#hyperfixation ahoy

For now, though, you locate the crystal with only minimal additional fumbling, giving it a gentle tap. A soft golden light suffuses the immediate area, illuminating stool and bed but not much more – and, as you turn back around, allowing you to see your bedpartner.

He rests each night uneasy, down here; too many memories stirred up, by the presence of not only his siblings, but all the rest of the spawn, too. He hasn’t explicitly acknowledged it, of course – and by this point in your acquaintance, you know much better than to expect him to – but you’ve seen the glances some of the other spawn give him, sometimes.

The glances of those who know him only as the person who flirted with them, charmed them, then led them to their deaths.

The glances of those who recall precisely how much fun they’d had with Astarion before their deaths, too; whether Astarion himself agreed with their definitions of fun at the time, well…

But you know how he feels about you trying to protect him from things he can handle perfectly well for himself, so you’ve kept your thoughts – and also your weapons and your magic, for that matter – to yourself. Though you’re certainly more than happy to stare down anyone whose gaze lingers too long upon Astarion for your liking, of course; given everyone’s knowledge of who and what you are, the people you’ve killed and the plots you’ve foiled, it doesn’t tend to take long for them to lower their eyes from your own. And from him.

But it weighs upon Astarion still, you know. You can’t always tell from the outside whether he’s sleeping or trancing – even if he’s sitting up at the time, it’s hardly as if he wasn’t accustomed to finding whatever rest he could in significantly more uncomfortable positions, in the past – but it hardly matters when the results are the same. He’s grimacing, brow furrowed hard and teeth just slightly bared to show the tip of a fang; quiet breaths – gasps, almost, as if he’s in pain but trying to hide it by instinct, by training – issue forth as well. And while his head sometimes starts to move as if to thrash from side to side, his body as if he wants to shiver, or even squirm away… he’s learned too well over the centuries that nothing good results from disturbing another’s rest. Here, beside you in your bed, he’ll suppress all his reactions without having to think about it, and you can only hope that enough time existing in safety will slowly start to unravel such deeply ingrained fears.

Though there are always other options you can try to help him with that, of course, if not.

That’s something for the future, though, and for after Astarion’s grown comfortable enough with the intimacy required – something you’re not expecting to come anytime soon, when he’s only just resumed feeling comfortable enough to share your bed again, never mind anything more. For now, you’ll simply have to try and soothe the restlessness and fears of his unconscious mind for this night alone. Without further disturbing his rest, ideally; he pushes himself too hard, sometimes, absent your... very subtle guidance, and protection. And if you can directly see his weariness these days, see it in his face and hear it in his voice, it’s grown entirely too strong for your liking.

Safety, you muse, gazing down at your beautiful, vicious, deadly, beloved Astarion. What is safety to him, at the deepest level? What evokes such a feeling, without his conscious input into the process? When have I seen him truly relaxed?

Drinking your blood: a poor idea, to chance Astarion waking at the smell of blood to find you holding a bloodied knife within arm’s length of him, since you’ll assuredly wake him if you try getting out of bed first.

(- he’s curled himself within the curve of your body tonight, tucked his head in close upon your arm in his unawareness and pressed against you to seek the warmth and comfort of your presence in a way that makes your heart thrill and sing with joy and delight, it’s taken you both so long to get to this point after your rocky start, rocky starts, but even if he’d still likely jerk away from you by reflex if he were to wake now he clearly does still see you as a source of that safety he so yearns for and thinks has been lost to him, believes that even if you cannot protect him from all threats – you’ve agreed to disagree on that one – he at least has little need to still fear any threat from you, and you know that when the day finally comes that he looks up at you with a smile free from all lingering remnants of unease and mistrust it will all have been so entirely worth it -)

Touching him as you often would during your travels, to Baldur’s Gate and afterwards, too: both acceptable, and promising. You reach out, careful of your nails which are most certainly too long for this, catching Astarion with the edge of one would be entirely unacceptable, and ghost gently along the line of his cheek, three light fingertips tracing back to his hair and then threading through the soft strands to stroke soothingly, over and over again.

Astarion gives a soft sigh, a little of the tension dissipating from his brow; your outward expression remains unchanged as you watch, of course, but inside you smile to see it.

