Chapter Text
Ah, the Elfsong Tavern. Practically bursting with people and music every night, and overflowing with food and alcohol to boot. One of several locales frequented by Astarion to lure whatever unlucky fool he seduces back to his master.
Tonight, he’s had no luck though. No one has caught his eye as a prime target yet, and he’s feeling frustrated. Or rather more anxious.
He knows full well what misery Cazador would put him through if he goes back empty-handed. His mind wanders, wondering if he’d be flayed like last time or made to walk over hot coals like the one before.
He shudders internally, trying to shut out the mental image. He has to focus. If nothing else stands out soon enough, then pick out a random, stupid-looking lightweight on sight.
Just then, his roaming gaze lands on someone new. The stranger sits alone by the edge of the tavern, sipping from a cup. Seems to be a petite young man with dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. A doubled pair of bone-white horns protrude from the crown of his head, and a whip-like tail gently curves around the chair he’s sitting in.
His face isn’t too bad either. A mix of smaller and soft features with his high cheekbones and sharp jaw give an effeminate quality to him. Honestly, he would seem more like some variety of elf if not for the devilish features.
Then there are the eyes. Matching in both their dark scleras and fiery irises. Even from this distance, the orange ring around the pupil is starkly visible against the red surrounding it.
A bit below, a scar stretches across his face. Like two streams meeting in a tributary, the tissue comes together from two rough forks on his right cheek and extends in a single jagged line over the bridge of his nose. The scar tapers off just an inch or two shy of his left cheek.
The contrast of the healed wound and infernal eyes on his gentle face was intriguing. Astarion makes a mental note of it, perhaps as a potential topic in case the usual small talk runs its course.
Before he could stand up to approach his target, he realizes the man is looking back at him, directly. Shit. Fucking hells below. How long was he staring? Long enough to be noticed, apparently.
And then the young man gets up. Shit, is he leaving? No, he’s coming over. Oh. Oh hells, time for Plan B. …What was Plan B, again? Was there a Plan B? The vampire's racing thoughts are disrupted when the stranger speaks, abrupt like cold water thrown on his face.
“You okay?” The fiendish man sits beside him, setting down the cup he brought with him. His voice was higher pitched than expected but warm, nonetheless.
“Hm?” Astarion wasn’t expecting the concern, but he quickly re-assumes his coquettish mask before it can fully slip. “I could ask the same of you, sitting by yourself.”
He laughs sheepishly, showing small yet sharp canines. “Fair enough. But I see only one of us has a drink for company. How about I remedy that? What’d you like?”
At this closer proximity, Astarion finally notices a smattering of small white freckles on his face. Gods, this guy is cute up close. A shame he’s had to cross paths with the spawn.
Stop pitying him. Focus. Do what you came here to do.
Astarion glances at the cup by the stranger’s hand. “I’d like what you’re having,” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice, “and your name, handsome.”
The man flushes a little at the flattery and quickly gets up to order drinks at the bar before returning, two cups in hand. “Mine was nearly empty, anyway.”
He sits down, gently sliding one cup to Astarion. “It’s blackberry mead. As for my name: that would be Faust.” He extends a hand with the introduction.
Astarion takes the hand in his, “Charmed. My name’s Astarion.”
“Astarion.” Faust repeats the name, as if listening to the sound of it again. “Meaning ‘little star,’ if I’m not mistaken.”
He nods. “And I believe Faust means ‘luck.’ Must have that fortune to thank that we met.”
Faust chuckles. “Is that so? Would be the best fortune I’ve had then. Luck’s relationship with me is… tenuous at best.”
“Really?” Astarion raises a brow incredulously. “How bad could it be?”
“I doubt you’d believe it.”
“Try me.”
Faust pauses with consideration before leaning in a bit. “Okay, then. Bit of context, I happen to be able to cast magic for as long as I can remember. And once I tried to summon a familiar, but it, um, didn’t work quite right.”
Astarion looks bemused, “How so?”
“Well, instead of a cat or bird showing up… a cow fell out of the sky.” He pauses before adding somberly, “Her name was Stephanie.”
The elf couldn’t stop a laugh from bursting out. “Wait, so you not only made a cow fall from the sky, which I assume killed it, but you somehow found out its name?”
