparts.

While Astarion thinks it’s laughable, Gale considers Mystra, a goddess, as his counterpart; it gets him thinking about common ground.

Maybe bonding over their shared experiences is the way to Wyll’s heart (and into his breeches).

And when he thinks of that, he realises they have some things in common, which is useful. The most obvious is their current situation with the tadpoles and the nautiloid… Or the looming mystery of the Absolute and the forthcoming arduous quest into cursed lands.

That’s too pedestrian, however, as any of their companions could bond with Wyll over their illithid parasites or mutual misadventures.

There is something else. Bonding with Wyll over it would mean honesty, sharing some of his private thoughts and feelings, making himself vulnerable, and he loathes the idea of doing so. Yet, he does trust Wyll, doesn’t he? More than he’s trusted anyone in a very long time, in centuries. He knows that Wyll is a good listener and can keep secrets.

He’d suspected Astarion was a vampire long before Astarion had attempted to bite him and hadn’t said a word to the others. So, is it truly so terrifying to reveal a little of himself to someone in the name of playing the long game?

Sacrifices must be made to further a campaign. He trusts Wyll, but he’s not sure that Wyll fully trusts him, the monster he is. Making himself vulnerable could be a successful ploy to further Wyll’s trust and bind them together more effectively.

Yes, he’s sure of it. He just needs to pick the right time.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

That very night, an opportunity presents itself. He’s returning to camp after feeding on the dead minotaur and then washing in the nearby stream. Slightly queasy from the thick blood, he’s otherwise pleased with how the night has shaken out. More blood than he can consume in one go, even if cold and nasty, is vastly preferable to alternatives he’s had to consume in the past.

Dead minotaur is more palatable than infected rats and fungus-riddled insects, that’s for sure.

He’s halfway to his tent when he hears the faintest whimper. He glances over at Karlach, who is on watch for the night, but she’s all the way across camp and her back is turned. The dog they’ve managed to pick up is with her, so it’s not the source of the noise.

And then Wyll lurches out of his tent, falling onto his hands and knees. He’s soaked in sweat, shuddering like he’s been hit with a thunder spell, and gasping like he’s been sprinting through the Underdark. He overlooks Astarion as he stumbles to his feet and swiftly leaves camp, heading off towards the stream.

Astarion hesitates momentarily, suspecting that Wyll might need some time alone.

He’d retreated to the beach at the last camp when he wanted some solitude, and until the tiefling party, everyone had been kind enough to allow him his space.

After a few moments, however, Astarion ducks into his tent and retrieves a bottle of wine he’d squirrelled away for a special occasion. It’s much nicer fare than the swill they find on their excursions. He’d managed to pilfer it from the awful drow cultist when they raided the goblin camp.

Say what you will about her, but Minthara had good taste in wine.

He supposes a night of comforting Wyll and sharing his true feelings is as good an occasion as any to break out the good stuff.

He saunters on down to the stream, stopping in the deep shadow of a carrot-red mushroom one-and-a-half times taller than Astarion and thrice as wide. He puts the wine under his arm, peering into the hazy gloom for a sign of Wyll.

He’s kneeling at the water’s edge, splashing his face with the cool, fresh water from the crystal-clear stream. He gasps, leaning over the edge of the water for a few moments like he’s seconds away from plunging his entire body in.

Astarion hesitates to admit he’s nervous that Wyll is going to fall in. It’s not deep, but he’s heard of distressed people drowning in puddles before, so he’s not willing to risk losing one of their strongest fighters to a stream.

“My, my,” he purrs, striding over to Wyll like he’s just happened upon him. “Here I thought I’d drown my sorrows after an unsuccessful hunt, but it appears I’ve found something enticing after all.”

Wyll snorts, wiping water from his face. “Hello, Astarion.”

Astarion takes a seat next to him, stretching languorously like a cat. He knows how to appear casual, confident, verging on lazy, in a way that’s visually appealing to those looking for… well, sex. He doesn’t know if it helps here, trying not to look like he’s figuring out how to approach Wyll while sitting beside him, but Wyll doesn’t seem to mind the silence.

It doesn’t feel awkward to Astarion, either, thankfully. It gives him time to consider broaching the topic without scaring Wyll away.

“You’re widely read, aren’t you?” Astarion says, keeping his focus on uncorking the wine bottle. “You’ve read all manner of heroic tales. I wonder if you know of one on my mind.”

As a diversion tactic, it works.

Wyll looks up at him, agape. “A tale…?” He clears his throat. “Of… of course, Astarion. What was it about?”

Astarion lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a long sip before glancing at Wyll and offering him the bottle.

Wyll takes it, examining the bottle.

“It was some tale about a nobleman,” he says airily, waving a careless hand. “A handsome young dandy who wished for eternal youth to preserve his good looks.”

Wyll takes a sip of the wine, contemplative. “Sorry, that doesn’t sound familiar. The books I read were largely heroic tales, epics. Where good and evil were black and white, and everything was simple.”

Astarion hums. “That’s all well and good in fantasy, darling, but we both know real life isn’t quite so painless.” He hesitates, looking out over the clear water. “I imagine it was for you. Painful.”

“What was?” Wyll clutches the bottle tightly to his chest.

Astarion looks at him sideways. “Your transformation, darling. Mizora said nonsense about dragging you through the hells, but I daresay it was more literal than it sounded at the time.”

Gaping at him, Wyll’s mouth works uselessly for a few moments before snapping shut. “Yes,” he eventually admits. “I’ve been careful to avoid thinking about the fate that awaits me once I perish from this plane of existence, but… Mizora made it incredibly clear. Incredibly real. I’ve read books about the Nine Hells and the peculiarities of each layer. They were all wrong. Every last one.” His breathing quickens, panic in his gaze. “It’s so much worsethan anyone could imagine, Astarion, and I wasn’t even tortured.”

Astarion is curious, as he’s sure most people would be, but Wyll is distressed, and Astarion figures any descriptions of the Hells might suffer due to his rising panic. “It’s okay,” he reassures, sliding closer and taking the bottle from Wyll’s hands to hold them.

It’s a poor attempt at some half-forgotten grounding technique, but it works.

Wyll’s breathing slows incrementally, and he slumps into Astarion’s side, blinking moisture from his eyes. “Sorry,” he says again, his voice raw. “This is the consequence for bargaining with a devil; I know it’s what awaits me one day, but I still…”

“You’re allowed to be scared, my sweet. Do you want to know what it was like for me?”

Wyll blinks up at him. “What, the Hells?” he asks, startled.

“My… transformation.” Astarion wrinkles his nose. “I might not have rakish horns or a tail, but I’m a good deal more monstrous than you.”

Wyll glares at him. “You’re not monstr—”

Astarion grins, baring his wickedly sharp fangs. “Remember I asked you about that book?”

Wyll stops, thrown off by the abrupt change in subject. “The one about eternal youth… oh. Is it a vampire story?”

Astarion laughs lightly. “No, not really,” he muses. “The young man learns that his beauty will fade with time and is convinced that his good looks are all that he is worth. So he deals with a devil and sells his soul for eternal beauty.”

“He makes a warlock pact?” Wyll’s brow furrows. “To… to look young forever…?”

Astarion retakes the wine and watches Wyll over the rim as he takes a sip. “The young man gets his wish; he doesn’t change, though a portrait of him shows signs of his age and misdeeds. All of his wrongdoings, reflected in the painting.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Wyll hums. “I just… don’t understand where you’re headed with this.”

Astarion shrugs, passing him the wine bottle once more. “It is similar to vampirism, is it not? Though I’m a monster, you can’t see what I am at a glance. I’m like that young man, eternally beautiful, all of my wickedness locked away where no one can see it.”

“But you, darling, yours is plain to see,” Astarion continues, reaching up to trace a gentle finger along one of Wyll’s horns. “You don’t deserve these, but she gave them to you anyway. To mark you as a monster so those who don’t know you won’t trust you.” He tilts his head, catching Wyll’s eyes beseechingly.

“I died, Wyll. Cazador drained me dry and had me buried.” He huffs an unamused laugh. “I didn’t get pulled through nine layers of the Hells, but I did have to claw my way out of my own grave. I know what it’s like for someone to twist your body into something you no longer recognise.”

“Something different,” Wyll murmurs softly. “Something foreign.”

“Monstrous,” Astarion says firmly. “Not because we’re bad people, but because we’ve been changed into something other than ourselves.”

Wyll’s face scrunches, tears building up in his eyes again. “How does it end? The story?”

Astarion laughs, uncontrollable, high-pitched giggles. “After indulging in all manner of less-than-savoury pursuits, he realises he’s too far gone and tries to fix things. He doesn’t really want to fix anything —he’s in too deep, and genuinely atoning would be much more effort than he’s willing to put in— so the painting worsens. He destroys it in a fit of rage, and killing the portrait kills him.”

Wyll snorts, lifting the bottle to his lips. “A fitting end, I suppose. Poetic. Sounds like he was a real monster.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Astarion agrees, moving to lounge more comfortably, propping himself up on his elbows. He tilts his head, looking up at Wyll under his lashes. “You know, I’m sure you won’t appreciate a compliment, but… they look good on you. The horns. Of course, almost everything does.”

“Mmh,” Wyll says through a sip of wine. “Flatterer.”

Astarion is, that’s true, but he’s also being honest. “Maybe so. Maybe I just like you, no matter what.”

They lapse into silence, nothing but the pleasant burble of the stream before them and strange sounds out in the very depths of the Underdark breaking their amicable peace.

“Thank you,” Wyll murmurs finally, his voice whisper-soft. “For… for sharing.”

Astarion beams at him, feeling like he’s made progress.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

Chapter 4: By a Hair's Breadth...

Chapter Text

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

Karlach

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

Astarion is not making progress. At all.

The Underdark wasn’t exactly the height of romance, what with the sentient mushrooms, minotaur, and hook horrors around every corner. But it had some charm, at least compared to the Grymforge. The crumbling ruin had been unbearably hot, entirely pointless, and, worst of all, infested with Gnomes.

So Astarion supposes he’s glad to be free of it.

Only... the Shadow-Cursed Lands are worse.

Everything is dark and dead, the air quiet as a tomb. Occasionally, they hear whispers or cut-off screams from within the shadows, so everyone is on edge, waiting for an attack that may or may not come.

Shadowheart doesn’t seem bothered by the oppressive feeling of the curse, weighing them down and exhausting them long before they should tire — but then, the curse is Sharran, and she’s a devout follower of the Lady of Loss.

It’s safe to say that almost all of them are tired, miserable, and paranoid. No one is thinking about romance, let alone anything other than surviving long enough to reach the Moonrise Towers.

“We have to make camp,” Wyll says reluctantly, his voice thin like they’ve been walking for days. Maybe they have; it’s near-impossible to tell in the unwavering gloom of the curse. It looks like the night of a new moon, no matter what. The sun can’t penetrate the eternal gloom, let alone the moon’s less powerful glow.

Astarion trails after Karlach as she sets up a perimeter of torches around the camp. She can’t hold them herself without burning the entire torch to kindling, but she can quickly drive some scrap wood solidly into the ground so that Astarion has something to tie the torches to.

Karlach puffs out a satisfied breath when she pinches her fingertips to the last wick, a merry flame crackling to life from the heat of her fingers.

It’s satisfying to watch; even Astarion feels strangely accomplished.

“Nice work, Fangs,” Karlach says, even though Astarion didn’t do much. She looks out into the murky gloom, frowning. “Hopefully, this keeps anything lurking out there from getting into the camp. Even so, we’ll be extra vigilant tonight on watch, yeah?”

“If it gives you peace of mind, darling, I can watch all night,” Astarion promises. “I don’t have to trance, and I doubt I’ll go off alone to hunt. I don’t think anything will be worth eating in this place.”

