Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wyll had been on the road for hours now, and he’s sure he’s just about burnt the last remaining part of his dignity when he found himself stuck in the road - pressing harshly on the gas, cursing under his breath, but stuck in a limbo of unmoving. His car didn’t want to make more than a scooch. It took him such an embarrassingly long time to realize he had accidentally switched his emergency parking brake on - and, well, that’s when he realized that perhaps forcing himself to drive from one end of the country to the other wasn’t the best of ideas.

He should’ve stopped hours ago; Gods he knew that. He had driven from Baldur’s Gate after visiting his father, and to Waterdeep, honestly more of a detour than anything, before finally moving towards his home back in Phandalin. 

He should’ve found a motel, or at least a drive-thru to get something nasty, greasy, and hardly filling- he should’ve at least stopped by a gas station to get a pack of cigarettes and something to drink, but no, he kept pushing. Forward. Always forward. He had somewhere to be—or at least, he was pretending he did. He had to have a goal; he couldn’t rest or dillydally. 

The truth was, the destination didn’t matter as much as the running.

His stomach growled, loud and hollow, like a warning shot. Like a cancerous growth that settled inside his stomach that doctors had found and told him not to worry about, just for it to turn around and explode inside him.

And then, like a beacon from nirvana—or more likely, a flickering sign that had seen better days—he spotted it: a small neon glow up ahead, buzzing faintly against the dark. A diner. Out here in the middle of nowhere. Open late.

Cheap, shitty food - just what Wyll deserved after driving seven hours. 

It looked like the kind of place you went when you had nothing left in you but a few crumpled bills, an aching spine, and the need to sit somewhere that wasn’t moving seventy-five miles a goddamns hour. Cheap booths. Greasy food. Coffee that tasted like ash, and the consistent feeling of a sticky, plastic table. He used his signal, even though there wasn’t another car in sight behind or in front of him, and turned into the mostly empty lot. His tires crunched across loose stone, headlights cutting through the early-morning haze.

The diner was almost empty, save for one other car that sat near the front—sleek, long, dark. Expensive. The kind of car that didn’t belong at a place like this.

Wyll didn’t think much of the sight, though. It was clear that whoever owned the car had funds, and Wyll was in no place to judge anyone on their dining choices despite their clearly filled wallet.

Gods, Wyll was in a mini-cooper; it wasn’t like he could be the judge of a man's mechanical vehicle. 

Wyll grabbed his wallet from the passenger seat and ran a hand down his locs, attempting to smooth out the worst of the frizz. He definitely had to moisturize more. The air was damp as he stepped out of his car; he could feel the heat coming from the humid grass quite literally. Everything smelt faintly of wet gravel and weed, some Druidic formula.

It was warmer inside. Not cozy, but warm. Heat radiated from an old vent in the corner, accompanied by a metallic whirring sound, and the room smelled of grease, burnt toast, and old coffee. 

‘I know, I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me.

And if we go somewhere to dance, I know that there’s a chance you won’t be leaving with me.’

Frank Sinatra. An old song his father would play in the car on long drives, hand tight on Mizora’s thigh, the other driving the same exact vehicle Wyll drove here today.

Hm.

Memories of those times relapse into a sudden and dull confrontation- Wyll, knows, logistically speaking, he is in a diner, miles away from Baldur’s gate, his fathers car, and the woman that molested him when he was seventeen - but theirs still an ache in his chest, and a pull in his loins from when she told him that because he enjoyed it, it was okay.

‘Then afterwards we drop into a quiet little place and have a drink or two.

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like, “I love you.” ’

The stupid song is still playing, Wyll knows it’s a short one, as all old songs are, but the thought doesn’t help him much. He suddenly wishes to bolt, to run, like a child.

But Wyll is not a child.

Not anymore.

Suddenly, a sweet-looking Dragonborn is in front of him- mouth quirked into a frown. 

“Sir?” She asked, notebook in one claw, a pen in the other. 

Wyll, suddenly foolishly aware of his surroundings and the impending embarrassment he feels, speaks once more.

“Ah,” He yelps, yelps. “I’m so sorry. Yes, uhm, I’d like to order. Or sit down- yes. Thank you.” He pauses, voice light, before he speaks one last time. “Sorry again.”

The Dragonborn—shimmery green with streaks of silver along her jawline—offered a small, practiced smile. It didn’t reach her eyes, but Wyll didn’t blame her. The graveyard shift at a roadside diner miles away from any real civilization couldn’t have been what she dreamed of as a little hatchling.

She gestured to a booth near the window with a swipe of her pen. “I’ll bring you a menu.”

Wyll nodded mutely and made his way toward the seat, limbs stiff, head a little too light. The diner lights flickered once as he passed under them, making his one good eye ache—the other stone, lazy.

Besides the constant hum of the fan, or the singing of Sinatra, he could also hear the buzzing of an insect caught in a loop of hitting the glass window closest to him, slamming its puny body against the sheet- effortlessly trying to leave, the exact definition of insanity, trying something over and over again, expecting a different outcome.

The floor beneath his boots was sticky in some places, slippery in others. It felt like walking through a memory you didn’t quite want to revisit.

But again, he wasn’t going to complain. Wyll never did falter.

He slid into the booth and exhaled, long and slow. Exhausted.

At first, Wyll wanted to curse the mere idea of sitting after doing so for seven hours straight, feet cramped despite using cruise control, arms aching. 

Sitting here was alright, even if the music in the background was bringing him back to rather unpleasant times.

His spine cracked as he leaned back, even though he was only twenty-nine, one leg stretched across the vinyl bench. He let his eyes drift shut for just a second too long, until the sound of quiet conversation snapped them open again.

“I’ll be having the… steak, medium rare.” 

It was the two other people in the entire restaurant, a duo of elven men, from what Wyll could see.

At first glance, it looked mundane—two men seated across from each other in the farthest booth. But the longer he watched, the more he realized there was nothing prosaic about them at all.

The man on the outer side of the booth was striking, handsome, if he could be so blunt. Every movement was calculated as he ordered his meal, a steak. He was pale, with black hair slicked back, thin but muscular from what he could tell.

Truth be told, he felt like a creep watching the two, as his gaze left the man on the outside. Across from him sat someone smaller, though Wyll couldn’t see his face from this angle, not yet.

“He’ll be having the salad. The chicken one. No dressing or croutons. He’s allergic to dairy.” 

The Dragonborn nodded once and jotted the order down without a word, only looking up to ask about drinks, to which the same black haired elf answered simply with water. Wyll’s brow twitched as he looked down at the menu in front of him—pretending to read it, pretending not to listen. But his good eye flicked back toward the booth, subtly, tracking the taller man’s every motion.

Wyll didn’t look up. Not immediately. His eyes remained on the laminated menu in front of him, greasy and curling slightly at the corners. The words blurred a little—he blinked once, twice. Tried to focus. He wasn’t eavesdropping, not really. It was a quiet diner. Two other patrons. It was impossible not to overhear.

Still, he kept his head down.

By the ninth Hell, he was ever tired. His shoulders throbbed from hours on the road, the base of his neck aching from where he’d been subconsciously tensing the entire drive. Every muscle in his back was screeching at him with every centimeter he moved. The booth was doing nothing to help. Vinyl stuck slightly to the back of his jacket, and the lighting above him buzzed just loudly enough to piss him off.

He rubbed a hand across his face, rough and calloused hands catching on his beard like Velcro does to anything it wants to stick to. He breathed out through his nose, trying to settle. He was starving. His stomach gave a quiet whine, unaware that it would be delt with in about however long it took to get his order.

He was not interested in the couple two booths over.

Not really.

It was just—something about the tone. That voice. Too clean. Too smooth. Like he’d ordered for that boy… man? A hundred times before.

Wyll’s brow twitched, but he didn’t lift his head yet. Just adjusted in his seat, letting his body lean ever-so-slightly to the side. His good eye caught the corner of the other booth in the reflection of the napkin dispenser.

He didn’t know why, he had no idea, honestly - but something about this situation was… off-putting, to say it lightly.

The way he spoke was too smooth, too rehearsed, like he’d been doing it for decades. Not a suggestion or a question about what the smaller man might want—no, just a flat declaration. He’ll be having the salad as if that was the end of it. As if the choice had never belonged to him in the first place.

Wyll subtly shifted in his booth, angling his body just enough to get a better look at the second man.

Younger. Or at least, looked younger. Elven features always threw him off—ageless and doll-like. Especially this man. His hair was light, soft curls falling slightly into his eyes, and his posture was… concerning. Shoulders hunched, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve beneath the table, like a nervous tic. His leg bounced beneath the booth, heel tapping a silent rhythm against the floor.

His face, now partially visible in profile, was pale—but not the same kind of smooth, powdered pale as his companion. It was sallow, worn thin like old parchment, with dark circles under his eyes, eleven ears pierced, two jewels on the left and two on the right. It looked quite expensive, no doubt a pretty gold coin. 

Wyll’s stomach twisted, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the younger man kept glancing down instead of across. Perhaps it was how he didn’t even react to the order given on his behalf, didn’t nod or confirm it; he didn't even hear the two make conversation about what the white-haired elf wanted. 

It wasn’t like the other was taking the order for him because the other boy was mute, or had some horrific anxiety that made ordering tough- it seemed just to be…

Settled.

He didn’t seem to exist in the moment at all; instead, he was just a prop or a doll—a sweet, young thing.

There was a stiffness in him that Wyll knew all too well—the same stiffness he saw in runaways who made it to the front lines, in soldiers fresh out of war, in himself, when he looked in the mirror some mornings and remembered things he’d rather not.

He couldn’t align himself with this elf; he hardly even knew him.

The server dropped a menu off at his table. Wyll glanced down half-heartedly; he already knew he wanted something cheap and easy—a burger and fries, perfect.

“Eyes up, boy,” the taller man murmured lowly, barely audible.

The younger one obeyed immediately, like a switch had been flipped.

Just as Sinatra finished, a new song began. 

Something about it settled more easily in Wyll’s chest. At least this sickly popish music didn’t summon up the specter of Mizora. Didn’t make his stomach churn with the sour tang of confusion and shame.

Wyll finds himself ordering his food before relaxing back into the chair.

Though relaxing is a strong way to put it, but the two elven men are none of his business - Wyll was protective of the weak, and although the white haired man seemed plenty… weak, there was nothing definitionally wrong with this display. 

Perhaps it was just one of those dominant and submissive relationships - possibly Wyll was overreacting quite significantly. 

Perhaps the pale one enjoyed being told what to do. Maybe this was all fine.

But why does he look like that?

Wyll glanced back again—not openly. Just enough to catch a glimpse as the pale man, the taller one, stood up. He moved around the booth and reached for the younger elf’s arm, gripping him just below the elbow.

It was subtle.

Too subtle.

No raised voice, no public scene, just a slight jerk of the arm. A little too rough, a little too practiced.

The boy stood, almost too quickly, as if he was used to being pulled around wherever the stronger person wanted him to be.

Wyll’s heart stuttered once. He hadn’t realized it had been steadying itself for the last few minutes, like a soldier on a battlefield waiting for something to go wrong.

And now it has.

The taller man said nothing as he led the other toward the back of the diner, past the swinging door labeled Restrooms, his hand never leaving the pale curve of the other man’s forearm.

And for a moment, Wyll froze.

There wasn’t technically anything wrong with what he’d just seen. Not enough to call attention to it. Not enough to prove anything.

But his gut said otherwise.

He watched the door swing shut behind them.

Counted.

One.

Two.

Three.

And then he rose from his seat, slow and quiet.

There were muffled sounds in the restroom - not exactly distressing in nature, just loud.

The waitress wasn’t even behind the counter, probably relaying orders to the nineteen-year-old chef, or taking an impromptu smoke break.

He pushed through the swinging door, careful, silent.

A short, dimly-lit hallway stretched ahead, the men’s room at the end. The light above flickered faintly, casting the floor in pulses of yellow.

He heard something.

“Just stop moving! You wanted to come here, boy. Don’t forget it. What’s the point of bringing you here if you’re going to misbehave?”

The man’s voice is squeaky and ear-aching, the view he has is just of the sinks, half of a wall covering the rest of it, along with the urinals and stalls - but the view… It’s enough to snap Wyll out of whatever disassociated, shocked state he was in.

The man—the white-haired one—was pressed back against the far wall near the sinks, his shoulder half-collided with the soap dispenser; a bit of soap had fallen onto his sweater, most likely because the taller elf had shoved him in its general direction.

In this light, Wyll could better see the shape of his face, which was thin. Bony, like he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. Hand raised weakly between them like it might stop anything. His breath came fast. His eyes were wide.

Wyll can hardly begin to wrap his head around what he’s looking at, but he knows one thing, and that is he must protect this man.

The black haired one stood inches away, arm still gripped tightly around the boy’s upper wrist, fingers digging into the pale skin so hard it was already turning red, nails pinching, blood drawn.

The elf didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Oh but the expression on his face…

It was as if he had expected this, had known it would happen all along. 

Like he was used to it.

The taller elf shifted, moving the white-haired beauty pliantly, turning him over so his stomach pressed against the sink, his face forced toward the cracked mirror. Wyll saw him turn his head slightly to avoid looking at himself, a small, desperate motion that made his chest ache. The boy’s hands flexed on the edge of the basin, knuckles white.

