Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wouldn’t be too hard, he thinks. Tav had been pliant in his arms even with a dagger to the throat, a kind smile on his lips despite the way his adam’s apple bobbed as Astarion brought him to the ground. If not for the cleric, he would have sunk his teeth right into the beautifully tanned curve of his neck and had his fill. And it is beautiful. Tav isn’t completely devoid of scars, but his neck – oh his neck is virgin territory, smooth and soft and rosy with blood. He even smells good, which is more than Astarion can say for his meals the last few centuries. Astarion would be the first and the last to latch on if the opportunity came. There simply wouldn’t be anything left for anyone else. If he’d come across him in Baldur’s Gate, he –

Astarion quashes that thought.

Shadowheart glances at him, and her narrowed eyes are full of promise.

He bats his eyelashes at her.

Ahead of both of them, Tav stumbles to a stop. It’s odd with how light on his feet the other elf is. “What?”

The rocks ahead are covered by a swirl of purple magic that pulses and flares.

Astarion stutters to a halt as well, because that aura is so familiar he aches with it, feels it beat through his chest like the useless heart it houses used to. His limbs are leaden as Tav tiptoes closer.

The flare of magic shocks Tav’s fingers, which he is quick to press to his lips, a wince taking over his face.

To his right, Shadowheart is already readying her mace as a purple-sleeved arm swings out from the middle of the mess. Her shield arm is firmly up as well.

Astarion would be shocked if an ignis wasn’t lingering in the back of her throat. This is a thought he’ll have later, however. All he can focus on now is that familiar magic, that familiar smell, that familiar hand – because he does know it by heart. He could probably sketch the damn thing from memory at this point.

“A hand?” Gale shouts, sounding harried. He waves his arm around in a quick, desperate gesture. “Anyone?”

Before Tav can move a muscle and blindly choose yet another companion to add to their merry little party, Astarion shoulders his way between him and Shadowheart. He doesn’t have to waste time on thinking. There’s only one choice. He slaps the palm of Gale’s hand with enough force to sting.

Gale hisses out an ow. He’s real.

Astarion’s throat runs dry, dryer than it already is.

“Perhaps I should have clarified –”

Grasping his arm, feeling the warmth of his body, the soft fabric of his robe, Astarion widens his stance and yanks until Gale comes tumbling out of the portal. The damn wizard nearly takes him out as he stumbles to the ground. A little side step saves him the fall, and the grip he still has on his arm allows him to steady Gale as well.

Gale sways and rights himself. He has a smile for Astarion immediately. (He always has.) “Hello!” His visits have always started in a similar vein.

That’s not what’s tying Astarion’s tongue up. No, it’s the fact that the man in front of him has nearly no gray hairs. There’s a smattering right above his ears and threaded through the hair brushed back out of his face, so he can’t be too far off of the Gale he knows. The point is that it’s far less than what he’s used to. Even his laugh lines are less apparent. (But it must be him.)

“I’m Gale of Waterdeep,” Gale continues. He glances down at where Astarion still grips his sleeve. Instead of pulling away, he merely grasps his forearm in turn and gives him a hearty shake. “Apologies.”

No.

No, this isn’t right.

It’s not right at all. Astarion lets go of his arm. He thinks he manages a nod before Tav is perking up with an introduction of his own. The focus is quick to shift to him, which is good, because it’s been ages since Astarion lost his composure in front of near strangers like this.

Gale doesn’t recognize him.

Gale!

It’s offensive, is what it is.

“I won’t say no to another companion on the road,” Tav says. He’s all smiles, and of course Gale smiles back.

Astarion doesn’t like the way his stomach turns at that.

This time, Shadowheart’s gaze is filled with something akin to sympathy.

He hates it.

Past

It’s not bragging to say he’s doing quite well for himself. It’s the truth, and he’ll stand by it. How many other up and coming magistrates his age have their own office? Sure, it’s a touch small. He doesn’t have the room for more than one armchair other than his own in combination with his desk. There’s only a handful of shelves for books, too.

But it’s all his.

Dipping his pen in ink, he carefully and delicately writes his signature across the line of the ruling in front of him. The document is a mere formality. It’s not a terribly well kept secret that cases involving certain people have a tendency to cross his desk. It’s not a secret at all that Baldur’s Gate operates that way. Some of his schoolmates dropped out of the field after having that realization, though Astarion? Astarion thrived in it. A smile, a wink, a coy laugh – he was born with those the way many of his clients were born with silver spoons in their mouths. He’s all too glad to trade his talents for some of that silver.

He reaches across the desk and pours himself a small glass of wine from his decanter.

A rush of purple magic rips open in the middle of his office.

Wine spills sticky and sweet across his fingers.

A man in a loose purple shirt and trousers tumbles out of the whirlwind, tucking his body close and literally rolling across the carpet to crash into the small side table Astarion kept water on for his clients. The pitcher, of course, rocks and bounces off, spilling water all over his unexpected guest in the process.

Astarion snaps to his feet, the handle of a dagger already tucked in his palm.

The pitcher stops to hover a scant three inches from the ground. His guest reaches out and grasps it as he sputters, water running down his face in rivulets. It is an objectively handsome face at that. The man is a human, his older age apparent in the laugh lines around his mouth, the crow’s feet by his eyes, and the stark gray streaks of hair at his temples. He sets the pitcher down on the ground next to him before grinning up at Astarion.

And what a grin it is. Astarion blinks. There’s a warmth to it, a warmth he’s not sure he’s been greeted with since childhood.

“Astarion, my old friend,” the man says, and the name slips from his lips like a caress. With a muffled groan, he gets to his feet. His shirt took the brunt of the water. He glances down at it and shakes his head. “I do apologize for making such a mess, but you know how unpredictable these visits are.”

Astarion pastes a smile on his face. “Quite.”

Somehow, the grin brightens. “Oh!” He laughs. “You must be terribly confused. I was beginning to think I would never get to this meeting, to be honest. My name is Gale of Waterdeep.” The newly dubbed Gale gives him a small wave.

Astarion makes no move to complete the gesture. It wouldn’t take but two steps and a flick of his wrist to bury the dagger in his chest. Cleaning the blood out of the rug would be a pain, but he has a few coins to spare on greasing palms.

Gale drops his hand without an ounce of annoyance or surprise. “Seems today is a good day for apologizing. If I’d known there were introductions to make, I wouldn’t have been so familiar. Please forgive any overstep.” In a show of trust – or stupidity – he takes his gaze off of Astarion to study the room. “I’ve experienced the bulk of these visits, anyway. I doubt this will be much of an issue much longer.”

That’s enough of this bullshit. One step forward. Astarion readjusts his grip on the dagger. One more step, and no more Gale of Waterdeep.

Except that Gale snaps out of existence with a quick flash of purple before he can make that second step. The magic in the air is gone, leaving nothing but a puddle of water and an empty pitcher as proof he ever was there.

Astarion stabs the dagger into the corner of the side table. “What in the bleeding hells?” There truly is no sign of the man. He strides over to the door and pokes his head out into the hallway. It’s empty, undisturbed. Gale shouldn’t have been able to Misty Step anywhere out of his office, and if he’d gone invisible, well, he’d been smart enough to silence his breathing, too. Astarion leans against the edge of his desk and sneers at the empty space before him.

Three hours later, he heads home no happier.

There is one Gale of Waterdeep in the records he has access to – and he’s a young man in his twenties who came through the city to sell baskets of all things. His last visit had been a scant four years ago. Not even the damned palms Astarion greased could tell him anything about an older man befitting the description he gave them. And the charms they’d tried to sell him to ‘guard’ his office were garbage!

He slams the front door behind him and goes straight for the bedroom, tugging at the collar of his tunic. There’s a party he’s supposed to attend tonight. He will attend. His client will expect nothing less.

The party is full of powerful Baldurians with generously deep pockets.

And yet Astarion can’t stop thinking about him.

Chapter Text

Past

He can feel the cobblestones against his back with each heaving breath. The delicate silk of his shirt is like a second skin now, the fabric no doubt ruined by the blood leaking from his shoulder.

Not that it wasn’t already unsalvageable, what with the puncture from the nasty, serrated dagger that took him down in the first place. At least the bleeding there has slowed with the pressure of his body holding it fast against the ground. He holds his left hand firmly over the gash across his abdomen. His right clasps his remaining dagger with weak fingers. He coughs, and it fucking hurts, his entire being spasming with the agony of it.

And all because of the Gur of all people! They would have been hard pressed to find a magistrate to side with them, honestly. What were they expecting when they set up on the edge of a very well to do farm on the outskirts of the city? Hackles were raised, his palms were greased – it was only the natural course of things.

He takes another ragged breath. Not a single soul has passed by in the last few minutes. He’s smart enough to know anyone who might have heard the initial attack would have left for their own safety. Still, if someone, anyone would walk down the alley now, he’d much appreciate it. Maybe he’d even appreciate it enough to change his ways and prevent this from happening again.

What a laugh. There’s no profit in being on the straight and narrow, and Baldurian politics certainly discouraged it regardless. Isn’t that why he’d gotten into the game in the first place? Astarion knows himself well enough to admit that. If you played your cards right, a government job would lead to quite the cushy life. He was aiming for a step or two above that. It seems he played the wrong hand.

Down the alleyway, there’s a soft clatter. “Aw, really? Yuck.” The voice is oddly familiar.

Astarion lets it cut through his maudlin bullshit. “Who’s there?” Of course, it comes out thready and weak and not at all threatening.

The man who comes rushing towards him is a man he hasn’t seen in two years. Two years of keeping an ear out for his name, of scanning the news for it, of searching for any scrap of evidence that he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing. Gale of Waterdeep, this time in a proper wizard’s robe, kneels on the dirty cobblestone ground at his side. “Oh, Astarion.” Gale lays his hands over Astarion’s in a likely effort to help stem the bleeding.

