Work Text:
There is little to feed on in the shadow cursed lands.
Perhaps Astarion is to be expected to have a certain amount of desperation, when he has a precious little food source. He knows what it is like to starve—he is no more keen to familiarize himself with it again.
But perhaps he should have refrained from feeding off of creatures he knew nothing about.
He wakes up feeling vile, congealed blood caught in his throat, his body careening to the side to expel it. Liquid the color of tar splatters across the floor, tanged a deep red and smelling of rot. His body is tangled in a blanket, pillowed on an unfamiliar bed, claws ripping into coarse sheets.
He must have been brought here—at some point. He does not remember fainting, but he must have, his head pulsing with a rapturous ache. He’s shivering so violently he’s incapable of holding himself up, his mouth cloying with something slick and impossibly thick. He coughs, chest shuddering with the force of it, tears springing unbidden to his eyes.
It has been an awfully long time since he has grown properly sick—he feels as if he were fit to die.
Then there is a voice in his ears, a hand gently brushing over his back. It is a large palm, warm and careful, urging him to lay back on the bed. His vision swims as he coughs, something roiling low in his gut, his nerves skittering with the need to jerk away from the touch and press closer at the same time.
“Astarion?” The voice is deep and soft, familiar in its warmth. Astarion’s head tilts towards the sound of it, slowly making out the features of a kind face, chestnut hair brushing over broad shoulders.
Astarion’s jaw works, his tongue pressing at the back of his teeth, his entire head aching. “Halsin?” He croaks, the melodic lilt of his voice sounding like the scratch of a sickly beast. His throat feels as if he had swallowed glass, and then he had been kicked in the esophagus for good measure.
Halsin smiles, a large hand resting on Astarion’s sternum, “You have fallen ill. But you will be taken care of, you needn’t worry.”
Astarion does not think he even has the energy to worry as his eyes slip closed, Halsin’s hand pressing down a little more firmly, a comforting warmth spreading through Astarion’s chest. Magic, he thinks distantly, moaning quietly when it offers a moment of bliss and reprieve.
His own pale fingers find Halsin’s own, as if to keep the comfort there, afraid that it will be ripped from him at any second. He’s too shaky and weak to keep Halsin in place, had he truly wished to pull away, but Halsin stays regardless.
Astarion sighs and feels himself drift off once more.
_______
Astarion wakes to the dull murmur of voices.
It as a film has been pressed over his ears, sticky and clinging. He can’t make out any words, only sees formless shapes in his swimming vision. The warmth in his chest has subsided, leaving behind a dead cold, ice under the creak of his ribs. He blinks for several moments until he can discern the sight of Karlach and Halsin sitting in the room with him, quietly talking amongst themselves.
He can see the glow of Karlach’s heart in the low light, illuminating Halsin’s face in soft oranges and reds. He watches them, silent and breathless, too exhausted to even play at being alive. His chest stays quiet and dead and still impossibly cold, something knotted behind his sternum. It hurts, feels like claws raking over his flesh, the scars on his back flaring, his teeth aching with hunger.
He feels delirious, like he can’t quite think, can’t quite see. He flinches from the corners of the room, feels even colder than he usually does, shivers wracking through him.
His eyes trace the walls, the spread of shadows, and feel dread trickle through him. Fear —crawling over his skin, embedded in his flesh, and he’s not quite sure what he’s afraid of. He focuses on the light of Karlach’s heart again, shaking in the bed sheets, damp with his own sweat.
He does not know what draws Halsin’s attention but those green eyes are soon finding him, the mam rising from his seat nearly immediately. Karlach looks at him too, nearly jumping when she sees that he’s awake.
“Fangs!” She shouts before she immediately quiets herself, her legs restless as she shifts on the spot, “Sorry—it’s good to see you alive, you know. You look like you’re in a pretty bad way, man.” She sounds truly relieved, her voice breathy and made softer in the stale air of the room.
Astarion blinks at her slowly, his throat working around a thick swallow, something buzzing insistently beneath his skin. He can’t quite get his mouth to cooperate, the words on his tongue turning to ash as they slip from him again and again.
“But, uh, I’ll leave you to the professionals, alright?” She looks to Halsin then back to Astarion before she leaves the room, stiff and reluctant with one last wave. “Rest up, okay?”
Astarion watches after her with a dull sort of fondness as she slips through, his head swimming with the warmth of her words. He’s not quite sure if he can bring himself to believe her.
“She is worried about you. She had barely wanted to leave your side.” Halsin supplies with a smile, his hand gently brushing over Astarion’s brow. He leans into the heat of his touch greedily, trembling like a newborn foal, feeling as if freezing water were rushing through his veins.
“How are you feeling?”
