Seen - Chapter 41 - ayvaines (2024)

Chapter Text

Cazador was going to kill him.

With piercing, narrowed eyes like live coals, he was staring daggers at him from across the table. His face had been twisted in a sour, malignant expression the entire night, and Astarion could only imagine exactly what he had said or done—or what he hadn’t said or done—to spark his ire.

He hated trying to predict the severity of his mercurial lover’s temper.

Who was he to account for his weathervane mood?

Whatever it was about didn’t matter. He knew he would have to atone for somethingwhen they got home. It would always be easier to f*ck away his problems than to be kept awake by another ceaseless argument.

He swallowed nervously as he tried to stave off the panic welling up in his chest. He focused on the weight of the die as it rattled in his closed palm.

The crimson plastic of the die Gale had loaned him fell from his pale hand with a small yet satisfying thud against the purple felt lining of Shadowheart’s tray—and with a fifteen, his disquietude faded to the background.

He smirked, holding up the D20 with a confident, gleeful glint in his dark ringed eyes. “That’s a twenty-five!”

“Show-off,” Cazador muttered, his voice only loud enough for Astarion to hear.

The rest of the party came alive, breaking out into giddy cheers. He took delight in their praise, choosing to ignore his fiancé’s taunts.

He was on a roll tonight. He wasn’t going to let him steal his shine again.

The table was a mess of maps and dice and books and snack foods—the standard fare of chips and crackers, a motley assortment of soft drinks and alcoholic beverages alike. Shadowheart brought a plateful of raw vegetables that had barely been picked at by anyone aside from herself—and Lae’zel, of course, who chose to drench them all in a small cup overflowing with ranch dressing.

“You’re defeating the purpose,” Shadowheart grumbled reproachfully.

“You’re not living,” Lae’zel shrugged before smothering a baby carrot in a copious amount of ranch.

Gale humbly requested a break from cooking since he’d been studying for an exam all week, and they’d all chipped in and ordered a few boxes of pizza from a local shop. In the absence of his usual grand entree, he’d brought dolmades from home—a gift from his most recent visit to his mother’s house. Astarion popped one into his mouth. He was skeptical at first, but his worries that they would be too soggy or vinegary were assuaged as he savored the surprisingly tasty ensemble of ground lamb, rice, parsley, garlic and onion. The flavors danced on his tongue, all wrapped securely in an oily grape leaf. He resolved to see if this was another recipe Gale would be willing to share with him—at the very least, he wanted to know the name of the ambrosial sauce the small treats had been drenched in.

The dungeon master’s gaze was locked on the small army of goblin miniatures set into position on the table. He heaved a theatrical, disappointed sigh. “So much for this encounter I planned...”

“Chk. Don’t count your goblin corpses before they’re good and skewered, Gale. They may yet live to see battle and earn their deaths.” Lae’zel said, her optimism buried beneath her low, level voice. She reached over to dip a celery stalk into her condiment of choice.

“Not if this ridiculous plan you’ve all concocted works,” Gale muttered, a reluctant smile creeping into the corner of his thin lips as he regarded said plan’s most ardent supporter with enquiring eyes.

“Oh, you have to admit it’s a wonderful plan!” Astarion insisted, grinning from ear to ear as he gestured to his rogue’s miniature, successfully hidden in a blind spot.

“I still say it would have been better to storm the camp and kill them all,” Cazador protested under his breath.

“Pish posh. Alright, Astarion, paint a picture for me.”

“With the tenderest of footfalls, the rogue carefully matches the steady rhythm of the war drums as he skulks around the curved stone walls of the parapet.”

“The bugbear patrolling the north doesn’t see you. Nearly all the goblins are too preoccupied to notice you anyway—they’re all rather distracted, too busy watching Karlach try her hand at a game of chicken-chase with the owlbear cub. Karlach?”

“Yes?” she said through a mouthful of chips.

“They goblins are all placing bets on whether or not you’ll set the scared little owlbear cub ablaze when you catch him. Most of them are actively rooting for this outcome.”

“Aw! Oh, no!” Karlach groused, plucking the owlbear miniature from the table and petting its tiny forehead, pressing her lips into a childlike pout. “Not the bitty baby with its little baby beak!”

“He’s currently cowering by a crate, eyeing you nervously, but curiously.”

“The barbarian meets the little bugger at eye level, and she waves it over to her—oh! Shepulls out a chunk of meat from her pack and uses it to try and get it to follow her!‘C’mere, you doll!’”

”Karlach, roll me an animal handling check with advantage. I think your burning barbarian has less of a chance to scare the poor thing out of its wits with food on the line.” Gale turned his attention back to Astarion with a grin on his sweet, bearded face. “Out of the corner of your eye, you see the tub of booze—and would you look at that? It looks like the supply has been recently replenished.”

“I press my back against the stone, and I inch my way towards the punch bowl. Skillfully, I pull a vial of wyvern toxin from my pouch and I empty its contents into their libations,” he cast an eager look at Gale, seeking his approval before adding, “‘This should, um...burn going down?’”

