Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/staeve
Tags: pre-slash, unhealthy coping mechanism, trauma & coping
Wordcount: 2018
Notes: staeve belongs to MAF

Summary:
a relationship in the early stages. staeve tries to repair a hole in his shirt, and ends up accidentally revealing other sorts of tears. luckily astarion knows how to sew.

i know the kindest thing is to (never) leave you alone part 1 of 4

Excerpt:

Alright, maybe this whole ‘getting stranded in the middle of nowhere with a handful of pocket lint and a worm in his brain’ thing was starting to get to him.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

All things considered, Staeve didn’t think he was coping too badly with the situation.

He wasn’t having fun, exactly, but he was making the most of his days. Fighting, scavenging, gathering information, following false leads to their inevitable dead end—it was demanding stuff, but Staeve could appreciate the challenge.

Evenings were definitely more fun. It had taken him a moment to get used to the novelty of having to fit himself around the lives of a bunch of strangers, but Staeve liked people, and people liked him. A shared goal always made for easy bonding, anyway.

The nights were quiet. Too damn quiet. Once everyone was done with their food, and had wished everyone goodnight, and had retired to their tent, silence fell over the camp. Over Staeve’s thoughts. Over the restless feeling that he ought to be doing something.

There was nothing he could do. Not really.

It didn’t happen every night, but it happened often enough. He couldn’t sleep. He drank, sometimes, but there was only so much alcohol he could safely steal from the shared supply. He might have asked for some company, but he didn’t feel like making his own shortcomings someone else’s problem.

So he’d started picking up little chores around the camp, while nobody was around. Sorting loot into piles to sell and to keep. Sharpening knives and daggers.

Attempting to sew a hole in one of his shirts.

“You know, I usually like to watch, but this is getting painful.”

“What,” Staeve muttered, without really lifting his gaze from his work.

He had noticed Astarion sitting there. He’d been there for a while. Staeve had just been too absorbed in the unfamiliar task of attempting to thread a needle to properly acknowledge him.

Shocking that it had taken Astarion so long to say something.

“Pray tell, what has that poor shirt ever done to you?”

“Nothing?” Staeve cleared the high, defensive note from his throat with a cough. “I’m just fixing a hole.”

Not sure why, to be honest. Staeve would always steal a new shirt whenever it got too tattered. Now that Astarion had distracted him, he was struggling a little to remember why he had tried to repair this one.

He stroked a thumb over the failing repair attempt. The reddish brown linen felt soft and worn, comforting to the touch. He remembered lifting it from a tailor shop back in Baldur’s Gate, a few weeks ago. His stomach lurched at the idea of getting rid of it.

Alright, maybe this whole ‘getting stranded in the middle of nowhere with a handful of pocket lint and a worm in his brain’ thing was starting to get to him.

He bit the inside of his cheek, and re-threaded the needle once more. The fabric slipped away, the fibres sliding apart rather than getting pulled closer.

Astarion clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Great progress, darling.”

Staeve felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. Little fucking prissy arsehole. He did like Astarion, for some godsdamned reason, but sometimes interacting with him felt like sticking a hand in a bundle of barbed wire with no gloves.

“You’re very welcome to it, if you think you can do better,” he snapped.

“If I think I can—? Ha!” Astarion’s bark of laughter was dry and incredulous. He rolled his eyes dramatically, and flapped his hand at Staeve. “Gods. Give it here. The kit, as well.”

Staeve gathered up shirt and sewing supplies, and silently passed them over.

Instantly, Astarion transformed. He had seemed twitchy and tetchy with boredom moments before, but he turned calm and focused as soon as he had the bundle of fabric in his hands. The underlying tension in his body spoke now of eagerness rather than animosity.

The mess of stitches that had been Staeve’s poor attempt at closing the tear got unpicked with precision and care. Astarion handled the tiny scissors with ease, cutting through the thread with confident, tiny snips. His back bowed in a gentle curve as he bent his head down, utterly intent in his work.

It was all so familiar. Uncomfortably so.

It made Staeve nauseous, faint. Sweat clung to the nape of his neck, sticky and cold. He found his next breath with difficulty. He raked through the loose side of his hair with numb fingers, as if he could get a grip on himself by pulling on its roots.

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Astarion addressed him unexpectedly, loud and bright, leaning into Staeve’s space as he shook the shirt out of his lap and turned it inside out.

Staeve blinked, startled despite himself.

“First of all, you do this from the inside. Secondly, you don’t just pinch the fabric together and hope for the best, gods.” He showed him how, folding it between two fingers. “Will it get the hole closed? Yes. Will It look ugly as sin? Also yes, congratulations. It will also make it absolutely crystal clear that this is the only shirt you can afford to own.”

He grimaced, and glanced up to meet Staeve’s eyes, like he was expecting him to have something to say about it.

Staeve kept silent. The moment passed. Astarion looked back down.

The pale skin of his palm peeked through the hole, stark and smooth against the frayed edges. “See how the threads are weaved into each other? That’s what we want to replicate…”

Staeve swallowed thickly, and nodded distractedly as Astarion rambled on.

He didn’t hear a thing about knots and weaving and sewing tricks. He focused on the cadence of Astarion’s explanation, soaking up the sound of his voice. The flow of words grounded him. He could feel his hands again.

