Chapter Text
Astarion sighed as he looked at himself in the mirror.
It had been a while since he’d mustered the courage to take more than a cursory glance. Anyone who had known him before would’ve raised an eyebrow at his uncertainty. He’d always been known to be a vain little bird—humming, preening, passionately perfecting his image, and rewarding the fabulous finished result with a smug grin.
What gazed back at him now was a gaunt, lifeless, loathsome creature—a shadow of the man he once was. Swollen, sleepless eyes studied the hollowed cheekbones from his lack of appetite. An oversized t-shirt hid a body he so very much despised—a body that barely even felt like it was his anymore. Stress had made his wrinkled brow its permanent residence. A tired, haunted look had stolen the stars in his eyes, and an ugly truth he’d been denying for too long was staring him right in the face: his self-neglect was starting to show.
“Are you ready?” Cazador’s voice startled him out of his self-loathing.
“Yes, darling!” Astarion called back with a songlike lilt to his voice. His reflection smiled. Ever the performer, he was—even after his career aspirations had been dashed to the ground many years ago.
Cazador’s hands decorated his shoulders like icy white pauldrons. “You’re so tense!” he tutted. “Loosen up! This game will be a fun new experience for the both of us. We get to pretend to be other people for a few hours, and perhaps you can let your guard down for once and relax.” He exhaled a plume of smoke through his nose. The familiar, awful smell made the pale boy’s insides churn with unpleasant thoughts.
“Of course, you’re already relaxed,” Astarion said, rolling his eyes.
Unlike him, Cazador was a man who did not refuse to admit to his ugly truths. When the pair had first started getting serious, he’d openly confessed to a history of rakish behavior. In a world that had proved itself time and time again to be full of liars, his transparency was a rare gift—and that gift had been enough for Astarion to willingly swallow the sordid admission that he’d been unfaithful to a few of the exes that preceded him without so much as batting an eyelash. He bought the promise that his roving days were over, hook, line, and sinker.
For as much of a recluse as Cazador was, he played the part of “social butterfly” well when the occasion called for one. He was a golden-eyed, honey-tongued enigma, a chameleon who somehow belonged everywhere and to everyone. A room full of strangers could effortlessly be swayed into an alliance within less than an hour in his lofty presence. He exuded a congeniality that seemed so sincere, the slickest of charlatans could only ever hope to mimic it as convincingly. The man always left an impression wherever he went. He had a playful streak. He was the funny one. The mean one, more often than not. But even at his most callous, Cazador maintained his seemingly endless repertoire of friends and social connections.
Astarion, on the other hand, had cut off the world a year prior.
From what he understood about the evening’s engagement, nearly everyone who would be in attendance were old friends of Cazador’s from high school—presumably nerds and socially inept shut-ins willing to leave their basements long enough to play a game together.
Meeting a single new person was as painless as undergoing a root canal. Meeting four or five new people was akin to enduring said root canal unanesthetized. He was tired of getting to know people, especially the sort of company Cazador tended to keep. They always invited fresh disappointment into his life, and he’d had enough of that to fill several lifetimes.
Despite stewing in his discomfort, a childlike curiosity was budding in his heart. Perhaps this game would prove itself an outlet: a chance to put his long-dormant thespian talents to good use. Maybe he would let his guard down and make a friend or two. With this in mind, he slipped into a slightly less baggy t-shirt. First impressions were everything, after all.
“How do I look?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Cazador leaned closer and pressed a chaste kiss upon his temple. His lips slowly worked their way down, gently grazing the skin of his neck. “Flawless,” he breathed, and Astarion shuddered at the sudden heat on his flesh. “Begging to be worshipped.” Long hands with prominent veins slid down the faded cotton shirt, tracing their way down to his chest as his chin rested in the crook of his shoulder. Long, ebony hair draped over his arm. In the mirror, golden eyes scanned him exhaustively. “This shirt makes you look good.”
Maybe too good. Astarion’s shoulders tensed. Thankfully, his reflection didn’t betray the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.
Cazador’s small bouts of jealousy had once flattered him. It made him feel desired. Wanted.
Now, his possessiveness frightened him.
“Who are you trying to look so cute for?”
“You, silly!” Astarion replied all too quickly, desperately searching his voice for any context he could find. Was he being playful? Or accusatory? It’s just a shirt. I didn’t mean to upset you. “I can change if it’s too— ah!”
His sentence was cut short by the sharp pinch of Cazador’s canines dragging against his flesh. He shivered, wishing the pit of his stomach would become a black hole and swallow him whole.
Astarion had told him countless times how much he hated being bitten—or at least, he thought he had.
It didn’t help that when Cazador bit, he bit hard.
“You are perfect, Astarion. I worry that someone else might look at you and steal you away. I’m lucky you’re mine,” he cooed affectionately. He grabbed Astarion’s wrist and kissed the opal ring on his left hand before wrapping his arms around him. “Mine forever.”
Astarion flushed as he leaned into his lover’s embrace. All at once, relief flooded his mind. The panic subsided. Taut limbs unwound.
The shirt was fine, after all.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like pushing my buttons, Caz.”
“I wouldn’t do it if you weren’t so cute when I flustered you. It’s so easy to rile you up.”
Before they walked out the door, Astarion took one final look at his face in the mirror.
His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Chapter Text
Like a drizzle of honey lazily trickling into a warm glass of tea, the golden sunset poured into the diner as the couple wandered inside. Business was slow, and the few tables that were occupied consisted of a bustling family of four discussing the start of the school year, and an elderly pair who were already halfway done with their quiet dinner.
Near the center of the room, a man was sitting alone at a large, round table. He was hunched over, deeply absorbed in a textbook, completely lost to the world. A substantial palm supported a slightly greying temple, and his rosy lips parted slightly as he wordlessly read to himself. The fingers of his free hand were tapping out a soft, noiseless rhythm. They danced in time with the dust motes in the sunlight, flitting between the laminate tabletop and a plethora of similarly sized books stacked by his side.
Cazador surveyed the restaurant from the threshold until his narrow gaze swiftly cut through the small crowd, falling with the precision of a guillotine upon the man at the round table. With a step that was both brusque and elegant, he approached, and Astarion followed a few wary paces behind with his head bowed. He glowered at a scuff he hadn’t noticed before on the dark, well-worn leather of his boot while his fiancé invaded the engrossed reader’s peripheral vision with a conspicuous wave and a charitable smile. “Gale!”
Startled, the stranger’s concentration abruptly broke away from his hardback before he smiled back, offering a small, awkward wave of his own. “Ah! Hello!”
Astarion’s eyes darted from his scuffed boot to the peeling edge of the cheap, wood-filled table as Cazador took a seat, only half-listening as the two long lost friends exchanged introductory pleasantries. The stranger’s voice— Gale’s voice—was like a mouthful of deep red wine: low, rich, and pleasantly warm. It was buoyant, if a bit overly plummy. This was the sort of voice one would expect from a beloved teacher, the sort who could convince even the most jaded student to find excitement over their most despised subject.
“Ah, and you must be Cazador's fiancé!” Gale exclaimed, his tone no less jovial when acknowledging his friend’s plus-one.
“I am,” Astarion replied in a dry, sardonic murmur—a stark contrast to the exuberance from across the table.
Undeterred, Gale carried on. “He told me all about you when he last came into the shop!”
“Did he, now? How quaint.”
“Don’t be rude,” Cazador scolded, gesturing towards the chair beside him. “Sit!”
Astarion flashed a thin scowl in protest as he obeyed his partner’s command.
“Now, why don’t you introduce yourself, my pet?”
He rolled his eyes before unmooring them from Cazador’s foxlike, grinning face, begrudgingly dragging his line of sight to meet Gale’s.
As their voyage ended, his breath hitched in his throat.
Despite the few star-like strands of premature greys that peppered his beard and his wavy brown hair, he was young. Handsome. His olive skin bathed in the silken sunlight from the window, cruelly interrupted by the slats of the open shade. His was a face worthy of devoted study—it would take hours of dedication to ponder how softly his smile fell upon it, how the rounded apples of his cheeks made his brown eyes crinkle ever so slightly as they rose…
“I’m Gale. Gale Dekarios,” he said, regarding the pale boy with an earnest smile. Even his surname conjured fanciful images: scenes of him indulging in cured meats and fried halloumi while reading his book undisturbed, luxuriating by the clear, blue Mediterranean sea, far, far away from the cracked streets and rundown buildings that plagued the sun-bleached small town they lived in. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
He barely managed to squeak out his own introduction. “My name’s Astarion.”
The brunette extended his arm across the table, and before Astarion knew what he was doing, his palm was clasped in his, and they shook hands. It was so businesslike a gesture that it caught him off guard. A handshake seemed too formal for a casual meeting at a diner. But the lingering touch of Gale’s hand radiated comfortable heat, and for as averse to touch as he usually was, Astarion found himself taking his time pulling away from his grasp.
“Apologies,” Gale smiled sheepishly as their hands unlinked. “I’m usually better at this.”
“No need to apologize,” Astarion muttered, retracting his unblinking eyes and holding his own cold hand underneath the table, seeking traces of residual warmth. How on earth had Cazador come to know such a soft and friendly person? Gale radiated the sort of scholarly air he was always keen to mock.
Cazador’s derisive laughter rattled him from the sanctity of his thoughts. “You’ll have to forgive my little dove,” he tutted. “The boy’s quite shy, you know. Unsociable. Had to practically drag him out the door earlier, kicking and screaming, poor thing”
“Unsociable? That’s not true, I—!” Astarion spat, before a less-than-gentle squeeze of his thigh silenced his protests. He quickly collected himself and turned to Gale, now wearing a larkish smirk. “I’m simply… selective about who deserves for me to lavish my attention upon them.”
Gale quirked an eyebrow, humming through his unfaltering smile. “Well then. I hope I can hold up to your lofty estimations.” His smooth voice was laden with a hint of something surprisingly coltish—sarcasm, maybe?
It didn’t matter how caustic or arrogant Astarion might have come across. The man’s tone remained obstinately kind . He wasn’t sure whether to feel endeared or annoyed by it.
Gale turned his attention to the server who had approached the table’s edge to take their order. He timidly explained that they were still waiting on a few people who were running late. Polite agreeableness seemed to come naturally to him.
And why wouldn’t it? Not everyone had grown up nursing on clusters of ice from the resentful barbs of a mother who would have preferred a less flagrantly effeminate son. Not everyone’s father preferred the company of alcohol to his child’s.
“Hey!” A booming voice cleaved Astarion’s thoughts in twain, towering over most of the patrons in the diner. A broad-shouldered, imposing woman with a huge grin on her sweat-laden face sprinted over to their table, which shook as she planted herself in the seat adjacent to Gale’s. As she leaned over to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, her duffel bag hit the ground with a heavy thud.
“Karlach!” Gale wheezed over her shoulder, gently patting her on the back. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Gale. It’s been too long!” she squealed, before curiously glancing over at the other two. “And who’re your devilishly handsome friends over here?”
Cazador offered her a lukewarm smile in return. “I’m—”
“—first timers, eh?” Karlach interrupted, finally releasing Gale from her tight embrace. “Excited to roll some dice?”
“Quite.” Cazador’s smile turned slightly colder, its edges pulled down by a subtle twitch that only Astarion seemed to perceive. “I think I—”
“—I know I am! Gods, I’m chomping at the bit to see what you two come up with!”
“Likewise,” he responded, notably peeved despite the convincing remnants of his cordial simper. “I recall meeting you back in high school once or twice.”
“Oh? Sorry you did. I was a wild kid—brawling my way through school. A knock-kneed delinquent. Fell into the wrong crowd. ‘Fraid I don’t remember you,” Karlach confessed.
“I doubt you would,” he replied forgivingly. “We were little more than acquaintances. I’m Cazador, and this nerd over here is my fiancé.”
“Fiancé? Aw! Aren’t you the cutest couple? How’d you two meet?” Karlach’s fist sank gently into her cheek, and her excitement cooled as she drifted off into a romantic daydream.
Now that she was finally sitting still, Astarion was able to get a better look at her.
Unlike Gale, Karlach matched his expectations when it came to the sort of company Cazador usually liked to keep around. There was something rugged about her. Rough-and-tumble. Intimidating —though Astarion was fine with that. She had dark hair, and the sides of her head had been neatly shaved. Her unruly fringe boasted a few prominent streaks of fiery red. Although the initial volume of her voice gave the impression that it was just as imposing as she was, Astarion had to admit that there was something gentle to be found in its smokiness as he listened to her idly chatting with the others. Her face was strikingly soft compared to her well-built physique. Pretty, even. An eyebrow ring—one of the many silver piercings that graced her handsome countenance—caught a glint of the setting sun, and its radiance flooded her eyes like hot honey.
He thought their eyes had met for a fraction of a second, and suddenly nervous that he’d been caught staring for too long, Astarion tore himself away and fixed his eyes on the condiments at the center of the table. There was half a bottle of ketchup, and the label on the mustard resembled cracked pavement. The standard-issue salt and pepper shakers had recently been refilled. Sticky pancake syrup had congealed on the lid of its grotty dispenser.
He peered over at Cazador apprehensively. He was always watching, always waiting for a reason to chastise him—but thankfully, he seemed more interested in regaling his hyperbolized rendition of how and where they’d first met to patrol his every movement.
Once his sense of security was restored, Astarion resumed his cautious appraisal of Karlach, now tapping away at her phone. His eyes trailed down her neck until the sight of a raised cluster of ridged burn scars halted them dead in their tracks. Like winding, russet canyons, the textured scalds covetously coiled across the muscled landscape of her upper arm. Not wanting to be rude, he quickly shifted his attention to the large tattoo sleeve on her left arm. It was a simple geometric pattern, taking up most of the canvas of her dusky biceps. The line work was surprisingly clean, illustrated by a deft hand, far better than what he was used to seeing in this neighborhood.
“Like what you see?” Karlach’s warm, gravelly voice jolted Astarion from his unsubtle gawking.
“It’s lovely, darling!” he stuttered. Still rattled, he looked askance to make sure he wasn’t being watched. To his relief, Cazador was still deep in conversation with Gale. “I didn’t mean to stare,” he whispered.
“No harm done! I’d’ve stared too if I were you.” Karlach reassured with a toothy grin and a hearty laugh. “Now, where’re my manners? I’m Karlach. And you are…?”
“Astarion,” he answered, mortified that he’d been caught staring (and mildly irked that Cazador kept leaving his name out of introductions to force him to mingle.)
“Well met, soldier.” She lightly traced the edges of the shapes spanning across her brawny bicep. “Now that we’re old pals, I hope you don’t mind if I gush a bit.”
Realizing that she wasn’t upset with him, the lingering tension in his shoulders finally began to unwind. “Go right ahead, darling.”
Karlach beamed. “I got it done just last month. I’m obsessed with just how neat and fine all the lines came out! Hopefully, they won’t blow out too badly later. The artist said I could come in anytime to get it retouched, which is pretty cush. Do you have any?”
“Tattoos?” Astarion shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Do you want any?” asked Karlach.
He shrugged. “Maybe someday. Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to get.”
“Then don’t rush it, mate. Hoo, boy, I’ve got a hell of a lot of mistakes from a decade ago that I’m still trying to cover up…I wish I’d waited a bit before settling for scratcher tatts and basement stick-and-pokes. If you ever want any ink— good ink—Mama K’ll steer you right.”
“Thank you,” Astarion said, smiling cordially. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Please do! It’d be so nice to have someone else to talk to about getting bitten by the tattoo bug. They’re addictive! Even—” Karlach abruptly stopped herself mid-speech before shifting in her seat and leaning closer. She hid her mouth behind her palm and gestured towards Gale. “Even he’s got one!” she whispered. “Always wondered where he had it done…”
Surprised, Astarion’s sociable smile twisted into an impish, scandalized grin. “Hold on— him? A tattoo?”
“Not too loud!” Karlach shushed, simultaneously answering his query with an affirmative nod.
“You’re joking!” he whispered, looking over at Gale with renewed interest. Though he may have been trying to pretend he hadn’t heard their gossiping, he guiltily averted his gaze, and his chubby cheeks burned a bright crimson.
“He’s a bit shy about it. Doesn’t really talk about it much. Must be personal.”
Hm, he thought. Perhaps the apparent Boy Scout has the makings of a bad boy after all .
Suddenly, Karlach’s phone pinged. “Oh, hold on! That’s gotta be Jen,” she paused to read the text message she’d just received, before quickly adding, “—she’s my girlfriend. She just parked the car.” She twirled her hair in her fingers, further exposing the streaks of bright red to the dying light of the evening sun. “She’s a hairstylist. I’m sure she’ll want to know everything about how you get your hair so white!”
Like clockwork, a short woman clad in black entered the restaurant. Her long, pin-straight hair was (presumably) dyed the darkest shade available on the market. Her bangs were well-trimmed, cutting a severe line right above her brows, and an old, faded scar ran parallel across half her face, ending past the bridge of her nose. She had a look of slight annoyance on her face as she took her place next to her boisterous partner, and didn’t say anything at all. She pierced through Astarion with her large, olive eyes, and for a brief moment in time, it seemed as though they had linked telepathically.
You got dragged into this, too, didn’t you? her eyes seemed to sigh.
As she greeted the others with her thin, sparrow-like voice, he tried to imagine what her Spotify playlist might’ve looked like. The Cure, perhaps? London After Midnight? The Smiths, without question.
After breaking away from the tight squeeze of Karlach’s hug (which was evidently a beloved trademark of hers), the woman pulled a black binder covered in holographic stickers from her purse. She cracked it open, gingerly sliding a double-sided paper out of its sheet protector and handing it to Gale, who began to read it intently.
“A cleric?” he remarked with a dark, playful chuckle. “Well, thank goodness for that! We’re going to need one.” His eyes scanned each line with rapt attention. Astarion gleaned that either Jen was a talented writer, or Gale was too ardent a reader. Once he reached the end of the page, a small smile crossed his face as he passed the paper back to her, humming as he mused to himself.
“Well?” she asked softly, carefully returning it to its sleeve. “What do you think?”
“I can work with this. What an intriguing character you’ve made! Excellent backstory,” he praised. “I applaud your enthusiasm, as always, Jen.”
The girl visibly cringed at the sound of her name leaving Gale’s lips, but she attempted to hide her distaste behind a sly smile. “I figured I’d just have that ready so I could maybe help some of the newcomers roll up their stats.”
“Your aid is always appreciated,” Gale smiled.
Jen turned to face Cazador and Astarion. “You must be the new blood.”
“I suppose that we are,” Cazador sniffed. “Cazador Szarr. I don’t believe we’ve ever met before.”
“We haven’t. I went to a different school. I only met Gale and everyone else right when Karlach and I started dating,” she admitted. “You can call me Shadowheart.”
“Shadowheart?” Through the veneer of his chivalrous demeanor, Astarion could see that Cazador was struggling to keep a straight face. Despite his best efforts, he felt his own lips beginning to curl upward.
“Yes, Shadowheart,” she repeated, gravely serious. “That’s my character’s name. This way, you won’t struggle to remember it later when we’re playing the game. And you are?”
Astarion stumbled through yet another clunky, one-word introduction, and their minds intertwined once more. As if she could sense how overwhelmed he was, Shadowheart cast him a sympathetic look and didn’t pry further. In an act of clemency, she began a conversation with Karlach, releasing him from the social burden of making small talk.
Once he was sure she was out of earshot, Cazador whispered, “Shadowheart? It’s giving Warrior Cats. ”
Astarion could hardly disguise his mirth. “You’re such a dick, Caz.”
His lover shrugged, a shit-eating grin plastered on his wan face. Astarion braced himself for his oft-repeated catchphrase: “It’s funny.”
Gale cleared his throat, and the table fell silent. “I wanted to thank you all for attending our ‘session zero.’ We’ve got a healthy mix here in terms of experience. A few of you are returning veterans—though I know it’s been quite a while since the last time we’ve played—but there are also quite a few new faces here, so I’ll do my best to keep everything balanced. It seems we’ll have a full party gathered, for once, which is most excellent!”
“Fuck yes!” Karlach interjected.
“Our other two players are also new to Dungeons & Dragons—Wyll and Lae’zel, from my college’s Gaming Club. They’re just as eager to begin our adventure, but unfortunately, they both had prior commitments. I’ve already met with them to discuss their characters, so it’s just the four of us tonight.”
As if on cue, the server returned to the table and quickly jotted down everyone’s order. Astarion kept his dwindling bank account in mind when he ordered the cheapest appetizer on the menu with a glass of water.
As the rest of the group began to banter and gossip about the goings-on of their collegiate and high-school-era escapades, he felt himself drifting off into space, even when Cazador candidly shared a few juicy anecdotes—something he rarely did. He did his best to pay attention, made every effort to stay engaged, but he soon shrunk into his corner of the table and began to daydream about what sort of character he wanted to play…
“I’m surprised that Lae’zel is joining us,” Shadowheart’s nose crinkled slightly. “How’d you get her to tear away from painting her Warhammer minis long enough to build a character?”
“Be nice, babe,” Karlach warned, sensing the rumblings of a potential earthquake breaking through her partner’s deceptively temperate demeanor. “But, to be fair, who I’m really surprised to see here is Wyll. Asked me about my character at the gym the other day. He never really struck me as the gamer type, but lord,” she sighed exasperatedly, “is that man obsessed with Zelda—oh, finally! Looks like our drinks are here!!”
Astarion sat quietly as all these unfamiliar names cavorted across the table. He eyed the ice within his new glass of water, watching it melt. The whole group was draining his social battery, and fast. Cazador once again firmly squeezed his knee under the table and gave him a stern, annoyed look he knew well. Astarion flashed a grin that was almost all canines, decided to put his energy into making as much eye contact as possible, and played the part of “extroverted socialite” as well as he could muster.
He knew he liked Shadowheart almost immediately. Her snark and wit were unparalleled, and she was the easiest to banter with. Like a shot of fire whisky, Karlach was a bit too much for him to down all at once, so he did his best to take her in through the smallest of doses.
But he couldn’t stop glancing back at Gale. Of everybody at the diner that night, he seemed to carry the most prominent air of mystery in this group. Sure, he seemed nice, exceedingly kind, almost predictably, annoyingly so—and as the night wore on, he revealed himself to be extremely intelligent, attending the local community college—but Astarion’s mind burned with new questions as they came up.
What did he study?
What shop did he say he’d met Cazador at again?
Where was this mysterious tattoo Karlach was talking about?
At one point, while everyone else was fielding character ideas at one another, he swore he caught Gale Dekarios looking down at his drink in much the same manner as he had earlier, seemingly lost in thought as the ice dissolved.
Notes:
I really hope I was able to characterize everyone well enough! I realize I’ve written myself into a corner with Shadowheart using a “fictional” name, since everyone else is planning on playing the origin characters…save for Cazador, of course.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 3
Notes:
TW for a body horror nightmare sequence. It's found in the paragraph that follows the first mention of flowers.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The delicate plucking of lute strings filled the sunlit chamber. Astarion’s voice soon followed, echoing from the vaulted ceilings as it cajoled and flirted with the tune that sprang up from the luthier’s skilled hands.
Then, as if transported by some magical force, he found himself standing on the edge of a grand stage, gazing at a mass of darkened faces through the limelight that had taken the place of the sun. The solo lute accompanied his aria, its plaintive strings grieving beside him as he wept over his fatally wounded lover. Hot tears burned his face as he sang, and after his final crescendo rang out into the noiseless hall, the audience’s stunned silence soon erupted into raucous applause. He soaked it up with a beatific smile.
After the rest of his fellow musicians took their bows and returned backstage, they embraced him, excitedly praising his technique in the third act. They told him how proud of him they were.
Blissfully, he beamed, his starved ego appeased by their effusive affirmations.
He was beautiful. He was talented. He was loved.
His hand reached up against his neck. The cold steel of the ring that sat loosely above his collarbones greeted him like an old friend.
His smile faded, succumbing to a crushing wave of bitterness.
Then darkness.
Then flowers.
It was as though they were growing from within him, suffocating him. He tried to hack them up and spit them out, but before he could, he was mercilessly pinned to the ground by a mess of vines. Thorns shredded his vocal cords, and the metallic taste of warm blood began to pool in his throat. His lungs grew heavy with iron. He couldn’t breathe.
A familiar panic welled up in Astarion’s chest, though he knew it was foolish to be afraid. In half a decade, this dream had always ended the same way, every time. He should have been numb to the fear by now. The belief he could change or control it somehow should have long been abandoned.
Nevertheless, he tried.
He grappled against his frozen mind, fighting to claw his way out before the sound of his discordant screams finally strangled him.
“Hey, are you alright there?”
Astarion awoke with a start, wrested from the void’s clutches by the fleeting touch of a warm hand gently shaking his shoulder. As his eyes adjusted, the world slowly came back into focus. The inchoate smear of lights overhead became the comforting glow of a Tiffany lamp. Gale hovered over him with a furrowed brow.
They were still at the diner.
Bleary-eyed (and mortified that he’d fallen asleep in public), he looked past the larger man’s shoulder at the window. It was pitch black out.
“Shit,” Astarion stifled a yawn against his curled fist, his ears burning with embarrassment. “How long was I asleep?”
“Only half an hour, or so,” Gale said quietly. His brown eyes were full of sympathy. “But don’t fret! Cazador made me aware of your circumstances. Must be stressful, managing two jobs.”
My circumstances? Astarion wanted to shrivel up and die right then and there. What hadn’t Cazador told these strangers about his life at this point? And where was he?
Perplexed, he scanned the restaurant for any sign of his fiancé, but it was empty aside from Gale and another couple dining in a booth on the other side of the hall. Their table had mostly been cleared, save for the remnants of the syrup-laden pancakes Gale was picking at, and his own half-eaten mozzarella sticks. Had Cazador abandoned him here? His eyes darted back to Gale’s, silently pleading for answers.
“The girls stepped out maybe ten minutes ago,” Gale explained. “I wager they’re probably outside hotboxing in Jen’s car—no, sorry,” he grinned. “Shadowheart’s car.”
“Where’s Cazador?” Astarion asked hoarsely.
“He left with them.”
“Of course,” he sighed, staring daggers at the blank, slightly crumpled character sheet he’d fallen asleep on. It wasn’t unusual for Cazador to skulk out of their apartment late at night to smoke in his car. The opportunity to get high on someone else’s dime had been presented to him on a silver platter, and Astarion couldn’t fathom a single universe where his fiancé would readily turn down such an enticing invitation. Not even if it meant leaving him in the hands of a complete stranger, vulnerable and unconscious.
A shiver ran down his spine. Cazador knew he hated being left alone with anyone, save for one or two trustworthy exceptions.
“Are you alright?” Gale asked. “Cold?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Astarion said abruptly. Beneath the table, he tugged at his t-shirt, wringing fistfuls of cotton fabric in his clenched hands. “Just tired.”
Gale’s expression softened. “I’m sorry for waking you,” he began timidly. “I was just typing up some notes for the game. I figured I’d keep quiet and let you sleep, but you looked like you were having a bad dream, so I—”
“Well, I’m awake now,” Astarion murmured, unable to suppress his annoyance. “So why don’t we just get character creation over with? I had a fun little idea, and I wanted to run it by you first in case it’s too much —”
“You know, we don’t have to do this now if you’d rather rest,” Gale interjected, gesturing towards his pile of books as he spoke. “Your health is more important than pen and paper, any day. I can drive you home.”
Astarion had grown to expect hollow platitudes from pitying strangers at best—malicious intent at worst. But there was a calculable weight in Gale’s words, and it passed as genuine concern to a bewildering degree. His hands loosened, unballing from the hem of his shirt. Pretending he was unaffected by his kindness, he leaned across the table to steal one of his pencils. “I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary. I’m alright. I swear.”
“Alright,” Gale agreed, only slightly visibly bothered by Astarion’s act of petty theft. “Let us begin.”
“Again, feel free to tell me if this idea of mine is too fantastical.”
“‘Too fantastical?’” he asked amusedly. “In a D&D game? Try me.”
Astarion smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Is that a challenge?”
“I’m sure very little will phase me after hearing Karlach’s whopper of a backstory tonight. I appreciate her pluck, but this adventure is intended for levels one through five, mind you. Starting at level one. So if your character is already an epic, storied adventurer, I need a good reason why their skills may have significantly atrophied. So…who are you?”
Astarion cleared his throat. He’d cleared so many auditions before. Sung for hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. Why, then, was he so nervous to speak here, in the comforting silence of this nearly empty restaurant? Sure, he didn’t like talking to strangers, but there was something about this one that caused his brain to call for a ceasefire from its usual state of war-torn turmoil. He could breathe around him, if he allowed himself to.
Finally, he said, “I thought it’d be fun to play a rogue. Elven. Noble background, maybe?”
He’d spoken in barely a whisper, but Gale, seemingly attuned to his shyness, leaned close enough to catch every word.
“Hm. Took you for a bard, myself,” he grinned. “My mistake.”
“I mean, you wouldn’t be wrong,” Astarion admitted. “I studied music. I found myself taken with Baroque opera and chamber music, specifically. Mythological plays. It was my heart’s soul desire—all I ate and breathed and slept for years.”
He cringed at the sound of his own voice. Why was he telling him all of this? They both lived in a small town in the middle of nowhere with a community college. Why would anyone care about a B.A. in such a niche discipline—much less one he’d abandoned?
“Really?” Gale shifted in his seat, his eyes wide as saucers. “So did I! I’ve been playing guitar for over twenty years!”
With that, the first of many fortified walls came crumbling down. “Oh?!”
“Yes! Nothing quite as fancy as your Baroque repertoire, I’m sure, but the artistry and love is just as present in both our styles. There’s just something about performing music that feels like…” Gale trailed off, as if he’d been caught in the snare of a passing daydream. He watched him pull a strand of his long hair away from his eyes, tucking it gently behind his ear. His greys glittered like shooting stars.
Intrigued, Astarion cocked his head. “Like?”
“Like I’m making magic.”
He couldn’t help but notice how bashful Gale looked. Melancholy lived in the creases of his brow, neighboring a wistfulness that Astarion was painfully acquainted with.
“You don’t ‘make magic’ anymore?” he asked.
Gale shook his head. “Not as much as I probably should. You know, to keep my skills sharp. No, I’ve decided to forgo the life of a performer to teach instead. Passing the torch, so to speak.” He was smiling earnestly.
Astarion was baffled by how cheery his tone was. Losing his career had been the final crushing blow in a series of crushing blows. For Gale, it sounded like it may as well have been another Tuesday. Then again, he honestly did seem to be the type to have the right temperament for teaching. The curtain hadn’t fallen on Gale as it had for him.
“You don’t sing anymore?” The same arrow of a question carried a different weight when it was aimed straight at his heart.
Astarion sighed and decided to do what he was best at. Dodge. Deflect.
“Karlach said you have a tattoo?”
He could tell from the pained look on Gale’s face that he probably shouldn’t have asked. He'd opened a wound he hadn't meant to.
“Fine. Keep your secrets.” Gale sighed, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his seat. “Just afford me a few of my own, thank you. Back to the matter at hand—and the questions that matter.” Intrigue was beginning to navigate his brow again. “Why’s a noble going around picking locks and pockets?”
“It’s a ruse,” Astarion grinned, quite pleased with himself—both for successfully eluding the question and at the cleverness he didn’t realize he’d had when dreaming up this confounding rogue. “Who would you suspect if you found your coin purse any lighter? Surely not the handsome rake dressed in fine clothes!”
Gale leaned forward just as suddenly as he’d leaned back. “I like it. It’s a funny idea. Brilliant even. But why? Has he fallen out of favor? Was he disowned? Cut out from the will? Just bored, like a suburban housewife who takes to shoplifting to feel alive again?”
“He was murdered.”
Gale blinked incredulously. “Okay. Interesting. Love that we’re shooting for the moon our first time playing.” His words sounded encouraging enough, but Astarion could tell there was a little apprehension behind it. “I suppose I could homebrew something for you or look up alternate rules online. Have you considered what type of undead you might be? A revenant? Zombie?”
“A vampire,” He pouted his lips and pleaded with his eyes. Vampire fiction had always appealed to him, and the chance of getting to play one, slim as it may have been, was too great a risk not to take. “Or is that too much?”
Gale’s lips tightened. He turned to his satchel (goodness, it looked so heavy) and pulled out a few extra books. Astarion read the spines as well as he could. Curse of Strahd. Monster Manual.
“Didn’t think I’d need that one, but I’m glad I brought it,” Gale muttered, pointing at Strahd. “But let’s start with what the manual says about vampires.” With a deft hand, he thumbed through the book until he found the page he was looking for. His eyes pored over a few more pages as though they were starving for knowledge, then looked up to meet Astarion’s hopeful gaze.
“I can't believe I'm saying this, but I’ll allow it—”
“Yes!” Astarion was so overjoyed that he almost leaped out of his chair.
“— with some conditions.” Gale’s tone was playful but stern. “We can't have you biting our party members or allies, for one.”
Astarion huffed. “I can be a vegetarian. Interview with the Vampire did it. Shit, Twilight did it. I can't see why I, too, can't rely on wildlife for sustenance if it means saving the precious necks of our heroes.”
Gale’s laughter startled him at first. It was childlike, and it quickly took over his entire face. His eyes crinkled, and as the laughter subsided, he put a hand to his eye to wipe away a tear. “Twilight was shit. I hope you know that.”
“And here I thought you were cool,” Astarion said in mock surprise. “You wound me. Besides, what if someone wants me to bite them? What if they let me?”
“Then they're a fool,” Gale said softly. “You’re funny, Astarion. We’ll have to make sure we can play around with it and make it manageable for both of us. All of us.” He paused and took a sip of his water. “Here’s the second condition. Your character will be a vampire spawn rather than a true vampire. Having one of those in our party would be more than a bit—what's the word, overpowered? A spawn would still have trouble simply keeping up in the sunlight, but I’ll try and figure out the specifics of your survival later. Baldur’s Gate is a long way from the comforts of dark, gloomy Barovia, after all.”
Astarion stared blankly at Gale. The Lord of the Rings quote he’d spouted earlier should’ve been enough to tip him over, but what the fuck was Barovia? Gods above, this man was a huge nerd. It was adorable.
“Just a joke, and not a very good one, it seems. We can get you up to speed on Faerun’s vampire lore later. My third condition is that you don't play an evil character. Please. The fate of the realm hangs in the balance, and you are meant to be one of the heroes of this story.”
Astarion sighed. “I’ll do the best I can—which is morally grey. He won't be a simpering, self-loathing vampire apologist, but he won't kill everyone we encounter, either. He's a monster, but not a monster.”
Gale nodded. “I can get behind that. Now that that’s done let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s he like, personality-wise?”
“Well, he’s beautiful, for one. He’s outwardly charming and seductive in the sort of way vampires often tend to be. He knows how to mingle well with others. He’s an expert at flirting. He’s desirable, disarming, has a high body count—”
Gale giggled. “Yep. Called it. You should’ve been a bard.”
“I didn’t tell you if I was referring to paramours or corpses.” Astarion winked playfully. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“Maybe it’s both?” Gale feigned disgust, but his poker face was so weak that Astarion saw the joy threatening to overcome him in their revelry. “Gross. At least he’s a confident killer and/or lover.”
“But it’s all a lie, though! He doesn’t feel like he’s being authentic at any point in his life. What if he’s living his life by a vampire playbook of sorts? Every person he charms is just like the last. Rinse and repeat. Just a monster, meeting expectations and trying to survive his curse.”
“Meeting expectations,” Gale pondered. “Or just following orders? If you’re playing a spawn, we could build upon that further. After all, he wasn’t born that way. Someone took his humanity, whether he wanted them to or not. Perhaps his maker had reasons for him to be so beguiling.”
“A Lestat to his Louis?” Astarion chimed in.
Gale smiled wide. “I like where your head’s at.”
The tinkling of bells disrupted their conversation as Cazador, Karlach, and Shadowheart walked through the front door. The girls were engrossed in conversation, collapsing in heaps of laughter every few moments. Cazador made his way straight to the table.
“Sorry for keeping you, Gale.” He turned his attention to Astarion and reached his hand down to stroke his silver curls. His shoulders tensed. Had he really been so relaxed this whole time? “Poor thing. I didn’t realize how thin you’d worn yourself this week. Let’s get you home. You have work in the morning.”
Astarion smiled at him bitterly. He had work every morning. His eyes met Gale’s for a brief moment. “Thank you for letting me make the choices I’ve made thus far…questionable as they might’ve been.” He feigned a smile and winked, but despite his best efforts, he was sure his eyes still betrayed his exhaustion.
“Here. Let me take down your number. I’ll send you the rest of the questions. Aside from that, I have some homework for you. I’d like you to write your backstory for me, no more than a page, front to back.”
“Yes, Teacher,” Astarion joked as he wrote his number in the margin of Gale’s notepad.
They collected their belongings. As they left, they said their goodbyes to Shadowheart and Karlach. The latter embraced Astarion in the tightest, warmest hug he’d had in a long while. It felt like sitting in front of a fireplace in a log cabin on a white winter evening—or at least how he imagined it would feel. He'd never seen snow.
Shadowheart wasn't as touchy. “It was nice meeting you, Astarion. You’ll get the hang of this in no time.” He could've sworn he saw a smile cross her lips, but only for an instant. She took a step closer to him. “You’ll have to tell me how you got your hair so light! I've wanted to go platinum for ages, but my hair is so dark that I'm scared of damaging it, even with my expertise.”
“What would you say if I told you it was natural?” Astarion smirked.
Shadowheart returned the smirk in kind. “I’d call you a liar. And not a very good one. You need a touch-up.”
I knew I liked you, he thought.
He looked over at Gale, who was packing the final book into his satchel. He noticed Astarion’s eyes on him and waved. It was a small gesture. He waved back. Smaller still.
As they made their way to their car in the nearly abandoned parking lot, Cazador scoffed as he shuffled into the driver’s seat. “Yes, teacher,” he mocked. His eyes, glazed and red, crinkled up in amusement as he chuckled. He turned to the silver-haired man with a look that the latter could only describe as haughty superiority.
“You’re not funny.”
“I know,” Astarion said as he buckled up his seat belt. It had been drilled into his head repeatedly over the last two years. You're not funny. The first time Cazador had said it, it had hurt his feelings. After the thousandth time, he spent an excessive amount of time wondering if he had ever been funny.
The engine roared to life. He focused on the golden wash of streetlights bathing the road, trying to distract himself from Cazador’s words. The neon lights of gas stations and other cars were racing through the streaked window like shooting stars. His mind drifted to the shooting stars in Gale’s hair. He'd laughed like a small boy at something insignificant he'd said. He couldn't even remember what was so funny. Just that his laughter was like music.
Like magic.
You're not funny.
Well shit, he smiled, accepting defeat as he slipped into sleep again.
At least I made him laugh.
Chapter Text
The evening was surprisingly crisp as Astarion approached Wyll Ravengard’s house, a few steps ahead of Cazador as he finished locking up the car. He was stunned by the undisclosed affluence of their fellow player’s family. By his lover’s account, Wyll was always a tad shy in most social interactions. He'd always had some extracurricular pursuits that might've betrayed his station sooner if he'd had a clue: lacrosse, fencing, ballroom dancing—hells, even a calligraphy class. He peeked back at Cazador’s clunky old Nissan Altima, safe in its guest spot, looking comically out of place in a sea of Audis and BMWs.
Astarion gently tapped the bronze door knocker. It sounded so good against the rich wood—oak, mahogany, walnut? He didn’t know, but whatever it was, it was resonant, echoing up to the ceiling of the enclosed porch.
Cazador rolled his eyes. “You know they have a doorbell, right?”
“I know. I've just always wanted to do that,” Astarion muttered sheepishly.
“You’re such a dork.”
The door opened slowly, revealing a tall, brown-skinned man. He was slender but muscular, and his winsome face glowed with an endearing, warm smile that could’ve easily given Karlach a run for her money. “Hail, and well met, my lords.” He gave a slight bow. “Come in! Make yourselves at home.”
Astarion followed behind Cazador cautiously, taking in the surroundings of the entryway. The living room boasted bookshelves that would’ve rivaled their local library. His eyes darted from spine to spine. Robinson Crusoe. Treasure Island. The Count of Monte Cristo. Someone in this house had an appreciation for the classics. Flawlessly crafted model ships sat forever docked atop the shelves. An intricate grandfather clock stood steadfast in a corner, quietly ticking away. A warm, earthy scent was wafting from the kitchen. A second, sweeter fragrance was mingling with the first. It was faint, but he could’ve sworn it smelled like fresh, oven-baked cookies. Astarion’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten anything that day. The smell of food reminded him just how starved he was.
His fervent adoration of the stately home was interrupted by a calloused hand reaching out to him. “The name’s Wyll. I had a few classes with Cazador in high school, but I don’t think I’ve met you before.”
“I’m Astarion,” he said, accepting the handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He was getting quite good at this whole “introducing oneself” thing, if he did say so himself.
“Only good things, I hope.” Wyll flashed a grin. His teeth were a dentist’s dream—two rows of faultless pearls. Astarion couldn’t help but secretly run his tongue over one of his sharp canines, a tinge of envy blackening his heart. He did his best to swallow it down.
“The best things,” he reassured. “Your house is gorgeous. And the books…it truly is a reader’s paradise here. Beautiful editions, too. Thank you for hosting our game.”
“My pleasure. That’s mostly my old man’s stuff, but he used to read some of them to me when I was a kid. Even if he was away on a business trip, he’d read them over the phone until he thought I was asleep.” Wyll’s eyes closed wistfully as if he were trying to savor a memory that was just out of reach. “Honestly, adventure stories were always my favorite. The monomyth, the hero’s journey—I eat it up, every time. The Odyssey was one of my favorites. What do you enjoy reading, Astarion?”
“Lots and lots of high fantasy smut,” Cazador teased as he approached from behind, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and planting a kiss on his cheek.
Wyll burst into laughter and Astarion could feel his face turn bright red. His eyes met the gilded carpet before they darted their way back to his fiancé’s. “Says the guy who hasn’t read a book since high school.”
Cazador shrugged. “Guilty as charged. Not because I don’t want to. Nothing holds my interest for too long. The fact that I’m engaged to a living vocabulary test probably makes up for that, though.” He smirked and gave Astarion’s shoulder a tight squeeze.
Wyll chuckled. “I find that hard to believe, Caz! You were in my creative writing class. First period, sophomore year. If my memory serves me, you were quite the talented poet! Oh, that reminds me, do you still paint?”
“He does,” Astarion said. Whenever anyone brought up Cazador’s art, it instilled a sense of pride in his partner. He was, above all else, an artist and a storyteller. He used to regale him with tales of the pitch for a series he’d been working on, long abandoned, now just a beautiful dream. He remembered the oil painting he'd done to surprise him when they had just started dating. It was a portrait, a touching gift that had made him weep when he'd received it. It'd been a while since it had crossed his mind. He wondered what happened to that canvas.
Wyll turned his attention to Astarion. “I’m glad to hear that! I’m also glad that I won't be the only newbie at the table. And congratulations on your engagement! You two seem to be a great match.”
Just then, the timer in the kitchen went off. “Oh, Gale must be done with the stew. Lae’zel is there too. You should come say hi!”
Astarion and his stomach were fighting over which of the two was more eager to get into the kitchen.
It was, of course, just as luscious as the rest of the house. There was a rustic feel about it—there were real wooden floors and reclaimed wooden cabinets with bronze door handles. Exposed beams and hanging lanterns were suspended above them. The finest copper pots and pans hung on a rack over the sink. A basket full of tiny garlic bread loaves sat tantalizingly on one of the counters, spiking Astarion’s hunger more than the myriad of delightful smells in this room could ever hope to. He was fighting every urge to grab one and shove it in his mouth.
And there, standing by the large center island stirring a simmering pot of beef stew, was Gale. His hair was tied back, a few roving strands having made their way free from their bonds. He was bedecked in a royal purple apron. A few patches were embroidered on the front pocket—most notably, a wizard’s hat and a D20 die. He beamed in recognition. “Hey there, you two. Ready to save the world? Or die horrible, fictional deaths?”
“Yes, please, end my suffering,” Cazador joked.
“Save me from this capitalist nightmare, oh merciful God,” Astarion joined in, basking in his irreverence.
Gale put his hand up to his brow, playing up his exasperation. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. You’ll live if you don’t make idiotic decisions at my table.”
“Well, guess we’re fucked, then, aren’t we Cazador?” Astarion grinned, gazing at his partner through half-lidded eyes.
“We sure are, baby doll,” Cazador replied, stroking his cheek. “We’re the kings of making bad decisions.”
Wyll cleared his throat. “I hate to break up this beautiful love triangle you’ve all clearly got going on here, but where’s Lae’zel? I thought she was here in the kitchen with you?”
“Oh!” Gale exclaimed, suddenly remembering that he’d failed to introduce them all. “She was. We were spending a bit of time going over some language-based roleplay. I’ve never played a githyanki before, nor have I ever DMed one—they’re kind of like space aliens with fairly untraceable origins—so I went the extra mile and drafted up a little Tir vocabulary list for her character to use. I think she may already be at the dinner table, practicing. She’s really into it!”
Another ding. “Oh! The cookies must be ready. You two should go over to the table and say hi to Lae’zel, I’ll bring the goods out there for you. Karlach and Shadowheart are five minutes away.” Gale turned around, donned a pair of red oven mitts, and pulled out a rack of chocolate chip cookies. They looked picture-perfect.
As they walked out of the kitchen, Cazador had already engaged him in a conversation about how excited he was about his character, but as Astarion took one last look over at the rack of cooling cookies, he couldn’t help but notice a twinge of sadness slowly creeping up on Gale’s face. He turned to Wyll and sighed. “Sorry, they’re not homemade. That was always her specialty. Remember the pictures I showed you from when she made us a cake that looked like a mimic for our last campaign? Or the little sugar cookies that she painstakingly painted icosahedrons on that she brought to the gaming club that one time? She was amazing. I can’t compete.”
Wyll’s eyebrows turned up in sympathy for his friend. He reached out a hand and gave him a pat on the back. “Maybe baking was her thing, but if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that your stew always slaps.” A small smile crept up on Wyll’s face. “Besides, I’ve never heard anyone complain about cookies fresh out of the oven, store-bought or not. We’re here for you, Gale.”
Cazador cleared his throat, trying to recapture Astarion’s attention. “Daydreaming? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
“I have?” Astarion murmured. His mind had been feeling especially foggy as of late. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. You’re fine,” he said in a saccharine sweet voice. “My sweet, spacey boy.” He kissed his forehead gently.
“Chk. Get a room, istik.”
A sudden, acerbic voice startled them. They immediately searched the room for its source when suddenly, Astarion spotted her. A small face was peeking up from behind the couch. She sprang up from her sitting position, setting her notes down on the coffee table. The woman was tiny and nimble, sporting an angular, freckled face and a small, slender nose. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. Her physique was modelesque, muscular—had it not been for her height, there would’ve been no doubt that she would be on some catwalk in Milan instead of playing Dungeons & Dragons with them.
“I do not know either of you.” She bored into the pair with her hazel eyes. For such a lithe, limber person, her voice had an intensely gruff, stilted edge. “I am Lae’zel. By process of elimination, I assume you are Cazador and Astarion.”
“You assume correctly,” Cazador smiled coquettishly.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Astarion held out his hand. She did not even glance at his hand. It went untouched, and he retracted it as soon as he realized that there would be no handshake to be had here.
“The feeling is mutual. I am not used to this sort of tabletop gaming, so forgive me if I seem like a fish out of water,” she said, never once breaking eye contact. “I am used to playing games where one side wins, and the other loses. This is no such game.”
“Well,” Astarion countered, “I’d say if we can defeat the evil forces at work against our cause, that’d make us winners.”
“A fair point. But what constitutes ‘evil’ in your mind, Astarion?” The stern look in her eyes melted away into curiosity. “I am playing a githyanki. It is a race that most seem to avoid in their games altogether. Or drow elves, though they seem a more palatable choice. Both societies are widely regarded by online communities as ‘evil.’ Tsk. I don’t like the idea that evil can exist in an individual from birth. Who is the real winner when that is the mentality we carry?”
He found himself at a loss at her deeply philosophical views on morality. “I—“
“I don’t like it either, Lae’zel.” A familiar, husky voice rang out from the archway that connected the kitchen to the dining area.
The small girl’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the interruption. “That voice…Karlach?”
Before Astarion could blink, she bolted across the room and leaped into the larger woman’s tattooed arms as she spun her around. “Lae! I missed you so much!”
“Karlach, I didn’t know that you’d returned from the war!”
Astarion froze. War?
She grinned as she set her friend back down to earth. “I’m back, baby! And I’ve brought a little memento back with me!” She tapped on her chest, right where her heart would be. “Took a bullet too close to the heart. Almost grazed it. It missed my arteries, thank fuck. Wanted it out, but the doctor said it was safer to just leave it in my body, at least for now. Got a medical discharge, so I left the army and came back home.” Her smile was wide despite her harrowing story, but this revelation shook Astarion to the core. They hadn’t known each other very long, but she’d always seemed so chipper, so happy. She was a complete sweetheart. It was hard for him to believe that she had a kill count.
Lae’zel sighed, looking especially forlorn. “Just as you return, I prepare to leave. I enlisted in the Marine Corps. Training begins in six months.” She proudly showed off her sinewy arms. “I have started preparing early.”
“Good work, soldier!” Karlach laughed, and the entire house seemed to shake.
It’s a miracle that she isn’t hoarse every day, Astarion mused to himself.
Shadowheart hadn’t said a single word. She stood by the door frame with her arms crossed, looking as though she had just bitten into a lemon.
“Lae’zel,” she finally said in a soft, venom-laced voice.
“Jen.” Lae’zel’s tone was cold, but the fire in her eyes did not waver.
Cazador leaned into Karlach’s ear, pulling Astarion in with him. “What is the deal with those two? I’m worried our party’s destiny hinges on breaking up catfights rather than killing dragons.”
Karlach couldn’t contain her guffaw but took great pains to keep her voice quiet. “Oh, that? They’ve known each other since they were practically babies. Both of them are super competitive with each other and it seems they always have been. They’re always trying to one-up the other, from dance recitals to tennis matches and gymnastics. What Shadowheart told me is that she tripped over her and broke her hand during a competition. Despite doing her best and pushing through the pain, Lae took home the gold. She still feels pain in that bone sometimes. Makes cutting hair especially difficult some days. She blames her injury on Lae, though I don’t think it’s fair. It was an accident. They could be such besties, but there’s so much bad blood there. I’m hoping this game can change that. I’m surprised they’re willing to be at the same table.”
During the tail end of this conversation, Wyll and Gale had finished transporting and setting the last of the plates. “And now for the surprise!” He jauntily waltzed back into the kitchen as he brought out an enormous covered platter and set it down at the center of the table.
Astarion’s mouth watered, imagining what might be under there. Soon.
“Yes!” Karlach exclaimed. “Aw, Gale, you’ve outdone yourself with this spread. And that stew looks mouthwatering! We’ve come a long way from the two kids who were trying to cook burgers on an ancient grill with a questionable propane tank.”
“There’s no one else I would’ve rather potentially exploded with,” Gale laughed.
Soon after, everyone took their seats and began to set up their spaces. The table was soon a mess of soup bowls, dice, paper, pens, tablets, and all manner of miscellany. Lae’zel pulled out one of her Warhammer miniatures—an Ork. Wyll was pretending to duel with Cazador using a tiny cocktail sword. When he thought no one was looking, Astarion quickly grabbed a loaf of garlic bread and stuffed it into his mouth. The bread was so flaky and warm that it nearly evaporated on his tongue. He was so happy he could’ve cried.
It wasn’t until he noticed Gale looking straight at him over the DM screen that he forced himself to regain his composure. He was seated to his left, at the head of the table. He tried to read the man’s brown eyes with his mind, but only one word flooded his thoughts. Concern.
“Hey, are you alright?”
Astarion nodded, his mouth still full of bread. He choked it down before responding almost breathlessly. “Yes, I’m alright. I just didn’t have a chance to grab lunch today.” Because I’m broke, and all I have at home right now is cereal, condiments, and spices.
“For goodness sake, you need to take better care of yourself! You look pale.” Gale grabbed his bowl and served him a heaping helping of stew. He set it back down in front of a bewildered Astarion. “Please. I won’t have anyone going hungry at my table. Not while I’m the one who’s cooking. Next time, please feel free to come into the kitchen while I’m prepping. It may not be this elaborate every time, but I will personally make sure you don’t go hungry.”
Astarion’s face flushed with embarrassment as he nodded. Even his stern lectures were still kind.
At that moment, Gale stood up. “Everyone—“ he tapped on a glass with a silver spoon. Wyll visibly cringed, his hands clasped together as if praying to the heavens (or hells) to protect his father’s silverware from harm.
A pregnant silence filled the room as all eyes turned towards Gale. “—welcome to Dungeons & Dragons! I am very excited to be your Dungeon Master for our adventure into the expansive land that is Faerûn—more specifically, Baldur’s Gate. Over the last few weeks, I have taken all of your character ideas into consideration and have homebrewed an adventure that I have well-tailored to suit the tastes of every single one of you, regardless of your skill level or familiarity with the game—at least I hope.
“Our adventure begins—not in the taverns you’ve come to expect, but…well, I don’t know. You tell me.” He gestured to the covered dish at the center of the table. Shadowheart was the closest to it, so she lifted the cover to reveal an intricate charcuterie board. Everyone began excitedly searching the plate for answers. It was a strange shape—the cheese was stacked in a sort of Fibonacci spiral, leading to a single olive in the center. From the shell-like structure emerged a cascade of meats, round at first, but slowly graduating to long, shredded, tendril-like cords. An apple slice flanked the back of this unfamiliar shape. Astarion couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Cazador cupped a hand to his ear and whispered, “Doesn’t it kind of look like a penis?”
Astarion let out a screeching laugh that he immediately tried to silence. “You’re so immature, Caz!”
“Only because it’s funny, and it makes you laugh, my pretty elf babe,” Cazador grinned impishly. “You can’t tell me you don’t see it too.”
Admittedly, it was sort of phallic. But he swore he saw something else.
“It looks like a snail? Or a squid?” Astarion said aloud without much confidence.
Gale pointed at him jovially. “No, but good guess!”
“A Spelljammer? Are we in space?!” Karlach was, as always, tremendously exhilarated.
A knowing smile slowly crept on Lae’zel’s face. She turned to the head of the table and exclaimed, “Gale!!”
“Go ahead, Lae.” He was smiling wide now. Shadowheart rolled her eyes.
Like a switch, Astarion noticed something within Lae’zel come alive. The earlier excitement dropped off as he realized that she was putting on a mask of sorts—one that he, as a former thespian, knew well. She looked up at everyone around the table with a grim expression on her face. Her liquid, hazel-colored eyes, however, were full of palpable fear—so well-acted that it almost felt real.
Astarion’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the apples of his cheeks starting to ache as he smiled.
“Istik, we are in terrible danger. We’re captives on a ghaik ship. A mind flayer ship.”
Notes:
A quick note regarding content warnings in this fic—the archive warnings are quite dark, but so far this fairly light story has only been *hinting* at the more unsavory elements. I am still unsure just how explicit things are going to get, but I promise that when the time comes and those more graphic story beats come into play, I will provide an adequate warning at the beginning of the chapter in my notes to prevent any whiplash or potentially traumatic feelings for you, dear readers. Thank you all for sticking with this story thus far. Your comments and kudos have been greatly welcomed and appreciated. I hope you enjoy reading this latest chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 5
Notes:
Trigger Warning!
The time has come. This is a chapter that explores some of the darker elements of Astarion and Cazador’s relationship. This chapter depicts verbal and sexual abuse, along with an exploration of complicated feelings towards sex in general. There’s also a tiny warning in here for a small moment of suicidal ideation. I’ve used a divider (~✧~) to mark where some of the more explicit sexual content is in the event that some of you want to skip it. There isn’t a glut of detail, but it’s still icky. At least, that’s how I felt when I wrote it. It earned me a big hug from my proofreader.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The game was all that Astarion and Cazador were raving about for the entire car ride home. Gale’s narrative prowess had exceeded their wildest expectations. The enthusiasm from veteran players and neophytes alike had colored everyone’s performances with vigor and passion. Everyone was having fun. Astarion felt like a kid again.
“Can you fucking believe we managed to wrestle that flaming sword from the cambion?” He was incredulous at the weapon’s power and had silently cursed himself for lacking the proficiency to use a greatsword. They may have had to stop her from cleaving their Illithid ally in twain, but Lae’zel had earned the honor of wielding the blade, and she brandished it with pride—much to Shadowheart’s chagrin.
Not that there had been any room for the secretive sphynx to complain, anyway. Her favorite D20—a giant black hunk of steel the size of her hand, adorned with beveled, sharp red edges—was forever immortalized in Faerûnian canon as a mysterious artifact in her charge.
“Ugh, I can’t believe how gory the whole ‘ceremorphosis’ thing is. The way Gale described the parasites wriggling around behind our eyes gave me a headache,” said Cazador, rubbing his right eye as he yawned.
“You sure that isn’t the wine talking, darling?” Astarion joked. Wyll’s father’s pantry had been well-stocked with the finest vintage wines—the sort that they’d often seen offered by the bottle on fancy restaurant menus but never ordered due to how steep the prices usually were. Fortunately, Wyll had commandeered a small wine rack for his personal use and had selected his favorite Cabernet Sauvignon to share with the table, along with a flowery IPA that Karlach had bought on the way over.
Cazador laughed. “Boy, I wish. I’m not nearly as drunk as I wish I were!”
They pulled up to a patch of grass in varying stages of life that grew by the padlocked gate that led to their room. The headlights died as the car powered off. Astarion opened the door and traded the scent of mildew for the fresh and cool midnight air. A serenade of insects filled the darkness with its strange but unmistakable ambiance.
Cazador leaned in for a kiss as they approached the unfinished wooden gate. He tasted like earth. It was like tasting a flowery meadow—Karlach’s IPA was fresh on his lips, with notes of Wyll’s wine not far behind. He tried to ignore it and think only about how good the kiss felt, but his mind forcibly pushed him into a memory of his father driving him home with cheap beer on his breath, yelling at other drivers, and flipping the bird out the window as they cut him off. He couldn’t remember how old he’d been—only that he had felt small.
“I’m just glad that we didn’t get pulled over,” Astarion muttered, unsure if he was speaking to his father or Cazador. He grabbed his keyring from his pocket and fished in the dark for the matching key to the padlock.
“I love you too, baby. You’re driving next time,” said Cazador. It was a command rather than a suggestion.
Click! The gate creaked open.
Astarion shrugged. “Okay.”
He’d never cared much for drinking, but the wine from Wyll’s collection had been exquisite and paired well with Gale’s stew—which had been in and of itself a culinary masterpiece. The carrots, onions, and potatoes were just as savory as the tender beef, though the latter was still the undisputed star in that dish. The broth was thick with starch—just enough to feel rich and not too watery. He could’ve sworn another flavor profile was at play there, but he couldn’t quite place it. Chocolate? Stout? Whatever Gale had put in there was heavenly. The taste would linger in his mind longer than it had on his taste buds.
The story they’d begun telling, too, had left him craving more. He could live without tasting so much as another drop of wine again in his life if it meant getting to do this again, every week, for time immemorial.
The pair sidled through the narrow walkway between the house and the fence until they made it to the door. Once again, Astarion found himself trading the cool night air for the familiar scent of mold.
He turned on the light as Cazador tossed his jacket onto the unmade bed. The first thing he did was check the dehumidifier, which was unsurprisingly full. He held it in his arms as he carted it across the room to their bathroom, carefully stepping over piles of clothes.
As he dumped the water into the sink, he thought about the morning after they’d first moved in together. He’d woken up to water dripping onto his forehead. At first, he’d thought it was a leak. Then he looked around and found every square inch of their ceiling saturated with droplets. He’d frantically grabbed a paper towel and wiped the moisture away without much success.
The next day, it happened again. He remembered begging Cazador to consider looking for another apartment when the time came to renew their lease.
He hadn’t expected Cazador to be so angry with him. “Astarion, that is a year away. It’ll be more money to move, and you’ll find yourself getting into a new set of problems. I’m not made of money, you know. We can’t just up and move whenever you find yourself inconvenienced by anything. I’m not arguing with you about this.”
Astarion was stunned. He leaned back against the fridge with his arms crossed as Cazador lounged on the bed, looking up from his phone with an irritated expression. They’d only been living together for two days, but already he’d noticed how disputatious his lover had become in this new arrangement. “The insulation sucks. Condensation is a huge problem. I know it doesn’t stay cold here for long, but I don’t want to deal with it for an entire year. I’m worried about our furniture getting damaged and the bed getting moldy and all this other stuff. I’m not saying we leave right now. I didn’t think this was going to turn into an argument.”
Cazador shrugged. “That’s just your problem, isn’t it? You don’t think about anything but yourself. I can tell that you’re very new to this and are used to the finer things in life. You’re a spoiled, privileged princess who has never struggled with discomfort. Just leave it. Every place you’ll ever lease comes with a catch. It’s high time you learned to live uncomfortably.” Cazador’s tone was biting—much colder than it was outside.
Astarion bristled at his accusation. He stewed in the salty heat of his heart splitting in his chest. “You think I’m that shallow?” His arms flew wildly above his head as he spoke. ”I don’t know why you’re being so passive-aggressive. Is this really about the condensation?”
“I’m just in a shit mood,” Cazador said. His lips were pursed, but Astarion could tell he was grinding his teeth.
“I’m sorry you’re in a shit mood.” The wounded edges of Astarion’s voice softened. “Is it all my fault?”
“Not entirely.”
“But partially,” Astarion frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool, I suppose.”
Astarion hated the concrete wall that was forming around his partner’s curt words. It was too painful, too familiar. “I feel like you’re mad at me.”
“Maybe I am!”
Astarion paused. “Is it because we haven’t had sex?”
Cazador sighed, throwing his phone down at the side of the bed before putting his head in his hands. “It’s stupid, but yes.”
Astarion’s brow furrowed. “That hurts a lot.”
“Does it, now? Because you seem positively unaffected by all of this. Unfortunately, sex is important to me. That’s all. But as I said, it’s stupid. You can survive without it, no problem. I’m not like that. I have needs, but I don’t tell you about them because I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you into it. I want you to want me back.”
Astarion walked up to the bed timidly, the harshness of his earlier stance dissolving as he knelt by Cazador’s side. His head was full of childlike fear. When he did speak, his voice sounded weak and pitched. “I do want you back.”
“You don’t show it!” Cazador’s words stung, laced with venom. In the darkness of the room, his usually bright eyes burned like coals. “The day we first moved in with one another I was all over you, kissing you, wanting you, and you ignored me!”
“Everything we own is in boxes. It’s been two days since we moved in. We have the rest of our lives to have sex with each other!” Astarion was drowning in uneasiness. Cazador had been short with him all day yesterday, and to know that this had been the reason was devastating to him.
“We have a bed!” Cazador angrily gripped the comforter. “Life doesn’t just stop because our stuff is in boxes. That’s not fair to me! Am I not enough for you?”
“Fuck,” Astarion muttered. His chest felt tight and breathing was difficult. This was the reason Cazador hadn’t wanted to hold him the night before—why he’d gone out to smoke in the car. It all made sense now. “I thought everything was okay. I’m so sorry, I feel awful. I didn’t realize…I wish you had told me this was how you felt sooner.” He was struggling not to cry, but he couldn’t help but feel another feeling rising to his throat. It tasted like bile. For the first time in the six months he’d been with Cazador, he felt unsafe.
Cazador scoffed incredulously as his head jerked down, straight into his eyes. “You need me to tell you? You can’t tell me you didn’t pick up on all the advances I made. You shot me down. You’re withholding affection. You cannot tell me that you can’t see that, boy.” He sighed, looking up at the dewy ceiling.
“I don’t want you to sacrifice your wants for my sake,” Astarion said, eyeing the tiled floor guiltily.
“You don’t have to want it. I do it anyway.” Cazador snapped. “Because that’s the kind of person I am. So when that’s not enough for someone, it fucking hurts.”
“You are enough,” Astarion murmured.
Cazador’s eyes were wild. “Am I though? I feel like you’re only saying these things now because you’ve finally been made aware that you’ve been making me feel like garbage! Conversations about me wanting to have sex always turn into this. It makes me feel like a creep.”
A trigger had been pulled. Astarion backed away and sat upright. Back then, he hadn’t yet been too broken to find his bravery. “Cazador, I’m going to be honest with you. You are being a creep right now and it’s making me angry. I don’t want to be, but I am. I don’t owe you sex. I told you how my last relationship went, and I thought you understood. I’m not a toy. You’re being a huge asshole right now, and it hurts.”
He would never forget how Cazador’s face looked after he’d spoken so brazenly. It had metamorphosed into a mess of twisted, crazed rage. His eyes burned with pure hatred. His knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of the nightstand. “Fuck you.”
Regret was the wine, and he, the decanter. He could feel the veins in his neck throbbing. “I hurt you,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to.” His voice trembled. His eyes trailed off to the pocketknife on the table in panic. He’d never, he thought, trying to calm himself down. You’re being irrational. He’s right to be angry. You said something very hurtful.
“Yes. You did.” Cazador’s voice was an octave lower than his usual lilting cadence. Its strangeness sent a chill down his spine.
Bravery was the folly of man. He knew he would never make that mistake again.
At that moment everything went black. An unknown force crushed the breath out of his entire body. The pain was immense, and it was consuming him, swallowing him whole. He wanted to scream, but his throat closed up. He whimpered as he tried to breathe, but his lungs felt just as useless. He could’ve sworn that if he pushed past the iron, it tasted like flowers.
“You’re being awfully quiet, my pet.”
Cazador’s smooth voice in his ear snapped him awake from his dangerous reverie—a stark difference from the belittling tone he was bracing himself for. He found himself lying in bed, reading over the notes he had taken. The dehumidifier—the “solution” to the problem that the landlords had provided them after they’d brought the issue up with them—was back in its proper place. He turned to the clock he’d hung up across the room. 12:50. Cazador was curled up next to him, eyeing him with quiet hunger.
“Sorry, my love, did I fall asleep?”
Confusion marred Cazador's handsome face as he pushed a strand of his raven-black hair behind his ear. “No, you were just staring at your notes the whole time. Because you’re boring.” With catlike grace, he climbed over Astarion and straddled him. “Tsk. What a pity. Well, at least you’re a pretty dullard.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against his neck, sucking it gently.
Astarion shuddered as Cazador’s cold hands reached for the bottom of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor. “Gods, you’ve got such a gorgeous body,” he murmured as he traced his collarbones with the tip of his finger. “I want you.”
Astarion froze. He felt every single muscle in his face come alive in his effort to conjure up a sensual grin. “Do you, now?” He turned his head to kiss Cazador’s cheek. “Well, my darling. You’re in luck. I can provide.”
Cazador flashed a wicked grin. “On your knees.”
~✧~
The rest of the night was a blur of shapes and shadows—at least, it had been for him. He thought of every excuse he’d ever given. I don’t want to do it in the car again. It’s too cramped. I’m tired. My back hurts. I’m not one for public exhibition, to be frank. They were now locked away in a gilded cage inside his head, screaming and begging him for freedom. Everything was a choreographed dance he’d had embedded in his muscle memory for years. With each careful stroke and delicate lick, Cazador’s moans were the only sound breaking the uncomfortable silence and distracting him from the soreness in his knees.
He felt a tense hand grip his silver-white curls and tug him upwards. He tried to hide his gagging as his mouth was finally set free. “Such a good boy. My sweet little toy,” Cazador cooed.
Astarion felt his body go limp as he was suddenly tossed onto the bed. Deft hands with sharp nails manipulated him onto his stomach. Had there been a mirror there—oh, how he hated mirrors—if he had dared to look, he was almost assured that his eyes would have been devoid of emotion or light or any semblance of innocence they may have held before. He felt so vile. Disgusting, even. He could hear a choir of voices in his head chastising him, telling him how wrong he was for feeling that way. Growing up, he’d heard how natural and beautiful it was supposed to be. Sex was evidence of love, after all. It was proof of undying affection.
Why, then, did it always feel so humiliating?
He cried out as Cazador pulled him closer. “My little songbird,” he murmured between soft, heaving pants as he played with a single ringlet upon his head. “Your song is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He sang into the night for seemingly an eternity—but only because he knew it delighted Cazador to hear it.
~✧~
He hoped the sound of running water would be loud enough to mask his soft sobs as he brushed his teeth for the second time. The effort was in vain. No amount of mouthwash seemed to wash away the foul taste.
It had been such a good night, he thought bitterly. His heart ached. What would his new friends think if they saw him now? Wyll, Karlach, Shadowheart, Lae’zel—what would Gale think?
Astarion shook that thought away. No. He would never allow them to know him this well. It was embarrassing, just how pathetic he was behind closed doors. It brought him shame to know how easy it was to make him cry.
Without meeting his gaze in the mirror once, he wiped away the last of his renegade tears before shutting off the water and crawling back into bed, back to Cazador’s naked, sleeping body.
He quietly prayed for whatever god of death was listening to take him, but the god of sleep found him first. He cradled him in his warm embrace, shielding him from nightmares he was happy to avoid.
Chapter Text
A blushing sky broke him from sleep’s spell, beating out his alarm clock by a few minutes. When the two had first moved in together, Astarion had claimed the side of the bed that saw the most sunlight. Cazador had no complaints—he was a self-professed “creature of the night.” He preferred to keep the blinds drawn and would've put a blackout curtain over their only window in a heartbeat. In his head, Astarion saw himself on his knees, ingratiating himself to the landlords and thanking them profusely for not installing a curtain rod.
Not that a curtain would’ve been necessary to keep the sun out. The room was almost always dark save for his little corner—the tiny window faced westward, and the space was trailer-like in its floor plan. It was a long hallway, almost cave-like. Astarion lamented how little the sunlight reached its depths, even in the brief moment of every day when it was angled right into their home, slicing through the slats like a golden knife, illuminating the dust as it shimmered in the air.
He reluctantly pulled away from the reddening clouds and climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Cazador. He trudged past every obstacle on the floor until he opened the bathroom door, face-to-face with the dirty mirror again. He permitted himself to look more thoroughly this time—if only to ensure he had washed off the remnants of sleep from his face. His lips were dry, his cheeks lacked color, and like two prattling busybodies, his puffy eyes quietly whispered every detail of his tearful night to his reflection as if events happened any differently in the mirror’s realm. His oversized t-shirt was hanging off his shoulder, revealing a small mottled bruise on his neck, the color of wine. One of Cazador’s little “love bites” had left a mark. The thought of tongue and teeth and lingering saliva raking and claiming that spot of flesh made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention.
Sleep had sobered him up. He suddenly found himself wracked with guilt. As mercurial as Cazador could be at times, he loved him. He knew that. He held his hand everywhere they went—even if he sometimes complained about how limply his hand would rest in his. They’d hold each other close each night before succumbing to the tiredness that threatened their conversations, however philosophical or nonsensical. Love was the secret syrup in each cup of coffee he’d brewed for him when he visited the café he used to work at. There was an ever-expanding playlist that shared his name. It lived in every brushstroke when he was his muse. And it lived in his kisses, too—whenever Astarion initiated a kiss, it was little more than a chaste peck. But Cazador’s kisses? They were symphonic. They raged with passion.
Cazador’s love was an untamable wildfire. Astarion’s felt comparatively tepid.
He idly played with the smooth surface of the ring on his finger. He remembered when he’d uttered that magical three-letter word that seemed so little but meant so much. He remembered Cazador swinging him around in a circle, the joy between the two men radiating for miles.
He scowled at himself, clasping his hand to his neck. He winced at the pressure against the patch of raw, burgundy skin. You begged for such an unbreakable love your entire life. Now it’s here, just a room away, yet you can’t bring yourself to give him head without pretending it isn’t happening. You ungrateful bitch. You don’t deserve him. The only problem here is you.
His eyes softened in the mirror. Me. The only problem here is me.
After brushing his teeth (oh, how he hoped his boss or a coworker would surprise them with breakfast) and donning a black turtleneck and blazer, he gently bent down to the side of the bed and kissed Cazador’s cheek.
“I love you, baby,” he whispered.
Half asleep, Cazador muttered something that might’ve sounded like “I love you too, babe,” had his voice not been muffled by his pillow.
As he strode to his car, he quickly eyed his phone to see if he’d missed any new texts or emails. There didn’t seem to be much at first, aside from spam emails and his upcoming work schedules. Texts from friends were rare—if he still had any left. He’d fallen off the face of the earth when he dropped out of college. Eventually, people stop asking if you don’t respond.
To his surprise, however, one name jumped out at him. Gale Dekarios. He almost dropped his phone into the dewy morning grass before unlocking it to read its contents, only to be disappointed by the realization that he was not the sole recipient. These are Cazador’s friends, he reminded himself, and you are nothing more than “Cazador’s fiance” to them. Why would any of them text just you?
As a matter of fact, Gale had texted him the week prior, but that had been in response to reading his backstory and the rest of his character’s traits. His reply had been short but encouraging, and it made Astarion feel as though he’d earned a gold star on his paper.
He climbed into the car and turned the key in the ignition. As he waited for the engine to warm up, he read Gale’s text.
A purple heart and a flurry of colorful little stars followed his signature. Cute.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had been part of a group chat, but the novelty of it made his heart race. The joy of acceptance was rare, and he savored what little of it he could taste. He quickly typed his name into the text box. He hit send, put on his current favorite podcast, and began the commute to work with a massive grin on his face.
Notes:
This is a much shorter chapter, and I held onto it for a few days because it felt too transitional and I wasn’t sure I felt satisfied in posting it—that is, until my beta-reader told me that they thought it made sense for a chapter detailing a handful of happier memories with Cazador to be brief, as the less-than-stellar moments in their relationship end up leaving a deeper impact.
Once again, I’d like to thank you all for your ongoing support with this fic. I love reading and responding to your comments! I am so glad you are enjoying this Thing I Made™ thus far, and I hope you’re ready for some tender interactions between Astarion and “Gale of Waterdeep” in the next chapter. :)
May your skin be clear, crops be watered, and your post patch 4 Astarions be kissable!
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 7
Notes:
Enjoy some long-awaited fluff, lovelies! Best paired with Rule #1 - Magic by Fish in a Birdcage.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rest of his dull, work-filled week couldn’t have gone by any faster. Astarion’s heart was racing with excitement as he stepped through the threshold of Wyll’s home for the second time. Once again, a sweet aroma wafted through the air from the kitchen—rosemary, perhaps thyme? Whatever it was, he knew he wouldn't have to ignore his pooling hunger for too much longer.
This time, Lae’zel’s deadpan face had been the one to greet them at the door. She wore grey sweatpants and a black tank—comfortable, if not cold. “You’re here early. Come in. Wyll is in the bathroom washing his eye.”
Cazador and Astarion exchanged a concerned glance, unsure if she was misusing a turn of phrase or being painfully literal. “Did he accidentally rub onions into it or something?” Cazador asked. “Because ouch. Been there.”
“No, it fell out,” Lae’zel said coolly.
Her impassivity only alarmed them more. “I’m sorry, what?” Astarion asked, dumbfounded. "Is he okay?!"
Lae’zel blinked, her eyes widening. “Oh. He didn’t tell you. My mistake.”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Wyll’s gentle voice startled Astarion as he emerged from the small room to the left. He shrugged as he leaned his shoulder against the doorway. “It’s not like it’s a secret or anything. I’m quite surprised you didn’t notice it the last time you were here, honestly.” He turned his attention to Lae’zel and offered her a small smile. “Well, it’s back in now. Not chipped, thankfully.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the girl sighed in relief.
“It usually fits just fine. Not sure what happened there.” Wyll shrugged. “Thank goodness for your reflexes, Lae.”
Astarion tried hard not to look like he was staring as the young man spoke. It took him a moment, but he finally determined that within Wyll's right eye socket sat a perfectly placed prosthetic. Whoever painted the orb had done so masterfully, perfectly matching the rich whiskey-like shade of his remaining eye. How had he missed it the night they'd met? He knew maintaining eye contact wasn’t his strong suit, but had it gotten that bad?
Wyll must’ve perceived his gawking because those chestnut-colored eyes quickly shifted toward his. Astarion tried but failed to keep his gaze fixed, instead looking away guiltily. “Sorry, that was extremely rude of me,” he murmured, feeling his face burn with shame.
“It’s okay, Astarion. It’s a part of me now. I’m used to it.” Wyll’s voice was unwaveringly, frustratingly kind in this moment. “It happened seven years ago. It was an accident in my senior year of high school. We thought we could save my eye at first, but the nerves were too far gone to repair. As you can imagine, I didn’t make prom king that year.” He shrugged. “But hey, at least when I’m reading The Odyssey to my kids someday, my Cyclops impression will be especially convincing.” He flashed his perfect smile and laughed despite himself, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
Astarion laughed politely, but his cheeks were still flushed. He was embarrassed but also embittered. In another life, Wyll was the model of the type of man he dreamed of marrying when he was younger before he realized that fairy-tale princes didn’t exist outside of fiction. Even a missing eye shouldn’t have stripped him of the chance at any title. Something about Wyll inspired within his heart a dolorous ache. His chivalry sought no reward. It did not seem to beg or expect payment from anyone. He had defied Astarion’s transactional reality and escaped the pages of a storybook with a flourish and a wink, a velveteen rabbit made into the prince he’d long given up on. Handsome. Winsome. Kind. Where were you?
He shook away the thought as he heard the siren song of Gale’s sweet tenor rising from the kitchen like a gentle wave. Cazador and Lae’zel started heading over to the table to set up, engaging with one another about their characters with enthusiasm. Wyll seemed keen on joining their conversation.
At that moment, Astarion knew they wouldn’t miss him if he disappeared for a few minutes. He snuck away to the kitchen with ease. At first, he was surprised to see that Gale was alone—he’d been speaking to himself, and he continued to do so despite having unknowingly captivated a rapt audience of one.
Astarion couldn't help but smile as he watched the man cook. The smell of spices filled the air like a divine presence, radiating from a slowly simmering saucepan. Gale rolled up the sleeves of his plum-colored sweater and raised a wooden spoon to his lips to taste. His eyes closed as he savored it. “It's good, but it needs something more.” His hands flitted from cabinet to cabinet like a bee in springtime seeking pollen. Tiny murmurings peppered his humming. “Where’d I put that damn thing? It won't taste as good without the basil—ah, there it is!”
“You lied to me,” Astarion said slyly, his arms crossed in mock annoyance.
Gale let out a frightened gasp as he turned his attention to the doorway, almost dropping the small container of herbs he held in his hand. “A-Astarion!” he stammered, eyes wide. His surprise subsided into irritation. His brow furrowed. “The cardinal rule of food service is ‘don’t startle your cook when they’re in the middle of preparing a hot meal.’ A rule you've so callously broken.”
Astarion rolled his eyes. “Of course. Silly me. That's why I waited for you to be at the spice rack, away from hot, sizzling oils or simmering sauces. It's the most treacherous part of the kitchen, you know.”
Gale bristled. “Sass me all you like,” he said, “but not before explaining how exactly I lied to you.”
Sensing the slight hurt in Gale’s voice, Astarion immediately regretted his earlier approach. “I hope you noticed my sarcasm when I said that, darling,” he said, his voice low.
Gale’s eyes softened. The tension in his body evaporated. Astarion could sense relief mixed with a bit of confusion. “No, not immediately, I'm afraid. As witty as I like to think I am, your brand of sarcasm eludes me at times. What exactly did you mean by it?”
“You told me you didn’t ‘make magic’ anymore,” Astarion said. He was surprised by the sudden shyness that seemed to color his words at that moment. He remembered the days when he would confidently glide across a ballroom dressed to the nines to chat with benefactors and flirt with potential sponsors. He was no stranger to baring his heart for an audience, but just as he had done in the diner, Gale Dekarios, now in the privacy of a home kitchen, was making his voice tremble like nerves never did. “It may not be music, but you’re quite good at this. You look like you’re casting a spell.”
The blood rushed fervently to paint Gale’s cheeks a shade of scarlet well-suited to his olive skin. “Thanks for saying that. It means the world. I’m sorry for misreading your intentions earlier.” His attention briefly returned to the sauce as he sprinkled the basil he’d been clutching in his hands the whole time. “Would be better if it was fresh , but beggars can’t be choosers,” he muttered.
“No, you were right,” Astarion sighed, rubbing his temple. “I shouldn’t have startled you while you were cooking. Stupid of me. Just thought I’d pop in and thank you for the last session. I wasn't sure what to expect, but you got my attention. It’s been on my mind the whole week.”
Gale beamed. "I'm glad. It's been on my mind as well. I can only hope that this evening will live up to the last. I've kept your aforementioned 'high standards' in mind." He took another small sip of soup. "That did the trick! And you're not stupid, by the way. Not one bit."
"Lying to me again, are we?" Astarion grinned. "A novel concept. Again, that's sarcasm," he added hastily. "In case you needed reassurance."
"No, I think we've established the tone in this conversation by this point," Gale paused as though he were searching for the right words. "I just want you to be kinder to yourself. That's the only reassurance I ask for."
Astarion froze. His heart was thrumming so powerfully in his chest that he feared somehow Gale would hear it too. What was it about his words that affected him so? Why was the earnestness with which they were uttered so pacifying and simultaneously terrifying?
He may not have heard his rabbit heart, but when his stomach growled, Gale immediately noticed, much to Astarion's mortification. "Oh, dear. Why don't you go over there and give me your distinguished second opinion on the sauce while I help rectify your hunger? I do seem to recall a certain promise I made to you last week."
The wooden spoon wavered in Astarion's fingers as he brought the sauce to his mouth. There was something unusually intimate about sharing a spoon that he was unaccustomed to. He did all he could to stifle a moan as its warmth ran down his throat. It was a balancing act between tangy acidity and earthen sweetness—a harmonic blend that Gale had undeniably harnessed. "This is incredible. If you put as much preparation into the game as you did into this sauce, we're in for it tonight. I never did ask what you were making here."
Gale chuckled. "You flatter me. Tonight, we're serving a simple ratatouille. Shadowheart insisted after I made the beef stew. She's not a vegetarian or anything—she just likes her veggies." He fished out a small, flat piece of leavened bread topped with herbs from a brown paper bag on the counter and passed it over to him. " Voilà! Nothing like a hearty foccacia to soothe the savage beast. Sorry it isn't warm, I picked it up right before—"
Gale had barely finished his sentence before Astarion took his first ravenous bite of the bread, covering his mouth with his free hand. Gods, he didn't even care if his table manners had fallen by the wayside. The day had been long, and he had spent much of his shift running back and forth between his desk and other offices delivering paperwork. Breakfast had been an everything bagel with cream cheese. Lunch had been a heaping portion of delicious, nourishing oxygen.
The brown-haired man had returned his attention to the stovetop, occasionally stealing glances at Astarion as he ate. Nestled in a fragrant cast-iron pan was a colorful spiral of vegetables. Each chip was lovingly layered atop the other in the same pattern. Tomato, squash, zucchini, and eggplant, repeating ad infinitum —or at least until the spiral met its end in the center of the pan. Gale gently drizzled the sauce over the vegetables until they were fully coated. As soon as the oven door closed, Astarion scoffed the last bite of bread.
Gale cocked his head, looking quizzical . "You eat just like my cat."
Astarion almost choked as incredulous laughter escaped his throat. "Like your cat? " he repeated.
Gale nodded. "Tara—my sweet little tortie—eats like every meal is her last. I feed her every day at the same time, like clockwork. It never matters. She always acts as though she hasn't eaten in ages! She's a messy eater, too."
Astarion winced, brushing crumbs off his shirt as heat crept up from the back of his neck. "It was a busy shift, and I didn't have a chance to grab lunch."
Gale frowned, clearly having picked up on the defensiveness of Astarion's tone, though he managed to keep the remainder of his expression soft. "You said the same thing last time."
"Your cat sounds adorable," he said, vying to change the conversation. Unlike her, I am not an animal to be fussed over, Gale Dekarios, he thought. I don't need your pity. His mind was a wayward boat, moored on an island of bitter thoughts. The comparison to a starving animal was apt, and he felt especially vulnerable. He was an open wound, and Gale's words unknowingly stung like the very salt he liberally seasoned with. If he were an animal, he was poised to bite.
But could he have bitten Gale's hand? The answer lay hidden within the wrinkles in the creases of his eyes as he smiled warmly. "She'd love to meet you too. She’s old and a little wary of strangers—I’ve had her since I was a small boy so I’m her favorite. I think she'd like you quite a bit.”
"Thanks for the bread," Astarion said, his voice barely a whisper as he caught a glimpse of Cazador summoning him over to the table from the other side with naught but the flick of his wrist—and like the animal he was, he obeyed.
~✧~
"You see before you a swirling purple portal emerging from a sigil inscribed on one of the rocks. It is alive with crackling lightning and unnatural energy. The glimmering magic rages like a hurricane, and even those of you who are not sensitive to the Weave notice how volatile it is, as though it threatens to swallow up the fabric of time it is tenuously clinging to. Do any of you approach it?"
Shadowheart shook her head. "This black hole in the middle of nowhere seems like an easy way to cull the party early on, Gale. Nice try. You're a tough DM, but I didn't take you to be that much of a sadist."
“Chk. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Shadowheart. Is this another ghaik mind trick?” Lae’zel asked. “It’s too close to the ship to be a coincidence.”
"Yeah, it looks like more trouble,” Cazador chimed in. “We barely escaped with our lives after that fight last session. We haven’t rested or fully healed yet. Not to mention that having my sweet baby introduce the tip of a knife to my neck was a little bit jarring, to say the least.”
Astarion sighed and leaned back against his chair. “What can I say, babe? You took the bait. In this world, we’re strangers. I didn’t know if I could trust you—yet.” He winked at his partner before turning to the head of the table with unbridled wickedness in the curve of his smile. “My intrusive thoughts are louder than my common sense tonight. They’re winning. Gale, I want to get a closer look.”
“Yes!” Karlach offered a high-five from across the table that Astarion was happy to accept. “I knew I liked you, Starry, that’s what I would’ve done if I were there!”
Starry. That was a new one. He could feel himself flushing, but he desperately didn’t want to break character. “I approach the portal cautiously, trying to sense any traps I might be able to disarm.”
“Okay. While you’re looking for traps, do you touch the sigil?” Gale asked. There was a dangerous glint in his eye.
“Am I going to die if I do?” Astarion raised an eyebrow.
“You might,” Wyll laughed. “But I think you’re giving Gale too much credit. Why would he kill one of us so early on?”
I don’t know, Wyll, but perhaps quickly eliminating the potential threat of a vampire in the party wouldn’t be the dumbest idea Gale could have.
“Okay, I’ll bite. I touch the portal and hope it doesn’t suck me in.”
Gale smiled and nodded. “It doesn’t suck you in, but it shocks you! Not enough for you to take any damage, but just as your hand recoils to your side, another hand emerges from the portal, reaching out towards you!”
The entire table was abuzz by this point. “What does the hand look like?” Shadowheart asked, her interest suddenly piqued by the latest development.
“Another mind flayer?” Cazador groaned.
“No, no, this hand belongs to a humanoid,” Gale replied. “A man’s voice emerges from the swirling mass of magic. ‘Is someone there? I could use a hand!’ What do you do next, Astarion?”
“Give it a high-five!” Karlach exclaimed before clasping her trembling hand to her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered, still giggly. “I know I’m not there.”
Astarion grinned at her. “I do just that, darling.”
The entire table erupted into peals of uncontrolled laughter as Astarion playfully mimed the act of slapping the disembodied hand. Wyll was crying. Cazador had almost fallen out of his seat. Even Shadowheart was laughing, burying her face into the sleeve of Karlach’s shirt. Gale had buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples with his thumbs, but Astarion swore he saw his shoulders struggling to keep still and one of his fingers erasing a mirthful tear from the corner of his eye. Gods, it felt so good to laugh like this, stone-cold sober.
“A helping hand,” Gale choked out, his voice strained, and his reddened face poorly concealed a smile that threatened to rip it in half. “I didn’t think I needed to specify. Make a strength check.”
Astarion took a peek at his character sheet and proceeded to howl with laughter as he reached for his D20. “Fuck, my strength stat is an eight.”
“Oh, my stomach hurts!” Karlach grinned after another fit of giggles overcame her. “Fuck, I wish I were there! That’s my top ability score!”
“You and me, both!” Lae’zel mused. “Better find us soon!”
“Go on, then! You’ve come this far! Don’t turn your back on him now!” Gale said. “Worst you can do is roll a critical failure. His fate rests in your hands. You’re rolling with a minus one modifier.”
Astarion eyed the tiny red plastic rock in his hand and thumbed through each of its twenty faces anxiously. He kissed it, let it rattle in his hands for a few seconds, and set it free.
Lucky number thirteen. “Is a twelve enough?”
“That beats the check. You hear words of encouragement from the portal as the hand vacillates back and forth, firmly gripped in yours. At one point, you worry that he will slip back into the pitch-black void at the heart of the storm, forever lost to the whims of the Weave he was failing to keep in check. But you manage it, and out from the portal falls a human wizard, bedecked head to toe in royal purple robes—”
Half of the players groaned. “Not this guy again,” Karlach grumbled. “And you said my character’s backstory was too epic. Wasn’t he an archmage last campaign?”
“Now, now Karlach,” Shadowheart interjected. “Don’t begrudge our perma-DM for bringing his favorite DMPC to the game. If you led a campaign once in a while, perhaps he wouldn’t feel the desire to play so strongly?”
“Yes, I know, I know. I’m a hypocrite, but hear me out here!” He turned to face the half of the table that seemed unsure of what the others were going on about. “Gale of Waterdeep is my old character from when I first started playing with my dad when I was a kid. He slowly found his way into every game I’ve run ever since, and this is no exception—but just be aware that he’s a different Gale than he was before. He’s starting at level two, just like all of you.”
Astarion couldn’t help but notice the melancholy that had crept into Gale’s voice as he explained the nature of this character to them. He was important to him.
“I’ll be sure to keep interactions with him brief, and hopefully rewarding,” he continued. “You can use him however you see fit. As much or as little as you want. Think of him as a stand-in you can utilize if one of you can’t make it to a session for whatever reason. A walking, talking contingency plan of sorts.”
As the night wore on, Astarion could see why the wizard’s inclusion was so polarizing. Whenever he did speak, his words were self-aggrandizing, laced with scholarly prose as purple as his robes. But he had to admit there was something about the way Gale spoke through him that had him slightly fascinated. Underneath the pomp and know-it-all arrogance was a state of mind Astarion could sense from miles away—an uncomfortable man who was out of his element. For as many adventures as this wizard had supposedly seen, he felt like a foreigner at his homecoming, a shy stranger at a table where he may have once felt like the king of the world.
Gale Dekarios was a painted lockbox, and it seemed Gale of Waterdeep was the key to potentially unlocking it—a mystery within a mystery, a secret beneath a secret.
Easy, Astarion thought. I roll to pick the lock.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Trigger Warning — alcohol/substance use, implied/referenced abuse in a dream sequence, Cazador being a sexually abusive bastard at the very end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sixty-five.
Sixty-six.
Sixty-seven.
As far as repairing his favorite shirt was concerned, Astarion was failing miserably. He was transfixed, pulled away from his work by the sight of Cazador preening in the vanity’s illuminated mirror. His long, luscious hair, pitch as the darkest raven feather, rose and fell to the small of his back with each stroke of his hairbrush. He tried to guess how often the boar bristles would run through each silky ebony strand before returning to its resting place atop the table. Maybe a hundred. Cazador took great pains to perform his intensive beauty rituals before leaving their apartment for social engagements. He would religiously anoint himself with oil and heady cologne—he also kept fragrances in the dashboard compartment of his car to mask the scent of dope before work.
Astarion tried to return his mind to his poor shirt, breaking his concentration, if only for a little while. He pulled the white thread through, fixing the broken marriage of the fabrics, imagining the embrace of long-lost friends as he pushed the needle through. He thought about embroidering a message on the inner collar in that gold embroidery thread he’d been holding onto—perhaps a word of encouragement, a positive affirmation that only he would get to see.
Folk-pop blared from Cazador’s phone as he swatched a brush across his left eye. He smoked out a carbon color over his upper and lower lids. His eyes burned like flames in the contrast. Errant strands of hair fell over his face. His bare chest barely moved, breath held fast as he focused on symmetry. And symmetry, he achieved. He noticed Astarion’s eyes on him in the mirror and captured them with a reciprocal gaze, a halo of light circling his piercing pupils.
“Why don’t you just buy a new shirt? Tonight has to be the third time I’ve seen you fix it in the last year alone.” It was true. The threadbare shirt he cradled in his hands had seen better days—and better nights. He remembered wearing it under the moonlight at a handful of revelous soirées. He’d worn it during his performance juries at university. It adorned him when he and Cazador went on their first date.
He considered replacing it for a moment, pushing his sentimental feelings aside. With what money? Two jobs (three, if he included Cazador’s) were hardly enough to fund the bohemian lifestyle they wished they could afford. When their funds dwindled, depleted by his boyfriend’s expensive habit, he’d had to spot his half of the rent a few times. On a few occasions, Cazador had sold some of his paintings or offered commissions. At their lowest points, they’d resorted to begging online or asking their estranged families for money. Astarion found it demeaning, but even asking for help was not as inglorious as the question that dogged him endlessly like a vicious, unfeeling debt collector— how much of a price would his body fetch after he had run out of worldly possessions to sell?
There were months when his second job was the only thing keeping them from starving—and after the next few weeks, that cushion would no longer be there. Despite this, Cazador considered himself quite the gourmand. On the days they could afford to buy fresh lobster or sirloin from the grocery store, they dined like kings. Lately, they’d made do with ramen, night after night. Tonight, they could hardly afford to go out, much less eat a fancy meal, but the artist had eagerly insisted.
“To celebrate your new full-time job,” he grinned. Any excuse was good enough for a debaucherous night at an open-air market.
Seventy-two.
Seventy-three.
Seventy-four.
The scene skipped like a damaged disc—there was a pocket of empty time, a dark valley in his brain bereft of meaning, not worth remembering. Then, the void was interrupted by a flurry of disorienting city lights and the smell of jasmine riding the night air. The taste of dirt and spun sugar lingered on his tongue, though the gummy had evaporated seemingly hours ago. Cazador’s hot breath was on his neck as he whispered lusty promises into his unbuttoned chest—promises to destroy him when they returned home. His knee lingered between his legs as he pushed him against a mural wall and kissed him.
The natural wellspring of charisma that Cazador had seemingly been born with had eluded him—so much so that he would have been lauded with awards for his performance that night, his tongue dripping with a trickle of flirtatious sweet nothings as the dark-haired man’s desire-filled eyes spoke back in a secret language that he’d trained himself to understand. “You’re such a flirt,” they said. “Shut up.” Cazador bit his lower lip, silencing his rambling for good. Astarion whimpered before melting into his arms.
The vibration of a loud bass pounded in his ears. His heart was racing. He’d lost his addled mind somewhere in the blaring night, and he wasn’t sure how far back he’d have to go to get it back—or how far into the future he would need to wait for it to restore itself. His smile hurt. It was not natural for it to be this wide.
Eighty-two.
Eighty-three.
Eighty-four.
It turns out Cazador couldn’t wait that long. Counting could only do so much to transport Astarion away from the backseat of the car as hands grabbed at his chest, his sex. Crooked fingers intertwined in his hair. They shared the lingering taste of different liquors with each kiss. Mechanical praise forced its way through locked, wine-stained lips when he remembered he was supposed to be enjoying himself.
“Let me write a poem on your skin,” Cazador whispered, his voice low with desire.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
One-hundred.
Somehow, they’d made it home and had immediately collapsed into bed. Cazador was already dead asleep. He hadn’t even taken his makeup off. His hand rested on Astarion’s chest. The weight of it hovering over his heart was unbearable
He looked up at the ceiling. His anxiety had kept him a wakeful prisoner long enough, and he felt himself finally drifting to sleep.
You fucking idiot. You’re not an actor.
You’re a liar. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
~✧~
When his eyes fluttered open again, he found himself in the center of a stage.
Fuck. Not this one again.
The proscenium archway was gilded, depicting scenes from Orfeo—the first panel bore an image of the titular hero and his lute, surrounded by all manner of beasts transfixed by the sound. The second plaque depicted the death of Euridice and the asp whose venomous fangs had condemned her to the hells. Third, the river Styx and its skeletal ferryman, who was initially hesitant to grant the bard passage but eventually succumbed, anesthetized by the sweet sounds of the enchanted instrument. The next embossed image was so vivid that one could almost hear Orfeo’s pleas to Pluto to free her from his clutches. His voice stirred sympathy in his wife, Proserpina, and consequently, the ruler of the underworld himself. In the fifth and final panel, Euridice was fading to nothingness, driven mad by his sudden silence and apathy—the fetters her musical lover had accepted as a condition of her freedom. It was that very promise of silence that he had broken in his effort to turn back and reassure her. A deal with the devil, expectedly gone awry. The artist tasked with carving out the pain in Orfeo’s face had to have known the grief of loss intimately.
The Latin script that outlined the archway was incomprehensible to him. He had seen it a thousand times before but could only imagine what it read. He could never remember it well enough to try to translate it when he was awake.
The somber showpiece canopied an equally marvelous, illusionistic mechanical stage—the wings undulated undecidedly between hand-painted scenes of flowers and hellfire. Astarion swore he could hear Monteverdi’s Lamento della ninfa playing somewhere in the distance—a spectral echo of the woeful madrigal seemed to hang atmospherically over the theatre air like a heavy velvet curtain, suffocating what would have been expectant, anticipatory silence with its unnatural presence.
A ghostly, disembodied voice whispered into his ear. “In bocca al lupo,” it said.
“Into the mouth of the wolf, I suppose.” He sighed, then turned around, resigned to his oft-repeated fate—but the star of this nightmare, usually waiting for him in the same rehearsed spot, was uncharacteristically absent. A wave of relief flooded him, but it soon intermingled with a newfound unease and distrust as it welled up in his chest. His mind was playing tricks on him. This nightmare that he’d had so many times before was different somehow—but how would it change? For the worse?
He fell to his knees, steadied himself, and braced for the flowers to silence him. He flinched, thinking for a second that it might be the version of the dream where a whip or some other favored instrument of torture would shred through his back. He was to count each lash without screaming, as instructed—if he failed, he would have to start counting again. But the flowers never came, and with each passing minute, his back remained mercifully unscathed.
Another voice called out from the wings. “You don’t have to wait for that devil, you know! Not your fault the bastard’s late.”
That voice. Astarion turned his attention backstage, but there was no one there. Where had he heard that voice before? Who did it belong to? It was as crisp as a winter morning, as warm as a gentle campfire.
Gale?
Gods, he hoped not. This dream was dark and always humiliating. The auditorium was usually empty, but he always felt as though there were a million eyes on him, claiming every inch of his skin with shame, waiting for him to make another mistake worth punishing. The thought of Gale seeing him like this—Gale, who still hadn’t figured out what a terrible person he was trying to befriend. Gale, who he feared might slowly distance himself when he realized how overwhelmingly his past was affecting him now.
The voice spoke again, this time from one of the box seats. “This stage is a mechanical marvel. I bet there’s a pulley system below switching the scenes. Is it automatic? How strong do the ropes have to be, I wonder? Is the archway so elaborate because it’s hiding more machinery?”
Oh yeah. It’s Gale. Astarion let out a small, miserable laugh. There were no more doubts, but the affirmation stung all the same. The thought of Gale walking away and taking his kindness with him was more painful than any wound leather could inflict—even in a dream. He couldn’t let him see him this way.
A hand gently touched his shoulder. He flinched, and the hand quickly pulled away as if it had just received a jolt of electricity. He turned, expecting to see the face he’d relegated to his nightmares—taut, tanned skin, slicked-back hair, and alluring brown eyes that almost bordered on hazel—but was surprised to see Gale there instead. “I’m sorry,” his voice said softly. “I meant you no harm.”
Astarion blinked and felt his hand trace its way up to the spot where Gale had just touched him—bare skin. He’d forgotten the state of undress this dream usually required of him. He looked away and flushed with embarrassment.
As if he could read his thoughts, Gale removed his burgundy cardigan and walked closer, placing it over his shoulders. “Sorry if it isn’t enough. It’s cold here, beautiful as this stage is—and hot as it looks. I assume it’s to keep the instruments safe. Can’t imagine a tempered harpsichord lasting too long in the heat of the real hells.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”
Astarion’s eyes were unblinking, fixed on Gale. “You mean we can leave this place?”
Gale nodded. “Of course we can.”
He couldn’t believe how easy it had been to walk away from the stage with Gale. He was embarrassed he hadn’t tried to leave sooner. Tonight, there would be no counting. No beating. No Raphael. No fist slamming into a hallway of mirrors with the force of a wrecking ball. Astarion’s reflection would not shatter, splinter, or change. The night would be free of the sounds of rogue shards of glass like frozen rain. Raphael wouldn’t be there to wipe blood and cocaine from his nose. His angry, dangerous eyes would not find him—if only for tonight.
Crepi il lupo.
~✧~
When Astarion awoke, it was still dark outside, and his head still felt like a fishbowl. He yearned for the second half of that dream. He wondered if he had forgotten it after regaining consciousness—perhaps it was as fleeting as most of his good dreams tended to be. Maybe it had ended right as they left the auditorium. It was an unsatisfactory ending, sure, but even that was better than seeing the nightmare play out to its intended conclusion.
“You ok?” Cazador asked sleepily as he stirred awake. “Was it that dream again? The one about your ex?”
“No,” Astarion lied—well, it was more of a half-truth this time. Explaining Gale’s prominence in the dream would have led to a jealous conversation he was ill-equipped to handle.
“You’re lying to me.” Cazador’s eyes burned in the night, illuminated by a shred of moonlight that had broken through the window into their small studio. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine, and besides, I’m always pale,” he insisted jokingly as his body curled inward, betraying his discomfort. He inched closer to his fiancé. “Sorry if I woke you.”
Cazador pulled him into his chest and gently rubbed circles into his back. “Shhhh…shhhh. You’re here now, my little dove. You’re safe with me. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Astarion’s shoulders relaxed. For as much as Cazador poked fun at him and teased him, he ultimately did care about his well being. It felt so freeing to be cared about. He ran his fingers through his long hair, admiring how it glistened with starlight despite its dark hue.
“Thank you, Caz. I’m fine—a little worried I’ll still be high when I wake up, but fine. We should try and get back to sleep. We've got work tomorrow.” He softly kissed his lover’s cheek, then turned comfortably onto his back and slowly sank into his pillow, waiting for sleep.
Just as he’d finally allowed himself to surrender to peaceful slumber, he felt something stir: Cazador’s hand.
Astarion froze. His eyes fluttered in horror as he felt himself involuntarily stiffen. Still feigning sleep, he quietly turned his head to face his lover, but through bleary, stoned eyes, he didn’t seem to notice or care. Cazador’s face was expressionless. He just kept touching him.
Ashamed of his silence, Astarion turned his gaze to the moon. In desperation, he begged for her divine intervention. It was silly, an embarrassing, useless request, he knew, but he figured it was worth a shot. His childish wishes had always been the sort granted only in fairy tales. He let out a long, quiet exhale and closed his eyes. He wished he could exit the room through the window as effortlessly as he’d left the theater with Gale. He felt his blood running cold as goosebumps invaded every inch of his skin.
One.
Two.
Three.
Notes:
I had to rewrite this chapter several times. My first attempt was extremely whump-y and upsetting, and a lot more difficult to sit through than this one already is.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 9
Notes:
I couldn’t leave you alone with that last chapter for too long, dear readers. Enjoy this! ;)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He hated to admit it, but the long drive to work was always the most relaxing part of Astarion’s day. There was something oddly freeing about the solitude, as expensive as his commute could be. Watching the sunrise every morning was the closest thing to a religious rite he ever imagined performing, at least since he’d stopped singing. Quietly meditating while listening to an audiobook, a podcast, or even just some music offered him rare moments of clarity. Today, he indulged in the latter of choices. Peter Gabriel’s husky voice crooned from the speakers.
It had been a few weeks since he’d gotten this new job, and already, he found himself savoring his newfound time off. He’d been sleeping in as late as his biological clock would allow—even then, he usually woke up early enough to take full advantage of all the gifts a day off could provide. In the past, Cazador had always been quick to reproach him for his frequent exhaustion—“You’re always tired. You never want to do anything.” Now, he’d tapped into a wellspring of energy to match his fiancé’s seemingly inexhaustible stamina. They’d been spending a lot more time together, too—watching movies that the other hadn’t seen, from simple stoner comedies to the lavish Lord of the Rings films. They’d even cooked a few meals together. As much as it annoyed Cazador to share the tiny kitchen—“You’re always getting in the way, silly,”—the men shared many laughs in that space.
Their campaign had inspired Cazador to pick up his paintbrush again, so much that he’d drawn up a portrait of Astarion’s character—the regal facade of a reticent Baldurian magistrate, a handsome elven man with tired eyes and silver hair. It had been a flattering present, so much so that he’d made it his wallpaper on his phone. He had a grander investment in his character—a morose Paladin suffering from memory loss, haunted by whatever he was trying to repress. He’d written an impassioned twenty-page-long backstory chronicling every traumatic event he had ever endured and every heroic act that he could still remember. Any portraits of him were usually gratuitously bloody—Astarion often wondered if he wasn’t the only hidden vampire at the table.
Speaking of which—tonight’s the night. It was finally time for his flighty vampire spawn to come out of the proverbial coffin. The party had already become suspicious of him last session after they’d found an exsanguinated boar while scouting the area surrounding the Emerald Grove—a circumstantially out-of-place vampire attack that he seemed to know an awful lot about. He wasn’t sure how he would reveal himself quite yet—when texting Gale about it, he’d sternly replied that biting the party was off the table.
Not even Gale of Waterdeep? He’d asked.
He’s an ally. Not an option. He is not for eating. Gale had put his foot down. The wizard would live. Not that Astarion was hoping to kill him, of course. The last time they had camped, the wizard seemed equally as starved as he was despite having been the one to cook a hearty meal for everyone—one that his rogue had pretended to eat. He was determined to find out what drove that hunger. Killing him would end that storyline, and the question would go unanswered. Even so, his neck would remain unscathed.
At the next stoplight, he grabbed his travel mug from the cup holder and took a swig of coffee—black and unsweetened. Just the way he liked it. The song faded into the next track, but with a trained finger, he quickly hit “repeat.”
Love, I get so lost sometimes,
Days pass, and this emptiness fills my heart.
When I want to run away, I drive off in my car—
His mind was on a similarly single track that morning. As it turned out, Gale Dekarios’ cameo in his dream was not a one-time thing. The dream vision of his DM coaxed him through his first-ever round of sleep paralysis. He’d been sleeping on his stomach, completely alone—he’d upset Cazador after rejecting his advances that night, and he had slammed the door and driven off, presumably to smoke alone in a parking lot and blow off some steam. It felt like he was heavier, as though he was being pressed into the bed by the weight of an imaginary person sitting on him. It had felt terrifying to him, more so than the standard fare of the disturbing visual viscera his nightmares tended to shove in his face. It was physically suffocating him.
Breathe, Astarion, breathe. Wake up. Go on, you can do it. Keep calm. This is all just a dream—and not a very pleasant one. You can wake up whenever you’re ready. It had just been his voice, his tone still even and measured under the pressure of catastrophic panic, but it had been enough to coax Astarion into consciousness. He’d forced himself upright. He felt winded, and his stomach was sticky with sweat. He waited for his breath to regulate before turning on his phone’s flashlight, walking to the bathroom, and turning on the shower. He sat in the corner, letting the water trickle onto his face and allowing his posture to relax.
—but whichever way I go,
I come back to the place you are.
In another dream—a dream he’d never had before—he found himself in a room that would have been pitch black had it not been for the ornate silver mirror in the center. It bathed the room in a ghostly light, and it beckoned him near. He’d approached it cautiously and raised a quivering hand to his reflection—only to see that it wasn’t his reflection. It was Gale’s face staring back at him—his straight, nearly permanently furrowed brow, the slight wrinkles on his forehead. He wondered how many times he’d worried in his life for it to have left such a permanent mark on his face. He blinked, and Gale’s crinkled eyes did the same. He smiled, and Gale’s bearded face smiled back at him, radiant and pleasant as it always was.
He held his hand to his hair and passed his fingers through it. Where his hair ended, Gale’s carried on, the wavy ends curling up and settling on his shoulders. The streaks in his hair glistened like tinsel in the mirror’s light.
And all my instincts, they return,
And the grand facade so soon will burn.
Without a noise, without my pride,
I reach out from the inside.
An impulsive thought scurried through his brain. His pale hand softly balled up, marrying thumb to forefinger, and he placed it gently on Gale’s chin. The brown eyes in the mirror were full of desire. It was his desire, mirrored back at him in the softest of gazes. He leaned in to kiss him, but his conscience quickly forced himself awake, his hands shaking as they found his reddened face. He turned to face Cazador, praying that the rustling of sheets hadn’t woken him. To his relief, the man was a heavy sleeper. To his dismay, he slowly realized how much the dream had wrought out of him. He needed to change. He quickly stepped out of bed, stealthily nicked a clean pair of underwear from their shared wardrobe, and slunk to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him and stuffed his briefs at the bottom of his laundry bag, his body wracked with shame.
He’d spent a good five minutes bent over the sink, his eyes watery and his knuckles blanching as he gripped the edges of the counter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted to a dream like that before. Perhaps in his teenage years? It felt as though centuries had passed since he’d last had a wet dream. Shit, it had been years since he’d even deigned to touch himself.
His heart was pounding in his ears. He turned his attention back to the mirror, half hoping he was still dreaming. What stared back at him was the most alarmingly frightened expression he’d ever seen on his face—on anyone’s face . He trembled.
In your eyes,
The light, the heat,
I am complete.
I see the doorway
To a thousand churches.
He was right around the corner from the employee parking lot, and he could see his face flushing in the rearview mirror as the memory of the dream flooded his every sense. It may have been winter outside, but it felt as though spring had made an early appearance within him. The flowers that usually shredded his insides were gently blooming—strangling him, still, but he felt he was losing himself in the most pleasurable way one could go astray.
Guilt’s presence was stronger, and it loomed over him like storm clouds. His inner voice became shrill and chastised him endlessly. What you’re feeling is completely unjustified, you know. This man has only been in your life for a handful of months, and half of your interactions with him are in your head or while playing pretend. This is the dumbest crush you could have. And for what? Because he was kind to you a few times? Because he relented and let you play a vampire? Because he fed you? Cazador’s heart would break if he knew you felt this way about someone else.
He hated the weight of his remorse. He knew himself too well to be so harsh on himself. He’d never cheated on a partner before, and this little error of his heart would be no different. They were engaged to be married. They lived together , for fuck’s sake. Where would they even go if they split up? Cazador’s family would never let him live with them again, for as much as they enjoyed having the pair over as guests in their chaotic home. He would have nowhere to go—and it would be his fault.
And what about himself? He knew he couldn’t afford to pay the rent of their shithole on his own, cheap as it was. He would need to return to working a weekend gig on top of his full-time job—a trap he had just escaped and wasn’t eager to return to. He had no degree and no other prospects or skills. As for his family, they had all gotten so sick of each other that they’d scattered to the winds. The only close relative was his mother, and while he was sure she wouldn’t object to inviting him in, he didn’t know if he could afford the emotional toll of crawling back to her with his tail between his legs.
And Gale—from what little he could surmise from the conversation with Wyll he’d overheard—he missed someone. A woman. Something he was not and would never be. And besides, Cazador was his friend. Even if he were what he wanted, even if they did break up, there was no way that Gale would betray the unspoken code of friendship by dating one of their exes. Gale was too good, too wholesome, too loyal.
No. Astarion would extinguish this crush—if it could even be called that—before it came to full term, before it broke him. It would remain a painful, buried secret, and he would resign himself to being both its grave keeper and its tomb. The mermaid wouldn’t have ever become seafoam if she’d left the prince well enough alone and pretended he meant nothing to her.
He parked his car and grabbed his coat when suddenly a text tone blared from the speaker. He scrambled to unplug his phone from its dongle and checked who had sent it.
Gale fucking Dekarios.
Of course! It just had to be him.
It seemed a cheery enough message at first glance. He read it in full.
Gale, purple heart, sparkle. His usual signature, the same one he used when he’d made an announcement post in the group chat. Why did he have to be so fucking precious? It only flustered him more.
Astarion typed a response, trying to keep it as curt and professional as possible before deciding to play it more casually.
Out of playful spite, he signed his message as obnoxiously as he could muster. A-star-ion, framed by black hearts and blood droplets. Edgy.
Gale’s response hit his inbox as fast as lightning. Astarion could only imagine how fleet his fingers were when he typed.
Astarion punched in, sat at his desk, and tried not to think too hard about the winky-face Gale had sent him by burying himself in the paperwork that kept getting piled onto his desk. He willed the hours to go by as slowly as possible.
Deep down, though, he eagerly awaited for the clock to strike one, kicking his feet up under his desk like a schoolgirl as the minutes plodded on.
Notes:
Sorry for the emotional whiplash that is this fic! I hope the lighter moments are worth the occasional trudges into darker territory. I hope you’re enjoying it so far!
Here’s a few selections from my playlist while writing this chapter.
Peter Gabriel - In Your Eyes, because ofc it was.
George Ogilvie - Foreign Hands (either version!)
The Hush Sound - You Are The Moon
John Mayer - Assassin (which may not be super relevant to this chapter but the theme of realization is there and it is so in-game Astarion coded it hurts.)
Garbage - Magnetized
U2 - Electrical StormMost of the Cazador chapters tend to be written with Ethel Cain’s Ptolemea in mind.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 10
Notes:
2/17/2024 Update: Now includes beautiful art by the wonderful CYANHORN ! I could not be more grateful to them, not only for their talent but for their boundless kindness. They poured so much love into this, and it almost feels like they went into my brain and plucked this image straight out of my imagination! Thank you so, so much, CYAN!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion was expecting a video call—perhaps even a phone call. What he wasn’t expecting was for Gale to waltz right into the lobby of his office at twelve-fifty with a lunch bag under his arm and that dumb, gentle smile that seemed to have made his face its permanent address. But that’s what he’d done, and all that Astarion could do was hide behind his computer as he re-read the same banal work email for the twentieth time.
His mind was racing with questions. How did Gale know his work address, for one? He tried to remember if he’d mentioned it last session, but at times, his voice would often get lost in the shuffle of everyone else’s pre-established bonds. He wasn’t sure what had and hadn’t snuck through his lips, past the prison warden that was his anxious mind.
Jaheira, the nosy social worker whose room was adjacent to his cubicle, seemed hyper-attuned to his predicament. She’d been sitting behind him, rifling through a file cabinet, skimming through some of her older case files. Once she’d noticed Gale waving across the counter and Astarion shyly reciprocating, she rolled her computer chair closer to his desk and leaned in with a sly grin. “Is that your fiancé, Mr. Ancunín? Me- ow. He’s just as pretty as you said he was, and look at that! He even brought you lunch! Lucky boy.”
Astarion sighed, trying to ignore the blush creeping up his shirt collar. Since he’d started this job, the wizened crone had barraged him with a litany of personal questions. He was sure it was polite watercooler chatter, perhaps driven by loneliness or boredom in the quieter hours. More the latter, he surmised—the families she helped, especially the children, all seemed especially attached to her. Between all the people (and office plants) she attentively tended to, she had no shortage of company in her office.
“Gale’s just a friend, Jaheira,” Astarion curtly replied in a whisper, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. “Nothing more.”
“Careful,” Jaheira warned, mimicking his gesture with her wiry arms. “You’ll fall.”
Too late, Astarion thought bitterly, knowing full well she meant the chair. He rolled his eyes, fixed his posture, and turned back to his desk to try and put some order to the chaos before one o’clock. He pretended he wasn’t looking over the counter every few moments. Gale was standing by the door, eyes fixed on a bronze plaque that hung on the wall.
The silver fox stepped right into his line of sight, successfully breaking his trance. She gave him a playful wink. “Go on, take your lunch a few minutes early. You’ve worked hard today. I’ll cover you if anyone calls.”
Astarion’s eyes widened in surprise before softening, full of gratitude. He nodded, muttered something vaguely resembling a “thank you,” put his computer to sleep, and slung his leather satchel over his shoulder. He’d have to remember to repay her somehow—maybe a greeting card with a kitten on it would suffice.
His heart was drumming in his chest as he leaned into Gale’s short but welcoming embrace. His neck smelled faintly of sandalwood. “It’s nice to see you, but I don’t think I was expecting to—well, see you. How did you know where I worked? It’s so far from where we live. I hope you didn’t go through all the trouble of getting here just for me.”
“You mentioned it during a break in the last session, remember?” Gale opened the door and slightly bowed, leading with his head. “After you. Now, what do you say we go across the street to that nice little park? I think I saw some tables when I drove past it. Or we could sit in my car with the heater on since it’s a bit nippy out. It’ll be a little harder to eat there, but we’ll do whatever suits you.”
Astarion blinked. So he had said it aloud , and Gale had not only heard him—he remembered. “The park sounds nice.”
At this hour, with all the children at school and their parents at work, the park was nearly empty. The only sounds that filled the air were the wind in the leaves and birds in the air. The occasional telltale “whoosh” of a car passing through was the only aberration to nature’s soundtrack. The pair nestled into the first wooden picnic bench they could find—a slightly damp, faded thing abundant in dips and knots. It had been carved with initials and stabbed with pencils countless times—the scars of selfish carelessness only young lovers could inflict.
He watched as Gale set the lunch box down and gingerly loosened the tie. “It’s my first time using this lunchbox. It’s insulated, so it should’ve kept the food nice and warm, hopefully.” Steam slowly rose from the container when it opened, and it cleared away into the cold air to reveal a pan-fried cod filet topped with a lemon slice. The aroma of garlic was making Astarion feel even hungrier.
“Here,” Gale said, handing him a set of utensils. “Just some leftovers from dinner last night, but it’s one of the rare dishes that tastes just as good when reheated. The recipe called for mahi-mahi, but cod was what I had on hand. The sauce is what I'm most proud of—I threw a tablespoon of sake in there! Now, dig in.”
