Archive of Our Own

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First

Astarion isn’t quite sure what to make of it. Normally, he’s quite good at reading people. At deducing their motivations. What makes them tick and twitch and follow.

But this is an enigma.

The wizard is weird.

Astarion stands at his tent, pretending to pick at his nails, the edge of his dagger gliding harmlessly under the hard nailbed to collect debris though he’s already cleaned them twice now. Any lingering dirt still remaining won’t come out no matter how hard he digs.

Filthy fingertips aside, he glances up quick and catches it again.

That wizard, Gale, staring at him from his own tent across the camp.

At being caught, the wizard startles slightly, eyes going wider as he turns in place and fumbles for something to grab. His clumsy hands land on one of the pointless metal contraptions he has gathered up outside his tent and Astarion watches as he picks it up and examines it a little too closely to be believable.

He scoffs, eyes rolling in annoyance. Whatever the wizard is plotting is not of interest to him, handsome bearded face or no. Astarion’s not worried one bit.

Although…

Perhaps his secret’s been discovered. Something jagged rushes through him at the thought and Astarion bites the edge of his thumb, gnawing it in distress. If they’ve found out that he’s a vampire, they’ll either chase him away or put a stake through his heart. Neither option is ideal, but Astarion doesn’t want to be chased away. He needs this ragtag group of idiots to protect him from his master, though whether any of them are capable enough to do so is debatable.

At the very least, they’ll make a good enough meat shield to distract Cazador while he takes advantage and flees.

Another quick glance to the wizard and this time, Gale flinches and drops the thing he was holding, making another bumbling spin in place then disappearing entirely inside his tent.

Astarion may have to kill the wizard.

No one’s shouting or clamoring towards him with pitchforks so if Gale knows, he clearly hasn’t told anyone else.

His fingers tighten around the dagger’s handle. It could be fast. No one would know. Perhaps he could even make a meal out of it before disposing of the body…

Thou shalt not drink of the blood of thinking creatures

Cazador’s voice booms in his head like a punishment and it’s Astarion who startles this time. A quick rush of fear then dread, ice cold and sharp, then he’s standing tall again, eyes darting around the camp to make sure nobody saw.

They didn’t.

All too absorbed in petty things. Weapon sharpening, artifact pondering, chatting with one another. Pointless.

He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He doesn’t want to see anyone. He’s tired.

Now that he’s no longer being watched by the wizard, there’s hardly any point in staying out here, so he crawls inside his empty tent and curls up on the dingy bedroll he’d pilfered from the druid grove. It’s no worse than the moldy cushion he’d had at the mansion. At least this one comes with fresh air and sunshine shining down on the tent walls, warming the inside space considerably.

It’s not night yet, but Astarion’s not used to resting at nighttime anyway.

He closes his eyes and enters a restless trance.

Second

Gale’s watching him again.

A satisfied grin curls up the edges of Astarion’s mouth. Now that he knows Gale isn’t plotting his demise, he’s free to enjoy this feeling.

Gale is jealous.

Because the Necromancy of Thay was given to Astarion and not Gale and now that silly wizard is staring longingly over at his book like a librarian trapped in a jungle. Why the librarian would be in a jungle, that doesn’t matter. There wouldn’t be books there, is the point. Gale wants Astarion’s book but he can’t have it.

Astarion makes an exaggerated show of licking the tip of his finger and then using it to turn a page. Such a move is not necessary, but oh, the way Gale’s stares is delicious.

Hungry.

Pitiful.

A kicked dog without its bone.

None of the words register, but Astarion licks his finger again, inwardly grimacing at the dusty film coating his skin from the last page, and flips to a new one. His face becomes a show, performed exclusively for Gale. A mimicry of awe and amazement as he peruses the words. It’s mostly poppycock, and the whispers are getting louder in his head, but the sound of that envious stare drowns them out.

