Chapter Text
“Apologies for the little outburst,” Astarion offered with a thin veneer of self-effacement as soon as they were out on the sidewalk, hoping to cut any interrogation plans off at the pass. “It’s been a long morning. And you really didn’t need to pay for that. I had it covered nine ways to Tenday.”
“I’m sure you did, but…” Uk’el hesitated, then sighed.
Astarion seethed each time he had to endure that weary huff being directed at him. It was a harmless mannerism, a sign that Uk’el’s sense of politeness had lost the struggle against his straightforward nature. At least, that was how the cleric had explained it previously. Even knowing that, however, it always came off as priggish to the rogue - especially when directed at himself.
“I only thought to do something nice. You seem to like when I give you jewelry, gemstones, and the like. And I’ve noticed how worn your garments have gotten, even since the outset of all this madness - no offense intended. It seemed the perfect gift. Did you not actually like the color I picked?”
“It’s got nothing to do with the color and everything to do with, well…”
He wanted to say it was about choice, about being able to feel a sense of ownership, as though he had a say in the matter. Under Cazador’s tyranny, his clothes had been one of the few things that had still been truly his own. Astarion had made them his own. He had altered them to his own tastes, kept them alive with his needlework, hidden his poetry within their seams where his tormentors wouldn’t think to look. As welcome as shedding that old skin for something clean of both grime and association sounded, the idea of owing that feeling to anyone sounded like little more than handing his leash down the line.
But then, it wasn’t really about ‘choice’ in that case, was it? He knew he had a choice with Uk’el. Even if he instinctively expected it to evaporate at any second as punishment for the slightest offense, the cleric had assured him time and time again that he would never force Astarion to do anything he didn’t want to. And time and time again he had proven the truth of those words. If they still held true, then Astarion could have selected anything or nothing from the boutique, and Uk’el would have respected his choice.
No, this was about control. He was a dog snapping and snarling at a friendly hand that every finely-tuned instinct told him wanted to snatch away his last remaining bone. He was smarter than this. He was a conniving charlatan, not some debased animal. So, why was it so hard to let go and let himself be looked after like they were a normal couple?
“Those clothes are one of the few- No, the only thing that was ever truly mine under Cazador’s roof. I know they’re filthy in a way no soap will ever get out, but I…” He winced with the pain of honest self-reflection he had been putting off for as long as mortally possible. “I’m not ready to let go of them.”
Astarion braced for impact, braced for the logic that clearly said he ought to toss them, to move on, to treat himself better, to shed his shackles, to think of appearances, to kill sentimentality. To be grateful.
“Of course. You needn’t get rid of what you have. Swap between them as you like, or - if it’s more comfortable - stash these new ones away. Whether until you do want them or even if you never do. They’ll wait. They’re patient like that. I only wanted to get you something, same as the jewelry or a sword. You never have to use any of it, if you don’t want to. It’s yours. You get to do whatever you want with it.”
“I- What?” Astarion blinked in disbelief.
Of course he had tucked or traded away any sub-par weapons or armor that had passed through his hands, and Uk’el was so fond of gifting him rings and necklaces that he could never be expected to wear them all at once. But it seemed impossibly detached from ego - even for the cleric - that it had all been given without a sliver of expectation.
“Let me get this straight: you give me these things for the hells of it? Not because you want to see me in them?”
“I would never want to see you in a sword, whatever that would entail.” Uk’el held both hands up defensively at the glare Astarion shot him, but his grin showed no remorse. “In all seriousness: I’ve never given you a thing I didn’t think you’d look good in. You make that easy, though, by looking good in anything. But I never give any of it in the expectation I’ll get to see it on you. I give them in the hopes you’ll like them. Whether that means showing them off or just enjoying having them.
“So, if the ‘garms’ really bother you, we can return them. Or if it’s just the money, you can pay me back. But whether it ends up on you or in a trunk, as long as you’re pleased with it, I’m happy as a worg in guts.”
“I see.” While it was marginally better than saying nothing, the look of befuddled disbelief plastered on Astarion’s face and the note of awe in his voice rather spoiled the façade. “Well, in that case, there’s no need to go through the rigmarole of returning it. I’ll just…sit on it for a while, maybe.” Taking a breath, he managed to stick his nose in the air with a fraction of the dignity he had fumbled in this entire ordeal. “We shall see.”
The warmth in Uk’el’s eyes was as overwhelming as that of his words had been. Every time Astarion thought he had the other figured out - sap, do-gooder, bleeding heart, hero complex, blind faith - Uk’el somehow managed to prove him about as wrong as right. He was the wisest of fools, the most selfish martyr, as down-to-earth as a saint could be. He was infuriating to the point of infatuation and witheringly analgesic.
A sudden scream and the clatter of wood from the clothing shop tore the pair from their fond peace.
“Lae’zel, let him go!” Wyll’s voice rang out over a young man’s panicked shrieks.
“Oh gods, not again,” Uk’el swore as he dashed back inside, leaving Astarion a rare moment alone to bask in the yet unfamiliar sense of inalienable autonomy he had been promised. It remained to be seen if he would ever be able to take it for granted again. But for their sakes - Uk’el’s and his own - he was damned well going to try.