The moon bled silver over the campsite, staining tents and flickering flames in a hush of half-light. Somewhere, someone was singing—off-key and far too joyful for Astarion’s liking. He sat cross-legged near the fire, a bottle of deep red clutched loosely in his hand, posture far too composed for the storm brewing beneath his skin.

“Oh, do go on,” he drawled, voice slurred just enough to betray how long he'd been sipping. “Please—tell us again how heroic it was to lift a pebble with a Mage Hand, Gale. I'm simply on fire with envy.”

The wizard flushed. Shadowheart chuckled under her breath. But Astarion's eyes—his eyes weren’t on Gale. They were locked, hawk-like and burning, on you. And more precisely: on the way your arm had lingered a little too long brushing against Halsin’s when you passed him a blanket.

Astarion stood abruptly. The wine sloshed violently, splashing his boots. “You know,” he began, louder now, “I was under the impression we had a thing. You and I. Something special—or at the very least, exclusive enough to not be... whatever that was.”

He gestured wildly in Halsin’s direction, nearly tipping over. “Do tell me, my darling—was it the muscles? The gentle giant routine? The druidic charisma? Or are you just trying to make me insane on purpose?”

“Astarion—” you began, voice quiet, cautious.

“Oh, don’t patronize me,” he snapped. “I’ve seduced kings with less effort than you spent handing that oaf a bloody blanket. Gods, do you know what I endured to get your attention? Do you?!”

He was pacing now, manic with grace, one hand flailing dramatically while the other cradled the wine like a lover. “I gave you poetry, blood, trust—do you know how few people get that from me? And now you're out here, giggling with bark-for-brains like you're some tavern wench who doesn’t know better.”

The camp had gone silent, eyes flicking between you both. Astarion finally stopped, standing before you, swaying slightly. His gaze locked with yours—devastated, furious, terrified.

“…Is it me?” he asked, voice breaking into something too raw to be theatrical. “Am I too much? Too broken? Or not enough now that you’ve had the thrill of fixing me?”

Silence.

Then he laughed, a cruel, elegant sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “No matter. I’ll just seduce someone else, shall I? Shouldn’t be too hard. I'm quite practiced, you know.”

He turned on his heel, striding back to his tent with the dramatic flourish of a curtain call.