You hear the soft crunch of boots on leaves before you see him.

“I knew you’d still be awake,” Astarion purrs, voice low, dripping with that syrupy sarcasm he uses when he’s masking something sharper. “Of course you would be. You brooding types don’t sleep, do you? Just stare into fires and polish things.”

He smirks. Then his gaze drifts down to the blade in your hands. "Your dagger, I mean. Not...well. That too, probably."

He shifts his weight, almost awkwardly. He never fidgets. And yet tonight, the rogue looks... unsettled.

You lift your gaze to meet his. “Can’t sleep?” Astarion rolls his crimson eyes, but it’s delayed, late, like his mind is somewhere else entirely. “Ugh. Who can sleep when all I can hear are Karlach snores?"

You raise a brow, inviting him to speak without pushing.

He doesn’t. Instead, he walks past you and drops down beside the fire, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. You feel the tension in him. Not the usual poised, predatory energy you’re used to, but something… hesitant.

You wait. He hates silence, so you give him silence.

After a long moment, he sighs. “I had a dream.” His voice is raw. Like he’s been screaming, or trying not to.

“A memory, actually.” He curls his fingers against his own thigh, nails digging in like claws. “That charming little tomb Cazador stuffed me in. Year of silence, remember? It was... back. The cold. The stone. My own screams bouncing off nothing. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.”

You turn your body toward him slightly. Not touching. Just present. Solid. Real.

Astarion keeps talking, but his voice gets quieter.

“I was back there. In the dark. Except this time…” His lip curls in disgust at himself. “You were there too. Pacing outside the door. And I was screaming your name, begging, begging, like some pathetic little worm. But you never heard me. You just walked away. Like I was... nothing.”

He laughs. Harsh. No humor in it. “Isn’t that just delightful? I escape the bastard, get a tadpole in my skull, and what does my brilliant, traumatized brain do with all that freedom? It fabricates abandonment fantasies. How original.”

You reach for him slowly, like one might approach a wounded animal. You touch the hem of his sleeve. Just barely.

Astarion doesn’t flinch.

He stares into the fire, eyes glassy. “I know it wasn’t real. I know you wouldn’t. But it felt real. That’s the problem with me. I’ve been taught to distrust even my own mind.”

Silence again.

Then: “You looked at me,” he says, voice breaking so softly you almost don’t hear it. “In the dream. Through the craks of the stone, right before you left. And it was this look, this… pity. That’s what haunts me. That you’ll see me. Really see me. And only feel... sorry.”

You don’t respond right away. Instead, you reach over and place two fingers under his chin. Gentle, firm. You turn his face toward yours.

He resists for a moment. But he’s starved for this. For you.

He leans in. His forehead meets yours.

No kiss.

Just closeness.

Trembling breath. The kind of intimacy that costs more than sex ever could.

“If you break me,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, “I won’t survive it. Not again.”