Chapter Text

✦✦✦

Gale

Once again, Gale found himself standing at the shore of the Sea of Swords, where the natural curve of the land cradled the sullen bay of Grey Harbour. The water lay murky as ever, offering no glimpse of life beneath the surface. He allowed himself a wry smile, recalling the crystalline waters of Deepwater Harbour—pristine as blown glass, its depths alive with light and motion, as though the sea itself had been enchanted to dance.
With a little luck, he would be home soon.

When they had finally returned to the tavern, it was with a profound sense of relief that he saw Halsin already there, joined by Jaheira, Minsc, Dame Aylin and Isobel. Miraculously, the inn had also survived—well, for the most part. Some windows gaped empty, and much of the southern wall had crumbled, but the structure still stood. Nothing that a few weeks of rebuilding wouldn't mend.

He had quickly washed his face and slipped into his old robes, seeking a little bit of comfort in the familiar way they hugged him.

All Gale had wanted to do was collapse into bed, ideally with Astarion beside him. He didn't know where they stood, or what boundaries had been drawn or broken, but something told him that if he had simply taken the elf's hand and given him a gentle tug of invitation, Astarion would not have pulled away.

But there was still one final thing he had to face, one last act, if he ever hoped to grasp even the faintest glimmer of a future.

Gale rubbed his hands together, the motion quick and rhythmic, a ritual of focus. He licked his salt-kissed lips in concentration, then reached gently for the Weave. It responded more readily than it had in a while. His power was largely spent and his strength still frayed, even after a rushed meal and a few restorative draughts, but the silence in his mind was a balm. The cacophony was gone. No more screaming. No more desperate bargaining.

A shimmer of light began to build around him, soft and golden, as he shaped the quiet incantations with care.

Then, with deliberate intent, he reached inward. He delved deeper into that tangled, volatile knot of Karsite magic buried within him. It had lain dormant for some time, avoided and feared. He had not dared to call upon it outright, at least not since the early days, when the orb had first taken residence in his chest. Back then, it had been wild and untameable, an angered beast with no leash. But now, Gale had learned. Not mastery, perhaps, but understanding.

Even so, reaching for it felt like thrusting his hand into a displacer beast's cage, dangerous and reckless. But this time, it didn't bite. The latent magic stirred, bristling at first, then yielding in slow degrees. It was unfamiliar, yes, but no longer wholly discordant.

The Netherese blight surged forward the moment he opened the channel, greedily latching on to the current of magic threading through the Weave. It consumed with abandon, insatiable as always, siphoning the energy before it could reach him. He offered no resistance, letting it pass through him, unchallenged. Then came a tug Gale could feel in his very core. Something had shifted. The blight diverted, as though drawn to a familiar essence. Instead of clinging to the Weave, it veered towards a different wellspring of power.

Gale sensed it then—the Crown. Its presence ringing through the arcane like a bell tolling from the ocean's depths. In the theatre of his mind, it appeared dark, terrible, flawless. And all of a sudden, retrieving it felt laughably simple, as though it were no more than a drowsy fish waiting to be plucked from a riverbed.

The harbour was quiet around him. The sun cast its dying, molten streaks across the water. Waves lapped gently against the shore, and magic thrummed in the air like ripples across a still pond.

The Crown called to him. It sang of power and possibility, of legacy. It tangled itself around his thoughts, warm and seductive.

But Gale no longer burned for it.

He extended a steady hand, guiding the Crown upward. Slowly, it began to ascend from the depths, glinting beneath the water like a sunken star. Just as it neared the surface, another presence enveloped Gale entirely. Every fibre of his being was enshrouded in Mystra's presence. Once pure and vital, it now clung to him like sodden velvet.

Gale didn't feel ready, but he also knew he would never truly be prepared. So he allowed the connection to solidify and take shape around him.

His senses were overwhelmed by a blinding white light. The oppressive weight of magic bore down on his weary frame, nearly suffocating him. When his eyes finally fluttered open, the familiar dreamlike expanse of the Astral Plane welcomed him.

If Mystra was going to throw him back into the water after everything he had been through, he was going to be thoroughly miffed.

Assuming, of course, she didn't skip the theatrics and simply unmake him outright this time.

The goddess in question stood before him in her familiar form, her gaze penetrating but free of anger, though with gods it was hard to tell, for what seemed like emotion was often no more than a well-crafted illusion.

"So, Gale of Waterdeep, you have finally inherited Karsus's powers," she said, her tone devoid of sentiment. "Tell me—what do you intend to do with them?"

There was no reason to dance around the matter. It was better to dive in headfirst and get it over with. He cleared his throat.

"I came to surrender them. The Crown. The Karsite Weave." He paused. "Take it all."

For a moment, she didn't respond, and Gale wondered if she could read him—if she could see the storm beneath his pretend calm, the regret, the exhaustion, the quiet hope that this sacrifice might finally mean something.

"Spoken like the wizard you were meant to be," she said at last. "You do a great service here. Not only for your goddess, but for magic itself. It will not be forgotten. Nor will I forget you."

Her words sounded like a eulogy delivered by one who had never truly known the deceased. As if his life, his pain, his choices, had become mere footnotes in a story that had long since moved past him.

Silence followed, long enough to feel deliberate and weighty. Gale did not try to fill it. He stood in it, letting it stretch.

Until Mystra spoke once more.

"Would you consider becoming my Chosen once again?"

The question struck Gale harder than any spell might have. It cleaved through the quiet with all the elegance of a well-concealed command, and for a heartbeat, Gale could not breathe. There was a time, not long ago, when such an offer would have eclipsed every other dream. He would have leapt to accept, surrendered body and soul to her cause, offered everything he had just to stand in the glow of her approval again.

Now, the thought filled him only with numbness.

He closed his eyes.

It was sheer instinct, perhaps self-preservation, that kept an incredulous sound from escaping his lips. The months behind him had changed everything—his understanding, his desires, himself. He no longer craved her favour; he wanted rest.

There was a time he had adored her, his heart devoted, his every spell a whispered prayer in her name. And perhaps some fragile part of him still did. But now, in the bright and hollow quiet of the Astral Plane, he felt that final thread break, seemingly unnoticed by the one who had once held it so tightly.

An answer surged forward, brittle and biting, but Gale pushed it aside and shaped it into something gentler.

"I'm afraid I must decline."

She tilted her head and stared at him, unblinking.

"Not many stand before their goddess and deny their wishes," she said.

He recognised that stare. He had seen it before, on Astarion, when words had failed him and silence was all he had left. But even then, those crimson eyes had always given something away—fury, a flicker of amusement, a shard of hurt, the weight of what remained unsaid.

Mystra's gaze, by contrast, was vacant. Impassive. And in that stillness, Gale felt a quiet, aching distance settle in.

He raised his head minutely and met her eyes.

"Well, I'm not like many," he said with a small smile, unable to stop the glib comment from slipping free.

Still, no reaction. No laugh, no reprimand, no swatting at him and calling him an egotistical idiot.

He cleared his throat. "I only wanted to make things right. We need never see each other again," he said at last.

Another silence opened between them, longer than the last, and in it, he imagined a thousand possible outcomes. That she might refuse him his freedom. That now, having seen his strength restored, she would find a reason to bind him to her once more, to fold him into her design like a piece of a larger spell. But when her answer came, it was simple.

She offered a smile, polished and practised, the sort of expression one learns from watching mortals for millennia without ever quite understanding what makes their joy real.

"Then you are free to go, with both my thanks and my promise, henceforth, your prayers will always be answered," she said.

And Gale, for a moment, wanted to feel heartbroken by how easily she let him go. But even that ache refused to rise within him.

"Go, Gale of Waterdeep. Your life is your own at last. It is time you went and lived it."

With nothing more than a delicate sweep of her hand, the Karsite blight unravelled and vanished, dispersing into the stillness like mist under morning light. No fanfare, no incantation. Only a quiet gesture, and the remnants of his torment were gone.

It was over.

Gale felt as though an ancient frost had melted from within his chest, as if a breath he had been holding since the moment he first touched that cursed book had finally loosed. And yet, in that release, a colder truth settled over him.

