Archive of Our Own ^beta

First of all Astarion started it. That was the important part, and Gale would be sure to tell Shadowheart when she used up the last scroll of revivify later. He couldn’t be blamed for acting in self-defense. Not when they’d all set off and left him there, alone at camp with an apex predator and all fifteen of his daggers. And really it was a long time coming; Gale had known for days now that Astarion wanted to kill him… even if admittedly no one could’ve predicted the soup.  

“Is it not possible for you leave me alone a single moment?” Astarion yelled. “What’s next? You want to follow me into the woods while I take a piss? Keep watch to make sure I don’t summon a devil if you blink?”

“Your distaste for any kind of productive labor does not preclude you from engaging in it. We find ourselves at a juncture during which we all must work together to ensure the interests of the group, and I only asked that you help me chop up some vegetables!” 

“You don’t need any help chopping vegetables ― you’re a godsdamned wizard!” Astarion jabbed a finger at the cauldron, where a glowing mage hand stirred the soup. It didn’t flag or flare at the accusation, uncaring of their wild gesticulations. “You just want to make sure I don’t go anywhere out of your sight.”

“Can you blame me? We traveled together for weeks, and you hid that you’re a vampire ―”

“Vampire spawn.”

“― with fangs! Who drinks blood!”

“Not your blood, darling. You could poison an entire horde of undead with it. You might want to see a doctor.” Astarion flung an entire potato into the stew. The flames hissed as some of the broth splashed out.

Gale said, “Even if you weren’t a vampire, you have got to be one of the most annoying, selfish, intolerable creatures on the whole of the continent!”

“Me? Me? How about you? Condescending, self-important, stuck-up, too ambitious for your own good, and too fond of your own voice!”

Gale actually gasped. “You ―”

“You dare criticize me? Really, you should be looking inward. Don’t think I don’t see our stash of magic items dwindling. The others might be too stupid to notice, but I know you’re hiding something. You project this ― this air of confidence, and yet we both know, deep down, you’re a liar…” An unpeeled carrot fell victim to the soup next.

Gale stood rooted to the spot. “You call me that? When have you ever said an honest word in your life?”

“You know,” Astarion said. “It’s not even the lying I care about. At first, I even thought it might make you more interesting. But now I’ve come to realize how tiresome you are. Tell me, why do you walk around affecting mystery? What’s your secret? Is that why that woman left you?”

Later, what they did end up telling Shadowheart was that a wild bear wandered into camp, and they spilled the pot of soup fighting it off. Nobody commented on the lack of bear, or on Gale’s black eye, or the flat, hand-shaped burn on Astarion’s forearm.

They sat across from each other and glared, after everyone’d gone to sleep. Gale took small sips from a healing potion, while Astarion had just come back from a hunt. His eyes gleamed in the firelight, dark dangerous rubies. The first thing Gale saw on the night he jolted awake from the piercing pain in his neck.

He asked, “Why didn’t you just say something?”

Astarion chuckled mirthlessly. “And get staked through the heart faster?”

“No one’s staked you through the heart.”

“Yet.”

“I could say the same thing about you and your fangs.”

There was a single bloodstain still on the side of Astarion’s mouth, which he ran his tongue over far too deliberately. “We’ll just have to take each other at our word, then,” he said. “How dull.”

Gale tipped back the rest of the flask. “It seems our trials never cease.”

#

Whether out of punishment or simple convenience, the two of them stayed at camp a lot more. Shadowheart said the group needed a set of eyes on the Grove, but more likely she’d grown tired of their bickering and left them to sort it out for themselves. At least Astarion kept away. In that regard, not breathing came as a great advantage. Gale helped him along and treated his presence as a hallucination, ignoring him altogether in hopes he’d disappear.

Mostly, Gale cooked. He busied himself finding supplies for the camp, picking mushrooms, mending his companions’ ripped clothes with magic. He read the rest of the time. Adventure wasn’t quite so thrilling from the sidelines, but he could still appreciate a good one on the page, and Wyll always brought new arcane tomes for him to study. A part of him even began to enjoy this little forced sabbatical ― which really should’ve been the first warning sign. Given his luck, contentment was going too far.

Astarion didn’t start it that time. One had to give credit where credit was due, and even the strongest vampiric powers didn’t extend to the weather. The day began no differently to all the ones before it; but, at noon, Gale was halfway through a tome about Candlekeep when the whole of the sky spilled on his head.  

The book was soggy when he made it to his tent, and his robes outright ruined. The world drifted, awash under a solid torrent of what might have been rocks. Gale privately cursed his luck; he’d planned to go foraging for potion ingredients later, and now who knew what would survive. He spelled himself dry and prepared to waste the afternoon.

It was difficult to tell how long he stayed like that. The sky had coalesced into a single, dark cloud with no signs of clearing anytime soon. He had finished the whole book by the time he looked out, and his knees were stiff from the damp and the sitting. The blue beacon of an arcane shield over the cooking fire shed its weak light on the camp. Everything was still deserted, practically drowned, with dark muddy pools already flooding the rockier areas.

He almost didn’t see Astarion.

Maybe it was because he’d curled in so pathetically on himself under that tree, or because his immaculate hair was sodden and plastered all over his forehead, or maybe it was the way his pointy ears drooped along with the whole of him as he tried to take useless cover from the rain. Maybe it was simple human compassion. Either way, Gale ran over without even putting on shoes.

“Mystra’s eyelid! Are you alright?” he asked, casting a shield over Astarion. “I forgot you were out here!”  

Astarion didn’t talk ― his teeth were chattering too hard for it ― but he whipped his head towards his flat, soaked tent. It’d been old and ragged even before the rain, and it was an even sadder sight then. All his things lay tangled under some sticks and the remnants of a wet canopy.

“I could’ve made it waterproof! Why didn’t you say something?”

Astarion glowered at him.

Gale sighed. “Right. Come on.”

It took Astarion a while to stop shivering once they made it back inside Gale’s tent, but eventually he managed to sit reluctantly on the ground. He said, “I was right. I always thought this place would be bigger on the inside.”

It was only a minor expansion charm. Not a suitable replacement for the comforts of his tower, but serviceable for the road. It’d been hellish getting the bed to fit. “I need space for all the books,” Gale said. “The Weave comes with many advantages.”  

Silence. Astarion looked paler than usual, duller; his lips had gone gray, his fingers white. When Gale turned to him, he didn’t even attempt to make a cutting remark about it. His clothes were dry thanks to a quick prestidigitation, but he still shivered under them.

“Would you like me to cast a warming spell?” Gale hovered his hand awkwardly above Astarion’s shoulder, not quite daring to touch. “May I?”

“Whatever,” Astarion said, which from him was almost a plea. So Gale did.

Astarion melted. There was no universe where he knew he was doing it; he’d never relented to such base relief even on those rare nights he deigned to trance in front of the others. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he let out a reflexive little breath, resting his head between bunched-up knees. The rain had washed off whatever pomade he used for his hair, and the locks curled loose and fluffy at the nape of his neck.

