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“A little to the left,” Astarion mutters, turning the vase to catch the candlelight properly. So the flickering oranges reflect perfectly on the gold, on the deep maroon.
A step back to fully admire his work. The mantle over the well-used fireplace was the last thing in need of his delicate touch and now, it’s perfect. A set of vases in slightly different sizes. A pilfered artefact from the Underdark that glows when the lights dim. A quiet carriage clock in the middle, with the numbers painted in the Elven reckoning. And another vase at the other end for balance, gold all over and much larger, sporting the season’s freshest flowers.
At least Gale’s right about his florist being the best.
Everything else, including much of his admittedly bacheloric decorations, had to go. If the wizard’s minded at all, he hasn’t said. No, it’s mostly been the opposite: praise for Astarion’s well-crafted vision of their home.
Of course, he hasn’t touched the library. That’s distinctly Gale’s domain and he isn’t sour over it all. There’s no artful way to display that many books, after all.
A slow smile creeps over Astarion’s face as he takes in the full scene of the living room. The new furniture, a comfortable deep blue couch with a matching chair. The two of them can easily fit in either and haven’t hesitated to break them in, in the month since they arrived. The new rug, woven by the finest craftspeople of Waterdeep, the patterns swirling waves and dancing moons, the blues and yellows a perfect match with the sofas.
And the smaller touches that really tie everything together; the large poofs for lounging, for when he can’t bear the thought of a chair or even a couch, but the floor seems too dramatic. Scattered pillows in rich fabrics. Portraits on the wall, mostly Gale’s family but some interesting looking strangers, too.
Oh, he’s finally done it and it’s absolutely perfect.
The living room was the last piece and here, it’s all come together.
What’s left of his heart soars.
Settling down was a hard sell, even as the words dripped from Gale's honeyed tongue, and many mornings, creeping around the edges of the encroaching sun, he’s felt stabs of regret.
But this, now. A room wholly his. A whole house! The joy in his chest seems fit to burst. To crack open and shine for all the city to see.
A familiar thump on the stairs. Gale’s coming down them, always lighter on the first few than the last, but his unhurried gait speaks to something slightly different, and Astarion tips his head in waiting.
His ears pick up every tiny sound in this house and sometimes, there’s a bit of regret there too.
“Look, those vases came!” Astarion calls out, unable to hide his enthusiasm. There’s a celebration to be had, in lieu of words, and lasting far longer than a simple thank you for convincing me to move in here ever would.
He’s halfway to the doorway in anticipation, ready to kiss Gale long and hard when the sight of the man stops him.
Perched atop his stunning mane of hair, a ridiculous hat. Bright red velvet with ragged white fur on the hem. And, worst of all, it’s tall enough to loll to one side, hampered by a matted puff of a pom-pom.
Astarion stops mid-stride, his face scrunching up in distaste. His arms still outstretched, Gale gives him the box he’s been carrying, old and brittle wood with “Simril” scrawled across it in messy, childish common. Potentially Gale’s hand, potentially not.
“What is this?” Astarion sneers, at the box, and then anew at Gale’s hat. “And what is that? Does it need to be sent out to the laundry?”
“No! It’s perfect! The ol’ Nightal Cap! Have you never seen one before?”
“Apparently not. I don’t suppose I could get you to doff it? I had something to show you and I really can’t take you seriously, like that.”
“Hah, well, you’re going to be taking a lot of Waterdeep a lot less seriously then, love,” Gale chuckles, popping the lid off the box still in Astarion’s hands and cooing over the contents. “Aw there they are! My old tin blade singers! Let’s pop them up on the mantle, hey? We’ll get a white roll of fur so it’s like they’re fighting on snow! And a few sprigs of pine, maybe a garland over the fireplace…”
He goes on. Filling his arms with the minuscule tin elves. Some of their swords are bent, replaced hastily or not at all. Some look as good as new, their smooth little faces masks of concentration, their ears bordering on a racial epithet.
Gale and his elves. Honestly.
“Ah, no, actually, let’s not be so hasty,” Astarion says, as diplomatically as he can. He sets the box down on the coffee table and rushes towards his just-finished handiwork, the perfect positioning of things on the mantle. “The vases came, see? They really tie everything together, don’t you think?”
