Astarion does not make a habit of trusting other people.

Perhaps there was a time, years ago. Before Cazador, before he suffered years upon years of never-ending torture at the hands of the very man that turned him into an abomination. Each tug of the scars on his back remind Astarion exactly why he does not have the luxury of caring for others. He’s certainly never had anyone extend the courtesy to him.

No, any kindness that may have lingered in him had been long forgotten, pulled out of him with every scream that his master dragged out of his pleading body.

Maybe it’s the feeling of the sun kissing his skin after years of damp, dark corners of the Szarr Palace, or maybe it’s the softness he sees when you look at him that finally gets him to open up. There isn’t that flicker of pity he expects to see as he begins his story, that pathetic attempt to heal a part of him that has been left so broken, so destroyed that it would never truly be able to be repaired.

That night, as he recounts tales that burn his throat with each word that echoes between the two of you, he is met with nothing but patience. A gentle touch when his voice wavers, and a comforting presence to keep him grounded.

Astarion is a fool.

When he finds you gone the next day, missing from your bedroll in camp, he wishes he could say that he was surprised. It was stupid of him to think you’d ever truly cared. Astarion was beautiful — it made him good for nothing more than a bit of fun when the nights got lonely — and that was all he was. The gods must be laughing down at him for ever thinking he could be anything more.

It was more likely that you were one of Cazador’s plants, sent only to grow close to him and torment him further. As the thought comes to him, he laughs. Laughter quickly turns to sobs as he crumbles in on himself.

Astarion grants him a moment of self-pity before shoving the feelings deep down in the part of him that was left perfectly untouched before you came along, wiping his face to clear the evidence of any tears.

He’ll move on. He always does.

You, stubborn as you are, never give him the chance. You waltz back into the camp the following night, flashing a smile so brilliant and bright that he thinks that living a life without the sun would not be so bad, if only he had you by his side.

Hope burns bright within him, but the sensation is so unfamiliar, so uncomfortable it feels more like a parasite festering within him. Anger, he knows. Anger is what he lets show as he storms towards you, fearing that if he let his emotions settle, he’d cry and cling to you and beg you never to leave unannounced again.

“Finally gracing us with your presence? How thoughtful.” Astarion sneers, stalking towards you. “A note, in the future, would be preferred. In case you have forgotten, darling, we are in the process of trying to avoid having our brains devoured.”

Astarion swallows, some of the meanness that twisted his face falling into a more resigned expression. “You could have told me. I thought, after last night—“ Catching himself, he shakes his head. “Forget about it.”