Chapter 1: Aldehydes
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Mentions of alcoholism
- Implied disordered eatingThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
If you were to ask Cazador Szarr what made the heart and soul of his craft, he'd say it was perfection. Tradition, beauty, and perfection. The goal of perfume was to make anyone smell good, and better, feel good. Each product from the House of Szarr was an olfactive piece that brought time-tested, original fragrances to the discerning. Small-scale, batch-made, still dispensed by hand. He was an artist, for crying out loud. He expected nothing less.
But nothing eclipsed the Szarr name itself, which was centuries old and family owned until the very end. The last time he took an interview, Cazador sat in his mahogany salon, lit by the warm glow from a bell-shaped lampshade while a journalist rested her recorder on his desk. This was his office, he said, and his father's, and his father's before him. Sweep away the traffic outside and the electricity inside and not much had changed about the building around them.
“It’s always exciting to make something new when you have a magic name like Szarr,” he added. “It’s top shelf. It's taste. And after the caviar, what else can you eat?” He laughed and reached over to his personal assistant, who was sitting next to him, and squeezed his arm.
Astarion just smiled.
If you were to ask Astarion Ancunín to corroborate Cazador's story, he'd laugh in your face and tell you to never trust a brand that called its staff family. If Cazador was the patriarch of the House and his employees his children, he'd left them in a hot car. And tied Astarion to the bumper and dragged him over the freeway until he was a thin streak on the pavement. It might as well have been written on the company's organizational chart.
Cazador:
Creative Director, CEO
Leon:
Product Manager
Aurelia:
Public Relations
Violet:
Visual Lead
Dalyria:
Quality Control Manager
Yousen:
Supply Chain Director
Petras:
Sales Lead
Astarion:
personal assistant, "perfumer", lackey, grunt, nobody.
Then there was Godey. No one saw Godey very often, but he was a lab technician who had the fun job of actually blending the product. Astarion had tried to sneak into the lab before. He'd mostly been smart about it, too. He swiped a keycard from the warehouse, pre-scheduled his online status the afternoon before, and waited until 8:30 sharp the next morning to follow Godey in.
To his credit, he managed to make it a few steps inside. Upon entering, he was thrust back in time. He saw aged teakwood, glass flasks, mixing pots, scales, and the money shot—the perfumer's organ, stacked with rows and rows of bottles of raw materials. Hundreds upon hundreds of priceless oils, extracts, and hydrosols. The House's entire library stacked onto four shelves, the contents worth somewhere in the tens of thousands.
Then he went too far. Instead of slipping back out through the door, satisfied with what he found, he stepped forward.
In a second, Astarion was discovered and dragged back upstairs, and after a one-sided screaming match, made Cazador Szarr's whipping boy all over again.
Whipping boys picked up coffee every morning.
Elturel Roasters was an upscale coffee shop, the kind that had vinyls records on the walls, marble countertops, and a fiddle-leaf fig in a terracotta pot in the corner. They printed the altitudes at which their ethically sourced coffee beans grew on their packaging. As the name suggested, they had their own roasting company just outside the city. It wasn't even nine in the morning and Astarion knew the way there like the back of his hand. He didn't think of it at all.
September had come with a sun that hung small and white in the sky and a cool northern wind. It had drizzled last night, leaving the streets damp with the scent of asphalt and the soft decay of leaves. To anyone else, it might have smelled like new beginnings.
Astarion was starting to verge on his late thirties and he was heading nowhere. But honestly, things could always be much, much worse. He had a roof over his head, enough free time, and a stable job that most would kill for.
Perfumer: it was one of those mythical careers, like chocolatier, ballerina, or taxidermist. Mentioning it made people look at him funny or tell him about the weird smells they liked, like swimming pool chlorine or gasoline, or how much they missed the perfumes their exes wore. That much Astarion could do without.
Astarion had also never received a raise (the slowly climbing minimum wage notwithstanding) and the highlight of his day was managing to sneak in a power nap before Cazador finally emerged from his office like some terrible nocturnal creature. He was going to be bitter about it, but no one would know because he was going to place his order and spend the rest of the wait scrolling on his phone alone.
Only he wasn't alone today. Maybe it was the timing, the fact that Cazador sent him downstairs fifteen minutes earlier than usual. There was another customer at the till. His back was turned when Astarion pushed through the glass doors to the sound of wind chimes and acoustic guitar on the speakers.
It was shallow, but the first thing Astarion noticed about anyone was their outfit. He couldn't help it. If his lifetime had taught him anything, it was that first impressions mattered and that a put-together look mattered even more. The man in front of him clearly liked purple, or at least knew it was a flattering colour on him. The lilac button-up shirt was a bit frumpy, with the sleeves rolled down and the hem not tucked in as tightly as it could be. When he shifted to the side, Astarion noticed the man wore a purple tie, held in place with a clip that was a little too large. His hair was brown, half-up and half-down at his shoulders, and starting to grey. There was an earring dangling from his left lobe, though Astarion couldn't make out the shape.
Probably from another creative field. Architecture? Journalism? Honestly, he couldn't tell at this point, but not good looking enough to be in his circle.
"Good morning, Lakrissa," the customer said. Astarion was a bit embarrassed that he'd never noticed or asked for the barista's name when she served him every morning, but quickly shook it off. Whatever. It was none of his business. She was doing her job and he was doing his.
"Hi, Gale!" Lakrissa replied. "What's it going to be? I can never tell with you."
"One small cortado, please. And I'd like a bag of your finest beans as well."
The man had a nice voice. Level, calming, almost scholarly. But finest beans? Who the hell talked like that?
"Of course! Here, I'll get a few samples for you."
Lakrissa laid out a few tiny ceramic bowls and emptied different bags of coffee beans into each one. The customer picked up a bean from one of the bowls and popped it into his mouth.
The man—Gale, if Astarion heard right—was eating the coffee beans. And enjoying them too, judging by the way he seemed to roll around whatever was in his mouth and chewed slowly and thoughtfully.
Fucking weirdo.
Gale sighed. "Oh, I like that. I'm getting a honey note, I think."
"That's our Brimstone Blend. Bourbon and Caturra from Guatemala. Washed. One of our bestsellers."
Gale reached for a bean from a different bowl and did the same, tossing it into his mouth. Astarion felt the muscles in his face tighten as he tried not to grimace.
"What a difference anaerobic processing makes," Gale remarked.
"And pure Red Bourbon beans. High Harvest is a little more adventurous. I didn't think you'd give it a try," Lakrissa said.
"Goodness," Gale said. "Now I'm worried you don't know me very well."
Lakrissa's voice changed directions. "I can help you over here." Her smile faded when she made eye contact with Astarion. She turned and called over her shoulder, "Alfira, two espressos, please." She rang him up in silence while he tapped the company credit card on the terminal.
A receipt was printed out. The coffee grinder whirred and shrieked. Steam hissed.
"I take it you're another regular." To his left, the bean-munching freak Gale had stopped chewing and was looking at him with unprecedented interest. "An espresso is a classic choice."
Astarion didn't have much of an opinion on espressos, but he nodded. It was such a boring thing to say. None of this was for him, anyway. He had a Monster Energy Zero Ultra waiting for him in the office fridge.
"It is," he said.
"Apologies if you had to see me eat the beans. You looked a bit taken aback," Gale said. "I know it'd be more polite to smell them, but they all smell the same to me. Plus," Gale gestured vaguely at the air, "I don't expect anyone to be able to tell the difference in a place like this."
This Gale was being insufferable right now, but Astarion had nothing better to do while waiting in line. He pushed past Gale, took one of the bowls and held it to his nose, then grabbed the other one and did the same. The smell of coffee was unmistakable, but even in a room flooded with a dozen other blends, there was a difference.
The two bowls sat in the palms of his hands. He closed his eyes and breathed in.
Left: High Harvest. A faint, nondescript floral stem rising out of a mound of nutty praline and red berries. Light, leaning acidic.
Right: Brimstone. A punch of earthiness, acrid and deep. With another slow breath in, the darkness was tempered with a caramelized sweetness, like overcooked toffee or marshmallows hanging dangerously over a campfire.
Astarion opened his eyes. He held up the bowl with the Brimstone beans. "You said you liked this one," he said.
"Um, yes." Gale looked a little surprised. Astarion could see the motif of his earring now. From behind, it looked like an eight-pointed star, but up close, the edges were rounded. It was an atom.
Astarion inhaled one more time, then pulled away. "Honey, yes. And cocoa, a dash of cinnamon, and a great deal of smoke." He set the bowl down on the counter with a clunk. "Don't bother, dear. It's burnt."
"It's a dark roast," Gale argued.
"Cortado for Gale?" The other barista, Alfira, came up to the counter with a small coffee cup and a smile.
"Wonderful!" Gale said. "I've decided on the Brimstone Blend."
Well. So much for taste. Some people just couldn't be helped, Astarion thought, as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. No new notifications. Good.
It was a habit now, to always watch the clock, to be ready at a moment's notice for any buzzing, and to never, ever be late.
8:51.
8:52.
8:53.
Gale, Alfira, and Lakrissa stopped talking. Finally. Alfira gently nudged the bag of coffee beans towards Gale. Between mindlessly scrolling through reels on Instagram, Astarion caught the wave of a hand from the corner of his eye.
"Thank you for the coffee!"
"Thank you for the tip!"
Astarion wasn't looking, but judging from the movement past him, he could have sworn Gale turned back to catch one last glimpse of him before he disappeared through the glass door. The wind chimes jingled, followed by a light thud on the counter.
"Two espressos."
Astarion didn't say a word as he left.
◈━◈━◈
The Szarr office smelled like oud. They didn't just make perfumes. Szarr was a way of being, as Cazador would say. It followed the wearer through a lifetime. There were candles, home fragrance diffusers, custom bottle engravings, and even leather goods. Two centuries of business and a total of 700 (or was it 7,000? 7-something.) employees worldwide made sure of that. There was a playbook for everything.
Get close enough to competitors to stab them in the back. Szarr's greatest rival was Eomane, another family-owned perfumery. New money that capitalized on the trend of producing layerable "freshies" with the staying power of a sneeze. Astarion had once met its head, Nysene Eomane, at the company Christmas party a few years ago. At least she had the grace to never leave marks on the employees she abused.
Network, network, network. Cazador had several families by the pursestrings, pretended to follow the business bureau's practices to the letter, and launched one-time collaborations with Ravenshade Jewellery and Exeltis Winery. After the cologne they released with Exeltis flopped (and no wonder, it smelled like wine lees), Astarion noticed fewer bottles on the liquor store shelves.
Wield the power of the word of mouth. Szarr was not made for the unwashed masses. Szarr was a legacy. They were exclusive, their perfumes smelled on generations of parents and grandparents before. They'd rubbed elbows with celebrities, royalty, and the plain and dirty rich. Cazador had yet another saying. Build, and they will follow.
Prioritize employee performance. By the time Astarion returned to the office, Aurelia looked like she was nearly in tears.
"I tried. I tried to get it scrubbed," she hissed.
Astarion quickly set the coffee down on the reception desk. His shins were burning. He barely made it back in time. "Get a hold of yourself. What's going on?" he asked.
"Someone from Baldur's Mouth called Szarr boring," Aurelia said. She scrolled down on her mouse. "From the fashion and beauty column. Here, get this—"
"Make it quick."
Aurelia scowled at Astarion before reading aloud. "'I will be honest with you, I don't know why such misfortune has befallen the House of Szarr. The lack of longevity, considering the price, is puzzling, and the releases are stiff and antiquated. Szarr may pride itself on its storied history, but without further innovation, the perfumery might not make it to the end of the decade.'" She looked at Astarion blankly. "It was a guest writer."
Astarion stepped behind the desk and leaned over Aurelia's shoulder. He wasn't really reading, but he saw that the entry on the webpage was long (too long) and that Aurelia had one free article left this month.
"Stiff and antiquated. God. I thought he liked that sort of thing," he said.
"Then get him to like it." Aurelia threw her hands up. Astarion glanced down at the mug on her desk. Was she having coffee instead of tea? Shit, it was one of those days.
He braced himself on the back of her chair, trying his hardest to sound friendly and not scared. Not scared. Totally not scared.
"Aren't you going to wish me luck?" he asked.
Aurelia shot him a glare that told him he'd overstayed his welcome. Astarion picked up the coffee and continued on, past the enormous crystal chandelier hanging over the waiting area, past the kitchen, and past the printer room, where Petras and Yousen snickered at him before he rounded the corner.
The sound of his footsteps against the ground changed as he walked over waxed wooden floorboards, then polished black marble. As soon as he made it to the carpeted hall, Dalyria came hurrying around another corner.
"Hi. Red Porsche," she said.
Red Porsche. Between the Szarr staff, the signal that Cazador was on the prowl and to look as busy as possible.
"Hi, Dal. Red Porsche," Astarion repeated back at her. Dal gave him a quick nod and continued speeding past as fast as her slingback kitten heels could carry her.
As he always did, Astarion kept going.
It was impossible to miss Cazador's door, the largest in the entire building save for the main door to the lobby. The hallway narrowed onto it, a tunnel of splendour that stopped at the wide wooden doors. Tall shelves housing their signature etched square bottles, a claw-footed console table, and several ornately framed paintings passed him by the time he made it to the entrance. He was the also only one with the code to the door. He should be so lucky.
Astarion raised his hand.
Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock knock. Pause. Knock knock.
Cazador's voice came out, thin and reedy.
"Enter."
Cazador's office was unnecessarily lavish. Not that Astarion had a problem with the finer things in life—he would be surrounded by the very best if he could afford them. But none of the objects that lined the room were very conducive to running a perfumery with a net worth in the hundreds of millions. The large bookcase was stuffed from end to end with books on art and poetry. An enormous floor globe stood by the window. His computer monitor was an older model. There was also a full bottle of cognac next to it. Day drinking? Professional.
It was also awfully dark. The blinds in Cazador's office were drawn and slatted, cutting the sunlight from outside into ribbons. A candle—a Szarr original—sat burning on the desk. The only sound as Astarion entered was the creak of the door swinging shut behind him and the even clack of the soles of his leather oxfords against the polished wooden floor as he approached.
"I have your coffee."
Cazador barely looked up. His hands were folded in front of him, back perfectly straight. Dressed in black couture from head to toe, he looked like a solid shadow. He sat still as Astarion pulled one coffee cup out of its holder and placed it in front of him. Only his lips moved when he spoke. "Tolerable news at last."
"News," Astarion spat. He was always good at the act of condescension, but by now, he'd perfected it. "Baldur's Mouth is trash."
"Filthy publicity is still publicity. You should know that by now," Cazador said. He snapped his fingers and like a well-trained dog, Astarion sat on the padded chair across from him. "And the House of Szarr has a problem if this is where we stand."
From where he stood, Astarion was trying not to sink down onto the chair too quickly. Last he heard, they were doing just fine. They still sold several thousand units per year. And unlike other perfume brands, they didn't even need extensive advertising to do that. It was business as usual.
"I didn't think there was a problem," Astarion ventured.
Cazador's long, slender fingers curled around the coffee cup, seeming to suck the warmth from out the cardboard sleeve. He never drank in front of anyone, or ate for that matter. It made him seem almost inhuman. Better than.
"Then there was your problem. You didn't think," he said.
There it was. Astarion's tongue lashing of the day, and this one barely even stung. Astarion nodded faintly, his gaze drifting to the photograph that hung behind the desk. The man in the golden frame was cold and sombre with hollow cheeks. Vellioth, Cazador's father, former owner and patriarch of the House of Szarr. The hierarchy went all the way up the family tree. Astarion was sure he wouldn't have a job if Cazador wasn't heirless.
Astarion didn't believe in higher powers, but when he was younger—more naïve in the ways of the world—he used to think about praying. The mantra was always the same: let this rotten twig by the name of Cazador Szarr be the end of it. He'd even promised to join the nearest monastic order if anyone answered. Not that he'd make a very good monk, but monasteries were some of history's oldest perfumeries and if that meant he got to pick roses in the Italian countryside half the world away...well. That wouldn't be so bad.
"What do you say, boy?"
Astarion jolted. If there had been a question, he didn't hear it. "You know best," he replied quickly. Astarion had a saying of his own. When in doubt, kiss ass.
"I asked for your opinion. So, answer me. What does the House of Szarr need, hmm? What's our missing puzzle piece?"
"I. I don't know yet." Astarion's mind was racing, stumbling to form thought. Coherent thought. Intelligent thought. "But I'll follow up with Leon to see what he's doing with the product offerings."
Cazador pushed his coffee cup aside, thoroughly unimpressed. "Do it today. And by product offerings, I mean an original fragrance. Not a candle, gift set, or god forbid, another soap bar. We're a serious brand. It's past time for us to act like one."
Customers actually liked the candles and gift sets, but never mind that when the news hit like a slap in the face. To Astarion, each day at work felt like trying to keep his head above water, but this was the order to drown.
"We're doing a perfume launch. Now. This quarter," Astarion said. It was part question, part interrogation, all please say no, not right now. Not this year. Not ever.
He knew what a perfume launch meant. It happened every one to two years, discounting the reissuing of signature fragrances in limited edition flankers that were more or less purely decorative art objects.
The whole Szarr office would go on high alert. Cazador's little everyday cruelties would turn into crimes. Working weekends. Unpaid overtime. He would call in every favour imaginable. Bribes, forgeries, and worse.
"We are already behind without a spring and summer release, flagging while the shelves are flooded with eau de toilettes that claim to be reminiscent of 'the extravagant blooms of the great scarlet poppy'," Cazador's air quotes could cut glass. "Do you know what it's like to hear that everyone else is pushing out something that doesn't even have a smell?"
It's the idea that counts, Astarion wanted to say. You've never had a good idea in your life.
Astarion said nothing. Cazador shook his head. "Shameful." He pressed two fingers to his temple. Astarion could see the glint of the ruby signet ring he wore and the matching silver cufflinks. "So yes, now. And, if I recall from your last performance review, you expressed a desire to be involved."
Without meaning to, Astarion's jaw clenched.
Astarion had expressed that desire for years. Each time, Cazador's excuse was different. He wasn't ready. He didn't have the right training. His work was needed elsewhere. Even if it wasn't, he wouldn't be good enough. This year marked his tenth working at the House of Szarr. "Yes. That's right," he said.
"Then prove yourself worthy," Cazador replied.
Hell of a statement. Astarion tried to choose his next words carefully. He couldn't ask, What the hell is that supposed to mean?, much less whether Cazador's measure of "worthy" was even within reach.
"What I should do?" he asked.
Cazador's hands folded on the desk once more. "I'm giving you an opportunity, you know. Here's what you'll do. You'll give me an answer my question from earlier. A good answer. Do it by tomorrow morning at nine. And don't disappoint. I will not allow us to rest on our laurels."
Astarion fixed his eyes on the carved crown molding at the base of the tall ceiling. The room was spotless, so pathologically clean he could probably count the number of dust motes in the air. "I guess we have our first note right there," he said quietly. "Think our customers know bay leaves are actually a type of laurel?"
Cazador rose to his feet and with a step forward, gripped Astarion by the wrist. Astarion flinched. Without needing to be asked, he looked up. Cazador snarled. "I do not pay you to wag your tongue. Come up with something that isn't useless chatter. Have I made myself clear?"
Super specific instructions. Great. But he couldn't ask questions. Cazador hated questions. Astarion lowered his gaze. "Crystal."
Cazador's nails dug into his arm. Astarion wished he had several soap bars to scrub off the look on his face.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion took way too long in the shower. It was one of the reasons he lived alone. He needed almost an hour to wash off the day when he came home.
Another was that the flat was ugly as sin. Not because he hadn't tried at first. He still had all the cushions he moved in with, plus the circular white floor rug and the red curtains. Sadly, the bedroom didn't come with a bed frame. What started as making do turned into I'll do it later, turned into sleeping on his mattress on the floor, blankets and clothes piled into a heap on the chair next to the sewing machine. At some point, he'd stopped giving a shit altogether.
But he made space for a vanity. Let that say what it would about his priorities. The mirror propped up against the wall was tall and arched, a relic from the 80's thrifted from The Glitter Gala. Scattered around the base were a large tube of SPF50+ sunscreen, several night creams, a multi-peptide eye serum that didn't do much to chase off his dark circles, and the unlabelled amber bottle he was looking for.
The left corner of his vanity was the neatest. Astarion refused to own Szarr perfumes. Most of his collection sat in the form of 1ml decants in a desk organizer. But if he wanted something done right, he had to do it himself. So he did.
The little amber bottle sat in the right corner, in front of a mini electronic scale, which sat next to several pieces of lab glassware and a repurposed five-dollar spice rack. The three small shelves on the rack were loaded with dozens of oils and aroma chemicals.
Astarion unscrewed the black dropper top and squeezed gently. Oily droplets fell onto the back of his hand, which he dabbed into his wrists and collarbones. He breathed a sigh of relief. He smelled like himself again. Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy.
If he was being honest, he didn't know where the brandy came from. He remembered the evening he spent mixing the blend with a crude setup of a funnel, droppers, cheap oils, and a stack of blending strips. It had been pouring rain.
Like a puzzle, the first two notes of the composition clicked easily into place. The very first was bergamot, the flavour of earl grey tea and the note of dynamism, which was a pretentious way of saying freshness. Bergamot was one of the most complex citruses, which lent a spiciness that played well with the rosemary that came next. Rosemary, one of the oldest notes in the history of perfume, was green, woody, and rejuvenating; a familiar and classic touch.
The third piece screamed that it very much wanted to be vetiver, but it was ousted with a swift kick of inspiration. He'd been playing it safe up until now and the concept of brandy had been too interesting to pass up. It was synthetic—Astarion couldn't afford the real deal dredged up from the bottom of the barrel.
He started from the bottom up. The oils formed layered rings in the flask. The mixture smelled harsh, almost medicinal and overripe at first. A few good shakes and several days later, it deepened into a liquid smooth sweetness, spicy and herbaceous. Astarion remembered scrambling for a pen to note down what he guessed were the ratios. He ran on pure intuition. As he tinkered, the perfume came alive for him. The brandy muted any heavy tones and brought out a certain brightness he hadn't expected. Alcohol had a way of doing that.
Speaking of which.
There was merlot in the fridge. Astarion afforded himself that much. He'd tried a shiraz yesterday and it was fine. Just fine. A little too peppery and not enough blackberry, like the label advertised. He hoped this bottle would taste better.
He'd also started to hope Cora and Roger Highberry at Highberry's Liquor didn't start to recognize him whenever he came up to the till, but he had a very distinct look. It was all anyone ever commented on. Not that his jokes were funny, that he was shockingly resourceful, or that he always had a clever comeback up his sleeve, but that he was pretty.
Pretty hurt. Astarion poured himself a glass of wine.
On his phone, the work group chat was blowing up. They'd all been hit by the fallout, no doubt. Astarion's thumb moved on instinct, swiping past the messages that popped up on his feed. He'd heard about work husbands and work wives, but in some sad way, he'd started to think of everyone else at the House of Szarr as his work siblings. Probably just as Cazador planned.
On his own laptop, Astarion was watching Lucretious's Last Days. The true crime YouTube channel was currently covering the murder and subsequent dismemberment of Dribbles the Clown, which sounded digestible, exciting even, thanks to the drag queen's biting wit and silky voice.
The merlot had notes of cherry, plum, and dark chocolate. When chilled, the cherry was most pronounced. Astarion only had a few sips so far, but it was already better than the shiraz. A few more videos, another glass, and a shameless wank before bed and he'd be out like a light.
It was as good a way to spend the evening as any until his phone blared to life in his hand.
It was video call request from the group chat. Astarion stared down at the screen disdainfully. The tone continued to ring, echoing the same few bars every few seconds.
Fuck it. Astarion smacked the pause button on his laptop and the answer button on his phone. He declined to turn on his camera. Fuck everyone in there, too.
Violet hissed through the speaker. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Whose idea was this? Yousen? Was it you?"
"Petras started it," Yousen said.
Aurelia groaned. "Jesus, Petras. Have you heard of texting?"
"No, Petras can't read," Astarion scoffed. He topped up his glass. He was going to need this.
"I'm turning my camera off!" Petras yelped. Up until that point, they had all been treated to a very unflattering view of his chin. The screen wobbled, then went black.
"Can you all keep it down? Victoria has school in the morning."
"Sorry, Leon," Dal said. "And sorry to hear about what happened with Cazador earlier."
"Yeah, god, he was furious." Astarion heard a beep go off in the background. Aurelia's voice faded and returned with the latch of a door. "I wasn't allowed to take a break today."
"I wasn't allowed to leave until seven," Leon muttered.
"It wasn't that bad," Astarion said.
"I don't want to hear the details," Yousen mumbled.
"I do."
There was a long pause before Leon spoke. "What is wrong with you, Violet?"
"I'd be dying for those details if I were you."
Another pause. "...what is wrong with you, Astarion?"
"So much."
"Enough." Dal sighed. "We know how Cazador gets before a product launch."
"Before launch? Launch takes all year," Yousen said.
"Yes, all year," Dal continued. "But he's going big this year with releasing a new perfume. He's most anxious during concept development. That's when Aurelia has the most sway."
"Already on it." From her end of the line, Aurelia poked something that sounded like plastic. "I sent Cambion a heads up to get ready for trademark registration."
Astarion had heard stories about hellish internships at Cambion LLP while he was still in school. Of course they were on Cazador's payroll.
"Anything else?" Yousen pressed.
"We're lined up for Design Week again. I think we're collaborating with a textile brand this year."
"Pleeeeeaaaaase tell me it's not the weird Anchev chick," Petras whined. "We did the meat dress thing twenty years ago."
Fourteen years ago, but basic math was lost on someone like Petras.
Violet clucked her tongue. "She said textile brand, not washed up nepo baby, dumbass."
"I don't know if she's going to be there. But no, we're not doing anything with her," Aurelia said.
"Thank god," Yousen breathed. Astarion poured another glass. He'd drink to that.
"For now," Leon cautioned. "Cazador's going to play weird mind games about who's going with him."
Aurelia swallowed something. "Ten bucks it's you, Leon."
"Twenty it's me," Violet laughed.
Astarion could practically see Leon rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We're not betting real money on this."
"Killjoy," Astarion muttered.
Dal coughed. "Astarion, do you have anything to say? About how to handle Cazador?"
Astarion took a long sip of wine, sucking his drink back to produce a careless-sounding slurp. He thought he heard an "ew" from either Violet or Aurelia. "Listen," he said. "Cazador's not complicated. Say yes to everything, get your work done ahead of time, and shut the hell up when he starts talking."
"Easy for you to say," Petras growled. "Sitting at the right hand of the father."
It was too late to be putting up with this much bullshit. Astarion glanced down at his glass. He was starting to reach the end of his second drink. He'd afforded himself two glasses. He had work in the morning. But everyone was being a right prick and he also hadn't eaten dinner, unless a peanut butter protein bar counted as dinner.
Could he have this?
"I think Astarion could make Employee of Year if he took a bit more initiative," Leon suggested. "He could at least give us a heads up before he comes out and yells at someone else. He has the advantage of being closest to Cazador. "
"Buzzing around him like a fly on the wall," Yousen added.
Petras sneered. "More like a dog at his heels. You should've seen him start running after Cazador after the all-hands last week."
Violet's cackle was sharp and piercing. "Oh my god, I did. He runs so funny."
"Why do you run like that, Astarion? That can't be good for your back." Aurelia sounded more confused than anything, but even she couldn't resist.
Yeah, he could. Fuck yeah, he could.
"If I knew what his mood was going to be on any given day, I'd start a forecast," Astarion shot back, while pouring himself another drink. He was aware no one was watching him right now, but he couldn't help gesticulating. He was feeling a little livelier already. "Oh, would you look at that. There's a ninety-nine percent chance of a shitstorm and it's coming right at you."
"Astarion doesn't have an easy job," Dal offered weakly. "It's can't be easy being around Cazador all the time."
Astarion tsk'ed. "Sweet of you to care, but I'll figure something out."
"Figure something out?" Petras came back in. "Your job is to keep him calm." The rest of the sentiment went unsaid. And keep him away from the rest of us.
"And I'm doing remarkably well, in case you haven't noticed." Astarion's voice dripped with venom in the way only it could, then he shook his head to himself. He almost stumbled over "remarkably". He leaned in closer to his phone. "Now that I have my action item, I'm tapping out. Sweet dreams."
Astarion hung up before anyone could say goodbye. His phone lay still on the vanity. To the right, his third glass was empty, drained to its last dregs.
Pulling himself out of his chair, Astarion stood up and padded over to the kitchen, flung open a cupboard, and filled himself a glass of water. He grabbed a berry-flavoured electrolyte packet from another cupboard, tore it open, emptied it into the water, and drank. It tasted mostly like stevia. It soured the taste of the lingering wine and made it bitterly sweet. He'd save the rest for the morning.
When Astarion returned to his room, he flicked off the light switch and rolled back onto his mattress. It's a goddamn futon, he'd tried to convince himself over and over again. Ergonomic. Minimalist. Not to mention very chic.
Still, there was discomfort from the way his spine curved against the floor and the question from earlier that day continued to creep in the back of his mind.
What did the House of Szarr need?
It needed to go down, that was for sure. But he couldn't put that on a memo. Astarion's thoughts sloshed around, threatening to leak out with tiredness and wine.
They needed something new. Experimental. Something to prove they weren't out of date. So what if they had to use synthetics? Cazador loved cost-cutting measures. They needed new bottle designs. Build-your-own samplers. They needed everything Cazador would never shell out for.
Things would be easier if Astarion was put in charge. Of something. Anything. Over the years, he watched everyone ascend the corporate ladder. Leon was always Employee of the Year, except for that one time Violet took his place. And after all this time, Astarion was still on the bottom rung. No doubt Cazador was keeping him there and under his waxed calf leather boot for...reasons. Hell if he knew what they were, other than that Cazador loved having someone to lord over.
It was embarrassing. Not just being Cazador's bitch, but never being able to take pride in his work. Astarion didn't care about the House of Szarr, but he still loved perfume. He'd always loved it. The artistry, the composition and craft, the history, the capacity for something as simple as a drop of liquid to evoke and form memories, to make an impression, to embolden and empower.
On days when he found it nearly impossible to keep going (and, granted, that was most days), Astarion clung onto his sweetest scented memories. Crushing thin, firm rosemary leaves between his fingers. Tobacco from smoking cigarettes on a roof in late fall. The stale air in his flat turning wood-papery from unpacking moving boxes, back when his world felt small. He'd been told he was blessed with heightened senses—that they were a gift.
Szarr made a joke of it all.
In the pitch black of his bedroom, mild nausea swelled in Astarion's stomach. He rolled onto his side and pushed himself towards the edge of the mattress. He was starting to regret that third glass. Had it been just two, this would have been a quick, dreamless sleep by now.
The old refrain that repeated itself for ten years resurfaced. Stay alive. Try again tomorrow.
What did the House of Szarr need?
Nothing was committed to paper or memory by the time Astarion fell asleep.
Notes:
Welcome to my very first multi-chapter fic! I'm back on my bullshit (combining my special interests in perfume and BG3) and beyond excited to hang on for the ride.
The description of Astarion's perfume is based on Siren Song Elixirs' recreation of it. They have a whole Baldur's Gate 3 range that smells wonderful (I've been wearing The Pale Elf for half a year now). Check them out!
There are some excellent examples of home perfume lab setups on r/DIYfragrance. I especially love u/korben18's desk, though it's too tidy to be Astarion's. Think less symmetry, a lot more organized chaos.
Perfume inspo: 1888 Casamorati by Xerjoff
"Truly classic and timelessly elegant, 1888 Casamorati is a scent experience like no other. Spicy oriental in character, this perfume serves as a sensual souvenir from a bygone era and is inherently Italian in spirit. Opening with fresh green pepper and precious Iranian saffron, the exotic heart of Indonesian ylang-ylang and Moroccan neroli tempts and seduces. The nose is left wanting more, with a classic base of Mysore sandalwood, patchouli and amber. An inspiring vintage scent that celebrates the ancient art of Italian perfumery.”
Much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 2: Bergamot
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied SA/sex trafficking
- Mentions of alcoholism
- Body checking and implied disordered eatingThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bean eater was back. He was still wearing purple, so not only was he weird, but lacking imagination. Astarion tried to focus on anything but the back of Gale's head. The floor. The menu. The glass display case and the food inside. Flaky almond croissants. Buttery slices of quiche. Astarion hadn't had cake in forever. He thought about what it would be like to have a slice of cheesecake again, with strawberry sauce made with real sugar. His stomach growled.
"One long black, please," Gale said. "And Lakrissa, I loved the Brimstone Blend. I used it in an affogato as an after-dinner treat. Have you ever tried it with a scoop of mint chip ice cream?"
Astarion couldn't see Gale's face, but he saw the puzzled-but-trying-to-be-polite looks on Lakrissa's and Alfira's. He heard Gale clear his throat. "Think about it. The end result isn't far off from a peppermint mocha. You wouldn't even have to wait until the holidays."
A pause. "When you put it that way, that actually sounds really nice," Alfira sighed.
"Try it in a latte with some brown sugar sometime," Lakrissa said. "That's two parts strong coffee to one part milk and two tablespoons of brown sugar syrup. I also like to add an extra sprinkle of brown sugar on top."
"Lakrissa!" Gale exclaimed. "A magician should never give away her secrets."
The conversation carried on as Alfira stepped forward to take Astarion's order. As he pulled the company credit card out of his wallet, he realized he'd never paid much attention to her before. She was kind of pretty, he thought, with her long purple-pink hair and the way she hummed along to the guitar on the sound system while she waited for him to tap his card. Pretty voice, too. He wondered whether she had someone waiting on her. He wondered whether Gale did. He was almost definitely married, with his dumb attempts at jokes and know-it-all attitude.
And his corny smile when he saw Astarion walk his way.
"Good morning! Wonderful to see you again," Gale said. He sounded disgustingly chipper for someone who hadn't had his coffee yet and Astarion wondered if it would be out of fashion to start carrying a dagger on his person.
He didn't smile back. "Oh. It's you."
Gale said nothing this time. Thank fuck. Astarion turned his attention to his phone. No new notifications. Not his problem.
He swiped over to Instagram, where his homepage fed him an endless scroll of reels. One reel recapped highlights from the latest episode of Lucretious's Last Days. Another swipe revealed a photo set of the viral sphynx cat, His Majesty, in several crocheted hats. Under it, the designer Figaro Pennygood took a bow on a runway, flanked by models wearing pieces from the fall/winter collection from Facemaker, his up-and-coming label.
Was it too late to jump ship and work in fashion? Their industries were adjacent and Astarion was good with a needle and thread.
When he looked back at Gale, he had somehow produced a paperback during the time Astarion spent on his phone. He blended seamlessly into the backdrop of the coffee shop. Framed by deep walnut wood, he looked like one more item on the shelf, surrounded by pour-over kits, tumblers, and AeroPresses.
He was also gnawing on a thin object. Astarion could have mistaken it for a very skinny vape pen at first, but when he squinted, it was an actual pen. A gel pen. With ink. The cap was chewed to shreds.
Gale had a knack for putting things in his mouth that weren't meant to be eaten.
"How does it taste?"
It came out with disgust, but Gale removed the pen from his mouth unbothered, as if Astarion had asked about the weather. He still had the nerve to smile, though smaller this time. "Oh, you know. Plastic has a mild flavour overall, but its nuances depend on the manufacturer," he said. "This one has hints of rubber and disappointment."
Astarion folded his arms. "Hilarious. Have you considered becoming a restaurant critic, starting with the nearest stationery store?"
"Would you believe me if I told you I once took a bite out of one of those scented erasers?"
"Yes."
"Ah, come on now, didn't you? Or at least think about it?"
"You huffed Sharpie fumes, too, I bet. It would explain some things."
"Unfortunately, a fume-addled mind isn't one that can stand up to a read like this." Gale held up the paperback. Astarion recognized the red and black cover immediately, as well as the title. Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. One of the very few books he still owned as a physical copy. No one he'd talked to had ever heard about it, but nineteenth-century lesbian vampires weren't everyone's cup of tea. (Their loss.)
Astarion tried to disguise the excitement in voice with a snide drawl. "Good to see your taste in books is better than your taste in inedible objects."
Gale's eyebrows rose. "You've read Carmilla?"
"I, uh." Astarion had read Carmilla. And Dracula. And Interview With the Vampire. And the Twilight series, though it would be easier to pull the teeth out of his mouth one by one than get him to admit it. "Yeah. I have," he began. "Why are you reading Carmilla?"
Gale idly turned a page. "It was a recommendation from a co-worker. Far from my usual, but I try to keep an open mind," he said. His voice was cool and collected. "I hope, for your sake, you'll learn to do the same."
"Long black for Gale?"
"Perfect, thank you!" The book snapped shut and went into Gale's messenger bag. A warm grin spread across his face when he stepped up to the counter. "Now what do we have here?"
Alfira passed a crumpled-up napkin to Gale. "We were trying out a new biscotti recipe," she admitted. "We thought you could be our first taste tester."
"Guinea pig," Lakrissa added helpfully.
Without hesitation, Gale took the napkin and examined the contents. He broke off a small piece, ate it, and took a careful sip of his long black.
"It's orange, cardamom, and ginger," Alfira explained. She looked somewhat shy. "Do you think it's too much?"
"Too much? I think it's marvellous. The pieces of candied ginger are a delightful touch," Gale said. He raised his cup, as if in a toast. "Well done. I have to get going, but I look forward to trying the next one, and the one after that."
Gale had craned his head around to talk while walking towards the exit and he was getting close. Too close.
"Watch where you're going!"
Too little too late. Gale collided into Astarion's shoulder with a rough bump. A searing splash of wet heat landed on Astarion's chest and he let out a sharp hiss. When he looked down, a coffee stain was blooming across his shirt.
Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
The noise of the coffee shop blurred into a steady white thrum. The only sounds that registered were rushing steam and the scrape of metal blades in the grinder. Gale was starting to catch on, if the look of horror spreading across his face was any indication.
"Oh god. My deepest apologies. It didn't burn, did it? Let me help—"
"Don't touch me," Astarion snapped. The spill burned a little, but not nearly as much as the anger, then the terror that started to creep up Astarion's chest. He didn't have anything else to change into. He had to be back in ten minutes. Cazador was going to flay him again. Metaphorically.
Next to him, Gale was still apologizing.
"I'm so, so sorry. Please, give me a moment—"
Astarion gingerly pressed a finger to the stain, which was still warm to the touch. Under the splotch on his shirt, his skin was damp. His shoulders were tense, as if a cord were strung taut across them. Gale was grabbing napkins from the holder on the counter. One napkin. Two napkins. A whole wad of napkins, which Astarion snatched from him and held to his chest. Gale leaned closer, as if to inspect the damage.
"Not so bad now. Looked like it was a little splatter," he said.
The audacity. The arrogance. The fucking gall to assume that all of this was "not so bad".
Astarion nearly exploded.
"Little splatter? Little, is it?" Astarion shouted. "If this is little, then your capacity for common sense is infinitesimal, dipshit."
Gale set his cup down on the nearest table. A trickle of coffee ran down his fingers, which he wrung off with a quick flick of his wrist. "Do you not get tired of being so angry all the time?" he asked. "I swear, you might just be one of the most unpleasant people I've had the misfortune of meeting. A 'good morning'. 'Interesting book you're reading.' Some benefit of the doubt. Would that hurt?"
Astarion's next words came out through bared teeth. "Come on, then. I'll show you hurt."
"I understand you're upset, but you don't have the right to talk to me that way." There was a sudden and authoritative edge to Gale's voice. But it was nothing like Cazador's, high-pitched and nasally. Instead of oozing with backhanded sweetness, Gale's mouth was set into a thin, firm line.
Astarion hated how it worked just as well at making him shrink back into himself.
"Sorry, then." The words felt like acid in his throat. Astarion despised apologizing. He'd done it a hundred times a day for the last ten years. It never made him feel any sorrier, just smaller. "I...have a very important event later."
Any rage Astarion previously held was snuffed out. Cazador always taunted him for his temper and here he was, two blocks away and out of sight and still proving him right.
Gale's expression softened. "Apology accepted. I know what it's like to be at an important event or two. Here."
Gale removed the clip on his shirt, reached around his neck, and began undoing his tie. When the knot was freed, he held out the limp stretch of fabric, the clip held in place with his thumb. "It should be long enough to cover it up," Gale said. "As for the stain itself, wash it in warm water and any enzyme detergent as soon as you can. Vinegar works, too. If it's stubborn, try chlorine or oxygen bleach."
Astarion's fist barely loosened around the napkins. "And you know this off the top of your head how?"
"Chemistry, my dear Wats—" Gale paused. "Sorry. I suppose we never introduced ourselves."
"My name's Astarion."
"Astarion, that's a lovely name. I'm—"
"Gale. I heard."
"Pleasure." Gale was still holding out his tie and clip. As Astarion studied them, he noticed Gale didn't have any rings on his fingers.
He didn't know what to say. He wanted to throw them back at Gale, to tell him that he didn't need his help and cheap, ugly tie. But it wasn't like he had any other choice. His hand closed around the tie. When he reached out, their fingers bumped. Gale had soft hands.
Gale nodded approvingly. "Keep in mind that I would like it back once you're done. It's very dear to me," he said.
Astarion was tempted to start putting the tie on right away, but hesitated. Gale might actually offer to help him with that. "And where would I find you?" he asked.
"You know where to find me," Gale said. He huffed out a chuckle. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Don't. Do it. Again." Once more with feeling. Astarion felt a twist, a small twinge of satisfaction when Gale looked startled, ducked his head, and, after snatching up his cup of coffee, walked briskly out the door. He didn't turn around this time.
Once Gale was gone, Astarion flipped the tie over in his hand. It had the same motif as Gale's earring. Atoms printed across dark purple fabric. He rubbed it between his fingers. Some kind of polyester blend. The print was tacky, but better than a coffee stain the size of his index finger.
As he finally fastened it into a knot around his neck, he caught Lakrissa and Alfira staring. The cord snapped.
"What are you looking at?" he yelled. "Get on with it."
And, like a moth to a flame, the satisfaction returned.
◈━◈━◈
"We need to go darker."
