Work Text:
They should’ve left for Baldur’s Gate by now. There was no reason to stay in this miserable, shadowed wasteland, even if the curse had already begun to abate. But no, they had to spend another night at Last Light Inn, drinking and celebrating and giving the tiefling refugees empty platitudes.
Astarion could tell none of them were actually having fun as he surveyed the weak excuses for festivities from afar. From his vantage point atop the inn’s balcony, out of reach of the mild revelry inside and outside the dilapidated building, he watched as his friends mingled among the tieflings and Harpers, none of them operating with their usual enthusiasm. Even Wyll and Karlach, who were typically frustratingly optimistic, appeared shaken as they spoke with a couple of tiefling kids.
Good, Astarion thought, They needed to be taken down a peg.
Lae’zel was sparring with a couple of Harpers—all of them drunk, as far as he could tell—while Shadowheart sat alone among a pile of the refugee’s belongings, packed into crates and awaiting the journey ahead. Gale was nowhere to be found, and to that Astarion opted to imagine he’d gone and blown himself up like the good little Mystran he was. A little late—Ketheric was already dead, and good riddance—but better than never.
Sighing to himself, Astarion swirled the goblet of wine in his hand: his second cup of the night, but still nowhere near enough to get him drunk. Little was enough, when his body wasn’t acclimated for consumption of mortal food. He could blame the sour wine on his lack of mortal tastes as well, but it would easier to blame the fact that everything at this stupid inn had been rotting in disrepair for the past century. Not unlike himself, he supposed.
Oh, Gale, Gale, Gale, Astarion thought with a sardonic sort of glee, Can’t even blame you for leaving to sulk on your own. After all, what he was doing was no different. In a way, it reminded him of how things used to be: when they’d sneak off together, to get away from the noise of camp to talk and laugh and fuck and do whatever else friends did. Only they were apart now, the connection from before long dead.
It might’ve been a convenience if Gale died. One less thing to worry about that wasn’t himself, one less person who knew his deepest secrets and fears. And it would cement his two century-long streak of everyone he’d ever had sex with dying shortly afterwards, a statistic that whichever poor fool who wrote his posthumous biography could at least laugh at for a little while. But Gale hadn’t died; hadn’t taken the easy, heroic, self-sacrificial way out.
Should he be grateful? Should he be acting as if a friend—a close, best friend—was coming back from the brink, alive and well? Was this how friends acted, afraid to meet each other’s eyes?
Gods, he sounded like some wide-eyed schoolboy, thinking about friendship at a time like this. Petty infighting, spats between allies; that was something to be reserved for when one wasn’t minutes away from death at any given moment. The tiefling kids drunkenly standing around a keg because they didn’t have living parents to tell them not to drink; they were the ones who should be worried about matters of this sort. Not him.
“Ah, there you are. I was sure I’d find you somewhere around here.”
Shit.
“You’re like a bird, you know,” Gale said, “Or perhaps a cat, like the one that was skulking about the inn. The way you perch up here, looking down upon the world.”
He could’ve gotten up and left right then and there, but he froze in place, oddly enough.
“He’s called His Majesty,” Astarion replied under his breath.
“What?”
“Address a noble with their title, Gale. It’s common courtesy.”
He knew full well that Gale wasn’t here to talk noble manners, nor did he care about them himself, but there was a certain joy in seeing what made him mad. The irritating grind of a chair being dragged across the moldy wooden balcony made him cringe. Sitting down next to him, Gale sighed, seemingly overlooking the open area below. Astarion didn’t meet his eyes.
“I had assumed you would talk to me yourself,” Gale started warily.
“Yes, darling?” The darling tacked on at the end felt entirely forced, and Gale wasn’t a thoughtless, drunken nobody, so he probably noticed.
“I thought about what you said.”