Except he yelps as a spark of magic shocks him. It arcs between them, skating harmlessly over Astarion.

Gale slumps. “I’ve thought about this encounter many a time, you know,” he says, and each word drips with grief.

It’s jarring. “What?” Nevermind that he’s still processing the magic zap. He’s bleeding out. Is this really the time to talk about meeting again?

“I had all these scenarios in my head.” Gale lets his hand hover over Astarion’s. “I assured myself I would do better. I would change this. All of this.” The oddest thing is that he sounds sincere. Like he cares that an elf he’s met twice is dying.

Astarion wets his lips, and they taste of blood. “It’s a bit late for that.”

It rips a laugh out of Gale. “I suppose it is.” He shivers suddenly, his brow furrowing. “I think that’s my call to leave. We will see each other again, Astarion. I promise.”

And then he’s gone in the same flash as the first time.

Leaving Astarion to bleed out in the alley. He almost removes his hand, almost gives up, when there’s another commotion. This time, however, it’s not Gale that steps into view. It’s a pale, dark-haired elf with a charming smile and pity in his eyes.

“Oh, you poor man,” he says with a tsk. “Those Gur are vicious, are they not?” A blink, and he’s crouched beside him. He covers Astarion’s hand with his own and gently presses down.

Astarion sucks in a gasp. His head swims with it, black dots obscuring his vision.

“Such a shame to see another young life extinguished…” The elf uses his free hand to tuck a sweaty lock of hair behind Astarion’s ear.

The blood is becoming tacky between his fingers. It can’t be long until he passes out for good.

“Let me introduce myself.” A quick flash of a smile. Something sharp.

Astarion blinks sluggishly.

“My name is Cazador Szarr, and if you would allow, I can take your pain away.” He says it like it’s nothing.

Would a potion of healing even help now? Short of a strong spell, Astarion isn’t sure there’s anything that would. He feels cold, so cold, and yet he’s present enough to remember that nothing is free. There’s always a catch. His own services hadn’t been an exception.

Cazador tilts his head. “Just say the word.”

“Yes,” Astarion chokes out. Any catch would be worth living just a little longer.

Without hesitation, Cazador sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of his neck and drinks.

Present

He jolts up from his trance so fast he nearly rocks forward to his feet. His breath is ragged and wet and unnecessary, but his dead lungs continue to burn as he grips at a scar two centuries old.

(The catch was not worth it.)

The fire in the middle of camp is nothing more than charcoal. Tav snores softly across from him. Karlach, teddy bear tucked in the crook of her arm, is sprawled out with her head nearly brushing their leader’s. Gale is closer to Astarion, and it’s a wonder he hasn’t woken with the commotion. They’re camped out not far from the Emerald Grove. The rest of their party have closed themselves off in their own tents.

This isn’t Baldur’s Gate.

This isn’t anywhere near the city.

(Cazador isn’t here.)

Astarion stumbles to his feet. Still no stirring. He glances over at Gale once more before slipping off into the trees. With each step, he allows himself to be less careful. If anyone was going to hear him, they already would have. This forest is full of fauna and far enough from the Grove that he doubts he is likely to run into a stranger, either. He dismisses the squirrels in favor of bigger prey.

By the time the sheep trots into view, his teeth are aching with need.

He latches on and digs his fingers into its thick coat as the blood hits his tongue. It’s warm and rich and nothing like a rat.

And it just keeps coming.

He swallows. His eyes slip shut. How had he never realized how parched he was? His last drink might as well have been months ago, blood soothing his poor dry throat and filling his withered stomach. Gulp after gulp comes in the first minute. He coaxes every last bit out before sitting back on his heels and merely existing.

His head swims. He feels stronger, more alive. Stumbling to his feet, he digs a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at his face until he’s reasonably sure it’s clean. The heady feeling is disappearing quickly. Maybe it was a sort of momentary insanity, but he barely feels any different by the time he slips back into camp.

How disappointing.

Camp itself has not changed much at all since he left perhaps an hour ago. Tav and Karlach are still deeply asleep, and none of their companions seem to have roused from their tents. No, the only difference is Gale.

“Good morning,” Gale greets him in a hushed tone. He’s cross-legged on his bedroll as he watches a pot of water boil over the small fire in the pit in front of him. “I don’t suppose you’d like some tea? It won’t be but a few more minutes.”

Astarion pastes a smile on his face. “Sorry, but I prefer my drinks a little… richer.”

Instead of brushing it off or being deterred, Gale gets to his feet with a wince. “Walk with me, will you? I’m rather afraid we’ll wake some of the others if we don’t move this elsewhere.”

It’s not a good idea. He should beg off, say he didn’t finish his trance, admit he’s not in a talking mood. He shouldn’t gesture back to the woods and tell Gale to lead on, darling.

They don’t quite follow the same path Astarion made earlier that morning, but it’s close enough that he makes sure to wander just a little more to the east. Their walk lasts perhaps two or three minutes before leading them to a clearing with a fallen log. Gale elects to sit in the middle. With a smile, he gestures to the end.

Astarion brushes a few leaves off onto the ground and joins him. “Pleasant,” he says dryly, and it’s not completely sarcastic. The woods are rather nice this early with no people to disturb the quiet chatter of animals in the brush. Nothing comes close, of course.

They can sense a predator in their midst.

Gale chuckles. His smile fades a touch. “I know what you are, Astarion.” There’s nothing fearful about his cadence, nothing angry. He recites it like a fact.

Surely he doesn’t actually know. Astarion tilts his head. The corners of his mouth curl up. “And what am I?”

The wizard doesn’t so much as blink. “Vrykolakas. Shtrigu. Nosferatu,” he says, each word carrying a different accent, a different flair.

Truth be told, the last one is the only one Astarion is personally familiar with. “You never told me you spoke so many other languages. How intriguing.” He supposes it was too good to last. He had a good month or so with a relatively safe spot to trance, and really, that’s more than he ever anticipated getting. It’s perfect timing, too. Just a small lunge, and he can have a filling meal before he slips into the treeline, though it’s a shame it would have to be Gale.

(Not his Gale. No, this one is still a pale imitation. Yes, just a poorly made copy that loves to hum in the mornings, cooks like a madman trying a new concoction in the evenings, and lends him books he thinks Astarion might like.)

He doesn’t lunge.

“Astarion.”

He doesn’t want to. “Yes, darling?”

“I’ve known you’re a vampire spawn for a week now.” Shifting closer, Gale lays a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t believe any of our companions have quite come to that conclusion. You should endeavor to tell them before they find out themselves.”

Astarion keeps still. The warmth of his hand burns right through his white shirt. It spreads across his back, down his arm. He reluctantly stands. “I imagine your water is boiling by now.”

The walk back to camp is quiet but not uncomfortable. When they arrive, it’s to find the water is indeed boiling. Gale is quick to pull it off the fire and slip a small cloth bag of tea leaves into the pot. Tendrils of dark brown almost immediately curl out from it. “You’re welcome to join me for company, if not for a cup.”

Astarion believes the offer is genuine. “Another morning, perhaps,” he says, putting on his most remorseful expression. He enters his tent and just… listens.

His secret isn’t revealed that morning.

Chapter Text

Present

“All I want is a little fun. Is that too much to ask?” Apparently, yes. The wine is awful, the camp is loud, and he can’t even sneak off to have a bite with so many people around. He’d gotten used to being able to wander off whenever he pleased the last week. He’s still surprised Tav didn’t kick him right out of camp as soon as he flashed his fangs, though it doesn’t mean he’s stopped treading lightly.

He’s not sure he’ll ever stop.

Tav pushes the bottle back at him. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, his nose scrunched up to a comical degree. It was almost cute. The younger elf has his hair braided back tonight, and the tiefling children have stuffed some flowers between the twisted locks. Well, flowers and weeds. Tav likely didn’t have the heart to point out the difference. The ranger has the softest heart he’s ever come across. More importantly, he has a powerful aim.

Quite toned arms, too. Astarion lets his gaze drift noticeably. If he plays his cards right, he might even enjoy this.

“And what’s your idea of ‘a little fun’?” The worst part is that Tav sounds genuine in his curiosity. What does he think learning about him will do? Give him a leg up?

“By the hells.” Astarion leans in like he’s about to tell a secret. It’s personal. Charming, many a target has said. “Sex, my dear.”

The tips of Tav’s ears burn, and Astarion idly wonders if his own used to. They certainly don’t now.

He leans back and lowers his voice to a timbre he knows tends to weaken knees. Somehow, it sounds flat tonight. “A night of passion.”

Rather than swaying closer or tittering or even smiling, the other elf shakes his head. “You’re handsome, but I’ve already promised the night away. I’m sorry, Astarion.” He turns his head to look at Shadowheart quietly drinking in front of her tent.

It won’t be just one night. Tav hopes it won’t be, at least – Astarion can see that loud and clear on his face. He nods with a smile. “Well, go on then. Don’t let me keep you.” He’s a failure. Fighting ability aside, Tav is the clear leader of their little group, the one with the most power, the one he’d honed in on, of course. This was supposed to be his big shot. He could have secured his place with one little night, but no. Maybe one of the tieflings would be a good replacement. Picking up one of them might settle him further in their good graces. On the other hand, they're going their separate ways in the morning, which means seducing one of them would simply be a waste of time.

And, quite frankly, he just doesn't want to.

He peers into his nearly empty wine bottle and frowns.

“I'll give you a glass of a finer vintage in exchange for the pleasure of your company. If you're interested, that is.” Gale has two wine glasses in one hand, the stems held firm between his fingers, a bottle of the aforementioned vintage in his other.

It looks nothing like the swill the tieflings and druids brought. “Darling, you've been holding out on us!” Without hesitation, he drops the wine he was drinking on the ground. It bounces and rolls against the mat beneath his feet. “Two glasses, and you have a deal.”

