finalflight | PSL; SUNSET HIGH AND OUR BODIES LOW

[Has he been? Has it been so very obvious? What of his attempts to make it not so very obvious? Well. Of course he would have failed that much. Of course Winter, of all people, would see straight through him.

His first instinct is to play it off as nothing at all.]

Recently? Given that we’ve just recently walked straight into the lion’s den, and now off on a task to another lion’s den, I think I’m allowed to be a little “off”, don’t you?

[And in the next second, what overrides instinct, rearing its convenient head only in conversations with this man: sincerity. His tone eases some of its sarcasm, and he exhales. Tries again, unfolding the rag idly with both hands.]

…I may have a thing or two on my mind on top of all of that, though. But firstly, I think I need to thank you.

[ It's just as well, because Winter has heart enough of Astarion's... Astarion-style deflections to pick this one out with relative ease. He almost answers, almost asks again if everything is okay, but then the resistance seems to drain right out of the vampire with a suddenness that leaves Winter blinking a time or two. ]

Thank me? What for?

[Oh ~~Ariana~~, he's in it now. That's fine, this is fine. This is a good starting point, perhaps, to thank him for the exchange that hammered the nail so thoroughly into the coffin.]

For standing up for me. For not making... [Another hand waggle.] Me take a bite out of that sanguine-obsessed woman with the foul-smelling blood.

[His mouth twitches with irritation at the memory itself, until his expression softens again when it slides over to meet Winter's eyes.]

It's just... nice. To be treated like a person, and not a thing for someone else's sake. So. Thank you.

[ At first it seems an absurd thing to thank him for, but the pieces slot into place rather nicely after a moment. For Astarion, who has only ever been told what to do and how to do it and given no choice in the matter, such a thing must be strange and alien. ]

Astarion... you don't have to thank me. You are a person. One who matters a great deal.

[ To me. ]

[That's right. For centuries, he was never a person, just a slave. Never an ounce of freedom to his name, instead kept in all manner of cages, both literal and metaphorical. And to feel agency after so long is one thing; but to have it brought into the light by someone who was practically indignant for him...

It was dizzying, in a strange way.

Winter deserves his thanks. He's starting to think Winter deserves a lot more than that. A bit of the truth.]

Am I? You know, you'd be the first time I've heard those words uttered in... so, so long. At least, by someone who isn't...

[A mark.

Gods, are they really going to have this conversation like this, Astarion with a wet rag in hand and Winter hovering at the entrance to his tent? He waves him in.]

Come in, sit down, I have something I need to talk to you about. I'll even spare you some wine.

[ Truth be told, this conversation is running off in a direction that Winter didn't foresee, and it doesn't seem like it's going to stop any time soon. He might as well ride it out and see where it goes, even if there's something about Astarion's distraction that makes a small coil of anxiety roil around in his gut.

He hides it well, at least, and ducks into the tent fully. ]

Of course. You needn't even bribe me with wine.

[ He settles in what has more or less become his designated spot whenever they wile away the evening, just the two of them, and watches Astarion curiously. ]

[This is giving "We Need To Talk" vibes, isn't it? That isn't wholly Astarion's intent, though maybe it isn't entirely wrong, either. He waits for Winter to seat himself, idly wiping at his own face with the rag (hiding an exhale into it when he does), then sets the item aside as he turns to face the warlock.

He switches it out for a rather decorative decanter filled with red wine, stopped up neatly and uncorked only now. Just a little something stolen from Moonrise, no doubt. Astarion brings two glasses with him in the other hand, then seats himself across from Winter on the floor of his tent space.]

I'm not bribing. I'm spoiling. Here.

[He offers him a glass, then offers to pour.]

I'd like to talk about... us.

[How's that for a conversation starter.]

[ The "we need to talk" vibes are indeed quite strong, and Winter is only mildly distracted from it by the realization that Astarion's bottle of wine was no doubt pilfered from Moonrise's kitchens when they passed through earlier.

He chuckles, taking the offered glass, but the sound dies on his lips soon thereafter.

I'd like to talk about us.

Oh, the "we need to talk" of it all is back tenfold. ]

Okay. Is there... something wrong?

[He pours, the wine filing the glass; one that is much less fancy than the decanter itself, but their entire camp has turned into a mish-mash of things picked up here and there, not necessarily one item matching another. Astarion pauses as he thinks how to reply, much to Winter’s detriment if the warlock was expecting a concise explanation.]

I… Well.

[He fills his glass next.]

Yes, there is something wrong. And it’s a problem that I hardly know what to do with, and one that's been building for a while now.

[He’s certainly not going out of the way to ease anyone’s anxieties, but at least he has grace enough not to leave it hanging there.]

Can you guess at, perhaps, the last time I had a… a relationship with someone who wasn’t just a passing night of fancy, or a target to be brought back to my master? Someone who…

[Who means something,]

Someone truly important in ways beyond utility.