They sat there long enough that Gale’s hand started to sweat from the heat of his own spell, but he stayed anyway, practicing his best impression of a statue as he watched the barest hint of color trickle back into Astarion’s skin. It was more of a transition from definitely dead to merely anemic, but the shift was so stark in Gale’s view it was almost a tan. A part of him regretted not taking notes.

“Thank you,” Astarion said eventually.

Gale jumped. He’d been half-asleep by then, and there was a moment of sudden clarity where he took in Astarion in front of him all over again, in his tent. He jerked his hand away at the words, wiping it surreptitiously on his robes. “Of course. I ―”

“Do relax. That doesn’t mean we have to be friends.”

Outside, a crack of lightning tore through the sky. The forest sat still under the rain’s gray veil, battered by the water and the wind.

“No, I suppose, not.”

“Good.” Astarion made to get up. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to cast one of those magic umbrellas over me, I’ll be on my way. See if I can fix that mess.”

What remained of Astarion’s tent had given up the fight and exposed his meager possessions to the elements. One of his shirts had even made it all the way to a nearby tree branch, where it hung dripping like a mud-streaked flag of surrender.

Gale winced at the sight, though Astarion himself added nothing else beyond a muttered comment about the washing later. He was just about to duck into the rain when Gale said,

“Wait.”

Astarion turned to him slowly. “You’re not seriously suggesting I stay here, and what, read books in your cozy little tent?”

“Let me help you,” Gale said. “You’re right ― we don’t have to be friends. But even I’m not cruel enough to leave you and your things at the mercy of the coastal climate, despite what you seem to think.”

“Oh, dear. Guilt, is it? You’re afraid the others will come back to find me drowned, and you’ll have to explain yourself?”

Gale hesitated. That proposed outcome wasn’t ideal, to be sure, but what really came to mind then had nothing to do with drowning. It was the way Astarion had shivered. It was his bloodless face and silent blue lips. The solid feeling of Gale’s palm on his back. The too-mortal relief with which he’d welcomed it.

“I fear I’ve been short with you since your… your condition was made known to us all,” Gale stammered. “You’ve kept your word since then, and I must admit that your penchant for bandits’ throats makes you a formidable ally on the battlefield. I’ve come to realize that I acted too rashly in my assessment of you. In truth, if there’s anyone who shouldn’t judge, it’s me.”

The orb squeezed and tugged at the space between his ribs. Bad weather always flared it up.

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Oh? An apology from the Wizard of Waterdeep? He stoops to the level of us peasants?”

Gale nodded. “I’ve been rather an ass to you, Astarion. I’m sorry.”

Astarion considered him. The sky lit up again, shone silver on his hair for an instant before an ominous crash of thunder rattled the illusion away. They faced each other silently in the damp heavy darkness.

“If you won’t accept my apology, at least accept my help.”

Red eyes pierced Gale’s own. “I must admit this isn’t what I expected. You’ve surprised me, wizard.”

“I think sometimes I surprise myself.”

“Hm. Funny.” Astarion spared one last glance at the rain before relenting. “Alright, then. I accept your help ― I’ll even accept your apology if you manage to rescue my clothes.”

They did save most of Astarion’s things in the end, though there was nothing to be done for the spilled flask of hair oil. The rain didn’t let up until evening, at which point their drenched and starved companions returned to devour a most succulent stew. Karlach found the two of them together on the only somewhat dry log, mending holes in Astarion’s magically-reinforced tent.

“Awww! I knew you’d make up!” she said, tail swishing happily as she ran off to share the news with the others.

Afterwards, Astarion told him, “For the record, I never thought you were cruel. You don’t know cruel. You’re more of… a garden variety prick.”

Wyll and Lae’zel stayed behind the next morning.

#

It wasn’t as if he liked Astarion, exactly, but he really wasn’t so bad once you got to know him. Somewhere between the ruins, and the goblins, and the parasite headaches ― between the cultists and bandits, and the scattered rains that were hell on his knee ― Gale realized that he had.

Or at least he’d started to. Nothing was ever quite so simple with Astarion. His insults only got more creative with each passing day, but then Gale’s bag also got heavier. He started finding little trinkets ― an enchanted dagger one night, a pair of gloves the next ― and then potion ingredients, and then books. In battle, Astarion hurled two daggers through the neck of Gale’s would-be attacker, then threatened to do it to Gale if he didn’t pay attention. He flirted shamelessly with anything that would move, but always seemed slightly displeased when it worked.

At night, they sat by the fire and read. Gale’s attempts at conversation garnered mixed results. Once, he’d asked what Astarion’s preferred blood type was.

“Not yours,” he’d gotten in response.

His inquiry into Astarion’s favorite book went much better (it was respectable, a well-loved tale about an adventuring drow, but just trashy enough to it make clear he wasn’t lying), as did the subsequent discussion about it. Gale talked about Mystra, and sometimes Astarion pretended to listen. It turned out Astarion actually was a magistrate, albeit more than a century out of date, and he even smiled when Gale asked him what had drawn him to the profession.

“Darling, the best criminals are those acquainted with the law.”

Astarion liked books, sewing, gossip, and had a healthy interest in politics. He sometimes played lanceboard. He hated any talk of pets, families, sweethearts, and whatever came out of Rolan’s mouth. Gale found, over time, he’d managed to collect quite the mental catalogue of conversation starters ― and just about as many excuses to use them.

It wasn’t what he knew about Astarion that drew him, but more so what he didn’t. He’d never seen a vampire spawn in real life, let alone talked to one, and not even the prospect of likely death by exsanguination could quell his scholarly curiosity. He started off with the basics:

“Can vampire spawn eat normal food?” he asked one night. Astarion was mending a hole in his shirt, newly acquired after fighting off a swamp hag. Gale tried not to linger on the way his nimble lockpick’s fingers held the needle, how the spidery thread made an indent as he held it between his lips.

Astarion stared at him a full five seconds. “Has the parasite finally burrowed a hole through your brain?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “If you must know, the taste isn’t worth it. Chalk and vinegar, all of it.”

He returned to his sewing, and that night Gale dreamt of a picnic at Summertide, all of them smiling on the banks of the Chionthar, and Astarion in the sun, biting all the peaches from the trees.  

#

He didn’t quit asking, of course. He just couldn’t help himself. His mother always said there was no reckoning with the creature in his head, and it was true no matter how many times he denied it. Back in his tower, it’d been days of Tara nagging him to eat as he wrote and wrote, letting his beard grow too long and pausing only to slump over at his desk from exhaustion. At Blackstaff, he’d studied with the single-minded focus that earned him Mystra’s devotion, and he’d loved her with the same. His sprawling collection of books, rarer than some kings’; his hand-carved staff, hanging still on a hook by the stairs; the orb eating its way through his heart. They were all marks of that ravenous affliction, the pursuit of knowledge ― and Astarion had become the latest.

He quizzed Astarion on everything under the sun (or rather, away from it). He asked about his sleeping patterns, his hunting preferences, the effects of blood on body temperature, and the taste of it. He asked about hunger ― the never-ending pit that lived inside a vampire, the call to something unknowable, the draw of someone else’s power flowing through his veins ― and after that the orb smarted enough that he had to retire to his bedroll early.

