Chapter Text
The Elfsong
Astarion has a friend.
He savours that reality as he and Gale sit at the pub table, Astarion with his glass of “wine” and Gale with a pint.
Truthfully, he knows he has a few friends now. He knew that Karlach took a shine to him. That woman made it obvious when she liked someone. He was also pleasantly surprised when Shadowheart said she would miss his wits and trading gossip. The fact that Wyll was kind to him by the end of their journey instead of desiring to stake him showed growth to that relationship. And Halsin was so openly loving that even Astarion tolerated receiving a bear hug from him before he left. He had to hide his sadness and couldn’t bear the look on Lae’zel’s face when she flew away. Minthara's jabs had diminished until they were replaced with a firm nod, which said volumes. Jaheira was more mentor than equal, but he appreciated how she smiled at him when saying farewell. Minsc was… Minsc.
Yes, Astarion has quite a few people he can call “friend,” he supposes. But they were scattering to the winds now. Good deeds done, realm saved, and whatnot. Now they had to turn towards obligations neglected, and saving themselves in some cases. In the end, only he and Gale were left to linger at the Elfsong. And now he is becoming quite aware that these are likely the last days of rest before Gale will have to move on as well.
“No wine, my dear?” Astarion teases.
Gale answers with a shrug and a rueful smile, “De'Tranion's Baalor Ale. Quite strong. Hearty, malty, and I detect perhaps a bit of roasted… chestnut? Lives up to its reputation, I’d say.”
What went unsaid was that he’s having a pint because he is getting wistful about Karlach. She gave him quite the number of recommendations for Balduran ale once they reached the city, which Gale is now set on meticulously tasting and reviewing. As insufferable as it is, if pressed, Astarion might admit that it’s charming.
At least he’s still here to listen to all of Gale’s blathering about tasting notes. Half the city is in ruin after a long, torturous final battle with the Netherbrain nearly killed them all. It had been close. Too close for comfort, really. It’s a funny thing to still be alive, Astarion reflects — well, as much as any undead creature can be. He and Gale are both still on this plane, not destined to make their case to Kelemvor that they should go to another or appealing to whatever god or hellish creature might have them to save their souls from oblivion. Well, so Astarion assumes. What happens to vampires after they’ve been dusted is a matter up to some debate. But no matter. No, whatever lies across the veil for them will have to wait. Now Astarion is still facing down immortality on Toril and Gale has many more years of complaining about the ache in his knees. Huzzah.
Astarion has experienced enough brushes with permanent death, and seen the crude aftermath of far too many adventuring parties crashing taverns, for him to know what comes next: Wild, inane, ridiculously bad decisions.
He’s honestly been looking forward to it.
A while back, he’d made a promise to himself that if he survived and freed himself from Cazador that he would paint the town red, pun very much intended, and patron every loathsome, vile, delightfully raunchy peddler of sin in this gods forsaken city and he was going to enjoy every damn minute of it for himself for once. When he voiced this idea to the party, he couldn’t have guessed that Gale would be serious about joining him, but here they are.
“Are you sure about this?” Astarion inquires, sipping on what was left of the freshly slaughtered pig’s blood Gale surprised him with from the kitchens.
“Pardon?” Gale says, blinking once or twice until he understands Astarion’s meaning. “Oh! Far be it from me to break my word. Besides, such bibulous adventures will create quite the tale, I am sure. Why, once during my days at Blackstaff, I joined a rousing crew at the Yawning Portal –”
Astarion puts his chin in his hand as Gale rambles on about something or other. He’s become practiced at this over time. If it’s a topic that makes his eyes glaze over, which is generally most things other than an argument over books or their most recent lanceboard game, he amuses himself and lets Gale get it out.