Another page, a low hmm of intrigue from his throat, projected loud enough that he knows it’s heard, then Astarion turns, gives Gale his profile and then his backside, lets the wizard get a good show of Astarion’s other assets. Gale may be pathetic and heartbroken, chasing after his haughty goddess on his simpering knees, but he’s certainly not dead.

He’d have to be to miss Astarion’s beauty. This face lured countless people to their deaths, after all.

All at once, Astarion’s interest in the book wanes and he closes it with a solid snap. The whispers cut off at once, but he barely notices. They weren’t even terribly strong anyway, it’s not like Astarion was actually reading. Gale’s attention was much more interesting, anyway.

Thank goodness he didn’t kill him back when he thought he needed to. Gale hadn’t known about his vampirism at all, it turned out. Though why he’d been staring so much back then still eludes Astarion. If not vampirism, then for what reason? Certainly now, it’s jealousy for the book, but that’s as much as Astarion’s figured out.

He’ll have to keep an eye on him.

But now, with the book closed, when Astarion glances up again, Gale’s not looking at him at all.

He tells himself it’s a relief to no longer be watched so intensely.

There’s nothing else to do at the moment, the rest of their little group out gathering mushrooms or braiding each other’s hair or some such nonsense.

Astarion goes into his tent and sits cross-legged on his bedroll. There’s half-empty bottle of minotaur blood and he lifts it listlessly off the ground, tipping the glass neck to his lips and drinking deep. It’s stale, a touch bitter, and partially congealed, but it’s all he has.

He doesn’t miss his siblings.

He doesn’t miss the mansion.

But he’s tired of being alone.

It’s like an ache he can’t stop pressing against. Usually easily ignored but then it’ll sweep over him and spoil his mood entirely. Though he’s grown less wary of his companions, he still doesn’t trust any of them. And the wizard perplexes him in a way that is highly bothersome. Some days he thinks he’s got him figured out and others, nothing Gale does makes any sense.

Always watching but never acting.

If Gale wants to harm him, he’s taken no steps to do so. Likewise if he wants to bed him, he’s certainly not helping the matter by keeping himself at a distance. Why be so cold to Astarion back when they first met only to act so enthralled now?

But jealousy, Astarion can understand. That’s a feeling he knows intimately. Jealousy lives inside of his gut, always reaching and crawling for what others have.

Freedom. Safety. Warmth.

If Gale wants Astarion’s book so badly, perhaps he’d be open to reading it…together?

No, that’s not going to work.

The book in question lies on the ground, stone eerily glinting despite the darkness of the tent. Astarion unbends a leg and kicks it away from himself. Stupid thing doesn’t even have any spells to cure his vampirism. What good is an all-powerful necromancy tome if it can’t make the unliving live again?

The bottle now empty, Astarion sets it down amongst his others, ready to be filled again. It’s inelegant but he’ll take this over rat blood and mouthfuls of insects any day.

With nothing left to do, Astarion lays back onto his bedroll and closes his eyes.

Third

Everyone is gathered around the campfire, talking animatedly, enjoying their lovely stew despite the encroaching dark lurking at the edges of camp. Such a cozy scene, one might possibly forget the imminent threat of being snatched away by the shadow creatures just out of sight.

It makes Astarion sick to his stomach.

There’s no sun here and he hasn’t eaten for nearly a week and the hollow inside of him is more vicious than ever.

Every laugh and murmur of happy conversation grates on his nerves and he hunches over his knees, hugging them to his chest as if that’ll do anything to squash the hunger threatening to overtake him. How laughable that he’s survived so long with such pains, yet now, after barely a month of regular meals, they should suddenly feel so much crueler.

“Astarion?”

He lurches upright, almost toppling backwards off his precarious perch on this fallen log, and turns to look over his shoulder. It’s Gale, he knew before turning, knowing that voice like his own by this point after traveling so closely together. He attempts to hide the discomfort so vividly splashed across his face and gives a tight smile.

“Hello, darling, come to enjoy the view?” He gestures in front of himself to a pile of dead leaves and rotted sticks.

