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Waking up, despite the river rocks digging into the flesh of his cheek and the rotten smell of burning nautiloid behind him, was a relief. His body hurt. He was alive.
It all went up from there, really.
Bramble is part of a group of travelers now, closer to being friends than they are to ever finding their way back to the city, it seems. He just wanted to go home. The situation at the goblin encampment was supposed to solve that, but here he is, covered in aches and cuts.
It's nothing like the shallows of the Chionthar, but the shitty little stream a ways away from the camp will do just fine. Bramble strips off his clothes and wades in, all the way until the water laps at his clavicle, letting the water take the blood away. He hadn't wanted to kill anyone today. He never does.
There is blood underneath his fingernails, dried to a dark smear. Bramble runs his hands through the water again, tries picking it out with his own nails, but only succeeds in tearing the skin around the nail beds. Gods, he feels raw.
Bramble's body is a mosaic of injury, more so than usual. A minor gash in his side, where an arrow had managed to stick in the gaps of his armor. Burns beside them, from a goblin warlock that had appeared in his blind spot. A scratch here. An abrasion there. The evidence of Astarion's midnight snacking, too, with those tell-tale marks and a bruise shaped like a certain mocking mouth. The worst, however, was the half-healed slice through his shoulder, the tendon repaired by Shadowheart while arrows flew overhead. He can still feel the strangeness of it. Not even the pain---that came later---but a sudden twang. A pop. His sword arm falling limply to his side, warmth trickling through his armor. His gauntlet, washed in his own reds.
The creek water feels like ice in every open cut. He scrubs soap into the rags he’s using for a washing cloth, and tries to get clean despite it. They'd run out of potions and spells by the time the goblin encampment fell silent. He wished there had been another way. But he had never been good at sneaking, and goblins didn't seem to take kindly to seeing their best mates dead in the room behind them (he hadn't meant for that, either).
"Ah, there you are. Freshening up before the party, I see."
Bramble can't help but close his eyes against the sight of Astarion. Gods, but he's beautiful. The elf is perhaps less gore-adorned, but begins to remove his splattered shirt anyway.
"I can leave if you like." Bramble offers, feeling just a little helpless.
“And deprive me of the view?” the vampire scoffs, and tests the water with a finger. Whatever he finds there spreads a smile across his face, a genuine smile! He’s softer like that, the sun on his skin, cheeks flushed…and then he’s stepping into the river, eyes narrowed at Bramble. “You shouldn’t be out here all alone, darling. You never know what monster might want to take a bite out of you.”
Fucking hells.
Bramble knows he isn’t the brightest among their crew, but he damn well knows when he is being flirted with and when he isn’t. Astarion, all the strange complex bits of him, throws that knowing into the river water and lets it wash away. He’s so---practiced at this. So polished. If any of those pick up lines had been lobbed at Bramble back in Baldur’s Gate, he thinks he would have laughed, maybe bought the elf a drink. But Baldur’s Gate is a world away.
He rubs his neck, feels the dull ache of his bruises. He wishes he knew what to do, where to go from here.
“Well,” Bramble laughs, knowing what he says isn’t all that smart or clever. “It’s a good thing I haven’t seen any monsters recently. Do you want some soap? I’m almost done here.”
He holds the bar out like an offering, suds clinging to his fingers. I don’t know what you want, he thinks.
Astarion just blinks at him. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but you’re awfully far away. I hope you don’t plan on throwing that thing.”
“Oh. Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
He wades towards Astarion, water dripping in rivulets down his shoulders. He’s half a head taller than Astarion when they’re not river-soaked, and he offers the soap, trying to ignore the way Astarion’s eyes glance across his chest, the bright pink of his fresh scars. The elf takes it, fingertips lingering for the space of a breath.
Bramble clears his throat, tucks his wet hair behind an ear.
“See you at the party?”
_______________
He's never been one to know the names of spells, but the bright lights Rolan casts are…well, they're lovely. The shock of sudden color in the night, like a release of breath. That maybe things will be alright for now. Maybe not tomorrow, or the long road ahead of them, but tonight is safe and good.
He still tastes the wine Astarion shared with him, a sweetness hidden behind his teeth. The dark slosh of Ithbank had made the pale elf's lip curl, and Bramble wondered what it might be like to kiss him, right there on that beautiful, awful grimace.
Shadowheart shares her wine with him, and at her glib jokes and raised brow he looks up, catches the way Astarion looks away from him and tries to pretend he was never looking at all. Then, he looks back and smiles darkly. Bramble can't help but feel like a fish in a net. He's going to suffer when this is all over, probably, but the promise of a few kisses in the dark after days of hell…
It's worth it, he thinks.
Worth the way Astarion's eyes linger on him. He wants them, foolishly, hopelessly, to keep looking at him. Like hoping the lights Rolan casts won't fade. That there's a promise of feeling wanted, even if just for tonight.
He’s been touched more in the days after the nautiloid than he can remember in the last decade. It's not love, he knows. That's the whole point.