He knew what Gale was referring to. They’d been sitting under the stars, the night before they freed the Nightsong, a Weave-made aurora dancing in the sky far above them. Gale had called him out here by way of a simulacrum, and the whole ordeal had been terribly fancy, with a formal invitation and everything. He should’ve been flattered—anybody with good taste would be—but instead he’d just been terrified. He’d known how this story was going, and how it would end.
Gale had said plenty of sweet things; about his last night alive being under a canopy of beauty and wonder; of wanting some final happy memory to take with him before the inevitable caught up to him. Astarion had known the best course of action just fine: indulge him this, and let him die happy the next day. By now, the others tolerate me enough that he I don’t need Gale alive anymore to gain sympathy, he’d thought, all cold and calculating.
But he hadn’t said that. Gale had leaned in for a kiss, with a boyish hope in his heart that love might make the world right again, at least for a short while, and Astarion had cut him off. He hadn’t minded the act of it—not really, and it helped that Gale was attractive enough—and it served him well to carry on, but he just couldn’t.
“Oh, stop it, Gale,” he’d snapped, “You and your little fantasies.”
“Astarion? What in Mystra’s name are you talking about?”
“Thinking about Mystra? What, think about her every time we—“
Gale had taken his hand, with too soft a touch than the current moment had allowed for.
“What? No. This is— that’s not what’s going on. Are you well?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me, darling. You’re the one who’s going to die tomorrow. A brilliant life, cut tragically short by cruel circumstances you never could’ve foreseen. Painful, isn’t it?”
He hadn’t been speaking about Gale, not really. He’d been speaking of himself, what parts of the dreamlike haze of his past he could recall in the moment. In a strange moment of lucidity, he’d pushed away the convenience of his plan.
“If you’re going to die tomorrow, I’m not letting you do it with some dream in your head about what I am.”
Gale’s face had contorted into shock. Then hurt. Then a calm sort of acceptance. Too calm, Astarion thought.
“You were a means to an end, Gale. None of this was real.”
Those two sentences had been the backbone of his plan, thought through a million times in his head. None of this was real.
It hurt to recall, somehow.
“About what I said,” Astarion repeated to Gale, “Ah, that.”
“You stormed off before I could clarify,” Gale said, “I’m horribly sorry, I wasn’t in the right headspace to do, well, anything, if I’m being perfectly honest.”
Neither was I, he silently agreed.
“I had hoped we could patch things over before we got to the heart of the Absolute. I wanted to clear things up with you, before I died,” he explained, “And like clockwork, my chances to do so came and went.”
“Well, you didn’t die, so something must’ve changed.”
“Yes, something must’ve,” Gale agreed.
Astarion finally glanced over at him. Gale wasn’t an imposing presence, but tonight, he seemed to have shrunken into himself, all cagey and quiet.
“And you want what? To talk about it?” Astarion asked, adding dryly, “For me to fix you?”
That much drew a laugh from Gale. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort. I suspect if any of us were capable of fixing anything, we’d have gotten rid of these tadpoles by now, and be on our merry way. But I digress,” he paused, letting his words hang in the air, the silence broken by the sounds of celebration below, “I intended to thank you for listening to me, if nothing else. You may have taken advantage of my loneliness, but I won’t deny that it was pleasant, having someone to talk to.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Is that it?” Gale’s voice trembled slightly.
“There’s nothing I can say to make you feel better,” Astarion pointed out, “Go to Wyll for compliments, since he’s got plenty of niceties left to spare.”
“Ha. I’m sure he’s saving those for encouragement on the road.”
“You’re not angry,” Astarion observed, realizing it as he spoke the words aloud. By all accounts, he should’ve been—it was his every right to be, after the nonsense Astarion had put him through—but there were no hints of malice on his face.
“As I was saying: almost dying… puts things into perspective,” Gale said, fidgeting with the ends of his sleeves, “You did what you thought you had to. Though I can’t say I approve, and I’m hurt, I can understand your line of thinking.”
