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[thirsted]

At least Elodie had the courtesy to treat me as a stranger, [ Astarion hisses, already beginning to pace a course through Gale's room. As he goes, he pulls his phone from his doublet pocket, scrolling through its contents before he finds the message he's looking for.

In a melodramatic (and frankly uncharitable) tone: ] "There was much that we shared. Much that I know well you would not tell a stranger you had just met." The gall— to speak of knowing me—

[ He bares his teeth in displeasure, still on course to bore a divot into the floor of Gale's quarters. ]

Whatever version of me he knows must be a dolt, else he would know better than to address me so familiarly. Or perhaps I was under some enchantment—

[ The fact is that he doesn't actually know what it is that Tilanus knows about him, but he doesn't want to ask and find out, either. ]

Does he speak to you the same way?

[corporeity]

[ When Tara paces the floor so relentlessly, he’s meant to attempt to lift her. She may hiss at him in displeasure, but the effort is required. Wisely, he thinks things are somewhat different for Astarion, in that any physical contact would be rebuffed in his agitated state (and an unfamiliar tract for them, first-aid notwithstanding), but the principle of reaching out — emotionally — could prove applicable.

Gale scoots his chair sideways, leaning an elbow over the wooden back. His brows arch as Astarion speaks. ]

With presumptions of closeness? [ The question starts dry, only he can’t maintain the tone ] Certainly. [ A beat. He swallows hard. ] He spoke of the orb, unbidden.

[ Gale’s greatest, most private shame. Tilanus enquired from a place of care and yet it burned him just the same, foreign hands pressing against his deepest wound. He wonders if Tilanus’ vague allusions with Astarion are a lesson learned from Gale’s unease, or telling of greater intimacy. Much that we shared does tempt the imagination so. His knuckles sweep under his eyes, trying and failing to knead the tiredness from his skin. ]

And of deep care. Of earned friendship. [ Gale looses a small noise of frustration, despite his efforts at neutrality. He mislikes this — feeling on the backfoot, exposed and unintelligent — all of it. Whatever is Gale meant to do, when he remembers none of the adventures Tilanus speaks of, and what little he’s learned of this man contradicts his current trajectory. A party without Karlach, a journey alongside Minthara, a strange closeness (antagonistic though it may be) with Orin the Red, daughter of Bhaal. ]

It’s unsettling, in truth.

[thirsted]

[ With each new word that leaves Gale's mouth, the corners of Astarion's turn further and further downward, as upset with the (perceived) invasion of Gale's privacy as with his own. ]

Unsettling, [ he repeats, as he briefly stops his pacing to plant his hands on his hips. ] It's insulting. You know, I told him — twice! — that we were strangers, and each time he acknowledged the fact, and yet the conversation always rattled back onto the subject of how we once knew each other, of how he would protect us. Us! As though he were our beloved keeper!

[ And his pacing begins again, though this time, his hands come up to the level of his chest, his palms parallel as he gestures through his frustration. ]

He speaks of earned friendship and yet acts as though the earning has been done already. He says he wishes for us to be on an equal playing field, then persistently mentions how dear we are to him, further reminding us that we know nothing of him at all.

[ He'd stomp his foot if it wouldn't belittle the degree to which he's been irritated by the entire affair — and he'd throw himself onto the bed if it weren't Gale's, so he simply stops for a second time, his fingers curling into fists. But this second pause seems to be enough to get him to relent — not in terms of changing his mind but in terms of calming down for Gale's sake. He realizes, after all, that he's basically made the same complaint twice already.

Actually, suddenly, abjectly: ]

We— we know each other, don't we? A few lost days aside, I—

[ He falters, unusually flustered and unmoored by his own errant train of thought. ]

[corporeity]

[ Our beloved keeper, a telling turn of phrase for them both. It isn’t the first time someone has professed to know what’s best for them — indeed, what they deserve. His expression cracks, then, as Astarion loops back around to the crux of this upset. They are known without having consented to the knowing, unable to recall it because the memories have been altered, excised or may never occur. It’s either a violation of the mind akin to the tadpole and a vampire lord’s compulsion, or, preferably, the encroachment of one world into another (which still leaves them at a precarious disadvantage).

