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On a cool spring night in Waterdeep, an aurora danced over the sky.
Far be it for Gale Dekarios to ever admit he missed the life of an adventurer—no, those days were well behind him, he was sure—but, gods, it was times like these he would've gladly endured a flimsy bedroll and long sticky summer nights swatting at the occasional bug. Anything to swap for yet another obligatory guild event with entirely too much light and sound.
He adjusted the level of mist overhead, the better for catching the full vibrancy of the lights.
He was in no position to complain, he supposed. Technically this was partly his doing.
Guildsmeet’s annual gala was never exactly an understated affair, being an excuse for nobles and members of the various guilds to network and show off, but Waterdeep did enjoy mixing business with pleasure, and even a business-forward gathering such as Guildsmeet was no match for the city’s love of pomp and spectacle. Planning committees were formed, rosters on which guilds contributed what, and dear Vajra had decided, rather giddily, that since Blackstaff Academy had been volunteered for the year’s gala decorations then what better way to showcase the quality of their school than through illusion?
Cue the rather reluctant head of the academy’s School of Illusion, and his tendencies towards temporal myopia. A night under a magnificent aurora with the odd sparkle to light the way, conjured visions of creatures in the fog, and dancing mists of luminescence to follow around the partygoers as they moved about the venues from the Cynosure to the Market (rather a pretentious name, he always thought, since it was far from the city’s only one) was one thing to suggest in the safety of an otherwise quiet meeting room, another thing entirely to actually execute over such an area and such an extended period of time.
Well done, Gale, he admonished himself as yet another journeyman delighted in a drunken twirl purely to see the golden specks of light ripple outwards in his wake, you’ve created your own sensory nightmare.
He was going to need a good stiff tumbler of Waterdeep Whiskey when he got home.
In the midst of the madding crowd of the Field of Triumph emerged the distinctive white hair and sharp giggle of his husband, green eyes bright and the barest hint of a flush across his cheeks. He scanned the open floor, swirling his wine in his goblet and taking the occasional sip, when his eyes landed on Gale stood quietly in his little corner and he smiled.
It was almost embarrassing, his heart’s readiness to flutter for Astarion. Nigh on fifteen years they’d been a boring old married couple, and still here he was, as flustered as a lovestruck young apprentice.
“There you are!” he cried, his elegant glide of a walk not even slightly hampered by the night’s finest supply of discounted pre-Greengrass vintages. He had been out and about hunting down nobles and members of various guilds and making deals over dances and wine, and yet the shrug he’d fashioned of various feathers framing his neck and trailing down his shoulders remained literally unruffled. It was almost impressive. “You know, here you are with an Ancunín original, and still I was beginning to think you’d actually leave me to fend for myself.”
Gale used their greeting kiss as a ruse to remove the goblet to take a sip of his own. “I am, in fact, working, need I remind you.”
Astarion took the goblet back. “Gale, please,” he scoffed, before swiftly downing the rest of the Rosznar Pinot Noir, “it’s Guildsmeet. We’re all working.”
The festive music and utter revelry of the night begged to differ.
He looked at Astarion, who shrugged and set the goblet down on the nearest table. “Well. No one ever said work can only ever look like a candle and a desk, darling.”
“Speaking of,” Gale said, “how did it go with that one from Olmhazan’s… Jhesellis, was it?”
Astarion groaned. “Don’t get me started,” he said. “They’ve been only too happy to provide crystals for the new collection but there’s still a whole process getting them to agree to the idea of customised crystal neck pieces for the next. Issues with confidentiality. I’d have to go through legal. Standard protocol, thanks to noble commissions, or something. Honestly I think they’re just afraid of leaks to the broadsheets.”
“Still think you’re missing a trick there, not going to the glassblowers.”
Astarion considered it, then huffed a sigh.
“They like the dress robes, then?”
