[ If Gale were wholly present, he’d know that Astarion was telling the truth — if only because he isn’t twisting out of his grasp or spinning pretty lies.
He isn’t present. He doesn’t know. But Gale does trust this troublesome man enough to follow him into his mind. The bracers seem less consuming in his fine hands, held by someone sated, not ravenous. As a byproduct of the exchange, the feeling of fullness helps settle Gale’s rattling person. ]
Alright. [ Closing his eyes, Gale tries to centre himself (as if by not looking at the things he wants, he can cut off the wanting itself). His words slow to a rumble, reciting Astarion’s earlier instructions like an incantation. ]
After the others have gone to bed. [ Which could be hours from now, gods above. It takes every ounce of restraint not to whine as much aloud. His grip stiffens before he unlocks it, eyes flashing. ] I’ll come to your tent.
[ Finally, he drags his hand away, sagging once more as the reality of denying himself persists. What’s a few hours after agonising days? Nothing, he tells himself, unconvinced. Nothing at all. ]
[ The thread between them slackens again, and Astarion feels less like he's unwittingly tipped himself into the lap of something dangerous and hungry. And Gale is dangerous, for all that he doesn't always look the part. Astarion's lived under the thumb of a powerful wizard for the past two centuries, and he's seen Gale's command of a battlefield with barely a fraction of Cazador's power. Best to stay on his good side.
Gale looks pained, almost hollowed as he relinquishes his grip on the necklace. Astarion tells himself it's neither pity nor compassion nor genuine desire that makes him catch Gale's chin in his hand, kissing him softly before stepping back, away from the riverbank. It's just subduing a mark. The little tug of want he feels can't be real. ]
You're good at this part, aren't you? The waiting.
[ In the moments after the kiss (the second kiss Astarion has deemed him worthy of, for whatever strange reasons), his expression does something complicated. Surprise fades into appreciation, all his tired lines softening.
The commendation of his skills in this particularly pathetic arena startles a laugh from his throat, airy and bitter. ]
Oh, I’m an old hand at it, I suppose.
[ The waiting, the wanting. He spent his youth in the throes of devotion to his studies, to Mystra, to the Weave itself. Hadn’t he been elated to prostrate himself — at his goddesses’ beck and call? Even in the stretches where another Chosen held her fancy. ]
But I’ve found that growing accustomed to something — even mastering it — does not make it any more tolerable. [ A truth that surely applies to both their hungers. Turning away, he presses his hands into the dirt. ] Merely familiar.
[ He’ll wait out the hunger pangs alone, as before. Their companions already know his inclination toward melancholy; they’ll leave him be. ]
[ Whatever remains of Astarion's heart just can't handle Gale looking at him like that. Like Astarion's done him a kindness, like there might be more of them to come. He's an irritatingly handsome man who inarguably deserves better than whatever this is, but Astarion swallows the urge to blurt that out. ]
See you tonight.
[ With a theatrical bow, before he slips back to camp.
Astarion manages to put any sympathy hunger pangs out of mind as he retreats to his tent for the night, the party slowly dispersing to their corners of camp over the next few hours until finally the fire is little more than ash, and the moonless night is as dark as they get. Whenever Gale comes knocking, he'll find Astarion propped on one of his throw pillows outside his tent, reading a book by the light of a pilfered bronze candelabra. (Pay no heed to the bloodstains and filthy rags visible through the open flap; Astarion isn't exactly used to keeping a tidy house, nor entertaining guests and allowing them to leave alive.) ]
[ Once the noise has quieted, and the light has faded, Gale drags himself from the riverside. He never bothered returning to his tent to change into his camp clothes, still fully dressed in his wizard’s robes when he finds Astarion alone. At least he channelled his precious, dwindling energy into casting prestidigitation on his person, so he doesn’t smell of ash or blood.
Hard not to feel a touch embarrassed by his earlier wretchedness, at the sight of Astarion stretched out before him (waiting, as promised). Gale’s desperate actions have ruined entanglements built on stronger foundations — years of devotion to soften damnation into exile, as a consequence.
On approach, he nudges Astation’s leg with the toe of his boot, having reforged some of his control in the intervening hours. ]
You’ve hidden your acquisition. [ The necklace. His mouth quirks into a tired smile. A peace offering. ] Good. I doubt the heroes among us would let either of us keep hold of it.
[ Neither of them is trusted with such things. The Necromancy of Thay has remained safe in their leader’s pack, after all, despite their dual pestering. ]
[ Astarion notices him approach, of course, but still finishes the page of his book after Gale nudges his calf like a schoolboy, quirking a brow when he finally looks up at him. ]
Are you not a hero, Gale? [ It's teasing as Astarion sets his book down and gets deftly to his feet, deliberately standing toe to toe with him, right in his space. If Astarion's honest, he takes issue with Tav's unwavering need to do good everywhere they go, but they are at least a reasonably capable leader.
Gale does some good, but he is wavering. Which makes him interesting. And Astarion can appreciate his pragmatic approach to tactics over a loftily moral one.
Gale has height on him, but that makes it all the more satisfying to catch him a little off-guard, a hair's breath from pressing chest to chest and hip to hip as Astarion tilts his head to appraise him, murmuring. ] I suppose that's what gives your blood such... flavor.
