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"So, do you have loves waiting for you once this is all over?" Astarion had asked them once, early in their journey. Athanasia had just cringed in response as if recalling an unsavory memory. "Remind me to ask you for that story," Shadowheart had laughed.
Gale hadn't thought much of it at the time, but perhaps it had been a sign, a hint that Athanasia is very much not seeking romance at the moment. It's fair, really. One hardly gets kidnapped by illithids with the expectation of finding a lover. And besides, if she's been burned by love in the past—well, he knows the feeling well enough. Although his relationship with Mystra could hardly be characterized as love—she was his muse and he was her plaything, he knows that now—it had still left him with more emotional scars than he can count.
Perhaps Athanasia is just looking for a bit of fun. And Astarion is fun, far more than Gale is anyway. He's just... him. Gale Dekarios, no matter how much he tries to style himself as Gale of Waterdeep. That man is long gone—disappeared along with his magic and Mystra's favor and all the rest of his worth. Lost to his hubris, swallowed into the orb forever. Point being: Gale is all too aware that he's far from the ideal partner. No matter how often Athanasia reassures him of his worth, in the deepest part of his soul Gale knows that his magic was all he had to offer, and now it is gone.
It's just... Astarion? Really, of all people? Wyll, he could understand. The two are close enough, having shared many sweet moments and dances around the campfire. Or even Shadowheart. As mysterious as the dark-eyed woman is, she and Athanasia are thick as thieves, constantly banding together to tease all of their other companions.
Gale tries to tell himself that he doesn't have to understand, that Athanasia has proven to herself to be wise, if a tad impulsive, time and time again. Point being, she's capable of making sound decisions for herself. Part of him may have nurtured a secret hope—they'd shared many moments, after all, moments he'd certainly characterize as intimate—but that's his problem to deal with.
He knows what he saw, at any rate, her and Astarion retreating into the woods the night of the party... and nearly every night after that, Athanasia in Astarion's tent for what seems to be hours on end... the casual touches, the pet names, all increasing in frequency... Athanasia is affectionate with all of them, to be sure, but the evidence is undeniable. And it's fine. He's fine. Gale doesn't have a monopoly on her time, nor does he wish to. She is a person, not an object to be possessed—not his plaything, he thinks bitterly.
It just doesn't help that Astarion seems to be pitching his tent next to Gale's on purpose. He wouldn't put it past the vampire to rub salt in Gale's wounds. Each night, Gale stares at the ceiling of his tent and wills himself to tune out their voices, Athanasia's delighted laughter. And as for the ache in his chest—well, for the sake of his sanity, he'll chalk it up to the orb.
"So Gale, how is your sad, hopeless pining going?"
Speak of the devil. Gale prides himself on not jumping out of his skin. He quickly flips a page of his book, pretending to have read the words, pretending he hasn't been stuck on the same page for probably the last fifteen minutes. Somehow, he feels that Astarion just knows. The vampire is practically radiating smugness, like the cat who got the cream. Gale schools his face into a careful neutral expression and replies, "I'm hardly pining."
"Whatever you say." Astarion is practically singing. Gods preserve him.
Gale doesn't dignify that with an answer. Instead, noticing the stray blood at the corner of Astarion's mouth, he settles on, "Good hunting?"
"More or less. It's nothing compared to—well, you know." Astarion pauses inspecting his daggers just to throw Gale a cheeky smile. "It's so hard to go back, after the gift she's given me."
Gale certainly does not know how to respond to that. Luckily, he doesn't have to think for long, because at that moment the adventuring party—Athanasia, Shadowheart, Karlach and Wyll—return to camp. They stop to speak to Lae'zel, who had been occupied with the thorough destruction of a training dummy on the other side of camp. Then, Athanasia comes bounding over to him and Astarion.
"Gale!" A petty part of him delights in the fact that she sought him out first, that it's his name she called out. She comes to a stop in front of them and starts digging through her pack. "I found an artifact for you."
Finally, she produces a ring from her pack. She's about to hand it to him, but pauses mid-motion and looks at it, considering. And then she grabs his hand instead—with every ounce of willpower he can muster, he tries to stop the flush from creeping up his face—and slides the ring onto his finger. "Perfect! Anyway, I know you said you didn't need an artifact yet, but I figured it's better to have it on hand, just in case."
Athanasia smiles at him and he returns it, reflexively. But the moment ends all too soon. She drops his hand and turns to Astarion before he can even thank her.
"Hello, my dear." Athanasia gives him a curtsey in return, and Gale wants nothing more than to flee to the confines of his tent, where he can at least wallow in peace. He is constantly surprised at the depth of his greed. This is who Gale Dekarios is, he thinks uncharitably. Petty, selfish, weak, heartsick. He wants—wants her hand in his, wants her in his tent, wants her everything—and that is precisely the problem.
"I didn't forget about you, Astarion," Athanasia says, breaking Gale out of his thoughts. "You can feed on me tonight, if you'd like."
Gale swears that Astarion looks at him sidelong before replying, that charming smirk on his face: "Then I'll see you tonight, you sweet, generous thing."