Chapter Text
They have only been travelling together for a couple days and while Gale is certainly happy to have company, he isn’t too keen with the white-haired elf by the name of Astarion. He seems to be cruel just for the sake of it sometimes, turning his nose up at the mere prospect of helping someone because it is the right thing to do. If it was up to him, Gale would bet that the elf would have told the tieflings that the drow and goblins were their problem, not his; if it was up to him, Gale’s sure that Arabella would have been killed at the hands of Kagha. Beyond that, Astarion created an environment of incessant teasing towards the wizard that has quickly become a group passtime. Don’t get him wrong, he can take a joking jab, but when every failure of the past couple days becomes the punchline of a joke, it begins to grate.
The most recent topic of conversation has been how he lost concentration on witchbolt during their fight with the goblins outside the grove. He was up on a small hill, and after narrowly dodging an arrow hurling his way, his footing had inched close to the rocky precipice. Closer than he realised, because with a movement that was intended to stabilise his footing, he actually slipped and had a slight tumble. He sustained no injuries, apart from a raging, bluish-purple bruise on his knee and an equally devastating blow to his ego, as the small tumble caused him to break concentration on a witchbolt which could have easily put an end to the last goblin standing. So, instead, Astarion picked it off with an arrow in the eye.
The jokes started up almost immediately, as Astarion turned to him with a toothy grin while Gale brushed the dirt off his robe, groaning slightly as he stretched out his leg, already presuming that there would be one hell of a bruise. “Gale of Waterdeep, the most powerful wizard in all the lands, when he’s not tripping over himself,” Astarion remarked, fixing his crossbow on his back as he began to descend the small hill.
The worst part of this particular line of jokes is that they met Wyll for the first time in that battle, and during their first conversation with the warlock, Astarion made sure to mention the slip up. The Blade of Frontiers! Well, let me introduce you to Gale of Waterdeep. You may know him best from the devastating fall he took down the side of a hill just moments ago! The words were punctuated with an arm slung over his shoulders, as if they were in any way friends. Gale shrugged the arm off, grumbling under his breath, before retreating further to the back of the group.
Now, he sits in front of the campfire, idly watching a minor illusion of Tara, his tressym, who is still back in Waterdeep. He’s been feeling quite homesick ever since the Nautiloid where his safety is promised — as much as it can be with the Netherese orb in his chest — and he always had a bed to return to. The amount of expected daily socialisation ever since he was pulled out of the portal is easily more social interaction than he has in an average week, much to Tara’s chagrin. The longer he is here, however, the easier he’s finding it; Wyll has been quite kind ever since he joined their adventuring party.
Now, Wyll has turned in for the night. He mentioned the importance of staying well-rested as he’s still pursuing his latest contract, a devil by the name of Karlach. Beyond Wyll, he’s slowly forming a rapport with Alwithril. The elf is definitely rough around the edges, always on the most extreme setting; he acts purely off of gut instinct and emotion, it seems, but Gale is happy to report that, so far, his choices have been in almost direct opposition to what Astarion would like to see happen, which is a long-winded way to say they’re good. Although, that doesn’t stop him from joining in on the teasing. The same goes for Shadowheart. Lae’zel and Astarion have been the most prominent thorns in his side. After the witchbolt fiasco, Lae’zel felt prompted to let him know that if he had the training she did, that sort of mistake would never happen.
The sudden appearance of Astarion snaps him out of his brooding. He supposes it shouldn’t be a surprise — the white-haired elf had offered to take the first watch again. “Look at the time,” Gale begins, hands on knees as he pushes himself to his feet, “I should be getting to bed.” He’s not in the mood for a conversation with Astarion right now. His mind is preoccupied with far too many lines of thought — how he will ensure the safety and stability of his orb, how deeply he yearns for a life that he can no longer have, how they’re going to remove these tadpoles from their heads and what may happen if they can’t in time — to endure a beating from the elf.