Astarion, despite his sniping, did answer all Gale’s questions to the best of his ability. He’d been more reluctant at first, offering quips and half-truths, but eventually he either gave up or started to find it amusing. Within a tenday he took Gale with him on a hunt.

Their victim only screamed once. The bandit had tried to attack them while they were going after a deer, and Astarion covered his mouth and held him right there against a tree as his fangs struck flesh. He claimed never to have killed anyone before, but he must’ve meant for eating, because he was ruthless. It was all a gray blur, silent and quick, almost impossible to see under the obscuring canopy of the forest. Gale watched, awestruck, as Astarion sucked greedily, as the color and life drained away from that unlucky soul; the bulge of the man’s cock straining against his pants was the last of it to go.

When it was done, Astarion swiped his tongue over stained lips. His eyes blazed redder than ever, chest rising and falling even though it didn’t need to, vestiges of a kinder time. They looted the corpse. Astarion pocketed the gold and threw an enchanted necklace Gale’s way, which he pressed against his chest without much preamble. The orb had been restless as of late.

They stood panting in the dark. Gale asked, “What does that feel like? When you…”

Astarion gave a low, dark laugh. It was sticky-sweet, dangerous, blood in the back of his throat. “Like I could be anything.”

“A―And does it―”

He didn’t get to finish. Astarion was behind him, had moved there faster than Gale’s eyes could adjust to his absence. He felt a single, cold finger dragging up his side, from his shoulder to his chin, lingering on his neck. Astarion’s lips were almost on his ear. He whispered, “You want to fuck me so badly. It’s almost endearing.”

Gale gulped. His heart thundered in his own ears, let alone Astarion’s ― the ears of a predator, attuned to weakness. He stammered out, “You misunderstand. Our relationship is amicable, yes, but my interest in you is purely academic.”

“Is it,” Astarion said. Gale groaned as he felt that same hand slide lower, squeeze where his robes couldn’t quite hide the awkward tent in the fabric. Then Astarion let go. “A shame.”

With that, he disappeared into the trees, and afterwards Gale walked back to camp alone and more than a little ashamed. When he got there, the flaps of Astarion’s tent were already shut.

#

They didn’t speak again for three days. In that time, the group raided a goblin fortress, stopped a hostile takeover of the Grove, and fought even harder about which route to take next. Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart were in favor of the Underdark, but Lae’zel insisted on visiting her people’s creche for the Zaith’isk. Astarion was on her side, though Gale suspected his support had more to do with the sun than any misplaced faith in Gith curative artefacts.

In the end they agreed to follow Lae’zel first. “It’s worth a try,” Karlach conceded, and Shadowheart sulked but was outnumbered. Halsin invited them to a night of celebration, to see them off on the journey to come, and Gale got drunk and pretended not to notice his friends sneaking off in pairs.

He himself was content to enjoy the festivities and outshine Rolan’s magic tricks. The food was good, the wine acceptable, and tonight the orb lay quiet in his chest, glutted on goblin magic. Before long, the world started growing fuzzier, warmer. Gale sat alone on a log and watched the druids dance.

It took him too long to realize he had company, blunted as he was by alcohol and melancholy. There came a tell-tale prickle on his neck, and then Astarion slinked out from the forest, wine in hand, sinuous and pale in the moonlight. When he sat, it was too close. His shirt was open just a sliver, barely enough to show the long, thin scratches on his chest; already the smallest of them had started to heal. He smelled like earth and sex.

“Enjoying the festivities?” Gale asked.

Lae’zel was back at one of the tables. She didn’t look at them.

“As it turns out, it is possible for a girl to be too intense for me,” Astarion said. He took a swig from the bottle, offered it to Gale. “Besides, she’s in love with Shadowheart. Anyone can see it.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed she was your type,” Gale said mildly. “Word around camp is Wyll’s rather fond of your hair.”

“Not even I’m enough of a scoundrel to dabble in deflowering virgins.”

Gale chuckled. He sipped at the wine and cringed. “Gods, what is that?”

“I know,” Astarion said. “Almost as bad as your Netherese blood.”

The party carried on around them, laughter and music spilling out at the edges. They sat there and took turns drinking in silence, and when the bottle was done, they stared up at the cloudless sky. Sometimes, in his tower, Gale had stepped out to the balcony and done the same. He’d sit there counting the stars and wonder if Mystra was looking down, judging him from above for his folly ― Or else he’d imagine her waiting, yearning, sick with love, swallowing up her forgiveness. Some nights he’d wonder if she was there at all.

Astarion always said the stars were just dots. The single time Gale had alluded to this pathetic little habit, Astarion had rolled his eyes and told him that what did he care who was up there anyway.

Now he shot a single, distasteful glance Gale’s way. “Oh, gods spare me.”

“What? I’ve not spoken a word.”

“Exactly my point,” he said. “Look, I’ve had enough cunt in my day to know none of it is worth getting a bomb in your chest over.”

Gale spluttered. “Is there really a need for such vulgarity!”

“What, have I offended the wizard’s sensibilities? Are you going to wash my filthy mouth out with soap?”

The comment had the unfortunate effect of drawing attention to Astarion’s mouth, which was not only filthy ― but also sinful, plush, tempting, and other things of that nature. His lips were red, stained with blood and wine and who knew what else, far too soft for having spent the better part of a month at the mercy of the wilds. The edge of a fang poked out as he smiled.  

Gale’s eyes shot back up. “What would be the point? One can never tell with you. Perhaps you’d even enjoy it.”

Astarion laughed sharply. “As I said, darling. So badly.”

“Why are you here?”

“Is it much too difficult to believe I’ve simply come to seek out the company of my favorite academic?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’d be right.” Astarion stood, making a show of stretching as if he’d been on that log for hours. The outline of his muscles was visible through his thin shirt, and they both knew he knew. “I’ve come to make an offer.”

“An offer,” Gale said. “The answer is no, thank you.”

“Quite rude of you to not even hear me out.”

“You’ve come to proposition me.”

Astarion laughed again. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

“I just declined, if you recall.”

“Well, that has nothing to do with it,” Astarion said. “But no. I mean, I was, when I first met you. I was going to seduce you, so that you’d get attached, and then you’d vouch for me if your friends here tried to throw me out of our little group.”

“Ah,” Gale said. It did sting a bit to hear it, but whatever shaky foundation he and Astarion had built could’ve scarcely been friendship. “An intrepid plan, were it not for the fact that ―”

“Yes, yes, professor. I understand. Your interest is ‘purely academic,’ and other lies you tell yourself. You’re still pining after your bomb-goddess. Don’t worry, no need to be repetitious.”

“Do you know, if someone took all the words you’ve ever uttered and removed the unnecessary spite, I fear you’d have only articles left.”

Astarion ignored him. “That brings me to my actual offer, seeing as you’ve refused the much more convenient and fun possibility of carnal delights. I have something you want. You have something I want. If you can promise me your allyship, I can promise you… this, I suppose. I shall assist with every aspect of your vampiric research. You can write as many papers about me as you’d like, observe me hunting or trancing or take measurements of my eyes, or whatever you perverts at Candlekeep use to keep your candles lit, as they say.”

