Chapter Text
A drop of sweat trickled into Gale’s left eye, salt stinging, but he didn’t move to wipe it. Maybe at least now he had an excuse for feeling on the verge of tears. He breathed, and tried to focus on the feeling of the canvas tent walls behind him, the pile of the rug beneath him, the scent of leather and parchment. All he could focus on though was the ghost of Astarion’s fingers in his mouth. Their cold weight, their insistent push into him, their silencing of his excuses. His arousal weighed shamefully on him as he directed all of his threadbare willpower into suppressing it. He throbbed, unfulfilled and desperate for contact, and the physicality of it sickened him. The Orb throbbed in harmony with his shame, filling his chest with a dark pulse of hunger. Gale screwed his eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath and pushing. He forced it down and back, willing it to subside. His chest seared with the suppression of energy lashing to be released. He felt feverish, hands trembling as he gripped the worn fibres of the carpet.
You must learn to control yourself better, child.
I am trying, I-
Gale shook his head to clear it of the echoes of Mystra’s admonitions. He knew all too well he’d failed in her regard, the gaping wound in his well of magical power the evidence of his fall from grace.
But perhaps he’d been falling longer than he’d truly realised, long before his ambition outstripped his ability. Her commands unheeded over and over again as he failed to let go of the urges and desires of his physical body.
“I have little patience for disobedient children, Gale.”
Twilight shaded the library of Blackstaff academy as he cowered amidst the stacks, wooden boards harsh beneath his knees as he scrambled into a position of prayer, attempting to retrieve his trousers from where they were bunched around his ankles. The purple light cast shadows of impenetrable darkness.
“I am sorry, please forgive me-”
“You wilfully ignore my instructions and expect forgiveness? You think very highly of yourself, child.”
“No, I-! I didn’t mean to break your command I just- we just-” He hangs his head in shame.
“You waste your energy in mortal fornication instead of preserving it to reach the heights of the heavens. Surely I need not explain to you the reason for my displeasure?” Her tone softens, smooths, filled with a coaxing disappointment. “I thought you were cleverer than that, Gale.”
He gasps, realising she is giving him another chance. Yet another. “I will do better. I will devote myself wholly to your service and-”
“And you will never meet that boy again.”
A pang shoots through his chest at the thought of those hands, that laugh- but no. As Mystra’s Chosen he had to have more discipline. She was right.
“I will never meet with him again, I swear it.”
Her voice is a purr now, the purple radiance a caress. “Good boy.”
Gale shudders at the memory, and finds himself reaching out into the Weave to try and find a trace of Her, even if only Her disappointment. But there is nothing. Just the echoing silence that has accompanied him since the Orb lodged itself in his chest. He has been abandoned for wanting too much, again.
Gale always wanted, a hunger for more tugging him along the path of his fate. More spells, more applause, more accolades, more admiration. But this, now; he didn’t know how to explain this. Had he truly wanted Astarion, in that moment? Or was it simply a reaction to a year of isolation, a year of penance. Or worse, was it not what he wanted at all but somehow a dark by-product of the corruption lodged in his chest. A corruption that sought not only to drain him of his magic and his life force but somehow twist and change everything in its path such that he would react like that to…
To what? Anger certainly. Astarion’s rage had been palpable but it hadn’t been alone. That hunger that raged behind his sharp words and insincere smiles was so close to Gale’s own, and it was that drew him to the vampire almost more than his beauty. The scent of hunger, of famine, of desperate need. Gale had always hungered, he would admit it freely; for knowledge, for magic, for power. It had been his downfall. The same scent perfused the air around Astarion, weaving through the perfume he religiously applied each morning. A vampire’s hunger for blood, certainly, but a vampire spawn free from his master surely had deeper needs than that. He’d seen the way Astarion had eyed the necromantic tome and its possible secrets. An expression that no doubt mirrored Gale’s own when he discovered the existence of a book holding secrets of the Karsite weave in Baldur’s Gate.
A lust, a thirst for knowledge. And in that knowledge, power.
Gale recognised in Astarion a version of his own hunger, and it drew him to the vampire again and again, against his better judgement. But had he really given in so far to his base desires that he would conflate the two? He shook his head in self-disgust. Astarion was attractive, of course, Gale wasn’t blind. But he had noticed the strain beneath flirtatious overtures the elf lavished on other members of the party. A strain that split into a widening crack just moments earlier in this tent, spilling out violence and anger and some kind of despair that Gale had only a fleeting moment to glimpse in those red eyes.
