Work Text:
Astarion has forgotten what it feels like to fly.
He remembers that he can, or could at some point in his life. He remembers taking pride in his beautiful, plush, feathery wings, silver and pristine.
It was one of the many things that Cazador took from him: vampire wings have no feathers. Cazador had also forbidden his spawn from flying unless instructed otherwise. Not that Astarion could bear to unfurl his wings anyways, grotesque, bony, naked monstrosities that they were.
He thinks that maybe flying feels like kissing Gale.
“Can I kiss you?” Gale asks softly, shyly, his eyes wide and round and glistening with hope.
“Can you?” Astarion asks, amused. “I suppose you can.”
He tries to allow the kiss while dismissing the fluttering feeling in his chest, the hauntings of an old heart struggling to remember how to beat.
Gale beams at him and cautiously moves forward, eyes fixed on Astarion’s the entire time. Astarion is reminded of the way Gale approaches the cats of Baldur's Gate, cooing softly under his breath, ready to retreat the moment he can sense that his touch is not wanted.
The fool kisses him on the cheek, quick and chaste.
Astarion’s eyes widen, surprised, indignant. He grabs Gale and pulls him back in before he can even think through his actions himself, presses their lips together and oh he feels like he's soaring. Gale takes it as permission to wrap both arms desperately around Astarion’s waist, or perhaps he simply loses control and does so out of instinct, pulling their bodies together flush so that Astarion can feel the warmth through his clothing. It's what he imagines it would feel like to have the sun kiss his skin high in the sky.
He feels a rush in his chest, as though he were swooping upwards so fast the weight in his stomach is too slow to react.
They part so that Gale can breathe and his face is bright crimson and so adorable that Astarion swoops in for another.
Kissing Gale feels like the freedom Astarion associates with flight: propelling oneself into the air, no ground, no certainties.
Perhaps he is simply lying to himself, but it does feel a lot less like loss put in these terms. What need does Astarion have of wings, with Gale by his side?
—
Gale has forgotten what it feels like to fly.
This is intentional. No one else knows this, but the Karsite Weave took more than his magic. It seared his flesh upon touch, threatened to incinerate him straight down to the bone, and yet he found himself unable to let go.
When he visits Mystra at the Stormshore Tabernacle, accuses her of doing nothing, she insists that it was only through her grace that the Karsite Weave was forced into one of his farthest limbs, that only one of his wings was lost.
Gale wonders whether this too was simply punishment. She had often chastised his great love of flying, of soaring higher and higher, closer and closer to the sun, to that which he would never reach.
Perhaps she finds it to be fitting symbolism.
While there are spells that can remedy this shortcoming, Gale doesn’t want to use them and he doesn’t like to interrogate this stubbornness. It likely comes down to self-flagellation, some sense that this was an appropriate punishment for his transgressions. Ultimately, casting “Grant Flight” just does not feel the same, and only reminds him of that which he has lost.
And so he forgets, uses the last of his most potent spell slots before that is lost to him too to modify his own memory and erase all sense of the sensation, the joy of coming so close to exceeding his mortal limits.
He likes to imagine that flying feels like kissing Astarion.
“I want you to kiss me,” Astarion demands as the Absolute is in sight, as Gale has conjured the dagger that will end it.
Gale nods and moves to obey. Before he is even able to enter Astarion's space, the rogue is in his, and he is devouring Gale with a hunger that seems reminiscent of his blood lust.
Gale feels a rush of confusion, euphoria. How could such an ethereal creature want this from him? He is swept up in Astarion’s fervor, caught up in a storm of heated desire, free falling through a hurricane of emotion until Astarion lets him breathe, only to catch his lips again on the upswing.
With the second kiss, Gale is soaring out of his body, away from the decay of the orb, away from the mutilated remnants of his wings and his heart. With the second kiss, Gale believes— knows— that anything is possible.
Astarion pulls back just an inch so they are still sharing breath.
“Don't die.”
Gale doesn't.
Kissing Astarion feels like the freedom Gale associates with flight: freedom to imagine a life free from unwanted limitations, a world where he is good enough, where he is loved.
—
Dame Aylin flies with the confidence of one with godly blood in her veins, rises towards Ramazith’s Tower to teach Lorroakan his very last lesson.
