corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ Clever as he is, Gale should have anticipated this. Only then he’d have to attribute greater worth to his person — to the value Astarion places on him and their relationship, whatever it may be.

As it stands, the rebuke shocks him into alertness, eyes wide and jaw slack. ]

I — of course. [ They’re sort of a “we,” aren’t they? As much as they’ve ever been. ] I didn’t — I don’t know what there is to say.

[ It all seemed so final, that night, faced with a choice to live whatever life he has left and forsake Mystra, or die and win eternal forgiveness. Elminster had made a point to remind him how a human lifespan is nothing to a goddess.

He should be grateful, to be Chosen again after his folly.

Looking at Astarion, he feels anything but. Gale doesn’t think he’s seen his hackles raised since they grew close, as though the steadiness of their intimacy was sanding down his harsh edges. Now, there’s a snarl tucked at the corner of his mouth, at odds with the damp sheen of his eyes. Because of you. The ache in his chest strikes sudden and true, entirely unrelated to the orb. Gale’s expression twists downward, even as he scrounges for the words to explain himself. ]

I was trying to find a, a, a [ He snaps his fingers, as he finds the word. ] silver-lining. [ quieter, his eyes evasive. ] I’m not certain Shadowheart conveyed the particulars of my situation. [ Mustering all his courage, he meets Astarion’s gaze. ] Let me explain, please.

[ A silver lining. Astarion might laugh, if not for the sudden urge to vomit. Of course Gale would take a suicide mission from his erstwhile goddess without question, and of course it's simpler to not have to find arcane items to throw at a void that grew hungrier by the day. They were on a precipice either way, but still - Astarion had imagined there could be another way. He'd held to the promise of Waterdeep despite knowing it could never come to pass, between the two of them.

Weakness, comes Cazador's voice again. You were always weak and he has made you weaker still. If Astarion felt nothing for him, he might see this as an opportunity. An asset. Instead, it makes him want to throw himself to the earth and howl. ]

Not here. [ Though there are few places they can safely go, the curse pressing relentlessly in on them. Astarion feels like a caged animal again, pacing a territory even smaller than Baldur's Gate. The vast beauty of the mountains feels centuries away.

He stalks past Gale to the back door of the inn, sparing a glance for the lanceboard left by Mol and Raphael. Another conversation he needs to have, spiraling towards recklessness around it the further he feels himself drift from Gale. What's a deal with a devil, compared to self-immolation for a god?

Fresh air doesn't exist here, the stale taste of death prevalent even beneath Isobel's dome of light. Still, Astarion heads to the water, feeling Gale follow behind. He can't quite turn to face him, only glancing over his shoulder. ] Go on, then.

Edited (caught a grammar blip) 2024-01-01 22:57 (UTC)

[ His thoughts are brambles, thorny and tangled. He might cut through them, on another night: One spent with a solid weight in his lap and clever fingers in his hair, guiding his focus. It is so much harder to think, unaided, after having the privilege of companionship. The thought of giving it up, of being the reason for the quaver in Astarion’s voice — Gale thinks he might be sick.

The air, fresh or otherwise, helps. A cold draft brings clarity, though he can’t help but think Astarion should be dressed warmer, in this dank place.

Only when Astarion asks, does he speak again, tone even by force of will alone. ]

At Mystra’s behest, Elminster has stalled the orb’s consumption — of magic, of me — instead compacting its wretched energy so I might, should the need arise, unleash it. [ A clinical explanation. Some details will have filtered through the party, but not all. And without the context of his lifelong devotion, the strength of the relationship in which he bases this decision, it seems ridiculous.

His features crack open, voice suddenly raw, ]

I have known Mystra for as long as I have magic. [ For Gale, she is all magic and all creation. He steps closer, within reach of Astarion’s turned back. ] She appeared to me first when I was only a boy, [ sneaking spellbooks into his pack without his mother’s knowledge. ] and I came to know her as a friend and a teacher for years before she took me as her lover and Chosen both. I have to believe that she would not discard me lightly. [ That it had been hard to cast him out in the first place, that it pained her to see him suffer even though he knows a god can’t feel such human aches. In his desperation to reach her, he imbues her with qualities she may not possess. Folly after folly. (The alternative is that Gale Dekarios was a fool from the start, ambitious and heartsick to his pathetic end.) ]