“Oh, how lovely! We can put them back up right after Simril! It’s bad luck, you know, to keep the Simril decorations up past Midwinter. In no time at all, they’ll have pride of place again.” And he beams and he kisses Astarion’s cheek, his arms still jostling full of toys. “What a way you have of making my home even better, Astarion. Of truly making it ours. And now, our first Simril together!”
Gale sighs and trails off. Such light and love shining in his deep brown eyes. They shimmer with the candlelight and it’s so, so hard to be cross with him, just now.
But Astarion manages anyway, huffing out a sigh and tilting his head in annoyance.
“Really? I just got all of this finished and you want to throw some dirty old toys up there?”
“Dirty old - ! My love, look here, this is Glorantha Steelrain! See her cat tattoo? That’s after her chosen style of fighting, you see. Now where is Josidiah - ah! Right there, crook of my elbow, can you fish that little chap out?”
Astarion scrunches up his face but does it, untangling a golden-maned elf from the rest and holding it aloft as if it’s covered in some terrible poison.
“Josidiah Starym! You see his blonde hair, his twin blades? Ah, the tales I could tell you of him! Perhaps I will, tonight. Born of a moon elf mother and a sun elf father, into such a storied family. And somehow managing to surmount even that fame! What a noble character.”
“You really do know a lot of elf stories,” Astarion mutters, his brain itching as it always seems to, when Gale mentions elven lore. Surely he knew some of this once, too. Surely something of the famous heroes stuck in his mind. Maybe it’s still in there, somewhere, locked up tight next to all the other secrets.
How they’ve managed to make such a noble hero look like a wan, reedy fellow, Astarion’s not sure. The blue eyes are simply large dots on the poorly sculpted face. The nose sharp to a point, his face a mask of placidity.
Truly what humans think of elves, all here in a child’s toy.
“All the best ones,” Gale grins, undaunted. “I can tell you some as we look up into the stars and mark our ancestors, on Simril night.”
“That’s…tradition, is it?” Astarion asks, haltingly, placing the toy delicately on top of Gale’s horde.
“Oh yes. A rather sweet belief, that our ancestors live on in the stars, don’t you think? People line the hillsides to try and spot their family constellations. Don’t they celebrate it in Baldur’s Gate?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Astarion shrugs, turning towards the old box of, apparently, Simril decorations. If that’s truly not a made up holiday. “Every night was about the same for me. I do remember silly holiday plays, in the streets and the taverns, when the temperature dropped. No winter stargazing, though.”
“Ah, every region has its own customs and celebrations. I have to say, I’m rather partial to this one, though. Might I beg your help in clearing off the mantle?”
Astarion whirls around.
And there’s a no on his tongue, perched on the tip and threatening to spill out harsh and final.
But there’s also Gale’s sweet face, the boyish glint in his eyes that’s so at odds with the silver streaking his hair, and the burgeoning gray of his beard, grown out for the cold weather.
And the life they’re trying to cobble together despite everything. Despite a horrific past, the worst set of circumstances to meet under, and an uncertain future.
What’s a few vases? What’s another week?
“Of course, my treasure,” Astarion says, as graciously as he can muster. His fingers linger over the vases. The ceramic warmed already with the room; his touch hasn’t, however, and it never will.
He swallows the sigh and packs them back up. The box they shipped in still rests on the couch, still full of the soft packing materials.
“The clock too?” He asks, a little more quietly than he’d like. He watches Gale survey the timepiece critically, and ultimately shake his head.
“I think we ought to throw some boughs over it, maybe a bow on top and it’ll fit right in. The flowers too, if we only…here,” and he moves everything over himself, ruining the perfect spacing, the artful display.
He has the worst taste. And no flair for arrangement.
Astarion heaves himself down on the couch and rifles through the rest of Gale’s old decorations, absently watching the wizard put up his little toy elven soldiers.
Hopefully that’s the last of it.
Everything about this sudden domestic life seems to run on wishful thinking.
The next morning - late afternoon, really, but morning for him - Astarion sniffs out something. Acrid, poisonous. Green and fresh and deadly.