The party follows close behind. Astarion is certain of their victory, convinced that they can outmatch this charlatan of a wizard. Secretly, he’s been itching to slice Lorroakan to shreds ever since the asshole called Gale “Mystra’s discarded lapdog”. While Gale didn’t take the bait, Astarion saw the hurt in his eyes.
The fight takes several unexpected turns. Rolan joins their cause. Lorroakan hasn't forgotten Gale's snide words, and sends several of his minions to “kill the lapdog”. Astarion panics, rushes to Gale's side just as he is thrown through a window by the Air Myrmidon, who gives chase.
Astarion is fast, but the Myrmidon is faster. Gale gathers the Weave until it swirls so thick around him that Astarion can smell the ozone, and casts Disintegrate. The spell flies past the Air Myrmidon, rushes past Astarion's right ear and hits the construct that was just about to cleave into Astarion’s shoulder. The construct crumples into a pile of metal.
Astarion turns around, shocked, and loses the precious few seconds needed to make it to Gale's side.
The Myrmidon summons a vortex from its very body and pushes the tornado outward, capturing Gale and throwing him over the side of the balcony. Gale doesn't have it in him to scream. He locks eyes with Astarion before he disappears, eyes wide with panic and regret.
Gale can't fly.
Astarion doesn't know the reason, but they’ve never shown each other their wings and Gale has told him explicitly that he can't fly and all of a sudden Astarion is sprinting for the balcony as he pulls on the clasps to his armour, has launched himself off of it.
He dives towards the mess of purple robes fluttering in the wind, catches sight of a purple glow as Gale frantically tries to cast before hitting the ground.
Astarion braces himself, and unfurls his wings for the first time in centuries.
They don't even make the same sound as other wings as they appear. They sound like leather rubbing against itself, makes Astarion’s stomach churn, but he must make it and so he doesn't care.
He sharpens the angles of his wings, finally begins to gain speed on the falling wizard. Just a second more and he reaches , pulling Gale into his arms and flaps upwards in the same motion. His muscles and bones scream at him, having not even moved for so long, and now being asked to carry the weight of two. Astarion ignores the pain, clenches his teeth against it as he flaps more vigorously, not to take them both upwards, only to soften the fall.
Gale has wrapped both arms around Astarion’s shoulders, has tucked his head into Astarion’s neck. He whispers a word and suddenly they are both glowing purple and the weight lessens.
They are floating.
Astarion releases a breath he doesn't realize he has held this entire time, swallows hard as he gathers the strength to look down at his lover.
Gale is looking at him with wonder. His eyes dart back and forth between Astarion’s face and his wings and he reaches tentatively with one hand towards them.
“They're beautiful,” he whispers.
Astarion huffs, embarrassed. Gale can hide nothing from him, doesn't ever want to, and Astarion can read the earnestness and awe in his expression. It's too much.
They're on solid ground and a crowd is beginning to form, but Astarion doesn't care because only Gale matters.
Gale reaches again, remembers to stop himself before actually making contact.
“May I…?” It is the wizard's turn to blush and Astarion wants to kiss him.
“Of course, my love,” he nods. “If…that's what you'd like.”
“There is nothing I’d like more.”
Gale's fingers brush against the boney top of Astarion’s wings and oh it's been so long since he has felt touch here and Astarion’s entire body shudders.
“If you two are alive, can we get a little help up here?!” Karlach screams from the balcony.
Oops.
Gale regards him with interest, having cataloged his response carefully. He leans in to whisper, “Later, then.”
Astarion swallows hard and nods. He pauses.
“Wait. One more thing.”
He punches Gale hard on the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Don’t you dare prioritize my safety over yours ever again!”
Gale only laughs. They both know it will happen again.
Through a combination of Astarion’s wings and Gale's spell, they float easily back up to the balcony, taking the last of their enemies by surprise.
—
Later that evening, Astarion watches as Gale surreptitiously buys off all of their other companions. A few of them shoot Astarion an amused look on their way down to dinner. Shadowheart loudly calls out to no one in particular that a well placed arcane lock would go a long way in preventing awkward situations.
Gale doesn't respond to the teasing, but does enchant the door once everyone else is gone.
Astarion is already in their cozy corner, boxed off using the room screens and some clever redecorating. He sits on the bed, watching Gale as he putters around anxiously.
