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The priestesses at the Water Queen's House give them a garment.
It's a pretty thing, whatever it is, a shimmery silver-blue in color, and Luka looks down at it bemusedly as they thank him. His hands are filthy— they're all disgusting, really— and Astarion wants to tell him to quit touching it, or else he'll leave spots that won't come out. He tucks it away into his bag soon enough, at least, and they all make their way back to the Elfsong, tired and sore.
“Hey,” Karlach says, after they've cleaned up. “I want to see that thing they gave us.”
So Luka digs it out of his pack, pinches it at the shoulders, and lets it unfold. It's a dress, a skimpy one, with a plunging neckline and an open back. It doesn't have a skirt in the usual sense, just a pair of panels that should do the barest job of preserving the wearer's decency while affording an extremely generous view of their legs.
Karlach whistles. “Damn,” she says, with feeling.
“It looks about your size, Astarion,” Luka says with a wry sort of smile.
No one claims it, though, so it goes into the disaster of a chest that holds all their assorted junk and is forgotten for a time.
The problem— the problem, in Astarion’s estimation— is that his love seems hell-bent on sending himself into an early grave with stress.
It began in the shadow-cursed lands. Both he and Halsin had found the unnatural darkness and strange, twisted flora and fauna upsetting. Halsin has largely recovered, but Luka… He can't sleep. He barely eats. In the evenings, if left to his own devices, he either writes feverishly in his journal or stares out the window until he falls into a fitful doze in his chair and has to be herded into bed. Astarion has often been woken by the brutal nightmares that plague Luka's sleep.
He says he's alright. He thinks Astarion doesn't know.
Which is insulting, in its way. As though he wouldn't notice his shadowed eyes and how thin he's grown, ribs and spine too close to the skin. Luka tries to hide his hurts like a dog, but Astarion knows him by now. He can see.
The situation is dire, yes, but the world hasn't ended yet. And Luka will lighten up and relax if Astarion has anything to say about it.
He gets up early one morning, before anyone but Halsin, a half-formed shadow of an idea beginning to stir in his mind. Halsin is neither naturally suspicious nor paranoid, so he takes no particular notice of Astarion rummaging in the junk chest before sunup. He digs until he finds that absurd robe and stashes it under the bed in the room that was his before he and Luka took to sharing. Then he goes downstairs and fetches breakfast— two little sausage links, porridge with fruit, coffee— because Luka feels obligated to eat if someone gives him food, and because it provides Astarion an alibi.
Luka sits up when Astarion opens the bedroom door and asks, hoarse from sleep, “Is something wrong?”
He looks miserable. Scared. Keeping his voice light, Astarion replies, “I woke up early and thought I'd get you breakfast before the rush.” He sets the tray down beside Luka. “There you are, my love.”
He mumbles thank you and picks at it while Astarion readies for the day. He doesn't finish the sausage. Astarion wants to wring his neck.
He shifts to sit on the edge of the bed, both arms braced beside him, gazing forward blankly. Astarion runs his hand over the velvety fuzz of his hair, grown long enough now that it's soft again, and Luka pulls a face. “Quit petting my head,” he says, batting Astarion’s hand away.
But annoyance is better than emptiness, and it gives him the push to slide off the bed and begin to dress. As soon as he buckles his quiver to his hip, Astarion takes him by the hand and reels him in close, cradles his jaw, and kisses him slow and soft, just the way he likes best. When Luka breaks away, Astarion tucks his face into the crook of his neck and leans into him, hand pressed over the strong and steady beat of his heart, running a little too rapidly in his chest.
They've never seen each other truly without burdens, Astarion knows. He only wants Luka to set his aside, just for a little while.
Thanks to Orin and her ilk and through mostly mutual agreement, none of them are allowed out alone any more, which is how Astarion comes to be making the walk to Carm's Garms with Lae’zel.
(Facemaker's is still closed indefinitely. The notice on the door cites extreme emotional distress on Figaro’s part.)
“What is our purpose?” Lae’zel asks.
“I need a new pair of shoes.”
She glances at his boots. “You have shoes.”
“Yes, but I need a different kind. One I don’t have.”
Lae’zel scoffs under her breath, shakes her head. “You people will waste your money on the most unnecessary trifles.”
“Well, it’s my money and I get to spend it however I like.” He opens the door and holds it for her. “After you.”