Karlach shudders. “You’re probably right. You wouldn’t want to eat something cursed and end up cursing yourself. And…” She rubs the back of her neck. “I would feel better if you stayed up. Thanks.”

Astarion shrugs. “It’s no trouble. I’m sure Wyll will put his hand up to take the first watch…”

Karlach groans. “Absolutely not; he’s dead on his feet! He’s getting first rest.”

“I agree, but convincing him of that might be an uphill battle.”

Karlach looks to the middle of the camp, where Wyll sets up his tent. He’s moving slower than usual, clumsier than the graceful leader they’ve come to know.

“He’s running himself ragged,” Karlach mutters darkly. “Has been since that bitch Mizora gave him those horns. He’s so damn desperate to prove himself — it’s like he still hasn’t realised that he’s irreplaceable.”

She sounds surprised.

Astarion isn’t.

Wyll is, in many ways, a man out of time. Stuck in the past. Not because he’s desperate to return to better times when things seemed simpler, but because some part of him had fractured when his father —his role model, a man he thought could do no wrong— had rejected and banished him.

The second Wyll left Baldur’s Gate, Wyll Ravengard had been tossed aside in favour of The Blade, even if he hadn’t had the moniker yet. The Blade could be a hero, a larger-than-life personality, a mask. A way of keeping people at a distance so they couldn’t hurt Wyll, couldn’t get close enough to penetrate the knight in shining armour’s soft innards.

Astarion presumes Wyll would have kept the swashbuckler act up had they not been able to see into his mind. The second Astarion’s mind connected to Wyll’s in the middle of the Emerald Grove, he’d seen through the facade.

Had seen the moment that Wyll hesitated before he dropped the illusion and allowed Wyll Ravengard to come to the forefront once more.

Even if he’d not admitted his true identity until Waukeen’s Rest, when they’d discovered Wyll’s father had been abducted by Absolute forces.

So, yes. Astarion knows Wyll’s mind, maybe better than Karlach does.

Karlach doesn’t bother to hide things; she’s an open book. She has no use for secrets or deception. She takes everyone at face value, though she’s not naive. She wants to believe the best in everyone and doesn’t push for people to divulge their secrets.

Astarion likes that about her.

He knows that people like Wyll, like Astarion, spend much of their lives waiting to be discarded.

After all, if the person who cares for you most in the world has no use for you, why would near-strangers?

“How do you show someone like Wyll that he’s important?” Astarion muses aloud, more of a rhetorical question than anything. He doesn’t know how anyone would convince him of such a thing.

However, Wyll, as their leader and handy diplomat, is more important than Astarion, at least in their little group. Surely, there must be a way to show Wyll that he’s loved and doesn’t need to fight to earn his spot in their party…

Karlach sighs. “I don’t know, mate.” She chews on the pointed nail of her index finger. “Not important, but loved. I guess… My mum used to do my hair. Wash it, brush it and braid it, all that. It’s… I miss it because it wasn’t just being pampered, y’know? It showed her love and care for me, and it was a bonding session.” She looks up at Astarion and flusters. “Um, I can do my own just fine, and besides, anyone trying to do my hair would burn themselves!”

As if to highlight her words, flames lick up her chest and across her shoulders, sizzling through her hair.

“No, that does sound nice,” Astarion says softly. “For what it’s worth, if we manage to get your engine fixed soon, I’d be happy to wash and braid your hair. Though I haven’t braided hair before, I’ve worked with fabric, so how hard could it be?”

Karlach sniffs, her eyes filling with tears that steam and disappear before they can fall. “Y’know what, Fangs? You’re alright.”

“Thanks,” he snorts.

Karlach beams, scrubbing a hand over her face to remove any evidence of tears. “I knew I was right not to believe what others said about you!”

Astarion blinks. Processes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he squawks.

She’s already fleeing, giggling like a loon.

She somehow manages to bully Wyll into letting her take the first watch.

Astarion notes with wonder that much of the tense exhaustion bleeds from his fellows when Wyll finally trudges into his tent, presumably to pass out.

It seems he and Karlach aren’t the only ones who have noticed Wyll running himself into the ground.

He’s pleased that every member of their party appears to be keeping an eye on Wyll’s wellbeing.

Astarion sits at the campfire directly in front of Wyll’s tent, his head tilted unsubtly to the side to listen for any disturbances in Wyll’s sleep. He knows Wyll has frequent nightmares and hopes he’ll be able to have a restful slumber, but if he has to, he’s willing to pilfer some sleep potions from Gale’s stash of scavenged remedies.

Karlach takes the opposite side, standing with her arms crossed and looking out over their makeshift perimeter. She doesn’t startle or flinch at the strange, inhuman shrieks or sounds of things shambling just outside the torchlights surrounding the camp.

Astarion is impressed; it had taken him a very long time to stop cringing at every awful sound he heard in Cazador’s palace, and there were many. The screams of his fellow spawn or Cazador’s victims, sounds of snapping bone and tearing flesh, and the endless scurry and scratch of vermin in the kennels and dorms, feeding on viscera and waste.

Astarion shudders at the reminder, pulling some scrap fabric from his pocket to distract himself. It’s wool; the coat he’d cut it off of had been lovely once but had fallen victim to the heat of Karlach’s engine when she’d picked up and thrown the bandit wearing it. The wool can suffice for his needs, however.

“What’s that?” Karlach shifts closer, crouching a few feet from Astarion to get a better look.

“You mentioned braids,” Astarion says absently, knotting one end of the thin scraps and pulling the length of them taught. “I figured I might practise some, make sure I still remember how.”

He’s been kicking himself at the thought—he’s massaged Wyll’s migraines away a few times now, and commented on his ever-growing braids every time—until now, it’s never occurred to him that he could have offered to fix Wyll’s hair for him. That something like doing someone’s hair could be a… a method of bringing people closer, not just physically but also emotionally.

He begins winding the strands together, pleased when his fingers remember the simple motions without him having to concentrate. He pauses about halfway through, belatedly registering how suspicious the silence is.

Karlach is covering her face, her shoulders shaking.

Astarion assumes she’s laughing at first, peeved that she’s making fun of him. And then he hears a choked sob, and he realises she’s crying, genuinely crying, trying to hold back big, heaving sobs.

“Karlach…” His voice comes out shrill from the panic he feels.

“Sorry,” she gasps, hiccupping. “M’sorry. You just caught me off guard, I’m… I’m just really grateful that you’d think to offer, especially since we don’t even know if my engine is fixable.”

Astarion barks an unamused laugh. “Dammon seems to think so, and he’s more of an expert on these things than you or I, my dear. We’ll get your engine fixed, and then I’ll sit you down and braid your hair. I’ll do Wyll’s first, even. To figure out how to work around the horns.”

He’s put the offer out there, casually, like an afterthought. Tries to make it seem like doing Wyll’s hair is just a minor thing rather than something that makes his undead heart jolt like it’s trying to thrum overtime.

Karlach startles out of her crying jag abruptly. “Oh.” She blinks up at Astarion. “Oh! He’s never done his hair with those in the way before, has he?”

Astarion shakes his head solemnly. “I assume that’s why it’s grown out so much. He knows it’s going to be a pain and a half to attempt to, uh, style it how he usually does with those horns.”

Frowning, Karlach adds, “I could help, too, if you wanted. I can’t… physically help, but I could talk you through the process and keep Wyll occupied because it usually takes a while. I struggled to stay still when I was a kid, and… I don’t know. It’d feel nice to help, even if I’m not really helping. It’s nostalgic, y’know?”

Astarion holds up the completed braid for her inspection. “It’s a free camp, darling,” he reminds her. “You’re more than welcome to, though. Wyll enjoys your company, and I’m sure you’ll have insights I don’t.”

Karlach bites her lip, taking the braid from Astarion and fiddling with it. “You mean that?” The braid burns up in her fingers, and she sighs, her broad shoulders slumping. “I wouldn’t be, uh, interrupting your date or something?”

Astarion laughs again, this time more genuine. “You won’t be interrupting,” he insists. “Wyll and I don’t really… hm.”

He takes another set of woollen strips from his bundle. Partially to soothe the sad crease between her brows and keep his hands busy. Idle hands are a devil’s tools,as he used to hear… somewhere. From someone long forgotten.

He’s not sure how to explain. He doesn’t feel as desperate to seduce or manipulate Wyll as he had weeks ago. They’d settled into something comfortable, almost friendly — Astarion thinks. It’s not like he has any friends, so it’s hard to know where the line blurs between platonic and more.

But Wyll shows no signs of wishing to take things further than they are.

There have been no stolen moments since the night of the tiefling party when Astarion had practically begged for a kiss, and Wyll had only allowed him one so brief, so chaste, that it may as well have never happened.

He wonders if Wyll is one of those people who kisses platonically. He’s met the type. According to his hazy memories, they usually kiss on the cheek, but they do exist.

“If you’re sure,” Karlach says dubiously, wrinkling her nose.

Astarion shrugs, trying for casual but likely failing miserably. “Not for lack of trying, my dear,” he says, a fake wistful tone that he hopes hides how strangely stung he is each time Wyll fails to respond to any of his advances. “I think Wyll and I speak different languages when it comes to affection.”

Karlach sits up straighter, her eyebrows flying up. “Different languages? What’s that mean?”

Astarion lounges more comfortably. “It’s just a metaphor.” He waves a lazy hand through the air. “The way I express that I like someone is different from his; because of that, he might not know if I’m trying to…” He huffs. “Generally, I show affection through sex, but Wyll is the kind of man who wants to court someone. Treat them gently and spoil them and save his body for marriage, all that sort of thing.”

Karlach sighs. “So what do you do, then? If you like him?”

Astarion’s eyebrows rise. “What would you do? If you liked him, of course.”

Astarion wouldn’t be able to tell that Karlach is blushing from her ruddy complexion, but he is given a front-row seat to the hissing steam releasing from the ports on her shoulders, the high-pitched whine of the pressure releasing, and Karlach’s mortified expression.

“If I…?” she says faintly, gaping at him. She coughs. “I’m, that’s…”

“I’ve been trying to do things his way.” Astarion looks down at his braid, putting her out of her misery. This one is tighter and neater than the first. “I feel like I’m not getting anywhere, though. I’m not very good at…” pretending to care, “er, being romantic.”

Kalrach takes a deep, centring breath. “You’re trying. That’s all any of us can do, Fangs. It’s got to count for something.”

He hums, unconvinced. “So? What would you do?”

She scrapes a clawed index finger across the dirt in a swirling pattern. “I’m probably just as romantic as you. Or less. I’ve never had a relationship that wasn’t, y’know, just physical. Then after the engine… not even that.”

Astarion nods. “So, if we fixed it, what would be the first thing you’d want?”

She makes an odd noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You know what, mate? I think I’d be really, really grateful for a f*cking hug.”

Astarion leans back against the petrified log he should probably be using as a seat. “Well, darling, I think we’ve quite a few people in this camp that will oblige you when we get you all fixed up.”

They need to sort out their business with the Absolute in the Moonrise Towers. Then they can continue to Baldur’s Gate, find Dammon, and hand over any infernal iron they find to get her functioning properly…

If they continue travelling together.

And that’s a conundrum, isn’t it? It’s possible that their little parasite problem will be all fixed once they visit the source of the Absolute. If they cure themselves, will they stick together until they reach the Gate? Or will they split up, go their separate ways, go back to whatever they were doing before their untimely abduction by the Nautiloid…?

They aren’t all like Astarion and Karlach, after all.

For the others, the abduction had been an inconvenience, ripping them away from daily lives they were eager to return to. He can imagine Shadowheart returning to her mysterious Sharran sect to do whatever nefarious things Sharrans were up to other than stealing Githyanki relics.