And worse - it makes him sneeze.
He didn’t know he could still do that.
He sniffs his way to the kitchen, wondering if it’s some herb or new plant. Strongest here. He squints, letting his keen senses guide him.
And there it is, dangling from the kitchen doorway. A tight ball of herbs and little red and white berries, trimmed and perfect, hanging from a bright red ribbon.
“What in the hells,” he mutters, sneezing again. Now that’s two of those things in such a short span of time.
“Are you alright?” comes Gale’s voice from somewhere just beyond the kitchen. “I’ve never heard you sneeze before!” comes louder, as he rushes down the hall and skids to a stop in the doorway.
Astarion glares, and it feels good to do that. Like using muscles too long neglected. He points at the offending greenery, swaying gently in the doorway. “What is that?”
Gale’s eyes sweep from the dangling topiary to Astarion and back again, a laugh twinkling there. “That’s mistletoe. Perhaps it’s another Waterdhavian tradition that hasn’t made it past the walls of the city. Here,” he adds with a low voice, with a sudden step forward.
The two of them fill up the doorway, so close like this.
Gale’s eyes are mesmerizing as always, big and earnest and brown with a fresh sparkle that always means trouble of the best kind. His head tilts and his hand reaches, resting on Astarion’s shoulder, his thumb draping down to his collarbone. He rubs there, the light material of his loose, almost transparent shift rustling against his bones, Gale’s heat leaching through his skin.
Astarion leans in too, drawn like a magnet to Gale. It’s always so easy to slide into his orbit. The scent of him rises above the cloying poison, deep and dark and familiar. Changed, yes, since their time fighting together, sleeping rough, but Astarion’s grown to love this version of Gale, too.
The one that smells like home.
“It’s tradition to kiss, under such a plant as this,” Gale tells him, his voice low, sweet, a warm whisper moving ever closer to Astarion’s mouth.
Astarion’s brow flexes in a little frown, trying to parse such a silly tradition. Although if it ends in a kiss…
A ghost of a smile flickers across his mouth. His hands clutch into Gale’s soft shift and he closes the rest of the distance.
It’s a sweet kiss, the kind he’s sometimes not sure they’re still capable of. The soft plush of Gale’s mouth warm against his lips, asking for nothing more than this, than this wonderful, sweet moment. With a hum, Astarion lets his eyes drift shut, his head tilting.
And then his nose twitches.
Itches.
The kind of itch that can’t be scratched, somewhere deep in his skull, in whatever machinations keep his face moving and he pulls away in a horrible rush, another sneeze forcing out of his mouth and nose.
“Oh, dear…” Gale mutters, a hand on his back, rubbing gently. “I suppose that it’s for the sweeping holiday romance of the kissing bough.”
Astarion turns to him, his eyes watery, vision swimming. His head feels foggy and thick. He sniffles, and Gale, of course, has a handkerchief for him. Mortifying, these mortal maladies. He ought to be past it.
But…if it means the offending shrubbery goes out the door…
Astarion sniffles, dabbing at his nose, squinting his eyes so the sneeze-bidden tears fall like glistening pink pearls against his skin. They’re cold, until Gale clicks his tongue and rushes forward to brush them off with his thumbs.
“I suppose there’s nothing for it,” he sighs.
And Astarion mocks a deeper pout, nodding.
Gale kisses it away, soft as before, but with another gentle sigh brushed across his lips.
A commanding word and a flash of red has the mistletoe in the wizard’s hands in a second, and Astarion watches with satisfaction as he walks it out the front door.
Surely, that’s the last of it.
The poison scent is nearly gone a few hours later; Astarion breathes deeply in the kitchen, closing the last window bringing in chilly fresh air. With the sun down for hours, the darkness spills out over the bay, inky black. The stars shimmer in the water and as the last of the chill dissipates, he considers how ridiculous it’s going to be a few days hence, when all these Waterdhavians bundle up and look to the skies to mark their ancestors.
What a load of nonsense.
Sitting ducks, the lot of them.
If someone tried that back in his city, well, his brothers and sisters would be out in full force.
