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They try to lighten the mood the best they can. They jest because that’s what he’d want. They recall stories of their journey and all else that followed when they got to reunite with the pair. Tales of Staeve tripping up very easily caught traps, jokes on Staeve’s wit, stories on what a brave, brave man he was.
And no one blames Astarion for it when he cannot join in with fond tales of his adventures with Staeve.
For they understand. Astarion has lost his best friend, his beloved.
But they still try and he doesn’t fault them for it. They don’t try to get him to join in. They just tell him just how much they loved Staeve and how this stupid, rambunctious, and kind man helped shape them.
It takes Halsin nudging him for him to thaw, blinking slowly at him.
“A toast,” he offers, handing him the bottle. “To Staeve.”
Everyone cheers when Astarion pours it out over the soil. He feels no mirth but he knows his beloved. He would’ve opened his stupid maw, accepting every drop. And he would’ve kissed all their faces, thanking him so much for attending his own funeral if he could.
But he cannot.
Everyone leaves, offering their last condolences in their own way as Astarion stares at the grave for a little longer. He stands there, reading Staeve Brimstone on the grave. His eyes stay glued to it, because he feels like if he tears his eyes away, so will all his memories of Staeve. All of him will disappear. He knows that’s not true. He knows it’s irrational. But the thought of walking away feels like torture.
“I will stay with you overnight,” Halsin offers, sweetly. But Astarion cannot do it. He shakes his head, squeezing Halsin’s hand for a moment in gratitude. It’s large and warm and he wants to take that warmth in and allow himself that comfort but it’s different. Wrong, in a way.
“I need to do this myself.”
He doesn’t try to stop Astarion, knowing fully well that he needs his own space to thaw from this too. He kisses his hand, offering his condolences once more and reminds him he is here for him, shall he need it.
There lies the problem. Astarion knows what he needs. But it’s something he can no longer have.
When he finally tears his eyes from the gravestone, he finds himself standing in front of their dark blue door, adorned with a cute little stained glass window Staeve made for him for some anniversary.
Their home is more modest than he’d like. He remembers the day they decided to get the little cabin, large enough to house all of Staeve’s creations, large enough to dance in, but small enough that every nook and cranny was filled with parts of them. Parts of Staeve.
This is his home. He does not need to ask permission to go inside. And yet, he’s not sure if he can give himself that permission. The cold metal of the doorknob almost shocks his skin and he holds it, like if he holds it long enough, it’ll turn itself.
‘What’re you doing out here?’ Staeve asked once, opening the door before Astarion’s hand had fully reached the doorknob. ‘It’s cold.’
Not that Astarion could feel it much. He shrugged and Staeve beamed anyway, tapping his neck.
‘Welcome home, baby. Got your favorite meal ready for you.’
No one opens the door. He has to do that himself now. So heavy hearted, heavy handed, he finally does and it’s dark. It’s dark because Staeve isn’t here to light a fire or use his little gadgets to brighten the room. But he needs some normalcy so he does it himself, lighting the fire in a fireplace Staeve built for them with his own hands.
It burns brightly and the smell of smoke fills his nostrils and for just a singular second, it feels right.
“I’m home,” he says, even though no one is there to answer. There is a knot in his throat as he waits and waits and waits. His lip quivers and he has to bite it to stop himself.
‘How idiotic, ’ he thinks, punishing himself for… for what? For marrying a half-drow? For falling in love? Part of him says yes, yes, he should . In fact, he could break down into tears. He should do just that. No one is there to see it. But the ice in his veins find their way to his tear ducts and wills it against him. He does not do it.
He has too much to do.
So he doesn’t bother sitting down. He doesn’t rest his weary legs. He can’t… take the time to lay in their bed. He can’t take the time to think about the loss of the best part of his heart ripped from him. Instead, he rolls up his sleeves and brushes a hand through his hair, taking the time to clean.