Astarion obliged. The first forkful of fish was so soft and buttery that it instantly melted on his tongue. The tang of the lemon and rich homemade sauce danced in his mouth with the second bite. By the third bite, he felt like he had died and gone to heaven. “Holy shit, Gale,” he breathed. You’ve outdone yourself with this one.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it!” Gale beamed with pride. He had pulled his laptop from his backpack and set it beside him, stealing occasional glances as Astarion devoured his cooking. “Now I wish I brought you something for dessert. Maybe a canelé de Bordeaux.”
“I don't even know what that is, but you've done more than enough to earn my trust in your judgment. You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” Astarion said softly, hiding the lower half of his face behind his hand as he ate another bite. “But thanks.”
“Oh, didn’t I?” Gale asked, with a raise of his eyebrows. He’d tied his hair back today, and only a few unruly strands obscured them from full view—his brows were thick, wild. They betrayed his every emotion, and it was obvious that something was troubling him. With such an obvious tell plain on his face, Gale might’ve had a worse poker face than he did. “Well, the rest of the group will have to settle for pizza rolls tonight. My job has been a little overwhelming—holidays and all that. I don’t have the energy to cook tonight or clean the kitchen afterward—especially not after all the extra time I spent planning this session. I still wanted to ensure you had something more substantial before then.”
Astarion paused mid-bite. “Shit. I feel like an asshole. I’ll stay behind to help you with the dishes next time you feel like cooking for us. But why are you going through all this trouble for me? Why are you so invested in my eating habits?”
Gale shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it's more your health I worry about. Part of my concern stems from me being myself—if you spent a few days with the Dekarios clan at mealtime, you’d understand what I mean. As we established a few weeks ago, you have a habit of ‘forgetting to eat’ before my games—unless you’re starving yourself to eat my food, which I highly discourage, as flattering as it might be. But I worry there might be another reason. Your cheeks are—”
“I’m not starving myself on purpose if that’s what you’re implying,” Astarion put his hands up to his face in defense. He was on edge. “You saw all the paperwork on my desk. It can all just be a little overwhelming sometimes. Weren’t we here to talk about Dungeons & Dragons, Gale? I fail to see how the faults in my appearance factor in.” Evade, hide, dodge.
Gale seemed slightly wounded by his sudden deflection. “I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s not a fault. I only want to ensure that you’re okay. Forgive me for being so persistent and annoying, but I must insist. Changing the subject doesn’t make you any less hungry, and it does even less to ease my worry. I want to know how to help and make you feel more comfortable. You can tell me.”
“‘Annoying’ is right,” Astarion sighed, frustrated at his unrelenting line of questioning. His brow softened as he noticed his hands trembling under the table. A tiny voice from the cage in his mind began to beg. Tell him, it said.
“Fine. If you must know, I’ll tell you, but only so you’ll stop your incessant prodding.” He took a moment to choose his words carefully. Deep breath. “I’m broke.”
The confession ripped away from his throat like a bandage off a wound that hadn’t had enough time to heal. It felt so raw. It was too late to take it back. He was in the deep end now. His shame was immeasurable. He dared not look Gale in the eye, instead focusing on a dark knot in the greying table as he spoke. “After I fill my tank this afternoon, I’ll have exactly seven dollars and forty-one cents in my bank account. I need to make that paltry sum last me through the next few days. That’s about as much as I have in there at any given time—”
“Astarion, I—“
“—but I won’t be as broke when I get my first paycheck for this job,” he quickly added in a clumsy attempt to sprinkle some reassurance into his confession. Judging by the unchanged look of pity on Gale’s face, it had done little to assuage him. His voice softened. “Look, Gale, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner. I didn’t want anyone to know how much I was struggling. I still don’t. Not even Cazador knows. I’m embarrassed about it. But you know now. Happy?”
A pregnant silence filled the air between them, and Astarion watched Gale go through multiple stages of grief at once. “No. I’m sorry,” the man murmured, his hooded eyes downcast. “I can’t say I didn’t mean to pry because that’s what I was doing. But I can see I caused you harm by dredging this up.”
“Don’t apologize. I know you didn’t mean to.” Astarion’s eyes were wet with tears. He turned away from Gale and wiped at the corner of his eyes with his thumbs. He refused to let them fall in front of him. “I’m sorry for not being more grateful—this is nice, ” he murmured. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone bring me food like this. Maybe not since I was a little kid, forgetting my lunches at home.”
Gale paused. His eyes narrowed as he processed everything he’d learned. He leaned in closer. “Astarion, I understand keeping our friends in the dark about this, but why doesn’t your fiancé know? Maybe he could help you with this.”
Astarion laughed bitterly, nervously. “Cazador’s more strapped for cash than I am. He’d sooner sell his PlayStation for more weed than bring me lunch like this.” His eyes widened in horror. Why was he speaking so ill of his partner? Why was he giving all of this sensitive information away so freely? “Don’t get me wrong, Caz is an excellent cook,” he added, careful to rebuild any of his lover’s reputation he may have unintentionally torn down. “He loves cooking for me. My workplace is just a little far, is all. I certainly wouldn’t drive out here if it weren’t necessary.”
Gale’s eyes were full of pity. Astarion hated that. On a good day, he already felt lower than dirt. He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy to assure him of the lowly worm he already felt he was.
“Sorry to lead into this through such a serious conversation, but your situation is making me see an element of your character’s vampirism in a different light, you know; he isn’t out to hurt anyone—he’s just hungry. I’ll be honest—it’s making me want to change my mind about letting him feed on a party member.”
Astarion suddenly perked up. “Really?”
Gale nodded. “I had this encounter planned for the goblin camp—and we’ll probably still meet the NPC I was hoping you’d bite in the future. But I’ll bite—mind the pun. If you had to bite any of your friends, who would it be?”
Astarion bit his lip and giggled. “Do you really want to know? Because I’ve actually given it a lot of thought. Karlach’s blood would probably give me heartburn—it’d be like sipping soup without letting it cool—or like drinking strong moonshine. Lae’zel’s is hard to place—an underrepresented foreign cuisine begging to be known. Definitely on the spicy side. Shadowheart’s would go down like port, or maybe some absinthe—all I’m missing is the sugar cube to sweeten the taste.” He grinned. “I can go on if you like?”
Gale was struggling not to laugh. “Delightful. You’re quite the gourmand. I underestimated the thought you’ve put into what we taste like. Please, indulge me.”
He took another bite of the cod, savoring it as it sat on his tongue. “Cazador would taste like a rare steak drenched in wine—I’d probably make a bloody mess if I tried to drink from him. Wyll—hm. I’d imagine his blood would make a fine dessert wine, maybe a hot apple cider with a little cinnamon stick tossed in there for extra flavor—honeyed, candied wholesomeness just like the man himself. As for our wizard of Waterdeep—“ he paused, lost in thought.
“I have to admit that he probably won’t be to your taste,” Gale’s warning was soft—somber even.
“Oh, hush,” Astarion said, hoping Gale would confuse the sudden flush creeping on his face with a reaction to the cold. “He’s top-shelf. Refined. His blood would taste rich, like a storied, barrel-aged brandy. If it’s as good as his cooking, he’ll pair nicely. He’s my prime choice, you know. Whoever my vampire decides to bite—they’ll be his first.”
Now it was Gale’s turn to blush, his mouth agape. “His first, ever? In 200 years?”
Astarion nodded. He delighted in flustering him so. It excited him beyond measure. “His master never let him drink—I’m sure he’d have tortured him if he even thought about it. Discerning as his tastes may seem, he lived on rats, pigeons, hell, even insects on the worst days, but never what that sick bastard considered a ‘thinking creature.’ Tonight will be his first proper meal in two hundred years. It’ll be a real treat.”
“Art imitates life, I suppose,” Gale muttered. He cleared his throat. “Look, please don’t be disappointed if you try to bite Gale of Waterdeep and it turns out he isn’t everything you dreamed he’d be. I wouldn’t recommend him as your ‘first.’ Please know that isn’t just me trying to protect my character so much as it is me just warning you that biting him might have an unexpected consequence.”
“Consequences be damned! You’ve already made yourself the keeper of my satiety.” Astarion grinned coyly, launching into the foppish lilt of his character’s voice. “ I, on the other hand, am starving, darling.”
Gale adjusted the collar of his shirt before resting his hands on the keyboard of his laptop. “Alright, here’s how we’ll make it fair to everyone. I’ll make a table and assign a number to your potential targets, one through six. You’ll only need to roll a D6. Sound like a good deal?”
“I love that idea,” Astarion grinned earnestly, beyond chuffed with the change in his in-game fortune. I hope I roll your number.
“I trust you to do this responsibly. I can’t control how the lucky snack will react to your fangs in their neck—even if it leads to violence.” Gale’s tone betrayed a level of dread that Astarion wasn’t expecting. He sighed. “I hope it doesn’t come to that—this is a good group of people, as I’m sure you’re already aware. All of us. Everyone’s serious about their characters, but I don’t think they would kill for killing’s sake—even Cazador with his unpredictable paladin.”
“Actually, can we talk about that?” Astarion asked. “I thought you said you didn’t want any evil characters in your game, but I must be missing something. I’m having trouble aligning his intentions with your vision.”
Gale paused. “I know what it looks like, but I don’t want to say too much because he wants to keep some elements of his character private—a wish I trust you to know well enough to respect, vampire spawn.”
“That’s mister vampire spawn to you,” Astarion pouted. “Well, he’s told me a little bit. He’s too excited about the game to keep secrets, and I think he’s run out of other people to tell. I suppose I have special access to what he wants me to know, being his partner and all that,” Astarion paused for a moment. “Since we’re on the subject of my fiancé, I must ask one thing of you,” he said, his voice dark and serious.
“Sure, mister vampire spawn,” Gale snarkily replied as he typed away at his keyboard. “God, you’re saucier than the cod was. Sour as the lemon, too. Ask me anything.”
Astarion’s voice shifted into a whisper. “Please don’t tell him you came here. He’s a very jealous partner. He’d misconstrue this as—well, as something it isn’t. Hells, sometimes he wakes up from dreams about me sleeping with other people and won’t talk to me for the entire day.”
Suddenly, Gale’s shoulders tensed. His lips pursed shut and his eyes widened. A heavy uncertainty laced his voice when he finally spoke. “Alright.”
“Alright? What?” Astarion asked, panic rising in his voice. “Is something wrong?”
Gale shook his head and tried to play off his visible discomfort with a smile. “No, it’s okay. I’m always a little out of sorts when I’m being asked to keep things a secret, but I understand. I‘ve known Cazador since high school. I’ve seen what he’s like in relationships.“
“Oh? Do tell,” Astarion feigned ignorance, fishing for details. His heart thrummed in his ears. Was he always like this?
“He was romantic. Nothing too grand. Always very physically affectionate, lots of PDA. Most of the poems he wrote were about his lovers—well, ex-lovers now, I suppose. He painted a fair few of them, too. They were quite good!” He smiled. “I think he submitted a few of them into competitions. Won a fair amount of awards for them.”
“That tracks,” Astarion muttered, wistfully daydreaming about his lost oil portrait.
Gale’s smile began to falter. “I think you’ve done Cazador a lot of good, you know. He was never short on friends, but he had it rough. He’s not who he was then. Troubled. When he’s next to you, he always looks so happy.”
Astarion nodded as he shoved the final piece of fish in his mouth, hopefully ending that dissatisfactory thread of conversation. He couldn’t stop ruminating. There was something he wasn’t telling him.
“Fiddlesticks, it’s seven minutes to two,” Gale said hastily. He saved his document and shut his laptop closed. He shoved it into his bag and began to gather his lunchbox. “We have to start walking back.”
“‘Fiddlesticks?’ Do you always curse like a grandfather?” Astarion joked. “Here, let me give you a hand. It’s the least I can do.”
“No, it’s alright, I just have to get you back to work in time—”
Their hands met, and without warning, a shock of static electricity coursed through Astarion’s arm. He pulled his hand back and gently rubbed his fingertips against his palm.
“You shocked me!” Gale grinned, his cheeks slightly pink. “But I suppose I shocked you too. Must be that dry, cold air at work.” He began to laugh. “I wish I had your reflexes. You’re more catlike than you give yourself credit for.”
Now it was Astarion’s turn to flush. “I rather like cats,” he murmured. “Maybe someday I’ll meet yours. Tara, right?”
Gale’s face broke out into the biggest smile he’d seen yet. “That’s right! You remembered. I’m surprised I didn’t spend twenty minutes of our time here just showing you all the pictures I’ve taken of her.”
He spoke of nothing but his cat as they walked back to the office, but Astarion didn’t mind. He listened quietly, soaking in all the excitement and joy, basking in the higher register of Gale’s voice—the sort of tone usually reserved for sweethearts. Something about the way he lit up while talking about her purring and kneading his belly stirred his heart. Oh, to be a loved little cat…
Their parting hug was slightly longer. Astarion hoped that Gale couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating through all the layers of clothing. He stole one last sniff of sandalwood from the crook of his shoulder when he noticed something small and cold poking against his cheek. He pulled back and his eyes fell upon the cause— a delicate silver earring dangling from his left ear. Was it a star? A ship’s wheel? He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before.
He turned his attention back to the limpid twin pools of Gale’s eyes and smiled in earnest. “Thank you for lunch. It means a lot.”
“It was my pleasure,” Gale hummed. “I meant what I said. No one will go hungry at my table. Please, let me know if there's any other way I can h—“
“Not so loud!” Astarion shushed, glancing back at the sleepy office to see if anyone was within earshot. “You've done more than enough already. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Tonight—? Ah, our game, yes. Tonight.” Gale smiled softly, pushing a strand of silver-streaked hair behind his ear. “I'll see you then.” He began to turn away but suddenly stopped, and turned right back to face him. “Astarion?”
“Yes?”
Gale paused apprehensively before his next words. “Nothing. I'm just grateful for the enthusiasm you bring to the game every time. You take notes, too. Substantial ones. It’s nice to see someone enjoying something I worked so hard on.”
Astarion blinked. “Gale, you're blind if you don't see how much everyone is enjoying it. It's fantastic. Everyone loves it.” Everyone loves you.
“I know,” Gale whispered. “But sometimes a reminder is needed. Enjoy the rest of your shift. I've kept you long enough.”
“I’ll do my best,” Astarion said sarcastically. “By the way, you owe me a secret of yours next time, since you seem intent on revealing mine.”
Gale chuckled. “Sounds like a fair trade. See you!” He gave a stately bow and a wave before stepping back out into the cool air.
“What castle did you stumble into to find such a prince?” Jaheira’s teasing voice rang out from the other side of the counter.
Astarion grinned. “Would you believe me if I told you I met this one at a homely little diner?”
Notes:
New headcanon: Astarion is a vampire that really likes garlic.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter Text
Jaheira had left work a little earlier than usual, and consequently, the last half-hour of his shift was mercifully quiet. He spent a fair bit of that time racking his memory for stories his fiancé had shared about his so-called “rebellious” school days—anything he could trace to the anxiety on Gale’s face earlier. Cazador always described himself as a “bad boy,” but most of the tales he'd told that came to mind were all fairly benign—skipping class, doing drugs, kissing men under the bleachers at sports games, spending his lunch breaks painting in the art room. Nothing he could remember hearing lent credence to Gale’s uneasiness.
No, the real trouble with Cazador always seemed to stem from home, and he was sure that was something he fought to keep under wraps at all costs. Astarion’s mind settled on two of the darker stories his partner had shared that he often found himself revisiting. The first was the story where his stepfather had handcuffed him and threw him outside in the cold for hours. He didn't even know what he had done to be punished in such a way. The second story was the one where the bastard had taken him to the morgue and forced him to look upon the bruised, bloated corpse of another teenager who bore an uncanny resemblance to him. “This is where you’ll end up if you’re not careful,” he'd warned. When he’d told him this story, Cazador had admitted that he hadn’t felt anything in that moment—only numbness.
Astarion shuddered. He’d met Vellioth himself several times. He had done nothing to hide his true nature whenever Cazador brought him over to visit. He was always imposing, hyper-vigilant, ever the martinet. He reveled in the knowledge that he was frightening to others, and this included Astarion. His family lived in constant surveillance in their lavish home—hidden cameras sat in every corner. “For our safety,” his mother had insisted after she’d once caught Astarion looking directly into one of the lenses peeking between two tchotchkes in a glass china cabinet. “In case anyone breaks in. He’s a target for many.”
Amanita, the youngest, was shockingly aware of all the sickness in the house. She had been the one who told him how Vellioth was always keen to delete the footage of himself beating his family, or terrorizing them with his baton, or worse—his gun. She’d lost count of all the gaps in the recordings when she’d tried to scour them for evidence of his cruelty. Astarion remembered how she’d seemed so detached from the horror of what she’d just admitted.
Astarion stared into his coffee cup. Its contents had gone cold. Her acidic laugh and whispered words rang in his ears: “Who do you call for help when your abuser is a cop?” There was no safety for her—for any of them.
He anxiously counted down the seconds until the clock struck three-thirty.
From the moment he clocked out, he knew the drive home would be an agonizing one. After finding the cheapest gas station and filling his tank, his trembling fingertips searched his phone for some light fare, half-hoping for a nice distraction from his intrusive thoughts—he decided to settle for an amateur D&D podcast—a trio of siblings roleplaying a found family of tieflings and their lives post-exile from Elturel. They were quippy enough to hold his attention through the interminable gridlock of rush hour traffic, but only slightly.
For an hour and thirty minutes, Astarion’s heart felt like an anchor in his chest, its weight threatening to plunge him to the bottom of the sea. A voice in his head whispered a prescient warning: You’re an idiot if you don’t think you’re not going to give it away. He’s going to find out eventually. It’s all over your face.
“No,” he said aloud to himself through shaky breaths. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” But hot tears welled up in his eyes anyway. He tried to calm his breathing, but the panic refused the truce and welled up inside of him like pressure in a volcano. He tried to rationalize his feelings. What did he have to fear? Perhaps it was fear of Gale’s rejection. More than likely it was the absolute terror of his life caving in on him and leaving him with nothing to show for it—a selfish fear, but it was lurking at the bottom of everything else that was making his hands vibrate as they gripped the wheel.
Was it the fear of hurting Cazador that was causing him so much pain? Or was it the fear of incurring his wrath?
The first time Cazador had driven him home from visiting the Szarr family, Astarion couldn't stop himself from weeping. As soon as they’d pulled into a guest parking spot, he managed to choke out the only coherent thought he’d had in the last hour: “He’s a monster.”
“‘What is family if not the monsters we are obliged to love?’ That’s what he always said, anyway,” Cazador murmured. He stared off into the distance. The car was silent except for the occasional stifled sob.
“You want to leave.”
He was right. Astarion had wanted nothing more than to run away from him and his fucked up family. He had been so close that night, but all it had taken to change his mind was one look into the glassy eyes of his partner in the dark—they pleaded for him to stay. His lips trembled. In the light of the street lamps outside, he looked like a small, frightened child.
He remembered firmly clasping his cold hand in his. It felt as though a third, invisible hand was squeezing his heart as it dolorously thudded in his chest. He could feel his eyes burning with rage. “I won’t leave. I’ll do everything I can to protect you and keep you safe. I won’t let them chase me away. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”
Cazador had stared back at him with wide eyes. His lips had twitched into a smile. “No one has ever wanted to protect me before. Usually, it’s the other way around.”
“Well, then,” Astarion had said as he leaned in. He remembered pulling a strand of wet, raven hair back to kiss his tears away. “I suppose I’m no one.”
Astarion pulled into the familiar sun-bleached driveway, trying to breathe as deeply as he could to calm his nerves. His breaths were shallow, which only panicked him more. His traitorous hands were still trembling with the weight of the promise he feared he would break. They trembled still as he opened the door to their shared efficiency.
Cazador was on the bed, taking a deep hit from his vape. “Hey, babe. Playing a bit of Skyrim before the game tonight, wanna join me?”
Astarion dropped his satchel at his feet and crawled onto the bed. He inched himself closer to his fiancé’s bare chest and wrapped him in an embrace—this time, more tenderly than he had in months. He prayed he didn’t smell like sandalwood.
“You’re shaking. Did something happen?” Cazador asked.
“Too much coffee,” he lied. “Shouldn’t have gotten a second cup so close to the evening. I think I’m also nervous about the game tonight.” That part was true.
“Aww. Scared of a few goblins?” Cazador tutted. “I thought you’d quite enjoy a family reunion.”
Astarion pulled away and shoved a pillow into the laughing face of his fiancé. “You’re so mean. Don’t you ever get nervous before playing?”
He launched the pillow back at him. “Your reactions make it so hard for me not to be mean to you,” he giggled before sobering up and answering his question. “No, I find myself more stoked than anything. I’m eager for more secrets about my character to come out. Shit, there’s so much I can’t tell you! It’s killing me.” He offered his pen. “Here. Maybe this will help ease your mind a bit? Panic attacks fucking suck.”
The tension in Astarion’s shoulders slowly began to melt. He doesn’t suspect anything. He shook his head. “No, I think I just needed to get off the road.” He sidled to the edge of the bed. “I’m gonna go freshen up. Have fun killing draugr or whatever.”
“Killing vampires,” Cazador corrected him. “‘Maybe. Haven’t decided if I want to become a Vampire Lord or join the Dawnguard yet.”
Astarion felt his heart stop. He laughed nervously.
“I think you’d make a hell of a Vampire Lord, Cazador Szarr.”
Notes:
Work and the holidays have been keeping me occupied (and of course, playing BG3 on my off time!) so here’s a short chapter before we get into the nitty gritty of the actual D&D session. (Yes, I rolled a D6…the results were interesting to say the least!)
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter Text
Astarion wondered why Lae’zel had asked the group to send her a text describing their character’s physical appearance. The request had come several weeks ago, and he only remembered gushing over his attractive elf to a point where he worried he’d annoyed her somehow. Tonight, she revealed that she had been working on a gift for everyone. She pulled out a chunky black case, and when she opened it, she gently pried seven tiny hand-painted miniatures from the foamy grey cushion inlaid in the bag. She cupped them gently in her hands and handed them out wordlessly.
Astarion eyed the miniature in awe. Two little red pupils looked back at him like tiny pinpricks. The gold stitching on his plum-colored doublet was incredibly detailed despite the scale. He imagined Lae’zel painstakingly using the most minuscule brush in her arsenal.
The rest of the party was ooh-ing and aah-ing at their respective miniatures. Even Shadowheart, whose tenuous relationship with Lae’zel had only become more apparent through their roleplay, was inspecting hers while hiding her suddenly reddened cheeks with her chunky black sweater.
“These are fucking amazing, Lae!” Karlach set her large, red tiefling barbarian down on the playmat and pretended to hack away at a d4 with her halberd. “You even got her little broken horn!”
“This makes me feel slightly better about things,” Wyll murmured as he spun his fiendish little miniature slowly in his fingers, carefully avoiding the delicate pin-like rapier. A few sessions back, he expressed that his warlock’s physical transformation would be an exciting opportunity for character development. Despite this, it was clear to everyone at the table that the Blade of Frontiers was still sore about his patron’s punishment for sparing Karlach. While everyone else was skirting around to avoid revealing too much all at once about their backstories, Karlach had been pretty open about hers. He didn’t resent saving her—it wasn’t in his heroic, good-hearted nature to kill someone who had been sold and mutilated as a child, forced to fight through hordes of demons in the infernal plane she never felt safe or at home in—the horns protruding from his head were another story. Their presence would be a constant reminder whenever he’d catch his reflection: no good deed goes unpunished.
The usually verbose Gale was oddly quiet as he held his wizard to the light. Astarion sat silently at the chair to his right. He rested his head on his arms, pretending he was still lost in the details of his little secret vampire while he peered over at his soft features in the light. He felt his heart flutter and swore at that moment that there was no way everyone else at the table didn’t also want him the way he did. His usually readable face was now a tome written in a dead language. He tried to parse out the nuances in his emotions. It seemed like the predictable gratitude was there, but another sentiment was lurking in his pensive expression—desolation, maybe?
“Lae’zel, this is beautiful,” he said as he gingerly set his miniature on the mat. “This must’ve taken you ages. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, Lae!! Shit, you should think about taking commissions for these! You’re so talented.” Karlach had taken control of Shadowheart’s cleric after she had gone to the kitchen to grab the pizza rolls from the oven. She was pressing their faces together, making them kiss.
“Careful with the paint on those, Karlach,” Lae’zel growled, rolling her eyes. She clutched her knee close to her chest as she stretched, leaning back in her chair. “I’m used to priming and painting entire armies. These proved far more challenging. My back and neck are mad at me, but I’m proud of how they turned out.”
“You should be proud,” Cazador said, unable to take his eyes off the tiny paladin. Even when he placed the miniature adjacent to Astarion’s rogue, he was captivated by its burnished armor gleaming in the lamplight. “Color me impressed. You nailed it. I love the rusted texture on the fingertips of the gauntlets and the hilt of his sword.”
Just then, Shadowheart emerged from the kitchen carrying a giant platter full of steaming pizza rolls. "Careful, they're hot," she warned.
"So am I," Karlach said, winking as she immediately popped one into her mouth. Almost instantly, regret pooled on her face as she swallowed it whole. "Ooh. Yeah, no. Don't do what I just did. Wait for them to cool down."
"That warning was mainly for you, silly," Shadowheart sighed, sprinting back into the kitchen and swiftly returning with a glass bottle of iced green tea. "At least you're predictable, love."
Karlach immediately grabbed the bottle and took a huge swig, almost downing half the drink. She exhaled in relief. "Where would I be without your ‘lesser restoration’ spells, baby?" Her husky voice was dripping in honey, as it always did when she spoke to Shadowheart.
"Dead, probably," she smirked before planting a quick peck on her cheek and sitting by her side. "Someone has to keep you in check since you're so eager to burn the roof of your mouth to shreds." She turned her attention to Lae'zel, hunched over with tinny music blasting from her headphones. She was drafting a battle plan in her notebook. Shadowheart cleared her throat.
Lae’zel’s gaze met hers, and she took one of her earbuds out. “Speak,” she said, irked that she’d been distracted from her work.
"I admit, you did a wonderful job painting these,” she mumbled. “Thank you, Lae'zel. I’ll cherish mine forever."
Lae'zel looked slightly taken aback. All she could muster in response was a slight nod before returning to her sketch, her pen writing so furiously that Astarion was surprised it hadn’t caught fire or snapped under all the pressure she was putting on it.
"Alright, everyone, I know you’re all eager to begin. Let's settle down,” Gale said, easing everyone’s mirthful laughter with his low call to attention. “Wyll, can you pass me that remote?”
Wyll obliged. With a click, the lights began to dim. The room was suddenly alive with the ambient sound of crickets and the crackle of a slow-dying fire. The occasional hoot of an owl pierced the illusory night sky every few moments through the speaker of Gale’s laptop.
“Hello, my friends,” he purred. The light from the screen illuminated his face with a cool blue gleam. He slowly turned to look at everyone in the dark with a warm smile. Astarion quickly looked away when their eyes met, grateful that the room was too dark for his flush to be noticeable—but still, he felt them lingering. “Welcome to the latest session of our humble little game. Shadowy whispers about the fervent Cult of the Absolute have long plagued your ears, striking fear into the hearts of nearly everyone you have spoken to. It is the eve of your planned attack on the goblin camp. From what you have gathered, the goblins have abandoned the call of their longtime lord, Maglubiyet, in favor of the Absolute’s seductive call for the unity of all peoples. You have learned that this outpost is harboring a host of so-called ‘True Souls’ and their devoted disciples. A few of you have taken the reins and concocted a plan: a tactical ambush. Planning has left you exhausted. It's time for sleep. When morning comes, you will be ready to strike.”
He took a deep breath and relished in the silence in the room before he spoke again in barely a whisper. “Astarion—you, in particular, are having a great bit of trouble resting. You’re having a nightmare.”
“Naturally,” Cazador whispered into his ear.
“Your body is twisting and turning in your bedroll. Your fingers claw at the earthen soil until it gets trapped beneath your nails, and your chest heaves and compresses faster and faster. You feel claustrophobic—”
“Can I wake up, please?” Astarion asked, his brows upturned. His eyes solicited mercy. “Sorry,” he murmured, biting down on his lower lip. This dream is getting too real, too fast.
Gale nodded. “That’s okay! I’m not going to make you roll for it. You force yourself out of your restless trance. No matter where you were in that bad dream, you find yourself safe in your tent. You breathe in—do you want to take the reins?”
“Yes,” Astarion whispered. His throat was dry, and he could feel six pairs of curious eyes laser-focused on him. “He breathes in, but despite the night air feeling fresh and cool, he tastes iron in his lungs. In his throat. In his mouth. His nightmare was about his life before—back in Baldur’s Gate, before the tadpole.” his voice wavered. He saw Karlach shift in her seat and raise her hand to her mouth. “I saw—he saw someone he used to know.”
He felt Cazador’s hand give his knee a reassuring squeeze under the table.
Gale spoke slowly. “The phantom taste of iron is overwhelming to you. You find yourself hungrier— thirstier —than you have ever felt in your entire life—all two hundred and thirty-nine years of it. The thirst that plagues you on this moonlit night is one that not even the finest wine or the purest water could ever slake.”
“‘Life,’” he chuckled darkly. “If that’s what you want to call it. He has lived shackled in the shadow of death for centuries. Though I must admit that he at least feels alive now—more than he has in a long time.”
The tension in the air was thick. Cazador’s hand had abandoned Astarion’s knee and found its way to his neck, scratching at an itch. Karlach’s eyes burned in the dark like two coals—of everyone at the table, she seemed to be the most invested.
“Astarion. I want you to roll a D6 for me.” Gale raised both hands behind his head.
His hand fumbled in the dim light for the small cube. He sighed as he rattled the dice in his hands for a few seconds longer than he needed to before letting it fly into the tray that Shadowheart had volunteered for communal use. It settled on one of its faces immediately after landing—no hesitation. He leaned over and read the number aloud: “Three.”
Please, please, please.
Gale’s eyes widened slightly, deepening the creases in his brow significantly. He leaned over his DM screen and confirmed Astarion’s roll. “Three.” He fell back to his chair with little grace. His shoulders slumped over, and he pressed his hands over his temple as he muttered a curse under his breath through a sharp exhale. His brown eyes locked with his. “I’m half-tempted to call you over so you know I’m not bullshitting you.”
“How bad is it?” Shadowheart asked.
“Quite possibly the worst outcome he could have rolled,” Gale sighed. With his pointer finger, he beckoned Astarion over behind the screen.
His chair squeaked over the wooden floor as he pulled it back, and everyone started softly talking with one another. He fought the urge to press a hand on Gale’s shoulder when he stood behind him—it landed on the table instead as he leaned down and looked at the list past the crook of his shoulder. He didn’t make it very far before collapsing into giggles.
“Number One: Shart—? What the fuck?” He was suddenly overcome with paroxysms of wheezing laughter, fighting them and only barely managing to keep his voice low. “Please!”
“It was supposed to be a shorthand abbreviation,” Gale growled—but Astarion could see that the corners of his lips were also beginning to tremble upwards.
He skipped ahead and caught a glimpse of what he was looking for. His breath hitched in his throat.
“No fucking way,” he whispered through a breathy laugh.
“See? No tricks,” Gale said. A small smile bloomed behind his anxious expression.
Astarion's throat tightened as he tried to avoid lingering by the beguiling scent of sandalwood on his neck for too long. “Okay.”
Gale nodded, hands draped over his brow. “Alright then.”
Astarion returned to his seat with a toothy grin plastered on his face. A spurt of excitement welled in his heart like one of its chambers had sprung a leak. It felt like being on stage again—only with the slightest sliver of a script in his mind. Exciting. Terrifying.
Shadowheart’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Worst possible outcome?”
Oh, fuck. Shart. Astarion’s grin only widened, and he struggled to contain another mirthful giggle. Your ‘Warrior Cats’ name is forever ruined for me—until the stars grow cold and the sea evaporates.
Cazador looked over at him with a furrowed brow. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You don’t want to hear spoilers, darling,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
“Astarion,” Gale’s voice called him back to the game. “The dice have spoken. The hunger pools within you, as it always has—in your moments of solitude, in windowless rooms. You reminisce about your days of attending lavish parties, and although you find yourself surrounded by a veritable feast —thousands of spirits—all are forbidden to you. Tonight is different. The proverbial key to the cellar has somehow found its way into your pocket. It sits in your grip, burning a hole into the palm of your hand.”
Astarion took a deep breath. All eyes were on him, yet again—hungry, expectant. He held his D20 firmly and gently ran his thumb against one of its many vertices. “If he only had a heart, it would be ringing in his ears like an alarm bell. But when has sneaking around ever been anything but the norm for him? He finds himself imbued with a sudden burst of bravery. He expertly shuffles, stepping through the bedrolls on the ground. He grows more nervous as he sneaks around Lae’zel’s tent—the elf worries he’ll find his pretty silver head among her garish collection of stuffed trophies come morning.”
Lae’zel rolled her eyes. “Not unless you turn into a ghaik tonight, ska’keth,” she hissed.
Astarion laughed. “I feel like you just called me something not very nice with that tongue of yours. But no matter. The potential threat of danger this choice might lead him to isn’t enough to sway him from his course. He considers them all. The bravery holds. He stealths past her tent.”
“Make me a stealth roll. Lae, roll perception.”
“On it.” Without skipping a beat, he released the D20 from his grip. “With my modifier, that's a twenty-four!”
“Chk. Well, it beats my eighteen,” Laezel smirked. “Guess my hypervigilance won't be enough to save our skins from this fool robbing us blind tonight. Or worse.”
“Lae’zel, you stir a little, almost surfacing from your pleasant dreams of red dragons and the Astral Sea, but Astarion’s footsteps are so delicate and intentional, sure not to stray into any patches of dry grass or leaves. They go unheard. Wyll, do you want to try to make a perception check since your tent is close by? Astarion, I’ll allow you to keep your first roll unless you want to roll again.” Gale asked.
“I’m pretty confident in my first roll,” Astarion said slyly. “I think I’ll keep it.”
“Sure,” Wyll said, eyeing Astarion suspiciously from across the table. “What are you up to, elf?” He muttered before fancifully dropping his D20 into the tray. “Shit. I can’t imagine a four will get the Blade to startle awake. What an awful time to not have inspiration.”
Gale shook his head. “No dice. Wyll, you were up late last night consulting with Karlach and Lae’zel about the details of your invasion plans, so you are exhausted. You’ve never slept more comfortably in a bedroll.”
Astarion smirked. “I approach the wizard’s tent.”
He inspected everyone’s face at the table. Shadowheart’s olive eyes were as wide as saucers, her chrome polished hands clasped over her mouth. Karlach was vibrating in her seat along with Wyll, while Lae’zel was so still one could argue a witch had cast a petrification spell on her. She had stopped taking notes and was listening intently. The edge of Cazador’s furrowed brow was twitching—Astarion hoped it was out of intrigue.
Gale’s expression was once again unreadable—painfully neutral. His voice was solemn. “You’ve made it to Gale of Waterdeep’s tent. You skulk past all sorts of wizardly trinkets—scales, alembics, and stacks of books. Oh, and a telescope, too. You have no idea how he got such a large contraption set up so quickly at your camp or how it ended up there.” He paused to laugh but quickly refocused, finding the even tone he’d steadily maintained as easy as he’d lost it. “You run your hand over the azure linen that protects him from the elements, parting it open. You are in his tent, standing over his sleeping body. What do you do?”
“I lean over him, careful not to breathe too loudly, more careful not to let the leather of my laces tickle his neck. I inhale—I want to make sure there isn’t anything wrong with the quality of the vintage if you catch my drift.”
Gale looked a little taken aback by Astarion’s query, pondering for a few seconds before answering. “Nothing seems off to you. You can smell the sweetness of his skin—hear the beat of his pulse. It’s drumming in your head…”
“Oh, you bastard,” Cazador muttered exasperatedly, shaking his head. “No fucking way did he let you do this.”
“Shush!” Astarion giggled, placing a finger delicately onto his lover’s lips. He turned his attention to Gale. “I bite him—carefully, of course. I don’t want to wake him.”
The entire table was in uproar. Astarion doubled over in laughter, taking in all the comments flung at him. Shadowheart kept exclaiming, “I knew it!” Karlach’s contagious booming cackle only caused his tittering to intensify.
“Pass me your mini, Astarion.” Lae’zel grinned. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small pot of white paint along with a brush that may as well have been two hairs wrapped together. She began shaking the mixture vigorously. Astarion handed his not-so-secret vampire over to her, and within seconds, she passed the miniature back—it now sported two minuscule dabs of bone-colored paint beneath his upper lip.
“Roll stealth. Just one more time,” Gale said, wiping a mirthful tear from his eye. “You haven’t bitten him yet, don’t celebrate prematurely!”
“Okay, fine,” Astarion sighed. “One more roll—it’s an eighteen!”
While Gale quietly rolled his dice behind the screen, Karlach had all but melted into her chair. “Are you sure your dice aren’t loaded, Starry?!”
“That’s a set I loaned him our first session,” Gale said. “He’s just had a streak of remarkable luck tonight. His high stealth modifier probably doesn’t hurt either.”
“Plus seven.” Astarion grinned. “I bite?” he asked, coyly popping a pizza roll in his mouth.
“Astarion—your lips hover over his neck, fangs primed to strike—but just as you’re about to sink your teeth in, the wizard awakens, wide-eyed, face to face with his would-be assailant.” Gale held up his D20. “My perception check was a critical success.”
“Shit.”
“Your luck has run out,” Gale grinned.
Astarion sighed. “He stumbles over backward in a way that is uncharacteristically graceless for him. He looks apologetically at Gale, and the fear in his eyes isn’t hiding the way it usually does. He raises his hands to his face defensively—and then they quickly shift down to his abdomen. ‘No, no, it’s not what it looks like, I swear!’ He braces himself.”
Gale glared at him from behind the DM screen. “‘How is this not what it looks like? Because it looks like you were about to bite me.’”
“‘I wasn’t going to hurt you, I just needed—well, blood.’” Astarion’s acting chops were out to play. He felt a warm glow from inside him.
Gale paused for a moment, and the ambient sound of crackling fire filled the space before he spoke again. “‘You’re a bloody vampire! How long has it been since you killed someone? Days? Hours?’ He waggles an accusatory finger at you.”
“‘I’ve never killed anyone! Well—not for food. I feed on animals. Boars. Deer. Kobolds. Whatever I can get.’” Astarion smiled playfully.
Now it was Shadowheart’s turn to giggle. “Lord, I wish I were awake right now.”
Astarion’s brows turned upwards. His eyes had adopted a hollow expression. “‘But it’s not enough. Not if I have to fight. I feel so…’” he paused. “‘Weak.’ He looks at Gale with pleading eyes as he begins to barter with him. ‘If I had just a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better! Please…’ He looks wretched. Ashamed. Tense. He knows he’s been deceptive, and he doesn’t know what else he can do to show you he can be trusted. He closes his eyes, and he connects to your tadpole. He doesn’t show you everything—but what he has told you thus far is the truth.”
“The wizard looks at you through squinted, untrusting eyes, but as soon as he feels the alien pulse in his head, he can feel everything you’re feeling. The hunger, the desperation to be believed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Any of us?’” Gale’s voice softened.
“He lowers his hands. His body relaxes. ‘At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. No. I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.’ The anguished edge that coated his words before is gone now. He sounds calmer now. Sincere.”
“‘I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I do. I believe you.’”
Astarion’s heart raced. This was hardly a real interaction—this was pure fiction—but it felt so intimate. He felt so connected to everything—to his character, to the wizard, to Gale himself. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was chemistry there.
“‘Thank you,’” he breathed. “‘Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste. I swear.’” He couldn’t believe how seductive he sounded. Everyone at the table was silent, completely invested. He turned to look at Cazador—he wore a pleasant smile on his face, but his teeth were clenched in his mouth. He swore he could hear them grinding.
Gale sighed. His eyes hadn’t broken away from Astarion’s in a long while. “‘Go ahead. But be warned—you might bite off more than you can chew.’”
Astarion giggled in the silly little laugh he’d assigned to this character. “‘Really? Well, let’s see, shall we?’”
“Gale lays back on his bedroll and exposes his neck, and you move quickly, eagerly. Your sharp fangs puncture the wizard’s skin like two icy shards. He trembles beneath you, seething in pain, and the familiar gush of warmth fills your mouth, gushing across your lips—but something’s wrong. Very, very wrong. His blood tastes acidic and rank. It’s a clotted, mottled mess of unpleasant flavors that sharply bites you back as it drips down your throat. It’s nothing like the brandy you fantasized about. It tastes like death. Poison. Make a constitution saving throw.”
The entire table came alive with rowdy screams and shrieking laughter once again. Astarion’s eyes were wide. “What the fuck have I done?” he groaned.
“What you’ve done is the equivalent of licking a Switch cartridge!” Wyll gasped through spasms of laughter.
The D20 landed in the corner. Astarion frowned at the result. “Five plus two, so that’s a seven…shit, my luck did not follow me very far.”
“Do you unlatch yourself?” Gale asked.
“Yes!” Astarion said incredulously. “Am I going to die?”
“No, my undead friend, you won’t die—again—but you will take—” Gale murmured as the familiar clicking of multiple dice being rolled at once filled the air. “—five points of poison damage, but don’t bother. We’re long resting after this interaction so your health won’t be affected. You pull away instinctively, and between your gagging and retching trying to spit the taste out of your mind, your fear of waking the rest of the party escalates.”
Astarion mockingly coughed and pretended to spit. “I’d like to imagine that he hacks up a black clot of blood. ‘Ugh. You taste like bile! What the hells is wrong with you?!’” He asked, halfway between his character and himself.
“‘Think of it as a warning. I am not for eating.’” Gale sounded like he was scolding his cat. Astarion bristled before erupting into another sardonic giggle, this one smaller.
“‘Clearly.’” He said. “‘Safe to say this will never happen again. I’ll go and find something on four legs to eat, I suppose.’ The pale elf’s gaze trails away from you. The disappointment in his voice is immeasurable. ‘See you in the morning.’ He turns away towards the forest—slumped, sulking, and ready to kill.”
The lights in the room slowly began to brighten, and the salient joy on everyone’s face was priceless.
“I knew it, sneaky bastard. It was so obvious!” Shadowheart’s smile was a rare, beautiful sight. He was befuddled by the knowledge that something he’d done was the cause. She always seemed so difficult to impress.
“Was it really that obvious?” Karlach wondered aloud. “How do we have a vampire in our party at level three? Doesn’t a vampire spawn have a challenge rating of four? Also, how is he casually existing in the sunlight? I swear we crossed a river a few sessions ago.”
“Yes, it was obvious!” Shadowheart said, clearly exasperated and eyeing her partner in disbelief. “Babe, don’t you remember the boar carcass from the last session that had him so on edge? Plus, he has red eyes! Didn’t that strike you as unusual?”
Karlach scoffed. Her arms flew into the air. “Not as unusual as how Cazador described his oathbreaker’s eyes—black sclera, scarlet irises? This is a high fantasy game, Jen. We’re allowed to be edgy little fucks. My barbarian is literally on fire.”
Gale had been silently typing notes on his laptop as the girls bantered. He peered over the screen. “Astarion—I want to award you a point of inspiration. I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out, but you blew me out of the water with your roleplaying. The nuance in your performance—it was sublime. It felt real. Now—let’s take ten, shall we?”
Everyone nodded in agreement and split off into discussion groups. Gale stepped away to use the bathroom, while Wyll lingered at the table with Lae’zel, looking over the battle plan she had drafted earlier, expressing his spirited approval. The girls were having a lively discussion in the kitchen.
Astarion was beaming as he updated his notes. He was penciling in the bubble denoting his reward on his character sheet when he felt Cazador’s pinkie wrap itself around his. He leaned in close to his left ear, his dark hair hanging over his wan face. “My sweet little vampire,” he cooed. “Figures.” His index finger lingered on the band of their engagement ring, gently tracing the opal center and rubbing the prongs before it slowly crept up his arm. “That gauche little performance of yours took up entirely too much time. You’re not the only one at the table with a fun little secret,” he spoke in a rumbling, bone-chilling whisper. “If you don’t know how to behave yourself and learn when it’s time to stop making yourself the center of attention, mine will tear you to shreds.”
Suddenly, Cazador was gripping his bicep, just below his shirt sleeve. His nails were digging into his flesh. Astarion winced in pain. He was sure it would've hurt more if it hadn't been for the spike of adrenaline that was coursing in his veins. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. His stomach felt as though it was made of stone. There was a cavity in his chest where his heart had been only a minute before. He could almost feel his eyes becoming hollow—staring, but not seeing. The pride from the earlier praise had all but vanished. He wanted to disappear too. He tried leaning away from him, his eyes hunting across the table for anything, or anyone that would ground him—maybe even rescue him. The room was spinning. Lae’zel was still busy talking at length about the potential shortcomings of their plan.
Wyll, on the other hand, was staring right at him.
Astarion froze. He could see that the muscles in his jaw were tightening, along with his lips. Wyll’s eyes darted down to the twisted hand on the reddening skin of his arm for a second before meeting his gaze again. His brows drew together as his good eye burned with the fury of his quiet realization.
He felt Cazador’s hand ease its grip evolving into a gentle caress. “You’re freezing,” he whispered as he leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “I think you should put your cardigan back on.”
He did as his fiancé suggested. He pulled the thin fabric off from the back of his chair and over his arms. Wyll’s attention had returned to Lae’zel’s draft, but the look in his eye remained.
Shit.
Notes:
Well, what do you know? As it turns out, the dice ship bloodweave just as much as we do! Fate spins along as it should. I was incredulous when I saw that I had ACTUALLY rolled Gale’s number. Proof: https://imgur.com/a/z8WnSGX
Songs I listened to while writing this much anticipated chapter:
Xavier by Dead Can Dance
From Eden by Hozier
Alkaline by Sleep Token
Strychnine by The Cramps (because it's so THEM)
Sunday by Sonic YouthI know I say it a lot, but thank you, thank you, thank you for reading my fic. Whenever I update this fic, I always look forward to reading and responding to your comments. You're all so introspective, smart, funny—and you have excellent taste! It really, truly makes my day and boosts my confidence.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 13
Notes:
~ looks like the cat did a number on you, vienna ~
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The mirror in Wyll’s bathroom was magnificent—its silver filigreed edges reminded him of the one he’d seen in his dream. He wasn’t entirely sure that his hippocampus hadn’t just borrowed the memory of this mirror in the first place. The glass shimmered like thousands of pulverized diamonds had somehow made it into the pane. Its stellar beauty almost made him forget how much he hated catching his reflection. Damp, snowy curls hung over his gaunt face. His eyes were glassy, heavy-lidded—he was having the most difficult time remembering the color of his irises through the haze in his vision.
He placed his hand on his arm, right where Cazador’s grip had taken hold of him only minutes before. He pressed his index finger into it—gently, at first, before applying a little more pressure. He winced. He slowly peeled his cardigan off his bony shoulders and down to his elbows to inspect his bicep. There were no visible bruises. The redness had subsided almost instantly, and while the pain lingered, the incident may as well never have happened. It was nothing like Raphael’s colorful handiwork. He sighed in relief as he turned the faucet off. He toweled his hair off with the cardigan—he didn’t need it, after all. He could hear the laughter and chatter echoing in the other room. He knew he would have to rejoin them eventually.
A shuddering sigh slipped from his sore, bitten lips as he forced himself to smile—a coy, devil-may-care grin about as believable as pixie magic. He rehearsed what he would say if Wyll brought up what he’d seen. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everything’s fine.
The smile fell. Would Wyll buy that?
A dark, secret part of him wanted to believe that he wouldn’t take his words at face value—that something extraordinary would happen. Perhaps it already had. He would step out of the bathroom and find Cazador prone on the kitchen floor while clutching a bleeding forehead, Wyll having bashed his head into the island counter top as if it were merely another egg to crack for one of Gale’s recipes. He imagined everyone holding him into a collective embrace as police carried Cazador away in handcuffs. But where will I live? He asks them. With us, of course, they all reply. With me, Gale would insist, planting a kiss on his tear-stained face while stroking his hair.
Hah! What a crock of shit. Astarion laughed bitterly to himself as waves of shame crashed into him. He willed the image of his bloodied lover away—the lover he’d sworn to protect from harm. I’m such a terrible fucking person. If Cazador could read my mind, he’d have my head. Rightfully so.
He gripped the bronze doorknob cautiously and stepped out to the foyer. When he rounded the corner into the dining area, he saw that he was the only person missing from the table—they were all waiting on him. Cazador was whispering something to Gale behind the screen. He listened intently, nodding every few seconds with a grim look marring his face. Wyll and Karlach were laughing at a video he shared with her on his phone. Lae’zel was fixated on her reflection in a compact mirror, reapplying her eyeshadow, while Shadowheart wrote in her journal—presumably taking notes on the events that had just transpired. She gave Astarion a soft smile as he took his place. “Welcome back. Looks like our ‘ten’ is up,” she announced, loud enough for the Dungeon Master to hear.
Whatever tension had been plaguing Gale’s brow dissipated almost immediately. “Ah, you’re back! Hope you’re ready for what’s to come,” he grinned eagerly.
Cazador perked up at the sight of his fiancé and strolled back to his seat. “My sweet little mouse,” he purred. He craned his neck to kiss his hollow cheek before nuzzling his head into the crook of his shoulder. “I missed you,” he said, his ghostly fingers hanging delicately over his shoulder, slowly trailing down to the sore spot and tracing circles around it.
“I was gone for five minutes, darling,” Astarion murmured. His gut was turning in fear at the touch of his lover’s fingertip—but he found the corners of his lips forcing themselves upward.
“Too long!” Cazador whined playfully. He gave him a peck on the lips—a familiar motion that Astarion instinctively knew to reciprocate. “I thought you might’ve been cold earlier, my pet. I’m starting to think those goosebumps were there because of me.” He winked, his eyes sparkling with mischievous, impish delight.
“Get a room, cuties,” Karlach giggled.
Shadowheart pretended to gag. “Gods, you’re both insufferable with the PDA,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Karlach and I aren’t this bad, are we Wyll?” she asked.
“Not quite,” Wyll said.
“We do love to put on a good show,” Astarion retorted hastily, doing his best to sound lighthearted while attempting to read between the inflections in Wyll’s curt response. “Don’t we, Caz?”
“Let’s try to focus on the ‘show’ at hand, then,” Gale muttered, the low rumble of his voice effortlessly breaking Astarion’s intense focus.
The room began to quiet down as Gale set the stage once more. “Morning has broken. Everyone awakens well rested, with all your spell slots and abilities fully restored—Astarion, I’m going to say that you managed to find something out in the forest to sate your appetite. Whether it was another boar, a deer, or a kobold is entirely up to you.” He grinned.
“I don’t bite and tell,” Astarion scoffed, feigning offense. He stole another furtive glance at Wyll. Nothing about his countenance seemed out of the ordinary. It didn't seem like he was more in his head than usual.
Astarion wondered if he'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe the bruise had come from banging his arm against the door frame earlier this morning. Perhaps he had imagined the momentary connection they’d shared across the table—or read too deeply into it.
“The wizard shuffles right up to you, stretching and yawning—he smiles when he sees you, which I don’t think you were expecting. ‘Well, there’s no need to deny it any longer. The bat’s out of the bag, so to speak!’” Gale chuckled at his joke.
Lae’zel groaned from across the table. “I know githyanki are supposed to have resistance to psychic damage, but your jokes remind me that I don’t.”
Astarion could feel his cheeks burn—half incited by the secondhand embarrassment Gale’s sense of humor inspired, half by the intense longing that only seemed to consume him further whenever Gale was being—well, Gale. “‘Did you sleep alright?’” He asked.
Gale nodded enthusiastically. “‘I did. I thought I’d awaken feeling—well, drained! But I seem to be quite as well as ever. Admittedly, that’s not saying much given our ongoing predicament.’ He gestures towards his eye. ‘I hope your trance wasn’t restless at all. I can’t imagine you were expecting me to taste so awful.’” He laughed softly.
“‘I can’t say that I was. I slept well enough. Honestly, I’m grateful I woke up at all.’” Astarion murmured. “He’s not a praying man, and he’ll never admit this to you, but I think it’s fair to assume that he thanked the entire pantheon for your mercy at some point in the night.”
Gale smiled. “‘I’m glad I woke up when I did—I can’t say what would’ve happened if I’d caught you mid-bite. I only want you to promise me that you’ll keep that hunger of yours in check.’”
Astarion’s eyes turned down to his character sheet. “‘Thank you for trusting me,’” he murmured. “‘You have my word. I can try to limit my feeding to any bandits or ruffians we encounter along the way—if that’s alright.’ He hopes you say yes. The thought of another night draining vermin in the dark has him in turmoil.”
“The wizard looks at you sympathetically.” Gale’s eyes were cloudy—they looked beyond him, off into the distance. “It’s not pity—he sees you as his equal. He commiserates with you and conveys an air of mutual suffering. ‘I know what it is to have an uncontrollable hunger within you. You can hardly be blamed for your desperation in trying to satisfy it.’”
Gods, he felt so tender inside—Gale’s caring voice had a knack for reaching out to the deepest, most wounded part of him. It was like a clement hand beckoning towards an injured bird.
Gale continued. “I find your solution to be quite pragmatic, really.’” His tone lost the earlier gravitas and took on a suddenly cheery lilt. “So, we move forward, and when the occasion arises, we show our enemies exactly how sharp those teeth of yours can be!’”
The sound of Karlach’s chair straining as she rocked back and forth perforated their conversation. “Ooh, fuck, I want to roleplay with you both! Do I overhear this? Can I say something?”
Gale nodded. “I think that we’ve chewed the scenery long enough. You all have reasonably eavesdropped on this conversation by now—Gale isn’t exactly being subtle. Soon, the pair finds themselves surrounded by their peers.”
Shadowheart was the first to speak. “‘Astarion, a vampire?’” Her olive eyes squinted, looking him up and down. “‘Well, that explains the pallor.’”
Astarion felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. Her comment toward his fictional elven vampire rogue cut like a blade into his own very much real heart. His brow twisted upwards, and he struggled to keep his smile from mutating into a rictus of distaste.
Karlach always seemed in tune with the feelings of others—his poorly veiled discomfort would be no exception. When her turn to speak came, the sunlight that lived endlessly in her disposition shone through every word like a sliver of dawn into a cracked tomb. “‘Vamps don’t scare me as long as they keep their teeth to themselves. No sense in judging someone for who they are.’ She flashes a grin that is all teeth. ‘Except devils, obviously.’”
“‘She’s right, I suppose,’” Shadowheart sighed. “‘Given our group’s nature, I don’t see much harm in keeping a vampire around. We’re all monsters in the making, after all. Maybe we could get him to wear a bell—dissuade any nighttime prowling.’”
“Excuse me?” Astarion felt his hackles rising. “Fuck’s sake, a bell? He’s not a pet cat!”
“Could have fooled me,” Gale giggled. “I, for one, will never get that mental image of a rogue trying to sneak while wearing a kitty bell around his neck out of my head.” He erupted into peals of the purest laughter. Astarion silently cursed how good it felt to bear witness to this man’s amusement, even at the expense of his dignity.
As Lae’zel opened her mouth to speak, everyone at the table braced themselves for a confrontation. “‘I may be an outsider to these lands,’” she began, “‘but I am hardly ignorant of your kind. Your breath reeks of blood iron. You slink in the night like a darkling and preen like a parrot. You wear your identity like a second skin.’”
“‘Say it. Out loud.’” Astarion grinned.
Everyone laughed at his irreverent invocation of quite possibly the silliest reveal in the history of published vampire fiction. Wyll almost choked on his drink.
“Was I really that obvious?’” Astarion asked, pursing his lips as he tried not to let his amusement affect his roleplaying. “I thought I was giving a quite nuanced performance!”
“If that’s how you define ‘nuance,’ you wouldn’t know it if it bit you in the ass.” Shadowheart teased.
Karlach snickered. “I didn’t clock you, but I’m going to go ahead and say that my character did. ‘Between the fangs and the red eyes and the timeless wit, I had an inkling. You look like a child’s drawing of a vampire, for fuck’s sake.’”
Lae’zel nodded. “‘As long as he doesn’t acquire a taste for githyanki, his affliction does not affect me. If he does, he should know that I am not so easily tasted.’ She turns to face you with narrow but curious eyes. ‘I am not averse to your kind. Queen Vlaakith herself dwells in undeath, and she is no less revered for it—and no less alluring.”
“‘You find me alluring?’” Astarion teased.
Lae’zel flushed more than he could have ever expected her to. “‘Know this, vampire—so much as smack your lips when I’m near, and I will sever you piece by piece. I’ll leave you to guess which piece I plan to start with. Am I understood?’”
There it was—a slight tinge of the hostility he had initially been expecting had finally broken through her apparent approval. The table fluttered alive with a whistle and a chorus of childish oohs.
“‘No githyanki meals. I think you’ve all made your point. You can trust me. I won’t lay a finger on any of you,” Astarion vowed. “On my honor.”
“‘Honor? Pah. That’s a coin purse on your person that’s not worth even skimming.’” Cazador raised his hand, keeping his elbow planted firmly on the table. Astarion stood at attention in his seat. “The paladin has been silent up until now. His wrist rests on the hilt of his blade. It twitches slightly. ‘I’m fully aware of all the little tricks your ilk employs to manipulate weak-minded cattle, magistrate,' he says in a mocking tone. His dark voice drips with distrust. He turns to the others, searching for an ally among them. ‘Never quite liked vampires. This one is especially beguiling, wouldn’t you say? He has a certain air about him.’”
“‘And what air would that be?’ The rogue looks annoyed—a little nervous about the paladin’s accusatory tone. His voice shakes when he speaks.” Astarion’s own voice began to trail off as he felt Cazador’s eyes piercing into him. In the warm glow of the lamp that hung above them, they adopted the color of a dark chunk of amber—and tonight, he was the unlucky insect doomed to spend an eternity trapped within. He felt whatever confidence he’d managed to hold onto that night begin to falter once more.
“‘The air of a foppish, unassuming charlatan. An impeccable, seductive construct—whoever turned you knew what he was doing when he chose you.’” Cazador leered at him. “‘Your kind are uncanny aberrations. A dangerously convincing illusion. A pretty little liar, telling pretty little lies, a trap for fools too blind to know better. He’d do anything to have you let your guard down so that he could sate his bloodlust. He’d even lay with you if that’s what it took—’”
“I don’t think that’s a fair assumption to make,” Gale angrily interjected before catching himself and slipping back into the arrogant, annoyed tone of his character. His brow sat low over his hooded eyes. “‘He’s been honest with me, at least. The tadpoles may allow us some modicum of privacy, but it can’t lie when we use it to open up to one another. Of this, I am certain.’”
“‘You are so quick to trust him, Gale. Do you think this rake is any less a monster just because he is handsome? How very shallow of you.’ He takes his hand and grabs the pale elf by the arm.” Once again, Cazador’s hand coiled around the same sore spot. Astarion flinched, seething in pain as Cazador’s thumb dug deeper into the throbbing contusion. “‘I expected more sense than this from a so-called wizard prodigy. We should not suffer such an unnatural creature to live.’”
Astarion pulled his arm away—it was easier than he’d expected. Cazador readily released his hold as though he were reading the part of the script that called for his liberation. “I disengage and use my full movement speed to get as far away as my legs can carry me.”
Cazador flashed a menacing, tight-lipped smile. His voice came out like a hushed, scratchy whisper—Astarion could almost hear the harsh wind fanned by years of smoking whistling through his vocal cords. “As the spawn pulls away, the paladin unsheathes his sword and charges towards him, ready to swing with his opportunity attack—“
“—and the Blade of Frontiers appears from out of thin air between them and parries his blow.”
Astarion’s breath caught in his dry throat as he looked across the table at Wyll. The fire he’d seen in them earlier burned like a freshly lit brazier—only this time, he could tell he was acting.
“Thank goodness for Misty Step,” he winked, flashing his bright, chivalrous smile across the table.
“Just wanted to clarify something—you don’t get an opportunity to attack him, Cazador. He disengaged to avoid taking a hit,” Gale said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, my bad. Sorry, rookie mistake,” Cazador muttered. “Forgot how rogues work for a moment.”
The table was thrumming with excitement. Astarion took a deep breath and turned to his lover. “That hurt,” he whimpered.
Cazador huffed. “Don’t exaggerate, boy. I didn’t squeeze that hard. It’s just good roleplay.” He brazenly gloated into his ear. “Compelling stuff.”
Astarion’s eyes darted across the table, seeking any sign of concern in the dim, golden light. Someone had to have seen what happened the second time—but any sign of worry was hiding well—if it was even in the room. Everyone was bubbly, alive, and lost in their excited chattering. He sought a life preserver in Gale—ever perceptive, perhaps he had seen. But he was hunched over, writing, with only his eyes visible beyond the screen. He realized that his arm was not even remotely within his line of sight. His heart sank, drowning hopelessly.
“Just roleplay.” The echo of Cazador’s sentence was clumsy as it fell from his own two lips.
He was startled by the slapping sound of his fiancé clasping his hands together. “Hold on, Wyll, let me run to the kitchen to get my boy a drink. His voice is starting to sound a little strained, and we can’t have that, can we, my talented little thespian?” His hand gave one of his springy grey coils a tender pull as he twisted it in his fingers. “Water? Tea? Pick your poison.”
“Water, please,” Astarion’s voice rolled like low, distant thunder as he cleared his throat. He felt it tighten.
“At your command.” Cazador planted a small kiss on his forehead. He began to head into the kitchen, but before he passed the threshold, he turned back and asked, “Wyll, do you want anything?”
“No, Caz, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” Wyll regarded his friend with a subdued smile.
“Phew, you two sure know how to turn up the heat!” Karlach grinned. “That was intense. I was scared he was going to kill your character. Not that we’d let him.”
“I’ll make sure of that,” Wyll said. “We’ll keep you safe.”
“Yeah,” Astarion said softly, gently nodding. The tightness in his throat was overwhelming. His heart felt like a stone again. He slowly put his cardigan back on. It was still slightly damp, but he reveled in how safe it made him feel. It provided a thin layer of protection—but he supposed that even the veneer of security was better than nothing. He felt stupid for rejecting it earlier.
Gale’s gentle eyes flickered in the blue light of his laptop, peering over the screen. “Are you alright?” He mouthed, barely making a sound.
“Hm?” Astarion blinked in surprise before painting a plasticine grin on his face for the millionth time that night. He giggled. “Oh, sorry. I probably looked positively dour. I’m afraid I have an awful case of resting bitch face.”
Gale leaned forward, investigating the sudden wetness welling up in the corners of Astarion’s eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Astarion nodded and pretended to cough. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. “Sorry, I just need some water. I’ll be alright.”
Lying to Gale felt like being punched in the gut.
He looked over at Wyll. He was holding his miniature thoughtfully, softly running the tip of the tiny rapier against the ridges of his fingerprints.
Cazador sauntered back with two cups of water in hand.
“Where were we?” He asked, sinking into the comfort of the cushioned seat. “Ah, yes. The paladin pushes his blade against the warlock’s thin rapier and looks over the sword’s sharp edge at Wyll. He seems surprised. ‘The monster hunter himself, protecting a vampire? That seems more than a little out of character for you.’” Cazador sneered.
“Wyll steadies himself, digging his heels into the dirt to avoid being pushed back by the force of his holy blade, and he looks the paladin dead in the eye. ‘Do you think me a monster?’ He gestures at the horns protruding from his skull with his free hand. ‘What about Karlach? Mizora tried to convince me of her validity as a target on a technicality. Heartless. Complete nonsense. I’d argue that she has more heart than all of us combined. I’m learning that some monsters are made against their will. Can’t you see that’s what’s happening to us all? None of us asked for the parasite that plagues our skulls. I sincerely doubt that Astarion was in a hurry to embrace the curse of vampirism when it found him two hundred years ago.’”
“‘He’s right, you know,’” Astarion murmured. “‘I didn’t know what I was signing up for. All I said was that I didn’t want to die. It’s funny how the most human desire—the desire to live—turned me into this. It hurt. Even if my brain becomes as much of a sieve as yours is, I’ll never forget that pain.’” He sneered at Cazador. “‘An immortality ruled by fear is no life at all.’”
“Can I get this guy to stand down somehow?” Wyll asked Gale.
Before he could answer, Karlach’s voice chimed in. “If I can, I’d like her to aid Wyll with whatever check he needs to roll. She’s beyond grateful to him for defending both herself and Astarion. She knows his transformation is weighing on him heavily. Her eyes burn with the flames of Avernus as she regards the paladin. ‘We can’t help who we are. Or what’s been done to us.’”
“Go ahead. Roll me an intimidation check.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Cazador chimed in. “The paladin lowers his weapon. ‘I don’t want to fight you, Wyll. Nor you, Karlach. It’s clear to me that I am outnumbered and outmatched on this matter. I would be a fool to underestimate your prowess. But let me offer one final counterpoint before letting this rest. I found something this morning. Down by the river. Something you all should see.’”
The room fell silent. Lae’zel’s breathy voice sliced through the discomfort. “‘What are you on about, istik?’”
Gale sighed deeply. “Astarion, it is then that you notice a metallic scent floating towards you. It is so overpowering, so strong. It makes your mouth water. The paladin beckons everyone to follow him—and then you see it, past the cattails. The gory, visceral remains of someone who looks oddly familiar to all of you…”
It was an uncharacteristically callous move on Gale’s part to kill Alfira, Astarion thought. Alfira, the darling tiefling with skin the shade of polished amethyst they’d met last session. Alfira, whose garb tinkled with the sweet sound of little bells when she danced about her perch overlooking the grove. The entire party had fallen deeply in love with the melancholy bard. They’d asked Gale if she could join them in their quest. Now, she never would. It filled him with shame to know that the only exchange his rogue had with her was to make an off-handed comment about her skills as a luthier. Had he known that she was marked for death, he would’ve been less abrasive. Kinder. He tried not to think of her onyx orbs staring lifelessly into the sky—before Gale coldly mentioned that they’d been gouged out of her skull. Her lute was in pieces, littering the banks. The description of her purple hair flowing listlessly into the river nearly brought him to tears.
“Gale, what is this?” Wyll’s voice cracked.
Karlach sat beside him looking crestfallen. “She was so adorable. Who would do something like this? To her, of all people?”
Shadowheart chewed on the sleeve of her sweater before casting a shadowy look towards him. “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you, Astarion?” she asked. Her lip curled in disgust.
Astarion froze. His eyes widened, and panic began to rise in his throat like bile. “Like hell I did! You can’t be serious. I had nothing to do with this. I’ve been nothing but good, I promise—Gale can tell you. He saw into my mind last night.’” He shot a look of abject betrayal to his right. A quiet rage coupled with despair burned at the pit of his stomach as he studied Gale’s eyes, searching through a library of emotions for any answers he could find to explain why he was putting him through this. How could you? I wouldn’t do this, and you know it.
He thought he saw Gale nodding from the corner of his eye. “The wizard rises and turns his back to the river. He can hardly stand to look at the carnage further. ‘It’s true. Whoever did this to Alfira is still at large. Astarion has never killed anyone to feed on. I will back him up on this.’”
“‘He’s never killed to feed, yes.’” Cazador mused. “‘But don’t you ever think that perhaps the rogue has killed for the sake of killing before? Savored a murder like he savors the taste of blood on his tongue? Issued a ruling to see someone hang?’”
“I wouldn’t—” Astarion tried to speak, but he was quickly interrupted.
“‘—I’ll admit that I find it hard to believe you didn’t do this, all things considered,’” Shadowheart said softly. “‘Didn’t Gale mention something about his blood tasting awful? Perhaps you went seeking in the night for something—someone—who was more to your liking?’”
“That’s not what—” Once again, he was quickly drowned out by Cazador’s fervent voice.
“‘—He didn’t care much for her singing if you recall.’”
Astarion felt his hands ball up under the table. His jaw twitched. He felt himself fading into the wallpaper.
“Guys, let him talk. He’s trying to say something, but you keep interrupting him,” Gale said sternly. He looked over to Astarion, and his gaze softened. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Gale.” He said earnestly, relieved that he finally had a chance to explain himself. “The rogue shakes his head angrily. ‘Oh, no, you’re not pinning this on me. There is only one murder I could imagine committing that tempts me more than blood ever could. I’ve spent two hundred years living off the meager crumbs under that bastard’s table. I’d never do something like this. Besides, you’re the one who found her.’” He eyed his partner suspiciously. Glee lived in the shark-like coals of Cazador’s pupils. He saw his tongue flick over one of his canines—one of his more obvious tells. He felt his blood turn cold in his veins. You didn’t.
“Wait! Didn’t we find a necklace that allows us to cast Speak With Dead in that crypt?” Karlach asked. “Who was it that looted it?”
“Here it is, it’s on my character sheet!” Wyll exclaimed. “Karlach, you’re a genius!”
Astarion felt Cazador shift in his seat uncomfortably. His leg was restlessly shaking. He heard the beat of his heart thrumming in his ears like a loud war drum as the sickening suspicion was all but confirmed. You did.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she winked. “Gale, could we try to use the amulet?”
“Hold on a second, let me read the description for the item right quick—The Amulet of Lost Voices…” He quietly read. Astarion watched as the tip of his tongue tapped his two front teeth as he silently mouthed the words. He looked back at Karlach and shook his head sadly. “You try to use the amulet, but she does not say a word. Alas, her body is too damaged for the spell to work. The girl will not sing or speak again, robbed too soon of her voice.”
“Shit!” Karlach threw her arm up in frustration. “We’re too low-level for any of us to know resurrection magic…”
Astarion felt the breath that had been lodged deep in Cazador’s chest finally free itself.
Lae’zel chimed in. “Even without the teethling’s testimony, I don’t think Astarion would’ve done something like this. This scene is a mess that even the messiest vampire would be careless to leave behind. Are there puncture wounds on the neck? Any other signs of a vampire attack?”
“Ooh, good thinking Lae! And wouldn’t it be less bloody around the body if he was looking to feed, Jen?”
Shadowheart sighed. “I suppose you both have a point. What we see before us is a gratuitously vile massacre if we’re supposed to take Gale’s gory description at face value. I don’t think Astarion’s linens would be as pristine as they seem if this were his doing. Let me roll perception—oh, and by the way?” she added, eyeing Lae’zel with a sharp glint in her eye, “It’s ‘tiefling.’”
She rolled her infamous oversized D20 while Lae’zel protested, insisting that she’d said ‘teethling’ right in the first place. The unwieldy hunk of black metal made a satisfying thud as it landed in the dice tray. “Well, Gale? What does a sixteen earn me? Are there any telltale bite wounds?”
Gale edged closer to the front of his seat. “Shadowheart, you don’t see any puncture wounds on the girl’s neck—”
“Thank fuck!” Astarion cried, slumping over in his seat and burying his face in his hands. Relief flooded his body.
“—with a sixteen, you also notice something else. The body is covered not only in congealed blood but dirt as well. It looks as though someone dragged it through the mud. It’s as if someone took great pains to hide their crime from everyone.”
“Can we follow the blood?” Lae’zel asked. Her voice hungered to solve the mystery unfolding before them.
“You follow the trail into a clearing in the woods. On the ground is a deep red circle, painted sloppily and hastily using the girl’s blood. In the center of the circle is a symbol. Would anyone care to roll history?”
Every single one of them rolled. They all exclaimed their numbers sporadically and heatedly, like the sounds of popcorn kernels bursting open.
“It is fragmented, smeared, destroyed by the movement of her body. Those of you who succeeded notice that it looks remarkably similar to the brand some of the cultists you killed before entering the grove sported over their eyes—the brand of the Cult of the Absolute.”
“‘Well, there you have it. This gruesome display is the cult’s doing, then.’ The paladin’s face darkens. ‘Surely they mean to send us a message—maybe they’re discouraging us from seeking a cure? Perhaps they’ve caught on to our plan to attack the goblin village.’ He extends a hand to the rogue. ‘I owe you an apology, vampire. No, sorry—friend. This murder was not your doing, and I was wrong to accuse you—‘”
“The rogue hesitates before accepting his hand. ‘Apology accepted. Just promise you won’t try to cast aspersions my way next time—better yet, promise me there won’t be a next time. Perhaps then I can consider you a friend.’ And he squeezes his hand tightly, trying to reclaim some of the power he stripped from him when he attacked and accused him earlier.”
Cazador chuckled morosely. “I must specify that he’s wearing gauntlets, my dear boy.”
“Ow,” Astarion pretended to pull away from the handshake and nurse his hand, and everyone burst into a fit of much-needed laughter. The tension in the room felt like it had evaporated—if only for a minute.
“‘Enough,’” Cazador barked. “‘We have goblins to slay. Revenge is ours for the taking. My blade hungers for vengeance. It hungers for answers. For their blood. For Alfira!’” He cried out her name passionately and raised a fist into the air.
“For Alfira!” Everyone solemnly pumped a fist in solidarity—Astarion more half-heartedly than the others. Something was itching at the back of his mind—the conclusion the party had come up with was not sitting well with him.
If this was supposed to be a message from the cult, why had they gone through such great pains to hide it?
They decided to take another break before setting up the encounter with the goblins. Cazador was basking in everyone’s compliments about his steely performance. He watched as everyone lauded him with high-fives, smiling as he regaled them with all of the movies and comics that had inspired the voice and demeanor he’d given his oathbreaker. Wyll even gave him a fist bump. Wyll, whom he swore he’d seen aflame with anger, was enthusiastically gushing over his fiancé’s dedicated performance. “You take this so seriously! Glad to see you never lost your penchant for the dramatic, Caz.”
Astarion smiled bitterly, his eyes empty. He drowned out the myriad of conversations all happening at once.
He buried his face into his elbow, careful not to irritate the sore spot on his arm. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting beyond the unrealistic fantasies he’d had in the bathroom earlier. The Blade of Frontiers—the hero—was a fictional character—a romantic pipe dream. What was he expecting from Wyll Ravengard, the person?
Perhaps he was confusing things, as he was prone to do. His mind was foggy. Maybe Wyll hadn’t seen it either time. Perhaps he had, and assumed after the second time that the first instance had merely been a rehearsal for an especially invested roleplay session.
In a way, he felt relieved. It was one less thing to try and explain away. One less conversation he would have to have to confront the reality of his situation—or what he thought might be happening to him. One step backward from the precipice of the ever-looming pit of homelessness and struggle.
Still, it stung to see everyone embracing Cazador after he’d hurt him so publicly.
Of course. These are Cazador’s friends. Remember?
Didn’t you already know this? Or did you think things would change just because they laugh at your jokes sometimes?
Because they’re kind to you?
Maybe it’ll help if you hear it again: you are nothing more than “Cazador’s fiancé” to them.
If you ever dared to leave him, they would be gone too.
“Hey.”
He was startled by the sound of Gale’s voice. He was, as always, smiling at him warmly—but something was off. He looked forlorn, worn thin. His usually tawny face had taken an unusually pallid sheen. He nervously clutched at the collar of his shirt—Astarion swore he could see something on his chest he hadn’t noticed before. He felt his cheeks growing rosy as he realized what he was seeing—a flash of purple ink. Ah. There it is.
Soft brown eyes met his sunken ones. “Astarion. Are you doing okay?” he asked quietly.
He nodded. “I could ask you the same question. You look—” Awful. There was no other word in the English language that better described how haggard he looked. Had it been anyone else, his callous honesty would’ve gotten the better of him. He remembered the enduring adage about “biting the hand that feeds” and decided to give politeness a chance. “You look tired.”
“It’s mostly school keeping me up late. This game eats up most of my free time.” It was hard to tell if his response was sincere—he was just as approachable as ever. “School, this game, cooking, work. Oh, and Tara.” His smile was no less kind despite his knitted brow. It was the sort of smile that made him want to mirror that smile right back at him. But there was a tortured edge on the corner of his voice that Astarion had caught fragments of before.
“That was—the roleplaying—the descriptions…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” Astarion tripped over every letter in his struggle to find the correct words. “It was unlike you—“
“I know. I’m sorry.”
He cautiously looked over his shoulder, only to see that Cazador had stepped away. His eyes locked onto Gale’s like magnets. “He put you up to that shit, didn’t he?”
The chasm of silence between them was the only answer he needed. Astarion found himself vexed by thoughts of Cazador’s absurdly grimdark influence callously bleeding into his friend’s adventure.
“I liked the moment we shared. I gave you that inspiration for a reason. It truly was wonderful. I hope this didn’t ruin that for you,” Gale whispered apologetically, his voice full of hope.
Astarion sighed. “It didn’t. I don’t think anything ever could.” He extended his hand behind the DM screen and held open his palm. His heart skipped a beat when Gale clasped it in his.
Astarion was awed by how smooth his palm was. His hand was toasty—like holding a mug of hot chocolate. The first honest smile he’d felt in hours blossomed on his face.
“You still owe me a secret,” Astarion smiled. “But I’ll take a rain check. ‘There’s one more thing I should tell you before we leave camp,’ the vampire whispers to the wizard. He hesitates for a moment. ‘I have a master back in Baldur’s Gate. He may come looking for me…’” Astarion felt himself tremble.
“‘—And if he does,’ the wizard vows, ‘he’ll not find you alone.’”
Notes:
I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, darlings! It took so long to get this chapter out. I kept writing and rewriting it over and over, probably five different drafts, and it just didn’t feel right in any of its previous incarnations. I’ve finally hammered out all the kinks and I’m quite pleased with it now. Thank you all for your patience!
I’m also sorry if you were expecting more from Wyll. I know a lot of you were. I had a conversation with my therapist about how I should handle the thread I introduced in the last chapter, and they brought up a good point—people on the outside rarely get involved in the cycle of abuse. You see the entire picture. All they see is a single brush stroke. They said I had a choice to confront this situation as it happened in my own life—my Wyll saw my Cazador grip my arm. They interfered through roleplay, but outside of that—not much else happened.
This doesn’t make Wyll a bad person. Good people find themselves in his shoes all the time. They may even recognize it for what it is—why not get involved? Worrying about the safety of the victim, perhaps, or maybe the unpredictability of their abuser. Usually both.
Also, surprise! Cazadurge confirmed. I wrote the Alfira section while listening to Vienna (In Memoriam) by The Army, The Navy and it hurt that much more.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter Text
Even in the sickly green light of the smoke shop’s sign, Cazador couldn’t help but look stunning. The artificial glow of neon in the night was becoming on him. It lingered on his skin, blessing the contours of his face and cutting his jaw sharp. It filled his amber eyes with sparks of illusory life. The night was his domain, and Astarion couldn’t help but feel like his awkward, bumbling guest. Even though he, too, had known its dark world well for most of his adult life, the night did not seem to suit him nearly as well. Raphael had taken him to (and behind) far seedier venues, but no matter how often, he never grew comfortable in the shadows.
His body begged to be as far away from this shop as possible. The potpourri of artificial scents was an unbearable assault on his nostrils. He inched away from the large black sub-woofer by the entrance—the music it blared was unfamiliar to him, and the bass was on the verge of blowing out the speaker. The delicate glassware on the walls compelled him to hold himself tightly and make himself smaller to avoid making a clumsy mistake that neither man could afford to correct. The gaudy rainbow of pocketknives in the case beneath the register were the only things he might’ve considered purchasing if he hadn’t found them so tacky. He eyed an iridescent purple blade with a dragon etched into its handle. It was hideous.
Cazador approached the counter with rolling papers and a pack of Swisher Sweets. “I’ll never understand why Petras loves these horrible things.” He grumbled as the cashier rang up the red box. He’d been in a sour mood all day—but he’d gotten paid, which meant that it wouldn’t be for much longer.
Their next stop on their list of errands was the trailer park. As the car slowly rolled over the first speed bump, Astarion’s heart rate skyrocketed. He looked for the signs of police cars lurking in the dark. “I don’t know why you bother worrying. Being the stepson of a cop has its perks.” Cazador’s annoyed tone did little to settle his nerves. He rubbed his bicep with the tip of his thumb. It had been four days since the game, and the soreness had all but subsided. If he felt like it hadn’t happened then, it most certainly hadn’t happened the way he remembered it now.
The mobile homes stood hauntingly in the dark, their desolate facades illuminated only by their headlights. One or two of them bore cheery Christmas decorations. Some glowed warm and orange lights from the inside. Others looked as though they had been empty for years. They eventually ended up at a familiar roundabout. They sat silently for a few minutes, with nothing but the sound of crickets in the unkept grass to fill the auditory void. A black sedan pulled up beside them. Its dark-tinted windows slowly began to roll down.
Astarion had always found the look of Cazador’s dealer vastly unsettling. The evidence of a hard life was a screaming billboard on his scarred face. He usually turned away from him and into himself. If he couldn’t do that, he tried to divert his focus to the multiple gold chains that hung from his neck. Not that it was hard. “N,” as he called himself, wasn’t usually ever in a talkative mood. But tonight, he couldn’t help but feel that he was leering at him.
“It’ll run you a buck twenty, friend,” he said through cracked lips. His voice was deep, imposing, with a hint of impatience. His eyes burned like coals in the dark, and they had shifted from Astarion to the driver’s seat like a prison floodlight.
Cazador raised a brow. “It was a hundred last time, friend.” His inflections always seemed to change whenever he was buying drugs, especially when he bought from this dealer in particular. He tried so hard to sound rougher, more streetwise—perhaps impressive. It vexed Astarion immensely.
“I spotted your bud last week, remember? For your ‘emergency?’” He turned to face the mobile home in front. His crooked nose looked like it had healed wrong from a good punch in the face. Perhaps several.
What emergency? Astarion couldn’t help but wonder. Usually, he’d purchase enough for a month right off the bat, and it was sufficient. He knew his fiancé smoked a fair amount, but his recent irritability gave him the sneaking suspicion that his supply was running out a little faster lately.
“Shit, my bad, I forgot,” Cazador muttered, reaching for his wallet and pulling out six crisp bills. “I promised I’d be good for it next time.” He passed them to Astarion, who flashed him a scornful look. He knew how much he hated these interactions.
He tried to steady his pale hand as he passed the bills to the other window. For a moment, their fingertips grazed. Astarion slightly flinched at the touch of his rough hand and pulled away with the small baggie he had palmed, his heart alight with fear. For a moment, he swore that the menacing look on N’s battered face seemed to soften—but if that wave of frailty had reached past its dark circles and into the deep-set cavernous tar pits beyond them, any change in emotion had been imperceptible.
“Pleasure doing business, as always,” the man murmured as the opaque, inky window slowly obscured his marred face.
“You too,” Cazador replied coolly, prudently stuffing the pungent little purchase into the glove compartment beside his herb grinder.
N’s departure had done even less in assuaging Astarion’s anxiety. As long as the drugs were in the car with them, it would be an unwelcome squatter in his vagus nerve. “This is the last errand for tonight, right? You know you could’ve asked me if you needed money,” he whispered. “I don’t know how I feel about you owing that guy anything.”
“I ran out early, is all,” Cazador grimaced. “I’ve known N forever. He knows I always pay.”
“I know. It doesn’t make me any less anxious,” Astarion sighed.
“You’re such a pussy.” A smile erupted on Cazador’s face, as it always did whenever he used that word. It was one of his favorites.
Astarion hated it. He always had. It felt like a hammer. He always felt like the nail. Many things had changed since they’d first started seeing one another, but that vulgar word had always been there, and it had always made him feel dirty.
He thought back to when they’d first met. They were both running in the same online circles of the same fandom: “Interview with the Vampire.” It may have been a few decades too niche, but the few fans still actively creating fan art and fanfiction for the novel and its adaptations were brimming with unbridled passion—even if it did go against the direct wishes of its creator.
Astarion found his paltry contributions under his pseudonym, “rat-eater,” mediocre at best, but drawing was a new hobby, so he tried to give himself some grace. He’d picked it up the first year after his breakup with Raphael. Where music had once been the medium he’d poured his heart into, it now seemed that he couldn’t sing anymore without a wellspring of tears sneaking past the raw, defeated fortresses that used to guard them closely. Art (and, to some degree, photography as well) had brought him a great deal of joy in its stead despite his notable lack of skill.
On the other hand, the paintings posted by “the_brat_prince” were the epitome of consummate talent. The realism and use of colors were masterful. Even the artist’s crudest joke drawings had a proficient handle on anatomy that Astarion struggled with on his most serious attempts. It was clear he had prior training. Whenever he would upload, Astarion found himself gawking at how lively these fictional characters he loved so much looked, lovingly rendered by a true artist.
Occasionally, the artist would post his selfies. Astarion found himself slightly put off by them at first—there were too many pictures of him with his tongue sticking out and middle fingers a-blazing for his liking. But one day, he posted a more serious photo. The medium: film. The background was pitch black, with the city lights in the distance emitting a hazy orange glow. His long, raven hair obscured half of his face. His narrow eyes were piercing—the flash had bounced off his retinas, making them look like little red suns. He found himself staring at them. And his cheekbones. And his Adam's apple. His face held his attention for an extended period before he kept scrolling.
They were mutual followers for a while, but they’d never directly interacted until the day the artist had posted a public plea to help crowdfund an unexpected move. He’d been renting a room in a dangerous part of town, and his relationship with the landlord had gone south. He was on the brink of homelessness.
Without hesitating, Astarion donated. It wasn’t a considerable sum—five to ten bucks at most. He figured that if he could make even the smallest of contributions to help someone actively asking for help in leaving a shitty situation, perhaps it would make him feel a little less foolish for stupidly waiting around until Raphael had no use for him anymore. Something caught his attention after leaving a heartfelt comment—the crowdfunding website had revealed that the city the artist lived in was only a twenty-minute drive from his address.
A few days later, a message was sitting in his inbox.
Astarion remembered feeling caught off guard. Here was this artist, whom he’d idolized and envied, prowling his inbox and praising his inferior offerings. He didn’t know what to make of it.
He paused before adding,
He cringed as he hit send, but there was no taking it back. It wasn’t like him to solicit a meetup like that. What the fuck is going through your mind? You don’t know this guy. Are you that desperate for someone to talk to?
To his surprise, “the_brat_prince” responded.
A few days came and went, with little communication between them. They occasionally sent a meme or another person’s fan art to one another. Aside from a conversation where they commiserated about the quality (or lack thereof) of the libertine men from their area, their conversations seemed dry.
One day, Astarion took the cold plunge back into his inbox.
He hit send. The message was seen almost immediately. Astarion waited as the artist typed out his reply, eyeing the ellipses as they faded in and out of existence.
Astarion grinned.
A pause. Then, a quick response:
His name was Cazador Szarr, and in the light of the golden hour, his irises were the color of honey. He was chatty on the car ride downtown, gregarious and overly familiar. A contagious charisma coated every word that left his mouth. Astarion found himself letting his guard down easily around him and found his reserved smile slowly melting into something more sincere.
He’d brought him to the high-end French bakery he’d suggested for a selfish reason—it had been a place of great significance for him and his ex: their first date spot. He knew this wasn’t a date, per se, but he figured that planting a happier memory in this place with someone new would help him heal a long-suffering part of himself.
Astarion ordered a café au lait, a croque-monsieur— his mouth watered at the mere thought of Gruyère cheese— and a raspberry tart. Cazador nervously eyed the menu before conservatively deciding on the salade atlantique.
“Are you sure that salad was all you wanted? Not even a coffee? I’d recommend the petit madeleines if you’re in the mood for something sweet,” Astarion asked.
“I’ll be alright. You’ve done enough kindness, paying for all of this,” Cazador murmured, amber eyes lost in the pattern of the intricate Art Deco tile flooring. “Your French is pretty good! At least it sounds good. Did you learn it to feel closer to our vampire protagonists, you nerd?” His grin held back the echo of a capricious laugh.
Astarion broke into a laugh. “My French? Oh, it’s all bullshit. You can thank the International Phonetic Alphabet for helping me sound even halfway proficient. I had to learn it in college.”
“I never went to college,” Cazador said curtly. “Wasn’t ever as good academically as I was with my art, so that door slammed in my face pretty hard. No scholarship. My family has deep pockets—except for when it comes to me. Pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to afford it by myself even if I did make it in. It’s kind of a scam if you ask me. What’s your B.A. in?”
“Voice—I’m a musician, but I haven’t graduated yet,” Astarion said sheepishly. “I took a gap semester so I’m a bit behind. Next semester should be my last before starting my master’s degree. Musicology, in case you’re wondering.”
“You’re handsome, you know? You get so animated when you talk—you do this thing with your hands—I feel like I’m at dinner with David Bowie.”
Astarion felt his ears grow hot. “You’re very kind, but I’m not Bowie hot.” He suppressed his amusement behind a tight-lipped smile. “Has anyone ever told you that you resemble the lead singer of Buck-Tick? When he was younger, of course.”
Cazador raised an eyebrow. “Who?” He quickly grabbed his phone and searched for the unfamiliar band. His finger tapped on a photo of Atsushi Sakurai, leather-clad and messy-haired, sporting a sultry glint in his eyes. He was gripping a microphone with a gloved hand. He studied his wry smile with one of his own. “Oh,” he breathed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Hours later, the men found themselves sitting on the beach by the edge of the lapping waves in the dark holding a pair of convenience store smoothies. The blood moon hung high over them, bearing witness to the birth of their rapidly budding friendship.
“You know something kind of embarrassing? I’ve never actually read ‘Interview with the Vampire.’” Cazador revealed, leaning back as he set his drink down. “I’ve only ever seen the movie.”
“Really? Oh shit. You’re missing out! I can let you borrow my copy.”
“Sure.” Cazador ripped half of the paper from his straw, took a deep breath, and playfully blew the second half towards Astarion.
“What? Right by the ocean? Don’t you care about the sea turtles?” he asked, half annoyed, half amused as he fished the hollow paper out of his hair. “You’re a child.”
The dark-haired man laughed. “Pussy boy. Mind if I smoke?”
Astarion squirmed. Of course. He’d befriended another smoker. And what had he called him? He had to have misheard him—the ocean spray was more than a little loud. “Go ahead,” he said, doing his best to mask his disappointment with a smile.
A gentle hand reached up to give him a pat on the head. “Thank you. For everything.”
The way the flicking sound of the lighter igniting was rattling his brain was bad enough. The sulfuric, skunky smell was what launched him back to the present. Cazador sat on their bed beside Petras as he took a freshly lit joint from his hand. He watched him from across the room as he exhaled smoke, trying to recapture the moment when he’d first felt his heart beat for him—only for him.
The days of nice dinners at French cafés were long gone.
“Astarion?” He was startled by the sound of Dalyria’s timid voice. She was sitting beside him on the futon and gently placed her hand on his forehead. He felt himself lean into her touch. If anyone didn’t belong in Cazador’s cadre, it was easily her. She was above the company of the losers and delinquents he liked to keep around. He wondered why she hadn’t left. “You’ve been quiet. Spaced out. You’re a little warm, too. You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine, doctor,” Astarion muttered sarcastically, immediately regretting his dismissive tone with her as she pulled her hand back.
“I brought something for you,” she whispered, ever the paragon of patience. It never seemed to run out for him, for as rancorous and petulant as his behavior could be. She reached into the backpack at her feet and pulled out a granola bar. It was stale and slightly crushed, but Astarion took it without any hesitation. He’d taken the time to buy food earlier, but he hadn’t had the chance to snack on something before Cazador called on him to keep him company on his errands. He was pleased by just how much he’d been able to fit in his cart at the discount grocery store for only fifty dollars.
He remembered Gale’s beef stew and the granola bar turned to ash in his mouth. He wished he had a slow cooker. Perhaps he didn’t need one. It was such a simple dish—surely he could recreate it. He could always reach out to Gale for the recipe. Better yet, he could ask Gale (politely) to make it again. The feeling he was looking for earlier began to flutter, alive in his chest. He forced it down as best as he could.
“I know you’re upset,” she said, her voice feather-light as it anchored him away from his reverie.
“Of course I’m upset,” he hissed, trying to keep his voice quiet. It had been several months since the last time the landlords had allowed them all to gather here. The smell had been too much and they'd gotten caught. Cazador had almost gotten them evicted for breaking the lease’s terms by smoking. His friends had taken the blame for him. “I don’t think he realizes how much what he did hurt you all. And me.”
“Didn’t you say you were going to leave him if he didn’t quit?” she asked.
“I didn’t want to be an asshole and give him an ultimatum,” he muttered. “I know how much it helps him. He’s in so much pain.” It did help him. Without it, Cazador became a sleepless, neurotic wreck who was always angry and anxious. Depressed. Marijuana kept him sedated. It made him happy. He called it his medicine. “Still, I hate how he talks about himself concerning this shit. It’s not addictive, but he needs it. Crying, pacing. ‘Oh, if I don’t have it, I’m going to be so sad all the time. I won’t have my escape anymore.’ He’s scared of the withdrawal symptoms.”
“What he needs is self-control,” she said in a hushed tone. “He doesn’t seem to want to have it.”
“I agree. He sounds like my fucking ex sometimes,” he said bitterly. “I wish he'd lose N’s number.”
“Hey, Dal! Leon couldn’t make it again?” Cazador asked loudly. He stifled a cough as he passed the joint back to Petras, and ran his free hand over his hair. “I miss that fucker.”
Dalyria shook her head. “He just had a baby. I don’t think we’ll see him for a while.”
“That’s a shame,” Cazador sighed. “Fucking bitch. Little cunt will have him wrapped around her finger for the next eighteen years,” he giggled. Petras laughed along with him—Astarion wasn’t sure if he was that callous or if it was just an effect of the weed. He knew Violet’s laughter was genuinely mean-spirited—she’d never gotten over being spurned by Leon. Dalyria stirred slightly in her seat. She cast Aurelia a mutual look of revulsion, but both held their tongues.
Astarion decided he would not.
“That’s a disgusting thing to say about an infant,” he sneered.
Cazador’s face froze. The room grew silent.
“I don’t know why you think it’s funny, because it fucking isn’t,” Astarion shifted his posture, straightening his back.
“Why are you scolding me, pussy boy? You don’t even like children,” Cazador’s icy voice was even and measured.
Astarion bristled at the sound of the nickname he hated so much rolling off of his lover’s tongue. Had he been alone, he might’ve faltered then. Everyone’s eyes were on him—he didn’t know whether to burn with pride or shame.
“It’s a dick move. It’s fucked up and childish. It’s immature and in bad taste.” Each word was a new fire inside of him. He knew he would come to regret this, but it felt good to take him down a peg in front of the others. “It’s sick.”
“This is my fucking house. I’ll say whatever I damn please. You’re allowed to be mad, but you don’t get to scold me like I’m your child. Not okay.” Cazador’s eyes narrowed. “I already did my time for that. I’m not taking it from you —especially over something this stupid.”
“You know I love you, Caz, but I hope you grow out of that mentality because it’s not cool. The whole ‘this is my house, I’ll say what I want’ thing is so closed-minded. ‘Freedom of expression,’ whatever. Calling Leon’s child something I dare not repeat is a shitty thing to do.”
Cazador slowly rose from the bed, his face expressionless. He clutched the joint between his thumb and forefinger as he slowly walked a few paces over to the corner where Astarion had been sitting. He took his wrist and got down on one knee. A dusting of ash sprinkled onto his pants. For a moment, Astarion feared that he was about to burn him.
“This conversation? Done.” He looked him dead in the eye. His voice was eerily calm. He leaned into his ear. “And I love you too,” he rasped sweetly.
“I’m sorry,” Astarion whispered, his voice small. He didn’t want to meet the storm that would follow his lover’s calmness. His courage blinked out like the final flicker of a dying star. “It’s not my business. I’m wrong and I’m sorry.”
Cazador pulled back and rolled his eyes. “Ugh. You’re not wrong, but you’re missing the point. I was trying to be a dick.”
“I don’t understand why it hurts me so much when you do this kind of stuff.” He felt numb.
“I don’t know either!” Cazador exclaimed, looking around to his friends for reassurance. By this point, half of them had stolen off to the opposite corner with a few small bottles of margarita-flavored spiked seltzer to avoid the awkward lover’s spat unfolding before them. Yousen nodded as he took a swig. Dalyria offered Astarion a sympathetic look from across the hazy room. “Leon and his baby aren’t even here. It’s not like I’m hurting anyone.”
“It hurts me because I know how sweet you are,” Astarion choked. He could be sweet. He remembered the gentle pat on his head on the beach. The first time they’d kissed on his messy bed. He remembered Cazador’s slim, calloused fingers plucking away at his acoustic guitar for him, singing Hozier’s “Cherry Wine” in the candlelight—how happy he’d been when they’d both killed at karaoke together, Cazador expertly harmonizing alongside his melody. He was sweet in the way he always pulled him close in the mornings and kissed the palms of his hands. They used to make pancakes—how long had it been since they’d made pancakes together?
“I’m not always sweet, though,” Cazador’s smile was all canines. Astarion remembered the first time he’d pulled his pants down, less than a month into their relationship—how he’d nervously tried to dismiss him. How he kept pushing anyway. “You can’t always be sweet. It gets boring. People won’t stick around for it.”
“I’m boring,” Astarion murmured, his eyes downcast. It was a re-affirmation. He’d only told him so hundreds of times.
“Ugh.” Cazador rolled his eyes again and his lip curled in disgust. “I knew you were going to say that.” He leaned in close to his ear once more. “You really think you’re sweet all the time?”
“I try,” Astarion’s voice quivered. He’d spent his whole life trying—and failing.
“Being nice all the time isn’t possible. You know that,” he chuckled darkly in his ear. “Sometimes, you’re not sweet.”
Cazador pulled back and rose from his kneeling position, looking down at Astarion. He felt so broken. Helpless. He looked across the room to Dalyria for any semblance of reassurance, but she must have stepped outside. He stared back down at his feet.
“I don’t want you to call me that anymore,” he asked, his voice low.
“Call you what? Sweet?” Cazador asked mockingly.
Astarion looked up to face him directly—the Lestat to his Louis. “Pussy boy,” he spat. The words tasted awful on his tongue. “Pussy, in general. I’d rather you not call me that ever again. I know you think it’s funny, but it actually sucks. It hurts my feelings.”
“Like I use it often. How long has it even been since I called you that?” he groaned. “Ugh. Fine, whatever. Only ‘Astarion’ from now on.”
He smiled. He knew it wasn’t true. There would always be a myriad of colorful things he could say to him at his disposal.
Dumb.
Boring.
Rat-eater.
He hardly ever called him by his name.
Notes:
3/11/2024 Update: Now uses a workskin! How to Make an Instagram DM Mockup by xslytherclawx
Congratulations to everyone who worked on Baldur’s Gate 3 for their victory. I knew in my heart of hearts it would win Game of the Year. I'm happy for the whole community. I screamed so loud when it won, I was worried about getting a noise complaint from my neighbor! I am definitely someone who has felt seen by this game and its narrative. Neil’s speech in particular moved me to tears.
Thank you all for all the love on the last chapter. Also, look who’s a drug dealer in this universe! I hope it wasn't too unbelievable, considering his shady black-market deals in game. :)
Here are some Cazador and Astarion-adjacent songs that helped me write this chapter.
Sleep Token - Granite
Awaken I Am -Roses
The Jesus and Mary Chain -Cut Dead
The Cure - Like Cockatoos
One Two - Bitter and SickAnd of course, Hozier’s Cherry Wine and Ethel Cain’s Ptolemea.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 15
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A contented moan vibrated through the bridge of Astarion’s nose as he ate a spoonful of crunchy peanut butter straight from the jar. He felt naughty, eating in bed, snuggled up in the sheets alone as the daylight brightened up his corner of the room. He’d pretended to get ready for work, kissed Cazador goodbye, and the moment he set foot in his car, he called the office to notify them that he wasn’t feeling well—a bald-faced lie that Jaheira seemed to have bought almost immediately.
“You work so hard, Astarion,” she’d said. Her usually stoic timbre had adopted a hint of sympathy that was noticeable even through his phone’s less-than-stellar speaker. “Feel better, get some rest, and make yourself some soup! Minestrone’s my favorite.”
He drove a few blocks over and idled in the nearby pharmacy parking lot for a few minutes longer than he thought he ought to wait. Fifteen minutes later, he drove back to the house, parked, unlocked the padlock, went inside, and gleefully changed into the comfiest sweater and baggiest sweatpants he owned. He grabbed his ratty childhood blanket from the keepsake box under the bed and pressed his face into its comforting, well-loved scent. He sighed. It was nice to be ungovernable for a few hours. It felt good to unwind.
He was channel-surfing through whatever usual trash daytime television had to offer before the orchestral swell of an obscure technicolor marvel caught his attention. A handsome man wearing a gold-embroidered ivory pelisse jacket walked through ornate double doors before stopping dead in his tracks. He was so transfixed by whatever he’d seen that he failed to notice them closing supernaturally behind him.
His prepossessing enchantress descended from a grand marble staircase in a bouncy white crinoline dress wrapped in gold, starlike vines, holding a pair of matching metallic heels in her hand. She was lovely—all perfect golden, slicked-back curls and old Hollywood charm. The man bent down to help her with her shoes—a seemingly innocent moment so intimate, Astarion flushed beet red. He set the peanut butter on Cazador’s ash-covered bedside table and watched with tender eyes as she sang to the lovestruck colonel, her gold headpiece twinkling in the candlelight.
He imagined himself removed from his everyday life, marvelously dressed on that screen with Gale as his leading actor. It felt like the naughtiest thought he’d had all day, but he decided this was a safe time to let himself enjoy how his fantasies were toying with his heart. Gods, just the thought of Gale in nineteenth-century Hungarian military regalia was enough to make him consider getting out from under the covers to prevent himself from overheating.
—This is the moment,
Love has begun.
Maybe there’s danger,
But that might be fun.
He felt his heart twitch as he buried his face deeper into his blanket. The (presumably) long-gone actors over-enunciated every sappy syllable of their banter—just as he was prone to do. Cazador wasn’t the only one in his life who had teased him about his stilted way of speaking, and as a result, he was self-conscious about it. He felt his mind beginning to wander as he kept imagining himself singing for Gale.
When they’d first sprung forth, Astarion had hoped these feelings were nothing more than an unusually obstreperous intrusive thought—a flame that would be easy to put out. Now, he’d convinced himself that his heart was hellbent on burning his entire life to the ground.
He thought he’d long given up on the concept of “happily ever after” and that if it existed, it wasn’t for him. It was a trite fantasy sold to children: a false hope that their lives would magically improve when they grew old enough to find a prince to help them leave their reproachful, unsupportive families behind.
But despite knowing they were a scam, something about fairy tales still spoke to the dreamer in him. As beaten down as it was compared to his jaded logical side, that part of him was still as willful and hard to kill as ever. Trying to silence that little voice was exasperating. But recently, he found himself entertaining its passing fancies more often than shutting it out—it constantly schemed towards an idealized dream life where Astarion and Gale would beat the odds and be happy and in love together. He wanted to believe it, but he was making it harder to wrangle these wild feelings back into what was slowly becoming a mass grave of similar thoughts. They were getting out of control, like a bunch of kids tugging on his sleeve, begging him to go with them on a rollercoaster he knew deep down he wasn’t ready for.
He blinked back into the moment, startled when the lady in white plucked a knife from the roast pig at the table, wiped it clean with a napkin, raised it to the level of her eyes, and demanded a kiss from the colonel. He watched curiously as the man obliged, and a sigh of relief flooded his senses when the knife flew into the clock behind him, effectively stopping time itself.
As the pair melted into kisses, he focused on the lavish tapestry behind them, once again thinking about fairy tales—Cinderella, in particular. He identified with her and always kept the thought of her story close to his chest. She settled into her suffering routine with a patience he could only hope to emulate. All she wanted was a night at the ball—a fleeting moment of contentment to ease the pain of her everyday life, even if that night would live on only as a happy memory.
He yearned for a fairy godmother and a pair of glass slippers. He wanted a prince, one with silver starlight in his hair and an appetite for a good book, one who would fall in love right then and there—not with his body, but with him. Or who he thought he was on the surface, anyway. What would a prince ever have in common with a scullery maid? What conversations could they possibly have? What would happen after midnight chimes dispelled the illusion of being his equal and easy to love?
He knew. He’d startle awake in this dingy little room at the cruel bark of an order, wipe his brow as he scrubbed the grout clean, dipping rags and fingers in dirty water as he told whatever mouse would listen to him about how beautiful the prince in his dream had been.
A single thought coursed through him like a bolt of lightning: if Cazador ever found out about his feelings for Gale, he would never be allowed to play Dungeons & Dragons with this group of people again.
He tried to take his mind off things, and since the film didn’t seem to be helping much, he decided to start picking up the apartment a bit—just enough not to give his truancy away. Cazador planned on going straight to the gym after work, so he was grateful for the extra time to supplement his little lie. If he decided to skip it, all he had to say was that they’d let him out a little earlier.
He put the peanut butter back in the cabinet first—but not after sneaking one last little spoonful. Within fifteen minutes, he’d scrubbed most of the black ash from their cheap IKEA furniture. The fact that there would always be some grey residue on the white surface was his biggest pet peeve, but it would have to be enough.
By noon, he’d put away the laundry, swept the floor, done the dishes, and ate a quick lunch—not minestrone, but it would have to do. Perhaps he’d gotten a bit carried away.
Am I cheating? He asked himself as he filed his nails, staring at the clock anxiously. Is this cheating?
He crawled into bed, biting his lower lip and contemplating the morality of a likely one-sided emotional affair. He’d never been one to care about what was virtuous, but the thought of being just as bad as his ex was clattering around in his mind. He couldn’t imagine hurting another person the same way he’d been wounded.
He rolled over. Moping in bed wasn’t helping either. He needed to leave the house. But to do what? He considered going to the library for a bit before he remembered the Christmas card Jaheira had slipped him that had fifty dollars tucked neatly inside it. “Treat yourself to something fun,” she’d written in neat cursive script. He tried to give the cash back to her, but she’d refused and insisted he keep it.
He contemplated what “something fun” might’ve meant and whether or not “fun” was within his means. He’d already paid half the rent, his phone bill, and his car insurance. The fridge was full of fresh food. He checked his bank account—for once, it didn’t look like he was in danger of careening into the red. His breath caught in his throat.
For once, fun was in his budget.
A smile crossed his lips as he searched for his nearest local game shop.
~✧~
Silverbeard Games was, at first glance, a cluttered mess of books and board games and a cabinet of used video games. Behind the front desk was a spry-looking older man with a scraggly silver beard—he could only assume this to be the store’s namesake. He had milky blue eyes hiding below thick, unruly brows. A set of half-moon spectacles sat low on his aquiline nose. He adjusted them slightly as he acknowledged his arrival. “Welcome, traveler,” he said with a slight nod. His voice carried a merry tone, if not thin from age and slightly scratchy. “Can I help you find anything in particular?”
“Actually, yes. I was hoping I might be able to buy some dice?” Astarion replied. He felt a little bad that after a few months of playing D&D, he was still borrowing one of Gale’s sets—he’d also grown a little envious of just how personable everyone else’s dice were—the hollow, abstract silver set Wyll had shown off last session had been the tipping point for him.
The man pointed to a glass cabinet between a bookshelf and a rainbow of paint pots similar to the one Lae’zel used to paint the impromptu fangs on his rogue’s miniature. “We have dice over there if you’d like to take a look,” he said. He extended his hand to the case below him. “We have a few more sets here if you find they are not to your taste.”
Astarion sauntered over to the case and scanned its offerings, immediately overwhelmed by the sheer breadth of the selection. He carefully brushed his forefinger against his sore lips when a familiar, cheery voice made him jump. “Hello, how can I help—? Oh, it’s you! Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Gale?” Astarion felt his face grow hot as he found himself face-to-face with the lovely apparition he’d shamelessly danced with during his daydream mere hours before. Half of his hair was tied up, though a few errant strands of silver and brown tickled the edges of his upper brow. He was holding a copy of the Shadowrun core rulebook in his hands—the smooth, uncalloused hands he hadn’t been expecting from someone who claimed to have played the guitar for over twenty years. “This is a fine coincidence,” he sputtered. “I didn’t realize you worked here!”
“Well, hello to you too. I don’t believe I ever told you where I worked,” Gale grinned, giving his rough beard a thoughtful scratch. “You’ve already met the owner, I assume. Dr. Aumar—I call him ‘Elminster.’” His smile widened as though he was savoring a memory. “He was one of my AP professors in high school. He also sponsored my D&D club after school. Though he’s now happily retired, he always dreamed of starting his own business, so here we are.” He gestured towards the shelf he had just been setting up.
Astarion cocked his head. “There’s such a thing as a D&D club? Is that where you learned to play?” he asked.
“Oh heavens, no! My father taught me how. He used to run games for my mother and me when I was but a wee nipper.” Gale’s eyes took on a misty, faraway look, slowly trailing to the Shadowrun book in his hands as he set it down in its place. “I used to sneak into the box in our garage with his old college stuff and read his sourcebooks for hours—mostly first and second editions of the game. It was tedious stuff for even the most precocious eight-year-old. I’m surprised and grateful that I had the patience for it then.”
“That’s right, I believe you told us this many sessions ago. Sorry, I didn’t mean to forget that you’ve been playing D&D since before it was cool.” Astarion smiled as he teased him. “Who would’ve thought? The divinatory Gale of Waterdeep, oh grand predictor of trends.”
Gale flushed in embarrassment, and the grin quickly fell from his face. “I’ve endured enough ridicule over my hobbies for a lifetime, thank you very much. All I can say is that it’s nice to see it’s eased up over the years. Only wish it could’ve happened sooner, if only for the sake of my twelve-year-old self,” he said gloomily.
“Shit.” Astarion’s edges softened. He remembered being the high schooler who sat in his English teacher’s classroom with his lunch, silently reading a book whenever he wasn’t opening up to her about the creative ways his mother had thought to punish him for being “born wrong.” He’d always gotten along with almost everyone, even winning a superlative in senior year—Best Hair, an award he still prided himself on winning—but those isolated moments alone with his teacher were where he felt most himself. He wondered if his jocular teen self would have also teased Gale had he known him then. He winced, knowing the answer was probably “yes.” Me and my big mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mock you—“
“I know. You never do,” Gale replied sarcastically, his lost smile slowly returning to him. “If it hadn’t been for its sudden surge in popularity, I'm not sure my table would be as full as it is now.” He walked up behind him and leaned over his shoulder. “Ah. You’re looking at dice? Do I sense the birth of a new dragon and the first relics of its inevitable hoard?”
“Not if the ‘seven dollars and forty-one cents’ in my bank account have anything to say about it,” Astarion winked and laughed mirthfully before quickly sobering up when he realized that Gale’s brow had suddenly knotted in concern. “That was a joke—actually, I’m doing alright, for once. I owe you my thanks for bringing me lunch that one time.”
“It was nothing,” the man said, attempting to push the hopeless strands out of his eye only to have them tumble right back down. “It wasn’t much. The recipe usually only takes around half an hour to prepare. I had all the ingredients and plenty of time, so I—“ he stopped himself from saying another incriminating word before looking at Astarion in horror.
Oh. Oh. “I knew it was too fresh to be leftovers,” Astarion murmured, his freshly manicured hand once again meeting his lips as they cracked into an earnest smile—he wasn’t worrying about the prominence of his crow's feet nearly as often as he usually did. “You should stick to flinging spells, wizard, and leave the deception to the rogues.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to feel like you were inconveniencing me,” Gale said softly. He shifted his weight between both legs and wrapped his arms around himself. “In truth, I rather like cooking for you. You remind me of what it was like to have somebody to cook for. Well, I suppose that’s only half true—I still cook for Tara.”
Astarion blinked, bewildered. “You cook for your cat?”
“Why, yes,” Gale retorted, as if feeding his cat home-cooked meals was as pedestrian a task as brushing his teeth. “There’s a reason I always have so much protein on hand—a boneless chicken breast here, salmon there, some rice or quinoa, sweet potatoes, carrots, peas. You’d be surprised by how many things these obligate carnivores can eat, and I believe that Tara deserves the best for all the time she has on this earth.”
“I’m scared to ask you about your grocery bills,” Astarion laughed. “Aren’t you a student?”
“Only part-time,” Gale replied. “It’s just Tara and I. It doesn’t take too much to feed us, and we always have plenty to spare. We both feasted especially well when we visited the rest of the Dekarios clan for Christmas. I trust you had a nice holiday as well, Astarion?”
“I did,” he lied. It had been a few years since the final drunken, rageful Christmas he’d spent in his childhood home, and he was intent on keeping it that way. It was dysfunctional enough visiting his in-laws. Cazador and his mother had gotten into their annual screaming match about her continuous failure to protect her children from Vellioth’s wrath; time after time, she’d always chosen her comfort and safety over theirs. He imagined Gale’s holiday to have been a sharp contrast to his—the entire Dekarios family, playing games, laughing at how clever they all were, carving nice, even pieces of a plump Christmas goose for one another, catching up and singing carols together without a care, maybe driving to a church to sing Handel’s Messiah. He imagined them to be the family that still left milk and cookies out for Santa long after they'd dispelled the myth of his existence. “I’m glad you had a nice, wholesome Christmas with your family,” he said, trying to disguise the lump in his throat. “You deserve nothing less. Did you get any fun presents?”
“Thank you.” Gale’s warm smile would have kept Astarion from freezing to death on the coldest night. “I did. I got books I hoped to read and games I’d hoped to play. One of my aunts gave me a new cookbook, and my mother knitted me a sweater. Tara got one too, though I think she’s less keen on wearing hers than I am to wear mine!” He chuckled to himself. “Ah, speaking of—wait for me, I’ll be just a moment.”
Gale walked to the back room humming a tune. Astarion couldn’t help but notice that Elminster had kept his eye trained on him, peering over the chess magazine he’d been pretending to read. Upon locking eyes, the man beckoned him over to the counter with a small gesture.
“Forgive me for eavesdropping,” he said in a gruff hushed voice. “It’s rare to meet a friend of Gale’s. How do you know each other?”
“He’s my Dungeon Master,” he replied. He cringed as he said it. It felt like such an inappropriate phrase when it wasn’t abbreviated, and he knew it would have been the subject of immature giggles and pious scrutiny had Elminster been anybody else. “We’ve been playing together for a few months.”
A mischievous smile crossed his bearded face. “Ah. You must be the vampire. He speaks of you often.”
“Does he?” Astarion swallowed and quickly ran his tongue over his lips. “I mean, I can see why. I hope he’s told you all the juicy parts.” His chest felt unnaturally warm.
The elder nodded, scanning him inquisitively. “It’s nice to see he’s traded a few of his tomes for good company. About damn time,” he muttered. “It’s starting to show. He’s been a lot happier lately, you know.“ His steely eyes softened.
Astarion recalled a quiet Gale staring into his cup of melting ice at the diner the evening they’d first met. That distant look had reemerged a handful of times behind the DM screen. He’d wondered what it could’ve been, but from seeing firsthand how beloved he was by everyone, he’d never imagined it could be loneliness.
“Gossiping, are we?” Gale tutted as he emerged from the back room with a neatly wrapped box. “I should’ve known better than to leave the two of you alone to make a henhouse of this most sacred of places.”
“Well, apparently, you talk about me!” Astarion feigned offense. “Wouldn't you call that gossip, Gale?”
“I talk about your silly character and his even sillier antics.” Gale rolled his eyes, fumbling with the edges of the crimson ribbon adorning the small box in his hand. “You’re incorrigible,” he said, staring daggers into his mentor’s eyes.
Elminster chortled. “Don’t get me mixed up in all of this! Now, if you'll excuse me, I’ll be back in fifteen. I brought a sample of some fine Swiss cheese with me. It's been calling my name from the fridge all afternoon, but I'm happy to share.” And with that, the silver-bearded man retreated into the back room.
Afternoon. How late was it now? Astarion began to rummage in his pocket for his phone and quickly pulled up the screen. It was a quarter to three. He still had a few hours before Cazador’s return home, much to his relief. Still, he knew he ought to wrap his visit up sooner rather than later, lest the traffic foil his careful little plan.
“Oh, do you have to go?” Gale asked, looking slightly disappointed.
Astarion sighed, his voice strained as he manually set his alarm to go off in fifteen minutes. “Not just yet, but I will soon. I might’ve called in sick to work today.”
“I understand,” Gale nodded. “We all need a mental health day every once in a while. Are you alright? You seem a little jittery.”
“Am I?” Astarion asked, running his shaky hand through his hair, careful to avoid snagging his fingers on any tangles. “I suppose that I am. I hate to ask more of you, but the next time we see each other, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention seeing me here. I didn’t tell Cazador I was staying home. He tends to also “play sick” whenever I tell him I’m calling off, and I just wanted a day to myself—”
“Hey,” Gale whispered soothingly. “I won’t say a word. Like I said last time, the weight of the responsibility that accompanies being the keeper of your secrets weighs heavy on me, but so long as you trust me with them, I will keep them safe. I’ll take them to my grave unless you say otherwise.” He inhaled deeply before continuing, his deep brown eyes burrowing into his with a fixed expression. “Now. I know I already have a present for you, but I’d like to offer something else: a secret of my own, for once. I figured if I’m going to be the keeper of your secrets, it’s only fair I share my load. I know I might seem like a babbling brook or a book with its spine cracked wide open—but in truth, I value my privacy. I’ll allow you one question, and I’ll do my best to answer—unless I find I’m not ready to.”
Astarion pondered for a bit. Here he was, standing triumphantly before the ornate purple chest he’d long fantasized about lock-picking, now holding its rightful key in the palm of his hand—and he couldn’t think of a single thing to ask him. He scanned every centimeter of his friend’s face—every kiss from the sun, every freckle, the dark circles under his eyes, and the slightly blue veins that peeked below them. He looked as though he were bracing himself for pain, and it stung to see that look on his face. He knew it was too soon to talk about the tattoo—even now, he was wearing a collared shirt that concealed it well enough. His eyes wandered to the tiny silver charm with eight spokes dangling from his left ear.
“Your earring,” he said, his breath shaky. “Is it meant to be a star?”
The tension in Gale’s body melted, and he began to laugh heartily. “That’s hardly the secret I thought you’d be asking me to reveal,” he said, clutching his hand to his chest. “But yes, it is a star. It was a gift from my ex. She designed it herself—made the mold, cast it in silver—everything. It’s part of a matching set. She has the other one if she hasn’t chucked it into the sea yet. I suppose I’ve kept it on so long because I’ve gotten so used to the weight of it.”
