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Freedom. Nothing tastes as glorious as newfound freedom does on his tongue. Fresh air, the smell of wilderness all around—and sun, shining sun that beats down on him and warms his dead skin until he's practically purring in it.
There's a tadpole in Astarion's brain, which will supposedly turn him into a monster. And he should probably be worried about that, but when he has his freedom and the sun...well, he could take or leave a worm or two. At least he'll have cherished these hours before ceremorphosis steals him away.
And he's fallen in step with a group of...interesting people, as it were. A fearsome but young githyanki warrior, a secretive cleric (she must be worshipping one of those deities...), a wizard too loquacious for his own good, and the renowned Blade of Frontiers. Astarion can't say he's ever heard of the man, but he has been rather out of the loop of the news cycle for the past two hundred years or so. He can't be faulted for not keeping up with every up and coming adventurer of the season, they cycle in and out too fast for anyone to keep track!
The group collectively decides to make camp as the sun sets over the Chionthar. And when Astarion struggles to pitch his tent, his exhausted and starved muscles giving up after a long day of trekking through foliage, who else but the Blade should come by to help him.
"I've got this, darling," Astarion says with a smile as he fiddles with the scavenged pegs and stained fabric.
"No offense, but it kind of looks like you don't," Wyll chuckles. "It's alright, we're not all used to roughing it. Here—I'll hold it up from here while you tack it down."
As much as Astarion's loath to admit it, the tent goes up much quicker with help.
"Well then! I know how I'll thank you, dear," he says with a coquettish smile.
"Oh, no thanks necessary," Wyll protests. "Just doing my part to get us ready to rest."
"And so I'll do my part," Astarion says. "I only need a handful of hours compared to you unfortunate souls, wiling away a whole third of the day asleep! I'll keep watch for us."
"I appreciate it," Wyll grins. "Well then, I'll be off to get my stupidly long and inconvenient hours in. See you in the morning, Astarion."
"See you in the morning," Astarion echoes.
The camp goes quiet and still as the moon rises. Astarion's keen elven ears can hear the scratching and snuffling of the local wildlife, out in abundance in the wilderness. He's staring into the flames of the campfire, fidgeting with some torn lace at his cuffs, when it hits him.
No Cazador. No compulsions. Wildlife just begging to be hunted. There is nothing stopping him from heading into the woods and sinking his fangs into the nearest animal, draining it bone dry. There is nothing stopping him from soothing the ache of starvation in his belly, from quieting the whining, pathetic voice in his mind that cries for food constantly. Astarion gets to his feet, his eyes darting around the camp. Nothing but snoring and dreamy murmuring from his companions, sound asleep. He creeps out on light feet and pricks his ears for the sound of wildlife.
The problem is he's quite weak and tired from the exertion of the day. It takes him far too long to sneak up on his first catch, a ruffed grouse that he only brings down because it had already injured its wing. Still, a catch is a catch, and this is no stinking rotten rat. His hands are trembling around the quivering grouse as he bites down, moaning in relief as fresh gamey blood floods his senses. And there's so much, even just in this skinny grouse! He drains it dry and wipes his mouth clean, licking the droplets off his fingers. Never will he waste an ounce of delicious blood, not if he can help it.
Already Astarion can feel it reinvigorate him. His senses sharpen further—there's a red fox chittering in the underbrush nearby, and he licks his lips in anticipation.
In a mere couple of hours he's filled himself near to bursting with hot, fresh blood. Everything is clear and bright and the gnawing ache has quieted down to just a satisfied hum. He smiles to himself, looking up at the stars above. Yes—Astarion would live with a hundred tadpoles if it means he can keep this.
Best head back to camp before the others wake, he thinks. It wouldn't do to be caught out abandoning watch on the first night. Oh, and then tomorrow night he can volunteer and hunt again, and the night after, and the night after that, as long as they haven't transformed into hideous tentacled things—
Suddenly there's lancing, sharp pain in his belly. He near doubles over as his stomach cramps, knotting up until he can't think for the pain. Astarions stumbles over to an old oak, tries to use it to keep himself upright but a wave of nausea brings him to his knees and there's a brief bright moment of panic as he tries to hold onto his gluttonous feast—and then he's vomiting up a veritable fountain of half-digested blood, the scent metallic and sour as he loses every last drop onto the dewy grass.
