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He wanted to kiss her.
Merezhen slept on, blissful and unaware of his intentions. He leaned in, a hand already stroking through her hair, and began to pucker his lips in preparation when it dawned upon him in full.
Astarion wanted to kiss her. He wanted to wake her up with a soft, gentle kiss, fingertips smoothing over cool, freckled skin. Perhaps they would enjoy breakfast together, as the sun rose. It all sounded nice, even to his jaded ears. And that was what he didn’t understand, in and of himself.
No matter how nice something sounded, what was the point of it? She had no doubts nor qualms about their ‘relationship’. Neither did the others. Hells, Karlach had congratulated him only a handful of days ago. He’d secured his position, and done it easily and with the finesse long-ago demanded of him. There was no point in furthering the pretence, not when they likely had months yet of companionship to go.
It was logical. It was cruel, too, but what more did Astarion expect of himself? It was his nature, as much as it was Merezhen’s own. And unlike her foolish self, he made no attempts at pretending otherwise. She was the fool here, not him . Right? Right ?
Merezhen kissed him. A quick press of the lips, nothing more, for Astarion startled away in a flash, not ever having noticed her wake up.
“Sorry,” came the contrite apology, as it always did from Merezhen. “You - um, looked like you were about to -”
“I was ,” he assured, with a soft smile. Merezhen huffed in relief, letting her head fall back upon the pillow. His hand resided there still, fingers entangling themselves in the loose strands of her hair. Black and white strands alike, silky to the touch, grounding him in a way that should be impossible. “I… grew distracted.”
“Anything good?” she asked, with a twist to her lips. Teasing, not mocking, sleep clouding her eyes. He’d never known an elf to like sleep so much as she did. Even after he offered himself to her, night after night, there was nothing she enjoyed more than just… oblivion. Not that she slept well, considering it all.
It was as equally true as it was unfortunate that she was beholden to her darker urges. The mangled corpses of a squirrel, a gnoll pup, multiple goblins and their children, and one tiefling bard (listed in order of annoyance) were all the proof one needed. Yet, at night, it seemed the opposite was true. Merezhen often awoke him or jostled him out of a meditation/fantasy about strangling Cazador to death with his own whip, with her night terrors. Mutterings and frantic prayers, outright begging, sometimes.
He pitied her for it, as much as he was able.
And given that her weaknesses were far more preferable to his own, sudden onset madness, Astarion chose that path, instead. “You slept fitfully again, my sweet.”
Merezhen groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Yes.
“No,” he lied, as he caressed her cheek, tugging away her wrist so that he could meet her gaze once more. “But you did worry me. You sound… frantic. Terrified.”
She shrugged. “I - I don’t know. I just… dream… things. Dark things.”
“Murder? Cannibalism? Torture?” He let his fangs glint in the firelight. “Handsome vampires, stealing you away in the night?”
“That’s hardly nightmare fuel,” and she was laughing as she said it, as though the mere thought of Astarion hurting her was a joke. His stomach began to twist itself into a knot, for no apparent reason. “No, I mean… literally dark . I can’t see shit. Just shadows and voices and pain. But, you know, it’s probably nothing.”
“Frequent night terrors that cause you to scream bloody murder aren’t nothing ,” Astarion snapped with genuine heat in his voice. In his… heart? He frowned at himself, not that she was to know. He…. what was that? That sudden anger? That she was avoiding the truth? No. What did he care? Why did he care about -
Merezhen squeezed his hand and then pressed a kiss to the knuckle of his thumb. “Sorry, love.”
He cared about her.
“Oh,” was all he managed to say. A wince followed mere seconds later. Less, even. How utterly cringeworthy , what was he, a bog-standard trashy romance novel hero, ‘ oh ’, what rot - “It’s… fine. I simply… worry.”
“You say that like you’re incredibly constipated,” Merezhen noted. “Like, ‘ dies on the toilet ’, constipated.”
“You know, I deserve a medal for putting up with you. You have the romantic inclinations of a castrated troll.”
“You and I both know, from personal experience, that trolls can be romantic and virile.”
Astarion laughed. It was neither loud nor raucous - lest Wyll throws a shoe at their tent again. It surprised him, however. Strange to have such a turbulent gut and fluttering, terrified heart and still find it within himself to laugh .
Merezhen watched him, pleased with herself until he grew quiet and returned the gaze. She smiled, stretching out - with the air of a spoiled lapcat. Astarion continued to silently observe, turning everything over in his mind. He was capable of caring for people. Things. He had depth .
That blasted mutt, for one. Did he want it at the camp, sniffing around and whining for extra scraps of food? Not particularly. But he didn’t drain it of all its blood when he easily could. He didn’t ignore the damn thing when it got its paw stuck in a bear trap - no , he called upon Karlach so she could pry it free. And once, upon being alone in the camp, with no living soul there to witness, he even threw its accursed ball.
He threw it into the river, but it still counted .
He didn’t eat the owlbear either, though it was for less altruistic reasons. Picking feathers from your teeth was never worth it. Never. Under any circumstance. Not even for a bet.
Ergo, Astarion carrying some - faint - affection for Merezhen meant very little. If he had friends, he’d easily count her amongst their number, for all she’d done to protect him. He’d count… the others, too, he supposed . They could have reacted worse to the whole ‘ vampire in their midst ’ thing, in truth. Yet… he could not deny that it was Merezhen who refused to let them distrust him. Merezhen championed his cause, his importance, and his… equality.
And she’d been doing so long before he took it upon himself to manipulate his way into her bedroll. They… did more together, than he did with the others. Obviously on a literal level. But… more… they read the Necromancy of Thay, for one - worked through its accursed pages together. She drew his scars for him. Gave an accurate and appropriately flattering description of what he looked like, after so long. Obliged his petty need for simpering compliments. She put up with him when he was intentionally being an annoyance.
Merezhen cared for him. That was a simple fact and one that he’d become aware of weeks ago. Had used it against her, to earn his right to be here, beside her, covered in thick furs and little else.
And… now … he… cared for her. In return. As more than a friend.
“You wanna watch the sunrise?” she mumbled, half-asleep once more. A little bit of drool was collecting on her pillow. Only partially as repulsive as it should be.
“No, no,” he said, quietly. “You rest, I’ll… keep watch.”
Merezhen nodded - or made the attempt to, a barely there jostle of her head. She reached out, blindly, and he knew instinctively what she wanted. His hand, to hold. He provided it, with a moment of hesitance - fingers curling inwards - heralding the moment. She gave it a soft squeeze as if she simply needed reassurance that he would stay, before drifting off in full.
Astarion hovered there, until he was confident she was truly gone, and then said, in a fast, rapid pace, “Shit, fuck, cockhumping blithering idiot-”
Wyll’s shoe bounced off the tent.