She goes in and posts up three feet from the entrance, arms crossed, heaving a great sigh like this is some sort of trial that she’ll endure with noble suffering. The mousy little slip of a shop-girl stares at them, wide-eyed, and asks, “May I help you?”
Astarion gives her one of his more dazzling smiles and crosses over to lean on the counter. “Yes, I'm in need of a pair of shoes to wear with a light blue robe.”
“Would you like to place a custom order or browse our ready to wear selection?” the girl says, stiff.
“Ready to wear.” There's no time to wait for custom, he thinks, though it's a terrible shame.
“For you, saer, or your…” Her eyes drift to Lae’zel before snapping back to him. “Companion?”
“For myself.”
She nods. “Right this way.”
She takes his measurements silently, then rises and starts to walk to the portion of the shelves taken up by the more typically men's dress shoes.
“Mm, I was actually thinking something more like this.” Astarion plucks a deep purple stiletto from a display shelf and waves it at her. It's not at all right for his purposes, and too small, anyway. Inspiring color, though. The girl pivots without changing expression and examines the boxes until she finds a few in his size, then brings the stack over to his chair. The first shoe she pulls out is cobalt satin, with a high heel, ties on with a ribbon. “Light blue, I said, darling, those won't do.”
Wordlessly, she packs it away and opens the next box. Inside is a pair of flat white sandals with some frilly beaded detailing at the toe that looks a bit like sea foam if he squints.
“Hm, that's a possibility.” He slips them on, pads around the store. They're comfortable enough, they wouldn't clash, but, “They're not it.”
“Yes, saer.”
As she brings the next box to the top of the stack, he props his chin on his hand. “What's your name?”
“Amelia, saer.”
The third pair Amelia shows him (green, low heel) isn't it either, nor are pairs four through seven. About pair eight (turquoise leather embossed with tiny scales, wedges) he asks Lae’zel, “How do they look?”
“Impractical,” she drawls.
He levels a withering look at her. “I hate you, you know. I should've come with Gwen. She would have helped.”
“Indeed.”
“Call those a maybe,” Astarion tells Amelia, handing them back to her, but the color is too deep and bright, and the straps are too wide, indelicate.
He begins to feel a kind of desperation as Amelia pulls the last few boxes of options off the shelf. He should've just brought the damn robe, said here it is, this is what it looks like. That wouldn't help him, though, if the right shoe is not here to be bought. He could forgo the shoes, just go barefoot, he starts to think— but no. It has to be perfect.
So he needs the fucking shoes.
“No,” he says, to the disaster Amelia is starting to unwrap from tissue paper. She presses her lips to a thin white line and puts them back. (Astarion hasn't noticed, but she is perilously close to tears.) He rakes a hand through his hair and asks, “Don't you have any more in the back?”
“No, saer.” (Amelia is fiercely proud that her voice does not wobble. She's never cried in front of a customer before and has no intention of letting this fop of an elf be the first to make her. Most customers are not as difficult as he has been, though. And the strange-looking person over there with a sword fully as long as Amelia is tall won't stop staring at her—)
She opens the next to last box from the stack, and the shoe she takes from it is perfect. They're sandals with a high heel— three or four inches, he'll be the same height as Luka, perhaps even a hair taller— and made of shot silk that shifts subtly from soft blue to sea green as the light plays across it, with thin straps and a dainty little silver buckle that will rest at the side of his ankle.
“Gods above, why didn't you bring this out earlier?” Astarion takes it from her, snaps his fingers for the second one. She passes it to him and he puts them on so quickly he fumbles with the buckles, they are tiny, and he trots around the store, only wobbling a little bit.
He can already tell they're horrifically uncomfortable. Fortunately, he doesn't plan to wear them very long.
“We have a mirror, saer, if—”
He flaps a hand, dismissive. “Who needs one. These are it, I’ll take them.”
Back into the box they go, and at the counter, Astarion frowns when Amelia tells him the price. It's not what was written on the box; it's less than half. He cuts his gaze to her, takes in her bright eyes and wooden posture. Ah. She's offering him such a steep discount to get him to leave faster.
He feels a little bit bad. Not enough to cough up full price. But a little.
He resumes digging for money, and when he has it in order, sets a pouch on the polished hardwood. “That’s for the shoes. And that,” he says, placing another, identical pouch beside the first, “is for you.”