The wizard chuckles. “Two it is. Shall we shake on it?”

It's tempting. Oh, Astarion could care less about the motions. No, that's not what grabs him. From the limited physical interactions he's had with him, it's clear Gale runs hot. He smirks instead of offering a hand. “Why not a toast?”

“Wonderful idea!” He holds out the glasses, waiting until they're in Astarion's grasp before peeling the wax seal from the neck of the bottle and tugging the cork free with the help of a quick burst of magic. It lands a few feet behind him, thankfully without hitting anyone. The scent of something smooth, something mellowed with age, fills the space between them. Gale swirls the bottle with an idle hand.

Astarion keeps both glasses steady as he pours a generous amount into each. This – this is something he never got to do with his Gale. Talk, yes. Relax, no. There was never a way to predict when the wizard would fall into his lap, and most of their encounters were ill-timed as a result. He purposefully lets their fingers brush as he hands over a glass.

Was his Gale this hot to the touch?

“To our continued success,” the wizard says softly.

Astarion smiles, and he hadn't even meant to. “To good wine and companionship.” The delicate clink of their toast is drowned out by a cheer from a chorus of drunken tieflings. When he looks out over the party, Tav and Shadowheart are nowhere to be seen. He expects a pang of regret or at least annoyance, but nothing comes. He refocuses on Gale.

Gale, who is staring at him in such a familiar way that Astarion swears his arms break out in goosebumps.

“Do I have something on my face, darling?”

Laughing, cheeks already flushed, the wizard brushes it off. “Nothing that shouldn't be.” He takes a sip of his wine. “What did you think of it? The book, I mean.”

It's a quick pivot, but Astarion ignores it and the odd feeling in his chest. “A bit dull if I’m being honest.” He delights in the flash of affront that passes across the wizard’s face. It’s a struggle to keep the smile down. “I mean, there was a lot more intricacy to the Bhaalspawn crisis than battles and gods,” he says, bringing his glass back up to his lips.

“You speak as if the author stuck to the dry and superficial.” Gale gestures as he talks and nearly spills his wine more than once. “I thought it was a quite comprehensive –”

It’s odd, he decides, that the wizard would neglect to finish a sentence, especially in the midst of an impassioned speech. The smile he’s tried so hard to suppress grows a touch wider. He raises his brows as if to say, go on.

Gale moves just a touch closer, eyes aglow with curiosity, his volume dipping. “Were you there, Astarion?”

Ah, there it is. He leans in and matches his tone. “Are you asking me how old I am? Why, it’s rude to ask a vampire his age.” The warm puff of Gale’s breath washes over his face at this distance. He almost wants to ask Gale how old he is. He’d never thought to ask him – the other one – before. There were a lot of things he neglected to ask him. To be fair, he rarely got answers for what he did voice.

When he tunes back in, the wizard is frowning. “Astarion?” His brow is creased. The temptation to reach out and poke the wrinkles right between his eyes is strong.

But he smiles instead, something pleasant and superficial. “If by ‘there’ you mean in Baldur’s Gate, then yes, yes I was.” His Gale was, too, on more than one occasion. Not that they spoke much about current events during his visits. There was never enough time, never enough importance on anything other than the here and now. “I never met Gorian’s ward face to face, however. Sorry to disappoint.”

That seems to do little to deter him.

(Not much deterred him, either.)

“Ah, not face to face, but surely you must have crossed paths once or twice?” His eyes are bright, his body still angled close. “What with how long he was Grand Duke.”

Astarion stares at him. It must not be for longer than a moment, but he just… his words escape him. He remembers times past, an older wizard, and yet the same burning curiosity. “I had a few close calls with the Flaming Fists over the years,” he finally gets out. “Nothing I couldn’t charm my way out of. I’m afraid that’s as close as I ever got, darling.” He most certainly hadn’t been there in the sunlight for the Duke’s death, though the news traveled fast, the bars and flophouses full of mourners shortly thereafter.

“Still, to have been there in the moment.” Gale shakes his head. Grabbing the bottle again, he tops off both their glasses. “To history and the making of it, yes?”

Their glasses clink, and the wine goes down smooth as ever. He listens as Gale shifts to other topics, nodding and slipping in a comment here and there, but his mind is back in the city, back many years.

Past

He leans against the bar and swirls his goblet. He’s only had a sip here and there, his pockets relatively light on coin, but considering it’s the cheapest thing he could order, he’s not likely to finish it at all. No, it’s all part of the show.

A dragonborn glances his way, and he loosens up his smile, winks when that gaze lingers.

The thing is that Astarion knows he’s worth looking at. He’s gotten good at running his fingers through his hair in just the right way with just the right amount of wax. His pants are laced up the sides, the fabric itself not enough to cover all of him, and judging by the attention the strip of skin that peeks through has already garnered him tonight, they’re working their magic. In contrast, his shirt is loose. The collar exposes one shoulder, the dip of it giving anyone and everyone a look at his chest, too. The fact that the sleeves are flowy enough to disguise how muscled his arms are only works in his favor. He looks damned good.

Cazador had said as much before dismissing him for the hunt. Of course, it was with quite a lot more derision, but Astarion can read him well enough to know that his look tonight is likely to pull him some poor soul for his master to feed on.

The dragonborn looks away.

He wouldn’t be to Cazador’s liking anyway, so he doesn’t worry. The night is still young. Taking another sip of wine, he shifts his attention to an older dwarf that’s just walked in. His beard is full and dark, his stocky form in good enough shape he might even get a smile out of his master for this one. The stern look on his face might indicate a challenge in actually getting him back to Szarr Manor, but Astarion loves a challenge. He lets himself linger on his bare arms. If this one is vain –

An older human man steps into Faygo’s Flophouse. A familiar one. He’s clad in an embroidered purple tunic this time. Clearly the man has a favorite color.

Astarion can’t help but look. His face feels tight, like he’s wearing a mask, and he can already hear his master berating him for missing out on another target.

Hells, Gale could very well be working for him, couldn’t he? He could never forget the wizard and his odd appearances. They were weirdly timed, too. The first was around the time he’d started making a name for himself, the second the very night Cazador made his move. Fury wells up in his chest so fast he’s moving before he has the time to consider it. “Hello, Gale,” he says smoothly, flashing his teeth.

The way the man’s eyes light up and his lips widen into a grin comes off as so annoyingly genuine that it takes everything Astarion has not to react to it. “Astarion! Why don’t you join me on a walk?”

And leave the very place his master told him he had to stay until he found a meal? Ha. “Why not talk here? There’s wine and good music.”

His words come out sharper than he would have liked, and Gale’s smile dims a touch. “At least let us find some privacy,” he says, softer this time and yet no less kind.

It’s infuriating, and yet, he can’t find a reason to object. It won’t break Cazador’s order. He also won’t reveal himself to a bar full of patrons this way. “Get us a room then, darling.”

Gale does. He nods and walks right over to the barkeep without hesitating once before showing his back to him. Maybe he’s confident Astarion wouldn’t attack him here. Maybe he’s just dumb.

Either way, the vampire grits his teeth and follows the wizard up to a clean room, closing the door behind him. It’s sparsely furnished with a bed, a small table, and one chair. The usual clientele barely needs the latter two. “Out with it,” he snaps. “Are my siblings not enough? Must I be watched so closely that Cazador would outsource his spies? Your visits are awful convenient.” The words spill out in a terrible flood. He resigns himself to the punishment he’ll surely be receiving, if his master will let this slide at all. He’d been so close to getting into his good graces, too.

“Oh, Astarion.” Gale’s expression crumples, for lack of a better word. The shine leaves his eyes. The grin is nowhere to be seen. It’s as if all the light has been stripped from him. “I wish I could give you more information. I truly do, but the timelines must be preserved. Elminster would have my head if I threw them all out of whack.”

His mouth opens as if to say something, but he shuts it. Maybe he isn’t a spy. Maybe he’s just crazy. “What are you blathering on about?”

“I’m not working with that –” Gale frowns in disgust. “I’m not working with anyone. You don’t know how hard it was not to do anything. You won’t, for a while.” He drops down into the chair and looks as old as the gray in his hair suggests he is. There’s little of the joviality from their first meeting.

It’s nothing but riddles with him. Astarion scoffs. “This is a waste of my time.” A waste of a night, time and opportunity slipping by while he’s up here talking. He finds himself lingering a moment longer anyway. He doesn’t want to paste a sultry smile on his lips. He doesn’t want… He doesn’t want a lot of things.

The wizard looks up at him with nothing but grief. “I wish I could have done things differently.”

Turning and leaving, Astarion barely keeps himself from slamming the door shut. It wouldn’t do to bring negative attention to himself. He takes a deep, unnecessary breath, and forces an upturn to his lips. His hair should still be good. He tugs at his collar to make sure it drapes just right before sauntering down the stairs.

The dwarf is still there. He glances over just in time to catch Astarion eyeing up his arms, and it’s enough.

If he’s lucky, he’ll make it back to the manor before any of his siblings do.

Chapter Text

Past

When nearly two decades passed without a single mention of the wizard slipping from Cazador’s lips, Astarion started to feel perhaps a small smidgen of guilt.

But nothing more. He’d been tricked with less in the first few years he spent with his master. Being vigilant was how vampire spawn survived, and he wouldn’t apologize for it.

Sometimes he thinks of him, though. It’s hard not to when he’s one of the few things Astarion remembers from his mortal life. Part of him assumes it must be because of how close to the end he’d met him. There were mere months between those first two visits after all. Or perhaps it was how odd the entire situation was.

He crouches down in the alley and snatches a rat from beneath a pile of burlap sacks. It writhes in his hand. How many years had there been between the second visit and the third? Many less than what’s passed since that night at Faygo’s. He drinks his dinner in silence.

