Archive of Our Own

The voice in Gale’s head was a strange sort of echo. Overlapping and layering in a wide crescendo, the peculiar voice hit a peak and began to wane, discordant whispers lingering at the edges. Even at its height, though, at its clearest, Gale was so disoriented by the sensation that he couldn’t make out the words. 

It was a voice at once both familiar and foreign. More than anything, the voice was distinctly not his.

The whispers never fully waned. Indistinct susurrations crowded the edges of his mind.  

The next time the voice rose in his mind, Gale focused all of his thoroughly weakened energy into making the words out.

The voice reached a howling peak and Gale could comprehend them now:

“What the hells have you done!?”

He finally recognized the voice as the violent, pounding shout faded into incomprehensibility.

Gale collapsed.

—

It had been Gale’s idea in the first place. Nearly a year had passed since he and the rest of his friends had saved Faerûn from assured destruction and all gone their separate ways. A long, lonely year. And Gale had spent the better part of it intensely preoccupied with research. Namely, on the issue of the sun’s effect on vampiric skin. 

He couldn’t shake the image of Astarion from his mind. That moment on the docks. Joy breaking to confusion and pain when his skin began sizzling. His feet sliding out from underneath him as he scrambled back into the shadows. 

Nobody had the chance to say goodbye. 

So, when Gale returned to his tower in Waterdeep, mind full of possibilities and very little in the way of actual work to do, he threw himself into study on the subject. And after many months of falling asleep at his desk with his cheek slumping onto the pages of an old tome, Gale cracked it. He had a solution — or, an idea for a solution. The preliminary tests on various fungi and wildlife were near immediate successes. But with no available humanoids for testing, the only person Gale could think to test his solution upon was the one it was actually intended for. Gale knew what he had to do, then.

The trek back down the coastline to Baldur’s Gate was quick, smooth, and brimming with anticipation. There was something, too, in the return of Baldurian greenery, the skyline of the city — changed, but not unfamiliar — and the humid breeze lashing his hair wildly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it.

Finding Astarion proved easier than he thought, too. He checked into the Elfsong upon arrival (after a quick stop into the newly renovated Sorcerous Sundries to grab supplies for the spell and, of course, say hello to Rolan), and, on a whim, asked the desk clerk if she’d seen an elf around.

“Slim, silver hair? Incorrigible flirt?” Gale offered as description.

She laughed. “Astarion, you mean? He comes here most nights. Shall I let him know you’ve asked after him, if I see him?”

She didn’t need to. When sunset approached, Gale made his way to the tavern downstairs, found a seat facing the door, and waited. Sure enough, midway through Gale’s second glass of wine, the familiar figure strode through the entrance, greeting the folks at the door with a brazen, confident smile.

In all their time together, Gale hadn’t seen Astarion smile like that at anyone . 

Suddenly, Gale felt a bit of trepidation. Whether it was the wine getting to his head or his own anxieties, it suddenly occurred to him that, though Astarion’s wellbeing had certainly been on his mind all this time, his vampire friend might not return the same concerns. Might not even want him here.

As Gale tried to quell his nerves with another sip from his glass, Astarion’s voice rang out from across the bar.

“Gale? Is that you?” 

Over the rim of his wineglass, Gale could see Astarion, staring right at him, head coked curiously and a smile teasing at his lips. Then, Astarion began to approach and Gale hurriedly swallowed, set down his wine glass and rose to his feet.

“Astarion,” Gale replied, voice low and rasped from drink. He cleared his throat. “A pleasure to see you again, old friend.”

Gale wasn’t sure if this was a hugging occasion, or if this new, easygoing Astarion would even be the hugging type. A handshake didn’t feel familiar enough. Though they hadn’t been particularly close on their journey, they’d been through a life-altering experience together. Surely that counted for something?

As though he could see the cogs turning in Gale’s head, Astarion clasped Gale’s shoulder, gripping it briefly and allowing it to linger as they took each other in. Gale mirrored the movement, and it felt comfortable enough.

When the silence hung a moment too long, Astarion patted Gale’s shoulder and eased himself far enough back that he could eye Gale head to toe.

“Gale of Waterdeep,” Astarion intoned, a slightly pompous affect to his tone as he recited the title. “In the flesh,” 

“Just Gale Dekarios now,” Gale corrected. He gestured to the other chair at his small table. “It felt a bit imperious, self-electing a title.”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, smirking, as he lowered into his seat.

“It felt imperious because it was . Glad to see you’ve put that grandiose Gale behind you.”

Gale snorted and raised his glass in acknowledgment. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well too, Astarion.”

And there was that smile, the one he’d granted those folks at the door, private and genuine.

“I am doing well, actually. It’s been a bit of a shock, but life - well, you know what I mean - has been good.” There was an ease, a satisfaction in his expression that told Gale he wasn’t lying. 

“If you don’t mind my asking, what has life been like? Last I saw you, well…” Gale trailed off. The scene replayed in his mind, and he couldn’t quite put together the words. He tried to reconcile his last image of Astarion, desperate and pained, with this utterly pleasant, apparently well-liked Astarion in front of him. The same man, worlds apart.

“Ah.” Astarion shifted in his seat. “Not my finest moment, I’ll admit. I usually try to be a touch more graceful in my retreats.” His fingers flitted through the air between them, at once elegant and dismissive. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “But I survived to see another night.”

“Where did you go?” 

Astarion sighed as if the memory alone annoyed him. “The sewers, at first. Not ideal, but it was familiar, at least. Eventually, though, I ran into some Guild members down there who suggested I look into, shall we say, vigilante work?” Effortlessly, Astarion stretched his smile in such a way that the light played dauntingly against his fangs. He nodded to the patrons filling the crowded bar with laughter and conversation. “I’m more or less a hero to these people now, Netherbrain or no.”

Gale smiled gently. “Seems like you have it made.”

“Well, it hasn’t exactly been all ballgowns and champagne, but,” he paused thoughtfully, looking again at the patrons surrounding them. “It’s good work. Honest work. Maybe the only time I’ve ever…” and his voice trailed off into quiet.

Astarion blinked away the thoughts he seemed to be caught in, and turned back to Gale.

“So, what brings you back to the Gate? I take it you’re not just here to see me. Wizard conference over at Sorcerous Sundries or something?”

Gale tapped his fingers at his wine glass, unable to pull his eyes from it, twin rubies waiting expectantly in his periphery. “Erm, not exactly.”

Astarion leaned back, and when Gale finally felt brave enough to look up, he was met with exactly what he’d been dreading: a smug smile a raised eyebrow.

“You are here for me? Oh, what an exciting night this has become.” Astarion’s posture shifted at he spoke, shoulders rolling as he leaned back, uncrossing his legs.

This was not going at all how Gale had imagined.

“In a manner of speaking, yes — although-!” Gale interrupted an inhaling Astarion as it seemed like he was dreadfully close to saying something that Gale would spend the rest of his life blushing about. “Although,” he continued once Astarion shut his mouth again, “it is less about you and more about your condition.”

“Oh.” Astarion shifted again, sitting upright, legs crossing, eyes curious now rather than that warm, deep, half-lidded glow they’d been emanating only moments earlier. What a chameleon he was. He’d seen Astarion pull these changes to others, but how entrancing to watch it done to himself. What he wouldn’t give to see the true Astarion underneath these layers upon layers of mask and facade. 

“Well,” Astarion prodded when Gale didn’t continue, bewitched as he was. “What exactly did you want to discuss?”

Gale blinked away the little fantasies pulling at his focus.

“I believe — that is, I think, if all of my predictions and tests are correct, which they may or may not be, there are certainly variables I haven’t tested—“

“If you want me to turn you into a vampire or something, I’m afraid that ability died with my old master.” Astarion shifted uncomfortably and glanced around the bar. Looking for an escape route, maybe.

“No!” Gale’s eyes were wide. “God, no. No offense at all to you, as it seems to be working out quite well for you now, but there is no way in any of the hells that I’d ever ask for that, let alone ask it of you.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Then what is it that has you so nervous?”

Gale looked down at his wringing hands. “Well, I… now I’m uncertain you’d even want this, but…” Gale looked up at Astarion and inhaled deeply. “I think I may have come up with a spell that would deter the effects of sunlight on your body.”

Astarion gaped. His mouth dropped open, jaw hanging loose. 

When Astarion didn’t speak, Gale continued. “I can’t be certain, as I’ve not had the opportunity to test it on an actual vampire as of yet, but the results on mushrooms and mice were extremely promising. And you’re under no pressure to accept, of course! Though if you know anyone who—“

“I’d be able to walk in the sun again?” Astarion’s gentle voice cut him off, quiet and timid. “You could really do that? No ceremorphosis?”

“No bodily transformations, no. Though it is physiological. It is essentially a permanent enhancement of the skin. It’s an intensive spell, takes nearly an hour to fully cast it, likely more given the surface area of your body, and I’ll need a quiet space to concentrate, but—“

“I’ll do it.”

Gale had a feeling that he was seeing a glimpse of the real Astarion in his expression now. There was a wide-eyed focus, the hint of a brave, foolhardy smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and his posture had once again shifted completely. He was leaning in toward Gale, had come closer than he’d been throughout the entire evening, and Gale could see the tendons flexing in his hand as he gripped the edge of the table.

“If you’re sure-“

“I am.” Astarion wasn’t even blinking. The only movement he made as he stared at Gale was the heaving of his shoulders as he breathed. “How soon can you do it?”

“If you have a place in mind that’s a touch more private and much, much quieter, I can begin tonight.” Gale’s fingertips were buzzing.

Astarion stood up. “Let’s go back to mine.”

