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Gale Dekarios has grown accustomed to the quiet.
It seeps into the corners of his senior living apartment like a slow, creeping mist, settling in the rooms with a padded stillness he can’t quite escape. Each morning, he wheels himself to the window, joints crackling like old spellbooks, and watches the world from six stories up. Cars come and go. People walk briskly, wrapped in the bright pulse of youth. A jogger passes nearly every dawn, full of purpose and leg strength. Luxuries Gale no longer possesses.
The senior living complex calls itself The Druid's Grove, as if draping the name in mysticism can somehow elevate its humble layout into something magical. But it is merely a building, well-maintained this is true, but plain and unassuming despite its comforts.
Gale has been here three years, long enough for the friendly staff to memorize his tea preferences, long enough for the carpet to recognize the tracks of his wheelchair. For his bedroom window to remember his shadow.
Long enough to miss someone he didn’t even truly love anymore.
Mystra had been many things to him, a teacher, partner, wife. She was luminous and terrifying but brilliant. And distant. Their love burned bright once in their wild youths, but with the long decades together it dimmed into something dutiful, more companionship than love after so long by each other's sides.
When she passed, Gale had barely faltered. There was no shattering grief. No pain in his chest. Only a quiet ache. The ache of once upon a time. The ache of a familiar presence gone, even if the love had faded long before.
He misses not the person, as cruel as that sounds, but the companionship. The rhythm of shared days. The sense of being part of something more than his own slow, solitary, creaking world.
Mostly, he misses the magic. Not grand quests or magical catastrophes, nothing so outlandish as that. He may have been a brash and excitable man in his younger days, but those days have well passed him by. What he misses most is the simple spark of magic that Mystra always seemed to evoke within him.
He never expects to feel that spark again.
Especially in the form of an elderly man with bone-white curls and a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
On a day like any other, an announcement comes in the building newsletter, one of the few things Gale still reads with interest.
We welcome a new resident this week: Astarion Ancunín, joining us on the 5th floor.
Gale thinks nothing of it. New residents come and go, usually with more mobility and less spirit than he still clings to.
But three days later, during the weekly communal breakfast, Gale wheels into the dining hall and feels an immediate shift in the air. Whispering. Lively chatter. The kind of energetic buzz elderly residents rarely waste unless something, or someone, noteworthy has arrived.
And then Gale sees him.
The new resident, this Astarion Ancunín, striding confidently into the hall.
He is… luminous.
He stands tall despite a slight stoop to his broad shoulders. His white hair is frustratingly thick and artfully tousled. His face is lined with age, etched mostly by laughter. He leans on a stylish carved cane that’s more accessory than necessity. His tailored vest and the blood-red silk scarf draped around his neck give him an almost theatrical flair.
The women at the coffee station giggle like teenagers as he walks by.
Gale stares, startled. Handsome doesn’t begin to cover it. Astarion looks like he belongs on the cover of a romance novel aimed at widows.
It's always a stir when someone new moves in, fresh blood and all that, but Astarion is surrounded much quicker than typical, the other residents flocking to him like birds to crumbs. Gale watches, hypnotized by the man's smile as he laughs within the circle formed around him. Gale can't hear what is being said, but it surely must be charming, if the tittering laughs that follow are any indication.
Gale shakes himself out of his daze, cheeks slightly warming. How foolish, to be so enamored with a stranger. He begins to roll himself toward the oatmeal buffet when a voice rings out after him.
“Darling, excuse me, mind if I squeeze by?”
Gale looks up.
Astarion is standing right beside him.
And smiling directly at him.
Gale blinks as though roused from a long, gray sleep. “Ah. By all means.” he says, maneuvering clumsily.
But Astarion follows, leaning close and lowering his voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do they always serve oatmeal for these breakfast events? Is this some kind of retirement-home hazing ritual?”
Gale reacts before he can stop himself, surprised at the wheezy chuckle that bubbles up. “I’m afraid so. They tell us it’s healthy. Eventually, you stop questioning it.”
Astarion puts a hand over his heart in mock agony. “Then you, dear sir, must protect me. You strike me as a man who knows how to escape culinary crimes.”