Dress robes was an understatement. In the tendays prior to Guildsmeet he had been rather sheepish to mention that he’d outgrown his last set of formal robes, and Astarion wouldn’t hear of the idea of simply altering them when this was a prime opportunity to add to the wardrobe now that there was an excuse.
“I’ll not be the shoemaker who let his children go barefoot, darling,” he’d declared as he scribbled embroidery over the sketch, punctuating it with his sharp little giggle. “What would the other dressmakers say?”
Whilst the guild did provide some allowance for robes with a touch more extravagance for formal events and the like, as a bit of an unspoken rule it wasn’t quite the done thing to commission clothing purely for extravagance when magical items imbued with performance boosts and the power of the Weave would do. Any overlap with formality tended to be fortunate coincidence, shielding the wizard from any aspersions of a lack of commitment to the craft, and leading to the rather jarring effect of Blackstaff wizards at civilian events looking rather like adventurers separated from their parties—which, to be fair, occasionally they very well were.
Enter Professor Gale Dekarios, whom as far as the world was concerned may as well have been practically sewn into his usual uniform of tasteful utilitarian teaching robes, arriving at the annual guild meeting in haute couture. He graced Blackstaff Tower rather like a fashion model afraid of revealing that they had lied on their resumé, greying beard neatly trimmed and his usually tousled bun of long silvered hair lovingly styled into a neat half updo, the man himself draped in layers of fine black silk, a floor length open slit cape structured sharply at the shoulders and embroidered with glittering beads forming his husband’s distinctive patterns of foliage and constellations. Later on he would be described as just about floating into the meeting hall on a cloud of fashionable chic, subtly glittering next to the actual glows and radiance in the magical robes his colleagues chose to arrive in.
Gale’s fingers brushed against the trails of beads dancing across his cape, the much more subtle sheen and structure of his much more understated silk dress shirt catching the light. “Some wondered how I could even afford them. I think a few of my own guild asked why I was dressed for a Trousseau.”
His attempt at a casual smile came through well enough, but quite frankly, it all stung, if he truly had to be honest.
Private though Astarion was about keeping his work life distinct from his real one, theirs was never a secret marriage, though they wouldn’t know it from the surprise of onlookers when they would so much as arrive at the same event. They did both agree, of course, before the label had even been invited to its first Trousseau, that Astarion in such a public setting full of gossip rags and nosy broadsheets deserved some separation between his public and private lives, right down to going by a different name if he so chose. But while the surprise in everyone’s faces always provided them with some measure of amusement when people realised the young and fabulous Ancunín had married a celebrity from an almost jarringly different sphere, as the years went on it became hard to ignore the pity when the onlookers registered that the mystery spouse was so very, very human, and the great designer was not.
If Astarion picked up on any of the hurt from Gale’s previous statement, he didn’t show it.
“Ha!” he said. “Well, credit given where credit’s due, I suppose. At this point I’m surprised those uptight boffins could even pronounce it.”
Gale shrugged, nonchalantly as he could.
“Academics,” he scoffed. “You didn’t hear it from me, but personally, I blame this artifice on Elminster.”
Astarion groaned again, letting himself melt against Gale’s side. Feathers brushed against the fine embroidered silk of his new dress robes. They glittered together for a moment, slumped against each other in mutual exhaustion. “Gods. We sound so adult. When did we become so adult?”
Gale’s head cocked to meet his. “We’ve been adults for a quite a while now, my love.”
“Boring adults,” he whined. “Look at us. We’re so… sensible.”
Gale laid a sympathetic hand on the arm that wrapped around his own. “Right, well, that just won’t do,” he said. “Come. Tomorrow, first thing, we empty the renovation account, I charter a boat and we take that business trip of yours to Shou Lung ourselves.”
Astarion stared at him, fully sober. “You wouldn’t dare. Gale, the leak on the third floor. The mould, Gale. The hardwood floors.”
The familiar shake of his shoulders undermined his efforts to at least appear to care about maintaining the evening’s illusions. “Your face,” he said. “The hardwood floors.”
