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Of all the times to not have a reflection.
Two hundred and fourty-four years since he last saw his face, and Astarion could scarcely remember a time when he more longed for assurance of his beauty. It was silly, he knew. Of course he was beautiful. A thousand people had told him as much. Alluring, they said. Carved from marble. A sight to behold. They blushed when he tilted his head just so; stammered over words when he lowered his voice and called them darling.
He didn’t care what they thought.
Astarion pulled on outfit after outfit, looking down his body and attempting to gage the extent to which each flattered. He toyed with the red-and-black for a while - it always garnered compliments, though he supposed it was a bit gaudy for a meetup amongst old friends.
His eye trended towards the sending stone, ever-present on his nightstand. It hadn’t glowed in over a month. The silence hadn’t stopped him from instinctively checking it during those long tendays, though he knew its companion remained behind in Waterdeep. Hadn’t stopped the nerves, either. He ran yet another hand through his hair. At least he had some control over that, at least as much as anyone had control over curls - they still dried and set after a good wash like anyone else’s.
In the end he settled on close-fitted leather leggings and a shirt cut loose at the neck, both in black. All teasing aside, he wasn’t above exploiting a bit of nostalgia.
As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon Astarion was out and making his way to the Elfsong.
Truth be told, he hadn’t seen much of the others in the five years since the nautiloid. Yes, the circumstances were rather unique - Karlach and Wyll in the hells, Lae’zel among the stars. Now and then he caught a pint with Jaheria, but her Harpers and children kept her busy. Ah yes, I know how it is, Astarion would laugh, tamping down the ache of campsite memories; when he too had something resembling a family to occupy his days.
And then there was Gale.
**
“What is it now,” Astarion sighed, silencing the sending stone’s vibrations. “Are you still having trouble with that door? I told you - the trick is to press both springs simultaneously. If you can’t get it unstuck with my help, darling, you may as well give up.”
“No no, that worked a treat. But I’ve just been invited to lecture in Candlekeep in three months’ time,” Gale said in a rush. The excitement audibly brimmed in his voice. “I thought I might leave a few days early and spend them in the Gate.”
Astarion’s heart leapt. “Oh?”
“Well, I’ll need to convince them to put me up in the Elfsong for a few days, but given the glowing comments on last quarter’s staff review, not to mention the rather lengthy trip, I doubt that’ll be a problem. You’ll be around, then?”
“Of course I will,” Astarion said lightly. “My condition and multi-day travel don’t exactly play nice, need I remind you.”
If they did, he’d have visited Waterdeep long ago. Five years of this and still they hadn’t seen each other since he watched Gale give a last wave from the caravan departing the Gate. The road from Waterdeep was long and Gale had conditions of his own that made lengthy travel difficult; responsibilities to the academy, an aging mother, and an inherintly reclusive soul among them.
“Excellent!” He could practically hear Gale beaming through the stone.
“Do keep your mother away from stairs this time.”
“Oh, I’ve already blanketed her in scrolls of feather fall. Never you worry. I don’t think my heart or her hip would survive another incident like that.”
What precisely couldn’t Gale’s heart survive, Astarion itched to pry. Nursing his mother through another injury? Or the disappointment of having to cancel his first attempted trip to visit the Gate - to visit Astarion - last summer? Morena’s fall hadn’t been anything a few healing potions and Gale’s unrelentingly protective care couldn’t handle; she'd been back on her feet within a few days, calling out apologies through Gale's stone while Tara hushed her.
“Then I’ll get right on the preparations. Tell me - what are you most nostalgic for in Baldur’s Gate? Slanderous words in the Gazette? Clanking automatons on every corner? Don’t tell me it’s the shapeshifting clowns.”
“Now that you mention it, I had hoped to make another visit to a certain subterranean prison…”
“Hah! Let me see what strings I can pull. I do enjoy the thought of you in cuffs."
“Ah, all kidding aside, Astarion,” Gale said, and Astarion became suddenly aware that he was beaming down at the violet glow of the sending stone with a foolish, besotted grin. “Don’t trouble yourself with anything on my behalf. So long as I get to see you at long last, I’ll be a contented man.”
**
Astarion’s breath hitched as he scanned the Elfsong’s bar.
Gale hadn’t spotted him yet, brown-eyed gaze flicking repeatedly to the Elfsong’s other entrance. Humans and their poor eyesight. It was almost endearing, and frankly, he was a touch disappointed to find Gale wasn’t wearing his glasses. They sounded rather adorable.
“Why hello, darling,” he said, sliding into the seat opposite.
“Astarion,” Gale greeted him. A warm smile graced his face, and he held out a hand, then shook his head and leaned forward over the small table. Astarion awkwardly leaned in as well, letting Gale attempt to pat him on the back in an odd sort of hug.
Gods, he was warm.
Warm, and soft - he looked good. The comforts of Waterdeep settled nicely on his frame and features. What Astarion remembered as a few graying strands now stood out as defined silver streaks. His eyes were a bit more crow-footed, though less weary. And he’d gained weight, though he hadn’t been particularly slim during their tadpoled years to begin with.
“You look good,” Astarion voiced aloud.
“Ah, it’s kind of you to say. I look like I’ve aged five years and put on considerable heft, because I have.” Gale paused as a barkeep brought over two brimming glasses of wine, evidently having ordered for them. “You, on the other hand, haven’t changed a day, but, well - I needn’t tell you that.”