What he said stung, though Astarion knew it was a long time coming by now. If anything, he deserved more venom than Gale was giving him.
“Given what I know of your history, shall we say, I should’ve put more thought into how I approached you. But, what’s done is done,” Gale wearily sighed.
And the funny thing about was that it all could’ve been avoided, if only he’d been a little more honest with him during that night under the stars; that the lie had morphed to a half-truth. He didn’t know when it happened: at some point between the crèche and Moonrise, perhaps, when they talked far more than anything else; that was his best guess. Astarion assumed Gale would be having none of them now. All excuses, he’d likely say, that would only work on a man far more desperate.
Yet he’d said nothing when it mattered most, too caught up in a fit of pent-up frustration and bitterness.
“My apologies,” Astarion replied, “Now, have you got what you wanted?”
“I wasn’t expecting you to apologize, so I’ve gotten more, in a sense,” Gale said, “Should I leave you alone?”
Yes, a small part of him sang, Yes, let him go, and let him think about what he’s missing out on.
“Do what you like,” was all he said.
He was certain Gale would leave at this point, to go and do something better with his time, but he didn’t move from his seat. Neither man spoke, though the quiet was not an uncomfortable one. Astarion thought—almost wistfully—back to their past meetings, where they’d talk for hours on end, to the point they’d be tired at the dawn. They’d done other things too, of course, but the conversation stuck with him far more than what he’d done a thousand times before.
Should’ve been a little more honest, or a little less. Either way, things are fucked now.
A few minutes passed—Rolan created some fireworks, the Nightsong flew overhead, and the people cheered—and Gale still hadn’t moved. Astarion wondered if he stayed only to spite him, as a reminder of his failures. It wouldn’t work: he’d fucked up enough that Gale should’ve been the least of his concerns.
It got to a point where it started to bother Astarion. He was sick of the silence anyway.
“Are you taunting me?” he finally asked.
Gale’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? No. I’ve no idea what you mean by that.”
Genuine enough, he thought. “You’re not making me upset by staying, if that’s what you intended.”
“I’m not that petty.”
Astarion nodded. “I like that about you. It’s refreshing, to see someone so earnest.”
Someone entirely unlike me.
Once, he’d thought himself and Gale as two kindred spirits, of sorts: both ambitious, careful people, longing for power and justice. Frivolous fantasies, and he’d known it at the time, but it pained him to see them unraveling nevertheless.
“If I may be so bold, then, and continue to be earnest, as you say?” Gale asked, to which Astarion responded with a quick nod. What’s the worst he could say at this point? Fuck off and die? He’s far more eloquent than that. “I enjoyed our time together, truly. Even if none of it was real, it’s been a terribly long time since I’ve felt seen. I hinted at it earlier, but I’d be remiss not to pay you a compliment directly: You’re a good conversationalist.”
“Same to you. And if I must, you’re not awful in bed, if we’re to be judging each other on our expertises.”
At that, Astarion stood, setting down the glass in his hands. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been clutching it.
“I’m getting another bottle,” he explained, adding before he could stop himself, “Care to share it with me?”
“I should say no,” Gale responded—yes, absolutely, you should, Astarion silently agreed—“But I’m not dead, and I’d wager that warrants some celebration. If I’m hungover tomorrow, I’ll have something to think about besides Mystra, and I could do with that.”
Hopefully he’d be happy with whatever Astarion could scrounge up from the cellars. He was far more of a sommelier than Astarion ever could be. Whatever, he’s probably already drunk. I’d be if I could manage it, and I wasn’t about to attempt ritual suicide.
“Love you, Gale,” he called back to the wizard as he left for the stairs, “I do adore our chats.”
He was uncertain if this was proper love—it was confusion, disgust, and loathing all rolled into one, if he was to be forced to put the feeling to words—but it wasn’t hatred. Definitely not the poisoned ire he’d expected, or maybe even hoped for.