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[daisyshmu]

Beauty in the Dark (Astarion x Painter)

Summary- Astarion hasn't seen his face since turning. So reader offers to draw him.

Word count: 1,2k

“Astarion, just because you keep asking me if it's going to be done, doesn’t mean I will finish any faster. In fact, every time I’m interrupted and have to pause to answer your absurd question only delays it more.” 

Astarion, my pale elf friend, was sitting on a fallen tree across from me. He huffed impatiently, and I didn’t need to look up to know he rolled his eyes.

“So fussy,” he replied.

The corner of my mouth turned up and I glanced up at the Vampire spawn. He was tapping his foot and picking invisible dust off his tunic. I almost laughed at the sight. A 200 hundred-plus-year-old Vampire was fidgeting. 

I grinned and went back to my sketching.

Last night, Astarion had mentioned he couldn’t remember what his eye color used to be before he was turned nor had he seen his face since the incident. My heart cracked at the thought, I had started to grow a soft spot for him. So, id offered to sketch him. 

I was fairly good at drawing, using my time while traveling to catalog things that sparked my interest. I had a whole notebook full of them. He had originally declined my offer, saying it would be a waste of time since no sketch would ever be able to capture his true magnificence. Vain vampire indeed. 

Surprisingly, he approached me later in the night and asked if my offer still stood. I told him I'd need a full night of rest before attempting to capture his full magnificent. And to my utter shock, he smiled but not with that teasing, manipulative smile, but… a genuine one. 

After he walked away it had taken me more time than I'd ever admit to fall asleep. Mother save me, I had even dreamed of his smile. 

Shaking my head from the memory, I lowered my face to my paper, hiding the heat in my cheeks. 

I shaded in the last detail and sighed, “Done!”

Astarion shot to his feet and quickly took up the space next to me. I put my hands over the drawing before he could see.

“Let me see.” He tried to grab at it, but I lifted it out of his reach, almost losing my balance off the fallen tree in the process. “Hands off. You greedy Nightwalker.” 

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Maybe next time I sketch you I will make you look like an ogre.”

His head snapped to me, disbelief on his face, “You wouldn’t dare.” 

I smirked, “Try me.” 

Still covering the drawing, I held it in front of him. We were both silent with anticipation. I lifted my hands, slowly exposing the drawing. 

His face turned utterly horrified. I couldn’t help it, I howled in laughter. 

On the paper was just a bunch of drawn-out sticks, forming the body of him. And a circle for a head. My favorite part was the two fangs where the line for a mouth was. A stick Asatrion, through and through!

I was still laughing when he commented, “I don’t understand how this is amusing. All this proved is how you lack talent,” He grimaced, “I don’t think even magic could aid you.” 

I huffed a laugh, “Poor Astarion,” I teased. “You should be nicer to me. Especially, if you want me to draw you again.” Before he could quip a remark, I flipped the page. And his face immediately changed, going from horrified to-  well, I’m not actually sure what to call that expression. His face was blank and he was not moving. I don’t even think he was breathing.

 “Astarion?” I poked his shoulder gently. 

“I was wrong,” He answered, so quietly. I’d begun to worry I'd done something wrong. “You are indeed talented,” His voice was so gentle. My breath caught, and all the humor I had previously disappeared. The side of his mouth curved up softly, and the crease that normally sat between his eyebrows smoothed out. He looked happy. An expression I’m not used to seeing on him. 

Thoughts race through my mind and my heartbeat picks up. I would draw him every day if he wished. I could even go to a nearby village and trade for painting supplies to paint him with colors. Heavens. I can practically picture the look on his face if I were to paint him in colors.

I will my heart to calm and rest my hand on his shoulder “You were easy to draw,” I say, “you’re beautiful.” 

He places a hand over mine and turns his head to look at me, and I flush. The moment feels very intimate. 

There’s no denying he’s attractive and he has made it very clear he thinks the same about me, but the farthest we have ever gone is teasing each other. But I see more than just a pretty face when I look at him. And I know he’s been through unspeakable things, Things that he still needs to heal from, and some of it, he may never heal from. But if he is not ready to have me forever then I will not have him at all. The pain of losing him scares me more than the pain of pinning for him.

He's still looking at me with soft eyes. I look down, twirling my pencil around my fingers. “Curse you, Astarion,” I whisper between us but I can’t help the corner of my mouth from turning up. “ You’re so beautiful I may never be inspired to draw anything else.” I look at him again and his face is full of so many emotions.

 He blinks and just like that, they are gone. His mask is back in place, the same one he has used for 200 years. 

He chuckles, the sound dancing across my skin. “Well.” He rips the sketch from my notebook and my eyes widen, I almost shout at him to be gentle. But he takes another look at the drawing, his mask cracking once more and his eyes soften, so I let it go. He can burn the whole notebook if he wishes.

  Astarion stands, “Draw me as much as you wish. I'm not above enjoying myself at all angles.” He winks. And I don’t miss the insinuation in the last part. Mother help me. 

“You’re a shameless flirt.” 

“I’m glad you’ve noticed because no longer do I flirt for the sake of others, Darling.” He looks as if he wants to add more, but instead, he nods his head goodbye and walks off. 

I stare after him long after he returns to his tent. 

no longer do I flirt for the sake of other people. 

To anyone else, those words would mean nothing. But to me they mean everything. So instead of sharpening my daggers for the trip, the group is going to make soon. I open my notebook and let my heart guide my pencil this time. Across the pages, images of pale skin, fangs, and soft red eyes. Private sketches that no one will ever see but me. Because no one sees him the way I do. And I know he saves his soft eyes only for me, so only for me they shall remain.