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It doesn’t even occur to him not to reach out the second he hears the vampire yelp, just managing to clasp his fingers around a cool, sweaty hand before it slips from reach entirely.
Gale absorbs the shockwave dancing up his arm from their grasped hands, a humming live-wire to his nervous system after so long without human contact. He tenses, of course he does, as he draws Astarion closer from his brush with certain death.
If he’s hurt by the way burgundy eyes snap wide open to stare at him for the few seconds before that hand wrenches from his grip, bare moments that trickle past while Astarion settles back onto solid ground? Well, that’s his own business.
He lets Astarion retreat easily, the quip about saving him already dead on his tongue as he watches him storm off to his tent.
It’s not like he really has anything to say, either. The rudeness isn’t going to prevent Gale from reaching out and hauling him back up the next time he starts sliding down a cliff-face into a chasm; they are precious few as it is. Surely the inconvenience of forking out hard-won Goblin gold to resurrect him is greater than the inconvenience of thanklessly saving the elf, anyway.
He tries not to think about the sensation of that hand in his own, or the way his own hand had felt clammy when Astarion had yanked himself from Gale’s grasp.
***
There’s no hesitation in the pale, ash-streaked hand that reaches out for Gale to grab, desperate and reaching for him – not him. Anyone. Any assistance at all, Gale just happens to be close enough to stretch his arm out and pull.
The hand is sweaty once again, but burning hot to the touch – skin blistering against the sheer heat of the fire engulfing them. He can see the parts of Astarion’s palm that have been pushing against the beam he’s trapped under, the usually smooth skin woven into a tapestry of splinters and scalds from where he’s pushed to free his legs.
Gale wraps his own hand carefully yet firmly around the outside of the hand that reaches for him, avoiding the irritated area even as he throws his other hand up to cast Thunderwave.
The beam flies backwards, disintegrating as he helps pull Astarion to his feet, the wooden floors of Waukeen’s Rest crumbling around them. Gale tugs at the hand engulfed in his own, soft pulls to show him the way to the exit in all the darkness thrown up by the smoke.
Astarion coughs quite a bit that night; Gale can hear it from his own tent. Psychosomatic – the vampire doesn’t even breathe air, but he can imagine the panic of the moment would have startled him into drawing large, sucking breaths. He knows his own respiration had been similarly affected, a combination of the heavy smog from the burning building and the fear that had torn through him at the sight of one of his companions trapped in it, while they tried to rescue another companion’s father who wasn’t even there.
He’d tried to offer assistance with healing him after they’d made it out, but Astarion had just stared at him the whole while he’d guzzled a Potion of Greater Healing, and fine. If he didn’t want to listen to Gale about how healing his skin while the splinters were still trapped in his hand would give him an infection, that was no skin off his nose.
***
Astarion’s actively annoyed with him, and it should probably leave Gale feeling less wrong-footed. It’s becoming more and more common lately, though. It seems his propensity towards verbalizing each and every thought that occurs to him, in order to fill the awkward silence that has pervaded the space between them lately, can be seen as badgering. Let alone the times he’s tried to reach out, to engage Astarion in campfire conversation, to draw him in so he doesn’t feel excluded by the way he can’t exactly share in their meals. He tries not to take the snappish dismissals personally, but when he sees how their vampire will engage with Shadowheart or Karlach and seem quite cheerful, and it's difficult to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
So, he’s given their resident rogue a little more space lately, but that hasn’t really alleviated their weird tension either. He’s been unsure what to do since, so he keeps to himself, doesn’t engage until Astarion speaks to him first. It’s difficult, goes against the very nature of his being to avoid someone he desperately wants to share his ideas with, want to listen to in return - but needs must.
He’s careful with his body, conscious of it in a way he hasn’t been before, too. Karlach has indicated she wants as many hugs as possible now her engine has been successfully cooled, and he’s happy to oblige when she asks, but won’t linger in the warmth of her embrace the second she decides to let go. There’s a quick clasp around his forearm now and then from Wyll, usually as thanks for preparing food or spelling his armour clean. Halsin will bump their arms together in a friendly jostle now and again, or dart in to take heavy items from his hands when he’s encumbered. And Scratch is always down for a cuddle, though he can’t help but miss Tara as he runs his fingers through the soft fur of their most favoured companion.
But the others? The others wordlessly scream do not touch, so he makes concentrated effort; doesn’t let their fingers brush when he hands over a plate, pulls himself up when he’s been downed.
Which is probably why both he and Astarion jump when Gale dares to grab his hand out of nowhere and pull, yanking him down and out of the line of sight of the Drider’s entourage.
