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In the first decade of his unlife, Astarion didn’t Trance. For the first few years, it was because of orders given to him by his then-new master, Cazador, who found joy in commanding the elf’s puppet-body to stay awake in perpetuity and watching the sleep deprivation sink in one minute at a time. It was an early lesson in what the rest of Astarion’s eternal life would be - one of his first.
When Astarion’s master finally did let him sleep (as in, when he got bored some years later and threw him in the kennel), his body didn’t - a result of the aching hunger that stabbed into his stomach nightly, back when it was just starting to spawn, all fresh and new - before it had dulled into a constant background presence, a gnawing reminder of his nature undercut by incessant torture.
Astarion remembers that he had stayed awake in the kennel for days, likely weeks on end - probably even longer, but he finds that’s when his memory starts to blur. He does remember his long-since perpetually-sagging body finally collapsing under the weight of his own exhaustion.
He does remember being too weak to stand, to do anything other than lay in his own defeat and hunger-sickness.
And, most vividly of all, he remembers the nightmare he had when he finally Tranced.
Astarion’s experiences with Trancing since that first painful nightmare—the one he would never forget—have been mostly similar. Whether he’s collapsing in the kennel or curling up with the pain of black-hole starvation inside him (and Petras’s snores from the bunk above him), he always had nightmares. Sometimes, the same nightmare for years on end - embedding itself in some part of Astarion’s brain and becoming a regular guest in his subconscious for no particular reason. Or at least, not one Astarion could discern .
Other times, the visions would change every time he closed his eyes. That was almost worse, the elf having no idea what to expect - that day's torture? Yesterday’s? How about a particularly awful brand of torture from several years ago? Or how about some hypothetical torture - something that hadn’t even happened yet but absolutely could?
It was a form of torture in itself - Astarion’s brain either inventing or being forced to invent to compensate for that day’s eventlessness.
(Because even when there was nothing , there was always something.)
At least he only has to experience a Trance. Unlike everyone else (at least until Halsin and Minthara joined), who need many hours of deep, consciousness-ending sleep , bless them, the elf only has to deal with a few hours of nightmares within semi-consciousness. And if Astarion were a religious man, he might consider thanking the Gods for this fact.
But despite the fact that everyone needs so much sleep (with tiefling Karlach and very-human Gale having to be dragged from their tents some mornings… or afternoons), Astarion is somewhat grateful for the fact never has to spend his nights alone.
This is because he’s not the only one to have nightmares.
They all do-... well, Lae’zel says she doesn’t have dreams.
Whenever she says this, Shadowheart scoffs and replies that’s actually impossible - which prompts the gith to respond with something having to do with her “superior biology” (and they all pretend they don’t hear the terrified whimpers of Vlaakith’s name at night) - a fight the two have had repeatedly, one that Maeve has tried to put a stop to and one that Shadowheart has complained about to Astarion - who understands only subconsciously that the cleric is just as embarrassed about her dreams as Lae’zel is.
The most she has told Astarion is that she knows her dreams are ever-changing - even if she can never remember the specifics of them. That being said, she does seem to experience bits of her memory while asleep - if the half-elf’s shouting of various, unrecognizable names proves to be any indication.
The dreams seem to get worse the longer they stay in the curse, too, and the cleric now gasps herself awake halfway through the night almost every time they rest, spending the first few seconds attempting to reclaim the breath that the darkness stole from her.
Astarion is glad, at least, that she can find some comfort in Wyll - who, for his part, is as open about his nightmares as he is about everything else…
Not that the warlock could hide the guttural screams that came from his tent.
He says that Mizora gives him gifts in the form of unconscious visions - infernally intense and always the same: Karlach fighting - dying - on the frontlines of the Blood War alongside the mindless blob once known as the Blade of Frontiers.
The first time Astarion saw Wyll right after waking, he looked as if he had just visited the Hells in actuality - drenched in sweat, hair matting to his forehead, chest heaving with exertion. That was the first night the three of them ended up awake at the same time - and it started happening enough to become a ritual.