She regards him silently. Astarion doesn't know if she's allowed to take tips, he knows some places won't have it, but after a long moment, she takes both pouches. “Thank you for shopping with us today.”
As they walk back to the Elfsong, Lae’zel informs him, “That was a frivolous purchase.”
He hugs the shoe box and croons at her over it, “And you are free to make all the frivolous purchases you like with your money, my sweet.”
The look of deepest revulsion she gives him could strip paint, and he barks the most ghastly hyena-call of a laugh.
A rough sob wrenches Astarion from sleep.
His ring conjures Gwen's dancing lights at a thought, and by the silvery glow of luminescent bubbles, he can see Luka sitting up on his side of the bed, hunched in on himself and shaking, face buried in his hands as he takes shallow, hitching breaths.
"Love?" He doesn't respond. Astarion shuffles closer, pets his shoulder, his arm. He flinches, gasping; Astarion jerks his hand back and hesitates. A little louder, he tries, "Luka?"
He raises his head and blinks at Astarion as tears drip from the tip of his nose. Then his face crumples and he croaks, voice thick, "I woke you up." Before Astarion can think of a way to say well, yes that doesn't sound horrid, he exhales unsteadily and scrubs at his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll go— let you sleep—"
Astarion takes his hand as he tries to leave the bed, kisses his palm, holds it pressed to his cheek.
"I don't want to bother you," Luka whispers, wretched.
"Hush." Astarion pulls him closer as he sniffs miserably and tries to dry his eyes. It's a losing battle. "Was it a dream?" Luka nods, leaning into him. Astarion fumbles, "Do you… want to talk about it?"
"No." He turns his face to the hollow of Astarion's throat, reaches for him, wraps him in his arms. He's trembling, still. Astarion holds him carefully and guides him back to lying down, letting him cry quietly into his shirt. He knows what Luka dreamt of, though it's been a while since he had such a hard go of it, and he knows there is very little that will make him feel better at this point— nothing more than time and Astarion’s own presence. He's warm from being under the bedclothes, but he rucks up Luka's shirttail and rubs his back with nearly-cool hands. Luka mumbles something indistinct, sighing heavily, and Astarion can feel him begin to calm.
He's so exhausted, it doesn't take long for him to quiet. He isn't asleep at first— drowsing, perhaps, but Astarion holds him until he's lax and heavy and still, petting him softly all the while.
Soon, he thinks, pressing a kiss into Luka's hair. He has to put his plan in motion soon.
Gale isn't sure where Gwen is.
She isn't in the living area, she isn't downstairs or on the roof, and she wouldn't leave entirely without letting him know.
So he's at a bit of a loss, really.
"Sit still." That's Shadowheart, speaking from behind the closed door of her room.
"You nearly put out my eye." And Astarion, grousing. "Pardon me."
"She did not, you loon. What about these?" Gale starts down the hall at the sound of Gwen's voice, mystified as to what she and Astarion could possibly be doing in Shadowheart's bedroom.
"They're a bit small, aren't they?"
"Mm, true enough." When Gale opens the door, Gwen glances at him and smiles. "Hello, sweetie."
He pauses at the threshold to take in the baffling scene before him. Astarion sits on a chair without shirt or shoes as Shadowheart dusts a bit of blush on his cheeks. He has eye makeup as well. The dress from Umberlee's temple lays in a crinkled, tangled pile on the bed. Gwen returns a pair of earrings to her jewelry case, exchanging them for another, and holds them up to Astarion's ear. She shakes her head. "Not these either, I think."
"What on earth is going on in here?"
Astarion glances toward Gale and in the split second before his expression sours, he's nearly stunning. Gale's uninterested, not blind, and the shadow around Astarion's eyes makes them large, wine-dark and liquid, and with the rest of the makeup, he looks practically alive. The effect is ruined when his nose wrinkles. "Oh, Gale."
"Be nice, or you won't get earrings." Gwen flicks Astarion’s ear tip.
"Stop. Moving." Shadowheart grips his chin and turns his face back toward her, a little brush covered in red lip paint in her other hand.
"I should've asked Gwen to do this," he grumbles.
"You would look unusual," she says, picking through her jewelry case again. "All of my makeup is purple."
"Open." Shadowheart taps Astarion’s lower lip with the handle of her brush and paints.
