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The darkness hung low around them, thick and suffocating, but here in this moment they were safe. A pocket of light amidst the shadows, and if one closed their eyes, the dry bristling of dead brush and the frigid, necrotic breeze could be mistaken for swaying meadowgrass and sweet, dancing spring air. It mussed their hair all the same, the little gusts that came through, and it sent a chill down Paris's spine as battle-drawn sweat wicked warmth from his neck.
Gale was there with him to share a quiet moment of vulnerability. It struck Paris as a bit funny, a whisper of a smile between them as they allowed the silence to last just a bit longer, that the bard was the one person Gale was most confident in being vulnerable with. The one who struck down foes with the sheer viciousness of his words, the one who charmed his way through enemy encampments with little more than a sly smile and a few choice phrases, the one who had nothing to gain from his discretion regarding Gale's condition.
And yet... they both harbored a deep darkness. Twisted, enigmatic, and all-consuming in their own cruelly unique ways, but a darkness nonetheless. Perverse bloodlust and a ravenous blight rested beneath two easy smiles, complete with crinkled eyes and spoken to life with confidence and vigor. Tremors in one hand, bandages encasing another... and Gods, were they ever tired.
With a quiet sigh, Paris rolled forward to his knees to shuffle over and close the distance between himself and Gale, who sat and stared pensively at the darkness just beyond their private pocket of light. Though not far from camp, it felt as if they were in their own world, a tiny globe of safety in an endless void. One that felt infinitely warmer when Gale's dark eyes met Paris's and the corner of his lips twitched up into a soft smile.
A part of Paris, a large one at that, did not want to proceed. To ruin the moment. To remind them of their true purpose for being here, devoid of romantic intent in spite of the clear intimacy of the little world they had created, but his hands were already moving to Gale's shoulders, pressing into weary muscles and joints. The wizard's lips parted with a quiet groan and he leaned back into Paris's touches- unlike the bard, Gale was fully seated to spare his knees and so he fell back easily against Paris's folded legs.
The first time they gathered like this, it felt like a shameful secret. Slinking away in the dead of night when their surroundings were still verdant and a good measure safer, when the orb in Gale's chest was still extending new roots through his body, its dark tendrils latching into living flesh to leech away the vitality, and the pain of it was starting to grow unbearable. Gale hadn't asked for his help, of course, the man stubbornly insisting that he was enough of a burden as it was, demanding valuable artifacts to pour sand into his bottomless, ever-draining hourglass. It seemed that the wizard, smart as he was, could not understand his value could never be matched by Weave-infused trinkets.
Paris saw his pain though. Recognized it as if it were his own, watching a man he'd grown to care for be slowly consumed from the inside, piercing through bravado and smugness and absolutely excessive verbosity to see a well of melancholy. Hopelessness.
Now it was a comforting routine. They didn't need to do it every night, but on those that followed a particularly hard-fought battle, or if it had simply been a few days, they would steal away in the privacy of darkness with only the stars, and then the shadows, for company. What started as a few hummed notes and a hesitant touch to the elbow now became... this. Gale laying over Paris's lap, eyes half-lidded with trust and exhaustion, the need to fill the air with words abandoned, hands resting over his stomach. The day was for talking. This moment was for rest.
Paris's pressing fingers slowly migrated forward, down the front of Gale's robes, enough to rest his palms around the orb. There was a thought, there always was, of slipping his hands beneath the layers of fabric to indulge in the warmth of his skin, something he had only the privilege to imagine at the moment. He teased the stained white fabric by his collarbone with a thumb and Gale's good hand rose to clasp Paris's wrist in gentle denial, the wizards warm brown eyes glistening with feeling. Not yet.
Not yet.
The first time Gale had laid on him like this was far less peaceful. The wizard was being unusually mulish about the whole affair and Paris was certainly not helping, overwhelmed with a grief he didn't know he was capable of. Calm yet catastrophic, the visit from Elminster Aumar was one that neither man quite knew how to cope with. Karlach was right- Gale was in bits and Paris was furious with a rage he did not understand, the fire in his belly unlike anything he had ever experienced, rendered even worse when he learned that Gale was still in pain. The beast within had been lulled to sleep, but its claws scraped upon his nerves in deep, learned divots.
Perhaps it had been their shared vision of a kiss those precious tendays ago that emboldened him that night on the monastery trail, but Paris invited, no, demanded that Gale join him for a private song at the first sight of a poorly concealed grimace- in an uncharacteristically harsh way no less. "You needn't worry about me," the wizard said, holding up the offending hand as if to stroke Paris's sharp worry into quiet slumber. "A lingering discomfort is hardly a concern compared to where we were before Mystra's boon. The orb sleeps now, and you ought to as well. It won't serve any of us for you to overexert yourself for my comfort... Of all things."
