somewhatclear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate 3
Relationship: astarion/staeve
Tags: developing relationship, set during canon, implied/referenced abuse
Wordcount: 1013
Notes: bday gift for alex, the redux edition

Summary:
a moment of vulnerability as they walk through the shadowlands

Excerpt:

The hand on his shoulder was nothing like his master’s. It was gentle, and warm (the kindest touch he could remember on this side of a century, even through the layers of leather and armour—) but had Astarion’s heart still been beating, it would have leapt right out of his throat.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, a choked gasp.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

The so-called shadowlands didn’t agree with Astarion. The unnatural gloom set his teeth on edge; he knew that he was safe from the worst of it with the blessing of Selûne sticking to his skin like glittery mist, but it simply wasn’t enough to dispel the shadows that pooled in his mind.

He missed waking up in the morning and seeing the sunlight filter through the flimsy walls of his scavenged tent. Even knowing that it was just thanks to a fortunate side effect from the dangerous ( powerful ) parasite that had taken residence within his brain, it had made him feel unstoppable.

In the daylight Astarion could believe himself to be strong, and free, and capable of anything. He could believe that Cazador could be defeated. He could believe that he had another chance at life.

But within these shadows — also because of the tenderness in his scars, which seemed to have awakened since Raphael had hinted at the truth behind them, and because of unsettling memories ( pain and terror and torn flesh, claws and fangs and regretful mourning— ) disrupting his trances and leaving him exhausted and paranoid — Cazador’s threat seemed so strong.

It was all in his mind. He hadn’t perceived the tell-tale pull of his master’s compulsion since the mindflayer infection. The tadpole had been protecting him from it, like it had been shielding him from all the ill effects of being a vampire spawn. And yet he’d been drowning in the fear of seeing Cazador emerge from behind one of the gnarly roots, icy fingers reaching out—

“Astarion?”

The hand on his shoulder was nothing like his master’s. It was gentle, and warm (the kindest touch he could remember on this side of a century, even through the layers of leather and armour—) but had Astarion’s heart still been beating, it would have leapt right out of his throat.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, a choked gasp.

Staeve pulled his hand back immediately, as if Astarion had burnt him. He stared at him with wide eyes, at a loss for words, hurt and concern flickering through his expression. Astarion mentally kicked himself.

“Darling!” he stammered. He forged a relieved laughter that rang hollow to his own ears, and quickly ran his hands down Staeve’s arms, ignoring the chill creeping up his spine. “You scared me half to death. What were you thinking, poking me like that?”

“I wasn’t, clearly.” A corner of Staeve’s mouth twitched upwards, responding to his fake amusement, but it soon dropped again. He went to hold Astarion’s waist, then seemed to think better of it. He sounded worried when he asked, “Are you alright?”

“Of course, my dear.” Astarion smiled with numb lips. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“This darkness is getting to all of us,” Staeve admitted, uncharacteristically somber. “I would understand if you weren’t.” His eyes lifted towards the dark horizon, and his cheek dimpled where he worried at it with his teeth from the inside, like he was debating something within himself. “Listen, I know that this thing between us is not really—” He trailed off, winced at whatever he was going to say, and kept going. “– but you can talk to me. Really talk to me. If you need. If you want.”

It would have been so easy. Astarion could have draped his arms over Staeve’s shoulders, pulled him closer and pressed a kiss to his cheek to thank him for his concern. He could have laughed it off, encouraging him not to take him too seriously, not to look at him too closely. He could have reminded him that it was a game that they were playing, a mutual arrangement of sorts — sex and flattery, and the accomplishment of feeling useful and good, at the cheap price of Astarion’s safety and survival. None of that real nonsense.

If only Astarion hadn’t needed it. If only he hadn’t wanted it so bad he almost felt sick with it. Even under the cover of that accursed, thrice damned darkness, he felt naked. Seen, even if Staeve was very carefully not looking at him. Astarion could only stare at the line of his jaw in silence, throat working around nothing.

“Well. Never mind,” Staeve croaked in the quiet. He took a step back, easily slipping out of Astarion’s slackening hold. “We should go back to camp. I bet the others are starting to wonder what became of us.”

His smile was a little sad, a little forced, as he turned away. Astarion’s insides churned.

“Wait.”

Staeve stopped. Astarion stared. He didn’t actually know what to say. He had no explanation he was willing to give; he couldn’t tell him the truth (don’t leave, I don’t want to lose you, I am so afraid—). He was tired of pretending, too.

“Together.” He reached out to wrap clumsy fingers around Staeve’s wrist. “We should stick together.”

Staeve made a soft sound that could have been either amusement or pain. “Of course.” He covered Astarion’s hand with his own, brushed a thumb over his knuckles reassuringly and shifted his grip so they were properly holding hands. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Astarion looked down at their joined hands, at Staeve’s warm and dry fingers around his palm, suddenly self-conscious about the juvenile gesture. But it was kind, and it tasted again like a promise he couldn’t keep, like a gift that he did not deserve.

“Staeve—”

“I understand, I think.” Staeve squeezed his hand a little harder, their fingers tangling together. “These shadows— make you think about things that are best left forgotten.” He went quiet for a moment and then glanced back at Astarion. His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it did not matter; Astarion felt that he’d wanted him to see how unsettled he was too, behind his usual brave facade. Unwanted memories, unspoken demons of his own. “But it’s alright. As long as we stick together. Right?”

Astarion swallowed thickly. He closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the darkness, and he spoke softly, so that the shadows wouldn’t hear.

“Of course, darling.”