“Yeah,” Astarion swallowed down the bile of his transient moment of jealousy to reminisce about the thin steel collar that sat on his neck for over a month after Raphael had left him. He remembered the mortification he’d felt when he swallowed his pride and approached him, asking him to help unlock it with its matching key. It would be the last time he would allow himself to be debased around his former “master.” His neck had felt so naked without it after having adorned it for years. It left only a handful of skin tags and the constant craving for its comfortable weight on his collarbones. “I know what you mean.” He wavered for a moment, seeking the right words to follow up his question. “Is there a part of you that hopes she still wears hers?” he asked softly.
Gale nodded solemnly. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But I’m the one who messed it all up, so I wouldn’t blame her if it was at the bottom of the ocean.” He sighed. “I think that’s about all the secret-sharing I have the energy for today. Now for your actual, far more substantial gift!” He gently passed the package over to him. “Merry Christmas, Astarion.”
He took the package and cradled it gingerly in his hands. “This is beyond sweet of you, but I don’t have anything to give you in return,” he said, nonplussed.
“That doesn’t matter,” Gale smiled. “Please, open it. I thought I’d have to wait until our next session to give these to you.”
Astarion’s fingers delicately undid the ribbon and peeled the wrapping paper off, careful not to tear it. He lifted the lid of the small hexagonal cardboard box to reveal a set of sharp-edged dice. They were breathtaking—deep, blood-red liquid suspended within glassy prisms, each side ornamented with silver-foil lettering.
“These are—” He couldn’t find the words, stumbling over the few he’d already uttered, his voice suddenly pitching higher. He could feel his eyes burning. “I can’t repay you for these.”
“They’re a gift, silly. No payment or repayment needed.” Gale’s gentle voice threatened to loosen his tears even sooner.
“I can’t wait to kill something with these,” Astarion laughed, attempting to conjure levity through the channel of his humor.
“I’m so glad you like them!” Gale beamed, looking about as satisfied with his reaction as he did when he watched him eat his cooking. “I’m happy I had them on hand. I packed them in advance so I wouldn’t forget to bring them next session. I’ll admit I got a little nervous when I saw you eyeing the dice cabinet—but that was all the reassurance I needed to know that my gift would go over well.”
“I do owe you one,” Astarion murmured, holding the edges of the D20 between his fingers, reveling in their satisfying pinch. “This is too nice.”
Nothing in life is free.
“I have enough stuff as it is,” Gale grinned. “But if you insist on repaying me, might I suggest a hug? Only if you’re comfortable with that.”
It was an easy trade. Astarion wrapped both arms around Gale and melted into the softness of his chest. He could’ve sworn he heard a heart racing in tandem with his—and then his alarm went off, a choir of chimes and bells. He pulled away to silence their obnoxious tolling.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Now I really have to go,” he muttered, closing the box again and jamming it into his satchel. He rifled through its contents for his car key. “Thank you, darling. I appreciate the gift—I won’t soon forget it. I’m grateful I got a chance to see you. It was an unexpected little treat.”
“You too,” Gale replied, his voice low and face slightly flushed as Astarion hastily walked towards the door. “Please, come back any time.”
”Say hello to Tara for me! Ta!”
When Astarion finally reached his car, he allowed himself to break into tears, accompanied by heaving sighs and ragged breaths. He clawed at his chest. It felt like he was holding his raw heart in the palms of his hands. He wished Gale’s hug could have lasted forever. Why did the crumbs of kindness he offered have so much power over him? Was this all it was? Another power imbalance, the unknowing battle raging between benevolent acts of altruism and the painful limerence they inspired?
Why did his alarm have to go off?
Why couldn’t midnight have waited just a little longer?
Notes:
Songs that helped me write this chapter:
Billie Marten - I Can’t Get My Head Around You
Dustin Tebbutt - ResinThis fic broke 10k views this week and my mind can hardly comprehend it! I’m extremely grateful to everyone who has even given this fic a moment of their time. I hope you enjoyed the heaping helping of Gale content in this chapter, and that all of you are having a good time. I know this time of year can be difficult, so I wish you lots of comfort. <3
Fun fact, the film I’m referencing in the first half of this chapter is 1948’s “That Lady in Ermine.” It was plagued by a number of issues during production, including the director passing away eight days into filming. It had to be rewritten a few times due to censors not approving of the adulterous implications of the story. Much like Astarion, I caught it on TV once during the dream sequence and was completely entranced by it! It’s a silly film, but the set dressing and costuming was divine.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 16
Notes:
Trigger warning for a description of dissociation during a coerced activity near the beginning. The key word is “PlayStation.” If you skip that single paragraph, you should be safe!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion took note of the kettle’s rising temperature while his fingers flitted through their sparse medicine cabinet for a loose vitamin C packet. He had a spoonful of honey waiting beside one of Cazador’s mugs—the “Hubby” mug. It had been part of a matching set. They had been an ironic purchase, as they were appallingly bland—vacuous “live, laugh, love”-tier garbage. They’d bought them before they’d moved in with one another as a joke—one he used to find funny. His “Wifey” mug sat collecting a thin layer of dust in the back of the cabinet.
“How’s the hot water?” Cazador weakly murmured as he tried to sit up from the bed. He inhaled deeply before erupting into an aggressive coughing fit. “Fuck,” he whinged as he released the last few hacking sounds from his chest. “I feel like there’s sandpaper in my throat.”
“Don’t move! You need to rest. And if it hurts to talk, then keep your mouth closed,” Astarion chided. “It’s almost ready, so shush.”
“Don’t tell me to ‘shush,’ boy,” Cazador sneered before launching into another round of dry coughing.
“I told you!” Astarion hissed as he ripped open the packet. “Now, for the last time, shush and let me take care of you, damn it.”
When the time came, he carefully took the piping kettle off the coil of their portable cook top and poured the steaming water into the mug. He added a droplet of honey and stirred in the vitamin C, watching the once clear liquid metamorphose into a fizzy orange. He carried the concoction to Cazador’s bedside table, setting it down lightly. He got down on one knee and pressed the back of his hand on his fiancé’s pale forehead. “Not feverish, thankfully. Let this cool for just a bit, then drink up. Sorry, we didn’t have any ginger root.” Astarion sighed. “I’ll have to go out and buy more medicine tomorrow.”
“You take such good care of me, my cute little mouse,” Cazador rasped, placing a clammy hand on Astarion’s cheek. The perennial whistling sound escaping his lungs sounded worse than it usually did. “Figures I’d be the one to get sick on game night.”
“Do you want me to ask them to cancel?” Astarion’s heart sank as he reached into his back pocket for his phone, prepared to disappoint the group chat with the request to extend their lengthy hiatus yet another week only a few hours before their game. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
His heart rose to its home again when Cazador shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. The hiatus has lasted long enough. I think I'm just going to stay home tonight. Rest, play Skyrim, whatever. You can go if you want to.”
Astarion’s eyes were as wide as saucers. “Is that so?” He did his best not to sound too excited by the prospect of attending alone. He saw a slight flicker in Cazador's eyes that indicated his failure. Like two polished carnelians, they glistened in the light of the candle he’d lit to mask the scent of smoke.
“So eager to leave me. I see how it is.” A bitter grin crossed his wan face. If he was trying to be sarcastic, he was hiding it well.
“No, I can stay if you want me to,” Astarion replied quietly. He wouldn’t take a chance on conjecture. He could feel his face slipping into the same simpering look he always pulled whenever he desperately fished for the answer that pleased someone most. He shifted his body weight from his knee to his ankles, eager to stand at any moment. He hated being so close to the ground when he already felt vulnerable. “Besides, you’re not feeling well. Are you sure you don’t want me to watch over you?”
“No, my little dove. Go. Have fun. Just let me know when you get there and when you’re coming home.” Cazador smiled and slowly recalled his hand from Astarion’s cheek. He grunted with effort as he pulled himself upright, brought the mug to his lips, and gently blew on the steam to cool it further. “Besides,” he said before taking a long sip, “this shit always knocks me out. I’ll be asleep by the time you get to Wyll’s.”
“If you’re sure,” Astarion replied as he stood. He couldn’t shake the uneasiness he felt. It was rare for him to have social engagements alone without Cazador in tow—much less with his blessing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out to do so much as grab a coffee with a friend—save for his two chance encounters with Gale. Before then, it had to have been years. “I’ll text the group to let them know you won’t be able to make it.”
“Thank you, my little dove.” Cazador weakly coughed as he took another drink from his mug. “I hate to miss it. You’ll have to tell me everything that happens.”
“I will.”
Astarion took the familiar sound of the PlayStation turning on as his opportunity to grab his clothes from the closet and quickly step into the bathroom. The ambient soundscape of plucking harps and dreamy synths had become the soundtrack to his dissociative episodes as of late—the only sound he could think to focus on while Cazador made love to him. The music, coupled with the ultramarine light that flooded every crevice and shadow of the room, made him feel nauseous.
The daylight bulb in the bathroom flickered on just in time to snap him from something he didn’t want to remember. After sending the text notifying the group chat of Cazador’s absence, he cautiously watched himself slowly undress in the mirror, not unlike a pair of vigilant deer catching sight of one another from across the lake both had just lapped from. He had just slipped his joggers off when he heard the sharp pinging sound of his text tone echo against the tile.
To his surprise, the message did not come from the group chat.
He had to stifle an excited shriek with the palm of his hand as he read Gale’s private message. If his heart were reading sheet music, the conductor would have heavily scolded it for being off-tempo from the rest of the choir measures ago. He felt himself excitedly bouncing in place as he responded.
He hurriedly dressed, so distracted by his joy that he had to fix his shirt after putting it on inside-out. The universe had already granted him extra time to avoid telling Cazador about the seven shiny little gifts he hadn’t dared to take out of his bag since the day he’d received them—some extra time alone with Gale was the cherry on top.
~✧~
Astarion waited behind the wooden gate for any indication that Gale had arrived. Soon enough, the telltale sound of rubber rolling onto asphalt gave him the signal. He took an extra minute to compose himself before ushering a deep breath into his lungs. The creaky gate swung open, and he promptly locked the padlock before shuffling through the grass toward the car, hoping he didn’t give the impression of having been waiting as impatiently as he had been.
He couldn’t help but smile as he scooted into the passenger seat of Gale’s Subaru. It was an older car, but it was roomy. It smelled of library books and cedar, and best of all, it had a sunroof. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess back here,” Gale bemoaned. “Too many books I haven’t had time to bring inside. Not to mention the bags of clothes I’m trying to donate.”
“Oh, it’s okay.” That’s nothing, he thought. A pile of books and clothes in the backseat was better than the scores of dead white roaches eternally trapped in Cazador’s taillights.
Gale politely offered Astarion a long woven auxiliary cord. “Want to put anything on? I realized that despite being musicians, we’ve never talked about the type of music we like listening to.”
“Sure,” he replied. He slowly scrolled through his playlist, half-tempted to play the most obnoxious hip-house tune he could imagine. His eyes fell squarely on a title he hadn’t thought about in years, and he quickly changed his mind.
The mystical riff that kicked off Jeff Buckley’s “Grace” filled the dark car with its clean, energetic pulse. The hypnotic voice of the young singer sang of love being the anchor tethered to the acceptance of mortality—almost prophetically, as he, too, was taken unduly soon. At the stoplight, he noticed the digits on Gale’s right hand tapping against his knee as if he were trying to figure out the fingerings while he listened. He briefly closed his eyes and nodded along to the rhythm, and Astarion cursed the crimson light for robbing the color from the face he had grown to admire. All his soft features—save for the little dip in the angle of his nose—seemed lost in the monotonal light. It was evident that while Cazador’s alabaster skin thrived in washes of fluorescent convenience store lighting and loud neon, Gale belonged to the sun—as much or as little of it as he welcomed into his life. He looked down at his own pale, sinewy hands. He craved the sun’s blessing, too.
“E minor—Astarion, this is gorgeous,” Gale breathed. “The progressions are unlike anything I’ve heard in a while. It’s haunting. The lyrics are full of familiar thoughts, I’m afraid.” He paused. There it was again, that familiar faraway gaze. “But I like this. I would be lying if I wasn’t half expecting you to put something on from the period your discipline was in.”
“Well, I can’t be all business all the time, darling,” Astarion teased, his vision trailing to the square of night sky peeking through the roof. “I hardly listen to early music at all anymore. Much less perform it.”
I don’t think I’m ready to. I don’t know if I ever will be.
“I think that’s a shame,” Gale mumbled. “I bet you were good.”
As he felt his face growing warm, Astarion regretted cursing the red light. He tried to focus on the well-wishes that were pouring in for Cazador in the group chat.
It wasn’t long before they were both standing at the front door with bags of gaming supplies and groceries from the trunk. Gale gripped the bronze door-knocker with his free hand and tapped a strange, immediately familiar syncopated rhythm.
“That wasn’t—?”
“‘Elmo’s World?’ Perish the thought,” Gale grinned cheekily. “It’s infinitely more fun than simply ringing the doorbell.”
Astarion couldn’t hide the soft smile that crossed his face as he nodded in agreement. The wooden door swung open, and Wyll ushered them inside with a flourish. “Welcome in, you two!“ He leaned in to give Gale a big squeeze. “No more hiatuses. Three weeks is too long!”
“I missed your hugs,” the man groaned as Wyll’s russet-brown arms released him from their tight embrace. “Always a good alternative to a visit to my chiropractor.”
Astarion braced himself for a hug of similar intensity but was pleasantly surprised by how delicately those arms wrapped around his slender frame. “I hope you had a happy holiday, Astarion,” he whispered as he pulled away. “Oh, and sorry about Cazador. I hope he feels better soon.”
“With my luck, he’ll live,” Astarion reassured the man morosely. “Joking, of course!”
Thankfully, the expected reaction resonated in the vaulted ceilings of the foyer: laughter. “I missed you and your jokes,” Wyll said through his toothy smile. He turned to Gale. “The kitchen’s all cleaned up and ready for you.”
“Do you want to help me, Astarion?” Gale asked. “There’s a lot of prep work involved that I didn't have time to start at home.”
“Are you sure about that? I’m not nearly as—how do you say—gifted as you are in the kitchen.” It was true. Gale made cooking look easy. Fun, even. Astarion’s cooking was miserably subpar, and taste had always played second fiddle to survival. He could manage the most basic recipes on a good day. He could fry an egg or chop up some vegetables for ramen dishes—and even then, his cuts were uneven and painfully slow. When it came to preparing meat, he was a hopeless mess. He hacked through it, but as much as he enjoyed eating it, getting it to an edible state was a sensory nightmare every step of the way. His ineptitude (and the size of their meager kitchenette) often relegated him to the sidelines while Cazador prepared his impeccable, well-seasoned dishes.
It was almost like Gale could sense his nerves. “Just follow my lead. I’ll help you. All you have to do is ask,” he assured. “Now, let’s go drop off these bags.”
“They look heavy!” Wyll interjected. “You sure you’ve got that, Astarion?”
“I’m managing,” Astarion strained as he hoisted the hefty bag closer to his chest to make it slightly easier to carry. “What are we making?” He huffed as he set it down on the nearest counter top.
“We’re making meatballs served with a side of tzatziki sauce!” Gale loudly exclaimed as he pulled his signature purple apron from one of his backpacks.
Astarion’s face blanched.
“Yes!!” Wyll’s enthusiastic reply from the other room would have been more infectious under different circumstances.
“The sauce is a Dekarios family staple—a delicious one I’m admittedly more than a little excited about sharing with you!” There were stars in the man’s eyes as he launched into a tirade about how a single taste of his tzatziki was poised to change Astarion’s life forever.
“Sounds delightful,” he replied, his voice shifting into a higher register. It wasn’t a lie. It did sound delightful, but he couldn’t pry his mind from the thought of having to roll the individual meatballs between his hands. Beef was his favorite type of meat to prepare if he had to choose, but this was far more direct contact involved than he liked to volunteer for. He thought about the way raw beef squelched in his hands. At least he knew he’d be able to disguise his disgust while handling beef more convincingly than when he attempted raw chicken. He shuddered. “Now that I think of it, maybe it’s not the best idea.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Cazador,” he said, reminding himself more than he was reminding Gale. “We share close quarters. I’d hate to get anyone else sick, too.” A nervous laugh escaped his lips.
Gale’s eyes narrowed in concern. “Are you feeling any symptoms at all? Coughing, fever?”
“No, no, I—” he sputtered before taking a deep, frustrated sigh. “Look, Gale, I’d love to help you cook. I’m not trying to skirt my way out of this, I promise. I struggle a lot with raw meat. It just feels icky, and, and—“
A reassuring hand touched his shoulder and silenced his rambling. “Then we’ll play to your strengths. Maybe you can help me chop some vegetables. How does that sound?”
Astarion nodded, trying not to think too hard about how nice it felt to have the weight of his hand perched on his shoulder.
“Good. Now, let me worry about the rest,” Gale grinned as he unpacked more of the groceries. “You can hop in and out as much as you need to.”
He’d been expecting ridicule, even playfully so, from the far more experienced chef. But no. He even helped him set up his makeshift prep station while he washed his hands—a colorful array of cucumbers, fresh dill, garlic, lemons, onion, mint, and parsley. Gale had rolled up his sleeves and was already at it, expertly mincing the parsley. Astarion wielded the large, unfamiliar knife with a shaky hand after choosing a cucumber as his first victim, carefully chopping off the ends before steadying half of it in his clenched fist. The first few slices he made were saw-like and uneven, either too thick or too thin. He could feel his shoulders tense up as he went to make his third cut.
“Coming up right behind you,” Gale warned. He rested his bearded chin in the crook of his narrow shoulder. Astarion felt his breath catch as the man’s gentle hand slowly wrapped around his. He felt his tense grip evaporate as Gale slowly guided his fingers closer to the blade. “I’m sorry we don’t have a mandolin, friend. Here’s a little trick I learned to make this easier. With this hand, you’re going to curl your fingers, hold the cucumber with your knuckles out, and keep them against the blade so you don’t slice your fingers off. Now, with your other hand,” Gale instructed, trailing off as he maneuvered Astarion’s fingers around the knife, placing his thumb to the blade, pinching it with his forefinger, and then wrapping the remaining three fingers around the handle. He began to rock the knife back and forth slowly, making smooth, even slices. He was careful not to move so quickly as to startle Astarion, but each chop was deliberate, methodically setting an example for the fledgling chef. “Back and forth, up and down—good!”
Astarion tried to focus on his task, but he found that Gale’s impromptu masterclass barely registered as he made every effort to keep his composure. In the past, anyone coming up from behind him and touching him like this would have rendered him a sobbing mess, holding himself on the kitchen floor, unable to find the words to explain himself. From the corner of his eye, he tried his best to read the expression on Gale’s face, but all he could make out was a blur of colors, the bloom of a healthy pink shade on his cheek. Aside from the few hugs they had exchanged, this was the closest they’d ever been to one another.
We could always be closer, Astarion thought, carefully arching his back into his soft, warm chest. Though the barriers of his handmade sweater and purple apron were in the way, he swore that he could still feel the rapid pulse of the man’s heart beating against it like hummingbird wings.
Gale sharply exhaled as he drew back. “Do you think you can manage on your own?”
Astarion set the knife down on the cutting board and turned around to look at him, his breaths shallow and jagged. “I think so,” he answered. He couldn’t help but notice that the usual warmth in Gale’s brown eyes belied a look of fear.
“That was rather audacious of me,” he whispered. “Forgive me if I overstepped—“
“—no, not at all,” Astarion replied, determined to extinguish the fear within Gale (and himself.) “Forgive me for not being as good with knives as my roguish counterpart,” he joked. “It helps that you’re a good teacher.”
“Thank you. We’ll get these chopped up in half the time,” Gale beamed. The foe he’d named fear had seemingly been vanquished by pride—for now, at least.
Wyll had been kind enough to come in and help Astarion connect his phone to the Bluetooth speaker. The eclectic mix of his favorite playlist echoed from the adjacent room as they worked at chopping the remaining ingredients side by side. He was surprised by how easily his muscle memory made up for his distracted mind as he finished with the cucumbers and seamlessly adapted Gale’s techniques for the rest of the herbs and vegetables—even the onions, which he’d purposely saved for last, weren’t as painful to slice as they usually were. Gale had left them soaking in water, and the familiar sharp sting of tears never came.
He took a peek at Gale’s workstation as he spirited away half of the vegetables they had diced. He hummed to himself as he added the ingredients to a mixing bowl full of chopped pork and ground lamb—not beef, as Astarion had initially guessed. He felt sheepish when he remembered how much of a staple lamb was in Greek cuisine. He watched with bated breath while the adroit chef worked his culinary magic with clean hands, massaging everything with the tenderest of touches. His rich, lush voice quickly retrieved him from his fixation. “If you change your mind about helping with the meatballs, I think I may have come up with a brilliant solution. Care to open up the cutlery drawer? It’s behind you, to your left.”
The silver-haired man obeyed, and sure enough, the wooden drawer he opened contained an assortment of glistening silverware—a far cry from the plastic spoons he usually ate with at home. (Plastic plates, too, if Cazador didn’t want to bother dirtying any dishes.)
“Do you see a cookie scoop in there?“ Gale asked as he continued mixing.
“Yes,” Astarion replied, clutching the tool in his hand, squeezing the lever gleefully.
“Ah! Excellent,” Gale said excitedly. “Now, you don’t have to, but if you get the itch to help me and don’t want to get your hands dirty, that scoop is a suitable alternative! Option two,” he added, gesturing to a small index card on the counter, “is for you to help me prepare the tzatziki.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” Astarion said, thoughtfully palming the card and reading the ingredients to himself. “Do we have Greek yogurt?” he asked.
“In the fridge! I asked Wyll to have some handy for us.”
They each returned to their respective tasks silently. While mixing the sauce, Astarion couldn’t help but steal the occasional glance at Gale’s steadily growing, perfectly spherical army of lovingly crafted meatballs. He felt light as he watched him drizzle the sheet pan with olive oil. His jaw unclenched, and his movements with the stirring spoon grew more fluid. He even found himself quietly mouthing some of the words to the music. Everything felt so peaceful. He closed his eyes and imagined a life where he felt like this always—a lovely kitchen with a brick wall and long, creeping philodendrons hanging in a planter, Gale holding him from behind and swaying side to side to a jazzy tune as Astarion stirred the tzatziki. Maybe, in this universe, he was ready to help Gale with the meatballs—expertly molding them with his bare hands while being praised for how far he’d come.
Ding!
He froze as he heard his text tone go off over the speaker. He knew he’d been forgetting something. He checked his phone, despite knowing exactly who the message was from and what it would say.
“Made. It. Safely. Sorry.” Astarion murmured aloud as he typed. His heart pounded in his head and he could feel his palms beginning to sweat.
“Is everything alright?” Gale asked.
“Fine,” Astarion mumbled. “Just texting Caz.”
“Tell him I hope he feels better,” Gale said, smiling earnestly. “Meatballs are in the oven. They should be ready by the time everyone else arrives.” He peeked over his shoulder and cocked his head as he inspected Astarion’s work. “Ooh, the tzatziki looks so good! Let me see how you did.” He grabbed a small spoon and dipped it into the sauce before bringing it to his lips. He groaned with pleasure as he tasted it. “I’ll never be a skinny man,” he light-heartedly lamented as he set the spoon down. “Well done!”
“It helps that the recipe you gave me was easy to follow,” Astarion blushed. “Sorry that I didn’t help you with the meatballs. You didn’t have to—”
“Gale! Starry!” Karlach’s booming voice rang out from the threshold as she charged at them with her arms outstretched. She pulled both men into a deep, crushing hug. “Aw, I missed you both so, so much!”
Astarion sighed contentedly as the scent of her leather jacket filled his nostrils, flirting with the signature sandalwood drifting from Gale’s neck. He felt his former cares melting into the warmth of their shared embrace.
He could get used to all of these hugs.
Notes:
Songs that helped me write this:
Jeff Buckley - Grace
The Cure - Friday I’m In Love
Hozier - Like Real People Do
Celestial Alignment - K.K. Love Song (yes, really)
Matt Maltese - Everyone Adores You (at least I do)Fun fact, I struggled significantly writing this chapter and wouldn’t have been able to finish it if it weren’t for my fiancé helping me reenact some of the scenes in the kitchen so that I had a better idea of what I was trying to write about! He has a far better technical grasp when it comes to cooking, and I am eternally grateful to him for his aid.
In other news, I finally joined the Bloodweave Brainrot server on Discord last week and felt immediately welcomed there. If you hail from the server, I want to extend my deepest thanks for the love you showed me and my fic upon my arrival! You are a fun menagerie of lovely human beings and it’s fun to get to see all of the art and writing that our mutual love for this pairing has led you to create and/or admire!
Thank you once more to everyone who has read and continues to read this story. <3
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 17
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
By now, Astarion had pieced together that something was wrong with Gale of Waterdeep.
It had been a few sessions since he’d died, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the wizard was hiding something more from them. He and the rogue had fallen prey to a woman’s voice flowing eerily from the beach, walking trance-like towards her nesting ground. The rest of the party had resisted the harpy’s song, easily besting three of the four before they could fly after their original quarry—a small, tiefling boy by the water’s edge. The minute one of Lae’zel’s arrows hit the throat of the winged monster, he ran uphill, tiny lungs full of iron, relishing his freedom from the lure of her spell.
It wasn’t long before the song resumed from the vocal cords of her remaining sister, trapping both men in its mystical flow again, much to their frustration (and the frustration of everyone else at the table. “Fey Ancestry be damned!”)
Astarion wasn’t charmed for long—he surprised everyone with the first critical success of the night. The rogue had quickly broken free from the song’s control, his attention now fixed on a shiny ring of gold resting on one of the small bones upon the creature’s wretched nest that quickly made its way into his inventory.
Gale, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He failed his wisdom save, and the harpy knocked him unconscious on her next turn with a single swipe of her sharp claws.
Then, the unthinkable happened: the dreaded critical failure. Gale described the result of his death-saving throw with a grim expression. The harpy’s claws dug into his shoulders and tossed him from the precarious height of the cliff where he had been masterfully flinging spells only moments ago. Before Shadowheart’s cleric could climb the rocks to heal him, his body was a messy heap in the brine, his dark blood from the wounds left behind by her claws mixing with the saltwater.
In his fury, imagining the scent of the wizard’s rancid blood filling his nostrils, Astarion’s rogue had slain the final harpy from her perch with every attack he could expend on his turn. Astarion’s hands clenched under the table as Gale described her agonizing death. It would not be enough until the wizard was up on his boots, rambling interminably about the Weave, his exploits in Waterdhavian taverns, and his cat, as he often did.
While Wyll and Karlach immediately ran to comfort the small tiefling child, Astarion, Cazador, and Shadowheart rushed to the wizard’s side only to find themselves swept up in a wave of necrotic rot that shouldn’t have been possible at such an early stage of decomposition. Astarion had braved through it, pulling his party member’s lifeless body out of the water and resting it on the sandy shore. “‘Shadowheart?’” the rogue had asked, gazing at her with expectant eyes. Astarion did everything in his power to keep his voice from shaking. “‘You can fix this, right?’”
The woman reciprocated Astarion’s glassy-eyed stare from across the table with one of her own before turning to face their Dungeon Master. “I’m out of healing spells. Gale, can I try using a healing potion on him? Can’t I pour it down his throat or something?”
“Shadowheart—you uncork the healing potion and cradle the wizard’s head in your hands, but he remains still, and the aura of rot pouring from his body is overpowering. Is anyone else within ten feet of his body?”
“I am,” Astarion nodded.
“Me too,” Cazador replied.
“The three of you take—“ he paused. The sound of dice rolling behind the DM screen pushed Astarion to the edge of his seat. “Four points of necrotic damage.”
“Holy shit,” Cazador murmured, seething as he updated his character sheet. “I step away from his body. How’s our health looking? Because if it’s looking like mine, we all need to go back to camp and rest.”
“And leave him?” Astarion asked his partner incredulously. A part of him hated to admit that it only made logical sense to rest. His health was down to seven points. “‘Well, we can’t just leave him here!’”
“‘Tsk’va!’” Lae’zel exclaimed as she described her fighter retrieving the last of her arrows from the first harpy’s throat. “‘In Githyanki culture, there is no more honorable way to die than in battle. Gale would have been lucky if he had survived jhe'quith dvenzir in my class on Crèche Kliir.’” She raised a sleeved hand to the corner of her eye. The tremolo in her voice strengthened. “‘Besides, how are we meant to carry him there? We would die a foolish death trying.’”
It was at that moment when Gale described a projection springing up out of nowhere beside them. The amethyst-colored apparition bore the wizard’s exact likeness. Its spectral voice spouted a list of (admittedly nonsensical) instructions for the party to follow to revive him. Its tone remained even, but the message seemed urgent despite its vagueness. It was paramount that they save the wizard.
“‘Alright, let’s head back to camp,’” Cazador repeated after the purple phantasm sputtered away into nothing.
“‘Didn’t you hear what he said?!’” Astarion asked, completely shaken by his indifference.
“‘Yes, loud and clear. We have two days to bring the wizard back,’” Cazador replied, unnerved by Astarion’s insistence.
“‘The paladin is right, but we can’t carry him back to camp with us,’” Shadowheart interjected. “‘We’d have to leave him here.’”
“Besides, wouldn’t it be better to take that scroll of True Resurrection for ourselves? It could be useful down the line,” Cazador added. He turned his attention to Astarion. His eyes were colder than any blade as he said, “He’s just an NPC.”
The tension in their half of the room was palpable. From the opposite end of the table, Wyll looked as though he was desperate to say something, but his character hadn't yet re-entered the scene since rushing off to check on the child. He flashed Astarion a look of quiet desperation as Gale described the child’s gratitude to the pair before running back toward the Grove.
When the attention shifted back to their group, Astarion was the first to speak. “Gale,” he began, his voice finding a steady foothold. “I would like to return to the wizard’s body and grab that pouch near his chest the projection was talking about.”
Karlach’s joyful cheers from the other side of the table reassured him that he was doing the right thing. He drank a healing potion beforehand at Shadowheart’s insistence. It likely saved him, for he almost immediately dropped back to seven hit points when he crossed the necrotic threshold surrounding the wizard’s corpse. He retrieved the small and worn brown leather pouch wrapped in tri-colored cords and quickly retreated to safety to catch his breath before unthreading the purple cord counterclockwise.
By this point, the barbarian and warlock had re-entered the scene. With bated breath, the pair intently watched as Gale described the contents of the pouch. Astarion described his rogue pulling out a small flute and asking Gale to read the wizard’s letter carefully wrapped around it.
He'd looked at Gale cheekily as the man described which precise notes he would need to play. “Clever,” he responded. He awoke a part of his brain he'd sworn had died years ago—his ability to find middle C innately, like a human pitch-pipe—before shakily humming the given notes: D-E-A-D.
When the magma mephit appeared at the sound of the last note, just as the projection had said it would, Astarion thanked himself twice for thinking to write out the phonetic pronunciation of the strange word the specter had given them: “K’ha’ssji’trach’ash.”
The creature replied satisfactorily in the Ignan tongue, extending its hand expectantly. Astarion carefully handed over the letter from the wizard’s pouch. Its clawed finger brushed the parchment, and with a puff of smoke and red sparks of the Weave, it turned from a scrap of paper into a scroll.
Its duty fulfilled, the creature returned to whichever plane had spawned it in a flash of fire. Cheered on by nearly everyone at the table, Astarion ran back toward Gale’s body with the scroll in tow.
With only two hit points left, he carefully read the scroll, reciting the incantation to raise him from the dead.
To his amazement, it worked. Gale of Waterdeep stood as he always had, hands cold as they clasped his in gratitude. He'd allowed the wizard to keep his secrets—heaven knows he had his own to worry about. But now, many weeks later, it was gnawing at him.
Since the beach, Astarion could tell that the wizard was ill. He was slowing down, lagging behind the rest of the group. He needed more and more time to catch his breath with each passing day on the road. Cazador cursed him under his breath for rescuing him. “Why did you bother?” he griped. “This man is a liability.”
“Astarion?” He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Shadowheart’s head cocked in concern. “Are you alright? You spaced out for a bit.”
Astarion nodded, blinking back into the present. “Yes, I'm fine. Just thinking about the game, is all.”
“Well, you're next in the initiative for our camp roleplaying,” she quietly pointed out. “What are you going to do before your long rest?”
“I already know, darling,” Astarion replied. His voice was low and colored in the lovely chromatic, color-shifting paint of his usual chimerical brand of confidence. “What else could have me so lost in thought?”
She smiled. “I’m sure I can think of a few things.”
He stealthily unlocked his phone, consoled by the absence of a new unread message. Tonight, Cazador would not be present to question his decisions. He would get to the bottom of the wizard’s secrets, one way or the other.
“—the paladin is noticeably absent, his bedroll abandoned. Everyone keeps watch on rotation, but only a few of you have noticed that he does this every so often. Perhaps he leaves to soothe a mind as broken as his oath. Maybe he is too proud to seek you out, trying to comfort himself from his nightmares by the river. Whatever the reason, you can all only speculate.” Gale cleared his throat. “Astarion, what do you do before tucking in for the night?”
“I’d like to speak to Gale of Waterdeep,” Astarion replied with a toothy grin as he dipped one of the meatballs into the tzatziki sauce. He had been overindulging in it the whole night—Gale hadn't lied when he said the recipe was life-changing. “Pretty please?”
The man sighed, shaking his head playfully. “Alright, but only because you asked so nicely,” he teased. “You don’t immediately see the wizard, but you notice a faint blue glow peeking through from the flaps of his tent.”
“Can I sneak a peek inside?”
Gale nodded. “Do you want to roll me a stealth check?”
“Sure, why not? Baby’s first roll,” Astarion exclaimed as he picked up his new D20. He admired the shiny crimson die in his hand for a moment and christened it with a small kiss (for luck) before letting it fly into the dice tray. “Nice. That’s a twenty-one.” He petted the dice affectionately. “Good D20.”
“You must be a proud parent,” Gale snickered. “Very well. You take a peek into the wizard’s tent. He’s facing away from the entrance, so he doesn’t immediately notice you. He seems preoccupied, completely engrossed by the glowing, phantasmal bust of a woman whose face is unknown to you, materializing from the palm of his hand. The light reflecting from her visage bounces onto the tent’s fabric like rippling water.”
Astarion’s chest felt oddly hollow. “Is she pretty?” he asked.
There was a brief moment where the only sound in the room was the ambient crackling of the campfire emitting from Gale’s laptop speaker.
“Ethereally so,” the man whispered, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply.
“‘Who is that?’ the rogue asks curiously.”
“‘Oh!’ He jumps. With his focus interrupted, the illusion blinks out of existence. ‘My, you startled me, I, er—‘ he pauses to catch his breath. ‘I was miles away.’”
“The rogue almost immediately feels guilty for interrupting,” said Astarion. In truth, he didn’t feel guilty at all. Any excuse to purge the thought of that strange woman from the wizard’s mind was good enough for him. “‘Is everything alright?’”
“‘Of course, of course! I was just—practicing an incantation.’”
Astarion laughed. “‘Is that what we’re calling it these days?’ I don’t believe him for a second.”
“No?” Gale asked, doing his best to keep a straight face.
“‘She means something to you, doesn’t she?’ Can I roll insight?”
“Go ahead!”
The D20 rattled between his intertwined fingers—the weight of it against his palms was so satisfying. He released it into the tray and frowned at the result. It did not look promising. “I have a plus one to that check, which makes that a seven.”
For a moment, the silence in the room made him think it hadn’t been enough. Then, Gale spoke.
“‘Yes. She does. She’s Mystra.’ The wizard has a faraway look in his eyes as he continues. ‘I can’t quite describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her—to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence. No sculpture or painting could ever do her justice, only the fabric that she herself is and embodies: the Weave. Mystra is all magic. And as far as I’m concerned, she is all creation.’”
“The rogue crosses his arms and squints his eyes. The level of Gale’s idolatry is too much for him, even in terms of a goddess. ‘You sound like a smitten schoolboy.’”
“You sound jealous,” Shadowheart teased.
Wyll began to snicker, placing a hand over his mouth before Karlach gave him a gentle nudge. She had a Cheshire grin on her face. “Go on!”
Gale smiled softly. “‘It is a kind of love, after all; at the very least a most deep-seated passion. Magic is my life. I’ve been in touch with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing like it. It’s like music, poetry, physical beauty—all rolled into one and given expression through the senses.’” He paused. “‘Astarion, you’re an elf. A high elf, no less. Surely you know some magic?’”
Astarion looked down at his character sheet, at all of the careful eraser marks and pencilings. His spell list was untouched. While he did have a few cantrips written down that he could choose to swap out after a long rest, he had rarely done so.
“The rogue shrugs, pouting a bit. ‘Nothing beyond a handful of cute little parlor tricks. Knowing a few cantrips here and there doesn’t quite hold a candle to your magical aptitude. We killed half a goblin camp because of you alone. You’re a level shy of singing our brows off with a fireball. If I ever had any magical ability beyond this, well, it’s,’” Astarion’s voice trailed off, his tongue feeling bitter as it settled in his mouth. “‘—it’s long been stolen from me.’”
“The wizard senses a profound sadness in your musing. Eager to help you reclaim any connection to the Weave you might have lost, he extends his hand. ‘Would you like to experience it?’”
“Aww, please say yes! Please say yes!” Karlach swooned. She was practically vibrating in her seat. Beside her, Shadowheart could do little to hide her long-held smile. The apples of her cheek were a lovely strawberry-red shade against her fair complexion.
Astarion wondered if the color on his face matched hers. He nodded. “Yes, I would.”
Gale’s eyes crinkled, his face aglow. “Then follow my lead.”
The lesson started small. Create an illusion. The wizard’s example had been flawless: he conjured a burst of arcane light that swallowed itself, shuttering and flashing as it did so. With dexterous slender hands, the rogue had done his very best to imitate the gesture, not expecting anything to happen at all. Perhaps he’d get a good laugh before allowing the confirmation of what he feared to be true to settle in: that his master had truly beaten all the magic out of him. To his shock, however, a beam of light spun from his hands like a thread, slowly growing into a miniature sun. It, too, collapsed into itself, sparks fluttering into the air like a brief firework. It had been quick, but the magic had been undeniably his.
“‘Holy shit,’” Astarion breathed.
Gale described how it felt—warm, comfortable, like a kind word and a kind touch all at once—like being held. It must have felt so foreign to the rogue who had known only wanton cruelty for so long. Unreal. Strange.
“‘See? Not stolen,’ the wizard said, beaming with pride at his pupil. ‘Simply waiting to be rediscovered. Now, repeat after me—’” The words of a spell danced fluidly on his tongue. “For all the books the rogue has devoured in his new swath of free hours, these words are in a language he does not recognize.”
Humming as he rolled for performance, Astarion prayed for a successful outcome. He wanted the moment to last.
Luck was on his side. With an eight, Gale described the scent of rosewater in the air and on his tongue, the lingering echo of those weird words having left the sweetest taste on its tip that left him feeling at ease. Safe.
“‘Very good!’” the proud tutor remarked, and Astarion could feel an unusual sense of arousal pooling deep within him. It felt good to hear such earnest praise. “‘Now, I want you to picture in your mind the concept of harmony. As true as you can.’”
Astarion closed his eyes. “He imagines himself standing in the sun for the first time in two hundred years. How warm and gentle the sensation of it feels on his skin.”
Another success. It was as if the sun were out in the dead of night. Soon enough, the heat radiated further outwards, reaching out to Gale as well, like a sunbeam. They stood under the canopy of a thousand stars in the sky—alone together, basking in the illusion of sunlight.
“You see—or is it sense?—the presence of a woman, the woman who hovered over Gale’s palm. There’s something like the anticipation of a kiss, then the pleasure of being cloaked in peace. You are safe. You are nestled in the cup of Mystra’s hand.”
A twinge of jealous heat burned furiously in Astarion’s chest—both the player and the rogue. He could see her appeal. He envied her all the same.
“‘You did it,’ exclaimed the wizard. ‘You’re channeling the Weave! How does it feel?’”
Astarion savored his words before setting them free. “‘Magical. Sensual, even.’”
A familiar twittering chorus of laughter and “oohs” sprang up from the rapt audience around them. Lae’zel rolled her eyes. “He should have been a bard.”
“That’s what I told him!” Gale laughed.
Astarion reveled in the intimacy of the moment he’d just shared with Gale. Yes, it was merely roleplay. A sandbox meant to frolic in. But his heart was fluttering all the same. They were so connected. If he thought hard enough about kissing him, would Gale feel it, too?
“All of a sudden, the magic sputters away like flickering neon. The wizard is bent over in pain, swaying listlessly as the marking on his chest pulses, slowly darkening. He coughs a black, bile-like liquid into his hands before collapsing.”
The table erupted into chaotic commotion.
Astarion froze.
For a moment, he had forgotten something was wrong with Gale of Waterdeep.
~✧~
“You are so lucky that I pick up every single bit of stupid loot we come across,” Astarion said, shaking his head as he opened the car door. “Why did you let it get so bad?”
When Gale told the party that the wizard needed to consume the Weave from a few magical artifacts every tenday, everyone lovingly chastised the NPC for not telling them sooner. Astarion was the most incensed, even going so far as to shout at him. It would have passed as commendable acting if he hadn’t been so frightened. Wyll had tried to comfort him with his usual soothing tone, but in the wake of the knowledge that the wizard’s malady was slowly corrupting his body and killing him, there was little comfort anyone could provide. Deadly—the exact word the wizard had used.
Gale chuckled. “The loot was only half of it. Honestly, I thought you’d be the one to take the most umbrage at the mere suggestion of parting with your treasures. I’m surprised you’re not more of a loot goblin.”
“Darling, I’m hurt!” Astarion smiled coyly. He’d had no problem parting with the ring of color spray he’d snatched from the Harpy’s nest to sate Gale’s arcane hunger. “Yes, I’m still a loot goblin. And a bit of a hoarder. A peek at my inventory should provide enough evidence if I haven’t proven that fact well enough by now. But I’ve already spent more than enough time following convoluted wizard-revival instructions, and I refuse to do it again, especially if there’s a simpler alternative.”
“Convoluted? I thought my instructions were quite simple, actually,” Gale said defensively, the chime of the car starting spliced in halfway through his sentence.
“You’re joking,” Astarion teased, his lilting giggle betraying his amusement. “There’s no way you don’t recognize how ass-backward that entire process was!”
“Okay, maybe they’re a little complicated,” Gale relented, the corners of his lips curling up slightly. “If only because I have considerable faith in my party’s intelligence. Their effective problem-solving skills are a bonus!”
“Now I know you’re joking.” Astarion giggled, wrapping himself in a woolen blanket he pulled from the backseat. It was a cold night, and the heater in Gale’s car was taking a while to warm him up. “What’s the other half?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that our potential reluctance to give away our precious loot was only half the reason you didn’t tell us sooner,” Astarion replied. “What was the other half?”
Gale wore a pensive look on his face as he drove. “A secret. For now, anyway. All will reveal itself in time. In any case, I’m grateful to you for finding the wizard something to tide him over. I suppose knowing an artful thief such as yourself has its advantages.”
“‘All will reveal itself in time,’” Astarion mimicked. “Flattery will only get you so far. Who would’ve thought you’d be more secretive than Shadowheart?”
“Well, It’s only natural that I’m more secretive than our beloved cleric of Shar!” Gale bragged. “As the Dungeon Master, I’m privy to everyone’s secrets. I know yours, hers, mine, Cazador’s. You name it. I know things even you all don’t know about yourselves yet, and—”
Cazador.
“—hold that thought,” Astarion’s voice wavered as he twisted in his seat under the blanket and fished his phone from his pocket.
There were two missed calls and a series of texts.
He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t heard his phone go off, considering how often Cazador had been trying to reach him. The last text arrived at eleven-thirty. It was one-fifteen in the morning.
He cursed inwardly, his fingers tapping away a response at the keyboard.
“Everything okay?” Gale asked.
“Yeah, I forgot to let Caz know I was heading home. I didn’t realize it was this late,” he murmured as he ran a finger through his thick, curled fringe. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Gale replied earnestly. “Astarion, I was hoping to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“My birthday’s coming up,” he began, his voice timid. “I was thinking of having a small get-together at the Renaissance fair. I was wondering if you and Cazador would like to come along. I haven’t sent out a formal invitation since it’s in two months, but I wanted to give you ample notice in case you needed extra time to find costume pieces if you want to dress up.”
Astarion was speechless at first, but a genuine smile quickly overwhelmed his face as he basked in his excitement. “A Renaissance fair? How delightfully quaint! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“I’m glad to hear it! Have you ever been to one?” Gale asked curiously.
Astarion hummed, searching his mind for a fragmented memory. “Once or twice, but I was a child. Far too young to take any part in its more debaucherous offerings, far too poor to afford the artisanal goods up for sale. You can’t buy a dagger with a twenty-dollar bill. I remember getting sprinkled in glitter by a green-haired woman with large, glassy fairy wings while trying to eat roasted walnuts. They were quite good. It was still chilly out, and they were so warm in my hands,” he recalled wistfully. “I haven’t had them since.”
Gale laughed. “Sounds delightful. And delicious. I haven’t been in a few years, myself.”
“I didn’t realize we shared a birth month,” Astarion murmured as they pulled into the familiar patchy grass of his driveway.
“Oh, wow! Maybe that’s why we get along so well,” Gale smiled. “Well, we’ve made it. Sorry for bringing you home so late. I hope you had a good time.”
“I did,” Astarion smiled back. His heart ached, knowing he would have to leave behind the blanket, the cedar and book-scented Subaru—and more importantly, Gale. “Thank you for the ride. And the cooking lesson. And for a good game.”
“You as well. Good players deserve good games. See you next week! Hope Cazador feels better!”
“See you,” Astarion whispered. He turned back and waved before unlocking the padlock. In true gentlemanly fashion, Gale waited for the gate to fully close before driving away.
He walked to the front door, staring at his feet on the welcome mat. A lone moth circled the automatic light that flickered to life when it sensed his movement. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
Cazador was asleep. Thank the Gods.
Astarion removed his shirt, quickly changing into something looser, baggier. He hated that there was nothing with longer sleeves he could wear to bed. He’d have to go thrifting sometime in the future—if not for new clothes to sleep in, for the costume he was now excitedly designing in his head.
After slipping his sweatpants on, brushing his teeth, and putting his phone up to charge for the night, he crawled quietly into bed. His pillow was nice and cold, and he could feel himself slowly sinking into the mattress.
He felt Cazador shift in the bed, turning to face him. His icy hands reached under his shirt, pulling him closer. “I missed you,” he said groggily, hoarser than before.
Astarion’s voice faltered. “I missed you too. Everyone did.”
“Sure you did,” he somnolently jeered as he yawned into Astarion’s shoulder. “You didn’t respond to my texts. I was worried.”
“Sorry,” Astarion muttered, ruminating endlessly on the sudden pang of guilt throbbing in his chest. “How are you feeling?”
“Sick,” Cazador groaned, his voice raw from an evening of coughing. “I'm just happy you’re back in my arms, my pretty little boy. You’re addictive, you know. A lighthouse—that's what your smile is like to me. A lighthouse. So bright...it was dark without you.” He nuzzled his face deeper into his chest. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” It felt like the most hollow lie he’d told yet. Astarion stared out into the darkness. I’m an awful partner. I’m a horrible fiancé. “I shouldn’t have gone out and left you here while you were sick.”
“Hush,” Cazador muttered. “What kind of partner would I be if I told you where you could and couldn’t go? We communicate.” He pulled away from his embrace and looked him deep in the eye, carefully tracing a finger up his spine. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but that’s normal. That’s what relationships are all about. Ours is the healthiest relationship I’ve ever been in. That's what I love most about us. You’re so good. You make me feel safe.”
Astarion gently closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He hoped he’d gotten good enough at pretending to sleep to end the conversation there. It worked. Cazador fell asleep, holding him tightly once more.
He tried his hardest to push away the thoughts of Gale he usually fell asleep to, instead chasing the shadows on the wall with darting, panicked eyes. Tonight, those shadows may as well have branded his mind with the scarlet letter he felt he deserved.
The weight of Cazador’s arms around him was unbearable.
I’m an awful partner.
I’m a horrible fiancé.
Notes:
Happy Holidays!
I wanted to take a moment to once again offer everyone my sincerest thanks. In the last few months, so many of you have engaged with my work in a wonderful, meaningful way. You’ve brought me a lot of joy during a time of year that is usually not the easiest. If you’re having a tough holiday, I just wanted to impart a familiar message that has helped me a lot as of late: You’re not alone in this. None of us are.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 18
Notes:
Alas, beyond mention, this is a Gale-less chapter.
TW: emotional abuse, stonewalling, use of the silent treatment as a punishment, sexual coercion, and the description of a physically violent act in the past. The most graphic paragraph has been italicized if you prefer to skip it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Embroidering the doublet was proving to be quite an arduous task. Astarion pulled the curved needle through crushed velvet once belonging to a dress he’d purchased for seven dollars from the thrift shop a few weeks prior. It was a lovely shade of purple, bordering on wine. He’d gone through several skeins of his favorite gold thread already and was on his way to finishing another. His neck ached from hunching over his work. He could feel his eyes crossing after hours of threading the intricate pattern. He set his tools on the vanity, removed the thimble from his thumb, and gently massaged his stiff hands.
He did his best to avoid looking at the bouquet of roses in various stages of decay sitting atop their old, leaky fridge; alas, despite his best efforts, he found himself staring at the purple hue of the rotting petals anyway. He remembered the familiar sensation of thorns embedding themselves in his throat. It had been a pleasant while since he’d had nightmares about roses and their thorns—nearly all he ever dreamed about anymore was Gale. The reminder made him nauseous—though he suspected the ever-present black mold in the air conditioner might have also been partially culpable.
He hadn’t expected the flowers he’d received from Cazador on Valentine’s Day to have evoked such an irrational reaction. When they arrived at his workplace, he felt flooded by a wave of uneasiness he couldn’t shake. He had about as much contempt for roses as he did his reflection—though he supposed a few elements of the flowers could be free of scorn.
He fondly remembered the scent of the rose water and aloe spray he used to spray on his face before his meticulous skincare routine had evolved into just soap and water. He loved the feeling of their petals against his fingertips; they were like soft, crimson lips, alive and bleeding color. He remembered utilizing them on their first Valentine’s Day. He’d left work early to spread a boxful of rose petals on their bed while Lana Del Rey crooned in the background on a crummy, scratchy little mint-colored suitcase player.
It had been nice to see Cazador’s cheeks rival their shade when he came home to find him clad in skimpy, baby-pink silk pajamas that clung to his body (oh, how he missed his body) like a second skin. It had been the cherry on top. “You sexy little minx,” he’d purred as he unbuttoned Astarion’s shirt.
Why can’t you always be like this?
He had to admit that as far as performances went, he’d gotten sloppy since then, but the demand never ceased.
Eager for a distraction from the roses, he stretched his arms towards the ceiling and eyed his partner. Cazador had been on his phone all day, lounging in bed beside him. They’d woken up around the same time that morning, keeping to their sides of the bed before Astarion eventually sat up and began working on his embroidery.
The clock struck one. Astarion heard his stomach growl.
“Babe, are you starting to get hungry? What do you want for lunch?” Astarion asked mid-stretch.
No response. Not even a glance. Cazador’s eyes were like vacant jewels floating in their narrow straits. His lips drew tight as his jaw clenched. It was as if the mere acknowledgment of his presence had offended him.
“Baby?” Astarion repeated himself in a hushed tone. Armed with the knowledge that Cazador sometimes went catatonic during his depressive episodes, he prepared himself to bring his ebony-haired lover back down to earth. He searched his face for the usual micro-expression that tipped him off—lips trembling into a half smile, half grimace as he struggled to form words. “Are you doing okay?”
Cazador’s brow furrowed. This time, he shot a dirty look in Astarion’s direction before turning his attention to his phone again. Strike-through on “catatonic.” He would have felt almost relieved if it hadn’t been for the fact that this only left him with more questions.
“Hon? Did I do something wrong?” he asked softly. His question went unanswered, and the empty expression in Cazador’s eyes persisted. Astarion’s heart sank through the bed, beyond the tile, and into the dirt. He swore he could feel the lick of flames from the first layer of hell tickling its apex.
“Did you have any dreams last night?” he asked. Astarion had never forgotten the first time Cazador had a nightmare about him sleeping with someone else. It had been the precursor to silence as a punishment in the past. He’d atoned for the crimes of his dream self before. He readied himself.
“Is this my fault?”
Silence. The room felt as hollow as Astarion’s chest. He swore he could feel his ears ringing.
“Do you need space?”
The persistence of silence stung like rubbing alcohol on a fresh wound. Cazador glowered at him—his eyes hid his contempt poorly. “Stop playing dumb,” their dark depths whispered. “You know.”
He knew.
He knew that the long sleeves of the shirt he’d bought to sleep in would do little to deter Cazador’s ravenous appetite. He remembered his hands seductively working the shirt up to his chest while they watched television. His fingers plucked at his slowly hardening nipples as if they were the taut strings on his acoustic guitar. The chipped enamel of his teeth raked his neck while he cooed sweet nothings into his ear. He remembered how one of his hands slowly traversed down his ridged ribs, over his jutting pelvis, tearing into his sweatpants like a thief in the night and ravishing him. He flinched at first, writhing in discomfort as he tightened his legs. He flushed with shame. He hated how his body betrayed him in these moments, how his jaws locked into place. He tried to push past the disgust and reciprocate at first. He matched his strokes, faked a moan into his ear, planting kisses from his cheek down to his collarbones. It wasn’t long before he felt himself slipping away. His hands were slowing down, and he could feel himself falling asleep. He’d stopped, slowly introducing his hand as a makeshift barrier between Cazador’s fingers and his sex before drifting off.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. He curled into a ball at Cazador’s feet. He rocked back and forth, breaking the silence every few minutes with his tiny apologies. “I’m sorry.” It felt so empty, so superficial. “Sorry.”
An hour of silence came and went. “I'm sorry.”
Then another. And another. The room had shrunk considerably since then, and Astarion’s body ached from the effort it expended on being small. I’m sorry.
He focused on the artwork that hung on the wall of their room. First, a star chart from the night they met. Then, his eyes latched onto the piece he disliked most—a sepia-tone photograph of a man lighting a joint. As soon as Cazador had hauled it in from the U-Haul, Astarion rioted. It was tacky. But there it was, on the opposite side of the room. He sighed. At least the subject was handsome.
Cazador’s mother had called halfway through the fourth hour, and he spoke for the first time all day. They conversed with one another in Japanese for a few minutes. Vellioth vehemently discouraged the family from speaking in other languages, but he and his mother liberally utilized them whenever he wasn't home to hear them. Whenever this would happen, he would listen for a little before detaching himself to converse with Amanita. She only knew a little Japanese. Any hope the family had to hold fast to their second language—Spanish—was lost when their father left them. It saddened Astarion to know that she could not speak either fluently.
Once, he thought he could surprise Cazador by teaching himself Japanese. He’d familiarized himself with hiragana quicker than he'd expected to. Katakana took much longer and continued to elude him. He would never learn Kanji beyond a few numbers after Cazador had found the small grid notebook full of carefully scrawled characters.
あああああああ
いいいいいいい
ううううううう
えええええええ
おおおおおおお
“This is so lame,” he’d said. “So dumb. Why are you doing it?” He erupted into canorous laughter. “Astarion—”
“I thought it would be a nice way for us to—”
“—don’t you think you do enough talking already?” The wild-eyed look Cazador flashed him had been enough to halt his tongue from meeting the back of his teeth mid-sentence. He remembered how his face had burned like a fresh brand.
The notebook was collecting dust under the bed. Astarion hadn't practiced since.
Still, he'd managed to parse out his name a few times in their conversation, which gave him hope that perhaps Cazador wouldn't ignore him for much longer. A-su-ta-ri-on. It felt unwieldy and overly syllabic, but it sounded nice whenever he caught it in conversation, even when coupled with a word he knew meant “bothersome.”
By the fifth hour, he found himself awash in desperation. He’d wasted his entire day apologizing—it was pointless. It was time to beg.
“Please, Caz, talk to me,” he pleaded, burying his fingers into his thick curls and rubbing his palms into his eyes. “Tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it. Please, please, please.”
Pathetic.
The continued indifference on Cazador’s face made him squirm.
Astarion could stand the punishment no longer—he skulked to the bathroom and locked the door behind him, sliding down to the floor. His chest heaved as a hot tear ran down his face. He struggled to silence the animalistic sobs and whines that were threatening to rip from his throat. He felt like a lost child at the supermarket—small, afraid, and utterly alone. The hunger in his stomach was gnawing away at him, competing with the pain of being ignored. He couldn’t tell which of his hurts was winning. He buried his face in his hands, feeling empty.
He didn't know what was worse: last night’s Cazador, who couldn't keep his hands to himself while he dissociated, or today’s Cazador, who pretended he didn't exist, watching him spiral into the madness of isolation. He was starting to prefer the slamming of doors (followed by a concerned text from the landlord) over the scornful silence.
He tried to distract himself from the pain in his chest (and stomach) by scrolling through social media, maybe checking how his old internet acquaintances were faring, but he couldn't help but gravitate to Cazador’s profile. His most recent post had been a photo of the two of them posing together at an art museum. They were all smiles. From the moment they'd both come out as a couple, everyone in the comments section always rooted for them.
You both look so happy in this picture!
Happy. Astarion struggled to digest the word as his eyes blurred with tears. He slowly rose from the tiled floor, staring straight ahead at his swollen-eyed reflection.
He knew what he looked like when he was happy. He was painfully aware of his horrible little laugh, the way his nasolabial folds and crow’s feet creased, and how his lips curved over his gums.
The wry little smirk that hid his jagged little teeth in the picture was too perfect, too composed. It wasn't happiness.
It was the same smile he saw his face crack in the mirror while he practiced for his eventual return to the room.
The same smile he wore when he opened the door, approaching his lover with half-lidded eyes and honey on his tongue.
The smile when he crossed his arms around Cazador’s neck and kissed him between all the little lines he had rehearsed.
The words he knew would make him acknowledge him again.
“I missed you, Daddy.”
His heart clenched when he heard Cazador hum pleasurably into his kiss through a smirk.
“Good boy. Daddy missed you too.”
~✧~
They lay beside one another, nude and bathed in the afterglow of sex. Astarion nestled into the crook of Cazador’s neck, inhaling the spot where he dabbed his cologne in the morning, now faded to the ghostly remnants of oud and patchouli. They were on speaking terms again. It had worked! He felt numb, yes—but it had worked.
“I'm sorry for ignoring you earlier,” Cazador murmured. “It was about last night—about sex.”
“I thought so,” Astarion whispered, drawing the sheets to cover his chest as he nuzzled closer. “I wish you'd told me sooner instead of—well, telling me nothing. I’m sorry for shutting down the way I did. It was childish of me. It’s just—“ he paused, losing his train of thought in the haze of the fresh evening. His eyes shifted to the drooping bouquet in their glass vase. “The silence hurt. I wasn't sure what to do.”
“I hate talking to you about this stuff,” Cazador murmured.
“Why?”
“Whenever I tell you how I feel about your low libido—whenever we fight about sex, you do this thing,” Cazador mused, wiping beads of sweat from his brow. “It’s like you randomly have a change of heart. All of a sudden, you’re this hypersexual honeypot. Like you’re forcing yourself to make up for me being upset about it. You’re just giving me what I want because I asked, not because you desired it. I want you to want it.”
Astarion could feel his throat drying up. “That’s not what this was.” A blatant lie. That’s what it was, in fact: a manipulative ploy, a means to the end of a punishment. “I don’t want you to feel like I only do it out of obligation. I don’t.” I do. He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted Cazador carnally.
“No, I don't think you only do it out of obligation,” said Cazador. “It always feels like you’re on a schedule—like it’s a chore unless you want it. When you want it, it’s fine. Like today. But when I initiate, it’s always such a hit or miss.”
“Maybe I need you to be more blunt,” Astarion posited, his heart trilling like the arrhythmic song of a nightingale. “Maybe I’m a little dense.”
“I can’t tell you to have sex with me,” Cazador said, speaking in the tone a condescending adult would use while dumbing things down for a child. “Tell me, Astarion, what normal couple asks their partners, ‘Hey, baby, I want to have sex. Can we?’”
Astarion felt his cheeks flush. “That’s not what I meant. If you’re in the mood, I want you to tell me.” Instead of touching me, he wanted to add. If only he hadn’t been so scared. He didn’t want to risk another moment of silence.
“You can’t tell?” Cazador scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be dumb. You always tell me I’m getting too touchy-feely.”
“Look, like I said, I’m dumb,” Astarion said. This conversation felt dizzying. It was going around in circles. “I know I fucked up last night. I wanted to make it up to you earlier,” he said, shamelessly letting the clumsy lie escape. “Then you ignored me. I froze up and gave you your space. It wasn’t out of obligation—it was because I realized you were giving me signs last night that I wasn’t reciprocating, and I felt like an asshole. I feel like a bad partner. I have to improve. I have to be better. There’s something in my brain that’s broken.”
“I guess?” Cazador sighed in frustration. “I don’t know. I want you to want me. We’re getting married. Crave me. I want it to be genuine. Real.”
He may as well have taken a hammer to Astarion’s heart. “I’m sorry. I want to make you happy and meet your needs. I’m sorry I made it harder than it needs to be. I’m sorry I don’t initiate more often. I don’t want you to feel abandoned sexually.”
“Next time, don’t lead me on and let me touch you and get the idea in my head that we’re going to do something if all you’re going to do is fall asleep or just stop altogether!” Cazador scolded. His eyes bored into Astarion’s like arrows fixed on their target. He turned away and looked over his shoulder, playing with a bit of fluff on the frayed edges of the comforter. “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. What I want isn’t possible.”
“Alright,” Astarion said, drifting halfway between guilt and relief. “Let’s change the subject then.”
And so they did. The men spoke of many things, silly things, even, while they both worked on their costumes for the Renaissance fair together, sitting on the new bean bag chairs they’d bought after selling their uncomfortable futon on Craigslist. It was as if the stifled air of hours of silence had never happened. The floor was a mess of craft foam, tools, and bits of golden thread. Astarion even felt himself smiling a few times. A real smile. Happy.
“—I remember when my headphones would break, and I’d have to only listen through one earbud for weeks,” Astarion groaned. “I hated it. It made my bus rides worse than they usually were. Shit. I’m going to need to buy some more thread soon.”
“You rode the bus?” Cazador smirked.
“What did you expect? A chauffeur?” Astarion laughed. “Did you?”
Cazador smiled, cocking his head as he inspected the neatly constructed divot in his chest plate. “Only once.”
“I sense there’s a story there,” Astarion grinned. “So let me guess: you were such a little shit that they kicked you off on day one?”
Cazador shook his head, setting the foam down. “If you really must know—it was high school. There was this guy I liked. Sad, doe-like eyes. Sweet. Innocent. Longer hair. The sexiest Roman nose. We used to hang out every day after school. He’d wait for the bus while I’d wait for my ride. Until one day,” he chuckled darkly. “Let’s just say we had a falling out. He and I had the stupidest fight you could ever imagine over some other guy it turned out he liked. Do you know what I did?”
“No,” Astarion said, shaking his head as he finished the filigree edge of one of the intricate patterns he’d drafted, intrigued by this tale he’d never heard. “Do tell.”
Cazador’s smile widened. “One day, I snuck onto his bus. The driver didn’t bat an eyelash. I waited through every stop until he got off. It must have been thirty, forty minutes. He and I were the only ones who got off at that stop. As soon as it pulled away, I beat the living shit out of him.”
Astarion froze. His eyes widened in horror. “Why?!”
“Because he disrespected me,” Cazador replied, shrugging. “Fucking bitch led me on. I blacked out when it happened. All I know is I beat him to a pulp. There was so much blood. I don’t know how he got home—how I got home. He didn’t come back. I’m pretty sure he transferred out. I never saw that whore again. Good riddance. Guess he never snitched, the pussy.”
Astarion’s blood was curdling in his veins like rotten milk listening to Cazador boast. He’d barely even registered that he’d pricked his finger. A droplet of blood pooled around the tiny pinprick, slowly blooming outwards and threatening to drip onto the fabric. His words failed, imprisoned within him like a flock of rare birds in an aviary. He’d known his lover was troubled. He knew that violence was thrust upon him far too early in life. This act was the most unhinged, demented admission he’d made yet. It frightened him to see the familiar glint of glee in his eyes. Somehow, all he could muster in response was, “Oh.”
“You’re bleeding!” Cazador exclaimed. “Let me get that.” He clasped Astarion’s hand in his and gently began to suck on his wounded thumb.
A single intrusive thought pervaded, infiltrating every aspect of Astarion’s terrified mind and body until it blocked out the sound of Cazador’s suckling. The world was silent again. Only a single looping thought remained as he hatefully watched the man unlatch and kiss the tiny puncture:
I don’t love you anymore.
Notes:
Some songs that I listened to while writing this difficult chapter.
Sub Urban - Cradles (Astarion-coded.)
Cat Power - Ice Water
Björk - Play Dead
Boy Harsher - Tears
Portishead - Hunter
Saint Sister - Blood Moon (The Astarion/Cazador dynamic)
boygenius - Not Strong Enough
boygenius - Bite The HandThe good news is that the next chapter will provide much lighter Faire! (See what I did there?)
My work schedule for next month is out of my hands, which has me a bit anxious because I am used to being more in control of my schedule. I hope I can continue the momentum I have been keeping up for this story regardless.
Thank you all for the love you’ve shown my story and I. Words cannot express my gratitude to all of you who read and comment on my work. I hope you all have a happy New Year!
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 19
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Gale Dekarios made a cute wizard.
That was hardly new information, but seeing him in the full get-up was doing nothing to dispute the facts.
From the moment Astarion clocked the elaborate knotwork on the studded brown leather belt and bracers he wore, he knew in his heart that if he ever had the good fortune of meeting Gale's mother, they might never run out of things to chat about. The esteemed Morena Dekarios had lovingly stitched together the heliotrope-colored canvas robe (with Tara's help, of course—the slightest presence of cat hair was a vital contribution to the essence of the Wizard of Waterdeep's apparel.)
Between supping on the sight of Gale in what was the third or fourth iteration of his wizard's ensemble his mother had made for him since he was eight, stressing about Karlach and Lae'zel's body-paint staining his clothes and hair, and shoving past the cavalcade of merrymakers wandering around in various stages of drunkenness, Astarion's heart may as well have been running a marathon. Every few moments, he would catch Cazador's eyes drilling holes into him like twin blood moons drowning in inky black pools—an extra volatile ingredient to the mix of overstimulation.
The scent of leather flirted with grass as the distant, proud beating of drums and bagpipes thundered across the way, contending with the ballad of a harpist that would have even the most hardened of hearts feeling maudlin. The cacophony was overwhelming, and Astarion was close to hitting the limit of social stimulation. One more improvised, in-character banter with a witty fair employee might be his undoing—but damn if Gale and his chittering laughter weren’t an incentive to keep going! He would tear down every piece of the “post-Raphaelite” wall he’d carefully constructed around himself several times if he could only hear it again.
While the others tried their hand at throwing axes, he slipped away and sought refuge (and hopefully a sliver of silence) in a nearby tent. He aimlessly sifted through a rack of cloaks, feeling their woolen textures grazing the fingertips of his raw and poked hands. They were fragrant with the olive oil he'd resorted to using as an alternative after he ran out of lanolin cream to keep his fingers from drying out in the crisp March air. The fleshy bit under his thumb ached, but it mattered little: all the sleepless nights spent embroidering the golden embellishments in dim light were worth the swell of pride in his chest when he caught a glimpse of his handiwork in the full-length mirror near the back of the tent.
Obscured between artisanal diadems and wire-wrapped elven crowns, it was evident that the glass had seen better days—it was aged, speckled with dirt, and begging to be re-silvered. An unsightly crack at the lower corner threatened to splinter further outward, marring its imperfect, rippled surface even more. Ugly as the wretched mirror was, Astarion couldn't help but marvel at his reflection for once.
The garment he hand-sewed—an amalgamation of faux leather, velvet, lace, and small rounded studs—now delicately hugged his lithe frame. He admired the delicate red stitching around the linen collar and the slightly moldering snowy lace at his throat and sleeves. He was so accustomed to wearing ill-fitting attire that he almost forgot how good it felt to wear something perfectly tailored to his measurements.
But there was something more than the merit of his work worth appreciating: Astarion felt like he saw himself.
He leaned closer, his thick, dark lashes nearly fluttering against the glass as he admired the tiny beauty marks on his cheek—and were those freckles? A constellation of little stars that had been all but forgotten? His silver, slightly grown-out hair was nicely coiffed and curled, and even the sharpness of his jaw looked less severe, somehow softer. He smiled at himself and watched as his little pointed canines gently grazed his pale bottom lip.
"Hello again," he whispered, his voice breaking.
I missed you.
“It’s a pity the poor sod doesn’t have a reflection.” Gale’s low, velvet-soft voice felt like a soft, warm blanket gently draped over his shoulders from behind. Still startled by its sudden presence in the small, dampened tent, Astarion twirled around on his heel, face to face with the visage of the man who’d been consuming the rare steak that was his heart for months. “I think he’d like what he sees.”
“I would hope so,” Astarion said, a quick smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Three hundred hours of needlework is no laughing matter. I suppose it's a pity he's missing out on all this." He twirled around in a little circle, affecting the blithe, tittering laugh he'd assigned to his character as he did so.
"That’s not what I—" Gale’s voice faltered as he continued to listen to the ramblings of his silver-haired friend.
"I think he'd like the colors, too—like two different shades of plum skin. It was a happy accident, but I got lucky with my fabric selections. It even inspired me to embroider a fun little secret something on my undershirt—lamentable is the autumn picker content with plums. It’s hardly a poem, but there’s some nice symbolism there, I thought. Admittedly, it was a stupid addition since no one can see it. Perhaps if it were a balmier day out—" Astarion halted himself, clicking his tongue. "My mouth can't seem to shut, can it? I didn’t mean to interrupt you. What were you going to say?"
Gale paused before speaking again, the edges of his eyes crinkling. "I don’t think it’s stupid. I didn’t know you wrote poetry."
Astarion blinked, feeling as transparent as wet paper. The mere sight of Gale's rounded face smiling back at him weakened every effort he made to mask his feelings for him. "I’m not a skilled poet, mind. Cazador puts me to shame. But I enjoy it from time to time when the inspiration strikes. The rogue—" he stopped when he noticed his hand was trembling. He gripped the hilt of the makeshift foam dagger at his hip to steady it. "I've made him quite a vain thing, haven't I? One of his many follies, I suppose."
"I'd hardly count that as a folly," Gale smiled. "I think a person who's had little to look forward to for a couple of centuries deserves to preen as much as they like. You are having a good time, I hope?"
"I am," Astarion nodded, losing himself in labyrinthine, coffee-brown eyes. "I just needed a moment." His gaze flicked across his face, tracing the small scar above his right brow to a small constellation of beauty marks, falling like stars down his slightly pockmarked face to his bearded chin. His vision darted to the left, following the pale blue veins under his hooded eyes down to the tattoo on his chest. It was more exposed than ever, an orb cresting over the fabric of his linen undershirt like a sinister sunrise wrapped in warping tendrils. The ink looked old—sickly, faded, and worn out. The linework looked shaky in some places and perfectly fine in others; it was a strange mix of careless and deliberate strokes.
Gale’s cheeks flushed as he adjusted the collar of his robe. "I told her not to make the neckline too low," he muttered. "I never told you where I got it, did I?"
"Your tattoo? No." Astarion cocked his head curiously.
An expectant stillness engulfed the space they shared in the tent. The muffled din outdoors was the only element breaking their silence.
"My ex designed it," the man finally muttered. He ran a hand through his silver-flecked hair, exposing the wheel—no, the star, dangling from his earlobe. There was a faraway sadness in his tired eyes as they met the dirt and hay at their feet.
Astarion remembered he had said the same thing about the earring. He wondered how much about Gale had been "designed" by his ex. He shuddered.
"Mystra. A real Renaissance woman, she was—no pun intended," he smiled, giving a half-hearted chuckle to his sorry joke before losing himself in thought again. "She gave it to me the night before she left—not that I knew she was. Leaving, I mean. I wouldn’t have let her do it if I knew."
Astarion’s jaw dropped, despite himself. He felt his insides twisting at the familiarity of her name—the goddess of magic herself, flesh and blood. He looked down at the ink on Gale’s chest again. He narrowed his eyes while inspecting the uneven spots and the blown-out lines. A quiet storm was brewing inside of him. "Was she a tattoo artist?" Because I hate to say it, but she’s not very good at it, darling, he thought, wishing he could speak his scathing remark aloud.
Gale shook his head. “We were both a little drunk…”
Alarm coursed through every blood vessel in Astarion’s body. The heat was rising to his ears. The swirling void and its coils were bitter little scribbles and scratches penned by an angsty, immature hand. To Mystra, Gale’s skin had been little more than a composition notebook.
“Gale, that’s insanely fucked up. She tattooed you with some at-home shit-rig before dumping you? What type of person does that?” he fumed. “She sounds like an asshole.”
Gale looked taken aback. “You didn’t know her! If you did, you’d change your mind, I’m sure. She was lovely. Intelligent, wise, incredibly talented. It was my fault she left. I did it to myself. You know how I am. I’m exhausting to talk to. I’m an arrogant know-it-all. I’m insensitive, and I don’t let anyone get a word in edge-wise when I think I’m right. I ‘mansplain’ all the time, and I—”
“Is that what she told you?” Astarion said, his brow furrowed. “Because she’s wrong. I don’t think you’re any of those things. You’re not ‘exhausting.’ I could talk circles around you. I’m insufferable. You? You’re passionate. Knowledgeable. Kind. And for fuck's sake, what does she mean by 'mansplaining?' Do you mean teaching? The thing you're going to college for?”
“Thank you. I’m trying to be better,” Gale said before releasing a sigh that sounded relieved to be free from the prison of his chest. “It's been over a year, and I think I've improved. I’m trying to stop talking and listen more, to be more in tune with the needs of others—”
Had his ex been in the tent with them, Astarion would have strangled her ten times over. “I hate to interrupt you or ask you to stop talking because that’s not even an issue, but you do realize you’re already highly attentive to everyone’s needs, right? You’re attentive to my needs! Me! I don’t even know what I need half the time.” Astarion paused, searching Gale’s face for its familiar lucidity. The faraway look remained. “Come to think of it—do you know what I need right now?”
Gale’s eyes flickered with a spark of life. “Anything,” he breathed.
Astarion placed his hands on Gale’s shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. “I need to talk to someone about Drizzt Do’urden. Desperately.”
The look of sundered awareness quickly deviated to one of bewilderment. Gale's shoulders slackened under the delicate weight of his pale fingers as he leaned back and succumbed to wild, inarticulate, hyena-like paroxysms.
Astarion couldn’t help but smile—Gale’s laughter was contagious. His heart felt lighter as the weight of another stone crumbled away from the aging foundation of the wall around it.
"I see someone's been enjoying the books I lent him," Gale giggled, dabbing a tear from the edge of his creased eye. "Are you serious?"
Astarion nodded. He’d devoured the three dog-eared, pulpy copies during several of his lunch breaks at work, reclining in his car seat and reading through each line like a man possessed. "Oh, I'm dead serious. I've annoyed all my friends talking about drow hierarchies and dual-wielding scimitars.”
He heard the echo of Dalyria’s voice ring sweetly in his head, like the tiny bell that it was: ‘Astarion, I love you, but please stop talking about Drizzt Do’urden.’ Petras, who had never been known for being blessed with the gift of indomitable wit, had assigned his new hero the handle "Drizzt Dumb-urden." After the third evening of his incessant gushing over the books, Cazador had forbidden him from speaking the legendary drow’s name entirely.
"How about we discuss the books over a drink of mead? Maybe some stout!" Gale beamed earnestly, his face still aglow from his laughing fit. "I'm sure the others are probably wondering where we are by now."
"Yeah." Astarion could feel his heart competing with the beat of the drums outside. They were standing close to one another now in this cramped tent—he wondered if Gale could smell the bergamot cologne he’d applied on his pulse points the same way he inhaled his signature sandalwood. He was beginning to search for it everywhere, chasing the high in the candle aisle of the grocery store each week.
He imagined what would happen if he were to listen to his intrusive thoughts and pull Gale into the rack of cloaks and mantles, finally slaking the burgeoning urge to kiss his lips.
“Astarion!”
He jumped at the sharp sound of his name from the tent's gold-tasseled entryway as Cazador parted the curtain. Though dampened by the surrounding fabrics, somehow, his voice retained its peculiar shrillness.
Astarion took a cautionary step away from Gale, relieved he had shut down those meddling, traitorous thoughts.
A smarmy smile crossed Cazador’s shadowed face when his eyes fell upon Astarion. "Ah. There's my pretty little elf!" He approached, arms outstretched, as he pulled Astarion into his embrace. “I was worried about you!”
Astarion felt his body wind up as it pressed into Cazador’s foam armor. The pointed tips of his pauldrons were so angular and well-defined that it looked as if they would draw blood at even the mildest touch. From a distance, one could easily confuse the foam for real blackened steel, slightly rusted and eaten away at the edges.
"We were all just talking about grabbing a drink, maybe getting something to eat," Cazador said through elevated cheekbones and a simpering half-smile. "Karlach just won a hundred dollars doing pull-ups and is offering to pay for our drinks! I told them to head to the area with all the alehouses and that we’d meet up with them."
“Count on Karlach to utilize her physical strength to her advantage—I hope she didn’t over-exert herself,” Gale muttered, placing his hand to his heart sympathetically. “Astarion and I were just discussing the same matter! Let’s make our way to meet with the others. What say you, friend? We can talk more about Drizzt Do’urden once we’re there.”
Astarion nodded half-heartedly, averting his eyes from Gale as soon as he could feel Cazador’s penetrating gaze. A sliver of the usual amber tint of his irises looped around his pupils beneath the void of his sclera lenses.
“We’ll catch up,” Cazador maintained his not-quite smile as Gale gave one final friendly wave before stepping out into the sun.
For a while, the pair stood in shadowed silence. Astarion watched himself shrink in the mirror. His hunched reflection faded into the coward he knew intimately, trying to hide his shivering behind his countenance as he warily eyed Cazador’s towering form. The contemptuous half-smile had dropped the moment Gale left. "You shouldn't wander off like that," he scolded, giving one of Astarion’s prosthetic ears a flick as he led him out of the tent by the hand.
The sudden contact slightly pulled the unwittingly caught hairs entangled in the spirit gum that was adhering the latex to his skin. He sucked his teeth as he instinctively batted Cazador's hands away.
“Do you have any idea how much that hurt?” he griped, shielding his sore ear with an obstructive, soothing touch.
"Not nearly as much as you keep hurting me," Cazador snapped, rubbing the skin on the back of his hands, taking great pains to keep his voice several decibels lower than the usual tone he reserved for home. "You've been so distant today, and now you won't even hold my hand."
“I’m sorry. I got overstimulated and shut down. I promise I haven’t been doing it to be cruel to you.”
“This is far from the first time you’ve withheld affection from me,” Cazador said, his lip curling. “You’ve been acting strange lately—strange even for you.”
Astarion felt his heart pulsing along with the dull ache of his quickly reddening ear. He was well aware of all the ways he was pulling away—a conscious decision on his part he was struggling to mask. He kept to himself on his phone most afternoons, which led to Cazador looking over his shoulder more often, accusing him of being suspiciously secretive whenever he hid his screen and demanding him to hand it over. Thankfully, there wasn’t anything incriminating he could use against him, even if he did choose to surrender. He religiously scrubbed his Google searches and the results they yielded from his history.
|
is my partner
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Report inappropriate predictions
|
He grimaced, thinking about the phone number that preceded most results. Help is available. Speak with someone today.
“Abuse” was a strong word—wasn’t it?
|
is it cheating if you
|
|
“Are you even listening to me?!” Cazador snapped his fingers between Astarion’s eyes, his lips a severe line across his face. He exaggeratedly flinched in response, earning another contemptuous glance. “Don’t you recoil from me. I’m not going to hurt you. What has gotten into you lately?”
Astarion tried to swallow, but it was futile. His throat felt like sandpaper. "Well, we’re out with friends, and—"
"I get that we’re ‘out with friends,’ but you are still here with me. I’m still your fiancé. Or have you forgotten that?”
Astarion felt his brow soften. His eyes settled into habitual lifelessness. He searched for any sign of a purple robe in the distance, but Gale was long gone. They were to make the trek to meet the others alone.
He held Cazador’s coiled-up, calloused hand in his—the correct way, to not raise any further hackles.
“I haven’t forgotten. I promise.”
Notes:
Ilan Eshkeri - Tristan and Yvaine (from Stardust, one of my favorite movies.)
Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories - Sandalwood
Hooverphonic - Renaissance Affair
Imogen Heap - Canvas
The Crane Wives - Metaphor
Owen Pallet - Peach, Plum, PearUpdate 3/27/2024 - added css for the google search from: Google Search Suggestions Work Skin & Tutorial by BookKeep
I missed you, dears! This update took a while to parse out—a part of me was optimistic that I would still be capable of making my usual deadline, but then my industry sort of imploded on itself this week, as it is wont to do.
This chapter was drawing especially long, and took several drafts (and thankfully, some good input from my beta reader who helped steer me in the right direction!) It will be split into two (maybe three?) parts.
As always, thank you for reading and commenting. All of your words really do keep me going during tough times, I constantly come back here to re-read your comments.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 20
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The afternoon led Astarion to tweak his earlier acknowledgment: Gale Dekarios was more than a cute wizard—he also made a phenomenal dragon.
At first, it was difficult to ignore the look of sheer vexation on Gale's face as he stood up on the whimsically designed children's stage, the only adult amongst—well, children. A hooded cloak fashioned to look like a dragon sat haphazardly over his star-streaked tresses—a patchwork mess of green and yellow sequins stitched into vibrant, shamrock-colored wool with two aptly placed googly eyes on its sides. A frayed, forked red ribbon dangled between his eyes, and a large, quilted tail swung behind him. The absurdity of witnessing their Dungeon Master in such vulnerable circumstances readily delighted everyone in their party, Astarion most of all. He cheered the loudest upon his introduction, earning more than a few tart looks from the dragon-wizard.
It was, after all (kind of, sort of) his fault that Gale was in this situation in the first place—determined not to be at the mercy of fae magic a second time, he'd ducked behind the turtle-shaped cart selling his coveted roasted walnuts the moment the show's master of ceremonies scanned the audience for volunteers. Gale had been standing beside him, none the wiser, alarmed by the white-gloved finger now pointing straight at him.
Astarion popped one of the warm, sugary walnuts in his mouth between giggles. They were just as divine as he remembered, especially now that they didn't look like he'd pinched them from the movie set of Ridley Scott's Legend. He nestled between Shadowheart and Cazador on the benches, watching from a safe distance.
Something was gnawing at him. Was he feeling a bit remorseful? Maybe a little. It wasn't Gale's fault he was deathly scared of clowns, after all—but watching the embarrassment on his soft, bearded face give way to the hammiest enactment of draconic behavior he could muster made Astarion immediately swallow any resentment with his next bite.
Among other observations, of course.
Gale was remarkably good with kids, for one. They rallied around him, poking him with their foam swords as he stomped about the stage on his gold-fuelled rampage. Astarion had never cared much for children. The few kids he knew always seemed to gravitate toward him, always full of curious, annoying little questions, as much as Jaheira tried to deter them from bothering him while he was working. Something about how naturally Gale took to engaging with them on stage made his heart clench. They were laughing just as much as the audience was. One of them even latched on to the unwieldy tail, hugging it gently, refusing to take up arms against the cuddly terror.
Moreover, among his many talents, Gale was exceptionally skilled at making him laugh. Astarion wasn't sure if he would have found what was happening on stage half as funny if he didn't like the man so damn much, but the bastard had him practically rolling down the aisle. His giggle evolved into a wild cackle that rivaled even Karlach's loud, squawking guffaws. The cackle became shrieking laughter, which gave way to a coughing fit.
"Oh, I like him," the clown declared as he pointed to Astarion gleefully. "I adore an audience that is easy to please, and laughter like that is as good as any applause!"
Astarion wiped away a mirthful tear, his laughter subsiding a bit (its cessation fueled by the terror of being perceived by such a horrifying creature.)
"It's not that funny," Cazador muttered. His brow furrowed. He'd shifted to scrutinize the twinkle in Astarion’s eye more than a few times, glaring at him throughout the show, his evident ire rising per each annoyed look he cast his way. "I don't understand why you're laughing so much."
"I do," Shadowheart whispered into Astarion's ear. She sounded like she'd been straining to hold back her rare witchy little laugh, threatening to spill the remnants of the mulled wine in her pewter goblet onto the patch of grass at her feet. "It's hilarious."
After his defeat at the hands of the brave knights who came to slay him, Gale gave a grandiose bow with aplomb, and the audience cheered for him. He smiled down at his friends, who were all stamping their feet and clapping while hollering his name adoringly. Astarion, once again, cheered the loudest. Seeing Gale's smile widen as he hopped off the stage pulled at his heartstrings. Gods, he looked so happy, bounding towards them with his cheeks flush.
He hoped Gale never had any doubts about how loved he was.
~✧~
A dragon's defeat was always an occasion to celebrate—it was time for another round of drinks!
The group traversed serpentine pathways, retracing their dusty steps by following the pastel wooden signposts until they came upon the familiar clearing reserved for feasting and festivity.
The first time they'd met up with everyone here, Cazador had pulled Astarion through the crowd while complaining about his lack of spatial awareness. This time, the taller man walked a few paces ahead, still steaming over his partner's errant behavior during the show.
Relief washed over Astarion as he realized what this meant—he could finally drink in some of the fair's surroundings, unhurried and uninhibited.
A woman joyfully hammered away at a reel on her dulcimer across the way. A gentleman pushed a cart shaped like a pickle, announcing his wares using naught but the foulest innuendos, right beside the light blue tent where an older lady was braiding a young girl's hair.
A small crowd had gathered to cheer on a gaggle of celebrants adorned with flower crowns as they danced around a tall maypole in the clearing's center. Their multi-hued raiments fluttered in the dust stirred by their feet as they circled it with rainbows of ribbons in their hands.
He resisted the urge to join in upon glimpsing a purple ribbon sailing in the wind, untouched by foreign hands.
Wyll had slowed down, seemingly attuned to Astarion’s impulsive craving as he pulled up beside him. "That looks like fun! I hope my costume's not too warm to dance in," he said shyly, lightly patting the quilted shoulders of his cotton gambeson—a remnant from his father's days as a member of their local Society for Creative Anachronism. It was dyed a lovely ochre shade with velvet burgundy accents peppered throughout, buckled with leather clasps over an olive-drab linen shirt. The stitching was divine, and the colors played well against his saturnine skin.
"I'm a little scared to dance in mine, too," Astarion admitted, his face flushed. "Actually, I'm a little scared to dance at all."
He liked to dance, though he wasn't very good at it. He'd asked Cazador to dance with him on several occasions—in the kitchen, at the club, at concerts. But his fiancé had always been the type to lurk in the shadows, watching others engaging in revelry from the wings while standing motionlessly, occasionally sipping his wine or having a smoke. Cazador Szarr was many things, but he was not a dancer—thus, by association, neither was Astarion unless it was for his amusement.
"I can show you how!" Wyll exclaimed. "In truth, I always enjoyed a bit of pomp. I took ballroom dancing lessons until I was seventeen. It's been a long while since then, but I'm sure I still have the stamina for it," he added, offering a baby-faced grin as he adjusted the band bearing the set of caliginous, curving horns that sat upon his forehead.
"It's been a while for me, too," Astarion commiserated. "I had to learn a few period dances when I used to sing. I wasn't bad, but I wasn't nearly as good as I pretended to be," he grinned. The scent of fried dough and grilled meats wafted between them, cruelly reminding Astarion how hungry he was. The walnuts had done little to tide him over. His stomach rumbled. "I’ll need to grab something more substantial to eat first. Maybe a drink or two. Then, we'll dance like it's 1518, darling."
"Well, then," Wyll replied, a warm glimmer in his chocolate-brown eyes—even the prosthetic one seemed starry, made alive by his genial smile. "Let's meet with the others!"
The men made their way across the field and entered the oatmeal-colored tent by the bar, scanning the crowd of drunken revelers for any sign of their colorful coterie. The makeshift tavern was full-to-bursting.
"Ah! There you are! We're over here!"
It took every ounce of control in his facial muscles not to burst into a radiant grin at the mere sound of Gale's familiar cadence carrying over the clangor of drums, bells, and laughter as it shepherded him to their table. Upon locking eyes with him, he feigned an air of casual indifference while greedily imbibing in the sight of Gale's rounded, flushed cheeks in secret.
His cordial smile was enough to melt the pretense of Astarion's blasé stare, and he relinquished control over the corner of his lips.
Gale was like the sun—shimmering, sparkling, faraway, and untouchable. Unattainable. Somehow, he would have to force himself to be content with only knowing the warmth of his presence from a careful distance. He had to pretend everything was fine and dandy as five other people clamored for his time and attention.
Gods, how he hated sharing. Especially now.
"Took you two long enough," Shadowheart quipped lightheartedly. Her costume radiated sleek elegance; she wore a dark, laced-up leather vest bearing a motif Astarion could only surmise was meant to be a symbol of the goddess Shar—a void encircled by an iridescent ring of violet. Her jet-black tresses dangled over the small of her back, drawn into a single braid and adorned with a series of knotted silver chains. A delicate headpiece bearing the same motif crowned her forehead. "Were you out there kissing or something?"
"Dearest, you know he only has eyes for me," Cazador purred, gently beaming as he pulled up a chair for Astarion, taking an adulatory bow. Chivalrously, he beckoned for him to take a seat. "Isn't that right, my little mouse?"
Astarion knew it was more an order than a suggestion. Seeing that his fiancé’s earlier ire was (thankfully) in remission, he flamboyantly obliged, sitting as daintily as a princess would upon a throne. Cazador matched the elegance of his gesture, brushing his dry lips upon the back of his pale hand.
"You sweet thing," Astarion grinned coquettishly, cloaking his disgust between a brick veneer of timidity. Despite the twisting feeling in his gut, he hoped the group would buy their well-rehearsed pantomime—though secretly, he wished they could read his mind, feel the distress signal he was tapping into his thigh reverberate within their heads, and throw him a life preserver. Instead, they all watched as Cazador kissed him. It felt laughably performative, and his lips were numb. Millions of nerve endings felt as if they'd been dead for years.
"Cazzy! Starry!" Karlach giggled buoyantly, swooning through mouthfuls of a giant turkey leg. "You two are precious! If this tail had bones, I wager it'd be twitching!" She shifted her hips in her seat and gently swung the foam appendage. “The cute aggression is so real, I could crush you!”
So much for telepathy, Astarion thought bitterly.
Despite his disappointment in the lack of an all-powerful deus ex machina in his life, he had to admit that Karlach’s costume was fantastic. Horns suited her; cracked and curved, painstakingly engraved with Infernal text. Her strappy leather top showed off her rugged, taut arm muscles, and her slightly soft midriff was on full display. Miraculously, the turkey leg had done little to no damage to her brick-red body paint. The black rubber gloves she was wearing to protect her arm socks from food stains were the one anachronism that impaired the fantasy.
"Tsk'va! Your shameless displays of personal affection are typical of the weakness of your species." Lae'zel's comment dripped with such genuine scorn that Astarion wondered if her disdain was wholly authentic.
Her silver armor put Cazador's to shame—it may as well have been cardboard. It sat upon layered leather and scale mail, inlaid with ruby-colored resin stones and etched with symmetrical, winding designs. Dark, freckle-like spots dotted the corners of her black-rimmed, lizard-like eyes. A rigid-collodion scar ran down her green face. Despite her intense dedication to accurately replicating githyanki regalia, Lae'zel's petite features lost none of their modelesque qualities. Her snub nose crinkled as her rosy lips curled into a rare smile. "Far be it from me to criticize your affections," she said, between a swig of her beverage, "I'm not keen on such outward displays of your flesh-bond."
"It's just a bit of PDA, Lae!" Karlach laughed. "Those two are a special kind of infatuated with one another. They can't help themselves."
Shadowheart rolled her eyes. "Tell that to the handsome blacksmith who kept 'making eyes' at you a few hours ago, baby."
Karlach pulled the small nail the man had fashioned into a sword for her out of her pocket. "Oh, you think he was makin' eyes at me? He was just being friendly!" She made a light "schwing!" sound while waving her miniature trinket between her girlfriend's narrow olivine eyes.
"Sure he was. Just how I'm not thinking about getting lost in your arms right now," Shadowheart smiled, gently petting the chronically sore spot on her hand before reaching out to grab her beloved's crimson bicep.
Karlach winked. "If I weren’t covered in turkey grease right now, Jen, I’d—"
"Chk. It seems I'm outnumbered," Lae'zel groaned, throwing her free hand in the air. "Outmatched, outflanked. I may not survive this."
"I'm with you, Lae," Gale retorted. "If you'll all excuse me, this bachelor intends to drown his sorrows in true Bacchus-approved fashion—"
"Be sure to bring yer drink over here when your moping's up!" Karlach teased. "We still have to raise a toast to the birthday wizard—or should I say, the birthday dragon!" She playfully winked at him.
"Yes," Lae'zel jested. "Green is quite a becoming color on you, Gale."
Gale exaggerated his distaste for them with an archaic, rude gesture—he placed the tip of his thumb behind his front teeth and flicked forward. Karlach and Wyll, in particular, erupted into a colossal fit of giggles at the sight of the motion.
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?” Karlach asked through incessant laughter.
“I do bite my thumb,” he said with a wink, giving a slight bow before dismissing himself to the bar outside.
"Gods, I love that man," Wyll sighed, his voice pitched from laughter.
"He made English Lit bearable," Karlach agreed. "If it weren't for his summaries, I would've failed. I never did the reading," she admitted in a hushed tone.
Astarion's eyes drifted towards the bar a few meters away through the flittering curtains in the breeze, where Gale stood in line, pensively staring at the menu with a deep hunger in his eyes. He leaned over to his fiancé. "I'm also feeling a tad thirsty, darling. Can I get you anything?" he asked blithely.
"You know what I like," Cazador purred. "Don't be too long now!"
"Yes, my liege," Astarion nodded, planting a deceptively passionate kiss on his cheek, fragrant with the ghostly notes of citrusy aftershave.
Piss beer it is, then.
~✧~
When Astarion first snuck up behind him in the queue at the bar, he discreetly traced Gale's line of sight toward a copper mug propped up for sale by the menu board. The festival's overly embellished logo was etched neatly on its surface.
He knew "want" when he saw it.
Astarion's finger slipped into his leather pouch, feeling for the crinkled fifty-dollar bill that Jaheira had gifted him for the holidays. Spurred by his longing to pull away, over the last few months, he started saving as much money as he could squirrel away, stuffing it into an envelope hidden under his side of the mattress. It wasn't nearly enough of a nest egg to run off and start a new life with, but it was a start. He had until November, after all—their lease would be up then.
Jaheira's bill hadn't made its way into his cache. It was sacrosanct—somehow, it had stayed in his wallet, unspent. He was determined to keep his promise to her. He would spend it on something fun—and what could be more fun than conjuring a smile on a wizard's face? The very thought delighted him.
Gale was due to be repaid, too. The dice were far too lavish a gift without him eventually expecting something in return—right?
"What'll it be, pal?" the barmaid asked Gale in a charming faux Scottish accent.
"I'll take the chocolate stout, please," he replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully.
"Ah. I take it you're after tall, dark, and handsome?" the barkeep asked, her eyes drifting to Astarion's sly grin over his shoulder.
"Not usually," Gale admitted. "Though I confess I've been slightly more adventurous recently."
"Chocolate stout? It sounds exquisite," Astarion interjected, gliding effortlessly beside Gale and setting the cash down on the wooden bar top. "I'll pay for his drink, my love," he said, flashing a puckish smirk at the barmaid. "I'd also like a cider and whatever light beer you have on tap. Oh, and before I forget—could I also get one of those mugs? The copper one, please."
"Aye, pal," she replied, watching amusedly as Gale's cheeks reddened. "You know, you can get a second mug at half-price if you'd like to get one for yer friend there."
Astarion blinked. Oh. What a brilliant solution she was proposing—and she would never even know it. Matching mugs—what better way to be close enough to the sun without getting burnt?
"It was meant to be a gift for him. But I suppose it is rather charming," he tutted, pretending to give it further thought before throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "Well, why not? You're a compelling salesperson. Make that two copper mugs. Keep the change."
Before shuffling off to fetch their drinks, the barmaid raised a handbell over her head, and in a voice as brassy as the instrument's timbre, she exclaimed, "Huzzah to the big tipper!"
Astarion turned to face Gale with an enormous smile on his face. "Happy birthday!"
"This is—Astarion, I don't know what to say!" he stammered.
"Hush, now. First off, it's your birthday. A keepsake and a libation are the least I could do, darling, and even that's not enough," he replied. "You've been kind to me. There's nothing to be said."
Within seconds, the barmaid returned with their drinks in tow. "Here you are, my lords. Fare thee well, and enjoy your Faire!"
"I can at least thank you," Gale responded, cradling his copper mug in both hands. As he took the first sip of his dark beer, his face finally settled into the smile Astarion had desperately sought to elicit with his gift.
If only the daggers carving into his back had been as easy to notice.
"My, what an extravagant gift," Cazador murmured nonchalantly.
The hairs on the back of Astarion's neck stood at attention. He cast his friend an apologetic look before turning to face Cazador. His eyes were sparkling as he pointed to the cup in Gale's hands. "Darling, look what I got him for his birthday!"
“A nice birthday gift,” Cazador's eyes darted from one mug to the other. "Yet you bought yourself one, too," he observed. "Don't you think that's a bit strange?"
"I don't think that's fair," Gale objected, the creases in his brow deepening. Astarion imagined he was struggling to discern his friend's tone.
He and Cazador were speaking in veiled tongues through hollow masks. Only they could see the truth of the matter. Trying to read between the lines was a losing game.
Bile and panic began to rise in Astarion's throat, but despite his mortification, the smile plastered on his face was unwavering. "Oh, come off it. It's not that weird. My birthday's around the corner, Caz, and I liked it. Plus, it was on sale. If this is because you want one, I can—"
"I'll admit, I am a bit jealous," Cazador chuckled, shrugging insouciantly, his mouth glib. "But I don't want your charity, boy," he smirked. He glanced at Gale, and his mouth twisted into a sweet smile before returning his still, glacier-like gaze to Astarion. "If you're going to do something nice for me, I don't want it to be out of pity. I merely want you to consider me when you buy something like this. He's not your boyfriend, I am!"
His heart felt like it had crumbled to ash in Cazador's gauntlet. Soft and indifferent as his voice was, Astarion could feel the poison it carried coursing through his veins.
"No, he isn't,” he retorted, swallowing down the bitter truth of those words with a sip of his cider and a half-hearted giggle. "I got you your drink, my love."
Cazador took the plastic cup from his trembling hand, eyeing it with a tight-lipped smile before raising it. "Happy birthday, Gale," he gushed. "A toast to your good health."
"Astarion, I was looking for you!"
On any given day, Wyll's voice was as sweet as syrup on pancakes, but it had never sounded more heavenly than at that moment.
It was a life preserver.
~✧~
Gale was like the sun.
And Astarion was dying.
His heartbeat was thundering like the hoof-prints of agitated wildlife. It was rattling against his ribcage and threatening to tear from his chest.
He wondered if it was the cider. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken a puff from Cazador’s blunt on the way home to try and steel his nerves.
He hoped the shower would help him better regulate his body. The water fell to the drain from his silver hair in rivulets as he let the low-pressure water from the shower head trickle down the back of his head. He couldn’t quell the stampede in his ears.
The drive home had been quiet.
Wyll had been a good dancer.
Gale was the sun.
And when Cazador came between them to dance with him, he knew that he, Astarion Ancunín, was a liar.
Wyll had been so in tune with his needs—slowing down when he needed to catch his breath, compensating for every missed step, pausing when he realized Astarion hadn’t eaten anything yet. Cazador held him closely, intimately, to his chest, pushing him away, pulling him back, dizzying him after his head was already light from the cider.
Cazador Szarr could be a dancer when he wanted to be.
Gale was (always) the sun.
And Astarion was—
He sank to the bottom of the shower, feeling the tile embedding itself into his knees as he hyperventilated.
Gale was a dragon. He liked shiny things. Pretty things. Dangerous things. He liked music. He was good with kids, and he loved his cat. Gale could recite Shakespearean sonnets from memory—he’d demonstrated, pulling from the well of Astarion’s heart as he performed Sonnet 116.
He was so kind. The last thing he’d done before they’d left the Renaissance fair was purchase a single red rose with iridescent, glitter-kissed edges from a girl vending flowers by the exit. He handed her a five-dollar bill and told her to keep the change.
“You gave her too much,” Cazador scoffed.
“Thankfully, I get to choose how I spend my money,” Gale replied matter-of-factly, placing the stem into his now-empty copper cup.
His warm, earthen eyes were at the forefront of his mind. They read him like a forbidden tome.
Astarion wailed, stifling the sound with his palms. He wasn’t sure why—Cazador had left to buy more drugs. His heart felt raw. Why did it hurt so much? Where had his wall gone tonight?
He pressed his head against the tile, anguished. His tears, warmer than the water from the shower head, ran down his face as the water rippled down his back.
Gale was the sun.
And he was a vampire.
Notes:
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 21
Notes:
CW for unwanted heavy petting. Look out for “the fumes of car exhaust” if you want to skip that paragraph.
Additional CW for the verbal abuse that follows it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
At the stroke of midnight, Astarion's phone pinged.
Groggily, his eyes adjusted to the blue light of the television bouncing off the stark white walls of the apartment. Through bleary eyes, the light of his phone's screen burned uncomfortably into his retinas. The pain burrowed deep into the back of his skull as he groaned. He took the phone off the charger while his thumb flicked up the screen blindly.
He turned to peek over at Cazador's side of the bed.
Asleep. Good.
Reassured, Astarion wrapped the blanket over his head and burrowed deeply into its comfort as he checked his notifications.
Much of it was the usual spam: emails confirming bill payments, an endless scroll of low-tier, Dadaistic memes from Cazador, a swath of reference pictures concerning his hair goals for the salon—and an unread text from Gale.
Before he could open the message, the television flickered off. He froze before slipping his phone under his pillow and shutting his eyes. His heart beat against his chest like a battering ram as he heard Cazador's feet hit the tile.
The sound of thin metal creaking on its hinge was faint yet grating. A scuttling noise eagerly greeted the sound of the open cage door.
Astarion felt his blood boiling. A week had passed since he'd brought the damn animal into their quarters, but their dispute was still fresh in his head.
He swore he was going to kill Petras for giving him that fucking rat, even if his death would upset Dalyria. Questions about "vet bills," "a suitable enclosure," and "space" had gone unanswered, deflected, and hand-waved away. "What about our landlord?!" He nervously eyed the buds sitting in plastic bags on the bedside table.
"What the landlord doesn't know won't kill them. I always support you in your hobbies," Cazador sneered, cradling the scrawny rat as it squirmed in a desperate effort to escape his hands and explore. "The least I expect is that you support me in mine!"
"My hobbies don't include living, breathing creatures!" Astarion watched in disgust as Cazador dabbed a hint of yogurt onto his finger before offering it to the animal, whose whiskers were twitching with anticipation. "You're killing me."
The dark-haired man gently stroked the trembling rat's similarly black, waxy fur. Astarion stared, dumbfounded as the rat clung to his finger with its grubby little paws, lapping the strawberry-flavored creme—Astarion's favorite—with its wee pink tongue. "Why don't you hold Godey? Let him get to know his other daddy for a bit. Hm?"
"Of course, you've already named it!" Astarion groaned, exasperatedly flinging his hands into the air. "I don't want to touch it."
"He's not an 'it.' He's a pretty little boy. Aren't you, Godey?" Cazador tutted. "What kind of cruel, unfeeling man doesn't like animals?"
Astarion's shoulders slumped as he stared into the rat's beady, pinlike eyes, a spot of yogurt flecked on his fleshy nose. There was no winning this fight—he may as well attempt to befriend his new roommate. He held his hand out reluctantly, shivering as Cazador transferred the creature from one pale grip into another, doing his best not to flinch as the fleshy tail grazed his arm.
Slim, yellowed teeth plunged into the delicate skin of his wrist, and Astarion concluded while disinfecting the wound that he did not like Godey—not one bit.
And he was more sure than ever that he would kill Petras, Dalyria's feelings be damned.
In the present, through narrow eyes, Astarion peeked through a sliver of the blanket's edge and watched the two figures in the dark room. The rat sniffed at Cazador's fingertips for a few seconds before he pulled his hand away. Curiously, Godey's snout protruded from the open door, seeking the scent of his master instinctively. The hand returned, and he cautiously traversed the bridge of phalanges to his palm. "Good boy," Cazador whispered, fumbling for a treat from his hoodie pocket. His smile radiated unadulterated joy.
Astarion felt the spasm of a feeling he could hardly name or justify course through him as he turned to face his night table.
He has so much patience with that damn thing, he thought bitterly. He felt himself drifting back to sleep.
But none for me.
~✧~
Astarion took a sip of wine as Shadowheart worked the last bit of bleach into the roots of the final section of his hair. His mind was restless, returning to the cage in their living room no matter how much he tried to pull away. It wandered to his cache, now relocated to the drawer where he'd hidden the rest of his documents after he'd been unable to shake the fear of his stash somehow finding its way between Godey's teeth.
Cazador was, once again, putting his plans in jeopardy. He needed to hold out until November. He couldn't afford to be evicted—not yet, anyway.
He could hardly afford to be here. But Shadowheart was nothing if not persistent. He grounded himself, gently circling the rim of the wine glass with one of his fingertips.
I want to spend as much time with these people as I can. They won't want anything to do with me once I've left Cazador.
The air was redolent with the acrid, familiar odor of chemicals blending with the far more pleasant lingering aroma of heavenly shampoos and hair products. It had been a while since Astarion had visited a proper hair salon. In truth, getting his hair done professionally was an experience he sorely missed.
Shadowheart's colleague, a tall woman with vivid purple hair, stood over her shoulder vigilantly as she peeked at one of her foils. "Good! There's no overlap."
"Thanks, Nocturne," Shadowheart grinned. "That's what I was most nervous about."
Astarion suppressed a giggle. Shadowheart and Nocturne—were these two part of the same edgy Warrior Cats forums as kids?
Nocturne studied the ends of Astarion's hair curiously. "It's healthy for how light it is. You said you've been doing it yourself at home?"
Astarion nodded, humming affirmatively through his final mouthful of wine. His hair ritual was perhaps the only time looking into the mirror was more a practical exercise than an emotionally challenging ordeal. He could look past himself long enough to keep up appearances—though lately, even that element of his masquerade had fallen into disrepair. Toning it was easy enough, but his dark roots were getting harder to ignore.
"I would've never guessed this was an at-home job," Shadowheart mused as she checked on another foil over a paper-thin layer of hair. "It's so neat. Though you have a bit of banding here, near the back."
"You're lucky you never burnt off your hair!" Nocturne agreed, taking a look at the most recent foil. "I think it's ready. Oh, I'll take that glass for you, dear."
The pair peeled the foils off in tandem, speaking about technique among themselves as Astarion perused a few pictures Shadowheart had taped onto the edge of her mirror, right below her license. A Polaroid of Karlach blowing out a candle on a pink cupcake hung over an older photograph of a teenaged Nocturne braiding Shadowheart's hair—the former's hair was noticeably shorter and less colorful. They both wore a stark, pressed school uniform. A fourth photo of a much smaller Shadowheart in a light blue gym leotard caught his eye. She was embracing another girl, but she'd taped over her face with a picture of a mouse she'd cut into a heart shape with scissors.
"That looks good," Shadowheart said upon removing the final foils. "Follow me."
She led him to the basin and beckoned him to sit in the black seat that reclined before it. He did so gladly—this had always been his favorite part of the process (albeit uncomfortable at first.) The moment he felt the cool water rushing through his scalp, every ounce of tension in his shoulders vanished and gave in to leisure. He sank into the leather, sighing contentedly as Shadowheart's hands massaged through his hair.
"You know," she murmured, "you're the first friend I've had in my chair in a long while. Besides Karlach, I mean."
"So you've been lonely at work? Is that why you were so determined when you invited me?" he asked teasingly.
"I can always just stop here and let you leave the salon with yellow roots," she warned.
"And I have toner at home," Astarion retorted playfully. "Did I hear you say we're friends?" He couldn't deny that his heart had stopped when he'd first caught the word as it fell from her rosy lips.
Shadowheart looked surprised by his query. "We've been hanging out almost every week since September. What are we at this stage if not friends?"
Astarion paused, equally surprised by how naturally she elucidated her rhetoric. "I suppose you're right."
"I like you, Astarion, and your snarky sense of humor," she admitted. "I'm honestly happy you took me up on my offer. I've been trying to get Gale to come for ages. He needs a trim."
Astarion's shoulders tensed again as he thought about scissors snipping away at the long, wavy brown hair gently brushing over Gale's shoulders, pruning the rebellious strands that fell to his face whenever he tied it half-up or tried to wrap it into a haphazard bun during sessions. He thought about the innumerable times he'd dreamed about his slender fingers running through its lengths.
"Shadowheart, don't you dare cut that man's hair short!"
She giggled at his outburst, raising an eyebrow. "Sometimes I forget you haven't been with us very long." She smiled. "He was very different before. I never knew he could grow a full beard; his face was always baby-smooth."
"Do you have any pictures?" Astarion probed, eager for another chance to peer into Gale's life.
"I'd be surprised if she didn't have pictures," Nocturne said while readying the toner. "Your girl here makes it her mission to record everything."
"Not everything," Shadowheart countered, toweling off her hand as she reached for her phone. She spent around a minute searching before propping it in his hand. "Here. Scroll all you like."
He couldn't help but stare at Gale's younger face beaming back at him through the screen. He was leaner and clean-shaven. His hair was medium-length—slicked back, clean cut, not yet sporting the tufts of grey that interspersed it now. He proudly held an autographed copy of the Player's Handbook in one picture. He was smartly dressed in an argyle vest in another, sitting before a chessboard across from an older, smoky-eyed woman whom Astarion didn't recognize. And then, he saw it: the eight-pointed star dangling delicately from her earlobe.
"That's her," he breathed, shampoo scent flooding his nostrils. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been the person he saw staring back at him. Perhaps someone younger, more bohemian, as juvenile and deranged as the mark she'd left on Gale's skin made her sound. But no.
Dare he say, this woman looked unremarkable. Normal.
"Oh," she said, her nose crinkling. "I forgot she was in here, too."
"You knew her." He was stunned by how much of an accusation it sounded like.
"Knew her? We were friends—or so I thought," she huffed. "Gale wasn't the only one she ghosted."
"Fucking bitch," Nocturne chimed in.
Astarion's heart dropped. Gale had told him she'd left the day after tattooing him. He hadn't said she'd just fallen off the face of the earth entirely. "He speaks so highly of her."
Shadowheart shook her head. "Gale has a good heart—too good. He was fascinated with her—sometimes, I wonder if it was more infatuation than love," she said softly. "It tore him up. We didn't see him for almost a year. I don't think any of us will ever forgive her for what she did to him."
She was silent for a long time while she applied the conditioner to his hair. "You know, the salon chair is a safe space. You can always leave your secrets here with me. It’s a place for forgetting and letting go—for reclamation. I hope Gale sees that someday, and—oh, did I get shampoo in your eye?"
"Yeah," he lied. "Ow."
~✧~
Astarion clutched Cazador's gift in his hand. It was a pearl, caged in silver, resting over his sternum. The delicate chain tickled his collarbones as he fiddled with it.
Their car inched toward the service window at a snail's pace. The drive-through was busy for a Thursday night. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, gently smiling at the sight of his snowy, white hair. Even in the fading light of the setting sun, it was apparent that Shadowheart had outdone herself.
The fumes of car exhaust filled his nostrils as Cazador's hand inched up his thigh, snakelike in the shadows, drawing nearer to the hostile vale between his legs. Astarion kept his eyes glued to the darkness as it swallowed the eventide. He was tired of pleading to the deaf ears of an unfeeling pantheon. His limbs caved in around Cazador's hand. "Stop. I'm not in the mood."
To his surprise, the snake withdrew.
He didn't remember leaving the drive-through. The cheeseburger Cazador had ordered for him burned into his thigh through the foil wrapper. The streets bled crimson against the inky blue sky.
The silence gave way to the fever pitch of Cazador's voice.
"I miss the way you used to say my fucking name. You don't talk to me like that anymore. What the fuck happened?"
The stars in the sky had long been frightened away by the synthetic lights of civilization. Astarion's eyes struggled to keep their own pilfered stars from joining their brethren in whatever invisible ether had veiled them.
"Don't fucking shake like that. Listen to me when I speak to you!" Cazador barked. "It's your fucking birthday, and you're going to tell me you don't want me to touch you?"
Astarion bit his tongue and said nothing, shaken by his forceful tone. His jaw was a trap, and the ugly, hateful, defensive, scared, pitiful little words that were building up in his throat refused to spring it open. Cazador droned on, and his tirade became less and less intelligible.
Getting to the apartment was a hazy blur. Cazador's profane stream of invective continued after he'd locked the front door. "Fucking drama queen. If I wanted to fuck a corpse, I'd go to the fucking cemetery—"
"It's my fucking birthday!"
Astarion's outburst had been the death knell to any hope for a productive conversation. The tongue-lashing gave way to pregnant silence.
Cazador stewed by Godey's cage, aggravatedly pacing to the kitchen corner, facing the wall. Astarion soundlessly huddled behind his bedside, searching the storage under the frame for a shirt to sleep in.
The dark-haired man's voice startled him as it boomed across the room. "And, of course, you left. You would leave, you bitch! Everyone fucking leaves me!" He screamed as he forcefully slammed the bathroom door.
Astarion flinched. "Caz?" He peeked over the bed, the sound of rushing water deafening Cazador's wailing. "I didn't leave!" he exclaimed. "I was just behind the bed. I'm still here!"
Why am I still here?
His eye fell on his phone. The screen immediately lit up.
1 unread message.
Gale's message.
It had slipped his mind entirely. He hurriedly crawled into bed to read it.
Midnight. Three little words and a cake emoji—so simple, but sweet nonetheless.
He pressed his phone against his chest as a stifled sob escaped his throat.
Then another. And another.
Something else ignited within him.
Anger. Determination.
He always knew he was terrible at planning things.
This couldn't wait until November.
Notes:
The Neighborhood - Unfair
Ezra Furman - Compulsive Liar
Dionnyssus - Fangs
Mitski - I’m Your Man
Björk - Mutual Core
Bad Omens - THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND (Cazador’s perspective)
Zee Avi - Concrete WallOn his birthday?! For shame!! We’ll see how this plays out the morning after…
Thank you, dear readers, for your love and support for the Renaissance Festival chapters. You all came out full force for them and I truly appreciated reading through every single one of your comments! Your kind words stoke the fire that fuels me.
P.S. - Let it be known that I love pet rats dearly. This one’s…*special.*
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 22
Notes:
CW: this chapter warrants several. Implied self-harm (skip the paragraph that mentions the caged pearl.) Lots and lots of manipulation, gaslighting, love-bombing, and verbal abuse throughout. Body horror (everything’s coming up roses.)
If you’ve ever tried to leave an abusive relationship, this may bring up unpleasant memories for you. I implore you to take as much time as you need to prepare yourself for this chapter, unless you wish to skip it entirely.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion woke to a gentle kiss from the sun's rays on his left cheek. A low rumble thundered in his stomach, encouraged by the lingering smell of freshly prepared coffee and pre-mixed pancake batter. Muffled by the window, the rolling coo of a mourning dove provided the backing track to the morning's soundtrack: Cazador's gentle humming. He stood vigilantly by the portable griddle with a spatula. He took the occasional sip of black coffee from his "Hubby" mug. A soft song played through his phone speaker:
So girl, leave your boots by the bed; we ain't leaving this room
'til someone needs medical help or the magnolias bloom—
"Good morning, sleepyhead," he murmured sweetly, sensing Astarion stir awake while skillfully flipping one of the pancakes over. "Agave or honey? I wish I could offer maple syrup, but we're out."
"Agave is fine," Astarion yawned, his voice sizzling like the pan as he stretched. He rubbed his eyes and checked his phone. It was ten thirty in the morning. Yesterday was his birthday. He had the day off from work. And Cazador was making pancakes.
He drew his hand near his chest, where the caged pearl sat daintily, slightly tangled up by his tossing and turning in bed. His eyes drifted to the bandage wrapped around Cazador's wrist—the one shred of evidence that the night before hadn't all just been a bad dream. His heart sank. It had been a while since the artist had used his flesh as his canvas. He remembered the last time well. He'd gently kissed his forehead and stroked his silky black hair while they'd held one another in the dark. He'd thumbed at the mess of white, velvety stripes and shuddered at the dent of missing bone in his leg—one of Vellioth's many gifts. He remembered silently mouthing prayers for some benevolent God to come down and erase them all, to make him new.
"You're making pancakes," Astarion said blankly, his unwavering gaze chained to his wrist by a delicate thread.
"Very observant," Cazador said, softly giggling as he flipped another pancake, revealing its flawlessly browned underside. "How many would you like?"
Astarion felt a tug pulling deep within his stomach. He was all too familiar with the unwanted knock of ravenous hunger and its all-consuming emptiness, but today, it was unbearable. He was trying to remember if he'd eaten the fast food burger from last night. "Three. Maybe four."
"Say please," Cazador grinned. "Or none for you!"
"Please, oh gracious master," he implored mockingly.
"Sure thing, hot stuff." Astarion watched, transfixed by his appetite, as Cazador piled a stack of four perfectly fluffy pancakes upon a paper plate snatched from the top of the fridge. He generously drizzled the cloying, golden liquid over them, baptizing them before their inevitable sacrifice. Astarion's stomach was a packed, echoing arena, and its patrons were desperately crying out for blood. The crowd was deafening.
One voice was louder than the rest: The more pomegranate seeds you eat, the longer you will spend in hell.