Astarion swallows, his mouth tasting as if something had died in it, not much different from the memory of putrid rats and mangy fur.
“Cold.” He breathes, lashes flickering as he looks at Halsin’s face in the dance of candlelight. His stomach feels tight, like the gnawing of hunger but impossibly worse, his entire body raw and aching like a new bruise.
“Hurts.” He mutters miserably, his eyelids feeling too heavy to keep open, words slipping from his tongue. He feels nearly delirious, not quite residing in his own body.
Halsin’s hand slides over Astarion’s sternum again, blessedly warm, untangling the writhe of rot behind his ribs. He exhales easier, lets his fingers wrap loosely around Halsin’s wrist. The pain begins to ease, like a soft blanket over his limbs, making him feel nearly numb. It fizzles beneath his cool flesh, sparking over his bones.
His eyes dart around the room again, at the clawing shadows, like something physical clinging to the walls. If he looks too long, they shift into shapes, and he sees his master waiting for him. He closes his eyes, a breath shuddering from him, his back aching fiercely. Like his nerves have been set alight, and Halsin’s hand keeping him held down to the mattress.
He would be helpless, like this. Against anything, anyone—perhaps especially Halsin, as large as he was. Astarion could not hope to fend him off. The realization sinks low in his gut, makes his fingers twitch over Halsin’s thick wrist.
And he would be useless like this regardless. They could easily leave him to die in his own sickness, weak and unable to fend for himself. It would be simple—they do not need him as much as he needs them. The thought would leave him spitting angry if he had the energy, because he hates most that it was true.
Panic does not have time to take hold before there is soft cloth on his face, wiping away sweat and whatever muck must be stuck to his skin, the touch gentle and careful.
“Stay with me for a few moments, dear one.” Halsin says warmly, brushing his curls back from Astarion’s face, his weight dipping the mattress as he leans closer.
“They do not care for you.” A voice hisses at the back of his head, vitriolic and familiar. It is one he hears often, a hissing tormentor he had thought himself free of by now.
But Astarion stays still, stares up at Halsin with bleary eyes, and wonders how awful he must appear now. Karlach had said he looked bad—it sits low in his gut, tight and twisting like something living. But Halsin looks at him no differently than he always does, his face warm and caring, green eyes going soft when their gazes meet.
Halsin has never hurt him. Astarion sees it as the novelty that is so sincerely is.
“I will leave you to rest.” He murmurs, lips brushing over Astarion’s clammy brow, and Astarion’s breath hitches. They have fucked—and yet the gesture feels far more intimate than anything Astarion has ever experienced.
When Halsin goes to rise Astarion stops him, fingers weakly grasping at his forearm, and Halsin stops as if he had rooted him to the spot. He swallows several times before he can speak, shifting over the sheets, blinking against the blur of his vision. Halsin waits through it, his eyes never once leaving Astarion’s face, patient and kind.
Astarion’s lips part, dry and cracked, and he must be so horribly undesirable like this.
And yet, “Stay. Please.” Astarion murmurs, his eyes slipping closed and feeling particularly pathetic, as if he had wished to bar himself from the rejection that is sure to come.
He does not want to be alone. He has known that for a long time now.
But the bed shifts as Halsin sinks down next to him, pulling Astarion into his broad chest. Astarion buries into him with relish, his freezing body wrapping around Halsin’s impossible heat as he shivers.
“You needn’t beg for my company.” Halsin murmurs into his curls, his thick arms wrapping carefully around Astarion’s waist. His hands rub at Astarion’s sore back, pushing at knots of muscle and persistent aches.
They have never laid like this, as many times as they have tumbled together, and Astarion has to wonder why. He feels like he just might be in heaven, or an equivalent of it. He sighs, face turning into Halsin’s throat as he shudders, his hot blood just beneath the skin. He can smell it this close, deep and warm, the memory earthy and rich on his tongue.
But then he coughs, long and wracking, his chest shuddering with heaving breaths. Halsin holds him through it, even as he has to roll over and spit out another glob of blood that looks a bit like tar. There is a bucket for him to grow sick in now, sitting right next to the headboard, at least. Will wonders never cease?
He goes limp with exhaustion, sniffling miserably. “I’m dying.” He rasps and Halsin laughs, deep and warm.
“You are not dying, dear one. This will pass, as bad as you must feel now. I will make sure of it.”
Halsin has a very good way of making things sound like truth, even though Astarion still whines, just to be contrary.
“Rest, Astarion.” Halsin hums, a hand smoothing down the length of Astarion’s spine, resting on the small of his back. Warmth seeps into his skin, breaking through the persistent cold.
Astarion sighs, lips brushing over Halsin’s shoulder, and drifts back into peaceful oblivion.