His stomach twists and contracts as his useless lungs heave for breath. Astarion stares down in utter dismay at the mess he's made. That was hours of hard work. That was the fuel he needed for the day. The sky is lightening and he won't have time to hunt for more...
He feels lightheaded and shaky as the strength from the blood leaves him. Gingerly he dips a finger into the bloody sick. Can't be worse than a putrid rat, he rationalises. But as soon as he swallows the sour blood his throat seizes up and he chokes on it, coughing and sputtering as his entire system rejects what he'd already swallowed. He whines in frustration, in anxious fear—but there's nothing to be done for it. He has to get back to camp before the others wake.
He stumbles back to his tent, his vision blurry. His gambeson is soaked in sweat, his head swimming when he finally collapses onto the planks he's using as a makeshift cot. He clutches his knees to his chest and falls into an uneasy trance, and he cannot stop thinking...why could he not keep the blood down? Why, as soon as he has access to real prey, does his own body betray him so?
~*~
The next evening, Astarion brings down a boar. He drains every last drop of blood out of the thing until he stops feeling so godsdamned weak. The day had been horrid. The group had infiltrated some no name tomb chock full of looters and reanimated undead, and he had barely been able to keep up in the fights, still nauseous and trembling from whatever last night's blood had done to him. At least there had been plenty of traps and locks scattered about, and he had even gotten a compliment from Wyll on how rapidly he had defused them.
There at least he had proven his worth to the group. Because at this rate, weak and prone to being sick all over the place, he's in no state to be fucked.
Astarion sits back on his heels and looks at the exsanguinated corpse of the boar, lying slightly out of the brush and onto the path. The blood is thick and warm in his stomach. It feels so good, so hot and satisfying—right up until it doesn't, and he's vomiting it all up into the brush again. His fingers scrabble on the dirt path as he dry heaves.
"Why!" Astarion snarls out into the night air. "Why are you doing this to me!" He's angry at himself, at his own body, for not doing what it's meant to. He's a gods-be-damned vampire! A monster of the night, born out of darkness and dirt to drain blood. He longs for nothing else, and now he has it and he can't seem to keep it down.
His head is spinning as he tries to drag the heavy boar corpse off the path, but he can't. Already its strength has left him and instead lies rotting on the ground. He grits his teeth in frustration and gives up, heading back to camp, because already he can feel himself getting sicker and sicker and he needs to be in his tent before he's too weak to make it back.
He makes it, barely. He curls up in a miserable lump on his pallet and tries to trance the pain away. Perhaps tomorrow will be better. Perhaps this boar was the rotten thing, not him. Or maybe he won't try at all tomorrow. Maybe the pain of starvation is better than whatever this is. At least it is familiar.
Over the next few days Astarion has no better luck. He's trapped in a vicious cycle of adventuring and exhausting himself in the days as their group prances all about this druid's grove, spending far too much time talking to useless needy strangers, helping endless tieflings and pulling kittens out of trees and the like. They're no closer to finding any answers, only expending strength and energy bickering amongst themselves and scouring the lands for clues that don't exist. The group is tired and frazzled, Wyll especially—apparently that devil he was hunting wasn't a devil at all, and his fiendish patron was none so happy when he spared her.
At night, Astarion volunteers for watch and then hunts an endless stream of wildlife, none of which stay in his stomach for long. It seems no matter what he feeds on, it won't agree with him. He'll get a brief burst of strength and satiation before he's sicker than ever and stumbling back to his tent. It's a dangerous cycle that he knows can't last long. Already the others are giving him concerned looks when he emerges in the morning, each day paler and weaker than the last. Soon, he knows, they will decide keeping him around is more trouble than he's worth. And nothing scares him quite like the thought of being out here alone.
So despite his higher reasoning telling him its a terrible idea, Astarion finds himself tromping out into the woods to hunt again. All he needs is one meal that will stick. Just one, and then he can live off of that for tendays, if he has to!
His hands quake with anger and frustration as he kills a couple of squirrels, drains them, then cuts down an entire deer with just his claws and his dagger. He looks at the dying animal and bends down to drink. So much—and gods but it feels good when he sucks, when he feeds. He is greedy with it but it feels too good to stop, the first good feeling he's had all day long.