He gulps down his cup of mead quickly, stifling his laugh. “I think we’d both need another drink for that story.”
Faust gets another round for Astarion but not for himself. “I still have plenty left in mine, and I can’t risk imbibing too much.”
That could be a minor setback, but Astarion can improvise. Not like he has to get him blackout drunk to lure him back. With his refill, he listens to Faust regale him with the sordid tale of finding the farmer that owned poor Stephanie to compensate them.
Usually he’d check out during his targets’ long-winded stories, but he actually listens a bit more intently. Hard to say if it’s the warmth in his voice or the energy as he talks with his hands, but listening to Faust feels… nice. Shit, he needs to focus.
Astarion asks how he had compensated for a whole cow. Turns out Faust has a relatively well-off background, some form of nobility from the sounds of it. Although, he didn’t really strike him as a typical blue blood, or at least not like the usual ones he’s caroused with before.
Faust then asks about him. Shit. Astarion gives a short and vague tale of being a servant to the Szarr family, and of course, he leaves out the fact he’s vampire lord Cazador’s spawn.
At the mention of the Szarr household, Faust’s nose scrunches. “You mean the Szarr family living in that giant gothic monstrosity?”
The elf nearly snorts through his drink. “The very same. Good to hear you have good taste.”
Faust laughs, “I can’t help but wonder if the interior design is just as bad. …Is it?”
Bingo. A means to get him to follow back to the mansion. Astarion decides to follow this route.
“Oh, it’s worse. A fantastic eyesore if I’ve ever seen one.” He pauses, finishing his drink. “You know, we could go there now. I could show you just how awful the inside is from its faded carpets to the tasteless art. And after, I have something fun in mind we could do, maybe even two.”
Come on, please agree to it. Let this work, then tonight will be over, and I can go back to my miserable existence.
Faust’s eyes light up, but he then seems to recall something and curses, getting up. “I’d like to, but I just remembered I need to go home. If I’m not back by curfew, then I’ll never hear the end of it. I’m sorry.”
Wait. No. Don’t go now. If you leave then what the fuck am I supposed to do? SHIT!
Astarion’s brow furrows. “Is that so? That’s… a shame.”
“Yeah.” Faust quickly chugs the last of his mead then stretches a little. “But if we meet here again, then maybe we could try that.”
“Really?” Astarion huffs, “And when would that be?”
“I don’t know.” This man is impossible. “But I’ll know if you’re here when I am.”
What in the sideways-fucking hells does that mean!?
“But it was still nice meeting you, Astarion. Till next time!” Faust turns on his heel and is soon gone from the tavern.
Astarion’s shoulders slump as he watches him leave. So much for that. His disappointment is short-lived as he spots someone staggering to the bar, half-wasted. Seems he won’t have to return empty-handed after all.
Faust returns home, slipping inside through a side entrance. No need to barge in the front at this hour. He makes his way to the west wing, silently reaching his room. Silently pushing the door open, he shrugs off the first layer of his clothes.
As he turns, grappling for a fastener on the garment pressing his chest down, he spots a tall human by the doorway. He jumps a little but just as soon calms, recognizing the butler.
“Do you require assistance, master Faust?”
Faust opens his mouth but shuts it quickly. Seething in his embarrassment from failing at this step of undressing himself, he lowers his hands.
“Yes, Bardren. Please,” Faust sulks.
Bardren approaches the young man, kneels down, and methodically helps him out of the garment.
Once the restriction on Faust’s chest is relieved, he breathes in deep as he flexes his shoulders, the ridges on his skin stretching with the movement.
“You nearly returned home late. Additionally, you risked binding overlong.” The butler’s eyes are gentle despite his scolding.
“I know. I just lost track of time a bit. But it was well worth it.”
Bardren raises a brow, “Oh? How so, pray tell?”
“Well, I went to the Elfsong Tavern this time. It’s quite different from the Wide. Has less open space, but it’s just as full of people.”
Once out of his outfit, Faust puts on a night robe, not requiring help this time. He pulls a strand on his hair tie and shakes his head as the now released hair falls over his shoulders.
“You seem to have enjoyed your outing. I’m glad, master.”
Faust looks over his shoulder to Bardren, beaming. “That’s not all!”
Bardren can’t help returning the smile, already knowing what the young master’s about to mention.
“I think I’ve made a friend!”