Gale ominously rolled a handful of dice before sighing again, perplexedly shaking his head while rubbing his temples. “Damn it. Alright. You successfully empty the contents of the vial into their libations. You may as well have been invisible while you tamper with their supply. No one looks your way or bats an eyelash at you, and you’re able to slink away from the scene of your yet-unnoticed crime. One of the goblins swaggers over to the tub, fills her flagon to the brim, and raises its frothy lid to the sky.” He cleared his throat, switching to a higher register, and in a voice that Astarion could only compare to the sound of glass scraping against sandpaper, he cried, “‘A toast! To our victory, and many more to come!’”

“Gods, that voice sounds like it hurts, Gale,” Shadowheart noted, leaning across the table to dip a stalk of celery into Lae’zel’s ranch dressing. The smaller girl simply rolled her eyes in response to her intrusion.

“It does,” Gale groaned.

“It’s alright, friend. Once Astarion’s plan pans out, you won’t have to do that voice too many more times,” Wyll teased, shooting him one of his wide, cheerful grins, a row of perfect teeth on full display.

Gale shot back a not-quite-serious sullen, vexed look. “Now where were we...? Ah. Karlach, what was that animal handling check?”

“Nineteen!” she cheered.

“Lovely! The owlbear doesn’t hesitate to take the meat from your fingers—it’s nice and evenly cooked, too, after lingering in the heat of your hand.”

“Aw, baby!” Karlach cooed. “Can I lead him to the goal post?”

Gale nodded. “He would follow you to the ends of the earth. You guide him to the labyrinthine maze of crates and stolen goods, effectively winning the game of chicken-chase!”

“Yay!” Karlach began to clap her hands gleefully. “I win!!”

“The goblin running the game appraises the situation with an impressed whistle. ‘Well lookee! That thing works even better’n a chicken. Reckon we won’t eat it after all.’”

“‘Alright. I’ll be taking my winnings, then.’”

“‘Pardon, your what? Think you misunderstood, mate,’ the goblin sneers. ‘Ain’t no winnings, cos only a goblin can win chicken-chase. Says so in the rules.’”

“Oh, she’s pissed. ‘I think you misunderstood me, mate. My coin—now.’”

“Roll me an intimidation check—”

“Already did. That’s a 21.”

Gale nodded. “Yep, that does it. She’s shaking in her boots. ‘Here you go, take it, take it all! Take my winnings, too! I-it were only a bit of fun. All yours.’ Karlach, you take home a respectable fifty gold pieces.”

“Fifty GP? Sweet! Thanks,” Karlach grinned.

“Back to the rogue. Astarion, you hear the other half of the goblins cheering as they, too, fill their cups with little care for their already questionable liver health. Where are you right now?”

“I’m leaning against a wall, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Cleaning dirt under my fingernails with my knife, or something,” Astarion replied, moving his miniature up against the tower.

All of a sudden, Gale’s expression became unnervingly smug. “The goblin notices you standing there and begins to beckon you over. ‘Watcha standing ‘ere all dry fer? C’mere, have a drink’”

“Oh, f*ck me,” Astarion wheezed, cradling his head in his hands while the rest of the table burst into riotous laughter.

Cazador flashed him a snide, mirthless smile as he squeezed his knee under the table. “Looks like you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. You can’t tell me this isn’t what you were asking for, hm?” he snickered. “Go ahead, surely it can’t hurt to have a drink.”

“And if I die?” Astarion cried.

Cazador shrugged before whispering, “It’d be funny—”

Wyll was watching them intently. Gale, too, stared straight at him over the DM screen.

“—at least a little bit,” he added, lightly tapping his finger against Astarion’s nose. “But you’re not going to die, little love.”

Not yet.

“Well?” Gale asked. “Will you take her up on her offer?”

Astarion sighed. “Fine. I take a flagon in my hand and fill it with grog.”

“Excellent! The goblin packs you on the back—well, the lower back, since she’s quite a bit shorter than you. ‘What should we toast to, eh?’”

“What’s her name?”

“Who—oh, the goblin? Hm...” Gale absentmindedly shuffled his notes as he pondered. “Er, Mirg,” he finally muttered. “Her name is Mirg.”

“‘I’m glad you asked, Mirg!’” Astarion said, the airy tone of his rogue’s voice dripping with bombastic aplomb. “‘Tell everyone to gather round...’”

“Mirg calls out to her brethren, ‘Guys! This ‘un’s givin’ us a toast!’ They all approach you, making a series of agreeable grunts and noises. One of them cries out, ‘Speech, SPEECH!’ Astarion, your rogue raises his glass, and shouts—”

“‘—may I bed each and every one of you before the sun sets!’” Cazador crowed.

“Ey, yo?” Karlach giggled.

“Ugh,” Shadowheart groaned in disgust.

“Absolutely not,” Astarion muttered. He thoughtfully chewed on his eraser for a moment before his eyes widened. Suddenly inspired, he shouted, “‘To drinking ‘til we die!’”

“The crowd erupts into guttural cheers as they each clink their pewter flagons together. Mirg gives you a nudge ‘Go on, drink up!’” Gale raised his hand to his throat and began to rub at his Adams apple. Shadowheart reached into her purse and tossed him a lozenge, which he barely caught. “Thank you.”