"I have yet to overexert myself for you, Gale." Paris crossed his arms, hip canting to one side, feet planted firm by the wizard's tent, his brows knitted with frustration and... something else. "Don't know how you expect me to leave you like this, knowing you're in pain. Unless you think so little of me that I would cease caring as soon as my safety was no longer a concern." A needle-sharp accusation, one thrown with vicious intent.
Not so vicious to cause real harm, of course, but Gale still winced. "That's hardly fair. You act as if I haven't lived with this condition before meeting you." He caught Paris, mouth open and ready to retort, raising his bandaged hand a bit higher to silence him. "Yes, I'll admit that it has progressed rather alarmingly since my time in Waterdeep, but that's beyond the point. It threatened to consume me, pulled at the very fabric of my essence before Tara found the treatment. A lingering pain cannot hold a candle to that agony and..." The wizard's shoulders sank a hair, his posture slumping in around his chest. "...there will soon be no need to trouble yourself with my plight anymore."
His words echoed hollow in Paris's skull, a funeral dirge.
"Allow me this. To know I will no longer be a burden to you, to any of you... it's a comfort no amount of healing can provide, even as well-intentioned as yours."
Paris remembered how much his face burned in that moment, how his fists balled in rage at his sides, how he quaked with the urge to strike the foolishness out of the wizard's small mind, and it was selfish. Gods, he was selfish. Paris's thoughts raced to the night of the party. When they saved the Emerald Grove. Gale's adorably silly, wine-induced flirtations and Paris's sober, genial provoking of them. The shyness with which Gale retreated, a precious moment of vulnerability through his Wizard of Waterdeep facade, one that Paris had only just recognized that very moment.
He thought of the night Gale guided him to channel the Weave. Mirrored movements and incantations. Sweet tastes and tender touches and soothing scents, the essence of magic tangling their souls.
It enraged him that Gale would throw it all away. Throw him away.
Paris returned to the present as Gale gently stroked his thumb over Paris's wrist, gingerly lifting him back into the moment. "You're alright." Spoken softly, sweetly, so low that he walked the edge of a whisper. "I'm here."
The bard nodded, dipping his head down to meet Gale's gaze, willing himself not to look at the man's lips, no doubt still parted from speaking, pink and tempting and surely sweet if his words were any hint towards their taste. It was the perfect moment to steal a kiss, one of many perfect moments that had passed them by. Icy on his skin, however, was the reminder of why- Gale's glittering earring brushed against Paris's flesh, and any thoughts of an impromptu advance died with the touch. Their time remaining together may be short, but Paris would wait for him. It's what Gale deserved.
Instead he straightened up his back and began his song. The hum began in his chest, a low vibration that soothed his heart, his pitch adjusting with slow precision until- yes. A resonance rang his ribs like chimes as his humming coaxed the Weave closer, magic opening to him like a nighttime bloom praising Selune's light. A soothing green aura, soft as sea foam and glittering with incandescent embers, danced around them, his notes personified in twirling sparks of magic.
He felt Gale's eyes on him, the quiet reverence of his stare.
"I confess, I always found the bardic ways of magic a bit... farcical. To piecemeal arcane knowledge from others based solely on its utility feels a disservice to something so wondrous as the Weave," Gale had admitted that night on the monastery trail. A thoughtful moment from a humbled wizard, having been wrestled to the ground by Paris who was just desperate to help him. It ended with him on his back, dewy grass dampening his nightclothes while Paris loomed over him with a distinctly menacing, but well-intentioned posture. Challenging him to try and get up. Channeling the darkness within for good, perhaps.
The bard knew that Gale had well and truly surrendered when he let out a deep, resigned sigh, and Paris shuffled up behind him to cradle his head in his lap as a gesture of peace. A position intimate enough to be shared between lovers, and one that Gale seemed to welcome back in each of their subsequent meetings. Paris did too, even if it tenderly wrenched his heart when they eventually parted.
That night was different when Paris sang to him, Gale paying close attention to Paris's command of the Weave, observing with interest- wonder, even- as the magic soothed the aches in his joints, the burning itch in his arm, the dull throb in his dying fingertips. Magical energy swirled around them, through them, without precisely positioned hands or perfectly executed verbal command- the Weave obliged Paris's request through sheer force of personality, of beautiful song.
He must have been impressed, then, as he continued from his previous statement: "But you seem to sing to the Weave. That's how it works, isn't it?" There was a twinkle of excitement in his eyes as he looked up at Paris, head still resting upon the bard's lap. "I suppose it's the fault of my own lack of exploration, or I'll even admit, a rare moment of closed-mindedness brought about by a sense of wizardly superiority, but I often figured those of your study treated magic like a toy. A means to a frequently indecent end." He sighed wistfully. "Yet your means of manipulating the Weave seems... it is reminiscent of a sorcerer in that it feels innate, but without the..." Gale waved his hand dismissively, as if uttering another breath in even vague favor of a sorcerer was wasted. "It's as if you are serenading the fabric of magic itself, and its threads are delighted to dance with you."