The taller elf leaned closer, whispering something low and venomous that Wyll couldn’t make out, the sound curling like smoke in the dim room. Then came the rasp of fabric, the covert sound of a jean zipper being unzipped, and he sees the elf’s hips wiggle as if his own pants are being removed and-

It’s on instinct, really, as Wyll charged forward, boots slamming against the tile, shoulder squared like a battering ram. The moment he reached the pair, his hands locked around the taller man’s shoulders—no hesitation, no words—and he ripped him off the boy with a strength born from fury.

Cazador let out a short, startled noise as he was wrenched away, his feet sliding against the grimy floor.

He hit the ground with a solid crack, an ugly sound- his head slammed against the checkered floor - and he lay there, in complete and utter shock for a moment, his back slamming into the base of the sink stall, the wind knocked from his chest.

As if he hadn’t expected anyone to come, hadn’t expected anyone to stop him.

Wyll wasn’t done.

He stood over him, eyes burning, chest heaving. “You touch him again,” he hissed, voice low and deadly, feeling as though a part of him is protecting himself from the past, like if he can defend this boy - this man, he won’t feel as though he failed himself from allowing Mizora to touch and dirty him. “and I will break every bone in your fucking body.”

The black haired elf blinked up at him, dazed, face twisted in equal parts rage and disbelief. His coat had flared open slightly from the impact, his shirt ruffled, dignity bruised.

“You—imbecile,” he spat, voice warbling with venom. “Do you have any idea who I am—”

Wyll’s fist connected with the man’s face, then his other hand moved to bunch the shirt up in his hand so he could tug him closer.

Another punch, another swing, before the man was unconscious.

He loosened his grip slowly, fingers unfurling as though prying open a trap. Cazador sagged back onto the floor, blood streaking his lips- though most of his injuries were bruises. His eyes flickered between hatred and something like calculation. But for once, he didn’t speak.

Wyll took a step back. His chest heaved. His fists ached. 

Oh Gods.

What had he done?

He’d hardly seen the situation; he’d seen one moment of a man leaning against a sink, all of his shame bunched into one and-

He’d snapped.

He turned sharply, his attention immediately snapping back to the elf.

The boy had barely moved.

He wasn’t pressed to the sink on his stomach - but he was still against it, now pushing his back against it, as if attempting to make himself smaller, hands trembling slightly where they braced against the porcelain. His pants had slid halfway down his hips, exposing the jut of bone that should’ve been softened by flesh. His sweater was bunched and twisted, with soap clinging to the hem. But his face, his face, was blank. Eerily so.

He hadn’t spoken at all in this entire time Wyll had seen him, from when he walked in, to when the now unconscious man ordered his food, to now.

He hadn’t screamed or fought back or even said stop.

He’d just… endured.

Wyll swallowed hard and took a cautious step forward, his boots making a soft squeak on the cheap tile. His throat was dry, and his voice came out quieter than he expected.

“…Hey,” he said, gently like he was approaching a wounded animal. “It’s alright now. You don’t have to—he’s not going to touch you again.”

Still no response, but Wyll could work with that.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Wyll continued, softer this time, kneeling slightly—not too close, just enough to be eye-level, to make himself small and unthreatening. The man was quite a bit shorter than him, though with how skinny and frail he was, one couldn’t tell. “I can help you, I promise.”

The elf didn’t look at him, but his fingers twitched where they gripped the edge of the sink. 

“…Help me?” The doll-like elf mumbled, his gaze stuck onto the unconscious man on the floor- on the bruises, on his crumpled position.. 

“I only want to help you,” Wyll repeated, gentler now, less force behind the words. Wyll was struggling to imagine how he could help this man; he couldn’t even begin to pinpoint what was going on. What was the dynamic between the man now passed out on the floor?

“I—I couldn’t have walked away from that.”

He watched the elf’s chest rise and fall, rapid and shallow. Shock, probably. Cold. And fear—still woven through every breath he took. Wyll tried again.

“Why don’t you tell me your name?” he asked, voice soft like cotton. “We can call the cops. He won’t be able to hurt you anymore, I swear.”

But as soon as the mere word cops left his mouth, the elf flinched.

It wasn’t a big reaction. Not dramatic. But it was there—the sharp twitch in his shoulders, the way his hand slid along the sink edge like he was bracing for impact.

God’s pants were still down, pooled around his ankles now. 

Wyll’s throat tightened.

He held up his hands quickly. “Okay—okay, not the cops. That’s fine. No one’s gonna call anyone if you don’t want that. You’re safe now.”

The elf finally—finally—dragged his gaze up from the floor and met Wyll’s eyes.

It hit Wyll like a sucker punch to the chest.

That face.

Porcelain skin, too pale under the yellow lights. Wide, sunken eyes. Chapped lips. His curls fall messily over his temples.

Beautiful, yes—but in the way abandoned statues were beautiful.

“I’m Wyll,” he said quickly, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ve got a car out front. I can take you somewhere safe, warm. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to tell me anything. But I’m not leaving you here. Not with him.”

A pause.

“Astarion.”

Of course, Wyll could recall the little elvish he knew that his name meant 'little star’.

Oh Gods, how could anyone ever hurt this man?

Astarion looked at him for a long time. Too long. His eyes kept flicking back down to the man on the floor, to the bruises already forming on his pale face.

“Is he dead?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Wyll blinked. “No. Just unconscious.”

“…Shame.”

It wasn’t said with spite—just resignation.

Wyll thought it was a shame too, but he wouldn’t say that out loud.

Astarion’s knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself. He pushed off from the sink and pulled his pants up the rest of the way with trembling hands. Still didn’t look in the mirror. Still didn’t look at himself.

Wyll was at least glad that he did that; he didn’t particularly want to have to remind the man that he was half-naked.

Wyll turned away, giving him space and letting him have the dignity of privacy, even in a place where none had been given to him.

A few moments later, he heard footsteps. Soft ones. Hesitant.

Then a hand brushed his arm.

“Okay,” Astarion said quietly. “Take me somewhere warm.”

Wyll turned to face him.

And without thinking, without pushing, he shrugged off his coat and wrapped it gently around the elf’s shoulders.

Astarion tensed at the touch. Then, slowly—so slowly—he leaned into it.

Like he hadn’t felt warmth in a long, long time.

Chapter Text

The humid air hit the white haired elf like a slap, not one from Cazador, the moment they stepped outside. 

He hadn’t realized quite exactly what had been happening - when Cazador had forced him into the car after a particular mishap with a client, and when they started driving for hours. What had it been now, five, six hours, maybe? He couldn’t tell; time escaped him when he didn’t even have a watch on his wrist, let alone a phone. Cazador never let him have anything that would separate him from his job or the man himself. 

His life was a constant nightmare, a constant fleeting thing in which he only existed because he had to, because his body was important enough to be used and, in turn, discarded. But when would that wretched existence come to an end? Lord, what will happen to him after his novelty wears off? Astarion didn’t dare imagine what would become of him when he loses his desirability. Would Cazador throw him out? Would being alone be better than what was happening to him now? 

When he was exploited to be “A young, sweet boy with a dirty mind,” when that turned to the “barely legal elf,” his own race being used against him- twenty, legal, but with the mind of someone much younger, then he turned thirty, thirty-five, and it was all slowly going downhill - even if his face stayed the perfect picture of youth. 

He thought about bolting as soon as Wyll slammed Caz to the floor, but… that seemed too easy, if he did - perhaps the human would grab him, he’d be making things more complicated.

He could not have things worse than they already were; things could not get worse.

He hadn’t realized how different the hot air was in the bathroom until he was standing outside long enough to appreciate the realness of Mother Earth. He could almost understand Druids, almost. 

Truthfully, he’d left his body the moment Cazador pressed him against the sink and pressed his hardening, clothed hard-on against his ass. He blocked it all out; he let the movements happen, but he didn’t react. He hadn’t responded in years.

Even now, he wasn’t all that sure if a handsome, young human had actually swept in and saved him, or if he was just becoming really good at imagining things…

It was as if he wasn’t even here at all.

Like he was watching from somewhere far above, tethered to the scene by a string, knotted on the show-lights of a stage, his body only attached by a borrowed coat around his shoulders.

It was warm, if not a bit too large. It smelled like detergent and smoke.

The man, a human named Wyll, his mind supplied helpfully - his memory wasn’t all that reliable anymore, as Cazador told him, so he was shocked he could recall something as fleeting as a name. The man walked beside him with slow, careful steps. One large, calloused hand hovered near Astarion’s back, as if waiting for him to stumble or fall, or perhaps he was just doing it as a comfort, like a warm barrier.

It was… strange, for lack of a better word. Astarion never knew the right words; Cazador had always reprimanded him for trying, so Astarion stopped trying to find the words altogether. Cazador speaking for him became routine, commonplace even.

The absence of pressure. The lost feeling of hands on him possessively at an all constant time.

Of course, the freedom wouldn’t last forever- Cazador was hardly a man to take something like this lightly, and he’d track the hells and back, retrace Wyll’s steps… do anything to get back what was rightfully his.

And then there was also the problem of Wyll himself, what he expected as payback, if the man would just return him, or if he’d be even worse than Cazador.

Wyll unlocked his car, a tiny, red thing that looked like it had seen better times. It wasn’t particularly Astarion’s taste, but he’d been driving in Cazador’s Porsche Macan since he was twenty-three, so he didn’t honestly know all that much about nice or bad cars, and as long as this vehicle got him out of this wretched diner, he’d be fine with it being about anything - gods, he’d drive off in a unicycle if it meant freedom! 

The man, Wyll, opened the passenger side door for him like a gentlemanly prince type, one he’d have dreamed about marrying when he was like… thirteen, still untouched and unaware of the cruelty of the world. His mother and father treated him with all the tenderness of the world. His mother, kind, taught him Elven traditions that he could hardly remember now, and his father, softhearted, was never harsh or cruel. If anything, he’d been the one to sit him down one quiet evening, and coax the admission of him being trans out of Astarion with soft words.

He could hardly remember them now, nor the softness of it all.

What was he doing? He should’ve stayed with Cazador, should’ve shoved Wyll off of him- should’ve asked Caz to take it to the car, should’ve told him to lock the bathroom door or go into a stall - anything. Cazador would surely hunt him down; it was only a matter of time… maybe he was already waking now, and was coming for them/

He was sure the taller human had said something, along the lines of ‘Take your time, love.’ A pause as he helped him into his seat.

‘Do you need help?’

Astarion didn’t answer, so Wyll buckled him up, hands attempting to avoid his waist, or really, any other spot on his body. Astarion didn't understand why he wasn't touching him. He had the perfect opportunity to take him right here, right now; the elf hardly had enough strength to attempt to push him away. 

His actions and words were carefully put, like he was a thing to be gentle with, to cascade into softness, instead of being shoved harshly into the depths of nature he already knew. Astarion did not need help! He didn’t even need help with Cazador. God, what was he doing? 

His body moved without asking permission, legs folding as he slid into the seat. The coat shifted with him, pooling into his lap like a shitty type of blanket.

Wyll closed the door gently - though the thump still made him flinch, even if his brain wasn’t aware of the sound, his body had learned to react, even when his mind wasn’t present. 

Then, Wyll got in the driver's seat, moved into reverse, and sped off, not leaving a second of pause in between stepping on the brakes to move the shift, going into reverse, and leaving the diner behind in their dust.

As the silence wrapped around him, the elf let his mind drift far, far away.

The ragged polyester beneath him, seats ripped and torn over time, slowly disappeared. The heat of the aged seat warmers and the hum of the sputtering old engine gradually faded into the familiar feel of cold, uninviting silk sheets and the suffocating smell of sweat and champagne. 

Suddenly, he’s not in the shitty red car, or anywhere that’s foreign- in all honesty, it’s far too recognizable. Too many years have been spent in this exact bed, this exact position, and in the same state of pure despair that it’s transcended into pure madness. 

There’s a constant rocking sensation, a hand in his hair- or words in his ear, he’s never been one to be good at talking back to his clients, not at fifteen at least - of course, he learned the tricks of the trade eventually, but in this moment he’s regressed back to too terrified to speak. 

His wrists have gone slack, like the bone of his wrist is only being held by the meat of a man’s large, callused hands. They comb through his curls, soft because Cazador showers him every day with expensive, imported products and oils. There’s wet slapping, skin against skin, the creek of a mattress not designed to hold the weight of both a grown man and the loss of a child’s innocence. 

Words follow. Murmured close to his ear, low and intimately - in a way that twists his stomach into knots and makes him want to puke. He doesn’t understand how anyone could find this attractive, how limp he is, how he’s not fighting back, or even trying to moan. Perhaps the hot part for them, perhaps if he became less pliant, if he fed into it- 

“So pretty for me, baby.” 

Gutteral, moaned and low within such a tone, it has Astarion wondering if he’s playing it up to make his voice deeper. Was Astarion supposed to be attracted to that? 

His eyes move to fix on the headboard, which is painted - fancy, almost beautiful if it didn’t have such a sick connotation. The wooden part of it practically slaps against the wall as the man begins to reach his peak.

