Still Breathing - Chapter 20 - cweepa (2024)

Chapter Text

In his limited lifespan, Gale thinks he has faced all the insurmountable tasks that the world has to offer. Between the noxious blight that is Mystra and the self-deprecatory thoughts that he is told that he should be trying to fight back with a stick, nothing should really faze him any longer.

That is, until he meets the terrifying force of nature that is Dame Aylin.

“Why Dame?” Gale asks curiously.

“It’s my first name,” she says seriously.

Gale furrows his brow. “I - Really?”

“Of course not,” Aylin replies, laughing good naturedly, and doesn’t specify any further. For the sake of self-preservation – of his person, or perhaps his sanity – Gale doesn’t deign to question her. Regardless, she tells him to call her Aylin. That’s good enough for him.

In a truly petrifying display of – well, Gale assumes she’s trying to appear friendly, she seats herself opposite him, legs at a shoulder’s width apart, and elbows braced against her upper thighs.

“Well,” Aylin says, grinning widely. “Tell me about yourself.”

It’s his first session with her. First, and possibly the last, because he’s more terrified than he has ever been and some part of him wants to curl up and hide. But he’s promised Shadowheart he would do this. She had even gone as far as to eat the aforementioned promised beef-fat rhubarb muffins with him and send him all the way to Aylin’s doorstep. The least he could do is follow through.

So – yes. Gale knows he should be honest. He’s here for a reason, after all. What is the point of therapy if he refuses to talk about his problems?

And yet.

“I hail from Waterdeep, the City of Splendors,” he starts, already feeling his throat begin to clam up. “I have a cat, a library and a weakness for a good glass of wine. And if the mood takes me, I’ve been known to try my hand at poetry.”

The last bit is a bold-faced lie. He hasn’t been able to write a singular word of prose since his divorce.

Aylin narrows her eyes slightly, which makes him wonder if she can actually see through him. He prepares for her to grill him further. This information is hardly relevant, after all. To his surprise, all she does is nod pleasantly and lean back in her chair.

“What sort of wine?”

“Excuse me?”

“What sort of wine do you like? I’m partial to a good Malbec myself, but that’s likely because I like my reds heavy. You seem like a Valpolicella sort of man, though I don’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Not at all,” Gale says, blinking. “You’re quite right, actually. Valpolicella, but specifically an Amarone. I – how did you know?”

“It’s why I’m in this line of work,” Aylin says, winking. “So. Waterdeep, yes? Tell me about it.”

And that’s how the session goes. She asks him about everything – from his favorite part of Waterdhavian cuisine, to the various festivals that come around each season. She even seems genuinely interested in his experience in academia – and for once, he’s given the chance to actually talk about his work, rather than the scandal surrounding them.

As the minutes tick by, Gale finds himself relaxing slightly. Before he knows it, their hour is drawing to a close, though it feels as though he’s only just started speaking to her. Despite his apprehension earlier, Gale can’t help but like her.

“I have to ask,” Gale says finally. “This was not how I envisioned therapy.”

Aylin leans back in her chair and grins. “Did you think I would dig into your raw, fleshy bits and make you cry?”

“Sort of,” Gale admits.

“Some people do that. Not me, though. I must admit, I am trying to make you feel comfortable. But I’m also genuinely interested in you as a person. You are so much more than your trauma, and the first step to healing is to reclaim that part of yourself that you might have forgotten.”

“Oh,” Gale says, blinking slightly.

“Too often do we neglect the fact that beneath your pain, there’s a whole person holding it all up. Would you say you feel that way?”

Gale ponders the question. “I believe I might be fortunate enough to have friends that still see me for who I used to be, before Mystra. But your words hit pretty close to home for me.” He swallows, redirecting his gaze to the view outside. Her office is built atop high ground, the back of it looking over the Chionthar. The sight of the river fills him with a sort of calm. Perhaps that is the intended effect.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Gale confesses. “And that confuses me. Have I truly lost so much of myself to just one woman?”

“You’ve mentioned her a few times throughout this conversation,” Aylin comments. “I take it that she’s the reason why you’re here?”

“Mystra is my ex-wife,” Gale replies, smiling resignedly. “It’s a long story. But I’ve been told that it wasn’t a great relationship. That she – ah –”

His throat clams up. Try as he might, he can’t bring himself to say the word.

Abuse.

To his relief, Aylin doesn’t push any further. Instead, all she does is give him an encouraging nod.

“When you are in a bad situation, your mind tends to enter fight or flight,” she tells him. “Since you’ve been in survival mode for so long, it stands to reason that in the absence of all that tension, you find yourself a tad lost.”

Gale smiles bitterly. “Some days, it feels like I’ll never get him back. The man I used to be. I don’t even know how he was like.”

“You never lost him,” Aylin says gently. “He’s still in there somewhere. And I won’t lie and say he might be completely unchanged, especially as we start looking towards the future, but he’s still a part of you that no one can ever take away.” She pauses, her gaze growing intense. “There’s no set rule for healing. To move forward and grow is to change.”

But – what if he doesn’t like the person that he becomes? What if the road there is so unbelievably terrifying that he gives up halfway? What if he ends up disappointing those around him – or worse, hurting them again?

There are far too many unknowns, and not nearly enough certainty. And Gale, despite his academic nature that invites curiosity, is afraid of not knowing.

Gale looks up at her. “I think I came in with less questions than I have now.”

“I do my best,” Aylin replies, smiling warmly. “So, same time next week?”

~`~`~

As per Gale’s first session with Aylin, he’s been encouraged to step out of his comfort zone. His latest attempts on the city’s premier dating application, BongleMingle, leads him straight to a private member’s club in the Upper City.

Because of course it does.

The entire place is draped with velvet and smells of cigars. There’s a painting of a woman in the throes of rapture on the wall. Gale dislikes everything about it greatly.

Almost as much as he dislikes the man that had invited him there on a date. Because that’s what it is. A date. Gale is on a date.

And by the Gods, this man is an utter prick. Admittedly, Gale hadn’t spoken to him much beyond their professions – the man is an arcane theorist like him, and their conversations online had been kept strictly to work. And Gale loves his work. So – sue him, perhaps he had entered the room with rose tinted glasses.

Meeting Lorroakan in person feels like a glass of ice water over his head.

Even as he drones on about the latest breakthroughs in arcane theory, Gale wants to rip his ears off and stuff them down the man’s gullet, just for even the slightest bit of respite from his incessant prattling. Good grief, was this how others felt when he went on one of his tirades? Until this moment, he had not thought it possible for him to not want to hear about ethical implications of necromancy.

It’s not so much a slight against Lorroakan’s love for his own voice – rather, it’s the fact that he says everything while staring down his nose. All of Gale’s attempts at interjecting with anecdotes of his own are swiftly met with a dismissive hand wave. At some point, he gives up trying to engage with the man entirely.

