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It's some hours after this, close to midnight, that Edgar knocks at Max's door.

He's bone-weary, and feeling dully miserable, and doesn't know whether he wants to talk or fuck or curl up and sleep, just knows he doesn't want to be alone.

It's just Max tonight (Lucas and Rowan are off having a good time elsewhere most likely). He's having his traditional night cap of whiskey over ice when he hears the knock at his door. Hm. Who could it be at this hour?

He smiles at first when he opens it and sees Edgar. But the smile quickly vanishes once he registers the look on his friend's face.

"Hey, come in. What's going on?"

"Just ... having a bad night is all," he mumbles, stepping into the room.

Despite the warm summer night outside, he feels chilled. Max may notice the faint dampness of condensation on his clothes, although he hasn't.

Max can't help but notice the dampness as he puts a hand to Edgar's shoulder to guide him around to the sofa. They have a proper entertaining room now since the bed got moved to a separate room.

"Looks like a really bad night. You must be freezing cold, you're all covered in dew. Here, can I get you a robe? How about a hot cup of something to drink, too?" Maybe tea this time instead of coffee, Max thinks to himself. Something soothing.

He blinks, bemused, and lifts a hand to touch the fabric of his shirt, lifting it away with the smallest gleam of moisture on his palm.

"Oh," he says. "Yeah. Um, please."

As soon as he's sure Edgar is settled, Max hurries to start a kettle in the kitchen, then fetches his terrycloth bathrobe from the bedroom. By the time he's done handing that off to Edgar, the water is ready. Max finds a bag of chamomile and plops it in the cup and adds a dollop of honey for sweetness. Then, he returns to Edgar's side and sets the steaming mug on the coffee table in front of them.

"Just let that cool a little so you don't burn your tongue."

Now that those immediate concerns are seen to, Max gives Edgar another long appraising lookover. Not hard to see what's coming next. Max has questions.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I dunno how I got wet," he says, sounding subdued, reaching for the mug. "Didn't go in the lake or anything, I just ... I was walking for a while after, and running, and that wasn't good enough so I tried flying. Had to stop after an hour though, that's how the wings work."

He takes a long drink of tea, and cradles the mug against his chest for the warmth.

"Fly?" Hold up. Since when can Edgar fly? With wings?

"I'm sorry. Uh. Getting side-tracked. You've been upset and out there for hours? Why don't you start from the beginning for me?"

"Right," he says, and studies the tea in his mug, trying to work out how to start.

Finally, the name coming out on a long bitter sigh, he says "Astarion."

The less relevant questions fall away the moment Max hears that name. Oh. Crap. Not again.

Keeping his voice as neutral as possible, Max asks, "What about him?"

Something about that neutral tone -- or maybe just something that's been vaguely nagging at Edgar for the past few hours -- makes him lift his head and look at Max in faint misgiving.

"Did you know?"

Max's expression is placid, like a mask --the better to hide the inner turmoil. It isn't really so hard to guess what Edgar is asking about. but he wants to hear the man say it.

"Know what?"

Edited Date: 2021-08-16 10:37 pm (UTC)

Edgar looks away, swallowing.

"Don't make me guess, man," he mumbles, low and strained. "Been shite at guessing tonight."

Max's placid expression breaks into one of frustration. He runs his hand roughly through his hair, leaving it sticking up in places.

"He's a vampire spawn. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Edgar rubs a hand over his face in turn. "I just wish to christ you'd told me. Maybe if I already knew, I'd have -- or maybe not, I dunno, I din't know what to do --"

His hand digs into his hair, tugs uselessly on a handful of it.

"I mean, what would you do?" Louder, now. "If you saw someone lying in the grass covered in blood and laughing? What would you think?"

"Tell you? Edgar... I'm not without sin on the issue but... I'm not just going to go around pointing out every vampire in this place just because."

And now Max is starting to get genuinely worried about what exactly went down between the two.