Cazador raised a thin eyebrow. He hadn't been in a waiting mood. He also hadn't allowed Astarion to sit today. Astarion felt like it had something to do with the fact that he barrelled into his office five minutes late. "Not a fougère, I hope?" Cazador asked. "You remember how well our last fougère performed."
Astarion remembered. Tourmaline, an aromatic fougère, was released three years ago. It was inspired by the colour scheme of the lower floor of the building, which was commissioned by Cazador's grandmother, Donella Szarr, an architect as well as an artist. Sadly, the blend of artemisia, oakmoss, and coumarin faded quickly with the press releases, much like the cologne's longevity.
A month later, Cazador moved Astarion to a cubicle in a room without a window. He didn't know why Cazador was pissed off at him specifically, considering he hadn't taken any of his advice. When prompted, he'd said that if Cazador wanted green, it was fig leaf that was in, not the stinking mess heading straight to market. Cazador had said nothing. Were things even going to be different this time?
"No." Cazador's eyes narrowed and Astarion started racking his brain for their greatest hits.
Rhapsody. The amber floral that started it all, the cornerstone on which the House was built. Rose, clove, patchouli, and cedar. A deep and honeyed, almost bloody rose.
Woe. A dark dance of peppery geranium, oud, palisander, and amber that brought to mind plush red velvet chairs.
Poetry. A citrus aromatic blend of lemon, lavender, rosemary, neroli, and sandalwood in the style of colognes from the nineteenth century and earlier.
Amanita. The innocence of lily-of-the-valley, gardenia, and jasmine wrapped in skin-soft musk. Named after a niece Cazador had.
Lady Incognita. A melancholy whisper of iris, heliotrope, orris root, benzoin, cedar, and styrax. An homage to the powdery creations of the 1920's that smelled a bit like a doll lying facedown in a dusty attic.
Stiff and antiquated.
"I was thinking something dry and woody this time. It's still going to be on trend if we stay on track with our production schedule and release it next fall. I can put some scent profiles together for you if you'd like," Astarion offered.
The laugh that came out of Cazador was high-pitched and derisive. "You? You don't have the skill."
"What? And leave it up to Godey?" Astarion turned on his heel. "He doesn't have the imagination."
"Godey is simple, it's true." Cazador leaned back in his high-backed office chair. "But if he's witless, you're spineless. You wouldn't stand the pressure, much less the publicity. The media's a circus, child. Fetid rats nipping at your heels. I can barely kick them off fast enough." He laughed again. "You'd fold like a napkin."
Not like you. Not when I take it every damn day.
"Alright. Alright, then." Astarion stopped in his tracks, only just realizing he was pacing. His hands fell to his sides. He had to concentrate to keep them from balling onto themselves. "Tell me what to do."
"To do what?" Cazador laced his fingers together. "I thought I told you to use your words."
Astarion held his back straight, just as Cazador constantly reminded him to do. "To create—help you create—the next piece for the House of Szarr," he said. "It would be an honour."
With the withering look Cazador gave him, Astarion's heart plummeted into his stomach.
This was it. He was going to be slapped or laughed out of the office. Maybe fired. Then, a hint of joy flitted through him. He'd been dreaming about the day since the first week he was hired. He was only sorry he hadn't rehearsed a monologue in advance, but it wasn't too late to try to flip over Cazador's desk. Break some glass. Scream obscenities until security kicked him out.
Come on. Do it do it do it. Do it already, you fucking coward. Show me you have the balls for it.
What came out of Cazador's mouth was worse.
"Hm. Hmmm." He was amused. He was toying with him. The thought of it disgusted Astarion, then terrified him. "Convince me. Explain why this would be the best use of your time," Cazador said.
Astarion took a deep breath. This was what he wanted all along, wasn't it?
The case began.
"How much do you spend on hiring a new nose for each release?" Too much.
"How many launch cycles have I worked through?" Dozens.
"I wouldn't mind the extra workload. I haven't taken a vacation in three years." Because Cazador didn't believe in days off.
"You ask for my opinion on every scent we put out, don't you?" Only for it to be ignored or never credited.
"I sit with you on every panel." To carry Cazador's junk there, then sit in the corner and shut up.
With each argument, Cazador's expression remained unchanged. His suspicious squint grew more pronounced as time passed. Astarion had dealt most of his hand. He was on his last card.
He looked towards the portrait of Vellioth hanging behind Cazador's desk, he realized, the way one might look at the icon of a saint for help in their time of need. Except Vellioth Szarr was no saint, if Cazador's stories were to be believed. Just another spectator.
"I have a history of proving my value to shareholders," he said.
At the last point, Cazador's expression shifted. It was a thin, self-satisfied smile. Astarion's blood was pounding in his ears. The silence stretched on for way too long.
"You should be grateful," Cazador said, "that I owe a favour to Rakath."
Rakath? Rakath. Rakath "Glitterbeard" from The Counting House, one of their biggest sponsors. Shit, he must be desperate. But Astarion could turn this to his advantage. He was on a winning streak so far. Clasping his hands behind his back so Cazador couldn't see them starting to tremble, Astarion tried to keep his voice even.
"Rakath himself?"
"No. One of his underlings. An important underling nonetheless," Cazador said. "We can't offer them—like you said—value in funds, but we still have the resources to sate a tremendous appetite, you understand?"
When Cazador talked about appetites, he almost never meant food. He threw extravagant parties and dinners without a second thought or a cursory glance at the company funds. He wore the same look as he did when he showed Astarion to his desk on his first day and said, "You're a natural. You have raw talent. You were made for this."
It wasn't something he'd asked Astarion to do in a long time, but Astarion understood. He understood it all too well. He was cornered, outmaneuvered, and Cazador was offering him a way out.
"When should I go?" Astarion asked.
"You will go tonight. Be there by 7pm."
"On a weeknight?"
"What do we say about our clientele?"
"The customer is always right," Astarion replied. He cast his eyes down. His shoes were the most interesting thing in the room right now.
Cazador turned his attention to his monitor. He gave his mouse a delicate click. "I will book a room at The Fraygo. All expenses paid, so no complaining." Astarion had never complained once, at least to Cazador's face, but he nodded.
"Never."
"Are you capable of finding your way there or should I call Vilhelm?"
Truth be told, Astarion missed the black Bentley, but not the bootlicking, irritable chauffeur in the driver's seat. "I'll make it on my own," he said.
"Good." Astarion heard the tap of a button on the keyboard. "I thought I'd give you a task well-suited to your strengths. And it would be poor form of me to send you out without the right preparation."
Sliding out of chair, Cazador drew himself to his full height. He was an extraordinarily tall man and he loomed over Astarion as he circled him, looking him up and down. Even in a full suit, he felt like Cazador had already undressed him with his eyes.
Cazador seized Astarion's arm and examined it, pushing his sleeve back to expose the veins in wrist. His thumb and index finger wrapped around the wrist, overlapping easily over themselves.
Cazador tutted. "If I wanted a skeleton, child, I'd send Godey," he said. His touch, efficient and disinterested, moved from Astarion's wrist to his waist, slipping under Astarion's suit jacket to feel his sides, splaying his fingers over each rib. His skin was freezing. Astarion ground his teeth but said nothing.
Facing no resistance, Cazador tugged the hem of Astarion's shirt out of the waist of his trousers, where his belt had kept it tucked tightly. He slid his hand under the shirt (and under Gale's tie), feeling the lean, barely-there muscle of Astarion's chest and stomach, which he instinctively and sharply sucked in. He could've taken it all off if he wanted, Astarion thought, then the realization set in. Cazador was never going to give Astarion hope that he found him attractive.
Satisfied with what he found, Cazador pulled his hand away and took hold of the side of Astarion's face. Had a stranger been spying on them, the gesture could almost be seen as tender. Fatherly. His thumb grazed Astarion's lips, checking for flaws (the illusion that they were never bitten, never chapped).
(Astarion was thinking about the amount of force it would take to bite it off, to reduce it to a bloody stump at the knuckle. And the way he would scream.)
As if he were inspecting a piece of furniture for wear, Cazador tilted Astarion's face to the side to gain a better view of his neck. Astarion knew what he was looking at. The scar at the base of his throat. A birthmark, Astarion explained to anyone else who asked.
Cazador's thumb moved from Astarion's lower lip to his jaw. "Passable," he said.
"Do I get a bonus?" Astarion asked.
"I don't know. Is your client generous?"
Astarion fell silent. That seemed to please Cazador. His gaze flickered back to the side of Astarion's neck hungrily. The rest of his cold hand was still holding his chin in place. For a moment, Astarion thought he would lean in and plant a kiss on the spot that had him so preoccupied.
He could feel the heat start to pool in his groin, then the crushing fear. Shame. Anger. Several other emotions he couldn't place.
Either way, all of it was denied.
Cazador gave Astarion's jaw one last bruising squeeze and released him. Astarion staggered out of his grasp and clenched his hands into fists, but relaxed them just as quickly. He could barely stand to look at Cazador, but finally managed to lift his chin. He tried to keep his eyes on Cazador's shoulder, where his gaze naturally fell level. "And what about me?"
"What about you?" Cazador mused. "Finish the job first. Then we'll talk about what it takes to make art. You'll even get to prepare the blend this time. Won't that be exciting?" His smile had grown tight-lipped and predatory. "Go on. Have your fun."
Astarion took his time stuffing his shirt back into place. He didn't bother turning his back to Cazador. They'd worked together for too long for there to be secrets between them.
Before he reached the doorway on his way out, he heard Cazador again.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Cazador asked sharply.
Astarion turned around. "Thank you," he said. In his own ears, his voice was thick and heavy. It wasn't his at all.
"And do take off that tie before you go, boy. It's hideous."
"I know." Astarion was only half lying.
◈━◈━◈
It wasn't Astarion's first time at The Fraygo. The establishment had come a long way since he was first sent there, when it was a dingy little barely-hotel with spotty Wi-Fi and a loud air conditioning unit. Around five years ago, they replaced the safe in each room, which helped better hide the evidence. Cazador always did incalls and was impeccable at covering his tracks.
After a mad dash home to change into a new shirt and a different two-piece suit (turned out the detergent in the laundry room was an enzyme detergent), Astarion pushed through the revolving door that rotated too slowly for anyone's good.
The lobby was mostly empty. Behind the front desk the size of a grand piano, the concierge blinked at him from under half-lidded eyes. It was the start of the night shift and she was already zoning out. With a lukewarm welcome, Astarion was handed the keycard to room 239 and pointed towards a rack of travel brochures he didn't need.
Astarion crossed the corridor leading to the elevators. The geometric patterned carpet must have been walked over by hundreds of tired feet over the course of just this week. The touch and go of weekenders, moonlighters, and everyone in between. The kind of people no one would ever miss.
As the elevator took Astarion to the rooftop terrace, his legs took on a slow life of their own. With each breath, he found himself drifting further away from his body until he felt like he was hovering in the air like smoke.
He was especially good this time. He used the fake name Cazador gave him, was sweet and pliant, and cracked a pun. He offered to walk his client to the lobby when they were done. He didn't even have a drink beforehand.
Everything hurt. The muscles in his arms and legs hurt. His jaw and the underside of his tongue hurt. There definitely hadn't been enough lube.
This whole arrangement and those that came before were very, very illegal. Logically, his next steps were simple. Press charges. Crawl to the nearest police station, tell all, and watch the House of Szarr fall onto itself like a house of cards. It would be delicious. He should've done it a long time ago.
So why didn't he?
It wasn't that he was afraid of not being believed or belittled. Arguably, people were getting better about these things. He dreaded the pity, the questions, the confusion. Astarion could already hear them now: demands to know why he hadn't said anything sooner, the "I'm sorry"s that were genuine, but were never going to be enough.
Everyone would tell him he was strong and brave for coming forward. Fuck that. He knew he was neither.
It would also feel like admitting defeat. It was sick to wish Cazador dead, but it was the truth. And if he was going to be the judge, he was going to be the executioner, too. When he took Cazador down, he was going to get his hands dirty. He wouldn't leave it up to bureaucracy and pencil pushers. That was Cazador's way of doing things.
He was nothing like Cazador.
An ache throbbed through Astarion's limbs. This wasn't the aftershock or the aftermath. This was the afternothing. As Astarion stared up at the wide white ceiling, half-buried in the sheets, he couldn't help but think they felt like a funeral shroud.
He always did have a flair for the dramatic. Being dramatic meant not thinking very rationally. Maybe, right now, it was best not to think at all.
In the meantime, he might as well take advantage of the little luxuries Cazador granted him. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Astarion stalked over to the hotel minibar and grabbed all the tiny liquor bottles, an act of spite in itself. Vodka, gin, whiskey, and rum. They looked like chess pieces when he arranged them on the side table by the window.
Eenie meenie miney mo,
Catch that bastard by the toe,
If he hollers, grab his throat,
Wait, how did it go?
Rhyme or no rhyme, he landed on the rum. Astarion uncapped the bottle and threw it back. He swilled the first mouthful around, feeling the hot, sharp burn, then rushed to the bathroom sink and spat it out.
He sampled the whiskey next, then the gin. Normally, he would have avoided straight vodka, but he downed the whole thing in one go. He circled back around, chasing the sensation with another swallow of rum, taking the time to taste it fully. Brown sugar, spice, toasted oak. He felt a bit better. Clean.
With the fading glow of alcohol in his mouth, Astarion dialled the number for room service.
"Room service, this is Queelia Arvis speaking. How can I help you this evening?"
"Hi, Queelia." He tried to lower his voice so it sounded deeper than it was. At least he had the rasp down when he was dehydrated. "Can I get one order of the beet salad?"
"Absolutely, sir. Dressing on the side like last time?"
Shit. Astarion dropped the act. "Sure. And you can hold off on the bread."
"Of course. Can I get you anything else?"
Astarion pulled out the drink menu, scanning the page for the most expensive options. Burning a massive hole in Cazador's pocket was fun, at least. "Just a glass of the Flor De Caña 12," he said. "Actually, could you make that a double?"
"Absolutely. Will that be all?"
"Yeah." Astarion swallowed. "Thanks."
"Excellent. I'll have that up in twenty to thirty minutes."
The phone line went dead. Astarion got up, walked to the closet, and pulled on a white terrycloth bathrobe. He couldn't stand to be in his own clothes. Not yet.
Dinner came on a creaky cart and with a look from the bellhop that seemed to say, "God, you look famished." He wouldn't have been wrong. Astarion tore into the salad like an animal. He didn't feel very human, anyway.
When his plate was finally empty, Astarion wandered into the bathroom, glass of rum in hand, still chewing a dry mouthful of arugula and beets. He was numb. Even the sensation of the cold linoleum floor under his bare feet wasn't enough to reassure him of his surroundings or the realness of his body. He needed proof that he was here and he found it in the mirror.
The thin, angular features of his face were framed by platinum silver curls. Large, round eyes stared back at him. At least his eyebags were still there.
His skin, already deathly pale, looked almost translucent under the harsh bathroom lighting, which hollowed out his cut, lanky body even more. He undid the bathrobe slightly and sucked in his stomach. Not bad. He couldn't tell he'd been eating if held his muscles at the right tension.
Astarion could've been a model in another life. One time, he was stopped on the street after school when coming home from his mother's firm. In turn, his mother had stopped the scout firm in her tracks, saying, "He's going to do better than that."
Astarion was almost grateful. As a model, he would've been pimped out three times as often and saddled with a crippling cocaine addiction. He was always good at counting his blessings.
Hey look mum, I made it.
Astarion tried to smile. His teeth and gums were stained red, obviously from the beets, but he tried to picture it as blood, like he'd just ripped out someone's throat. Cazador's throat. His client's throat. The throats of everyone who'd ever laid a finger on him.
He smiled, wider now, and returned to the bedroom.
Astarion spent the next ten minutes pacing around the hotel room. He drank half the glass of rum. He stood on the bed with his shoes on because fuck it, he could. He picked up his clothes off the floor. The walk ended by the window, where he took a seat in the lounge chair. His briefcase rested by his ankle as he rummaged around in it for his phone.
He found it, then lingered. Gale's purple tie with the atom print lay rolled up at the bottom of the bag. It was the only item of clothing that wasn't touched by unwelcome hands.
He checked his phone first. There were a few unread messages.
Astarion put his phone down on the table. Pulling his knees to his chest, he wound the tie around his fingers. The only light came from the floor lamp inside the room and as dim as it was, Astarion could see the individual threads in the tight, seamless weave. The atoms were slightly reflective.
It felt awful to have to dirty it, as cheap and tacky as it was, with his touch. Gale would never want anything to do with him again if he knew where those fingers had been. But what Gale didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Gale wouldn't do this to him. Probably. He was kind enough, read one of his favourite books, and wasn't terribly stupid other than the fact that he gave Astarion the tie off his own neck.
But Cazador could be the same way. He turned heads wherever he went and had no problem shaking hands with and even hugging old friends and business partners. He knew how to make someone else feel as important as he was. People actually laughed at his jokes. It had to be seen to be believed. He donated a small amount of their proceeds to a bat conservation program. As much as Astarion hated him for it, he was cunning and good at it.
No one was nice without reason.
It wasn't until Astarion finished the rum that he realized his hands were shaking. Not from exhaustion. Not drunkenness, which was starting to creep into his field of vision. He bunched his nails into his palms, trying to keep them steady.
The sun had long since set. Neon flashes and headlights moved in the blue dark below the hotel. There was a honk from the street and the revving of a motor, which faded away in a matter of seconds.
Then, the swell of ice cold rage. It grew slowly at first, then converged into a spike that pinned Astarion to the chair. It flattened his breath, froze his muscles in place, and blinded him to everything except the one thing on his mind.
Astarion was going to end Cazador. He didn't know how, but it had to happen. He was going to make it happen. He was going to make him pay for everything he'd done to him. When he had the mind to do it.
As if it knew, his head was swimming. Flashes, alternating between warm and hot. The space behind his eyes felt like it was fogged up.
He couldn't carry on like this, with the way he'd been going. Barely able to think by the end of the day, waking up with stiff limbs, looking tired and, worse, ugly in the mirror. What kind of man was he, to let someone else and a few drinks have this much sway over him? To let anything or anyone have any kind of sway over him at all?
There was another buzz from his phone. Astarion fought the urge to scream and throw it against the wall.
He'd start cutting down. A sensible one drink after work. The way it used to be.
But that was for another night.
Astarion flung the tie onto the table, closed his eyes, and sank deeper into the chair. Around him was the smell of leather and suede. The smell of the crack of a whip.
Notes:
Astarion is terrible but that's it, that's the goal. Don't worry, he's going to get better, but he'll be dragged there kicking and screaming. In the meantime, I'm smacking him with a rolled-up newspaper for being shitty to service workers. This is an angsty fic but we won't be rolling in it forever, I promise.
Perfume inspo: Room Service by Vilhelm Parfumerie
"Picture this: Greta Garbo at Carlyle – a superstar who chose herself above Hollywood’s siren song. Alone in her hotel room, attired in a drift of satin and poignant allure, waiting for her ultimate luxury: a bath of flower petals, the warm water releasing this collision of citrus and red fruits, bamboo, violet, black amber and sandalwood.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 3: Mint
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Mentions of alcoholism
- Implied disordered eatingThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
The Google search skin can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion loved Friday nights.
Friday nights meant bar hopping. Crowds. Busy streets. Candy-coloured shots. Gorgeous girls with glittery eyeshadow and lip gloss on their teeth. Beautiful boys with their sleeves rolled up and jeans tight around the ass.
The rest of the week had been a slog. And despite Gale saying he'd be there the same time tomorrow, he didn't show up at Elturel Roasters the next morning, or the morning after that. Good riddance. As for Gale's tie, Astarion could probably put it up for sale online.
One less thing for him to worry about on what was shaping up to be a spectacular evening.
He always made sure to unwind first. It was weirdly meditative, painting his nails while rock blasted from his phone speaker. Queen, David Bowie, and Iggy Pop, then Audioslave, Nine Inch Nails, and the Foo Fighters. Freddie Mercury belted out as a bottle of silver nail polish came off the vanity and the smell of acetone filled the air.
The outfit du jour lay draped over his bed. A leather jacket, a muscle tank that revealed a hint of his pecs from the side, and some very skinny jeans. Piled onto the jacket was a thin chain necklace with a dagger charm.
Of course, no ensemble was complete without perfume. His going out scent was another one he'd made himself: a lively blend of blood orange, saffron, cinnamon, ginger, vanilla, amber, and sandalwood. It made a great conversation starter, even though the verdict ranged from "melted orange creamsicle" to "fuck me, that's the hottest thing I've ever smelled." (He did.)
When Astarion heard about The Elfsong when he first moved downtown, he hoped he'd discovered a fantasy-themed BDSM club. He was disappointed to find just another bar, though one with a solid drink menu and an even more tempting array of faces, starting with the bartender himself.
"Well, hello, Alan."
Alan Alyth finished garnishing a rum and Coke with a lime wedge as Astarion hopped up onto a bar stool. Astarion had tried to hit on Alan before. Even though he wasn't interested in a blowjob, he made a killer brandy sour that was just as good, if not better.
The Elfsong was packed. The wooden tables, filled from the back of the room to the bar itself, were dotted with coasters and the wet rings of pint glasses past. The walls were covered with posters. The biggest one was a flyer for stand-up comedy nights with one Harvard "Harvey" Willoughby.
Behind Alan, the liquor shelf glowed red and amber, making his long auburn hair look like a warm veil.
"Astarion, you cheeky rogue," he laughed. "What can I get for you?"
Astarion's favourite cocktail was a Bloody Mary, but he really couldn't afford to taste like marinara tonight.
"One negroni, please," he said.
Alan pushed the cocktail to the side. "Fill your boots, mate."
Astarion shot him a wink as he got to work.
No point in being coy. Friday night was for flings and fucking and forgetting. It took his mind off the weight of the past week, off his "siblings" whispering behind his back, off Cazador screaming at him for something he couldn't remember, off what he'd done and what had been done to him.
This was fun. This, at least, he could control.
His last one night stand was with Sebastian. He'd been soft-spoken and shy and he sang along drunkenly to the radio into Astarion's ear. They'd shared Sebastian's first kiss under the streetlight outside the bar. Back at Sebastian's flat, while Astarion was swallowing up the taste of his mouth and the heat of his body, Sebastian told him he made his name sound like a lyric on his tongue. He was so sweet and gentle and good that Astarion almost felt bad about sneaking out the back door the morning after and ghosting him when he texted back.
God, he needed a drink.
Astarion swiped through his phone. His notification feed was quiet. He'd muted the Szarr Squad group chat for twenty-four hours. He didn't want to read about Petras's attempt at the Murph challenge (a one-and-a-half-kilometre run, followed by a gruelling sequence of 100 pull-ups, 200 push-ups, and 300 air squats) or Aurelia's thrifting finds. Not even Dal's volunteering at the hospital over the weekend. Tonight was for him and him alone, and maybe one other lucky contender.
Astarion scanned the room. Left, centre, right. There weren't very many people sitting alone at the bar or in the booths. No big deal. He had hours to kill.
"Hi? Hello?"
Astarion rolled his eyes. He wished people would use their indoor voices. Come to think of it, that voice sounded familiar. He wondered where he'd last heard it when Alan slid him his negroni from across the bar top.
"Astarion?"
No, no, no. He had a nice, simple plan. He was going to get drunk, get out, and get laid. He didn't have time for chitchat with past hookups. Except this wasn't one of them.
"I'd like my tie back."
Astarion finally turned around. It was hard to make out faces in the dim light, but when his vision focused, he saw Gale. He was smushed up in a booth in the corner of the bar with several strangers. Gale waved and beckoned him over.
Astarion was a lot of things, but he wasn't shy. He took his negroni from off the bar top and sauntered over. One foot in front of the other. You look fierce tonight, he thought. Try to act like it.
"Fancy seeing you again." When Gale glanced up, Astarion was almost offended that Gale didn't comment on his low-cut tank top when he'd only seen him in a suit before. He held his shoulders back, trying to parse the energy of the new crowd. He'd expected some prickliness from Gale, but found nothing in the relaxed slope of shoulders and pleasant smile.
"Good evening," Gale replied. He turned to the others sitting in the booth. "Astarion, meet everyone. That's Karlach, Wyll, Halsin, Shadowheart, sorry, Jenevelle—"
"Jen." The clear voice came from a black-haired girl with a long braid that hung down her back and terrifyingly blunt bangs.
"We call her Shadowheart because she never grew out of her emo phase," the one named Wyll explained.
"Fringe."
"Shads."
"Shart."
"Stop."
Gale continued. "Lae'zel. And yours truly."
There were a lot of faces to size up. Astarion started from left to right. Karlach and Halsin could probably crush him with a handshake each. In between them was Wyll. When he looked a second longer, Astarion noticed that Wyll's right eye was clouded over.
Lae'zel, with her tiny nose and kohl-rimmed eyes, looked properly mean. At least there were going to be two of them. Then there was Gale. He'd traded in the purple button-up for...a purple sweater. Hopeless. Utterly hopeless.
Gale finally motioned towards Astarion. "Everyone, meet Astarion. The only thing I know about him is that he drinks two espressos every morning."
The group murmured out their greetings while Gale scooted to the side to let Astarion in. There was barely enough room for Astarion to squeeze by, but he managed by partially hoisting his right leg onto Gale's lap. Gale didn't seem to mind.
The table was laden with several pints of beer and cocktails and baskets of fries, calamari, and hot sauce-drenched wings. Astarion tried not to look too longingly at the calamari. Instead, he offered a grin. "Merry little party we have here," he said breezily. "How do you all know each other?"
"Funny you should say party. We play Dungeons and Dragons," Wyll said. "Gale's the forever DM."
"Because he makes squishy wizards who keep dying," Lae'zel added. "A poor strategy."
"Or because I love this world and its lore," Gale retorted.
Halsin's laugh rumbled. "He says he works on his worldbuilding document when he's not preparing for class."
"Class?" Astarion asked. "Aren't you a bit too old to be in school?"
"Too old for school? Never." Gale's eyes almost seemed to sparkle. Jesus. "I teach chemistry at Blackstaff University. Specifically, organic chemistry. I just ran a lab on heterocycles, heteroaromatics, and Fischer indole synthesis for my third years this morning. I'm happy to report most of the class managed to synthesize at least a few grams of 1,2,3,4-Tetrahydrocarbozole."
Karlach's hands flew to her mouth in mock terror. "Get down, he's unleashing Dr. Dekarios!"
Gale waggled his finger good-naturedly and the table laughed. He picked up his glass of white wine and took a sip. Astarion supposed he could've pegged Gale for a wine sommelier kind of man. He found himself thinking they ought to share a bottle sometime. He could teach him a thing or two.
Jenevelle—Shadowheart—Astarion didn't know what to call her anymore—spoke. "So, Astarion, what do you do? Besides hang around coffee shops."
What was Astarion? Errand boy? Runt of the litter? Big time nothing? "I'm a perfumer," he said. It was the simplest way to explain things, sans baggage.
Noises of approval or interest rose around the booth. Even Lae'zel seemed intrigued.
"And suddenly everything makes sense," Gale said. He leaned in towards the table. "Did you know I was looking for a bag of coffee at Elturel and Astarion was able to pick out each tasting note by smell alone?"
"Impressive." Lae'zel reached over to grab a fry, then stabbed it into the ketchup. "I'm not sure whether you're sitting next to a bloodhound or a man."
"I just have heightened senses, is all," Astarion said, somewhat defensively.
"Go on then." Karlach was devouring a wing, not at all concerned that her chin was smeared with hot sauce. "Which perfume...store? Place? Do you work at?"
Astarion took a long drink, as if to steel himself. Alan was generous with the Campari. "I work at the House of Szarr."
Karlach stopped mid-bite. "Holy—with all the glass and swirly columns and shit?"
"That's a heritage building," Wyll said. "Built in—"
"1832," Astarion finished, with an eye roll. Cazador liked to spring pop quizzes on the illustrious history of the House.
"I have a rollerball of Woe," Shadowheart said. Of course she did. Szarr was all about the kind of gothic sophistication that would appeal to a girl like her.
Astarion took another sip from his negroni. "From before it was reformulated, I hope."
Shadowheart seemed to go pale. Her fingers tightened around the glass stem of her frosé. "Oh god, it's been reformulated?"
"It was a year ago. Trust me, it happens all the time." Because Cazador was a penny-pinching miser.
"Reformulation isn't inherently a bad thing, per se," Gale chimed in. "Progress marches ever forward. But now, the reason we're all here." He rested his elbows on the table. "Have you played Dungeons and Dragons, Astarion?"
Astarion had certainly heard of Dungeons and Dragons. It started with seeing gorgeous dice, cast in resin in every colour imaginable, gradated from the inside out. The game store, Sorcerous Sundries, was next to his favourite bookstore. He used to look at the dice and miniatures through the shop window. Astarion always had a bit of a soft spot for monsters and creatures of the night. Why wouldn't they catch his eye?
He read a book or two years ago. He may or may not have developed an embarrassing crush on Drizzt Do'Urden. It was the kind of thing everyone at work would tease him mercilessly for.
Astarion shook his head. "I've never had the chance," he said.
"Did you want to join our campaign? We just had our session zero, but we're still looking for another player. We do Sunday nights. It's completely beginner-friendly." Gale was trying not to look at him too expectantly, but he wasn't hiding it well.
Astarion hesitated. This had to be a setup. Gale called him over, no doubt after talking shit about him to everyone else. He could practically hear it: and over there's the prick who lost it at the coffee shop.
But there wasn't much on his weekend agenda. Do the walk of shame back to his apartment. Shower. Watch sewing tutorials. Fidget with his perfume corner. Swing by the liquor store. Insist that his haul for the week was for an office party.
Astarion shrugged. "Alright, why not?"
Karlach pumped her fist. "Fuck yeah! You can borrow my math rocks."
"Dice," Halsin clarified.
"Lovely." Astarion sat back in the booth. Gale began to talk again and for once, he was happy to listen.
It was the most stimulating conversation Astarion had at The Elfsong to date. Less "Come here often?" or "All the good pick-up lines are taken but it looks like you aren't", more "There's a nautiloid ship flying over the Sword Coast and a tadpole in your brain." He listened to Gale, Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Wyll, Karlach, and Halsin chatter about mindflayers, parasites, githyanki riding red dragons, intellect devourers, goblins, and some mysterious artifact. It soothed an itch for the strange and fantastical that hadn't been scratched in a long time.
It also showed him how—there wasn't any other way to put it—god-fucking-awful—the Szarr Squad was in comparison. Astarion envied that Karlach could laugh loudly enough to be heard from the other side of the bar without being shushed. When Lae'zel threatened to cut off Gale's hand if he gave them a random encounter with a lich, he waved her off. Wyll did impressions of the NPC's they met so far and no one told him he wasn't funny, even though Astarion thought he could so much better.
He should consider better company.
As the night drew on, the numbers at the table dwindled. Lae'zel was the first to leave, muttering something about waking up at seven tomorrow morning to go for a run. When she got up, Shadowheart sidled quietly up to Astarion.
"I like your hair. Is it your natural colour?"
"God, no."
"I've thought about dyeing my hair a colour like yours. That kind of silvery-white. Is it hard?"
"Would you like me to show you, dear?"
"Please. You don't want to see how Lae'zel hennas her hair."
Shadowheart gave Astarion a sardonic look and Astarion dished it right back. He was starting to think she might be his favourite.
Halsin was the next to go. Shadowheart left after ten more minutes, followed by Wyll and Karlach. Karlach stood, downed the last of her pint, and clapped Gale on the shoulder. "Gale, mate, thanks for taking us out," she said. "Let me know if we can grab you anything before next session, yeah?"
Gale looked up at her towering over the booth. "Any time, Karlach," he said. "And keep me posted, Wyll. I'm excited to hear about what you want to do with your patron."
"You mean what my patron wants to do to me." Wyll sounded nervous, but then he broke into a chuckle. It sounded like sherry filling a crystal glass. "Goodnight, Gale. And Astarion, it was great to meet you. Both of you take care now."
Gale waved goodbye and so did Astarion, though with less enthusiasm. Like their table, the rest of The Elfsong was starting to clear out. It was eleven. Last call would be in three hours.
"Truce?"
Astarion whipped his head around. Gale was still sitting next to him. "Sorry?"
"Truce," Gale repeated. "We didn't get off to the right start. Me and my coffee spill, you and your lack of decorum."
Astarion was tempted to bite back, but held his tongue. Gale had corrected his mistake at the coffee shop and he'd welcomed Astarion into his circle without question. Gale probably knew more about decorum than he did. "I don't have it on me," he mumbled.
"If you're talking about the tie, I don't need it right now. I'm talking about making up." Gale spread his hands. "I'm not going to make you shake on it, if that's what you're worried about."
Astarion paused. Gale was way too trusting, but it wasn't like he could help it. His loss anyway and anyway, Astarion was tired of arguing, at least for tonight. "Thank you," he said. He meant it this time. "Alright. Truce."
Gale sighed with relief. "There we are. Diplomacy at last."
"Diplomacy," Astarion echoed. He was trying not to sound sarcastic. It was hard, but if Gale wanted an olive branch, he could think of a way to give him one. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"No thank you," Gale said. "That's very kind, but I'm happy with just the one." He raised his wine glass, now beading and barely half drained. Astarion felt something like a twist in his chest, but shook it off. He held up a hand to get a waiter's attention and ordered a Manhattan.
They sat quietly for a moment. After a while, Gale took the straw from Shadowheart's empty frosé glass and chewed it flat. The awkward silence got awkwarder when the Manhattan landed on the table and the rest of the glassware was whisked away.
"What chapter are you on?"
"Hm?" Gale was still gnawing on the straw when he turned his head to face Astarion. "Oh. Carmilla?"
"Yeah."
"I'm done."
Astarion blinked. The last time he saw Gale was two days ago.
"It's only sixteen chapters long." Gale said it simply and casually, as if he were saying, "Nice day."
"I didn't think chemistry professors spent most of their time reading," Astarion said. "Are you a real chemist or one who never pulled his nose out of his books?"
"Astarion! You wound me." Gale clutched a hand to his chest. Actually clutched a hand to his chest. "I'll have you know there was a point in time when I worked on the bench. But teaching and my research mean everything to me. If you have any questions, on chemistry or otherwise, I'll do my best to answer."
"Let's see." At that moment, Astarion regretted that he never paid much attention in chemistry class. What did chemists like? Coffee, apparently. Lab work. Beakers. Periodic table. Bingo. "I always wondered why the symbols on the periodic table never match the words," he said. "Like, 'Cu' for copper. Or 'K' for potassium."
"Ah." Gale's face lit up. "That's because they're short for the Latin names for the elements. To take your examples, cuprum—'Cu'—and kalium—that's potassium—hence the 'K'."
"Interesting." Not really, but hearing the excitement in Gale's voice was very twee. He talked like he was on the presenting end of show-and-tell and like no one had ever told him to shut up in his life. "Do you know much Latin, Gale?"
"Only what's useful to me. I wish it weren't the case. But at least I know more Greek. Did you know that the word 'chemistry' comes from the word χημεία, which roughly translates to 'to cast together'?"
"No," Astarion said. Gale's voice sounded even more scholarly in Greek. He almost wanted Gale to keep babbling just to hear him say something else he didn't understand. Almost. "Makes it sound like magic."
Something in Gale's expression changed. His thoughtfulness seemed to ignite. That sparkle in his eye when he talked about teaching returned, but as a warm blaze. "You see it, too, then," he said. "I've never felt more powerful, more like me, than when I truly, fully immerse myself in chemistry. Of course, there's always a chance the hypothesized outcome doesn't pan out the way it should, but at that point, it's only a matter of understanding why. And understanding is half the fun."
"You like that you can control the elements, as it were," Astarion guessed. "That there's a right and a wrong—or unexpected, I guess—and you like being right. Though, I mean," he shrugged, "who doesn't?"
"But that's precisely it," Gale said. "In the lab, I'm the best version of myself. I can be anything. Creator. Destroyer." He looked at Astarion pointedly. "Has anything ever made you feel that way?"
It felt like Gale was trying to see through him. It was a familiar kind of intensity.
Don't look at me like that.
"Sometimes. Once in a while," Astarion admitted. "It happens when I make my own perfumes. I know, I know. Not that surprising."
When he managed to meet Gale's eyes, he realized, with some shock, that Gale was smiling. The familiar gaze didn't feel so familiar after all. It was nicer. It was legitimate interest, not an expectation, not a trap waiting for him to fall in. He felt his voice grow bolder. "I'm wearing one of them right now."
The pop on the radio shifted to rock. The late night sizzle of guitar strings filled the bar.
"Mm. I thought I smelled something nice." Gale nodded. "May I?"
Astarion's laugh surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time it came out so automatically. "Darling, I thought you'd never ask." He held his wrist out towards Gale. Gale tried to lift it closer.
"Don't."
"Sorry." Gale dropped his wrist. He sat still, curling his lip inward in concentration.
Astarion was holding his breath. Gale was taking this seriously. Astarion didn't know why it filled him with dread, like he was afraid he was going to get a bad grade in perfumery, a completely normal thing to worry about.
"And?"
The furrow of Gale's brow relaxed. He inhaled, long and slow.
"It smells like waking up."
It was the first time someone had smelled a concept. Astarion raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Go on."
"It's six in the morning. I've just woken up from the most refreshing sleep I've had in the last year. Tara's awake, too."
"Tara?"
"My cat," Gale explained. "The kitchen is warm and I'm putting on a pot of tea. With a cinnamon stick and fresh ginger root. Tara gets a smidge of cream, of course." He sounded far away, as if he were somewhere else peaceful, like a mountaintop or lakeside lodge instead of a bar half an hour to midnight. "Outside my window, like one instrument being rehearsed after another, beacons of colour pierce the sky. White. Orange. Red. The most splendid autumn sunrise."
For the first time in a long time, Astarion was at a loss for words. His arm was still outstretched. He didn't want to admit he was moved, but it was the kindest thing anyone had said to him lately. It was also the first time someone treated his work like art, like Cazador said perfumery was supposed to be, like he knew it could be. Made it more than the sum of its parts.
The only thing Astarion managed was, "Well, well. Someone's a poet."
Gale beamed. "I do, in fact, write poetry."
No shit he did. He read Carmilla, taught organic chemistry, and played D&D. He was what Cazador would call a Renaissance man, even though he would have said it with some contempt. Petras would definitely call him a loser.
If this was losing, Astarion had never left the starting line.
Astarion withdrew his wrist and, when Gale wasn't looking, held it up to his own nose. He didn't have a cat and tea wasn't really his drink, but he could smell the sunrise.
There were just a few other patrons left in the bar. Astarion could hear the music on the radio more clearly now. It was when he finished his Manhattan, ordered an Old Fashioned, drained that, and found himself pleasantly buzzed that he realized he hadn't found someone to go home with. He never went home alone at the end of the night.
Was he going to have to fuck Gale to get his fix?
Astarion glanced over at Gale. Was Gale even into other men? Astarion would call himself pansexual, but there was no telling with Gale. Next to him, Gale looked lost in thought while looking at nothing in particular.
No. He hoped Gale wouldn't take offence. It was him, not Gale. He had standards.
Still, there wasn't any harm in having some fun. Gale was a decent hang and could carry a conversation, which was more than he could say for most of his former flings. Astarion picked up the garnish on his cocktail glass, a maraschino cherry speared onto the end of a toothpick, and slid it into his mouth. It burst, soft and syrupy between his teeth.
Here goes nothing.
"I think there's something wrong with my phone, darling." Astarion's voice dropped into a low, sultry purr. He pressed the corner of his phone to his lips. "It doesn't have your number in it."
Gale looked puzzled for a second, but then the realization clicked. "Of course I'll give you my number," he said. "Especially if I'm going to be your DM."
Astarion offered his phone and Gale took it. "I'm available after nine in the morning on weekends and after five in the afternoon on weekdays," he explained while tapping away. "I hope you don't mind that I might take a while to respond. I haven't forgotten about you, it's just that I'm trying to word my replies carefully."
Whoosh.
Worth a shot. Astarion motioned for his phone back, but Gale held on to it. "Ah-ah. I'll have yours next, please," he said.
Maybe there was hope yet.
The street was quiet when Gale put on his coat and led Astarion out of the bar. The lights from the bar and the stores and traffic lights shone with frantic clarity. The air smelled like stale cigarette smoke.
"Like Wyll said, it's been wonderful to meet you." Gale said. "Well, we've met already. I meant meet you properly. Diplomatically."
"Mhm."
Gale shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'll text you," he said.
"Indeed you will." My love. Astarion had to stop to make sure he hadn't said that last bit out loud. Old habits. "Don't leave me hanging," he called.
Gale raised one hand in response. Astarion watched him leave, disappearing down the sidewalk until he couldn't see him at the end of the road. He realized he was standing under the same lamp where he'd kissed Sebastian last week.
He felt his phone buzz in his pocket.
Astarion shook his head, but he choked back a snort.
A few drying leaves skittered around the sidewalk. There was a bite to the wind. Astarion wrapped his leather jacket around himself and fished out his vape. He took a hit and exhaled a menthol-laced blue raspberry-flavoured breath. With the other hand, he typed "gale dekarios" into his search bar.
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gale dekarios
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Report inappropriate predictions
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The first results that came up were a LinkedIn page and an entry on a professor rating website, the kind Astarion probably should've used more often before he dropped out of law school a decade ago. He tapped on the rating site.
Gale Dekarios
Chemistry
Blackstaff University
Quality: 4.8
95% would take again
78 ratings
3.9 level of difficulty
He flicked through the reviews.
Loves his students, loves teaching, loves the material. Very helpful and enthusiastic. Gears to each student's individual needs. Respectful of students and a quality leader. Well worth the time as he is so giving of his!
Gale freaking rocks
He is SO funny and sweet, was super accommodating and encouraging. His extended deadlines saved me and the online lecture option was really helpful.
TBH one of the best professors I'll probably ever have. He's so engaging and clearly cares about his students. His lectures were fun and flexible. Easy on the eyes too. Highly recommend!
Astarion took another hit, more slowly this time. If he remembered right, professor rating sites also used to rate how hot each professor was with a little chilli pepper icon. Deeply inappropriate, terribly fun. He would give Gale a solid red chilli pepper. Not smoking hot, but warm.