“Alright, alright, um...could I maybe pretend to take a sip but spill it over the edge of the cup?” Astarion asked, miming the action with an empty red cup.

“Make me a slight of hand check, please.”

Astarion closed his hands around the D20, feeling its edges as it bounced between his palms before setting it free on the tray. “That’s a thirteen, plus ten—”

“Hold on, how is your DEX modifier a ten?!” Cazador craned his neck to survey Astarion’s character sheet, intensely scrutinizing every pencil mark.

“We just leveled up,” Astarion scowled, shielding his sheet with his forearms. “I chose the skill increase instead of a feat. As I was saying, that’s a twenty-three.”

Gale nodded sagely. “With a twenty-three, you catch a whiff of it as it spills over the cup’s rim. It’s an assault on your nostrils—malty, bitter, and strong, almost like moonshine. Mirg watches the poisoned alcohol dribble down your chin, and she thinks nothing of it—you’re merely a messy drinker, just as she is. She grins, seemingly satisfied. ‘That’s it, down the hatch.’ And she tosses her head back and drinks from her own cup. Most of the others follow her lead. She drinks it to the very last drop, and shoves you away to make her way towards the punch bowl. ‘Now get outta my way—I need another drink!’”

Astarion’s face fell. “Oh, sh*t. Did my plan fail?”

“Hold on, this might take a minute,” Gale murmured. He rolled his D20 over and over again, stopping after each attempt to mark his results. After the twentieth time, he shook his head. “Gods. You watch as suddenly, tenof the goblin revelers that were drinking in the courtyard keel over, frothing at the mouth as they choke on their own spittle. The poison courses through all their bodies, killing half of all the goblins that partook.”

“Including Mirg?” Astarion asked cheekily.

Gale laughed, halfway through collecting over half of the goblin miniatures from the table. “Including Mirg. Astarion, as much as it pains me to reward you for destroying an encounter I planned for over a week, please take a point of inspiration for creative problem solving.”

“Nice!” Wyll exclaimed, leaning over the table with an expectant fist, which Astarion promptly bumped back.

“Well played,” Lae’zel murmured as she laid her tiny army to rest in the alcoves of her bulky, padded miniature case.

Cazador leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed and his nostrils flared. “I was really excited for some combat,” he murmured.

“Well, there are still five lucky sods left standing. They’re assessing the scene in complete disbelief. ‘They’re dead!’ one of them cries. He looks over in your direction, Astarion, and his eyes narrow in suspicion, overflowing with distrust. ‘Must have been those strangers.’ They begin to surround you, and the smallest one runs right up to you and points her finger straight at you. ‘You! You poisoned us!’”

“What’s this one’s name?” Astarion asked, giggling nervously. He was stalling for time.

Gale groaned. “Oh, for the love of—fine. This one’s named Tak.”

“Tak! Delightful. Ahem. ‘If I’d poisoned you, do you really think I’d still be here?’”

The words he’d been dreading all night slipped through Gale’s lips: “Make me a deception check.”

“Oh,” Astarion smiled. “Of course! Yes, let me just—where’s that—ah, there it is.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ve got this in the bag, baby!” Karlach grinned. “I wonder what your charisma score is?”

“High, probably, if you take the way he’s been trying to butter us all up into account,” Shadowheart replied nonchalantly, reaching across the table to dip a forkful of raw broccoli into Lae’zel’s ranch dressing.

“Shka'keth,” the smaller girl scowled at her in protest. “He wouldn’t be much of a rogue if he couldn’t lie his way out of his messes—not a useful one, anyway.”

Useful.

The word sank at the bottom of Astarion’s mind like a stone in the sea. Crestfallen, he looked down at his charisma stat, and a mere ten stared back, scrawled in pencil. Compared to his abysmal strength score of eight, a ten wasn’t awful. It was average.He’d built his character to find traps and to sense danger, to remain unnoticed and invisible. It hadn’t made sense for him to improve his charisma stat when they reached level four, even after Gale kindly suggested it might be something he should take into consideration.

Why bother lying when his thoughts were hardly ever private, anyway? Why rely on his innate charm when there was a script he’d faithfully followed for years to lure his prey back home for the predator to feast upon? His body did most of the talking, anyway. All he needed to do was stand around in shady bars, looking provocative, inviting people in with his vampish smile. Just another pretty face, sharp and siren-like, kissing sloppy, drunken drifters he didn’t even want to be near, ferrying them to their untimely demises.

He hardly realized that he’d let the die fly into the tray already.

...f*ck.

He’d rolled an eight. Plus three? Ten—no! Eleven. Damn his lifelong failure to grasp basic mathematics.

Like grains of sand trickling down the slender neck of an hourglass, the rogue’s luck had finally run out.

“How did you roll?” Wyll asked, curiously leaning forward and looking into the dice tray.

“Not great,” Astarion winced, before turning to face Gale. “It’s an eleven. Can I use that inspiration point you just gave me?”

“Oh, yes. I think that re-roll would be quite useful right about now.”