Gale grinned up at him. “Lead the way.”

Gale didn’t recognize where they were going until they were nearly upon it. 

“You live here?” Gale gawked. They were climbing up the stairs that led to the Szarr Palace. 

Astarion, who was already at the top of the stairs, replied over his shoulder, “I got tired of the sewers.”

Gale finally reached the top of the stairs and stared at the grand door. 

“I’ve been doing some redecorating,” Astarion said, reaching for the knob. “There are some halls I wouldn’t recommend wandering down, though. I’ve had a difficult time tracking down a cursebreaker and the effects aren’t exactly kind.”

Astarion swung the door open and ushered Gale inside.

“Will you need any equipment?” Astarion asked as he led him down a long corridor. The inside of the palace was only vaguely familiar. The shape had remained much the same, at least, but the aura was entirely different. Where he expected a rush of fear, he felt only the same dull thud of his heart he always felt when Astarion was near, anxious and fond.

“No, I have all of my spell components here,” Gale patted the bag at his side, “But you may want to pick somewhere where you can comfortably lie down. As I said, the spell can take a while. It will be much easier for me if you’re able to keep still.”

Astarion hummed in acknowledgement and turned down a corridor that Gale wasn’t certain existed the last time he’d been here. If it had, they certainly hadn’t ventured down there.

At the end of the short hall, Astarion reached a tall door and looked back at Gale as he reached for the handle.

“My bedroom will hopefully suffice.” Astarion smirked as he opened the door.

Astarion’s bedroom looked almost exactly the way that Gale had imagined it. Elegant yet simple, richly decorated but not gauche. An antique end table with gold (real gold?) hardware. A filigree mirror, perhaps 10 feet tall, half covered with a white sheet. The focal point of the room was the bed, and all Gale could think as he raked his eyes over the decadent fabrics covering the bed was: Astarion doesn’t sleep.

By the time Astarion cleared his throat for Gale’s attention, Gale could feel the blush reaching down to his neck.

“Shall I lay down, then? Or do you need more time?”

Gale’s voice took a second too long to come out.

“Oh! Erm, yes, bed is fine. Great.” Gale turned his attention to his bag and started removing the various items he’d need while, in his periphery, Astarion sidled onto the bed. 

Though he wasn’t a wizard who often worked with material spell components, he’d grown used to them enough over the past months of experimentation. There was a certain automaticity in his organization of all the necessary artifacts. Now, though, despite the fact that he could likely set it all up with his eyes closed, he was intent on his focus, not daring to tear his eyes away to Astarion, who was shifting into comfortable positions, small huffs escaping him as he tried to find a satisfying position. Gale was a professional. He was doing his job. He was helping others! He was not going to let that distract him. It wouldn’t do to think about Astarion in that way, not when he needed the full power of his concentration to ensure the success of this spell. Later, maybe, but not now.

“Perhaps I should have asked sooner,” Astarion asked, voice low as though the two were in a library rather than the opulent quarters of a vampire, “How certain are you that this will work?”

Gale considered that.

“The delay in response isn’t exactly inspiring confidence,” Astarion said, shifting his weight again.

“It’s not out of lack of confidence in my own abilities, I assure you,” Gale replied. He was confident in his abilities, but found it difficult to convey what success looked like to a non-wizard. He knelt to the floor and arranged the components as he continued. “Even if it did somehow muck this up, I’ve never managed to do irreversible damage, not in any of my experiments. And even upon the test subjects I did initially miscast, I was still able to rectify any mistakes and allow the proper spell to take hold.”

“But you did muck things up?”

“Not in over a month. I wanted to be certain before I came here.” Gale cleared his throat and looked back up at Astarion. 

Astarion’s head was just visible from over the foot of the bed. He’d propped himself up on his elbows to look down at Gale. Though his posture reflected a more laissez-faire attitude, there was an edge of concern lingering on his features.

Gale set down the final component: a hand mirror, his own mother’s. It didn’t need to be a personal item for the spell to work, and indeed it could have been any reflective surface, but it felt right, somehow. 

“I promise, Astarion. I won’t do you any harm.” 

The pair held eyes, long breaths sitting between them, heavy in the air.

“Okay.” Astarion said finally. He laid back down fully and gently repeated himself. “Okay.”

Gale got to work. 

Casting the spell was unlike most others. It was an odd combination of abjuration and transmutation that he’d only ever read about but hadn’t ever seen until his own initial experiments with fungi. And all spells that required material components came with their own sets of difficulty, but he could feel this one most in its angles and edges. There was no sway to it as there often was with spells that became like a well-practiced dance after spending enough time with it. This spell was all precision. Not a dance. All mechanics. It felt like trying to fit a key into a lock without scraping along its edges. 

It was taking longer than it should.

Gale continued reciting his incantations, concentrating on the source and the recipient of his magic, funneling energy between the two. Even with his estimates accounting for Astarion’s body volume and the surface area of the skin he was placing the spell upon, it should have been over several minutes past. 

Sweat began to sting at the corners of Gale’s eyes.

Gale strained against the boundaries of his own magic, galvanizing himself for one last push to get this spell over the edge.

With one final recitation of the incantation, Gale closed his eyes and expelled every last pulse of magic remaining within him.

The room hummed with latent magic for one long moment, and Gale peeked an eye open.

There, on the bed, was Astarion, unconscious, perfectly still.

No, not quite on the bed. Rather, floating gently above it.

More of note, though, was the light shimmer of a spectral shape completely surrounding him.

That hadn’t happened to any of the fungi or mice.

“Astarion?” Gale whispered. The quiet buzz of magic in the room was emanating, Gale realized, from the strange, glittering aura encasing Astarion. It was still alive with some kind of spellwork. Where had Gale gone wrong?

“Astarion,” Gale tried again, louder this time though his voice still ached, hoarse from the exhaustion of it all. “Astarion, can you hear me?”

No response. Astarion didn’t even move. 

Gale felt a cold pit open up low in his stomach.

“Oh, God, I’ve killed Astarion.” 

Gale stumbled over to the shimmer. Through its delicate lace, he could see no movement of breath in Astarion’s chest.

With great caution, Gale reached a finger out to touch the barrier. Would he even be able to get through it?

Gale inhaled deeply and, holding in his breath, he gently tapped his surface.

The last thing Gale remembered before everything went dark was a thunderous boom and the sensation of being hurled through space, far away from the person he was trying to save.

It was a strange sensation, the voice.

When Gale finally woke for the second time, the echo of “ What the hells have you done?!” was still reverberating in his memory. Or was he actually hearing it now? The voice droned on in the back of his mind even now, but no, its words were indecipherable still.

Gale’s eyes slowly blinked open.

From where he lay on the ground, he couldn’t see anything. No movement. His spell components had been scattered wildly around the room somehow. Come to think of it, how had Gale ended up so far from the feet of the bed he’d just been next to? 

What had happened? His memory was still fuzzy, but he could have sworn Astarion had been just in front of him…

“Oh, good. You’re awake.” The voice came back to Gale without warning, vibrating through the confines of his skull.

“Who said that?” Gale sat bolt upright and his head swiveled, searching for a source.

“I think you already know the answer to that ,” the voice responded coolly.

And it was right. Gale knew the answer. 

But comprehending the answer was another thing entirely.

Gale stood shakily, and his eyes immediately landed upon Astarion’s body, still hovering above the bed, still encased in that same glittering aura.

Though Astarion’s body did not stir in the slightest, Astarion’s voice continued to ring out, cascading bells vibrating from no discernible source.

“An explanation would be appreciated.”

“Astarion? Where are you?” Gale couldn’t tear his eyes from Astarion’s form. With the type of work he did, Gale wasn’t easily thrown, but there was something entirely unnatural about the body’s stillness, as if frozen entirely but without any visible signs of magic aside from the shield surrounding him.

“Take a wild guess.”

Gale not only heard the voice, but this time, he felt, actually felt the sardonic drip of the words as if he himself had been the one to them.

Dread filled Gale like ice down his spine.

“Astarion, could you describe what you can see?” The question spilled shakily from Gale’s lips.

“You know, I didn’t think that the first time I’d see myself in over two hundred years would happen this way. But there I am. That is me, right? Floating above the bed?”

“Oh, God,” Gale brought his face down into his hands. What had he done?”

“That’s what I’m trying to suss out! What have you done? Uncover your eyes, I’m trying to see!”

Through a force Gale couldn’t see or predict, his own hands tore themselves away from his face, flinging themselves in a sharp cut downward where they slapped against his legs.

Astarion was in his head.

Whether it be soul, or spirit, or mind, or something, Astarion had been absorbed into Gale somehow.

“Well, get me out of you, bastard!” Astarion’s voice seemed to grow clearer by small measures every time he spoke – thought? – to Gale. The quiet drone of whispers was more muffled now.

Hold on – could Astarion hear what Gale was thinking?

“Yes, I can. Now, please, think of something useful like, oh, I don’t know, how to fix this!”

Gale’s mind was spinning, and the disorienting sensation of another mind panicking within his own frenetic mind was only exacerbating the issue.

Standing up straight, Gale took a deep, centering breath and did what he did best: 

He thought.

He racked his mind for every detail of every magical stasis spell, every manner of resolving miscast spells, everything he knew about mind-magicks and stirred them all together, thoughts overlapping one another like ingredients being poured into the cooking pot.

“Gods, is it like this all the time?”

Gale ignored his new commentator and continued poring over memories of spellbooks and demonstrations he’d witnessed at Blackstaff. 

He could almost feel the impatient tapping of Astarion’s foot from within the confines of his own brain.