When it’s gone, he sits back on his heels and stares up at the stripe of night sky between the buildings.

“A gold piece for your thoughts?”

Astarion jolts up.

Sure enough, Gale stands there in wizard robes, his head tilted back to stare at the same length of sky.

“Well, they’re worth a lot more than that, darling.” He hates that it sounds flat to his ears.

It gets him a chuckle, at least. “Fair enough.”

There’s no hint of disappointment or even anger. It’s almost as if their previous encounter didn’t happen. “And yours? What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Gale looks at him now. He taps his chin as if in thought. “You know what? I’ll give them to you for free.” Keeping his gaze on Astarion, he smiles softly. “I was just pondering what a beautiful night it is.”

It’s so simple he has to shake his head. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. I’ve come to appreciate a good starry night over the years. Though it isn’t quite the same here as it is in Waterdeep.” His gaze drifts. He takes in the buildings, the dirty cobblestones in the alley, the faint lights of the bars down the street.

And Astarion can’t help but watch him. “It’s a city, is it not? How different can it be?” He’s been to a handful over the course of his life. Not Waterdeep specifically, of course, but they all had a generally similar feel at their core.

Gale’s eyes close, and he looks so peaceful it’s almost enough to forget they’re standing in a dingy alley. “The entire city smells like the ocean. If you’re close enough to the docks, you can hear the water lap at the wood. I learned to swim in those waters. Every child in Waterdeep does. Now, there’s crime and dirt and stores charging a criminal sum for their wares, too. I won’t deny there are a few negative aspects.”

The sound of water is easy enough to imagine. He tries to conjure up the smell of salt on the air, but it’s a harder task. Baldur’s Gate is just far enough inland to be lacking. “And the nights?”

“The nights are so quiet in my tower. I have the perfect view of the stars out over the water. They’re a touch different up north.” This time, when Gale smiles at him, there’s something cheeky about it. “Perhaps you’ll get the chance to see them someday.”

Only if Cazador is dead, he knows. “An invitation to your home? That’s quite forward, darling.” Especially considering the wizard knows what he is. He shakes his head.

Gale laughs, and it’s a full on belly laugh. “I suppose you could say that. My tressym would assume you’re a close friend indeed.”

“A tressym? Of course the wizard has a familiar.” He half wonders how it would react to him. Non-magical animals tended to be weary enough. They weren’t too fond of him before his turning, to be fair, but then again, he can’t remember ever having a pet of his own. “What’s its name?”

There’s no answer. The alley is empty once more.

The next time he sees him, it’s in the middle of deciding his outfit for the night. The years have not been kind to his laced pants, but Cazador has gifted him with several pairs of tight-fitting trousers that will get the job done. He debates between a black pair and a brown pair. Truth be told, he doesn’t particularly care tonight. The ax has been waiting to fall for days now. His choice of fare wasn’t to his master’s liking last tenday, and it is only a matter of time before he’s called in for his punishment.

He chooses the black pair. For shirts, he has white and black tunics pulled out. The black is a silky one with small silver adornments. The white has frilly cuffs but is otherwise a simple garment. It’s how it looks on him that puts it in the running.

“I suggest the white,” Gale says, and Astarion catches his eyes on him before he can look away. “It’ll match your hair.”

They’re both lucky none of his siblings are within earshot. “But the black is elegant, don’t you think?” He tilts his head at just the right angle to expose his neck. A very markable neck, he’s been told.

“Either would be a handsome choice.” He doesn’t move any closer.

This time, Astarion happens to be looking when he disappears with a flash of purple.

(He chooses the white tunic.)

In a rare moment of respite, he allows himself to crack open a book he nicked from a drunk trader the night before. It’s nothing terribly interesting. The subject matter itself should be, but he has a suspicion the author isn’t well-informed on hags for how vague and meandering it is. It’s a waste of the short time he’s able to slip away. At least the crypt he’s slipped into is hidden enough for him to stay a little longer. He tosses it –

Only for a mage hand to catch it before it falls to the ground. It deposits the book in Gale’s hands. He’s in wizard robes once again. “Evening, my friend.”

Astarion hums. “I wouldn’t bother with that old tome.” He flashes a bit of fang, this time in a decidedly less threatening way. “There are much better ways to pass the time.”

The flush on the wizard’s cheeks is gratifying. His response much less so. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass, though be assured you are very attractive, Astarion.”

It’s gentle. Gentle, but disappointing. And disconcerting. When had he actually become invested? The feeling sits heavy in his gut. He doesn’t get the chance to respond, the flash of purple taking Gale away after yet another short visit.

He stays there for a while and stews in his thoughts.

Present

There was no room in the inn. Tav had taken it gracefully, waving off Isobel’s apologies without a hint of irritation at the fact that she had large rooms to herself. He spoke with Jaheira about the possibility of camping just off the side of the inn where there was a small beach and some grass. It was still within the barrier, so in theory, they would be safe.

Of course, none of the Harpers were anticipating a turncoat in their midst, either.

Not that Astarion planned on complaining about camping away from their distrustful stares. So what if he had a worm in his brain? Their little scouting party would not have survived if not for his own party crippling the Absolute’s forces. He rolls his eyes as he finishes setting up his tent. He’s sure they’ll be here a while if all of these Harpers are as useless as that bunch.

“Astarion, my friend,” Gale calls out as he walks over from where he’d set up his own tent. “It seems I’ve been put on dinner duty today. Lend me a pair of hands, would you?”

It’s hard to say no to that smile. Still, he lets out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose.”

The wizard has already set up a campfire and set a pan to heat on it. “We’ve a few more steaks that need to be used,” he explains as he crouches by it and digs into their supply sack. “The vegetables seem to be wilting faster here as well.” He’s comfortable and knowledgeable in this space, which is partly why dinner duties often fell to him.

(Unlike Karlach, who had a hard time not burning food, and Shadowheart, who was used to a more plain fare and not used to cooking meat enough for a camp.)

They rarely ask Astarion. He was part of the rotation before they knew what he was, and no one complained about his cooking then, but he’s not inclined to point that out if he doesn’t have to. “I’m not sure I’d trust the water here for a stew. It smells… interesting.”

Gale hands him a cutting board and a small onion. “No, no stews here. Wine, however, can make a tasty sauce, and we have plenty of that.” Rolling his sleeves up, he mutters a quick cleaning spell for his hands before laying a steak down in the pan. The fat sizzles loud and sudden. “Slice that for me.”

For obvious reasons, it’s been ages since he cooked for himself. He’s sure the others would be baffled if he admitted he used to like the task. The truth is that he learned to like it after a childhood of helping in the kitchen. He wasn’t born a magistrate, after all. He slices the onion with a deft hand. “You’ll leave some for drinking, won’t you? Unless you’ve got another fine vintage stashed away, I fear we’ll be running through our supply soon.”

Gale leans closer with a chuckle. He’s close enough that their sleeves brush. “For you? I may just.”

The heat of him seeps through Astarion’s shirt. “Careful, I might think you have favorites.” He doesn’t need to look around to know no one’s paying them any attention. These cursed lands are a drain on all of them, and camp has been quiet as a result. Even Karlach hasn’t been dancing quite as much as usual.

“Me? No,” Gale says with a dramatic gasp. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t lean back. “I’ll have you know I’m known for my impartiality.” Gently lifting the corner of the steak out of the pan, he nods at the color and flips it.

Astarion uncorks the wine. It’s thankfully not the nicest one they have. In fact, it’s something he wouldn’t choose to drink if there was anything else available. “You keep telling yourself that, darling.”

The smile on Gale’s face is so open, so trusting, so loving.

It makes his chest ache. He knows that one. He almost wishes he didn’t.

“Astarion?” The steak continues to sizzle away in the pan. The camp around them is so quiet it might as well not exist. “Would it be too forward of me to admit you’re special to me?”

He has to bite down on the instinct to quip, to throw out a sharp comment that would demean his own feelings for this damnable wizard. It’s not as if he hasn’t known about Gale’s crush. He’s seen that spark of interest evolve into soft looks, little moments that are just about them, and maybe he’s soaked them up. There are plenty of acts Astarion is guilty of. Some of them he would even own up to with genuine glee. This is one he would admit to but not take pleasure in.

Gale’s smile dips. He leans back. “Ah. Please forgive my overstep.”

That expression is familiar, too. Pain. Worry. Defeat. Without thinking, Astarion reaches out and grasps his wrist. “No, forgive me.” The words feel clumsy and ashen in his mouth, but this is Gale, even if he’s not exactly the one he developed a respect for first. “It’s not – There is nothing you did wrong. I’m afraid this one is on me.” It’s hard to let go. He might not feel this warmth again.

(He might not see that smile again.)

After a moment, Gale gently pulls his hand away. “Thank you for clarifying.” His smile this time is not nearly as bright and yet he manages one. “I think I shall finish dinner preparations alone.”

Astarion stands with a nod. He can’t think of a single thing to say that won’t tear them both apart further.

“But,” the wizard is quick to say, “I will be happy to have your assistance the next time I’m on the roster.”

It doesn’t relieve the ache in his chest, not fully. Still, he gives him a little bow. “You know where to find me.” Somehow, walking back to his tent is one of the hardest things he’s done on this journey so far.

Chapter Text

Present

The revelation that there is an entire mind flayer colony beneath Moonrise Towers derails most of their plans in the Shadowlands. The sheer threat is too important, too worrying for them to do much camping at all. They clear out as much as possible before confronting Ketheric Thorm himself.

And wasn’t that a trial. Of course Astarion had heard of him before. Battles as big as the one that supposedly killed him made lasting impressions on cities like Baldur’s Gate. It was all the gazettes were talking about for weeks. The stories changed from issue to issue, too. In some versions, the very gods themselves brought the shadows down upon the town. In others, they were a curse born upon Ketheric’s dying breath.