The joke sunk in, and Astarion visibly strained to look annoyed. “Gale, stop. Stop it. It’s important.”
“So sensible.”
“This was all your doing, you know,” he said. “You made me like this.”
Astarion had been cured nearly as long as their marriage, and still it gladdened Gale’s heart every time to watch the blush creep into his once cold cheeks, all the way up to the pointed tips of his ears.
He kissed him through the haze of laughter. They came away to find the blush had deepened.
“Dance with me,” Gale found himself saying.
“What?”
He felt the blush creep up into his own face in return. “Surely we’re not so mature that we reserve all our night’s dances for networking,” he said. “Besides, all this noise and light’s a bit much for me, I think. Might’ve overestimated how long I could stand spectacle at this scale for this long. But things always seem more bearable with you.”
Worry flashed across his husband’s countenance, quickly masked by a teasing retort. “What about the aurora, and these darling little glowing dust clouds?”
“You know as well as I that it takes more than a quick spin around a dance floor to dispel one of my auroras.” He allowed himself a little preen at the sight of Astarion’s knowing look. “What do you say, Mr Dekarios?”
“The great and esteemed professor, bunking off work, where everyone can see?” Astarion’s hand slipped perfectly into his. “It appears our influence on each other goes both ways.”
It was difficult to remember when last they’d danced. Life had crept in, and their conflicting schedules entailed a social calendar with very little overlap, Astarion at a gala on the one night Gale had free to grade papers, Gale attending a Blackstaff event as Astarion dealt with an emergency at the boutique. There were afternoons and evenings at home, of course, all the little choices they made every day to make their marriage a marriage, all the little moments they shared and trials they faced that made their life together a life. They had become each other's sanctum, the anchors they could rely on to keep them tethered to a sense of home.
It simply hadn't occurred to either of them to pencil dancing into the diary in quite some time.
He was actually, as they stood in the flurry of the dance floor, beginning to wonder if they'd forgotten how.
The song changed, and a sweeping waltz, courtesy of New Olamn’s finest, enveloped the arena in a soft melody that spoke of the past and felt akin to an embrace. Exhausted revellers took their breathers as new people entered the fray, business deals at the tables in the shadows and idle flirtations at the various bars, young spellcasters showcasing their skills creating constructs and figments of light and spectacle to attract new partners.
Astarion's hand traced over the trails of beaded embroidery to wrap around the small of his back. The other held Gale's free hand aloft, fingertips curled softly around his own. Something like a thrill ran through them as Gale arched his back into position and Astarion held him closer. He glanced sidelong at his husband's eyes widening at the sight of his bared neck stretched out before him, and swallowed.
All these years together, and still these moments could send his heart racing.
“Gods,” Astarion breathed, and Gale barely stifled a shiver at the feeling of his hairs standing on end, “we really must do this more often.”
The world, always a little too bright, always a little too sharp, dimmed and softened around them as they fell into the waltz as if no time had passed since the last. All complaint Gale may have had about his creaky old knees and the weakness in his ankles dissolved like the last fleeting memory of an inconsequential dream as they rose and fell, rose and fell, turning until the room spun around them in a dizzying blur of vague outlines, Gale's fine dress robes sweeping behind him, his cape’s split train leaving ribboned clouds of golden dust swirling in its wake.
“It’s not fair, really,” he said. “Everyone enjoys you in my designs but me.”
Gale chuckled reflexively, ignoring the heat blooming all across his face. “Standard line for all your clients?”
“Oh, darling,” he held him in closer, his hand brushing gently against the fine weave of his exquisitely tailored robes, teasing at the plush skin beneath. “None of them ever made me want to take those clothes off.”
Gale fought to even out his breathing. It was suddenly quite warm on this cool spring night.
“I’ll be sure to indulge you when we get home.”
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re exquisite. Why even start a fashion house if I can’t dress my own husband?”
“I’m not sure that’s how business works,” Gale chuckled. “And I’d hardly call myself model material.”
“Is that so, Professor?”