He knew. He didn't have to tell himself twice. But as Cazador approached him with a TV tray and homemade breakfast, he begged himself to allow this moment of deluded selfishness to pass without incident—to allow for indulgences desired by his starved, manipulative mind. He would have done any number of morally bankrupt acts for those pancakes. But there they were, sitting pretty on his blanketed lap, free for the taking—all he had to do was exist.
He scarfed down the first bite, shielding his mouth with his hand out of self-consciousness as he devoured it. By the time Cazador came to bed with his conservative short stack, Astarion's had vanished, and he was still clawing his fork against the plate for any stray remnants.
He looked over at his partner as he settled into the bed beside him. A certain softness settled into the harsh, angular creases of his winsome face—a serenity that put Astarion's mind at ease. He felt his brow unfurl. Whatever this was, it felt nice—like old times.
"I'm sorry about last night," Cazador murmured. "You know I never meant to hurt you, especially not on your birthday. I must have ruined it. I feel awful. I have so much regret."
Astarion's heart swelled like a wave against the shore, but last night's undercurrent of fear and determination still lurked in its depths. Don't sway. Don't waver. Don't change your mind. "Cazador, I—"
"Let's go downtown today! I've wanted to take you to this restaurant for a long time. It's by the waterside," Cazador took him by the hand. "Please. Let me do this for you. Let me make it up to you!"
The wave clung to the sand before being pulled back to the depths of the dark, nameless sea. Astarion felt the flame inside him flicker as it swallowed him.
"I insist," Cazador said.
Don't lose your nerve.
"Sounds nice," he replied.
Despite the saltwater filling his lungs, the wick still burned.
~✧~
Alone, Astarion hugged his knees to the hollow of his chest, his eyes drilling holes into the dashboard of Cazador's Altima as it idled on the shoulder of the road. Check engine light: on. Tire pressure: low. The clock read twelve-twenty-five. The cars on the interstate soared through the light traffic, screaming blurs of lacquer and metal speeding past. It was a beautiful Friday, not a cloud in the bright blue sky. Astarion felt numb.
He'd opened the window, hoping to let some of the suffocating heat escape. Through the crack, he heard the sound of Cazador's screaming as he keened into the asphalt, digging his palms into the gravel. He'd collapsed into a heap, convulsing as he sobbed inconsolably and cursed into the concrete. A blue sedan had pulled over a few feet ahead of them—a good Samaritan, a concerned stranger with a heart of gold. The driver had been on the ground beside his ex-fiancé, talking him down for the last few minutes.
Ex-fiancé. The words felt acidic on his tongue as he spoke them in his mind. Was freedom really that bitter to the taste?
Cazador's earlier question had been a natural response to Astarion's apathy. "Little love, whatever could be the matter? Are we okay?"
That had been the determining fork in the proverbial road. This time, Astarion had made the rare decision—nay, the stupid mistake—to take a gamble on truthfulness for a change. Lying for the sake of survival was draining. "No."
An apprehensive pause came before the strained follow-up question: "Do you not love me anymore?"
Honesty, round two: "My feelings for you have changed."
The distressed wail that tore from Cazador's throat had lodged itself in his chest like an icicle. Frozen in the torpor of remorse, Astarion could hardly breathe. He would be free soon. Leaving was the honorable thing to do.
The car door opened, and Cazador slid wordlessly into the driver's seat. His eyes were raw and red-rimmed. The stranger passed by the window. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" he asked sweetly.
Cazador nodded in response, his chest hitching jaggedly with weighty sobs.
"You be safe now. Get on home. Remember, God is always with you." He cast Astarion a dirty look before making the trek back to his vehicle and driving off. He didn't know why, but he swore he felt a chill run down his spine.
Cazador gripped the steering wheel with trembling, bloodied hands. The gravel from the asphalt had scraped his palms. "What the fuck?! Why would you make me drive all the way downtown and spend all my money on you if you knew you didn't feel the same way about me, you fucking leech?" Cazador cried out in anguish. "You realize how fucked up that is?!"
Astarion's voice was soft. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you." He could feel the earth beneath him threatening to swallow him—much to his disappointment, it didn't. "Not yet."
"You didn't have to tell me. You've been so cold to me. It's been months. What did I do wrong? When were you planning on telling me? Have you been using me all this time?!"
"I want to go home," Astarion breathed, watching the road as the car veered from its lane. "We shouldn't be driving right now; this isn't safe."
"No! You should have thought about that before you sprang this bullshit on me! We are going to talk about this!" he snarled. "I don't give a damn about your comfort right now." He flicked his right turn signal on as they approached the exit lane. "You are going to tell me everything!"
Astarion's breath lodged between his collarbones, his voice caged up like the pearl at his throat. He couldn't feel his pulse—he was unsure if the spike of adrenaline was toying with his senses or if his heart was merely pounding too quickly for him to register its beat.
Bravery was the folly of man.
Cazador took the next exit and pulled into the most private place he could park without having to pay—he settled on a patch of desiccated grass right by a strip of converted warehouses, concealed from the bustle of the main street. A golf cart sat in front of them. Unused, it was rusting in the sun. A dead, dried-up palm frond rotted beside it.
Astarion stared straight ahead at the faded blue awning arching over one of the businesses—a CrossFit gym with a class in session. He did his best to tether himself, to orient himself to the reality of his situation. He knew one thing—that being here, being trapped in the sweltering heat of this car with Cazador, whom he was trying to leave, was the wrong place to be. They were in the middle of nowhere. He would be forced to endure the unpredictable caprices of Cazador's eruptive emotional state—in Cazador's car until Cazador decided it was time for them to go home. He had none of his possessions with him, and his envelope was still in the same Godey-proof corner—safe from little rat teeth but utterly useless to him here and now.
He could hardly believe how stupid this idea had been.
Cazador turned the car off. He firmly squeezed Astarion's pale hands, letting tears fall onto his knuckles as he kissed them. He lingered over the varicolored, sparkling opal on his ring finger. "I wanted this with you," he sniveled. He pulled the ring off and shook it violently before Astarion's face. "I wanted this!" He threw the ring unceremoniously into the cup holder before burying his face in his hands.
"I wanted it too," Astarion replied forlornly, his voice cracking under the pressure of Cazador’s mewling. He was floating between a feeling of hollow emptiness and a self-inflicted wound he didn't think any balm could soothe. "Cazador, I’ve lost feelings for you. I can't do this anymore. It's not fair to you."
"If you wanted it so bad, you wouldn't leave me!" Cazador pleaded. "I can make this work." He sounded like he was struggling to breathe. "I promise. I love you, Astarion; I love you with all my heart! Please don't leave me! I'm such a piece of shit. I'm nothing without you. I'm nothing without you! I can fix this."
"Cazador, I don't think you can fix this," Astarion warned, swallowing down the lump in his throat.
"You're not giving me a chance!" Cazador railed. "You should have told me we were having problems! I would've worked so hard—I will work hard. I'll do anything." He sobbed, biting down on his lower lip as tears gushed down his face. "I'm in so much pain; it hurts so much. Why did you have to keep this a secret? Don't you trust me?"
"I couldn't," Astarion countered. "You don't listen to me. You silence me. You make me feel like I'm your possession. Like I'm a 'thing.'"
"That's not true," Cazador sniffed. "You're so much more than that! So much more than a pretty thing," he said, reaching out to cradle Astarion's face. He flinched, but Cazador continued. "You're so intelligent. You're funny. You're talented. You have the most gorgeous singing voice, Astarion. I'd give anything to hear you sing to me again. And you're adorable, you dress so well. So well. Not everyone can dress themselves—much less sew for themselves! I can't thread a needle worth shit," Cazador said, laughing through an uncontrollable series of sobs. "Everyone loves you, Astarion—you and your cute little laugh. I've never met a person who didn't love you."
Astarion couldn't stop the tears from tumbling down his hollow cheeks. He cried bitterly into the scraped palm of Cazador's hand. The taller man pulled him closer, wiping away his tears and drawing him into a wet kiss.
"You're not an object, Astarion! You have never, ever been an object to me. No matter how anyone else—how Raphael made you feel. You are not an object. You're a whole person, a lovely person with dreams and aspirations, thoughts, feelings—a gift."
The dashboard clock read one-forty-five. "Caz, I know you're doing your best, but—"
"Then why are you pushing me away?!" Cazador barked. "I hate that you've checked out of this relationship before I did."
"You're pushing me away!" Astarion blinked through his tears.
"I'm not!" Cazador cried frantically. "I so desperately want to make this work. We can take it slow, start over—but you won't let me!"
"When you disrespect how I feel, don't you realize you are pushing me away?!" Astarion snapped. "I'm angry. I'm hurt, Caz, and I want out."
"Tell me how you feel."
"I just did!" Astarion exclaimed.
"No, how do you feel? Do you love me? Yes or no?"
Astarion's eyes softened. He'd never seen Cazador's eyes so swollen with tears. A dolorous ache squeezed at his soul as he spoke. "I do love you," he whispered.
To his utmost horror, he couldn’t tell if he was lying.
"Then we work through it like adults! You don't run away when things get rough. Your trauma is no more significant than mine. We are both going to end up in the same place." Cazador's eyes bored into his like burning coals. "So what makes you different? What makes any of this different?"
"You're being cruel," Astarion whispered, his eyes peeled to the extensive fissure in the dashboard, cracked like leather, slowly eaten away by the sun's punishing heat.
"I don't feel like I'm being cruel," Cazador denied, his voice low. "You're the cruel one. You love me, but not enough to work on this relationship? I'm not perfect. I'm sure you knew this, and I know I gave you adequate warning that I would fuck it up."
"I wasn't expecting you to be perfect!" Astarion breathed. "But you've put me through the wringer so many times! Smoking in the apartment and almost getting us evicted, touching me when I tell you I don’t want—"
"I have had to put up with you for two years," Cazador seethed, gritting his teeth. "Two years of your sniveling, rag-doll, pillow princess bullshit, two years listening to you bitch and moan about how tortured you are. Have I not suffered enough? You haven't been there for me like you used to be when all I've done is be there for you!"
"I know," Astarion whispered, his eyes downcast, staring at the dirt and faded grass on the carpeted floor mat.
"And now you want to leave. You carelessly decided on something that requires two people, and I know why you're doing it."
Astarion's insides turned to ice—the sort even the softest look in Gale's twinkling brown eyes couldn't melt. "What are you talking about?" he asked nervously, doing his best to deflect, dodging queries as well as his rogue could dodge any arrow. "I saw more and more red flags, and I found myself thinking about the times that were hurtful more often than—"
"Silence! You're reverting back to the person you were when you were with Raphael. You know you are. And I'm not him. I know my feelings are intense. I know I'm a lot. But I'm not him. I'm not that crazy, fucked up psycho who got off on beating the shit out of you in bed—"
"Stop!" Astarion said tersely.
"I'm not the one who—"
"Stop! Shut up!" Enraged, Astarion boxed his clenched fists up to his ears. "Shut up!" His fingers unfurled, pulling his hair over his eyes. He withdrew from Cazador to face the window. "Shut up!" He drew his knees up, staring vacantly out the window as fresh tears raced down his face. "Shut up!" He was exhausted, depleted from an hour of shedding tears and sweating from the intolerable humidity of the car. He violently rocked back and forth, whimpering as he felt the familiar sting of thorns carving through his delicate throat.
Please. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
It was two o'clock. Cazador stared blankly ahead, his expression unreadable and self-contained. "You're more than what you see in the mirror, you know," he murmured. "Your pretty face is a nice bonus."
"You called me a bitch last night," Astarion choked through the texture of rose petals.
"I know I did. I'm sorry. I know that accepting what I say right now is hard, especially with the words I've spoken out of hurt," Cazador said, crestfallen. "If I honestly believed what I said last night, I don't think I would be trying so hard to keep you." He extended his hand, and when Astarion shrank further into the corner he'd made for himself, his carnelian eyes filled with liquid grief. "I will spend the rest of my life making up for that. I will reassure you forever if I have to. I'm not giving up on you. Please don't give up on me," he pleaded softly. "On us."
Astarion agonized, mired in stillness, for a good long while. Then Cazador turned the car back on, and he felt himself sigh in relief. They were going home at last, and he would wait for the right moment to grab the cash and his phone charger, stuff some clothes into a duffel bag, hop in his car, and go—where exactly?
He could call—who could he call? Shadowheart had said he was her friend, but could she genuinely have known what she was signing up for when she said so? Or did she just want fun Astarion, jokey Astarion, bitchy Astarion who loved to get his hair done and make her laugh? Would Karlach mind if he stayed the night at their place? Or would he be an inconvenience to them?
Wyll—could he call on Wyll? He already knew where he lived—but so did Cazador. His palatial house undoubtedly had a spare bedroom he could hide in. But who was he to impose? Would his father have the final say? Also, he was pretty sure Lae'zel was already practically living there—
What about Gale? His heartbeat steadied, and he could feel his face growing hot. Would he dare? He was one of Cazador's oldest friends, after all. Would Gale believe him if he responded to his sweet birthday text—the catalyst for this absolute nightmare—with something like, "Help, I think I'm being abused, and I don't know where else to go?" Surely, that old chestnut would get him very far rather than earning him a swift ejection from his life.
"Do you remember when we first met?" Cazador's voice endured a noticeable crackle, like the sputtering embers of a dying fire. "When we sat together, under the moonlight, talking to one another while we watched the waves lap at our feet?"
"The moon was so red that night," Astarion murmured. He was horrified by how raw his voice sounded.
"You were so cute. I thought you were so pretty. I couldn't believe you were talking to me," Cazador smiled. His eyes pleaded with his. Without you, I'm nothing, they repeated. I need you. You are everything I ever wanted.
Caught in the snare, Astarion laughed despite himself. It was a husky, hideous sound. "You're joking, Cazador. You know you're gorgeous."
"Not like you," he sighed. "Never like you."
They drove back onto the highway. Dismayed, Astarion realized that they were not heading home.
~✧~
Three thirty-seven.
Astarion felt like he was going to be sick. They'd been in gridlocked traffic for almost two hours. His head was throbbing. The many hours of crying had left him a mess and addled his mind. He was hungry and angry and desperate to go home. His irritation was made worse by the sunlight beating him down further. Damn that stupid fucking Freon leak.
The sea salt licked at his parched lips as Cazador held him tightly, humming gently. The soothing rhythm of the ocean's pull allowed him to drift away from the disorienting pain and confusion of the afternoon for just a little. He remembered what it felt like to be here with him for the first time years ago, how they'd spent hours getting to know one another: their greatest fears and wildest dreams.
A purple kite flew overhead, and Astarion’s attention drifted alongside it, riding the wind. Suddenly, his soul felt lighter.
"Astarion?"
The sea receded. Astarion felt his mind plummet.
"Hm?"
Icarus crashed against the rocks.
"Is there someone else?"
Pull away.
"No," Astarion lied.
Crash.
Like a rising choir, the sea’s rage roared in his head. This was a stupid idea. Trying to leave was a mistake. I can't do this, Astarion thought. I can't do this to him.
"But what about Gale?" the small voice inside him asked.
He smiled bitterly, running his hand through the sand as the kite sailed towards the heavens. Each grain was just as insignificant as he was. What could he possibly offer someone like Gale?
Treacherous hopes. That's all they were.
"I'll stay."
Cazador’s eyes widened. "Really? You’ll stay?"
Astarion nodded. "We'll give it another go."
"I knew you wouldn’t leave me," Cazador cooed, petting the silver strands of his hair. "Gods, you're so pretty when you cry. Let’s keep this between us, my love. Nobody has to know about our little slip.”
“Yes, darling,” Astarion murmured, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Without you, I’m nothing.
“I never want to hear anything like that from you again, pet,” he crooned as he wrapped his finger into one of his curls. “You know I adore you. I won’t let you go easily.”
“I know.”
~✧~
Cazador finally drove him home after that.
Five o'clock.
The light of the golden hour surged through the fence post, pouring into the apartment.
The sun saturated Astarion's raw, weary, unfocused eyes with a burst of color.
Its rays draped his arms in raiments of glorious sunlight, kissing every freckle. The colors of the kaleidoscopic opal on his left hand were dancing in its radiance.
He quietly shut the door on its warmth and fell back on unsteady legs into the gloam of his fiancé's cold embrace.
Notes:
First of all, readers, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that no one got a phone call.
Leaving an abuser is not easy. It requires a well thought out escape plan. It begs support from others, and ideally, should not be attempted alone. It shouldn’t be rushed, and in a perfect world, the abuser should not be aware that you are trying to leave before you’re ready. Leaving as safely as you possibly can is paramount. Sometimes, it takes multiple attempts.
It requires a leap of faith.
And that can be scary.Trusting others, relying on others can be terrifying when you feel so alone. You might think you’re ready, might think you’re so sure—but then you’re not. And abusers can be so charming. They always say whatever they think will get you to stay.
I promised you a happy ending for Gale and Astarion. I’m sorry the road to that ending is paved in so much unhappiness. Please do what you need to do to take care of yourselves, and be safe, dear readers.
The next chapter will be just a little brighter—and may have a whittled duck (or two) in it.
~✧~
Placebo - Without You, I’m Nothing
Foy Vance - Roman Attack
Sneaker Pimps - Half Life
Damien Rice - Rootless Tree
Travis - Happy to Hang Around
Portishead - Wandering StarCW *Jason Isbell - Cover Me Up* This song in particular is the one Cazador was humming along to near the beginning. Personally, it gives me the biggest ick and I think it requires a content warning for being on the possessive side and adopting a rather cavalier attitude about attempted SA.
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 23
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
There was something organic about Halsin Silverbough's office. It was pleasantly cozy compared to the austerity of the waiting room. The shades were half-drawn, letting in slivers of natural light while preserving a modicum of privacy. A dozen framed photos, certificates, and newspaper clippings about the benefits of equine therapy hung proudly on the wall. The wooden desk in the corner was piled high with stacks of books and paperwork. An army of unpainted wooden ducks sat atop the small bookcase, rife with medical journals and self-help books.
The drab couch was surprisingly quite comfortable. Astarion nestled into the corner closest to the window, hugging one of the square-shaped pillows that adorned it as he stared off into the leaf pattern of the rug and the knots in the oaken floor.
Couples counseling was something Cazador had vehemently insisted upon after their "disagreement" in the car. "Fixing yourself fixes us," he'd said. "That's how this works, after all." Their first session together was a blur. Cazador did most of the talking while Astarion spent most of the hour staring off into nothingness. His tongue felt heavy and useless in his jaw.
"He's asked for a bit of space and wants us to start doing things separately, but I feel we need to grow closer again by doing more together," Cazador griped. "We live together. We're planning on getting married. We should be close, but we haven't been. He told me he wanted to put the work in. I love him. I adore him. I want him to be okay. I want us to be okay."
Astarion felt his leg shaking reflexively, the sole of his shoe rhythmically drumming against the shag of the carpet. His body felt numb, barely processing any of the words either man was speaking—save for one. The sound of Raphael's name pulsed through his mind like an ice pick. He could do little but sit in paralyzing silence as Cazador rambled on, speaking about him with such an uncomfortable candor that it unsettled him. It was as if he were a pile of dust the broom had missed rather than a person who was present in the room.
His eyes wandered to the counselor, a hulking man seated in a wooden chair that looked almost comically small for his frame. He was taking notes on a clipboard. While Cazador spoke, he nodded along. The shape of his voice in conversation was a low, husky rumble vibrating in his fingertips. His brown hair was half-pulled back, revealing a quartet of deep, aged gashes that marred his face like fault lines and valleys upon the earth. Despite the scars and his stern brow, there was a softness to his square features that put Astarion’s cagey mind at ease.
The man had merely offered a gentle smile as their eyes locked. He leaned forward, relaxing his posture. "Astarion," he said calmly. "Would you be alright with having private sessions with me?"
All Astarion could manage in response was a tiny nod.
Now, two days later, they were alone together.
Kind hazel met guarded brown once more, and his lips moved, snapping Astarion's attention away from the winding leaves on the carpet. "It's nice to see you again, Astarion."
"Dr. Silverbough—"
"Please," the man chuckled. "Call me Halsin." There was a sweetness in his deep, gruff voice that Astarion hadn't expected—like honey dripping onto freshly toasted brown bread. "Could I interest you in anything to drink? Some tea, perhaps? I have some Earl Grey—or mint if you'd prefer something without caffeine."
"Ah, no—tea isn't really my drink, I'm afraid." Astarion smiled politely.
"Will water suffice?" Halsin asked, slowly rising from his chair.
Astarion nodded, and the man, nearly as tall as the door frame, stepped out into the waiting room. "There's a couple of donuts in a box on my desk," he called out. "Please, feel free to take one if you want."
Astarion eyed the desk apprehensively. His stomach cried the words his mouth could not shape. He quickly and quietly got up from the couch, snatched a donut, and sprinted back to the couch, clenching it between his teeth, careful not to let the raspberry filling spill onto his shirt (or, Gods forbid, the carpet.)
When Halsin returned with a paper cup full of water, he'd just finished inhaling the pastry, craning his neck to meet his hand as it obscured his mouth. He flushed in shame as Halsin offered him the cup, their hands touching briefly. He silently prayed that he would make no mention of his unrestrained gluttony.
Mercifully, he didn't.
"Your hands are freezing," he said instead. "Do you need me to adjust the temperature?"
"No, it's alright," Astarion said. "I tend to run cold." He loitered in the comfortable shade of silence for a moment, listening to Halsin's slightly off-key humming. "I'm sorry I didn't speak much during our first session. I wasn't feeling very well."
"That's alright," Halsin said, slowly settling his elbows on his knees. "I know it can be overwhelming at first for some. The good news is that you're the one who gets to set the pace here. You don't have to say anything at all. We can sit here silently for the full hour if that's what you'd like." Twin forests—ripe with fresh sap, moss, tree bark, and rays of sunlight—lingered on him patiently with every temperate word. "Cazador said you've been to therapy before?"
Astarion nodded, shielding his face behind the pillow as a dull ache raged inside his head. "A few years ago. I feel like I'm back at square one," he muttered.
Halsin looked at him ponderously. "Nothing to be ashamed of. People seldom get it right the first time. Or the second, or the third. You're learning what works and what doesn't. We all stumble every once in a while. You try something else until you find what works for you. Whatever helps you move forward."
"I guess," Astarion shrugged, casting a runaway gaze at his shoes.
"Like I said, you set the pace, and I follow. We don't have to cover anything you're not ready to discuss." Halsin assured, his voice steady as redwood bark and sturdy as his broad shoulders.
"Okay," Astarion murmured. "But I'm not sure I want silence, either."
Halsin beamed, leaning forward with a sparkling look of earnest interest. "Well, alright. What do you want to talk about?"
Astarion's focus gravitated towards the bookshelf. "What's with all the ducks?" he asked warily. "You've got a whole flock up there."
"Ah. My preferred term is 'a paddling,'" Halsin chuckled. "I like to do a bit of occasional whittling for fun. At first, I only did it when I needed a distraction. Full disclosure: I struggled with alcoholism for a long time. I've been sober for ten years. Now, it's become my favorite hobby. Whenever I'm sad, I whittle away the hours. When I'm happy, I carve little feathers. When I'm angry, I contemplate their round bills and soft down, and I find peace in the simplicity of nature's design. There's something beautiful about breathing life into what used to give us breath," he sighed contentedly. "How about you, Astarion? What helps you unwind?"
Astarion chewed his lip. "I like to sew. Embroidery's pretty fun, too. It keeps my hands busy." He ran his index finger over his bandaged thumb. His hands had been shaking more than usual recently. "And I, uh—" he paused, holding the last syllable close to his chest. It felt like a warm little bird struggling in his hands, determined to beat its wings against the open sky. He took a sip of water to quench the sparks.
Halsin rocked back in his chair, his brow arching with deep interest. "And—?"
"Gods, no. It's way too nerdy," Astarion groaned.
"Try me," Halsin playfully coaxed. "No one will judge you here. Besides, I wouldn't tell another soul, even if I wanted to. I'm bound to my oath—HIPAA and all that!"
Astarion let out a drawn-out exhale. "Okay. Don't laugh, but I started playing Dungeons & Dragons with friends last year."
Halsin's smile slowly widened in pleasant surprise. The deep-set creases in his eyes revealed a newfound twinkle in his eyes that betrayed a brush with undeniable geek-dom in his past. "That brings back memories! I haven't played since leaving college."
"You played?" Astarion gasped, his eyes lighting up in recognition, elated to have found a similar soul in this sanctuary. "What class?"
"I played an elven druid. Pretty big guy for an elf," he chuckled. "But it only felt natural, considering I've always loved working with animals. Some of my closest friendships sprang up around the table. My books are probably collecting dust in storage. You're making me want to scour my attic now—see what I find. What about you? What do you play?"
Astarion's fingers flirted along the lip of the paper cup. He flashed a mischievous, dangerous little grin, his lips drawn tight. Perhaps Halsin was unaware of the Pandora's Box he'd unwittingly opened in that small room. "Oh, let me tell you all about him! He's an elven rogue with a devilish smile and a devastating secret..."
He could already tell he was going to like this therapist.
Notes:
Hello, dear readers! I’ve missed you all.
I have been fretting and fussing over this chapter for days. I am grateful for the wonderful Bloodweave authors in this community who helped me through my writer’s block. I started this process alone, but I have found a sense of community here that I never would have imagined being a part of.
My beta-reader was able to look through what I had written so far and thought that perhaps I should simply post it and set it free.
I hope you enjoy Halsin’s formal introduction into the story (and his role as Astarion’s therapist!)
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 24
Notes:
TW: toxic, manipulative sex after the first divider, and mentions of abuse in the indented passages near the end.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It was a night worth celebrating. The party had saved the Emerald Grove from the impending onslaught of frenzied goblins, taking down the fanatical trio of cultists that led them. The druids had apologized for their earlier misgivings and thanked them for their hand in saving their home. The tiefling refugees of Elturel felt they were indebted to the group—their gratitude was immeasurable upon any mortal scale.
The refugees had little to offer in the way of compensation—and far be it for the party to insist on payment when the poor sods now had to rough it out in the wilderness and establish new lives on terms that were not their own—but they offered to throw a little party at their campsite, and who were these hedonists at heart to reject such a proposal?
True to real life, Astarion's wily rogue decided he would spend most of the festivities in a corner, nursing a glass of wine he couldn’t even enjoy, eager to duck into the familiar spartan comforts of his tent if anyone dared to try and talk to him.
Discussing his "heroics" was not necessarily something he felt comfortable doing.
Heroes were charlatans—a fairy tale to comfort lonely, disenfranchised children who believed that kindness and altruism could be unconditional.
At least Astarion’s rogue was honest about who he was.
What he was.
But had he not done something heroic? The party had gone out of their way to grant the outcasts safe passage. They'd paved the way for this night of merriment. Gale had described how some of their eyes lit up for the first time as they released months of pent-up tension, how they were all fully packed and ready to face the morning. They danced by the river in the firelight, pretending to be without a care in the world—at least for tonight.
Astarion hardly spoke a word, as hellbent on vanishing into the wallpaper at the table as he was at the party—content to watch idly by as everyone else caroused around him. Cazador's paladin had been flitting about talking to as many people as Gale would allow him to—tiefling to tiefling, companion to companion. He'd snuck off to drink wine with Shadowheart's cleric, the pair of them working overtime to coax Wyll out of his insecurities and into a dance while he skipped stones from the riverbank.
As Astarion witnessed the oathbreaker getting along with seemingly everyone, he couldn't help but imagine how much livelier the party might've been with Alfira's playing. He imagined the night's soundtrack was noticeably missing a lute, the sounds from other instruments weaving around her absence, hopelessly searching for a melodic line that would have been her unmistakable trademark. They'd buried her body in the clearing, and Shadowheart had offered her soul a whispered prayer. They knew not what rites she would have wanted, but they did their best with what they had to make up for the senseless brutality of her death.
The rogue knew a thing or two about how cruel death’s sting could be. Astarion imagined that he would come to visit her grave some nights to commiserate with her spirit about what it was like for him to have had his breath robbed from his body before its time—two kindred souls, both gone too soon.
Unlike him, Alfira was at rest.
He hoped.
"Astarion! Are you feeling alright?"
Much to his thin-lipped displeasure, Gale never knew when to let sleeping dogs lie—no matter how hard they bit. His voice snapped Astarion away from the paracosm of the grave at the clearing, back to the golden wash of light upon the wooden table.
“I’m alright,” he whispered, trying to avoid the curious eyes of everyone who had suddenly turned to look at him.
“Are you sure?” Shadowheart asked. “I can get you some water.”
“No,” Astarion reassured. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t neglect yourself, my love,” Cazador whispered, cradling his face before kissing him. “You look pale. Let me get you something to drink. Excuse me.” He rose from his seat and retreated to the kitchen.
Gale looked over at Astarion inquisitively, his eyes soft as butter slowly melting by the windowsill. They seemed to ask: Are you sure?
“I’m fine,” he mouthed. “Really.”
Gale nodded, accepting his answer for what it was. “Make me a perception check.”
Astarion sighed, reaching into his dice bag for the old, tried-and-true loaner dice he'd kept since their first game. He was always cautious to avoid accidentally choosing the set Gale had gifted him, even in Cazador’s momentary absence. As much as he yearned to roll them again, to feel them clatter between his fingers, the reason for their very existence was a lie he was unwilling to fabricate, a conversation his brittle relationship with Cazador did not need—not yet, anyway. Perhaps not ever.
“Damn you, Gale,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn't have known how desperately Astarion was trying to ignore him.
“What was that?”
“Nothing!” He hastily replied as Cazador returned, setting a glass of water and an extra splash of wine in a small plastic cup before him. “The rogue has been spending most of the party in a corner, trying to avoid notice—it’s working out well for him, evidently,” he joked. “As much as he always seems to love clamoring for the spotlight, something about tonight has him feeling—more than a little out of sorts. Where is the thief’s place at the heroes’ table? And the wine is positively ghastly, darling. Tastes like vinegar,” he feigned disgust before sipping his corporeal cup. “Not yours, Wyll, this is delightful. I rolled an eighteen, by the way.”
Gale smiled as the table tried to stifle their giggles. “From your tent, you notice a pair of the kids attempting to pickpocket little trinkets here and there—with mixed success. You spy a pair of little hands digging through your pack…”
Astarion groaned. While the tiefling children had captured the hearts of nearly everyone at the table, no one was as invested in their welfare as he was, even if he pretended it wasn’t the case. Most of them were much like him—thieving children, charming liars, little rogues in the making. Hungry little mirrors for a man with no reflection, desperately forging a childhood in a world where growing up happened too quickly. They’d been through hell and back—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give them a familiar little taste of it for rummaging through his things!
“‘What do you think you’re doing?’ The rogue snaps, meaning to frighten the child, albeit playfully.”
“‘Ah!’ You recognize the scream. Silfy hurriedly scampers behind her brother, Mattis, who is watching from a safe distance. ‘S-sorry, Mister! Just trying to practice for when we get to the Gate!’”
“‘Well, go practice on somebody else, you devious little ragamuffins. Just a word of advice: don’t steal from other rogues—it’s bad form!’”
“The children look at you with eyes wide as saucers. ‘Could you maybe teach us something?’ Silfy asks curiously. Her brother chimes in, ‘Yes! I’m sure you’ve got lots of things that could help us do our work better.’”
Astarion pondered his words. “‘Our work,’” he repeated.
Thievery was survival. It kept the lights on, the siblings fed, and the landlord happy. But what did these children know of fun beyond the schadenfreude of watching others lose?
“‘Hmm. Alright, I’ll show you some things,’ he relents, pretending it’s a chore for him. ‘But swear not to tell anyone you learned it from me!’ I want to try and teach them a little trick, maybe make something disappear using sleight of hand?”
“Alright. Make me a Sleight of Hand check,” Gale asked.
Astarion released the die into the tray, as he must have done hundreds of times within the six months they'd played together. He was determined to win them over one last time before their perilous journey, unsure if he would ever see their mischievous faces again.
“Fourteen.”
“You balance a gold coin upon your thumb, nestled perfectly upon the ridges of your fingertip. Then, with a flourish, you toss the coin, catch it in midair, and when you reveal your palm, it has vanished. Silfy doesn’t seem too impressed. ‘Mattis could do that with his eyes closed!’”
"'Tough crowd.' The rogue sighs and rolls his eyes before a sly grin crosses his face. 'Well, alright. Can you do this, Mattis?'" Astarion rattled the die in his hand before releasing it into the tray. “How about a twenty-one?”
"With a delicate wiggle of your fingers on the opposite hand, the coin reappears, resting upon your knuckles," Gale smiled. "You watch as the effortless flow of your maneuver dazzles them both! They clamor around you like hungry kittens, doing everything short of climbing your legs, asking, no, begging you to show them one last trick."
Astarion looked at Karlach, whose contagious smile only did more to widen his grin. Riding the high of Gale's praise, he rolled again. “Nineteen! The rogue ushers the children to a nearby desk, dagger in hand. He splays his fingers out and waits for Mattis to do the same. Then, he takes the dagger and begins to teach them how to play the knife game—“
“—that is, until the wizard of Waterdeep interferes, pulling the child away from the table as soon as he begins to mimic the rogue’s movements!”
“‘Oh, Gale! It was just a trifle,’" Astarion whined, his lilting laughter filling the room with its airy song. "'Just a bit of fun! They've got a long road ahead of them—you know they have more than goblins and cults to worry about on the road to Baldur's Gate!'"
"'World-weary as they are, they're still only children. They'll slice their fingers off,'" the wizard lectured sternly. “‘And you should know more than anyone how much they need those if they’re planning on continuing their business.’”
"'Aw, c'mon, Gale, lighten up!'" Karlach cajoled. "'He was just being friendly! You know I'd be playing with the scamps myself if I knew I wouldn't burn them.'"
"'Yes, Gale. Surely you aren't implying that the esteemed Gale, wizard of Waterdeep, never did anything reckless or ill-advised when he was younger!'" Astarion playfully ribbed.
"'Well, admittedly, I did manage to set off a few fireballs here and there that my mother was none too pleased about. Burned my eyebrows off a few times—but that's not the point!'"
"'K'chakhi, both of you.'" Lae'zel grumbled, rolling her eyes, struggling to keep her stoic demeanor from slipping. "'You burnt your eyebrows. That's all? You istik coddle your youth in a way that betrays your frailty. Having a few missing fingers builds character—'"
Lae’zel could mask no longer. She laughed.
And then Karlach laughed.
And it was over. The room’s inhabitants all burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Without making a single roll, Gale had drawn blood from a stone. He'd returned the taciturn rogue and his player to their usual loquacious selves with naught but the spell of his words.
Astarion wiped away a mirthful tear as he glanced over the DM screen, feeling his face grow warm.
Trying to ignore Gale was an exercise in futility.
How could someone who brought so much light into the room go unnoticed?
~✧~
Therapy suited Cazador Szarr.
He’d been lavishing a significant amount of time and attention on him, more so than usual—they’d been going on dates more frequently, going grocery shopping together, smoking weed in random parking lots at the stroke of midnight, and falling asleep in the early hours of the morning after hours of pillow talk. The afternoon before, they’d gorged themselves on seafood and alcohol to the point of discomfort. They’d driven home and laid in bed, mutely recovering from their mutual overindulgences for hours, holding onto one another tightly once their stomachs had settled. They’d elected to speak in the language of kisses, an entire conversation of lips against flesh taking place in the reddening sundown that poured in through the blinds. Astarion nuzzled into the sheets, humming with satisfaction as Cazador worshipped his body.
It felt like old times. The halcyon days of “rat-eater” and “the_brat_prince” were back—and had been sorely missed.
Some days, he asked himself why he’d tried so desperately to leave him—why he hated him so much.
Deep down, he still knew.
“I hate that I used to put you down for being ‘boring,’” Cazador murmured between kisses. “I’m glad I don't anymore, but I hate that I made you feel like you had to apologize.”
“Apologize for being boring?” Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Sometimes I’m blind to your sarcasm, Caz.”
“And I’m sorry for all the times I’ve taken your phone,” he added, kissing his thigh. “Even if I was merely joking, it made you uncomfortable, and I apologize. And yes,” he said, kissing up to his pelvic bone. “You are blind to sarcasm. But I love you anyway,” he giggled, his hot breath lingering over the taut skin of his stomach. “I mean what I say.”
He still knew he hated him—right?
Astarion’s breath hitched in his throat at the sheer intimacy of Cazador’s lips gently brushing against him, tickling his abdomen like silk. He closed his eyes and conjured the image of a different set of lips, ripe with the pink flush of life, pressing kisses upon his chest, eliciting gentle, low moans of pleasure. He felt his body come alive with want—no—with need. An urgency he hadn’t felt in years rose within him like the yearning tide reaching for the moon.
When he opened his eyes again, they were hazy with desire.
Cazador had a prying, feral look about him.
“Stunning,” he breathed. He inched away, leaped out of bed, and immediately began rummaging through his ashen night table.
“Don’t move a muscle,” Cazador warned. He grabbed his sketchbook and charcoal pencils. “You—you haven’t looked at me like that in ages,” he murmured. “I want to make you immortal.”
He spent the rest of the evening sketching Astarion at every angle—posing in the nude as provocatively as he could, lying on the bed with his wiry hands tousling his silver hair, seductively looking over his shoulder with a heady look in his heavy-lidded eyes.
“Stop moving so much,” Cazador muttered. “I would be marrying the worst model ever.”
“I can’t help it,” Astarion murmured, his voice dripping from his lips in lush, dulcet tones. “I’m just waiting.”
“For what, my dear boy?”
“To have you,” Astarion breathed, biting his lip as he pressed his body into the headboard. Inside, his head was screaming, pounding with the weight of immediate regret.
Cazador smiled gently, returning to his canvas. “You don’t have me yet,” he whispered through the pencil between his teeth, rubbing a kneaded eraser into the page.
“Don’t I?” Astarion teased. “You’re the one marrying the ‘worst model ever.’ Surely you don’t just want to sit around sketching all night,” he purred.
Cazador raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you think I want?”
Shame burned low in Astarion’s belly.
He wanted none of this.
It felt so manipulative.
He rolled over slowly, the sound of sheets rustling as he slowly crawled across the bed to the artist, softly panting as he did so. “I think you want to be known. To be tasted,” he whispered, rubbing his cheek against the fingers of his free hand. In response, they wrapped themselves around his curls and pulled him up into a ravenous kiss, then pushed him face down into the mattress.
I don’t want this.
Why am I doing this?
The world went dark around him as he imagined deep, brown eyes instead of Cazador’s. A gentle touch cupped his chin while the other hand counted every mole and beauty mark as if his body were a star chart.
~✧~
Hours later, Astarion could not rest. He stared hungrily out into the dark, clutching the caged pearl in his fist as Cazador lay beside him, sleeping off his glutted appetite. It was hard to imagine the fury his face was capable of, watching him slumber so peacefully. Occasionally, he would moan, and Astarion wondered if he was dreaming. He rarely spoke about his dreams unless they involved him. They were akin to an endless ocean of blood, vast and unknowable.
Forbidden.
I don’t deserve you, he thought.
Like threading a needle in the dark, he struggled to reconcile the man he was with the monster he was slowly watching himself become, trying not to romanticize how good it felt to retreat into his mind this time. For once, he hadn’t been alone in there.
Gale had been there, too—a ray of light in the dark realm of imagination, whispering sweet nothings into his ear while he played with his hair…
I don’t deserve either of you.
Desperate to bury his shame, he practiced grounding himself.
Something he could see—
His eyes immediately drifted to the dark leather hide of the sketchbook, and his focus shifted away from his distress. Cazador had fallen asleep before sharing his illustrations—and Astarion decided that tonight, he was not above snooping. Curious to see how his fiancé perceived him, he carefully strode to his night table, eager to see his face in broad, ebony strokes through the lens of someone who hated him less than he hated himself.
With surgical precision, he stealthily took the vape pen off the cover, quietly setting it off to the side. A sudden rattle from Godey’s cage startled him. Unnerved by the tiny black, beady eyes observing him in the dark, he snuck to the privacy of the bathroom, smuggling the forbidden tome in the crook of his arm.
He sat on the toilet lid, hunched over with his phone flashlight shimmering against the mirror, opening to the most recent page—when something caught his attention.
His heart froze.
In red ink, Cazador had penned a series of rambling journal entries from his therapy sessions.
The first entry read as follows:
Vellioth used to grab me by my arms and fling me around, put me in choke-holds, and bend my arms in unnatural ways. I did the same to Amanita growing up. It makes me sick.
I remember the look on his face. His lips puckered, his nostrils flared. His eyes were the scariest—cold, promising pain and disappointment. I can picture it. I've done it, too, I'm sure.
I am a lot like him.
It was followed closely by a second entry, far shorter than the last.
Rejection is my biggest issue.
I don’t want to be alone.
The third and final entry was written yesterday.
I tend to be controlling because I had a difficult childhood, and I learned from my mother that a "good" person cares for others more than they care about themselves. Am I being selfish when I think of myself? Or am I being self-destructive by caring about Astarion more?
No one ever provided what I needed & never cared about my feelings. I worry about meeting Astarion’s needs, being there for him, and validating him. He has many, many needs. He needs so much. I feel like I'm not doing enough.
But I trust him.
I'm allowing myself to trust you.
As the book clattered to his lap, Astarion felt his heart seize. Like a squeezed orange, compressed into a pulpy liquid, its blood pooled into the cavity of his chest as he quietly wept into his hands.
Notes:
3/11/2024 Edit: Now featuring a workskin! How to Mimic Letters, Fliers, and Stationery Without Using Images by La_Temperanza
(Hey, they’re finally playing D&D again!)
Hello, dear readers!
For the sake of readability, I decided to split the enormous chapter I’ve been working on for the last week in half.
Here’s some good news: the second half is already completely on paper, and simply needs a small bit of editing and polish before I feel happy releasing it.
And the better news is—our wizard and vampire finally get a moment alone together.
~✧~
Johanna Warren - Twisted
Sonic Youth - Shadow of a Doubt
Lush - Light From A Dead Star
Travis - Re-offender
Hoosier - A Sadness Runs Through Him
Sufjan Stevens - To Be Alone With YouHere's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 25
Notes:
TW: conversations about depression, isolation, suicidal ideation, self esteem issues/body issues, and Mystra.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The light from Wyll's swimming pool illuminated Astarion's expressionless face with its unnatural blue glow. He knelt by its neon edge, losing himself in its placid undulations, tuning out the festive repartee of his adventuring party as they socialized through the walls, muffled by the sliding glass door.
Like the unfeeling, white marble of Cazador's face, the full moon monitored him vigilantly. Though fractured by the fluctuating, ever-changing nature of even the most chlorinated water, the moon remained upon its inky throne, unchallenged and omnipotent. Suspended in the cold expanse of darkness, it leered, surrounded by what few dim silver stars were still eternally bound to night's tether: the ones that the blinding lights had yet to chase away—the ones that were just as trapped as he was under the moon's constant surveillance. They waited aimlessly for eons, centuries, for the crimson release of death. So eager for the end—the inevitable fate that befell every star.
Was that what he wanted, too? To slip away, to blink out and fade into nothingness, free and forgotten about?
What about the handful of stars that occasionally fell from the sky? They were the lucky ones, Astarion wagered. Mythical. He wasn't one to make wishes on falling stars—no amount of wishing well coins, birthday cake candles, or stars would ever be worth the disappointment of asking for so little and still receiving nothing.
He'd long accepted that sometimes, silence was also an answer. He closed his eyes and willed one to fall for him anyway.
"I just want someone to see me," he whispered.
Astarion barely heard the sound of the glass door as it slid open. Nor did he hear the light step of footprints rustling the dewy grass.
The familiar, orotund voice that carried across the backyard was a different story.
"'Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human?'" it asked in its usual plummy tone, crackling like ambient firelight in the tundra wasteland that was Astarion's heart. "A choice line from Neil Gaiman's Stardust. It's lovely stuff—one of his best novels if you ask me. Have you read it before? I think you might enjoy it!"
A bittersweet, undeterred smile pulled at the corners of Astarion's lips.
Gale.
Tell him to fuck off, his brain warned.
"Oh, hey," he said instead, his voice thick as molasses as it struggled to escape the confines of his throat. "No, I don't think I have, darling."
"You haven't?" A noise of disbelief escaped his lips, coupled with the thrill of potentially sharing something beloved with somebody else for the first time. "Well, color me surprised! I think you'd like it quite a bit. Well, that's an error to be corrected later. Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment?"
Tell him to fuck off! The voice in his head was louder now, more agitated by the seeming lack of self-preservation.
I know I should, Astarion pleaded back. Let me be selfish. Please. Just for tonight.
“Mhm,” he hummed, slightly nodding in response.
Gale slowly settled on the ground beside him, whinging softly the whole way down. "Sorry—bad knees," he muttered.
Astarion's eyes trailed to Gale’s fingers as they idly curled around a blade of grass. The other hand held a glass container of what looked to be tiramisu. Astarion tried not to stare but couldn't help himself. He could feel his mouth watering on instinct, honing in on every granule of the generous layer of sifted cocoa powder.
"Is something the matter?" Gale asked, tilting his head curiously. "You were quiet this session."
"No, I'm alright," he lied, attempting to seem nonchalant. "I'm sorry. I might've had a bit too much to drink."
"Well then, you're in good company," Gale grinned. "Here. I brought you something to help you come down a bit."
Astarion's eyes warily drifted back and forth between the dessert and the DM. "Why?" he asked, his voice small.
"I didn't get to see you on your birthday, so I figured I would make up for it with something sweet the next time we met. At first, I thought I'd be a bit cheeky and bake you a traditional red velvet cake—but then I remembered that decorating cakes is not my strongest suit. Plus, you like coffee, so I thought, why not? Tiramisu!"
"You. Made me? Tiramisu?" Astarion asked weakly, his sangfroid facade of casual indifference rapidly coming undone. "Just for me? I'm flattered," he laughed, aiming to conceal his nerves.
Thankfully, Gale didn't seem to notice. "I did! Now—mind you, while I am quite gifted in the culinary arts, I'm not the best baker," he warned, running a hand through his loose waves. "I mean, it was a no-bake recipe, to be fair, but I could've probably worked the mascarpone a little more, and in retrospect, the coffee I used was sub-par. It won't be the greatest tiramisu you've ever tasted—though I hope it's passable."
Astarion inspected the glass container, taking in the dish and all its airy, numerous layers, doing his best to shield it from the endless criticisms Gale was thoughtlessly adding at the last minute. He inched closer, inhaling the rich aroma of coffee—sub-par or not, it transported him to a little table by a window, bathed in the morning's light, the comforting noise of milk being steamed and orders being taken, and the occasional tinkling of bells as the door opened and shut. Visually, it was faultless. He thanked the stars that propriety and decorum had him on such a tight leash—they were the only civilized thoughts holding him back from senselessly devouring it whole with his hands.
"I haven't had tiramisu in years," he admitted. "But 'passable?' Honestly, Gale, I know you like to shoot for the stars and that consequently, your standards are astronomically high, but if this tastes any bit as good as it looks, I'll be a lucky man."
"I'll be the lucky man if you don't find it inedible," Gale murmured. "Kali orexi, as my mother likes to say."
As soon as the plastic spoon effortlessly dug through the delicate whipped cream, his nerves melted like a cloud upon his tongue, tasting equal parts nutty and bitter. The expected flavors of coffee, chocolate, and spongy ladyfingers danced a well-practiced ballet in his mouth—but he couldn't help but feel that something else was hiding in its many blanketed layers—an unfindable, unknowable something. It was the sort of thing he would never find stocked on a shelf at the grocery store.
As he took a second bite—and a third, then a fourth—he imagined Gale in a messy kitchen, his apron covered in cocoa powder, carefully smoothing the cream over the ladyfingers, perhaps sneaking a bit of the filling between his lips as he worked.
"Fuck," Astarion moaned, savoring what must have been his eighth bite. "It's delicious," he breathed. "You're too hard on yourself, Gale. I don't think you could've screwed this up if you tried."
The man flushed beet red, like a rush of wine ruddying his full cheeks. "I'll be the first to admit I've had the lion's share of circumstances where I've screwed things up plenty. But I'm glad to hear it," he smiled.
"Don't sell yourself short, darling," Astarion grinned. "You've never made anything I didn't like."
Gale steered his course to the sky above, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear as his big, brown eyes filled with stars. "A beautiful night, don't you think?"
"Mhm," Astarion agreed, revisiting the blue light of the pool at their feet. He could feel his stomach knotting up again. The sound of his heart beating against his ribcage was so loud it was deafening. Tell him everything, cried out a voice from within, so desperate to leave nothing unspoken that it paralyzed his throat. Tell him nothing, another yelled, penetrating and shrill.
His voice sought an exit that did not seem to exist, clawing at bars that weren’t really there (for as real as they felt.)
"You know, for as many games as I've DMed for, I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it," Gale said, breaking the silence.
"Get used to what?"
"The revelry," he replied. "I'm afraid I've grown too accustomed to spending nights like these with Tara. We'd be curled up in blankets at home with a book between us, watching the ink glinting in the light of the bedside lamp..."
Astarion laughed. "Why am I not surprised by the knowledge that the man who cooks his cat Michelin Star-grade meals also reads to her? Doubtless, her taste is immaculate," he said, lightly teasing.
He watched as the edges of Gale's lips faltered, and he felt his own smile quickly fall off his face. A muscle in his jaw slightly clenched as if he were biting back a testy observation. He sharply exhaled, and when his eyes returned their gaze to his, they were somewhat glassy. "You're not just poking fun at me, are you?" he asked, his searching question saturated with indignance.
Astarion's heart sank to the pit of his stomach. What little color he had earned from an evening of drinking wine drained from his face. "No!" he stammered, panic-stricken. "Why on earth would I ever? I don't think I've ever met another person who cares that much for their pet. I'm being dead serious. What sort of books does she like?"
The apprehension slowly vacated Gale's brow. "She's partial to Ray Bradbury."
Astarion grinned. "Well then, we'll have something in common if I ever have the distinct pleasure of meeting Tara Dekarios. I love Ray Bradbury," he said.
He remembered a younger version of himself, holed away in a secluded corner of the library, reading All Summer in a Day several times in a row, even though it tore his heart to shreds. It was tearing him up more now, watching Gale turn the night into day, knowing this rare moment was probably as close as they would ever be allowed to exist in proximity.
This was his hour in the sun.
And by the Gods, he was going to savor it.
"Ah, a man after my own heart. And Tara's," he chuckled.
A silly thought crossed his mind: perhaps if he read to Godey, the little rat bastard would hate him less.
"You treat your cat so well," Astarion said through another bite of tiramisu.
"I'm sorry if I snapped at you," Gale murmured. "Tara is not just any cat. She's more than a pet—she's my companion. My best friend. And I owe her my life."
Astarion's eyes softened. "I—"
"It's okay. You don't need to apologize," Gale assured. They sat together in mutual silence for a while, with only the sound of the pool filter running in the background.
"After Mystra left," Gale began, his words sharp as they pierced the stillness of the night air, "I felt lost. Empty. It felt like she took something of mine. Something she had no intention of ever returning—forever lost to the ether. And she left me with...well, something I can't fix alone," he muttered, clutching at the inky mark on his chest. "I took a semester off and hunkered down in my room. I didn't eat much. I slept during the day. I spent most of my nights in a drunken stupor, trying to distract myself from thoughts of her. I didn't touch my guitar for months. I couldn't even look at it some days. How could I? She—" he exhaled sharply. His shoulders sloped as he pivoted, his eyes betraying a long-held despair.
"Astarion—Mystra was my private teacher."
The pale man's eyes widened in shock. His blood ran cold for a moment before boiling over. His mind went blank with rage as he imagined the old, dark-haired woman—a smoky-eyed, snake-tongued, needle-fingered predator. He remembered how young Gale had looked standing beside her, and his stomach clenched. "Your teacher?!" he choked, strangled by his anger. "That's—she—she knew what she was doing, Gale."
"I know," Gale smiled sadly. "My folly, I suppose. Music was all I was ever good at, and now, I couldn't hold my instrument in my hands without my fingers feeling useless. It was as if I never knew how to play in the first place. Do you know what that's like?" he asked, his tired eyes boring into the circle he was tracing upon the pool’s porous coping.
Astarion released a shuddering sigh, still wracked from the aftershocks of what Gale had divulged. He recalled the night of his final concert—Raphael had "congratulated" him for his lovely performance, requesting a private encore in the parking lot. He remembered the sensation of the roses as they were forcibly shoved into his mouth to gag him, their thorns pressing against his tongue as warm, metallic blood dripped into his throat—the same throat that had earlier filled a performance hall, now stifling wails into a car seat drenched with his tears.
"Intimately."
"I'm sorry," Gale whispered.
"Don't be," Astarion said, swallowing back the first sign of tears. "It was a long time ago."
"It feels that way for me, too. I just wanted to be left alone, to wallow in my self-inflicted tragedy. I was inconsolable, asking the void in my chest what I could have done differently. It was mortifying to see how low I'd fallen. I just wanted it to pass—to end. Some days, I'd look in the mirror and see a stranger looking back at me."
Astarion held his knees close to him, and he felt the breeze pick up around them. He drank in every drop of the man beside him. His heart cried out and begged him to wrap his arms around him and embrace him. To hold him, to run his hands through the starry streaks in his hair, to plant kisses upon his eyes and his forehead...
I wish I could tell you you’re not alone in this.
"But Tara—" he laughed, "Tara never cared about any of that. It didn't matter who I thought I was—how drunk, how unwashed, how utterly miserable I was. Tara only ever saw me. She'd curl up on my chest and purr, tangle herself between my legs, and nearly trip me while begging for my attention. She kept bringing me her toys as if they would comfort me. Sometimes, less pleasant surprises. Small birds and the like. I stopped chastising her when I realized she was trying to take care of me the only way she knew—since I'd clearly forgotten how to take care of myself. And I realized I needed to be there for her, too—that I'd given her little to be proud of. In a world where it felt like nobody loved me, Tara was always in my corner. She saved my life."
Astarion watched as Gale stared off into the neon blue light, lost in thought. "Gale, I'm sorry. You must have been lonely, with only Tara for company..."
Gale nodded. "Sometimes. But I imposed it upon myself, after all. A few folks tried to keep in touch—Elminster, my mother—who I never allowed to see how bad it was getting. It would have broken her heart. For the most part, I ignored everyone. It's my biggest regret, in hindsight. Tara kept my spirits up, but there's only so much a cat can do to make up for one's entire social circle. I grew to enjoy my own company. I cut back on drinking and got serious about cooking, perhaps to my detriment," he laughed morosely, pawing at the slightly plush layer on his abdomen.
"Hush, darling," Astarion chided, his face flushing as he tried to chase away thoughts of sinking into the softness of an embrace—flesh to flesh, skin to skin. "I don't know what you're talking about."
You're perfect as you are now.
"You're sweet," Gale laughed, his cheeks rosy and round. "At least cooking also gave me a sense of purpose I thought I'd never get back. Something to look forward to every day—something that wasn't music. Something that didn't remind me of Mystra or my many failures. Of the man I was. And now, I get to cook for you."
Astarion could feel his face growing hot. "I'm glad I got to know this Gale. And his cooking."
I'm glad you're here.
"You're—" Gale paused, pursing his lips together. "Running this game is the most socialization I've had in a year or more."
"Is it really?" Astarion asked, smiling tenderly through cloudy eyes before a little laugh escaped his lips. "I would have never guessed. You're good at what you do, you know."
Gale nodded. "Admittedly, I'm out of my element—a fish out of water. It feels good to be back in the room with everyone, but I worry I've left the greater part of my wit and sensitivity in my apartment. I was a better DM once. I'm not who I used to be—in many ways. But my heart is lighter to see you enjoying yourself," Gale's eyes softened as he flashed a shy grin.
He was a sumptuous feast at a palatial table, begging to be consumed. Astarion was the desperate howl of famine, out in the snowy cold, unable to reach inside for even the most minuscule bite, desperate to savor him. Like a magnet, his body yearned for proximity. Closeness. He watched Gale's hand as it hovered over the blades of grass as if he were expecting sparks to fly from his fingertips.
"I rather like the Gale I've come to know," Astarion whispered.
In fact, I'd—
As he watched Gale's eyes widen in surprise, his mind lingered on the handful of precious memories he'd collected where their hands had touched. He remembered Gale holding his hand behind the DM screen in an act of comfort. How gently they'd clasped around his when he'd shown him how to work the knife. All the little times they’d accidentally brushed against one another.
Eager to add another to the list, he reached over and touched the tip of his pinky finger to his. They coiled around one another, and a tiny shock of electricity coursed between them. Gale's hand remained still as their fingers intertwined.
I'd like to see more of him.
"Is there anything else you wish you'd said?" he asked, cocking his head. "During the session, I mean."
A symphony of crickets surrounded the two men, performing their piece in the grass for their rapt, nocturnal audience. Astarion closed his eyes, watching as Gale's profile blurred into mottled daubs of moonlight—a dream-like, impressionistic vision that any artist would have readily welcomed upon their canvas. He imagined what it would feel like to run his hand through the scruff of his beard, to thumb the creases of his eyes like the careful turn of a page, drying away every spectral tear he had ever been absent for, every tear shed during Gale's year of solitude. He was determined to pledge his undying stewardship—to catch every tear the fates had designed to fall from those sad, deep, brown eyes in his lifetime.
How could he give this man his entire heart when it was hardly his to give?
Desire pooled dangerously within him, rebelling against the bars of the prison he'd made for himself.
The door to the golden cage that encircled his throat flew open.
"I like you, Gale Dekarios."
His eyes fluttered open, shock coursing through his body as if he'd just submerged himself in ice water without warning. The words plummeted clumsily from his lips like dice upon a tray. His darkest secret plunged into the carpet of leaves in Halsin's office.
He raised a shaky hand to the air. "S-stop."
Had he said that out loud?!
The astonishment on Halsin's face offered him the response he dreaded most. He nodded. "Okay. We'll stop."
Halsin graciously allowed Astarion to sit with himself as he came down, drunk on a cocktail of emotions as he sipped on the cold contents of his cup of Earl Grey. It tasted funny—like guilt. Perhaps a touch of relief. Overwhelming fear. Runaway bliss. He felt a sunrise blooming on his cheeks as he hid his trembling lips behind his sleeves.
He looked back into the hazel eyes of his therapist—his confessional. A tear sprinted down the hollows of his pale cheeks, past the clusters of wet lashes, and onto his lap.
"I have a crush on my Dungeon Master."
"That's all?" Halsin grinned.
"What in the sweet hells do you mean, ‘that's all?!’" Astarion cried out in disbelief. "This shit has been bothering me for months! I haven't been able to tell anyone."
"Is this the first time you've said it aloud?"
Astarion nodded, his chest hitching like a ship lost at sea. "Yes," he whispered, another tear rushing down his face.
"That must have been painful to keep inside for so long," Halsin said. While his voice was rife with empathy, his posture was frustratingly neutral and hard to read. "Thank you for trusting me with that."
"You're not—you're not angry with me?" Astarion whimpered. "I—Cazador—"
"Why would I be angry with you, Astarion? I'm sure you didn't choose to have these feelings. And you haven't acted on them, right?"
Astarion shook his head. "No. I couldn't—not with—" Cazador. Cazador is going to kill me. "This wasn't supposed to happen in the first place. I swear, it was an accident!"
"What is it you like about Gale?" Halsin asked curiously, keeping his voice even and measured.
Astarion hugged his knees close to his chest. "E-everything. Everything, damn it," he breathed. "I could listen to him talk for hours about anything—even things I never thought I'd give a shit about. I could fall asleep on the cold, hard ground with nothing but the sound of his voice in my ear to keep me warm, and it'd be the best fucking sleep of my life. It's my favorite sound. He smells like sandalwood and books—and his taste in books is so good. We like all the same genres and authors. And his sense of humor!" His tearful confession was interrupted by a tittering, shrill laugh. "Halsin, it's so bad—they're all nerdy dad jokes that would make me cringe coming from anyone else—but something in the way he says them makes me laugh harder than I ever thought I could. He's so handsome. He's got these sweet, labyrinthine brown eyes. They're so expressive. I love the way the corners tighten whenever he smiles. His smile brings me to tears when I think of it—"
"—Astarion, I wish you could see yourself right now," Halsin beamed, eyes aflame with excitement. "I don't think I've ever seen you this happy. You're glowing."
"Happy?!" Astarion's foppish laughter devolved into hideous sobbing. "It's making me so fucking miserable," he sniffled. "Gods, he's so fucking nice to me. All the fucking time. He always notices when I'm trying to talk while everyone's being rowdy and loud—or when I’ve given up, given in to silence. It's like he parts the sea for me. He pulls me back in and hushes the others. He urges them to listen to me, to let me speak, all so my rogue can say something inanely stupid ninety-five percent of the time. I don't know how to explain it, but when we roleplay, there's honest-to-Gods electricity in the room."
"It sounds like there's chemistry there."
"What does he want from me?" he keened into the palms of his hands.
"What if he doesn't want anything from you in return?" Halsin asked, passing him the box of tissues.
"Nobody's like that!" Astarion snapped. "Everyone wants something in return. Everyone. No one is that nice for no reason."
"What do you think he could want from you?"
"I—I don't know," Astarion whimpered. "He—Gods, he makes me feel so..." Astarion searched his brain for the right word.
"Safe?" Yes and no.
Was it "validated?"
"Seen?" Halsin whispered.
Yeah. That was right.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Notes:
I couldn’t help myself! I spent the entire day yesterday editing this to get it out to you as soon as possible. I wanted to get it right—especially Gale’s dialogue.
This chapter was a joy to write, and I’m hoping it will make up for how grim and hopeless the last few have felt. I might take a bit longer to post the next chapter to go outside and catch up with some rest—and the comments!
I always try to respond to everyone, but you’ve flooded me with so much love that it’s getting harder and harder. If I missed replying to your comment, just know I always read every single one of them, and I love them all dearly. I’m forever grateful for everyone who reads this and engages with my work. You’re all so insightful, intelligent, empathetic, and beautiful. You’ve given me a wealth of love and understanding that I never expected to receive when I posted the first chapter. I will do my very best, for all of you. Thank you.
Additionally, I wanted to thank everyone in the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord server who helped me get through the last few weeks of nonstop writing…and of course, to the love of my life—my dearest Gale, my heart of hearts. I don’t know what I would’ve done without all of you.
~✧~
Nathan Ball - Alone
Susumu Hirasawa - Gats
The Civil Wars - Dust to Dust
Bear's Den - Frightened Whispers
Shanti Snyder - SoraHere's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 26
Notes:
2/17/2024 Update: Now includes a mind-blowingly gorgeous, ultra steamy piece of (NSFW!) art by KageBrain! You can check out more of their art here and here, and I seriously encourage you to do so, because man, oh, man are they talented. :D
CW: depiction of a person on the ace spectrum struggling with sex positivity after years of revulsion. The “eventual smut” tag finally becomes relevant!
This chapter was co-written by my fiancé, who stayed up with me while I edited the second draft of this chapter and enthusiastically offered his help! He is shockingly good at writing smut. Wonders never cease…
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Three dots.
Three dashes.
Three dots.
Like a desperate message in a curiously ornamented bottle, Astarion's mind was adrift in a dark sea—and as usual, none of the other players at the table seemed to catch its spectral glint amidst the rotting flotsam that surrounded it like a vulture, spiraling hungrily around, concealing both its beauty and urgency with winding tendrils.
"Notice me. Notice me! I don't belong here," it pointlessly begged—but bottles cannot speak, nor can they pray, however loose their gilded lids might be.
So adrift (and alone) it stayed, floating aimlessly until the tourmaline depths of the sea swallowed it whole.
Water filled the glass, blotting out the ink of the terrified script within.
In the filmy womb of his mind, a pinprick of light flared open like the aperture of a lens. A shuttering sound thrummed through the amniotic fluid that dulled his every sense as it flooded his lungs—like a second heartbeat beating in tandem with his. He swore he could hear the fuzziest warbling of his name spoken aloud in the cloudy distance, beyond the liquid dusk of the ocean.
The rusty chain that anchored his cage to the sea floor splintered apart as a hand suddenly tugged at his shirt, retrieving him from the sullied depths he was sinking into.
Like a pearl pulled out from within an oyster, Astarion could see the sun again.
Half-roused from the fleeting juncture of severance from reality, he turned slightly to the right, expecting the familiar sight of coal-black nail polish and pallid fingers—but rather than a hand, he only saw Gale's hooded doe-eyes peering over his DM screen. He wore concern upon his brow like a dark veil. His hands propped up his chin with fingers interlocked while his elbows rested on the table.
"———, —— —— ——?"
His lips were moving, but Astarion couldn't make out the words he was speaking. He blinked in bewilderment, his ears ringing, scanning the friendly, familiar atmosphere of Wyll's dining room for something to ground him back to reality—except this wasn't Wyll's dining room. Only it was? Every neuron was telling him this was Wyll's house. Something about it felt off. The lights were brighter than usual—disorientingly so. And was there always a fireplace in the corner?
He turned his attention back to the others sitting around him, doing his best not to look them in the eye. They seemed uncanny, animated like puppets on strings, somehow moving yet frozen in their usual places as if waiting for a cue. The echo of their usual chatter and laughter lingered around them like the feeble patter of music in another room. The air was smoky and sweet—like campfire and cinnamon bleeding together.
Gale's soft, brown eyes remained fixed on him. Something intimate and unexplored was hiding within their caramel depths. Something mysterious and unknowable. Something captivating.
Familiar.
.- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / --- -.- .- -.--
Astarion tried to speak, but attempting to conjure an intelligible sound was beyond him. Any words would have felt like spilling errant black drops of ink upon clean, costly parchment. His voice waded through a river of molasses before choking out, "I'm okay. I'll be right back. I'm going to get some water."
He rose from his seat, and Gale stood with him. He walked up to him, gingerly clasping a hand onto his shoulder.
"L— me h—— y—."
The hand on his shoulder felt like sunlight on his skin—the same hand that pulled him from the wreckage of his mind, now gently helping him up.
Suddenly, the once indecipherable glyph of Gale's expression became clear: it was desire—primal, raw, igneous desire.
I'm dreaming—this has to be a dream, Astarion thought, his inner voice slurring as his gaze flicked between Gale's eyes and his slowly parting lips. Either that, or I've finally cracked.
The ringing in his ears returned as he felt himself sway. His knees buckled like a needle breaking in half, and he watched himself faint into the warm sanctuary of Gale's arms.
Suddenly, he was young again, eating a bowl of freshly microwaved popcorn while watching one of those comforting, cheesy after-school shows on his mid-sized CRT television. The sort of show with sucky acting that he happily put up with, if only because he liked to imagine what his favorite actor's lips would taste like, what sort of date they'd go on, what type of ring he would propose with. The thoughts that mattered to him before sex had become a mandatory expectation.
His skin on the screen looked fragmented, translucent, and concerningly fragile. Every movement of his limbs felt like it threatened to break through to another dimension, ripping through the fabric of time and space as if it were paper thin.
He pressed his forehead against the television, leaning against Gale's cheek, the sensation of his bearded face buzzing against his skin. Wisps of silver hair clung to the static, reaching out to the other side, yearning for Gale’s hand to run through it.
His on-screen counterpart came to, feeling woozy.
"Astarion, are you feeling alright?" Gods, there it was! That sweetness, the care he’d been chasing like a drug.
"Gale, I—"
With little warning, the ever-spinning hurricane of the second layer of hell abruptly stopped turning. Their lips were reincarnated soulmates teeming with carnal desire, feverishly reuniting for the first time in centuries. Astarion felt his tongue quickly fall in step, melting into Gale's kiss like ice cream in a heatwave. Nobody on heaven or earth would part them again.
Astarion's eyelids fluttered open. The room was devoid of voyeurs—the mannequin-esque, blank-faced bodies of the rest of the party had vanished into thin air. Blinding, square-shaped set lights burned into his retinas.
Astarion eyed the empty seat where Cazador had been laughing only seconds prior.
This isn't real, he concluded.
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to surrender to the deception of dreams as he pressed his lower body against Gale's.
Fiction be damned. Astarion was going to savor every moment of this.
Light-headed and drunk off the intoxicating scent of sandalwood, his quivering hands fumbled with the single button of Gale's pants, desperate to tear them off of him.
"This won't do," Gale muttered through his teeth, the mere suggestion of his voice causing the hairs on the back of Astarion's head to stand at attention. With a grand, sweeping motion, his arm cleared the mat. Dice and miniatures clattered across the table in slow motion, tumbling down on the wooden plunge pool of Wyll's living room in plasticine waterfalls. Astarion felt his body toppling several Faerunian cities as it crashed onto the table, now lying prone on the map, trembling with want, wracked with shuddering sighs.
Goosebumps blossomed on the frigid skin of his arms like crocuses bursting through the snow as he felt the heat of Gale's hands pulling up at the edges of his shirt, crawling on top of him. Ever the eager cartographer, he tenderly, torturously rucked it further up, mapping the grid of his exposed flesh with his lips and tongue, tracing lines with his fingers as they worked their magic on Astarion's nipples. He whimpered in response, the feeling of arousal only pooling deeper as he felt Gale's hand reach down to massage him through his pants. He rutted upwards into the friction of his palm, biting his lip to the point of bruising, yielding to the raw pleasure of his caress as he wrapped his leg around him. He panted heavily, feeling himself unravel under the heat of Gale's chest as their lips met again.
A low, husky moan rumbled from deep within Gale's throat. He fervently kissed Astarion as if he were on the verge of turning into dust in his hands—as if he would disappear somehow. Astarion reciprocated with a whine of his own. His eyes were hazy with unfettered craving as they devoured one another. He pushed the curtain of Gale's hair back behind his ear, carding each strand as they exchanged the weight of months of unspoken, suppressed desire in the oldest language known to man.
The last sound he heard was his own shredded, raspy voice crying out in beautiful agony.
~✧~
Astarion lurched forward, clutching his sheets in his closed fist, gasping for breath. He turned to his left, where Cazador lay, dead asleep, his hair strewn about in silky black ribbons against the pillow. Astarion watched the breath rise and fall from his chest while his heart thumped at a break-neck speed.
Stunned, he felt himself throbbing, aching below—a moment so rare it may as well have been plated in gold. He felt unusually hot, blood rushing to his most sensitive parts. Was this arousal? He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way of his own accord.
When was the last time—?
Gale. The mirror.
Ah. That's right—the wet dream from months past that had shaken Astarion to his core and made him question everything he thought he had cemented about himself—mainly that he didn’t like sex. In fact, he hated sex. He abhorred sex. It was rote. Repetitive. Nauseating. He was going through the motions and enjoyed none of it. Seduction was a game, and sex was merely the final step in a soulless dance that he had committed to memory after years of overly rehearsed, tepid performances.
Sex was relinquishing control of his body to somebody else for their own pleasure—something empty. He had little choice in matters concerning it.
The worst part was that sex had rarely ever done anything for him. There was no tingling sensation down below, no lust or longing so deep that the promise of sex would ever be a good incentive for him to get things done. It was far from the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, nor was it the end all be all his classmates had longed for and gossiped about in youth.
Maybe it was just him.
He’d tried enjoying it, tried to indulge the fantasies of previous lovers in the hope that his perspective might change. Perhaps he’d discover something new and exciting about himself. Something good.
It never felt good.
Sex was humiliating. Sex was ugly. Sex was survival.
Sex was a chore he despised doing.
He hated sex.
But by the Gods, why, oh why was the salacious mental portrait he’d conjured of Gale Dekarios going a step further and fucking him raw on the table doing this to him?
Dazed, he stumbled from under the sheets like a newborn deer on clumsy legs, staggering towards the bathroom as he tried to still the beating of his heart the entire way. He struggled to keep the door hinges from creaking, cursing himself for not picking up a fresh can of lubricant on his last grocery run—no, not that kind!
Somehow, he closed the door slowly enough to remain practically noiseless. He carefully pressed down on the lock as if it would detonate in his hands if he didn't.
Alone in the darkness, he pressed his back against the wood-filled door and took a deep, shuddering breath as he peeled his shirt off. It clung to his lithe frame, drenched in sweat. He refused to turn the light on, unsure if he possessed the strength to look himself in the eye. Or Gale, for that matter, the next time they saw one another.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I can throw this into the laundry bag and forget this ever happened. I can talk myself down from this, and everything will be fine. Breathe, Astarion! Everything is okay—
He touched his fingers to the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. He was a consummate professional in the art of lying (if the last few months were any indication.) He knew better than to lie to himself.
Everything is not okay, you imbecile.
How am I supposed to go on with my life pretending everything's fine after Gale Dekarios fucked me into the D&D table?!
Try as he might, he couldn't get the hungry look in Gale's eyes out of his mind. It was the look of a man who'd spent the last few years starving for even the slightest hint of affection.
The look of a man who was—
Who was—
Gods. He shook his head.
Who was he to have these fantasies about a man he couldn't have?
And not even accurate ones. Astarion scoffed.
Gale would never be so coarse. He would—
He would—
Astarion closed his eyes, blood rushing to his cheeks.
Gale would slowly reach down my pajama pants—like this.
With a tender, ginger movement, his wrist slid down the smooth skin of his concave stomach. His fingers danced carefully on the edge of his waistband as he imagined Gale sinking to his knees and looking up at him eagerly, silently petitioning for an invitation while licking his pink, bitten lips.
Of course, my darling, he thought. His voice was dark and dangerous in his head.
He paused for a moment, his hand hovering over his sex. He was severely, embarrassingly out of practice. It had been years since he'd tried—but thankfully, the muscle memory kicked in and reassured him otherwise. He stroked the tip with his forefinger, already slick with anticipation. Upon first contact, a sultry vocalization slipped through his slack jaw.
His body immediately tensed.
Fuck! He bit his lip, stifling the next shaky exhale as it stuttered through his teeth. Too loud.
His heart stopped.
Oh shit.
What if Cazador heard him?!
A sliver of lucid, rational thought broke through the haze of fear mixed with desire. Breathe. Caz is still asleep. It's locked.
Still unsettled by the irrational mental image of Cazador somehow having a key, picking the lock with a hairpin, or breaking down the door, Astarion eyed the shower curtain. Privacy. A sound that was easier to explain away than his moans.
He stripped down to nothing, shoving his clothes against the crack of the door to dampen the sound further. He quietly stepped into the shower, turning the knob as far to the left as it would go, knowing that even the hottest setting wouldn't be enough to scald him. (Damn cheap landlords.)
He felt the water running down his chest, dripping down to his still-sensitive cock. It twitched impatiently, pulsing, begging for his hand's immediate return to attention. His eyes closed as he took hold of it in his trembling hands, then began to stroke. Before long, his pace quickened. He adjusted his posture, carefully mitigating the telltale rhythmic splashing against the tile.
Panting, he made a significant effort to imagine Gale as accurately as he could—tired eyes, pale blue veins, the tiny scar on his forehead, the clustered falling stars that were his beauty marks, the silver streaks in his hair. He imagined what the landscape of his soft body might look like—where tufts of hair grew, where velvety stretch marks had bloomed, all the places where he might like to be touched most.
He imagined Gale pleasuring him with an eager mouth, his round cheeks slightly hollowed as he dipped his tongue in and out, up and down his highly sensitive slit. His swollen lower lip brushed against the delicate thread of his frenulum. Imaginary-Gale's celestial eyes looked up at him adoringly as Astarion ran his fingers through handfuls of his wet, wavy hair. His dampened lashes fluttered in pleasure as he bit back a moan.
Yes, Gale, he thought, inhaling sharply. Like that—just like that!
He was dangerously close.
All he needed was to take one last look at his astral simulacrum of Gale—handsome, winsome, imperfectly perfect Gale—soaking wet, mirroring the flush of Astarion's face with his own. He visualized his reddening lips pulling back and forth on his head before delving lower, lower, lower—
Fuck yes! Fuck, fuck, fuck—!
The nebulous vibrations of Gale's disembodied voice rumbled against his sex. His grip tightened—and the world stood still as years of pent-up pressure finally gave way. The whispered staccato of his gasping moans echoed in his head as the pearlescent evidence of his sins issued forth from the tip. He breathlessly watched as it fled through the drain.
His soul was floating. His whole body was flush, tingling, free of tension—alive.
None of his attempts had ever felt like this before.
This is—it feels—
He shuddered, leaning against the shower wall to steady himself. Realization washed over him: this was how it was always supposed to feel.
He could feel the euphoria slipping down the drain to join his emissions in the sewers. The intimate sting of regret was beginning to bloom once more. What had felt gratifying moments before now felt vulgar.
Hello, old friend, Astarion sighed morosely. I didn't miss you.
He reached for the bar of soap and washed clean while his mind fought (and failed) not to picture Gale's hands rubbing soapy circles into his back, gently kneading all of the knots away. Aftercare—a sweet courtesy he’d rarely been afforded before.
He smiled bitterly. If only it were happening.
He rinsed off and shut the valve, wincing as it squeaked in protest. He grabbed his towel with its frayed edges and prepared to dry himself. The weight of shame was uncomfortably heavy on his shoulders, gnawing at him as he gently wrung the ends of his hair into his shirt.
Was it wrong of me to have enjoyed that as much as I did?
Silently, he excavated the closet for a fresh set of clothes to wear—an excursion that took minimal effort due to the pile of clean clothes carelessly strewn about on the floor, wrinkled and unhung. His face burned as he quickly got dressed.
He snuck back into their bed—Cazador's bed. It was hardly his anymore. He glanced over at his betrothed for any sign that he may have stirred during his three A.M. shower.
Once he was sure, his posture relaxed, and he lay awake, hoping that if he pretended to sleep, he would eventually slip back into another concupiscent fantasy that satisfied his newfound craving.
But one persistent thought looping in his head denied him the luxury of dreaming.
Astarion Ancunín didn’t like sex—he hated sex.
Didn’t he?
Notes:
.- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / --- -.- .- -.--
ARE YOU OKAYOh, man. As a person who is on the ace spectrum, I was extremely nervous about posting this chapter.
Sex is complicated. Writing it is hard.
Writing good representation of an ace character who is slowly and suddenly finding out they might have even the smallest amount of sexual interest in someone is even more difficult to navigate, but it so important to me, because it’s something I went through and it made me question everything I knew about myself. It scared me then. I am ready to share it now.
I hope I managed to do these feelings justice.
Thank you once again to my fiancé, and to all of the folks on the discord server who enthusiastically supported me through writing this chapter, especially Ness, Dumpy, Cyan, Milo, and Fey! (I hope I didn't miss anyone! You're all lovely, and I owe you so much for boosting my confidence.) And of course, to Kage, for their art! Gods, I can't stop looking at it! :0 <3
Happy Valentines Day!
~✧~
Björk - Pagan Poetry, Sun In My Mouth, All Is Full of Love, Cocoon (all on loop.)
Portishead - Glory Box
Flower Face - Spiracle
Borislav Slavov - Dream Walk - Instrumental Version**(An additional special shoutout to Cyan, who managed to somehow GUESS THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN.)
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 27
Notes:
8/05 update: Now includes fanart by astarionsknife!
CW - mentions of weight and dissociation.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"I know."
The ghostly echo of Cazador's voice ricocheted back and forth in Astarion's mind like a rogue pinball. The cacophonous bleeps and bloops of arcade noise were not enough to flush it out from the hole it had burrowed in his brain.
His eyes trailed to his shoelaces. They were glowing a luminescent shade of purple in the black light. The garish hue was at war with the glitzy pattern of neon confetti and dried gum on the old, musty carpet. He anxiously scuffed the outsole of his worn sneaker on its thin, flat surface.
The scent of stale sweat and fresh popcorn sat uncomfortably in his nostrils. They flared in disgust, desperate for a palate cleanser. He brought his bare wrist to his nose to catch a whiff of his cologne. To his disappointment, it had significantly faded since he'd applied it. He disappeared into what remained of the earthy, tart scent of bergamot.
He stuffed his other hand into his pocket, feeling for the twenty or so bronze coins jingling within. They were practically scorching a hole into the fabric. For once, he was a man of considerable wealth, and he had spent none of his fortune since they'd arrived at the arcade.
Despite his lithe frame, his body felt unwieldy in the narrow thoroughfare of brawlers and light gun shooters. He leaned his back against a cabinet with a piece of paper taped to its dusty grey screen—out of service. His vision began to blur—glaring lights and colorful marquees melded incongruously. The consequences of his wicked escapade the night before were catching up to him. He'd made it this far, powered through his shift, dodging question after question from nosy Jaheira, thanking the gods above for the coffee that kept him from crashing at his desk.
After work, he'd gone to couples therapy with Cazador—
"To the left, left, left, left, left! No! Dang it, you almost had it, hon!"
"I know, I know," the sweet voice of a stranger flirted back across the room. They inserted another coin into the slot of the crane game.
Astarion felt his fist clench. He was suddenly wide awake, stewing in a boiling pot of liquid ire as Cazador's disembodied voice tickled the edge of his ear, slowly excavating deeper within his temporal lobe. The memory of heavy, shuddering breath burned him from within like a brand on his very soul.
"I know."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. He'd said it so casually. Callously. Dispassionately.
He knew. He always knew.
He felt himself slump against the machine, halfway succumbing to the sleep that had eluded him the night before. A myriad of shattered thoughts gnawed at him in fragments like worms feasting on carrion flesh. His eyes rolled to the back of his head.
If he knew—why didn't he?
How could he—?
"Astarion."
A gentle coo from beautiful Dalyria's seraphim-like voice shook him back into consciousness, barely audible over the deafening sound of canned cheering and pounding music from the old Dance Dance Revolution cabinet where Aurelia and Violet were rhythmically stomping away. The fair canvas of her face was awash in pink and blue neon. Both shades were contending to see which hue flattered her best, reflecting off her skin like the refraction of a diamond in the sun. Both were winning. Concern knotted her brow, marring her otherwise placid expression. Her hands were full with a red plastic cup of water and a bowl of piping hot yakisoba.
The scent was comforting, intoxicating, driving him to madness. He tried to divert his mind from the frenzied piranha pit of emptiness that demanded him to snatch it for himself. Conquering the urge by a hairsbreadth, he crossed his arms, digging his forearms into his abdomen to stave off his appetite.
"What do you want? Did Cazador send you to find me?" he asked, spitting his partner's name as if it were the nastiest curse he could utter. "Well, you can tell him to fuck right off."
She shrank back at his abrasive tone. "No, silly. I went and got these for you," she said, the start of a hesitant smile creeping into her whispery soprano.
The tension in his jaw eased as the sincerity of her gesture dawned on him. He looked down at the food disbelievingly—his food. "Dal, this is—how much did you—?" He began fumbling for his phone in his back pocket. "Here, just tell me how much I owe you, and I'll pay you ba—"
A slim finger met his lips. "Hush. You don't owe me a thing, Astarion. It's on me. Just eat."
He frowned as she placed the warm bowl into his hands. He knew that the right thing to do was to thank her, to find any way to express his gratitude to her—but guilt edged its way in, and the hollow feeling in his chest rendered him mute. It was always a challenge for him to accept her kindness—especially when he was painfully aware of what she had to do to earn her coin.
"Why?" he asked.
"It's just—you look—" Dalyria paused. Astarion could tell that she was holding back, searching for a honeyed synonym, a suitable alternative she could use to cushion the blow of the ugly truth.
"—like shit?" he muttered through his teeth as he ripped the clear plastic off the utensils with his canines. "I know."
"No," she gasped, biting her lip. She was a horrible liar, but he couldn't fault her for trying. "And don't open those with your teeth! You could break one. It's not good for them!"
"You're not my mom," he teased, winking playfully before shoveling a forkful of yakisoba and pork belly into his mouth. It was both salty and sweet, rubbery and oily. Whatever sum Dalyria must have paid was inordinate—but his famished stomach didn't care as much as he did. In its deliciousness, it was unparalleled—transcendental.
"I'm not." A sad smile crossed her face as she watched him scarf down another desperate bite. “But you—you don't look well." She spoke in hushed undertones, gently pushing her fingers through the curtain of his mussed-up bangs. "I worry about you."
Astarion felt his cheeks growing warm. He recoiled from her touch before it lingered too long on his skin. "Dal, stop fussing. I'm fine."
"No, you're not, damn it!"
He froze. The penultimate bite of yakisoba hurt to swallow. Dalyria may as well have slapped him across the face. In the years he'd known her, he'd never heard her raise her voice like that. Limpid, chestnut-colored eyes pierced through him, searching for a soul where there dwelled none now. The clicking of plastic buttons and obnoxious electronic tintinnabulations of pinball machines across the room was not enough to distract from the raw pain in her voice. She sounded like she was on the verge of tears.
"I know."
Two little words lodged themselves through his ribs and into his chest like a wooden stake for the thousandth time, assailing the thin veneer of his cavalier countenance. Two pale arms wrapped around his neck as they pulled him down for an embrace. He burrowed his face into the crook of Dalyria's neck. He felt his throat close up as a single tear trickled down his face and onto her shoulder. Her hair smelled like fresh lilies. He was tired, overstimulated, overwhelmed. He could have fallen asleep then and there if it weren't for the irritating, screeching sound of his name from Violet's lips in the adjacent row.
"Astarion!"
With the tip of his thumb, he quickly rubbed the corner of his eye, erasing the shameful evidence of his vulnerability as the pair made their way over to meet the girls.
"Astarion, Astarion!" Violet flagged him down, leaning carelessly over the railing atop the elevated dance pad, twirling one of her ringlets in her fingers. Her well-coiffed victory rolls were slightly unkempt. "Come play with me! Aurelia sucks at this."
"H-hey!" Aurelia frowned, holding her hand to her chest. She dramatically slumped to the bottom of the machine, struggling to catch her breath, her cheeks burning bright red. "It's been thirty minutes, Vi. I don't know how you have this energy! I need a break," she whined.
"No," he replied. "Find someone else to pester."
Violet huffed. "I'm sick and tired of doing 'Butterfly' for the hundredth time!"
"Too fucking bad, bitch, that's my warm-up song," he affectionately quipped, clicking his tongue. "The answer's still no, by the way."
“Please!” Much to his mortification, they began to beleaguer him in tandem, like petulant children begging their parents for candy. He groaned.
Dalyria placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. He turned to face her, pleading for her aid with his upturned brow. "I don't know what happened earlier," she whispered. "But you've been moping around all day. Don't you want to forget about whatever's bothering you? I won't push you if you don't want to, but I'm sure one game with them won't hurt. Just promise me you'll take it easy."
He stretched into a yawn, carefully considering Dal's guidance. He knew that arguing with the girls would be ineffective, and he knew he wouldn't have the patience to endure them today without biting their heads off. Giving in was the easy way out—but fuck, he wanted nothing more than to find a quiet corner to fall asleep in unnoticed. Perhaps the game might wake him up—he could sneak out to the car—no, Cazador has the keys!
Cazador. His lip curled in disgust.
He could stomp away the rage roiling in his gut since their session, take his aggression out on the pink and blue arrows at his feet.
And besides, he wasn't the worst at DDR. He was decent at it.
He smirked. He was being far too humble—he killed at DDR. It had been a while since he'd had a chance to show off.
"Alright, fine," he sighed, half-feigning frustration, leaning forward to make his way over to the machine. A sudden tug on his shirt halted him, and Dalyria swiveled ahead of him protectively.
"Hold on!!"
"What—but you said—?"
"Aw, Dal! You're no fun! He was just about to play with me!" Violet pouted, crossing her arms.
"Well, let him hydrate first, at least," Dalyria shot back over her shoulder. "I won't have him passing out trying to appease you." She returned her gaze to Astarion's gaunt face, grabbing his hands and wrapping his spindly fingers around the red cup. "Drink. Now. Please." Her tone was stern, insistent—it wasn't a request. It was a command. "Doctor's orders."
Astarion rolled his eyes, too tired to bite back with one of his famous barbed ripostes. He relented, setting his chapped lip to the cup's rim. A surge of cold water rushed through his esophagus. It felt like a luxury in the warm, stuffy arcade. He hadn't realized how dry his mouth was—how thirsty he was. His body seemed to thank him immediately for quenching its drought. Soon enough, his cup was empty.
"Good," Dalyria beamed, her radiant face glowing in the pink, beating light from the game's speakers. "Have fun. Just—" she paused, her eyes tracking beyond his ear.
He froze, his eyes widening in horror. "Caz?" he mouthed.
Her fawnlike eyes, too, widened at the sound of his name, but she quickly shook her head. "No, not him! He's too busy playing Rampage with the other two. He's in a sour mood—someone named LZL beat his high score, but he'll live."
Ah. The legendary LZL. They were the undefeated arcade champion, claiming the high score on over half of the coin machines—and now, on Cazador's favorite game. The thought of him being pissy over a high score was so juvenile that it would have tickled him pink if he knew he wouldn't feel the brunt of Cazador's rage afterward.
Whoever LZL was, he could kiss them—or kill them.
"I meant to say I want you to look after yourself. If at any point you can't keep going, I'll be here to catch you. Enjoy yourself."
He flashed Dalyria an earnest smile. "Thanks. For everything."
He spryly climbed over the padded railing, gracefully touching his feet down upon the reflective platform. He knew this machine and its offerings well—a relic from his youth. For a while, it had sat broken, rotting in a corner. Recently, the arcade's owner had breathed new life into it and retrofitted it to run an untold multitude of rhythm games, but the exterior was the same. The cracked, faded signage was like a familiar, beloved old friend from a bygone era.
"Alright, Vi," he grunted, doffing his t-shirt and passing it down to the girls for safekeeping as he pulled his hiked-up undershirt down to cover his abdomen. He did his best to ignore the look he'd caught on Dal's face at the sight of his body. The glimpse of taut flesh was more than he was used to willingly sharing with them—with anyone. "I'll play, but only because you asked so nicely."
"Yes!" Ever sprightly, Violet leaped into the air, excitedly twirling and clapping her hands.
"On one condition: I swear, if you make me do 'A' like you did last time, I am getting off this damn thing, and you are on your own," Astarion said. A playful glint of mischief flashed in his eye as he fished a handful of coins from his pocket and fed them to the machine.
She sighed, shaking her head. "Alright, bro. Deal. No 'A.' Pinky swear. Let's see—"
Violet began vigorously tapping her foot, rapidly cycling through the enormous selection of songs, desperate to find anything that wasn't "Butterfly"—or "A," apparently. She nearly tapped it to spite him, but he shot her a dirty look. She replied with a kittenish grin as she continued past it.
"No, no, no—oh, hold on!" She paused, hovering her foot with poise as she savored one of the more upbeat techno-pop selections. "Oh, I like the way this one sounds! Let's do this one!"
Astarion raised his voice in alarm. "Wait! I've never—!!"
"Too late!" With impressive speed, Violet quickly stomped her foot down on her pad—and his. The sound of raucous applause blared from the crisp speakers at their feet, along with the boisterous, energetic voice of the announcer.
"FIRST STAGE! ARE YOU READY?"
Shit! So much for showing off. Astarion sighed. Suddenly petrified, his heart scaled his throat. The other two girls collapsed into heaps of laughter in the background.
"Vi, what in the sweet hells are you doing?!"
"Don't look at me like that! I didn't pick 'A.' Just like you asked!" She flashed a toothsome grin as she bit her lip. "Don't worry," she confided. "I don't know this one either. It'll be fun!"
Her idea of fun differed vastly from his. He groaned, swallowing his nerves. "Alright, I guess we're doing this."
"LET'S REVEAL YOUR SOUL!"
The game only gave the pair four beats before the arrows started flying through their transparent counterparts on-screen. Naturally, Astarion's first few steps were stumbles and misses. He took a deep breath, calling on his long-dormant musicianship skills to count through a few measures in his head. He quickly redeemed himself once he'd regained his footing.
Violet's spontaneous selection was a bright, bouncy, poppy techno piece rife with stuttering vocals and the feverish, propulsive beat of a snare drum—emblematic of the era of frosted tips and HitClips it was likely composed in. The lyrics were formulaic, repetitive—trite, soppy fluff. Still, he found himself slightly hypnotized by its rhythmic pulse. He was secretly grateful that its simplicity would make it easier to find for his listening pleasure when he went home.
Like a sponge, he soaked up the endless barrage of praise from the machine.
“Good!”
“Great!”
“Perfect!”
They were simple, small words, but they held power in spades. Astarion felt all the more important and loved for hearing them, even though all they were was an artificial, bottled, pre-programmed response tailored to everyone and no one in particular. When he heard Dalyria and Aurelia cheering for him, pride swelled in his chest along with the sweeping synthetic strings of the song's chorus. He was genuinely smiling. Beads of sweat trickled from his forehead from the exertion. He leaned back and tightly gripped the foam on the bar behind him, laser-focused on matching his feet to the arrows on stage.
Left, right, down, up, down, hold, jump, hold, jump—shit—fuck, missed one!
Violet flashed him a quick, competitive smile as he fumbled yet another combo—and for a fleeting moment, a different, familiar shade of chocolate was peeking back at him, full of scintillating dancing lights. His heart exploded in his chest as he burst into a radiant laugh, savoring the sudden surge of energy his delirious hallucination of Gale Dekarios had inspired.
A rush of heat shot through his veins, and the metallic taste of life burned his lungs. He never had to work this hard before. He was rusty. Severely, sorely out of practice. Maybe he was just old. But fuck, it felt so good to be alive.
The chorus rang in his ears for the last time, a beautiful ripple of staccato strings and electronic sound flooding his every sense. At this point, they'd attracted a small crowd of curious onlookers. Astarion was beaming, thrusting his head upwards. With a dramatic flick of his wrist, he pushed his damp hair away from his brow.
“Perfect!”
“Perfect!”
Perfect, he breathed, turning his head to face Gale—only it wasn't Gale anymore. Violet's grey eyes pulled him back down from the clouds.
Gravity in action.
The purples, blues, and neon green hues of the arcade lights began to bleed together like a melange of paints in the mixer at the hardware store. Astarion saw stars, his vision slowly fading as the song reached its inevitable conclusion, and the familiar sound of pre-recorded applause echoed in his tinny ears. He wavered in place as everything went brown and felt the world slowly slipping from below as it swallowed him whole. Dalyria's hand gripped his arm as he leaned into her for support. She struggled to stay upright as he became dead weight in her arms.
It felt so good to sleep—
"Astarion!"
His bloodshot eyes flickered back open immediately at the unmistakable, shrill timbre. Wide awake, he exchanged a terror-stricken look with the girls, who each now regarded him with undeniable pity as they helped him step off the stage and correct his posture. His lips began to stutter open—he was trying to speak but struggling to produce a single word. The tips of his fingers were trembling from the adrenaline high. Feigning lucidity, he prepared for what Cazador would say when he rounded the corner and saw him standing there in his little tank top—
His blood turned to ice in his veins as realization washed over him.
He was in his tank top.
Shit. He flashed Dalyria a panicked, pleading look, and seeming to have read his thoughts, she quickly slipped his shirt over his head and through his useless arms, pulling it down with Aurelia's help.
Yousen and Petras rounded the corner. Cazador loomed behind them, his dark hair hanging over his face like a funeral shroud. His jaw was tense, and the red gleam of murder was alive in his eyes.
He knew what that look meant—he had failed to reclaim his throne.
"It's a shame Astarion doesn't know how to have any fun," Petras spoke loudly over the buzz of machinery as he was within earshot. "Leon wouldn't have been such a killjoy."
"I know," Yousen sighed theatrically. "Shame he couldn't be here. He was always Caz's favorite to spar with."
I know—two little words, two bullets sundering Astarion's frayed mind. He felt his jaw clench. Even in his punch-drunk stupor, he was milliseconds away from tearing one of the securely bolted prop weapons off the wall and flinging it right into their stupid faces.
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you!" Cazador's voice—scarily intense, acrid, full of tart vinegar—snapped him out of his rage.
"Caz," Dalyria began, her voice low. "I think he needs rest. He—"
"Rest? Standing around and sulking in a corner sounds exhausting," he sneered, subtly speaking through gritted teeth. He strode past him to a standard boxing game and popped a few coins into the slot, eyeing Astarion expectantly through the corner of his eye. "I need to blow off some steam. Can you go to the bar and get me a drink?"
"Of course." Astarion flashed a simpering smile, his voice split in half and practically dripping in an excessive amount of artificial sweetener. He was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Had he gone out of his way to find him only to order him away? "What do you want?"
"Don't ask such a stupid question," Cazador barked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He swung wildly at the pear-shaped sandbag, making contact with its rubber surface. "You know what I like. Don't be long, now, my pet."
"IPA, on tap. Yes, sir," Astarion dipped his head low into a princely bow. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking as he heard the loud crack of another ruthless punch.
"Can you get me one too, princess?" Petras jeered, aping his affectations derisively.
"Go choke on a urinal cake, pissant," Astarion replied sweetly, gleefully watching the man's smarmy smirk fall off his face. His oblong jaw twisted in anger.
Before Petras’s feeble brain could manage a coherent response, Astarion quickly ducked past him into the adjacent row of upright cabinets. His lips curled into the widest shit-eating grin he could muster, and he erupted into his trademark laughter. He dashed across the polychromatic lights, past the coin machine, flying through dozens of screens from eons ago—pixel, raster, and vector graphics alike.
He dodged the scores of gamers engrossed in whatever esoteric, blippy frivolity had ephemerally fascinated them, sprinting to the bar on winged heels as he fled the sickening thud of Cazador’s thunderous assault echoing in his head.
~✧~
"Astarion. Do you ever feel like your brain leaves the room for a bit? Like it just turns itself off?"
He awoke from his fugue and looked up into the earthen forests of Halsin's eyes. His hand felt around his throat for the ring of steel that hadn't been on his neck in half a decade. He thumbed at the small, raised white scar at his jugular. "Hm?"
"Cazador said you dissociate often," he repeated. "Like you just did?"
Astarion nodded, his face ruddy with embarrassment. "Yes."
"Does anything in particular trigger it?"
He felt his throat dry up. Swallowing was suddenly painful. He tried not to think of Cazador's hulking, shadowy form sitting beside him on the couch, gently rubbing his knee with the palm of his hand. A shuddering sigh escaped his lips.
"It happens during sex. Almost every time."
Cazador nodded.
"I know."
Notes:
Behold! Another chapter that needed to be split in half for pacing’s sake! I’m quite proud of this half, and I can’t wait to polish the second half for you all!
I love getting to write interactions between Astarion and his “siblings!” There was something bittersweet about offering them a little moment of joy in trying times.
I really delved into the archives of my memory for this chapter. The first song on this list—Somnambulist—is meant to be the one Astarion danced to. It was only available on the PS2 version of DDR rather than on any of the arcade cabinets, so alas it wasn’t overtly mentioned. It has such a special place in my heart, and I thought it suited Astarion and his situation well. I must have listened to it a hundred times while writing this chapter.
Thank you all for the incredible amount of love you showed me on the most recent update, and for your patience. I hope life is kind to you all—and if it hasn’t been, I hope it gets better and eases up a bit soon!
~✧~
BT - Somnambulist (Simply Being Loved)
SMiLE.dk - Butterfly
D.J. Amuro - A
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 28
Notes:
Edit 3/7/24 - now includes an incredible piece of art by the supremely talented poe! Thank you so much for the love (and for warming my heart!)
CW - discussions of parental abuse/bad moms.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Crimson Veil Blood Orange Hazy IPA, 6.0, 16 oz draft, $7.
Astarion sat at the bar with his head feeling heavy in his hands. He stared lifelessly at the paper menu pressed underneath the glass top, mulling over the same line like a tired rerun. The English language slowly deteriorated into incomprehensible, soupy babble.
Mercifully, the bartender was a man of few words. A mask hid the lower half of his face, and his steely, bespectacled eyes seemed to do most of the talking for him. He took one long, hard look at Astarion, and as if he had somehow read his mind, he came back with a full glass of ice water and set it in front of him. He did not badger him further, instead choosing to engage with other customers, occasionally launching into a flirtatious badinage with the line cook, giving Astarion ample time to decide which beer Cazador would despise the least.
As he clutched the wet glass in his hands, the warning sound of tinkling bells at the door alerted him to the rare flash of the setting sun. It punched into the darkness of black-tinted windows and unnatural flickering lights, disrupting the chaos he had grown eerily accustomed to in the last few hours.
He could feel the surge of heat caressing the back of his neck. The exit beckoned him with its siren-like chimes—his green light at the end of the dock.
What if I just left?
It was a foolish notion, a stupid idea. Astarion knew that even if he managed to swipe the car keys from Cazador's pocket, it would mean leaving Dalyria and all the others stranded here. Calling an Uber was out of the question—the thirty-dollar fare for a ride home would be the final push to topple his finances into the red. The thought of walking the fourteen miles it would take to get home in his condition was laughable. Even if he did have the means to go home, he would still have to face the consequences of his early departure sooner rather than later—therapy could only do so much to keep Cazador Szar's hostility at bay for very long.
Leaving was out of the question.
"Home" was not a safe place to be.
He scrunched his fringe in his fist as he watched the words on the menu blear into a mess of grey splotches as his vision blurred. His exhaustion was getting the better of him again, and he could feel childish agitation overloading his already overwhelmed senses. The familiar prickle of tears stung the corner of his eyes.
Fuck. Of all the places to break down—
"Astarion?"
He jerked awake, annoyed by the sound of his name. "What is it now?!" he snarled, turning his head to meet his tormentor. He was seething, seeing red. "For fuck's sake, I'm ordering it now, I swear, I—"
But the face that looked back at him was not Petras', Cazador's, or Dalyria's—no. It was fresh and freckled, thin and tall, bathing in the neon green light from a sign on the wall. A set of fierce, kohl-ringed hazel eyes were scanning him intently, scrutinizing him like he was little more than a tardigrade under a microscope. The crease between the woman's thick, furrowed dark brows deepened—the crowning jewel of a bewildered expression. She pursed her lips, the sudden movement tugging down at her small, snub nose.
Remorse and self-consciousness amalgamated into a bitter paste in his stomach.
"Lae'zel?"
"You look like shit."
Her words burned inside him like a shot of mezcal—worm and all. Almost too quickly, Astarion reacted with a feeble laugh. "And here I was starting to think your brutal honesty was just another part of the whole 'githyanki warrior' shtick you like to do."
"It is not," the tiny woman said matter-of-factly, taking a large sip of her matcha boba tea. "And you do look awful. Positively bloodless."
"Gods, you're too short to be this rude. I thought I'd earned your respect by this point," he groaned.
"You should know by now that I do not pull my punches, Astarion. I am who I am. I say what I mean. And you look like you have not seen a bed in days—or a DDR machine in years." Lae'zel grinned.
"Oh." The color in Astarion's cheeks rapidly flowered into a shade that could easily rival the fire-truck red hue of the Donkey Kong cabinet in the center of the arcade. He awkwardly crumpled forward. "You saw that?"
"The entire arcade saw that. Your form is adequate, but you are exceptionally out of practice."
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I work here. Voss, the man who owns this place, is my uncle," she said, a hint of annoyance edging her words as she slightly scrunched her nose. "He is not my real uncle—more of a mentor. I used to come here for the World of Warcraft LAN parties he'd host—"
Astarion giggled. "World of Warcraft! Color me surprised," he said sarcastically, grinning impishly through half-lidded, sleep-deprived eyes.
"Tsk. Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?" Lae'zel scoffed.
Every day of my life. His smile did not waver. "I knew you played Warhammer. 40k, is it?" he slurred. "I never pegged you for a WOW player."
"You can be both, you know," Lae'zel grinned. "And I will have you know that I excel at both." Astarion watched as a string of black tapioca pearls crept up her pink straw and past her lips. "Would you like some? I can call Mel over and have him make you one," she said as she gestured towards the bartender. "He would do it gladly. It would be on me."
Astarion compelled himself to grimace, feigning extreme disgust. "No thanks. That shit tastes like grass."
"Your loss," she shrugged as she swallowed another round of pearls and green liquid. "You surprise me. I never took you for the type of person to have bad taste—"
Astarion forced a big plastic smile as he let out a rueful giggle. "You have no idea."
"—nor did you strike me as the kind of man who would willingly spend his free time at an arcade."
He snickered, rue giving way to the sincere, infectious smirk now snaking across his face. "What sort of type did you take me for, exactly? Did you typecast me as the stereotypical queer man who spends all his nights drowning in debauchery? Maybe getting piss drunk at the bar, or perhaps dancing the night away at the club? I play Dungeons & Dragons with you, for fuck's sake! I'm just here buying my sweet, lovely husband-to-be a drink. Never judge a book by its cover."
She blinked. "How else am I meant to judge a book, then? Would the cover not tell me what sort of book I am about to read?"
Metaphors always seemed to elude poor Lae'zel, but it always got a full belly laugh out of him. "What kind of book am I, then, Lae'zel?"
She smiled. "A tragedy."
There was something about seeing her out in the wild that made his heart feel light as air. Her dark brown hair was tied back in the same neat ponytail as always, with a few cuffed braids expertly threaded throughout. Twin daubs of glitter decorated her high, dewy cheekbones. Illuminated in the unnatural glow of arcade lights, she almost looked otherworldly—alien but no less beautiful. He felt oddly disheveled, near pauper-like in her well-groomed presence. A small set of silver sword charms dangled from her earlobes. His gaze slowly trailed upwards, and he stifled a gasp.
There was a sizable chunk of cartilage missing from her right ear. It was as though someone had violently ripped an earring from her helix. He shuddered, wincing in pain as he massaged his delicate ear between his forefinger and thumb.
"That must have been painful," Astarion murmured.
"What?" Lae'zel craned her elegant neck closer to him.
Astarion covertly pointed to his ear.
Her eyes narrowed as she mirrored his hand, and it hovered over the notched flesh. "Pah. No big deal." Her voice carried shocking levels of impassivity. "One of many scars I have earned throughout my life. Any good 'warrior' worth their salt has a few testaments to their story embedded on their skin." Her eyes lingered on the mark on his neck, and his heart fell out of his asshole. "But you already knew that—didn't you?"
"I—"
His reply was interrupted by an abrupt lyrical beeping sound from under the table. To his surprise, a lime green Tamagotchi hung from one of her belt loops. He immediately suppressed an irreverent, excited giggle as a wave of nostalgia washed over him, savoring the unforeseen deviation from her usual demeanor.
"You know, I never expected you to be the maternal type. It's sweet," Astarion teased, watching Lae'zel swiftly attend to the plastic egg's digital needs. "I haven't seen one of those in years. It must be older than you."
"Very funny," she rolled her eyes, pressing firmly on the soft rubber buttons of her digipet's shell. "At least someone here is having their needs properly attended to. Your shirt's inside-out. Your hair urgently needs a comb. And your eyes are swollen shut. You should rest."
Astarion's jaw fell open in indignant surprise. Lae'zel had only been sitting beside him for five minutes, and already she'd parried his blows and looked through him as if he were as transparent a vessel as the empty cup he cradled. Feeling naked and exposed, he stared off across the bar at the overhead menu. An artistically inclined employee had doodled the four Pacman ghosts in colorful black-light paint. Astarion tried to remember their names as a fun little game to distract himself, but he was drawing a blank. Inky? Blinky? Who fucking knows.
He couldn't drown out the chirping sound of Lae'zel's happy, well-fed little cluster of pixels. He imagined a set of large, tanned hands holding him tenderly, pressing little buttons to feed him, bathe him, pet his hair. To tell him he was beautiful. He wished life could be that simple—that it had not left him abandoned, doomed to rot in a dank, moldy drawer with a corroded battery that hadn't worked for years—the darkest of corners for him to be lost and forgotten in.
"Hey!" Lae'zel snapped her fingers. His eyes flew open, and he swore he could see a flash of concern amidst the annoyance in her features.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Tired."
"I know. And yet, you're here," said Lae'zel. "Instead of at home, sleeping—why?"
"Believe me, if I had a choice, I wouldn't be here," he sulked.
"Lae'zel!" The bartender called out. His oddly stilted, placid voice vibrated low in his chest. The corners of his eyes, concealed behind thick, coke-bottle glasses, creased into an oddly warm smile. "You're off already, child? Can I get you anything else to drink?"
"Omeluum," she grinned. "My shift ended an hour ago. Could I get an energy drink? Oh, this is Astarion. He's a friend of mine."
The man eyed Astarion warily, unintelligibly mumbling through his mask before ducking below the bar. He hurriedly returned from the depths with a cold can in his gloved hands before setting it on the bar top atop a coaster. "A pleasure," he said. "Any friend of Lae'zel's is a friend of ours."
Lae'zel slid the energy drink closer to Astarion. "Here. Drink this. You look like you could use this."
"Thank you," he mouthed, popping the tab off with his trembling, careworn fingertips before tasting it. He shuddered. It tasted like battery acid. He couldn't care less.
"I cannot think of a worse place for you to be right now," Lae'zel said. "When you finish, I will give you a ride home—do not fight me on this!" She said, halting his immediate attempt at protest. "It isn't out of the way for me."
The hope in his chest had swelled nearly as fast as it had sunk. "I can't—" he said nervously. "I—Cazador's my ride. Shit. I haven't even ordered his drink—could I get a Crimson Veil?"
Mel nodded, but Lae'zel interjected, extending a hand. "The beer can wait. Please, put it on my tab, too," she added. "I am taking you home. Cazador will be more than okay without you."
Dodge. Deflect.
He ogled the keys she was now jingling at his eye level—the keys to freedom, to sleep—surrounded by an odd assemblage of beads, baubles, and other plastic accessories on her keychain—among them, a frayed purple bracelet, a plastic toy frog, and a small, silver coin emblazoned with three laser-engraved letters. LZL.
A luminous, obvious lightbulb went off in Astarion's addled mind. The giant hammering of realization beating him over the head could not have been more heavy-handed.
Salvation from her salvation.
Holy shit, I am so fucking stupid.
"Hold on—you're LZL!" he cried.
"Correct!" The recognition made her beam, and Astarion watched as a pure, celestial joy traversed her face. She set her keys back down on the bar. "You've heard of me then? And here I thought you completely witless. I intend to get the highest score on every coin-op and candy cabinet in this building—even the imports."
"Impressive," Astarion hummed, amused by the sheer intensity of her eager ambition. "You've had CAZ in knots all night trying to beat your newest high score." He smiled thinly. You're also probably the reason tonight's going to suck. But I can't fault you for that. You couldn't have known.
Lae'zel smirked, a playful flicker instantly sparking cutthroat flames in her eyes. "CAZ—the Rampage cabinet? Ha! I knew it. Tell him to suck it up and get good."
Astarion erupted into peals of wheezy, throaty laughter. "Ha! I would tell him that in a heartbeat, believe me, I would—but I'm afraid the bastard would have my head for that."
"What could be the harm? Let him moan all he likes," she growled, puffing out her chest. "It will not change that any victory he claims in my domain will be short-lived. He will not best me."
"You say this as if he isn't a whole ten feet taller than you!"
"What? He is only a foot taller than me! Do not underestimate me—"
"It's a hyperbole."
"—or overestimate him," Lae'zel ranted on. "His height does not intimidate me. The format does not matter. Be it a contest for the highest score or a physical brawl, your partner cannot match my prowess."
"Tell that to the boxing machine," Astarion muttered, a puff of air escaping his nose as he rested his head on the bar.
Lae'zel looked past his shoulder, leaning back on the barstool to get a better look. Astarion winced as he heard the unmistakable sound of another hefty impact of Cazador's fist against the punching bag.
"Pitiful punch," she huffed. "A wonder it connected. Let us bring him his beer and get you home."
"Lae'zel—" Astarion began to protest, but the booming voice of the line cook thundered from the kitchen.
"What are you still doing here, Lae?" he hollered over the faint sizzle of meat on the grill, peeking through a curtain of tickets. "Didn't you have Warhammer tonight?"
"Canceled," she sighed. "I figured I'd stay a little longer."
"Another night of breaking hearts and records?" Mel chuckled. "Careful, Lae'zel. Spend enough time here, and you might accidentally meet your other half—as we did." He regarded the line cook with a cheeky grin. "Isn't that right, Blurg?"
"Warcraft, forever, baby," Blurg replied, his lips hovering over the tips of his gloved fingers before blowing amorous phantom kisses at his beloved.
Astarion wanted to puke.
He could never admit how much he ached for such goofy displays of affection.
Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. "Wait, hold on—what are you still doing here? It's April. Weren't you sworn into the Marine Corps already?"
Lae'zel froze in place. Her brow shifted upwards, and she nodded quickly, splitting her focus between all three men. Every time it had come up before, she seemed so excited to talk about it, but something told Astarion that there was nothing in the world she wanted to discuss less. "Yes. I was. I requested an extension. I wanted to finish my last semester before shipping off. Thankfully, they granted it."
"Oh," he replied, sensing the all-too-familiar nature seeping into the cracks of Lae'zel's raspy voice. Dodge. Deflect. "When are you leaving?"
"I should be shipping off in July or August," she replied curtly.
Her hands were jittery.
Astarion's eyes softened. "It's nice to know we get a bit more time with you before you go," he whispered. “The game won't be the same without our favorite gith.”
Lae'zel's eyes widened. Thunderstruck, she uttered a single, strangled word: "Really?"
"Really. I mean that!" Astarion nodded. "You're wonderful!"
She sighed. "You won't let me take you home, will you?"
Astarion shook his head gravely.
"Stubborn."
Omeluum and Blurg exchanged a sympathetic glance. "Lae'zel, why don't you bring your friend back and show him what you've been working on?"
"It might do to bring him somewhere quiet for a little bit. Maybe he can lay down and close his eyes on the couch for a bit," the line cook added. "Do you want anything to eat?"
Astarion felt a hunger pang knifing into his stomach as if it were a fillet. At the same time, he felt so frazzled and woozy that he didn't think he could keep it down. Yes. "No, I'll be alright—"
"Put it in a to-go box for later," Lae'zel interrupted. "He will take it home with him." She turned to him and motioned to a non-descript door toward the back of the room. "Follow me."
He took a few steps, trudging behind the petite woman toward the door. It was marked "Employees Only." He paused, dragging his feet at the threshold.
"Don't tell me I have to invite you in, Astarion," Lae'zel teased, her voice deadpan.
"Wait. What about the drink for Cazador?"
Lae'zel shot him a disdainful glance. "Cazador Szarr will be fine without his beer for ten more minutes. He'll live. Are you coming or what?"
You don't know what he's like, he wanted to say. Instead, he remained silent, quietly drafting a text message on his cracked phone screen.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blinding light as he stepped over the threshold. A speckled, textured drop ceiling was looming over them. One of its many panels was missing, exposing wooden beams and insulation above. A cool breeze from an overhead vent messed up the crest of his hair. The cluttered space was overabundant with loose cables and plastic tubs labeled with spare parts. It was a mess. It was a graveyard of old cabinets and retro-game memorabilia. A decommissioned space shooter sat abandoned beside an enormous cockpit flight simulator—its wooden back had rotted away. A makeshift replacement was propped up against the wall, patiently waiting for its integration. A freshly painted fiberglass statue of Sonic the Hedgehog in one of his signature poses stood in the corner. Astarion decided he did not want to linger on it and swiftly pivoted his attention to a chunky machine half-obscured by a moth-eaten tarp.
As far as he could tell, it was an old swords-and-sorcery-themed game, and it was in rough shape. He wouldn't have been shocked to learn that the relic was close to him in age. The sideart was handpainted, picturing a striking snowy-haired elf with the complexion of gunmetal. It wasn't until he noticed the forest-green cloak draped over his shoulders and the black panther at his side that he took a few steps back, his mouth agape.
"No fucking way," he breathed, slowly lifting the tarp and inspecting his ghostly reflection in the beveled screen. Divided into four solid, muted color palettes, the control panel had four buttons, four joysticks, and four character portraits—one for Catti-brie, Wulfgar, Regis, and of course—"Drizzt Do'urden."
"I had a feeling you would gravitate there," Lae'zel grinned. "It has been sitting here collecting dust for a few years. The initial plan was to cannibalize it. Scrap it for extra parts—but then Gale would not stop talking about it. And you."
Astarion froze. He felt his cheeks grow warm. "Me?"
Gale talks about me?
"Yes. I never heard the end of how much you were enjoying the books. I admit, it intrigued me. I decided to give it another chance at life. I finished painting it a week ago."
"You—painted this? It's beautiful. I knew you could paint miniatures, but this—I have no words."
Gale talks about me!
Lae'zel nodded. "You and I have only been friends for half a year. Your knowledge of who I am outside our games is limited to what I have permitted you to know about me. As I am learning tonight, there is a great deal I do not yet know about you. But now that I see the depth of your care for this character, I will let you know when Voss finishes fixing his game. I'll be gone," she mused. "But I want you to be the first to play it."
Astarion rubbed the edge of his thumb on the panther, Gwenhwyvar's onyx fur. It glistened in faux moonlight. "I didn't realize you cared," he murmured.
"About you?" she asked. Her lip twitched into a half-smile before she turned away. "No."
He smiled. It was nice to know that Lae'zel was a worse liar than he was.
Astarion accompanied her past a dozen more machines to the back of the room. It held a few spartan accommodations—a water cooler, a microwave, a mini-fridge, and a shabby, black sofa with a pillow and fuzzy blanket strewn upon it that encouraged him to yield to a gentle repose. There was a gaming PC and a 3D printer on the opposite side.
He crushed the empty can and chucked it into a nearby trash bin. Depleted, he crashed onto the couch with haste. "This is cozy. Wish we had a nap room in my workplace," he murmured.
Lae'zel said nothing. She filled a cone-shaped cup with water at the cooler and sat in a creaky, old computer chair.
"So, how long have you been fixing these old machines?" he asked drowsily. He felt himself drifting to sleep, but his heart was racing too disquietingly fast from consuming the energy drink to give in to the quietus. "Do you just paint them?"
She shook her head. "Voss took me under his wing three years ago. It started with me helping him with one of his projects. When I proved I had a reliable work ethic, he offered me a job, and I accepted. I find there is something relaxing in restoration. I was not expecting to enjoy it as much as I have. Lately, that machine over there has been the source of my joy—and a few bruises," she grinned, gesturing to an impressively tall cabinet with a clear glass tube running straight down the middle. The lavish art beyond the cylinder depicted a scene of a full-scale war between mind flayers and githyanki warriors. The backdrop was an extraterrestrial, purplish sky—the Astral Plane. Near the tube's center was a small section painted a shade of translucent ruby-red. The dull, bold lettering of the marquee—intended to light up—seemed somehow familiar in its obscurity. It read Orpheus: Prince of the Comet.