No one has yet answered Gale's question. He tries again with, "What are you doing?"
Gwen flashes him a sly smile, eyes crinkled at the corners. "We," she says, "are doing something nice for Luka."
Astarion chooses this moment to stand and divest himself of his trousers.
"Gods above—" Gale is relieved to see, from the corner of his eye, that Astarion did at least keep his underwear.
Shadowheart closes her makeup bag and begins to leave, easing past Gale. When he glances up from trying to untangle the dress from itself, Astarion squawks, "Aren't you going to help?"
"No. You asked for makeup; I did your makeup." There's a hint of amusement to Shadowheart's expression as she watches him struggle. "My task here is finished."
Heavy footsteps thunder down the hall, and then, "He's not going to stay in there much longer, boss." Karlach fills the door, hands gripping each side of the frame.
"Fuck," Astarion hisses, frantically working at the dress. "Why did you leave?"
"I ran out of things to talk about and he was getting suspicious!"
Astarion snarls and shoves the dress into Gale's hands. He undoes the clasp at the neck and the thing sags with great drama; it's more hole than garment, in Gale's estimation. Astarion then takes his wrists, maneuvering him into position, and starts to climb in.
Gale holds the dress as far from himself as physically possible.
Once Astarion has it in place about his hips, he takes it back, working his arms into the sleeves— why it has full length sleeves, considering the… construction of the whole, Gale hasn't the foggiest guess— and turns, now removing his underwear. He supposes he should be thankful Astarion hadn't simply stripped naked, but all the same, his discomfort grows by the second.
"Fasten," Astarion orders, presenting him with the back of the robe's neck as though none of this is out of the ordinary. Gale has no idea why he obeys. He isn't helped, though, by the way Astarion wobbles about as he grabs for a pair of high heels.
"I'm rather uncomfortable with all of this." Gale has no expectation that giving it voice will change anything. It's not as if Gwen can come to his rescue, occupied as she is with pawing through her earrings. He simply felt compelled.
Astarion looks down his nose at him from the vantage granted by his newly gained four inches of height. "Don't be such an utter drip, Gale."
"Here!" Gwen crows, holding up her quarry— delicate, shimmery things with sapphires. Astarion reaches for them and Gwen holds them against her bosom. With her eyebrows raised and in a dangerous tone, she says, "These are my favorites."
"Yes, alright—"
"These," she repeats, "are my favorites."
"Would you just give them to me?"
She doesn't move.
"Yes, fine, I'll be very careful with them," Astarion whines.
Gwen drops the earrings into his palm, smiling. "Thank you, sweetie."
Astarion turns and hangs them on his ears as he clacks loudly down the hall.
Gwen looks at Gale and laughs. "Oh, don't look like that," she says, looping her arm around him and gently knocking her horns against his head.
"I was greatly uncomfortable with it."
"I do believe you'll live." Her face falls, silver eyebrows drawing together. "He needs it, I think. Luka. I'm worried about him."
While he's not as close with him as Gwen (or Karlach or Halsin or Astarion), Gale has watched him grow steadily more withdrawn, has seen the bouts of anxiety and desperate exhaustion come more often, especially since— since his death. Anyone would struggle, after.
"Where do you want to go for dinner?"
"Oh, we're going out?" Gwen can only hold the mask for a moment before she breaks character, laughing and leaning into him. "I don't know. I've heard there's a new little place down by the water that has the most wonderful scallops, though, we could give them a try?"
Astarion stands before Luka's door.
He looks over the dress, touches his hair to check that it's all in place, scrubs a finger over his teeth to remove any wayward paint. Everything is as it should be.
He arranges himself artfully, weight on his left leg, the right crossing in front at the ankle. He leans, putting his right elbow against the door frame, hand discreetly gripping it in case of catastrophic loss of balance. Left hand will go to his hip, just after he takes a deep breath—
And knocks.
Luka stifles a groan into his hands. He allows himself a whispered leave me alone, which he feels instantly guilty for, but Karlach had been talking his ear off for twenty minutes about nothing for some reason and he's barely had a chance to recover. He loves Karlach, he does. It's just— some time would have been nice.
He slithers off the bed and crosses to the door, trying to ignore how fast his heart is starting to beat. Whoever it is tapped the door lightly, they didn't pound at it, and they haven't knocked again, so this is probably just someone hoping to socialize. Hopefully. He opens the door and draws up short.
