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“Your mic isn’t on, idiot,” Astarion groans as he takes in the feed before him. His laptop light shines brightly, illuminating the single bed he’s lying on, headphones clamped in place over his ears as he does a last-minute check of audio and visual output before the stream opens.
The numbers look good; he can clearly catch the vague shuffling sounds of the title-screen that reaches his ears, and there’s no major lagging happening. It would be all clear to go, except Gale hasn’t realised he’s talking to absolutely no-one as he rambles and waits to join the lobby.
It’s late, but Astarion has nowhere better to be. He’s grateful, really, that Gale’s passion for playing games he’s objectively terrible at has surfaced since the city went on lockdown. The sudden increase in people staying home and needing things to watch has created a perfect niche for the man to slip into. Gale’s just a regular guy playing games with his friends, but with whip-fast catty commentary, a frankly overstated level of dedication to always finding the truth, and a passion for collecting every item and reading every book that somehow enticed people to watch.
Astarion was all too happy to follow his coattails as he rose to the dubious fame of internet notoriety, delighting in the decent reward since he’d lost his guest relations job at the nearby resort. The types of people that lingered in the chat were different to the kinds of people he was used to interacting with at work; they varied from game-obsessed teenagers, to thirsty young adults, to a surprising number middle-aged comfort-watching women who thought Gale handsome and well-spoken, and then of course the usual creeps that he’d have to boot from the channel.
He takes great delight in doing so, trying not to let the power go to his head as he wields his ban-hammer menacingly for anyone who misbehaves.
He suspects most of the audience just appreciates the way he speaks, confident and calm, knowledgeable but not overbearing. He could probably read the phonebook in an interesting enough way that people would subscribe on the spot, and he knows he’s not alone in his appreciation for the way that Gale speaks.
But then there’s this other part of his job, which is telling the technologically-challenged man he’s got to press the little button until he sees the green light come on, Gale, seriously we’ve talked about this before. He rolls his eyes, shoots the man a message until he finally notices.
“Oh, Gods, not again. My apologies, Star,” a smooth voice speaks directly into his ear through his headset; and Astarion’s reminded of the other perks of his new career – he gets paid to listen to that rumbling tenor, and it’s practically poured straight into his brain.
He won’t get horny over a voice, no matter how the vibrations have echoed all the way down to his feet – he has a job to do, and damn it he’s a professional. He sends a quick thumbs-up as the man fumbles his way into creating the lobby – he knows how to do this, at least. Astarion’s treated to the last moments of quiet before the stream is officially opened, the sight of the handsome man with flecks of grey budding at the roots of his coffee-coloured locks. It’s swept up today in a half-bun, enough for some length while keeping his ears free for his neon purple headset to sit over his ears. He's looking tidy – despite the way they’ve been confined to their homes, Astarion thinks it’s sweet that the man insists on getting properly dressed to stream. The black button-down in frame looks quite striking, and he’s pleased to see Gale’s purple-grey logo shining on his lapel; the merch has finally arrived, and it looks good. A circular orb in flame; simply designed, and embossed with the word ReGaler; Gale’s tag.
Both a pun and an unsubtle dig at the way the man tended to go off on tangents at the drop of a proverbial, he’d been surprised that he’d latched onto the idea and worn it with pride.
It was bringing in money. Who cared at this point.
Astarion tucks his elbows in to rest his chin on his palms, watching idly with his laptop on the bed as people began to jump into the lobby. There’s Gale’s little purple icon, and he watches the others pop into existence on the spaceship loading screen, too.
There’s Shadowheart, her icon solid black. Karlach in red, Lae’zel in lime green and Wyll in white. Jaheira logs in as dark blue while Halsin jumps in to take the dark green, which leaves Minthara the teal. And the second they’re all on, the chaos begins; Astarion rolls up his sleeves with a grin to moderate like his life depends on it.
***
Gale’s not bad at the game, really. He’s an excellent detective, trustworthy and believable.
It’s just that he’s an awful liar.
***
“Shadowheart’s chasing me into comms!” Gale shouts terribly, obvious to everyone watching that he isn’t, in fact, anywhere near comms. Astarion hesitates to remind him that the chat in-game is proximity based, and his friends indeed know his rough location.
