Somewhat Clear

They both woke up at the first whimper—Halsin and Staeve’s sixth sense for danger and distress had only gotten sharper since Astarion’s nightmares had become a nightly occurrence. The three of them had been clinging to each other when they fell into rest, the smaller elves pressed up against Halsin, one cool and one warm bundled against his flanks; but Astarion must have disentangled himself from his embrace at some point during the night, and he was now curled away from them, looking terribly small and vulnerable as he shivered and twitched in his trance.

“Babe?” Staeve’s voice was still thick with sleep, an oil spill of anxious, as he sat up to look over Halsin’s body. “Astarion—”

“Wait.” Halsin caught him by reflex, arm wrapping around his shoulders before he could climb over him.

Staeve struggled against his hold. “Halsin, he’s having a fucking nightmare, I’m not letting him in there with—”

“Wait,” Halsin repeated. “Listen.”

They both quieted.

Astarion kept whimpering in his trance. “Stop,” he said, quiet and thin, pleading. “Don’t. Please—”

Staeve’s face fell. He knew the pattern of Astarion’s nightmares better than Halsin did, having gotten actual glimpses of them through the tadpole powers.

The last time he had this specific kind of dream, they had tried to help by shaking him awake—Astarion had panicked, taking so long to calm down and to come back to himself, he’d asked them not to touch him next time. “I can’t mistake your touch for—” he’d cut himself off, looking haunted, voice scratched up from hours of screaming, tears still staining the dark circles under his eyes. “I cannot. I won’t.” He’d stared them down, a knowing look in his glare. “Promise me.”

They had promised.

Staeve’s fight bled out of his body, defeat softening his limbs. He pushed his face against his chest . “I cannot fucking watch him like this, Halsin.”

Halsin’s heart tightened. “I know.”

“I can’t. This is killing me.”

“I know, dear heart. We have to be strong for him.”

Halsin held him close, rubbing his shoulders to comfort him, to comfort himself. He focused on Staeve’s breathing, shallow but warm against his skin, as he made himself watch Astarion as he kept writhing on the bedroll, plagued by invisible touches, crying out from time—it was hard to witness, especially knowing they could do nothing but wait.

Once again he was struck by how slight and defenseless and scared Astarion looked, as he hugged himself—a lie: Halsin had seen him hunt in the hoods, beautiful and powerful and lethal and ferociously joyous, and he’d seen him fight at Staeve’s side, merciless twin blades acting from the shadows, ruthless and merciless. But as long as he was unconscious…

Staeve turned in his hold, and scowled. “If he starts clawing his arms open, I’m stopping him,” he muttered, darkly. “I don’t care if he yells at me afterwards, I’m drawing a line at self-harm.”

“Agreed.”

One more broken sob, and Astarion woke himself up. He snapped in a sitting position like he’d been electrocuted, eyes wide and wild, his chest heaving in barely suppressed panic; as distressing as it was, it never failed to make Halsin warm, the way his body clung to the mannerisms of life: his body might have been dead, but Astarion’s will to live was so strong.

In a flash, Staeve was out of Halsin’s arms and by Astarion’s side, hands hovering at his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me,” Astarion hissed, harsh and hard, a feral thing.

Staeve’s face closed off, flinching back like Astarion had slapped him rather than telling him off. “Sorry,” he murmured, turning away, hair falling in his face. He missed the way Astarion’s face contorted with immediate regret. “Sorry, I need—” and just like that he was up and gone, the flaps of the tent fluttering behind him.

Astarion stared behind him for a long, tense minute, frozen. Then he deflated, spine curling forward, hands covering his face, a tremulous groan stuttering out of his throat. “Shit. Shit.”

“Are you alright?”

“Nightmare,” Astarion croaked, the heels of his hands still pressed in his eye sockets.

“I know, starlight.” Halsin glanced at the tent’s opening. “We know. He’s not angry at you.”

Astarion didn’t answer. He pulled at his curls, straightening them out of shape.

“I know what you're thinking.”