What.
Astarion is standing in his doorway like he's on loan from Sharess' Caress in that dress and makeup and heels, wearing Gwen's most treasured earrings, smoldering at him like he used to.
What?
"Can I," Luka really can't think of anything to say here, "help you?"
"Hello, darling." That's his old bedroom voice, too. He reaches out, smoothing the collar of Luka's shirt. Looking up through his eyelashes— he has to tip his chin down to manage it— he says, "I think I could help you." He runs his hand down Luka's chest, resting it over his heart. "What do you say I slip in and we have a bit of fun?"
Luka can only stand there, brow deeply furrowed and jaw working as he tries in vain to think of something, anything, to say.
"Come now, sweetheart." Both hands on his chest now, and Astarion leans in closer, closer until his lips brush Luka's ear as he whispers, "I could make you feel so good."
Luka lets himself shiver just a little, because even though he's doing something weird, this is Astarion. And because this is Astarion, he seizes on it. He ducks his head, a thing bizarre to experience, and presses his mouth to Luka's neck, and that's not fair, he knows how weak he is to that.
"Oh. What—" Astarion slides his hands down until he's got two meager handfuls of Luka's ass and squeezes. Swallowing a tinge of annoyance, Luka tries again, "What are you doing?"
Because, really, he's tired, he's tired, he's so. Tired. Astarion does not answer, occupied as he is with rubbing all of his lip paint onto Luka's neck and making biscuits, which leaves Luka with no recourse but to attempt to pry him off and get a straight answer about what he thinks he's doing. One hand to Astarion's hip and the other to his neck and he pushes; Astarion tilts away and lists back in to kiss Luka, suck at his lower lip, insistent. But the instant Luka breathes stop against his mouth, he stills completely, yields.
There's an arresting sincerity to him, face open and empty of guile, as he murmurs, "Let me in. Please."
He was playing, Luka realizes. He's trying to play. Something in him eases. "Alright."
Astarion smiles, too genuine for this game by half, but he can't help it and doesn't care. Luka sounded frustrated and Astarion feared for a moment that he would put a stop to this, but he— gods above, he loves him.
Astarion tells him, "Sit on the bed." Luka nods and does it without fanfare, expression still a bit perplexed, but attentive. He folds his hands in his lap and Astarion’s heart squeezes with unbearable fondness.
He closes the door behind himself and pauses a moment to plan. This has to be memorable.
Astarion starts to… slink. Shimmy? Across the room in ways that Luka doesn't even begin to know how to describe.
There are birds.
He's heard tell that they live on rain-forest islands where food is abundant and a bird could go its whole lackadaisical life without ever meeting anything that wanted to eat it, and that these living conditions, well. For want of any real sort of conflict, they've grown to have complex and eccentric mating rituals— building bowers of sticks and decorating them, performing intricate dances, putting on elaborate concerts of mimicry, all in brilliant coats of feathers.
Astarion reminds him of nothing so much as tales of those birds.
No sooner has he had the thought than he starts to laugh about it, just a little. More, when a wandering corner of his mind supplies an image of a little blue- and white-feathered bird hopping in a carefully cleared dance floor. He could even still have his eyes; Luka's seen red-eyed birds.
It's all just so bizarre.
Astarion does not break character when Luka starts to laugh. He allows himself the barest sliver of a smile and continues closer, pulling out all the stops now. His feet are starting to hurt already. He doesn't care.
Luka drops his head into his hands, shoulders shaking, then looks up through his fingers and wheezes, "What are you doing?"
Astarion tells him, "Something nice," and climbs onto the bed, into Luka's lap— hello, he's already hard. Astarion thought it would take him longer to come around to the idea, but this is a pleasant surprise, and something to remember. "Liked that, did you?" Astarion murmurs in his ear, rocking his hips a little.
"Ngh," Luka replies. His hands go to Astarion's thighs, fidgeting with the chains of the dress; he makes a soft, breathy little sound when Astarion noses at the hollow by his jaw and presses a kiss there. His cheek, his mouth, Astarion kisses, rolling his hips, and Luka dissolves into it. He's trying to get his hands under the chains, but he seems to be unwilling to forego being kissed long enough to look down to accomplish it. Astarion hides a laugh in a breath.
