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“Isn’t a fetish just a hyperfixation?”
Gale blinked slowly, fingers freezing halfway through the precise motion of stirring his tea. The fire in the camp crackled companionably; the rest of the party had already drifted off to their tents, leaving only the wizard, his teapot, and the vampire spawn perched across from him like a very smug, very pale gargoyle.
“Pardon?” Gale said carefully.
Astarion lounged back on his bedroll, hands pillowed behind his head, red eyes gleaming with mischief. “You heard me, darling. I’m just asking questions. Expanding my knowledge. Exploring the mysteries of the universe. Like you!” He gestured vaguely to Gale’s stack of half‑open spellbooks.
“I do not recall Mystra ever framing the fundamental underpinnings of magic as ‘just asking questions’ while leering,” Gale said dryly.
“Well, that’s her loss,” Astarion said. “I’m delightful when I leer.”
Gale took a measured sip of tea. It did not help.
“Explain,” he said. “Preferably in a way that doesn’t make me regret asking.”
Astarion rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, curls tumbling artfully. “You see, our dear Tav just referred to one of my… enthusiasms… as a ‘fetish’ in the most adorable, judgemental little voice. And it got me thinking—”
“Oh gods,” Gale murmured. “He’s thinking.”
“—that I’ve met a number of people who call certain interests ‘hyperfixations.’ They talk about them all the time, research them obsessively, rearrange their entire lives around them…” His gaze slid toward Gale, the look altogether too pointed. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
Gale narrowed his eyes. “If you are about to compare my dedication to Magic with your enthusiasm for… whatever debauchery you’re about to describe, I assure you the parallel will be tenuous at best.”
“Debauchery?” Astarion pressed a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “I’ll have you know my debauchery is extremely well‑researched.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
Astarion grinned, fangs just catching the firelight. “So. Fetishes. Hyperfixations. Two words for the same thing, really. Interests that occupy one’s thoughts. Provide comfort. Structure. The occasional screaming orgasm—”
Gale choked on his tea.
“Astarion!”
“What? I’m being academic,” Astarion said innocently. “Now, Tav—rudely—implied that my fondness for, ah, certain angles of approach is ‘just’ a fetish. And I thought: well, perhaps. But aren’t you, Gale Dekarios, functionally identical when confronted with, say, an obscure piece of Netherese arcanum?”
Gale bristled. “That is hardly the same as—”
Astarion cut him off, ticking points off on his fingers. “You talk about it nonstop.”
“It is fascinating,” Gale said stiffly.
“You light up when someone actually listens.”
“That is simply the joy of scholarly discourse.”
“You forget to eat.”
Gale hesitated. “…That sometimes happens.”
“You have a dedicated cloak pocket just for that one book about the Weave.”
Gale clutched his robe protectively. “It’s a very informative volume.”
“And,” Astarion finished triumphantly, “you have, at least twice, walked directly into a tree because you were reading while we travelled.”
“That tree was poorly placed,” Gale muttered.
“So!” Astarion spread his hands. “Hyperfixation. Fetish. Tomato, tomahto. You have your magic; I have my… recreational geometry.”
Gale opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“‘Recreational geometry,’” he repeated weakly.
“Well, you try explaining it to Paladins,” Astarion said. “They get so very tense.” He smirked. “In all the wrong ways.”
Gale set his teacup down with great care. “This is, undoubtedly, one of the worst philosophical discussions I’ve ever been dragged into.”
“Oh, hush. You love it.”
Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me see if I understand the… central thesis here.”
“By all means, summarise my brilliance.”
“You are suggesting that a fetish is simply… an especially intense, specific interest that provides structure and satisfaction. Much like how I focus on magic or Lae’zel focuses on combat forms or Shadowheart on her faith.”
Astarion’s expression softened minutely, just for a heartbeat. “Yes. Exactly. Some of us just happen to focus on things that make people blush at dinner parties.”
Gale considered this. Then, grudgingly, nodded. “It is… not the worst framing I’ve heard.”
“See?” Astarion brightened. “I’m practically a philosopher.”
“Do not push it.”
Astarion waggled his eyebrows. “I have been told I’m very good at pushing it.”
Gale stared at him.
“Onto things,” Astarion clarified helpfully. “Beds. Tables. The occasional—”
“Yes, thank you, that part was implied.” Gale coughed, cheeks colouring. “Still. You are correct in that society tends to pathologise certain focuses more than others.”
“Exactly,” Astarion said. “If someone spends all day cataloguing spores and fungi, we call them a naturalist and invite them to conferences. If someone spends all day thinking about what they’d like done to them in bed, we call that deviant. Where is the justice?”
