Work Text:
You look at him from across the lit fire, finding Astarion caught up in a book propped over his crossed knees. His crimson eyes trace over the script, full lips just slightly pursed in thought, pale fingers delicately flipping through the pages. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that you’re watching, because if he did, you think he’d preen and pose a little more under your attentions.
But as of now, you get to see him differently— existing rather than performing.
Your fingers brush over the pages of the open sketchbook in your lap, a charcoal stick held in your other hand. You flick it over your knuckles, tounging at the back of your teeth as you allow your wrist to move with your flowing thoughts.
You think of Astarion’s words from the first time you had caught him gazing into that broken mirror, fresh on your mind even if it feels like it’s been ages since you’d heard them.
“I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me. What you see.”
You’ve thought from the start that he was exceedingly easy on the eyes. Anyone who had a pulse, and maybe a few who didn’t, could tell that Astarion was a beautiful person. Your gaze traces over his face now, from the thick fan of his dark lashes, the slope of his nose, to the pointed bow of his full lips. His pale skin flickers with reds and oranges and yellows through the dance of the fire light, his eyes glinting a deep ruby. Your hand moves to copy what you see, lines of charcoal breathing life into the page, each stroke careful to capture his likeness.
You can’t imagine the dramatics he would put on should he see you creating a subpar portrait, after all. But you find yourself wanting to make a good one regardless, slowly marking out his features in a way that leaves you satisfied. You want it to capture exactly what you see when you look at him, every part of beauty and every aching detail, every part of his face that leaves you staring and daydreaming about. He’d be awfully flattered if he knew just how much time you spent admiring his face, and you can’t exactly say you’d mind indulging him.
Even when you likely shouldn’t. The thought makes you huff quietly under your breath.
You sketch in the thick clump of his lashes, placing delicate care into the slight creases around his mouth, the curl of his fair hair around his pointed ears. His eyes are piercing even without their blood-red color, deep set and rimmed with black, his jaw narrow and lips just slightly pouted.
You try to imagine it, not being able to see yourself for two-hundred years. You try to imagine forgetting what you even looked like in the first place, all the way down to the color of your eyes. It makes your lips tighten, brows pinching in thought as your fingers twitch over your pencil. You can’t imagine it, living like that, the mundane things you could do so easily now being taken from you for centuries. Stripped without your consent and used. Two centuries of abuse, of knowing nothing else but pain.
You shake your head of the thought lest your chest stir with feelings you have no interest in dredging up right now.
The first sketch quickly turns into another, based mostly upon memory—you think of his smile, the fine points of his teeth and the way his eyes crinkle when he’s particularly amused. You darken the tips of his ears just slightly, your lips nearly curving at the thought of how they flush pink so easily after a good meal, nearly hidden beneath white curls. You think of how tousled those curls get, unruly after battle, artfully messy and brushing over his forehead. It makes you ache for your hands to find them, to gently smooth out the tangles and massage at his scalp, or to tug at them until he makes that lovely breathy noise—
You get lost in your own thoughts, filling the two blank pages with sketches of his face, varying in expression but created with great care and detail. As if each image was plucked from your mind and pressed lovingly into the page, smoothed of creases and cared for like something precious. You’re getting away from yourself, you think—Astarion would likely think you sappy or ridiculous, or he’d be so absolutely snobbish and endearingly smug that you were wrapped so tightly around his perfect finger—
“Oh, what’s this? I wasn’t aware you had such a talent for the arts.” Astarion says over your shoulder, nearly causing you to startle, his leg brushing against your bicep. You resist the urge to slam the sketchbook shut, your fingers twitching over the corners of the pages. You have nothing to hide, certainly, but—
“Just haven’t had the time to indulge much, recently.”
You look up at Astarion, watching as something flickers over his face you can’t quite read, his lips pursing. “Is this anyone in particular, sweetness?”
You realize he can’t even recognize himself in your drawings. You feel as if your breath has been knocked out of you, leaving your ribs feeling bruised and aching.
“You said you can’t see yourself anymore.” You clear your throat, angling the pages just slightly so he can see them just a little better, rolling your lips together. You feel more nervous than you likely should.
“And I could go all day trying to tell you what you look like, showering you with compliments and everything, but I thought this would be the closest to actually showing you.” You try to laugh lightly, but the sound catches just slightly in your throat, choking you with the levity you don’t truly feel. Astarion has gone completely still beside you, his eyes darting over the pages like he were trying to soak in every detail.
Slowly, he sinks down to his knees, his arm brushing up against yours, his hands twitching in his lap like he wants to reach out and touch.
Silently, you hand him the sketchbook, watching as his expression wavers, ruby eyes finding yours as he carefully takes the book into his shaking hands. He holds it like it’s something holy, with a certain amount of gentleness you’ve very rarely seen him exhibit. He breathes out a harsh breath, clawed fingers hovering over charcoal lines.
“Darling.” He whispers, and his voice cuts off like a snapped thread, his jaw tight and his head bowed like he were still trying to hide from you. His shoulders tighten, as if he was trying to recollect the shattered pieces of himself before you had the chance to see them.
“I’m very flattered, you know. It seems you really captured my good side.” His voice is strangely thick, the playful, silvery tone he often uses falling flat. “Want something, do you? You don’t have to do something like this to have me all to yourself—”
“Astarion.” You sigh gently, letting your arms press together more firmly, and he quickly falls quiet. “I just wanted to. Nothing more than that.”
You can hear him swallow thickly, his lashes flickering as his eyes grow wet. His lips tremble before he presses them together, his jaw tight as his throat bobs.
You place a tentative hand on the nape of his neck, fingers brushing over soft curls like freshly fallen snow. He shivers, his shining eyes still focused on the pages, the firelight leaving his gaze as bright as glittering gems
“I can’t promise that it’s perfect, but it’s how I see you.” Your thumb brushes the tip of his ear, and the simple touch makes him shudder like tree leaves in a violent storm.
His head slumps heavily into your shoulder, his knees curling up into himself. The sketchbook is left open in his lap as he seems to curve into you, a flower seeking the bathing warmth of sun. Maybe it’s to hide his face as he sniffles, his thumb rubbing over the page as a splash soaks into the paper, but you don’t call him on it. You rest your cheek against his head, your lips brushing gently over his curls.
“Thank you.” He croaks, the words quiet and low, awkward on his tongue like he isn’t quite sure how to say them. You smile, your fingers curling over his hip as you hold him close, just to touch him and let him know that you’re there.
He’s silent, after that, and you don’t mind. You let your eyes slip closed, petting over his side as he just barely shakes in your grip. You let him have his peace, so long as he knows that you’re not going anywhere.
He thanks you with a chaste press of his lips over your cheek and you smile.