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It’s strange, how quickly Halsin has learned to recognise the shift in the sounds of the city as dusk falls. He eases himself out of his trance, slowly blinking his eyes open as he listens to the daytime bustle winding down, the last few calls of birds settling down for the night.
There’s no sound at all from the elf on the bed beside him—no heartbeat, no soft breathing—but that, too, is something Halsin has become used to.
He rolls onto his side, sliding a hand over Astarion’s bare stomach and leaning in to press a kiss to his shoulder. Even Astarion’s cool skin is something Halsin has come to appreciate, this last tenday since the destruction of the Netherbrain.
Halsin knows he can’t stay in Baldur’s Gate forever. He hopes that Astarion will choose to come with him, when he leaves. But for now, he’s content to spend at least a while longer with the strange, beautiful creature lying beside him—to spend their nights exploring the city, and their days in bed together exploring each other.
Halsin opens his eyes fully to find Astarion is also awake: lying on his back, eyes unfocussed, the faintest of furrows between his brows as he slowly strokes his fingers up and down the side of his neck.
Well. Apparently Astarion had also found their explorations that morning… memorable.
Halsin strokes his thumb back and forth over Astarion’s belly, feeling a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. “I hope I wasn’t too forceful, there,” he says.
“Hm?” Astarion blinks, startled—then turns his head and realises where Halsin is looking. “Oh! Oh no darling, I was just—” he grins, jerking his hand away from his neck as though embarrassed. “You were just wonderful, truly.”
Halsin’s breath catches.
“My heart… are you sure?”
On the side of Astarion’s neck, blooming almost from his jaw to his collarbone, is a rather incredible bruise. There’s still enough fading daylight that Halsin can make out the colour: a vivid purple, looking like bright dye leaching into Astarion’s skin. There’s even the hint of a row of toothmarks, right along the line of Astarion’s neck muscle.
Halsin’s toothmarks.
Astarion frowns, propping himself up on an elbow. “What is it?” he says, reaching up to his neck again. “There isn’t—believe me, I would have known if you’d done any damage, darling. The skin isn’t even broken, I feel perfectly—”
“There’s a bruise,” Halsin says, still not quite able to tear his eyes away from it.
For a moment Astarion’s expression shifts—something strange crosses his face, too quick for Halsin to identify—then he barks out a laugh, flopping back onto the pillows. “My dear, I can assure you I’ve had much worse than that,” he says. “Honestly, it’s barely even tender. A sip of that delicious blood of yours and I’ll be back to my usual flawless self.”
Halsin settles back in beside him, slides his hand further across to curl around Astarion’s waist. “I know,” he says, “it’s just rather… striking.”
Astarion exhales, hand coming up to rub at the bruise again. That little furrow is back between his brows, and Halsin is tempted to lean up and kiss him right there, smooth the tension away. Instead he waits for Astarion to puzzle out whatever he’s thinking about.
Finally Astarion lets his hand slip down from his neck, curling his fingers against his chest.
When he speaks next, it’s barely a whisper, and Halsin has to concentrate to parse the words.
“Describe it to me?” he says—and Halsin lets out a slow exhale of his own.
It takes him a moment to decide how to start.
“It is… in this light the colour is a little muted, but it appears as a deep purple. Dark, like that dye you favour.” Halsin half-expects Astarion to make some quip about his superior fashion sense in response to that, but other than his fingers flexing briefly back towards his neck, he lies still.
“It is large,” Halsin continues, taking his hand from Astarion’s waist to reach up and trace the outline of the bruise. “It starts here… and stretches down to here.” Astarion shivers just a little under his touch, but still doesn’t move. “And then back around here…” Halsin says, tracing the other side of the bruise.
“Can you still—” Astarion begins, then stops, swallows. Closes his eyes.
Halsin waits, placing his hand over Astarion’s on his chest. Threads their fingers together and squeezes, reassuring.
“Can you still see…” Astarion tries again, before trailing off, and with a pang Halsin realises what he’s asking.
Part of him is tempted to lie.
He wants to believe the fantasy as much as Astarion does: that he could erase Cazador’s marks with his own so easily. That he could replace that wound, that pain, with something Astarion had wanted. Had enjoyed.
But they would both know the lie for what it was.
Halsin considers his words for even longer this time, before deciding how to reply.
“Yes,” he says finally, and feels Astarion’s fingers tighten where they’re twined with his own. “But”—he leans in to kiss the very bottom of the bruise, before lowering his voice—“mine is much bigger than his.”
Astarion stills, and for a moment Halsin worries that he’s missed the mark—then Astarion snorts, tugging his hand free from Halsin’s to swat at his shoulder. “I should have known someone like you would think size is all that matters,” he says, laughter in his voice.
“Mmmm, I think there’s something to be said for my technique as well,” Halsin says, pressing his lips to Astarion’s neck and sucking just enough to make Astarion’s breath hitch. “I’d be happy to demonstrate it again, if you need reminding.”
“Well,” Astarion says, haughty now, even as he slides his hand up the back of Halsin’s nape into his hair. “There is also the small problem that bruises fade. So unless you plan to keep reminding me—"
“Astarion, my heart.” Halsin pulls back, propping himself up on his elbow so that he can look Astarion in the eyes. “I am happy to indulge you whenever you ask, for as long as you keep asking.”
Astarion’s expression flickers—so Halsin leans in to kiss him properly, and drive away any doubts before they can form.