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Astarion is quiet, when all is said and done.
Casmir keeps a careful eye on him as they make their trek back to the inn, somewhere they can rest and heal. Astarion is unsteady on his feet, floaty, his ruby eyes glassy. As if he were miles and miles away from here, as if he were still in that Gods damned castle. He’s swallowed by Casmir’s undershirt, the only thing the tiefling had on hand that he could spare for him. Astarion’s pale face is stained copper with blood, clumps stuck in his hair and caught in his flickering lashes.
Casmir aches to reach out and touch, to offer comfort and to hold him until he grows steady, to wipe the blood away and wash it from his silvery curls—but he knows better than to presume. Astarion needs space, needs the quiet, and Casmir is content to stray close to his side as a presence that he knows will keep him safe. Astarion is a creature that yearns for that most—safety and loyalty and care. Security and protection when he was offered none for years upon years.
Karlach and Shadowheart travel a few feet in front of them, sparing glances over their shoulders but otherwise consumed by the same silence. He imagines that they’re just as affected by all of this as he is. It was not easy, the fight nor the obvious anguish that Astarion was in. His cries still echo in Casmir’s head, his jaw working and his fingers clenching restlessly.
Two centuries. Two hundred years of torture and pain and no signs of a way out, no hope, no reprieve. Casmir could never even imagine scraping the surface of it, of pretending to even know a sliver of that pain. He could never even hope to try. And Astarion had finally rid himself of the perpetrator—solace, peace, an indescribable ache.
Casmir was not a man of violence, not anymore, but it had been easy to imagine himself clawing through Cazador’s throat. Slow and painful until Casmir knew every rip and tear was felt. He would have gladly killed him himself, had Astarion not done so already. Would have ached to tear that smug head from his shoulders.
It still wouldn’t have been enough to make up for what he had done to Astarion alone.
When they reach the inn, Shadowheart inclines her head towards him knowingly, politely excusing herself back to her room with a swish of her white ponytail. “I’ll leave you be. Should you need me come morning, then find me. Good night, Casmir. Karlach.” And then after a quiet breath, “Astarion.”
Karlach spares a warm hand for Casmir’s armored shoulder, a subdued smile on her face. “See you tomorrow, soldier.” Her eyes linger on Astarion for just a moment, “And you take care of him.” She says softly before she leaves, her weight carried a little heavier than usual.
It leaves him alone with Astarion, who still hasn’t said a word, looking as shaky as a newborn foal. His red eyes stare blankly in front of him, as if he couldn’t see Casmir at all.
“Astarion?” He starts softly, holding his hand out in offering should Astarion wish to take it, but never a demand that he does, “Would you like to go back to our room together? Or would you like for me to find somewhere else to sleep for tonight?”
It’d be no trouble for Casmir to find Wyll or Halsin to share a room with for the night, should Astarion need the space. Maybe even Karlach or Gale, if he were pressed. He can’t imagine what must be going on behind those crimson eyes, still swirling with tears that refuse to fall, tracks already marked down his face through the blood and grime.
But Astarion tentatively reaches out for him, both of his hands gripping Casmir’s own, looking far too small against the tiefling’s larger palm. His mouth opens but the only thing that leaves is a cool breath, a delicate rasp past pointed fangs.
“You want me to stay?” Casmir carefully questions and Astarion’s head bobs in a slow, grateful nod.
Casmir smiles in response, “Alright. Whatever you need.”
And it’s with a gentle tug that Casmir leads Astarion up the stairs, the vampire’s feet quiet over the hardwood floors, like a ghost moving through the halls. Pale in face and hair, stained red with blood welled eyes and smelling of death. He doesn’t let go of Casmir’s hand, nearly desperate for the touch, looking as if he were fit to float away into nothingness should he let go. Casmir is happy to keep him grounded, to hold him steady and safe. Astarion’s skin is cold, his fingers shaky and his face set with something far younger than Casmir has ever seen on him.
He closes and locks their room’s door behind them, one hand still held in Astarion’s own. His skin is cold, fingers just slightly shaky, tensing into Casmir’s palm.
“You should get cleaned up.” Casmir murmurs, his thumb just barely skimming over Astarion’s knuckles, “Would you like for me to accompany you?”
Astarion hesitates for just a moment before his lips part, “Yes.” He whispers, and his voice is like shattered glass, catching brokenly in his throat. But Casmir only smiles, carefully pulling Astarion towards their washroom, thankfully private for just the two of them.