He tries to count the leaves of the painted vines. 

One.

Two.

Three.

He loses track after twelve. He forgets where he is, and he forgets his name. His eyes are crossed.

There’s a squeeze on his bottom; he feels grossly and achingly filled, yet at the same time empty. Gaping.

“Are you crying, sweet thing?” The man mumbles, slurs, really - he must be drunk off the appetizers Cazador gave him, Astarion’s never had a drop of alcohol before, because he was apparently just old enough for sex, but too young for a drink.

“Don’t hide away…”

Hands are on his hair again, and… is he crying? He didn’t realize he had been… 

“Let me fill your mouth, help you calm down.”

The hand in his hair turns rough, and his head is turned -

Astarion blocks it all out again, and then, just as soon as he came, the man's gone.

Cazador had returned - he can only tell because he now recognizes his footsteps, and he can hear the click of the lock once more. 

He doesn’t move. 

“There you are, child,” The man sighed, “I was wondering when that man would finish with you, honestly, such a brute. Your hips are all bruised and...”

A moment of silence.

“Did you not ask him to use the condom? Honestly. I should just get you a”

—————————————————————

“-A hot dog, or a chocolate bar? Sorry- there isn’t anything really healthy here…” Astarion didn’t really seem like he needed to focus on the sugar content of anything he was eating, but Wyll felt bad regardless.

“Wait, are you actually allergic to dairy?” Wyll knew it was a stupid question - but he couldn’t… well, not ask. 

“Huh?” Astarion squeaked, suddenly backing up far enough that Wyll is instinctively reaching for him- trying to make sure he doesn’t bolt- he isn’t sure he’d be able to catch him without tackling him to the floor. He doesn’t particularly want to do that if he doesn’t have to. 

The elf’s eyes had been glazed over, his facial expression unchanging. The confusion was faintly there, but even more- he just seemed lost. “What.. happened? I just- I..” 

Wyll’s brows furrowed, his voice laced with a hint of confusion. Astarion’s voice was high-pitched, lost, like he’d regressed into something out of pure fear.

“We’re just at the gas station,” Wyll attempted to soothe, something oddly maternal coming out from him at the sight of how terrified and confused the curly-haired elf was. “I asked you if you wanted something to eat, maybe a sandwich? Some crackers?” Wyll was attempting to suggest easy things, something that wouldn't stir his stomach up with nausea.

It’s obviously too many choices for the poor elf, because he recoils at the idea - his nose wrinkles and he backs up, his eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t know- I mean, I really- don’t need anything, I don’t. I don’t need it.” 

“Alright,” Wyll surrenders easily, hands up in a peaceful motion of "It's okay.” 

“Well, how about water?” Wyll asked, but alas, there were too many options. Hundreds of bottles in dozens of colors, labels screaming for attention—pure spring! Alkaline! Vitamin-enriched! hydration formula! It was absurd.

Astarion stopped in front of the glass. Stared.

Said nothing - he seemed lost in thought, like the view of the waters was too much, the choices overwhelming. 

His breathing was still a little too fast. His shoulders are too high to be comfortable. His fingers rubbed anxiously at the hem of Wyll’s coat; he hadn’t taken it off yet, and Wyll wasn’t about to ask him to.

“…I don’t know which one I’m supposed to pick,” he murmured finally, voice small. “I—what’s the right one?”

His voice sounded different than it did in the bathroom; he sounded… younger, more afraid, regressed, if that was even possible.

“There isn’t a right one,” Wyll replied softly. “It’s just water, Astarion.” The question would almost amuse Wyll, would almost find it cute, if the context of such a query wasn’t so heartbreaking. “All of them are fine. Any choice you make, you’ll be fine.”

Astarion didn’t move.

Wyll stepped to the fridge, popped the door open, and grabbed the first bottle he saw.

“This one’s my favorite,” he lied, easy and smooth. “It’s inexpensive, but apparently from…” He turned the plastic bottle to read the label, “Uh.. the seas of Waterdeep?” 

Astarion took the bottle, snatched it, really, like a child would when offered a sweet. 

“Alright.. let’s go then, we can get back in the car, and go to a hotel?” Wyll suggested, though Astarion didn't seem to hear or understand him. “It’s getting late, can’t be on the road forever.” The man’s plan was to get settled into a shitty room, let the elf shower, then figure out what was happening between him and that other man.

He guided Astarion gently towards the front counter, since the white-haired one still seemed quite lost. On the way to the counter, Wyll surveyed the shelves, grabbing a few items that caught his eye for the road. He figured it’d be a long while before they could find anything substantial to eat, so they’d have to settle for fruit cups and shitty premade sandwiches to keep them going.  

After they checked out their items, the two fell back into the tough seats of Wyll’s shitbox minicooper. The engine shook to life, filling the thick silence between them. Wyll pulled his phone out and tapped through a few options- he was honestly just trying to find something cheap and close.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Looks like there’s a place about fifteen minutes down the road,” he glanced toward Astarion, “You can take a shower, I have some old clothes in the back, might be a bit big but…”

Astarion wasn’t listening, Wyll could tell by the way his fingers were still gripping the bottled water he hadn’t taken a single sip from since picking it up. His legs were curled slightly toward the door, and his shoulders hunched like he was trying to manifest his body to be outside of the car.

“Huh?” he said after a pause, his voice low and distant.

Wyll cleared his throat; he wasn’t frustrated with Astarion - far from it - if anything, this display just furthered his worries for the elf. He put the car into gear and pulled out of the lot, speaking up once more.

“A hotel. You can take a shower, get a change of clothes.”

Astarion nodded, but didn’t say anything more.

The drive was quiet.

Too quiet.

Wyll tapped the steering wheel with his thumb - but the motion made Astarion flinch, so Wyll stopped.

A pause.

“Have you ever been to Baldur's Gate?” he asked eventually, just to break the silence. “It’s lovely this time of year, warm, nice breeze at night.”

Astarion didn’t respond at first.

Wyll glanced over. The elf’s eyes were open, looking over at him, but he seemed miles away. Dissociation still clung to him like the last clinging moments of a foggy day.

But then—

“I grew up there,” Astarion said, his voice less childish than it had been, a bit more dipped in aromatic diplomacy. “Lived there most of my life.”

Wyll blinked.

“Me too!” Wyll chirped like a morning bird, mostly excited they’d found common ground. “I thought I would’ve recognized an elf like you, suppose Baldur’s gate is quite large though.”

They lapsed into silence again.

Perhaps Wyll shouldn’t have said that…

Wyll tried again, another poor attempt at small talk. “Growing up in the Gate was nice, I had a lovely childhood there.”

Astarion didn’t react.

He glanced toward the GPS—five more minutes to the motel.

He figured that would be just enough time to try one more thing.

“Hey,” he said gently, “after we check in… you wanna be the first to shower, or me?”

That finally got a reaction.

Astarion blinked slowly, turned his head an inch toward him, then shrugged.

“Do you mean whoever undresses first? Does that matter?” The elf questioned, perking up, eyebrows knitted with confusion.

Wyll faltered - shaking his head.

“I mean, whoever showers first.” Wyll’s voice slipped out sharper than he meant it to, insistent. What Astarion implied... it only made the worry he held for him increase, knotting tighter in his stomach. “I can sit outside the room if you want, when it’s your turn?” He offered, his voice dropping down to a more gentle tone. He had to be patient with his words and phrase things carefully around the elf.

Astarion shrugged, and Wyll once again had to be the one to make a decision for the other.

“How about you first, then? I have some pajamas in my trunk you can wear, they might be a bit big on you, but I’m sure they’ll be comfortable, hm?” Wyll said, trying to be as soft as possible with Astarion.

“‘Okay.”

Another beat of awkward silence as they pulled into the gravelly lot.

Wyll parked near the front office and turned to Astarion, his voice careful as always. The elf reminded him of a spooked alley cat that he worked hard to garner the trust of as a child.

“Alright, I’ll go in and get us a room. You can stay here, I’ll leave the heat running—it’ll just take a minute.”

He watched as Astarion stared at the dashboard, quiet and unmoving, not processing his words at first. It was as if Wyll wasn’t there at all, but then, as suddenly as lightning during a rainstorm, Astarion twisted toward him, his hands grabbing at Wyll’s sleeves, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Don’t leave me out here. I—” His voice cracked, eyes wide and panicked, breath stuttering. “Someone will walk by, or… it’ll be- and...”

Wyll’s heart fell straight into his stomach.

“Oh,” he whispered, already helping to unbuckle his seatbelt, because the other seemed to be struggling to hold onto him, let alone do something with hand-eye coordination. "Oh, love, no. It’s alright.” The pet name slipped out easily, unprompted - it was as if he couldn’t control himself around Astarion; the urge to be sweet with him came naturally.

“You can come with me. Of course you can.”

They wandered into the lobby together. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and shitty, fake pine cleaner. The teenage half-orc clerk barely looked up from his phone.

Once they got the room, which was far more expensive than Wyll was initially expecting or truly intending to pay - if it were just him, he would’ve opted to save his cash and sleep in his car - but alas, that was not an option.

Wyll guided Astarion down the corridor, carpets stained with mystery substances, something that looked far too much like blood. Once inside, he flipped the switch, letting the yellow glow of the cheap, tacky overhead lights reveal peeling wallpaper and two double beds adorned in loud, ugly floral comforters.

It would do, at least for tonight. Wyll wasn’t expecting on staying here longer than he had to, truthfully, he was planning to coax the truth of this case out of Astarion, get the cops involved, and try to never think about all that he’d done wrong in this situation ever again - like bringing this elf hours away from the diner, beating a man in front of him, god, the list went on.

Astarion hovered in the doorway of the motel room until Wyll turned to him gently.

“Take your time. I’ll leave some clothes out. Don’t worry about anything else, alright?”

“You aren’t joining me?”

A pause, Wyll almost debated asking if Astarion wanted him to, if he was asking because he needed help, if he was injured and couldn’t wash himself properly-

But he knew Astarion meant it differently.

“No, thank you. Go ahead, I’ll go fetch your clothes.”

Astarion gave the smallest nod and disappeared into the bathroom. The door closed, and the lock slid and clicked into place a second later.

Wyll sighed softly, dragging a hand over his face. He trudged back to the car, popped the trunk, and rummaged through a duffel bag he hadn’t touched since he began this cursed road trip.

He found a clean t-shirt from his university days and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring that might just stay on Astarion’s hips if he tied them tight enough, alongside a swift prayer- he could just tell that Astarion was a good few sizes less than him, especially now that he’s gained a few pounds these past few years. He laid them out carefully on the nearest bed, smoothing the shirt with one hand, the other moving to fish out his room card… he supposed he’d just spend thirty minutes roaming the halls, which wasn’t the worst deal he’d been dealt.  

The room felt too small. Too quiet. He needed to move - go somewhere that wasn't suffocating him with invisible hands of trauma he had yet to understand. What had happened to Astarion was fuzzy at best; the man he was with… was that his boyfriend? Husband? He looked a fair bit older than Astarion, so he hoped it was neither, that perhaps he was just being held captive.

Gods, Wyll could not spend another minute in this room- the sound of the shower had finally started, so he assumed Astarion was in a more vulnerable state than he already was. Wyll’s being here was not all that useful…. He needed to move.

So he slipped back out and started pacing the halls, up and down. 

His thoughts kept circling the same drain: What had happened to him? What did that man do? What else haven’t I seen? 

He counted steps. Lost track. Started over.

Lifetimes of asbestos and mold passed him by as Wyll lost himself in the halls. The weight of what had happened tonight managed to break past his defences after what must’ve been the thirteenth loop. 

Wyll had always had the good habit of altruism. It was in his nature to prioritise others, especially the weak, above him whenever he could. He’d been favoured in his neighbourhood, helping babysit for struggling families or lending a hand whenever he was able to.

So it hadn’t fazed him, offering a stranger refuge in his old car. He didn’t bat an eye at a pitstop to a shitty gas station, or their latest destination of an old, run-down motel. Still a while away from home, at least another day of monotonous driving on the freeway, thousands of miles from the comfort of his home, and the sweet smell of lavender and jasmine scattered around his small apartment. Spending an extra day on the road, or however long it took to ensure Astarion’s wellbeing and safety.. It didn’t bother him at all. Wyll didn’t particularly ache to return to his home, only aching for the safety of his own bed, where he could fall apart in solitude. 

Losing track of time, Wyll finally put an end to his pacing. Dissociation wouldn’t aid him, or the distressed elf back in the shoebox motel room. 

Wyll trekked back towards their room, the rusted metal numbers screwed onto the wooden door bearing the same digits as the flaky keycard. Cautiously, he opened the door, not wanting to startle the other. Steam filled the room like a thick fog, dissipating into the motel hallway through the gaps of the old door before it gently fell shut behind him.

Astarion had emerged from the bathroom; his hair was still damp, his curls stuck to his pale forehead. It seemed he’d only attempted to detangle it with his fingers, having no option for a brush. He was now wearing Wyll’s oversized shirt like it might swallow him whole. He looked cleaner, sure, but he still looked fragile, like a porcelain doll. The elf was now hovering near the bed as though he didn’t know what to do now, after having his offer of sex being turned down.