Of course it can't last. The deer is so large and he's drunk so much at once that his stomach feels bloated and tender. But he couldn't stop himself—once his fangs were in, he had to drain it dry. He moans in distress as the now familiar cramping begins. This time it was his own greed, he knows. The deer comes back up and Astarion doubles over, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he loses all of his hard work onto the forest floor, once again.
There's the snap of a stick behind him. Astarion gasps and sputters, bloody sick trailing down his chin and dripping onto the grass. He whirls around—and who else is there but the Blade of Frontiers, wide-eyed and staring down at Astarion in shock. Astarion, who is hunched over next to a drained deer, fangs out and claws bloodied. Too sick with nausea to defend himself in any way.
"Astarion?" Wyll says, his gaze flicking from the deer to the sick and then back to what is clearly a miserable vampire. "What happened here?!"
"It's not what it looks like," Astarion pleads, flinging his hands up in defense. A terrible idea, because he then overbalances and lands hard on his behind, his vision spinning. "I'm—I'm not a monster! I'm just a spawn, just a spawn I swear, I won't harm you in any way—"
"I know that much," Wyll says, bewildered. "Astarion, I've known you were a vampire since I laid eyes on you! You're not subtle, you know." He chuckles and steps forward. Astarion scrambles back, breath coming in quick panicked bursts. Wyll pauses and frowns, then kneels down so he's at Astarion's level. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says cautiously. "Astarion, we all know you're a vampire. You did leave that boar right in our path, you know. We were just waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to tell us."
"Oh," Astarion says, shaking. "Ah. I'm afraid that would have been never, darling."
"Well, I swear to you on my good eye. None of us will harm you, Astarion. Not on my watch," Wyll vows.
"That's reassuring," Astarion says, smiling weakly. "Um—excuse me dear, I'm afraid I have to—" Then he turns to the side and vomits up some more bloody deer froth, gagging as his belly churns and twists.
"Bad blood?" Wyll asks sympathetically. "I'll be sure not to bring the meat back to camp, then."
"No," Astarion groans. "It tasted fine—fantastic, even. No, I think the problem is me. Oh, gods help me, it hurts—" He doubles over, clutching his middle as he gasps through the pain. It feels like a dull knife, twisting up his innards. He's shaking and beginning to sweat, his limbs feeling strangely heavy.
"Let me help you," he hears Wyll say above him. Then Wyll's hand wraps around his upper arm and he hisses on instinct, in pain and terrified as the ground spins out from under him. He feels the hard bark of a tree against his back as Wyll props him up away from the sick and then a warm calloused hand touches his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat.
"You're not well at all," Wyll's voice says. Astarion blinks hard to clear his vision of spots and Wyll's concerned face swims back into view.
"I don't know why," Astarion manages. "I—I can't seem to keep anything down, every night nothing sticks—"
"What do you usually feed on?" Wyll asks, and Astarion frowns, wondering what the right answer is.
"Never people," he settles on. "Darling, you've no need to worry, I would never hurt you or any of the others—"
"I know that," Wyll interrupts. "That's not what I asked. Is the wildlife here very different from what you usually have?"
Astarion stares at him. Wyll's face is open and sincere, awaiting his answer. "Rats," he croaks. "Vermin. I usually feed on putrid vermin. And never often. Only when he deems me worthy."
Wyll huffs, his brows furrowed as he thinks. "That's no way to live," he eventually says. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Astarion. You deserved better."
Something twists in his chest at those words, something painful and sharp. "Yes, well," he sighs. "Now I have better. And I can't seem to keep any of it down, so what's the bloody point."
"I think I may know why," Wyll says. "At least this reminds me of something I witnessed a few years back. I was out on the Frontiers, hunting down a young red dragon that had brought untold amounts of suffering to a small village. The dragon had scorched their crops to the ground, and the entire village was suffering from famine and loss."
"Can you tell it quickly, dear," Astarion moans. "I can't concentrate on one of your long-winded tales, just now."
"Of course," Wyll says, and Astarion lets his eyes flutter closed as he leans back against the oak. "There was an orphaned young girl, so starved she was skeletal. I couldn't in good conscious leave her on her own to fend for herself, so I gave her all my rations. But they did nothing but make her sicker and sicker, even though she was so starved for food. If I hadn't found a cleric in time...well, I shudder to think what would have happened. She'd have died, in all likelihood."
Astarion stares at him, dismayed. "Wyll, that's not a very reassuring story when I already feel like death."