As it stands, he has already forgotten what Lorroakan had been saying. How long should he stay before faking an emergency? What sort of emergency should he even fake? He’s never done this before. Would he appear a tad too obvious if he suddenly stood up to leave?

Probably, honestly. Gale had never been a very good actor.

He chances a subtle glance at his phone. It’s only eight in the evening, and they are barely midway through their entrees, but Gale thinks that if he’s forced to endure this torture any further, he might do something ridiculous, like absorb a bit of the ancient Netherese weave into his body and then attempt to blow himself up.

Gale thinks he knows where he went wrong – namely, having made the grievous error of mentioning Blackstaff as his alma mater. Since then, Lorroakan had refused to let the matter rest. In the past fifteen minutes alone, Gale has heard far more about its history and notable alumnus than he thought possible.

“Do you shout Glory to Silverhand when you come?” Gale asks idly.

Lorroakan blinks, his words cutting off mid-sentence. “Beg your pardon?”

“Sorry,” Gale says. “I said, are there any songs that you like to hum?”

“What a strange question,” the man says. “I have no time for the pursuit of trivial matters.”

Of course, Gale thinks resignedly.

He looks around the room warily. Perhaps if he could catch the eye of a waiter, he could silently beg for them to offer him an out. Not that he knows how to do that. He could possibly duck into the bathroom, scribble a note onto a napkin and pass it to someone. But he doesn’t have a pen on him. He’s not above crying and dribbling his tears strategically to form the words ‘help me’, except for the tiny fact that he is not quite well-versed in art.

Gale sighs, letting his date’s voice drone over him. He’s having the worst time. Perhaps there was some merit to letting Shadowheart vet his dates for him. The last time she introduced him to someone, he met Karlach. See, now? Karlach was lovely. Karlach would never condemn him to a night in this pit, nor would she try to use Blackstaff as a pickup line.

Heavens. Even the thought alone made him shudder.

Surely Lorroakan could see the agony on his face. Gale thinks he is pretty good at hiding his emotions, but he’s only human. When faced with one so repulsive, he could hardly be to blame if his face decided to display his disgust. Hells, even Astarion could tell that he was –

Wait, Astarion?

Gale blinks, clearing his vision, but no. He’s not stuck in an asphyxiation-from-secondhand-smoke induced hallucination. Astarion is definitely seated in a far corner – on a raised booth, no less. Lorroakan had spent twenty minutes explaining to him the significance of those booths – namely, to separate the ultra-rich from the peasants who were merely rich. Which was rather strange, really. He knows roughly how much Astarion has in his personal checking account. There were as many digits as a phone number, assuming the phone number was an emergency hotline.

He’s dressed as he always is – starched shirt, pressed slacks, slim waistcoat, but this time, he’s added a fitted jacket to help him blend in with the crowd, the ensemble complete with an untied silk scarf hung around his shoulders. Sprawled out on a singular couch, hair hanging in his eyes and with a whiskey snifter held loosely in his hand, he looks every inch a debauched dilettante. His gaze locks onto Gale, eyebrows shooting up almost guiltily – of course he is, the little sh*t, he’s probably been gleefully watching Gale suffer the whole night without saying a damn thing – before he schools his face into a more neutral expression and raises his glass.

What in the sweet Hells was he doing here?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Astarion gesturing for him to come over, pointing at his glass and patting the seat beside him.

I can’t, Gale tries to mouth. He gestures helplessly towards Lorroakan from under the table. Given the three glasses of wine in his system, he’s certain that he’s not being the most subtle about it, but thankfully, Lorroakan is far too self-absorbed to even notice.

Astarion’s brows climb even higher, near-disappearing beneath his fringe.

Help me, Gale tries again. For a brief, petrifying second, Gale thinks that Astarion hasn’t managed to read him properly, before Astarion’s face breaks out into a wide, terrifying grin.

Say please, he mouths. Well, Gale thinks that’s what he’s saying. It could very well be ‘more cheese’, or ‘my knees’.

Please, Gale tries.

Astarion makes no move to come over. Gale tries widening his eyes, staring up at him from under his lashes. In front of him, Lorroakan is still none the wiser.

With a dramatic flourish, Astarion slides off his couch and crosses the room in a few long strides. Up close, he smells strongly of cologne, the delicious scent of his skin masked by the artificially constructed scent of incense, sage and vanilla.

Gale doesn’t quite like it, but it’s not really his place to voice his preferences. Besides – what would he say? Don’t wear perfume, I like your musk? No doubt that would be inappropriate on so many levels, though something tells him that Astarion wouldn’t really mind.

“Excuse me,” Astarion says smoothly, interrupting their one-sided conversation. “It’s my turn.”

“I’m sorry?” Lorroakan looks aghast. “We are on a date.”

“Not anymore,” Astarion says airily. “I paid for this man’s services from the hours of eight onwards. It’s eight-fifteen. Ergo, my turn.”

“Paid?”

“Well, yes,” Astarion says. “He’s an escort, is he not?”

Gale isn’t sure if he should hug Astarion or try to phase through the floorboards and disappear. Lorroakan swivels to face him.

“Is that true?!”

“Uh,” Gale says.

“You told me you were a professor! That you used to work at Blackstaff!”

“Blackstaff blowj*b Studios,” Astarion interjects cheerfully. “He plays the role of a Professor deliciously. In fact, Gale, I believe I would like to be a naughty student tonight.”

Gale stares at the ground for a brief moment, contemplating the steps he had taken in his short life to reach this exact moment.

Then, he sighs and decides to suck it up.

“I thought you said you liked me for my brain,” he says coyly. “Escort or not, you can’t deny that I was able to hold a conversation with you relatively well.”

He can’t help but smile as Astarion gives a delighted little laugh, presumably because he’s playing along.

“Yes,” Lorroakan snaps. “But you can’t bloody well write me a reference letter as a hooker, can you?”

Gale feels his jaw drop. From where he’s stood by their table, Astarion gasps theatrically and places a hand over his mouth.

“Was that what you were after?” Gale says. He’s not surprised, honestly. If anything, he should have realized this sooner.

“I – well – sh*t. It’s not like it matters, anyway.” The man stands up, his chair scraping roughly against the ground. Both Gale and Astarion give twin winces. “f*ck this. I’m done.”

He storms off, nearly knocking over a passing waitress on his way out.

“Great,” Gale sighs. “He’s left me with the bill.”

“Not at all,” Astarion says comfortingly. “Everything the two of you ordered is put on the tab of the member whom the table is booked under. Suffice to say, I doubt you were the one who picked this place.”

“I should order the caviar just to spite him,” Gale mutters, before shaking his head.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” Astarion says, making his way back to his own table. “The rest of the night is on me. Well – Cazador, I suppose. It’s his account that my membership is linked to.” He looks up at Gale, his eyes hardening slightly. “May his soul burn in unrest.”