Wyll swallowed, then crossed the room slowly, careful not to crowd or walk too fast towards him, the last thing he wanted to do was scare Astarion further, although the attempt was futile. 

“You feeling any better?” he asked, stupidly. Of course, he wasn’t feeling better! 

Astarion nodded once, eyes low. “The change of clothes was nice. Thank you.”

An awkward pause. 

Wyll hesitated for a long beat. Then:

“Astarion,” he said softly, “Can I ask you something?”

The elf tensed, barely perceptible, but nodded again, silently. 

“That man,” Wyll said carefully, sitting down on the edge of the other bed so he wasn’t standing taller than Astarion. “Who is he to you?” 

Astarion stayed quiet, only for a beat, really, a shorter amount of time than Wyll was expecting - truthfully, he thought he’d have to coax this out of him for a few hours.

“He is my father.”

Wyll blinked. “… You're what?”

Astarion’s jaw tensed, barely holding back frustration, from what he could tell. He sat down, curling in slightly, as if he made himself small enough, the memories wouldn’t stick.

“Not my birth father, of course,”  he said, voice brittle. “He adopted me after my parents died, when I was fifteen. Ever since I’ve been… working for him.”

Wyll didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He knew the story was horrific, but-

Working?

“What do you mean by working?”

Astarion sighed, as if the answer was obvious, and maybe it was, but Wyll didn’t want to have it be what he thought. “By the nine Hells, sex, darling.”

He hadn’t expected details. But now that they were here, he felt physically sick. His hands clenched at his knees. 

“We-we have to go to the police,” he said, almost without thinking. He decided there and now that he couldn't ignore this situation any longer. Calling the cops was the best solution. This whole ordeal was far deeper than an abusive boyfriend. “Astarion, we have to report this, please. He can’t just—he can’t get away with this. If we don't - I can’t protect you,” Wyll wasn’t sure he was even protecting him now, taking him to a shitty motel to spend the night, he was so idiotic!

“No!” Astarion said, too loud and far too fast, “No, please, you can’t- calling the cops will just make things worse, please. Trust me.”

Astarion was panicking now, tears pricking at the corners of his icy-blue eyes. He was pacing now, slender and artful hands moving to tug at his silky hair.

“He won’t,” Wyll said firmly. “I won’t let him.”

“You don’t get it.” Astarion backed away. “Please, please, don’t- I’ll- I’ll leave. After tonight, or you can drive me to a few towns over. I’ll be good.”

Wyll hesitated. Bit the inside of his cheek. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.” He lied, trying to sound as sincere as possible- he couldn’t have the elf panic any more than he already was. He knew he would be better off if he just bit the bullet and called the cops, even against Astarion’s wishes.

He couldn’t have him know that, though, not yet.

“You don’t have to do anything, we can stay here tonight, and I’ll- I’ll take you wherever you want tomorrow.”

Astarion calmed only slightly. He nodded, wrung his hands, and looked away.

Wyll stood and slowly crossed to him. “You can sit. Try to rest. We don’t have to talk anymore tonight.”

Astarion nodded again. He lowered himself to the bed like a marionette with cut strings.

Wyll gave him a soft, reassuring smile, then moved to the bathroom—slipping his phone out of his back pocket on the way.

He locked the door behind him.

And called. 

Chapter Text

The sound of knocking sliced through the air violently, cutting through the faint hum of the bathroom fan and the weak little cocoon of wavering safety they’d built between the walls of this ugly yellow room. Astarion’s whole body tensed, muscles taut so tight it looked like it hurt. His eyes darted toward the door, wide and unfocused.

“Oh-,” He whispered, as if he’d found any amount of trust in Wyll and it’d been squandered at the very notion of a mere knock.

“Who…” His breath stuttered, and the elf attempted once more to speak, “Who is that?”

Maybe Astarion thought it was Cazador; maybe he thought that Wyll had betrayed him more than he already had.

Wyll didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The knock came again, firm, professional, and unmistakable as to who it was - and if any of them needed any verbal confirmation, that was next.

“This is the County Sheriff’s police Department! We got a call to this location.” The words weren’t… kind, but they weren’t particularly as aggressive as the knock. “Could you open up, please?”

Astarion went paler than he already was. His breathing quickened so fast it was like he’d been plunged underwater.

“No,” he said immediately, backing up. “No, no, no, no.”

Wyll raised his hands. “Astarion. It’s alright, they’re just—”

But Astarion was already shaking his head, stepping back until the backs of his knees hit the bed. “You fucking- lied!” His voice broke. “I should’ve known- no, you couldn’t keep me with you, you couldn't just- drive me somewhere..” Astarion was beginning to throw his hands up - he seemed almost out of his mind.

“I should’ve known, so stupid, so fucking stupid!” His breathing is a wicked thing now, and Wyll is half tempted to cradle him, tell the cops to leave - anything to calm Astarion down.

“Do you even know how hard it was for me, huh? To even… To even think that you didn’t want to fuck me..”

Wyll’s stomach twisted; he felt so, so sick. So guilty - but he couldn’t just let Astarion be hurt, not when there was a perfectly good opportunity to help him here and now. “I had to—”

“Oh, such a gentleman!” Astarion’s hands were trembling so hard he had to grab the bedpost to steady himself. “ I-I’m so idiotic- I should’ve just- locked the door from the beginning…” He whined, voice wavering. “Or if I - if I came onto you, would that have made it better? Maybe you’d be a sweeter owner-”

The knocking grew louder. More persistent.

“We got a call to this location!” The cops said, just a touch more aggressive now, banging louder. 

There’s another moment of pure silence before Astarion cranes his neck so hard he slams his head against the wall, trying hard to make himself smaller- a guttural sound of a whine. 

“We just need to speak with you and the elf for a few moments.”

Wyll uttered a curse beneath his breath. He eased toward the door, hands raised firmly in a pacifying gesture. “I’ll tell them to give us a moment, alright? Just stay here.”

Turning his back to Astarion was akin to turning your back on the raging waters of the sea, blind to the next surge of water. Astarion bolted, lunging towards the small motel window like a tidal wave. Plastic rings snapped, scattering across the grotty blanket. A sea of thin, frayed carpet followed in quick succession, falling in waves. Moonlight crept its way into the shoebox motel room, though only as much as the smudged, filthy glass allowed in. The latch rattled in his hands as he desperately tried to pull it open, willing it to finally break. His breathing was a panicked crescendo, as the motel window refused to provide an escape route, despite hopeless clinging.

“Astarion! Please, stop—”

“Don't,” Astarion whispered, backing up even further. His voice had hit a low point, as if he was trying to intimidate him. “Do not touch me, Wyll!” He cried, twisting when the human reached to stop him, throwing his hands out as if he expected to be grabbed or thrown. He seemed to expect the worst. He didn’t even sound angry now, just terrified. The words cracked down the middle. He was throwing himself about, whining- sobbing, his panic was so high now he seemed as though he was going to  “Please don’t touch me.”

It reminded Wyll of when he was trying to get a girlfriend after Mizora, and every single time she tried, they tried to bed each other, how he’d be calm in the beginning, just for it to delve into him panicking, falling into a fight or flight response in which he always chose flight.

Because he was a coward.

Or had been one, but today he wanted to change that- he wanted to be the one to help someone out of such a horrific violation.  

“I’m not, I’m not,” Wyll said quickly, stepping back, palms up. Yet, Astarion looked at him with such a suspicious expression on his face that it distressed Wyll further, and that odd sense of maternal affection came back. “I will not touch you if you don’t want me to,” Wyll said, more clearly now. “I’m not touching you, see?” He said, wiggling his hands a bit so Astarion could look at them. “Just breathe, Astarion, in and out. Deep ones.” He was attempting to soothe him, but he couldn’t leave the cops at the door, though he also would have preferred it if Astarion hadn’t jumped out of a window. “Look at me, please.”

But Astarion couldn’t. His eyes were blown wide, unfocused, darting between the window and the door like a trapped animal. He pressed himself against the glass, trying to wedge it open, manicured nails scrambling, tears welling at the corners of his eyes.

“He’ll get away with it,” he whispered, his voice sure as ever, sure that this was the end of his small safety he’d had during their time together. “I can’t. I’ll do anything, I’ll run, I’ll disappear, I’d rather it be you I live for, than him.”

“Astarion, no one’s taking you anywhere you don’t want to go,” Wyll said, voice shaking now, too. “They’re here to help you, to talk to you, and to get you somewhere you can be safe,” Wyll said, hands up as he slowly approached the elf. “I can promise you that, okay?” He breathed, “Just get away from the window, please, Astarion.” He begged, halfway closer to the terrified man now, reaching a hand out for him, giving him an opportunity to take it. “I just want to see you safe, okay?”

Another sharp knock split through the room, followed by a muffled, “Sir. Open up, or we’ll be required to enter by force.” The cop’s voice rang firm, and Astarion groaned. Sorry, hands fell from the latch on the window in defeat. Wyll wasn’t sure if he’d frightened him into freezing, or if the elf truly believed he could trust Wyll’s warm words. 

Wyll swore under his breath once more and crossed to the door, his mind struggling to think faster than his heart could pound beats by the second. Cautiously, he unlocked the door and opened it halfway, holding it firm as he leant in to meet the officers waiting in the hallway. Two of them stood tall and confident, a Seladrarine Drow and a tiefling with cherry red skin and short horns. 

 “Evening, officers,” Wyll spoke carefully, “He’s…” trailing off, Wyll tried to find the right words to somewhat explain the situation, or at least the severity of it. He could hear Astarion not too far behind him, shuffling, but not doing anything more to escape or bolt. 

“He’s... not particularly in a good state right now,” Wyll warned, voice lowered. It wasn’t exactly easy to coax words, let alone answers, from the white haired man.

The tiefling nodded in quiet acknowledgement. “We understand, Sir. Is he in danger?”

“Not… right now.” Wyll answered quietly, “I-I just… please. Please help him.”

The officers entered the old room with a calm demeanor as they approached the two men. The drow stood by the door, as if anticipating the elf to bolt at any moment. He plucked a pen from his pocket, flipping through a notebook to recount the conversation. His fellow officer walked a few steps further into the room. Far enough not to threaten the elf, but close enough for his presence to be known. 

Astarion stood stiff beside the window, eyes flicking across the room in the hopeless chance there would be some kind of out. He looked small in this light, like he had back in the dimly lit diner bathroom. Panic overflowed him, the familiar feeling of helplessness unbearable in the stuffy motel space.

“Astarion, see? They aren’t going to hurt you, or do anything, they just want to talk, okay?”

Astarion groaned, shaking his head- slender hands darting up to tug at his silky hair. “No, no. Stop talking to me like that! You think I’m an idiot?” The elf’s chest heaved, and despite his panic, he moved towards Wyll, much to his surprise. His nails dug into Wyll’s arms as he moved to crush himself against the human’s chest, not to hurt, just to hold on to something. 

“I can’t,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t have called them, Wyll. Why? Why did you do this, Wyll?”

“I had to,” Wyll said quickly, desperate, hands moving to smooth the hair he’d tugged at, trying to do any movement to comfort him. “He’s not here anymore. You’re safe. But I can’t keep you safe alone.”

There was a long silence—just the sound of their breathing, the officers waiting behind the door, the hum of that damned light overhead.

Finally, Astarion’s grip slackened. He collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Wyll’s chest, sweaty and absolutely exhausted from his panic. “You shouldn’t have,” he said weakly, voice breaking. “You have ruined everything, Wyll. I was fine with him; it wasn’t bad.”

Wyll closed his eyes, his throat tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but there wasn’t a right word in the world for this.

“Why did you go with me when I saved you?”

Astarion stilled.

“I don’t..” 

A moment later, the door opened wider, and cautious footsteps approached.

The tiefling spoke softly. “Excuse me? We’ll take it from here. You can step back.”

And Astarion flinched so violently that Wyll had to wrap his arms around him just to keep him from shattering completely. Or that’s what he told himself, though the hug was also a comfort to him- to have someone clinging to him. He wanted to keep that, no matter how selfish it was. 

He whispered, more to himself than to anyone else:

“I’m sorry,” Wyll mumbled, bringing Astarion closer, running a hand down his back- but the elf flinched at the touch, so he decided to just keep it settled in his hair. “I’m so, so sorry, Astarion, I had to.”

Astarion hadn’t moved from Wyll’s chest despite how distressed he was; his nails had curled, fisted into Wyll’s t-shirt like he was trying to disappear into it, bury himself somewhere no one could find him. “You lied to me! You said that you wouldn’t call them, and that you’d drive me somewhere tomorrow.”

Wyll didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

He kept a firm but gentle hold on the elf’s trembling frame, glancing over to the officers as they stepped inside. Astarion’s face was still hidden away, so he hadn’t caught sight of either of them coming inside- perhaps he’d heard them, though, with how his ears twitched.

The tiefling approached first, hands settled at his sides rather than out and reaching for him.  “Hey there. I’m Officer Kevlar. No one’s here to hurt you, okay?”

He kept a respectful distance, crouching so he didn’t loom, as he was quite tall compared to the two.

Astarion didn’t respond.

“Hello, sir.” The Hellspawn said, voice gentle yet professional all the same. He seemed to be trying to speak gently enough, without downright making Astarion feel like they were talking to him like a child.

