The headache is the first sign.
Astarion is no stranger to those. He’s spent more time in the last few years with a throbbing skull than without. Still, from the very beginning of the ache in his temples, it’s clear that this one is different from the others.
Unlike the slow, steady build of his migraines, the pain comes out of nowhere. It’s as if someone has struck him across the head. As it goes on, it spreads outward – circling around the crown of his head until it feels as though his skull is being crushed by some invisible force.
Still, it’s manageable. He’s performed in much worse conditions. The pain isn’t blinding, and though his thoughts feel a bit slow, filtered out through the ache of it, he should be well enough to concentrate on the lyrics.
Then comes the sore throat. Concerning, but nothing new, even combined with the discomfort of his head. Many of his mornings have started off with a scratchy throat and a pounding headache – the price of his indulgence the night before. But he’s been sober for months now, and considering the amount of tea he’s been drinking, there really shouldn’t be any irritation.
When the exhaustion sets in from limb to limb and his nose starts running, Astarion is finally forced to admit to himself the thing he’s been skirting around all morning: he’s well and truly sick.
A cold, likely, but enough to make him want to curl into his bed with a soft blanket and sleep the day away.
But, of course, he has a concert scheduled later that night.
He’s missed several shows in the past, and been late to even more of them, but ever since Cazador was finally booted from his life, he’s been trying to be more consistent. Huge crowds of people have flocked to the city just to see him perform, and the thought of letting them down blooms guilt deep in his gut.
So, as he has so many times in the past, he pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to Gale.
A: Gale? Wru?
G: At the store, getting some equipment for tonight’s show. Why?
It’s the answer he was hoping for. Thank the gods that Gale had finally learned his commonly-used acronyms, because every second Astarion spends staring at the blinding light of his phone is worsening his headache.
A: Need medicine ASAP. Head is killing me. Feeling ill
G: I bought you painkillers a week ago. Check your belongings?
A: Cold medicine. Sore throat. Nose won’t stop running
Gale spends a minute or two typing, all of which has Astarion anxious. Gale can be a pain, but surely he’ll bring the medication. Won’t he?
Finally, the message comes through, and Astarion can’t help but scoff when he sees it.
G: The best remedy for sickness is rest, Astarion.
A: Gods, Gale, I know!
A: Just bring it.
A: Please.
G: Fine 🙄
Gods, who had taught him how to use emojis? Now he’d be insufferable.
Trying to ignore the sensation of his skull splitting in two, Astarion drops his phone on the bed next to him and shuts his eyes, hoping the pain will fade. When that doesn’t work, he stares blankly up at the ceiling, mindlessly counting away the seconds.
It’s agony. The store can’t be far, but every moment of waiting feels like decades. His nose keeps seeping liquid, and no amount of blowing or wiping alleviates it. When he finally hears the door opening, he lets out a breath of relief and sits up.
“Thank the gods. It took you long enough–”
But it’s not Gale who is at the door, holding the treasured bag of medication. It’s someone he’d much rather see, giving him a bright smile, her multicolored eyes shining in the light.
“Estellé,” he breathes.
The sight of her alone is enough to dull the throbbing of his skull.
“Gale told me you weren’t feeling well,” she says, stepping closer and setting the medication out on the bed. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”
“Now that you’re here?” he starts, flashing a smile. “I feel well enough to take on the world.”
But to his horror, just as he’s finished speaking, a sharp cough rips from his lungs, startling him and ruining all his attempts at being debonair. “Oh, for hell’s sake,” he groans, leaning back on the soft pillow and shutting his eyes again.
What a horrid thing this sickness is, robbing him of the sight of her.
But Estellé simply lets out a laugh in response, sitting beside him and smoothing the hair away from his face. “How has everyone taken the news?” she asks. He can hear her twisting open the medication, shaking out a pill or two and pouring some water for him from the bedside pitcher.
“News?” he asks.
She places the water in one hand and a pill in the other, and he forces his eyes open to gulp it down. The sooner he gets it into his stomach, the sooner the blasted thing can work.
“The concert,” she says. “Were people angry it was canceled?”
“No, my dear,” he answers. “It’s not being canceled. Believe me, I fully intend to go out there and give them the performance of their lives.”