Gale flushes, surprised by how warm the compliment feels. “I...do my best.”
Astarion winks.
Gale’s heart, which hasn’t fluttered in years, gives a small, flustered tremor.
And then Astarion is gone, chatting flirtatiously with one of the servers, who gives him an overflowing ladle of oatmeal. And the server one over gives him more berries and honey to top it than is usually allowed in one go.
So Gale, quite shaken by the whole interaction and feeling the remnants of heat on his cheeks and the stir of his heart beating quick in his chest, decides to skip breakfast that day and returns to his apartment. The oatmeal isn't that great to begin with, and his cold cereal will more than suffice.
In the quiet of his private residence, Gale scoffs at himself, embarrassed at being so easily affected by a mere exchange of words. There's no reason to get so...so...twitterpated.
Nothing changes.
Until it does.
To Gale’s astonishment, Astarion seeks him out again on another afternoon, a sunny day that Gale hopes to take advantage of by completing his crossword puzzle in the flower-filled courtyard. Astarion doesn't do much more than sit on a nearby bench and chat with the other more talkative residents also enjoying the sun, sending a warm smile in Gale's direction more than once. And then another day, following Gale into the elevator and riding it all the way to Gale's floor, despite living one below.
The man is affable and bright in all meanings of the word. Beyond his features, his wit is sharp and funny, pulling more unexpected laughter out of Gale, more than he's done in these past few weeks than in the last few years combined.
Bingo night causes a stir.
Astarion has become an overnight sensation. Everyone wants him at their table. He flirts shamelessly with the staff, teases the other tenants, and laughs with a spark that makes him seem decades younger than the rest of them.
Yet he circles back to Gale, taking a set next to him with no hint of remorse on his face.
“Gale or no one, darlings,” he says dramatically. “He’s my good luck charm.”
The night is spent in quiet hysterics, Astarion making jokes under his breath and furtively insulting the fashion sense of the letter-caller. Gale feels like he needs an oxygen tube from how fiercely he's trying to hide his snickering.
Another day, at lunch. “Gale, darling, talk to me before Jenevelle comes over and tries tells me more about her dogs, else I'll simply perish of boredom.”
During afternoon tea, one wrinkled finger idly tracing along the rim of his cup. “You know, you have a fascinating mind. Criminally underappreciated in this establishment.”
Gale doesn’t understand it. Not really. There are more interesting people here than him, most certainly, yet Astarion prioritizes his attention over anyone else's. Gale savors every word, every shared smile.
Something in him thaws. Slowly. Cautiously. Warmth returns to the corners of his life. Laughter, conversation, anticipation. His days feel fuller.
The staff begins calling them 'the duo'.
Astarion calls them 'partners in mischief'.
Gale simply calls him a friend, and the word feels soft and sweet and unsettlingly precious.
It gives him the urge to leave the apartment, to leave the complex. He's never much cared for the weekly excursions organized by the residence. They feel like poor imitations of the exciting life he once led.
But Astarion insists they go. On every single one.
And Gale… agrees.
One weekend, the destination is the aquarium.
Astarion presses his nose to the glass like a delighted child. Gale wheels beside him, amused, heart warm. Astarion narrates the tour in a theatrical whisper.
“That gloomy one with the droopy fins is Gortash. He absolutely files his taxes late. And that one over there is Orin. You can tell by the size of her teeth that she’s clearly planning to kill Gortash for the insurance money.”
Gale laughs until his sides ache. He hasn’t laughed like this in years. But Astarion brings parts of himself to the surface he's long since thought were gone.
Another weekend is a trip to the boardwalk, where Gale expects embarrassment given his lack of mobility. Instead, he gets chaos at the charming arcade.
Astarion demands they play skee-ball together, and the loser has to pay for frozen lemonade. Gale rolls up, relieved the machine is low enough to reach with little trouble, and aims as carefully as he can.
He's shocked when he wins twenty tickets. Astarion, spectacularly terrible at the game despite fervently requesting it, wins only one.
“You’re showing me up.” he says, delighted and indignant.