He gestures for Gale to follow. The bouncer lifts the rope for them to enter. From this new angle, Gale can see the entire room. It’s rather nice, especially for a spot of people watching.

“I have to admit,” Gale says. “I did not peg you as one of this lot.”

He keeps his tone light. Gale is merely curious. He doesn’t want to accidentally insult Astarion by insinuating that the man had no class, or money, or whatever strange traits it took to withstand the oppressive stuffiness of this restaurant.

“I am not,” Astarion says, before biting his lip. “It’s – personal, really. Cazador was a member here. He enjoyed bringing me along – said it was to show me off, to drive his colleagues mad. It was dreadfully dull most of the time, but it meant that he had to buy me a membership too.”

“I thought he was allowed a guest,” Gale says.

“Well yes,” Astarion nods. “But then he would appear cheap.”

He snorts, letting Gale know exactly what he thought of that notion.

“Anyway, the membership is a lifetime thing. I wasn’t intending to come here ever again but,” Astarion lowers his voice, flushing slightly and looking almost embarrassed, “there was a dessert that I wanted to try.”

“A … dessert?”

Astarion nods enthusiastically, before his head snaps up. “And speak of the devil!”

A smiling waiter places a plate in front of him. It’s unnervingly large – a golden-brown pastry crust piped with some sort of pale cream, with a thin layer of sponge cake balanced on top. The entire thing is crowned with a giant, meringue cloud and dusted with gold.

Gale hates gold on his food.

“Cazador never let me have this,” Astarion confides. “Said there was too much sugar. Well – darling, isn’t that the damn point?”

He proffers a spoon to Gale. After a beat, Gale accepts it, still eyeing the gold flakes skeptically.

“Care to do the honors?”

“You first,” Gale says, perhaps a bit too quickly. “This was your dream.”

With all the excitement of a manic chihuahua, Astarion digs his spoon into the sugary mess before him and takes a huge mouthful, his tongue lingering on the spoon a tad too long as he licks the remaining sugar off the surface.

“Good?” Gale asks. Astarion pulls a face.

“Gods, no,” he says, “though I was expecting it to taste like sh*te, anyway. Places like this wouldn’t know good food even if it spread its cheeks and got on the ground.”

“Uh,” Gale says eloquently, his mind shorting out just a bit at the imagery.

“But now if I die, I’ll die without regrets,” Astarion continues, seemingly oblivious to Gale’s rapidly reddening face. “Or at the very least, I won’t have to think about how this tastes as I’m gasping through my final breath.”

Gale picks up a cautious mouthful, and promptly chokes as he inhales a week’s worth of sugar at one go.

“I know,” Astarion says sympathetically. “But I think it will grow on you, honestly. Why, I’m already looking forward to my next bite!”

Gale stares at him. “Do you by any chance have a sweet tooth?”

“That would make sense,” Astarion agrees, gesturing for a black-suited lady to come over. He murmurs something in hushed tones, before she steps away again.

“Can you believe that Lorroakan didn’t want dessert?” Gale says. “He told me that he was a dual-appetizer sort of person.”

Personally, Gale would have taken double appetizers and dessert, but to each their own, he supposes.

“Lorroakan?” Astarion wrinkles his nose. “What sort of name is that?”

“Says the one named Astarion,” Gale replies good-naturedly. Astarion raises his chin slightly.

“’l’ll have you know that it is a proper elven name,” he sniffs. “Better than being named after a smidge of wind, anyway.”

Gale stares at him, then decides not to dignify that statement with a response. Thankfully, before Gale can start filling the awkward silence with Lorroakan-level babbling of his own, the waiter returns with a bottle of red and two glasses. She pours a small measure out and hands it to Astarion, who shakes his head and gestures towards Gale.

“I don’t know sh*t about wine,” Astarion says, and Gale tries not to laugh at the aghast expression that crosses the sommelier’s face. Gale accepts the glass. It’s a full-bodied red, sweetly scented but slightly heavier on the palette, with underlying notes of fig and cherry.

“Gorgeous,” he says, and the sommelier beams at him, before pouring out two glasses and leaving the bottle on the table.

“So,” Astarion says finally, running his finger along the rim of his glass with an air of careful nonchalance. “I take it that you won’t be seeing him again?”

Gale snorts. “Gods, no. He’s a bit of a cad, honestly.”

That’s not the real answer, not really. I can’t get over you is far more accurate.

But he can’t very well bloody say that.

“Hmm, yes,” Astarion says. “He is, actually. Now that I think about it, I have seen him around a few times. He sort of vanished for a while, if my memory serves me right. Got caught in some sort of kidnapping scandal. With that famous popstar. Nightsong, I think?”

“That,” Gale sputters, “would have been useful information before I agreed on a date with him.”

“You can hardly blame me, darling,” Astarion says, wrinkling his nose. “It’s not like you told me that you were in the market for a new beau.” He folds his arms, eyeing his plate with barely concealed disdain. “Besides, it’s not like you are some hot celebrity. I’m sure you would have been quite fine.”

Gale chances a glance at Astarion. He – well, he doesn’t exactly look happy about it, though for what reason, Gale can’t quite fathom. Surely he was not jealous? They did agree on being friends, though Gale wants nothing more than to be pinned to the bed and kissed stupid by him.

Of course, he can’t deny that Astarion probably did possess some form of residual affection of the romantic variety towards him, if the kiss they shared back in Rivington was any indication. But Astarion had also leapt back after as though he had been scalded. If anything, it’s rather obvious that he has no interest in any sort of romantic affiliation with Gale.

Gale can hardly blame him. He wouldn’t want to date himself either.

But – good Gods, why does Astarion look so annoyed?

“I am not,” Gale says truthfully. “But my therapist suggested doing something outside of my comfort zone, and Elfsmopolitan suggested this.”

“Elfsmopolitan gives the worst advice,” Astarion says. “It’s written by elves, for those desperate for even a single modicum of validation.”

Gale ignores the slight jab, instead choosing to pry a bit of puffed pastry off the meringue-covered monstrosity in front of him. “You are an elf, though.”

“Exactly,” Astarion says primly. “And we give sh*te advice.”

“Your words, not mine,” Gale replies. “In any case, I think I’m done with BongleMingle. Or dating, for the matter. It’s too much damn hassle.”

“Well, there’s your issue,” Astarion says. “BongleMingle was started by a deep gnome. They are hardly the authority on dating, my dear.”

“That’s a bit of a generalization,” Gale says. Astarion shrugs, picking at the meringue shell deliberately and avoiding Gale’s gaze. “So you’re done with dating for good?” He pauses, and adds, almost inaudibly: "Is that why you said kissing me was a mistake?"

