\o/

You sat across from him on a low bench, chin propped lazily in one hand, eyes locked on him with the veneer of attention.

“—so if the ambient weave reacts to a surge in primal energy, the spell will require more control, not less,” he was saying, glancing up from the book. “Which is why discipline is paramount. Concentration is—are you even listening, my dear?”

Your eyes — the telltale, ever-changing windows into your moods — had shifted from a neutral silver to a dull, uninspired grey. It was subtle at first, but Gale caught it immediately, narrowing his eyes in a mock-stern frown. The boredom radiating from your expression was almost theatrical.

“You’re bored,” he accused, exasperated but amused. “Honestly, I thought this was one of my more engaging lectures.”

“I am listening,” you defended, voice tinged with a smile. “I just happen to think your pacing is more hypnotic than the weave right now.”

Gale gave you a look. The kind that professors likely reserved for unruly apprentices. “Then concentrate. This is fundamental magical theory.”

The moment he said it — that particular tone of strictness in his voice — you felt the flutter. A warmth in your chest, a faint quiver in your throat. And Gale saw it too: the faint flicker of pink flaring behind your irises, brief but unmistakable against the grey.

He paused.

“Oh,” he said slowly, one brow lifting as the corner of his mouth curved into the beginnings of a knowing smirk. “Oh, I see what’s happening.”

Your posture straightened instinctively, a touch of defensiveness already creeping into your voice. “What?”

“That look in your eye,” he murmured, setting the book down on the table with exaggerated care. “It wasn't boredom at all. Well, perhaps partially. But that pink… was that infatuation?” He leaned closer, peering at your eyes like a jeweler inspecting a particularly revealing gemstone. “No—lust. You like it when I lecture you.”

You rolled your eyes — they flashed briefly to yellow (alerted), then right back to that traitorous pink.

“I like your voice,” you said.

“Mmhmm. And you like when I use it to tell you what to do.”

He was insufferably smug now, folding his arms as he loomed closer, absolutely relishing the turn in the conversation. “You’re blushing,” he added with glee, even though your eyes were doing far more talking than your face. “Tell me — when I told you to concentrate just now, what exactly did you picture?”

You made a vague attempt at playing it cool. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

Gale crouched beside your seat, fingers brushing lightly against your knee.

“Should I start assigning homework?” he purred. “Mark up your spellwork with red ink? Give you grades?”

You snorted, but the laughter caught in your throat as your eyes brightened — pure, unashamed pink now.

“I knew it,” he said triumphantly, grinning like a cat with cream. “Well. I suppose next time you feign boredom during a lesson, I’ll know exactly what’s going on in that mischievous mind of yours.”

You leaned in, your smile sharp. “Just be careful, Gale. If you're going to play the teacher, don’t be surprised when the student misbehaves.”

His breath hitched slightly, the air between you thick with suggestion. Then Gale exhaled, shaking his head in fond disbelief. “Gods, I adore you.”

And for a heartbeat, your eyes went a soft, glowing pink — no flicker, no confusion. Just love.

Astarion:

The Absolute camp was a mess of crude barricades, filth, and torch-lit patrols. You, Astarion, and the others had been sneaking around for what felt like hours—avoiding goblin guards and looking for a way through without drawing attention.

Everything had been going smoothly. Until it wasn’t.

There was a wet squelch. A startled yelp. Then a crash followed by the unmistakable, gut-turning slop of something unpleasant.

You froze behind a half-rotted cart, peeking over to see Astarion flailing in a pit—no, a worg pen, by the smell of it—and coated in brownish muck that left very little to the imagination.

He scrambled to his feet, hands held out stiffly, his usual elegance obliterated by whatever vile substance now clung to him.

"Oh gods—what is this?! What is this?!" he wailed, slipping again and catching himself on the side of the pen. His fingers came away coated. He gagged.

Lae'zel grimaced. Shadowheart muttered something about karma. You stifled a laugh behind your hand.

Once the coast was clear, the group regrouped outside the pen. Astarion stumbled toward you, arms out as if begging for a hug—or maybe a cleansing ritual.

"This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me," he said, his voice rising to a near-hysterical pitch. "Do you know what I’ve just wallowed in?! And of course it would be me who falls into the pit of literal shit—worg shit, no less!"