Useful.

The stone had become a boulder.

Astarion scrunched his eyes shut and rolled the dice one last time.

I can’t f*ck this up.

I have to be useful.

For nearly half a year, this weekly game—bi-weekly, if life was particularly inflexible for any of them—had been his only escape. He’d entrenched himself in the world Gale had carefully built for them, and he’d found his place in it. In Faerun, Astarion wasn’t the sad, worthless loser who hadn’t finished his degree. He wasn’t making slightly above minimum wage and struggling to pay rent. He wasn’t laying in bed every night trapped with the monster who’d taken control of his life, breathing in cannabis, incense, and mold.

Well, not anymore, anyway. His rogue may have suffered two hundred years of slavery, but he was free from his tormentor. His rogue was everything he wished he was: smart, resourceful,useful.

The skills he brought to the table had proven to his friends that he was deserving of his place around it.

For the first time, Astarion had worth. He had value.

And he would havenothingif he failed this check again.

Who was he without everything he had to offer?

Please, please please...

Ten.

His heart folded into itself like paper, growing painfully small.

“sh*t! Thirteen?” he asked hopefully, his eyes glassy with tears that were threatening to spill out. He leaned his head back to keep them from falling.

Gale shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. A thirteen still doesn’t cut it. Outraged, the goblins all begin to crowd around you, jeering and brandishing their weapons.”

“Honestly, that tracks for the man with red eyes and sharp fangs who didn’t think any of us would pick up on his vampirism,” Shadowheart laughed. “You’re an awful liar, Astarion.”

Astarion dug his nails into his arms.

The horrible sound of Cazador’s muted laughter buzzed uncomfortably into Astarion’s left ear. “Lucky we have such a great rogue on our side!” he whispered in a patronizing, sarcastic tone, patting Astarion on the back, forcing a hot tear to run down his face. He was grateful the room’s lights were slightly dimmed to add to the atmosphere.

Karlach sucked a sharp breath of air through her teeth. “Oh, buddy,” she exhaled softly. “It’s okay. We all trip up sometimes. Don’t let this get you down, Starry.”

Only it wasn’t okay.

Dishonesty, chicanery, guile—these were his prowesses. Lying was one of the few tools at his disposal. His tongue needed to be as edged as his dagger, and he’d left it dull and purposeless. His talents were few. He’d failed at one of the only things he was meant to be good at.

It was only a matter of time before he became a spectre in the one place where he craved belonging the most. He’d been foolish to hold his head up high earlier.

He wanted to white out his charisma score.

To erase himself—to disappear into the wallpaper.

They’ve had so many chances to cast me out...eventually, I fear they will.

“You’re an awful liar.”

Astarion smiled bitterly. Little do they all know I lie to them every day of my life.

I can’t prove myself to them if I keep f*cking this up.

I have to do better, otherwise I’m worthless to them.

Otherwise, I don’t belong here.

I’m nothing.

I’m nothing.

I’m—

“Astarion?”

Gale’s seraphic voice gently moored his writhing thoughts ashore, rescuing him from the pessimum his downward spiral was leading him to. “Yes?”

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, pushing the lozenge in his mouth to his cheek with his tongue.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Astarion bluffed, smiling saucily while he adjusted his posture. “Ready to stick my knife into the backs of each and every one of these little pests. It’s just ten goblins, after all,” he giggled half-heartedly before meeting Gale’s eyes...

...and he froze, suddenly caught in the gaze of someone who saw right through him.

Solemn brown eyes latched onto his, bringing him closer to land.

“It’s okay if you’re not, you know,” he said, fidgeting with a purple resin die between his fingers. “This? It’s all just chance. At the end of the day, we don’t always succeed the checks we make. But it doesn’t mean you’re a failure. What would you like to do next?”

“What if I don’t know what I want?” Astarion breathed.

“It’s never a bad idea to ask for help,” Gale replied.

Like magic, his words breathed light into his heart. They revived the song that was always playing within its chambers when they were only five feet apart from one another, stoked the flames he’d been carrying throughout the night, every night they played together.

It burned, aching to pull him into the kitchen and kiss him.

“Alright,” he exhaled. “I’d like to communicate via tadpole, to the others, if that’s alright?” he asked, his wavering voice finding its foothold.

“What would you like to say?”

He grinned, shielding his face in foppish embarrassment. “‘Er...oops. A little help here?’”

“‘Hold tight. Heading there,’” replied Shadowheart. Smiling, she plucked her cleric from the merchant stand and planted it firmly next to the rogue. “It’s okay,” she mouthed.

“‘Taking position!’” answered Lae’zel, flanking him on the opposite side.

“‘You took on all those goblins by yourself?! Nice work, soldier,’” Karlach winked at him as she slid her piece next to his. “‘We’ll be there, eyes on victory, tummy on dinner.’”

“‘I’ll have my blade at the ready if things get ugly,’” Wyll assured him. With panache, he twirled his miniature in his hand before joining the others.

“‘Rook to queen six,’” Gale smiled, setting his wizard down on the nearest empty space. “I have your back.”