None of them could prepare him for watching the other elf pull a spear from his chest without consequence. He still feels cold thinking about the avatar of Myrkul.

The rest of their merry band of adventurers is dealing with it in their own ways. He listens to them speak around the fire from where he sits on the mat outside his tent just a few feet away. Halsin leans forward as Tav talks about how they stormed the tower with the Harpers. Beside him, Karlach wipes gore off of her sword.

Honestly, Astarion is almost surprised she isn’t the one telling the story with how excited she’d been over the prospect of fighting alongside Jaheira. (Even he has to admit the druid’s power is nothing to scoff at.)

Then Tav says a short prayer for the fallen. He knows each and every one of their names.

Astarion does not. If any of them ever introduced themselves, he didn’t pay attention. Why would he? They had their mission, and he has his. Besides, no god had ever answered his prayers. He stopped speaking to them so long ago he couldn’t pinpoint a decade when. They certainly wouldn’t do anything for a bunch of dead Harpers. He unsheathes one of his daggers and stares at it, runs his fingers over the flat of the blade. Two nights ago, the only thing he believed in for certain was that stabbing a dagger into the gut of his enemies would draw blood.

Now he can’t be sure of that, either.

“It is true he was a formidable enemy,” Lae’zel says, stiff-backed and serious as usual. “Yet it is not the first time I have stared death in the eyes.” She was lucky to make it out alive that night. Tav had to give her nearly three potions to get her steady on her feet.

Gale hadn’t been much better. There are still bruises around his eyes, blood stiffening the neck of his robe. “Not the first time for many of us, I reckon.”

The laugh that bubbles up in his chest is so sharp and sudden that Astarion can’t help but let some of it out.

Which, naturally, sends the wizard’s attention right to him. “Surely you don’t disagree?”

He doesn’t. They all know he’s limped back to camp more than once before. “No, no, but not all of us have stared down a death slaad before, either.” Sometimes he wonders if the wizard understands how non-threatening he comes across as.

Gale blinks.

The others have mostly moved on to other topics, though Karlach does nudge him with her shoulder. “Damn, really?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. I didn’t seek it out, mind you.”

Getting to his feet, Astarion wanders over to the camp supplies to fetch another bottle of wine. They’ve finally gotten far enough out of the former Shadowlands to start finding fresh food again, and so he knows he won’t get a lecture for drinking at his leisure. He does, of course, hear Gale walk up to him before he clears his throat.

“So,” the wizard says slowly. “A death slaad.” That’s it. That’s all he says. To be fair, they haven’t quite made it back to where they were in terms of companionship.

“Yes?” He stares at him while he takes a swig of the wine. Not bad. It seems not everything spoiled after a few decades in the Shadowlands.

Gale glances back at the campfire where the rest of their party is still grouped. “How did you know? About the death slaad, I mean.” His voice is low, his brow furrowed. He’s genuinely confused.

Astarion could slap himself. He knows that story. He knows Gale told it to him. He remembers picturing a young wizard falling into Limbo, completely out of his depth and yet ready to fight. He remembers the way the wrinkles around Gales’ eyes got deeper as he laughed at his own hubris. He remembers that he is not supposed to know any of this. “Nevermind that –” Darling, except he has been careful not to call him that as of late. “The night is young, and there is wine to drink.”

“I haven’t told anyone about that fight in a long time,” Gale presses.

“Fight?” Astarion says without thinking. He narrows his eyes. “You didn’t fight the beast.” He realizes he’s fallen into a trap as soon as the wizard’s face lights up with something dangerous.

Gale practically vibrates with curiosity. “I was nowhere near Baldur’s Gate then! Did you travel in your youth?”

As if he would have traveled to Limbo, of all places. “Oh, yes, so much I grew absolutely sick of it. A regular adventure extraordinaire.” He laughs, and it’s nothing more than a facade. Cazador barely trusted them to go to taverns across the city. The only way he ever would have made it to Waterdeep would be if his Master had business there.

“I had no idea you were that well traveled.” There’s still something in Gale’s eyes, something that almost feels like a challenge.

Astarion touches his arm for a split second. It’s the first time they’ve had physical contact since that night in the Shadowlands. The tips of his fingers burn with it. “It’s called sarcasm, my dear wizard.” He’s not sure he’s felt this cold since he was flat on his back in that alley, the very life of him draining out between his fingers and into the gaps of the cobblestone. “You told me once. That’s all.”

But Gale stands his ground. “I most certainly did not.”

“Okay, fine. I suppose there’s no point in lying any longer.” Astarion leans in, his smile spreading so wide it aches. He lets his voice go softer, and although his heart no longer beats, he can almost feel the steady thud of it in his ears. “You did tell me. You don’t remember, because it simply hasn’t happened for you yet.” The space between them is thick, weighty. With a jerk, he tugs the cork free from an untouched bottle of wine.

Gale flinches. He does not laugh. He does not brush it off. He nods, rubbing at his beard with an idle hand. “That explains a lot about our first meeting. About much of our time together, in fact.”

Astarion can’t help himself. He laughs. He laughs so hard the wine nearly sloshes out onto the grass beneath his shoes. He laughs, and he’s not sure why. “Surely you didn’t think I was being serious?”

“Sometimes the way you look at me…” It’s like Gale’s so lost in thought he doesn’t even realize Astarion is in front of him still. “You know me. I assumed you were a quick study, but there is nothing better than learning from the source material.” He taps his chin with his pointer finger.

Behind them, the party goes on.

Gale hums. “That could explain the wine, too. You do always seem to put aside my favorites.” When he reaches out, it’s gentle. The bottle is easy to pull from Astarion’s grip. He holds it up and peers at the label before taking a sip.

“Or perhaps you just have good taste,” the vampire murmurs.

“Tell me, did you know about the orb before I told you?” Finally, Gale looks right at him. “About Mystra?”

Lying is an option. Astarion could insist it’s really nothing. He imagines it would do little to change the damned wizard’s mind. “No, and no.” Snatching the wine back, he tips his head back and drinks.

The worst thing is that look of satisfaction, of delight, of sheer awe is so stupidly beautiful on Gale’s face. “Did I tell you about this?” He gestures at the rest of their party lounging by the campfire.

“Of course not. You didn’t tell me much of anything.” Astarion perches on top of their supply chest. He might as well, if this is to be the rest of his night. Of course, he may have ruined everything. His wizard had made it seem important they not share information about the future – and his own past is Gale’s future now, isn’t it? Unless this has all been an odd coincidence or a wonky spell, of course. Well, he’d never been explicitly told not to talk, had he?

Gale is quick to join him, sitting on a rock just a foot away from him. “And? What did I tell you?”

“Stories,” Astarion says. “Stories about your youth. About what you’d had for lunch that day. Books.” Some of the very same titles he’s listened to this one talk about, too. He half wonders if that was intentional. This time, when Gale reaches for the bottle, he passes it right over to him.

The drink he takes is longer than before. His swallow is almost audible. “Is that why you helped me out of that portal? You were fond of him?”

He was. How could he not have been? Astarion stares at the rest of their group, not hearing their boisterous laughing or Scratch’s happy barks as he chases the cub around. A large part of him rebels against the word, however. ‘Fond’ doesn’t encompass all of his feelings on the subject. A warm hand rests on his knee, and he meets Gale’s gaze.

“My apologies for any overstep. You need not answer my questions.” He smiles sheepishly, his hand not moving an inch. “I would greatly appreciate any bit of knowledge you feel like granting, of course.”

Astarion doesn’t bring attention to it, though his leg burns from the contact. “Another night, perhaps.”

And Gale nods as he pulls his hand away. He offers the wine back and rejoins the rest of their company with little more than a glance.

The warmth slinks away with him as he goes.

Past

The air inside the coffin is stale.

(You don’t need to breathe, he reminds himself.)

Something skitters across the room. Its heartbeat echoes off the walls as its tiny heart works diligently to keep it alive.

(It would be so easy to catch. He’s gotten so good at plucking rats right off the ground before they know he’s there.)

It disappears into a crack in the wall.

A mournful sound shatters the silence. (Did that come from him?)

He scrabbles against the coffin lid, his nails digging at the wood in what would ultimately be a futile gesture. His master has perfected the enchantments over the years, and not a single one of the spawn have been able to break through on an empty stomach.

They always had empty stomachs.

How long has he been in this wretched box? It has to have been weeks. The darkness is never a comfort in this hell. The walls are too close, his legs cramped, his bare back rubbed raw from the rough, unlined wood. He barely has enough room to trance, barely has the energy to scream at this point, barely has a mind of his own left.

This time, when he screams, he’s aware he’s doing it. His bloody fingers scrape at the lid. He tries to toss and turn, but his master must have tethered the damn box down this time.

“Astarion?” a hushed voice says.

There’s a heartbeat to go along with it. His mouth aches as it tries to water. How hadn’t he noticed someone coming? How had a living being find their way down deep into Cazador’s mansion?

“Astarion, I’m going to open the coffin,” they – a man – say, and there are indeed footsteps coming closer.

His fangs itch. He forces his hands away from the wood. He waits, shivering.

A rope snaps. The man taps on the coffin, and then there’s a wash of magic, the aura of it so fucking familiar, before the lid topples to the side.

Blinking rapidly to adjust to the slight light coming from the mage light, Astarion lurches up and nearly falls over to join the lid. It only takes him a moment to realize why he recognizes that aura.

The man in front of him is Gale.

How long has it been since he saw him last? Gods, a few decades at least. And yet the wizard looks the very same with not a single extra gray hair as far as he can tell. The only difference is just how deep his worry lines are today. They’re practically etched in with grief. Astarion half reaches for him without thinking, but his arm aches at the effort of extending it out all the way.

Gale kneels on the ground with a slight wince. “Don’t press yourself, my friend.”