It’s meant to be light-hearted, but Gale doesn’t laugh. His luminous eyes scan the area quickly, as if he’s actually looking for something beautiful in the pile of decay, clear hesitation broadcasted loudly in every inch of his body language. Gods, this man and his emotions, not even an ounce of self-preservation. Astarion can read every single thought that flits through that giant head of his.

“Ah, no thank you, I didn’t come over for…the, um, the scenery.” Gale holds up a bowl in offer, one Astarion hadn’t even noticed him carrying. “I came to bring you something to eat.”

“Oh.” Astarion says flatly, deflating a little.

Not that Astarion doesn’t appreciate the gesture, it’s the thought that counts and all that, but shouldn’t Gale know by now that Astarion can’t eat food? Perhaps after traveling so long together, any sense of budding comradery he’d begun to feel had been unwarranted. Perhaps they really are just strangers stuck together on this hellish journey.

That stings more than he’s comfortable admitting.

It makes him want to be mean.

Instead, he bites his tongue, unsurprised it doesn’t bleed, given how long it’s been since his last meal. It tempers some of his sour mood, and his next words lack the cruelty he longs to put into them.

“That’s terribly kind of you.” There’s still an edge in his voice despite his best efforts. Gale is being, for whatever reason, nice, after all. The best Astarion can do is not scratch his face off for it. “But if you’ve forgotten, I prefer my meals a bit more…lively than a bowl of stew.”

“It’s not stew.” Gale says quickly, almost guiltily. “Um.”

Though the tone is clear enough already, Astarion can’t help but watch in fascination as an array of shame, guilt, and pride battle for dominance on Gale’s face. His mood lifts minutely, just from watching, slightly charmed at this strange display.

Curiosity takes the lead though, and Astarion pats the log beside himself, batting his eyelashes. “Well well, let’s hear it then. What have you trundled over with into my quiet little cove?” He contorts his face into a more feral mask, baring his teeth like some creature of the night. “Is it a bowl full of…blooood?”

The last word is a tease, because of course Gale hasn’t come over to him carrying a spoon and a bowl of—

“Yes, actually.”

Astarion blinks, mouth falling open in genuine surprise as Gale steps carefully over the fallen log and sits down beside him. Looking down at the wizard’s hands and what he holds within them shows one of their camp bowls, the one with the small chip on the side, a spoon already in it as if to be used, and almost to the rim of the bowl, a pool of dark, thick blood. Astarion can smell it now that it’s so close and he’s not wallowing in misery anymore. The surprise chased it right out of him.

“Gale,” He says slowly. “Tell me that’s not...”

Heavens forbid it’s actually Gale’s blood, that vile sludge crackling with corruption, Astarion couldn’t stomach it if he tried. Though…

After not eating for so long, perhaps he’s hungry enough to try.

But Gale shakes his head. “Oh no, not mine, of course not. Mine’s not fit for consumption, by any measure.”

More confusion then, because if it’s not Gale’s then who?

Astarion spares a curious glance back to the party still chatting around the fire.

Gale chuckles, soft and deep and more pleasant than Astarion would have guessed it to be, and shakes his head again. “Not any of our companions either, though I don’t doubt they’d offer to spare.”

Astarion has to withhold his noise of disbelief at that. He’s not close to any of them, not really. They know him as the vampire who picks all their locks. Any of them would turn on them given half the chance, he’s sure.

Gale though, Gale he’s not so sure about.

The bowl is handed to him like it’s a precious gift, and the dark fathomless pit inside of Astarion yawns wide open as the he takes it, feeling the heat of it through the porcelain.

“It’s fresh.” Gale says, so ominously Astarion’s expecting to see one of the others drained on the ground despite having just looked and seen no downed bodies. But then Gale smiles, and it’s as warm as the bowl heating Astarion’s chilly palms. “Ox blood.”