He was feeling warm, too. Leather jacket aside, his cheeks were flushed and a woozy glow was taking root in his brain. The night was intoxicating. He was everywhere, he was enjoying himself, and he felt like laughing out loud at passing cars. A group of strangers left the bar and he felt like he could kiss each of them on the lips. Maybe he'd circle back around an shoot Gale a flirty text for the fun of it. He'd been so upfront about—hell, everything, after all.
Astarion could feel the glow spread to the tips of his ears. It lingered there and cooled. Stupid of him to be thinking of Gale that way because, what, he invited him to a D&D campaign? Showed a crumb of interest in his perfume hobby? Astarion was supposed to be the one with standards. He wasn't desperate. That was for other people.
It was the vermouth talking. Okay, so what if he wanted to get laid? He hadn't had any action in a week. And if he had to go home and one rub one out? Ugh.
He had thrown himself at the mercy of strangers. He had made a commitment. Enough rules had been broken already.
Astarion walked back into the bar. He still had all night.
Notes:
Not Astarion and the blue razz ice elf bar 😭
I also went for Newboncore for his bar attire. Astarion's music choice at the start of the chapter is based on Neil's playlist for him, which, if you haven't listened to it, is a gold mine.
And Astarion has friends now! Sort of. And a cute professor and soon-to-be DM he's not—totally not—crushing on already.
Perfume inspo: Angels' Powder by BORNTOSTANDOUT
"Angels’ Powder opens with a burst of playful sweetness, reminiscent of cotton candy at a carnival. A hint of spice, like cheeky pink pepper, adds an unexpected twist, while a vibrant flash of nail polish brings a touch of whimsy. The fragrance melts into a heart of luscious raspberry and creamy vanilla, creating a sense of pure indulgence. Warm woods and heliotrope ground the scent, bringing a touch of nostalgia and a feeling of childlike wonder."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 4: Lemon
Notes:
Rough chapter incoming, folks.
Content warnings for this chapter
- Heavily implied SA
- Mentions of alcoholism
- Detailed discussion of disordered eatingThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next time Astarion saw Gale, they were heading into Elturel Roasters at the exact same time. It was a blustery day. Gale was wearing a cardigan (a light camel brown this time) and his dark hair whipped wildly around his shoulders. Astarion's own curls were a tangled mess and he cursed not having enough time to fix them before he returned to the office.
Unlike Astarion, Gale Dekarios was an open book. Gale was thirty-five years old. He was an organic chemistry professor, lived with his elderly cat Tara, and was transferred to the downtown Blackstaff campus at the start of the semester. He added Astarion to their campaign on D&D Beyond. Astarion could tell Gale was trying not to push Astarion into any given class, but their party was missing a rogue, bard, ranger, paladin, sorcerer, or artificer. Gale had a hard copy of the fifth edition Player's Handbook, which he placed into Astarion's hands outside the coffee shop with all the ceremony of an Olympic torch.
(Astarion returned the tie.)
Gale also loved food. Yesterday, Gale sent Astarion a photo of a stack of pancakes he made for Sunday brunch, complete with a side of bacon and eggs over easy. Astarion was thinking of the nicest way to turn him down when the day to try Gale's cooking inevitably came.
Today, thankfully, was not that day.
The wind chimes jangled behind them and acoustic guitar was back on the radio. Gale was reading the chalkboard menu. Astarion was trying not to reach for the phone in his pocket.
"Are you going to have your usual?"
Astarion turned to Gale. "My usual?"
"Two espressos."
Astarion bit his lip. Why did honesty have to be so hard? He thought about it for a moment. It wasn't so out of the ordinary to pick up a coffee order.
"I don't actually drink them," Astarion confessed. "They're for my boss."
Gale nodded in understanding. "I see. Does he let you get anything for yourself while you're out?" he asked.
Astarion's scoff came out louder than he hoped, but it was too late to hide it. "Like hell he would," he said.
Gale frowned. "You make it sound like he'd rather let you starve."
"He knows I can afford it," Astarion countered. Technically the truth. It wasn't necessarily Cazador's fault that Astarion's pastime of drinking a bottle of wine a night was an expensive one.
"I'll get something for you," Gale offered.
"It's—" Astarion sighed. "I can feed myself." There it was again. That bleeding heart. Was it something that ever got Gale in trouble? Christ. He wouldn't last a day in the Szarr office. Everyone there would eat him alive.
Astarion felt a twinge of superiority. For all of Gale's education and eloquence, this was something he could do that Gale couldn't.
"Please," Gale said again. "This one's on me."
Well, if he insisted. "Something small, then," Astarion said.
"No need to worry about size. What would you like?"
Astarion wasn't actually looking at the pastry case, but he was trying to think about what his favourite dessert was. He still had a sweet tooth, despite the drastic cuts he'd made starting...when?
Curiosity killed the cat. One night, while reading the back of a wine bottle, Astarion wondered why they didn't come with nutrition labels. A quick Google search freaked him out enough to shake him from his drunken stupor. It definitely explained why he'd been feeling extra shitty and bloated when he drank as much as he did on top of eating three meals a day.
He started leaving out sugar first. Then breakfast altogether, then counting every other macro down to the gram. The first few weeks were hell. He thought of nothing but food, of when he would be having his next meal, of how a serving of whatever was the size of his palm, his thumb, the front of his closed fist. He didn't have the strength to do much besides stare limply at his monitor at work.
But people noticed. Call it vanity or dumb luck, but he could've sworn Cazador started treating him better. Astarion would take what he could get. Skinny legend and a touch less assholery from Cazador? Win-win.
He got used to it eventually. Liked it, even. Feeling and moving like some kind of weightless dream. Pushing back when work pulled him in too many directions at once. Cheat day used to be calamari from The Elfsong. He'd traded that in for two more drinks and the warm, liberating feeling of letting loose at the end of the day. Without food to brace the impact, that feeling also hit twice as hard and fast.
Still, the siren song of sweet things called. Worse, Astarion could smell them all. The fluffy chalkiness of icing sugar, thick custardy vanilla, and...
"Chocolate. I haven't had chocolate in ages," Astarion said.
Gale's eyebrows shot up. "Really? We'll have to remedy that right away." He was examining the pastry case, properly this time. "Elturel does a double chocolate muffin that's to die for. Not to mention their hot cocoa."
The minutes were ticking by. It was probably 8:48 by now.
If Astarion was going to get something, it had to be something quick. The thought of chocolate—dark chocolate, rich and decadent, melting on the tongue—was divine. It was too much. One muffin was the size of the palm of his hand. Eating the whole thing would make him sick.
Besides, he had to be on top of things today. Everything had to go exactly right.
"You know what?" Astarion said. "Just coffee for me."
"Are you sure?" Gale's voice was tinged with concern.
"Yes, Gale, I'm sure," Astarion ground out. He sighed, then pulled himself together. "One large coffee with the two espressos," he said to Alfira. He kept his eyes on the point-of-sale display. "Small. Black."
Gale didn't protest this time. Like clockwork, he starting chatting with Alfira and Lakrissa again. Something about honey processed beans. Today, he decided on a hazelnut latte. As far as Astarion was aware, the hazelnut syrup didn't come in the sugar-free variety.
"Thanks," Astarion muttered, then tacked on, "for the coffee." He wasn't sure whether Gale heard.
He couldn't decide whether he liked that Gale had been so willing to buy him something. On one hand, free lunch. (Gale's generosity also meant Astarion would easily be able to wheedle whatever he wanted out of him again.) On the other, he didn't want Gale to think he was poor or something. Or worse, that he was a charity case who needed any kind of help.
Don't read into it, he thought. Just don't.
It would be a while before Gale would pay. Now that Astarion was close enough and Gale was preoccupied, he leaned in, praying that Gale wouldn't notice he was smelling him. It was a very undignified position to be in.
Chats about campaigns, character sheets, and brunch were fine, but one hint of someone's perfume could tell Astarion everything he needed to know about them. What they liked, how they carried themselves, how they wanted to be seen. Whether they were a trend chaser or had any sense of style or self.
Out of the thick fog of spent coffee grounds, syrups, steamed milk, and a faint whiff of floor cleaner, a thin sliver of scent surfaced from the side of Gale's neck. Rose, without wood or spice, without pretence. It wasn't even part of a blend. As a standalone note, rare in male perfumery.
Astarion thought someone like Gale would smell like something woody, like sandalwood or cedar. Maybe cashmeran. Showed him what he knew. Something about the idea of rose, the innocence and romance of it, tickled him.
He inhaled briefly again, trying to hone in on it. It wasn't a red rose; it was a pink one, fresh and light and flush with morning dew, begging to be plucked. Thornless. There was something deeper there, too. Every scent mixed with the wearer's own body to produce a unique bouquet and Gale's—Gale's was delicious.
Astarion felt the blood rush from his head to his chest and hardness tent between his legs. He let it happen. Rose was one of the most well-known aphrodisiacs. He was simply appreciating it.
As Gale tapped his own card and they moved to the side, Astarion piped up.
"Gale, darling, I never knew you wore cologne."
The statement seemed to catch Gale off guard. "I don't," he said. "What you're smelling is most likely my beard oil." He patted the side of his face. "Deeply moisturizing, leaves a nice sheen."
Gale did have a very healthy beard, trimmed and neat. Astarion was never able to grow good-looking facial hair. He'd ended up lasering it all off.
"Why rose in particular?" Astarion asked.
"Because I like it, Gale said. "Is there another reason why I should wear it?"
"No. I guess not." Astarion didn't want to sound disappointed. If anyone could carry a conversation about using perfume with intent, to influence and affect mood and impressions, he thought it would be Gale. But he wasn't going to push. Maybe, as Cazador would have put it, he didn't have a gift for the art. "So, how's school?" he asked instead. "Any thrilling labs or lectures lately?"
Gale perked up. So that got his attention.
"Since we last spoke, we've moved on to metathesis, hydroamination, and hydrothiolation. Unfortunately, it's not very exciting since I know the syllabus like the back of my hand." Gale looked more than a little pleased. "I'm more interested in the seminar I'm presenting at next Tuesday. It's on the synthesization of natural flavour esters catalyzed by lipases."
"Uh-huh." Astarion understood exactly none of that. He knew the names of some aromatic chemicals, most of them synthetic. Ambroxan. Ethyl maltol. Tetramethyl acetyloctahydronaphthalenes, otherwise known as Iso E Super. Nothing about the science of how they were made or came together, though. Maybe it made him a bad perfumer, but he didn't know much about the chemistry of perfume.
But if Cazador gave him a raise, the official job title, something that made it all worth it? Maybe he'd care enough to learn.
"You're a perfumer, aren't you?" Gale asked. "I think you might find it relevant to your work. The process of creating artificial flavours and synthetic fragrances are similar, or so I'd think."
"Coffees?" Alfira peered over the counter.
"Thank you!" Gale swept by to pick up his order. "You're more than welcome to come to the seminar," he continued. "Not sure if you'll be able to make it since it's at four, but I'd be delighted if you were there."
Astarion took his own coffees. He wrapped his hand around the black coffee in its little cup and cardboard sleeve. Heat radiated through his skin. He was going to have to hide it in his cubicle, but it was his.
He glanced at Gale coyly. "First, Dungeons and Dragons and now this. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were dying to take me out on a date."
Gale made a choked noise while taking the first sip of his latte. Astarion felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He liked that Gale embarrassed easily. "I can't do four," Astarion clarified, "but I can join you afterwards. Dinner? Drinks? Dancing?" He slipped a bit of airiness into his voice. "I'm easy."
Gale recovered. "Dinner would be lovely. Especially if we get to discuss your character over the best plate of pasta on campus. But," he waved a hand, "enough about me. What're you up to?"
Staying alive, barely. Cazador gave Astarion a suffocating timeline of one week to "come up with something useful", or, in other words, put together some fragrance portfolios for the release. So he did.
The folio with all of his ideas, which came to him between waking and sleeping and often with a flood of alcohol, was sitting on Astarion's desk back at the office like a titanium brick. He didn't know why he cared so much. It wasn't like Cazador approved of anything he did. Best case scenario, he'd steal his notes and cite his own genius. Or whatever was rattling around in that fucked up skull of his.
Now how to explain this?
Astarion chose his next words carefully. "We're doing a perfume launch this season. I've been asked to come up with some ideas that I'm sharing today."
"Oh, a presentation? Marvellous. If the creation I had the pleasure of sampling on Friday set the precedent, I'm sure you'll blow them all away. Remember, pro-ject," Gale straightened up, "ask for questions, and don't forget to smile." He sounded legitimately optimistic. Poor idiot.
Astarion didn't say anything as he snuck a sip of his black coffee. It burned the tip of his tongue. It tasted like dark honey, smoke, and the satisfaction of reining in his hunger.
When they stepped back outside, the sun had broken through the clouds. The wind was still blowing hard, so hard that Astarion had to squint to see Gale. In the cool sunlight, his cardigan was flapping haphazardly.
"Astarion?"
"Hm?"
Gale was looking back at him, too. He spoke with the utmost sincerity. "Good luck."
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As with all things, Cazador was a ruthless critic. He rejected all the prototypes outright except for the one they were currently on. Astarion's gaze was boring an imaginary hole into Cazador's hairline as he listened to him rip each idea to shreds like tissue paper.
This was the creative process. Kill your darlings. Over and over and over again.
"The rum is an inspired choice." The tone of Cazador's voice suggested otherwise. His finger hovered over some text on the page. Astarion knew the one. This was the composition with notes of bergamot, black pepper, rum, tobacco, leather, and vanilla.
"Eccē Dominus." It didn't surprise Astarion at all that Cazador pronounced Latin perfectly. "Interesting. Very interesting." Cazador's expression betrayed nothing, but there was amusement in his voice, like he thought it was adorable that Astarion was trying so hard. "Why did you choose this name?" he asked.
Eccē dominus. Behold the lord. The evening out at The Elfsong, to Astarion's mild annoyance, eventually led back home to a Latin dictionary instead of a stranger's bed. Between measuring and blending and hastily scribbling, he didn't get much sleep. In his mind's eye, he saw the terror of Dracula, the tempestuousness of Heathcliff, the power of Macbeth. He was reminded that he used to like reading once upon a time.
"We have our roots in Roman perfumery, don't we?" Astarion explained. "It's also the spirit of Szarr. Strength. Authority. Power. If it's not pedestrian enough," he gave a sharp, derogatory laugh, "we can call it 'Black Mass'."
"And add an insipid note of incense at the base, yes," Cazador sneered. He was trying to find fault. No doubt he would. He always did. But for now, Astarion was watching the movement of his hand.
His index finger shifted from left to right while the rest of his hand remained still. Astarion could see the lean muscles move in that one finger. It hovered some more, shifting again from left to right, lower and lower on the page, then curled in on itself.
He found nothing.
He found nothing.
Astarion's suspicions were confirmed when Cazador said, "We will see what Godey can spin out of your...suggestions."
Astarion nearly collapsed as his body flooded with relief. It was as good of an outcome as he could hope for. But he wasn't at the finish line. Not yet. He had to hold out a little longer. "Should I set up a meeting with Godey in the lab next week? I can make space in my calendar," he said.
"That won't be necessary."
As quickly as it washed in, the flood narrowed into a river, into a stream, into a trickle.
"Pardon?"
Astarion's voice was unexpectedly quiet. Even out of his own mouth, it sounded a thousand miles away.
"You've done enough." Cazador's voice was quiet, too, and much more measured. There was a sense of finality to it.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
"You said you'd let me work on processing the blend itself," Astarion burst out. With the twitch of Cazador's eyebrows, he scrambled to correct himself. "Godey will take the lead. Of course. But you said I'd have some control."
"Control? I've given you creative freedom." Irritation crept onto Cazador's face. "We were lucky you were in the middle of a slow week. Besides, I have a more important job for you." He clasped his hands once more. "I heard you had a productive outing at The Fraygo."
It took all of Astarion's sense of self-preservation to avoid launching himself at Cazador.
How dare he. How fucking dare he? Pulling the rug from under him at the last minute, and all Astarion could do was nod.
The bottle of cognac was still sitting there on his desk, completely full. Astarion could almost feel the shape of the neck in his hand, the weight of glass, and the surge of energy pumping through his right arm.
One good swing was all it would take.
Shame it would be a waste of perfectly good cognac.
"I've reached out to the Merchant's League to check up on their inventory. I think we could convince them to increase our stock with another meeting and according to your calendar, it looks like you're free on Thursday night," Cazador continued. Not looked like. Cazador knew.
Cazador began tapping away on his keyboard, no doubt drafting an email to the department store head.
Astarion hated almost everything about Cazador. His stupid voice, his bureaucracy, his godawful fashion sense, but he especially hated the way he typed. Each keystroke was loud and smacked of self-importance.
He didn't have to take this from him.
He heard Gale's voice in the back of his mind.
Good luck.
"No."
Cazador looked up. His voice dropped dangerously low. "What?"
"No," Astarion repeated, louder this time. "I held up my end of the bargain. You hold up yours. Keep me involved. And not like that."
Cazador simply tilted his head, which was even more unsettling. "What's the matter? Afraid our client won't appreciate your work?" He barely smiled with teeth, but he was doing it now. He had pointedly longer than average canines, pearly white. "I assure you, you've had nothing but positive reviews so far."
Astarion gripped the edge of Cazador's desk, on the verge of shaking. He could barely think, his head was pounding so hard. "Look at me." He probably looked insane. Good. "Look at me. Do I look like the kind of guy who has to force people to fuck him?"
The next thing Astarion felt was the crack of Cazador's hand across his face.
The air was crushed out of his lungs, then sucked back in with a heaving, startled gasp.
The room was reeling. Astarion realized he would have been knocked to the ground if he hadn't been holding on to the desk. Pain rocketed across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. He pinched his fingers around his face, feeling for traces of fractures or a wet trickle.
Nothing.
To his side and above him, he heard Cazador, as calm as ever. "Embarrassing. You actually think you have the upper hand."
Cazador's voice said it all. You are worthless. Nothing. Nobody. A rat in the gutter.
Astarion's conscience responded in kind. You blew it. You dumb fucking cunt. Cazador's right. You're short-sighted. Impulsive. Stupid. Get it back. Fix this. Now.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." And Astarion didn't mean this either, but an idea was brewing. The sting grew to a searing throb.
"Sorry what?"
"Sir. I'm sorry, sir." Astarion swallowed. Maybe he couldn't climb to Cazador's level, but he could drag him into the gutter with him. If Cazador could play dirty, so could he. He'd roll around in the fucking mud.
He lifted his head to meet Cazador's eyes and moved his hand from his face. He let his breath hitch and his face shift into what Dal called the "puppy pout", which he put on whenever he wanted to tug on someone's heartstrings. Eyes wide, biting his lower lip, blinking slowly.
"What do you think you're doing?" Cazador hissed.
Astarion slid his hand across the desk and towards where Cazador's rested on his knee. "Please. Let me make it up to you," he whispered.
"Get your hands off me, worm." Cazador's fist jerked back, clenched, but he wasn't slapping Astarion away. "Prodded and picked over like carrion and you think you have a chance."
Astarion remained silent. He rose out of his chair, got on his knees, took Cazador's hand, and slowly pressed his lips to his knuckles. They felt like ice. To Astarion's satisfaction, Cazador's grip tightened around his hand.
He knew Cazador liked this, when he was deferential, unsure, timid, even if it was all pretend. He kept his breathing steady.
In. Out. In. Out.
If Cazador wanted him gone, he would have thrown him out by now. He could smell the cologne on Cazador's sleeve. Rhapsody had faded down to the notes of clove and patchouli. It mingled with the scent of his body (Astarion hated it, loathed it, wanted nothing to do with it) to a cold, minerally effect.
"Nice try."
Cazador grabbed the back of Astarion's collar and pulled. He stood and hauled Astarion up so they were both looking at Vellioth's portrait. Astarion didn't bother struggling. At this point, he knew he'd lost.
"Have you heard of Edvard Munch?" Cazador asked.
The painter of The Scream. As Astarion stared at Vellioth's portrait, the skeletal faces in the painting from his memory and the frame in front of him began to morph and merge. Cazador's hold on Astarion's neck was growing excruciating. "Yes."
"There was something he once said. Loosely translated. 'Art comes from joy and pain'." Cazador's gaze roamed over Astarion passively. "'But mostly from pain.'"
Astarion grit his teeth. "And you're putting me through a lot of pain right now. Look, I get it. You made your point."
"Shut your mouth," Cazador snarled. He continued. "I was younger than you when I made my first perfume for this House. Amanita, after my dear niece. I suffered every abuse. Made to take envelopes of bribe money down to the suppliers. Perfume poisoning. Chemical burns. One lash for every drop I spilled. I took it all. Why?"
Astarion said nothing. Cazador told him to shut his mouth, after all. Cazador yanked the roots of Astarion's hair at the nape of his neck and he let out a sharp hiss. "Why?" Astarion asked.
"For the love of it, boy." Cazador's voice softened. "For the chance to create, I would do anything."
His hold relaxed, then released. Astarion couldn't move. Cazador was behind him, between him and the door. Even if he wasn't, his feet felt like lead.
"You have the love for it, too. I see it," Cazador said. "Very well, then. If you want it, I'm giving you an opportunity. A gift, you know. Don't squander it." He clicked a heel against the hardwood floor. "Or do. And go back to the daily grind."
Go back to being nothing. Astarion shook his head. I want this. "I won't."
Cazador's hand landed on his back as if in a conciliatory kind of pat. He tilted Astarion forward and by instinct, Astarion steadied himself on his desk.
Would Cazador be able to feel his bones through his clothes? God, he hoped so.
"And what will you do?"
Through the fear, Astarion grinned.
"Anything."
◈━◈━◈
The shower couldn't run hot enough. Like his Friday nights, there was a ritual to this. When Astarion stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, his skin was scrubbed red and raw. When he opened the bathroom door, cold air rushed in and prickled at his skin, sending up goosebumps. Steam still rose from his forearms.
Astarion's head went light and his vision went black as he made his way down the corridor. He slowly felt his way along the walls, trying not to bump his fingers into the hinge on the door to his bedroom. The blurry spots faded when he reached his vanity. He found the large bottle of unscented hypoallergenic lotion, gave it a few hard pumps, and slathered his arms and chest.
The Szarr Squad wouldn't shut up. Astarion's phone flashed at him from the vanity every few seconds with new notifications.
He muted the chat again.
And the refrigerator was empty. Fuck. Fuck. Tonight, of all nights, was the worst time to be without a drink and Astarion just had to forget to stop by the liquor store because he'd been in too much of a hurry to go home and stare at the shower wall for an hour.
He made his round throughout the flat, throwing open cabinets and cupboards. He could've sworn he had a few bottles of amaro or triple sec lying around, and granted, he did. They were empty. He'd neglected to throw them out when he finished them a few months ago.
Finally, Astarion grabbed a glass, filled it with water from the tap, and gulped it down. It was bland and tasteless. He fixed it with an electrolyte packet.
Everything felt off-kilter tonight. Astarion was painfully aware of everything. The piled-up dust on the soles of his bare feet. The damp scratch of the towel around his waist. He could already feel a headache coming on. The shakes would start soon if he couldn't get something for his nerves.
His mind wouldn't stop screaming. He saw Cazador. He couldn't stop seeing him.
He needed a distraction.
Astarion's phone was still on the vanity where he left it. He flicked through multiple apps, looking at everything, processing nothing. Colours and shapes, indistinct.
He wanted to talk, but it wasn't like anyone was going to listen. He scrolled through his contacts list. He didn't trust most of them.
He couldn't tell Dal. Maybe she'd suspect favouritism. Her moralizing and concern would sicken him.
He needed a disinterested, uninvested third party. There weren't many of those. There was a number with no contact name attached to it (though Astarion knew it would've said 'Mum'). Then there was Gale.
Dal or Gale.
Dal. Gale.
Gale.
Astarion grabbed his phone and typed out a message. His thumbs left prints on the screen, greasy with lotion residue. He didn't care.
It was his turn to make the next move. Astarion took a small sip of water and leaned against the vanity. The wooden edge dug into his hip. He hit the call button and put his phone on speaker.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Gale." Astarion swallowed thickly. "Thanks for picking up."
"You're welcome, I suppose. What's the matter?"
"Not much. I just." Astarion ran his fingers through his hair. It was still dripping wet. "Just. Talk to me."
"About?"
"I don't know? Anything you want."
"Alright," Gale said. Astarion thought he might weep. If Gale had said anything else like, Are you okay? or Is something wrong?, he wouldn't have thought twice about hanging up. The last thing he needed was Gale's sympathy, or worse, pity. He already felt like crawling out of his own skin.
The quiet went on for too long.
"Well?"
“Hmm. Midterms are going to be in three weeks, so I’m preparing some practice quizzes. What do you think? Fifty percent multiple choice questions and fifty percent short answers?”
Water droplets fell onto Astarion's shoulders and the floor below. “You’re asking my opinion?”
“Of course. The stakes aren’t very high, but I trust your judgment.”
“You’d be the first," Astarion muttered under his breath. "Um, sixty percent multiple choice?" He remembered preferring multiple choice questions back when he took written tests.
"Why is that?" It was curious, the way Gale spoke. Astarion got the sense that he genuinely wanted to know why.
"Well," Astarion began, "it's the illusion of giving your students something easy. The answer's visible, right there on the page, and they know it. You lull them into a false sense of security. They think it's something they can rush through and they suffer the consequences. Isn't it fun?"
Gale laughed. "And marking's quick and easy. You've convinced me. Speaking of convincing, how did the presentation go?"
Astarion swirled the water around in his glass. It was the colour of a pale rosé.
"As good as any," he said.
It was mostly true. They called off the second visit to The Fraygo. Astarion would be let into the lab with the caveat that he would be at Cazador's beck and call at all hours of the day. It might eat into his weekends, but Astarion didn't care as long as Cazador left his Friday and Sunday nights alone. Better the devil he knew.
"So you'll be moving forward with one of your creations." Astarion didn't know why Gale had so much confidence in him that it wasn't even a question at this point.
"Yeah."
"Congratulations!" Gale exclaimed.
Astarion removed the towel from around his waist and starting drying his hair. He checked himself in the mirror. There were no marks on his face, but the sting of Cazador's hand remained. He could almost map where Cazador hit him from his brow ridge to the right side of his nose, just below the eye.
Astarion crumpled the towel into a ball and tossed it onto the futon. For a moment, he felt self-conscious that he was standing naked in his room with Gale on the line. He didn't know why; it wasn't like Gale could see him. He walked over to the armchair, found a clean pair of briefs in the pile, and pulled them on.
"It's not exciting," he said. "It's going to be measuring and pouring little things into other little things and—right, that's your idea of fun." Astarion could practically hear Gale smiling on the other end.
For some weird reason, that made him smile, too.
"Could I trouble you for a commission?"
"I don't do—" Astarion backpedalled on his train of thought. A professor's salary wasn't much, but it was worth more than his. "Alright, I'll bite. What can I do for you?"
"I've been thinking about what you said about the rose. I guess I've never given much thought to the way I smelled. I'd be interested if you could create a perfume—cologne—tincture," Gale let out something that sounded halfway between a sigh and a chuckle, "that reflects me. How you see me. Call it a thought experiment." He cleared his throat. "Of course, no pressure.”
While Gale was talking, Astarion quickly flashed through price points. He didn't have a going rate. Half of the Szarr prices for the same volume? It wasn't like he could afford oud absolute or ambergris. Or had the backing of a centuries-old family name.
Fuck it, he'd think about it later.
"Oh, pressure's on, darling. I'll do it," Astarion said.
Gale gave a sigh of relief. "Brilliant. Where do we start?"
"We start with what you like." Astarion settled into his desk chair, the scrape of canvas sliding up his bare back. "Is there a scent that's speaking to you?"
"Do you mean existing scents? Individual notes?"
"Notes."
"I like rose."
"Clearly." Astarion pulled his notebook towards him and clicked his pen. He flipped over to an empty page. "What kind of rose? And why?"
"I think you'd call it rosewater. Light. Not the kind you'll find in old-fashioned potpourri," Gale said. "It's...nostalgic. It reminds me of someone."
"Alright." Astarion wrote 'rosewater' down. It took up the middle of the page. "Does it remind you of a friend? Parent? Lover?"
"I'd rather not say."
"The nature of your relationship could change the composition."
"Like I said—"
"Okay, okay, I'll drop it," Astarion huffed. "Just florals for you? How terribly boring."
Gale hummed softly. "I love the smell of paper. Not sure how you'd recreate that one, though," he said.
Paper notes already existed, though in just a few perfumes. "What kind of paper?" Astarion asked.
"Have you ever read a book that hasn't been cracked open in a while? You don't even have to give it a sniff. It leaps off the page at you. It's...it's..." There was a slight crackle. Astarion had to assume Gale was moving his hands. Gesticulating. "Crisp. Slightly sweet. It's bizarre, but it's a comforting sort of decay."
"You'll have to give me a sample. I know you have them," Astarion said wryly. He made another note. He'd put paper at the base. "What else?"
"Well, after the paper naturally comes the ink," Gale said. "Does ink have a smell?"
Astarion put his pen down. "Are you trying to create a representation of yourself or a bookshelf?"
"I—"
"What's next? Hot printer? Book binding glue?"
Gale sighed, defeated. "You're right. I did say I wanted your interpretation of me. I suppose that means relinquishing some control of the narrative, as it were."
"Good boy." Astarion gave his pen few twirls as Gale inhaled sharply. "Is that all?"
"Yes." He could hear the catch in Gale's voice.
Well, well. Someone had a praise kink.
"Excellent. I'll let you know if I need...further consultation," Astarion said.
"In the meantime, Astarion, let me know when your character's done. Our session's on Sunday night, remember."
"About that." Astarion stopped twirling his pen. "There's something I want to do with him. Not sure if you'll allow it."
"Hm? Do tell."
"I have this thing for monsters. I was hoping my character could be one."
"Did you want to change your race to something non-humanoid? A kobold, perhaps?"
"What the hell's a kobold?"
"A reptilian creature. High dexterity, low wisdom, with a knack for building traps. Most commonly found in dank, decrepit dungeons."
"Traps? Interesting, but no. You're on the right track with dungeons, though."
"One could say there might be dragons, too."
"I'm going to fucking kill you."
Gale just laughed. Astarion felt his mouth widen into a grin, slowly, then all at once. He paused. "You know what? I'm not sure if our party's going to be ready for this. I'll have to tell you later," he said.
"Keeping me on the edge of my seat, I see."
"Edging is right." Astarion heard Gale snort on the other end of the line.
"Cheeky. Would you like me to call you again?" Gale asked.
It was Astarion's turn to laugh. "Darling, would you?"
"Certainly. If that's alright with you."
"More than alright." Astarion took a sip of his water. His glass wasn't even half empty yet, he realized. "Goodnight, then."
"Goodnight, Astarion. Sleep well."
The bedroom was quiet again. Astarion exhaled, leaning back into his chair. Deep breaths, deeper thoughts. He clicked his pen. Once. Twice.
Despite Gale's well wishes, there wouldn't be any sleep. There was work to do.
Notes:
Hey, they don't call it Whumptober for nothing.
One of the members of my irl D&D party plays a kobold and he's the party pet. RIP Koboldstarion, you would've loved being treated like a neurotic purse dog.
Perfume inspo: them by Neandertal
"Neandertal them™ echoes a message from a time we have not yet experienced. It is a portrait of an optimistic future full of technological advances, hinting at an improved human life and the progress of generations to come. Unconventional molecular materials, transparent woods and fresh, floral top notes combine seamlessly with natural essences of ambergris and sea kelp to create a clean and captivating fragrance that ignites our optimistic imagination in this era of uncertainty."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 5: Coriander
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Detailed disordered eating thoughts
- Alcoholism
- Potential dub conThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Astarion, you can't be a vampire."
Like he promised, Gale had called. It was Saturday morning. Astarion was glad he hadn't set up a video chat or else Gale would have seen him with numbered pieces of tape up and down his arms.
Gale's commission was well and truly on its way. If he wanted roses, Astarion would give him roses. The dream was a light and powdery Rose de Mai with a slight lemony undercurrent, but Astarion only had one tiny bottle of damask rose essential oil, which he uncapped while he half-listened to Gale rant about why he couldn't possibly play a vampire spawn.
He dabbed the dropper onto tape scrap number one. It was too thick and jammy, at least on his own skin. He might be able to throw in some citronellyl acetate to offset some of the heaviness.
"I don't get what the deal is. Can't you give me fewer powers?" he asked.
"The sunlight hypersensitivity is going to be a problem, for one. A high elf arcane trickster rogue is a perfectly good build as is."
"A basic build." Astarion heard Gale sigh from the other end of the line.
"Here's the thing about vampire spawn," Gale explained. "Vampires are resistant to necrotic and bludgeoning, piercing, and slashing damage from nonmagical attacks. They also regain ten hit points at the start of each turn if they have at least one hit point and aren't in sunlight or running water."
"So?"
"That's way overpowered."
"Isn't this a homebrew campaign?"
"Alright, no sunlight hypersensitivity at least. That should make adventuring easier for all of us. But how are you going to explain that away?"
"Isn't the whole premise that we have tadpoles in our brains? Let's say the tadpole did it."
There was a long pause from Gale. It was a thoughtful silence, like he was mulling over something.
In the meantime, Astarion put the bottle of rose oil back on the rack. Then there was the paper idea. A paper accord—the kind from old books like Gale mentioned—could be made with ethyl benzene, toluene, and vanillin. Toluene was a banned substance in cosmetics. Astarion would have to place an order for something else and soon.
Gale's voice slowly came back in. "You know, that could work. After all, there's a reason you all haven't turned into mind flayers. Yet." Gale clacked away on a keyboard. "Fine. You can be a vampire. You'll be free from weaknesses such as sunlight hypersensitivity and harm from running water. You can also enter homes without being invited. But you will not be able to multiattack, use claws, or spiderclimb. I'm also lowering your armour class to fourteen and you are not getting regeneration. Deal?"
"Can I bite?"
"As an attack or action?"
"Yes."
"Hmm. Flavour is free." Gale made a few clicks. A few keyboard taps. When he went quiet again, Astarion turned his attention to his desk.
Astarion knew he'd given Gale shit for the bookshelf concept, but some wood wouldn't be out of place. He was thinking sandalwood or cedar. He took two dropper bottles from the stand. Sandalwood was sweet, creamy. Cedar, which was warmer and drier, might work better with paper. He jotted down another note in his journal.
"Alright. You can bite whenever you want. But we're going to have a long talk about biting your fellow party members. Or not." Gale's voice dropped off a little at the end.
"Oh dear." Astarion dripped cedar oil onto tape scrap number two, watching as it spread through the paper backing. "Is that envy I'm hearing?"
"No idea what you're on about."
"Alright, I must've been mistaken," Astarion said blithely. "Shame you'll have to miss out on being visited for a bite to eat."
"Shame indeed. You might've been in for a nasty surprise." Astarion could hear Gale's smirk. "And one more thing. A vampire spawn is always tied to a master. There's a vampire lord out there, lurking back in Baldur's Gate."
Astarion waved one hand, assessing the composition so far, or as well as he could on pieces of tape. It was nice, if a bit harsh. "So I'll have to come up with a backstory for him, too," he said.
"I'll give you a hint. He's almost definitely looking for you."
Rosewater, paper, and cedar. They felt a little too bare-bones, but it was a start.
Astarion looked towards his drawer of materials. It was time to play.
"Deal."
◈━◈━◈
On Sunday night, Astarion took one last look at himself in the mirror. His bag was packed. He was wearing a navy blue bomber jacket with maroon accents and gold scrolls he'd embroidered on.
Was there such a thing as overdressing for a D&D session?
The jacket was a piece he started drafting six months ago. Then the handwheel on the sewing machine got jammed and he put off fixing it for three weeks, but all in all, he liked the final product. The decorative stitching gave the jacket a padded effect and his favourite part was the contrast between the shoulders and the rest of the bodice.
Astarion never hung out with the Szarr Squad outside of work. Even if he did, this was something he'd never wear in from of them. He could already hear Violet asking him why he was wearing his grandmother's drapes. But she wouldn't be around to judge him.
Before he left, Astarion put on the finishing touch. Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy. He was himself again.
Gale's apartment was one bus ride away. It was another cloudy day, with the forecast expecting a drizzle in an hour. Rock was blasting through his earbuds in time to the jolt and rumble of the tires. Something about this was like Friday night; the promise of a good time that was so palpable he could almost hold it in his mouth and bite.
There were three main rules at Gale's table:
1. No racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, or bigotry.
2. There was a safe word ("tressym") in the event of player discomfort.
3. Inspiration would be awarded for problem solving and creative solutions.
The path to the apartment complex was lined with gravel, hostas, and lavender. As he brushed by, Astarion pinched the lavender, crushing the tiny velvety buds between his fingers. He lifted his fingertips to his nose. Powdery, herbal, woody, sweet.
Gale lived on the third floor and Astarion was trying not to rock back and forth on his heels while he waited for Gale answer the buzzer. He spoke when he heard the first muffled crackle.
"Hello?"
Gale's voice was barely intelligible. "It'll be a miracle if you can hear me through the receiver."
"What?"
"Never mind. Come on up."
Like Gale told him to, Astarion let himself in.
With the way Gale talked and carried himself, he should’ve been a man of more means than a tiny bachelor pad, but he clearly made the most of what he had. He had a huge bookshelf that was lined with tiny mementos and keepsakes. A tiny crystal ball sat on the highest shelf. A periodic table tapestry was draped over the back of one of the leather couches. Gale’s laptop was hooked up to the TV. The screen was paused in the middle of an hour-long speculative biology deep dive video from The Society of Brilliance.
The flat felt—no, smelled—toasty. The distinct scent of nutmeg hung in the air. The kitchen was immediately adjacent to the living room and over the sink, Gale stood washing a pot and several utensils. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled up to his elbows and he was wearing a pair of rubber gloves coated in a thick lather of dish soap. He was humming to himself.
By the window, a long-haired tortoiseshell cat sat lounging on a perch. It took a moment, but when she noticed Astarion’s presence, she leapt to the ground and dashed through the crack in a door to a room at the end of the hall, presumably Gale’s bedroom.
Gale watched her scamper off. “Tara, is that our first guest?” he asked. He talked to his cat? Cute.
His smile broadened when he turned around and saw Astarion come in. Gale peeled the soapy rubber gloves off and walked around the kitchen island towards him. As for his bottom half, he was wearing sweats and patterned crew socks.
“Hello, Astarion! Sorry Tara didn’t stick around to say hello. She doesn’t like most people. Nearly bit Karlach’s hand clean off when she tried to pet her.”
“I don't blame her,” Astarion said. He dropped his bag on the kitchen island. He snuck a peek at Gale's socks out of the corner of his eye. Cat paw print. “I’d bite anyone who tried to pet me, too.”
“With an outfit like that, I wouldn’t blame you. Are you dressed as your character?”
If so, he hadn't planned it, but Astarion spun around to show off his jacket and lowered himself into a deep bow. To his surprise, Gale bowed back.
"Lower."
Lae'zel was standing in the doorway. Gale straightened up immediately.
"Lae'zel! Goodness, I couldn't. My knees would crack," he said.
"There are stretches for those, you know." Shadowheart lifted her head over Lae'zel's shoulder. She had a Tupperware container in one hand and a large taro bubble tea in the other. Astarion smiled to himself. He was still holding his bow and his knees felt just fine.
"Thank you, Shadowheart! Here, I'll put that in a bowl for you." A wooden bowl appeared in Gale's hand. He clicked a pair of tongs before starting to shovel what looked like salad out of the container. "I can't wait. Nothing beats homegrown produce," he told Shadowheart. "You said it took just one and a half months until harvest?"
Astarion stared at the flood of mixed greens tumbling into the bowl. "You grew that?"
Shadowheart shrugged. "It's nothing. You should see Halsin's garden."
"Hey-ho." The door swung open again and Karlach stepped in with a pack of beers. She inhaled and a wide grin broke across her face. "Goddamn, it smells SO GOOD in here!"
Wyll was right behind her. "Mmm, you can say that again. A Dekarios dinner. Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said. Like Shadowheart, he had a box in hand. Chocolate chip cookies.
"You're making us food?" Astarion asked. As if on cue, Gale turned on the oven light. Of course he was making food. Ovens didn't just smell nice because they were ovens. This one had a casserole dish inside it.
"My very first DM, my high school chemistry teacher, served us a full cheese board every session," Gale explained. He slipped on a pair of oven mitts and opened the oven door. A blast of heat shot out. "Since then, I've dedicated myself to feeding my players properly."
"That's...generous." Astarion stepped back as Gale walked by with the casserole dish, which he set down on a cork trivet. "What is it?"
"Pastitsio. My mother's recipe. She's the best cook I know."
"I have to disagree. You're just as good, and definitely better than the rest of us," Wyll said. He was already setting the table. Forks and knives clinked in his hands. Gale had matching dinnerware. He even had a proper tablecloth.
Gale winked in Astarion's direction. "Everyone here has already had it but for you, I'll have to make you her tzatziki sometime." His voice dropped into a whisper. "Though she might have inherited that one from my yiayia."
Astarion would have felt inadequate if he hadn't brought his own offerings to the table. Out of his bag, he pulled out several canned sangrias and a pack of B52 shots, which he started unloading into Gale's fridge. Karlach walked by and froze.
"Holy shit, shots! You madlad," she yelled.
"Pass me one when someone rolls a Nat 20," Wyll laughed.
Shadowheart swept by and grabbed a sangria right out of Astarion's hand to examine the label. "Ooh, ten percent? The strong stuff," she said. "A man after my own heart."
"You mean your...Shadowheart?" It was so, so dumb and Astarion barely made it to her name before he erupted into a fit of giggles. Karlach was cackling. Shadowheart tossed her braid over her shoulder and put up her middle finger.
It was the last item out of Astarion's bag that drew Gale's attention.
"I think that's the most extravagant candle I've ever seen."
Like every other Szarr product, it was obscenely expensive. The candle jar was pure glossy black ceramic with the Szarr name and logo embossed into the front. The fill weight was 300 grams of pure beeswax and papyrus wood, tobacco, and patchouli oils.