He starts with the dishes that held Staeve’s last meal, washing the plate quite easily. His husband knew not of waste, finishing every little drop he could– even if it was just to show Astarion he still could. He takes it a step further, polishing the cutlery and drying them before he places them back in the drawer and even then, he hesitates for a second.
How foolish he must look, clinging onto the last bits of life Staeve had off a fucking fork.
It makes quite the racket against the other forks and it takes more strength than it should to close the drawer.
He can do this.
He starts with the table, tempted to break the whole thing down and throw it out the gods damned window because only one of them even needed it for a proper meal. But he’s sure Halsin or whoever else will end up visiting him, sure to check if he’s starved or dying so he really shouldn’t discard it.
Instead, Astarion will just wipe the table down. He takes their tablecloth, the bedsheets, Staeve’s fucking pile of clothes– but then he stops. Long fingers hover over Staeve’s pillow and he just stares at it, like he can materialize Staeve in it, old and dying, because that’s better than its current state now. It does not work so instead he flattens his hand on it, willing it to be warm underneath his frozen palm. That doesn’t work either.
He’ll leave the pillow. It’s fine.
Astarion thinks about it. There’s an ache in his back as he stands there, armful of Staeve’s scent… but he doesn’t dare sit on the bed, for he knows he will not be able to stand back up if he does.
Instead, he drops them all unceremoniously on the floor and ignores the feeling of loss as he puts down a new set, cotton soft and fresh and yet… And yet, he feels wrong for it. It no longer has that invitation of warmth, of comfort.
Once, it was theirs. And now it’s… it’s simply a bed.
Still, he fluffs Staeve’s pillow, placing it neatly on his side of the bed and brushes fingertips over the fabric. It’s not soft, rough from years and years from constant use, but it still brings a moment’s comfort.
Washing everything is a task done by hand and it’s arduous. It’s the first time he allows himself to sit, if only to lean over the washing basin. He starts with the tablecloth, moves onto the bedding, allows himself to get up to hang it on their little clothesline, and it’s all very fucking monotonous. Wash, rinse, squeeze out the excess, hang.
And then he gets to Staeve’s clothes and he has to stop himself from enveloping himself in Staeve’s sweaty clothes and the knot in his throat forms again.
‘Air out your bloody clothes after you work out, you heathen,’ Astarion used to chastise, kicking away yet another loose shirt.
‘You love it,’ is all Staeve would say in reply, blowing kisses.
He did. He fucking loved all of Staeve and all of his scents and all of his stupid shit habits. But he cannot slow his hands and he has to numb out his mind or he will actually go insane. So Astarion shakes the thoughts out of his head, cleaning every outfit they had thrown to the side because Astarion was more concerned with spending every last second with Staeve.
The pile grew. He almost wished it didn’t.
He gets to the robe Staeve passed in– a warm, soft robe befitting his old, sweet husband– and he holds it with wet hands, he grips it tighter. Astarion can’t help it. He buries his face in it, closing his eyes shut tight.
He will not cry, he will not cry. But he does put that to the side too, unable to wash it. It’s fine. Everything else can go on the clothesline and he’ll just throw the robe back on the bed for no reason at all.
No reason at all.
Halsin does visit the next day. The surprise on his face makes Astarion think he expects him to be asleep or resting but instead, he sits under the shaded patio Staeve made just for him. He blinks, slowly, looking up into the sky. Bright blue with fluffy clouds. Full sun.
“Astarion?”
Astarion still doesn’t look at him, slouched in the little swinging bench made just for him.
“I need to bring the laundry in,” is all he says. They blow a little in the gentle breeze. Of course, Astarion cannot bring the clothes in for the sun touches it. He stares and stares and he gets so frustrated because it’s just one of the many other things Staeve would do so he wouldn’t have to. It’s irritating.
“Would you like me to help?”
It’s the first time Astarion looks at him and he frowns. He’s not sure how he looks but he feels fucking drained.