Or so he tells himself. It’s certainly not that he likes having an excuse to stare. He noticed from first meeting that Gale was handsome, of course. Strong jaw, dapper beard, beautiful eyes… the image of a man from a smutty novel, really. He’s utterly irritating, but the mage is quite something. Astarion has better hair, he’d argue, but Gale at least gives him some competition in that department. No one in their venturing party quite understood how Gale has the body he does – Astarion had a running bet with Karlach for 100 gold pieces that it’s a glamour – but regardless of origin he is easy to look at. But more than that, it feels nice to steal a glance at Gale’s warm smile and the soft look in his kind eyes.
Kind. Astarion stops and stares into his cup, instead. Gale is so very kind at times. But he’s going to leave, and then where will that leave Astarion? If his heart could still beat, he’s sure it would seize at the thought.
“Everything all right?”
Astarion looks up to find that Gale has stopped his rambling and is now scrutinizing him, brows slightly furrowed. Caught. His brooding has been noticed.
With a wave of his hand, he plays it off and scoffs lightly, “Of course, darling.”
There’s a light pause, a moment of consideration, but he feels the questions brewing in Gale. It’s the way he slightly shifts in his seat, thumbs the rim of his pint glass, and starts to raise a finger –
“Gods, fine!” Astarion says, giving in before Gale has the chance to pester. “It’s just, well…”
He looks around. It’s late in the afternoon. The wretched sun is still up, pushing them to find the darkest booth that limits the risk of an open door or window giving Astarion an unpleasant burning surprise. The few other patrons are far away, closer to the bar. They’re essentially alone. Obviously, he can’t admit that he was ogling Gale, nor being horribly moody about his leaving, but…
Already mortified by what he might say, he looks at Gale through the corner of his eye and warily admits, “It’s this whole… ‘figuring out who I am now’ thing. I get to choose for the first time in memory, and I have no idea what to do with it. What I want. I want to live again, truly live, and relish every decadence I can sink my teeth into, but…”
“But?” Gale offers kindly, body turned attentively towards him in the cramped corner booth to give Astarion his full attention. It’s somewhat distracting being this close to one another. He’s reluctant to divulge, but hell if Gale is really signing up to join him on this raucous adventure for the next few days as he’s planned, Astarion reasons that he might as well let him know what this obstacle is.
Astarion makes a noise of soft disgust and lays it out, “For two hundred years, I was forced to do Cazador’s bidding. I never had a real choice, but I also never had to choose. Even if he wasn’t directly compelling me at times, there was this shadow hanging over me that he could. After a time what I… had to do became routine. I always knew what to expect, even if it was only terror and unending horrors. Now, though. I’m free. Actually free. He’s gone. Forever. It’s exciting, but… I’ve never had so little… structure? It’s f*cked, I know.”
They share a quiet moment as Gale ponders this, looking into his own pint glass for a beat or two. Cautiously, he says in that shy, gentle cadence that tells Astarion that he’s saying something from the heart, “I always had such purpose under Mystra. For over a year, my mind wandered between succumbing to my darkest impulses and wanting to live, trapped in a limbo of my own making. Which only continued as long as I could not imagine having a life outside of being in her shadow. Now my life is my own. For the first time since I was a child. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been pulling against a chain for so long, only for it to suddenly break. Truth be told, it is… disconcerting. Though exhilarating.”
Incredulous, Astarion studies him as a small spark of understanding alights between them. Grinning mischievously, he says, “Cheers to that.”
After a clink of their glasses, the awkwardness of the moment fades and Gale downs his beer quickly. He motions to a nearby waiter for another round, and they pass the time, chortling and talking about everything and nothing. Mostly nothing, considering that much of the city is still just rubble and all they have to chat about has to do with near-death and adventure, which they’d rather not discuss. It’s not until Gale has finished polishing off at least two more pints that the subject comes up again.
“How is it that even Halsin has a purpose now?!”
Taken aback as he’s carefully licking out the last of the blood from his cup, Astarion asks, “Whatever do you mean?”