The candle alone probably went for a day's pay, but to hell with it. Astarion pulled a lighter out of his jacket pocket and flicked it over the wick.
He hadn't used the lighter since the last time he bought a pack of smokes, which was a few years ago. He watched as the flame took, crackling up the wick and carving a pool of melted wax below. For a second, Astarion thought about trading in the vape in his pocket for cigarettes again. It was a pleasure to burn.
Conversation and the smell of warm wax filled the living room. Halsin couldn't make it tonight, but with the way Karlach was whispering (or trying to and failing), it sounded like he had plans to make a grand entrance at a later date. People went back and forth between the kitchen to help themselves to dinner.
Astarion hung back, waiting until everyone had their fill. Wyll seemed to have the same idea.
"Go ahead," Astarion said to him.
"Oh no, you first," Wyll insisted, gesturing for Astarion to move forward. Astarion relented, doing a few rough calculations in his head as he walked up to the counter. He had enough room for two sangrias and a handful of snacks or, in this case, a tiny of piece of pastitsio. Just enough to be normal.
The smell of it was creamy and decadent, of nutmeg and cooked milk. Béchamel sauce contained butter and flour. The carton he saw in the fridge was whole milk. He knew he made the right call not to eat all day until now.
He cut a sliver from the casserole dish. Why was the béchamel layer so thick? There was also very thick layer of pasta on the bottom. A few gooey strings came with the slice. Was there cheese in the pasta, too? Oh no. Oh god.
With the tines and back of his fork, he smushed the piece of pastitsio flat to take up more space on his plate and buried the rest of it under Shadowheart's salad.
Everyone was spread out between the dining table and couches in Gale's living room. Astarion grabbed a canned sangria, took a seat next to Gale at the head of the table, and took his first bite.
The combination of creamy béchamel, cheese, and rich, spiced meat sauce made his jaw ache. It felt like poison going down his throat. It sat like a stone in his stomach. It was the best thing he'd eaten all month.
"That. Was. Amazing." Astarion was vaguely aware of a bit of sauce on the side of his mouth, which he wiped off with the back of his hand.
Gale smiled. It was the same kind of smile he wore when he talked about his work, about finishing Carmilla in two days. Smug. "Pleased to hear it. Sorry I had to substitute ziti for the bucatini. Don’t tell my mother."
Astarion smiled back.
Don't think about how much cheese is in there. Petras keeps going on about trying CrossFit. Go run a few kilometres after work tomorrow. Show him how it's done.
He pushed the tab of the sangria can down, which yielded with a crack and hiss. He took a long drink. Cheap red wine, loud and juicy. It tasted a bit shit, but it was a familiar kind of bit shit.
Gale booted up his laptop. Astarion noticed his notebook on the table, as well as a pen. The cap didn't match the rest of the pen and had a few indents.
Shadowheart dimmed the lights. The scene of a beach appeared on the TV to half-ironic, half-genuine oohs and aahs.
Karlach leaned over and passed something in her fist to Astarion. "Math rocks," she whispered.
"Thanks." Astarion rolled the set of dice around in his palm. It was probably the closest he would get to holding a handful of gems in real life. He picked up a D4. He liked how the sharp-edged points bit into his fingertips.
"Well met, travellers." Gale planted his palms on the table. "Last we spoke, you awoke on the Nautiloid, where you fought several imps and wrested a flaming sword from a cambion. After managing to steer the ship by making it through the control room, the Nautiloid plummeted from the sky and you woke up on an unknown beach. After a tussle with a few intellect devourers and stomping on one dying mind flayer, you have gathered your party and ventured forth. But one of us is unaccounted for."
Karlach gave Astarion a nudge.
"As you travel up the coast, you hear a call for help. On a hill overlooking the ocean stands a beautiful and unusually pale high elf with silver hair," Gale motioned towards Astarion. "Introduce yourself, good sir."
Showtime.
"Hurry, I've got one of those...brain things cornered. There, in the grass." Astarion took on a hushed, low tone. He look around at everyone, scanning the table like a predator. "You can kill it, can't you? Like you killed the others."
"Anyone?" Gale ventured. Astarion took another sip as he waited for the table to react.
"Kill it yourself. You look capable enough," Lae'zel said. Shadowheart snickered. Lae'zel nodded at Gale. "I begin to walk away."
Astarion pulled out the puppy dog eyes. Karlach looked like she was about to gush. "I was so hoping for a kind soul," he said. "Well, not to worry." He made eye contact with Gale, then Lae'zel. "While Lae'zel walks away, I sneak up behind her, put my knife to her throat, and push her down onto the ground."
"Holy shit," Wyll muttered.
"Roll for—" Gale began, then stopped. "You know what? I'm enjoying this far too much to make you go through a check. Continue."
"You—" Lae'zel snarled. "I'm going to push him off."
"Make an athletics check." Astarion had never seen Gale this delighted.
Lae'zel picked up a D20 and rolled it. Astarion could see her calculating the numbers in her head without needing to look at her character sheet. "Fourteen," she announced.
"A resounding success," Gale said. "Lae'zel, you pull free from his grasp and roll swiftly onto your feet. Anything for flavour?"
"Headbutt him!" Karlach urged.
"I headbutt him."
"Ow!" Astarion clutched his hand to his face and the table laughed. He heard Gale laugh first.
"Astarion, what do you have to say for yourself?" Gale prompted.
"I would like to hold my dagger up in Lae'zel's direction," Astarion said. He mimed pointing a knife at Lae'zel. He slipped back into his shifty voice. "I saw you on the ship, strutting about wile I was trapped in that pod. What did you and those tentacled freaks do to me?"
"I haven't done anything to you—yet," Lae'zel hissed.
Astarion's tone dropped further to match hers. "You arrogant little—"
Gale cut in. "Suddenly, your minds twist. Lae'zel, you're looking out of unfamiliar eyes, prowling dark, busy streets. You try to hold the memory, but it fades to the worm. The light. The fear." He nodded for someone at the table to continue.
"What was that? What's going on?" Astarion asked.
Lae'zel stayed firm. "Put the knife away and I'll tell you everything," she said.
Astarion sighed. "I'm not an idiot. It has to be those tentacled monsters. Something they did..." He trailed off, trying to bide time while he thought of what to say next. "They took you, too. I saw it during...whatever just happened." He paused, then smiled. "And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies."
"Apology accepted," Lae'zel said. Her fist was still clutched around her D20. "I might have done the same were the roles reversed."
The smile remained. "Ah, a kindred spirit," he said.
It took no time at all for him and Lae'zel's fearsome githyanki fighter to nearly kill and make up. It was decided that Astarion's rogue, despite his murderhobo tendencies, would be travelling with the rest of the party to find a healer. Soon, Gale spoke up again.
"Alright. I'm going to need everyone to make an active perception check."
While everyone rolled their dice, Gale put the pen between his teeth and chewed on the end. Astarion watched the movement of his mouth, then rolled his D20. Three. "Fuck." He was going nowhere with that.
"Did you add your modifier?" Astarion looked up. Gale was talking to him, quietly so only he could hear.
Astarion checked. He had a +3 to perception. Six. "Thanks," he whispered again.
"My pleasure."
The numbers were tallied. Everyone who rolled a five and above heard shouting up ahead.
"Do you want to investigate?" Gale asked.
A resounding yes.
Gale's eyes twinkled. "Everyone, roll for initiative."
They destroyed the goblins. Astarion was floored by how much damage he could do with his sneak attacks. Five turns later, the party was let into the Emerald Grove. Karlach fistbumped Lae'zel for a battle well fought. Shadowheart healed herself. Astarion was having a minor crisis.
He was halfway through his second sangria. He didn't expect to go through it so quickly. He'd also eaten the pastitsio and Wyll's cookies looked too good to pass up, so he had one. He could already feel the weight in his stomach, heavier than he was used to.
But he'd already overshot. He might as well give in. While the party recuperated after the fight, Astarion slipped by to retrieve another can from the fridge. When he sat back down, he grabbed another cookie.
Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it all.
Gale clicked his mouse and the scene on the TV screen changed to that of a lush, green enclave. Gale resumed narrating. "The moment the stone door rises, you see two people arguing. One is a young, slender male human fighter and the other is an older, buffer tiefling. You've happened to walk into their conversation."
"Can we hear what they're saying?" Wyll asked.
"Absolutely." Gale leaned to one side and put on a gruff voice, presumably that of the tiefling paladin's. "There are children here, you fool!"
He leaned to the other side and switched voices to the fighter's. "We was running for our lives." He did a surprisingly good impression of a Lancashire accent.
"One fight just ended, and now you're picking another?" Karlach piped up. "Relax."
"My duty is to this camp," Gale said, in character as the paladin, then returned to the fighter just as quickly. "God forbid you risk your precious tail. But I shouldn't be surprised. Foulbloods ain't known for courage."
"Ew, he's racist?" Shadowheart said.
The whole table booed the human fighter.
"Fantasy racist, but yes," Gale said. "Unfortunately, now is not the time for semantics. Tempers are rising. He's about to blow." He bit down on the pen cap again, twisting the pen between his teeth. "What do you want to do?"
Astarion folded his arms. "I'm going to punch the twink."
"NO!" Karlach shouted. Wyll's eyes went wide.
"I'm out of spell slots," Shadowheart pleaded.
The glee on Gale's face was almost devilish. "Make an attack roll."
Astarion rolled the D20. Eleven. He swiped over on his phone to check his character sheet. He had a +5 to an unarmed strike.
"Sixteen."
"Just hits," Gale said. "Astarion, your fist goes flying into the side of the fighter's face and he falls to the ground. He is knocked out."
Shadowheart's hands were clasped over her mouth. Astarion grinned, opened the can, and drank.
◈━◈━◈
In four hours, they had travelled to the Emerald Grove, fought off a horde of goblins, defeated some harpies (a gruelling fight), stopped a snake from biting a tiefling child, and received their next mission: to make their way to the goblin camp.
Gale ushered everyone out the front door with takeout containers of leftover pastitsio and salad. Like the night at the bar, it was just Astarion, Gale, Karlach, and Wyll left in the doorway of the flat at 10:30 pm.
"Jesus Christ, my sides are aching," Karlach said. Astarion believed her. When he pickpocketed the leader of the Emerald Grove druids and passed the stealth check, she laughed so hard she had tears rolling down her face.
"You're a great fit," Wyll said. "Seriously. We were actually worried about not having a rogue on board to help us sneak around."
Astarion pretended to look offended. "Darling, I do more than sneak. I disarm traps, pick locks, lie when those locks shouldn't haven't been picked—"
"—and land crits on sneak attacks," Gale finished. "I think you're right, Wyll. We'd love to keep you around." He flashed a quick smile at Astarion.
Astarion loved it. He loved the way Gale's voice sounded when he said it. He loved them all.
"Hug?" Karlach held out her arms.
Without question, Gale returned the hug. Karlach was almost a full head taller and looked like she was about to crush him, but he leaned deep into her embrace. Safe.
When Gale let go, Karlach held her arms out to Astarion.
"No thanks," Astarion said. He picked up the two remaining takeout containers and handed them to Wyll and Karlach. "But I hope you accept tokens of appreciation in food."
Karlach beamed. "Fuck yes. Always."
Gale craned his neck out the door to wave goodbye. "You two have a wonderful night. See you next week!"
The front door closed. They were alone.
Astarion circled the table, blew out the candle, and took stock of the cans left over. Three of them were beers Karlach brought over. Six of them were sangrias. There was only one Nat 20 rolled that night, to a total of six shot glasses around the table. If he scooped everything up fast enough, maybe Gale wouldn't notice.
"I take it you'd prefer not to be hugged?"
Astarion looked up. Gale was pushing in the chairs behind him. Astarion started collecting the cans. "It's complicated," he said. "I don't know if I could explain."
"There's no need. I understand completely," Gale said. "I'll never ask you to do anything you don't want to do."
Astarion paused. He didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't string the proper words together right now. "Thank you," he managed.
"No, thank you for a wonderful game, Astarion. It's hard to believe it's your first. You're a phenomenal roleplayer and you play a bold hand," Gale said. "You're very daring."
Astarion walked over to the recycling bin. He was struggling to carry nine cans in his arms. "I know," he replied absently. He dropped a can. He was usually more coordinated than this. "Shit."
"I've got it." Gale knelt down to pick it up.
Astarion unloaded the rest. He stood over the recycling bin, swaying lightly on his feet, trying to keep himself steady. He could feel Gale's eyes on him.
"Overindulged?" Gale asked.
Astarion was focusing on the upper right corner of the bin. It was empty except for the cans and a tin of cat food.
"You're not going home like this," Astarion heard Gale say. "Can I get you a ride?"
"No, no, I just need—" Astarion stumbled away from Gale and into the living room. "Need to lie down for a bit."
He lurched forward and down onto a couch, flopping over onto his back. The ceiling of the flat swung gently. He shut his eyes, only somewhat aware of the sound of Gale's feet moving across the room and the creak of leather, followed by a long silence.
This was nice. Like the weather report predicted, raindrops drummed lightly on the window panes. The room smelled like papyrus wood, nutmeg, and the sangria on his breath. This wouldn't be the worst place to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind that made Astarion forget what year he was in when he woke up.
Warmth cocooned his head. His thoughts were pleasantly blurry.
"You drink a lot, Astarion."
Astarion opened his eyes. Gale was sitting in the armchair across from him.
"You talk a lot, Gale."
"Guilty as charged." After watching Astarion for a moment, Gale said, "Come on, up you go. The couch isn't a comfortable place to be. You're going to wind up with a terrible crick in your neck."
"I can get up. I'm fine."
"You're far from fine." Gale extended a hand. "It's alright. Lean on me."
Astarion didn't take it. With some effort, he managed to hoist himself up and push past Gale. Just as quickly as he stood, he staggered, nearly tripping over Tara's water bowl. He swore again.
"I think that's enough." Gale stood up and quickly linked his arm through Astarion's, shifting his weight onto his shoulder. Normally, Astarion would have shoved him off, but he didn't feel like embarrassing himself further. As they walked to the bedroom, he could feel Gale already starting to heave under him.
"Darling, you're buckling and I don't weigh that much. I bet I could carry you."
Gale only grunted in return.
The bedroom was small but cozy. There was another bookshelf pushed up against one wall and a desk on the other side of the room. In the middle, Gale's bed was made and piled high with pillows. Tara was curled up at the foot of the bed. She blinked awake when Astarion and Gale entered, but didn't move from her spot.
Astarion wrested himself from Gale's hold on him and fell onto the bed. The sheets, like seemingly everything Gale owned, were purple. And very soft. He luxuriated, bunching the folds of the duvet between his fingers. Gale grabbed him to roll him over onto his side. Astarion flinched but decided not to object.
"Poor thing. You're all out of breath." Astarion was talking to the nearest wall. "It's a good look on you."
"Be careful what you wish for," Gale warned. He dragged a trash can to the side of the bed and turned on the lamp on the nightstand before going through the door again. "Stay," he ordered. Tara got up and followed him out.
Astarion scooted back to rest his head on one of Gale's pillows. It smelled like rose, exactly the kind he detected earlier that week. In its full clarity, the rose was airy, delicate, and slightly herbal, like a freshly torn tea bag. He buried his face deeper into the sheets. There was also a hint of aftershave and fabric softener. Utterly intoxicating. Utterly Gale.
Instinctively, he twisted, grinding into the mattress. His hips rocked forward when he remembered where he was.
He felt like he was floating and swimming at the same time. He wouldn't mind staying here for the night. He wouldn't mind staying for the rest of the year.
Gale returned with a glass of water, which he set down on the bedside table, along with some aspirin. Astarion watched him place a granola bar beside the pill bottle through heavy-lidded eyes.
"I could kiss you," Astarion murmured.
In the lamp light, he met Gale's eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen them, obviously, but it was the first time he saw them in their full colour. Brown, like chestnuts over a fire. Like walnut wood and a well-worn suede jacket on an autumn evening out. Like melted chocolate, which was coincidentally what his insides were starting to feel like.
"Make yourself comfortable," Gale said. He'd ignored Astarion completely. Or was at least pretending to. "In whatever way you can," he mumbled.
Meanwhile, Astarion found himself wondering what it was like to kiss Gale. There was no shame in it. What the hell, it was just a kiss. It didn't mean anything.
Gale was close enough that he could—theoretically, purely theoretically—sit up, grab him by the collar, and pull him in. He didn't really like kissing men with beards, but Gale took decent enough care of himself that it might not be so bad.
He examined the way Gale gnawed on his lower lip. Gale probably had soft lips. Definitely a gentle kisser. More tongue than teeth.
There was a tiny chance Astarion looked a little dopey when he was drunk, but if so, no one ever told him. He wondered if now was one of those times since Gale's expression remained unchanged. Gale continued to stand at the foot of the bed, arms by his sides, watching him cautiously.
He didn't know what Gale looked so worried about. He'd been through worse. He could handle himself.
"It is a little warm," Astarion lied. He wasn't wearing his jacket. It was still on the back of one of the chairs out in the living room. He took hold of the hem of his shirt. "But I've got it uncovered. Covered." Eye roll. "Whatever."
He peeled his shirt back slowly, stopping for a second above his pecs before pulling it over his head. When Astarion flung his shirt off, he took care to make eye contact with Gale.
Gale wasn't ignoring this.
Astarion could feel his gaze roving over his torso. He knew his looks were well above average. He thought back to how he'd heard himself described by past hookups: skin like lustred pearls, body like sculpted marble. He was particularly proud of his abs. He starved hard for those.
Gale was trying to look away, but he always glanced back, like he was trying to cheat on a test he didn't have the answers to but that he needed to pass.
God. Maybe Astarion was just as beautiful as everyone said he was.
It was hard to get a read on Gale. Flustered? Scandalized? Concerned, definitely. On Astarion's end, his own mixed emotions swirled like the bottom of a swimming pool. Amused. Giddy. Aroused. He didn't see a point in hiding that either.
Over the angle of his hip and the line of his upper thigh, Astarion could watch Gale back. It was only because of the lamp that he could see that a faint flush had spread up Gale's neck and across his cheeks. He wanted to push Gale's hair back from his face to see if it went all the way to his ears.
Astarion was painfully hard. He didn't care if Gale saw. Fuck, he wanted him to see. He ought to be flattered.
Call it classical conditioning. Maybe it was the feeling—of something hot, like a live wire shooting from his neck to his groin—that came with finding himself drunk and in a bed that wasn't his own. But if Gale was looking for a bite, he was ready to sink his teeth in. If he closed his eyes, he might be able to imagine Gale on top of him. His teeth in the side of Gale's neck. The heat of Gale's breath in his mouth.
It would be easy to break him. So easy.
"Can I get you anything else?" Gale asked at last.
"This is your bed, isn't it?" Astarion patted the spot on the bed behind him. "I'll tuck you in."
"That's kind of you."
"It is." Astarion tilted his chin up. "All you have to do is come here, darling."
Gale's eyes darted down, taking in every inch of Astarion's body. Instead of gnawing, Gale wet his lower lip. Took in a soft breath. Considered the offer.
He shook his head.
Gale moved forward to turn the lamp off. Astarion could just make out his form backing away slowly towards the doorway. He lingered there for a while, hand around the doorknob, before he spoke. It barely came out as a whisper.
"When you're feeling better, ask me again?”
Astarion didn't have time to respond before the door closed and he was left alone in the dark.
Notes:
Things are heating up. Astarion's down bad. Real bad. Who could've seen this coming?
Much of this chapter was inspired by my own D&D group, including Tara acting like my DM's cat. I'm the one with the periodic table tapestry on my couch. I was also craving pastitsio while writing, so everyone gets some. Here's my favourite recipe. That said, Gale's chewelry is all his own.
Also, fuck Aradin. All my homies hate Aradin.
Perfume inspo: Bat by Zoologist
"Zoologist Bat escorts you on an odyssey through the night. This unique olfactory experience carries you with the fruit bat to a sumptuous feast in a lush tropical jungle, before whisking you down to the recesses of its cavernous home. Sweet guavas and passion fruits ensnare you with addictive notes, then beckon you deep with primordial mineral scents that evoke a rugged enclosure redolent with hints of damp soil and vegetal roots. Allow yourself to hang, draped in pitch black, as alluring musk wafts over you with every unfolding of the thousands of leathery wings that surround you."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 6: Ginger
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Referenced disordered eating
- AlcoholismThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
So this was a hangover.
It felt like a real tadpole had been tunnelling through Astarion's brain all night. As soon as he opened his eyes, he felt like he'd aged fifty years. The room was spinning even as he lay in bed.
Except this wasn't his bed. It was off the ground.
This wasn't his room. It was too purple.
This wasn't Saturday morning. It was Monday.
Astarion tore out of bed, fighting sheets and pillows along the way. His foot caught on his shirt, which was now on the floor (why did he think taking his shirt off last night was a good idea?), and raced to the living room while pulling it over his head. He only paused to run back to grab an aspirin from the pill bottle and choke it down dry.
His jacket was still hanging off the back of the chair with his phone in its pocket. It was 7:09 am. Astarion would only be ten minutes late if he started running.
He felt like he'd been run over by several trucks. He seriously considered calling in sick, which he'd never done in all his years of working for the House of Szarr. Cazador would never approve. He wondered whether Cazador would approve of him vomiting all over the rug in his private office.
As he stepped into his shoes and shrugged on his jacket (he'd have to roll it up in his bag before arriving at work), Astarion took one final look around the living room. It might as well be his last time here, given how much of a scene he made last night. It was nice while it lasted.
In the corner of the flat, Gale was asleep in the leather armchair. He was using the periodic table tapestry as a blanket. Tara was curled up in his lap. They were the perfect picture of peace. Even this early in the morning, a streak of sunlight after last night's rain pierced the window and shone like a spotlight on the side of Gale's face. He looked like a real-life Caravaggio painting, caught between light and dark.
Astarion was aware of the minutes passing by as he stood staring at Gale. He seemed to sleep without a worry in the world. Astarion could hear tiny snores coming from Tara.
What was it like, Astarion wondered, to care? To have someone care back?
A thought occurred to him. As quietly as he could, Astarion slinked towards the armchair. Still fast asleep, Gale and Tara were none the wiser.
(Note to self: Gale was a very deep sleeper.)
Astarion stopped right above Gale, hovering over him from far enough away that he wouldn't risk waking him up. Up close, he could see the grey streaks in Gale's hair, which fell in loose waves around his shoulders. The earring glittered, sterling silver inlaid with crystal. Gale had a tiny scar on his forehead.
Out of the collar of his sweatshirt, a few thin crisscrossing dark lines trailed up the side of Gale's neck. Those hadn't been there before. Or maybe Astarion had just never noticed. Was he hiding a secret tattoo? Cheeky thing.
Now that he was close enough to fully study Gale, Astarion breathed in.
Gale's skin seemed to magnify floral and woody facets, or at least react well to them. Astarion made another mental note to file away for later. He smelled just like the bed, below the pillows, all soft and musky and sweet. The effect was instantaneous; that low, hot twist of pleasure all over again. That never happened before, or at least this quickly, as far as he could remember.
To be fair, there wasn't much he remembered from last night. He was drunk—stupidly drunk—and Gale had taken him to bed. He told Gale to join him. Gale didn't.
Instead, he said, When you're feeling better, ask me again?
And what a curious thing to say. Was Astarion just not Gale's type? Did he think he was doing Astarion a favour by trying to be a gentleman about it? Was Astarion—god forbid—not hot anymore?
It would be a fun puzzle to sort through later. Right now, Astarion was running late.
Before he left, he breathed in one more time, committing Gale's scent to memory.
Well, shit. This was creepy. And about to be the start of a very weird obsession.
Astarion stepped back, picked up his things, and slipped out through the front door. It wasn't his first time.
◈━◈━◈
The morning was going as well as Astarion expected, which meant it unfolded like a trash fire.
9:00 am. At the all-hands meeting, he was trying not to let his eyelids close on themselves as Cazador preened and pontificated about their strategy for the third quarter and the upcoming release. With every word about product development, Astarion felt Cazador's gaze digging past his skull, trying to sink his claws into his grey matter. Petras was falling over himself to answer Cazador's questions (he never had the right response). Violet tripped him on the way out.
10:00 am. Gale texted him.
He left him on read.
11:00 am. Astarion lost count of the number of calls he took. After he was put on the line with the store manager of The Merchants' League, he stormed out of his cubicle in his room with no window. He found Cazador in the kitchen, idly reading a magazine.
12:00 pm. Dal sat across from him at the lunch table.
"Eat," she insisted.
They were alone in the open-plan break room. Everyone else was either working or had left for lunch. Astarion had memorized Cazador's schedule to the minute. It was a Monday, so he would be back by 12:28 on the dot. Cazador was punctual and a perfectionist, and never for the better.
"No thanks," he said. He was looking down at the half of a sandwich she was offering him. Tuna. Who the hell liked tuna?
She gave him a stern look and he helped himself to a carrot stick from her lunch box. It hurt his head to crunch on it.
Astarion wanted to spend his break taking a nap, but Dal had dragged him from his desk, spouting something about "recharging" and "needing to eat". He was ready to kill her for it, but she had a point. He was starving, and more than usual. This wasn't supposed to happen. He overate last night.
He allowed himself a glass of water.
On the table, Dal's phone was pinging with notifications. Astarion's phone was buzzing in his pocket in time with hers. Dal paused in between a bite of her sandwich to check.
"They're talking about who's going with Cazador to Design Week," she said, tucking her phone back into her purse.
"It's going to be Leon," Astarion said. He didn't have time for this. His head was still pounding with a dull ache. "It's always Leon."
"Maybe. He meets his KPIs. Sometimes exceeds them. I don't know how he does it."
"He has a kid." In other words, he had something worth caring about. Dal used to have her own thing. She'd always wanted to be a doctor, but couldn't afford medical school. She never planned on entering the fragrance industry.
"It might not always be Employee of the Year who goes to the events. Didn't Yousen get to go to one masterclass last year?"
"Yes, but we have those every month. He still wouldn't shut up about it." Astarion pinched the bridge of his nose. "It'll be Leon. Trust me."
"Leon performs well," Dal conceded. She scratched at her wrist through her sweater. "But Cazador likes you."
At noon, the sun was blazing through the window in the break room. Astarion narrowed his eyes, partly to shade himself from the light, partially in disgust. He jabbed his finger into the table.
"Then he has a fucked up way of showing it."
"At least you have a chance."
Dal's shoulders tensed. Her eyebrows, normally knit with concern, furrowed with something else.
"Of what? Going to Design Week? That grand soirée, attended by every suck-up and plastic prick in the city?" Astarion set his glass down with a thick clunk. "Don't tell me you actually want to be there."
"It's nice to see what everyone else is up to. There's a lot of good work going around," she said.
"It's a fucking clique, Dal," Astarion snapped. "You'd see the same dozen houses. Everyone who had the good fortune of starting their little ventures first or with money in the bank is going to schmooze up to each other. It's the same people, over and over again, all patting each other on the back."
"I'm talking about the artists and design studios. Up-and-coming talent."
Astarion got up and walked over to the long mahogany table in the middle of the office, which housed tester bottles of all the Szarr perfumes, free for staff and visitors to use. A gross display. He picked up a 100-millilitre bottle of Lady Incognita and returned to his seat. He turned it over in his hand, watching the light bounce off the glossy and sharp black edges.
"If they're included, it's all for show," he said. "No one actually cares about what they have to bring to the gallery. This Nightwarden's going to have to invent time travel for anyone to give her the time of day."
Dal closed her lunch box. "Leon doesn't like to talk about it, but from the way Violet did, it sounds nice. Maybe it's just me, but I wouldn't turn down some cocktails, interesting conversation, and a few freebies." Her voice went low. "Anything's better than being here."
Astarion looked up, exasperated. "Dal, I'm hurt. We're better than them, remember? I thought you were smarter than this."
"And I thought you were over having a superiority complex about the things you haven't worked for."
Dal's arms were crossed. Astarion leaned back in his chair and looked straight at her, disinterested and dismissive. "I had my hopes," he said. "Alright then. Go ahead. Squabble with the others. It's all beneath me."
Across from him, Dal's eyes suddenly went wide. Astarion turned around.
Behind them, Cazador simply smiled and walked away.
◈━◈━◈
Blackstaff? Right. Seminar. Even halfway through a bottle of red, Astarion remembered the plans he made with Gale last week and cursed. Was it too late to cancel?
He thought about calling Gale, putting him on speaker and letting his calm, reassuring voice fill the empty space in his flat. Maybe then he wouldn't feel half as irritable. Tired. Alone.
He tried using his litmus test for when he was drunk and thought about picking up the phone. It was an old line from Edgar Allan Poe's "The Telltale Heart" that he hadn't recited in ages. He stumbled over "dissemble", the very first word.
Shit.
◈━◈━◈
Blackstaff University was founded by the physicist Khelben Arunsun around a hundred years ago. It had a student population of 35,000 and was mostly known for its science programs, libraries, labs, and stunning old-fashioned architecture that made Astarion think, as he was climbing the stairs of the staff building, that he could be inside a real wizard's tower. He didn't take the elevator. Gale only worked two floors up and he had to get his steps in anyway.
When Astarion pushed through the door from the fire escape, the carpeted hallway stretched and curved around a winding corner. Faculty members walked by with backpacks and slacks and cardigans. It was a far cry from the House of Szarr, where anything less than a crisply tailored suit might as well be a potato sack.
He passed by a seating area overlooking a window, bordered by bookshelves. Bulletin boards with pinned flyers lined the walls. The door to Gale's office was open.
Gale was seated at his desk, though the view was blocked off. Standing in front of him, ramrod straight and clutching a stack of papers, was a young man with dusky skin and long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He was thumbing the edge of the stack, flicking through the pages with such intensity it was as if he wanted to get a paper cut.
"I'll have them marked by tomorrow, Dr. Dekarios."
Gale bent forward, resting his elbows on the edge of his desk.
"Rolan, it's alright. You can call me Gale." Gale gave Rolan a kind smile. "And next week's fine."
Rolan bristled. "That's when the next unit starts," he said. "There isn't time."
"I have the lesson plan prepared. They're called plans for a reason." Gale clasped his hands. "Let's do Monday."
Rolan seemed to relax a little. "As long as that's okay with you."
"It is."
Rolan nodded curtly. "Alright. Thank you. Gale."
He stalked off, keeping a wide berth from Astarion as he left. After watching Rolan go, Astarion leaned against the doorframe. Gale's eyes lit up when he saw him. He was wearing rectangular glasses, which he took off when Astarion stepped in.
"Sorry, office hours are closed." There was a twinkle behind the frames.
"Don't mind me, professor. I was just looking for an extension."
While Gale began packing his bag, Astarion took a seat in the chair across from him. It was an ergonomic swivel chair that was somehow softer than Cazador's velvet settees, like it'd been sat in dozens of times. The office was tight and cramped. Loose papers and folders were piled into one corner. A thermos that smelled like black tea sat dangerously close to a stack of textbooks.
So this was Gale at work. Focused, cluttered, ever so slightly manic.
Pictures hung on the walls, including a poster with a Nat 1 superimposed on the shrugging old man meme that read "Guess I'll Die", as well as a large photo of Tara. Astarion found himself squinting to read the PhD degree certificate framed on the wall behind Gale's desk.
BLACKSTAFF UNIVERSITY
On the recommendation of the faculty and by virtue of the authority vested in them,
the trustees of Blackstaff University have conferred on
GALE DEKARIOS
the degree of
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN CHEMISTRY
"A long time coming." Gale had followed Astarion's line of sight to the wall.
Astarion poked a paperweight on the desk. A small solid copper cube with its periodic table symbol stamped onto it. "Let me guess. It took you just a year to finish?" he asked.
"Something like that." Gale lifted his chin towards the door. "Shall we?"
Astarion got up, following Gale out. They passed Rolan, who was still lingering in the hallway. Gale waved at him before they turned a corner to catch the elevator.
When they were out of earshot, Astarion said, "You have a minion. God, what I wouldn't do for one of those."
Disappointment crossed Gale's face. For a moment, Astarion regretted having ever run his mouth. He even felt like apologizing.
"Rolan isn't just my TA. He's a brilliant student and scientist," Gale corrected him. "He received a full-ride scholarship to Blackstaff. He's intelligent. Driven, if a bit prideful. I'm lucky to have him."
"Sounds like someone I know."
The elevator dinged. Gale looked over his shoulder before stepping forward. When they were inside, he said, "He wasn't always my TA. I inherited him from another professor after he was fired."
"Fired. What happened?"
The doors closed. The elevator began its descent.
"His old professor beat him."
Without meaning to, Astarion felt his eyes widening. Gale looked back at him gravely. "It happens more often than you think," he said.
The nearest cafeteria was a five-minute walk away. Gale ordered the chicken alfredo while Astarion visited the salad bar. He was dying for a rare steak, but that wasn't on the menu.
At 6 pm, they were one of the only ones in the dining hall. A group of students sat several tables away, browsing on their laptops and iPads over sparkling waters and sandwiches.
Halfway between a bite of pasta, Gale's phone buzzed loudly on the table. He tapped it.
"Ah. Rolan sent me the recording."
The sound of Gale's recorded voice started to come through the phone speaker and Astarion leaned over to take a closer look. When Gale set his phone down on the table, Astarion saw a video of him standing behind a podium in an auditorium. Beside him was a large projector screen.
"The story I'm going to share with you today has a rather cryptic title. 'Natura naturata'. The Latin title is an academic thing. Or maybe just a Blackstaff thing." A few laughs from the audience. "It started with a bag of jellybeans."
From under the podium, video-Gale produced a large bag of jellybeans. He tore it open, held up a jellybean, and popped it into his mouth with the same ease he did with the coffee beans at Elturel Roasters. The bag was passed around the lecture hall to cheers.
"Flavours are composed of different organic chemicals, such as hydrocarbons, alcohols, aldehydes, ketones, acids, esters, or lactones. Their low volatility and molecular weight, usually lower than 400 daltons, are responsible for a range of sensorial sensations attributed to these flavours."
Gale carried on, describing how his favourite jellybean was the buttered popcorn flavour. A simulacrum of a simulacrum, he said. The taste of butter in a sweet trying to imitate fake butter in popcorn trying to imitate the real thing. The main component was diacetyl—still legal despite being behind the highly dangerous "popcorn lung".
"In commercial synthesis, the acetate, propionate, and butyrate of geraniol are the main components of essential oils. Geranyl acetate, with its delightful aromas, is used to prepare rose, orange blossom, and cinnamon. Geranyl propionate is used to formulate pear, apple, pineapple, and berry flavours. Geranyl butyrate is used for or fragrances such as lavender, acacia, and lily of the valley. Some say it smells more 'elegant' than geranyl acetate. I say it's a rose by any other name."
Astarion was already starting to zone out, but he tried to force himself to pay attention. More than anything, he was listening to Gale talk. His even tone, the rise and fall and pleasant cadence of each sentence. Something twisted inside Astarion.
Envy? Yes, this was envy. Gale had so much confidence in his voice.
"Optimization plays a significant role in the commercial success of the biotechnological industry. The most conventional method of optimization requires screening a large number of variables and many experiments. On the other hand, the experimental design approach provides an easy and efficient evaluation of the main reaction variables, such as temperature, time reaction, enzyme amount, and the molar ratio of substrates."
"I think I've gone on long enough." Gale hit the pause button on the video. He tucked his phone back into his pocket. "This is about us, not just me."
Astarion rested his chin in the palm of his hand. "Oh, do keep going. I'd pay you to read a phonebook." Phonebook? Was that the best Astarion could do? He really was getting old. "Was it always what you wanted to do? Chemistry?" he asked.
"I didn't have to want to do it. It came to me as naturally as breathing. You've heard about children making potions in the backyard out of mud and sticks, haven't you? That was me. Which then graduated into mixing baking soda and vinegar and exploding sandwich bags. There may have been a few fiery accidents. It's been my life ever since." Gale chuckled, then corrected himself. "It is my life. It's my world." His tone sobered. "It always will be."
"You're lucky." Astarion stabbed a clump of lettuce with his fork. "I started out in criminal law. I was a legal assistant for a semester. Hoped to work my way up to become a magistrate or judge one day." He lifted it to his mouth. "Didn't happen, obviously."
"Criminal law? Hell," Gale said. "I'm sure you were a force to be reckoned with."
Kind of? If by force to be reckoned with, Gale had meant given a lucky start. Astarion would be the first to admit he came from money. His father was a judge, his mother a legal director at her own prestigious law firm. Life was easy. They'd expected little from him. They didn't care that he might have cheated on one or two tests at school, or that he liked both boys and girls. All that mattered was that he took up the reins and followed in their footsteps.
And then he didn't.
"I applied to be the Dean of Science of this very university," Gale supplied. He raised and lowered one shoulder. "Didn't happen, obviously."
A forkful of salad stopped in mid-air. Gale was probably the smartest and most accomplished person Astarion knew. According to his reviews, he was one of Blackstaff's most beloved professors. He published one or two books (something about food science; Astarion didn't bother to check further). If Gale couldn't achieve something he set his mind to, what chance did someone like him have?
He should've been satisfied that Gale knew what it was like to be humbled. Instead, he was indignant.
"What? Why?" he demanded.
"They found a more qualified candidate. And I'm happy for them, but...I don't know. Maybe if I'd networked some more, spent more time on research instead of teaching, sent more works out to more journals. Publish or perish, as they say." Gale shrugged again. "Anyway, what's done is done now. What matters was that I tried."
There was a faraway look in Gale's eyes. On his plate, he twirled the last strands of alfredo-sauced spaghetti around his fork. He took a bite, then kept the fork in his mouth. He held the tines between his teeth. They sat together in silence.
The students got up and left. Dinnerware clattered from behind the cafeteria counter.
After a while, Astarion said, "I admire your ambition."
He meant it. He truly, honestly meant it.
Astarion's voice seemed to bring Gale back. "Ambition indeed." He was present again. "How good it is to be understood."
◈━◈━◈
After dinner, Gale led Astarion through the science building. It was more modern than the faculty tower, with tall glass panes stretching from the ceiling to the linoleum floor. Flights of stairs crisscrossed the upper levels.
Display cases stood between the auditoriums. Gale seemed to be drawn to one of them. Behind the glass were several rocks. When Astarion stepped closer, he saw spirals in the rock faces. Nautiluses. He read the plaque below. Eutrephoceras, from the Late Cretaceous period.
"I used to come down from my dorm room to look at the fossils when I couldn't sleep."
Gale was studying the rock next to him. There were some more outlines of nautiloid shells in that one.
Astarion snorted. "Did you dress up for the occasion?"
"Yes," Gale deadpanned. "I walked these buildings and sat in the empty lecture halls past midnight in my pyjamas."
Astarion could easily picture a younger Gale standing where they were, babyfaced and wearing a band tee (Muse? Radiohead? Coldplay?) and pyjama pants. He couldn't decide whether it was pathetic or precious. He was starting to lean precious. "And why would you do that?" he asked.
"I spent my entire life being told to follow rules," Gale said. "Sticking to a bedtime curfew. Raising my hand so I could so much as ask to use the bathroom. Hearing that I was going to do great things, momentous things, so long as I behaved." He moved to the next display case. "The moment I left home, I realized there was no plan. It was terrifying, then freeing. Luckily for me, I discovered a great talent for pushing boundaries."
"Well, now I have to hear this." Astarion stepped aside to narrow the gap between him and Gale. "Don't you dare spare the details."
"Let's see. I broke into a locked door in the math building in my second year. I found a decomposing frog on the other side. One can imagine the stench."
"Disgusting."
"I set fire to a rose bush in the campus botanical garden during a party. It was an accident, I swear."
"Just an accident? Pity."
"I did magic mushrooms."
"Yawn."
Gale offered a faint smile. "You're a tough crowd. But I suppose none of them have surpassed my most recent and greatest folly yet."
Astarion returned it. "And what would that be?"
As quickly as it came, the smile faded. "My divorce."
Forget trying to figure out the reason for said folly. There was only one thing on Astarion's mind. "You were married?" he asked.
"Until late last year."
So Astarion's first impressions were right. Of course. He could see it clearly now. Gale would be the type of man to meticulously plan a proposal. Find the perfect ring with the perfect material and perfect size. Cry during his wedding vows. Slow dance in the kitchen. Make elaborate brunches on Sunday mornings.
Not Astarion's type. Not historically, at least.
And Astarion wasn't taken, but he had his hands full. Since Sebastian, there'd been Wesley? Wensleydale? With his blond hair and broad shoulders. There'd been Hapdim, with her dark skin and long, elegant neck. There'd been a man whose name he couldn't remember; he'd been drunker that night than he would've liked to admit. But he wouldn't be surprised if he had a name like Gondlemead.
Questions swirled around in Astarion's mind. He wanted to ask about everything. How long had Gale been married? What caused his divorce? Who was he married to?
Astarion scowled. He didn't know why he was so invested.
"How far along are you?" he asked.
"I'm gathering my records and dividing our belongings. I don't care what she takes with her as long as I get to keep my books and Tara," Gale said. "I expect everything will finalized sooner rather than later."
Astarion was at a loss for words, but he was trying. What was he supposed to say to a recent divorcee? I'm sorry? You deserved better? He wasn't good at comforting people, much less this whole romantic relationship business. But one thing was for sure. "You sound like you need a distraction," he said.
A quick smile tugged at the corners of Gale's lips. "Good thing I know where to find one." He began walking towards the end of the hallway, then stopped and turned around. "Would you like to push some more boundaries with me?"
Astarion didn't have to be asked twice.
◈━◈━◈
The Blackstaff labs were legendary. From around his lanyard, Gale slotted the key into the door of one of the chemistry labs. Pushing it open revealed pristine white from floor to ceiling, meticulously organized cabinets, clean benches, and smooth countertops. Gale locked the door behind them.
"Is anyone going to care that we're here?" Astarion asked. "Just so we're clear, I don't."
Gale laughed. "Good. But even when no one's watching," he gestured to the coat hooks by the door, "safety first."
Astarion reached for a lab coat and he heard Gale clear his throat. "Excuse me, that one's mine."