“What is it, my sweet?”
Gale stops mid-step and makes his way to the bedside.
“We don't have to do anything that would make you uncomfortable,” he begins.
Astarion sighs. They have been through this. Many times.
“I've promised you that I would tell you, haven't I?”
Gale nods.
“Repeatedly?”
Gale looks abashed, but nods again.
“And you believe me?”
Here, Gale hesitates.
“ Gale. ” Astarion sighs.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Gale nods.
“Good. Then ask what you're about to ask, and I will tell you truthfully if it makes me uncomfortable.”
Still, Gale doesn't answer right away. Astarion gives him time, and shifts uneasily where he sits. He's not certain, but given Gale's first reaction, he wants to try.
“Ah. Well.” Gale struggles with his words. “If you're amenable, I would like to see you in all your glory.”
Astarion snorts. Gale frowns.
“How could you not think them beautiful?”
“Because I live and breathe, my dear. Well. I mean, I don't,” he amends. “But you know what I mean.”
“Well, I humbly disagree,” Gale insists.
“I know.”
Astarion takes off his shirt with less flair than usual. He hunches forward, willing his wings to unfurl, relishes the feeling as they stretch, allows himself to bask in this moment of safe trepidation. He will always feel safe with Gale.
“ Oh, ” Gale breathes, as he once again reaches forward as though by instinct. “Can I…”
Astarion nods, turns his back to Gale to give him better access.
Gale's touch is light, thoughtful. He starts with the bones of Astarion’s extended scapula, runs his fingers along the top bone to its very tip. Astarion feels a tremor reverberate through his entire torso, leans back into the touch. When none is forthcoming, he turns to scowl, nudges Gale's hand with the tip of his wing.
Gale laughs and takes the hint. He strokes the membrane and Astarion very nearly jumps.
“Fascinating,” Gale murmurs.
Gale approaches his investigation as he would a particularly complex text. He cautiously runs his fingers over every last angle and takes careful note of Astarion’s reactions.
It's not long before Astarion's entire body is buzzing from the warmth of those fingers. He basks in it, allows Gale to dote on him like he knows his wizard loves to do.
But then Gale begins to experiment with his lips, kisses Astarion gently between the wings where bone meets the flesh of his back and Astarion keens . He needs to stop this before he does something even more embarrassing.
He pulls away slowly to indicate that it was nothing that Gale has done wrong.
“You know, neither of us had seen each other’s wings before today,” he says, voice laced with the gentle seduction that he knows works best on Gale. He leans in. “Perhaps I could return the favour?”
Gale's expression shutters and he flinches away.
“Oh. That's…”
Astarion draws back to give Gale some space and frowns. While he likely would have acted the same way if Gale had asked even yesterday, he doesn't understand the wizard's hesitancy. He's not a vampire spawn, after all. His wings aren't a mark of his servitude.
“It's not that I don't trust you.” Gale rushes to offer assurances even though he is clearly the one in distress. “It's just that…”
Astarion turns and places a hand over Gale's and Gale grasps it tight like a lifeline.
“I’m sure that however ugly you think they are is an exaggeration,” Astarion tries gently. “Allow yourself this. Allow me.”
Astarion knows that Gale needs direction sometimes, thrives on it. He forgets sometimes though that this is a delicate balance: Gale can deny Astarion nothing.
This dawns on him as Gale shrugs off his robes, and as his glistening eyes overfill at the same time.
“Gale–”
It’s too late.
Gale unfurls his wings and they fold over the rest of his body, as though he means to hide behind them.
The one closest to Astarion lands almost in his lap, but hovers in the air, as though afraid to touch. It is dark brown, and reminds Astarion of Tara’s colourings, except instead of the spots of orange, they are tipped in beige. The feathers are a mess. Gale clearly hasn’t preened them in ages. Astarion no longer has this problem, doesn’t know if he even remembers how.
Gale’s other wing is folded tightly against his body. It is positioned as far as possible from Astarion and is shaking. Gale’s entire body is, for that matter. Astarion shifts to get a better view and his heart breaks.
Gale’s right wing is completely broken. It is all broken feathers and scarred flesh where feathers can no longer grow. The shape of it is completely wrong: the bones are bent out of shape and curve at unnatural angles, suggesting that they were not set properly after the initial injury.
