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The door slides open easily, and he drops down the ladder with a practiced ease he has not earned. His knees make a worrying sound as he lands, almost as loud as he hears Tara's reaction in his head. 

"Now really, Mr. Dekarios, you know full well you are no longer 15, yet you insist on these acrobatics."

Tara, of course, is back at the college to make sure none of the overzealous grad students who still show up to his office hours conceive of any ideas that involve contacting him in another fashion. If Tara were here, she would have offered comment before any obvious mishaps, and a sincere I told you so if he still committed them.

When he straightens again, the pain transfers to his lower back, as it is wont to, but his walking does not seem to be substantially affected. That is fortunate, since finding a cleric in time for the concert would likely make them late, and he is not entirely sure what Astarion's forgiveness for that one would cost. Not that he could blame him, it really was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and great luck that one of the moments in time visited by the tour matched so closely with a planar shift that would facilitate a short trip. It had easily been his favourite anniversary gift. In hindsight, Gale had found too many presents, but at the time it had not been clear what the expectation for anniversaries was. He could not remember his parents ever celebrating one, so he did not have a point of comparison, and inquiries were inevitably met with some variations that all boiled down to an uninformative ‘ that depends’. In any case, there are still gifts in the attic waiting for an occasion, which is a win in itself.

Astarion's "home office", which is really closer to an armory with a sewing corner on one end and some configuration of obstacle course or training equipment on the other, is accordingly used primarily for training. When Astarion takes on a sporadic legal case, he often annexes his office (which Gale, in turn, barely uses in favour of his library). Given that, it is not entirely outside of the realm of his expectations when a knife comes flying at his face as he opens the door. Muscle memory has the blade hit a shield spell before clattering to the floor.

"I missed you too," he says as he steps into the room, considering if he is willing to risk more awkward noises from his knees to pick up the throwing knife. Only to be momentarily struck speechless when he notices Olivia.

The tiefling girl covers most of her face in embarrassment when she recognises him, but the man who was apparently training her with throwing knives is entirely too amused.

"Sorry, Gale," she says abashedly, "I didn't see you."

"It's alright," he assures her, "no one got hurt this time. You will learn what to pay attention to, I'm sure."

His gaze flicks to Astarion, who shrugs. "Do you remember the golden rule?"

"Knife first, questions later!" She drops her hands again, revealing a barely noticeable blush on her bright lilac skin as well as an enthusiastic grin with her answer.

He takes a deep breath. "May we have a word?"

Astarion pulls another set of knives out of his pocket (how he manages to fit his weapons is a mystery in itself, and then Gale hasn’t even considered how he manages not to stab himself every time he moves). "Why don't you go practice a bit more, honey? Grandma will be here soon."

Her grin widens. "Okay, d—Astarion."

For a moment, Astarion's smile is so angelic, Gale considers the possibility that it is an illusion despite his own expertise.

There's a target in the far corner that is quickly becoming acquainted with both the sharp and blunt ends of Olivia’s knives and he is fairly convinced she could still overhear them if she wished, but she seems very focused. So focused, he hopes, that she doesn't notice when Astarion lingers in their kiss, leans in further and whispers: "You look positively delectable when you're flushed, darling."

Immediately, his cheeks go from flushed to blushing furiously, but refuses to be distracted. "Astarion — lux meae vitae — you know I trust you implicitly. Yet I feel some reticence at the idea of handing our 8 year old weapons."

He shrugs again. "She is old enough that she may need to defend herself. She should know how."

"Arguably, if you throw a knife at an unknown actor, it is not self-defense. And she can hardly carry these around with her. We would be lucky if it was only the principal that sent for us and not the guard."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Astarion smiles, "These are technically speaking not weapons. Knives that are weapons, as defined by the Waterdhavian criminal circuit, have blades between 4 and 15cm in length and do not serve additional artisanal functions. These are only 3,5cm, so they are perfectly legal for her to carry."

