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ASTARION

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[ Gale’s reply takes a moment longer, delayed by a near fall from his bed, tripping over his blankets in his haste. When he grasps his phone again, he looks down at his rumpled pyjamas, considering a few factors — speed, privacy, timing — before he types. ]

Yes.
Perfect.

[ His uncharacteristic brevity telling of something. Because it’s good news of a personal kind, he decides, not for anyone else to observe. He goes radio silent after that, tugging on wool trousers and a collared shirt, then hastily adding a pale blue jumper over the top. Dabbing his wrists with his gifted perfume, then his throat. Catching sight of his dishevelled waves in the mirror and switching course to fix it. Getting distracted by the whizz-bang of fireworks, so he opens the door to his little balcony, expression shifting with the light.

By the time he hears Astarion’s barely-there tread — attuned to the soft sound by camp life, their tents erected beside each other, and weeks of cohabitation here — Gale is almost ready. Dressed, essentially. The left edge of his collar remains tucked under his jumper and the whole of it sits a little askew, in place of the tidy fold that he favours. Where his Mystral earring would normally hang heavy, there’s nothing — a fact he realises only when a flourish meant to open the door between their suites merely fizzes. Right. ]

Come in, come in — [ He has the new earring in hand now, trying to cinch it closed and fumbling a little in his excitement and nerves. ]

[ Two sentences, each a single word. In any other circumstance, that would constitute an emergency— and perhaps it still does, even though Gale had said good news. Astarion can't help but feel nervous, though when he arrives at their suite, he has carefully ironed out each wrinkle of any such dubiousness out of his expression. He's wearing his usual, in this place: a button-down shirt and slim black pants, though the shirt, notably, is a deviation from his usual preferred white and cream shades, though the lightness of the lavender tone it boasts is such that a passing glance might mistake it.

But more importantly, there's the self-assured smile, which promptly falters — or rather, shifts, uncertain — when his eye catches the new glint upon Gale's ear. He does his best to play off the dip in his gaze, his fingers fluttering to Gale's collar to fix the skewed edge as he slips past him and into the room.

Half-marveling: ] You really did just wake up, didn't you?

[ He wonders if the earring is meant to be the good news, but it wouldn't explain just how long the wizard has been out of commission. (He hasn't noticed the new scar just yet, his touch a little too quick, too cursory for his gaze to have dipped below what's immediately visible.) ]

Alright, then — don't keep me waiting.

[ His glance strays again — he can't help it, even knowing that it gives him away. ]

And don't make me guess, either.

[ As Astarion flits past, Gale follows that fleeting touch as if pulled on a string, turning after him. A crooked, sleep-soft smile chases the contact, only displaced by Astarion’s comment on the somewhat haphazard state of him. Can’t help but adjust the vee of his jumper and card a hand back through his hair, tidying. ]

Yes, well. [ A wobbly gesture of approximation, before he flicks his hand out to push through to the point. And at pace, ] Fortunately, my thorough research on arrival prevented any undue anxieties about my health — or sanity, for that matter — after missing the better part of the day.

[ Babbling ahead of himself, he crosses the rich plum curtains of his four poster to meet Astarion in the heart of his room, framed by his open balconette. It’s at that moment that he notices Astarion regards him on an angle, which he tries to measure by sight alone until his fingertips brush his cheek. Seeking a forgotten smear of ink and finding none, they stray to catch the dropped opal instead, more out of habit than cleverness. The feel of it galvanises him, of course, an entirely divergent weight and shape from the pointed star that Mystra gifted him so long ago. ]

Oh — I finished attuning it last night. [ A rushed explanation as to why he’s wearing it now, though it doesn’t quite account for his sudden, creeping flush. The admission robs him of higher thought, too wide eyes searching Astarion’s posture for discomfort and noting the faint lavender hue of his shirt in the process. Fetching, to be sure. Whyever should that warm him so? ] A long overdue change, though you mustn’t tell Tara I’ve confessed as much.

