Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE (mature themes)
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/staeve
Tags: corsets & dressing up, cheesy ass flirting, traumatic flashbacks, hallucinations, gore and blood, hurt/comfort, happy ending
Wordcount: 4059
Notes: staeve belongs to MAF/velnna, who also did some incredible editing work on this story (on top of giving me the original concept)

Summary:
Staeve plans a fun evening, and Astarion takes a calculated risk (but boy, is he bad at math). Navigating triggers and trauma.

Excerpt:

Astarion’s sight swam. “How pretty,” he heard himself say. It was a corset. “Do you like it?“ Staeve asked, but then he rushed on, almost eating his own words. “It's probably not my style, but I thought — let's be fancy! Just for fun. Right?” Astarion’s head snapped up. “Oh. It's … for you?”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

Astarion was just blinking away the last dregs of trance-fog, when he heard the door open with a quiet click, and saw Staeve slip in the room with a small stack of packages in his arms, seemingly deep in thought.

“Good evening,” Astarion greeted him, a yawn barely cutting him off on the last word, as he sat up in bed and stretched his arms and his spine.

Staeve’s expression brightened gratifyingly at the sound of his voice. “Oh, you’re awake! Hello,” he purred, gliding over to the bed to press a kiss against Astarion’s lips.

“Mm, hello, yourself,” Astarion purred back. “You’re wearing the new shirt.”

It was the one Astarion had picked for him, immediately liking how fancy it looked, without being too loud, too un-Staeve-like. A beautiful, understated number in muted, dusky blue, sewn in decorative panels rather than a regular shirt block pattern, with each seam further embellished by barely noticeable leaves and vines in the same colour. He petted the soft fabric appreciatively for a moment, running his fingers along the embroidery, smiling a private smile at the number of buttons Staeve had left undone down his chest.

“What do you have there?” he asked, poking curiously at one of the parcels.

“Oh, these? Package for you.”

Staeve pulled one from the pile and deposited it on Astarion’s lap, with a little flourish that stank only a little of mockery for Astarion’s own mannerisms, before shoving the rest of his burden at the foot of the mattress, so he could join Astarion in bed.

Cheeky little brat, Astarion thought, mouth twitching in amusement. He sighed contently as Staeve’s plastered himself against his back, arms around his waist and his chin over Astarion’s shoulder.

The paper-wrapped packet in Astarion’s lap was soft and not at all heavy, with a glob of lavender-coloured wax sealing the string against the wrapping, a familiar stamp impressed in it. Astarion squinted at it, only slightly distracted by the thrum of Staeve’s blood and purring spreading up his spine, by his warm hands splayed over his stomach, nestling at the soft flesh under his sternum.

“Oh,” he breathed in recognition, starting to pick at the wax with his nail. “You were at the tailor? That explains the shirt.”

“Yeah,” Staeve replied, nuzzling at him. He cleared his voice. “Do you like it?”

“Of course I do. I knew you were going to look lovely in it.” Astarion glanced at him. “Do you like it?”

“I wasn’t convinced at first, but— yeah, I do,” Staeve admitted. “I think it’s one of the nicest things I own.”

Astarion beamed at him, pleased. “Hopefully, the first of many.“ He pressed a kiss to Staeve’s cheek before going back to fuss with the string.

The knot came apart with just a little effort, and the package fell open on his lap, revealing a bundle of grey fabric and iridescent buttons. Astarion couldn’t contain a delighted smile. He lifted the delicate shirt from its paper nest and simply admired it for a moment: the grey linen was light but tightly woven, and a row of pearl buttons ran down the whole length of it, from the asymmetric closure at the collar to the hem. The sleeves looked airy and comfortable, with another small set of pearls fastening the cuffs.

“Beautifully crafted,” Astarion murmured approvingly, starting to fold it again.

“Wait!” Staeve exclaimed, stopping him. “Don’t you want to try it on?”

Astarion raised an eyebrow at him. “What, right now?"

“Yes, why not? Let’s be fancy and shit, just for fun.”

Tempting—Astarion did like playing dress up. The novelty of having a choice in what he put on his body, without having to resort to the same repurposed rags over and over again, had not yet worn off. He’d always been vain, he supposed.

Since his reflection had gone missing, he’d found that a large part of his enjoyment now came from the way the garments were fitted around him and how the fabric felt against his skin rather than how it looked—and the grey linen did feel wonderful under his fingertips…

He perceived Staeve grin against his neck like he could see Astarion’s hesitation crumple. “Come on, I know you want to,” Staeve teased him.

