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Astarion knows a lot of little things about Hakkai.
He knows the warlock hates not being in control of things, but relishes the opportunity to give it away to him. He knows he puts on a brave front after Astarion feeds, but in reality he feels woozy and sluggish. He knows his kisses are careful and tender, as if he's afraid Astarion will break under his touch, being mindful of how he feels that day. He knows he can trust Hakkai to look after him, and he will watch his back in turn. He knows Hakkai can't remember much of his past, but will confide in him about the taunting, hazy ghosts that haunt his attempts at meditation.
He likes all of those little things about Hakkai. There's thousands more things, enough to fill out a book and then some, that Astarion could list about him. He had never felt this way about someone before; or rather, he had never been granted the opportunity to feel this way. Hakkai is the sun, the warm winds of the desert, a shining beacon he has found himself falling for.
Astarion also knows that the man will pick up anything that is not nailed down.
Hakkai has a penchant, a thing for picking up trinkets. There are crates littered about their campsite filled with useless things like cups and bottles and tongs. Thankfully, Hakkai is the fastidious sort, and keeps the camp supplies neatly organized away from the hordes of junk he picks up, but the warlock's corner of the camp has crates and trunks and bags everywhere.
He knows their companions know. It's a coin toss, really, whether it bothers them or they accept it. Gale is never without magical things to consume. Lae'zel seems annoyed, but Astarion knows she is grateful when he finds her a new blade or arrows. Karlach thinks it's cute, seeing Hakkai as an odd man who likes collecting shiny things, and accepts his gifts with a smile.
Astarion supposes he finds it endearing. Hakkai is like a raven, presenting his friends with shiny things he thinks they will like. And this allure of shiny things is what keeps their ire at the horde of useless trinkets at bay. But now, it's getting to be too much. Astarion isn't even sure why he keeps the things he collects.
Perhaps Hakkai did not need a purpose. Maybe the act of finding them was enough for him. But, it was beginning to overtake their camp, and therefore something needed to be done.
Astarion lounges at his tent, a book in hand. He doesn't know what the words say; he gave up trying to read the book an hour ago, waiting for Hakkai to come sleep. Hakkai had taken to sleeping at Astarion's tent more often than not, partially out of the want to be next to him, but partially because his tent was full of things that needed organizing. Astarion didn't mind; Hakkai was a light sleeper, but he slept better in Astarion's tent than alone. And it was rather nice, not being alone.
Besides, Astarion figures anyone would sleep poorly surrounded by a horde of junk.
A shadow falls over his book, and he looks up.
"Do you mind? You are blocking the light," Astarion grumbles. Hakkai smiles, eyes glowing faintly in the dying light of the fire.
"You weren't reading, anyways."
Astarion shrugs. He moves over, patting the space next to him, an invitation. Hakkai lets out a deep sigh, sinking to the ground next to him.
"I would have come earlier, but I had to sort out the camp supplies," Hakkai says ruefully, as if he hates doing such a thing. Astarion rolls his eyes. He knows that after a day of fighting and adventuring, Hakkai loves nothing more than to sit and organize things, sorting things to his satisfaction. He said once it was relaxing. Astarion can't imagine how.
"What a pity. If only there were less things for you to sort. I'm sure it would save you quite a bit of time," Astarion says, giving him a sideways glance.
Hakkai ignores him. Or maybe, he doesn't realize Astarion is teasing him. He tends to get oblivious when he feels tired and safe. And surely, Hakkai feels safe, judging by the way he leans his head on Astarion's shoulder.
Astarion sighs, closing his book. "You should make things easier for yourself," He says carefully, "Overworking yourself does no good."
Hakkai hums in affirmation. He's already half asleep, his arms crossed in front of him. Hakkai does not take criticisms of his organization well, even from Astarion. He was more likely to storm off angrily and sit until he cools off than accept such comments. But, when he is tired, he doesn't fight it. He hears it, but he does not listen.
Astarion sets down his book. "Darling, are you listening to me?" He tries not to sound annoyed, but if anyone was going to have this conversation with him, it was him.
"Mmhmm." Hakkai mutters. He is very much not listening, though not purposefully. Astarion understands; they had barely escaped from the supposed Paladins of Tyr with the skin on their backs. The warlock's mind was constantly running, constantly thinking, constantly planning, and sometimes on days like this, he simply shuts down. He wants to be safe, to not think, and certainly not receive a lecture about his looting habits.