“We were told you might be in danger,” The tiefling continued, glancing up at Wyll, who nodded once in confirmation. “Is that true?” He asked, tilting his head to try and get a better look at the elf, the other cop still looming in the back, seemingly recording all that was happening in a small hand-held book. “Has someone hurt you recently? Or been hurting you?”

Nothing.

The other officer—middle-aged under-elf, heavier build, dark circles under his eyes- cleared his throat. “Sir, if you’re in danger, we need your statement. We can help. But only if you let us. Just a name can help.”

Still nothing. Astarion wouldn’t even look at them. Not even a shake of his head or a hiss of a cursed ‘no,’ just pure and utter silence. 

He’d gone rigid, statuesque in Wyll’s arms, like if he could just stay still enough the world might forget he was here. 

“Okay,” Kevlar sighed quietly, standing up. He looked at Wyll, the cambion’s expression tired but not unkind. “You said he was with a man earlier?”

Wyll nodded again. “Yes. He told me that the man was his adoptive father, that he was forcing him to do sex work since he was fifteen.”

“You think or you know?”

Wyll’s jaw clenched, trying to find a way to tell the story correctly. “I was at a diner when I saw both of them. I followed them into a bathroom because the way they were acting was… suspicious, and I saw the man pinning him against a sink, taking his pants off- I panicked and punched the asshole, helped Astarion to somewhere safe. Here.”

Both officers glanced at one another. The drow sighed. “He’s an adult,” The old man said, glancing towards Astarion to try and get an answer out of him.

That, Astarion replied to, nodding. He seemed only to answer because it would help his ‘I don’t need to have cops involved’ case.

“I’m thirty-two, I don’t need this.”

The tiefling nodded, continuing on. “If he refuses to tell us anything, we can’t force him. And if we don’t see active danger, there’s only so much we can do.”

Wyll opened his mouth to argue—What about common sense? What about ethics?—but he chose to instead appease to the elf. His eyebrows furrowed in distress, and he turned to look at Astarion once more, gently pushing him away just enough so he could get a better look at his blue eyes. He seemed to have that same glossed-over look he had in the car.

“Just tell them the name Astarion, please. I’m begging you.”

Wyll had his hands gently on the older man’s shoulders; trying to force a statement out of him was easier said than done. He couldn’t believe that, in just a short few hours, the situation had fallen into this. 

A stranger in his arms, crying, begging.

“You don’t want to be safe?” Wyll asked, panicked. “Please. They can help you.

He pulled even further away from Wyll, slowly, shakily. His face was wet, lashes clumped with tears, eyes dark and ruined.

“I just want to be left alone.”

That broke Wyll’s heart more than anything, but before he could attempt to tug him back against his chest, tell the cops to leave so he could get Astarion to stop crying, the tiefling spoke once more.

“Sir,” Seran said gently, “you don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to. But you can come with us. We can get you to a clinic. If you don’t want to say names, we can do a rape kit? You don’t have to tell us, just let us help you.”

Astarion let out a broken sound at the suggestion, though he didn’t immediately deny it this time. “I didn’t ask for this,” he whispered.

“I know,” Wyll said, heart breaking. “I know, I know. I’ll go with you if you go with them. To the hospital, it’ll be alright.”

Then, Astarion nodded.

Chapter Text

The emergency room was quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing above sterile white tiles. It smelled like antiseptic and linoleum—faintly sharp, like something medical had just been cleaned. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical shhhk, letting in the cold night air and the group trailing in from the street: two uniformed officers, followed by Wyll and Astarion.

Astarion looked like he could jump out of his skin at any slight sound or gesture. His eyes were wide, pupils constricting under the unbearably bright lights of the hospital. He felt wrong. Like he shouldn’t be here, trembling in Wyll’s baggy pajamas, he’d disappear if he could, shrink in the flannelette and away from such confrontation. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his shoulders hunched, seemingly uneasy in his own skin.

Gaze kept low, his pupils occasionally flicked toward the fluorescent lights or the clean double doors, like he was expecting either to betray him.

Wyll stayed close without touching, resisting every urge to reach out. He didn’t want to overwhelm him again; the last time ended horrifically, with Astarion attempting to jump out of a window to escape him, and all of his sordid missteps he only made to help Astarion. 

Seran approached the front desk, his badge catching the light. “We’ve got someone in need of a SANE evaluation,” he said in a low, steady voice. “He’s not ready to talk, but he’s agreed to come to the hospital. Verbal consent, no formal statement yet.”

The nurse behind the counter looked up fully now. Her expression didn’t shift much, but her posture changed—more alert, more focused. She nodded once, picked up the desk phone, and made a call without asking any further questions.

Within minutes, a second nurse stepped into the lobby—this one in light blue scrubs, her hair tied back, a small badge clipped to her pocket that read Mira, RN – Forensic Services. She looked young, yet composed and experienced.

She approached Astarion slowly, crouching slightly to meet his eyes without crowding him. “Hi, Astarion? I’m Nurse Mira. I’m part of the forensic team here. I’m going to help you get through this, okay? I’ll take you somewhere private, and we’ll take things at your pace.”

No words left Astarion’s lips. He didn’t nod, Gods, he barely acknowledged the woman, lost in disassociation. It took him a moment, but after a while, he willed himself to move. Not confidently, but deliberately—like following a path he was cautious of, but knew he had to take.

At first, Wyll instinctively started to follow the man, only stopped by Mira’s gloved hand held out in front of him. “It’s best if he comes alone, for now,” she spoke firmly, her voice low. “We’ll go over intake questions, discuss his options… It’s standard procedure to offer privacy to the patient first.”

Astarion’s steps faltered, his soft eyebrows furrowed, and for a fraction of a second, he had an almost over dramatic state of panic flashing over his face. “No.” He huffs. Wyll wants to move to protect him, comfort him, but Astarion thankfully speaks before he can do anything or say anything idiotic. “No—he stays.”

Wyll didn’t understand how he provided Astarion any relief of any sort. If anything, he’d only made everything worse- Astarion had even sobbed the words out against his chest, cursing him, telling him he hadn’t asked for this, for Wyll to call the cops.

Gods, but if he could turn back time, he still wouldn’t change his decisions, not one of them. If, perhaps, choosing a nicer motel. Something fancier, something less dingy and shitty- Astarion deserved at least one night of peaceful rest.

Wyll was snapped back into reality when Astarion leaned closer to him, his arms immediately and unconsciously moving to help him rest more easily against his chest; he didn’t even think about it.

“He has to stay.” Astarion sighed before immediately pulling himself back upright. As if he only needed the physical comfort for a fraction of a second to bring himself back to the present moment. 

The nurse didn’t argue. Wyll is glad for that; he didn’t know what he’d do if he couldn’t be with Astarion during all of this. The only reason the pale elf agreed to go to the hospital was because Wyll, on a whim, promised he’d be with him the entire time. She nodded easily, experienced with all types of victims. “That’s quite all right. He can stay nearby while we get settled.”

They were led down a quiet wing of the hospital—past curtained bays and closed doors—until they reached a small room at the end of the corridor. It wasn’t a typical ER room. This one was painted on the walls with soft-pastel colored spirals, and rather than a stark white, they were a soft grey-blue. There were expensive-looking, comforting blankets folded on a large, cushioned chair, and a stress ball shaped like a tiny cat on the side table, along with a few other nondescript fidgets.

“This is one of our SANE rooms,” Mira explained, voice low. “That stands for Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner.” Astarion bristles at the explanation, but doesn’t do anything besides that.

“Everything here is just for this purpose. It’s designed to be as simple and as non-threatening as possible. If you ever need a break, all you need to do is ask, and we can stop, get you some snacks, water, anything you want.”

Wyll’s attention is aptly on Astarion and nothing else. The elf stood in the center of the room like he didn’t know where to sit, his arms locked across his stomach uncomfortably. Wyll ached to have him against his chest once more, but any yearning of any kind felt wrong; it felt too soon and obviously wrong of him.

Astarion was traumatized, and surely didn’t need to add ‘bumbling idiot’ to his already long list of troubles. Once they were done with this, and Wyll was sure he was out of the clutches of the man who hurt him, he’d get out of his curly, pretty hair.

Mira approached slowly, not enough to be threatening, just enough to show she was talking to him, and not about him. “Astarion, I’m going to explain everything we offer, and you get to decide what you want. You’re in control here, okay?”

He nodded slowly.

Mira’s voice remained calm, practiced, and soft around the edges. “We can provide a full forensic exam, which includes collecting DNA, photographing any injuries, and documenting everything. If you’d like, we can also give you medication to prevent STIs, emergency contraception if applicable, and get you in touch with a crisis counselor. You’re in control of all of it—we won’t do anything you don’t explicitly consent to.”

Astarion was seated on the padded exam table, legs drawn in slightly, the hospital blanket still draped over his shoulders. His skin looked paper-thin under the fluorescent lights, every shadow beneath his eyes like a bruise. He swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. He looked so tense that a little breeze would surely make him crumble and fall like fragile sugar glass.

“No photos,” he rasped.

Mira nodded without hesitation. “That’s alright. We’ll skip that step then, no trouble at all. Would you still like to go through with the exam?”

He hesitated. The room felt still—thick with unsaid things. Astarion wanted help, wanted out, but didn’t know how to audibly say it without having things change.

That was the fear. 

Change, consequences.

Astarion’s hands fidgeted in the folds of the blanket. He looked small, that same regressed mindset coming back to him; Wyll could tell by the way his eyes glossed over and his shoulders hunched in more, as if he was trying to look even smaller and less threatening. “Do you… need me to say everything that happened?”

Mira shook her head gently, her tone immediate and reassuring. “No, not st all. You don’t need to tell us anything right now. Not unless you want to. For tonight, we’re just focusing on your body—your health, your comfort. If at any point you want to stop, we stop.”

Wyll, who had been standing quietly near the door, lowered himself onto the padded visitor bench.  He didn’t know what to say, not sure what was even the right thing to say in such a situation, if there was anything to say at all. He couldn’t tell him that he was okay; he could tell him he would be okay, but there was a difference in such reassurance.

Would, is.

Wyll’s poetically tragic thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Mina returning with a thin blue gown from a cabinet and stepping closer, folding it in her hands. “Here,” she said, offering it. “I’ll give you a moment to change.” She turns her attention to Wyll, smiling politely. “I didn’t catch your name? You can stay if you’d like.”

“Wyll,” He says quickly, remembering his politeness when facing a woman. His father always taught him to be a gentleman, even in the horrific midst of moments such as these.

He isn’t being that much of a gentleman, but he can try.

“And of course I can stay, if that’s what you want, Astarion.” He says, offering Mina a quick, polite as ever smile, before turning his rapt attention towards the terrified elf.

Astarion took the gown with tense fingers. “You’ll stay?” he murmured toward Wyll, voice cracked, not quite a plea, but close. He sounded more like he was gargling on the masking of fear. 

“Of course,” Wyll said quietly.

Mira gave a respectful single nod and stepped out of the room. Astarion moved behind the privacy curtain, drawing it shut with a shaky hand. The sound of the plastic rings scraping across the metal rod felt too loud.

Behind the curtain, Astarion began to undress.

Wyll turned his gaze firmly toward the tiled floor, jaw clenched with restraint. He could hear the soft rustling of fabric as Astarion fumbled with the far-too-large shirt Wyll had given him, his old university tee. 

His breath trembled audibly as he slipped the sweatpants off. Wyll heard him pause, maybe to steady himself on the wall, perhaps to breathe. A moment later, the curtain shifted to open once again.

Astarion emerged, gown tied loosely in the back, blanket still clutched around his shoulders like armor. His knees looked too thin, his ankles and wrists too delicate and bony for someone of his age. He didn’t look thirty-two, even though elves looked younger than humans at equal ages. Astarion looked significantly younger. He looked like a boy, not just physically, though that was a sure and steadfast factor. He also looked like he’d lost any semblance of self and melted it into one big pot of terrified, trauma-based regression. He didn’t meet Wyll’s eyes.

Mira returned with another nurse—a tall, kind-eyed woman who introduced herself simply: “Koan. I’ll be here to assist and ensure everything’s documented properly on physical paper. This way, we can use the written documentation as evidence, if you so wish.”

Astarion didn’t speak, only nodded, though Wyll wasn’t all that sure he even processed what was being said to him at all. If he did, he wouldn't believe Astarion would stand for it, even the idea of something being used as evidence against his father, his abuser, owner, trafficker.

There are more horrible words Wyll can think up.

Bitch, bastard, rapist-

He stopped after the ninth cursed, hellion-based word, instead moving his gaze towards the older elf as he returned to the exam table and climbed up stiffly, avoiding everyone’s gaze, even as they glared at him, gentle as they were.

“Okay,” Mira said, her voice lowering to something even softer. If one positive thing came out of this whole ordeal, it was that the woman was well-suited for her job; that was certainly the case. “ We’ll start off with the basics: weight, height, and bloodwork.” She pulled on a fresh pair of gloves with a quiet snap. Then, gently, she began.

Once they were done with basic lab work, Mira sat herself down on a wheeled chair and scooted herself closer to the pair.