“Alright. Why not?” Astarion conceded, shaking his head at his lover’s enthusiasm. “Let me put some pants on, first. I am not wearing such an elegant shirt while butt-naked.”

Staeve’s face immediately fell, pouting in mock-disappointment. “Aw, you’re not?”

Astarion burst out laughing and swatted at him. “No, I’m not, you silly thing. Go get me some trousers.”

“Fine,” Staeve sighed, and slipped off the bed to fetch them.

A chill spread over Astarion, biting and immediate without Staeve’s arms wrapped around him. He quickly put his trousers on, knelt up on the bed to shrug the nightshirt off, and pulled the new shirt over his shoulders. The soft fabric was cool against his skin, teasing and light like a caress. He slid his arms inside the sleeves and sighed, relishing in the way the airy material settled around him. By touch, he aligned the bottom-most button and started working his way up with nimble fingers.

Staeve sat back down on the bed next to him, cross-legged, his elbow propped on his knees and his chin propped on his hands like a kid, eyes following Astarion’s hands moving up his torso. “You’re so beautiful. You know that?”

“I know.” Astarion smirked. “But I could use hearing it again.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Staeve repeated, obediently. He scooted closer, taking over the task of buttoning Astarion up. His fingers were as clever as Astarion’s, and even more careful, as they joined the two sides of the shirt front over his chest, over his collarbones, over his throat.

“I never thought you would have fun doing this sort of thing,” Astarion commented, as he let Staeve fasten the buttons at the cuffs next. “The outfits and everything.”

“It’s definitely not my scene, but it is a little fun,” Staeve admitted, a smile playing on his lips as he turned Astarion’s hand palm up. “Especially if it’s an excuse to get my hands on you.”

Astarion chuckled at him. “Because you don’t do that already, do you?”

“Not nearly enough.” He pressed a lingering kiss to Astarion’s wrist, where his pulse would have been, pale eyes turning heated for a moment. “You’re a vision. Is it comfortable?”

“Very.” Astarion ran his palm down his sleeve and started musing out loud. “I can’t wait to put together some outfits with it. I have a jacket that will probably match nicely….”

Staeve coughed. “Speaking of outfits, I have a surprise for— well. I hope you like it, at any rate.”

“Oh? A surprise? I love surprises.”

Staeve smiled and twisted around to reach one of the other parcels. It was bigger, sturdier than the one that had contained Astarion’s shirt; this time, he took care of the packaging himself, quickly ripping through the paper and shoving the content towards Astarion with slightly twitchy hands.

Astarion’s sight swam.

“How pretty,” he heard himself say.

It was a corset.

He genuinely thought it was a pretty piece. In comparison to what corsets used to look like at the time he had last seen and touched one (heavy and stiff, the undyed cotton pleasantly sturdy to the touch, the metal closure at the front, thin laces at the back— ) he could see that it was a modern work of fashion. Made to be worn on the outside of someone’s clothes rather than hidden under layers of corset covers and camisoles and dresses. The dark muted blue of its silk outer layer was run through with intricate embroidery, the busk at the front still functional but surrounded by decorative details of delicate silver filigrane.

It was a corset.

“Do you like it?“ Staeve asked, but then he rushed on, almost eating his own words. “It's probably not my style, but I thought — let's be fancy! Just for fun. Right?”

Astarion’s head snapped up. “Oh. It's … for you?”

“Yeah.” Staeve briefly rubbed at the bit of scar on the bridge of his nose, not meeting Astarion’s gaze, and started fidgeting with a scrap of discarded wrapping paper. “Maybe. I never wore anything like this in my life though, so… I thought maybe you could help me figure it out?”

Astarion glanced down at the garment. He could easily picture it cinched around Staeve’s body, making his slender waist even more slender, its sharp lines nicely contrasting with the flowy fabric of the shirt he was currently wearing, half unbuttoned down his sternum as it was now. It was short enough that it’d stop just below that last button, highlighting the toned shapes of his chest; he could imagine Staeve’s grin widening as he showed off for him, striking some ridiculous pose.

Everything was different. It had been so long ago. It was Staeve.

“Let’s give it a shot,” he said, chipper, grabbing the corset decisively before he could change his mind. “I can’t promise anything. It’s not like I have done this a lot either, you know.”

