Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/amar
Tags: after-cazador quest, hot springs, nightmares
Wordcount: 2200
Notes: commission for reijen

Summary:
Astarion struggles with dealing with the aftermath of the fight. Amar knows him well.

Excerpt:

It occurred to Astarion that Amar had put a lot more thought into this. A quiet place, a different environment from what Astarion was used to—something that he could not associate to his life, but he could associate to their shenanigans, to their new adventures. To Amar, rather than to— before.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

At first Astarion felt giddy about being in Baldur’s Gate again.

It was the first time in two hundred years since he got to see it in the daylight: the streets looked different under the sun, colours and noises and scents blooming under its warmth.

Amar laughed at him, teased him for running from one side to the other to look at the shop windows. “Like a kid who can't decide which candy he wants to eat first.” His eyes shone with amusement, dark and glittering like obsidian in the warm, pretty glare of the sun bouncing off the stones.

Astarion shoved him playfully, and grinned at him. He was a jumble of indiscernible emotions — excitement, fear, anticipation, dread, impatient — and a kind of restlessness that reinvigorated rather than exhausting.

He would finally be free. He would finally know peace.

###

He almost had no recollection of the fight. He only remembered feeling the slickness of blood, tears on his face, his throat hurting because of too much screaming. The emptiness in his chest.

(Freedom?)

Coming back to their rooms was absurdly mundane, surreal. Astarion couldn't feel his own fingers, as he dipped them in the tepid water of the bath. He couldn't feel his skin as he vigorously rubbed to get rid of the gore, of the adrenaline, of the sudden shock of nothing that had pervaded him.

Amar was a quiet presence at his side, unobtrusive but observant. His gentle, mindless humming brought him back to reality whenever Astarion got too lost.

Slumber claimed him in no time, his waking thoughts taken over by a deep trance. It would be the last peaceful night in a very long time, but Astarion did not know that.

###

The longer they spent in the city, the further Astarion's mood darkened, deteriorating rapidly. The giddiness was a distant dream. Now every street corner reminded him of the long hours he used to spend luring marks for Cazador; he smelled the stench of drunkards and desperate whores in taverns that were perfectly clean and hospitable; his stomach cramped with hunger and weakness.

He refused to stay behind as the group moved on to the next quest, gathering resources and intel. He refused to listen to the scattered tremors of his body and the fog-like confusion in his mind.

He refused to acknowledge Amar’s looks, too knowing, too worried, too pensive. Astarion had no desire to explain himself. Had no desire to talk. Had no desire at all.

At night he writhed in death-cold dirt and sticky-warm blood, the noise of cracking bones and the echoes of deafening screams filling his head. In the morning, he crawled out of the covers, feeling frazzled and disoriented and unrested, yet unwilling to stay in bed any longer.

His Master’s presence soaked his mind even beyond death.

###

He woke up screaming and crying. His fingers were claws in Amar’s sleepshirt, and his limbs were lead, as he tried to run away from some invisible threat, blind and afraid and too deep in his nightmare to discern reality from the matter of dreams.

Amar patiently waited for him to exhaust himself, before cradling Astarion's spent figure against his chest.

He was warmer than a blanket, and he smelled amazing — clean and familiar, if a little smoky with the smell of lantern oil from the tavern’s main room; woody and green, a profile that Astarion had started to associate with music, for some reason; an undertone of bitter sweat that was not at all unpleasant. Astarion shoved his face in his neck and breathed deeply, willing Amar’s scent to banish the bad thoughts from his brain.

“Are you hungry, dear?” Amar asked in the darkness, his lips moving against the skin of his temple. “Do you want to feed before we go back to sleep?”

Astarion was hungry, after days without drinking. The last time he had fed had been before they located and entered the Mansion. Forcing himself, to make himself strong. To make himself brave. To remind himself that he could do that, now, and that after that night nobody could have stopped him from getting what he needed—parasite or not.

The sole idea of tasting blood filled him with nausea. He shook his head, buried his face deeper in Amar’s hair.

Amar sighed, deep and tired-sounding. “Alright, my sweet,” he murmured before falling asleep.

Astarion spent the rest of the night listening to him breathe.

###

He made himself join the others for dinner. A mistake that Astarion could not recover from—not without calling a lot of attention upon himself. Not without admitting that he was dealing with— the aftermath a lot worse than he had claimed. The thought of seeing his companions’ eyes fill with pity made him skin crawl.

The chatter and the banter and the forced normality echoed dully through the cotton stuffed in his mind. At the same time, every noise and chuckle stung like a blade slicing through his skin. It was like Astarion had forgotten how conversation worked, how he had been interacting with these people. He was too tired. He was too confused

He almost jumped out of his chair when a warm touch caressed his knee under the table. Astarion swallowed thickly, covering Amar’s hand with his.

Amar brought his lips close to his ear. “Hey, I want to show you something.”

Amar’s tone was teasing enough it could be misconstrued for an innuendo, though after all this time, Astarion had learned to recognise the difference. The double-entendre humour of it still pulled a tired smile to his lips.

He allowed Amar to touch him, caress his face with two knuckles down his cheek, to gently grab his chin between two fingers so that Astarion could look at him.

“I know it’s too loud in here,” Amar whispered, his tone more serious, expression earnest. ”I know a place. Quiet, nice. I think you might like it.”

Astarion just looked at him. Speaking felt like a chore.

“I know you’re tired. It’s not far. You can rest when we get there,” he promised. The tip of his thumb caressed Astarion’s lower lip. “Do you trust me?”

Astarion kissed his fingers, grateful.

They left the others to their dinner—their departure noted but not commented upon—and they slipped out of the tavern and into the town silent like shadows.