This was all it had taken. A single motion. Barely a whisper of divine will. After everything—the isolation, the sleepless nights spent wondering whether the tremor in his hands marked the beginning of the end, the aching silence from the goddess he had once revered—he saw now what Astarion had always suspected: that the power to spare him had always been within her grasp. And she had chosen, again and again, not to wield it.

He wasn't blind to his own hubris. He had courted disaster. He had taken what should have remained buried. The punishment had been harsh, yes, but not unjust. He would never pretend otherwise.

But true love does not measure mercy on a scale, and realising that the one he had loved, the one he had trusted with his heart and future, had always held the power to end his suffering but simply chose not to, cut deeper than any curse.

There was no rage in him, no shouted accusation clambering for release. Only a quiet, devastating clarity.

He would not kneel for her again. He would not whisper her name into the silence, hoping for a reply. That thread was severed now, and the wound it left behind was clean and final.

Gale turned away, and in doing so, he knew one truth above all others: he would never utter another prayer to Mystra for as long as he lived.

✦

They had survived.

Hells.

He was free. The orb was gone.

For the first time in what felt like forever, there was stillness in his mind; a vast and unfamiliar quiet. The pressure in his skull had lifted.

Gale hadn't realised how constant the noise had been—the thrum of the orb's hunger, the ever-present murmur of the tadpole, the gnawing anxiety that had clung to every breath. Now that it was all gone, the stillness felt almost sacred. It was as though he were rediscovering the shape of his own thoughts.

And with it came a lightness. The strain of the day, the tight coil of vigilance braced for disaster, seemed to dissolve. In its place rose a sudden, unexpected surge of energy. He had thought he would collapse the moment it ended, yet now he felt startlingly awake, as if he could walk until morning or speak for hours without pause.

Night had fallen by now, draping the city in deep blues and shadows, but the streets shimmered with lantern light here and there. Torches and magical flames burned high on makeshift poles, their glow reflecting off stone and broken glass. In the soft darkness, survivors carrying candles moved like constellations. As he walked through the city, beneath the pale light of the moon, the magnitude of what had transpired slowly unfolded around him. Baldur's Gate had been cracked open. Some streets were reduced to rubble, and entire buildings had collapsed. Homes were lost, families shattered. The rebuilding would take months, perhaps years.

And yet, amidst the ruin, life had not surrendered. There were clusters of laughter, voices raised in mournful song for the dead, hands joined in prayer. Merchants offered battered wares on overturned carts, children chased each other through alleyways, and every so often, a cheer would erupt from a knot of survivors who had found one another alive. It was not delight without sorrow, but it was delight nonetheless.

At the Elfsong Tavern, music and raucous conversation spilled through the broken windows, carrying with them the pulse of celebration behind the door. Gale hesitated only a moment on the threshold before stepping inside.

The air within was warm, almost stifling after the cool night, and thick with voices and the scent of smoke, wine and sweat. A bard played in the corner, their tune half-drowned by conversation, and a group of dwarves cheered as someone slammed a mug down on the table. It was joy painted in broad, reckless strokes—defiant, needed, and very much well earned.

Gale's eyes roamed the room, seeking the familiar shock of silver curls, but there was no trace of Astarion. Instead, his gaze caught on Karlach, and at once, his heart sank.

She didn't look well. Her posture was unsteady, as if her frame had grown too heavy to carry. She swayed slightly, a precarious mix of drink and the relentless toll her overworked engine had exacted. Her skin shimmered with residual heat, the glow beneath it restless like a dying ember.

As though sensing him, Karlach turned. Her ever-expressive face lit with a radiant smile, but it was the kind of brightness worn like armour—too swift, too dazzling, a veil hastily drawn over discomfort.

She nudged Shadowheart beside her, and together they broke from their table. The moment he was within arm's length, Karlach reached for him without hesitation, folding him into an uncharacteristically tender hug, while Shadowheart ran her hand down his back. Karlach was scorching to the touch, even with her fire banked low.

"When are you planning to depart?" he asked, once the tiefling let him go. The question carried quiet concern. He didn't wish her to dissemble, did not want her to feel bound to the pretence that she was not unravelling at the seams.

Karlach shifted awkwardly, her smile faltering at last. She cleared her throat, her voice rasping nearly to a whisper.

"Tomorrow," she said. No embellishment.

"Wyll and I are going with her," Shadowheart added, her hand moving instinctively back to Karlach's waist. The tiefling's heat flared, but she didn't flinch, merely waited, then gently returned her touch as Karlach steadied herself again.

"And you?"

"Me too," he said, then added more quietly, "I'm leaving first thing in the morning."

He hadn't truly decided until that moment. But now that the words were spoken, they settled with a strange sense of finality. He needed distance. He needed the silence of his tower, the scent of old parchment and cedar, the light creak of wood beneath his feet. He longed to return to something familiar, something that was his. And yet, a part of him recoiled at the thought of being alone again.

Karlach tilted her head, regarding him with a searching look. "Does Astarion know?" she asked softly.

Gale fidgeted, his fingers tracing the lining of his robe. "Not yet," he admitted with a sigh. "I need to talk to him. Have you seen him, by any chance?"

"No, sorry, mate." Karlach frowned, her brow creasing slightly. "He told us you needed some downtime and said you'd be back for din-dins, then he vanished too. Haven't seen him since."

Gale nodded, humming his thanks, though the sound was mostly lost beneath the din of clinking tankards and the noise of revelry. "Alright. Thank you. I'll have a look around."

He turned to go, but had only taken a single step before an enormous pair of arms wrapped around him and hoisted him slightly off the ground in a bone-crushing hug.

A very undignified noise escaped him, limbs flailing for balance. His magic was spent, his wards in tatters, yet for one irrational second, he considered loosing a defensive cantrip out of sheer instinct.

Then he caught sight of the culprit—broad shoulders, and warm, amused eyes. Halsin.

He relaxed into the contact. He had to admit that there was something oddly soothing about being enveloped by a body so much larger than his own, as though he had been drawn into the very heart of the forest. Gale had never been particularly tactile, but he found he didn't mind the druid's closeness.

When Halsin finally set him down, Gale swayed slightly, adjusting his robes with as much dignity as he could muster. "I see you're still determined to test the structural integrity of my ribcage. Do bear in mind, startling a wizard is an excellent way to part with your eyebrows—quite permanently, I might add."

Halsin chuckled, utterly unapologetic, as he clapped Gale once more on the shoulder, gentler this time. "I heard you speaking of leaving. I couldn't let you slip away without a proper send-off."

"Gods forbid," Gale murmured, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite himself.

Before he could say more, another hand was on him—Wyll, sliding in from the other side, looping his arm through Gale's in an easy, familiar motion.

"A night like this, and you're without wine? Unforgivable!" he declared with a laugh, clearly already a few cups in, as he thrust a goblet into Gale's hand. Wine sloshed over the rim, spilling red across his fingers.

Gale blinked, but the room didn't wait for him to catch up. Laughter rose, chairs scraped, someone shouted for a toast—and then, with a jostle and a nudge, he found himself shoved down into a seat at the long table, the cup still clutched in his damp hand. Across from him, Lae'zel sat with cheeks flushed dark beneath the vibrant green of her skin, gesturing animatedly with her half-empty tankard as she outlined, in excruciating detail, her plan to return to the Astral Plane, ride a red dragon, and gut Vlaakith herself, preferably with her bare hands.

It was both horrifying and oddly poetic.

Gale's eyes landed on Halsin, who was watching Lae'zel with an expression caught between indulgence and faint exasperation. Fine creases had gathered at the corners of his eyes, betraying a deep, patient fondness.

He knew Halsin's intention had always been to return to Moonrise. Thaniel would need help, and city life had never truly suited the druid. Halsin wore civilisation like an ill-fitted cloak. He tolerated it with grace, but he belonged somewhere wilder, where roots ran deep and the wind could speak freely through the trees.

Nearby, a little further down, Jaheira and Minsc stood by the table, deep in animated discussion with Karlach about the future of the city. Or rather, Minsc was enthusiastically outlining and demonstrating his vision for a statue of each of them—towering marble tributes in the centre of town, which earned maniacal cackles from Karlach. But then, when Jaheira enveloped her in a motherly embrace, the tiefling promptly dissolved into tears. Shadowheart, stuck awkwardly at her side, gave Karlach a limp pat on the back while nodding vaguely as Minsc launched into a new design proposal involving all of them riding a gigantic statue of Boo.