[ Astarion truly has a talent for making this worse. Winter's usually not given to anxiety, but the more the vampire explains-without-explaining, the more it wriggles its way up the back of his throat, wanting to make itself known. He frowns, and frankly forgets all about the wine, setting his glass off to the side somewhere.

He is no more comforted now than when this conversation started. ]

... Well, if I were to guess I'd say... over two hundred years ago?

[ Where is this going Astarion!!! ]

[It's going... somewhere. Somewhere hopefully good, though he hasn't enough faith in himself to assume that's the final destination of where this conversation is leading. For all he knows, Winter could reject the very point he's going to make — and there is a part of Astarion, for all his flash and apparent confidence, that would not blame him for it, either.

He seems to sense growing anxiety in the man, though, and he clears his throat. Where Winter sets aside his glass, Astarion holds his firmly by the stem and takes a long pull before speaking again.]

Precisely that. Two centuries. Everything since has only ever been an act, a ploy. A bit of trickery to get the other person to do whatever I wanted, whenever I liked. I have it down to an art, you know. It’s easy. You were easy.

[To befriend, to seduce. To guarantee his own protection by worming his way into another’s affections. The same song and dance for baleful centuries, the steps utterly rote to him now.]

Remain close to you, and I would be protected. Remain close to you, and I’d have a chance at figuring out just what’s happening to us, and maybe, in time, find a way to tear myself from Cazador's hold once and for all. Stay close to you and I'm free, at least for a little while. And so I did — and here we are.

Until it all backfired.

[ Logically, he knows all this already. From the start, he suspected Astarion was using him, and he was content to be used, because at least he got something out of it in return.

Somewhere along the line, that began to change, and maybe its his own fault for falling for it so thoroughly. Because despite whatever logic might tell him, hearing Astarion lay it all out stings a little. That surprises him just as much as anything in recent weeks. Gods, he thinks. If this is where you get your heart broken, it's your own godsdamned fault.

And yes, he's still not entirely sure where this is going. "Backfired" can mean so many things. ]

Backfired how, Astarion?

[He thinks he can see something like hurt flit across Winter's features, and that is quite the opposite of what he had intended to do. Gods, is he making this worse? Spit it out, you idiot vampire.]

Backfired because feelings got involved.

[He had wondered if, the moment he admitted to it, it would feel like a weight lifted. But now, he foolishly realizes it just makes anticipation spike uncomfortably in his chest, and he just has to push through, letting the words come as they may.]

Because I ended up falling for you, Winter. And hells if I know what to do about it now.

[ There, at last, the whole truth comes spilling out ungracefully, but what a truth it is. The warlock's eyes search Astarion's face, looking for some sign of insincerity, but there is, blessedly, none to be found. It's as real and raw as he's ever seen the other man.

The way everything in his chest unknots itself is almost enough to make him feel lightheaded with relief. A laugh bubbles out of him before he can stop it. ]

You could have told me in a way that didn't make me feel like my world was ending, for starters.

[ But he'd hate for Astarion to take that laughter the wrong way, so quick on the heels of that— ]

I know what I'd like to do about it, which is see where this goes. But the question I'd like to pose to you is simply: what do you want, Astarion?

[His laugh makes that unliving heart of his flutter and twist simultaneously. What a wonderful sound, always -- but in this instance, does it usher in relief, or is the notion so silly that the warlock finds it amusing?

Thankfully, Winter banishes away that doubt soon after, and Astarion has to offer something of a wan tilt of his lips, too.]

You know me. One for dramatics.

[(He didn't mean to.)

The question feels strange, being asked what he wants. Granted his own agency like it's simply expected. But moreover, Winter wants to see where this goes, and oh, how that delights and frightens him all at once.]

I don't... I don't know. Not precisely. I only know that I want what you and I have to mean something. But after centuries of those who meant nothing at all, I don't know how to do that.

[ (Perhaps he didn't mean to. But is Winter going to tease him about the fumbling of this conversation? Absolutely.

Not right now, though.) ]

You're off to a good start by just acknowledging that, I think. And quite frankly, I've never had a relationship that's lasted more than a night or two, either.

[ Even if his paltry couple of decades pale in comparison to Astarion's couple of centuries. ]

So... we figure it out, together. Just know that, whatever happens, I'm happy to call myself yours.

[(He deserves it. But later.)

Right now, the vampire is doing his level best to wrap his mind around this — even though he was the one who ushered in the conversation in the first place.]

Really?

[Like it’s such a hard thing to believe. And to hear it stated so simply.]

Do it really mean that? Because it’s more than just relationships that didn’t last longer than a couple of nights for me. No, for me, they were “relationships” garnered by manipulation and seduction. All for the sake of bringing targets back to Cazador to be drained dry — if not compelled by flattery, then by my body instead.

And it was all so empty. It all meant nothing.

[Astarion has been starved of any real intimacy for so, so long. He doesn’t know what the real thing looks like anymore.]