“You’ll improve with practice.” Gale replies, unable to hide his grin.
Astarion leans close as is his tendency to do, hand on the armrest of Gale's chair. “Only if you promise to teach me.”
Gale’s heart gives another of those fluttering, fragile flare-ups and he ducks his head, briefly worried his heart has finally decided to up and quit.
All in all, potential heart attacks notwithstanding, the outings have been quite fun.
But the trip Gale is actively dreading is the cinema outing, after dinner one night. The movie theater chairs strain his hips and the section for wheelchairs is secluded, out of the way where no one wants to sit near him. So his options are pain or solitude. Worst of all, the darkness stirs memories of lonely nights in distant towers.
But Astarion nudges him, eternally grinning. “You owe me, darling. If I survived that arcade and its appalling neon lights, you can stand to survive one measly film.”
So Gale goes.
Their ragtag group of seniors fills the theater, many murmuring bodies with walkers, canes, and decades of stories. Fighting for seats begins immediately, reminiscent of long ago days at school, where such things seemed to matter more than life or death. Gale rolls himself over to the handicap-accessible row, expecting another hour and a half by himself like all the times before.
He's alone through the trivia questions playing on the screen, for which he knows every answer, and he's still alone when the previews begin. But then there's a shuffle of movement and Astarion appears, a bag of popcorn and cup of soda braced in one arm as his other clutches his cane. He sinks into the chair beside Gale, slightly out of breath and brandishing his prizes.
"We'll have to share the drink, I couldn't handle two by myself – thanks a lot, by the way, I could have used your help, you old grump – but the popcorn should be plenty enough for both of us."
The lights dim. The movie begins. Gale tries to focus between handfuls of popcorn, grateful for the darkness as they trade the soda between them, his face embarrassingly hot at feeling the straw damp from Astarion's mouth.
But beyond that, the quiet closeness between them becomes its own unavoidable gravity. Astarion smells faintly of cedar cologne. Their shoulders brush. Their breathing syncs.
Halfway through the movie, a predictable romantic comedy neither of them truly watches, Gale feels it.
A touch.
Astarion’s hand, resting lightly over his own.
Gale freezes.
His heart lifts in his chest, fluttery and frantic, like a bird remembering how to fly. He glances sideways, but the flickering light from the screen does little to expose Astarion’s face.
The hand stays.
Warm. Gentle. Present.
Gale exhales, trembling slightly. Why not? He shifts his fingers, turning his palm upward. An invitation and silent acceptance.
Astarion’s cool fingers curl into his.
And for the first time in decades, Gale feels alive. Truly alive.
Sitting there in the soft dark, hand in hand with a man who brings color back into his graying world, Gale thinks that perhaps his adventures aren't quite over after all.
The movie continues on, a soft glow painting the room in shifting colors. Laughter rises from other seniors here and there, but Gale only half-hears it. What he does hear, or rather what he feels, is the warmth growing between two hands, and the weight of Astarion's arm against his.
For a long time, neither of them move. Not even a small adjustment. As if shifting might break whatever delicate, unexpected spell has settled over them.
Gale’s thumb brushes instinctively along the side of Astarion’s knuckles. The gesture is tiny, almost accidental, but Astarion inhales softly, a quiet, pleased sound that Gale feels all the way in his chest.
Astarion leans barely toward him. So close Gale could tilt his head a fraction and rest it on Astarion’s shoulder.
“Alright?” Astarion whispers, lips near Gale’s ear.
“Extremely.” Gale murmurs.
And he is. More than he’s been in decades.
Astarion squeezes his hand once, slow and deliberate. “Good.”
They watch the rest of the movie like that. Two old men in a room of their peers, holding hands in the dark like teenagers rediscovering the tenderness they thought time had taken from them.
When the credits roll, the theater lights rise, revealing the little colony of seniors stretching stiff joints and adjusting walkers. Their hands let go, and Gale brushes off the stray pieces of popcorn he's accumulated on his lap. Astarion does the same and then stands and offers Gale his arm, even though Gale has no intention of standing from his wheelchair.