I’ve been bleeding time since I succumbed to the blight, Astarion. [ rushed, ] I spent every waking hour before the crash searching for a cure, begging for forgiveness. I don’t want to die. [ His hand anchors on Astarion’s shoulder, like he wants to force him to look, to listen, but he does no more than touch. ] I want — [ So many unsayable things. A long life, Waterdeep, you. His face contorts. It doesn’t matter what he wants, only what he knows to be true. He shakes his head to refocus, blinking until he can speak without stuttering. ]

If Mystra believes that I will have to unleash it, for her sake and that of the realm, what choice do I have? [ His gaze lifts skyward, to the flimsy shield that stands between them and all-consuming shadow, and he closes his eyes. ] If there is an alternative, I cannot see it.

If the answer were so simple, why didn't she do it sooner? Why did she let you edge so close to a needless death?

[ It's snapped over his shoulder, fists clenched at his side, far more affected than Astarion wants to be. He hadn't realized how little they spoke of Gale's devotion while together, an unacknowledged shadow that crackled as dangerously as the orb in Gale's chest.

Gale's hand touches his shoulder, and Astarion trembles, the rigid hold he's had on himself dissolving into emotion. Gale speaks of Mystra with yearning, but not just her. I want - he starts to say, and Astarion can't bear to think of how that sentence ends. How he wants it to.

You're jealous of her. It's worth a long, hysterical laugh that he doesn't have in him, the envy of a goddess. Who is Astarion compared to magic itself? Just a distraction, a simple comfort on the road. She is everything, and Gale has made that clear since the beginning. Astarion just refused to look at that squirming truth in the light, when Gale was so solid beneath him, the hand of the gods inconsequential compared to the warm, broad hand on his waist, a sweet mouth parting against his own.

Astarion does turn to him, but doesn't lift his gaze, afraid he'll crumble if he does. ]

We don't even know the shape of what we're facing yet. For you to accept this without question when there are people who care for you, when I -

[ His voice cracks. He swallows the words, shakes his head sharply. ]

I don't trust her. Not with you, not with our cause.

[ It stings, the distrust of his goddess and his judgment — all the more painful for the truth he can’t deny. Mystra did not see fit to save him until he became useful again. It is her way, he tells himself, appraised of a picture so vast, he cannot comprehend its size or shape.

Unfortunately, his words only seem to plunge Astarion deeper into anguish. There are people who care for you, a reality he can’t face, when it takes the form of Lae’zel’s feral grin or Shadowheart’s sly smile. When I — His mind supplies a hundred fantasies, each more fanciful than the last. A love that exists outwith his magic, a home safe from the coming war. Astarion deems him unworthy of it, regardless.

I don't trust her. Not with you. Despite everything, heat floods his chest and flushes his cheeks. No one has ever extended such consideration to his person, his life. Gale takes Astarion’s hands gingerly, touch tentative until he brings their entwined fingers together over his heart and the orb both. ]

Very well. [ A beat. A harsh response fizzes behind his teeth like carbonation, and he wills it to settle. Stiffly, then — ] I suppose… I can understand that. [ No god ever favoured Astarion. None acknowledged his cries or softened his sorrows, left to a fate worse than death time and again. Even now, Astarion’s hands are so cold, Gale can’t help but try to warm them. He blows a hot breath into the cup of their hands. ]

But you — [ Brown eyes seek Astarion’s brilliant red, knowing he could find their bright shade even in the dark. ] you trust me, don’t you? [ As much as Astarion can trust anyone. His lips brush Astarion’s knuckles, penitent. ] At least enough to give me time to think. [ murmered against his skin. ] To consider what you’ve said. To go over every option. [ There isn’t any time left, whispers the voice at the back of his skull. If faced with the choice tomorrow, how could he decline? ]

I want to. [ Trust you. It would be easier to tell a gentle lie than a painful truth, but for once the easy option dies on his tongue. Despite Astarion's instinct to lash out, still hovering on the edge of it, Gale tries to warm his hands. It makes him want to weep. ]

Fucking hells, Gale. I want to. [ Astarion bows his head between them, forehead touching Gale's as he closes his eyes. Every instinct that's kept him alive until now is telling him to detach, to run, to let Gale blow himself up to save the world, but he realizes now that he lost that option miles ago - back in the Underdark, when something akin to a confession left his lips.