“If you don’t mind.”
He doesn’t allow Halsin to assist him with folding the clothes or putting them away. He chastises him, chasing him to sit at the table while he does all the work himself. He’s quite grateful for Halsin not insisting. It might be stupid, putting away Staeve’s clothing but he wants to. He should donate them. He’s sure one of Halsin’s many adopted children could do with them but also fuck them. He’s not ready to part with them just yet.
He sees Halsin look around, noting how everything’s generally in order– The bed is neat, unslept in, and their kitchen is clean. Everything is clean except for one area.
Staeve’s work desk. He cannot bring himself to touch it. To see the unfinished plans that have laid there for the past decade as Staeve declined.
“Have you rested?” Astarion knows Halsin knows the answer and yet he still shakes his head.
“I… I needed to clean,” is how he answers. He needs order. He needs something to do. Or he’ll think about the years he had with Staeve. They were good years. Great years. But Astarion isn’t done. He has so much more to tell him.
“You need rest, little star,” Halsin says instead.
Astarion hesitates, looking at the bed, hosting Staeve’s used pillow, used robe, and he says nothing. He has nothing to say yet, he has too much to say. Fortunately for him, Halsin seems to understand completely. Bless his heart, for Halsin starts moving over to the giant rug they have by the fire and pulls Staeve’s robe and pillow over and lays down.
“Come,” is all he says. If Astarion cries in his arms, Halsin pretends he does not feel them. He does not smell the salt from his tears. In his exhaustion, Astarion sleeps with Staeve’s pillow curled in his arms.
He does not lay in their bed. He does not wash the robe, still holding onto the smell of his husband. He does not touch the work bench, covered in layers of dust. It’s fine.
It takes him a lot longer than he expects to visit Staeve again. But he does, kneeling in front of his grave with another little shot and flowers he never thought he’d place down.
How people find comfort in this, he’ll never understand. He misses Staeve’s wit, his silly replies, his soft words when Astarion is extra prickly– gods, he misses Staeve.
His wedding ring shines under the moonlight as he brushes dust off the gravestone, staring at the name like he can will Staeve back to say something if he tries hard enough. And he’s been trying hard. He cleans, he keeps Staeve’s pillow close, even though it’s starting to lose its smell. He opens the door, lights the fire, has a glass of blood Halsin leaves for him, and reads or hunts or stabs something just to feel something.
But he hasn’t… He hasn’t–
“Hello, darling,” he says outloud for the first time since the morning Staeve passed. “Your death has been quite the inconvenience.”
He knows Staeve’s answer. Heartily laughter, fake apologies, the most beautiful smile Astarion ever knew.
“I miss you terribly,” he whispers and the knot comes back in his throat. He flexes his hands, placing his forehead on the tombstone. It’s cool to the touch and it still feels too fresh compared to his own.
He thinks about their last words, with love and desperation. With Astarion telling him it’s okay, he’ll be okay. He thinks about Staeve’s lips against his hands, shaky and tired, as he takes his last breath. He thinks about laying beside him, telling him how beautiful he is to this day and he loves him always. Even when Staeve is but a far memory, he will always remember what Staeve has given him.
“I am still not quite right without you. Our home feels so empty but I suppose that’s what happens when one loses his home, isn’t it?”
His home cannot answer and it hurts all the more.
‘I’m sorry,’ Staeve said, lacing their fingers together. He kissed the back of his hand, frail and soft and it made Astarion all the angrier. He buried his face further into his arms, sniffling like a petulant child because who cries over something that hasn’t come to pass yet?
Staeve had not died yet, though the signs of aging continued to grace itself on his husband’s face and body. He did age gracefully and beautifully, but he did indeed age.
‘One day, I will lose you,’ he whimpered and he knew how stupid that was. He mourned and mourned over a man who was right there.
‘I know. I wish I could stay. I love you so much.’