That makes much more sense. The oxen in the stable at the inn, by Dammon’s forge. He cradles the bowl closer, fighting to stay clear-headed even as he wants to suck that blood down so fiercely, it physically hurts to resist. “Don’t let Dammon hear about that.” He says dismissively, fingers tightening where they hold, so tight the bowl might shatter.

“No need to worry, I made sure to ask for permission before taking the blood. The oxen won’t mind some blood-letting every other day or so.”

Gale folds his hands in his lap, showing no signs of leaving, and Astarion gulps reflexively, distressed. An audience is not what he wants right now, to look so beastly in front of another, especially someone as put together as Gale.

“It’s alright.” Gale says gently, giving him another one of those confusing smiles, the kind that makes Astarion’s whole body feel like it’s being flipped upside down and then rightside up again. “Truly you must be famished, out here so long without any animals to feed on. Please feel free to eat in whichever manner you prefer.”

Astarion gulps on nothing again, leveling a long look to Gale, searching for anything underneath the polite words, but he finds nothing, or rather, he’s so hungry he doesn’t care whether there is or not. Gripping the spoon so it stays immobilized, Astarion tips the bowl up to his mouth and drinks directly from the side. The first mouthful nearly blanks his mind, and he shivers, swallowing noisily and then taking another large gulp.

It’s rich, and fresh. Not sour like goblin blood or bitter like kobold, but hot and nutritious and thick. He drinks and drinks and drinks until the bowl is empty and then he’s licking at the bottom of it to get every last drop. He licks over the spoon as well, so thoroughly it shines like new once he’s done. Panting heavily with satisfaction, he realizes Gale is still sat beside him and he looks up to find him avidly watching.

When his eyes meet Astarion’s though, he jumps and turns his face away, and Astarion’s brow creases. Even in this dim lighting he can see the blooming blush across Gale’s face. It spreads down from his cheeks to his neck and disappears beneath his collar.

Despite their time together, Astarion still does not understand Gale’s motivations for acting this way.

There’s been no attempt to slide into Astarion’s bed like Lae’zel has. Well, she’s offered, though Astarion knows he’d have to personally do the sliding for that to work out, and he’s not fond of the idea.

That’s besides the point.

If Gale simply wanted to be friendly, he’d act like the others, their respectful distance kept and appreciated. But no one watches him in secret like Gale does. No one is friendly one minute and embarrassed the next.

Perhaps Gale is a voyeur, upset at being caught staring.

Perhaps, much more realistically, he simply takes enjoyment at being relied upon.

Astarion would hate the thought more, but for the first time in ages, his hunger isn’t as acute. If he must allow Gale to think him reliant, so be it. Hardly the worst he’s had to fake. At least this will end with a meal and all his clothes still fastened.

“Thank you, Gale.” He says, letting his voice lilt in a way he knows is sweet. It’s worked on more than enough people as proof of its effectiveness.

That charming blush deepens, so much so that Astarion can smell it. Heat and salt and something rotten underneath that tickles his nose. It’s dark enough that Gale won’t see its wrinkle of disgust.

“Well then, uh, I’ll just.” Gale stands somewhat stiffly and only partially turns to Astarion, extending his hand out. “If you please.”

He’s tempted to put his hand in that empty palm, but he’s not sure what would happen, so he dutifully hands over his bowl and spoon and leans back comfortably on the log. There’s something in the back of his mind, an explanation for this, just out of reach. Astarion will continue to ponder the wizard’s motivations, and perhaps, with time, he’ll figure him out.

For now, he takes great pleasure in watching Gale make his way back to the others, stumbling twice as he goes. How curious, that coming over here, Gale hadn’t tripped even once, holding his bowl of blood, but now, flushed all over and being watched, he should have so much trouble in the dark.

Fourth

An incident with a potion is what finally makes the pieces snap together.

It’s a beautiful sunny day and their camp outside Rivington is quiet for once, everyone making preparations before they head into the city. Though time is of the essence, there’s no telling what awaits them, so best to be rested and stocked for whatever comes their way. A few had ventured into the small town for provisions, but they’ve already returned. Quiet conversation carries on the light breeze.

