Chapter Text
Nevaeh is not an idiot, despite what his companions may say. He knows conversation like how he knows music, knows how to maneuver and manipulate words to the same tune of his flute.
Astarion, however, is a song he’s never heard before. The music that flows out of his mouth is as smooth as it is jagged, lies intrinsically woven into harsh truths. He is impossibly complicated, yet his words sound simple.
It’s as exhausting as it is fascinating.
Nevaeh wants to memorize him, wants to know each tune his pretty mouth can come up with.
But Astarion is rather good at lying. Pretty enough to be clever, as Nevaeh’s old teacher would put it. And he knows it. Nevaeh knows it too, but he can’t bring himself to care much.
In all that’s happened since he woke up on that ship, Astarion has been the one slightly reliable factor. He’s always witty, never without a comeback, and always prepared for a fight. It’s comforting, in a way, to have him around. He hasn’t changed yet, and unlike some of their companions, he’s not on the verge of exploding.
He’s always lying, but so is Nevaeh. That too, is comforting.
Nevaeh watches him now from afar, his nimble hands flipping through the pages of a book.
He knows it might be a tad creepy, but gods knows he’s caught Astarion observing him from afar too many times to count.
‘ Cataloguing information’, Astarion had called it, when Nevaeh brought it up.
‘I’m an open book. What could you possibly need to catalogue?’
A smirk.
‘More than you’d think, darling.’
Even now, he finds himself questioning what Astarion meant by that. It’s a strange thing to be observed. Nevaeh is used to it, years within a bardic college as the only tiefling will do that to you, of course. But with Astarion it’s different. Pointed, maybe.
Nevaeh doesn’t know what to call it.
His own observation, however, seems to have been a bit obvious. In a blink, Astarion is in front of him, hands on his hips.
“It’s rude to stare, you know.”
Nevaeh can’t help but flinch at the sudden proximity.
“And it’s even worse to scare the shit out of someone.” Nevaeh grumbles. “How do you do that?”
“I’ve heard it’s a side effect of my roguish charm.”
As stated, consistent. Always prepared with a comeback. But it’s part of a sort of game that’s begun between them, somewhere between being threatened by druids and learning of the worms in their head. A game of conversation. So far, Astarion’s won every time.
“Is the general air of superiority a side effect too, then?” Nevaeh treads lightly, here. There are rules to this game he’s yet to learn.
Astarion’s smirk turns sharp.
“Some may call that a perk.”
“Is that right?” An invitation, then, as if to say, Your turn.
“I’ve got plenty of perks, darling. Too bad I’m too superior to show them to you.” His voice drips with poison, but it’s not lethal, not yet.
“Now who’s being rude?”
At that, Astarion dips into a little bow.
“Excuse me? I am the very model of civility.”
Nevaeh barks out a laugh.
“And I’m Drizzt Do’urden.”
“How cruel. Drizzt is much prettier than you.” Astaron’s smirk glimmers with something real, a flash of a smile.
He’s enjoying this.
And, well, so is Nevaeh.
“It’s true. How could I ever compare?”
A surprised laugh bursts from Astarion at that. It’s short, snuffed out before it grows too big, too vulnerable. To Nevaeh, it’s something precious. Something new, something entirely unpredictable.
It’s a new melody to memorize.
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Astarion is used to seducing people. It’s easy, it’s breathing, it’s all he can remember. All it takes is a few pretty words, a few lingering touches. Swallow the bile in his throat, and push forward.
He thinks it’ll be easy with Nevaeh.The tiefling has a knack for conversation, as evidenced by the strange dance they’ve gotten in the habit of playing. Astarion finds himself enjoying his presence, however irritating it is when Nevaeh decides it’s his special little mission to help the tieflings at the grove.
It just doesn’t make sense, logically. They have enough problems on their own, from the worms in their heads to trying not to kill each other. Shadowheart and Lae’zel are particularly difficult on that front, and yet, Nevaeh marches forward.
The man is extremely impulsive, a fact that may or may not help Astarion’s own mission. Or at least he thinks. If Nevaeh doesn’t get himself killed first.
They’d just gotten back from meeting with Kagha, Nevaeh having barely saved that annoying child. Ever since, he’s been in, well, a mood.
“Darling, perhaps we don’t kill Kagha right away. As fun as it would be.” Astarion offers it lightly, not truly caring either way, but also, Kagha is surrounded by guards. And their little ragtag group is many things, but strong enough to take on a grove of druids? Not one of them.
Nevaeh is pacing, raking hands through shockingly white hair. Astarion makes a note to ask him about it sometime. White hair on a tiefling is not particularly usual.
“Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her, fuck her.” Nevaeh is whispering it to himself like a ritual, expletives flowing from his mouth like a sort of dark poetry.
“I doubt she’d accept your advances.” Astarion distracts with a joke, as it usually works. But Nevaeh hardly seems to hear him.
Shadowheart and Lae’zel watch nearby, setting up their own tents and pretending not to listen.
Gale, of course, doesn’t have the same tact.
“As much as I agree with your sentiment, our pale friend is right. I am not sure what the best course of action is here, but unsolicited murder? Perhaps we can-”
“Unsolicited?” Nevaeh cuts through his babbling abruptly. “You’re telling me the shit she just pulled isn’t good enough for you? Or is the attempted murder of a child casual practice in Waterdeep?” His voice is the coldest Astarion has ever heard it.
A chill runs down his spine. This part of Nevaeh is certainly…new.
Gale, of course, thinks he can solve his problems by talking more. A bit of an idiot, for a wizard.
“I-Well of course it isn’t! That was not my point, which, I’m sure you knew, but I recognize this might be a touch close to home for you, and thus, I will rescind my previous statement.” Gale sputters, but it seems to be good enough for now.