“Blackstaff, first of all,” Gale said at once, and Astarion snorted and made another joke about staffs.

“Secondly, proper research requires informed consent. I cannot study you under coercion or threat. It would render the results invalid, not to mention compromise my standing as a researcher more than it already has been, not to mention... It is simply immoral.”

He didn’t mean to, but he looked Astarion over again. It was almost unfair, that such a picture could exist in the world for the naked eye to gaze upon.

Astarion noticed. “So you do intend to take up my first offer, then?”

“That would be unethical. A conflict of interest.”

Astarion groaned. “Gods, all of you are the worst. Tell me what it is you want, then, wizard. I think you’ll find me flexible in more ways than one.”

“I ask nothing of you, Astarion. You are a formidable ally on your own merit, and even pleasant to be around… if you try. You can rest assured your position in the group is not at risk. I’ve already given my word I will be at your side when Cazador falls. You will simply have to trust it.”

He scoffed. “Nobody wants for nothing.”

Gale stood at last, a little wobbly. “The things I want, I want them freely given.” 

#

Still, it turned out ethical conduct was easier preached than put into practice. Astarion took it upon himself to play up the vampirism as much as possible, and in the meantime Gale ruined enough paper to kill a forest. It happened differently each day, but without fail it happened. Gale had never been the type to rise to that sort of pettiness, and yet, a tenday in had never made him feel such keen sympathy for necromancers in their laboratories.

Say Gale was minding his own business, solving arcane equations for a bit of sport. Suddenly Astarion would appear, as if out of the air, and call out a number. “Fourty-two,” he’d proclaim. “Thirty-nine.”

Every time he was right, and every time Gale would grip his pencil tight and bite back the questions burning his tongue. Astarion would give him a coy little grin and say, “Oh, my. I wonder if the dark gift has endowed me with a particular skill for mathematics. Or perhaps I’ve always been this way. Who knows?”

Then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, he’d vanish.

He began to make use of his vampiric strength (which most days he let the group conveniently forget, lest he be tasked with carrying anything), and at night he went hunting and made sure to leave the tracks for Gale to find. When Wyll asked him if he could step into churches without the tadpole, he responded, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Throughout all that, he never stopped his little habit of leaving things in Gale’s pack. One morning Gale woke to find half his books replaced with a full series of trashy vampire romances, annotated. Another, it was a collection of religious tokens. At least twice it’d been garlic.  

Whenever it happened, Gale would black out and then find himself journal in hand, taking notes on instinct. And each time, he’d stop, crumple the page, and reduce it to ash in his palm. He always made sure to do this in full view of Astarion.

Of course, it was still unclear whether the threat of fire meant anything to him.

The final straw came on a day that was far too sunny, considering everybody’s mood. After uncovering Vlaakith’s betrayal and almost losing her head to the faulty Zaith’isk, Lae’zel had threatened to stab whoever spoke to her. Any hope of a cure was now farther than ever. Then, as if to capitulate on their misery, old Elminster had told Gale to end it all for the good of the realms and set off with the cheese.

Astarion had spent all afternoon swinging the Blood of Lathander. He jabbed and joked, uncaring of it all, making cryptic comments about vampires and their susceptibility to holy weapons the whole way back. By the time they set up camp, Gale was about ready to blow everything up.

Figuratively, at least. The bomb thing was becoming a bit of a trope with him.  

The stars were beautiful, but out in the wilds it was always so. He sat alone watching them, tried not to seem too intentional about it. Astarion’s miffed voice clattered about in his head.

Once, he and Mystra had lain naked in a sea of stars. The first time they’d ever kissed, Gale had felt invincible, full of her power and braced by her love. Those days he’d been one with the Weave ― soaring, adrift in her, lost in the infinite current of the outer plains. And now where was he? Alone, with a burning chest and aching knee. His magic reduced to a spark of its former glory. By the hells, he had a beard now.

When Astarion came, Gale didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He let him settle down on the grass, take his boots off and lie back as if it would change anything.

Astarion said, “You won’t do it.”

Gale didn’t look at him. “You presume a lot about me these days.”

“With that clever head of yours? Everyone knows it’d be a waste.”

Gale waited for the punchline, but it didn’t come. “A compliment? Really?”

“Only the facts, darling.”

“I’ve been asking myself why I shouldn’t, when my days are numbered already.”

“All our days are numbered,” Astarion said. He huffed. “Well, not mine. I’ve often wished they were.”

At that, Gale did turn. He asked, “How old are you, anyway?”

“If you promise to stop this nonsense, I’ll tell you.”

Gale rolled his eyes, but Astarion said, “Oh, fine. How old do you think I am?”

“Two hundred and… thirty? Thirty-five?”

Astarion let out a startled laugh. “Gods. I’d better quit skimping on the face cream.”

“You once corrected Wyll’s dancing, after the original fashion,” Gale said. “You speak of courting gifts, and ‘deflowering.’ You date yourself.”

Astarion chuckled. “Very good. A scholar and a historian?”

Gale gave him a small smile. “I won’t tell.”

They lay there in silence. Astarion wasn’t warm, exactly, but the perpetual chill of those early days had left him now he was feeding properly. There’d been times, at night, when Gale woke soaked in sweat. He’d struggle to breathe, burn, clammy and feverish with the orb’s unbearable press on his throat. Times when he’d longed for nothing more than those hands, the balm of cool fingers on his cheek. A temporary weakness.

Astarion said, “You won’t do it.” It was softer now, more hesitant. The lilt of a question strained to escape him.

Gale shook his head.

“Good,” Astarion said. “Karlach will be sad.”

“…Just Karlach?”

“Well. I admit the featherweight charms on my supply pack are useful,” Astarion said. “Occasionally, you’ve been funny. You’ve better taste in books than Shadowheart.”

“I would miss you, if you were gone.”

There was a fraction of a second where Astarion went very still. Then he demurred, “Naturally, my dear. When you look like this, who wouldn’t?”

“I mean it. You’ve been a friend.”

“Such flagrant accusations.”

“I’m not done,” Gale said, teasing now. “I believe, deep down, you’re actually a good person. A thoughtful person. Kind, even.”

“You humans have these misplaced ideas about ‘deep down,’ and ‘in your true soul,’ but let this serve as your reminder that I literally do not have one. It’s disintegrated into the hells, or something.”

“That is a hotly contested topic in the literature.”

“The literature,” Astarion said, pretending to fan himself. “I do love it when you talk dirty.”  

Gale watched him turn away, tight in the chest. For once, the orb had nothing to do with it.

#

The literature made it quite clear that vampire spawn weren’t capable of Compulsion, but maybe Gale hadn’t been reading the right kind of books. He still had some of those “novels” Astarion left in his tent, and at times before bed he would crack his favorite one open. He’d turn to page 248, with those bits Astarion had underlined ― and then he’d snap it shut and fling it guiltily into a corner and promise himself to be rid of it in the morning. Enthralled, said the title. One of its better qualities was a relatable protagonist.  