"I know, but the cleric told me where I went wrong. If someone has been starved continuously, it's dangerous for them to eat when they at last find food. The body just...can't handle so much at once, not after so long without."
Astarion's gut wrenches. "Then what am I to do," he says, panicked. "Wyll—I can't go on like this, every day it's harder and I'm so hungry—"
"I know," Wyll soothes. "We'll help you, Astarion. I'll help you. You just have to take it slow, very slow, and let your body adjust to fresh blood again."
Astarion sobs and curls up on himself, tugging his knees into his chest. His head pounds and his belly throbs. He can't even stomach the thought of more blood right now.
"Let me help you back to camp," Wyll offers. "We'll wait until this all passes, and then I'll help you hunt and feed when you feel up to it."
It's the nicest thing anyone's ever offered to do for Astarion. He nods into his knees and rocks slightly, working through another wave of nausea.
"Come on, up you get," Wyll says, tugging Astarion to his feet. Astarion sways as the world tips sideways, and Wyll catches him around the waist to steady him. "Alright?" Wyll asks, and Astarion nods, something he immediately regrets because the dizziness does nothing but intensify. Wyll supports his weight as they begin to trek slowly out of the woods. He can just about see the edge of the clearing where they made camp, but every step is a struggle, it's harder and harder to keep his balance and he feels so shivery, so weak.
"Wyll," he murmurs as his vision goes swimmy. "I really don't feel well..."
"I know, but we're almost there," Wyll says, taking on more of his weight. "Then you can lie down and—oh, Balduran's bones," he curses as Astarion's knees give up on him entirely and he slips to the ground. He feels strong arms catch him and lift him up, his head tilting back so he can see the spray of stars across the sky, which all seem to be moving. Then he loses track of what's where for a while—he feels himself be lowered to the ground and something soft is placed beneath his head. He curls up, protecting his aching middle, and feels a warm hand stroke through his sweaty curls. Someone is talking to him lowly, and he forces his eyes open to see who—it's Wyll, but there's two of him in this tent, and that's not quite right. He blinks but the two Wylls remain, four horns and all, their images hazy and fusing into each other in the middle. Something cool and wet touches his forehead and he shivers at the sensation, shrinking away, but a firm hand holds him in place.
He whimpers and moans as the nausea continues, unrelenting. There's more noise from outside but there's a dull ringing in his ears and he can't make out what's going on, only knows that he's scared and weak and it's not safe like this. Someone else lays more hands on his belly and he snaps his fangs, frightened, but then a soothing burst of magic spreads and the ache releases, just a bit. Wyll's calloused palm moves back to his forehead and strokes the side of his temple, steady and sure. Eventually Astarion falls into an exhausted and troubled trance, his body refusing to stay conscious any longer.
~*~
He comes out of reverie disoriented and confused. He's not in his tent, and that frightens him. Someone has tucked him in with warm blankets and he clutches at them, trying to figure out where he is.
Wyll's tent, he realises. Wyll must have brought him in here instead of in his own. He pushes himself up and waits for the world to settle a bit, then cautiously pokes his head out of the tent.
The others are sitting around the fire, having breakfast, chatting and discussing the plans for the day. Astarion recoils back into the tent, gathering up the soft blankets around him. No, he doesn't like this one bit. He doesn't like being left out, deemed too ill to be of any worth. But he's not sure what he can do to prove his value. After last night—and he cringes at how panicked and pathetic he let himself be in front of Wyll—it's more important than ever to ensure he's not viewed a burden.
There's a knock on the wood supports of the tent. Astarion startles, then quickly runs a hand through his tangled curls, draws his shoulders back and wipes at his mouth, frowning at the remnants of crusty blood there. "You can come in," he calls, curling his legs up in a way that he knows is appealing.
Wyll enters, smiling sympathetically. "Feeling better?"
"Oh, much," Astarion sighs, leaning back and angling his shoulders. "Thank you so much, darling. This is quite cozy, isn't it?"
"It looked better than yours," Wyll chuckles. "We need to find you something better to sleep on, that wood cannot be comfortable."
"Elves don't sleep, dear," Astarion sniffs. "We trance."
"To trance on, then. Well, I was talking to the others—"
"About that," Astarion interrupts. "Darling, I would have appreciated being able to speak for myself. About the whole—undead thing."