Gale wasn’t sure how much time had passed or how many snide remarks from Astarion had gone ignored when the answer seemed to spill in front of him like wine on a tablecloth. The solution was clear, but not one everyone would be happy with.

“A full day?!” Astarion’s sudden booming voice made Gale flinch. “Fix it now!”

Gale opened his mouth to reply, then quickly shut it again. Did he even need to speak out loud? He put that idea to the test.

I can’t fix it now. You can hear my thoughts — you saw the solution as plain as I did, I’m sure. 

Ghostly murmurs rose in the edges of Gale’s mind.

The solution that Gale had worked out would allow him to remove the strange stasis surrounding Astarion’s preserved body and, hopefully without any additional spells, remove Astarion’s consciousness from his own. With some guidance, it wouldn’t be too much more work to place it back into the correct body. Whether or not Astarion’s body would be sun-proofed once his mind returned was another question entirely. 

The issue was timing. The spell was freshly-cast and far too volatile, if the way a mere touch had thrown him across the room like a coin flicked from a thumb was any indication. He knew that, if he didn’t want to overexert himself in counteracting the spell, two days of allowing it to cool would be ideal, but he also knew there would have been objections to anything beyond the absolute minimum. And he’d been right.

“If you can do it in one day, you will,” Astarion replied resolutely.

It seems a tad bit unfair , Gale thought, that you can hear all of my thoughts but it seems that I can only hear the ones you choose to allow me to hear.

“Really? Because, from my perspective, it seems a tad bit unfair that I’m not in my own body to begin with!” Astarion replied, exasperated.

“I suppose that’s fair,” Gale replied aloud. “Can you try something for me?”

The image flew through Gale’s mind before he could bring words to it. And the moment Gale’s mind thought it, Astarion responded through action.

Gale’s hand raised itself shakily, then in one smooth arc, slapped his own face.

Gale wrenched his hand back into his own control to rub at the sting against his cheek.

I only wanted you to try to raise my hand! 

Gale could feel both Astarion’s own flinching pain from the slap and his smugness at pulling it off.

“And I did raise your hand. Just added on some much-needed flair.” 

Could Astarion feel everything that Gale felt?

“Grab something. Or, no, let me try–” Astarion’s instructions cut off as Gale’s foot haltingly moved forward. Then his other. 

It was a toddler’s approximation of walking, but it was working. Astarion was walking Gale’s body.

Is it difficult?

His body stopped briefly.

Astarion’s thoughts fluttered in, as if his very mind was winded from exertion.

“It takes… a great deal… of focus,” Astarion said. “But I think… I think I’m getting the hang of it. Don’t distract me.”

How absolutely fascinating to feel the movements of his own body without any mind of moving them himself. It was completely different from spell-based compulsions, wherein the caster would be able to charm their target into moving on their behalf. It wasn’t even like enchantment spells like Hold Person – a derivative of which Gale was certain held the still body of the fellow occupant of his mind – where the caster had control of the recipient’s very body. This was more along the lines of what Gale thought being possessed by a spirit. might feel like, but with an entirely lucid mind watching all of it happen. 

“I can’t believe you really do think about magic this often.”

Hazard of the trade. There, try and grab that. Gale’s eyes fell upon a ring lying next to various jewelry in a dish. A test for your — our? — fine motor skills.

The grip of Astarion’s possession overtook him again, and indeed he did appear to be getting the hang of things. Gale felt steadier on his feet, and the movements were slowly but surely getting quicker.

It took three tries for Astarion to finally pick up the ring, and another two struggling to squeeze it onto Gale’s pinky finger.

“It’s meant for the ring finger, you know, but with your beastly huge hands, I don’t think I could get it past the first knuckle.”

Well, you know what they say about big hands, Gale thought in retort. The bigger the hand, the bigger the wand.  

 “Does that charming line actually work on anyone?” Astarion was twisting Gale’s hand back and forth, examining the ill-fitting ring. 

Gale couldn’t help the answering thought that reverberated through his mind: a resounding no. 

He hadn’t had any success in romance since Mystra had abandoned him. The whole ordeal of romantic entanglement felt confusing, heart-wrenching, and utterly impossible. But he couldn't help wanting it desperately. And the more he tried to stop himself from summoning thoughts of loneliness to prevent Astarion ( especially Astarion!) from seeing, the more they flowered at the forefront of his mind.

Astarion, mercifully, diverted his attention. 

“Shall we continue experimenting? The sun should be rising in less than an hour. It’s been a long year in the darkness, and I was promised freedom to walk under the sun, if you’ll recall?”

“Ah!” Gale replied aloud. “I hadn’t realized I was out for so long. Of course. I owe you that, at the very least.” 

Gale took back the reins of his body and started making his way out of the manor. He could practically feel Astarion kicking up his legs in the back of his mind, enjoying being along for the ride. Gale felt a bit like a horse pulling Astarion’s carriage.

“And a lovely horse you are, Gale. Now, trot along!”

After retracing his steps, Gale reached the front door to leave, and realized he wasn’t sure where to go. There was still some time left. Should they go somewhere where there would still be shadow, just in case Gale was afflicted now too? Or someplace where the sunset would be breathtakingly beautiful to make up for Gale’s mistake?

“Both would be good. There are a few places near the docks…” 

Gale remembered them too. Images rose in his mind of a rocky beach they’d passed in their travels, a fallen tree that might serve as a makeshift bench, and the nearby shed that could serve as shelter just in case.

“I know that place. It should still be there.” Astarion mentally nudged Gale forward.

The walk was actually pleasant. Baldur’s Gate was much warmer than Waterdeep this time of year, even before the sun rose, and it encased him like a well-worn blanket. Gale rolled up the sleeves of his robes.

As they strolled along, Astarion pointed out various landmarks of personal interest. 

“The owner of that shop over there is a lovely old gossip. Knows everyone’s business and will tell anyone who gives her the slightest compliment. A dear friend. Oh, do give that man a wide berth. He’s known for spitting at anyone who dares to intrude upon his ‘personal space.’ There’s a lute player who apparently plays at this fountain every afternoon. I’ve never heard him play, but people say such great things.” 

Gale took careful note of each of Astarion’s descriptions. It was clear that Astarion had a deep love for the city, even though the worst years of his life had been spent here. There was fondness in every description, every story and memory. 

“It has its shortcomings, but it’s home,” Astarion sounded resolute in Gale’s mind.

I feel the same about Waterdeep. Even the stink of the harbor, the foul behavior of the drunks at the taverns each night — it still manages to charm me.

“I’ve never been, but you make it sound terrible.”

I’m not doing it justice. Hold on.

Gale let his mind swim with images of his favorite parts of his home: the fireworks displays at every holiday. The friendliness of strangers. The high parapets of Blackstaff, dark against the evening sky. The wind at the top of the mountains that sat against the town. His own tower, warm and lovely, a well-stocked library and a view of the ocean sprawled out like a storybook beneath him. 

Gale settled his mind onto that last image. He’d spent perhaps a bit too much time in that tower in the last couple of years, but he’d grown no less fond of it. There was no place in all of Faerûn that could be its equal.

Astarion took in all of this without interrupting. Then, finally, he replied. 

“Well, if you can ever get this spell to work, perhaps I’ll have to go and visit sometime.”

It didn’t take a great deal of imagination to picture Astarion in Waterdeep. With the vibrancy of their nightlife, he’d hardly even have to be concerned about the sun. And the idea of guiding Astarion through the zagging streets, laughing their way through the hills of Waterdeep, taking him by hand and guiding him up the stairs of his tower…

Dangerous thoughts in such company. 

Gale blinked away his too-eager imagination and thought with purpose, intention: 

There’s always a place for any of my companions in Waterdeep. I’d be happy to host you.

Thankfully, before Gale’s mind betrayed him too deeply, they arrived at the beach from his memory. It seemed the battle that had destroyed half of the Gate hadn’t reached this small, rocky inlet. The shed could certainly use a new coat of paint, but as far as shelter went, it would be suitable if it were needed. Gale was fairly certain it wouldn’t be necessary, but with this sort of magic, one could never tell. He sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be necessary; else he and Astarion would be stuck there alone all day. Still, he could think of worse things than that. It would be nice, actually, to have alone time to spend with Astarion, who so often kept to himself.

“Do you want to be stuck alone with me, then, Gale?” Astarion’s voice was whiskey in his mind, smooth and intoxicating.

You know, Gale thought, his mental blush quickly becoming physical, I still think it’s unfair that you can hear everything that I think.

“On the contrary,” Astarion replied. “ I’m beginning to find it the perfect compensation for what you’ve done to me. Now sit,” he commanded, moving Gale’s head to turn to face the felled log that would serve as their bench. “The show is about to begin.”

Gale acquiesced. Across the horizon, blooming oranges and pinks began trickling into view, pooling in large swaths across the lightening sky. It would indeed be sunrise any moment. 

How do you feel? Gale thought.

In place of a response, Astarion raised Gale’s hand to press a forefinger against his own lip, effectively shushing himself. 

Though he wasn’t in the habit of it, Gale tried to quiet his mind, to create a sense of peace for Astarion in what felt like a very pivotal moment. He focused on the puffs of cloud dotting the skyline, on the specific shades of color and the delicate fading of one hue to the next. He absorbed it all, crafting a memory for himself as he sat in a companionable silence with his new headmate.

Finally, the sun broke free of the horizon and it was, without doubt, the most spectacular sunrise Gale had ever seen. 

Astarion’s emotions at the sight, so intense that they broke through to Gale’s attention whether Astarion intended them to or not, only doubled his own feelings: awe, gratitude, and an overwhelming sense of wholeness. Their emotions seemed to tumble into and expand upon one another cyclically, until Gale was no longer certain where Astarion’s emotions began and his ended. There were no words to tangle and complicate the feelings. 