Lae’zel seems the most eager to be rid of the tadpoles and return to normality, whatever that is for a Githyanki. She’s determined to ascend and earn her place as an elite Githyanki warrior with a crimson dragon.

Astarion knows she believes the illithid tadpole is the only thing standing between her and her goals… but what of after they’re cured? Will she just disappear back to the supposed crèche that lay along the mountain pass? Will the Gith there accept her and help her get home, or will they be hostile even to one of their kin? Astarion suspects the latter, knowing the Githyanki’s well-earned reputation… but Lae’zel doesn’t deserve that.

He’s unsure what she would do if she didn’t go home.

Gale, too, speaks often of his fondness for his reclusive lifestyle in Waterdeep, his tower full of dusty tomes and peculiar magical curios. However, Astarion wonders if he’ll ever be able to return to his former life. His creepy, ancient wizard friend had insinuated Gale might as well detonate the orb in his chest once they found their way into Moonrise.

Their wizard companion has been more stable since —less sweaty and prone to half-collapse amid battle— but also a lot less cheerful, more quiet and intense.

Astarion can tell he’s seriously considering heeding Elminster’s advice, especially since it’s apparently an order from their beloved Mystra. He hopes Gale isn’t stupid enough to try; Gale might be all too eager to sacrifice himself in the name of his goddess, but Astarion certainly isn’t, and he can’t imagine that a blast deadly enough to take out “the Heart of the Absolute” would be kind enough to spare him or his companions.

Ultimately, he hopes Gale makes the right choice and doesn’t bow to his former lover’s request. Partially out of self-preservation, but he supposes he can also admit that he… he doesn’t want his companions to perish, and definitely not in a suicidal explosion.

Especially not Karlach, or Wyll. f*ck, especially not Wyll.

Karlach deserves better. Ten years of slavery, and she’s come out the polar opposite of Astarion, somehow, full of cheer and a kindness that’s soul-deep, the type of positivity that’s been carved out of Astarion over two centuries.

More than anything, more than physical sensation, she wants to live and live freely. She deserves that. She deserves good things and not perishing in some cursed lands trying to track down the cult that meddled with their parasites.

Wyll, too, deserves a better end than that. He deserves… he deserves someone to vouch for him, someone strong enough to go toe-to-toe with his repulsive she-devil patron and find a dozen loopholes in his contract. He, too, deserves to be free. He deserves to live a long, happy life full of love and affection.

Ideally, a long overdue apology from his father and his place in his beloved city restored as well.

Gods, Astarion is getting sappy for some reason.

He probably needs to dunk himself in the nearby stream, as clearly, he’s been afflicted with some curse that makes him tender-hearted and sentimental.

Instead, he keeps quiet and accompanies each of his companions during their night watch.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

The Last Light Inn is, at last, quiet. It isn't silent, as these types of refuges never are, but the ambush by the Absolute's forces has been fended off.

Astarion is aggravated that the Absolute had chosen to attack the inn when he and his party had arrived. Don't get him wrong, it's wonderful that there's a sanctuary from the accursed lands outside the Selûnite witch's barrier, but he'd already been tired and hungry before they'd managed to find the inn.

Now, he's tired, hungry, and bleeding.

Astarion scowls as he unceremoniously pushes the former Flaming Fist, Marcus' body, over the balcony's edge where they'd found Isobel. The traitor had managed to smack Astarion a few times, once with his greatclub, twice more with his bony wings.

Astarion had returned the favour by slicing deep into the man's neck, plunging a second dagger into his back through a gap in his armour.

Unfortunately, one of the winged horrors he'd brought had sunk their claws into Astarion's side. Large, sharp claws had sliced through his leathers like he'd been wearing fine cotton, and now he's bleeding everywhere.

What a pain, indeed.

If he were anyone else, one or two potions would take care of the wound, but despite his changed physiology due to the tadpole, potions work less effectively on him. He can enter a domicile uninvited, cross running water, and even walk in the bloody sun, but healing items don't do what they're supposed to.

He has to wait on Shadowheart, and he hopes she has yet to use up her finite healing magic for the day on the people downstairs who require it more. Or, he can hide away, bleeding freely, and wait for his wounds to decide to knit themselves together. It might take a few hours and leave unsightly scars, but it will heal with time.

"There you are." Wyll stands at the balcony door, leaning against it. He looks beautiful. This place must have working plumbing because he's managed to clean the gore from his body. His skin is damp and gleaming, and he's changed into camp clothes.

They aren't his own threadbare casual attire but something given to him by someone downstairs. His pants are too short at the ankle, though they have been altered to accommodate a tail, and his shirt, light beige and bright against his dark skin, reminds Astarion of his own well-loved casual attire. "I was wondering where— gods, Astarion, you're bleeding!"

Astarion looks down at the sluggishly seeping wound on his abdomen. "It's fine," he says dismissively, his voice coming out sharper than he wishes. "That is… I'll heal. Are you okay?"

He'd lost track of Wyll during the chaos of the ambush, and the last he'd seen, one of the horrors had gone over the open railing of the mezzanine floor, clutching Wyll in its deadly claws. He'd thought… he'd thought…

It doesn't matter. Whatever conclusions he'd jumped to, they had made him sloppy, had made him engage Marcus in a mêlée instead of keeping his distance, out of range of the man's club. It had made him too slow to get out of the way of the winged horror that had sliced him open.

"I'm fine." Wyll peers at Astarion with naked concern. "A little battered and bruised, but nothing a common potion and a hot shower couldn't fix. Maybe… maybe I should fetch Shadowheart for your—"

Astarion sniffs. "No, there are others that likely require her services more." He brushes Wyll's concern away, hot and almost embarrassed by the unnecessary attention. "Though a hot shower does sound nice if you'll lead the way…?"

Wyll nods but hesitates before he disappears back inside.

Astarion glances down at the ruined armour across his stomach and swipes his glove across the slick fabric, trying to cover just how much blood there is before he returns inside the inn and has to endure more of Wyll's fussing.

He's startled when he finds that Wyll isn't alone in the room. It seems, minus Gale, Halsin and Lae'zel, their party has settled in this room for the night.

Karlach shifts from foot to foot, watching Shadowheart fuss with the bedding.

Astarion doesn't know whether the cots were in the room before, but there are precisely four single beds arranged there now, and he can see a handful more in the adjoining room through the wide open door.

"I'll sleep on the floor, obviously," Karlach drawls. "A comfortable bed sounds brilliant, but I'd likely catch it alight."

Shadowheart huffs. "Maybe. Or, we can find someone to cool you down, and then you can sleep in a proper bed for once!"

"I wish I could," she says, glum. Her shoulders slump. "I'm glad we found Dammon again, but… without infernal iron…"

"We'll find more, darling," Astarion says firmly, announcing himself. "Surely this cursed place has to be good for something."

Karlach startles, turning to face him. "Fangs! Oh, bloody hells, you look like you lost a fight with one of those winged f*cks!"

"I won," he corrects with a glare. "I was just… distracted."

Shadowheart winces. "The fight was more chaotic than we're used to." She abandons the bedding in favour of crossing to him, her hands aglow with healing magic. "I apologise for losing track of you in the fray."

"Don't worry your pretty head about it, darling." He gives a casual shrug. "It's hardly the worst injury I've experienced."

She narrows her eyes at him, her hands hovering above the nasty wound. "No need to be a hero, Astarion. There's no shame in asking for help."

Astarion doesn't admit that he's not pretending or trying to act strong in the face of pain.

Pain is an old friend at this point; he's more used to having it than the absence of it. The few times he'd been given anything to speed up the healing process under Cazador's tyranny, it had only been to carve him anew, stitch him back together enough that a new round of torture wouldn't go too far and kill him.

Similarly, asking for help had never achieved anything.

He's not used to having company… friends, he supposes they are at this stage. He thinks. He's not sure. He's never had a friend, not that he remembers. He's not used to being able to confide in others about his treatment at Cazador's hands, and he's definitely not used to having someone who willingly heals his injuries rather than letting him rot away in a tiny, damp cell or on a grimy, uncomfortable cot.

"How do you feel?" Wyll asks, hovering close. There's an odd thread in his voice, maybe concern or anxiety, but that wouldn't make much sense.

Maybe his concern isn't for Astarion but for Shadowheart, who has almost burnt herself out healing all the tiefling refugees downstairs who managed to get caught in the fray. Or the Harpers, who held the foes off to protect what civilians they could.

And then he gently reaches out and takes Astarion's left wrist, ducking his head to catch his gaze.

"I'm okay," he insists, thrown off by Wyll's open concern. He rotates his wrist in Wyll's tender hold, clasping Wyll's forearm in turn. "It looked worse than it was, truly. It was just a scratch."

Wyll arches an eyebrow at that, unconvinced. "I'll show you to the showers," he concedes regardless, allowing their hold to drop.

Belatedly, Astarion realises he'd held Wyll with his sticky hand, smearing blood on his arm and making his words an unconvincing lie. Sheepishly, he follows Wyll from the room in silence.

It means he hears Shadowheart and Karlach trying and failing to hide their laughter and rushing to shush each other, but he elects to ignore that just as he ignores the foreign feel of his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

However, Wyll is under no such vow of silence and clears his throat awkwardly. "I… I understand you're a very proud man, Astarion. I hope you don't think my offers of assistance are in any way because I think you can't take care of yourself, or that I… that I think you aren't one of the strongest people I know…"

The feeling of mortification increases tenfold. Gods, what divine being did he piss off to get stuck in this sort of conversation? "Wyll," he tries, but knows there's no point protesting in the wake of Wyll's dedication to being the most courteous, considerate, gracious man in all of Faerûn.

Wyll opens a door that blends with the wall, revealing a luxurious bathroom for such a poky little inn. "I just," Wyll puffs out a breath, waving Astarion into the bathroom, "I want you to know that you can ask me for help if you need it." His eyes are large and imploring, making him look younger than his twenty-four years. "For anything, no matter how much you believe it to be unworthy of my time. Or outside my scope of aptitude. Even if I can't solve the issue, I beg you to let me know either way."

Astarion slumps, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "I can try." He unlaces the thick cords holding his leathers closed over his chest. "You have to understand, darling, I'm not trying to be stubborn. For someone like me, even considering asking for help used to be a waste of time. Sometimes, I forget that assistance is something I can ask for. And that if I do ask, I might receive help."

Wyll huffs an uncomfortable laugh. "I know, Astarion, I do. I'll be more patient with you, I swear it."

Astarion balks. "You're so…" he spits, incensed. "Gods, you make me so angry; how do you just say stuff like that, all painfully sincere, like you aren't already the most patient man I've ever seen?"

Wyll reels back a little, his mouth opening and closing like he's unsure how to respond to Astarion's outburst.

Astarion clenches his fists, fighting to calm down so that he doesn't put Wyll off more than he already has. "You don't need to be more patient with me, my dear. In fact, I could stand for you to be a little less patient. A lot less patient. You don't risk offending me, so you don't have to worry about walking on eggshells, okay?"

Wyll bites his lip like he's trying to prevent his full lips from tipping into a shy smile. "Okay, I'll be more… forthright."

Astarion sniffs. "See that you do." He tries for haughty and isn't sure he succeeds. He turns and marches into the bathroom, pulling his armour off unceremoniously and without an ounce of shame.

"O-oh, I'll just—" Wyll sputters, and the door clicks closed, leaving Astarion alone.

Except the walls are damnably thin in this place, enough that he can hear that old elf, Jaheira, when she greets Wyll just outside the door.

"I mean to ask before, cub, how long has it been since you took care of your braids? They are making me sad to look at."

“Oh, uh,” Wyll stammers. "We've been distracted, what with the Absolute and the… well, I didn't have the horns before, either, so I've found it difficult to maintain as usual…"

Jaheira scoffs. "Obstacles. You are strong; you can overcome. I see strength in you. I will find you a hair oil, and you will fix it before we launch our retaliation."