Astarion sighs again. He gently adjusts Hakkai until his head is resting in his lap. Slowly, the warlock relaxes, sprawling out more like a cat than man.
It was time for an intervention.
—---
Hakkai rises with the sun. He always does, always had–at least, that's what he figures, if his hazy memories are anything to go by. He is usually the first to wake, followed shortly by Lae'zel, or Astarion. He stretches, wincing at the slight ache in his leg. Shadowheart had healed what she could, but there was still an ache where a sword had struck him.
He sits up, looking around the camp. He likes the mornings best, when the birds are just starting to awaken and the scent of dew is fresh on his nose. It gives him time to think without interruption, to plan, to ground himself in preparation of a new day.
Astarion dozes. Hakkai is loath to rouse him, so he silently rises to his feet, leaving his side to wander the camp.
He finds himself at his tent, and he sighs. He loves sorting the things he picks up on his travels, he really does. Jewelry and metals are inspected, and magical ones that prove no use to the party are set aside for Gale. The others go into crates to be sold off. Plates and silverware are traded off, although he keeps a collection of plates, in case someone in camp breaks one. Weapons he rarely keeps; he knows what his party prefers, but otherwise he often sells them or gives them to those in need.
It isn't just the act of collecting things that entices him, but giving them a new purpose.
With a yawn, he dresses, leaving his cape folded on top of a crate with his hat resting on top. He still has time before the rest of the camp awakens, providing Hakkai with some much needed solitude.
Sorting and organizing comes easy to him. He faintly recalls being scolded as a child for his inability to meditate; clearing his mind was an impossible task. But this, this was easy. He didn't have to think much, allowing his hands to work while his mind wandered.
Hakkai is so engrossed in his task that he fails to hear footsteps behind him. He tilts his head to the side, subconsciously aware of someone behind him.
"Good morning, darling," Astarion says, his voice soft as to not wake the others. Hakkai sets down the ring he was inspecting to tilt his head back.
"Morning," Hakkai says. His voice is gruff, the remnants of sleep still on his tongue.
He raises an eyebrow. Astarion is… expressive. It's adorable, Hakkai thinks; Astarion may not realize it, but to Hakkai, he is easy to read. And right now, he gets the sense that something is afoot. Astarion's eyebrows are knitted, his lips turned down ever so slightly. There's something like concern in his eyes, and it puts Hakkai on edge.
"What is it, Astarion?" He sighs.
'Listen... " Hakkai braces himself. He knows something is wrong now, "I really am worried about you."
"That's a first," Hakkai says. Astarion rolls his eyes.
"I understand that…you enjoy this. This…sorting deal." Astarion gestures at the unsorted crates of inventory around them, "But have you considered that this may be…a bit…much?"
Hakkai's eyes narrow. And therein lies the rub. He knows it's a lot. He can feel his muscles tighten, a knot forming in his stomach.
"And?" He hisses. He doesn't mean for it to come out angry. He doesn't know why his habits being addressed upsets him, but it does, and it has.
Astarion seems to pick up on this, and his own tone shifts to something of playful curiosity. "And? What do you intend to do with all of these things you pick up?"
He leans down, gently poking Hakkai in the middle of his forehead.
"You keep every cup and plate you come across. Don't tell me you intend to start your own inn when this is all over?"
Hakkai sputters, but his annoyance is diffused. He swats at Astarion's hand, a grin spreading across his face. He feels his eartips burn, though out of embarrassment or because he's blushing, he does not know.
"I intend to sell it for some good coin! Once we get to Baldur's Gate, I'll pawn a lot of it off. Maybe trade for clothing and weapons. I'm not just…" Hakkai waves his hands, "Hoarding things for the joy of hoarding them. I have a plan."
Astarion chuckles.
"So you intend to leave the economy of Baldur's Gate in shambles! And what if no one wants to buy those plates and cups? Or what if they're broken and can't be resold?" To prove his point, he picks up a broken mug, set aside in a pile of other broken trinkets.
"I truly believe part of the reason you pick up so much junk is because you do find it enjoyable," Astarion says.
Hakkai crosses his arms, "I do not. And I'll have you know, I like fixing broken things." He knows he looks like a petulant child, pouting like this.
Astarion looks deep in thought, a smirk on his lips as he puts his hands on his hips.
"I'm willing to bet your pack has at least twelve broken plates right now, and you don't know what to do with them."