Staeve leaned forward. “But you have done this before.”

“Once, yes.” Astarion’s smile felt frozen on his face. He struggled not to clip his words. “I’m afraid corsets don’t do it much for me— but far be it from me to stop you from exploring your style, darling.”

“I figured that if we’re serious about pursuing this kind of high society lifestyle, I better start looking the part,” Stave drawled. His smirk turned shit-eating. “And I know you enjoy dressing me up, too.”

That managed to get a genuine smile out of Astarion. “You are a lovely doll to play with.”

Staeve preened, and Astarion laughed. “Turn around for me, love.”

As he shifted his weight on the mattress to get his back to Astarion, Staeve shot one last, flirty look over his shoulder. He made a show of fixing his hair away from his shoulders and uncovering the freckled nape of his neck, coy and inviting like he was playing some sort of seduction game.

“You’re the silliest man I know,” Astarion admonished him, leaning forward to press a kiss to the exposed skin above the collar of his shirt, right on the knob of his spine.

A dramatic gasp. “You know other men?”

Astarion swatted him again. “Hush! Let me figure this out.”

He shifted his attention to the thing in his hands. The silk was smooth and cool under his touch, the embroidery exquisite, the stitching minute and well-made. The busk came apart easily enough under his clumsy, trembling fingers. The lacing was supple and properly set up.

Astarion’s chest felt heavier and heavier with each passing second.

“Very well.” He cleared his voice. “Take these and fasten the little hooks on the front. One loop at a time. Careful not to catch the fabric of the shirt between them,” he instructed, passing the two halves by slipping them under Staeve’s arms and around his waist.

“Oh, it’s so snug already.” Staeve sounded surprised. “Like this?”

Astarion swallowed. He knelt up on the bed to look over Staeve’s shoulder, but his eyes weren’t focusing very well. “Very good,” he said anyway.

“Then what?”

“I’ll lace you up,” Astarion said. He picked up the laces from the middle section of the closure and looped them around his fingers so he could start pulling.

That won’t do. Lace him tighter.

Astarion didn’t move. Half his mind was trapped in the corset — one wrong move and his ribs would snap, his heart would leap in his throat and out of his mouth, his stomach would slither away in his chest cavity — and the other half was trapped in the compulsion, Cazador’s orders burning down his spine — lace him tighter, lace him tighter, lace him tighter.

“This isn’t too bad,” Staeve said, shifting a little.

Red eyes burned a hole in Astarion’s chest, and his mouth filled with the acrid taste of rotten blood and ashes. His diaphragm spasmed uselessly as he tried to draw a breath, fluttering like the wings of a thing in the throes of agony.

“Babe?”

He couldn’t speak. Astarion’s lungs were empty and his tongue forgotten. Lace him tighter, lace him tighter. His breath kept thrashing in the pit where his soul should have been, like a dead thing climbing its way out of the grave. Astarion watched his own fingers twitch around the laces, flexing with a mind of their own, and screamed.

He didn’t actually manage to get a sound past his lips beyond a weak gasp, but the effort shredded his throat nonetheless. Agony shot through his body, locking the muscles in his jaw, in his neck, in his back, like a seizure. He crumpled against Staeve’s wide back, forehead pressed against his spine, breathless and mindless.

Staeve startled at the contact, his shoulders tensing up in alarm. “Shit,” he cursed low in his throat. Astarion could feel the vibration of it through his body. “Astarion?” He started moving, twisting around; Astarion was flooded with panic.

It was like watching outside through a window with a cracked pane glass: through one of the shards, Astarion could see how loose the lacing still was, hanging from the back of the corset in droopy ribbons, tangled clumsily around his stiff, shaking knuckles; through a different shard, Astarion watched his hands (or were they Petra’s hands?) start tightening the closure with practised gestures, from the middle, from the top, from the bottom, until there was no gap between the two edges, tighter, tighter, tighter.

Through yet a different shard, the misshapen cincher was strangling Staeve’s spine, a mess of snapped boning and gorgeous fabric soaked in his blood, the shapes of his vertebrae and ribs poking through, long and pale talon-like fingers sinking through the gore.

“Don’t!” Astarion rasped, digging his head harder in the hollow between Staeve’s shoulder blades, eyes squeezing shut. Was the blood in his mouth real? Was the growing pressure at the dip of his waist real? It didn’t matter. “Don’t.”