Astarion had been aroused as well, the bite in his fingers and the weight of his thigh heavy with promise. And yet. It felt too much like a shield, almost. Barbed, like his words. Something had almost come out in Astarion’s bitten off words, and then he’d slammed down his defences and turned predator on his weak and willing prey.
“You’d let me just go ahead and do whatever I wanted to you now, wouldn’t you?”
Gale breathed slowly in and out through his nose, at last feeling the heat of the encounter starting to burn out within him, replaced by spreading chill. Submerged beneath the mixture of remnant self-disgust was a niggling train of thought. A vampire spawn, freed… When Astarion had first followed him in Baldur’s Gate he had been pursuing him, most likely carnally but-
He sat upright with an intake of breath, fingers clutching the cloth over the Orb mark almost subconsciously. Astarion had been hunting him, but not of his free will. He hadn’t been free then. Gale had seen the tension in his expression, the impatience in his tone - he’d been following orders to- to what? Kill him?
No. Seduce him.
Oh Gods. Gale sank back into the tent wall as the realisation weighed against him like a lodestone pressed against his chest. Astarion had been made to seduce people for his master, no doubt chosen for the role because of his beauty. How fraught must the act of desire be for him, now? How sickened, corrupted by its deadly ending? No wonder his anger had been so palpable, threaded through the desire as though it belonged there, hand in hand.
And Gale had just stood there, willingly supplicant, shamefully hard, keening with every sense not only for Astarion to touch him but to bite him, sinking himself into Gale’s flesh and taking from him anything he wanted. Heedless of the potential poison flowing in his veins.
He felt sick, and this time the Orb wasn’t to blame.
*~*~*
The final battle in the goblin camp was over strangely quickly, in the end. Taking out their leadership cut the head off the snake and enabled the party to return to the Grove with the freed High Druid to end the ghastly standoff between the druids and tieflings there. All Gale had contributed were a few well aimed low-level fireballs and magic missiles to cover the party members doing the brunt of the heavy lifting. He felt mildly superfluous, having been focusing on conserving as much of his energy as he could in preparation for a dramatic and drawn-out final battle. The quick resolution of the whole thing somehow felt anticlimactic, and he buzzed with a restless energy still, pent up magic itching for a release it hadn’t received.
The Orb had been remarkably quiet since that night in his tent. Gale would have liked to be able to attribute it to his iron will, but something told him it was more likely related to the dampening of his mood post-terrible realisation. The Orb seemed to react to his energy, waking up to sap as much of it as possible when he felt enlivened, and sinking back into a slumbering threat when he had nothing left to give. For now. At some point, he knew, it wouldn’t cease to draw on him, would stop granting him reprieve between feasting on his life. Now, having allowed him to gather a significant amount of magical energy within himself again, he could feel it stirring within him; a beast awakening from slumber. It was cruel like that, teasing almost; allowing him to feel as though his strength was returning to him before leeching it away again.
His restlessness and lack of purpose made the notable absence of one of their party members all the more grating. Astarion had barely appeared within Gale’s line of sight since that night, and when Gale had seen him it was to note a tension in Astarion’s movements, undercutting his usual grace. He seemed on edge, more waspish in his replies to the others than usual, more conspicuously absent earlier in the evening. Gale worried that his foregoing mealtimes would arouse suspicion again, but he could hardly do anything about it himself. Each time he summoned the courage to catch Astarion’s eye the elf would flit away into the shadows, leaving such little trace of himself as to make Gale almost certain he’d conjoured him from his overactive imagination.
Gale’s stomach churned with a mixture of guilt and regret each time he considered that night and his reaction to Astarion’s proximity. However much he wished he could go back and change things though, he was stuck with the knowledge that he had not only disgusted Astarion, but had involuntarily conjoured the spectre of his traumatic past. And then bluntly told him to leave, without explanation or apology.
One with so little awareness of the consequences of their actions has no place amongst my Chosen.
Curious how only Mystra’s remonstrances came easiest to memory now.
He’d been afraid of the Orb’s power, yes, but that was no excuse. Gale desperately wanted to explain to Astarion, to let him know in some way that he understood and that he promised to control himself better in the future. It looked like he’d never get that opportunity, even if he did somehow devise a way to put all those things into coherent and empathetic sentences. Astarion seemed hell bent on pretending that they’d never exchanged so much as a simple greeting, and Gale couldn’t blame him. He just wished, for so many things, to be different.