Gale caught Shadowheart's eyes. He raised his glass with a flourish and a smug grin, and was met with a crude gesture from the cleric.

Some time later, she wandered over and dropped into the seat beside him with a heavy thud, exhaling as though she had just returned from the front lines of a war fought entirely with melodrama.

"That seemed... eventful," Gale observed mildly.

"Just pass me the wine, wizard," she grumbled, reaching for his goblet without waiting for permission. She took a long drink, then handed it back to Gale. Resting an elbow on the table, she immediately reached for a fresh cup and filled it with more wine. "She's a mess," she added with a sigh, her eyes on Karlach, who was now enthusiastically hugging Minsc. The tiefling pulled back every so often when her internal heat flared too high; she was clearly too drunk to keep it properly in check.

"She doesn't want to leave the Gate," Shadowheart said, her fingers drumming a quiet, restless rhythm on the wooden table.

"I know." Gale nodded thoughtfully, then glanced at her. "Do you?"

"Want to leave?" She swirled the wine in her cup, eyes fixed on the dark liquid as if it might offer clarity. "I think so." The words came hesitantly. "I think I need some room to breathe. Too much has happened here. It's all still so raw."

"And your parents?"

She tilted her chin in Jaheira's direction. "They'll stay with her for a little while, just until Karlach, Wyll, and I figure out what's next with Hope. Then I'd like to move them somewhere quiet. The countryside, maybe. It would be more peaceful." She leaned more onto the table and let her cheek fall into her palm. "Halsin said he'd help me when the time comes." A beat passed. "It's strange... having to worry about such ordinary things. I wonder if it will ever get... boring."

Gale chuckled. "I don't know about you, but I would welcome a bit of boredom right about now."

"I will drink to that," Shadowheart said, aimlessly swirling the wine in her goblet. She raised it in a wry, mock salute, one dark brow arching. "So, what about you then? What's next for our illustrious Wizard of Waterdeep?"

Gale shrugged, as if it were simple. "Back to Waterdeep, I suppose."

"So you've said," she replied evenly, giving Gale a scrutinising look. He could see how she and Astarion got on so well. They were both unnerving when they wanted to be.

"And Astarion?"

"What about him?" Gale aimed for casual indifference and failed miserably.

"Is he going with you?" she asked, rolling her eyes with impatience, then gave his boot a small, pointed nudge.

He sighed, idly tracing the worn patterns on his goblet. "I sincerely doubt he would want to."

He lifted the cup to his lips but didn't drink. The wine's scent was rich, dark, laced with spice. He wondered whether he would ever be able to drink it again without thinking of the vampire. Probably not.

"Have you asked?" she said plainly.

"I have not," he admitted, exhaling through his nose as he slouched back in his seat. "The last thing I want is for him to feel... obligated."

Shadowheart leaned forward with a smug look. "I've heard you give stirring advice about letting people make their own choices."

"Your sources have rather large mouths. I question the integrity of their accounts," Gale said, lifting his brows in feigned seriousness.

She sat back and turned towards Karlach. "I happen to trust this one."

They both glanced at the tiefling, who was talking animatedly once more, her laughter bellowing, beer sloshing over the rim of her vessel with each grandiose gesture.

"I want him to choose... me," Gale said softly, his eyes back on the dancing reflections in his cup. "Freely. As my equal. But... if he doesn't feel the same, if I am merely a pleasant detour on his path, I don't think I could stand to watch him walk away."

They both fell quiet, taking large gulps of wine to wash away the uninvited corrosive sadness of the moment. Shadowheart was about to speak again when her mouth snapped shut with an audible click, her gaze fixed on a point just over Gale's shoulder.

Suddenly, a body pressed against his back, and from the cool touch alone, Gale knew it was Astarion even before his familiar scent reached him.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Astarion drawled, the words silk-smooth and insufferably pleased with themselves. "Were you, by any chance, talking about me?"

"Actually, yes," Shadowheart replied dryly, not missing a beat. "I was just saying how wonderfully fresh the air has been without the lingering stench of the undead." She delivered it with a smile that was far too sweet.

Gale, despite himself, squirmed as his ears grew warm. He felt as though Astarion could see straight through him, even without meeting his eyes or even seeing his face.

"Charming," Astarion said, unfazed, as he circled them and rested his hips against the back of the cleric's chair. If he had caught any of their conversation over the clamour, he showed no signs.

"And here I thought you missed me."

"I miss silence more," she said blandly. "But please, don't let that stop you."

"I was merely making the rounds, checking on our less immortal companions." He glanced at Gale. "Especially those prone to brooding and overthinking themselves into a stupor."

"Was not brooding," Gale muttered, straightening slightly.

"Mmm, sure," Shadowheart said, not even looking at him.

Astarion smiled like a cat presented with cream. "You do have a flair for the dramatic, darling."

Gale turned to him, affronted. "That is rich, coming from someone who once spent days bemoaning a single singed lock of hair. Days."

Astarion sniffed, utterly unrepentant. "It wasn't just singed, Gale. It was scorched. Ravaged. You might as well have set fire to a Rillevay."

"Pretty sure Rillevay's paintings don't complain about their ruined symmetry for three nights running," Shadowheart said, taking a long sip from her goblet.

"I was mourning," Astarion shot back. "You try losing your most flattering angle to a Fireball and see how gracefully you cope."

"Which angle was that?" she asked. "The back of your head as you Misty Step away from danger?"

Astarion gaped at her, scandalised, and Gale stifled a laugh. Shadowheart sighed with exaggerated weariness and rose from her seat, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve.

"I am going to go save her," she muttered, tilting her head towards Karlach, who was currently trying to arm-wrestle an overturned stool, mumbling drunken encouragements to herself. Shadowheart tapped her fingers against her temple as though fending off a headache, then paused to glance back over her shoulder. "Just try not to be a complete idiot."

Gale wasn't entirely sure who that was meant for—him or Astarion. Given recent history, both felt like a safe assumption.

In the silence that followed her departure, they watched her stride across the tavern in an attempt to retrieve the tiefling, who had half-slid off her stool and now appeared to be arguing with it over some imagined betrayal.

"And that is rather rich, coming from her," Astarion murmured as he slipped lazily into Shadowheart's vacated seat. He crossed one leg over the other, lounging with the kind of ease that suggested he had all the time in the world, and looked on with idle amusement as Shadowheart attempted to lift Karlach upright without getting burned or headbutted in the process.

Gale only hummed in response, nodding with exaggerated thoughtfulness as he kept his gaze studiously away from the vampire beside him.

Astarion took a long swig straight from the bottle of wine and grimaced. Gale could not help but wonder if the elf remembered that night under the magical stars, the one where they had shared a far finer vintage between them, Gale growing tipsy on wine, Astarion on his blood, both pretending the world wasn't falling apart around them.

It felt as though a lifetime had passed between then and now.

Astarion didn't look at him when he spoke. Instead, he traced a lazy circle along the bottle's lip with one finger. "The private room appears to have been left untouched by all the savagery. Rather generous of fate, wouldn't you say?" His tone was light, almost offhand. "Seems a shame to let it go to waste, and I wouldn't mind the company."

Gale was certain the words had been tailored to Astarion's usual sultry lilt. He could hear the suggestion of it, but somewhere along the way it must have slipped, and the words came out softer, touched with something startlingly gentle.

Yet instead of backtracking, as Gale expected, Astarion lifted his gaze to meet him and pressed on.

"Care to join me tonight?"

Gale's mind fumbled for composure.

"I—" He paused, trying not to sound too desperate, too affected. He gathered his scattered emotions, folded them small, and offered what he could. "Yes... I would like that."

Astarion tilted his head slightly, a wayward curl falling across his brow as he studied him. The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. It was more implication than expression, but it was enough. Gale's treacherous human heart twisted in response.

Heat bloomed beneath his skin. Astarion's nearness, his voice, the promise in that small smile... it wove around his ribs like smoke. And beneath it all, tenuous hope stirred in his chest.

A sudden clatter broke the quiet between them.

