Chapter Text
Throughout his time with Cazador, Astarion had had very few experiences with platonic touches, more used to feeling passionate hands wandering across his body and returning the action in kind, practiced after years and years. The dissociation as he thrust into whatever warm body was underneath him, pretending to be in the throes of pleasure, was familiar.
So it was easy to fall back into old habits, cozying up to the odd wizard who had gotten himself stuck in a portal, flirting with honeyed words that would have been poison under his master’s command and a smile that had drawn the attention of greater men. But to his surprise, Gale seemed stubbornly resilient to his charms, merely smiling at him before changing the subject to some book he’d read or telling a story of a mephit that he had conjured when he was lonely as a child.
“So, wizard, any lovers or significant other waiting for you back in Waterdeep?” Astarion casually inquired during one of their strolls through the wilderness of Faerun, all the while fanning his hand in the air to bat away the pesky insects buzzing around his head. For a brief moment, he found that he missed the shit accommodations that Cazador provided in his palace– at least there had been a mattress and protection from the elements, which was more than he could say about the piece of sail salvaged from one of the boats near the crashed nautiloid that he had managed to fashion into a tent.
“Erm, not as such,” was the cagey response, followed by Gale excusing himself and scrambling to catch up to Shadowheart, very loudly asking her about her cleric magic.
Astarion was bemused—after all, there was nothing wrong with not having someone back home. He certainly didn’t, unless you counted his master, which… well, that was a whole other can of worms (or tadpoles) that he was not willing to open.
Despite the walls that Gale seemed insistent on building between the two of them, Astarion was nothing but persistent and a master in sleight of hand activities, which allowed him to snag little presents to feed the ever-growing hunger for magical trinkets in Gale’s chest. He understood, likely better than any of their other companions, what this hunger entailed. So whenever he found something that he deemed useless, he would slide that in his pocket to later sneak onto the bedroll in the purple tent next to his. After all, who needed a healing spell that came with the risk of putting the target to sleep when you had a perfectly good cleric (never mind the dirty look that Shadowheart shot him when she saw him rummaging around the Selunite chest and taking the contents—she would be singing a different tune when he managed to convince the resident Blade of Frontiers to sell his… requisitioned goods).
There was never any acknowledgement of his little gifts, except for the sidelong confused looks that he sometimes saw Gale shoot at him out of the corner of his eye. Astarion would accept the fact that they had not been unceremoniously blown up so far as thanks.
After a particularly brutal day of fighting a horde of mud mephits, wood woads, and redcaps in the once-illusioned swamp, followed by the encounter with the lone Gur hunter and the shock of realizing that even here, he was not safe from Cazador, he could feel the hunger gnawing at him. He used the commotion of dinner to slip away, looking for some prey to at least slake the worst of the pangs, and was relieved to find a wild boar snuffling around in the woods rather quickly. It didn’t fully satisfy the monster within, but it was enough to keep going.
After the meal, he took a moment to sit next to the corpse to look up at the canopy of trees above him, something else in his stomach twisting and coiling as, for the first time in this adventure, he let himself wonder what he would do once the tadpoles were removed. If they could even find a cure. The taste of freedom he’d had thus far was not something he was willing to give up.
A tentative foreign presence in his mind startled him out of his musing. He scowled when he realized that it was Wyll, who must have noticed his conspicuous absence from camp and was searching for him by way of the tadpoles. The Blade of Frontiers, checking up on the monster that he was forced to travel with rather than slay.
Astarion leapt to his feet to begin the trek back, letting the smell of the food in the air guide him. The quiet around him was unsettling. It brought back memories of a crypt and a year of silence. Relief filled him when he heard the harsh sounds of metal on the whetstone Lae’zel insisted on dragging around, interspersed with the barks of the mutt that Wyll had adopted.
His return was met with a cool nod from Wyll and a disinterested glance from Lae’zel. In another world, he would have cracked a remark about the less-than-warm welcome, but even he knew that he was walking on thin ice, with the recent revelation of his vampiric nature. So, he began to walk back towards his tent, only to be distracted as he walked past Gale.
The man was looking at the bust of a woman in his hand—an illusion, Astarion presumed. He walked closer, curiosity getting the best of him.
“Who is that?” he found himself asking when he got close enough. She was pretty enough, regal in a way that queens would envy.