"Retalia—?"

"After me, cub. Come."

Astarion grits his teeth, petulant. He can imagine Jaheira taking pity on Wyll, despite her harsh exterior, and braiding his hair for him. He had hoped… But they hadn't had a peaceful moment for him to offer.

And now he's lost his chance.

Luck is not on his side at the moment, is it?

He hurries through the shower, wanting to bask in the hot, clean water, but he's still frustrated that he's lost a chance to bond with Wyll and try to deepen their relationship—whatever the hells it isnow.

He desperately wishes he'd thought of it himself, back when he'd soothed away Wyll's tension headache. At that point, he hadn't been thinking about Wyll'sneedsand had instead been selfishly trying to manufacture some fondness in Wyll for his own gains.

Now…

Now, he has a lot of thinking to do because he caresabout Wyll. He does. It had been plain to see, with the fight they'd just had, how his stomach had lurched, and his dormant heart had squeezed painfully in his chest when Wyll had fallen. He'd been illogically worried about Wyll to the point that he had almost been grievously injured. He could have died if he hadn't been fleet of foot and had the strong constitution of an undead.

Gods, he's gone and caught feelings. Like a naive fourteen-year-old.

He doesn't know what to do with that.

Physical attraction he can understand. Sex he can force himself to tolerate, even if he has to retreat into the sanctuary of his mind, he knows that old seduction and intercourse routine without putting any thought into it.

He doesn't know how to court someone. How to love someone, if that's what these strange tendrils of tenderness toward Wyll even are?

And he's terrified, of course he is! Since Cazador, every time he's had something precious to covet, it's been unceremoniously ripped away from him and ruined. Material things, possessions, they were destroyed with relish, but people… those were the worst.

Cazador, Godey, his fellow spawn… it didn't matter. Any one of them would delight in figuring out the most heinous torture for anyone he cared about to endure, and Astarion would have to sit in a front-row seat, bound with thick silver-lined shackles and unable to help, unable to comfort, unable to look away.

Astarion gasps, leaning against the cold tile of the shower for a few moments. The frigid porcelain shocks him back to reality, out of the kennels and the too-many faces he'd coveted a little too much and his loathsome family had eviscerated for sport.

His siblings had never endured such torment. Had they been smart enough not to grow attached to anyone? He baulks at the idea of someone like Pale Petrasbeing smarter than he… but maybe that's it.

Or maybe, as Cazador had said many times before, he'd found Astarion's screams sweetest. Despite how often he insisted he despised Astarion more than anyone he'd ever met, called him a horrible, ungrateful child, he delighted in Astarion's torture more than any of the others.

Nothing was stopping Cazador from killing Astarion if he genuinely hated that he was lumped with Astarion as one of his lowly slaves for eternity. Strange, then, that he'd ever bothered to keep him around.

He's getting off track, thinking of terrible things he wishes he could extirpate from his memory.

He likesWyll.

He likes how tender and soft-hearted he is, and he treats Astarion with the love and care that most people wouldn't extend to a monster.

Wyll is beautiful; appearance-wise, he's dashing, charming and attractive like one of those swashbuckling rogues from the bodice-rippers Astarion used to sometimes steal from the occasional courtesan he lured. They were always horrible trash, but Astarion enjoyed them all the same.

The dashing heroes were always too rough and domineering with their delicate little maidens but worth the trouble for their loyalty and adventurous spirits. Astarion knew it was silly to dream about a hulking, scarred man who could whisk him away from his problems, treat him like sh*t but less than Cazador did, and sail off into the sunset towards adventure…

Dreams don't have to be realistic or logical, however.

And Wyll Ravengardis a dream.

He's everything one of those swashbuckling heroes is, without the lack of respect for women and impenetrable ego. He's more unbelievable than a fictional, idealised man because he's nice.

Astarion hasn't encountered nice before and has no clue what to do with it. Yet some newpart of him yearns for it. For tender touches and soft kisses, for Wyll to recite his romantic poetry and brush careful fingers through his hair and…

It's absurd. Feelings like this, he knows he should find the source and pull them out like a horrible little weed that has found its way into a chink in his armour and started to poke through. Instead, he wants to nurture it, allow the feelings to grow, and discover what it is to have something good.

He's so eager to have this.

He wants it so much.

He's terrified that Cazador will take Wyll away from him, tormenting him so severely that Astarion will finally, finallybreak for the very last time.

He shuts off the water more viciously than he needs to, shuddering in the sudden cold left by the absence of hot water, the rising steam not enough to chase away the chill of the inn's drafty walls.

A fresh set of clothes is waiting for him on the counter, which he's certain hadn't been there before, and his bloodied armour is missing. He's concerned that he had failed to notice someone entering the bathroom while he was naked and vulnerable… except the only person he believes would have the skill to get past him is Shadowheart, and he doesn't feel upset by the idea of her coming in while he's washing.

Despite their best efforts, he and his friends haven't had much privacy in their travels.

Everyone has seen everyone naked at this point, except for Wyll, who values his privacy and modesty and has been shy about undressing in front of the others. He still looks away studiously when anyone is changing.

They've all respected his privacy without discussion, allowing him to take his time changing in his tent, even if it sometimes delays them in the mornings.

Astarion has his suspicions about why Wyll is so cagey about his appearance—beyond the obvious, that his appearance has changed since Mizora gave him the horns and other thingsthat he refuses to elaborate on—but Astarion isn't about to pry. He's certainly not going to spread Wyll's secrets around, either.

Astarion pulls on the clothes, letting out a pleased huff when the pale blue shirt is buttery-soft cotton, slightly too big, so it gapes open over his chest and exposes his nipples no matter what, though that's hardly a concern to someone like Astarion. It covers his back, which is the main thing.

The pants are old leggings, dark brown leather, worn so smooth they aren't difficult to pull on despite the humid steam swirling in the air. Astarion is unsurprised to find that they're too long, the hems resting under the heels of his feet, but he doesn't bother cuffing them. They help warm his cold feet, so he can't complain. They're also loose but fit nicely enough around his thighs that they won't fall down.

He's decent enough that he can wear this for a night.

The hallway is empty when he opens the door, though he can hear the buzz of conversation downstairs. Halsin and Gale are easy to pick out, talking with the Flaming Fist, who care for the semi-delusional, semi-comatose man in the Fist's care.

A glance over the mezzanine balcony shows Lae'zel with them, her arms crossed and face set in her usual scowl. She is sizing up Halsin, which is interesting. They haven't had the opportunity to see him in combat since they rescued him from the goblin camp.

He wonders what's going through her head. He's certainly big. He wonders if his sheer mass has caught her attention and if she's contemplating demandingthat he spar with her. Whether it's a warrior thing or if she's thinking about the duel-between-equals thing she'd explained to Astarion.

He shrugs and returns to Isobel's room, nodding at Shadowheart and Karlach as he enters. Then, he freezes almost comically when he sees Wyll in the room.

"Oh, you're back!" Wyll chirps, like his hair isn't loose from its usual bonds, sticking up in shiny, voluminous coils like he's some beautiful siren or the child of one of the gods of light, Lathander or somesuch.

He's captivating, and Astarion can only stand and stare like an utter fool.

"I was telling Wyll you might be able to help with his hair," Karlach pipes up because she truly is a goddess and the most brilliant person he's ever had the fortune to meet. "You can, yeah? Because I'd offer, but uh…"

"If you touch even a single hair on his head…" Astarion threatens, scrambling to find his footing against the sight of Wyll with his hair free and startlingly akin to a halo around his head. He takes a deep, centring breath, forcing a smirk onto his face. "My, don't you look delectable, my sweet?"

Wyll rolls his eyes but ducks his head to hide his grin. "I'm sure I'll look more so when my hair isn't a complete wreck."

Astarion looks between Shadowheart and Karlach, who shrug, as genuinely confused as Astarion is.

"If that's a wreck, darling, we're all kobold sh*t," Astarion says blithely, stepping over to Wyll. "You're… you're okay with me, er, trying to braid it?"

"Of course." Wyll gives him a broader, heart-stopping grin. "Do you not want to…?"

Astarion laughs. The off-putting, high-pitched thing he's always sure will send Wyll running for the hills, yet he never does. "Yes, I want to; I just might be awful at it. I've never done the… neat… rows…?"

"Canerows," Wyll corrects gently. "Well, there's a dresser with a mirror, so I will be able to instruct you as best I can, right?"

"I can help, too!" Karlach offers, waving from her position on the floor.

Astarion wonders how she can sit there without the floorboards catching fire. She is sitting on her worn bedroll, so the thing must be fire-retardant.

Shadowheart plays with her own long, thick braid. "I think someone used to do mine…" she murmurs, frowning.

Karlach's eyebrows fly up. "Oh? Your mum, maybe?"

Shadowheart shakes her head. "A tiefling, I think. Perhaps she was a friend, but… perhaps something more."

Wiggling her eyebrows, Karlach leans in. "Oh, maybe we'll run into her when we finally get to Baldur's Gate! Maybe you had feelings, but she didn't know yet."

"Maybe let's not speculate about the amnesiac's love life," Shadowheart says, wry but not unkind. "Though… I think I did like her. A lot. I don't remember my parents, but her…"

"I hope we find her," Wyll adds because he's a complete sap. He drags the water-spotted mirror close, propping it against a low table so that he can sit in front of it and watch Astarion's progress. "Ah—" He grimaces when he catches sight of himself. "That's…" He lifts a hand to trace over his horn, where it protrudes from his forehead.

"You still haven't looked?" Astarion says from right behind him, startling him.

"I—no," Wyll admits, looking closely at his eyes and the ridges along his cheeks, wincing all the way. "I didn't look when I was in the shower, and, uh. Oh, the teeth look really weird. And my goatee is so thick now; what in the hells?"

"You look fantastic, babe," Karlach admonishes. "Veryhandsome by tiefling standards, that's for sure. Maybe on par with Dammon, but I might be biased there."

Astarion nods. "Dammon is handsome," he agrees before resting a gentle hand on Wyll's shoulder. "But you… you're unreal. There's no contest; sorry, Karlach."

"Eh, more for me," she snorts. "Besides, I'm the most handsome of the three of us."

"Very true." Wyll beams at her.

Astarion can't disagree.

Even Shadowheart scrunches her face and nods.

"You're definitely—" Astarion begins, and everyone is already groaning before he even finishes the sentence, "—the hottest, darling." He shrugs at the reaction, turning his attention back to Wyll. He kneels behind him, upright to hover over Wyll's head and access his scalp. He gently tugs at one of Wyll's feather-soft curls.

"Oh," Wyll gasps, jumping at the unexpected touch. "Sorry, I keep forgetting you don't have a reflection."

Astarion shrugs, taking a comb from the low table. It must be jarring to look at. How do I start?"

Wyll relays the information precisely, breaking down the steps in a simple way for Astarion to understand without needing a visual reference, yet detailed enough that Astarion understands precisely what he wants the rows to look like.

"Jaheira gave Wyll a smoothing balm or something," Karlach adds, shuffling her bedroll closer so she can sit adjacent to Wyll and observe closely. "Or a conditioner? Either way, it'll help detangle Wyll's hair and smooth it out so you can make the braids tighter. Out that on as you go to keep the rows precise and the braids tight and smooth."

Astarion reaches for it, opens the jar and lifts it to his nose. "Hm." It smells of bergamot, lavender and rosemary, with the slightest hint of aloe. If nothing else, it'll make Wyll smell even more delectable than he already does.

"I don't know that I can twist it as you usually do." He carefully combs and separates sections, applying the balm so the sections are nice and precise. Karlach had been right; the balm makes making the rows lovely and straight so much easier. "I can braid it and try to get it as close to the scalp as possible?"

