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Astarion is grateful that no one has mentioned the bruise on his neck.
It’s fresh and makeup has done little to conceal it, yet his friends haven’t made a single comment about it. Perhaps if it looked less like a handprint, they would ask how he got it, but the telltale shape doesn’t leave any room for mystery.
Instead, they’re all playing ignorant, huddled around Wyll’s dining table, without a care. They don’t know that Astarion’s entire world has collapsed around him, that he’s been ordered by a judge to have no contact with any of the siblings that he fought so hard to protect.
Everything in Astarion’s life has gone silent. Most nights are filled with him sitting idle in a small, empty studio apartment, devoid of furniture and life. There’s no running mouths of his siblings, no yelling from his rotten father, no screaming or arguing or fighting. Nothing.
The quiet and lack of life was starting to drive him crazy before he received a text from Jen inviting him here.
Now, he stares at his useless hand of cards, frowning at the new prospects of not only this game, but his life.
He shouldn’t have jumped between Dalyira and their so-called patriarchal figure. He shouldn’t have shouted for Cazador to stop grabbing her. If he had just appeased his adopted father, and allowed Dalyria to get beat instead of him, maybe these regrets wouldn’t be roaming around like bats in the attic of his mind. He wouldn’t have a giant bruise on his pale neck, and he wouldn’t be legally barred from communicating with his adopted siblings.
This has been the year from hell. Multiple court dates, living alone with constant, unsettling ruminations, and now being subjected to this. To spend the evening with friends that he barely even knows. The only one he’s close with is Jen, but now that she’s dating this giant, loud tiefling of a woman, Astarion must conform to their friend group.
And he can’t say he’s really happy about any of it.
“You’ll want to discard the Jack,” whispers a voice directly into Astarion’s ear.
With an unappreciative flinch, Astarion jolts away from the offending murmur, his eyes narrowed in a glare.
The human with the beard smiles back at him. Gale. That’s his name. Astarion remembers their introduction involved an overly warm handshake and a lot of one-sided conversation.
Gale is apparently unbothered by the elf’s harsh expression. “You were trying for a straight, right?”
“I know how to play poker,” Astarion snaps. “I don’t need your help.”
Gale’s expression is infuriatingly warm and he wears it as if he expects the nature of it to be infections.
“Yes, but perhaps you wanted it, Astarion.”
Actually, Astarion really doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t want any of this. He didn’t want to come here, but he was begged by Jen. He didn’t want to play poker, but Wyll had insisted. It’s a lousy game when there’s no real money for him to win, and they’re all sitting far too close for him to pull off any effective sleight of hand without someone else noticing.
This game is a joke, anyways. The ante pile is a mess. It’s an amalgamation of various coins, a small vial of black nail polish, a bottle cap, some crumpled pieces of paper, an old receipt, and a plastic back full of crystals of someone’s home-made rock candy.
The lint laying unceremoniously atop a small, folded piece of paper, is courtesy of Astarion. He doesn’t have much else to spare these days, but luckily no one has verbalized how pathetic it is. But when Wyll wins the pot, and his hands reach for his bounty, he deliberately refrains from collecting the small bit of fuzz.
“Tsk’va!” Lae’zel loudly growls upon Wyll’s victory.
“Don’t curse,” Wyll replies, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “I won fair and square with a full house. You should have folded before I raised the bet.”
“Only cowards fold,” Lea’zel spits. “I had to stay in.”
“With a pair of twos?” Wyll laughs. “You do realize the only thing lower than that is a single high card?”
The cards are dealt again, and Astarion picks them up as reluctantly as ever, uninterested in participating in the banter and keeping his hand close to his chest, glaring at Gale when his nosy gaze floats gravitates towards him.
The conversation and laughter that flits from one table side to the other feels so distant to him. He has no right to take part in the merriment, not when the hollow where his soul is supposed to reside is as empty as ever.
“Hey! It’s snowing!”
Astarion is snapped from his dark thoughts, glancing up to find Karlach by the bay windows in Wyll’s living room, pointing at the glass with a ridiculously large smile on her face.
Chairs squeak across the floor as several of the group stand up, eager to see Karlach’s claim for themselves.