Gale jumped, the magic dissipating into small purple sparks, as his hand closed. He turned to look at Astarion. “My, you startled me. I.. was miles away.”
I would be a pretty poor rogue if you could hear me coming, was on the tip of Astarion’s tongue, before he paused, choosing instead to incline his head towards Gale. “An old flame?”
“Of sorts…” The longing look that Gale shot towards his closed hand almost made Astarion turn and stalk back to his own tent to re-formulate a new plan, one that did not involve an emotionally unavailable target. “She’s Mystra.”
Astarion searched his memory for what he knew about the Goddess of Magic. “She's pretty,” was the only thing he could offer.
“She's everything. ” The reverence in Gale's tone made something in Astarion's chest clench.
“Well, I shall leave you with your goddess.”
“Wait.”
It wasn't enough for him to fully turn around, but he paused and inclined his head over his shoulder.
“Apologies, I was lost in nostalgia.”
The remorse in Gale's voice was enough for Astarion to finally face him. “It happens, darling,” he replied as smoothly as he could, plastering a practiced smile on his face. “Who am I to deny your pining?”
To his satisfaction, Gale reddened a little at that, before composing himself. “Would you like to experience the Weave for yourself?”
Astarion didn't quite understand the question. It felt intimate, on an emotional level that he did not want to admit terrified him. And yet, it was an opportunity to worm his way into the man's good graces.
“I normally prefer a more carnal approach, but who am I to deny the illustrious Gale of Waterdeep?”
The blush on Gale's cheeks deepened, but in a resounding show of self-control, he began to move his hands in the air. Astarion was captivated at watching Gale's hands, deft in a different way than his own quick and nimble fingers.
“Now you try,” Gale instructed.
As a high elf, Astarion found it almost innate to grasp the strands of the Weave, as he imitated Gale's hand movements and words. Motes of lights surrounded them, and despite himself, he found himself entranced by the soft pulsing glow. It felt… freeing. Pure, in a way that he could not remember being, not while under Cazador’s influence. One of his hands came up as he reached up.
“Good! Excellent!” Gale's voice jolted him out of his reverie. His hand fell heavily at his side. “You did it. You’re channeling the Weave. How did it feel?”
As a high elf, Astarion of course had called upon the Weave before, but it had always been innate, something that he had never thought about or had to concentrate on really.
“It’s… new.” Red eyes met brown and suddenly, a rush went through him. He could feel Gale, and not in the same way that the tadpoles connected them. Horror filled him at the prospect of giving someone else another avenue into his brain.
He plastered a salacious smile on his face and sauntered closer to Gale, until they were toe to toe in the dirt.
“Although, really, darling. Dancing lights? You couldn’t teach me something… a little more useful? Like… a fireball, perhaps? Or maybe something that could be used in the bedroom. It’s always the repressed scholarly types who love the most interesting things. Why not show me a thing or two from your… ah… Blackstaff days?”
Maybe he was laying it on a bit thick, propositioning Gale in such a manner, but no one ever accused Astarion Ancunin of subtlety and he would be damned if he started now.
“A-Ah. I’m afraid, uhm.” Suddenly an image of Astarion naked, writhing on what he knew to be the bedrolls that Gale kept in his tent, appeared into Astarion’s head. “Oh dear.”
“...” Astarion swallowed hard. Was that what he looked like, through Gale’s eyes? Sudden emotions burst forth in his chest as he desperately attempted to capture that image once again. To see what he looked like, even if it was through the eyes of another.
“Apologies, that was… inappropriate. I uh. Hm.” Gale waved his hand in the air, and Astarion could feel the Weave disappearing around them, the lights fading away and leaving a hollow feeling in his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No need for apologies, darling. It was a most pleasant image, to be sure. One we could make a reality?” Astarion offered, despite the queasy feeling in his stomach. He could lie back for one night. Secure protection until he… well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Ah. I’m afraid not.” The gentle smile on Gale’s face was in direct contrast to the sting of rejection that was wholly unfamiliar to Astarion. “Some things I cannot indulge in, due to the nature of my precarious position. Wouldn’t do to blow us all up in the throes of passion.” The laugh that followed his little joke was high-pitched and forced. “Truly, I’m honored, Astarion. If the situation had been different, I would wholeheartedly accept.”