“I’ll run the water. It won’t take long.” Casmir says softly, slowly allowing his hand to fall away from Astarion’s own, something aching in his chest when those pale fingers tremble.
He truthfully makes quick work of filling the tub, letting the water heat until it’s nearly steaming. Just the way that Astarion likes it. Casmir’s lips quirk just slightly, fingers skimming over the water’s surface, watching it ripple under his touch. He turns back to Astarion, standing in the center of the room, his eyes focused on the floor. Casmir extends his hand again and Astarion takes it like a man starved, his grip nearly too tight, his nails sharp where they prick over the tiefling’s dark skin. Casmir does not breathe a word in protest.
“Would you like to get undressed yourself?”
Astarion slowly looks down at himself, his free hand plucking at the bottom of Casmir’s shirt, the dark fabric hanging off of his slimmer shoulders. Reluctantly, he retrieves his hand from Casmir, carefully pulling the shirt over his head. Casmir takes it, folding it and setting it on the counter, turning away from Astarion to offer him a semblance of privacy as he steps out of his trousers and undergarments. He takes those too once Astarion is done, leaving them next to the discarded shirt.
Casmir goes about discarding pieces of his own armor, leaving it to carelessly rest on the floor, blood-stained and marked a dull crimson. He quickly rinses his hands and arms of blood, sparing time to wash his face with calloused palms. He looks tired when he catches himself in the mirror, his eyes darker, his mouth heavy with a frown. He rolls his shoulders, trying to work out the kinks in his muscles, sore with tension.
Casmir hears the slosh of water behind him and turns to find Astarion already stepping into the tub, his scarred back looking almost irritated, a ruddy red that’s nearly blistered. Casmir’s brows furrow in sympathy, taking a soft wash cloth and dipping it into the bath until it grows soaked. Blood has already begun to flake off into the water, coppery flecks left over the surface.
Casmir kneels over the side of the tub, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wringing the washcloth of excess water. “Astarion.” He says softly, hovering behind him, “Can I see your face, love?”
Astarion slowly shifts to face Casmir, his face leaning into his waiting hand, Casmir’s rough palm cupping the side of his jaw. Gently, Casmir begins to rub away the blood with the cloth, the stains long since having gone brown and dried over Astarion’s pale skin. Casmir works it off carefully, Astarion’s dark lashes having fluttered closed, twitching just slightly with the slow puff of his cool breaths.
He thumbs over Astarion’s cheek, a low hum caught in his throat. A lullaby from long ago, one he used to sing to her when she was still so small, fitting perfectly in the cradle of his arms. Astarion relaxes in increments, tension falling from his body with the passing second, his face going slack with a gentle pleasure.
Astarion’s pale skin grows just slightly flushed from the heat of the water, his face pressed into Casmir’s palm like a kitten vying for attention. Casmir smiles, delicately cleaning the blood from his brows and lashes, his touch achingly light. Astarion makes a small noise, pleased and quiet, eyes flickering open once his face is free of grime. Casmir’s thumb swipes over his cheek, damp with water.
“All done there.” Casmir grins, pushing white curls back from Astarion’s face. He rubs soothingly at his scalp, listening to the desperate shudder of Astarion’s breath, a sound so close to a whine escaping his lips.
Astarion’s gaze takes on that soft and wet quality that makes Casmir ache and swell with fondness in equal measure. “Can I get your hair next?”
Astarion hums with a short nod, his red eyes still glassy but with—something else, this time. Something bordering on pleasant, gentle in nature, floaty and quiet.
Casmir retrieves a cup from the floor beside the tub, Astarion’s back facing him again. He fills it with warm, clean water. “Lean your head back for me?” He asks softly, Astarion’s neck obediently craning, his eyes closed.
Casmir pours the water over his head, fingers carefully carding through his silvery curls with it, easing away tangles and mats of dried blood. He makes sure not to tug or pull, slow and with purposeful care. His hair grows softer under Casmir’s gentle hands, his fingers working scented soap into the pale strands. Casmir begins to hum quietly again, watching as Astarion goes nearly limp, leaning bonelessly back into Casmir’s hands.
He washes the suds from his hair, taking the time to just massage at Astarion’s head, laying back against Casmir’s shoulder. Casmir indulges him in the contact, a clawed hand pushing his curls back from his face, warm lips brushing over Astarion’s temple.
“I’m going to wash your chest now, alright?” He murmurs, running the wet washcloth over Astarion’s clavicle with his assenting hum. The blood comes away easily, Astarion’s face resting in the crook of Casmir’s neck, his breaths soft and cool over his skin.