"Oh, I told you they already know," Wyll frowns. "It's no bother, truly. As long as you are able to catch and find food easily—which brings me to my second point."
"Right," Astarion smiles, nervous. "I can hunt, dear. No one's necks shall be unwillingly pierced, I assure you."
"I know," Wyll says. "I've seen the proof, don't you worry. But let me hunt for you today? You should just rest here and recover."
Astarion twists his hands together beneath the blankets, nails digging in deep. "No, I can come along," he tries. "Weren't you all going to that decrepit village? Surely it would be good to have someone handy with traps and locks along—"
"Karlach can smash through any locks," Wyll counters. "And we've already scouted ahead, there doesn't seem to be much in the way of traps. No, you should stay here and rest."
Astarion doesn't like this idea at all. But he can't find a way to wriggle out of it, not when Wyll just saw him useless and ill. "Fine," he sighs. "I suppose I'll just let you do all the hard work."
"Excellent," Wyll grins, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "We'll be back before you know it. Get some more sleep—er, more trance, if you can. Withers can keep you company!" Then he leaves Astarion to it, who snorts at the idea of the zombie being any company.
He spends the day curled up and drifting in the cozy blankets of Wyll's tent. When he's bored he breaks into Wyll's spare pack and entertains himself with the couple of battered paperbacks inside, which are much more raunchy than he'd have expected from the chivalrous Blade. Perhaps the man won't be so hard to crack, he muses. These two tales are full of insufferably sweet lines, followed by some of the nastiest erotica he's ever read. Clearly there is more to the Blade than meets the eye.
The sun has tracked across the sky when he hears noise filtering back into camp. He can hear Shadowheart and Lae'zel bickering over something, Gale and Karlach eagerly swapping anecdotes. Wyll pokes his head into the tent, horns first. "Hey there," he says. "I brought something for you, if you feel up for it."
Astarion straightens up. He can smell it from here—a fresh kill, blood just waiting to be gulped down.
"How lovely of you," he purrs. "So generous. Yes, I'm feeling much better." The hunger twists in his gut, making itself known. Gods—he's ravenous.
"Glad to hear it," Wyll smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "So, I've got one here—"
In his hand is a brown furred rabbit, pierced straight through the eye so that no blood was wasted. Astarion pounces on it, snatching it from Wyll's fingers and biting down right into its neck.
"Slowly!" Wyll cries. "Astarion, you have to pace yourself—"
But Astarion isn't paying him a bit of attention. All that matters is the delicious, rich blood flowing from the pierced veins of the rabbit, flowing straight into his aching stomach. He sucks greedily, messily, getting blood all over his chin and dripping onto Wyll's blankets but he doesn't care, not when he can feel the grip of hunger at last loosen—
Someone tugs at the rabbit in his jaws. He snarls and bares his fangs, ripping it out of the thieving hands and scuttling into the corner, hunching over his prize. This is his food now. No one is going to take it from him, not if he can help it.
He drains the rabbit entirely, fangs biting and worrying at the fur as he feels it dry up. When he's sure he's gotten the last drop down he at last unlatches and lets the corpse drop into his lap. He looks at it in dismay, his stomach churning.
"Great," Wyll says, clearly exasperated. "Now you're going to be sick in my tent. Astarion, I told you to eat slowly!"
He clenches at the stained rabbit, head bowed. "I tried," he whispers. "It's not easy, you know! I'm starving. I've been starving for two hundred godsdamned years!" Then he groans as he feels the blood bubble in his gut, coming up for a second visit. He lurches past Wyll, out into the camp bushes, and soon the rabbit is splattered in the dirt instead of in his belly.
Wyll's boots step up beside him. He crouches down and places a hand on Astarion's heaving back.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I should have anticipated how hard that was going to be for you."
"Not your fault," Astarion sighs. "It's my own greed. My own gluttony. Perhaps—perhaps vermin is just easier."
"No," Wyll protests. "We can do better than that. We're just going to have to work up to it."
He shrinks back onto himself when he hears more footsteps approach. "Hells, soldier," Karlach says. "That looked nasty."
"We're working on it," Wyll says firmly, rubbing his back. "Don't you worry. Soon he'll be feeding on all sorts."
"Not me, though," Karlach laughs. "Not unless you want to burn yourself real good—ah hells, Astarion! I'm just teasing you, I know you wouldn't actually!"