Astarion accepted his glass. Dry, oaky, a whiff of dark fruits - Gale always did have excellent taste. “Benefits of the eternally young.”
He let Gale’s self-deprecating comment slide, at least for now, chalking it up to a bit of misplaced if overdue humility. The age and the weight clearly suited him. It was always apparent in their wilderness camps that the man favored a fine life, the kind Astarion envied and coveted. Beds with too many pillows, enough food to grow plump off of, an audience to ooh and ahh at his bad jokes and pompous tricks. Mystra’s spoiled pet, he’d often thought, at first a bit unkindly, and then with sympathy. Pets could be kept in cages all the same.
But Gale was hers no longer, and all the better for it. Astarion noted with pleasure the simple silver hoop through his ear. He recalled with great clarity the considerable fretting over that decision; Gale’s insistence that he felt naked without the earring. Then don’t let it close up, Astarion had said, as his stone echoed back And replace it with what? To repurpose and reclaim a wound or let it scar over, pretending it never existed even though you’d once sat back and let someone pierce the tender flesh….Well, whatever you want, darling. It’s your choice now. That’s the point.
“Really, Gale,” Astarion said. “It is good to see you in the flesh. Even if your hair’s gone nearly as white as my own.”
“I’ll have you know Tara says it makes me look distinguished,” Gale informed him in a mock-haughty tone, twirling a few strands around one finger.
“Did she make the trip too?”
“Ah, no. She’s keeping an eye on mother, so I’m under strict instruction not to get up to too much trouble while left unsupervised.”
“Oh, darling. That’ll never last.”
“Temptation, thy name is Astarion.” Gale’s eyes crinkled with his good-natured laugh, and Astarion’s heart folded inward in turn, crumpling tight like the rejected draft of yet another revealing letter.
“Naturally. Whatever happened to that taste for chaos you claimed to be developing?”
“If your knees ever start creaking like mine, you’ll know.”
“All talk and no follow-through - disappointing.” He flashed a wink.
To his delight, Gale returned it. “Well. The night is young.”
**
The sending stones were an excellent idea. He wasn’t going to tell Gale as much; the man’s ego needed as much stoking as a wildfire. “My cramping hand grows tired of letters,” Gale had said. “We both know I’m a better conversationalist than writer, anyways.”
What started as an every-tenday scheduled call turned into twice-a-tenday. Then thrice. Then one evening the stone vibrated apropos of nothing and Gale, a little tipsy on the other end, began gushing about the pie he’d just made. From there it simply spiraled.
And now - now Astarion lay sprawled in bed at an hour of the night during which he was used to being the only waking soul, the stone by his head. Their lengthy midnight conversations always brought back memories of the tadpoled days. He hadn’t seen Gale in what - three, almost four years? But he could still picture him with mirror-image precision. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend the voice beside him came from Gale in the flesh, lying on the bed, likely shirtless, waving his hands in the air as he talked…the plump swell of his stomach just there, the particularly thick trail of hair below his navel…
Gods. Gale wasn’t even saying anything particularly suggestive. Well, he was talking about his most recent semester of classes, and he kept saying “Blackstaff” in a particular way.
“And do the eager apprentices all have a crush on Professor Dekarios?” Astarion teased, as Gale’s anecdote concluded. “The eyeglasses are quite compelling for some, you know. I do hope you’ve been wearing them.”
He heard an amused snort through the stone. “You joke, but you wouldn’t believe the gall of some of the older girls.”
“I imagine Tara has a full-time job batting them away.”
“Something like that.”
The subsequent silence settled heavily over the conversation. In all these years, Astarion had steadfastly avoided asking after Gale’s love life in any serious way. Surely he’d had lovers after Mystra. Powerful and handsome men rarely lacked for company.
Astarion himself had taken a few over the past year. Pretty little things for an evening of pleasure, including more than one heavyset brunette, but nothing serious. Perhaps Gale’s silence was promising. He could only assume - hope - that his effusive tongue would’ve wagged had he found something more himself.
“Sometimes I worry about you, Astarion,” Gale said. His voice sounded faraway, soft with concern. “As someone who spent a year deprived of even the smallest human touch - it’s no way to live. The thought of you all alone in that cavernous palace, with all the memories it must hold, I…well.”
He was right. Astarion opened his eyes and looked sideways at the small glowing stone. A poor surrogate of a bedpartner.
The problem was, hope could be a stubborn thing. And he still clung to the one that someday he would look over and see Gale beside him.
“Don’t worry yourself with me, darling,” Astarion said at last. “I’m doing perfectly fine. Besides, it’s getting late. Or - early. I should let you go.”
**
“Gods - I’ve been remiss with my manners, haven’t I. Here I am jabbering on, having barely asked you anything of yourself. So.” Gale leaned forward, arms crossed on the table before him. He’d pushed his sleeves up, and the hair on his thick forearms practically begged his stare. Astarion determinedly kept his gaze level. “How have you been, Astarion?”
“What, since last month?”
“Oh, quite a lot can happen in the span of a month. A tenday, even - need I remind you of the progression of a certain tentacled condition?”
“Please don't.” Astarion shuddered and pulled a face, playing it up a bit to entice a chuckle. Their conversation paused as one of the Elfsong’s server’s arrived carrying a rather substantial-looking lamb-and-carrot pie.
“Thank you,” Gale said as the plate landed in front of him. Then, to Astarion, “You’re certain you don’t want anything?”