"I have an inkling the school board would not agree with it regardless."

"What the board doesn't know, won't hurt it, my dear. I know you want her to be safe, too. And you know the world isn't kind to..." he trails off, the word tieflings hanging heavy in the air. "Well. Isn't kind. Better safe than sorry and all that."

He hates to agree, but there is a constant worry in the back of his mind whenever he is not home that finds some comfort in the idea. "She's too young to have deaths on her conscience."

"I won't kill anyone," Olivia says, rubbing at the sharp end of one of the horns just peeking out of her hair, and they both jump. "I aim for the glenohumeral joint so they can't use a weapon with sufficient force, then I can run away."

He can't say this is what he expected her to pick up from the anatomy books she had borrowed from his office, but he supposes there were much more concerning options.

"Oh, very good!" Astarion says, delighted. "I didn't hear you coming at all!"

Gale sighs. "Be careful to hide your knives unless absolutely necessary, dear. But don't lie to the guards about them, they will know."

"Ugh. Yes, father ."

He knows she means it as an insult, but it still makes him feel fuzzy inside. "Did you finish your homework yet, or will Tara have to help you?"

"It's done!" she sings, "Are they here yet?"

"Almost," he says.

"Do you have everything?" Astarion cuts in. "Toothbrush? Sending stone? Horn wax?" At that one, she scrunches her nose. "You heard your aunt Karlach, horn wax will make the growing less itchy. And you remember the secret word?"

"Of course I remember!"

Gale had suggested ever ' sakkatien , because it would never be used in a real conversation, but Astarion had vetoed that since "being printed in history books does not make a word commonly known". They had settled on Abeir , Toril's sister-universe, despite similar objections ("At least it's short.").

"Well, what is it?"

"I can't tell you that. You have to tell me," she says, which is a logical result from the rules as they had explained them, Gale realises.

"This is just to make sure you remember in case you need it tonight," Astarion insists.

"You could be a doppelgänger," she points out, "I've been reading about them. Did you know that sometimes they impersonate people not to hide their identity, but to torture their victims! There's this place called Durlag's Tower that really wasn't a tower, it went down into the earth instead, and it was full of doppelgangers impersonating an entire dwarf family. Except the doppelgängers sometimes used the same dwarf, which isn't very clever of them."

"Believe it or not," he says, "We did know that. We'll tell you about it some other time."

They make their way up to the ground floor just in time to see Morena Dekarios waltz through the front door, covered in illusory glitter.

"Is this how you treat your mother when she comes to visit, Gale?" she asks, holding still for long enough to let him dispel the effect.

"I apologise, mother. I must have forgotten it in the manual I wrote for you." He's certain he did not forget, but if they start that discussion they must also finish it, and he knows very well from whom he inherited his stubborn streak.

"Grandma!" Olivia says, hopping her way across the room to the front door on one leg.

"If it isn't my favourite grandchild! Have you grown again?" she shakes her head and turns to Astarion, "I don't know what you feed the girl, she is simply shooting up. You did save space for our bougatsa, didn't you?"

"I always have more room for bougatsa," the girl promises.

Tara, meanwhile, has slinked by Morena and settled on the table so Gale can give her her scratches without further incident —gods know how she found out about the previous, he finds it's better not to ask.

"You were right, of course, Mr. Dekarios. It was that tall one, with the hair . Absolutely refused to leave, I had to resort to hissing at him! Most uncivilised." She sniffs and begins licking her paw.

"Thank you, Tara. I owe you."

"And don't you forget it! I will have a shortlist of tomes ready, that I cannot acquire without", she huffs, " opposable thumbs. As if my gold is worth less simply because I cannot take it out of a coin purse myself!"

When he meets Astarion’s eye, there is briefly a plea for help before the vampire turns back to Morena Dekarios and smiles.

"Oh, alright, I get the message," Tara says before he can say anything else, "This is between you and your beau, Mr. Dekarios. Don't forget your manners!"

