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Before meeting Gale, Astarion hadn't realized that it was possible for someone to talk so godsdamned much.
The wizard fills the air with chatter day and night, rambling on about theories or academia or even nonsense such as the courtship rituals of the Batiri goblins, barely even pausing to breathe. He speaks with an infuriatingly arrogant verbosity that often leaves Astarion's thoughts wandering out of pure spite. Sometimes, Gale even resorts to arguing with himself when his train of thought veers in an unexpected direction, the odd display tugging his features into a faint frown that is almost as amusing to watch as it is ridiculous.
Hells below, he even jabbers in his sleep.
But as insufferable as the constant racket might be, it seems that time has numbed Astarion's brain to the irritation, like the immunity granted by a trace, persistent influx of poison. As the tendays wear on, Gale's usual babble fades to an odd, almost soothing undercurrent of sound in the background of Astarion's life.
Of course, that makes it all the more noticeable when silence falls, leaving behind a gaping void.
The Underdark is not a place for the faint of heart, filled as it is with a bevy of dangerous flora and fauna that have no qualms in destroying the unwary, but it is also a terrible landscape of unending caverns and tunnels. A single misstep is all it takes to send a hapless traveler tumbling to their death.
Even the most experienced adventurers would struggle to maintain the stamina required to traverse this craggy, perilous landscape.
"Fucking hells," groans Karlach, her normally gregarious voice muted by weariness as she plants her greataxe and slumps to rest against its pommel. "I wouldn't've pegged myself as being out of shape, but those cliffs…"
"Aye," Wyll replies, his own shoulders drooping after hours spent climbing deeper and deeper into a lightless abyss. "I think we've gone far enough today. Let's set up camp here and see if we can't get some rest before pushing further."
The others chime in to agree with varying amounts of enthusiasm, for which Astarion is secretly grateful. He's not sure if there's a single place on his body that's not bruised and sore from hours spent climbing, sliding, and tumbling his way down endless slopes of rock. Even the tough Lae'zel, who generally berates them for any perceived delay, merely grunts and drops her pack to the ground.
"Have you nothing to say about that, Lae'zel?" Astarion can't help his instinctual desire to poke and prod, though his goading words lack their usual bite. "No insults about our lack of endurance? No pithy response at all? I'm surprised."
"Silence," she growls, her already severe features pinched further by fatigue and likely some lingering pain from an earlier clash with a pair of minotaurs. She reeks of the tantalizing scent of fresh blood, still oozing from where she'd been gored. "A warrior who is weakened by injury and exhaustion and does not stop to care for his needs is not a warrior at all, but a fool."
Astarion thinks that the little hodgepodge tadpole party he's been stuck with for tendays is chock full of fools, but even he knows when not to poke a dragon too hard.
The vampire holds up his hands in a flamboyant show of surrender and leaves her to encamp, eager to get his own tent in order and find some semblance of rest. The ground here is solid rock with no good place to drive down tent poles and stakes, so it takes some creativity to get the burgundy and amber canvas hung to his liking, but the privacy it provides is well worth the effort. Then it's just a matter of opening up his bedroll, scattering a few pillows and some of his increasingly large collection of trinkets around the space, and doing whatever other odd tasks strike his fancy.
It isn't until after he's situated that Astarion realizes how quiet the camp is.
Sure, the others are bumbling around with their usual modicum of mortal noises, and somebody's got a small fire crackling in a makeshift fire ring of rough onyx stone, but Astarion doesn't hear a peep of the wizard's endless chatter.
Strange.
It's not like he's missing. Somebody had to put that stupid tent of his up (though the flap is already closed), and it doesn't look like Gale bothered to set up his telescope (not that he'd see anything with the damnable thing down here anyway) or unpack the rest of his usual clutter.
Something still seems off, and Astarion doesn't like it.
Astarion stalks around the edge of the camp, his every movement reminiscent of the sleek, calculated grace of a creature instinctually mimicking life while bearing none of its own. The others seem too drained to pay him much mind, already dragging themselves to their bedrolls for some much-needed rest, so he's not concerned about having an audience when he pauses right outside Gale's flap.
Nothing unusual reaches his sharp hearing, just the familiar thrum of Gale's heartbeat and the near-inaudible whine of the Netherese orb's twisted magic. The vampire's nostrils instinctively flare; there's no blood scent, at least nothing fresh, though he does pick up the residue of stale coffee and unwashed laundry.
Well, fuck it. No time like the present.
"Gale, darling, are you dead?"
The only response he gets at first is a shifting of fabric and a muted groan, quickly followed by a sigh. "Is there something you need, Astarion?" Gale's unusually succinct voice called out, its usual baritone edged in weariness.
"Oh, I am always in need of something, if a certain someone wasn't too straight-laced to have a spot of fun. But you didn't answer my question."