“Allow me the dignity of pretending to assist you, my dear.” Astarion says with a grin.
Gale laughs softly, taking hold of Astarion's elbow. “If you insist on performing chivalry, who am I to stop you?”
Astarion beams, and for a moment Gale feels twenty-five again.
The group shuffles toward the bus outside, then past it down the street to a small ice-cream parlor just a block away, with pastel walls and sticky tables. The staff has clearly prepared for the onslaught of elderly customers, with ramps cleared and extra chairs set aside.
Gale wheels himself to a quiet table by the window with Astarion in tow, who sets his cane against the wall and sits beside him, close enough that Gale feels the warmth radiating off him. It's finer than any first date Gale's had, and twice as precious.
Astarion orders blood orange with chocolate chips. Gale orders vanilla.
When their cups arrive, Astarion eyes Gale’s dessert with a raised brow. “Really, darling? Vanilla? How unadventurous.”
Gale huffs good-naturedly. “I happen to enjoy the classics.”
“Well, I happen to enjoy making people blush,” Astarion says lightly. “And you’re helping me achieve my daily quota.”
Gale’s breath stutters, spoon halfway to his mouth. “I… blush less easily than you think.”
Astarion gives him a slow, assessing look that says he is unconvinced.
Then he grows quiet.
Not the comfortable quiet they’ve settled into over the past few weeks, but a thoughtful one. A fragile one. Gale senses the shift immediately.
“Gale,” Astarion says softly. “May I ask you something a bit… personal?”
Gale sets his spoon down. “Of course.”
“We’re old men.” Astarion says it bluntly, without shame. “Handsome as ever, but still old. And I’ve wasted enough years running from truths, or burying them, or fussing over how I should feel instead of how I do.” His pale eyes search Gale’s face with startling openness. “So let me be direct, if I may. You don’t mind that, do you?”
Gale shakes his head. “No. I’d prefer it.”
“Good.” Astarion exhales. “Because I'm rather quite fond of you. Romantically speaking, I mean.”
The words hit Gale like a warm wave. Not shocking, no, he’s felt something building between them as clear as anything, but hearing it aloud stirs something deep inside him. Something he thought had died long ago.
He swallows. “Astarion… I'm quite fond of you as well.”
Astarion smiles, but it’s not his usual mischievous grin. It’s warm. Gentle. Unarmored. “We’re far too old for coyness, don’t you think so?”
Gale huffs a soft laugh. “I left coyness behind somewhere in my fifties.”
“Good,” Astarion murmurs. “Because I want to know you. Truly. Not the scant pieces you show everyone else.”
Gale sits back, hands curling around his cup for steadiness. “What do you want to know?”
“Your past hurts,” Astarion says simply. “I can see the shadows of them. I’d like to know their names.”
Gale’s breath trembles. Not from pain. From the unexpected kindness of being asked.
“Well,” Gale begins, voice low. “I loved a woman once. Or I believed I did. For many years, I chased her approval. Her brilliance. Her expectations. But love that revolves around one person’s needs… it withers. Quietly. I didn’t realize how lonely I’d become until she was gone.”
Astarion nods, expression softening. “I understand that more than you know.”
Gale hesitates. “And you?”
Astarion sighs, looking down at his ice cream as if it might answer for him. “I spent too many years pretending. Performing. Being what others wanted instead of who I was. When you live that long behind a mask…” He trails off, then meets Gale’s gaze. “It’s frightening to remove it. Even now.”
Gale reaches across the table.
Not dramatically. Not fearfully.
He simply places his hand over Astarion’s.
Astarion stills. Then his fingers turn, weaving through Gale’s with a shaky exhale.
“At our age,” Gale says softly. “We have no time left for pretense.”
Astarion’s lips part. “No. We don’t.”
“And if you like me as I am,” Gale says, voice steadying with truth, “Then I like you as you are. Honestly. Openly. Without games.”
Astarion laughs, a small, breathless sound that cracks at the edges. Gale realizes it’s the sound of relief.
“Darling,” Astarion whispers. “What a dangerous thing to say.”
“Why dangerous?”