Now, they converge under the thick blanket of Isobel’s protection, and although the setting has changed, the routine stays the same: They quietly whisper to each other that they “simply couldn’t sleep” before sitting around the fire before pouring glasses of whatever terrible wine they had managed to find that day.
They start telling overdramatized tales in hushed voices, and sometimes—most of the time—their worried whispers become loud guffaws of laughter that travel through the camp, attempting to wake the few of them who remain asleep, although no less unburdened. Gale, one of the few of them who can get through the night (if no one disturbs him), learned pretty quickly to keep his tent far away from the fire. Not that it stops him from making passive-aggressive comments the next day.
Karlach and Lae’zel, for their part, are extremely heavy sleepers, a fact that somewhat concerns the rest of them should someone infiltrate their camp and their best fighters sleep through it. And Maeve…
Astarion isn’t too sure, actually.
They seem to not care about how loud the three of them get - or, at least, they have gotten used to it. They once told Astarion that they had overheard a debate the three of them had one night about something or other and that they were on Wyll’s side, leading to a joking fight (that was only resolved by a [slightly] more-serious handjob).
But, other than that , they never said anything about Astarion’s dream-induced meetings with the cleric and the other warlock.
Like with everything else Astarion had shared (willingly or otherwise), they never demanded details or showed pity. It’s simply another part of their newly shared existence, one of many unspoken understandings and agreements that allowed Astarion to find unexpected solace in their companionship.
Regardless, he hadn’t even had one of those nights with Shadowheart or Wyll lately. Astarion has been spending most of his shadow-cursed nights thus far with Maeve, the two interwoven together after a long, long session of enjoying each other’s company - Astarion’s new, sexual ritual.
Also near-nightly.
Except for tonight, it seemed.
Because, for the first time in a long time, Maeve had fallen asleep in their own tent.
The vampire had found them curled up in a tight knot on their bedroll mere moments after returning to camp sometime before the sun had even set. He wasn’t sure if it was the day’s battles, the increasingly infective shadow-curse, or their familial interaction in Last Light some days ago was definitely deeper than Maeve had acknowledged -, but something had been weighing intensely on the warlock, and this seemed to be the ramifications of it. (At least one of them.)
It was one of the hardest days they had experienced while clearing out the curse, and Astarion had decided to let them sleep despite the feeling of disappointment that crawled through his body when he saw their slumbering form. (And a wave of panic when he realized it was a bit deeper than the fear of their transactional relationship coming to an end.)
(Not to mention when he remembered that meant that he had to Trance alone…)
Regardless, it seemed to be a moot point, and now Astarion didn’t have to feel those sudden and uncomfortable feelings.
The warlock had woken up some time ago, groggily making their way over to Astarion’s tent to find that the vampire seemingly returned to spending his night with his strange, bedless fellows.
Maeve hadn’t said anything, simply sliding next to Astarion silently and giving the two sitting across from them a wave.
Astarion could feel the tendrils of a question start to enter his consciousness - but as quickly as it came, it retreated.
He understands why - the three of them hadn’t spent the night together in some time. In fact, Astarion tries to remember when he last had a nightmare to wake him up mid-Trance.
Sometime before the tiefling party, probably - before he and Maeve had started sleeping together.
He knows the two are connected. Astarion usually found it easier to Trance next to people - if he was alone, he was in the palace, with his master lurking around every corner. At least being in someone else’s bed meant he was away from Cazador’s.
And being on the run from him - being free of him - isn’t much different. Those first couple of nights, he couldn’t Trance at all for fear that one of his siblings would sweep in at night and drag him back screaming.
Eventually, Maeve noticed his exhaustion and casually offered to keep watch instead of him. They ended up staying up all night with a mug of Gale’s extra-strong coffee and one of Karlach’s “special occasion” cigars to allow him to get several nights’ worth of Trances.
