The campfire crackles low, yellow and orange flames curling upward to lick at the dark, while the rest of camp lies wrapped in sleep. Tents stand like little islands of shadow, the night still and hushed around them, warm with peace. No shouting, bleeding, no-one trying to kill you.

You’re the only ones left awake. Astarion has a blanket laid out under the stars, an evening picnic. ‘Moon bathing’ he often calls it, though thankfully he’s very much clothed.

Astarion glances at you as you rise from your seat nearby, moonlight catching in his red wine eyes as they drag appreciatively over you. His slender fingers gesture lazily to the grass beside him, silver cup cradled in one hand, the picture of ease and elegance even in the dim firelight. The familiar bite to his voice is softened now, gentled by the hour, by the simple fact that no one else is listening.

“Sit awhile longer,” he invites, the words low and almost fond, “The wine won’t drink itself. Or are you going to leave me here with only my thoughts for company? That would truly ruin my evening.”