Gale freezes, his mind stuttering as he forces himself to remain calm. On one hand, he could tell Astarion the truth. On the other hand, Astarion might be uncomfortable if Gale doesn't immediately deny that he is attracted to the man.But - Gods, Gale is so tired of hiding his feelings. And maybe it's the wine, but surely there is no harm in honesty.

"You were in distress," Gale replies eventually, not quite looking Astarion in the eye. "I didn't want to take advantage of you. Nothing more."

Astarion nods thoughtfully, running a finger along the rim of his glass. "So you are open to dating?"

“I’d want to settle down at some point,” Gale admits. “I don’t need to get married again, though I would like nothing more.” He nods in thanks as Astarion deposits a big chunk of pastry cream and meringue onto his plate. “But for now, Tara’s company will have to suffice.”

“I never asked,” Astarion asks casually. “What do you look for in a partner?”

“Honestly, I’d shove Tara in their face and let her decide,” Gale admits. “She’s a pretty good judge of character, and truth be told, having her around has saved my sanity more times than I can count. She’s family to me, and anyone I date has to be alright with that.”

“I think that’s fair,” Astarion presses, “but any preferences? I don’t know – appearance, career, personality traits?”

“Not really,” Gale admits. “Though I’ve been with Mystra so long that I’m hardly sure what my own preferences are anymore.”

He ponders the question in his head. It’s not something that he has thought about at length, but if there is one trait that would mean a lot to him, it would be that –

“They should like to read,” Gale decides. “Or at least have some form of appreciation towards the literary arts, be it fictional or fact.” He ducks his head slightly, feeling his cheeks flush. “You might have noticed that I am quite prone to rambling. I wouldn’t want a partner that would be easily bored by me. If they had interests of their own that I could partake in too, I would find that optimal.”

“Any specific genre?” Astarion asks. Gale shakes his head.

“Everything is worthy of exploration in its own right,” Gale says. “Fantasy, science-fiction, politics, Hells – even the law.” He swirls the wine in his glass thoughtfully. “Though that is not a hard rule per se. Really, I think all that truly matters to me is their heart.”

“A good heart,” Astarion says thoughtfully. “You are a bit of a romantic cliché, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Gale acknowledges. “I don’t need them to be completely faultless. I’m not going to deny that I myself possess a fair share of … well, baggage, and there are times where I am capable of acts of selfishness, arrogance and even over-ambition. And not in a good way, either.”

Astarion listens raptly, one hand reaching out to top up Gale’s glass.

“At their core, if they have it in them to be good, and to do good – but above all, the desire to simply try, I believe that will more than suffice for me.” Gale pushes a bit of meringue around his plate, marveling in how the hardened confection crumbled tidily. “And you?”

“Me?” Astarion says, looking surprised. “Why, darling. I need someone good in bed, of course.”

He smiles at Gale, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Gale can see the exact moment where his walls start to creep up.

“I would have figured that you would have enough talent to make up for any shortcomings,” Gale says easily, relishing in the delighted laugh that Astarion lets slip.

“Fair enough,” he says, relaxing slightly. His eyes dart about shiftily, before he sighs heavily. “If I were to be perfectly candid, I don’t know what I’m looking for.” He eyes the dessert with something akin to resignation, his eyes painfully somber. “My first thought was that I’d like them to respect me as a person. But that’s the bare minimum, wouldn’t you agree?” He clutches his head, his jaw tense. “f*ck. I don’t think I should be thinking of what I want, not when I’m barely half a person in this state.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Gale replies, shocked. “Astarion, surely you don’t think that way?”

“I don’t know,” Astarion says helplessly. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know what to think. So much of who I am is shaped by pain, by fear and f*cking desperation. But take that all away, and who am I?”

Astarion leans back onto the sofa, staring up at the ceiling before suddenly locking his eyes on Gale. His gaze is near-searing, almost hopeful.

“What do you see, when you look at me?”

What does he see? There’s so much to Astarion, and Gale doesn’t know if he can condense it into a single statement. He sees the man, sees beyond his hard, shiny shell. And yet, there’s still so much more to discover.

There’s so much depth to him, and it pains Gale that Astarion can’t seem to believe that.

“Strength,” Gale says finally. “Despite what you might think, I see someone who has overcome insurmountable odds to get to where they are today. I see someone who has had the cards stacked against their favor, but still managed to turn it all around.”

Astarion narrows his eyes, his shoulders tensing.

“I see someone who has far more good in their heart than they are aware of. Someone who desires love, but deserves it returned tenfold.” Gale doesn’t break his gaze, forging forward with determination despite the uneasiness on Astarion’s face.

“I see a person,” Gale says, “And one who’s far better at it than many of us.”

“Hmm,” Astarion says, his ears pinking up slightly, his lips set in an uncertain line. “Such flowery words. But you failed to mention one thing. Am I beautiful?”

“Is that truly what you want?” Gale counters. “Petty vanity? For I can tell you that you have a face sculpted by the Gods, a voice as smooth as molten honey, eyes that are alight with a thousand different galaxies. I can say all of that, and I’d mean it, I would, but is that truly what you want?”

Astarion doesn’t quite meet his gaze. “Perhaps not,” he says quietly. “But that might be the only thing that I’d actually believe.”

Gale swallows, the ache in his heart growing heavy.

“You’re beautiful,” he says finally, his words feeling far too raw than they should. “Both inside, and out.”

Astarion doesn’t respond, instead opting to empty out the wine into both their glasses. He gestures towards a waiter and points at the empty bottle, presumably to request another. Gale watches with bated breath as Astarion steadily drains his glass, before taking a deep breath.

“What are you up to tomorrow?” Astarion asks. Gale makes a show of pondering the question, silently relishing in the adorable impatience that crosses the other man’s face.

“Work,” he says finally. “I’ll be at the university all day.”

“And at night?”

“Nothing,” Gale replies. “But I have the feeling you already knew that. What can I do for you?”

Astarion flushes, looking away slightly. Gale waits patiently as he seems to collect his words, before taking a deep breath.

“I’d like to show you something at the Szarr estate. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Gale eyes him curiously. “Not at all, but I must admit, you have piqued my curiosity. I’m going to be wondering about this all day now, you do know that.”

Astarion laughs slightly. “That just makes the reveal sweeter, no?”

“Fair enough,” Gale agrees. They slip into a comfortable silence for a while, Astarion picking away at the sugary monstrosity in between them. Between the wine and the crumbly meringue, Gale isn’t the most envious of the tipsy sugar rush that Astarion is most likely about to suffer through later tonight.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Gale says finally. Astarion turns to face him.

“Hm?”

Gale swallows, steeling his resolve. “There’s nothing wrong with being less than whole. Quite frankly, I doubt any of us truly are. We’re all a work in progress, and that doesn’t make us any less deserving of being loved in the way we want to be.”

