Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/staeve
Tags: Developing Relationship, Astarion's Past Abuse (Baldur's Gate), Late Night Conversations
Wordcount: 1649
Notes: staeve belongs to Velnna/MAF.

Summary:

staeve falls asleep on astarion's lap, and catches him humming to himself. late night conversations about a forgotten past and an unexpected future.

i know the kindest thing is to (never) leave you alone part 3 of 4

Excerpt:

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Staeve mumbled.

Astarion made a noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t. Well. I can, but I’m not very good at it,” he conceded. “When did you hear me sing?”

“Just now. I think.” Maybe he had dreamed it.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

He woke up to hands in his hair and a gentle humming, and for a moment Staeve didn’t know where he was, when he was. Nita used to play with his hair like that sometimes when they were small, when he couldn’t sleep at night; Logue, as much as he didn’t talk, would sometimes hum little made-up songs under his breath when he was truly deep in thought. Staeve lay like that for a moment, comfortable with his cheek on a stranger’s thigh despite the heart hammering in his chest, letting the disorientation spin around in his mind. Like sensing his agitation, the fingers in his hair paused briefly, their movement gentled, slowed. The song quieted. Soothing knuckles caressed down his cheek, cool and smooth and familiar.

Oh.

He rolled on his back and he found himself face to face with Astarion’s beautiful features looking down at him. His eyes glittered like precious gems in the flickering light of the lantern, but there was a softness to them, like he had been lost in thought until then.

“Hello,” Staeve said, groggy but warm.

Astarion’s smile widened. “Hello, yourself,” he greeted back, stroking Staeve’s hair once again, this time away from his forehead. “Did you have a nice nap?”

It was starting to come back. Staeve was supposed to keep him company while he worked on the mending.

Astarion had bitched and moaned that when he had told him he was going to take care of it, he hadn’t meant for the whole godsdamned camp; but when Staeve had pointed out that they could afford to throw away the old things and buy new ones now (as accidental as it was, all they adventuring was starting to earn them quite a bit of money), Astarion had just waved him off with a long-suffering sigh, and told him that it would have helped him pass the time at night, at least.

Which was how Staeve learned that elves needed only four hours of meditation to rest, rather than eight, like humans or even half-elves (He didn’t know how he didn’t know. With the not-insignificant number of elves he’d met — and slept with — you’d think it was something that was bound to come up at some point).

So he had offered to stay up with him—and had failed quite spectacularly at it.

“I fell asleep,” he muttered, more petulantly than he meant.

“I noticed.” Astarion sounded amused, but muted, somehow. Staeve could hear the ring of laughter just behind the lack of inflection—more genuine, more honest than it had ever been. He’d been sounding like that a lot, lately. Staeve found he quite liked that.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He shifted against Astarion’s leg. He was fairly sure he’d started the evening leaning against his shoulder. How did he end up there?

“It’s fine. I enjoyed your company anyway. You’re so much warmer than a blanket,” Astarion teased him. “Beside, if you had been awake I just would have gotten too distracted. I barely finished the last of the darning as it is.” His thumb stroked Staeve’s eyebrow.

Staeve grinned. “You were watching me sleep? Creep.”

“I am easily entertained.”

A comfortable silence fell between them. The rhythmical stroking of Astarion’s fingertips through his hair was almost enough to put Staeve back to sleep, especially when he lingered to rub small circles at his temples.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” he mumbled.

Astarion made a noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t. Well. I can, but I’m not very good at it,” he conceded. “When did you hear me sing?”

“Just now. I think.” Maybe he had dreamed it. “It was something like…” he did his best to replicate the little tune he’d heard.

Astarion stared, stunned. “Oh. I was… singing that?”

“Mmm. You were just humming, but it was pretty.”

“Thank you, darling.” His voice swayed with the old affectation for a moment. “Gods, I didn’t know I still remembered that song,” he continued in a flatter tone. He laughed, a little self-deprecating, empty sound. “I’m not joking when I say it is at least two hundred years old.”

It wasn’t like Staeve had forgotten that Astarion was much older than he was, but his chest always tightened a little when he mentioned that sort of thing. Two centuries were so difficult to conceptualise, when he only had a handful of decades behind his shoulders. From Astarion’s wondering expression, at least it seemed like Staeve wasn’t the only one struggling with it, at least.

