[ Itās ridiculous to think of something as ephemeral and precious as affection in terms of points, but, well, Gale knows Astarion has taken the lead. All down to his sterling performance at camp and in the woods, which Gale has the misfortune of recalling in vivid detail. Impossible not to, really, when Astarion makes a habit of flashing his fangs and darting his tongue out to catch the tip of a pointed tooth. Of course heās good ā at that, at the shameless nature of seduction, with how he looks and saunters about. Itās as irritating as itās always been, except when Gale sees Tav wander off with Astarion, he now knows exactly how they might look together, and it makes something hot twist inside him.
Once, standing stock-still by the fire as they abscond, he recalls the sound Astarion made in the water, the way he arched in the rising sun, droplets following the definition of his stomach, and has to forcibly steer his thoughts elsewhere. Is that what they get up to? No, no, back to more pleasant things, like the horrible ache in his chest or presently inevitable illithid transformation.
In a surprising turn of events, Gale finds himself accruing points in the evenings: Teaching Tav magic with his deft hands and enthusiasm. He wonders, every time, if she means to look at him with such tenderness in her eyes. One night, she sends a message so clear, even he canāt deny it, a vision imprinted on his eyelids. He hates that he thinks of his wretched exchange with Astarion when she smiles up at him impishly. This isnāt an invasion; itās an invitation.
Astarion must anticipate the danger. The truth of Galeās condition comes out, and Tav defends him with more warmth than he deserves. In the following days, Gale hates that he can feel Astarionās eyes on him in the field, watching for any slip up or embarrassment. Hoping, maybe, that heāll blow himself up with a misstep. Worse, he resents that he finds himself doing the same. Brown eyes track where Astarion disappears and reappears in battle, the way he courts injury by plunging a dagger into the gut of a hulking fighter.
Their bickering picks up at Waukeenās rest and spikes again after a nasty scuffle with spiders beneath the Blighted Village. In the former instance, Gale douses a nearly-explosive wall (and Astarion beside it) with water. In the latter, Astarion slashes a phase spider that teleports to Gale and covers them both in acid. Itās all ridiculous. Beneath him, as a former archmage and as a suitor.
Or, at least, it seems that way, until they hike into the mountains at Laeāzelās behest. Neither he nor Astarion are invited to the first few scouting parties, which Shadowheart, Laeāzel and Karlach support to considerable success. When he and Astarion are tasked with coming along to acquire items and solve a puzzle, of all things ā he enjoyed it, but it seems a waste of his conservable talent ā Gale understands that heās lost.
He catches Shadowheartās hand at the small of Tavās back, tucking her light hair behind her ear, tugging her arm to keep her from danger. Itās then that he realises he was competing in the wrong race. The same one as Astarion, humiliatingly, that would have led him to be a companion for the night and not for long after. Tav is kind enough to pull him aside that evening and declare her appreciation for his friendship. He allows it with a sad smile, promising that nothing need change. Theyāre close, after all.
And itās understandable, isnāt it? With the rate of his consumption, his increased need for rest on the road when the pain becomes too much ā he canāt be long for this life. A terribly frightening thing to cosnider, but perhaps it would be for the best, if he werenāt slowing his companions down when they venture into the Underdark.
For the night, he allows himself to languish in his foolhardiness. Ever the egoist, assuming he can have things that are far too good for him. Having pilfered a Waterdhavian red from the Kobold-infested cellar that day, he keeps it to himself. After he satisfies his duties as chef, he offers Wyll a flimsy excuse about his desire to collect potion ingredients before nightfall.
As the sun sets, he takes a seat at edge of the monasteryās crumbling roof and uncorks his spoils. No guarantee that heāll have more evenings like this now, is there. Best to make the most of them, before they clear the crĆØche and move underground.
In the quiet of the cascading light, he hears the faintest footstep. Recognition tightens his throat, and he lifts his hand to tug the collar of his spiderwebbing robe from his neck, two fingers slipping into the gap. ]
Would it qualify as a truce if we both lost before we bothered to make peace?
no subject
Once, standing stock-still by the fire as they abscond, he recalls the sound Astarion made in the water, the way he arched in the rising sun, droplets following the definition of his stomach, and has to forcibly steer his thoughts elsewhere. Is that what they get up to? No, no, back to more pleasant things, like the horrible ache in his chest or presently inevitable illithid transformation.
In a surprising turn of events, Gale finds himself accruing points in the evenings: Teaching Tav magic with his deft hands and enthusiasm. He wonders, every time, if she means to look at him with such tenderness in her eyes. One night, she sends a message so clear, even he canāt deny it, a vision imprinted on his eyelids. He hates that he thinks of his wretched exchange with Astarion when she smiles up at him impishly. This isnāt an invasion; itās an invitation.
Astarion must anticipate the danger. The truth of Galeās condition comes out, and Tav defends him with more warmth than he deserves. In the following days, Gale hates that he can feel Astarionās eyes on him in the field, watching for any slip up or embarrassment. Hoping, maybe, that heāll blow himself up with a misstep. Worse, he resents that he finds himself doing the same. Brown eyes track where Astarion disappears and reappears in battle, the way he courts injury by plunging a dagger into the gut of a hulking fighter.
Their bickering picks up at Waukeenās rest and spikes again after a nasty scuffle with spiders beneath the Blighted Village. In the former instance, Gale douses a nearly-explosive wall (and Astarion beside it) with water. In the latter, Astarion slashes a phase spider that teleports to Gale and covers them both in acid. Itās all ridiculous. Beneath him, as a former archmage and as a suitor.
Or, at least, it seems that way, until they hike into the mountains at Laeāzelās behest. Neither he nor Astarion are invited to the first few scouting parties, which Shadowheart, Laeāzel and Karlach support to considerable success. When he and Astarion are tasked with coming along to acquire items and solve a puzzle, of all things ā he enjoyed it, but it seems a waste of his conservable talent ā Gale understands that heās lost.
He catches Shadowheartās hand at the small of Tavās back, tucking her light hair behind her ear, tugging her arm to keep her from danger. Itās then that he realises he was competing in the wrong race. The same one as Astarion, humiliatingly, that would have led him to be a companion for the night and not for long after. Tav is kind enough to pull him aside that evening and declare her appreciation for his friendship. He allows it with a sad smile, promising that nothing need change. Theyāre close, after all.
And itās understandable, isnāt it? With the rate of his consumption, his increased need for rest on the road when the pain becomes too much ā he canāt be long for this life. A terribly frightening thing to cosnider, but perhaps it would be for the best, if he werenāt slowing his companions down when they venture into the Underdark.
For the night, he allows himself to languish in his foolhardiness. Ever the egoist, assuming he can have things that are far too good for him. Having pilfered a Waterdhavian red from the Kobold-infested cellar that day, he keeps it to himself. After he satisfies his duties as chef, he offers Wyll a flimsy excuse about his desire to collect potion ingredients before nightfall.
As the sun sets, he takes a seat at edge of the monasteryās crumbling roof and uncorks his spoils. No guarantee that heāll have more evenings like this now, is there. Best to make the most of them, before they clear the crĆØche and move underground.
In the quiet of the cascading light, he hears the faintest footstep. Recognition tightens his throat, and he lifts his hand to tug the collar of his spiderwebbing robe from his neck, two fingers slipping into the gap. ]
Would it qualify as a truce if we both lost before we bothered to make peace?