"You want me to take it off?"
Luka's hands tighten and ease, thumbs petting at Astarion’s skin. He nods. Astarion slides off Luka's lap and turns; Luka unfastens the clasp. He starts to let it slip off and catches it, folding his arms against his chest and throwing a coy look over his shoulder like he has breasts to hide, like they haven't seen each other naked so many times already, like he isn't tenting his skirt absurdly.
"I'll be gentle," Luka says, very serious.
That's— he— "Hah!" Astarion barks, delighted, and starts worming out of the dress as quickly as he can, seduction routine be damned.
Luka stands, flushing deeply scarlet, and hides his face in Astarion’s neck, huffing laughter like a dog panting into his skin. Astarion steps out of the robe, crowding into Luka, peeling his shirt from him. He's so tall in the heels he's giddy with it as he walks Luka backward, kneading his ass as he works his hands down into his pants. Astarion shoves them down over his hips just as he sits on the edge of the bed again. He leans back on his elbows as Astarion pulls his trousers off completely, then sits up again. He catches Astarion by the leg and tugs gently, coaxing him into settling his foot on his knee. Luka undoes the shoe's buckle, sets it carefully on the floor beside the bed, and runs his thumb along the arch of Astarion's foot. His hands are strong and it's just this side of painful, forcing away the sprouting ache.
"Oh," Astarion says, appreciative, and Luka smiles faintly.
"Other side," he murmurs.
When Luka's done putting the second shoe neatly by the first and has smoothed the tension from the other foot, Astarion cradles his face in both hands and kisses the scarred line across his cheek to the bridge of his nose, his forehead, the full softness of his lower lip. He moves his hand to pet his hair. Luka hates that it's so short and doesn't like to be reminded of it, but it's growing back quickly, thick and soft, under Astarion's careful attention. He slips his tongue into Luka's mouth. He can hardly wait to brush his hair for him, to braid it.
He feels Luka's hand wrap around his cock, rubbing, and he takes his wrist to still him. Against his mouth, he murmurs, "This is for you."
Luka's face falls, lower lip wobbling once, adopting the wounded expression he wears when faced with an unexpected kindness. Astarion pushes him onto his back and reaches for the vial of oil he'd secreted under the edge of the mattress. Love and usefulness. They've insidiously bound themselves together in Luka's mind, Astarion knows, and Luka hasn't been able to be very useful of late. Astarion loves him anyway.
He ducks his head to suck lightly at the tip of his cock as he works him open. Luka shifts restlessly, little stuttering motions of his hips, and when Astarion glances up at him, he's looking back with his neck curled so tight it looks uncomfortable. Astarion pulls away, and in reply to the bereft and offended look Luka gives him, says, "Back, back."
He shuffles toward the headboard and Astarion follows, taking one of the pillows and tucking it under his head and shoulders. Astarion puts a bit of the oil in his palm and leans down to kiss him as he slicks himself. Luka must be aching as badly as Astarion, but they both linger over it, Luka stroking Astarion’s flank with one hand and his hair with the other. When he draws back, Luka smiles at him softly, and there's no tension lurking around his eyes or mouth. He's just happy. "Ready?" Astarion asks.
"Please," he says, voice betraying his strain.
Astarion grins, straightens, and lines himself up to press into him. Luka watches at first, flushed, but after a moment he drops his head to the pillow, panting, the long, lovely line of his neck catching the light. Astarion gives him a moment to breathe when he's seated fully inside. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed and lips parted, and when Astarion thrusts shallowly he releases a slow breath tinted with a whine. He rolls his hips again, slow and careful still, and Luka's cock leaks against his belly. Astarion has to ride a delicate line with this. He isn't here to make gentle love for hours; he wants Luka well-fucked and worn out, but not so tired it sours into unhappy exhaustion. This is to be a quick, fun romp. To that end, he speeds his pace. Luka opens his eyes, gazing at him for a long moment, then starts laughing to himself.
"What's so funny?"
"Your— ah! Your earrings, they're—"
They are swinging madly with every thrust. It's a novel sensation. Astarion shakes his head so they jingle and glitter and that sends Luka into a fresh bout of laughter. On impulse, he slows, and when Luka looks at him in puzzlement, he pastes on the most exaggerated pout he can and asks in a breathy voice, "Do they make me pretty, sweetheart?"
