MERRY CHRISTMAS 2023

[doggish]

Thedas, 9:48 Wintermarch

Winter came swift to Kirkwall.

It did every year, much to Astarion’s indignance and Leto’s weary resignation. Bitter and cold and mean, and the years it lacked in snow, it more than made up for it with biting winds and bone-aching chills. Gone were the pleasant dips in temperature that made them both retreat to cuddle cozily beneath a heap of blankets before a roaring fire; now it was mid-winter, and the only thing Astarion felt beneath the covers was bleary resentment of a world that asked him to get up when the only clear sensible thing was ever to stay beneath the sheets. 

And now he was sick.

There was no denying it, and trust him, he’d tried. In retrospect, he didn’t know who he was fooling. Certainly not Leto, who met every assurance (nothing more than allergies, darling, spoken cheerfully after he’d spent a full five minutes sneezing and sniffling into his handkerchief; just a bit of spice from dinner caught in my throat, mumbled when he had woken them both up with a rasping cough) with a vague hum of non-agreement. But maybe he was trying to fool himself. Denial the sweetest lie of them all, a steadfast refusal to believe in what was growing increasingly obvious. Two hundred years a vampire spawn, untouchable by mortal follies and illnesses, and now he was felled by something so indignantly common as . . . 

Whatever this was. A cold? A flu? A strange strain of Orlesian sickness? He had no idea. He’d woken that morning shivering with fever, the sheets soaked with sweat and his body aching from tip to toe. His mouth was dry and his throat sore; he stumbled to his feet to go to the bathroom and nearly had to crawl back, dizzy with exhaustion from the merest excursion. His nose wouldn’t stop running (and how this mortal body could produce enough mucus to fill up a damned pool, he had no idea), and now, to top it all off, he had a headache building behind his left eye.

And he was alone. 

They’d been together in bed this morning, he knew that much, for he had a distinct memory of wrapping his arms around the other elf’s frame in a blatant bid to leech warmth off him. And there’d been mumbled conversation, though for the life of him Astarion couldn’t remember what was said. But then he’d fallen into a dazed sort of nap, rousing and slumbering on and off for who knows how long, and when he’d finally risen properly– 

No Leto. Not in the kitchen nor the bathroom (where Astarion, clad with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a very anxious wolf whimpering at his side, had dutifully checked), nor even in his practice room. His coat was gone, as were his hated winter boots . . . but any investigation beyond that was impossible for him right now, cloudy-minded as he was. He’d groaned in despair and gone back to bed, and now he laid there, miserably staring up at the ceiling just as he had for the past few hours.

Vaguely, he tried to think of where Leto might be. It had only been a few months since they’d moved in together: just enough time to grow used to one another’s routines, but not nearly long enough to understand irregularities when they crop up.

But it barely mattered. Off on some mission from Riftwatch, perhaps. Off to save the world, just as he had always done. Off to meet some friend of his for drinks, Astarion thought, and knew it was a baselessly jealous thought even as it flashed through his mind. But where was he? What could possibly be more important that he would leave?

Perhaps Astarion would die before he returned, he thought miserably, grunting as he rolled to lie on his side. It didn’t make his bones ache any less, but at least curling up in the fetal position made him feel a little warmer. He tugged the blankets to his chin, glaring at the window. Maybe he’d just shiver himself to death and when Leto returned, it would be to a very handsome, very pathetic looking corpse. And then he’d be sorry, oh, yes. He’d rue leaving Astarion’s side for even a moment, no matter if it was for bloody Riftwatch or the fate of the damned world; he’d weep and wail and rue his foolishness for the rest of his days–

Behind Astarion, the mattress creaked. Ataashi grunted in effort as she shifted and twisted, taking her time in settling in behind him until at last her bulk pressed carefully against his body. Her head came to rest on the pillow next to him, her green-glow eyes soft as she stared anxiously at her master. She reeked of wolf and her breath stank, and miserably Astarion rolled over, his arms curling in front of his chest as he gave up on dignity and pressed himself against her. 

At least someone cared.

The mansion didn’t help with such thoughts. They’d started to make an effort to repair it, but most of the estate was still in pieces, dark and dire in a way that invited misery. The wind howled as it crept through holes in the roof and swept through the upstairs; wood creaked warningly, and from outside, he could hear the shouts of the guards as they undoubtedly harassed some elf who was passing by. The winter sun shone dimly through the window, weak rays too pathetic to bring him any cheer. 