[ And then he's turning to dip under his tent flap, expecting Gale to follow. ]
[ A hitch in his breath, at their sudden closeness. Astarion keeps pulling the same trick and, worse, it keeps working. He’d like to put its effectiveness down to his extended seclusion, but there’s something to it being Astarion bothering to menace him, after clearly not finding him interesting at first.
There’s novelty now in realising that he’s a bit taller, too, for all Astarion has towered over him, of late. His attention inevitably flickers to Astarion’s mouth, lashes low.
Gods, he’s starving, looking adrift the moment Astarion turns away. It takes him a moment to recalibrate and follow after. ]
[ dryly, ] I think that’s the forbidden magics, actually. [ which is, incidentally, the reason he can no longer claim heroism. It isn’t that he views himself as morally subpar, exactly, but he sees why his folly and over-intellectualising has cost him trust. ] And that flavour seems to have aided you in the field today.
[ After making him giddy last night. Leverage, of a kind. ]
i know i said the bracers were leather in a previous tag but i forgot so i am retconning
[ So far, Astarion hasn't noticed any less-than-agreeable side effects after imbibing magical blood; if anything, Gale is right that he was quicker on his feet than usual. Which means he's perfectly willing to continue this little arrangement for the foreseeable future. ]
Certainly helped me snatch you a few treats, didn't it?
[ Astarion's knelt on the floor of his tent, and unfolds a dingy blanket to reveal the silver bracers. Remarkably undamaged by the fire, all things considered. ]
All yours.
this is the new reality this is how it has always been
[ All white-hot need coiled low in his gut, licking up his insides, Gale has meagre resistance on tap. A temporary hesitation, prolonged by a forcibly discerning look between his prize and Astarion’s nimble fingers. Quick enough to snatch them away, if it amuses (and he seems to find Gale awfully amusing, these days).
With far less grace, he drops to his knees opposite Astarion. His single-minded focus subsumes the creak of his bones. ]
Certainly. [ A faraway echo. His world has narrowed to a single point, the thing he’s needed for days, hollow and aching. Before he realises, he finds his arm extended, fingertips grazing the metal. Oh, that will do just fine. ]
I’m not inclined to play with my food. [ Implying that Astarion is, obviously. Gale very much wants to ask if Astarion means it, if this can truly be given and destroyed, without having to, well, ask. ] Are you done toying with yours?
[ Gale is watching Astarion like Astarion's the rogue he is--like he'll deny Gale this, too. While power is a heady thing, he'd be a poor tactician if he thought leaving their wizard to rot another day was a good idea.
He's a little surprised Tav has, honestly. Though they do have a whole party's worth of bizarre little problems to juggle. ]
We've barely scratched the surface of how I play with my food, darling.
[ With a cool smile, as he sits back on his sad little pillow, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other knee bent, elbow resting on it. Astarion is realizing he's never actually watched Gale do this before: Tav usually takes careful inventory of their assets and brings Gale his dinner privately.
He flourishes a hand, palm up, toward the bracers. ]
But I have no interest in further denying you tonight. [ Unlike your goddess, is what he doesn't say. ] Go on, then.
[ At once, the thread of tension holding Gale upright snaps and he sinks deeper, sat back on his knees. It’s not comfortable, but this never is. ]
I dare not imagine your depravity. [ murmured to himself, as he takes a bracer in each hand, testing the weight and power of the things. A fleeting thought: He ought to warn Astarion. It can be unsettling, to watch him rattle apart, arcane power dissembling into pure weave on his skin. It had been upsetting for Tara, at any rate, when his condition first demanded treatment.
It’s too late, the braces held to his chest like treasured things, silver glancing off the orb’s mark — then gone in a burst of violet light. His Netherese brand glows, vibrant from his sternum up the taut muscles of his neck. The force of it unbalances him, pushed deeper onto his heels, back arched and hands scrabbling for purchase. ]
Ah — hah, that’s a relief. [ It’s such a rapid, overwhelming act, that he stumbles in the come down. Never has he been so close the precipice. It was reckless to allow it, but for all his chatter, he’s never quite managed to put the pain of his arcane hunger into words. Even the danger, he fears he undersold, for want of a place in this group.
On a rush of an exhale, his entire body slackens. Gale blinks until he can see clearly again, dragging a hand through his beard and over his face, then carding back into his hair to soothe away the aftershocks. The effect of consumption is immediate, searing pain dulled to a manageable sting. ]
Thank you, Astarion. [ Surer, a warm flush where his cheeks had been sallow for days. ] You’ve — [ no idea? ] Well, I suppose you’ve every idea, what this means for me.
[ For a moment, the entire tent crackles with power. Astarion will be shocked if it hasn't lit a beacon for the rest of the party to discern exactly what's happening here; but he also knows from his own late night prowling that the flood of purple light must not be so conspicuous, or he'd have clocked Gale's mealtimes before now.
Astarion has watched more than a lifetime's worth of suffering--and pleasure, always in the service of pain--but the magic held in precarious balance in Gale's body is something new to behold. He feels like he's watching something vulnerable, and for once isn't dissociated around it.
Cracked open, he thinks, and his fingers flex against his knee. Somewhere, there's a goddess who once thought Gale a very interesting little ant, and now he's living with the profound consequences of one moment of her attention.
Can he blame her? Gale is lovely on his knees. So very human, despite his brush with the divine. But for all that Astarion covets power, the cruelty of the gods is something else. ]
It's different though, isn't it? [ Watching the color bloom again on Gale's skin, lifeblood that is his instead of something stolen. Astarion's expression is serious as he drinks him in, not masquerading as predator or charlatan. ] I can go quite a long while without blood. It's not pleasant, but it's possible.
