The drow gets under his skin as they travel. Despite her proclivity toward heroics she could also be horribly deceitful, selfish, and a ruthless killer to those who crossed her. It was entertaining for Astarion, if nothing else. The entire world was her distraction. She had the world at her fingertips and the companions were just along for the ride. No stone unturned, no button left unpressed, no chest left locked.
The girl wanted it all. To speak with everyone, to put her hands on everything, read every book, experience every thought. Every feeling, perhaps.
Therein lies the problem. Physical closeness he could provide. It was easy, simple. The art of touch he had mastered, but the way she looked at him sometimes was foreign entirely.
The way she sauntered up night after night, sometimes only to wish him a good night, was driving him mad. Could she not make it easy on him? Be a bore like the rest?
All he wanted in the beginning was a group of allies. Someone to do all the dirty work in solving the tadpole situation. Bodies to throw at Cazador if he showed up in their camp to collect his property.
Over the years it had become easy to see his marks as just that, targets. No feelings, no stories, no fucking tadpoles making things complicated. Just empty compliments and even emptier sex. It was easy to turn them over to Cazador, to see them as less than nothing.
The tadpole refused to let him stay distant. It longed for companionship. Made it impossible to remain impartial to any of his fellow travelers. He felt… compassion for them.
It made him feel weak. He couldn't help but imagine the things Cazador would do to him, to Syre, to the rest if Astarion fell back in his clutches. The feeling of emptiness takes over in these moments. Despair. Hopelessness from ever truly escaping his master. He was closer than he'd ever been to getting rid of his master for good, and all the little spawn could think of was the punishment he deserved for it all.
He stares at an empty mirror, contemplating the empty man who used to stare back at him. Who did the others see? Not a hero, surely. Perhaps not even a man. A monster.
Syre appears behind him, beautiful in the reflection where Astarion should've seen his own visage.
"Looking at something?" He asks, turning to the drow.
"You, of course," she says, voice full of honey. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to engage in petty vanity and failing miserably. One of the drawbacks of my… affliction."
She seems surprised. "So you walk in sunlight, can enter a house without invitation, step in running water, but you still can't see yourself in a mirror?"
"The gods are awfully fickle, aren't they?"
"Indeed." A moment passes. "Do you miss it?"
"Preening in a looking glass? Of course I do. I don't remember what I look like. My face is just a dark shape of my past. Just another thing I've lost." The mirror clatters to the ground.
She squints at him, leaning in. Astarion can feel her eyes shift from one feature to the next, taking in every detail.
"What?" He says softly. Vulnerability drips from the word.
"I can be your mirror if you would like. What do you want to know?"
"I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me." He pauses. "What you see."
She doesn't miss a beat. "Strong, piercing eyes. A dangerous smile."
"Hmm, go on."
"Perfectly curled white hair. Like a crown framing your face really."
He brings a hand over his chest in response to her compliments. "Now just tell me I'm beautiful and we can call it a night."
She laughs slightly at his candor. "You are beautiful, Astarion."
"Observant. Mirrors aren't much use, but being reflected in someone's eyes? I could do worse."
"Now, me," she says, elongating her neck dramatically and giving him a side eye. "It's only fair."
"The open adoration from your other companions isn't enough for you, eh?" She looks confused. "You don't see the way they look at you? Smitten little kittens."
Her cheeks flush slightly. "I guess not. Don't change the subject though, or I'll begin to think you're jealous," she teases.
"Right." He leans back, taking her in. "The first thing I see is the dagger tattooed on your throat, which brings me right to your neck. Soft skin positively begging for my fangs."
She clicks her tongue in disappointment. "So you view me through the lens of your own needs? Disappointing. Surely you can do better." Her tone is light, but the criticism is valid all the same.
He throws his hands up, feigning defeat. "Okay, you caught me. If I'm honest," he drawls, purposefully elevating her anticipation. "The first thing I see are the scales around your eyes. How could I not? They shimmer in different lights, seemingly changing color with your mood. Your eyes…" he continues. Syre hangs on every word. "They are dark for a drow. You look more like a dragon in certain lights."
"And?" She pries on.
"You're beautiful." He bows slightly at the words.
She smiles. "You're onto something with this petty vanity thing. I had never really considered it before."
He chuckles. "Sweet little treat, cheeks all flushed. You will come to my bed tonight, won't you?" If there is desperation in his voice, he tries to hide it.
"Is that what you want?" She purrs back at him. He is slightly taken aback at the question. What he wants doesn't matter. What he wants most is simple: safety, peace, freedom. Then there was the matter of the drow's blood. The electricity in his belly and the way his insides churned when her eyes were on him.
It was no matter. He pushes the thought away, refocusing.
Safety, peace, freedom. Survival.
"Well of course, darling."
Later, they give into reckless abandon as if this is the only language they know how to speak. Lust is burdensome, and time moves slowly. The pair sweats out their sins together, inviting each other into the depths to tear themselves apart, bone and flesh, tragic and magic. Each is present, and yet somewhere else as well.
And way down they go. Heads below the surface of what makes sense, succumbing to only what feels sort of right. They dip, and they dip, and they dip, lower and lower. Porcelain teeth tonguing at old wounds. Heads full of dreams and demons and tadpoles, intertwined by pride and guilt. Cumming to an understanding together, but also missing the point entirely.
Gods have mercy, each elf begs.