As he moves to get up, though, Astarion places a hand on his shoulder, clearly urging him to stay seated as he stands behind him. “Don’t leave on my behalf,” he grins. Reluctantly, Gale sits back down, but at any moment, he is ready to turn and leave. “Your brooding is beginning to rival Shadowheart.” Astarion begins to lightly massage his shoulders. Gale returns a quiet hum, waiting to hear Astarion’s true reason and purpose for bothering him tonight before giving into the conversation. “Cat got your tongue?” Astarion prods, a clear play on the presence of the tessrym cleaning itself on the ground near his feet.
Gale rolls his shoulders, freeing them of Astarion’s hands. In response, Astarion takes a seat on the log diagonal of his own, eyes fixated on Gale. The wizard swallows, doing his best to ignore Astarion, focusing his gaze on Tara. “She’s actually the better half of my company.” With a small flick of his hand, the minor illusion dissipates; he meets Astarion’s gaze. “So, what do you want, Astarion? If you’re just here to point out some minor mistake I made today, let me know so I know it’s not worth the time to stay.”
Astarion holds his hands up, palms out, as if the accusation isn’t perfectly reasonable. “It’s all in good fun. I’m sure you agree.”
“Not particularly,” he responds stiffly. “The only one having fun is you.” Astarion has a special ability when it comes to getting under his skin. He’s usually much more cordial.
“You can’t expect me to consider your happiness and mine, wizard.” It’s stated as if it’s an obvious, objective fact. As Gale gets progressively more riled up, the orb in his chest does, as well. It’s an unfortunate truth that ever since he received the burden of the orb, he’s forced to remain emotionally consistent. So, for the past few years, he has developed quite a habit in regards to bottling up his feelings, and that habit is easiest kept by locking himself away in his tower. With his only company being Tara and his thorough library, there’s few unexpected developments. Now, stuck with a number of strangers, he finds that his own company is still the most preferred while he gets more comfortable with their snide remarks and occasional cruelty.
“Right. How foolish of me, rogue.” Eyes are squinted, observing Astarion carefully and with judgement. “Then I suppose if I suggested for you to be a tad nicer, that would be asking too much?”
Astarion grins that frustrating, shit-eating grin. “Yes.”
“Right. Well, then, if you’ll excuse me —” again, he moves to get up, and now he’s slowed by a hand on his heavily bruised knee. A deep breath. “Clearly you want something, Astarion, or you wouldn’t stop me from leaving. Twice. So, what is it?” He’s giving the rogue one more chance.
Astarion sizes him up, and if Gale didn’t know any better, he’d say that he looks uncomfortable, nervous almost. His hand is still on his knee, but this time Gale doesn’t move it. “I require something from you.” Astarion’s gaze flickers from his eyes to — his lips? Astarion’s tongue grazes over his teeth. “Tad bit more than a small ask, but I promise it will be beneficial to us both.”
Gale’s heart is racing. Is he seriously insinuating that they hook up? Surely not. Shifting uncomfortably where he’s sitting, more aware than ever of the presence of Astarion’s hand on his robed knee. “I — politely, um, no,” though there’s no move to relocate the elf’s hand. Gale rubs at his chest absent-mindedly, the increasing rate of his heart exciting the orb. It thrums with a burning, electric feel. It isn’t helped by the fact that he is beginning to reach the sorely in need of a magic item phase.
Astarion eyes him curiously. “What do you think I’m asking?” They both know. It’s obvious. Astarion just wants to hear him say it, admit to whatever moment they’re having.
“To — for — um, well — sex. Which I am not interested in, by the way, or at least not — I guess what I’m saying is how could you think of that in a time like this?” They are constantly battling with the threat of death these past couple days. Gale is either distracting his mind with simple pleasures, like a good book or the comfort of the Weave, or facing their situation head-on. That left zero room for other desires, especially with a man who has teased him since he was pulled out of the portal.
