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“You’re gonna have to take the pants off, Gale,” Karlach says.
“There must be another solution,” Gale replies, tugging at the leg of his jeans and grimacing.
This day couldn’t get any worse.
First, his boss, Elminster, slashed his hours at Radio Shack. Now Gale can’t afford the pre-order for The Spine of the World, the next novel in The Legend of Drizzt series, at Waldenbooks. Especially after laying out the money for these new duds.
Then, he dropped his beeper on the bus during his commute. So if Mystra tries to summon him, he won’t even know.
And now, the fabric of his new pants, a stylish wide-legged pair of JNCOs, is caught in the narrow void between the escalator step and the handrail.
The hem of his pants has fallen into the GAP, as it were.
He would chuckle, but he is already so distraught by the situation, he can only sigh.
Here he is, stranded in limbo, between the Claire’s and Spencer’s Gifts below and the Limited and Contempo Casuals above.
Thank the Gods Karlach was nearby, picking up her lunch from the Panda Express, when she heard his frantic yelling. She sprinted over and punched the emergency stop button, sending the hidden machinery and gears within the escalator screeching and Gale careening face-first into the metal staircase.
His hands are red with scrapes, but at least there’s no broken skin and no blood. There will be some bruises on his arms and knees, but the metaphorical ones on his ego will hurt the most.
He tugs at the leg of his jeans again. The fabric doesn’t budge. Instead, the waistband of his JNCO’s slides down further, revealing more of his midriff to the chilly air conditioning blasting through Baldur’s Gate Towne Center.
Gale blows out an exasperated breath. Figures.
His mom had questioned the purchase. ‘Why are they so baggy? Who needs pockets so deep?’, she remarked while shaking her head. Ridiculous, she called them, but what did she know about modern fashion?
The rest of his outfit—a green cropped tank top with the word ‘baby’ printed on the front and a red g-string—had come from Shadowheart via her employee discount at the Hot Topic. She was insistent this would catch the eye of a certain pale, fair-haired minor deity working at the record store. Never would Gale wear such a minimal piece of underwear, if not for Shadowheart's encouragement and an eye-opening letter in the Savage Love column on the back page of the gazette.
“Hey loser,” comes a nasal voice from behind. “Going nowhere fast, huh?”
Gale glances over his shoulder, finding the long auburn tresses and sneering visage of Lorroakan, the assistant manager at the Sharper Image—a store staffed entirely by assholes.
“Lorroakan, I see your wit is on full display today,” Gale snipes back.
“Says the guy stuck in the escalator,” Lorroakan snarks. He pauses by Gale, slips one of his slimy fingers under the strap of Gale’s underwear and lets it go with a loud snap.
“Ouch!” Gale winces and tries to elbow Lorroakan, but the asshole slips past him with ease.
Luckily, Karlach gives the douche a hard shove when he steps on the landing that sends him stumbling off toward the K-B Toys.
By now, a small crowd is gathering. There’s Shadowheart from Hot Topic, dressed entirely in black with a faux-leather corset, dark purple platforms, and a bored look on her face. Lae’zel, a sales clerk from the Foot Locker, stands next to Shadowheart with her arms crossed in her striped uniform shirt. The two snicker at Gale.
“You could offer some assistance instead of just laughing at me,” Gale says. "Especially you, Jen."
Shadowheart's eyes soften. “I could get the scissors and cut your pants—”
“Absolutely not,” Gale says. “I can’t do that. These things were expensive!”
Karlach and Shadowheart exchange concerned glances. Lae’zel shrugs.
“If you insist on being stupid, we cannot help you,” Lae’zel says.
“She’s right, you know,” Karlach adds unhelpfully. “Quit being stubborn.”
Gale glares up at her. “I can’t take off these pants.”
“Why not?” Karlach asks, her brow furrowing.
Because I’m dressed like an idiot and it would be indecent exposure, Gale thinks. Really, how stupid could he be? Thinking he could catch the eye of the lithe and beautiful elf working at Ascendant Audio?