The room stopped spinning as their feet changed position and Astarion leaned in, signalling him into a hesitation.
Astarion smirked at the brief moment of eye contact, as muscle memory took hold and Gale let his head fall briefly back. “That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing.”
Gale nearly stumbled at the whiff of perfume from the contact, the scent of wine lees and bergamot in the air between them.
“Be serious, dearest.”
He barely had room to elaborate when Astarion broke the closed position to lead them turning outwards, mischief in his eyes as he refused to close the distance and met Gale’s free hand with his. “I am,” he said, before leading them down a free path on the floor, alternating between facing each other and facing an increasingly curious crowd. “My love, if I could, I would bathe you in silks and drown you in velvet. You would step nowhere without the world knowing I designed every piece, stitched every stitch.”
He signalled Gale back in and closed the distance like a promise. “But as it stands, the odd chance alignment of our schedules will have to do.”
They waltzed under the light of the aurora, clearing a path around them among the drunken antics of the guild members playing in the responsive lights and the increasingly risky antics courtesy of the younger spellcasters looking to impress.
Gale’s fingers brushed against one of the feathers on the shrug. “Then let’s make this count.”
So engrossed Astarion was in the fingers against his neck that it took seconds to notice that they had begun to float off the ground.
They faltered in unison, before Astarion laughed. “Showoff.”
And the world fell away around them as they rose into the air, dancing in each other’s embrace. How long it had been since they had last felt this magical, how long it had been since the day they had taken each other by the hand and ascended, reciting their vows for all their guests to see. Clouds of sparkling gold followed with every movement, as Gale’s world narrowed into the beat of their hearts and the next breath, the next lunge, the next spin, in the arms of the one he loved, high above any doubts and cares.
What magic they made together.
They ended the song nearly breathless. His knees barely felt the strain of the soft landing back on the ground, his core not even noticing the lunge into the final dip. His body, changed as it was over the years by age and a life free of forces conspiring to drain every last reserve of energy out of him, held steady despite years since the last time they had set foot on a dance floor, as confident as if he'd been doing this all his life.
Normally it would take the rigid discipline of his spellwork or weapons training to clear his mind, but this latest bit of quiet, he had to admit, was quite the pleasant surprise.
Astarion’s bright eyes stared down at him, his handsome face blissfully untouched by the ravages of time.
Gale gratefully took the hand guiding him back up.
“Not bad for a couple of boring adults, I think,” he said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say anyone’s calling us boring now.”
Gale rose to find the world slowly coming back into focus and the blessed quiet replaced by an embarrassing clarity. Eyes laid on them, the odd stare from the bars and the shadows, a small crowd on the dance floor itself, and suddenly the world was bright again, sharp.
They were surprised, he was dismayed to realise. A few of them even looked shocked. Isn't he married? someone asked in the crowd, and Gale’s thoughts flew instantly to the prospect of the much more amateur wing of the press. Gossip rags, his panicked mind reminded him. A return to the vicious rumours about Ancunín seducing his way into his illustrious client base.
He barely resisted the urge to step away from Astarion, make some wry remark about the both of them having work to do.
“Gods, I forgot about the broadsheets,” he muttered. “This won’t follow you tomorrow, will it?”
The utter softness of his husband’s gaze fell away to confusion, and then, the sharp little giggle. “What, the famed designer Ancunín shocks the world by dancing with his own husband? Why, the scandal, Gale. The shame.”
He held back playfully, awaiting a laugh that didn’t come.
The song changed, and the crowd, to Gale's great good fortune, moved on with a shrug and a few choice stares and mumbles.
Astarion remained stubbornly at his side even as Gale scurried off to the nearest table.
“Gale,” he said, more softly, “I guarantee half of those reporters are drunk and the other half will have actual scandals to print.”
Gale winced. “If this ends up disrupting your work or your next few interviews, or even, gods forbid, the Trousseau, I'm fully prepared to take all the blame. I’m—”
He hadn’t realised he had dropped his gaze until Astarion’s fingertips curled against his chin, a gentle nudge to urge him to look his way.