Gale tapped his lip thoughtfully. “You are, disturbingly, making sense.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“It’s just that I had prepared myself for this to be a very different conversation.”
“Oh, that can still be arranged,” Astarion purred.
Gale cleared his throat. “Even so. I’m not entirely certain the analogy holds. Research suggests hyperfixations are linked to certain neurodivergent—”
Astarion’s eyes lit with wicked inspiration.
“So what you’re telling me,” he cut in smoothly, “is that I’m autistic because I like it up the arse, Gale?”
The camp went very, very quiet.
Gale made an inhuman sort of squeaking noise.
“I— that is absolutely not— obviously correlation is not—”
Astarion burst out laughing, bright and delighted. He flopped onto his back, clutching his stomach.
“Oh, gods, your face,” he wheezed. “You went three different shades of red.”
Gale’s ears burned. “I was not— I would never diagnose anyone based on— on sexual preference, of all things!”
“Relax, darling, I know,” Astarion said, still chuckling. “I just wanted to see if I could get you to sputter. Mission accomplished.”
Gale folded his arms. “You are insufferable.”
“And yet,” Astarion said, smirking up at him from the bedroll, “you keep talking to me.”
“That is because no one else will sit still for my lectures,” Gale said primly.
“Oh, is that how we’re justifying this?” Astarion propped himself up on his elbows. “Because from where I’m lounging, it looks suspiciously like you enjoy my company.”
Gale opened his mouth to deliver a withering retort. Instead, he thought—unhelpfully—of how Astarion actually did listen when he rambled about the Weave. How he asked infuriatingly incisive questions. How, against all odds, he’d sat with Gale on watch those nights when the Netherese orb in his chest ached worst, distracting him with ridiculous stories until the pain dulled.
Gale closed his mouth again.
“I enjoy debate,” he said finally. “As a mental exercise.”
“Mm.” Astarion’s smile turned feline. “An intense, repeatable engagement that provides you with comfort and structure. Sounds suspiciously like a hyperfixation.”
“You are not my hyperfixation,” Gale said, horrified.
“Oh?” Astarion pushed himself fully upright, leaning in. “So you don’t spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about me?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
Gale thought of the way Astarion’s laugh had begun to sound less like a weapon and more like something fragile and real. Of pale hands, steady and gentle, cleaning dried blood from Gale’s fingers after a particularly bad fight. Of the vampire spawn, sitting far too close at the fire, eyes reflecting the flames.
He swallowed.
“Not… unduly,” Gale lied.
Astarion’s smirk said he’d noticed the microsecond too‑long pause. “You know,” he said lightly, “if you were, in fact, hyperfixated on me, I’d consider that very flattering. Grossly overdue, really.”
“I am not,” Gale insisted. “I am merely… fond.”
Astarion’s lips twitched. “Of course you are. Regardless.” He shifted closer, until their knees nearly brushed. “If one were, hypothetically, to reorient a hyperfixation—from, say, obscure magical theory to… a person… how would one go about that, Professor?”
Gale’s brain briefly emptied of all rational thought.
“I— that is— what are you asking me?”
Astarion tilted his head, looking at Gale through his lashes. “Just exploring one more philosophical question before bed.”
Gale’s heartbeat stuttered against the artefact in his chest. “You are being intentionally obtuse.”
“On the contrary,” Astarion murmured. “I’m being very, very obvious.”
There was a stretch of silence thick enough to cut with a dagger. The fire popped. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted. Gale became acutely aware of every point of almost‑contact between them.
“This is a terrible idea,” he said quietly.
“Undoubtedly,” Astarion agreed. “We’re both disasters. You’re a walking arcane calamity with intimacy issues, and I’m a traumatised vampire with a questionable moral compass and impeccable cheekbones.”
“Impeccable?” Gale echoed, lips twitching.
“Objectively,” Astarion said. “It’s practically an empirical fact.”
Gale huffed a laugh despite himself. “Even so. We are quite literally cursed, hunted, and on a mission to stop an elder brain from devouring the world.”
“Which is precisely why,” Astarion said softly, “we might as well enjoy the little hyperfixations we pick up along the way.”
Gale looked at him then—really looked. Not at the armour of flirtation and mockery, but at the flicker of uncertainty underneath. The way Astarion’s fingers had crept towards Gale’s hand, close enough that Gale could feel the faint chill of his skin.
“You’re serious,” Gale realised.
“Don’t spread it around,” Astarion said wryly. “I have a reputation.”