She stalks over to Olivia, who is equally excited to play with her as she is about his mother's pastries. 

"Mother," he says, putting an arm around Astarion. "We do so appreciate you watching Olivia again. Is there anything else we can do for you?"

"Well, at the very least you can show me those gowns I have heard so very much about." Morena clicks her tongue. "Gods know I have not had many chances to see my boy all dressed up. Even at the wedding..."

"Only because I could not see his outfit beforehand, I assure you," says Astarion, at the same time as Gale sighs: "I was wearing formal robes! Most tailors simply don't have your artistic vision."

When she sits at the table, he takes the opportunity to tell Astarion, in a low voice: "I also don't remember you complaining about my robes. In fact, you seemed quite fond of them."

He doesn't really blush, but when he has recently fed he sometimes gets a rosy haze across his nose like he does now. It's difficult to embarrass Astarion in the ways you might normally — like referencing one's intimate life in front of their in-laws — but his appropriation of Gale's robes as nightwear despite the aesthetic never failed. 

"Regardless of your excuses, now is the time to make up for it. You are proud of these creations, are you not?"

The answer to that is a resounding yes. Astarion, who mostly works freelance as it suits him while he figures things out with a peace-wright, had refused all offers when they returned from the Dalelands and had thrown, as far as he could tell, his all into these designs. He had only seen the fabrics so far, and even that only because Astarion had needed him to enchant them, so he is more than willing to let his mother push a bit further. The atelier, normally the busiest pass-through room in the house, has been locked tight. He would consider spelling the doors open, if he didn’t know for a fact there will be some kind of trap waiting for him if he tries.

He soon finds himself in the master bedroom in front of the mirror ("You change here, it's not like I can use it."), holding a gown that feels far heavier than it has any right to from how delicate it looks. It is easy to put on, at least once he correctly identifies the front and back panel of the seamless slip and discerns the criss-cross pattern of the fabric that makes up the skirt where it serves to keep comfortable where his thighs touch.

Looking into the mirror, he has to suppress the impulse to draw open the curtains — always risky, given how light-footed his vampiric other half is — settling instead on moving a dancing light back and forth to bring out the chromatic shift in the dress. It shifts from a deep crimson to royal blue and he can see some of the larger stretches of fabric create vague infinity mirrors. The straight neckline is high across his chest, but only, he knows, to compensate for the deeper cut in the back, where the extra fabric drapes below his shoulder blades. He will need Astarion to straighten them out, he thinks, to make sure they are neat and achieve the intended elegance.

The gussets around his waist are multifunctional, and once again Astarion has managed to think of a solution to a problem he had not realised existed. Of course, the protective enchantments embroidered on the inside were his design, but despite the clean silhouette of the garment, he can still breathe fully, the gussets moving with his expanding waist without any straining or strange wrinkles. He thinks that if he had gained more or less weight, it would have barely made a difference for this dress.

He twirls experimentally, and the bell sleeves, together with the many near-translucent panels of the skirt, unfurl dramatically. There is a moment he thinks he can see his legs in between the moving layers, but it's so fast it barely counts as revealing. Best of all, he can wear comfortable shoes, since they will be covered by the fabric anyway.

Smiling uncontrollably, he slips his spellbook in its hidden pocket, then some gold into the other. There's a card in Astarion's looping cursive, demanding that if he brings a book to amuse himself, it be interesting to him as well, and he has to stifle a laugh. He hadn't planned to bring another book, but if his love suggests it... He turns back to his reflection.

None of the princess dresses of his youth could compare to something like this, of course, but he can't help but giggle with childish joy as he spins again.

"I take it the dress is to your liking?" Astarion hums, stopping him mid-turn with an embrace.

"My heart," he says, turning to face him, "The poets would hesitate to describe this creation for fear of not doing it justice." 

He feels his eyes widen as he takes in the other man. "The poets would realise there are no suitable words to describe you."