Now, he cast his eye around the camp, filled with so much more light and energy than usual. The tieflings from the grove had descended upon them in celebration and were filling the usual quiet with laughter and music and the heady scent of wine and fireworks. Several had come to offer Gale a dance, hands outstretched and leading towards the warmth and light of the fire circle but he had turned them down. He accepted the cups they passed him, and exchanged pleasantries and a few tips to the young tiefling wizard, but found himself unable to focus on the revelries. Astarion was nowhere in sight, again. Gale had seen him briefly in the aftermath of the battle, stripping the armour from the corpse of the drow leader. Perhaps he was simply somewhere, cleaning it.
His restlessness wasn’t dulled by the blurring effect of the wine. Somehow it sharpened it instead, a glinting blade of distraction without a good target. He was drinking too much, he knew. Had to keep control. But the more time passed without seeing that shock of white curled hair, the more Gale sought to quieten the tumult within his mind beneath a blanket of alcohol.
When Tav came to him, he felt fuzzy around the edges, the edge of his anxiety blunted into more of a confused ache of dread, and a desperate need for some kind of comfort. Comfort he had always sought in the Weave. The soft caress of Mystra’s domain, the warming flush of it embracing his limbs and softening their touch, light enough to coax the most sensitive of responses.
The paladin, however, wasn’t interested. “Are you alright Gale? You’ve seemed on edge for a while now, and I couldn’t help noticing, umm…you don’t look very well.”
Something about the tenderness of the lost moment, the combination of the loss of his only confidante and the encouragement of the wine prompted him to speak. He told her everything: about the Orb, its constant need for magic, and about how he got himself into this predicament in the first place. Her sympathy was comforting but somehow…insipid. He’d grown used to Astarion’s acerbic responses to his periodic complaints, the matter-of-factness with which he addressed Gale’s encroaching doom. Tav had withdrawn a ring from her finger and placed it in Gale’s. Had promised she would tell the others in the morning, but would let them enjoy the party undisturbed for now. And Gale smiled, clasping her hands between his own in thanks, feeling a burn at the back of his throat that had nothing to do with the low quality of the wine.
This outpouring of empathy felt strange, too much. He told himself that he’d done the right thing, the party all deserved to know. He was a threat to them all, particularly if he continued failing to keep his emotions in check. Who knew when the lack of discipline would prove fatal, tipping the Orb’s unstable state over the edge. He had done the right thing, and yet some part of him felt as though he’d committed a betrayal. He hadn’t told Tav about Astarion, of course, other than to acknowledge his invaluable assistance in securing magical items. Still, the symmetry of their secret-holding had been broken, and Gale knew that it hadn’t broken tonight but that night in his tent, the air thick with tension, the betrayal sparking deep in Astarion’s eyes as he discovered Gale’s desire.
Gale sighed, and swigged deeply from his goblet.
“Sharing secrets now, are we?”
He wheeled at the sound of Astarion’s voice, stumbling slightly at the suddenness of the motion in his inebriated state. Astarion stood before Gale’s tent, swaying slightly, a glazed look in his red eyes. There was wine - no, blood - smeared around his mouth, and spattered on his clothing. Coating his hands, flecks in his hair. Gale’s gut clenched with worry, his first thought that Astarion had somehow been attacked by someone.
“Astarion! What- are you-”
“Oh I see how it is. You don’t need me anymore, do you wizard?” Astarion stepped towards him, and stumbled slightly on a tree root. A couple of nearby heads turned at the sound of his raised voice.
Gale glanced uneasily around before focusing back on Astarion, endeavouring to keep his voice down and defuse whatever this was. “Astarion, are you…drunk?”
Astarion giggled, ending in a hiccup as he sneered at Gale. Well, that answered that question. Gale wasn’t even aware that vampires could get drunk. Fascinating. And then he refocused on the blood coating Astarion.
“Are you injured? You’re covered in blood.”
Astarion looked down at himself and giggled again. “Oh it’s not mine darling. I killed a bear.”