Astarion thinks that that might’ve been an excuse for them to get away from their own nightmares, however. He also wonders, then, if his presence offers them the same comfort they give him.
Considering this, his eyes leave where Shadowheart and Wyll chat about some bar they had both attended once in Baldur’s Gate, trying to figure out if the timeline matches up (despite Shadowheart not having memories) and find Maeve, who rests in his lap, the contours of their chest rising and falling as they sleep.
They had tried to stay awake and participate in their conversation, interjecting with what little knowledge they had about the area (despite growing up right next to it). However, their sleepiness kept threatening to overtake them until, not long after they joined the conversation, they were leaning against the rogue with a series of long, deep yawns.
Sorry… The sound of their apology rang through Astarion’s skull despite the fact that Maeve’s lips remained unmoving except to give him a sleepy smile. They attempted to force their tired body to sit to pay attention to Wyll, who was rambling much like he is now. What’s Wyll saying? Even Maeve’s internal voice sounded exhausted. Really tired….
Astarion’s reply was instantaneous and silent: I thought you slept.
Yeah…. The tadpole-sent version of Maeve’s voice is quiet and unsure. I did… I had a nightmare. A pause. Then: It’s okay, though.
Ah.
Astarion wasn’t sure what to say beyond that. Instead, he had simply gently placed an arm on Maeve’s back and began to maneuver them to lie down, their head falling squarely into his lap. Suddenly, he became aware of the sensation of them reaching out to him via their subconscious, but the feeling retreated as soon as Astarion started to run his fingers through their auburn locks - a trick he had learned in the past 200 years that would make almost anyone fall asleep.
The vampire realizes, half in his consciousness and half outside of himself, he’s still stroking Maeve’s hair.
He also realizes that, despite the fact he has laid with hundreds of people, he’s always somewhat surprised by how warm Maeve is - another comfort that they give him that’s impossible for either of them to comprehend in its monumentality. And- “ Astarion ?”
The elf finds himself forcefully pulled from the chasm of his thoughts - looking up and furrowing his brow when he hears the sound - Shadowheart, her voice quiet and teasing. “Lost in thought, were we?” she continues, smirking around her glass. “Don’t let us interrupt you. I had just asked what your dream was.”
His voice is quiet - surely to not wake Maeve (for fear that they would hear his sleepless confession). “…I… didn't Trance,” Astarion admits. “I…wasn’t able to.”
Shadowheart and Wyll exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them.
Astarion looks down at Maeve, their peaceful face, the soft rise and fall of their chest. “It’s just…” The words don’t slip out, but their presence in his consciousness is terrifying to him: Easier when they’re here.
And it’s true. His tent had been almost lonely without them there. While they slept, he tossed and turned. There was no warmth . He had gotten used to their snoring, too. And there was no one to tell him a story of their life before that would keep him half-awake for hours after. Or leave him little pieces of paper with drawings of his Trancing face (which he still thinks is exaggerated) or coax yet another orgasm out of him gently yet commanding and with more care than anyone had shown him in at least 200 years…
Astarion feels the familiar sensation of his thoughts beginning to spiral, the edges of reality blurring. He’s aware that Shadowheart and Wyll have stopped talking and are giving each other and him small, concerned glances.
As he begins to retreat back into the chasm of his consciousness, the familiar touch of Maeve's tadpole brushes against his, drawing him back. Astarion looks down, aware of the warlock on his lap and their warmth engulfing him. A grounding presence. Another comfort.
He is also very aware that his friends are still watching him. Astarion feels his cheeks go warm with Maeve’s blood (one of the many gifts they have given him, a delicious tart cherry).
Shadowheart watches Astarion with a knowing look. “You're a million miles away tonight. I wonder what’s got you so… contemplative.” There’s a beat. “Well, that’s not true. I don’t have to wonder.”
She glances down at the sleeping warlock before giggling.