Something in Astarion’s chest loosened, and he could just convince himself that it was due to the rejection not being absolute. “Well, in that case, I shall leave you bereft of my stunning company and alone with your dusty old tomes.”
The way Gale was studying him made him uncomfortable, but he maintained eye contact, unwilling to lose whatever strange game they were playing. Then, faster than he expected from someone whose primary form of defense was magic, Gale had leaned in, making Astarion’s breath catch. A pair of lips met his cheek in a quick kiss.
Gale took advantage of Astarion’s stunned silence to quirk a sly smile at him. “A promise of the future.”
--
The celebration was loud and raucous, with plenty of alcohol flowing, although less debauchery than Astarion normally liked at his parties. Yet, as he eyed the way Shadowheart and Lae’zel kept stealing glances at one another, he assumed at least someone would not end this night alone. Another glass of shite wine later, complete with Rolan’s paltry display of lights, he decided that he had enough and looked around for a different, more competent wizard. Gale was nowhere to be seen in the camp. Astarion frowned. He imagined that Gale would have been the first in line to cozy up to the illustrious First Druid that they had rescued from the goblin camp (which, the rescue mission had not been Astarion’s first choice, he did have to admit that Halsin was at least nice to look at).
Well, there’s no one else around here as interesting as the daft wizard , he thought to himself before stealthily snatching a bottle of wine from a crate and disappearing out of camp, pausing to shoo the mutt Tav had picked up away. He would never understand their leader’s habit of picking up strays, although Astarion supposed that he would arguably be a stray, wandering far from his master.
He eventually found Gale in a clearing by himself, with a bottle of wine with a white label gilded with gold dangling from his hand. Remembering the last time he had startled Gale and received a shocking grasp for his troubles, Astarion cleared his throat as he approached.
“You may yet have a career as a rogue, darling.” The grass was damp under him. “Wherever did you steal that wine from?”
Gale opened his eyes to glance at Astarion without turning his head. “Hello Gale, hello Astarion, how are you this fine night? Splendid, how about yourself?” Oh, so the wizard was in a mocking mood tonight. Good to know.
“I’ve seen you fireball five goblins at once, we can skip the small talk at this point.”
“There is a distinct difference between a flaming sphere and a fireball, Astarion. Which you would know if you’d listened to any of the number of times I’ve explained this previously.”
“I believe I shall leave the wizardry to you, if you leave the lockpicking to me.” Astarion was still sore about the time that he’d lost three lockpicks to a door before Gale stepped forward and cast Knock.
As belated revenge, he leaned over to snatch the bottle from Gale and took a deep drink, ignoring the spluttered protests that followed. The wine was dry, woodsy with an undertone of berry, and, most importantly, better than anything they had back at camp. “Where did you procure this?”
“I found it amidst the Zhentarim’s hidden stash.” Gale looked a little embarrassed, his face flushing, exacerbated by the alcohol. “I… meant to add it to the camp supplies, but… must have forgotten.”
“Darling, far be it for me to rebuke you for taking your dues. You do cook for the rest of them, after all.” Astarion handed the bottle back and laid back on the grass. It was surprisingly comfortable. “You are a terrible liar, by the way.” But they knew that, after Gale’s attempts at negotiating with the hag in the swamp ended in a battle that only ended when Wyll neatly decapitated her in spite of her pleas for mercy.
“Not all of us are raised with nothing but deception on our minds,” Gale replied quietly. Astarion froze at that, the words striking a nerve that he’d thought buried for over a hundred years, after the final attempt of disobeying Cazador’s demands landed him a beating from Godey and a stint in the crypt.
The hurt in his chest did not subside as he rolled to his side to look up at Gale, a pout on his face.
“Why, I thought we had something, my dear wizard. There is no deception there.” Astarion knew that he should have felt guilt, remorse— something , but there was nothing but the need for self-preservation.
He saw Gale glance down at him, the disinterest on his face flickering into something Astarion couldn’t read. “You spin lies like a spider spins her web. Forgive me for not believing you.”
Astarion huffed out an exasperated sigh. So much for thinking that Gale would be an easy target.
“You wound me, darling,” he pouted, something he had perfected eons ago. “Surely one night of release would not be amiss, given how little companionship you’ve had on our little adventure so far.”
He would not admit that his own lack of companionship was beginning to affect him, especially in the face of Lae’zel and Shadowheart’s tension-filled bickering.