“And then you do everything in the other sense, but weaving the needle through,” Astarion was saying. “It’s kind of tedious, but perhaps you would like to try?”

Their eyes met again. Staeve was surprised all over again to see how different Astarion seemed. He was as elegant and attractive as always — pale skin, angular but delicate features, soft, silvery curls, eyes shining like garnet in the firelight, the charming creases of his smile — but he lacked entirely that nervous, bird-like energy that usually surrounded him when they danced around each other on the battlefield—or in Staeve’s bedroll. He looked so earnest, approachable in a way he rarely was.

“You clearly know so much more than I do about this,” Staeve murmured, his voice still rough from the odd moment from before. “I would hate to ruin all your careful work.”

It wasn’t much of a line, but it seemed to fluster Astarion nonetheless. His eyes went round and wide, and then he caught himself. “However it suits you, darling,” he replied, a little of his usual prickliness poking through. “Make sure to watch carefully, then.”

Staeve bit down a smile, scooting a little closer, until he was pressed up against Astarion’s slightly cooler shoulder. He found himself shivering a little, but Astarion didn’t comment on it. “Careful not to stab the needle too close to the opening, here,” he just said, smoothly resuming the narration of his actions.

Warmed by the fire and by the comforting of Astarion’s rambling, Staeve could feel himself falling a bit asleep. His body seemed to be ready to have him pay the price for too many sleepless nights.

Staeve opened his eyes again just in time to watch Astarion carefully trim the thread and turn the shirt right side out. His shoulder was now the same temperature as Staeve’s. He got jostled a little, as Astarion held the garment out, judging the result against the light from the campfire.

“It looks incredible,” Staeve said, straightening up and taking the shirt for a closer look. There was absolutely no trace of the tear, like it had never existed, except maybe a slight difference in shade.

“I wish the thread matched a little better, but given the circumstances, it will do,” Astarion sighed, pursing his lips in displeasure.

Staeve wanted to kiss the frown off his face. He blinked, feeling off kilter. “You really know your stuff about this sort of thing, huh?” he said instead. His voice sounded weird, not quite thick with sleep. He had no idea what his face was doing.

“Honestly. Everyone should know these things,” Astarion replied, tossing his hair and turning his face away. He once again sounded sort of flustered. “How you never learned is beyond me,” he insisted, petulant. “You never had to darn a sock before?”

Staeve shook his head, rubbing the sting of sleepiness from the corner of his eye. “Nah, that was—” he trailed off. The sudden memories caught him off guard. He felt himself choke again, unable to continue. He could perceive Astarion’s red gaze sharp on him, ready to sink into his weakness. “Someone else at home took care of it,” he forced out.

Cool fingers touched his chin, and Astarion moved him gently to face him. His eyes were warm like the first step inside the threshold after a hike in the cold, light his thumb against Staeve’s skin. The flames from the campfire flickered in them, but there was no edge beyond that, no weapon. “Spoiled,” Astarion scolded him, but his voice was fond, gentle, careful. He turned away to gather the sewing supplies. “In that case I can do it. If you’d like.”

I think I could fall in love with you, Staeve thought. He swallowed thickly. “Thank you.”

“It’s no skin off my nose, darling. At least you won’t be running around in tattered clothes.” Astarion dusted his shirt off, and got to his feet. “We should probably get some rest, now, don’t you think?”

Staeve smiled, feeling like a fragment of something that had shattered in a million pieces, like a rip in a favourite garment. “And here I was hoping for a goodnight kiss.”

Astarion looked gorgeous against the night sky when he got up again, pale and beautiful like the moonlight. Staeve didn't want him to leave. Didn't want to be left again by himself by the fire, old ghosts rattling in the back of his mind.

Astarion offered a hand. “Come on. Get up. I'll walk you to your tent. I just know you're going to stay out here all night again, if I don't.”

There was really nothing Staeve could reply to that. He put his hand into Astarion’s and let himself be pulled up and away from the campfire, the newly-repaired shirt under his arm.

The noises of the night were louder at the edge of camp, among their steps crunching on the flattened ground; Staeve's half-empty tent looked more like an abandoned ruin than a place to find rest.

Astarion turned to him and gave him that smile, the one that made Staeve occasionally itch for him, that made Staeve want to get closer to him, that made Staeve want to sink his hand through the syrupy mask of his farcical flirting, past the burn of thorns and prickle of venom, and see what hid beneath—reservations be damned.

The kiss Astarion pressed against the corner of his mouth was chaste and soft and lingering. “Spoiled,” he scolded him again. Another quick peck of lips. “Goodnight.”

Staeve watched him walk away until he disappeared in his own tent, a strange heaviness in his chest and his fingers tangled in the newly repaired shirt.

He made himself prepare for bed, lie down on his bedroll, turn his back to the doll nestled among his pillows. He closed his eyes not expecting to get any rest. He closed his eyes waiting at best for discomfort, at worst for nightmares.

When he opened them again, it was to sunlight filtering through the tent opening and to the distant sounds of the camp waking up. He had no recollection of having slept, and many doubts about the previous night.

But when on a whim he wore the reddish-brown shirt that had unwittingly become a favourite, and instinctively he went to touch the tear near the collar, his fingers only found a patch of well-weaved darning instead.