Wyll shrugs. "That will suffice. I'm not too fussed about the style, as much as the hair is out of my face." As if to highlight his words, one of his puffs of hair falls forward between his horns, covering his stone eye.

"It's a shame you think it's impractical," Astarion says mournfully. "It lookslovely."

Wyll crosses his arms over his chest. It doesn't have the impact it might have if he were standing where he's hunching so that Astarion has easy access to his hair. "I mean, I don't dislike it… I haven't the faintest what to do with it when it's like this. Except shave myself bald, like Father does. And I feel as though that look wouldn't suit me."

Karlach cackles, slapping her knee with the force of her glee. "Gods, no, I can't even imagine!"

"You will when you see him," Wyll says darkly. "Many times during my youth, he tried to coax me into shaving it; he used to braid my hair, you know? Even though he was incredibly time-poor, with all his responsibilities… he never missed out on spending time with me when he could. Even if it was spending half a day braiding my hair."

"Half a day?" Astarion asks, smoothing more of the balm through his first section before twining three pieces together. He braids the section by itself three times before adding hair as he works his way along the first row, adding more balm as needed to smooth the way. "Surely it didn't take that long, darling."

"My hair was very long," Wyll tells them, eyes roaming in the mirror like he's trying to meet Astarion's eyes but can't tell where he is. "Once I was old enough to do it myself, I realised how much work it was to maintain… I kept it long until I was about fifteen and cut it shorter. It's less work than it used to be."

"You'd look great with long hair," Karlach says wistfully, resting her elbow on her crossed legs and her chin on her palm. She's seated as close as she can get to Wyll without setting him alight, wanting to be closer, to help, to touch, but forcing herself to hold back.

It's adorable. It's precious. Part of Astarion hates her for being frustratingly easy to love.

A part of him wishes he were like that and wonders if he was once when he was a young man, naive to the horrors of the world. The type who would have dreamed of marrying someone like Wyll before a harsh reality check taught him that the world was not a nice place and that good people got stepped on by horrible people all the time.

That selfishness and a lack of empathy were necessary if he wanted to survive.

Astarion is about half done, five rows in when he glances in the mirror and sees Shadowheart watching him speculatively. "Something the matter, Shadowheart?"

She huffs, averting her gaze. "I'm surprised. You're doing a reasonably good job. Andyou're being quiet."

Astarion laughs. "There are easier ways to shut me up," he purrs, grinning when he sees Wyll's eyes go wide with mortification in the mirror. "I find those to be more mutually pleasurable, too, most of the time."

Shadowheart gags. "Gross," she sniffs. "I don't want to think about the kinds of things you'd like to stuff your mouth with."

Astarion manfully ignores her, brushing his fingers across the short hair where Wyll's clean-shaven sides have grown out. "Would you like me to take care of these, darling? They're too short to braid just yet."

Wyll shivers as Astarion's fingers brush the short hair, the tip of his newly pointed ear. "Ah, yeah, yes, please," he stammers, flustered.

Astarion nods, moving to his left to resume braiding. He'll find a sharp knife in his collection once he's finished; shave the hair closest to Wyll's ears so he doesn't have to worry about cutting it or dealing with the awkward phase before it grows long enough to incorporate into his canerows.

"This is nice," Wyll says when Astarion begins shearing the sides. He's careful, running the knife as close to Wyll's skin as he dares, holding his ears carefully out of the way to shave the very edges short.

Astarion pauses, looking up at Wyll's reflection.

He's not looking at Astarion but past him, where Shadowheart is lying on the nearest bed, fast asleep despite the well-lit room.

He looks at Karlach and sees that she has also dozed off. She is cross-legged, with her head propped up on her hand, though she's listing to the side.

"I…" Astarion's caught off guard. "I suppose it is, isn't it?" It's soothing to focus on something that isn't escaping from danger or trying to negotiate with cultists. Or trying to play nice with druids, tiefling refugees, or sentient mushrooms — though he's sure Wyll found those situations less draining than Astarion did.

"You're doing a great job." Wyll smiles softly. "Although… it is bizarre to look at my reflection and see my hair braid itself!"

"Mm. There's not much I remember from before Cazador turned me. I… It's hard to miss something you don't remember, but I do wish… Sometimes, I do wish I could see what I look like. I feel silly not knowing."

He smooths the finished braids against the back of Wyll's neck. They've grown longer, or perhaps the flat twists made them seem shorter than they were initially, as they now spill over Wyll's nape. He doesn't know whether Wyll wants them bound together like before or to allow them to spill separately down his back, so he leaves them loose.

Wyll turns to look at him as soon as Astarion's hands leave his neck. "You don't know?" he asks, despairing. "You don't remember what you look like?"

Astarion shrugs, sitting back on his heels so that he and Wyll are eye-to-eye. "Of course not, my sweet. It's been two centuries since I've seen my reflection. I haven't seen this face since it grew fangs, and my eyes turned red. I don't remember what I looked like before or if there were any other changes."

Wyll reaches out as if to cup Astarion's cheek but pauses and drops it. "That's almost impossible to me." He blinks misty eyes. "Astarion, you're so beautiful. You have to know that, at least."

Astarion leers at him. "Oh, I know."

Wyll crosses his arms and glares. "You can drop the act, you know, it's just you and me."

It's not so simple, though, is it? The act is all that Astarion ismost days. He can't just drop it at will. He heard once that breaking a bad habit took at least two tendays of consistent effort, but he doubted that a mere twenty days would be enough to undo two centuries of masking his emotions and pain under a sleazy façade.

"Alright then." Astarion tips his chin up and smiles easily. "Be my mirror. What do you see?"

Wyll's eyebrows fly up, his gaze unfocusing momentarily as he recalls that night on the beach.

Astarion wonders if he thinks about Astarion's response, his insistence that Wyll was a handsome devil, realises Wyll had assumed he was joking. Maybe instead, Wyll's mind goes straight to Astarion's request for a kiss, which he'd granted but had never allowed Astarion to revisit.

"I…" Wyll swallows. "Where to begin? Your gorgeous silver curls, the way they always look so well-coiffed, not a hair out of place. "He shuffles closer, his hand hovering at the side of his face as his eyes dart over Astarion's features.

Astarion wants to preen under the attention and recoil from the scrutiny. He hasn't felt so conflicted about his appearance in his life, which gives him the urge to squirm where he sits. Instead, he holds still, following some reflex to hide any signs of weakness.

"Your eyes…" Wyll sighs dreamily. "The shape is so pretty. I like how angular they look, but I'm sometimes taken aback by how round they are. And the crimson is nice — it suits your colouring. Though the, uh, the new eye, that suits you as well." He rests his index finger on the very edge of Astarion's eye. "Your eyelashes are dark, which is interesting considering how light your hair and eyebrows are, but you have a few white ones… I've never seen that before, so I find it really pretty."

Astarion hums, surprised by that. He's never given much thought to his eyelashes or even his eyebrows. He wonders whether it's a sign that his hair was darker before he turned. He has no way of knowing.

Wyll pulls away, pressing his hands to his face. "Am I blushing?" he asks, his laugh manic. "I feel like I'm blushing. Look, I could go on and on. It isn't very comfortable. Well, rest assured, Astarion, you look amazing. You are amazing."

And Wyll is so honest and sincere that Astarion finds himself believing him.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

Chapter 5: A Thorn in One's Side

Chapter Text

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Shadowheart

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Astarion is… confused. He’d expected their visit to Moonrise to end in combat, a tough battle with a lot of blood and possibly some grievous injuries that put them out of action for a few days.

Instead, they walked right in, safe under the assumption that they were loyal True Soul cultists. For such a menacing cult, they lacked security — or were confident they couldn’t be infiltrated and stopped. Astarion’s group were allowed to roam freely, talking to anyone and everyone and managing to gather a wealth of information without much trouble.

It had been enlightening.

In more ways than one.

Excuse me, he’s his own person!

Astarion, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

It’s your choice, Astarion.

How novel. It had been a very long time since he’d been faced with a person like that awful drow woman and had the choice to refuse her. He knows he would have done it if Wyll asked him to… but he didn’t want to. Better yet, Wyll hadn’t asked or even considered whether the potion the drow was offering might have been worth making Astarion bite a woman whose blood smelled so rank.

For all appearances, Wyll had only considered Astarion’s opinion rather than the greater good, and that was. New. No one has ever cared enough to do that before, so he’s thrown off by how quickly Wyll had fended her off.

Only, when Astarion asks about it later, Wyll looks at him like he’s kicked the owlbear cub they rescued back in the goblin camp. Who had somehow found them. In the Underdark.

Still, the cub has become one of his few allies in his secret war against Gnomekind. As the only member of their party with good sense, he steers clear of the true threat in Grymforge. Astarion had huddled with it, not because he was scared of gnomes, but because Obi needed to learn how to hunt, and he’d taken the cub under his wing… pardon the pun.

There isn’t much prey in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, though, so Astarion had to make do with what meat he could find for his not-so-little pet.

It’s odd to be in the camp again, though the Last Light Inn is buzzing with Harpers, and Halsin, Wyll, Gale, and Karlach have ventured off west to follow up on their leads to break the dreadful curse in this place.

Astarion ruffles Obi’s great feathered head, glad he hadn’t gone with the rest of the party. Navigating the curse is so draining, and though Astarion isn’t exactly going to die, he’s not feeding, so trancing hasn’t been as restful as it should be. He needs to conserve his energy for the inevitable fight against Ketheric Thorm.

How are they going to fight someone who can’t die?

“I hope you’re not feeding that thing our good meat.” Shadowheart crinkles her nose as she looks down at the two of them imperiously.

Astarion scowls at her. “Well, I’m not going to feed him scraps,” he argues, entirely unrepentant. The others can get by with their vegetables and grains — carnivores like he and Obi need meat, and Astarion isn’t going to be finding any fresh, untainted blood anytime soon. Hence, it benefits him to keep Obi happy.Still, he can’t very well have her thinking he cares for the creature. “You fail to feed this thing enough, and you’ll be on the menu next. I’m keeping this thing docile.”

“Thank you for your service,” Shadowheart says, her tone as insincere as he’s ever heard it. Still, she sits beside him and the cub, likely relishing the warmer air closer to the fire.

He’s surprised she didn’t go gallivanting into the cursed lands. As one of Shar’s Chosen or whatever, she’s completely unaffected by the curse, from what Astarion has seen. She doesn’t seem to think this place is miserable at all.

Though… maybe that’s not quite right. She’s been mostly herself, but sometimes she’s quieter. More contemplative. Perhaps she’s been praying more or something. Astarion can’t truly read her mind. Or, he can, but not without her knowing, and he has a feeling she’d eviscerate him if he attempted to sneak a peek into her thoughts.

Maybe she’s wondering what the others are up to, trekking through the curse. Or musing over the revelations of Moonrise Towers, possibly nervous at the idea that they’re wasting time with the curse when they could be more proactive in taking out Thorm and curing their ailment.

Astarion isn’t invested in either plan at this point; the curse is bothersome to trek through, even with the dual blessings of Isobel and the pixie Wyll had freed from their Moon Lantern. Breaking that first would help them fight against Ketheric’s forces, who are likely strong and not as affected by the energy-sapping nature of the shadows.

On the other hand, Astarion wants the tadpole gone; he hates the idea of something burrowing around in his brain. At the same time, it’s all that’s saving him from Cazador’s unbreakable shackles. The only thing allowing him to walk in the sun and go freely where he wishes without invitations. Destroying the illithid parasite will limit him once more, won’t it?

Make it easier for Cazador to compel him back into indentured slavery against his will.