And his skin — no burning, no discomfort. Just the pleasant warmth of the sun mingling with the ocean’s breeze. 

They sat for a long time in a mutual, serene silence. 

It was Gale who finally broke their reverie, his need to think about everything acting as his biggest detriment, as always. 

He didn’t intend to break their comfort. Indeed, it was in thinking about how much he enjoyed it that it finally came to Astarion’s attention. The ideas of peace and intimacy were floating like vapors in his mind, unfamiliar and intangible. He’d never experienced the two in such cohesion as he had in this moment, and there was a dull ache in his chest at the idea that he likely wouldn’t experience again, and certainly not in this capacity.

“We have to get you to bed with someone soon.”

The intrusion of Astarion’s thoughts shook Gale so deeply, he stood bolt upright, though he had no intention of leaving. He struggled to find any way he could reply to such a comment. 

“Your thoughts are unintelligible when you’re flustered like this, you know.”

My thoughts, Gale replied with all of the focus and clarity he could muster, aren’t meant to be intelligible by anyone!

“And yet…” Astarion tugged Gale’s feet forward. “Come. I want to test more.”

Astarion walked with intent, each step gaining more confidence in his stride, but Gale couldn’t determine where they were headed. He distracted himself from thoughts of how much comfort he’d felt in Astarion’s quiet company by going over his mental map of the city, trying to determine where Astarion was taking them. 

After a few minutes’ walk, Astarion finally brought them to a halt. 

It was an entirely new part of town for Gale. At their feet, a wide but shallow stream gurgled past, bright flowers adorning either side of its shore. The roads around them were empty this time of morning, but they were wide enough that Gale assumed a great many pedestrians made their way to these shops. Gale looked left and right, examining the buildings for familiar features, signs whose names might ring bells of recognition. 

“We’re not here for the buildings .” 

Gale’s head was forced to look back down in front of him. 

Ah. Running water.

Gale recalled the dozens of texts he’d read on vampire physiology during his research and his mind’s eye flashed across page after page describing the relationship between vampires and running water. Illustrations showing the feet burning in pain, the soul trapped in the waters.

“I’ve never been able to cross here.” Astarion’s voice wavered, leaving Gale’s mind quiet for a moment. 

Do you want me to lead the way? Gale offered gently. He was eyeing the rush of water carefully, certain Astarion was watching too, behind his eyes. It seemed so innocuous, just a few inches of water, no grand rush. But he knew that’s not what Astarion saw. 

“No, no,” Astarion replied. “I can do it. I want to. Just… give me a moment.”

Gale did his best to quiet his mind again, just observing the scenery, mentally reciting the various names for each piece of flora decorating the delicate shore. He recognized mugwort, commonly known as women’s sage, ssuk, bollan bane, frequently confused with wormwood. There, a bit further down was a small clutch of cattails, referred to in other regions as reedmace, bulrush, or cooper’s reed. He cataloged the plants he didn’t recognize for further research.  

“Please stop. You’re allowed to think about things, Gale. Might be a nice distraction actually.”

Gale couldn’t help the oh, thank the stars that flew through his mind immediately when he was given permission to diverge, and he was rewarded with a suppressed mental snort from Astarion.

Gale imagined it was quite the mental load, going against two centuries of built up instincts. He was positive, after their time in the sun, the stream would have no effect on Astarion, but he knew what it was like to doubt your own actions when they  went against everything you knew. His memory of his first time using the Feather Fall spell at Blackstaff came to mind, as did the memory of his professor’s insistence that the students test their spellwork by leaping from the window. Gale’s confidence didn’t matter, prodigy though he was. What mattered is that nobody in their right mind wanted to leap from the window, spell or no.

Suddenly, Gale’s foot was pulled forward and down into the cool rush of the stream.

You could have at least taken off my shoes first! Gale thought, leather soles growing rubbery against the moisture.

“It’s so much colder than I imagined,” Astarion said, then he carefully pulled Gale’s body across to the other side.

Gale felt Astarion drop the reins the moment his feet landed on the other side.

Well?

There was a long pause, and for a moment, Gale worried that he’d been wrong, that Astarion’s soul really had been trapped in the bracing waters of the stream. Then, a quiet reply filled his mind.

“I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

Gale wasn’t sure he agreed with that, current circumstances considered, but he was relieved nevertheless. 

Gale sat down on the curb of a nearby walkway and took off his shoes, gritting his teeth at the feeling of wet socks being tugged off of his feet.

“It’s funny,” Astarion said as Gale struggled. “How much easier it is for you.”

“How is that?” Gale mumbled aloud, unsure of how him wringing out wet socks on the street side, in plain view of a mildly concerned shopkeeper, could possibly be considered easy.

“If I were to enter that stream, my feet would burn to nubs, while I stood stock still, powerless to move. And if I’d tried to cross it, I’d run the risk of losing my very soul. I lived in fear of being shoved into that or any running water for so many years. And you just get wet socks.”

Gale set his socks down in a patch of sunlight.

I’m sorry, Astarion.

Astarion’s annoyed returning thoughts crowded out his own.

“Oh, stop that. I can’t stand niceties that don’t actually mean anything.”

Gale believed strongly in apologies and acknowledgement of wrongdoing – it was something he wished he’d been on the receiving end of more often than he actually was, considering how frequently he’d been on the receiving end of fairly foul treatment. But he knew that Astarion had suffered more than Gale could possibly understand, for much longer than Gale’s life would likely last. So, he stuffed those thoughts down before they could bother his companion more.

“Apologies aside,” Astarion continued, “ I am grateful that I could experience it at least this once, even if the conditions are less than ideal.” There was a hesitance in Astarion’s thoughts, and it occurred to Gale that Astarion was not wont to express gratitude so freely. Something in him hummed, pleased, that he’d managed to earn that from Astarion.

Well , Gale thought, Let’s make the most of these terrible conditions, then, shall we?

He rose to his feet, still bare against the slowly warming cobblestones.

What else have you been missing for the past two centuries?

The answer, Gale discovered, was a great deal. 

Their first stop was a clothing shop Astarion had always admired through the windows, but which was only ever open during daylight hours, meaning Astarion had never had the opportunity to patronize it. Once inside, he forced Gale’s fingers to glide over each of the fine fabrics in turn. After the third time Astarion had returned to touch the same maroon vest, Gale finally acquiesced. 

Would you like me to buy this for you, Astarion?

A small burst of giddy joy echoed in the recesses of Gale’s mind before reigning itself in. When Astarion’s thoughts gained a voice, it was carefully measured, but since becoming accustomed to Astarion’s voice, he could sense the mischief underneath the words:

“Oh, Gale, no, I couldn’t possibly impose…” 

Astarion’s thoughts trailed off, and Gale felt his hand move towards his own pocket and clutching the coin purse within. Finally, the phantom force withdrew, leaving Gale’s palm heavy with gold.

“Alright, if you insist!” 

Gale rolled his eyes and waved over the shopkeeper.

Walking out of the shop with the tightly wrapped parcel in hand (Astarion wouldn’t let Gale touch the damned thing, let alone wear it), Gale couldn’t tell immediately if it was his feet or Astarion’s that guided them toward the mouth-watering aroma pouring from the small bistro next door. 

Gale absently rubbed a hand over his stomach and eyed the open, inviting doorway. He’d completely forgotten about breakfast. Had he even eaten dinner, in all his anxiety about meeting with Astarion the night before? He couldn’t recall.

“I’d nearly forgotten.” Astarion mused, so quietly it was hard to hear over the bustle of the restaurant. 

Gale crossed into the threshold and prodded at Astarion mentally, hoping he’d elaborate. 

A hostess led Gale to a seat near a wide window and handed him a menu before retreating. Gale’s eyes scanned over the page. The cuisine here couldn’t compare to Waterdeep, but there were foods he was beginning to miss desperately. And the smell permeating the air — oh, he would indulge.

“Hunger. Normal hunger.”

Astarion’s voice, solemn and clear, was unexpected. It gave Gale a small jolt.

“It’s almost enjoyable. Gods, to know your next meal is coming and to feel only, what, anticipation? Excitement? Joy?”

Guilt was beginning to pool in Gale’s stomach. How much was he taking for granted?

A waitress approached the table and introduced herself.

“Any drinks to start you off today?”

Gale’s mouth opened, and a hoarse, crackling, sickly voice poured out a single word: “Wine.”

Gale snapped his mouth shut.

Astarion had spoken through Gale’s mouth. Poorly, yes, but he’d managed it. 

Gale cleared his throat and spoke, this time for himself. “Pardon. Some wine, please, a glass of water and we’ll have…” he skimmed his eyes over the menu, searching for familiar dishes.

“That one!” Astarian mentally gestured. “Roast fowl. And some bread. A baked potato! What desserts do they have?”

“I can give you some more time to think.” The waitress smiled down at him. “And you said ‘we’ — Will someone be joining you? I can bring another chair…”

“Ah, no, that won’t be necessary. We’re— I’m ready to order. I’ll have, erm, the roast fowl with some bread, a baked potato, and, what do you have for dessert?”

The waitress recited a list of various tarts and puddings from memory.

“All of it!” 

Can I remind you we lightened my purse significantly on a vest not 10 minutes ago?

Gale smiled up at the waitress, who, through the veneer of her smile, was making it clear that she’d had just about enough of this strange new customer. “What would you recommend?”

When the waitress finally left, Gale felt like he’d just done a particularly challenging dungeon crawl.

