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It’s such a pretty dagger. Astarion has never seen anything so pretty. Just lying out here in the grass. He should tell Gale. Gale likes things like that. He turns it over in his hand. Pretty dagger. Pretty thing. He hears someone calling and oh, it’s Gale, how strange—wasn’t he just thinking of him? Pretty wizard. He should show Gale the pretty blade he has found.
He doesn’t need to go over to Gale because Gale comes right up to him. He’s maybe saying something. A greeting, perhaps? Everything sounds a little blurry. Actually, maybe it’s Astarion who’s blurry. He feels a little blurry. Everything is blurry except the pretty dagger, and he shows it to Gale.
Gale makes a noise, a little ooph, and his eyes go all wide, and Astarion follows him down to the grass, and the pretty dagger has a pretty red blade, now, but oh, that makes it even prettier, and he needs to… he needs to show Gale. Again. Gale will… Gale will something, he can’t remember. And oh, what luck, here Gale is right now, right in front of him, on his knees with Astarion in the grass, and Astarion shows him the dagger, in the shoulder this time, and Gale’s hand comes up to hold Astarion’s wrist and that’s nice, he likes that. Gale has pretty fingers. Almost as pretty as the dagger, which Astarion shows him again, in the forearm, because Gale moves his own arm up, almost reflexively, almost defensively, and then his pretty fingers make a pretty shape in the air, and he’s saying something again, but Astarion can’t hear him, he’s too distracted by his pretty dagger, dripping red into the grass.
He should show the pretty dagger to Gale. Gale likes pretty things. Except Astarion, who is blurry, and never pretty. At least, not pretty like he should be, though Gale likes him anyway. How strange. Poor pretty wizard, stuck with a thing like him. He should give Gale a present. This pretty dagger, maybe. He goes to show it to Gale, but Gale has summoned a blue glowing hand, and the hand is holding Astarion’s wrist, holding him back. Usually he likes Gale’s blue glowing hand, which Gale summons so he has three hands to touch Astarion with. But right now the blue glowing hand is not letting Astarion show the dagger to his wizard.
He tugs at the blue hand. Clever wizard. Clever pretty wizard and his summoning. He yanks again. Gale is saying something. Astarion can’t make sense of it. He needs… he needs to show Gale the pretty dagger. Gale is still talking. That’s his reasoning voice. That’s his logical voice. That’s the voice he uses when he’s trying to convince Astarion to fuck in a meadow, or under the stars, or whatever other insanity he’s concocted. Lovely wizard. Astarion needs to… He needs to show Gale that he loves him. He needs to show Gale the dagger.
He yanks again, but the blue hand holds strong. He yanks harder, and then harder still, and watches dispassionately as his thumb goes out at an awkward angle, bone popping free of its mooring, and he thinks it’s supposed to hurt, but it doesn’t, not even a little, and his wrist slides free of the blue hand’s grip.
He shows Gale the dagger, in the thigh this time, whoops, because Gale throws himself backwards as Astarion’s wrist pulls free, and Astarion misses his actual target: Gale’s heart. The prettiest place of all. Gale makes a very loud noise, which is not pretty at all, even though everything about Gale is pretty. Astarion tries to show him the dagger again but Gale makes another shape with his fingers and the floating blue hand is replaced by a mountain, an earth creature, oh, clever wizard, and Astarion tries again to show Gale the dagger, right between his ribs, but the earth elemental wraps big rocky arms around him and goes still as stone. Astarion jerks in its grip but cannot get free.
He doesn’t…. he doesn’t like this. He needs to show Gale the dagger. He needs to…
He throws his head backwards, his skull cracking against the rocky abdomen behind him. Pretty stars burst to life all around. How lovely. He’ll have to show Gale the stars, later. Gale likes pretty things. Gale is right in front of him, talking fast. He looks good in red. Pretty red wizard. Astarion throws his head back again, feels himself slump in the rocky grip, though it doesn’t hurt. Everything is too pretty to hurt. Gale is talking faster. Please, he’s saying, or something like it. You’re hurting yourself. Astarion can’t hear him anyway, over the sound of pretty fireworks going off inside his skull. But Gale looks scared. Astarion doesn’t like Gale looking scared. Astarion should… he should do something. He should show Gale the dagger. He throws his head back again and Gale cries out, hands flying, and the elemental releases its grip.
Astarion advances. Gale tries to back away but he stumbles, pretty red staining his pretty robes. Astarion likes taking the robes off, at night. Likes looking at Gale’s pretty body. Can’t believe Gale lets him. Pretty wizard could have anyone he wants, and he chooses him. Astarion is not pretty on the inside, he has done such terrible things, 200 years of terrible things but Astarion will show Gale the pretty dagger and that will make it better. He’ll show the pretty dagger to Gale and it will slip so nice between Gale’s ribs, right up into Gale’s heart where Astarion wants to be always.
Gale falls backwards on the grass, his leg no longer holding his weight, splayed out under Astarion with his hands up, arms shaking, looking not at all like he does when he’s under Astarion in their bed at night, but that’s okay, Astarion will make it better.
