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Frey is too exhausted to try and hide how exhausted they are, even when they hear their resident rogue’s quiet footsteps behind them. He must be walking intentionally loudly; Frey knows he’s capable of moving completely silently, as evidenced by the pickpocketed gold taking up space in their pack. They have no idea why Astarion decided that they’d be in charge of finances; before they were infected, they usually only kept enough gold on them for a couple of nights at a shady tavern and maybe a hat. Yet somehow, as with everything, the group silently elected Frey to take the lead.
It could only be Astarion, because only Astarion would have the nerve to disturb them. Everyone knows this is their spot. The rocky clifftop overlooking the water offers enough distance to get some peace and quiet away from camp, while being close enough to hear if there’s trouble.
Others have tried to “comfort” them here, of course, but were sent away with the mostly-true promise that they just needed some time.Frey has never been particularly good at hiding their facial reactions, so it’s embarrassingly easy to tell when something is upsetting them. Astarion has kept his distance so far, fortunately, but it seems Frey’s luck has run out.
“If I catch your hand in my pockets, I’m cutting it off,” Frey says without bothering to move. They’re sitting in what they would dare anyone to call a fetal position, with their legs bent in front of them, using their arms as a headrest to look out at the water reflecting the moonlight.
“Oh, darling, I would never!”
Astarion’s mock-affronted voice is far too chipper for Frey’s current mood. They close their eyes as they hear Astarion walk behind them and take a seat a couple feet away.
“This is about those brothers, isn’t it?” His voice is uncharacteristically somber, which grates on Frey’s mood even more. The last thing they need is pity .
Frey turns to lay the side of their head on their arms to glare at him. They have an excellent view of his sharp jawline from this angle, but even his good looks can’t distract from their melancholy.
“You mean the brothers we killed because I was too stupid to notice that the suspicious old lady promising us a mysterious cure if we would only follow her to an undisclosed location in the woods was a hag?”
“Yes, the very same two brothers who sought to face down a hag with a kitchen knife. At least this way they had a quick death. The hag could have given him one of those horrible masks to wear. I don’t think they’d be able to pull off the look like you do.”
“Don’t remind me,” Frey says, groaning as they lay their head face down on their arms.
“No one blames you for it, you know,” he says far too casually. Frey can practically see him checking his nails in their minds eye. “Then again, you could probably murder one of those refugees in cold blood and they’d forgive you for it.”
“Is there a point to this?” Frey asks, their voice muffled as they talk into their arms.
“The point the hag outsmarted all of us, and you don’t see anyone else brooding over it.”
Frey wants to point out that they’re not brooding, they’re just tired, but they can’t muster up the energy to argue. Instead they force themself to lift their head enough to turn back to Astarion. It’s really unfair how beautiful he is. It makes it far too easy to forgive his many many transgressions.
“I’ll be alright,” they say. “I just need some time.
“It’s not just the hag, is it?” he asks quietly.
For a brief moment, they consider lying, but they’ve never been particularly proficient at deception and Astarion has an annoying knack for calling them out on their bullshit.
“I’m just—it’s a lot. All of it. Everyone looks at me to make decisions and I’m…” They let out a bitter laugh. “Just some small-time bard playing at being a hero.”
Astarion hums contemplatively, looking out at the water. Frey almost wishes they could trade their musical talents for the ability to paint, if only to capture the perfection of his profile.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a marvelous job,” he says.
Frey scoffs. “Is that supposed to help? You have the moral compass of a magpie.”
“Think about it. If Wyll were in charge, he would have us helping kittens down from every tree across the Sword Coast until we turn into mindflayers. Laezel and Shadowheart would be at each other’s throats, and poor Karlach would be nothing but a rotted corpse.”
That does actually help Frey feel better, though they’d never admit to it. It’s clever of him to use Wyll, the pinnacle of goodness and heroism, as an example to compare. l
“And if you were in charge?” they ask.
“Oh, I’d be long dead. As you said, I have the moral compass of… what was it? A magpie?”
“Mhm,” Frey says, their lips quirking up in a. a smile. “Because you like shiny things.”
“Everyone likes shiny things, darling. I’m just the only one honest enough to admit it.”