So here he is, his heart tied to a living bomb. Foolishness. The tension in Astarion's shoulders sags, as Gale kisses his knuckles - from weariness more than relief. They're moments from Moonrise, seat of the Absolute. The only way to stall for time is not to move, and that was never an option. ]

[ It’s a sliver of hope, light slanting through the window, although Gale still can’t see another way forward. His nose nudges Astarion’s in his eagerness to encourage this closeness. Selfish to the last. A wanting, ruinous thing. To die is terrible enough — to die alone, so far from home — he shudders without knowing why. ]

I can work with that. [ Gale knows he deserves even less that what he’s given. He only releases Astarion’s hands to cradle his jaw. ]

[ with quiet urgency, ] I should have come to you. [ He dares not kiss Astarion the way he wants to, after all he’s done and may yet do, but his lips brush his brow, then his raised cheekbone. ]

The day Elminster came, I should have found you first, before licking my wounds. [ that, at least, is true. ] I am a brilliant wizard of international renown and a terrible fool, who has been alone in a tower for far too long. [ Thinking of others as more than precious, endangered things is new. His very existence remains a threat, with detonation in the cards. ] It’s only that, of late, I am a fool for you. [ His mouth quirks on one side, hesitant. ] A situation I much prefer, to be clear.

[ Astarion doesn't know if anyone has ever issued him an apology. If it happened before death, he can't remember, blotted out by time and cruelty. Though Gale doesn't say I'm sorry in so many words, it's still enough, for now.

There are words on his own lips that evaporate as Gale closes: I am a fool for you. Astarion has heard so many breathless confessions in his life, but they were all drunk, meaningless. Issued to a facade, a charlatan who only existed to fulfill whatever their fantasies of him might be. He still doesn't know what to do with Gale wanting him as he is, when Astarion doesn't even know the shape of himself beneath the shimmering cloak of deceit he's worn for so long.

He looks at Gale a moment, lip trembling, and then pulls him into a tight embrace; holds him fiercely and desperately, his face buried in Gale's shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. Astarion is quiet for a long moment, before he finds his voice again, muffled into Gale's robes. ]

We'll find another way. Any other way.

[ Gale has never seen Astarion’s eyes like this, unguarded because they’ve already been wrenched open with hurt. They’re bigger than he thought, or fuller, with depths otherwise hidden in a slanted gaze.

Not for the first time, he wonders why Astarion chose him, of all their companions. They both know hunger and service, but it’s not that — or not just that. Gale has never wanted to protect anyone more, to leave anyone less, and he doesn’t have the faintest idea how to do those things.

The embrace surprises him at first, but he soon returns it, one hand clutching Astarion’s waist and the other cupping the back of his head, stroking his hair. Gods, what would another way even look like, against their foe? ]

I’m sorry. [ hushed into Astarion’s curls in an attempt to hide the crack in his voice. Even Gale can’t say whether he’s apologising for what he’s done or what he intends to do. He presses another kiss to the crown of Astarion’s head, affection with nowhere to go. ]

Will you stay with me tonight? [ softer, ] I don’t mean to ask for anything but your company. [ even that is too much. ] Day will come all too soon, even in this place.

[ Astarion's mind is already searching for constellations of possibility, anything for Gale to hold onto as an alternative to the orb, but he's never been a planner. Maybe their illithid potential, or - again - Raphael, both gambles, the latter feeling more desperate and also more dangerous.

He needs to rest before he can look at this properly, worn down from the day, even though he feels time slipping from them as they speak.

Astarion is loathe to release him, but they don't need whichever Harpers are on watch to witness any more of this private moment than they likely have already. He lets go of a shaky breath against Gale's shoulder, then pulls back enough to look at him. ]

Yes. Of course. [ He hadn't fully appreciated that they have the exceedingly rare gift of private rooms here, stormy as he felt earlier, but he is grateful for it now. His gaze sweeps Gale's face, taking him in, wanting to memorize the lines of it while also feeling the ache of doing so. Lifts a hand to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, lingering at his cheek. ] We have a few hours, at least.