Are you sure you even want this? It can’t possibly be as appetizing as blood. And no, that’s not an offer.

“Somehow,” Astarion replied, “it does sound appetizing. I imagine it’s just your own hunger and taste that I’m feeling, but for the first time I can remember, I would kill for some human food.” Astarion paused, then added. “It’s a figure of speech.”

The wine came first, and Gale immediately took the stem, examining its contents.

“Just drink it!”

Do you not eye your prey before you sink your teeth in? Waft their scent to get a feel for the quality?

Astarion didn’t reply. And when Gale finally deemed the wine adequate and took a sip, there were no words in Astarion’s reaction. Just a blissful hum and a nudge of his hand back toward the glass.

When the food came, Astarion seemed desperate to cram it all down. A few lifetimes of quick, dirty, desperate meals in alleys and gutters probably made eating into a speedy affair.

We’re going to take our time with this, Gale thought at him when Astarion fought for control of his arm, tugging the fork toward him. We have nowhere else to be. Let’s make it a memory to last, hm?

Gale thanked the stars above that the chef here was one of real quality. He wasn’t sure how Astarion would have reacted to a shoddy first meal. 

The first bite hit his tongue, and, though Gale couldn’t be sure if Astarion had let the sound out intentionally, the moan of pleasure that came out of Gale’s mouth at the taste drew the eye of a few neighbors.

Oh, hush!

“It’s exactly how I remember. It’s perfect.”

Better than blood? Gale asked.

“Better? Never. But it’s something else entirely, a sensation I had nearly forgotten about: It’s satisfying.”

Gale wasn’t sure he’d ever cleaned his plate so thoroughly as he did in that shop. 

After leaving the shop feeling slower in his step and lighter in his wallet, Gale paused just outside the door.

Do you hear that? Gale asked.

Somewhere to the east, light, lilting echoes of music trickled down the streets.

“It’s him!” Astarion exclaimed, and Gale’s feet were moving.

It was only a few minutes after noon, and the lute player had only just begun, but already a small crowd enveloped him at the fountain.

Gale strained his neck to peer over shoulders.

“Get us closer.” 

But they were here first…

A sigh from Astarion. A quiet tsk.

“Gale, sometimes you need to take what you want.”

It was like a hand gripping at the front of his belt and pulling. Gale’s body was tugged step by clumsy step, shouldering past the crowd, until he was finally at the front, just a few feet from the lutist.

He was quite skilled, Gale had to admit. It was no surprise a performer like him drew such a crowd; the instrument was like clay in his hands, molding with each careful strum to befit the mood of the crowd, pressing into shapes to better fit against them. 

Gale swayed on his feet to the rhythm and did his best to ignore the judgmental sidelong glances his neighbors at the front of the crowd gave him.

Astarion, for his part, didn’t say a word through the rest of that song, or the next one. They stood for perhaps half an hour there, wordlessly enjoying the music. 

From time to time, Gale could feel a sort of nameless mental pressure coming from Astarion. After a while, he finally surmised the pressure must be from the exertion Astarion was putting into committing his favorite moments to memory. 

Gale really hoped Astarion wouldn’t have to rely on his memories in the future. That maybe, if he could finally do this right, Astarion would be able to witness things like this every day for the rest of his long life.

He hoped.

They stayed for the rest of the musician’s performance, and Gale, reluctant though he was, begrudgingly emptied more of his coin purse into the small case where the lutist accepted donations. And he didn’t need any prodding from Astarion to do it.

Gale and Astarion spent the rest of their afternoon lazily wandering. He hadn’t walked this much since their adventures together so long ago, and, though his knees were complaining, he didn’t really want to stop.

They talked. They shared small bites of food off of carts. They reminisced about their travels together. They enjoyed the shine and heat of the sun as it made its slow descent.

Certainly there must be something else we haven’t covered, Gale insisted as he bit down a clove of fried garlic.

“ You’ve done a thorough job of giving me the human experience,” Astarion replied. “Well done.”

Surely, though, they’d skipped over something. Gale skimmed over his vampire research in his mind, thumbing through memories of descriptions of specific vampire qualities he’d read about in his studies over the past year.

Well, he supposed, not much left to do aside from go back to Astarion’s room, do some light study on his environment and wait it out until his stasis was stable enough to try the spell once again.

He was fairly exhausted after a day like today, too. Going back to that room and luxuriating in all of its fineries wasn’t a bad way at all to end a day like today.

And there, in his mind’s eye, as he pictured the layout of the room, his focus drilled into the large mirror that had occupied the corner.

A mirror.

Gale’s limbs froze in place, as though under a spell. 

I mean, Gale clarified, it wouldn’t be your reflection, technically. It would still be mine. But it — well, I don’t actually know if it would be nice to see. Probably not, given—

“I want to see.”

His conviction put a stutter into Gale’s thoughts. Half flattered, and half seeking to please, Gale started looking around their surroundings, desperate for a suitable reflective surface.

“I don’t — not here. But I want to see it. My reflection — your reflection. I want to…” Astarion trailed off and Gale could hear overlapping thoughts try to finish the sentence as Astarion floundered for how to phrase what he wanted. 

Where? Was the simple question Gale asked in return.

Instead of words, Astarion flashed an image of his bedroom, the giant mirror half-covered by fabric, tucked into a corner.

There was a hurry in Gale’s step that he couldn’t quite explain. Though he knew that the experience would be the same regardless of when they arrived, it somehow felt urgent that he get in front of a mirror, that mirror, as soon as possible.

When they reached the door of the manor, Gale shoved the door open and stepped through without slowing, letting it slam shut behind him as he hurried into the room.

Why was there so much excitement? Hurry? Anticipation? Whatever it was, it brought a pounding to his heart.

One last footstep brought Gale face to face with his own reflection.

It was a sizeable mirror, its intricate, filigreed frame reaching a good foot over his own head. 

And, within the frame, Gale’s own image stared him back.

There was a long silence while both of them took in the reflection.

“When was the last time-?” Gale began to ask aloud, but Astarion’s thoughts cut in.

“I don’t even remember it. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d ever see my reflection, I might have thought about it more.”

Gale didn’t have to have Astarion in his head, didn’t have to feel his compulsions taking him over to know that Astarion was staring.

Gale obliged him, turning this way and that, swiveling to marvel at each angle of his reflection. He let his eyes drift over the curve of his shoulders, the tendons at his neck, down the gentle line of his left leg, then his right.

“Could you-?” Astarion’s voice reverberated, two short words. Then Gale felt his hand pulled toward the tied belt closing his robe.

Gale’s heartbeat picked up. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard a low, amused laugh.

Well, Gale figured, who wouldn’t want to see the finer details of a body reflected back at them after so many years? He shouldn’t read into it.

Astarion didn’t acknowledge that line of thinking. Instead, he twitched Gale’s fingers again.

It was nerve wracking, baring himself like this. Sure, he still had his trousers on underneath, but he couldn’t remember the last time that anyone aside from Tara had seen him without a shirt on. He didn’t know if Astarion would-

“Who’s Tara?” Astarion’s voice was almost lazily slow, as though he were calling out while lounging upon a chaise.

When Gale’s memory flashed through memories of his Tressym, sunning herself by the windows of his tower, chasing birds through the sky, aiming cheap criticism toward his cooking.

“Ah. I was worried she might have been a lover.” 

To have Astarion talking of lovers as Gale slowly disrobed sent a shivering thrill through him. It almost eased his nerves. 

Almost.

Finally untied, Gale let his robe fall back over his shoulders and onto the floor beneath him.

Gale examined his body with practiced neutrality. 

It had taken a long time to see his body as what it was: the machine that allowed him to navigate the world, and not a separate entity at odds with his mind. 

He took stock of his exposed torso. Tan skin, hair across his chest, rounded belly, dark nipples. This was Gale. He knew that similar features were waiting behind the fabric of his trousers as well.

For Astarion’s sake, Gale moved. He lifted an arm, twisting to look at the curves of his shoulders, spinning fully to look at the curve of his spine.

From where Astarion lay in the back of his mind, all Gale could feel were wordless, thudding pulses of energy.

Gale supposed that meant he liked it. So, he continued.

Though had no experience posing, had only sat for one portrait for his mother and had staunchly refused to do so since, Gale moved, pulled his body this way and that, all the while craning his neck to ensure his eyes, Astarion’s eyes, were on him.

Gale tried not to think of it as putting on a show.

Again, there was the sensation of possession, of control of his limbs being pushed aside, as Astarion took over, raising a hand to come and rest against that of his reflection.

His other hand pulled itself up to roam across his chest, thumb dragging over the soft slope of his stomach.

Gale had touched himself countless times. When you live as lonely a life as he often had over these past years, you become intimately familiar with the feel of your own hands caressing your body.

This did not feel like any of those times.

This felt more like the tentative touch of a lover. In some ways it reminded him of Mystra. Her control, the ephemerality of her body on his. But he could not compare this to Mystra, not really. He had none of the restraint, none of the hesitance, none of the all-consuming need to prove himself. No, this was something new.

His hands continued to roam his body, sometimes of his own will, sometimes of Astarion’s.

Together, they brought one hand up to trace the lines of his face.

It felt divine. Gale’s mouth fell open the barest inch as feather-light fingertips traced from brow to nose to cheekbone. 

As his hand rounded the sharp curves of his jaw, a thumb came to rest upon his parted lips. Automatically, Gale tilted his jaw open another hair’s breadth. There was no real intent; it just seemed right. 

Then the thumb pushed into his mouth, not slipping down further against the soft length of his tongue as he might’ve imagined, but instead pressing up against the point of an incisor.