[ When they meet in Waterdeep, a fantasy made more real by the events recalled. (As for Tara, she spent a not-insignificant amount of her time toppling the Mystra statuette on his desk every morning until it finally cracked.) ]

— Does it suit?

Edited 2024-12-30 20:17 (UTC)

[ The tenor of that oh suggests that this isn't what Gale has called him here to talk about, but it overtakes the moment nevertheless. They haven't spoken in such explicit terms about Gale's devotion to his goddess beyond what one typically expects of a master and her disciple, the romantic connotations left aside because they haven't established themselves as having traveled into such territory. But Gale blushes when he touches the new earring, mentions Tara's displeasure with her companion's former lover, and once again they skirt around the ever-growing elephant in the room.

Still, Astarion seems unable to keep the pleased smile from his features, a huff of breath accompanying a nod. ]

I'd hardly have given it to you if I thought otherwise.

[ He shifts his weight to his back foot as he takes a longer look; free, this time, not to pretend he's otherwise occupied. He's tempted to continue on, to say that this suits him better, but that's a mine of its own. ]

Though I suppose that matters less than what you make of it.

[ It hadn’t occurred to him, in his infinite wisdom, that Astarion thought of it — of him, conjuring images of how a stone might suit his hair or complexion. Even more considered than he realised. Gale mirrors his smile, a lopsided tug at the corner of his mouth. ]

Well. [ The apple of his throat bobs. ] It’s really quite lovely. [ Too soft, too sincere. ] I don’t think I realised how heavy it’d become, if such a thing makes sense.

[ When he first left his tower, he already couldn’t feel Her spectral hand at his back any longer. Hardly caught a whisper of Her in the Weave while in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, but for when he served Her dutifully and destroyed the necromancer’s sigil. To remove Her token shouldn’t have felt monumental, with that absence and his heavenly mandate in mind, and yet — it had been a release of a kind, so much of the love he had for her held safe in the fine metal, proof that he was Chosen once, if never beloved in return. ]

— that is to say, [ ahem. ] we should return to why I called for you.

[ A long look. Appreciative, above all. That Astarion came. That he contributed to the outcome Gale has the privilege of sharing with hushed excitement. ]

I remembered. [ Wait. Rotating a finger backwards, rolling on the the wrist. Hands ahead of his words. ] Or perhaps I went back. [ He blinks twice. Reversing the motion, mouth pursing. ] Forward? [ Grip catching in the vee of his jumper, thumbing over the thin scar when he’d normally soothe the mark of the orb, ever aching. A slight shake of his head. ]

In any case, [ Reaching out, then, fingertips grazing Astarion’s sleeve. ] I’ve made it to Baldur’s Gate with you.

Edited 2025-01-01 03:22 (UTC)

[ Of course it makes sense. To him, as much as to everyone else in their little party, bound together not just by their respective tadpoles but by loyalties, friendships, beliefs that had all worn them raw. Cazador's boot on his neck, an inexorable weight tolerated because there's nowhere else to go once one reaches the deepest ocean floor.

He thinks of that weight as the pause between them stretches, and then— I remembered. A light. A bubble floating upward. Silence and stillness suddenly surge forward and upward, into relief and worry and surprise. That brush against his sleeve is enough to prompt his own hand to rise, his fingers scrabbling over the back of Gale's hand to reach his wrist. It's only that touch — an anchor, concrete proof of Gale's presence here — that opens the door to his realizing just how worried he's been that this day might never come to pass, that his devotion might simply carry him to detonation after all. ]

I had hoped—

[ A third path. Shock peels away into gladness. Whatever comes next, they'll face together, now on equal footing. ]

I told you, didn't I? [ he says, each word recovering a little more of his usual confidence, his usual teasing. (He hadn't really, after all — he'd done his best to let sleeping dogs lie, allow Gale the courtesy of writing the absent chapters on his own.) He seems to realize, then, that he's still holding onto Gale's wrist, as his gaze flickers down before he lets his fingers loosen, falling tentatively away. He reassesses, then, his focus settling on that new bit of scar tissue. ]

How— how do you feel?

