rituals

[deerna]

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/staeve
Tags: astarion's past abuse, referenced torture, cuddling and snuggling, self-worth issues
Wordcount: 818 / 795 on AO3
Notes: staeve belongs to MAF (happy birthday!)

Summary:
aftermath of silenced, a century later

Excerpt:

They both knew how the song went at this point: Astarion didn’t need any prompting when he started unraveling—only enough space and time for him to pick the right thread and start pulling.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

“You know what’s the worst part?” Astarion blurted, after a moment of silence.

It startled Staeve out of the thoughtful, furious reverie he’d fallen into, but he knew Astarion wasn’t actually expecting an answer. They had built a ritual around this: the invitation to drink together, Staeve ignoring Astarion’s fidgeting and the way he filled their cups without taking a single sip, the long silences while Astarion tried to fit enough words together to paint a picture. They both knew how the song went at this point: Astarion didn’t need any prompting when he started unraveling—only enough space and time for him to pick the right thread and start pulling.

“I just. Sat there.” Astarion laughed, a strained, querulous, short sound, like a raven’s caw. “I just sat there and I let him fucking— cut my tongue off. Hands in my lap, spine straight against the backrest, like a good, properly trained boy. And even afterwards, I—I had to look at him because he told me, I had to watch him fucking pet—he had it in his hand still, my— he just stood there and touched it, like— and I didn’t move, I just. Sat there, and cried.“

He was pressing the side of his thumb so hard against the rim of the metal goblet, it was leaving grooves in his flesh. Staeve put a note in his mind to soothe them later, when he was allowed to finally touch him.

“He never told me not to move. He never told me not to— I just sat there. I wasn’t even making a sound because —that’s what he told me, I was compelled to silence, and to look at him, but not—.“ He cut himself off. “I just let him. I just let him.”

More silence. Sometimes, arrived to this stage of rambling, Astarion would cry. He never made any noise; Staeve often didn’t realize, if they sat side by side, looking out at whatever sight they had picked that night, until he caught him wiping his eyes with the heel of his hands — too attached to his shirts to sacrifice their sleeves even in the height of distress.

This time he didn’t. He just stared ahead, looking desperately exhausted, and haunted. Empty.

“Astarion,” Staeve murmured.

Astarion flinched and turned to look at him, wide-eyed and alarmed, then he grimaced. “I’m fine,” he snapped, tension in his voice coiling like a snake, teeth in every syllable.

Staeve didn’t let him bite. He just looked back, calmly. “I know.”

Astarion’s snarl cracked, turned into something vulnerable and guilty; fight and defensiveness drained out of him like from a broken glass. “Gods,” he muttered, then surprised Staeve by leaning against his shoulder, hiding his expression against his neck.

He was trembling. Staeve slowly wrapped an arm around him, keeping his light touch just in case—but it only made Astarion melt further against him, almost molding himself against his body, so Staeve tightened his hold, rubbing soothing circles into tense muscles. Astarion was never warm, but his weight was solid, comforting, grounding.

Staeve’s chest tightened with something he couldn’t quite name. “Hey. Thanks for telling me,” he said.

Astarion laughed wetly. “Why, you’re welcome, my dear. How gracious of me, to drag you down to my little pity party.”

“Oh, you know me,” Staeve chuckled. “I am always down to party—especially if beautiful, white-haired elves of vampiric persuasion are involved.”

“I bet you say that to all elves.”

“Only to beautiful, white-haired ones that I’m in love with,” he mumbled in his curls, fond. Astarion shifted a little.

Staeve glanced down at the bottom of his own cup, and set it aside, still untouched. He thought of all the things he never told Astarion, and then stopped thinking about it.

“Seriously it wasn’t a—it means a lot to me, that you trust me with this. You know?“ Words tangled in his mind, in his mouth. “I hope you know. It was a—” he chuckled, suddenly reminded of something. “What was the thing you said? It was a gift.”

Astarion groaned, shifted again. “How do you manage to make it sound so lame when you say it? I was being serious—”

“Can I be perfectly honest with you, babe?“ Staeve snorted. “Not that I didn’t appreciate it but—it did sound pretty lame the first time too—”

“How fucking dare you,” Astarion retorted, but there was laughter in his indignation, affectionate and relieved. “See if I ever tell you anything again.”

“Sure. Let’s say—same time, same place, next week?”

“You’re terrible,” Astarion sniffed. He fully climbed in Staeve’s lap and sighed against his collarbone. “I love you, too.”

Staeve wrapped his other arm around his back, and squeezed him a little tighter.