He can’t see her face, but he can hear the sharp intake of her breath. “Astarion,” she says, and her tone has taken on a hint of chiding. “You have to cancel it. You look terrible.”
“Darling,” he exclaims softly, drawing his hand over his heart. “You wound me!”
“You need to rest,” she insists. “It won’t help anyone if you make yourself feel even worse.”
“You sound just like Gale,” he grumbles. “But fine – for you, my lovely Estellé, I’ll cancel.”
Once again, he opens his eyes, squinting and feeling around for his phone. As his fingers close around the cold metal, a flutter of shame moves through his chest. It’s rare that he cares about the negative newspaper articles, but ever since he met Estellé, something has changed.
He doesn’t want her to think badly of him. He wants to show her what he can be. She’d helped free him from Cazador, and that isn’t something he takes for granted. It isn’t something he intends to waste, lost in the drugs and the sex and the fame, as he used to be.
But she’s watching him with a muted anxiety, as if she’s worried he’ll attempt to go out anyway, and he really can’t resist her.
When he swipes his phone open, he finds a text from Karlach.
Hey, Star. You alright? Need us to cancel the show?
Ten minutes ago, he would have denied her offer in a heartbeat. It’s almost painful to take it, even though so much of him wants to.
Unfortunately, yes, he writes back. I’d love to perform, but…
But his head is squeezing in on itself like a fist around a stress ball.
But his voice can barely rasp out his words, much less croon one of his songs to the audience.
But his girlfriend is here, looking as though she might cry if he decides to move.
But I don’t feel well enough to go on, he finishes, sending the message through.
Aww, Karlach writes. That’s okay, Star! Get some rest and feel better – we’ll handle it.
A rush of gratefulness for his band washes over him. They’ve been there from the beginning, dealing with his lashing out, his anger, his irresponsibility. He’s been through horrible things, but everything he’s experienced would have been so much worse if they hadn’t been there for him.
He doesn’t even want to think about what that would have been like – performing nightly with strangers who didn’t give two sh*ts about his well being. Trapped with Cazador, battling out the urge to drink.
Gods, he thinks, suddenly overwhelmed. Maybe it’s his illness getting to him, or maybe the medicine is just starting to kick in, but he’s feeling well and truly sappy.
He drops his phone and flashes Estellé a grin. “There you are, love. I am now yours for the evening.”
Estellé affectionately rolls her eyes, scooting closer and brushing damp strands of hair away from his clammy forehead. Then she rests the back of her hand against his skin, and her brows pinch.
“You’re burning up, Star,” she says.
“It’s just the effect you have on me,” he shoots back, wanting to see her smile.
As predicted, the corners of her mouth pull up, but the concern doesn’t fade from her eyes. Still, she bends down, grazing her lips against his temple. “Stay here,” she instructs. “I’ll be right back.”
The moment she leaves his side, Astarion immediately feels worse. The throbbing behind his eyes is suddenly awful, and his mouth and throat are unbearably dry.
He can see glimpses of her in the bathroom, fiddling with something in the drawers. He hears the water faucet turn on and off, and then she’s coming back to him, dabbing a washcloth over his burning forehead.
It feels heavenly. Her touch always does.
When she pours him another glass of water, she tilts it back for him, and it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. His dry mouth abates, his sore throat soothes, and he contentedly lays back against the pillow, watching her.
The next few hours pass like that, with her slowly getting comfortable. His nose continues to run, so she keeps him supplied with a box of tissues, occasionally re-dampening the cool cloth on his forehead. She turns on some awful TV show, but he happily watches it with her, holding her hand and drifting in and out of sleep. Eventually, it takes him fully, sweeping him away from his hotel room and into the emptiness of sleep.
When he wakes, he finds a cup of tea with honey at his side, as well as a bowl of soup. Next to him, Estellé is curled up with a soft blanket, her eyelids fluttering as she sleeps. The TV is still on, so he leans over her to grab the remote and shut it off.
She looks so incredibly peaceful like this, tucked into his chest, the soft puff of her breaths brushing against his skin like silk.