You coughed, covering your mouth. Not because of the smell—though that certainly didn’t help—but because you were biting back laughter so hard your ribs hurt.

But your eyes betrayed you.

Bright yellow.

Alert. Amused.

Astarion stopped mid-rant.

He narrowed his eyes, peering at you with dramatic offense. "Are your eyes—are you—laughing?"

"What? No!" you said quickly. "No, of course not!"

He pointed, scandalized. "They’re yellow."

"They always go yellow when I’m… thinking fast!" you lied, though your smile was now twitching at the corners of your mouth. "Just processing."

"Processing?! Processing what—the depth of my suffering?!"

You opened your mouth to try again, but just then, a breeze blew through the camp. Astarion turned slightly, and the full scent hit you. Acrid, musky, overwhelmingly earthy.

Your stomach turned.

Your eyes flashed green.

His jaw dropped. He took a slow step back, as if you'd slapped him.

"Green?! Green?!" he screeched, hands flailing. "You’re disgusted by me now?!"

"No! I mean, not you—just… the, uh, situation!"

"You can’t lie to me! You’re literally incapable of hiding it! I fall into one revolting cesspit and suddenly I’m some sort of tragic, stinking creature of the night?"

"Astarion, come on—"

"I had style. I had dignity!"

"You still do!" you insisted, chuckling now. You couldn’t stop yourself.

"Then why are your eyes screaming ‘get away from me, foul beast’?!"

You stepped forward, trying to soothe him, still biting back laughter. "Because my eyes are dramatic. Just like you."

He blinked. Then, slowly—reluctantly—a smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Well. I suppose we do have that in common."

"You want a hug or a bath first?"

Astarion sniffed himself, face crumpling in horror. "Absolutely the bath. And you are helping. And scrubbing. All of it."

"Not until you stop smelling like a goblin’s outhouse."

He narrowed his eyes. "Now they’re green and yellow."

"Welcome to the complex range of human emotion."

He huffed, turned dramatically on his heel—and immediately slipped a little in something squelchy. He caught himself with a hiss. You burst into open laughter.

"How dare you," he called over his shoulder, voice full of mock betrayal. "You’ll pay for this. With buckets of rosewater and scented oils."

"Anything to make this memory bearable?"

"Anything to make me forget the texture," he said, shuddering.

You just laughed harder. And your eyes kept glowing yellow. And just a bit green. And maybe—just maybe—a flicker of pink when he scowled and muttered something about how he "used to be beautiful."

Wyll:

"You always try to fix things on your own. Like you don’t need anyone."

Wyll’s voice wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t raised. But it landed—gentle, yes, but direct in a way that cut past armor. You blinked, caught off guard by how much it stung. There was no malice in him. Just observation. Frustration, maybe. Concern. But it still lodged itself deep in your chest like a splinter of something too true, too raw.

You looked away, pretending to adjust your sleeve, buying yourself a moment. A prickle worked its way up your throat, the kind that wasn’t quite tears but lived in the same neighborhood. You didn't say anything, but your eyes betrayed you—as they always did.

The pale silver shimmer that had been there moments ago dulled and darkened into a quiet, deep blue.

Wyll saw it instantly. Of course he did. His expression fell in slow motion, like watching a man drop a sword he never meant to draw.

"No," he said softly, stepping closer. "No, gods, I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t trying to upset you."

You shook your head quickly, smiling with a practiced ease that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Wyll, it’s okay. Honestly. I know you didn’t."

"But I did." He looked down at his hands, as if surprised they hadn’t somehow physically harmed you. “I see it. You’re hurting.

"It’s not a big deal," you insisted, trying to wave it away with a light laugh. "You’re not wrong anyway. I do tend to take everything on myself. It’s a fair observation."

"You’re doing it again," Wyll said, his voice quieter now, like he was afraid any louder and the moment would shatter. "Playing it down. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going, voice colored with that particular strain of guilt only someone with a good heart could wear.

"I hate that I put that look in your eyes. I hate that I spoke without thinking how it might feel to you."

Your smile tugged at the corners again, shaky but real this time. He was being ridiculous. Kind. So Wyll. And somehow that made it worse—not in a painful way, but in the way where kindness becomes a mirror, and you can’t avoid your own hurt even when you want to.