Gale’s thoughts skittered. This was foolish. Reckless. There were a dozen reasons—arcane, practical, emotional—to step back.
Instead, he set his hand, very gently, over Astarion’s.
The vampire went perfectly still.
“Academic curiosity,” Gale said, voice steadier than he felt. “An experiment, if you will.”
“Oh?” Astarion’s thumb brushed Gale’s knuckles—once, testing. “What are we testing?”
“Whether,” Gale said, “redirecting a hyperfixation is, in fact, possible.”
Astarion’s smile bloomed, bright and dangerous. “Careful, wizard. I might take that as an invitation.”
Gale’s mouth went dry. “I… am aware.”
Astarion shifted even closer, their shoulders touching now. His voice dropped. “And what conclusions are you hoping to reach?”
Gale swallowed. “That… investing time and attention into someone—truly seeing them, and being seen in return—might be as satisfying as any spell or… recreational geometry.”
Astarion’s eyes flicked down to Gale’s lips and back up. “You do realise,” he murmured, “that if we pursue this line of inquiry, I will absolutely become intolerable.”
“You already are,” Gale said, a little breathlessly.
“Ah, but then I’ll be your intolerable problem.”
Gale’s hand tightened on Astarion’s.
“I find,” he said, “that I don’t entirely mind that prospect.”
Something in Astarion’s posture unwound, just a fraction. He leaned in, slow enough to be refused, eyes never leaving Gale’s.
“Permission to hyperfixate, then?” he asked, voice a whisper.
Gale let out a small, incredulous laugh. “On me?”
“For tonight,” Astarion said, “and perhaps a few more, if you don’t bore easily.”
Gale’s heart did something complicated and unhelpful. “I have been studying the same cosmic force for decades,” he said. “I assure you, my capacity for sustained interest is considerable.”
Astarion’s grin turned soft around the edges. “Good answer.”
He closed the final distance.
The kiss was—at first—awkward. Gale, for all his eloquence in spellcraft, fumbled the initial angle, bumping noses. Astarion huffed a small laugh against his mouth, adjusting Gale’s chin with cool fingers.
“There,” he murmured. “Basic oral alignment. Consider it a primer.”
“You are not allowed,” Gale said faintly, “to turn kissing into a geometry lesson.”
“Too late,” Astarion whispered, and kissed him again.
It wasn’t like the showy, theatrical kisses Astarion bestowed in taverns. This was slower, exploratory, as if he were cataloguing reactions the way Gale might catalogue spell components. Astarion tested pressure and angle; Gale responded, experimental at first, then with growing confidence as he found what made Astarion’s fingers flex against his robe.
When they finally broke apart, Astarion’s pupils were blown wide, lips kiss‑bitten, hair even more of a disaster than usual.
“Well,” he said, a little breathless. “Consider me… engaged.”
Gale’s smile was helpless. “In the academic sense, I hope.”
“Oh, darling.” Astarion leaned his forehead against Gale’s, laughter warm in his voice. “You have absolutely no idea what you’ve just signed up for.”
Gale threaded their fingers together. “I suspect I do,” he said quietly. “An endless, intricate subject. Frequently exasperating. Occasionally breathtaking. Worth the effort.”
Astarion’s breath hitched.
“You do talk pretty,” he muttered, sounding almost shy. “Infuriating man.”
“I thought you liked that.”
“I do,” Astarion admitted.
They sat like that for a while, foreheads touching, hands intertwined, letting the crackle of the campfire and distant night sounds fold around them.
Eventually, Astarion pulled back, composure sliding neatly back into place—if now undercut by something gentler.
“So,” he said. “To summarise our findings: fetishes are just hyperfixations. Hyperfixations can be adorable. And you, dear Gale, are one of mine now.”
Gale arched a brow. “Just one?”
“Please,” Astarion scoffed. “I contain multitudes. But you are, I must say, rising quickly through the ranks.”
“Incredibly flattering,” Gale said dryly. “Shall I prepare a lecture on the ethics of objectifying one’s romantic interests, or would you prefer a practical demonstration?”
Astarion’s grin turned wicked. “Why, wizard. Are you suggesting we… experiment further?”
Gale squeezed his hand. “I find myself… amenable.”
Astarion leaned in again, voice a purr. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I’ll start thinking you’re hyperfixated on me too.”
Gale met his gaze steadily, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I already am.”
For once, Astarion had no immediate quip.
He just kissed him again, slow and certain, as the fire burned low and the night carried on around them—two disasters, tangled together, finding something oddly steady in each other’s very particular, very intense affections.