Across the room, Shadowheart had managed to prop Karlach upright, arms wrapped tightly around the tiefling's waist as she dragged her back towards the table. Karlach collapsed onto the bench with a grunt, limbs sprawling, sending cups toppling and tankards rolling. Then she folded herself over the table, laying her arm down and resting her chin in the crook of it on the grimy wooden surface. She raised her glistening eyes.

"I don't want to go," she sniffled, and a hush fell over them.

Gale was never good at comforting people. Never good at choosing the right words at the right time. His overly analytical, pragmatic approach was often unwelcome.

Reassurances rose to his tongue—logical responses, theories, a dozen practical offers wrapped in hopeful phrasing—but he knew none of them would suffice. Nothing he could say would make what was happening to her feel any less cruel.

Still, something moved him, fierce and unthinking, and before he could stop himself, he was turning toward her. He slid his hand across the table, offering it to her, fingers trembling slightly as they bridged the distance.

Karlach blinked at him, tears slipping free from her eyes and evaporating in an instant. Then, with another wet sniff, she reached out. Her scorching palm met his own, and though the heat was immediate, he didn't pull away.

"I told you before," Gale said softly, as he ran his thumb gently over the hardened ridges of her scarred skin, "and I will say it again. You will not face this alone." His voice came out low, barely audible in the noise around them, and rough around the edges despite his best effort to keep it steady. But the way her brow pushed together told him she could hear every word.

"I swear to you, Karlach. We will find a way. Just... trust me."

Shadowheart shifted closer and reached out, her fingers brushing the tiefling's bare shoulder before settling there in a steady, grounding touch. A quiet gesture, simple but sure. And to Gale's surprise, Astarion didn't wait for a cue, or a glare, or a pointed nudge. He didn't fully turn toward them—just angled slightly in his seat, his posture stiff, as if he wanted it known that he found all this a touch ridiculous. But still, he reached across to place his hand gently over Karlach's, sandwiching it between his and Gale's, and Gale glanced up at him in surprise.

"Trust the wizard," Astarion said with a faint, lopsided smile. "He can be competent. Infrequently. And usually by accident. But he has his moments."

Gale shot him a baleful look, which earned a short, soggy laugh from Karlach—wet with tears, but a laugh nonetheless.

She dragged her nose across her sleeve, smiling at them through glassy eyes.

"I love you lot," she mumbled. "Even if you are a pack of absolute fucking weirdos."

Gale opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His throat had tightened, and though his chest didn't exactly ache, it felt full—too full.

Then the moment shattered. The sombre mood was swept away by laughter as a loud crash rang out. Wyll and Halsin had stumbled over to them, clearly too drunk to notice the heavy moment that had just passed, and were laughing loudly, arms overflowing with sloshing bottles. Lae'zel marched after them, casually herding the owlbear towards the table as if it were just another dinner guest, its now-massive bulk be damned. Meanwhile, Scratch bounded in happy circles, his tail thudding against everything within reach.

It was chaos. Sticky tables, spilt wine, overlapping voices, warm limbs pressing too close. Gale was half-pinned between Astarion and a very inebriated Lae'zel. A part of him—some old, tidy, anxious part—wanted to retreat. To clear the mess. To restore order.

But he did not.

Not this time.

For once, he let it be too much.

And in the middle of all that noise, of bodies and heat and impossible, irrepressible life, Gale closed his eyes and let it in.

He didn't know what the following days or weeks would bring. The world was still fractured, his heart still raw, the road ahead uncertain.

But for now, this moment was what he had.

And for once, it felt like it might be enough.

✦✦✦

He sat at the modest desk in the private room, his skin still warm from the bath and carrying the faint scent of lye and sage. The room was dim and quiet, lit only by the faint flicker of a candle. Beyond the door, the air was thick with silence now, broken only by the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant murmur of a city nursing its wounds. They had all been drained by the day's trials, and the revelry that followed, but Gale still felt it—that strange, humming wakefulness that clung to his limbs and mind, holding fatigue at bay.

He pushed up the sleeve of his linen shirt, the fabric folding loosely at his elbow, and set pen to parchment.

Candlelight flickered over the curling script as he composed his letter, just a few lines to assure his mother he was safe, and that he would begin his journey to Waterdeep come morning. Nothing more needed to be said. Not tonight, at least.

Part of him looked forward to returning to the Tower, to be once more surrounded by familiar objects, the scents and textures of a life that had been his whole world. But his heart ached. He knew that once the others found their footing and began to rebuild, they would move on, each forging a new path. He was glad for them, truly, but that did not stop him mourning what they were about to leave behind.

Things would change, and there would be no going back. They would no longer travel together, nor stand shoulder to shoulder in battle. For all the hardship and pain the journey had brought, it had also been the first time Gale had truly shared his life with others. The parting was inevitable, but that didn't make it any easier.

He had never been one to weather change with grace. There was a reason he had clung so tightly to the routines of his past life, as if the keeping of old rituals might stave off the discomfort of the unknown. But change had come, inevitably. Somewhere along the way, the grievous mantle of perfection had begun to lift from his shoulders, and its absence was unexpectedly liberating. Now, a part of him quailed at the thought of returning, of falling into well-worn habits and letting those same rigid expectations take hold again.

His thoughts were halted by the door creaking open, then closing with a muted click. Gale turned, heart ticking faster, to see Astarion approaching with his usual, unbothered saunter.

The elf wore a loose white shirt trimmed with delicate ruffles that gathered at his neck and wrists, the hem tucked into matching white trousers of fine fabric that clung in all the right places. He looked ethereal, as though he belonged sprawled on silken cushions, sipping wine while acolytes whispered prayers at his feet.

Without a word, Gale leaned back. The armchair scraped lightly against the floor as he eased away from the table, knees falling open in a quiet invitation into his space. Astarion stepped into it as though the past tendays of mercurial antics were nothing more than figments conjured by Gale's exhausted mind.

Gale wanted to drag the truth from Astarion's mouth and pin it down in words, to define this fragile, terrible, beautiful thing between them. But he could feel an end crawling near, silent yet certain, like dusk bleeding over the edges of a dying day.

And still, he reached for him, as if solace waited in his arms, not devastation.

"And who, pray tell, is so important you could not wait just one more day to write to?" Astarion asked, his voice light with amusement, that familiar teasing lilt colouring each syllable. It was dizzying to see him slip so effortlessly into the version of himself Gale had come to know so well.

"My mother," Gale replied with a weary sigh. "She has been pestering Tara to convince me to return to Waterdeep. It is rather ironic, really. When I locked myself away in the Tower, she tried everything to coax me out. Now she is desperate to have me back in."

Gale's fingers found the fine fabric of Astarion's trousers where it bunched at his knee, idly toying with the material. The elf smelled faintly of soap, his hair catching the light where a few damp curls rested against his cheek.

Astarion spoke quietly, his tone even, betraying no emotion. "You are leaving tomorrow?" His eyes were on a spot over Gale's shoulder, fixed on the letter he had left lying unfolded on the table.

It was a question Gale had hoped would go unasked. He merely gave a short nod, words lodged in his throat.

The elf lifted a hand to brush a few stray strands of hair from Gale's brow, and the unexpected intimacy of the gesture sent heat rising to his cheeks. Astarion's gaze was intent, almost analytical, as if he were searching for something.

Gale's heart pounded an erratic beat behind his ribs as the elf's fingers slipped beneath the open collar of his shirt. They glided over his shoulder, nudging the fabric aside, and just as it slipped lower along his arms, Astarion opened his mouth as if to speak. But when his gaze fell to Gale's chest, his hand stilled. His expression shifted, curiosity giving way to recognition, then something close to disbelief.

"The orb?" he murmured. His eyes widened slightly. "You took the Crown."

"I did," Gale said calmly. "And surrendered it to Mystra."

He braced himself for disappointment, for anger, or that particular brand of carefully concealed contempt Astarion wielded all too well. Gale had nearly convinced himself that the look he had seen in the elf's eyes on the docks had been a trick of the light, a mirage born of wistful hope rather than reality. But now, with that admission hanging between them like a held breath, he waited.

Astarion's brows drew together, his lips forming a thin, pensive frown. Then the tension eased, bleeding away into something gentler, almost warm. He exhaled slowly, and his fingers pressed into the centre of the spot where the orb had once resided, goosebumps rising in response to his touch.