“Now we’ll be collecting swabs. You can say stop at any point. I’ll explain everything as we go.”

The blanket was folded down. Astarion didn’t resist, but his muscles were taut like he was tempted to; thankfully, he didn’t seem all that strong, his movements sluggish and predictable if he so chose any violent movements. Wyll wouldn’t blame him; this whole interaction had to be more than just horrific for him.

He lay back, staring straight at the ceiling, unblinking. Wyll could see his chest rising too fast with every breath.

“This might be uncomfortable for you, alright?” She said, voice soft. “You can choose not to do this; no one is forcing you to do anything.” Mira warned gently, “We’ll take swabs from a few areas,” She began, moving to grab several long, skinny-looking Q-tip-type objects stored in plastic bags. “Your mouth, neck, thighs, and if you’re okay with it, a genital swab. To collect any DNA evidence. Again, you can refuse any part.”

Astarion nodded again, shallowly. His breathing was uneven, fast, and shallow through his nose. “Okay,” he whispered, though his voice cracked on the word. Wyll could tell just from his body language that he was deliriously uncomfortable; Wyll would be too, though, if anything, he was glad the older man had made the choice to go through with such a tricky thing. 

Wyll knew that if he had the choice, after Mizora, he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. Most of the evidence was already with her, on her.

He enjoyed it; that was the difference between them. 

Astarion had horrific after horrific things done to him for years… Wyll was a fraud; even comparing their situations in any light was out of the question.

“Good,” Mira said softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

She broke the first sterile package open with a faint crack of the seal. The sound made Astarion flinch. Wyll wanted to move to hold his hand, to comfort him, anything at all. Mira noticed instantly and paused. “Just a wrapper. See?” she said quickly, holding it up so he could see. “Nothing’s happening yet.”

He nodded again, still trembling slightly.

“This first one will be for the inside of your mouth,” she said, approaching carefully, keeping her body language neutral, her movements slow. “I’ll have you open your mouth just a little, and I’ll rub the inside of your cheek with this. It won’t hurt, but it might feel strange. We’re just checking for any bodily fluids, tears, and any evidence of other types of tenderness or injuries.” 

The elf obeyed without question or even a simple confirmation on his part, he parted his lips without question. Mira leaned in, gently swiping the cotton tip along the inner surface of his cheek. One side, then the other. She withdrew, sealing it immediately in a labeled bag.

“Perfect. You’re doing really well,” she said softly, almost in a whisper. “Now the neck. This one’s just for any trace material—skin cells, saliva, things like that. It’ll be very quick.”

She reached for another swab, her movements deliberate and transparent. “May I touch your neck?”

“…Yes,” he murmured, lifting his chin so the woman could get easier access. In the hospital light, Wyll could now see hand shaped bruises, large, on Astarion’s pale and tendered flesh.

Wyll swallowed, fidgeted, gripped the fabric of his pants to calm himself.

Mira’s gloved fingertips brushed lightly along the side of his throat as she swabbed. His pulse jumped visibly beneath her touch, a fluttering tremor beneath fragile skin. She withdrew as soon as she was done, sealing that swab away, too.

“Okay,” she said quietly, “that’s the easy part done. The next few might feel more invasive, but remember, you are in control. Always. Do you want to keep going?”

There was a long pause, Wyll was honestly half sure he was going to say no, and he didn’t blame him.

Then a small, trembling nod. “Yes.”

“Alright.”

Mira exchanged a glance with Koan, who adjusted her position by the counter, careful to face slightly away. Her job was simply to observe, to write things he saw physically, even just Astarion’s body posture.

“Next are the thighs,” Mira said, crouching a little to meet Astarion’s eye level before she began. “These swabs are usually to check for trace material—skin, fluids, bruising residue. I’ll be as gentle as possible.”

Astarion’s legs shifted slightly apart under the thin hospital gown. His hands stayed locked in his lap, trembling visibly.

“May I lift the gown just a bit?”

“…Yes.”

Mira lifted the fabric carefully, folding it at his knees so nothing more than necessary was exposed. She worked in silence for a few seconds—slow, circular motions of the swab along the inside of one thigh, then the other. 

The last part took the longest to prepare. Mira replaced her gloves, her tone quiet but clear. “This next one is the genital swab. I know this is the hardest part. It can feel invasive, and you can say no. You can stop me at any time.”

Astarion looked like he might bolt, his body stiff, his shoulders creeping toward his ears. His voice was barely audible. “Will it hurt?”

“It shouldn’t,” she said honestly. “I’ll be gentle. I’ll only use a small swab, and you’ll be covered the entire time. I’ll explain every movement as I do it.”

He took a long, shuddering breath. “Okay.”

“Alright,” Mira said quietly. “We’ll give you as much privacy as we can.”

She nodded once at Koan, who turned partially toward the door, giving space while still fulfilling her duty. Mira pulled the curtain around the exam table halfway, creating a partial enclosure.

“Do you want Wyll to stay?” She asked, not particularly looking towards him, rather Astarion.

“I want…” He trailed off, Wyll was prepared to leave- he understood if that’s what Astarion needed from him.

“Can you hold my hand?”

Oh.

Wyll’s heart cracked open into pieces at the quiet, exhausted request. The look on Astarion’s face, so unsure, so deeply exhausted. He looked like he expected Wyll to say no. Like he expected for him to mock him.

“Of course, love,” Wyll said without missing a beat, already rising from the padded bench. The endearment came naturally to him now. He crossed the short distance in two steps and reached out, letting Astarion take his hand first.

Astarion’s fingers curled around his with more pressure than expected, like if he let go, something would pull him under.

“I’ve got you,” Wyll murmured, squeezing back. “Not going anywhere.”

Mira gave them a moment before continuing. She moved with quiet efficiency, speaking softly as she reached for a pair of gloves and the swabs.

“Lift your knees just a little for me,” she said softly.

Her gloved hand lifted the corner of the gown only as much as necessary, working quickly and carefully. She spoke throughout the process, her voice a steady guide through the silence. “Just collecting evidence, you might feel a bit of pressure, but no pain.”

Astarion’s breathing hitched once—a soft, choked sound, the swab motioning around in his most sensitive of parts. From this view, Wyll could see that his privates were red, stretched even.

Wyll tried to ignore that fact.  

“Almost there,” she murmured, continuing only when his breathing slowed slightly. She swabbed once, twice, then sealed the final sample into its bag and labeled it. Her gloves came off with a soft snap.

“All done,” she said gently, pulling the blanket up over his legs again. “You did perfectly.”

Astarion didn’t answer, but his eyes shone wetly, staring at the ceiling like he wasn’t really in the room anymore.

“You did incredibly well. I’m going to take this evidence kit and document it in our chain of custody logs. The information won’t be shared unless you choose to file a report. You don’t have to decide right now.”

Astarion didn’t respond at first. His entire body looked drained, hollowed out by the weight of what had just happened, like someone had pulled the bones out of him and left behind only the shell. His eyes were distant, fixed on some point just beyond the edge of reality. Wyll could almost see the storm moving behind them, something violent and fragile all at once.

Then, all at once, Astarion spoke.

“I want to press charges.”

The room froze.

Wyll blinked, unsure if he’d heard right—unsure if Astarion had actually said it aloud. If he was dreaming, and awoke now, if he’d be upset, or glad that this was all fictional. 

Mira turned first, slow and careful, her eyes soft with surprise. “Astarion,” she said gently, “are you sure? You don’t have to decide that right now. You can rest, and—”

“No!” He said, and Wyll squeezed his hand just a bit tighter, tempted to lean down and kiss his knuckles. “I said I want to press charges.” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, but he didn’t back down. His fingers twisted tightly in the hospital blanket, knuckles white. “I want him gone. I want—” His throat closed for a moment, and he looked away, jaw trembling. “I want him to- to- not be…” He trailed off, sniffling, hiding away with two hands- tugging away the one he had been using to hold Wyll’s with. 

Mira’s face softened further. “Alright. We can do that then. If you’re certain, I’ll notify the on-call investigator. They’ll come speak with you—just questions for now. You can have someone stay with you the entire time.”

“I’ll stay,” Wyll said immediately.

Astarion’s eyes darted to him, wide and uncertain, but after a moment he gave the smallest nod. “Okay.”

Mira moved toward the corner of the room, picking up the phone on the wall. “I’ll page a Detective,” she said. “He’s with the sexual assault unit. He’s good, I promise.”

Astarion sat still as she spoke, the blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders, his breathing shallow. The exhaustion on his face was warping into something new now, a type of anger, rage that he’d kept hidden away for so long it had morphed into terrified submission.

The questions took ages, they promised solutions, they promised ideas that Astarion could take into legal action-

All of it, overwhelming.

But a step in the right direction.

After they finished, and Astarion was thoroughly exhausted- the hospital promised them a booking at a nicer hotel close to the hospital, so after Astarion changed back into his clothes he arrived in, and got a drink of water, they left the hospital. The directions the hospital staff had given led to a clean, modest hotel about ten minutes away—far nicer than the one they’d crashed at before. It didn’t smell of smoke, or  have any mysterious stains on gross, cheap yellow carpet. Instead, it had a lobby, warm lighting, and an actual concierge at the desk, not an underpaid, non-trained teenager. It was quiet, but not desolate. 

“Room 418,” she said kindly. “You’re all set. If either of you need anything at all, just dial zero. Room service menu is a QR code on the bedside table, price will be billed to the card used to purchase the stay, unless you wish to pay with cash.”

The room was standard but comforting: two beds with fluffy, white duvets, clean sheets, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom stocked with two body wash, shampoo, conditioner and unopened toothbrushes. A basket had already been left on the desk—juice boxes, granola bars, a tiny pack of cookies, travel-size lotion and mouthwash. An extra blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the far bed. 

It wasn’t particularly fancy, the booking hardly had to be expensive- the only reason they weren’t staying at the hospital was because that would only spike Astarion’s anxiety more.

Wyll flicked on the bedside lamp and said softly, “You should sit. Or lie down. Whatever you need.”

Astarion stood in the doorway for a long moment before moving to perch on the edge of the nearest bed. He sat stiffly, blanket still tight around his shoulders, eyes glassy and unreadable.

“Do you want me to go get some water?” Wyll asked after a pause. “Or something from the front desk?”

Astarion shook his head. “No,” he said hoarsely. “Just… stay here. Please.”

That one word cracked something small and aching in Wyll’s chest.

Astarion didn’t cry. Not again. He just sat, statue-still, his fingers curled into the blanket and his shoulders hunched forward. His face looked carved from wax, he looked tired, soaked to the bone then dried with a harsh, old towel roughly. The elf seemed tired, downright fragile and far, far too pale, more than what was normal, even for him. 

“What now?” he asked suddenly. His voice was quiet, but clear. “What happens now?”

Wyll looked at him carefully. “We wait.” That was the hardest part, truly. “The detectives will build a case. They’ll go to the address you gave. They’ll collect evidence, pull records, and probably try to get him brought in.”

Astarion didn’t respond. He stared down at his lap. He didn’t seem to like Wyll’s answer, or he was finally realizing the extent of his choices, and what they would bring.

“They won’t let him near you,” Wyll added. “You’re not going back there. That part’s over.”

Astarion glanced up, his eyebrows furrowed in pure confusion - as if he didn’t understand what he’d done, that the choices he had made, led him to this. 

To be saved. To be okay. 

It ached to watch the gears turning, to watch how Astarion couldn’t begin to comprehend kindness in the form of someone helping him without expecting anything from him in return. 

“…I suppose, that’s it, then.”

Wyll stayed quiet, let him speak.

“I’m.. done, I think. The evidence will be conclusive. Insurmountable. I mean- video evidence, photos, messages, emails…”

Astarion was panicking now, Wyll had to sit up- gentle hands moving to take Astarion’s own, pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

“The hard parts are over, Astarion.” He soothed.

”Listen to me, hm? Breathe.” 

Astarion looked up at him, biting his bottom lip.

“…Will it all turn out okay, do you think? Can you promise me that?” 

Wyll went quiet. 

Could he promise that? He sure hoped that he could.

“I know that you will be okay, maybe not now, and maybe not for another few years,” Wyll began, reaching up his other hand to hold it, now holding both.

“But I’m here for you. Whatever you need from me, I’ll do.”

Astarion went quiet.

“…Okay. I believe you.”

Chapter Text

IN THE SUPERIOR COURT OF BALDUR’S GATE

Baldur’s Gate Sexual Assault Alliance Unit

v.

Cazador Szarr

Case No. 2025-CR-0913
Filed: Hammer 19, 2025

Presiding Judge: Hon. Talia Thorne

CRIMINAL COMPLAINT AND INVESTIGATIVE SUMMARY

This document outlines the charges, investigative findings, and supporting details concerning the criminal case against Cazador Szarr, as reported by the victim Astarion Szarr.

I. CHARGES

The Defendant, Cazador Szarr, is charged with the following counts:

1. Assault and Battery by multiple accounts (Felony)

2. Violence against police force 

3. Rape (Multiple Counts)

4. Coercion and Psychological Manipulation to an underaged person 

5. Child Trafficking-Related Offenses (Pending further evidence)

6. Endangering the Welfare of a Child

7. Sexual abuse of a child (multiple accounts)

8. Felony Child Endangerment by Adoptive Parent

9. Distribution of child-pornography 

More will be listed and released as the case continues. 