They said it started in dreams. An unholy voice risen from the shadows of the victim’s unconscious, whispering evil and temptation to drive the innocent towards their worst desires. In Waterdeep they told of a young maiden who’d been found in her garden with not a stitch of clothing on her, the creature’s fangs quite happily buried in her neck, and after that she’d left her fiancé and gone off to a faraway castle with no one to hear from her again. It was a morality tale about older men and premarital dalliances, but really it seemed more of a sales pitch whenever Astarion winked and said, “Oh, hello, darling.”

“So you have a thing,” Karlach told him one night. They were headed back to camp after an unexpected skirmish with some winged horrors; Astarion hadn’t bitten any of them, but their blood and guts still painted his armor. He’d yanked an arrow from the throat of one with a ferocious grin, gushing red all over his pale hands. Gale’s fireball had almost singed off Wyll’s horn.

“I wouldn’t know what you’re referring to,” Gale said. “Unless you mean a ‘thing’ in the sense of a material object, in which case you’ll have to be far more specific.”

“Come off it, Soldier. Don’t think I don’t see you looking. You were practically jealous of that deer he ate the other night.”

“That’s preposterous.”

Karlach said, “You know, there’s not a lot of live stuff here. He’s probably hungry.”

“I’m not sure which part of this concept is so difficult for everybody to grasp, but my interest is purely academic!” Gale said, far louder than he’d intended, and behind him Shadowheart snorted. “Just because you lot have no scientific curiosity doesn’t mean anyone normal would pass up the opportunity to interview an honest-to-gods vampire.”

“That’s not true! I have curiosity,” said Karlach. “Hey, Fangs! I got a question.”

Astarion caught up to them. “What is it, my dear? Do you need rescuing? Is Gale going on about arcane theory again?”

She said, “If a vampire bites a wizard, can he taste the magic?”

After it took hold, the Compulsion started haunting you in daylight. Not that the Shadow-Cursed lands had much of it left, but Gale was certainly awake enough then; Karlach’s towering form disappeared from his field of vision, all of it narrowed to the two points sticking out of Astarion’s rakish grin. Cold, sharp death, and yet such a warm feeling.

Astarion told Karlach, “I don’t know, darling. The wizard won’t let me have a nibble.”

“I’m afraid my blood wouldn’t make the most appetizing sustenance,” Gale said pointedly. “The orb has notes of acid, so I’m told.”

In truth the orb was quiet. The Netherese poison no longer flowed through his veins now that it’d stabilized. His spells flew clear on the battlefield, and the only mark left on his chest was ink. Astarion could surely smell it in his blood; the thought of that often made it rush south at inconvenient times.

But none of it was Karlach’s business. “Oh. Well, that’s no fun,” she said. Then, to Astarion: “Maybe after all this is over you can bite Rolan and let us know?”

Gale shot her a glare so automatic he deserved the hour of teasing it earned him.

#

“Is it a sex thing?” Astarion asked him later. He sat close, but given the circumstances someone else might’ve excused it. The paltry fire outside Last Light Inn did little to stave off the void just beyond it. Gale almost hadn’t seen him out in the dark.

“And good evening to you, too.”

“No, really ― I’m curious. You want a handsome, mysterious creature of the night come to suckle on your neck for a spot of fun?” Astarion said. “It’s not pleasant, you know. It hurts. It’s cold. It makes you dumb and dizzy. By the time you realize the last of you is fading, you’re too weak to fight it off. Is that what you like about it? The danger? The feeling you’re being hunted?”

Gale said, “I’m not sure what Karlach told you, but ―”

“Karlach hasn’t said a word, pet. It’s all over your face. Literally.” Astarion cradled Gale’s red-hot cheek. “It’s very fetching.”

Gale batted the hand away. “Stop that.”

Astarion sighed. “Do you know, sometimes it occurs to me I should be the one studying you. Never have I seen anyone deny themselves so obstinately of what they want. I’m not sure why you’re not a monk.”

“And what do you want?” Gale asked.

“Have I not made my intentions clear enough to you?”

“As a matter of fact you have not,” Gale said. “At times I feel you aren’t so sure of them yourself.”

“Speak plainly, wizard. You know I’m not fond of riddles.”

Gale got up. The fire was dying already, and the damp chill settled thick as sludge around them. If he stayed out any longer Astarion might take it as a reason to shift closer, and by then Gale might’ve made one for himself.

“Alright,” he said. “Do you want to know what I think? I think you’re beautiful, of course. Anyone who stares at you but a moment can see it, and not even the world’s best liar would be fool enough to deny it. I think you’re funny, charming, and that a tender word from your lips could sweep away the most shielded heart. I think when you want to be, you can be kind. I think you’re smart ― brilliant, actually ― no matter how much you fail to pretend otherwise. And yes, you are, after all, a vampire. Few would say there isn’t a certain… curiosity in that.”

Astarion was gaping at him. Gale continued, “But do you know what else? I think you already know this. You haven’t come here to seduce me. You don’t need to. You very well have already, in spite of all your practiced smiles and pretty lies. If you truly meant to take me to your bed you would have managed it ― and rather easily, if we’re being frank. But you haven’t. So, what does that tell you?”

Astarion stared at him, flummoxed. There was a single instant where something might’ve cracked; but in the silence, behind the polished veneer of his face, it was a spark without kindling, snuffed out in the dark. Just as quickly he sneered. “Maybe you need to pretend like you’re in love. You need someone to cuddle you after.”

“Honestly?” Gale said. “Maybe you need someone to cuddle you after.”

He wasn’t sure whether to regret it. In his youth, he’d had to learn over and over and often violently that the lone act of taking notice didn’t also require pointing out. At least the Inn was close enough to prevent any retaliatory daggers to the throat. But Astarion only laughed.  

“Darling, you’re going to make me blush.”

Gale should have rolled his eyes then; gone to bed and forgotten the whole affair entirely. Some conversations were doomed before they’d even started. Another lesson he’d learned as a youth: once you’d risen to the bait, you’d already lost. But he couldn’t help himself. Before he’d even really finished the thought he blurted:

“Vampires don’t blush.”

It was such a supremely dumb thing to say that Astarion actually snapped out of his flirting. “Wait, what? What in the hells are you talking about?”

“You said I’d make you blush, but that is a physiological impossibility. The vampire’s circulatory system is not so responsive as to achieve that.”

“Dear Gods. Now you’ve really gone off your head.”

“No, I haven’t. I’m only stating the obvious.”

“It was a figure of speech, you lunatic! Who cares?” Astarion said. “Besides, I reject your hypothesis. Of course vampires ― actually, you know what, I refuse to engage in this conversation. It only leads to madness.”

“You’re always pale.”

“A groundbreaking observation. Quickly! Someone call the Society of Brilliance.”

“So, you reject my hypothesis.”

“Just because I am not susceptible doesn’t make it impossible. Point of evidence number one: I bleed. Two: You’ve seen me bleed. Three:” Astarion raised his forearm, and with his other hand squeezed it ― hard. When he let go, the faintest pink mark lingered. The outline of his fingers. “So, there you have it.”