"You are a fool," Astarion said flatly, though there was no real heat behind the words. If anything, he seemed pleased.

Gale's lips curved in a crooked, relieved smile. "I know." His palms shifted higher to the side of Astarion's thigh, returning his touch with matching fondness. "But I believe I have had my fill of chasing power, for now at least."

Astarion gasped and swayed theatrically backwards, one hand flying to his mouth as though scandalised beyond measure. Gale's grip tightened reflexively at his hips, holding him fast.

"Who are you, and what have you done with my wizard?" He caught Gale's jaw between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes narrowed with mock suspicion as he studied his face, as though seeking fractures in the glamour of a well-crafted impostor.

"He is exhausted," Gale huffed, his voice gravelly as he tried vainly to ignore the flutter in his chest at 'my wizard'. "He is in no condition to reinvent an entirely new magical framework while simultaneously duelling his former lover to the death over dominion of it."

Astarion snorted, letting his hand fall away with a breath of laughter. Gale, already missing the touch, tilted his head to the side. It was an instinctive gesture that exposed the vulnerable line of his throat in a silent offering, his body moving to lure Astarion back before his mind could name the desire.

Astarion stilled.

Then, his fingers returned, ghosting across Gale's brow and down the bridge of his nose. He trailed along the rough stubble on his cheek, then slipped behind his ear, lifting the small earring threaded through the lobe.

Gale had plans to replace it, but the faintly disapproving set of Astarion's lips warmed him regardless. The elf's nimble fingers wandered on, sketching idly across the slope of Gale's collarbone, drifting up the side of his neck in lines that seemed aimless. Until, with a quiet start, Gale recognised the pattern. It was the faint echo of the orb's etchings, traced by memory.

He drew in a shaky breath. His hands, a little uncertain, slid to Astarion's waist. His palms skimmed upwards, catching the hem of the elf's shirt and dragging the soft fabric along with them as he explored the newly revealed skin in a slow, reverent line.

Astarion's fingers sank into Gale's hair. With a small tug, he slipped the tie free, letting damp strands spill in loose waves over Gale's shoulders.

Their eyes met, and the world narrowed to that familiar, searing pull between them. Astarion's thumb brushed across Gale's lips, a feather-light caress that drew every nerve taut with sudden, torrid awareness.

Gale scarcely dared to breathe, let alone move. Wide-eyed, he watched as Astarion's lashes lowered and he wetted his lips. Then, with the same fluid elegance that marked his every movement, he sank to his knees between Gale's legs.

Whatever colour had begun to fade from Gale's cheeks returned in a sudden, fervent rush, blooming over his face, down the line of his throat, sinking low and heavy in his gut.

Astarion's hands settled on his knees, thumbs drawing slow, steady circles. A silent question. And although every sensible instinct bristled with warning, Gale yielded all the same, legs parting further in unspoken acquiescence.

Cool fingers ghosted up the insides of his thighs. Unhurried. A whisper of a touch, but impossible to ignore. They mapped the tension in his muscles, skimmed higher, and by the time Gale's brain caught up, Astarion was already at his breeches, working the fastenings with easy, practised confidence.

The final button gave way, the fabric loosening around him, and a chill swept over newly exposed skin. A breath caught in his chest. He was already half-hard, blood surging to fill the rest of him as anticipation wound him tighter.

Then Astarion pressed down. The heel of his palm dragged along the length of him, just once. Just enough to make Gale jerk, to make his hips jolt in response.

Astarion leaned in, mouth brushing over the supple curve of his stomach. A soft kiss, then the sharp scrape of teeth that sent a shock of sensation lancing up Gale's spine. A broken sound tore from his throat before he could master it, and Astarion's smile curled smugly against his skin, as if he had earned it.

His hand then wrapped around Gale's cock, cool fingers sure and steady as they stroked slowly downward, drawing a sharp hiss from between Gale's teeth.

Then, Astarion dipped further down. Lips barely brushing the tip of Gale's length. A single flick of his tongue, wet, wicked, gone too fast, and Gale's head thudded back against the velvet armchair with a muffled curse. His whole body shivered like a struck chord. It hit him, cold and humiliating, just how much he was already trembling.

But before shame had time to take root, Astarion rose, fluid and unhurried, and Gale blinked up at him, stunned by the sudden absence of touch. He didn't have time to voice his confusion before, ever so slowly, Astarion began to peel away his own shirt, effectively derailing Gale's thoughts. Little by little, the fabric slid back from pale shoulders, falling away like water over marble. Candlelight flickered across him, adorning every smooth plane and elegant dip of his form in liquid gold and shadow. Gale swallowed hard. Anticipation sat like a stone in his throat. His fingers flexed where they curled around the armrests, yearning to reach out, to touch, to worship, but he remained motionless, held captive by every movement.

With a single, effortless tug at a knotted tie, Astarion's loose trousers surrendered to gravity, pooling soundlessly at his feet.

He stood gloriously naked before Gale's still-clothed form. Gale had glimpsed him in various states of undress countless times before, but never quite like this.

Astarion wasn't fully aroused, at least not yet, but poised on the edge of it. His cock stirred under Gale's unabashed gaze, and the easy, unguarded way he bore the scrutiny only stoked the simmering heat between them. Gale allowed his eyes to wander, drinking in every detail. When at last their gazes met, a rush of familiar, piercing clarity seized him. His chest tightened beneath the sudden, exquisite burden of certainty—of how deeply and hopelessly in love he was.

He didn't have long to translate the emotion into rational thought. Astarion stepped closer and swung one leg over his lap, settling astride him. The armchair, though scarcely generous, held them both, forcing them into delicious proximity.

Fabric rustled. Most of Gale's clothes remained in place, his shirt pushed out of the way, gathered in the crooks of his arms. He was already too far gone to care. Every point of contact where Astarion's bare body pressed into him was like a brand, searing through every layer. Their hips weren't quite flush. A hair's width of space separated them—just enough to tease, just enough to torment.

The elf gently prised one of Gale's hands from his white-knuckled grip on the arm of the chair, and ever so slowly guided it first to the small of his back, then lower still, until Gale's fingertips brushed the cleft at the base of his spine, holding his gaze the entire time.

Gale, invited to explore, let his grip settle into the firm muscle of Astarion's arse, savouring the way it tensed subtly beneath his touch. Then, encouraged, rather than following the path so blatantly laid before him, he changed course. His touch drifted upwards, trailing along the sharp architecture of Astarion's side, tracing ribs to collarbone. Then it wandered down again, vertebra by vertebra, mapping each ridge, valley and scar tissue with the same quiet certainty that had shaped Astarion's earlier attentions.

When his hand returned to the curve of Astarion's backside, his fingers found something unexpected—oil; slick and ready.

Gale froze, caught off guard. Above him, Astarion loosed a low, debauched chuckle, rich with satisfaction.

"Gale?" Astarion drawled, curling a strand of dark hair around one slender finger and giving it a gentle tug, coaxing his attention without urgency.

Gale managed a sound—a breathy "Hm?"—but the words snagged behind his teeth as his mind raced, struggling to make sense of what was clear yet seemed impossible.

Astarion leaned in, his breath dragging across Gale's skin like dark velvet drawn slow, brushing the shell of his ear. "I want you to fuck me."

Gale's eyes fluttered shut as a visceral wave of arousal rippled through him. His cock twitched, already painfully hard, and for a suspended heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. The words echoed in his mind, deceptively simple but staggering in their weight. It wasn't the act itself that left him reeling—he had imagined this, dreamed of it in the quiet solitude of night—but the intention behind it. Astarion wanted this. Wanted him. The offer was brazen, yes, but it was also trust laid bare.

Soft lips turned wicked. Teeth caught the shell of his ear in a sudden, biting sting that jolted him back to the present.

Gale inhaled deeply, willing composure into his bones, then let his hand resume its course until his fingertip pressed against the tight ring of muscle.

Astarion's eyes drooped, and his pale brows drew together in what appeared to be more concentration than pain. Gale watched his face closely as he gently eased the finger inside.

The glide was easy. He was already stretched. And the realisation that Astarion had done this alone—that he had taken the time to prepare himself—sent something wild crashing through him. A mix of hunger and an absurd, senseless jealousy at not having been there to witness it.