“ Not as sharp,” thought Astarion, and Gale felt the pad of his thumb drag across the edges of the entire row of teeth, one by one.

It was so devastatingly intimate.

He didn’t know how intentional it was — if he really meant to do it, or if perhaps Astarion had changed his movements just enough to make it happen, but on the third gentle tracing of fingertip over teeth, the corner of his thumb, the barest millimeter, made contact with the soft warmth of his tongue.

The thumb stopped. That was definitely Astarion, not Gale. And, after the shortest moment, the thumb pushed another fraction further into his mouth as it brushed again over the peak of each tooth, forcing his jaw open a breath wider.

That was definitely Astarion too.

Experimentally, Gale let his tongue brush up against the roaming finger again, and he was rewarded by a mental shudder from Astarion. No words attached, just a dizzying, flitting pleasure rippling up the length of his body.

So, Gale licked once more with intention, slowly and determinedly.

The soft warmth of his tongue pushed again at his thumb, and Gale could not be sure whose reaction was stronger, only that he wanted to feel that pulse of heat in his body again.

“ More.”

The mental command was quiet but insistent, and though Astarion didn’t move them, he felt his index and middle finger twitch. He didn’t need any more invitation.

Gale stared himself in the eyes as he licked his lips and slowly pushed two fingers into his mouth, pressing down against the wet plain of his tongue.

Somewhere within the depth of his eyes, he felt Astarion staring back at him.

“ Good.”

It was so hard to keep that eye contact when all that he wanted was to roll his eyes back in his head.

Gale took the digits in inch by inch, savoring the ridges of each knuckle until the rest of his hand stopped him from being able to push in further. His fingers were so far back it was an effort not to choke.

A low whine escaped his throat.

“ Again.”

These little commands, each precious word, completely took over Gale’s mind. 

Sucking down tightly, Gale pushed the fingers in and out, from the first knuckle to the last, rebelling in the way his pinkened lips rolled and pulled against the friction of his fingers. 

He hoped he looked good enough for Astarion. He hoped Astarion wanted to see him like this, because all he wanted right now was to show him.

“ You look perfect,” came Astarion’s low reply, rumbling the edges of his mind. “ Keep sucking.”

Gale’s fingers pumped unhurriedly into his mouth, pulling out short, quiet moans and deep, steadying breaths with each leisurely press inward.

Astarion took control of his free hand, dragging it torturously over the plain of his abdomen, and up over his chest. As fingers met nipple, Gale gasped, mouth falling open, hand nearly falling out.

The hand in Astarion’s control shot up to grasp the opposite wrist, pushing the hand in, fingers forced back into Gale’s mouth, pressing flat against his tongue, holding them there so deep Gale was swallowing around them. 

“ Gorgeous .”

Gale swallowed around the fingers again, staring at the sight of his lips stretching around his hand. At the corner of his mouth, a dribble of saliva leaked around the intruding hand, shining down his chin.

After a long admiring moment, Astarion finally released his grip on Gale’s wrist and Gale, determined as he was to prove himself, swallowed again around the fingers, keeping them deep in his throat as he could without the support of Astarion pushing them in further.

Finally, Astarion brought Gale’s free hand to roam across the length of his torso, paying careful attention to the dense hairs on his chest.

His fingers grazed a nipple again, and this time Gale nearly bit his own finger at the shock. 

The hand paused, then returned to the nipple, taking it between thumb and forefinger to squeeze lightly.

Gale almost dropped his jaw again, almost let his fingers go, but caught himself and pushed back in.

“ Good. Just like that,” Astarion said. Gale let out a muffled hnph! around his fingers as he felt another pinch at his nipples.

Astarion seemed to be luxuriating in the control, taking his time with each slow thrust of middle and forefinger into Gale’s mouth, of each tweak of his nipples.

And if Gale was being completely honest, he was luxuriating in it too.

How incredible it felt to be wanted , to let go and have that want apparent, tangible in every movement.

He’d always thought that if he and Astarion were ever to wind up together at the end of a long day, Astarion would be the one with his hands all over Gale. He’d fantasized many a night in their camps, and back at his lonely tower after their long ordeal, of lithe, pale limbs and sharp teeth. But, though Gale had neither of things, this touch was still electric against his skin 

“You thought about me touching you?”

How could I not? Gale thought back. His mind flashed through images, memories of Astarion that Gale revisited nearly every night. Astarion, stretched out against his mat, arms bare and flexing. Astarion, his eyes half-lidded and tongue licking his lips. Astarion, staring into Gale’s eyes as fresh blood leaked from the corner of his smiling mouth, incisors flashing pearly white.

“What did you want me to do to you?”

What didn’t Gale want from Astarion? He wanted to touch, wanted to be touched, everywhere that they could, for hours and hours upon end. He wanted to feel Astarion’s body grinding up against his, wanted to feel Astarion hard against him, on his lips, inside of him. 

He’d imagined it all a hundred different ways.

He would do anything for it. He had already done so much. Hadn’t he invented an entirely new type of magic, traveled across Faerun, tracked the vampire down and cast the spell? And when that hadn’t worked, hadn’t he done all he could to ensure Astarion could at least have a day to enjoy the pleasures that might be available to him once the spell took real hold on him?

Hadn’t he let Astarion have complete control of his body? Hadn’t he handed over the reigns to his own mind, so willingly and without question?

He would do it all again a thousand times if it meant he could have one night with Astarion.

All of these thoughts poured out of Gale in only a few seconds, and though he knew Astarion could hear them, he replied in his mind anyway:

I wanted you to fuck me.

Astarion didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he gently eased the dripping fingers from Gale’s mouth, a string of drool trailing from his lips, and dropped both of Gale’s hands at his sides, limp.

Gale waited. 

He itched to touch himself, was desperate for the keening ache in his groin to find relief in his hand, for Astarion to see him, feel him, and yes, maybe take control.

“ Ah-ah. Keep still. Let me handle this.”

Gale inhaled, pulling in as much air to his lungs as he could, and held it for a long moment.

When learning the art of wizardry, you practice meditation daily. It’s a means of focusing energy inward, exercising concentration. 

It also came in handy if you wanted to take a back seat inside of your own mind.

Gale relaxed, letting go of tension mentally and physically until the world quieted to a hum around him. From the back of his mind, it almost felt as though Astarion were stroking him, brushing imaginary fingertips through his hair, across his shoulders, down his back.

“Good boy.”

Gale, focused so completely on letting go control of his body, shivered automatically at the pleasing sensation. 

And then his body began to move entirely without him.

Gale watched in the mirror as a body – his body, though it didn’t feel his own – moved slowly, delicately, gently. One hand went back up to his jaw, wiped the remnants of saliva off of his chin and carefully pushed two fingers back into his mouth, dragging over his swollen lips. His other hand moved downward, tracing lines at the base of his belly, just above his groin, which pulsed hot with energy.

All the while, quiet susurrations of comfort echoed around the back of his mind, that’s it and open up for me and good boy and on and on, a never ending flow of praise that melted Gale with each syllable.

Each stroke of his fingers felt so incredible. He couldn’t stop likening it to the sensation of touching a limb that had fallen asleep — like both Gale and someone else touching him all at once, distant and present and tingly. 

And with Astarion’s steady administration of praise, Gale had no way of hearing what Astarion was going to do to him next.

Fingertips grazed over his hardened cock, and Gale almost came back into himself, hissing and flexing at the not-quite-enough sensation.

It felt like a shield pressing Gale back into place in the back of his mind, and the fingertips drew back, hovering in the air a few inches from where Gale so desperately wanted them to be grabbing.

“Only if you’re good for me.”

Gale acquiesced, retreating, relaxing. He wouldn’t do it again. Couldn’t give up that sensation again.

He waited.

The hand stayed still.

“Aren’t you going to ask nicely?”

Gale whined aloud, voice still not quite Astarion’s alone.

“Tsk-tsk. Alright.”

The fingers in his mouth started slowly easing out, pulling away from him.

Please!

It was almost a shout in his mind. It was the only word in there now, certainly, now that he knew what he’d be losing; the bliss of this situation. 

Please, please, please, please, please , Gale thought, on and on and on in a steady, begging cadence.

“Was that so hard?” Astarion purred, and the fingers of each of his hands found home once again.

As one hand pumped fingers deep into Gale’s throat, forcing him to swallow around them, the other finally, finally , rubbed a firm line down the front of Gale’s trousers.

The trousers needed to be gone. He needed to feel Astarion – himself – who cared at this point – around him, fully, completely, gripping around every inch of him.

Please? Gale tried to ask nicely this time instead of beg, but he could still hear the keening whine in his mind, still had to resist the urge to pull up his brows and pout around his fingers.

Nimble fingertips pulled the lacing at the front of his trousers in one smooth movement, and the pressure that had been holding him back was gone. Another quick movement, and Gale was free, cock bouncing in the open air.

Staring back at him in the mirror, flushed cheeks and chest, drool dripping from lips to chin, and reddened cock bouncing in the air, he painted quite a debauched figure. 

Gale had never been turned on by his own body before, but...

“You should be,” Astarion said, and his hand wrapped around Gale’s length , “Looking like this.”

Astarion slid Gale’s thumb over the top of his cock, already leaking, and rubbed the fluid over the sensitive head.

Like this, it was so easy to imagine that it was Astarion’s slender fingers on him, his red eyes running all down his body, his sharp nails pressing against his tongue.

He fell into the fantasy of it as Astarion worked at him. In his mind’s eye, Astarion was whispering into his ear while he torturously teased at his cock. From back in the recesses of his mind, he could even imagine how Astarion’s hot breath would feel against Gale’s neck as he doled out his delicious praise.