With ruddy cheeks, and slightly slurring the edges of his words, Gale rants, “Halsin! He purported to be an unset- unsettleable? Man. He shed his mantle at the grove. I would have thought he would wander the earth or some sort of druidic impulse, but no. Even he has a clear path set in front of him! All of them do. Every bloody one of them has some sort of quest, or thing to do, or a lover. Lovers! And here I am! Alone.”
As adorable as it is that Gale’s starting to forget whether the thesaurus in his brain is correct about specific words, Astarion does his best to not linger on it. Instead, he tries to address what Gale just said and snorts. “Trust me, darling. Take it from someone who knows, lovers come and go, but this between us? A friend? This might actually last.”
It slips out before he can truly think about what he’s saying. He must be losing his touch, considering that he’s being far too relaxed and unguarded. Then again, there’s something nice about being able to do that. The look on Gale’s face is worth it, in any case. His jaw goes slightly slack, and his expression loses the weary, indignant lines it had only a moment ago.
“Thank you, Astarion. I am honoured to call you friend,” Gale offers with a tremble of awe in his voice. “To know you welcome my company in your intended debaucherous activities, well… it's rather wonderful actually. I'd be loathe to impose upon someone who's become rather important to me, after all.”
On second thought... Astarion suppresses a groan at the sentimentality. If he didn’t know better, Gale looks like he’s swooning. He’ll never let Astarion forget this. Perhaps it will be a relief when Gale leaves for Waterdeep, after all.
He’s imagining scenarios where Gale might drone on and on about their friendship, or find occasions to use the word ‘friend’ far too often, when Gale claps his hands and rubs them together. “Right then, shall we start to live a little?”
Oh? That sounds intriguing.
“What are you suggesting?” Astarion says with a heavy, lewd lilt to his voice.
Flushing delightfully, Gale is quick to say, “Nothing untoward!”
Down, dear, Astarion thinks to himself. He jokingly pouts a little, but otherwise keeps his nonchalance intact. He’s, after all, known ever since his very first attempt at throwing flirtation Gale’s way that the wizard simply is not interested. Never has been. Which is fine. Astarion has never had friends before their merry little party found each other, and he quite likes the idea of collecting them. Besides, he’s just contemptibly horny, flush with the echoes of adrenaline from almost dying a tenday ago, and Gale happens to be right here, in close proximity… Although…
“I do mean, ‘untoward’ as in nothing without your express permission, of course. F-fret not! For I understand the spirit of this little campaign. You stated that you wished for ‘days of hedonistic debauchery',” Gale says before dramatically raising one hand and placing the other on his chest. “And I plan to deliver. With the s-solemn promise to keep an open mind.”
Gods damn him, it’s endearing. But even as he says it, Gale sways ever so slightly. Astarion purses his lips together and… resists greedy temptation. Ugh.
“You sweetheart,” Astarion says as he avoids Gale’s gaze. He clears his throat before continuing, “I appreciate that, darling, but… Gale, you are already what? Four pints in? You’re much more like to fall asleep within the next hour rather than last for days.”
Is this all that “growth” Halsin always loved to chime in without asking to babble about?
“Ah, my friend!” There it is. Friend. “I may have dropped the moniker ‘of Waterdeep,’ but you have still chosen to rav–revel with a former archmage of some renown.”
With a cheeky grin, Gale reaches for his nearby satchel. After a few inebriated moments, he clutches something and raises it up with triumph. It’s a scroll.
In a flash of light after a few muttered words, Gale’s skin softly glows with radiant energy for a moment. Astarion recognizes it, especially after the period of time where the party took turns to keep him alive and strong through the Shadowlands. Though, he is more used to seeing it spread from Shadowheart’s hands.
It’s a Scroll of Lesser Restoration.
Healing energy finished with its work, Gale shakes his head and blows out air through his lips as if a chill has just overtaken him. He turns back to Astarion to say, with perfect diction and lucid eyes, “And one with some renown knows when to seek assistance when required. Nothing a bit of magic can't solve.”