“What? Really?” Wyll incredulously asks as they all noisily make their way into the living room. “But it’s still November!”
Astarion doesn’t follow them, and neither does the prying human by his side.
“You know,” Gale begins with a hum, invading Astarion’s personal space once again. “In Waterdahavian tradition, it’s good luck to see the first snowfall of the season with the people you love.”
Astarion isn’t impressed with this stupid tradition and the obvious pick up line. He glances down at Gale’s hand where it rests on the surface of the table, and takes note of the wedding band on his left ring finger. How bold of him. Astarion is almost impressed.
Gale flashes him one last vexing smile before he joins the others at the window.
Astarion has no desire to see the first snow of the season. He really has no desire for anything. What’s the point of honoring a tradition that isn’t his own? Besides, there isn’t anyone that loves him, and he’s quite convinced that no one ever will.
It’s mid-November, and Astarion thinks he wants to die.
***
Jen is angry with him.
After an impromptu visit to his apartment, she sees the truth of his sorry excuse for a life. Her jaw drops at the collection of dirty takeout boxes and the lack of substantial food in his pantry and fridge.
She takes him grocery shopping and scolds him for his carelessness, explaining that during this time of year, with the cold weather arriving so early, he needs to be more cognizant of the possibility of being snowed in. She buys him non-perishables, pounds of rice, boxes of pasta, cans of soup, frozen vegetables, and fresh fruit. It’s very nice of her, he supposes, but he never feels much like eating these days.
Meals were always rather difficult. When growing up, he always ensured that his foster siblings got to eat before he did, and now without any more mouths to feed, Astarion often feels like he has no right to eat. Are his siblings eating wherever they are? Have they managed to receive government assistance like he has? Are they able to put groceries on their tables? Have they been better at stocking their fridges than he has?
He has no way of answering any of these questions. He can’t contact them. He can’t know. He can’t even ask anyone to check in on them. He doesn’t even know where they’ve been relocated.
There's nothing he can do.
Jen helps him cook and clean once they arrive back at his flat, then watches him consume his food like a hawk, playing the part of an attentive, helicopter parent, ensuring that his plate is finished. Although the meal tastes good, the full belly only serves to make him feel heavier, as if the combined weight of the food and his guilt are threatening to destroy him from the inside out.
After some more unwanted lectures and a tight hug, Jen makes him swear that he’ll try to take better care of himself. When Astarion makes the promise to try, it feels so impossibly empty. He watches until her car’s headlights have disappeared out of sight, and he stands at his window long after as the frost of the night creeps across the glass from the corners.
The chill has invaded his bones, and it’s so deep-set that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be rid of it.
***
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
That’s what his court-ordered therapist, Jen, and his new “friends” always tell him when they make suggestions.
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
Non-stop, over and over again.
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
Astarion is now part of a ridiculous group text that he doesn't want to be in. It’s dreadful stuff. Constant inside jokes that he doesn’t understand, stupid memes, and unwanted links to “interesting” articles, courtesy of Gale. They often invite him to social events that he wants no part of, citing that same damn sentence he keeps hearing.
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
He actively chooses not to participate in the shared messages. He doesn’t care about any of it, and is thoroughly convinced that he never will.
But when Jen demands that he stop ignoring them, he appeases her by promising to attend whatever next awful outing he’s invited to.
But he didn’t expect the next invitation to come from Gale directly. The message isn’t sent in the group chat, it’s only sent to him, inviting him to a local bookstore. The end of the text is marked with that dreadful phrase that Astarion is getting absolutely sick of.
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
Why did he have to go and do something so stupid? He should have never made this ridiculous promise to Jen. He should just cut his losses now and back out, but he dreads the lecture he’ll no doubt get from her and the unappreciated pep talk that Karlach might tack on. Ugh. Why did his best friend have to go and date someone so noisily optimistic?
Astarion eventually decides to just suck it up and go.