He's curled up on himself, tears pricking at his eyes, staring into the sick in the dirt while Karlach bounces on her feet, upset at upsetting him.
"Leave him be," Wyll says softly. "We're alright, Karlach. It's just tough right now."
"Understood, soldier," she says. "You need my help, you just holler for me."
"Will do," Wyll says. He stays with Astarion until Astarion sits back on his heels, shakily wiping at the sick crusted around his mouth.
"Better?" Wyll asks. Astarion nods. If he had any blood left, he would be blushing furiously in the shame. "Good. Here, lets get back inside." Wyll helps him back into his tent. Astarion frowns down at his shirt, all nasty with blood and muck.
"Darling, could you do something for me," he says. "I have one spare shirt left in my pack—could you fetch it? I think I'm done taking chances for tonight." And he also wants Wyll to leave him alone. If only for a moment, so he can collect himself.
"Of course," Wyll says. "I'll be right back."
He takes a while, longer than it should to fetch a shirt. When he finally re-enters the tent Astarion has calmed himself down and breathed through much of the dizziness and nausea, and is now reclining on his side. Wyll has the clean shirt in one hand and a jar of blood in the other, and Astarion frowns.
"What's that," he asks.
"The other rabbit," Wyll says as he hands over the shirt. "I want to try something, when you're ready."
"I don't know," Astarion says, poking at his lip with his fang. "I don't think anything but a rat is a good idea."
"Let's just try, if you're feeling alright," Wyll coaxes. He turns his back as Astarion changes into a fresh shirt. Then he settles on his knees and opens the jar. "You're not feeling sick anymore?"
"Only sick with hunger," Astarion says miserably as he eyes the jar. The smell is torturous.
"Okay. So—the idea. I'll control the flow of blood, so that you can't take too much at once. I'll feed you slowly and methodically, and we'll stop before you've had too much."
Astarion stares at him. "And how are you going to do that, exactly?"
Wyll smiles sheepishly. Then he dips two fingers into the blood, coating them with the rich red fluid. "Like this?"
"Gods," Astarion sighs. "Alright. Let's try it...I promise not to bite."
"I know you won't," Wyll says. "Come here."
Astarion edges forward. He doesn't really want to get blood on his last clean shirt, so takes one of Wyll's already bloodied blankets and wraps it around himself. Wyll chuckles at the sight. Astarion shuffles up to Wyll, their faces close, saliva flooding his mouth as Wyll's fingers come up to his lips.
"This is only strange if we make it so," Wyll whispers. Astarion nods and unconsciously licks his lips. Then Wyll is pressing his fingers to his mouth and Astarion is sucking the coating of blood, tongue swirling. His eyes close and he whines as the taste hits, bright and lovely and bursting with life.
"Good," Wyll murmurs as he withdraws and dips in the jar for more. "Good job, Astarion."
The praise hits his ears and he shudders. He licks the fresh blood and Wyll tells him again that he's doing good, doing so well by going slow. Astarion gasps as they pull out and he reaches up to chase them. Wyll grips him around the waist to hold him in place.
"Patience," he chides. "We have to do this slowly."
"But I want more," Astarion cries.
"And you'll get more. But let's see if this stays down."
Astarion groans. He can feel the two coatings of blood travel down to his stomach, and every bit of him is screaming to grab the jar and just down it all. But—he wants Wyll to say he's doing good, and that wouldn't be good of him.
Wyll dips his fingers back into the jar. "Okay," he says. "Some more, slowly."
Astarion licks it all down, worrying at Wyll's fingers when it's gone. "You're doing very well," Wyll praises, and Astarion's mind is going to some floaty, happy place as he's given another generous fingerful.
He hums and whines as Wyll pulls them out. Hesitantly Wyll's hand leaves his waist and instead moves up to stroke at the corner of his mouth, wiping away a drop. Astarion's tongue flicks out to catch it, and Wyll chuckles.
"Let's take a break," he says, and Astarion sighs. Everything is too nice. The ache of hunger in his belly is starting to release, and nothing bad is coming to replace it. He lets his head drop heavy onto Wyll's shoulder and curls an arm around him, squeezing him slightly.
Wyll rubs his back. "One more," he whispers. "How does that sound?"
"Please," Astarion moans. Wyll shifts him and brings more blood up to his mouth, his head still resting on Wyll's shoulder. It's comforting, being fed like this. Terribly nice, perhaps too nice.