“They don’t exactly serve my preferred fare here,” Astarion said, looking on with a lingering touch of envy as Gale dug in. He made food seem almost appealing, the enjoyment obvious on his face.
“No troubles in that regard, I take it?" said Gale between bites. "You’re…managing?”
“The page I took from Balduran’s book continues to serve me well. So to speak. You’ve clearly been eating well yourself,” he teased, laughing and shielding himself with one hand as Gale flicked a stray crumb of piecrust at him in return.
“Ah, yes. I’d have said something, but there’s not exactly a gracious way to forewarn having got fat.”
“’By the way, Astarion, I’ve gained a rather flattering amount of weight,’” Astarion said, pitching his voice in his best impression. “See there, how easy that was?”
“Such tact, from someone who prides themselves on abrasiveness. Not that it, ah - not that it’s unappreciated, mind you.”
Oh, he’d missed this - seeing the duck of Gale’s head, the way he flustered everywhere but the eyes. How much of it was show, Astarion could never quite tell. The man brimmed with hubris, made advances on goddesses, and yet lacked the confidence to go shirtless in front of his own tressym. At least the guessing game kept you on your toes.
They talked and talked as the evening passed and patrons filtered in and out of the Elfsong. Another glass of wine each, a chocolate-and-fruit dessert of some kind for Gale, which he ate while eagerly talking Astarion through the notes for his lecture in Candlekeep.
After tucking the pages back into the pocket of his robes Gale stretched, the curve of his belly pressing into the table’s edge. “I’ve half a mind to sneak upstairs and see the old room,” he said, glancing over one shoulder. “Do you ever -“
“Gods, no,” Astarion said with a harsh laugh. “Never.”
The dampened smile on Gale’s face killed his laughter quickly. Of course Gale was a more sentimental creature. He knew that well. For Gale, memories of nights in the Elfsong might well be fond ones - their first pillowed beds in month, easy rations delivered by by dumbwaiter - rather than Astarion’s anxiety-riddled contemplation of Cazador’s plans.
**
The first letter wasn’t a surprise. “Keep in touch,” Gale said repeatedly as he departed the Gate, and he was the sort to actually mean it. Astarion tore the envelope open while still on the courier’s doorstep.
Dear Astarion,
Greetings from Waterdeep! It’s good to be home. Tara’s in high spirits, though I dare say that’s as much to do with being unburdened of the need to scour Faerun for suitable artifacts than the return of yours truly. Between her and my mother I’ve been quite doted upon these past weeks. Bit irritating, truth be told. And bad for the waistline.
I find I quite miss our little chats at the fireside, but then, I am - what did you call it? - a sentimental oaf with delusions of grandeur, was it? I think of you often, and hope you’re faring well without the sunlit boons of our wriggling friends. Consider this an open invitation, which I hope meets your needs: should you ever find yourself in Waterdeep, you are most welcome at mine.
Your friend,
Gale Dekarios
Astarion read and reread the letter as he walked back to the palace. He wouldn't go to the desk - he hadn't yet replaced Cazador's - but he settled on the floor before the fireplace with pen and paper.
Gale -
I’m shocked. That mouth of yours, and all I get is one page?
And it was ‘a sentimental oaf with godly aspirations’. If you’re going to quote me, darling, at least get it right.
A
The next letter that arrived was a thick parcel. Astarion bit back his grin.
That was more like it.
**
“Why don’t you come back to the palace?” Astarion offered. “It’s been redone head-to-toe, and my descriptions of the library don’t do it justice. I have a dozen guest rooms that could put the Elfsong’s finest to shame.”
Gale hesitated. He toyed with his fork, though his plate was scraped clean now, the chocolate confection having evidently been delicious.
“And a particularly fine vintage of Waterdhavian whiskey,” Astarion added, sweetening the pot. "Purchased with the explicit intent of luring you back."
“If you’re certain I won’t impose.”
Astarion flashed his best smile. “My dear friend, you could never.”
That had Gale in high spirits once more, even as Astarion silently cursed himself. My friend. It was true, of course. They were friends, good friends, bonded by some combination of trauma and latent desire. And they’d established themselves as friends so long ago now that Astarion didn’t dare broach anything more. No matter how adorably eager Gale grew as he ranted about the interdepartmental politics of Blackstaff, or how enticingly the light coating of fat under his chin dimpled as he did so.
Damn him, the gray hair did make him look distinguished.
Not only that, but he looked content like this, in a way Astarion didn’t remember. Full; satisfied. Gale’s claims that the orb’s demands truly had been put to rest sat easier in Astarion’s own chest, after seeing him with such brightness in his eyes and color in his cheeks.
“Ah, come here,” Gale said fondly as they rose from the table. “We didn’t get a proper one, earlier.” He gathered Astarion into a hug.
It was over too soon. But as they walked the hill up to the palace Gale slung a casual arm over his shoulders, and for once Astarion was grateful for his elven stature, how easily he could be guided by a larger hand.
He gave the cursory tour. Gale praised the new library with his usual self-serving enthusiasm - I told you the wainscoting would be a nice touch, did I not, and in that shade too - and refrained from commenting on the sealed-off kennel.
Astarion fetched the whiskey and they settled in the room he determinedly referred to as the parlor. He wondered if Gale recognized it. Despite practically turning the palace inside-out, the necrotic aura of Victoria’s body was as hard to purge from memory as it’d been to scrub from the walls.