[ Relief floods his face, loosening the tense lines of his brow and mouth. With concerted effort, he stops himself from unravelling and telling Astarion all, the extent of his affections trapped in his throat. ]

We do. [ Gale drops his chin so their noses can brush, still not seeking anything but contact. ] And a proper bed, if you’d share it with me. [ It feels important to speak plainly, after all Astarion has confessed. ]

[ sheepish, ] It’s not my four-poster in Waterdeep, but it’s closer to what you deserve than my tent. [ Though he’s had the privilege of awaking to Astarion there, too, after the occasional nap. Fingers tangled in his hair, mouth soft at his throat. A miracle made flesh. ] And I’ve wanted so very badly for you to be the last thing I see before I sleep and the first, when I wake. [ softer. ] It’s you I think of then, anyway.

[ Not Mystra, not since the night Astarion admitted to his uncertain desires. ]

[ Astarion doesn't know what to do with words like this, with a confession that sounds like it's meant for someone much sweeter, much kinder than him. He's heard it all before, but none of it meant anything before Gale. He never would have imagined they'd wind up here, when they found each other by the fire that night - bound up in something much bigger than a simple arrangement between party members.

And Astarion doesn’t know how to articulate what Gale is to him - because there has never been anyone like him. The belief he could have anyone like him, anything like this died inside Astarion long ago.

So he kisses Gale, in lieu of words. Not a charlatan's kiss but a real one, soft and a little unsteady. ]

I like your tent, you know. Soft pillows, endless reading material. [ His hand sweeps down Gale's neck to the collar of his robe, tugging at it lightly. ] Smells like you, which is preferable to shadow-cursed musty bedsheets.

[ The kiss is enough, for Gale. Astarion may not whisper the same poetry that he favours in the quiet of the night, but he shows his care in other ways. He keeps coming back, ducking under his tent flap and falling into step beside him, a consistent presence unlike all who came before. Gale chases the contact with a kiss at the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, all the more wanting for not knowing how long he’ll have this.

He snags Astarion’s hand in his, tugging him along as he steps back, toward the inn. ]

Like me? [ too pleased by the idea that Astarion might prefer that, if only in comparison to cursed linens. ] I could conjure a bed more to your tastes, if that’s the sticking point.

Like you. [ Astarion echoes it, low, as they walk back inside, where the others are sleeping. His nerves still feel frayed, as they have since Gale received his death sentence and they entered this forsaken place, but gods, he is ready for rest. Privacy. An impossibility in his previous life and a rarity in this one.

There's a key for one of the spare rooms in his back pocket, and they're greeted by quiet darkness as he unlocks it. There are two twin beds with trunks for their belongings at the end, separated by a dusty nightstand. Astarion swipes a finger through the dust, rubbing thumb and forefinger together with a wrinkle in his brow as he looks back at Gale. ]

Have you been able to conjure a bespoke magical bed this whole time? Don't hold out on me, then.

[ Like you. Such a small thing that has his heart racing and cheeks dimpling all the way to their room. ]

It seemed presumptuous to offer. [ and his power has waned, though he tries to keep that quiet. A few nights prior to his sentence, Astarion witnessed him practicing a spell that was once as effortless as breathing, instead sparking and sputtering out in his worn hands.

Gale walks the short length of the room, assessing what they have to work with, and sighs. ]

Come here, I’ll need your help. [ It’s not at all the same magic lesson he gave Tav, when he curls an arm Astarion’s waist to pull his back flush to Gale’s chest. Their slight height difference means he can tuck his chin over the ridge of Astarion’s shoulder with ease. Gale extends his hands in front of them, coaxing Astarion to mimic him. ]

Follow my lead. [ A quick, twisting gesture and hushed words at his ear, all for Astarion to imitate. ]

[ Tension Astarion didn't know he'd been holding drains from his shoulders as Gale loops an arm around his waist, warm against his back. He flutters a sigh, wanting to melt into him more than pay attention, but he does as Gale asks all the same.