“Because I think,” Astarion says, thumb grazing Gale’s palm. “That I could fall for you. Easily.”
Gale feels warmth rise through his chest, through the stiffness in his bones, through every lonely hollow he’s carried for years.
“Then fall,” Gale says. “I’ll be here to catch you.”
Astarion’s hand tightens around his. "And if I break a hip doing so?"
"I've got the hospital on speed dial."
Astarion laughs, bright and wheezy and delighted, and there, in a pastel ice-cream shop filled with chattering seniors and the faint scent of waffle cones, they sit side by side. No games, no masks, no time wasted.
Just the beautiful, unexpected beginning of something new.
The bus ride back to The Druid's Grove is quieter than expected. The other seniors chatter about the movie, about their favorite actors, about how cold the theater was. But Gale is wrapped in a quiet joy that makes everything else blur at the edges.
Astarion sits beside him, their shoulders touching lightly every time the vehicle bumps along the road. His hand rests on his cane, but his knee leans toward Gale’s, brushing every few seconds. Barely there, but intentional.
Gale feels each touch like a spark.
When they arrive, the residents disperse slowly through the lobby, some going straight to their rooms, others lingering to gossip about the handsome bus driver, even more on their way to the spacious recreation hall to play cards with one another. But Gale wheels himself forward and pauses at the elevator.
Astarion follows him without a word.
They ascend in silence.
A comfortable silence. A full silence.
On the fifth floor, the doors open with a soft chime. Astarion gestures out to the hallway. “What do you say, darling?”
“I live on six,” Gale reminds him gently.
Astarion’s grin turns mischievous. “I’m aware. I was hoping you’d allow me to tag along.”
Gale chuckles. “Then don’t let me stop you.”
Astarion steps forward to press the button for six.
The doors close again, enclosing them in soft, humming privacy. Astarion shifts slightly, angling his body toward Gale. His hand, resting on the bar along the wall, inches toward Gale’s shoulder, hesitates, then retreats.
Gale sees it. The hesitation. The carefulness.
And he finds it beautiful.
“Astarion.” Gale says quietly.
“Yes?” Astarion’s voice is soft, warm, unusually vulnerable.
“You don’t have to hold back with me.”
Astarion breathes in sharply, as if those simple words unlock something inside him.
The elevator doors open onto the sixth floor.
Gale wheels out. Astarion follows.
The hallway is dim, lit by soft sconces. Carpeted. Peaceful.
Gale reaches his door, then pauses, heart beating steadier but faster, like a drum rediscovering its rhythm. “Would you like to come in?” He asks, voice gentle.
Astarion’s face softens, as if he'd feared being turned away at the last moment. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Gale’s apartment is tidy, warm, book-lined. The kind of space that holds memories in every corner. There are photos of family and friends on the walls, lost to time. Days long ago when he was happy and days he once looked back on with envy. Astarion steps inside and takes a slow look around, as though memorizing it.
“It suits you.” he says softly.
Gale smiles. “I try to keep it pleasant.”
“It’s much more than pleasant.” Astarion’s fingers brush the spine of a book on a nearby shelf. “It feels lived in. Safe.”
Gale’s heart aches sweetly. “Thank you.”
He wheels himself near the small seating area, two armchairs positioned at a slight angle, with a side table and a window overlooking the city. Astarion moves one of the chairs a few inches closer and sits.
Gale’s breath catches.
It’s such a simple thing. Such an intimate thing.
Astarion’s knee nudges Gale’s wheelchair lightly. Not enough to move it, just enough to close the distance.
Silence stretches, but this time it feels fragile. Loaded.
Astarion is the one to break it.
“Gale,” he says softly, “I meant everything I said tonight. I like you. More deeply than I expected. More than makes sense given the short time we’ve known one another.” He chuckles lightly, almost self-critical. “But at my age, denying what I feel seems a laughable waste of time.”
Gale’s chest warms. “I feel the same. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps it’s too fast, too sudden, too irrational. But… I feel younger when I’m with you. Brighter. The days seem more bearable.”
Astarion’s expression melts into something tender. “Oh, my dear man,” he murmurs. “You make my days brighter too.”