Casmir rests his cheek against Astarion’s head, washing gently over his front, Astarion’s chest rising and falling with unnatural slowness. Casmir’s hand rests over his ribs, palm where his heart is, though it does not beat. Every touch is a gift, a permission, a brush past Astarion’s armor and a chance to see the heart of him. Casmir cherished every moment of it, everything he was given and anything he was allowed to take, the terms made and followed.
“Can I touch your back?” He asks softly and Astarion quickly stiffens against him, his gentle breaths halting with an abrupt hitch. Tentatively, he shakes his head, face still buried in Casmir’s neck.
Casmir murmurs low in his throat, nearly a purr, intent to sooth as he cards careful fingers through Astarion’s white hair. “That’s alright, love. Would you like me to wash your legs?”
Astarion hums with a slight nod, one of his hands wrapping around Casmir’s forearm, not to halt him but just to hold. Casmir presses another kiss against his forehead, Astarion’s skin just a little warmer from the heated water, pale flesh damp under Casmir’s lips. He runs the washcloth over the insides of his thighs and down to his knees, firm and careful strokes. Astarion shifts only slightly with the movement of Casmir’s arms, but remains mostly dead weight against him, small sounds caught in his throat like the coo of a contented animal.
Casmir’s heart beats hard in his chest, heavy but satisfied.
The water has gone murky with dirt and blood, beginning to cool as it sits. Casmir turns his head just slightly, lips brushing over the top of Astarion’s head, his hair smelling both soft and clean.
“Ready for bed, my star?” There’s a small huff from Astarion, quiet and barely louder than a breath.
“Mm-hm.” He murmurs, and Casmir pulls the stopper from the bath, listening to the swirl of the water going down the drain.
“Can you get out on your own? Or do you want my help?” He asks, arms loosely wrapped around Astarion’s middle. Astarion makes a small, offended noise in response, an irritated huff mixed with a snort.
Casmir smiles and amends, “My apologies. Would you like for me to carry you to bed regardless?”
Astarion hums, “Better.” He rasps, so quiet it’s nearly a whisper as he turns over in Casmir’s arms. The tiefling laughs softly as Astarion’s arms wrap around his shoulders, pressed against his broad chest as Casmir picks him up.
He feels so small like this, almost frail, though Casmir knows that he is anything but. Though he is allowed to be, in this moment—allowed to be cared for like a delicate thing that needed it. If only just for now, in the cover of the night, hidden away from prying eyes. Casmir is happy to oblige, happy to care and give comfort until Astarion is sick of it. He’d give it gladly without expectations, with nothing but reverent hands and lips.
Casmir only sets him down for a moment, just long enough to tug a soft maroon robe over his form, before he’s taking Astarion in his arms again. A cold nose presses into the side of his neck, cool skin quickly growing even cooler from the air. Casmir places him in the inn’s bed, intending to leave Astarion there while he washes himself up, but a pale hand stops him.
Casmir looks over at Astarion in the dark, ruby eyes glinting with moonlight, questioning and nearly panicked.
Casmir smiles warmly, something tugging in his chest as he places a large hand over Astarion’s own, squeezing carefully. “I just need to clean myself up. I’ll be right back, love.”
Astarion shakes his head, freezing fingers tightening over Casmir’s wrist. “Please stay.” He nearly gasps, his jaw tightening like he wants to take the words back, but couldn’t bear not saying them.
Casmir is hardly one to deny him.
He likely smells like blood and sweat right now, but Astarion curls up over him regardless, greedily pillowing himself on Casmir’s broad chest. Astarion will certainly complain in the morning, but he doesn’t now. Casmir loosely wraps one arm around his lean waist, keeping him close but never there to trap him. Astarion’s leg hooks over his hip, one arm under Casmir’s head and the other over his shoulder.
Astarion’s breaths are cool against the column of his throat, his head leaning up to place one chaste peck on Casmir’s lips before he’s settling again. Casmir rubs a large, soothing hand over Astarion’s side, slow and rhythmic. He shudders and buries closer, soaking up Casmir’s permeating heat, the comforters pulled over them.
Casmir lays half-awake for several moments, listening to Astarion’s quiet breaths, dancing between awareness and unconsciousness. He could stay here, just like this, content for hours with Astarion willing and burrowed in his arms.
But it isn’t long before he properly begins drifting, his eyes fluttered shut, his hand stilling over Astarion’s hip.
Before he slips off there’s cool lips at his throat, barely a breath pressing into his skin, “Thank you.”