“He’s tired of me,” Astarion informed his wolf croakily. She stared soulfully at him and offered no reply. “He went off to find someone who didn’t need so much upkeep. He’s realized I need too much care, and he’ll tell me tonight when he returns that he wants me to go back to Lowtown.” 

Dramatic . . . and yet, Astarion realized as he said it, not wholly facetious. He didn’t think Leto was so callous, no, but . . .  surely he had realized that. Oh, he’d wait until Astarion was healed, of course, for his wolfish darling was ever so kind beneath that calloused exterior, but he’d bring it up sooner or later. He’d say it kindly but bluntly, and it would mean: I can’t do this anymore. You ask too much. You need too much. I thought it would be nothing but sex and joy with you, and after the life I’ve led, I deserve nothing but that. And given how disgusting you look and smell and feel right now, given you’re clingy and reek of desperation all the time, given this isn’t any fun anymore– 

And then he’d be alone again.

Ataashi’s tongue lapped at his cheeks, licking away what few tears had managed to escape, and with a wordless croak Astarion shooed her away. There was no call for tears, he knew. He’d suffered through much worse than this, but he was weak right now. More prone to despair than usual, and maybe Thedas had made him soft. Weak. Pathetic, the word sneered out in Cazador’s tones. Pathetic, miserable, lonely little boy that grew too complacent in his joy and lost everything . . . and he is all that, he knows, but if he must weep, at least no one need call attention to it. Ataashi whimpered at him, but obeyed, settling back and licking her nose as she watched him.

“It’s fine,” he told her. “You’ll be fine. He’ll keep you, and frankly, so he should. I don’t need a wolf in my home in Lowtown. Likely sooner or later you’d be kidnapped for some wretched elf’s stewpot.” She whined at him, and though he didn’t know why, that only annoyed him more. 

“Hush,” Astarion said firmly. “You know I’m right. You’ll stay with him and I’ll be fine. I won’t even miss you. You certainly won’t miss me. You’ll be out of your mind with how he spoils you, and I– hey!” 

For the wolf had suddenly risen, leaping off the bed and trotting out the bedroom door - which was so fucking rude, if you asked him. If anyone was going to sympathize over being abandoned, it ought to be her, and yet there she went anyway, her dark tail flicking as it vanished through the doorframe. As if she didn’t remember who it was who freed her from that cage in the first place– Maker’s breath, and he sat up sharply, fully intending to yell after her. In an instant he regretted it; the world lurched unpleasantly as his vision swam before his eyes.
  

By the time it returned, Leto was striding through the door.

No, not striding: shuffling a little awkwardly, and as he approached the bed Astarion realized it was because he was overburdened with too many bags held in white-knuckled fingers. With a grunt Leto set them on the mattress, one after another, and then exhaled shortly in relief as he flexed his fingers. Only belatedly did he seem to notice Astarion was awake, and offered him one of those swift smiles to which he was so prone.

“You’re awake,” he said, his tone a touch awkward. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but in the end left it at that.

“Yes,” Astarion agreed, and tried very hard not to look as though he’d just been acting as pathetically as their errant wolf (now happily trotting around Leto’s legs, bumping into him with insistent adoration). “Indulged in a bit of shopping, have we?” 

“No, I,” Leto said slowly. “Er. It’s, er . . . food.” 

“Oh?” It wasn’t that Astarion was ungrateful; it was just that he didn’t understand why his amatus was suddenly looking so shifty.  

“I bought you medicine and tissues, but there is little that can be done with a cold like this,” Leto said, glancing at Astarion with a strange look in his eye. “But soup helps, I remember. And the woman at the market– no, Ataashi,” he added sharply, and the wolf dropped down from the edge of a bed with a plaintive whine. Her eyes were locked on one of the bags that had been tied off; only now did Astarion see a hint of grease beginning to soak into the rough linen. 

“You decided to buy me ingredients for soup,” Astarion said slowly.

“Well– sort of. I wished to buy you soup,” Leto corrected. He looked flustered, his ears flicking down again and again as he gestured at the packages. “But they do not sell it by the pot down at the Hanged Man. And then I tried to find it at another pub, and another . . . but then the woman at one of the market stalls in Lowtown gave me a recipe. And she had the ingredients for sale . . .” 