It’s difficult, sometimes, shaking those old thoughts. So ingrained, so close to the surface. He’s spent more of his life in servitude than out. Even so far removed from Baldur’s Gate, it feels so close sometimes. Like he might close his eyes and snap back to his old life by some horrible twist of fate.
He shivers, folding his arms across his chest. There’s a fire in the living room and he moves aimlessly towards it.
The mantle makes him frown. The clock shoved to the side in favor of Gale’s little toys and a few other decorations. A trio of stars the wizard supposedly made in his youth, out of glue-paper and wire, painted clumsily in faded yellow and flaking sparkles.
It’s warm in here, at least.
And there’s Gale on the couch, a heavy book held aloft by a pair of mage hands. His eyes fly over the words, speedily reading through the tome. Astarion moves to the fireplace, wondering absently why Gale’s there instead of his customary chair, the one where Astarion always nestles in on his lap.
He’s just about to ask why, exactly, the chair is missing from the corner when there’s a knock on the door, and the bell rings shortly after.
“Ah! It’s here! A little late the hour but here nonetheless!” And he rises, blustering to the door without a further word.
Astarion has a bad feeling about this.
Still hugging his torso, he leans in the doorway and watches. And, on purpose, overhears Gale thanking two burly delivery men, ushering them in with holiday wishes and a reverent smile.
Gale turns, throwing the same smile at Astarion.
His smile back is altogether less sweet.
“What’s this, my sweet treasure?” Astarion asks, his tone sharp, clipped.
“Oh, you’ve got to see it, Astarion. Richly decorated, dusted with magical snow when the lights are aglow and the fireplace is roaring! It’s going to lift your spirits in a moment!”
“What is, exactly,” Astarion sighs. Withering, peering around Gale to try and see what the large men are dragging in.
He smells it, first.
Fragrant and outdoorsy.
He thinks, first, of all those nights on the road. Milling around the camps, combing the thick forests for prey. Relaxing on his own, in his tent, and then very quickly, how it changed to Gale’s.
How quickly they came together.
Too quickly, he thinks, sometimes.
Especially when these things happen. These little differences.
There isn’t a situation in the world in which Astarion can imagine hiring two massive men to drag a pine tree through his front door, down the hallway and into the living room. He backs up into the space to watch them prop it up in the corner, where the chair usually sits.
“It’s perfect!” Gale gushes, his hands clasping together, his eyes shining brightly. “Just as I specified! You’ve truly outdone yourselves this year, here, let me - “
And he goes on, practically chasing the men out with a generous tip and a never-ending stream of plaudits.
Astarion regards the tree coolly, from across the room.
Even, deep green. The top brushes the ceiling. The full branches stretch to hit two walls. The trunk, thick and sturdy, oozes sap.
It’s going to be a bitch to get out of the carpet.
His ears twitch as the door shuts, and locks, and Gale’s steps pound excitedly down the hall. He practically barrels into the once perfect living room and rushes - not towards Astarion - but the tree, fluffing its branches, cooing over the fullness, the scent, the color, and on and on.
“I don’t like it,” Astarion says, from the fireplace. The warmth licks over his body but something feels cold even still.
“You…what’s not to like?” Gale asks, his face drawn in confusion. “It’s traditional! Why, nearly every house in Waterdeep is erecting one of these beauties as we speak!”
“I suppose I don’t like tradition, then. Call me a modernist.”
“I would’ve thought an elf might understand bringing indoors the majesty of nature’s beauty, to be perfectly honest with you.”
“Oh, really?” Astarion sneers, he can’t help it. The trail of pine needles through the hallway, through his formerly perfect living room has him feeling mean, and the surprise of it is the worst of all. “Do you want to try that again in a less racist way? I said nothing over those abominations you call toys but I’m starting to think this stupid holiday of yours is designed to put me out of sorts on purpose!”
“Oh, love, I didn’t mean…” Gale tips his head, his eyes soft with sympathy. He rushes over, his slippers scuffing against the shed needles.
Astarion doesn’t uncross his arms.
Part of him wants to. Part of him wants to shake his head so his curls tousle just-so. To pitch himself forward into Gale’s waiting arms and then, most importantly, implore him to chuck the tree out onto the street.