_______________
In Baldur’s Gate, Bramble had never been touched by someone who wanted him for more than just a night. Maybe that is what makes it easier. To laugh at Astarion’s petty jokes and follow him into the woods, to stand together near the blanket the pale elf has spread out like some attempt at romance…none of it is a burden.
He has kissed people before just to kiss them; in the end, sometimes a mouth is just a mouth, lukewarm flesh trying to find some common goal.
The first touch of their lips is soft, and Bramble sighs, leans in for more. Astarion meets him in the middle, catching a hand around his neck. Astarion’s lips are cold. The heat between them in the dark is enough to warm them.
He pulls away, tasting laughter. “Mmm, and here I thought you didn’t like me.”
Cold hands are firm around his waist. “Darling, I said your taste in wine was shit. Your taste in men, however…”
Bramble giggles. How is it this simple? Sex was always a bit of an out-of-body experience to him, the overthinking of bodies and where to place your limbs, and the part halfway through where his body started feeling cold and wet and claustrophobic from the body on top of him. Tonight, though, he is happy. He is alive. He likes this, likes Astarion and Astarion likes him back.
He hums, pulling away, gesturing to the blankets and the spread Astarion has set out. “Speaking of wine, I see you made a picnic---”
Those cold hands are grabbing him again, pushing him against the bark of a nearby tree. Kiss-warmed lips shush the rest of his thoughts, with a murmured growl of “Shut up.”
Is this what being wanted feels like? A body wanting to be close to yours, making you laugh until it's honeyed against your teeth. Laces are coming undone, his shirt is coming off, icy fingers running across the soft parts of his lower belly and running upwards. His ribs are ticklish, and he bites Astarion’s bottom lip in revenge. In the moonlight, the pale elf’s eyes are so wide and dark.
Even the scent of his skin…ah, it's familiar. The lye soap Bramble shared with him, and some perfume on top. In the river, suds had connected them, fingertip to fingertip. Now it's Astarion's tongue on his own, pulling his head closer like he can't get enough, like there's some desperation there he doesn't even know. Their teeth click. Bramble gasps for breath, and in the moonlight catching in Astarion's silver hair, he wonders if he might be eaten alive tonight.
Bramble had fed him the night before the goblin disaster. Felt the pain and the dizziness of blood loss and the toe-curling satisfaction of Astarion stumbling away from his neck, breathing hard. Breathing like he could have just kept going, and going. He could have taken everything Bramble had to give. Even in the dark, he’d seen the quick swipe of Astarion’s tongue licking the last traces of crimson off his fingertips. Now, he knows what it is like to feel those kitten-quick motions against his own tongue.
Bramble drops a hand down to strip the frilly blouse from Astarion’s lean body, when he feels him stiffen beneath his hands. It is so momentary. Bramble isn’t quite sure he felt it. But he glances into Astarion’s eyes, sees that far away glaze he is too familiar with seeing in himself, a second before Astarion is pushing close again with an open mouth.
Bramble braces a hand against Astarion’s pectoral. It's soft. It's flushed from touch, warmth from Bramble’s body. He runs the span of a hand across that beautiful chest, feels the absence of the heartbeat beneath. He kisses it anyway, and then pulls Astarion’s shirt closed.
“You don’t want this.”
“What---”
Bramble steps away, out of Astarion’s reach. The pale elf has gone still. Those beautiful hands, so confident earlier, are clenched into fists.
“It’s alright. I know what it's like to not want something.”
He doesn’t know what Astarion is feeling. Isn’t that the horrible thing about other people? That minds are hidden away, and no one can ever know for sure what another is thinking. He won’t even think of using the the awful worm that has smuggled its way into his brain to know, because that would just be rude, but it hurts so bad not knowing. Are you like me?, he thinks. He…likes sex, he thinks. Likes liking someone enough to be near them, to do something together that feels good for both of them, and to know that person wants it too. But it can be hard to keep that desire in the moment, or to question if you wanted it at all.
Clarity comes like a horrible after-thought. Those long moments, the glances and touches, did he mistake hesitation for a slow anticipation?
“I’m sorry.” he offers awkwardly, holding his arms to the side. He bends over to grab his abandoned shirt, and when he is finished wrestling back onto his body Astarion is standing closer again. He is wary, and watching, scanning Bramble’s form like he is some sort of riddle he wasn’t expecting to find. It isn’t his usual bitchy mien, or the mask of confidence he so often wears.
He looks like he has stepped out into open air where a stair would be.
“Can we stay?” Bramble blurts out, trying to verbally catch Astarion before he makes any wrong conclusions. “If you want to. The blanket is nice, and so are the stars. We could…talk?”
“...Talk.”
“I don’t think either one of us is up for anything right now, but…I like hearing what you have to say.” Anything, he says, like that is a simple word for discovering someone’s desire for you might just be them following a script. He doesn’t blame him. Gods, but he likes him. He wants Astarion to be okay.
“...Okay.” Astarion says. Bramble takes a deep breath, and sits down on the blanket to see the greasy smear of night sky above. A heartbeat later, and Astarion is joining him, an arms length apart, but still staying.
He looks over, away from the stars, and finds Astarion watching him back.