That gets a laugh out of them. “You, honest?”
He humphs, but Frey can see the outlines of the smug smile on his face, clearly delighted to have earned a laugh out of them. He’s lucky they’re too tired be annoyed by it.
“I mean it, you know,” he says, softening his voice. “You’re the most suited out of all of us to lead. You’re good enough that you don’t alienate the hero types, yet practical enough to keep Laezel and I from tearing biting someone’s head off. Quite literally. in my case. I suppose she’d probably use that great big sword of hers.”
It’s a generous way of phrasing the fact that every decision Frey makes manages to make at least one member of their party angry with every decision.
“Not to mention, your backside is truly a wonder to behold,” he adds with a sly smile. He makes a show of checking them out, letting his eyes drag over their body, sending a rush of heat through them. “I would follow that anywhere.”
“Ah, there’s the Astarion I know. I’d wondered if the tadpole got to you.”
“I’ll have you know, I contain multitudes, darling.”
Frey hums, grateful that he’s managed to shift the tone of their conversations back to their usual banter.
“You’re surprisingly good at this, you know,” they say.
“You’ll have to be more specific, darling. I’m good at everything.”
“Mhm, except for disarming traps without setting yourself on fire.”
“That was one time! And it was your fault. You distracted me! The way you sliced that bandits neck with your swords, you looked positively divine .”
Frey remembers that moment all too well. “ Gods, I’m never doing that again. Their blood got everywhere.”
“Mmm, I’d be more than happy to lick it off you next time. Such a waste.” The lascivious look on his face and low timber of his voice gives Frey pause. Usually, they are pretty confident that their flirting with Astarion is just that: flirting. But lately, usually when they’re alone, they’ve noticed him saying more and more provoking things without following them up with a laugh or deflection.
Frey’s experienced more than their fair share of seduction attempts. Working as a traveling bard will do that for you. Nearly every gig ended with someone trying their best to get the bard into bed. Buying them drinks, food, sometimes even a new hat or other gift, in exchange for a smile and a touch. Frey leaned into it; it gave them a chance to let off some steam with their choice of potential partners—and a free place to sleep. Win-win.
Gods, it’s been months since they’ve fucked anyone. That must be why they’re humoring Astarion’s obvious attempts to get them into his tent. Knowing that he visits them every night to lean over their body, holding them close as he sink his teeth into their neck doesn’t help. Ever since the night he first bit them, they’ve been unable to control the daydreams of what else he might have done in different circumstances.
Maybe someday they’ll indulge him—and themself. But not tonight.
Shit, what were they talking about before Astarion started going on about licking them?
Oh, right.
“I meant to say, you’re good at this… morale boost thing, or whatever it is. I—I feel a little less awful now.”
“Ah,” he says, clearing his throat. At least Frey can take comfort in knowing he’s just as uncomfortable as they are with the concept of emotional vulnerability. He recovers quickly, plastering on his usual smile as he bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I aim to please, darling. Someone had to talk some sense into our fearless leader.”
The words “fearless leader” feel like chains wrapped around their chest, yanking then back underwater. They rest their chin on their arms again and squeeze their eyes closed, trying to remember what it felt like to feel anything other than the blinding panic that courses through them.
“Frey?”
Fuck, he sounds concerned. Hells. Showing weakness is the last thing they need right now. Why can’t he just leave them alone?
“I’m fine,” they say through gritted teeth.
Astarion huffs out a laugh. “And I’m a twelve foot tall talking squirrel.”
“All squirrels can talk, if you bother to learn how to listen.”
“Not all of us can be so gifted as to play a little tune and be gifted supernatural abilities.”
Normally this would be Freys cue to argue back, but they just can’t muster up the energy.
“Is… is there something I can do?” Astarion asks. “I can bring you the wizard’s head, if it would help.”
“It won’t.” Frey lets out a long exhale, trying to calm down the panic in their chest. “I’ll be alright.”
“Yes, you’ve said as much. Three times, in fact.”
For some reasons it’s that comment that hurls Frey over the edge.