Astarion's breath hitched in his throat as he rose from the couch, hoisting himself up to sit cross-legged. He'd never seen anything like it before.
"Behold—my magnum opus," Lae'zel beamed as she leaned against one of the defunct cabinets nearby to admire her work. "After years of perseverance, I am almost finished fixing it."
Astarion's jaw dropped. "You did this yourself?"
"Yes," she nodded. She approached the game and rested her hand affectionately over one of the controls. "Orpheus is a near-forgotten-about rarity. It was a redemption game from the mid-eighties. According to Voss, only a few arcades got their hands on the machine before the business that created it went under. Of those, only five or six cabinets are still around. Most of those are in the hands of private collectors, kept hidden away. For a while, the existence of this cabinet was in question. Some believed it to be little more than an urban legend—a myth. Voss strongly suspects that the company that purchased the manufacturer ordered their destruction.
"He's had this machine longer than he's known me. He spent years procuring working parts to fix it. He recently found a second machine in a scrapyard with a functional power supply. It is far from perfect—we are missing the prism. We have replaced it with a ping-pong ball—most undignified. I intend to model and print a suitable replica. The coin door lock is also missing its sticker—but Orpheus is almost fully functional. We will take it to an exhibition first. Then, we are putting it out on the arcade floor to be enjoyed by the public."
Astarion couldn't help but notice the tremors in her hands as she spoke. It felt off—Lae'zel's hands were renowned for their surgical precision. There was something else there, lost beneath a dozen layers of bravado.
"The player moves the ball through 'psychic abilities' and keeps it suspended in the safe area—the red zone—to prevent ceremorphosis—"
"Is this the real reason you wanted the extension?" Astarion asked timidly.
Lae'zel's face tensed. She hesitated to answer at first, annoyedly brooding at the interruption. Her stare, paired with the stern crease of her brow, penetrated his eyes like twin blades. Uncomfortable, he shied away underneath the blanket. She stood, unmalleable and uncommunicative, for a few minutes of silence before finally shaking her head. "No."
"You're afraid, aren't you?"
Her expression softened. "Is it really that obvious?"
"I know that look," he whispered timidly. "I know it well."
"No, you don't." Lae'zel refuted, her voice switching back to its usual brusqueness. "Spare me. A bleeding heart is an unnecessary burden I do not have space for. I do not need your pity, Astarion Ancunín. I only wish I could understand why—"
"Why you're scared?" he asked, unflinching.
A shuddering exhalation fled the sanctuary of her lips. Her voice fell to a whisper, its familiar grit sanded to nothing. "All my life, I trained for this. I studied. I excelled. I had no need of friends—I had no other choice. But now, things have changed. I have Gale, who pushed me not to quit school when I got kicked out. I have Voss, Mel, and Blurg, who helped me through some of the roughest times in my life. They did everything short of adopting me," she laughed somberly. "I have Wyll, who lets me crash on his couch when I don't feel like sleeping at work or in my car." Astarion kept his silent vigil, half-shellshocked, half-outraged, as hot tears began to roll down the straits of her cheeks. "Astarion, I'm scared."
"Lae'zel—you never told me."
"I do not think it befits me to tell the whole world about my failures as a daughter," she hissed. "I am only telling you because I have come to value you as a friend—you and the others. But my future lies only in the scarlet and gold. Joining the Marines is what my mother always wanted for me. It's what I was born for. And so it must be."
"Your mother?"
Lae'zel nodded wordlessly, her hand creeping up to the missing chunk of flesh in her ear.
"I just don't understand why you feel obligated to do something for the approval of someone who would hurt you like that." Astarion said, incredulous. "Mother or not."
"You have no idea what you're talking about," she snarled.
"I had a shitty mom, too, Lae," Astarion beat back, rage bubbling in the back of his throat. "And a shitty dad and a revolving door of shitty boyfriends I ran off to who all treated me just as shitty as my parents did. All my life, everyone I have ever tried to love despised me, and I have never done anything but my best to change that. I know what it's like. I know. Fucking believe me, I know."
"Then you know how much it hurts and how far you would go to fix your relationship." Lae'zel glared, resolutely wiping her tears away. "This is the only thing I can do to atone for my transgressions. It is my destiny. It is what I have worked so hard for. My pledge is unbreakable—set in stone. I cannot break it now."
"Lae'zel—"
"There is nothing here for me, Astarion. I don't have anywhere else to go! I have to trust that I have what it takes to make it out—"
Reflexively, his arms wrapped around Lae'zel's small, wiry body, hunching slightly. At first, she wriggled in protest, but before long, she allowed herself to melt into his embrace.
"I was joking earlier," she murmured, nestling into his chest.
"About what?"
"About finding you annoying. I didn't think anybody ever could."
He tried to mute the sound of his sobs against her shirt. He felt his shoulders tense up as she leaned closer to him.
"You will overcome this," she whispered.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and they quickly pushed one another apart. Blurg stomped into the room like a tornado, his hawkish face incensed with fury. "Lae'zel? I hate to break up this—beautiful moment—"
Astarion and Lae'zel flushed, exchanging a sidelong glance.
"—but some smarmy prick is out there looking for you," he said, pointing at Astarion, "and I am about to tear him a new asshole."
Astarion's face blanched.
Oh shit.
"That's absurd—he shouldn't be looking for me—he knows where I am. I sent him a text!"
Didn't I?!
It took a few attempts to unlock his phone. With trembling hands, he opened his messaging app, and his heart fell through the scuffed linoleum and into the fiery center of the Earth.
Not Delivered
"Fuck!" Panic and despair began to rise in his chest like smoke from a wildfire. The taste of acrid bile chased the energy drink up his throat. A fever pitch screeched in his head.
"Thanks for everything, Lae. I have to go."
"Let me go with you—" she began.
"No, please, that's very kind of you, but it won't be necessary."
"That guy's a real piece of work!" Blurg grumbled. "Do you want me to tell him to fuck off?"
Astarion was sweating bullets. "No, that's alright. There's no service back here, so my texts didn't send. It's my fault for wandering off—I'm sorry if my fiancé came off a bit strong. He worries about me. You'd understand—you'd worry about Mel if he just vanished without you knowing where he is, I'm sure."
Blurg raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Alright. You know the man better than I do, I suppose."
He offered the pair a weak, short-lived smile, squinting in the darkening light as he returned to the tunnels of neon, the rainbow LED extravaganza of the arcade.
Cazador was waiting. He tapped his foot and anxiously swayed as he stood by the token exchange, impatiently clenching his jaw as he checked his phone. Their eyes met in the darkness, and the apoplectic expression on his face plunged into Astarion's chest like a meathook.
Between the spike from the energy drink, the discordant melodies blaring from two hundred games running at once, and the instinctive fear increasing in his chest, Astarion was confident he was about to have a massive heart attack.
"Where were you?" Cazador barked.
"I'm sorry, babe," Astarion stammered, his voice low. "I tried to text you, I—"
"You disappeared for thirty minutes! Where the fuck were you?"
"He was in the back with me," Lae'zel called out from behind the bar, her lean, sinewy arms crossed. Her vivid eyes were alight, intensely staring daggers into his. "Hey, Caz."
Startled, Cazador looked at her and offered a small, amiable wave. He pivoted his attention back to Astarion and heaved a dolorous, theatrical sigh. He pulled the shorter man close, pressing his silver curls against his chest. Astarion could hear the vibrations of Cazador's reedy voice filling his ears as ragged nails scraped the side of his head. "I was worried sick about you. I was so, so scared." Astarion slightly gasped as he felt something wet and warm roll onto his scalp. A pitiful whimper escaped Cazador's lips. "I thought you fucking left me here. Don't wander off like that again, little dove. Please don't leave me. The others are outside, waiting. Let's get you home."
Astarion shot a pathetic, helpless look toward the bar, hoping to see Lae'zel one last time before the heavy door closed in his face, listening to the ghostly notes of the tinkling of bells—his telltale warning, except no sunshine (or safety) was waiting for him on the other side.
As soon as they'd made their way out into the cold night air, Cazador crushed his hand in his, dragging him as he briskly walked towards the crowded swarm of the Saturday night parking lot. Astarion prayed nobody was staring at him as he stumbled, straining to keep up with his partner's pace. His eyes trailed the floor shamefully.
In his exhaustion, he could barely register half of Cazador's lecture through the painful chills running down his backbone. All Astarion knew was that he was an irresponsible, disrespectful, stupid, selfish little shit running off to do whatever he wanted—among other things.
He had abandoned his fiancé.
"Don't do that to me ever again."
His face burned like a brand as Dalyria and Aurelia stole momentary glances of anxiety and pity. He could have sworn that even Petras looked unusually uneasy. Astarion averted his eyes, returning his gaze to the cracked pavement.
As usual, nobody said a word.
Astarion slumped into the passenger seat, feeling smaller than ever, immediately regretting that he had forgotten to grab the food Blurg had promised he’d be able to take home. His legs were beginning to ache from his earlier stint at the DDR machine. The lullaby of the car's engine whirring to life soothed him into the deep, much-needed comatose slumber he had desperately been craving.
His eyelids fluttered shut, and the last thing he recalled thinking about was the look he'd glimpsed in Cazador's eyes when he'd noticed Lae'zel.
It was fear.
~✧~
Notes:
Whew! I’m so sorry it took a bit longer than usual to post this chapter. Between work, I took a trip with my partner and celebrated his birthday last week! This was a lengthy chapter, and it took me a while to refine it and hit all the goals I wanted to!
I am also sorry I have been a bit slow to answer comments as well. I will do my best to reply to the ones I missed last chapter. I am so genuinely happy to have such dedicated, kind readers. To everyone who loves this fic—thank you from the bottom of my heart!
The arcade cabinets described in this game were inspired by Gauntlet (Drizzt) and U235 Meltdown (Orpheus!)
I’m excited about the next chapter.
Things are about to get serious.
~✧~
Sam Fender - Seventeen Going Under
Emika - Centuries
Fink - Looking Too Close (this might as well be Astarion’s theme for this fic.)
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 29
Notes:
Three…
CW - someone (I think we can probably guess who) makes some tasteless jokes about sex workers and domestic violence.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"You want to eat me?" Thick clouds of hazy smoke filled the room like murky liquid nitrogen. Astarion purred as he took another hit.
"Yes," Cazador replied, his voice sultry and low. He was lying on the bed, leaning shirtless against Astarion's bare chest. The camera's mirror captured every pore of perfect skin through a fifty-millimeter lens—it would have been the ideal full-frame shot of his face had his hands not been obscuring his eyes. The lower half of his face stretched as he flashed a weed-addled, Cheshire smile.
"For free?" Astarion's airy laugh caused the audio to spike. He was doing his best not to cough. "What if I told you it cost money?"
"Without missing a beat, Cazador replied, "I'd call you a hooker."
"Really?" Astarion's hand shook as he held the heavy camera in his palm. The shot became unsteady. "Even though I'm your boyfriend?"
"If you're putting a price on it and selling yourself, then yeah. You're a hooker. And I'm about to become your pimp real fucking quick, bitch." Cazador's voice was uncannily jovial.
"Would you seriously pimp me out?" Astarion asked. He giggled nervously. "You're just saying that."
"Yes, what the fuck?" Cazador hissed, deadpan.
"Are you being serious?" There were no giggles this time.
"Yes! Because that means you have no respect for me, and you have no respect for yourself."
"Yeah, but would you immediately start pimping me out?"
"Yes! It would be an immediate thing because I would be so fucking angry," Cazador chuckled. His voice was wheezy and whistling, slightly strangled. "I would put you in a skimpy-ass dress, drive you to the nearest corner or overpass, and say, 'Alright, hoe, make some fucking cash and try not to get hit by a car.'"
"You'd do that?!" Astarion asked disbelievingly. He shifted in the bed. The microphone picked up the sound of the sheets rustling beneath him.
Cazador burst into laughter. "Knowing you, you wouldn't survive in the prostitution industry. I fucking know you wouldn't, you fucking idiot. You'd be the stupidest fucking hooker ever. You sound like a virgin when you flirt—"
"Stop covering your face if you're going to say these things, asshole!"
"Are you still recording me? Like a documentarian filming an animal in its den? Who are you going to show this to? Who is this for?"
"This is for me." Astarion reached over to tickle him under his arm, and Cazador roughly swatted his hand away.
"Ow!" Astarion hissed. His hand hastily recoiled, its movement warped by the camera's lens. "You hit me. You actually hit me!"
"Yeah! You're lucky I didn't punch you!"
Astarion snickered. "You're so cute when you're mad, Caz. All I want is to see your gorgeous face! I will risk getting punched if it means you'll stop hiding it from me."
"Boy, are you serious? I will literally punch you in the face—"
"No, don't punch me in the face!" Astarion whined.
"We're moving to the face!"
"I need to go to work tomorrow! I can't call out."
Cazador's shrill laughter tolled like a fuzzy, sinister bell. "Wear sunglasses," he joked. "It's fine."
Astarion scoffed. "Really? Okay. I wear sunglasses to work, and when they force me to remove them, what? What am I supposed to say? Am I going to have to explain to them that I walked into a fucking door?"
"—you fell—yeah, you fell into the corner of our table."
"Seven times."
Cazador grinned like a schoolboy, his hands still covering the upper half of his face. "Enough to bruise the outer ring of the eye. And cause a blood vessel to burst."
Astarion felt his upper lip curl in disgust as the video ended, looping back to the first frame. The scent of Cazador pumping gasoline filled the car, so acrid and sickly sweet that he felt a headache coming on. He put his feet up on the peeling leather of the dashboard, rested his head on the windowpane, and closed his eyes—but the smile on Cazador's face was etched permanently into his memory. He was sure he'd found it charming, then. Playful and wanton, not unlike his own. Now, it was ghoulish. Empty. It haunted him. He wondered when he'd started to fear it so much.
It had to have been over a year since Astarion filmed that video. He'd forgotten its existence, having only just transferred it onto his phone from the old, chunky memory card it had been hiding in.
Their love had struck like a match lit in kerosene. Within two weeks, they couldn’t keep their hands off one another. Within a month, they were exclusive. Within six, they were living together. After a year, Astarion had pledged to spend the rest of his life with him.
When had they reached the flash point?
There were no rings on their fingers in the video, no scorn on their faces—only two young, naive men who thought they'd finally escaped the curse of dating apps and prospective hook-ups. All the inane, shallow questions they were tired of asking and answering—"What's your favorite color? How do you want me?"—were in the rearview mirror.
Cazador and Astarion were two men who were deeply, irrecoverably, obnoxiously in love with one another: that was the lie the world believed when they looked at them. Even now.
His skin crawled. He wanted nothing more than to go back and wipe the file from existence, along with every shameful, icky feeling that was bubbling up inside of him.
At least it hadn't been posted online for the world to see—unlike nearly everything else.
Astarion shuddered to think of the thousands of poor souls who envied their life—the wretched strangers who wanted to be like them. He could not begin to count all of the saccharine, heartfelt messages from faceless unknowns in the comments section of Cazador's Instagram posts, dreaming of the day they, too, would be able to escape parents who did not understand them, yearning to find the same kind of aspirational, all-consuming love they had seemingly found together.
Seemingly.
Sweet fools. Astarion pitied them.
Bitter shame burned in the back of his throat.
Don’t try and take the blame off of yourself.
You’re smiling and laughing in those pictures.
You’re just as responsible as he is.
"Hey. Get your feet off my dashboard." Like a bullet crashing through a pane of glass, Cazador's voice shattered the air as he abruptly opened the car door. He tossed a bag of Sun Chips onto Astarion's lap, sidling into the driver's seat. "Fuck. Let's go home."
"Sorry that work was stressful," Astarion murmured, adjusting himself as he broke open the chip bag. It was (disappointingly) mostly full of air.
"It's all just a load of fucking bullshit," Cazador muttered as he fished in the glove compartment for his vape. He took a large puff, exhaling trails of skunk-scented smoke.
"We're almost home. Just around the corner," Astarion sighed. He was tired of the sound of Cazador's incessant bellyaching. They'd carpooled home from work together, and he had been rambling about how lousy his shift had been for the last hour. He sat, brooding, staring at the darkening sky. Storm clouds rolled in, concealing the sun in robes of ash.
"Lazy fucking peons dropping the ball left and right, shit getting shoved onto my desk that isn't even my responsibility." The car's engine roared to life. "They're all inept. They know I'm the only one who can help them cover up their mistakes. It stresses me the fuck out."
"At least we have the game to look forward to," Astarion chirped, popping a crumbled chip into his mouth.
Cazador raised an eyebrow, looking puzzled. "Game? We don't have D&D this week."
"No—I mean the game night at Silverbeard's," Astarion asked, mystified by how his partner could forget the very event that had consumed his every other thought for the last week. He was never one for plans, but he'd added a special notification to his calendar. Not that he needed to remember the date. He'd re-read Gale's text over and over.
"Hm?"
"The one Gale invited us to, remember? He's hosting it. It'll be fun—it'll help you unwind a little bit. I wonder what game he's planning on demo-ing for us."
"Oh. That." A low, monotone hum rasped in Cazador's throat. "I don't feel like going. I want to stay in tonight."
"Oh." Astarion drooped in his seat, staring down at his knees as he listened to the steady metronome of the blinker going off. His heart fell still, brimming with disappointment, encircled by thousands of illusory cactus needles. Any sudden movement and it would rupture.
"Don't slouch like that," Cazador scowled.
Instinctively, Astarion straightened his back, pressing it firmly against the seat. He could feel the hairs on his arms coming alive. The car suddenly felt like an ice-box. The small space that kept them apart felt like it was closing in.
"You want to go," Cazador muttered, pushing back a loose strand of his jet-black hair. His other hand gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Don't you?"
The needles tightened. Tiny raindrops began peppering the windshield.
"I kind of do," Astarion replied, his voice soft and detached from the rest of him.
"It's funny," Cazador hissed, his nostrils flaring. "You always have so much energy when it comes to playing games. But when it's just you and I, you fall dead asleep before ten. Why is that?"
If there was an appropriate answer, it did not immediately come to Astarion. His hippocampus was a sieve—his mind was a blank canvas. His body was suddenly dissolving, fizzing around him like seafoam. He sulked silently, ignoring every word of Cazador's tinny, vehement, seemingly unending diatribe.
It wasn't the first time Cazador had canceled plans at the last minute. A few months earlier, he'd promised to take him back to the Renaissance fair on their final operating weekend to atone for how poorly he'd treated him on his birthday. He'd gotten fully dressed and made up, excited for another chance to wear the exquisite embroidered doublet he was so proud of one more time. At the eleventh hour, Cazador admitted that he'd neglected to set aside a set of clean clothes before taking his laundry to his parents' place—that he had nothing to wear. That Astarion was selfish for wanting to go to the fair again since they'd already gone. How dare he pout like a petulant, ungrateful child? How dare he be upset. What did he want him to do—go out with dirty clothing? Stay at home twiddling his thumbs while Astarion fucked off to have a grand old time without him?
Cazador's disembodied voice was still in his head. He knew what it would take to silence it—to end the argument once and for all. The magic words that would help him keep the peace: "If you don't want me to go, I won't."
His jaw tightened. He was tired of saying things he didn't mean. He wanted to go so badly.
To see his friends.
To see Gale.
"Astarion!" Cazador snapped from the bed, fracturing his reverie. He was no longer in the passenger seat of the Altima. He was sitting, stiff as a board, on one of the beanbags, staring over the blue veins beneath the pale flesh of his wrist at their latest purchase. It was a shoddily built, twenty-five dollar IKEA LACK coffee table. The cheapest one they could afford, stark white and unremarkable and small. He could hear the sound of rain pattering on their rooftop like pebbles on sheet metal.
Cazador was shirtless now, leaning back against the pillow he'd propped up to support his back, his wireless controller resting on his lap. "Are you alright, boy?"
"I'm fine," Astarion's brows furrowed. "Why do you ask?"
"You've been quiet," Cazador murmured.
Lie.
"I'm just thinking..." Astarion trailed off, scanning the room for inspiration. He landed on the spine of a book Halsin had suggested for both of them to read—An Adult Child's Guide to What's Normal. There it was: the perfect subterfuge he needed, sitting pretty on Cazador's night table. "You know how we've both been working on fixing our relationship? Our codependency on one another?"
"Yes?"
"Well, I've felt a little stifled lately—lost. Like I don't know who I am outside of the relationship. I'm trying to figure out what I like."
"Lie to yourself, but don't lie to me," Cazador sneered. "You know what you like. Is it—?"
"—it's not you," Astarion affirmed, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat. "I promise. All I'm asking for is a bit of space. That's all I need."
Cazador stared at him, truculent rage burning behind his gaze. "You need space," he repeated.
"I-I think it would help our relationship if we did things independently of one another sometimes," he stammered. "You know? You could grab drinks with the guys. Meanwhile, I’d grab a coffee and read somewhere else. Every moment we spend apart will give us more to discuss when we spend time together. You know I've been having a rough time, and I was looking forward to spending time with—with friends—and—"
"You act like this is your prison cell," Cazador said. His eyes narrowed. "Do not act like I don't let you do anything. I don't control you. You are an adult. I won't sit here and tell you where you can and cannot go or what you should do with your time. I only wish you wanted to spend that time with me," he added bitterly.
"I'm sorry—"
"Do what you want. Just know that I'll miss you, my little mouse." He beckoned him over to the bedside. "Come and kiss me."
With trepidation building skyscrapers inside his stomach, Astarion approached his side of the bed. Masking his discomfort, he planted a chaste, reluctant kiss on the side of his temple. His skin was cold against his cracked lips.
"You know what I mean."
Inside, he winced. The mask's lips twisted into a smile. "Of course," he murmured breathily, inching closer to him on the bed and gravitating to his eagerly parted lips. Cazador's unwanted tongue lay between his teeth, his black-tipped fingers tangling in the loose, silver curls by his ears while his other hand untucked his shirt. He grabbed at the silk like a child at his mother's skirts. Astarion felt like an empty tomb.
"Don't go," Cazador whined between kisses. "Please don't go. It's raining. I miss you already."
Astarion turned inwards, dutifully following the patterns he had to repeat. He swallowed the bitter cocktail on his tongue—the remnants of weed, pomegranate juice, and spearmint. He felt it tracing secret messages onto his.
S-t-a-y.
Cautiously dodging the snare, Astarion pulled away as tenderly and naturally as he could, slowly tracing his jaw with his fingertips. "I'll see you later tonight," he said softly.
He watched Cazador's eyes widen. The grip on his shirt loosened. Like carnelians in the sliver of light of the setting sun pouring through a rain cloud, his eyes did not stray from Astarion as he grabbed his leather bag and his keys from where he'd mindlessly scattered them before.
He hurriedly did his final pat-down—keys, phone, wallet—and headed towards the door.
"Astarion?"
He froze. His hand clasped the bronze doorknob, ready to turn.
What are you waiting for? All you have to do is open it.
"Yes?" he replied, panic roiling in the pit of his belly as he betrayed himself for the millionth time.
"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"
For a moment, he was unsure why he felt so obliged to pay such fervent obeisance to this man—there was no magic spell making his hand release the doorknob, forcing his feet to move back toward the bed, toward Cazador. He couldn't think of a single logical reason why he planted another lingering, meaningless kiss on his forehead or let him bite and suck on his neck until it was raw and red and just as angry as he was. He ran his fingers through flawless threads of ebony silk as if he loved him.
The unruly parade of thoughts about Gale swam in fragments around his head as he pulled his lips away. He felt the sun kissing the side of his face, felt his eyelashes flutter as he looked away, flushing in its warmth.
A tender, self-indulgent thought bloomed in his mind, petals unfurling: I want to go to the ball.
Gale was a car ride away. He would see him tonight, the real him. All he needed to do was—
"Are we okay?" Cazador's voice wavered in his ear.
"Uh-huh," he lied. His utterance was little more than a buzzing noise, but it was a falsehood nonetheless. "We're alright."
He tried not to overthink the poorly disguised look of anguish on his fiancé's face before stepping out into the golden hour.
Another pomegranate seed, he reassured himself, rubbing the sore spot on his neck.
He refused to swallow.
He carefully stepped around the puddles of water at his feet.
It was early May—already several months into the spring.
He would not waste the rest of them in hell.
Notes:
First off, I am sorry that the delays have been in full swing! Last week was my birthday! March is a busy month for my little family. I have decided to change my schedule around a little bit to accommodate for it.
I am so sorry—I ended up needing to split this chapter because it was getting really unwieldy and large and difficult to pace. I hate to leave you with nothing for too long, so I decided to post the first part tonight. If everything goes according to plan, you will be getting not one, not two, but three chapters within the week. The 30th is halfway done. The 31st is complete and ready to post. I hope they are worth the extra wait!
Some general housekeeping:
1. Seen is now a multimedia fic! I have gone back and added some code for all of the text messages, DMs, and letters in previous chapters. I have done my best to ensure that it will not be disruptive for the readers who like to download and read fics on e-readers!
2. This story has been blessed with fanart from some of our talented readers, who have become dear friends of mine as I’ve written! Chapters 10, 26, and 28 now contain fanart, and there is more yet to come. I am forever grateful for the love that has been expressed by you all.
3. THERE IS AN END CAP NOW. I have outlined up to 70 chapters! I hope that doesn’t sound too terribly daunting. There’s a chance I’ll go over (or under!) but I promise I will get you there (and it wont take them until that last chapter to kiss, I swear!)
Thank you to my fiancé for his support, the kind writers of the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord Server who keep me sane when I feel like I’m slipping, and to everyone who loves and comments on this fic for keeping my heart warm. You make this world a far less lonely place. 🖤
~✧~
Måneskin - GASOLINE
Tracy Chapman - Fast Car
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 30
Notes:
Two…
3/25/24 update: this chapter now includes a gorgeous piece of artwork by mystra-ryl! I have admired their art for a very long time, and their modern AU Bloodweave art has inspired a lot of the cozier feelings between these two.
What are you so worried about saying out loud?
Scared they're getting close, are they getting close to the safe now?
Confiding in the silence, whispering with all that violence,
Raging through your brain, I was raging all the same.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion wiped the warm soles of his drenched leather oxfords on the welcome mat, cursing his lack of foresight. He should have changed out of his work clothes before rushing to leave the apartment. The rain had dappled the shoulders of his shirt, darkening the grey silk like the twin shadows of hands roughly tugging at its textile in a vice grip. He furtively undid one of the buttons, hoping to dress down his look. The fabric clung to his damp skin as he peeled it away, exposing a sliver of pale chest. He shivered, regretting his ill-advised choice to leave his blazer in the car for vanity's sake.
He put his phone in airplane mode and checked the time—half an hour early. He sneered. It wasn't like him to be so perplexingly punctual. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his sodden, snowy curls, standing atop the tips of his creased shoes as he scanned the sea of displays for the sign of a familiar face. Save for the occasional sound of shuffled cards by a pair fully enthralled in their Magic: The Gathering game, it was a sleepy Tuesday evening at Silverbeard Games.
He didn't realize how much he'd missed the organized chaos of the store's colorful, cluttered shelves and the lavish assortment of games and rulebooks. He never imagined such a maximalist's paradise would appeal to him.
Then again, Astarion had never meant to adopt a "minimalistic" lifestyle in the first place. A part of him longed to know the luxury of owning non-essential, non-utilitarian things for the sake of having them. He wished he could hold onto his occasional trivial purchase forever instead of eventually selling it to make ends meet.
It began with a few of his clothing pieces. Trinkets he no longer needed. Then, he sold the laptop he'd purchased for school. He wouldn't need it anymore, he rationalized.
He'd finally sold his DSLR camera after months of putting it off. He felt a hollow pang of remorse as he carefully dressed the body and its many lenses in bubble wrap, boxing them up in their cardboard coffins and preparing them for all of the beauty they might capture in their next lives.
Perhaps their new owners would be more adventurous, taking them places worth capturing.
He thought he would have learned by now. It was far more practical not to get too attached to anything.
He absentmindedly strayed into an adjacent aisle, scanning a shelf abundant in RPG core rulebooks. He recognized it as the same aisle where he'd first bumped into Gale the last time. His fingers delicately traced the ridges of their spines, eventually settling on a copy of Vampire: The Masquerade. He spotted a cozy nook adorned with a small mountain of pillows and blankets.
As he approached the comfortable corner, he noticed a fluffy mass of fur—a blend of white, black, and tawny brown—sleeping atop one of the pillows. A set of triangular ears tweaked at the sound of his gentle footfalls as he crouched low to the ground. The cat made a high-pitched, diminutive sound before stretching her body. She yawned, and a small spiked tongue rolled back into a mouth full of sharp, serrated little teeth. A tiny aquamarine bell jingled around her neck as she inspected Astarion with large, golden-green eyes filled with balanced caution and curiosity.
She was too small to be a Maine Coon. Was she a tortie? A calico? Whatever her breed, she was beautiful. He set the book down by his side and slowly extended his hand. The cat inquisitively brought her pink nose to his fingertips, sitting on her dainty feet. Her long, curled whiskers twitched forward as she sniffed.
"Hello, gorgeous," he cooed. "My name's Astarion. You must be Tara. Gale's told me so much about you—he talks a lot, darling. But you didn't need me to tell you that. I'm sure you never hear the end of it," he giggled airily.
As if she'd understood his playful ribbing of her best friend, Tara turned her nose up, looking away. Her eyes blinked slowly as her tail whipped back and forth.
"Tsk. Oh, don't be like that," he feigned offense, crossing his legs. "I happen to think he's incredibly wonderful. From what he says, you're a spoiled little lady with an epicurean palate and an excellent taste in literature. I think you and I could be great friends, you know. Allow me to pet you, love?"
Once more, Tara blinked slowly, slightly lowering her head. He gingerly rubbed the spot between her ears, watching them wiggle with a delighted grin.
"Good girl," he hummed as she butted her head into his hand. He adjusted his touch, reverentially attentive to how she preferred him to pet her tender little cheeks.
"I also heard you saved his life once," he whispered, his voice solemn and low. "Thank you for giving me the chance to meet him."
Tara continued to purr noisily in reply, her eyes narrowing in satisfied pleasure as he scratched under her collar. He spied a scattering of gray hairs sprinkled throughout the patchwork of her velvety fur.
Like Gale, he thought. His heart grew warm.
"You're a sweet old thing," he murmured. "A precious little princess!"
"Queen, actually. It would serve you quite well to remember her title!"
Astarion yelped, startled by the unexpected interjection. He quickly turned around, only to find Gale Dekarios looking down at him amusedly. He pressed a pale hand to meet his florid face. His cheeks were hot to the touch. He remembered the last time he'd stared into those deep brown hooded eyes—or the idea of them. He remembered the way they'd looked up at him, glazed over in lustful desire, lashes wet and clumped together, his lips warm as they hummed on his—
Mortified, Astarion averted his gaze and withdrew his hand from Tara's downy fur as he shot up from the floor. She batted his hand as he retreated. "Ow! How much of that did you hear?!" he asked, fidgeting with the smooth edge of his sleeve.
"I'll let you figure that out," Gale replied waggishly. A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "I'm glad you could make it."
"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," he murmured, brushing a silver curl behind his ear.
Disgruntled by the drastic lack of attention, Tara gracefully bounded onto the floor, her bell ringing as she made her way betwixt the legs of Gale's trousers, pawing at a loose thread at the hem. The urge to cut it off inundated Astarion's brain. He wished he'd packed his embroidery scissors.
Gale grunted as he crouched down to run his palm down her back, arching his fingers to scratch where her tail began. She leaned into his touch contentedly, still audibly purring.
"Vampire: The Masquerade? I should've known you'd be interested in that setting," Gale said, staring at the book he'd left resting on one of the blankets.
"I didn't even have a chance to leaf through it. Her Majesty demanded all of my attention," Astarion said sardonically.
He couldn't help but drink himself into drunkenness at the sight of him—the un-imaginary Gale. He was wearing a slightly loose, relaxed poplin shirt, and suddenly, he no longer felt painfully overdressed. Its eggplant shade was well-suited to the neutral tones of his complexion. He'd rolled up his sleeves, exposing threads of malachite veins dwelling beneath the tender skin of his wrists. His hair was slightly slicked back, its dark, starlit waves cascading over his shoulders.
Astarion cursed the night sky. Until now, it hadn't occurred to him how little of Gale he'd ever seen in daylight. He marveled at the soft glow across his face from the electric lights illuminating the pair from overhead. Somehow, Gale managed to look so healthy, so gentle. There was a shyness in his smile—another little box to pry open. He was so beautifully, enviously alive.
The same light was unkind to him. It mercilessly carved into the alcoves of his cheeks and the recesses above his brow, unsympathetically accentuating the austere sharpness of his features, making him look gaunt and unwell.
"Tara's not usually one for strangers," Gale said. "Or their hands, for that matter. It seems she liked yours quite a bit—a good sign, I'd say."
"What can I say? I'm good with my hands," Astarion let out a laugh. "And I'm ridiculously charming. I'm glad my guile extends to cats," he joked.
"Since you're so good with your hands...would you mind helping me up?" Gale asked sheepishly. "My knees aren't what they once were."
Astarion stared at the network of intricate lines on his palm before placing his hand in his. It was as soothing a touch as it had been when he'd first felt their fingers interlock, the night he'd reassured him that he—his rogue—wasn't alone. It was just as soft, radiating comfortable heat. He fought the urge to run his thumb across the dark, fine hairs of his knuckles as he pulled him upright. There was something comforting about feeling his weight as he stumbled, doing his best to regain his balance. Another reminder that this was no dream—no illusion. His heart thundered in his chest, drumming in his ears.
"Good Gods, Astarion, your hands are freezing—and you're soaking wet!" he exclaimed as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his shirt. "Did you get caught in the rain? Is Caz still outside parking the car?"
Astarion felt himself shrink at the sound of Cazador's nickname as he shook his head. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering in the cold air. "He's at home."
"Ah, you took separate cars, then? I know you both have lengthy commutes. I'm sorry if my invitation was a tight fit for you both! The weather couldn't have helped—"
"He isn't coming," Astarion muttered, trying to disguise his nerves under a small, paper-thin smile. His words dangled haphazardly in the air, shrouding them in an awkward silence.
Gale's expression softened.
Those brown eyes of his were so infuriatingly sweet. Astarion could hardly take it.
"This isn't the first time he hasn't come along with you," Gale said softly, his brow furrowing slightly. "Is everything alright?"
"It's fine," Astarion replied, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt and looking down at his shoes. He wondered if the temperature in the store had suddenly dropped further. The grip around his free arm tightened. "He just had a bad day at work and wanted to sleep it off."
"That's a real shame," Gale replied apprehensively. The creases of his brow heightened. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope he gets the rest he needs."
"I'll let him know you said that," Astarion murmured. Tara had returned to her perch after losing interest in the thread at Gale's heel. She pawed and kneaded one of the blankets, her pupils widening. "You're stuck with just me today," he smiled bitterly.
"I think I can survive 'just you' for a few hours," Gale chuckled before clearing his throat. "I've got a t-shirt on under this," he added, gesturing toward his button-down shirt. "If you want, you can change out of your shirt and into mine."
"Gale—" Astarion's eyes widened in surprise before a wild, unruly giggle tore from his throat. "You're just—you realize you're offering me the shirt off your back. Just like that?"
"I-I didn't mean to impose! It's just..." Gale's low, resonant voice trailed off into a whisper. He brought his hand up to still the trembling of Astarion's shoulder. "You're shivering. I'm afraid it's not quite your size or style, but it is warm and dry. You can hang your shirt up in the back while we play. I won't let you forget about it."
Astarion's heart hammered like the beat of hickory against a drum head.
His eyes fluttered shut in surrender. "Fine."
He wished Gale's hand would never leave his shoulder again.
You're not real. There's no way you're real.
People aren't this kind for no reason.
~✧~
The space between Astarion's slender, interwoven fingers was barely wide enough to catch a surreptitious peek of Gale removing his shirt. His breath hitched in his throat as he watched him undo each of the delicate, pearlescent buttons. He slid the long sleeves of the poplin off, revealing full, plush upper arms. His forearms were peppered in a starlike cluster of freckles and beauty spots. The charcoal-colored t-shirt underneath rode up the curve of his soft midsection, exposing a wild trail of curled hairs and silvery stretch marks. He watched Gale hunch over, self-consciously pulling the fabric down to conceal the patch of uncovered, olive-toned flesh—hiding what little of his body Astarion might notice through the cracks.
"You're not peeking, are you?" he asked timidly.
Pretending he hadn't been caught off guard, Astarion inhaled sharply, subtly closing the gap. "Of course not, darling," he responded in a sing-songy voice.
"This is a bit much for me. Back home, I prefer to have Tara leave the room before I undress."
"You're not the one sitting here without any shirt on at all!" Astarion grumbled. It felt strange, sitting there in nothing but his trousers, his flesh exposed to the thick, stuffy air of the cramped back room. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his posture, curling inward to conceal his visible ribs. "And really, Gale? Your cat?"
"Yes, my cat! I'm a bit shy if you haven't already guessed."
"I hadn't," Astarion quipped dryly. "She is adorable, Gale. I can see what all the fuss is about. I'm happy I finally had a chance to make her acquaintance."
"I'm glad too. I don't give the poor girl nearly enough chances to socialize," He could hear the hint of a smile in Gale's voice. "The last time I brought her to work with me, she mostly stayed with me behind the counter."
Astarion drowned out Gale's voice, cramming invisible cotton into his ears to fill his head with silence—but the cataclysmic monsoon of thoughts about how tightly his t-shirt sleeves hugged his biceps was quickly disintegrating every one of his attempts. He tested his fortune, peering through his fingers once more. For a moment, he swore he saw Gale looking straight back at him, holding his gaze with a starry, faraway look in the dark caramel pools of his eyes. Astarion felt the palms of his hands grow warm as a sheer layer of blush began to paint the pallid parchment of his bare skin like a rosy watercolor pigment. He squeezed his eyes shut and dug his bony elbows deep into his thighs.
"Can I look now?" Astarion whinged. "My arms are getting tired."
"Alright, it's safe," Gale replied.
Astarion cautiously lowered his hands from his eyes, looking up at the deep purple shirt Gale was neatly presenting him before accepting it. He held it close, carefully examining the fine cotton pattern weaving throughout. It looked new—well-made and expensive, unlike nearly every ratty, sewn-over piece in his shamefully neglected wardrobe. Astarion brought it close to his chest, and it shielded him from the shame of being perceived. He fought the urge to press it against his face, to inhale the faded cologne that suffused its neckline. Even from such a distance, it smelled just like him. The faintest suggestion of sandalwood was driving him insane. He was loathe to return it at the end of the night.
He looked up at Gale, his heart brimming with a strange mix of gratitude and apprehension.
I shouldn't be having these thoughts about you.
"You didn't have to do this, you know," he said softly. "I'm sure it won't take too long for my shirt to dry."
"Pish, posh! I wasn't going to leave you cold and wet. Pity I can't also give you my trousers," Gale joked, flashing Astarion a grin. "Well, while you get dressed, I suppose I could go off and help Elminster finish setting up the table—though, knowing him, I'll likely only hinder his progress. I might stay and finish preparing my quaint contribution—if you don't mind!"
"I don't mind. What are you making this time?" Astarion asked. He could hardly mask his excitement about whatever culinary gift he would soon partake in. His stomach was empty, save for the paltry bag of chips Cazador had given him.
Gale's face immediately lit up. "I've made the most delicious shakshuka. My mother's recipe."
"Shakshuka? For dinner?" Astarion slid his hand through one of the arm holes of the shirt. "Isn't that meant to be breakfast food?"
"Astarion, you remember where we ate the first night we met? The diner? The one that serves breakfast twenty-four seven?"
"I do remember," he mused, pulling on the other sleeve. "But I think I got a sad plate of soggy mozzarella sticks and sub-par marinara dip. Hardly the breakfast of champions."
"Forgive me—it must have slipped my mind since almost everyone else ordered pancakes. If my memory serves me right, Karlach got eggs and bacon. I assumed—"
"I only ordered that because it was the cheapest item on the menu," Astarion groaned, fiddling with the first button at his waist. "I was already paying for Caz's entree."
Gale paused for a moment, undoing the zipper of his backpack. "My point still stands. Breakfast tastes just as delicious—if not better—at seven o'clock in the evening as it does at seven in the morning. So I made shakshuka—"
"—and knowing you, it isn't just any old leftover shakshuka," Astarion teased. "I'll bet you made it from the ripest, hand-picked tomatoes, and the eggs are from a lovely little old lady with a chicken coop in her backyard..."
"Well, you're not entirely wrong." Gale's voice was flustered as he searched his bag for a small container of carefully packaged eggs. His face went beet red. "She let me have these for half the price since she knows I'm still in school, which was extremely kind of her."
"How sweet! You are delightfully predictable," Astarion teased. "I can't help but recall a certain admission you made a few months ago about 'leftover salmon.' Lugging fish around with you is one thing, but I must know—how on earth did you bring such an untransportable meal out here? Shit, I fucked up one of the buttons. That one goes there…"
Gale grinned. "I didn't transport it. Not all of it, anyway! I made the sauce at home this afternoon after I got back home from class—I added the bell peppers, onions, chickpeas, garlic, cumin, and spinach—then, once the tomatoes were nice and saucy, I packed it to go in my bag, along with the eggs and my electric skillet. At this rate, I'll be finished preparing it right before everyone else arrives—Karlach just texted me and said they're almost here. It shouldn't take more than four or five minutes."
Astarion's hands froze. "So let me get this straight, Gale Dekarios. You brought your cat and your skillet to work—"
"—my electric skillet!"
"Apologies—your cat and your fancy electric skillet," he corrected himself, his voice laced with cynicism as he leaned back on the counter. "And you're just—what, preparing an entree in the break room of a game store?"
"Well, Elminster's not around, so I might as well," Gale replied, a trace of mischief flaring in his eyes. "He only minds my cooking if we're sharing the space. Never complains about eating it," he muttered, setting a container filled with sauce beside the electric skillet. "Plus, I'm not 'preparing an entree.' I'm just adding the eggs. What about what I've said is riling you up so much? It's perfectly reasonable. Haven't you ever reheated food in a microwave at work?"
"I—" Astarion sputtered, his fingers struggling to find the correct buttonhole. "That's not remotely the same thing, and you know it!"
"You're funny, you know." Gale laughed while he poured the container of sauce into the skillet. His expression softened, his smile unwavering. "I do enjoy our conversations. I don't think Mystra would've entertained such a spirited exchange about breakfast at dinnertime. She always valued 'intellectually stimulating' discussion."
"I hope this isn't your polite way of calling me stupid." Astarion pouted, crossing his arms.
"No, no, not at all!" Gale stammered, shaking his head apologetically. "Far from it, in fact. You're quite sharp. I appreciate the lightheartedness of our talks together. The dialogues you and Caz share must be a veritable comedy show compared to what we had. I recall him having quite the sense of humor in high school."
Astarion's stomach turned as the video he'd watched earlier came to mind. He pondered whether or not Cazador's brand of humor had evolved since he'd known Gale—if it had once been conventional, having slowly mutated into whatever vulgar rot he tried to pass off as a joke these days. Revulsion roiled in his gut as he tried to focus on the pleasant sizzle of the eggs against the heated skillet. There were so many times when those heartless, immature japes had humiliated him, times where he'd begged him to stop telling them—even in the beginning. The memory of Cazador's voice tore through the heat like a freshly sharpened knife.
Boring, humorless, wretch—you think you can do better? You, with your gift for words? Your empty boasting, your tired jokes, your endless prattle. No one thinks it's cute. No one thinks you're funny. Who are you to tell me what's funny and what's not?
"Well, we have had our share of inane conversations—we're both just—well, we're not usually this sober while having them…" Astarion's speech faltered as he locked eyes with Gale. His gaze lingered on him, barely blinking as he'd sat there, conceiving his answer. Upon being seen, Gale quickly shifted his concentration back to his eggs.
"Forgive me," Gale bit his lip and averted his eyes. His brow turned anxiously skyward. "I didn't mean to stare, honestly."
"Like what you see?" Astarion hummed. "Quite the double standard, if I do say so myself. Don't apologize."
I don't mind.
Concern abandoned Gale's profile. It seemed suddenly calm and blank and oddly empty.
"Hold on, did I say something wrong? Why—?"
Without warning, a wave of horror passed through Astarion as he realized he had been staring directly at his neck.
Oh.
Every hint of color evacuated Astarion's face. He'd foolishly forgotten to use concealer like he often tended to do whenever Cazador had gone overboard with his personal, possessive brand of affection. Had it been that bad for Gale to gape at him with such vexation?
The smiling mask fused onto every edge and contour of his face as he brought his hand to his neck, poorly obscuring the purpling, spotted bruise. His fingers brushed against the aching indentations from Cazador's bite. He flinched as the pain whispered: 'You're mine.'
"Gods, it must look positively wretched," he moaned. "I tell him to tone it down, but he gets carried away."
"I see," Gale murmured, his face unchanging. "Forgive my discourtesy."
"Hickies aren't that uncommon," Astarion added, hiding his defenses under a timbre trickling with sultry eroticism. "Surely someone's marked you before?"
Astarion had never regretted letting his mouth run more than he did at that moment. He wanted to evaporate then and there.
Gale abruptly turned the heat off the pan. His hair fell over his face, hiding the fleeting despair that conquered his brow. "I think it's finished."
"I'm sorry." The shredded apology escaped Astarion's throat like a thick thread through the microscopic bore of a needle. "You don't have to answer that question," he blurted out. "It was stupid of me to ask."
Gale exhaled slowly. "Mystra and I did a great deal together. You already know the permanent nature of what she did to me."
"I know. I wasn't thinking. I really shouldn't have said anything," Astarion murmured, staring down at his lap, swimming in Gale's half-buttoned shirt. He retreated into himself, tightly hugging his knees.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He waited for the lash of a cutting remark. He expected an un-invitation. Instead, he watched the severity that had crept into his appearance swiftly melt away.
"No, no, it's alright," Gale reassured in hushed, dulcet sussurations. "You meant no harm. I suppose I opened the door to this discussion when I brought up your beau first. As for me, I'm at the stage of our breakup where I don't mind talking about her," he said softly. "Once, Mystra said she wanted to travel the world with me. She told me she'd take me to the northern lights in Alaska, just for a weekend. The black sandy beaches of Iceland. She even wanted to take me to Greece in the summertime—I haven't visited my family there since I was as high as my mother's knee."
"Did you ever end up going with her?" Astarion asked, endeavoring to disguise a feeling he could not quite identify. "To any of those places?"
He shook his head sadly. "Something would always disrupt those plans. Most of the time, it was my fault—too preoccupied with my studies, too afraid to travel on such short notice. Other times, the requests she would make of me seemed overly exorbitant. Sometimes, I wonder if I should have followed her to the ends of the earth. Had I done so, maybe she wouldn't have..." he sighed. His gentle voice followed his thoughts as they trailed into a cosmic, faraway distance, lightyears away. "Well, that's neither here nor there. What's done is done. I can't undo the past. No matter how much I wish I could. Mystra—"
"We can change the subject if you want," Astarion said tersely. Gods, what was this feeling? His words tasted sharp. His throat felt raw and gritty. He glowered down at his hands as they tugged on the finely threaded hem of Gale's shirt. Hot tears threatened to dissipate the mask he was wearing. He clenched his teeth, unsure if any word in the English language could define the virulent poison that was aggressively coursing through his bloodstream.
It felt like fear, rage, anguish, bitterness—a nasty cocktail of them all, perhaps?
Was it spite?
No—he would recognize those feelings. He knew them well.
Envy?
"Gladly! I've been meaning to talk to you—to everyone—about how I am most excited about the continuation of our game. I knew this adventure would quickly outgrow my initial plan to finish once we'd reached fifth level! I suppose I let my ambitions get the better of me—ha! That’s the story of my life…"
Astarion watched in awe as Gale reverted to his usual, excitable self. He spied the tiny valleys at the edges of his eyes corrugating as he smiled. He spoke just as much with his hands as he did through his words—so animated, so passionate. In his eyes, Astarion saw the first spark of flame against cave walls hundreds of millions of years ago.
Handsome. Intelligent. Kind.
"Admittedly, one of the real reasons I'd hoped to continue this story is because…"
Gale’s garrulous monologue weaved in and out of his head. He wished he could hang onto his every word. His heart bobbed like a buoy anchored at sea, hovering aimlessly, going nowhere. He clawed at it in desperation, desperate to live, soaked in its blood. The treacherous water he treaded salted his wounds.
Is this jealousy?
He felt it sink into the darkness, burying itself into the sand. Mute with grief like a caged, muzzled animal, he listlessly smiled as he watched his friend—his crush—his Gale prattle on, hardly registering a single word while he screamed on the inside.
"…make us all laugh, bring so much panache and bubbly energy to the table. Hells, the backstory! All of them are so compelling, don't get me wrong, and I'm sad we didn't get to touch upon some of the elements during the first part of the game, but I couldn't help but write more of it into the overarching narrative…"
Who was he kidding? Gale wasn't his. He wasn't sure he wanted him to be. Not in that way, at least. Not in the way Cazador wanted him to be his.
Look at him, he thought to himself. He probably doesn't even know how wonderful he is.
Gods, I'm such a creep.
I'm a monster.
"Astarion, have I lost you? Gods, I've gone completely off the rails, haven't I? I wouldn't blame you for drifting off if I left you behind a few stations ago,” he laughed, and he offered the silver-haired man a nervous, insecure look. "I'm not alone in this, I hope. You always gave me the impression that you cared about the game."
"I do care," Astarion said, a slow, earnest smile breaking through his carefully held facade. "It's almost all I ever think about."
The worry eased from Gale's face. “It pleases me to know you care so much. After I went full hermit mode last year, I never thought anyone would care about anything I ever did." He smiled. "I'm happy I was wrong—oh! Hold on, my phone’s going off. That must be Karlach—ah, they're already out there. I'll go greet them, but you can take a breather. Take your time! Come out whenever you're comfortable—and feel free to steal a bite of the shakshuka if you want!"
The moment Gale rushed through the door, Astarion buried his head in the sleeves of the oversized shirt Gale had lent him. The crushing realization that Gale would never be anything more than this eclipsed him.
Gale was better than the imaginary star-crossed affair he'd fantasized about for months. Gale deserved more than to be reduced to his obsessive escapist fantasy. Gale meant so much more to him than that.
Was he really jealous of Mystra for retaining some sick purchase over his heart?
Or was he jealous of someone who didn't exist yet?
There was no way there weren't others. He couldn't be alone in harboring these feelings—he was sure. He was willing to bet every dollar in his stash that he wasn't the only person who died inside whenever Gale entered the room.
And if there was any chance he was the only person—he wouldn't be for very long.
Everyone adored him.
It was only a matter of time before Gale would find someone who wanted to give him the world again. The sort of companionship he deserved. Wholesome, healthy, restorative affection.
The sort of love Mystra could never spare.
The sort of love Astarion could never afford.
He inhaled Gale’s scent, allowing it to burn in his lungs like cinders of ash. Gods, he wished he could keep it and slip it over his pillowcase without worrying about the questions and the consequences. Exasperated, he forced himself to stand and decided to give the evening shakshuka a try.
Astarion Ancunín had always been a selfish man.
But as he brought the first nibble of the homemade tomato sauce to his lips, made saltier with a few drops of an incidental ingredient running down his face, he discovered something about himself: he would sooner fling himself into the ocean and dissolve into seafoam than stand in the way of Gale Dekarios’ happiness.
Even at the cost of ignoring his own.
It was killing him.
Notes:
I am vibrating with excitement!
I cannot believe I have been writing this story for six months now! This silly little modern AU fic I started to try and work through some stuff has made it into the hands of so many wonderful human beings. Your comments have made me laugh, some have made me cry.
I have made friends through writing this exercise in catharsis. I have been Seen. A pleasant, unintended consequence of writing this that I will never regret.
Forever grateful for everyone who has been by my side as I've written this work, and for you, reader.
Do you trust me? I hope so!
~✧~
Kings of Convenience - Riot On An Empty Street
Stateless - Bloodstream
The Antlers - Corsicana
Dario Marianelli - Your Hands Are Cold (from the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack.)Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 31
Notes:
One.
CW
su*cide mention, psychological abuse.
3/26/24 update: added yet another great art by mystra-ryl.
In the deepest ocean, the bottom of the sea,
Your eyes: they turn me.
Why should I stay here?
Why should I stay?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In a cracked, quivering memory, Astarion inhaled a lungful of warm, fresh summer air. The taste of sweat, chlorine, and sunscreen lingered around the edge of his lips. The sky was a vast stretch of cloudless blue spanning the horizon. The sun's rays tickled his slightly sunburnt shoulders. The thin, blonde hairs upon his arms were standing at attention. He exhaled, emptying his lungs as if he were turning a purse inside out.
He stood at the edge of the diving board, taking in the azure water in the near Olympic-sized swimming pool fifteen feet below him. The moisture in the air lapped at his body like a thousand tongues. He shivered. His skin felt like scaly, porous limescale, and his bones were suddenly heavy as cast steel.
A sporadic choir of annoyed voices called out from behind him, echoing sharply. "C'mon! Jump already!"
The sun's light on the water's shimmering surface danced upon his petrified face.
I shouldn't, he thought to say. I've changed my mind.
It'll ruin my hair, he thought to lie.
It'll hurt, he truly meant.
It wasn't the falling that frightened him—the first time he'd tried diving, he liked the weightlessness, the adrenaline, the slight lurch in his stomach as he fell seemingly forever.
Conversely, the impact had felt like barreling through a layer of concrete. It felt like a slap against Astarion's tiny face, red marring his arms, his ribs feeling bruised and raw. The pressure in his eyes was overly uncomfortable.
"Jump!"
He tried to silence the wave of panic pulsing in his head.
He tried to will his fearful legs to run across the board.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
The loudest jeer came from a familiar voice ringing in his head. It was familiar and kind, yet cruel and strange.
Coward.
But a smaller voice—husky, coaxing, and sweet—whispered,
Try.
~✧~
Don't you feel like a fraud sometimes? You could be anyone.
And you don't show them the cold inside—that's not for anyone.
You can't open your doors no more, not for just anyone,
Invite me in for the thousandth time to see me get down in the dark night.
The familiar streets around his neighborhood were empty, awash in the amber glow of streetlights. Astarion quietly murmured along to the song on the radio, counting along to its metronome beat, attempting to fool his heart into keeping time instead of doing—whatever it was doing.
The earlier half of his night was a many-splendored, hazy blur. Everyone—Lae'zel, Shadowheart, Karlach, Wyll—had collectively all but crashed into him the moment they saw him slowly slink out from the back room. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been this deliriously happy about socializing. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been excited to exist alongside these five companionable souls he’d grown so affixed to.
As simple as the rules of Unstable Unicorns seemed, Astarion had failed to understand or internalize a single word of them. The intricacies and nuances of the game were lost on him as he found himself in the throes of distraction. The gentle pitter-patter of rain against the windows. Lae’zel’s rare, piercing laugh. How nice it felt to have Tara circling perfect figure eights around his legs. How beautiful the apples of Gale’s cheeks were as they ascended closer to the heavens each time he spoke. The food—how could he not think about the feast of delicacies sitting mere inches away from his sallow face?
Elminster had set up a folding table draped in an eclectic tablecloth and filled to the brim with exotic cheeses—Manchego, Havarti, baked Brie with honey and herbs, Norwegian Brunost, Shepherd's Hope, Harbison wrapped in spruce bark. He had painstakingly labeled each available variety on a nearby place card in a neat hand. It was rather extravagant for a Tuesday night at a local game shop—not that Astarion would ever complain about free, high-quality food. He’d filled his plate with a sliver of each, grateful for every bite that wasn’t a plastic-wrapped, single slice of processed cheese from the grocery outlet.
Delicious (and varied) as the carefully curated cheese spread was, Gale's shakshuka had been the crowning achievement of the night, receiving endless praise from everyone. He lamented that there hadn't been any leftovers to take home—Karlach and Shadowheart, the latter of which usually only ever picked at her food, made swift work of whatever the rest of the table hadn’t swiftly devoured.
He tried his best to eat slowly, to savor the bounty he had collected onto his plate, but two mirrored hungers were clawing and raking at one another within him, and he could only satisfy one. He dipped a triangle of sourdough into the center of his egg and watched as the yolk bled out, erupting like a ray of sunshine into a blood-red sky.
"How is it?" he'd silently asked, wringing his hands anxiously as he awaited his critique.
"Fine," Astarion had responded, ineloquently, through a mouthful of runny egg.
Gale’s face fell, and his posture stiffened. "I see."
“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Shadowheart whispered, rubbing her temples.
"Well. "Fine' is—fine. Nobody weeps because the weather is fine. No monarchs were overthrown because their rulings were fine. No artworks were burned because they were not masterpieces but merely—fine—"
“Gale, you might want to let the poor guy chew his food if you want anything longer than a single-word answer,” Wyll giggled.
"Yes, I'm only teasing, Gale," Astarion had laughed, nearly choking on the bit of egg he still hadn't swallowed. "Wyll's right. I don't know how I'm supposed to give you the five-star glowing review you’ve rightfully earned while I'm eating! Here’s what you want to hear: It's godly. Beyond reproach. Piquant, ambrosial—celestial goodness on my tongue. It's just as tasty as everything you've ever made for us, if not more so. Do forgive me for my transgression—I hope you won't stop cooking for me," he'd added, winking playfully as the table collapsed into hysterics. "Was that adequate, dear?"
"Only if you’re being serious."
"Would you like to roll insight?"
Gale smiled. “I believe you.”
When he hadn't been engaged in high-spirited conversations with his friends—because that's what they are, these incredible people sitting around me. My friends!—he was fidgeting with the buttonholes of the too-large, eggplant-colored shirt. He was sneakily peeking over the edges of the cutesy, colorful unicorn-themed cards at the man who had lent it to him. The memory of stealing even the slightest glimpse into those brown eyes felt like stepping into a hot spring. His reciprocal gaze was close to medicinal, studying him with interest, soothing him in their warm, soul-nourishing depths.
Astarion never wanted to look away. He was getting too good at cutting off his lingering gazes too soon.
He wanted the fall.
He craved the weightlessness.
The adrenaline.
If only feather fall were a real spell. One he could cast on himself.
He thought about how happy Gale had looked after he'd complimented his cooking, even though he’d spoken in barbs and playful ribbing. How, like moths to a flame, everyone gravitated to him. He was an excellent host, as always—and a magnanimously patient teacher after he'd realized Astarion's focus had been lagging behind everyone else's, leading to an absurdly long losing streak.
No wonder everyone loves you so much, he thought, watching his eyes sparkle when he smiled while he clarified the rules a second time—for him.
Only for him.
He realized how easy it had been to hold eye contact with him in that neutral, safe, small moment.
As he was stopped at a red light, he remembered how Gale had spoken in hushed whispers as the others went off on their own separate, ebullient tangents, so as not to disturb them. How every time Astarion brought his wrist to his mouth, he kept it there longer, if only to hold onto the scent for just a little longer before he needed to take it off.
How easily Gale’s smile had faded when the old man had come over to whisper something in his ear.
How solemnly he’d walked away.
How defeated he'd looked when he'd returned to the table after a ten-minute absence, tucking a piece of paper into the back pocket of his pants as he picked up where he’d left off in the rules.
Astarion's nails dug into his palms as they gripped the steering wheel. His idle leg shook restlessly. What could Elminster have possibly said to dampen his mood so?
He'd tried to ask him.
But Gale was "fine."
He was "fine" for the rest of the night.
The lamp that usually flooded the street sign at his usual intersection with light was sputtering erratically—an omen, he laughed to himself. He turned right, down the dimly lit path to their dwelling.
It had stopped raining hours ago in this part of town. The edges of the street were flooded with the remnants of the sky's tantrum, slowly emptying into the storm drains.
Gale had walked him to his car with an umbrella, and all Astarion could think about as he said his goodbyes was silencing him abruptly with his lips, watching the light bounce off of the silvery droplets through half-closed eyes, tracing his beard with his fingertips. His heart was palpitating wildly in his chest, unassuaged by his poor attempts to soothe its raw, primal urge to escape his chest. His fingers tugged at the collar of a shirt that was, sadly, his own.
The first thing Astarion noticed as he pulled into their driveway was that Cazador's car was absent. He pulled into where it usually was, knowing that this meant he would have to get up at whatever Gods-forsaken hour the bastard decided to return home and trade places with him to commute to their shifts tomorrow.
If his heart were any heavier, it would sink right through him—though he felt himself instantly loosen up when the realization hit. He was delighted by the prospect of being alone with his thoughts for just a little longer. Perhaps he would take a nice, lukewarm shower before slipping into his favorite comfy sweater and sweatpants, mixing powdered hot chocolate into microwaved milk, and dozing off while watching sewing tutorials.
Love me,
Don't put nothing above me,
Can't stop now, I'm the one you want.
You're making me feel like—
He idled in the parking lot, taking a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of his leather bag that sat in the front passenger seat.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. No missed texts or calls from Cazador, which was worryingly atypical for him. Astarion wasn't sure whether to be afraid or relieved.
He clicked on the empty circle next to Gale's name—he would need to conjure an excuse to ask for a picture of him in the future—and tapped out a quick text.
He cut the engine, and the light faded to gray upon the cracked, peach-colored facade of the house. He stepped out of the car, bag in tow, and lumbered to the padlocked gate.
His rumination on his evening of self-care was interrupted by the alarming realization that the padlock was sitting open in the door's latch.
If there was one thing about Cazador that was certain, it was this: he was too paranoid a man to forego locking a door behind him.
Astarion felt his back teeth clench tightly as his throat dried up. He opened the gate and locked it behind him, following the claustrophobic fenced walkway leading to their front door.
As he approached their efficiency, the harsh, acidic scent of chemical fumes assailed his nostrils. He raised his hands, cupping them around his crinkling nose and mouth, his eyes stinging. It was a nauseating, lingering smell, like lacquer in an unventilated space. It only worsened the closer he got. The apartment window was left ajar.
He nearly dropped the keys onto their welcome mat as he opened the door. The overpowering assault of paint fumes infiltrated his nostrils through the cracks in his fingers. He gasped, taking hurried, shallow breaths as he stepped over the aluminum threshold. He flicked on the light switch. His satchel slipped from his shoulder and collapsed to the ground. He stared, unbelieving, at the center of the room, where the odor's origin commanded his every nerve to shred apart.
He couldn't tear away his gaze from the top of their coffee table, lingering on the blotchy, spattered edges—spray painted pitch black and carelessly executed. In the center of the unconventional canvas, Cazador had painted a vivid, blood-red heart, anatomically correct and detailed to perfection with acrylic paints.
With a hasty finger dipped in white gesso, he'd penned a series of distressed messages surrounding the heart in a jagged script, following perfect circles. They were jumbled, fragmented thoughts, strange symbols interspersed within.
BAD. FUCK ME. GOOD? HELP. GONE. CATCH ME. THIS IS TOO MUCH. CONFUSED. SCARED. HELP? MAYBE BAD. HELP ME. FUCK ME. WHY ME? PLEASE HELP NEEDS SPACE FAKE GOOD FOR NOTHING. NO MORE.
His eyes followed the ramblings to the heart's center, where he had written, in a neater hand:
I THINK TOO MUCH.
Astarion crumpled to the ground, shallow sobs and whimpers tearing from his throat. All of the wind had been robbed from his lungs. He wrapped his arms around himself tightly. He began to hyperventilate before the logical part of his brain took over. A panic attack would only mean inhaling more of the fumes. They burned his throat, filling the room like a solid, dense mass.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Godey frantically clawing at his cage's door, gnawing at the latch with his little ivory teeth. Astarion let out a guttural, harrowing cry, cursing as he opened the cage and reached in to pluck the poor creature from his lonely prison. He gently cradled him in his left hand while grasping his phone in his right and snapped a picture of the table. His first attempt was shaky. His second was perfectly still.
He stared at Cazador's scrawl on the table, the words pedestrian in their simplicity, disturbing and runic in that their meaning escaped him.
Was this just art?
Therapy?
The thought he was trying to silence most was suddenly earsplitting, washing over all of the others.
It's a suicide letter.
Panicked, he called Cazador. Every dial tone was more painful than the last. Stabbing, crisp dual notes burst through the speaker. He could feel his phone slipping on his face, slick with tears and sweat.
Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system—
No, no, no.
Astarion was drowning, kicking, thrashing, sinking, swallowing the taste of bitter chlorine, exhaling bubbles.
—is not available. At the tone, please record your message—
He sobbed, re-dialing the number as he cracked the window open further to air out the room. He pressed the button on their window air-conditioner, feeling small and helpless as he did so. Tears were dribbling down his lips like a child whose parents had forgotten to pick them up at school. He shut his eyes and imagined the low tenor of Gale's voice telling him to breathe in, breathe out as the dissonant sounds of the phone erupted into his ears. Godey was curled up into a little blackish ball, his face hidden in the palm of Astarion's hand.
Breathe in,
Please, please, please.
Breathe out.
Your call has been forwarded—
"FUCK!" He wanted to throw the phone down onto his bed in frustration. "What the fuck," he muttered. "Fucking answer me!"
He stepped out into the night air, pacing the length of the porch, trying not to get too close to the security camera by the gate (lest it record irrefutable evidence of the rat they weren't supposed to have.)
The third time, Cazador finally replied.
"Hello."
His voice sounded chillingly measured through the static.
It only set Astarion off more.
"Hello? Hello?! Is that all you have to say to me? I was so fucking worried about you! What did you do?!" he yelled. "What the actual fuck, Caz? I was worried you'd gone off and hurt yourself! I—"
"Relax," Cazador replied, cold and detached. "I bought that table. Don't tell me what I can and cannot do to it. I've never known you to criticize my art—"
"I live here too, Cazador. I have never opposed you painting in the apartment, but you can't just—you can't spray paint shit in here! What am I going to tell the fucking landlords if they smell it? You didn't use fucking newspapers or anything—what if it had gotten onto the tile?"
"It didn't, though, now did it?" Cazador laughed.
Astarion bristled. "And poor fucking Godey, you just left him here to fucking suffocate in his cage! You should've seen him, he was—"
"You're being overdramatic. I am fine. The table is fine. The rat is fine. You are fine. Calm down."
"I can't, I can't calm down, you scared the fucking shit out of me! I'm glad you're fine. I'm glad you're okay," Astarion whimpered. "I was worried about you. I thought—"
"I'm blowing off some steam," Cazador said. Every soft beat of his voice was monotonous, dark, and deliberate. "I'll be home soon. I'll see you then, my sweet little mouse. I love you."
Click!
Astarion stood, unblinking, staring down at his phone screen, smeared with tears and the vaguest hint of leftover foundation. A weighty sob fled his lips. He re-entered the apartment. The pungent toxicity of the air had faded, if only by a fraction. He gently stroked Godey's little triangular face with his thumb as he sidestepped the coffee table, doing his best not to stop and stare or try to decipher it as he picked a random set of clothes off the ground. He opened the door to the bathroom and allowed the rat to dart up his sleeve to his shoulder as he turned on the light. The fan above their head whirred to life.
He quickly set about rodent-proofing the room. He lay his towel and clothes on the toilet lid to weigh it down. He unplugged the hairdryer cord from the wall, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he wrapped the cable around the handles underneath the sink—which he promptly plugged in the implausible event of the creature being small enough to slip inside and down the drain. He set Godey down on the tiled floor and had his finger promptly chewed on in thanks before he scampered off.
He pulled his hand away, nursing the small wound with his fingers, flashing Godey a reproachful glare. Ungrateful bastard, he thought. No good deed goes unpunished.
He set his phone down on the raised edge of the shower (in case Cazador called again) and turned on the water—grind, squeak, release. A low-pressure, unsatisfying burst of water rushed over his chest.
He exhaled, and his shoulders began to shake. He sank to the ground and scrambled to the corner of the shower, watching the water drip from his bangs down onto his kneecaps as he hugged his body close to him, tracing the grout with his pointer finger. He felt so alone. Powerless.
Desperate to leave.
He reached for his phone, lost in the dark, glossy void of his reflection in its cracked screen. He could tell his eyes would be swollen and raw in the morning. He unlocked his phone and opened his camera roll, staring blankly at the pictures he had taken of the table for a few minutes before he realized that he had a new notification—from Gale.
Astarion stifled a sound—unsure if it was a sob, a giggle, or both. If there was anyone in the world he wished he could tell about what he was going through, it was Gale Dekarios.
His heart thrummed in his head like the feverish vibration of a dragonfly wing against a spider's web. A gentle cascade of water droplets landed on the screen as tears fell from his sore, bloodshot eyes. Did he want to pester this sweet, sweet man with a recap of his terror-filled evening?
What did he have to lose? He typed, the digital tapping sound of the keys echoing in the shower. He turned the volume down, not wanting to risk Cazador hearing him.
He grimaced before adding:
Gale read his message almost immediately. Three little dots danced in their small, oval bubble as Gale typed.
Astarion took a deep breath and began to respond. "I'm..." His fingers alternated between "o" and "k." His thumb hovered over the little blue arrow anxiously. He closed his eyes, prepared to pull the trigger and walk away from everything.
But he hesitated. A droplet of tepid water ran down to his chin. He could taste the saline of his tears on his tongue.
Backspace. Backspace.
He stood at the edge of the diving board, hands clinging to the edge, his knuckles bone white. He exhaled, his breath visible in the icy night, as he peered at the black expanse below him. The bottom was a mirror, as pitch as the starless sky, an incalculable distance from him.
There was no promise of water to welcome his body as he dived into nothingness. There was no guarantee he would even survive the fall. His head was spinning, wanting to be anywhere but here, alone on the precipice of this terrifying loneliness, tempted by the wicked unknown whistling beneath him.
But through the whipping of the wind, he swore he could hear the echo of Halsin's comforting voice in his ears:
"To be brave doesn't mean that you have to be fearless. Bravery is not the absence of fear, Astarion. Bravery is to possess fear but to carry on regardless. If you never take that leap of faith, you will never know what your life could have been."
He shivered.
He attached the photo.
And he hit send.
Notes:
Yeah, I’ll hit the bottom
And escape.
~✧~
…BOOM!!
Whew. This is a chapter I have been anxious about posting for a hot minute. Writing about this was a big part of the healing process.
I cannot believe I pulled this off! Also, if you haven't already, check out the previous chapter for a lovely piece of art that was added a little earlier today!
And with that, I must ask you kind folks for a little extra time for the next update to deal with a health issue that has come up. As rewarding as it was to get it done, I worked myself to the bone getting these chapters out here and am in need of some rest! I’ll try not to be gone too long. 🖤
This is only the beginning.
~✧~
Woodkid - Run, Boy, Run
San Fermin - The Woods
Killswitch Engage - My Curse
Invite Me In - Wild Ones
Weird Fishes - Lianne La Havas (Radiohead cover)Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 32
Notes:
Update 4/8/2024 - now includes a soothing, beautiful piece of art by liltaireissocute!
CW for discussions of abuse, gaslighting tactics
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
~✧~
Good morning, Halsin, it's Astarion.
If this isn't Halsin (hi, Nettie) would you please forward this to him? Thank you.
~~
Last night was tough, to say the very least. I went out to play a card game with Gale and a few friends at his workplace. Before I left, Cazador got a little controlling/possessive. He didn't want me to go, but he also didn't want to stop me, so his tone seemed slightly passive-aggressive. He was staring daggers at me, and I could almost feel a panic attack coming on as I was getting ready to go.
It was hard for me to break out of the habit of staying, but I went anyway.
It was nice while it lasted.
I came home to an empty house that was filled with the smell of fumes/spray paint. He painted our coffee table black, painted a red heart in the center, and wrote a bunch of distressing words in white.
I called him frantically because I immediately feared the worst. He sounded so calm when he finally answered me. It was as though nothing was wrong. I freaked out, even though I was happy he was okay.
I feel terrified and hurt, and I want to break up with him so badly, but I'm afraid of hurting him more or causing him to go into a volatile state. He keeps asking me if “we’re ok."
I don't know what to do. I'm at a loss.
~✧~
The vertical caret blinked in and out of existence on the computer screen. It waited patiently, like a loyal dog wagging its metronome tail, for any word that might yet spring from Astarion’s quivering fingertips. He’d already attached the photo he’d taken of the defaced coffee table. Catching a glimpse of its menacing preview from the corner of his eye made him feel just as sick as he’d felt the night before.
Hitting “send” felt surreal—like releasing a paper crane in zero gravity and watching it float away. It would face no hurdles on its journey. It would simply land in Halsin Silverbough’s inbox, and then—
And then what?
What happens now?
Astarion’s finger lingered on the trigger for what felt like ten minutes—or maybe an hour. He stared blankly at his inbox, his heart in his throat as the pixels blurred in his vision. His eyes were bloodshot and raw, pulsing after a night of anxious sobbing. A throbbing headache raged within the corridors of his restless mind.
The sound of Jaheira’s knuckles tapping on his windshield had been his unconventional alarm clock a few hours prior. He’d watched her, startled and wide-eyed, nearly honking the horn with his knee as he jerked awake, tightly clinging to his tattered security blanket. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t thought to grab something more useful as he was stuffing things into his backpack, but he held it to his chest anyway, as if the vestige of some inconsequential memory of childhood bravery—like getting a shot at the doctor’s office without crying—somehow still lived within its disintegrating threads.
Jaheira had spoken through the slight crack in his window. “Astarion, it’s five in the morning. What are you doing here so early?”
“I’m here on holiday,” he’d murmured groggily while stretching.
Thankfully, she’d laughed. “Then you are just in time for happy hour.”
The sound of Astarion’s phone going off immediately broke the dissociative spell he was under.
He was surprised when he hadn’t woken up to a barrage of texts or a voicemail from Cazador. He was sure he would have been furious by his wayward fiancé’s disappearance.
The silence had been nice, if ephemeral.
He braced himself for the storm—then heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the sender’s name.
Jaheira’s tan, leathery hands discreetly set down a glass of chamomile tea by the mouse pad. She’d stalked into her office like a panther—sleek, and silent. Her movements were elegant, somehow—if Astarion chose to look past the hard exterior he’d come to know well. He stared down at her offering. Tiny flowers floated delicately on its steaming surface. The vibrant, golden florets at their center reminded him of egg yolks against their slim, white petals—a cheerful substitute for the sun currently absent in the Wednesday morning sky, hiding bashfully behind cloudy curtains. The rhythm of gentle rainfall beat upon the windows.
“Feeling better, Astarion?” she asked. Her thick, Slavic accent sat on her tongue like a spoonful of sugar. For as much of a meddler as she tended to be, Astarion couldn’t deny that it was oddly comforting to hear her voice this morning. “The flowers don’t spoil the taste, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He nodded feebly, taking a slow, careful sip of tea. The heat emanating from the cup’s edge felt nice against his tender, chapped lips. He’d been biting them anxiously all morning, tearing off the split, sloughed-off skin with his fingers while nervously resting his pointer finger above his cupid’s bow. The chamomile soothed his throat, still abraded from his wailing the night before.
It was rejuvenating.
He couldn’t believe there was ever a day he lived where he didn’t like tea. In the span of a few short months, it had grown on him like moss on tree bark.
Blame Halsin. (Maybe thank him later.)
“That’s good to hear,” Jaheira replied. “You’re welcome to rest in my office for as long as you need to. I’ve already let the others know, but if anyone asks, you’re helping me with some paperwork.”
“I appreciate that,” Astarion rasped, imbibing another restrained sip.
Jaheira’s office was a welcome refuge from his austere, sparsely decorated cubicle next door. It was a lush oasis in a fluorescent, Brutalist wasteland. In a clement gesture towards his poor, aching eyes, she’d dimmed the lights for him. He could smell the pungent, garlic-y gel from the recently broken leaf of an aloe vera plant on the desktop. A rogue sunbeam pierced through the grey, shining through the translucent leaves of the neon-green pothos plant hanging by the windowsill. A colorful collection of eclectic, floral folk art decorated the walls.
It felt almost like a home away from home—and for all the time she spent there, it may as well have been so.
“The tea isn’t to your liking?” she asked. “You’re drinking it slow.”
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve tasted,” he caustically reassured her.
“Good. I’ll give you a few sachets to take home with you. It should help you sleep better.”
He hated this. He felt so visible. Vulnerable. Weak.
At least Jaheira was the only person thus far he’d allowed to see this side of him.
Well, she would be, until Gale showed up.
“I don’t know if any tea is going to make sleeping in a car easier,” Astarion muttered, dramatically taking a more enthusiastic sip. “Or more comfortable. That was a joke, by the way.”
I’m sure I’ll find my way into a nice, warm bed one way or another.
If I’m lucky...
“Hm. Smart-ass,” Jaheira smirked, leaning against her filing cabinet. She watched him greedily sip from her stoneware teacup. “It should at least ease your nerves a bit. Now indulge me. Answer me true and do not lie: why were you sleeping in your car, Mr. Ancunín?”
Her question passed through him like a chill in the air. Astarion gripped the tattered blanket at his lap for comfort. He drew back slightly, regarding her with wariness. “My fiancé and I had a...disagreement last night.”
“A disagreement,” she repeated in her usual sarcastic cadence. The creases of her forehead deepened with disquieting concern as she crossed her arms. “Were you out here all night?”
“Mhm.” Astarion nodded through a mouthful of tea. His vehicle had been the only one on the road for nearly all twenty miles of his early commute. The air conditioner blasted his still-wet hair and his tear-streaked face while he raced past hundreds of identical streetlights. He’d tried to muffle his racing mind by singing along to the most angst-ridden song he could think of at the top of his lungs.
And I’ll try to forget you,
And I know that I will,
In a thousand years—
Or maybe a week.
He’d spent a good fifteen minutes at the parking lot’s chain-link gate, picking the padlock with a carefully bent paperclip—something he desperately hoped Jaheira wouldn’t bring up with their security guard. Not that he likely hadn’t already noticed—thick as Minsc could be, he had to have seen his car there when he went to open the gate in the wee hours of the morning. He prayed (to no one in particular) that nothing would come of it. Losing his job was the last thing he needed right now.
Jaheira’s investigated the angles of his face, scouting for any details he hadn’t readily offered before sitting in the chair across from him at the desk. “So this is why you’ve been looking so haggard lately?”
Astarion’s eyes widened as he choked on his last sip of tea. He nodded—a small, subdued gesture this time. “You don’t mince words. I’ve always loved that about you, really, I do. Sleeping in my car is a fairly recent development—”
“You know what I do for a living, Astarion. You, of all people, should know better,” she scolded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
The room fell uncomfortably silent. The air grew thick and stale, solidifying around them like a layer of linen. Delving deep through shallow thoughts, supported by shallower breaths, Astarion theorized that the bronchi in his lungs must be ossifying. He savored the ghost of chamomile on his tongue as he pondered her question.
“I don’t know,” he finally replied.
I don’t know.
“Astarion—” Jaheira began, before a deep gasp swallowed her sentence. “Your neck...”
“Fuck,” Astarion groaned, bringing his neck to meet the mark above his collarbone. “Look, I know it looks bad, but it’s just a hickey, I swear. Nothing more.”
Her hazel eyes burned into his; like the flickering flame of a candle. “Is your fiancé hitting you, Astarion?”
He winced, fighting the urge to rally against such a preposterous accusation. In the span of two years—two and a half years, now—Cazador had done a plethora of things that terrified him. He’d slammed the door in fits of rage countless times. He’d forced his previous landlord’s driveway gate off its rail after a heated dispute. He’d smashed open the window—he’d forgotten his key—but that could hardly be considered violent. Destructive, yes, but not abusive.
The word felt wrong, even as nothing more than a thought in his head.
Too heavy handed.
Too much.
Sure, he raised his voice at him, told jokes at his expense, called him names, told him how pathetic and weak and dumb and unfunny he was.
But Cazador could be soft when he wanted to be. Gentle. His worst crimes were pelting him with crumpled little pieces of paper and blowing straw wrappers at him when they dined out. Nothing more than cute, if not immature, dalliances.
He’d buried confetti from a popper in his hair after setting it off in the apartment to startle him, once. He’d threatened to spit a mouthful of liquor on him a few times. Almost forced him to consume an edible as a joke before realizing what that would entail, and apologizing profusely into his ear for the rest of the night.
Astarion licked his lips.
Cazador never hit him.
Not really.
Perhaps playfully, a few times, like in the video. But it was nothing more than a reflex, then—a response to being tickled.
He’d slapped him a few times during sex...
Astarion frowned. He’d asked him to do that.
It didn’t count.
He liked to roughhouse—but that was just him playing around.
He’d never bruised him, no matter how much larger and stronger he was.
Never threatened to use his pocket knife on him, the way he worried he would.
But he’d twisted his arm that one time at D&D...hadn’t he? Was that enough?
“No...” he answered.
Sometimes, I wish he would.
Maybe then it would be easier to explain—
Wait.
“...but can I show you something?” he added, his voice thin and strangled as he ushered her over to the computer. “I need to know that this whole thing isn’t just me overreacting.”
“Okay.” She walked up behind the computer chair, leaning forward as he pulled up the email. He caught a whiff of a perfume that smelled of marjoram oil and vetiver.
As he scrolled back up to the image of the coffee table, he wished he had some method of reading her mind. With a penetrating stare, he urgently searched her finely plucked brow for any sign of confluence.
It twitched.
“This is...troubling. You must have been terrified.” She clicked her tongue. “What a nightmare. How long has this been going on?”
“I honestly don’t know,” he whispered. “It wasn’t always like this—I think. We’ve always had fights, but I feel like it’s been getting worse the last few months. He’s never done anything like this—ah!”
He jumped at the sound of knocking at her door.
“Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” she reassured him. “I’ll leave you be for now. There are some oatmeal packets in my cupboard. Help yourself.”
But as soon as Jaheira opened the door, Minsc cheerily pushed past her. His booming voice filled the an-echoic office with its usual Stentorian timbre: “Minsc has a special delivery for Mister Ancunín!”
Astarion’s heart sank. Minsc was holding a bouquet of sunflowers to his chest. They would have been impressively massive if they hadn’t looked comically small in his brawny arms. The man hummed—completely oblivious to his plight—as he set the flowers upon the least crowded corner of Jaheira’s cluttered desk. A black, silk ribbon was neatly tied to the vase’s choke. Tucked into the center of its bow was a small note.
I can’t believe I never thought to get you sunflowers!
–Your dumb fool of a fiancé
“Somebody must really love you, my friend!” Minsc beamed. “Although you are looking a little pale...”
“Thank you, Minsc,” Jaheira said. “That will be all for now.”
A quiet storm was brewing in her dangerously soft tone. Its nuance was likely lost on poor, sweet, empty-headed Minsc, who continued his off-key, sonorous humming as he made his way back to his post, but Astarion could tell that she was fuming.
She gently closed the door and flashed him a sharp, knowing look.
“Flowers? Astarion, he cannot be serious.”
He sat in silence, staring, dead-eyed, at the bright, yellow petals.
“I have chills, the slimy bastard,” she huffed, returning to her seat. “You realize this is laughably textbook—”
“I know,” Astarion replied, struggling to keep his voice from slipping into a pathetic, throaty whimper. Under the desk, he wrung the threadbare shreds of his blanket in his hands. “I know what it looks like. I might even know what it is. I’ve been down this road before. I don’t want to fall for this again. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore.”
“You’re trying to leave,” Jaheira said softly. “Aren’t you?”
He nodded. A hot tear streaked down his face. “Gods. I’m so tired of crying. I wish it would just stop. It’s exhausting. This isn’t who I am, I swear.”
“I know, cub. I know,” she crooned. She hunched forward, running her hand through a beaded strand of hair before extending it over the table. “Here. Take my hand.”
He did as he was asked. She cradled his hand in hers—a rough, earthen hand, the blistered, calloused sort that spent most weekends buried in loamy soil, planting flowers and herbs in a community garden, rooting for mushrooms in autumn woodlands. She slowly rubbed circles into the valley between his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m scared. Scared of what’s next. I don’t know what to fucking do,” he confessed. “I mean, I do know. I’m not a complete idiot. But I’m worried—worried about where I’ll have to go. What I have to do. Worried about him. He isn’t going to take it well. I know he hurts me. I know I should be so much fucking smarter than this. I don’t know how to explain myself, but that man loves me. He loves me so much. It’s going to break his heart.”
“It’s okay to be afraid. And I also know how people like Cazador can be. He will be fine. He will throw a tantrum. Beg you to stay. But you know the truth. He won’t have any trouble attracting another foolish, pretty person to leech off of.”
“Jaheira,” Astarion sniffled. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Hush, silly man,” she cracked a smile, warming his fingertips in both her hands. “Now listen to me. The path before you is not of your choosing. There will be even darker paths to tread, but you must walk them, all the same. I will aid you wherever they lead. Whatever you choose. What do you need right now? Anything at all. Just tell me.”
“I think I need a moment alone,” Astarion choked out a whisper.
Jaheira nodded, pulling back. “Of course. And if I may dispense another pearl of wisdom, I have one to give—one I used to tell my husband, may the Gods rest his soul.”
“You were married?” Astarion asked, feigning incredulity through a veil of tears.
“Is that really so hard to believe?” Jaheira chuckled. “I was. We married on a rainy day, much like this one. Khalid was a shy, sweet man. He had a speech impediment—a stutter. I often wonder if our vows even counted.” A soft smile crossed her face as she eyed the raindrops clustered around the edges of the window. “He was a nervous traveler. Fearful of crowds. Whenever we had to drive to the airport, I would always tell him this: ‘Be the cliff that breaks the sea.’”
“‘...the cliff that breaks the sea?’”
She nodded. “It was my way of asking him to be brave. Meditate on it. Repeat that mantra—make of it a prayer—and see if it will save you. As promised, I’ll give you some time to yourself. You have my number—text me if you need me.”
“Of course,” he mused. “Wait! There is one thing!”
Jaheira turned to face him. “Yes?”
He fidgeted in his seat. “You know that man who came to visit me a few months ago?”
“The ‘prince’ you found at a ‘homely little diner?’” Jaheira smiled. “How could I forget that handsome face?”
Astarion grinned wide—his first real smile of the day.
Jaheira nodded knowingly. “I’ll be sure to let him in when he comes. Later, Ancunín.”
“Thank you for the tea,” Astarion spluttered as she left the room.
And for everything else.
~✧~
Astarion shoveled a plastic spoonful of mushy cinnamon oatmeal into his mouth as he whittled away the hours idly prowling the streets of random cities on Google Maps. It was, without a doubt, one of his strangest pastimes during the lulls of his workday. He would stare off at the stillness of Amsterdam’s canals. He would visit landmarks in France. Abandoned theme parks. Red light districts. Cathedrals.
He wished he could afford to escape to a private villa in the Italian countryside, away from everything and everyone he was trying to run away from.
Or perhaps he would blend into the cobbled streets of rainy Edinburgh, drinking coffee alone in a crowded room—like a spectre at a feast.
Maybe a Grecian village, somewhere by the sea, his fingers tangled in brown, silverspun waves, with the sun warming his skin and the taste of sea salt dancing on two pairs of lips...
Sometimes he would visit places he knew. He loved to time travel and watch buildings decay, businesses change, cars come and go in people’s driveways. He googled an address and went back a few years to watch the signage change—first an electronics store with large yellow banners advertising a closing sale. Then, for a few years, it was nothing more than an empty storefront. With the click of a button, the empty storefront became Silverbeard Games.
He went to his childhood home and stared at the floral wreath on the front door. The driveway had been painted since he’d last visited.
For a fleeting moment, he considered calling his mother.
He knew he would never be welcome to cross that threshold again.
He did not linger there long.
He traveled south, to the house he and Cazador lived in—a place that he hoped, someday very soon, would be a distant memory for him.
The latest capture was from a decade ago. The exterior was a nice, tan color. A jasmine tree flowered by the mailbox. Upon inspection, their room hadn’t yet been built into the back of the house.
The moldy air-conditioner poking out of the window didn’t have a reason to exist yet.
There was no stone pathway in the grass, no padlock on the gate.
Once upon a time, this had been an average single-family home.
He wondered if there would ever be any evidence that they had lived there in the future. A capture of their cars in the driveway, perhaps. A blurry snap of his face as he packed his car full of his belongings.
An intrusive, insidious thought crawled through the ridges of his brain as he swallowed another spoonful of oatmeal.
Yellow police tape.
He shuddered.
Don’t be dramatic, Astarion.
You’ve done nothing but overreact since you started running your mouth.
He hasn’t even really done anything to you.
He examined the bouquet on the table.
The arrangement truly was gorgeous. Leafy ferns and white roses filled the void between the sunflower stalks.
Shit. This must have been expensive...
Half of him wanted to crush them in his hands and throw their crumbled remains into the trash.
The other half chastised him for even considering doing something so wasteful.
Guilt wormed its way into the apple of his stomach.
He instinctively reached for his phone, and began to type.
Astarion flinched at the audacity of Cazador’s request. There was nothing he wanted less in the world than to sit in a room with Halsin and Cazador in an attempt to mediate.
Last night was the final straw. There was no productive, relationship-fixing conversation to be had.
It was over.
But he couldn’t tell him that. Not over text, anyway.
Bending the truth was easier.
An email notification from Halsin popped up at the top of his screen. Astarion immediately opened it, beholden to his therapist for providing him a worthy distraction.
Astarion,
I read your previous email. This is concerning. Are you somewhere safe (work?) How soon can you come in to see me? I have an opening at 5:00 PM today.
There is something else I’ve been meaning to discuss with you...(don’t worry, you aren’t in any sort of trouble!)
Be well.
Silvanus' blessings,
- Dr. Halsin Silverbough,
Grove Medical Center
8323 Eagle Rune Way
~~~We shall carry the day!~~~
"Five-o-clock...sounds...good..." Astarion tapped away at his response before a text from Cazador interrupted him. He rolled his eyes, bringing another bite of now-cold oatmeal to his lips.
Astarion’s spoon fell from his hand. It clattered under the table.
What other thing?
Fuck, no, no, no.
Jaheira’s door suddenly creaked open.
“Astarion?”
He looked up from his phone with a start, shutting the screen off.
A flood of elation quenched the fire of his fear as he came face to face with the tired, worried face of Gale Dekarios.
His heart skipped a beat.
Notes:
Hello, again! I missed you! <3
Thank you to everyone who reached out with their well-wishes! I feel so much better now.
I would say I enjoyed my break, but in truth, it hardly felt like I took a break at all! I've taken my sweet time with this chapter, but I also wrote a little side-story of sorts that explores Astarion and Cazador's dynamic through the eyes of their pet rat, Godey. Not required reading, but if you want a (sad) little treat, you can read it here: Metacognition.
CSS used - How to Mimic Email Windows by La_Temperanza.
Big thanks to my dear friends (and fellow sprint zone writers), my partner, and every single one of the readers of this fic for keeping my fire for this story burning hot.
~✧~
Porcupine Tree - Way Out of Here
Massive Attack - Paradise Circus
Ichiko Aoba - fuwarin
Radiohead - Pyramid Song
Depeche Mode - It's No Good (probably what Cazador is listening to >>)Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 33
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“‘Why didn’t you tell me? Any of us?’”
“‘At best, I was sure you’d say no. More likely, you’d ram a stake through my ribs. No. I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me.’”
“‘I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I do. I believe you.’”
~✧~
Upon Gale’s arrival, the gray clouds abruptly split in half. Rays of sun poured through the gaps in the green summer leaves of the pothos plant by the window, casting scattered shadows onto the linoleum like light through a confessional booth’s screen. The tiny droplets clinging to the window were the only evidence it ever rained in the first place.
The synchronicity was unnervingly preternatural.
Magical, even.
The cacophonous thoughts in Astarion’s head, too, came to a sudden halt. Cazador’s text messages were suddenly irrelevant—something to be left buried in the past for him to uncover and process later. He found himself suspended in a new wave of emotions.
Joy. Relief. Infatuation.
Suddenly shy, his eyes drifted to the frayed edges of his shoelaces.
He knew correlation and causation were disparate concepts—but it comforted him to believe the silly notion that Gale Dekarios had somehow been vested with the power to dispel storms.
Jaheira eyed both men with a sly smile on her face. “I’ll give you two some much-needed privacy,” she said. “I’m sure you have much to discuss—and Astarion: don’t worry about making it back in time. If you need to take the rest of the day off, please let me know.”
“But what about—?”
“I’ll deal with Florrick. She’ll understand—I’ll make sure of it.”
Astarion offered a silent nod in response, breathing a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t need to deal directly with their intimidating superior. Kind as she may have been underneath her stony exterior, she was a stern woman, and the last thing he needed was the additional stress of starting a tough conversation with her.
“Thank you, Ms. Harper,” Gale replied, bowing his head in reverence.
“Hm. Polite,” she replied, her smile growing wider and warmer. “You can call me Jaheira.”
“Jaheira,” Gale bashfully corrected himself. “Thank you for everything.”
Astarion’s breath caught in his throat as he heard the door latch shut. He tried to utter a soft “hello,” but his greeting was quickly stifled into the fabric that clung to Gale’s chest as he was pulled into a warm embrace.
For a moment, Astarion stood perfectly still. He felt the heat of his short breaths against the cotton of Gale’s clothing, bewildered and paralyzed by indecision. He was no stranger to hugs, rare as they were. He wasn’t unfamiliar with Gale’s hugs, either. But there was something about being held by Gale at that very moment that felt alien and strange to him. It felt like the first hug he’d ever received in his lifetime.
Astarion decided that maybe the world wouldn’t end if he allowed himself to rest his chin on his damp shoulder. The sun wouldn’t fall out of the sky, even if he did slowly wrap his arms around his body. His fingers clung to the edges of his hoodie, feeling the smooth, plush skin of his lower back gently graze his knuckles. The stars wouldn’t burn out if he focused on the sound of his heartbeat and compared it to his.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
A familiar intrusive thought crossed Astarion’s mind, louder than it had ever dared to speak before:
Gods, I wish you would kiss me.
Shame and regret pooled in the pit of his stomach, rising up to his chest.
Would you even want that?
With little warning, the story of Orfeo and Proserpina that had been vividly carved into the proscenium archway from his nightmares barreled its way to the forefront of his mind. He pondered her death. His descent into the Hells to find her, lute in hand. The botched rescue.
He pictured the tangible anguish immortalized in his face as he watched her vanish into the ether.
Astarion felt his raw, red eyelids squeeze shut almost instinctively. He was both enamored and terror-struck by the safety he felt in Gale’s arms. He drew in the scent of sandalwood that mingled with the fresh notes of petrichor on his neck. He could feel the cold, wet, wavy strands of his hair clinging to his cheek. He felt so damn real. And he was real. Corporeal—not the immaterial figment of his imagination, the shade of stardust that seeped into his every dream. If he gave himself permission to look upon his face, just for a moment—if only to verify that he was more than a phantasmagorical apparition come to torment him with sweet, meaningless nothings in his darkest moment—would he vanish, too?
Dire as the mythological consequences sounded, Astarion dared to tempt fate—the chances he was dreaming were slim. Defiance was the one way he could think of to prove his theory to be true.
He opened his eyes.
To his relief, his feet were still firmly planted on the ground. His fists were still balled up in cotton fabric. He was still in Gale’s arms.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Neither of them were.
Astarion’s shoulders trembled as he choked back a sob, breaking the spell of silence enveloping them.
Upon hearing the sound, Gale pulled away. “I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “I should’ve asked if hugging you was okay.”
“It was. I—I needed that,” Astarion murmured, tilting his head back in a vain effort to force the tears at the corners of his eyes to return. Gods, I wish you hadn’t stopped. “Your hair’s soaking wet. I wish I could offer you a towel.” I’m happy you’re here.
“It’s alright. Aren’t you hot?” Gale asked.
“Hot?” Astarion asked quizzically. “Whatever do you mean?”
“It’s May,” Gale observed, examining the sleeves of his cable-knit sweater. “You must be warm!”
“Well, I didn’t necessarily have the luxury of time to think about the weather when I grabbed it,” Astarion scoffed, crossing his arms. “Besides—you’re wearing a hoodie!”
“Sorry,” Gale whispered, his brow furrowing apologetically. “That was wildly insensitive of me.”
Like a shock of electricity, a pang of regret pulled at Astarion’s chest. He studied the face of the man who’d made time in his day for him—the man he’d just snapped at. His eyes seemed softer than usual. Dark circles betrayed fatigue and its unspoken neighbor: sorrow. The thought of bearing responsibility for even an ounce of that sadness wounded him more than Cazador ever could.
“Shit, Gale,” he murmured. His fingers dug into the taut flesh of his biceps through his sweater sleeves. “I’m sorry for—I didn’t mean to come off so brash, I was trying to—and it—it’s just—I’ve just had a hell of a night, and I’m—.”
“It’s alright,” Gale soothed. “There’s no need to offer an explanation—though I’m sure you’ve had a lot on your mind. Would you like to talk about it? Or do you need a distraction? I will happily offer either.”
“The second one,” Astarion blurted out. “For now, at least.”
“As you wish,” Gale nodded. “Whatever you need, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. I just need a bit of time to collect my thoughts—I don’t even know if I’m making any sense.”
“Hey. No rush. I’m here for you.”
A gracious smile crept upon Astarion’s face. In the face of unimaginable adversity, he could hardly believe his luck. To know that Gale had come to see him in his time of need—driven all this way, just for him—was…
Was…
Wait.
An absent, ghostly hand squeeze his heart. It dug its blade-like fingernails into its outer membrane, carelessly tearing the layers open before dashing it into pieces on the ground.
It shattered like a lightbulb.
Astarion found himself caught up in the whiplash of a single disquieting thought.
Fuck.
Gale’s car.
What if—?
“Did you park out front?” Astarion asked, his voice wavering.
What if Cazador does come after all?
What if he comes and sees Gale’s car?
“I did,” Gale replied, tilting his head in confusion. “Should I not have?”
“Shit!”
His deep brown eyes widened. “Am I going to get a parking ticket?”
“A parking ticket—? No!” Gale’s innocuous question caught Astarion off guard. For a split second, he forgot that he was in the midst of a crisis. He laughed before rectifying his momentary lapse in rationality and sobering up. “No, we—we shouldn’t stay here long. We should go.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, Gale. I’m sure I’m just exaggerating, and we’re perfectly alright staying here. It’s just—he—”
“What—?”
“Cazador—well,” he muttered, pointing to the vase of sunflowers upon the desk. “These arrived this morning.”
“I’m sorry—he sent you flowers as an apology for last night?!” Gale’s eyes darkened.
Astarion nodded solemnly. “He said he has something else on the way. What if he decides to show up?”
“Gods,” Gale muttered. “Hold on, I don’t think Minsc or Jaheira would dare let him in if they knew you wouldn’t be comfortable with him being here.”
“It’s not about letting him in,” Astarion fretted, nervously biting the edge of his thumb as he paced in the small room. “It’s about the aftermath. I still have to go home after work and if he sees your car here, he’s going to think we’re—he’d—”
He’d be furious if he saw you here.
“Ah.” A rosy flush crept upon his rounded cheeks. “I understand—I think. Hang on, why don’t we go over to the park we went to last time? That was nice.”
Astarion shook his head. “Too exposed.”
Gale exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. It settled on his ear. Much to Astarion’s chagrin, he nervously began to fidget with the silver star that hung from his lobe. “Where else can we go?”
“I don’t know!” Astarion huffed, doing his best to mask his despair as he averted his eyes. He securely wrapped his arms tighter around his torso. “Somewhere, anywhere safe!”
Gale’s fingers traced their way down to his beard. They danced upon his lips as he pondered for a bit, mouthing the word “safety” into microscopic ridges before his eyes widened in sudden realization. He excitedly snapped his fingers.
“A-ha! I’ve got just the place.”
~✧~
Astarion’s eyes trawled through the oil-slicked puddles along the road as he followed Gale to where he parked his Subaru. Lost in their psychedelic rainbow-colored swirls, he remembered the picture of Mystra on Shadowheart’s phone. A bitter taste lingered on his tongue as he remembered her languid, smoky gaze and her dark, slicked back hair. Her fingers, like narrow spindly tendrils, were wrapped around a pawn from his side of the board.
Oh, the memory of her smarmy face teased in a voice he could only imagine. Does this bother you?
As soon as they made it to the car, he stomped out the stomach-churning vision, watching the banished image distort and ripple away in disrupted fragments.
He took comfort in the fact that Gale being his chauffer for the afternoon meant that he wouldn’t have to look at the stupid earring she designed—if he found the courage to look his way at all.
When he opened the door on the passenger side, Astarion noticed a brown paper bag neatly placed upon the seat. “Do you mind I move this to the back? I know you weren’t expecting to have to drive me around…”
“Oh, not at all!” Gale demurred. “Besides, that’s for you.”
Astarion’s eyes grew wide. “For me?”
“Yes!” Gale nodded. “Go ahead, look inside.”
Upon opening the bag with great caution, Astarion’s stoic face split into a gleeful smile. He swore he could feel his heart do a somersault.
Oh, how he wished he, too, had the luxury of lying about the smallest, most innocent things.
“And here I believed you when you said you weren’t bringing any ‘gifts of the culinary persuasion’ with you,” Astarion laughed blithely. “What a fool I am.”
“Believe me, I wasn’t planning on it,” Gale grinned.
“I told you that you didn’t have to—although it is most appreciated.”
“Please! It’s my pleasure!”
“Gale,” Astarion paused, hunching over the bag protectively. “Don’t tell me you stayed up all night baking these for me!”
Is that why you look so exhausted today?
“Good Gods, no! I wish I were half as proficient a baker as I am a cook! I stopped at a Polish bakery on the way over. It was the least I could do on such short notice. Full disclosure, I might have already snuck one or two,” he admitted sheepishly, “but they were intended for you. I got so wrapped up in wanting to be punctual that they slipped my mind and I forgot them in the car. I neglected to bring my umbrella as well! Silly me. But that’s enough of my rambling. Go ahead, have as many as you’d like!”
Almost immediately, Astarion obliged. The pastry he fished out of the bag was rich and chewy. At first glance, it almost resembled a donut, but it was far denser than what he’d come to expect. It tasted as though it was drenched in tasty, mellow rum. A daub of tart red filling settled on the corner of his lips—but only for a fleeting moment. He quickly scooped it into his mouth with his tongue, shielding the lower half of his face with his hand as he did so.
For his dignity’s sake, he hoped Gale hadn’t seen.
Although, a rebellious part of him secretly hoped he had seen. He hoped that the next time he caught him making such a mess, he might reach over with the tip of his pointer finger and scoop it up, and bring it to his lips…
“Fuck,” he softly moaned through a large mouthful of fried dough. The powdered sugar spilled from his lips onto his lap, coating his jeans like a light dusting of snow on asphalt. His heart felt warm as it fluttered in his chest. “This is…decadent.”
“Aren’t they?” Gale said, offering him a napkin. “They’re called pączki.”
“Punch-key,” Astarion repeated slowly as he accepted the napkin and dabbed it upon his lips. He was grateful that Jaheira wasn’t present to snarkily lambaste his poor grasp of Polish phonetics—or his eating habits.
Though perhaps she would be happy to see him eating at all.
“Yes, pączki! Excellent pronunciation, by the way. My first attempt earned me a few giggles—it translated to ‘package,’” Gale’s eyes crinkled shut in embarrassment mid-recollection. “At least the bakery’s staff were kind about it! It was a few months ago, admittedly—back in February, one of my classmates was going on and on about them, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about…”
Astarion cast his eyes away from Gale’s face as he continued to speak, choosing instead to stare into the blood-red innards of the pastry in his grip. He was too tired to resist the genuine smile that was steadily creeping onto his face as he got lost in the mellifluous tones of Gale’s deep, lilting voice. From the edge of his vision, he could see his hands following the cadence of every word with animated gusto.
His hands spoke a language he was curious to decipher, as if it were some sort of cant he had any hope of studying beyond a passing, pedantic interest from the sidelines. Already he found himself missing the familiar softness of those podgy hands against his skin, craving undue visitations—yearning for intimate moments that were never meant to be. He imagined his stout fingers doing any number of mundane tasks—simple things, like holding pencils. Striking matches. Kneading dough. Gently cupping the sides of his narrow face, tenderly brushing his knuckles against his cheekbones, washing his hair and taking great pains not to pull at any tangles or knots, tracing the rim of his outer ear with the edge of his thumb, holding his waist as he pulled him close—
“—but the enormity of my error felt so great at the time that I actually looked up a recipe online to see if I couldn’t just make them myself rather than face the ignominy of being laughed at again. I mean, it looked simple enough…”
Gods, Astarion thought to himself, hiding his burgeoning smile behind his half-eaten pączek.
I could honestly listen to this man rant about pączki for the rest of my life.
“Mhm. They don’t sound like they’d be too difficult to make,” he murmured, half-listening, half sinking into his own dreamlike thoughts again as he took another jam-filled bite. “Gods, these are divine.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them,” Gale replied, flashing a confident smile. “I was a bit worried you'd find them too heavy.”
Astarion’s face flushed as he tried not to think about the sliver of Gale’s exposed abdomen he’d spied in the storeroom the night before. “Nonsense. When have I ever turned up my nose at anything you’ve ever given me?"
“Thankfully, never!” exclaimed Gale as he turned on his blinker. “And I hope that doesn’t ever change.”
“Don’t let my appearance fool you. I am a man of tremendous appetites,” Astarion said, his voice dark and low—sultry, even. He took another sensual bite, imagining all the while that the thick, rum-soaked dough was the meat of Gale’s inner thigh...
“You know, I do have some t-shirts I still haven’t donated if you want to change out of that sweater,” Gale suggested. “I wouldn’t mind letting you take a few home with you.”
“I’ll live,” Astarion lied. It was sweltering hot and he was miserable. He wanted nothing more than to take one of Gale’s t-shirts home with him.
“Are you sure? You look more than a little warm.”
Why are you so kind to me?
Would he still be as kind to him if he knew how deeply he was romanticizing his hands earlier?
How badly he wanted to sink his fingers (and his teeth) into every soft curve and divot of his flesh?
He didn’t want to think about the whatever the potential adverse reactions could be—would he be disgusted by him? Put off by his lusts?
Would he feel betrayed by someone he considered a friend?
He didn’t want to think about it.
Gale had notably gone quiet, and it occurred to Astarion that even in moments of silence, being a passenger in his car brought with it a remarkable sense of security he never felt in Cazador’s Nissan. His earlier long-winded rant questioning the authenticity of the pączki recipes he found online was a far cry from Caz’s accusatory diatribes about his constant failures as a boyfriend.
Astarion reflected on the one sentence his mind had latched onto right before he’d tuned the sound of his voice out while they’d been driving home from the gas station: “Do you know how hard it is to be in a relationship with you?”
The memory made him wince. It hadn’t been the first time he’d said something like that. He never heard the end of how incompetent he was at nearly everything. How broken and lost he’d been before they’d started dating, and how Cazador had saved him. How cushy his life was now that he had someone who really knew how to take care of him.
The worst part was that he was right.
By all accounts, he owed Cazador Szarr the world—and yet, here he was, poised to betray him.
“Astarion?” The richness of Gale’s voice roused him from his tumultuous meditation.
“Yes?” He replied.
Their eyes met. All his worries melted away in shades of chocolate.
“Can I put on some music?”
He nodded. “Of course you can. This is your car after all.”
The tension in his shoulders began to unwind. He leaned his head against the window as the familiar sound of plucking harps began to play from the speakers.
Happiness hit her like a train on a track…
“I haven’t heard this song in years, Gale.” Astarion smiled. “I forgot how much I liked it.”
“I love this song,” Gale agreed. “It’s one of my favorites!”
It was safe to close his eyes for a bit—safe to feel the sun warming his eyelids. He could get used to these placid car rides. He imagined a future where they might happen more frequently.
A future with Gale—a future where he was well-loved, well-fed, well taken care of, and beautiful.
Yesterday, the very thought of seriously entertaining such a notion would have made him laugh. It always seemed like the sort of thing he would be cursed to only ever daydream about. It was always little more than a castle he’d been building in the air for months.
Leave all your love and your longing behind,
You can’t carry it with you if you want to survive.
He could fool himself no longer. He knew that if he left Cazador, there existed the smallest of possibilities that a future with Gale could become a tangible reality.
As he opened his eyes once more and watched the black staves of telephone wires flying past them, he marveled at the color of the sky. Gone were the clouds that had plagued the blue for hours. Wherever they were going, he didn’t care. He was in the car with Gale, after all—who he trusted implicitly—and he was taking him somewhere safe.
The dog days are over, the dog days are done,
Can you hear the horses? ‘Cause here they come...
While savoring the phantom vestiges of rosehip jam in his mouth, he wondered if perhaps, in some anomalous alternate universe, Gale would simply kiss away the errant crumbs of sugar on his lips.
Notes:
(A bloodweave-heavy chapter? In a bloodweave fanfic? Preposterous! Unheard of!)
Hello, again! I'm sorry for the length of time that elapsed between this chapter and the last one! Life and work, human stuff, you know the drill. Things get kind of hectic in the summer, and the next month is no exception. I am determined to push through and stick to my frequent posting schedule as best as I can!
I also admittedly wasn't expecting for this part of the story to give me as much trouble as it has been! It just goes to show how much easier it is to hide abuse than it is to talk about it.
I missed you all so very dearly, and there is so much I have yet to catch up on! I hope you enjoy my offering! <3
~✧~
The song list for this chapter is a CHUNKY one!!
Florence + The Machine - Dog Days Are Over
Liana Flores - recently,
Sufjan Stevens - All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands
Kilgore Doubtfire - Escape
Instupendo - Comfort Chain
Instupendo - Falling
Jon Brion - Phone Call
Devendra Banhart - The Ballad of Keenan Milton
Sufjan Stevens - Futile Devices (Doveman Remix)
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 34
Notes:
5/11/2024 Edit: this chapter now includes a heartwarming painting by the lovely and talented Anska! I have been gazing at it, awestruck, for many hours. You can find more sublime art to get lost in right here! Thank you so much for sharing your art, Anska! I'm so happy you're enjoying this story!
CW: brief mentions of assault/suicide.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I’m not sure how much talking you expect us to get done here, but I suppose if you were looking for the one place in town where we wouldn’t have to worry about running into Cazador, you’ve certainly found it,” Astarion stifled an irreverent giggle.
“I know it isn’t the ideal place for conversation—but when you said you needed someplace safe, this was the first place I could think of.”
“A library?”
“Yes, a library! Nothing makes me feel safer than being here, surrounded by books. I’ve come here more than a few times whenever I felt I needed some time alone to think.”
“I suppose there is something a bit nostalgic about being here,” Astarion mused dryly, tracing the numbered spines of books on the stacked shelves until he settled upon a random decimal point. “When I was a young boy, I spent quite a bit of time here. I remember I used to check out ten books at a time. I would read them all in a night and beg my dad to take me back the next day.”
“Sounds like we had the same childhood,” Gale murmured.
“He would get so mad at me. Tell me to pace myself better next time.”
“—and the same father.”
“Gods, I hope not,” Astarion grimaced as he plucked a book from the shelf and cradled it in his arms. “In any case, that was before I knew any better.” Before I grew too scared to ask anything of him. His grip on the book tightened.
“Stardust.”
“You suggested it a while ago. I trust your judgement.”
Gale smiled softly as he balanced on the tips of his toes, reaching up to grab a book that sat on the highest shelf. Astarion averted his eyes as soon as the hem of his hoodie rode up the smooth curve of his stomach. He turned his head to the left in a play to conceal the rosy flush freshly blossoming on his cheeks.
You’re so handsome, Astarion thought to himself, staring down at the blue cover of the book in his arms. He pretended to leaf through its contents. I wonder how often you must hear that.
“I miss those days, you know. Back then, I thought I could fit the world in the palm of my hand. I was a smart kid. Too smart for my own good, I suppose. ‘Gifted.’ Lonely…” Gale sighed. His thoughtful reverie was interrupted by a wide pause. “I wonder if we ever crossed paths and didn’t even know it.”
“Probably not. I haven’t been back here in years.”
“How many years?” Gale asked curiously, leading the pair over to one of the lecterns and pulling up a seat for him.
“Too many,” Astarion replied, planting himself on the stiff wooden chair. “You forget I’m a fair bit older than you.”
“Not by that much! There’s what, a three-year gap between us?”
“‘A lady never tells her age,’” he joked in a low, sultry tone. He leaned forward on his elbows with his head draped over his delicate fingers.
“You’re no lady,” Gale teased, taking the seat beside him.
“Observant.”
“Still, it would have been nice to have met you sooner.”
“I—” I feel the same. “Gale?”
“Yes?”
He exhaled sharply. “I think I’m ready to talk about it now.”
“Are you sure?” Gale’s weight shifted as he leaned in closer to him. “There’s no rush.”
“I’m sure,” Astarion nodded. He’d already texted Jaheira to let her know he’d be off for the rest of his shift.
She responded with a picture of Cazador’s second gift—a box of chocolate-covered strawberries.
He’d immediately tabbed over to respond to Halsin’s request for an impromptu session—anything to prevent Gale from seeing Jaheira’s message.
Anything to keep him from having to rip the band-aid of his inevitable break-up off any sooner than it had to be ripped off…
“We can take a bit longer if you need to. It doesn’t have to be right now. You can wait to tell me on the ride back to get your car.”
“No, I need to just say it—to tell you everything. If I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.”
He could hear the sound of pages turning from across the room. He was certain his heart rate could rival a rabbit’s.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m scared.” His throat felt dry.
“Please don’t be scared,” Gale whispered. “I promise I’ll listen to you.”
“I’m sorry for roping you into this.”
“Hush. I’m here, aren’t I? It isn’t any trouble at all.”
“… Are you sure you aren’t at least a little worried about getting a parking ticket?” Astarion cracked a smile. “That’s an expensive fine.”
“Pish-posh. It’ll be fine. We won’t be here that long.”
“You didn’t park any better here than you did at my job!”
“I don’t give a damn about parking tickets,” Gale chuckled under his breath.
“You seemed worried about it then,” Astarion blinked incredulously. “What changed?”
“Nothing! I suppose I only said it because I thought it might make you laugh.”
“Well—!” His heart softened. “You’re right. I did laugh.”
“Good. Then I did what I sought out to do.”
“You’re good at that.”
“At what? Making you laugh?”
Astarion nodded.
“Always happy to play the fool for you,” Gale smiled. “A lot of what I do as a DM seems to revolve around making my friends laugh. I’ve become a practiced comedian in the last few months. The sound of your laugh, in particular, motivates me to try harder. It’s a good laugh, you know—”
Astarion did his best to stifle a bout of sudden mirth into the sleeves of his sweater as the compliment rushed to his head like champagne.
“Oh,” Gale softly gasped, his grin unwavering. “And there it is. We’re going to get kicked out of the library if you keep this up,” he teased.
“It’s alright. I know the librarian—she used to frequent one my former part-time jobs. She thinks I’m charming enough. Worst we’ll get is a stern talking to.”
“I know her too,” Gale whispered, a wicked gleam in his eye. “And if she remembers me from when I was a little scamp, then we are definitely getting kicked out!”
“You—?! I have a hard time believing that.”
“Let’s just say I had a lot of pent-up energy as a kid. My mother used to call it potential. The doctors called it ADHD. I was a right terror, and wearing this poor woman’s patience thin was a favored activity of mine. Once, I knocked over one of the library shelves while I was running around the aisles. She’d just finished organizing it, too. See that large sign over there by the children’s section?”
“The one that says ‘NO RUNNING’ in all-caps?”
“That’s there because of me,” Gale cringed.
Astarion’s laughter sprung from his throat like a pot bubbling over.
“Oh, Gods, I’m crying.”
“Stop laughing—or we really will get kicked out!” Gale hissed through cracks in his suppressed giggle.
“You’re laughing, too!” Astarion huffed. “And your laugh’s worse than mine!”
“Sorry,” Gale mouthed through the ghost of his hyena-like cackle, attempting to recollect himself. “You’re just so funny when you get angry.”
Astarion cleared his throat. struggling to keep a straight face as he playfully crossed his arms.
“I didn’t mean for that to be so patronizing. I swear.”
“You know, what I was most afraid of when we first met?”
“What?”
“That you were going to be this stern, serious stick-in-the-mud who wouldn’t allow me to have any fun.”
“Well then, I’m glad I proved you wrong,” Gale grinned. “I like to reward innovation and creativity. You’re chock-full of it.”
A heavy, shuddering sigh slipped through Astarion’s lips. Breathe.
“Sorry. I know you’re anxious.”
“I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying. The words just aren’t coming out.”
“Here’s my phone. You can just type it out if you’re having trouble.”
“Thank you, but I need to just—I don’t know—blurt it out, or something.”
He remembered something Halsin had told him. His voice, like the rumble of gentle thunder, echoed in his mind: “Words are spells.”
I need to say it out loud.
I need to make it feel real.
“Maybe it would help if I asked you a few questions,” Gale whispered. “Would you be alright with that? We can skip anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”
“That could help. What do you want to know? Ask away.”
Gale paused. “I’ve noticed there are moments where you seem sad. No—sad isn’t the right word. You seem numb. Distant. It’s like you’re a million realms away.”
“I…” You notice. “I dissociate.” You notice me. “My therapist says it’s a trauma response.”
You see me.
“You’ve been jumpier, too, lately. Is that also a trauma response?”
“Actually, I hadn’t noticed that as much. It probably is.”
“What can I do to help you when that happens? I can always try and reel you back in when you go quiet at the table. If you’d rather I stopped, I can—”
“No, no, you’re fine! What you do already helps more than you could ever imagine.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Gale smiled. “Now, I know I asked about this last night, but the bruise on your neck—I know you said it was just a hickey, but might I pry a little more?”
“Fine. Go ahead. But keep your voice down,” Astarion murmured, bringing his hand up to hide the mark for what felt like the millionth time.
“I could swear I saw teeth marks. It wasn’t just a hickey. He bit you, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I know I misread the situation last night, but—”
“It’s a kink thing for him.”
“I’ve seen those marks on you before.”
Astarion’s eyes widened. “What? When?!”
“The first night we met.”
“Gods, and here I thought I was hiding it so well!”
Fucking shitty drugstore concealer.
But…you noticed.
“You can’t hide the depth of those indentations. What about the scar? Was that him, too?”
Astarion froze.
You notice everything, don’t you?
He inhaled sharply, as if he was going to speak.
There were too many flowers in his mouth for his words to come out clearly.