[ Cazador loved to deny them. And when he wasn't denying them, they were fed worse than scraps. ]
I don't know what it is to be alive on the knife's edge of death. I haven't felt alive in a very long time.
[ It’s rather curious the way Astarion watches him now, alight with neither amusement nor disapproval. Gale finds that he has to look away, thumbing his earring as he turns to take in this space properly, for the first time. His senses return to him slowly, the metallic tang of blood coming from somewhere nearby — an unsightly mess, when Astarion seems to pride himself on his coiffed appearance outwith this space.
Absentmindedly, he hushes a spell that cleanses the area, stains dissipating, the smell of fresh parchment in the air. He catches Astarion’s gaze again only at the admission of understanding — there is but one explanation for why Astarion knows hunger intimately, and it twists his insides into brambles. Somewhere in Baldur’s Gate, there is a vampire lord waiting to reclaim him. Gale swears he’ll not find Astarion alone.
His expression shifts, neutral in his consideration of their similarities and differences. Strange, that Gale should be more alive for winding nearer and nearer to a permanent death, with Astarion stuck in limbo. No matter how his strength surges as he recoils from the jagged ledge, he always finds himself closer to the abyss than he was the last time, unable to regain lost ground. One storm, a rush of slanting rain to upset his footing, and he’ll fall. Even now, so freshly sated, a hollow ache builds in his chest. For all his cleverness, he is almost certainly running out of time. ]
I could show you. [ He taps his temple, indicating their connection. ] If you truly wished to know.
[ His tent suddenly smells very much like Gale--not just the crackling ozone from that surge of magic, but also parchment and warm, time-weathered skin. He wonders what Gale might look like, if he actually had years ahead of him rather than two potential time bombs inside, the orb and their shared problem of the worm.
Humans go so quickly. Spawn tend to be turned during their prime, and age never marks them thereafter. Astarion feels a tenderness he can't look at straight-on for the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of Gale's eyes, the faint wisps of grey at his temples. They make him real, and they make something ache in him, like thumbing a bruise.
Astarion might bristle at his territory being marked under different circumstances--because cleaning it means Gale noticed the filth, the familiar squalor he lets himself live in--but strangely, he doesn't mind this tonight. Their transaction is technically done, but he considers the offer, curiosity drawing him in.
Maybe more than curiosity. A desire for closeness, to not be left alone to brood in his clean, Gale-scented tent for the rest of the night. But he won't look at that straight-on, either. ]
Why not. [ Astarion extends a hand, even though they technically don't need to touch for this, his voice soft. ] We've given each other stranger things.
[ Part of him expects a rejection, despite the softness rounding Astarion’s eyes. Their scales have been balanced, for the time being. Anything else is surplus to requirements.
That Astarion seems intrigued by the very thing he sought to rid himself of — well, it’s a novelty. Confronted with Astarion now, Gale finds that he may have valued his humanity too cheaply. ]
True. [ His fingers catch on the mark at his throat, unable to keep his thoughts on track. ] But this will be less pleasant than my previous gift. [ His intoxicating blood doesn’t agree with him in the same way it does Astarion, to be sure. ]
[ Gale scoots closer. Without hesitation, he takes Astarion’s hand and brings it to the vee of his robes, pressing it flat against chest (over his heart, as well as the orb encasing it in blackest weave).
His eyes shutter — the tadpole seems pleased to be used, to invite another inside — and he tries to grasp the moments before the fall. A time of power that dwarfs his present weakness, unfettered by the blight. There. He’s so breathlessly alive, blood and Mystral weave coursing through his veins.
He turns the corridor in his mind and finds himself in a decrepit place. The bound book in his hand seethes, begging to be opened — a fragment of something too unreal to take shape in his mind’s eye becomes part of him before he can snap the tome shut. His face twists, in the present. The thing’s razored teeth, its demanding claws tear his insides, an unstoppable force that hollows him out, gorging on the weave until it can take the place of what was lost, leaving him near-death. The hunger rises alongside it, swift and all-consuming. His fingers curl around Astarion’s, holding his hand in place — suddenly, the memory of them threaded through his curls, silver-soft, supplants the nightmare. Just as quickly, Gale closes the door. ]
[ Astarion knows that this connection will leave an opening for Gale to root around in his memories, as well. Some of their party are quicker to share these things than others; Astarion would prefer to keep his own door under lock and key.
The momentary feeling of power is intoxicating, pleasure and strength coursing through him as if it were his own. Of everyone in their party, Astarion might understand Gale's fall the most--chasing undiluted power like it will change everything, having a taste and wanting more. Others might blame him for it, and Gale seems ever-ready to take whatever judgment is meted. Astarion, ironically, isn't one to judge.
But that pleasure is momentary. Aliveness is only truly felt when pinned against its opposite, and as Gale shares his own precipice, something in Astarion's mind unlocks itself, shudders forward.
The walls of a dark alley, stone spattered with his blood. Broken ribs, a lung collapsing, no god to answer or even bring him a swifter mercy than a slow succumbing to internal bleeding, bones splintered and puncturing everything soft inside him.
Only another shadow darkening the alleyway, and an even longer death ahead. Blood filling his mouth when he'd tried to call for help, blood in his mouth forevermore.