It isn't just the dress. He's used an experimental gel in his hair to bring out the same pastel tones of pink, green and blue in a way that would look over the top on anyone else, but Astarion makes work somehow. He has favoured silver and pearls in his accessories, a slightly off colour match to the colour scheme that serves to add depth to the ensemble. Even his pristine loafers match by virtue of the pearls sewn into the tongue.

The dress swishes slightly at the most minute of movements, an iridescent masterpiece that shimmers as the light moves. It is sleeveless, a favourite exploit of Astarion's ("I'm cold-blooded either way, but sleeveless is a difficult choice for living people."). The top of the dress down to the knees is deceptively simple, fitted, but a clever optical illusion in the minutely layered straps coming to a V in the front emphasises his silhouette even further. The iridescent tulle hides most of the nude base, a neat corset he almost misses the point of — Astarion's daggers serve as the boning.

His protection charms are embroidered into the bottom of the skirt in a pure white that adds dimension to the whole. The skirt itself is a veritable pile of tulle arranged artfully in soft folds. At the top, he finally discerns similar gussets to the ones in his own dress, making the tight fit slightly less so only when he moves to expand them.

He has no idea how Astarion is walking around so easily, even with his special touches to the construction, but then he has always been graceful beyond belief. At least he’s in flats this time. He reaches for the bladed boning, and Astarion gives him a playful smile. "Ah, yes. I thought you might appreciate the layers, hm?"

"You're a maverick," he says, leading Astarion into a spin of his own to see the iridescent glimmers blend with the reflected colours of his own and he thinks the only way he could be more beautiful is if the sunlight could grace him again. "I hope you are prepared to make one of these for Olivia."

"Of course! What kind of monster do you take me for?" he gasps dramatically, "I have the design ready, but I assume Morena will insist on us sitting for a portrait in these. If I finish it now, she'll have grown out of it again by the time she settles on a painter. Besides, we must make sure that she has it for Fey Day."

He is right, of course. His mother and his husband understand each other better than he is willing to think too deeply about; although he has always respected Morena Dekarios enough to know it is a compliment to resemble her.

“I hear the competition for ‘prettiest high noble’ is fierce among elementary students, indeed.”

Astarion narrows his eyes. “You laugh, but you didn’t have to listen to that horrible Ada Grifstone’s blather about that gnomish fiend she calls her child last year. If you insist Olivia can’t fight the other children —” 

“You know, I really don’t think that is a controversial parenting choice,” he interjects. In truth, of course, when the aforementioned gnomish fiend had started pulling Olivia’s braid, he had taught her a minor Crawling Guilt hex — nothing too dramatic, of course, but nothing quite encourages personal growth like a stint of accelerated self-awareness — and he is not especially worried about bullies anymore. 

“If you must insist on that whole non-violent conflict resolution spiel,” Astarion continues, apparently unbothered, “The least we can do is make sure she outshines that little asshole every step of the way.”

When they do make it downstairs, Gale has to fight the urge to remind his mother that he is, in fact, nearly 40, and perhaps not her ‘little boy’ anymore. It is, after all, merely pedantry. And Olivia and Astarion would absolutely team up on him about it. At least it does seem that she will forget about his wedding outfit now.

They hug Olivia goodbye and remind her once more to use the sending stone if she needs them, Tara rubs against his dress so at least some of it has her hair on it, and then his mother decides it is high time to begin baking, at least if Olivia still wants to eat breakfast for dinner tonight. Still, they are cutting it close by the time they make it to the appropriate floor of his tower and he summons the portal.

Stepping out of it, they accidentally cut the line in front of a rather imposing black abishai, who luckily seems to be in a good mood and merely shrugs when they make their apologies, stinger floating ominously over them. The rest of the clientele is no less imposing. There are many elementals, several fiends (both demons and devils, from the looks of it, although they are giving each other a wide berth), a smattering of humanoids like themselves, and an odd collection of monstrous or animalistic creatures that range from fey to undead and everything in between. He sees a set of silver antlers from the corner of his eye, and while it disappears before he can take a closer look, he would bet a not insignificant amount of money that there is, in fact, an old spirit of the woods present.