And this other part that’s keeping his arms crossed wants to stay mad. To seethe, to stew. To run. The natural, inevitable conclusion of any caged animal faced with the double edged sword of freedom. Just another gilded cage, in the end.
“What would you like to do, then?” Gale asks, his head tilting, blinking slow. His hands twitch at his sides and Astarion knows he wants to reach out to him. But he knows he knows better than that, too. “There must be some old tradition from Baldur’s Gate, or some elven custom - “
“I just want my house back. My rooms back. I don’t want pine needles all over my floors and I don’t want your ugly little caricatures cluttering up my mantle,” he huffs, resisting the urge to throw in a stomp, too.
One corner of Gale’s mouth lifts in a smile. The nerve.
“You’ve never called it your house before,” Gale says, so low it’s nearly a whisper. His hands find Astarion’s arms, high up, and he grasps him. And frowns. “Let me warm you up, yes? Come, sit by the fire - “
“I can’t. You’ve moved the chair in place of a dead fucking tree.”
“Oh, it’s not quite dead, not yet. It’s got a few days left before it turns. At least let me decorate it for you? Then you’ll see - “
“There’s nothing to see! You could festoon it with the most delicate priceless treasures and I’d still think it vile and tacky! All of these horrid decorations are, I don’t care what cherished memories go along with them. They aren’t mine.”
“So tell me what you’d prefer to celebrate and - “
“I have nothing, Gale. Whatever I’ve come from, whatever traditions there were in my past, they’re all gone. It could be that Baldur’s Gate has the most sumptuous celebration in all of Toril and I know nothing of it, because every second of my life there was a walking nightmare. Don’t make me think about it, please.”
“I’d never, I only want to find some common ground, here. Listen,” and he clutches Astarion’s arms and still, they don’t uncross, “let me wrack my brain, let me have a look through some books, and I’ll find some long-forgotten elven custom of winter to put you at ease. Yes?”
How easy to echo it back.
To sigh it out.
To roll over like a dog and give in.
Instead.
“Please don’t.”
And the sick satisfaction of watching Gale’s face fall into a frown.
“I don’t want you to be upset with me, Astarion. Tell me what I can do.”
“Get rid of the tree.”
“I…love, I’ve only just - “
“And that shit on the mantle.”
The frown deepens.
It’s as satisfying as pushing a priceless vase from a shelf.
“What, then, do I deck the proverbial halls with?”
“You don’t? Honestly, it’s all tacky crap anyway.”
A nervous smile flashes on Gale’s face before he drops his hands from Astarion’s arms. “You’re serious. You’re actually serious.”
A disbelief like he’s never seen before crosses Gale’s face. Not quite anger but not devoid of it either.
“You’d have me forsake this entire holiday because you think the decorations tacky? Because they aren’t to your specific and temperamental tastes? Astarion, I love you, but you are asking me for too much.”
“Too much?”
“Yes! What next, entreat me to rip down all the ornaments in the city? To douse every candle in every window? Perhaps we ought to vacate the city altogether, since this storied holiday isn’t quite to your achingly specific tastes.”
“Actually, a vacation somewhere warm sounds nice right about now. Oh, that’s a lovely idea, let’s go south every winter.”
Gale blinks, his mouth slack.
It truly shouldn't be so satisfying.
He can’t stop starting fires.
It’ll take the whole place down, one day.
“You have me at such a loss,” Gale says. He shakes his head, his brows sinking down.
“It’s not hard, darling. Take it all down,” Astarion shrugs. He crosses his arms again.
Gale crosses his.
“I won’t.”
A weakness. A fight for the sake of fighting and Astarion rises to it, giving Gale a cool smile as he pushes past him.
“You will, by the time I come back. Or I will leave for good,” he shrugs, pine needles crunching under his shoes. The door is right there. And he doesn’t hesitate.
“Take a bloody coat! Oh, you - “ and the door slams shut, the rest of the wizard’s protests lost.
Why would he need a coat when he’s always going to be cold?
There’s no denying a supper of rats by the river isn’t satisfactory. It settled his mind a little but not enough.
It’s all a bluff, and he hates it.
