[ Astarion lost all his capacity to dream of something like this long ago. Someone who wants him for more than his hands and mouth; who is tender, who makes him laugh, whom against all odds Astarion wants in turn. Never has he felt a sweet ache like this, when Gale looks at Astarion after a breathless kiss like he's hung the stars.
And in truth, he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the beginning.
Tav is distraught when Gale's messenger departs their camp, but won't say what happened. Shadowheart is the one who overhears their private revelation, and relays it to Astarion, who feels like he's swallowed his own unbeating heart: Lady Shar would not be so cruel, she says, because this is needless cruelty.
Gale slips from his fingers. He avoids him, no doubt consumed by the thought of one final, meaningful act of devotion to his goddess. The voice in Astarion's mind is Cazador's, always, shadowing him as Gale walks paces ahead through the Shadow-Cursed Lands: You were only a distraction, boy. You are nothing.
Astarion feels the cruel edge wanting to slip back into him, laced with the poison of hurt. When Tav had first asked Astarion what they should do about Gale, barely a week into traveling together before the orb's hunger made itself known, Astarion had been casual in that cruelty: toss him into a chasm, leave him in the Underdark to detonate far from all of us. He was not an asset worth the risk, in Astarion's mind.
And now Gale is on a true suicide mission, and Astarion is nothing. Mystra is a goddess and Astarion is vampire spawn, undead flesh and stolen blood. They were useful to each other when Gale's death was a precarious thing; his own use has waned, and Gale said so himself. You won't need to waste your spoils on me any longer.
Two can play at the avoidance game. Only Astarion fumbles his hand too easily tonight, intending to sneak away from Gale before he can rouse himself from his armchair. He gets lost, instead, in a self-inflicted wound: imagining the way he would have woken Gale back in the mountains, settling into his lap and threading their fingers together, teasing him gently before guiding him back to one of their tents.
Gale wakes, and Astarion feels like he's been caught at something shameful. There's only a flicker of it on his face before he manages to kill it, harden his expression, standing from his own chair and pacing toward the bar as if he has somewhere to be or someone to speak to, when he very much does not. ]
Not enough for a proper rest. There's a bed waiting for you in there.
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And in truth, he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the beginning.
Tav is distraught when Gale's messenger departs their camp, but won't say what happened. Shadowheart is the one who overhears their private revelation, and relays it to Astarion, who feels like he's swallowed his own unbeating heart: Lady Shar would not be so cruel, she says, because this is needless cruelty.
Gale slips from his fingers. He avoids him, no doubt consumed by the thought of one final, meaningful act of devotion to his goddess. The voice in Astarion's mind is Cazador's, always, shadowing him as Gale walks paces ahead through the Shadow-Cursed Lands: You were only a distraction, boy. You are nothing.
Astarion feels the cruel edge wanting to slip back into him, laced with the poison of hurt. When Tav had first asked Astarion what they should do about Gale, barely a week into traveling together before the orb's hunger made itself known, Astarion had been casual in that cruelty: toss him into a chasm, leave him in the Underdark to detonate far from all of us. He was not an asset worth the risk, in Astarion's mind.
And now Gale is on a true suicide mission, and Astarion is nothing. Mystra is a goddess and Astarion is vampire spawn, undead flesh and stolen blood. They were useful to each other when Gale's death was a precarious thing; his own use has waned, and Gale said so himself. You won't need to waste your spoils on me any longer.
Two can play at the avoidance game. Only Astarion fumbles his hand too easily tonight, intending to sneak away from Gale before he can rouse himself from his armchair. He gets lost, instead, in a self-inflicted wound: imagining the way he would have woken Gale back in the mountains, settling into his lap and threading their fingers together, teasing him gently before guiding him back to one of their tents.
Gale wakes, and Astarion feels like he's been caught at something shameful. There's only a flicker of it on his face before he manages to kill it, harden his expression, standing from his own chair and pacing toward the bar as if he has somewhere to be or someone to speak to, when he very much does not. ]
Not enough for a proper rest. There's a bed waiting for you in there.