Friend. He’s the only one to call Astarion a friend in a very long time. Propping himself up on his sore elbows, he forces a pout onto his face for the wizard. “Worried about little old me?” He laughs. It doesn’t sound right to his own ears. The pout slips, and his lips twitch as he tries to bring it back. Thirst has his teeth feeling thrice the size. His face is a clumsy thing right now. “Why, I don’t think I’ve seen you this devastated since that night at Faygo’s.”

(Since they bickered about fairness and timelines. Since Astarion stormed out. Since he walked away from him for the first and only time.)

“I can’t be concerned for someone I care about?” It comes out a bit stilted.

Even though every single bit of him feels off kilter and dry, he sees the slight confusion that flits through Gale’s expression. He shifts closer. The pout drops completely. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.” The wizard damn well should, unless it didn’t leave the same impact on him as it had on Astarion himself. He feels his ragged nails bite into the thin skin of his palms.

“Of course I do,” Gale sputters. “Faygo’s Flophouse is a quite popular spot in Baldur’s Gate. Though the ale is horrendous.”

Astarion narrows his eyes. “You’re lying, darling. You might as well give up the ruse.” His head swims with the possibilities. Is this his Gale? Is Gale a person at all? He’d already considered some kind of dimensional travel, of course. The portals he tended to appear through made him lean that way over the years. It’s less likely, but the fact that he is confused means –

With a tired smile, Gale chuckles. “I haven’t been good at lying to you for a long time, I suppose.” He wipes a hand over his face. “Let me just say, I have not patronized that particular locale with you yet.” He holds his hands up, palms open and smile sheepish.

– It could be time travel. Ridiculous. Cazador has certainly looked into the subject before. He’d been in quite the nasty mood when the books only led him around in hypothetical circles. Perfection hadn’t been enough for him that year. Complete obedience had been nothing more than an invitation to nitpick. “I’m sure we’ll get there eventually. You know, I was wondering what your secret was. You haven’t aged a day since we first met.” He finds himself leaning in closer as if to inspect every line and crease of his face.

Gods, does Gale smell delicious. There’s a whiff of power in the air around him. Magic probably swims through his veins, especially if he is traipsing through time. It would be so easy to reach out and grab his arm. Sink his teeth in. Drink.

A spark of magic zips between them. It stings something fierce, and he hisses as he jerks back, almost as if repelled.

“I apologize,” Gale rushes to say. His hands hover for a moment in the newly widened space between them before he drops them to his lap. They clench into fists. “I do wish we could touch again.”

Astarion’s head swims. He swallows the saliva collecting in his mouth. “Again, darling?” Thankfully, it sounds a touch more like himself.

“Did I say again?” The looks Gale gives him is almost amused.

“Oh, most certainly.” Carefully, he leans back against the coffin, allowing it to prop him up. “I have an excellent memory when it comes to the subject of intimate matters.” The muscles in his right leg ache when he draws it up close to his chest.

It does the job. Gale’s gaze flickers down to trace the length of his legs. He focuses back on Astarion’s face. The amusement deepens. “A pity we have nothing intimate to discuss.”

Laughing lightly, quietly so as not to draw the attention of any unwanted parties, Astarion waves it off. “Oh, don’t be silly.” He lets his smile turn sultry, though it feels like a pale imitation of his normal hunting mask. “Tell me, where would you like to touch me again? You don’t have to be too careful, you know. Spawn are very hardy creatures.”

“I’ll keep that in mind – if we ever touch, of course.” Gale’s cheeks are a blotchy red, but the grin on his lips is more impish than anything.

Astarion sighs dramatically. “You’re no fun.”

“Unfortunately, when it comes to this particular matter, I cannot be,” the wizard says not unkindly. “I will be able to explain one day. That I can promise you.”

A soft sound on the floor above them captures both their attention.

Fuck. Astarion clutches at the coffin. He can't be found outside of it. (He can't go back inside.) He needs to be exactly where Cazador expects him. (Unless he wants a longer punishment.) Voice catching in his throat, he turns to look at Gale, to try and figure out how to ask for help without really asking –

But he's gone.

It's just Astarion.

With ragged fingers, he hauls himself back into the coffin and drags the lid over just in time. The ropes he can do nothing about. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard it hurts, but the tears escape regardless. Perhaps this will be enough.

(It isn't.)

Chapter Text

Past

It's an easy enough mission. Small children, future monster hunters or no, don't have the same natural defenses they would as adults. It certainly helps that their parents were filled with wine and pride over their latest hunt. They'd encouraged their little ones to wander off to bed while they laughed and danced and cheered long into the night.

He hadn't been spotted once. If his heart still beat, maybe he would find the whole ordeal disgusting.

(If he had the luxury of caring, maybe he would be able to put a name to the thick queasiness that sits like lead in his gut.)

His shoes are silent against the grass. He steps around sticks and rocks with ease, and the parade of mind-controlled children he's snatched from their beds follow after him with few missteps of their own. They have no choice but to do so.

Ahead of them, just through the little bit of trees left, is the path to Baldur’s Gate. The city is still awash with lights. Torches and enchanted bulbs keep the main streets bright for the night crowds. Any other day, he'd be among them, his clothes painted on and his charm dialed up as high as possible. His presence won't be missed. Not too much. Cazador has surely sent his siblings out to do the very same job, and besides, the city is adaptable.

His fangs itch as he moves ever closer.

Another set of footsteps joins him. They're not quite as quiet, nor as light as the children's.

Astarion doesn't startle. He doesn't even tense. He recognizes that aura.

“Good evening, Astarion,” Gale says softly. That's it. He doesn't press.

Astarion doesn't bother answering.

Slowly but surely, they exit the forest. The Gur camp is long behind them. It’s so far back in fact that he doesn't worry about having the children out in the open like this.

They trail after him like lost little ducklings.

The entrance to the sewers is close. They don't have to go through the gates to get to Cazador's basement. As soon as he uses the right passcode, his master's lupine allies will let them in. No one in the sewers will bother him.

The moon glows like a beacon in the sky. He glances up at it. Gods, how he misses the warmth of the sun. How had it felt against his skin? He can barely remember. Was he always this pale or just in the winters? “I live a wretched existence.” Astarions mouth is so dry it hurts. “One befitting a wretched creature such as myself, I suppose.”

Gale is a steady presence at his side. “I think we all find ourselves wretched at one point or another.”

The children, still under vampiric control, follow silently.

“I don’t think kidnapping an entire community of children qualifies as the momentary kind of wretchedness,” Astarion snaps. Or luring drunks from the city’s bars to their doom. He’s no saint, and he’s perfectly aware of that fact. He hadn’t been in life. He isn’t in death. “Why do you keep visiting, Gale?”

Why do you care?

With a soft sound of contemplation, the wizard stays in step with him. “Why shouldn’t I? Tell me, Astarion – would you have gone to the Gur camp if you had a choice? I have my reasons, and so do you.”

Astarion stops this time. The gated entrance to the sewers is right in front of them. He has his trusty set of lockpicks in his pockets, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s picked this specific lock, either. It will take no time at all to walk the last few steps into the city. He ignores how his prey stops behind him in unison. “Oh, I have plenty of reasons. That doesn’t make this right!” He gestures wildly at the children. Why does Cazador need so many? Two would be enough, and he’d certainly never asked for kids before. Not even of his siblings.

“I never said it was,” Gale says, tone achingly gentle.

And, of course, he’s gone almost as soon as he said it, going back to whatever time he’s from.

Astarion picks the lock and leads his charges to the mansion.

Present

Had this room always been down here? Sheep blood curdles in his stomach. He knows from Raphael that his master’s planning was in the works before Astarion’s turning at the very least. But this… had Cazador inherited his plans from his own master? How long has he been waiting for this? All of these thoughts and more race through his mind as he hovers there, suspended in the punishing grip of Cazador’s magic. His back burns with it. His scars feel etched to his very bones. If he could move, he would be trembling with the agony of it.

Tav notches an arrow, but there’s a hesitance in his deft fingers, a wariness set in the downturn of his lips. Shadowheart is by his side, of course. Lathandar’s light is firmly in her grip. They’d come here as soon as they left the inn that morning, and so she hadn’t had the chance to use any of her spells as of yet, either.

He thinks they almost have a chance. Almost.

“Inveniam viam!”

He barely glances down at Gale before the wizard is grabbing his hand and yanking him out of the grip of the spell. The magic fights back, trying to hold onto him so badly the breath is ripped from his lungs as he stumbles to his feet –

And right into Gale’s arms.

Shadowheart calls a bolt of pure daylight across the platform, evidence of the effort she’s been putting into her spellwork lately, and Cazador screams in rage as it hits him full on.

“I think you dropped these.” Gale holds out his daggers. They must have flown across the platform when his armor was shredded off by the spell.

It takes Astarion a moment to gather himself. He clutches at Gale’s robe and takes the proffered weapons. “Don’t underestimate him.”

Gale nods.

That’s it. They don’t have the luxury of talking in depth. Readjusting his grip, Astarion stands on the closest glyph.

One of Cazador’s werewolf lackeys comes right for him. A sudden burst of lightning makes the wolf trip over his feet, and his disorientation makes it all the easier to slash his neck.

Astarion doesn’t move from his spot no matter how much fury twists his chest every time his master dodges an arrow or spell. No, he lets the cannon fodder come to him instead and whittles the opposition down bit by bit while Tav and Shadowheart tag team the only full vampire in the room. He glances over to his right now and then.

Gale is always there. Sweat dripping down his brow, he casts a Thunderwave that sends a ghast right off the side of the platform to its death. That takes care of the immediate threat and leaves him free to throw quite the Fireball at Cazador.

It’s glorious.