You crossed your arms loosely, trying to make yourself look smaller without seeming like you were withdrawing. "It just caught me off guard, that’s all. It’s not about you. I’m fine."

"But you’re not. You’re blue." He pointed toward your eyes, voice a blend of exasperation and heartbreak. “That shade of blue—I've only seen it a handful of times. It’s the one where I know I’ve truly put my foot in it."

You tried not to laugh, pressing your lips together. He leaned in closer, eyes narrowing with melodramatic gravity. “It’s the ‘Wyll Ravengard is a damned fool and now must suffer the weight of his own words for eternity’ shade.”

You lost it. A laugh cracked through your chest—soft at first, then full-bodied, shoulders shaking slightly. You damned him for knowing just how to undo you.

"Wyll," you gasped through the grin, "you’re making this so much worse."

"Good!" he cried, throwing the back of his hand to his forehead. “I deserve it! Let the punishment commence! Let me wallow in shame and regret.”

"You’re turning my minor emotional blip into a Volo tragedy," you said, still laughing.

Wyll clutched his heart with both hands, eyes wide. "Minor? My love, your eyes were a thunderstorm of sorrow. A tempest in cerulean!"

"Okay, that’s a stretch—"

"A tempest, I say!"

He leaned forward again, trying to peek into your eyes for any lingering traces of blue. They had lightened already, more silver now, with a faint blush of pink rising along the edges.

He noticed. Of course he did. His voice softened immediately. “There it is,” he said, his smile warm and sincere. “A little pink. Thank the gods.”

"Great. Now you’re tracking my feelings like they’re weather patterns."

"They are,” he said with a small smile. “And I never want to be caught without shelter again."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. He reached out and gently cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing just beneath your eye as if he could soothe the color away with a touch.

“I’ll be more careful,” he murmured. “With how I speak to you. What I assume. I never want to see that shade again. Not because of me.”

Your heart twisted with warmth—and guilt—and affection all tangled together.

"I am fine," you whispered. "Truly. I just felt something for a second, and then it passed. You didn’t do anything wrong."

Wyll smiled softly, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

"Still," he murmured, lips against your skin, "I’ll write a sonnet about it. Title it An Apology in Blue. It’ll be very dramatic. Everyone will weep."

You snorted, grabbing the front of his shirt and tugging him close.

"If you rhyme 'sorry' with 'morning glory' again, I swear—"

"Perish the thought, my beloved!" he grinned, eyes sparkling. "I’ve grown as a poet."

"And a partner."

He leaned his forehead to yours. "Because of you."

Your eyes were pink now. Bright. Full. And finally, finally, he let himself smile like he’d been forgiven. Because he had.

Halsin:

It had been a long day winding through the lower quarters of Baldur’s Gate — the kind of day that hung heavy with the scent of soot, warm bread, and the salt tang drifting in from the harbor. You had wandered down narrow alleys and under creaking balconies, brushing past silk-draped merchants and fishmongers with salt on their fingers. The city buzzed, sprawling and alive, a contrast to the stillness of the woods you’d grown used to. You were used to movement, noise — but not this. Not her.

You turned the corner, trailing just slightly behind Halsin, when a voice rang out with too much familiarity and far too much warmth.

“Well,” she drawled, arms crossed as she leaned against the archway of a tavern, "if it isn’t the bear himself."

Halsin froze. You could see the recognition bloom in him before he even turned to face her, his spine straightening like a struck chord. A slow smile crept over his face — not the kind he gave to just anyone, but one softened with nostalgia, with old laughter and shared memories.

“Neryssa,” he said, and your stomach sank.

She was tall, dressed in leathers that had clearly seen battle, her hair woven into a braid that gleamed in the sunlight. She looked like the kind of woman who had once kissed Halsin in the rain, or fought beside him bare-shouldered and bloodstained. She looked like someone who still thought she had a piece of him — and worse, maybe she did.

They stepped into each other’s space like it was the most natural thing in the world. She clapped a hand to his shoulder, and he chuckled — low and fond, like a memory made flesh.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she said, her voice teasing.

“You have,” Halsin replied, his tone rich and warm, eyes roving her figure with a familiarity that tightened your jaw.