Gale’s gaze sharpened, as he studied Astarion. He kept the pout on his face, meeting the wizard’s eyes. After a minute, Gale flushed, breaking the stare, a scarlet hue appearing underneath the tanned cheeks, exacerbated by what Astarion was sure was the alcohol flowing through his veins.
“While the offer is… appreciated, I would hesitate to partake in any activities that may result in any undue excitement… given the volatile nature of my, erm… condition.”
That put a pause to Astarion’s seduction, as he contemplated the truth behind those words. Gracelessly he flopped back down on the grass, closing his eyes, taking in the sounds of the night, the distant noises of the party still raging at their camp, the soft sounds of owls amongst the treetops, the cadence of Gale’s breathing.
He had to admit that this was nice; to steal this moment of peace in an otherwise terrible adventure before embarking on the next lead in removing the tadpole. There was movement next to him and for a brief moment, Astarion felt lips pressed against his in a chaste kiss. He opened his eyes to find Gale hovering over him. The question in his eyes must have been obvious, as Gale smiled softly.
“Consider it an apology.”
Astarion gave him a crooked smile. “I’ll consider it another promise of what is to come, darling.”
--
The red was trickling across his chest at a steady rate—nothing that would kill him, but the arrow still sticking out from right underneath his pauldron hurt .
Astarion couldn’t help snarling at Halsin when he finally emerged from that godforsaken portal, bearing the news that their job was not complete, that Thaniel had quite literally been ripped in half and they now had to trek across the Shadowlands to locate another small child. “Some baby-sitter you are.”
Wyll’s frown was the only thing that kept him from further berating the druid. Despite their journey through the Underdark and Mountain Pass, the gut instinct that the warlock would not hesitate to put a stake through his chest had never quite subsided, so he ground his teeth together and whirled around to stalk back to his tent to lick his wounds. (Figuratively, of course. His own blood did nothing for him.)
He plopped down gracelessly on the pile of blankets he had accumulated thus far, grimacing as the movement made the head of the arrow shift in his muscle. It was a strange feeling, one that normally Astarion did not experience, given his penchant for hiding in the shadows while releasing his own projectiles with deadly precision. The thought of seeking out Shadowheart crossed his mind and was immediately discarded, as he remembered that she was likely tending to Karlach, who had been out in the fray facing off with the shadow-cursed vines and spectres and had been on the brink of falling before she quite literally swallowed a soul coin. The flames that had surrounded her had frightened Astarion briefly, as he’d thought that this was the moment they might lose the tiefling.
“Astarion?” A familiar voice came from outside of his tent. Astarion could see the bottom of purple robes through the slightly open flap.
“What do you want?” he snapped, his normally debonair attitude all but forgotten as in one swift motion he yanked the arrow out. The bloom across his chest grew. While the rush of battle still dulled his pain, he hastily shed his armor. He had learned his lesson the hard way the last time he tried to unstick the metal and leather from his skin after the blood dried.
“You were injured. I wanted to check on you and offer my assistance.” Gale ducked into the tent, not waiting for permission. His eyes widened as he looked Astarion up and down, trailing his gaze to the floor of the tent. “That is… more blood than I was anticipating,” he remarked.
The trepidation in the wizard’s voice grated on Astarion more than anything. He hadn’t found anything to eat for almost a tenday, the familiar hunger under Cazador starting to settle in, and he knew it would delay his healing even further.
“Is your plan to just stand there and gawk, darling?” With his uninjured arm, he reached over for his pack, fishing around for a potion of healing.
“N-No. My apologies. I just… should you be seeing Shadowheart? She would have you right as rain in but a moment.”
“She’s busy.”
“Maybe Isobel has some spells to spare?”
Astarion scoffed. “Jaheira would not ask her precious cleric to debase herself to heal someone like me .”
It had been clear that the druid did not trust him. Their entire party, in fact, but him in particular. He remembered her name, but luckily had never encountered her in person during his time in Baldur’s Gate.
