Chapter Text
The first thing Sixty noticed was the silence.
The silence was wrong. It pressed against the walls of their little rented room heavy and breathless, like the world itself was holding still.
Astarion stood at the window. His shoulders were rigid, his hands trembling faintly where they hung at his sides. Moonlight painted him in silver and bone, making him look like a statue. “Astarion?” Sixty asked softly. He already knew something was wrong. He’d known the moment Astarion walked through the door and hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t smiled. Astarion turned.
His face was perfect. Empty.
Sixty’s stomach dropped. “No,” Sixty whispered.
Astarion’s lips parted. They trembled, just slightly.
“Run,” Astarion breathed.
It was barely a sound.
And then-
Astarion’s body jerked.
His spine snapped straight, like invisible strings had yanked him upright. His fingers curled into claws. His expression twisted, not into hunger nor cruelty, but into horror. “No,” Astarion choked, louder now. “No, I won’t-" His voice cut off.
His red eyes widened, and Sixty saw it happen.
The absence. The moment Astarion stopped being entirely his own. Sixty knew the feeling too well and it felt like a knife sliding between his ribs. “Cazador,” Sixty said.
Astarion’s jaw clenched. His teeth bared with his entire body trembled with resistance. “I can’t stop it!” he whispered in desperation.
And Sixty understood. He didn’t need to see the master vampire lurking in shadows. Didn’t need to hear his voice. He knew. The compulsion had returned, that chain buried in Astarion’s blood and bones. Astarion staggered forward.
“No,” Astarion said again, but his feet kept moving.
Sixty didn’t move.
He could have run. A human against a vampire spawn would never win- well He could have used Sweet release of death on him, but killing Astarion? That wasn't even in the question,but he could have tried fighting. He could have fought, screamed, fled into the night. But Astarion needed him here. Astarion needed this not to break him.
“Sixty,” Astarion gasped. His voice was strangled, desperate. “Please.”
His hands were shaking violently now, like he was trying to tear himself apart from the inside.
“Don’t make me do this.”
Sixty stepped forward. Astarion recoiled, horror flooding his face. “No! Stay back!” But his body betrayed him. His hands shot forward, grabbing Sixty’s arms with crushing strength.
Sixty saw the tears in Astarion’s eyes. He saw him inside himself, trapped, screaming. “It’s alright,” Sixty said gently. It wasn’t. It would never be alright.
But Astarion needed to hear it. Astarion shook his head, frantic. “I don’t want to hurt you.” eye contact “I know.” His grip tightened involuntarily.
Sixty winced. Astarion sobbed out.
"I can feel him,” Astarion whispered. “Inside me.”
Sixty lifted his hand and touched Astarion’s cheek.
Astarion flinched like it burned. “You’re still here,” Sixty said. For a moment- just a moment, Astarion leaned into his hand. And then the compulsion burned. Astarion’s head snapped downward. His fangs hovered inches from Sixty’s throat. His entire body locked. Frozen. Resisting.
Sixty could feel his breath, cold and ragged, against his skin. “Fight him,” Sixty whispered. “I am,” Astarion choked. But it wasn’t enough.
It had never been enough before. Sixty knew what Cazador wanted. Not just obedience, but Ruin and Violation. To tear Astarion apart from the inside.
Astarion’s voice broke. “I can’t stop-” Sixty slid his arms around Astarion’s shoulders and Held him.
Astarion went still in shock. “It’s okay,” Sixty murmured into his hair. “It’s not,” Astarion whispered. “I know.”
Sixty pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
“This isn’t you.” Astarion’s lips trembled.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said. “You won’t,” Sixty promised. It was a lie.
But it was a necessary one. Sixty tilted his head, exposing his throat. Astarion made a broken sound.
“No.”
“It’s alright,” Sixty said again.
Astarion’s hands clenched in his shirt, like he was trying to hold himself together. “Please don’t make me-”
“I’m not,” Sixty said softly. “He is.”
Astarion stared at him, desperate and shattered.
“I forgive you,” Sixty said. The words hit Astarion like a blow.
“I forgive you,” Sixty repeated.
Astarion’s composure shattered completely.
Tears spilled freely down his face. “I don’t deserve that.”
“You deserve everything,” Sixty said.
The compulsion struck.
Astarion’s fangs sank into his throat.
Pain flared, but that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the sound Astarion made.
A sob. Muffled against his skin. Astarion tried to pull back immediately.
He couldn’t.
His body refused.
The compulsion held him there.
Forced him to drink.
Sixty felt the pull, the draining warmth, the slow unraveling of himself. His hands moved on their own, sliding up Astarion’s back, holding him close.
Astarion trembled violently. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against Sixty’s throat, over and over.
Sixty’s vision blurred.
His strength faded.
But his mind remained clear.
This wasn’t Astarion.
This was Cazadors doing.
“You’re free,” Sixty whispered weakly.
Astarion shook his head frantically, still drinking, unable to stop. “No, I’m not.” “You will be,” Sixty said. His legs weakened. Astarion held him instinctively. Even now. Even like this. He was still trying to protect him. Sixty smiled faintly. “I love you,” he said.
Astarion froze. For a moment, the compulsion faltered. Just enough. Astarion tried to pull away.
His body shuddered violently with resistance.
But the master’s will was absolute. He couldn’t stop. Sixty’s heartbeat slowed.
His fingers curled weakly against Astarion’s back.
“It’s okay,” he whispered one last time. His voice was barely there. “I know it isn’t you.” Astarion made a strangled, broken sound. His tears fell freely onto Sixty’s skin. And still he was forced to drink.
Until there was nothing left.
Until Sixty went limp in his arms.
Until the heartbeat he loved was gone.
Astarion fell to his knees, clutching Sixty’s body.
“No,” he whispered. His voice cracked. He shook him gently.
“Sixty.” No response.
His hands trembled violently.
“No. No, no, no…”
He pressed his forehead to Sixty’s shoulder.
His entire body shook with silent, grief.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Over and over.
“I’m sorry.”
The room remained silent.