The bouncer is an imposing aasimar with bloodshot eyes and a tar-like substance dripping from his wings who gruffly asks for their names and tickets, stares at them for an uncomfortable 5 seconds when he realises they both hyphenated and still don’t share a last name, and finally lets them in without further comment.

It takes Gale a few minutes to get used to the floor of the concert hall, a demiplanar bubble floating along the Astral Sea. A magical version of sailor’s legs he supposes — at least he does not feel nauseated this time. All around, there are githzerai with blank expressions and hardened eyes. Some of them seem to be incanting something, but he can't determine what without getting closer. And getting closer seems like such a waste of their time when there are so many more important things happening! 

Initially, when he begins to feel the magic pull at his mind, he resists it without even thinking. The countercharms glow on their dresses, and while it is good to know they are functional, it mostly serves to remind him that they are meant to give in and embrace the experience. It was a part of why he had been interested in coming along. He wouldn’t say he was particularly bad at going out, and he could certainly manage the less pleasant sides of the undertaking, but still, he could admit that he lacked a certain ease in uncoordinated social encounters. He had lost one too many friend groups going for a drink or the bathroom and not being able to make his way back over to them, or been left feeling isolated at the end of the night because he had not picked up on the fact that everyone else was getting a bit drunk. Not unexpected, but perhaps if he was slightly less conscious of everything, he would not need to think it all over quite so much.

Astarion's cool hand in his is about the only thing keeping him grounded when the Sparrows are announced, and the space fills with water, allowing the singers to swim onto center stage. The lorelei are breathtaking, although he is having a hard time deciding if that is because they are beautiful or terrifying. The shortest must be at least 2m tall at full height, although it is difficult to estimate with the hypnotic movement of their tails. They are entirely grey, and while he can’t remember ever reading anything about that, he is not particularly well-read on lorelei fenotypes, so he cannot say if it is merely a stage-effect. The eyes are completely black like a fish’, although they have a humanoid skull and eye sockets and when one of them says something to the frontwoman, he sees two rows of needlesharp, impossibly long teeth before his hair flows briefly in front of his face and they blur together, lessening the effect.

The water continues to rise. It must be an illusion, he is vaguely aware that he would not be breathing if he were truly underwater, fabric is heavy and clings when it is wet, and the part of his mind that is trained to analyse the arcane wherever he encounters it is attempting to sort out reality and find the source of it all, but his conscious mind is most taken by the charming scenery. There are threatening trenches in the distance, but for now the bubble is filled with spectral jellyfish that pulse in time with an unheard rhythm, sunlight filters through imaginary currents to their level and merges with the bioluminescent plant life along the walls.

Then, the merfolk begin to sing, and even his subconscious is finding it hard to care where that orca swimming overhead is coming from. Truthfully, he barely hears the song, will find it impossible to describe or even identify its genre later. There is the ocean around them, and the song, and then, less importantly, there are others here, some with fangs or steel, others trying desperately to reach the singers, to touch them, give them a gift, perhaps. Some of the githzerai are moving now, interfering with some of the other people, but even that is inconsequential.

What matters, of course, is Astarion, who is looking at him with a question in his eyes. And of course he would be honoured to dance with him, even if his talents are typically elsewhere. It is still confusing, he thinks, who is meant to be moving in what direction at which time, but he trusts Astarion to know what dance goes with which song. He is more than happy to stare as his dress adds more hues to the mix of light when they step closer, and back, and turn. Astarion, too, is staring. Gale impulsively pulls him close and they pirouette for longer than he thought himself capable of.