His eyes skimmed over the parcels, and now he could see the telltale shape of carrots and onions and celery bulging here and there (oh, Leto). And the greasy bag couldn’t be anything but a whole roasted chicken, carefully cooked and then shoved into a sack (oh, Leto). Tissues and foul-smelling tinctures (if Ataashi’s discontented sneeze was anything to go by) spilled out of the third bag, and as for the fourth– 

“How much tea did you buy?” Astarion asked with growing delight, reaching to grab some of the packets that had spilled out. There had to be at least a dozen, all carefully twisted and marked. Leto grumbled softly, his ears flushing as he watched Astarion go through them. 

“I was not sure what you liked,” he said, and then added more honestly: “I was not sure you knew what you liked. I thought it best to sample them all.” 

“Oh, you idiot . . .” Astarion murmured, and absolutely did not mean. How much gold must Leto have spent on all this? Gods, the people in the Lowtown market absolutely must have seen him coming; that one food merchant certainly had made off well. All the ingredients for soup that would feed at least a dozen now resting on their bed and neither of them capable in any sense of cooking it; enough tea to keep them drowning in it for at least a quarter-year, and Leto didn’t even like tea. Tissues and tinctures and all kinds of comforting crap that Astarion really didn’t need–

–and yet adored all the more for it.

“You idiot,” he repeated with a sniff. Beaming up at Leto, he grabbed for a box of tissues. There was a veritable torrent of mucus threatening to drip its way down his nose, and Maker forbid he look so awful in front of his boyfriend. “And how do you expect either of us to cook any of this?” 

“We can manage,” Leto said with a wry little smile, and sat down on the edge of the bed. His hand absently settled along Astarion’s shin, petting him through the blanket. “It cannot be that difficult if all we do is follow instructions. I can manage,” he corrected, and without missing a beat grabbed for Ataashi’s scruff, keeping her from lunging for that chicken. “You will stay in bed for the next few days. Pick a tea, and I will make you some.” 

“Oh– er, black, then,” Astarion said. He didn’t even like black tea all that much, but he’d rather walk across glass than give up the chance to have Leto pamper him.

“Black,” his amatus repeated with a dutiful nod. “Right. Stay there,” he added somewhat unnecessarily. “I will not be long. Off with you–” 

With a low wuff of indignance, Ataashi sprang back to the ground, trotting out ahead of Leto as he stood and gathered the packages. In a moment he’d be dashing away to the kitchen to make what would almost assuredly be delicious tea and utterly terrible soup, which would take at least an hour. And it would be sweet, oh, yes, and yet– 

Astarion’s hand sprang out, gripping Leto’s wrist too tightly. It was an instinctive motion, and in the next moment he wondered why he’d done it. Leto glanced at him in surprise– and then his expression softened. 

“Wait just a moment,” he said softly. Setting the packages down on the floor, he crossed the room and shut the door. It wouldn’t keep Ataashi out forever, of course, but it might help make her forget about the chicken. Then Leto came back, clambering over Astarion’s frame to settle beneath the sheets next to him. His arms opened, and without a word Astarion shuffled over, pressing his face to the crook of his neck as he curled up against him.

“You’re going to get sick like this,” he mumbled. And what it meant was: thank you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for thinking of me. Thank you for not leaving me to this, when by all rights you could have and no one would have thought twice about it. Thank you for giving me something I’ve never had before. Something he did not realize he missed until just this moment.

“Probably,” Leto replied, a smile in his voice. And thank the Maker, for he seemed to understand. He pressed a kiss against Astarion’s sweaty forehead, and what it meant in return was: it’s for you, yes. It’s for you because I hate seeing you sick. I hate seeing you hurt. I want to take care of you as best I can, even if I don’t know how. 

So this is life now, Astarion thought, his eyes fluttering shut. A man that wanted to take care of him, even when he was at his worst. Even when he wasn’t pretty or fun; even when he was miserable and snotty and reeked of sweat. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the worst thing to be sick, he decided. 

Toril, 1495 DR

Leto awoke in darkness.

Gods knew what time it was. Late, certainly. Nighttime– yes, it must be.That was why he could hear Astarion strolling about the room. He thought about opening his eyes to try and see what he was up to, but ah, that was too much effort. Better to just lie here and keep his eyes closed, which was about all he felt like he could manage at the moment. His head felt full of cotton, just as it had yesterday. Flu, Talindra had diagnosed, and crisply sent him home from his lesson.