He mutely motioned for Gale to pass him his phone. He tapped out the message quickly and set it down on the table.
Gale quickly shut the screen off and pulled Astarion close.
“Gods. I’m sorry,” he said, swallowing back tears. “I’m so sorry.”
Astarion felt the weight of his head sink into Gale’s plush shoulder. He closed his eyes. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m sorry if that was too much, I just couldn’t say it aloud in public. You understand…”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Gale murmured. “You don’t need to say anything at all.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
The pair untangled from the embrace. They sat in silence for a good, long while. Gale traced circles into Astarion’s back while he buried his head in his arms.
“I have another question, if you’re ready for it.”
Astarion nodded, looking up at him. “Okay,” he muttered, as if through shredded glass.
“The picture you sent me—I’m sorry if this is too heavy of a question to ask, but I’m worried about your safety…does Cazador mistreat you at all?”
“Yes…no… I don’t know? I’m torn. Truthfully—I’ve never had anyone love me more than he does. He worships the ground I walk on. He was the first person who believed me. Who believed in me, even after I’d already lost everything and everyone else. He promised he would make sure nobody ever mistreated me or hurt me again. Sad, isn’t it?”
“You two seemed so in love…”
“We are in love! I still love him—”
I have to say that.
It feels like a lie.
But I have to say it.
“—but sometimes, things feel off. Wrong. There are days when he makes me feel like there’s nothing I can do right. I tried to leave him back in March. He wouldn’t let me.”
“Astarion… I had no idea it was this—”
“What he painted on the table was in direct response to me going to your game night. He didn’t want me to go. I went anyway. I was half-worried he’d killed himself.”
“Gosh…”
“I feel like his possession. Sometimes, I want to jump out of my skin. Be somewhere else. Someone else—anyone else. If I could set him on fire with my hands when he touches me, I would do it in a heartbeat.
“The truth is, Gale—our relationship has been…”
Choose your next words carefully, Astarion Ancunín.
“…it’s been toxic for a while.”
“Toxic?”
Astarion nodded. “I-I think so.”
Why can’t you just say he abuses you?
He abuses me, right?
That’s what this is, isn’t it?
“I’m sorry to hear that you’re going through this. How can I help?”
“I—like I said earlier, talking helps. Fuck,” he sobbed. “It feels so good to just talk—even in whispers, like this.”
“You’re crying—hold on, I might have a tissue in my bag—”
I’m not worth the effort, he thought to himself, his voice a soft monotone in his mind. I’m about to ruin my entire life. I’m going to have to pick up the pieces and try to find a new place to live. I can’t even take his stupid ring to the pawn shop, can’t pretend it never turned my finger green because they’ll know better. And your game—
“What about D&D?”
I’m about to ruin that too after all your months of careful planning.
“Don’t think about that now,” Gale whispered, passing him a bundle of tissues. “Here.”
“You put so much work into it. I see it every session.”
“The game isn’t what’s important right now…”
“I see it in the maps you draft up. I steal glances at your notes—I’m sorry I do that.”
Gale laughed. “We’ll unpack that some other time.”
“Some other time?” Astarion screwed his eyes shut, wiping at his tears with the small, crumpled hankie. Don’t be cruel.
I’m nothing. I’m nobody.
I’m ‘Cazador’s fiancé’—soon to be ‘Cazador’s ex.’
I might as well not even exist.
“Gods, Gale, I—I know I’m making Caz sound awful right now.”
“Do you feel safe?”
“Right now, I do,” he lied. “Even if I am scared that he’ll somehow find me here anyway...”
“Your hands...”
“T-track my location on my phone or something, f-find out I’m not at work. It’s not like he hits me or anything.”
“You’re trembling.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid that it’s all just in my head. What if I’m just ungrateful? It’s irrational, I know it is, I—”
“Astarion,” Gale whispered, taking his hands in his.
Please help me.
Please save me from this.
“Listen to me. I will not let any harm come to you. This, I swear. I’m here for you.”
Astarion stared down at his hands—their hands, clasped together in silent communion, praying to no one in particular.
Like milk and honey.
~✧~
Hours later, Astarion sat in his car as it idled right outside of Halsin's office.
Ten minutes before five—nine, now.
He’d left his heart on the lectern with Gale. The unspoken devotion remained in the cavernous hole in his chest, nestled on the edge of a steep pit of dreadful thoughts. He looked past the bouquet of sunflowers strapped into the passenger seat at his scrappy blanket, carefully wrapped around the shelf-worn copy of Stardust he’d checked out before they’d left the library.
He’d never asked him why he looked so tired.
Next time. The gravity of what he was doing made the air around him feel thin. His eyes stung.
I hope there is a next time.
You’re going to have to choose between the both of us.
You’ve been his friend longer.
I already know it won’t be me.
It was nice while it lasted.
Notes:
“Which way to the nearest library?”
These conversations are never easy in any context, are they?
They're hard to have. They're tricky to write. I started and deleted this many times.
So I took a different approach! I decided I wanted to challenge myself to write something dialogue-heavy and organic and messy. Something human.Thank you all so much for the continued love and support on Astarion's journey.
It's brings a world of comfort to me, seeing all of you rooting for his safety.I hope you're all keeping well! Until the next update, darlings!
~✧~
Emile Mosseri - Jacob and the Stone
Matt Maltese - As the World Caves In
Arcade Fire - Porno
Echos - Leave Your Lover
Placebo - Running Up That Hill
Richard Walters - True Love Will Find You in the EndHere's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter Text
~✧~
“Astarion?”
Like broom bristles gingerly sweeping at delicate cobwebs in a dusty corner, the sound of Halsin’s voice from the threshold diverted Astarion’s attention away from Cazador’s frustratingly quotidian conversation. What did a stray thumbtack matter to him when the world was falling apart around him? He quickly shut his phone off, catching a fleeting glimpse of his red-ringed eyes in the splintered abyss of the screen.
Fuck. I look like shit.
Without thinking, he corrected his posture, pressed his knees together, and sat militantly upright.
“Hello, Halsin.”
“Sorry for the wait, my friend,” the therapist chirped. The creases in his face deepened as he smiled. With a vast and threaded palm, he gently ushered Astarion into his office. “Come in. I have some water for you—and tissues, if you need them.”
The men sat in the placid silence of the office for a good while. The tapping and scratching of the therapist’s pen against the wooden clipboard was the only sound breaking the intimate stillness. Astarion hunched over, cradling his blanket between his nervous fingers. Through the fluttering of drooping eyelids, he stared past the space between his restless legs at the grain in the wooden planks of the floor that were peeking through the tassels of the rug. The air conditioning unit was running underneath the windowsill, supplying the space with filtered air—clean and fresh, unlike the moldy unit in his efficiency. For the first time in hours, he was grateful to be dressed so warm. The tissue box remained upon the end table, untouched. An empty cup of water sat alongside it.
Halsin gestured to the blanket at his lap. “I see you’ve brought along a friend.”
Astarion scowled, tightening his grip on the threadbare cloth.
“It’s stupid,” he lied.
“It’s not ‘stupid’ if it brings you comfort.”
He shrugged, shrinking himself into the corner of the couch. “I’ve had it forever. I suppose I brought it along for ‘emotional support.’ Childish of me, isn’t it?”
“Not at all,” Halsin reassured, shaking his head. “You would be surprised to learn how many of us cope with things by latching on to certain treasures when we need to feel safe. Toys. Hobbies. People, even.”
Astarion averted his eyes. A pang of guilt radiated through his circulatory system. Shame burned low in his belly as he tried to sweep away thoughts of Gale.
He sealed his lips shut—heavy doors hiding a treasure he was certain was trifling at best, worthless at worst—and said absolutely nothing.
“It’s alright. My office is a no-judgement zone. No need to worry about me considering your attachments a weakness. You are worthy of any source of comfort you have access to.”
He listened to the humming of the air conditioner for a few seconds. Five seconds. Ten.
“Just last week I carved three new ducks!” Halsin offered him a slightly goofy smile. “And I still sleep with a teddy bear some nights.”
The mental image of the burly man cuddling a stuffed animal broke him. He failed to stifle a snicker, and it sputtered out through his pursed lips. Cute.
Seemingly pleased with the response to his confession, Halsin pressed on. “You’re far from alone in the way you choose to soothe yourself. But we can move on to other topics if you’d like to. We have a lot to discuss today, haven’t we? How have you been faring since you emailed me earlier?”
“Good? Not great,” he managed through a shuddering breath. “The afternoon was…nice.”
“Nice?”
He paused before continuing, shrinking further into the couch corner. “I feel quite shit, actually. This feels like this has been the longest day of my life.”
“Did something else happen today?”
“Caz texted me and sent me gifts while I was at work,” he sighed. “I wish he hadn’t.”
Halsin’s eyes suddenly narrowed, flooded by a severity Astarion was unaccustomed to seeing in the usual serenity of their forest-like shade. He shifted forward in his seat, his hand gripping his knee as he adjusted himself. “Did you bring this up with him? Did you tell him of your desire to stop receiving his gifts?”
“I did—I tried to tell him to stop,” Astarion’s head suddenly felt hazy, as if it were filled with solid cotton. He tore through its fibers, searching for the truth in his memory. He had told him to stop, hadn’t he? Or had he not? “I don’t think it was his fault,” he added quickly, desperate to amend his earlier statement. “He just ordered two things in advance and by the time I told him I didn’t want them, it was too late for him to take them back.”
Halsin’s brows remained furrowed, but he said nothing. He pulled his chair closer to the couch. Astarion swore he saw the hand on his knee tense up.
“I know I have to go home after this—but I’m scared. I’m afraid of seeing him, but it feels dumb to be this fucking scared of my own fucking fiancé because he—he seems so okay. Everything feels like it’s back to normal—except it’s not? He texted me about fucking thumbtacks earlier as if we’re not going to have a fucking explosive argument when I get home. As if I’d be the asshole for instigating one, because he’s fine, and I should be too, I guess?”
“But things aren’t fine—like you said,” Halsin mused. “I know the day has been long for you, but what he did to the coffee table just transpired last night. It wouldn’t be fair of Cazador to expect you to process your feelings on the matter so quickly.”
“The coffee table… fuck. This isn’t really happening, is it?” Astarion asked softly, fighting the lump forming in his throat. “Tell me this isn’t what I keep thinking it is. I worry I’ve blown this whole thing out of proportion in my head. I’m exaggerating this, aren’t I?”
Halsin’s expression softened. “No. I don’t believe you are. You have every right to feel scared. You’ve been working to cultivate safety and communication in your relationship with him, and what he did made you feel unsafe. Do you think this is something you can work through? Something you can forgive him for?”
“Forgive him?” Astarion laughed incredulously. “What happened last night was my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” Halsin asked, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “Cazador chose to pick up the paintbrush and the spray can. You weren’t even home. Why are his decisions something you believe you deserve to take responsibility for?”
Despite his efforts to keep his body still, Astarion’s legs trembled. “He only did what he did because I went out. I left him to go play some stupid card game with my friends—even though he said I could—I know he didn’t want me to. He kept telling me to stay.”
“You say this as if you need his permission to do things,” Halsin murmured. He slumped back in his seat and cleared his throat. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”
Astarion felt himself coiling up like a spring. “Is this what that one line in your email was about?”
Halsin nodded. “Yes.”
“I'll have you know that your disclaimer did little to ease my nerves,” Astarion laughed anxiously.
“My apologies,” Halsin replied. “I tried to make it sound as non-threatening as I could. It ties into your desire to better communicate your boundaries. I’ve been waiting for one of our private sessions to bring this up. The last time we met, Cazador said something that stood out to me.”
Astarion’s eyes grew wide. He could feel himself beginning to sweat. Damn this sweater.
“You dissociate during sex. And he said he knows that,” Halsin said, his voice steady and unwavering. “But something about the way you looked after he said that concerned me. Has he ever stopped to check in on you?”
“I think he—maybe—” He strained to remember a single time where Cazador asked him if he was okay. “Maybe once or twice. I usually respond minimally. Uh huh. Mhm. He usually thinks I’ve fallen asleep—or that I am asleep to begin with.”
“Asleep?” Halsin's concern did not falter. “Does he do that to you often?”
He could feel the color drain from his face. Idiot. You said too much.
“Yes, but—it’s not—I know what you’re thinking. I know what that feels like. And this isn’t…” Astarion's voice trailed off. He could hear every synapse in his body screaming in agony as he further compacted himself, hugging his knees to his chest and burying his face in the sleeves of his sweater. If he could retreat further into the couch, he would likely slip into the cushions. “Every time I’ve ever asked for us to take a break—from sex, I mean—he takes it personally. It’s easier just to…to let him. To just lay there and get it over with, you know?”
If Halsin said anything in response, Astarion did not register it. His mind was tearing away from his thoughts. He was soaring over a seascape as if he’d grown wings. Miles away from Halsin’s office with the sun on his back, its spray salting his hair, no land in sight…
But his thoughts were fast enough to catch up with him.
That’s just it, then. Just do what they say, give them what they want, and nobody gets hurt.
Call them whatever they want you to call them.“Yes sir. Yes master. Yes daddy.”
So you don’t get hurt.
“I wish he would stop touching me,” he finally admitted, his voice pitifully small, barely a whimper. “I wish nobody ever touched me. I wish I felt clean again. If I never had to have sex again, I would be so happy. I just want to be held—but that’s not enough. It’s never enough.”
“I know you haven’t been my patient for very long, Astarion,” Halsin said softly. “But I’ve grown to care about you. You’re so self-aware. Painfully so. You’ve been bearing the brunt of it alone. Every fear you harbor is another dagger just barely piercing your heart. I hope that someday, it will be easier for you to turn them away. You deserve to feel safe.”
“You’re going to tell me to leave him, aren’t you?”
“Hm…” Halsin exhaled, giving his chin a thoughtful scratch before closing his eyes. After a moderate pause, he shook his head. “For so long, you have been without your voice. You have lived your life under the control of others. It would be most unfair of me to further try and control your life. This choice—every single one of your choices, whether you decide to stay or go—is yours to make. Your future is in your hands. No one else’s. Not mine. Not his. Yours.”
“I see the patterns. I’m not stupid.”
“I don't think you're stupid, Astarion,” Halsin replied, raising his hands in a cautionary gesture—a sign of surrender, palms forward. “I will not demean your intelligence here. I know you’re smart enough to connect the dots—to recognize those dysfunctional patterns in your life.”
“If I'm so smart, why the fuck do I keep getting stuck?” he sobbed. “I know I’ll never be happy unless I leave him. But what if after I leave—if he even lets me leave,” he added through gritted teeth “What if I can’t survive on my own?! What if leaving means I have to sleep in my car every night? I can’t crawl back to my mother with my tail between my legs. She doesn’t want me. And I refuse to keep living my life being passed along from one monster to the next,” Astarion sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Do you know why I really went out? Why I think I deserve what he did last night?”
“Why?” Halsin asked curiously.
He paused, letting his tongue trail along the backs of his teeth as he considered his next words. He brought his hand up to shield his face. “I really only went because going out offered me a chance to see Gale. To be with Gale, if only for a few hours. And even though this was the consequence—I don’t regret a damn thing.” Astarion could hardly believe the sentences that were carelessly tumbling out from his mouth like tiny polished gems. Bitter, effortless tears flowed from his eyes. “I am not a good person. Everything I do is purely for selfish reasons. I’m a liar—”
“Astarion…”
“—I’m not a good person, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.”
“Astarion.” Halsin’s head tilted sympathetically, and his brow furrowed once more, leading the cavernous scars above them to follow skyward. “Would you allow me the chance to disagree with you?” he whispered. “I don’t think you’re ‘not a good person.’ Even if you did just want to see Gale. I know how deeply you care for him.”
Astarion listlessly nodded his head. “I told him about what happened last night.”
“You did?” Halsin’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”
“I asked if he would come see me at work. He did, without a second thought. He brought food, drove with me to the library. I had a hard time telling him at first—but he made it so easy to talk about it. It's so easy to sit there and talk with him. We laughed. Like children. I cried and he comforted me. He was nothing but supportive, the whole entire time,” Astarion smiled wistfully, staring out the window. “He was patient with me. Kind. He makes me feel young. Light.”
Halsin beamed. “The more I hear you talk about Gale, the more I like him. I’m glad to hear you have such a good friend to lean on in such a trying time.”
“However long that lasts.” A bitter laugh crossed his lips. “He was Cazador’s friend long before he knew me. If I leave him, I run the risk of losing Gale. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t.”
The therapist’s voice hummed low in his throat. “Have you ever considered that perhaps Gale’s friendship with you is not conditional to your ties to Cazador? Is there no chance that perhaps he might like you simply because you are you?”
To Astarion’s horror, he giggled. His flesh was suddenly tingly and warm, from his head to his toe. “I never—”
“Oh,” Halsin softly gasped. He was grinning just as wide, the blood rushing to the tanned apples of his cheeks. “You’re in love.”
All of a sudden, the world stopped turning on its axis. The laws of gravity were suddenly moot, and every star in the sky burst into tiny fractured little pieces. Their sparkling detritus came clattering down around him, the string-like agony of their strange and dissonant swan songs tugging at the tenderest parts of his raw heart. It skipped a beat, cradled in the paltry warmth of the ribs hidden behind his oversized sweater. His every breath was shallow as he tasted the revelation that was hardly new to him—he held them each as if they were precious and finite.
It's true.
“That’s—that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t be in love with him, I—! It’s too—how long have you—?”
“I’ve known since the moment you first spoke of him,” Halsin replied. “I know love when I see it, Astarion. Yours is plain on your face.”
“I barely know him!” But I’m in love with him.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But I can’t love him. Falling in love with someone like this—it isn’t healthy or rational. This is delusional. It's obsession—Hells, this is nothing more than wishful limerence and maladaptive daydreams. It isn’t right.”
I've loved him for a long time.
“What’s the right way to fall in love, then?”
“I—I don’t know,” Astarion murmured. For as many relationships as he’d been in, experience was failing him. There was a sudden drought in his vocabulary. “But I know he deserves it—to be fallen in love with the right way. Not this—whatever this is—this one-sided affair.”
“You’ve never suspected that your feelings for him might be returned?”
“Feelings? For his friend’s fiancé?” Astarion shook his head. “The moment I leave him, I’m nothing more than Cazador’s leftovers. There’s no way he would ever want me. Used. Ugh. Especially not after what I told him today—I told him about my life before. I told him I’m damaged goods,” he whimpered. “He’s been through enough. He deserves the best—someone with less shit on their plate. He deserves something real. Gods, I wish I were normal. I’m so tired of being a victim, Halsin. I’m tired.”
Halsin’s eye contact remained uninterrupted. “You don’t have to use that word to describe yourself if it does not please you to hear it. What if we chose a different word?”
Astarion nodded, bringing his blanket to the side of his face to catch his tears. It smelled of cheap laundry detergent and the ghostly traces of—huh.
Sandalwood.
It must have soaked up the scent from the tester strip he’d popped into his satchel on an outing, weeks ago. He nuzzled into its warmth longer than he intended to.
“You are not a victim, Astarion Ancunín—you are a survivor. And you will survive this, too.”
~✧~
Halsin did not let Astarion leave his office without a hug—one he was more than happy to receive. It was more of a squeeze than anything. A real bear hug.
He checked his phone, and found he had two messages waiting for him.
The first was a series of rambling texts from Gale.
Astarion's face broke into a large smile. The butterflies he had been trying to exterminate for months were all at once resurrected. No longer caring, he allowed them to take flight. He felt the beating of their delicate wings fluttering in his heart.
He cradled his blanket in his arms. He was loath to wash it anytime soon.
Love.
You sweet idiot, he thought—unsure if he was referring to himself or to Gale.
The second message was from Cazador.
Astarion numbly stared at the screen before responding.
All at once, the butterflies plummeted to their deaths, succumbing to the poison Cazador's words injected into Astarion's heart. The thought of his pale, clammy hands rifling through his personal effects unnerved him. He shivered. His pulse accelerated. Fear spiked in his mind as his thoughts drifted to the drawer in the vanity where he'd hidden the envelope—
He froze. A horrifying realization washed over him, thrusting his inert body into the currents of a riptide he wasn't even halfway prepared for.
The envelope.
His escape funds.
Shit.
Notes:
Admittedly, this is something that happened to me in therapy.
I was shocked that my therapist laid it out for me so overtly. Calling it love felt so wrong.
But I couldn't deny it. It couldn't have been anything else but love.Special shout out to the stuffed toy I used to bring to my therapy sessions. He was a little white mouse. He got lost in a move, sadly.
Last week we surpassed 50k hits. I am still reeling from the magnitude of that number! I've never had this many eyes on my work before. It's hard to believe that this link has been clicked on that many times! It’s exciting, and it’s a little scary at the same time. I’m proud of myself for writing this. I couldn’t have done any of this if it wasn’t for all of you. Your words have kept me going when times get tough.
To everyone who reads this fic: thank you. You are all so incredibly sweet and talented and kind. To everyone who takes the time to leave a comment and kudos, or to message me with your thoughts, or art, or even your own playlists for this fic, it always warms my heart. If you are a silent enjoyer of this fic, I see you, and I love you, too. Thank you for reading.
I hope your week is going well! Please take care of yourselves, loves.
Until the next update (which should actually be fairly soon!)
-ayvaines
~✧~
Cocteau Twins, Harold Budd - Why Do You Love Me?
Vienna Teng - Stray Italian Greyhound
t.A.T.u. - Loves Me Not
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter Text
Sweater, satchel, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, blankie. Ha! You really knew how to set your priorities last night, didn’t you? Did you breathe in enough heavy metals to damage your brain?
How could you forget something so important, you idiot?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Astarion cursed to himself as he sped away from Halsin’s office, past several old, well-preserved churches and endless empty stretches of thriving summer crops. The dancing shades of cotton candy and tangerine above were slowly being choked by a narrow black ribbon as evening loomed over the horizon. The darkness threatened to cover the narrow, dim road ahead. Row upon row of leafy greens blurred past him as he raced the night home—dashing over fields of sugarcane, lemongrass, okra, spinach, and a field of sunflowers.
He grew nauseous as he watched their bright faces turn from the dying sun.
Lost in looping thoughts of everything he stood to lose, he tried to entertain the probability of a scenario where Cazador had not noticed the unmarked envelope poorly hidden under his messy pile of personal documents and bric-a-brac.
He laughed bitterly. How could it elude him in its current state? It was nearly bursting from months of generous padding from his crisp contributions. He’d stuffed in fifty dollars here, two hundred there. He could not recall the sum of his self-given alms. Was it one thousand and fifty? No, he was sure he’d just added another two hundred from his last paycheck. He’d done the math several times, over and over on a scrap of paper at work, the black ink from his pen staining the side of his calloused hand while he made his careful calculations.
Astarion swallowed a painful lump as desperate high-pitched whines tore from his tender throat. He knew that whatever the total was, it wasn’t high enough to save him. Perhaps it would have helped him pay for a week or two at a nearby seedy motel—hardly the cushy long-term arrangement he hoped for.
But it was still better than nothing.
Better than the top-shelf cannabis and alcohol that Cazador would inevitably squander it on.
It’s well-hidden, he thought, desperate to delude himself into believing he was the protagonist of some well-meaning author’s fucked up fairy tale and that a happy ending was just on the horizon, waiting for him with open arms. He probably didn’t find it, and you’re getting all worked up over nothing. Breathe. In for four, out for four. In for four, out for four…
He spent the last five minutes of his drive home humming shakily under shallow, poorly controlled breaths, trying to alleviate the sharp pain of a panic attack that threatened to rupture his quivering organs. The surrounding air tasted of ash and bile.
He wished waiting for November still felt like a viable option.
~✧~
The dirt patterns on the beveled panels of the white front door were easy to get lost in. Astarion toed the dirty aluminum at the threshold, grasping for the courage to enter the room. He could sense the last fleeting grains of bravery slipping through his fingers as they pressed the glass vase of sunflowers into the knot against his tightening chest. Though depleted of energy, his veins still pulsed with a surplus of undue adrenaline. The savory scent of something tasty wafted through the torn mesh screen of the open window, beckoning him inside.
He couldn’t remember exactly when or how he opened the door. All he could think about was the sizzling sound of the strip of eel pinned against the cast iron griddle by a cheap spatula. A narrow plume of steam rose from the vent in their rice cooker. It barely fit on the limited counter space of their shitty compact kitchen.
Astarion’s mouth watered, but his eyes struggled to tear themselves away from the mat at the entrance.
Welcome Home, it jeered through tightly woven threads.
“Oh?” Cazador peered over his shoulder as he flipped the eel, turning its freshly browned side skyward. A smile—wide and unnerving—was plastered on his pale face, made eerier by the feeble fluorescent lighting above the kitchenette. “Can it be? Is this our prodigal son standing before us?” he joked. He lowered the heat and placed his spatula over the sink as he walked over to greet him. He was still in his work clothes, clad in the linen apron he usually wore in the kitchen. He knelt slightly, arms outstretched, coaxing Astarion into an awkward embrace. He accepted the half-hug with great trepidation, careful not to let the bouquet slip between the sleeves of his sweater.
He stared beyond Cazador’s broad, perfumed shoulder, scanning their apartment for anything that seemed awry. Everything was in its proper place. The vandalized coffee table was where he’d left it. The fairy lights hung above them, draped in their rightful place. Nothing seemed off about the state of his vanity. Disquietude crept up his throat as his fiancé’s fingers migrated to the waves at the back of his head, poised to give them a gentle tug. Astarion recoiled from his touch, shrinking back as his black-polished nails drifted lower to meet the silver, wispy hairs at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
“Astarion,” he tutted. “I knew you would return. My sweet, wayward boy.”
“Caz.” The diatribe he imagined delivering earlier evaporated in his throat as he pulled away from his arms.
“Poor dear, let me get those for you,” Cazador said, taking the bouquet of sunflowers. “Wow, they are big! Let me find a place for them.” He flitted around the room, a light bounce in his step as he set the flowers down upon his bedside table—unusually neat and organized, for once.
“I—”
“Oh! I fixed those pesky fairy lights! The tack was behind your vanity. Well hidden. I found this, too!” he exclaimed, reaching into his apron pocket.
Astarion’s heart was ready to shatter into a million tiny pieces—until he saw Cazador produce the dainty necklace he’d gifted him for his birthday. He watched blankly as the caged pearl dangled between his fingers like a pendulum, suspended by its delicate silver chain, awash with relief and guilt.
Cazador smiled. “Don’t look so nervous. You only forgot to take it with you! May I?” Without waiting for a response, he undid the fastener and held the ends of the chain apart. His fingers met again behind the nape of Astarion’s neck, clasping the necklace shut.
The ghostly click of a hex key against a button-head screw echoed in his head. He froze.
“There you go, my sweet,” he purred, bowing low to kiss the cage between his fingers before letting it fall back onto Astarion’s chest. “My pearl.”
“We need to talk—” Astarion murmured. The memory of weighty steel, flush against his neck, was choking him.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you as well,” Cazador trilled, gravitating back to the kitchen to take the eel off the griddle. He turned on the faucet and washed his hands over the sink. “But first, let me serve you. You must be starved! I can’t imagine the little morsels I sent were enough to sate your appetite. Come, come!” He lured Astarion closer with a forkful of cooked eel. “Give this a try, pet.”
Unable to object, Astarion obeyed. The eel was tangy, almost sweet, despite its fishy taste. Its charred outer flesh was chewy and tough. He silently savored it as Cazador chopped the rest of the eel into pieces. He grabbed a sliver of meat between his forefinger and thumb and adroitly dipped it into a tiny bowl of soy sauce before packing it into the center of a handful of sticky rice. Cazador worked the mass into a triangular shape between his hands, skillfully obscuring the eel between the pure white grains.
“At first, I couldn’t decide whether to make onigiri or unadon tonight,” he chatted, brushing the rice with eel sauce. He dipped the moistened edges in crunchy furikake flakes before placing a strip of dried seaweed on the bottom. He set the finished rice ball on a plate and shaped the next one. “Eel was a favorite of mine growing up, especially on warm summer nights. My mother made it for me as often as she could. Knowing it was molded in my mother’s hands and made just for me always made my problems seem small. Let me take care of you tonight. Let us eat together.”
The pair soon sat cross-legged upon pillows at the base of the coffee table. Astarion took great pains to avoid looking down at the void of scrawled, spiraling text.
Nor did he allow himself to gaze up towards his vanity.
If Cazador had found his rainy-day funds before his arrival, he was hiding it well.
If he hadn’t, Astarion was grateful he could not read his thoughts.
The envelope, the envelope, the envelope…
The onigiri were neatly plated and laid in rows of three before them.
“At least the table still serves its purpose,” Cazador sighed, setting his elbows upon its ruined surface. He elegantly crossed his fingers under his chin and exhaled. His face twisted into a pained smile. “Now. Let’s talk.”
“Okay,” Astarion murmured. He retreated into himself, tightly pressing his legs closed. His hands sat on his thighs.
Neither of them ate.
“I’ll start off by saying that I have been going about all of this the wrong way,” Cazador drawled. “I’m not sorry. I’ve decided that ‘sorry’ isn’t good enough to cover the magnitude of the damage I’ve done. I’ve already said I’m sorry a thousand times. It isn’t enough.” He looked Astarion dead in the eye before continuing. “No—I apologize. I apologize for being neglectful and for not understanding you. I have hurt you deeply.”
“Apology accepted…” Astarion searched Cazador’s face for any of his tell-tale “tics.” He searched high and low for something, anything that would indicate his dishonesty—but the longer Astarion looked into the glassy lights in his eyes, the more he seemed genuinely repentant.
Am I overreacting? he wondered. He finally worked up the courage to examine the disturbing painting. Was Cazador valid in expressing his feelings this way? We are eating a meal together on its surface—like nothing happened. Was this just art, after all?
“…and I apologize for being so high maintenance,” he added.
“No, no, no!” Cazador shook his head emphatically. “You haven’t been high maintenance, my pet. I can’t control how you feel. I can’t make you happy. All I can do is try to be understanding and be there for you and do whatever you require me to do. I have been a terrible friend to you, Astarion. I have been an awful fiancé.”
“Shit.” Completely disarmed, Astarion felt his shoulders fall. “All this time, I thought I was the one being a shitty boyfriend. I’ve been feeling awful.”
“My sweet fiancé,” Cazador corrected. The softness in his eyes evaporated, betraying a twinge of annoyance. “Please eat. I made this all for you. It’ll get cold.”
Just as quickly as they’d relaxed, Astarion’s shoulders wound up again upon detecting the malcontent in Cazador’s tone. He obeyed, taking the rice ball closest to him into his hand and biting into it. The rice stuck to the roof of his mouth. The eel tasted of nothing. His legs were violently trembling with nerves as he swallowed. He felt every individual grain of rice as it slithered down his throat.
“I realized today that I’ve been making your issues about me,” Cazador continued after taking a microscopic bite of his rice ball. “I’ve been taking your distance as rejection without considering what you’re going through now. I may never fully understand the magnitude of what you experienced. Whether you require space or a friend to talk to, I want to be able to help you.”
“I know you do,” Astarion said demurely. His voice was soft. Submissive.
It made him sick.
“The energy I have spent trying to make you happy has not helped. Every time I put in the effort, I get frustrated. ‘Why isn't it working?’ Then I feel guilty, and then I work even harder, and the cycle continues. If I keep doing that, I'll keep pushing you away when all I want to do is help you.” Cazador mused. “Like I said earlier, I’ve been a monster.”
“You’re not a monster, Caz,” Astarion said, hiding his fear behind another bite.
Cazador beamed. “When I first messaged Halsin to set up our appointment for tomorrow, he told me that I was going about trying to make you happy the wrong way. He said that how you feel has nothing to do with me and everything to do with what has happened to you.”
“Hm?” Astarion hummed inquisitively through a mouthful of rice. He cocked his head, curious and confused.
“I know the severity of your assault is just now starting to come to the surface for you, so many years later. How daunting it must be!”
Astarion swallowed hard, choking silently on a clump of rice as he tried to force it down his throat. It gracelessly bumped into his heart on the way down.
“I—I don’t—”
To his horror, hot, streaming tears began to fall from Cazador’s eyes.
Real tears.
“Astarion, it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart so much. I’m so sorry that happened to you. I wish I could go back in time and fight that devil,” he growled. His voice was trembling, overflowing with quiet, bubbling rage. “I would fight everyone who’s ever wronged you. I know I can’t, as much as I wish I could.”
“That’s not—”
“I have a lot to work on with myself—more than I ever anticipated. But I can help you now. I can protect you now.” Cazador reached across the table, grabbing Astarion by the narrow wrist as he brushed his lips against the back of his hand. Hot tears fell upon his fingertips as he wept. “I don’t want to be like him,” he whimpered.
Astarion softened. “I don’t want you to think you’re like him.”
“Do you mean that?” Cazador asked. He looked over at him with glassy, pleading eyes.
“Not even for a second,” he reassured.
It hurt to lie to him.
He knew the truth would hurt worse.
“You’re right,” Cazador sighed, wiping away his tears. “I have to separate myself from your past. The way you feel about sex and our relationship has nothing to do with me. I’m sure the way I have been comporting myself has not been helping you. I’m not him, and I need to stop blaming myself for what he did to you. I missed you last night. You had me worried sick when you didn’t come home.”
“I missed you too,” he lied again. His tongue felt numb. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home.”
“Fret not, my sweet. I had no doubts you would return to me.” Cazador smiled from across the table, still stroking his hand. “It feels really good to talk to you.”
“I’m happy we’re talking about this in such a nice and neutral way,” Astarion agreed.
Cazador’s brow twitched upwards. “Are our conversations not usually ‘nice’ and ‘neutral?’”
Astarion’s heart was pounding against his chest like an enormous bell clanging against rockwork. Its formidable tolling deafened the sound of his voice in his head as he spoke. “I guess one of the biggest things I worry about is—how do I say this? You tend towards emotional responses on the more...extreme side of the spectrum.”
“You mean when I blow up?” Cazador asked sweetly.
Astarion shivered. The sonorous bell rang louder, threatening to crack from the striking force. “You frighten me.”
“Oh,” he cooed, gently stroking his knuckles with his calloused thumb. His voice was smooth as tumbled stone and soft as the breaking of the gentlest wave. “I care so much about you, Astarion. I never want to scare you. I never want to cause you any grief. Not ever again. I’ll do my best to be more understanding. I’m not perfect. I will fuck up. But I will do my damn hardest.”
He swore he could hear Cazador’s tinny, disembodied voice ringing in his head. It issued a familiar warning: “I gave you adequate warning that I would fuck it up.”
A purple kite flew overhead, alone in the vast emptiness of the sky, riding the wind…
The bell in his chest fell eerily silent, the striking vibrations of clapper against bronze suddenly muted, dampened by a rush of bravery.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be perfect,” Astarion whispered, reclaiming his hand.
Cazador did not flinch as he surrendered his grip on Astarion’s wrist. “You know what we have in common, you and I?”
“What?”
“You don’t know who you are, do you, boy?” he smirked. The warmth in his smile lingered, but the light in his eyes was gone. They were scarily cold and neutral, piercing right through him. “Neither of us do. Halsin says that’s one way in which we are similar. I never had the luxury of getting to know who I am, or to find out the things I like. I don’t know one thing about myself—only that I loved the way my mother made me onigiri. Sometimes, I feel alone in the universe—it feels as though the Gods have abandoned me. The Gods have abandoned us both. But who needs the Gods? What have they ever done for you and me? For us, who have endured so much and yet reaped so little?”
“Alright, enough! I’m done. This conversation is pointless. Where are you going with this?” Astarion bared his teeth, seething with white-hot rage. “You’re talking in circles. What does any of this have to do with what you did to me last night?!”
“What I did to you?” Cazador laughed. The cool detached smile remained, a constant anchor upon the shadowed canvas of his face. “Oh, but this has everything to do with what I thought you did to me last night. I know better now. I am responsible for myself and my own happiness. I cannot keep trying to assume responsibility for yours, boy, nor can I put the onus of my happiness on your shoulders the way I have been. I'm sorry I’ve been constantly accusing you of wanting to leave. Perhaps it's just me projecting my insecurities onto you. I am being unfair to you.”
“You’re damn right, it isn’t fair,” Astarion growled.
“Halsin says I don't give you enough credit when it comes to dealing with me. I try so hard to protect you that I neglect to see that you can take care of yourself. I don't need to worry about holding everything inside of me and away from you—I need to trust that you can handle it. He wants to start seeing me every week—multiple times, if possible. He is looking through his calendar to find out when you and I can have another session together because he agrees that you and I need to sit down and talk.”
“Wow. That all sounds great. Halsin nailed it,” Astarion said, doing his best to disguise his sarcasm as interest. “And he’s right. We need to talk—”
“What do you need from me? Halsin asked me to ask you because as much as I have been trying to help you, it is the one thing I have neglected to ask.”
“What I need from you is space, Caz! I need patience and quiet understanding—”
“I can do that,” he replied quickly. There was a desperate edge to the sound of his voice.
“I don't want you to think that you can appease me with dinners and material things because—”
“Well, I would like to take you out to dinner at some point, but whenever you are comfortable—”
“—there isn’t anything you can do to fix this, Caz! We’re done.”
Two little words bounced off the apartment walls, each syllable reverberating tenfold as if it were a Gregorian chant rising heavenward in the vaulted ceiling of a chapel.
He couldn’t remember every note he’d sung to Cazador that night. All he could remember was the panicked look on the man’s face as he relentlessly poured the black contents of his angry, aching heart over the ink, gesso, and acrylic he’d inflicted on the table. He remembered how deeply it wounded him to see his fiancé—his ex-fiancé—cowering in terror as he plunged the knife deeper into his chest, appallingly emotionless as he twisted the blade in his guts.
He thought he was being reasonable. Gentle, even.
Astarion expected a twisted recitative—an argument. He expected violence—broken glass, slamming doors, a slap to the face, a fresh new thumb-shaped bruise upon his neck.
But the violence he was so intensely bracing for never came. The war horns never sounded. Cazador didn’t grab and claw at him the way he was afraid he would. He didn’t smash his face against the corner of the table seven times the way he once joked about, the way Astarion almost wished he would—anything to justify his cruelty in abandoning him.
His heartbeat slowed to a sick, languishing pulse as he watched Cazador stuff a weekender bag full of clothes and toiletries.
Astarion sat in the newfound silence, completely shocked by what he’d done.
The apartment was empty. Cazador was gone to spend the rest of the week with his family. Astarion was alone.
Slowly, he placed his hand upon the caged pearl—its weight like a feather in his fingertips as they traced the intricate bars that kept it safe from plummeting onto the ground.
He wished so desperately to tear it off, to break the chain.
Was there safety in this maddening silence?
The first thing he did upon snapping from his trance was to turn on the mirror light of his vanity and search for his envelope. To his surprise, the drawer had been left untouched and unsullied. Its contents were still a mess, but his documents were all intact and accounted for. He could hardly believe his luck when he pulled the envelope from underneath the clutter. It was still overflowing with every last dollar he’d saved since February. He crammed it into his satchel. That money wouldn’t be leaving his side again any time soon.
The second thing he did was to remove his sweater—an act of mercy. The room felt stuffier than usual as the weather grew warmer and more humid.
He paced, shirtless, lost in an anesthetized daze. He could hardly believe all that had transpired in the last twenty-four hours of his life. His bare feet slapped against the tile. Cazador’s onigiri sat on the table, barely touched, growing colder. He watched an ant wriggle as it crept up the glass vase at the bedside table, perching itself upon the black silk ribbon tied around its choke.
A high-pitched squeak from the cage beside the nightstand startled him.
Godey.
Submerged in an ice bath’s worth of remorse, Astarion approached the bars with a tentative hand, hopeful that the little bastard would not elect to bite him again. Instead, the waxy black rat’s whiskers twitched inquisitively, tickling his digits as he offered an interested sniff.
Astarion’s eyes darted between Godey’s quivering nose and the uneaten rice balls on the coffee table. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and opened his browser, a curious question now burning a hole in his weary head.
|
can rats eat st
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Report inappropriate predictions
|
~✧~
Astarion emerged from his tepid shower a slightly-less-miserable, not-quite-changed, definitely-cleaner man than he was before. He peacefully nuzzled his flushed face into the fibers of his towel before wrapping it around his lower body. He was grateful he hadn’t needed to bring a change of clothes with him, for once. He stopped at the bathroom mirror, halted by the alarming shade of dusky purple on pale skin peeking through the condensation on the surface of the glass.
Captivated, he leaned closer to the mirror and wiped away the fog.
Gods, they were right to make such a fuss about this, he mused to himself as he traced the edges of the hickey on his neck. It’s ghastly.
His vision gravitated from the mottled bruise to the pink, swollen flesh beneath his eyes. They trailed over the sunken hollows of his cheekbones down to the shallow valley where his chapped, bitten lips parted in surprise.
The gaunt, ugly, miserable stranger he was inspecting stared back at him with piercing eyes.
The unsettling mimic expertly replicated his movements.
When did I let myself get so bad?
He tried not to think about his withered reflection as he slipped on his favorite sweatpants—he decided against donning his favorite sweater, opting instead for one of his oversized t-shirts. He headed to the kitchen and mixed powdered hot chocolate into microwaved milk. Once it was ready, he crawled into the bed, set his mug upon the vanity, and sighed contentedly as his head sank into his pillow.
It felt nice to be alone—but it didn’t mean he had to be lonely.
Astarion cracked open the spine of the well-loved copy of Stardust and breathed in the orgasmic scent of slowly decomposing paper. Its pages were creased and dog-eared many times over, some texts highlighted, coffee-stained edges slightly torn by careless readers before him. He held the careworn book in his hands as if it was made of gold. He thought only of Gale—of the endless stream of praise he had lavished upon the novel printed upon its imperfect pages.
He spoke so highly of its contents. It was the sort of story that made its dwelling in the heart of its reader—a tale worth more than its vessel’s external condition.
He turned over on his side to face the cage. He propped his tired head upon his hand and began to read the book aloud to Godey.
The rat peeked curiously through the bars, his paws holding a tiny handful of sticky rice grains up to his small mouth. His ears twitched with every vibration as if he was listening intently to the low, husky tones of Astarion’s voice.
“Chapter One: In Which We Learn of the Village of Wall, and of the Curious Thing That Occurs There Every Nine Years. There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart’s Desire...”
Notes:
As it turns out, rats can eat a lot of things!
~✧~
Saint Mesa - Throne
Mitski - I Guess
Purity Ring - Asido
Aviana - Anomaly
Fiona Apple - Get Gone
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 37
Summary:
An intermission of sorts.
Notes:
This chapter utilizes a magical string of code by InfinitysWraith!
Be aware that the effect may not work as intended if you are using a custom skin. Feel free to turn skins off for this chapter if it will make your experience reading this easier.
If you are reading on PC, simply hover your cursor over the page. If you are on mobile, give the screen a tap, and enjoy the magic.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
~✧彡~
With little warning, the night-spun shackles embedded into the star's pale wrists snapped in twain.
Centuries of a tedious life in the dark fell to pieces just as abruptly.
Gravity had come to collect—and in a strange twist of fate, he was the lucky one—the one it would steal away.
In a state of panic, Astarion watched as his still-captive brothers and sisters reached out to grab hold of his raw, liberated wrists with luminous, fettered hands to stop him from slipping into the unknowable trench below them—the one they’d been repeatedly warned about. He eluded their radiant fingers, passing through them like mist as he ripped through the black canvas that had imprisoned them all.
His name echoed in the vast emptiness of space from six neglected, raspy, envious throats until the choir of their voices dwindled into a distant memory.
Inky, claw-like shadows slithered after him from the icy darkness, staking their claim on his aching, unadorned wrists. They grappled his forearms and swarmed his ankles, reaching towards his swanlike neck to recapture him and put him in his place. The contact was fleeting, white-hot, and wet, like acid tongues lapping at his skin, excoriating the deepest part of his soul.
“I made you to be consumed!” the voice of his captor rasped in the ear of its prey, witch-like and shrill, like nails on a chalkboard.
His strangled, fragmented cries punctuated the atmosphere as he attempted to draw water from the well of will within him.
Let go of me! Release me!
He tried to scream, but couldn’t.
The well had dried long ago.
Instead, he bowed his head in submission like the pathetic, fearful lickspittle he was, and pleaded with the shadow to spare his life from the treacherous unknown, vowed to abandon all hope of absconding, and begged to be forgiven for his transgression.
“It was an accident,” he whimpered. “It won’t happen again.”
“Wrong. This was all your fault. But you are right about one thing, boy: it won’t happen again.”
He nodded, eyes downcast, the fight within him long-extinguished. Tonight would be forgotten, and he would swiftly be punished before crawling back into his kennel like the good dog he was.
He would be obedient. He would shine less if it would please his master.
Things would go back to the way they were—the way they were meant to be.
“Release him!” A familiar voice boomed into the night, speaking fluently in a long-dead, primordial tongue—a language only the oldest of stars could hope to understand.
Suddenly, the surrounding air began to crackle with an electric flash of golden light. The dark tendrils shuddered away, screeching as they rotted like dying flower petals, disintegrating into bleeding mist.
Fear dissolved on his stinging tongue as the acrid taste in the air was alchemized into something sweeter.
Freedom.
Enveloped in pure, blinding light, Astarion fell through the sky, wondering why the universe had chosen him to receive this gift.
He'd almost instinctively sacrificed the opportunity in exchange for survival. Surely there must have been another star in the sky more deserving of this chance?
He laughed bitterly, and a strange, melodic tinkling sound bubbled from his damaged throat. In a trivial second of sheer vanity, he wondered, “Am I even worth wishing on?”
“You are!” the voice replied, startling him. It was low and rabbit-soft, yet somehow loud as rolling thunder, and warm as a blazing hearth. “Very much so.”
The star was falling, falling, falling faster, streaking across the darkness in a shifting spectrum of color.
He missed his siblings. Though they shared none of his blood in their veins, they were all he knew.
He missed the weight of the manacles on his wrists, though he did not understand why.
He summoned the memory of their heft to the forefront of his mind, where his keeper’s controlling voice still echoed like a sick, throbbing pulse in his head.
Powerlessly, it still barked commands from beyond.
Return to me!
He couldn’t fall forever… could he?
Surveying whatever lay below him, he realized that his grave would not be a fathomless trench after all, but a regal marble of blue draped in a delicate, cloud-spun raiment.
As he hurtled towards his end, the sun rose beside him gracefully. Adorned in hues of gold and purple, the grandest and most beautiful of all the stars hung adrift in the sky, sharing space with the comeliest, enrobed in scraps and rags.
As he basked in the spell of its warmth, Astarion nearly forgot that he was dying.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded with the sun. “Don’t let me be alone.”
“You’re not alone,” its gentle voice whispered. “You'll never be alone again. I won't let that happen to you.”
“Can’t you stop this?” he implored. “You’re powerful! Can’t you save me?”
“I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to stop you from falling,” the sun lamented. “But I will be on the other side of this, waiting for you.”
“Do you promise?” he asked. The edge of his voice was laced with desperation.
He swore he could feel the heat of soothing knuckles stroking his tear-streaked cheek.
“As sure as I rise. I promise.”
A shudder of excitement coursed to the tips of his fingers. He closed his eyes and allowed his furrowed brow to rest.
The world trembled joyfully as it received his plummeting form. The beckoning ground greedily devoured his shine as he collided past its rocky crust and into its sweltering mantle.
The powerful aftershocks of the impact jolted him awake and immediately silenced the symphonic swell of emotions building up in his head.
Dazed by the dizzying dream, Astarion squinted skyward through the grit in his sore eyes, reacquainting himself with the material sensation of his bed. It was solid beneath the weight of his body.
His heartbeat galloped in place.
The stars were gone, cloistered a million miles above him, replaced by their stark-white apartment's slick, cheaply textured ceiling. The dream was over, but the sun’s spell lingered, casting light upon the dust motes drifting by the windowsill.
He raised his palm to the sallow skin of his warm cheek, caressing the marring indentations his pillow had left behind. Stardust lay face-down next to him, his place in the world of Faerie lost to the tossing and turning of his sheets. He trailed his finger over the book's spine and closed his eyes blissfully, following the crease down to the prominent white label near the bottom. A low hum vibrated in his throat as he inhaled the faint grass-like scent of pulp.
Gale was right. The book was lovely.
Astarion allowed himself a transient smile while remembering how his big, warm arms had enfolded him. He swaddled himself in the comforter and sighed into the tattered scrap of his blanket.
The air conditioner noisily spurred to life, drowning out the gentle perch-coo of a lone mourning dove that had chosen to rest its wings upon their poorly painted fence. Astarion’s eyelids fluttered open, and he turned his head to the window, watching the patterned rise and fall of the bird’s chest with reverent vigilance as it serenaded him. He strained to hear its plaintive tune over the rattling drone of the appliance—anything to distract him from the wave of discomfort wracking his lungs.
Coo-OO-oo. Coo.
The speckled, ichorous mess he’d just coughed into the paper towel by his bedside did not concern him nearly as much as it probably should have. If tissues were out of his budget, a visit to the emergency room most certainly was.
Astarion cleared his scratchy throat, finding himself dreadfully hoarse after a night of inhaling black mold and wasting the English language on a rat.
Unsurprising.
Less expected was the hollow feeling in his chest when he realized that the room felt emptier than usual. He was half sure he’d dreamed up the breakup, that Cazador’s self-imposed sabbatical was a lie he told himself—nothing more than another dream bleeding into reality.
Astarion made a concentrated effort to dull all of his other senses and listened intently. He swore he could hear him shuffling around in the bathroom, likely brushing his hair in the mirror—a hundred perfect strokes.
Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he nervously cradled the pearl clasped around his neck. He stifled another hacking cough.
Cazador would complete his ritual and step out any minute, and the yelling would start, and the illusion of safety and serenity would shatter like glass.
Any minute now…
The minute became ten, which grew into thirty, until eventually, he had wasted a full hour curled up into a ball. His neck ached, his lungs struggled to breathe, and his eyes were laser-focused, fixed on the doorknob, its loosely mounted edges clumsily speckled with aberrant white paint.
He waited patiently for it to turn.
But the door never opened.
~✧~
Notes:
Hi, beloved Seen readers! I missed you all so, so much!
I’m sorry I couldn’t get this chapter to you sooner, loves. Life has been unexpectedly cruel as of late. I had an unexpected visit to urgent care last week (I’m okay now, just needed some antibiotics!) and my work schedule for this month was far less predictable than usual.
Unfortunately, it looks like this lack of balance will extend into June. Between the inflexible work schedule and a wedding, there will be a slight delay in my posting schedule until July. By then, things should hopefully return to normal - a new chapter every week (or at least within ten days!)
I will do my best to circumvent this pitfall and finish another chapter before the void sucks me back in again!
As always, thank you for all your love for this story! I hope life has been kind to you all.
~✧~
My Brightest Diamond – Inside a Boy
My Brightest Diamond – Ice and the Storm
Alice – Cocteau Twins
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 38
Notes:
CW: this chapter contains musings about growing up queer with an unsupportive/abusive parent. To avoid the one instance of physical violence described, skip the paragraph that mentions "little Star."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After what felt like an eternity, Astarion abandoned his vigil and dragged himself out of bed.
He stalked through the squalid efficiency on tenterhooks, repeatedly checking his phone for a deluge of missed calls and angry voicemails, only to find none waiting for him. He paced like an unnerved tiger in an ill-suited cage, surveying the landscape of their shared hovel for a scrap of physical evidence that Cazador Szarr wasn’t just some fucked up apparition his brain made up to torture him.
The sunflowers on the bedside were the first shred of tangible proof he existed. By the vase, he’d left his gold band resting neatly upon a single yellow sticky note that was folded in half. He scoffed. It felt perfectly staged. The paper beckoned to him from the ashen table—look at me, look at me, look at me!
But Astarion resisted the pull of its command. His mind was made up. He wasn’t about to give Caz the satisfaction of playing into yet another one of his manipulative games.
Famished, he shuffled over to the fridge and opened it, mulling over its scant contents: a half-empty carton of eggs, a six-pack of gas station margaritas (down to the last two), canned chilled wine, three freckled bananas, leftover eel, and an assortment of sauces and syrups in varying stages of expiration.
The eggs were tempting. They would go well sunny-side-up over the rice left in the cooker from the night before. But just as quickly as he pulled the carton out, the realization struck that the pan was lost in the clogged sink. His lips curled when he caught a whiff of the murky water, full of rotten food. The dishes left out to “soak” were playing host to a cluster of drain flies.
He eyed the griddle. It was covered in eel slime.
He sighed. Even if he did recover and scour the pan, he couldn’t shake the phantom scent of burnt eggs from his last attempt.
“You’re useless,” Cazador’s echo whispered in his ear, sanguinary and shrill as it mocked him. “Incompetent. Can’t make eggs, can’t unscrew a jar, can’t use a can opener without my help. Do you really need me to do everything for you? Did your parents teach you nothing in that ivory tower of yours?”
Astarion quickly put the thought of sunny-side-up eggs out of his mind.
Whatever breakfast was, it would have to be served on a styrofoam plate.
His stomach growled as he weighed the rest of his options. The stale cereal atop the dusty fridge was always a good last resort, even if it meant coming face-to-face with the shark in a jar perched on the adjacent shelf. The dogfish was a gift that Amanita had bought for Cazador the last time she’d gone on yet another family vacation that excluded him. Its hollow, dead-eyed stare had relegated it and its formaldehyde prison to a corner out of sight, much to Caz’s chagrin.
Astarion surveyed the fridge’s contents again when a long-lost memory resurfaced. He settled on the bananas, desperate to follow his childhood nostalgia down the rabbit hole.
There was a treat his mother used to prepare when he was a toddler that she had affectionately dubbed a “banana piano.” The delicacy wasn’t grand or overly complicated. All it required was a banana, a fork, chocolate syrup, and the barest knowledge of what a piano looked like.
After allowing him a few sticky spoonfuls of sugary whipped egg whites while she made meringue cookies, she would set aside her mixing bowl, take a banana from the well-stocked basket of fruits she always kept on the counter, and carefully cut it into narrow pieces. His cuts weren’t nearly as clean as hers. He separated his tapered and uneven slices with unsteady hands, arranging them like piano keys—two here, a space, then three—the sharps and the flats. In place of chocolate syrup, he drizzled agave over what was meant to be the black keys.
That was all. It was small and sweet and insignificant.
He sat cross-legged on a pillow, scraping the first round sliver of banana against the bottom of the soft, grainy styrofoam plate. He collected the extra syrup that pooled at the edges before stabbing the fruit with his plastic fork and shoving it into his mouth.
He briefly considered calling his mother.
The day he’d stopped being her little Star was fresh in his mind when he took his first bite. She’d unearthed his diary—the one in which he wrote poems about boys he liked—and read it cover to cover. He remembered the sting of her betrayal better than the slap of her palm against his cheek.
He forced himself to swallow. It was mushy and wholly unsatisfying.
As it slid down his throat, the sobbing sounds of his mother’s anguish haunted him, drowning out his heartbroken wails as he realized he was losing her love—for good, this time.
Give me back my son.
“I’m still your son,” he whimpered.
You’re sick. You’ve chosen to live an uncomfortable life. You’ll never know love as it’s meant to be known. You’ll never be able to kiss a man or hold his hand without facing ridicule—and I won’t let you hide in my house.
Numbly, he chewed, swallowing the unpleasant undercurrent of the lesson she’d seared into his skin with the syrupy treacle.
Love is conditional.
You have to work for it.
It has to be earned.
You will find that you need to lie to receive it.
Even then, it can easily be lost.
Astarion tried to force another bite to spite her, but he gave up and set the fork down with a huff. He wasn’t sure why he bothered getting sentimental over something so ridiculous. It could hardly even be considered a real dessert. Perhaps it meant more when his mother’s hands had been essential to its preparation, back when they were still gentle, before they’d readily cast the first stone life would ever lob at him. Maybe it had nothing to do with her. Perhaps life had jaded him too severely, and the simple joys he’d been allowed when he was small and sweet and insignificant (and pure) were forfeit now. What good would reclamation do him now that he was broken, tainted, ugly, and old?
His chest felt tight.
Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine what breakfast looked like in Gale’s apartment—or wherever he lived. He envisioned sunlight pouring onto exposed brick, the same creeping philodendrons he’d conjured from the air months ago when they’d made tzatziki together still thriving in their planter. In his imagination, every corner of his kitchen was sleek, shiny, and well-maintained.
He wondered how Gale took his coffee. How many sugars? How much cream? Did he like it strong and black and bitter? Maybe he’d have some nice, flower-infused tea on the kettle instead. He seemed like the kind of man who would appreciate something lavender-flavored, or perhaps a black tea blend with specks of blue cornflower interspersed. The illusory scent of medium-boiled scotch eggs being fried in a saucepot flooded his senses, drowning out all thoughts of tea.
The idea of running a fork through the center of an egg yolk and watching it rupture was driving him mad with hunger. Within seconds, he begrudgingly scoffed the rest of his cold, pulpy banana and scraped the agave syrup off the plate.
He saved the tiniest, syrup-less slice for Godey. It was a piece no bigger than his ear was round, as suggested by a torrent of kind strangers on the internet when he’d asked what rats should eat for breakfast. He placed it upon his curved ceramic bowl and observed his roommate’s curled whiskers twitch as he held the treat between his paws.
Despite his best efforts to limit whatever little affection he felt for the animal, his heart melted with every pitiful squeak.
His mother would have hated Godey, and knowing that only made Astarion love him more.
While sipping a cup of black coffee (after recovering the unwieldy coffee pot from underneath the sink), Astarion scrolled through his phone, sifting through the advertisements for rentals with his heart lodged in his throat. Nearly all the listings he could find—carriage houses, mother-in-law units, studios, and even the slummiest of rented rooms—were double the price he was paying for the efficiency.
To make matters worse, he learned he couldn’t legally change the locks.
He dragged his feet to the edge of Cazador’s side of the bed and collapsed onto the mattress. The foldable metal bed frame creaked beneath his weight.
Nothing felt real.
His eyes were glued to the coffee table—further chilling confirmation that this was all happening. Gods, he needed to find a way to cover those strange sigils. He felt stupid—the words were in plain English, but still, he barely understood their meaning.
Astarion felt a sharp vibration in his pocket.
Don’t you dare look at your phone, he chided himself as he reached for it anyway.
Astarion had indeed spurred on the sale of their futon months before. It had been the source of countless arguments and silent car rides. He’d complained and nagged about how much space it took up and how uncomfortable it was. The black scuff it left behind on the wall was a grim reminder of its inopportune absence (and his folly.)
He needed every penny of his savings. An air mattress was out of the question.
Drained of what little energy he’d woken up with, Astarion tossed his phone aside. He huddled up underneath the comforter and wrapped it around himself, summoning the memory of the warmest hug he’d ever received. It flickered in his mind like a candle in the rain. He tried to imagine Gale’s arms—Cazador’s arms wrapped around him hungrily—Gale’s arms—Cazador’s tongue lapped at the bruise on his neck—Gale’s arms, please, please, please...
He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed.
Any arms would do if their touch helped clear the fog in his head.
But his candle blew out, and the Gods were as silent as they ever were. The comforter was cold, damp, and smelled of must, and he felt no less alone and uncertain than he had before he’d crawled inside. He poked his head out from his self-made cocoon, and the familiar scrawl of Cazador’s handwriting cried out from an ill-creased corner of the folded sticky note.
Look at me.
Look at me.
Look at me.
Compelled, he reached over and unfolded the yellow square of paper. His heart clenched as it fluttered between his trembling fingertips.
Was I sweet once?
Awash with paralyzing, all-consuming grief, he crumpled the note in his hand and halfheartedly tossed it in the direction of the trash can, hardly caring if he missed it. He exhaled, hoping the echo of his sobs in the half-empty side of the room where the coffee table sat would slip him the answer to Cazador’s somber question.
He had to have known he was sweet once. He remembered the early days of their torrid love affair. Things had been nice before. He took him out for coffee after every trip to the gym, and they’d spend hours in the coffee shop drawing one another on napkins. He remembered the rainy afternoon spent lazily tangled between the sheets in Caz’s old apartment. He’d playfully wiped a dab of red acrylic paint on the tip of his nose. Some evenings, he’d fall asleep to guitar strings strumming as he workshopped snippets of songs about him that he would never complete.
He remembered the night he realized his feelings had grown beyond his usual rakish dalliances. Caz had carried him to his car after a date, bridal style because his feet hurt, and he’d been too vain then to choose more sensible shoes. He’d dipped him low, and they’d laughed, and he’d kissed him under the stars and the streetlights, alone in the night together. He remembered how his hair had almost grazed the golden rainwater that pooled between the cobblestones, Caz’s cool lips brushing against his neck.
Astarion shamefully buried his face into the pillow.
He was sweet.
I don’t understand him.
He was kind.
I failed him.
But he—
Why wasn’t he always sweet to me? He could have been.
“You really think you’re sweet all the time?”
“I try,” Astarion’s voice quivered, answering no one in particular as tears ran down his nose.
“Sometimes, you’re not sweet.”
I hate you.
Astarion rose from the bed and prepared to take on whatever banal task would help him ease his thoughts the fastest. He grabbed the step stool and swept the thick layer of dust atop the fridge with a damp paper towel, face to face with the shark specimen’s lifeless, marble-like eyes in his own. They pleaded for freedom through distorted glass and unnaturally blue liquid.
The horrifying realization that it was only a baby set in. Its sandpaper skin had never known the sea, and never would. A life cut short, ruthlessly cut away from its mother by opportunistic fishermen before its gestation was complete. It was doomed to sit on the dusty shelf of someone who claimed to love sharks but not enough to recognize that this one’s body had been condemned to a cruel afterlife where it would never know peace.
Was I sweet, once? it begged to know.
I hate you.
Astarion pulled away, deciding that projecting his feelings onto a cheap souvenir was an unproductive waste of his time. He noticed the spattered stains of grease creeping up the backsplash. He winded himself with the force of his scrubbing as he washed it off. The filthy grout was proving harder to clean—the grime had settled in, and his usual homemade concoction of water and dish soap was far too mild to cut through it. He cursed the lack of ventilation in their kitchen and damned himself for not thinking to clean the walls more often before another uncontrollable coughing fit overcame him.
Fed up with being miserable, he inspected the culprit most likely responsible for his respiratory distress. Upon prying off the front panel of the yellowed plastic shell, a stale, musty scent lunged at him and garroted the back of his congested throat. To his horror (but not entirely to his surprise), the inside of the wall unit was riddled with a speckled mass of fuzzy, soot-like spores. They saturated the paper-thin, once-white filter like crushed graphite.
Thoroughly disgusted, he slammed the lid of the air conditioner shut and cracked open the window to let in some semblance of fresh air. He always knew mold was one of the most prevalent issues plaguing their shoddily constructed room, but only now did it hit him that it had evolved into a monumental problem that would put Jupiter’s gravity to shame.
Astarion brushed his teeth in the dark. He spat blood and black phlegm into the porcelain sink, craving nothing more than to purge the remnants of the toxin he’d been inhaling for years from his system. While hacking up the thick, grey gunk from deep within his crackling chest, all he could think about was how Cazador’s toothbrush was gone. The empty cup and its dry residue seemed to taunt him while he brushed his teeth again.
He looked up at his ghoulish reflection, shrouded in shadows.
Hollow, dead eyes stared back.
I hate y—
Astarion felt a sharp vibration in his pocket.
Then another. And another.
A phone call? Come on. You know better than to answer him, he scolded himself as he reached for it anyway.
His eyes widened in surprise when he saw a purple heart and stars shining through the cracked phone screen, illuminating him in his self-imposed darkness. He let it ring twice more, running his hands through his hair and taking a deep, gasping breath before finally answering.
“Gale?” he asked, all too breathlessly.
“Good morning, Astarion,” Gale replied in his usual cheery manner. His voice was slightly compressed by the complex network of digital channels needed to transmit it to his ears, but still soothing. Still warm. Still unmistakably his. “Or should I say, good afternoon! I wanted to check up on you. How are you feeling?”
“I’m doing about as well as you’d expect,” Astarion sniffled, grateful that the heat that rushed to the tips of his ears with every syllable would remain a secret.
“You sound ill!” Gale noted, his voice taking on a familiar timbre of concern. “Is everything alright?”
“It’s nothing serious. I’m feeling better now that you’ve called, darling,” he replied coyly.
“O-oh! I’m glad to hear it.”
Astarion privately delighted in knowing he’d flustered him before replying. “So. I saw your text to the group chat. I imagine Cazador told you all about what happened yesterday?”
Gale heaved a heavy sigh. “He did—he messaged me late last night about it.”
“I see,” he murmured. Something about his ex reaching out to spread the news of their split made him uneasy until he remembered they were his friends first. It was only natural for him to confide in them. Astarion would be lucky if any of them chose to speak to him from this point on, much less Gale. “I meant to text you sooner. I suppose I’m still in shock.”
“I can imagine. The morning after a breakup is never easy for anyone. That includes the one who initiated it. I know you cared for him.”
“Of course. We broke up as amicably as we could. At least I tried to.”
“Amicable or not, it doesn’t mean it was an easy thing to do.”
“It wasn’t. For him, of course, but for me—well, after what we discussed at the library, I thought creating distance would help me feel safe. Instead, I just feel…blank.”
“Huh…” Gale hummed.
“What?” Astarion felt his phone stick to the side of his face. It was becoming uncomfortably warm.
“Cazador said the same thing when I talked to him. About feeling blank, that is.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Gale replied. “He sounded truly remorseful. He admitted that he’s been taking his frustrations out on you. He wants to work on himself.”
Astarion groaned, slumping against the door frame. Every syllable was another nail hammered into his heart. “Fuck. Did he really tell you that?”
“He did.”
“Shit, I feel so guilty, Gale. Do you think I jumped to conclusions? I rushed this, didn’t I? I should have waited—”
“No, no!” he assured. “You did what you felt was right in your heart of hearts.”
“For the both of us?”
“I wouldn’t fault you if it was all for yourself.”
“I appreciate that,” Astarion said. “Still, I can’t help but feel that I’ve ruined our game for everyone—especially Lae’zel.”
His heart clenched at the memory of her embrace, hardly believing it had only been a week ago.
“Fret not. You haven’t ruined a thing. Postponing the game was my idea. I figured giving you two some space and time to heal would be the right thing to do. Unfortunately, I can tell you from first-hand experience that trying to play D&D with your ex is an inadvisable endeavor. Mystra and I tried once during our first break and it was…awkward, to say the very least. That was before she finally had enough and left for good,” Gale mused. “Oh, hells, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload so much personal baggage onto your shoulders. You’ve got enough of a load to carry without the sordid details of my messy breakup on top of it all. I only wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”
“No, don’t apologize! I’m glad you called to check up on me—I hate to admit it, but I was sort of getting into my own head about things.”
“I tend to do the same in times like these,” Gale replied sympathetically. “It’s part of the reason I wanted to call you.”
His heart grew warm, and the wings of the butterflies long trapped within its atrium for half a year beat wildly in his chest.
“I’m glad you did. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“It’s nice to talk to you too,” Gale replied. Astarion swore he could hear him smiling through the phone. “Really. Do you require anything of me that might ease your burden?”
“Gale, I—” he stopped midway through his sentence to take a deep breath.
I want this.
“Do you think we could go out somewhere tonight? Maybe for a bite to eat, or a drink? It’s hard to be alone in this apartment…”
The pause was long enough for the butterflies in Astarion’s heart to flutter weakly to the floor.
“I’m sorry. Truly I am. As much as I wish I could, I’m afraid I already made plans for the night. Caz asked if we could go out for drinks. He wanted to commiserate with someone who’s been in his shoes.”
The wind abandoned his lungs.
“…Oh,” he squeaked, pretending not to sound as wounded as he was. “Of course. He could use the company. Thank you for being a good friend to him. His home life is…difficult.”
A life I’ve condemned him to return to for an indeterminate time, like the monster I am.
He felt the unbearable weight of guilt on his shoulders.
“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t divulge any of what you’ve shared in our conversations. That’s between us. I’m a man of my word,” Gale reassured. “But how would you feel about maybe going out tomorrow? There are quite a few places I’ve been thinking of visiting that I think you’d rather enjoy. I’d be happy to take you along with me.”
Astarion hid a burgeoning smile behind pale fingers. “That sounds nice.”
“Excellent!” Gale exclaimed, excitable as always. “We can talk then. Is four in the afternoon alright?”
He nodded before remembering he was on a phone call. “Yes, that’s fine.”
“As for tonight—and please, don’t be mad at me—after Caz texted me, I might have looped Karlach and Shadowheart in on only the most minor details—”
“What? Why?!”
“Now, before you say anything, please have a little faith in me. I didn’t tell them anything too personal. The last time there was a big breakup in our friend group…well, you already know what happened. They both insisted on being made aware of future heartbreaks to prevent anyone from isolating themselves as I did.”
Astarion felt his apprehension melt around him. “That’s rather sweet of them.”
“That’s just how they are,” Gale said. “Karlach even offered to take Caz out tomorrow, so consider the both of you well-looked-after. Please consider giving them a call. They mean well.”
“I’ll think about it,” Astarion replied dryly.
“Take heart, Astarion. I’m here for you. We all are. Remember that.”
He wanted to believe him. He regretted not being able to read Gale’s expressions at that moment, though he already trusted that all his words were spoken earnestly.
“Talk later?” Astarion asked weakly.
“Of course,” Gale replied. “We’ll talk soon, my friend.”
“Swear it?”
“I swear it.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
Another audible smile. “I am too. Until then.”
Click.
Astarion turned on the switch, bathing himself in sickly yellow light. He stared straight ahead at the cracked tile on the shower wall through the half-drawn curtain. He remembered Cazador’s empty, stone-faced glare as the blood dripped from his dangling knuckles and collected at his feet, the fluid force of water chasing it down the drain.
He’s going out for drinks with Gale tonight.
A cocktail of fury and envy burned in his veins.
Sometimes, you’re not sweet.
He winced as he regarded the other gaping hole in the bathroom drywall, only a few paces away from the last—he remembered how they’d locked eyes in silent panic, their petty squabble instantly forgotten as the weight of irreparable destruction sank deep into their bones. They’d cleverly disguised it by mounting a cheap planter over the fist-sized hollow.
He’d forgotten all about it.
Lost in the plastic green bubble-like leaves of the false succulent, he came to the latest revelation among many: there was no way they were getting the security deposit back.
Astarion laughed to himself before turning his attention back to his phone.
Gale wants to see me tomorrow.
It didn’t take long to find Shadowheart’s number in his contacts.
Without so much as a second thought, he dialed it.
~✧~
“Hey, fangs!” Karlach enthusiastically waved him over from the front seat of her Jeep.
Astarion’s weekender bag was slung over his shoulder. It was stuffed with his savings, his nicest clothes, and everything he thought he would need for a night or two away. Godey was at his side in his travel carrier, curiously sniffing the petrichor from the grass.
“Hello!” he sang, sliding gracefully into the passenger seat with his belongings.
“Thanks for not keeping us waiting,” Shadowheart snarked. The rearview mirror betrayed her poorly disguised smile.
“Nice to see you too, darling,” Astarion replied. “I know you missed me.”
“Your roots miss me too,” she bit back with a tart sweetness in her voice.
His clever retort was interrupted when a brown paper bag was shoved in his face.
“Here,” Karlach said, letting it fall upright into his lap. “We grabbed lunch for you on the way. Nothin’ fancy, but I figured you’d be hungry.”
He took a peek inside, where a foil-wrapped burger and fries waited for him.
“I—you didn’t—” he stammered.
She laughed. “You really need to get better at saying ‘thank you.’ It’s alright. There’ll be more where that came from at casa Cliffgate-Hallowleaf. Let’s go.”
His heart felt lighter with each mile they drove away from the dreary apartment—so light, it may as well have been soaring above him. Karlach and Shadowheart mostly talked amongst themselves, passionately singing along to the songs on the radio while he ate his meal, hiding an errant dribble of ketchup on the side of his mouth behind his hands.
Astarion felt a sharp vibration in his pocket.
Hoping no one would take notice, he unlocked his phone.
Astarion heard the rhythmic pulsing of blood rushing between his ears grow cold and dull. His voice withered in his throat, rife with searing pain as he scanned the last message until the words were little more than incomprehensible nonsense. His attention slipped between the narrow spaces between the well-kerned font.
Why would he—? No. There’s no way he told you. He can’t tell you.
What the fuck, Halsin?
“Is everything alright back there, soldier?” Karlach asked.
“Everything’s fine!” he lied as he typed up his response.
“Astarion?”
His eyes quickly darted towards the sound of his name, meeting Shadowheart’s in the rearview mirror.
“You have to stop texting him,” she said sternly. “At least for now.”
“I know,” he sighed exasperatedly, setting his phone down face-down beside him. “I will.”
“It hurts. Loss always does.”
He nodded. “This is far from my first brush with heartbreak—but it’s proving far more difficult than I expected it would be.”
A sad smile crossed her face. She ran a bandaged hand through her pitch-black fringe. “Believe me, I know how hard it is to cut contact with someone you care for. But trust me—it’ll only bring you more pain if you don’t.”
Notes:
We're so back, babes! (For now!)
I've missed you so, so terribly, dear readers. I come bearing great news. While we're not totally out of the woods yet, my July schedule has been unfucked! That means I'll be able to come back to posting on my regular schedule next month! Thank you all for your patience and your kind words of encouragement!
In the meantime, please stop by and read this fun, Seen-related interview I did for CuttingSilk! They've also interviewed a few of my friends as well, so I highly recommend reading the whole thing!
🌈I hope you're all having a happy pride month thus far! Until next time, loves!🌈
~✧~
Marika Hackman – Blood
The Mountain Goats - Woke Up New
Mree – In the Kitchen
Brye, Cavetown – LEMONS (with Cavetown)
Linda Perhacs – Hey, Who Really Cares
Marika Hackman - No Caffeine
Bonus: Shakira - She Wolf (because you just know that's what Shadowheart and Karlach would be singing along to in the car.)
🐺
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 39
Notes:
7/14 update: Now includes some adorable fanart by astarionsknife! 🐀🖤
CW - religious trauma, brief mentions of homophobia and transphobia (internalized and otherwise, mostly implied through dialogue.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
Shadowheart’s shears cut deliberately through the dull fog of Astarion’s hazy mind. The sound was crisp and sharp in his ears, blade kissing well-whetted blade in an even, measured tempo. Dirt collected in the creases of her gloved hands as she attentively tended to her modest garden. She trod lightly on the delicate sea of clover beneath her knees. She was bent over quietly as if lost in a serene, whispered prayer.
Velvety petunias crept up a wooden trellis propped up against the house, competing with the orange nasturtium that traveled the same path skyward. Sleeping rosebuds were beginning to bloom, their virginal petals bleeding scarlet, guarded by prominent thorns—he remembered his raw, mangled throat and a shiver crept up the ridges of his spinal cord.
Her gloved hands plucked a few succulent heirloom tomatoes off the vine, ready and ripe, bruised so deeply purple that they were nearly black in hue. She snipped off a few sprigs of fragrant cilantro, rosemary, oregano, thyme, and basil before she stopped.
Curious to see what had broken her infrangible concentration, Astarion angled himself closer to the window. He dug his chin into the couch and pressed his forehead to the glass.
Her tarragon was struggling.
She held its desiccated leaves between her fingertips. The herb drooped listlessly, dull and diseased, withering under the oppressive tantrum of yet another vindictive rainstorm.
Astarion’s disdain for flowers extended to plants, but he had neglected enough of them to know how to tell when they were dying—and the tarragon was most certainly dying.
He watched with bated breath as Shadowheart procured a miniature trowel from her apron pocket. She returned her gaze to the garden shears, carefully weighing each instrument in her palms.
He squeezed his eyes shut, turning to stone, bracing himself for the hand of justice to—
Snip!
Ah.
Was it an act of kindness? A mercy killing?
Why did he care so much?
It was unwell, on the precipice of death.
He supposed it couldn’t be helped.
Some little lives were impossible to salvage.
“Astarion?”
His eyes fluttered open. Shadowheart hovered over him, blocking the overhead light of the kitchen lamp as she examined him with a troubled look on her pixie-like face. Her ring finger and thumb were still comfortably nestled in the finger holes of her hairdressing shears.
“Is something the matter?” she asked, her voice slightly brittle and childlike. “Aside from the obvious, of course?”
“I’m perfectly alright,” he murmured. “Why do you ask?”
“You flinched.”
He winced.
Dodge. Deflect.
“Did I? You had me so relaxed, I must have been falling asleep,” he lied.
“Your eyes were open,” she countered, massaging his shoulders with adept hands. “You’re tense.”
“It was probably a reflex.”
“You whimpered. I thought I might’ve cut your ear—”
“Oh, shit! D’you need the first aid kit over there, Shads?” Karlach’s thunderous voice boomed from across the house. “I’ve got it!”
“I’m fine!” Astarion cried, exasperated. “That won’t be necessary.”
Shadowheart examined his ear, gently stroking a lock of damp, freshly-toned silver hair and twirling it between her fingers in an uncomfortably familiar way. An impulse fired off in his brain, and he shrank away from her touch, sparking concern in her olive eyes.
“Hey,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and flowing with honey. “It’s okay. You’re not bleeding.”
“Thank fuck,” Karlach sighed in relief, noisily slamming the white medicinal kit on the countertop. The sound startled poor Godey, who was splashing around in a shallow glass container, contentedly fishing for garden peas. Frightened, he scampered away, cowering behind the toaster (which was thankfully unplugged.)
“Sorry, little guy!” She apologized, red-faced and plainly embarrassed. “Guess I don’t know my own strength. Glad you’re okay, Starry.”
“Thank you. I can’t imagine how hard it’d be to wash blood off these silver tresses of mine,” he purred. “It’d take ages.”
Shadowheart rolled her eyes before walking over to the corner Godey fled to. She reached her hand behind the toaster to grapple him. “Your hair wouldn’t be that shade if it weren’t for me. You should come over more often. Two months without a touch-up is long enough!”
“Yet I still have the best hair between the both of us,” Astarion quipped, shaking his head in mock disappointment before flashing her an impish grin.
His impertinence provoked a tidal wave of uproarious laughter from Karlach. “Bold of you to say that while she’s still holdin’ the scissors, mate!” she guffawed. “Careful she doesn’t fuck your shit up!”
Shadowheart suppressed a giggle of her own. “He’s lucky he’s handsome, and that I know he’s joking. Isn’t that right, Godey?” she cooed, allowing the rat a quick sniff of her cut up fingertips before she tenderly caressed the sides of his cheeks. His whiskers twitched in pleasure as his small pink tongue emerged, eagerly licking the sides of her slender hand.
“Well, he seems to have taken a shine to you,” he said mockingly, staring daggers at his furry charge and rubbing his wrists under the hairdressing cape. “I seem to recall our introduction involving more teeth, the traitorous little wretch...”
“Rats tend to bite when they’re scared,” Shadowheart replied, scratching between his ears. “He’s probably gotten used to being handled by now. Haven’t you? Such a good boy. You’re just a big sweetie!”
“I’m about to lose the love of my life to a rat!” Karlach jokingly wailed. “You know I can’t compete with you, Godes.”
Shadowheart’s bell-like laughter bounced off the kitchen walls. “You’re silly.”
“I’m your silly.”
“Did I ever tell you I had a pet mouse for a little? I remember the first time I ever tried to pick him up. I had my hand layered in my bedsheets. I was so scared he’d bite me!”
“Aw!”
“In all seriousness, I want to thank you two for being so sweet with him,” Astarion said softly. “I was worried bringing him along would be inconvenient, but I couldn’t leave him alone.”
“Don’t apologize!” Karlach exclaimed, excitedly gesturing towards her partner. “You’ve made her day. She’s living the dream right now.”
“Mhm. I’ve wanted to have a pet for years,” Shadowheart agreed dreamily, nuzzling her nose into Godey’s fur one final time before holding him up towards Astarion. “Here, would you mind holding him for a bit?”
“Um…sure,” he replied cautiously, pulling his hands out from under the hairdressing cape as she placed the black furry creature into his cupped palms. Godey raised his head to look up at him. A glint of recognition sparked like a match in his pinhead-like eyes.
To Astarion’s horror, they began bulging in and out of their sockets.
“Eugh!” he gagged, recoiling from the rat in his hand. “What in the sweet hells was that?! Is that normal? I’ve never seen him do that before!”
“Aw, he’s boggling!” Shadowheart squealed as if she’d just witnessed a newly ambulatory kitten fall over rather than the Eldritch horror he’d beheld. “It’s a little something rats do when they’re pleased. He’s glad to see you!”
“I suppose,” he said through clenched teeth. “He’s Cazador’s pet.”
“But he feels safe with you!” she assured. “You must take good care of him.”
“I can’t take full credit,” Astarion stared down at the little life he held in his hands in bewilderment. “But I try.”
“What kind of pet would you want most, Shads?” Karlach asked curiously.
“Oh, you already know I’m not picky,” Shadowheart smiled. “All I know is that I want a lot of them. All kinds. Big, small—it doesn’t matter, so long as they appreciate a warm bed and more affection than they know what to do with.”
“Really?” Astarion laughed. “I have my hands full with the one!”
She cast him a puzzled expression. “He doesn’t have a cage-mate?”
Astarion shook his head. “No. It’s just him. He was a gift to Cazador from…well, I don’t know if I’d call him a friend,” he said disdainfully as he tried to suppress his resentment towards Petras. “We’re not even supposed to have one rat, let alone two of them.”
Her eyes softened. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t really supposed to have my mouse either. They aren’t solitary creatures,” she said sadly. “Neither are rats. They thrive when they have another rat or two they can play with.”
“Oh.” A sudden guilt overcame him. It had never occurred to him that Godey might be unhappy or lonely. “Shadowheart?”
“Yes?”
“Rats don’t live very long, do they?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
She smiled wistfully. “Only a few years, sadly.”
“Ah.” He heard his heart break in his chest.
He’s Cazador’s pet.
It isn’t like I’m going to get the chance to see him die.
He thought reminding himself might comfort him.
It didn’t.
“I’m almost finished with the trim,” Shadowheart said, before quietly adding, “Is it alright for me to continue? Or would you like a bit more time? It’s alright if you need a moment.”
He inhaled the subtle floral perfume lingering on her wrist. He exhaled through his nose, and he felt every muscle in his body loosen. His brow relaxed. “I’m fine. Really.”
She returned a much calmer Godey to his makeshift pool, and Astarion couldn’t help but smile while he watched him pluck a pea from the water as if it were the most precious of pearls. He watched him scamper away with his prize between his teeth before zipping back in to dive for another.
The crisp sound of Shadowheart’s shears resumed, this time slightly swifter and airier than before. With a fine toothed comb, she took a thin section of hair and trimmed its edges blunt.
Snip, snip, snip.
The motions were fluid—second nature to her.
Razor-sharp blades scored through the pitter-patter of rain as it lightly dotted the windowpane. Karlach’s low, tuneful humming became the undercurrent of the peaceful afternoon soundscape. The warm reverberations of her voice echoed in the cabinet she’d opened to fetch a glass to pour water in. Once she’d chugged it, unable to keep still for too long, she kept herself busy chopping up the tomatoes from the garden and storing them away. Once that task was completed, she cut the edges off several slices of homemade shokupan. She applied a generous amount of whipped cream to one side of the milk bread with a dainty butter knife, and her hum abruptly evolved into a robust whistle.
The sibilant sound overpowered his brain. It felt as if it had been submerged in a cooler of ice.
He’d gone so long without whistling that he’d half-forgotten that Cazador had expressly forbidden it. The ban seemed so silly at first. It had come not long after they’d moved in with one another. He’d thought to ask him why, but he knew he would never get anywhere by simply asking—not anywhere good, anyway. Cazador hated questions, and the last thing Astarion needed was to land himself in hot water over something so trivial. It was easier to give in to his frivolous demands.
So he stopped whistling around Cazador. He stopped whistling at all, too afraid of being caught even when he was home by himself. If there was anything Cazador hated more than questions, it was disobedience.
His phone was turned off. It sat like a stone in his pocket.
The memories of Cazador’s accusatory texts were harder to silence.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, remembering his first session with Halsin as best as he could.
“No one will judge you here. Besides, I wouldn't tell another soul, even if I wanted to. I'm bound to my oath.”
He exhaled. There’s no way Halsin told him anything.
It wasn’t enough to ease his worried mind.
But how else would he know?
Unsettled, he focused on Karlach’s tune instead. She whistled undeterred, her mouth unbound by the same petty rules that fettered his. She carried on with her birdsong, and when it halted, it was because she chose to nibble on a strawberry before sharing a tiny slice with Godey, or that she’d found an opportune moment to suck whipped cream off her fingers. Thrice, she pressed five luscious berries into the dense cream before smothering them in another generous slathering and squashing them between another slice of crust-less bread. She wrapped her fruit sandwiches in cling wrap, leaving them in the fridge to cool.
The appliance was covered in dozens of kitschy magnets and mementos. There was one picture of Karlach in her fatigues, and Shadowheart in her arms. In another photograph, they held one another tightly while perched on craggy, grey rocks, shielding one another from the spray of a colossal, tempestuous wave. Their faces were frozen still, preserved in paper and plastic with resin, contorted by laughter. In another, they stood side by side in ankle-deep water, the blue sea scintillating behind them like a pane of crushed diamonds in the afternoon sunshine.
Melancholy pulled at his throat as if it were made of taffy.
They looked so exquisitely in love with one another.
So did he and Cazador—at least in pictures.
He searched their smiling faces for something he longed for others to find in his own.
To his relief, he couldn’t find it.
He hoped their love was real. He hoped it didn’t only exist when eyes were on them, too—that unlike everything he’d ever known, their affection transcended the boundaries of audiences and pixels and glossy paper.
His eye drifted to a yellowing grocery list with a rogue “I love you” scribbled in its margins. It was stacked underneath an old Polaroid of a young Karlach—hair cropped short, maybe eight or nine years old—sitting on a picnic table, nestled between two adults. A single word was scrawled onto its white, textured edges: taters.
After another minute or so of silence, Karlach cleared her throat, snapping him from his rumination.
“So, uh, how’d you two break up?”
“Karlach!”
“Aw, c’mon, Fringe!” she whined, flailing her hands in aggravation. “We were gonna talk about it eventually! Just trying to break the ice a bit.”
“There’s a difference between ‘breaking the ice’ and ‘barreling through it full force with a hammer!’” Shadowheart scolded. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready! Now if you don’t mind, it’s getting a bit warm in here. Could you please turn the air conditioning on, love?”
“Staring at my biceps again?” Karlach teased, flexing her well-toned arms and flashing a wide, beatific grin at her partner. “Or is that your polite way of telling me to fuck off?”
The color that flooded into Shadowheart’s cheeks brought her budding roses to shame. “You’re a relentless flirt, you know?”
“I know. And you’re cute,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
“Love you, tin soldier.”
“Love you too, orchid.” Karlach kissed the tip of Shadowheart’s nose. “Holler if you need me!”
With that, she stepped away, leaving them in the kitchen, alone together.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Shadowheart leaned close to him.
“Sorry about that. She’s just trying to help.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been quiet all day,” she whispered.
“I’m brooding,” he muttered.
“It isn’t like you.”
“Can you blame me?” he replied. “I just broke up with the man I was supposed to marry. My entire future crumbled to bits in a single afternoon! Until yesterday, I thought I knew what the rest of my life was going to look like!” He sighed. “I suppose I’m trying to come to terms with what that means for me—what comes next.”
There was a moment of silence between them, punctuated only by the airy snipping sounds of Shadowheart’s shears. “I’ve been there before,” she murmured. “Astarion, have you ever had yuzu tea before?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” he admitted.
“Hold on, Let me go check the cupboard and make sure we still have that marmalade—yeah, we do!” She set a mason jar half-filled with an ochre colored jam and strips of citrus rinds on the countertop. Godey quickly scurried over to give the lid’s edges a curious sniff. “It’s a favorite of mine. No caffeine, since it’s getting late. It’ll help you relax a bit more. Iced, I assume?”
He nodded. “Please.”
“All right.” She dug around in the cabinet once more. “Gods damn it.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing serious. Gale really needs to stop leaving his mugs here.”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow!” he exclaimed, his heart racing. “That is, we’re hanging out. I could give it to him.”
“Sure. Though I don’t think he’d mind if we used it one more time before returning it.”
Shadowheart poured some water and ice into Gale’s mug, and added a few spoonfuls of the yuzu marmalade. She stirred the teaspoon several time before setting the mug in his hands as if it were a precious artifact.
“Here you go,” she said warmly.
“Thank you,” he muttered before taking a sip. The taste was equal parts sweet and sour, tart on his tongue. He let his lips linger on the mug’s rim longer than they needed to.
“It’s good isn’t it?”
He nodded. “Mhm.”
She sighed. “Let’s talk about the future. Once upon a time, I dreamed of being an Olympian.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I was serious about it. Always practicing. Always hoping that I’d have more to show for myself than plastic varsity trophies someday.”
“What happened?”
“I was distracted.”
“By what?”
She stopped, setting her scissors aside for a moment and leaned against the counter. “I know this sounds stupid, but…have you ever fallen in love with your best friend before?”
Astarion’s heart leaped. “I have.”
She smiled sadly. “Then you know how quickly it can destroy your life.”
Astarion heard his heart split in half a second time. His eyes trailed down to his lap, where he stared at the strips of yuzu floating at the bottom of his mug—Gale’s mug.
“It’s so disruptive, isn’t it?” she smiled bitterly. “One day you wake up and suddenly, she’s the hero in every book you read and movie you watch. You find traces of her in every song lyric, and it feels so good, you keep searching for more of her. You resolve never to tell her, because you don’t want to lose your friend. You make her your secret little reason to live. You’re happy, because you get to see her every day, and you get to practice together, and you’re lucky she’s in your life at all—but you’re miserable because you’ll never know what it feels like to kiss her, or to hear her say ‘I love you,’ in that little voice people only use when they really, deeply love you. She fills the sky with as many stars as she does your eyes with tears. You can’t eat, because nothing tastes good. Can’t sleep, because you’re too busy crying.
“And then, maybe one day you wake up more confident. You have a competition that afternoon. She’s perfect. Her scores are perfect across the board. She wins, and everyone thinks you’re crying because you’re a sore loser. The truth is you don’t even care that her victory means that you lost. You’re crying because she’s so pretty when she smiles. You follow this foolish notion in your heart that’s clouding your judgement—'I should tell her.' So you do. Maybe she even kisses you. But she tells you she doesn’t feel the same way, and you choke. It feels like your life is over, but it isn’t, and you have to keep living with the black hole it’s opened up inside of you until it goes away—if it ever does. She thinks she’s given you some sort of closure by kissing you but she’s only rubbed salt in a wound that bears her shape. Then the world finds out, and you lose everything you’ve ever wanted in an instant, and you’re the only one holding the pieces in the end.”
“Oh, darling.” He hoped the cape hid the suddenly quickening rise and fall of his chest, and that he was blinking away the tears fast enough. “I don’t have the faintest idea what that’s like.”
She cackled. “You’re a terrible liar, Astarion. Needless to say, following my heart made me lose more than the competition. I lost my best friend. I lost everything. I was pulled from the team. My Aunt Viconia pulled me out of school—she—” suddenly, her voice began to waver, as if there was something she wanted to say trapped in the back of her throat.
“I spent the last three years of high school in a private boarding school. Living with my aunt was hard enough. She was strict, but the school was even stricter. Everything was so rigid. Structured. Wake up early, go to study hall from six-thirty to nine in the morning. Religion class twice a week. Nothing in my closet but boring, dark uniforms.
“At first, I rebelled in whatever little way I could. I tore holes into my stockings. I painted my nails with silver Sharpies until I wasn’t permitted to have them anymore. We weren’t allowed to have pets—but that didn’t stop me from befriending a mouse,” she smiled. “Nocturne used to sneak into the girl’s dormitories with food for him. We called him Nibbles.”
“Nocturne—from the salon?” Astarion wondered aloud.
“Yes. I was an outcast when I first enrolled. I started the year late, and I was constantly used as an example of what kind of person to avoid—so most people kept their distance. But Nocturne was different. She wasn’t allowed in the dormitory I was in, so we’d sneak out to the garden together at night. She didn’t want to be there any more than I did. She braided flowers into my hair. And—” Suddenly, she flushed deep crimson. “Oh, this is going to sound even more stupid than anything I’ve said so far.”
“Nothing you’ve said is stupid,” Astarion reassured her. “I promise.”
“We used to pass this composition book back and forth, where we—please don’t laugh—we made up our own Warrior Cats and—I told you not to laugh!”
“I knew it!” Astarion wiped a mirthful tear away from his eye as his shoulders convulsed with stifled giggles. “I’m sorry for laughing, but I’ve always had this suspicion about your name…oh, that’s adorable.”
“Don’t tell a soul,” she threatened.
“Weren’t you a little old for those books then?” Astarion asked, taking another sip of his yuzu.
“We were definitely too old for them—thankfully old enough not to take our roleplay too seriously. We grew up with Warriors and decided to make the best of a bad situation and write a little story of our own, Nocturne and I. Both of us were Shadowclan members, of course. I was a medicine cat. I don’t remember much—only that there was a lot of pain and death and suffering. We were two angry, gay fifteen year old girls. It was very dramatic.”
“I can imagine,” Astarion grinned.
“She was my only friend—at first, anyway.”
“At first?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “It became obvious that the only way to survive this place was to adapt. I was tired of not feeling like I belonged anywhere. I forgot all about my dreams of getting out, or being a gymnast—forgot all about Shadowheart and Nocturne’s adventures. I even told the school about Nibbles.” She began nursing the center of her palm anxiously. “I was the one who left out the poison. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that.
“I went to church. I took part in every ritual and ceremony. I pretended to be good, pretended to believe what they were trying to teach me. I pretended to become the girl they wanted me to be—until I wasn’t pretending anymore.” Her eyes clouded over in a sad, faraway look. “In the end, all I became was… mean. I was cruel. I preached about love, but I hated everything and everyone—especially myself. I was in so much pain. I wanted to ‘fix’ aspects of myself I saw others embracing in secret—and I lashed out at them instead of acknowledging that they were in pain too.
“After I was old enough to leave, the world shifted. I wasn’t trapped in an echo chamber anymore. It took some time. I resisted at first—but I started to realize how hateful and narrow-minded I’d become. I hated who I was. I hated being Jenevelle Hallowleaf. I didn’t want to be that mean girl anymore.
“For so long I forced myself to believe I wasn’t hurting anyone—that every cruel word I said was out of love,” she scoffed. “I live with the guilt that I hurt so many people I love. Especially Nocturne. It’s a wonder she ever forgave me when I reached back out to her. Karlach would probably hate me if she ever knew the things I used to believe and say.”
“I don’t think she would,” Astarion replied.
“I mean, it’s not like she doesn’t know. I’ve told her about how I used to be. How horrible I was. But Karlach’s always believed that there’s good in me. She’s kind to me. Authentically so. She’s so good, Astarion. She’s seen such horrible things, lost her parents, lost friends without having a chance to say goodbye, lost a chunk of her heart—but she never stops smiling, despite everything. I don’t feel like I deserve her sometimes.”
“Has anyone ever felt like they deserved something good for themselves?” Astarion asked.
“Never,” she smiled. “I never thought I deserved to be loved the way she loves me. Yet here we are.”
“Do you ever miss her?” he asked. His hands clasped the mug in his hands tightly.
“The girl I liked?” she sighed. “It’s more complicated than you can imagine. Sometimes I miss what we had before. For so long I thought that my unkindness towards her was justified—and she has every reason to hate me. The day my aunt pulled me out of school, she broke my hand while I struggled against her. She told me to lie and say it happened during the competition.”
“Wait—but I thought your injury was—Karlach told me you tripped over Lae—” Astarion’s jaw dropped in realization. “—Gods. Oh Gods. Lae’zel? She—it was her?”
Shadowheart nodded. “Awkward, isn’t it?”
“Karlach doesn’t know, does she?”
“That the girl I had a crush on was Lae’zel? Yes. She knows. As for the truth about my hand?” She shook her head. “No. In my defense, neither did I. I told that lie so many times that I started to believe it was the truth until recently. Lae never forgave me. I don’t blame her if she never does.”
“You don’t still—”
“Have feelings for her? No. I don’t feel that way towards her anymore. We’re two different people than who we were then. We may have ‘reconnected’ but we don’t really talk anymore. I think we’re both too stubborn to try and resolve things. Too proud.”
“She still has your friendship bracelet,” Astarion blurted out. He knew he was hazarding a guess—but when she looked at him with recognition in her wide eyes, he knew his instincts were right.
“Really? The purple one?”
He nodded. “I saw it on her keyring last week. At the arcade.”
“Hm.” She turned her face towards the window, twirling the ends of her dark hair, lost in thought. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for this to get so personal. This conversation was supposed to be about you and your future, after all. I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that I thought my future would look way different that it does. But I’m happier now than I think I would have been then. I have a home where I can be whoever I want to be. I have someone who adores me—someone I can’t see myself living without. I have new dreams—simple dreams. Dreams where I don’t push myself as hard as I used to. I think that’s better than every medal I could’ve ever won.”
“What are your new dreams?”
She hummed, lost in thought, before answering.
“I want to grow more flowers.”
“Flowers?”
She nodded. “I want to be surrounded by colors, every day.”
“Surprising. Especially coming from you,” he snorted. “What with your wardrobe and all.”
“What can I say?” A wry smile danced on the edges of her rosy lips. “I’m tired of darkness.”
“I can relate to that,” he replied. “I’ve spent long enough in the dark. It gets old.”
She affectionately tousled his bangs, tidying stray hairs from his brow and the nape of his neck. “You look much better. There’s a mirror close to the front door if you want to look.”
“That’s alright, I trust you,” he said, setting the empty mug on the counter and reaching into his pocket. “What do I owe you?”
She quirked an eyebrow as she delicately dipped the tip of her fingers into a small tub of gel. “You’re funny. You don’t owe me anything.”
His eyes widened, and he gazed up at her in disbelief. “No, no, no! You can’t be serious! You’ve been at this for hours!”
“I’m dead serious,” she laughed. “I bought that bleach ages ago. It’s been sitting in my bathroom for who knows how long. I was hoping to use it on myself, waiting around for boredom or bravery—whichever struck first. I’m not ready for such a drastic change yet. Besides, I couldn’t leave you looking the way you did when you came in. Poor scruffy thing.”
“I’m not a charity case!” he snapped.
“I never said you were,” she replied calmly, massaging gel into his hair. “But you are my friend. And I think you deserve for good things to happen to you.”
A familiar urge rose within him.
Dodge. Deflect.
But before he could bite back, he realized Shadowheart was consciously running her fingers through the ends of his hair with the tenderest of touches—her fingers, and no one else’s. She was careful not to tug or pull when she shaped his curls. His resolve crumbled. Every defense and well-rehearsed resistance fizzled into nothingness, vanishing like ashes scattered to the wind. He sighed, surrendering to her soothing hands, allowing for her ministrations to heal him, to silence the turmoil within him that hardly ever gave him room to breathe.
Some little lives were impossible to salvage—but she was determined to try.
She cut away the dead leaves, harvesting a few of the survivors, thoughtfully snipping just above where they grew in pairs of two. She mixed peat and fresh soil into a terracotta pot. Her lips moved silently, as if whispering sweet words of affirmation to the plant while she worked the trowel into the soil and unearthed its fragile network of roots from the earth.
The sickly tarragon still had a long way to go.
It was still weak, and its remaining leaves were still thin and frayed and bent, held upright by a coffee stirrer and a frayed green friendship bracelet.
But it didn’t mean it had any less of a future.
“For what it’s worth, my roots did miss you,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I suppose I did as well.”
“And with that,” Shadowheart smiled, “I’d say we’re even.”
Notes:
I DID IT!
Hi! I missed you! I'm so sorry this update came so late! Just when I thought my life would go back to normal, I got sick. Then, to make matters worse, I broke my rib. It took me two weeks longer than usual to write this chapter because I was struggling with writer's block on top of my health issues. It’s been taxing to say the least.
I worry this chapter reflects the struggle I faced while writing it a little too well—but I felt it was time to just let it go.
Thanks to fey, cyan, positivejam, ezrasmoon, patheticfangirl, cweepa, bluebeebalm, micah, rye, Lunarwench, and too many people to mention who were kind and supportive while I cried about feeling stuck and directionless. I wanted to also thank to everyone who reads and comments on this work for helping me get through the last few weeks. You've all made me smile during a difficult time. I hope you’re all having a wonderful week. I can't wait to show you all what happens next!
~✧~
Ichiko Aoba - bouquet
Joe Hisaishi - The Flower Garden
Cat Power - Metal Heart
Agnes Obel - The Curse
Max Richter - On The Nature of Daylight
ConcernedApe - Dance of the Moonlight Jellies
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 40
Notes:
7/30 update - now featuring some lovely fanart by Sigi/Seas-and-Stars! You can find more of their art here! ❤️💜
CW
- Keep an eye out for the paragraph that includes "wolf-like tongues" if you want to avoid mentions of Cazador's unwanted touches.
- And... this chapter features a masturbation scene. It is not super descriptive, and is written mostly in metaphors. The fantasy is non-sexual intimacy and what it feels like to be cared for.Lots of callbacks to previous chapters here. Enjoy the read!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion always wanted to have a bathtub.
When it came to material desires, a bathtub was a drop in the bucket, wholly insignificant compared to the swimming pools and luxury yachts that most of the modern world used to measure wealth. He could care less. The allure of coming home from a long day at work and luxuriating in a bathtub with a glass of wine and a good book was far more intoxicating—and attainable, he hoped.
He dipped his toe into the water, surprised to find that it was not cold or tepid, but warm. Comfortably warm, heated just enough to make him lightly perspire as he let his body sink into the fizzing, swirling inkwell void of Shadowheart’s quickly dissolving bath bomb.
Sighting contentedly, he watched his body evanesce below the surface like the moon behind clouds.
He felt shapeless. Formless.
He liked seeing less of himself.
The dark urge to scrub himself raw and red wasn’t as loud. Instead, he decided to wash away the day and unwind, grateful he was safe for the night.
Thankfully, Cazador didn’t know where Karlach and Shadowheart lived—not yet, anyway.
Like a curious, nascent storm god, he created little whirlpools with his fingertips, controlling the tides with all-powerful hands, observing the tiny flecks of glitter ensnared in its vortexes. He scooped up a handful of water, its black tinge diluted in the cup of his palm. Seven thousand microscopic mirrors danced in his hands, running like miniature waterfalls through the cracks in his fingers.
He was careful not to wet his hair and ruin Shadowheart’s hard work as he scrubbed his shoulders, though he wanted nothing more than to contest sensibility and fully immerse himself. He yearned to hear the muffled sound of sepulchral silence as it rushed into his ears. His fingers accidentally dug the bar of soap into the contusion on his neck, and he grimaced.
All day, every starving cell of his body had been hostile to him, vibrating with the fervid desperation of an addict locked in the same room as their deepest craving. His heart rattled against the bars of his ribcage, anxiously begging, bargaining, pleading, screaming for him to turn his phone back on, to restore some semblance of normalcy of his life.
Cazador was the one person who knew him best.
But the part of him that longed to escape him won against the phone’s magnetic pull.
Proud of his self-restraint, he smiled. Cazador must have been fuming.
He had no way to get ahold of him—he had no hold over him.
Fuck you.
The brassy, thin tones of his voice felt like a blessedly distant memory tonight.
Feeling emboldened, Astarion closed his eyes and imagined Gale’s instead.
The tuneful scales and enunciations melted wordlessly like a butter pat on toast. It was as velvety a sound in the safety of his mind as it ever was when it filled the physical space between them. The forgery was as true to life as he could muster; it was both parts adenoidal and adorable, low and lilting. It waited in the wings with a level of excitement close-to bursting, eager to feverishly spout out a surfeit of knowledge about whatever obscure interest he had recently engrossed himself in.
Astarion wanted nothing more than for that brilliant voice to kill the heavy silence he was entombed in, but instead, he lied to himself. He convinced himself that he couldn’t think of what he wanted to hear that voice say to him—that he didn’t feel energized or passionate or smart enough to mimic the way Gale could prattle on at the drop of a hat.
He caged his undue desires.
The mere echo would have to be enough.
He sank deeper into the water, dampening the hairs at the scruff of his neck. He tried (unsuccessfully) to forget that Gale was likely already out keeping Cazador company for the night, staring between his jutting knobby knees and fixating on the tiny droplets that fell rhythmically from the leaky faucet.
Driven by his compulsion, cursed to think of nothing else, the whispered echo of Gale’s voice grew louder and louder until it deafened him.
His eyes fluttered shut, all sensibility lost.
He submerged his head under the water.
The less he saw of himself, the clearer he began to see Gale.
The summoning cost him less effort than he would have spent months before. Once, Gale’s shape had seemed almost as formless as his was now, split below the shoulders, lost to the chasm of a mind that didn’t want to waste time thinking about the bodies of others and what they could do to harm him.
His voice was the first anchor he’d clung to. Then, he’d begun to memorize the most miniscule details of his face—the tiny scar above his brow that he yearned to trace with the tip of his thumb. The kind eyes that hid beneath a blessing of thick, long lashes upon hooded lids, their shade as warm as loamy soil in the golden hour. Even his beard—the one that hid his soft chin and the full, ever-smiling cheeks he hungered desperately to kiss. He’d never kissed anyone with a beard before...
His brunette hair, salt-and-star-kissed waves of his hair lapped at substantial, rounded shoulders. Contempt seeped from within him like a toxin when his eye fell upon the tendrils of purple and black wrapped around the sickly vortex marring his sternum—a bruise that would never heal.
He roiled with discomfort at the weight of the anger—no, jealousy in his heart. He was jealous of Mystra, jealous of Cazador, jealous of anyone who would serve him a drink or a meal tonight, of everyone who would be lucky enough to catch even the hastiest glimpse of him in the poorly-lit bar. His throat tasted of bile, and he wanted nothing more than to erase the wretched thing, to blot it out with the power of his mind along with the damned star that dangled from his earlobe. He tried to calm the storm, pursuing a thicket of wispy hairs and narrow stretch marks down to the drooping arc of his soft belly before stopping himself, surfacing for a gasp of air.
Everything below the belt was still a fantasy to him.
A rebellious smile toyed at the corners of his lips. It doesn’t have to be.
He knew it was true. He was free to do as he pleased now.
He was free.
His breathing quickened. He slicked back his dripping curls with one hand and ran the other hand down his smooth chest—a stark contrast to the hirsute chest he wished he could touch instead. He imagined himself pawing playfully through the sandalwood-scented fabric of his clothes, wondering how the skin beneath would yield to the press of his hands. It traced sinuously down pinched sides, palming over his stomach, where it lingered. He remembered the way Gale had pulled his shirt down to hide his body from his prying eyes.
He remembered the shame on his face.
It was a feeling he knew well—the self-loathing that lived in every mirror, leering hatefully back at him.
Hesitantly, he grazed the edges of his angular hips, wondering how Gale would feel if he knew how besotted, how desperate he was for just one taste. How much he wanted him.
He wanted him—but something that hadn’t ever occurred to him crossed his mind: what if Gale didn’t want to be wanted?
He remembered every time anyone ever approached him with vulgar, lustful words dripping at the tip of their wolf-like tongues. Remembered how the pretty mask he wore would smile while his insides churned with rage, disgusted by thoughtless lascivious comments, wishing their hands would fall off when they tried to touch him. Whenever Cazador’s hand slid under his waistband, he wanted to break free of his body’s involuntary torpor and throw him across the room—if only he weren’t strong enough to break his wrist for trying.
Knowing they were all not-so-secretly undressing him in their minds was just as painful as having his clothes torn off. Just as painful as letting them—painful, but easy. It was easier to just go along with what he was being told to do. A moment of disgust to force himself through...
And then he could carry on, just like before. Just like always.
He hated them all—even if all they did was commit the pettiest crime against him: finding him desirable when he didn’t want to be desired.
He’d never wanted anyone to want him.
And then came along Gale fucking Dekarios.
Gale with his sweet smile and his eagerness to cook for him, who let him be a vampire in their stupid D&D game that was only cancelled because he wanted him so fucking badly it made him want to change the entire trajectory of his shitty life.
Gale, who he could never bring himself to hate if he ever confessed to wanting him back.
Here he was, wanting to be wanted, just as wanton and inflamed as everyone he’d ever hoped would meet an unfortunate end—was he just as predatory? Just as complicit? A hypocrite? Monster?
Was it wrong to give into his voracious appetite?
In his exploration of every ridge and curve of his frame, he found himself down below. He stifled a guilty moan at the first tentative brush of his thumb tip against throbbing, sensitive skin, and suddenly, the room grew warmer than the blood that pumped in his veins.
It was as if he’d struck a match. Once more, the illusion of the man flickered into being, and the very sight of him was a feast Astarion was starving to devour with heedless abandon. His wrath dissolved into the opaque void of bathwater and citric acid. He felt his cheeks and chest and ears turning bright pink. The steam from the tub ascended, aiming for the stylized silver stars hand-painted over the sea of indigo blue on the bathroom ceiling.
He sighed.
Is this what you want?
His prick was stiff and yearning to be touched. He was aching to be held, to be pressed against a wall or bed or floor—wherever Gale would have him.
Wherever Gale wanted him—if Gale could ever want him.
He inhaled sharply, holding himself fervidly.
Oh, how he wanted for Gale to want him.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, echoed a voice in his head. Tomorrow he’ll be real.
His ravenous hunger was curbed by the soft hands tenderly outlining his jaw, following the harsh curve of his gaunt cheekbones all the way up to his temples. Keenly, they tended to the tears falling from his eyes, the sweat beading his alabaster brow. They brushed his wet hair back to kiss his forehead, and Astarion flinched at the sudden sensation of unexpected heat where fictional lips met his skin.
“You know how quickly it can destroy your life.”
Shadowheart’s commiseration echoed in his ears, weaving a tenebrous thread of reality into the hazy edges of his prismatic dream. Her softly spoken words carried a distressing weight.
He didn’t want to hear it. He leaned into the warmth of the spark that had burned him, pressing against the kisses the illusion was pressing on every inch of his skin.
He stroked faster.
Guidance be damned.
This could be different.
He imagined Gale’s lips, rosy and plump, brushing against his helix and whispering a series of muddled hushed endearments in his ear.
I want you to want me too.
Invisible palms tenderly washed away every ill that had ever befallen his body—every stinging slap, every pinch, every unwanted touch, every bruise, even the scars invisible to all the world—all were gone with a gentle sweep.
Like magic.
I want to be more than sex to you.
More than a thing to be used.
Little by little, sweet nothings gently rained from the tip of Gale’s tongue like flower petals in spring, all in a sentimental, crooning voice—the soft sort Astarion wished he’d set aside only for him.
He imagined what it would be like to hear him say those three little words he thirsted for most.
Everyone’s favorite.
He bit his lip until he tasted metal, struggling not to cry out as he died his little death.
It was a beautiful lie to succumb to.
The match was extinguished. In a cruel, painful instant, the illusory feast vanished—Gale was gone. Astarion found himself alone, motionless in his dark, lonely corner. He watched the glitter swirl in his little sea of carbon through half-lidded eyes. It was like snow spinning in the embers of the last faltering street-lamp in the dead of winter.
The water grew cold around him. His breathing slowed.
Peace overwhelmed him, then ebbed away. The leaden weight of his heart in his chest was enough to drag him to the bottom of the tub. He felt his eyelids droop closed.
He curled into himself, water racing down his face.
His shriveled fingers trembled under the water, slick with guilt.
One match remained.
He dared not light it.
What he wanted—how he felt—it never mattered.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Astarion was unsure how long he lay there frozen with his head against the wall, his chest heaving, coming down from rolling waves of euphoria and panic and contrition—thirty minutes?
An hour?
Two?
He supposed it also didn’t matter.
Time always marched on without him, passing him by, leaving him behind.
Numb and unable to stand the cold any longer, he heaved himself out of the bath and quickly pulled the towel he’d picked out from the linen closet, fluffy and warm. He pressed his face into the terry cloth linen, engrossing himself in the soothing scent of osmanthus flowers.
He took his time drying himself. He wanted the moment to linger—for time to stop for him, for once. At the very least, he wanted the warmth in his soul to stick around for a little longer. To smother the bad feelings that dwelled in the pit of his stomach.
It had been so long since he’d had such nice things. He wondered if he even deserved the taste the girls had so kindly offered him.
Despite his pleas and protests, the moment passed, slipping through his fingers like the water from the tub, now twisting down the drain into nothingness. He briskly slipped on his underwear, obscuring his lithe limbs once more in his oversized tee and sweatpants—freshly laundered. He would have to remember to thank Karlach for offering to let him use their washer and drier—another amenity that sounded nice to have.
He hoped there would be less of the coin laundromat in his future. Less cramped showers.
Less darkness.
More Gale.
The fog on the mirror dissipated, and Astarion caught a flash of purple flesh in its feathered edges. It occurred to him that his concealer was likely still floating somewhere in his duffel bag—which he’d left on the comforter in the guest room.
Shit.
Panicked, he rifled through the contents of every drawer and cabinet until he finally spotted Shadowheart’s cosmetics. He combed through make-up palettes and lip stains, pocketing an unopened tube of chapstick—easy to replace if it was missed, plus he needed it—before finding a glass vial of concealer. Its liquid contents were half-full. It looked expensive. He hastily swatched it on the back of his hand, hoping their skin-tones would at least share a similar undertone.
To his dismay, they weren’t even close. The daub of liquid looked more like a ruddy blush against his sallow complexion. He inwardly cursed his pallor, clicking his teeth together nervously as he paced the length of the bathroom.
He could lie about where it had come from. Downplay it, since it didn’t look nearly as bad as it did a few days ago. He considered finding some other way to hide it, but even if he had brought his turtleneck, wearing it on the cusp of summer would arouse questions he wasn’t sure he was ready to answer.
No. It seemed that if he wanted to avoid yet another awkward conversation about Cazador’s teeth, he’d have to stealth his way around the unfamiliar layout of the house.
He studied the bruise again, leaning closer to the mirror and wondering if perhaps it would go unnoticed altogether if he stuck to the shadows. A sickly yellow-green shade was beginning to border its spattered burgundy edges. It was nothing like Raphael’s colorful handiwork—but unlike the time Cazador had squeezed his arm at Wyll’s house, it was undeniably there.
A voice in his head began to egg him on. He’s getting sloppy. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? This is the closest thing to “evidence” you’re ever going to get! Why are you still protecting him?!
A smaller, more fearful voice chimed in. It’s not enough. If I could scream into the deepest recesses of the universe for help. I would. But I can’t.
Resigned to his fate, Astarion sighed. He shoved his phone—still off—deep into his pocket. He left his engagement ring and pearl necklace on the precipice of the countertop in the hopes that they would soon fall into the sink and down the drain. He dried his heels well, slinging the damp towel over his shoulders. He drew in a lungful of air before sneaking out into the hall, careful to tread lightly enough on the balls of his feet to elude the telltale sound of creaky floorboards.
Compacting himself, he surveyed the safety of his escape route, glancing over at the house’s entryway.
The stained glass pane on the front door was a bespoke piece—he’d learned it was a housewarming gift from Karlach when she’d first invited Shadowheart to live with her, intended to infuse her childhood home with a sense of shared belonging. Expertly soldered and fired together, the meticulously crafted image was their bond incarnate. A blazing red heart was the centerpiece, intricately composed from irregular shards of crimson and gold glass. Four delicate orchids bloomed in pale shades of blue at each of its corners, creeping towards the flames with petals unfurled. As the sun dipped below the horizon, red and violet hues spilled into the vestibule, casting a warm, mesmerizing glow on the hardwood floor. Muddy galoshes rested beside a hardy set of work boots.
The clangor of rushing water and muffled giggling drifted from the kitchen, in concert with the sound of a knife slicing against something squishy and wet against the wood of a cutting board. Whatever their nightly repartee consisted of, it sounded joyful. Mellow.
The coast was clear.
Confident in his stealth, he began to sidle against the wall towards the guest room, when the faucet stopped running. He froze and crouched low to his knees, praying that one of them wouldn’t leave and find him sneaking around their house—the house they’d so graciously invited him to stay at.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Y’know that thing I was saying earlier?” Karlach’s voice boomed.
“Hm?”
“About us getting a pet?”
Astarion’s shoulders relaxed.
“Yes?”
“I was being serious, you know. Godes is a cute little fella. Did you see those little paws? And the twitchy little whiskers!! The wriggly tail? Can’t we keep him? Please, please, please?”
He could just imagine her face—skyward brows and large, fiery puppy-dog eyes.
Shadowheart sighed. “He’s not ours.” Followed by a tense silence.
Too curious to tear himself away, Astarion drew nearer, listening closely.
“Aw, c’mon!” Karlach cried. “You talk about animals all the time! Showing me cute little videos on your phone every night before bed. This place is ours. There isn’t anyone on earth or in the hells that will take it away from us.”
There was another beat of silence, this time longer than the last. Then a sudden shift, a foot shuffling against the ground.
“Jen... What happened to your mouse wasn’t your fault.”
“I poisoned him,” she said, her voice hushed. “I do want a pet. But it’s been hard to let myself get close... I have to take accountability for my part in that. I’m sorry—”
“You’re apologizing again,” Karlach cautioned.
“And you’re always reassuring me!” she testily barked in response. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Tired of what? Of you?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Are you kidding me? When I look at you, all I can think about is how good life is.”
“You say that, but doesn’t it bother you that some days it’s harder for me to believe you? You should’ve seen Astarion’s reaction when I told him—”
His eyes widened, and he tensed at the sound of his name.
“—he wouldn’t stop staring down at his tea. It’s disgusting. I’m disgusting.”
His heart fell. He held his arms tightly across his chest, suppressing the keening call of a familiar wounded darkness inside of him that matched hers all too well.
If Astarion were a kinder man, he would have rushed in there to hold her, insisting, “You’re not.”
He was ever grateful that she was in better hands than his when Karlach replied.
“No! You’re not! I wish... I wish you wouldn’t talk about yourself that way! And that’s not fair to him, that fluffy head of his is still caught up in his own clouds.”
“He’s always like that. But he looked... different, tonight. As if it was about me.”
“It doesn’t mean he’s disgusted by you! Baby, your friends love you. Do you ever get tired of me when I’m down on myself?”