Gale's words rang in Paris's ears as he held him now, the wizard almost perfectly still as light and wonder fluttered around them, lazy sparks swooping in dizzy circles in time with Paris's slow, lulling tempo. He felt Gale melting into him, and his own body relaxing with it. He could only afford to channel this magic on their less eventful days, or ones that were so excessively eventful that the respite offered would simply not be enough. A special trick of the bard's trade, one some would consider wasted on a single man.
Nothing was wasted on his Gale though, the man who sank comfortably against him, who trusted him with his pride, his pain, his rot, and one day, his heart. It was only a matter of time that Gale would be ready- the signs were all there. Stolen glances, little flutters beneath the ribs, late nights spent by the fire, in his tent, never touching or tasting but so indulgent in all other things. Words, looks of longing, precious stories shared in hushed whispers, lest they disturb their friends. With Gale, the loneliness of his amnesiac mind disappeared and was replaced with hope.
In spite of everything, Gale gave him hope.
Perhaps sentiment was getting the better of him. Paris moved a hand down Gale's chest, dragging his fingers indulgently over the fabric of his robes before his fingers grazed the spent bandages on the wizard's right arm. Gale flinched at the touch, tensing for a moment, but he sank back soon after in a wash of trust. Good.
This ability did not need to take so long to channel and by its very nature, it shouldn't have. The power of a proper rest, invoked with just a few measures of song, was one of the greatest boons a bard could offer. It was, therefore, highly impractical to make the whole affair last for minutes.
Yet Paris was still humming that soft, soothing melody. To lose himself in the sweet sensations of healing magic, it felt like penance for the darkness that lurked within. In these moments, where he disappeared into service for others, Paris felt cleansed. Pure. He wanted Gale to feel the same, carefully lifting his bandaged hand to his lips as if to push the song straight through his flesh, as if the music itself could relieve him of the burden of decay, even if it was just for a moment.
A quiet sound escaped Gale's lips and Paris opened his eyes to see the wizard staring up at him, glittering light dancing in his glistening irises, the man utterly enchanted, utterly lost in the moment. Paris smiled behind his hand, still pressed to his lips, the sweet smell of decay neither lost on him nor capable of disturbing him. Whether it was the perverse killer within or the sheer magnitude of his love, it did not matter. Gale, in this sorriest of states, was perfect.
It ached, then, when the Weave began to slip away, Paris's charms finally losing their hold on its ethereal threads, his song coming to a soft, mournful close as the final notes rose up to their resolution with a tiny quiver. Silence settled over them like a heavy blanket, three little words caught behind his collarbone that desperately wished to break free. In time they would, Paris knew that, swallowing them along with the stubborn lump in his throat. He was certain that tonight his sleep would be achy and restless, that whatever foul beast lay within him would rear its ugly head and punish him for his saccharine sentimentality.
Gale broke the silence, a low groan crossing his lips as he sat up, refraining from his usual ritual of rubbing an achy joint or three, his body thoroughly soothed for the moment. Though the look of abject wonder was no longer in his eyes, they were still full with soothing warmth as the wizard turned to face him. "Thank you," he said with a nod, his lips pulled into a sweet, irresistible smile. Oh, how Paris ached to lean in then, to make their vision a reality, to kiss the lines on his face, to memorize each and every crack, to keep them forever. Time was running ever so short.
Paris reached out to him, cupping his cheek in a weary, calloused hand. "Anything for you, Gale." His breath caught in his throat as Gale pressed his cheek into his palm, his heart thundering in his chest as the wizard mirrored the caress, stroking Paris's beard with a thumb. Paris, without thinking, reached for Gale's bandaged hand, gingerly intertwining their fingers. In the back of his mind, he was vaguely aware of how much his chest was heaving, how wide his eyes must have been.
A tender melancholy overtook Gale's features and he drew Paris closer, their faces a breath away. He freed his blighted hand from Paris's grasp to cup the other side of his face and tipped his chin down, their foreheads touching. It was electric, and Paris squeezed his eyes shut, the anticipation agonizing, spine quivering.
"Soon. I promise." Gale's grip was gentle, enough that Paris could slip away if he found Gale's words sufficiently disappointing. Instead, much to his surprise, they stole his breath away, the bard freezing in his hold. Hope, the very hope that Gale stoked in his heart, flooded through him in a rush more potent than any narcotic. He laughed breathily, his vision blurring with moisture, his hands resting over Gale's, praying that he could feel it too, the lightness. The optimism.
"I want it to be perfect."