Soon their conversation turned, as it often did, to reminiscence over their adventuring days. What once seemed horrific - tentacled monstrosities rising from darkened towers; shambling and far less beautiful undead corrupting the Dark Lady’s temple - now seemed an exciting brush with danger.
“All I’ll say, and then you’ll hear no more from me on that particular brush with death,” Gale laughed, “is thank the gods for Jaheria. Is she around, by the way? I’d hoped to say my hellos, having come all this way and so on.”
“Oh, it’s always a gamble with her,” said Astarion, waving a hand. “We can send word in the morning. I don’t bother myself with the Harpers, of course, but they do seem good for keeping one on one’s toes in old age. Perhaps you should consider joining?”
“Hilarious, you are. Next one is a fireball to the face.”
**
The night grew long, and the rest of camp gradually retired to their tents. Astarion still found sleep hard to come by in the dark. ‘The dead of night’, they called it, and fittingly so. It was only through constant exhaustion and gods-damned hiking that he managed to rest after the sun set.
Fortunately, Gale was something of a night owl himself. A slow riser in the mornings, emerging from his tent bedheaded and grumpy, but they’d all learned not to badger him for breakfast until he’d bathed and brewed a small tin pot of coffee. Small price to pay, the others said, for his cooking. That, Astarion didn’t benefit from.
This, he did.
To Astarion’s immense relief, their friendship breezed past the little incident. It was actually rather heartening, not to mention delightfully novel, to flee an advance and find it had no impact on Gale’s interest in spending time together. He still poked his head into Astarion’s tent with a new book, still beckoned ‘come see’ when his telescope sighted a particularly bright star. Still sat up late with him.
“I can’t help but notice that you’re scratching at your back more than Tara does a good post,” Gale said. “If you’re feeling any symptoms -“
“No - gods, no. It’s nothing like that.” Astarion hadn’t even realized he was doing it. Nervous habit, he supposed, raking hands over his prose. The shadow-cursed lands provided little comfort or distraction.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. It’s only…well, he always called it a bit of poetry.” Astarion heard the spitting, hissing edge in his voice - the one he tried to tamp down around the rest of camp - coming out vile and cruel. “Scars, carved into me courtesy of Cazador.”
Yet Gale didn’t flinch. “May I see?”
Some hundred or so lovers had seen the scars. Showing them wasn’t anything novel. Most had the courtesy to say little, recognizing the boundaries of an isolated night of passion.
Astarion pulled his shirt up in the back. The fabric bunched at the nape of his neck. “Well, there you have it. You’ve seen more of them than I have, now.”
Gale was silent behind him. When at last he spoke it was little more than an almost inaudible, “Gods, Astarion.”
“I won’t go back to him,” Astarion spat, letting his shirt fall. “I’ll make a deal with Raphael before I let him hold me again.”
As he turned back he found Gale tapping at his chin, brow more furrowed than he’d ever seen it. Genuine concern, he’d almost think, if such a thing was ever afforded in his direction.
“Then let’s see that it doesn’t come to that,” Gale said firmly. “Now ordinarily I’m loathe to suggest it as a first course of action, but, dare I say, in this case the most deadly solution may be the most elegant.”
Astarion spluttered. “You mean - kill Cazador? Darling, your assessment of my skill with a knife is flattering, but even with this thing in my head I’m not stupid enough to take on a vampire lord alone.”
Gale shook his head. “Gods no. Of course not. You wouldn’t be alone.”
**
The fire dwindled. The whiskey too.
“I’d never have expected to look back on the threat of ceremorphosis with such fondness,” Gale said. “Time truly does romanticize one’s struggles.”
“Some of them, at least. Others I’d gladly stab a few times more.” Astarion shot Gale a look, already anticipating the next question. “And - don’t ask again how I manage living here. You know where I stand on the matter.”
Where he stood, was that he had no other place to live, and one could hardly turn down a free palace. That, and that in an odd way he actually found it soothing. He was the last of Cazador’s household still standing. He'd come out on top; building his new life quite literally atop the bones of his last, all the rest be damned.
“Very well, I won’t,” Gale sighed. “However I will say - and I know I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating in person - you’re a remarkable man, Astarion. I’ve wished many times over I shared your same fortitude, or at least came by it earlier.”
“The mindflayers did have good taste, only abducting the cream of the crop. Present company at the top of the list, of course, and -“
“And I do wish you’d give yourself the luxury of company, not just finery,” Gale cut him off, evidently not done yet. He looked so godsdamned earnest, with those long-lashed brown eyes and open face. “You deserve it. Be that with someone you find here, or…elsewhere.”
No doubt they were both turning similar memories over in their minds. Astarion knew his own preferred arsenal of fantasies well. Sweet little things to picture late at night and well into the morning. The soft look on Gale’s face as he called Astarion a remarkable man would surely live among them for years to come.
Vulnerability gnawed in Astarion’s chest, and he contemplated his whiskey. “Easier said than done, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, well. Indeed. I’ll toast to that,” Gale said, raising his glass.
Astarion clinked his own in cheers. Their fingers brushed together, a small intimacy for which he was unprepared. He knew Gale’s voice so very well. How he longed to reach such a level of familiarity with his body too.
“Do you know, I always thought there was…” Gale trailed off, then shook his head with a slight smile and apologetic downturn. His thumb worked at the crystal ridges of the glass.
Say it, Astarion thought. Pleaded, really. Say it. You always thought there was a spark between us. You always thought something might happen. You’d always thought we’d be good together.
