Chapter Text
It only takes a couple more shifts at the brothel for Astarion to secure himself a wealthy client who wants to see him outside of the Sharess’ Caress. He has to wait two days to commence their paid affair, as the old human man wants to wait for his wife to leave on a trip to see her sister, and that leaves him with far more time to plan his approach than he’s used to. Astarion intends to present himself as something out of one of Bael’s wildest fantasies, constructing a persona based on what he gleaned of his desires from their first meeting.
One thing he needs is fine clothing that hasn’t been patched a hundred times. Though there are the occasional lechers who enjoy the contrast of fucking a street urchin whore in the surroundings of their opulent lifestyle, Astarion knows that this one expects poise and class. He needs to appear independently wealthy from the spoils he has gained through his attractiveness and skill in pleasuring his clients. Bael gave the impression that he wanted to feel desired by someone who is the object of lust. He’ll want the illusion that Astarion chooses him to be someone special, above his other clients, out of preference rather than a need for money.
In essence, Astarion plans to play the part of someone who works as a courtesan as a lifestyle, rather than out of a need for the money it brings. For that, he needs a costume to fit the role. Apparently his complaints to Tav, about how no clothing shop will stay open late enough for him, have made an impression. They call in a favour and Astarion finds himself inside Carm’s Garms after sunset with the promise that it won’t close before midnight.
“Since those damned illithids showed up, everything has seemed to shut as soon as it gets dark. How did my darling companion here convince you to stay open?” Astarion asks.
“Half of my enchanted pieces come direct from them, and they promised me some new stock. We’ve got genuine quality here at Carm’s Garms, you know, and you adventuring lot have some specific tastes,” Carmen responds from her place across the counter.
Carmen’s eyes light up at the sight of Tav’s pack, which Astarion had thought seemed oddly overstuffed for a short trip into the city, as they deposit it in front of them. The contents practically spring out the moment the top of the pack is unclasped, revealing multiple intricately embroidered robes. Astarion’s mouth twists at the sight of one that he had thought Tav looked particularly fetching in.
“Feel free to browse and try some things on while we negotiate. The sort of things you’re looking for will be upstairs. I’ll be able to do a fitting for you after and work out the adjustments if you need,” Carmen dismisses him, not looking up and immediately beginning to appraise the garments.
“Well, yes, with a body like this I certainly won’t be settling for something as it comes off the rack,” Astarion flirts, getting Carmen to acknowledge him again if only to give him a disapproving look.
The disapproval doesn’t appear contagious, because Tav promises, “I’ll see you when I’m done, Star,” and gives him a fond look. They squeeze Astarion’s hand under the counter-top, where Carmen can’t see the gesture.
Yet again, Astarion finds himself frustrated at hearing that other name on Tav’s lips. They’re far too close to the Sharess’ Caress to risk using his real name, when all it would take is for Carmen to describe ‘Astarion’ as a pale white-haired elf to someone to put him at risk of discovery, but it’s still uncomfortable even when he’s asked for it. At least Tav doesn’t seem to have any qualms about Carmen thinking they pay for Star’s company, which the flicker of recognition in her eyes makes Astarion presume she does. Carmen thankfully has the tact not to comment.
Astarion wanders over towards the stairs and makes his way up to the second floor. There are racks of fine garments which Astarion can clearly see have been brought out for his benefit. Wooden rails have been hefted into the space, garments hung on them which have a cut that approximates his build. He browses through, searching for something he can look both regal and seductive in.
Entranced by one ensemble, Astarion plucks the hanger from the group and hooks it sideways on the rail so he can get a better look at it. The outfit is more ostentatious than anything Astarion ever wore as a magistrate. Several pieces come together to make it look resplendent, with a white layer underneath that is closed via clasps down the front of it and an outer layer in black as dark as volcanic glass which is embellished with gold detailing. His inspection of the clothing cannot be complete without a feel, so Astarion touches a sleeve and finds the material to be silken under his fingertips.
Previous bragging about his body aside, the eminent obsidian outfit is very well fitted to him when he tries it on. He has to make the belt slightly tighter to account for his waist being slightly more trim than the garment was designed to fit, but it otherwise feels like it might have been tailored for him already. It seems that it was made with typical elven proportions in mind.
At the end of the room, unsurprisingly, is a standing mirror. This is the point where any mortal customer would regard themselves in their chosen outfit and assess whether it looks the way they imagined it. Astarion stalks over to the damned thing and turns it around. A phantom stab of pain lances through him at his lack of reflection, like it always does, and he takes a few deep breaths as he continues to hold the edges of the mirror which is no longer facing him. He turns his head slightly to look down at his wrist, above where he grips the wood of the mirror’s frame almost to the point of splintering, and takes in the contrast between the black fabric and the pallor of his skin.
Clients have commented that he looks ethereal against dark sheets. They wax poetic about his porcelain skin and white hair. He can be reasonably sure that the colouration suits him. If the style of it doesn’t look right on him, he supposes he’ll have to rely on Tav to tell him so.