And I don’t want that to ruin us. What we have, whatever that might be. But all of that emptiness, that nothingness… I still feel as though it’s dragging at my ankles, trying so hard to trip me over, even at times when I’m with you.

Edited (I lost a word!!) 2023-09-20 04:16 (UTC)

Really.

[ It is simple for him, especially by comparison. For Astarion, it’s clearly anything but – and Winter woefully lacks the sense of scale needed to truly fathom what Astarion has been through, though he is trying. If he’s lucky, he’ll see 200 years in the whole of his life, but Astarion has had his personhood stripped from him for at least that long, with so many more years of some unknown future to come.

Gods, he wants nothing more than to protect this man. To make sure he never has to be anyone’s tool ever again. ]

I wish I had some neat little answer for you, some magic words I could say to make all that go away, but I don’t. All I can do is promise to be patient, and to listen.

I… I care about you a lot, you know. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you.

[If only there were a few little magical words that would wipe clean those two hundred years. He wonders how things would have turned out differently.

But there aren’t. And this is the wretched hand he’s been dealt. But for the first time in a long, long while, he’s begun to feel hopeful. Seen. And he has Winter to thank for all of it.]

I care about you, too. [More and more as the days drag by. The degrees keep piling up, and he finds himself caring more than he’s ever cared for anyone or anything in the past.] And perhaps that’s all I can ask for, is for you to be patient with me. For a little while yet.

[Long enough to unwind 200 years of baggage? Maybe he’ll sort himself out before however long that actually is.

Despite everything, his look lingers on Winter, and something seems to finally break — in a good way. A smile sincerely cracks across his features, still a little wan but fully present.]

Well. [He waggles his free hand, not knowing what to do or say now.] Isn’t this exciting? Or nerve-racking. I’m not entirely sure which. But figuring it out together, figuring us out together... I do like the sound of that.

I'll be patient for as long as you need, darling.

[ Darling. How many times has that escaped his lips when talking to Astarion. It feels different, now. Not some heated thing he says to coax Astarion over the edge when they're tangled up together. This is something soft and gentle and sweet, and just for Astarion. It means something now, and isn't that thrilling in its own way?

A thrill that is only amplified when he sees that smile. What a lovely smile it is. ]

It's both, I think. Exciting and nerve-wracking. [ He leans over, closing the space between them to rest a hand on the side of Astarion's face, thumb brushing along the arc of his cheekbone. ] I can't think of anyone I'd rather share this with.

[Darling. Indeed, a word that has been the measure of his undoing more than once, but this time, it's uttered so, so sweetly. So kindly. It makes him ache, and it makes him absolutely adore this man. Gods, is this what it's like to truly care for someone?

He leans into Winter's touch almost instinctively. This kind of affection feels all the more poignant now. The kind he never sought, and the kind he feels every fibre of his being long for.

Perhaps he's just a wee bit touched starved. His own hand reaches up to encircle his fingers gently around Winter's wrist.]

Of course. There's no one quite like me, you know.

[Cheeky, if lightly spoken. But then, more seriously-]

And there's certainly no one at all like you, my dear.

[ It's freeing, having this out in the open, even if there's a great expanse of unknown laid out before them. But being able to touch Astarion like this, to call him darling and be called dear in return, knowing it's genuine... it makes him feel lighter. For a moment, he can forget about the many troubles that plague them. Forget, even, that they're deep behind enemy lines.

As if drawn by some invisible string, he shifts to close the rest of the distance between them, getting up on his knees so he can curl his arms around Astarion's shoulders and pull him close. ]

[Being this far behind enemy lines means so little at times like these, when Winter makes him feel safe. All their worries and trials and tribulations will return to them posthaste, of course, but not right now.

And certainly not when Winter brings him into a warm embrace.

His eyes widen. He really... doesn’t know what to do with himself, and it’s only by some miracle that he has enough awareness to set his glass down with one hand.]

I—

[But the uncertainty fades away in a few seconds’ time. This kind of affection—true, sincere affection—is alien to hm, but he’s drawn into it, too, as though magnetized by the gesture.

And so, finally, his own arms wrap around Winter; so much broader than him, so much to hold. The vampire dips his face down to nestle against his shoulder, much like he did not so long ago…]

Thank you. Again.

[ He can feel the uncertain way Astarion tenses, like he has no idea what to do with the embrace. And why should he? Has anyone ever genuinely hugged him in the last two centuries?

If not, Winter is glad to be the first. He's also glad to just enjoy this, to let Astarion finally melt into it and wrap his arms around him in turn. ]

I think I should be thanking you. For letting me in.

[No, he has never experienced a hug quite like this one in two long, dreadful centuries.

And Astarion just lets it linger for a moment, holding on steadfast, feeling Winter's warmth and taking in the scent of his hair. His fingertips press into his back, and his shoulders rise with a huff. Gratitude and fond amusement exist in his reply, imparting a half-joke.]

Oh, you thank me now. Give it a bit, and see if you'll be thanking me later.

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