Gale blinked at him. He knew that vampire spawn did have increased strength and he had seen Astarion’s agility firsthand on many occasions, but to kill a bear with nothing but his daggers and bare hands? Gale would have been impressed, had he not been simultaneously contending with competing thoughts of how terribly attractive he found that mental image, and concern for Astarion physical integrity. He cleared his throat, wishing he hadn’t drunk that last gobletful quite so quickly. “Colour me impressed. But shall we continue this conversation in the morning, perhaps? I think both of us are a little, uh, under the influence at the moment.”
“Oh but I think we should have it now, don’t you Gale?” Astarion raised his voice again and gestured grandly in the direction of Tav and the other members of their party, who were gathered across the clearing talking with the high Druid Halsin. The paladin turned towards them, as did Shadowheart, eyebrows furrowing.
Gale winced. “Astarion, let me assure you that while I may have revealed my condition to the leader of our little party, I most certainly did not-”
“Did not what? Mention the fact that you’ve been helping me hide the fact that I’m a vampire? Hmm?” Astarion flung his arms out wide, spinning on the spot and taking a dramatic bow in the direction of their company. “Very gallant of you, of course, but clearly the time has come to stop pretending, hasn’t it Gale?”
Gale was certain Astarion was saying something underneath what he was actually saying, but his drunken brain wasn’t letting him grasp anything beyond the bitterness in his tone. He glanced over at the other companions, mounting panic cutting through the wine haze at the sight of not only Tav, but Shadowheart, Wyll and Halsin striding towards them. Wyll’s hand was on the handle of his rapier. He stepped closer to Astarion, taking care not to touch him as he hissed through his teeth, “What are you doing?”
“Well it only seems fair that if I’m not allowed to be the exclusive holder of your secret, then you’re not allowed to have mine either.” Gale blinked in astonishment as Astarion genuinely stuck his tongue out at him, as though nothing more than a childish game were at stake.
“Gale?” Wyll’s voice cut through his confusion, a hard edge to it though tinged with concern. “Is everything alright?” The Blade’s eye raked over Astarion’s blood-spattered form and Gale felt his throat constrict.
“Ah, yes, in fact I was just discussing with Astarion whether we might need to get some fresh air and quiet, I know I for one have possibly had a little too much wine. They do say in Waterdeep that in wine there is truth; but it’s closely followed of course by ‘in water there is good sense’.” Gale smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Let us go in search of some nice, cold water-”
“Who’s blood is that?” Shadowheart’s surprisingly cold tone cut across him.
Astarion turned to face her, curling his lips in a wide grin that put his fangs on full display, and clearly relishing the recoil it provoked, all four of the others flinching backwards at the full sight of vampire fangs, still stained with the blood of his kill. “As much as I’d love to be able to say it belongs to some blushing maiden willingly opening her veins for me-” Astarion’s eyes were dark as he watched their reactions to this statement, although he retained the smile, “-it belongs - pardon, belonged - to a bear. Most delicious it was too.”
Out of the corner of his eye Gale caught Halsin crossing his sizeable arms over his even more sizeable chest and felt a hysterical urge to laugh. He managed to constrain it.
“Gale.” This time it was Tav who spoke, her tone measured where the others’ was hard. “How long have you known about this?”
“He’s terribly good at keeping secrets, our wizard, isn’t he? Until he decides he’s bored of it, of course.” Astarion’s tone was flippant, but there was a knife-edge of something in it that snagged on Gale’s senses. He needed to defuse this conversation now and get Astarion someone alone where they could resolve this whatever-this-was.
“I knew, and I helped Astarion keep it a secret from you all, it’s true. But-!” he went on, holding up his hands defensively, “-I kept that secret because Astarion wanted me to, not for any more nefarious reason than that. He wanted me to, and I trust him. And so I did.”
“You’d trust a vampire? Surely you know they are ruled by the thirsts that drive them.” Wyll’s fingers wrapped around his rapier’s hilt, but he didn’t draw it - yet. Gale’s mind was suddenly filled with the image of Astarion bending low over the sleeping form of Tav on the ground, fangs bared and glistening in the dying embers of the fire. He shoved it firmly away, along with the treacherous suggestion of a thought that maybe he was making a mistake.
“And yet here you all are, in one piece.” He spread his palms upwards and gestured widely at the companions and the surrounding festivities. “Not only has no-one suffered Astarion’s bite, but he has been an invaluable asset in this good cause, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” There were some nods, bolstering Gale’s confidence to wrap it up winningly. “These celebrations are as much due to his efforts as any of ours.”