"That's all," Wyll says as slides his fingers out. "I don't want to push it any further."
Astarion makes a disgruntled noise. He flops out of Wyll's hold and onto his side, cushioned by the many pillows Wyll's got in his tent for horn support. He wants to steal one for himself.
Wyll screws the lid back onto the jar, dulling the too delicious scent to something bearable. "You did very well, Astarion," he praises, and Astarion's ears flick happily. "It wasn't easy to pace yourself, I know. Do you think you'll keep it down?"
"I think so," Astarion murmurs. "Mm. It hurts still—but not nearly as badly."
"I might be able to help with that," Wyll says. "But...well, I'm not sure it's what you'll want."
"How do you mean," Astarion asks, curling around so he can see Wyll, who's clearly blushing.
"I could give you a massage," Wyll offers, and oh yes—the Blade is definitely embarassed at the thought.
"Oh," Astarion says. He looks at Wyll through lowered lids, then rolls onto his back. "I...wouldn't be opposed."
"Alright," Wyll coughs. "Just in the interest of making you feel better, of course."
"Of course," Astarion echoes. He draws up his shirt. Perhaps...well. This could be the start of something, at least. And he does need to secure his place in the group, at any cost. Wyll wipes his hands on the blankets and kneels next to Astarion, hands hovering over his abdomen.
"You have my permission," Astarion murmurs. "It aches so, Wyll."
"Right," Wyll whispers. Then he places his hands on Astarion's belly, hot on Astarion's cool skin. Those hot calloused hands begin to rub, coaxing the knotted muscles to relax. Astarion can't help himself—he groans at the sensation. It's actually helping soothe the pain.
"That good?" Wyll asks, chuckling.
"You're clearly a man of many talents," Astarion admits. "Oh—yes, press more there."
Wyll listens to his guidance, rubbing where Astarion directs him until Astarion's eyes close in pleasure, feeling the warm mouthfuls of blood settle in his stomach.
"I don't feel sick anymore," he whispers. "I think—this is all actually working."
"I'm glad," Wyll says, stroking down Astarion's sides before concentrating back on his belly. "In the morning I'll let you have even more blood than you did just now. And soon you won't need me at all. Soon you'll be able to hunt and handle whatever it is you bring down."
Astarion sighs in happiness, imagining bringing down another boar, or a deer, and draining it without the fear of losing it. And then—he lets himself imagine one step further, just because he can. He lets himself imagine resting his head on Wyll's shoulder again, Wyll's arm supporting him round the waist. But instead of waiting for bloodsoaked fingers, he imagines himself sinking his fangs right into Wyll's strong neck. What would he taste like? Like nothing Astarion can even imagine, in all likelihood. Bliss so good he can't even fathom it.
"Okay," Wyll says, stroking his belly one last time before he moves away, sitting back on his heels. "How do you feel now?"
"Wonderful," Astarion says, letting his eyes flutter open. He gets up on his elbows and curls up on his side, angling his shoulders in a way he knows is hard to resist. "Your hands are magic, darling."
Wyll laughs. But he doesn't move forward, back into Astarion's space. Instead he gets up, clapping his hands on his thighs. "Well! That's good to hear, then. I'm very glad to know I could help you out, Astarion. It'll be easier than ever tomorrow. And I'm beat," he says, and Astarion frowns. "Definitely time to wind down for the evening."
"Is this your way of asking me to get out of your tent," Astarion says, making sure to keep his smile pasted. "Because...I don't have to, dear. Only if you want me to."
"Well, I'm sure you prefer it over your boards," Wyll chuckles. "You can take some of my pillows with you, I don't mind. But the lack of horn support last night was not ideal, I have to say."
"Ah," Astarion says. Alright, he's not sure he can rescue this atmosphere and drive it back somewhere sensual. And...he's not sure he quite wants to. He feels so lovely, all warm and pliant and in no pain, and it would be a shame to ruin that with sex. "I'll take just a couple then, thank you darling. For everything, really."
"Come back here in the morning," Wyll says. "I'll help you, before we're up and moving."
"I will," Astarion says. Something warm and happy curls up in his chest, where his heart used to be. He steals Wyll's roundest, fluffiest pillow and heads to his own tent, his belly no longer hurting and his mind at last sated, happy with the blood—and the comfort.