Astarion quickly snaps his jaw closed, having not realized he was gawping at Gale. Once the implications sink in, a slow, terrible grin spreads across his face. “Delightful. How is it that I’ve never run across that little trick?”
Gale generously explains, clearly excited about it, “Each of these are 450 gold, I’m afraid. But considering our recent fortunes, and the Dekarios estate at our disposal if I have anything to say about it, it is no trouble for this one occasion of debauchery. Not for a celebration. Even with your abilities, I am sure I will keep up.”
Astarion laughs. Gale has no idea what he’s in for…
“Do try, my dear,” he leers.
“All I ask is that you sate my curiosity on one matter, if you find that agreeable.”
Astarion motions his hand to encourage Gale to say whatever he has to say, ready to hear the catch.
“Why a pub crawl?” Gale inquires as he flags down another waiter.
“Why not?”
“Well…” Gale hesitates awkwardly, which has Astarion roll his eyes.
He sighs, “Well, if you must know. I find the idea of being around such an atmosphere enjoyable, even if my condition means I cannot imbibe myself. In any case, I might get lucky.”
“Lucky? I do suppose that may be part of –”
“Not sex, darling. Well, yes, sex. Probably? But I also have a theory. Something to try.”
Gale being one to never pass up an opportunity to test a theory, eagerly asks, “Of what sort?”
Smugly, Astarion answers, “I believe I may start to feel certain effects should I drink from someone that’s had a pint or three. Granted, I have yet to test it, but if drinking from a bear can –”
“Astarion! Of course!”
Astarion glances around the room with mild embarrassment as Gale exclaims. Before he can stop him, Gale is looking at his satchel once more and rambling, “It would hardly be fair for me to only indulge when we could share such an experience together.”
“That’s hardly necessary –”
“Of course it is. I would be happy to help,” Gale insists. “It would be no trouble at all! Though should you drink from me –
“Drink from –
“– and I take part in the libations, I would imagine we would need far more scrolls than what I’ve already procured. Not to worry. The evening is young and this will merely take some purchasing. I’m sure our new status as ‘heroes of the realm’ can get us quite the number.”
“Gale…” Astarion tries to find the words to argue, but the wildly delighted look in big Gale’s soft, brown eyes has him think better of it. “What exactly is the plan, then?
Gale grins. “Have me drink as much as you like, we find some corner or other, you drink from me in private. I use a scroll and we repeat the venture.”
“Make our way through every den of indecency in this city?”
“Such is the idea.”
Interesting.
“All right, Gale Dekarios,” Astarion muses with an impish smile. “Let’s have some fun.”
Thump.
Without ceremony, Gale drops down the overflowing bags of scrolls on to the floor of their shared room. They lean to one side from their weight, threatening to spill their contents, parchment fluttering about. Astarion stares at the accumulated pile as Gale sheepishly shrugs at him.
“I might have gone overboard a tad,” Gale says.
The canvas bags are, after all, stuffed to the brim with solely one type of scroll.
“Better to have too many than not enough, I’d say,” Astarion notes charitably with a flourish of his hand.
He’s not going to complain, after all. It’s not his gold and Gale ran out to gods know where to cobble together as many scrolls as he could while Astarion waited safely inside. But now the sun is setting, and it’s about time they got started. There were only so many hours in the night, after all, and Astarion plans to make every one count.
There is now only one thing left to do before they head out: Experimentation.
At first, Astarion thinks Gale is nervous after they order drinks to be brought up to the room. He rambles on about his desire to correct some tomes he’s read about vampires, ranting about their inaccuracies, and fidgets incessantly even as he chugs beer after beer. But once he’s good and sauced, his hands fly to the collar of his robes and Astarion realizes that he’s practically giddy. Eager even.
All the better.
“As they say the true method of knowledge acqui-acquisition is the experiment,” Gale babbles as he sits on the edge of his bed.
Astarion put his hands on his shoulders and gets in position.