And with that, Astarion slips beneath the tent flap and invites himself inside.
The wizard's light spell fills the interior of the tent with a pleasant ambient glow, though it's not as bright as it often is when Gale has withdrawn to read for the night. The muted illumination paints the seated man in stark shadows, leaving him looking unusually haggard as he pins Astarion with a half-hearted glare. "I assure you that I am still living, breathing, and very much conscious. There was no need for you to barge into my tent without my permission — I could have been in the middle of dressing or something equally as humiliating, you know."
"Better to ask for forgiveness than permission," the elf sing-songs back, waving his hand dismissively. "Besides, it's not like I haven't seen it before."
“Astarion.”
"Yes, yes, I know. Shame on me for saying such scandalous things in the presence of our coy resident wizard." Setting the teasing aside, the vampire cocks his hip and folds his arms over his chest, surveying Gale more closely. There's a pinched look to his features and a stiffness to the way he holds himself that Astarion sets off the vampire's internal alarms. "But there is something wrong with you outside of the usual, isn't there? Did you get stuck by a minotaur when I wasn't looking?"
Gale merely grumbles, not bothering to reply.
Normally, such a lackluster response would only further encourage Astarion to exasperate one of his companions, but this is Gale, and he and Gale have a thing. They haven't put a name to it yet, and neither of them really seems to know what to do with it, but it's there. So Gale will just have to deal with his concern.
Gale, who seems to like having him around even when he's pricklier than a hedgehog.
Gale, whose kindness has begun to smooth out Astarion's sharper edges like an endless torrent flowing over river rock.
Gale, who somehow looks at him and actually sees him.
It's only fair that Astarion be allowed to see him back.
The vampire folds gracefully to the ground beside Gale's bedroll, his smarmy mask slipping out of place before completely falling away. "If you truly want me to go away, I will," he murmurs, his voice softening. "Just say the word. But hypocrisy doesn't look good on you, dear—if you're allowed to badger me into being honest about what I'm feeling, then I sure as hell ought to be able to do the same to you."
There's another sigh from the man next to him, though the sound is touched with wry amusement rather than irritation this time. "Ah, 'tis poetic justice indeed when my own arrogance returns to smite me." Leaning back into his pile of pillows with a grimace, Gale shrugs. "There's nothing wrong with me now that I haven't dealt with before, so your concern, while welcome and appreciated, is completely unnecessary. I swear, it's not anything worth troubling yourself over."
"Let me be the judge of that," Astarion shoots back. "Now, tell me what's got you so out of sorts, or I'll fetch Shadowheart and let her scowl at you until you fess up."
Gale huffs.
"I mean it."
"Fine, you pest." Restlessly raking a hand through mussed strands of long brown hair, the wizard finally shrugs. "It's… well, my knees are simply sore after today's slog. As I said, nothing to be worried about."
It's no secret that Gale's knees bother him. He even pokes fun at himself for it on good days, chuckling about his age or previously idle lifestyle causing the creaking sounds they all know so well.
But Astarion can't remember a time when he actually hid away to mollycoddle the damned things. It's yet another change in their usual routine that sends his suspicions on high alert. Ruby eyes narrowing, the vampire grabs the edge of Gale's blanket and swiftly yanks it away.
Gale is bare from the waist down (well, outside of his smallclothes), but any teasing that Astarion might normally indulge in dies on his lips as he catches sight of those troublesome knees. The golden-brown skin around the joints is so swollen that the usual bulges and dimples have completely disappeared under patches of blotchy red. "Darling," Astarion drones out, "I may not be a healer, but even I can see that they don't look particularly well. Shall I fetch Halsin for you?"
"No! No. I don't wish to be a bother." And that's just the crux of things, isn't it? Ever eager to be useful to their odd little group, Gale is the first one to step back and put his own needs last. Like someone else always deserves to be helped before him.
Fucking hells.
"You, my dear, are an endearing, self-sacrificing moron." Rising to his feet again, Astarion waves off his sputtered reply and jabs a finger toward the wizard. "Stay right there. I'll be back in a moment."
He's gone for only a handful of minutes, returning to Gale's tent with a lumpy burlap sack that lands on the ground with a metallic clatter as he settles back at the wizard's side.
By this time, Gale has found his words again, his warm eyes filling with curiosity and a bit of understandable uncertainty. They all know that Astarion really isn't the type to go around playing nursemaid. "What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you, since you obviously can't be bothered to do so yourself." There are more words hovering on his tongue, words instinctively meant to cut and rend. You're no use to us in this condition. Do you really intend to just lay in your tent like a worthless sack of shit? If you can't be bothered to take care of yourself, maybe we should replace you with someone who can pull their weight.
