Somewhat Clear

Staeve was alone in bed, when he woke up. Not a rare event, as of late.

Halsin had admitted early on that, despite his favourite Wild Shapes being nocturnal animals, he preferred early mornings when he existed as an elf. Something about giving grace to Silvanus, and the hour around dawn being the best time of the day to forage for ingredients, something something. Staeve loved listening to him talk, but the details of the topics they discussed sometimes fell through the cracks of his memory.

Astarion used to sleep in; the memory of waking up with him in his arms was almost enough to make Staeve start purring. But since it had started to look like their parasite-infected days were coming to an end, especially after Cazador, he’d been doing that. Staeve had gotten worried, until one day he had found him sitting on the balcony, legs dangling past the railing, looking at the sunrise like he was trying to absorb its colours in his soul. He had understood then, and he had let him be. Staeve definitely did not have the power to change that future.

It was so comfortable and comforting, lying among the blankets and the furs, surrounded by his lovers scents—Halsin’s strong musk, a mix of herbal and spicy and wild, and under it the fainter notes of Astarion’s perfume, something citrusy and smoky floating on top of his natural, strangely void smell. But he could hear the noises of the city just outside the window, and the quietness of the room that told him that everyone was already out and about.

He got up with a groan, shivered at the slight chill against his bare skin, and stretched his limbs. The release of tension triggered a yawn so wide he actually felt his jaw crack with it. He slipped into his trousers, and made an effort to splash away the worst of the night time sweat off his skin by making use of the small basin of water provided by the inn, before looking for a shirt to wear.

It was so odd, having a selection to pick from. It never failed to make him smile a little, to make him feel spoiled. He chose a clean shirt at random, and threw it over his head, pulling at the hem and running his hands over it to smooth it down his torso before tucking it in the waistband of his trousers.

An odd ridge of something caught under his fingers. He frowned, trying to scratch it away with the edge of his nail, thinking it maybe some residue of grime, so deeply encrusted in the fabric it had refused to come out in the wash. When he failed to remove it, he took the shirt off again, resigned to having to change again.

And then he saw.

It was thread, embedded in the fabric clearly by design, a small decorative pattern that looked like a vine—stitched right on top of a rip in the fabric, to hide it and to embellish it at the same time.

He found himself digging through the rest of the clothes in his pack like in a daze, looking for odd bits of embroidery. Always done in the same colour of the garment they were stitched on, they were visible but quietly understated. Vines, vines, vines. A small flower. Odd geometrical shapes. And then, seemingly appearing at the edge of a cuff or a neckline for the sake of decoration itself: a constellation of little stars.

Astarion.

It was a simple thing. A little bit of thread stitched in a bit of fabric. He didn’t know why, but unspeakable emotions bubbled in his chest, squeezed his ribs. Staeve was so overwhelmed he had to sit back on the bed for a while, his fingertips running over Astarion’s handiwork again and again. Wondering how he had missed something so obvious. Wondering what else he had missed.

An unnamed amount of time later, Astarion found him.

“Oh, good, you're up,” he addressed Staeve from half a room away, sounding slightly annoyed and infinitely fond.

He came closer and leaned with his hip against the foot of the bed, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head at him.

Staeve didn't know what his face was doing, but it must have been concerning, because it gave Astarion pause. “Is everything alright? You're not even dressed yet,” he asked, much less snarky than he probably had planned to be.

“I love you,” Staeve blurted out. Astarion looked startled, his playfully business-like demeanour slipping all the way off, leaving only stunned unguardedness behind. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“Yes, of course. Many times.” He looked like he wanted to bolt. Instead he sat down next to Staeve, his knee brushing Staeve’s thigh. His eyes searched Staeve’s face. “Did something happen?” He lowered his voice. “Bad dreams?”

“No, no. I'm just—” He couldn't bring himself to downplay it with a joke. He did feel a little silly about it. He did also feel like his world had been rocked. “I like the little decorations,” he ended up saying, playing with the fabric in his hands. “The little stars.”

He absolutely expected Astarion to do the minimising, then. To laugh, to mock him for getting so fixated on something he'd done out of boredom. For wasting the whole party's time because he couldn't help but get emotional over the little fancies in his head. How silly.

Instead Astarion blushed, bright and pink in a way that wouldn’t have been possible a few weeks earlier. “Don't read too much into it,” he said, a plea.

Staeve’s heart hammered in his chest. “Shouldn't I?”

“You don't have to,” Astarion amended. “It’s the result of late hour repairs and me being whimsical. Indulging in a little bit of wishful thinking. Flights of fancy.” He shook his head. “I don't think I was thinking too clearly, either.”

“What if I wanted to?”

“I wouldn't stop you.” He gestured at something that existed only in their dreams, flippant. “I did put the writing on the wall and everything, after all.”

“I already was fond of this, you know. Wearing things that had been repaired with so much care. By you.” Staeve touched the embroidery again. He could imagine Astarion’s little grin as he stitched little stars all over Staeve’s shirts, shaking his head at himself for his own frivolity, quietly terrified of his own desires. He wondered if he’d been hoping for Staeve to see them, or for him to never realise. “I rather like being claimed like this.”

“I’m not— Staeve,” Astarion cried out, sounding a bit strangled. “Gods, Staeve, I wasn’t trying to lay a claim on you.”

“Why wouldn’t you? I am already yours.“ He felt his own ears heat up a little at that. He knew he had been feeling like that for a while now, but apparently it was a whole different thing saying it out loud. “If you’ll have me.”

Astarion opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

Instead he wrapped his arms around Staeve, buried his hand in the loose hair at the nape of his neck, so he could cradle his head against his shoulder. “I want you,” Astarion stammered, voice thick. “Of course I want you. I always will. I can’t imagine a universe in which I wouldn’t. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t.”

Staeve hadn’t sensed his own insecurity until it drained away, until he felt himself relax in Astarion’s embrace. His throat tightened as he nuzzled Astarion’s neck, the most timid hint of purring humming deep from his chest. “Mmm. Have me, then.”

“Of course I’ll have you,” Astarion repeated, almost vehemently. He pulled away, but still cradled Staeve’s face in his hands like he couldn’t bear the thought of stopping touching him. “Mind, I still have no idea why you would want me to have you, but—”

“Because I do,” Staeve said, simply. He grinned at the sound coming out of his own mouth, half burr and half spoken word. It was always so funny when that happened. Relief was making him a little giddy.

Astarion looked wrecked. He leaned forward again, this time to kiss his forehead. Staeve closed his eyes.

“This is really nice,” he murmured. “But maybe I should get dressed for real. The others will wonder—”

“I don’t care, they can wait.” Astarion muttered back, right against his hairline. “I love you, too.”

Staeve found the embroidered star on the shirt in his hand by touch one last time, he wrapped his arms around Astarion’s slender waist and held on.