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There was always something so peaceful about museum exhibits. People weren’t as loud at museums. They lowered their voices and lifted their eyes in quiet reverence, as if they worshipped History herself at her shrine. Astarion had enjoyed a nice bit of chaos when he was younger, but now he appreciated the stillness.
For one thing, it made it easier to focus on Valora as she drifted from display to display, glossed lips pressed together in thought as she read each little placard. He especially appreciated the extra glitter of excitement behind her eyes today. Taking her to visit the temporary exhibit on ancient pottery had been a stroke of genius on his part and he internally congratulated himself.
Valora stopped in front of a case with several strangely shaped vases and figurines in it. She pointed at one shaped like a big, black bird sitting atop a perfectly round rock. Small white dots were scattered across its surface.
They reminded Astarion of the sprinkle of freckles across Valora’s pale purple skin.
“That’s mother of pearl,” Valora said. She spoke softly, but it still made Astarion jump slightly. Sometimes it really felt like she could read his thoughts. “Isn’t that incredible? I love how they pop against the terracotta.”
“You would like the strangest little beastie in the whole exhibit,” Astarion chuckled.
Valora smirked and planted her hands on her hips.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
He was, of course, referencing one of Valora’s most recent ceramic projects. A large teapot in the shape of a pumpkin with a perturbingly humanoid face. It wasn’t even glazed yet and somehow its eyes seemed to follow him whenever he entered Valora’s studio.
“Darling, you know what I’m talking about.”
“He’s not a what,” Valora sniffed in mock offense. “He’s a who. And his name is Harold, thank you very much.”
Astarion smiled. He couldn’t help himself with her. He reached over and took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. She was so warm and he felt an instant flood of comfort wash over him.
“Of course,” he snickered. “How insensitive of me.”
Valora grinned at him before turning her attention back to the display case. Her long, white ponytail swished behind her and Astarion caught a whiff of her shampoo, the scent of lavender enveloping his senses and making him a little dizzy.
Of all the works of art in the museum, she was by far the rarest and most beautiful. The way her neck curved into her shoulder, a perfect canvas for kisses. Her curves that fit his hands so flawlessly it was as if the gods themselves had sculpted them. Astarion’s undead heart fluttered against his ribcage and he squeezed Valora’s hand. The edges of his mind fizzled and blurred when she squeezed his hand back.
No matter how much time he spent with Valora, he was always in awe of the fact that someone like her wanted to be with someone like him. There was a part of him that sometimes worried that this was all a dream. Some beautiful vision created by his own tormented mind to find some solace in the silence of the grave. But at least it felt wonderful, even if there was a chance it wasn’t real.
“Ooh look at this fella,” Valora cooed, pointing at another piece in the same case. It was a figurine, rolls on rolls of plump body heaped onto two tiny little legs. A miracle that such fragile limbs could support the rest of the body. Valora turned toward Astarion and grinned. “Isn’t it amazing? People are people, y’know?”
Astarion raised an eyebrow, the side of his lips quirking up into a smirk.
“People…are people?” he repeated.
Valora rolled her eyes and pouted her bottom lip. Astarion’s thought about snagging his teeth on that sassy little lip, the taste of the gloss on his tongue. He took a sharp breath through his nose.
“Yes, people are people,” Valora snorted. “As long as we have been making things, we’ve made weird things. Sure, you have your hyper realistic landscapes and your anatomically correct statues. But look at what people were making when that wasn’t the standard for ‘Art’.” She held up her free hand, making air quotes before gesturing back to the figurine in the case. “That little fella doesn’t need to be realistic. He’s a thought, a vibe. He’s here because thousands and thousands of years ago, someone had a feeling and picked up some clay to make it real.”
The way Valora’s eyes sparkled when she was talking about art made Astarion’s stomach bottom out. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to feel her heartbeat against his chest. Just to be close to her. He stuffed his free hand in his pocket and clenched his thigh to ground himself, claws extending and piercing just a tad through the fabric and making him wince. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
“Is that what your little pumpkin friend is? A feeling made real?”
Valora laughed and squeezed Astarion’s hand.
“Yeah, Harold’s a feeling.”
The little creases around her eyes when she laughed made Astarion’s knees weak. He thought about pushing her up against the wall and kissing her until neither of them could breathe anymore. Valora raised an eyebrow and Astarion realized he was trembling.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
How could he not be okay? He was with her. He was with Valora. There was nowhere else he’d rather be in all the realms. He turned towards her, reaching up and cupping her face in his hands.