Gale swallows. His hand trembles slightly on the armrest. Not from fear, but from the overwhelming softness of the moment.
Astarion notices.
He reaches out slowly, giving Gale every second to refuse, and places his hand over Gale’s.
Warm. Gentle. Steady.
Gale turns his palm upward.
Astarion’s fingers lace through his. The first time and now this time, it feels as if they've done this for years. Palm to palm, meant for each other.
Gale’s voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s been so long since I’ve let anyone close.”
Astarion leans in, not touching yet, but near enough that his breath brushes Gale’s cheek. “Then we’ll go slowly, at least for this.” he murmurs. “No rush. No pressure.”
Gale nods, throat tight.
Astarion lifts Gale’s hand to his lips.
The kiss is soft. Reverent. A promise given in the language of old men who cherish every touch like it might be the last.
Gale exhales shakily, a warmth spreading through his aching chest.
Astarion shifts his chair even closer and rests his forehead gently against Gale’s temple. “You deserve tenderness,” he says quietly. “So much of it. And I’d like to give you as much as you’ll allow.”
Gale closes his eyes. “Far be it from me to deny you.”
Astarion laughs softly and places another slow kiss on Gale’s hand, then his wrist, then the top of his shoulder.
Gale leans into him, letting the contact seep into the lonely spaces of his heart.
Astarion stays like that for a long while, leaning gently into Gale, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling softly in the quiet apartment. Gale doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The moment is so precious it feels sacred, as though talking might break the delicate sweetness woven between them.
Eventually, Astarion pulls back just enough to look at him.
“You’re tired,” he observes softly. “I can hear it in your breathing.”
Gale gives a small, sheepish sigh that turns into a yawn. “I tire more easily these days.”
“As do I,” Astarion says, brushing his thumb along Gale’s knuckles. “Though I doubt I look half as charming as you do when exhausted.”
Gale huffs out a laugh, his cheeks warming. “I would disagree.”
“Then I suppose we’re both handsome old men, tragically sleepy past nine o’clock,” Astarion declares with a grin.
A comfortable pause stretches between them and Gale yawns again, though he tries to hide it.
Astarion’s eyes soften. “Would you like me to go? I don’t want to overstay—”
“No,” Gale says before he can stop himself. “Stay over. Please.”
Astarion’s expression warms like dawn breaking. “Then I will.”
Gale maneuvers his wheelchair toward the bedroom. Astarion rises with some effort, fatigue clear in his movements. With his cane in hand, he matches Gale’s pace without drawing attention to it.
The bedroom is modest but cozy; soft lamps, shelves lined with books, a window with half-drawn curtains letting in a wash of city lights. The bed is low and wide with extra pillows Gale uses for back support on difficult nights. There's a photo on his bedside table, his wedding day with Mystra.
He feels suddenly self-conscious.
“It’s not much,” Gale mutters, uncomfortable with his deceased wife's eyes on him with another person in his bedroom. He rolls closer and discretely turns the frame down to the table so the picture is hidden. “Um. Pretty standard, I'd say.”
Astarion steps closer and touches Gale’s shoulder, reaching for the frame and lifting it up for inspection. “Oh my my, what a handsome pair you two made. Though I must say I prefer your beard as it is now, you silver fox, you. Is this your wife?”
Feeling quite unsteady at both the compliment and the question, Gale takes a breath. "She was, yes."
The hand on his shoulder squeezes. "I'm sorry for your loss. I was married once too, when I was younger, though we divorced not too far afterwards. We wanted different things, thought we were different people. It took a while, but, we're friends again, after all that. You and I have both lived long lives before meeting each other. I look forward to hearing about yours."
That simple reassurance steadies something inside Gale.
He reaches down to lock his chair in place and shifts to stand up. Astarion helps, not obtrusively, not pityingly, just offering a quiet hand when Gale shifts from chair to mattress. Though he's done this alone a thousand times, ashamed at his struggle, tonight the assistance feels like kindness, not condescension.
Gale slowly undresses, unashamed of his near-nudity at his age, though, he does shoot a furtive glance over to where Astarion has also begun undressing.