Luka howls, covering his face with his hands. "Don't need them, you're— you're always pretty," he says, dear, sweet thing that he is. Then he adds, shyly, "Baby girl."
Astarion's jaw drops open in shock and delight. He's never said that before. What little Astarion can see of his face behind his hands is brilliant red, and he pries them away to kiss him breathless. Then he hitches Luka's legs higher about his waist to drive into him harder, faster, wrapping a hand around his cock and stroking. It pushes a low moan from his throat. Astarion admires him— the breadth of his shoulders, the sheen of sweat glinting on his skin, his pulse running at breakneck speed in his neck. He's having a hard time keeping his eyes open and focused, blinking and taking on a hazy, faraway expression. It's a good thing, for him— he's in his body, all feeling, mind finally quiet. He blindly reaches out and Astarion takes his hand, holding tight.
"I— I lo—" he tries. He's nearly there, he always has a hard time speaking when he's close. Astarion needs to finish him quickly, now. He tires so easily. He drags in a deep, shuddering breath. "I love you," he manages. And more urgently, "I love you, Astarion—"
He leans over Luka, cages him in his arms, safe, and murmurs, "I'm here, I love you, too. I love you."
And he untangles their fingers and presses his hand firm to the center of Luka's chest, to his breastbone, over his rabbit heart. Luka writhes, back arching, and comes with a ragged cry. Astarion moves in him but softly as he empties himself, face pinched in ecstasy. "In me," he whispers, eyes fixed somewhere to the left of Astarion's ear. "In me, please."
"Yes, my love," Astarion replies, and brings himself off, toppling into Luka's arms to hold him when he's done. They lie pressed close until Luka's panting eases into slower breaths. Only when Astarion simply can't stand it any longer does he say, "We need to clean up."
"Alright."
Locomotion still seems a bit beyond Luka, so Astarion disentangles himself and pads to the washbasin to collect a cloth. He freshens them both, strips the top blanket off the bed, and maneuvers Luka under the remaining covers before slipping in beside him. Luka wiggles closer to cuddle him like he's a plush animal, sighing contentedly. He mumbles something.
"Hm?"
"That was fun," Luka says. "I liked it."
Astarion smiles. "I'm glad." Then he adds, curious, "Baby girl?"
Luka snorts, hiding his face in Astarion’s shoulder. "I couldn't think of anything else!" he says, despairing. He pauses. "Was that… alright?"
"Yes, love." Astarion presses a kiss into his hair.
They lapse into calm silence. Luka feels good. Safe. Clearer-headed. Astarion keeps steadily petting him, down his arm or the length of his spine or gently kneading the back of his neck. It's nice.
He's nearly drifted off to sleep when the doorbell rings.
"Ah!" Astarion says. "That'll be dinner."
He slips out of bed and springs across the room. He extends a hand toward the door and Luka jolts upright, sudden panic combining no and don't and wait into a jumbled non-word, but Astarion reaches not for the doorknob but the flannel bathrobes hanging from a shared hook. Or he would have, but instead he sputters and turns around. "Did you think I would get your dinner naked?"
Luka doesn't reply. He knows he looks guilty enough.
"Honestly." He moves Luka's deep brown robe aside and takes his own blue. "Those serving girls are probably traumatized enough. Although," he tilts his head as he belts the robe, "that might cheer them up. I am very beautiful." He pushes his hair back rakishly, opens the door, and flounces away, sticking his tongue out at Luka as he rounds the corner.
He returns a minute later with a tray laden with food— a plate of beef pot roast, a pile of mashed potatoes with a little well of melted butter in the middle, and a mound of tiny green peas. Beside a mug of tea is a small boat of fragrant gravy, and a bread roll sits on its own miniature plate. Astarion puts the tray across Luka's lap with a flourish and drapes himself elegantly on his side of the bed. Luka takes up his fork and regards the food. It looks… good. His stomach rumbles. He eats nearly all of it.
When he's done, they clear it away and ready themselves for bed. It's a bit early yet, but they tuck in anyway, and Astarion spends a while reading, Luka curled up against his side. They have a lot to do tomorrow, all of it dangerous and grim, and none of it sure to turn out well. It feels distant, though, here in the snug darkness of their room. Luka falls into a deep sleep even before Astarion puts out the light. He rests the whole night through, and he doesn't dream.