"I–" Hakkai clamps his mouth shut. He tries to keep his voice down, but it's not working very well, "When we returned to camp I had one, and that was because my leg was injured and I was knocked over. I do not have twelve."
Astarion's smirk grows. He crouches next to Hakkai, prodding his cheek with a finger.
"I'll have you know I am willing to bet 100 gold that you have at least two broken plates still in your pack, if not twelve, like you so claim not to," He says, eyes narrowing, "And I will happily double that bet that they were not broken due to your injury."
Hakkai smirks. "Then I shall await my coin," He says, offering his hand.
Astarion laughs, shaking his hand, "Then a deal is struck. I can't wait to see the look on your face when you are forced to give me my coin."
Astarion rises to his feet, giving the warlock a pat on the shoulder before returning to his tent to get dressed for the day. Hakkai watches him go, stretching his legs before he too rises to his feet.
He'd show him.
By now, the camp is awake and dressed. Hakkai stalks down to the campfire where his pack lay. Tilting back his hat, he crouches down, taking a deep breath. He honestly couldn't remember much of returning to camp, much less what was in his pack; yesterday was a blur of adrenaline and pain that was almost too much for him to bear.
He knows Astarion is behind him, leaning over his shoulder. He's watching, waiting.
Hakkai opens his pack.
There's quite a few scrolls stuffed inside, as well as potions and elixirs. Even in his pack he tries to keep it organized so he's not fumbling for something in the middle of a fight. Slowly, he begins to take everything out. He needs to take inventory, anyways, maybe redistribute his inventory amongst the party.
Once everything is laid out, Hakkai grins. There's seven various scrolls, eight healing potions, his pouches for ingredients, two extra daggers, his pouch of gold, a vial of poison, a carafe of water, a package of explosive powder, three apples, a pair of enchanted boots, a pair of enchanted gloves, three ice arrows he meant to give to Astarion, a baguette, and a single broken plate, wrapped carefully in cloth to keep its pieces from cutting into anything.
Hakkai holds out his hand expectantly, without looking up, as he begins to repack his belongings. "My coin, please."
Astarion sighs, heavily. Hakkai feels the weight of the gold in his hand, and he grins up at Astarion.
"Pleasure doing business with you, love."
"Shouldn't have bet against him," Wyll calls out, "Thought you knew better than that."
Astarion shoots Wyll a look.
"He's right, you know," Hakkai says, looking very pleased with himself, "By the way, the ice arrows are yours."
Astarion glares down at him. He looks angry, but Hakkai knows he's not. He snatches the arrows from his hand.
"I can't believe this…well. I'm sure you're not going to remind me of this for all eternity, so let us never speak of this again," Astarion grumbles, pointing the arrows at Hakkai, "This conversation isn't over."
Hakkai throws his head back and laughs.
—--
A few days later, Astarion finds a small bundle wrapped in cloth in front of his tent, a small note attached to it.
He asks his companions if they knew its contents. None of them seem to know, only that Scratch had come back with the bundle in his mouth, refusing to let anyone take it until it was delivered. They assume Hakkai must have sent him back, as the warlock had taken Scratch and a few crates of goods and left on his own a day ago.
He sits down, setting the bundle in his lap. The note is sealed, with a hastily written 'For Astarion' scrawled across the front. A gift for him?
Carefully, he cuts through the wax seal to read the note.
'Astarion,
I'll return tomorrow. I hope Scratch delivered this safely, please give him a treat for me.
In the meantime, I found this and thought of you, but it needed some color, so I found a shop and traded a bunch of silverware for some dye. Turns out another family lost everything in a fire, so it worked out in the end. Guess picking up everything I find has its merits, huh?
I hope you like it. It matches your eyes, I think.
–Hakkai'
Astarion raises an eyebrow, but wastes no time nearly tearing the bundle apart.
Inside was a piece of crimson fabric. On closer inspection, it was a cape, its fabric light to the touch, but by no means cheap. Fabric like this was more commonly sold in Baldur's Gate, and he knows Hakkai did not venture there alone.
So where did he even find this? Astarion can only assume he took it from a corpse.
He wraps the cape about his shoulders, marveling in the comforting weight on his shoulders. It smells like Hakkai, of spice and smoke and leather, and he draws it closer to himself. He feels…safe.
Astarion sighs. He'd cut Hakkai some slack about his looting habits, just this once, if these were the kinds of things he brought back.