Astarion's never made much use of his own inherent magic, the vein that flows from his elven heritage, vampire or no. It's almost strange to tap it now, to tug the thread that connects him to something greater - that connects him to Gale, in this moment. ]

[ There’s always intimacy in channelling, particularly when augmented by another. The Weave bears down on them — a soft, encouraging presence. The scent of rosewater and ozone in the air, something sweet settling on the tip of the tongue. ]

You’re a natural. [ All warm assurance, coupled with a soft kiss under his ear. ] Hold onto that feeling. [ Something like comfort washing over them, encouraged by every point of connection: Their mental link, their closeness, their magic. ] Close your eyes.

[ Both to aid Astarion’s concentration and to indulge his own proclivity for a reveal. The process may interest him most, but it’s the prestige that wows an audience. ]

There. [ Spellcasting finished, he wraps his arms around Astarion fully. ] As much as I’ve enjoyed our nights spent under the majesty of the celestial canvas, there’s something to be said for the comforts of home.

[ Weathered floorboards have warmed to a polished, honey brown. The dire twin beds have disappeared, a lush four-poster (like the one Gale spoke of) in their place. Every grey has been replaced a richer hue, the kind they both prefer when given a choice. And there isn’t a speck of dust in sight. ]

[ It's a different sensation from sampling the Weave through Gale's blood. That's one-sided, in a way, Gale giving unto him; this is a sweetness that threads through them both, joins them so intimately it makes Astarion wonder if he's ever known intimacy at all before this moment.

He'll take the flattery, too, even if it's untrue, closes his eyes and bathes in it like a cat in a sunbeam. Astarion's seen Gale cast illusions before, but they're intangible things, so he doesn't know what to expect when his eyes flutter open again, hands resting atop Gale's beneath his sternum. ]

Oh. [ It's an awed, involuntarily sound as he takes in the room they've conjured together, and loathe as Astarion is to leave the warmth at his back he does need to touch, disentangling himself so he can smooth a hand over the plush duvet. Then hops up onto it, the mattress taking his weight easily, though he scarcely believes it. ]

We make quite the team, don't we?

[ A helpless little laugh, more out of fondness than any amusement. He releases Astarion with a reluctance both playful and sincere, fingertips brushing until the last moment. Gale hangs back, then, watching Astarion test their fine handiwork until his eyes crinkle. Even staring down the barrel of his holy mandate, he has to wonder: What could possibly be more worthy of his time — his attention, his devotion — than this? ]

That we do. [ Not quite tentative, after all this time, but still careful in his approach. He settles beside Astarion, their shoulders bumping as he splays his hands on the comforter. ]

Though we may have overshot the mark, in terms of pillows. [ There are rather a lot, stacked at the head of the bed. Most likely a result of his taste for creature comforts and Astarion’s inclination to hoard rare luxuries. ] Or not, if we’ve need of a very soft barricade.

[ Astarion looks over his shoulder at the veritable fort they've created against the headboard and shakes his head, all seriousness. ] It's perfect. Completely necessary amount of pillows.

[ He darts a quick kiss to Gale's shoulder before sliding back on the bed so he can lie on his side upon the pillow heap, chin in hand so he still has just the right view of Gale. The most magical thing in this room, bar none.

It's hard to kill the instinct to turn on the charm, slip an easy mask on, one Astarion's worn for centuries now. He has to still himself, focus his gaze on Gale's hand spread on the comforter, the lines at the corners of his eyes that tell of a life lived. Reminding himself it's Gale in the room with him, not a stranger. Not Cazador.

Astarion is quiet a moment, working out what to say. What he lands on may sound like a line, but it's honest. An awful habit he's picked up, being around this man. ]

You're perfect, you know. [ Astarion smoothes his hand over the space on the bed beside him, then pats it. ] Come here.

[ It’s perfect, you’re perfect rings in his ears, a recursive loop that denies all logic and sense. The look on his face is almost wounded by the compliment — by the steadiness in Astarion’s voice that he’s come to know as sincerity. However much he’d like to shy away from it, Astarion is here. Gale may be so much less than the man he was before (a chosen, an archmage), but Astarion acts as though he still might be enough.

Gale follows him. There was never a chance he’d do otherwise. ]

Here? [ Beside Astarion now, leaning in to press a kiss under his jaw and a hand to his chest, guiding him back. All vibrato, like a laugh about to bubble over. ] Or here? [ Another kiss to his cheek as Gale slips a leg between his, knee digging into the bedspread. Tangling their limbs more than anything else. His hands curl into the blankets, holding his weight aloft when he ducks his head, as if he means to kiss him properly, their noses brushing — ]

Mm, no, here. [ A slight tip to the side lands a chaste kiss around the corner his mouth. In sotto voce, ] You must be more specific, Astarion.