Cazador leaned forward to place his paladin front and center. “‘A vampire that doesn’t feed. A rogue who can’t lie. An unfortunate combination. I wonder what else you might be hiding from us—what falsehoods we haven’t yet brought into the light.’”

“‘Ha! Oh, darling,’” Astarion laughed, feigning a smile. “Everything about me is a lie.”

~✧~

The last whispered note of his disclosure reverberated weightlessly against wood-paneled walls, flooding the space with deafening discordance. Words that felt leaden buried behind his teeth now floated high in the rafters, hanging in the air, butterfly-like and free from the vestiges of the fear that still had him by the throat.

It was terrifying to betray himself like this.

The ever-wailing cage in his head was all he’d ever known. It was easier to stay inside and keep his mouth shut. Everything he’d tried to rebel against was for his own good—or at least, that’s what his keepers had always told him. The irons that dug into raw flesh were to keep him safe. The bars were cold and lonely, but a cage was always a better option than a coffin.

He’d been taught to keep the latch locked years ago—a single slap against his manacled wrist was usually all it took to get him to stop fiddling with it. He prided himself on being such a quick learner. If he didn’t struggle against the hands that were pinning him down, it wouldn’t hurt as much. If he numbed his mind, stared at the patterns on the wall, and laid very, very still while the scissors clipped his wings for the thousandth time, they would draw less blood.

And yet, against every effort of self-preservation he’d ever built to protect himself, in one sweeping, elegant motion of his dexterous fingers, the gilded cell door he’d steadfastly guarded burst wide open. The lockpick fell to the ground with a high-pitched clinking sound—like a tiny pearl skipping against curved porcelain, set free down the drain along with everything he’d spent years trying to bury.

Like strange little birds, each bid for freedom, each unanswered plea to the gods for salvation, each rehearsed excuse he’d ever made flew frantically through quivering lips, escaping fervidly into the humid night air.

The language he’d spoken his entire life felt foreign to him.

His body was shivering, his head was pounding, and his stomach was on fire and crawling with ants. He could feel the weight of red, glowing eyes scorching twin burns into the extant mark on his neck.

Cazador was going to kill him if he found out—not if.

When.

Cazador was going to kill him.

Cazador was going to kill him.

Somehow, despite shouldering the heavy marble lid of the tomb he’d assuredly sealed himself in, Astarion’s chest felt strangely lighter, as though the grey, moldy ichor that had been plaguing him since the morning miraculously cleared from his lungs. Drawing breath became easier.

Deep, crisp inhale.

Deep, shuddering exhale.

“He’s been abusing me for years.”

Oh my gods. I’ve said it.

I’ve finally said it.

The lights dimmed. He could feel a sense of pride swelling up in his chest as he waited for the symphony of his ovation. He would not deny himself the chance to bask in it.

After all, he deserved praise.

He deserved flowers.

He deserved it all.

He waited, arms outstretched, fingertips grasping for the memory of how it felt to exist underneath the blinding limelight...

...but the applause never came.

His throat shriveled like a raisin in the sun, threatening to speak no more. He thought his honesty would magically ease his burden somehow—that he’d be going into this fight with allies by his side, prepared to move mountains.

Instead, they sat together in uncomfortable silence.

The sentence he’d let slip from his long-locked lips felt oddly weightless in the noiselessness. Was this festering secret so inconsequential that it had lost meaning once he’d banished it to the wilds? It strangled him still, hanging like a corroded anchor around his neck.

Surely it hadn’t been all in his head?

Astarion could hear the clock ticking away in the kitchen. With every beat against the dead air that stifled its fire, his heart became unrestrained and bestial in his chest. The blood in his body rushed to his ears to drown out the sea of voices he’d set loose.

He stood at the edge of his cage wanting nothing more than to inch his way back inside and lock it shut and never leave its safety behind again.

Only...the cage wasn’t safe either, was it?

Hawks still rattled the bars.

Snakes still slithered in through the spaces between them, unwelcome.

Hands still intruded to clip his wings.

Their talons and fangs and blades never needed to pierce his flesh to break him.

But how was he meant to fly when his wings were still clipped?

“What?! Our Cazzy did this?” Karlach raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms, and reclined against the couch. Her leg began tapping restlessly against the carpeted floor, awakening the rat in her pocket. “Oof. I can’t believe this.”

“Hm. Artists,” Shadowheart said tersely, passing the phone back to him with a quick roll of her eyes. “He certainly chose a pretentious outlet to vent his frustrations, didn’t he?”

Astarion clutched the edges of his T-shirt, twisting the cotton fabric in his fists and noticing a small hole near its hem. Weary with the weight of their underwhelming response having been dumped unceremoniously onto his recently unburdened shoulders, he held back a resentful laugh.

I knew it.

This is what always happens.

Karlach shot up from her seat and began pacing, and Godey quickly scurried away, seeking refuge in the flat of Shadowheart’s hand.

“But I don’t understand!” she exclaimed. “You two always seemed so happy together during our games! So cute, so in love—”

“We’ve been in couple’s therapy since March,” Astarion snapped. “I’m sorry not everyone’s life looks like a Hailey Kiyoko music video.”