"I think I'd be pretty concerned for their wellbeing. I don't know. I'd have some questions, obviously. And I have some now, too. Edgar. Please. Just tell me what happened. Did the two of you get in a fight?"

He gives a sigh, one that should sound aggrieved but his heart isn't in it.

"Came upon him a couple hours ago, round sunset, near the Wild. Lying on his back in the grass, like I said, singing out about how beautiful the sky was and that kind of nonsense. All over blood, but it didn't look like most of it was his. A lot of it in his mouth. Licking his lips for it."

Unconsciously -- if he were aware of it, he'd stop -- he rubs fitfully at his wrist.

"He din't look delirious, I've seen delirious. He looked drunk."

Drunk? Max frowns, perplexed. In his world, vampires only get drunk if they drink from someone who is. But Astarion isn't from his world. The rules can be and often are different.

"Maybe he was?" That's the best Max can do, with a shrug. "He might have gotten a little carried away with a feeding."

There's a brief flutter of worry that something similar to what happened with Quentin could have happened again. But, no. Astarion had better control now. And he wasn't starved anymore. And they were near the wilds so... maybe he got an owlbear or something? Shit, what if he drank something poisonous to him?

"Did you talk to him? Where is he now?"

"Yeah, I talked to him. Asshole as always, he was." A scowl. "And fine, maybe I was too, a little bit. Asked him how drunk he was, something like that. No, it was -- if he even knew whose blood that was, or if he was that drunk before he started eating. And he said something like, you could ask them, but they're dead."

He pauses there, watching for Max's reaction.

Max resists putting his head in his hands. Only just. It's not like the rivalry between the two surprises him. It also doesn't surprise him to hear Astarion was being an ass. But, of all the things to say...

"If that was supposed to be a joke from him... it wasn't funny." Max sure as fuck hopes that was only a joke. Astarion wouldn't kill anyone here. Not on purpose.

"Um. So, what happened after he said that?"

"Yeah, no, he was fucking with me," says Edgar, his scowl deepening. "And I thought he might be, but I din't know for sure, and -- what was I supposed to do?"

It's a protest, almost rhetorical. (Not quite. If Max can tell him what he should have done, it might help.)

"I called Lioriley. Through the tomes. Asked her to come get him."

Max grips the back of his neck, where the skin has begun to itch terribly. "I don't know. I guess... If you thought he was fucking with you, you call him on it? Get him to tell you the truth?"

Max doesn't know if he can really give better advice without having the full picture. Maybe he'd have called Lioriley too, to let her know Astarion was in a bad way. Although... Max has a sinking suspicion that it might only have made matters worse.

"So she came to help take him home then?" There's no question that she would come. At least now he knows for sure Astarion is safe.

"Is that the end of it?"

Edgar makes a scoffing noise, low and bitter. "Like he'd ever do anything for me asking it. That's the whole --"

His jaw clenches, and he swallows most of the bitterness back and starts over. "That's why I called her. Because she'd be able to figure it out, or get him to come clean, whichever. And he did, the second she showed up. Except first he told her, the boy thinks I've murdered somebody." With the words, and the imitation of Astarion's haughty tones, a good deal of the bitterness slips back into his voice.

"And she was fuckin furious. At me."

Max fights the urge to put his head in his hands. He knew that Edgar and Astarion were likely to mix about as well as oil and water but... this is more like gunpowder and a match.

"Edgar... did you actually accuse him of murder or was he just saying that? You didn't say it in front of Lioriley, did you?"

"No, I din't fuckin accuse him," Edgar snaps, stung. "And for sure not in front of her, I --"

His jaw works for a moment, and he picks up his half-forgotten mug and takes a deep swallow, visibly trying to calm himself.

"I thought it," he says, lower. "When I first saw him. But I didn't say it, because I thought I might be wrong. And then he said it to my face and I might have believed him straight up, right there, except then he laughed about it. Not about the killing somebody, about me believing it. So no, I did not actually accuse him of murder."

His shoulders hunch. "For all the good that did."

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