Sure enough, Gale's name was embroidered onto the breast pocket. The stitching was irregular and coming loose, as if it had been done by someone who wasn't used to working with thread, and a long time ago. Gale shrugged it on as if it were a second skin and grabbed another one off a hook.
"Here, this one should fit you."
Before Astarion could take it out of his hands, Gale draped a lab coat over his shoulders. Instinctively, Astarion stretched out his arms, wriggling them into the sleeves.
"Do I need—"
"Safety glasses? Just a moment," Gale said. He was tying his hair back into a tight bun. He opened a storage cabinet. "Do you know how popping candy is made, Astarion?"
Astarion buttoned up his lab coat. It was very wrinkled. "Faith, trust, and pixie dust?"
"Close. It starts with citric acid and baking soda."
Out of the equipment Gale pulled out of the storage closet, Astarion recognized beakers, a scale, stirring rod, hot plate, and some white powder, probably the baking soda and citric acid. Did citric acid have calories?
"We're not making anything edible, are we?" Astarion asked. "Using beakers contaminated by—god, I don't know—cyanide seems like hardly the smartest move."
Gale grinned. "Very astute. Only Rolan knows about it, but I have food-safe glassware. We're making an absolutely tiny portion. Just enough for you and me." Gale opened another cabinet. "Sucrose, coming right up."
Astarion's stomach tightened.
In just a couple minutes, the setup was ready. For someone so determined to push boundaries, Gale still went through the effort of pointing out the locations of the safety equipment, emergency exit, fire extinguisher, eyewash station, and safety shower. He explained the disposal procedures. Only when Astarion convinced Gale that he understood everything (or most of it, anyway) did Gale pass him a pen and a sheet of scrap paper.
"Observation is of the essence. Pay attention to what you see, hear, and most importantly to you, smell," Gale explained. "Though you won't smell anything right now. Citric acid is virtually odourless." He waved a hand over the chemicals. "What are you seeing when you look at each substance right now?"
Astarion was seeing an awful lot of white powder. "It's hard to tell what's what from a distance," he admitted. "But the citric acid looks the grainiest."
"Excellent. Now write that down."
Astarion rolled his eyes, but did as he was told while Gale strode towards the whiteboard.
"During manufacturing, a warm aqueous sugar base is combined with food colouring and our magic ingredients: citric acid and baking soda. The water from the aqueous sugar base allows the citric acid and baking soda to react, forming sodium citrate and carbonic acid. Well, the sugar melt is usually also gasified in a pressure chamber, but that's beside the point." Gale grabbed a marker and started to write. "Let's balance the equation."
H3C6H5O7(aq) + 3NaHCO3(aq) → Na3C6H5O7(aq) + 3H2O(l) + 3CO2(g)
Astarion looked at the whiteboard, then down at the bench. It was going to be a long night.
Gale's idea of fun was making Astarion measure everything. They first measured the mass of the empty beaker, then added the citric acid and baking soda mixture, and measured again. In a separate beaker, they poured in sugar, corn syrup, and water in steady increments.
Gale pushed several small bottles towards Astarion. "Pick a flavour," he said.
"Lovely," Astarion muttered. Gale had a very eclectic collection. Blue raspberry, cola, and wintergreen were the most unusual. Astarion didn't even know what wintergreen was supposed to taste like. "You know what? Surprise me."
"As you wish." Gale tapped the bottle of cola flavouring and the transfer pipette to the side.
This part was familiar enough. Whether it was cola extract or bergamot oil, the motion came to Astarion easily. Checking the viscosity of the liquid, holding the plastic bulb at just the right pressure, counting each droplet that formed and fell from the tip.
As Astarion squeezed the dropper into the tube, he noticed Gale watching him from the other side of the bench. He looked like he was searching for something to say.
"Yes?"
"The angle," Gale said. "When dispensing, you'll want to hold the pipette at an angle of forty-five degrees."
"Relative to what?" Astarion sighed. He didn't mean for it to come out annoyed. "Sorry."
"No worries." Gale walked around to Astarion's side of the table. "Would you like some help?"
Astarion sighed again. On the inside, he was kicking himself. He'd been making his own perfumes for years and he couldn't even get dispensing right. "Might as well."
Gale nodded. "May I touch your hands?"
Astarion swallowed, heartbeat loud in his chest. "Sure."
Gale came up behind him and put his right hand on top of Astarion's, positioning his thumb and index finger over his digits.
"Let's aspirate first." Gale guided Astarion's hand and the transfer pipette towards the bottle of cola extract. "We place the tip into the liquid we want to transfer, and then release the bulb to draw the liquid up into the pipette. We're going to do that at ninety degrees."
His grip was light but steady. Their hands lowered until the tip was submerged. Gale gently squeezed Astarion's thumb and they watched the extract take.
"Once we're sure there aren't any stray droplets," Gale checked, lifting Astarion's hand along with his, "we'll place the tip along the receptacle wall at forty-five degrees. The tip should then be slightly dragged up the wall to allow all liquid to be drawn out."
Astarion followed the tilt of Gale's wrist. The drops fell into the glass tube. Astarion counted them under his breath. Even as he released the pressure, Gale's thumb stayed.
Gale clapped him on the shoulder with his free hand. "See how that's easier? You were holding it top-down earlier and trying to aim it in."
"I see." Gale's hand was warm. Astarion didn't want him to let go. "Anything else?"
Gale shook his head as he released him. "No. Other than that, I'm impressed. You have very steady hands."
Astarion's gaze flickered between the bottles of extract and Gale's hand, accusing, longing. "Always helps to have a crooked touch."
"Even outside of perfumery?"
"Wouldn't you like to know." Astarion stopped in his tracks. Trash can or biohazard? He couldn't remember. Trash can. Biohazard. He tossed the used disposable pipette into the trash can. "Remember that jacket I wore to D&D?"
Gale emptied a handful of wrappers and other debris Astarion left lying around into the trash can. "I don't think I could forget it if I tried," he said.
"I made that."
Gale's mouth gaped open, then closed. "No way. Did you really?"
"Really."
"But the swirls. Those weren't patches?"
Astarion screwed the cap back onto the bottle. "You mean appliqués, dear. No. I pushed my needle through every single stitch."
Gale shook his head again. He leaned against the bench on his elbow and continued to watch Astarion as he reset the scale for what felt like the hundredth time. "You're a wonder," he said.
Astarion stared back. He was glad he'd stopped dispensing the extract or he would have made a spill. He didn't know what to do with this information, much less was the correct response was. "Thank you" wouldn't cut it. Because he wasn't wondrous in any way.
He scoffed, a short, sharp exhale through his nose. "You don't mean that."
"But I do."
Astarion felt his throat tighten. It was getting hard to breathe. He'd heard somewhere that the smell—and subsequent flavour—of Coke was the combination of cinnamon, lime, lemon, orange, coriander, vanilla, and nutmeg.
He focused on turning on the hot plate.
Gale's favourite part of making pop rocks was throwing citric acid and baking soda over the hot sugar mixture and watching it roil and foam, while Astarion's was smashing the hardened mixture into dust. He didn't care that they calculated 0.052 moles of citric acid or had a 26.53 percent yield of carbon dioxide. He was more interested the way Gale laughed when he took the first nibble and they both heard the loud pops and cracks coming out of his mouth.
Astarion coated the tip of his pinky in the pop rock dust and licked it up. The taste of cola fizzled on his tongue, followed by a sharp crackle before the sugar dissolved. He heard Gale laugh again and he joined in.
"Sparks," he said.
"Science." Gale lifted another fingertip to his mouth. "But I am feeling those sparks, too."
Astarion turned his attention back to the data on the piece of scrap paper. He liked the way the numbers looked on the page. He wasn't a details person, but he could work with this. This was what he'd been missing.
Once he had the experience, the rigour, the knowledge, maybe then he'd be taken seriously in his own line of work. There had to be a reason Cazador never let him down into the lab or allowed him to do anything more than offer up ideas that were whisked away to be prodded at, botched, and mutilated.
It would be all over for him soon, anyway. As long as Astarion had Gale, he could make something worthwhile. He could make something of himself.
Astarion needed Gale. No, he didn't like the sound of that. He could use Gale. There were two ways to a man's heart. One was through his stomach. And the other?
Easy.
For the second time that day, Astarion decided to be honest with Gale. While they took off their lab coats, he said, "Listen, darling, I'll admit I had my doubts. But that? That was fun."
Gale had to rise slightly on his tiptoes to hang his coat on the hook. "I'm glad," he replied. "Most people don't mean it when they say that to me."
"I'm serious," Astarion said. "I promise I'll take you somewhere nicer next time. But I mean it when I say let's do this again."
For the first time since they met, the smile on Gale's face reached his eyes.
◈━◈━◈
Notes:
I'm not a chemist. All credit for the research in the playback scene goes to Liu et al., 2022, and their open-source article "A review on lipase-catalyzed synthesis of geranyl esters as flavor additives for food, pharmaceutical and cosmetic applications". I also learned way more about pop rock manufacturing than I'll ever need to know. Don't try the real thing at home, kids.
So uh this was an extremely nerdy chapter. There will be more, though not very many. Less science, more sexy times amirite?
And Rolan's here. Yay Rolan!
Perfume inspo: MOLéCULE No.8 by ZARKOPERFUME
"Molécule No.8 was born in a moment of clarity on an autumn beach and developed over 14 months of refusing to ask what, why, or how. The mission was simple: To capture the essence of human innocence and beauty in a fragrance, whatever it took to get there. Molécule No.8 contains ingredients, of course, but what it's really made from is the transformative power of a 5 o'clock sunrise and hearing a child say, 'I love you'."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 7: Nutmeg
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Referenced disordered eating
- Alcoholism
- Sexual abuse/coercionThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion was starting to understand why no one ever saw Godey.
First things first: it was never made clear whether Godey was his first or last name. Astarion didn't dare ask Cazador when he finally sent him downstairs to the lab, but he didn't exactly feel comfortable asking Godey either. It was—well, everything about him. He leered more than he looked. He was bone-thin, with sunken cheeks and the hollowness of very, very old men who decided to stop taking care of themselves once they realized they were going to live past eighty.
In a word, creepy.
His voice rasped as he read the notes and ratios Astarion prepared aloud. The prototype had undergone some revisions since he pitched it. Its original name was, in fact, not market-friendly enough—it would be renamed to Black Mass. They swapped vanilla for vetiver. Astarion predicted it would turn more people off the already dark and heavy composition, but Cazador didn't give a damn about his customers, no matter what his precious rules suggested.
"No, no. That won't do."
For someone who looked like he would break a hip if Astarion looked at him the wrong way, Godey had no problem shoving him aside and hobbling over to the perfumery organ. Astarion sidestepped out of the way, nearly bumping into another table.
Godey's lab was only meant for one. Like the rest of the building, it was a piece of the past kept mostly intact, with wooden furniture and floorboards, black countertops, and a dim interior. Astarion felt like he'd been transported centuries back, suffocating stuffiness included.
"What do you mean?"
"Too much bergamot," Godey muttered, mostly to himself. "Not enough black pepper. Let us double the measure."
Astarion decided the best thing to do was shut up. He was used to it and he'd gotten this far now. Best not to blow it.
From the vast perfumery organ, Godey picked out individual bottles of oils and raw materials. He didn't even have to read the labels, plucking the bottles slowly and deliberately from their spots on the racks like a torturer with his tools, drawing out the time between shelf and counter. When he put them down, he did it with the same sense of self-importance that Cazador oozed.
Astarion really didn't like Godey.
Still, he paid attention to the way Godey dispensed drops of oil onto individual scent strips, then fixed them to the clips on a scent strip holder (or, as Godey snapped, a fanning blotter), which stretched out on metal arms like spokes on a wheel. He went in the order of top to bottom notes: bergamot, black pepper, rum, tobacco, leather, vetiver. Everything was handled neat, or without dilution.
Godey grinned, a menacing look, and spun the blotter.
A whirl of scent wafted from the wheel; a musty dark leather with pepper and wood that met a boozy sweetness. It was like a dream made real. Astarion could finally reach out and touch his creation if he wanted to, even though it wasn't completely his anymore (and Godey would murder him if he did).
"That's a rather wet vetiver, isn't it? It's toning down the leather enough so it adds some freshness," Astarion said.
"You were always sharp, little one." Godey laughed and Astarion thought he heard the clack of teeth. "Don't cut yourself."
100 percent proof alcohol went into a Pyrex beaker. According to the scale, Godey was weighing out 100 millilitres.
"Why a hundred proof?" Astarion asked.
Godey hissed as if Astarion had jabbed him in the side. "These are rich, viscous oils. The most concentrated, the best. Bergamot from Calabria. Black pepper from Kerala. Tobacco absolute from Bulgaria. All above your pay grade."
If it was his way of telling Astarion to stop asking questions, it worked. In silence, Astarion continued to watch Godey write down the concentrations and volumes in a notebook. At least he was doing that right in his own practice.
Godey emptied the beaker into a mixing flask. The oils went in one by one, straight from the dropper. After each addition, Godey swirled the flask around, plunged the long, narrow end of the scent strip into the mixture, held it up to his nose, and inhaled deeply, occasionally tapping at the strip by the end he was holding on to. He didn't bother asking Astarion for his opinion at any point.
Finally came the base. Each perfume house had their own, and the House of Szarr was no exception. The base Godey chose was Cuir de Russie, an intensely smoky animalic leather with rose and jasmine nuances. Astarion spied one other: Dianthus, a rich and spicy carnation base that complemented a heavy presence of eugenol.
It was when Godey started to uncap the bottle of Cuir de Russie that the office phone began to ring. Godey's cubicle resembled a solid wooden box, most likely to keep the old man from choking on fumes all day. Godey snarled.
"Blasted busybodies." He pointed a finger at Astarion. "Do not touch anything. I will know, and I will enjoy killing you."
Without giving Astarion time to respond, Godey shambled quickly towards his cubicle, the phone still ringing. Astarion heard Godey slam the door behind him. The ringing stopped.
Back at the perfumery organ, Astarion was trying not to hyperventilate. Normally, a day like this would've called for a sneaky coffee from Elturel, but it would only shoot his anxiety through the roof. He wasn't just here to see his creation take shape. He'd been on a mission since before the work day started.
Astarion had been called many things before. Vain. Charming. Vindictive. Reckless. Astarion would admit to the latter. Today, he was going to try to steal from one of the oldest perfumeries in the world. He had a good reason, though: it was for Gale's project. He thought about little else these days.
(And Gale himself, but that was besides the point.)
The bare-bones skeleton that was the sketch of Gale's commission had grown flesh, nerves, a beating pulse. Roots of cedar wood that grew into rosewater and old paper, which spread into vanilla veins. He'd do anything to bring it to life.
Astarion didn't bank on the chance presenting itself, but it was happening right now. Godey was preoccupied. He was alone. There was no time to waste.
That morning, before leaving his flat, Astarion smuggled five tiny glass vials into his pockets. From out of his left pocket, Astarion took out the first. It was wide-mouthed relative to its height and if his hands were steady, he could drip the materials into it without a funnel. He scanned the perfumery organ until he identified the places of each bottle he needed, trying to hold them steady in his mind.
Astarion turned his body sideways so he could still see Godey's office cubicle. He slipped the first vial and material bottle under the ratty lab coat to form a rudimentary fume hood and keep as much scent from leaking out into the air as possible. His fingertips were already starting to sweat, the hold on the glass growing slippery. He held the vial in place through the sheer force of his grip. He counted the drops silently.
Rose de Mai absolute. One, two, three, four, five.
Atlas cedar. One, two, three, four, five.
Vanilla absolute. One, two, three, four, five.
The third vial was full and Astarion finally dared to breathe. It was a quiet, long gasp, quieter than Godey's rattling voice that came through the closed door in bits and pieces. Something about orders for delivery. Astarion had two vials left, free to be filled with anything he wanted.
During his trip to Blackstaff, he'd seen another side to Gale. A daring, sly side. It brought to mind the smell of smoke or incense, like Gale's beloved books catching fire. It was a last-minute addition to the sketch that was taking shape in his mind.
Godey was still on the phone. Astarion moved again.
Birch tar. One, two, three, four, five.
Black ambergris. One, two, three, four, five. (He didn't need it for anything. He'd just never smelled pure ambergris before.)
The five tiny vials were filled. Astarion wafted the air around him to dispel any lingering smells that a trained nose like Godey's would no doubt pick up. When he was sure Godey wouldn't be coming out, he gave the flask of half-finished Black Mass another rough swirl, sending up a fresh cloud of scent.
Now to wait.
For several more minutes, Astarion half-studied the materials on the perfumery organ. He could register their names, countless names. But with his hand in his pocket, his fingers pressed into the cap of each vial, he checked over and over again that they were sealed and safe. He couldn't believe his luck.
Godey had nothing to say when he returned. Not about the call or any errant smells that might be drifting on the air. He went right back to work, uncapping the bottle of Cuir de Russie base and releasing several drops into the flask. He swirled it again.
"Try it," he ordered.
What he seemed to mean was for Astarion to watch him dip another blending strip into the mixture and dab it onto the back of his gnarled hand. Instead, he reached forward and yanked Astarion's wrist to do it to him. Astarion had to hold back a yelp of pain. His grip hurt even more than Cazador's.
When he was released, Astarion gave the spot of oil on his hand a sniff. It was a very good scent. Aloof-smelling, commanding, and powerful. Puckeringly dry leather, then an image. A man shrouded in shadow, sitting on a leather couch. He sipped expensive cognac while sharpening a dagger.
When the shadows drew back, the man wore Astarion's face.
"There you go. Your Black Mass."
Astarion heard the mockery in Godey's voice and he didn't care. It was his.
◈━◈━◈
The heist was only step one.
Step two was arguably much easier, though it involved a similar amount of strategy.
Astarion cycled through two liquor stores on the regular: Angleiron's Cellar and Highberry's Liquor. It would be the first time this week he'd walk into Highberry's. It was also the best out of all his options, with the widest selection of wine and hard liquor, which he'd saved for an occasion like this.
Right after work on a weekday, the store would be a little busier than usual, but that would mean Astarion would blend in with the crowd.
All pretence of blending in went out the front door when he walked up to the wine aisles.
They kept meeting. By fate or by coincidence or the will of some petty god having a laugh. Gale. God-fucking-damn Gale was standing in the aisle looking at the Spanish reds without a care in the world while Astarion darted away and ducked behind the vodka shelf.
Yes, yes. The Blackstaff campus was downtown and so was the House of Szarr, so it would make sense that they'd cross paths now and then. Gale liked the finer things in life, if his taste in books and home décor had anything to say about it. So what? So did he.
Astarion settled on coincidence. Great minds think alike, as Gale would probably say.
Astarion snuck another peek at the wine aisle. Gale still hadn't moved. He crouched back down, pretending to be fascinated by a bottle of watermelon vodka.
He can't see you like this. Here? After everything you did on D&D night? He's going to put two and two together. He's going to know you're a—
You're a what?
Astarion peered over the top of the shelf. He could make out the swish of Gale's brown hair a few aisles down. He remembered the night in the Blackstaff lab and Gale tying it back with leisurely ease. He wondered whether Gale would tie it back if he went down on him.
No, you weird fuck, don't think about that—you're a what?
Gale moved one aisle away. Judging by his empty hands, he hadn't picked anything out yet.
Drunk. You're a drunk.
Someone opened the door and a gust of cool air rushed into the store.
Fuck this, Astarion thought. Fuck this. He refused to be afraid at his go-to liquor store. He pulled himself to his feet and stepped forward.
"I thought you drank whites."
Gale didn't miss a beat. "How does the saying go? Variety is the spice of life."
Astarion joined Gale in browsing the shelves. He noticed Gale seemed to be looking for a mid-range bottle. "So," he started, "rough day?"
Gale hummed nonchalantly. "Nothing of the sort. Once in a while, I just like to have a glass of wine to unwind before bed."
"What do you know? So do I." And that was how all of this started. A glass of wine before bed.
"Should we share a bottle, then? At that 'somewhere nicer' you were talking about?"
"You remembered." Astarion felt heat flush upwards from his neck. He recovered with a sly smirk. "Impatient, are we?"
"I'm a man of my word just hoping you might be the same." Gale placed his hands on his hips. "Now where would one find a decent malbec?"
"Malbecs are on the bottom shelf," Astarion blurted out. The flush spreading across his skin was turning into a burn, though now with more shame than pleasure.
Gale sighed. "Agh, I hate that. Here goes."
"I've got you." Before Gale could stoop down, Astarion dropped to his knees. "Tell me what you want."
"I'm assuming you mean wine?"
"Don't let me limit your imagination." Astarion's fingers flitted through the racks. In reality, he was biding his time. He'd already thought about what kind of wine he'd share with Gale since they ran into each other at The Elfsong a month ago. The malbec wasn't a surprise, though Astarion thought Gale would prefer a cabernet sauvignon. Never mind that; he could improvise.
"Well, right now, I want my armchair, my cat, a simple dinner, a good book, music, and something dry, tannic, but balanced. And some fine company." Gale gestured subtly to where Astarion sat kneeling on the liquor store floor.
Astarion glanced up. "Darling. Did you just call me fine?" he asked.
Outside: batting his eyelashes comically.
Inside: Don't read into it. He thinks you're hot. Like everyone else.
"Of course. Sharp wit, sharp tongue. You're curious and resourceful. You're an artist. I'd say all of that makes a very fine individual." Gale tucked his hands behind his back. "If you're referring to...the other sense, I have eyes, don't I?"
And such pretty ones, too.
"Really, though. You want me back?" Astarion coughed. "At your place, I mean."
"You're always welcome," Gale said. Funny, the way Gale looked at Astarion. His gaze was level and steady and...tender? He seemed to be the only person (Dal and the D&D party notwithstanding) that looked at him like he wasn't dirt on the bottom of someone else's shoe.
Astarion decided to ignore the feeling the idea stirred inside of him. He picked out a mid-range French malbec from the bottom shelf, stood up, and passed it to Gale.
"I don't know about tannic, but this one's dry and balanced. Like you wanted," he said. That was a lie. It was incredibly tannic, with notes of plums and violets and a sweet tobacco finish.
"Thank you." There was a mischievous twinkle in the look Gale shot Astarion as he started walking backwards, retreating a few aisles away.
Astarion couldn't hold back his own smile as he followed. "And where do you think you're going?"
"Tit for tat," Gale said. "You recommended me a wine and I'll recommend you one as well. I'll get you one of my favourites."
"Not a white, is it?"
"You're a creature of habit, I see," Gale noted. His voice disappeared behind a shelf. "I'll find you a red if that's what you want."
"I'm—I'm trying not to be," Astarion admitted. He wondered whether Gale caught on to the layers in that sentiment, then kicked himself inside for being so obvious.
"I hope you don't mind a riesling." Gale returned with a green glass bottle. He placed it in Astarion's hands and started towards the cash register. Astarion hung back.
He had planned to load up on at least three more bottles. His supply needed to last until the weekend. There was a pinot noir he'd been looking forward to trying. Astarion watched Gale get in line. He didn't show any signs of looking back and, with a curse under his breath Gale wouldn't hear, neither would Astarion.
He'd go for a run to Angleiron's Cellar tomorrow.
Tiny little Cora Highberry gave Astarion and Gale a kind smile as she scanned their bottles. "Hello, Astarion, dear. I haven't seen you since Sunday. Is everything alright with you?"
"Quite. I was just savouring last week's haul," Astarion said briskly.
Roger's voice piped up from behind the counter. "You were smart to take full advantage of the sale. Fifteen percent off on those Italian blends, was it, Cora?"
"Oh yes, I remember. You bought six bottles." Cora punched a few buttons. "Will you be paying together or separately?"
The shame Astarion felt earlier returned with a blinding rush of blood to the head. He didn't look up at Cora or to Gale by his side. "Separately," he said.
They tapped their cards. Separately. Bagged their bottles. Separately. Made their ways to the door. Separately, until Astarion caught Gale's hand reaching towards him, but stopping before it made contact with his shoulder.
Astarion looked back, waiting for the judgment. Gale cleared his throat.
"Walk with me?"
The weather forecast only predicted rain the day before and when he realized Astarion had forgotten to bring an umbrella, Gale shook his umbrella dry out of the stand by the door and clicked it open. He held it over Astarion and Astarion had to duck slightly to fit under it.
It was pouring. The air was finally cold enough for their breath to come out in short, thin clouds. Under their shared umbrella, Gale's hair was starting to curl slightly in the humidity.
Astarion fished his vape out of pocket and took a hit. He noticed Gale frowning, but Gale didn't say anything as pulled out a pen and chewed alongside him.
After a moment, Astarion paused. "Why do you do that?" he asked.
Gale removed the pen cap from his mouth. "Chew on pens?"
"Yes."
"It's a stim." Worry appeared on Gale's face. "Is it bothering you? I can get some gum from my bag."
"What? No." Astarion exhaled, vapour evaporating in the wind. "Just asking."
Gale tucked the pen back into his coat pocket. They continued to walk in silence. The road, slick with rain and motor oil, blinked with white and amber in reflective puddles. Their feet crushed wet leaves, dried twigs, and gravel.
"It's not a bad thing," Astarion said. "I wasn't judging you."
"It's alright. I suppose it does look like a nervous habit." Gale shrugged. "That's what my ex used to say. It made me look anxious. Unprofessional."
A spike of irritation grew in Astarion's chest. It was the kind of thing Cazador would say to him. Stop slouching, boy. Do you have no self-respect? He made a mental note to chew obnoxiously if he ever met Gale's ex-wife face-to-face. Whoever the hell she was.
She was smarter than him, no doubt. But was she prettier? Funnier? Would she bring shots to D&D night? Break into a lab after hours to make pop rocks?
Astarion exhaled another cloud of vapour. "And that makes her sound stuck-up. Insufferable."
Gale stiffened. "Given our social circles and where we went—conferences, seminars, award ceremonies—it made sense," he said. "She was looking out for me in her own way."
The spike inside Astarion burst into a flare. Real, proper anger. Then he remembered how tight-lipped Gale had been when he first mentioned his divorce and the flare cooled. He wasn't going to push it right now. He changed the subject.
"Are you anxious about much these days?" Astarion asked.
"Just the upcoming midterm, trying to find my way around a brand new campus, my rather skittish TA, the crushing weight of everyday dread and ennui, and my divorce." Gale shrugged again. "All in a day's work."
Astarion inhaled, holding the taste of menthol in his mouth, and breathed out slowly. "You're an arrogant prick, you know that?" he asked.
Gale's shoulders fell, like he'd been reprimanded. He didn't even look offended. He hesitated, then said, "So I've been told. I'm sorry."
Astarion grinned. "Don't be. I like it."
Gale's expression changed again, from dismay to confusion.
Astarion doubled down. "I'm saying it with nothing but affection. I like it."
"You shouldn't."
"But I do."
Confusion turned into cautious interest. Judging by the crinkle of crow's feet around those deep brown eyes, Gale believed him.
They were coming up on a crosswalk. When Gale pressed the crosswalk button, Astarion watched raindrops gather on the back of his wool coat. The grey streaks in his hair turned red as the traffic light above them changed.
When they reached the other side of the road, Astarion spoke again. "And, for what it's worth, I think you're fine company, too." It was uncomfortable to say. Astarion searched for more familiar words. "Your taste in wine helps. It's almost as good as mine."
The pen came out of Gale's pocket and he wiggled it at Astarion. "If you were to give me an unlimited budget and a plane ticket, I reckon I could do better."
"Oh, my boy. I'd like to see you try."
Gale nudged him lightly and while Astarion's brain wanted him to jerk back where Gale's shoulder met his, his body stayed. Astarion didn't reach out further, didn't try to touch Gale any more than he already was. Gale didn't move away.
They said nothing as they lingered down several blocks, past a pub, past a park square where the trees blazed orange and auburn against the sky turning from grey to night.
For the second time, Astarion wondered what it would be like to kiss Gale. If he had been anyone else, Gale would have already been begging for Astarion to have his way with him. That was the way things worked. But Gale was Gale. Kind, smart, infuriating Gale who wasn't interested in Astarion when he had practically laid himself out on his own bed for him.
He could take him here on the sidewalk. Just one kiss. And everything would be alright again.
At the end of the street, they went their separate ways.
"I should get going," Astarion said. He didn't want to. He wanted Gale to invite him over to his nice, clean home that didn't stink of stale wine left out overnight and his bed that wasn't a futon on the floor.
When you're feeling better, ask me again?
Gale nodded. "See you on Sunday for D&D?"
Astarion could feel the weight of the vials still in his pocket, the glass clinking together with every movement. Gale had given him so much already. His tie. A coffee. Some sinfully delicious dinner. People he could, if he was feeling brave, call friends. Hell if he was about to show up empty-handed in comparison.
"Always." Astarion raised his hand. "Say hi to Tara for me."
Gale waved back. His face disappeared under his umbrella and he turned to walk down the opposite street.
Astarion's hand closed around the wine bottle through the flimsy paper bag, which was growing wetter by the second.
Damn him. Damn it all.
◈━◈━◈
Step three didn't have enough structure to be a step. It was an amorphous stream of wine and, strangely, focus, which was something that came rarely these days. Astarion texted Gale to ask him what kind of music he liked and Gale sent him a three hour-long playlist. (Astarion didn't know what he expected.)
The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, and Tom Waits with a touch of Fleetwood Mac and Kate Bush. Gale liked dad rock and in other words, water was wet. But as the music played, the calmer tracks swerved into percussive grooves, otherworldly and psychedelic.
The wine was good, too. A lot better than Astarion wanted to admit. A pale straw colour except for the very bottom of the bowl, where it mingled with a dot of dried red from the unwashed glass. It had notes of sun-struck lemon and herbs that were too indistinct to place, dusted with sea salt.
Before he started, Astarion tossed out the empty bottles and left the windows open for half an hour. Even though he lived alone, he locked the bedroom door behind him.
Safe and sound, the vials sat ready on the vanity. Music on, wine flowing, mind shut off to the rest of the world.
Astarion got to work.
The process was familiar. The tiny amounts of raw materials called for only fifty millilitres of seventy percent proof alcohol. Astarion had nothing with which to replicate Godey's blotter windmill, but he gave each sample a second sniff in the relative scentlessness of his own bedroom. Rose, cedar, vanilla, and birch tar. They all smelled just like he imagined, and infinitely better than the test spray vials he prepared as a draft.
He readied the old book accord last week. It didn't take much research for Astarion to learn that he could (legally) replicate the smell of old books with benzaldehyde, vanillin, and cedrol crystals, all blended with benzyl salicylate. The extra vanilla and cedar oils he stole would take him the rest of the way.
Astarion drank another glass of wine. He knew it was poor practice to drink something with a smell while working on perfume, but what the hell. He needed something to calm his mind. He briefly considered adding in a lemon note.
Everything diluted to ten percent. Astarion followed the standard order of operations: base to top. At the bottom, the book accord, smoky birch tar, cedar, and vanilla. Then the middle, where Astarion decided to indulge Gale's ink request, replicated with aphermate and clove.
The Rolling Stones came on the playlist.
The rose came last, a shaft of sunlight that fell onto the dusty library in the flask. It wasn't a one-for-one match for Gale's beard oil. It was better. The thick and honey-like rose turned watery and crisp with extra dilution and the addition of citronellyl acetate.
Shake. Wait. Drink another glass of wine.
When Astarion got tired of waiting (which didn't take long; he added 'impatient' to the list of things other people had called him in the past), he dunked the tip of a blending strip into the mixture.
It was perfect.
Astarion blinked. Perfect didn't exist.
And yet here it was, sitting on the scale. Of course, it would morph, with certain notes growing stronger or weaker over time, and maybe it would no longer be perfect in as little as an hour. But right now, it was brilliant. He was brilliant. There was no better version of himself than the one who sat in front of his vanity with the best damn thing he'd made, possibly in his entire life.
Carefully, Astarion dared to test it on the back of his hand and had to hold back a soft groan. It smelled just like Gale, all the best parts of him joined together. It smelled like sinking into Gale's cozy bed, drunk on too many sangrias and shots. He would never be able to forget that night.
Another, viler thought crossed his mind. He hadn't forgotten about Cazador's message either.
It turned out to be a set of instructions. A demand disguised as a request. A sick fetish of Cazador's or a client he didn't know about? Blackmail? Another bribe? Cazador didn't say and Astarion didn't ask. It was better not to know and just do.
Besides, small mercies. The fact that Cazador had let him into Godey's lab at all was his own brand of messed-up kindness. A kindness he would expect to be repaid.
On half-asleep legs (he'd been sitting for hours at this point), Astarion clambered out of his chair and walked steadily to the bathroom down the hall, phone in hand. When he switched the lights on, he remembered that his bathroom was small and that his mess of hair products around the sink would likely be captured in frame.
Astarion stood in front of the full-length mirror on the wall. Cautiously, he unbuttoned his shirt. He hadn't bothered to change out of his work clothes. He took a long look at himself in the mirror. A pale, lanky torso and veiny forearms. He relaxed his stomach slightly, which was instinctively sucked in every time he looked at his reflection. A coil of disgust tightened inside him. Sure, he'd been drinking right up until now, but he looked worse than when he last checked. Fully checked. Had that one slice of pastitsio set him back that much? He'd been good about his sugar intake. He could barely stand to look at himself.
Then, an idea came to him. He was awfully full of good ideas tonight, it seemed.
Astarion hurried back to his bedroom, where he flung his closet open and reached into a drawer. He quickly found what he was looking for: a black drawstring bag.
Astarion didn't have many sex toys. One dildo, one prostate massager, three plugs that came as part of a set. A basic bottle of water-based lube, which, with his hand, got the job done just fine most of the time. And one red satin blindfold. He grabbed the blindfold and lube.
Another idea: Astarion turned back to his vanity and the flask of newly-made perfume, which filled his room with a fog of rose, cedar, and vanillic smoke. He reached for another blending strip, then stopped.
This was hardly the time to squander something this precious.
No. This wasn't squandering, this was strategic. He'd be able to better picture what he wanted to see.
The tip of the scent strip went into the blend and one more time, Astarion dragged it across the back of his hand, onto his wrists, and into the hollows of his collarbones. He returned to the bathroom, where the lights were still on and his phone lay waiting.
Astarion undid the button on his pants and yanked at the zipper. He undressed himself the rest of the way, kicking his clothes into a pile under the sink. He was already half-hard and feeling guilty, but like he always did, he grit his teeth and pushed through.
After propping up his phone against a bottle of hairspray, Astarion got on his knees, cushioning them with the bath mat. He took the blindfold and pulled it over his eyes, then slid his fingers into the back of his mouth, wetting them with his saliva. He pulled them back out of his mouth and poured the lube into his palm. He didn't film this part. He would never give Cazador or whoever the fuck wanted to watch him the satisfaction of seeing him prepare himself, of learning what made him tick.
The cool air made his nipples tighten. He felt his cock rise in anticipation. What was the word? Scaroused. Though he could stay more aroused if he willed himself to hold on to the tantalizing thoughts and push away the terrifying ones.
Astarion took his cock in his slicked hand. He didn't have to be here, on the cold tiles of the floor, freezing and filming himself on a phone under shitty bathroom lighting.
Reverse, rewind.
Astarion was back in Gale's room on that one night, a rainy night like this. The lights were off, save for the lamp on Gale's bedside table.
"All you have to do is come here, darling," he said.
And, in his mind's eye, Gale did.
Instead of walking out the door, Gale went towards his bed, where Astarion lay in his wine- and lust-drunk haze. Smooth hands roved over his bare chest as this imaginary Gale climbed into bed next to him. When Gale leaned down to kiss him, his stubble prickled and he tasted warm and sweet, like a rich brandy.
Astarion didn't bother holding back the moan on his lips. Gale would taste so good. He could almost feel Gale smiling into their kiss. He heard his voice in his head.
"I was waiting for that, my love."
(Gale would be the kind of guy to say "my love".)
Astarion lifted the blindfold over one eye, hit the record button, and slid it back down. He caught a hint of perfume—Gale’s perfume—as he did, which gave the fantasy even more strength.
He thought about winding his fingers through Gale’s long hair. About grabbing him by his collar and flipping him over so he was pinned under him. Gale’s clothes came off easily. Astarion remembered him wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and those silly cat print crew socks.
Astarion stroked faster, shocks of pleasure making his thighs tremble. He rested his free hand on his knee and realizing there wasn't much to hold onto, steadied his knuckles against the floor.
Astarion's teeth dug into his bottom lip. Gale was always so warm whenever they made contact and he could imagine how hot and heavy his cock would be. His hole also clenched, as if he couldn’t decide where exactly he wanted Gale’s cock. He decided he wanted it in his mouth so he could hear Gale’s encouraging voice overhead.
“Absolutely lovely. Keep going. Just like that. God, you’re beautiful. Just look at you.”
Astarion’s cock jerked uncontrollably and he could barely suppress another moan. Oh, he would keep going. He would make Gale squirm by shoving Gale's cock as far down his throat as he could take it and licking and sucking to his heart's content. That calm and collected front, broken down to a shaking, needy mess.
He thought about Gale bucking his hips forward into his mouth. About being a hopeless tease and pulling away with a quiet pop as he slid Gale's cock out between his lips with an obscene trail of drool. About asking Gale who he belonged to just because he could.
And, dark in his imagination, Gale didn’t even have to be asked.
“I’m yours. All yours. Just please let me finish. Please.”
Good boys with the right answers deserved to be rewarded, didn't they? Astarion's fist closed over his cock and sped up as he imagined taking Gale back in. Gale's hands on the back of his neck, roaming over his exposed shoulders. The shiver of Gale's body under him as he spurted down his throat and he drank.
His climax hit him like lightning, ripping through him with a violent shudder. The blindfold was a boon; he didn’t have to see his own face in the mirror as he came harder and hotter than he had in months. He couldn't even make a sound, only releasing a low gasp and groan when he remembered the camera.
Astarion’s cock was still throbbing when he pulled the blindfold off and stopped recording. He would send the raw footage in unedited. Cazador would simply have to deal.
His hand was wet with spit, lube, and cum, which dribbled down his fingers and thighs onto the floor. Most of the cum was on the mirror.
Well. Fuck.
Astarion wiped away what he could with a towel. Between the streaks dripping down the mirror, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. The thin, angular features, his cheekbones, his cock flushed and spent between his legs. His lips were parted and he realized he was still trying to catch his breath. He felt tainted. He smelled like sex and roses.
But it got the job done, hadn’t it? There was nothing left to do other than to fire the video away, have another drink, and bask in the glow of the best orgasm he’d had in a long time.
And check in on the darling man who helped him get there.
Notes:
Mystra when I catch you 👊
Cuir de Russie (Russian leather) is a base that originated in the late 1800s, developed by Aimé Guerlain and first appearing in 1875. As someone on Reddit put it, perfumers seem to enjoy making fragrances based on leather boots.
Gale's playlist is based on Tim's playlist for him. It's times like these when you realize how much of an old soul Gale is and then you're suddenly hit with Hozier and SEXWITCH. He's got the range, daaahling.
And woooo I finally earned my explicit rating! We're cranking up the heat from here and it's going to come fast (like a certain perfumer we know).
Perfume inspo: Oud Ispahan by Dior
"Oud Ispahan eau de parfum outlines the seductively close contact of an oud wood note and a sensual, plump Damascus rose. Voluptuous, with an uncompromisingly daring structure, the woody and floral silhouette of this unisex eau de parfum paints a powerful, opulent trail. Carried by its legendary aura, Oud Ispahan leaves behind the trail of a strong, unforgettable character in its wake."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 8: Jasmine
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Referenced alcoholism
- Body image
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
For once, it had stopped raining, or at least for long enough for Astarion to stride across the Blackstaff campus and towards the faculty tower without worrying about whether he'd packed an umbrella. He was starting to hone his sense of direction. The tower was on the southeast side of campus, right next to the mathematics building and across the street from the library. It was a ten-minute walk from the bus stop if he was uninterrupted, fifteen if he had to fight the five o'clock rush of students and staff descending onto the campus grounds.
People were staring. The sea of hoodies, jeans, and sneakers parted to make way for lithe, pale, silver-haired man with sunglasses perched atop his head who looked like he stepped out of a fashion editorial.
And why shouldn't they? Astarion dressed to impress. The fitted leather pants were a no-brainer, as were the black slip-ons. The button-front white lace shirt with the chantilly neckline was hardly more daring. He decided to take the jacket he wore to D&D for another spin and it drew just as many eyes when he climbed up the fire escape and stalked down the hallway of the faculty tower.
He smelled amazing to boot. He was wearing the perfume he saved for special occasions. It was a heavier rendition of his signature, the bergamot, rosemary, and brandy darkened with lavender, frankincense, and cypress.
The whole ensemble certainly caught Gale's and Rolan's attention when Astarion leaned against the office door.
Gale didn't look half bad either. He'd traded in all his ties and cardigans for a simple charcoal grey blazer and khaki chinos, but he was wearing the same old purple button-down. His glasses were hanging from the collar, a single button undone.
If Gale was playing up the sexy professor look, it was a little on the nose but, hey, it worked.
Gale hadn't taken his eyes off of him since the moment he walked in. "Hi Astarion, you look—wow."
It was hardly the first time Astarion received a compliment like that, but it the way Gale said it, with that sincere awe, that made his heart unexpectedly skip.
He feigned indifference by inspecting his nails, which were painted a holographic jet black. "Wow? You're going to have to do better than that."
"You have me at a loss for words. Take it as the win it is."
Rolan looked Astarion over. "Are you wearing—"
"The Raffish shirt from Carm's Garm's fall collection? Yeah, I am."
"Lace. I was going to say lace." Rolan averted his gaze. "Looks scratchy."
"We're going out tonight," Gale explained.
Rolan's eyes narrowed. "That would explain the 'dancing shoes'."
Astarion followed Rolan's glance down to Gale's feet under the desk. Gale's dancing shoes were white tennis shoes.
"My morning classes wouldn't stop teasing me about them," Gale complained. "It's perfectly practical footwear."
Rolan sighed. "That's because you could be wearing literally any other colour besides white. Trust me, those won't be white in the morning."
Astarion leaned over a stack of papers on Gale's desk. "So the teacher's pet's been to the club. That's cute."
Rolan glared. "And the party animal sounds like he was raised in a barn. Manners. Have you heard of them?"
