Chapter Text
- Astarion
Astarion knew this was a bad idea the moment he stepped into the tavern. He hadn’t left their tower in over a week and had been itching to venture forth, only to be assaulted by the chaos of noisy partygoers who were having too much ale. Gale had been fast asleep, exhausted after a particularly draining training session with one of his more promising students. Astarion hadn’t dared to disturb him when his thirst had made itself known.
As a spawn under Cazador, hunger had been his constant companion, a dull throb at his center, an ache behind his teeth. Now there was bottled animal blood sitting on their kitchen shelves, procured from the local butchers who sold odder things to odder customers and knew not to talk. To say nothing of the willing wizard, that had invited him into his home, and who had no qualms about offering his neck, now that the corruption of the orb had been purged from his system.
Hunts like these were growing sparse as weeks turned into months. His life with Gale was a decadent existence, delicious, absolutely outside the realm of what Astarion had thought possible. He’d never been loved, never been cared for. At least not in the life he could remember. Astarion shouldn’t feel hungry by any means; could not ask for more. So instead of waking Gale, he’d gotten his coat to protect himself against the ever-present Waterdeep chill, and gone out.
It was a skill he’d honed for centuries. He sat down by the bar, ordered some wine he’d barley nip on, and exercised his patience. Astarion put that little devious spark inside his eyes and danger into his smile. With a practiced shrug, he let his shirt fall over his right shoulder to show off the elegant curve of his collarbone and neck. Most of the time it was enough to search for eye contact, to pin them with his gaze, until they could no longer resist and gathered the courage to walk up to him.
When the gazes of the rowdy crowd slipped over him, Astarion fiddled with the stem of his wineglass. Maybe he was losing his touch, out of practice after over a year with only Gale as his companion, and only a handful of outings such as this.
A tall wiry elf came up next to where he sat. He braced his arms against the bar. His face was flushed, and some strands of his fine hair had fallen out of his braid.
“Have you seen my friends?” the elf asked the female orc barkeep, louder than was strictly necessary as she stood right behind the counter, slicing lemons.
“Mate, I’m not your babysitter,” the barkeep answered, and brandished her knife.
“Maybe it’s about time you find new company?” Astarion asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile that had been the preamble to much debauchery. When the drunk elf looked him over, Astarion felt the dissonance like a physical thing, a nervous flutter in his chest that told him that something wasn’t working. Instead of drawing his gaze, the elf’s eyes lingered over Astarion’s middle for a second too long, before they came back up to meet his gaze.
“No offense dove, but you’re not my type,” the elf answered, turned back to the barkeep, and ordered another ale.
Astarion let out a haughty laugh. He’d had plenty of marks that had made a game out of playing hard to get. In the end, they all followed him into Cazador’s lair.
“I’m everybody’s type, darling.”
The elf let out an undignified snort, and paid for his ale. Drunk as he may be, something piercing crept into his gaze, as he focused on Astarion.
“Maybe twenty pounds ago, you were,” he said, took a sip from his ale, raised a cocky eyebrow over the rim of his tankard, and turned back to the dancers. Astarion stared after him, dumbfounded. Ice curled in his stomach, that made him forget his hunger and the reason he’d come here. Astarion gulped down the last of his wine, to cover up his unease.
“Nine hells, what an asshole,” the barkeep said and shook her head, “don’t take it to heart, mate. That guy’s in here every bloody weekend. If he keeps drinking that much ale, he’s bound to go to seed, and it’ll serve him right, uttering comments like that.”
Ah, Astarion thought dully, so the elf’s jibe had indeed been about his weight. He swallowed hard, the taste of wine turning into vinegar. All he wanted to do now was to get back to Gale and crawl into bed, where he’d be warm and far away from people’s judgment.
“I’ll be going, good night to you,” Astarion replied, pushed his empty wine glass over the counter, and got up. His motions felt remote, like someone else was guiding him. When was the last time a mark rejected him? He couldn’t remember. When he met someone unwilling, different people usually lined up to fill their spot. But he wasn’t drawing anyone’s gaze for longer than a few seconds, as he walked back to the entrance of the tavern to collect his coat. Something was wrong.
It was cold outside. Autumn always settled into his bones deeper than a living hot-blooded creature would have to endure. Astarion tried not to fixate on how he had to draw the two sides of his coat together to get them buttoned up.
Feeling put out he marched through the chilly streets.
Twenty pounds, the elf had said. It was a high number, wasn’t it? But that couldn’t be true. He knew he had gained some weight, after their adventure had ended. He could tell by how he could no longer count his ribs with his fingers and how the curve from his cheekbones down to his chin was no longer hollowed out.
In captivity, he’d sustained himself on vermin. An undead body wouldn’t starve to death, but that hadn’t stopped Astarion from experiencing signs of starvation. He’d only been allowed to drink to keep a body that was desirable and strong enough to serve Cazador.
The bodies of vampire Lords and Ladies didn’t change, but he wasn’t a full vampire. He was an elf though, he reminded himself. A race usually blessed with fast-working metabolisms. Except for Halsin, Astarion could hardly recall ever having seen an elf that wasn’t lithe. There were exceptions to any rule. He’d just never counted himself among them.
He wondered if people could see the weight in his face. If it was the reason no one had paid attention to him. Oh, what he’d do for a bloody working mirror right about now.
Astarion reached the wizard tower and climbed up the stairs to their bedroom. Quietly, he pulled out his night clothes. He stepped into his thin cotton pants. His hands probed at his skin, the curve of his hips, down his ass and thighs. Was it more pronounced? His thighs were wider, he was sure. When he leaned down to pull his shirt over his head, he saw how his belly formed into two small rolls. The bottom roll lapped over the stretchy waistband. There had never been enough skin over his belly or sides to form such creases. Godey’s voice echoed in his mind: You were always sharp, little one. Sharp enough to cut yourself.
Astarion’s mouth went dry. This new softness had been a comfort before. A sign he’d left behind his past, but now he wasn’t so sure. How much was too much?
He curled up under the blanket, back turned to Gale’s sleeping form. The wizard hadn’t said anything. His demeanor hadn’t changed in and outside the bedroom. His lover was still as enthusiastic as he had been at the beginning of their relationship. But Gale was not the most observant person when it came to such matters.
Astarion cupped his small belly, the new softness there. Gale was bound to notice and what then? Astarion had pulled him in with the same lines he used on any mark. They’d flirted, argued, and fucked from the Shadow Cursed Lands all the way to Baldur’s Gate. It had been months before he’d let his guard down and allowed Gale a glimpse at who he really was. The wizard had fallen in love with the sharp quick-witted rogue that cut a fine figure, and not the lay-about elf that had grown too soft.