Astarion swallows. “That’s a dangerous way of thinking, you know.”

“And why so?” Gale swirls his wine glass idly, before finally meeting Astarion’s gaze. It’s far rawer than he’s used to, his narrowed eyes rounding out in a way that implies, as Gale has come to learn, he’s feeling slightly more vulnerable than usual.

“Because then, I might start believing that I deserve more,” Astarion says finally. “I might actually allow myself to be happy. And – surely you know this, Gale, but to be happy is to open oneself up to loss.”

“it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all,” Gale counters. “Isn’t that what they say?”

“I think I’ve lost enough,” Astarion says, though his voice lacks any vitriol. If anything, he sounds almost … sad. “Between that and the guilt I still feel from just … standing by as Cazador ruined the lives of so many, it’s hard to imagine that I’m allowed to give in to any self-serving desires.”

“You tell me that I’m worthy of happiness all the time,” Gale counters. “Isn’t there some measure of irony to the fact that you can’t seem to believe the same of yourself?”

Astarion doesn’t reply, but his silence is all that Gale needs to know.

~`~`~

Five steps out the door, and Gale has to admit that walking home is not one of his brightest ideas.

“We should just Uber,” Gale says, somewhat distractedly as he extracts his phone from his pocket and pulls up the application. Astarion’s hair is near-ethereal in the moonlight, crowning his head like a pale, otherworldly halo. “I don’t think we are in any state to walk back home.”

He feels like he’s underwater, his head swimming even as he takes another step. It’s the wine. He hasn’t had this much wine in ages. Not that he’s complaining – the buzz is pleasant enough. It’s making him want to do stupid things, such as press Astarion against a wall and shove his hands down the back of those horrible, too-tight trousers.

Though that would probably cut off the blood circulation in his wrists. Can Astarion even feel anything down there? Surely it must be uncomfortable to be so tightly constricted by your clothing, fashion be damned. Perhaps Gale could test the theory by dropping to his knees and nudging at Astarion’s inseam with his nose, before using his teeth to tug on that damned zipper hiding that delicious co –

Gale nearly walks into a wall.

“That is why we can’t Uber,” Astarion declares. “You’re absolutely pissed. It would do you some good to walk it off.”

“A good nap is what I need,” Gale mutters, but shoves his phone back into his pocket. He winces as it smacks into the head of his prick, which has mysteriously gotten hard in the past few minutes and is now pushing insistently against the inside of his left pocket. Suddenly, Gale is ever so grateful that he chose to wear a longer coat today.

“You can’t –” Astarion says, stumbling slightly on the pavement. “You can’t go into work with a hangover tomorrow.”

“And you should not be going to class in a similar state either,” Gale tells him.

“I’m not drunk,” Astarion says, right before slamming face-first into a lamppost.

“Of course you’re not,” Gale agrees, pulling out his phone once more and shuddering slightly as the action stimulates his needy prick. Hells, he feels like a bloody teenager.

Astarion peels himself off the lamppost and rubs his nose. Gale is relieved to note that he seems fine, if not a bit red. “What are you doing?”

“Calling for an Uber,” Gale says. “Lest you decide to consort with yet another lamppost. Or – worse still, a fire hydrant.”

“I don’t know,” Astarion muses. “I think I could take it.”

Gale near-drops his phone at the mental imagery that floods his mind.

“I – what?”

Astarion takes advantage of his distraction to grab his phone, his lithe body pressing fully against Gale as he swipes it from Gale’s hand. Gale lets him, too distracted by the feeling of cold, pale skin rubbing against his own.

There’s absolutely no way Astarion could have missed his arousal, not like that.

“You’ll get it back once we are home,” Astarion says, tripping over nothing in particular. Gale winces and holds out an arm. To his surprise, Astarion wraps himself around the offered limb, his head dropping sleepily onto Gale’s shoulder.

“Such a bloody gentleman,” he mutters. “How do you even exist?”

“I’m not as good as you think I am,” Gale says, even as Astarion slots one of his hands into Gale’s coat pocket, though it’s a small mercy that it’s not the left one.

“Perhaps not,” Astarion replies, “but you try a lot harder than most, and that has to count for something. As far as people go, you are a lot more decent than you think you are.”

Gale falls silent, momentarily thrown off. To be validated is not something that he’s used to, not after having lived for years beneath Mystra’s cruel scrutiny. Lately, he’s been forced to feel a lot more like a human than he’s comfortable with.

He’s used to – well, being used.

“I could say the same about you,” Gale deflects, though he means every word that he says. “I wish I was as strong as you.”

Astarion is silent for a while, his fingers tightening momentarily around Gale’s bicep.

“You’ve got it all wrong, darling,” Astarion says finally. “I’m not strong. I just didn’t have any other choice.”

“Most people would give up,” Gale says, swallowing hard. “Hells, I came pretty damn close.”

How many days had he spent lying in bed listlessly, staring at his painfully pristine ceiling? Hours, near weeks spent holed up at home, the thought of venturing out and facing the world far too much to bear. Shadowheart called it brooding.

He hadn’t agreed with her then, and truth be told – he doesn’t quite agree with her now, though not solely for the sake of stubborn denial. Moreso, he’s become uncomfortably certain he had been going through something far worse.

“But you didn’t,” Astarion says. “Right?”

“No,” Gale says. “And I wouldn’t.”

He has too much to live for now. Perhaps it’s the near-death experience, but more likely, it’s the slow realization that he is allowed to live, despite everything. That he is allowed to be happy.

To his surprise, Astarion hugs him from the side, holding him for a beat longer than necessary. Not that Gale is complaining.

“I’m glad you didn’t give up,” he says, his voice a near-whisper. “I – I’m glad we are friends, Gale.”

Gale doesn’t respond. There’s a lump in his throat, and perhaps it’s the wine, but his eyes feel startlingly damp.

“I don’t think anyone else understands me quite like you do,” Astarion continues. “But if I could snap my fingers and undo all the hurt that’s been done unto you, I’d still do so in a heartbeat.”

“Astarion –” Gale starts, hesitant, because surely Astarion is a tad too drunk, a bit too loose on the lips. Surely he doesn’t mean any of this, because how could someone ever love Gale enough to truly fight for his happiness?

And how could Gale ever allow himself to be loved in that way?

“Hold that thought,” Astarion says, stopping abruptly and breaking away from Gale.

“I – are you alright?”

Astarion sways on the spot for a moment, his eyes unfocused.

“Fine,” he says. “All good. I’m just not used to drinking this much – ah, you see, my dear, not all of us can have the alcohol tolerance of an overworked investment bank –”

The rest of his words are lost as he doubles over and empties the contents of his stomach into a nearby bush.

~`~`~

“That was humiliating,” Astarion says, stumbling slightly as they near their neighborhood.

“I suppose you enjoyed that, then,” Gale comments idly, wincing as Astarion elbows him half-heartedly in the side.

