Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ding!

Gale looked up from his novel as the bookshop bell chimed. The sound was swallowed by the howling wind outside, which spat a thick swirl of snowflakes through the opening. A man stumbled in their wake; once he regained his footing, he spun around and fought to push the door closed. It refused to go for a moment — the storm tasted victory, until Gale lifted his hand and murmured an incantation. With a small blast of force, the entrance was secured, and the man was left panting with his back flat against it.

Snow matted the fine fur of his hood and caked his thick woolen scarf. It sloughed from his shoulders to join the melt-puddles forming beneath his boots. Free of the tempest, he assessed his surroundings, and Gale could see little more than the glint of his eyes as they darted about the shop: cataloguing walls of books and strings of twinkling lights, studying the illusory chickadees who hopped merrily between the shelves.

"Hello!" Gale called out. The man gave a start, as if he'd forgotten shops tended to have keepers. "Let me know if you need anything — we're closing in fifteen minutes, but I'd be happy to help you find whatever it is you're looking for."

From the confines of the hood came an incredulous noise.

"Have you not seen what it's like out there?!" he exclaimed, "until the wind dies down, I'm not going anywhere."

Gale glanced toward the windows. The night was entirely obscured by white: the bus stop, the street lamp, the cafe across the road, had all vanished without a trace. He supposed the man had a point, though he'd been looking forward to retreating upstairs with his book and his tea; it had been a slow evening, most customers unwilling to brave the blizzard, and he'd been counting down the minutes to closing.

"Apologies," he resigned himself to the fate of good hospitality, "I didn't realize quite how harrowing it was. Yes, you can stay until it's over."

"Good," the man offered no measure of gratitude, stomping his boots and peeling off damp gloves. Reluctantly, Gale marked his place in his book — it was time to begin cleaning up shop, anyway. The man removed his hood and shrugged off his jacket, turning to hang it on the hooks by the door.

In that moment Gale discovered that he was not a man at all, but an elf.

He had a lean, elegant face which was partly obscured by a tumble of slightly-flattened, slightly-damp, pure-white curls. He swept a hand through them, meeting Gale's stare. Gale's breath caught in his throat. It wasn't as if he'd ever met an elf before—he'd known many, and he was well acquainted with their strangely ethereal qualities. But this elf… his eyes were sharp, crimson, framed by dark lashes. His gaze cut right through to the bone, leaving Gale defenseless. Those eyes, and himself in his entirety, were indescribably beautiful; it was all Gale to could do to keep from telling him so then and there, but he bit his tongue and forced air into his lungs.

He'd learned that lesson already in life: if you came on too strong, you'd only chase people away.

By the time he thought to speak, the elf was wrinkling his nose at his reflection in the window. Long, elegant fingers teased at his hair, attempting to pull it into some semblance of style.

Gale cleared his throat.

"There's a mirror next to the Fantasy section if you need it."

The elf looked at him again. A shiver ran down Gale's spine. Gods.

"There's little point," the elf decided, dropping his arms in defeat, "it's ruined."

"It looks perfectly nice to me," Gale offered.

The elf scrutinized him, searching for a lie, but Gale knew he would find none. The hair did look good, loose curls falling into one another, as soft as freshly fallen snow. Touching it, he thought, must feel like running one's fingers through the finest silk.

Whatever the elf found in Gale's expression seemed to soften him, and Gale had the distinct impression that he was noticing him for the first time: his eyes moved to follow the draping of his velvet robes, the curve of his bearded jaw, the lived-in lines of his face. Eventually he tilted his chin up, lips quirking into a hint of a smile.

"Well, thank you. That's very kind of you to say."

"…you're welcome," Gale remembered to reply, as if this were any other conversation — as if those eyes would not haunt his dreams for years to come. He stepped out from behind the desk, reaching for a stack of books. "I'm going to start tidying up for the night. Feel free to browse, and again, let me know if you need anything."

He had to find something to do with his hands; he had to find something to do besides stare.

"Right," the elf glanced around again, "I'm sure I can entertain myself."

And he did, for approximately ten minutes while Gale shelved the books. In fact, the blissful quiet had Gale thinking that perhaps this sort of company wouldn't be so bad when the elf reappeared, holding the book Gale had been reading.

It was open to the page with Gale's bookmark.

He prayed his face didn't appear as warm as it felt.

"Do you enjoy this sort of thing?" the elf asked. There was no preamble, no attempt to hide his disdain.