He sneers at the front of the bookstore. It’s decorated with dark pine garland twisted with twinkling lights. It seems all of Baldur’s Gate is excited by the early snow, the holiday season creeping into everyone except Astarion. Inside the frosted glass, he can see a mother and her daughter inspecting the shelves hand-in-hand. It’s a sight that Astarion might find secretly adorable if it weren’t for recent events. Now, it just fills him with melancholy, the scene heart-grippingly revolting, and his heel turns on the salted sidewalk, eager to leave and head back to the safety of his own apartment, but a shoulder physically collides with his own, stopping him in his snowy tracks.
“Ah, you beat me here!” Gale cheerfully greets, his hands tucked into his pockets and cheeks aglow. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
Astarion’s window of escape has vanished, and the innate protest dies on his lips as Gale claps a hand over his shoulder and begins guiding him towards the door. “Come on, let’s head inside. I’ll buy you a hot tea!”
He has no choice but to comply, shuffling forward until they enter a small cafe tucked in the corner of the shop that smells strongly of coffee and old parchment.
“I’m buying everyone’s Christmas gifts today,” Gale explains, “And I thought you might have the best idea of what sort of book Jen will enjoy. After all, you’ve known her the longest, and I’m never one to ignore the power of the opinion of one’s closest friend!”
Gale is removing his coat, a fancy-looking thing that might have been more in-style sometime during the last century, flinging it from his shoulders in favor of holding it in his arms.
“Here, I’ll take your coat as well. There’s a rack in the back that we can use.”
Astarion knows it’s meant to be a nice gesture, but there’s always a trepidation he experiences when removing any article of clothing in front of someone he doesn’t know well.
Gale senses the hesitation and doesn’t seem to mind it.
“Or you can just continue wearing it if you’re cold,” he decides. “Suit yourself.”
Without another word, the human pulls away, drifting to the other end of the store.
Astarion stares after him, as immoble as ever, out of place and numb. Maybe this is another chance for him to leave, to head back to his tiny, dingy apartment, to smell the sweet decay of the uneaten, rotting fruit that Jen purchased for him.
But his feet never carry him to the entrance to the store. Instead, they turn towards a bookshelf, and he dazedly floats into an aisle of visually stunning titles and covers.
“Ah! Are you a fan of historical fashion, Astarion?”
Blinking back to reality, Astarion snaps from his lifeless wandering, scanning the nearby books with indifference.
“No. I was just looking,” he drawls indifferently.
“Well, how about we get you warmed up with a little beverage, first? Please, it’s my treat, I insist.”
The so-called cafe is tiny, nothing more than a small table, a mediocre espresso machine, a few kettles, and a glass display of unimpressive pastries, but there is a nice leather recliner in the corner that Astarion keeps eying.
“It doesn’t look like much, but I promise you, the owner makes the loveliest lavender and honey lattes,” Gale exclaims as cheerfully as ever.
Astarion raises a judgemental brow. “The owner is the one making the drinks?”
“Yes,” Gale replies. “It’s a family-owned business!”
Gale says this as if the word family is supposed to mean something here. As if the word isn’t a dagger thrust straight into Astarion’s chest. As if there are people in Gale’s life that he can use that descriptor for.
Stepping up to the counter, Astarion doesn't care that Gale orders and pays for him. He bets the drink will taste like ash in his mouth anyways.
As they browse the store, Astarion keeps the warm, paper cup between his two hands, using its heat to try and soothe the emptiness in his soul. He silently follows Gale as the human begins selecting gifts for their group of friends, often asking Astarion for his input. Usually, he only hums in response, though that’s mostly because he doesn’t know what to say. He honestly doesn’t know if Wyll would prefer history over geography, and he doubts that Lea’zel will be impressed with anything that’s fiction. She doesn’t seem the type to read for pleasure.
When it comes to Jen, Gale chooses a self-help book that looks like it would bore Astarion to tears, but he doesn’t offer such an opinion.
Throughout the entire process, Gale never stops talking. He goes on and on about things Astarion doesn’t care to listen to, seemingly undeterred by the lack of verbal responses from the elf. Astarion is as silent as the grave, and Gale is louder than a flock of cawing crows. The enthusiasm for conversation never lessens, after they’ve circled the entire store for the second time.
It isn’t until they’re back in the cafe for Gale’s second tea that he finally says something that Astarion feels willing to properly reply to.