“Are you sure it isn’t worth fighting for—?”

Astarion bristled. “What part of what I said are you not understanding?! Our relationship is over. He’s not some shirt I can keep mending over and over again. I can’t keep trying to fix him. There’s no fixing us. I’ve already tried, not that I had any choice in the matter.”

“Starry, I understand if you’ve been having problems, but are you sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure!” he angrily gestured at the bruise on his neck. “Look at what he did to me!”

Her eyes widened, surveying the patch of mottled skin. “It’s not that bad...looks like it’s just a hickey. I’ve done worse damage during sex—”

“Karlach!” Shadowheart warned, her glowering face burning bright red.

“Except I didn’t want this!” he cried, fury and desperation coloring his tone as he ran his fingers against the healing injury, its ridged indentations finally gone. “I hate being bitten. I’ve begged him time and time again not to bite me, but he does it anyway!”

“Babe, you can’t tell me that picture didn’t disturb you,” Shadowheart whispered.

“Cazador’s always been...expressive. Always had big feelings. I’m sure that’s all it was, and that he didn’t mean any harm by what he drew. He’s just venting, and it isn’t fair to try and accuse him of something more than being hurt!”

All of a sudden, Astarion could no longer breathe. “What?”

Karlach stopped pacing, her leg bouncing fitfully as she unwittingly chose her next weapon.

“Does he hit you?” she asked.

“Does he have to?” he snarled.

“I’m relieved he doesn’t! Look, all I’m saying is that maybe he’s just heartbroken that you’ve been pulling away from him! I get it, breaking up with someone you loved because you’re not getting on sucks, but—”

His body tensed like a spring as he braced himself for the crushing blow.

“—abuse is a strong word—”

There it was.

The dose of truth he’d been waiting for.

His eyes flicked distrustingly between his friends, wounded and wild.

When had telling anyone ever helped him before?

When had anyone ever believed him?

Why is it so hard to believe me?

Is it because I’m a man?

Is it because I’m gay?

Would this have been the response I got if I was straight?

If I was a woman?

Why is it always so f*cking different for me?

”Don’t tell anyone. This is private.”

“That’s between you two. Leave me out of it.”

“Nobody needs to know our business.”

“Why do your friends have to know every little detail?”

“What happens in the family stays in the family.”

“There’s nothing wrong with us. You want to be abused so f*cking badly.”

“You’ll do anything for attention.” The memory of alcoholic breath on his father’s virulent tongue inundated his nostrils. “Even lie.”

A long discontinued co*cktail of raspberry, bergamot, jasmine and rotten honey lingered in the back of his mind, on his mother’s wrists, burning his iron-filled lungs as she pressed the back of his head into the carpet. She twisted a handful of silver curls between her fingers and squeezed it tightly, digging her sharp nails into his scalp, and the room around them began to grow red as tears clouded his vision.

Red changed into blue before cycling back to red.

Blue.

Red.

Blue. Red, blue, red, blue.

Red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue.

“You’re an adult,” the officer had told him. Fear welled up in his mother’s eyes, and Astarion relished in it. It was nice to see her squirm for once. “Do you want to press charges?”

Say yes.

“No.”

Astarion watched the officer’s sympathy mutated into pitiless disdain.

His mother simply smiled.

“Officer, my son has a problem with telling the truth,” she said.

His father turned away, refusing to look at him. “He’s a pathological liar.”

Plumes of anger billowed like smoke from the pit of his stomach. Long-dead fears grabbed him by the shirt collar, dragging him out the front door and onto the street. The entire neighborhood watched like vultures as he stumbled down the slope of the driveway. The flashing red and blue lights were casting shadows on their blank, unfeeling faces. His cheeks burned with shame.

I didn’t lie.

Liar!

The police wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t snuck a message to a friend begging for help!

Liar! Liar! Liar!

I didn’t have anywhere else to go!

“Your parents seem to be really worried about you,” the officer said as they drove away. “You know, I know your dad. He wants nothing but the best for you. They’re good parents. Not anyone is as lucky as you are. You should be grateful.”

“You should be grateful I don’t hit you,”Cazador whispered from the leather seat beside him. “I never would.”

Astarion’s heart ached like a dying, winged thing caught between his ribcage. He leaned his throbbing head against the grated window of the back of the police cruiser and sobbed.

I’m a liar.

“Hold on, Karlach, are you listening to yourself?!” Shadowheart interjected, her beautiful features warped by disbelief. “Are you saying you don’t believe him?”

“No—no, that’s not what I—”

“This isn’t like you at all!” Her large, doe-like eyes grew impossibly wide. “Do you believe me?” she asked.

“I do—I want to believe you, Jen,” Karlach began through gritted teeth, shaking her head before turning to face Astarion. “I want to believe you, too, it’s just—I’m sorry. It couldn’t have happened. There’s no way.”

He pulled his legs up to his chest.

I’m a liar.

I must be.

“Why not? What are you talking about?” Jen cried, shielding Godey from the volume of their voices with her palm before setting him down on the couch. “Cazador hurt our friend! Why would he lie to us about this?”