All the intricacies of the situation, and his own pain within it, tumble from his mind, supplanted by Astarion’s disorientation. Gale rises to his feet, fingers still wrapped around the chair and tap, tap, tapping. Stuck, momentarily, unused to being a confidant or offering solace after a year of isolation. ]

We do. [ An immediate answer, serious and sure. He crosses to face Astarion, one hand hovering outward before his fingers curl into his palm. ]

[ gesturing through the aborted attempt at comfort, ] You know me better than anyone in Waterdeep, Astarion.

[ Except for Tara. Strange to hear from one who gives the appearance of sociability, perhaps, but no less true. The nature of their companionship, linked in mind and close in quarters, has ensured it. Gale was set apart from others long before his folly, singled out by Mystra’s glittering hand. Their party had been — is singular, for him. ]

You all do. [ emphatically, one hand chopping through the air. ] That, I could not forget.

[thirsted]

[ When Gale gets to his feet, for a single, terrifying moment, Astarion fears the worst. That he's been coddled, duped — that there's been a stranger in the adjoining room this entire time. It's writ clear upon his features, in the wide set of his eyes, the way the line of his jaw goes taut.

Then — relief. There's a flare of his nostrils as he breathes out, lets go of the worry he'd been holding onto, his expression remaining unusually open just a moment longer (because he sees the way Gale's hand hovers in the air, because something else entirely seizes his chest in that brief moment) before it changes again, taking on something like self-effacement as he allows himself a tsk and a slight stomp of his foot. Even his shoulders slump, leaving him looking small but at least less rudderless than he had been mere moments before. ]

Nor I, you. Any of you.

[ He speaks the words more easily than he typically does similarly honest sentiments, like the syllables are being pried out of a vise. He draws in a breath to say something more, then seems to change his mind, a shadow of Gale's gesture, extended and then curbed. ]

I've had rather enough of him, [ is what he settles on, his tone plaintive as his eyes bore a hole into the middle distance, his apparent lack of focus serving as an indicator of the mental strain used in jumping from one train of thought to another. ] The next time he calls me friend, I'll put stones in my pockets and walk into the lake.

[corporeity]

[ A familiar helplessness overtakes him, at the sight of Astarion’s uncharacteristically open (and therefore vulnerable) features. Whyever did he stand up, if he was only going to add to his companion’s unease and then bloody stand there, unable to do anything more? They’re suspended for a moment longer before Astarion stomps his foot, and Gale cards his offending hand back through his hair, skimming off the top of the surface tension — then trying and failing not to look touched by the answering reassurance, unasked for. Truer for it, when Gale has begged praise from others since he first started casting.

You remember me, and I remember you. Recalled from their first conversation, an axiom-like rhythm to it that sticks in his mind. A comfort, for its reciprocity. ]

Come now, surely your roguish talents are better served putting stones in his pockets.

[ A sly, half-smile, hesitant in the offering, as he resists the urge to ask where it is Astarion goes, when he looks elsewhere. Better to make oneself worth paying attention to here. ]

Would you like to see the wards I’m setting? [ Already doubling back to the safety of his desk, rearranging his papers to find the sigils in question and sliding them out of his messy notes on everything from ki to their twisting timelines. ] Tilanus, Orin, anyone entering without our leave will find themselves in for a nasty surprise. A changeling can fool the human — or elven — eye, but not [ he raps his knuckles against the wood. ] the arcane.

[thirsted]

[ Time, thank the gods, resumes its usual flow. A breath looses itself from Astarion's ribs, forming into a half-laugh (to complement that half-smile on Gale's features) as he imagines the hypothetical outcome. A step removed from the fear that had taken him just a moment ago, he almost thinks he's reacted too harshly against the Drow, but— he's not the type to stew in that type of regret, and besides, it's useless to take issue with a feral cat for using its claws.

(He's grateful, though he won't say as much out loud, for Gale's resetting the conversation, his seemingly ever-steady hand leading them, without much issue, into safer waters. Once, he'd have said it's a skill he's just as deft at using, but— well, here they are.)

Step light, he crosses the room, his hands linking loosely behind his back (as though to keep them out of any further trouble) as he peers over the papers laid out over Gale's desk. Characteristically meticulous — and not as boring to Astarion as he likes to pretend. He suspects that Gale knows as much, that the time they've spent traveling has, for better or worse, dispelled some of the illusion he typically maintains (even if it isn't born of magic). ]

And what kind of surprises have you cooked up for our would-be intruders? [ he asks, with a glance toward the door. ]

[corporeity]

[ The other side of Gale’s mouth hooks high in turn, balanced out by the joy of sharing his craft (and, in this case, mischief) with a friend. He glances sideways to meet Astarion’s gaze, eyes brightening, before he singles out a torn page with a familiar sigil, tapping his fingers upon its fine lines. ]

A shock, to start. The warning shot, nocked in our bow.