“Never! And I never will.”
“See?”
“The difference is that you believe me.”
“I’d believe you if you said one plus one is seven. Listen to me—” Karlach’s words were punctuated by the abrasive shuffle of wood scraping against the kitchen floor, like a chair being scooted away. “I will tell you until either I lose my voice or you finally accept that you’re a good person. That after all the hell I’ve been through, you’ve given me somewhere where good is still possible. That whole pet thing? Scratch that. If all you’re up for is watching the hamsters at the pet store when we run errands, I’ll come watch with you. Life is short! I want to give you everything you deserve and more while I’m still alive! Anything, if it’d help you forgive yourself. I’d give you the moon if I could!” Astarion could practically hear the smile in her voice as she spoke—could see her gesturing wide and excitedly skipping in place. “You know I would! I’d grab it myself, with my bare hands, let it burn me blue ‘til I found some way to carry it down to you.”
“It would mess up the tides...”
“Surfers would have to find a whole new hobby.”
Silence. The sound of water coming to a boil. Then a small huff of air from Shadowheart’s nose.
“Karlach,” Shadowheart whispered.
“Gods, my name sounds so good in your mouth.”
“You’ve given me something better than the moon.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“This.”
In too deep (and incorrigibly nosy), Astarion decided to take a risk and peek inside the kitchen.
Shadowheart, clad in a comfortable oversized shirt-dress, stirred the bubbling pot on the stove while Karlach’s hands cradled her waist from behind. Their hips swung in unison. Karlach craned forward, resting her chin in the crook of her shoulder.
“Misery always overstays its welcome, and joy leaves too soon,” she murmured. “But being here with you...it’s all I could really ask for. You hear me?”
Shadowheart closed her eyes and nuzzled her cheek against Karlach's. “Mhm.”
“You’re all I could ever ask for.”
As he watched from the shadows, he couldn’t help but remember how he felt making tzatziki with Gale. How he’d held his hand when he’d helped him handle the knife, rocking it back and forth—how close they’d been standing together, how soothing his voice sounded directly in his ear as he instructed him, how rapidly his heart had beat into his back. He felt his own heart hammering in his chest, unsure if its speed was spurred by the adrenaline rush, the fear of being caught, or Gale.
He was jolted away from his reverie by a sharp gasp—startled, he instinctively clasped his hand over his mouth. The spoon plummeted from Shadowheart’s hand, clattering against the side of the pan. “Ah—it hurts!”
His heartbeat quickened, hoping he’d imagined the sound of shock that slipped through his cracked lips.
He forced his eyes shut and held his breath.
Fuck.
Mercifully, Karlach failed her perception check, clearly more preoccupied with Shadowheart’s hand than whatever noise Astarion might have made. She turned her around, taking hold of her hand.
“Shh, you’re alright,” she cooed, massaging her thumb into the center of her palm before pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. Her lips brushed against the small scar that ran across her face before meeting her lips. “Feel better? I didn’t burn you, did I?”
Shadowheart shook her head. “Much better.” She smiled, burying her head in Karlach’s bosom. “Love you, tin soldier.”
“I love you too, my orchid!! Gods, I’ll never get tired of telling you that. I love you, I love you, I love you!” Karlach exclaimed. She scooped her up, held her tightly in her powerful arms and spun her around, kissing her passionately. Both were squealing and giggling with childlike enjoyment, lost in the mirth of their private little moment.
They pulled the pan from the cool blue flames of the burner and set it to cool before slow dancing in the kitchen, swaying to soundless music they shared in their heads. Chopped mozzarella and basil leaves lay beside the pre-sliced tomatoes on a wooden cutting board—the only audience they thought they had.
Astarion stood frozen in the hallway with his palm over his neck.
Cute. But you’ve seen enough. Don’t be distracted, he thought to himself, half-annoyed and half-terrified. You know what you need. Go get the damned concealer and come back down for dinner. Pretend nothing’s wrong.
Yet he didn’t budge. The universe whispered an obvious truth in his voyeuristic ear: what he’d witnessed was unlike anything he’d ever had with Cazador.
Or Raphael.
Or anyone.
This was no performance.
This was love.
Bare-faced, unpretentious, true love.
The kind of fairy-tale love that made him gag.
The kind of affection he rarely had behind closed doors.
It made him feel envious.
Covetous.
Angry.
Lonely.
I want this.
He sat in the quiet with them for the longest minute of his life.
Shadowheart’s voice broke the stillness. “Even if you dragged the moon down on a silver string, it wouldn’t be half as beautiful as this,” she smiled, resting her ear where Karlach’s wounded heart beat in her broad chest. “This is my favorite gift in the whole world.”
A cord within him snapped—one that had kept him bound and silent and submissive for so long.
He wanted this more than anything—more than he wanted a bathtub, or a washer and drier, or a place to live.
He wanted this more than he wanted to protect Cazador—to lie for him. To cover up his mistakes.
He wasn’t free if he was still doing his bidding.
He stood up, rolled his shoulders back, and stepped into the kitchen.
Into the light.
~✧~
“You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.”
“I don’t want to say a damned thing—but that won’t do anyone any good.”
Astarion stared into Gale’s mug at the dregs of golden yuzu rind lingering at the bottom.
Caprese salad and gnocchi sat like a stone in the pit of his stomach. As he'd scraped the flavorful balsamic vinaigrette on his plate with his fork, he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this sated.
Full.
He was too nervous to enjoy the feeling.
The air was tense and uncomfortable. His heart was pounding in his chest like a jackhammer.
Everyone was lounging on the couch in their sunken living room. Stardew Valley was paused and muted on the television.
It was late spring.
Godey was dead asleep in the warmth of Karlach’s hoodie pocket.
Olive and ochre eyes were staring him down curiously.
His phone was finally back on—no new notifications—and he’d pulled up the picture of the coffee table.
Every pixel of the sigil still felt like a hot poker branded into his skull.
He passed it over to them.
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
“Cazador Szarr is abusing me.”
Notes:
Hello, darlings! I missed you. Hope you're keeping well, friends!
This took a bit longer than I expected, but I'm so proud (and relieved) it's out!
Let's start with some eye candy. KageBrain drew this incredible portrait of Shadowheart and Karlach, and they're gorgeous (and exactly how I pictured them!) You can find more of their incredible art here and here!Thank you to all the friends who listened to me agonize about this chapter for the last two weeks. There are far, far, far too many of you to tag, but I will forever be grateful that you are there to put me back on the right track and challenge my pervasive impostor syndrome. I've found my voice again, and I owe it all to you.
And of course, thank you for reading and leaving your well-wishes. I hope this month has been kind to you, and that you are all happy and safe.
I cannot believe it's been nearly a year since this game has been out! Baldur's Gate 3 changed my life. I'm so grateful that the torch I carry for this game and its characters still burns so brightly after all this time.~✧~
Mother Mother - Body
Radiohead - Daydreaming
Ólafur Arnalds - Saudade
Max Richter - Mercy
Joji - Like You Do
Yaelokre - Neath the grove is a heart
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 41
Notes:
A return to form of sorts.
CW
- Physical abuse of an adult child by their parent. Starts at "A long discontinued cocktail..." and ends at "Blue."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Cazador was going to kill him.
With piercing, narrowed eyes like live coals, he was staring daggers at him from across the table. His face had been twisted in a sour, malignant expression the entire night, and Astarion could only imagine exactly what he had said or done—or what he hadn’t said or done—to spark his ire.
He hated trying to predict the severity of his mercurial lover’s temper.
Who was he to account for his weathervane mood?
Whatever it was about didn’t matter. He knew he would have to atone for something when they got home. It would always be easier to fuck away his problems than to be kept awake by another ceaseless argument.
He swallowed nervously as he tried to stave off the panic welling up in his chest. He focused on the weight of the die as it rattled in his closed palm.
The crimson plastic of the die Gale had loaned him fell from his pale hand with a small yet satisfying thud against the purple felt lining of Shadowheart’s tray—and with a fifteen, his disquietude faded to the background.
He smirked, holding up the D20 with a confident, gleeful glint in his dark ringed eyes. “That’s a twenty-five!”
“Show-off,” Cazador muttered, his voice only loud enough for Astarion to hear.
The rest of the party came alive, breaking out into giddy cheers. He took delight in their praise, choosing to ignore his fiancé’s taunts.
He was on a roll tonight. He wasn’t going to let him steal his shine again.
The table was a mess of maps and dice and books and snack foods—the standard fare of chips and crackers, a motley assortment of soft drinks and alcoholic beverages alike. Shadowheart brought a plateful of raw vegetables that had barely been picked at by anyone aside from herself—and Lae’zel, of course, who chose to drench them all in a small cup overflowing with ranch dressing.
“You’re defeating the purpose,” Shadowheart grumbled reproachfully.
“You’re not living,” Lae’zel shrugged before smothering a baby carrot in a copious amount of ranch.
Gale humbly requested a break from cooking since he’d been studying for an exam all week, and they’d all chipped in and ordered a few boxes of pizza from a local shop. In the absence of his usual grand entree, he’d brought dolmades from home—a gift from his most recent visit to his mother’s house. Astarion popped one into his mouth. He was skeptical at first, but his worries that they would be too soggy or vinegary were assuaged as he savored the surprisingly tasty ensemble of ground lamb, rice, parsley, garlic and onion. The flavors danced on his tongue, all wrapped securely in an oily grape leaf. He resolved to see if this was another recipe Gale would be willing to share with him—at the very least, he wanted to know the name of the ambrosial sauce the small treats had been drenched in.
The dungeon master’s gaze was locked on the small army of goblin miniatures set into position on the table. He heaved a theatrical, disappointed sigh. “So much for this encounter I planned...”
“Chk. Don’t count your goblin corpses before they’re good and skewered, Gale. They may yet live to see battle and earn their deaths.” Lae’zel said, her optimism buried beneath her low, level voice. She reached over to dip a celery stalk into her condiment of choice.
“Not if this ridiculous plan you’ve all concocted works,” Gale muttered, a reluctant smile creeping into the corner of his thin lips as he regarded said plan’s most ardent supporter with enquiring eyes.
“Oh, you have to admit it’s a wonderful plan!” Astarion insisted, grinning from ear to ear as he gestured to his rogue’s miniature, successfully hidden in a blind spot.
“I still say it would have been better to storm the camp and kill them all,” Cazador protested under his breath.
“Pish posh. Alright, Astarion, paint a picture for me.”
“With the tenderest of footfalls, the rogue carefully matches the steady rhythm of the war drums as he skulks around the curved stone walls of the parapet.”
“The bugbear patrolling the north doesn’t see you. Nearly all the goblins are too preoccupied to notice you anyway—they’re all rather distracted, too busy watching Karlach try her hand at a game of chicken-chase with the owlbear cub. Karlach?”
“Yes?” she said through a mouthful of chips.
“They goblins are all placing bets on whether or not you’ll set the scared little owlbear cub ablaze when you catch him. Most of them are actively rooting for this outcome.”
“Aw! Oh, no!” Karlach groused, plucking the owlbear miniature from the table and petting its tiny forehead, pressing her lips into a childlike pout. “Not the bitty baby with its little baby beak!”
“He’s currently cowering by a crate, eyeing you nervously, but curiously.”
“The barbarian meets the little bugger at eye level, and she waves it over to her—oh! She pulls out a chunk of meat from her pack and uses it to try and get it to follow her! ‘C’mere, you doll!’”
”Karlach, roll me an animal handling check with advantage. I think your burning barbarian has less of a chance to scare the poor thing out of its wits with food on the line.” Gale turned his attention back to Astarion with a grin on his sweet, bearded face. “Out of the corner of your eye, you see the tub of booze—and would you look at that? It looks like the supply has been recently replenished.”
“I press my back against the stone, and I inch my way towards the punch bowl. Skillfully, I pull a vial of wyvern toxin from my pouch and I empty its contents into their libations,” he cast an eager look at Gale, seeking his approval before adding, “‘This should, um...burn going down?’”
Gale ominously rolled a handful of dice before sighing again, perplexedly shaking his head while rubbing his temples. “Damn it. Alright. You successfully empty the contents of the vial into their libations. You may as well have been invisible while you tamper with their supply. No one looks your way or bats an eyelash at you, and you’re able to slink away from the scene of your yet-unnoticed crime. One of the goblins swaggers over to the tub, fills her flagon to the brim, and raises its frothy lid to the sky.” He cleared his throat, switching to a higher register, and in a voice that Astarion could only compare to the sound of glass scraping against sandpaper, he cried, “‘A toast! To our victory, and many more to come!’”
“Gods, that voice sounds like it hurts, Gale,” Shadowheart noted, leaning across the table to dip a stalk of celery into Lae’zel’s ranch dressing. The smaller girl simply rolled her eyes in response to her intrusion.
“It does,” Gale groaned.
“It’s alright, friend. Once Astarion’s plan pans out, you won’t have to do that voice too many more times,” Wyll teased, shooting him one of his wide, cheerful grins, a row of perfect teeth on full display.
Gale shot back a not-quite-serious sullen, vexed look. “Now where were we...? Ah. Karlach, what was that animal handling check?”
“Nineteen!” she cheered.
“Lovely! The owlbear doesn’t hesitate to take the meat from your fingers—it’s nice and evenly cooked, too, after lingering in the heat of your hand.”
“Aw, baby!” Karlach cooed. “Can I lead him to the goal post?”
Gale nodded. “He would follow you to the ends of the earth. You guide him to the labyrinthine maze of crates and stolen goods, effectively winning the game of chicken-chase!”
“Yay!” Karlach began to clap her hands gleefully. “I win!!”
“The goblin running the game appraises the situation with an impressed whistle. ‘Well lookee! That thing works even better’n a chicken. Reckon we won’t eat it after all.’”
“‘Alright. I’ll be taking my winnings, then.’”
“‘Pardon, your what? Think you misunderstood, mate,’ the goblin sneers. ‘Ain’t no winnings, cos only a goblin can win chicken-chase. Says so in the rules.’”
“Oh, she’s pissed. ‘I think you misunderstood me, mate. My coin—now.’”
“Roll me an intimidation check—”
“Already did. That’s a 21.”
Gale nodded. “Yep, that does it. She’s shaking in her boots. ‘Here you go, take it, take it all! Take my winnings, too! I-it were only a bit of fun. All yours.’ Karlach, you take home a respectable fifty gold pieces.”
“Fifty GP? Sweet! Thanks,” Karlach grinned.
“Back to the rogue. Astarion, you hear the other half of the goblins cheering as they, too, fill their cups with little care for their already questionable liver health. Where are you right now?”
“I’m leaning against a wall, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Cleaning dirt under my fingernails with my knife, or something,” Astarion replied, moving his miniature up against the tower.
All of a sudden, Gale’s expression became unnervingly smug. “The goblin notices you standing there and begins to beckon you over. ‘Watcha standing ‘ere all dry fer? C’mere, have a drink’”
“Oh, fuck me,” Astarion wheezed, cradling his head in his hands while the rest of the table burst into riotous laughter.
Cazador flashed him a snide, mirthless smile as he squeezed his knee under the table. “Looks like you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. You can’t tell me this isn’t what you were asking for, hm?” he snickered. “Go ahead, surely it can’t hurt to have a drink.”
“And if I die?” Astarion cried.
Cazador shrugged before whispering, “It’d be funny—”
Wyll was watching them intently. Gale, too, stared straight at him over the DM screen.
“—at least a little bit,” he added, lightly tapping his finger against Astarion’s nose. “But you’re not going to die, little love.”
Not yet.
“Well?” Gale asked. “Will you take her up on her offer?”
Astarion sighed. “Fine. I take a flagon in my hand and fill it with grog.”
“Excellent! The goblin packs you on the back—well, the lower back, since she’s quite a bit shorter than you. ‘What should we toast to, eh?’”
“What’s her name?”
“Who—oh, the goblin? Hm...” Gale absentmindedly shuffled his notes as he pondered. “Er, Mirg,” he finally muttered. “Her name is Mirg.”
“‘I’m glad you asked, Mirg!’” Astarion said, the airy tone of his rogue’s voice dripping with bombastic aplomb. “‘Tell everyone to gather round...’”
“Mirg calls out to her brethren, ‘Guys! This ‘un’s givin’ us a toast!’ They all approach you, making a series of agreeable grunts and noises. One of them cries out, ‘Speech, SPEECH!’ Astarion, your rogue raises his glass, and shouts—”
“‘—may I bed each and every one of you before the sun sets!’” Cazador crowed.
“Ey, yo?” Karlach giggled.
“Ugh,” Shadowheart groaned in disgust.
“Absolutely not,” Astarion muttered. He thoughtfully chewed on his eraser for a moment before his eyes widened. Suddenly inspired, he shouted, “‘To drinking ‘til we die!’”
“The crowd erupts into guttural cheers as they each clink their pewter flagons together. Mirg gives you a nudge ‘Go on, drink up!’” Gale raised his hand to his throat and began to rub at his Adams apple. Shadowheart reached into her purse and tossed him a lozenge, which he barely caught. “Thank you.”
“Alright, alright, um...could I maybe pretend to take a sip but spill it over the edge of the cup?” Astarion asked, miming the action with an empty red cup.
“Make me a sleight of hand check, please.”
Astarion closed his hands around the D20, feeling its edges as it bounced between his palms before setting it free on the tray. “That’s a thirteen, plus ten—”
“Hold on, how is your DEX modifier a ten?!” Cazador craned his neck to survey Astarion’s character sheet, intensely scrutinizing every pencil mark.
“We just leveled up,” Astarion scowled, shielding his sheet with his forearms. “I chose the skill increase instead of a feat. As I was saying, that’s a twenty-three.”
Gale nodded sagely. “With a twenty-three, you catch a whiff of it as it spills over the cup’s rim. It’s an assault on your nostrils—malty, bitter, and strong, almost like moonshine. Mirg watches the poisoned alcohol dribble down your chin, and she thinks nothing of it—you’re merely a messy drinker, just as she is. She grins, seemingly satisfied. ‘That’s it, down the hatch.’ And she tosses her head back and drinks from her own cup. Most of the others follow her lead. She drinks it to the very last drop, and shoves you away to make her way towards the punch bowl. ‘Now get outta my way—I need another drink!’”
Astarion’s face fell. “Oh, shit. Did my plan fail?”
“Hold on, this might take a minute,” Gale murmured. He rolled his D20 over and over again, stopping after each attempt to mark his results. After the twentieth time, he shook his head. “Gods. You watch as suddenly, ten of the goblin revelers that were drinking in the courtyard keel over, frothing at the mouth as they choke on their own spittle. The poison courses through all their bodies, killing half of all the goblins that partook.”
“Including Mirg?” Astarion asked cheekily.
Gale laughed, halfway through collecting over half of the goblin miniatures from the table. “Including Mirg. Astarion, as much as it pains me to reward you for destroying an encounter I planned for over a week, please take a point of inspiration for creative problem solving.”
“Nice!” Wyll exclaimed, leaning over the table with an expectant fist, which Astarion promptly bumped back.
“Well played,” Lae’zel murmured as she laid her tiny army to rest in the alcoves of her bulky, padded miniature case.
Cazador leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed and his nostrils flared. “I was really excited for some combat,” he murmured.
“Well, there are still five lucky sods left standing. They’re assessing the scene in complete disbelief. ‘They’re dead!’ one of them cries. He looks over in your direction, Astarion, and his eyes narrow in suspicion, overflowing with distrust. ‘Must have been those strangers.’ They begin to surround you, and the smallest one runs right up to you and points her finger straight at you. ‘You! You poisoned us!’”
“What’s this one’s name?” Astarion asked, giggling nervously. He was stalling for time.
Gale groaned. “Oh, for the love of—fine. This one’s named Tak.”
“Tak! Delightful. Ahem. ‘If I’d poisoned you, do you really think I’d still be here?’”
The words he’d been dreading all night slipped through Gale’s lips: “Make me a deception check.”
“Oh,” Astarion smiled. “Of course! Yes, let me just—where’s that—ah, there it is.”
“Don’t sweat it. You’ve got this in the bag, baby!” Karlach grinned. “I wonder what your charisma score is?”
“High, probably, if you take the way he’s been trying to butter us all up into account,” Shadowheart replied nonchalantly, reaching across the table to dip a forkful of raw broccoli into Lae’zel’s ranch dressing.
“Shka'keth,” the smaller girl scowled at her in protest. “He wouldn’t be much of a rogue if he couldn’t lie his way out of his messes—not a useful one, anyway.”
Useful.
The word sank at the bottom of Astarion’s mind like a stone in the sea. Crestfallen, he looked down at his charisma stat, and a mere ten stared back, scrawled in pencil. Compared to his abysmal strength score of eight, a ten wasn’t awful. It was average. He’d built his character to find traps and to sense danger, to remain unnoticed and invisible. It hadn’t made sense for him to improve his charisma stat when they reached level four, even after Gale kindly suggested it might be something he should take into consideration.
Why bother lying when his thoughts were hardly ever private, anyway? Why rely on his innate charm when there was a script he’d faithfully followed for years to lure his prey back home for the predator to feast upon? His body did most of the talking, anyway. All he needed to do was stand around in shady bars, looking provocative, inviting people in with his vampish smile. Just another pretty face, sharp and siren-like, kissing sloppy, drunken drifters he didn’t even want to be near, ferrying them to their untimely demises.
He hardly realized that he’d let the die fly into the tray already.
...Fuck.
He’d rolled an eight. Plus three? Ten—no! Eleven. Damn his lifelong failure to grasp basic mathematics.
Like grains of sand trickling down the slender neck of an hourglass, the rogue’s luck had finally run out.
“How did you roll?” Wyll asked, curiously leaning forward and looking into the dice tray.
“Not great,” Astarion winced, before turning to face Gale. “It’s an eleven. Can I use that inspiration point you just gave me?”
“Oh, yes. I think that re-roll would be quite useful right about now.”
Useful.
The stone had become a boulder.
Astarion scrunched his eyes shut and rolled the dice one last time.
I can’t fuck this up.
I have to be useful.
For nearly half a year, this weekly game—bi-weekly, if life was particularly inflexible for any of them—had been his only escape. He’d entrenched himself in the world Gale had carefully built for them, and he’d found his place in it. In Faerun, Astarion wasn’t the sad, worthless loser who hadn’t finished his degree. He wasn’t making slightly above minimum wage and struggling to pay rent. He wasn’t laying in bed every night trapped with the monster who’d taken control of his life, breathing in cannabis, incense, and mold.
Well, not anymore, anyway. His rogue may have suffered two hundred years of slavery, but he was free from his tormentor. His rogue was everything he wished he was: smart, resourceful, useful.
The skills he brought to the table had proven to his friends that he was deserving of his place around it.
For the first time, Astarion had worth. He had value.
And he would have nothing if he failed this check again.
Who was he without everything he had to offer?
Please, please please...
Ten.
His heart folded into itself like paper, growing painfully small.
“Shit! Thirteen?” he asked hopefully, his eyes glassy with tears that were threatening to spill out. He leaned his head back to keep them from falling.
Gale shook his head. “Sorry, my friend. A thirteen still doesn’t cut it. Outraged, the goblins all begin to crowd around you, jeering and brandishing their weapons.”
“Honestly, that tracks for the man with red eyes and sharp fangs who didn’t think any of us would pick up on his vampirism,” Shadowheart laughed. “You’re an awful liar, Astarion.”
Astarion dug his nails into his arms.
The horrible sound of Cazador’s muted laughter buzzed uncomfortably into Astarion’s left ear. “Lucky we have such a great rogue on our side!” he whispered in a patronizing, sarcastic tone, patting Astarion on the back, forcing a hot tear to run down his face. He was grateful the room’s lights were slightly dimmed to add to the atmosphere.
Karlach sucked a sharp breath of air through her teeth. “Oh, buddy,” she exhaled softly. “It’s okay. We all trip up sometimes. Don’t let this get you down, Starry.”
Only it wasn’t okay.
Dishonesty, chicanery, guile—these were his prowesses. Lying was one of the few tools at his disposal. His tongue needed to be as edged as his dagger, and he’d left it dull and purposeless. His talents were few. He’d failed at one of the only things he was meant to be good at.
It was only a matter of time before he became a spectre in the one place where he craved belonging the most. He’d been foolish to hold his head up high earlier.
He wanted to white out his charisma score.
To erase himself—to disappear into the wallpaper.
They’ve had so many chances to cast me out...eventually, I fear they will.
“You’re an awful liar.”
Astarion smiled bitterly. Little do they all know I lie to them every day of my life.
I can’t prove myself to them if I keep fucking this up.
I have to do better, otherwise I’m worthless to them.
Otherwise, I don’t belong here.
I’m nothing.
I’m nothing.
I’m—
“Astarion?”
Gale’s seraphic voice gently moored his writhing thoughts ashore, rescuing him from the pessimum his downward spiral was leading him to. “Yes?”
“Are you alright?” he asked softly, pushing the lozenge in his mouth to his cheek with his tongue.
“Oh, I’m fine,” Astarion bluffed, smiling saucily while he adjusted his posture. “Ready to stick my knife into the backs of each and every one of these little pests. It’s just ten goblins, after all,” he giggled half-heartedly before meeting Gale’s eyes...
...and he froze, suddenly caught in the gaze of someone who saw right through him.
Solemn brown eyes latched onto his, bringing him closer to land.
“It’s okay if you’re not, you know,” he said, fidgeting with a purple resin die between his fingers. “This? It’s all just chance. At the end of the day, we don’t always succeed the checks we make. But it doesn’t mean you’re a failure. What would you like to do next?”
“What if I don’t know what I want?” Astarion breathed.
“It’s never a bad idea to ask for help,” Gale replied.
Like magic, his words breathed light into his heart. They revived the song that was always playing within its chambers when they were only five feet apart from one another, stoked the flames he’d been carrying throughout the night, every night they played together.
It burned, aching to pull him into the kitchen and kiss him.
“Alright,” he exhaled. “I’d like to communicate via tadpole, to the others, if that’s alright?” he asked, his wavering voice finding its foothold.
“What would you like to say?”
He grinned, shielding his face in foppish embarrassment. “‘Er...oops. A little help here?’”
“‘Hold tight. Heading there,’” replied Shadowheart. Smiling, she plucked her cleric from the merchant stand and planted it firmly next to the rogue. “It’s okay,” she mouthed.
“‘Taking position!’” answered Lae’zel, flanking him on the opposite side.
“‘You took on all those goblins by yourself?! Nice work, soldier,’” Karlach winked at him as she slid her piece next to his. “‘We’ll be there, eyes on victory, tummy on dinner.’”
“‘I’ll have my blade at the ready if things get ugly,’” Wyll assured him. With panache, he twirled his miniature in his hand before joining the others.
“‘Rook to queen six,’” Gale smiled, setting his wizard down on the nearest empty space. “I have your back.”
Cazador leaned forward to place his paladin front and center. “‘A vampire that doesn’t feed. A rogue who can’t lie. An unfortunate combination. I wonder what else you might be hiding from us—what falsehoods we haven’t yet brought into the light.’”
“‘Ha! Oh, darling,’” Astarion laughed, feigning a smile. “Everything about me is a lie.”
~✧~
The last whispered note of his disclosure reverberated weightlessly against wood-paneled walls, flooding the space with deafening discordance. Words that felt leaden buried behind his teeth now floated high in the rafters, hanging in the air, butterfly-like and free from the vestiges of the fear that still had him by the throat.
It was terrifying to betray himself like this.
The ever-wailing cage in his head was all he’d ever known. It was easier to stay inside and keep his mouth shut. Everything he’d tried to rebel against was for his own good—or at least, that’s what his keepers had always told him. The irons that dug into raw flesh were to keep him safe. The bars were cold and lonely, but a cage was always a better option than a coffin.
He’d been taught to keep the latch locked years ago—a single slap against his manacled wrist was usually all it took to get him to stop fiddling with it. He prided himself on being such a quick learner. If he didn’t struggle against the hands that were pinning him down, it wouldn’t hurt as much. If he numbed his mind, stared at the patterns on the wall, and laid very, very still while the scissors clipped his wings for the thousandth time, they would draw less blood.
And yet, against every effort of self-preservation he’d ever built to protect himself, in one sweeping, elegant motion of his dexterous fingers, the gilded cell door he’d steadfastly guarded burst wide open. The lockpick fell to the ground with a high-pitched clinking sound—like a tiny pearl skipping against curved porcelain, set free down the drain along with everything he’d spent years trying to bury.
Like strange little birds, each bid for freedom, each unanswered plea to the gods for salvation, each rehearsed excuse he’d ever made flew frantically through quivering lips, escaping fervidly into the humid night air.
The language he’d spoken his entire life felt foreign to him.
His body was shivering, his head was pounding, and his stomach was on fire and crawling with ants. He could feel the weight of red, glowing eyes scorching twin burns into the extant mark on his neck.
Cazador was going to kill him if he found out—not if.
When.
Cazador was going to kill him.
Cazador was going to kill him.
Somehow, despite shouldering the heavy marble lid of the tomb he’d assuredly sealed himself in, Astarion’s chest felt strangely lighter, as though the grey, moldy ichor that had been plaguing him since the morning miraculously cleared from his lungs. Drawing breath became easier.
Deep, crisp inhale.
Deep, shuddering exhale.
“He’s been abusing me for years.”
Oh my gods. I’ve said it.
I’ve finally said it.
The lights dimmed. He could feel a sense of pride swelling up in his chest as he waited for the symphony of his ovation. He would not deny himself the chance to bask in it.
After all, he deserved praise.
He deserved flowers.
He deserved it all.
He waited, arms outstretched, fingertips grasping for the memory of how it felt to exist underneath the blinding limelight...
...but the applause never came.
His throat shriveled like a raisin in the sun, threatening to speak no more. He thought his honesty would magically ease his burden somehow—that he’d be going into this fight with allies by his side, prepared to move mountains.
Instead, they sat together in uncomfortable silence.
The sentence he’d let slip from his long-locked lips felt oddly weightless in the noiselessness. Was this festering secret so inconsequential that it had lost meaning once he’d banished it to the wilds? It strangled him still, hanging like a corroded anchor around his neck.
Surely it hadn’t been all in his head?
Astarion could hear the clock ticking away in the kitchen. With every beat against the dead air that stifled its fire, his heart became unrestrained and bestial in his chest. The blood in his body rushed to his ears to drown out the sea of voices he’d set loose.
He stood at the edge of his cage wanting nothing more than to inch his way back inside and lock it shut and never leave its safety behind again.
Only...the cage wasn’t safe either, was it?
Hawks still rattled the bars.
Snakes still slithered in through the spaces between them, unwelcome.
Hands still intruded to clip his wings.
Their talons and fangs and blades never needed to pierce his flesh to break him.
But how was he meant to fly when his wings were still clipped?
“What?! Our Cazzy did this?” Karlach raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms, and reclined against the couch. Her leg began tapping restlessly against the carpeted floor, awakening the rat in her pocket. “Oof. I can’t believe this.”
“Hm. Artists,” Shadowheart said tersely, passing the phone back to him with a quick roll of her eyes. “He certainly chose a pretentious outlet to vent his frustrations, didn’t he?”
Astarion clutched the edges of his T-shirt, twisting the cotton fabric in his fists and noticing a small hole near its hem. Weary with the weight of their underwhelming response having been dumped unceremoniously onto his recently unburdened shoulders, he held back a resentful laugh.
I knew it.
This is what always happens.
Karlach shot up from her seat and began pacing, and Godey quickly scurried away, seeking refuge in the flat of Shadowheart’s hand.
“But I don’t understand!” she exclaimed. “You two always seemed so happy together during our games! So cute, so in love—”
“We’ve been in couple’s therapy since March,” Astarion snapped. “I’m sorry not everyone’s life looks like a Hailey Kiyoko music video.”
“Are you sure it isn’t worth fighting for—?”
Astarion bristled. “What part of what I said are you not understanding?! Our relationship is over. He’s not some shirt I can keep mending over and over again. I can’t keep trying to fix him. There’s no fixing us. I’ve already tried, not that I had any choice in the matter.”
“Starry, I understand if you’ve been having problems, but are you sure about this?”
“Of course I’m sure!” he angrily gestured at the bruise on his neck. “Look at what he did to me!”
Her eyes widened, surveying the patch of mottled skin. “It’s not that bad...looks like it’s just a hickey. I’ve done worse damage during sex—”
“Karlach!” Shadowheart warned, her glowering face burning bright red.
“Except I didn’t want this!” he cried, fury and desperation coloring his tone as he ran his fingers against the healing injury, its ridged indentations finally gone. “I hate being bitten. I’ve begged him time and time again not to bite me, but he does it anyway!”
“Babe, you can’t tell me that picture didn’t disturb you,” Shadowheart whispered.
“Cazador’s always been...expressive. Always had big feelings. I’m sure that’s all it was, and that he didn’t mean any harm by what he drew. He’s just venting, and it isn’t fair to try and accuse him of something more than being hurt!”
All of a sudden, Astarion could no longer breathe. “What?”
Karlach stopped pacing, her leg bouncing fitfully as she unwittingly chose her next weapon.
“Does he hit you?” she asked.
“Does he have to?” he snarled.
“I’m relieved he doesn’t! Look, all I’m saying is that maybe he’s just heartbroken that you’ve been pulling away from him! I get it, breaking up with someone you loved because you’re not getting on sucks, but—”
His body tensed like a spring as he braced himself for the crushing blow.
“—abuse is a strong word—”
There it was.
The dose of truth he’d been waiting for.
His eyes flicked distrustingly between his friends, wounded and wild.
When had telling anyone ever helped him before?
When had anyone ever believed him?
Why is it so hard to believe me?
Is it because I’m a man?
Is it because I’m gay?
Would this have been the response I got if I was straight?
If I was a woman?
Why is it always so fucking different for me?
”Don’t tell anyone. This is private.”
“That’s between you two. Leave me out of it.”
“Nobody needs to know our business.”
“Why do your friends have to know every little detail?”
“What happens in the family stays in the family.”
“There’s nothing wrong with us. You want to be abused so fucking badly.”
“You’ll do anything for attention.” The memory of alcoholic breath on his father’s virulent tongue inundated his nostrils. “Even lie.”
A long discontinued cocktail of raspberry, bergamot, jasmine and rotten honey lingered in the back of his mind, on his mother’s wrists, burning his iron-filled lungs as she pressed the back of his head into the carpet. She twisted a handful of silver curls between her fingers and squeezed it tightly, digging her sharp nails into his scalp, and the room around them began to grow red as tears clouded his vision.
Red changed into blue before cycling back to red.
Blue.
Red.
Blue. Red, blue, red, blue.
Red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue red blue.
“You’re an adult,” the officer had told him. Fear welled up in his mother’s eyes, and Astarion relished in it. It was nice to see her squirm for once. “Do you want to press charges?”
Say yes.
“No.”
Astarion watched the officer’s sympathy mutated into pitiless disdain.
His mother simply smiled.
“Officer, my son has a problem with telling the truth,” she said.
His father turned away, refusing to look at him. “He’s a pathological liar.”
Plumes of anger billowed like smoke from the pit of his stomach. Long-dead fears grabbed him by the shirt collar, dragging him out the front door and onto the street. The entire neighborhood watched like vultures as he stumbled down the slope of the driveway. The flashing red and blue lights were casting shadows on their blank, unfeeling faces. His cheeks burned with shame.
I didn’t lie.
Liar!
The police wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t snuck a message to a friend begging for help!
Liar! Liar! Liar!
I didn’t have anywhere else to go!
“Your parents seem to be really worried about you,” the officer said as they drove away. “You know, I know your dad. He wants nothing but the best for you. They’re good parents. Not anyone is as lucky as you are. You should be grateful.”
“You should be grateful I don’t hit you,” Cazador whispered from the leather seat beside him. “I never would.”
Astarion’s heart ached like a dying, winged thing caught between his ribcage. He leaned his throbbing head against the grated window of the back of the police cruiser and sobbed.
I’m a liar.
“Hold on, Karlach, are you listening to yourself?!” Shadowheart interjected, her beautiful features warped by disbelief. “Are you saying you don’t believe him?”
“No—no, that’s not what I—”
“This isn’t like you at all!” Her large, doe-like eyes grew impossibly wide. “Do you believe me?” she asked.
“I do—I want to believe you, Jen,” Karlach began through gritted teeth, shaking her head before turning to face Astarion. “I want to believe you, too, it’s just—I’m sorry. It couldn’t have happened. There’s no way.”
He pulled his legs up to his chest.
I’m a liar.
I must be.
“Why not? What are you talking about?” Jen cried, shielding Godey from the volume of their voices with her palm before setting him down on the couch. “Cazador hurt our friend! Why would he lie to us about this?”
Astarion looked up at her in shock.
Wait, does she—?
He tried to open his mouth, but it was glued tightly shut. He was too stunned to speak.
Godey scurried into his lap.
“Because you’ve both told me the sky is pink, but I know it’s blue. I know Caz,” she said, her resolve wavering, her resounding voice trembling with rage. “I know Caz. I’ve known him for years! He had his issues, but there’s no way in hell he—”
“Didn’t you say you were never that close to him?” Shadowheart asked. “Weren’t you closer to En?”
Astarion recalled the black, shark-like eyes leering at him in the dead of night, aglow with dozens of tiny string lights as they exchanged paper for plastic.
At the sound of that single syllable, Karlach grew alarmingly quiet. Something in his name had set her eyes ablaze. Her chest began to heave violently. “Gortash can kick rocks. We may not have been close, but Caz has never been anything but nice to me! He was a quiet kid, shy, just wanted to be loved, nothing like Enver fucking Gortash ever was. Even now, he’s always—”
“Shh. Hon. It’s okay. No one wants to believe their friend is capable of doing bad things,” she said, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Just because someone is kind to you doesn’t mean they’re kind to everyone. Trust me. I know.”
She turned to Astarion, her gentle smile radiating compassionate encouragement. He quickly looked away, focusing on a single silver hair hiding among Godey’s wiry black fur.
“Please,” she coaxed, extending her palm. “I know you wouldn’t be telling us this if you didn’t trust us. I know this can’t be easy for you. Tell us about the picture. Tell us what happened.”
Here she was, reaching into the darkness and giving him a chance.
A part of him wanted to hold her hand and tell her everything—to confide in her the grimiest shades of his life.
The active part of him flinched away from her.
Don’t look at me.
His glassy eyes tracked the room for anything else he could anchor himself to.
They settled on Gale’s mug. Its design melted into a nebulous mess of abstract lines through the tears.
“It’s never a bad idea to ask for help.”
“Fuck—I—” he swallowed.
Cazador was going to kill him.
His lips tore as he opened them to talk, splitting from the tension of his teeth against their flesh. He sucked in the metallic taste of his own blood, an amount so puny and insignificant it was gone after a second on his tongue.
But although his voice shook, Astarion spoke.
“He—he didn’t want me to go—” he whimpered, clasping his mouth shut and biting down on his lower lip.
Cazador was going to kill him.
“Go where?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, recoiling from the pain of his tears against broken skin as they trailed down to his mouth. “Silverbeard’s—he—he never wants me to leave his side. Always wants to know where I am—where I’m going. He didn’t feel like going. He—he wanted me to stay home with him. Usually, it works, and I stay with him while—while he gets high. Just a normal Tuesday.” A rueful laugh bolted from his lips. He was shaking, his knees locking together. “I don’t even know why. Maybe because...because I love him,” he sputtered, his upper lip curling in disgust. “Maybe...maybe because he sits there pouting, makes me feel like shit whenever I get ready to do anything without him. He tried to get me to stay again.”
“Again?” Shadowheart absentmindedly rubbed at her elbows, holding herself in her arms. She slid closer to him on the couch. “He’s done something like this before.”
Astarion shrugged, running his palms across Godey’s back as the rat flattened himself against his stomach. “I—what can I say? He’s possessive of me. Sometimes I feel like he thinks he owns me. Like I’m his property—not his boyfriend.”
Cazador was going to kill him.
“Astarion...”
“M-maybe I should’ve listened to him...but I wanted to go. Gods. I should have stayed home. Then I wouldn’t have had to come home to...well, you saw what he did. Ha. ‘Coming home,’” he began to sob. “What fucking bullshit am I spouting? I’ve never had a ‘home’ to ‘come’ to. I never felt safe there with him, in that hellhole. Couldn’t escape him. Even at our games, he’s always making these small digs at me when he’s around you all—”
Suddenly, a horrible realization struck him like lightning, shaking him to his core, knocking the wind out of his sails. He struggled to make out the blurry shapes of his friends through an opaque wall of tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.
“You never noticed,” he sniffled. “Did you? Neither of you ever fucking noticed!”
“I knew something was wrong,” Shadowheart said softly. “You dissociate. A lot.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“I just didn’t think—”
“Of course you didn’t,” Astarion spat. “How could anyone?! He’s so charming. So handsome. Tells me I’m stupid, boring, dumb, calls me to his side like a dog—but that’s how he’s always flirted with me, isn’t it? That’s just who he is, and I’m the fool for not just ‘loving him as he is’ and ‘accepting his flaws without trying to change him’ and lying down and taking it for another two years.” His eyes were sore and red, flickering frenetically around the room until they latched onto Gale’s mug again.
“I have your back.”
His heart beat like an erratic drum against his fingertips. “I don’t even want to tell you why he makes me feel so fucking dirty. But he does. He makes me feel so fucking broken.”
Cazador was going to kill him.
“It couldn’t possibly be as bad as I’m making it seem, could it?!” His voice was a pendulum—a pitiful lilting cry and an indignant, gravelly shout all at once. “Fuck! Maybe it isn’t that serious. You’re right, Karlach. It’s not like he ever hit me or anything—like actually, really hit me. He grabbed my arm—he—he bites me, he won’t stop fucking touching me—!”
He wanted to white himself out.
To erase himself—to disappear into the wood-paneled wall behind the couch.
Cazador couldn’t kill what he couldn’t see.
“What he does always feels so...small. A needle in a haystack. Easy to lose. Easy to neglect. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to tell you any of this, because the more I talk, the more I wish I would just shut up already, because none of this makes any sense!”
He felt like he was losing his grip more and more with each passing sentence, juggling his words and watching them all clatter uselessly to the floor. His thoughts flashed by him in a jittery sequence, like a landscape through the windows of a runaway train.
The wheels sparked against the steel of the tracks as the warm metallic taste returned.
Cazador was going to kill him.
Nothing else mattered.
“Every day,” he murmured, bringing his arms up to shield his face, “Every single fucking day, I’m scared I’m going to lose my apartment. Every day, I’m scared I’m going to get kicked out because of him—and honestly? I don’t know if it’d be worse to be homeless and starving than to keep living there with him, starving anyway. I don’t know why I’m trying so fucking hard to leave. It makes sense to stay.”
No it doesn’t.
That doesn’t make any sense. None of this is making any sense. Am I making any sense at all?
I need to shut the fuck up.
I’m a liar.
Deep breaths.
Compose yourself!
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
What if they’re right? What if abuse is a strong word after all? What if I’m lying again?
“I feel like I’m making this all up. The bruise is just a hickey. The picture is just vent art. And we’re just having problems communicating, like every couple does. I’m sure we’ll probably move past it, and I’m probably just being a nasty, vindictive little bitch who’s trying to come out on top. I should be talking to him about this, not you.”
I’m lying again, like I always do. Liar. I’m a liar. I’m lying.
“Don’t take anything I’ve said in the last few minutes seriously. I’m actually extremely embarrassed. I’m sure I’m exaggerating. You know how dramatic I can be.”
Please believe me.
“I didn’t mean to drag you into this. This is more than you bargained for when you let me spend the night. I’m sorry I fucked everything up. I can go back to my apartment if it’ll make you more comfortable. I feel like this whole...unpleasantness is my fault.”
It probably is.
“I’m wrong. This isn’t happening. Maybe I’m just making something out of nothing.”
I probably am.
“I know I am. What he’s doing is fine. It’s nothing. I’m just sensitive. Weak. It could always be worse.”
I can’t take this back.
“You know what? We were having such a nice evening before I ruined the mood. Let’s just forget I said anything, hm?”
It’s too late for that now.
You’ve ruined everything.
He could feel two sets of eyes on him as he stared down at his shivering knees, avoiding their gazes for fear of seeing himself reflected through their glassy, pity-stricken surfaces.
If they don’t pity you, they must hate you by now.
He could feel the heat of Cazador’s eyes burning into the back of his head like two pinpricks.
He was going to kill him.
Cazador was going to—
“Fucking hell!” Karlach bellowed, her chest heaving, sick with fury. “That fucker’s been abusing you the entire time I’ve known you and I just—I just let it happen. Right under my fucking nose. I couldn’t stop him. What the fuck am I good for if not that?” A guttural, frustrated scream punctuated her sentence. Her wide shoulders were vibrating with the pulse of her rage. Her fingernails dug into the couch. “I—why didn’t I see this?”
“No one could have seen this,” Shadowheart reassured her. “Don't blame yourself.”
“I should have known better! I should have seen this coming because it happened to me! I should have seen the signs. There’s no way I missed them all. I swore to protect people from monsters like that fucker. I thought I’d be better at spotting them by now. I promised myself I would never let anyone hurt anybody else the way he hurt me! I saw this in En. Why didn’t I see it in Cazador? Why?!” Her hands gravitated from the couch and towards her chest, clutching at her shirt, her face contorted in pain.
Astarion’s face softened. “Karlach, your heart—!”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” She took several deep breaths through her nostrils. “None of that matters right now.”
Her restorative breaths were the only sound in the eye of her storm, feral and ragged—until Shadowheart’s soft voice broke the silence.
“Astarion...you’re a terrible liar. You know that, right?”
He blinked incredulously, the last of his tears rolling off his gaunt cheekbones. Something warm began to flutter in his chest. “What? Hold on—you believe me?”
Through her own hot tears, Karlach laughed. “Of course we believe you. She’s right, you know. Your poker face? Abysmal. Gods, did you really think you could hide this from us forever? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Darling, I revel in my mysteries,” he sniffled, laughing weakly. “In all honesty, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’d keep it under wraps for my own safety. I didn't think anyone would believe me. I’m scared. Scared of what he’s done. Scared of what he’ll do.”
Suddenly, Shadowheart’s arms wrapped themselves around him. His eyes widened in surprise.
Then another, warmer set joined in.
They both squeezed him tightly between the two of them.
“We can’t help who we are. Or what’s been done to us. All we have is what we do now. And all I want to do right now is knock his damn teeth out.” He could practically hear her teeth grinding in her skull. “I swear, if he hurts a hair on your pretty little silver head, the next time I see his fucking face I’m going to bash my fist through it. I’ll have the damn bastard seeing stars. I dare him. I’ll crack anyone who tries to come into my house and hurt my people.”
“You are so brave, and I’m so proud of you,” Shadowheart whispered. “You don’t have to go at this alone anymore.”
“No more secrets, alright?” Karlach pressed her wet cheek against his. “We’re in this together-together.”
The dam had finally broken.
He began to sob, burying his face into Shadowheart’s shoulder as Karlach traced circles into his convulsing back. His tears darkened the fabric of her shirt where they landed.
He wanted so badly to feel safe in their arms, but the single, haunting refrain that had hounded him all night lingered still.
Cazador was going to kill him.
Cazador was going to kill him...
...unless Karlach killed the bastard first.
Notes:
Hello, all! I've missed you so much. Life is finally starting to feel normal again. This is the longest chapter of Seen I've written thus far. I took my time with it, because I wanted to do it justice. It felt too important to rush through it, and you all deserve the very best.
A huge, HUGE thanks to AcrylicAgony. They beta'd an earlier draft of this chapter, but they also helped me translate all of the stuff that was in my head onto paper. With their help, I have written an impactful chapter I am honestly incredibly proud of.
I hope you're all doing well, and keeping safe. Take care of yourselves and your loved ones. Until next time!
~✧~
Pinegrove - Need 2
Radiohead - Burn the Witch
Radiohead - Nude
Ethel Cain - August Underground
Ludwig Göransson - Can You Hear The Music
Peter Gabriel - Heroes(Special shout out to the Goblin Party music from BG3. It didn't make it onto the playlist, because lamentably, it's not on Spotify. But it is an absolute banger!)
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 42
Notes:
CW: Forty (!!!) drunken texts from Cazador Szarr.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion’s eyelids fought to uncouple, still raw and swollen from hours of intense emotional release. He wiped the sleep and the dew away from the corners of his eyes as he stretched his arms wide. A relaxed, breathy yawn slipped past his chapped lips. He found himself immediately vexed by a disorienting headache battering his aching forehead, his temples thrumming as he attempted to focus on the textured popcorn ceiling overhead. Swallowing was gritty and painful, as though his throat was full of broken glass and clumps of dirt. His entire body ached as if he’d spent the night on scaling mountains rather than dreamless sleep.
In a way, he supposed he had.
The memories of last night rushed to the forefront of his mind. He was certain he’d fallen asleep on the couch in the arms of his friends, but as the room became clearer, he realized that at some point, someone had tucked him into the comfortable cotton bedsheets in the guest room. The curtains were drawn closed, inviting only the barest shaft of light in to paint the poster-covered walls with a luminous stripe of gold.
He followed a trail of feathery dust motes to his duffel bag, neatly perched upon a luggage rack by the closet. To his left, four sundered lines blinked in and out of existence against the reflective, void-like screen of the digital alarm clock on the glass-top nightstand covered in fingerprints.
11:11. Make a wish, he teased himself.
A trio of sensible truths reared their ugly heads.
The first was that he needed to accept that he’d squandered every wish he’d made in the last five months on the exact same torrid, impractical whim.
The second was that wasting his precious energy on something as childish as making a wish was an objectively stupid thing to do. He had the lion’s share of real problems to worry about—namely what the fuck he was meant to do now that he’d started talking about them.
The third was that if he was going to insist on putting himself in jeopardy by wishing anyway, it made little sense to keep asking the gods to resolve a matter he clearly needed to take into his own hands.
It wasn’t as though Gale Dekarios was going to magically appear sleeping in bed beside him—his brow smooth and untroubled, snoring gently, his bristled jaw slack, his chubby, hairy arms poised to draw him into a tight, warm embrace, legs recoiling as soon as they unconsciously rubbed against his ice-cold feet...
It could never be that easy.
He would need to work for it.
Astarion rolled onto his side, reaching past the millionth figment of Gale his brain had conjured in the span of half a year of pining, inching towards his phone. One of the girls had been gracious enough to leave it charging overnight but had left it frustratingly out of his grasp. Annoyed, he shuffled closer and closer, grunting with groggy effort until he finally held his prize in his palm. He turned it on, squinting as the screen lit up at full brightness and scrambling to drag his finger down the slider to the lowest setting as quickly as possible.
Unsurprisingly, through bleary eyes, he stood in the wake of an avalanche of texts—forty drunken missives from Cazador, each line more cumbersome than the last. The words he read sat listlessly upon his mute tongue as he parsed out each painful, slurred consonant with drowsy lips.
A miserable, garbled groan crawled out from the back of Astarion’s parched throat. The room spun until he pulled the blanket over his face, his body glued supine to the bed. He could still hear the ceiling fan whirring above him, its blades humming as it pirouetted in windmill-like circles. The nickel-plated pull chains clattered against the opaque glass of the lamp cover, offering the only other sound in the stillness of the late morning to contend with Cazador’s frenzied, vehement pleas in his head—and the low rumble of his famished stomach.
Jaheira, too, had texted him.
The paralysis broke, and he jolted up out of bed with a start.
Shit!
If there was one thing he couldn’t afford now, it was losing his only source of income.
Dazed, he dragged himself out of bed, his weak legs following the call of his hunger to the kitchen. The television was blaring in the living room. Karlach and Shadowheart were probably snuggled up to one another on the couch, likely too distracted by their show (and one another) to notice him quietly opening their fridge, surveying shelf by blessedly stocked shelf until he finally laid eyes on the leftover sandwich from yesterday afternoon, encased in a single layer of haphazardly applied cling wrap.
Fully alert, Astarion filtered through the virtual noise of whatever they were watching, listening intently for the gentle thud of woolen socks or bare feet slapping against the wooden floors, relieved when he heard none. On his toes, he sharply turned his head to face the open archway, ensuring that no one was spying on him from the hallway. His fears of being watched were allayed when he found himself alone and safe from prying eyes.
Ever cautiously, he sealed the refrigerator door shut. It looked new, unlike the old discolored one in his apartment. He was unwilling to run the risk of its agitated beeping betraying his position if he left it ajar.
He admired the fruit sandwich he clutched in his hands. He’d seen pictures of them before. From what he gathered, they were all fluff and little substance. They were made to be pretty—to be bisected and admired, consumed and forgotten about.
It wasn’t the most nutritious of breakfasts—few of his breakfasts ever were—but it would have to do.
With anxious, unsteady fingers, he pried the sandwich from the plastic and crammed a thoughtlessly large bite into his mouth. A glob of sugary whipped cream pooled at the edges of his lips as he stifled a hushed moan. It tasted divine, and he wasted no time scooping heaven into his mouth. He greedily sucked it down, barely sparing a moment to savor it before going in for another generous bite. The strawberries lapped at the blade-like borders of his tongue as he chewed, biting back with a sour sweetness. Shielding his quarry from view with his lithe frame, he licked the excess fluffy cream from the sides before quaffing a third desperate bite.
The crust-less edges of the milk bread had gone slightly stale after half a day spent sitting pretty in the fridge. He’d waited too long to eat it, but he didn’t care.
He wanted to remember what it felt like to be full again.
“Hey-ho!”
Karlach’s voice rang out from the kitchen entrance behind him, wrenching a startled gasp from his throat and firing off a sickening shock of burning shame into his chest. Electric adrenaline zapped through every nerve ending of his body, every synapse in his brain. He instinctively shielded his messy mouth from view with his quivering palm. He could feel the tips of his ears burning bright red.
“I’m sorry,” Astarion muttered, positively mortified. As if things weren’t already awkward enough, now that she knew...
“Hi, ‘ Sorry,’ I’m dad,” Karlach replied, grinning from ear to ear as she casually leaned her broad shoulder against the arch. “You knocked out last night. Did you sleep well, soldier?”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding, averting his eyes in a bid to sneak around a curious gaze that threatened to further unravel him.
“Like the dead,” he smiled weakly.
“Glad to hear it,” she replied with a good-natured guffaw. “Phew. Sorry for scaring you. You almost gave me a fright with those little rat feet of yours! Why were you sneaking about?”
“I can explain,” he exhaled, running his free hand through his hair while his sandwich trembled in the other. The world around him began to shrink into a tunnel of light, darkness narrowing the edges of his vision. “I know I probably should’ve asked before going through your fridge, but it’s almost noon, and I didn’t want to be any more of a bother than I already have been—”
His sentence was halted by the surprisingly light touch of her hand on his shoulder.
“You’re alright,” Karlach reassured, employing the softest, most soothing tone he’d ever heard her use. “Don’t be shy. Our home is your home. ‘Sides, Jen and I stayed up talking far longer than you did. The two of us only just woke up maybe an hour ago. I could go for a good meal right about now, too. How about I make us some hash browns? Would you like that?”
Astarion's face immediately lit up, and like a beacon in the night, Karlach beamed back at him. “I’ll take that as a yes!”
She reached into her hoodie pocket and set a sleepy Godey down to safety on the dinner table. She donned a black linen apron hanging on a hook beside a meticulously organized pot rack, where she procured a hefty, cast-iron skillet—old, worn, and reliable.
The way she held it in her calloused hands made it seem weightless.
“Let’s cook with fire, baby!”
Notes:
Hello, loves! Long time no see!
In trying to tie up some loose ends before sending Astarion and Gale on this "not-quite-a-date-that-totally-feels-like-a-date," this chapter ended up becoming astronomically HUGE, and for all my efforts in planning it, I couldn't find a way to pare it down. Upon deliberation, I decided the best thing to do would be to split it into thirds. I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer!
My writing process has changed so much since I started this fic almost a year ago, and my outline has not been the greatest predictor of how many more chapters there will be...oops, hehe! ^^
A big thanks to AcrylicAgony for helping to pull me out of ruts and get my writing in order! It is tough to manage a longfic with so many intricate moving parts, but their guidance and fresh perspective have really been instrumental in keeping my head above water.
Thank you all for sticking by me throughout this journey, every single one of you! You fuel my fire, and you are a big part of why I'm still having the time of my life telling this story! ❤️🔥
(P.S. I don't know about you, but in my heart of hearts, Jaheira seems like the type of older person who would find those custom iPhone emojis endearing, hahaha!)
~✧~
Chelsea Wolfe - Fang
Natalie Walker - Waking Dream
Haley Heynderickx - The Bug Collector
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 43
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In the late-morning breeze, the gentle rustling of metal wind chimes snuck through the gap in the open window, exchanging their strident tones for the sultry hissing strains of oil bubbling in cast iron. The ailing tarragon had been moved to the windowsill beside several plant cuttings, all thriving inside a colorful assortment of wine bottles. A day into its recovery, it already looked greener than its neighbors in the harsh glow of the sun. Its half-wilted leaves stood taller and prouder in its ruddy brown pot, and it inched towards the sunlight through the mesh screen, thirsty for even the slimmest of sunbeams.
Astarion had scarfed down the rest of his strawberry sando after some encouragement from Karlach.
“You weren’t stealing it, silly,” she’d insisted. “I made it for you. It was yours!”
Now he, too, basked in the comfortable heat of the midday sun, his mind lost to the scent of freshly watered soil and the brain-tingling serenade of her humming. Her melody drifted aimlessly above him like a lone cloud in the impossibly blue sky, floating above a sink full of neatly stacked dishes and the folded checkered dish towels waiting to dry them off. Though it seemed impossibly soft, it cleaved through the clangorous noise of the kitchen symphony like a hot knife through a resistant stick of frozen butter.
For a minute, he found himself transfixed, wholly seduced by the translucent shade of crimson that bled through one of the bottles by the window. He’d hardly noticed when the pot had been taken off the burner, only returning to his proper place in the room when Karlach announced that the hash browns were ready.
Almost as soon as they were transferred to his plate from the sizzling pan and doused in cooling ketchup, he wolfed down every last bite of the perfectly browned stringy fried potatoes. He’d only barely finished scraping the edge of his fork against the stoneware when she surprised him once more, refilling it with a hearty helping of bacon and eggs.
The bacon was thinly sliced, smoky and perfectly charred around its crisp edges. It was savory on his tongue, yielding a satisfying crunch between his teeth. As if Karlach had somehow read his mind from the morning before, his eggs were prepared exactly how he liked them best—sunny side up. A single shoot of cilantro plucked from Shadowheart’s garden served as a fragrant, aesthetically pleasing garnish, and she’d cracked a liberal amount of salt and pepper over the two perfectly runny yolks. Satisfyingly, they ruptured with the tenderest brush of his fork.
Much to his relief, Karlach wasn’t trying too hard to engage him in conversation. He was appreciative of her restraint. He hated trying to speak with his mouth full.
Perhaps his silence was exactly the response she was looking for.
She grinned. “Good, eh?”
He offered a vigorous nod in response, and that was enough to please her.
She tore another cilantro sprig from the bundle of herbs and passed it over to him.
“For Godes,” she clarified.
Post-eviction from her hoodie pocket, the rat had nestled upon Astarion’s lap and resumed his nap. He waved the leafy offering a centimeter away from his perpetually twitching nose, and the pungent, citrusy fragrance reanimated him from his slumber. Wide awake, he took it between his diminutive paws and began nibbling at its serrated edges, turning it clockwise as he chewed.
Astarion felt his pursed lips curve into a smile. He chased a silky mouthful of egg with a chug of orange juice.
For once, everyone was eating well.
By the time Karlach set down a small canning jar full of rhubarb compote alongside a sleeve of Melba toast, he was stuffed to bursting. He’d become so accustomed to subsisting on little more than coffee and stale cereal that he’d half-forgotten how filling a real, substantial breakfast could be.
Full as he was, he didn’t want to come off as rude, so he spread a thin layer of the decadent preserves onto a slice of the miniature browned bread and scarfed it down as quickly as he could—the perfect tangy finale to the grandest breakfast he’d had in recent memory.
There was a strange novelty coalescing with his feelings of satiety. A part of him was concerned that he wouldn’t have room again when dinnertime came around. He could only imagine that an outing with Gale would entail a visit to some obscure culinary wonderland.
Beneath the table, Astarion’s heels clicked together gleefully, as if doing so often enough would somehow teleport him to wherever he was.
“Mm,” Karlach murmured, delighted by a spoonful of rhubarb now sitting pretty upon her palate. “Tastes sort of red—maybe a bit orange…pink? My brain can’t decide.”
“Tasting colors?” A small wave of mirth bubbled up deep within his chest like water from a fountain, and he chortled. “Are you eating paint chips or just losing your mind?” he teased.
She shot back a burning, reproachful glare across the table, and his convivial giggle went up in flames, fleeing the now stifled room through the cracked window like a weak plume of smoke. He nervously sipped at the sultry air, searching for a way out from the arson he’d callously initiated.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Had he been too mean? His passive joke obviously hadn’t landed, and now she was angry at him. Was he reading too much into the scowl on her face? Perhaps. Everyone’s ire manifested differently, after all. For all he knew Karlach’s fury could have been perfectly benign, like it had been the night before. But that didn’t matter. A lifetime spent learning how to walk on eggshells as soundlessly as possible taught him better than to underestimate anyone’s rage.
He could never be too careful.
Thankfully, he’d been blessed with the talent to turn any conversation around in his favor again. He’d played this game countless times before.
He cleared his throat and deeply-ingrained habits slithered out from his pharynx, all eager to pull the strings and save him from her wrath. His fear propelled him to cast away the vulnerability he’d revealed the night before. At that moment, the mask was the only thing in the room that felt comfortable. Familiar. Safe. Translucent wires pulled at the edges of his lips, keeping his simpering smile steady as he readily recanted his repartee.
“—eating paint chips it is, then!” he sassed, bursting into a fit of tittering laughter.
Gods, I hope that worked.
His remark earned him the lightest punch on the shoulder.
“Asshole,” Karlach laughed with him, and the tension in his shoulders released as her comforting, playful barb snipped the strings that were keeping them taut. His attempt had been a rousing success—and after years of practice, why wouldn’t it have been? The air conditioner abruptly roared to life. With the flip of a switch, the lividity dissipated, the temperature in the room equalized, and everything seemed safe again—at least for now.
“I do hope you know I was only joking, of course,” he added sheepishly. “I missed a step and spoke without thinking. Forgive me, my dear.”
“Never was my strong suit, so apology accepted.”
Astarion gently tapped a napkin against the edges of his lips while covertly reading her expression, seeking signs of deception in the crags of her dimpled smile. She seemed so painfully sincere, but there was something else in her eyes that he wasn’t sure he wanted to decode. A spark of unease swam below their flickering, honey-like depths. She was looking at him too closely for his comfort. He could practically hear the jagged echo of Cazador’s name bouncing off the dusty corners of the room like shards of glass before she’d even had a chance to drop it— he was the last subject he was willing to converse about.
Not wanting to be accused of staring, he cut eye contact, looking over her ear at the wooden bottle opener nailed to the wall.
She knows now, he thought, licking his lips anxiously.
And she hadn’t believed him at first—not before Shadowheart had come running to his defense.
He wondered if her belief in him was artificial, rooted solely in a staunch desire to appease her girlfriend.
He’d laid himself bare, and Karlach made him almost wish he hadn’t. He felt naked. Exposed. He wanted to fish his swaddling blanket out from his duffel bag and hide under the covers.
He would do anything to reverse the time, to restore some semblance of the anonymity he didn’t think he would miss this badly.
It was only a matter of time before she’d question him again, especially now that they were alone.
He was sure of it.
“In all seriousness, do you really see colors when you eat?” he purred, eager to keep the chatter shallow before he could slink back into the sand.
Karlach’s face melted into a softer, sunnier, frustratingly heartfelt smile. “As a matter of fact, I do! It affects taste and smell. I see shapes too, sometimes.”
“Ah, so you’re a synesthete! Fascinating!” Astarion’s malleable face warped to mirror her smile. Easy. “In my college days, I had a few classmates who could visualize sounds. I was admittedly quite jealous of them! I always felt like they possessed something I lacked—an understanding of music I would never have, no matter how hard I tried. It must be fun.”
She shrugged. “I mean, it’s fun most of the time. It really sucked when I wasn’t eating anything besides MREs, though. I couldn’t see anything but the ugliest little green squiggle for months. Ugh. Might as well have been eating dirt.”
“I can only imagine,” Astarion mused, grimacing sympathetically.
And with that, it seemed that the time for small talk had dwindled down to ashes. They sat together in pregnant silence for a moment longer than he would have liked them to. She busied herself by feeding a tiny piece of cooked egg to Godey before repaying his gaze. He watched in trepidation as that earlier look of incertitude slowly reclaimed her handsome face.
“Astarion—”
Disengage.
He rose from the chair with an automatic, overly-flamboyant bow. Its legs scraped against the aged wooden floors, making a horrible grating noise as he pushed it back into place. “Thank you for breakfast. It was delicious. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
Cut and dry. He took his first tentative step towards the exit.
“—hey!” she called after him, trading her perplexed expression for a puzzled one as he sauntered past her. “Hold on, little bat, where’re you flying off to?”
Slightly flustered by the latest endearing little nickname she’d assigned him, his next step faltered. He felt his face growing hot. “Forgive me, my liege,” he huffed, pairing his dry sarcasm with a sardonic roll of his eyes and a dismissive wave. “If you really must know my every move, I must now retire to my bedchambers to start getting ready.”
Karlach stood up from her chair, and Astarion’s face was instantly drained of its earlier flush. She may have been ex -army, but one look at her athletic, burn-scarred, biceps and quads that were bulging out of her drawstring shorts made it immediately apparent that she had clearly kept up her regimen.
She was an indomitable wall of muscle, and he was a malnourished twig.
“Getting ready for what?” she asked, peering over his head to check the clock on the wall. “It’s only twelve-thirty! Isn’t Gale picking you up at four?”
He swallowed, but his saliva could only get so far with his heart clogging his throat.
“Yes.”
His single word reply was a stangled hybrid of neurotic and cross. Being questioned was stirring up an ocean’s worth of trauma that he’d learned to suppress behind a veneer of impassivity. His mask could hardly qualify as a proper embankment. It may as well have been constructed out of toothpicks—but at least it kept him from drowning.
He took a wider step away from her.
“He is! But there’s a lot I need to get done before then. I have to do my hair, of course!” He ruffled his hand into his fluffy curls to further sell his performance. “Can’t go out with this bedhead, now can I?”
“Can we talk about something first?”
Boom goes the dynamite.
Dash.
As Astarion and his heart began to quicken their respective paces, the stage around him began to shrink. His vision was closing in on him, the exit tunneling away into a single pinhole. The gaffer tape that marked the way melted at his feet as the wood liquefied into thick, gooey molasses. It warped itself around his spindly legs as he blindly trudged towards the pinprick of laser light.
The exit was a million miles away.
But it was all he could make out amidst the chaos of the room stretching.
Freedom.
He would have to remember the choreography from memory.
“I can’t stop to talk, darling,” he squeaked with conviction. He refused to let himself be trapped by another conversation he couldn’t escape. “I know it’s early, but I still have to steam my shirt—do you have an ironing board I could use somewhere?”
“There’s one in the closet in your room,” she answered, approaching him cautiously, as if he were little more than a scared dog, ready to bolt. “But first, I really think—”
“Perfect!” To his horror, his voice cracked.
The light at the end of the tunnel began to falter, flickering shut.
A familiar hand gripped his shoulder, its fingernails sharp and cruel as they dug into his skin, shredding him like paper.
He could hardly breathe.
The stage was small enough with only two players on it.
Three was a crowd.
Heavy black curtains constricted him, and it was only a matter of time before all four walls would close in on him, crushing him, forcing him to crawl towards salvation on shaky elbows and bruised knees.
He could never get away so easily. Cazador was always allowed to exit stage left. He walked away from their arguments when he’d had enough. He slammed the door shut and drove off in his car in the dead of night to smoke away his frustrations.
Astarion was never afforded the same luxury.
Why would it be any different anywhere else?
He was surrounded.
A hushed voice, raspy and split from years of inhaling smoke whispered into the curve of his ear.
“Come home.”
It was a cruel command camouflaged in counterfeit kindness.
Yet, like an animal to slaughter, he allowed Cazador’s will to tighten the rope around his neck.
“Then there’s the matter of packing my bag and making sure I don’t forget to bring anything home with me—”
Karlach’s eyes widened in horror. “You can’t seriously expect to go back there after what you told us!”
He scoffed, clinging to the last ounce of bravado that hadn’t slipped through his fingers. “Well, where else do you expect me to go?!”
That was a good question.
Where else was he meant to go? Even he wasn’t sure. This was their house, after all—Karlach’s childhood home, from his understanding. She had to have known every single hollow in the wall, every uneven divot in the plaster, every dent in the plywood.
There was no blanket that would make him disappear completely.
No getaway car waiting for him in the driveway.
He couldn’t hide.
He was thoroughly fucked.
Where in the hells am I supposed to go?
“Not there. Not with him,” Karlach replied through gritted teeth. There was a flicker of fire in her voice emitting a flash of roaring incandescent, and for a brief moment, the room was illuminated again.
Astarion laughed bitterly.
Fuck you! he wanted to yell. You have no idea what I’m up against.
I have one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars.
You have a fucking house.
But instead, he bit his tongue until he tasted iron.
With a trembling fist, he faced the minotaur in his labyrinth as it leered at him with baleful and bloodthirsty eyes. Cazador was there, in the room with them, clad in black, ready to gloat. Ready to cut him down. Ready to make today all about him. Ready to snatch away the single thread of happiness he’d been clinging to all day.
Ready to ruin absolutely everything about his life.
Today was supposed to be about Gale.
He didn’t want to deal with this.
He didn’t want to deal with him.
“Ha!” he crowed, throwing his hands up into the air in a grand, sweeping gesture as he finally stepped over the threshold.
“I’m sure I can just flit on over to my fairy godmother’s place—” Stay away from me.
“No doubt she’d be right there waiting for me with open arms—” Give up on me.
“Now if you’ll kindly fuck off—” I will bite you.
Without warning, his shoulder inelegantly bumped against the doorframe, sobering him up from his manic stupor, and alerting him to Shadowheart’s presence in the hallway.
She was standing there awkwardly, mere inches away from him. He could smell the jasmine-scented shampoo in her slightly damp hair. It was swept away from her bare, bewildered face. Droplets of water saturated the shoulders of her gray tie-dyed shirt.
Panicked, he held his body tightly, flinching as he clutched his sore shoulder. The world around him constricted once more, and he held the last breath he’d taken as if letting it go would kill him.
He was cornered in every direction.
There was nowhere to run.
He was trapped.
“Astarion that’s what we need to talk to you about,” she said. Her voice was even, measured, irritatingly calm. She reached out her well-manicured hand to brush against his injured shoulder—
FIGHT.
—and with a loud, hard slap, his hand batted the intrusion away.
“Don’t touch me!”
He was a shambling mess of bundled nerves and spit and bile. His limbs were shaking with adrenaline. Everyone stood around the scene, shocked and unmoving. It was as though a page had been torn from the script. The sudden drought of words was the harbinger of an expectant silence.
His guilty palm still stung from the impact.
That wasn’t him— wasn’t it?
He couldn’t have done that— right?
He would never do that— would I?
The realization that he’d struck her was slow to come. It was surreal, the way she stood there underneath the rounded archway with hurt welling in her doe-like eyes. She clutched her hand—he’d hit the one that always hurt, he realized.
As if he needed any more salt in the hole splitting open in his chest.
He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
Not that it mattered.
The ink was dry on his death warrant.
Karlach was going to put him in the ground.
The brick shithouse was going to beat him to a pulp.
FAWN.
“No, no, no,” he whined.
White-hot panic dug its claws into the back of his mind. Its fangs punctured the fragile skin on the side of his neck. Wide-eyed, he staggered back with his tail between his legs, retreating into the kitchen corner where Cazador was.
Domineering as always, the apparition scrutinized him with an unforgiving eye, sneering as he dragged his spine down the cabinets and slumped to the floor in submission.
The shadow towered over him—the only soul in the wound who could possibly want him around anymore.
He curled into a ball and raised his arms up defensively, prepared to shield his face from the inevitable blows.
A child-like, primal voice in his brain begged him to compact himself.
Smaller.
Smaller.
Invisible.
Unhittable.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he whimpered. A trickle of boiling tears trailed down his nose and into the crook of his elbows. “Please. Haven’t you heard enough?”
He hated how pathetic he sounded. He hated how wretched Cazador always made him feel, even when he wasn’t there. He hated not being able to hide the way his shoulders were violently shaking as the tears he couldn’t stop raced down his cheeks.
This was humiliating.
He hated it.
Freeze.
In the aftermath, he could hardly remember what had elevated him to such a state of panic. The shadow had fled, abandoning him here, alone with the tar pit of his sad thoughts. He had turned to stone, choosing to fixate on a dark, blurry knot in the wood that resembled the barest idea of a kind face. The pursuit had seemingly ended—if anyone was even chasing him in the first place.
Through the narrow slat between his arms, he swore he saw Shadowheart’s form moving towards him—but something held her back.
“Let him be,” Karlach whispered.
The soothing register of her voice shared the same space as the low, gentle hum that had so soothed him only a short while ago.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could take back everything that had happened in the last few minutes. They might’ve foolishly thought he’d shown them the depths of himself the night before, but they’d only barely scratched the surface.
This was who he was.
This keening coward was the thin-skinned, worthless monster that he’d toiled to encase in digestible porcelain. He’d polished his exterior, fought tooth and nail to curate an acceptable, likable version of himself, all to have it dashed against a concrete wall.
He could easily bounce back from his earlier social faux pas.
But he couldn’t recover from this.
He’d lost control of every falsehood he aspired to preserve.
Nobody could love him enough to look past the ugliest part of himself.
Not Cazador, who was always annoyed when he was like this.
Not Karlach or Shadowheart, who kept their distance—a reasonable call when confronted with a dangerous animal who had just attacked one of them.
Not Gale.
What would Gale think if he saw him like this?
His knees dug into his chest, and an unpleasant pain in his stomach made him wince. He’d only wanted to remember what it felt like to be full again, but he regretted it now as he roiled in discomfort. As good as it had felt to eat—to overeat —he could feel every morsel threatening to crawl back up his esophagus. He may as well have swallowed a stone.
Suddenly, the rolling sound of a drawer being opened stole his attention from the face in the wood. Karlach foraged through its contents, and Astarion prayed the knife she was planning to gut him with would at least be clean.
To his relief, she pulled out a jumble of fairly non-threatening bits and bobs—a box of paper clips, a thermometer, a half-empty pack of double-A batteries—before settling on three strips of cardstock with curved edges.
She knelt to the ground, to the level of his eyes, and set her offering down at his feet.
Curious, he peered over his knees.
Three paint chips stared back at him, each bearing similar gradients in dusky purple hues.
Astarion’s brow furrowed in confusion at first—then softened in realization.
“Here,” she said, cramming a stifled laugh behind a friendly grin that seemed overly-composed. “I was saving these as a snack for later, but you’re not you when you’re hungry.”
After breaking the ice, she couldn’t contain herself anymore.
Karlach’s laughter was a glorious sound. A joyful howl, free, unbridled, and worst of all, contagious.
Infected with her mirth, his own flute-like giggle transformed the solo into a duet, and it wasn’t long before the ornamentations of Shadowheart’s rare cackle transmuted their duo into a wildly cacophonous trio.
His head felt lighter as the round concluded. The come-down offered him clemency he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved.
It had been so long since he’d had such a silly little inside joke with anyone.
He couldn’t tell if the endless reservoir of tears that were still streaming down his face were happy tears or not. He tried to speak, to ask her why she was joking with him instead of cracking his skull like an egg against the countertop, but only air whistled between his enfeebled vocal chords.
“Shh…easy now. It’s okay,” she cooed. She shuffled an inch closer to him. “No need to say a word. We can just sit here for a while if you want. Just you and me.”
He nodded weakly, leaning his head back against the cabinet. He looked up to the plants on the windowsill. The swath of red light from earlier spilled through the glass like a blister full of blood.
The laughter had settled his nerves, but it hadn’t done much for the sick feeling in his stomach or the ache in his shoulder.
The room grew silent once more, with nothing but the playful wind caressing the chimes outside and Karlach’s breathing to fill his ears—slow, deep, and well-controlled. She drew oxygen in through her nostrils, held each breath close to the warmth of her bosom, then exhaled, each molecule forever changed for having passed through her lungs.
His eyes fluttered shut as he caught up to the measure and matched her tempo.
In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.
In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.
Breathing in time sparked a hazy memory—one where he was crowding around a piano with his classmates, poring over a new piece of music together. It felt like a lifetime ago.
A melody emerged, sweet as honey, as Karlach began to hum a tune. He swore he recognized it, but for the life of him, he couldn’t name it. It was in A major, and it felt so much like home in the rich timbre of her voice that his inability to make it out should have been classed as a crime.
He tapped along with the third bar on the kitchen floor, immediately shocked by how unusually cold it felt against the tip of his index finger. He loosened his limbs and his drumming digit migrated to his inner thigh, tapping against the pilled fabric of his sweatpants.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight — no.
That’s not right. It’s in 4/4 time.
The pattering rhythm was quick—too quick—until he realized he’d doubled it.
Ah.
He corrected his pace.
One, two, three, four,
One, two, three, four.
If only he could remember the damn words as easily. At least the melody was good, bittersweet enough to retain its poignancy even as the words remained unsung.
The feather-light touch of a hand on his knee jolted him from his musings. Shadowheart knelt beside him, resting her other hand upon Karlach’s leg and bridging the gap between the three of them. She jumped in when the second verse rolled around, in each lilting note, Astarion could hear her forgiveness. A rogue wave of emotion broke against the rocks he was hoping would break them before they dared to get too close to him.
She was close enough to see him cry when the words tumbled out from her throat like precious gems. “Oh simple thing, where have you gone? I’m getting old and I need something to rely on.”
Ah.
He felt stupid for not recognizing such a cheesy, overplayed little earworm at first. Everyone and their mother knew this song, and while he would never admit it, it had snuck its way into every comforting playlist he’d ever built.
“So tell me when you’re gonna let me in,” Karlach sang along, her husky alto melding beautifully with her partner’s timid soprano.
A long-dormant, wispy baritone joined in from the wings, its splendor long-tarnished from years of disuse.
“I’m getting tired and I need somewhere to begin…”
It was halfway between a whisper and a wheeze.
But it was enough.
The three of them huddled closer to one another and their voices weaved together like golden threads as they finished the chorus.
“And if you have a minute, why don’t we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything
So, why don’t we go
Somewhere only we know?”
Astarion exhaled, his shoulders unburdened once more. He was woefully out of practice, but it felt so good to sing again.
“You okay?” Karlach asked. “Feeling better?”
He silently nodded.
Shadowheart stood up for a moment and returned with Godey in hand. The rat frantically sought refuge underneath the hem of Astarion's t-shirt, scrabbling against the bare skin of his full belly to find sanctuary. He reached in after him, stroking his smooth, soft fur.
As cathartic as… whatever this had been, all he wanted was to forget any of it had ever happened. He wasn’t prepared to feign normalcy after that. He couldn’t expect to return to the guest room unfazed and unscathed now.
There was no way they were going to let this go.
Karlach solemnly cleared her throat.
Astarion braced himself for hurricane winds.
“Jen and I talked last night. We think you should move in with us.”
Notes:
"Hey, ayvaines, stop splitting chapters!"
I know, I know! Believe me, I know.
Healing isn't linear, and neither is my outline, apparently! I might as well throw it out the window!But do you know what this means?! It means that we are finally back on our weekly schedule! ^^
Thanks to AcrylicAgony for beta reading (and for helping me navigate through the weeds of my ever-growing chapter count!)
And thank you for reading (and for enduring the journey that is my ever-growing chapter count!)
~✧~
Placebo - Where Is My Mind? (Pixies cover!)
Placebo - Brick Shithouse
Fink - Looking Too Closely
Keane - Somewhere Only We Know
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 44
Notes:
It could be so exciting to be out in the world, to be free,
My heart should be wildly rejoicing,
Oh, what's the matter with me?— Confidence, The Sound of Music
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“What?!” Astarion’s eyes widened in complete disbelief before narrowing in suspicion. Mouth agape, he scanned Karlach’s face, doggedly probing for any indication that she was simply fucking with him. Much to his confusion, like every other attempt he’d made earlier, his fine-toothed efforts to mine her expression for trickery produced no ore.
The rigidity of his brow yielded as he processed her words.
You can’t be serious.
“I’m dead serious!” Karlach nodded excitedly, bouncing full of energy as she scooted closer to him. “You can take the guest bedroom—it was my bedroom when I was a kid. We hardly have overnight guests anyway.”
“It’s not like we’re hurting for space,” Shadowheart chimed in. “We’ve got plenty of room for one more.”
He met her prim, composed gaze with bewilderment. She merely beamed down at him as she coolly leaned her hip against the edge of the counter. There wasn’t a hint of malice to be found in her smile, nor was there any apprehension.
He looked away, his face burning with shame.
They were serious.
“Even after all that?” His voice sounded tighter than he was expecting it to.
There’s no way.
“Of course!” Karlach insisted. “Why would that change anything?”
“It should have changed everything!” Astarion barked, eyes wide and body still. “I’ve been awful to you both, I-I don’t—”
“You’re in pain,” Shadowheart said softly.
Stunned, he snapped his head back up to look at her. She may as well have launched a spear into the lean meat of his chest, staking his vulnerable heart in the places where it ached most. She’d but spoken three little words aloud, yet her glassy green eyes carried on the conversation.
“You’re in pain,” they echoed.
“I am. But I don’t deserve this,” his eyes replied, narrowing as they guiltily shifted their attention to the hand he’d struck mere moments before.
Yet her watchful vigil persisted, her eyes never once wavering in their conviction. “We just want to help you.”
Astarion swallowed a solid lump in his throat, finding and gently petting the top of Godey’s head through the cotton of his t-shirt. “What about rent?”
Karlach shrugged. “What about it? The mortgage’s been paid off for years, thanks to my folks.” A trace of sadness flickered in her smile before she continued. “Don’t worry about money, Starry. Life’s easy as pie here. We only have to worry about property taxes once a year. All we ever pay monthly are our utilities. Every once in a while, we might ask for you to help to chip in for the groceries, but that’s about it. All we want is to help you get back on your feet.”
“We want you to be somewhere where you feel safe,” Shadowheart intoned.
“Yep!” Karlach grunted as she hoisted herself back up off the floor. “No pressure of course. You don’t have to decide anything today! We just wanted to let you know that we’ve talked about it, and our door is open.”
Shadowheart leaned over, passing him a glass full of water. “Here. You’re probably dehydrated.”
Astarion sipped the ice water and felt immediate relief. Once it was all gone, he took what felt like his first breath in hours.
He quietly contemplated every detail of their spacious kitchen. Their well-stocked fridge— stainless steel, fancy, fancy —didn’t leak. Their sink wasn’t clogged full of filthy dishes. There were no drain flies to speak of.
He imagined himself drinking his morning coffee by the enormous window. It was merely one of the house’s many windows, each larger and cleaner than the single pane of murky glass he was afforded in the efficiency. He could easily take his pick of sunny patches to stand in.
They had a hand-carved wooden table to eat at—a real table, with a matching set of dinner chairs to sit upon. It occurred to him that he’d spent the last few meals eating from real stoneware plates and silver flatware instead of the paper, styrofoam, and plastic he’d gotten comfortable using at home. They had a pantry, a kitchen island, and fresh herbs from the garden.
He remembered soaking in their tub last night—a bathtub, just how he’d always wanted—with hot water running through the clear pipes, and silver hand-painted stars hanging above him. He imagined a future full of soothing Epsom salts, bath bombs, and bubble baths right before bed, perhaps coupled with a glass of deep red wine and a book he could easily get lost in.
It would be nice to finally have a proper hair dryer to diffuse his curls with instead of settling for a t-shirt. Such tools were a luxury that he never imagined could exist outside of the dreams he had while standing in the hair care aisles of specialty stores he couldn’t afford to shop at. Maybe he’d even be able to go back to the fastidious skincare routine he’d abandoned, the rose water and aloe spray he missed so much. Maybe he’d finally be able to collect actual bottled perfumes. No more arousing suspicions of shoplifting—sometimes justified—for slipping used tester strips into his bag in the hopes that their scents would catch onto his belongings.
Every day, after a long day at the office, he would unlock the bespoke stained glass door. Hardy work boots and muddy galoshes would lie there waiting for him to set his scuffed Doc Martens beside them. He would memorize the large step into the conversation pit before crashing onto the woven linen cushions of the comfortable couch and melting into an ocean of throw pillows and blankets. He’d spend the rest of his afternoon whinging about the workplace with the girls or taking an undisturbed afternoon nap when his energy levels were low. Otherwise, he’d wind down with a nice cup of chamomile at dinnertime before heading up to bed— his bed.
His own room.
His.
It was everything he’d ever wanted.
All of it could be his —for nothing.
His heart was in his throat. He forced it back down with a bitter spoonful of honesty.
All of this sounded too good to be true.
And it likely was.
Nothing in life is free.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, altogether too quickly, turning his attention back to the friendly facsimile of a face staring back up at him in the knotted wooden floorboards.
He wondered where Gale’s footprints had dallied weeks before. Did he also enjoy drinking coffee by the windowsill? Had he simply rested his mug on the counter while he and his preoccupied mind wandered elsewhere? Whether its abandonment was accidental or not, he must have felt comfortable enough in the Cliffgate-Hallowleaf home to leave something behind.
“Please consider it,” Shadowheart sighed, perceptibly relieved that he hadn’t outright rejected their offer, but notably disappointed that they weren’t all holding one another and jumping for joy. “Now we need to talk about how we’re going to handle your ex.”
Astarion shivered. His ex. The descriptor felt strange, though it was indisputably the correct word to use when referring to Cazador. Unlike the first time he’d left him, where it had felt like burning, bitter, acrid electricity on his tongue, “ex” had suddenly taken a sweeter turn. “Ex” had once lingered before sputtering away. Now, “ex” felt finite.
“Ex” could be permanent instead of a passing whim.
My ex. Cazador Szarr is my ex.
“Handle him how?” he warily asked, nervously fidgeting with his shirt while Godey poked his nose through a tiny hole at its wrinkled hem.
“Well, we were initially planning on having him over tonight,” Shadowheart mused.
“But we don’t think that’s such a good idea right now,” Karlach said through gritted teeth. Her nose crinkled in disgust.
“What? Why?!”
“I know you’re worried,” coaxed Shadowheart. “Let me explain. For one, we don’t want him to know our address if you’re going to be living with us—”
“—and I don’t think I can be alone in the same room with that prick without punching him square in the fucking jaw,” Karlach snarled, her voice crackling like the lick of a freshly stoked flame. “The fucker would be lucky if he had any fucking teeth left the next time you saw him.”
Astarion stifled a laugh, but a sudden distressing thought sobered him up. He quickly cleared his throat. “Hold on—what if he gets the wrong idea? What if he thinks you’ve canceled on him because I’ve told you something?!”
“He won’t,” Shadowheart doubled down. “And we technically didn’t ‘cancel on him.’ He doesn’t even know you spent the night. He thinks we went out dancing together.”
Astarion’s face fell. Fear and betrayal brewed in the pit of his stomach. He could already hear the premature strains of Cazador’s denigrating, envy-laced lecture echoing in his ears, its nuclear levels of vitriol due whenever they were scheduled to inevitably meet again. “You didn’t —he’s going to think—”
“You don’t have to worry about him getting jealous, either,” said Karlach, sensing the fever pitch rising in his voice. “If he asks you where you were, the three of us went to this lesbian bar downtown. Moonmaiden.”
“We’ve covered your alibi,” reassured Shadowheart. “Isobel’s a friend of ours. She’s the bartender there. Her girlfriend Aylin works security, so he’ll have a hard time making it past the front door if he decides to come poking about.”
Astarion exhaled sharply, cautiously considering the new information he’d been fed. Would Cazador still care if he knew no one in the room would likely pay him any mind? He rose slowly from the ground, cradling Godey between his hands. “Alright, that’s not the worst cover story,” he finally admitted.
“We’re going to make sure we do our damnedest to get you through this with as little harm to you as possible,” Karlach promised. Her tone was so heartfelt that Astarion couldn’t help but believe her.
He exhaled sharply, gently sinking into one of the dining room chairs.
Godey scampered up the cloth of his shirt to his shoulder. He measured the distance with a few calibrated bobs of his head before impressively springing towards the tabletop, landing with a small, amusing plap!
“You haven’t told anyone else?” Shadowheart questioned.
“I don’t want the others to know. Not yet, anyway. It’s too much all at once.”
“But why not try to rope everyone else in?” Karlach asked, ever the optimist. “Can’t we all just call a group meeting so we can all be on the same page?”
“No!” Astarion snapped. “It was hard enough telling you last night.” He punctuated his sentence with a spiteful, bitter laugh.
“Yeah, I know,” she softly conceded, casting him an apologetic grimace. “Sorry.”
Fuck. He sighed remorsefully, clenching his fists under the table. “Look, I didn’t mean—I know you mean well. But the more people who know what’s going on, the more chances Cazador has to find out that he’s been exposed.”
The words felt black and briny and slick as they slipped past his tongue. Plotting out his escape so transparently felt oddly manipulative. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was doing something he shouldn’t have—something he didn’t want to get caught for.
You’re lying, a chilling voice raked through his head like nails on a chalkboard. Its scratchy timbre muddled the serious conversation the girls were now having without him.
They may believe your lies—but for how long?
Suddenly, Astarion felt his phone vibrate once in his pocket.
His heart rate doubled as he realized who had texted him.
He did his best to keep a straight face as he read and re-read Gale Dekarios’s magical little message. He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. One-fifteen. Almost an hour had passed since he’d first tried to retreat to the guest bedroom.
It wouldn’t hurt to try again.
“Hang on, this is important,” he murmured. “Do you mind if I excuse myself?”
“Sure, don’t let us keep you!” encouraged Karlach. “Just wanted to make sure we told you everything we’d discussed the night before.”
“Well, you’ve certainly given me much to think about.”
Shadowheart gestured towards the phone. “It’s nothing serious, is it?”
“No, nothing that serious, darling! Just touching base with Gale about our plans for later. I need to start getting ready.”
“As long as it isn’t Cazador seeking an audience with you…” she murmured.
“Thankfully not.”
Karlach smiled, relieved. “Anything we can do to lighten your load?”
Astarion pondered her question for a minute before a tiny squeak from her hoodie pocket caught his attention.
“Shit. Godey. I’ve got to get him home somehow—”
“Let us worry about that!” Karlach said emphatically. “We’ll take care of it. Just give us your house keys and we’ll get him back inside his cage. Do you have a welcome mat we can leave it under?”
He hesitated. If it had been as easy as simply leaving a package by the door, he wouldn’t have minded as much. Aside from an invasive bloom of small, star-shaped weeds growing in the cracks of the concrete, it looked well-maintained. Nice, even.
But Godey wasn’t a package, and taking him home meant inviting them inside to gawk at the way he lived. They would have to see the wine stains on the sheets. The grime on the kitchen walls. The heaps of clothing strewn about the floor. The table, in the flesh. Cazador usually warned him in advance if they were expecting guests, giving him ample time to clean and sweep away the disarray. It hadn’t always been such an unpresentable mess—every time he’d finished tidying up, he’d tried to keep it that way, swore he would never let it get that bad ever again.
It was getting harder to keep up with appearances.
He was so tired. Tired of this overwhelming heavy feeling that loomed above him. Tired of this conversation. Tired of the mess.
But this wasn’t about him—not entirely. This was about the innocent little soul he was temporarily in charge of.
He swallowed his pride. “Better—there’s a potted plant by the door. He won’t check in there if he stops by. I’ll dig for it in the dirt if I have to.”
“Sounds good,” Shadowheart nodded. “We’ll tread softly.”
“Thank you,” Astarion replied, before another thought crossed his mind. “Oh—if it’s not too humid out, do you think you could leave the window open?”
The rat had been free from his cage for a day. Free of the mold and the darkness. The very least he could do was afford Godey some fresh air for the few hours he would be alone in their cramped living quarters.
“We will,” Karlach affirmed. “You can count on us.”
“And mind the camera by the gate. Like I said before, he’s not exactly welcome there. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be getting ready. Ta!”
And with that, he was finally free.
As soon as Astarion was out of sight, he zealously twirled in place, silently cheering to himself before drafting his reply to Gale’s text on his way to the guest room— his room if the girls didn’t rescind their invitation once they took one look at the squalid efficiency and realized what an awful housemate he was.
His room…if he wanted it to be.
Um…
The apples of Astarion’s cheeks were beginning to ache from smiling so wide. He swung the door to his room open and fell back against the soft, springy mattress. His chest was on the verge of a massive eruption, a day’s worth of pent up excitement welling up from its depths.
He wished he could send him a different sort of message.
My darling, how could the sun ever outshine a star?
I can’t wait to see you.
Oh.
In a way, he was relieved that not even Gale knew where he was. If anything, it had just confirmed what the girls had told him—that there was no way Cazador had been informed of his whereabouts, even inadvertently.
Astarion frantically typed up a quick response.
Attached was a picture of a rather peeved Tara flashing the phone camera her meanest little pout. It looked as though a formal greeting was the last thing on her mind.
Gale swiftly replied with another photo of Tara contentedly licking the edge of a chicken-flavored cat treat packet, her irritation cast to the wayside in favor of the tube of liquid ambrosia.
His heartbeat quickened. He knew he’d pushed the envelope once or twice before, but this was bolder than he’d ever allowed himself to be in any of their previous exchanges.
Thankfully (disappointingly) his attempt at flirting went seemingly unnoticed.
You really don’t need to keep signing your texts, you silly man.
But I hope you never stop.
~✧~
Astarion muttered a string of curses under his breath, appraising the damaged shirt in his hands through misty eyes. He knew Cazador used excessive force when he ripped it off him in the car that night. He’d been too stoned (and too scared) to say anything. Now, he would have liked nothing more than to tear into him with the same level of savagery.
It shouldn’t have mattered so much. Its destruction was but a footnote in a long list of violent crimes. But Cazador was fully aware how much it meant to him. He knew it was his favorite—the first and only one he’d thoughtlessly grabbed while he was hurriedly packing his overnight bag.
He numbly ran his quivering fingers through the carnage—the severed buttonhole, the torn placket, the frayed threads where a delicate pearlescent button had once been sewn in. It was likely lost forever, permanently lodged in some dark, forsaken crevice in Cazador’s grotty car, doomed to never again catch a drop of sunlight in its beveled edges.
He spread the shirt across his knee, gently caressing the fabric in search of other flaws he might have missed. It was so thin in places that he could see his own translucent hand through it. He turned it inside out and checked the inseam, hanging tightly to the slightest hope that he would find an extra button sewn inside.
No such luck.
He sighed, adjusting himself so that he was sitting cross-legged. At least he hadn’t found any holes this time. Mending the buttonhole wouldn’t be too arduous a task. Thankfully, the placket would be similarly easy to reconstruct, as it had torn right at the seam.
The button was a different matter…
What did he care? He could skip a step and go without the button entirely. It wasn’t as though he needed to hide his body away from Cazador’s ravenous leer anymore.
Showing more skin for Gale, though? The very notion brought with it a pleasurable rush.
Flushing, he rifled through his makeshift sewing kit in search of the closest match for the lost button. The evening’s affair might not have been “black tie,” but there was still a level of propriety he needed to uphold.
After all, this was just an outing. That’s all it was. Nothing more.
Just a friend meeting up with another friend and hanging out.
Yes, one of those friends just so happened to have a crush on the other, but that didn’t make tonight anything more than what it was.
Why would this be a date?
He pulled back the curtains and hunched towards the window, leaning into the afternoon light as he inspected each individual button he’d held onto throughout the years. He held the first one up to the sun—it was a pale silver that might have blended in with the others well enough had it not been too large—and winced as pain radiated from his shoulder. He’d nearly forgotten he’d banged it against the door frame earlier. Any effort to lift his arm above his chest brought with it a dull ache.
As he gently worked his fingers over the bruise, he found himself ruminating on Karlach and Shadowheart’s offer. He could hardly believe the scale of magnanimity they were so readily willing to bestow upon him, despite everything.
Only yesterday, he’d filtered away all of the houses and apartments without giving himself a fleeting second to entertain living in any of them. He’d scoured through scores of classified ads, sifting through a sea of shady scam listings for whatever three-hundred square foot rat-and-roach-infested shithole he might actually be able to afford. Even then, the costs were still high enough that he knew he would likely need to lie about his scant income on the application to even be considered. He knew that if he couldn’t find a place that was closer to his job, he’d need a second income again to cover the cost of the gasoline he needed for his commute—not to mention his half of his current lease, at least until it was up in November.
He already knew he possessed the grit it took to subsist on little more than instant ramen and microwave-safe cans of soup for the rest of the foreseeable future. It wouldn’t be any different from the way he already lived—it would just be a bit harder.
Lonelier.
Insurance costs were high, but he needed his car. Public transportation wasn’t reliable enough to get him to work on time. And where else would he sleep if everything fell through?
His camera had been the last valuable asset he owned.
He had finally run out of worldly possessions to sell.
There are other ways to make money.
Astarion shuddered. It had been a long while since he’d thought of his personhood in terms of numbers.
As much as he hated to admit it, the most fathomable shot at a secure living situation involved swallowing his pride and staying with Cazador just a little bit longer. His savings were barely enough to cover the down payment of a new lease, and if he opted to stay at a motel, it was only a matter of time—maybe a month or so— before they dwindled down to nothing.
Starvation was one thing. Whoring himself out was another. But he wasn’t entirely sure that he had the mental fortitude to live under Cazador’s thumb until then either—especially now that people knew what he was doing to him.
Sullenly, he selected another button from the lot to bring to the light—it was close enough sizewise, but it was too gaudy, and gold to boot. He moved it to the small compartment he’d designated for his “rejects” before setting his kit down on the cracked edge of the glass-top end table.
The bright red numbers of the alarm clock read two-thirty.
Astarion figured a tiny break wouldn’t hurt. His legs were beginning to feel stiff, so he uncrossed them. Upon setting his bare feet against the rug at the foot of the bed, he felt his ankle come into contact with something fuzzy. He swung himself over the side of the bed to take a peek at what he’d just touched, only to come face to face with a well-loved knitted teddy bear. The velvety fur on its nose had been completely worn off from years of kisses. He set the toy on the bed, nestled between two freshly fluffed boho-patterned pillows—likely its usual place of honor before his restless tossing and turning had unceremoniously evicted it onto the floor.
He lay on the bed, sinking into the cozy, tan-colored comforter. His freshly ironed trousers were hanging neatly in the closet, surrounded by old flannels and a vintage pair of strappy Tripp pants he could never hope to fit into—likely remnants from Karlach’s high school days. A sizeable beige Bergan bag was crammed in the corner, hidden beneath piles of clothes that had missed the hamper. An enormous lesbian flag was pinned to the wall behind the metal closet rod.
Would I ever even fit in in a place like this?
Wouldn’t I just be a third wheel?
A leech?
His other options were each worse than the last. He would be kidding himself if he didn’t acknowledge that this was the best offer that was ever going to come his way. Here, he would have ample room for his meager possessions, a large kitchen, plenty of sunshine to lounge in, protective roommates that understood his financial situation, an address Cazador didn’t know…
What do they want from me? he wondered, staring at the faces of fighters and wrestlers he didn’t recognize for answers they couldn’t give him. As lovely as Karlach and Shadowheart were, he knew that people were rarely ever kind for no reason.
There’s always something.
There has to be some fucked up catch I simply haven’t caught onto yet.
Everything he’d brought with him was already haphazardly packed away in his duffel bag, ready to come back home to the efficiency with him. As wonderful as it would have been to have his pick among the blankets folded neatly on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, he’d long given up on the world becoming a wonderful, kind place once he’d found a comfortable home in it.
He’d long given up on comfort.
And home.
And Gale?
He held a translucent, lilac-colored button to the light. It matched the least, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it.
“Is there no chance that perhaps he might like you simply because you are you?”
Halsin’s words were fresh in his mind, as much a burden as they were a balm. He shakily threaded the needle through the first buttonhole.
Why was he so nervous about tonight?
About his date with Gale?
He scoffed as he let the purple button slide down the thread.
A date. What a preposterous thought.
He eyed his dress pants once more—this time apprehensively.
Am I doing too much? What if he rolls up in a t-shirt and jeans and I look stupid?
For all he knew, he was probably taking him to the same sad little bar where Cazador had drowned his sorrows the night before. It was laughable to get himself worked up about something as pedestrian as going out for a post-breakup pub crawl.
But Gale’s tinny voice over the phone carried an unshakeable excitement that Astarion couldn’t imagine such a dreary place ever inspiring in him.
“There are quite a few places I’ve been thinking of visiting that I think you’d rather enjoy. I’d be happy to take you along with me.”
His heart did a somersault. Gale had promised him “a locale that wouldn’t disappoint.” Whatever that meant, it seemed a far cry from what he’d offered Cazador if all they’d done was drink together.
Astarion felt silly for being so nervous. He should have been over the moon with excitement.
There was a chance that his plans for their evening really could be more than just— ah!
Seething in pain, he drew his freshly injured thumb to his lips. The familiar metallic tang of blood brought with it a strange sense of comfort.
“Do you need a bandage?”
Startled, he whipped his head to the doorway, where Shadowheart stood stock still, holding a silver serving tray in her hands.
“It’s nothing serious,” he muttered, returning his pricked finger to his lips. “It wouldn’t be the first time—stabbing oneself comes with the territory when you like to play with needles. Damn these hands…”
They were still trembling, teeming with excess adrenaline. Or nerves. He could hardly tell the difference anymore.
“Like putting an open wound into your mouth is better, somehow,” she said snarkily under her breath, her limbs relaxing as she stepped into the room.
Astarion rolled his eyes, but he set his hand down in his lap and began to massage the tender flesh of his palm. “If you’re trying out for the part of my mother, I’m afraid you have some stiff competition. You’d get along swimmingly with my friend, Dalyria.”
If she even wants anything to do with me anymore, he thought bitterly. If there was anyone he was going to miss from Cazador’s circle of friends, it was easily her.
“No thanks,” Shadowheart replied, offering him a wry smile. With remarkable balance, she pushed the alarm clock aside and set the tray down on the glass-top table. She placed Gale’s mug directly into his hands. “If proper first-aid is off the table, would coffee help?”
Astarion gawked at her as if she’d just presented him with the crown jewels of England before nodding. She gingerly moved the shirt from his lap and neatly folded it up before pouring the coffee from its ornate carafe. The spicy aroma of anise and nutmeg wafted up to his nostrils. He was careful not to rest his poked thumb on the mug’s body as it grew hotter, doing his best to prevent himself from carelessly jostling its contents onto the comforter as the slowly-cascading drink warmed his palms.
Once she was finished serving herself in her own black mug, she sat beside Astarion and gestured towards the tray at a curious silver dish full of sugar cubes and a tiny ceramic pitcher in the shape of a mouse. Its curved tail served as a delightfully whimsical handle.
“I wasn’t sure how you usually take it,” she admitted. “I figured now would be as good a time as any to find out. Please, help yourself.”
He observed as she took a sip from her own unaltered brew. No surprises there. She always seemed like the sort of caffeine purist who never had her coffee any other way. Trivial as it may have seemed, a small, insecure part of him was suddenly concerned about seeming uncool around her.
“Black is fine,” he mumbled. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t entirely false. It wasn’t —but had she asked him late last year, he would have meant it more.
“Suit yourself,” she shrugged before adding a substantial splash of creamer and two lumps of sugar to her cup.
Feeling sheepish, Astarion quietly followed suit and shamelessly prepared his coffee the way he’d grown to enjoy it—an ounce of cream and a single lump of sugar.
Willfully, he chose to ignore the sly smirk that crossed her face as he took a small sip from his cup.
“Good, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Mhm.” He took another sip. “How’s your hand?”
“Better,” she shrugged. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Good. Still a bit sore, but I’ll live.”
His hands were still trembling. He could feel her staring down at them.
He drew out his third sip, hoping that enough time would elapse for her to find something more interesting to gawp at.
But she kept ogling his hands, a smile playing at the corners of her rosy lips.
Unnerved, he decided to provide her silent, prying question with an answer—but before he could open his mouth, she outright snickered. “I can see why you like that mug so much.”
Astarion froze, suddenly painfully aware of the amount of sweat that was beading at the back of his neck. He felt like a house made entirely of glass—and of course he was, he always had been. She was looking right through him, seeing far more of his innermost desires than he was ready to talk about. Her stifled giggles were doing little to help.
Inside, he was a mess. Shadowheart knew. Of course she did. Karlach might have been oblivious, but Shadowheart was cunning enough to have figured out by now that he had one more secret to unlock.
Outwardly, he feigned composure and hoped that his crush on Gale was the least transparent thing about him. “Oh?”
She politely hid her twisted little grin behind the lip of her mug. “Come on. This has to be the funniest one he’s ever left behind.”
Puzzled, he pulled it away from him, squinting as he tried to make sense of the fine lines scribbled upon its smooth white ceramic surface. From afar, the design was little more than a squiggly mess of soft and angular shapes. Up close, they revealed themselves to be a minimalistic herd of a dozen or so rabbits.
He wasn’t sure what was so funny about it. If anything, it was cute. Of course Gale would opt for adorable kitschy housewares.
He followed the playful, sepia-toned warren around the cup’s contours. They were frolicking in an absent meadow, crawling atop one another in spirited…oddly compromising positions.
And then it dawned on him.
They were fucking.
The rabbits were fucking.
Suddenly Shadowheart’s self-control dissolved into full-blown laughter, and he couldn’t do much to prevent from clutching his own sides as he doubled over in hysterics. The sudden awareness that he’d tethered his last shred of sanity to Gale Dekarios’ ridiculously campy bunny orgy mug was too much to bear. He’d emotionally bled himself dry unearthing years of uninterrupted trauma while unknowingly dissociating to the thought of cheeky leporine lovemaking.
“Fuck,” he wheezed, his abs convulsing with every immoderate giggle. “I really need to get my fucking vision tested!”
“Wait!” Shadowheart exclaimed, choking back another wave of her braying laughter. “You didn’t notice what was on it?”
“I had other things to worry about than randy rabbits,” Astarion grinned wide, wiping away a mirthful tear. “Oh, fuck.”
“Gods, I wish I could keep it,” she admitted.
“Same,” he nodded. “I’d never let him have it back if I didn’t like the bastard so damn much.”
Like dying embers, her laughter subsided, and she smiled. “He’s got a lot on his mind. Him forgetting his mugs here is typical of him. Though I’m surprised he hasn’t forgotten that other one yet.”
Astarion’s heart skipped a beat. “Other one?”
“You know that big copper mug he got from the Renaissance festival?”
“I do.”
“He’s always lugging that thing around with him.”
“And he’s never forgotten it?”
“Never,” she replied, shaking her head. “Wait, no—he did almost leave it behind once, but he immediately ran back inside and grabbed it. Didn’t even chat us up when he came back like he usually does. It must be his favorite.”
He disguised his burgeoning smile in a sip of coffee.
His favorite.
The syncopated rhythm in his chest melted into a polyphonic symphony. To know that his birthday gift was worth turning around for was to know immeasurable elation.
But as soon as he’d swallowed what remained of the coffee, the joy in his heart was swiftly swept away by a wave of shame. His own neglected copper mug was collecting dust on his desk, stuffed full of half-dry ballpoint pens and cheap makeup brushes. Cazador’s temper was too unpredictable to risk using it for its intended purpose.
“I see you’re packed,” she noted, setting her empty mug back on the tray.
“Very observant,” he purred satirically, setting Gale’s cup beside hers.
Her resolve remained unshaken. “Are you sure you want to go back there?”
No. The answer should have been obvious. His legs were restless, and white-knuckling his knees was doing little to put an end to their fretful quivering. The balls of his feet felt leaden as they pulsed against the ground, threatening to tear through the rug’s tightly woven filaments and scuff the wooden floors.
“Hells no. In fact, I’d much rather not,” he admitted.
But it’s not that easy.
Nothing is ever that easy.
A single red thread pulled at the center of his ribcage with magnetic fervor, tugging in the direction of home. He knew he could easily cut the damn thing with the sewing scissors she and Karlach were handing him on a literal silver platter.
One single snip, and it would fall away.
The hunger would end.
He would never have to deal with Cazador again.
Perhaps it really was that easy.
The blades eagerly skimmed the silky, whisker-thin fiber, ready to snap shut.
But their hinges never moved, frozen in place as he was struck by a sudden realization.
Oh.
“...but I have to go back there—at least until he tells me he’s coming back. Someone has to take care of Godey.”
Damn Petras for giving him that damn rat. Damn him.
He should have known better than to get attached.
“You and I both know that’s a stupid reason to stay,” she huffed in protest. “Why not take him with you? We’re going there after work, we could just take his cage with us—”
“—if he were mine it wouldn’t be an issue,” he countered. “But he isn’t, and taking him would only cause more problems that I would rather not deal with. He’s Cazador’s pet, at the end of the day…but I can’t let him starve. I hope you understand.”
“I do. I trust that you know what’s best for yourself,” she murmured. There was unmistakable concern in her eyes.
He was so close.
But his bonds were too powerful. Adamantine.
He knew it wouldn’t be as simple as waltzing out the door…but he took comfort in the knowledge that it wouldn’t be much longer.
“It’s not a no!” he clarified. “I…I want to live with you. Give me a few days. A week.”
“I’m glad.” She smiled. The concern lingered. “I’m sorry if I seem impatient. I know we told you there wasn’t any rush, it’s just…I want you to get through this as safely as you can. Once you’re out, I promise you he’ll never know you’re here.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, wishing he could believe her.
Cazador would find him eventually.
With painstaking care, she leaned across the bed and retrieved the shirt and his needle from where she’d set them down earlier.
“Wait, you can sew?”
She nodded. “I was in the costuming department in my high school’s theater department—they mostly put on boring liturgical plays, but it was still something, I guess. I hope you don’t mind if I give you a hand with this. Not that mine are much better,” she offered him a somber smile as she held up her freshly bandaged hand. “Still, I’m happy to help you multitask. I’d hate to see you leave the house with your hair looking like that. Go zhuzh it up a bit. It’s almost three.”
Panicked, he glanced at the alarm clock. Two forty-seven. “Shit!”
“You still have time…” she coaxed through the needle between her teeth, tying her long ebony hair back with a hair tie on her wrist. She reached into the sewing kit and placed his silver thimble upon her thumb. “Astarion, why weren’t you using this?”
He shrugged. “I forgot.”
She shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “Typical. The first aid kit is in the uppermost cabinet in the bathroom. Feel free to poke around in there—hair tools, styling products, makeup—use whatever you need. Our house is your house.”
“Thank you darling. I will,” he grinned, springing up from the bed with a flourish and making his way to the door. He stopped himself at the threshold, turning to look at her one last time. “Just be careful with that shirt, please,” he warned. “It’s irreplaceable.”
“I’ll do my best. This thing is falling to pieces,” she murmured. Her free hand trailed the length of the fabric until they abruptly stopped at the torn placket. “Oh, no…”
“What? What do you mean ‘oh, no?’ Is something wrong?!” Astarion asked, nervously wringing his hands as he ran back to the bed.
She pointed out a spot of dark, dried blood, easily the size of her thumbnail. It had spattered onto the seam, staining the white thread he’d been using to adhere the button. “We can probably get the bloodstain out with cold water, but not in time…do you have anything else at home you want to pick up before Gale gets here? We could use that as an opportunity to take Godey home. Two birds, one stone.”
He shook his head morosely, too numb to cry. “No—I mean, yes, but I was really hoping—this is the nicest shirt I own…”
“Hm,” she hummed, thinking to herself for a minute before the spark of an idea lit up her jadelike eyes. Without missing a beat, she pressed the shirt into his chest and sprinted to the closet, rummaging through Karlach’s old shirts with a determined look on her face. “Go run that shirt under some cold water and start getting ready. I’ll worry about the rest.”
“Hold on—have you seen your girlfriend?! There’s no way anything in there will fit right!” he cried.
“Trust me,” she insisted. “I have just the thing.”
~✧~
Through sultry, kohl-ringed eyes, Astarion could hardly recognize the person staring back at him in the full length mirror. The stranger in the looking glass was an androgynous dream—dark, dangerous, and heartbreakingly beautiful. There wasn’t a hair out of place on his freshly-toned, perfectly coiffed silver tresses. The shirt they’d pilfered from Karlach’s closet was the color of crushed carmine. Tucked into his narrow black dress pants, it was fashionably oversized. He’d rolled up the sleeves and cuffed them right above his milk-white wrists, and seductively unclasped the buttons to expose his pale, perfumed chest to the evening air. A single coffin nail hung from a pewter chain around his neck, courtesy of Shadowheart’s eclectic jewelry box. Even his grungy, beat-up boots looked purposeful. Chic, even.
Pleased, he stroked his thumb against the ornate silver buckle at the end of his thin leather belt, appraising the final look with a velvety smile on his flush, freshly-bitten lips.
He looked good.
It had been a while since he’d sought out his most flattering angles, but transfixed by the waifish, ethereal creature in the mirror, he elongated himself. He let his shoulders fall back as he puffed his chest out, softening the tension in his palms as his thumb and forefinger met. He held his head up high, inspecting the chiseled jawline, the severe cheekbones. Rich veins flowing with sapphire deposits slept beneath his gossamer skin. Everything sharp and angular about him seemed to pop in the overhead light, casting provocative little shadows along the length of his body. He could have spent hours admiring himself—but why do that when he had an audience to show off to?
He excitedly spun himself around, clearing his head and restoring his poise before trailing an invisible line towards the living room, where the girls had been waiting for him.
With legs for days, he strutted, one precise step following the next. He stumbled once, like a newborn giraffe on inexperienced limbs, but it didn’t matter. So long as the rest of his calculated steps didn’t falter—and they wouldn’t—he could maintain his elegance. He snaked down the hall, graceful and catlike, with a hauntingly placid expression on his face. His hand rested on his swinging hips, toyed with the nine-inch nail against his breast, slender fingers brushing through the wispy clouds of his hair.
He took a self-indulgent little bow, basking in the supportive applause of his friends. He was certain that if Godey could, he, too, would have clapped from behind the bars of his travel carrier.
Shadowheart’s mouth was agape from the moment he’d first walked out. “Who are you? You’re a whole different man!”
Karlach whistled approvingly. “Color me impressed! You look better in that shirt than I ever did. Gale had better watch out—if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to seduce him.”
An airy, excitable little laugh escaped from the back of his throat, skipping like a smooth, round, stone as it rippled through the facade of his composure.
“I told you it would work out,” Shadowheart gushed, clearly pleased by the fruits of her labor. “How do you feel?”
“Like I shit bats,” he giggled airily, splaying out on the couch beside the window. He stared out into the grey sky, trying to quell the puppy-like excitement as he attempted to prematurely will Gale’s car into the driveway. He heaved a large sigh and finally sacrificed the truth in a clandestine whisper. “Nervous.”
“Why are you nervous?” Karlach guffawed, leaning sideways to give his good shoulder an earnest squeeze. “It’s just Gale!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he forced another giggle, anxiously tapping the duffel bag at his feet with his leather-clad ankle before turning his attention to a single speck of dirt he’d missed underneath his nails. “Just Gale.”
The sudden sound of rubber rolling slowly against gravel poached his concentration. He pursed his lips shut and pretended not to notice it, but his traitorous heart began to thrum wildly in his chest.
“Oh, speak of the devil!” Karlach called out, getting up from the couch in anticipation of the doorbell. “Jen, are we ready to go on our mission?”
“I’m ready,” she nodded, lifting the cage by its handle and raising it between Astarion’s eyes. “Say bye to your son!”
Godey’s fidgety nose reached up towards his lips, and Astarion blew the tiniest air-kiss his way. “I’ll see you tonight, little one,” he promised. “Behave yourself.”
“His aunts will take good care of him, I swear,” Karlach winked before rounding the corner.
Astarion followed her closely, too small to convincingly be her shadow, but too energized to sit back and play it cool. The tell-tale door chimes filled the entryway, and Astarion’s heart beat alongside it in startled unison.
The smallest trickle of sunlight shone behind Gale’s familiar form in a radiant halo of delicate light, the features Astarion had grown to love barely visible through the colorful panes of stained glass. Karlach opened the door, effortlessly tearing down the final physical barrier that kept them apart before pulling him into one of her trademark embraces.
Their joyous reunion was a sight to behold. They might have seen one another as early as the day before, but Karlach swept him in her arms as if she hadn’t seen him for months. She squeezed him tightly, overjoyed to see him, rocking him back and forth in her strong arms. Tones of blue and red and purple painted over swaths of tawny and olive skin as the light poured through the glass. Gale leaned upwards on the tips of his toes to give her a kiss on the apple of her cheek. He wriggled in her arms, bobbing to kiss the other side of her face, and from the crook of her shoulder, their eyes finally met. His warm, earthen browns widened at first, then softened as they drank him in, creasing at the edges like the well-loved pages of a library book.
Astarion felt like he had died and ascended to a place in the heavens he never thought he deserved. He could feel his entire body tingling, from the tips of his fingers to his toes. It was painful to keep the excitement of seeing him from bubbling over, spilling down his carefully wrought edges and onto the parquet flooring at his feet. Gale was here. Gale was here. And Gale was happy to see him, beaming as he extended a hand through Karlach’s grip to drag him into the hug. He surrendered his body to the loving tide, sinking into his chest.
“You look great,” he whispered into Astarion’s ear, ghosting a gentle kiss onto his cheek. A pleasant shudder ran down his spine, and he felt himself beginning to burn from inside out. He had to remind himself that it didn’t mean anything more than a cultural greeting, but as Gale’s lips brushed the other cheek and the bristles of his freshly trimmed beard pressed into the contours of his chin, he closed his eyes, losing himself in the leathery scent of beard oil and sandalwood. He wanted to hold onto this memory for as long as he could.
They pulled away from the embrace, and Astarion got a full look at what Gale was wearing. His hair had been neatly slicked back from his face, and though it looked a lot tidier than usual, a few errant strands playfully littered his forehead. A black t-shirt peeked out from under an oversized taupe flannel with cerulean accents. He’d dressed up his charcoal grey jeans with a nice black belt.