“Though who’s they anyway? Anyhow, even negative results may impose – impart? Something. Though that’s not to dis-discount the power of observation –”
In a split second, Astarion sinks his teeth into the skin of Gale’s neck, drawing a sharp gasp out of him. Best to make it quick, is his thinking. Though, the moment Gale’s blood seeps out of the punctures his fangs create and hits his tongue he knows he overestimated his self-control.
Gale is delicious.
The ever-present, gnawing hunger inside him abates as the ambrosial liquid is swallowed down into his throat. Comparing sapient creatures to the blood of rats is always like trading water for chocolate, but Gale is, arguably, more sapient than most. His warm blood brings up long-buried memories of hot drinks and cozy fires, and there’s a depth to the flavour that has Astarion suck down more before he can stop himself. His scent is intoxicating, all unique musk under hints of lavender, ink, and wood. The way the muscles of his neck flex, how he pulls Astarion closer to him, and even the light brush of his beard on Astarion’s own neck all adds something ineffable to the experience. The taint of the orb is thankfully gone, but there is still an acrid zing underlying the expected tang of iron. It’s something that dances on his tastebuds like electricity – a sparkling of Weave, perhaps? Intriguing.
But most importantly, there, beyond all of the sensual taste of Gale, is… ale. Specifically, a generously high blood alcohol content.
Astarion pulls back sharply with victorious elation, blood drizzling down his chin. Openly giggling, he brazenly runs a finger over the weeping wound in Gale’s neck, sucks the delectable blood off it, and smacks his lips.
“I do believe it’s working,” he says with a snicker.
Gale responds with a shaky laugh of his own, eyes wide as saucers and pupils blown, “Then, erm, by all means! D-do continue.”
“Are you shlur this is all right?” Astarion asks, before it hits him that he’s slurring. “Oh! Look at that. Thlats fast.”
Another giggle, two, then a cascade of giggles bubble out of him. Looking down, the giggles only get further out of control when he notices that he’s now straddling Gale on the bed. When did that happen?
“If I were to postul- pustule? Legh, postulate. Hypothesize. I am sure that the resplendishment. Replenishment of the blood in your body likely has something to do with it,” Gale struggles to say as Astarion watches a surprising amount of colour flush his face, despite the fact that so much of his blood is currently leaking out.
Astarion bends down and laves his tongue at the bite, giggling even more as Gale’s whole body shudders underneath him. Scared little rabbit? Gale whimpers loudly, but before Astarion can chase down the origin of the sound to try and make him do it again, Gale’s hands are gripping hard into his hips and he’s babbling again. This time about testing out the scrolls.
Right.
Astarion reluctantly slides off him, gaze shamelessly lingering on Gale’s lovely neck, before he stumbles over to grab a couple of scrolls. Some unfurling of parchment and half-slurred words later and the rush of the divine ripples through him. With a shock and shake, the room stops spinning slightly and he feels refreshed. Perfectly sober.
Though Gale is not. Astarion watches with curiosity as the paleness in Gale’s face dissipates from restored blood flow, but his eyes are still unfocused. He grabs another scroll and stumbles his way through another terribly spoken incantation to restore himself.
“One scroll per one condition, if what the clerics say is true,” he explains, wincing as he tenderly touches his neck. “Regardless of the number needed, this is a resounding success in my book.”
“You know,” Astarion ponders aloud. “I’d have to agree. In more ways than one.”
“How do you mean?” Gale asks as he stands up, stretching his knees. He walks over to the table where they piled glasses and bottles and pours himself a goblet of wine.
“Well… It’s quite the convenience isn’t it?” Astarion wants to barrel through what he has to say, put it out there casually, express how this is a good thing, and move on. But alas, the words catch in his throat. Gale notices, of course. Nothing escapes his observation.
“Astarion –”
Ugh. “Look, I want this. I do. I want to try things like this again. What good is freedom if I don’t take advantage of it?”