He drops to his knees between Gale’s legs, crawls forward, eyes on Gale’s face, like he knows Gale likes.
Gale’s begging. This, too, is familiar territory. Astarion likes to make him wait for it. Likes to use his tongue and hands. Likes it when Gale takes hours to come. But he won’t make Gale wait now. He wants to show Gale the dagger. He wants to sheath it in the scabbard of Gale’s heart.
He crawls up Gale’s pretty body, and holds the dagger aloft, and he kind of expects Gale to keep retreating, crab-crawling backwards, pitiful, but Gale doesn’t do that. Gale leans forward instead, puts his lips on Astarion’s, and speaks against his mouth, If you remember this later, love, know that I forgive you. And Astarion blinks because he heard that, he knows he did, but he can’t… he can’t… The words don’t make sense, he’s supposed to be giving his wizard a gift, wasn’t he just thinking that? Wasn’t he… Gale’s lips move against his and Astarion feels himself responding, easy familiarity, he likes kissing Gale, these are practiced moves, and Gale cups his face, one hand stable and the other not, red getting everywhere, and Astarion does the next step, which is to cup Gale’s face in turn, except there’s something in the way, oh, pretty dagger, why’s that in his hand? He can’t kiss Gale with that in his hand. He wants to hold Gale’s face. He wants to touch the spot on Gale’s cheek where the lines show most prominently when he laughs. He wants to lick into Gale’s mouth and taste the sounds he makes when he comes. He wants… he wants. And, Come back to me, love, Gale says, and Astarion wants to kiss the sad expression off his face, but there’s a dagger in his hand, why is he… why is he holding it, again, it was something important, something pretty, except nothing is more important or pretty than Gale, Gale’s mouth, and Astarion leans back in for another kiss but the dagger is still in his hand and it gets in the way, scores a tear-track of red down one of Gale’s cheeks, and Gale flinches, just a bit, except he doesn’t flinch away, he flinches in, towards Astarion, like he’s seeking shelter, even though Astarion is not safe, or pretty. Or else he’s pretty like a blade is pretty, sharp and deadly, dripping red, not to be held except in a death-grip, and not a place of refuge.
But Gale holds him anyway, tries to get closer, even, though it’s clear he’s weakened. So Astarion gathers him close himself, pulling him up to sitting, though it’s hard with only one hand, because the other is… There’s a dagger, in the other hand, what was he supposed to do with a dagger? It’s a pretty dagger, but not as pretty as Gale, even when he’s red, and sad, and clinging weakly with both hands in Astarion’s hair, palms on cheeks, saying his name again, saying Please, and Astarion wants his other hand free, he wants to do what Gale asks of him. He can show Gale the pretty dagger later, so he sets it on the grass next to Gale’s hip and takes his fingers off the hilt and—
Sound rushes in, like a silencing cloud lifting after a battle in darkness. His ears pop. One of Gale’s hands drops away from his face, the injured arm no longer holding it up. Injured because Astarion had… Astarion had…
“SHADOWHEART,” he bellows, following Gale down to the ground as Gale collapses beneath him. No, no this can’t, no this isn’t, this isn’t—
“It’s okay, my love,” Gale says, holding him there on the bloodied grass. Astarion’s got one hand on Gale’s shoulder, trying to stem the bleeding, shaking apart, fingers red, that’s Gale’s blood, that’s Gale’s blood, that’s—
He fumbles for the connection in his head. How do the others do it so easy, where is it, worthless tadpole, worthless spawn, there’s so much blood. He feels something psionic and yanks.
“Hush,” Gale says, pulls Astarion closer, so their noses touch. “You’re safe now.” And then he closes his eyes and—
“SHADOWHEART,” Astarion screams again, terrified, trying to calculate blood loss. How much can a human lose? He’s never tried to keep blood on the inside of someone’s body before. He’s usually trying to do the opposite. Turning things into corpses, that’s all he’s good for. He wants to hurl himself off something. He wants to dig his fingers into his own chest and claw out the useless shrivelled thing inside.
Distantly, he’s aware he’s packing Gale’s shredded robes into the wounds, trying to stem the bleeding. His hands are shaking. His thumb is dislocated. The dagger is next to Gale’s hip, glittering innocently. Why’s he always got to pick up pretty sharp things. He’s sharp enough already. And Gale’s skin is fragile, mortal, but Astarion had let him get close anyway, had let Gale show him his underbelly, and Astarion had… Astarion had…
And then Shadowheart is there, pushing him back, muttering under her breath with her hand over Gale’s shoulder, and Karlach’s finger goes red hot, smoking where it’s pressed to Gale’s thigh, where it’s pressed to the ragged hole Astarion’s left in Gale’s skin, cauterising the wound.
Astarion leans over, gags into the grass, tries to wipe his mouth but his hand is slick with Gale’s blood and he gags again, spits up more blood, the whole world going dizzy around him, Gale pale and motionless beside him, already a corpse, or close enough. Astarion did that. Astarion did that. He cries out, voice torn, head throbbing, and feels someone’s hand on his shoulder as the world darkens around him.