He turned to Astarion, fully expecting a scathing remark or a protestation of evilness and disinterest in helping others without reward but instead he was struck by the expression on Astarion’s face. It was sombre, his eyes slightly narrowed as he stared at Gale as though he was trying to work something out. Work him out. It made Gale feel hot under the collar so he redirected his attention back to the others hurriedly.
“Indeed.” Wyll was nodding, his hand withdrawn from his rapier and placed across his chest as though avowing something. “No, you’re quite right Gale, Astarion has done nothing to cause us to distrust him, while we- well, I am ashamed of my undeserved suspicion. You have my apologies, Astarion. I do hope we can continue on good terms.”
There was something so unwaveringly earnest about the statement there was no way even Astarion could have twisted it into anything other than the goodwill with which it was intended. Shadowheart on the other hand narrowed her eyes and fixed Astarion with a pointed glare. “So long as none of us wakes up with puncture wounds in our necks.”
At this, Astarion raised his hands, that pensive look replaced by his usual mocking smile and cold eyes. “Quite safe darling, I assure you. As I said, the bear was quite sumptuous.” With this, Astarion flicked his gaze over to Halsin, eyes glittering, and Gale felt torn between laughter and a darker flush of emotion he didn’t feel like acknowledging at present. Halsin, to his credit, just laughed.
“Just make sure you ask the bear its name first next time.”
The collective laughter of the group had Gale’s knees practically buckling with relief. Tav smiled and looked between them both. “Thank you for telling us, Astarion. And thank you for taking care of each other.” Gale blinked at that, while Wyll and Shadowheart co*cked quizzical eyebrows. He saw Astarion out of the corner of his eye open and close his mouth again without speaking. “Now come on, let’s get back to the party.”
As they returned across the camp, Gale watched as Wyll and Shadowheart no doubt plied Tav with questions. He was half tempted to go over and thoroughly explain the entire thing properly but the stress of the past few minutes combined with the slightly excessive quantity of wine in his system all of a sudden manifested itself as an immense weariness. All he wanted to do was lie down.
And yet, here was Astarion. Still standing next to Gale, arms crossed over his thin shirt, blood spatters congealing in his cloud of hair. He was watching Gale with that discomfiting intensity again, although when Gale raised his gaze to meet Astarion’s, the elf looked away hurriedly, as though he’d been unaware he was staring. Gale sighed, pushing a hand back through his hair in an attempt to wake himself up.
“Right. Water.”
He straightened and made to step past Astarion towards a table where drinks had been piled, when he felt fingers gripping his wrist. He looked down at them, and then up at their owner. Astarion was looking at his own hand with a slight scrunch between his brows, as though himself not entirely sure why he had reached out. He let go abruptly, the tightness of his grip leaving a whitened ring on exposed skin of Gale’s wrist. It was strangely warm.
“You-”
Gale held up a hand to stop him, and Astarion’s frown deepened. “Allow me to obtain a large amount of cold water first, and then I assure you, you have my full attention.” Astarion set his jaw, gaze flitting between Gale’s tent, his own, and the forest beyond. Gale could see a flight response building in him, lines of tension seeping into lithe muscle previously loosened by the sheer quantity of blood he’d consumed. Clearly, the effect was wearing off enough for Astarion to be regretting the progression of the evening’s events.
Astarion nodded curtly, and turned, marching remarkably steadily across the clearing and disappearing through the flap of his own tent, bringing it closed with a snap. Gale watched, mouth slightly open. Unease coiled through his surprise. He’d assumed they’d be having this conversation inside his own tent, given that they had been standing at the door of it. It appeared not. Gale sighed again, collecting a flagon from the table and checking that its contents were indeed water, rather than the deceptively clear silverwine he’d tasted earlier in the evening. He took a long draught, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath and try to gather his thoughts.
Nodding to himself, he strode in the direction of Astarion’s tent. Finding nothing upon which to knock, he simply called out “May I?”
There was a grunt from within which Gale determined was as close to an invitation as he was going to get, and ducked through the doorway. The sounds of the party outside quietened instantly, still noticeable but muffled by the thick tent walls.
Astarion was standing in the corner of a surprisingly bare space, lit by the wan light of a single candle. Gale had assumed the inside of Astarion’s tent would mirror the outside, with piles of cushions and vanity items and yet it was surprisingly bereft of anything save a pallet piled with threadbare pieces of cloth. In this minimal space, without physical and performative accoutrements, Astarion seemed…smaller somehow. His arms were crossed over his blood-spattered shirt, and Gale was struck anew by how thin he seemed. All tight coils and defensive angles. He drew in a breath to begin apologising but Astarion spoke first.