“He won’t get up . . .” Fortunato’s piping voice whimpered from somewhere nearby. She was hiding under the bed, Leto realized. She had found a little corner she could wedge herself in when she felt nervous, and so she was now, shoved in like a particularly out-of-place potato. “He’s always up by now.”

“Is he okay? Do you think he’s okay?” Montressor’s voice was seemingly steadier, though she added an anxious whine at the end of her sentence. “He doesn’t smell okay! He still smells weird just like last night! He smells weird! Why does he smell like that? That’s not what he’s supposed to smell like!” Her yipping grew more intent, and somewhere in the distance, Leto heard Astarion grumble wordlessly. “Is he okay? I don’t think he’s okay! Does Dad know? Does he know? Hey! Hey! Dad’s not okay! Hey! He’s not okay–” 

“Hush,” muttered a third voice. Ataashi’s tones were lower than the pups’, her Antivan accent thick around the vowels. She lay close to the fire, basking (and keeping an eye on everyone as she did). “Astarion knows. He’s sick, that’s all. They both get sick sometimes. He will get better.”

“But how do you know?” Montressor asked plaintively, as behind her, Fortunato whimpered in soft agreement. 

“Because I’ve seen it before,” their wolf said. As if she hadn’t fussed like mad the first time Astarion grew ill . . . ah, but with age comes wisdom, or at least the right to act world-weary about it. Leto smiled, though his eyes were still closed. “Give it a few days. He’ll be back on his feet soon.” 

“What if he doesn’t, though?” Montressor again, her tiny nails scratching the wood as she raced over to Ataashi. “What if he doesn’t? What if we need to do something? Are you sure Dad knows? Hey! Hey! Hey! He– hey!” Her attention-seeking yipping suddenly went indignant, and Leto risked opening his eyes a crack just to watch the show. Ataashi had sat up, her long muzzle pointed downwards as she set one large paw atop Montressor’s bulk, gently but firmly pinning her to the floor.

“He will,” Ataashi said firmly. “And he knows. I promise you, he does. Smell, little one. He’s making . . .?”

“Soup!” came the triumphant answer from beneath the bed. With a grunt of effort Fortunato wriggled her way out of her hiding place, bolstered by Ataashi’s calm demeanor. “He’s making soup!” 

“Yes,” Ataashi confirmed serenely, ignoring the muffled growls of protest emerging from beneath her paw. “And they only make that when one of them is sick. And then they drink it, and they get better. That’s how it has gone since before you two were even born.” 

“But what if it doesn’t work . . .” Montressor insisted, finally wriggling free enough to lie flat. Ataashi sighed, but lay her head down against the floor to peer down at her adopted pup.

“It does. It always does,” she said firmly. “I promise.”

“What are they going on about now?” Astarion’s voice was a welcome change, and only now did Leto actually open his eyes. He stared blearily up at his darling, backlit by the fireplace and, indeed, holding a steaming bowl. Setting it down on the nightstand, Astarion took a seat on the edge of the bed. 

“Me,” Leto croaked. Astarion pressed a wonderfully cool hand against his forehead, and with a sigh Leto leaned into it. “They’re worried about me. Ataashi is assuring them.” 

“Oh, is she?” Astarion chuckled, and glanced over at their wolf. She stared back at them steadily, every inch the regal and calm creature they all (save the pups) knew she wasn’t. “I suppose she’s had two years to get used to this routine by now.”

“Mmph,” Leto grunted. It wasn’t much of an answer, but Astarion didn’t expect one. “Is that for me?”

“Obviously it’s for you, greedy thing,” Astarion said, smiling as he returned his focus back to Leto (just as Leto had hoped he would). “Eat it soon, lest those pups of yours get it in their head that they need soup too.” 

“Mm, no, they won’t,” Leto said, and groaned as he began the arduous process of sitting up. “They were worried you didn’t know I was sick, that’s all.. They may still try to inform you– ah . . .” For indeed, Montressor had wriggled her way free just so she could bark up at Astarion, butting insistently against his leg as she did so; behind him, Ataashi heaved an enormous sigh and set her head upon her paws, giving up on the dumbest of her adopted children. With a little roll of his eyes Astarion leaned down, using both hands to scoop her rotund self up and deposit her on the bed.

“See? I’m caring for him,” he said, gesturing between himself and Leto. “He has soup. He has tissues. He has tea. He’s fine.” Monstressor stared doubtfully up at him, over at Leto, and then back again to Astarion. Then, apparently satisfied, she sighed heavily and collapsed atop Leto’s thigh, her energy spent for the time being.

