#astarion imagnie

[undiscovered-horizon]

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[Astarion fixes your torn shirt because he'd hate to go in public next to a fashion catastrophe... Or so he tells himself.]

You're not entirely sure what you're doing. Granted, the technicalities are known to you but it's the details, the swiftness of motion, that escapes you.

Stab, thread, stab, pull

What should be a basic, not complicated life skill, turns into fighting against the inanimate in your hands. The stitching is uneven and doesn't match the original pattern. Neither does the colour of the thread you're using but that is the last of your worries. As long as the hole in your shirt is gone and the garment is wearable again, you're fine with the outcome. Even if it looks... not exactly presentable.

Astarion, however, has a quite different opinion:

"By the Hells, what is that?" he asks with a gasp, a hand flying to cover his mouth. The look of horror on his face would be comical if it wasn't so genuine.

He's standing above you as you sit in front of the campfire in hopes of the light aiding you in your battle against cotton. But no amount of light can cure your inexperienced hands. "Um... my shirt?" you answer hesitantly. What is he going on about?

From a look of shock, his face contorted into a grimace of disgust. Red eyes look between you and the cotton garment lying in your lap. Thankfully, he's able to control his expression as his thoughts begin to wander, picturing himself on top of your thighs instead of the torn shirt. Still appearing unbothered, Astarion manages to shake those fantasies away.

"With that horrendous stitching, it's more of a crime, darling," he continues. Despite his words serving as more of a facade for his vulnerable desires, there's a lot of truth in them: both the colour and the stitching pattern you've chosen are vastly different from the original seams. At least it keeps the material together?

Astarion's strong opinions are the last thing you need right now. You're tired, sore and frustrated to no end. And the whole shirt fiasco is definitely not helping as well as the numerous painful pricks to your fingers. It's hard to keep steady, careful hands when you're exhausted physically and mentally.

"This horrendous stitching, as you called it," you say with a despondent sigh, "is better than having a gaping hole in my clothes. Look, if you're not going to help, just-"

"Help?" he interjects. "My dear, you need a miracle to salvage this." Astarion graces you with a smug chuckle. "Fortunately, I am nothing if not a virtuoso with my hands," he drones his words. The allusion is not lost on you but you're really not in the mood to humour his antics. "Give it to me."

"Suit yourself," you mumble as you hand him the shirt.

"Oh, I will."

And with those words, he leaves for his tent. Still sitting by the fire, you carefully watch Astarion from afar. His thin hands wave the needle with impressive grace and precision. It doesn't seem that he's stitching the garment to just be done with it. The movements of his hands have a certain sense of caring to them.

If you were a little less tired and emotionally spent, you'd probably question his motives - after all, why would he strangely selflessly fix the shirt you wear mostly around camp? Little do you know, Astarion himself is having these very doubts. Maybe one day he'll accept that his concern for your fashion is just a convenient excuse to worm his way into every aspect of your person and life.