“Why did you- What are you trying to get from this?”
Gale paused, disorientation weighting his tongue down. Astarion’s pupils were still dilated, and Gale could see the effort he was clearly expending to stand upright. “Do you mind if I sit?” Maybe he could defuse some of the tension by adjusting their levels.
Astarion blinked at him, a frown pinching the edges of his expression, but he nodded distractedly, only to yelp as Gale began to lower himself to the floor- “Not there!”
Gale looked down and noted a particularly shabby piece of cloth. It appeared not only immensely worn, but so dirty it may as well have been buried-
“It’s-” Astarion began, at the same moment as Gale began “Your-” before stopping himself. Let him talk. He closed his mouth and inclined his head for Astarion to continue, choosing to settle against the tent wall instead, propping himself gingerly against one of the wooden poles holding it up. He hoped it didn’t collapse on them.
“...vampires have to sleep in their grave dirt. Which I’m sure you know. So, well. Disgusting, isn’t it?” Astarion’s laugh was high and shrill, cut off abruptly. “Filthy.”
Gale made a physical effort to swallow down the words that were crowding on his tongue. That Astarion had allowed him into this space, where he seemed so much more vulnerable, as though a layer of performance was being stripped away, that was something Gale had not expected. The sight of the thin and worn cloth, so fragile yet so essential to Astarion’s existence tugged at something painfully inside him. He remained silent.
Astarion sank to the floor on the thin cloth, hugging his knees to his chest. His gaze was firmly fixed on the fragile weave of the shroud as his fingers toyed with it. “I was never allowed to drink anyone’s blood, you know.”
Gale held his breath. Astarion sounded as though the words physically hurt him to utter, squeezing them out between his fangs. Gale could just make out the scar on the right side of his throat; twin fangs points. Sometimes it seemed more prominent than others, and particularly so tonight; as though the memory of his past made the scar of it more present.
“My master kept us housed like animals, kennelled with nothing but stone and iron and our shrouds to huddle against the cold. We were forbidden from drinking the blood of thinking creatures.” Astarion drew a shuddering breath. “I lived on rats. Or nothing. Often nothing.”
“I wanted to prove it…to myself. After the goblin.” Astarion’s sudden laugh was a harsh bark, loud in the muffled stillness of the tent. “I must admit I was ever so slightly miffed that my first taste of that forbidden blood was a goblin, for hellsake. And so I-”
Gale released a quiet breath. “...you wanted to test it. Your freedom.”
Astarion looked up. “I did. The tadpole had allowed me to leave Baldur’s Gate, freed me from Cazador’s bond…allowed me to walk in the sun for the first time in two centuries.” Red eyes met his own across the dark space between them. “I wanted to see how far it could take me.”
“And I stopped you. Unthinkingly.” Gale felt a cold twisting in his chest, a constricting feeling locking down his ability to breathe deeply. “Astarion, I am so very sorry. I didn’t realise how important that moment was to you, and instead of asking I berated you without stopping to think why you were so angry. And then after I realised it was too late, and I’d already done more damage-”
“You- wait, what?” Astarion was frowning at him through the gloom.
“I apologise. Most sincerely. At the time, I hadn’t put together the pieces in my mind quickly enough to understand your situation entirely, and my behaviour therefore was entirely inappropriate-”
“Your behaviour was inappropriate?” There was a slightly raised note to Astarion’s tone, as though he were once again on the verge of hysterical laughter, before he clamped down on it again, fixing Gale with a piercing look. “‘Understand my situation’. Hmm. Do you, Gale?”
Gale felt slightly light-headed again, immediately regretting not just letting Astarion tell him in his own time. He reached for a steadying sip of cold water. “I should have realised the nature of the…work you performed for your master and that therefore, um, certain, ah, dynamics-” Gods where had his words gone?
His struggle was interrupted by the sound of soft giggling, not fraught with tension or hysteria this time, but quiet. He looked at Astarion to see the vampire shaking his head as he laughed, a white curl hanging astray over his forehead. The sight loosened something in Gale’s chest. He raised a hand, weaving a simple design with his fingers as he felt the Orb sing in resonance with the Weave. He smiled mintuely as he watched Astarion blink in surprise as the dried and tacky blood lifted itself from his hair, face and clothing, leaving him pristine. The elf sucked in a deep breath and released it, dispelling a good portion of the tension from the tent. “Thank you.”