Trudging the streets in the light snowfall, everyone seems so happy. A few odd looks at him, sure, as he’s the only one without a coat and some ridiculous fur-trimmed hat, but surely it’s better out here than in the tower.
The tower that’s supposed to be theirs, split evenly. The life that’s supposed to be theirs.
But Gale’s foisted this stupid holiday onto him, suddenly, without even asking.
And not just Gale either, but this whole bloody city! He’s only starting to notice it, the greenery decking out every door. The gaudy red ribbons. Honestly, they’re too bright. The worst shade.
Too much of that foul poisonous plant, too. He catches a whiff of it now and then, aimlessly wandering the streets.
So the whole city loses its mind over this. That would’ve been good to know before he moved in.
There wasn’t much of a choice, though. The wizard’s ties bind him to Waterdeep. And Astarion, having none, simply let that breeze drift him here.
Where else might he go?
Back to Baldur’s Gate? As lauded as a hero as they all are, there’s too many eyes on him there. Too many people he’s wronged waiting in the shadows, waiting to strike.
At least it’s a clean slate, here.
At least it was.
There’s still plenty of bridges left in the world to burn.
The problem is…the longer he walks the streets in the cold, the lighter the sky gets, the thinner the crowds grow, the faster the wind whips, the harder the snow pelts his chilly skin…
Maybe it’s covered in ugly red and maybe it’s littered with pine needles and yes, maybe Gale is going to be well and truly cross with him after this tantrum, but a deeply hidden part of Astarion wants to be there.
A piece somehow still alive, somehow shielded inside of him despite everything, despite horrors committed by him and against him, wants to feel warm. Safe. Held.
It was always there, hidden, cracked, a muscle untrained and atrophied and even now, he longs to indulge it still.
Can you start fires such calamitous fires with the one you love, and still find yourself warmed by them?
He supposes he’s got to try.
He doesn’t realize where he is, exactly, until he sees a familiar figure bustling through the frozen streets with a hood pulled up over their head. Tall, willowy, another elf and that alone has gotten them off on the right foot. Even if he can’t ever remember her name.
It’s Gale’s florist, just arriving at her shop before the sun starts to come up properly and Astarion wonders what strange luck has brought him here.
He’s sure to make his footsteps extra loud, gratified when she inclines her head and pushes her hood back. He offers a little wave of his fingers and watches with relief as a patient smile spreads across her stoic face.
The expression, of course, turns to confusion. It is, after all, nearing dawn and he’s probably ugly with the cold, even if it feels no different to his normal cold. He has the decency to affect a shiver and rub at his arms in a ridiculous pantomime.
“I hope I didn’t frighten you,” he starts, oozing his most charming smile. Not that it’ll work but at least it might make him look less like a lunatic. “I find myself in a bit of a dire situation.”
A flickering of her clear blue eyes up and down and up again and she huffs. It must be a laugh. “In Calimshan they say in the doghouse. An evocative turn of phrase. Come, I have some things reserved for the holiday - “
“Actually,” Astarion drawls, sidling closer in a smooth motion. Waiting with his back against the window, his body turned towards her and very nearly in the way of her opening the door. “I have a slightly specific request…”
“The spurned always do.”
He wants to argue but…he’s both, tonight. Spurner, spurnee.
What a stupid mess.
“Let’s talk,” the florist nods him inside, and from there, the rest is easier than it ought to be.
Astarion makes it home before the first of the sun’s weak winter rays burst out over the water.
He’s laden.
He doesn’t have a key.
He didn’t think this far ahead.
He pushes the bell with his elbow and kicks at the sturdy door a few times, for good measure. His hearing’s too good for any of this to be suspenseful; he hears Gale moving down the hallway the second his slippered feet hit the floor. He must’ve been in the living room.
Even thinking on it warms Astarion a little.
He’ll make peace with the tackiness for the sake of the warmth. For the sake of Gale’s arms and the truest version of his smile.
Hard to see the door swing open over the armful of red-ribboned boughs but he hears it, too, and there’s Gale, with a gust of heat from the house hot on his heels.
“Why, what in the…give me that,” he starts, and it’s gentle and most of the greenery tumbles into his waiting arms. “This is going to make such a mess!”
