Chapter Text
He should have known Astarion would notice. The two of them have always been on the same wavelength, something to do with them being two peas in the proverbial pod he supposes. Two viciously bloodthirsty rogues with beasts in their blood, albeit in ever so slightly different ways. That’s all a technicality, though, they’re both equally the boogeymen parents scare their children with in the end. They’re kindred spirits, one might say.
So finding the vampire awake and sipping on probably-not-wine when he attempts to return to the Elfsong in the wee hours of the day shouldn’t be as surprising as it is.
“Our beloved leader returns,” he drawls lazily, a knowing smile on his face. He reclines on the chair he’s lounging in, legs thrown over the arm and swirling the liquid in his goblet, “that’s the third time you’ve slipped out secretly at night since we arrived here. And here I thought I was the only one who had to run out for a nibble.”
Kazaran scrunches his nose and frowns, “my nightly activities are no more your business than yours are mine, Astarion,” he says, and he mentally berates himself for how defensive it sounds.
He knows he’s made a mistake in his tone when that only makes Astarion’s predator’s grin widen, “Well, some people seem to think we have to keep an eye on you since we discovered who exactly you are. And who better to track a rogue than one of his own?” He pouts but it doesn’t look real in the slightest, “I’ll admit, I’m a little disappointed I haven’t gotten to witness any grizzly murders, though. I thought the Bhaalspawn were supposed to be creative, just one tiny ritualistic killing wouldn’t have gone amiss.”
Kazaran frowns deeper, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels every bruise Gortash had left like a brand, every scratch like a gaping wound, all of them screaming his guilt. What is he even supposed to say? He’s not the man they’d all agreed to travel with, that much is clear. His heritage is something he’s only just come to accept and pursue - gods, it’s something he’d only just remembered - but needless to say the news was a bigger blow to some than others. His relationship with the newly crowned tyrannical dictator of the Gate is not something he is eager to add to the list of reasons he is not to be trusted.
Astarion hadn’t seemed overly bothered by his history, though, not more than mild annoyance at the inconvenience of it all. So why he would be the one drilling him is a mystery.
Jaheira, perhaps, the infamous hunter of Bhaalspawn that she is. Maybe Wyll, the noble hero, would take it upon himself to rid the world of his evil before it can regrow its roots. Halsin maybe, if he wasn’t currently rotting in the Bhaal temple under the watchful eye of his darling sister. No doubt the party members Astarion is referring to are among that number. But Astarion himself? Who has been openly discussing completing a ritual that will kill at the very least all of his siblings and was described by a devil as vile and diabolical? It makes Kazaran wonder what his angle is.
“What? Watching me bed the Archduke wasn’t enough entertainment for you?” He asks, deciding bluntness is likely the best path forward. “Certainly you haven’t missed our romps that much. I didn’t take you for a sore loser.”
They haven’t slept together since the shadowlands, when it became clear Astarion wasn't actually all that into sex as a whole. He needed a friend, yes -and that’s certainly something Kazaran is willing to be- but simply no need of one with benefits. A shame, yes, but Kazaran had better things to spend his time doing than coercing someone into sex they don’t want. He still does, as a matter of fact, discovering you are the former chosen of a god and orchestrator of the same master plan you’ve been attempting to thwart ends up being more time-consuming than one might expect.
Astarion pouts again, making Kazaran wait as he takes another drink from his goblet. The familiar rusty stain on his teeth when he next speaks is confirmation that he’s not drinking wine. A relief, given that it’s a little close to morning for him to be sober when they set off for the day otherwise. “You think me a filthy voyeur?” He asks, scandalized, “I was far more interested in the heartfelt declarations of undying devotion,” he wrinkles his nose, shooting Kazaran a look of disappointment, “Really, darling, it’s a bit much if I’m honest, a little pathetic really.”
Kazaran grits his teeth slightly. Astarion really is incredibly good at needling him in the very few places that actually sting.
In this case, his newly reclaimed and overwhelming feelings for his old lover. It’s as sickening as it is enlightening and terrifying. The bile-soup in his skull struggles to process just a few memories, let alone the veritable onslaught he’s been facing since returning to the Gate. Spending so much time in Gortash’s company is not helping matters but is somehow making things clearer all the same. He mostly has flashes of moments, a touch or a laugh or a kiss, each one aches and soothes, the former just a touch more than the latter.
“I should have known your type was men who are lying to you from the first time we slept together,” Astarion continues, waving his free hand vaguely, “I just do worry that you’re believing every word he says just a little too readily-“
Ah. So that’s what this is about.
“Enver doesn’t lie to me,” Kazaran snaps back, not allowing Astarion to finish the thought. He’s not sure why he is so confident in that assertion, it certainly isn’t mutual. But something in his gut somewhere near his Urge tells him to believe Gortash entirely, and he has very little will left to fight the Urge on this matter at least.
Astarion’s face dips in a brief frown of annoyance before returning to a cool if slightly smug mask, “Oh, it’s Enver, is it?”
“What do you want, Astarion?” He asks, voice sharp and strained. He’s tense, the Urge has crawled up under his skin and calls to tear the vampire’s mocking tongue from his mouth and then make him swallow it. He has no desire to kill Astarion, he loves Astarion, he’s his best friend, and yet he yearns for it so deeply and so often that he wonders if the man will survive long enough to see the Absolute conquered. It certainly seems like he’s sometimes deliberately trying to provoke The Urge, although gods know why he’d want to do that after their night together back in the shadowlands.
He hadn’t even cared much for saving Isobel outside of wanting to keep the Harpers as allies, and eventually his procrastination in killing her caught up to him. He doesn’t remember much between warning Astarion and waking back up in the morning covered in sweat and dust, although he does vaguely remember Astarion saying something about him finding The Urge cute. For someone who loves to harp on about how dangerous Cazador is, Scleratas was right, he doesn't fear that which he should… that which has tried to kill him on multiple occasions. That which longs to kill him now.