“Hey, Karlach, what’s going on over there?” comes a warm, winsome voice approaching from the J.C. Penney down the wide mall corridor.
Gale’s blood runs cold. Oh, no. It’s Wyll from Babbages. They attend the same chemistry class at university and are both in the table-top gaming club.
Wyll can’t see him dressed like this, not when Gale usually wears a sweater vest over a button-down and corduroys.
Gale shuts his eyes, wishing he could just disappear. Maybe Karlach could turn the escalator back on, and it would swallow Gale up along with his wide-legged mistake, grinding him into little bits between the gears hidden below.
But it’s too late.
Wyll sees him.
And he whistles. “Wow, Gale. That’s quite the get-up.”
“He’s trying to impress the guy at the record store,” Karlach stage-whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Astarion? Really? I didn’t think he was your type,” Wyll says, giving a confused look.
“Can we focus on finding a solution?” Gale crosses his arms, which only causes his shirt to ride up further, revealing his abdomen, taut lines of his stomach.
“Just take off your pants,” Wyll says.
“That’s what I told him!” Karlach throws her hands up and motions at Wyll. “But he refuses.”
“Gale, we’re all reasonable people. Just wear your boxers!” Wyll says.
“He’s not wearing boxers.” Shadowheart titters.
“Boxers, briefs! Whatever, it’s better than this sad state of affairs, Gale,” Wyll says. He sounds so reasonable.
But as Wyll descends the first few steps, his eyes widen, and surprise colors his face as he realizes the precariousness of Gale’s situation.
The hem of the JNCO’s stuck in the escalator.
The green cropped tank with the word “baby” on it.
And the narrow strap of the red thong over the jut of Gale’s hip bone.
Gale’s face heats with a blush.
Wyll immediately averts his gaze, off toward the sputtering fountain below, which glimmers with the copper and silver of all the wished-upon pennies and nickels sitting below the dirty water.
“I can explain—” Gale starts.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Wyll said. “We’re getting the scissors and cutting you out.”
“No, if I can just shimmy the material, I’m sure it will give,” Gale protests. The waist is too loose though, and the pants too heavy, slipping further down his torso as he grabs at the pant leg once more.
Another spectator arrives, much to Gale’s chagrin.
“Is that Gale Dekarios? Stuck in the escalator and dressed like a complete—”
“Shut it, Gortash,” Karlach spits at the greasy-maned manager of Spencer’s Gifts.
Gortash stands next to Karlach on the landing. He sniggers, toying with a button on his flame-decorated bowling shirt, and waggles his brows.
“Get lost, Gort,” Shadowheart says, rolling her eyes.
“Too bad I don’t have my Polaroid.” Gortash grins wickedly. “You know what they say about a picture—”
“Gortash, what are you doing out of your sewer?” someone says.
A certain someone with a sultry, distracting voice and pouty lips and skin like moonlight and an air of casual nonchalance that sends Gale swooning.
Oh no. A thrill runs up Gale’s spine.
It’s him.
Gale glances over to find the subject of his crush, the muse to his foolish fashion choices.
The beautiful, ethereal Astarion.
His platinum curls and alabaster skin glimmer under the shitty fluorescent lighting along the ceiling. A subtle sheen—maybe a bit of glitter—highlights his sharp cheekbones. Gale can’t help but drink him in. Not when he stands just behind him. Dressed in those unlaced, worn-in Doc Martens, a fishnet tee pulled over a tiny white tank that barely covers anything, and a pair of ripped black jeans that are more thread than actual fabric.
Gale gulps.
Astarion smirks, his bright eyes taking in Gale with a painfully slow and mortifyingly intense scan. The drag of those eyes along Gale’s body is like dripping wax. Raking over Gale’s long hair, which is pulled up in a twisted bun with a magenta scrunchy, his exposed arms and shoulders, the strip of stomach bared by the crop top, and the low cling of these fucking jeans on his hips.