[ Their shoulders bump as he shifts his hand, fingers splaying below another symbol at the top of his desk, more intricate and rarer than the last. ]

But violence, while it has its place, seems a tad gauche, don’t you think — with Portia’s ancestral carpets and portraiture at risk. It may even prove ineffective, when many have defensive or healing abilities.

[ An earnest, quickening lilt, seeking Astarion’s approval of his work. Yes, he knows now that Astarion doesn’t find him as dreadfully boring as he once feigned, but he yearns to impress, always (and soothe any lingering anxieties, too). ]

Polymorph will make for a greater deterrent and mark our intruder for all to see. [ A final tap of the paper for emphasis. ] Nothing quite so satisfying as reducing one’s enemies to baaing in protest.

[thirsted]

[ This, at least, is easy. Their laughter, their conversation, their proximity — he doesn't feel the need to shy away or otherwise close himself off. Even that little brush of Gale's shoulder— all it prompts is a shifting of his posture so that his chest is at a perpendicular angle to his companion's, a slight drawing closer that doesn't demand either of them give up any space. ]

Polymorph! [ he repeats, with a bright laugh. (Approval sought and easily given, more and more so with each passing day. He's aware, in some faint capacity, that Gale looks for it, the same way that Astarion himself does. The desire of an unwanted or discarded thing to be wanted.) ] Well, you've certainly got my approval. And I'm sure Shadowheart would appreciate having a new source of prey — not that the very human forms of the other guests have really served as a deterrent.

[ His head tilts, his cheek finding his shoulder as he braces one arm against the desk, admiring the notes covering the breadth of Gale's desk.

Then, mildly, ] Though, one would hope this doesn't result in a menagerie. As much as I'd like to see your wards deployed, I think one or two sheep would be quite enough, if not too much already.

[corporeity]

[ It feels like a victory, to have Astarion draw close and laugh aloud, the sound tinkling in his ear. Delight and surprise written in those fine features, each emotion satisfying to witness from this vantage point. A charming peak of fangs (gods, something must be wrong with him, to find a predator’s razored edges so charming). If he looks a little too long — or leans a tick closer — anyone would understand. All part of the frightfully human instinct to linger in the sun’s warmth, impossible to resist. Even Astarion wouldn’t begrudge him it, surely, after a year in the dark.

Gale’s laughter joins his own, myriad anxieties eased by Astarion’s words and proximity — the admiring look in his eye — prompting a pleased flush. ]

Let us hope we don’t reduce the population to cattle, lest Shadowheart grow envious.

[ Gale starts reorganising his notes, sliding the sigils to one side and his lengthy notes to the other. ]

[ almost shy, ] I’m like to finish this up tonight, if you’d keep me company.

[ As if Astarion would be doing him the favour, despite being far more rattled by their lot than Gale. A glance from the notes to the armchair in the corner, where Astarion might prefer to linger, together without clinging. He imagines (hopes) continued contact would help soothe them both, after this uneven week. ]

[thirsted]

Oh, hardly. It'd just make it easier for her to lay waste to the place.

[ It's with that thought that Astarion pushes himself off from the desk, a satellite reentering its orbit after lingering too close to a sun. (He registers the blush upon Gale's features, moves away to linger on its sweetness, on how much he finds he likes to see it. He's handsome, Astarion's always known that, and yet—)

He's halfway back to his usual sense of ease when Gale speaks again. For a second, Astarion simply looks surprised, casting a glance back over his shoulder, going still ... then shrugging. Ease to counter the near-shyness in Gale's voice, even if he isn't certain he doesn't feel a little shy, too. Better long to linger on the feeling, anyway. ]

I suppose it'd only be fair. You are doing this for both our benefits, after all.

[ Though he doesn't go to the chair, first, instead checking the door to the bathroom, through which Shadowheart, as though summoned, comes tip-tapping, circling Astarion's ankles once before beelining for the darkest corner of Gale's room.

Then, then he finds the chair, settling in it with his legs thrown over one arm and his back against the other, watching Gale a moment longer before diverting his attention to his phone. ]