Gale nodded, rallying himself to continue. “I’ve been wanting to apologise since that night. I can't-”
“Stop.” Astarion held up a hand. “What are you apologising for?” There was a testing note in his voice, and Gale had the sudden feeling that if he failed to answer correctly this conversation was over.
“For- well, for many things, really.” His fingers were restless, so he wrapped them around the neck of the water bottle. “Firstly for not being sensitive to your past and how that would-”
“My past…which I hadn't told you anything about.”
“Well, yes, but I should have been able to work it out sooner-”
“No Gale. I am not a puzzle for you to ‘work out’, not some task set for you at wizard school. I didn't expect you to know anything about me, and that's precisely why I was so angry at myself for taking that out on you and-”
“I'm sorry- angry with yourself? You weren't angry at me?”
“Of course I was f*cking angry with you. Urgh.” Astarion made a noise of disgust, his nose wrinkling. “But not because you actually did anything wrong, you idiot.”
“I was insensitive to your attempt to prove your freedom and-”
“And what about Tav’s right to not be attacked in the middle of the night?”
Gale paused, shocked that he’d actually perhaps discounted that in making his point. “Ah. Well, that-”
“You can't please everyone all the time, Gale.”
Gale gaped at him. “I'm not trying to-”
“Yes, you are. Gods,” Astarion peered at him, eyes narrowed, “you don't even know you're doing it.”
“Doing what?” Gale looked down at himself, confused.
“Spreading yourself thin. Trying to do the right thing by every bloody person you interact with who you judge to be either interesting or beneficial enough to you to be worth it.”
“I-” Gale spluttered, affronted, “beg your pardon??” He let go of the contrite tone to allow an edge to creep into his voice. “You make it sound as though I calculate every single interaction and, well…quite frankly Astarion, don't you think that particular observation might apply more neatly to you?”
Astarion tossed his hair, unaffected. “Well of course I do. I have survived centuries of torment by making myself adapt, endure. Pleasing those who sought only to ruin me, using my body and my wits as a tool for survival. Can you blame me for it?”
Gale felt hot and cold at once. “No. Of course not, I would never judge you for-”
“No. It seems you wouldn't.” Astarion raised himself up onto his knees then, shuffling closer to Gale to peer into his eyes searchingly. “I honestly struggle to make you out sometimes.” He was close now, so close Gale could smell the scent of herbs on him, preserved after Prestidigitation removed the grime. His gaze snagged on the sharp points of Astarion’s fangs, the elf’s lips slightly parted as though caught in a moment of indecision. Gale felt a blush heating his face. His treacherous body, already primed from being in such close proximity to Astarion, was beginning to react again; Gale had to stop this now. But before he could speak, Astarion pressed on.
“What were you really apologising for, Gale?”
Gale flushed deeper, knowing that Astarion knew the answer to this question already and was merely drawing this out as some kind of sad*stically prolonged prelude to apology. He took a steadying breath, feeling the Orb was pulsing ominously inside his chest. Somehow, its parodied heartbeat settled him slightly.
“I wanted to apologise…reacting the way I did. Physically.” He cleared his throat, feeling as though something wanted to crawl up out of it. “I understand that with your past, issues of, um, desire, might be somewhat, ah…fraught, shall we say and-”
“Fraught.” There was something coiling about the way Astarion enunciated the word, slow, as though he were playing with its shape on his tongue before spitting it back at Gale.
“...” Gale attempted to plunge valiantly on. “And, therefore, I feel I must apologise for putting you in a position where-”
“Stop.” Astarion said again, in a more forceful tone this time. “I stuck my fingers down your throat and shoved you up against a wall and you, you, are apologising to me.” The end of his sentence had an upwards tilt of incredulity, but Gale had been plunged straight back into that sense memory. He swallowed hard, feeling the cold weight of Astarion’s fingers pressing into his tongue. Simultaneously, the Orb sent a pulse throughout his chest and loins, a dark beat of need that threatened his control. Astarion continued talking, apparently unaware of the danger they were both in.