Astarion doesn’t bother to change as he continues to browse. He finds a few other pieces he likes, including a pair of velvet trousers in a deep red and multiple shirts with low neck lines and lacing or embroidery to add interest to them. Everything he wants, he moves to the end of the rack. A couple of outfits should be enough, alongside the more casual clothing he already owns and what he’ll be able to sneak out of the Sharess’ Caress. The only thing missing that he’d like to buy is a corset, though he thinks he might have seen one on the floor below.
“Carmen is putting away some things, so we have a moment to ourselves. Did you find--” Tav halts their words as Astarion moves around the rail to come into full view, looking them up and down.
“Speechless, are you? That reaction does me almost as well as a mirror would, I suppose,” he jokes to cover how self-conscious he feels in something so fine that isn’t a costume. Elegant silk draped over him to make people think about tearing it off is one thing, this is another beast entirely.
“I don’t see you wear things that are so intricate. I was surprised. That suits you so well, you have to get it,” Tav breaks out of their momentary silence to insist.
“It’s not too… Gods, I don’t know, I don’t look out of place in it?” Astarion asks.
“You look powerful, which you are,” they answer confidently.
“I wish I could see it, to be sure,” the vampire sighs, the turns around and briefly regards the wooden back of the mirror.
“Well, you can still take me up on my offer of that spell. I have plenty of energy left for it,” Tav offers.
When Tav first mentioned the possibility of using the mirror image spell for this alternate purpose, Astarion had felt to fragile to consider it and put it out of his mind. He’d intended to think more about it later. Then life got in the way and he’d forgotten the possibility.
“You could do that right now?” he clarifies.
“Carmen suggested I should find her when you’re ready to get your measurements taken. I don’t think she has any intention of interrupting us. We have the time and the space for it.” Tav agrees.
“Show me, then. Do it before I have a chance to change my mind,” Astarion says in a rush.
The spell isn’t one that Tav needs to touch Astarion to cast. Nonetheless, they approach and place a hand on his shoulder. The hand touching him shakes slightly. Astarion’s brows furrow, because he’s never known Tav not to have steady hands, until he realizes that the tremors travelling up their arm from their fingertips are due to his own shuddering. He closes his eyes and focusing on making the movement cease.
Fluttering sounds emanate from somewhere near Astarion’s ear, presumably from the movement of the sleeve of Tav’s robe as they pull on the strands of the weave to cast their spell. Light bursts around them, shining bright enough that Astarion sees a flash behind his eyelids, and then Tav is carefully pulling on his shoulder and coaxing him to turn away from them. He opens his eyes to the sight of a pale elf.
Piercing red eyes stare back at him. He knows it’s him, but it’s still hard to reconcile the illusion in front of him with the memory of his face that he has stored in his mind. Over the years, his memory must have degraded. His cheekbones are slightly higher than he’d remembered, his cupid’s bow less defined, and there are lines worn into his face from a thousand perfected facial expressions that he has pulled into place over and over.
The apparition looks like it’s about to cry, huge puppy dog eyes growing wider the longer he stares, and he laughs when he realizes it’s only mirroring his face. No wonder people find it hard to turn him down when he pleads with them, if he looks like that when he does.
“Oh, yes. I can see what all the fuss is about,” Astarion laughs, turning this way and that to get a view of himself from every angle. He’s hardly taken in the outfit at all, in favour of assessing his face and his well-tended curls.
“Even more beautiful when you laugh like that, too. Don’t let it go to your head,” Tav says.
“People call me egotistical as it is, love,” Astarion reminds them, thinking of something Yousen said only the previous night, “I can’t wait to get worse.”
They test out different outfits, Tav dutifully holding things in place and gathering fabric at Astarion’s sides or folding up the hems when the garments don’t fit him precisely. Although the first outfit he tried remains Astarion’s favourite, a few of the other shirts and trousers make it into his selection.
Fangs peek out, barely visible, when Astarion grins as Tav compliments him. He lifts his lip further when he notices them and runs a tongue over one of the pointed tips. No clients have noticed his undead status yet, and he realizes that the knowledge he is a vampire makes it easier for him to see the signs, but Astarion finds it shocking that people fail to realize what he is. The novelty of seeing himself in all his vampiric glory is not wearing off.
Astarion finally hesitates in front of his mirror image when he’s taking off the latest shirt he has tried on and twists in just the wrong way so that he catches a glimpse of the edge of the scars on his back. Occasionally clients comment on them, but surprisingly often they choose to say nothing as they press him down into the bed with a hand over his disfigurement. Initially, their lack of concern was jarring. Now he understand that they just don’t want to hear a sad story that will make their cock wilt.
Something in his demeanour must make Tav aware that he’s unsettled by the sight of even part of them. Their voice is soft and gentle when they ask, “You’ve seen them on your siblings, haven’t you?”
“Directly after the ritual, yes,” Astarion confirms.
“Yours look similar. With the context of how you received them and the pain they caused you, I understand why you’d hate them. However, they…” Tav purses their lips, unsure of how to go on.
