Chapter Text
Every bookstore smells different, yet similar.
One of those little things in life you can always count on.
Gale Dekarios takes a big breath in the doorway. His eyes sink shut as the scent tickles at his brain, giving him an itchy memory slideshow of all the bookstores ever, every single one he’s stepped into and a few he’s only spied from the outside, still lingering memories, bucket list entries. Blank pages he’s determined to fill, now.
This was one of those bookstores.
Tonight, he walks in alone, letting out his deeply held breath and glancing around.
Small, yes, but all the more perfect for it. Newspaper stands by the door hold free local publications; an arts guide, a seniors activity book, and another, with a rainbow resting atop a moon.
Highmoon’s Only Gay Newspaper
A proud decree.
Gale’s jaw clenches on reflex. On instinct. With twenty years of built up tension from head to toe.
Not too long ago at all, he would’ve blushed and nursed that black pit of dread that pooled in his stomach. Six months back, he would’ve torn his eyes away from the offending periodical and immediately planted a guilty kiss on his wife’s cheek.
But he’s alone.
In the most positive sense.
His own man.
He picks up the paper and tucks it neatly under his arm, striding forward into the bookstore proper.
Behind a huge old desk, a young looking drow woman waves at him and goes back to reading her thick book. Another comforting brick in the wall of this lovely little bookstore.
The shelves stretch high along the outer walls and on the floor too, the dark fragrant wood on a lighter wooden floor creating a veritable labyrinth of books. The signs swinging above the shelves, denoting sections, look hand-lettered and old. A few are newer, the paper brighter, the paint darker.
He finds the cooking section by sheer accident and spends a few minutes there, his head tilting to read spines, his fingers dancing over the variety of letters there. Some old and indented, stamped into cloth, and others simply printed along shiny hard board. Near the middle, a small cluster of books has raised dots alongside the words.
He smiles
He’s…happy. Maybe just content but what’s the difference, really, when he’s spent so long feeling miserable?
He takes umbrage in this simple pleasure.
A new bookstore.
Nothing to rush him.
No relentless clinking from a cafe, no modern music piping in overhead. Just rows and rows of books, every turn he takes.
He steps onto uneven floor and glances around a newer addition that stretches forever. And it looks so small from the outside! What magic.
Gale takes the first left turn, following the ‘fantasy’ arrow.
When was the last time he read a fantasy? Or anything non-fiction? Anything besides a hand-me-down self-help book or a minutely detailed history?
He stops with a start, seeing someone else.
He isn’t alone and it’s jarring, suddenly. He’s been in his own lovely little world, meandering through the forest of spines and shelves that he’s neglected to even imagine someone else besides the shopkeeper might be hidden among the tomes.
He doesn’t mean to stare.
The surprise jangles through his nerves for a second and he isn’t sure where to go.
Continue on his way down the aisle? Or should he change course and give them privacy? If they’re the only two patrons here, it’d seem exceedingly strange to stand right next to the only other shopper.
And now he’s stood too long at the mouth of the aisle. Now this is going to make him look weird.
All the while, through all the racing thoughts, he stares at the other customer. An elf - Gale assumes and immediately chides himself for the assumption, based on the willowy figure and the pointed ears sticking up through the artful tumble of silvery hair.
And the air, too.
An unmistakable air of superiority and ease. A grace and comfort Gale can’t imagine possessing. Even turning the page of the book held open in his hands, the elf seems the height of refinement. His head never raises to mark Gale but his eyes veer over towards him for a fraction of a second.
Probably because he’s stuck here, mired in indecision for what has to be twenty blasted minutes.
The elf’s eyes sparkle. Sea blue. Lighter towards the centers.
A minuscule moment in time.
But Gale’s heart clenches in his chest.
The sea of his youth, in his mind’s eye, in every sunbaked memory, glowed the same shade as the elf’s eyes.
Waterdeep, a continent away, feels close for a breath.
He could go there now.
He could go anywhere.
Including down this aisle; the elf stands in front of science fiction anyway, Gale notices as he gets closer, his skin still buzzing from anxiety. Fantasy is nearly in front of Gale just one shelf in, and he stops short.
And sighs. Happily.
There’s so much to pick from.
Reality doesn’t rear its ugly head until the shopkeeper comes to get him, clearing her throat politely at the head of the aisle.
Gale starts, looking around.
The elf’s gone and he hadn’t even noticed.
And even worse - “Closing time, boss,” the drow informs him.
Gale flushes, clinging tightly to his armful of books and letting the one he’d been reading snap shut. They nearly topple out of his hands.
“Oh! Can I still buy these? Or - “
“Of course, come on,” she gestures with her head, crossing her arms under her comfy looking oversized sweater.