“I’ve loved this store for as long as I can remember,” Gale explains, his brown eyes scanning their cozy surroundings with great appreciation. “But there was a time when I couldn’t come here.”
Astarion raises a brow over the cup that stopped being warm half an hour ago. “What do you mean, darling? Were you caught shoplifting?”
Gale snickers at the suggestion and rapidly shakes his head. “What? No, nothing so criminal, I assure you. Just…this place used to remind me of someone, that’s all.”
Astarion’s gaze drifts down to the wedding ring he’s spotted once before, wondering if there’s a connection with Gale’s words.
But it’s gone. Only a strip of pale skin remains, noticeably less tan than the rest of Gale.
Astarion attempts to convince himself that this isn't an interesting discovery. Internally, he tries to backtrack from the spark of curiosity that ignites within him, staying silent as he awaits for the inevitable occurrence of Gale’s mouth continuing to run.
“But let’s not talk of that,” Gale persists, his tone growing more lighthearted. “I’d actually like to hear about you! How has your recent move been?”
Astarion has no illusions about what Jen has or hasn’t shared with her friends. The fact that they’re all reaching out to involve him, constantly adamant about including him, tells him everything he needs to know. She must have divulged everything regarding the recent events of his life, the arrest of his adopted father, the issuance of the no contact order with his siblings - all of it.
They all know that he’s a sad, lonely little man with nothing else to do but wallow in woe.
“...I don’t want your pity.”
“Pity?” Gale echoes wearily. “Astarion, I believe you have the wrong impression. I don’t pity you and your situation at all, but I do sympathize with you. If you’re unfamiliar with the term I’m sure there are plenty of dictionaries here that you can-”
“I know what the godsdamned word means!” Astairon snaps. “Gods - what is wrong with you? Do you really think I’m so stupid or broken that you must offer your unwanted help at every possible opportunity? Well, I don’t want it!”
He isn’t just angry at Gale. He’s angry at everyone and everything. He’s pissed at Cazador, pissed at the judge that issued the order, angry that Jen would rope him into this gaggle of ridiculous people, angry at Karlach for sending him threatening glares whenever Astarion tries to deny Jen’s invitations and suggestions. He’s angry that this wretched world has tossed him aside, that everything he has worked for, protecting his siblings and fighting to stay with them, has proven useless.
Gale is silent as he absorbs Astarion’s reaction to his words, his expression neutral while the elf freaks out.
When at last the blood in Astarion’s ears eases from its rushing and all that’s left is the quiet, ambient noise of the bookstore, Gale decides to speak.
“I don’t think you’re broken, Astarion - and I certainly don’t think you’re stupid,” he replies calmly - far too calmly for how Astarion retorted, and the difference is horribly jarring. Astarion hates that he seems so unbalanced in comparison, so he decides to bite his tongue and lets Gale finish his point.
“But I do think you’re someone that may be in need of company and consoling, so I-”
“Consoling?” Astarion scoffs, unable to bite his tongue. “What? Like a child?”
A little crinkle forms between Gale’s brows, and his expression is a mixture of compassion and hurt.
“No, Astarion,” he gently corrects. “Like a friend.”
Astarion has no idea how to navigate this. Is that response supposed to make him feel ashamed? Grateful? Is he supposed to care about Gale's words?
“I’d like to be your friend, Astarion,” Gale continues. “Will you let me?”
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
There’s nothing worse than his own mind echoing that annoying phrase.
He makes the mistake of glancing at the human, noticing how hopeful Gale’s eyes are, and for a moment, Astarion feels like he’s staring into the eyes of his niece - eyes he’ll never stare into again.
“I know Jen put you up to this,” he mutters, suddenly feeling the need to study the shape of his own boots. “It’s fine. I’ll tell her I had a great time with you regardless.”
“I - I must confess that I don't find that very gratifying to hear. I’d rather you not lie to her.”
“Well, if I tell her the truth, she’ll be upset with both of us.”
Clearly disheartened, Gale backs down slightly. “I’m inclined to agree with you on that point, but I still don’t think being deceitful is the solution. Can’t you at least try a real friendship with me? If this trip here and my conversation have all been too overwhelming, we can attempt something less stimulating next time.”
