Astarion can’t help the breath of a laugh that escapes him—a soft, ragged thing, more exhale than sound—as her first response tumbles out, half a joke, half a defense. It’s so her, so brash and unfiltered, that it pierces through the weight of his shame for the barest of moments. The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, fleeting but genuine, though the fear lurking in his eyes never quite fades.
When she says she wants to punch him in the gut, he finds himself half-expecting the blow, his body tensing instinctively. It wouldn’t be undeserved—gods, if anything, he’d welcome it, that simple, physical pain over this raw, sprawling vulnerability. He braces himself, one eye half on her fists. But the punch never comes, and the longer she pauses, the more he finds himself on edge, a flicker of tension coiled tight in his stomach, waiting for the inevitable lashing of her anger.
Instead, she breathes—deep and steady, calming herself in a way he has to admire, even if it leaves him feeling like a prisoner awaiting judgment. She speaks, sharp and coarse as always, but he can see her shifting, struggling with emotions that tug at the edges of her gruff, indignant facade. And gods, he understands. He understands the instinct to mask every wound, to twist pain into barbs and humor, to bury every fragile piece of himself under layers of bravado.
❛ My, I never do get tired of your colorful vocabulary, darling, ❜ he attempts to tease and make the mood lighter, but he feels it falls flat, ❛ But you’re right—it was . . . shit. A death pit sounds like a fun time in comparison to . . . this. ❜
But then . . . she softens, just a little, and he feels something inside him soften in response, like thawing ice. Her words again amuse him, the fierce certainty that she does deserve something real, and the dramatic little huff that accompanies it pulls a reluctant, almost tender smile from him. There’s a kind of flair to her petulance that he can’t help but appreciate.
She wants them to be something real. She wants him—even after all of this, after every filthy truth he’s confessed, she would still want him. It feels like hope, foreign and unfamiliar, slipping into the cracks of his heart despite himself. He stares at her, momentarily stunned, his mind grappling with the reality of it, with the ache of longing that he’s fought so hard to deny.
❛ Really? ❜ The word falls from his lips, soft and almost disbelieving, his voice catching on the edge of something too vulnerable to fully contain. There’s a look on his face, a mixture of wounded surprise and something almost like relief, as though he’s spent so long expecting rejection that he can hardly process this . . . acceptance. But then the relief twists into something darker, something knotted with shame, and he feels his expression shift, his gaze faltering as a familiar wave of discomfort rises in his chest.
He wants this—wants her—with a need that borders on desperation, but there are still pieces of him that are broken, wounds that run deeper than he knows how to heal. He owes her the truth, even if it is raw and ugly, even if it feels like flaying himself open all over again.
❛ Being . . . close to someone, ❜ he begins, his voice wavering, each word heavy with years of buried anguish, ❛ any kind of intimacy was something I . . . performed.” He pauses, his gaze dropping to the ground, as though he could hide from the memories clawing their way to the surface. ❛ To lure people back . . . for him. ❜
Just speaking it aloud makes him feel filthy, like he’s dragging himself through centuries of sludge, every word dredging up fragments of his past that he’s tried so desperately to forget. The faces of those he lured into darkness flash in his mind—people he deceived, people he destroyed, all in the service of that monster, that wretched creature who turned him into this. He swallows hard, forcing himself to look at her again, even as the disgust coils hot and shameful in his chest.
❛ But being with you has always felt . . . different. ❜ His voice is softer now, almost a whisper, and he can feel his hands trembling, his fingers curling into his palms to stop the shaking. ❛ And yet it still feels . . . tainted. ❜ He feels his throat tighten, the painful lump rising as he struggles to hold back the storm of emotion roiling inside him. ❛ . . . it brings up all those feelings of disgust and . . . self-loathing. ❜ The words tear at him, every syllable dragging him deeper into that dark, festering pit of his past. ❛ I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to. ❜