“You saved her life. Surely that is cause enough for her to—”
“We can debate what-ifs and life debts all night, Gale. It will not change anything.” There was a bone-deep weariness that suddenly filled Astarion. One that he had carried subconsciously with him this entire trip—magnified by the suspicion that all of his companions (except for Gale) wore, clear as day on their faces, whenever they caught a glimpse of his fangs; one that struck deep when Isobel paused while casting her protection on him, her face twisted in confusion before turning into anger; and one that made it impossible for him to fathom a life beyond the tadpole residing in his head. He pulled out a potion of healing, uncorked it, and drank the whole thing.
The bleeding stopped as the wound began to slowly scab over, the blood he’d lost and could not self-replenish rendering the potion near useless. The potion did what it was supposed to, superficially at least. He could still feel the torn muscle underneath the skin sting painfully.
“Do you have bandages?” Gale asked, quiet for once in his life. “You should bind that to reduce movement.”
“No.” Astarion had no need for bandages, not when he was out of the line of fire most of the time.
Gale looked him up and down appraisingly. “Take your shirt off. I will return shortly.”
The tent flap shut behind the wizard as he left. Achingly slow, Astarion managed to pull his tunic—a dusty stolen item, worn and frayed by its previous owner, now torn and stained—over his uninjured shoulder. However, getting it fully off without jostling his injury seemed impossible. He looked around for a dagger to attempt to cut the cloth off his body, and to his dismay, he had left his daggers further away.
He heard the entrance to the tent open behind him, before a voice exclaimed, “Astarion! Let me help you. Hold still.”
More shuffling, a warm body behind him, and the shirt was off as Gale deftly cut through it, his hand surprisingly confident.
“You have a steady hand for a spell caster,” Astarion commented as he gently peeled the cloth off, his skin sticking to the dried blood, making him let out a soft hiss.
“Do I?”
“Mmm.”
“Years of practice in the kitchen might explain that.” An image of Gale, in the middle of a kitchen (which Astarion was sure would also have some sort of purple accent, given the dedication the wizard had to the color in his wardrobe), flashed through Astarion’s mind. It felt right.
“I need to ah… clean the area.” Gale held up a cloth and a bowl of water. “With your permission.”
As soon as Astarion nodded, Gale dipped the rag in the water and began to wipe the blood off of Astarion’s skin.
“You can be a little rougher,” Astarion murmured, his voice a little hoarse. Gale’s gentle administration made something in his stomach twist, something that he didn’t quite know what to make of. His sharp eyes caught the rise of a blush on Gale’s cheeks, and he couldn’t help but smirk as he caught on to what the other might be thinking, especially after their night together after Elminster had stabilized the orb for Gale. Astarion would not think of the conditions that led to that moment. “I won’t break, darling .”
Gale coughed. “You had an arrow in your shoulder less than an hour ago, Astarion, and you’re refusing to see Shadowheart.” He wet the rag in the bowl again, the water turning a light pink.
“You’re no fun,” Astarion pouted a little, but let Gale finish cleaning him up, binding his shoulder with the bandages he pulled out from his robes, keeping his shoulder immobile to speed up the healing.
“There. How long has it been since you’ve fed?”
Astarion shrugged. “Unfortunately the pickings have been slim here.” Even in the face of ravenous hunger, Astarion didn’t dare try to feed off of a shadow-cursed being.
“Hm. When we are free of these lands, I will make sure you are well-fed.” Any response Astarion had died in his throat as Gale leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss right above the bandage, the gesture a brand on his skin. And deep inside, Astarion knew that Gale meant to keep the promise.
--
Of course Mystra would summon Gale. Astarion never knew the gods to share, and he was under no illusion that he would be the exception. He punched at the pillow on his bed viciously, watching it slowly rise back up, baring his fangs at nothing in particular. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to him that as soon as they had killed Cazador, that the moment Astarion was a free man again, Mystra would take interest in her pet wizard once again.
He hadn’t even been allowed to accompany them, had been fed some flimsy excuse about how he should take some time after his ordeal , as if he was a fragile maiden prone to swooning at any given moment. This must have been how the trail of spurned lovers Astarion had left behind him in his two hundred years of conquest felt.
Trancing wasn’t even a possibility with Astarion’s mind filled with so much pent-up anxiety and fury, the space not nearly enough for both his vacillating emotional state and the tadpole. Was he enough for Gale? The man who had a goddess in his bed and all of the magic in the world at his fingertips. The front that Astarion could put on was good, and he knew that. But as he’d told Gale, he wanted whatever they had to be something real.
