Somewhat Clear

His jaw hurt, his back hurt, his knees hurt. The hand touching his hair was gentle, barely there, more playing with the tips of his curls than sinking to scratch at his scalp. The thigh his cheek was leaning on was warm—skin against bare skin. He closed his eyes, turned his head to push his eyelids against the firm flesh. Alive.

There was blood under that skin. A prick of teeth away.

“Astarion?” a voice called, soft and concerned. “Can you hear me, my love?”

He could. He just didn't want to. He just didn't want to be Astarion. He just didn't want to be anyone's love.

His jaw hurt. His mouth tasted vaguely of sweat. His mouth tasted vaguely of blood. His tongue was all there. He ran it over his teeth, counting them. His teeth were all there. Even the pointy ones. Especially the pointy ones.

“You're safe,” the voice said, firm and reassuring. “Tell me what you need.”

His back hurt. It wasn't the pain of flayed skin. It wasn't the pain of carved flesh. It wasn't the pain of acid pours. It wasn't the pain of sunlight burns. He ached, but his bones weren't creaking with hidden cracks. He ached.

He groaned and twisted, made himself sit on the floor, rather than kneel. He kept his eyes closed, turned his head to push his eyelids against the firm flesh. The hand in his hair was still gentle.

He wasn't sitting in damp, dim dungeons. He wasn't sitting on damp, cold, stone floors. His knees still hurt.

“We need a different carpet,” he croaked against Staeve's knee. His voice was a ruin. His soul was a ruin.

Staeve's throat clicked once, twice. A wet exhale. A broken chuckle. A kiss on top of Astarion’s head.

“As you wish, my love.”