Gale sighs, trying to find relief that isn’t there. How embarrassing. He checks his watch following the drow, seeing it’s after nine. Well after closing. He wants to apologize, to stammer out an excuse - how much he loves their extensive collection, how charming the store is, how easy to get lost in - but he doesn’t manage to squeak out a word as she tallies up his bill.
He taps his card and does manage a - “sorry I kept you!” as she places his things in a reusable bag.
She shrugs and walks him to the door, giving him a curt wave out the window as the lock clicks.
Well drat.
He can’t ever come here again, after that. At least not for a month or two.
What a shame.
Even worse, as he walks down the street, he notices every shop locked. Gale winces, his grocery list still folded in his pocket. But when he tries that door, it doesn’t budge. Even though all the lights are still on and the lone cashier desperately avoids his eye contact.
Next door, though…
He hears laughter and he sees a door propped open.
A wine store, its name written in pretty scrolling letters. Soft jazz floats out from the open door and two women leave just as he peers in.
Perhaps, if nothing else, they’ll have pasta or bread or hells, he’ll even take a bag of chips to call dinner.
As for the wine…he doesn’t know a thing about it, besides which are good to cook with. Dry whites for quick, hot dishes and robust reds for stews. A can of beer - sometimes - makes good chili but, walking into the store, he doesn’t think they’ll quite have cans of beer anywhere.
The music gets louder, echoing a little tinny around the large space. Hard to hear the shopkeeper greeting him but Gale smiles and nods and weaves his way through the store.
At the back, set up like a little cafe, is a wine tasting.
Or it looks that way. It could be something else entirely for all the experience Gale has with these things.
A tiefling in a very modern suit stands beside a table and gestures to an array of bottles, engaged in loud conversation.
With the elf.
From the bookstore.
Gale recognizes him even from behind; the artful silver curls, the flowy sweater that kisses the back of his calves and rustles against his loose trousers. The vision of his eyes turns over in Gale’s brain and stops him for a second.
Oh gods, is the elf going to think he’s being stalked? That’s the last thing Gale wants.
But…he is curious about the wines.
And his stomach grumbles at the little dishes of food set out - snappy breadsticks and assorted appetizers. Maybe they don’t sell pasta here but he can certainly have a little snack to tide himself over.
“Interested?” the tiefling called out and Gale whirls, looking behind for whoever she might be addressing. “No - no, you! Yeah, in the uh, sweater there.”
That’s him.
Gale points to his chest and she nods.
The elf turns and Gale’s mouth dries up.
Head on, in the slightly more forgiving light, he’s stunning.
His skin shines pale and pearly and unblemished. His eyes, that sea clear blue, flicker quickly up and down Gale and his face warms at the attention.
He juggles his book bag into his other hand and rubs at the back of his neck, unable to will himself to move for what seems like an hour.
A wine tasting? With two people he doesn’t know, except that the elf’s eyes sent his brain into a nostalgic homesick tailspin? And on such an empty stomach?
“I saw you at the bookstore, didn’t I?” the elf asks, nodding towards Gale’s bag.
Gale glances down at it and nods, holding it to his chest while his brain tries its best to cover every angle.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” the elf grins, gesturing towards his own similar bag, sitting on the table just by the breadsticks.
The tiefling snorts out a laugh.
Gale doesn’t get the joke.
But the prospect of talking books gets his feet moving and he sidles up to the table, a wave of excitement cresting sharply inside of him. Especially since these are new books and he’s thrilled beyond measure to explore them.
“It’s mostly fantasy,” he starts, pulling out the books one by one, carefully. They’re all new and he wants to keep them that way, until he gets home and starts in on them at least. Then, the wear and tear is okay.
“I’m a bit of a sci-fi slut myself,” the elf says, upending his bag with no care for condition. The books tumble out and he leans back against the table, sipping the wine and eying Gale’s pile with a sharp expression.
Gale jolts, hyper-aware suddenly of the books he’s bought
He doesn’t know this elf. is he trusting he wouldn’t have a bad reaction to this slightly racy pile of gay fantasy romance? The first two books have discreet covers, symbolism only, but the bottom of the pile…
A decidedly hunky half-orc embraces a lithe, dark haired elf.
Oh, gods.
Is that offensive, somehow? Are those ears drawn too pointy on the cover? Are the braids a stereotype or worse, appropriated?
Beyond that, what if he has no tolerance for this particular lifestyle at all?
Gale watches the elf browse the pile, hardly even realizing he’s accepted his own glass of wine and that the tiefling has wandered off to talk to some other patrons.
“Oooh, I heard about this,” the elf - oh no, is it alright to keep thinking of him in those terms at all? Certainly he’s so much more than simply the elf. And what if he isn’t a he at all?
Gale’s brain spins its wheels while the white haired entity flips the half-orc/elf book over, poking at the back as he reads the description.