“Spit it out, dear,” Astarion mutters.
“If I didn’t know what they were, I’d say they look like art,” Tav continues, then cringes, “Ah, forgive me, that’s the sort of thing I’d usually know better than to say. Insensitive.”
“Be insensitive all you like, as long as you stay honest. They look like what, a decoration to you? They’re carved into my flesh,” the rogue replies, sounding conflicted to his own ears.
“Whether you think of them as a mark of survival or a reminder of harm is personal to you. There’s no correct way to feel. I’m only commenting on the aesthetics, in case that was bothering you on top of everything else,” Tav says.
Tav is correct that it’s terribly insensitive. It also happens to soothe some of the Astarion’s worst insecurities about seeing the scars he has only felt before now. The reminder is on his skin and the scar aches when he is tired or cold; he will not suddenly become more aware of its presence for seeing them, when they so often consume his thoughts already. He realized part of his fear, shallow as it may be, was that he’d see the markings and find them to be hideous.
Facing Tav more directly, Astarion turns his head to glance over his shoulder and see more of the scar on the back of his double. Infernal text is indecipherable to him, so he cannot read what he sees. Barely darker than his skin and only slightly raised, the scar doesn’t seem as angry or grotesque as it had seemed when they were all coated in blood and standing around Cazador’s corpse. Each line is steady, despite how he recalls writhing as his master dug the knife into him.
“A pretty marking for a slave, as such things go, I suppose,” Astarion hedges.
“Soon it’ll be the mark of the thing that frees you, beyond being released from Cazador’s enthralment. It’s a path to a cure that most vampires don’t have,” the sorcerer reminds him.
A brief silence falls between them again and Astarion closes his eyes before he requests, “Can you dissolve it now? I think that’s quite enough.”
Another flash of light envelops them, fading into sparks that Astarion sees the remnants of when he opens his eyes. All signs of the image of him are gone. If not for his awareness that he can ask for Tav to repeat the experience any time he likes, it would feel like a much heavier loss. He stares at the space his double stood a moment ago and exhales harshly.
Rather than offering words of comfort that Astarion knows he would have to work very hard not to shrug off and joke about, Tav presses themself against Astarion’s back and wraps their arms around his waist to give him a quick squeeze. The way they cover the markings without hesitation, grounding Astarion in his body again with their touch, is deeply appreciated.
“Let me put on the ensemble I was wearing when you walked up here, since it needs some adjusting, and you can go and fetch Carmen for me,” Astarion orders.
Tav releases their lover in an instant, sneaking a peck to his cheek as they pull away. As obvious as it is that Astarion is using the fitting as a pretence to escape feeling so vulnerable in the aftermath of seeing himself, Tav doesn’t comment. Astarion follows the kiss to his cheek with another to Tav’s lips as a reward for their consideration. They disappear quickly and Astarion rushes to get into the outfit, to avoid Carmen finding him half-dressed and getting the wrong idea about what he and Tav had been doing.
Carm’s Garms ends up staying open past midnight, leaving Carmen plenty of time to pin pieces of fabric against Astarion’s body and use tailor’s chalk to mark where new seams need to be sewn. They all feel snug to his body when the shop owner is done with him, accentuating how lithe he is. He knows his client is going to be all over him once he shows up in any of it, showering him with money and praise. He’s going to make himself look so high class that Bael will gladly pay him multiple times what he charges at the brothel. Buying the talisman is going to require that and more.
They leave Carmen with the impression that Tav is outfitting their new favourite whore, since they pay for all of the items Astarion has picked out. They insist that they will return in several days, during the normal opening hours, to collect the tailored clothes. Star would never be owed money the way Astarion is, so he can’t even make a point to Carmen that Tav is only repaying him and isn’t technically making the purchase as a gift.
“I can have them dropped off somewhere for you, if that’s easier. I’ve made deliveries to the Sharess’ Caress in the past, owing to the fact it’s only across the road,” Carmen drops the hint as if it’s a heavy chest. Not very subtle.
“They’re garments to be worn only at Tav’s discretion, not for everyone else’s viewing pleasure. They’ll pick them up,” Astarion assures her, taking hold of Tav’s upper arm and leaning against them with a sickly sweet smile on his face.
“Customers get what they ask for. Makes my life easier,” Carmen responds, her face briefly twitching into a sneer. She puts her customer service face back on too late and Astarion is reminded of exactly why he didn’t feel like such fine clothes were meant for people like him.
Tav either doesn’t notice Carmen’s reaction or doesn’t realize the cause of it, because they continue to speak with her good-naturedly whilst Astarion acts like an air-headed plaything that Tav brought along to dress up. He wonders what the odds are that someone from their party comes into Carmen’s shop one day, being recognized as travelling with the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, and that Carmen mentions Tav’s choice of companion during their last visit.
By the time they leave, taking only one silken shirt with them which already fit Astarion perfectly without the need for adjustments, he’s much less excited about his new outfits.