Astarion opens his mouth to say something cutting but is quickly interrupted by Wyll - always trying to keep the peace, “I believe what Shadowheart is trying to say.” He is immediately cut off as the cleric lets out a mumble - one that is completely unintelligible as a result of half a night's sleep and half a bottle of wine that the warlock seems to understand. He laughs gently. “I guess, then, what I want to say is that I’m happy for you, Astarion.”
“ Happy for me?” Astarion scoffs - and doesn’t miss how Wyll casts a glance at Shadowheart.
“Well, you and Maeve both , truth be told,” the warlock continues, somewhat ignoring the vampire as he moves to stand, extending a hand to help the cleric up. “But we’ll both pretend I didn’t say that.”
The cursed night air is still and silent, save for the flicker of the torch as Wyll and Shadowheart prepare to leave for the night. Finally, after some considerable silence, Wyll starts, “You know…”
Two pairs of eyes - green and ruby - stare at him, both suspicious. Expectant, but attempting not to be.
“I’m really happy that two people I consider family can sleep with each other...” There’s another pause. “No, wait-” Wyll starts to correct himself - both as quickly and as quietly as he can manage - while his audience tries to repress their laughter for the sake of the warlock on Astarion’s lap.
Shadowheart, still trying to reign in her giggles, hand still interlaced with Wyll’s, says, “I don’t know what I was expecting…Something poetic, maybe? Less… complex? And I do mean ‘ psychological complex.’”
Astarion snorts - a bit louder than he means to - before quickly looking down to make sure he hasn’t woken the half-elf. He’s glad to find that their eyes are still closed, but the vampire swears he sees a trace of a smile across their lips.
Wyll shoots him a look that attempts to come across as angry. “You know what I meant,” he grumbles - zero anger in his tone. “I’m tired.”
“Let’s get you some sleep, then,” Shadowheart soothes, a teasing smile resting on her lips as the two make their way out of Astarion’s tent and into the night. “Before you tell me I ‘remind you of your mother.’”
He can’t quite make out the next words, just the gentle intonations that the night air carries. The last thing the vampire’s elven ears pick up is the Blade of Frontiers quietly - grumpily - whispering to the cleric beside him, “I just meant I’m glad they’re both getting sleep now, that’s all.”
Astarion ruminates on Wyll’s words.
“You and Maeve both.” “Glad they’re both getting sleep.”
He finds himself returning to the same idea that he had before. He wonders, once again, if his presence offers them any of the same comfort they give him. He decides it couldn’t. The vampire had learned to make himself many things over the past 200 years - a source of amusement? Sure. A source of pleasure? Of course. A source of solace?
The train of thought is abruptly halted by the sound of Astarion’s name in the form of a breeze that caresses the inside of his skull.
The vampire nearly jumps at the feeling - but for only a second, as the feeling of the warlock’s tadpole reaching out to his dissipates.
Maeve rolls onto their back so they can look up at him. They don’t say anything, just study him with an expression of genuine concern.
The vampire tries to keep his voice neutral. “Have you been awake this entire time?”
Their response is in the form of a gentle, tired nod, followed by their mouth splitting open into a wide yawn as their eyelids - both scarred and fey-marked - threaten to slip closed again. Astarion watches as they try to keep their eyes open, focusing their gaze on him to, presumably, make sure that he’s okay.
His tone is more teasing, undercut with genuine softness that surprises even him, “Did you come here just to sleep ?” (He isn’t quite sure why he asked - or what the answer will be.)
There’s a moment’s hesitation before the feeling appears again; this time, a gentle knock on the inside of his skull. Astarion furrows his brow, looking down at the warlock who avoids his gaze, their own focused on a spot next to where his silver curls frame his face.
Yeah. I like sleeping next to you.
It’s blunt and honest, and it rattles around Astarion’s skull with intensity. He nods silently - in agreement.
Do you wanna Trance?
Astarion nods again, and Maeve sits up, allowing the vampire to lie down beside them. They both shift until they’re curled around each other, finding safety from the curse and their past in each other.
It doesn’t take long for the two of them to slip into a dreamless sleep.