If he didn’t feel like he’d been run over by a truck, he’d say that getting sick isn’t so bad.
Eventually, he gulps down the tea and eats some of the soup, finding it still warm. It’s comforting and nostalgic, and the thought of her caring for him like this makes the sap he’d felt earlier grow until it feels like it’s splitting his chest open with the feeling of it.
Love. The word comes without warning, and without permission. He’s in love with her.
Maybe it should have been obvious earlier, but it feels fragile and new in his mind, and it’s accompanied with a healthy amount of fear. For months on end now, she’s been the thing he looks forward to each morning, and the last person he wants to talk to at night. The person he truly feels comfortable with, the one who truly sees him.
To her, he’s so much more than his fame. It’s a rare thing, to not feel the need to put on a persona like he does with everyone else. Still, even after everything she’s done for him – love? Does she love him back? If he conjures up the nerve to tell her, what will she say? Is it too soon, when they’ve been seeing each other for so long?
Love isn’t necessarily new. After several bottles of wine, he’s admitted his love for his band. He loves his parents.
Why does it feel so different with Estellé?
Something tugs at his chest when he thinks of her, but love is not something he’s ready to jump into quite so fast. It’s delicate, like fresh ice formed over a lake in the wintertime, threatening to crumble with too much weight.
After much deliberation, he decides that this is a subject to explore when he’s not feeling like there’s something drilling into his head. After all, he shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions – who knows was in that medication Gale bought for him.
Yes, the love debate can come later. For now, more rest. Recuperation. If the gods are merciful, perhaps he’ll feel better next time he wakes, rather than worse.
With one last glance at the beautiful image of Estellé sleeping peacefully next to him, he settles down, closes his eyes, and allows the sweet lullaby of rest to sweep him away once again.
The lullaby of rest, he thinks, on the verge of sleep. That would make for a good song.
When Estellé wakes, for a moment, the room around her seems like a dream.
She’s stayed the night at Astarion’s hotel room before, but it’s still a rare occurrence, given the risk of paparazzi seeing them out and about. Anyone who lingers too long in his life is dissected in the papers, pulled apart piece by piece for strangers.
They’ve been decently cautious (most of the time, at least – even she can’t resist his occasional impulses to throw caution to the wind and f*ck on the beach) and so far, they’ve only been spotted together once or twice. Most nights spent together have ended with getting redressed and heading home.
Waking in his bed is still new, and she tucks the feeling of it away to cherish later.
Astarion’s body is warm, but not searing like it had been the day before. He’s still resting, but when she tests his temperature with her hand, she can already tell that he’s doing much better. There’s more color in his face, and his expression looks less troubled.
When she looks at the nightstand next to him, it’s clear that he drank the tea she left for him, and ate a helping of soup.
It’s a good sign that he’s eating. Overall, she’s much less worried than she had been last night.
When Cazador was still his manager, Astarion had been so overworked. Now that he’s free, she’d expected him to rest, but he’s been more determined than ever to put on a good show. It’s a sweet thought, but concerning - especially since she had to talk him into canceling yesterday’s show.
What was he thinking, wanting to go to the concert? From the moment she walked in, already worried from what Gale had told her initially, it was clear that he hadn't been feeling well.
His silvery locks had been tangled and messy, spreading around his pillow around him – so unlike the casual, chaotic air he usually embodied. There were dark circles under his eyes, his eyes were puffy, and his nose was pink. When he talked, it sounded like he was pushing out the words through gravel.
Gods, she thinks, looking at his sleeping figure. The peace in his face, the even rise and fall of his chest. His perfectionism would be the death of him one day.
Taking one last glance at Astarion, she decides that he’s sleeping soundly enough that she’ll be safe to go grab the two of them breakfast from a nearby bakery. Her clothes are wrinkled from sleep, so she rummages through his belongings and finds one of his shirts, slipping into it. Last night’s jeans will have to do, though.
After slipping out of the hotel, she finds the morning air brisk and the streets clear – no lingering paparazzi. It’s easy enough to make her way to the bakery and select a few different pastries to be shared, then return to Astarion’s room.
At the sound of the door closing, he stirs.
“Estellé?” he asks groggily.