And the thong. Don’t forget the thong.
Astarion’s gaze stops, fixates on the thin strap there on Gale’s hip bone. Did the elf just lick his lips? Gale shakes his head, attempting to ground himself.
“Oh dear,” Astarion says, tilting his head slowly and catching his lower lip on his teeth. “It seems you could use my help, darling.”
“Dar…darling,” Gale repeats, pinned by Astarion’s eyes.
The sweat prickles in his pores as he stares at that mouth. At those soft pink lips, the sharp white teeth. This man is like an Anne Rice character brought to life —so dangerous, distracting, and devastating.
“This is quite a change from your usual wardrobe,” Astarion says, leaning back. “Special occasion?”
“Just trying something different,” Gale says. His voice cracks.
His gaze drops to the elf’s chest. To that tiny white top with thin spaghetti straps under the fishnet shirt. Is it cold? Because the peaks of Astarion’s nipples—Gale looks away, shivering between the molten want in his gut and the chill of the mall air.
The arousal swirls within him, hot and desperate. Some part of him likes the vulnerability, the danger of his situation.
Gods. He’s so pathetic.
He stares down at the escalator steps, the ribbed metal, and resumes tugging fruitlessly at his pants.
A cool breath gusts across his ear.
He freezes. Smells Astarion’s scent. A combination of Cucumber Melon from Bath & Body Works, bergamot, and his own musk. Fruity and piquant.
Gods, Astarion smells delicious. Gale bites down on his tongue to prevent any words or noises from his stupid brain working their way out of his stupid mouth.
“I like it,” Astarion whispers. “But I’m afraid I can’t show you how much, what with your pants caught in the escalator. And the audience.”
That coil of arousal unfurls in Gale’s gut at the words, at the press of a cool palm on his shoulder.
He clears his throat.
“At least it’s not like getting caught in a zipper,” Gale says, wincing at his bizarre and stupid joke.
There’s a beat, a moment of silence.
Astarion huffs a laugh and shakes his head, one of his curls caressing Gale’s cheek. Gods, he’s so close right now.
Gale glances up, finding Karlach still at the top of the landing, quirking a brow at him. Wyll is behind her, looking around as though searching for a rescue crew. Or maybe just trying to give Gale some sense of dignity. Lae’zel and Shadowheart are bickering about their Orange Julius orders, having forgotten about Gale, it seems.
“Gale? What’s it gonna be?” Karlach asks again. “Take off the pants. Or snip snip?” She mimics the motion of cutting with two fingers.
“I have a pair of shorts you could borrow in my bag,” Astarion whispers into the shell of Gale’s ear. “They’re not very conservative.”
Gale can’t help the shudder that wracks his body.
He’s definitely getting an erection. He thinks of Elminster in a speedo. Ice water down his back. Anything to curb the arousal.
For a moment, he curses his body and his hubris. Wearing clothes he has no business wearing. Trying to seduce the guy at the record store with his looks. What an idiot he is.
An idiot with few options.
“That’s very kind of you,” Gale says, accepting his fate and Astarion’s offering of shorts.
Astarion unzips his bag, rustles around for a moment, and unfurls a pair of shorts. Very short shorts. Bright blue with white trim. Gale deflates at the sight.
“Are those… cheerleading shorts?”
Astarion blinks and looks at the garment in his hands. Gives a small shrug. Smiles salaciously.
“I suppose they are,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll cover the whole—” Those radiant eyes sweep down to Gale’s groin and back up to Gale’s face"—package."
If Gale could combust, now would be the moment.
He opens his mouth, mind sputtering and unable to offer any response other than a hoarse “Thanks.”
“Okay, look away, everyone,” Karlach yells, which only brings Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s attention back to the situation on the escalator.
Gale sighs and reaches to unbutton the pants and fly, when a hand lands on his wrist.