“Ah. Never mind. Foolish days,” Gale said.
"Were they?”
Gale gave him a fond sort of smile a smile, that silver earring glinting in the candlelight. “Well. Perhaps not always.”
It was gracious of him to defer and, for once, take the question in the rhetorical spirit in which it was intended. They both knew why nothing transpired years ago, after Gale’s gentle proposition. Astarion hadn’t been ready. No, he’d have fucked it up - sure as night would fall, to quote Shadowheart.
“It’s getting late,” Gale said, as if tadpoling Astarion’s reminiscing. He turned the empty tumbler over in his hands.
Their little dance was harder to step away from in person. There was no easy silencing of the sending stone when Gale sat in Astarion’s own parlor, a strand of dark hair falling in his eyes, looking ever so comfortable in the plush velvet chair with his thigh just inches away. He looked at home here. And Astarion wanted nothing more than to climb into his lap and feel every inch of that wide, warm body pressed close.
But Gale set the tumbler aside and cleared his throat. Ever the gentleman.
Astarion showed him to one of the palace’s guest rooms. It wasn’t the finest, but it was the most Gale-like. Bookshelves stretched floor to ceiling on either side of a wide bay window.
“There are spare pajamas and robes in the cupboard,” Astarion told him, knowing full well that any pajamas of his didn’t stand a chance of making it over Gale’s thighs.
Gale gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment and settled on the bed.
Astarion lingered by the door.
Were it anyone else, he’d have long since used one of his most convincing lines. Anyone else, he’d enjoy a bit of a romp and move on. Gale, though….
It was Gale who’d physically stepped in front of him when that awful drow woman made her proposition. Gale who’d met his eyes, comforting and supportive, when he’d shakily turned down the twins’. And Gale who’d gone to his knees, creaky though they might be, and held him as he sobbed through the blood in the depths of this very palace.
How could he not have fallen in love.
“For what it’s worth, darling,” Astarion said quietly. “I always did too.”
For once, Gale said nothing. He sat just on the edge of the bed, hands in the sheets on either side of his thighs, an utterly unreadable expression on his face as Astarion closed the door behind himself.
Astarion lay awake in his bed, unable to trance.
How differently might things have gone, five years ago, if only he’d had the luxury of a little more time between Cazador and Gale in which to heal. The irony of having eternal life and still finding time his enemy was not lost on him. He somewhat envied Gale’s graying hair and aching joints and growing paunch. It must be nice to see such evidence that you’d changed; that you weren’t the same person you were, that those most awful of years were long behind you now.
What would he even say, if he did venture out with sincerity? Hello, I always fancied you and am feeling quite up to sex now, care to have some? Ridiculous, Astarion chided himself. He had so few friends to begin with, and none he held quite as close as Gale. He couldn’t afford to go about losing the best part of his life via poorly-thought-out propositions.
**
“So,” Astarion said, poking his head around Gale’s tent. “Rumor mill has it that our dear wizard’s sordid past includes sex with a goddess. Do tell.”
For all appearances Gale remained invested in his book, but Astarion caught the self-satisfied smile. Gods, the man had an ego more all-consuming than his orb. “Don’t you know the saying about gentlemen?”
“Spoil sport.”
“Ah. Words wouldn’t do it justice even if I tried. To make love on the astral plane, amidst the stars themselves and beyond the limits of one’s own body…it’s the sort of experience best suited to showing, not telling.”
Of course Gale would be the kind to call it ‘making love’.
Astarion raised a brow. “Oh?”
An electric little pulse shivered through his brain, someone cautiously standing at his mind’s door and toeing the entrance.
Gale wore an expression Astarion knew all too well: that hesitant interest, just suggestive enough that it could be denied later if need be.
He spoke of her with adoration, enough to make Astarion wonder if perhaps the gods were capable of love after all. Maybe Mystra hadn’t answered his own pleas because she was too distracted by whatever talents Gale offered. Years gritting his teeth over yet another nameless shoulder while Gale indulged in transcendent, shameless sex, the kind he could barely picture, buried warm in the embrace of an attentive goddess?
Astarion did rather want to know.
He let Gale in.
Unlike other times it wasn’t images that flooded his mind so much as sensations. He was on his back, wet and hot between the legs, something that felt like arcane lightning and magic itself working between them. He was on his knees, and also not. He was behind his lover, on top of her, inside her, and she inside him, all at once. He was licking at her cunt, and she his.
Gods, in another time -
In another life, one where Cazador never used his body like a puppet but Gale still looked at him with those brown eyes lidded with curiosity and desire -
“I - I should go,” Astarion said, and fled.
**
Two hundred years without self-determination, knowing his choices didn’t matter because they’d be overridden anyways if he made the wrong one. One year of tenuous freedom and sheer survival. Five spent in a lengthy exhale, learning to renavigate the world with agency. To take what he wanted. To know what he wanted, a task which seemed so very easy and yet confounded him at every turn.`
Except when it came to Gale.
Even the craving for blood - the only constant want Astarion knew - couldn’t compete. Lying here alone, he may as well have been hungering in a self-imposed tomb, clawing one name into the stone over and over.
I’ve wished many times over I shared your same fortitude, he’d said. Or at least came by it earlier.
Astarion clambered from his bed. Gods be damned, he had to at least try. If he could summon the will to stand up to Cazador surely he could -
He opened the door to find Gale standing in front of him, one hand raised as if readying to knock.