[ I had hoped, a half-formed phrase that rends his ribcage. A touch at his wrist that opens his expression, robbing it of any lingering bravado. He yearns to apologise, to say he was a fool for ever thinking of oblivion when Astarion is here — but there’s a ways to go before the end, isn’t there. Only one of the dead three fallen, and a brain behind them. Still, that Gale can see a third path at all, when he’d looked at the stars contemplating his end alone, is a victory. He needn’t spoil it with his infinite calculations and corresponding anxieties. ]

Alive, for a start.

[ The fireworks pick up again, a triple-bang that startles his shoulders up. Alive, indeed. With a delirious little laugh, at his skittishness (his rabbiting heart), Gale reaches for Astarion’s hand again, grip sure this time, and tugs him toward the little balcony, snagging his coat the back of the desk chair along the way. A glittering rain falls before the next bang crashes overhead. ]

Hopeful, when I haven’t been in some time. [ Even before Elminster delivered his sentence, Gale did not think he would survive the year. He releases Astarion only to shake out his coat, a magician’s flourish, and drape it over his friend’s shoulders, a hand lingering on each side of the unfolded collar to ensure it sits snug enough to protect against the wind. ]

Grateful, most of all, for those who wouldn’t wish me dead. [ He ducks his head, then, a cascade of sleep-rumpled hair falling in his face, strand by strand. ] I had hoped [ a warm echo. ] to spend the day with one such person before I slept through it all. It’s another of their traditions, you know, the passing of one year to the next with someone — [ precious, dear, beloved; he leaves it at that. ] Best laid plans, eh.

[ For the day, for his death. How the night changes. ]

[ Gale takes his hand, and Astarion allows himself to be pulled along, his head tipping back as the fireworks explode across the night sky. The light weight of Gale's coat brings his gaze back down, though his eyebrows remain suspended a tad higher in an expression of surprise. ]

"One such person," [ is what he manages, the words spoken gingerly even as his gaze follows the stray strands of hair that fall across the wizard's features, his fingers twitching with the temptation to brush them away and settling instead upon his own chest, pulling the lapels of Gale's coat together. ] I suppose I shouldn't presume.

[ Despite the kiss, despite the confession that followed (that they'd been each other's firsts since their respective imprisonments, though Gale would likely argue the terminology). It's a different color of vulnerability than the way Gale has seen him caught on his back foot: insecurity, the inability to accept what's been laid out in front of him lest he be made a fool soon after, illuminated by another shower of red sparks overhead. Gale's seen more of him, now that they've caught up to each other. Surely his feelings might have changed, surely he'd see him differently, found some new secret revealed to be to his distaste or discovered a habit that could drive him crazy if endured for too long. ]

You didn't doze the whole day away. You've a few minutes left to remedy your lot, if you make a run for it.

[ As if Gale hadn't called him here to begin with. ]

[ Feigning surprise, eyes bright— ]

—There are other people here?

[ In his room, in the whole of the manor, the world. That’s the thing about Gale. When his eyes meet another’s, the crowd blinks out.

The corners of his mouth quirk, faint but fond. ]

[ quieter, ] That can’t be right.

[ Despite all his chattering and the occasional flustering beneath the mistletoe. My heart remains conflicted, he told Armand, thinking not of the heavens but of their adjoining rooms. A little tousle of his hair into the wind, clearing his face. Not quite tidy, but passable.

He brings a hand to Astarion’s jaw, tipping it delicately. Watching his sharp features stretch and soften, awaiting the warning or gentle pity that would tell him to call the whole thing off. For Gale, it’s now been some weeks since he kissed Astarion — just the once, chased by entwined fingers and lingering glances — time instead spent traipsing through the dark alongside each other, a seemingly simple (terrifying) choice made more complex by the bonds now tethering him. ]

No need to rush, besides, [ a promise tucked inside his phrasing. ] when I’ve only a step to take.