“I’m here,” she assures him, setting the pastries down on the nightstand.
He opens his eyes, smiling when he sees her. When his eyes sweep over her clothing, he stalls. “Darling, is that my shirt?”
“Yes,” she admits. “I didn’t bring any spare clothes with me, and I borrowed it. Is that alright?”
He props himself up on his shoulders, and this time, he takes his time taking the sight of her in. “It’s more than alright,” he grins. “You should wear my clothes more often.”
She laughs, turning to grab some of the pastries. “Alright, handsome. Here. I bought us breakfast,” she says, sitting beside him. “You can have the first choice.”
He digs through the bag, eventually picking an éclair and chomping down on it. He really does look better today. His cheeks are flushed with color, and his blue eyes are bright and clear, the flecks of gold inside them sparkling in the hints of sunlight that stream through the gap in the curtains.
Still, when she places a hand over his forehead, he closes his eyes and leans back onto his pillow, sighing contentedly.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
“Dreadful, darling,” he croaks, accentuating the words with a melodramatic groan and a forced cough. “At this point, I’ll be shocked if I ever recover.”
“That’s a shame,” she replies, biting back her smile. “Looks like you’ll have to stay in bed, letting me take care of you.”
He hums in response, his eyelids fluttering. “You’re right, my dear. I feel much too ill to move. How awful,” he says.
Once they’ve finished eating, she takes to doting on him – wiping his brow with a damp cloth, brushing out his hair with careful precision, massaging his tense shoulders. He’s much more present than he was yesterday, and every time she turns away, she can feel the heat of his gaze on the back of her neck.
“I think a shower would do you good,” she tells him. “Do you feel well enough to get up now?”
“Maybe,” he answers, his gaze fixing on her shirt again. “If… you were to come with me?”
Insatiable, she thinks to herself, a streak of arousal shooting down her spine.
“Alright,” she agrees. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
This time, she can’t suppress her smile.
He gets to his feet with seemingly no trouble, giving her one last heated look before he makes his way into the bathroom. After a moment, she hears the water kick on, and the muffled sound of him humming Love Bites follows shortly after.
She pushes the door open and finds his clothes in a pile on the ground. Through the clear shower door, she can see his foggy silhouette in the steam that’s rapidly filling up the room.
It doesn’t take her long to discard her clothes, leaving them on the floor next to his. When she steps inside, she finds him shampooing his hair, his silvery locks doused with water and hanging down his back. His body shimmers with glistening droplets that cling to his skin, and even though she’s seen him hundreds of times, she can’t help but be struck by the sight of him.
“How’s the water, handsome?” she asks.
“Better with you in it,” he says instantly, turning toward her voice. When he sees her, his head tilts. His eyes sweep up and down her body, and his gaze darkens. “Well?” he asks.
She moves closer, slower than she knows he’d like her to, letting the warm water pour over her. It’s hot but not boiling, and as it wets her hair, it melts the tension away from her shoulders. She makes a show of running her hands down her body, all the while watching Astarion’s face grow impatient.
He pulls her in, settling his hands on her waist and positioning the two of them so the water isn’t hitting their faces. Then, after tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he kisses her.
It’s hungry and desperate – soft lips against hers, the heat of his body pressing against her, her back meeting the cool tile of the shower wall behind her. He kisses her like a man starved. Like he hadn’t taken her three times only two nights ago, and left marks on her neck, breasts, and thighs that still stain her skin.
Want pools in her gut, hot as flame. She grasps desperately as his shoulders, leaning her head back as he kisses down her jaw. It isn’t long before he’s nipping at the skin, leaving more marks to match the others.
“Astarion,” she breathes.
He groans against her skin. “Estellé,” he says, his hold tightening on her waist.
Her knees already feel weak, and she knows that they’ll only continue to buckle under his touch. Luckily, he’s steady in front of her, his arms strong and sure from all his time at the gym in the mornings, keeping her upright and stable.
He crowds her against the wall, his lips moving back up her neck, and this time, he slips a hand between her legs. Just as she’d predicted, her legs nearly give out underneath her at the feeling of his talented fingers. And he knows her much too well – knows what drives her crazy, what makes her tremble.