“Don’t touch the fucking dagger,” he says, and collapses backwards into the blood-muddied earth.
Concussion, is the first thing he thinks, familiar with the throbbing at the base of his skull and the way the light is too bright even behind his closed eyelids. He hasn’t had to deal with a concussion in months. Not since he met an honest-to-gods cleric. And there’s no reason for Shadowheart not to have healed him unless she’s tired from healing someone else.
He doesn’t remember a battle, though. Or does he? Blood in the grass, and beneath his nails, and on the pretty pretty face of his—
He bolts upright, lurching to his knees, eyes streaming even though it’s dark inside the tent, gods, how did he get here, someone's popped his thumb back into place, who... Where’s Gale, where’s Gale, where’s—
Gale is laid out right beside him, tucked beneath blankets, and Astarion crawls on top of him, horrible noise coming out of his mouth, puts his knees on either side of Gale’s thighs to lean right over him, get his ear to Gale’s chest. Can’t hear anything over the shred-ear wailing of his own cries, which he stifles only by cutting off air, refusing himself the next breath and still not hearing anything in the silence and no, it can’t be, he’s not dead, he can’t be, Astarion will tear apart the earth itself until it gives back the blood Astarion spilled into it.
And then he moves his head a fraction of an inch and
thump
and
thump
and
“Gale,” he cries out, an animal sound, not daring to lift his ear from Gale’s chest lest the sound go away, and his skull aches, and he can still feel Gale’s blood on his hands, feel the way Gale’s skin parted so easy beneath the blade, like any other human, like parchment, like nothing at all, but thump goes Gale’s heart beneath his ear, still alive, still alive, and Astarion will learn how to heal, he’ll become a cleric too, he’ll never touch a dagger again, he’ll—
“I can hear you panicking,” Gale says beneath him, and Astarion didn’t think he could get any closer but he finds that yes, yes he can, hunching in over Gale’s body like a clamshell over a pearl, heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath his ear.
“Dekarios,” he shudders out, and Gale chuckles, actually chuckles, which does more to bully Astarion back into awareness than anything else he could have said.
“Oh, it’s back to ‘Dekarios’ now, is it?”
Astarion doesn’t reply, just hunches tighter. Gloomy light like shards of glass in his skull. His wizard. His Gale. Gods, he’d almost… he’d almost…
“None of that, love,” Gale says, and Astarion feels a wail in his chest at the endearment, and can’t do anything to keep it in when Gale’s hand comes up to grip the back of his neck, fingers weak but palm heavy against his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Astarion manages. “Gale, I’m sorry, I’m…”
Gale soothes him. Keeps soothing him. Same hushing sound he made when Astarion had metal in his flesh, was literally killing him, and that only makes it worse, makes him shudder harder, crowding in as close to Gale as he can get, a second set of ribs to belatedly protect Gale’s heart.
“I almost killed you,” he whispers, wet, probably ruining Shadowheart’s bandages. But Gale only tightens his fingers on the back of Astarion’s neck and says, “You couldn’t have known.”
Astarion shakes his head into Gale’s chest. “I stabbed you.”
“It was a curse.”
“You let me stab you!”
“It was a very powerful curse.”
“No, that’s…” Astarion groans, teeth gnashing. “Next time, you take my arm off.”
“Next time?” Gale asks, laughing a little, and Astarion feels his whole body ache like a bruise. It doesn’t matter, because there will be no next time. The dagger may have been cursed but Gale was hurt because he insists on loving something still sharper and prettier, even though he’s seen what Astarion is on the inside, too. He barely even fought back. He's not safe as long as he calls Astarion his.
“We have to end this,” Astarion says, feeling cold even though Gale is warm beneath him.
Gale doesn’t even have the audacity to flinch.
“Wyll owes me ten gold,” he says, calm as anything. “He thought you’d take a tenday to try and break my heart.”
“Gale—”
“Ah, ah, ah, love, I’m injured, you’re not allowed to be an idiot until I’m strong enough to kick the stupid out of you.”
Astarion shudders in Gale’s arms, and lets himself listen to the thump of Gale’s heart.
“I’ll never touch a weapon again,” he promises instead. “I’ll stay at camp. Karlach can be on raiding duty. Let a curse try to dig its teeth into her.”
Gale snorts. “You’d go mad in a day, love.”
“I’d manage.”
“You wouldn’t and you know it. Besides, I like you bloodthirsty.” Astarion can hear his smile. “I just prefer when it’s someone else’s blood.”
“And when I try to kill you again, and you refuse to fight me off?”
Gale puts his lips in Astarion’s hair. “Then I’ll wait for you to come back to me once more, Arael’Nar.”
“Gale,” Astarion says, helplessly. Gale’s breath is warm on his scalp. His hand is steady on the back of Astarion’s neck, like he’s not afraid at all, even with a predator above him.
Idiot wizard.
“What now?” Astarion whispers.
Gale smiles into his hair. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a kiss.”
And Astarion gives a pathetic laugh, breaks free of his hold around Gale’s chest, and lifts his head to kiss him.
And Gale, pretty thing that he is, kisses back.