Even if it only lasted a few tendays, it would have been the most beautiful time of his life.
There were heavy footsteps approaching their suite, and Astarion froze, waiting for the door to open. When it did, he peered out from behind his— their —screen to see Wyll and Gale come through the door. So, at least Gale had played nice enough with Mystra to not be immediately struck down where he stood.
Astarion didn’t know what that meant. Regardless, he looked up at Gale approaching their little nook with a smile. “Welcome back, darling. How did your little chat go?”
“Hm? Oh, it was… fine.” For once in the time that they had known each other, Gale was not forthcoming with his words and that made Astarion’s stomach twist in dread.
“Just… fine?” he probed. With a quick flick of his hand, he set up the partition that would hide them from the rest of their party to pull Gale closer by the lapel of his robe, dragging him in so that he was standing between Astarion’s thighs.
Gale placed his hands on Astarion’s shoulders—in an attempt to put more distance between them or as a gesture of comfort, he couldn’t tell. “I would rather not speak of this tonight, Astarion. There is much on my mind.”
An instinct that Astarion hadn’t quite fully eliminated rose to the surface, and he tilted his head up at Gale, angling his head in a way that he knew highlighted his cheekbones and eyes.
“Then let us not speak again tonight.” He reached out, deftly undoing the clasp at Gale’s throat with one hand.
When they had started this dalliance, Astarion had been unsurprised to find that Gale was a little more than pent up, after a year of abstinence from even his own hand. That sexual frustration bled into Gale's expression now, his pupils dilating at Astarion's offer and his breath catching. Astarion had thought that he would never have to offer his body up in exchange again, but what was it all the books said? A relationship meant compromise. And Astarion could compromise in this way.
His body for a love he had never known.
Yet, as each piece of clothing was shed, with each reverent trail of lips down bare skin, Astarion could not shake the nausea. He was thankful he had nothing in his stomach to come back up, as he buried his face in the crook of Gale’s neck to hide his expression. Blindly, he fumbled for Gale, wondering if he would be able to just get this over with using his hand, whether that would be enough to satisfy Gale into staying.
The time was marked only by Gale’s soft pants and bitten off cries, mindful of the company in the room with them, despite the unspoken agreement that liaisons of this nature would be ignored. Astarion shut his eyes to fight back the tears welling in the corners, distracting himself by running his fangs lightly over Gale’s shoulder, not deep enough to draw blood (he had learned his lesson the hard way already, thank you very much), but enough that it became his sole focus.
Belatedly, he realized that there was a hand down his pants, where his body admittedly was not as enthusiastic about their current position. He froze as Gale withdrew his hand, excuses springing to the forefront of his mind.
A hand came down to clamp around his wrist, drawing it away. “You don’t have to force yourself, Astarion.” No, no, no, this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
He raised his head so that he could see Gale’s face. The concern etched into every line on his face made Astarion want to push him away, hide further into himself.
Instead, he pouted and asked in a soft voice, “Do you not want me?”
Gale’s eyes were flickering rapidly, taking in every inch of Astarion, before pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “I will always want you, Astarion. There is no universe or timeline in which I would not desire you.” A clumsy hand found its way to his face, the thumb sweeping across his cheekbone, collecting the tears under his eyes. “But only with your enthusiastic consent.”
“I– but is this not what you want?” He felt unmoored, adrift amidst the sudden turn the night had taken. “I can… I can do it. You don’t need to worry about me.” What was it he had told Gale so long ago? But… a part of me feels sick when I think about getting on my back for breadcrumbs again . Except this was no longer just breadcrumbs or for protection, was it? It was the first real, meaningful relationship that he had had in two centuries of being a prisoner in his own body.
“Astarion. Breathe.”
A meaningless command, but one Astarion followed anyway.
“I will never ask you to force yourself to be intimate with me. You have my solemn oath. I would sooner die than touch a hair on your head without your permission.”
Astarion looked up at Gale, the feeling of vulnerability and rawness that had made its home in his chest ever since they murdered Cazador burrowing to the surface. All he could do was nod.
“Do you want to return to your own bed?”
He was shaking his head before he even realized. “No,” he said quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. No matter. “Just… hold me?”
The smile that Gale gave him settled something in his stomach, and as he found himself pulled into an embrace, the thought that he might actually get a happy ending crossed his mind.