“But ―”

“Point four,” Astarion started, but then hesitated at the sight of their companion’s tents. “Actually, that one doesn’t bear repeating in polite company.”

A mortifying heat crept up Gale’s face.

Astarion got closer. “I assure you; my circulatory system is in perfect working order.”

“Well, it was only a thought. You cannot fault a scholar for his ideas.”

“I can, when they’re so patently ridiculous.”

“You’ve been purposefully misleading me for days on end. What do you expect me to do? I make conclusions with what little information is afforded me.”

“You refused the information when I offered it to you.”

“Under duress.”

“Me, or you?”

Gale blinked. “Well, you ― I…” 

Astarion burst out laughing.

#

It was only two days later that Astarion crept up behind him. “Make me, then.”

Gale dropped the staff he’d been holding. It shot a bolt of lightning at the impact, which dislodged a rock that almost crushed Wyll’s boot.

Lae’zel glared. “Chk. Does the wizard intend to kill us all before the ghaik can manage?”

“Sorry, I ―” He tried to point to Astarion, but Shadowheart stopped him before he could explain. 

“We don’t care. Keep moving.”

They’d managed to hack and slash their way through the Shadow-Cursed Lands with unprecedented speed, but anything more than a few hours in a blighted hole full of undead horrors still took its toll on the psyche. Shadowheart and Lae’zel had decided to deal with the stress of it all by coupling furiously each night, and now they were united in their disdain for any antics. Wyll and Karlach were just glad to find the mechanic.

They were on their way out of a murder hospital, a lovely daytime excursion that had almost ended with a scalpel in each of their necks before Astarion convinced the surgeon to die in the name of science.  

“I’ve no interest in wagers. Especially not now.”

“If not now, when?” Astarion said. “Gods know we need a distraction. I’ve not slept in three nights, with Shadowheart’s ―”

Gale cut him off. “There’d be no point in it. I stand to gain nothing, and even if I did, I wouldn’t. I know your sort.”

“My sort?”

“The unflappable sort. When was the last time something flustered you? The invention of the wheel?”

“I resent that,” Astarion said. “It was closer to 1352.”

Gale laughed, and the echo of it earned him a glare from Lae’zel.

Astarion continued, “It’s just a spot of fun, darling. Perfectly ethical. Fully sanctioned.”

Gale narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Is it enough to believe I’m bored?”

“Unlikely.”

“Oh, alright,” Astarion admitted. “To be honest, I do find myself a bit curious. My explanation was very compelling, of course, but it wasn’t what one would call a true, rosy-cheeked display, if you want to be strict about it. I suppose you’ve been leeching your madness through the parasite ― but it does make one wonder. Is it possible to make a vampire blush?”

As he spoke, he’d sidled up closer to Gale, enough that their words were little more than a whisper. If they walked too fast, their shoulders bumped.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“By all means.”

“I think perhaps you’ve been setting your tent up too close to Shadowheart. It’s giving you ideas,” Gale said. “What was it you called me? Endearing?”

“Oh!  A respectable first attempt.”

“The only one attempting anything is you,” Gale said, and did knock his hand against Astarion’s then. Just a brush. A spot of fun.

“Well? Is it working?”

“No.”

“Dear gods man, are you made of stone or something?” 

“Astarion,” Gale countered, “tell me about the last person you courted.”

“Courted? By the hells, who do you think I am?”

“I don’t like to assume.”

“Oh, don’t worry darling, you should definitely assume ― I’m a dashing, no-good rake who only wants one thing. Just the kind your mother warned you about.”

“Do you ever get tired?” Gale said. “Seriously. You speak of love as if it were mere fluid exchange.”

“Not love.”

“Sex, then. Either way, anything that’s worth it starts up here.” He tapped his temple.

“Not just fluids?” Astarion said.

“That’s the least interesting part.”

“How would you do it, then?”

Gale sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“Well, don’t leave us hanging, darling. You seem very secure in your conviction,” Astarion said. “You think your way has more finesse. You said as much last night. I’d just seduce you in the woods, or something. Nice sturdy tree.”

Gale snorted. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“I would!” Astarion insisted. “I was.”

“Well that’s dreadful,” Gale said. “Not even dinner first?”

“What, you’d take me out to dinner?”

“Undoubtedly. I admit the fangs make the choice of restaurant a little more restrictive, but I do like a challenge. Something can be arranged.”

“You’re not the first, you know. An amateur choice.”

“Well, you haven’t heard it all.”

“Oh?”

“Of course not. Afterwards, we’d promenade around town ― let’s say Waterdeep, just for the sake of it ― and I would take you to my favorite spot, by the harbor, and we’d talk about whatever you want. I’d show you all the shops there. You’d like them. They have a night market.”

“And then ―”

“And then I’d drop you off at wherever you’re staying. Maybe I’d kiss you, though I usually don’t do that on the first date.”

“And then ―”

“I’d go home, of course. And I’d make sure to write to you in a few days, on the nice paper.”

Astarion laughed and laughed, and everything was alright for the moment. Some distance ahead of them, Karlach shot them an odd look. Astarion lowered his voice. “Surely you’d write me very dirty things on this paper.”

“The dirtiest. I’d say something along the lines of, ‘Dearest Astarion, rarely have I have ever had such a wonderful time while out with somebody else. Of all the Splendors to be found in the City, you must the greatest. I would be delighted to enjoy the pleasure of your company at your earliest convenience.’ And then I’d take you to the park.”

“A devotee of the outdoors, are you?”

“Not at all, but you like to see the sun. They have a nice gazebo there, by the lake, where we could sit. I’d bring all your favorite books to pass the time.”

“And you’d know my favorite books.”

“Of course I would. What kind of courtship would this be if I didn’t know all your favorite books?”

“You’d feed me strawberries?”

“If you wanted me to, though I suppose you’d prefer to watch the people pass and make judgments about them based on what they’re wearing. Maybe scare some children away.”

“Oh, and let me guess ― we’d hold hands.”

“That might be pleasant.”

“And I suppose you’ll call me dreadful terms of endearment?”

“That’s more your style, but it won’t be nearly as ironic by then ― more ‘darling,’ less ‘darling.’”

“I do not sound like that.”

“I’d indulge you as well, even when you’re wrong.”

“So that’s it, then?” asked Astarion. “Your grand plan to seduce me is not to seduce me at all.”

“There is no plan, only a thought experiment. But you haven’t even given it time to unfold properly.”

In truth, that might’ve been best. Gale had needed only open his mouth for the scenes to start writing themselves like one of those discount-shelf romances. Gods knew what would happen if he were ever to entertain these hypotheticals any longer ― or worse, while drunk.

“Cut to the chase, wizard. What will it be? Tentacles? Mage hands? Some kind of binding spell?”

“If it pleases you,” Gale said. He didn’t mention the mirror images, or levitation, or the convenient malleability of the Weave itself. “But there won’t be any of that for quite some time.”

“No?”

He shook his head. “We’ll have to get to know each other first. Build a strong connection.”

“Oh, I see. You’ll take me out all over the city and say goodbye with a chaste little kiss each time. You’ll invite me to your work events, whatever that is. You’ll take me for tea at your mother’s house.”