“So do you,” he replied earnestly, grinning shyly.
Gale smiled. There was a cheerful awkwardness in its curve that Astarion recognized. They were both stumbling through a restrained social dance of sorts, awkward and clumsy, missing steps left and right. It was less complicated than a formal ballroom dance—more like his daydreams of dancing with him in the kitchen, the distant sounds of a record playing in another room.
Gale offered a small bow, gesturing towards his car. “Shall we?”
The girls bade them a hasty farewell, loading up their Jeep for their top-secret rat-related excursion.
The gravel crunched under Astarion’s feet as both men made their way to Gale’s subaru. Ever the gentleman, the brown-haired man opened the door for him, excitedly ushering him inside.
Astarion slung his duffel bag into the backseat by a pile of library books, and situated himself in the passenger seat. He settled into the nylon upholstery as best as he could, reminding himself to breathe every few seconds. He inhaled a blend of faint vanilla and cedar from the air freshener, and exhaled a stream of newly-hatched butterflies, brought to life by the thrill of being close to Gale, who scooted into the driver’s seat and started the ignition. An unexpected blast of cool air hit Astarion square in the eyes, prompting him to blink a few times.
Nothing was automatic anymore. Gale literally stole his breath away with every move he made. Every second felt as though it was made of glass, so precious and tempered that one wrong move would shatter the universe.
“So, where are we going?” he asked.
“I hope you don’t mind if I keep it a surprise until we get there,” Gale replied, setting his phone on a mount attached to the dashboard. “It’s a bit far, but rest assured, I’ll get us there in one piece.”
“Oh,” Astarion remembered, leaning into the backseat and fishing through his belongings until he found what he had been looking for. “Um…you forgot this the last time you were here,” he snickered, cradling the mug in his left hand.
“Gods!” Gale swiftly snatched it out from Astarion’s hand, his cheeks flushing a healthy shade of pink as he hid the obscene design in the cup of his palms. “Of all the —I’m sorry you saw this.”
“Oh, no need to apologize. I never would have guessed that your taste in art was so lurid, ” Astarion smirked smarmily, reveling in the way Gale was squirming in his seat.
“It was a gag gift—”
“Don’t fret. I think it’s cute,” Astarion teased.
All he could think about was the feeling of their pinkies grazing against one another during the exchange.
Gale muttered something unintelligible under his breath, turning his head to face the street as he pulled out of the driveway, the turn signal blinking on and off despite the notable lack of traffic.
“What was that? You’re taking me to some highbrow museum of lewd art?”
“It’s dark out this afternoon,” he repeated, clearly expressing his desire to change the subject.
“Yes, it is,” Astarion replied, smiling to himself.
Because the sun is in the driver’s seat.
Notes:
GALE'S HERE!!! Gods, I missed him (and I missed you!)
Big thanks to AcrylicAgony for keeping me sane and for helping me get this chapter to a postable state!
On an exciting personal note...
1. I'm celebrating my fifth anniversary with my Gale in a few days...
2. I'm starting HRT in a month!Thank you all so very much for reading. I am forever grateful for every beautiful soul that passes by to give my work a look. ❤️💜
P.S. — Behold! The infamous bunny orgy mug in all its glory.
~✧~
Broken Social Scene - Anthems For A Seventeen Year-Old Girl
Borislav Slavov - I Want to Live - Instrumental Version
Gigi Perez - Please Be Rude
Rosa Walton, Hallie Coggins - I Really Want to Stay at Your House
Garbage - Queer
Fall Out Boy - Fake Out
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 45
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
As they sped past an endless sea of concrete barriers and steel guardrails, the neat edge line painted upon the faded pavement trailed alongside them like a silver ribbon. A thick, slate-colored blanket of menacing clouds loomed overhead, draping above the lush trees surrounding the overpass. The distant rumble of rolling thunder heralded the unpreventable downpour threatening their afternoon.
If Cazador had said anything nasty about him the night before, it wasn’t immediately apparent—either that, or Gale was too polite to repeat any of what he might have been told. Instead, he engaged in spirited banter, sprinkling in every minute detail of his day to day life. The man warbled on and on about how his mother had surprised him with a tin of his favorite tea the week before (which Astarion was pleased to learn was Earl Grey.) He harped about the stress (and relief) of wrapping up the semester and passing his final exams. He expressed his excitement over a potential upcoming D&D module centered around his beloved Waterdeep, rattling off as many facts as he could about the rich lore of the city—towering guardian statues in a state of stasis, a storied inn with a portal that led prospective adventurers deep into a punishing labyrinthine dungeon, a school for wizards dedicated to the devout study and refinement of the arcane arts.
For a few fleeting moments, his voice sounded noticeably younger.
Less tired.
Unencumbered.
Gods. Astarion wanted nothing more than to see the childlike smile that accompanied those words. Its bloom was apparent in every note, every syllable.
But throughout most of the ride, Astarion chose instead to stare straight ahead at the reflective road signs, hovering his wrist close to his nose in a furtive attempt to decipher whether or not he’d accidentally overdone it with the cologne. Seeking a distraction from his nerves, he attuned himself to the constant racket of cars traveling beside them on the overpass. Each roaring vibration from the traffic was akin to a bullet that had just been fired, ringing unpleasantly in his ears. To self-soothe, he fussed over the fold in his sleeve before shifting his attention to smoothing out the wrinkled fabric bunching up at his chest. He toyed with the steel coffin nail suspended below his collarbone, tracing down its length and feeling for the point with his index finger. When he checked to make sure he hadn’t smudged the kohl around his eyes, he made it a point to look away the second he caught even the tiniest glimpse of Gale in the rearview mirror, pressing his forehead against the glass pane and turning his attention to the white stripe.
It wasn’t as though his vain preening wasn’t already a thinly-veiled excuse to sneak a quick look at him. How else could he appreciate his beauty without coming across as a creep? He’d managed to convince himself that if they locked eyes during the drive, surely Gale would peer into his thoughts with remarkably sibylline clarity and uncover the truth about his long-hidden crush. The worst case scenario he’d invented to justify his self-imposed asceticism was somehow more irrational: upon meeting his gaze, Gale would disappear just as Euridice did—doomed by a single selfish glimpse to vanish into thin air just as they were leaving the hells together, tantalizingly close to the blinding light of the exit.
He exhaled, lungs aching from an hour of drawing shallow breaths.
How was it possible to feel so on edge and yet so safe all at once?
Fishing for a shred of courage, Astarion peered to his left, exploring the fuzzy edges of Gale’s shape from behind a sheer curtain of wispy hairs. He noticed a small hole near one of the belt loops of his jeans. It wasn’t the first time any of his clothes were in need of mending, but it occurred to him that this time, he had his sewing kit stowed away in his duffel bag. Would it be out of place to offer to repair it for him? The fingers on his left hand were rhythmically tapping and brushing against the steering wheel, as if he were practicing a series of chord progressions.
He so desperately wanted to rest his left hand on Gale’s right.
At least Orpheus and Euridice had been holding hands.
But Gale wasn’t Euridice, was he?
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Astarion turned to look at him, eager to lose himself in every detail of his face. There was the beauty spot that sat at his temple like a lone star, keeping the raised scar on his permanently furrowed forehead company. He drank in the sight of the cluster of dark eyelashes that nearly brushed the round apple of his cheek, supped on the textured, pock-marked skin crowding the neat edges of a beard that was neater than usual. Hungry eyes chased after his joy down the ridges and curves of his perfect aquiline nose—from the permanent crease between his brow to his smiling lips.
And oh, how that smile lit up the car, vanquishing the darkness surrounding them. Oh, how his radiant laughter challenged the thunder. Every word that fell from his mouth was a golden sunbeam, drenching their tiny world full of endless light. Every energetic gesture and gesticulation was evidence of the gift of life.
It was hard to remember that the first time he’d laid eyes on this man, his face had seemed so melancholy. So very lost in thought.
Even then, Gale was beautiful.
And though the stars had kissed a handful of strands in his thick, brown hair, swept wildly by the wind whipping through the open window, Astarion could only affirm what he already knew, deep inside.
Gale’s hand was not Euridice’s.
It should have been obvious from the very first night he’d dreamed of him, when he’d taken his hand and walked him off the stage, away from the blazing fires of the hellish theatre.
His hand was Apollo’s—fingers outstretched from the heavens, shepherding Orpheus away from the darkness, far from the heartbreak and the treacheries of the mortal world, parting the clouds for the arrival of his music.
Gale was the sun.
And the sun was only ever meant to be loved and admired from afar. Its rays were only meant to gently kiss the open palms of outstretched hands in summer. To spend too long basking under its celestial warmth without the sanctity of shade was to beg the universe for catastrophe. To stare directly upon its visage was to invite blindness.
The sun was as much a punisher as it was a blessing.
Its caresses brought pleasure and pain alike.
He watched as Gale’s free hand protectively circled the rim of the naughty rabbit mug in the cupholder—dimpled, substantial, radiating a healthy, golden hue that indicated he’d been outside catching more light than usual, perhaps reading on a balcony while watching the sun set. He found himself staring at the faded half-moons cresting the horizon of his cuticles. A single chalk-like streak interrupted the smooth blushing keratin of his thumbnail.
Would holding such a hand burn him?
Astarion stared down at his own bony hand—pale, anemic and thin, nails brittle and bitten. Bruise-colored knuckles and protruding veins of blue and purple were the only signs that he wasn’t completely bloodless. He noticed that his long, spindly fingers were oddly light —and then he realized he’d forgotten his engagement ring on the bathroom counter last night.
He huffed, surveying the newly naked skin of his digit to the soundtrack of Gale’s voice with an amused grin on his face.
Good fucking riddance.
It was blasphemous enough to believe himself worthy, even now as he reveled in his newfound freedom.
Sinners don’t get to touch Gods.
Yet Apollo was reaching out to lead him anyway. Wherever it was, it was somewhere long past the city limits—far from their small, dirty, bloody patch of existence.
“Oh, gods damn it! We’ve just missed our exit!” Gale exclaimed.
For a moment, Astarion flinched. His breath hitched, and he seized up, bracing himself for the possible impact of an angry, raised voice from the driver’s seat, sharp, shrill, and oh, so familiar.
But instead of explosive rage, there came a benign, sheepish giggle. “Serves me right for babbling on so much. Sorry about that, Astarion,” Gale groaned, rolling up the window as they waited at the stoplight by a particularly large freight truck. “I know the drive’s been long… I should have been paying better attention to the road! I suppose I lost myself in my ruminations.”
Astarion smiled. “I don’t mind at all, darling.”
He would have done anything for more time alone with Gale.
What was the harm in a missed exit?
Notes:
Hello, darlings! I have missed you terribly! I'm sorry this chapter took five hundred years to release, but this date chapter is turning out huge and I go a bit mad when I haven't posted in a while. I hope you enjoy this little something to tide you over, loves! I know you're all excited to spend a nice little evening with Gale Dekarios.
(I took a week off to enjoy the game because let's be honest - at this point, I have spent more of the last year writing about it than I have playing it, and I would like to keep my characterizations fresh and as accurate as possible!)
Look at this gorgeous fanart that Sam drew of the boys in their fits from the last chapter!! Featuring Gale's risqué bunny mug in all its glory! Their expressions in this are priceless. Just look at these sweet, precious boys...thank you so very much for illustrating this moment so beautifully! 💜❤️
Big thanks to AcrylicAgony for helping me get my shit together! They truly understand the notes I am trying to hit, and they have become such a wonderful friend throughout the creative process.
Thank you all very much for reading and loving Seen so, so much. I can't believe it's almost been an entire year since I posted the first chapter. It never ceases to warm my heart to know that you enjoy my writing and that it resonates with you in some way.
May the dog days of summer be kind to you as things heat up in this little pocket of time.
~✧~
Sufjan Stevens - To Be Alone With You
Kevin Atwater - Swallow
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 46
Summary:
"Hmm. Look at this place. Gale would be salivating."
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The humble space that accommodated Silverbeard Games paled in comparison to the massive building that housed Sorcerous Sundries. Its lofty entryway boasted a symmetrical set of sweeping staircases with art nouveau balusters that twisted into abstract vines. Bracketed torches were spaced evenly along the wall, casting simulated flames against artificial stone.
Each aisle was festooned in colorful, ribbonlike banners, all tied neatly across a series of towering wooden columns. Rows of identical cuddly plushies begged impulsive passersby to snuggle and squeeze them and take them home.
Assorted memorabilia sat in pristine glass cases, waiting to either catch the roving eye of a discerning collector or lure a pining superfan with dreams bigger than their wallets to financial ruin.
Floor-to-ceiling racks featured a staggering range of comics, graphic novels, and an entire section dedicated to fantasy and science fiction publications. Alongside the meticulously organized shelves lay several chaotic stacks of uncategorized books, carelessly strewn throughout the store in mountainous piles.
The unrelenting downpour had done little to deter hordes of nerds from converging to celebrate having survived another grueling workweek, which meant that Gale was still outside finding a suitable spot to park his Subaru. Thoughtful as ever, he’d dropped Astarion off by the store’s comparatively unassuming exterior, beneath the plaza’s covered walkway.
Grateful to be dry, Astarion shuffled deeper into the expansive layout in relative silence, choosing to indulge his stirred-up senses by eavesdropping.
It was a lively Friday night. Subdued harp covers of video game soundtracks were drowned out by the rowdy jeering from a group of Magic the Gathering players. Raised like pitchforks, the choir cried out in mock outrage, calling bullshit on another player’s overpowered goose-themed land deck.
At a different table, another crowd was hunched at their makeshift workstations, learning a new miniature painting technique together. Some were engaged in hushed, idle chatter, while others were lost in unbreakable concentration as they followed along with their instructor, who walked around the table guiding every trembling, uncertain brushstroke with saint-like patience.
Across from the painters, a couple was busy setting up a game of Warhammer at an immense hollowed tabletop. One of the players was lean and spry, with oddly familiar silver-cuffed braids in her chestnut brown hair.
Lae’zel? he wondered to himself, delighted (and only slightly mortified) by the prospect of running into another friend so far from home while on this not-date with Gale. He slyly peered over his shoulder as he passed the tables to get a better look at her, furtively glancing between the back of her head and the tiny world she was building within the table’s square-shaped recession.
Every individual blade of grass on the miniature terrain had been painstakingly rendered, every rock lovingly lathed in a sheer wash of black paint. Motionless miniscule armies stood at the ready on opposing sides, lovingly prepared by their respective owners for battle and bloodshed. Amusingly, one of the warring factions had chosen a shocking shade of pink as their primary shade—presumably to match the abundant pink D6es waiting patiently to roll against warm teak wood.
Out of nowhere, the girl with braids began to giggle, catching Astarion off guard. It was a rare thing to relish in Lae’zel’s strange little cackle. Whenever she broke character and tumbled into hysterics, she always took everyone at the table down with her as she fell, like a trail of matchsticks catching fire…only the laughter filling the air weren’t Lae’zel’s. The girl’s profile was absent of the cute snub nose he’d been expecting.
Embarrassment burned in his bloodstream.
She wasn’t Lae’zel, and that wasn’t his table.
Despite the odd (likely unserious) conflict here and there, it was evident that nearly everyone in attendance were among old friends. Friends who had been playing together for many, many years, thick as thieves. If any newcomers were scattered among them, they’d been welcomed into the fold with open arms.
The camaraderie. The laughter. The petty squabbles. The highs and lows, the thrills and disappointments that came when one left things up to chance.
All of that had been his, once.
He’d rung the doleful death knell of their Dungeons and Dragons game the moment he ended things with Cazador, and its loss was a bitter pill to swallow.
Sure, he’d managed to keep some of his friendships intact (for now,) but he was certain that this was where his luck would end. To call what they had now a “hiatus” was optimistic at best, and foolish at worst.
Things would never be the same again, no matter how much he wished he could turn back time. Sure, Gale had the muddiest inkling that things between him and Cazador were less than stellar, but Karlach and Shadowheart? They knew he was abusive. How could they pretend that things were alright?
How could he?
It was over—and it would have been over even if the D&D game managed to somehow survive the fallout of this breakup. The semester was nearly up, which meant that Lae’zel would be shipping off to the Marines any day now, blissfully unaware of his plight. Surely, poor Wyll couldn’t live with his father for the rest of his life?
Astarion stood on the outside looking in, staring daggers at the man he was only nine months before when he’d first met everyone at the diner. Once again, he was little more than the stranger at the table watching the ice in his cup melt away like spun sugar in the pouring rain.
It had been stupid of him to get so attached to something so fleeting.
Everything was transient.
Temporary.
The adventure was bound to end sooner or later.
He was going to miss it.
He was going to miss them—the barbarian, the cleric, the fighter, the warlock, the rogue…and especially the wizard.
Maybe you don’t have to miss him, a small, sanguine voice whispered soothingly. He took you all the way out here, after all. Maybe that means something.
Maybe.
The dull ache in his chest had become too much to bear, and he tore himself away from the tables. His eyes darted in and out of the labyrinthine rows in search of an escape for his mind—some pretty bauble that would dull the pain. It wouldn’t prove difficult to find one. The store had no shortage of pretty things to gawk at.
The air he drew in was alive with a fragrant plastic aroma, mingling with sweat and old cellulose. The unconventional bouquet was unceremoniously married to the unpleasantly cloying smell of lemon-scented cleaner emanating from the split-tone linoleum as a younger man mopped up a can of freshly spilled Mountain Dew. His once fastidious ponytail had come undone, loose strands veiling his face as he muttered curses to himself.
“Damnation!”
Something about the boy’s voice was uncannily familiar—but he couldn’t figure out where he’d heard it before.
Suddenly, the fear of burning alive that had been weighing him down in the car floated away, overridden by the urge to run out into the rain, grab Gale by the hand, and pull him through each aisle to touch absolutely everything. He wished to run his hands along the uncracked canvas spines of every tome along the wall, to root about in every container of loose dice, to sink his fingers into the plush, silky fur of a stuffed displacer beast kitten…
Anything to make him feel less alone while his life crumbled around him.
Anything to drown out the noise.
As he wandered closer to the bookshelves along the wall, his eyes locked onto a spot of lavender light caressing the spines. He followed the beam to its source, and immediately found himself fixated on an ostentatious spherical astrolabe affixed to a beam in the center of the room.
The fixture exuded a brilliant light, its source imprisoned within a brass, cage-like framework. Thousands of impossibly small mosaic tiles were masterfully arranged into a series of repeated, rhomboid patterns on the ceiling above it, resembling large, prismatic peacock feathers. Each vibrant, blade-like plume spanned across the dome in lustrous shades of seafoam and ultramarine, inlaid with diamond-shaped panels depicting a fiery sunset. The light trapped within the center of the ancillary sphere rebelled against its captor, flickering a frantic message against the vibrant tile—a weakening cry for help in the language of fire.
The cacophony of bitter, angry thoughts raging in his head had ceased. Wide eyed, he reverently basked in its resplendence.
I can enjoy this, he reassured himself, drawing in another shaky, grounding breath. This is nice.
A jangling electronic chime from the front door jolted him from his trance. He whipped his head over his shoulder at Gale, staring rather impolitely as he watched him dry his feet on the welcome mat while slipping his sopping wet umbrella into one of the plastic bags provided at the door. The lengthy car ride and the rain combined had taken a perceptible toll on the poor man’s aching joints, and he was sure that their accidental detour hadn’t helped matters. His eyes were squeezed shut as he worked out the numerous kinks in his spine, questing for a crumb of relief as his thumbs dug healing circles into his sore lower back.
The voyeur’s breath caught in his throat.
Gods.
How was it possible for someone to remain so spellbindingly beautiful, even in the most candid of moments? There was no angle that was too unflattering, no way he could scrunch his face that would detract from how handsome he was, no amount of strain in his voice that would render it irksome.
As he elongated his stiffened limbs, his saturated flannel rode up, untucking itself and exposing the briefest sliver of soft, hairy stomach peeking out from beneath his undershirt. A stray tendril of wet hair fell upon his temple as he hastily pulled his shirt back into place. It coiled around the mole Astarion had affectionately designated his guiding star on their journey.
His star.
An incredulous puff of air escaped through his nostrils. It felt silly to envy hair for encroaching on the spaces he yearned to kiss—but he did.
In an attempt to smooth himself over and play it coy, he looked towards the nearest display and pretended to peruse its contents. His fingertip traced the verdant edges of a leather sketchbook, finding the white, silky ribbon pressed between the lucent, golden borders of well-bound signatures. Coquettishly, he looked back up at the doorway, and their eyes locked, like chocolate and cinnamon melting together. A pleasurable tingle trickled down Astarion’s spine as Gale offered a shy little wave the moment he spotted him.
“There you are!” Gale’s voice called after him, familiar and full of life.
Astarion briskly waved back, wearing the flawed, toothy smile of a man he wasn’t sure he’d ever been.
As Gale approached him, the world shifted with each jaunty step. The very sight of him put his mind at ease, making the fathomless abyss of his musings feel like the shallowest of puddles.
“Well, that took me a bit longer than I anticipated. Serves me right for not taking the day of the week into account,” he apologized. “No doubt you had plenty of time to explore while I was getting the parking situation sorted out. Well, what do you think?”
“This place is…”
“Splendid? Tremendous? Astonishing?” Gale asked hopefully, arms outstretched as he motioned towards the kaleidoscopic ceiling.
Astarion followed his arms skyward, eyes drifting past an enormous statue of a fire elemental he hadn’t noticed before. Gargoyle-like, it held vigil over the merchandise, poised to strike from its recessed alcove as though a single barked command would make it spring to life.
The light from the astrolabe bounced off the varicolored tile, hurling colorful beams of light upon the plate of the myrmidon’s armor. The illusion of stained glass was so convincing that he swore the light outside really could break past the solid roof and shine down on his face. He grinned, savoring the imaginary warmth on his skin before turning back around.
“It’s incredible. It’s breathtaking, Gale.”
Like you.
He exhaled, visibly relieved. “Indeed. The sculptures, the paintings, the walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books. I know it was a bit of a drive, but hopefully the destination was well worth the journey.”
“I wasn’t expecting this,” Astarion breathed. He pressed the book’s green, leather cover against his chest, hoping it would be enough to stifle the drumming of his heart. “Though maybe I should have. This is exactly the sort of place I’d imagine you salivating about. I thought we were just going to—I don’t know, down a few beers at some godsforsaken pub? Bitch about our exes? Wallow in misery together?”
All at once, the reassured smile drained from Gale’s face, and Astarion felt his own heart sink parallel.
“Oh. I hope you’re not too disappointed,” he said softly, shifting nervously in place while his hands retreated into his pockets. “We could always grab drinks afterwards if you had your heart set on whinging and wallowing.”
“No! I—I’m glad you didn’t drag me to some dreary pub. In fact, I—”
“Ah, well, If you’re not in the mood for a pub, I’ve heard of a place that’s well renowned for their spiced tea and almond cakes! It’s not too far from here. We could easily walk there without any trouble if you’re feeling peckish, or bored, or—”
“—I think I much prefer this.”
Gale’s second-guessing came to an abrupt halt. Tight shoulders began to unwind. Pressed lips parted slightly, freeing a single skeptical puff of air. “You do?”
Astarion nodded as he carefully returned his temporary shield to its proper place on the shelf and retrieved another, this one a lovely shade of mulberry. He brushed his palm against the book’s soft cover, breathing in the comforting scent of leather. “This is…this is nice.”
“I’m glad you think so too,” Gale sighed, the curve of a smile slowly returning to the edges of his lips. The tension that had engulfed his posture slowly ebbed, giving way to gentle undulations as he ponderously rocked in place, back and forth. “It’s been a long time since I’ve come here. This place served as my refuge more times than I can count. I used to whittle away the hours surrounded by all the things that bring me joy and solace. All the things I love most. And now that you're here, well...” Gale beamed earnestly, his eyes alight with a sea of stars as he looked over at him. “I’m so very glad you came to share this with me.”
Astarion’s heart skipped a beat. His was the softest of smiles, the sort of smile that spun silken daydreams in the long-dormant part of his brain that was dedicated to love. He could hear the quiet hum of his slow, sedated breathing in his ear—the counterpoint to the staccato rhythm in his chest.
When had they managed to shuffle so much closer to each other? He yearned to lean in and steal a sunbeam from his dear Apollo’s lips—but the wax on his wings was beginning to melt ever so slightly.
Instinctively, he pulled back. “I should have known you’d whisk me off somewhere full of books. It’s grand.”
“Well, hopefully you’ve gotten to know me well enough to recognize that even the grandest of my gestures can never be sufficient enough,” Gale murmured, his cheeks aglow with an emergent rush of crimson. “This place could easily become the center of my universe if it were any nearer to us—please don’t tell Elminster I said that.”
A carefree, lilting laugh tumbled out from Astarion’s lips as he delighted in the sudden concern that had roused the wrinkles on Gale’s forehead from their rare slumber. “I can’t promise I won’t, darling,” he threatened playfully through a sly smile, lightly thumbing through the purple sketchbook’s blank pages. “I’m a horrible gossip.”
Gale chuckled sympathetically. “Unfortunately for—well, everyone, so am I. In fact,” he paused, checking his surroundings before placing a palm to his mouth and leaning closer to Astarion’s ear. “Word is the owner’s a bit of a cad,” he whispered, discreetly pointing in the direction of the cash register near the front of the store. A tall, wiry redheaded man stood with his arms crossed, looking as though he’d just inhaled a whiff of sour milk.
“A cad?”
“A cad,” he repeated emphatically. “Pompous, self-important, braggadocious—”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Astarion muttered. His fingers had memorized the location of the aberrant spot on his neck, and briefly settled there until he remembered he didn’t want to sabotage the efforts Shadowheart had made to help him conceal it.
Gale’s brow furrowed. “Oh, come on! I’m not that bad, am I?”
Astarion blinked, befuddled by the sudden change in Gale’s countenance. Looking crestfallen, he wrung his hands and tugged at his sleeves. His brown eyes brimmed with a hurt that was large enough to level an entire city.
“I wasn’t talking about you, darling,” he said softly.
“Oh,” Gale replied sheepishly. The hurt vanished like dust beneath a rug. “Right.”
“But if the shoe fits…well, unless you need it to sate that peckish orb of yours—”
“Oh, for the love of—you’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Gale hissed under his breath, defensively clutching his chest. “Those boots were the only magical item the party had on hand when—well. No matter. I must admit, the stock here is quite impressive, wouldn’t you say?”
Astarion nodded, grinning impishly. The flicker of a restrained smile on Gale’s face had been worth his impudence.
All of a sudden, the table of people playing Magic erupted into a series of irritated groans and loud curses.
“Fuck! You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
“Oh, that’s messed up!”
“I just need one fucking mana to summon my commander. Just one!”
“How many lands did you have in there?”
“Forty-two!”
“The meaning of life…”
“Did you shuffle your deck, mate?”
“I swear I did! My cards just fucking hate me or something.”
“Can you do anything this turn?”
“I can, it just won’t be enough to counter your stupid fucking hydra deck…”
“Admitting defeat to the Goose Mother already? That’s quitter talk!”
“Your deck is broken as fuck and you know it!”
“This sounds like a ‘you’ problem, my guy. Get good. My deck is honking awesome.”
Another collective groan washed over the table.
Gale stifled a snicker before wrangling it back and clearing his throat. “An establishment like this invites all sorts of outlandish entertainment. Never a dull moment. I hope you won’t think too poorly of me when you find out I like to play blue.”
Astarion shrugged. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what that says about you. I’ve never played Magic—I’ve heard it’s expensive.”
“Don’t start,” Gale teased, his voice sinking into a low, hushed whisper. “It’s practically daylight robbery. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit how much coin I’ve spent on cardboard.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. The change in my pocket shudders at the thought of me picking up another hobby, much less a notoriously expensive one. Especially now, all things considered,” Astarion turned the mulberry sketchbook over and half-jokingly balked at the price sticker before warily putting it back. “You know, I’m feeling a bit…”
“Overwhelmed?” Gale inquired, quirking an eyebrow.
Grateful he hadn’t said what he’d actually been thinking—skint, poor, destitute—Astarion nodded, subtly gesturing his head towards the uproarious table behind them.
“Ah! I understand. Let’s find ourselves somewhere a bit less rumbustious, shall we?” Gale’s eyes trailed up to the mezzanine, and it suddenly occurred to Astarion that for as vast as Sorcerous Sundries seemed from where he stood, there was an entire second floor to account for that they hadn’t even seen yet. “I know just the place. Follow my lead.”
As Astarion followed him towards the nearest staircase, his heart felt unusually light. All of his earlier troubles felt blissfully insignificant.
Like the ice in his cup the night they’d first met, melting away into nothing.
Like spun sugar in the rain.
Notes:
Hi!! I missed you all so, so much! I sincerely appreciate your patience as I try to wrangle all the wild ideas in my head and corral them onto the paper! October was weird. I couldn't seem to get the feeling I wanted to convey here to make any sense. The outline for this date is enormous and I am so excited for all of the lovely things I have in store for the boys on this night. I also needed a bit more time to process stuff in my own life (like starting T!! It's day four now, and I couldn't be happier!)
As always, thanks to Cee for sitting with me while I bash my fingers into the keys in frustration and for helping me breathe these spaces full of life.
The biggest thanks goes out to you! I really wanted to try and get this chapter out to you last week on October 25th, which was the anniversary of when I posted the first two chapters of this fic. I can't believe it's been over a year now. I never would have imagined the outpouring of love and support this fic would garner, the stories of your own you would all come to share with me, and the friends I've made because of it.
All because I decided to share my story.
Thank you all for reading.
You really have made me feel Seen.
~✧~
Sparky Deathcap - September - Instrumental
Luisa Marion - The Kite (Campfire Session)
Billie Eilish - BIRDS OF A FEATHER
When In Rome - The Promise
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 47
Summary:
Astarion and Gale find a quiet place to escape the noise, only to be drawn into painfully familiar dynamics.
Notes:
CW: A public instance of verbal abuse. It can be found between "infantile sing-song" and "final icy outburst."
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Scuffed leather boots and aged chucks sank into the center of each wide step, one set self-trained to tread soundlessly, the latter less aware of the dangers his plodding footfalls could invite in less favorable circumstances.
Distracted by the sway of Gale’s ample hips as he followed him up to the second floor, Astarion tripped up the stairs. He lurched forward, scrambling to grip the banister to regain his equilibrium.
Despite all his years of practice, he was getting sloppy.
Gale peered over his shoulder, his face ignited by a flicker of concern. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Astarion murmured, diving into the dark, rolling seas of stout in Gale’s eyes. Luminous twin moons reflected on their unclouded surfaces like scattered coins of silver. His vision felt hazy and narrow, as though a translucent jam had been spread on the lens of a cheap spyglass. It stole away the features of Gale’s face, made more angelic by the tender light raining down on him from behind.
Suddenly filled with the irrational fear that his ogling would somehow turn this sweet, undeserving man into stone, his eyes flicked downward before they could do any harm. He glowered disdainfully at the offending step, already conveniently made of marble, albeit slightly chipped. Much to his irritation, there was little in place to warn patrons of the potential hazard besides an overelaborate sign telling them to mind their step as they ascended.
“They really ought to fix this before somebody gets hurt,” he grumbled.
“Indeed they should,” Gale nodded in agreement. “But I’m afraid it’s been damaged for as long as I’ve been coming here. Tripped on it myself on my first visit. Forgive me. I should have warned you.”
“Oh, it’s not your fault, my dear. There’s no shortage of splendorous sights to drink in tonight,” Astarion grinned. “ Pretty ones. It’s no wonder I’m distracted.”
Rendered unusually speechless by his flirtations, Gale turned away without so much as a quip, poorly concealing the soft, tomato-red bloom that had started to gently creep on the surface of Mediterranean skin.
As they carried on up the steps, Astarion thought about how nice it would have been to have fallen into his arms. He allowed himself to pretend for just a moment that they could be just like the star-cross’d lovers he used to read about in the dead of night as a kid, squirreled away with his book underneath the covers, stuttering flashlight in hand. He imagined them both swathed in the clandestine blue shroud of dusk, engaged in the subtle, unspoken courtship of kissing palms, hundreds of miles from disapproving families and four-poster beds.
But those stories usually ended in flames—and what was Gale Dekarios if not fire incarnate? Warm. Comfortable. Impossible to ignore. There wasn’t a wick cutter in the world efficient enough to keep Astarion’s wandering hands from burning to a crisp when he drew nearer, and no candle snuffer large enough to cull its blaze before it ultimately blinded him; a fitting punishment for daring to stare at the sun.
Before long, both men made it to the second story, the second half of their journey unscathed by further flaws in the stonework. Another stalwart myrmidon awaited them in its well-fitted niche, clad in thick, barkskin armor and adorned in lush, green vines. A sign on the wall above its head had been painstakingly calligraphed in a flowy, Medieval-inspired hand to read “Ramazith’s Tower.”
Much to Astarion’s delight, this section of the store was dedicated to all things tabletop gaming. A cursory glance revealed an endless sea of bookshelves that flaunted every core rulebook and adventure for every imaginable setting—Traveller, Cyberpunk, Pathfinder, Call of Cthulu, Vampire: The Masquerade, and of course, their beloved Dungeons and Dragons. It was certainly something to look forward to exploring after they’d had a moment of relative quiet.
Their eyes reunited once more, and at that moment, Astarion no longer cared if Gale Dekarios was the last thing he saw before some mystic inkwell swallowed the world the instant he blinked again. He could live with permanent darkness if he could see him one last time before the world went black. At least he would still be able to feel the sun’s radiance in the cup of his hand, should he ever pull his voice from its own thorny, flowery tomb to express his desires for warmth aloud.
They both cleared their throats in serendipitous unison. With the small, childlike wave of a chubby hand, Gale wordlessly beckoned him closer. Astarion scooted nearer, a moth led astray by its love for an inferno, caring little for the preservation of his tattered wings. Who was he to reject an invitation to burn beside him? He craned over the edge of the balustrade to better survey the colorful world teeming with life below them, his sight still blessedly intact.
Everyone looked like tiny ants at work in a network of serpentine tunnels.
A hive of bees buzzing against the hexagonal marble tiles.
Miniatures on a gaming table.
In their shared silence, he caught a few tiny snippets of conversation from below. Most of them were too hushed to be intelligible, or rife with technical jargon that made him feel uncomfortably stupid. One younger man directly below them was passionately explaining the entire plot of one of the Star Wars movies to his elegantly dressed girlfriend. Like a kid in a candy store, he pointed to the corresponding action figures and ship models as he sentimentally walked her through every nostalgic story beat without much regard for the volume of his voice.
There was something endearingly familiar about his enthusiasm. Astarion smiled despite himself, failing to stifle a loving little snicker.
Despite not having much knowledge about Star Wars or the vast, befuddling lore it had amassed over a matter of several lucrative decades, he found himself thoroughly invested, if not a bit nosy. Feigning apathy, he tried to decode the woman’s expression, but the angle and the distance between them did not favor his prying. Her body language, on the other hand, vociferously betrayed her obvious disinterest. The young man yammered on, his wayward head clearly in the stars with his beloved X-wing Starfighters, blissfully oblivious to her increasing lassitude.
From the corner of his eye, hardly moving his bowed head, he studied the shapes of Gale’s form—or whatever he could make out through the limited view of his peripheral vision. It was one thing to while away hours imagining those shapes in the tub from afar, dreaming alone in pastel watercolors.
Proximity came with a different, whittling heartache.
He allowed himself a better look at Gale, and the blurry shapes began to sharpen. He, too, was watching the couple, wearing a wistful smile on his face.
Astarion felt a twinge of envy, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. They were together, after all; just the two of them, the way he always wanted it to be. And Gale at least cared for him enough to recognize the muted signs of sensory overload and shepherd him to quieter pastures. Perhaps the break from their usual spirited banter was meant to have been soothing, but now, they were sitting in silence, and he was probably thinking about his stupid ex-girlfriend.
And that hurt.
Gods, it hurt.
It hurt to treasure the soothing rise and fall of every covertly labored breath Gale was catching up on over the clamor of crowds downstairs. It hurt to savor the auditory traces of every pleased little murmur he made that was surely only meant for his own private enjoyment.
Astarion treasured and savored the minutiae nonetheless, because even the tiniest crumb of intimacy tasted better than the midnight ash he knew would inevitably come to coat the lump he kept swallowing back into his throat with an unpleasant spoonful of a bitter truth: It’s not enough.
It’s not enough. This is not enough. It’s never enough. It will never be enough.
He bit back the crawling urge to cry that was bubbling in his throat, acrid and warm. The tiniest morsel couldn’t ever gratify the months of deprivation his body and mind had already endured. If anything, the slightest nibble of table scraps only agitated him more. He hungered to brush back the hair that had fallen out of place and trail his knuckles up and down pockmarked cheeks, to press their chests together and hold his breath in Gale’s arms until their heartbeats thrummed in unison.
Hope sang a curious little question into the carvings of his hollow chest, calming the ravenous agony within.
Why not tell him tonight? she crooned in a tantalizing whisper. What’s the harm? Tell him the truth. Tell him how you feel.
Tell him what? That I’m in love with him? Astarion barked back. And risk him thinking I’m crazy?!
You’re already talking to yourself, silly, the voice replied in an infantile sing-song.
“Will you just shut up?!” another voice hissed—only this voice didn’t come from inside his head.
This voice drove into his chest like an icicle. Gale’s posture stiffened upon hearing the sound. Even the man downstairs’ ramblings had gone eerily quiet.
In fact, he stood stock still.
“What?” his voice cracked, a mere fraction of what it had been moments before. “But I haven’t even gotten to—”
“Lower your voice!” she whispered, “You’re being so loud! Everyone in the store can hear you, you know?”
The man’s shoulders drooped. “…I don’t think they mind—”
“You’re embarrassing me!”
Gale’s grip on the rail tightened.
“But I thought—”
“Stop thinking about yourself for once and listen,” the woman scoffed. “The entire store doesn’t need to hear you mansplaining Star Wars to me.”
“I’m not—”
“I’m sick and tired of hearing about it. It’s all you ever talk about. Nobody wants to hear about it. Or your games, or your art—”
“—hold on, you don’t want to hear about my art?” the man spluttered. “I…I thought that was something you liked about me. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Things are different now,” she said, exasperated. “At least one of us has changed. We’re supposed to be getting married. How long are you going to keep playing with toys? It feels like every year, you just become more and more of a man-child.”
“Don’t call me that!” the man exclaimed before his roar devolved into a timid murmur. “I don’t know what you want from me. Yes, I know I’ve always had my hobbies, but—”
“I don’t think you realize how much you’re annoying everyone around you.”
With her final icy outburst, she had stolen any retort the young man may have had. He stood there, frozen and reticent, staring shamefully down at his shoes as she calmly walked away. More than a few busybodies had stopped to rubberneck the argument. He did his best to dodge their scrutiny as he reluctantly followed her out the door, keys in hand, abandoning his miniature empire of yellowed plastic and brown felt robes.
Gale’s knuckles had turned a shade of alabaster that could rival the skin of Astarion’s hand. Pale fingers gently brushed against them, and the man jumped, surprised by the sudden contact. Neither of them made an effort to withdraw their hands.
“Hey,” Astarion cooed, whispering sweetly into his ear in a soft, soothing voice he was quite unused to using—the sort of tone gentle enough for the ears of a child in need of comfort. “Are you doing alright?”
Gale nodded slowly, tearing his eyes away from the couple, the smile that had once settled on his lips now long gone. “I’m fine,” he replied in a low, stern whisper.
But his face told a different tale—one of unspoken pain and freshly dug-up frustrations—a book full of crumpled pages haphazardly glued back inside. The harrowing sorrow in every anxious crease of recovered parchment was contagious.
This was the face of a flame that had been doused before—
frequently.
“Gods. What I wouldn’t give to be a real wizard,” Gale lamented with a rueful laugh. “Dimension Door or Misty Step would have come in handy back there. A bit silly, isn’t it, to wish magic could be real?”
“Not silly at all. I can think of many instances where I would have happily cast Burning Hands and not felt the least bit sorry,” Astarion muttered, silently wishing that every bouquet in Mystra's future would come with a surprise clutch of spider eggs. His callous, bloodthirsty thoughts drifted for a moment before he stumbled upon an unexpectedly beautiful idea flourishing in the ill-kept garden of his mind. His eyes widened. “Gale—would you mind if I cast a spell on you?”
Gale blinked, glancing over at him quizzically.
“Humor me, please.”
“Alright,” he sighed. “Which spell did you have in mind?”
Astarion bit back a small laugh. “Hold Person?”
A grateful, tight-lipped smile returned to grace Gale’s countenance. “I would like that very much. I’ll even forgo the wisdom save,” he joked.
From what little Astarion could recall about the spell from the few times the wizard of Waterdeep had cast it in their game, it was meant to last up to a minute. He pulled away from the comfort of Gale’s sandalwood-scented embrace after a tenth of the time had passed—far sooner than he would have liked, shorter than other hugs they’d shared in the past.
Half a second longer would have surely aroused suspicion.
Minute-long hugs were for lovers—and lovers, they were not.
“Up to” would have to do.
For now, at least.
Notes:
Hello, lovely Seen readers! Sorry for the long period without an update! I have missed you all so dearly.
I figured this “date” would be a good opportunity to explore Gale—not as the avatar of sunlight that Astarion believes him to be, but as a man who has had his share of relational trauma that he might not have entirely healed from.
In some personal news, I’m happy to report that I have a top surgery consultation coming up very soon! I’ve been working more hours lately to save up money for the procedure and my subsequent recovery. Alas, this means my time for writing has been unfortunately scarce this month, hence the delay.
I also have a tumblr! I’ve been on there for a while, but I don’t think I’ve ever posted it here. A few of you have already found me, but I figured I’d share this here for folks who want some updates on my progress, since I post WIPs and a few other updates here and there, along with SO MUCH BEAUTIFUL BLOODWEAVE ART!! My ask box is always open if you’d ever like to chat!
Thank you, as always, to Cee, for being such an amazing friend and beta!
As always, thank you all so much for reading! I hope you all have a wonderful week.
~✧~
Del Water Gap - Ode to a Conversation Stuck in Your Throat
Björk - Scary
Spell Songs - Selkie Boy
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 48
Summary:
And my reflection just won't smile back at me likе I know it should,
And I would turn into a stranger in an instant if I could,
And there is somеthing eating me alive, I don’t know what it is,
Maybe not that you conceal your feelings, they just don't exist.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Before tonight, everything Astarion knew about miniature models could be reduced to Lae’zel’s handpainted Warhammer figurines and Cazador’s collection of mass-produced PVC anime figurines. The latter populated the shelves above their off-center television in various states of undress, splayed out in compromising positions, all with a hazy, faraway look in their soulless eyes—dusty, silent witnesses to his nightly defilement.
He’d decided long ago that he hated them.
Gale, on the other hand, seemed endlessly fascinated by them, though his tastes skewed far less lewd than Cazador’s. He favored galleons with enormous sails and mermaid figureheads, fierce chromatic dragons that would dominate the moldering yellow landscape of his battlemaps, and modular medieval cityscapes that would tower over Lae’zel’s miniscule warriors. Thankfully, his spirits had only been momentarily deflated by the earlier scene that had played out downstairs. Somehow, they’d launched from the hells to the moon in no time at all, forgotten amidst the stars.
“Did you know that many of these models are made from recycled composite plastic?” he effused. “It’s better for the environment, but alas, it tends to be brittle and finicky, especially in the summer months when the weather is warm! Can’t begin to tell you how many of those near-microscopic parts I’ve had to glue back together. Worst of all, if you use the wrong type of paint, sometimes it dissolves. Learned that the hard way. A hard lesson in handling things delicately, indeed…”
Suddenly, the avalanche of words came to a gasping halt, and Astarion watched Gale excitedly pluck a large box from the shelf. He carefully scooped it into his arms with stars in his eyes. Its cover boasted an elaborate mind flayer ship—a nautiloid—presumably in pieces within.
“Now, this would’ve come in handy during our first session,” he marveled.
Astarion couldn’t hide the pointed smile that tapered at the edges of his lips as he stole furtive glances between Gale and his prized find. It was a strange thing, to find himself suddenly full of secondhand affection for what essentially boiled down to a hunk of lifeless plastic. “I don’t know,” he purred through his toothsome grin. “Personally I’d take the charcuterie board you made over this any day.”
“Agreed,” Gale nodded, glumly eyeing the price printed on the tiny yellow label in the upper right hand corner. “And it was far, far, far less expensive!”
“Tastier, too.”
The hours passed like minutes as they ambled through every vast aisle of Ramazith’s Tower in deep conversation. They delved into every illustrated hardcover, shimmering foil, and yellowing plastic they could get their hands on, past weighty stacks of eclectic board games that Astarion had never heard of. He lost himself in the ebullient, honey-like strains of Gale’s voice as he waxed rhapsodic, pulling from a seemingly fathomless well of trivia facts within him.
“Did you know that Vecna’s name is actually an anagram?”
“Oh? Of what?”
“‘Vance!’”
Astarion looked at him blankly, his brow furrowed.
“As in Jack Vance?” Gale hinted, though it was clear that the man’s full name had not been helpful in sparking any sign of recognition in Astarion. “He was a beloved fantasy and science fiction author from the Bay Area! His writings inspired the magic system we utilize in Dungeons & Dragons!”
Enamored, Astarion nodded politely as he listened, only slightly embarrassed that the only other fantasy author’s name that came to mind in that moment was R.A. Salvatore’s.
Gale opened up about hobbies he’d never divulged much about before, like his and Wyll’s shared love for collecting retro video games. He recounted the hours he’d feverishly spent playing Final Fantasy titles as a young boy. It had gotten to the point where he’d played it so often that the blue of the combat menus had engraved itself into his retinas whenever he closed his eyes.
Childlike excitement shone through his every pore as he recommended a novelty from his childhood—a handheld video game about slaying vampires that utilized actual solar power. What had been a ploy for his mother to encourage him to go outside more had sparked his childhood curiosity. Before he’d learned about photometric light sensors, the mystical cartridge had been proof enough in his eight-year-old mind that magic not only existed—but that its power could also be harnessed, captured like lightning in a bottle, and wielded just as efficiently.
“Silly,” he admitted.
“Adorable,” Astarion countered.
As he relished in just how easily the utterance of a single word had made Gale blush, he realized just how right Halsin had been. “Words are spells.”
“You’ve had more than enough of my blathering, I’m sure,” Gale murmured, choosing to fish through a clear cube filled to the brim with a mix of loose D20s. “What kind of games do you enjoy?”
“Video games? I don’t really play that often—if ever. The only console we have at home is Cazador’s.” Astarion spat his ex’s name out like it was a drop of bitter poison coating his tongue.
Gale blanched at the mention of Cazador’s name. His eyes darted down to his feet as if he expected the earth to open up and swallow him whole any minute. “Did he ever let you play?”
Astarion shuddered, remembering the evening that Cazador had tossed the controller to his side of the bed, for once, and turned off the lights. He’d laughed at Astarion as he fearfully snuck around in the gore and grime of the grisly horror game Cazador had foisted upon him. Whenever Astarion sought refuge in the few cramped and dark spaces the game afforded him, Cazador mocked his efforts to avoid the deranged, once-human monsters that patrolled the dim, dusty environment. His pronounced reactions to every visceral sight and sound did little to curb his torment outside the game.
He shrugged. “Sometimes. He’s always dominating it. By the time he’s finished with whatever game captured his attention for the week, it’s on to the next…”
“Surely there was something you enjoyed watching him play,” said Gale, perhaps a bit too optimistically. “I know it’s probably not the same, but when I was a toddler, I used to sit on my dad’s lap while he clicked around in Myst.”
“Erm, well,” Astarion ran a stressed hand through his hair, swaying in place as he mused, frustrated by the swaths of empty space in his memory. “I mean, I suppose I didn’t mind watching him play Skyrim every once in a while, but…”
His hand fled his temple to sift through the D20s alongside Gale’s. He frowned. Why was it so hard to remember his life before Cazador? Who had he been before they’d moved in together, before every facet of their lives were intertwined? At that moment, he wished he could be somebody else. Somebody who knew themselves, with a body Cazador had never touched, who could smile in mirrors without hating themselves—somebody Gale could easily fall in love with.
“I don’t know,” Astarion confessed. He swallowed. The admission tasted like bile.
Gale offered his most sympathetic of smiles. “We don’t need to keep talking about this if you don’t—”
“No— gods, it sounds like I’ve never played a single game my entire life,” Astarion laughed nervously. “There has to be something , I swear, I— wait! Don’t laugh. I—I liked—”
Heavy Rain.
He’d picked up a secondhand copy on a whim, nearly a decade after its release. Upon hearing that he was taking the day off to play it, Cazador, too, had called out sick, laying beside him in bed all the while. Astarion remembered the graze of a rogue ankle against his, the breathy moaning into his ear, the icy hands grasping under his shirt, trying to ply him away from the screen and under the covers. But the game’s rich narrative and murder plot had captured him in its vice-like grip, and for a few hours, it granted him the sweetest escape.
By the time Astarion had reached the game’s final act, the sun had just begun to set, and Cazador’s patience, too, plummeted to the ground in a meteoric fury. Astarion was forced to bribe away another bitter tirade with the only kind of currency he ever seemed to have anymore. The only thing Cazador ever seemed to truly want from him.
Sex. Reluctant sex.
He never touched Heavy Rain again, and the solution to its engrossing mystery remained forever unknown to him.
“—The Sims.”
A safe choice.
“Ah!” Gale beamed, face alight with recognition. “I applaud your taste! I always enjoyed playing God in a pocket-sized world.”
“I was more into the whole ‘jeopardizing pixel marriages with tawdry affairs’ aspect of the game, myself,” Astarion giggled. In truth, he remembered spending most of his afternoons creating Sims of his childhood crushes so they could sweep his Sim-self off his feet, but the thought of revealing what a hopeless romantic he’d been growing up was too embarrassing to entertain. “That, and having infinite money.”
Gale rolled his eyes, returning his attention to the box of dice and failing to hide his burgeoning smile. “Color me surprised.”
“Though, I suppose shipping all the children off to military school so that they wouldn’t have to witness the fallout from their parent’s divorces was also rather fun.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Am I really? What is my crime? Indulging in the ‘Comic Mischief’ that was promised on the box? I’m sure you’re well aware there are far worse things I could’ve been doing.”
“I was too busy enjoying Makin’ Magic to entertain such base activities.”
“How droll!” Astarion cooed. “Personally, I miss the days when the only choice I had to make was between outright evicting a family because I wanted their mansion, or finding creative ways to kill them instead because I enjoyed their taste in interior decorating too much. You can’t tell me you didn’t get into some ‘Comic Mischief’ of your own, Saint Dekarios.”
“Alright, I won’t lie and say The Sims wasn’t also my first foray into the world of schadenfreude—”
“Only that? Nothing involving vibrating heart-shaped beds?”
Gale folded his arms, his ears pinkening at the crass accusations—and this only delighted Astarion more.
“Oh, it’s worse?” he smirked. “Do I need to inquire about any incidents involving a missing pool ladder? Man-eating plants? Doorless rooms chock-full of explosives?”
“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” Gale muttered.
“Maybe.”
“Fine, so there may have been a few moments where I found myself a bit drunk with power,” Gale admitted with a mirthful little chuckle that quickly settled into a thoughtful sigh. He held a translucent blue D20 in the palm of his hand, and brought it up to the light. “We make capricious gods when left in charge of the little worlds entrusted to us, don’t we?” he said softly, before carefully setting it back with its brethren.
Astarion hummed, studying every detail of the pensive face he’d already committed to memory—just in case he was ever lucky enough to recreate it in The Sims someday. “And then we have the nerve to wonder why our gods are just as cruel.”
As he reached into the tub to fish out another die, their fingers collided, and they both found themselves engulfed in sudden silence. Their eyes met for a flash of time before they shyly retreated from one another, red in the face. Heat rushed from Astarion’s cheeks all the way down between his legs. He tightened his thighs, mortified by the intense toll that half a year spent craving Gale had taken on his body. Astarion held his breath. He half-hoped it would go unnoticed. The weight of the last words they’d spoken hung in the mute air around them until Gale finally broke the stretch of deafening silence.
“Indeed,” he said, clearing his throat. “On a far lighter note, Lae’zel told me she ran into you at the arcade just last week!”
Astarion’s lust evaporated, and his jaw tightened. “Oh, did she? How much did she tell you?”
“Only that you’re…what were her words again? Kinesthetically adept,” Gale grinned.
“Ah!” The grinding of Astarion’s teeth came to a merciful halt. That’s all.
“You’d sooner catch me wasting my life’s savings in quarters playing Dragon’s Lair than embarrassing myself by pretending to be half -decent at DDR,” Gale snarked.
“Pretending? That can only mean you’d be far more fun to watch.” Astarion punctuated his teasing with his signature three-pronged laugh. “Let me guess. You play on the easiest mode?”
Gale scoffed at his mockery, albeit good-naturedly. “It wounds me just how little faith you have in my abilities! I’m no Wyll Ravengard, but I’ve been known to trip the light fantastic myself. Mine was a popular hand at every school dance,” he boasted.
“Was it now?” Astarion’s giggling had ceased, but his impish smile lingered as the thought of Gale in a fitted suit was pushed to the forefront of his mind. He wondered what sort of flower had been honored to grace his lapel. “What a delightful surprise! I always pictured you spending your education voluntarily chained to your writing desk.”
“Ha! Only whenever I was hauled out from wherever my misadventures led me to write lines in detention,” Gale retorted, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “Or rather, finessing my autograph.”
“Pfft. You, writing lines?” Astarion pressed a hand to his cheek in mock surprise.
“Yes, me!” Gale exclaimed, chest puffed with pride. He seemed intent on wearing his childhood folly like it was a badge of honor. “Studious as I was, I wasn’t above the occasional exercise in poor judgement.”
A haughty smile crossed Astarion’s lips.
“Hm. Can’t relate.”
Notes:
Hello, readers! I've missed you so much!
First off, thank you for your patience. I hope life has been kind to you, though I'm sure it has been a mix of emotions for many of us at this point. Hopefully more good than bad.
I am deeply sorry that there has been such a long stretch of time without an update, but everything has been going on all at once. I've been managing my transition, making arrangements for my top surgery—I have a date!—and trying (in vain, sadly) to change the gender marker on my documents. I've had a lot on my plate.
In lighter news, I also met Neil (and a few of the other actors!)
And on both occasions, he was incredibly lovely and kind (and tall!) He remembered me—and even if he was just humoring me, it felt so nice to delude myself into thinking that I am at all memorable. I was first in line to get his autograph, and it was a truly special experience. He shook my hand. I got a chance to tell him how much his performance as Astarion made me feel seen, and that the game had sparked so much creativity that I thought I would never be able to tap into again. I told him I didn’t know how to introduce myself, but that there’s a name I’ve been considering taking as my own. He repeated it, told me it was a good name, and the whole time, I felt like my heart was either going to melt through all four floors and into the center of the earth or that it’d jump so high it’d hit a satellite.
I got a chance to let Devora know that Lae’zel is my absolute favorite character to write, hands down. She was so incredibly personable and sweet to everyone in her line, and absolutely gorgeous to boot!! They all were, but goodness, what a radiant person.
In a sweet little voice I can no longer imitate thanks to T, Jennifer (Shadowheart) looked at my hair (which I've started doing at home!) and exclaimed, “It’s giving ✨gaaaaayyyyy✨!” I regret my audio processing issues, because she had my number! I could’ve made some clever little quip relating to Shadowheart's Selunite hair, but in the moment, I was speechless. “You like boys!" is the vibe I gave off, and I love that.
Last weekend was the best early birthday present, and a wonderful reprieve from some of the particularly hardened lemons life has pelted my way.
It's hard to come back from such a long, unexpected hiatus. It's been a lot of start and stop, touch and go. Lots of 20 word sprints. Lots of not being happy with what I'm looking at, lots of questioning whether or not anything I bring to the table at all is even worth reading anymore. There have been a lot of tears, but there's also been that little occasional spark of accomplishment that often accompanies picking up an old hobby and finding that while you're on shakier legs, you haven't completely lost it. And I want to chase that spark to the very end.
I wanted to give a huge thanks to everyone who watched me give up on writing to play Dragon Age: Origins on multiple occasions. To every friend who sat with me whenever I’ve been anxious or sad or scared, and to every stranger who reached out to me worried about my silence: I’m indebted to you for caring in a way I genuinely hope I can pay forward someday.
I haven’t been doing well.
But I’m always trying to find reasons to be happy.
I owe much to Baldur’s Gate 3, and I don't feel even a bit silly about it. A friend of mine told me that games are art. Our souls are constantly reaching out and seeking connections, and there's no shame in finding solace in art. I feel so much less alone knowing that even in my darkest moments, I can always just boot up the game and say hello to Astarion, Gale, Karlach, Wyll, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart. They will always be there for me, no matter what.
Reading has been a challenge as of late, so I lamentably haven't been on AO3 as much. But I have come back occasionally to read your comments. They bring me a wealth of comfort.
Your words take that scrawny, 2019 version of me by the hand and tell him it’s going to be okay someday.
I hope mine can do the same for you.
~✧~
Sleep Token - DYWTYLM
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 49
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Vrrt-vrrt!
Astarion’s phone rattled through the fabric of his back pocket against the door of the car parked beside Gale’s Subaru, vying to steal his focus with its demanding pulse. On any given day of the week, that jarring dual rhythm would have succeeded in its efforts to ensnare him, but as the night wore on, his fragile mind had become a fortress. He’d decided hours ago that his time with Gale was sacrosanct.
Bearing witness to his attempt to conceal his mammoth purchase from Sorcerous Sundries behind the driver’s seat was a far better way to waste it.
The monster painted on the box glared up at the overcast sky through the sunroof with the contemptuous glare of a deep sea siren tangled in an unsuspecting fisherman’s net. To add insult to the creature’s injured pride, its ferocious visage was slowly being buried beneath a stack of library books and a blanket that was far too warm for the humid mid-May air.
Astarion recognized the blanket as the same woolen one that had kept him from freezing when Gale had graciously chauffeured him home from D&D in January. Some of the book covers looked familiar too—long overdue at this point.
Another sharp vrrt-vrrt went ignored. No vibration could ever hope to contend with the sound of Gale’s gentle humming permeating the thick, petrichor-suffused atmosphere with its sweetness—until it was abruptly cut short by a stern warning.
“I see you looking, Astarion,” he cautioned, locking eyes through the glass of the backseat and lightly wagging an admonishing finger in the air. “No peeking!”
“Gale!” Astarion clutched his chest and gasped, scandalized. “I’d never do such a thing! What do you think of me?”
“The best,” Gale replied with a slight shake of his head. “Let me hope I’m not mistaken. After all, I’m not known for being the best judge of character.”
With the sharp click of teeth against tongue, Astarion humored him by averting his gaze—though not without offering the most dramatic of sulky eye-rolls. His focus finally settled upon a blackened piece of gum, forever fused into the wet, sun-faded asphalt beneath his boots.
It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t peeked—not technically , anyway. He’d gotten a decent gander at the box while Gale had been prattling on about it to the disinterested, thin-lipped shop attendant (whose familiar voice he still couldn’t place, much to his vexation.) After the barcode had been scanned, he’d swaddled it in his shrugged off flannel to keep its shrink wrapped contents safe from potential drizzle and wandering eyes alike.
The celicate monstrosity he cradled like a newborn babe was a colossal heap of bones and mummified skin, clad in ceremonial garb and wielding an enormous scythe in its skeletal grip. Contained within its cubed confines, it sat trapped inside suffocating plastic like well-preserved remains in a gelatinous cube, unpainted and in pieces.
Okay, so maybe he’d peeked.
But he hadn’t meant to! His intention was to admire the way Gale was squeezing the box so tightly against his chest.
The way one of its corners jutted into his soft, flushed cheek while another bit into the plush skin of his exposed bicep.
How he’d practically skipped with his prize across the parking lot, joyously leaping over puddles from the earlier rainfall with little care for how each skip would further punish his aching knees, wearing a boyish little smile on his face the whole way.
Astarion smiled. There was plenty worth peeking at when it came to Gale.
Catching a glimpse of the monster in his arms had been purely incidental.
At the realization that Astarion’s attention hadn’t once wavered from between his shoes, Gale’s determination to hide the figure slowed. His eyes widened in quiet realization. “You’ve already peeked, haven’t you?”
One of Astarion’s slightly-pointed canines nipped guiltily at his lower lip as he stifled a telltale grin.
Gale groaned. “Oh, for the love of—you have to promise you won’t tell anyone!”
Gods, he’s so cute when he’s upset, Astarion thought. “Not even Lae’zel? I’m sure she’d love to get her hands on this— whatever this is.”
“Not even Lae’zel,” Gale repeated firmly, giving his spoiled surprise a resolute pat before shutting the door closed and rising from his knees with a strained grunt. “I mean it! Promise?”
The subversive smile Astarion had been trying to suppress finally wrested itself free with a small snicker. “My, how the tables have turned. Can you believe that once upon a time, you were the one feeling burdened by the secrets I asked you to keep?”
“Please.” Gale shot him a pained look, and Astarion very quickly dialed down his amusement.
“Fine,” he huffed, slumping his shoulders. “Consider my pretty lips sealed. I don’t even know what the damned thing is for, though I can wager a few guesses, since you’re so giddy about it. It’s going to kill us all, isn’t it?”
Provided we ever play again, of course.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Gale said, flashing a smile that was as confusingly reassuring as it was wicked as he wrapped the sleeves of the flannel around his waist. “Your patience will be amply rewarded.”
Astarion barked a laugh. “With death?”
“No! Well, ‘death’ always comes down to more of a ‘maybe’ than a ‘given’ when it comes down to matters such as these, but I think you—” A pointed gasp escaped Gale’s lips mid-sentence as a fat drop of rain spattered squarely onto his forehead. It sprinted down every crease of his brow before he brushed it off. “Oh,” he remarked softly, looking expectantly up at the darkening sky. “A lone harbinger of more to come, no doubt.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s been raining on and off all evening, hasn’t it?”
“I suppose it has,” Astarion murmured, his hand drifting to his sternum to dab at a raindrop that rolled down his collarbone, heavy and warm. His fingers met the borrowed coffin nail, stroking its length for comfort as another drop fell. Then another. And another. As each droplet succumbed to gravity’s lure, he realized how little sand was left trickling in the hourglass—how little time with Gale he had left to hoard in the ephemeral aegis he’d forged.
Gale gazed across the car at him without saying a word, running a thoughtful hand through his beard as the rain began to dapple the shoulders of his black tee. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose we should—”
“—yeah, we should—” Astarion interjected in a matching timbre, his hand hovering over the door handle as a wave of thunder rolled in the distance. “Before it gets any worse, I mean.”
His heart folded into itself as he watched the raindrops pepper the windshield, overencumbered by disappointment as he waited for the door to unlock.
I don’t want to go home.
“Hang on, let’s not be too hasty!”
Astarion’s eyes widened. “Oh?”
“If you’ll indulge me for just a few moments, I was hoping we could pop into Undermountain before capping off our little night of revelry.”
“Undermountain?”
Gale nodded, peering over Astarion’s shoulder and pointing to a shop a few doors down. It was plastered in several decades’s worth of faded band posters, its entryway lit up by a guitar-shaped neon sign. A large plastic milk crate out front boasted a surfeit of steeply discounted second-hand vinyls. “I’m in dire need of some new strings,” he added meekly. “Unless you would rather—”
“No!” Astarion replied all too quickly, amazed that he wasn’t levitating a few inches off the ground. His heart was equally as weightless in his chest: a hummingbird, fluttering wildly. “I mean, yes, of course! I’d love to stay out a bit longer. The night is still young, after all.”
“Most excellent!” Gale beamed. The street lamps overhead flickered to life, illuminating his eyes like the freshly-lit fuse of a firework. With a flourish, he extended his arm and ushered Astarion to join him under the covered walkway. “Now what do you say? Shall we get out of the rain?”
Astarion blinked before following him to shelter, hoping the evening was still dim enough to conceal the flush that had overtaken his complexion. Through the gauzy veil of his rain-drenched fringe, he looked into the stars that twinkled in Gale’s eyes and wondered if it would be too forward to lean forward and kiss him.
Instead, he said, “It’s getting late for business. Aren’t they closing up soon?”
Gale grinned slyly. “It won’t be any bother at all.”
“You sound suspiciously sure of that.”
“Let’s just say the owner happens to be a friend of mine.”
~✧~
In place of a shopkeeper’s bell, a plucked dulcimer had been mounted face down above Undermountain Guitars and Repair’s otherwise unassuming door frame. Its fingerboard spanned the length of its teardrop-shaped body, and as Gale pulled the door open, a severed headstock fixed upon its right-most stile brushed against the instrument’s four airy strings, humming a pleasant chord—D major. It had been one of Astarion’s favorites from the bygone days of his college years.
He stared up at the apparatus in reverent awe before stepping all the way inside, taking joy in its second strum as the door closed shut. The resonant sound echoed into the store, seeming to have summoned the redolent perfume of alder and rosewood with its glorious resonance—an amenable trade for the earthy scent of wet grass and burnt ozone.
The final minute of “Oh! You Pretty Things” hummed from a hi-fi radio behind the counter, replete with enough levers and knobs to rival the flight controls in an airplane cockpit. The only one Astarion recognized on sight was the volume knob, which was turned all the way down to the lowest setting, rendering the ambrosia of David Bowie’s primordial baritone a wavering whisper before it elegantly faded into the crisp opening notes of Billy Joel’s “Vienna.”
Gale did, indeed, seem to know the owner—quite well, in fact. From what Astarion had gleaned from both the abridged briefing he’d received prior to entry and the snippets of their sagacious conversation, Halaster Blackcloak was nothing short of an eccentric weirdo. He was wild-eyed and grizzled, with an unkempt mane of receding grey hair and a similarly neglected beard that hadn’t seen a razor in years. Underneath an open, moth-eaten bowling shirt, he wore a faded black band tee emblazoned with the gnarled, maze-like logo of a band Astarion had never heard of before: Mad Mage.
The luthier seemed completely incapable of having anything less than an erudite conversation centered around his own interests. He did not bother to introduce himself or even acknowledge Astarion’s presence in his shop, as if he could somehow sense that his comprehension of music theory and woodcarving were lacking compared to Gale’s—and even he seemed to be in a spot of trouble when it came to keeping up.
The eerie pink glow from a vintage lava lamp on the countertop hewed into every deep-set wrinkle and hollow of the old coot’s permanently unsettled face as he jabbered on, and for the second time, Astarion found himself retreating from yet another lingo-laced exchange that made him feel ineducably stupid. He chose instead to observe the mesmerizing ebb and flow of the wax orbs as they floated aimlessly, long-incarcerated in their vertical, oil-filled vessel.
Gale shot back an apologetic look as he tried to gracefully cut the rambling lecture about all the different varieties of tonewood short. “Sorry. He likes to hear himself talk,” he mouthed.
Astarion read his lips as best as he could and mouthed back, “It’s alright.”
There was no point in protesting. There were more grains of sand in the metaphorical hourglass than there had been fifteen minutes prior. Anything was worth enduring if it meant prolonging the tolling of those dreaded midnight chimes.
Eventually, he decided to step away and meander through the store to pass the time, leaving Gale to purchase his strings and stumble through the pop quiz Halaster had sprung on him. He strolled past walls bearing a menagerie of instruments he couldn’t play that were worth double his rent. Several of their sound holes were circled by a narrow rainbow ring of abalone shell. Custom glittering pickguards shimmered underneath the display lighting. Blinding steel resonators reflected back a warped mockery of his face, ghostly and undefined.
His short sojourn led him to the sanctuary of a soundproof wooden room. One wall was covered in dark grey foam, and another was made up of floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out into the rest of the store. The room was filled with flashy pedals featuring various effects that were begging to be tested, amplifiers waiting for the next warlike screams that would pass through them, and a myriad of hollow guitars that were each calling out for him to touch them.
With inexperienced digits, Astarion weakly strummed an open chord right above the saddle of one that had been dyed a deep shade of oxblood. He watched the strings pulse as his fingers withdrew. The sound was clean, bouncing off all the bodies in the room—wood and flesh alike—all vestiges of a world that he’d once stood on the fringes of but no longer belonged to.
Gingerly, he took the guitar down from its hanger and pulled up one of the plush leather barstools to sit upon. He adjusted his posture, struggling to find a comfortable position while balancing the rounded curve of the hefty instrument against his thigh. He plucked a few improvised chords, wincing at the discordant fruit of his unsophisticated efforts.
As he wrought out a few more sour strums, he wondered to himself how differently it would sound in the capable hands of a veteran like Gale—and it dawned on him that even though the man had readily boasted about having twenty-plus years of experience under his belt when they’d first met, never once had he actually heard Gale play. He thought of the few times his uncalloused fingertips had grazed his skin and ruminated on whether or not any of their friends had either.
“I can lend you a third left hand if you need one.”
Startled, Astarion’s head snapped to the doorway. There Gale stood, with a Mort Garson vinyl tucked underneath his arm, a small brown envelope in his hand, and an amused smirk on his damnable face. “Sorry it took me so long to get away.”
“Yes, your friend seemed…passionate.”
“That’s one word for it.”
A teasing smirk crossed Astarion’s face. Heavy lidded eyes flickered up to meet Gale’s. “Nothing wrong with that. Honestly, it was endearingly familiar.”
Gale’s smile softened, and he exhaled a quiet huff from his nose. “Touché.”
“Tell me, are all your friends fifty years older than you, Gale?” Astarion mussed his slightly damp curls as he rose from the stool and returned the guitar to its place. “Because I’m starting to wonder if you’ve got a type.”
“A type?” Gale’s brows shot up to the ceiling, and his cheeks were overcome by a humbling rush of blood. He set the vinyl and his strings down by the entryway and gently shut the door closed. “Like I said, Halaster’s just a friend,” he mumbled. “A long-time family friend and mentor of clan Dekarios, at that, and a consummate professional in his craft. Nothing more, I swear—”
“I’m teasing, Gale,” Astarion laughed, quickly administering a soothing balm to the ego he’d bruised with his ribbing. “All in good fun. No need to explain yourself, darling.”
“O-oh,” Gale murmured, the stress on his face abating as he regained his conversational footing. “Right! Only joking. Hah.”
“He seems…” Like he’s utterly insane. “Interesting.”
“I’m glad you agree. Halaster’s a fascinating man indeed. A lifelong scholar. He’s written and published several dozen primers and academic journals on both complex twenty-first-century music theory and the dying art that is luthiering.”
“I see,” Astarion nodded in consensus, though he struggled to see the genius Gale clearly respected past the babbling lunatic he’d met.
“To be quite frank, the man is a bit of an enigma. Never told me where he studied, though I suspect he was taken in as an apprentice in—wherever he’s from. He mentored my father.”
“He offers lessons?” Astarion asked incredulously.
Gale nodded. “Taught him how to play when he was a boy. Why? Most musicians offer lessons.”
“I know, it’s just—” Astarion was on the verge of saying something steeped in bitterness over feeling so invisible, but he held his venomous tongue. “Let’s just say he didn’t sound like he had much patience for children while he was prattling on about inversions.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised! Sure, Halaster’s a hard man to please. But he took a liking to my father. A liking that fortunately extends to me. Yes, he’s a bit…long in the tooth.”
“And chatty.”
“Indeed. Quite verbose,” Gale agreed. “Truth be told, between this shop, his home, and the bowling alley, he doesn’t put himself in the way of opportunities for socializing. But there’s a tender heart hiding behind that thorny exterior of his.”
Astarion could no longer keep his doubt bridled. He looked at Gale as if he’d sprouted a second head mid-sentence.
“Oh, don’t judge the old man too harshly. I’ve seen it!” Gale defended. “He’s even looked after Tara once or twice on the rare occasions when I couldn’t travel with her.”
At this notion, Astarion burst into a fit of tittering laughter, but Gale’s expression remained soberingly steady.
“Oh. You’re serious.” He peered through the glass over at the counter where Blackcloak stood. The old graybeard stared back, austere and unblinking. Flinching, Astarion quickly ducked his head back down and expeditiously rolled his chair behind one of the taller amplifiers. He looked back at Gale incredulously. “You leave your cat with this man.”
“Of course I do,” answered Gale, wholly unflappable.
“And she doesn’t spend most of her visits hiding under his bed?” he croaked. Because that’s where I would be if I were only tall enough to bite the Cryptkeeper’s ankles.
“Goodness, no! She may be a bit untrusting of strangers, but Tara absolutely adores her ‘uncle’ Hal! He’s always very sweet with her. Always follows her meal plans to the letter. I swear, it’s as if there’s a secret language they share. Probably gossiping behind my back while I’m not around, I’d wager.” A small, sad chuckle resonated in Gale’s throat. “He’s a lonely man. Perhaps I would do well to reach out more often so he can converse with someone who possesses a wider vocabulary.”
Gale Dekarios was many things—but if there was one thing Astarion knew for certain it was that he was not a very good liar. And while he was starting to have serious doubts that this detour was as “impromptu” a stop on their itinerary as Gale was trying to make it seem, he also recognized that any chicanery the man was capable of diminished greatly when the care and keeping of his venerable cat was at stake.
Finding an ounce of bravery in his shallow heart, Astarion peered over the edge of the amp he’d designated his bunker and watched Halaster tap away at a calculator, annotating the sums of his daily sales on a blank scrap of receipt paper. His brow seemed somewhat less stern, his lip less gnarled, his eyes less savage.
And like Gale, he, too, had the habit of drumming his pen against the table.
“It’s all you ever talk about,” the voice of the elegant woman from earlier echoed in the back of his mind. “Nobody wants to hear about it.”
Astarion cringed at the memory of the way Gale’s face had fallen.
These were words that had poisoned his ears before, no doubt. Words he himself had been forced to hear countless times.
About Interview with the Vampire, once Cazador had gotten bored with it.
His fascination with Drizzt’s exploits.
Music.
Chagrined, Astarion cursed the harsh judgments that tarnished his innermost thoughts. Oddness aside, at least Halaster held fast to his convictions and embraced what he was enthused by, uninhibited by whatever the world thought of him.
Astarion, on the other hand? He had lost his love for music years ago, let it go, and watched it drift into space like a wayward balloon like the spineless coward he was.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt free enough to love anything the way Halaster loved music.
The way Gale loved so many things.
He envied them both for enjoying their interests so unabashedly. He could not fathom a world where either musician was silenced the way he had been silenced.
The way he had silenced himself.
“I don’t think you realize how much you’re annoying everyone around you.”
As the woman’s words rang in Astarion’s head, he sank deeper into his chair, chest fit to burst with the pressure of knowing that he resembled her more than he did either of them.
“You know, I bought my first guitar here,” Gale remarked, tactfully breaking the silence that had befallen them. He closed his eyes as he reminisced, inhaling the sweet scent of wood. “I had to have been—what, fourteen years of age? I saved all my allowance and birthday money for months.”
Astarion quirked an eyebrow, glancing askance at one of the price tags. “First?”
“Well, the first one I paid for, anyway.”
“How many guitars do you have?”
“Too many,” Gale admitted, taking down one of the more rustic-looking acoustics from the wall. “I’m known to be an avid collector. Could probably stand to sell a few of them.”
“Which one is your favorite?”
Gale grinned, scrolling through his phone’s gallery through an endless stream of thousands of photos of Tara—his whole entire world, if his fascination with capturing her every movement was any indication—periodically interrupted by screenshots of D&D memes that were sure to be groaners, knowing his sense of humor. He finally came across what he had been looking for, and enlarged a picture of an iridescent, obnoxiously hot pink electric guitar.
Astarion hummed. “I expected it to be more…I don’t know. Purple?”
“Why would it be?” Gale asked, completely nonplussed as he sank into one of the padded leather stools with a soft oof.
Shrugging, Astarion’s eyes flicked down to the faded lavender lining of Gale’s chucks. He bit back a coy smile, before meeting his gaze once more. “No reason.”
Mesmerized, he watched as Gale took a black elastic hair tie from his wrist. He pulled back the few errant locks of starlight-blessed hair that cascaded onto his temples, expertly wrangling the strands into his usual half-bun. The stool creaked beneath his weight as he shifted forward, letting the guitar rest on his bent knee while he searched for a tuning video he could reference on his phone.
“It was my father’s,” he finally said, fussing with the first peg of the guitar as he pulled the string along to the guide. “An old B.C. Rich ST III, from ‘87. The year he met my mother. It’s one of the few possessions he left behind when he passed.”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion murmured softly. “I figured he’d left, but I didn’t realize he’d—”
Gale looked up with a gentle smile. “Don’t fret,” he reassured, pointing cheekily at the neck of the guitar.
Though it felt wildly inappropriate, Astarion couldn’t help but giggle. “Gods, Gale, really?” he wheezed, garroting another laugh with a strategic clearing of his throat. “Dad jokes, at a time like this?”
“Another inheritance of mine. They don’t call me the Pun-geon Master for nothing,” Gale bantered, his finger thoughtfully gravitating towards the next string. “No harm done. I was eight. I’ve had a whole lifetime to grieve,” he said, his tone easy. Practiced.
“It doesn’t make it any less of a shit hand to have been dealt,” Astarion said softly, taking note of the melancholy look in his large brown eyes—the sort that even the brightest of smiles couldn’t hide well enough.
Gale didn’t answer right away. His hands moved with care as he set the guitar down at his side. He reached for his wallet, fingers moving with deliberate focus. “I’ve made peace with it,” he said at last, rifling through each pocket until he finally found a worn guitar pick, setting it between his lips, leaning forward to retrieve his chosen instrument.
“I’m glad you’ve made your peace. Death is never easy.”
“Babe or crone, coward or hero, death is assured. One of life’s only certainties.” He punctuated his morbid sentence with a pleasant strum. “But enough about death.”
And he began to play.
At first, Gale’s picking was somewhat clumsy, and he stumbled over a few of the fingerings as he noodled around. But the longer he played, the more Astarion could see the synapses firing off behind his furrowed brow, fighting to make up for lack of practice. His proficiency began to shine through like afternoon rays of sunlight breaking through the slats in his apartment’s lone window. The initial shyness melted away, giving in to an unrelenting wave of confidence and competence. Sparks of lightning crackled from his fingertips as he breathed life into complex runs. Melodies were born from metal strings, winding, snaking, and hypnotic.
Astarion had to remind himself to breathe.
It was beautiful. Free.
Gale looked up, and his eyes widened, suddenly overly aware of Astarion’s presence in the room. Concentration broken, his fingers halted abruptly on the strings, and the music fizzled out mid-phrase like a worn out spell sputtering out of existence. A hint of shyness returned. “Sorry. I allowed myself to get carried away, didn’t I?”
“Oh, don’t let me stop you!” Astarion crooned through a wry, impish smile. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that.”
“Really?” Gale asked, a rising hope in his voice that would’ve conjured an ache in even the stoniest of hearts. “Because I understand if I’ve bored you, and I—”
“Bored?” Pride brimmed within Astarion’s heart until it bubbled over, flowing into his every effusive word. “I can’t imagine ever being bored” —of you— “with that!”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing? That wasn’t nothing! You’re”— incredible —“a person of rare talent. You deserve”— something real —“all the praise in the world.”
Gale’s cheeks burned a lovely shade of pink. “I’m not—”
“I’m impressed! I want”— us to be something real —“you to play me something else! Please? Pretty please?”
“No, no, no,” Gale shook his head emphatically—though his paper-thin diffidence couldn’t hide the glint in his eye that betrayed his true enjoyment of the ballyhoo. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“So the great Gale Dekarios is all talk, then?” Astarion teased, leaning back in his stool and smugly crossing his arms. “I should’ve known.”
He’d thrown down the gauntlet—and he knew that Gale would not resist it for long.
“Alright, fine,” Gale relented, sighing theatrically as he adjusted his hands, and without missing a beat, he began to strum the opening descending chords to a song Astarion recognized immediately—“Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls—only to cut his performance wretchedly short, halting his playing just four measures into the song.
“Ugh, why the hells did you stop?!” Astarion whined, playacting that he was languishing in his seat.
“That’s all you’re getting out of me,” Gale jested, deigning to get up to put the guitar back up on the wall. “Gods, you’re unappeasable.”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is insatiable.”
“They both mean the same thing!”
“Gods,” Astarion groaned, pretending to crumple into himself, burying his face and exhaling sharply into the crimson fabric of his sleeves. “Alright, so I’m unappeasable and insatiable —”
“And dramatic,” Gale added. “Can’t forget that one.”
“Not to mention difficult, if you’re really going over all of my many flaws with a fine toothed comb,” he retorted, peering over his arms pleadingly. “Though not nearly half as difficult as you!”
Gale snorted. “Difficult?”
“Cruel!” Astarion cried out, failing to suppress a titter of playful laughter before remembering he was pretending to be upset and resetting the frown on his face. “Depriving me of your playing.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. I’m not an unreasonable man.” A sly, self-satisfied grin spread across Gale’s face. It was maddeningly attractive—but there was something else to it that stirred uncertainty deep within the pit of Astarion’s stomach. “Fine. I’ll play you a song—”
“Yes!”
“—but only if you sing with me.”
“What?! Absolutely not!!”
“So the great Astarion Ancunín is all talk, then?” Perhaps moved by the expression on Astarion’s face, Gale’s timbre softened slightly. “You don’t have to—”
“Fine.” To his utmost horror, his lips moved before his mind could stop them, and his hands were too slow to clamp them shut. Panic-stricken, he looked over at Gale, seeking a lifeline he wasn’t sure he’d find in any of the creases of his beautiful face.
And oh, how that face beamed at him in pleased astonishment—almost as if he hadn’t been expecting a “yes.”
Why had he said yes, he wondered?
He looked down at his wrist, the imaginary ribbon tied around it pulling him towards the sky like the buoyant soul of a youth, unburdened.
His soul—or at least what it had been before his dreams had been deflated.
Before the cruel prick of thorns against his throat had silenced him forever.
Out of options, he stared helplessly through the glass at Halaster Blackcloak.
And through his blurred vision, he could have sworn that the scruffy old man looked markedly less impassive than before.
In fact, he was smiling at him.
At both of them.
It was a surprisingly easy smile, in spite of the haggard edges of his face. Gentle, even—bearing a measure of docility that made Astarion feel silly for doubting that he could bond with studious children and persnickety, well-looked-after senior cats.
If the smile wasn’t strange enough, he gave him a stiff, inelegant thumbs up—a show of goodwill from a frail hand.
Not sure what to do with himself, Astarion returned the gesture with his own shaky imitation.
Looking pleased, Halaster bowed his head before retreating to the eerie green glow of the store’s back room and closing the door shut.
He turned back to Gale, who was still beaming optimistically.
Too late to take it back now.
“Alright. You dare to dance with a professional, you’ll get your desire.”
~✧~
Astarion stared up at the walls of the deadened room, wondering how he’d managed to let himself get roped into singing not once, but twice within the same twenty-four hours. The squares of acoustic foam warped and changed, looming nearer to him with each passing second, threatening to smother him.
C’mon Astarion. You did this earlier. You can do it again.
His right leg shook reflexively as he fought to keep his feet flat on the wooden floor, instinctively straightening his back. In a feeble attempt to practice his breathing, he took two deep sips of air into his diaphragm. Both were raged and soundless, hardly filling an ounce of the space in his lungs.
He turned his attention to Gale—his bright-colored life preserver in the sullen ocean of his anxiety—and he studied his every comparatively unperturbed movement.
Don’t let him know how nervous you are, he told himself, though he knew full well that no amount of posturing would be enough to conceal his disquietude.
The peal of a phone notification propelled Astarion back to Earth with a jolt.
He accepted the airdropped PDF he’d been sent, scrambling to open the file.
“Alright, Mr. Professional,” Gale smirked. “Can you read this?”
Upon opening the file, each stave and bar line swam around his starved and anxious mind. The notes, too, swirled erratically across the page until all he could make of it was a gnarled mess of inky carnage, each note bleeding further as his vision blurred behind tears.
It had been a long time since he’d held sheet music in his hands. Longer still since he’d been expected to sight-read.
Doleful, he looked back on the days where he would have had no trouble reading this. His tongue felt thick and leaden behind tightened lips.
“I’ll try,” he swallowed, feeling embarrassingly illiterate. “It’s been a while.”
“Hey,” Gale said softly, scooting his chair next to Astarion’s and closing the distance between them. “No matter what happens, you’ll be alright. I promise.”
“Even if I crash and burn?” Astarion asked, shrinking back.
“Even if you crash and burn,” Gale reassured. “It’s just the two of us here. Absolutely zero judgement. And that goes both ways, mind you. I’m not the virtuoso I once was. Now, I recorded the second guitar last night—”
“I knew it!” Astarion crowed, enjoying how quickly Gale’s expression shifted as the realization of what he’d just admitted to set in. “‘I’m in dire need of new strings!’ You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”
“To be fair, I did need new strings,” Gale admitted guiltily. “They broke midway through my recording last night, so I had to improvise.”
“I thought you were out with Caz last night,” Astarion murmured, holding his arms tight against his body as he leaned forward, searching Gale’s wrinkled brow for any signs of malignant dishonesty.
To his relief, he could find none.
“I stayed up late. Suffered for it in the morning, though I suspect it will have been worth it. Anyway, the song’s in common time. There’s a syncopated rhythm—lots of triplets, but don’t let them trip you up.” Gale laughed at his own pun before continuing. “It’s around sixty…sixty-five beats per minute? Like your heart rate.”
Astarion snorted. “Oh, my heart rate right now? I’m afraid it’s not exactly the most reliable of metronomes at the moment.”
“You’ll be alright,” Gale repeated with utter sincerity. He gently tapped the beat against the guitar’s body.
With a cupped hand, Astarion tapped along against his sternum.
One-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three-one-two three…
Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump…
“Now, you come in on an eighth note—see that? The third off-beat of the fifth measure. Think you can follow along?”
He nodded feebly, staring through the sheet music on his cracked phone screen. “I—I think so,” he said, failing to keep his voice from trembling.
“Astarion, I—” Gale silenced himself almost as quickly as he began to speak.
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid I might have been a bit presumptuous in my efforts to perform with you tonight. Admittedly, this whole attempt has been selfish of me,” he confessed apologetically, exhaling heavily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impose or to be inconsiderate of you. You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.”
“I want to,” Astarion said, surprising himself with the heat of the fire that blazed behind his words. “I want to at least try. Just—try not to laugh if I completely fuck up.”
A comforting smile returned to Gale’s countenance. “Alright, then. Maybe it’d do us both some good to breathe together. Okay?”
Astarion nodded. “Okay.”
“Good. Now take a deep breath. With me.”
Inhale.
“And breathe out.”
Exhale.
“You’ve got this,” Gale reassured. “And I promise you that I will catch you if you fall.”
Feeling his face grow warm, Astarion drew another shaky breath. “Do you promise?”
As sure as I rise. “I promise. Ready?”
Astarion nodded again, and Gale pressed play on the recording he’d made. A crackling, tinny simulacrum of Gale’s voice from the night before floated from the speakers and counted them in.
“One, two, three, four.”
Gale began to harmonize with himself, his startlingly dexterous fingertips extracting a crisp and delicate melody line from the oscillating strings. The pace of the song was faster than Astarion had been anticipating, each chord high-spirited and teeming with life, unusually reverberant despite the anechoic space. The sheet music in his hands became indistinct, blurring into the periphery of his vision. Gale had once again stolen his focus, drawing him into each and every movement. He closed his eyes, attuned to the quiet passion infused into each and every note Gale played.
Startled by the sudden countdown, Astarion stumbled back into place, drew one final shuddering breath, and opened his mouth to sing the first line.
“I wonder if I even noticed at all when I started to change.
How’d I so carelessly let my life fall into your hands?
You should know I find it hard
To tell you how it feels
When I hide behind this wall of broken pride.”
With each line, his voice strengthened, and before long, he was swept up in his euphoria as he realized that this wasn’t a dead language for him after all. It was as if he’d never stopped singing.
Eagerly, he searched Gale’s face for a sign of approval, and unsurprisingly, he found it in spades.
He’d struck a vein of diamonds, liquid gold pouring from his throat.
“If there’s one thing to say, I guess it’s the truth,
Though you know I’m beyond
Poetic cries of unrequited love,
You should know that I’m thinking of you,
Always, always.”
Halfway through the second verse, Gale allied his voice with Astarion’s, interwoven a third above his baritone. He wasn’t the strongest singer, his deep voice quivering like a bubbling spring, but Astarion couldn’t have cared any less. His heart hammered a beat ahead of the music as Gale serenaded him.
Bathed in the overhead, he looked practically elysian as his fingers danced along the fretboard.
He was in his domain. In his element. He was good.
And gods, was it easy to fall even deeper in love with him.
The bridge would have been nearly identical to the introduction, were it not for Gale rhythmically beating against the guitar’s hollow wood with the side of his palm, still occasionally strumming.
As if he knew Astarion would miss his cue, he sang the next line in barely a whisper.
“I’m at your mercy.”
The last note buzzed sonorously in Gale’s chest, and as he repeated the poignant words a second time, his utterance grew stronger, hopelessly earnest, full of yearning.
“I’m at your mercy.”
The third time, Astarion joined in, an octave above.
“I’m at your mercy.”
Their voices entwined one last time before coming apart.
“I’m at your mercy.”
As they approached the conclusion, Gale broke off into an impressive guitar solo, delving deeper into a well of skill that Astarion could not imagine ever running dry. With each measure, he lost himself more and more in the music, body hunched over as if in prayer, sweat-laden brow creasing as he improvised on the tablature.
And as the wood wept its final refrain into their tiny shared space, the tiniest, self-assured smirk was plastered on Gale’s bearded face. He turned towards the ceiling, basking in the glow of the golden light above as he caught his breath.
Deservedly so, Astarion thought, debating whether or not it would be gauche to clap, still reeling from the exhilaration of having sung for him.
While still contemplating the answer, a shock of purpled ink peeked over the neckline of Gale’s shirt, stopping his thoughts dead in their tracks.
He was struck by the sudden awareness that he’d been offered a rare glimpse of a different Gale—the one Mystra had known.
The Gale who had been woefully smitten by her.
The Gale she had courted, cornered, and captured.
He'd seen the man—no, the boy he was before she’d broken his heart to pieces, before he'd been left begging for mercy at the altar of love to a Goddess who would never return it.
Her reward after years of devotion had been silence.
Astarion decided that his gift would be different. Livelier.
To Gale's alarm, he leapt up from his seat like a spring.
And without shame, Astarion burst into raucous applause, the uplifting strains of his uncaged elation flooding the room full of music once more.
Notes:
Hello, my dear readers! I’ve missed you very much. I’m sorry I haven’t been around, and doubly so for the lapse between postings. This chapter endured an unfathomable number of rewrites, cuts, re-edits, etc.! I wanted to nail the vibe I was going for and write something sweet and intimate. I hope I succeeded. I'm really proud of how this chapter turned out.
Some notes:
I used to really struggle when it came to writing Gale. Through all of my time writing Seen, I always wanted to do him right and serve his character justice. But I feel like I understand him better than ever now—for better or worse.
This chapter is one of those moments that deviates from the reality of my life. It was always meant to be a sweet homage to a song my boyfriend dedicated to me six years ago, when we finally started dating after we were through all of this mess. As I was writing it, it began to feel sort of like a conversation—a duet—between the struggles my current self is facing and the anxiety my past self was dealing with.
I know that at the end of the day, this is my hobby. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that Seen is also my greatest source of pride. This is my legacy. This is what I want to be remembered for. This is what I’m going to leave behind. I’m forever happy that survivors have found solace, validation, and entertainment in my words.Thank you to Lunarwench for helping me flesh this idea out back in October when I first started outlining the date, and an extra special thanks to a_void and cweepa for beta-reading this chapter, offering your suggestions, and helping me get me out of my head. You are angels, and talented writers to boot. I am extremely grateful to you all.
And as always, thank you so much for reading. May life forever be kind to you all, even when it rains. <3
-ayves
~✧~Sailor Song - Gigi Perez
David Bowie - Oh! You Pretty Things
Billy Joel - Vienna
The Goo Goo Dolls - Iris
With Ether - At Your Mercy ⋆˙⟡ The most important song on this list, by leagues. Please give it some love. ✧
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
Chapter 50
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“You snuck all those baby rabbits into your mother's pantry?!"
“I did! One by one! They were tiny things, but in my grubby little hands they seemed enormous! Soft, too. Like velvet."
“Hells. My teeth are rotting right out of my skull just picturing it.”
“My mother took an awful fright. She found the little ones all huddled for warmth in a potato sack, and me in the garden, covered in dirt and crying because I couldn’t find mumma rabbit to come and join them.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh yes. Thankfully, we managed to return the kits to their nest, and the mother turned up shortly after to care for them. As for me, I got a stern talking to from mine. She’s since enthralled many friends and prospective lovers with tales of my ‘bunny smuggling’ days. I won’t pretend it isn’t vexing to endure the teasing decades after my little mishap.”
“Was it vexing to tell me?” Astarion asked, coyly leaning forward and circling the dewy rim of his glass.
“Not half as vexing as you probably wish it was. Better for you to hear it from me—though I doubt it’s the last time, especially if you have the good fortune of meeting my mother. She loves telling that story,” Gale shook his head before tipping his cup of soju to his lips. “Besides, I find it surprisingly easy to talk to you.”
“Do you now?” Astarion’s eyebrows raised.
“Of course! You’re an excellent conversationalist!”
“And you’re slightly tipsy.”
“Oh, stop,” Gale defended, wearing a heartfelt smile. “I promise the ease I feel is present even with a perfectly sober mind. I trust you.”
“Trust me?” Astarion’s jaw fell slack, and the air in the room felt somewhat thinner. He quickly masked his incredulity beneath a hard smile that made Gale’s seem far squishier in comparison. “That’s an objectively stupid thing to do.”
Undeterred by Astarion’s caustic, self-deprecating comment, Gale poured himself another round of soju. Comfortable silence gave way to a symphony of utensils scraping against porcelain. Their wielders buzzed with energetic chatter, and the mouthwatering scent of cooked meat courted the sizzling air.
The unassuming hole-in-the-wall was packed, a typical turnout for a Friday night. They’d been lucky enough to secure a table for two, giddily ensconcing themselves in their intimate booth. Adjacent patrons ghosted into formless shapes behind the shoji-style partitions, their shadows filtering weakly through the translucent paper until Astarion and Gale were the only two souls in the restaurant. As they waited for their food, they killed the time with a game of “Twenty Questions.”
When their appetizers finally arrived, Astarion had long lost track of what question they were on.
Thankfully, Gale didn’t seem to be keeping score either. Affable as always, he was a conversational wizard. It seemed as though Astarion had found his match in the intellectual ring after years wasted sparring with complete idiots (like Petras).
It was nice not to play dumb for a change.
Zest and ever-present wit danced behind Gale’s disarming smile. The flush from the soju brightened his bearded, acne-scarred cheeks. A small flame from the tea light at their table defined the subtle crags of his brow as it furrowed and unwound, highlighting each mole and blemish, every silver streak in the rebellious strands of hair he kept pushing back behind his ears. Deep crow’s feet creased the edges of his hooded brown eyes, mild and piercing all at once, sparked aflame with the flint of catechistic curiosity. The sleeves of his flannel were rolled up, exposing thick, hairy forearms.
Hells. Astarion couldn’t pinpoint what it was, exactly, that made Gale look disproportionally more handsome tonight, but his heart was twisting and writhing in his chest like paper slowly burning at the edges.
You’re staring again, he cautioned himself.
It was hard not to, smitten as he was.
Reluctantly, he tore himself away from the rapt gaze across the table, looking straight ahead, past Gale’s pierced ear at the walls papered with news clippings in Korean. Then down at his plate of perfectly browned pan-fried pork dumplings, running his pale hands down his pants legs until they settled on his knees.
But the beguiling rumbling of Gale’s voice eventually led him back to that gaze, calmly ushering him to freely roam in its earthy terrain.
Heightened senses dulled. Lights grew softer. His breathing slowed.
“I believe it’s my turn to pry.”
“Go on, then,” Astarion said through a simpering smile, his bright, candle-lit eyes half-hidden by shadowed lids. “Pry away.”
Gale beamed back. “What first drew you to vampire fiction?”
Rolling his eyes, Astarion fell back onto the cushioned booth with a dramatic groan. “Gods, of all the salacious things you could’ve asked me about, you’re choosing vampires? Heavens forbid we’d have an interesting conversation.”
“Heavens forbid I show the smallest modicum of care for your interests after you tolerated me blathering on about mine all night,” Gale chided, though the smile never once abandoned his face. “I’m merely curious to learn where your fondness for them stems from. Humor me, please.”
Astarion shrugged, watching the water pool at the bottom of his sweaty glass of water. A wet ring began to settle around its base on the tabletop. He broke apart his wooden chopsticks with a crisp snap! before gravitating back to Gale. He tracked every nicety in his expression while he ate, in case he’d possibly missed something in his past appreciations.
Can’t keep your eyes off him, can you?
He’s not an idiot. He can see the way you look at him.
Tell him the truth.
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he finally admitted through a mouthful of buckwheat noodles.
He didn’t.
Vampires were the last thing on his mind.
“Anywhere you’d like,” Gale coaxed.
The last of Astarion’s well-sintered defenses liquefied in the fire of the prolonged gaze across the table. He was still dumbfounded by how Gale truly seemed to give a damn about whatever it was he had to say. Never once had he complained or rebuffed his interests, not even after an earlier tangent grousing about trying to stitch neatly with metallic embroidery floss without suffering the hazards of splitting, fraying threads.
“They call it ‘the devil’s pubes,’ in online circles,” he’d bemoaned.
And to his delight, his bellyaching had made Gale laugh so hard that soju nearly sprayed from his nose.
He had a phenomenal laugh.
He was patient.
He cared.
“My canines were among the first of my milk teeth to fall out. They grew back slightly pointed. See?” Astarion flashed a demonstrative smile, flicking his tongue over the sharp, fang-like tooth.
“It’s quite the pair of canines. A little quirk, to be sure, but I fail to see what’s embarrassing about it.”
“I was teased relentlessly for years about the way they looked. I never smiled.”
Gale’s brow drew together. “Ah. That sounds positively hellish. I was no stranger to playground indignities. Children can be heartlessly cruel.”
For a brief moment, Astarion’s mind drifted, rising with the steam of an adjacent table. He thought of a far tinier Gale—chubby-cheeked and lovingly dressed in corduroy overalls, toddling off to the pantry with a score of sightless brown-grey kits in tow—and wondered when exactly he’d come to know that cruelty firsthand.
“It sounds like a lonely life,” Gale murmured, gently shepherding Astarion’s wandering thoughts back to the table. “The life of a vampire, I mean.”
Astarion shrugged, bringing one of the dumplings to his lips. “I was a lonely child. An edgy little bastard who liked to read upsetting books that made me feel slightly less miserable about my own unhappy life.”
“No one is lonely when they have books—except perhaps the illiterate.”
“Then, Twilight blew up.”
“It seems I spoke too soon,” Gale grimaced, incapable of masking the extent of his displeasure. “You already know how I feel about that tripe.”
“Tripe or not, it didn’t matter to me. When vampires were en vogue, suddenly, so was I,” Astarion said, taking another bite of his dumpling. “As were my fangs. I was finally happy with myself.”
“You still hide your mouth when you eat,” Gale noted.
Astarion swallowed. “Do I?”
“You’re doing it now.”
Sure enough, a pale hand hovered protectively over his lips. “Hm. I guess my vanity lives on.”
“You mean insecurity?”
“Ah-ah-ah! You’ve already asked your question.”
“I suppose I have. In any case, I’m glad you found solace from your tormentors. But I firmly maintain that Twilight is shit,” Gale groaned, tensing slightly as Astarion immediately burst into laughter. Several heads around them swiveled curiously, some patrons clearly annoyed by the sudden outburst now disturbing the sanctity of their Friday night dinner.
Eventually, the giggles were engulfed by hacking wheezes as he succumbed to a nasty coughing fit.
“Are you alright?” Gale asked, politely offering a napkin.
Astarion nodded as he took the napkin and hacked into it a few more times before quickly composing himself. His eyes were still watering as the generous bite of dumpling managed its way down his raw throat like a stone. Undeterred, he chased it with ice water before popping the second half into his mouth. “Sorry,” he finally said. “I didn’t expect how jarring it’d be to hear you say ‘shit.’ I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse.”
“I’ve cursed before!”
“When?! I’d remember that!”
“I try not to make it a habit. My mother always discouraged the use of foul language. Blamed it on my hanging around Karlach too often. I would always tell her I can’t always be a perfect gentleman, but she wouldn’t have it.”
“Your mother would have a field day with me.”
“Not at all!” Gale said, adjusting the sleeve of his flannel with a reassuring tug. “I think she’d like you very much, actually.”
Astarion snorted. “You don’t have to lie to flatter me, Gale. I’m not exactly who mothers tend to picture when they think about the type of person they want their sons to associate with.”
“I’m being quite sincere, I assure you!” Gale insisted. “In fact, she likes you already.”
“Hold on,” Astarion said, blinking incredulously. “You told your mother about me?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? My mother’s met nearly all of my friends. She was curious, so I showed her a picture of you.”
“And? What does she think?”
Gale’s face flushed. “She called you a ‘pretty thing.’”
“Oh, really? And she didn’t try to warn you that I was dangerous?” Astarion cooed. “Most pretty things are.”
“You paint an unflattering picture of yourself. No, the first thing my mother did when I told her about you was ask if you were Greek.”
Astarion quirked an eyebrow.
“Apparently, you happen to share a name with the mythological Minotaur,” Gale explained. “The same one that was confined to the labyrinth, supposedly imprisoned to protect society from the savagery of its hunger for human flesh…”
Astarion burst into a mirthless laugh.“Of course I would share a name with a monster! How appropriate.”
As if he’d only then realized what he’d said could be taken offensively, Gale paused, looking across the table with a forlorn and regretful look. “Bulls are herbivores, you know.”
“It was an abomination, begging to be killed,” Astarion said dryly. “No use in feeling sorry for it.”
Gale sighed. “Abomination or not, I always pitied its incarceration,” he murmured. “Another lonely life with a lonely end.”
“How considerate. I’m sure it would probably have second thoughts before ultimately deciding to eat you anyway.”
“Between that tongue of yours and your teeth, I can’t tell which is sharper,” said Gale. “You know, you should’ve bitten your childhood bullies.”
Astarion smirked. “Who’s to say I never did?”
And thus, their little game loosely continued, though its parameters blurred more with each uncounted query. In all of his answers, the energy of Gale’s animated hands recapitulated his enthusiasm as he spoke. In every question, his arms would settle down as he leaned closer, dimpled hands pressed together like the spire of a steeple as he listened intently, only parting ways to cook another piece of bulgogi on the built-in grill.
Occasionally, a cut of medium-rare beef would end up on the rim of Astarion’s plate, and he found himself quietly longing for Gale to place the slivers directly on his tongue instead—the way besotted lovers did—before harshly reminding himself that they weren’t.
He tried to find satisfaction with what he was given, silently chewing on the meat, as well as the curious divulgence that Gale had told his mother he existed.
That had to count for something.
With every bite he allowed himself, it was getting harder to keep his appetite in check. There was a crack in the wall of his labyrinth. Rebellion against his restraints was inevitable—the final bastion in place keeping Gale safe from his hunger was an ill-placed brick short of falling.
As Gale went on and on about his tarot decks, Astarion was only half-listening, missing out on what he was sure was a well-informed interpretation of the cards in the Major Arcana. Instead, he was plagued with fantasies about pinning him against the wall outside this restaurant, beside where the bougainvillea grew. This vision of Gale stared him down with a steely gaze amidst the magenta bracts, mere inches away from his face, breathless, needy, wanting.
Skin against greedy skin, Astarion would interrupt every second word of Gale’s sentences with a limitless supply of eager kisses, tenderly biting his lower lip to translate any surviving words into a language of primal moans.
Below the table, his palms were sweating.
Gods. His heart was in arrears to whichever devil dealt with the matter of how much desire a single person was capable of retaining.
He was beginning to unravel.
His eyes flicked down to Gale’s hands before fluttering back and widening in a horrified realization.
“Gods. I must not be in my right mind tonight,” he groaned.
“Are you alright?” Gale asked.
“Back there, in the guitar shop, I let you do something I never thought I’d ever allow a man to do to me again.”
Gale cocked his head, curious. “And what would that be?”
“I let you serenade me! And here I thought I’d burst into flames if anyone ever tried that again. I’ve had enough of bad poets singing of my looks for a lifetime.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t combust. The embarrassment would’ve finished me off.”
“Oh, believe me, had it been anyone else, I would’ve probably been mortified and run from the room at the first note. But…I trusted you—”
“An objectively stupid thing to do,” Gale echoed playfully.
“—and I’m glad I did. When in the hells were you going to tell me you could play like that?!”
Gale flushed, flapping his hand dismissively. “I’m sure there’s another thread you can pull that won’t lead to me developing a massive ego!”
“Oh, come now, don’t be modest! At least let me finish stroking it first!” Astarion purred, biting his lower lip. “There’s talent in those fingers of yours. I couldn’t keep my eyes off them.”
“It was nothing, really. I’m afraid I’m quite rusty.”
“If that’s what you qualify as ‘rusty’, my voice is practically verdigris at this point. Did you write that song?”
“I’ll count that as one of your questions,” Gale smiled. “No, though I’m flattered you think me capable of composing on such short notice. I stumbled upon it while trolling for covers of a song from a video game. I thought it was lovely, so I transcribed it. Figured you’d enjoy it.”
Astarion stared at him, unblinking. “So you found a song you thought I’d like, and instead of, I don’t know, sending me a link, you stayed up for gods knows how many hours transcribing it?”
Gale’s cheeks lit up. “Well…yes. I hope my handwriting didn’t prove too much of a challenge.”
It hadn’t. What Astarion had seen of Gale’s penmanship was enviably florid compared to his chicken scratch. Each mark and embellishment flourished on the page. “How—?”
“Writing for guitar is one thing, but writing for voice was out of my wheelhouse. I have little experience notating vocal lines—”
“That’s not what I meant! How in the hells are you still single?”
Gale shot Astarion a look caught halfway between bashful and thunderstruck before retreating his eyes to his plate. “Pardon me, but the nature of my dating life isn’t exactly the line of questioning we were on!”
“In-teresting,” Astarion sang, resting his chin across his bridged hands and delighting in the way Gale squirmed in his seat. “And here I thought you were simply being coy. You really mean to tell me you haven’t been with anyone after Mystra?”
“Not a soul,” Gale muttered.
Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Not even casually?”
“No.”
“Not even for sex?”
“By Ahghairon’s nose, no!”
Astarion snickered. “Nope, never mind. I believe you. I’m sorry for questioning you.”
Across the table, the usually verbose Gale was reduced to sputtering noises that could barely constitute speech.
Once the giggles subsided, Astarion said, “In all honesty, though, I’m surprised to hear that.”
At hearing this, Gale’s eyes widened in shock. His mouth drew into a thin line, and his brow furrowed, then softened, then furrowed again. Every muscle of his face was on a journey, like he was calculating a string of numbers in his mind.
All at once, the gravity of Astarion’s words caved in on his shoulders, and he panicked.
Shit.
“Are you—?”
“Sorry, I—” Astarion blurted out. “You don’t—didn’t you have class today?”
“I did,” Gale said tentatively, before eventually recognizing the life preserver he was being offered. “But I’m no stranger to burning my candle at both ends. And perhaps selfishly, I wanted to hear you sing, which was well worth the risk. Your voice is beautiful.”
The relief in Astarion’s chest was quickly washed away with a sudden rush of elation. The praise made it all the way to the scorching tips of his ears.
“I’m just as capable of flustering you, it seems,” Gale boasted. “If you’re troubled about us being out so late, I took a nap before picking you up. I can assure you I’m well rested. I can order a coffee if you’re truly worried I’ll fall asleep at the wheel—”
“Gods! Coffee, at this hour? I won’t be responsible for further wrecking your sleep schedule, Gale!”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. I can afford to sleep in.” Gale said. “Would it help you feel any better if I told you Cazador and I didn’t stay out terribly late last night? And we certainly didn’t go out this far north.”
At the mention of Cazador, the blood in Astarion’s veins burned like ice on bare and bitten fingers. With a single greedy swallow, a torrent of ire engulfed the reservoir of joy the night had allowed him.
Before they entered the restaurant, he’d finally set his phone to “Do Not Disturb” mode to curtail the harrying swell of notifications.
It was like the asshat had been summoned to join them. Astarion could see him now, sitting across from him and wearing a sharp, shit-eating grin on his horrible face.
“Where did you end up taking him?”
“We went to The Blushing Mermaid,” Gale answered, oblivious of the shade that was shifting closer to him, draping its long arm possessively around his shoulder.
Astarion bit the inside of his cheeks and tried to keep his focus on Gale. The sneering vestige of Cazador’s form blurred into a formless blob in the periphery.
The sudden sting of pain on the side of his neck was not as easy to dismiss.
The Blushing Mermaid. Before things began falling apart, he and Cazador frequented the bar on many occasions for cheap beers and shameless karaoke. What its rank bathrooms lacked in mirrors, it made up for in cracked urinals, walls replete with lewd graffiti, and the nihilistic screeds of restless small-town minds. They’d jokingly entertained the idea of calling some of the phone numbers carved into the laminate of its private stalls.
The Mermaid was grungy, hideously dated, the poorly lit sort of dive that was still in business because it was the only place in the community that still offered three-dollar pints during Friday night happy hour.
It was also a stone’s throw from their apartment. A far cry from the time and effort Gale had clearly poured into planning their outing.
Even knowing this offered little reassurance.
“That’s all?” he asked skeptically.
Gale nodded. “We were home by ten.”
“And? How was he?” he asked, pretending to poke at a slice of pickled cucumber.
“About as well as you can imagine,” Gale exhaled sharply, the divot in his brow creasing slightly as he mulled over his next words. “He cried.”
The cucumber slice slipped back onto Astarion’s plate.
Cazador Szarr was known for many things.
Crying in front of his friends was not one of them.
“He cried?”
“Quite a bit,” Gale affirmed.
“Was he drunk?”
“He had a few ales. I made sure the bartender didn’t serve him a third,” Gale reassured, mimicking the act of slashing his throat with the tip of his finger.
“I see.” Astarion chewed the raw skin of his lower lip with his pointed canine. Dissembling disinterest, he asked, “Did he say anything about me?”
“Nothing but good things. He told me you were the light of his life. The one thing in it that seemed to be going right for him. How he would never forgive himself for letting you go.” Then, in a hushed tone, he added, “How he still loved you.”
A small, cynical sound escaped Astarion’s strangled throat. Love?
I don’t remember love.
“He talked a bit about your last relationship,” Gale said.
Fury clouded Astarion’s mind, devouring the angel before him in a bloodbath of red. He gritted his teeth, struggling to keep his composure.
“He had no business telling you any of that!”
“I promise I stopped him from offering any more details than what you’ve already confided in me. He feels helpless.”
Oh, he’s the one who feels helpless? he wanted to say. Did he feel helpless when he pinned me down to the bed and listened to my screams?
Instead, he withdrew into himself, stewing in resentment and shrinking in his seat like a helpless child as he listened to the missive of his tormentor in the soothing timbre of his fascination’s voice.
“He said he wished he could go back in time and rip his throat out for hurting you in the ways that he did. How sorry he was that he couldn’t. He said now, you can’t help but see the scoundrel everywhere, in everything—including in him.”
“That’s—” A load of fucking bullshit. “—that’s not true.”
“It’s true for him,” Gale said, his tone infuriatingly calm.
“I don’t know what he’s on about!” Astarion cried. “He keeps accusing me of ‘projecting’ my ex onto him.” Like he never did anything to hurt me. “I thought I made it perfectly clear the last time we spoke. He’s been texting me nonstop.” Crawling back. “Begging for another chance.” It’s just embarrassing.
“Grief is strange. It’s probably his way of coping,” Gale mused.
“I don’t know why he’s so obsessed with getting me back.”
“He loves you! He doesn’t want to lose you. Don’t you think you’re being too hard on him?”
Astarion’s face fell.
There it was. The black bag had finally been lifted, pulled harshly from his head.
I knew it.
“What? Why are you defending him?!”
Despaired, he searched for answers in Gale’s face.
Dismayed, he saw nothing past the executioner’s blade at his throat.
“I’m not defending him, I merely—”
“I don’t know, Gale, it sounds like you are!”
“It’s just that—”
“Gods, was this the only reason you asked me to go out?”
To butter me up and get me back with my ex?
I don’t understand.
I thought you cared about me.
“No, I didn’t—it wasn’t—I just wanted to—”
“Is it really that unreasonable of me to ask him to keep his distance and stay away from me? What would you do if an ex wouldn’t leave you the hells alone?!”
For a long time, Gale stared down at the table pensively, silently reflecting on a thought that banished him from the here and now. His food went untouched, chopsticks still clasped tightly between his thick, frozen fingers. He looked up at Astarion, unflinching, though his eyes were rimmed red and damp with unshed tears. Too proud to let them fall, he confined them there.
“I wouldn’t know,” he finally answered. “Mystra rarely, if ever, messaged me after we broke up.”
Clearly, Astarion had struck a nerve. Shamefaced, he withdrew his weaponous tongue, wishing he could go back to an earlier save and undo this interaction entirely.
Unfortunately, life was not a video game.
“Were you texting her nonstop?” he asked, his voice declining into something timid and bladeless, overflowing with remorse.
“I—well, not to the degree Cazador has been texting you, it seems. Though maybe I was more of a nuisance than I remember,” he confessed. “I tried to reach out. Sent one or two weepy midnight messages. She blocked me shortly after. On everything. Never once gave me the time of day after. Not that I was ever entitled to her attention. Nonetheless, it stung.
“When Mystra left me, I spent much of my time in a gallery of memories. So busy wondering what I could have done differently, how I could have fixed it, that I didn’t realize the room was emptying around me. Life was moving on. Everyone was heading to the next exhibit, but I was frozen in place, nailed to the floor by the swirling dark void in my chest. Despondent. I could feel everyone around me growing closer while I was drifting further and further inward.”
“…do you still harbor feelings for Mystra?”
“Plenty of them,” Gale admitted, placing his hand on his heart, where it rested just above the center of his tattoo. “And all complicated. It’s been a year or more since she cast me aside, so I’m hardly pining anymore…but this isn’t about how I feel. It’s about you—”
“What about me?” Astarion spat, his hackles raising once more.
“—and Cazador.”
Stop pretending you care.
I can’t believe I deluded myself into believing you would ever want to actually help me.
All because I—
“I know the wound is still fresh, Astarion.”
I wish I was drinking out of the bastard’s skull. “It is.”
“But it’s still fresh for him as well. It took me over a year to stop longing for Mystra. One might have called our bond toxic as well. Actually, plenty have,” Gale said. “Do you still love him?”
Astarion buried his face in his hands, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He wished the jade-colored vinyl flooring would split into a chasm below his booth and devour him whole.
“The last time we spoke, you said you were in love—”
“Of course I’m in love!” Astarion blurted out, his thoughts losing the war they were waging with his tongue. A hot tear chased his impulsive declaration, sprinting down a cheek that was burning red with shame.
I’m in love with you.
“And Gods, I wish I wasn’t. I really, really wish I wasn’t.”
The only thing Astarion hated more than letting Gale see him cry was the pity emanating from the other side of the table. “But you are.”
“But I am,” he swallowed. “As much as it hurts.”
“Is it really something that can’t be fixed?” Gale asked softly. “You both seem to be shouldering the burdens of a broken heart. Surely it’s something that can be mended if you were to only talk about it.”
What’s there to mend?
He was hurting me, Gale.
I was vulnerable with you.
I trusted you.
“Gods, I’m such a fucking idiot.”
I’m an idiot to have trusted anyone.
“You’re not an idiot.”
To trust you.
“I am.”
“It sounds like you both love each other.”
“I don’t.”
You don’t.
“It very much sounds like you do. Maybe things could be different.”
Astarion dove once more in the depths of Gale’s eyes, fishing for any hints from the universe that any love for him lived there.
But the longer he drowned, he couldn’t shake the feeling that those seas were devoid of what he was looking for.
“Maybe you’re right,” Astarion said, wiping at his eyes with the edge of his sleeve. “Perhaps it would have been better if things had worked out differently.”
You were Cazador’s friend first.
He smiled bitterly. “But I suppose there’s no use dwelling on it, is there?”
And in your eyes?
I’ll always be his.
Notes:
Hello, readers! I'm terribly sorry for disappearing for three months...but I finally got top surgery in July! They took seven pounds (the equivalent of twenty-eight sticks of butter) off my chest forever. I thought I’d cry the first time I saw my results, but the tears didn’t start falling until I held my boyfriend for the first time and felt his heart beating with mine. Hugs feel incredible now! Things are healing well. I love my scars—I love my body! Everything finally feels right, and I’m slowly regaining strength.
Thank you so much to Nyx for beta reading this chapter, for listening to me agonize about how many times I should use the word “tormentor", and for introducing me to such delightful embroiderer's lexicon as “the devil's pubes." She's an incredibly talented author, and I'm thrilled to have worked with her. If you have been enjoying Seen, you might enjoy Rare as well. Are you an enjoyer of Modern/D&D AU's? I suspect if you’re here, you might be. She has a really good one too! I highly recommend Reunion, written in collaboration with the lovely Adsu, who also drew this lovely bit of fanart for the previous chapter!
You can find more of her gorgeous art here!
As of late, I’ve been returning to my roots and spending time on Bloodweave Brainrot When this pairing was fairly new, BWBR was the first community space I joined. It holds a special place in my heart, and I really love talking to fellow fans on there. Come say hello, if you’re so inclined. ^^
Thank you for reading, and for being patient with me this year. I know this fic took the backseat when I had some health issues crop up, and updates have slowed, but I promise I’m not going anywhere. I have missed it—and you. I hope you’re all doing well, and that life has been kind to you.
~⟡~
Songs:
Imogen Heap - Goodnight and Go
Radiohead - Let Down
Azure Ray - No Signs of Pain
A Perfect Circle - Three Libras
Here's the official playlist for Seen! For your listening pleasure.
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