--
This was it. Everything that they had done led to this moment. The air smelled of fire, ozone, and blood, fitting for the destruction of the Upper City all around them and the Netherbrain looming high above their heads. This was their last chance.
He heard Gale comment about the scent of Netheril. Whether that was figurative or literal, Astarion did not know. All he knew was that neither of them were guaranteed to make it out alive on the other side. Neither of them knew what horrors would be waiting for them at the top, what the Emperor would do in the face of their betrayal.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” Wyll had said, before pausing and holding out two potion bottles glowing with a holy light. “Angelic Slumber, should you need it.”
Astarion had conserved his magic in favor of coating his arrows with toxins, but Gale did not have that luxury. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the wizard was hesitating.
He reached a hand out and plucked one of the bottles from Wyll’s hand to give it to Gale. “Thank you, darling. I’m sure Gale will appreciate this. Keep the other one for yourself.”
“I’ll just…” Astarion turned to see Gale sink down into one of the less-ruined chairs in the room to down the potion, immediately falling asleep. Nothing to do but wait for the wizard to wake up, refreshed and raring to go.
Wyll looked down at the other bottle for a long moment, before seemingly coming to a decision, reaching out to clasp a hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Astarion. It was an honor.”
Despite their initial misgivings towards each other and the bickering that followed, Astarion had grown to respect Wyll as a leader and, if one caught him a few glasses of wine in, a friend. “The Blade of Frontiers and a vampire spawn fighting side by side. Who would have ever thought?”
“Maybe it can happen again in the future.” It was a worthy lie, one that they both could pretend for a moment would come to pass with a certainty. Wyll looked up, towards the sky of red and in the face of uncertainty, said, “I believe that we are allowed five minutes of quiet before saving the world, don’t you think?” The question was clearly directed at Prince Orpheus, who nodded before floating off, Wyll following him.
Astarion met Karlach’s eyes. He could see his own fear reflecting back at him, a kindred spirit. They both had their own personal battles to reckon with, if both of them survived this. “Karlach. You are the strongest of us all. Always have been, always will be.”
“Oh, Fangs.” She sounded close to tears as she stepped forward and pulled Astarion into a tight embrace. “You survive this, you hear? And we’ll… we’ll find a cure for that pesky condition of yours. Let you walk in the sun again.”
Always the optimist. Astarion let himself hug her back, breathing in the smell of sulphur that still lingered on her skin. “And we’ll find a way to stabilize your heart.”
Karlach pulled away and laughed, loudly and recklessly. It was a beautiful sound, one that Astarion had not heard since before their confrontation with Gortash. He wished that he could travel back in time and hit his past self upside the head for calling it a ‘hyena laugh’ and not appreciating it while he could.
“It’s a deal, soldier.” She gave him a salute with two fingers before turning to follow Wyll around the corner.
Gale watched her go, before turning to Astarion. “This is it. The brain and crown are close.” His eyes trailed over the brain stem. “I’m glad we face such a monster together.”
Together . That one word made the unnecessary breath catch in Astarion’s throat. He had spent so long fighting by himself and now, he not only had friends by his side, but someone who loved him so wholly.
“Time for a final kiss?”
For the briefest of moment, a glimpse of surprise flashed through Gale’s eyes. Astarion began to ready the pout that he knew Gale was weak to, but in the next second, he found that he did not need to, as Gale stepped forward, a hand shooting out to grab the back of his head and yank him into a kiss, hungry and desperate.
Astarion closed his eyes, letting the rest of his senses take in the moment. The musk of Gale’s scent, unique only to him, curled around him as an arm wrapped around his waist to pull him in impossibly closer so that their bodies were flush against one another. The scratchiness of Gale’s beard against Astarion’s skin as their mouths moved together was a familiar comfort from nights spent wrapped around one another at the Elfsong.
This was a kiss of two men about to die.
Gale broke the kiss only when the need for air was too great, but he pressed his forehead against Astarion’s, his fist still tightly gripped in white curls. “I love you, Astarion. My star, my moon, my everything .”
Astarion swallowed at the proclamation that sounded awfully like a goodbye. He wanted to beg Gale to keep himself safe, to make sure that he lived .
It was not something either of them could guarantee. “I love you more than I could have ever known I was capable of.”
If this is goodbye, don’t let it be in vain.