"Er— yes, a lot of people do," Gale answered defensively.

"It's just so… formulaic. The characters fall in love with the snap of a finger! A single glance," the elf jabbed an accusing finger against the page, "and I'm sure the rest of the story will involve intimate acts performed between stretches of inane miscommunication. Don't you ever get bored? It's so unrealistic!"

Any embarrassment Gale might have felt was chased away by burning indignation. He straightened his shoulders, squaring up to his full height.

"Isn't the whole point of fiction to be a little unrealistic?" he argued, "why shouldn't it offer a happy reprieve? A world where the height of drama is words unspoken, where resolution is always possible? I love literary novels as much as the next person, but sometimes you want a little formula. Something safe and familiar."

He made a grab for the book, but the elf stepped back in less than a blink, dodging the attempt.

"Oh, please," he rolled his eyes, "there's fiction, and then there's laziness. Love at first sight is for people who are afraid to confront the hard parts. I don't believe it's even possible in the real world, it's all fantasy and folly."

"Maybe to you," Gale folded his arms over his chest, "Love at first sight doesn't mean things aren't hard. And I, for one, believe that anything is possible. Particularly in matters of the heart."

"Really?" the elf arched a brow. There was a glint in his eye that felt dangerous — like Gale was the prey, and he was closing in on the kill, "have you fallen in love at first sight? Ever?"

Gale narrowed his eyes. He was hardly a helpless rabbit, and he was beginning to suspect that there was more to this line of questioning than a simple desire for debate.

"I've certainly developed fast infatuations. But this isn't about me, it's about… books. People are entitled to enjoy what they enjoy. If you don't like it, I'm sure I can recommend something else."

The elf snorted.

"'Fast infatuations'. And how has that worked out for you?" he pressed, all thorn and oil.

His words were sharp as nettle, designed to sting, but Gale refused to rise to the bait: kindness had always been his weapon of choice.

"If you're going to scrutinize my love life," he put on his most diplomatic tone, "you could at least tell me your name."

This finally gave the elf pause. He hovered there, book in hand, staring at Gale as if he were searching for something — ulterior motives, or a hidden cost to the question. He was much like one of the stray cats who lived behind the shop: inherently untrusting, mean, hungry.

Eventually, with a small toss of his head, he replied:

"Astarion."

It was a lovely name. He spoke it as if it were precious to him, a rare star-burst, a firework fizzling across the sky.

"Astarion," Gale repeated, just to feel the shape of it on his tongue. Just to hear it again. He offered a hand and a genial smile, "pleasure to meet you. I'm Gale."

Astarion's gaze dropped to his hand. For a breath, Gale feared he might not take it — that it might be left hovering here indefinitely. But, however hesitant, Astarion did finally reach forward. His fingers were as cold as ice. His touch was brief, his hand slipping away before Gale could fully grasp it.

"The pleasure's all yours, I'm sure," he said. Gale's first instinct was to be annoyed by the implication, but he caught the crinkle at the corner of Astarion's eye, his quick smile… he was teasing.

Flirting?

"We'll see about that," Gale replied, woefully unprepared for whatever was happening. To top it off, his effort to move the conversation away from his somewhat dismal love life proved to be short-lived as Astarion spoke again.

"Now that we've sorted that out… have you ever experienced love at first sight? It was a genuine question."

The touch of disdain he'd worn before was gone, though his expression revealed nothing of his true intentions. It was such an odd line of questioning to propose to a complete stranger; his continued pursuit of it piqued Gale's own curiosity.

"Why do you want to know?" he wondered.

Astarion shrugged. The movement was too deliberate, too calculated, to be nonchalant.

"I've never met someone who has before."

There was more to this, Gale was sure of it, but he couldn't think of a way to get Astarion to admit it without first offering his own vulnerability; sometimes the only way out was through.

He sighed. A miniature magical train blew its whistle as it passed them, following invisible rails around the store. He watched it go, decidedly avoiding his companion's penetrating gaze.

"I've always tended to fall quickly," he admitted, "I don't know that it's love, necessarily, but… the rush of feeling they describe in those books, the way one particular encounter could carry you off in a wave of infatuation… yes, I have felt that."

He could feel Astarion's eyes digging into his soul. He began to add more twinkling lights to the enchantments overhead, distracting himself from the temptation to look back at him.