Their twin hunger is too much for a mind or body to hold. And then Gale's hand is an anchor, and they're back at the edge of the fire, fingers tangled in his hair. Astarion feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him as Gale slams their connection shut. ]
Just when we were getting to the good part.
[ The dry humor he'd normally inject doesn't make it past his lips. He doesn't move his hand from Gale's heart, knowing if he does his body will betray him, the tremor he's holding steady barely kept at bay.
His eyes are wet. He feels it, and so he keeps them shut, head bowed slightly between them. ]
[ Astarion is with him, slender fingers turning those cursed pages, until he isn’t. Until they’re both in an alley, gasping for air with punctured lungs. Gods above, he knows what that must be (when that must be). It’s different because Gale manufactured his end with his own wanting hands.
For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.
Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.
But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]
That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]
[ Gale is being kind to him, tender with him. Astarion only knows one way for tenderness to end: his body at the end of a lure, dragging the sweetest morsels back to his master. He feels the unending march of that even now, even when there's nothing for him to obey. Impossible to imagine a different ending when you've never experienced one.
Astarion wasn't a good man in life. He's certainly not a good man now. Perhaps both of them deserve whatever consequences live inside them, and neither deserve sympathy. But he leans into this, anyway. Curls his free hand at Gale's hip as he rests his head against his shoulder, so close to the closed wound at his throat. He's still full from last night, but he listens to Gale's pulse all the same, perhaps to distract from the knowledge that his eyelashes are leaving Gale's robes a little damp. ]
Ha. [ It's all he manages for a moment, fingers flexing in Gale's hand. ]
It's strange to see myself, you know. In someone else's memory. [ Closest he'll ever get to a mirror, though Gale didn't show him much. ]
[ Astarion’s hand at his hip allows him to relax, just a touch. Gale’s desperate clasp loosens to a gentle hold, thumb arcing over his knuckles. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, exactly, only that he’s doing it — rusty as he may be in the physical plane, he’s not unfamiliar with such affection. ]
I hadn’t realised. [ That vampires and their spawn do lose their reflections, denied self-image. So much of the literature on the topic is tawdry. Few have known spawn and lived to write of it, after all. His fingers tap, tap, tap against Astarion’s hand, considering. A knot to untangle, a problem to solve. He has to stay his thoughts to keep them from running away from him, towards things Astarion hasn’t asked for. Stay here.
His chin drops, nosing dangerously close to Astarion’s hair. Just as soft as it was last night. A shade lighter, without the warmth of the fire to colour it. How much had Astarion seen, anyway? Just that moment of closeness, or the way Gale hadn’t been able to look away from his pale skin, wondering if all vampires were alluring or if it was just this particular one, teasing him so.
[ Gale's easy affection does make him want to crawl properly into his lap again. On the one hand, he hardly knows what to do with this--what are they doing?--but there's also a starving part of him that wants to lap it right up, keep Gale in his tent until morning.
Wouldn't that be the talk of the camp.
Astarion lifts his head, Gale so close that their noses nearly bump when he does. The spark is back in his eyes as he drags his thumb over Gale's hip, his lips curving. ]
Devilishly handsome? Irresistible? By your measure, at least.
[ Whatever sweet lull they’d fallen into has passed. Astarion returns to himself with remarkable skill and without preamble. The sudden pivot gives Gale a slight startle, eyebrows lifting.
It feels very much as though he’s been caught looking in the memory and touching in the present, doubly damned by his unsubtle desires. A hot flush rises from his throat to his cheeks, hyper-aware of Astarion’s hands on him. ]
You can’t have got all that from the back of your head. [ Although it means having to slip his hand from those lovely curls, he cuffs Astarion on the ear playfully to emphasise the point. ]
[ This is much easier for Astarion than the vulnerability they'd just skirted--no, not even skirted, that they had been in together. The shift feels dishonest, but Astarion has never been an honest man.
Though Astarion isn't faking interest. He'd nearly bedded a tiefling during the party after the whole Grove fiasco--the blacksmith helping Karlach with her engine, quietly handsome--but ultimately they just shared a few wine-drenched kisses in the woods and parted ways. He'd paid attention to the others that night, the way Tav and Karlach had slipped away together, Lae'zel pinning her sights on a flustered Wyll. Gale had remained alone.
Astarion doesn't particularly want to discard Gale, and he also doesn't know what that means; or what it means to want to linger with him even if they're not fucking. It feels dangerous to think about that right now, so instead he makes a displeased noise as Gale cuffs his ear, disentangling their threaded fingers so he can splay that hand properly against Gale's chest, thumb drifting under the vee of his robes and rubbing against skin. ]
Why don't you tell me what you see, then. In generous detail.
[ Even without the warmth that should accompany it, the feeling of Astarion slipping his hand beneath his robes, brushing over his heart-centre, heats his skin.
With his hands free, he shifts to sit back more comfortably. Because if he doesn’t mishandle this — a real possibility — he might get to stay for a little while. Gale has always liked this part most of all, the closeness that comes after intimacy of any kind. His hands find Astarion’s hips, tentative then sure, and Gale pulls him onto his lap. It’s more comfortable than leaning over each other, and it’s much easier to see Astarion like this, besides — vaulted above Gale just so. ]
A bard would do you more justice. [ At once teasing and self-deprecating. Ever dutiful, Gale does tip back to regard Astarion. Mildly, then — ] You’ve seen your hair. [ And felt just how much Gale wanted to run his fingers through it then and now. ]
I don’t know how you get it like that without a mirror. [ Mumbled half to himself, when Gale only bothers to brush his hair or tie it back, depending on the task at hand. ] It frames your face nicely. [ Softening all his hard, macabre angles. ] And at the risk of encouraging your vanity, you are — striking. [ Handsome seems inadequate. He clears his throat. ] I was trying very hard not to look at you today. [ A silly thing to do and a sillier thing to admit, when he doubts Astarion noticed. ] Which amounts to same thing as just looking.