A success, then, and the knowledge of Astarion’s greater comfort, of how you’ve eased his distress, soothes you, in turn. So much so that you suddenly find yourself tempted to build upon this in the most obvious of ways and soothe his mind instead, more directly: to reach out and touch it with your own, in the way you were always so careful to avoid as the two of you were just starting to build your relationship and Astarion had looked upon you with such suspicion. A suspicion that never entirely faded – that needed time to ease all over again, afterwards – but which has now finally started to give way, little by little, as he sees that allowing you even just a shallow mental connection, allowing you some form of communion, is nothing he need fear. Not from you.

That you’ll never use it against him, never push for more than he genuinely wants to give. No more than you would do so, would ever have done so, when it comes to his body.

That you’d never willingly take either from him if the offer wasn’t made freely, with neither fear nor obligation.

But no: soothing his mind directly is a temptation, certainly, but temptation is what it must remain. You can’t presume upon more; not when he’s asleep, unable to give permission. His own thoughts, what he’s seeing inside his mind, must remain closed to you for now; whatever plagues his nighttime visions, he’ll simply have to handle it on his own. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still offer him your support.

A light touch, then, to start: psionically reaching out, not to take but to give. Your own mind, emotion rather than thought, brushing across the surface of his: your reassurance, your desire to soothe, to protect. Your concern; your admiration and respect.

Your love.

Astarion’s soft gasp is a little more audible, this time; his shiver in response to the touch of your emotions less locked down. Just as he’s begun to show such responses more and more freely when awake, too, whenever you let him know in so direct, so visceral, so undeniable a manner how much he means to you, and how little reason he has to ever doubt it.

For one so starved for both love and respect… little surprise that knowing it exists, in a way he can’t dismiss or explain away or even truly question, should affect him so deeply that even a mask two hundred years in the making would fail to hold.

He breaks your heart, sometimes.

You focus on your own mind, now: draw up further such emotions of caring and comfort, let the ocean of affection you bear for him wash over the walls around his mind to fill up all the empty places inside of him. And Astarion whimpers at this, the noise tiny but undeniably there. He’s still unconscious, but you don’t need to peer inside his mind to be able to tell the dreams or visions he sees are starting to shift; the frown is gone, replaced by something that hints at the softly baffled, wondering expression he sometimes gets when he looks at you – an expression you’ve dearly missed, only recently begun to return alongside all the rest of it – and he’s clenching a hand in the fabric of your too-loose sleeping clothes, gripping tight as if he never means to let you go.

Which he doesn’t, you know. How could you ever doubt it, now?

After all, he’s still here.

And, you think to yourself, as you continue stroking softly through his hair and let your tentacles extend to their full length, wrapping around his back in one of those hugs which always leave him grumbling about too many limbs, despite how he’s melting into the embrace… so are you.

You are still here; no longer only who you used to be, not even all of who you used to be, but enough. You chose to live, and the heart of you has not been lost. Will never be lost.

My Astarion, you think, and think wistfully too of the day when he can once again look upon you and see you.

“Wait,” Astarion says, holding up a hand. “If we could just go back to that little tidbit you just mentioned, perhaps? You did say Drizzt, right? As in Drizzt Do’Urden. The Drizzt. Twice.”

“So he said,” Jaheira shrugs. “Do you imagine we stopped on our way to Sarevok or Irenicus to demand identification from everyone we met? Pfah. He looked the same both times; good enough, no?”

“Drow male, about this tall -” Astarion starts, lifting the hand.

“Uh. How… exactly, do you know how tall Drizzt is, again?” Tav breaks in.

Astarion ignores them. “- twin scimitars? Named Icingdeath and Twinkle?”

“I’m sorry, did you say Twinkle?” Tav interrupts again, choking back a laugh; this time it gets them briefly glared at, at least.

Jaheira clicks her tongue at Astarion. “If I did not harass the man to provide papers for himself, what makes you think I asked them of his scimitars instead?”

“I’m simply trying to work out if the drow you met fits the incredibly well-known, to many people other than myself, descriptions,” Astarion says testily.

Jaheira shrugs. “This was over a century past, mmm? I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how time blurs the memory. But if you care so much, take yourself off to Nashkel; word from my contacts is that he’s passing through again soon.”

Tav winces sharply, clapping their hands over their ears, at the high-pitched squeak of unholy glee this information garners.

Astarion clears his throat, then frowns at the both of them repressively before adopting a nonchalant sort of air, examining his fingernails. “Perhaps I’ll… drop by, yes. If I’ve nothing better to do, of course.”