Astarion is the first to halt their dance. He leans in and carefully traces Gale's jaw with soft kisses, then his fangs scrape along his neck and shoulders. Gale, in turn, begins to comb through his soft curls, it is astonishing how soft he is. Not just his hair, even where his frame seems like it should be sharp, he is instead smooth and almost fluid. He traces the delicate lines of his face and shoulders — he can't quite remember what, but there's something about the neck Astarion doesn't like attention on— the tulle would normally be too scratchy for him, he knows, but the ocean has made it bearable. More than bearable, he seeks it out, pulls him closer still as the other's survey of his torso ends with a decisive pull on the elastic keeping his hair back. It floats back in the current, and Astarion reaches for it again, holds it for a moment, pats it in his hand, then returns to staring at Gale, who doesn't think he has ever really appreciated Astarion's hands before. He explores their textures with delicate kisses, the small writer’s callus from when he was alive on his pointer finger, the cleanly buffed nails, and the squishy part of his palm, all the while the rhythm picks back up, and one of them, it is unclear who, leads the other back into the dance.

As the melodies change, they share more dances until the push and pull and the distance of it becomes too much and they still again. Miraculously — magically — none of the other audience members seem bothered by this and no other dancers' figures intersect with their position, even when they are quite literally in the middle of the floor. Predictably, Gale's eyes never stray from Astarion long. Wonderfully, the reverse is also true. He might have found it hard to believe, once, but he is above all a competent wizard, and Occam’s Razor brooks no arguments.

When eventually the Githzerai dispel the magic from the air and the Sparrows take a bow to receive their applause before they dive back into the water, it is almost like waking up well-rested from a particularly nice dream they are not quite ready to let go of.

"Extraordinary," Gale says, for once succinctly. Only then does he notice he still has one hand in Astarion's hair, and Astarion still has a hand on his chest. It is not a particularly intimate position for a dance, yet they both pull back rather abruptly.

Astarion, noticing the quickly swelling crowd at the bar, disappears from his side before Gale can blink, only to appear again a too short period of time later with two tall glasses and a mischievous smile. The wizard is still too affected by the waning charm to think much on it, but as soon as the cold condensation on the glass hits his skin he is suddenly aware of how thirsty he is. 

"Tsk, I expected more from you, my dear wizard," he teases, reaching to put his hair back in its updo. "So out of sorts from a single performance."

Gale leans into his touch, allowing him to stroke back down the side of his face before opening his eyes. He is acutely aware that this, normally, would be beyond his tolerance for touch, even if it was Astarion (and vice versa). But no subconscious objections rear their heads. "I beg your understanding for my human disposition, lux mea . When faced with such overwhelming grace, I simply must take it all in. It would be unthinkable, to prioritise one part of you, when all of you is beyond compare."

"Why, darling, if you're not careful, you'll make me blush." He expertly trails a finger down his side, eliciting a barely noticeable shiver. "Yet such honeyed words are unnecessary when you yourself strike so handsome a figure."

"Only the truth for you," Gale promises, gently pulling him closer by the waist to rest his forehead against his.

They stand like this for an immeasured moment in time, unspeaking, until the boundaries of the demiplane begin to fade and the violet hue of the Astral Sea washes over them. Most of the other concert-goers have left and they make their way to a suitable patch of calm.

For a while there, Gale had set up many a date in the Astral Sea. At first, it had been a romantic gesture meant to impress Astarion, born out of a need to prove himself interesting enough. Then it had become a matter of some practicality, when the rooms of the Elfsong had provided too little privacy from Lae'zel's sharp eyes, Shadowheart's intent ears, or a bevy of particularly gauche drunks in the bar below. He could not imagine ever divulging the extent of his hopes for the Crown without the assurance that the more traditionally heroic of their merry band could not overhear. He did not want to imagine how he would have taken Astarion's reaction without the mild glow enveloping them, softening the impact.

" Need I remind you how useless the divine are? Oh, I know I am cursed to be abandoned by the gods, forget that they allow the circumstances that drive people to undeath — but you! You were her Chosen. Mystra was meant to care for you, yet she abandoned you, then demanded your life. The divine is a moralistic play, and I have long left the audience. I don't want divinity. I want you. I love you ."

