Archive of Our Own

Gale had already given him his mantle against the cold, but it had really only made the awkward contrast between them more obvious. 

The low heels Gale had picked out in the interest of historical accuracy were less uncomfortable than he had feared, but he was still regretting the choice, if only because it felt awkward to hold Astarion's hand at a height difference he was unaccustomed to. On top of that, the cheap ruff he had bought because he hadn't wanted to invest in silk was positively killing him.

"So..." Gale said, clearing his throat and pulling at the itchy velcro holding it around his throat. "I can't help but feel that I may have ruined the evening for us both — perhaps 'disaster' is too strong a word, though, not, strictly speaking, inaccurate. Which is to say, I clearly did not contribute to a unified aesthetic between us —"

"Darling," Astarion interrupted him, reaching up and undoing the ruff with an easy dexterity Gale envied. "You hardly ruined anything. So we look like we were heading to two very different parties? There's no rule that says couples have to coordinate costumes. Besides, I look fabulous on my own."

Gale let out a relieved breath. "You always do. Though I suppose one could argue there is a certain charm in the juxtaposition between us, a sort of... dialectical approach to the Jungian archetype of the vampire. The scholarly versus the sensual, the historical record versus the modern interpretation." He vaguely waved one hand as they circumvented a particularly deep puddle. "Though it did not seem anyone actually at the party approached the matter with that intellectual framework in mind, and it was... not intentional, so perhaps I am retroactively imposing meaning on a fundamental failure to... I'm doing it again," he interrupts himself, seeing Astarion's expression.

"Quite," Astarion says snippily, before sighing and continuing in a more understanding tone. "You did have a fair bit of wine. Never a good influence on your verbal inhibitions, hm?"

Gale blushed slightly. "No, I suppose not."

They walked another block in silence, footsteps accompanied by the insistent rain.

"Your captive audience seemed to find nineteenth-century Wallachian mourning practices fascinating, enough," Astarion said eventually, a hint of something sharp in his voice.

"Eighteenth-century," Gale corrected automatically, "And I was more looking into Eastern European customs generally, as they... Well, that's not the point." He hesitated, faltering half a step behind. "You really think they were fascinated? In hindsight, I think I might have been a tad over-enthused in my exposés."

"Oh, a number of the intellectually unfortunate were caught by stray lectures, but you found your adoring audience easily enough. Especially the tall woman with the glasses. Miranda? She was practically taking notes."

"Minerva," Gale said, picking up on the edge in Astarion's voice. "And she teaches folklore at the university, so I suppose she had a professional interest."

Astarion stuffed Gale's ruff into a pocket of the mantle, shaking his head. "Only you could characterise a two hour conversation as professional interest. Honestly, darling, are you even trying to make me jealous?"

Gale snorted. "Make you jealous? You spent the entire evening surrounded by admirers. I imagine I'd have to illusion in another half dozen Minervas to get even close."

"That's hardly the same thing," Astarion rolled his eyes. "Minerva was listening to you. Derek wanted to know which outlet store I found my slutty vampire costume at, because apparently it's much sexier than the one Spirit Halloween had, and I don't think he even listened when I tried to explain I'd made it myself."

Gale frowned, genuinely affronted. "Derek is a philistine. As if you could have found tailored vinyl in an outlet? And the embroidery you did on your top is magnificent."

"Thank you!" Astarion said, exasperated. "Gods, as if I could have found this off the rack? I know it's not historically accurate, but that doesn't mean I didn't put any thought into it."

"That's just offensive," Gale said, "Honestly, historical accuracy aside, the fact that you managed to abstract the key elements of a costume so well that you were able to recreate it with so little fabric is a marvel. From a costume-design perspective, yours is indisputably better. Four separate people thought I was dressed Edgar Allan Poe."

"Oh, I thought I heard fragments of The Raven at one point."

Gale grimaces. "I thought it would be easier than correcting them. I obviously put more work into the research than the party warranted, and ended up looking generically gothic to everyone even minutely less informed."

Astarion opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again in the way Gale recognised meant something stung. "Well, at least your work was appreciated by some." His tone was airy again. "People listened to you. No one listens to a man in vinyl hotpants. They just stare and want to test if your fangs are 'real'."

Gale stopped walking, tugging lightly on Astarion’s hand until he stopped too. “Astarion.”

“What? It’s fine.” He waved his free hand vaguely. “I wanted it to be fun. I wanted to look…” He gestured down at himself, rain-slicked curls and ridiculous cutouts. “Confident. I thought if I chose it myself, it would feel different.”

Gale felt something in his chest ache. “Did it?”

“At first,” Astarion said. “Until people started treating me exactly the way I dressed. Which, granted, was predictable, but still…” His voice dipped. “I didn’t want to feel dismissed. I wanted to feel in control.”

Gale swallowed. “I didn’t realise. Every time I looked over at you, you looked... radiant. You were magnetic -- you always are. You walk into a room and people... flock to you. I thought... You looked like you were having a great time. Fitting in with all the other people who know how to have fun without turning it into an academic exercise."

"They weren't drawn to *me*." His expression fell a bit as he leaned further into Gale, clearly tempted to rest his head on his shoulder. "They were drawn to... the performance. The costume."

Gale tugged on his hand again, offering an embrace that Astarion gladly accepted.

"If that's true," he said with a quiet sort of conviction in his voice, "They're all idiots. You're one of the best conversationalists this side of Faerûn on a bad day. Not to mention that you're just brilliant and interesting." 

"And you thought I looked radiant?" Astarion finally asked.

"Magnificent. Breathtaking. Though I'll confess, I spent most of the evening torn between admiration and completely irrational jealousy."

"Good," Astarion said, then narrowed his eyes. "I mean, not good that you were jealous, but... At least if it had been just you, the costume would have been just the fun part. Even if you did accidentally turn yourself into a walking dissertation."

"When you suggested we dress up as vampires," Gale says carefully, pulling Astarion a bit closer, "I wanted... Well, I wanted to take it seriously. Understand the historical context, and the cultural connotations. I didn't want to trivialise something so central to your experiences. I thought it might help me understand you better."

"You researched eighteenth century burial customs to understand me?" Astarion said incredulously, finally pulling back from the embrace.

"Well, when you put it like that, it does sound rather —"

"Completely absurd," he cut in, squeezing Gale's hand tightly. "Thoroughly you."

Gale pulled his free hand through his hair. "I seem to have somewhat missed the purpose of tonight's undertaking."

Astarion was quiet for a long moment. "Ridiculous man," he eventually complained, pulling Gale's head down to kiss him before he could respond. "Can't believe you went through all that effort, only to not try to get in my pants? It's insulting, really."

Gale melted into Astarion as he always did, firmly wrapping both arms around him. "I'll have you know my intentions are to romance you properly."

"That's the problem," Astarion sniffed, though he was already leaning in again. "Your intentions were so pure, you ended up spending the whole party apart from me."

"Perhaps next year, we just stay in," Gale suggested. "Less trying and more actually spending time together."

"Absolutely not," Astarion protested with a huff. "Next year, I'm designing couple's costumes for us. Ridiculous and cliché, I insist."