“Good, do you reckon?” Gale manages, his dry throat clicking around the words
“Spicy, I heard,” he shrugs one shoulder, fixing a squint on Gale that nearly shudders those sea-blue eyes. “You’ll have to tell me if it lives up to the reputation, if I see you around again. What do you think of the rosé?”
Too many things at once.
Gale blinks, until the elf gestures towards his wine and raises his own glass and Gale finally takes a sip.
There’s no concealing his thoughts. It tastes divine and he sighs over it, letting his eyes shut for a moment. Trying to pinpoint what it conjures up in his mind as the light, fruity taste glides over his tongue. There’s a slight acid bite that tingles down his throat and after swallowing, he takes a slight sniff of the glass to get more olfactory information.
“Have you ever been to a peach orchard? It tastes like that particular aroma,” Gale decides, opening his eyes to find the elf’s staring at him.
Only he doesn’t blink and blush and avert his eyes.
No, he holds the contact and anything else Gale meant to say is clear gone from his mind.
“I have, actually! Some aunt or grandmama or something had one, I seem to remember. A peach orchard on a lovely sunny late spring day, yes?”
“Yes! Exactly. With a little sea salt in the mix too. Specifically, an orchard in the east.”
“Oh, are you from out of town? A tourist?”
“No, no, I work at the college,” and he gestures, vaguely, in the direction of it, about to settle in for more wine before he remembers there were other questions on the table. “Oh, but I am from out of town, sorry! Waterdeep, originally. I was over in Suzail for a decade or so and I’ve just moved here to teach. That is, I’ve been teaching on and off, but I’ve moved to take a permanent position and be closer.”
“I see,” the elf nods, nudging his modest pile of books towards Gale. “Well, take a look at my stack then. Do you only read fantasy?”
“Actually,” Gale bends over the books, some of the hair he’d tucked behind his ears falling over his face. He leaves it there, unbothered for a few moments by the private curtain of it, “I haven’t had the time to read anything for pleasure in ages. I read so much for work, and then I always sort of had books foisted on me by…others. I forgot how important it was to me, though. Silly as that might sound.”
“Not at all. I’m Astarion, by the way,” the elf thrusts a hand out and Gale takes it without thinking, squeezing like he’s practiced before, trying to make sure it’s a firm, businesslike grip.
Except.
The elf - Astarion, now - his hand feels so warm. So soft. So different from all those networking handshakes over cocktails and charity dinners.
Warm and soft and his grip is light and loose and a smile tugs at the corner of his wide mouth while his eyes continue to sparkle and trap Gale’s gaze.
“And you are?”
“Oh! Apologizes. Gale. Dekarios. Professor Gale Dekarios.”
“Professor! What do you profess?”
Gale still has his hand.
He puffs out a little laugh at the joke, appreciating the artful use of language. “History, to be general.”
“And to be specific?”
Does he really want to know?
Gale blinks a few times, in surprise.
But he’s genuine, isn't he?
How breathtaking.
“Specifically, magical history and folklore of eastern Faerûn during the Netherese Empire. I am quite passionate about the ruin of Karsus these days.”
“My, that is specific! How is teaching in these modern times? As bad as they say?”
“Oh, not on the whole,” Gale considers and finally, he loosens his grip and mourns the loss of that smooth, warm hand sliding off of his. He watches it glide into Astarion’s hair and shake at the curls. They fall right back into their artful pattern. A wonder.
Gale clears his throat and continues with his observation. “The press makes a lot of fuss about electronic devices in classes. Laptops, smart phones, even e-readers, and it’s true that they are changing the landscape of things, but not always for the worse. Note-taking seems to be faster. And I can’t deny it’s easier to read an essay printed rather than penned.”
“A mixed bag,” Astarion agrees. “I don’t hate all of that but - “
“Nothing can truly replace a book, can it? Physically? Or the joy of filling a notebook with your particular scrawl and a favorite pen?”
“True! And you know, I’ve never had a divorce over a tome or a notebook but I’ve had at least six owing to some sort of electronics. And that’s just recent memory!”
Gale’s held smile falls quickly.
Is it awful to assume how old the elf is? He’d figured they were on par and here…six divorces?
Gale forces something of the smile back, a little smirk and he raises his glass of wine. “I’ve only got the one,” with a little laugh he’s sure sounds insipid.
Astarion sucks in a gasp and shuts his eyes with a groan, his head tipping back. And then he laughs, loud enough it floats over the lo-fi jazz and all the other noise in the shop.
It’s a charming sort of noise and Gale’s still taking it in when Astarion’s hand ends up on his forearm and he squeezes.
“Oh gods, what you must think of me! I’m a lawyer! A junior partner at a decently sized firm downtown! We mostly do, you know, divorces and other estate-type settlements.”