A wet chuckle, almost a sob. “Did you get a tadpole while I wasn’t watching, darling?” Halsin doesn’t bite. Waits him out. Astarion collapses onto himself a little further. “I’m just—I’m failing him. I promised I was going to try and see where this thing was going and I’m just being a—broken toy, that cannot even be touched, cannot even let himself be comforted. Hells, Halsin, I’m failing you, as well.” His voice was a whisper away from a scream. “—and you’re being so fucking patient with me, and with him, and—Gods. What am I even bringing to all of this?” More laughter, even closer to weeping than before. “How long has it even been since we had sex?”

“As long as you need,” Halsin reminded him firmly. It wasn’t the first time they had this conversation—they tended to cycle back to it over and over again, especially when Astarion was feeling particularly insecure. Halsin had been failing him, for not having been able to make him understand that he didn’t need to be useful to be loved. “Nobody is in a rush to hurt you. Until you’re ready for it, nobody is going to mind.”

Astarion shook his head. “You have each other, at least,” he insisted, lost in his thoughts. He grimaced, a snarl curling his nose. “Why the fuck am I having so many nightmares, anyway? I swear I’ve been getting more in the past weeks than in two hundred fucking years.”

“It’s because you’re healing, my love.”

Oh, Halsin understood Staeve now. He would’ve given anything for Astarion to accept his touch now, so that Halsin could wipe the doubt and confusion off his pale, beautiful face with a kiss, so that he could wrap himself around him and squeeze the suspicion out of his body.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Astarion continued, in a thin, flat, too-honest tone.

“Don’t be. We would have felt much worse if we somehow managed to sleep through it,” Halsin reassured him. “It feels like we’re there for you, in some capacity, even if we cannot do anything to physically help.”

Astarion sneered. “I’m sure Staeve agrees.”

“He does,” came Staeve’s voice, as he stepped inside the tent. His braids were gone, his hair was disheveled like he also had been pulling at it, the wavy strands tied haphazardly in an awkward half-knot at the top of his head. He looked softer like that, the loose wisps of hair framing his worried expression.

Astarion didn’t ask how much he had heard. He just reached out with a hand towards him, a silent plea. Staeve reached back, let Astarion take his hand and pull him to his knees on the bedroll. Halsin could see their knuckles bleaching from the way they were gripping each other for dear life. He watched Astarion pull Staeve closer to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, to the frown on his forehead, to the tip of his nose. Staeve huffed a chuckle, unable to keep serious, and Astarion grinned back—clearly proved by the nights’ ordeals, but lighter, happier. They loved each other so; and Halsin felt so lucky to share and witness that affection.

Astarion leaned his forehead against Staeve’s one last time, his hands still clutching around his. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, so quietly Halsin could only read it from his lips. “The fuck are you apologizing for, stupid? You’ll be the death of me,” Staeve said back at a normal volume—but his voice cracked half-way, betraying his emotions.

“Go back to rest,” Astarion said, closing his eyes. “You both need your beauty sleep.”

“Rude.” One of Staeve’s hands curled in a fist over his own thigh—Halsin understood: keeping himself from reaching out where it would have been unwelcomed. “What about you?”

“We’ll see. Go lie down with Halsin, I’ll stay here, I think.” A smirk. “—and enjoy the view.”

Staeve snorted, but scooted closer to Halsin, settling himself against his body. The walk outside the tent had chilled him, and Halsin automatically rubbed warmth back in his arms. “I thought we were supposed to go to sleep, not put up a show.”

Astarion lay down on his side, holding himself up on his elbow in a sensual sort of lounging pose, even in his exhaustion. “I don’t know, I’m kind of into it. You and Halsin cuddled up together, all cozy.” His eyes went half lidded, a parody of seduction. “Can’t wait to watch you drool all over his shirt as you fall asleep. That will really get me going.”

“Excuse me, I do not drool,“ Staeve sniffed, indignant. But his eyes were shining, relief pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, lover. Speaking of which—” Astarion gestured at both of them to lie down.

Halsin chuckled and obeyed, settling back down on his bedroll and pulling Staeve down with him; the half-drow landed on his chest with a yelp. Astarion snorted, eyes crinkling at the corners, as Staeve mock-grumbled about being bullied in his own house, curling on top of Halsin like an offended cat.

“Good night, Astarion,“ he said over Staeve’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Good night, Halsin,” Astarion replied, laying down, silver curls spreading under his head. He looked tired, but content.

Halsin fell into trance with Staeve’s smile pressed against his skin, and Astarion’s dancing behind his eyelids.