Gale’s body filled with heat. How could he last like this? Touching himself had never been so satisfying, so immensely pleasurable that it overtook all other senses.

The only sense that remained entirely pure and free from the static of pleasure was the sound of Astarion speaking to him inside of his head.

“So close,” Astarion said, and his ministrations did not slow. 

Gale’s returning thoughts had no words, just the bright color of his pleasure painted over his mind, mounting to a peak. 

“The moment I get my body back,” Astarion said, even his thoughts breathless, “ I want you underneath me in that bed.”

Gale’s climax ripped a gasp out of him, his consciousness thrashing against Astarion’s as he came. Both were in twin control of his body, flexing and unflexing, gasping and moaning in parallel as cum hit the mirror in front of him, marring his reflection in arching white.

In the comedown, each of them breathed together, a synchronized rhythm of effort. Both inhaled, exhaled, each in control at once without conflict, without battling for the steering wheel — just breathing together as trickles and tingles of pleasure continued refracting through the body they shared.

In the comedown, both men were quiet — mostly, Gale assumed, because Astarion could hear and feel just how desperate Gale was to get Astarion back into his own body so that the could finally touch one another, so that he could have Astarion’s perfect body inside of him.

It took a lot of effort to tear his attention from the still form of Astarion waiting so patiently in the corner of the room and focus on the ritualistic aspects of the spell.

Astarion was the most polite and accommodating he’d been all day, giving Gale space to work and think without interruption, only chiming in to answer questions and guide Gale to different spell components that lay hidden around the dark corners of his home 

Gale didn’t take offense to Astarion’s quietude — he could feel the itching of his anticipation, too.

With a final peek behind the bedroom window’s lush curtain to ensure the sun was setting, Gale finally approached Astarion’s body.

Hovering there, trapped in that strange glow, Astarion looked ethereal, more at home in the astral plane than here in this bedroom. While he was anxious to get Astarion back into his body, there was something entrancing about the sight. He supposed he’d just have to take Astarion into the astral plane himself one day.

“I’d like that.”

Gale smiled. Are you ready?

“Gods, yes.”

Gale closed his eyes in concentration.

The spell was complex. As a twofold spell, if all  went to plan, it would both place Astarion’s consciousness back into his own body and complete the miscast spell from the previous evening, hopefully allowing Astarion to walk freely in the sun once again — in his own body, at least.

After the setup was complete, the actual casting spell took almost thirty minutes to complete. Thirty minutes of meditative silence in which Astarion did not think a word in his direction. And then, with a golden glow that rose and fell over Astarion’s form, his body finally lowered onto the mattress.

In Gale’s head, there was no sensation of pain or discomfort to signify Astarion’s departure; the only ways he knew the spell had worked were the gentle rise and fall of Astarion’s chest and the utter quiet of his mind.

“Astarion?” Gale asked, taking a tentative step toward the bed.

Astarion’s eyes fluttered open, and his eyes tracked randomly across different points of the ceiling above him.

“It’s so quiet,” Astarion finally said. 

“I thought the same,” Gale laughed.

Astarion’s head lifted suddenly, craning forward to look at Gale.

His stare was piercing, brow quirked and eyes evaluative, as if he could see into Gale’s very soul.

And he had, hadn’t he?

Astarion’s voice was slow and deliberate when he finally spoke. 

“I thought I said I wanted you in this bed with me the moment I was back in my body.” 

In the space of a breath, Gale was climbing across the plush surface of the bed and colliding into Astarion, mouths pressing together with pink, wet tongues and the clacking of teeth. 

Astarion’s body was warm and responsive against his, each roll of hips and press of tongue met with equal enthusiasm. And his hands — his hands — knew exactly where to go. Each gentle caress or quick bite of fingernails against Gale’s waist, his neck, his back sent a shiver through him, echoed by little choked moans at the back of his throat. It was as though he could read Gale’s mind, knew exactly where he wanted to be touched most — because he did know. He’d seen Gale’s myriad fantasies of this exact moment, and was playing them out, piece by piece.

With a tug, a grunt, and a quick roll, Astarion flipped them over, pulling Gale underneath him. Straddling Gale’s hips, Astarion sat upright to pull off his own shirt. Gale squirmed underneath him, reaching hands downward to try and relieve himself of his shirt in turn.

Astarion’s hands grabbed his wrists.

“Up.”

Astarion released the grip and Gale slowly raised his hands, bringing them up until his knuckles grazed the headboard. Then, Astarion’s fingers were gripping his hem, and he pulled the shirt cleanly over Gale’s head, tossing it to the floor.

Gale’s hands fell back down and he landed them at Astarion’s sides. His body was so smooth. No blemish, no hair, not a thing out of place, just perfect, satiny skin, like gossamer. By the feel of his skin alone, Gale would be tempted to think that Astarion was some fragile, delicate thing — if he didn’t know the opposite to be true.

Astarion’s hands were on his body too.

The sensation of Astarion’s sharp nails dragging over the planes of his chest and stomach were beyond what he’d imagined, pulling a groan out of him and forcing his fingers to flex and unflex over the flesh of Astarion’s sides.

“You like scratching, do you?” Astarion mused, and he pushed in, dragging his nails down Gale’s chest once more in a clean, even line. How was he supposed to function, supposed to breathe with a feeling like that against his body?

The next time Astarion scraped down his chest, he synchronized it with a roll of his hips, grinding down against Gale. 

Gale pushed up against him, hips rising off of the mattress, hauling Astarion to sit up on his knees.

Above him, Astarion slowed and gradually stopped, hard weight bearing down against Gale.

Astarion’s hand reached down to still Gale’s squirming body with a flat palm on his sternum. And, though he yearned for movement, the pressure and relief of touch, Gale stopped his movements.

“Be a good boy for me and stay there.” Astarion’s voice was honey in his ears. 

Astarion swung a leg over Gale, leaving him cold and wanting as he reached over to the side table.

He said to stay still. Not to stay quiet.

Gale whined, voice scratchy and worn with lust, and and Astarion paused where he was, leaning over the edge of the bed to scrounge around the drawer. His head turned to face Gale and the look in his eyes pierced Gale into quietude.

Whatever he’d been looking for, he found, slamming the drawer shut and clambering back over the top of Gale. He didn’t sit down against him, not this time, and the only warmth Gale could feel of him was against the outside of his thighs. If he could only flex his back, push up his hips, feel Astarion against him again…

But Astarion pinned him down with his gaze, hungry and calculated. Gale didn’t dare move. 

“Good little pups only speak when instructed. Understood?”

Gale nodded.

“Say it.”

Gale swallowed. “I understand.”

“Good boy,” Astarion finally smiled, and he lowered himself to grind down onto Gale again.

It took considerable restraint not to push back up against him again, to fall into a grinding rhythm together, but Gale was determined. He wanted Astarion’s praise, wanted the satisfaction of knowing he’d made Astarion feel as incredible as he felt at that moment. And he felt amazing . Each rough grind of Astarion against his cock brought little gasps he didn’t dare give voice to. He could feel Astarion thickening, too.

Above him, Astarion continued to stare down at him, imposing and regal in the set of his eyes, but the grinding of his body spoke another language — primal and animal. 

He’d never seen such a sight.

Laid out above him like this, the edges and curves of Astarion’s body caught a new light. In each roiling wave of his body, the muscles at his abdomen flexed and rolled, the lamplight only accentuating his inhuman beauty.

There’s no telling if he actually meant to bring his hands up to curl around the elf’s hips, or if they had done that all on their own.

Whatever the case, Astarion gripped his wrists the moment the pads of his fingers met skin and dropped down, pinning them against the mattress with all the weight of his upper body. There was no challenge in his eyes — only smug satisfaction. 

“If you want to touch me that badly,” Astarion said, and Gale felt the grip on his left wrist loosen just enough to drop something in his open palm. “You should make use of this.”

Gale’s head turned, cheek pressing into the pillow as he examined the object in his palm: a small gold-flecked container of oil.

“On your fingers,” Astarion instructed, and he let go of the wrists completely. Once again, he pulled a leg back over Gale and left him cold and erect, as he sidled off of the bed to work on undressing himself. Astarion’s hands made quick work of the ties at the front of his trousers, and he paused just as his thumbs hooked into the fabric at his hips, almost ready to pull them down. He stared at Gale. Gale stared back. With the pants sagging low at his hips, free of his shirt, the musculature at his hipbone had the same draw as a bullseye. It felt, to him, the center of the world. He wanted to put his hands there — his mouth there. 

Astarion’s eyes flickered to Gale’s palm, still lying flat against the mattress. “Fingers. Oil.”

“Ah, oh, yes,” Gale stammered, and hurriedly uncorked the vial of oil, upending it to pour a thin drizzle over the fingers of his right hand.

By the time he felt he’s truly coated his digits, Astarion was climbing back onto the bed once again in bare glory.

It was hard not to think of Astarion as a work of art, on display like this. Nude and lightly flushing, his skin looked so perfect and delicate, smooth enough to have been carved from stone by a great elven sculptor. He looked almost painfully hard now too, pink tip of his cock shiny and wet where it angled up toward his abdomen.

Astarion grabbed Gale’s hand and pulled him up, adding a firm grip to his opposite shoulder to guide him into a new position. The way he moved Gale felt like the easy rearrangement of dolls on a playset. Each push of a shoulder and coaxing of a knee was done immediately and without question, and all the while as Astarion moved him, Gale couldn’t stop staring at him. Each graze of fingers threatened to close his eyes for him, so overwhelming to him in this state, but he fought the urge and kept them wide. He didn’t want to miss a second.