But Astarion knows from experience what will happen if he utters such words, and he no longer craves the sight of the utter devastation they leave in their wake.
Because somewhere along the way, he's begun to care.
Ugh.
Shuffling through some bottles and a few bundles wrapped in cloth, the vampire finally finds what he's looking for in the bag. He eventually presses a tin cup filled with water and a handful of what looks like wood shavings into Gale's hands. It looks odd, sure, but Halsin promised that it would help. "Heat this, then drink it."
Maybe he's in too much pain to argue. Or maybe he's stunned by Astarion's no-nonsense attitude. Whatever the reasoning behind it, Gale quietly calls a sphere of flame to his palm and heats the water until it starts to steam. "Hm. Smells of wintergreen. Tastes of…" he dips a pinky into the water and brings it to his lips for a sample, grimacing at the flavor, "...bitterness and something sour. Willow bark, I take it?"
Astarion simply makes a validating noise, already digging around in the sack again. If Gale knows what it is, and presumably what it does, why can't he be bothered to fetch some himself?
‘I don’t wish to be a bother.’
It's hard not to see the similarities between the two of them in this situation. Astarion remembers how hard he fought to prove his worth to the others in the beginning so they wouldn't kick him from the group. How he still catches himself viewing his body and deeds as commodities rather than a person with value solely because he exists. He recalls burying a ridiculous amount of pain and trauma as deep as he could so the others wouldn't view him as weak.
Deep down, he's used to being disposable. And the more he gets to know the wizard, the more he realizes that, at least in some ways, Gale is too.
Gale continues to watch Astarion with unusual silence as the vampire pulls out a wad of the fabric strips Halsin typically keeps on hand for bandages. He says nothing when Astarion starts wrapping the fabric tightly around his swollen knees, not even when a necessary shift in the joint's position leaves him biting back a groan. He remains quiet while the elf stuffs a couple of cushions under his shins, and even when Astarion dumps a small sack of dried grains across his knees.
Yeah, that last thing is weird. Halsin better not be fucking with him.
"Now hit this with a cold spell," Astarion says, repeating Halsin's instruction with more confidence than he feels while he taps at the newest addition to the pile. “But carefully. I really don't want to have to explain to the healers that you froze the bloody things off."
Spreading fingers stained in faded shades of blue ink, Gale mutters "glacies" and watches a layer of ice spread across the coarse fabric. He doesn't say anything more, but the relief brought by the makeshift cold compress is clearly written across his face as though penned by an enchanted quill.
"There," the vampire mutters. His self-appointed tasks complete, Astarion finds the tent sliding into an uncertain sort of stillness. He's not sure what to say now, and Gale doesn't seem to be able to look at him.
Gods above and below. Why does this have to be so difficult?
"You didn't have to–"
"Why are you such a–"
The sound of their overlapping voices ceases almost as quickly as it began, and they're left staring awkwardly at one another.
Astarion watches Gale for another moment, noting the way the wizard's shoulders slowly relax and how the guarded look in his eyes begins to ease. It's enough to leave him with an odd sense of satisfaction in the aftermath of his fussing. "How's that feel?"
"Better," Gale admits with some reluctance.
"And what do good little wizards say when someone pushes past their pigheaded determination to suffer in silence and helps them feel better?"
"...You are intolerable. But regardless—thank you, Astarion."
"You're welcome," Astarion says quietly, the usual snark in his voice absent. "Just… look, I know I'm the last person who should be saying this, but you're not alone here. There are people around you who care about you, who are willing to help you, if you'd just stop being an absolute muppet and let them."
"You're quite correct," Gale replies with a faint chuckle, raising a finger to wag in playful reproach. "You'd do well to follow your own advice, my friend. Pots and kettles and all that."
Groaning, Astarion lobs a rude gesture in the wizard's direction. He knows perfectly well that Gale isn't wrong, but that doesn't mean he needs a reminder of his duplicity. "Shut up and finish your sawdust tea, you daft turnip. Halsin's promised to whip up a salve to help with the pain, but for now, I expect you to sit here and get some rest. We need our wizard in proper working order, do you hear?"
The wizard's lips quirk upward just the slightest bit before he nods and leans back into his cushions, tea in hand.
This time, Astarion is the one to eradicate the silence that lingers, grabbing a book and regaling the other man with a dramatic reading of an absolutely atrocious bodice-ripper they'd probably found in an abandoned cart. He's not particularly good at voicing the characters, but he more than makes up for it with flashy movements and an embarrassingly loud recitation of the spicier bits.
His ridiculous performance is enough to send Gale into fits of laughter and eventually draws the ire of their tired companions, but Astarion doesn't mind. There's a comfort to be found in all that chatter, isn't there?
Perhaps it's his turn to fill the void for Gale, instead.