Astarion finds himself cozying up to Halsin, sitting behind the druid who’s seated comfortably in front of his bedroll and whittling something from an ugly piece of wood. Astarion’s not particularly interested in the man, regardless of his impressive frame and friendly face. Astarion might even like the druid, though he’d never admit it. In another life, perhaps they’d be friends.

But more pressing than this is perhaps Halsin, Archdruid and towering wall of an elf, could be his shield against Cazador. It’s nothing serious, though the hungry way Halsin looks at him is comforting to Astarion. Something he can recognize, that shade of desire, and something he knows exactly what to do with.

He’s leaning against Halsin’s back, his hand trailing down the thick corded bicep in Halsin’s arm as it flexes with each rhythmic curve of his whittling blade. The druid is making a chicken or something feathered, Astarion’s not interested, what matters is how Halsin leans into him.

“My my, druid, what big strong arms you have.” He murmurs, voice practically dripping with flirtatious teasing. “How might it feel to be wrapped in them?”

Halsin merely chuckles, but doesn’t look up from his whittling. “If you desire me in your bedroll, little one, you need simply to ask.”

And that takes the fun out of it. Astarion rolls his eyes behind Halsin’s back and moves to stand. “Hmm, we’ll have to see, won’t we?”

If he has to sleep with Halsin, he will. He’d rather not sleep with anyone right now, but, it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. At the very least, there could be a little more banter before just falling into a bedroll together though.

Astarion walks away from Halsin’s little tent, sparing at glance to Gale, who was absolutely close enough to hear that conversation, but who’s looking in the opposite direction. It might have been interesting to see Gale’s reaction, but, no loss.

Back at his tent, he means to enjoy a quick meal, his supply easily replenished in this verdant area, and perhaps have a nap.

But the sun’s barely moved in the sky when Astarion’s peace is disturbed by chatter outside his tent, and the sound of things being moved in an obnoxiously loud manner. He sighs and sits up, reaching for his tent flap and peering outside.

He does a double-take.

There’s a giant in the camp. Bigger than Halsin, even.

It’s Gale.

That’s strange enough that Astarion fully gets up, moving outside to see this confusingly huge Gale lifting a stack of heavy rocks and moving them to the side of camp. The wizard’s robe is partially removed, his upper half bare but for an undershirt and the robe itself hanging still secured at his waist. Astarion takes a moment to admire the view, never having seen this side of Gale before.

Tav and Shadowheart stand beside him, the former seeming to direct Gale towards another pile of rocks and the latter staring up at Gale with her arms crossed.

“Mixed up your potions, did you?” Shadowheart asks, heavy skepticism in her tone.

Astarion’s presence is noticed, and Tav sends him a quick smiling nod, Gale glancing over his shoulder before quickly looking away again.

“No need to fret, Shadowheart, no harm done, I’d say!” Gale says with an odd laugh, hefting another heavy rock into his arms. “Might as well get some use out of it. Clear some more of this rubble and bric-a-brac while I have the chance.”

Ah, a potion, and most likely a Colossus one, given Gale’s size and newly acquired strength. That explains it. Closer now, Astarion stares freely.

Normally, the man is much more covered, choosing to bathe alone the few times he doesn’t use magic to do so. A pity, truly, now that Astarion’s seeing what he’s been hiding underneath. Broad shoulders, long, lean arms, even a bit of muscle, which is a shock, though, not a huge one considering how well Gale wields his quarterstaff. Astarion’s taking notice of how the wizard’s shoulders flex when he sees Gale take another quick glance over at him.

That’s when it hits him.

Gale is courting him.

He bites back his reactive snort of laughter and turns his face away, the back of his hand over his lips to smother the sound. After a moment to compose himself, he looks back to Gale and waits. Within a few moments, as Gale’s shifting one of the rocks further away from the boundary of the camp, it happens again. Another glance.

Astarion meets it with a salacious grin, tipping his chin up and sauntering over. Gale visibly tenses despite not looking at him, and Astarion’s grin inches up further. How obvious.