He can’t stand the look of sympathy Gale gives him. It’s too much. Gale begins to say, “This need not involve inebriation. We can solely traipse around the city, spend time –”
“I’m talking about sex, dear!” Astarion cries, exasperated. Far too self-conscious about this admission, he adopts a smirking smile to emphasize his eagerness. “Trust me, I cannot wait to lose myself in what your blood can impart. For the first time in two hundred years, I can finally feel something else.”
Gale is still looking at him ponderously, brows wrinkled in that little pinched way they do when he’s concerned, and worst of all his eyes convey that he knows – that Astarion has yet again either said or not said something that seems perfectly all right to him but is abnormal to others.
Astarion’s smile falters. He gives in. “All the jeers and quips paint a promiscuous picture, don’t they? For so long I never had a choice, never stopped being compelled by Cazador’s whispers in the back of my head. I want to feel something, feel everything, but the idea of not being in control of my own body when – if – someone –”
Graciously, Gale cuts him off. “Then that is what we’ll do.”
Astarion co*cks his head, watching curiously as Gale procures another goblet and winces slightly as he cuts his hand and pours a small amount of blood.
As Gale wraps his hand with a cloth and hands him the goblet Astarion repeats, confused, “What we’ll do?”
“I shall be there with you on this venture, obviously. Should things escalate, I will be there to help. And vice versa, if you’d be so kind. A scroll for a scroll. At any time. No judgement. No questions asked. Only a kindness amongst friends.”
Friends, of course. Astarion resists the compulsion to roll his eyes, because it is awfully sweet. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course!” Gale exclaims, jubilant. “And who knows? Perhaps I could find some special company of my own.”
Gods, it was difficult not to bully this man at times. Special company. He doesn’t believe him at all, not one bit. Astarion pushes down the urge to laugh at the idea of Gale, of all people, lustfully going to bed with some barmaid or random stranger.
He’s no saint, however. Voice tinged with a barely suppressed snicker, he puts his hand on his hip and teases, “You may want to do some, er, personal grooming then, dear?”
“What, with my beard? Not you, too,” Gale groans.
“No, no, dear. Grooming,” he says before tutting at Gale’s blank stare. “Of, well, of every orifice you intend to use I would hope. When was the last time you had a bath?”
Offended, Gale notes, “I am actually quite fastidious with my personal hygiene, thank you.”
“I cannot recall seeing you even once –”
“Only because I haven’t needed one! Only the occasional soak. Solely for pleasure.”
Not wanting Gale’s ignorance to prove a barrier in the evening, Astarion offers, “If you’d like some instruction –”
“No need!” Gale hastily cries.
Astarion chides skeptically, “Well what do you do, if I never see you in the baths?”
“Magic,” Gale notes the obvious.
“Oh, right,” Astarion acknowledges. Of course. Gale did smell incredibly good, now that he was thinking about it. “Awfully handy that.”
Astarion himself couldn’t do much more than some tricks, a firebolt or mage hand, and frankly daggers were more reliable in his opinion.
“So do you just –”
“May we please change the subject?” Gale pleads.
“There’s no shame in it, darling,” Astarion half teases. “Bodies do what bodies do.”
“If you must know, yes, I picked up a few… handy incantations over time,” Gale mutters. “Prestidigitation is arguably one of the most serviceable and handy spells ever conceived.”
“Presti – really?” Astarion scoffs. “Honestly, setting things on fire would get my vote over something that can make a room smell like flowers.”
“And clean. Everything.”
Whatever taunt that Astarion was going to make halts in his throat as he stops to consider that. “Oh hells, you actually have a point there.”
“Exactly.”
Nearly bouncing from foot to foot, Astarion swirls the blood in his goblet and says in his most honeyed, gossipy voice, “You know, I have always been curious. What other magic do you use in the bedroom, hmm?”