“I,” Gale said, looking rather uncharacteristically flustered. “I, ah -”
“Shut up, love.”
Without hesitation, Astarion took Gale’s face in his hands and kissed him. Before he could second guess his forwardness he felt the softness and hair of Gale’s belly pressing against his own, two firm hands on his hips, and then Gale was walking them backwards into Astarion’s room and kicking the door shut.
Six years of pent-up longing stumbled out in frantic motions. Astarion knew he wasn’t being particularly suave in his pawing. His hands flew over Gale’s body, skimming and squeezing at every inch, desperate to touch it all and uncertain where to land. Gale was shirtless save for a silky dressing robe evidently borrowed from Astarion’s spare closet. It was, predictably, too tight on him, unable to close around the middle and packed full of Gale’s broad shoulders and arms.
“Let’s get you out of this,” Astarion managed between kisses.
Gale was ever bit as eager, peeling the silk off behind his back without breaking their stride.
He was even softer under Astarion’s touch than he’d always imagined. Without the robe every inch of him was just there, and Astarion groped at each new delight that met his fingers - the roll at Gale’s side, the padding at his hips, the broad, sloping shoulders...
Astarion broke the kiss only to tear off his own shirt, wanting to feel the hair on Gale’s chest against his skin.
The sharp breath Gale gave in return was a familiar sound. Many lovers made such noises when he undressed, though they never had him arching his back and preening under the attention quite like this.
“Beautiful,” Gale murmured. His lips pressed to Astarion’s collarbone.
“I know, darling. Now - on the bed.”
He put a hand on Gale’s chest, just over the lingering mark of the long-dormant orb, and pushed. Gale fell back on the bed without a fight. He made for a gorgeous tableau, with his unbound hair spread over Astarion’s pillow, his mouth open and arms flung wide. The little jiggle of his torso drew Astarion in, and he went down just as eagerly with his lips pressed to the roll beneath Gale’s tits.
Gale’s hand tapped at his side. “You’re still far too clothed, mind.”
“Do you know what, I think you’re right.”
“I usually am.”
Breathy, slightly giddy laughter - the unspoken sense of we’re doing this, finally - passed between them as they each eagerly stripped what remained of their clothes and underthings.
While he’d technically seen Gale’s bare form before, years ago and after one of the many battles in which they emerged too bloodied to take turns washing off in the nearest stream, he hadn’t exactly had permission to let his eyes wander as he wished. Now, he could take it all in. Flesh out the image of Gale that lived in his mind with greater detail and accuracy. Where he was hairiest; where the tan of his arms slightly faded. The small birthmark on his hip.
“Why in the hells weren’t we doing this all those years ago?” Astarion said, delighting in another squeeze to Gale’s side as he crawled back on top.
“Ah, if only - I certainly cut a finer form in those days.”
“Darling, how dare you. You looked positively worn back then, begging for magical boots like a starved mongrel. You can’t possibly tell me you actually think that was better than this.” Astarion stroked the curve of Gale’s stomach to make his point, tracing a circle around his navel before palming the plush underbelly beneath. “And if you do, I intend to prove you very wrong.”
Gale said nothing, but his eyes grew soft as the handful in Astarion’s palm, and the corner of his lips inched up.
In truth, nearly all of Astarion’s past encounters wound up near singularly focused on his own body. Not that there was anything wrong with it - he’d learned to appreciate a bit of solicited attention - but it was, well, old. Any interest in another round of that sort of thing paled in comparison to the thought of adoring Gale the way he’d longed to for so many years.
Rather than acknowledge the past, he returned his mouth to Gale’s full tit, carefully tracing the circle of one pronounced nipple with his tongue before sucking on it. Gale’s pleased sigh rumbled in his chest.
There would be other nights - there had to be - but Astarion didn’t dare push the limits of his hope. If they only got one, he wasn’t spending it any way but this.
Gale raised a hand to Astarion’s neck, gripping the curls there and attempting to draw him back up for a kiss. “Why don’t you turn around and let me show you a few tricks courtesy of my own insatiable tongue?”
“Absolutely not.” Astarion met his eyes and pressed a kiss to his belly. “For one, you’ll put me to shame. For another, I’m quite selfish. I’ve waited years to acquaint myself with your body, and I intend to be thorough.”
Gale’s hand flitted to his and he gave a single-breath laugh. A flush rose in his pretty cheeks. “If you insist.”
“Oh my dear, I very much do.”
He took his time exploring the contours of Gale’s form. The dichotomy between their bodies fascinated him. He could scarcely imagine what it must feel like to feel your flesh fold in on itself in rolls, to have tits a lover could lift - he licked at the crease beneath with a pointed tongue - and press together, or a belly that shook with every stuttering breath. Sensual, Astarion thought. A playground of a body with so many delights to offer a lover. The thought that Gale could possibly harbor any self-consciousness about it astounded him.
For a long while he lavished attention on the perfect handfuls of Gale’s tits, attempting to commit them to memory. He rubbed small circles over one hard nipple in much the same way he envisioned later doing to Gale’s clit.
“You are stunning,” Astarion said.
The quiet reverence in his own voice took him aback. Purred compliments came with ease, lines dripping off his tongue like blood - but he didn’t do this, ever. His seduction act itself hadn’t changed significantly in the past years, the main difference being that he employed it now in service of his own desires.