Pale curls fly about his face as his head whips around, almost glowing against the shadowy night. He opens his mouth, presumably to snap something at Gale about touching him.
He’ll apologise later. For now, he puts his finger to his lips, and points out the scout that Astarion hadn’t seen despite his better vision in the dark – hardly surprising, given the way he’d been staring at the monstrous form of the half-man, half-spider with his lip curled in a sneer. Astarion glowers at him, but ducks back into the shadows.
It doesn’t occur to Gale that he hasn’t snatched his hand away until he goes to cast Fireball and realises they’re still joined by a firm grasp; the Harpers descending on their quarry and yelling for them to step forth into the light of the lantern to fight. He lets go immediately, an apology on his tongue that he’ll save for later, when they’re not dying, and then they’re back in the thick of things once more.
***
This is it, his final evening on this plane. Last time inhaling the crisp evening air, feeling the breeze caress his skin and make the hair on his arms stand on end. His final night, and he’s spending it alone, staring up at smattering of stars spread across the sky – an illusion of his own creation, wanting the comfort of the universe above and soft grass below.
The stars seem distant, uncaring. He doesn’t matter in the great expanse of everything, and that’s fine. He looks up at the cosmos he’ll be scattered into by the next evening, and can’t decide if it’s a sob of relief or desolation that erupts, uninvited, tearing from somewhere deep within himself.
He doesn’t hear the soft susurration of footsteps on conjured blades of grass, and jumps at the sudden sensation of cool fingers sliding onto the back of his neck, angling across to rest on his back; just five simple points of pressure that resonate through his body.
He’s not alone.
If a tear or two escape from his eyes, fixed as they are upon the projected astral sky above them, Astarion at least has the decency not to say anything.
***
It’s a gorgeous day, sunlight reflecting on the myriad of colours and textures sprawling around them, noises and smells and so many people it’s almost overwhelming after so long spent on shadow-cursed ground.
It’s a shame the circus is only here to celebrate the end of the last days, that it takes an apocalyptic event to have this; the whole party taking a day to enjoy themselves despite the tadpoles in their heads and the bombs in at least two of their chests that tick down to their inevitable demise.
Still, a lovely day, all told; they purchase face paints, Astarion orders a statue of himself; Gale isn’t surprised at the vanity, but supposes it’s a good enough way for him to see what he looks like without ordering a painting or using their brain passengers. They eat soft cheeses and warm bread and drink sweet wine, Astarion just partaking in the latter.
They come across a delightful dryad who offers to test the extent of their love. It’s a hilarious joke, and the party discusses testing Shadowheart and Lae’zel for a laugh, making both women scowl; though Gale is sure he’s not the only one who notices the shade or two darker that Shadowheart’s cheeks flush at the proposition. The hilarity and high spirits increase as the dryad rattles off a spiel about how in love the two clearly are, which only makes them all practically sigh with relief when she turns out to be the bloodthirsty Bhaalspawn in disguise.
He’s surprised at how unsurprised he is to hear a doppelganger might be in their midst. The group’s particular brand of crazy is somehow becoming incredibly normal.
She disappears, so they shrug at one another and decide not to let it ruin their day.
Of course, the universe sets out to throw another smoke-powder grenade in their plans as they send Karlach up to the stage with the creepy clown who has terrible jokes, and she gets what she asked for – violence.
There’s panic, circus-goers and performers screaming and running as the clown changes before their very eyes, and Gale doesn’t think, just grabs Astarion’s wrist and wrenches him back from the ensuing chaos as Karlach rolls with the hit of the clown’s hammer. There’s a rattle behind them, and suddenly there’s a displacer beast and a dilophosaurus and horrific-looking blink dog amidst the crowd, and Jaheira in prime owlbear form dwarfing them in her sheer bulk.
Gale throws himself atop the stage and drags Astarion up behind him; he hears the body of the elf thump onto the wooden stage and darts his eyes down to see him staring back up, and he’ll take the reprimand later; for now, he uses his last few seconds of grip on the elf to pull him upright so they can look out at the sea of people suddenly fleeing the spot and finally see who’s attacking them.
It’s easier, from their vantage point, to take aim and sculpt spells, using their ranged skills to take out the remaining shapeshifting cultists. Most of the innocents make it out, too, Gale notices as he casts his gaze about the remnants of the circus.
He can hear Astarion and Karlach panting heavily, as he watches Jaheira shift back once they’re once again safe enough to catch their breath. They call it a day there, thankfully.
Gale tries to apologise for grabbing him again, later that night in the barn that makes up their new camping ground in Rivington. He sits on a bale of hay, noting idly the way that Astarion stands above him – and it will always be this way for Gale. He will always make himself smaller, always be the one to apologise even for trying to do the right thing.