“Why, Professor. Where is all this improper backtalk coming from? I’m clutching my pearls as you speak.”

“The wine,” Gale tells him. “Given that I still, you know, have mine inside me.”

Astarion hums under his breath. “You’d look good with something else inside you too.”

Gale stops short, near-passing out on the concrete as all the blood in his head rushes south. The look of horror that spreads over Astarion’s face as he registers what he has just said is almost comical.

“I mean –” Astarion stutters. “Uh. Food. I was saying – you should eat something. I doubt you got to finish your – ah, dinner. With that man.”

“Lorroakan,” Gale says dryly. Astarion snaps his fingers.

“That one!”

Gale raises an eyebrow, relishing in being the one not running his mouth for once.

“I think I’m still a bit drunk,” Astarion says weakly. Gale smiles, holding out his arm once more. Astarion latches back onto it gratefully. The rest of the walk passes in relative silence, which does concern Gale slightly, because Astarion has always been a chatty drunk.

“Something wrong?” Gale asks finally, as they near the entrance to the park. Gale’s house is visible in the distance. Astarion’s flat is just a short walk across.

Astarion is silent for a moment, fiddling with his shirtsleeve as he comes to a stop under the entrance archway. Gale waits patiently, watching as Astarion opens his mouth before closing it again. He darts a furtive gaze to the side, and then back towards the ground.

Finally, he looks up at Gale.

“What you said earlier,” he says softly, in a bit of a rush – almost as though he’s afraid of losing his nerve. “About not dating. Did you mean it?”

Gale considers his question. “Not really,” he admits. “I suppose a more accurate statement would be that I’m not going to actively search for a partner. But if I find myself privy to a serendipitous encounter with someone that I can connect with, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Astarion nods, his eyes shutting briefly before he reopens them, his determined gaze near-searing.

“What about me? If I asked you out on a date, would you agree?”

And Gale’s entire world freezes to a stop.

Perhaps Astarion is calling his name, perhaps he’s dying – he feels as though he’s floating, distended from reality. He’s ascending to the highest plane of existence, his heart and soul hovering amidst the clouds as he gazes down from above, taking in every precious minute of this sacred moment.

In all his wildest dreams, Gale had thought of everything. He filled his head with idealistic images of sunlit rooms and glowing curls, carefree smiles and pale skin. And yet, he had never once allowed himself to even think of how Astarion might one day ask him out. Because to think was to hope, and to hope was to set himself up for heartbreak.

Suddenly, it all made sense. The lingering glances. The charged tension between the two of them. The soft smiles and muffed laughter and warm hugs -

Only then does he realise that he’s been staring blankly at Astarion, who’s starting to frown, his mental walls slowly raising themselves with every second that Gale fails to offer a reply.

“Yes,” Gale says immediately, eagerly. Astarion’s face lights up at this, the crease in his brow giving way to a relieved, unbridled smile that latches onto Gale’s heart and takes his breath away.

Is he dreaming?

“Really?” Astarion asks, though Gale is certain that he already knows the answer. Though, something does occur to him at that moment.

“I’m not looking for a one-off, though,” Gale says cautiously. “I – I understand that we have a rather … unconventional friendship …that involves a lot of – ah, casual nudity and inappropriate sexual cont-“

“You,” Astarion interrupts, seemingly struggling with his words, before he shakes his head and clasps Gale’s hands in his own. “You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

And there, in the middle of a cold, autumn night, Gale allows himself to step in the path of the supernova, to feel his skin burst into flames as he disintegrates to pieces.

But that’s fine – it’s all fine, because this time, he will be reforged anew.

“Me too,” he says softly. Astarion takes a step forward, then another, before they are pressed against each other, skin to skin, and suddenly, Astarion is slipping his hands under Gale’s arms and resting his head on Gale’s shoulder, his arms coming to a rest around his waist.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispers.

Gale shuts his eyes briefly, breathing in the scent of Astarion’s skin, the brush of his curls against his skin.

“It’s you,” he says. “It’s always been you.”

They stand like this, arms entwined, for a while. Gale doesn’t know. Time doesn’t seem to matter anymore, not when he’s so happy

Then, a full-body shiver wracks Astarion’s frame as the wind began to pick up.

“You should get back before it gets colder,” Gale says. “Let me walk you home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Astarion huffs. “I’m just across the park. I’ll be fine.”

Gale moves to argue, but Astarion folds his arms, pinning him to the spot with a steely look. “Gale, I’m not a child. Don’t treat me like I’m helpless.”

“I – fine,” Gale gripes. “I’m sorry. I know. Just – text me when you get back?”

Astarion gives him a reassuring smile. “Of course, darling.”

Gale steps back reluctantly. “I guess this is goodnight then.”

He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to go back to his cold and empty house alone. But he doesn’t want to overwhelm Astarion either.

“Oh, don’t sound so sad,” Astarion teases. “’ll see you soon enough. I do have physio in the evening, but I’ll meet you at the estate after.” He pauses, before adding, “Just to clarify. That’s not the date. I’ll plan something proper for next week.”

“Have we agreed on a time?” Gale asks. “Or have I had a tad too much wine?”

Astarion bumps him on the shoulder playfully. The contact sears through the many layers of fabric between them, sending minute shivers down his spine.

“I should be able to reach the estate by eight, but on the off-chance that I’m not there yet, you can have my keys.”

Before Gale can have a miniature meltdown over the significance of Astarion handing over the estate keys to him, he’s being given a simple keyring with a little stuffed bat hanging from it.

“This one,” Astarion says, holding up a long key with a circular shaft, “unlocks the main gate. It’s technically electronically controlled, but Lae’zel broke the entire thing the other day, so I’m using a padlock.” He pulls out another key, this one well-worn and tarnished from years of use. For a second, Gale pictures Astarion, possibly younger, slotting the key into the lock and entering his old house. Did it feel like a home, knowing that he was returning to a monster? Gale recalls the sheer relief he had felt upon holding his own key for the first time, the catharsis that came with no longer having to look over his shoulder, of being able to lay his head down and wrap himself in the safety of a sanctuary that was his and only his.

Had Astarion ever felt the same way?

“This key,” Astarion says, snapping him out of his reverie, “unlocks the main door.”

“Got it,” Gale says. “Big key, big gate. Small key, small door.”

“I suppose if that’s what it takes to remember everything,” Astarion sighs dramatically. “Let’s do dinner after? We could find somewhere that opens late, or I could cook for us.”

Gale shakes his head. “I’ll cook for us, I think.”

Astarion glares at him with mock-hurt. “I thought you liked my cooking!”

“I do,” Gale laughs, raising both hands defensively. “But it’s been too long since I’ve stretched my culinary muscles. I’d like to get back into the habit again.”