II. SUMMARY OF EVENTS

On the evening of the thirteenth of Ches, Wyll Ravengard, a civilian, contacted local law enforcement after witnessing what he described as a non-consensual physical altercation between the Defendant and the victim in a diner restroom. Mr. Ravengard intervened, removed the victim from the scene, and brought him to a nearby motel, where he called the police.

The victim was transported to  a Medical Center, where a Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner (SANE) team, led by RN Mira Tallow, conducted a full forensic exam with the victim’s consent. The examination documented visible injuries, signs of prolonged physical and sexual abuse, and confirmed the presence of DNA evidence consistent with non-consensual contact, such as seamen belong to that of Cazador Szarr, tears along the victims vaginial wall.

III. VICTIM STATEMENT

The victim, Astarion Szarr, disclosed the identity of his abuser as Cazador Szarr and explained that following his parents death at the age of fifteen, Szarr adopted him and forced him to child-sex work.

Astarion claims that he does not remember many of the men Szarr had him sleep with, and that the number could now be in the thousands. 

IV. LEGAL ACTION AND PROTECTIVE MEASURES

The court has granted a no-contact order between the Defendant and the victim. 

An active trial is underway. The prosecution intends to pursue the case to the fullest extent of the law, citing substantial physical evidence, witness testimony, and behavioral records.

BELOW IS A FULL TIMED SCRIPT OF THE DIALOGUE BETWEEN ASTARION SZARR AND SIR THORNE.

——————————————————

THORNE: Please state your full name for the record. [2:30 P.M]

SZARR: Astarion Ancuin Szarr. [2:30 PM]

THORNE: Thank you, Mr. Szarr. We shall begin with simple questions, do you understand that these will be documented into writing for a more complete understanding of this situation? [2:30 P.M]

SZARR: Yes. [2:31 P.M]

THORNE: Mr. Szarr, can you tell the court how you first came into contact with the defendant, Mr. Cazador Szarr? [2:31P.M]

SZARR: He adopted me after my parents died. When we first met, he told me that he would help me out. That he was giving me a better life. [2:32 P.M]

THORNE: Mr. Szarr, can you tell the court approximately how old you were at the time of your adoption? [2:33 P.M]

SZARR: I was turning fifteen. Just barely. [2:33 P.M]

THORNE: And you mentioned your parents had passed. Were there any surviving relatives? [2:33 P.M]

SZARR: No. Not that I knew of. I was placed in temporary state care. I know that was professional foster care, because I remember being with normal families for a few months, before he adopted me. [2:33 P.M]

THORNE: Do you remember the name of the foster care agency? [2:33 P.M]

SZARR: No. [2:33 P.M]

THORNE: And how did the defendant present himself to you in those early days? [2:33 P.M]

SZARR: Like a savior. He said I was lucky. That I’d never have to feel alone again. That he’d protect me. He bought me clothes, book and toys, even. I was horrible to him even before he started selling me off. [2:34 P.M]

THORNE: How long was there time in between him adopting you and him selling you? [2:34 P.M]

SZARR: Maybe a month? I remember he had touched me before, but the sex wasn’t immediate. [2:35 P.M]

VENSHIRE: Would you like a moment, Mr. Szarr? [2:36 P.M]

SZARR: No. [2:37 P.M]

THORNE: We can take this as slowly as needed. [2:38 P.M]

SZARR: I am okay. [2:38 P.M]

THORNE: Alright. Why did you never ask for help? Or try to escape? [2:38 P.M]

SZARR: I never had access to anything outside of sleeping with him, or with the men he sold me to. When I wasn’t having sex, I was locked in my room. [2:39 P.M]

THORNE: What about school, did you ever get a formal education? [2:39 P.M]

SZARR: He had tutors homeschool me. They would come every Akaday and Latheday for a few hours. [2:40 P.M]

THORNE: Did you ever ask any of your tutors for help? [2:40 P.M]

SZARR: No.  [2:40 P.M]

THORNE: Why?  [2:40 P.M]

SZARR: I just did not.  [2:42 P.M]

THORNE: Alright. Do you remember the names of any of the men he sold you to? Races? Ages?  [2:42 P.M]

SZARR: I do not remember the names, ages must’ve been all over the place, all much older than me, and of all races. I think I even slept with a bugbear at least once. I cannot recall fully though.[2:45 P.M]

THORNE: Mr. Szarr, will you [2:45 P.M]

SZARR: Will you stop calling me that?  [2:45 P.M]

THORNE: Calling you what?  [2:45 P.M]

SZARR: You know what.  [2:45 P.M]

THORNE: I do not, please tell me. [2:45 P.M]

SZARR: Mr. Szarr. Call me by my name- please. [2:48 P.M]

THORNE: I apologize, Astarion. Could you describe your daily routine with Szarr?  [2:48 P.M]

SZARR: Wake up. Wear the outfits he gave me, stay in my room until he comes to get me, to drive me to them. Sometimes men came. After, I’d either lay in my bed and daydream, read books, or draw.  [2:49 P.M]

THORNE: And when you say “drive you to them,” who do you mean? [2:49 P.M]

SZARR: Clients. He’d always wait outside. Or record. [2:52 P.M]

THORNE: Would you like to take a break, Astarion? [2:52 P.M]

SZARR: No. [2:52 P.M]

THORNE: Alright. When you returned home after these encounters, what would happen? [2:53 P.M]

SZARR: It depended on his mood.[2:53 P.M]

THORNE: What do you mean? [2:54 P.M]

SZARR: I don’t remember. [2:58 P.M]

THORNE: That’s okay. And this continued for how long? [2:59 P.M]

SZARR: From when it started, to when Wyll found me at the diner. [3:00 P.M]

THORNE: What were you doing at the diner with Cazador?  [3:00 P.M]

SZARR: He was driving me across Faerune, for a client who paid I’m sure hundreds of thousands of gold to have me hand delivered, to live with him for a week. [3:00 P.M]

THORNE: Take your time. [3:01 P.M]

SZARR: I hadn’t eaten in I believe four days by then, so when I saw a sign for the diner I asked him to take me, and he agreed. [3:02 P.M]

THORNE: Was him starving you like that normal? [3:03 P.M]

SZARR: Yes. [3:03 P.M]

THORNE: Did it take convincing to allow you to go to the diner? [3:03 P.M]

SZARR: Yes. [3:05 P.M]

THORNE: Would you like to take a break, Astarion? [3:05 P.M]

SZARR: I think. [3:07 P.M]

THORNE: That is okay. [3:07 P.M]

SZARR: Where is Wyll? [3:07 P.M]

RAVENGUARD: I am right here lovely, do you want me to help you get some water? [3:07 P.M]

SZARR: Yes. [3:08 P.M]

THORNE: We will reconvene after a brief recess. Thank you. [3:08 P.M]

——————————————————

Respectfully Submitted,

Office of the Baldur’s Gate District Attorney

Chapter Text

The house had grown quieter since Astarion moved in. There was no doubt in Wyll’s mind when Astarion came forward and told him that he had nowhere else to go. There was no hesitation. He let the elf in with open arms and had yet to find a single reason to regret it. 

He helped him move into his guest room. They went out and bought a new wardrobe, toiletries, and other such items. Everything was new; not a single thing was brought from Cazador’s mansion into Wyll’s home. He would not allow that, not even a physical object from that man would make its way into their space, their home. He could not, would not allow it.

To say that his, their home had become quieter was an understatement; it wasn’t lifeless. There were still signs of occupancy: shoes lined neatly by the door, a mug left on the counter, the faint scent of lavender-vanilla body wash in the bathroom.

Besides that, the signs of Astarion were almost nonexistent. It was as if he’d holed himself up in his bedroom, locked the door, and never came out. Not even to eat.

Wyll noticed it most in the mornings. He would wake early, as he always did, stretch and move through the kitchen with habitual ease, only to realize that he was tiptoeing, as if there were eggshells all around and he didn’t want to step on one in fear of disturbing the one notion of peace Astarion has had in almost eighteen years.

Astarion rarely emerged from his room before noon, and Wyll didn’t dare to push him.

The court was still in session, and the trial was still underway. He had to struggle getting sleep, knowing that his life could change in an instant. 

The first week, they barely spoke. The days mostly consisted of Wyll making two servings of breakfast, offering Astarion some via text, heading to work, coming home, seeing the breakfast barely, if at all, touched. 

Then he’d make dinner, offer a serving to Astarion. Sometimes he’d emerge, sometimes they’d sit awkwardly quiet at the dining table, sometimes Astarion wouldn’t reply at all.

The second week, Wyll noticed the dishes were being washed before he got to them.

Astarion was emerging from his bedroom before twelve. 

Particularly, one afternoon, when the sun was shining so bright in his eyes that he had to draw the blinds in fear that he or one of his many dear trinkets would catch fire, Astarion crept out of his room.

Astarion’s hair, it almost looked like it was glowing, in the sunlight, Wyll mused.

“I made coffee,” Wyll offered quietly. “There’s still some left in the pot.” 

An awkward beat of silence.

“…Do you have any sugar?”

Wyll sat up on the couch, closing the book he was reading, and stalked over to the pantry. “How sweet do you like it?” Perhaps he was coming off a bit strong, but Astarion was seemingly taking this in stride, hobbling off to the kitchen to find a mug.

“There's also some milk or half and half in the fridge if you’d like some,” Wyll said.

“I usually take two sugars,” Astarion replied, voice quiet but clear as he opened a cupboard and chose a mug, one with painted kittens on it, playing with a ball of yarn. Wyll has had it for years now. He snatched it when he moved out of his dad's house and never looked back- now that he thinks about it, it probably belonged to his mother. 

One of the few things Mizora didn’t get to, then.

Wyll retrieved the sugar canister from the shelf and set it on the counter beside him, followed by a spoon. “Sorry, I only have a big thing of it, measure by your heart.”

Astarion gave a slight nod, then reached for the pot, his movements still stiff, but less hesitant than they’d been a week ago. The coffee splashed gently into the mug, steam curling up between their bodies.

“Milk or half and half?” Wyll asked again, stepping aside to give him space.

“Milk,” Astarion murmured, almost to himself. He poured it in without measuring it, then the sugar as well, watching as the color lightened into a warm, pretty caramel. “I always thought black coffee was more dramatic.” He sighed, taking a small sip of the coffee as he turned to lean against the counter. “Poetic, you know? But it just tastes like bitter sadness.”

“Oh?” Wyll chuckled, shaking his head as he put the milk back in the fridge, then the plastic storage container of sugar. “I’m offended. I only ever take my coffee black.”

Astarion raised a brow, his lips curling faintly at the edges as he took another slow sip of his coffee. Wyll muses now that this is the first time he’s ever seen Astarion consume anything. “Of course you do,” he said, swirling the contents of his mug gently, as if scared to spill. “You strike me as the type. Endlessly disciplined, princely.”

Wyll snorted. “Is it true that princes drink straight, black coffee?”

“Humans are odd creatures, you know. You and your normally sized ears,” Astarion said plainly, then took another sip, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the warmth settled in his chest. “Suppose you’d look nice as a prince. Dressed fancy.” 

Wyll raised a brow, turning slightly as he leaned against the counter. “Fancy, huh?” he asked, voice warm with amusement. “You’re full of compliments this morning.”

“I’m full of coffee, there's a difference,” Astarion replied, waving the mug slightly in the air like it was evidence. “It brings out the charm in me, apparently.”

Wyll’s gaze lingered, and how could it not? Astarion was beautiful, not just outwardly, too. He was funny, sweet, just a joy to be around.

There was something deeply grounding about this moment, standing in his kitchen, hair still tousled from sleep, wearing a white, silky button-up that reached his lower thighs, boxers, and nothing else, the way dawn light spilling in through the window and catching the pale curve of his cheek. It was the most alive he’d looked since stepping into Wyll’s home two weeks ago. There was still exhaustion behind his eyes, yes, but also a strange gentleness, unburdened for even a fleeting second. For just a moment, he had the “okayness” that Wyll had attempted to promise.

Astarion took another sip of his coffee, soft, white eyelashes fluttering low, and Wyll couldn’t look away. He didn’t dare move, afraid the spell of domesticity would shatter if he so much as shifted his weight. It wasn’t just the image of Astarion, half-dressed, soft, warm in the morning light, it was the sensation of it all. The quiet. The calm. The impossibly intimate trust of shared space, so fragile that it could be shattered by one wrong doing from him.

He held all of this fragility of one man in his hands.

“You keep staring,” Astarion murmured, blue eyes not quite meeting his. “Should I be concerned, Wyll?”

Then, just then, did Wyll realize his mistake.

“Oh, Gods. I’m sorry, have I been staring?” Of course he had been, he’s such an idiot! “I… wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable,” Wyll said, softer now. Careful. He had to be cautious with Astarion. “You just looked… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Astarion repeated, a tiny quirk of amusement at the edge of his mouth. “I’m not trying to look like anything.” He mused, leaning against the counter before taking another sip of his coffee, a frown forming. 