“Whatever you think you’ve worked out about my past, wizard, let me tell you this-” Astarion leaned forwards, pressing his finger dead into the centre of Gale’s chest where the twin-drums of his increasingly frantic heartbeat and the deadly energy of the Orb beat in near-synchronicity. Astarion’s words were hissed savagely through his teeth and Gale could feel a palpable heat from him, but whether it was the lingering effect of his bloody feast or from anger he couldn’t tell. “-don’t you ever presume to tell me what I do or do not want. I-”
Here Astarion paused, frustration written clear on his features, brow contorted and teeth bared, the stark white lines of his throat corded with tension. His fingers gripped the fabric of Gale’s shirt, twisting it but seemingly unsure of whether they wanted to pull Gale closer or push him violently away.
Gale swallowed. “Astarion, you don’t have to-”
“I KNOW I don’t have to, you utter imbecile! Urgh!” Astarion threw his head back, releasing a guttural noise of frustration that Gale tried desperately not to save in his memory. “You try to save me, then you actually save me, then you keep my secret and defend me against the rest of the party…and then you apologise when by all rights you should be furiously angry?” He physically shook Gale, who felt as though the tent was tilting as his head lolled back and forth against the tent wall. “Gods, I swear I have never been so f*cking irritated by and attracted to a person at the same time before and it’s enough to make me feel rather murderous.”
Gale felt like his brain was operating on about one-third speed. “I don’t think that-”
Astarion snapped his gaze to Gale’s, the scarlet of his eyes burning in the low light. “Then just stop thinking.” And he yanked Gale towards himself, closing those last few inches.
Astarion’s lips met Gale’s before Gale could so much as draw breath. They were still warm, damp with saliva from his heated words and Gale’s train of thought shattered into fragments. He froze, fingers in half-curled fists as his breath shuddered to a standstill in his chest, everything slowing down, drowned out by a roaring in his ears so loud it surpassed the hammering of the Orb-heart-beat. Then Astarion let out a huff of something like frustration and want mixed together, pulling Gale even closer as his tongue sought to push past Gale’s frozen lips, and with that surprisingly warm touch everything sped back up.
Gale shuddered into the kiss, unable to stop himself surging forward and pressing into Astarion, lips bumping and gasping a choked breath as he opened his mouth and allowed Astarion access. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, almost overbalancing forwards onto Astarion with the flush of momentum and catching himself on Astarion’s upper arms. He could feel Astarion’s cooling skin beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, and wanted desperately to find purchase to ground himself but was afraid to hold Astarion for fear of making him feel trapped. Instead, he tried to anchor himself by increasing the urgency of the kiss. He felt clumsy, out of practice, fumbling in this physical expression of desire that he’d been trained to so well to avoid. Astarion’s tongue flicked around his own, and Gale was horrified by the noise he found himself making in response, as though he had no control over his voice any longer. It seemed Astarion approved though, as he groaned in response; the vibration of his voice transmitted straight into Gale’s tongue, causing him to lose focus on anything else for a moment. Lifting one hand from Gale’s shirtfront Astarion wove his fingers into the back of Gale’s hair and tugged. Gale shivered, gasping against Astarion’s lips as they assaulted his own, feeling as though somehow he’d entered into a fight without any understanding of the consequences of winning or losing.
The Orb pulsed darkly in his chest, flooding his body with a surge of heat that melded the with flush of desire, making his loins ache and his head spin. He probably needed oxygen, but Astarion’s tongue was entwined with his own and it didn’t seem like a priority. Astarion’s hand was beginning to roam downwards, pushing up under the hem of Gale’s shirt, fingers cool and lithe, spreading deliciously across Gale’s fever-hot skin. His other hand remained twined in Gale’s hair, holding Gale so firmly in place he somehow felt secure. As though he could let go. Gale closed his eyes. He wanted so badly to let go.
Be the master of your desires, Gale of Waterdeep, and you shall have them granted.
Gale’s eyes snapped open and he pushed backwards from Astarion, breaking the kiss with a wet gasp. Astarion’s mouth was open, lips plush and reddened from the bruising kiss, a flush from stolen blood riding high in his cheeks. Gale was achingly hard, his body singing like a plucked bowstring beneath Astarion’s touch. He forced himself to his feet, making Astarion fall backwards onto the bedding as he did so. Gods he was beautiful.
Gale clutched at his chest, feeling suddenly as though he might vomit. He clamped his jaw shut.
“I’m- I can’t.” Before Astarion could respond, he ducked through the tentflap and ran, past partygoers still carousing round the dimming fire, and into the waiting darkness of his own tent.