"I suppose you're right. It hasn't quite worked out for me. Both people have to feel that wave, for one, and… even then, the chances of infatuation becoming true love are slim to none," the ache of unrequited things left his chest feeling hollow, "of course, everyone is entitled to follow their own hearts; there are a great deal of stories where love is found in the letting go."

Loneliness was a bitter taste on his tongue, and he hoped it hadn't coloured his words. For the most part, Gale was happy — but he'd always felt like life was meant to be shared and, despite his best efforts, he remained very much alone.

Silence passed between them. Gale prestidigitated dust from a nearby shelf.

"Ah. Well," Astarion looked down at the book he still held, "with that in mind, I think I still prefer the truth of our messy reality. Maybe I should look for something more in the horror genre."

Gale snorted, relieved by the apparent conclusion of the interrogation.

"It might do you better than snooping around at what other people are reading."

"I was just curious!" Astarion insisted, "I haven't had a chance before to ask anyone why they read this sort of drivel — no offense."

"I can't help but feel that full offense was intended," Gale muttered good-naturedly.

Astarion grinned, handing the book back over. His smile was nearly too wide for his face, though that didn't make him any less handsome. Gale felt warmth rise in his cheeks again as he tucked the book away.

"So," Astarion nodded toward the train as it came back around, sounding its horn once more, "do you conjure all of these yourself?"

"They're illusions," Gale corrected automatically, and then sheepishly added, "I do. They're just silly little things, but people seem to enjoy them."

Astarion hummed, looking around for more. The chickadees had joined the other birds fluttering around the ornithology section. A rocket ship launched from the Sci-Fi collections, blasting toward a nebula-strewn sky. Tiny dragons coiled in hidden nooks between fantasy books — one of Gale's favourite creations. Astarion tried to poke at a nearby butterfly. It exploded into glittering pieces when he touched it, which vanished before they met the floor.

"I suppose they're nice."

Coming from a person like Astarion, Gale considered the words glowing praise.

He continued to follow Gale as Gale attempted to move through his usual closing rituals, remarking on absolutely everything and offering his unsolicited opinion: the layout of the store was too cramped, the titles Gale had chosen to showcase were too predictable, the colour and arrangement of the plush reading chairs was a little overdone. Astarion's voice was lovely, yes, but it was becoming increasingly distracting. Eventually, as Gale's attempts to sum up the day's transactions were continuously thwarted by comments out of Astarion's mouth, he was forced to resort to efforts of distraction.

"Do you like cookies?" he asked abruptly. One couldn't speak while they were eating, and he'd cooked a fresh batch the night before.

Astarion blinked, though he smoothly allowed the interruption.

"Not particularly."

Drat.

"I made some last night. Nothing special, just snickerdoodles, but… well, I suppose you aren't interested."

Astarion's nose crinkled impolitely.

"No. Thank you for the offer."

He didn't sound particularly grateful. Gale searched his mind for something else.

"I could recommend a nice book to read…? Get the fire going? Make a pot of tea? You could settle in until the storm dies down…"

Astarion shook his head.

"I'm still feeling all too windswept and antsy to read."

Despair ate away at Gale's waning focus. He glanced around the room, eyes landing on the old record player in a corner. Struck by inspiration, he moved toward it.

"Here, let me put on some music!"

He didn't dare ask whether Astarion liked music — he would probably claim he only listened to some niche, eclectic genre Gale didn't own. Astarion trailed after him, peering around Gale's shoulder as he thumbed through the records. Despite his invasive presence, he maintained an acceptable physical distance, though Gale did catch a whiff of his scent: rosemary, bergamot.

It was familiar in the way dreams are; it was suddenly easy to imagine a different sort of evening, one where they shared tea by the fireside, fresh-baked biscuits warm on a plate between them. Astarion laughing, perhaps at something Gale had said, perhaps at one of those romance books he pretended not to like.

Gale's heart squeezed in his chest, awash with sudden yearning.

This is certainly not the time, he admonished it silently — as if it had ever listened before.

He chose music that was meant for dancing. It spilled gently from the speakers, flowing toward the corners of the shop, soothing the ambient rattling of the wind. Outside the window, snow still swirled in vacillating frenzies. Gale flicked his fingers toward the hearth where the fire blossomed to life.

Astarion made a sound that might have almost been impressed.

"You don't make music with magic?" he asked, studying the very mundane record player.

Gale smiled, tucking the album sleeve away.