He’s stronger like this, even if he’s physically weaker than he was before he died. He’s terrified of losing this new resistance he’s gained and having to confront Cazador as he used to be, powerless against Cazador’s commands and commandments.

Though when he’d faced Cazador in the past, he hadn’t had help. Companions. Friends.

He’s his own person!

He hasn’t felt like a person in forever.

Astarion, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

He’s lived a very long life doing nothing but things he doesn’t want to do, debasing himself for a master’s amusem*nt. He doesn’t want to do those things anymore, but what does he want? He wants…

It’s your choice, Astarion.

The freedom to choose. He wants the freedom to choose.

And he wants to live.

And he thinks, maybe… maybe if he made his way back to Baldur’s Gate, tadpole or not… perhaps he won’t be facing Cazador alone. Maybe… At the very least, Wyll might stand behind him, monster hunter that he is. He’s sure Wyll can’t abide a vampire lord in his precious city, no matter how he feels about Astarion.

It would be nice to face Cazador and not to be alone. To prove that to at least one person, he’s worthy of saving, no matter how many times Cazador has told him he’s worthless.

“You know,” Shadowheart says beside him, gazing thoughtfully toward the towers. “Keep frowning that hard, and you’ll get wrinkles.”

Astarion blinks, facing her with a vicious smile already stretching his lips. “Is that so? You must be much younger than I realised, then, since you’re so fond of dour expressions!”

She snarls at him, her nose scrunching and her blunt teeth visible, grit tightly together.

He wonders if she thinks she looks intimidating when she does that, instead of cute. The only person she looks more intimidating than in their party is Gale; their resident wizard couldn’t intimidate a human infant if he tried.

“Did you need something, darling, or were you just craving my company?”

Shadowheart huffs, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I wanted a distraction,” she answers reluctantly.

Astarion turns to face her, his eyebrows flying up so fast he’s almost sure they grow wings and spring off his face entirely. “Uh, I appreciate the offer, my sweet, but at this stage, I’m not really looking to—”

“Not sex, you incorrigible dick,” Shadowheart snaps, though she looks less tense. “Lady of Sorrows, no offence, but you’re probably the lastperson in our group I’d choose for that at this stage.”

Astarion perks up. “That sounds highly unlikely,” he counters, scrambling to his feet and crossing to his pack.

Obi trills mournfully at his sudden departure.

“No, I need to hear this list andthe reasons why before I believe that for a second.” He unearths a pilfered bottle of wine from his pack, taking his seat once more and waving a hand at her as if to say, ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

“Hey…!” Shadowheart darts forward and snatches the bottle from his hands. “Where did you get this? This is good wine!”

Astarion smirks, sly. “I have my ways,” he purrs, snatching it back to uncork it and take a long sip. “Oh, it’s terrible. Blegh.”

Shadowheart snorts, grabbing it from him and taking a sip. She, too, winces at the overpowering floral flavour of the so-called fine wine. It tastes like a bottle of night orchid parfum.

Still, Astarion takes another sip, his face screwed up the whole time because he’s a glutton for punishment. “The list, Shadowheart,” he gasps. “Who is the most f*ckable person in camp, and why is it Wyll?”

Shadowheart, mid-sip, sputters into laughter, spraying maybe-perfume-maybe-wine over Obi. “Sorry!” she cries, slumping on her side to pat wine off of his flank, almost tipping the wine bottle over.

Obi sniffs at the bottle with wide amber eyes before snorting and hooting in disappointment, loping over to where Scratch rests on the other side of the fire.

“S-sorry, Astarion, he’s definitely not my number one spot since…. Y’know. He’s kinda off-limits.”

Astarion frowns at her. “Well, that shouldn’t have any bearing on anything,” he grumbles, irritated at how casually she disregards Wyll. It’s not Wyll’s fault he’s contracted to a Devil —well, it is— but that shouldn’t disqualify him from his rightful place at the top of everyone’s List of Most f*ckable In Camp. “He’s at the top of my list, for what it’s worth.”

She looks at him like he’s the stupidest person she’s ever met. “I know.” She takes a generous swallow of the wine before she hands it back. “Karlach is the top of mine. Obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” Astarion picks at the wine bottle’s label. “She’s number 2 on mine. Halsin’s probably number three. He seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

“He is large,” Shadowheart agrees. “I suppose he would be number two for me. And then, uh…”

Astarion sits up straighter. “I’m not even in your top three?”

Shadowheart winces. “I mean… As much as I’m not fond of her, I assume our mutual dislike would mean Lae’zel and I would be, er, compatible…?”

Astarion practically screams. “Hate sex!” he cries, holding the bottle aloft so he doesn’t spill it when he flops miserably to the ground. “I’ve been traded in for the presumption that hate sex will be good! Two hundred years of sexual experience and a Githyanki infant has bested me!”

Shadowheart’s face flushes blotchy red. “She’s not an infant,” she hurries to claim. “And this isn’t real, it’s a —a thought exercise at best—”

Astarion whines. “She’s younger than Wyll. I don’t even know if she’s out of her teens, or whatever that growth stage is called for Gith.”

Shadowheart winces. “She’s certainly young, but I think she’s the equivalent of a young adult. Um. Let’s just move on; this is all hypothetical anyway!”

Astarion shrugs, taking another generous pull of the hideous wine. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’re number four on my list.”

Shadowheart shrugs. “In that case, we’re in agreement.” She holds up her hand to forestall his protests. “Look, Wyll is a gorgeous and lovely person, but he’s also obviously a virgin. Apologies, but I do not have time to teach a man where the cl*tor*s is. Again.”

Astarion huffs, crossing his arms. He resists the urge to tell her that might not be a problem for Wyll. He may be a good many things, some less savoury than others, but he’s not a snitch. “At least tell me you put Wyll before Gale. He’s last on my list.”

Snorting, she breaks into laughter. “Oh no, I put Gale last, too,” she sputters, grabbing for the wine bottle even though she’s laughing too hard to take a sip. “It’s just… What if he exploded during sex?”

Astarion shudders. “I was thinking more: what kind of freaky sex was he having with a goddess? Did Mystra have a mortal form, or…?”

Shadowheart honks, tears beading under her eyes, smearing her dark makeup. “I suppose you have a point there… How does one begin to compare to sex with a goddess, either? A mere mortal surely couldn’t compete.”

“Well, I’m not a mere mortal,” he leers at her, “but I doubt deities are into anything physical anyway. They’re probably into… I don’t know, incorporeal mind sex.”

Shadowheart blinks, tapping her lip thoughtfully. “Speaking of mind, er… not sex, but possible manipulation. Did I tell you that my dream visitor looks like the friend I remembered in the Underdark?”

The tiefling, Astarion presumes. Wyll had given her the rare noblestalk they’d found in a corner of the Underdark, and she’d mentioned a friend —or perhaps more—from her past. Someone who had braided her hair for her; had been special to her.

They had to be, considering they were what Shadowheart remembered. Not a mother or father… a tiefling companion.

“Do you think they were just a friend?” Astarion muses, abandoning the wine now that the conversation has taken a more serious turn. “Or more?Found family, perhaps?”

Shadowheart hums, scratching Obi’s feathers at the back of his head, which he can’t quite reach. “More, I think. I… get the feeling she was a lover.” She slumps against the petrified log they’re leaning against. “It’s just a feeling, but the dream visitor… it took the form of a tiefling woman. And has more than a passing resemblance to the tiefling from my memories. I didn’t trust it because I immediately thought it was attractive… safe. Anything that can create such a heady feeling of familiarity…”

Astarion thinks of his own visitor, less tangible than the thing that has appeared before the others. Astarion has taken so many lovers and felt nothing more than vague interest in any of them; he supposes whatever had visited his dreams had been just as clueless about what he found attractive as he was.

It didn’t look like a person he knew. Just a shifting mass of things that Astarion may or may not have found attractive, at once alabaster-pale and then drow-dark. Sometimes, with long silky hair, a mass of coily curls, or no hair at all. The full spectrum of eye colours from silver pale through to the pitch-dark sclera of a tiefling. Sometimes towering over him, more often of a height, and occasionally a smaller race. Reflections of any and all he’s lain with, yet never anyone more enticing than the rest.

He wonders if any of the others have experienced it, this strange shifting creature trying to pin down his desires and preferences and failing utterly.

“You think it preys upon our desires?” he asks, tapping his cheek. “Tries to make us trust it?”

Shadowheart nods, glancing at him with one eyebrow arched. “You don’t? It doesn’t look like someone you desire? I’d imagine yours looks like Wyll.”

“Rude,” Astarion says, uncomfortable at the idea of something using Wyll’s face to potentially manipulate him. More uncomfortable that it might actually work, with how few people he trusts. How much he already trusts Wyll. “Mine, it…” He pauses, not sure if he should even admit that his doesn’t have a solid form at all. Maybe that’s too strange, too revealing. Especially since he’s putting on an act and trying to convince everyone he has genuine romantic feelings for Wyll. “I suppose it looks like Wyll, but it’s not him. There’s something off about it, you know?”

Shadowheart nods. “Yeah, like those warped mirrors at the circus. Something not quite right.”

Astarion frowns down at his hands, wondering whether it’s worth it to broach the topic that’s been spinning about wildly in his head. She might snark and mock him over it, but she might provide insight. She might quiet the tumbling chaos rotating within his head, circular thoughts that lead him nowhere fast.

“Back at the Towers,” he says slowly, cautiously. He doesn’t look at her. “With that horrible drow woman. Wyll, he…”

He can see Shadowheart snap to face him from the corner of his eye, but he elects not to face her, examining his hands like they hold the answers he seeks.

There’s a long pause, Shadowheart waiting for him to elaborate, then scoffing when he doesn’t. “He stood up for you,” she says finally, pointedly turning her attention to Scratch and Obi when they lumber back over from whatever trouble they’ve found, begging for pets.

“He… I suppose he did,” Astarion concedes. “I just… why?”

Shadowheart ruffles Obi’s feathers between his vast golden eyes, simultaneously scritching behind Scratch’s ear. “What do you mean, why?Why wouldn’t he?”

Astarion doesn’t know; that’s why he’s asking. “For the potion of strength,” he snaps, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “We’ll need all the resources we can get if we’re going to go up against the Absolute; he can’t just—” He almost chokes, his voice getting stuck in his throat from the force of his anger and frustration.

He can’t just… what? Prioritise Astarion over their mission? Prioritise Astarion’s comfortover the greater good? Treat Astarion like something fragile that couldn’t even handle biting one measly, foul-smelling drow.

“You didn’t wantto bite her,” Shadowheart observes him carefully. “...Did you? You said no.”

Astarion huffs. “Well, yes, I saidno, but if Wyll wanted—”

“Did you want him to force the issue?” There’s something keen in Shadowheart’s gaze, something he doesn’t like. She’s seen through him and knows too much.

He slumps. “No, I… I would’ve hated it. I would have done it if he’d asked, but I…”

Shadowheart sighs and says firmly, “He doesn’t want to hurt you, Astarion. She could have offered us an immortality potion ourselves, or the meaning of life, or a way to break Wyll’s contract — none of that would matter if you needed to get hurt to accomplish it.”

Astarion folds in on himself tighter, trying to conceal how his body is trying to quake. “No, I don’t… Why wouldn’t he? If it benefitted him, why wouldn’t he take advantage? That makes no sense.”

“You’re talking about Wyll,” she snorts, picking up the worn red ball Scratch drops at her feet and throwing it a few feet away, careful to keep it within the bounds of camp. “He’s selfless to the point of absurdity; we both know this. And… When you love someone, sometimes you do things that aren’t sensible.”

She hesitates for a few moments.

This allows Astarion to reel at what she’s said, what she’s implied about Wyll’s feelings for him. Could it be that simple? That Wyll already loves him? That he would give up something potentially life-saving if it means Astarion has to get hurt in the pursuit of it?