Staeve went very still. “Alright,” he murmured. Astarion felt Staeve’s ribcage expand to take in a deep breath (and what a relief it was, that he could breathe, still). The muscles in his back shifted and bunched as he rolled his shoulders, a telltale sign that he was coaxing himself to calm down. Astarion flinched. “I’m right here, babe. Talk to me?”

“I—” Astarion started, and whatever he meant to say next got swallowed by a choked sob, when his tongue got misaligned from his thoughts by another senseless wave of fear, ghostly red eyes staring him down from inside his own head.

He sensed Staeve’s heartbeat pick up slightly. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

Somewhere in Astarion’s chest, exhaustion spilled over the surface of panic, sizzling like grease on an open fire. “Cazador,” he snarled through gritted teeth, wet and angry and desperate.

“He’s dead,” Staeve said without missing a beat, soothing and utterly unshakable. “He’s dead, he’s not here. You’re here. I’m here.”

“I know that!” Astarion cried, even more frustrated; but somehow Staeve’s reminder had helped. Something unlocked in his nerves. He was still frozen in place, too scared to actually move, but at least he could breathe.

Cazador was dead — Astarion was free. He was safe.

His body shook so bad his teeth rattled. He let his mouth fall open, sucking big gulps of air in, as if it could somehow fix him. His gasping was unbearable to his own ears, but he couldn’t stop.

“Astarion?” Staeve called, softly. “Can I turn around? Maybe I—”

“Fuck no, stay. What if I hurt you?” He swallowed laboriously around a knot in his throat. He was aware he sounded incoherent. He couldn’t bring himself to care. His hands were still gripping the lacing. “I can’t—let go.”

Staeve was silent for too long a beat. “The corset?” he asked, and Astarion hated how blank his voice sounded, dreaded the confusion hiding just beneath the surface.

He wanted to scream. He nodded against Staeve’s back instead.

Staeve let out a long, shuddering exhale. “Alright, let me see if I can…” he trailed off so he could focus on fiddling with something.

Abruptly, the strings Astarion was still holding onto for dear life started coming loose. Terrified reflex made him grip them tighter and pull, white noise filling his ears. The garment came away from Staeve’s waist, the two halves separating painlessly, harmless.

“Oop, I got it,” Staeve chuckled weakly, holding the fabric as he turned himself around to face Astarion. “I got you.”

He reached for Astarion’s hands and cradled them between his, warm and comfortingly limber around icy and nightmarishly cramped. Astarion couldn’t bear to look him in the face as Staeve worked gently and patiently to free his fingers from the tangled lacing. When he was done, he set the corset somewhere behind himself, out of sight—out of mind—, and scooted closer to sit properly in front of Astarion.

“Hello again,” he whispered. He rubbed his thumbs over Astarion’s knuckles, soothingly. Astarion stared down at them. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Astarion glanced up, and the window shattered again. He had to stifle a whimper and squeeze his eyes shut against the suggestion of cracked bones and split skin that floated in his sight. “No.”

“That’s fine.” Another beat. “Can I do something? Anything?”

A shiver ran down Astarion’s spine. He was so cold, freezing, like he had been stripped naked, like he was standing for inspection in the middle of Cazador’s rooms, shrinking under his gaze. He was unravelling, his skin peeling off, his sinews coming apart, he was—

“Hold me,” he croaked, barely audible. He tried again. “Hold me.”

Just a brief, startled twitch of Staeve’s hands around his, the mattress shifting under him, and Astarion was back in Staeve’s arms, held against his chest.

The squeezing sensation took his breath away at first, panic and pressure settling around his ribs, but it was fleeting. He was surrounded by warmth, now, comforted by the buttery-soft pleasantness of Staeve’s finely embroidered shirt and the familiar glimpse of his skin. Astarion pulled at the buttons with unsteady fingers until more came undone, until he could slide a hand under the fabric and feel around Staeve’s chest—feel the outline of his ribcage. Whole. Unbroken.

He leaned his ear directly against his skin and let himself be soothed by the steady, strong beat of Staeve’s heart, by the gentler whisper of the air flowing in and out of his lungs. He wrapped his arm around his own stomach, the light, loose material of the new shirt as calming as a kiss under his fingertips, and curled smaller against Staeve’s body, legs tucked against his side, temple against his collarbone.

It wasn’t enough.

“Tighter,” he bit out, a frisson of painful tension cracking through his jaw. “Tighter.”