"I could. But it wouldn't be quite the same, would it? The small imperfections in the record, the way the songs flow into one another, having to pause what you're doing to turn it over… it's one of few things that isn't necessarily improved by magic. At least, in my opinion."

Astarion arched a brow.

"Spoken exactly like a sentimental person who reads flimsy romances."

Gale's huffed at the buried insult.

"They're not flimsy. They're nice!"

"I didn't check," Astarion continued gleefully, "is it a raunchy romance, too?"

Gale tucked the book away beneath his robes, protecting it from further scrutiny.

"No! I prefer love stories, as opposed to books that focus entirely on… well…"

"Sex?" Astarion filled in the blank bluntly.

Gale coughed.

"Yes."

Desperately, he tried to resume his closing duties. Astarion, exuding smugness and triumph, gave him some space, though Gale was beginning to realize how distracting he was even in silence. He moved with a grace molded itself to the music, or perhaps the music had molded itself to him — Gale wouldn't have blamed it for doing so, for embracing the lightness of his steps, or the elegance of his hands, or the deft rhythm with which he rearranged books when he thought Gale wasn't looking — but most distracting of all was his strange, sharp beauty.

Most elves were beautiful, of course. Astarion, especially so. But this was… more than that. He didn't behave like an elf, with unaffected grace and practiced elegance, removed from the woes of men. He was playful and guarded, keen and meddlesome. He spoke words designed to keep others at a distance, but hovered always in Gale's periphery, always finding reasons to draw his attention toward him.

The realization hit Gale very suddenly: Astarion, for all of his pretense, was also lonely.

"You're watching me," Astarion noticed, and Gale blinked, caught.

"Oh, I, um—"

"If you want to ask me to dance, you need only say the words," his smile was wry, but his eyes were guarded. To say yes would have been an easy lie, but Gale felt it would also be a mistake.

"I really… I can't dance. I've got two left feet, you see," Gale laughed.

Astarion seemed surprised, his eyes searching Gale's. And then the line of his shoulders eased and his expression crinkled into warmth, as if he liked whatever he'd finally discovered. Gale felt his face redden. The twine of his heart began to unravel.

"Well, now I've got to see this," Astarion clapped his hands together.

"I'm certainly not dancing alone in front of you," Gale insisted.

Astarion rolled his eyes and loosened his scarf. His neck was long and pretty, though the smooth marble of his skin was marred by oddly-shaped scars. Before Gale could wonder at them, Astarion moved to stand in front of him, arms lifting into a lead position.

"I won't make you dance alone."

Gale hesitated.

"If you want to ask me to dance, you need only say the words," he echoed Astarion's statement back at him. Astarion scoffed.

"I don't need words. Come on."

With a put-upon sigh, Gale stepped into position.

"You may regret this," he warned.

Astarion shook his head. Behind the mirth in his eyes, a certain resolve seemed to settle.

"Of all the things I regret, this certainly won't be one."

There was a story in that statement, but Gale knew this was not the time or place to chase it. He tightened his grip on Astarion's hand and gave him a nod to begin.

"Whether this gets added to my list of regrets depends on how much of a fool I make myself," he decided, and Astarion flashed a grin, pulling him into the flow of the music.

The first dance was fumbling, slow, as Astarion taught Gale the steps and insisted that he stop trying to anticipate the movements and simply follow where he was led to — a concept that was difficult for Gale to grasp. By the third song, they'd managed to mostly figure it out, though Gale suspected Astarion had simplified his choreography to the most basic steps.

When there was a lull in his instruction, Gale took the opportunity to ask his own less invasive questions.

"Where were you going, by the way?" he asked, "when you sought shelter here?"

"I have a room a few streets over," Astarion replied, "I'm new in town."

"Oh!" Gale beamed, "welcome! If you ever need a local guide, I'd be happy to offer myself; I've lived hear nearly all my life, I know it about as well as anyone could."

Astarion's eyes flitted between Gale's.

"You really mean that," he said, and seemed surprised.

"Of course I do," Gale replied, "why wouldn't I? It's nice to have a… a friend, when you're getting used to a new town."

The offer of friendship felt blatant and clumsy, but Astarion smiled.

"Only an hour ago, you were ready to kick me back into the cold. Now you want to be friends?"

"I was not trying to kick you back into the cold," Gale protested, "I was merely providing information about the shop's hours —"

Astarion rolled his eyes, a motion which seemed to involve his entire body.

