Astarion had always known healthy as a distant, abstract term—like the plump little rats he once drained in the canals, their blood rich but unremarkable. Healthy, he supposed, meant thriving, whole, untouched by rot or ruin. It was a concept far removed from his reality, a cruel jest whispered behind his back. But now? Now, it clung to him like an unfamiliar coat, too snug and warm.

It was infuriating. He was the broken one, not him. How could that make for anything resembling a healthy relationship? The thought pricked at him like thorns beneath his skin. And yet, gods, it felt good sometimes. Not just good—transformative. Even strange. He didn’t stop with the sharp retorts, the teasing bite of his wit, but something deeper began to shift. Vulnerability had always been a fool’s game, and yet, there it was, creeping in like the dawn he could no longer chase.

He made him feel safe. Not just desired, not just useful, but appreciated. It was maddening. His hands worked gently through Astarion's hair, fingers threading carefully, even after his half-hearted quip about not mussing it. He should’ve pulled away, escaped from the warmth of his touch. But he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, nestled against him, his eyes fluttering closed as his touch moved over his back, tracing the scars that bore Cazador’s cruelty.

The air in the room was heavy, quiet, save for the subtle rustle of the sheets tangled around their bodies. The drapes hung low, cocooning them both from the outside world. It was a new kind of intimacy, one he couldn’t yet name. It scared him. It comforted him.

The words came softly, and he found himself answering them, almost against his will.

“Astarion,” he whispered, fingers pausing as he waited for him to respond.

“Yes?” he murmured, his voice barely above a breath.

“Are you… alright?”

A pause, a brief hesitation. Then, as if the word had crept out unbidden, he managed, “I think… I’m starting to be.”