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The moment your tongue brushes the seam of his lips he reels back like you've punched him. His eyes are blown wide as he clambers off of your lap, his movements jerky and so unlike his usual grace. Horror flickers over his face before the facade covers it up. It’s a mask you know well; the same one he was wearing when you met. You had hoped you wouldn’t have to see it again. You desperately want to dig your fingers into the gaps around its smiling visage and rip it off. Forgiveness would not come cheap if you did, so you keep your hands gripping the bedclothes under you.
“Well, while that was absolutely wonderful you must be dead tired after the night we had,” he says the last part with a smirk that feels all too rehearsed. The night had largely been a bust, the books you poured over yielded little in the way of any vampiric knowledge. “Pretty little things like you need their beauty sleep.” As he stands you can see the way his hands are shaking, it’s almost imperceptible but you’ve seen those same fingers pick a lock with such steady precision.
“Astarion, wait… please.” Keeping your voice gentle is hard, it would be all too easy to get upset, to raise your voice, to chastise him for not telling you what’s going on. But you don't, he doesn’t need to be berated on top of the turmoil bubbling inside his brain. He freezes in place, arms coming to rest behind his back automatically— before he slumps, all the air coming out of his lungs in one big whoosh. “Can you tell me what’s wrong, love? I…worry when you get like this.”
He sinks back down onto the bedroll, keeping a safe distance from you. The twilight bounces off his sallow skin, making the under eye bruises clash with the rest of his desaturation. He looks so tired.
Something heavy and unspoken hangs in the silence around you. At this point in your relationship, guessing what might be troubling him is easy, having him say it is the excruciating part. Once you learned how to read him, he wore his heart on his sleeve.
“Nothing can get past you can it, darling?” A hollow laugh rings out of his throat. “Sex is just sex, always has been, always will be. So why—”
You let him gather his thoughts, leaning back against your pillow, you’ve learned not to crowd him, with bodies nor words.
“I just…I was so fine with all of this before! And—and now I've killed Cazador and I should be better,” tears of frustration pool at his waterline, the surface tension holding strong. He still hates to cry in front of you, but the dam was bound to burst. “I fixed it, didn’t I? I did the right thing. So why does it feel like I am ten fucking steps behind where I was with him?” His fingers curl into fists, nails biting into his palms. It’s times like this you’re forced to remember how young he was when he died. To humans it might have seemed like he lived a fairly full life before Cazador sunk his teeth into him, but to elves, thirty nine years is merely a blip.
He sniffs with an air of false composure. “One step forward, two steps back, it seems.” You can feel his carefully crafted walls close around him again, an easy smile sliding on his lips. His eyes are still wet but they're starting to harden, starting to adopt that edge that betrays his anxiety.
"It's not a sin to feel, Astarion," you sit up on your knees, your fingers lightly brushing his hand where it rests on his thigh. Touch just for touching's sake. "It's also not a sin to take your time with this, if you need me to back off, please just tell me. I'll still be here when you feel sure enough to continue."
Sitting in silence, you rub your thumb along his wrist, where his pulse would be thrumming if he had blood. His cold flesh slowly warms with your body heat. His voice is small and fragile when he speaks, “And if I never feel sure enough?”
Your heart cracks, shattered pieces of it embedding into your lungs. His eyes won't meet yours, darting around the treeline at the edge of camp, he’s looking for an exit route. You squeeze his hand. “No matter what, I’ll still be here, Astarion.”
“Back at Sharess’ I wanted to try something like that again but—truth be told I can barely remember what happened. I… I don’t think I enjoyed it but I wanted to." Brows knitted together, he tips his head back, his puncture scars stark against the column of his neck. "I want to be able to give you what you need and I can't."
You cup his cheek, turning his head towards you. "What I need isn't just pleasures of the flesh. I simply need you in whatever ways you're offering. I love you, with or without sex."
The tears start falling then, he buries his face in your shoulder, violent heaves wracking his frame. Moving slowly, you pull him close, your hand coming to rest in his curls. It's been hard on both of you, being relegated to the darkness; the sun's rays seem that much hotter. But you could still walk in the day if you so chose. That modicum of freedom was ripped away from him the moment the tadpole was terminated, slipping through his fingers like sand. You can't begin to imagine the pain of the first dawn hitting his skin.
You press a kiss to the crown of his head, inhaling the scent of him. Under all his carefully blended perfume there's a hint of rot. Overripe fruit and the metallic sting of meat, a smell that sets your teeth on edge and calms you all at once, something entirely Astarion. He noses into your neck, his tears wetting the collar of your sleep shirt. He exhales sharply, cold breath fanning over your skin, raising goose pimples in its wake. Rocking him gently, and rubbing his back, you try to convey all your love through the places where your skin meets. Nose to neck. Hand in hand. Your foot brushing his. An unspoken “I love you”.
When his sobs finally abate, he looks up at you, tears still staining his cheeks.
“I think… I’d like you to kiss me again.” He says, wiggling free of your embrace.
“Okay.” You say.
You brush a stray droplet away from his cheek before leaning in. When your nose brushes his, he smiles; watery and mercurial. Your lips meet and you give him time to move away. Instead he pulls you closer, melting into you. His mouth is cool and he tastes of salt and iron. It's a sweet and chaste thing, no expectations or implications. Just a kiss. He pulls away with a sweet sigh, lashes fluttering.
Milky morning light starts to filter through the tent flap. You want to see him in the sun again. Face upturned, basking in the warmth, illuminating the traces of a man long gone. But as you sit with him in the shelter of canvas and leather, you find you like your Astarion better. As beaten down and bloodied as he had once been, he’s allowing himself to heal—to regrow.
He lays beside you on the bedroll, his hands idly playing with the embroidery on your sleeves. He gives them a little tug, you huff fondly—he's like a kitten when he's tired—and you settle next to him. His eyes are closed and he looks serene, content. Almost as if he can feel your gaze on him, one eye peeks open. A lazy smile curls on his lips, real and comfortable.
“I hate to say it,” He says—drowsiness coating his words like honey—and rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “But thank you. I know exactly where I'd be without you, and, if I’m being honest, I vastly prefer this.”
You can't resist pressing another gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. The very same side you saw your blood drip from the first time he fed on you. You pull back to see his lips curled up, his smile lines creasing like soft velvet. He cuddles into your chest, absorbing your heat. A mountain of blankets had become a necessity.
He slips into trance just as the sun peeks it's head over the horizon. Buying a triple lined tent hadn’t been kind on your savings. But it had been well worth it, you’d found out fairly early that innkeepers tended to see your nocturnal routine as suspicious. Now you could set up camp wherever you pleased—provided Astarion vetted it thoroughly first—and wake up to the moon rising in peace.
The weight of his body on yours lulls you to rest. Dreaming only of him, the sun, and sweet kisses.