“Oh,” Gale takes a sigh of relief, his pulse settling down before he’d even realized it raised. “Oh, that’s a relief. I mean, I know elves typically have longer lifespans than humans but to accrue that many…well. I’ve got the one on my plate and it’s more than enough to occupy a good deal of my time and thoughts. Six would wither me up into a husk, I’m sure.”
Astarion laughs again, squeezing at Gale’s forearm.
He looks at that soft hand and notices the manicure - perfect with pearly pink polish, tasteful but still very much…there.
And now that he’s closer, there’s the sticky leavings of matching gloss on the rim of his wine glass and a slightly artificial - but still stunning - darkness to his eyelashes.
“Some of them wear me down too, to be perfectly honest with you,” Astarion sighs, squeezing once more before removing his arm. “You’re already divorced, then?”
And his eyes stray to Gale’s bare finger, where there’s no ring and a faint but fading tan-line. Gale rubs his thumb over it absently, touching the void.
“I’m in the process. I’ve moved out, for good this time, and our lawyers begin hashing out a deal this week. So, soon.”
“Ah, I thought I could snag a bit of business. Instead, I’ll bid you good luck. Or…condolences? But I’m almost positive it’s good luck, from the adventurous book haul alone.”
“It is,” Gale agrees. And he smiles at the notion and it feels genuine. “That’s the first time anyone’s said it, actually. Wished me good luck. My mother…well, no, I shan’t ruin a pleasant evening. Thank you, Astarion.”
The wink from Astarion flares a blush to his face again but luckily, the sommelier returns and entreats them to a round of appetizers and some more fruity wine.
Too much, Gale might have thought on any other night but tonight - today - feels almost celebratory.
He stays for that shop’s closing, too.
At the door, it’s just him and Astarion. Pink cheeked in the night air. He’s dizzy off the wine, off the fantastic conversation.
And maybe that’s why he says it, why the urge bubbles up fresh and fast and he gives into it impulsively.
“When I first saw your eyes, in the bookstore, they reminded me so much of my favorite place in the entire world: the sea that stretches out from Waterdeep’s southern bay.”
“Oh,” Astarion breathes out and he takes a step closer. He blinks, demure, although there’s a little darkness gathering under his thick lashes.
“I was happiest there, in my youth. I felt a little of that same joy seeing the shade reflected back in your gaze, tonight.”
Astarion’s hand finds his, again. A seemingly natural joining.
And those blue eyes find Gale’s again too, purposefully throwing him an extra hit of nostalgia so his heart pounds in his chest.
“Would you split this ride home with me? It’s so dreadfully late,” Astarion asks, his voice a sweet hush.
“Oh, I walked,” Gale smiles, still excited about his new townhouse. He gestures in the direction of it, over his shoulder, “and I’m far too close and a shade too sober to need a lift. Thank you for the offer, though!”
Gale squeezes his hand and lets it go, a smile still stretched across his face.
“Well - I mean, if you’re on the way, it’s really no trouble at all - “
“I think I’d like to clear my head with this fresh air,” Gale says, thoughtfully, looking around. Rose-tinted glasses, for sure, but it is a nice night. Cool and calm. The walk’s fifteen minutes at most.
“Are you sure?” Astarion asks again, as the little coupe pulls up, with a ride share sign on the front dash.
Gale waves him off, “Thank you again, but no. I’ll see you around, though! The bookstore, perhaps!”
Gale can’t read the expression the elf throws him before he ducks in the car. A few blinks and a curt wave of his own. Disbelief, maybe?
Ah, regardless.
Gale starts the amble home, his mind wandering.
Had he really spent two hours absently sipping wine and nibbling canapes while they spoke?
And gods, what did they even talk about? Threads of it all run through his mind but like all comfortable, easy conversations, none of it really sticks out. No faux pas, or else his brain would be taking them apart.
When was the last time he got along with someone so well?
He can’t remember.
His reverie ends at his door - it’s bright yellow, up a small flight of stairs.
Key in the door and it hits him, then.
It hits him with a groan and he rests his head against the painted wood in a thunk.
Astarion was asking him home.
Wasn’t he?
“Gods, you fool,” he sighs bitterly.
Oh but it isn’t as if he could’ve said yes, is it?
A one night stand?
With that stunning, memorable elf?
When he hasn’t so much as kissed another man?
When he isn’t even fully divorced?
Why, so he could fumble his way through the encounter and - he’s sure - get laughed out of Astarion’s house, life, town?
No, no, it’s good he didn’t go. It’s good he didn’t catch on.
Still.
Gale sighs, turning the key. Tara mews from the kitchen and trots down the hall, her tail held high and voluminous, her little footsteps making the most adorable sound.
Missed connections don’t matter as much, anymore.
But it’s hard to erase those eyes from his memory.