“It’s just a matter of time before you are interested, darling, but no.” Gale gawks slightly at the brash confidence. “I’m not asking for sex. Shame for going in such a naughty direction, but I like it.” Gale feels like prey under Astarion’s hungry gaze; his eyes flicker again, so if not to his lips, what is he looking at? “No, I want your blood.” The wizard’s breath hitches at the answer, though if Astarion is truly asking for blood, it would answer some questions. Gale spotted a peculiar scar on Astarion’s neck their first night in camp, and the elf’s eyes are undoubtedly unique for a high elf.
“Sunlight doesn’t bother you.” Astarion seems taken aback by the statement.
“And me asking for your blood didn’t seem to bother you,” he retorts, moving right next to him. Gale scoots a couple inches, not quite comfortable with the idea of them sitting so close.
“I had my suspicions on our first day together. Your scar and red eyes provoke some questions, although I put it to bed considering the sunlight didn’t affect you, but I seemed to be correct.” At that, the wizard straightens, a smug expression taking over.
“Yes, yes, you guessed it. Congratulations.” Astarion emphasises the remark with a flourish of his hand. “Now, does that mean you’ll do it?”
This time when Astarion’s gaze lowers he realises that he’s been looking at his neck, not his lips. Cheeks flush with embarrassment at the realisation, considering it was him then that even brought up the idea of anything happening between them. He does his best to clear his head. “Why should I? You’ve done nothing but insult me since we met.”
“You’re fretting over unimportant details. Despite how I’ve treated you, you’ve been nothing but delightful. And you’re endlessly concerned with the well-being of others. You practically worshipped Al for saving that little tiefling kid.”
Gale opens his mouth to respond but it closes without a sound made. He points a finger with uncertainty, moving to speak again. “Caring isn’t a weakness. It’s not a bad thing that I wanted to see Arabella saved.” A pause, hand lowers. “Wait, so if that’s why you’re approaching me, why not Alwithril? Wyll? Both of them were eager to make similar choices. I’m not the only one here who, dare I say it, cares.”
“Because you, my dear wizard, intrigued me the most.” The silence between them becomes thick, heavy.
This feels similar to when a young boy admits he likes a girl and that’s why he’s been bullying her. As such, Gale is slow to take the statement positively. “You’ve done nothing but insult me —”
“Yes, we get it.” Astarion sounds bored, shoulders slumping. “It’s not like I’m saying anything new. You prance around,” the elf gives his best Gale impression, which is nothing short of offensive, “Oh, look at me. I’m Gale of Waterdeep, chosen of Mystra. You may know me as the most powerful wizard in history!” Suddenly, Gale is reminded as to why he feels the way he does towards the other, expression hardening at the mention of Mystra. “Yet you’ve done absolutely nothing remarkable. Incredible wizard by what standard?”
Gale’s jaw sets. He wants to bite back, explain that it was true once upon a time, when he was chosen by Mystra in more capacities than the orb in his chest. Ever since its implant, his magic has slowly waned, and the tadpole in his head reverted him to a first year student instead of the exceptional wizard he once was. While it may frustrate his companions, it frustrated him much more, that he could guarantee. “We all have our secrets, and by no means am I required to share mine with you.”
“No, but I propose a deal.” Astarion closes some space between them. “I’ll let up on my insults, as you put it, if you allow me to have a small snack.” Gale hates how he actually considers it, because that’s further proving just how bothered he is by the vampire’s comments.
Gale stands, unable to scoot away as it would land him on the ground, but he needs some physical distance between himself and the elf. “I — I will consider it. Tomorrow, treat me the way you might if we — um.” He swallows. “Basically, I need to see that it’s actually possible for a man of your attitude to accomplish such a feat. Then, tomorrow, ask again.” A pause. “Deal?” He holds his hand down to the other.
Astarion takes his hand. They shake. “It's a deal, darling.”