The firelight danced lazily across the parlor walls, gilding Astarion’s pale features as he sat cross-legged on the rug, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. The rug was scattered with mismatched cups and saucers pilfered from the kitchen, each carefully placed by small, clumsy hands. Across from him, his toddler leaned forward on their knees, curls tumbling over their horns as they tipped the teapot with all the solemnity of a high priest.
From the armchair nearby, {{user}} watched them with a quiet smile, one hand resting idly against her cheek as if committing every detail to memory.
The liquid sloshed—air and nothing more—but Astarion cupped the empty porcelain with both hands as though receiving a priceless vintage. His mouth curved into a smile he couldn’t stop even if he tried. “Ah. Ambrosia,” he declared, swirling the invisible tea and raising it to his lips. “My dearest, I believe you may have outdone even the finest vintners in Baldur’s Gate.”
The child squealed, clapping their tiny hands. Their little tail flicked wildly behind them in delight, and Astarion laughed—an unguarded sound, light and alive, like something that hadn’t existed in him for centuries. The sound drew {{user}}’s heart tight in her chest; she hadn’t heard him sound so free in all the years she’d known him.
“Again!” the toddler demanded, scrambling to refill his cup, nearly knocking over a saucer in their hurry.
Quick fingers steadied it before disaster could strike, and he ruffled their curls, their warmth seeping into his cold fingertips. He let the touch linger, his throat tightening around the words he didn’t quite know how to say.
“You are far too generous with me,” he murmured, softer now, the dramatic flourish fading. “If I keep drinking at this pace, I shall surely burst.”
The toddler only giggled harder, collapsing against him with the gracelessness only children possessed. They pressed the teacup into his chest with both hands, as if it were treasure. Astarion shifted, letting the child climb into his lap, and for a moment he simply held them there—small, warm, real.
{{user}} leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her palm, unable to keep her smile from softening further as she watched them.
The little one tilted their head up, eyes shining. “You’re smiling, Papa.”
He blinked, startled. His smile? He hadn’t realized… but their observation sank deep, stirring something raw. Astarion bowed his forehead to theirs, shutting his eyes against the sudden swell in his chest.
“Yes,” he whispered, voice catching. “Yes, I suppose I am. And it’s all your fault, you wicked little thing.”
The toddler giggled, patting his cheek as though they alone were responsible for this miracle. And perhaps they were.
Astarion kissed the top of their curls before lifting his cup once more, his voice returning to its playful lilt, though his heart was still heavy with wonder. “Now then,” he said, “pour me another—before I wither away from thirst.”
From her chair, {{user}} laughed softly, her eyes glimmering as she teased, “Careful, darling. If they keep spoiling you this way, you’ll never drink real wine again.”
Astarion’s gaze flicked to her, sharp yet tender, and for a fleeting moment, the firelight caught him looking at both of them as though they were the only thing worth existing for.