###

Baldur’s Gate was a city that never slept.

The sun went down, and the streets filled with people, walking and chatting and drinking. Foreigners and locals, in all sizes and shapes, mixing and mingling under the darkening sky.

It was a place where you could be someone different every night; where you could find all sorts of ways to keep yourself entertained, no matter the size of your purse, no time the depth of your thirst for adventure; where lit ballrooms and smoke-filled taverns and unexplored dark alleys became portals to exciting and novel experiences. Where people could vanish, and nobody even blinked.

The perfect environment for Astarion and his siblings to thrive.

###

Away from the crowded streets, away from the seedy outskirts, embedded among the luscious and mostly unbeaten path of the countryside around the Gate, the hot springs looked almost unreal. Like a precious gem that someone had carelessly let drop in the middle of sewer waste.

“I’ve lived in Baldur’s Gate all my life—beyond that, even. I’ve never even heard of this place.” Astarion turned to Amar, feeling his face slacken in surprise. “How?”

Amar smiled, put a finger to his lips. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he teased, giving him a playful wink. But a forlorn shadow hung over his features. “That’s the longest sentence I heard you utter all day. In several days, even.”

Astarion stiffened, a little stung with shame. He looked away.

“It’s okay. I just missed your voice, that’s all. I’m glad to hear it again.” Amar stepped closer, put an arm around his waist, gestured to the springs. “Nobody comes around here at night. Regular citizens are too afraid of wild beasts to brave the countryside at this hour… but we’re not regular citizens, are we?” He smiled, eyes soft. “I take you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” Astarion murmured. “Of course I like it.”

“I thought so. Away from the noise. From the city.”

It occurred to Astarion that Amar had put a lot more thought into this. A quiet place, a different environment from what Astarion was used to—something that he could not associate to his life, but he could associate to their shenanigans, to their new adventures. To Amar, rather than to— before.

He leaned back into his warmth, squeezing his arm.

Amar smiled, as if he’d been overhearing Astarion’s thoughts through the parasite. “Come on. Do you want to get in?”

###

They helped each other undress, and lowered themselves in the shallower part of the pool to wash. Astarion could feel his skin warm up quickly in the hot water and against Amar’s body heat, his hands tracing his body in simple strokes, intimate but undemanding. As he often did, Amar was humming under his breath; he looked gorgeous as the night sky, bits of jewellery scattered all over his inked skin glimmering silver like little stars under the moonlight.

He let Amar pull him close. They held each other for a moment, just enjoying the feeling of skin against skin, the warmth of the embrace.

Astarion didn’t notice Amar tipping them towards the water until it was too late. He yelped; Amar cackled like a demon, dragging him under the surface. The sudden impact with it made Astarion gasp, even if he didn’t need to breathe. He panicked for only a moment at the feeling of water closing over his head; then a strange sense of peace filled him, because of how warm it was.

He still spluttered a little as he re-emerged, laughing and shaking his soaked curls out of his face. Amar snickered at him, a pleased smile plastered all over his face. He looked so silly, with the curtain of drenched hair sticking to his face. Something about his relaxed demeanour, about his playfulness, made Astarion’s chest finally unclench. He felt light as they bickered, as they shoved at each other, as they played around.

Astarion eventually settled at the border of the pool, his back resting against the edge and the warm water licking at his collarbones. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the wind making soft noises in the trees and in the greenery around them, the distant calls of nocturnal birds, the rustling of animals moving in the underbrush, the drone of insects.

“If you told me a year ago that I would’ve learned to appreciate the outdoors, I would have scoffed you out of town,” Astarion murmured, feeling Amar laying in the water next to him. “But this is actually nice.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Amar’s hand came up to play with Astarion’s wet strands.

“Mmm.” The heat was filling Astarion’s thoughts with a pleasing fog, like a warm blanket. “Will you help with my hair? Since it’s already wet and everything.”

A soft kiss against the temple, a whispered answer. “Of course, my love.”

Amar’s skilled fingertips rubbing soothing circles into his scalp, working the cleaning oil into his roots, is the last thing Astarion remembers before slipping into a peaceful, blissfully dreamless unconsciousness.

###

Astarion came back to his senses sprawled on top of Amar.

Warmth. A familiar melody, with familiar words. The rumble of a known voice just under his cheek. The soothing smell of green-scented skin, like coming back home. A length of soft cloth wrapped around his shoulder, the edges carefully tucked under his body so that they wouldn’t come loose. Safe, and comfortable.

They weren’t in the water anymore. Amar had probably carried him out of the pool when he’d lost consciousness. Had cradled him close as he stretched out under a tree in the little secret meadow.

Astarion blinked up at him—and then blinked again at the suddenly colourful sky growing lighter and lighter above them.

Amar noticed him move, and the singing trailed off.

“How long was I asleep for?” Astarion murmured, groggy.

“A little while.” Amar’s smile was sweet and fond, as he looked down to Astarion. “Good morning dear. Did you rest well?”

“Good morning. I did.” Astarion smiled back, a little sheepishly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on top of you.”

Amar chuckled. “Don’t apologise. You looked like you needed it.”

Astarion snorted at the little bitter joke. Amar had been there every night, while he shook and trembled and cried and stared at nothing, seeing things that weren’t there. “That’s a way to put it.” He closed his eyes briefly, then he turned to look at Amar. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I love you.”

It would have taken Astarion too long, and too much courage, to explain that was the reason he was feeling so grateful. Nobody had ever helped, before. Nobody had ever cared, before. Nobody had ever loved him like that, before.

So Astarion grabbed Amar’s face instead, and pulled him into a kiss.