"Another," Astarion whispered, the word dissolving into a choked-off moan when Gale obeyed without hesitation. His forehead dropped to Gale's shoulder, the line of his body taut as he adjusted to the wider stretch.

He was ready. Gale could have taken him then, could have pushed in with ease. Every part of him craved to do exactly that. The very thought of it wrung a strangled sound from his throat. But he did not. Not yet. He wanted to feel it, to see it, to watch Astarion fall apart, piece by piece.

Gale worked his fingers in slow, careful circles, easing them deeper with every press, attuned to every shudder and flex. Soon enough, Astarion began to move with restless little tilts, chasing friction, seeking something more. Gale altered his angle, curled his fingers just so, and he knew he had found what he was looking for when Astarion's eyes flew open and his back arched in a perfect, involuntary bow.

Quickly, Gale brought up his other hand to brace him, palm splayed across the small of his back, anchoring him before he could tip backwards.

Astarion released a chuckle, a soundless thing that Gale could feel more than hear. The elf's hands came to rest on Gale's shoulders, fingers digging in as he shifted, settling higher on his thigh, his weight satisfying. Gale's free hand followed the movement, gliding along Astarion's side to rest on his waist.

Then Astarion ground against him, slow and filthy. Their cocks, hard and leaking, slid together in a slick, obscene glide that dragged a ragged groan from both of them. Even without a grip, without hands holding them close, the friction—aching and incomplete—was maddening.

The sheer intimacy of it was intoxicating, Astarion's body flush against his own, and Gale couldn't stop the pathetic, broken noises spilling from his mouth as they moved.

It was all unpractised and lacking finesse, yes, but the hunger beneath it made every touch feel purposeful. Astarion moved with decadent confidence, and Gale watched, half-dazed, caught in the gravity of him, as the lazy circles of Astarion's hips dragged him deeper into orbit.

His own cock throbbed, trapped between their bodies, but the need barely registered now. His pleasure had already fallen to the wayside. Everything in him had narrowed, focused on Astarion.

He pressed in a third finger. There was slight resistance, just enough to make Gale hesitate, but Astarion didn't seem to mind. The muscles in his thighs tensed as he rocked down on Gale's hand, fucking himself open on his fingers like he had something to prove.

Gale felt the way he contracted around him, felt the effort and urgency behind each movement. But the angle was shallow, more tease than satisfaction, and it wasn't long before Astarion let out a quiet, restless sound and pushed himself up, his brows pinched in frustration.

Gale's fingers slipped free, drawing a strangled, bitten-off sound from him at the abrupt loss. But it died in his throat when Astarion reached back and, without a word, wrapped a sure grip around Gale's length. Then he paused, meeting his gaze and waiting until Gale gave a few eager nods that aimed to be reassuring, though they likely read as nothing but desperate.

And then, at last, Astarion began to sink down onto him, slow and agonising, as if he wanted to burn it into memory. Every inch dragged fire under his skin, and when he finally bottomed out, they both gasped as if the air had been knocked clean from their lungs. Too much to endure. Not nearly enough to sate. And somehow, still—it was everything.

Astarion exhaled sharply through his nose, lips quirking into a crooked grin. "Hmm... fuck," a half-laugh, half-groan, as though he could not quite believe this was really happening.

Gale panted through the burn of it, arms tightening as he pulled Astarion closer until there was no space left between them. He buried his face against the cool expanse of the vampire's neck, breathing in the chill of his skin like salvation, a remedy to the fever blazing through him.

A knuckle brushed along the side of his face, and Astarion's voice came deep and husky, close to a purr. "You're doing alright, Sunshine?"

Gale let out a breathless laugh, muffled where his mouth pressed into the hollow of Astarion's throat. "I ought to be asking you that."

"Oh, I am doing splendidly, thank you, darling," Astarion replied with a matching huff of amusement. His hand cradled the base of Gale's skull, his thumb tracing the line of his jaw. When Gale looked up, he was met with a smile so disarmingly fond that it made his stomach lurch. His heart stuttered, traitorous as ever, and he knew without question that the elf could hear every uneven beat of it.

Astarion leaned in and kissed him.

He slanted his lips over Gale's, and Gale tensed for a moment—he had nearly forgotten such a thing was allowed—then he opened to him, letting Astarion take whatever he wanted.

The kiss deepened, and what had begun as a light drag of lips quickly dissolved into something primal and urgent. The harsh graze of Astarion's teeth was a fleeting thrill, and when he began to move, descending in measured, sinuous grinds, Gale felt the last remnants of his defences slip away.

Then a calculated flex, followed by a sudden, perfect clench around Gale's cock, tore a choked, pathetic whimper from him. Astarion swallowed the sound in the kiss, grinning against his mouth as if he had just won a prize.

When they finally broke apart, Gale's gaze was drawn helplessly to the shine left on Astarion's lips. From there, it travelled lower, tracing the faint flush rising across his neck and following the bead of sweat that meandered down the elf's chest, catching on the lean curve of muscle as he continued to rock his hips with calculated indolence.

"May I?" Gale rasped, once he was finally able to form words again, his hand hesitating between them.

Astarion tilted his head, regarding him with hooded eyes and a lopsided smile. "So polite," he teased. "Go ahead, Sunshine."

He sealed the permission with another searing kiss, and Gale's hand drifted down. With a single finger, he traced a slow, reverent circle over the slick head of Astarion's cock, smearing the bead of arousal that had gathered there. The sensation of soft, taut skin beneath his touch sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through Gale's cheeks and down his spine. He barely breathed, utterly entranced by the way Astarion shivered. Then, he wrapped his hand around him, finding him hard and throbbing beneath his palm.

His fist slid down the length in a single, smooth stroke. He canted his hips upward once, then again, half-expecting Astarion to halt him, to reclaim the pace as he pleased. But instead, the elf's head fell back with a quiet, choked sound. No performance this time. No artifice. Just raw sensation, softening every line of his face as it went slack with pleasure.

Emboldened, Gale repeated the motion, timing each languid stroke with a thrust. He set a steady rhythm, each movement driving into the tight clutch of Astarion's body and wringing another contented moan from him. One of the elf's hands fisted in his hair, the other gripped the back of the armchair as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Still, he remained poised and yielding, allowing Gale to take the lead.

Gale's lips sought the pale stretch of Astarion's throat, enticed by the way it arched. His tongue traced over the tense line of muscle, across the subtle ridge of cartilage that shifted beneath the skin each time Astarion swallowed.

He watched, captivated, the even rise and fall of Astarion's sternum. Each exhale was a ghost of a habit long unneeded. There was something deeply intimate, almost sacred, in witnessing the simple act of his breathing. To see it felt like glimpsing a relic, some holy remnant of the elf he had been before the world had taken him and remade him in blood and violence.

It was absurd, this love Gale bore. Not a love for grand gestures, but for all the small, useless things—the sighs, the unconscious murmurs, the quiet way Astarion still clung to the vestiges of his mortality. Gale loved him for these fragments, these delicate falsities, with a devotion so fierce it hollowed him out.

Words stirred, restless at the edges of his mind. He longed to name it all, to give voice to every tender, ephemeral thing he cherished about Astarion. But, as so many times before, he remained silent. Not for Astarion's sake, not to shield him, nor to dam the flood of sentiment that might drown them both. This time, he kept quiet for his own sake. He had already exposed too much, torn back the veil, laid bare every quivering nerve, every fragile sinew of emotion. And to offer more? He could not. He dared not. The soul can only bleed for so long before it forgets how to mend.

So he said nothing. He simply let the pleasure wash over him as it swelled and deepened. His hand moved with absent rhythm, slowed by the way Astarion rolled his hips with unerring precision. Somewhere in that haze, Gale had succumbed without even realising it—pace, power, and control—had all been relinquished.

Astarion had taken it all so effortlessly, guiding them both with the calm assurance of someone who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to claim it. The air was thick with it, their shared breath, the slick drag of skin, the wet, quiet slap of their bodies moving together.