“Oh my,” He says once he’s at Gale’s side. “What a nice view to greet me so early in the day. Don’t you look positively brawny, Gale. However did you come by your brand new physique?”

Not even the heat of the bight summer’s day could explain away the crimson hue that suddenly creeps over all of Gale’s exposed bits. If anything, it makes his charming flush even more obvious than usual.

Gale heaves another rock over towards the edge of camp – where is he even getting them in the first place? – and then he straightens up. When he finally looks down, Astarion’s waiting with his bottom lip tugged suggestively between his teeth.

Gale clears his throat, seemingly unable to maintain eye contact, gaze quickly darting away and then back, and they’re bigger too, his eyes, Astarion able to see the little flecks of gold within the pupils. But his voice is the same, no difference accounting for size.

“An unfortunate mix up with my potions,” He says, making that odd, performative laugh again, like he’d been practicing. “My fault entirely for not paying attention, but no harm done.” He throws the final rock and then makes a show of wiping the sweat from his brow before putting his hands on his hips like he’s posing for a statue-maker.

“Hmm,” Astarion taps his finger to his chin, squinting in mock confusion. “Which potion were you trying to use?”

Another one of those fake laughs and then Gale is clapping his hands together. “Well then! Is there anything you need a hand with Astarion before I return to my task at hand?”

And that’s much too good an opportunity to pass up. Astarion pretends to consider the question, giving Gale a little smile. “Oh, I’m sure I could find something that needs hefting this way or that. Come along then, wizard. Let’s put those arms to good use.”

Astarion sets Gale to reorganize all his mismatched furniture, watching as he bends and lifts with open appreciation. He requests this several times, hemming and hawing about where each piece should go. Gale seems more than happy to continue as long as he’s needed, but Tav eventually ruins the fun, pulling Gale away with a question about scrolls. It’s delightful how depressed Gale looks to be called upon, and Astarion gives him a little wave as he goes.

“Thank you, darling, for the help and the show!”

That final flush is more than worth the disgusted sound he gets from Lae’zel as she’s passing by.

Fifth

The city falls around them, screams in the distance and some much closer, and above them, the brain hovers over the city like an oncoming storm.

“Are you an imbecile?” Astarion growls, grabbing Gale by the robe and shoving him roughly into the brain stalk. “Are you that willing to obliterate yourself for your darling goddess?”

The venom in his voice is potent, thick enough to choke on, but Gale’s eyes are full of sadness as he stares back. “It’s the right choice, Astarion, you must know that. I can end this all without anyone getting hurt.”

Astarion snarls with rage, fangs flashing. “You would get hurt, you idiot! You would die!”

How anyone can hold so much sadness in their eyes is beyond Astarion’s comprehension, and yet, Gale’s eyes are overflowing. “One candle snuffing out means nothing in comparison to a thriving bonfire.”

Astarion slams him into the fleshy stalk again. “You’re not a candle, Gale!”

When Gale doesn’t answer, Astarion crowds closer, hating how he trembles as he reaches up with his other hand to cup the back of Gale’s head, his fingers slipping through the sweat-damp, tangled hair there. “You’re not a candle.” He says again, softer, plaintive.

Begging.

They’re broken apart by another explosion, one not very far away, and Tav hustles them all together for one last round of meager healing and the final chugging of their leftover potions. It’s too busy now, far too hectic, and Astarion can’t get to Gale again, the wizard having already begun his climb alongside the others. Astarion hurries after him. Them.

It’s a long, treacherous climb up the stalk towards the plateau of the Netherbrain, but somehow, they all make it up.

Atop that terrible expanse of flesh and nightmares, the battle begins. Or does it end? Astarion loses track, exhausted as he dodges everything he possibly can, slowly growing bloodier by the minute.

They’re all exhausted, he can see it in flashes as he checks the others scattered across the battlefield in quick rapidfire glances. One moment of distraction is too much, and he stumbles back from a psychic blast that staggers him and nearly dazes him.