Nevaeh takes a single breath, and with it, a sort of mask reappears on his face. His expression relaxes into one of practiced indifference.
Astarion recognizes the move well.
“Sorry, Gale. You’re right.” His words are clipped, but practiced. They’re smooth enough to win over anyone who’s not used to this brand of lying.
“Ah, it’s all water under the proverbial bridge, friend.” Gale, at least, knows now is his time to shut up. With that, he dips his head and returns to his own tent.
Nevaeh’s fists never uncurl, but he smiles.
It’s a fake thing. And yet, only Astarion seems to see it.
When Nevaeh wanders off into the woods, Astarion can’t help but follow.
He keeps to the shadows, partially out of habit, partially out of curiosity as to what Nevaeh will do.
Nevaeh stumbles through the woods as if drunk, none of the finesse he shows in conversation present in his footsteps.
He crashes through leaves and branches till coming to a clearing, sitting abruptly on a stone in the middle of it. For a moment, he just breathes. It’s not breathing to calm. It’s as if they’re the first gasps of air he’s had in a long time.
It’s almost unnerving, how distinctly careless he’s being.
Astarion could get close enough to strike, and he wouldn’t even notice.
“You can come out now, Astarion.”
Or so he thought.
“A pity. I wanted to see your dramatic breakdown in the middle of the woods.” Astarion covers up his own surprise with words, but he has no idea how Nevaeh noticed him. “I’m sure it would have been tragic. And hilarious.” His voice doesn’t waver, it never does.
But Nevaeh’s eyes crinkle, like he knows.
It’s terrifying.
“I figured you’d follow me.” He sounds tired, too tired to come up with a proper response. It seems their game will be different today. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were there. 50/50 chance of me talking to the air, or scaring the shit out of you. Either option was gonna be funny.”
Astarion narrows his eyes, and steps into the moonlight.
“Do I look scared to you?”
Nevaeh takes him in.
“No. You look…off-balance.” He manages a smirk. “It’s nice.”
“I assure you, I am just as light on my feet as ever.” It's as easy as breathing, the rhythm of conversation. What’s rare is having someone who can keep up.
“I’m sure. Another one of your many perks, I assume.”
“You remembered! I’m touched.” Astarion places a hand over his heart, fluttering his eyelashes. Now is as good a time as any to continue his own objective.
“I remember everything you say. Even the bullshit.” It’s too honest for their little game. Astarion falters, for half a second. But Nevaeh notices, of course he notices. “See? Off-balance.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Astarion lets a bit of a warning into his voice, then.
“I know better than that.” Nevaeh lets it be, but there’s an air to him. As if he’s won this round.
Astarion can’t have that.
It’s easy, then, to turn to what he’s best at.
“I know you do. It’s why I keep you around.” He lets his voice turn to velvet, lets the slightest current of heat run through them. “Despite you driving me crazy at the best of times.”
Nevaeh notices the change, painfully observant as he is. His back stiffens slightly, and despite his skin already being red, Astarion can smell the blood rush to his cheeks.
“My bad, I didn’t realize.” Nevaeh continues nonchalantly.
“Oh, I’m sure you did, darling.” Astarion ventures to move closer, just out of reach.
“Enlighten me, then.” It’s a challenge. And it’s perfectly timed.
Astarion leans in, just close enough to touch. He lifts his hands, as if about to, but cards them through his own hair instead. Nevaeh’s eyes track the movement, and Astarion knows he’s done it.
“It’s your mouth, dear. Talented, isn’t it?” He makes his voice drop, and meets Nevaeh’s eyes. “I wonder if its talents extend…elsewhere.”
Nevaeh falters, for a moment, but holds eye contact.
“You don’t have to do that, you know.” His voice is soft, as if he’s scared of hurting Astarion, or something.
It’s utterly bizarre.
“What ever could you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Astarion.” Nevaeh moves back fully now, standing up. He smiles, but it’s the fake smile from before, with Gale.
Astarion feels, abruptly, like he’s done a serious misstep.
“I’m afraid I don’t.” He covers up his surprise with the same smirk he always has. But it’s strange, what Nevaeh’s doing. “ You’ll have to enlighten me , this time.”
Astarion can’t tell what his goal is, and that, in and of itself, is dangerous.
“I don’t need your pity, Astarion. And I certainly don’t need you to pretend to want me.” Nevaeh says it softly, but there’s a touch of coldness there. A glimmer of the Nevaeh with Gale, earlier.
Astarion freezes, for just a moment. He doesn’t know what to do with this. Nevaeh went off script. He broke the rules of their game, or changed them, maybe, and Astarion is dumbfounded.
In 200 years, people have become predictable. Easy.
It’s rare for Astarion to be surprised by someone.
The mask almost falters, but he puts it back on with practiced ease. He will not let Nevaeh win this.
“I don’t do pity, darling. It’s unbecoming.”
Nevaeh half-smiles.
“I’m sure.” He moves towards camp, then, seemingly done with this conversation. “Good night, Astarion.”
And he leaves. Just like that.
Astarion is left wondering what the fuck just happened. There has to be a sort of angle, some goal Nevaeh is trying to achieve. Why else would he decline his advances?
It doesn’t make sense. All Nevaeh had to do was play along, play the same fool Astarion’s known for centuries.
But he didn’t.
Astarion can’t begin to fathom why.
He’ll figure it out soon enough. For now, he has to hunt, and try to shake off thoughts of a decidedly irritating tiefling. At least some secrets are still his own.
It’s only later, with his teeth sunk into a boar, that he realizes Nevaeh won this round.
Bastard.