“I don’t actually remember where I heard it,” Astarion confessed, quietly. “But I’m pretty sure...” he trailed off, fingers still carding absently through his hair.

Staeve never tried to pry when Astarion went away like that. It was safer to let the silence stretch, than to prompt him into talking. He focused instead on enjoying the feeling of the curve of Astarion’s thigh fitting perfectly against the nape of his neck, of his short nails scratching delicately at his scalp every time he sunk his fingertips in the thickest part of his hair.

He knew that Astarion would be a little sharper, a little more irritable, after. More scared. Like he forgot where he was. Like he regretted how wide he’d left himself open. So Staeve didn’t move, and waited it out, the familiar dread settling in his stomach—

“I’ve been thinking about Cazador a lot, lately,” Astarion broke the silence unexpectedly. Staeve held his breath, afraid to disrupt the moment. “Since I found out about the contract.” He stopped. Then his expression crumpled in rage, and he snarled, “Two hundred years, I can’t even tell you how much—” His voice grew thick and then died in his throat. His eyes found Staeve’s, shockingly lucid, a little shiny. A quick, bitter, tremulous smile. “Maybe I will, one day.”

He rubbed a strand of Staeve’s hair between his fingers, like he could draw comfort from the silky texture.

“The thing is, I don’t even know who I was, before Cazador. I told you I was a magistrate. It’s the truth, for all that is worth, even if I don’t know how or why I became one. I know how I died.” Another inhale. Raspy, abrupt. “I don’t know who my family was. I must have had one, at some point. Maybe they’re still alive, it wasn’t that long ago. But I don’t care about that.”

He shifted a little, but he didn’t dislodge Staeve from his lap.

“It used to bother me. When I realised that my past was lost to me, I tried to keep track of my present, instead. I gave up after a month.” He grimaced, a parody of a smile. “Turns out my nights weren’t really worth recording. Starvation and torture get old really fast,” he sing-songed darkly. “Every day was exactly the same, and whenever it was a little different—” He froze. He shuddered. He shook himself off like something had pinched him in the ear. “I enjoy sewing now, but I don’t know what I liked doing before Cazador. Maybe I liked poetry. Maybe I liked singing. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Slight tremors ran through the hand that still rested on top of Staeve’s head. Moving very slowly, Staeve took hold of it and pulled it close to his mouth, kissed his palm.

Astarion smiled—an actual smile. “I like you,” he said, and then he looked shocked, a little excited—maybe for having said it out loud. “I know that I like this thing that we have, even if I don’t know what it is. I wake up in the morning—a novelty in itself, really—and I can’t wait to see what is going to happen next. I have a future now, and you—are in it.” Staeve could hear the excitement turn into anxiety. “I’m not asking you to stay with me, I’m just—”

“I’ll stay,” Staeve said. He slipped his hand into Astarion’s, tangling their fingers together. This time he kissed his knuckles instead.

“I still am not sure what you’re in it for, at the moment. Last time I checked, I was asking you to risk your neck for something that has absolutely nothing to do with you, and to give up the one thing that I could safely, consistently give you,” Astarion pointed out, chagrined. He snorted, unamused. “Besides mending, I guess.”

Staeve squeezed his hand. Astarion had been getting insecure about the oddest things, since they had stopped having sex. Of course Staeve was going to help him defeat Cazador; and of course he wasn't going to sleep with him, if Astarion didn't feel comfortable with it. He could not say that though. Not right now.

“I’ll stay. For as long as you’ll have me,” he insisted instead. The look of uncertain hope in Astarion’s eyes was both the best and worst thing he had ever seen. “In exchange for one thing.”

It was meant to be a silly joke, but he immediately realised his mistake. Astarion tensed up against him, betrayal stiffening his limbs like he'd been doused in icy water, and regarded him with a diffident look, his jaw clenching up and his eyes going guarded and cold.

Staeve pretended not to have noticed and continued, pitching his voice low and flirty, “Will you sing again?”

“Gods,” Astarion scoffed, relief punching the word out of his body like a physical push. He sunk his fingers in Staeve’s hair again—and this time it felt more like he'd meant to pull his strands out, rather than to soothe him. “I cannot stand you,” he muttered under his breath, sounding both furious and overwhelmed with some unnamed emotion.

He then took a somewhat tremulous breath, and started to hum the same tune as before. Staeve closed his eyes and let himself be lulled back to sleep.