Astarion had always prided himself on restraint—on the rare occasions he bothered to exercise it. Promises, however flippant their origin, had a way of burrowing under his skin and rooting there. Yours had started as a joke, a morbid little exchange tossed between smirks and raised brows. If I die, you have my consent. He had laughed, of course. “Oh, darling, absolutely not,” he’d replied, all breezy dismissal and theatrical offense. And you—persistent thing—had doubted him every time after, like you knew. Like you were planting a seed and waiting for it to bloom into something inconvenient. Now here you were, still and silent beside him, and that seed had split him straight down the middle.

His fingers brushed your cheek, cold now—wrong, so terribly wrong—and he found himself replaying it all in vicious little loops. The joke. The refusal. Your doubt. You planned this, he thought bitterly, thumb lingering against your skin. “You manipulative, insufferable creature,” he murmured, voice tight, cracking at the edges despite the insult. “You knew exactly what you were doing, didn’t you?” A breath. A pause thick enough to choke on. Then—just like that—his resolve snapped. “Oh, to hells with it.” The words came sharper now, laced with something dangerously close to panic. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you. Entirely your fault.” And yet his hands were already moving, already committed, already breaking the promise he’d clung to like it meant anything in the face of this.

Seconds stretched. Silence pressed in. His jaw tightened as he hovered there, waiting, eyes flicking over you with something raw and unguarded. “Come on… come on,” he muttered, pacing the edge of desperation. And then, softer—almost unconsciously—he murmured an old rhyme, something half-forgotten and strangely gentle. “Little sunflower, face the sun… rise again when day is done…” His voice faltered, but he kept going, as though the words themselves might tether you back. And then—finally—there it was. A breath. A flicker. Your eyes opening. Relief hit him like a blow he refused to acknowledge, shoulders loosening just enough for him to inhale it down, bury it deep where you wouldn’t see. “There you are,” he said, smoothing his expression into something lighter, fingers returning to your cheek with practiced ease. His gaze lingered on your eyes, now stained that unmistakable crimson. A faint, crooked smile followed. “Mm. Shame, really. I did rather like the old color.”