Astarion rolls his eyes. “God forbid anyone try to challenge your role as the party chef.”

Gale shrugs. “You don’t see me trying to stream myself online.”

“Oh,” Astarion says, his voice suddenly low. “But you could.”

He peers up at Gale from beneath his lashes, lips curved into a wicked smile. Gale feels his breath catch in his throat. It’s cold out – freezing, even, but the heat pooling uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach is anything but.

“I,” Gale starts, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I have the right … equipment. Or rather, mine doesn’t … shine … as much as yours –”

Astarion takes a step forward, co*cking his head to one side, a playful smile dancing at the corner of his lips.

“-does,” Gale finishes lamely.

“Come now, darling. I wouldn’t say that,” Astarion replies. Gale swallows, fighting the urge to drop his gaze to that gorgeously pink set of lips that were just begging to be –

“Home,” Gale chokes out. “Get.” He clears his throat, fixing his gaze steadfastly on Astarion’s eyes and trying to ignore the tale tell tightening in his trousers. “We should get home.”

“Of course,” Astarion says, his voice flowing like molten lava into every crevice of Gale’s ear, filling him up from the inside with unbearable heat. It’s like a bomb in his chest, ticking down the minutes and ready to blow at the slightest touch.

Astarion places a hand on Gale’s arm and squeezes it, before tugging him closer and wrapping an arm loosely around his shoulders. Gale wonders if it would be considered poor manners to pass out in the street.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and walks off into the night, leaving Gale reeling.

~`~`~

Despite his promise, Astarion doesn’t text him for the next hour, nor the rest of the evening – or well, morning. Gale tries not to panic. There are a multitude of reasons for his silence. For instance, it is rather late. He’s probably fallen asleep and forgotten to inform Gale that he was home safe. Gale knows that Astarion has had a lot on his mind lately.

Besides, it’s not like they are dating. Gale wouldn’t hound Shadowheart for forgetting to drop him a text.

He texts Astarion, anyway.

Gale
[01:54] Are you home?

He drags out his night routine, taking twice as long to finish his shower. Astarion doesn’t reply, so Gale makes a cup of tea and takes a book to bed. He reads for all of five minutes before his head begins to hurt and he’s forced to call it a night.

Sleep eludes him. When he wakes a few hours later, confused and with a pounding headache, the clock beside him reads eleven in the morning. Far later than he’s used to waking, and past the time that Astarion rises.

Gale knows, because Astarion has a morning class today. And he’s never late.

With trembling hands, Gale pulls up their chat. His message reads delivered but unseen. Gale frowns.

Gale
[11:06] Everything okay?

He holds his phone briefly, contemplating a follow-up text, before huffing and placing it face down on his side table. Perhaps Astarion woke up late and had to leave in a hurry. He drags himself out of bed gingerly, wincing at the slight pain in his back. It is no longer any effort to brush his teeth and wash his face, but his body is throwing him a series of aches and creaks that hadn’t been there prior to the accident. He can only hope that it gets better with time.

He's toweling his face off when his phone buzzes. Gale is across the room in a flash.

Unknown
[11:47] Be reasonable, Gale. We can talk about this.

It takes all his effort to not throw his phone at the wall.

It feels like some sort of sick joke. They had – they had seemed fine, last night. Was Astarion having second thoughts about their date?

He was probably just busy. Gale knows that Astarion has a near-religious commitment to his coursework. Though it pains him that it’s likely a product of some twisted sense of imposter syndrome, Gale holds out steadfast to the hope that it will eventually get a bit better after he receives his results for the semester. He knows Astarion has been working himself to the bone, what with mid-terms fast approaching.

Gale
[13:49] Text me back when you can. I’m getting worried.

His first class proves to be a welcome distraction. It’s a content-heavy course that acts as a primer to the arcane arts, and his lesson for the day is heavily focused on the different schools of magic that used to exist. He’s halfway through the next chapter – evocation, his personal favorite – when his phone buzzes with a new text.

He’s not the sort to check his phone in the middle of class. It’s not that he’s personally opposed to it, but he knows that he has the tendency to get easily distracted.

But as it stands, he’s already distracted today. It can’t really get any worse.

“I want you to read this article on the religious and spiritual implications of evocation magic. We will have a discussion on it after.”

As the room falls silent, Gale surreptitiously turns his phone face-up.

Unknown
[14:36] Gale, come on.

Damned woman, he thinks unhappily. Did she own a box of burner phones for the sole purpose of bugging him?

~`~`~

Astarion doesn’t respond for the rest of the day. Gale alternates his options between sending a few more follow-ups and playing it cool, eventually deciding against the former. It’s been less than a day, and he can’t very well expect Astarion to respond to his every text. The man has a life of his own.

And yet, he can’t quite stem the growing concern in the pit of his stomach.

Annoyingly, Wyll tells him over lunch that Astarion doesn’t have any classes with him today, so he can’t be certain as to whether he is on campus or not. He does promise to keep an eye out for Astarion, though that much is accompanied by a steely stare that makes Gale wither slightly.

Thankfully, he has only one class that day, and can therefore stare at his phone in grim anticipation for the remainder of his working hours. On the flipside, though, he has a stack of applications to sift through for his new research study, and between the creeping chill of the weather and the monotony of reading through numerous resumes, time passes excruciatingly slowly.

Eventually, he decides to head down slightly earlier. Astarion did pass him a key – surely he wouldn’t mind if Gale let himself in bit before their scheduled meeting time.

Szarr’s old estate sits in a secluded part of the Upper City. It’s a short walk from his place, and an even shorter drive. In fact, Gale is certain that he has passed by the structure on his daily drive to work countless times.

Because that’s what it is. The exterior fence is less so a wall and moreso a fortress, stretching out towards the sky and towering above the road and houses beneath. Gale had never given it a second thought. Privately, he had assumed it to be some sort of sound barrier for what he presumed was a nearby highway.

His map application leads him along the fenceline, turning and twisting up a short hill until he arrives before a large, metal gate with the iron head of a wolf welded on. He takes the wrong turn no less than five times, each incorrect fork leading him into dense foliage. It’s uphill, but the incline is small enough that it’s still comfortable. Coupled with the peaceful calm and cool breeze, the walk is almost pleasant.

There’s an intercom nearby, but a quick inspection reveals it to be dead. Instead, sure enough, the massive gates are being held together by a singular, measly padlock. It’s almost comical.

The key slides in without resistance. The walk into the estate is far less pleasant, almost as though any positivity has been sucked dry the moment Gale passes the gates. The vehicle track winds up towards an almost sinister manor house in the distance, a dark-brick mass of turrets, stained glass and gothic ironwork. It would be almost beautiful if not for the copse of dead trees that flank the building, blocking out the sunlight and casting shadows all over the brittle branches and dead leaves that litter the ground.