“You’ve got some spell for that, I’m sure,” Astarion says, and yes, he’s right, and he hates that pine needles and sticky little ivy leaves threaten to litter their house for the next few days but perhaps it’s worth it for that feverish, happy glint flashing in Gale’s eyes.
“Where did you get that hat?” comes next, and Astarion expected that.
He doesn’t like the hat either. The blue is too cool, washing out his pearly pale skin, making the pink and red cold-kissed cheeks and nose look even worse, he’s sure. But the florist insisted and there’s another somewhere in the bundle in his arms for Gale. Not that the shade will suit him either.
But perhaps it’s alright not to care too much. For a few days.
“Oh, the all-night ugly decoration store for terrible partners who spend too long rethinking their abysmal life choices and trudging out in the furiously falling snow.”
“Catchy name.”
“Your florist opened early,” Astarion leans in to say, scrambling past Gale into the hallway. It’s been cleaned since those men dragged the tree in, but it’s only going to turn into a mess again. “She specializes in mending relationships, it turns out. And there’s this,” Astarion huffs, raising a shoulder, nodding towards the ugly topiary dangling from an even uglier red ribbon.
“Oh, you’re going to start sneezing again, we needn’t observe every tradition, perhaps, just - “
“It’s a fake. Turns out elves are, by and large, allergic to such things. So she’s been making them for centuries. And the best part is, it ought to last for a decade or two. Magically waxed leaves or some such nonsense.”
The house feels warmer than it did when he left.
Warmer than it’s ever felt.
And it isn’t just the roaring fire, when he walks into the living room, although that helps immeasurably. He dumps the decorations down on the table, heedless of that mess too. He does wince a little, seeing Gale do the same. But they’ll find a place for them soon enough.
“I’m…sorry, I suppose - ” Astarion starts.
“Let me apologize - “ Gale starts, at nearly the same time.
“Oh! Well, who goes first?” Astarion laughs. And he pulls Gale’s ugly hat from his waistband, stepping forward to place it on his head. “There, now we’re on even footing. These things are hideous!”
“I could put my old one on, if you’d like…”
“No! Gods, that one’s even more hideous! It looks like a mink that’s been run over. And not just once but over and over, for a tenday, and then someone decided to cobble together a hat from it.”
“Alright, I understand you’re going to be…snippy,” Gale starts, again, the tone tired already, “and I’m doing my best to make peace with that, but perhaps take it down a notch? Just the tiniest little bit? My mother gave me that hat!”
“Mm, mhmm, I bet she did. I can tell,” Astarion simply nods, and keeps the rest closed up tight. Because of course Gale’s mother gave him that hideous thing. Probably when he was that young, spoiled prodigy, handed everything. He had to inherit his terrible taste from somewhere.
“Now…”
“I said nothing!”
“In any case,” Gale sighs, his warm hands framing Astarion’s face, palms pressing against the pink chill of his cheeks. “I have prepared a new tradition we might begin observing. Just the two of us.”
Impossible not to feel a thrill tingle his spine at the drop in Gale’s voice, at the sparkle in his deep brown eyes.
And another, when he leans in for a kiss. His lips drive away the chill on the surface, and, perhaps, start to melt a little of the frost inside that’s harder to shake.
“I’m listening,” Astarion prompts him, their mouths barely apart.
As with most things involving Gale, it isn’t what he expects.
The wizard turns him towards the tree.
It’s dusted with snow of some magical variety, set alight with candles. They dance in and out of the pines and never seem to waver or set the greenery ablaze. There’s ribbons too, tied about the branches, and hideous sparkling baubles dripping and spinning.
Astarion bursts out laughing.
Gods, he can’t help it.
It’s so awful!
“You wasted magic on this, then,” he half-asks, half-states, and surprisingly, Gale gives him a wheeze of a laugh.
“It isn’t a waste! It’s, I promise you, the best looking tree in Waterdeep!”
“Oh, gods, if that’s true, keep me out of any other home because, my sweet treasure, this is truly one of the tackiest things I’ve ever seen in my life. And you saw where I was forced to live. Truly, this entire holiday is a monument to bad taste.”