He lets it unfold, a wary eye on the chat box to make sure none of the commenters get nasty with their reprimands and cajoling.
***
“It was Karlach,” he’s gasping dramatically in an Emergency Meeting – too dramatically, Astarion thinks. It seems chat agrees, because they’re already calling for him to be sent out the airlock before the emergency meeting has truly begun. The Youtubers are arguing over it, but it’s pretty clear to Astarion that he’s going for a one-way trip.
He sighs, preparing himself for the torrent of comments he’ll have to wade through as Gale screams, defiant to the end even as his voice chat cuts out from the others.
***
“Wyll’s been very quiet,” and that’s true.
Wyll’s been very quiet because Gale’s just killed him, leaving him against the security camera desk with a cartoonish bone sticking out of his body.
He tries not to get sunk into the game – jolting as he realises there’s a comment for him to delete. He copies and pastes his usual spiel about respectful behaviour as he throws the unruly bastard from the chat. It’s hard to focus sometimes; the streamer is just enchanting.
***
“It’s Tara!” And sure enough; when Astarion looks up from the chat comments raving about how good Gale’s hair looks like that, how well his shirt fits him, a weathered eye making sure none of the comments turn lascivious – there’s Tara, butting her head against the microphone as she stands in front of the camera.
He sighs, tugging the laptop closer as the flooding messages saying ‘It’s Tara’, ‘Hi Tara!’, ‘give her pats for us Gale’ start hitting the stream. Gale responds to as many as he can, like he always does. It doesn’t seem to matter to anyone that his little virtual body is dead at the med-scanner while he fusses over the cat, scritching behind her ears.
***
“I was doing weapons,” Gale says innocently.
Astarion grins as they throw him out the airlock anyway – it actually wasn’t him this time, but his “I’m exhausted,” voice isn’t that far removed from his “I’m definitely guilty of what I’m being accused of but will continue to deny it to my dying breath,” voice.
The ban hammer comes out a few more times as the comments turn to how husky Gale’s voice is, this late at night. He’s not deserving of the shit they write about him – no one is, and Astarion takes particular glee in reporting them as he kicks them out.
***
“HA!” Gale shouts, and Astarion’s a little worried about the emphasis of the exclamation at such a late hour, but it’s not like many people in their building still have jobs at the moment either. The satisfied grin on Gale’s face makes him forget it anyway, stunned momentarily as Gale appears to have finally convinced the others he wasn't guilty.
The shocking revelation came as Karlach’s pixels fell to the ground, leaving the rest of them ranting and raving over the voice chat as Gale’s stream dissolves into cheers and celebrations and far, far too many animated stickers that move across the screen.
***
Astarion flips his headset off as the last game finally ends, Gale triumphantly accusing Halsin to great success. He pushes himself up off the bed; it had been an easy stream, but a late one. There was hardly a limit on his time at the moment, but he craves his warm bed suddenly, dragging his laptop and flipping the light off as he heads down the hall.
“Good stream, tonight,” he says; Gale jumps from where he’s sat, still pulling his headphones off over his head.
“It was,” he smiles in agreement. “There wasn’t much going in the comments to worry about this time, hm?” The streamer pushes his chair back
“No, just your usual screaming about being found out,” Astarion hums into the peck Gale plants on his lips, letting his hands rest at the back of Gale’s head to toy with the hair still tied in the bun. He’s pleased, flush with success of a job well done- if the other man thinks it’s a quiet night, then Astarion’s done his job properly of fighting off creeps with a stick.
“I wish you’d play with us,” he says, which makes him roll his eyes. He’s not there to play games – has no interest in it. What he is interested in is watching Gale, and even more than that he’s interested in keeping him optimistic about the world and the internet, and protecting him from the shit that comes through in his chat boxes. He says as much as he scoots Tara off the quilt so he can pull the sheets back.
Gale hums in tired agreement as they change for bed, pulling on pyjama pants and scooting into place so Tara can curl up in her usual spot at Astarion’s feet. He can still hear his partner’s heart rate thudding along heavily as the adrenaline of the game slowly drains from him, and he leans over to place a kiss on the warm skin of his chest.
“I swear to the Gods, Gale, we’re going to stream something calm, like Stardew Valley, once we’re through this Among Us obsession.”