There was nothing that felt quite so much like home as the feel of his husband beside him, steadfast and full of love.
Astarion brushed away a lock of hair that had come loose in the dance, and the world fell a little more quiet, a little more soft.
“My love,” he said. “You’re my husband, not my secret. I wouldn't want you mistaking our family's safety for my shame.”
“I know.”
He smiled. “And if you’d like to dance more often, I can’t say I’d complain.”
It was funny, the way that when he’d first met Astarion he had met a completely remorseless charlatan, operating off nearly two centuries of survival instinct and learned behaviours to craft whatever elaborate deceptions he could to exploit whatever benefit he could from the nearest person before it was time to do it all again. At the time Gale could trust him just about as far as he could throw him, which, with the tadpole draining whatever it could and the orb fighting to eat the rest, wasn’t very far at all.
He never would’ve believed that this would be the same man he would go on to trust with his life.
Gale leaned into his touch, and heaved a slow sigh.
Astarion was right, he had to tell himself. Their marriage was never a secret. It had only… become an open one, of sorts, with the way their social calendars had turned out. People knew. They'd always forget, but those in the know were always quick to admonish the gossips for exciting the crowd with false leads. It would be fine.
“Perhaps we’re just… out of practice, being out in public,” Gale said. “Schedules and all that. Perhaps we’ve been too sensible.”
“Hmm. I would like more excuses to see you in finery.”
Now there was a thought. Dowdy old Gale Dekarios, haute couture clotheshorse. The image was almost enough to shake off the remnants of the worry.
He chuckled. “Those days may be behind us, I fear,” he said. “I daresay high fashion’s a bit of a young man’s game.”
“Behind us? Ha!” Astarion took a step back to gesture at him, as if whatever he saw was obvious. “My sweet, all my clients of a certain age aside, I don’t think you realise quite the extent of your following among the good city’s smut-peddlers.”
There were questions raised that he’d probably have to follow up on, that Waterdeep had smut-peddlers, that Astarion knew where to buy such smut, and that Gale for whatever reason had not only a following but a dedicated one—but he chose to ask the one that actually made him tilt his head. “You’ve read smut about me?”
He looked at him as if it were the most adorable question an innocent child had ever posed. “When I have the real thing at home?” He giggled. “Gale. I do have standards.”
An odd look passed across his face, the smile growing less gleeful, a bit more nuanced with thought. Astarion considered him, looked out onto the dance floor and the chaos and debauchery therein, and returned his gaze to the two of them, settled as anything, stood quietly at a table in the shadows.
“We could do with more breaks from adult life, wouldn’t you say?” he said, the blush slowly returning to the tips of his pointed ears. “Life outside the hearth and the hardwood floors. How’s the seventeenth, Mermaid on a Dolphin? The spring collection’s killing me, honestly, and Morwen owes me a table after that Fleetswake rush job.”
He didn’t mean the laugh that came out of him when it dawned just what, well over a decade into their marriage, Astarion was proposing they do.
“Astarion, are you asking me on a date?”
The blush deepened across his cheeks, despite the air of nonchalance. “Now don’t go around telling the broadsheets or anything, my love, but I think it’s time you know:” he leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dancing with mischief, “I may have something of a crush on you.”
What less could he do but laugh? What more could he do but kiss him?
“You're incorrigible.”
Astarion winked. “And you can't return me,” he said. “Now what do you say, Mr Dekarios? Another dance?”
He considered the hand offered before him in this madding crowd of noise and activity, and the smile that still made his world better, more tolerable, more rich.
Nigh on fifteen years since they had decided to spend their lives together, he mused, and still his heart fluttered so.
Gale's hand slipped perfectly into his.
“Let's show off these robes.”
And on a cool spring night in Waterdeep, under the light of an aurora, a boring old married couple took each other by the hand, and asked the other to dance.
What magic they made together.