“I said I’ll be alright,” Frey snaps, lifting their head to glare at him again. “If I’m your ‘fearless leader,’ then you have to listen to me when I tell you to fuck off.”
“I’ve never been very good at following directions,” he says, unfazed.
“Then I suppose it’s a good thing your master was able to compel you, or you’d be useless as his slave,” they snarl.
They regret the words as soon as they see Astarion shut down, his expression shuttering into a mask of careful neutrality.
“You’re right,” he says with an unsettlingly placid smile. “I should have listened to you the first time. I’ll leave you to… whatever this is.”
He stands and makes quick work of brushing the dirt off his pants before starting to walk away.
Frey gets up too quickly, not realizing their left foot is asleep. They nearly fall off the edge of the overhang, before Astarion catches their hand, yanking them back onto the ledge. Frey ends up face forward against his chest, hid hands holding them firmly by their upper arms in a facsimile of an embrace.
Hells, Frey can’t even say the last time they’d been so close to someone in a non-sexual way. Usually they found it to be an awkward experience, unsure how long it’s supposed to last, what they’re supposed to do with their hands. But this… this is nice .
For once, Frey gives in, letting their arms wind their way around his back and stepping in closer so they can lean their head against his chest. Astarion freezes, his whole body going stiff, and Frey comes to their senses.
“I’m sorry,” they say, attempting to pull away and give him space. His left hand tightens its grip on their upper arm while his right finds its place on Frey’s lower back, pulling them closer. He slots a leg between Frey’s and lowers a hand down to their arse to pull them closer.
“Go on,” he says in a husky voice. “Take what you need.”
It would be so easy to lose themself in him, to tangle their hands in his soft hair and drag his face down for a kiss. He’d be good at it, they’re certain. He could make them forget all about the hag, the tadpole, everything, even if only for a night.
But despite his smoldering gaze and the self-satisfied smile on his face, his whole body is tense as a bowstring. The thought that he’d let them take from him, even if he clearly doesn’t want this, makes them sick.
“Let me go please, Astarion,” they say, staring at the frayed black lacing of his frilly shirt. Astarion hesitates for a moment, but obliges.
Frey sits back in their spot, clenching their jaw and focusing all of their attention on not breaking down. A part of them is mad at him for not just leaving them alone when they asked, but it pales in comparison to their guilt. Not only did they take advantage the personal information he’d shared, they’d very nearly taken advantage of his body, too.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asks. The question makes Frey jump; they’d assumed he’d already left.
“It’s probably for the best.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t want you falling into the ocean. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Every word that comes out of his mouth is only adding salt to the wound. He should be yelling and screaming at them, not joking around and being concerned for their wellbeing.
“Astarion, please . I can’t do this right now. Look, I just—I just need to sit here and feel sorry for myself for a few hours and the I’ll come back and we can pretend this never happened, alright? I’ll see you back at camp.”
Astarion is silent and Frey wonders if he finally took his cue to exit stage left.
“Did you mean it?” he asks in a small voice.
Frey doesn’t have to ask what he’s talking about.
“Of course not. I just wanted you to leave.”
“An effective strategy,” he says and, bafflingly, he sits back down beside them.
Frey looks at him with unmasked incredulity. “Why are you still here? I just told you—“
“You need to complete the appropriate amount of brooding before you can be civil again, yes. You made no mention of having to do it alone.” His expression, though still guarded, is slightly more open than it was a few minutes ago.
“You should hate me,” Frey whispers.
“We all lash out from time to time,” he says, waving off their concerns all too easily.
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
He sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Fine. I’ll let you make it up to me. A favor.”
“I’m not killing anyone for you,” Frey says quickly. “Well, except Cazador.” Because there’s no way in all the hells that they’ll subject Astarion to a life hiding in the shadows, or in service to his former master.
“…You really mean that don’t you?” Frey is about to answer, but he clears his throat before they can speak. “Nevermind. No killing, I promise. All I want from you now is the truth.”
“Fine. What do you want to know?” Frey faces him, sitting cross legged, and steels themself for the worst. After their cruel reference to his past, Astarion would be well within his rights to interrogate them for an equally brutal secret. It’s only fair for him to want to regain some footing by forcing Frey to reveal their worst mistakes so he can have some ammunition to retaliate with next time they step out of line.