Next time? Astarion is tired of next times. He just wants to be home, to curl up in his warm bed, to burrow beneath his cheap comforter, and sleep forever. There’s little else he craves.
But when he’s in the constricting silence of his apartment, he is forced to think about how shitty his life has been, and he’s faced with the reality that all of these new, unwanted developments are lonely and taxing.
“I know what it’s like to hunger while actively avoiding things that once brought me joy,” Gale continues, his voice quiet as the basket of books hooked around the crook of his elbow shifts. “This is what I meant earlier when I brought up that I couldn’t come here. I was too torn up about my mistakes, too caught-up on my ex-wife’s feelings, or lack thereof, which were all ultimately out of my control, but I blamed myself when she left me.”
Astarion takes a literal step back. This is all far too personal of a conversation for him to want to go anywhere near it, and yet Gale splits his own heart open like it doesn’t matter. Like he’s willing to bleed out right in front of Astarion’s unwilling eyes. Gale is apparently ready to divulge anything for the chance to connect with a near stranger.
And it’s uncomfortable.
“I couldn’t even take the wedding ring off for months.”
And it’s sad.
“Nor could I do things without her. I was trapped in my own loneliness.”
And it’s familiar.
“It was as if my heart thought this place and many other activities belonged to her, or to us, what we once were…so I avoided it all for a few months. It’s very hard to have something you once greatly enjoyed suddenly torn from your grasp. There were many things like that. Cooking, reading, listening to music…it all lacked magic without her.”
But it isn’t the same as Astarion’s current struggle.
“At least you could still speak and see her, if you wanted,” he bitterly mumbles, the jealousy of such a statement as obvious as his unease.
Gale does not instantly respond this time. He takes a moment to sigh and lick at dry lips, forming his next words with great trepidation.
“She filed for a restraining order after the divorce proceedings,” the human answers solemnly. “And, it was ultimately granted.”
Astarion’s eyes finally flicker back to Gale’s sorrowful face. The emotion is real there, the depth in the creases at the corner of his eyes speak of stress and heartbreak. Astarion knows that same sort of pain well. This man is grieving just as he is.
“I’m sorry,” Astarion quietly offers - because it seems the right thing to do in the cold, gaping void that stands between them. He doesn’t want to cross into that no man’s land. He doesn’t know how.
“But you understand, don’t you?” Gale says, the inflection of his voice rising slightly, as if Astarion has provided hope with his measly apology.
“The horrors of family court?” Astarion says, numb despite the sarcasm. “Yes, unfortunately.”
Gale appears pleased by the response. “Then I am in good company,” he decides for himself as his characteristic merriment seeps back into his tone. “So how about we wash our anguish down with another latte?”
It’ll be good for you, Astarion.
Astarion still hasn’t touched his first, but he agrees with a small nod, wordlessly following Gale back to the cafe.
***
“You and Gale seem to be getting awfully close,” Jen tells him as they stand in Gale’s kitchen, tackling the impossible task of making Christmas-themed desserts.
Astarion stills, his hands hovering above the cookie he is currently tying his best to decorate with red frosting. It was supposed to be in the shape of a Santa hat, but instead resembles a flaccid dick, and he repeatedly tries not to think about how the dried, crimson frosting looks like blood on his skin.
His gaze involuntarily flicks to Gale across the room, currently talking and sharing a laugh with Wyll in the dining room before he glances back at Jen with a knowing smirk on her face.
Oh. He’s been caught and apparently has just proven her point. Great.
“What makes you say that?”
“Oh, just the usual. You know he blushes like mad whenever you pay him a compliment and giggles like a schoolgirl when you make a joke - that sort of thing.”
Does he?
“But his heart is a little fragile,” she whispers. “So please take care of it.”
Astarion stares down at his neglected cookie, the frosting disgustingly thick, the shape of it wrong, the color too dark from being burned in the oven.
Attending to Gale’s heart isn’t his responsibility - or at least - it shouldn’t be. They aren’t together - not like that - and Astarion shouldn’t have anything to do with something so delicate. Everything he tries to fix shrivels up and dies right before his very eyes. Every decision he’s ever made to try and protect his siblings only caused them to get punished and ultimately separated.