[ Shoring up his reserves of courage has always been easier when they were buoyed by affection. ]

[ Again, Astarion can only laugh. It seems to happen more and more these days, especially around Gale. Laughter, hapless and genuine and light, rather than a reaction manufactured to draw its listener closer in. Yet Gale draws closer regardless — gentle touch, sweet gaze, given despite a lack of artifice on Astarion's part. Doubts well up inside him — most keenly, the thought that Gale would turn away from him if he knew what he'd done, if he understood the covenant he'd made at Cazador's feet — but they fade into nothingness as the other man's hand finds his jaw, as their eyes meet again.

He understands that this isn't magic, not like the pull of the mistletoe, and yet a tinge of that coloring remains. The rainbow of colors that blossoms across Gale's features as the fireworks continue overhead, sparks mirrored in the pools of his gaze. Elsewhere in the house, in the garden, revelry is in full swing, carrying faint currents of chatter and music, a song he can't quite place, to their balcony.

For a long moment, he just looks at him, like time has stopped, like the moment has suspended itself. Then, finally, on a breath: ]

Take it, then.

[ Not a warning, not pity, but an invitation properly extended. ]

[ Every time Gale earns a laugh, the sound seems fuller, sweeter. He looks back, nerves dissipating under the familiar weight of dark eyes, rounding when they once only narrowed. He ought to make light of it, to hush if you insist as he ducks his head, but he’s struck speechless by the clarity of Astarion’s invitation. Unmistakable.

A final burst of nerves. A hummingbird heartbeat. Then, Gale brings his other hand to Astarion’s cheek, calloused fingers sliding back — to the shell of his ear, the give of moonlit curls. Both hands touching, tilting, seeking. Awe in the set of his eyes before they shutter. All in the name of a more intentive kiss than before. A little harder, a little surer — both a kiss for the sake of it and a kiss that could go somewhere. Until — ]

Apologies. [ Breathless and lingering close in the aftermath, heat blooming on his cheeks. ] I — You’re meant to wait until midnight. [ stupidly, ] For the tradition.

[ Impossible to keep his thumb from straying to the corner of Astarion’s pert mouth, even so. To stop himself from thinking about the inherent tenderness of Astarion having kissed a place that isn’t his mouth under the mistletoe. ]

[ The kiss is sweet. Astarion needn't search for another word for it, doesn't think of anything else in the moment but Gale, the thorny mass that has wound itself around any conception of intimacy in his head dissipating for a singular beat as he allows himself to want, to be wanted. He feels dizzy, almost, sensation overriding the myriad calculations that have characterized most intimate moments before this as he tilts his head into Gale's hand, meets his eyes with affection clear in his own. ]

Naughty.

[ Just as breathless, carried on a laugh. ]

I ought to have made you wait.

[ But there's no real heat or intention behind his words, just a gentle sort of teasing. It feels, almost, like stretching out the tiny shred of certainty he feels like so much dough over a larger plate — letting it fill him up, closing up the gaps so there's no room for anything else right now, even if fear or doubt set their claws in him later. Right now, there's just this.

This, as in the kiss Astarion presses to Gale's lips in return, confidence begetting more of the giddy same as his fingers curl in Gale's sleeve. He's almost shy when he pulls back, as though taken aback by his own desire. ]

Nothing more until midnight! [ Though he wavers on the spot, uncertain if he really wants to pull away. ] For the sake of tradition.

[ Astarion gifts him so much, culminating in that second, unexpected kiss. Offered freely, no influence but Gale himself to account for. Gale doesn’t let him go, isn’t sure he could, thinking, madly, what fool would ever wish to be anywhere but here? What matter the heavens, with earthly delights so bright? ]

Wow.

[ wholly captivated, despite that note of surprise, leaning forward like he’s awfully tempted to kiss Astarion again and again and again until they haven’t the faintest idea who is kissing who. Too much, too fast, possibly born of the same instinct that carried him around a darkened bend to an eerie glow. To have or to please — reigned in, to the barest press forehead-to-forehead, nose-to-nose before he lifts his head to a sociable distance. ]

Until midnight.

[ Echoed like a reminder to himself. Hopeful as a pup by the door, head tipped to one side. Gale lets his hand fall away from Astarion’s face, skimming down his arm to re-entwine their fingers. ]

It’ll be worth the wait.

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