[ Because he was so conscious of it, all stray thoughts turned to the exact thing he was avoiding. Astarion had his attention, regardless. ]
[ There is a small and private part of Astarion that doesn't want a bard's embellishments, anyway. Gale's lap is warm--the second time in one day they've found themselves in this position--and as Gale pulls him closer, Astarion winds his arms around his neck, nails very deliberately brushing the bite mark on their way to his nape.
He's watching Gale's face as he speaks, and despite his practice following a thread of compliments to easy preening, Astarion finds himself following the tug of truth instead. Exceedingly dangerous, and not something he's used to. ]
Oh, I noticed. [ The not-looking. He does smile a little, fingers trailing back to the bite at his throat, though his gaze holds Gale's. ] I thought perhaps you regretted this.
[ A little thrill up his spine, at the feeling of Astarion touching the bite mark, intentional or not. He tries not to think about how much lighter he feels at having someone — at having Astarion — nestled close. Before Mystra and the orb, he’d been a social creature. A tactile one, even. The sudden (and eventually unavoidable) implosion of his person has led him to curtail all but his most essential relationships. ]
You noticed. [ As if that possibility hadn’t crossed his mind. He hadn’t thought that he would be caught in the act, certainly, or that his bashfulness might make Astarion doubt his intentions. It seems doubly foolish now, with Astarion touching the bite again. On purpose, surely. The apple of his throat bobs. ]
I’m not quite accustomed to… [ He tries and fails at a gesture to explain his jumbled thoughts. Could say he’s the courting kind, so this is all out of order, but that would imply they’re travelling towards an end beyond… mutual satiation. ]
But I don’t have any regrets. [ Nevermind that he almost did, by the riverside. He cants his head obligingly, even though Astarion might only mean to keep touching his bruised throat. ] And I wouldn’t be opposed to continuing, as we are.
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corporeity) wrote2023-12-15 07:38 pm
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He isn’t present. He doesn’t know. But Gale does trust this troublesome man enough to follow him into his mind. The bracers seem less consuming in his fine hands, held by someone sated, not ravenous. As a byproduct of the exchange, the feeling of fullness helps settle Gale’s rattling person. ]
Alright. [ Closing his eyes, Gale tries to centre himself (as if by not looking at the things he wants, he can cut off the wanting itself). His words slow to a rumble, reciting Astarion’s earlier instructions like an incantation. ]
After the others have gone to bed. [ Which could be hours from now, gods above. It takes every ounce of restraint not to whine as much aloud. His grip stiffens before he unlocks it, eyes flashing. ] I’ll come to your tent.
[ Finally, he drags his hand away, sagging once more as the reality of denying himself persists. What’s a few hours after agonising days? Nothing, he tells himself, unconvinced. Nothing at all. ]
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Gale looks pained, almost hollowed as he relinquishes his grip on the necklace. Astarion tells himself it's neither pity nor compassion nor genuine desire that makes him catch Gale's chin in his hand, kissing him softly before stepping back, away from the riverbank. It's just subduing a mark. The little tug of want he feels can't be real. ]
You're good at this part, aren't you? The waiting.
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The commendation of his skills in this particularly pathetic arena startles a laugh from his throat, airy and bitter. ]
Oh, I’m an old hand at it, I suppose.
[ The waiting, the wanting. He spent his youth in the throes of devotion to his studies, to Mystra, to the Weave itself. Hadn’t he been elated to prostrate himself — at his goddesses’ beck and call? Even in the stretches where another Chosen held her fancy. ]
But I’ve found that growing accustomed to something — even mastering it — does not make it any more tolerable. [ A truth that surely applies to both their hungers. Turning away, he presses his hands into the dirt. ] Merely familiar.
[ He’ll wait out the hunger pangs alone, as before. Their companions already know his inclination toward melancholy; they’ll leave him be. ]
no subject
See you tonight.
[ With a theatrical bow, before he slips back to camp.
Astarion manages to put any sympathy hunger pangs out of mind as he retreats to his tent for the night, the party slowly dispersing to their corners of camp over the next few hours until finally the fire is little more than ash, and the moonless night is as dark as they get. Whenever Gale comes knocking, he'll find Astarion propped on one of his throw pillows outside his tent, reading a book by the light of a pilfered bronze candelabra. (Pay no heed to the bloodstains and filthy rags visible through the open flap; Astarion isn't exactly used to keeping a tidy house, nor entertaining guests and allowing them to leave alive.) ]
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Hard not to feel a touch embarrassed by his earlier wretchedness, at the sight of Astarion stretched out before him (waiting, as promised). Gale’s desperate actions have ruined entanglements built on stronger foundations — years of devotion to soften damnation into exile, as a consequence.
On approach, he nudges Astation’s leg with the toe of his boot, having reforged some of his control in the intervening hours. ]
You’ve hidden your acquisition. [ The necklace. His mouth quirks into a tired smile. A peace offering. ] Good. I doubt the heroes among us would let either of us keep hold of it.
