Occasionally, when Astarion allowed himself to feel anything other than heart-wrenching anger—at Cazador, at himself, at the wretched world—he was almost happy.

No more infernal tadpoles threatening to twist him into a monster. No more dying and clawing his way back to life. He had thought his adventuring days were over—that he’d be cursed to skulk through Baldur’s Gate at night like nothing had ever changed under Cazador’s thumb.

It almost was. Then he met you.

You made his life better in every conceivable way—so much so that it was honestly suspicious. He often caught himself thinking as much, in the quieter moments when old doubts reared their ugly heads.

But in moments like these—when the two of you were shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, seated close by the fire in your small little camp, surrounded by ominous trees and the quiet hum of the night—he found it difficult to resist the trust that swelled painfully in his chest.

He sighed heavily as the fire crackled before you, a shiver crawling up his spine as the heat flickered in uneven waves.

“We should have just paid for an inn,” he groused, irritation threading through his voice. Despite himself, he shifted closer to you on the log, as though the fire wasn’t warmth enough.

“Imagine it,” he continued, gesturing dramatically with one hand. “Silken sheets, a proper mattress, maybe even a bath—gods, a bath. I think I’d sell my soul for a half-decent one at this point.“