What could he possibly do to protect Gale’s frail heart? How long until he’s no contact with Gale, too?
“He seems to think that his recent divorce makes him some sort of expert at heartbreak,” Jen explains. “And none of us have wanted to diminish his experience by correcting him.”
Astarion frowns at her.
“Then why did you force him to spend so much time with me?” he lowly whispers, not wanting to be overheard.
“I didn’t. He did that all on his own.”
Astarion doesn’t have any time to process her statement before the man in question is beside them, flashing his brilliant smile as he inspects Astarion’s sorry excuse of a cookie.
“Hm, very nice, Astarion. It’s Stanta’s sleigh, correct?”
Jen giggles beside him, and Astarion shoots her a harsh glare.
“Actually, it’s his hat.”
Gale tilts his head as he stares down at the messily-decorated dessert, clearly attempting to decipher what he’s looking at.
“You hate it,” Astarion observes, and Gale is instantly mortified by the statement.
“Hate it?” he sputters. “What? No! Of course not! Astarion, I swear, with the stars as my witness, that this cookie is enough for me, and I would be honored if you’d let me have a bite.”
Jen’s giggles increase into a full-on laugh at the elf’s expense, but luckily he doesn’t have to deal with her for long. Karlach soon sweeps in to steal her girlfriend away to goofily dance to “Jingle Bell Rock” in the living room.
Left alone with Gale, Astarion feels oddly exposed in the large kitchen.
“It’s just a godsdamned cookie,” he grumbles, avoiding the human’s gaze. “There’s no need for you to be so dramatic about it.”
“Yes, but it’s yours,” Gale replies, his voice always so warm and welcoming and it has the annoying habit of seeping into the fine cracks within Astarion’s soul, finding impossible ways to burrow into the soft underbelly of his hardened exterior. “And you may think it’s just a mess, but I happen to think this particular mess of yours is very pretty.”
Is…is Gale flirting with him? Surely not. He’s too freshly-divorced, the wounds of heartbreak too recent, his personality too polite.
And yet he grins at Astarion as if there’s nothing else in the world to admire, and Astarion is faced with a choice.
He’s known his whole life that he’s a natural flirt. He’s beautiful, and he knows how to use it to his advantage. He can turn on charm as easily as flipping up a light switch, and it’s almost instinctive for him to do so.
But he decides to tread a little carefully.
“Do you think all of my messes are pretty?”
Gale gives an animated shrug before leaning a hand against the counter as if he has forgotten how the surface is littered with an amalgamation of flour, sugar, colorful sprinkles, and sticky icing.
“Would - er-” Gale’s palm abandons its perch immediately, and he frowns down at the mess on his hand- “-would it be so wrong if I do?”
Smooth. And by that, Astarion actually means not smooth at all. Ugh. He can’t believe that he actually finds Gale’s awkwardness endearing.
There isn’t much he can offer Gale, especially not while his future remains a mystery and his present is so miserable. But a bit of flirting is harmless, right?
Next, there's a rather noisy gift exchange. Karlach seems the most pleased when opening her gifts, especially the water bottle she receives from Wyll that seems to have some sort of sentimental value that Astarion doesn’t get. Lae’zel is as stoic as usual with what she is gifted, and Gale is happier than a child at Christmas as he clutches all of his new books to his chest.
During the entire event, Astarion actually finds himself laughing a few times, and no one seems to mind that he hasn’t actually participated. Jen must have told them that he can barely afford his own rent.
But for a moment, he isn’t thinking about his hardships. He’s surrounded by a genuine happiness and warmth, the likes of which he has never known, and when he glances at his side, he finds Gale smiling at him.
Heat rises into his cheeks, and the pointed tips of his ears don’t come out unscathed. He spends the rest of the evening worriedly wondering if it’s obvious.
***
Astarion helps to clean Gale’s large kitchen once the festivities have ended, and he spots what he believes is supposed to be an encouraging wink from Jen before she leaves. Things have quieted down significantly now that the other guests have left, and as they wash dishes together, the Christmas music is still playing in the empty living room.
