somewhatclear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/staeve
Tags: kissing, getting dressed
Wordcount: 1128
Notes: part of the sewing series

Summary:
astarion makes staeve a new shirt

Excerpt:

“Babe,” he called out to Astarion, who was going around the house drawing the black-out curtains on all the windows before the sun could get in. “Am I tripping?”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, darling,” Astarion replied from the other room. “Tripping about what?”

{ read on AO3 | read here }

It was too early for this.

Or possibly too late. He had always gotten his time expressions a little mixed up, since he kept a semi-nocturnal lifestyle; it turned out that a rogue and a vampire didn’t keep very different schedules. Sleeping through the night felt like sleeping the day away, and whenever he had business in the daylight, it felt like he was working some kind of graveyard shift — like he was doing that day.

Whichever it was, Staeve had definitely not slept enough.

“Babe,” he called out to Astarion, who was going around the house drawing the black-out curtains on all the windows before the sun could get in. “Am I tripping?”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, darling,” Astarion replied from the other room. “Tripping about what?”

Staeve wasn’t sure exactly, either. He’d been in the middle of pulling his shirt on, when he realised something was off about the garment itself. He had smiled when he had seen it laid out on the bed (Astarion knew he liked to wear it whenever he had to negotiate with the suppliers. It wasn’t fancy enough for more formal outings, but it was perfectly suited for a long day of trade) but now that he was feeling the fabric against his skin—

“Does this shirt seem– different to you?”

He couldn’t see Astarion in the mirror, but he heard him approach by the steps on the hardwood. “Different how, dear?” Astarion murmured. Staeve felt his cool hands fuss with the collar at the back of his neck.

“Dunno,” he muttered, shrugging. The fabric behaved strangely; the folds at the bend inside his elbow felt rough, stiff, when he rolled the sleeves up. No matter how he fixed the collar, the material was too rigid to sit comfortably.

He lowered his hand, his fingers looking for the long-fixed frayed threads at the edge— and didn’t find it. “Wait. This isn’t my shirt.”

Astarion stepped in front of him with a slight frown on his face, focused on fixing some invisible wrinkle. “Of course it is.” Amusement pulled briefly at the corner of his mouth. “You’d know if it were one of mine, believe me.” He rested his hands on Staeve’s chest, red eyes flicking up to look at Staeve. “What’s this about?”

“It’s not my shirt,” Staeve repeated, pulling the hem of the shirt between them to show him. “It looks the same but– it’s new?” he finished, lamely.

“Oh,” Astarion said, looking at the fabric in Staeve’s grasp. Something flashed across his face. “It is new,” he admitted, slowly smoothing his fingertips across his collarbone. “You are, in fact, not tripping.”

“That’s a relief,” Staeve deadpanned, but he knew Astarion could sense how true he was from his heartbeat alone. “What’s going on?”

“I saw this linen in the shop the other night when I was ordering the new curtains, and I thought— the colour is pretty spot on, isn’t it?” He rubbed the lapel between two fingers. “It’s almost the same as that other shirt you like.”

“You made this?”

Astarion shrugged, his arms wrapping around his own stomach. “Yes. It’s not difficult. I copied garments off my siblings’ wardrobe all the time, when I could afford some new fabric— which wasn’t often, but you know. Once you learn…”

Staeve knew Astarion was skilled in this sort of thing, but it never failed to blow his mind. Even fixing the holes in his socks had always been a struggle for him, even if Nita kept scolding him for having Logue do it for him…

He banished the thought from his mind. “What about the other shirt?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t throw it out, it’s in the wash.” He cocked his head. “You have dozens of prettier shirts, and you wear that old ratty thing every other day. Do you have any idea how hard it is to stay on top of laundry?”

Staeve smiled, sheepish. He stepped into Astarion’s space and ran his hands down his back, pulling him closer by the waist. “Sorry. I just really really like it.”

“I noticed,” Astarion replied dryly, even as he melted into his touch, arms draping over Staeve’s shoulders.

“What I don’t understand is— you had the curtains tailored but not the shirt,” Staeve mused out loud. “Why’s that?”

Astarion didn’t reply right away, gaze unfocused somewhere over his shoulder. Staeve just held him, swaying lazily in place as if dancing to a soundless song. “You do so much for me,” he whispered, quietly, his voice breaking slightly, “and I just sit at home, waiting for the sun to creep past the horizon.”

“Oh, Astarion.”

Staeve wrapped him in a hug, but Astarion wasn’t done. “You spoil me rotten and I cannot even go one day without upsetting you.”

“You spoil me rotten,” Staeve countered. “Just— take last night. You sat with me at dinner even if I could tell the smell of food was making you gag. You were in bed with me all night, watching me toss and turn, until I fell asleep. And then you laid out my favourite shirt for me to wear for the day,” he listed, tapping a finger on his shoulderblades for each item. “I bet that when I go to the kitchen, I’ll find breakfast ready.”

“I was getting to it, but someone interrupted me.”

“See? You do spoil me.” Staeve could tell that Astarion wasn’t convinced though. He gave him one last squeeze, and pulled back a little so he could look at him properly. “Hey. Do you know why that old ratty shirt is my favourite?”

“Because it’s so threadbare it feels like you’re going around shirtless?”

Staeve laughed. “No, silly. It’s the first shirt you ever repaired for me.”

Astarion’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Everyone was already in their bedrolls and I was having a night— I was so deep in my head I didn’t know what to do with myself.” He wondered if Astarion even knew how kind he had been to Staeve that night. “You probably don’t remember…”

“Of course I remember,” Astarion interrupted him. He was still staring.

“Ah, good.” Staeve rubbed his nose, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Well yeah. I like touching the little area you fixed that night— you can barely feel it, but I know it’s there. Reminds me of you. It’s like having you with me, even if I can’t bring you along on my daytime errands.”

Once again, Astarion seemed speechless. “You’re ridiculous,” he eventually choked out. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

Staeve grinned. “Maybe no words are needed.”

Astarion smiled back, if a little shakily, and pulled him in for a kiss.