A tenday comes and goes, and Faust is finally allowed another night out unchaperoned. While he originally had a list of places he wanted to go at least once during the first few outings, he finds himself thinking of the Elfsong Tavern and his pale acquaintance.
While he had told Bardren he made a friend, he knew that was at least partially wishful thinking. But hey, if he keeps wishing and trying to cross paths with him again, then it could be fully made a reality, right?
So, he forgoes his original itinerary to see if Astarion is at the Tavern again. If he’s not, then he’ll resume plan A. No pressure, not like his enjoyment of tonight is riding on this. Surely not. …It is, actually. Shit.
His anticipation turns to elation as he peers inside and sees across the room, sitting at the same table he was last time, Astarion. His heart skips a beat as his detour wasn’t for naught, and he quickly enters the tavern.
The pale elf seems absorbed into his drink while occasionally scanning parts of the room. Wonder if this is his usual haunt? Anyway, his back is turned, so he doesn’t yet notice Faust there.
As he makes his way over, the young devil mulls over what he’s going to say.
“I’ve been expecting you.” No, that sounds awfully sinister.
“I knew I’d find you here.” Hells below, you’ll sound like a stalker!
“Waiting for me, love?” No. Just no.
“Long time no see.” Eh, boring. Also, is a tenday even that long, or did you miss him that badly?
Shit. I missed him, didn’t I? Bloody hells take me now. Oh FUCK, he’s noticed me. Act cool. No — act natural! No, wait… act both? WHAT DOES THAT EVEN—
“H-hey you! Fancy meeting you here. …A-again.” Faust stumbles over his words as his nerves kick into high gear after Astarion had turned around, noticing him. Were his eyes always so piercing?
“Hey you, yourself.” Astarion smirks as he gestures to a nearby empty seat, inviting Faust to join him.
“Seems your luck came through for us again. But this time,” he says while retrieving a little gold from his pocket, “I’ll be the one buying you a drink.”
Astarion orders a cup of wine for Faust while he continues drinking from his own cup. Once the wine arrives, the young man takes a sip. Fairly standard red wine, it seems, but with an oak finish. Not too far off from what he’s had at home, but perhaps the lack of formality in the tavern influences how drinking it feels.
Halfway through the drink, Faust turns to Astarion. “And since we’ve run into each other sooner, we should have time to go do what you had in mind last time.”
“Of course, darling, but first…” Astarion raises his glass before finishing it and ordering another round for both of them.
Hours go by as the two enjoy each other’s company, drinking and talking. As the night wears on, the pale elf doesn’t mention his original proposal, but that’s fine. If they run out of time tonight, there’s always next time, right?
As his reverie lulls a bit, he hears a small chime in the back of his mind. The first reminder that it’s time to return home. Mystra’s tits, did the night pass that quickly?
Granted, it’s only been half the night, but one condition for allowing him out like this was that he was to cross the threshold before the moon is at its peak. At this time of year, that would actually be nearly midnight. Damn arbitrary time limits cutting his night short.
But it couldn’t be helped. If he’s late, it won’t go unnoticed nor unpunished. Shit.
“I… I have to go. Sorry we didn’t get around to your plan, but I can’t be late.” Faust steadily gets up.
Astarion shrugs, “Not to worry, the Szarr manor isn’t going anywhere. Until next time, then?”
Faust feels a slight flush in his face, probably from the wine. Certainly from the wine and nothing else. Right?
“Yeah! Let’s hope my luck doesn’t return to its usual antics. G’night.” With a quick nod, he strides out of the tavern and back home.
His face still feels hot. Yeah, it’s not just the wine. Hells.
Astarion watches Faust leave before letting his shoulders slump. He had ample time to commit to what he had tried to do last time, but he missed the window. Again.
No, not just that, he procrastinated on it. For whatever reason? Did he seriously enjoy Faust’s company so much that he’d risk returning empty-handed?
He did. Fuck. He tries to distract himself from his own self-contradiction by searching the crowds for anyone he could lure back to Cazador on the fly.
The night passes, and no dice. He returns with no target to his dread and to his master’s disappointment.
Through the next couple nights, Astarion is kept in the Kennel, chained and unfed after several floggings. But those nights feel far away when he runs into Faust again and again at the tavern every tenday since then.