When all the chores have finally been completed, Astarion is discreetly scrounging for ways to part with as little awkwardness and pity from the human as possible, but he never gets the chance to try any methods out.
With the smooth voice of Nat King Cole serenading them in the background, Gale pulls Astarion in for a spontaneous slow dance - and Astarion lets it happen.
He holds his breath as he’s led out of the kitchen and into the living room, his pale hand tucked neatly into Gale’s warm grasp. There’s no trepidation that Astarion normally feels when being touched. Gale’s handling is simply too tender to allow for such worries.
The human hums along with the song. It’s quiet and a little off-key, but it soothes Astarion, piercing through the bone-deep misery within him and replacing it with something new. For a moment, the everpresent drone in Astarion’s mind ceases. There’s no fear of the future, no worry of his siblings, nothing but Gale’s soft humming, and how unexpectedly charming Astarion finds it.
Gale is so close. The fronts of their bodies brush and the heat of his hand rests snuggly against the small of Astarion’s rigid back. Astarion can see each individual hair in Gale’s trimmed beard, he can detect which ones are going gray, and he can smell the sweet, peppermint cocktail lingering within Gale’s breath.
For one, tantalizing moment, Astarion thinks they might kiss.
But then Gale says-
“Do you have anywhere to go on Christmas?”
Taken aback, Astarion blinks in the wake of the unexpected inquiry, his brows lowering as the rhythm of their swaying falters. “I…I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”
Gale’s eager response is delivered quickly. “Well, you’re always welcome to join me at my mother’s place. Though, I can’t promise you that she won’t bombard you with intrusive questions and regale you with embarrassing stories of me when I was growing up.”
Well, at least one of those sounds appealing to Astarion. Learning more about Gale’s past is an enticing prospect.
“She sounds delightful,” Astarion teases. “But are you sure she’ll be alright letting a stray in?”
“Oh, let me be the first to inform you that my mother rather enjoys taking in strays,” Gale assuredly supplies. “And I’m sure she’ll be suitably charmed by everything you have to offer.”
Everything he has to offer? Well, Astarion knows that isn’t much right now, and yet Gale’s generosity is unwavering. He may be a charity case, but he’s one that Gale excitedly wants to assist with, and repeatedly, too.
“Do I need to bring anything?”
“Oh, let’s see,” Gale begins, giving Astarion’s hand a gentle squeeze. “A smile, a willingness to have a good time, a stomach prepared to handle all of the food my mother intends to shove into down your throat-”
“My, my - that is rather intrusive.”
“But apart from the figurative, no,” Gale continues. “There’s nothing you need to bring.”
Astarion considers the offer as their dance resumes, the steps now feeling as natural as breathing. He likes the ease of it, how effortless it all feels. Being alone with Gale isn’t the same as being alone with Cazador, and with it comes a tranquility that Astarion wants to tuck away in a little box to cherish forever.
“There’s…perhaps one more important piece that I should mention prior to you agreeing to this,” Gale chimes up during the elf’s contemplation.
A flush appears across Gale’s cheeks, and Astarion quickly decides that the sight of it is nothing short of adorable. The rosy hue fills him with an excitement he can’t quite explain.
“Admittedly,” Gale continues, slow and quiet, obviously nervous to supply his next point. “She may also be the type to decorate the top of every doorway with a bit of mistletoe if she knows I’m bringing someone over.”
The crossroads have been reached. Astarion has a path to choose. He can ignore the obvious play for something more with Gale, he can continue to be alone, he can deny this chance to flirt - or he can seize it.
And disregarding it wouldn’t be any fun - and he realizes, in that living room full of busy bookshelves and Nat King Cole wishing them a merry Christmas - Astarion misses fun.
Relying on this new friend group to decide his fate for him isn’t going to get him anywhere. He needs to make choices for himself that are going to get him out of this mess. He must be the one to save himself from this enduring grief.
And Gale - Gale seems like a good place to start.
“Well then,” Astarion begins with an ostentatious sigh before a genuine, playful smirk graces his lips. “Shall we rehearse for our upcoming performances?”
When Gale’s flush deepens, Astarion decides that yes - he most definitely likes the sight. Gale wears it very well.