Astarion removes his shoes, unbuttoning his vest and folding it neatly over a chair. Then, down to his baggy boxers, he walks carefully to the bed, gesturing to the other side. “May I…?”
Gale nods, taking his pajama bottoms from where he'd left them folded just this morning. “Please.”
Astarion settles back onto the mattress with a soft sigh, tugging the covers up over himself as Gale pulls on his bottoms. Then he lays back as well, a long sigh of relief as his back gives several deep pops. He adjusts himself with slow, practiced movements, propping pillows at his sides.
For a moment, neither speaks.
Then Astarion turns, and with gentle deliberation, lays his hand over Gale’s under the covers.
“Is this alright?” he asks.
Gale squeezes his hand. “More than alright.”
Astarion shifts closer, not touching fully yet, but leaning into Gale’s space like a cat approaching sunlight. His hair falls slightly over his lined forehead, soft silver in the lamplight.
“May I…?” Astarion asks again, voice hushed.
Gale’s heart beats warmly. “You may.”
Astarion inches even nearer, until their shoulders touch. The contact is light, cautious, but wonderfully grounding. Gale feels Astarion’s warmth seep into the cool places of his body, the lonely places of his heart.
Gale exhales, long and slow. “I haven’t… shared a bed with anyone in many years.”
Astarion smiles faintly. “Neither have I. But I think I remember how to be gentle.”
“You already are.”
Astarion’s fingers stroke the back of Gale’s wrist, barely there. “And you’re warm,” he murmurs. “Much warmer than I expected.”
“Magic in the blood.” Gale says, smiling.
Astarion laughs softly, the sound vibrating through the mattress. “Hmm, I should have known.”
They shift until Gale is slightly turned and Astarion on his side facing him, one hand loosely holding Gale’s, their arms touching. Nothing more. Nothing less. The perfect amount.
Their breaths slow together, in a shared, natural rhythm.
After a long, comfortable silence, Astarion whispers, “I'd forgotten how nice it is… To be next to someone.”
Gale’s throat tightens with emotion. “So did I.”
Astarion’s fingers trail gently over the back of Gale’s hand in thoughtful, idle strokes. “I hope this isn’t the last time.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Gale murmurs. "You could move in with me and never leave."
A hum of consideration. "Awfully fast of us, don't you think?"
"Ah, but," Gale lowers his voice to a loud whisper. "I wouldn't mind being the subject of some hot gossip among our fellow residents. Ao knows everyone could use the excitement."
That earns a snicker. "And I suppose there's little point to taking your time at our ages."
"Quite so."
"I'll consider it." Astarion says with the air of someone who's already said yes, shifting even closer and gently resting his head against Gale's pillow, his breath soft against Gale's lips. The gesture is small, feather-light, but it feels like trust. Like intimacy. Like something worth protecting.
Gale lifts his free hand – slowly, and mindful of old joints – to stroke Astarion’s hair. It’s soft, finer than it must have been in youth, but still thick and lovely. Astarion hums, content, leaning subtly into the touch.
Their mouths meet easily, a soft, dry press of lips, the first kiss of what will be many, Gale is sure of this. It's been so long since he's felt this way, if he's ever felt this way. Something about Astarion feels right. Like a matching piece of himself he hadn't realized was missing.
When the kiss ends, Gale places another one to Astarion's nose, prompting a soft breath of laughter.
“You’re sweet.” Astarion whispers, eyes sparkling.
“Only because you deserve it.”
Astarion laughs again, ducking to Gale's chest, a breath against Gale’s neck. “Flatterer.”
Gale smiles. “Tell me you don’t enjoy it.”
“Oh, I enjoy it terribly.”
They fall into silence again, but now it’s a silence full of warmth. Two old souls sharing a bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Gale feels his eyelids grow heavy. The last thing he remembers before sleep overtakes him is Astarion’s hand tightening around his, as though anchoring himself gently to Gale.
And Gale anchors back.
When he drifts into dreams, he is not lonely.
For the first time in years, he falls asleep with someone beside him. It truly is the beginning of something wonderful.