“Ooch, someone’s touchy,” he says snidely, “Here I am trying to give friendly advice and it’s not appreciated at all. I don’t know why I bother.”
Kazaran puffs a sharp breath from his nose before repeating, “What do you want, Astarion?”
Astarion sighs, frowning at his goblet before turning his eyes to Kazaran with the sober sort of expression that usually means he is being sincere for a moment. “Look, your secret is safe with me, alright?” He says, and Kazaran feels The Urge retreat with a warning growl. He breathes out slowly as the red recedes from his vision but his shoulders remain tense as Astarion continues, “I am saying this as your friend, not out of whatever annoying morality has the others’ knickers all tied up in knots.” He grimaces and Kazaran finds himself mirroring the expression.
The biggest thorn in his side of late has been dancing around revealing his intentions to his companions so he can make use of their skills for as long as possible. Astarion is about the only person he can be certain will stand by him, even Shadowheart, as much as it will hurt, may leave if he claims back his title… especially since she has now renounced her dark mistress. He knows it’s only a matter of time before some of them leave, tadpole or no, they will be unable to handle the choice he will soon make. Jaheira specifically, he doubts will stick around for long, although admittedly she is less valuable now without her Harper network to exploit. He’s playing with fire keeping a known enemy of Bhaal in his camp and he knows it, but he likes Jaheira, he doesn’t want her gone just yet.
Eventually, just not yet.
Astarion regains his attention with a prim cough, “I know how desperate you are to know who you are. Trust me, I understand, I made a deal with a devil to find out about my own past for Gods’ sakes. But…” he lets out a puff of air through his nose, “Our dear Archduke has answers for you, yes, but he also has an agenda that I’m certain we are not fully privy to.”
He sighs again and drains his goblet, “I just don’t want to see you manipulated by a blood-sucking egomaniac. That’s my job.”
Kazaran shakes his head a few times, almost as if to clear The Urge from his thoughts before replying, “I trust him, Astarion. It’s not a memory, or a gut-feeling; I know him. And he knows me- knows who I was. We spent years together, planning everything. He has loved me, lost me, mourned me, and loved me again. The Urge quiets when he looks at me, and I've never slept as well as I do in his arms, at least not that I can recall.”
Kazaran turns his eyes down, frowning at the floor self-consciously. Bile rises in his throat as he forces out the words, burning a hole from where his heart beats up to where his mouth continues to speak, “I can’t explain how I know that he’s not lying, I acknowledge that he very well may be and has every reason to but… gods Astarion, I love him, not even Orin could carve that out, and whatever plans he has for me I want to believe he has them because he loves me back.”
Kazaran looks back up as he finishes, The Urge crawling at his vulnerability. Astarion frowns but visibly slumps, clearly deciding to drop the matter. With a sigh, he swings his legs off the chair and stands, closing the distance between them with practised caution. Kazaran quietly appreciates the deliberate approach, too many times had the rogue's quiet footsteps spooked him during their early days adventuring. “Don’t get me wrong, he seems to be doing wonders for that annoying moral panic you had going on,” Astarion hums, a crease in his eyes that says he has conceded this particular conversation, “I personally think your -ahem- partnership is an asset, not a liability. But you ought to come up with something better than ‘he loves me’ for the others, because I doubt that will cut it if they ask.”
Kazaran narrows his eyes, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. He decides at that moment to risk opening up a little more, knowing Astarion has typically always supported his less savoury decisions even when the others would scold him for it. “And if I were to tell you that I plan to embrace my father when I am next before Him?” He asks, voice purposefully low to avoid the attention of any early risers, “That I wish to be His chosen once again?” He suspects that Astarion knows this already, given that he’s been listening in on his evenings with Gortash, but he’d be lying if he said sharing his plans with someone wouldn’t be a weight off his chest. Astarion has never been the type to shy from a power just because it is taboo. He plans to ascend when they finally face Cazador after all, assuming they can figure out how. Not to mention the sheer number of tadpoles he has absorbed.
“Oh, now our great leader cares for my input?” Astarion scoffs, to which Kazaran sneers at him and his eyes twinkle in amusement. He’s an ass, but one whose opinion Kazaran does actually value at the end of the day, and so he’s pleased when the vampire goes on to say, “I’d say I prefer to keep the gods out of things, but I’m certainly not going to discourage you. The kind of power Bhaal can grant you would be no small advantage, it’s not like you’re opposed to murdering people to get it.”
“A relief, given that I’m fairly certain there will have to be a minimum of three.”
“Yes, but why limit yourself,” Astarion smiles, that vicious one he gets when Kazaran is doing something mean or cruel, “A man of your talents could commit many more than just two or three measly murders between now and then.”
Kazaran laughs, rolling his eyes and pushing past his companion toward his empty bed, “I’m certain we will. There are so many people in this cesspool practically begging for it.”
“Just like you for the Archduke, no?” Astarion quips, earning himself a rude gesture in response.
Astarion’s high laugh follows him to his bunk, and he collapses into it with little fanfare. He doesn’t manage to find sleep, there is only an hour or so before the camp begins waking for the day, but his sleepless rest is less restless than usual, safe with the knowledge that his secret is safe with Astarion at least.
A friend like Astarion is not something he had thought he’d find on this journey but he can’t help but feel grateful for him all the same. Not many would stand by the side of an aspiring chosen of Bhaal, and when he reclaims his birthright he knows some of those he calls friend in this camp will become foe fairly quickly. Still, he has a good friend in Astarion, and a powerful lover in Gortash. Hopefully, when push comes to shove, that will be enough.