#sneakfangs

"Ah, ah-- Keep your eyes closed just a moment longer. No peeking!"

Gale leads Astarion by the hand, only letting go when they reached their apartment door. he fumbles with the key, nearly dropping it from a mixture of excitement and nervousness. with little bits of their realm leaking through to their new surroundings, an idea had come to him rather quickly. one could argue the return of their abilities would be better spent aiding in an escape plan or perhaps defeating any pesky monsters that sometimes slipped through the portals, but to Gale, that all could wait.

give us a day, he thinks, to share in each others company in total comfort.

he pushes open the door and it is not the same apartment they were used to. a simple illusion, mere childs play for him, created a near exact replica of Gale's room back home. the sight almost makes him want to weep. the bookshelves and stacks of tomes, a fire crackling in the hearth, all of his statues and paintings and other such knickknacks exactly where he had left them. artificial sunlight peeks through the door to the terrace with all the warmth of the real thing, but with no risk of harming Astarion.

"Okay. You can open them."

Gale gestures to the room with a flourish, enthusiasm clear in his voice.

It's a pretty late night out for Anda, but restlessness kept them walking and wandering. They could go the scenic route to pick up some cigarettes tonight. (This was never a good time of year for them... Now they can place why.)

("...Oh, that's the pale guy I gave a couple joints to a couple days ago. Hey, man.")

But the momentary distraction at waving to the familiar face across the street was all it took, and there's a resounding CLANG as they walk right into a light pole.

it's a strange feeling, the one he gets in his chest sometimes. it is not a tightness like he might feel on a particularly dour night, but a sharp sting that eventually faded into an ache. the reasoning eluded him for a long while, but he eventually realized it was a sort of phantom pain, an annoyingly painful remnant of the orb. he wasn't actually hurt, but his body remembered it after suffering for so long.

unfair. people were not supposed to remember their hurts.

when the door opens, Gale silently curses. he's sure he's a sight to been seen-- hunched over, gripping his chest. it will pass, he reassures Astarion, it's not even real pain.

"Did you want to be alone?"

hah!

it would be so easy just to say yes. to suffer in silence and by his lonesome (minus Tara, of course) like he had for so long. it's what he deserved, just another reminder of his folly. but times had changed. even if the pain was familiar, his suffering didn't have to be.

he knows he ought to be more careful, but to deny that he could be clumsy would be a complete lie. accidentally hurting himself was commonplace, but he's not sure he'll ever get used to having someone around who can smell when it happens. Astarion practically reacts before Gale even says anything, jumping into action before can even process what's going on.

"It's nothing serious, I assure you. I've had much worse-- Wait. What do you mean?" it takes a moment for him to realize he's not asking how the injury happened, but why, he assumes, his blood smells the way it does. Gale always had a hunch that his affliction caused more alterations to his body than it should have, and this only confirmed it. mingling with the magic in his veins was something darker, a gift from Karsus.

hah. a gift. he thinks not.

despite being the one bleeding, Astarion's laughter and expression makes Gale take pause. he peers at him, a brow raised, using his own hand to cover his wound now.

hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare

the occasional nightmare was to be expected, even bordering on commonplace. they were born from a place of stress, of anxiety, of unprocessed emotion and fear, all of which Gale found himself saddled with a lot of. he liked to think he handled it well on the regular, ever the optimist (he had his moments on the contrary, of course, anyone would agree), but the unconscious mind proved weak. unguarded. untrained.

in his dream he is decaying.

not mentally, but physically falling apart as the hours, minutes, seconds ticked by. the orb in his chest pulsed hungrily, glowing fiercely as the magic stole the life from his body. all he could do was watch as the color seeped from his skin, painful cracks like veins forming from the orb outwards. it was a perfect corruption from the inside out-- and he was powerless to stop it.

it's what he deserved. right? for his mistake. his greed.

no! not like this.

his dream self cries out past the overwhelming taste of bile in his throat and he weakly grabs for the figure hovering just out of reach. Mystra. beautiful, ethereal, unbothered. if she hears him, she doesn't react.

Gale jolts awake, eyes opening to a dark room, gasping for the air his decaying dream self couldn't get enough of. he swallows hard and goes to push his hair from his face only to realize that his arm is being held.

Astarion lays on his side next to him, a pale arm outstretched over Gale's chest and arms, holding him protectively. he wonders briefly if he had been restless, tossing and turning trying to escape his nightmare. the coolness of Astarion's body against his fevered skin feels wonderful and Gale, tired and weak of mind, can only meekly scoot closer.

after the vivid scene of watching, of feeling, his own body deteriorate, the simple act of being held was grounding. Astarion's surprisingly gentle, yet firm arm tucked around him served as a reminder that Gale was still here. still whole, still alive, and much more than the damned orb stuck in his chest.

— AN ASSORTMENT OF DIALOGUE PROMPTS (NOT ACCEPTING)

there is a moment of silence where zevran cannot help but find himself waiting for the inevitable smarmy, vaguely insulting follow-up. he cannot peer into astarion's thoughts, of course, but he knows very well the vampire does not trust him -- or anyone else, for that matter. ( save the wizard, perhaps ) it's never offended him. trust invites danger, and danger is best avoided whenever possible. he feels much the same way, truth be told.

he expects his fellow elf to continue. he does not. zevran is left blinking, uncertain. this is not their usual little game, and any smart quips the assassin should make die on his tongue.

"I would not be so sure," he finally brings himself to speak. there's a tiredness in his words and in his eyes. had astarion truly been wrong about him? it is hard to say. but zevran knows now he has done a great disservice to the vampire, to have ever thought him a mere beast, even in passing.

"Uh, feel… Free?"

If he was just slightly more dazed, he could swear that Astarion sounded like the one who was hurt! Vash smiles up at the other guy—winces—as he tries to prop himself up on his elbows. His good leg folds up for better stability, with the injured one kept still.

Send ⭐️for a headcanon about our muses.

Once they get to a more comfortable, casual level of touch (as in, they move on from slight touches here and there to actual hugs and prolonged touch), Gale does his utmost to convey warmth to Astarion. He's particularly fond of going outside, soaking up the suns heat into his own clothes and skin, and then returning home to hug Astarion. It's silly, but he feels the transfer of warmth is the closest thing to the real deal.