“There’s no need to look like you’re about to be led to the gallows, darling. It’s just a simple question. Here it is: what do you want right now?”
Frey blinks. “To get the tadpole out.” The ‘ obviously ’ goes unspoken.
“Ah, ah, I said right now . What do you want right this second?”
Oh. Oh . This is so much worse than Frey had feared. He wants to humiliate them. He wants to make them admit how desperately starved they are for the tiniest scrap of attention.
Every inch of Frey wants to snap at him again, to ask what difference it makes, to yell that it’s one of his business. But a deal is a deal.
Still, they don’t have to sound too pathetic. They’re a bard, after all. Words are their specialty.
“I want to feel better.”
Astarion raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“What? I’m answering your question! It’s the truth!”
“Then allow me to rephrase. What does your body want right now.”
Frey clenches their jaw, trying to find a way around the embarrassing truth. But then again, isn’t the embarrassing truth what he deserves? It wouldn’t be a punishment if it were easy.
Frey swallows, picking at their nails as they speak.
“I—I suppose my body wants… physical affection. Not necessarily sex,” they add quickly. “Just—you know. To feel like I’m not falling apart for a little while. But you don’t have to—“
He’s tugging their arm insistently before they can finish their sentence. Frey furrows their eyebrows, wondering what he’s trying to do. They let him gently maneuver them on top of his lap, with him leaning against the large boulder on the cliffside.
Frey swallows again, their arms hanging limply by their side as they wait for Astarion to make his next move. They won’t say no to sex, if that’s what he wants. But if that’s what he wanted why doesn’t he just say so? He could have asked for anything as a favor. Maybe he wants Frey to finish what they started when they pressed their body against his. Maybe he wants Frey to admit how much they want him, to bolster his ego.
Astarion shifts his position slightly and tentatively places his hands on Frey’s back, slowly pulling them closer—while still maintaining a respectable distance between their groins.
They realize with a pang of longing that with the way they’re positioned, his neck is the perfect height for them to bury their face into. The closer they get, the more effort it takes to keep their distance and not lean in and hide away from the world for a little while.
Frey places their hands on his chest to stop them from losing their balance. They instantly recognize the action as a mistake as they feel firm lines of his body, the chilly yet comfortably solid presence beneath them.
“It’s alright, darling,” he says. “Relax. Let me take care of you, and all is forgotten.”
Ah. It makes sense now. He wants blackmail material. He wants to have something to hold over their head.
Well, fair is fair. Frey lets their arms wrap around his torso, settling their head against his neck. They can feel his satisfied hum as one of his hands rises to stroke their hair. He’s so gentle, Frey almost forgets it’s all a game. The knowledge that it’s all fake feels like an ice knife in the heart, a reminder of the connection and affection Frey can only dream of one day deserving.
He’s very good, they’ll give him that. It would be so easy to give in, to pretend it’s real.
And why shouldn’t I? a voice inside them questions. That’s what he wants, clearly: for them to fall apart, to prostrate themself in front of him emotionally. And they do owe him a favor.
Just for tonight. Just for tonight, they can play along with the game that they’re someone worth receiving such comfort.
Frey takes a deep breath and forces their body to settle into the embrace. Slowly, the muscles in their thighs start to relax and their arms don’t feel like machinery in need of oil.
“Good. Very good, darling.”
His praise is like a drug and something inside Frey snaps, releasing all of the tension built up over the last few weeks. They rest all their weight on his lap, breathing in the scent of bergamont as he rubs soothing circles on their back.
The night is quiet, with only the chorus of crickets chirping in the distance and the gentle rustle of trees swaying in the wind. It sounds like the woods Frey grew up in, asleep in the house they shared with their two siblings and parents.
The same house where they saw their father get mauled by an owlbear and didn’t lift a finger to stop it. Frey doesn’t know which was worse: the sight of his guts on the floor, or the horrified expression of their mom and siblings when they came in. Frey was still standing in the corner shaking, pointing a loaded crossbow at the spot where the owlbear had stood, completely frozen.