[ Neither of them is trusted with such things. The Necromancy of Thay has remained safe in their leader’s pack, after all, despite their dual pestering. ]
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Are you not a hero, Gale? [ It's teasing as Astarion sets his book down and gets deftly to his feet, deliberately standing toe to toe with him, right in his space. If Astarion's honest, he takes issue with Tav's unwavering need to do good everywhere they go, but they are at least a reasonably capable leader.
Gale does some good, but he is wavering. Which makes him interesting. And Astarion can appreciate his pragmatic approach to tactics over a loftily moral one.
Gale has height on him, but that makes it all the more satisfying to catch him a little off-guard, a hair's breath from pressing chest to chest and hip to hip as Astarion tilts his head to appraise him, murmuring. ] I suppose that's what gives your blood such... flavor.
[ And then he's turning to dip under his tent flap, expecting Gale to follow. ]
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There’s novelty now in realising that he’s a bit taller, too, for all Astarion has towered over him, of late. His attention inevitably flickers to Astarion’s mouth, lashes low.
Gods, he’s starving, looking adrift the moment Astarion turns away. It takes him a moment to recalibrate and follow after. ]
[ dryly, ] I think that’s the forbidden magics, actually. [ which is, incidentally, the reason he can no longer claim heroism. It isn’t that he views himself as morally subpar, exactly, but he sees why his folly and over-intellectualising has cost him trust. ] And that flavour seems to have aided you in the field today.
[ After making him giddy last night. Leverage, of a kind. ]
i know i said the bracers were leather in a previous tag but i forgot so i am retconning
Certainly helped me snatch you a few treats, didn't it?
[ Astarion's knelt on the floor of his tent, and unfolds a dingy blanket to reveal the silver bracers. Remarkably undamaged by the fire, all things considered. ]
All yours.
this is the new reality this is how it has always been
With far less grace, he drops to his knees opposite Astarion. His single-minded focus subsumes the creak of his bones. ]
Certainly. [ A faraway echo. His world has narrowed to a single point, the thing he’s needed for days, hollow and aching. Before he realises, he finds his arm extended, fingertips grazing the metal. Oh, that will do just fine. ]
I’m not inclined to play with my food. [ Implying that Astarion is, obviously. Gale very much wants to ask if Astarion means it, if this can truly be given and destroyed, without having to, well, ask. ] Are you done toying with yours?
[ With him. ]
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He's a little surprised Tav has, honestly. Though they do have a whole party's worth of bizarre little problems to juggle. ]
We've barely scratched the surface of how I play with my food, darling.
[ With a cool smile, as he sits back on his sad little pillow, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other knee bent, elbow resting on it. Astarion is realizing he's never actually watched Gale do this before: Tav usually takes careful inventory of their assets and brings Gale his dinner privately.
He flourishes a hand, palm up, toward the bracers. ]
But I have no interest in further denying you tonight. [ Unlike your goddess, is what he doesn't say. ] Go on, then.
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I dare not imagine your depravity. [ murmured to himself, as he takes a bracer in each hand, testing the weight and power of the things. A fleeting thought: He ought to warn Astarion. It can be unsettling, to watch him rattle apart, arcane power dissembling into pure weave on his skin. It had been upsetting for Tara, at any rate, when his condition first demanded treatment.
It’s too late, the braces held to his chest like treasured things, silver glancing off the orb’s mark — then gone in a burst of violet light. His Netherese brand glows, vibrant from his sternum up the taut muscles of his neck. The force of it unbalances him, pushed deeper onto his heels, back arched and hands scrabbling for purchase. ]
Ah — hah, that’s a relief. [ It’s such a rapid, overwhelming act, that he stumbles in the come down. Never has he been so close the precipice. It was reckless to allow it, but for all his chatter, he’s never quite managed to put the pain of his arcane hunger into words. Even the danger, he fears he undersold, for want of a place in this group.
On a rush of an exhale, his entire body slackens. Gale blinks until he can see clearly again, dragging a hand through his beard and over his face, then carding back into his hair to soothe away the aftershocks. The effect of consumption is immediate, searing pain dulled to a manageable sting. ]
Thank you, Astarion. [ Surer, a warm flush where his cheeks had been sallow for days. ] You’ve — [ no idea? ] Well, I suppose you’ve every idea, what this means for me.
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Astarion has watched more than a lifetime's worth of suffering--and pleasure, always in the service of pain--but the magic held in precarious balance in Gale's body is something new to behold. He feels like he's watching something vulnerable, and for once isn't dissociated around it.
Cracked open, he thinks, and his fingers flex against his knee. Somewhere, there's a goddess who once thought Gale a very interesting little ant, and now he's living with the profound consequences of one moment of her attention.
Can he blame her? Gale is lovely on his knees. So very human, despite his brush with the divine. But for all that Astarion covets power, the cruelty of the gods is something else. ]
It's different though, isn't it? [ Watching the color bloom again on Gale's skin, lifeblood that is his instead of something stolen. Astarion's expression is serious as he drinks him in, not masquerading as predator or charlatan. ] I can go quite a long while without blood. It's not pleasant, but it's possible.
[ Cazador loved to deny them. And when he wasn't denying them, they were fed worse than scraps. ]
I don't know what it is to be alive on the knife's edge of death. I haven't felt alive in a very long time.