“Perfectly.” His voice, barely a whisper, dissipated into the air as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips. It was hard for him to keep it gentle. Every last piece of his being wanted to crush her against him, to make it evident to her, himself, and anyone else who could possibly walk in on them that she was his. But he restrained himself, keeping his touch feather-soft as he stroked the hollow of her cheek with his thumb.
She tasted like fresh raspberries, a mix of sweet and tart that left him feeling a pleasant numbness as he licked the flavor from her lips. Even in his mortal life, he’d never tasted a more delicious fruit. He wrapped one hand around the back of her head, the base of her ponytail resting against his knuckle, and pulled her closer.
Valora responded with a quiet moan and by draping her arms around Astarion’s waist. She dipped her fingers into the back pockets of his jeans and the extra level of contact made Astarion’s heartrate speed up a couple beats per second. After a moment, she pulled back, though her lips still dragged against his skin.
“Couldn’t wait until we got home, eh?” she teased. Her amethyst eyes flashed before she surged forward and reinitiated the kiss.
Astarion chuckled and placed his index finger under her chin. It was his turn to pull away now, resting his forehead on hers as his thumb nudged at her bottom lip.
“Can you blame me, darling?” he purred. “You’re irresistible.”
Valora giggled breathily as she stared up at him. A faint pink blush had spread across her cheeks, highlighting her freckles like a charted course on a map to heaven itself.
Astarion felt the familiar comforting feeling spread through his body, starting in his stomach and flooding outward through his limbs. His lips tingled. Reflexively, he swiped his tongue across his lips, tasting the lingering flavor of Valora’s lip gloss.
He found himself licking his lips over and over as they wandered through the rest of the museum. The abstract art exhibit, the glass sculpture exhibit, the new exhibit on photography. He savored the traces of raspberry from room to room and even into the museum gift shop.
As Valora wandered off to look at prints from the abstract art exhibit, Astarion found himself drifting towards a collection of recreations from the pottery exhibit. His eyes landed on a row of chubby little statues balancing on spindly little legs.
Valora’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Someone had a feeling and picked up some clay to make it real…”
He thought about the new life he’d somehow managed to build. How he’d emerged from the earth, clawing and scraping, dragging himself from his self-imposed tomb. Running on the same instinct to survive that had carried him through Cazador. The Absolute’s plot. Tavarti.
And he thought about how Valora’s love had shaped him, molded him, changed him into the person he was now. He simply was not the same man who had buried himself and left himself to rot. He was the man who would walk through a museum filled with beautiful works of art, savoring the silence. The man who would share a laugh about the disconcerting pumpkin teapot lurking in his lover’s ceramics studio. The man who cherished the taste of raspberry lip gloss as if it were ambrosia.
No longer an instinct. A feeling made real.
Astarion reached forward and picked up one of the little statues, turning it over in his palm.
Real.
He walked to the front counter and paid for it without a second thought. As the cashier handed him his receipt, Valora appeared behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder.
“Find something you like?” she smiled. Her eyes glanced down at the little statue, now being wrapped in tissue paper by the cashier to keep it safe on its journey to its new home. “Huh! Interesting! I didn’t think that particular piece would resonate with you that much.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Astarion waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not for me. I simply thought it would look good in your studio. Give me something to look at when I pass the door that doesn’t give me nightmares.”
Valora laughed.
“I told you, his name is Harold. And you should watch what you say about him. I was planning on gifting him to a friend, but maybe he’s meant to live with us. Right on our kitchen table where you can get a good look at him every single morning.”
“You wouldn’t,” Astarion grimaced lightheartedly as the cashier slipped the wrapped statue into a small paper bag. He took the bag in one hand and nodded in thanks before twining the fingers of his other hand with Valora’s. “That would be cruel and unusual punishment.”
Valora gasped in mock offense before tossing her hair and sticking her nose in the air.
“What can I say? True art is never appreciated in its time.”
They bickered playfully as they walked out of the gift shop and through the parking lot. The sun was shining, warming his back through his shirt. The sound of birdsong wafted on the soft breeze. Astarion’s mind wandered from the way Valora’s hair swished when she walked, to the softness of her skin, to the way her fingers slotted perfectly into his when he held her hand.
This was his life now. Nothing that came before mattered. As long as he was with Valora, he was precisely where he was supposed to be. It didn’t matter how much he’d gone through, how broken he’d been, how imperfect he felt in comparison with her. If she could see the beauty and the life and the humanity in the figurine stowed in the bag now blissfully bouncing against his leg with every step, then he knew she saw the same things in him.
A feeling made real.
With Valora, he was real.