“Idiot,” Astarion said fondly, and, to Montressor’s tail-thumping delight, scratched two long fingers behind her ears. “How you listen to them all the time, I’ll never know.”

“They’re endearing,” Leto murmured, but without much conviction. He was too busy sipping his soup with every sign of enjoyment, eagerly wolfing (hah) it down as fast as the temperature would allow. The heat brought a flush to his cheeks, but it was his hum of enjoyment that pleased Astarion the most. It was no easy feat to cook when one couldn’t actually taste what they were doing, but he’d had two years to learn this recipe. 

“Good?” he asked, shameless in his desire for praise. Leto snorted, but smiled at him above the rim of the bowl. 

“Very,” he said. “As always.”

“Good,” Astarion said firmly. He plucked the bowl out of Leto’s hands once it was empty, abandoning it into the sink before returning to their bed. He moved to climb into it– 

–and hesitated.

Warmth was what Leto needed. Another blanket, another pillow . . . a fire roaring even higher than it was now. Not a vampiric creature as cold as a corpse, ready to steal away whatever meager heat Leto had accumulated for himself. Little matter that he wanted very badly to hold his poor, sick mortal in his arms; little matter, too, that seeing Leto so frail and pale was hell on Astarion’s nerves. He didn’t matter in this scenario, not a bit. Better to keep taking care of him. Better to bustle about until he fell asleep again, Astarion told himself, and tried very hard not to let his own regret show.

“Try and sleep more if you can,” he said aloud, putting more cheer in his voice than he truly felt, and shifted so that it looked as though all he intended was to press one cool hand against Leto’s clammy forehead. “I need you back to your very pretty self as soon as possible– and you’ll need all the energy you can get once your fever breaks.” Still overwarm. Still burning up, evidenced by the way Leto’s eyes fluttered shut in pleasure as Astarion’s hand lingered against his brow. With a pang of regret Astarion drew back, climbing back off the bed. “You’ve days and days to make up for you, you realize.”

“Mm, I know,” Leto murmured. Already exhaustion was reclaiming him, for his eyes were growing heavy. Montressor clambered her way up to tuck herself just beneath the crook of Leto’s arm, and Astarion hummed in quiet approval. She would keep him warm, the little lump, and with any luck, her sisters would join her. And in a few days, Astarion would have his consort back in his arms once more.

He’d made it three steps away from the bed before Leto’s voice halted him in his tracks.

“Come here,” his amatus ordered. It was a vague thing, dazed and half-exhausted; when he turned back, Leto’s eyes were still half-closed. “Don’t go. Stay . . .”

And he shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t, and there were a thousand reasons why. But . . . 

When had he ever been able to deny Leto anything? 

“All right,” he said gently, and returned to his side. Leto kept his gaze locked on him, a faint frown on his face, until at last Astarion slipped with vampiric grace beneath the covers. Leto pressed his cheek firmly against his chest, wriggled until Astarion took the hint and wrapped his arms tight around him, then sighed softly in contentment. 

“Better?” Astarion asked with no small amount of amusement. “You realize this won’t help your fever?”

“I know,” Leto murmured. “I do not care. It’s worth it.” A moment, and then, more emphatically: “You are worth it. Having someone close helps more than any amount of caretaking. You taught me that. Now,” he said, and, eyes still closed, nuzzled his cheek gently against Astarion’s chest, “talk to me. I care little for the topic, but I wish to listen to you.” 

“Bossy,” Astarion replied gently, not meaning it in the slightest. His talons carefully carded through strands of silver hair as he smiled up at the ceiling. “Fine, then. But  don’t complain when it’s all gossip, darling. You brought it on yourself.” 

It began that way, certainly. Gossip about their bakery landlords and their romantic woes, which led into gossip about some of the regular customers that frequented the shop. Silly tales told about Gale and Talindra, the two of them constantly bickering as they debated Leto’s education– but sooner or later, it became stories about legends long ago, Drizzt Do'urden and the time he’d faced down a thousand orcs. The time he’d traveled the Paths of Darkness and hunted down a magic hammer for his friend; how he’d met and befriended his beloved Guenhwyvar. On and on and on, until at last with a start Astarion realized Leto had long since fallen asleep.

And understand: he would be happy when his beloved was ill no longer, for Leto was miserable like this. But while it lasted . . . ah, it wasn’t so bad. Not really. Not when they were together.