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It is a small horror, watching Gale Dekarios grow old. Worse yet, Astarion doesn’t notice it happening until long after it has already begun.
When Gale is fitted for glasses, Astarion doesn’t take it as any sort of adverse sign. It suits him, wizard that he is. Astarion decides this as he steals appreciating glances. When Gale asks—in an uncharacteristically sheepish manner—how he looks, Astarion just kisses him for a long, hard while. When they part, Gale is bright red, his new glasses are askew on his face, and Astarion laughs at the sheer Gale-ness of it all.
“Dashing,” He tells him. “You look utterly dashing, my darling.”
When Gale begins to complain more frequently of the cold, or aches and pains, Astarion is nonplussed. Always so dramatic, that one, he thinks—as if he himself is any different. Irregardless, whenever such a problem arises, Gale is quick and eager to conjure forth a magical solution. At night he holds a mote of arcane fire in his hands and savors a heat that doesn’t burn. Astarion sits beside him, absorbing the warmth, and passively working at a knot in his lover’s back. Gale’s shoulders fall, and he is content.
When Gale’s memory becomes spotty, Astarion thoughtlessly fills in the blanks for him. When his hearing weakens, Astarion speaks louder. When he begins to sleep more frequently, Astarion curls up beside him. When they walk together, fingers interlaced, and Gale’s hands begin to shake, Astarion merely grips them tighter.
Reality only sets itself upon Astarion when, one morning, he wakes and takes note of Gale beside him. His arms are wrapped around Astarion, head resting on his shoulder, and for a moment he stills, savoring the warmth, the touch. Then his eyes catch on Gale’s hair—once brown, then streaked through with gray, now entirely silver—and he balks. When did that happen? All of a sudden, his partner—his Gale—looks terribly, terribly old . He is hunched and small, and the hands that hold Astarion are lined with thick veins.
“Gale?” He whispers, uncertain, as if he is seeing a stranger. Gale does not wake, but stirs in sleep and murmurs something that sounds vaguely like his lover’s name. His face is parted by wrinkles, but he has the same tall nose, the same thin lips, the same round chin. This man, undone by age, is indeed Gale Dekarios.
All at once, Astarion is overcome. He surges forward, taking Gale into his arms and squeezing, pulling him as close as possible. Despite himself, his eyes burn.
Gale awakens, startled, and notices his partner’s dismay.
“A-Astarion?” He stammers. “Are you alright?”
Astarion just smiles, utterly beset. “Oh, Gale.” He says, bringing a hand to his partner’s face. “You’re old .”
Gale gives an awkward chuckle. “A-ah, yes. That. Rest assured that the same cannot be said of you.” He says, attempting lightness. “You, Astarion Ancunín, are as beautiful as the day we met.”
Normally Astarion would simper at the praise, but now he frowns, hating the truth of it. He wishes his face were creased as Gale’s is, wishes he were growing old alongside him rather than watching him waste away.
A further eventuality is shared between them, but neither dares to speak it. Until Astarion buries his face in Gale’s chest and murmurs, as if in a trance, “Gale, you’ll die.” Of all things, Gale shakes his head.
“I have no intention of leaving you,” He says with preternatural confidence. He cups Astarion’s chin and gently brings his head upward. When their eyes meet, he smiles. “Suffice it to say, I’ve still a few tricks up my sleeve.” Astarion almost laughs. Leave it to Gale Dekarios to conspire to outfox even death itself.
“You’re only human, Gale.” Astarion reminds him.
Gale shrugs. “That’s never stopped me before.” He says, and his brown eyes shine with youth. For whatever decades have passed, Gale is still Gale. Astarion exhales, soothed by the thought. Gale is still Gale—still the bold, ridiculous, wickedly clever man that Astarion is lucky enough to be in love with. Whatever time they have left, whether it be days or centuries, Astarion intends to cherish.
“You know,” He says, reaching up to brush back a strand of the wizard’s thinning hair. “I think gray rather suits you.”
Gale reddens. “Ah, you think?”
Astarion nods. “You look dashing, my darling. Completely and utterly dashing.” The two meet in a kiss, and all is ever the same.