He keeps cleaning. Not that there’s much to clean, not with Staeve gone. Astarion isn’t normally a man who cares to keep the house that clean either, but he keeps cleaning for it’s all he can do to keep control.
Or so he thinks.
He touches Staeve’s robe, still plush, and starts sweeping. Staeve isn’t there to lift the chairs to the table so he has to do that himself. He has to bring the rug out himself to smack the dust out. He has to do… everything… himself. And that’s fine. He’s survived worse, he thinks. He has to remind himself he has survived worse.
And then he finds a stupid little bolt, underneath one of their little shelves and he loses it. He loses it because he wishes more than anything that he could yell at Staeve for leaving all the nuts and bolts and everything else around and all Astarion can do now is clean the remnants of their life away to maintain any semblance of control.
He throws it in the direction of his desk, curling up and he digs his palms against his eyes.
Selfishly, he gets angry at Staeve for being so wonderful to him. He gets angry at himself for falling for him, bright and beautiful. He gets angrier when he realizes how heinous that line of thinking is. He doesn’t even have to imagine Staeve’s reaction because this isn’t the first time this entire line of thinking has crossed his mind.
Astarion gets angrier, for Staeve never had anything to apologize for.
“Are you well?” Halsin asks during a routine visit. Astarion could hunt. Halsin does not need to be here to feed him some fucking blood. The man insists though and he has to admit, it’s more… nutritious all the same so he’s not going to fight it.
Astarion shrugs. What the fuck is he really supposed to say?
Astarion decides to curl up in his husband’s robe that night, and drinks a shit ton of wine. Just a shit ton of wine. It’s time to tackle Staeve’s desk.
There’s plenty of blueprints for just about everything Staeve’s ever made. He sits in his little chair, looking at each one with a different type of fondness he never appreciated when Staeve was working on them.
‘I’ll find a way to bring you sunlight, just you wait.’ Staeve said, beaming like that’s possible in any capacity. Astarion laughed at the time, watching Staeve make perfect little circles all over the paper.
Two years later, he created a warm sphere Astarion could touch. Just like the fucking sun.
There’s more blueprints like that. Little hearts all over the papers as he labels shit for Astarion or for their home or whatnot. He laughs at every little misspelling, smiles alongside every little smiley face Staeve draws. It takes Astarion a bit to realize he does so, just whenever he actually makes whatever the blueprint is for.
Most of them are for Astarion.
He doesn’t get much further than that for he fears he’ll ruin his dear late husband’s work with his own tears. So he flattens them, gently placing them on top of each other, and places them all in a leather bound folder Astarion bought him years ago. He still remembers complaining about the parchment, about how Staeve leaves them everywhere and they’re covered in little stains of ink and graphite. How it wouldn’t be a problem if he just used the gigantic folder he had made for him.
Staeve smiled sweetly that day, promising to do better and yet, he never did. As he aged, he still said he wanted them left out as a reminder to finally get on the damn projects he hadn’t finished.
Astarion could’ve paid better attention to his work. Should’ve. There’s not that many projects Staeve didn’t finish but he thinks it would’ve been nice to finish something for him.
Somehow, he feels like he’s lost a piece of him again, even as he presses it against his chest.
Some nights, Astarion finds himself outside with the little fake sun in his hands, warm to the touch. It burns his eyes when he curls his knees up, pressing his forehead to it. But it mimics Staeve’s warmth and he needs to hold onto that feeling for as long as he can.
It has only been a month. His husband’s voice is still so clear in his mind. His laughter, his sweet, sweet smile, his warm touch. He still remembers the feeling of Staeve’s fingers against his cheek.
Sometimes he wants to fucking riot at the thought that one day, he may forget that smile, that laughter, those fingers against his skin.
“You punish yourself,” Halsin says. He says it blankly, watching his own blood flow through to a cup for Astarion.