It was Astarion’s voice giving orders now, and it were Staeve’s hands applying pressure and denting his flesh. Astarion welcomed the slight discomfort of his shoulder joints grinding together, the awkward way his cheekbone and nose got half smooshed against Staeve’s pecs, the burn of his chest hair rubbing on his face. Staeve’s palm moulded itself against the curve of his skull, fingers sinking in the curls at his temple, close and tight and holding Astarion’s mind together.

“I don’t think I can go tighter than this without hurting you," Staeve murmured against the top of his head. “Do you think it might be enough?”

Astarion closed his eyes. He wished they could stay like that forever, the warmth and pressure of Staeve’s touch pushing Cazador’s influence out of every fibre of him, harder and closer together, until the boundaries between their bodies dissolved and they were under each other’s skin.

“Yes,” he answered instead, pushing himself upright, forcing some distance between them. “Thank you.”

Staeve let go easily, his touch turning tender against his neck, over his shoulder, before pulling away entirely; Astarion already missed it.

He turned to really look at him. Something about Staeve’s smile always made his undead heart hurt, like it contained a thorn that had Astarion’s name on it; but it was a sweet ache, one that Astarion was glad to come back to, again and again. His eyes were soft and a little worried, oddly tinted blue against the shade of the embroidered shirt. It was undone past his navel now and it made him look strangely dishevelled, at odds with what had just happened between them.

He reached forward to button him up again, with the same unsteady fingers that had undressed him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he closed the shirt over Staeve’s collarbones.

Staeve sighed. “It’s alright, I guess I can live without my chest hanging out for one evening.”

Astarion flinched, annoyed. “No, stupid, I meant—”

“I know what you meant. There’s nothing you need to apologise for.” Staeve took Astarion’s wrists, thumbs rubbing gentle circles on his skin. “How are you feeling?”

“Like we could have had a fun evening and I once again ruined everything.” Astarion started playing with the buttons again, just to have something to busy his hands with.

Staeve stopped him, squeezed his wrists again, shook him gently. “No. You’re not taking the blame for this. If anything, I should’ve asked before—”

“You did ask,” Astarion snapped, yanking his hands from Staeve’s grasp. An ugly smile pulled at his mouth, fangs prickling at his lower lip. “You asked, and I decided it was going to be fine. And then it wasn’t. So now you’re paying for the consequences of my—good faith in my stupid broken self, I suppose,” he trailed off, the sudden annoyance burning itself up, leaving only disappointment and bitterness behind.

Staeve made an upset sound in the back of his throat and reached out, the palm of his hand cradling his jaw. “This is going to happen again,” he murmured. “I don’t want to play this pointless game of blame every time.”

Astarion closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, feeling helpless.

“Neither do I, my love,” he murmured against Staeve’s palm. “I’m tired.”

A sharp inhale from Staeve, the lingering touch of his lips on his forehead, and Astarion was pulled back into the warmth of his embrace.

“If only I could give you peace,” Staeve muttered right by his ear. His arms tightened more firmly around Astarion, but this time it was more like he was trying to soothe himself as much as he was comforting him. “As a gift, you know? Package it up real pretty, neatly folded inside an overpriced box, tied up with the shiniest ribbon…”

Astarion could hear the tentative humour in his voice. “You always gift me the best things,” he exhaled shakily, allowing a small smile to pull at the corner of his mouth.

“For you? Always. While supplies are running low, though…” Staeve continued in his musings. “You can have me. You can always have me.”

Astarion squeezed him back, enjoying how well they fit together against each other, and pulled away to look him in the face.

“Whatever you mean, supplies running low?” he purred, tilting his head with a hint of coyness, brows furrowing as if in deep thought. Steve's smile felt a little brittle under Astarion’s thumb when he reached out to touch his bottom lip. He glanced up at him through his lashes. “From what I can see from here, all you’re missing is a shiny ribbon.”

Staeve’s eyes widened with astonishment for a fraction of a second, and Astarion couldn’t stop himself from smirking at the gorgeous, flustered flush that spread high over his cheeks and nose, swallowing up his freckles. Staeve grinned right back, expression opening up in relief, and burst into a fit of giggles.

Something about it set Astarion right off, and soon they were both snickering, making each other start again every time it had died down a little, like children.

It was hard to tell exactly why they were laughing — Astarion’s line hadn’t been that funny; more likely, it was just the release of tension, just the abrupt relief of normalcy settling over them — ultimately, it did not matter.

They had each other. They were fine.