“Perhaps you’ll develop an…ironic appreciation for things.”
“I suppose,” Astarion sighs.
The hat feels itchy on his head, but at least Gale’s warm beside him, as they both stand in the glow of the candles, of the fireplace.
He sees it on the mantle a second later. His vases, returned to their place. Surrounded by little elven blade dancers, yes, but there on the end, nearly perfect. And everything else restored, too, sitting in something like harmony with the hideousness.
He doesn’t say anything over it, just yet; he has a feeling Gale isn’t finished and, as ever, he’s right.
“It’s what’s under the tree that’s far more important, anyway. Here, sit with me?”
Gale pulls him down, and he’s anticipated this. Planned at least part of it, like he does with so many moments. He’s laid out a fur, spanning from the front of the fireplace to in front of the tree.
And underneath the decorated, dipping branches, there’s a litany of boxes. Bows on each, varying sizes. Some wrapped, some plain. Others bearing the marks of some of Waterdeep’s finest shops. Twenty, altogether. Maybe more. There’s barely any room left under there.
“I was saving some of these to mete out through the year,” Gale starts, leaning and picking up one box in particular. “For other holidays, little anniversaries. Special times, that sort of thing. But, well, why not give them to you all at once?”
“All of these?” Astarion blinks. Hot, under his skin, all of a sudden. Nothing to do with the temperature, with the fireplace, with Gale’s hand resting on his knee.
“A mere trifle of what you deserve. A drop in the bucket. I would lavish a gift on you every day if I could. The joy you’ve brought to me, to this house. I truly adore seeing your hallmarks in every corner, sweeping out the cobwebs of the past.”
“Oh, who says you can’t gift me every day?” Astarion jokes, half-jokes, his gaze lingering long on Gale’s before he breaks into a breathy little laugh, a sappy smile. “Gale, really…”
“Next Nightal, I’ll see that plan through, but for now, will you accept these things in lieu of some aesthetically pleasing Simril decor?”
“Yes, of course, but…”
“Don’t apologize, you don’t need to.”
“And I’m not going to. This is more of a…rationalization, if you will.”
“I will,” Gale tips his head, but his fingers restlessly play with the bow on the box. It isn’t the biggest box, isn’t the smallest or the most richly appointed, but whatever it is and however much he wants it, Astarion can wait for a few moments more.
“I’ve never had anything. Anything at all, that was mine. That I can remember that was mine. And now I have this house, and I have you, and it’s taking some getting used to. Growing pains, so to speak. And I just had everything so perfect,” he sighs, and covers one of Gale’s hands with his, leeching the heat.
His gaze dips, feeling Gale’s eyes on his. If he meets that expression now, he’ll never finish what he has to say.
“I felt as though you were ruining it. Even while I was ruining your very important holiday.”
“There’s room enough on the mantle for everything,” Gale says, and it’s so sweet, and he tries to catch Astarion’s gaze but he can’t, quite yet.
“I see that,” Astarion nods. “And I appreciate it. It wasn’t about the vases, anyway.”
“I know it wasn’t.”
“I have a home now, and it’s in you. It isn’t the mantle or the kitchen or my favorite chair to perch on your lap in. It’s you and if you - occasionally - come decorated and behatted like this, I will take it. So long as I don’t have to let go.”
And now, now he can look at Gale again, now that he has nothing left to say, and for the ball being in the wizard’s court, he simply blinks, heavily, and shoves the gift towards him.
“Please - start to open these so you don’t have to hear me say something irredeemably sappy and romantic.”
“Oh, well hold on - “
“Go on, there’s so many!”
“Alright, alright!” Astarion laughs, with a deeply-held joy that bubbles up from somewhere inside of him, somewhere soft and sweet and easily touched by Gale, somewhere he thought dead and gone for so long.
It takes some time.
Draped in the finest jewels, in finest silks and beads and feathers that Waterdeep and beyond has to offer, the fire’s light glints off of Astarion through the long, cold morning. But they feel nothing of the chill, joined together on that soft, sumptuous rug, as Gale gives over the last of his gifts. Himself, body and all, and the fire’s light glints off of that, too.
A fine new tradition.