Then Astarion rose.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted himself until only the very tip of Gale's cock remained inside him—a mere whisper of contact. Gale went rigid under the torment, every nerve strung tight as a bowstring. His free hand flew to Astarion's waist, fingers digging into soft skin, not pulling him down, just gripping him uselessly. He tried to remain still, trembling, breath trapped in his chest, though small, involuntary thrusts betrayed him, his hips searching blindly for the friction.

But Astarion moved with him. He matched every twitch, every aborted motion, shifting just enough to remain out of reach. Never giving in. Hovering, untouchable, keeping Gale suspended on the edge of need.

Gale squeezed his eyes shut against the urge to buck up, to bury himself deep and take what he craved, and forced his muscles into pliancy.

Then, Astarion began to lower himself, but only slightly. Just enough for Gale to feel the blunt press of his cock at Astarion's rim, a fleeting jolt of contact that stalled his breath. Then Astarion stopped once more. A slow, molten thrum spread through Gale, pooling behind his ribs, flooding every thread of restraint with visceral, aching need. Another moment of exquisite torment—a promise offered, then withheld.

Ah.

Gale opened his eyes. Astarion was watching him with a gleam, something between a challenge and wicked amusement, as if he might have laughed at Gale's desperation had he not been so undone himself. In that moment, he was startlingly real, unguarded, and the sight of him struck something deep in Gale's chest.

And just like that, Gale realised precisely what Astarion was waiting for.

He forced air to rush out of his lungs. Let the tension seep from his limbs. His hand fell away from Astarion's waist, fingers loosening in submission.

Only then did Astarion begin to move.

Gods. Gale felt everything—the slow, taut pull of muscle, the slick, relentless stretch as Astarion sank down around him. He felt the way his body clenched and gave, inch by inch, until he was fully seated, and Gale was shaking with the effort not to fall apart.

Astarion leaned in, silver lashes casting shadows over eyes dark with desire. His pupils were wide, his lips kiss-bruised. He was devastatingly beautiful.

Ruinous.

Gale understood then—perhaps had always understood—why others had been driven to obsession over him, why so many had tried to cage him, to bind him close. It made perfect, terrible sense.

Gale didn't wish to possess Astarion. Gods forbid he should ever clip those wild wings. But he was no better than the rest. He, too, had been undone. He, too, would have built a home from quicksand if only Astarion might choose to stay.

Stay.

The word tolled through his chest.

He knew—gods, he knew—that if he simply asked, Astarion would stay with him. He saw it in his eyes, heard it woven into the careful cadence of his question, hidden among syllables as he asked after Gale's plans. But that was the danger, was it not? They were not so different after all, he and Astarion, both shaped by old wounds, older habits, and corrosive instincts. Both too quick to tumble back into patterns that would leave them scraped raw.

And Gale would not become his cage.

His throat cinched tight. A burning welled behind his eyes, smarting through capillaries like fire racing along brittle veins. His chest seized, not from desire, but from something far more consuming—a grief that had no name, an emotion so vast it bent inward under its own weight.

Astarion must have sensed the shift, for he stilled. His hand found Gale's chin, tilting his face upward. Gale's vision swam, the world blurred behind unshed tears that refused to be blinked away. Then Astarion lifted himself, and this time, Gale slipped free entirely.

The loss struck like a wound torn open. A sob broke from his chest as cold air rushed over the flushed head of his achingly hard cock. But still, Gale didn't move.

Astarion's hand drifted lower, seeking out the soft hollow beneath Gale's jaw and resting there, fingers splayed in quiet reassurance.

Only now, his throat pressing into Astarion's palm with each ragged inhale, did Gale realise how fractured his breathing had become. Their eyes held—crimson to brown, worry to sorrow.

"Sunshine?" Astarion's brow creased. His chest still heaved with effort, but his gaze was locked on Gale, weighted with concern. His touch remained light, offering space to speak, yet making it impossible to look away.

Not that Gale could have, even if he had wanted to.

He swallowed hard. His mouth felt parched. "Don't stop," he rasped, the words rough against the dry fabric of his tongue, barely audible over the thundering of his own blood. Then, to Gale's unending horror, a solitary tear escaped from his eye, carving a searing path down his face.

Astarion observed him, an unreadable emotion flickering across his expression. Gale braced for—longed for—the pressure of a tighter grip around his throat, the denial of air and thought, but it never came.

Instead, Astarion used that grip to pull him closer. His cool fingers traced the tear on his cheek with tenderness that stilled the world, and time narrowed to nothing but heartbeats.

One.

Another.

Then Astarion reached for Gale's hand—the one still curled loosely around Astarion's length—and brought it to his lips. He brushed a kiss into the centre of his palm, slow and reverent. Gale could feel the quiet pull of his breath. He imagined the musk of their mingled scents: sweat and arousal, the earthy warmth of shared desire ghosting across his skin. The thought alone sent a sharp pulse of want careening through him, and his cock strained against the cleft of Astarion's arse.

His eyes fell shut, and in the darkness behind his lids, sensation unfurled: the weight of longing, the fragility of being left so open, the wound of being truly seen. To his quiet shame, tears welled once more, hot and unbidden, streaming down his cheeks.

Astarion's touch returned, different this time. Damp lips pressed first, to the corner of Gale's eye, then kissed the salt onto his lips.

Gale gasped. Air rushed in, as though he hadn't drawn a full breath in hours, and he all but melted into the kiss he had been so effortlessly lured into. Gradually, awareness returned to his limbs. The weight of shadow retreated, replaced by a heat that began to build anew, low and molten within him.

"Still with me, darling?" The question was hoarse, close to Gale's ear, threaded with something careful and uncertain. A flicker of vulnerability belied Astarion's usual poise.

Gale nodded, and he was grateful that, for once, Astarion didn't demand words, didn't tease or press as he so often would.

Gale had known many lovers in his youth—men, women, and all the exquisite shades in between. Yet none had seen him like this. None had read him the way Astarion did, with eyes that were both a blade and a balm. It was as if the elf had memorised every rise and fall of him, charted every fault line and frayed edge, and understood his needs more deeply than Gale himself ever could. Where once his feelings had taken the shape of distant devotion, full of hunger and hollow yearning, Astarion met him with something devastatingly real.

He barely registered it when Astarion took hold of his length again, their bodies aligned. Then, without warning or pause, Astarion sank down onto him in one smooth motion.

The now-familiar pressure clamped around him, tight and unrelenting. He sucked in a ragged breath, only for Astarion to chase it, licking past Gale's teeth in a kiss that was almost too gentle.

It broke on a whimper, and Astarion's dark, glazed stare caught Gale's just before the next roll of his hips. He moaned softly against Gale's mouth, moving on him with unrelenting focus, pursuing pleasure and sweeping him along with single-minded determination. Gale's hand encircled Astarion's leaking cock once more, gave him a little squeeze, then set a firm, steady pace. They returned to that familiar, abandoned rhythm, and every shift of Astarion's body against his sent sparks skittering across his vision, the edges turning white. He felt inside out, unmade.

Astarion pressed his forehead to Gale's, their sweat-slicked skin sticking together. His fingers, which had been clawing at Gale's shoulders, began to roam. He palmed his neck, dragged along his jaw, and pawed at his face, holding him close. A fragile, searching touch, lost amidst the chaos of movement. Every line of him trembled.

Gale, panting and overwhelmed by the unbroken eye contact, didn't even realise Astarion was tipping over until it was already happening. Until he felt him tighten, his body seizing, and a guttural moan broke free from his chest as he arched against him. Gale slowed, but didn't stop, watching in a trance as Astarion came undone, his release spilling between them, coating Gale's hand and making a mess of his stomach.

Still, Gale didn't look away.
He could not.

Astarion, falling apart in the most mortal of ways, was the most beautiful thing Gale had ever witnessed. He watched with a hunger that had nothing to do with lust—the rippling of muscle in Astarion's limbs, the faltering flow of his breathing, the sacred wreckage of composure rendered into nothing. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, and Gale drank it in like incense.

He would have given anything—his magic, his knowledge, the very marrow of his soul—just to preserve this memory in its pristine clarity. To hold it safe, untouched, somewhere no time or regret could reach. If the cost of every other joy he had ever known was the keeping of this, he would have paid it gladly.

"Fuck," Astarion panted, breath catching on the edge of a laugh, a blush dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears, entirely oblivious to the ruin he had wrought in Gale.