Astarion nearly shot back, but nodded instead. Game recognized game.
"It certainly is going to be a fun departure from trivia night at the pub," Gale said.
"Agreed," Rolan said. He looked sharply at Astarion. "But I prefer the pub."
So Rolan had nerve. With some resignation, Astarion realized he was starting to like the kid.
He preoccupied himself while Gale and Rolan continued to talk amongst themselves. Gale's office bookshelf stood shoulder-high next to a poster that read "Chemistry: Where You Can Cast Fireball IRL." He was thoroughly unimpressed with the titles he found. The Organic Chem Lab Survival Manual: A Student’s Guide to Techniques. Organic Chemistry: Student Study Guide and Solutions Manual, 8th Ed.. Astarion tsked aloud. All function, no fun.
As if taking a cue from Astarion, Rolan reached into his backpack and passed a book to Gale. "By the way, since you liked Carmilla, I got something else for you. The Haunting of Hill House. Don't mind the misshapen spine—it was dropped in the tub."
Astarion whirled around. "You were the one who recommended Carmilla?"
"My sister, Lia," Rolan explained. "She's normally into spice on BookTok, but she appreciates the classics. Sometimes."
"What about Cal?" Gale asked.
"Cal doesn't read."
"Charming little book club we have here, but we really should get going." Astarion returned to the desk, sidling up behind Gale's chair. "Gale, darling, are you coming?"
"I'll be there in a moment." Gale leaned over towards Rolan. His voice was hushed. All the more reason for Astarion to try to listen in. "Can I put you in charge of putting the flyers up?"
"Of course," Rolan said. "I also sent the email out. Dr.—I mean, Jaheria's in. Blurg and Omeluum also replied."
"The email. End-to-end encrypted?"
"Always."
"Good man." Gale hoisted his bag strap onto his shoulder. "Have a wonderful weekend, Rolan," he said.
For a split second, Rolan smiled. "You too."
Gale walked past his desk and towards the office door. He paused, and when Astarion caught up, he held it open for him with a bow. "After you."
◈━◈━◈
The Sharess Nightclub opened at 8 pm, an hour earlier than most other hubs of nighttime activity. Astarion would never call himself the most punctual person, but they were one of the first in line. Gale's eyebrows rose when they climbed down the stairs into the dark and sprawling room backlit with neon blue, pink, and red. He trailed quietly behind Astarion, who passed the booths and square granite tables and made a beeline for the bar.
The bartender was a middle-aged, tall, and burly butch with a grey pixie cut. A local legend by the name of Hoots Hooligan, though Astarion knew that wasn't her real name, the way Hoots knew Astarion liked his Bloody Marys with extra hot sauce. She was cleaning out a shaker when Astarion and Gale sidled up to the counter.
"Hey Star. Come to sample the goods?"
The bar at Sharess had a secret item on the menu; one just had to know to ask for it. It was different every time, but always delicious and deadly strong.
"Of course. If there's a Hoots, there's a hooch." Astarion drummed his fingers on the bar top. "And darling, who's the DJ tonight?"
"Nym and Sorn Orlith. They're a joint act."
"Shit. The Orliths? So they're done with their dancing days?" Astarion huffed. "Shame. They were rather good."
"Eh, it wasn't so bad for them. They just had to move across the street," Hoots said. "But they were good. Before Sorn, I never knew someone could turn a pole routine into a comedy skit."
"Across the street," Gale interjected. "The strip club?"
"We prefer 'cabaret', dear," Astarion said.
"What were you doing at—" Gale shook his head. "You know what? Not for me to know." He went back to straining to read the labels of the beers on tap.
"The setlist is great. Sorn gets the floor moving and Nym winds it down now and then," Hoots added. Suddenly, she let out a loud whoop. "Speak of the devil!"
"Hoots Hooligan!" From the door, a man wearing black vinyl with slicked back hair waved while striding towards the bar. Next to him was a woman with braided pigtails and pink highlights with a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
"My, my. That's a face I remember. Come here." Nym stepped halfway behind the counter to give Hoots a hug, which Hoots returned with a hearty slap on the back.
"Hey, girl. How've you been?"
"I've been good. Sorn's been very naughty." Nym winked at Sorn.
"So business as usual," Hoots said. "And everyone else? Is Ffion still there?"
"No, she's not," Sorn said. "Just up and left one day. I hope she's alright."
"Naoise's doing well, though," Nym added.
"Atta girl. Let me know if I can grab you anything before your set."
"Of course. And one more thing," Nym said. "Astarion, darling, how are you?"
"Causing mischief, no doubt," Sorn scoffed.
"You'd be right. Hello, dear." Astarion leaned down to give Nym a kiss on the cheek. Sorn pouted, pointing to his own cheek, and Astarion gave him one as well. "Never took you two for the DJ types. I thought you liked your work."
Nym nodded. "We do. And we did."
"So why the change?"
"I'll be real with you, Star," Sorn said. His voice dropped so it was just audible over the speakers. "My joints aren't what they used to be. Can you believe I nearly herniated a disc doing an allegra?"
"And," Nym added, "there aren't many people willing to step into the VIP room anymore."
Astarion fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. "I'd commiserate, but have you seen the price of champagne lately?"
"The DJ'ing was Sorn's idea," Nym said. "And I tagged along."
"Of course you did. Remember our promise to keep each other safe? When the music stops, you and I," Sorn looked at Nym fondly, "we will keep dancing."
"Beautifully said." Gale had inserted himself into the conversation. "Do you write poetry, by any chance?"
"My dear," Sorn said, "the way I move is poetry."
Nym giggled. "Astarion, who's your friend? You'll have to introduce us."
"This is—"
"Gale Dekarios. Professor of organic chemistry at Blackstaff University." Gale stretched out his hand, which Nym took and shook warmly.
"Gale, this is Nym, that's Sorn. You might've heard," Astarion said.
Gale shook Sorn's hand. "Pleasure."
"No, it's our pleasure to be your DJs tonight." Sorn raised his arched eyebrow at Astarion. "Never took you for the academic type, Star."
"But he's so handsome!"
Astarion and Sorn burst out laughing at Nym's comment. Astarion was mostly laughing at the way Gale's face had taken on a deep blush, visible even in the club lighting. He placed his hand along the small of Gale's back, where it lingered. Gale didn't move away, leaning into the touch.
Astarion fought the urge to sink his face into Gale's shoulder as he waved Nym and Sorn on. "Piss off, you two." Astarion gave Gale's back a pat when he noticed him trying very hard to pretend he didn't see Nym's tiny booty shorts. "As for me," he said, "I'm dying for a drink."
“You said there was cocktail special,” Gale said. “Hoots’ Hooch, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” Hoots said. “Tastes like being decked in the sobriety.”
“Funny. What’s in it?”
"Only because I’m legally obligated to tell you," Hoots said, "gin, vodka, bitters, lemon juice, and simple syrup. And absinthe."
Gale’s eyes widened. “Jesus.”
"Sounds like fun.” Astarion put his arm around Gale's shoulder. “I’ll try it if you do.”
"Are you sure that's the best course of action?" Gale asked. "I'm happy with something like an Old Fashioned if you are."
“Come on, it's not something you see every day. When's the last time you tried absinthe?" Astarion leaned in. "The drink of disheveled bohemian artists? Vincent van Gogh? Oscar Wilde?"
"Truth be told, I don't know if I've ever had a brush with 'The Green Fairy'," Gale admitted. "But with a whole bar's worth of liquor in a glass, one cocktail's got to have an alcohol content of...forty percent? At the very least?"
Astarion rolled his eyes and let go of Gale. "Is there a reason you're such an utter drip? Honestly, it's like you hate good news." He flexed his fingers. He liked the way his nails glittered. "Look, darling, I’ll have what you can’t finish."
"I question the wisdom of that decision, but so be it.” Gale turned to Hoots. "Right. We'll have two…hooches, is it?"
"It is if you want it to be," Hoots said. "Coming right up."
On the raised platform next to the dance floor, Nym and Sorn were unloading their equipment from the duffel bag Nym was carrying. The dance floor was starting to fill up. A gaggle of club-goers made their way to the bar and ordered lemon drops, kamikazes, and Jägerbombs. Astarion thought about going back to order a liquid cocaine.
"They look remarkably similar." Gale was watching Nym and Sorn set up the mixer and turntable on the stage.
"They're twins. Nym's a sweet girl and Sorn's a riot," Astarion told him. "We moved around in the same circles back in my...party playboy phase."
"Judging by this establishment, I don't know if it was ever a phase." Gale was absently tracing patterns into the floor with his foot. "So what do they play? I'll admit I'm not the biggest fan of EDM."
"They do pop on Fridays. Should be easier on your knees."
"Figured." While Gale's foot drew indistinct shapes, Astarion's was tapping. "Would you believe me if I told you this is my first time clubbing?"
A month ago, Astarion would have told Gale he was a pathetic shut-in. Now, he'd learned to ask first before making that accusation. "Never had a night out on the town with friends in your wild and free Blackstaff days?"
Gale chuckled. "Oh, we should've been put on a watchlist for our antics in Neverwinter Nights. And for my own crimes in Myst. And Morrowind. And Icewind Dale."
"Were you having LAN parties? God, that's sad."
"Don't pretend you weren't playing The Sims back then."
"Excuse me, I had the ruby iMac and it didn't run any games."
"Now you're one to talk about missing out. But I was also—" Gale faltered. "Never mind."
Astarion pressed. "You were what?"
"I was too young to partake in any sort of nightlife."
"Two Hoot's Hooches!" Hoots pushed two coupé glasses towards them. The rims were salted or sugared, garnished with a twist of lemon zest. The contents were a milky pale green.
"Thank you!" Gale picked up the glasses and raised them in Hoots' direction.
Hoots gave them a salute back. "Bottoms up, boys."
As he walked back to where Astarion was standing, Gale gave one of the cocktails a swirl. "Astarion, what's your constitution score?" he asked.
Astarion wiggled his fingers. "Not high enough. Give it here."
They jostled their way to the dance floor, with Astarion looking over his shoulder every few seconds to make sure Gale was still following behind. They found a spot in the middle of the room when the fuzzy drone of a microphone reverberated around them.
“Hello!” Nym’s sultry, smooth voice surrounded the room through the speakers.
“How the fuck you doin’?” Sorn yelled. The crowd roared back. Astarion noticed Gale clapping politely. He shook his head, smiled, and licked up a touch of the sugared rim on his glass.
The first track burst to life.
Bumpin' that, bumpin' that, bumpin' that, bumpin' that
Bumpin' that, bumpin' that, bumpin' that, bumpin' that
“Cheers?”
“Cheers.” Astarion spun around to clink his glass against Gale’s. Raising the glass to his lips, he threw back the first swallow. It blazed down his throat, hot and fierce, followed by a rumour of lemon zest. “Jesus Christ,” he spluttered.
Gale took a more careful sip. He looked like he resisted the urge to gag, then took another drink. He held up the glass, trying to examine the contents through strobe lighting. “It’s surprisingly balanced,” he said. He raised his voice to make himself heard above the music. “A little floral, slightly savoury. I can’t think of any one meal to pair it with, but maybe with a platter of hors d’oeuvres and tea sandwiches?”
“Gale?”
“Hm?”
“With all the love in the world—shut up and dance.”
Astarion squeezed Gale's arm, then stepped back, swaying his hips to the music, eyes half-closed. He rolled up his sleeves, letting his hand drift across his waist and moving it up slowly to rake his fingers through his hair. Making pointed eye contact with Gale, Astarion descended into a half-slut drop in the space he occupied, pushing his ass out and smoothly rising back up to the sound of a whistle in the background.
Gale was holding onto his hooch with one hand and had the other pressed against his ear as if to block out some of the noise. At times, he looked like he was about to wince, but overall, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Confined by the crush of the crowd, his form of dancing was cautiously stepping from one side to the other. Astarion came up behind him.
“Hello, you,” he whispered into Gale’s ear. “How are you doing?”
“Me?” Gale grinned back. “Crops watered, skin clear, perfectly unbothered.” He lifted his glass. “If only my wife—sorry, ex-wife—could see me now. She would be aghast.”
"Who cares?" Still, Astarion's curiosity was piqued. "But humour me. What would she say?"
Gale thought about it for a moment. "That I should get in a ride and go home. That I need a clear head and I should be in bed by eleven. That I need to be around—" Gale took another hearty swig, "—good influences."
“Oh, so you’re divorced divorced.” Astarion tossed his head. “Good for you. Fuck her, honestly.”
Gale's brow furrowed. “I wouldn't say—”
“Repeat after me. Fuck. Her.”
Gale leaned in towards Astarion, so close that Astarion froze. Gale was inches away from his face. His breath was warm and smelled like lemon and sweet fennel. Astarion wet his lips. He wasn't ready for a kiss yet. He wanted another drink first, for courage. Maybe two.
Instead, Gale said, “Fuck her."
It was just as good. Astarion felt a wide grin grow across his face. “Excellent.” He offered Gale his hand. “Shall we dance?”
“I can’t dance.” Gale corrected himself. “I mean, I can. I can waltz. Very well. But this is hardly the place for it.”
"Less is more, honestly. Club dancing is simple. Move your hips, move your shoulders, move your arms, all to the music and you'll be fine." Astarion rolled his shoulders back, as if to demonstrate. "The best dancing happens when you don’t care how you’re dancing. Let the music flow through you. Don't get stuck in your own head."
"No small feat, but I'm up for the challenge. One moment." Gale tilted his drink back and began chugging. He didn't stop in between the several quick, hungry gulps he took. When he swallowed the last one with a sharp gasp, he raised his glass. "Down the hatch."
Astarion stared at it. It was empty, drained to the last drop. He was only halfway through his own hooch. "Holy shit, you drank the whole thing." Gale wasn't a lightweight by any means, but he'd finished it quickly. Too quickly. "Gale. What the fuck." Concern started to well in his throat. "Are you going to be okay?"
Gale wiped his mouth. "I'm going to be spectacular."
Astarion shook his head. "Gale, listen. Most first timers think it's a great idea to drink until they black out, but you really should know your limits."
"Yes, yes. Can I trust you to keep me upright?" Gale stretched out his arms to the sides as far as the crowd would allow.
"You want me to puppeteer you?"
"I want you to show me how to dance. I'm not going to waste this brilliant buzz I've got going on."
As long as knew what he wanted. Astarion yanked Gale towards him, supporting his arms with his own, Gale's back to his chest. He felt Gale's hands close around his wrists. "Hold on, darling. You've got this and I've got you," he murmured. Gale probably heard. Astarion didn't care.
Astarion started out slow, swaying lightly from side to side. As the crowd moved, he drew Gale closer. Thighs brushed against each other. Gale met Astarion's softly gyrating hips once. Twice. He smelled different tonight. The rose Astarion had come to know and love was faint, replaced with a stronger hint of aftershave and musk, which he realized was sweat.
He knew Gale could feel his rock hard erection pressing up against his ass.
Nym raised the microphone. "Alright everyone, time for a state of trance. Put those hands up."
Sorn leaned into his own mic. "Damn right. Where the sluts at tonight?"
Astarion heard Gale snicker in front of him as he put two hands up. With a giggle of his own, he grabbed Gale's hand and raised it. Gale hung his head, but he kept cracking up.
The light show pulsed, cycling through shades of warm-cool-warm.
I need a lie down
Only just got up
I feel so uninspired
I feel like giving up
I feel like someone has punched me in the guts
But I kinda like it 'cause it feels like being in love
Blue. This was nice. Astarion was in his element. The heavy beat, the flashes of light, the bump of people dancing around them. Astarion finished his drink.
I lost my appetite
I cannot sleep at night
I cannot concentrate
I do not feel too great
Purple. The back of Gale's head rested against Astarion's shoulder. When Astarion wrapped his arms around his waist, he gave a pleasant hum. He pressed his ass more solidly against Astarion's groin. His defences were down. He was surrendering control.
I tried to meditate but I just medicate
Pour me another drink
Don't wanna have to think
I think I lost my shit
Some kinda fucked up trip
But I kinda like it 'cause it feels like being in love
Pink. Dark brown eyes sought out Astarion's, and Astarion was too mesmerized to look away. Astarion could count each of Gale's eyelashes, each little blemish and wrinkle speckling his skin like rain.
There was only one thing on his mind.
When you're feeling better, ask me again?
Red. When it came down to it, Astarion was tired. He was tired of waiting. He was drunk and delirious and on top of the world, and Gale was so close. He was close enough to make it easy to give in.
"Come here, darling."
And Gale understood.
Without a word, Gale tilted Astarion's chin down and pulled him into a kiss.
It was rougher than Astarion expected, and better—so much better—than anything he conjured in his imagination. Gale's lips were soft, so soft and perfect, and he turned his head, breathing gently into Astarion's mouth. For one long, vivid moment, they were fused tight, standing perfectly still while Astarion's heart pounded harder than the bassline that throbbed straight to the bone.
Being in love
Being in love
Being in love
Being in love
Gale was the first to break off. "See, I asked because I wanted to make sure you felt the same way, whether you were drunk or sober. Ideally, you would've been sober. But—"
Astarion grabbed the back of Gale's head, reeling him inwards so he could plunge deeper into his mouth. He slid their tongues together and he could feel the wiry scratch of Gale's beard, taste the absinthe passing back and forth between them. The next glide of his tongue was a flick and Gale's lips parted to let him in. Astarion couldn't hear it, but he felt the rumble of the faint moan from the base of Gale's throat.
"—this is good, too. Very good." There was a whistle beside them and Gale placed his hand gently on Astarion's arm. "I'm out of practice, but at least you seemed entertained."
He was right. Astarion's cheeks were starting to hurt from the smile on his face, of giddy pride and heady, intoxicating lust. Gale's soft touch—that one reassuring hand—went through him like lightning. "I think we can make plenty of entertainment on our own. What do you say?"
Gale's smile back told Astarion everything he needed to know.
There was a sudden flurry of activity as a small crowd exited the club, stumbling towards the nearest diner or convenience store. Gale reached out to hold Astarion's hand as they walked down the street. Astarion let him.
"You know, I was looking forward to grabbing a box of chilli cheese fries after the club, but this is better."
"How much better?" Astarion asked.
Gale replied by kissing his cheek, a chaste peck that ended with a silent but sly twinkle in his eyes.
Astarion matched it. "I agree. Your place or mine?"
"You seemed very much at home in my bed," Gale said. "Would you like to be back in it?"
Astarion's only response was a deep, hungry kiss back as the bus rolled up to their stop.
They were alone in the back of the night bus. The windows flashed like a drive-in movie theatre, filtering in sheets of streetlight interspersed with the darkness.
Astarion's breath caught between sharp gasps and slick kisses. He gave himself over completely to the wave of arousal growing tight inside him. He shifted in his seat, just enough so Gale could feel how hard his cock was, and exactly how much cock was on offer. He had both hands fisted in Gale's hair. Gale was kissing him back with the same desperation. He wrapped a leg around Astarion's waist, grinding their cocks together almost unconsciously while Astarion licked and nipped at his lower lip.
Maybe being arrested for public indecency wouldn't be such a bad thing.
Pushing into the door to Gale's flat reached the point of fervent scrabbling. The kind of chaos that left shoes scattered right by the doorway and Astarion's jacket and Gale's blazer crumpled on the couch.
When they finally made it into Gale's bedroom, Astarion flung himself back on that same old bed, plush and velvety, smelling of rose and woody aftershave. But instead of joining him, Gale stood still for a moment, seeming to scan the semi-darkness. He took the edge of the duvet and shook it. He was adorable when he was puzzled.
Astarion tilted his head from where he lay on the bed. "Looking for something?"
"Tara. I have her leave the room whenever I undress. I'd also hate to disturb her—"
Suddenly, Astarion let out a long, sharp hiss. Apart from Gale's startled jump back, there was no response. He flashed a thumbs up at Gale. "We're good," he said. "Now, less cat burgling, more..."
"Sex?"
Astarion blinked. Gale could be awfully direct when he wanted to be. He scooted back on top of a pillow that had fallen from the pile below the headboard. "That's generally the goal, yes."
"Only if it's what you want." Gale sat on the edge of the bed. "What do you want?"
"What do any of us want?" Astarion asked back. A purely rhetorical question, some food for thought, and, knowing Gale, a new kind of foreplay. "Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy. Though, I think," he said slowly, "you want to be known. To be tasted."
Gale ducked his head. "Not unless you'll give me the privilege first."
Astarion took his face in his hands. "Very good, darling. Flattery will get you everywhere," he purred. "Now let's get you out of those clothes."
Gale offered no resistance, allowing Astarion to lift the hem of his shirt out of his slacks. Astarion stopped unbuttoning it halfway down.
Right below Gale's collarbones sat a tattoo. The outline of a greyish-purple circle, with curved tendrils snaking out from the top and bottom. Carefully, Astarion traced the shape of the circle, following one side of the tendrils up Gale's neck with a fingernail. "What do we have here?" he whispered.
"A secret," Gale said. "For now."
Astarion didn't pry. He'd crack Gale open eventually, starting with a kiss at the base of his throat. "It's pretty," he remarked. His hand trailed across Gale's chest, careful to catch a nipple along the way. It peaked instantly and Astarion smirked. "But only half as pretty as you. I can't wait to see the rest."
The rest turned out to be olive skin lit warmly by the lamplight, a dusting of chest hair, and an average body that leaned soft. There were barely any hard edges to Gale, discounting his erection. Astarion pulled down his boxers, revealing the end of a dark but neat happy trail. Gale's cock was perfectly proportioned, if slightly girthier than average. Below were grabbable thighs that begged to be straddled, kissed, bitten.
A far cry from Astarion's own body.
He'd starved and worked out hard for the body he had, but every imperfection started to leap out at him. His dark circles. His posture. His deep smile lines. The cocktail that left him more bloated than he was three hours ago and with a swell to the shape of his stomach, however tiny.
Gale didn't seem to notice as he helped Astarion out of his own clothes. Whenever Astarion thought about Gale while beating off at night, Gale always waxed poetic. Snow-white curls, porcelain skin. But as he kissed his way down Astarion's hipbones and pulled off his briefs, all he said was, "I can't believe I'm already getting to do this with you, my love."
(At least he got that part right.)
"If you want a taste..." Astarion hesitated. He didn't know how Gale would respond, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. He pointed down. "Get on your knees, darling."
And like the precious thing he was, Gale obeyed.
He knelt at the foot of the bed and with that all-knowing look Astarion had come to recognize all too well, he tipped Astarion back, pushing his knees up as he did. However, instead of descending between his thighs right away, he took Astarion's hand, kissed his knuckles, and slipped a finger into his mouth, then a second one. His tongue ran across them, wetting them (showing Astarion what he was capable of).
Then, finally (fucking finally), Gale brought his head down and closed his lips around the head of Astarion's cock. He let his tongue curl over the slit, letting out a satisfied hum as he lapped him up.
By instinct, Astarion buried one of his hands in Gale's hair, guiding him up and down, occasionally smoothing back the strands that fell over his face. Every inch of him felt like it was drawn tight. Gale's mouth was warm, wet, and inviting. And he used a lot of tongue.
The sight of Gale wrapping his lips around Astarion's cock and bobbing slowly sent pleasure pooling in his gut. Gale's mouth and throat convulsed as Astarion thrust in.
"Oh, my sweet. Your mouth was made for me."
The moan around Astarion's cock was so loud and instantaneous that Astarion had to grab onto Gale's head with his other hand to steady himself. So the praise kink was real. Astarion squeezed Gale's head between his thighs, wishing for the first time that there was more with which to squeeze. As if it were an order, Gale gave him one long lick before moving down to kiss and suck at the base of his cock, balls, then the cleft of his ass.
He eased his hole open with a thumb, pushing in with his mouth.
"Gale."
Gale Dekarios. Professor of organic chemistry, DM, friend—though Astarion knew that line was going to be a little blurrier now—was tongue-fucking him in his own bed.
Gale's eyes were closed in concentration and when they did open, those brown eyes were dark and stormy, cast over with desire. The tip of his tongue was buried deep in Astarion's rim and Astarion's cock pulsed, smearing a drop of pre-cum across his stomach. Gale alternated between broad, flat swipes of his tongue and quick, curling flicks. His free hand found Astarion's and he laced their fingers together.
On his knees in prayerful worship, Gale belonged between someone's legs. Ideally Astarion's for the rest of time. Testing the waters, Astarion brought one of his legs down, resting his foot flat against Gale's back. Gale's tongue continued flicking, but he wrapped his fingers around Astarion's ankle and caressed it with light, fleeting touches.
He was being venerated.
Astarion couldn't help the quiet, undignified whimper he made when Gale pulled back. Just as quickly, his tongue was replaced with a finger circling his hole. He pressed a reverent kiss to Astarion's heel.
"May I?" Gale asked.
"May you?" Astarion lifted his head. "I have a better idea."
"And what's that?"
"I think I'd like to go for a ride."
"Are you sure? I haven't even used my fingers—"
"I can take it," Astarion said. "Do you have lube?"
"In my drawer. I'll get it. Have you been prepared enough?"
"Darling, you've prepped me very well."
"Welcome aboard, then." Gale shifted onto his bed and pulled out a bottle from the nightstand drawer. Astarion pushed Gale back onto the pillows and took the lube out of his hand. He squeezed it into his hand, slicking Gale's cock slowly and seductively. Gale shuddered and gasped, but his words were clear.
"Are you sure I'm not going to hurt you?"
I've been through worse, Astarion wanted to say. What came out was, "You won't."
Gale relaxed into Astarion's touch. "I'm glad. I might need some practice before going the other way around. Just something to bear in mind for next time."
So Gale wanted a next time. Astarion could be persuaded. With his hand still gripping Gale's cock, he straddled Gale, feeling the brush of leg hair against the undersides of his bare thighs. He positioned himself so his hole lined up with Gale's cock, then pushed it inside.
Astarion sank to the hilt, letting Gale's cock fill him and stretch him open. Below him, Gale heaved a startled breath. Astarion smiled innocently. He did tend to have that effect on people. He lifted himself up, then back down again, setting a leisurely pace.
"Have you thought about this?"
Gale arched up with his whole body straining.
"All the time. Makes it hard to think of anything else."
With his fingers, Astarion circled Gale's nipples, which peaked again. "Agreed. Less thinking, more doing."
Gale jerked involuntarily. "I suppose there's a time and place for that, yes. And what were you planning on doing?"
Astarion bent down to take one nipple between his lips. "I wanted to have you spread out on your back. Something like this. Just taking me. Or me taking you. Hell, darling, I'm not picky." Gale moaned again and Astarion continued. "I felt that little thrust up. I want you to tell me how much you need it. Show me how badly you want me."
Suddenly, with a ragged breath, Gale placed his hand on Astarion's shoulder.
"Stop."
Under him, Gale stopped moving. Astarion froze. "Shit." Dread took over. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just." Gale exhaled through his nose, something between a huff and a long sigh. He looked off to the side. Astarion knew.
Not even a minute in and he was already about to cum.
Astarion bit back a quip. "Do you want to stay like this for a while?"
"Please. I'll let you know when we can start again."
Astarion sat still. Gale's hands settled against his outer thighs. Astarion felt his cock twitch inside him. He lifted his hand, barely an inch off Gale's chest.
Their eyes met briefly. Gale looked away again, clearly still somewhat embarrassed. Astarion lowered himself onto Gale's torso, resting his head on Gale's shoulder, splaying his fingers over the centre of his chest, where he knew Gale's tattoo to be. He kept his gaze on the lamp on the bedside table as Gale combed his fingers through his hair.
After a few minutes, Gale said, "I think I'm ready."
Astarion nodded against his shoulder, lifted his hips, and brought them back down. His body moved without thought. He didn't take his eyes off the lamp as he continued to ride Gale. It was a pretty colour. Amber, like a sunset or harvest moon. With his own and Gale's scent rising around them, he could imagine warm sunlight on his bare skin, the smell of bergamot, roses, and paper.
"Astarion?"
"What?"
Gale's voice pulled him back. "Are you alright?"
"Of course." Astarion realized he sounded disgruntled and sweetened his voice with a delicate moan. He backed himself onto Gale's cock. "More than alright with that—mm—beautiful cock balls deep inside me."
"You seemed like you weren't entirely there."
Astarion thrust harder. Gale was talking too much for his liking. "I was getting lost in the moment," he said. "I was enjoying myself."
"Just checking," Gale said. He tucked a stray curl behind Astarion's ear. "I’m right here, love. You’re safe."
Astarion said nothing. His hips slowed, but he kept up the pressure. Gale placed a hand on the small of his back.
"You've put in enough work. Tell me what to do."
"What to do?"
"You know. Whether I should go faster or slower or harder. If the angle's right."
Did Gale have to stall so much? Astarion gave another rough thrust in retaliation. He was supposed to be the one in control. "Then what about me?" he asked.
"You wanted to go for a ride. Sit back. And tell me what to do so you can enjoy it, too."
Astarion had to think on it. Truth be told, he hadn't given his own pleasure much consideration unless he was alone. "Go a little faster. I'll adjust the angle—" Astarion shifted against Gale's hips, pushing his cock deeper inside him. Gale spread his legs wider and Astarion took his own cock in his hand. "There. Now move."
Gale groaned and rolled his hips, then started thrusting in earnest. Astarion began stroking himself and Gale's hand closed over his, following (learning, studying) his movements. Astarion loosened his grip to let Gale take over.
"That's it. You can feel how hard you make me, can't you?"
"If you can still talk, I'm afraid I'm not touching you enough."
Astarion rolled his eyes playfully and quieted, but gradually, Gale's strokes drew out his own moans. He was getting close. Every slap of Gale's hips pounding into him and tug on his cock a step closer to heaven. Gale's lips found the base of his throat and latched on. Quiet, low grunts at first, then choked sentences that Astarion didn't understand half of the time.
Then Gale tensed and spasmed, his grip on Astarion's cock tightening as he spilled into him. Astarion wiggled his hips, earning another loud moan, and starting getting up. Gale grabbed him.
"Wait, we're not done yet."
Astarion shrugged. "You finished."
Gale looked bewildered. "You haven't, though. You wanted to get on top of me and you won’t get off until you cum. I'll see to it."
Astarion sat back down. Cumming would be easier if he stopped trying to suck in his stomach. He closed his eyes. The less he saw, the better. Gale's cock was still inside him and as it softened, he felt warm, thick cum leaking out of his hole. Poor thing must've been pent up.
Gale had deft hands, which worked him with the same speed and pressure he picked up so quickly. Soon, Astarion's thighs were trembling again. He looked down at Gale, spent and flushed handsomely, but still eager.
"Do you want me to cum for you, my love?" He grinned when Gale nodded. "Where do you want me to cum?"
"It doesn't matter. As long as you do."
The pleasure between Astarion's legs unfurled, spreading out and spurting onto Gale's torso. As Astarion's head buzzed and went blank, Gale simply seemed to admire his handiwork. He swiped a finger into the cum that had pooled onto his stomach and caught in his chest hair. He brought his finger to his lips and stuck it in his mouth, his tongue darting out to drink.
And Astarion thought he was going to die.
He dropped back onto the bed with a resounding huff. He was barely aware of Gale getting up, of the towel cleaning him off. The room smelled like cum and cologne. Salty, lactonic, and floral, all at once.
He registered Gale climbing back into bed next to him. He kissed Astarion on the shoulder while Astarion's fingers wound themselves around Gale's wrist. "How was it?" he asked.
Astarion was staring at the ceiling. "Fine."
Gale balked. "Just fine?"
Astarion stopped teasing to search his vocabulary and discard the snark and deflections that threatened to bubble over. "I'm kidding. It was very sweet." He paused. "You're very sweet."
Gale held his arms out and Astarion settled closer. Gale's chest was still slightly damp. Astarion's hand returned to the tattoo. It was a very interesting design. He wondered whether Gale came up with it himself. It was rather daring for the upper tendrils to be so visible on the side of his neck.
Below it, he felt Gale's heartbeat. It was thudding, not terribly hard, but faster than Astarion was used to, like Gale had just gone for a run. His fingers pressed further. The heartbeat wasn't just fast, but thumped in sporadic intervals.
"Gale."
"Yes?"
"Your heart. It's going really fast."
"Afib."
Astarion's hand curled against his chest. "What?"
"Atrial fibrillation. An irregular heartbeat. Particularly, a rapid heartbeat."
Astarion frowned. "Does it hurt?"
"Sometimes. It comes with the works. Fatigue, chest pain, heart palpitations, trouble breathing, and dizziness. Need I go on?"
"No thanks." Astarion withdrew his hand. "Can you do anything about it?"
"Oh, there's medication," Gale said. "I just wish it was easier to afford. Even on a professor's salary. But we can save that discussion for another time." Gale's hand trailed a lazy path down Astarion's side, his palm rising and falling over the edges of his body. Astarion shifted so his hip jutted out more.
He just wanted to sleep. This was how it went. A quick fuck, a quicker sleep, and he'd be off in the morning.
Gale's arms wrapped around him. Judging by his voice, he was just as drowsy. He seemed pensive. "You'll be here tomorrow, won't you?" he asked.
What an odd thing to say. But Astarion indulged him. "I'll be here," he conceded.
The conversation lulled. Gale drifted off. His breath was warm on Astarion's bare skin. Astarion watched his chest rise and fall. He didn't dare check to feel whether Gale's heartbeat changed in his sleep. Suddenly self-conscious, he felt for his own pulse. It was slow, so slow. He counted fifty beats before he lost interest.
Astarion settled onto his side, closing his eyes, trying once again to empty his mind.
And he would let the morning come.
Notes:
I wrote this during brat summer, of course there's 365. The song during the first kiss scene is Being In Love by Wet Leg, which is on Tim Downie's Gale playlist.
Thank you to meatcrimes for the chemistry Fireball poster idea and to patheticfangirl, Nivasi, ayvaines, treguna, vatisvera, and 21rhubarb on the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord for suggesting teenage Gale's taste in games in the early 00s.
Gale is my self-destructive, probably autistic ass trying not to cry in the club from sensory overload. Seriously, Gale's getting all my trauma. Former gifted kids (and kids who suffered but didn't think they earned the right to call themselves gifted because they weren't the absolute best), this fic is for you. Kids who were sheltered and/or missed out on formative life experiences for one reason or another, this fic is also for you.
Oh yeah and they're fucking now. Wahoo 🥂
Perfume inspo: Black Magenta by D.S & Durga
"New York at night in abstract aromatics—pineapple lights, iris as twilight’s purple tones, dianthus as magenta make-up, and darkness in amber. Loud. Brash. A bit trashy. A bit classy."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 9: Gardenia
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied disordered eating
- AlcoholismThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion woke to the sound of scratching on the door.
He bolted up in bed. The first things he saw were purple sheets and clothes scattered on the floor. Something that felt like his underwear was wedged under his knee. Next to him, Gale was still asleep, curled on his side, sprawled over half of the bed.
Like the first night he woke up at Gale's, he looked like a painting. Not a Caravaggio this time. Sunlight, soft through the drawn curtains, fell over Gale's hair on his pillow. Threads of chocolate brown and silver.
A Vermeer. Calm and timeless, intimate. At home.
Careful not to disturb him, Astarion slipped out from under the covers, grateful that Gale's bed was in the middle of the room. The scratching at the door picked up again as he tugged on his underwear and pants and pulled the lace shirt over his head.
As soon as he opened the door, Tara put her paw down. Astarion stared at her. Tara stared back, green eyes unblinking.
Move, he wanted to say.
Tara didn't move, probably because he hadn't said anything out loud. Her tail swished cautiously from side to side. Gale said she was getting on in years, but she looked sharp and alert, a predator ready to strike.
Astarion knelt down. "Terrifying little beast, aren't you?" he whispered. He held his hand out towards her and she stepped forward to give it a careful sniff. She butted her head against his knee.
Astarion's heart grew ten sizes.
"Aren't you a pretty thing?" He ran his hand over Tara's luscious long coat and she circled him, looking up expectantly. "I don't know what Gale's talking about when he says you don't like most people. You like me, don't you? You know what? I do, too," he laughed.
"I see you're not shy about letting Tara see the goods."
Back in bed, Gale was awake. He pulled the covers over his chest at the same time Astarion's heart crawled into his throat.
He had him. He had him right where he wanted him.
"I'll be back," Astarion whispered to Tara before closing the door. He swept towards the bed, clambering over the covers to settle in beside Gale. He pressed a hungry kiss into the side of Gale's neck, grinning into the low vibration that hummed from the base of his throat. "Good morning. How do you feel?" he asked.
Gale rubbed his eyes. "Disheveled."
"I like the disheveled look. Makes you look all rugged and wild around the edges." Astarion reached over to tuck a few loose strands of hair behind Gale's ear. "Not hungover?"
"From one drink? It's going to take more than that to knock me out." Gale rolled onto his back. He had a slightly throaty early-morning voice. "Last night, on the other hand..."
"Want another round?" Astarion adjusted his weight onto his elbow, tracing a circle around the tattoo on Gale's chest. "I'd be happy to bring you back on your knees."
"If you want a repeat performance, it'd hardly be fair for us to play the same roles. But—"
Astarion shifted onto his stomach and kissed his way down Gale's torso. He pushed the covers out of the way. Gale was already half-hard.
"Luckily for you, I'm very flexible."
He locked his eyes on the tip, flushed and glistening as he buried his face at the base of Gale's cock. He brushed his lips along the insides of his thighs, breathing in. Musky, clean. A blend of Gale's own scent and dried lube and cum.
Astarion licked up the precum beading at the head. Salty. Bitter. Sweet. Delicious.
"This isn't—"
"—the kind of excitement you're used to waking up to. I know." Astarion nuzzled his nose into the thick, dark curls at the base. In spite of himself, Gale spread his legs wider.
"What I meant to say was this isn't the right time. At least not right now."
Gale's cock slipped out from between Astarion's lips. The scratching at the door resumed.
"Poor girl. She must be starving. I'm usually up earlier than this."
Gale's fingers stroked Astarion's earlobe. With an apologetic look and quiet grunt, he pulled away and lifted himself out of bed, leaving Astarion behind. He bent over to pick his boxers off the floor. Astarion watched Gale put on flannel pants and a Jeff Buckley t-shirt before he opened the door.
Tara came in with an indignant meow. Gale smiled wide.
"The lady of the house has spoken. Breakfast is late." Gale bent down to kiss Astarion on the forehead. "Help yourself to something comfortable."
While Gale tried to avoid tripping over Tara on the way out, Astarion took full stock of his closet. It was modest, mostly knitwear in shades of purple, white, grey, and brown with the occasional pop of red. Astarion stole a hoodie that read "Crying is a free action."
When he walked into the kitchen, he found Gale dolloping wet cat food into Tara's bowl. Astarion rested his elbows on the kitchen island and watched. Tara meowed again as Gale put her bowl down. Gale meowed back.
In every other scenario, Astarion would've been gone by now. Was the morning after always this nice? Had he been missing out?
Gale motioned towards a large Tupperware box. "There are some muffins by the sink if you'd like."
Astarion lifted the lid and regretted it. Inside were chocolate muffins topped with square chocolate chunks and pooling with ganache in the middle. He remembered the one and only time he'd tried Gale's cooking during his first D&D session. How delicious it was. How far it set him back.
He put the lid back down. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry right now."
"Can I at least make you some coffee?"
"Sure."
"You like it black, don't you?"
"Yes," Astarion lied.
Gale got to work. Astarion continued to watch him open the bag of Elturel's Brimstone Blend and pour coffee beans into a hand grinder. He put the kettle on. He hummed to himself as he cranked the handle of the grinder. He carried a tune well.
"Pick a mug."
Astarion opened one of Gale's kitchen cabinets. His collection of mugs took up a whole shelf. One said, "Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars." Another said, "WARNING: MIDLIFE CRISIS IN PROGRESS." One had a cat tail for a handle and another had bookshelf and cat print. A particularly attractive one displayed the phases of the moon.
Astarion took the moon mug. Tara finished her breakfast.
Astarion leaned over to look out the living room window. In the daytime, Gale had a good view of the street below. The sidewalks were mostly empty. Trees, in orange and red and yellow, were starting to go bare. There was a potted basil plant by the windowsill.
Gale passed Astarion his coffee and Astarion repaid the gesture with a peck on the cheek. He was still trying to get hang of this domestic bliss thing.
"Thank you, darling."
"My pleasure."
Astarion glanced down into the mud-black brew. He brought the cup to his lips.
Gale brewed his coffee weaker than they did at Elturel Roasters, but Astarion liked it better this way. Instead of smoky bitterness, he could actually taste some of the cinnamon and honey notes. With that first sip, his voice was also coming back to him.
"This is good." Astarion took another sip. "Why the hell do you go to Elturel if you make your own coffee?"
Gale finished brewing himself a cup. His mug was purple with an illustration of a wooden door. He topped up his coffee with cream. He dabbed a little onto his fingertip and let Tara lick it off. Once she was done, he took a seat on the couch and motioned for Astarion to join him. Something rattled in his hand.
"It's a habit," he explained. "Left over from before the divorce. I worked at a different campus, she worked at Blackstaff. We'd go every time I visited."
Astarion set his mug down on the coffee table. "You talk about her a lot, don't you? Your ex-wife? And I don't even know her name."
"Mystra," Gale said. "What do you want to know?"
"I'd like to put a face to the name first."
Astarion expected Gale to pull out his phone, but Gale got up and walked over to his bookshelf. He opened one of the drawers and returned with a picture frame. He passed it to Astarion as he sat back down on the couch. While Astarion examined the photo, he uncapped the thing in his hand—a pill bottle—and swallowed one pill with his coffee.
She was, admittedly, one of the most beautiful women Astarion had ever seen. Tall, with long, straight black hair and hazel eyes. Olive skin with freckles. She was wearing a sleek white dress and a closed-mouth smile. Gale was in the frame, too, in a tuxedo. It was a wedding photo.
Her regal look began to look snobby. The polite curve of her lips could easily turn into disdain with a twitch.
"I'd say nice catch if I didn't know any better." Astarion passed the frame back to Gale. He didn't feel like looking at it any more. "You know, I figured you were married when I first saw you."
"I'm surprised. We didn't have wedding rings." Gale lightly tapped his earring. "What gave it away?"