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Absentmindedly, he hushes a spell that cleanses the area, stains dissipating, the smell of fresh parchment in the air. He catches Astarion’s gaze again only at the admission of understanding — there is but one explanation for why Astarion knows hunger intimately, and it twists his insides into brambles. Somewhere in Baldur’s Gate, there is a vampire lord waiting to reclaim him. Gale swears he’ll not find Astarion alone.
His expression shifts, neutral in his consideration of their similarities and differences. Strange, that Gale should be more alive for winding nearer and nearer to a permanent death, with Astarion stuck in limbo. No matter how his strength surges as he recoils from the jagged ledge, he always finds himself closer to the abyss than he was the last time, unable to regain lost ground. One storm, a rush of slanting rain to upset his footing, and he’ll fall. Even now, so freshly sated, a hollow ache builds in his chest. For all his cleverness, he is almost certainly running out of time. ]
I could show you. [ He taps his temple, indicating their connection. ] If you truly wished to know.
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Humans go so quickly. Spawn tend to be turned during their prime, and age never marks them thereafter. Astarion feels a tenderness he can't look at straight-on for the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of Gale's eyes, the faint wisps of grey at his temples. They make him real, and they make something ache in him, like thumbing a bruise.
Astarion might bristle at his territory being marked under different circumstances--because cleaning it means Gale noticed the filth, the familiar squalor he lets himself live in--but strangely, he doesn't mind this tonight. Their transaction is technically done, but he considers the offer, curiosity drawing him in.
Maybe more than curiosity. A desire for closeness, to not be left alone to brood in his clean, Gale-scented tent for the rest of the night. But he won't look at that straight-on, either. ]
Why not. [ Astarion extends a hand, even though they technically don't need to touch for this, his voice soft. ] We've given each other stranger things.
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That Astarion seems intrigued by the very thing he sought to rid himself of — well, it’s a novelty. Confronted with Astarion now, Gale finds that he may have valued his humanity too cheaply. ]
True. [ His fingers catch on the mark at his throat, unable to keep his thoughts on track. ] But this will be less pleasant than my previous gift. [ His intoxicating blood doesn’t agree with him in the same way it does Astarion, to be sure. ]
[ Gale scoots closer. Without hesitation, he takes Astarion’s hand and brings it to the vee of his robes, pressing it flat against chest (over his heart, as well as the orb encasing it in blackest weave).
His eyes shutter — the tadpole seems pleased to be used, to invite another inside — and he tries to grasp the moments before the fall. A time of power that dwarfs his present weakness, unfettered by the blight. There. He’s so breathlessly alive, blood and Mystral weave coursing through his veins.
He turns the corridor in his mind and finds himself in a decrepit place. The bound book in his hand seethes, begging to be opened — a fragment of something too unreal to take shape in his mind’s eye becomes part of him before he can snap the tome shut. His face twists, in the present. The thing’s razored teeth, its demanding claws tear his insides, an unstoppable force that hollows him out, gorging on the weave until it can take the place of what was lost, leaving him near-death. The hunger rises alongside it, swift and all-consuming. His fingers curl around Astarion’s, holding his hand in place — suddenly, the memory of them threaded through his curls, silver-soft, supplants the nightmare. Just as quickly, Gale closes the door. ]
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The momentary feeling of power is intoxicating, pleasure and strength coursing through him as if it were his own. Of everyone in their party, Astarion might understand Gale's fall the most--chasing undiluted power like it will change everything, having a taste and wanting more. Others might blame him for it, and Gale seems ever-ready to take whatever judgment is meted. Astarion, ironically, isn't one to judge.
But that pleasure is momentary. Aliveness is only truly felt when pinned against its opposite, and as Gale shares his own precipice, something in Astarion's mind unlocks itself, shudders forward.
The walls of a dark alley, stone spattered with his blood. Broken ribs, a lung collapsing, no god to answer or even bring him a swifter mercy than a slow succumbing to internal bleeding, bones splintered and puncturing everything soft inside him.
Only another shadow darkening the alleyway, and an even longer death ahead. Blood filling his mouth when he'd tried to call for help, blood in his mouth forevermore.
Their twin hunger is too much for a mind or body to hold. And then Gale's hand is an anchor, and they're back at the edge of the fire, fingers tangled in his hair. Astarion feels like he's had the wind knocked out of him as Gale slams their connection shut. ]
Just when we were getting to the good part.
[ The dry humor he'd normally inject doesn't make it past his lips. He doesn't move his hand from Gale's heart, knowing if he does his body will betray him, the tremor he's holding steady barely kept at bay.
His eyes are wet. He feels it, and so he keeps them shut, head bowed slightly between them. ]
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For Astarion to die so horribly, so alone, and find himself resurrected at the whims of another: There’s no reasoning for it. No higher purpose. It rankles, a bitter taste in his mouth. The gods care not for mortal woes. He knows that now.
Even with their tether snapped, Gale can’t imagine letting go of Astarion’s hand, kept safe in his grasp. He leans forward and lifts his other hand, hovering before he commits to the idea — the memory — that never left his head. His fingers thread through Astarion’s curls again, guiding him close enough that his forehead will tip into Gale’s shoulder, if he doesn’t resist the movement. It’s not quite holding. It’s not quite anything.