There was a time in his life his ego would not have allowed him to interpret that in any other way than that the elf was simply jealous of his power —  and it did occur to him even then, for just a moment, that this was a cowardly attempt at retribution for not helping him complete the Ascension ritual. Thank Ioun's seventh stone for the stroke of sagacity that had made him push past that initial reaction. Thank Astarion for his hidden patience, that had eventually rendered these trips discretionary.

The Outer Planes had been something of a refuge, once. There were many difficult topics that needed discussion, admissions that neither of them wanted to make. Astarion could tell him he was stuck alone in his mind under a pervasive sense of surrealism. It was far easier to admit that he did not know how to help, when the weight of incapability was not quite so crushing. He owes this place a great debt of gratitude indeed, for the keystone to their future.

Not too far away, an altostratus of interstellar gas breaks in front of his eyes, a new star flashes before it is hidden by the vibrant red cirri floating away. Out of time, it could be an old star of Toril that has been visible in the sky for all his life. In his fanciful mind, however, he imagines it the first element of a new, uncharted universe.

There is a strange, burgeoning hope in witnessing the unending vastness of the planes at the side of a person more complex, more interesting than he could have dreamed. They found each other across all of space and time, saved their own souls from mind flayers, compromised on the architecture of their home; what other statistical improbabilities could they turn to reality?

He doesn't need to look over at Astarion, but he does. Those ruby eyes are flitting back and forth to survey the changing landscape, pausing only briefly for particularly good hiding spots. His eyes are a bit dry, perhaps, but they still absorb various shades of the cosmic background, and Gale thinks they have put off their vampiric problems long enough. 

The Cloak of Dragomir is a serviceable emergency solution when they cannot avoid the sun, but items can be dispelled, stolen or destroyed. Worse (according to Astarion), the strong gothic allure of it clashes with many of his outfits. Having your cloak be a statement piece, so Gale has been informed, is a sign of insecurity: cloaks serve to obscure you, not show you in the best light. Worst of all (according to both of them), the cloak seems to drain him; dull his wit and senses as long as he wears it.

But there are more permanent solutions, that would drain the red from his irises again. No amount of divination has let him see what Astarion's original eye colour was, and by this point, he is conceivably more curious about it than the vampire himself. For Astarion's part, he had started mentioning his own family occasionally after their wedding, but had refused any offer to look for them in his condition . Oh, his mother loves Astarion of course, but Gale understands it is not the same as having his own side of the family. Removing the condition may open up new possibilities. Yes, a most worthy next endeavor, if he has interpreted his husband's wishes accurately.

Astarion's makeup has moved a bit. More accurately, the experimental pommade somewhat melted at his earlier touch, shimmering lines along the structural lines of his face, neck and shoulders. He will fix it for next time, of course, adjust one or two sigils, but just to himself he can admit that the unintended effect has him at a bit of a loss. As if he's highlighted Astarion, to mark him as important in the crowd. Not that he would ever forget.

Their eyes briefly meet, giving him the chance to reach for the blades in the bone casings of the corset. He moves easily to allow it, winces as he slowly twists his spine a few times, then settles while he Fabricates leather sheaths for safe transportation.

"Surely there is a better way to hide these," he suggests, "When did strapping daggers to your thighs go out of fashion?"

"Beauty is pain, darling. This design takes me from formal to fatal in a matter of seconds." He pokes at his own side for a moment. "Though perhaps something to dull the tips at the top of the channels..." 

"I must concede your sublime beauty has risen to galvanising new heights in this dress. You still put the stars to shame, my love, even as I gaze upon the cradle of a universe," he smiles. "I don’t believe there is anything for me here, anymore. Shall we?"

Astarion, who seemingly came to a similar conclusion but does not verbalise it, takes a final look at the skies and loops his arms around him, resting his head on his shoulder with a contented little sigh. "The Outer Planes will still be here, should I change my mind. Let's go home."