"The general air of despair," Astarion said. He was lying, but he didn't think highly of the institution of marriage. "How did you meet?"
"She was my TA starting in my first year. I went to office hours every week and asked too many questions. My poor professors didn't have time for all of them, teaching three classes at the same time," Gale explained. "But Mystra was always there. She took the time to answer every question, entertain my ramblings, and show her research to me. We shared books and music. I adored her talent, her love for the esoteric. As for me, she was in awe of my natural aptitude. She said no one was able to keep up with her until I came along."
"Many long, hard discussions, I'm sure." Astarion drew out the words, strung together with dismissiveness. He tried to picture it. He'd grown up around a few women like Mystra. He mostly saw them in or around his mother's firm. Accomplished women who graduated summa cum laude, then to six-figure salaries and broken marriages. They also summered in the Hamptons and had second homes bordering the Mediterranean.
Tara padded over to the living room and leapt onto the couch next to Gale. He gave her a scratch under the chin. "Now that I'm a teacher, I see that most of my students care about what they learn. They work hard. They're brilliant. Truly. But no one else was as naturally gifted as Mystra. Like her, I felt like I finally met my match, and then some."
"That good, were you?"
"Above average, at least." Gale sobered. "Astarion, I'm not sure you know what it's like. Being told that I was too much, to slow down, to lower my expectations. That chemistry was a fine career, but no one really cared that much. Mystra proved them all wrong. It—" Gale paused, searching for the right words. "It felt like a marriage of true minds."
"Doesn't mean it was a happy one, I suppose."
"But we were happy, if only for a time. We had all the ingredients for a successful marriage touted by every self-help and relationship advice book. Communication, affection, shared values and interests. Believe it or not, she even helped me put my D&D campaigns together."
"Let me guess. She came up with the monsters."
"The spellcasting and magic system."
Astarion crossed his legs. The leather couch sank under the movement. "The divorce, then. How did that happen?"
"Do you remember how I told you I applied to be dean of the university?"
"I do."
"That was her lifelong dream. I'm surprised she didn't have a dozen others. She had her work submitted for the Nobel Prize, after all." Gale drank from his own mug. "And for all her brilliance, she was very territorial about her work. Never understood that. Research is meant to be a collaborative effort." He put it down. "It was a string of mistakes on my end. The last of which was applying for the position of dean at the same time she did. In her eyes, that was an outright challenge. The final straw."
Astarion ruminated on the idea. Annoyance with what had been, up until now, Gale's pitiful worship of Mystra, began to turn into pride. "So you stepped on her toes a few times. So what?"
"It wasn't my place to do so. Or so she said."
Astarion laughed, incredulous. "And you believed her?"
"Not really." Astarion gave him a snide look and Gale relented. "In a way. She was always better than me. Better educated, better connected, better than. I couldn't possibly compare. But now, I'm not so sure."
Gale got up to return the picture to the bookshelf drawer. He absently traced the edges of the frame. Astarion watched as he snuck a fleeting glance at the image before tucking it away. The gentle downwards tilt of his head hinted at something wistful and tender.
Longing.
"You're not really over her, are you," Astarion said.
Gale turned around, struck.
"That's not what I—" He faltered. "Actually, that is what I want to talk about. Can we talk?"
A brief silence passed between them.
"Alright." Astarion folded his arms. "Let's talk. Who knows when we'll get another chance."
"We're...together now, aren't we?"
"Depends."
"You sound indifferent. Which is fine." The tone of Gale's voice suggested it wasn't.
Astarion raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you want from me."
"Let me speak plainly. Are we in a relationship? What was last night?"
Astarion shrugged. "It was fun. Wasn't that enough?"
Gale sighed. "Yes, I'll admit it was fun. But we fell into it so quickly without so much as a word as to what would happen next. And without protection. Hell. I'm usually more careful than this."
Gale went quiet. Astarion scooted forward in his seat. "Remember what I said, darling? Less thinking, more doing?"
The quiet stretched on.
"What are we to you?"
At the sudden question, Astarion rested his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers between them. He could tell Gale was struggling to meet his gaze. He kept on looking anyway.
"Like I said, I don't know." It was Astarion's turn to let out a sigh. "But isn't it nice? Not knowing?"
"Personally, I'd like to have some certainty about the matter," Gale said.
Another silence, longer this time.
"So you're going to keep me here until we put a label on this thing." Astarion fiddled with one of the hoodie strings, twisting it between his index finger and thumb. He clucked his tongue. "I thought you were a little more open-minded than that."
"No one's keeping you here, Astarion. You're welcome to finish your coffee and leave." Gale stopped pacing to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he said. He sat back down on the couch next to Astarion. He held out his hand. Carefully, Astarion took it.
"I'd like for us to be together," Gale said. "Is that what you want?"
"Yes."
"In whatever form that takes."
"Yes."
"And last night was no fluke. Drunk and sober you feel the same way."
The last demand forced Astarion to think a little harder, but the answer was the same. "Yes."
"Good," Gale said. His thumb stroked Astarion's knuckles. "I just wanted to let you know that while I still have feelings for Mystra, all of them are complicated. And most of them are regret." He looked down at their fingers, intertwined in his lap. "I regret the way I hurt her. Of course I do. But she'd rather have me shrink myself to the head of a pin than let us grow together." He shook his head. "There is no love lost between us. None at all."
Both of Gale's hands closed over his. The reassuring warmth gave Astarion enough peace of mind to put his other hand over Gale's. His own hands were cold and thin in comparison.
After a while, Gale spoke again. "I will admit, though, that this is all moving a bit too fast for me," he admitted. "There was—is—so much I wanted to do together before this point."
"Shall we start over from the beginning?" Astarion moved his hands back and mimed a wave. "Hello, my name's Astarion. I'm the devastatingly handsome stranger who's going to haunt your dreams for the next month."
Gale laughed and Astarion joined in. Gale had a wonderfully sincere laugh, one that started in his chest instead of the back of his throat like Astarion's. Once they quieted down, Astarion asked, "Not one for a fling, are you? Hookups? Friends with benefits?"
"Absolutely not."
Disappointment swelled, then sank back down. This would mean the end of the one night stands, but not necessarily Friday nights. At least he'd have another bed to reliably visit for the foreseeable future. "Alright," Astarion said. It was all he could say.
Gale nodded. "Should we say we're dating, then? Keeping it relatively casual between the two of us?"
"Us. I love the sound of that." The corners of Astarion's mouth turned up. "That's a yes, by the way."
Gale's smile back said it all. Putting his hand on the back of Astarion's head, he moved closer and pressed their lips together. His mouth was soft and slow, then still.
Astarion found himself considering how to kiss Gale in a way that would make him react, that would make him want more, but the moment had passed. They pulled back.
"We're going to do so much together," Gale said. "I can't wait to take you to Sorcerous Sundries and my favourite bookstore. We could go stargazing one of these nights. We'll visit my mother." Gale's eyes twinkled, amused. "I'd love to make you a proper meal. Just the two of us."
Astarion tensed at the thought, but he hid the fear with a scoff. "Showoff."
Gale lowered his head. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to make good on any of them today since I have midterms to mark. I know it's not the most fun you've ever had, but would you like to stay?"
Two options presented themselves.
Stay. In the comfort of Gale's home with a proper bed and clean rooms. In the uncertainty of whatever the hell all of this was supposed to be.
Run. Back to his flat. To the familiarity of his perfume lab and vanity and the comfort of a stiff drink to process everything that just happened.
He ran.
"I'm afraid I can't, darling," Astarion said. "But I'll see you tomorrow night."
He finished the last of his coffee, pulled the hoodie over his head, and returned it to Gale. He zippered himself into his jacket. Before he left, he pulled Gale into one more kiss.
The tightening in his chest when Gale kissed him back told him that he should've stayed.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion wasn't paying attention as he waited for the all-hands meeting. Not that he ever did, but instead of tuning Cazador's nasally voice out like was his usual, he was thinking.
Thinking about returning to Gale's apartment the night before, of walking back up the path lined with gravel and lavender. Of being the first one to let himself into the flat.
(Of Gale greeting him at the front door with arms wrapped around his waist.)
Cazador rounded the room. Everyone was required to stand, as they always were. Astarion's hands were tucked behind his back. Today, Cazador would be announcing the vision for this year's Design Week and the poor idiot assigned to attend it with him.
The tension ached. The rumour mill was spinning as they waited to be let in. Yousen accused Violet of stealing stationery from his desk. Leon confronted Dal about shit talking his daughter. According to Aurelia, she saw Petras doing bumps in his car.
Astarion couldn't care less.
(He thought about leading them both to the couch, his hands winding themselves into Gale's shirt. The light on in the kitchen. The smell of nutmeg in the air.)
Cazador's mouth opened. "We're excited to be collaborating with Nightwarden this Design Week," he announced. "The House of Szarr is always branching out. Always exploring new ways to partner with upcoming and likeminded talent."
Bullshit.
(He thought about pulling Gale down with him, locking his ankles behind Gale's hips, and sitting up as fast as possible when the door opened again.)
"This marks the first time Szarr has collaborated with a design studio that works with both bio-based and renewable materials. Nightwarden's contribution is packaging and textiles made entirely out of mycelium and synthetic spider silk."
With the punch of a key, images appeared on the flatscreen at the front of the room. Intricate sculptures alternating between skeletal and weblike. Some design mockups of a Szarr bottle in a gossamer-thin box. Cazador didn't linger long on the pictures, tapping away quickly to the next slide. He was bored.
(He thought about Shadowheart and Lae'zel and Wyll and Karlach, all gathered at the table. Rolling dice, rolling laughter. The living room dimmed. Another horribly expensive candle lit.)
"Attending Design Week means having the pleasure of meeting the founder and the designer herself, the wonderful and talented Minthara Baenre. Which brings us to our very exciting announcement."
Another key tap revealed each of their targets, all the value they had in Cazador's eyes condensed to a chart. Plus an invisible, undecipherable point system that existed outside of it.
"Aurelia." Astarion watched her straighten up at the sharpness in Cazador's voice. "It's thanks to you that we have an artistic partner in the first place." She relaxed, but only slightly.
"Petras." Petras stood at attention. "Our sales have increased by ten percent." As Cazador moved away, Petras was practically glowing.
"Leon." No words followed. Cazador just smiled knowingly.
He continued. "You've all worked hard this year. But I'd rather hear about it from you."
One by one, Cazador made them report on their own performance aloud. If they were off track, they pontificated on what went wrong. Astarion had to stop thinking for a moment to recite his metrics and his reasons for falling short, then went back to daydreaming. All this self-flagellation was exhausting.
(He thought about the nudge of Gale's foot against his under the table.)
"I'm pleased to announce that this year, I will be accompanied by..."
Cazador paused, most likely for dramatic effect. Astarion fought the urge to roll his eyes.
(He thought about everyone leaving for the night and pouncing on Gale the second he shut the door.)
"...Astarion. Congratulations."
An uneasy silence fell over the room. Eyes darted back and forth between Astarion and the screen. No one said anything, but it was abundantly clear. The numbers weren't adding up.
Cazador's voice was cold and clipped. "We celebrate each other's successes."
Leon was the first to clap. A terse, polite smattering of applause. The others soon followed, varying degrees of half-hearted and confused, spurred on from being chided like children. Cazador looked satisfied, then straight at Astarion. Astarion met his gaze. He felt like he was going to dissolve under it.
He should be happy. Instead, he felt like he'd ordered a glass of a fine vintage and was served the whole bottle. Like he was being told to choke.
Astarion didn't hear the rest of the meeting. He was breathing too quickly, or maybe he wasn’t breathing at all. The rest of the slides flashed by, blinks of white text on black. And then, at last. At long last.
"Meeting adjourned."
With those words, they were dismissed. Cazador left right away, sweeping out the door with a swish of black. The boardroom was quiet. All eyes were on Astarion, pinning him down when he wanted to get up and leave.
One by one, everyone else filed out of the room. Astarion watched them go. Violet looked at him like he was dirt on the bottom of her shoe. Leon looked sorry. Yousen and Aurelia didn't look at him at all.
Dal whispered two words as she passed. "White Dodge." Be careful.
After two minutes, Astarion rose from his chair. His thoughts stumbled over each other. He didn't want to go back to his desk. Cazador would look for him there. He'd lock himself somewhere safe and delay the inevitable until he was ready to face it.
The Szarr bathrooms were lined with black tiles and wall sconces. A reed diffuser sat between the two mirrors above the sink. Astarion resisted the urge to knock it over. He checked that all the stalls were empty, found the furthest one from the door, and latched it shut.
He put the toilet seat down with his foot and sat on it. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Maybe with Gale around, things wouldn't be so bad.
Once he felt calm enough to return to the world, Astarion left the stall. He washed his hands, letting the cold water and orange blossom-scented soap jolt him further awake. He checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror and his appearance surprised him. Not a hair out of place, despite how scattered he felt on the inside. All he had to do now was keep up the charade.
"So. What did you do?"
Astarion whipped his head around. Petras was standing behind him. Astarion did a double take.
"Jesus fuck—were you following me?"
Petras didn't answer the question. "What did you do to get it, huh?"
"Ask Cazador," Astarion said. He dried his hands and stormed past Petras out the bathroom door.
"You're the one missing your targets every week."
"Must be my lucky day," Astarion snapped.
Astarion walked faster, picking up speed. He was desperate to lose him. They entered the main office. Astarion slammed the door shut behind him and Petras caught it.
"Do you know how hard I worked to get my job? Do you have any idea what I would do to be able to make something just out—out of nowhere?" Petras called. "I just don't—I mean, what does he even see in you?"
"Like I said, ask Cazador," Astarion growled. "Or should I say it again so it gets through that thick skull of yours?"
Petras's voice rose. "I bet you fucked him for it. That'd explain why his door's always closed."
Fury exploded in Astarion's gut as he turned around. His right hand clenched into a fist. "Say that again, why don't you?"
"Oh yeah? I know you did. I bet you f—"
"Astarion? A word, please." Cazador appeared from behind a corner. His index finger curled, beckoning. All chance of escape, gone.
Astarion glared at Petras before he followed Cazador. "You can rot," he spat. Cazador didn't correct him.
When Cazador's door closed behind them, realization finally sank in. The need to grab the situation and steer was catching up to Astarion faster than he was ready to act. Cazador crossed his mahogany office in fewer than ten steps (steps, not strides) and Astarion realized he was heading for a cabinet in the far corner.
"Let me get that for you."
"No need. Sit down, my boy."
Cautiously, Astarion sat down in the chair across from Cazador's. When Cazador returned, he was carrying two glasses. Two snifters.
Panic clawed its way into Astarion's lungs. He couldn't figure him out. Was it purely professional? Did he give that spectacular of a performance the night he spent on his bathroom floor? A sadistic trick, no doubt.
He knew he would have to grovel. Put on a show. Get ready to return the favour in the way he knew best.
"I think a celebration is in order," Cazador said. He put the snifters down and reached for the bottle of cognac that held Astarion's attention every time he found himself in Cazador's office.
It wasn't just his proclivity for drinking. It was an objectively beautiful item—a fluted circular flask with a gold crystalline cap. The liquid inside was a fiery mahogany with opal tones. Now that he had reason to focus on it, Astarion read the label. Rémy Martin XO.
Cazador pulled the cap open. With each twist, Astarion's chest tightened.
The cognac flowed into the glasses like liquid amber. Cazador pushed one glass towards Astarion, serving it neat. Astarion lifted it to his nose. He detected notes of plum, cocoa, and gingerbread.
This would be the best—certainly the most expensive drink—he'd ever have. Astarion couldn't decide whether it was a blessing or a curse that he would only get to have one.
He decided to wait for Cazador to act.
As Cazador poured his own glass, Astarion spoke up. "Thank you," he said. He was improvising on the spot. The circumstances were barely outpacing his ability to talk. "For the opportunity to represent Szarr with you. This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it."
"But of course. You deserve it."
Astarion wanted to ask why, then he remembered that Cazador hated questions. "You think I've earned the right," he said. He made a point of keeping his intonation flat.
"I think you've shown a surprising amount of initiative," Cazador replied.
"Yes. I suppose I have."
"So you agree. You agree that you're worthy of being by my side."
Just like that, the tables were already starting to turn. Astarion held his glass still. He was tempted to swirl it, to soothe himself with another whiff of that sweet nectar.
"I...respect your judgment." (Not trust. Never trust.) "You made the right call. We're going to show them how a House should be run."
Cazador looked pleased. His vanity—his narcissism—would never allow anything else.
"I propose a toast," he said. He raised his glass, paused and waiting. Waiting for Astarion to submit one.
Carefully, Astarion raised his glass as well. He moved his wrist once, hoping Cazador wouldn't see his hand shaking around the stem. "To Szarr," he said.
"To us."
Cazador clinked his glass against Astarion's and drank. Astarion followed.
On his tongue, the cognac was smooth and full-bodied. The warmth flowed down his throat and stayed there, as warm as sunlight, as gentle as a caress. Astarion took care not to down it in one go, as he wanted to do. Partially because it was that delicious, mostly because he wanted to knock himself out as quickly as possible.
He let the liquid slowly move around in his mouth. He wondered whether those old taste receptor charts were real; whether the tip of his tongue could really detect sweetness, saltiness and sourness at the sides, then bitterness at the back. All he knew was that he enjoyed the rich glide on his palate and the lingering finish.
Astarion also took care to avoid finishing his drink before Cazador. It was agony. Cazador took his sweet time alternating between small sips and lifting his glass to his nose at chin level, trying to detect the aromas. Cazador finally downed his glass of cognac with a satisfied sigh and Astarion took one last victorious swig. In that, at least, he had him beat.
When he pushed his glass forward to return it, Cazador stopped it from sliding across the desk with a finger.
"It's not every day that we get to enjoy something we've been saving. It's a special occasion," he said. "Go on. Why don't you have another?"
It wasn't a suggestion.
Just as Astarion had tried to give him his glass, Cazador passed him the whole bottle of cognac. Astarion froze. Unlike Cazador, he didn't have the option to refuse. Nor did he really want to, when it came down to it.
Astarion took the circular flask from him. It was heavy in his hands. When he tried to serve Cazador first, Cazador stopped him again. His hand closed over his glass. "I've had enough," he insisted. There was an edge to his voice.
Astarion shrunk back and filled his own snifter. He counted the glugs in his mind as the cognac spilled forward. One, two, three. Around thirty millilitres. No more, no less.
He looked down.
Across from him, Cazador's voice returned. "Go on," he urged.
As Astarion drank again, he couldn't take his eyes off Cazador's thin lips, which grew into a smile, into a smirk, into a grin.
Notes:
I used to work at a place that required everyone to stand for all-hands meetings. My work was also timed to the minute and we had to post screenshots of our time entries before clocking out, as well as reasons for not hitting targets. I don't miss it.
Many thanks to treguna, beep, bluebeebalm, completelyrotten, Seas_and_Stars, and mushroom from the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord for helping me fill out Gale's collection of kitschy mugs. I will continue making this man as cringe (affectionate) as possible.
On a housekeeping note, updates may be slightly more spread out since work is ramping up right now. No matter how often, it's always going to be Saturday. That said, I'll do my best to keep up the usual schedule.
Perfume inspo: Soft Tension by Andrea Maack
“A smooth cedar and fresh, lichenous moss beckon from the horizon, reminding us of the world that still surrounds us at the periphery of vision. Haunting and delicate, Soft Tension is a skin scent of mystery and quiet power for those who know that sometimes we must be lost in order to find what we're looking for.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 10: Lavender
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied alcoholism
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Holy shit."
Everyone sat frozen in their chairs. Karlach's head was in her hands.
"A hag. A goddamn hag," Wyll said. "We're done for."
"Action, not reaction," Lae'zel snapped. Shadowheart was staring ahead blankly, rolling her black D10 absently between her palms.
By his side, Gale tossed Astarion a mischievous glance while he chewed on his pen. Auntie Ethel, the little old lady from the Grove, turned out to be a very big old hag and all Astarion had to say about it was that she sounded positively demented and they should tell her everything about the stowaways in their heads.
The backdrop of a grey, dank swamp glowed on the TV screen. Gale's kitchen island was littered with pots of spaghetti, sauce, and real parmesan cheese. Tara had retired to the bedroom.
Halsin was still missing thanks to another stint of field work in the middle of buttfucknowhere, where wildlife biologists tended to disappear to. To make up for his absence, he'd left them a platter of vegetables from his own garden and a side of hummus, which Astarion picked at while he waited for the rest of the party to come up with a strategy.
(Again, he wasn't really a details person.)
"But the thing is," Shadowheart said, "do we want to go after the hag? We're only at level three."
"There's a pregnant woman in there. She needs help," Wyll insisted.
"She's a green hag. The lowest level of hag. Five of us can take her," Lae'zel argued.
"I'm down." Karlach twirled a forkful of spaghetti and slurped it down. "What do you say, Astarion?" she asked.
"Hm?" Astarion swirled his pilsner can. He made a point of only drinking what Karlach brought tonight, knowing it would be something he wouldn't like very much. However, he had two shots of Campari before leaving his flat. A purely preventative measure to keep the shakes at bay. "I'm going to poke around and investigate the rest of the teahouse, if you don't mind," he said.
Lae'zel's eyes narrowed. "You're not coming?"
"There might be something useful around here. Supplies. Leverage." Astarion waved a hand. "Besides, someone needs to stay alive while everyone else walks into a hag's lair."
"Splitting up is the number one cause of player deaths. Just putting it out there." Gale went back to chewing on his pen.
"We did get jumped by those redcaps once the hag revealed her true form," Wyll added. "If Astarion wants to, he can be on the lookout after we walk through the fireplace just in case more come."
"And if they do?" Lae'zel asked.
Astarion winked. "Disengage and dash."
"Ch'k." Lae'zel went quiet.
"So have we agreed?" Gale asked. "Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart, Lae'zel—you're all going after the hag. Astarion, you're keeping watch."
Everyone agreed.
"Splendid. The four of you walk through the fireplace. The coals don't burn. In fact, they're not even remotely warm. There is a distinct chill in the air as the arcane barrier shimmers and you find yourself in an entrance gallery."
Gale hit the spacebar on his laptop and the scene on the TV changed again. Gnarled roots and green lights appeared on the screen.
Lae'zel squinted. "Perception check," she said.
"What are you looking for?"
"Enemies. Failing that, any signs of life." Lae'zel rolled her D20 and made a few mental calculations. "Ten," she announced.
"Lae'zel, there are people. You see one petrified figure. With a ten, you can tell it's a dwarf. Next to him is a dead elf, the whites of her eyes turned black. There's also a drow standing in a corner with her decapitated head in her hands."
"Shit," Karlach muttered. "There's a fight around the corner, isn't there."
"You also hear something," Gale said. "Panicked screaming and whimpering from a wood elf cowering on the ground."
Wyll immediately tried to talk to the wood elf. Shadowheart investigated the corpses around the room. Karlach hummed to herself while fidgeting happily in her chair. "Perception check," she said.
"Go ahead."
Karlach rolled her die. Astarion liked peeking at everyone else's dice sets. Karlach's were his favourite—red with flecks of gold and orange glitter, which mirrored her tiefling barbarian's infernal engine. "Fuck yes. Fourteen."
"Karlach, you see everything Lae'zel saw, and something else. There are some masks on the floor. Pointy-shaped and made of wood."
"Hey, there's a mask on the floor," Karlach said. "Wonder what would happen if I put it on?"
Three voices echoed around the table. "No."
"While you're thinking about what to do next, let's get back to you, Astarion." Gale smiled at him.
Warmth glowed in Astarion's stomach.
Gale set the scene. "It's...quiet," he said. "No one, redcaps or otherwise, have come to the teahouse. All you hear are the sounds of the swamp. The calls of frogs, the buzz of insects."
"I'm bored," Astarion whined. "I'm going outside."
"Immediately deciding to abandon your post, you go outside. In front of you are a few paths. There's the way you came, that dirt path, and another rocky one leading further up north."
"Let's go north."
"The road not taken." Gale started typing. "As you start walking up the path...Astarion, I think it makes sense for you to have a strong sense of smell, in-game or otherwise."
Shadowheart and Karlach giggled.
"And that smell is something quite unpleasant. Could you make a medicine check?" Gale asked.
Astarion rolled the D20 Karlach lent him. He added +1 to his score. "Nine."
"Sure, I'll give it to you. It's not exactly subtle. You don't know where you've encountered it before, perhaps at some point in your long elven life. But you recognize it as powdered iron-vine. It has a foul metallic and sickly sweet smell."
Astarion tried to imagine it. In his mind, he envisioned a mix of burning hair, iron filings, resin, and rotting honeysuckle crushed underfoot, all enveloped in the putrid green and aquatic smells of the swamp.
"As you take a few steps forward, you find the source of the stench." Gale took the pen from where it was resting on his lower lip and wrote something in his notebook. "Standing in front of you is a human man. He has long brown hair, tanned skin, and a well-groomed mustache. He's dressed like another adventurer."
"I'd like to wrinkle my nose in his general direction."
"I'll allow it," Gale laughed. "As you approach, he notices you." Gale put on a deeper, warm and friendly voice. "Forgive the aroma. Powdered iron-vine—an old hunters' trick. Most monsters will think twice before making a meal of me."
"It'd make me think twice, certainly."
Gale nodded sagely. "I fear it is needed. I am hunting a wicked evil. A beast that prowls the night."
"Well, you stink. I'm sure that'll protect you," Astarion said. Wyll stifled a chuckle.
"I hope so. Anything that discourages a bite. I'm hunting a vampire, you see." Gale spread his hands. "Well, not a true vampire. A spawn named Astarion."
Karlach coughed. "Hold up. What the fuck?"
"A vampire spawn?" Lae'zel hissed.
Only when Gale reached out towards Astarion did he realize he was holding his breath. Gale's index finger moved down slightly. He was asking permission. Astarion gave a brief nod and Gale gently touched Astarion's arm. "Are you alright, my friend? You look a little pale."
Astarion thought of a quip, but held it. "And when you find him?" he asked. "Will you kill this Astarion?"
"As much as I'd like to, no," Gale explained, in character as the hunter. "I'm on a mission from the head of my tribe. She sent me here to capture the beast. I am to return him to Baldur's Gate alive. Or as close to 'alive' as a vampire gets."
Astarion glanced around the table. "I think only one of us is coming out of this alive."
"Wait, don't kill him," Wyll urged. "He sounds helpful."
"Ask him about the hag," Lae'zel said.
"I have to kill him," Astarion told them. "Do you want a monster hunter on our heels?"
"Go ahead." Shadowheart said. "Either way, I'm going to see what happens."
"Then let it happen. I would like to...," Astarion paused, considering his next steps. "Say nothing as I step forward to advance on the hunter." His right hand moved from his side as he mimed pulling a dagger from his back. He bared his teeth in a predatory, vicious grin.
Gale picked up on the plan. His voice took on a quiver. "No—it can't be." The fear disappeared as his own voice returned. "Astarion, roll for initiative."
An excited shiver went up Astarion's spine. One-to-one combat. His play against Gale's.
He met Gale's eyes again. In place of the pretend horror was a spark of excitement. He welcomed the challenge.
The thrill of the fight.
Astarion came first in the order of initiative. He launched a ranged attack, piercing Gale's hunter in the shoulder.
Gale fired back. He cast Hail of Thorns.
Another ranged attack.
Sacred Munitions.
Firebolt.
Hunter's Mark.
Witch Bolt.
Ranged attack.
Astarion winced as he added up the damage from Gale's charged crossbow attack. He was now at six hit points. "Fuck. I need healing! Now!" he yelled.
Shadowheart shook her head. "Maybe you should've thought about this a little harder."
"Fuck," he muttered again. Astarion's eyes darted between his phone screen and Gale. "Does a passive perception check take up an action?"
"Nope."
"Are there trees around?"
"We're standing under a swamp canopy."
"I would like to aim above you and cast Witch Bolt with the intention of severing the biggest branch I can see."
"There is no universe in which I'll never reward a creative solution." Gale scribbled in his notebook. "Alright, let's say the branch is forty feet above us. Give me a roll."
Astarion rolled. "Eighteen."
Gale started typing. "That hits. There aren't any rules for crushing damage in 5e, so let's do falling or bludgeoning damage. Bludgeoning...forty feet...4d10...oh. Oh no."
Astarion's giggle turned into hysterical laughter as Gale calculated the damage he just dealt. Gale looked at Astarion sheepishly. "How would you like to finish him?"
The table cheered as Astarion's rogue stepped forward and plunged his dagger into the hunter's eye. Gale applauded as well and Astarion did a little bow. "Thank you. I'd like to loot the body now," he said.
Karlach interrupted them. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. You said he was a vampire?"
"Technically, a vampire spawn," Astarion said. "Don't get judgy now. We all have our secrets."
"Speak for yourself, mate. I've got nothing to hide." Karlach thumped her chest, hinting at the infernal engine.
Astarion huffed. "Well, I'm not the only one. Shadowheart's carrying around a weird artifact and randomly says her hand hurts."
As if reprimanded, Shadowheart dropped the die she was rolling around.
Wyll sighed. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"It's..." Astarion stopped, trying to come up with something interesting to say. "It's bad for my health. When I tell the truth, wooden stakes start appearing in people's hands."
"Persuasion check."
Astarion rolled his D20. "Sixteen."
"Anyone?"
Shadowheart cut in. "I suppose I can understand that. More than most," she said. "But no more secrets, understand?"
Astarion put on the puppy dog pout. Another gush from Karlach. "Can I promise you fewer secrets?" he asked.
Shadowheart sniffed. "Coming from you, I'll take that as a victory."
"See? We're all friends again," Astarion said breezily. "Now, can we get back to looting?"
"Certainly," Gale said. "Unfortunately, the tree branch has crushed the hunter and his pack, but out from under the foliage, you manage to wriggle out the weapon in his hand. It's a beautiful glowing crossbow. You may now add Gandrel's Aspiration to you inventory."
Gale smiled. He was impressed. Proud.
And Astarion would chase that feeling to the ends of the earth.
◈━◈━◈
The session ended at 11 pm. To everyone's dismay, the hag vanished into thin air after their fight, but Wyll managed to persuade her to hand over a clump of her hair. Determined to fulfil her mission, Lae'zel insisted they press on towards something called a zaith'isk and maybe, just maybe, make a pit stop at the goblin camp.
Gale pushed in the chairs as they each got up. "Thank you for a wonderful session, everyone. I'll see you next week."
"One thing before we all go." Wyll raised his hand to get everyone's attention. "There's going to be a charity gala for the Flaming Fist at Wyrm's Rock towards the end of November. I'll post more details in the group chat when I have them. But bring your finest clothes and prepare yourselves for a night of glitz and glamour."
Shadowheart buttoned herself into her black coat. "You'll be in your element, right, Astarion?" she asked.
Astarion swirled his can of beer again, still only half empty. "Yes, if you mean looking down at everyone from a third-floor balcony with a glass of champagne in hand and a date on my arm." He snuck a glance at Gale. Gale caught it and smiled.
"That's the spirit." Wyll waved. "Have a wonderful night, everyone."
One by one, they left. Astarion waited until he heard the elevator open down the hall. When it closed, he waited a few more seconds before speaking.
"Darling?"
"Yes?"
"Wyrm's Rock is a penthouse."
Gale loaded the pots and pans into the sink. "You didn't know?" he asked. "Wyll's dad is Ulder Ravenguard. The Ulder Ravenguard."
The name jogged instant recognition. So Wyll was the son of a politician. Astarion could've caught on; Wyll had perfect posture and manners. He would've been media trained to perfection. He'd offered to buy Astarion some dice sets and a dice tray after their very first session. Astarion didn't dare say no. He knew better than to turn down good fortune when it sat across from him every Sunday night.
"I've been around more than my fair share of rich snobs." Astarion flopped down onto the couch. "We're lucky Wyll's one of the good ones."
"Call me naïve, but he might be one of the best." Gale dried his hands on a tea towel. "He seems intent on using his privilege to very generous ends." He turned the kitchen light off and joined Astarion on the couch. On the dining table, the Szarr candle was still lit, the flame small and dim.
"I guess. I can't say I'd do the same if I came into my family fortune," Astarion muttered.
"Ah. The million-dollar question. Or billion. The question always seems to hinge on having unlimited funds," Gale said. "What would you do if you had all the money in the world?"
Kill Cazador Szarr. Bribe any witnesses. Hire the best attorney. Claim self-defence.
"Simple. I'd like to buy a house and a new bespoke wardrobe." Also technically the truth. "And I need a vacation or twenty."
"I couldn't agree more." Gale wrapped his arms around Astarion and pulled him closer. He gave Astarion a quick peck on the cheek. Affection for affection's sake, an unfamiliar gesture. "Where to?"
"I..." Astarion wrinkled his brow. He hadn't travelled in ages. He thought about where he might like to go and blanked. "I honestly haven't thought that far."
Gale rested his chin on his shoulder. "May I suggest Athens?"
Sun and sea. Astarion also hadn't gone swimming in so long that he couldn't remember if it was something he still knew how to do. Maybe Gale could remind him. "Tempting. Why?"
"It's Greece's capital, literal and cultural, teeming with thousands of years of history. And it's where my mother's from." Gale untied his hair, which had been done up, pulling it loose from the elastic. "My family's always been in flux. Yiayia and pappou came from Megara, then she migrated in the '80s. Personally, I like being a bit more settled. I haven't been back since I was in high school."
"I could be convinced." Astarion was entranced by the way Gale shook out those dark brown waves. "What do you remember?"
"Cousins, for one. So many cousins. The Dekarios clan is spread far and wide." Gale looked wistful. "Cigarettes. Gasoline. Graffiti. For breakfast, bougatsa and coffee so bitter it had to be served with a glass of water. And jasmine up and down the alleys in Plaka."
Astarion imagined the scent of jasmine and cigarette smoke tinged with salt and ozone. A hot summer night, a long ways away from late-ish autumn outside the window. Heaven.
"I'd go there just for the sun but," Astarion admitted, "the rest of it sounds positively divine."
"I'd love to take you."
The way Gale said it made it sound like a promise. Astarion leaned closer into Gale's touch, swinging his legs over his lap and nearly rolling over the package in his pocket.
He'd been holding onto it all night, half a burden, half a prized possession. There were days when Astarion looked at the little bottle of Gale's perfume on his vanity and wanted to keep it for himself. No pressure, Gale had said, and no pressure meant no one would have to know whether it was good or bad. At least Astarion thought it was good and that was all that mattered. Create for yourself, said conventional wisdom. Dance (or in this case, spritz) like no one's watching.
On the other hand, perfume making was a lonely affair. He knew he'd have to give it away or else explode from holding in all the excitement. It was now or never.
"It's no jasmine, but I have something for you that might smell just as sweet."
Gale raised an eyebrow. He clearly hadn't been expecting anything, but his tone hinted at pleasant surprise. "Go ahead, I'm listening," he said.
Astarion swallowed. He'd always imagined the moment of giving Gale his commission (his masterpiece, his magnum opus) to be a show of pride, presented with a flourish and indulgent grin. Instead, he felt uneasy as he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small organza bag tied shut with a ribbon.
"Remember that time you asked me to make you perfume? Something that represented you? How I saw you?"
Gale's eyes widened in recognition. "You did it."
The little bag changed hands. Astarion watched as Gale examined the package, the thin black fabric patterned with silver stars, and gently tugged at the ribbon. A faint woody and floral scent, rested to its full potential, wafted out. Gale pulled out the glass atomizer, ten millilitres of oily liquid the colour of the palest gold. He uncapped the black lid to reveal the nozzle.
"I love it," he whispered.
Astarion shoved Gale playfully. "Oh, for god's sake. At least try it first."
Gale tried it, spritzing his right wrist and dabbing the extra droplets into the side of his neck.
Like listening to a piece he'd rehearsed to death, Astarion identified the notes as they came to him. Resting the bottle had allowed the paper to push through to the top and for wispy tendrils of vanilla smoke to curl around the rose. The cedar lurked below, only perceptible to Astarion because he put it there himself.
A bitter cocktail of pride and anxiety began to swirl inside him. He wanted Gale to like this. (Like him.) He might not be able to make anything this good ever again. And if it wasn't good, what then? If Gale didn't like it, who would?
If the universe opened up a sinkhole for Astarion to fall into, it would be doing him a favour.
"Tell me what I'm smelling," Gale said.
Astarion tutted. "And spoil the surprise?"
Gale bent down, pressing his nose against his wrist. "Parchment, like dried, crisp pages. And there's the rose. I'm guessing it's going to end softly. If you were to ask me what I'm seeing, I'm picturing lots of leather-bound covers and shelves in a labyrinthine rose garden. My idea of paradise, if we're being quite honest."
The anxiety fell away, giving way to gratitude. God, the man was a poet. "Spot on," Astarion said. "Take my job while you're at it, why don't you?"
"The smell of books is absolutely uncanny." Gale inhaled again. "How did you do it?"
"A paper accord—," Astarion began, "—well, to start, an accord is a mix of different raw materials. You get the smell of paper from toluene, vanillin, benzaldehyde, ethyl benzene, and furfural. I just used a few of them."
Gale listened with rapt attention. "Volatile organic compounds. I've heard the ones you mentioned are produced through the breakdown of lignin in the pages." Gale lifted both his wrist and the vial, unsure about what to sample. What would give him the most accurate reading. "Furfural. I'm not familiar with that one. What does it smell like?"
"Almonds. You can use its concentration to gauge the age of a book." Astarion shrugged. "But who cares, really?"
"I do." Gale held the bottle up to the light. "Please, tell me more."
"About what?"
"Everything."
Astarion laughed, short and sharp. "You can't be serious. That'd take—"
"Hours? All night?" Gale pulled away so he was sitting by Astarion's side again. "My time is yours. This is how I want to spend it."
It took Astarion a little time of his own, but bit by bit, he told Gale everything. He told him about his little notebook, putting his ideas on paper, and how he worked best at night. He told him about thinking of perfume like music. He didn't tell Gale that he'd stolen half of the materials he used to put the commission together, but what Gale didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
And of course, Gale couldn't resist interjecting at points. Not necessarily to show off how much he knew, but because he simply couldn't contain himself. He was fascinated by it all, insisting Astarion explain the process from start to finish and taking special interest in how long he macerated the formula (seventy percent natural, thirty percent molecular, to a total of around one month of resting time). The least Astarion could do was oblige.
With the adoring look Gale gave him, Astarion could've been tricked into thinking he'd just given him the galaxy. Gale laced their fingers together and squeezed Astarion's hand. "It's beautiful. It's...me."
Astarion nodded. "It's you."
Gale tucked the vial back into the bag and knotted the ribbon around it. "It's astonishing," he began. "That you thought of me. That you know me so well. Thank you." He pressed Astarion's knuckles to his lips. "How much should I pay you?,
Astarion tucked a curl behind his ear, pretending to be overly flattered. The whole time, he'd been thinking of a number, but nothing sounded right. With resignation, he decided he'd try good faith instead. "You know what? Think of it a gift. You don't pay for gifts," he said.
Still, he allowed Gale to cup the sides of his face and press his lips against his. Again. Again. One more time before he pulled away.
Gale's brown eyes gleamed. "I don't mean to upstage you so soon, but I happen to have a gift for you as well."
"Always the overachiever." Astarion tried to sneak a sly peek behind Gale's back. "Where is it?"
"My understanding is that gifts are typically unwrapped." With a slow hand and knowing glance, Gale undid the button on his pants.
Astarion didn't need another hint. Lowering himself onto his knees, he brought his lips to the zipper and pulled at it between his teeth. He pulled Gale's pants down his hips and legs before tossing them aside. Returning again with teeth, he took the waistband of Gale's boxers in his mouth and dragged it off. Gale's cock sprung up, practically bouncing against his stomach and hitting Astarion's lips.
Gale was clearly basking in the attention. "Look closer," he said.
Astarion took Gale by the shoulders and turned him around. Without needing to be prompted, Gale bent forward, keeping himself propped up on his elbows. Astarion parted his legs and drank in the sight.
Purple silicone, flush against Gale's cheeks, stretching him wide. The faintest sheen of lube along the cleft of his ass.
He'd had it inside him the whole time, for four hours at the very least. In front of their friends, all of them none the wiser. If Astarion was buzzing with lust before, he was completely drunk on it now.
He could picture Gale sprawled out on his bed, feet flat against the mattress as he carefully worked the plug into himself. Taking in the stretch and fullness of each inch until the plug was as deep inside him as he could get it, snug against his stretched hole, tucked tightly against his prostate.
Gale must've been hoping he'd like it. And he did. Very much.
"I've been practising. It's actually not that hard once you—oh, god—"
Gale's back arched as Astarion pressed his fingers against the base of the plug, pushing it deeper into him. Astarion rested a knee between Gale's spread thighs and leaned over him, one hand sliding along his shoulder, up his neck.
"Not that hard, hm? Let's put you to the test."
Carefully, Astarion twisted the plug, thrusting it in and out, slowly at first, then picking up speed. Gale's soft panting gave way to a frustrated moan when Astarion stopped to strip off his own clothes. As the air hit his bare skin, another rush of excitement washed over him. The curtains in the flat weren't drawn and Gale was too preoccupied to notice.
If anyone wanted to watch, they'd put on a show.
Astarion slipped the plug free, tossing it on the couch and pushing a finger in. Even after being stretched for hours, Gale was still slick and tight. Gale bucked his hips forward, a wordless ask for more, and Astarion obliged by adding another finger.
"How many more do you have?" he asked.
Gale lifted his head. "Of what?"
"Plugs."
Gale's head fell back down as Astarion curled his fingers inside him. "Two more plugs," he gasped. "A couple of cock rings. One dildo. One prostate massager. You should see the sounding kit. I think you'd find it interesting. Oh, and there's the strap left over from the missus—sorry, ex-missus. Needed some time to get used to it again."
Astarion was ravenous.
"Oh, my sweet. If only I knew how much you liked your toys." Astarion's voice surprised him. It was low and so husky it bordered on a growl. "I know how happy I am with mine."