“Allow me,” Astarion says.
“Here?!” Gale squeaks.
“I’m just lending a hand,” Astarion says innocently, deftly flicking the button and unzipping Gale’s fly. Gale’s hands move to the waistband, clenching the belt loops for dear life. His eyes go skyward, begging any of the gods to take him now. Or for a minor tornado to form and blow him away.
“Just step out and put on the shorts,” Astarion whispers, though his voice is sultry. Low.
Their eyes meet, Gale’s nervous and anxious, Astarion’s heated and mirthful. But not mean. Despite the elf’s reputation for spiteful repartee, Gale finds none of that on his face. His absurdly beautiful face.
Astarion gives Gale a nod.
Gale swallows his nerves and lets go.
“These are actually quite comfortable,” Gale says as he struts the aisle of the record store.
Astarion is in heaven.
Because the hot nerd from Radio Shack is here at Ascendant Audio, picking through CDs and tapes and other music paraphernalia and talking his ear off. Bending over to reach far into the racks for a Pearl Jam album. Reaching up for the LPs on the top shelves, revealing the long lines of his abdominal muscles and the dip of his belly button. Astarion just watches the flex of Gale’s muscles, admires the hairy trail leading right into the v of his hips, and sighs dreamily.
Gale says something, peering over his shoulder with those big brown eyes, smiling and laughing. Gorgeous. Astarion can see so much tanned skin now. It’s no longer hidden beneath misshapen polo shirts and frumpy khakis, and it is a delight.
Instead, Gale is here wearing Astarion’s tiny shorts and that crop top.
He looks delicious. Tasty.
And Astarion is starving after weeks of patient planning and reconnaissance around the mall with Tav. Weeks of waiting by the Sbarro in the food court for Gale to go on break, showing up at Radio Shack asking about audio jacks (Astarion works in a record store, he doesn’t need the help), and hanging out by the Cinnabon to get details from Shadowheart or Karlach.
Now, it has all come to fruition.
“Why don’t you come over here?” Astarion leans his elbows on the counter, puts his chin in one hand.
“Of course, Astarion,” Gale saunters over. “Whatever you need, you have only to ask.”
“Follow me,” Astarion says. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Astarion motions toward a door covered in crinkled posters and papers that leads to the back office. Gale’s eyes cloud in confusion. He looks back to Astarion, who only chuckles lowly and beckons with his fingers. A little smile curves Gale’s lips, and he follows Astarion.
As soon as Astarion shuts the door, he presses Gale up against it, his hands sliding over Gale’s torso. Fingers skim under the hem of Gale’s tank. Gale bucks against him, grinding into Astarion’s jeans and gasps.
“What are you showing me exactly?” Gale says before Astarion slots their lips together and licks into the heat of Gale’s mouth.
Oh, he tastes so good. A bit of coffee and the remnants of a cinnamon sugar pretzel. Astarion pulls back, stroking Gale’s sides with his fingers, and enjoying the slight shudder it evokes from the other man.
“I’m showing you just how much I like it,” Astarion whispers, nipping at Gale’s ear and pressing his erection against Gale’s hip.
Gale groans, melting against him like a lit Yankee Candle. Astarion grins, reaches behind Gale for a moment, and locks the door.
“So, whose pants are these?” Dammon asks.
He doesn’t mind his job as an escalator repair technician, but it’s getting ridiculous lately. Some mall rat jammed up the works with their JNCO jeans and then fled the scene.
Security Officer Withers, who looks like a corpse that rose from the ancient burial ground under the Bloomingdale’s, blinks slowly at him and says nothing. Gives no explanation or reasoning.
A moment later, Withers clears his throat.
“See what thou hast seen. Know what thou knowest,” the ancient mall cop replies.
Dammon furrows his brow.
“What does that mean?”
Withers remains silent, looking through Dammon, as though peering beyond the veil of reality.
With a shrug, Dammon pops the maintenance panel and gets back to work.