"I'm teasing. I can't say I've ever had such a proposition for friendship, but I suppose I could entertain the idea…"

Gale noted the glint of amusement in his eyes and resisted the urge to trip him on purpose.

"I'll have you know that I'm an excellent friend. And, while we may be an unlikely pair, I think that's actually of benefit: I can't imagine we'd ever get bored of each other, though you might pretend to. Why shouldn't we be friends?"

Astarion shook his head, though he didn't argue against the assessment.

"Why, indeed?"

They fell into an oddly comfortable quiet after that, letting the music fill the spaces between them as Astarion nudged Gale this way and that; he was beginning to get the hang of following, and it felt as if could have closed his eyes and still remained upright. But he didn't — he kept them open, because Astarion was looking at him in that searching way he had, and Gale hoped he would find whatever it was he sought. Besides, he was especially lovely up close: his eyes reminded Gale of autumn leaves changing over, red on the cusp of browning, a memory of green. The fine creases on his face held evidence of laughter. Even the tilt of his lips told secret stories, pinching one moment, quirking the next, as if following along with thoughts he wasn't speaking.

They danced until the record reached its end. It took Gale a moment to notice — and even when he did, he lingered, for Astarion hadn't let go. He still looked at Gale, his steps slowing until they stopped altogether.

Something had changed. He was no longer searching.

"The record is finished," Gale murmured.

Astarion's shoulders straightened. He glanced toward the window.

"I think the storm has ended…"

And indeed, the distant, howling wind had ceased its rattling.

"Do you want to leave?" Gale asked.

"No," Astarion replied. His eyes widened just slightly, as if he himself hadn't been expecting that answer.

Gale spoke before he could try to take it back.

"I could make tea. We could listen to the rest of the album. Or sit by the fire? We could try to find a romance book that's to your liking…"

"I just thought of something," Astarion cut in, "speaking of romances — how do they always know?"

Gale frowned.

"How does who know what?"

"The people who fall in love at first sight," Astarion explained, "they always somehow know that it's happened. They know exactly what they feel… they know the other person feels it, too. It's always so… simple."

"I suppose that's part of the beauty," Gale smiled, "they look into each other's eyes and they… see it. They're able to bare their souls to one another in a way they haven't before, with anyone else. What was once difficult becomes… easy."

"And that's the part that has never happened to you?"

"Well…" Gale felt his face warm once more, "not mutually, no."

"What do you do, when it happens?"

Gale laughed awkwardly.

"The first time, I made a fool of myself… after that, admittedly, I've tended to hold my tongue. It's not as if I need to be swept off of my feet immediately. Love, real love, needs time to grow, regardless of how one feels in the beginning."

"I've never been in love," Astarion blurted, and then frowned at himself. It was… endearing, the way his mouth seemed to have betrayed him.

"Do you ever want to be?" Gale wondered.

Astarion sighed.

"I don't know. It all seems rather… inconvenient, doesn't it? To tie yourself down to someone. To have to answer to them, to be attached."

"To have someone to come home to? Who wants to learn you, know you, who can understand you without you having to always explain yourself? To have someone care for you in ways you never imagined?" Gale countered, "yes, it sounds terrible."

Astarion didn't bite back. A small furrow appeared in his brow.

"If someone… did fall in love with you at first sight, what would you want them to do?"

"Oh, erm," Gale felt heat rising up the back of his neck, now, "I suppose I'd like them to compliment me in a… poetic way. And then, if I were receptive, perhaps they would… kiss me. I wouldn't want to fall into bed with them right away, of course — we'd have to get to know each other first — but I think it would set a nice tone, don't you?"

Astarion nodded, focused now, finally releasing Gale from his hold.

"We should look at the snow."

Evidently, abrupt topic changes would be something to get used to in their newfound friendship. Gale glanced toward the windows, which were still dusted in ice.

"Are you sure? It'll be quite cold…"

Astarion had already begun to wrap his scarf back around his neck.

"Surely the romantic in you wants to see freshly fallen snow! All… smooth and perfect, before anyone's muddied it with their boot prints," he tugged his gloves on, "it'll only take a moment, come on."

Gale, against his better judgment, did as he was told, bundling up in his own jacket and his scarf.

They both shivered when he unlocked the door, a breath of cold passing through the opening. Snow still fell in fat, white flakes: muting the sounds of the world, giving it its own touch of magic. Astarion nudged Gale until he stepped fully over the threshold and then joined him on the sidewalk, blinking up at the street lamp.