It’s an embarrassingly short amount of time before she’s shuddering into a climax, her back arching against the wall and Astarion coaxing her through it, keeping her feet planted on the floor. The sound of her panting echoes in the small space, evidence of her pleasure meeting her ears in waves, over and over.
“You are perfect,” Astarion murmurs, pressing an uncharacteristically soft kiss to her lips. “Every time. Although….”
His thumb rolls against her cl*t again, and she gasps – sensitivity and overwhelming pleasure mixing into one dizzying sensation.
“I think you can give me another,” he says. “You’ll do that for me, won’t you, darling?”
“For you?” she chokes out with a laugh, rolling her hips with the movement of his hand. “Anything. Anything you want.”
“Good girl,” he replies, and that’s nearly enough to send her crashing over the edge right then and there. By the grace of the gods, she holds on a little longer, because she wouldn’t be able to stand the inevitable teasing that would follow if she instantly came like that.
Still, the sensuality of his slick skin against her, the maddening rhythm of his fingers, and the hungry look in his eyes – it all leads to another very quick org*sm, sparking through her limbs with just as much intensity as the first.
When her body finally comes back to her, he kisses her again. There’s something about him that’s unusually restrained, although it might just be the remnants of the sickness in him.
Then he props her back, nudging his knee in between her legs to hold them apart. One finger slips into her c*nt, then two, then three, all with relative ease.
“Oh, you’re ready for me, love,” he practically purrs. “Turn around.”
She makes a show of it – slow, graceful movements that show off her ass as she braces her arms against the shower wall and bends over for him, hearing the sound of his breathing go heavier behind her.
Water drums against her spine, slowly growing cooler by the minute, but it’s the last thing on her mind. All she can think about is Astarion – his smile, the color of his eyes, the look on his face when he sings to her.
The sound of his voice in her ear, and the warmth of his skin when he holds her. The pet names he gives her, and all of the times he’s told her she’s special.
The fleeting hope she has that maybe, despite all of the logic screaming in her mind, she might spend the rest of her life with him.
He positions himself against her entrance, drawing her back to the present as he places his hands on her hips and slowly presses into her. “Gods,” he groans. “You feel… hells. Incredible.”
In response, she lets out a soft whine, rolling her hips back to meet him. His grip tightens and he groans again, setting a rough, quick pace that has her struggling for breath.
He feels so f*cking good inside her, filling her up, his grip almost bruising on her hips. He rambles out praise, telling her how good she feels, how beautiful she is, how he wants to keep her there with him and make her come over and over until she can barely move. Judging from their past experiences, she knows that he’s being completely and utterly truthful.
“f*ck, Star,” she whimpers. “I’m close.” Her c*nt clenches around him, and he lets out a choked noise, thrusting harder. Her body starts to tense, coiling up from head to toe, and he fists a hand in her hair.
“Come for me,” he instructs.
Her body obeys immediately. Her vision blacks out, and for a good few seconds, she can’t remember how to breathe. Her knees are trembling, her mouth is dry. The water has gone ice-cold, and she’s not sure she’ll be able to walk out of the shower on her own after this.
Behind her, she can hear Astarion reaching his own climax, moaning out the sound of her name as his thrusts lose rhythm and he finally spills inside her.
For a moment, neither of them move, both still recovering from the aftershocks of pleasure. Then he pulls out of her, gently easing her upright. She’s expecting him to shut the water off, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lathers her up in soap, gently massaging her aching muscles, kissing over the blooming bruises he left.
“Was it alright?” he asks softly.
“It was perfect,” she responds, lost in the bliss of his touch on her skin.
It seems to be enough, because he carefully washes the soap off her skin, moving on to shampoo. He takes care not to get it in her eyes as he rinses it out, then he does the same with conditioner. It smells like him – herbal and sharp, mixed with a hint of warmth.
Only then, when both of them are clean, does he turn the shower off and help her out. Her movements are slower than usual, and she knows that she’ll be feeling the effects of their shower later.
“You might need to be the one caring for me tomorrow,” she teases.
“In that case,” he says, giving her a grin, “I’ll be spending the day with the loveliest woman in all of Faerûn.”