“Oh Gale. ” Astarion reaches under the wings to find him and Gale nearly launches himself into his arms, tucking himself safely against Astarion’s chest.
They sit for a while like this. Astarion eventually reaches tentatively to pet Gale’s uninjured wing. Gale flinches hard at first, but eventually calms under the touch, as Astarion did.
“The power I tried to return to Mystra.”
Astarion’s wings tense at the name, and Gale raises his head in alarm. Astarion forces himself to relax, and tries to offer Gale an encouraging smile instead. Gale frowns but continues.
“It didn’t just embed a bomb in my chest. It burned me. From the inside out.” He took a long, shaky breath. “Mystra, in her grace, managed to contain the damage to a single limb.”
“ In her grace ?” Astarion snarls, causing Gale to look up again at him in concern. “You mean to tell me that she could have controlled the spread of the burn and she decided to allow it to take your wing?”
“There’s no saying the extent to which she can control the Nether–”
“She had that decrepit old man subdue it! But instead, she let you rot alone in your tower for a year!”
Astarion can feel his wings tighten as indignation claws its way up his throat.
Gale sits up and reaches to run his hands along the bony ridge of Astarion’s wing, pressing at it gently so that it relaxes again under his touch.
“Perhaps she thought it proper penance.”
“Proper–wait. Do you think you deserved this?” Astarion interrupts himself.
Gale doesn’t have to answer.
“Have you…no. You’ve not consulted a healer, have you?”
Gale huffs. His wings twitch as though he might retract them.
Astarion clenches his teeth, considers commanding again, but realizes that this is not something that should be commanded.
“Does it…does it hurt?”
Gale’s wings twitch, and once again Astarion has his answer. He thinks back to the times that Gale has hunched over forward, complaining loudly about his knees while grasping his torso tightly as though to rub his back.
Astarion can feel the urge for violence rise in his chest, violence against a target that he cannot reach.
So instead, he swallows it down as he reaches forward to mimic Gale’s earlier touch, on the top of his broken wing. Gale flinches hard, studying Astarion’s expressions closely. Whatever it is, he finds what he needs, and relaxes, allows Astarion to continue stroking, leans into it, despite himself.
“May I?”
Gale hesitates, but nods, turning so that his back faces Astarion more fully.
Astarion starts with the unwounded wing, runs his hands along its length. Gale sighs and flexes into his touch. Carefully and slowly, Astarion tries to straighten some of the feathers, pulls out the loose ones. Gale’s wings flutter, and the lines of his shoulders visibly soften.
“I thought my wings to be a mark of Cazador’s ownership,” Astarion says idly as he works. “I thought flight to be just another thing that he had taken away from me, by command.”
Gale turns his head. “They saved me. You saved me. “
“I had to return the favour,” Astarion shrugs. “Who knows how insufferable I’d be right now if I had been allowed to ascend.”
“I think I might have some idea,” Gale chuckles, and Astarion swats at him lightly.
“You’re here,” Gale says more softly. “He’s not. And you command your wings, not him.”
Astarion swallows hard. It’s true.Taking flight off of the tower had only confirmed it. He is his own person now. This only strengthens his resolve, his determination to be the type of person that he wants to be.
He turns his attention to Gale’s other wing.
Gale’s entire frame becomes ridgid.
“Could we not say the same of you, my love?” Astarion asks him, knowing the power of that one pet name alone. A shiver works its way down Gale’s spine. “You are here. Not exploded, because that would be a horrible waste. Because you’re worth much more to me alive than dead.”
He strokes the entire length of Gale’s broken wing and leans in to whisper close to Gale’s ear. “Because I love you.”
That does it.
Gale whines as he turns and launches himself onto Astarion, leaning in to press their lips together. Astarion falls backwards, wrapping both arms around Gale’s torso as they fall onto the bed.
Gale is about to speak, and Astarion uses this as an excuse to add tongue, pressing upwards to take Gale’s breath away.
A small gust of air brushes Astarion’s hair back where he lies as Gale’s wings flutter. Astarion looks up at Gale, straddling him with his wings askew.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs and Gale laughs, blushing instead of retreating. He leans in for another kiss.
It feels like flying.