Astarion looked up at her in shock.

Wait, does she—?

He tried to open his mouth, but it was glued tightly shut. He was too stunned to speak.

Godey scurried into his lap.

“Because you’ve both told me the sky is pink, but I know it’s blue. I know Caz,” she said, her resolve wavering, her resounding voice trembling with rage. “I know Caz. I’ve known him for years! He had his issues, but there’s no way in hell he—”

“Didn’t you say you were never that close to him?” Shadowheart asked. “Weren’t you closer to En?”

Astarion recalled the black, shark-like eyes leering at him in the dead of night, aglow with dozens of tiny string lights as they exchanged paper for plastic.

At the sound of that single syllable, Karlach grew alarmingly quiet. Something in his name had set her eyes ablaze. Her chest began to heave violently. “Gortash can kick rocks. We may not have been close, but Caz has never been anything but nice to me! He was a quiet kid, shy, just wanted to be loved, nothing like Enver f*cking Gortash ever was. Even now, he’s always—”

“Shh. Hon. It’s okay. No one wants to believe their friend is capable of doing bad things,” she said, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Just because someone is kind to you doesn’t mean they’re kind to everyone. Trust me. I know.”

She turned to Astarion, her gentle smile radiating compassionate encouragement. He quickly looked away, focusing on a single silver hair hiding among Godey’s wiry black fur.

“Please,” she coaxed, extending her palm. “I know you wouldn’t be telling us this if you didn’t trust us. I know this can’t be easy for you. Tell us about the picture. Tell us what happened.”

Here she was, reaching into the darkness and giving him a chance.

A part of him wanted to hold her hand and tell her everything—to confide in her the grimiest shades of his life.

The active part of him flinched away from her.

Don’t look at me.

His glassy eyes tracked the room for anything else he could anchor himself to.

They settled on Gale’s mug. Its design melted into a nebulous mess of abstract lines through the tears.

“It’s never a bad idea to ask for help.”

“f*ck—I—” he swallowed.

Cazador was going to kill him.

His lips tore as he opened them to talk, splitting from the tension of his teeth against their flesh. He sucked in the metallic taste of his own blood, an amount so puny and insignificant it was gone after a second on his tongue.

But although his voice shook, Astarion spoke.

“He—he didn’t want me to go—” he whimpered, clasping his mouth shut and biting down on his lower lip.

Cazador was going to kill him.

“Go where?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, recoiling from the pain of his tears against broken skin as they trailed down to his mouth. “Elminster’s—he—he never wants me to leave his side. Always wants to know where I am—where I’m going. He didn’t feel like going. He—he wanted me to stay home with him. Usually, it works, and I stay with him while—while he gets high. Just a normal Tuesday.” A rueful laugh bolted from his lips. He was shaking, his knees locking together. “I don’t even know why. Maybe because...because I love him,” he sputtered, his upper lip curling in disgust. “Maybe...maybe because he sits there pouting, makes me feel like sh*t whenever I get ready to do anything without him. He tried to get me to stay again.”

“Again?” Shadowheart absentmindedly rubbed at her elbows, holding herself in her arms. She slid closer to him on the couch. “He’s done something like this before.”

Astarion shrugged, running his palms across Godey’s back as the rat flattened himself against his stomach. “I—what can I say? He’s possessive of me. Sometimes I feel like he thinks he owns me. Like I’m his property—not his boyfriend.”

Cazador was going to kill him.

“Astarion...”

“M-maybe I should’ve listened to him...but I wanted to go. Gods. I should have stayed home. Then I wouldn’t have had to come home to...well, you saw what he did. Ha. ‘Coming home,’” he began to sob. “What f*cking bullsh*t am I spouting? I’ve never had a ‘home’ to ‘come’ to. I never felt safe there with him, in that hellhole. Couldn’t escape him. Even at our games, he’s always making these small digs at me when he’s around you all—”

Suddenly, a horrible realization struck him like lightning, shaking him to his core, knocking the wind out of his sails. He struggled to make out the blurry shapes of his friends through an opaque wall of tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

“You never noticed,” he sniffled. “Did you? Neither of you ever f*cking noticed!”

“I knew something was wrong,” Shadowheart said softly. “You dissociate. A lot.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“I just didn’t think—”

“Of course you didn’t,” Astarion spat. “How could anyone?! He’s so charming. So handsome. Tells me I’m stupid, boring, dumb, calls me to his side like a dog—but that’s how he’s always flirted with me, isn’t it? That’s just who he is, and I’m the fool for not just ‘loving him as he is’ and ‘accepting his flaws without trying to change him’and lying down and taking it for another two years.” His eyes were sore and red, flickering frenetically around the room until they latched onto Gale’s mug again.

“I have your back.”

His heart beat like an erratic drum against his fingertips. “I don’t even want to tell you why he makes me feel so f*cking dirty. But he does. He makes me feel so f*cking broken.”

Cazador was going to kill him.