A well-aimed Guiding Bolt rips into him next. Cazador disappears before their very eyes, but Astarion knows all too well that isn’t the end of him. Abandoning the glyph finally, he rips the lid off of a gaudy coffin to prove what he already is sure of. “No, no. No healing sleep for you.” He can hear his own jaw creak from how tight it is. “Wake up!” He digs his fingers into Cazador’s doublet and yanks, using all of the strength he can muster to throw the vampire to the ground.

Even as bruised and bloody as he is, his master manages a nasty sneer. “Get your hands off me, worm.” He doesn’t yell. He rarely needs to.

But Astarion isn’t the half-starved spawn he used to be, tiptoeing around the home that was never his, holding in a flinch at the faintest footstep. He barks a laugh. He grabs a dagger and stalks forward. He allows himself to voice the thoughts that have been brewing in his head since he first learned what the scars on his back meant. “I am so much more than what you made me.”

No one stops him. Not Tav, not Shadowheart, not even Gale. The wizard stands tall and watches, waits.

It’s him Astarion turns to. “I can do this, but I need your help.” Because Gale has been there every single step of the way. He was there when Astarion bled out onto the cobblestones. He was there when Cazador tortured and starved him.

He will be here for Astarion’s revenge.

“You can,” Gale concedes. He watches him with no judgment in his eyes. “But do you have to?”

Of course he doesn’t have to. There are plenty of things Astarion could do at this moment, and he’s not tied down to any one of them. He’s had the freedom of choice since the ship crashed those weeks ago. “Saving this city would be child’s play.” He would be so powerful. They wouldn’t need to rely on the orb or the mindflayer in their dreams.

Gale hesitates. Just for a moment, but he does. “We’ve done well for ourselves so far. You don’t need anything of his to be great, Astarion.”

It would be his, wouldn’t it? His stomach curdles as he looks back down at his master, bloody and bruised and helpless. What did all of his power get him? “You-you’re right.” Astarion helped take down the avatar of a god as a spawn. “I can be better than him. But I’m not above enjoying this.” Over the years, he’s imagined this very moment countless times. Sometimes Cazador would beg and plead for his life, and Astarion would promise to give him exactly what he deserves. Sometimes Cazador would scream and howl as he bled out on the floor. This time, as Astarion grips his master’s hair in his fist, there are no pleas. There are no sounds at all. It doesn’t stop him from plunging the dagger into his chest over and over and over again.

Blood splatters back onto him, thick and warm.

Someone is screaming.

Cazador’s mouth is closed when he begins to slump.

Astarion can’t stop. He keeps going until his grip on the dagger becomes too slick, until there’s no hint of mocking or anger left in the other vampire’s eyes, until it hits him that the screaming is coming from his own chest. He falls back onto his knees.

It’s over.

It’s over.

Warm arms wrap around him uncaring of the bloodbath he’s become. “You’re free,” Gale murmurs only loud enough for the two of them. “You’ve done it.”

Astarion leans into him. His mouth feels like it doesn’t belong to him. The dagger slips from his limp fingers.

The rest of their friends hover around them, holding off his siblings for a moment longer.

It’s really over.

Chapter Text

Present

Baldur’s Gate is a battlezone. This high up there are no more citizens trying to flee. Down below, the Flaming Fist are doing their best to get who they can to safety. The very structure of the walls and buildings is tenuous, and some Baldurians fall not to the Mindflayers but the city itself.

It almost… aches to see his city like this. And, Astarion realizes, it is his city in many ways. Walking around it in the daylight has brought back so many fuzzy impressions of his life before. He certainly couldn’t escape his memories as a spawn, either, though with Cazador’s death, he feels a certain odd detachment from some of them. This has been his home – for better or worse.

The nautiloid moves across his vision again, warning them that Baldur’s Gate might not be anyone’s city soon enough. Astarion glances over at the brain stem. The rest of their little group is downing health potions in preparation. He managed to sneak his way through without much in the way of damage, thankfully, and so he’s left them to their dwindling supplies.

Tav and Shadowheart share a soft exchange of words once they’re done.

He looks away for their privacy. Lae’zel and her prince are having their own moment, though it’s a lot less outwardly tender. Astarion moves to stand by Gale, and they stare out at the ruined city side by side.

“I wish I’d spent more time in the city before our journey,” Gale says. “I can’t say I’ve experienced this view without the commotion.” The lighthearted comment falls flat as it comes out of his mouth. He’s not smiling.

Behind them, the two Githyanki begin the climb up the brain stem.

It’s okay. Astarion smiles for him, though it’s a small one. “If there’s one thing I can say about Baldur’s Gate, it’s that it will come back. Baldurians are hard to kill. We’re like cockroaches, really.” He laughs a little.

Tav secures his bow to his back and follows their green companions. Shadowheart gives him a head start before reaching for the fleshy ladder.

Taking that as his cue, Astarion turns away from the destruction below to make his ascent. Only the gods know what awaits them up there. In the back of his mind, he allows himself to hope his siblings are already safe in the Underdark.

“Astarion?”

He turns back to Gale only to be tugged into the softest kiss he thinks he’s ever experienced. There’s an underlying sense of urgency in it, of course, but for a moment, the city fades away. Astarion pushes back into it.

Because Gale isn’t taking. He’s offering, allowing Astarion to control the rest of it, his lips chapped but soft and warm.

This is what he used to think it would be like with his Gale. He used to hope, at least. As he pulls back to allow the wizard to breathe, he hesitantly rests their foreheads together. Astarion closes his eyes when Gale’s hands come up to rest on his neck, thumbs brushing his chin. This is not his wizard – not the one who’s been with him since the very beginning – but was he ever really that Gale’s Astarion? Does it even matter? Gods, it’s a big tangled mess.

What matters is that it’s his. Theirs.

Astarion steps back but only because their friends need them. “If that was your last hurrah before you throw yourself at the brain like a bomb –”

“No,” Gale interrupts. He smiles now, eyes crinkling, and that damned look from the night they cooked together in the Shadowlands is back on his face.

It makes Astarion feel mushy.

Gale readjusts his grip on his staff. “I rather think I have good reasons not to use the orb. It would ruin the very fabric of the universe if I failed to make those meetings, wouldn’t it?”

For the first time in a long time, Astarion throws his head back and laughs just because he feels like it. “Come, darling, we have a brain to mutilate.”

Tav grins at the both of them when they join the party up top.

Past

“So which bar are we patronizing on this fine night?” The cheer in Gale’s voice is enough to break the solemn silence.

A pleased expression spreads across Astarion’s face, and he doesn’t even have to fake it. “Hm, perhaps The Blushing Mermaid. I haven’t been there in a few weeks.” Besides, he knows his siblings will likely be in other parts of the city. He’s too firmly on Cazador’s shit list right now to worry about poached prey. Not that he cares much in these little moments. No, these are his and Gale’s, and theirs alone.

Except that whatever the wizard might have said is interrupted by an odd rumble. It shakes the ground and rings in their ears.

In the darkness, it’s almost impossible to see the nautiloid until it’s right above them.

Astarion’s gaze darts over to Gale just in time to see the wizard disappear, shock on his face. He has just enough time to wonder if it’s because he’s already being pulled away or for the ship in the sky before his world goes black.

Is that a – oh gods, they’re going to infect him.

When he comes to, head aching, eyes so dry they sting to open, he’s no longer in the streets. There is light. It’s dim, but as he forces himself to look, he can see it through the murky window in front of him.

He is in a pod of some kind. There aren’t any restraints, thankfully. There aren’t any knobs or levers, either. Astarion pushes at the window to no avail. He doesn’t have enough room to kick or punch, and even though he has a set of lockpicks on him yet, he can’t even feel a seam where the pod would open.

Three figures run past the window. Two of them he guesses are elves based on their ears. The third could be a Githyanki.

It doesn’t matter. He smacks the glass and screams as loud as he possibly can.

They don’t hear him.

Magic cushions his fall. It’s not the familiar caress of Gale’s magic or the prickly sting of Cazador’s. Whatever it is, it’s powerful. He glances around the beach where he’s landed, but there is no one. Nothing.

What there is, is sunlight. By all rights, his skin should be melting off right now. He feels warmth instead. Holding his arms out in front of him, he stares at the lack of damage with a wary awe. How?

His head throbs as if to remind him of his unwanted passenger.

Unwanted no more, he muses to himself and closes his eyes, tilting his head up to the sun. Gods, it feels amazing.

(If only Gale were here with him.)

Present

They did it. Gods, they actually did it.

Granted, Shadowheart had to revivify their esteemed leader once, and Lae’zel’s prince is now sporting a bunch of fetching tentacles in place of a beard, but the point is that the brain is destroyed, the crown broken into pieces and scattered. Every single one of them made it out alive. The city can be rebuilt.

It will be rebuilt.

Astarion steps up beside Gale. “So.”

“So?” The wizard – his wizard – smiles at him. There’s a cut across his cheek and dark circles under his eyes.

“About that kiss,” Astarion continues playfulling, and he fully plans to throw out a comment about finding a place to continue where they left off. He can practically see the flush that would race across the bridge of his nose.

Except Gale grabs his hand first. “Astarion,” he says urgently.

His skin is burning. His stomach drops. This is – This wasn’t supposed to be like this. “It was nice while it lasted.” It isn’t fair. He gave up power for this. He chose to do the right thing, and this is what he gets? Tears blur his vision, clog up his throat. “I’m sorry, I-I have to go!” Yanking his hand free, Astarion bolts for cover. He dips under a bit of shade here, an awning there, until he can slip into the unlocked door of a half-destroyed warehouse. He tucks himself amongst boxes and curls up to avoid any errant rays. His chest feels primed to burst. He digs his fingers into his armor and shakes.

Quick footsteps follow after him. The door swings open a moment after he shuts it, and there’s Gale. He winces as he gets down on his knees before the spawn. “I’m here, my love.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his robe and dries his tears.