When Astarion finally stilled, a steadying hand resting down on Gale’s shoulder, his cock was positioned directly in front of Gale’s face. Each rich vein, each thick line laid out plainly in front of him. 

There was no hesitation. Gale dove in.

Perhaps too impatient. 

Gale sank himself onto Astarion’s cock as quickly and deeply as he could and he almost immediately choked, thick head tapping at the back of his throat. But he wasn’t going to let that deter him. Lips still wrapped tightly around Astarion’s length, he pulled back, swallowing back the urge to cough and laving his tongue up the underside of his cock.

The sigh that dripped out of Astarion’s mouth in response only doubled his determination.

Eagerly sitting up higher on his knees, Gale wrapped one hand around the lithe length of Astarion’s thigh for balance and snuck his other, oiled hand through the gap between Astarion’s legs to ready him.

“That’s it,” Astarion praised at a whisper, and though he couldn’t see it from his angle with Astarion’s pale pubic bone taking up most of his field of vision, he felt fingers slide through his hair and come to a firm grip at the roots. “Good.”

Around Astarion’s back, Gale finally eased a finger over Astarion’s rim, pushing, but not quite entering as he sank his lips down onto Astarion again.

Astarion groaned. “Stop teasing,” he chided, though the roll of his hips into Gale’s mouth and the lusty, choked voice he used indicated that Gale’s efforts weren’t unappreciated.

Gale pushed in, just one finger, then he almost immediately added another as Astarion moaned again over top of him. So vocal , he thought. If Gale could spend the rest of his life listening to the sound of Astarion so overcome with pleasure, what need had he for music?

They fell quickly into rhythm, the steady pumping of Gale’s fingers matching the gentle thrusting of Astarion’s hips matching the long licks and movements of Gale’s tongue against Astarion’s cock.

Each time Gale hummed around Astarion, in pleasure at the sensation of Astarion filling him up to the throat, Astarion groaned in turn, beginning a recursive cycle that filled the room with whimpers and moans and gasps, the thick, wet sound of their bodies against one another, and the quiet praise of one vampire to the wizard underneath him.

“So good for me,” Astarion would say. “Such a warm tongue. So soft. Such a pretty mouth.” It came in a steady stream, and Gale felt almost light-headed, dizzy with the Astarion’s approval.

It wasn’t long before the grip in Gale’s hair tightened and Gale was slowly pulled off of the end of Astarion’s cock with a quiet pop . 

Gale looked up at Astarion, who was staring down at him with tightened eyes and a twitching jaw. 

“On your back.” 

Astarion let go of Gale’s roots and gave him a final pet, a caress at his forehead before nudging him forward. 

Gale eased his fingers out of Astarion, earning a quiet hiss in response, and eased himself onto his back, flat on the broad length of the bed. Once more, Astarion climbed over top of him, fingers tracing light lines over the length of his thigh, his hip, his belly.

Finally, Astarion settled over top of him and, with a savage sort of smile, reached downward and took Gale in hand.

Gale had almost forgotten himself. Had almost forgotten that there were other pleasures to be had aside from the weight of Astarion on his tongue. The white-hot pleasure of a smooth hand wrapped fully around him, even without moving, pulled his eyes closed immediately, brow taut in focus. Don’t come, don’t come, don’t come . 

As Astarion positioned himself over Gale’s already leaking cock, Gale put every ounce of his energy into holding on, holding back so that he could last, could keep Astarion on him as long as he possibly could manage.

And then Astarion sank down onto him with a low, rough sigh.

Gale’s ears rang, a high pitched, whining tone that muffled everything else, even his own coarse groaning. The entire world, it felt, was centered around the point that connected the two of them. 

Above him, though he wasn’t yet moving, the careful draw of Astarion’s brows, the parting of lips revealing two sharp points of white, and the deep flush across his chest all pointed to Astarion enjoying himself just as much as he was.

Finally, Astarion’s head tilted forward and the rest of his body followed, leaning forward until the length of his cock slid slick up Gale’s abdomen. He grasped Gale’s hands, pulling them up from where they gripped at the sheets (when had he grasped them so tightly?) and sat back up, dragging one of Gale’s hands up the curve of a thigh and the other to Astarion’s cock. 

Astarion wrapped his own hand over Gale’s grip for a long moment and rocked forward experimentally. At the movement, each of them groaned as one, and Gale could feel the echo of memory of Astarion’s consciousness again, a solid force pressing against his own mind, pushing them together.

Astarion let go of Gale’s hand, leaned back and braced his hands in a tight grip at Gale’s thighs.

“Touch me,” Astarion breathed, and then he started to move. 

If Gale felt none of, if he’d been entirely incorporeal for all of this, the sight of Astarion alone, free of touch, would have been enough to drive him to the edge.

Leaning back as he was, angled away from Gale with knee to shoulder in a straight line, each loll backward of his head, each centimeter that his jaw dropped, each roiling wave of his abdomen as he fucked himself on Gale, fucked into Gale’s hand, was a bolt of lightning through him. 

Gale’s jaw might have broken from the force he used to clench it shut with the effort of not coming. Through clenched teeth, Gale couldn’t stop the sounds ripping out of him, growls and whines and low, crackling moans. Astarion wasn’t quieting him anymore. He could be as loud as he wanted — as loud as he needed to be to get around this pleasure and last.

In his hand, Astarion’s cock was bright wet with precum and twitching as it bobbed and rocked with Astarion’s rhythm. He was close too, maybe closer, even than Gale.

“So good, so fucking deep,” Astarion groaned, and Gale could barely make out his words now, slurred and drunk with sex. “Look so gorgeous underneath me.”

Astarion was beginning to lose his rhythm, hips faltering and abdomen contracting in quick spasms as his breath caught in his throat.

Then, Astarion’s chin fell forward, tilting his head to look the man he was riding in the eyes as he came, cum ribboning across his chest. He clenched down hard onto Gale, hips twitching and fingernails biting into the soft flesh of his thighs.

Gale tried to stroke him through it, tried to keep the rhythm going, draw it out for Astarion, but his own hand faltered now too.

As he locked eyes with a still-groaning Astarion, Gale’s orgasm crashed over him. He gave a single thrust upward of his hips that he’d spent too long holding back, and cried out in a way he never allowed himself to — a lifetime of temperance crackling under the weight of giving pleasure and receiving it in turn.

After they came apart and Astarion fell onto the mattress at Gale’s side, the quiet of their breathing fell together like receding ocean waves. 

When Astarion flipped onto his side and pushed his back against Gale, he could only smile and flop onto his own side, wrapping an arm over Astarion’s still heaving chest. 

Astarion let out a quiet, pleased sound at the pleasure of being held, and nuzzled himself further into Gale’s grip.

“How are you feeling?”

So they talked. Little check-ins. Gentle compliments. Cocooned in the quiet perfection of the moment, Gale didn’t feel particularly inclined to raise his voice, nor any compulsion to do anything other than enjoy the comfort of Astarion’s warm body against his own.

The only moment when he felt anything other than serene calm was when Astarion asked if Gale knew confidently how to cast “that first spell” again.

“The one that landed your mind in mine? Wasn’t one day torture enough for you?” Gale was only half-joking. He knew his mind to be an overwhelming place. Who’d be foolish enough to want to be surrounded with that ?

“Don’t get me wrong,” Astarion said, “I am grateful to be back in my own body. But if you can figure out how to replicate your little mistake, I wouldn’t mind taking over your body again every now and then. I have a lot of ideas of things I’d like to do to you that I can’t from over here.” Astarion tapped his own forehead.

Now wasn’t that an idea. Gale’s mind set to work with calculations, examining the intricacies of his mistaken spell, the various components he’d chosen, what might work best to ensure a clean return of Astarion’s consciousness to his body.

In his arms, Astarion’s body gave a small shake of laughter.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just — I’m not even in your head anymore, but just now, I could feel exactly what you were thinking.”

Gale blushed. “That predictable, am I?”

“Maybe a little,” Astarion said, and he reached to lace his hand through the fingers of the hand Gale had slung over his waist. “But I have the spectacular advantage of knowing exactly how that beautiful mind of yours works firsthand.”

Gale rubbed his thumb over the cool skin of Astarion’s hand. “I’d like to see what it’s like inside of your mind, too.”

“Oh?” Astarion turned halfway to look at Gale from the corner of his eye. “And what exactly would you do if you had control of my body, Gale?”

Gale leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Astarion’s cheek.

“I think I might keep those thoughts to myself this time.”

Astarion breathed in, his ribcage expanding against Gale, but whatever he was about to say caught in his throat as his breath stilled completely, freezing himself in place cradled against Gale’s chest.

Gale squeezed Astarion’s hand. “Everything alright?”

“Look,” Astarion said.

Gale followed his line of sight. There, at the edges of the grand window’s curtain, the first golden rays of the sunrise etched a perfect glowing frame.

Astarion didn’t move.

Gale waited and waited, but Astarion still stayed in the bed, pressed against Gale, staring at the window, entirely still.

“Come,” Gale said, sitting up.

Astarion rolled onto his back, staring up at Gale with trepidation in his eyes.

Gale offered a hand to help Astarion up, but it hung in the air, empty.

“What if it still doesn’t work?” Astarion asked, voice a near whisper.

Gale grabbed the arm that Astarion wouldn’t offer him, and tugged him upright, pulling him into an embrace.

“We took every step together yesterday,” he whispered against Astarion’s ear. “That’s not going to change today.”

Slowly, Gale and Astarion eased themselves off of the bed and together, they walked hand in hand toward the golden sun.