“My mother would like you very much, if you happened to meet. She likes almost everybody. It is one of her very few flaws.” 

“Naturally, she will. Older women can never resist me.”

Gale smiled. “I suspect very few people can.”

“That was cheap even for you.”

“I only save the poetry for the times it gets serious.”

“Serious?” Astarion asked. “Is that when ―”

“Yes, that’s when. If you want it to.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll just have to imagine it, won’t you?” Gale said, and winked. “But do rest assured I like to cuddle.”  

It was only a joke, but Astarion turned away so fast it was audible.

Shadowheart looked back at them. “Are you two alright?”

Gale meant to reply, but just then Karlach said, “Fangs, are you blushing?”

And Astarion was. He was red up to the tips of his ears, burning in big ugly splotches that wrapped unevenly down to his neck, color high on his cheeks. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s allergies.” 

“To what?”

“All of you.”

Gale leaned in and whispered, “So, is that a point in my favor or yours?”

#

The compulsion grew stronger every day. Gale was a rational man; a man of science who’d read very many books and knew by this unfortunate point in his life that to stick his hand in a fire could only result in burns. But he was, in the end, just a man; and men were made of flesh and blood and other weak spongy unreasonable parts that only served to conspire against him.

He hadn’t meant to make Astarion blush. Really, he hadn’t; it seemed a ridiculous and unlikely thing that it should even happen in the first place ― he’d have to read up on the subject once they’d dealt with the brain-eating-parasite problem ― but no number of reminders about either the absurdity of it all or said brain-eating parasites was enough to scrub the memory from the back of his eyelids, the sight of him pink-cheeked and off-guard and quiet for once at blessed last.

At first it was just a spot of fun.

They’d stumbled across quite possibly the only live thing to endure in that withered place: a patch of night orchids just off the road, near a tree gnarled as an old crone’s fingers and three headless undead corpses they’d put there just a few minutes prior. Shadowheart had smiled in rare delight.

“Oh, I do like orchids.”

Gale had plucked one for her out of the kindness and friendship in his heart, which put her in a much better mood than she’d been the whole morning. Overall a good and sensible choice.

But he wasn’t content to leave it at that; the evil whispering voice rose up like a black tide, and so even with his knees creaking in protest he’d soon plucked another one, and then, to cement his stupidity, with an easy twirl of his fingers and a frankly amateur bit of magic he was all of a sudden holding a red rose. Blood-red. Tara said he’d always had a touch for the dramatic.

“And for you,” he’d said to Astarion, grinning in a self-deprecating sort of way, the kind that wasn’t meant to be taken seriously, except he handed it off and it sounded very serious indeed.

And Astarion had gone still and said, a second too late, “Why darling, I do love it when you kill innocent things for my sake.” He’d turned away and looked down and kept walking. And his ears were red.

So on it went, this game between the two of them. Astarion would slink up to him wielding his eyebrows and his angles and his innuendos of truly prodigious filth and complexity, and Gale would respond with a grin and a nod and a line about his eyes and his voice and some frankly embarrassing overuse of similes.

It was too easy. Astarion could say whatever he liked, but he couldn’t hide the way he stammered ever-so-slightly and looked away whenever Gale said anything back, the way the points of his ears darkened with what little blood he had left, the smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite his every effort to fight it.

It was easy, because Astarion smiled the kind of smile that made people sink ships and end marriages and take up writing poetry. People greater than Gale had surely smacked into many a wall tight in its grip. It was a subtle sort of smile ― not the quick rakish quirk of his mouth he threw at everyone who so much as looked his way. It was the smile that reached his eyes, the one he’d reserved for certain early mornings, when he thought no one else was awake yet and the forest was heavy with fog, and he held out his hand to the first rays of dawn. The smile he’d muffled against Karlach’s shoulder when she’d squeezed him tight after getting her heart fixed, or the time they’d seen Lae’zel dead asleep on Shadowheart’s shoulder, huddled by the smoldering campfire. These days, if Gale was lucky, it’d even be directed at him ― and the words honestly got difficult to stop.

Several days into it, Astarion had dragged him behind a rock. He’d said, “Alright, I don’t get it. What are you playing at? What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything but the pleasure of your company,” Gale had responded, off the top of his head ― not very good, admittedly, but the abruptness of the gesture had him rattled ― and Astarion had groaned and rolled his eyes and said:

“Look, just kiss me already and let’s get this over with.”

So Gale said, “Did you know there’s a myth that the original vampires were formed after an Incubus sucked out its lover’s soul with a kiss, so that he could live forever?”

“…Want to test that?”

And Gale, in a fit of divine inspiration, had come up close and brushed his lips over Astarion’s cold cheek.

“And you haven’t even met my mother.”

Astarion went so red he got warm.

But in truth the push-and-pull took its toll. One night while helping him cook Wyll said, “Gale, I didn’t think you a cruel man.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He’ll never yield if you won’t. Sometimes you have to be the bigger person.”

Wyll was a romantic, mostly because at twenty-five he’d yet to have his heart broken.

“Ah. I expect Astarion will get bored soon enough. He just wants to prove a point.”

“And what about you, then?”

Astarion was off by Karlach’s tent, laughing loudly as he fleeced her and Shadowheart at cards. He had this trick where he cheated by hiding them in his boot, and every time he won a round Karlach would curse at him, but she still hadn’t managed to find the stash. As if he’d felt Gale’s eyes on him, he turned to look.  

Gale stared back, a good long stare until Karlach groaned and Astarion made a rude gesture at her, and then he looked to Gale again and winked. His fang shone by the lantern light when he smiled.  

Wyll poked him in the back; the stew had started to boil. Gale sighed and turned away at last. “Good question.”

#

The devil told them the truth about the “poem.” Astarion went out into the darkness and took the lantern with him, so the rest of them were left to wander around the Inn and curse his name ― first for leaving, and then, in hushed, worried tones, for not coming back.

Gale was the only one up by the fire when Astarion returned. He’d been staring into the dancing flames for so long that his eyes were spinning with them. When Astarion sat it took a second to notice the long shadow next to his.  

“We’ll kill him,” Gale said. “I’ll kill him. Personally. Lighting, fire; we can reduce him to dust if you like.”

Astarion scoffed. “I thought I could be free. For a while there, I was almost convinced.”

“You will be.”

Suddenly Astarion grasped his hand. It was a jerky motion; their knees knocked together on the ground, and then Astarion was right there, so near. His eyes weren’t fully red, more of a dark amber color, lovely and deep and searching Gale’s face for… something. At last he turned away. “I really don’t understand you.”

“A mutual sentiment, most of the time.”

Astarion huffed. He said, “You’re such a liar.” Slowly, he shifted to rest his head on Gale’s shoulder. Gale let him ― he froze utterly. He would’ve let the world crumble around him. They both stared into the fire. After a while Astarion said, “But I suppose it’s alright. You’re sweet, you know.”