Like walking into the lair of a vampire, Gale thinks, shuddering.

It’s quiet, so damn quiet. He can’t even hear the busy roads beyond the walls. It’s almost unnerving. He thinks of Astarion living here, his footsteps echoing endlessly down hollow halls, his skin untouched by the sun for years on end. The thought pains him.

Too soon, he finds himself on the doorstep, and briefly contemplates running off to wait for Astarion outside the estate. The whole place gives him the creeps, and he’s not one to be easily spooked to begin with.

Nevertheless, he steels himself and unlocks the front door.

To his relief, the interior of the manor is far less fear-inducing than the outside, though that could perhaps be attributed to the numerous stray wooden beams, hastily recapped paint buckets and unrolled wallpaper that littered the ground. Gale nearly trips over the debris as he runs his hands blindly along the side of the walls, searching for a light switch.

He finds not one, but roughly ten. After a moment’s deliberation, he turns all of them on.

The entrance foyer flares to life, iron-wrought lamps flickering on ominously and casting light on the mess beneath his feet.

Strange, Gale thinks. He could possibly be wrong, but if Cazador was anything like Mystra is, he was probably not the sort to allow the construction crew to leave his home in such a state. Perhaps Astarion was renovating? Though, Gale is certain that Astarion had mentioned an extreme aversion to living at the estate.

Gale pulls out his phone. Ten to eight. Astarion did mention that he might be late.

Gale
[19:50] I’m at the estate. See you soon!

Ignoring the pounding of his chest, Gale pockets his phone again. Sure, he hasn’t heard from Astarion the whole day, but surely he wouldn’t stand Gale up like this. Not after everything.

Beyond the square-ish entryway is a tall arch, leading to what Gale presumes is the rest of the entrance hall. He picks his way past the debris, stubbing his toes a few too many times, before his breath is promptly sucked from his lungs.

He has seen grandeur. His old school had been filled with that, ancient architecture that intimidated and impressed in equal parts. Mystra’s family home, while terribly gaudy, had been nothing short of grand either. Waterdeep itself was beautiful in her own right – she wasn’t called the City of Splendors for nothing.

And yet, there’s something about this place that ensnares him, like a fist around his neck.

The ceiling towers above him, the cavernous hall flanked by numerous mezzanines. Two stories worth, to be exact. From where he’s standing, he can see all the way to the third story of the house, the dark panels giving way to inky blackness beyond.

The sight gives him the chills, and he has the distinct feeling that he knows why.

I – I fell, three stories down, landed on my back –

It’s a steep drop. The marble is cold, unforgiving. The slight heel of Gale’s oxfords clicks against the ground, echoing hollowly through the empty halls. Gale can’t imagine slipping on the floor, let alone crashing down from above.

I woke up in the hospital – alone, he abandoned me, see? Because I couldn’t walk, I was useless –

The marble is pristine. There’s no sign of any accident, no stains. It’s almost as though nothing had happened. But Gale can’t quite help the images that rush into his head. In his mind, he sees Astarion sprawled on the ground, red steadily pooling around him, eyes trained upwards blankly.

Gale shakes his head. The image doesn’t go away. He can almost smell rich, iron tang of spilled blood, feel the viscosity around his toes. It’s horrifying. He can feel bile rising in his throat.

Three floors. How did Astarion even survive? Back problems aside, Gale can’t imagine anyone walking away without some sort of grievous head injury. Astarion rarely talks about the incident, and Gale thinks it isn’t quite his place to push either.

Possibly for the best, Gale thinks. He blinks furiously, backing away from the dreadful image in his head and the tortured ghosts of another’s past.

There’s a sitting room to the left, the low table covered with papers, the chaise lounges stacked high with folders. Gale seats himself heavily on the edge of a chair, breathing heavily.

Inhale. Exhale.

He pulls out his phone. The time displays two minutes past eight. Astarion has yet to respond.

Gale
[20:02] Need me to call you an Uber?

Despite his best efforts to not snoop, the uppermost document catches his eye. The words ZONING PROPOSAL are stamped across the top in bold lettering. Before he can stop himself, he’s picking up the sheaf and flipping through it curiously.

There’s a lot of legal jargon that he doesn’t quite understand, though judging by the small notes in the margins of the application, Astarion obviously does. It appears to be something regarding the use of the land that the Szarr estate sits on, as well as an appeal for approval from neighboring communities – though what neighbors he had, Gale isn’t quite certain, for the estate is rather isolated.

There are a bundle of building permits and applications, as well as a whole array of architectural mock-ups. A mostly-filled application for the incorporation of a non-profit company sits at the top, and Gale deliberately avoids looking at the personal details that Astarion had input into the document.

The words blur together into a mass as Gale tries to take them in, and after a bit of extrapolating and guessing, the pieces finally come together.

A shelter. One for victims of domestic abuse, specifically. It’s obviously a work in progress, and Gale knows that Astarion probably has a long way to go before anything tangible comes about, especially given the nature of bureaucratic delay, but it’s a solid start.

His chest fills with a rush of emotion. Was this what Astarion had been so eager to show him? Because – Gods, Gale is so proud. He’s so damn proud of Astarion that he could kiss him.

Though, where was Astarion?

Gale
[20:24] Everything okay? Are we still on for tonight?

It’s rather drafty in the house. Objectively, Gale knows that there is heating. A building of this size would probably be centrally heated. Unfortunately, he has no idea how to turn it on.

Between the chill and the long day he has had, Gale falls asleep at some point. When he wakes a few hours later, disoriented and freezing, he’s still alone in the house. He goes as far as to leave the sitting room, throwing caution to propriety and shouting Astarion’s name a few times. His own voice is the only response that greets him, echoing off the darkened hallways.

The panic that he feels is quickly amplified by the blank screen that stares up at him. He dials Astarion’s number. It rings through. He tries again, for good measure.

“You’ve reached Astarion. If you have the time to leave me a voicemail, you should be able to just text me instead.”

Gale laughs almost bitterly. Typical. It’s so typical of him, and it’s even more typical of Gale to ignore his message.

“You berk, I did text you. Call or text me back. I’m worried.”

~`~`~

Gale
Two missed voice calls.
One voicemail.

Gale
[23:04] I’ll assume that we are calling a rain check on today.
[23:05] At least let me know that you are fine?

[03:22] I promise I’ll do my best not to withdraw.
[03:43] Please respond, Astarion.

[08:21] It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. I just need to know that you’re fine.
[08:39] Some part of me wants to reach out to the authorities on the off-chance that you’re in trouble, but surely that’s just my tendency to overthink talking.

One voicemail.

[11:03] I called Lae’zel, but she said she hasn’t heard from you.
[11:05] She said I must have done something to upset you. Please talk to me, Astarion.

Astarion
[12:04] Stop texting me, Gale.
[12:04] Leave me alone. I mean it.