Gale was perilously close, his body drawn taut with the need for release, but he held himself back, for Astarion's sake. To let him breathe and come down.

But Astarion had other plans.

Before Gale could so much as speak, he began to move again, swiftly picking up the pace he had relinquished in the wake of his climax. Gale could only imagine how sensitive he must have been, how each motion must have sung along raw nerves, and yet he didn't relent.

"Come on, Sunshine," Astarion murmured, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, a feral gleam burning in his eyes.

"I'm—" Gale's voice broke, control slipping quickly, far too quickly, as his body began to unravel. He needed Astarion to slow, to stop, or else...

But the elf only grinned, wicked and knowing.

"Inside," he rasped against Gale's ear.

Gale swore, the sound caught somewhere between desperation and surrender. His hand clamped tight around Astarion's waist, his own spend smearing across pale skin, and deliriously, Gale had half a mind to apologise. But the heat surged, urgent and savage, rising too quickly to contain.

His free hand fisted at the nape of Astarion's neck, dragging him into a kiss that shattered every rule of grace. Their lips collided, desperate and uncoordinated, clinging to one another with the urgency of something about to break. Gale spilt his moans into Astarion's mouth as the fever crested and broke inside him. Release tore through him in a rush, his muscles locking with the sheer force of it. Blinding and breathless, he came inside Astarion.

They were both gasping, small, humid breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. Gale was flushed and felt cracked open, entirely remade in the shape of Astarion's hands.

A slow burn had already begun to build, deep in his thighs, along the curve of his spine, in the cradle of his hips. It was a pulsing echo of what had passed between them. His shirt clung damply to his skin, soaked through with sweat, catching on the lines of his frame. Astarion's hands never stilled; one tangling gently in his hair, the other tracing idle patterns along the back of his neck, soft and grounding. Gale held onto him as if he could fuse them together, arms wrapped tight, as though he could draw him inside.

He wanted to stay there, suspended in that moment where time bent around them and nothing else mattered. But already, with their heartbeats beginning to settle, kisses turning from hungry to languid, and the sweat between them starting to cool, he could feel it. Something quiet and intangible, slowly slipping through his fingers.

✦

Astarion 

"Remind me, why did we debase ourselves on a piece of furniture that has never known luxury?" Astarion muttered, watching as Gale discarded the last of his clothes, revealing miles of naked skin with uncharacteristic nonchalance, and climbed into bed.

A flicker of irritation sparked within Astarion. In the haze of it all, he had not even managed to get Gale properly undressed. And to make matters worse, the man had used what little magic he had left to clean them up afterwards. No bruises, no scent, no satisfying mess left behind. His future self would be grateful for it, but right now, it felt like such a waste. He could have had him, bare and breathless, and Astarion could have been surrounded by that maddening, delicious heat Gale's body radiated.

Well. Not entirely too late.

He followed the wizard, sinking onto the sheets, crawling up to him and pausing just long enough to weigh the impulse before turning his back and pressing in close. He curled into the warmth, folding himself neatly into all of Gale's negative spaces. Glorious, naked bodies finally, finally, pressed skin to skin.

"If memory serves, that brilliant idea was entirely yours," Gale replied around a yawn, his arm looping around Astarion's waist and pulling him close.

"Semantics," Astarion huffed, though the corner of his mouth lifted. Gale only chuckled in response, a low, hoarse sound, threadbare with exhaustion. It undid Astarion more than he liked.

A lull settled over them. Gale's breathing had evened out, each exhale a gentle warmth trailing over the nape of Astarion's neck and ear, intimate in a way that made it harder to keep his thoughts at bay.

"You are not going to ask me to come with you." The words came out of nowhere, slipped free before thought could catch them, and Astarion felt immediate mortification. He went rigid, praying Gale had already drifted to sleep. Like a rabbit in the grass, hoping not to be seen.

But Gale's heartbeat, steady only moments before, stuttered. Then quickened.

He had heard.

There was a heavy pause. And now there was nothing left to do but wait in the dark, teeth bared behind closed lips, ready to retreat into mockery or dismissal. He opened his mouth, already shaping the laugh, the deflection—

"My door will always be open to you, Astarion. My wine stocked, and my company..." Astarion felt the faint smile against his shoulder, "... hopefully still charming."

"But you won't ask," Astarion said again, quieter now, a touch of petulance creeping in despite his best efforts. A selfish part of him wanted Gale to say the words, even knowing it would cost the man far more than it would ever cost him.

In truth, Astarion had overheard the entire exchange between Gale and Shadowheart at the tavern. He had tried—sincerely tried—to ignore the uneasy weight coiling in his chest in its aftermath. But it was growing harder to bear, no matter how he tried to distract it or reason it away.

Gale sighed, and the breath felt weighted, as though he were exhaling something far heavier than air.

"I hope one day you'll finally believe me when I say that you're free to choose your path. You've earned that freedom. And I..." His voice lowered further. "You needn't waste it cooped up in a dusty old wizard tower, however delightful the wizard may be."

Astarion groaned as he rolled onto his back, then turned fully to face him, exasperated but shifting closer, sliding a knee between Gale's thighs.

"You really are insufferably noble sometimes."

Because this was it, was it not? Gale might have been trying to protect himself—his heart, his hopes—but in the end, he had left the decision in Astarion's hands. However much it might hurt him, he was not going to sway the choice with desire or desperation.

Gale gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. "Perhaps. But I meant every word." He reached out and cupped Astarion's face with steady fingers, and the contact was unbearable. Astarion stilled and hoped his face betrayed nothing. Gale's thumb brushed gentle lines against his cheek, and Astarion wanted—achingly so—to turn into the touch, to press a kiss into the palm. But Gale's dark eyes held him steadfast.

"You are welcome. Always. No expectations, no obligations." A beat passed. Then, softer still, "There will always be a place for you in my home."

Astarion's throat tightened. Gale's words were so painfully transparent, his affection stripped bare, bruising in its honesty. And Astarion didn't know which was worse—being wanted so openly, or being granted the freedom to walk away without condemnation.

He wanted to argue. Gods, he needed to, if only to guard the fragile thing in his chest that still baulked at any sign of kindness. But what was there to say? There was no reality in which he, who had been surviving too long on nothing but scraps of empty pleasure, would even know where to begin returning what Gale was offering, even if he wanted to.

He could stay. There was a wretched side of him that wanted to stay with him. To let himself be held, to sink into the warmth of someone else's certainty. But what would that make him? Just another shadow nestled into another man's light, playing at being whole. Until the day came when it all slipped away, and he was left with nothing but the rest of eternity alone. This wasn't fair to Gale, and it wasn't fair to him either, but solitude would be easier without the lingering taste of companionship, after all.

Gale reached for his hand and lifted Astarion's wrist to his lips. His breath poured over the surface as he planted a kiss on the cool curve where Astarion's skin often felt its coldest, coaxing a soft, barely audible gasp from him.

Astarion's first instinct was to withdraw, to guard himself against the affection that felt far more dangerous than any weapon or spell. But he resisted. Gale's lips moved in an unhurried trail from wrist to palm to the very tips of his fingers. Each kiss was as light as a whisper, and yet Astarion felt as though they left marks behind with every press of his mouth. He could feel colour rising to his face, his usual composure diminishing under the gentle assault.

Gale turned his hand, guiding Astarion's touch to his own neck. Heated skin met his fingers and, beneath it, unerring and vividly alive, the thrum of a pulse. Astarion didn't pull away, though his fingers twitched faintly, uncertain whether to grasp harder or remain where they were. The beat was insistent, grounding in a way that felt far too intrusive for what it was.

Astarion said nothing, letting the slow beat of Gale's heart wash over him once more, a persistent call to his senses that he chose to ignore. There was no hunger now, no desperate want gnawing at the edges of his control, but the temptation was still difficult to resist.

His hand flexed of its own accord, his fingers curling faintly, as if to claim the pulse beneath. He listened as Gale's breathing slowed, his body slackening in that unremarkable yet enviable way humans drifted into sleep. It made the notion all the more enticing, and the rhythmic sound guided Astarion, too, towards that unusual edge of unconsciousness.

✦✦✦

(Click image for NSFW version)