"I didn't even know this was here."

"It was obscured by the storm," Gale explained, and then added, "the bakery across the way is good, by the way. They make delicious scones."

"Do they?" Astarion seemed distracted.

"We could go there sometime," Gale continued, "together."

"You're warm," Astarion said abruptly.

Gale looked down at him, confused.

"What?"

"Shh. I'm thinking," Astarion cleared his throat.

Normally, Gale wouldn't have taken well to being hushed, but he could sense that this was especially important.

After a beat, Astarion continued.

"You're warm. Like… the tea you keep offering me. And you have a lovely voice that makes me want to ask you things. And a… a pretty blush that makes me want to tease you. And you're clearly talented, and… not really humble, to be honest, but I think I like that. In fact, I…" he took a deep breath and released it. Whatever air he expended did not turn to fog at his lips — as if it, like him, were also cold — which was intriguing, but perhaps not the point of the moment. "I don't know what you've done to me. This doesn't happen in real life and therefore shouldn't be possible — especially for me, for reasons you should really know before …" he hesitated, and then concluded without conclusion, "before. I don't even know if what I feel is what I'm supposed to, only that it's… warm, like you, and something I'm not used to, and I want to pursue it. And I can promise you that I'm a better kisser than I am a poet."

"…what?" Gale repeated, once he was sure Astarion had finished.

Astarion was gazing up at him, snow caught on his hair and his lashes.

"The novels really don't ever think to capture the sheer awkwardness of this situation, do they?" he asked.

"You want to kiss me?" Gale's brain began to catch up with the situation.

"Yes. You've convinced me to give this love-at-first-sight thing a try."

Gale did not often find himself reeling, but this was shaping up to be one of those rare cases.

"But do you actually—"

"Believe me, I'm just as shocked as you are," Astarion murmured.

"You really think you could love me?"

"I don't think it's impossible," Astarion answered honestly, "and I doubt either of us will get another chance to experience the option again. No offense, it's just… well, look how this is going. I wouldn't want to experience it again."

"You're beautiful," Gale breathed, "how could you— not that I'm complaining, I just— I don't believe you."

"So… because I'm attractive, I couldn't possibly think the same of you?" Astarion arched a brow.

"No, see, now you're putting words in my mouth," Gale began, and Astarion rolled his eyes.

"Well, seeing as you haven't agreed to let me put my tongue in your mouth—"

"Kiss me," Gale insisted. Because: to hell with it. Maybe this was a trick, or a very strange dream, but Astarion was correct. This was once in a lifetime. And he wasn't about to squander it by questioning it more.

The corners of Astarion's lips twitched when Gale gave the order, and he looked like he might tease more, but then he reached his gloved hands up to cup Gale's cheeks, and he gazed at him for a moment like this was truly something to savor, and then he leaned up and kissed him.

His lips were as cold as the snow, but Gale didn't mind. They tasted a little like it, too, all winter and spice and a world of mysteries yet to be discovered — and maybe that was the real thrill of first sight: knowing that love was on the table, that you could watch it blossom and grow, that you could fall without fear into the promise of a person whose arms were open to catch you; knowing that you both wanted to build something beautiful together.

They parted slowly.

Gale met Astarion's gaze. He looked the way Gale felt: dazed, a little triumphant.

"I think we were both right, a little bit," Gale whispered.

"Ah, compromise," Astarion murmured, "a noble idea. We both win."

"This time, at least," Gale smiled.

"This time," Astarion echoed softly.

A snowflake landed on the tip of his nose. Gale committed the moment to memory. It felt as if he could have stayed in it forever, except Astarion began to shiver and reached for his arm, tugging him back toward the shop.

"I don't know whose idea it was to come out here, it's positively freezing."

They went back inside. They turned the record over. Astarion finally allowed Gale to make him tea, and they sat by the fire and sipped it. They talked. They offered each other delicate pieces of themselves and wove them together carefully — creating a foundation upon which to build the rest. They fell in love quickly and slowly, over and over again. It was different each time: the first spark to light the fire, that night in the book shop. The sprouting thrill of new discoveries in the days and weeks to follow. The steady comfort it became over the years, as they built homes within each other.

Sometimes, someone who heard their story for the first time would say: "it sounds like something out of a romance novel!"

And Gale would reply, "exactly."

And Astarion would grumble, "oh, please, it was far better."