He’s making himself be content with that, until the vampire waves away his apology with a sneer, seemingly more annoyed that his time is being wasted now. And Gods, he can’t get this right, can’t strike the balance between giving Astarion space he clearly needs, and wanting to keep him safe.
He needs to learn to let go, he thinks, just as dexterous, long fingers reach down to hover in front of his face.
Gale blinks up, unsure.
The hand doesn’t retreat, and he hesitates for a moment, just long enough for Astarion to narrow his eyes slightly and wave the hand a little with emphasis.
He reaches up and takes it. Allows Astarion pull him to his feet, trying not to feel his heart thudding against his ribcage at the permitted contact. It lingers, warming him through the whole way he lets himself be led out to the fireplace they’re all sitting around. Halsin moves across to make room for him; Wyll’s made dinner in his absence, it seems, and he takes the food Lae’zel passes over to him gratefully, jolting at the way their fingers brush vaguely as they move.
It’s not until he goes to pick up a spoon, one hand tight on the bowl to secure it in his lap, that he realises Astarion hasn’t let go of his hand; he flushes as he tries to extricate himself without drawing attention to it, not wanting to embarrass the elf by pointing it out. Sharp eyes glance in his direction, then the hand moves away to allow him to retrieve his utensil.
Somehow, despite the chilled hand and the even icier sensation of its departure, from his grasp, the contact leaves a lingering warmth that radiates through his body for the rest of the evening.
***
He suspects contact would be incredibly unwelcome here, despite the way it’s been increasingly common between not just himself and Astarion, but all of their friends in the past weeks.
But he feels torn apart, cleaved in twain; watching the newly freed vampire he cares so deeply for howling out his agony, two hundred years of torment and suffering wrenching from his body in great, gasping sobs. And all he can think about is how alone he’d felt, being torn apart himself at Mystra’s feet; and how it might have been nice for a single person to reach out, to offer a kind touch to him then.
Gale’s still unsure even as he reaches out to place a gentle, barely-there press of his hand to the back of Astarion’s shoulder. His grip turns steadier, surer as he feels him lean in, sagging under the emotional weight of his situation rather than the light touch Gale provides.
He just stands and holds on, until Astarion’s ready to rise, to make a decision about the fate of the vampire spawn trapped around them. He steps back, finally feeling like he’s successfully struck the balance between supportive and overbearing at the grateful look Astarion glances his way as he gets to his feet.
***
He misses.
He’s tired – exhausted. From the pool, from Orpheus, from the climb to the High Hall and the ceaseless uphill fight to reach the stem of the Netherbrain. From the stand-off against the Illithid Emperor and the swarm of mindflayers and the fucking dragon, from the internal struggle he feels lurching through him at the power of Karsus so close to his grasp. From the actual battle that ended it all, from the way he’s had to slog through nearly a mile of disgusting river water to pull himself up onto the docks, and then from the way he’d hurriedly attempted to pull the others out with whatever magic he can call to his weary fingertips.
He’s so fatigued, and he doesn’t have the reaction time he needs in order to reach out and grab Astarion’s hand as he flees from the sunlight, doesn’t have the chance to pull out the Scroll of Invulnerability from his bag to protect him so he can stay; so he can say his goodbyes to Karlach and Wyll as they depart for the fiery depths of the Hells, so they can talk about what comes next for each of them now Lae’zel has reached for the stars.
Gale’s hand slips, and there’s scant millimeters that pass between them as Astarion runs from the dock, face twisted in both fear for his life, and disdain for the way he’s forced to retreat below ground.
The most important time he could have reached out to take Astarion’s hand, and he fumbles it.
He’s torn between running after him, but then Karlach is burning, and there’s the Crown to find, and while he wants desperately to make sure the vampire spawn makes it safely to shelter, he just has to trust in his strong survival instincts and the strength of his cloak.
Gale will find him later, thankfully, as he returns under the cover of darkness to the Elfsong to participate in their revelry. He’ll imbibe, finally, knowing that Astarion is safe and within reach, and that they have so much to talk about. They’ll escape up to the rooftop to talk, and sit with their legs hanging over the edge as they share a bottle of Chultan Fireswill, they’ll lean against each other against the cold and maybe cry in combined relief and disbelief at having survived despite everything that’s been thrown at them. They might even vaguely plot for a future, a tressym, a tower, a Scroll of True Resurrection.
But Gale doesn’t know any of that yet; all he has is his empty hand, staring at the space on the dock where he hadn’t been able to reach him.