“It couldn’t possibly be as bad as I’m making it seem, could it?!” His voice was a pendulum—a pitiful lilting cry and an indignant, gravelly shout all at once. “f*ck!Maybe it isn’t that serious. You’re right, Karlach. It’s not like he ever hit me or anything—like actually, really hit me. He grabbed my arm—he—he bites me, he won’t stop f*cking touching me—!”

He wanted to white himself out.

To erase himself—to disappear into the wood-paneled wall behind the couch.

Cazador couldn’t kill what he couldn’t see.

“What he does always feels so...small. A needle in a haystack. Easy to lose. Easy to neglect. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to tell you any of this, because the more I talk, the more I wish I would just shut up already, because none of this makes any sense!”

He felt like he was losing his grip more and more with each passing sentence, juggling his words and watching them all clatter uselessly to the floor. His thoughts flashed by him in a jittery sequence, like a landscape through the windows of a runaway train.

The wheels sparked against the steel of the tracks as the warm metallic taste returned.

Cazador was going to kill him.

Nothing else mattered.

“Every day,” he murmured, bringing his arms up to shield his face, “Every single f*cking day, I’m scared I’m going to lose my apartment. Every day, I’m scared I’m going to get kicked out because of him—and honestly? I don’t know if it’d be worse to be homeless and starving than to keep living there with him, starving anyway. I don’t know why I’m trying so f*cking hard to leave. It makes sense to stay.”

No it doesn’t.

That doesn’t make any sense. None of this is making any sense. Am I making any sense at all?

I need to shut the f*ck up.

I’m a liar.

Deep breaths.

Compose yourself!

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

What if they’re right? What if abuse is a strong word after all? What if I’m lying again?

“I feel like I’m making this all up. The bruise is just a hickey. The picture is just vent art. And we’re just having problems communicating, like every couple does. I’m sure we’ll probably move past it, and I’m probably just being a nasty, vindictive little bitch who’s trying to come out on top. I should be talking to him about this, not you.”

I’m lying again, like I always do. Liar. I’m a liar. I’m lying.

“Don’t take anything I’ve said in the last few minutes seriously. I’m actually extremely embarrassed. I’m sure I’m exaggerating. You know how dramatic I can be.”

Please believe me.

“I didn’t mean to drag you into this. This is more than you bargained for when you let me spend the night. I’m sorry I f*cked everything up. I can go back to my apartment if it’ll make you more comfortable. I feel like this whole...unpleasantness is my fault.”

It probably is.

“I’m wrong. This isn’t happening. Maybe I’m just making something out of nothing.”

I probably am.

“I know I am. What he’s doing is fine. It’s nothing. I’m just sensitive. Weak. It could always be worse.”

I can’t take this back.

“You know what? We were having such a nice evening before I ruined the mood. Let’s just forget I said anything, hm?”

It’s too late for that now.

You’ve ruined everything.

He could feel two sets of eyes on him as he stared down at his shivering knees, avoiding their gazes for fear of seeing himself reflected through their glassy, pity-stricken surfaces.

If they don’t pity you, they must hate you by now.

He could feel the heat of Cazador’s eyes burning into the back of his head like two pinpricks.

He was going to kill him.

Cazador was going to—

Astarion’s face softened. “Karlach, your heart—!”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” She took several deep breaths through her nostrils. “None of that matters right now.”

Her restorative breaths were the only sound in the eye of her storm, feral and ragged—until Shadowheart’s soft voice broke the silence.

“Astarion...you’re a terrible liar. You know that, right?”

He blinked incredulously, the last of his tears rolling off his gaunt cheekbones. Something warm began to flutter in his chest. “What? Hold on—you believe me?”

Through her own hot tears, Karlach laughed. “Of course we believe you. She’s right, you know. Your poker face? Abysmal.Gods, did you really think you could hide this from us forever? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Darling, I revel in my mysteries,” he sniffled, laughing weakly. “In all honesty, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’d keep it under wraps for my own safety. I didn't think anyone would believe me. I’m scared. Scared of what he’s done. Scared of what he’ll do.”

Suddenly, Shadowheart’s arms wrapped themselves around him. His eyes widened in surprise.

Then another, warmer set joined in.

They both squeezed him tightly between the two of them.

“We can’t help who we are. Or what’s been done to us. All we have is what we do now. And all I want to do right now is knock his damn teeth out.” He could practically hear her teeth grinding in her skull. “I swear, if he hurts a hair on your pretty little silver head, the next time I see his f*cking face I’m going to bash my fist through it. I’ll have the damn bastard seeing stars. I dare him. I’ll crack anyone who tries to come into my house and hurt my people.”

“You are so brave, and I’m so proud of you,” Shadowheart whispered. “You don’t have to go at this alone anymore.”

“No more secrets, alright?” Karlach pressed her wet cheek against his. “We’re in this together-together.”

The dam had finally broken.

He began to sob, burying his face into Shadowheart’s shoulder as Karlach traced circles into his convulsing back. His tears darkened the fabric of her shirt where they landed.

He wanted so badly to feel safe in their arms, but the single, haunting refrain that had hounded him all night lingered still.

Cazador was going to kill him.

Cazador was going to kill him...

...unless Karlach killed the bastard first.