“I know, I know.” Wyll groaned, cheeks flushed, though thankfully his dark skin kept most of it hidden away. “You just looked… happy, or, not happy- but at least, okay. And like you feel safe, and it made me feel a certain type of way.” 

Astarion tilted his head, mug still balanced delicately in his slender hand, and regarded Wyll with something unreadable behind his eyes. The humor had softened—not gone, not completely, but dulled into something quieter. Something more thoughtful.

“You say that like it’s a rare sight,” he said, voice light but still not entirely joking. “Me looking okay.”

“It is a rare sight,” Wyll replied, a touch too fast, before realizing how horrible that sounded, wincing at himself, he spoke again.“Sorry. That came out wrong.”

“No, no,” Astarion hummed, swirling his coffee again, letting the sugar and milk shift into faint, spiraled clouds at the top. “It didn’t, or well, it did, but I know what you mean. I haven’t been okay in almost two decades.”

For a moment, the kitchen hummed with nothing but the soft buzz of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath them.

“I’ve been trying to feel okay,” Astarion admitted, finally. “I know that probably sounds… ridiculous with everything. But I have. I want to be more than what he made me.” He looked up then, directly at Wyll. “You make it easier. Being here makes it easier.”

Wyll’s breath caught, just a little.

It wasn’t a grand declaration. It wasn’t a confession. But it felt like something just as heavy, just as delicate, like Astarion had reached across the void and handed him something raw and tender and still healing, trusting him not to break it.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” Wyll said. It was all he could offer without his voice cracking. If he were a stronger, less weak man, he would tell Astarion every little thing his heart was yearning for him to blurt out. “And I think I want you to stay as long as you need. Longer, if you want.”

Astarion’s gaze flicked down to his mug again. “That sounds dangerously close to a domestic proposition, my dear.”

Wyll laughed. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.” Was Astarion’s reply. 

—————————————————————

They fall into a bit more of a routine after that.

Wyll wakes up first, still, he makes breakfast, they eat together - he goes to work, a basic office job that he has off on Akadays, comes home, they order in dinner or cook if they’re feeling daring, two days a week, Wyll gets off to go to court as a witness.

It’s alright. It’s all… good, if he has to be honest.

Wyll started off asking him about small, trivial things: “Do you want to go with me to the market?” or “Red sauce or white tonight for the pasta?” and Astarion, instead of panicking at the choices he wasn’t used to, started answering. Not always easily. Not always with what he wanted. Sometimes he’d seem to try to read Wyll, trying to figure out the “right one.” But he was still working hard to be okay.

He still had bad days, of course, he did. 

Tonight was one of those nights.

The rain had started sometime in the late afternoon, though Wyll wasn’t all that aware of it, tucked away in the office, clicking away at keys, thumbing through papers. But by sundown, when he made it home, it had turned into a downpour, thick and heavy, the kind that made the whole house feel small, like it was sinking under the weight of skywater. Thunder cracked somewhere far off as Wyll unlocked the front door. 

Wyll toed off his penny loafers, which he loathed, and listened in for the usual sounds of Astarion padding around barefoot, or the sight of books on the coffee table. But there was nothing, just the distant roll of thunder and the steady drumming of rain against the windows.

“Astarion?” he called, not loudly. Just enough to make his presence known.

No response.

Wyll crossed through the foyer, heading into the living room. That’s when he saw him—curled up on the corner of the couch, the lump he hadn’t even noticed when he first walked in. His knees were hugged to his chest, one of Wyll’s throw blankets draped over his shoulders. He hadn’t even turned the TV on. He wasn’t reading, either. 

“There you are,” Wyll said, voice gentle, quiet.

The elf didn’t even flinch when Wyll sat down on the other end.

“Work was… boring. I was thinking about you almost the entire time, wondering what you’d want to order in for dinner. Wings, maybe? You’ve been liking those.”

No reply.

Guess Wyll had to bite the bullet then…

“What’s wrong, Star?”

Star. Another pet name that had come naturally to him, especially after learning what Astarion’s name meant in elvish, little star, how could he not?

“…What if he gets away with it?” Astarion mumbled, lifting his head to look up at Wyll- the human’s heart almost immediately shattering at the sight of how pink and swollen his eyes were, he had to have been crying.

“What do you mean?” Wyll asked, though he already knew what Astarion was hinting at.

“You know what I mean. Cazador. What if he wins? He has so much gold. He’s going to hire the best lawyer in Faerun; he’ll take me away from you. He’ll make it out to be that I’m the crazy one!”

Wyll’s expression softened, but there was a sharp current of protectiveness beneath it. He inched closer instinctively, though Astarion didn’t seem all that against him coming closer; he at least wasn’t running for the window this time.

“I’ve seen his lawyers. I’ve seen their tactics. They’re slippery, sure.” In truth, he saw them sweating bullets as the jury pulled out a video of a seventeen-year-old Astarion being tied up and assaulted. Still, he didn’t think the other wanted to remember any of that. “But not invincible. Astarion, they have found so much evidence, recorded, physical, everything, and they’ve seen what you’ve done, what you’ve survived, that matters too. People believe you, I believe you. I swear it.”

Astarion whimpers; the sound makes Wyll want to beat Cazador again, this time, to see his brain smashed onto the ground of the gritty diner.

“They might not. They’ll look at me and see someone… who’s indecent. Someone who—who let it happen. Who stayed. A whore. A slut. A prostitute,” Astarion’s horrid list goes on, but Wyll is quicker to end it.

“Hey, hey—no,” Wyll says firmly now, all the while reaching out to bring him closer. Astarion doesn’t fight it; instead, he melts into his chest.

Wyll brings a hand against his baby soft hair, holds back the urge to press a kiss to the crown of his head, and continues on. “You don’t get to call yourself that,” Wyll said, voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Not after what he did to you. Those are his words, not yours.”

Astarion’s breath hitched—wet, uneven. His fingers twisted in the fabric of Wyll’s shirt, clutching like a lifeline. “But they fit,” he said, the sound barely escaping his throat. “That’s what I was to him. That’s all I was good for.”

Wyll’s heart cracked clean down the middle. “No,” he said again, firmer this time, pulling back just enough to look at him. Astarion’s face was blotchy, tear-streaked, his eyes glistening with a kind of pain that had been taught, not born. “You are good at surviving. You were good at pretending when you had to, because it kept you alive. You were never what he told you you were.”

Astarion shook his head, eyes darting away. “You don’t know what it was like.

Astarion is right, in a way, he doesn’t know what it’s like, not exactly.

The following words that come out of his mouth, he might either regret for life, or be the one thing that brings Astarion out of this. 

“…I was raped,” Rape. Rape. He was seventeen, seventeen, she was thirty-seven- oh God.

“When I was seventeen, by my step-mom. She got married to him a few years after I was born, my- my mom, she died when I was born.” Wyll is repeating words now, his sentences are rough, unprofessional, and downright boyish, but they’ve caught Astarion’s attention.

He’s looking at him now, instead of through him. 

“I thought for years I was insane, she… told me things, showed me indecent photos, got undressed in front of me, then, the night I turned seventeen, crept into my bedroom, and..”

Astarion stops him by pressing a hand against his chest, the other cupping his face.

“Wyll,” He whines, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, I-I really..”

Wyll shakes his head, presses his forehead against Astarion’s own. The movement is intimate.

“I remember blaming myself, telling myself it wasn’t assault because I… enjoyed it, physically, and yet..”

Astarion is shaking his head, he’s trembling in his lap, and Wyll is so, so, so afraid he’s said the wrong thing.

“I never told anyone. You’re the first person.”

Astarion’s breath stuttered, a soft, broken noise that barely made it past his lips. His eyes were wide, glassy, and wet—filled with a kind of sorrow that was too heavy for words. His hand stayed against Wyll’s cheek, thumb trembling as it brushed across his skin, as though trying to comfort and steady him both at once.

“Oh, Wyll…” he whispered. His voice cracked in the middle, fragile as tissue. “You were just a boy.”

Wyll almost laughed, a hoarse, humorless sound. “I didn’t feel like one. Not after that night. I felt like a man, and a monster, all at once.” He exhaled slowly, trying to hold himself together beneath the weight of his own honesty.

“I’m sorry,” Astarion mumbled. He’s less panicked.

“Don’t be sorry,” Wyll replies easily, hand brushing against the older man’s back, though he seems to be too uncomfortable with that, as his fidgeting only began when he touched there, so he moved back up to his shoulder, upper body.

“I told you because… I hoped it would help you see that I don’t know- that you’re not alone, that it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t ask for it,” He never did.

“You didn’t either.”

Astarion stayed quiet for a moment, then, in a split second, his lips were on his own.  The kiss wasn’t graceful or thought through, but it was soft, clean, and it was desperate. 

Wyll froze, just for a second. Astarion’s hand had slid from his cheek into his hair, trembling, clutching as though the contact alone could keep him from falling apart completely.

Wyll moved before his mind could, hands wrapping around his shoulders, allowing the kiss, deepening it. It was so, so, so sweet.

So good, so good that Wyll wants to lean back, melt into it, and let this happen, to hold Astarion, kiss his forehead, love him.

Then, Wyll had a realization of what exactly he was doing, who was in his lap, who he was kissing right now, and that was when he finally moved; it wasn’t to deepen the kiss—it was to attempt to slow it, to still it. He cupped the side of Astarion’s face, his thumb brushing gently along his jaw as he pulled back, just an inch. Their foreheads remained pressed together, both breathing hard, both shaking.

“Astarion,” Wyll whispered, voice low, pained, “Hey, oh love, hey, look at me.”

Astarion blinked up at him, pupils blown, confusion flickering behind the wet shine in his eyes. He looked like he didn’t know what he’d done, or why.

“It’s alright,” Wyll said, soft but steady. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do that. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Astarion’s lips parted. “I wasn’t—I just—” His voice caught, and he turned his face into Wyll’s palm, hiding. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything.” His voice broke, he was close to falling into a convulsing sob, or a panic attack- and either one, Wyll didn’t want to see, but couldn’t really prevent.

“I don’t need anything from you.” Perhaps Wyll is ignoring what Astarion is saying, how the kiss was something he wanted to do.

But then Wyll would have to think about how he wanted it as well, and he could not have that.

Astarion’s shoulders shook once, twice, perhaps at the idea of rejection, and then he broke. The sound that came out of him wasn’t loud—it was small, strangled, the kind of crying that scrapes out of someone who’s spent too many years forgetting how to.

Wyll gathered him up, slow and sure, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in. “It’s alright, Star,” he murmured against his temple. “You don’t owe me anything. Just breathe. That’s all you have to do tonight.”

Astarion nodded against him, but he didn’t seem to hear him, a quick, shaky movement, and Wyll felt the dampness of tears soak through his collar. They stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, long after the storm outside had quieted.

“Do you want to go to your room?” Wyll asked, tilting his head, and Astarion shook his own so violently that Wyll almost moved away so the soft curls didn’t hit his face.

“Where do you want to go, love?”

A pause.

“Yours, please. If that’s okay.”

Wyll didn’t hesitate.

“Of course.”

He stood slowly, gently, like one might rise with a bundle of shattered glass in their arms. He maneuvered Astarion with the same delicate care as such, one arm looped securely under his thighs, the other bracing his back, and for once the elf didn’t resist touch there, instead he just curled into it, like an orphaned elephant finally being given love after losing its mother, his knees were drawn in slightly to his delicate chest, head tucked beneath Wyll’s chin like it belonged there.

Wyll’s room was quiet; the rain had finally died down to a more calming crawl of gentle thumps against his metal roof.

Astarion hadn’t let go of his shirt, still clawing at it like a child. 

Wyll set him down on the bed gently, like he was placing something sacred. But Astarion clung tighter, not in fear, but with something that bordered on pleading. Wyll didn’t even move to change into pajamas, he slipped in- khaki pants and crisp button up, and laid next to the elf.

There were no more words at first, for a few minutes, all there was between the elf and human was breathing. Wyll was half under the impression that Astarion had already fallen into his trance, but then the older settled with his cheek against Wyll’s chest, then his hands curled back into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles turning a stark white. Wyll let one hand trail slowly through his curls, brushing damp strands away from his face. The other rested on Astarion’s arm, anchoring them both.

“You don’t have to say anything about it,” Wyll whispered. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Astarion let out a sound that might’ve been a sob—or maybe relief, Wyll could not tell.

Neither of them slept right away. They lay there, wrapped in silence, the kind that only came from profound exhaustion and deeper trust. The room was warm. Wyll adjusted the blanket higher over Astarion’s bare thighs. He was wearing that silky shirt with boxers again. The thought makes him think about how the elf swoons over the smell of the laundry detergent Wyll would use, and how, after Wyll taught him how to use a washer and dryer, Astarion was quick to wash all the dirty clothes around the house.

He brought himself back to the present, listening for Astarion’s slow breathing, Wyll’s hand still running through his hair, still trying to soothe him, and when the trembling stilled, Wyll closed his eyes as well.

Tomorrow was going to be another hard day. Then, the day after tomorrow would be. There would be more trials, more questions, more fear for his poor elf.

The last thought he has as he drifts off is Astarion’s lips on his own, how much he misses the warmth of him clinging to his lap, how sweet Astarion was, and just how badly he hopes that kiss meant to the elf what it meant to Wyll.