They’ve gotten into a new rhythm in the past– what is it now?– two months, where Halsin visits to make sure Astarion is still, well, alive. Astarion despondently waits, drinks, gives Halsin a half hearted hug, and sends him on his merry way. Each time, Halsin would pause, ask him if he’s okay,
And that was fine for Halsin. For a while apparently. But not today for some gods damned reason and immediately, Astarion bristles at the accusation.
“You’ve yet to sleep on that bed,” he accuses and unfortunately, he is correct. “I worry for you, Astarion.”
“I’m so sorry, does my grief keep you up at night?” he immediately bites back. He knows he’s lashing out. No one has ever read him so well, not since Staeve. And it feels wrong. It feels like bile.
“It is not just my heart, as much as it aches for your loss, that leads me back to you, Astarion,” Halsin says, sliding the glass over. Astarion, as irritated as he is, does drink it if only because he needs the strength to be the full terrible person he wants to be. Sure. That’s why.
“I want to be here for you, of course I do. But I am also here for Staeve as well.”
That makes him falter. He stops, mid-sip, and delicately places the drink down. Astarion says nothing, expecting Halsin to elaborate but it takes Halsin another minute or so. Perhaps he didn’t realize how much Halsin lost as well with Staeve’s passing. He blinks, once, twice, staring down at his hands and he’s yet to heal the cut he made on it.
“He knew you’d be devastated, rightfully so. We had many talks about his passing, well before…” Another pause. He sees it; he sees the same pain and inability to speak. The slight pursing of the lips as he holds back words he doesn’t truly need to. Fuck. “Well before his time started to slow.”
Ah. Astarion has no idea what to say to that. He knew; he always knew. He and Staeve would curl up at night and Staeve, drunk out of his mind, would tear up that he wouldn’t be with Astarion forever. Astarion would have to hold him, remind him that he’s here right now and that’s what matters. He’s done the exact same for Astarion. It was quite a vicious cycle for a bit, especially as Staeve visibly aged.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Staeve went to someone else for this, especially when that someone is Halsin.
“What… Did he say?”
“Plenty,” Halsin replies, with much affection. He reaches into his pack, pulling out a leather notebook for him. And then another one. And another one. They’re marked, prettily with volume numbers– One, two, three, four– and it stops at ten. “A project he started– one of many– for this moment. … There’s more, but I could only carry so many.”
He picks up the first and it’s worn to shit. The leather is scratched to all hells, pages are damaged, water warped. Not even the leather strap that keeps it closed can fully flatten the sheets. Even then, it’s still one of the prettiest things he’s seen, dyed in a dark pretty red. There are even stupid hearts and stars etched into the leather– surely, Staeve doodled them when he realized there was no saving the leather. Cute.
“Careful with it,” Halsin warns, though there’s a fondness dripping from his tongue as he says so. “Many of its contents can fall out if not gentle.”
Astarion pauses, placing it down, though his hand cannot part from it.
“Why did you wait two months to hand this to me?”
Halsin smiles, guiltily so. He leans back in his chair all soft and wise and Astarion resists the urge to strangle him.
“I was told to give this to you when you needed it. He feared you’d read it all immediately and lose yourself in it.”
Astarion doesn’t want to open it immediately, instead, pulling it closer to his chest. It has no warmth. It isn’t even that large. But he feels closer to Staeve with it than he has in a month. Odd.
“I haven’t read its contents,” Halsin says, leaning forward to caress Astarion’s cheek with his good hand. “It’s for you and only you.”
For once, Astarion leans in and it’s still not right, but it wasn’t as wrong as it was before.
“... I haven’t slept on the bed yet because I fear I’ll never leave it,” he finally admits, both to himself and to Halsin. “I fear I’ll delude myself into believing that warmth is still there and I’ll simply never leave.”
How illogical.
