Chapter Text
Astarion leans through the window he just spent the last few minutes lock picking as quietly as possible.
'And how long was it going to take you to bother coming to see me then, darling?'
Wyll startles, which pleases Astarion immensely. He'd made his way to Ravengard manor the moment the sun set and decided on a whim to sneak in and climb up to Wyll's window instead of having himself announced at the entrance; by contrast, he'd been work-shopping his opening line since he received Wyll's note.
Wyll breaks into his lovely, open smile and rises from his place behind his desk. 'My friend, I can't believe it's actually you! It's been so - do I need to invite you in? If so, as heir to the Ravengard estate, I formally invite -'
'Oh please darling, I've not just been sitting around with my hand down my pants while you've been gone; I've been graciously welcomed into your humble home by your father several times.' Astarion hops down off the window sill and is immediately pulled into a tight hug by Wyll.
'I've missed you Astarion,' he says, and Astarion can feel Wyll's deep voice rumbling against his chest.
Astarion pulls back slightly to eye him, tries to look haughty and affronted. 'And yet you seem not to have been in much of a rush to see me; all I receive is one tiny scrap of a note, probably days if not weeks after you've returned. You know my address, you could have made the effort to come to me rather than forcing me to come begging to your door.'
Wyll laughs, unmoved. 'I sent you that note the moment I got here; I didn't want to stop by in case you were busy. As you say, you've not just been sitting around with your hand down your pants without me.'
'Not just, no.' Astarion considers whether to continue arguing that Wyll should have visited him or take issue with the quality of the note (it had been written with all appropriate care and diligence, of course), then decides that he's lost interest and casts around for a new issue. He pulls away from Wyll and flings himself into the only armchair in the study, which is otherwise unrelentingly filled with dark wood furniture; Ulder Ravengard must have been having an off day when he allowed a comfortable place to sit into the room. 'Why hasn't my favourite fiery friend deigned to write then, hm? Abandoned by both of you yet again.'
Wyll drags his desk chair over to face Astarion and sits. He slumps slightly, Astarion notices, which means he's absolutely exhausted if he's unable to maintain his heroically rigid straight-backed posture. 'Karlach wanted to see Dammon as soon as possible; she basically bolted the moment we stepped out of the portal - after nearly breaking my ribs with a final hug, of course.'
'I'm sure that all she'll be doing more than just seeing Dammon tonight.'
Wyll rolls his eyes but he laughs; he has such a lovely laugh. 'How perceptive of you Astarion, I'm sure they will be doing more than just seeing each other. By the good gods themselves, they may even have sex with each other!'
'Well, one would hope.'
Astarion had wondered a few times, idly, whether the eighteen months Wyll and Karlach spent together in Avernus would mean that their friendship would develop into something else. He had thought it unlikely, but anything was possible with enough time and loneliness. The information that Karlach and Dammon are still together etches itself into his brain, though, along with the fact that this means Wyll is likely not with her. Well, probably - again, anything was possible with enough time and loneliness.
'We did it, Astarion,' Wyll says, and he's been smiling from the moment he saw the vampire, but his smile gets if possible even broader and more brilliant. 'We really - we fixed her heart, we actually did it. I can't believe it, I think I still don't think it's real. She gets to - we both get to come back home.'
Astarion sniffs. 'Ridiculous that you'd ever doubt your success darling, I knew you were going to do it all along. I'd not associate myself with just any old person off the street, I'm only friends with the best.'
Wyll laughs his lovely laugh again and rubs his good eye. His stone eye is long gone, replaced by an eye patch. Astarion feels his chest squeeze at the sight.
'Come on,' says Astarion, rising from his armchair and holding out his hand. 'This tastelessly decorated study is no place to celebrate such an achievement. Let's go get drunk.'
'I'd love to,' says Wyll. 'But I'm exhausted.'
'Fine, let's go get tipsy then.'
'You interrupted me; I've got important correspondence I need to finish before I go to bed.'
'Oh, Wyll, come on. I know you're not as young as you were when we first met, but you can't be such an old man that your first night back consists of paperwork and then a seven pm bedtime.'
'I am still in my twenties and you are literally centuries older than me,' Wyll grumbles.
But he gives in and takes Astarion's hand.
They'd been something, for a while at least.
Soft kisses and chaste touches, and on one particular occasion a slow dance in the frigid night. Wyll would recite his ridiculous lines that, knowing him, he probably meant, and for his part Astarion would gaze at him through his lowered lashes and try to get the boy into his bed. He was never successful, but it became part of their courtship, Astarion's advances and Wyll's smooth deflections back to wholesome romance; another kind of dance.
It had been fake, yes, a way for Astarion to secure his safety, but it had still been - nice? Pleasant? Not actively excruciating? Astarion had found it difficult to tell the difference in those early days. Trying to plan every move and every word to be as appealing as possible to Wyll became tiring (easier to keep up a good front when his targets had a life expectancy of hours), and every now and then, when Wyll looked at him with such open, honest happiness on his face, Astarion would feel a twist of guilt in his chest, but overall, well. It was hardly getting flayed.
Then, the drow at Moonrise Towers.
Wyll had noticed that he had been quiet afterwards, as they prepared to bed down with the other 'True Souls' in the barracks ('Right in the belly of the beast!' Gale had whispered so cheerfully that Astarion nearly stabbed him). They had sat together talking with lowered voices and backs pressed up against the cold stone wall. Once he started, Astarion found he couldn't stop, telling Wyll everything.
'Sounds like you need a friend, not a lover,' Wyll had said, sad but certain.
Astarion had felt relief like a punch in the gut.
Wyll hadn't held it against him. Astarion hadn't expected him to, really, the man was a bottomless well of compassion and forgiveness. Somehow, they had managed to form a true friendship, despite their past romance, despite Astarion's past deception. This had been incredible to Astarion, although to be fair, it had been incredible to him that he'd managed to form friendships with the others in their gang as well; he had found himself fond of each and every one of them.
Together, and with the rest of their merry little band of misfits, they defeated a god, broke a pact, killed Cazador, and saved Wyll's father from a watery grave ('Personally, I'm starting to think we should have let you drown, you idiotic bald old man!' Astarion had spat when Ulder had turned on Wyll moments after his rescue; this had triggered one of the only true fights Wyll and Astarion had, and Astarion had spent several sleepless nights infuriated at how quick Wyll was to let go of his pain and resentment).
Before they'd made the final push forwards to the elder brain, standing outside High Hall with the illithid Orpheus by their side, Astarion had been seized by a sudden, inexplicable urge. Wyll had been looking out across the city that he loved, beset by dragons and nautiloids, ghouls and goblins attacking the streets, sky streaked an unnatural red, and Astarion had watched as Wyll had taken a deep breath and visibly steeled himself.
Astarion had wanted to take Wyll's face in his hands and kiss him, in what might be the last chance he would ever have to do so. But Wyll had turned, said 'Right, we need to head out,' and the moment had passed.