His tongue itched with the long-held-back litany that threatened to storm out of his mind and mouth all in one go.
“I could pass hours like this alone,” Astarion found himself saying in that same awed tone. “Buried in every inch of you. Exploring, devouring you - your scent, your softness, your…” He trailed off, distracted by the jiggle of Gale’s tit in his palm.
“Oh, I’m quite sure I have,” Gale said. One hand tangled in Astarion’s hair, a strong-fingered but gentle grip. “In imagination, at least.”
Astarion kissed him, then lowered his mouth back to Gale’s chest. The curling hair there provided good cover for his private smile. Some bits of pleasure he still selfishly wanted to enjoy alone - among them the thought of Blackstaff Academy’s Dean of the School of Illusion using his prodigious skill to conjure images of him, of them, together. Fingering himself through his robes, perhaps.
Without tadpoles Astarion supposed he’d have to rely on more traditional methods to probe Gale’s mind.
“Tell me,” he murmured. “How do I pleasure you, when you picture it?”
“You…” The hand at the back of Astarion’s head let up, and from the corner of his vision he saw Gale throw it over his own eyes instead. “You hold my hips, rather firmly.”
“Why wouldn’t I - grabbable as they are.” With a last kiss to the trailing blue lines that still lingered beneath chest hair, Astarion slid his hands down, using light nails until his touch met the lower fold of Gale’s belly. He dug his thumbs in, rather firmly. They disappeared beneath the plump roll, enveloped in tan skin and curling hair. “And?”
“Kiss me. On my - down my body.”
Astarion used his grip to give a slight shake, cocking his head in question as his thumbs brushed the soft underbelly.
“Yes,” Gale gasped.
“Perfect.”
Lavishing kisses on Gale’s stomach was a treat of its own. The temptation to bite was admittedly strong. How could it not be, when every inch of warm flesh caved so invitingly to his lips. Astarion gave a particularly firm kiss, just to feel the plushness give way. All the while he squeezed at Gale’s hips - leaving a few marks, no doubt, but the way Gale slowly canted them under his grip indicated he didn’t mind.
Gods, he’d dreamed of this.
He pressed his nose into the softness of Gale’s middle and breathed deep there. Such a lovely scent, a little different than the one he remembered from camp. The acrid undertones had faded with the orb, leaving behind just the hint of cinnamon and vanilla and fresh bread - either a wonderful cologne, or the tenor of heavenly blood.
Astarion rested his chin just below Gale’s navel. If he tilted his head he could feel the brush of hair. On impulse he abandoned Gale’s hip in favor of giving the side of his belly a gentle pat, just to feel it bounce against his cheek as he smirked up.
“Keep going,” he said. “Where shall I adore you next?”
“Astarion,” Gale groaned. As his hips arched up Astarion could feel the hint of wetness between his legs against his chest.
He lowered his voice to a deep whisper. “Why don’t I spend a bit of time with your thighs…I can feel what’s between them already dripping for me.”
“I - gods, yes.” Gale sounded so beautifully flustered.
Astarion gave a teasing, tooth-only bite to the hang of his belly as he kissed his way down, shaking his head slightly to enjoy the way it jiggled once more before moving on.
Gale claimed to be quite skilled in all things oral, and Astarion had no intention of bruising his own ego by letting the tongue that pleasured a goddess go first. Contemplating the more explicit details Gale’s past with Mystra wasn’t something Astarion intended to make a habit of. But it began to occur to him, listening to the lovely sounds as he nipped at Gale’s inner thighs and licked at the little crease of a burgeoning roll there, that certain things may not have been present in that relationship. Where did she neglect you, he thought. Where do you need my love the most?
Not words he intended to say aloud, of course.
He didn’t have many more coherent thoughts to spare anyways, with the heft of Gale’s thigh resting against his shoulder. Gale had thrown the other wide, allowing for wonderfully easy access to all the most tender parts.
Vampirism’s curses outnumbered its blessings, most days. A heightened sense of smell was intensely inconvenient when a cook accidentally sliced their thumb in the kitchen of some tavern, the tang of blood wafting out to tempt him. But with his head between Gale’s legs, it was glorious. The scent of Gale’s arousal was near intoxicating.
Astarion lightly dragged three fingers over Gale’s cunt - two on either side of his lips, a third teasing inbetween.
“You’re so warm here,” he murmured. His fingers came away slick, and the soft back of Gale’s thigh trembled against his shoulder as he ran his tongue between his fingers.
Astarion let his fangs prick ever so gently on either side of Gale’s lips. Just a little toehold, a stabilization; nothing enough to draw blood. He gave a long, shallow lick, gathering as much of the wetness on his tongue as he could.
“Gods,” he said, knowing how the vibration of his lips would feel against Gale’s own. “You taste as lush as you look, don’t you.” He dug his fingers into Gale’s soft hips to make his point clear.
Gale made sounds the likes of which he’d never heard, and the man was not exactly shy in his verbosity. Of course he’d be vocal in bed. How utterly delightful. Despite not intending to tease him too terribly, it was hard not to. As he savored his cunt, Astarion kept his tongue feather-light. He flicked at the inner crease of Gale’s lips, toying with the velvety line of them but not going any further.
When he started to work over the small hard nub of his clit he felt a hand at the back of his head, tugging him up.
“Come here. Kiss me,” Gale said, his voice sounding near strangled with desire. “I don’t want to come yet.”