There’s no way. There’s no way, not when Astarion has barely put his plan in place, has barely sown the seeds, and hasn’t seen any results as yet.

“The tiefling,” Shadowheart murmurs quietly. “I’ve had dreams… maybe memories. I used to defend them against… I don’t know. That, more than anything, tells me that they were important. More important than just a friend. At least, that’s what I think.”

Astarion nods, relieved that he’s been given such an olive branch. A nice, neat distraction from his own mess. He reaches for the abandoned bottle of red. “Well, darling, I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he says, trying to sound calm and unaffected by her previous words. “That dream visitor of ours, it seems to be able to reach past the fogginess of our past memories, don’t you think? It knew about your tiefling before you did.”

Shadowheart hums, pushing Scratch gently away when he tries to sniff at the wine bottle with interest. “Maybe so. What a manipulative bastard, trying to make me feel protectiveover it.”

“Hear, hear,” Astarion agrees wryly and wonders if she knows he’s not talking about the strange spectre haunting their dreams.

How dare Wyll make him feel things?

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Astarion waits until everyone is distracted, trying to figure out how to break the Shadow Curse before he trudges off to find Wyll.

The others are still at the inn, clamouring about the rambling man who had been catatonic, resting on the bottom floor of the Last Light Inn, but Wyll and Astarion have gone back to the camp. Someone had to feed Scratch and Obi and see if Withers was afoot, Wyll had said, but Astarion suspected he wanted some space.

That doesn’t stop Astarion from tagging along, but Wyll doesn’t seem to mind for some reason.

Wyll’s group had made progress; Art Cullagh had finally awoken —which is probably a good thing— but now it means more work because Halsin has to open a portal or some nonsense, and Astarion is just… tired. Every time they make progress, there’s yet more to do.

It never ends.

Astarion sometimes misses the Kennels. Not the torture, gods no. But the lack of activity, the time to sit and think about things instead of pivoting to some new threat, quest, or activity every other minute.

And socialising.There hadn’t been any of that in the Kennels; isolation had been part of the punishment. Now, he’s forced to interact with the same travelling companions all day, every day, with no escape. That and the surely hundredsof random strangers they’ve interacted with and helped on their travels.

It’s not that he doesn’t like his companions. He’s just not used to living with people.

Fellow spawn are easy; he hates them, and they hate him. They keep out of each others’ way as much as they can, only interacting when absolutely necessary, such as when Cazador or one of his cronies has gone too far with their torture and Astarion’s siblings need help tending to their wounds.

Not that he wants to help, mind. He knows full well they aren’t ever going to assist him in return. He’s spent much longer under Cazador’s reign than most, with the sole exception of Aurelia, and he’s been around long enough to know that he’ll be punished much more if his siblings wallow in their injuries and slack off from their hunts.

He digresses, though.

None of that matters at this point as long as Cazador doesn’t know where he is and can’t forcefully drag him back to the Palace. He sometimes thinks of that Gur man, the monster hunter, and wonders whether he is still in the swamplands, following what little of Astarion’s trail exists out there.

Hopefully, the man had heeded Wyll’s words that there wouldn’t be much to find in the sun-dappled swamp. The only hiding places had been the Hag’s lair and the occasional cave infested with goblins, owlbears, or druids. As much as Astarion had hated hearing Wyll write off his threat level so easily, he hadn’t been wrong.

Astarion wouldn’t have lasted a second out in the wilderness without the tadpole.

He sincerely hopes Cazador thinks him dead. Sincerely.

It will make returning to Baldur’s Gate and killing him much easier if he thinks Astarion is dead. Luck is so rarely in his favour, so he has doubts, but it would be so sweet to waltz into Cazador’s lair without fear of the man commanding him to halt. Or drive a stake into his dead heart before he realised who it was that had come to claim his head once and for all.

He mutters to himself, imagining what his last words to Cazador could be. Something strong, something clever, condensing his two hundred years of misery into one brilliant quip that will hunt Cazador’s afterlife.

If vampire lords even have those.

He tries to put Cazador out of his mind in favour of more pleasant things like Wyll. Still, that makes him think about Shadowheart and their conversation, trying to glean any advice from what they’d spoken about. He hadn’t really tried to get her opinion on how she’d approach courting someone, but she’d still given him food for thought.

Defending someone you ‘love’… coming to their aid… he knew he could do those things for Wyll to prove— to deepen their relationship. Defending Wyll verbally like Wyll had done for him, though… how would he manage to insert himself into such a situation? Wyll is quite capable of defending himself and worming his way out of trouble, as charismatic as he is.

Then there’s physically defending Wyll, he thinks with a wince, because that’s worse. Not only would it be ludicrous of him to try—Wyll is a perfectly capable swordsman and has access to eldritch abilities far beyond Astarion’s meagre cantrips—but he’d be putting himself at risk, and the last thing Astarion ever wants is to needlessly put himself in harm’s way.

Especially if it means his companions even think for a second that he’s weak and needs to be left behind.

Still lost in thought, he picks his way over to Wyll and stops abruptly when he realises Wyll is dancing.

Suddenly, anything he had been planning to say falls away. Wyll is at once graceful and lovely, yet silly, dancing alone in his threadbare camp clothes to what is clearly a partnered dance. The atmosphere is dreadful, what with the curse, the road dust, and the complete lack of sound other than the campfire… but he’s still somehow so charming that none of that matters.

Astarion finds himself watching along until Wyll notices him. Finds himself electing to show off his own dance moves for Wyll’s pleasure —and he’s quite the graceful dancer himself, if he may say so, so he’s sure he leaves a good impression— and then they dance together, and it’s…

Electric.

There’s a thrum of tension in the air as they dance, even before Wyll breathlessly asks if he wants to try a more intimate style.

Astarion takes a minute to even recognise it for what it is: unresolved sexual tension thick between them. He’s never been with a partner long enough for it to build, jumping straight into a routine seduction and getting off within a few hours rather than letting the desire simmer away at a slow burn.

He likes it.

He likesit. Wyll’s teasing, fleeting touches as they spin and twirl around each other, the tiny covetous glances between mismatched eyes, and the way he’s breathless at the end, kneeling in the dirt so close to Wyll that he could lean in and steal a kiss.

And why not? Why shouldn’t he bring such a delicious moment to its natural conclusion, dipping closer to Wyll and pressing their lips together?

It’s softer than he means it to be, a gentle, tentative press of his lips against Wyll’s. Beseeching. Please, I know you want this too, please let me…

Wyll yields to him, and his big hands gently cup Astarion’s throat and the back of his neck.

Astarion shouldn’t feel so undone by a kiss and by hands on his throat that aren’t even squeezing, but he moans softly into the kiss anyway, desperate for more closeness, more— just more.

Instead, Wyll pulls away, his eyes and smile soft even in the dim half-light of the Cursed Lands. He helps Astarion to his feet, looking at him like he’s looking at something precious. “So much shadow around us,” he sighs, smiling sweetly. “To think I almost missed the light.”

Astarion wants to shake him, to demand an explanation. What does that even mean? What does… What does anyof this mean at this point? They’ve kissed once more, yet he’s still adrift on an Astral Sea of feelings he doesn’t understand, and Wyll’s poetry doesn’t clarify anything; he’s floundering and wondering what Wyll wants or expects from him if it isn’t sex.

And Wyll is still looking at him sweetly, saying something about getting some rest, and Astarion’s acerbic barbs dry up in his throat.

Gods damn it all. He presses close for another kiss, and this one is more; a little wetter, a little less proper, a little less refined. He presses kisses to Wyll’s sweet, plush mouth.

Wyll pulls away with an aggrieved sigh.

Tells him he tastes sweeter than any wine as if he isn’t the sweetest thing Astarion’s ever tasted.

Then, almost breaks, almost. “You make me forget myself,” he says bashfully before reasserting his desire to do things the proper, fairytale romance way.

Something in Astarion burns. It’s not anger, and it’s not desire. It’s not disappointment or petulance or rage or even disdain.

It’s guilt.

It’s guilt, damn it all.

He’s been leading Wyll on, pretending to be into this grand fairytale romance tripe, and Wyll is buyingit. Wyll is falling for it hook, line, and sinker, falling for Astarion of all people, who had selfishly begun this whole charade for protection.

He doesn’t need Wyll’s protection from the others. That much is clear by now; none of them are willing to throw out Gale when he has a bomb that could kill them all at any moment lodged within his chest. The likelihood that they’ll throw Astarion out is very slim.

And… This charade of his will hurtWyll if he doesn’t come clean.

If he doesn’t confess to his manipulation…

Nothing will change, will it? Astarion has feelings. Astarion has feelings for Wyll, despite all of the odds. He’s gone and manipulated himself into falling for Wyll, somehow. Or, that’s unfair. He’s gone and chosen the most easy-to-love man in Faerûn to pretend to love, a man so loveable that even he, a man without feelings, has succumbed to emotions and ruined his own plans.

He could abstain from telling Wyll about his plot, continue as though nothing has changed, as though he has been courting Wyll from the very start, sincere in his intentions… but then wouldn’t he still be lying? He doesn’t want to lie to Wyll, not anymore.

How can he prove that he’s genuine if this whole relationship began on false pretences?

No, he has to admit to what he’s done. It will be a setback; it might even kill their relationship before it’s started… but Wyll deserves honesty.

Wyll deserves someone good, kind, and truthful. Someone who doesn’t keep things from him, or try to manipulate him, or try to seduce him while knowing full well that he’s not the type to go around having sex with strangers.

He doesn’t get a chance until late the next day. It’s dusk, and Halsin will be opening the portal soon, attempting to find his old friend —Theodore? Théoden? Thanatos? Something like that— and everyone is buzzing about gathering their weapons in preparation for a fight.

Wyll is making the rounds, his rapier sheathed at his hip.

Astarion can’t help imagining Wyll turning and plunging it into his chest at the betrayal. He hopes it’s a momentary sting, but he knows better than to delude himself.

He wishes he had more time. There’s no guarantee after this, after the battle. There’s always some new pursuit in the way of these… less criticalthings.

Not that Astarion finds his feelings for Wyll and Wyll’s feelingsless important than breaking the Shadow Curse! It’s just that the curse is more deadly and, therefore, more pressing.

“Do you have a moment?” he asks when Wyll makes his way over. He’s sure he looks as nervous as he feels, still in his camp clothes and wringing his hands, too anxious to pull on his armour just yet. “I think… I think we need to talk.”

Wyll acquiesces, because he has good manners and can see that Astarion has worked himself into a state.

Astarion’s explanation should be easy, smooth, and logical. For some reason, though, good sense abandons him, and instead, he completely blunders through his explanation. I feel awful… I had a plan. A nice, simple plan. Manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me. Instinct took over; all you needed to do was fall for it.

And all I had to do was not fall for you.

You deserve something real. I want usto be something real.

He forces himself to look at Wyll, to watch as his face freezes and then falls.

He knows that Wyll is thinking about the moments they’ve shared, the times they’ve spent together, bonding, courting, growing closer, how he’s now reframing every single minute interaction and realising—

“So it was all a lie?” Wyll asks, and his voice is admirably even. “All those nights… they didn’t mean anything?”

“No, of course not!” Astarion hurries to say, waving his arms as though that will stop Wyll’s thoughts in their tracks. “No, look— I’ve, I’ve seduced people before. I know how to charm people, play at shallow intimacy and… and lure people home. That’s not. That’s not the same as trying to soothe away your pain… or telling you about digging my way out of my own grave. My intentions, in the beginning, they weren’t good. Yet what I did… what I did with you, I liked those moments very much.”

Wyll stares at him, his face blank, as if carved from stone.