“Hold them off!” Orpheus bellows from up where he’s begun attempting to channel into the crown. “I must not be interrupted!”

Trying to shake off the fog threatening the edges of his vision, Astarion suddenly feels eyes on him and he turns, expecting the mindflayer, but it’s Gale across the long bridge. Staring at him, expression pained, and Astarion sees the resignation there. The defeat.

Acceptance.

Astarion snarls and straightens up, twisting to slash his blades viciously at the mindflayer drawing nearer, cutting deep into the shining grey flesh and turning fully to Gale even as the lifeless body drops behind him. He pours every ounce of willpower into his eyes as he stares Gale down. Don’t you dare, he thinks loudly, sending his rage through the tadpole link and watching as it hits Gale.

The wizard looks away.

Outrage roars through Astarion like smokepowder and flame and the air around him blurs as he crouches low and races towards the next closest mindflayer. The abomination is quick but Astarion’s blades are quicker and he slices it from belly to chin in one pass, dashing towards the one right behind it. Another slash, another slice, and this mindflayer’s head falls clean off its body and adrenaline is coursing through Astarion as he pants loudly over its corpse.

But there are more enemies, and they are coming closer and there are psychic blasts shooting past them. Wyll gives a pained shout as one hits his shoulder, and he drops to one knee. Astarion twists back to see Karlach’s greatsword cleaving through an entire pack of intellect devourers in one messy strike, and then he hears footsteps and Gale is racing towards the crown.

“No!” Astarion screams, twisting to beat him there, but Gale is closer and his hands come up and Astarion’s going to kill him if he sacrifices himself, he’ll search through every last inch of the fugue plane to find this wretched wizard and beat the pulp out of his incorporeal form.

But instead of a blast, a shimmering dome flickers into existence over Orpheus, and Gale stands beside him, hands raised up to maintain it. Astarion blinks and grins, rushing in with a jubilant shout to the safety of the dome, relieved and so proud, he could kiss this horrible man.

So he does.

One solid, swift kiss that has everything around them fading out of awareness. Gale’s lips are dry and plump and wonderful.

“Oy! Idiots! If you hadn’t noticed, there’s sort of a battle to the death goin’ on around us!” Karlach’s angry voice rings out and pulls them back. “Save your passions for after!”

Astarion pulls back but keeps close, beaming. “You can count on it.” He says for Gale’s ears alone, and Gale’s whole face goes scarlet and, once more, he looks away, a bit of shock clear on his face.

Behind them, Orpheus gives a triumphant shout. “It’s open! This is it!”

With the dome above keeping them safe, they all rush into the portal to make their final stand.

Six

Later, while the rest of the city celebrates through the streets like a churning river of light and sound, two figures are absent from the rowdy festivities. Those that notice know not to ask.

Upstairs at the Elfsong Tavern, in the large room meant for many, are two people alone. The background noise, no longer confined to the space below, seems somehow quieter despite the immense number of voices joined together in songs and jubilant shouts outside.

Normally tidy, or as tidy as it can be when housing so many weary adventurers, now the room bears a trail of hastily removed clothing. Clearly torn in places by monstrous claws but also showing much more recent tears made by gentler, trembling hands, they are stained with blood. Only some of it is theirs.

In their safe little corner, Astarion has Gale pinned to his bed, both of them breathless and clutching at each other, as if another netherbrain might tear them apart. Astarion’s made a mess of his wizard already, and he’ll do even more soon. But for now, as their bodies slide against one another, eased by sweat and the lingering viscera of their battle, Astarion’s just grateful they both made it out alive.

He pours all his gratitude into another deep kiss, drinking down the sounds Gale makes with relish. Someday, when that wretched orb is gone, he’ll sink his fangs into that pretty, elegant neck and drink there too. He’ll have Gale, utterly and completely, and all just for him.