Astarion laughs, and it’s embarrassingly wet. “Love?” They’ve had one kiss, but he can’t deny it sounds good falling off Gale’s tongue.

There’s the flush he was expecting. “I can come up with something else if you’d prefer.” He tucks the handkerchief away.

“No.” Reaching out, Astarion coaxes him closer until they’re both squished between boxes. “No, I think I like it.” He leans his head against him, and Gale lets him.

They wait the sun out just like that.

Chapter Text

Future

This time, when the world dissolves around him, the streets of Baldur’s Gate giving way to the warm, candlelit study in his tower in Waterdeep, Gale feels a sense of… finality. He can’t say for absolute sure the spell has run its course, but he does know what he’s just witnessed.

It would be difficult to forget the sight of a nautiloid overhead.

How many more visits could there be? Astarion, of course, had refused to tell him of the contents of the visits he had yet to stumble into, citing timelines with an infuriatingly sly smile after Gale’s first jump back. Gale supposes it’s payback in his own way. Quite possibly for the vagueness he’d had to employ on said visits, the experimentation that got them into this mess in the first place, or both.

And really, that had plagued them for years – what was the cause of it all? Clearly magic was involved, but was it malicious in nature? Meant to teach them some sort of lesson? They both had plenty of enemies in their pasts, shared and unshared, that could be at the root of it all. He wouldn’t have put it past Mystra to think him in need of some education.

Though Gale should have expected he himself might have had some hand in it. Even his colleagues at Blackstaff had gotten used to his overly curious nature overpowering any fears or doubts. It’s part of what garnered Mystra’s attention in his youth, afterall.

“Darling,” Astarion says, voice brimming with not just a fondness but a sense of relief for those who knew where to listen for it. He’s in one of his favorite silky house robes, so he must have been waiting around for him to return. “Back already?”

It takes a moment for Gale to process and adjust. It always does after the visits. Focusing on his partner helps, and he allows himself to note the little differences.

This Astarion, the man who loves him wholeheartedly for all of his quirks and flaws, who stood next to him on that platform in the sky above Baldur’s Gate, who has made himself a part of Gale’s home so seamlessly it still takes his breath away – he may look no older than he had a decade back, and yet, there are so many differences. His smile is deeper, more effortless. His body is loose and natural in a way he had tried to mimic for so long. His eyes, still a piercing red, are filled with so much love that Gale has long since stopped wondering if the spawn was chasing after the ideal of a man Gale hadn’t yet become.

Well, he supposes he has now. “This one was particularly short,” he tells Astarion. “The nautiloid made sure of that.” He moves in to close the gap, and he feels the stress drain from his own shoulders as his hand makes contact with Astarion’s without issue. After his first visit, they’ve become even more tactile. That’s not to say they never touched each other in passing before. They merely enjoyed working on their own projects in the same general space as well.

Astarion pulls him close for a soft kiss. It lingers. Now that he’s fed properly on the regular, there is a warmth to the spawn’s body, though it’s not quite like that of a living elf. “Dreadfully short. But that was the last one. Promise.”

It’s a relief. He can’t say there wasn’t anything interesting or good about seeing his love at so many different stages of his life, but Gale is tired. He’s tired of not being able to hold him, to tell him he loves him, to reminisce on old times with him in preparation of Withers’ next soiree. His little jumps to the past were as unpredictable as the purely theoretical magic he’d weaved together to prove that his devotion to Astarion encompasses all that his lover is and was. The fact that he’d pulled it off at all was a testament to his skill. And hubris. Perhaps.

Astarion, his lovely Astarion, sinks his fingers into the soft drape of Gale’s robes to tug him over to the chaise lounge by the fireplace. “Focus on me, darling,” he purrs. “It’s just you and me now.”

Gale lets him lead. “It’s always been me and you, you know.” The younger version of his lover just… hadn’t been his lover. He used to wonder why Astarion held himself back so much in the earlier half of their travels. How could he have kept the two versions of Gale so separate in his mind? He understands now. It was akin to looking at an unfinished sketch by an unfamiliar artist. Enough of the details were there to be recognizable, but the portrait wasn’t quite there yet.

“Flatterer.” Still just as quick as he used to be, Astarion turns them and gives him a gentle push onto the chaise.

Gale has just enough time to let out a quick oof as he hits the cushion before the vampire’s straddling him. He reaches up to steady his hips without thinking, the familiar weight of him settling just the way it had a million times before. The material of Astarion’s robe is so delicate that he can feel the distinct lack of any undergarments there, and he thumbs at the silk, possibilities flitting through his mind. “It comes naturally with you.”

Astarion leans down to kiss him at that.

Resting a hand on the back of his lover’s neck, Gale deepens it and purposefully grazes his tongue on the point of a fang. The taste of iron blooms between them. Saliva dilutes it, but even then there’s a hint of it that lingers in the back of his mouth. He swallows it and the heady groan Astarion lets out, neither of them bothering to pull away. He could spend the entire night like this if given the chance.

Not that Gale complains (too much) when Astarion sits up and rises on his knees just enough to deftly unlace the ties of the wizard’s pants.

“Oh, darling, I’ve missed this,” the vampire sighs as he settles back down, his lover’s flushed cock curved in the space between them. A quick yank on the belt of his robe has the silk parting in a smooth slide to reveal he’s just as eager.

‘This,’ Gale knows, is more than sex, though they’d not had a lot of time for that either with the uncertainty of when he’d pop back to the past looming over their heads. The fact of the matter is that the only intimacy they’ve had time to share uninterrupted since he completed the experimental ritual was a touch here, a cuddle there. He laces their fingers together and tugs one of his hands back to kiss Astarion’s knuckles. “You can have me as often as you want.” The academy can wait a few days longer.

Astarion laughs, and it’s a low, husky sound. “You might regret that in a few days.” His back arches as he rolls his hips. The action brings their cocks together.

Gale groans. Precome beads up at his tip. He can feel the way his lover’s sack tightens, the moment his length jolts with arousal. “That’s it, my love,” he says almost absentmindedly. The press of skin against skin feels so much more tonight.

There’s satisfaction curling at the corners of Astarion’s lips. He rolls his hips again, this time a little harder.

A gasp.

Another smooth shift of the hips.

A groan.

Another rock.

Stuttered praise.

Another. Another.

The rhythm they’re building isn’t anything particularly fast, but Gale digs his fingertips into the backs of his lover’s hands, his toes beginning to curl in his well-worn boots. He can tell by the quiver of Astarion’s stomach that he’s not the only one.

They ride the wave together –

Until the vampire snaps up to his feet. He strides over to the desk, his robe fluttering behind him, his cock, flushed and leaking, bobbing with each step.

Gale pushes himself up to a more seated position. Gods, how he loves to watch him walk away near as much as towards him. He takes the opportunity to kick his boots off, though he doesn’t bother taking anything else off. He’s too impatient, too eager, too focused on Astarion.

Astarion, whose gaze is so dark it’s practically hypnotic as he walks back to the chaise with a jar of slick in hand. The lid clatters to the floor. Scooping up a small amount, he sets the jar on the ground and swings his leg over the wizard once more.

It shouldn’t shock Gale how soft Astarion’s hands are, not with how much care he puts into his body, but it never fails to. He can’t help the way his hips chase the slick warmth of the fingers wrapped around both their cocks. He drags his lover into another kiss. This time, he keeps his tongue away from any sharp points, and yet he can still taste the unique tang of himself.

Astarion rises up to his knees, dipping his head so that they don’t quite have to part. He reaches back and between them to grasp Gale.

And then he sinks back down onto him.

Letting his head fall back, Gale blindly grabs for his lover’s hips. He’s tight, though his body welcomes him in with an ease born of practice. Lots and lots of practice. “Astarion,” he breathes. Astarion is a vision above him, and he tries to keep his eyes open as long as possible to take the view in. The long line of his neck as he leans his head back, the splay of his fingers across his own stomach, the drape of his robe… Perhaps vision isn’t strong enough of a word. Inevitably, Gale has to close his eyes and breathe lest the night end too soon.

Astarion shifts ever so slightly.

Gale looks back up at him, lips parting as Astarion rises, one hand still behind him to make sure his cock doesn’t slip from him. “Gods…”

“It’s just you and me,” Astarion teases. The humor drops from his face the moment Gale plants his feet on the cushioned chaise and fucks back up into him.

This time, Gale starts the kiss by wrapping a hand around the nape of his lover’s neck and guiding him down in a swift movement. He swallows the next moan and, when his tongue brushes past the point of a fang, presses against it with purpose. He thrusts again. Sharp pain has his grip tightening on cool hips. The blood wells and makes his mouth feel slick.

Astarion digs his fingers into the front of Gale’s robe and rides him with a fervor. He’s less careful about his fangs, accidentally grazing his bottom lip, and a bead of blood threatens to fall down Gale’s chin. Breaking the kiss, Astarion catches it with his tongue.

The red stain on his teeth hits Gale like a bolt of lightning. He pulls one hand away from a pale hip to wrap around Astarion’s cock and jerks him in tandem with the furious join of their bodies.

Gale is the first to tip over the edge. He clutches his lover close as he comes, toes curled and his length pulsing where he’s buried to the root. “‘Starion,” he chokes out. He holds Astarion through his orgasm next, and neither of them are in a rush to part despite being sated.

All there is is the soft sound of flickering candles.

Kissing him once more, Astarion runs his fingers through Gale’s hair. “No more trips, darling. Not without me at least.”

Gale has no problems with that. He loves his life now. He loves his Astarion. It’s intriguing, he thinks, to finally become the man his love first fell for.

“It was a passing fancy at best.” Astarion gives him a fond smile that serves to soften the joke. “Bathe with me?”

“I would like nothing more.” There’s little that would make Gale decline tangling up with him in the massive claw foot tub he’s had installed in the main bathroom. He gives him one more kiss, this time soft and slow.

He’s finally home.