#

They returned from Moonrise Towers unbloodied but weary, with yet more enemies to fight and a stray Minthara in tow. She hated Gale because he was a wizard and Wyll because he was a man, though Astarion managed to escape her wrath long enough to earn her tolerance, so they’d assigned him as the official handler. They’d spent the journey to camp trading insults at the rear of the group, while Gale kept turning reflexively to his side, comment at the ready, only to be met with empty space. I am enjoying our walks together, aren't you, Gale? Astarion had said once. He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d started to agree. Now he lay alone in his tent, cold despite his magic and scrubbed raw from the inn’s harsh soap. He’d been on the first page of Illustrated Illusions for almost an hour.

That was the first thing Astarion said, when he came.

“I swear I saw you reading that yesterday.”

He stretched out on the nearest empty space, as if the ease of the gesture might’ve disguised how deliberately he did it.  

Gale said, “Despite what the title may imply, there are disappointingly few pictures.” Then, almost immediately after: “Gods, Astarion. I can’t take this anymore.”   

Astarion shook his head. “Don’t.”

“It was my fault, I admit it. I shouldn’t have entertained this for as long as I did, but now I’ve gone and gotten myself attached. So I suppose you’ve won, in the end. But I won’t have my heart broken again. I simply will not ―”

“Gale.”

“I mean, I recognize I’m making a total ass out of myself right now, and I won’t begrudge you if you choose never to direct a kind word at me again, but ―”

“Hells, do you ever shut up?” Astarion snapped. “I’ve come to tell you I’m in love with you, you insufferable lunatic.”

Gale did shut up then, but only because he was too busy laughing. Astarion snatched the book away and thumped him over the head with it; Gale said, “Ow!”

But then he glanced at Astarion’s face.

“Oh dear gods, but you’re serious.”

“Deathly, my dear.”

Some years ago, Gale had owned a tome of grim oddities that explained how mummies had their brains removed through the nose, and he recalled it now with sudden clarity as anything useful eluded him and he gawked at Astarion like an especially dumb fish. For a moment he feared the orb might have come awake again, the way his chest squeezed as if to strangle his lungs. His heart seized somewhere between his stomach and his throat, but certainly nowhere near its rightful place. A violent rush shuddered down his spine and leeched the heat from his extremities.

Astarion grinned. “Dreadful, I know. And I’m afraid the case is critical. I fear I might not have much time left.”

“Astarion…”

“Look, it was the last thing I expected,” Astarion said. “I might never have told you. You’re right that I probably wasn’t going to. But today you reminded me why I put up with your nonsense. I wanted to thank you.”

“Thank me? What could I possibly have done to earn your thanks? The way I’ve treated you…”

“For what you said, while I was in front of that drow.”

Gale frowned. They’d encountered so many vile people on their journey that they all started to blend together, but Astarion clarified: “For centuries I used my body to lure pretty things back for my master. Night after night, bed after bed. What she offered… I thought it wasn’t even a question. You could’ve told me to throw myself at her ― and I would’ve done it, without a moment’s hesitance,” he said. “But you didn’t.”

“Of course not!” said Gale, horrified. “You’ve as much a right to choose for the group as any of us. You’re your own person. No one could force anything like that upon you.”  

Astarion huffed. “A bit of a novel concept for me, you see.”

“Gods,” said Gale. He was going to be sick. “I thought you…  If I’d known, I never…”

“I can’t blame you, darling. All those things about me are probably true. At least they were. You were right; I was acting out of habit. At first I thought it might earn me your favor.”

“You don’t need to ―”

“I know that. I believe you ― Hells, it still feels strange to say that out loud,” Astarion said. “Do you know, the more I thought about it, the more I realized a part of me wanted to see if you would break. And when you didn’t, I hated you for it. I thought I failed at the one thing I’d ever been good at. Isn’t that just pathetic?”

Gale took a sharp breath. “It would be in grievously poor taste to derail the conversation with what I’m going to do to Cazador when we find him, but rest assured it will be painful and against the mages’ code of ethics in several cities.”  

Astarion smiled. “You really are sweet.”

“Only you would say that.”

“Well, good,” Astarion said. “Because… because it turns out despite everything, I’m rather fond of you. And I was hoping you might feel the same.”

“Did you ever doubt that?”

“People want me. They never want… well, me.” Astarion grasped Gale’s hands in his. “I really wasn’t sure at first. But then I realized you must mean it if you’ve kept your hands to yourself this long.” Slyly, he added: “I mean, you want me to bite you at least twice as badly as her.”

“You just had to get that in there ―”

Astarion kissed him.

It was better than he’d imagined; and Gale had imagined a lot. Late at night he’d thought of it, and in the morning, and also whenever Astarion spoke, really, but the point was Gale had outlined every possibility in his head already. He’d deduced by logical means that Astarion would be a good kisser, probably a great one, with nifty hand tricks and a ninety-five percent confidence interval for tongue.

But Astarion kissed him sweetly, slowly, and Gale stopped deducing anything at all. He let Astarion grasp the sides of his face and reduce his theories to mush. If he turned into a vampire, it would have been worth it only to live for eternity with the memory. And then Astarion pulled away and said, “Gods, I’ve been dying to do that.”

“You can certainly do it again whenever you like.”  

Astarion laughed. “I think I will.” He curled up next to Gale and said. “Tell me. Are there vampires in Waterdeep?”

EPILOGUE

“On your grave? Are you serious?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t act like you don’t want to. You want the vampire experience.”

“I hate you. So much.”

“Hm. Are you sure about that?”

The cold stone was digging against Gale’s back. Astarion had him pinned there, and the knee nudging against the bulge at the front of his robes wasn’t helping. Gale said, “I swear I read this in one of those novels.”

“So you did read them.”

“I can quote them.”

Astarion barked out a laugh. His fangs gleamed deadly and enticing in the moonlight. “So, how about it?”

Gale said, “If we get haunted by any of these people’s ghosts, it’s your fault.”

“Don’t worry, darling. I’m sure they’re dying for some entertainment.”

“You ―”

He didn’t get to speak, because Astarion’s lips were on his. The kiss was… hungry. He pulled away with a wicked smile. “Now,” he said, and grasped Gale’s hands. “I believe you wanted to wake up paler than me tomorrow?”

Gale’s heartbeat was thundering. Astarion could hear it, he knew. He groaned at the thought.

Astarion brushed another kiss on his wrist. “Shall I start here?”

He did. For how much blood Gale was losing, it was impressive how very little went away from where it mattered. Astarion pressed down on the bite marks on his wrist, and licked his way up to Gale’s neck. “Here?”

That was even better. Gale mentally apologized to the ghosts for the sounds he made, and then before he could really internalize what was happening he was full on the ground with Astarion hovering over him. Astarion’s lips were red. Bloody.

He nudged Gale’s thighs apart with an impressive leg trick. A cold hand slid slowly up the inside of his bare leg. “Gale, which artery is this?”

He gulped. “Femoral.”

“You’ve been studying.”

“Of course I have! Who do you even take me for? What kind of wizard doesn’t know ― Oh.”  

Astarion glanced up from between his thighs. “You were saying?”

Gale tipped his head back. “Nothing.”

“Gods, after all this time, and that’s what it took?”