His hips rock between the wide open juncture of Gale’s shaking thighs, and he can’t hold back any longer.  It’s not ideal, and it’s rushed, his fingers slicked with his own spit and perhaps some splatters of mindflayer blood, but neither of them care. Despite how quickly and impatient he stretches Gale to receive him, Gale’s even more impatient.

“I’m yours, Astarion,” He pants, body writhing in a sinuous slide that takes Astarion by surprise and makes a ferocious heat pool in his gut. “Take me, please, take me, I beg of y—”

A quick kiss to quiet his cries, and a much-needed moment of silence for Astarion to regain control of himself. Gale’s voice is hoarse with urgency and pleasure and it rattles through Astarion’s body like a cracking whip. He must be careful, he does not wish to hurt Gale like he’s been hurt himself. He never wants that. So, he slows down. Makes sure that Gale is stretched enough.

It’s the best he can do with their limited supplies and their limited patience. Gale still urging him on, his body still rolling against him, the sight and sounds so much more arousing than Astarion ever would have expected of the sweetly annoying little bookworm. It’s driving him wild. He spits into his hand and smears it over that quivering pucker of muscle one last time and then he spits again, slicking himself up.

Pressing into Gale’s body, both of them groaning in tandem, Gale’s nails scratching down his back, Astarion nearly finishes right then and there. The wizard has his head thrown back, neck taut and exposed, and Astarion gets lost in the rapid beat of Gale’s pulse, just there among his tendons and the bobbing shift of his ao’s apple. How he longs to bite him there. To claim him.

For now, he takes what he can, what he’s given freely and enthusiastically, Gale hot and tight and clenching around him. Something like a sob heaves out of his chest, and in response Gale pulls him closer, into another all-consuming kiss, a wonderful distraction as Gale’s muscles slowly relax. Thighs squeeze around Astarion’s hips again, wordlessly demanding he move, and so he does, with vigor.

It won’t take long at all, for either of them.

The exhaustion and pain from the fight fades, leaving only ecstasy in its place. The rest of the world pales to nothing, leaving just them two, wrapped so tightly around each other, they practically become one. Gale’s breaths fill Astarion’s lungs and the taste of him fills his mouth. It’s heady in a way that sends Astarion hurtling towards his release.

Nearly there, another moment until he comes undone completely. His hips don’t falter, his thrusts precise and deep, and nary a complaint, only more of that rich, sweet voice twisted beautifully into pleasured gasps and moans. Holding tight to Gale’s hip with one hand, the other keeps a firm grip under Gale’s chin.

“That’s it, darling,” He pants, lost to the rhythm in a way he’s never been before, shivers running up and down his spine as Gale stares up at him, his beautiful dark gaze locked onto Astarion. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare look away this time.”

Gale doesn’t, staring up at him in wonder, cheeks flushed and mouth parted, a sheen of Astarion’s saliva along his lower lip. There’ll be time for tenderness after. Right now, Astarion must stake his claim, must feel the pulsing beat of Gale’s heart, alive and strong and loud. Even as Gale’s cries grow sharper, still he doesn’t look away, though his lashes begin to flutter.

Beautiful.

It’s embarrassingly quick, Astarion’s hips faltering, his orgasm a surprise to them both, and Gale’s coming moments later, both of them locked in place by the strength of their release, and then, exhaustion finally catching up to them, they collapse against each other, breathing loud and full of satisfaction.

After a moment, Astarion tiredly pushes himself up to his elbows and looks down, needing to see Gale’s eyes again. They meet his, sated and low-lidded and full of all the emotion Astarion couldn’t see before, and he settles.

Gale gives him a slow grin, blinking like a contented cat. One of his hands reaches up to cup Astarion’s cheek, thumb brushing gently back and forth. “I’ll hardly be able to look away now, won’t I?”

An emotion wells up inside, something different, something deeper, more frightening than everything else Astarion’s faced up til this point. And yet, he’s not afraid. Gale’s arms enfold him in a sweaty embrace, and Astarion thinks he’ll never be afraid ever again.