As they kissed Gale’s hand slid between their bodies and Astarion could feel him petting himself, fingers slipping through the wet folds between his legs as Astarion’s pinched at the soft ones on his sides.
He shifted to press his erection down on Gale’s hand. The increased pressure had Gale moaning in a way he could only assume meant it had pushed his fingers inside.
Astarion began to rock his hips. His cock slid over the back of Gale’s hand. Without a bit of lubrication the friction was just on the right side of harsh, and more importantly, the pressure was enough to grind Gale’s palm down over his clit, and his fingers deeper within himself.
“Fuck,” breathed Gale, tipping his head back, and a thrill ran through Astarion at having elicited but a single shaky word.
“Is that all, my dear?” he teased, grinding down harder. “Surely you’ve more to say than that?”
Gale met his eye with that slightly mischievous glint Astarion so adored. “Fuck me.”
“With pleasure.”
Gale’s fingers brushed against Astarion’s erection as he moved his hand up from between his thighs, leaving behind a bit of the wetness against his length.
Astarion pressed his forehead to Gale’s as he slid inside. The soft moan Gale gave as their hips met - as they lay flush against each other for the first time - had him aching. He wanted to savor it, to simply lay here panting and feeling his love beneath him, near as much as he wanted to fuck.
But Gale’s hands were at his hips, pulling him closer and encouraging him to move. How was he to resist. He never quite could, faced with such allure.
In a distant, detached sort of sense Astarion was aware that he was salivating. Fangs could be prickly things in more ways than one, and his, evidently, wanted to sink into Gale with a hunger he’d rarely felt. Inbetween the press of kisses he felt Gale tipping his head back. The intensely suggestive angle of his neck was hardly subtle.
“I’m not going to bite you, love,” Astarion managed. “Not tonight. But tomorrow…”
Gale’s voice was equally breathless. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I’m going to take every roll on that plush body of yours between my teeth,” he said into Gale’s jawline as they each panted. “And indulge until I have you trembling. I’m going to send you to Candlekeep looking like the sensory feast you are.”
Gale grabbed at the back of his head and dragged him in, kissing with a ferocity that had Astarion picking up the pace of his hips, fucking harder.
Yes.
In the morning, Astarion thought, he’d let Gale’s body sate him in that other of most intimate ways. Tonight he wanted to make himself known as a lover, not a vampire. He never thought the former would come so naturally. He never thought sex could feel so untamed; unpracticed and yet perfect. But now, with the glorious soft shake of Gale’s stomach beneath him, rocking with each roll of their hips in a way that made him desperate to be deeper, closer, more -
This was what they wrote poems about, Astarion realized, moaning low and deep as his thrusts grew needier. Gods, it made sense now - why the artists and authors of the world tried again and again to capture a lover’s beauty with paint, to put words to something that could only be felt, only to crumple paper after paper and deem each attempt insufficient.
“I’m close.” A deep, breathy moan followed Gale’s words.
“Me too.”
You can’t pull blood from a stone, he recalled Shadowheart saying, words only burned into his mind because he’d nearly plunged a dagger into his own leg at the mention of blood within a mere halfday of the crash. But evidently you can get a wizard.
His own sending stone lay dormant on the nightstand. There’d be no need for it these next few days, though his mind already swam with delicious, dirty ideas of what to say when he next called Gale, likely some ten minutes after his departure for Candlekeep.
Something like - I’m in love with you, you know.
Astarion knew he must be a sight as he came. He could feel his arms shaking, sweat dampening the curls at his neck. The practiced face he’d made so many times before eluded him, yet as Gale began clutching at his back and saying his name even while Astarion kissed it from his lips, he couldn’t have cared less.
He felt free.
**
“And how does one get stuck in a portal, anyways?”
“With embarrassment,” Gale sighed. “And the wonder if I shouldn’t cut back on the pastries a bit.”
“It’ll likely be a while before our next bakery, true. The Upper City this is not.”
Astarion eyed their newest tagger-on. A handsome, soft sort of thing, with dark, expressive eyes and a bit of chest hair curling out from the neckline of his robes alongside a rather interesting tattoo. Gale looked like he’d had a good life. Spoke like it too, an open conversationalist with an easygoing - if exceedingly pedantic - manner. Most likely he didn’t even know how to fight, only how to wield magic in a theoretical sense. Bookish wizard type, all technicalities. But then, Astarion had told them he was still a magistrate, so.
A few hours and felled robbers later, he’d changed his tune. Gale was powerful. Going a bit overboard in an attempt to prove himself after the portal debacle, Astarion first thought, before realizing that he’d broken more of a sweat clambering up the hillside than raining bolt after bolt of lightning upon the attackers.
When evening fell, he pitched his tent next to Gale’s.
“Look at us,” Gale said, gesturing between them. “Practically bedfellows, eh? Reminds me of my days in the Blackstaff dormitories. Hopefully not too much.”
Astarion tipped his chin and gave Gale his most coy look. “And here I thought we might have a little fun.”
“Ceremorphosis beckons. Take the fun where you can find it, I say.”
“Darling, don’t tempt me.”
The smile Gale gave him in return - a little suggestive, noncommittal but laced with obvious interest - hinted at a taste for mischief. A rather appealing one at that. Exploitable, certainly, but also…enjoyable, maybe? It’d been so long since he last pursued anyone that captured his own interest. But now…
“Well then, wizard,” Astarion said, shooting Gale a wink as he parted the flap of his tent. “Sweet dreams.”
**