But he’s there, breath warm at Astarion’s ear. ]
That’s a low threshold to clear. [ In reference to this being the good part in comparison to…what? A prolongued, tortuous death? The shadow weave eroding your very essence? Gale avoids admitting to himself and Astarion both that it was absolutely good enough to be the place that he fled to on instinct. ]
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Astarion wasn't a good man in life. He's certainly not a good man now. Perhaps both of them deserve whatever consequences live inside them, and neither deserve sympathy. But he leans into this, anyway. Curls his free hand at Gale's hip as he rests his head against his shoulder, so close to the closed wound at his throat. He's still full from last night, but he listens to Gale's pulse all the same, perhaps to distract from the knowledge that his eyelashes are leaving Gale's robes a little damp. ]
Ha. [ It's all he manages for a moment, fingers flexing in Gale's hand. ]
It's strange to see myself, you know. In someone else's memory. [ Closest he'll ever get to a mirror, though Gale didn't show him much. ]
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I hadn’t realised. [ That vampires and their spawn do lose their reflections, denied self-image. So much of the literature on the topic is tawdry. Few have known spawn and lived to write of it, after all. His fingers tap, tap, tap against Astarion’s hand, considering. A knot to untangle, a problem to solve. He has to stay his thoughts to keep them from running away from him, towards things Astarion hasn’t asked for. Stay here.
His chin drops, nosing dangerously close to Astarion’s hair. Just as soft as it was last night. A shade lighter, without the warmth of the fire to colour it. How much had Astarion seen, anyway? Just that moment of closeness, or the way Gale hadn’t been able to look away from his pale skin, wondering if all vampires were alluring or if it was just this particular one, teasing him so.
When he speaks again, his voice is a low burr. ]
Are you…as you imagined?
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Wouldn't that be the talk of the camp.
Astarion lifts his head, Gale so close that their noses nearly bump when he does. The spark is back in his eyes as he drags his thumb over Gale's hip, his lips curving. ]
Devilishly handsome? Irresistible? By your measure, at least.
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It feels very much as though he’s been caught looking in the memory and touching in the present, doubly damned by his unsubtle desires. A hot flush rises from his throat to his cheeks, hyper-aware of Astarion’s hands on him. ]
You can’t have got all that from the back of your head. [ Although it means having to slip his hand from those lovely curls, he cuffs Astarion on the ear playfully to emphasise the point. ]
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Though Astarion isn't faking interest. He'd nearly bedded a tiefling during the party after the whole Grove fiasco--the blacksmith helping Karlach with her engine, quietly handsome--but ultimately they just shared a few wine-drenched kisses in the woods and parted ways. He'd paid attention to the others that night, the way Tav and Karlach had slipped away together, Lae'zel pinning her sights on a flustered Wyll. Gale had remained alone.
Astarion doesn't particularly want to discard Gale, and he also doesn't know what that means; or what it means to want to linger with him even if they're not fucking. It feels dangerous to think about that right now, so instead he makes a displeased noise as Gale cuffs his ear, disentangling their threaded fingers so he can splay that hand properly against Gale's chest, thumb drifting under the vee of his robes and rubbing against skin. ]
Why don't you tell me what you see, then. In generous detail.
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With his hands free, he shifts to sit back more comfortably. Because if he doesn’t mishandle this — a real possibility — he might get to stay for a little while. Gale has always liked this part most of all, the closeness that comes after intimacy of any kind. His hands find Astarion’s hips, tentative then sure, and Gale pulls him onto his lap. It’s more comfortable than leaning over each other, and it’s much easier to see Astarion like this, besides — vaulted above Gale just so. ]
A bard would do you more justice. [ At once teasing and self-deprecating. Ever dutiful, Gale does tip back to regard Astarion. Mildly, then — ] You’ve seen your hair. [ And felt just how much Gale wanted to run his fingers through it then and now. ]
I don’t know how you get it like that without a mirror. [ Mumbled half to himself, when Gale only bothers to brush his hair or tie it back, depending on the task at hand. ] It frames your face nicely. [ Softening all his hard, macabre angles. ] And at the risk of encouraging your vanity, you are — striking. [ Handsome seems inadequate. He clears his throat. ] I was trying very hard not to look at you today. [ A silly thing to do and a sillier thing to admit, when he doubts Astarion noticed. ] Which amounts to same thing as just looking.
[ Because he was so conscious of it, all stray thoughts turned to the exact thing he was avoiding. Astarion had his attention, regardless. ]
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He's watching Gale's face as he speaks, and despite his practice following a thread of compliments to easy preening, Astarion finds himself following the tug of truth instead. Exceedingly dangerous, and not something he's used to. ]
Oh, I noticed. [ The not-looking. He does smile a little, fingers trailing back to the bite at his throat, though his gaze holds Gale's. ] I thought perhaps you regretted this.
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You noticed. [ As if that possibility hadn’t crossed his mind. He hadn’t thought that he would be caught in the act, certainly, or that his bashfulness might make Astarion doubt his intentions. It seems doubly foolish now, with Astarion touching the bite again. On purpose, surely. The apple of his throat bobs. ]
I’m not quite accustomed to… [ He tries and fails at a gesture to explain his jumbled thoughts. Could say he’s the courting kind, so this is all out of order, but that would imply they’re travelling towards an end beyond… mutual satiation. ]
But I don’t have any regrets. [ Nevermind that he almost did, by the riverside. He cants his head obligingly, even though Astarion might only mean to keep touching his bruised throat. ] And I wouldn’t be opposed to continuing, as we are.
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