You were still. Perfectly still. Like a statue carved into the shadow of a stall. Your arms hung loosely at your sides, your mouth curled into an expression of mild amusement. You watched with cool detachment — or so you hoped.

But your eyes betrayed you.

The dull silver of your usual neutrality bled away almost instantly, overtaken by a red so deep it bordered on violent. It shimmered like heat across metal, too bright, too stark — the color of betrayal and fury barely kept in check. And beneath it, a bitter, nauseated green twisted at the edges of your irises — not at Neryssa, no, but at Halsin. At his oblivious smile. At the way his voice dipped when he said her name. At how he still looked at her like she was a poem he’d once written.

And worst of all — he didn’t even notice.

Halsin kept talking — about old campaigns, the time they’d held the line at Deepmere, how she’d once saved his life with a spear through the ribs. His voice was animated, golden with nostalgia. And you — you stood just a few paces away, nodding, smiling, burning from the inside out.

It wasn’t until Astarion wandered up beside you, eyes glinting with mischief and absolutely no mercy, that anything shifted.

“Well,” he said, too casually, “you are quite the stormcloud today.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?” you said, your voice level, measured.

He tilted his head, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his lip. “I’m just saying… if looks could kill, poor Halsin would be mulch by now.”

Halsin finally turned to look at you. And for the first time, really looked.

His words caught in his throat as his eyes met yours. Not the calm silver he was used to. Not the flicker of pink he adored seeing when he kissed you. But a violent, molten red threaded through with something darker, something ancient. A kind of wrath he’d never seen before — not from you.

He opened his mouth.

You raised a hand, a placating smile still glued to your lips. “Don’t,” you said gently. “I’m fine.”

He stared at you a moment longer.

Then slowly, he turned back to Neryssa and bid her farewell — a few kind words, a lingering smile, and then you were walking, his long strides silent beside you, and the air between you crackled with what had gone unspoken.

Later, much later, when the fire at camp had burned low and the others had turned in, Halsin found you standing beneath a tree, alone. You didn’t look at him. Not at first.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, voice rough with something almost ashamed. “I didn’t even realize I had.”

You let the silence stretch. The wind whispered through the leaves above, and an owl hooted in the far distance — the world so perfectly serene, it made your seething contrast even more unbearable.

“I know,” you said at last. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped forward cautiously, as if unsure if he was still welcome in your space. “She was part of my past. But she’s not my present. That’s you.”

“She didn’t make me angry,” you said, finally looking at him. “You did.”

Your voice didn’t tremble. It was too steady. Too cold. It was the kind of voice that came after the storm, when the damage had already been done and the water was still rising.

“I stood there listening to you speak to her like she still had a claim to you,” you continued, eyes flashing red again — not quite as violently, but still enough to make him flinch. “You made me feel… like I was watching someone I love forget me in real time.”

Halsin groaned softly and dragged both hands over his face. “Gods, I am so sorry,” he whispered, anguish in every syllable. “I was thoughtless. I didn’t mean it that way, but of course that doesn’t matter. I never wanted to make you feel small. Or less than. And the fact that I did—” His voice cracked slightly. “I don’t know how to make it right. But tell me. Please tell me what to do, and I will do it.”

He looked utterly devastated.

You let your arms fall slowly, tension easing in minute degrees. Your eyes, still simmering with anger, began to dull into something softer — steel grey, maybe. Not forgiveness, but the absence of pure fury. A temporary truce.

“You could start,” you said quietly, “by never speaking to an ex like that again in front of me. Or at all, if you can help it.”

“Done,” he said instantly.

“And maybe,” you added, after a pause, “remember that I am not so invulnerable as I look.”

He took another step closer, carefully, until your hands were nearly brushing.

“You are the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he said softly, reverently. “But I will never mistake your strength for invulnerability again.”

Finally, you sighed — long, quiet, bone-deep — and let yourself lean forward, pressing your brow gently against his chest. He let out a breath of his own, one that sounded like pure relief, and wrapped his arms around you with careful reverence.

“I’m still mad at you,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said.

“We're sleeping with clothes on tonight.”

“I deserve that.”

You let him hold you anyway. Not because everything was fine — but because he was trying. Because he had looked you in the eyes and seen you. And for now, that was enough.