Somewhat Clear

Astarion knows that his siblings envy him. He sees it in their eyes, whenever Cazador comes calling at the dormitory door with a snap of his fingers and a curt, sharp order for him to get ready for some party.

They believe he’s getting a night off, while they’re forced to go out in the cold and provide for their Master—forced to work harder than usual to pick up Astarion’s slack. They believe Cazador will dress him up in jewels and fine clothes and rare scents, they believe Cazador will show him off to important friends and powerful acquaintances (They’re not wrong about that, to be fair, even if for all the wrong reasons). They believe he’s found the secret to buying himself a way out, and they hate him because he’s not sharing it with them.

“Stop that moue, they won’t miss you,” Cazador informs him dismissively every time. “It really doesn’t make a difference for you to be out there with them or not, they’re more than capable to take home enough fresh blood by themselves. Honestly, with all the trouble you’ve been causing, maybe your time is better employed this way.”

His Master’s hands are always so cold—whether he’s cinching him into some uncomfortable garment, whether he’s tying him up into some uncomfortable position, whether he’s just touching him to show that he can, lest Astarion forgets who he belongs to—and his words are colder.

“Fools,” Cazador sneers, while his esteemed guests are still out of earshot, lip curling in distaste and voice thick with disdain, “all of them. Vapid, shallow, and slaves to petty, pointless ambitions. All the easier to play with, naturally, but what a nuisance.” He remembers thinking that his siblings maybe were right about Astarion being the favorite—why would Cazador tell him these things in such confidence, otherwise—until he realized that Cazador was talking to himself.

Astarion wasn’t there to make Cazador’s evenings more entertaining—he was there to give the guests something to focus on so that Cazador didn’t have to spend hours on end engaging with the dreaded fools he so despised.

If every time he comes back to the dormitory Astarion is a little more tired, a little more broken, a little closer to madness, his siblings are none the wiser. And that’s how it shall be.