Their mother’s words would haunt them for the next several decades.
“ You could have saved him!”
Frey grips Astarion even tighter, as though their proximity alone could help close the black void in their chest threatening to consume them. Somehow, it seems to help.
“You couldn’t have saved them,” Astarion says, breaking them out of the bog of memories trying to pull them under.
“Maybe,” Frey says, mostly for Astarion’s sake. It always made their brother frown when Frey tried to argue against his claim that they couldn’t have stopped their father from being killed. Lyris insisted that anyone else their age would have acted the same in their position, but Frey knew better. True, they were only fifteen—but while others in their clan spent their younger years practicing with bows and swords, Frey indulged in learning every song their father could teach them. Father always said that music was the most powerful weapon of all. It didn’t seem to help him in his final moments, when the life left his eyes after the owlbear had its teeth around his neck.
“ Frey .”
Frey knows that tone of voice. It’s the same tone Lyris used when he got tired of their, in his words, ‘pity festival.’ He’d apologized for saying it right after the words came out, but Frey couldn’t argue with the truth of them. It’s exactly what Astarion accused them of doing earlier that night, after all. Pointless, self-indulgent brooding.
A tug on Frey’s hair drags them back into the present. Astarion’s hand on their chin keep them from looking away. They’re not crying—their tears have long dried up over the years—but they know they can’t hide anything of their despair on their face.
Usually, Frey doesn’t mind their inability to mask their true emotions. True, it makes them a terrible liar, but it makes them an excellent bard. The best music has feeling, and Frey wears their feelings on their face to such an extent that it might as well be a novel. Music has the power to inspire, to heal. With only their lyre, they can alter the emotional state with not only their audience, but themselves.
Frey sits up abruptly. “I need my lyre,” they say.
Astarion must sense the urgency of Frey’s request because he doesn’t acknowledge the randomness of their statement. He helps them stand, leans them against the boulder, and quickly makes his way down the rocky hill leading back to camp.
The melodies are already forming inside Frey’s head, demanding to be released. They pace across the cliffside, humming to themself so they don’t lose it, until Astarion returns.
Frey is so focused that they barely acknowledge him a they murmur a thank you and sit down on the edge of the boulder, sitting on one leg while the other dangles down.
Their mood is instantly lifted by the familiar shape of their lyre perched on their lap. It’s only object they truly care about, even if it’s covered in scratches the corners are all scuffed. Father had made it for their fifteenth birthday out of wood from the same type of tree he built their treehouse home.
The lyre itself is as much of an art piece as it is an instrument, depicting a sun overlapping a crescent moon. The shapes, while discreet in their shapes on the outer edges, seamlessly blends together with a to swirly abstract star motif, constellations which turns into the same type of climbing ivy that borders the front door of their house. He ensured with his skill and artistry it would never look out of place even in the grandest theater in the Upper City of Baldur’s Gate.
Father said it could serve as a reminder that Frey would always have a home to return to. Family was everything to him. It was everything to Frey once, too, before they fucked it all up by almost getting their brother killed. If their father’s death has any silver lining, it’s that he didn’t have to see just how wrong he was. It would kill him all over again to see his child, his protégée, has been as good as excommunicated from both family and clan.
The notes come easily, Frey’s left instinctively muting the right strings for the mood they’re trying to set while they strum with their right. Frey imbues all of their sorrow, all of their guilt, into the song. After each verse, they return to a version of same familiar melody their father used to play to help them fall asleep at night played in a somber minor key. Frey echos the riff on the lower strings once, then again, more slowly, before letting it fade out into the bridge
There’s no home for me, the song says, and I don’t deserve one.
There’s no home for me. I hurt everyone I love.
There’s no home for me. I don’t deserve comfort.
On the fourth round, they hesitate, glancing toward Astarion, who is watching them with rapt attention. Astarion who, inexplicably, is still here, despite Frey’s awful words. Astarion, who went to get Frey’s lyre without a second thought. Astarion, who listened to them vent without judgement and somehow knew just the right things to say to make them feel better.
This time, they repeat their father’s melody on the lower strings in its original major key.
There’s no home for me. But I’m not alone.