“Wouldn’t inquiring minds like to know,” Gale deflects grumpily. To Astarion’s unpleasant surprise, his shoulders slump before he starts rambling listlessly, “Truth be told… I, uh, would rather like to see if I can minimize its use. In such situations. It’s only that I… well, then again… to ‘be myself’ is naff advice. Tiresome…”
sh*t.
There’s no way in all the hells that they’re starting like this. f*ck the gods and their bullsh*t. Mystra did a number on him, and Astarion finds that he can’t stand it. It’s become too familiar. Hells, it took everything just for him to convince Gale to stay alive at one point, and such dreariness has no place in their planned raucous days of wanton pleasure. He clasps a hand down on to one of Gale’s shoulders, doing his very damned best to look friendly and not grimace at the gesture. “Is this… going to be all right?”
Gale gapes at Astarion’s hand for a moment before he puts on his most affable smile. “No, no. Quite all right. Scrolls and cantrips of convenience are one thing, but…”
“Not just magic, Gale. Sex,” Astarion says seriously.
Gods, the poor man likely doesn’t even know what touching a c*nt outside of the Weave is like.
Gale’s smile falters and he answers just as seriously, “It may indeed be… a complex matter for me. I am sure it is similarly an… intricate subject for you as well.”
Uncomfortable with all this talking, Astarion pulls his hand away and merely nods.
“But no harm in trying!” Gale reminds him cheerfully, clearly trying to salvage the situation, “Time to get out there and give it a go. You can always say no, not today! And I shall be there to back you up.”
“Watch each other’s backs?” Astarion says warily.
“Indeed,” Gale agrees, optimistic smile back in place.
“Hmm,” Astarion ponders.
It’s interesting, all these offers to help. It actually might be easier having someone around that he… Trusts. There with him. Keeping an eye out. He glances at Gale. The man will never shut up about it if he lets him know that.
“I understand. I do!” Gale states. “As for my part, well… In short, I’ve grown to trust you. When in Chondath, do as the Chondathans do, as they say.”
“Oh, how delightfully corruptible you are,” Astarion teases, brushing quickly past the unspoken moment of reciprocation that Gale so readily put forth. “Giving up romance already?”
“No,” Gale snaps quickly, affronted. With some hesitation, he explains, “However, it’s occurred to me that I went without living life for over a year. Far more than, if I take an honest account. I have also ended our merry little adventure with no lover to call my own. Unlike some. Perhaps this is a sign that I should get out of my comfort zone.”
This is too good. Gale is serious about all of this. Astarion was thinking it was all bluster, for show, but he’s actually serious. “Oh ho ho, Gale are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Gale admonishes, though the way he has to suppress a playful smile gives him away. Nonetheless, he reminds Astarion, “I am not ashamed to admit that it is quite difficult for me to… desire without some particular forms of emotion involved. I am who I am. But… perhaps some further study is in order.”
Astarion might have once made the most biting and terrible comment at that, but after how Gale helped him kill Cazador, guided him through the after, he has no taste for it anymore. Save it for another night. Instead, he softens and sincerely says, “Fair enough. But what does going out of your ‘comfort zone’ entail, exactly?”
“Well, what does it entail for you?”
Astarion sips on Gale’s wine-touched blood from the goblet, letting the slightly, delightfully inebriating elixir roll on his tongue for a moment before he answers, “Exposure, I suppose? Knowing that I can enjoy myself without it ending in pain or worse.”
Gale nods solemnly. Thoughtfully, he reasons, mostly to himself, “Indeed. And likewise! I… I think it would be good to know that-that I am desirable. To know that the world will not end, or cities be leveled in a fiery explosion if I partake in some intimacy. I am who I am, but should I find someone to call my own and vice versa, all the better that I explore things now so as not to negatively affect such companionship. To exposure!”
“Of more than one kind, if this evening goes right,” Astarion leers. “And on my honour, if you find yourself someone you fancy, I will do what I can to encourage some wholesome depravity. It’s only fair I return the favour.”