Astarion is reminded then of Ulder Ravengard, a man he’s never met but whose stoic, unshakable visage is legendary. Wyll has inherited this, even if he doesn’t know it. Wyll looks intimidating like this, and Astarion realises why The Blade of Frontiers had a reputation before he’d met Wyll and seen the sweet man beneath the mask.

“I’ve told you before; I don’t know how to be with someone,” Astarion admits, deciding to lay everything on the line. Complete honesty. That’s all he can do in such a sh*t situation. “I don’t know how to be with someone outside of sex. And even that is tainted by two hundred years of… using my body as a tool. So as much as I want to be with you, I…”

Wyll clears his throat, some unnamed emotion breaking through the stoic facade. “Maybe…” he ventures, slow and mournful. “Maybe what you really need is a friend, not a lover.”

Astarion’s heart doesn’t beat, but it still feels like it stops.

Is that… is Wyll…

Does he want to just be friends? After all that they’ve been through? After… after the courting, and three kisses, and…

Three kisses.

Astarion winces internally, thinking back to his courting attempts. Had they been courting attempts, really, or just overtures of friendship? Anyone could have soothed away Wyll’s headaches, altered his clothes, or braided his hair. Anyone could have told him he wasn’t monstrous and didn’t deserve Mizora’s punishment. A good person, a good friend, would do all of that and more. He doesn’t really know.

He’s never had a friend.

So he pastes on a broad smile and tells Wyll that he’s delighted with the offer. Tells him he’s had an endless parade of lovers but nary a single friend.

And then Wyll beams and heads off to finish his preparations, appeased by Astarion’s reaction.

Astarion turns away to pull his armour on, fighting the horrible nausea building in his throat.

Wyll took it better than he could have anticipated; he should be pleased that Wyll still offered him friendship when he could have been outright rejected. Wyll could have decided to never talk to him or even look at him again.

Wyll could have staked him in the heart, though even Astarion thinks that kind of melodramatic response is not something Wyll would pursue.

He wonders if a friend like Wyll would accompany him to Cazador’s Palace and help him finally take down Cazador once and for all. After wallowing for a few moments, he decides that, yes, Wyll would do that for him.

So would Karlach, in fact. He’s sure any of their strange little party would tag along as long as Wyll went.

That, at least, settles him enough that he feels less jittery when they all meet in the middle of the camp, ready to march to Last Light Inn and open a portal to wherever so that Halsin can retrieve his friend —Nathaniel? Ezekiel? —and hopefully break the f*cking curse once and for all.

Astarion isn’t expecting much of a fight.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but for some reason, he doesn’t think it’ll be life or death.

It’s f*cking life or death.

Wave after wave of shadow creatures pushes them all apart and then drives them back towards the lakeshore and the portal. Divide and conquer: these things seem mindless, but they aren’t.

He and his companions were too complacent. Most of the enemies aren’t strong, but it doesn’t mean they can’t get each of them cornered and tired, whittle them down until they’re too exhausted to protect the damn portal.

Astarion viciously cuts through a shadow creeper, fighting his way over to Wyll, who is grappling with what used to be a Harper. They’re not that strong, shadow-afflicted as they are, but still hardier than the shadow-cursed pilgrims that had shambled out of the darkness before.

“Wyll,” he snaps, even as one of the creepers winds around his waist and squeezes in a way that’s actually painful, thorns ripping into his armour. “Wyll, get up, the portal—”

He lurches over to the Harper and plants his dagger into the man’s side, the sharp steel plunging between his ribs. He’s not sure a knife to the heart will stop him, seeing as the curse controls the bodies, and who knows whether it needs a beating heart to create its puppets, but the man’s body falls still, pinning Wyll to the ground.

“Up,” Astarion spits, kicking the corpse off of Wyll and then gasping as he falls to the ground, his middle aching as though his ribs are bruised or worse.

The shadow creeper moves then, dragging him back a foot or two. Astarion stabs it, and it lets him go unceremoniously.

“Gods, how long is Halsin going to take?” He pulls the thorny tendrils from his midsection and ignores the holes in his armour.

“Shouldn’t be too much longer.” Wyll braces himself as the next wave appears.

And then there’s a wraith hovering right at Wyll’s unprotected back, too close for him to shield himself from its grasping claws.

Astarion is fast, though, faster than Wyll and faster than a stupid wraith, and he’s moving before he thinks about it.

He vaguely thinks about what Shadowheart said the other night, that when you love someone, sometimes you do things that aren’t exactly sensible, and he realises exactly what she means just as he’s throwing himself between Wyll and the wraith.

The wraith’s claws are long, and they come down hard on Astarion, tearing into his shoulder and through a lung like they’re shredding tissue paper. He knows that this particular wound will take a long time to heal, giant claws skewering through most of his torso in one go, and that’s before the second claw gets him on the other side.

He’s somewhat glad he’s so familiar with pain because it means he’s still conscious when the thing makes the mistake of letting him go. He lurches around to face it, heedless of the blood spilling from his chest, taking the lone dagger he has and plunging it deep into the thing’s torso. It’s so deep it sinks into the hilt, and Astarion’s hand slides right off, slick with blood.

It doesn’t kill it, but it distracts it long enough that Wyll can get to a better vantage point and stab it with his rapier until it finally scatters into luminescent ash.

“Astarion!” Wyll sheaths his sword and rushes to kneel next to him.

Astarion thinks that’s silly to do because they’re fighting, and then he realises he’s on the ground. When did he get down there? Strange.

And then he sees Halsin, back from his sojourn into a weird portal or whatever, holding a body that looks incredibly tiny in his big arms, small enough that it must be a child, but that’s also silly because Halsin was looking for his friend —Daniel? Oh, Thaniel, that was it— and his friend isn’t a child, surely not, because Halsin is even older than Astarion—

“By the three, you’re coveredin blood,” Wyll says urgently.

Astarion hasn’t heard that before, something akin to panic threading through Wyll’s voice.

Strange.

Wyll calls out, “Shadowheart!”

Astarion tries to shrug, but his arms won’t move at all, which is weird but interesting. “I’m fine, my dear,” he says, grimacing at the coppery taste in the back of his throat. It tastes like blood but doesn’t have the warming flavour he’s used to. It’s more like a goblin’s blood, rancid and sour, full of unnamable substances he’d prefer not to think about. “A moment with Shadowheart’s healing hands, and I’ll be fighting fit!”

“Maybe,” Wyll doubts. “That thing had claws as big as your torso, and it clawed you twice. I’m surprised you’re conscious. I’m surprised it didn’t somehow stake you in the heart.”

Astarion laughs, that high-pitched giggle he hates, which makes him laugh again for some reason, so hard he almost chokes. “I guess I’m just lucky,” he manages, wiggling his toes in his boots. They work, so it’s really just his arms. “I mean, it did get me in the heart, but I suppose claws don’t count. What is a stake, anyway? Wood? Can it be metal? What’sat stake? We all know that! Destroy the heart of the Absolute! Oh, and there’s the heart again…!”

Shadowheart kneels on his other side, her eyes wide and round. “Lady of Loss,” she curses, “how are you conscious? Andtalking?”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “It didn’t get me in the throat. Although I am pretty sure it got my lungs, which is weird because I thought I needed air to talk, yet despite being skewered in the chest, I appear to be able to talk just fine—”

“Its claw is still inyour chest,” Wyll points out, horrified, “so that might be why you can talk.”

Astarion hums and then takes an experimental breath. “Huh. I suppose you’ve got a point,” he concedes, blinking up at Wyll. He feels overcome by the need to make sure Wyll knows just how pretty he is and isn’t sure whether it’s the right time, but he can’t stop the words. “You have… beautifuleyes,” he says, ensuring his tone is as serious as possible.

“Please don’t do that,” Shadowheart groans, slapping a hand over his mouth before thinking better of it. She looks up at Wyll. “We need to get the claw out, but he might, uh… bite.”

“I don’t bite without permission,” Astarion protests.

Wyll winces before grabbing the nearest narrow item to shove between Astarion’s teeth, which happens to be the sheath of Wyll’s rapier. “Sorry, my friend,” he says, petting Astarion’s sweaty and bloody curls off his face. “It’ll just be a moment.”

“Friend?” Shadowheart gripes, looking between the two of them speculatively. “You know what, I don’t want to know. On three, Wyll.”

One.

The bastards pull the long claw out of his lung on twoinstead of three.

Astarion roars very manfully, his fangs sinking into the reinforced leather of Wyll’s scabbard, his eyes wide and unseeing from the sudden shock of pain. It’s not the worst he’s felt; far from it, in fact, but it’s enough that he shudders through a deep, wheezing breath before he does finally pass out.

He drifts for a while, vaguely aware that his mouth is free of leather and his armour has been removed methodically, that his skin feels warm and tingly the way it does after he’s been healed, and slightly damp where someone’s taken the time to clean blood off of his skin.

“—Agree he needs a friend, Wyll, but what he just did…” Shadowheart sounds conflicted.

“Look, I understand there are… feelings,” Wyll says, resolute. “I think we need to slow down, though. He’s… he’s confused; he was trying to manipulate me, Shadowheart. He’s got things twisted, so it’s… We need to start at square one, just be friends, and maybe someday we’ll revisit more.”

Shadowheart sighs, long and drawn out. “I’m not going to push; your relationship troubles are none of my business. Still… I don’t think he’s looking for a friend. Obviously, he’s lonely, and intimacy will be difficult without falling into old patterns, but… We might not have time for a long, drawn-out romance, anyway. Let alone starting back at square one.”

There’s a shift of fabric, like Wyll shrugs. “I’m willing to take that chance,” he says wistfully. “He deserves someone who cares, Shadowheart. I don’t want to rush into things and risk the relationship over… over…”

“I mean, if he wasn’t a vampire. Uh, vampire spawn, he would have died for you today,” Shadowheart says, in that careful, emotionless way she uses to pretend she doesn’t care about the outcome of a conversation.

Astarion is wise to it but doesn’t know if Wyll is.

“I don’t think anyone narcissistic or manipulative would go that far, seeing as that’s a deadly risk. He can’t have known whether he’d have survived the stab to the heart, either, you know. So… food for thought. I don’t think he’s messing around.”

Astarion’s chest feels oddly warm that she’s come to his defence and tried to convince Wyll that his feelings are sincere. Even if he doesn’t think Wyll will buy it, it’s nice to have someone in his corner, willing to take his side should things go wrong.

Astarion blinks his eyes open into the yawning silence, overcome by curiosity.

“Ah,” Wyll says, his voice still wonderful and warm, even if his eyes don’t hold as much naked affection as Astarion has grown accustomed to. “Welcome back, my friend.”

The greeting shouldn’t sting, either. Wyll hasn’t ever called him that; it’s always been Astarion, or on one occasion, that feels suddenly very, very far away… my star.

Astarion is allowed to feel bereft, even if it seems silly to mourn for something you never really had in the first place.

He blinks up at the sky, still set in its usual, impenetrable new-moon-dim.

“All of that, and the blasted Curse still isn’t gone?” Astarion asks, for lack of anything better to say. He feels once more like he had when he’d started the whole charade, off-balance and out of his depth, no longer smoothly navigating their relationship now that they’re ‘just friends,’ and Astarion isn’t pretending to manipulate Wyll now.

Can he still call him darling? He calls everyone else pet names, and it’s never really meant anything. It’s occasionally been a valuable way to condescend to his companions, but now even that feels wrong and tainted.

He doesn’t want to disappoint Wyll.

He doesn’t know how to continue on without doing that.

Maybe… maybe he really should start back at square one, act as though he and Wyll have just met, drop his usual mask and… and…

And what?What do you do when you’re not trying to charm people? How do you approach a friend rather than a potential lover? Astarion doesn’t know.

He just doesn’t know.

He wasn’t built for this.

⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