[ The view Astarion has of Gale now is so different from that first meeting after the nautiloid. There's some split path, a branch they never took where none of this happened between them -- where Astarion never got to see these private smiles, the teasing, his warmth.

All of this is light and sweet, his hands and lips, but something threatens to spill over inside Astarion, a tremulous thing. He catches Gale's jaw with both hands, gaze searching. ]

Here. [ He lifts up to kiss him, teeth catching at Gale's lower lip as he slows him from his quick pecks, lingering before pulling back, breathless. ] Again.

[ There’s a moment where Astarion is looking for something — and Gale can only assume he finds it, based on his firm hold; the sudden, then slow press of his mouth. Something sparks in his chest, at the thought, and Gale makes a soft sound against the bow of his lips. Astarion hardly finishes asking him for more when Gale responds, instinctive in his desire to meet any halting want and up the ante — opening his mouth, pushing in closer.

For all that Gale’s thoughts can run away from him, splintering into multiple threads, he also possesses a single-minded focus, typically reserved for his work. One kiss after another, again and again. He winds his hand through Astarion’s hair, tugging his head back to murmur low, ]

As many times as you like. [ Gale tucks his nose against Astarion’s cheek and kisses along the ridge of his jaw, following it to the curve of his ear and gently biting down on the pointed tip. ]

[ Astarion knows every step to this dance. He knows how to flatter, how to charm, how to seduce; he knows the erogenous zones of humans and elves and tieflings, knows how to fake all the right sounds at the right moment. He knows what people want from him, what they see and expect when they look at him.

It should have been simple with Gale, but Gale has thrown off Astarion's steps from the beginning. The threat of detonation has always been there, just behind Gale's ribs -- poor planning, Astarion, at the choice to pursue the near-dead wizard for a back pocket ally. Worse planning to want him, but Astarion hadn't thought he was still capable of such things.

It isn't just wanting him, or -- maybe it is, and Astarion has just never known what it is to truly want another person. They've both known hunger, but that's a hollowing thing, claws that carve from the inside out. This is a blooming, or perhaps an untangling: Gale's fingers and lips finding knots Astarion didn't know existed, that he hasn't been able to see.

Just a bite, gentle, with human teeth, and Astarion feels a kick of heat in his gut, impossible as the warmth of the sun on his skin. His hands have found Gale's waist, the small of his back, legs spread to accommodate the solidity of Gale's thigh between them. Astarion doesn't know what move to make, where to put his hands. The soft, surprised sound he makes against Gale's shoulder isn't for show. ]

Gale. [ His hips hitch a little, a helpless desire to slot their bodies together, and Astarion feels a bloom of shame with that; the lack of control, from something so simple. He also doesn't want it to stop. ]

[ Normally, Gale lets Astarion lead the dance. A solid weight in his lap, warmed only by proximity. Fangs marking his neck, wrist, shoulder, thigh at his leisure. Gale has always had a talent for both accepting what he’s given and overreaching.

Humans are such wanting creatures, Mystra had told him once. It’s true of them in general and of Gale, in particular, though he surmises there’s more to it, in this moment, with Astarion hushing his name like a prayer. ]

Good. [ For all Gale obviously twists himself up in his head, Astarion falls into mind-traps of his own, but maybe this helps. It feels essential and effortless to encourage him now — to approve of that want, unfurling amongst the brambles in his chest, and coax it into the light. ] You’re good, Astarion. [ Astarion’s legs have fallen open, an invitation Gale has rarely dared to imagine, and one he answers by angling his knee to part them wider. ]

I have you. [ Gale kisses the reddened tip of Astarion’s ear to prove it before ducking under his jaw. Fingers curl around the pointed shell, protective as the weight the settles over him, indulging that abortive hitch with a deep roll in return. ]

Again. [ His name, that sound. The scrape of stubble then teeth as Gale sucks a mark under the hinge of his jaw to match the fresh and fading bruises that have decorated his neck for weeks. ]

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