“And yet…” He wants to choke on his own words, too vulnerable for him even though Halsin is indeed, one of his closest, if not the closest companion left. “And yet, I also cannot sleep in it because it doesn’t feel right. That warmth isn’t there. That bed does not feel like mine when it was once ours. ”
Halsin understands. He can see it in his eyes, gentle and warm and oh, so terribly sad. Astarion has to look away, swirling the blood again before he chugs the rest before it coagulates. It’s the most honest he’s been since his death; more honest that he’s been with Staeve at the grave.
“I think you’ll find that his warmth will never leave you, Astarion. He is the sun to your star and you’ve been sun-touched.”
Astarion laughs for the first time since they buried him. Ironic. Perhaps that’s why everything hurts so heavily.
Halsin leaves, offering Astarion a kiss on the cheek. He feels long lashes kiss Halsin back and it’s a… familiar feeling, from a lifetime ago. It fills him up a bit– like a drop in a barrel– but a singular drop is still something. Halsin smiles, leaving Astarion to Staeve’s book and a looming silence to follow.
The moon is high and bright enough that Astarion could read it underneath its glow if he wanted to. But Halsin started up the fire, warm and inviting and it’s the closest thing he gets to the sun on his skin so it’s back to a myriad of pillows and blankets on a thick rug.
He flips through delicate pages, water stained and crinkled on every other edge. It smells like leather and Staeve and comforts him more than he imagined. He doesn’t read it, not yet. He’s careful about it, sure not to lose the little things in each page– pressed feathers, pressed flowers, little bits of pretty fabrics.. A bug’s wing, even; he found the iridescence pretty. Staeve’s voice is clear, beautiful, even with all its misspellings and little doodles here and there.
He tries not to well up but oh, he does. From the second he gets back to Hi, my love on the first entry, he tears up. His heart feels heavy, weighed by the sound of his voice in three simple words and Astarion is tempted to close the book and keep it shut. The tears still flow, even as he looks away so it's a moot point.
Fine.
Fine.
He reopens the pages and continues–
Hi, my love.
Sorry for my weary heart; I don’t want you to forget me anytime soon. Or our tales and battles and everything in between. So I thought it’d be fine to write to you now. I’m sure I have a good amount of decades before I kick the bucket!
Hold me in your heart, but not too tight that you lose yourself in the process. You are Astarion fucking Brimstone and you were so, so radiant before me and you will continue to shine without me.
Read this whenever you miss me, okay?
I am so lucky to be able to love you for the rest of my life.
Yours always,
Staeve.
He doesn’t read all of the passages. Just enough to fill the silence with his husband’s words, for he swears he can hear them clear as day.
But it does what it needs to. What he thinks Staeve meant for it to do. He cries, he laughs, and he distinctly remembers Staeve was the reason they were caught by guards that one time–
… Okay, so maybe it was totally my fault. Thanks for cleaning up my messes. Love you!
Sleep well, Astarion.
He’s not sure when- or how- Staeve had the time to write this without Astarion realizing. This must’ve been quite shortly after their battle with the guards, for there’s a little blood smear on the page.
He rereads it, over and over, brushing his fingers against the ink gently before he closes the book.
Okay.
One by one, he drags pillows and blankets back. He makes up the bed, nice and neatly the way he normally would’ve after Staeve brought the laundry in. There’s still a soft scent of natural cotton, lavender that he places in a satchel underneath their pillows. And he just stands there. For quite a while, he stands there, holding onto Staeve’s pillow alongside the book, now wrapped again in with its little leather strap.
… Okay.
He pulls the blanket back and allows himself to slide in under it. The cotton cushions him, blankets thick and heavy hugging him. Astarion blinks, once, twice, before he finally sighs and the true, full weight falls on him. His shoulders sag and the bed remains cold, for Staeve is not there to warm it for him.
But for once, it is okay. Yes, this was okay.
No, he does not need to sleep but for once, he allows himself to rest.
Ah. How lucky is he that he gets to love him forever.