He turned Gale over again, pushing him up against the backrest of the couch and spreading his legs wide. The look on Gale's face was one of bewilderment and complete infatuation at being manhandled. He moved his head, jerking it towards the direction of the TV stand. When Astarion opened one of the drawers, he found a bottle of lube, different from the one in Gale's bedroom. It was tiny, no longer than his middle finger. Astarion was sure Gale had a bottle ready in every room and he was going to fuck Gale in each one until he found them all.
When he returned to the couch, he found Gale with his hand around his own cock in short, slow strokes. Clearly trying not to finish, but so desperate that he couldn't not touch himself. Astarion batted Gale's hand away.
"Shh, darling. Let me."
Astarion straddled Gale and used his left hand to grip their cocks, drizzling lube over them both. Gale moaned again as he began to stroke. He bucked into Astarion's hand and Astarion squeezed them tighter. Astarion looked down. He liked the sight. His own pale cock rutting against Gale's smaller, more compact one. He heard Gale's words coming out in shaky breaths.
"I should let you know I'm normally very patient, but I'm not sure I can wait much longer."
Astarion didn't look away from their cocks. "Say please."
"Please."
So devastatingly sweet and eager that Astarion couldn't help the flush that spread up his neck and across his face. He slipped his cock out of his grasp and positioned it against Gale's hole, letting him feel the press of slick, blunt flesh. Gale pushed his hips forward to meet it. Astarion smiled down at him. "How much can you take?" he asked.
Gale glanced up, lucidity breaking through hazy-eyed lust.
"How much can you give?"
Astarion responded with one long thrust, pushing straight into Gale. And stopped. They were both adjusting; Astarion to the smooth warmth squeezing around him almost too tightly, Gale to the new girth inside him. Gale's teeth were clenched, but in a way that told Astarion he was bracing himself for the pleasure to come.
Astarion closed his eyes. He rolled his hips, sliding an extra inch deeper. He moved again, another hard, deep thrust, and Gale's head slumped against the back of the couch.
"Thank you—god, yes. Thank you—"
He was cut off as Astarion's hips smacked into his ass and started to pick up a slow, steady rhythm. Astarion leaned down and kissed him hard. Saliva strung between their lips.
"You've been waiting for this all night, haven't you?"
"Hours. You have no idea."
"Oh, but I think I do." Astarion put a hand on Gale's knee, spreading his thighs wider. "If you've been waiting all night, I’ve been waiting all week to put my cock in you."
Gale's only reply, a soft keen, was so perfect that Astarion had to fight the urge to clamp his teeth into Gale's shoulder. Pleasure almost completely fogged his brain. Gale tilted his chin up.
"A little higher. Could you angle your hips up and aim right—there—"
Gale moaned loudly as Astarion slammed right into his prostate. Astarion pulled back, then moved forward with shallower thrusts.
"Don't patronize me, darling. I think I know enough about how this works." Astarion bent down again. His lips moved against Gale's collarbones and neck. He could taste the salt, feel the heat, and smell the roses and paper he made, warmed through by Gale's skin. Gale's hands found the back of his head, thumbs stroking his earlobes. Astarion moaned.
"You have a thing for necks, don't you?"
The pace of Astarion's hips slowed. "How'd you guess?"
"You're always looking at mine," Gale explained. "You like using teeth. The fact that you're a vampire in our campaign is starting to make much more sense. Really, if you wanted a campaign that took all of you through a sex dungeon, you could've just asked."
"Don't worry, I won't bite." Astarion kissed Gale's shoulder. "Unless you're looking for a nibble."
"Normally, I'm not for biting, but I'm willing to try." Gale returned the kiss, bringing his lips to Astarion's. Astarion exhaled another moan as Gale's tongue dipped into his mouth. "To try to learn what you like. Never let it be said I'm not open to experimentation."
They exchanged glances. Once Astarion knew Gale was sure with a quick nod, he descended again, drawing his lips back to expose Gale's skin to the barest scrape of teeth. He heard Gale's voice in his ear.
"You don't have to hold yourself back."
Astarion obeyed. He sank his teeth in deeper. As he kissed and sucked at Gale's throat, the only words he could form were "god", "Gale", and "fuck". The slow pace quickened into harder, faster thrusts, his pelvis repeatedly slamming into Gale's ass. Gale clenched down and rocked back onto Astarion's cock.
So these were the perks of committing. If he'd tried this with any of his past hookups, he would've been kicked back to the bar where they met. Not that either of them would have stuck around long enough to have learned how his body worked the way Gale did.
When Astarion tore himself away, he admired the reddened marks he left behind, which would give way to a bruise in time. For a moment, Astarion was disappointed that Gale owned so many turtlenecks, but he'd see it when he woke up and when he went to bed and it would stay with him as a delicious secret for the rest of the day.
"There." He brushed his thumb across the indents in Gale's skin. "Now you're mine."
Gale's fingers followed, pushing under Astarion's thumb to feel them himself. "Now I'm yours."
"Yes." Astarion was surprised by the even rougher shock that pulsed through his cock at the words. "And if I'm not mistaken, your kink is being recognized for your efforts."
"Hard to find someone who doesn't feel the same way."
"Fair," Astarion admitted. "I just have a hunch you're especially receptive to positive feedback. Like," Astarion paused, faux-contemplative, "good boy."
The effect was instantaneous, the arch of Gale's back and shake of his thighs more than telling.
"You're taking me so well."
The rest of Gale's body trembled under him. Astarion lifted his legs, hooked his knees over his shoulders, and fucked into Gale as hard as he could, pleasure doubling with each thrust.
"My sweet. My love. My Gale."
Astarion couldn't tell whether it did more for him or for Gale, but he came first. He released himself into Gale and by gritting his teeth and pushing through the overstimulation, he brought Gale there with him.
As he pulled out, Astarion stopped to admire the gape of Gale's hole, completely used, and the trickle of his own cum leaking onto leather. Gale's legs were still spread wide, as if he was unaware they were done. Astarion was also a little lightheaded and his legs quivered as he stood.
"Astarion? Could you pass me something to clean us up?"
"Shit. I'm on it." Astarion looked around. It didn't feel right to use any of their shirts. He grabbed a tea towel hanging off the oven door. He thought about tossing it to Gale from across the room, then thought better. He sat back down on the couch.
Gale blinked up at Astarion through post-orgasmic bliss. "Was it good?" he asked.
The 't' might as well have been silent. Was I good?
Good? More than good. Hell, Astarion didn't finish often and here Gale was, pushing him over the edge every time. And then there was everything else. The eagerness to explore, the way Gale wouldn't shut up especially when he was being pounded into the couch. That was insanely hot for some reason.
Astarion cradled Gale's head as he cleaned up. Truth be told, he wasn't good at aftercare. Yet. But it'd come to him with practice. "The best." He wasn't going to tell Gale whether he was being honest. His ego was inflated enough. Instead, he helped Gale up and guided him back to his bedroom. As Astarion opened the door, Tara slipped out. Contrary to Gale's worries, she didn't seem bothered by their states of undress.
In bed, Astarion curled up behind Gale, burying his face in the crook of Gale's neck. "Was that enough practice for you?"
Gale shifted against his chest. "You know me. I always appreciate extra credit."
Gale pushed his ass back and Astarion understood. His cock did, too, hardening at the idea Gale was suggesting. Astarion reached his fingers down to circle Gale's rim and Gale's thighs parted for him. His hole was still sticky with lube and cum. Astarion pressed his forehead to Gale's spine as he took hold of his cock and pushed in. Gale shuddered with a quiet gasp, but stayed still. Astarion could sense that they were both too worn out to do anything else.
Astarion breathed in deep. His work was still all over Gale. The roses had faded into wood and smoky parchment. "All that rolling in the proverbial hay and you still smell as fresh as a daisy," he remarked.
"A testament to your skill," Gale replied. "Have you thought of starting your own perfumery?"
"No. Why?"
"You have the talent for it."
"Talent this, talent that." Astarion kept his eyes on the marks he left. The blood vessels under Gale's skin had burst, blooming red across his skin. "It's not as if like any of that matters in the biz." He curled his fingers into air quotes as he said it.
"I don't see why that should be the be-all and end-all," Gale said. "You're shrewd. Cunning. You'd be excellent at making connections. I think you'd go far with the right resources and support."
"Doesn't mean anyone's going to be interested in what I'm selling." A familiar voice crept around in the back of Astarion's mind, threatening to ruin the moment. I'm nobody, he wanted to protest. Nothing.
"I doubt that." Astarion heard Gale's hand move against the sheets. "Make something for Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Wyll, and Karlach the way you did for me. I'm sure they'd tell you otherwise."
Astarion huffed. "Let's say I did. What would I call this perfumery, anyway?"
"A good name should reflect you. You, my love, have such joie de vivre." Gale twisted around to tap Astarion on the nose and Astarion snickered. "A lust for life. Like you want to drink up every bit of the sun from the second it rises." Gale fell quiet. "Hmm. Sun."
Astarion closed his eyes. "Yes? I like the sun. What about it?"
"Sunrise. Sunbeam. Sunburst. Sunstruck."
Astarion grumbled. "Less word salad."
"Sunbather. Sunseeker. Sunwalker."
Astarion's eyes opened and he quirked an eyebrow. "Sunwalker's not bad."
Gale sighed. "We can think about it some more later. And my role in it." A pause. "I mean it. If you want to start something of your own, I'll help. All you have to do is ask."
"Are you already offering to balance my books for me? You sweet, generous thing." Astarion laughed. "What could I do for you that could possibly compare?"
Gale patted Astarion's thigh where it was draped over his leg. "As far as I'm concerned, you keep being you."
Silence fell over the dark room. Astarion huddled closer. "I can manage that."
The next morning, Astarion woke up to a deposit in his bank account. He was so stunned by the fifty dollars that he nearly missed the message below that read, For my ray of sunlight.
Notes:
My workplace deals in environmental services and ecological restoration and Halsin not being around to play D&D because he's in the field is completely in character for biologists and ecologists. (To the vegetation ecologist in my campaign: please come home we miss you.)
As of this year, Athens has been named the world's best-smelling city. Apparently it's all the florists, bakeries, and perfume shops. Astarion needs a vacation SO BAD. Gale can come along too I guess.
This smutty nerdy chapter is the calm before the storm. All I'm going to say is buckle up, chucklefucks.
Perfume inspo: Jasmine of Athens by Theodoros Kalotinis
“For this fragrance, Jasmine of Athens, I was inspired while strolling around the alleys of Athens. There on a sunny day the jasmine flirted with my heart, I took a blossom of the jasmine bush and headed to [the] Acropolis. Up there, a breeze caressed my emotions and I felt free.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 11: Amber
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Alcoholism
- Body checking/implied disordered eating
- Rape/sexual abuseThe SA scene is more intense than the previous ones, so as a heads up, it starts at "And Astarion wouldn't tell him a goddamn thing." and ends at the divider.
The texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion unzipped the garment bag on his mattress and groaned.
He hated tuxedos.
Of course, Cazador pitched a fit when Astarion had the audacity to tell him the first one he was given was too big. It had clearly been bought years ago for Leon, who was taller and broader. Rather than getting it altered, Cazador threw even more money at the problem, ordered a new one, and lorded the purchase over him. And, of course, Astarion wouldn't get to keep it in the end.
The lapels were pure black satin, the same material that covered the two jacket buttons. The tuxedo came with an immaculately pressed white shirt and the pants had a line of even more satin running down each leg. It wasn't even terribly ugly. It just wasn't him.
At the foot of the futon was a shoe box with polished black oxfords inside. Nestled beside them was a tiny velvet box. Red cufflinks, like Cazador's. They were going to be a matching set. All things considered, Astarion was pleasantly surprised that Cazador hadn't forced him to get his ears pierced just so they could wear matching studs as well.
Piece by piece, Astarion put on the tuxedo. Since he didn't want to find out his exact measurements, the jacket was still slightly loose around the shoulders and he needed to notch his belt to the tightest hole. He laced his shoes and attached the cufflinks. On closer inspection, they likely weren't real rubies. Cazador would never splurge on those. Not for him, at least.
The only thing left was the bow tie. If there was anything Astarion hated more than tuxedos and Cazador Szarr (and puns, and waiting, and children, and rule-following), it was bow ties. He didn't know how to put on one that wasn't a clip-on anyway. He left it alone.
Carefully, Astarion stepped over the pile of boxes and tissue paper on the floor and traipsed towards the bathroom. His shoes pinched a little around his toes, but he still had three days to break them in; three days until the start of Design Week. He flicked the light on and stopped in front of the full-body mirror.
He looked like—well, he looked like a vampire.
People had made all kinds of jokes before (look, it wasn't Astarion's fault he was deathly pale and a touch sickly looking) but this was bordering on parody. The pure black tuxedo made his skin look bone white. The silhouette was all sharp edges. The only things missing now were the fangs.
Astarion twisted and turned, trying to find his best angle in the mirror. He cycled through several poses, each making him look more ghastly than the last.
He needed a second opinion.
After a few seconds, Astarion tapped the call button, turning on the speaker. Gale picked up right away.
"Hello?"
"Darling, I need you to be honest."
"Have I been anything but?"
"No, but you might change your mind once you see me." Astarion turned on his camera. He posed again in the mirror, holding his shoulders back and turning out his free arm to display the sleeve of the suit jacket.
"Goodness." Astarion heard the catch in Gale's breath. "It's a very regal look. It suits you. Could you turn around?"
Astarion did as he was told, turning around in the mirror to let Gale see the back.
"It's an excellent fit. Are those cufflinks?" Astarion raised his wrist to show them off and Gale made an approving noise. "Oh, I like them. They bring out your eyes."
Astarion laughed. "Silly goose. My eyes aren't red. They're brown, like yours."
"Not quite. There's a reddish tint when the sun hits them just right."
"Fascinating." Astarion re-examined the cufflinks. He tried to compare their colour to his eyes in the mirror. The bathroom lighting wasn't doing Gale any favours. "And where have you seen the sun hit them 'just right'?"
"At Elturel. Those enormous windows are good for a great number of things," Gale said. "Whatever you're worrying about, there's no need, Astarion. You look perfect."
"I look tragic." Astarion turned away from the mirror and stalked down the hall back to his bedroom. He hit the flip icon so the camera focused back on his face.
"Couldn't you add a personal touch?"
"It's—" Impossible, he wanted to say. Cazador's going to know. He returned to his room and sat down in the vanity chair. "You know me. It wouldn't be the most professional look. Besides, there isn't much room for accessorizing."
"Your neck seems unoccupied."
Astarion propped his phone up against the digital scale, fetched the bow tie, and held it up for the camera. "Would you happen to know how to put on a bow tie by any chance?" he asked.
"Yes!" Astarion heard a sharp rustle on the other end. Gale was probably sitting up and, knowing him, gesticulating. "First, lay the bow tie around the back of your neck with one end laying over each of your shoulders. Make sure your top button of your shirt is done and your collar's rolled up."
Astarion shook his head and giggled. "Gale. Honeymuffin. Sugarplum. Sweetie pie. It's no good if I can't actually see what you're trying to tell me." He flapped the bow tie at the screen. "Camera on, darling. You know I've missed that face."
"Ah—about that."
"Yes? Don't be camera shy now." Realization set in and Astarion's voice lowered into a purr. "You were quite the exhibitionist just the other night."
"It's one thing in person. It's another to..."
"Go on."
Gale's next words came out with a quiet murmur. "It's another to be touching myself while talking to someone."
Astarion continued toying with the bow tie, slowly winding it around his fingers. "But I'm not just someone. And I've liked everything I've seen so far," he said. "Camera on. Chop-chop."
After some more rustling, Gale's face came into view. The lamp on the bedside table was on. His hair was loose around his shoulders. He was shirtless, the covers resting just below his nipples. There was a paperback on the bed in the corner of the frame.
"Hello, beautiful." Astarion placed his chin in his hand, fingers tapping idly along his jaw. "Not so hard, was it?"
"No. I know there isn't any good reason to be embarrassed. I just wanted to be fully present while talking to you. Instead of, you know, taking care of business." Gale ducked his head. "But in all fairness, you did catch me at an inopportune time."
"I'd say I caught you at just the right time." Astarion put the bow tie down. "You're not done yet, are you? I'd hate to miss out on the fun."
"Not yet. But now that you're here, I'd like to finish while I can still hear you. See you."
"Oh, good, good boy." Gale blushed prettily in response. Astarion tilted his phone down so Gale could see the outline of his cock starting to strain against his ludicrously expensive pants, then back up. The blush had spread to Gale's neck. His hickey was almost healed and Astarion realized he should've provided more care after the bite. Something to remember for next time. "One wicked turn deserves another. What do you think?"
"As long as you're not offended that I was indulging without you, I think it'd be gracious of you to follow through with the offer."
Astarion smiled. "Alright then. One for the road."
On the screen, Gale pushed the covers down. Astarion shrugged off the tuxedo jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. He was about to undo the first button of his shirt when Gale interrupted him.
"Keep your shirt on, please. We're not done with our lesson." An authoritative but warm edge crept into Gale's voice. "But that said, I don't think learning to put on a bow tie requires pants."
It took less than ten seconds for Astarion to step out of his shoes and satin-lined slacks and leave them in a pile on the floor, forgotten.
◈━◈━◈
There were four unspoken rules at Design Week:
1. Let Cazador handle it unless told otherwise.
2. Shut up.
3. Shut up.
4. Shut up.
When the day came, Vilhelm's black Bentley arrived outside the office at 5 pm. Cazador sat in the backseat, the perfect passenger, hands folded in his lap. He didn't acknowledge Astarion when he loaded his bags into the trunk or when he opened the car door and buckled himself in.
Vilhelm pulled out of the street parking. The only sound around them was the traffic outside. Vilhelm didn't play music or the radio in the car. Silence hung between the three of them, heavy like the weight of water and just as suffocating. Cazador only spoke when they crossed a bridge.
"Do you remember the protocol?"
"Yes."
Next to him, Cazador squinted. Astarion recited it in full.
"You talk. I walk around and listen in. I don't speak unless spoken to."
Cazador checked his nails idly. "And what if someone tries to speak to you?"
"I hand them my business card and carry on. Neither seen nor heard."
Cazador spoke slowly. "I expect civility from you when you face the public. No cursing, no jokes, no whistling."
Astarion frowned. He never whistled, but he wouldn't ask where that particular rule came from. He looked out his window, at the cloudy day reflected in dozens of skyscrapers.
"Am I understood?"
Astarion jolted. "Understood," he said.
Cazador nodded curtly and turned his head towards his window watch the rest of the city go by.
Astarion wondered what everyone else would be doing back at the office. Last year, Aurelia suggested throwing a pizza party when Cazador was away (it was a hell of a mental image; eating cheap, greasy slices from Sauceman Chorizo's Pizza under a two-hundred year-old chandelier). Everyone was on board until Petras ratted them out. Rumour had it that it was Violet who put laxatives in his coffee the next morning.
They arrived at the theatre for the opening night ahead of time, well before cars started to form a line in the driveway. Vilhelm surrendered his keys to the valet but he didn't follow them into the venue. Instead, he stayed outside as if to stand guard.
Astarion struggled to keep his head upright through the presentations and endless introductions. He wanted to go home to Gale. What did couples do? Hold hands. Buy each other flowers. Watch movies. His gaze flickered back towards the screen at the front of the theatre, where the speaker was going over the blurbs for each house and design studio in attendance on the slideshow. Photos of interior spaces, installations, and strange art objects flashed by.
They should watch a movie.
Hours later, the Bentley rolled up to the nearest five-star hotel. After they retrieved their bags, Vilhelm drove away, speeding into the night. Astarion didn't bother asking where he'd be staying.
The hotel lobby was empty. While Cazador checked in, Astarion's mind wandered. The glossy floors were covered intermittently with abstract rugs. Light fixtures hung from the stepped ivory ceiling and the air in the lobby smelled clean, like white tea, balsam wood, and bergamot. Astarion had heard somewhere that hotels hid scent diffusers in the vents and HVAC systems.
Like the scent that wafted through the lobby, the concierge's voice was a soothing balm.
"Very good, sir. Here are your keys. Room 704's going to be on your left when you exit the elevator."
The bubble of mild boredom that kept Astarion afloat all evening burst. He turned sharply, shakily, terrified by the emotions starting to swirl down into his stomach.
"We're sharing a room?"
Cazador's smile was thin. "We might as well save when we can. Besides, we've worked together for a decade, you and I. We should get to know each other better outside the workplace."
A keycard to their door on the seventh floor revealed one queen size bed, a settee and armchair around a coffee table, blackout curtains, and a floor-to-ceiling window with a city view.
One bed.
While Astarion unzipped his suitcase, Cazador was already up and hanging his clothes in the closet. Astarion had packed four changes of clothes, a few charging cables, a toiletries bag hiding a liquor flask cleverly disguised as a tube of sunscreen, and his pyjamas. In that moment, Astarion was glad he went to sleep in an old white shirt and black sweats and nothing less.
Once he brushed his teeth and changed, he climbed into bed and set his phone to charge on the side table. Gale had been messaging him throughout the evening. He sifted through his notifications to read Gale's texts, careful not to open them to avoid leaving a "read" receipt behind.
It wouldn't take too long to reply. Astarion thought about shooting back with a quick message, then paused. Cazador would scold him for texting in bed instead of going to sleep like a functional person. He'd demand to know who he was texting.
He would know about Gale.
Astarion left his phone charging and curled up at the very edge of the bed, trying to keep still. Five more days to go.
A towel landed on him.
"For Christ's sake, boy, wash up. You're dirtying the bed."
On the first official day of Design Week, Vilhelm drove them to a state-of-the-art industrial facility. The home of Bane, a luxury watch brand headed by Baldur's Mouth's "40 Under 40" billionaire wonderboy Enver Gortash. ("New money," Cazador disdained.) Gortash was everywhere on social media, sending tweets at two in the morning and posting Instagram reels every other day. Unfortunately, the handsome young man without the filters was greasy-looking with dark circles and bad teeth.
"When you open a mechanical watch, it’s like stepping on the gas pedal forever because it turns all the time. The only way it stops is when the spring releases. But we're not stepping off anytime soon," he touted to the press in the room. "The same spirit of innovation that drives our timepieces drives this curated marketplace for the best of digital luxury and culture."
Astarion's eyes glazed over once again over talk of loot boxes and quarterly drops and he preoccupied himself by sampling every flavour of kombucha on tap.
Back in traffic, Vilhelm kept his eyes on the road while Cazador seethed in the backseat.
"Selling timepieces for thousands and you don't even get to hold them? Most customers are idiots, but this is a new kind of insanity." Then he mused, "Though it would save immensely on material costs. I just don't understand these...these..."
"NFTs," Astarion finished.
When Astarion came out of the shower smelling like fig leaf shower gel, the heat in the shared hotel room was on blast. It had been a cold day and Cazador was cold all the time. It made sense, but it didn't make it comfortable. In the armchair, Cazador was wearing silk pyjamas and reading while a cup of chamomile tea steamed on the coffee table.
Astarion went straight to bed. Thanks to his hot shower and the heater, his shirt was already starting to grow damp. He shifted onto his back (Cazador scolded him for sleeping on his side last night, blaming it for his terrible posture). The ceiling in their room was tall, white, and completely unremarkable. While looking up, Astarion sometimes thought about smashing to reveal a blue sky on the other side of the world, the sun warming his skin. He also realized that, while connecting the four points on the ceiling, he drew squares clockwise starting from the top line from left to right. He wasn't sure whether that was normal. Gale would have something smart to say about it.
This was how the night ended. He would close his eyes and play dead until exhaustion took him.
When the lights finally went out, Cazador placed his hand on the covers and made a disgusted sound.
"Again, boy? You're sweating onto the sheets. Don't you have something lighter to change into?"
Astarion sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, and flung it onto the armchair in the corner of the room.
On the second day, they descended into an underground studio. The star of the show was Orin Anchev, granddaughter of business magnate Sarevok Anchev, and her fashion brand, Slaughterkin. The pieces from her collection "Unholy Purpose" were avant-garde, made for pure shock value. Hardware and jewelry resembling lungs and spines. 3D-printed carapaces inspired by skeletal structures. Bodysuits with stitching that created the illusion of muscle and sinew.
Astarion would never tell, but he liked the designs. And that Orin herself was unhinged. With her long blonde braid that hung down to her hips and her own 3D-printed outfit, she went between simpering and giggling for the cameras and screaming at the paparazzi like a murderous red whirlwind. Genius and madness often went hand in hand, more so with nepo babies like Orin with more cash to burn than common sense.
"What trash she's made of her grandfather's legacy," Cazador said back in the Bentley.
Outside the window, streetlights passed by like cold shooting stars. Astarion would kill for a shot of tequila. He could almost taste the lime on his tongue and feel the sting of salt on his lips. "Did you know him?" he asked. "Sarevok?"
"No," Cazador replied. "But I would rather take a knife to the chest than see the House of Szarr go the way of Anchev's reputation."
I'll help, Astarion thought.
Astarion started taking his showers at 9 pm. That way, Cazador wouldn't chastise him for keeping him up. He'd also started taking his phone into the bathroom with him so he could text Gale back without scrutiny. Steam built up on the screen, smearing away with the thumb taps.
Astarion watched the video of Tara batting at birds on Gale's laptop screen on mute. He had to bite down on his finger to keep from laughing.
Before getting ready for bed, he rummaged through the piles of clothes in his suitcase for his pyjamas. They weren't there.
He searched again. And again. He knew what he packed by feel. His fingers sifted through the fabrics, searching for soft cotton and coming up empty each time. His head jerked up.
"Where the fuck are my clothes?"
From the armchair, Cazador sighed.
"Language, child. I just sent for laundry service. We have a good impression to make."
Astarion's mouth opened, then closed. The only words that managed to come out of his mouth sounded like useless babbling. "My pyjamas, though. I'm not going out in those."
"Those rags you sweated through? They needed to be washed more than anything. Now be quiet. We'll get them back tomorrow."
Cazador turned the page of his magazine. Astarion wanted to scream. He couldn't sleep in the towel around his waist (wet; it would make the sheets damp). He couldn't sleep in his dress clothes (they would be wrinkled). Served him right for leaving his stuff lying around and thinking they'd (he'd) be safe.
At a loss for what else to do, Astarion snatched his toiletries bag and hurried back towards the bathroom.
"Sorry," he muttered. He didn't know what he was sorry about.
Astarion locked the bathroom door behind him. He pulled the sunscreen flask from the bag and poured out enough rum to fill the cap. It was a nightly ritual. The flask was large enough for five shots; one for each day he'd be travelling. He'd developed a taste for the Flor de Caña 12 and he threw back the capful with gusto. It went down his throat like an anchor, grounding him to the floor.
Astarion breathed in and kept his eyes on the mirror. Wet curls clung to his forehead. His cheekbones looked more prominent than he remembered. Thanks to running between venues, he and Cazador had been eating very little. In fact, being on his feet all day didn't give much time for hunger to occur to him.
Astarion turned around, hunched his back, and watched his shoulder blades and the rungs of his ribs ripple out. When he straightened back up, his sternum pushed through his skin.
He removed the towel from around his waist, hung it up, and opened the bathroom door. From behind the magazine cover, he felt Cazador's eyes track him all the way to the bed.
The fifth day of Design Week finally took them to home base: the flagship store of the House of Szarr. The storefront was immaculate. The familiar dusty, peppery smell of carnations and oud hit Astarion's nostrils as he pushed through the glass doors. He was wearing the tuxedo today. His curls were brushed back and styled into place with the tiniest hint of gel.
The checkerboard floor was polished and spotless. As a brand, The House of Szarr favoured geometric shapes, solid lines, and sharp edges in black and gold. The only organic decorations were arrangements of burgundy and white hydrangeas, tastefully dried. A long-haired man in black bustled between the tables, trembling from anxiety, a caffeine overdose, or both. The tag on his shirt read "Dufay".
Cazador was still hanging back in the Bentley, probably having his two espressos where Astarion couldn't see him. Astarion made his round through the store, careful not to touch anything no matter how much he wanted to pick up a trinket here or a bottle there. A miniature black chandelier hung from the ceiling, a replica of the one in their office.
Another employee was wiping down the engraver. Her name tag read "Syrin". She didn't notice Astarion when he came up behind her.
"Everything must be perfect," she whispered to no one in particular. "Everything must be perfect."
The doors swung open again. Cazador's impossibly tall and shadowy figure appeared and everyone around Astarion stood at attention like a well-oiled machine. Cazador didn't look at them as he entered. His eyes were on the shop floor, sweeping over the displays and merchandise. Their eyes were on his fingers, waiting for them to snap. Cazador paid them no mind. To him, they were furniture.
Thankfully, his hands stayed by his side. He joined Astarion by the till. A moment later, he leaned down and whispered.
"There's the beauty herself. Minthara Baenre."
Astarion looked up. Another shadowy figure was in the doorway.
The first feeling that coursed through Astarion was fear. Like Cazador said, Minthara was beautiful, but more than that, she was terrifying. She was dressed simply: in a black suit with sweeping gold and silver detailing and padded shoulders that made it look like she was wearing pauldrons. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun so as to hint that she had more important things to do than her hair. Calculated imperfection.
She came in alone. From her first step in, the click of her heels snuffed out any conversation and the employees held their breath when she passed by. She moved with purpose towards the back of the store and came to a stop in front of them. Immediately, Astarion felt her gaze land on Cazador, then drift over to him. Her age was a surprise. She looked like she was only a few years older than Astarion.
Minthara nodded in greeting, a short, swift up-and-down motion.
"Mr. Szarr."
"Ms. Baenre."
And just like that, the day began.
Visitors trickled in, shaking hands and lining up for champagne. Every few minutes, the sound of spritzing puffed into the air and the smells of rose, patchouli, and iris filled the room. Photographers snapped pictures of the displays. Visually, Nightwarden meshed perfectly with Szarr. Perfume bottles perched on living plinths made of mycelium instead of marble. Guests stood around, chatting behind the tester strips in their hands.
The reporter hovering around Minthara was wearing a blue beret and twirling his upturned moustache, both intimidated and honoured to be in her presence. Minthara had a deep voice that reverberated throughout the store as she answered his questions.
"Good morning, Ms. Baenre!" the reporter cried. "Tell me about you work. What's your inspiration?"
Minthara picked up a limited edition perfume bottle. Instead of the standard solid black, dozens of thin ridges ran down the left and right sides of the bottle and Astarion realized they were meant to resemble mushroom gills. "I wanted to start with a product that represented the idea of what it is to return to the natural, as well as what it is to move between life and death. We focused as much on the bottle’s refinements as we did on the impact Szarr has in a physical space through store design, campaigns, and installation."
"Fascinating, absolutely fascinating." The reporter held his recorder a little closer. "And why did you choose to collaborate with the House of Szarr?"
"My interest in fragrance is less about smell and more about environment. The visual process of the slow release of scent over time, for example, in the burning of a candle wick or stick of incense." Minthara contemplated for a moment. "Szarr and I share the same desire to shake up sensibilities, especially if we inspire discomfort in the process."
"I see." The reporter's brow scrunched. "What do you think of Cazador Szarr as an artistic partner?"
Minthara ran a nail along the ridges of the bottle. "Our first product run was merely an introduction to the partnership. It's been organic to build a connection with a collaborator who shares a similar perspective and to set up a meeting of different generations that hold a similar expectation of what detail and craft should consist of."
A cold, tight squeeze closed around Astarion's wrist. Above him, Cazador smirked. "Quaint, isn't she?"
Astarion scoffed, playing along. "Terribly."
Once the reporter flitted away, Minthara locked eyes on them and approached again.
"Mr. Szarr," Minthara began. "I'm glad to finally meet you in person. Between both of our busy schedules, I regret we couldn't do it sooner. You have an impressive store. It's very generous of you to host."
Cazador calmly held out a hand as if to stop her. "Please. Call me Cazador. And it's always my pleasure to extend my space to anyone who needs it." A few shouts came from the crowd and his fingers flexed. "My apologies. The common rabble demand so much. I'm sure you know. However, my assistant Astarion would be pleased to answer any questions you have in the meantime."
Cazador snapped his fingers and Astarion stepped forward between him and Minthara. He gave Astarion's wrist another rough squeeze before turning around to speak to the same reporter in blue.
Minthara stood still as she stared at the back of Cazador's head. Her jaw was clenched.
She was angry.
"Charmed to meet you, Minthara," Astarion said. "Like Cazador said, I'll do my best to answer any questions."
Astarion took a business card from the stack he'd been keeping in his jacket pocket and held it out to her. Minthara accepted it, quickly studying the text before she tucked it into her own pocket.
"Astarion Ancunín. Likewise a pleasure."
Astarion blinked. Most people couldn't pronounce his last name right. He brushed it off. Like everyone else here, she was probably over-travelled and overeducated.
The conversation around them was hushed. They could hear the nasally whine of Cazador's voice rise and fall over the chatter as he explained why the bat was the House of Szarr's symbol.
"Between Szarr and nature, there is a history of almost two centuries of inspiration. The bat has always been the emblem of the House. It's an exceptional pollinator, you see. It offers the world the most beautiful flowers, which provide fragrance creators like us with the richest palette."
The reporter nodded. "Wonderfully said, though when it comes to pollinators, I must admit I'm much more partial to birds myself. Do you have a favourite bat, Mr. Szarr?"
Astarion looked back at Minthara, who was still standing in front of him. "Well, did you have any questions?"
"I would have offered my congratulations," Minthara said. Her lip curled. "But now I must ask, is Cazador always so repugnant?"
Astarion tutted, but he couldn't hold back a growing smile. "Careful. There are an awful lot of ears around just waiting to pounce on loose lips," he said.
Minthara lifted her chin. "Let them. I would only be telling the truth."
Minthara walked towards the small table set up by the shelf of candles, laden with complimentary champagne and a few plates of canapés and caviar. Guests parted quickly to make way. Dufay scrambled to hand her a glass but before he could reach them, Minthara took two. Astarion came up behind her.
"Please. We should be the ones serving you."
Minthara passed him one of the champagne flutes. "This is a partnership," she said. "As far as I'm concerned, we're equals."
The champagne bubbled pleasantly in the glass. Astarion accepted it. When in Rome, he thought.
The drink was pale gold and gave off notes of lemon, white flowers, and crushed mint. He'd spied Dufay filling the glasses earlier and tried to remember the name on the bottle. And for the life of him, he couldn't.
Astarion swirled his glass. "Shall we toast?"
Minthara shrugged. "If we must. As long as we're not toasting to idle words."
Astarion lingered on a thought. "To Nightwarden, then." He raised his champagne flute. "To your success."
"And to yours."
They touched glasses and the crystal chimed. Astarion drank. The champagne fizzed pleasantly on his tongue and evaporated like liquid light, bright and airy. It was like drinking the cognac all over again. He had to be careful not to go too fast.
Minthara took a generous swallow. Unlike Cazador or himself, or anyone else from the House of Szarr, Astarion noticed she didn't stop to smell the champagne first. It felt like a waste, but it wasn't his fault if she didn't know how to drink properly. "Cazador certainly spares no expense," she said. "It seems frivolous."
Astarion tossed his head. "That's not very nice. Cazador put all of this together for you. He was hoping you'd be impressed."
Minthara snorted. "By what? I would be more impressed if he spent his funds on improving his products." She drank again. "I'm sure you've heard about the inconsistencies in your batches. Increasing price and decreasing quality. A complete lack of innovation."
Astarion feigned horror. "Goodness, all this slander under Cazador Szarr's very own roof." He grinned. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you hated perfume. Why work with us at all?"
They moved as they talked. Astarion couldn't tell who was leading whom, but they fell in step as they passed by shelves of perfume bottles, lotions, and reed diffusers. He realized he was soon outpacing her. He liked the thought. He belonged here. She was just a guest. He had the upper hand.
"I don't hate perfume," Minthara said. Unlike her voice earlier, she was quiet, quiet enough that Astarion was forced to lean in to hear her. "I hate the insufferable pompousness of your house and Cazador's arrogance, thinking he can coast along on two hundred years of work. I believe you feel the same way or else we wouldn't still be talking."
Astarion and Minthara finished their drinks at the same time. He took her empty glass from her. Guests were limited to one drink. As an employee, Astarion could have two. Small comforts. He motioned for Dufay to hand him another.
When he returned with his new glass, Minthara continued. "As for why I work with Szarr, I don't do it because it's easy. I do it because it must be done. My studio is small, my team is even smaller, and I work out of an office space that charges too much rent. Szarr gives me exposure beyond researchers and the occasional journalist who wants to interview that one strange designer who works with fungi. For that, I can stand to overlook his bad business sense. I don't know how you do it every day, though. You're more patient than I am. Or complacent."
As Astarion digested the words, his second drink began to settle down. On an empty stomach, the first few sips felt nauseating, but the more he drank, the fuller he felt. He was also starting to feel livelier, not to mention wittier. He began to walk towards a far corner of the store, beckoning with his finger. When they were out of earshot from the rest of the guests, he turned back to Minthara.
"Far from it," he said. "I can't wait until the day Szarr comes tumbling down. It's like you said. I'm not sure how it's going to happen, but it's only a matter of time. Though I wouldn't mind taking some of the credit."
His voice dropped further. Minthara looked on, comprehending.
"And between you and me, darling, I don't have a problem with how Cazador conducts his business. What's wrong with what he does is that he does it to me."
Astarion held his breath, waiting for her judgment. Then, Minthara's eyes flashed. She was smiling.
She delighted in his selfishness.
Relief spread through Astarion's chest. He was understood in a way he would never be understood by anyone else, maybe save for Cazador himself. The vindication was intoxicating. This was a creative partnership indeed.
A few calls came from the store entrance. The event photographers wanted pictures, none with Astarion in them.
Astarion motioned for Minthara to go. "The House of Szarr sends our regards," he said. He lowered his voice. "Come find me sometime, if you dare."
Minthara nodded. It was a different kind of nod from the one she gave Cazador. She bowed her head lower and held his gaze for a second longer, like she was trying to communicate something. Astarion couldn't tell what it was.
With that gesture, she walked towards the cameras, brushing past Astarion as if they'd never met.
At the hotel, Cazador sat in the armchair while Astarion slumped over on the settee. Astarion was staring at the painting on the opposite wall. Because he'd spent most of his time in their hotel room staring straight at the ceiling, he didn't get the chance to look at it properly until now. Splotches of beige and black dotted the canvas under grey brushstrokes and speckles of gold foil. Astarion didn't like abstract art. If it was supposed to make him feel something, it was working. He was bored.
"You seem tense."
Astarion glanced over at the armchair, then back. "Tired," he said. It was true. He was exhausted. Exhausted by days of travel and bad company. Exhausted by Cazador wearing him down each night, bit by insidious bit.
"Care for a nightcap? It's not the usual drink, but I think we can do so much better than a hot toddy." Cazador reached below the armchair and produced a long golden box. "I managed to make off with some of the champagne. A souvenir, if you will. Here."
Astarion's curiosity piqued. At least he wouldn't have to drink from the sunscreen flask tonight. The cork in the bottle came off with a sharp pop and Astarion got up to fetch two glasses from the minibar. When he returned, he committed the name on the box to memory. Louis Roederer Cristal Brut. He'd never be able to afford it.
"Thanks." Astarion watched Cazador fill his glass. He only had monosyllabic responses ready. His own awkwardness unnerved him.
They didn't toast. There was nothing left to toast to now that their part was over and done with. They simply drank, Astarion bracing for the long, quiet torment to come.
Cazador gave a satisfied sigh. "It's unfortunate I couldn't spend more time with you or our guests. That journalist—Volothamp, I think was his name—wouldn't leave me alone. But I saw you chatting with Minthara almost the whole time. What did she have to say? What does she think of us?"
Lying came to Astarion so easily now that he didn't have to try to affect scorn.
"She was impressed," he said. "How could she not be? She told me all about her struggles working out of a rented hovel with three employees to her name. She's lucky her name appeared on anyone's radar at all."
Cazador lifted his glass to his nose with a slight chuckle.
"You're better than Leon. That man is as stiff as a board. Can't get interesting conversation out of him any more than you can get blood from a stone." Cazador laughed to himself. "And while you were prying her open, I had the chance to talk to our visitors about our upcoming release. Black Mass. They were enthralled. Smoke and candlelight, adorned in aromatic freshness. The framing of Szarr as a sacred space. I didn't tell them it was your idea, though. I don't think they would've believed me."
Cazador laughed again. Astarion finished his drink. He didn't care that he was already done. Cazador had already seen the worst of him and the worst he could accuse him of was being greedy, careless, or a worthless alcoholic. All of which he already knew.
"Do you make perfumes in your spare time, boy?"
Astarion glared, careful to direct his line of sight anywhere but at Cazador. Of course a perfumer made perfumes. "Yes."
"What have you made recently?"
Astarion cursed inwardly. He wasn't feeling clever enough to come up with something from scratch. If he stumbled to put something together on the spot, Cazador would know.
"Nothing special," he admitted. "A little something with rose, vanilla, and cedar."
"Basic. But I suppose there's beauty in simplicity." Cazador seemed to mull over the notes, piecing them together and pulling them apart, stacking them in different layers. "What kind of rose?"
Cazador was starting to ask too many questions. If it was answers he wanted, he'd have to pay the right price. Astarion held out his empty glass. Give me another first.
To his credit, Cazador took the hint. He poured Astarion another drink. As Astarion swallowed again, he felt the champagne warm his throat and loosen the stiffness in his jaw. He liked that about alcohol. It calmed him down or picked him up, depending on what he needed it to do.
"Rose de Mai." Astarion paused, thinking about what Cazador might ask next. He couldn't look cheap or sloppy. "Absolute."
"Nothing but the best." Cazador sounded intrigued. "Where's it from?"
Astarion faltered. Roses grew everywhere. Cazador might as well have asked him to cover his eyes and throw a dart at a map of the world. "I. I don't know."
"Sourcing is of the utmost importance. You'll get nowhere with your lack of attention to detail," Cazador said sourly. "Rosa × centifolia. I'll give you a hint. It usually comes from Morocco or Grasse, in the south of France."
Unease wormed its way into Astarion's gut. He put the remainder of his drink down. "The source shouldn't make that much of a difference if it's the same species," he said.
Cazador set his own glass down on the table hard enough to make it rattle. "And I thought Petras was the stupid one," he muttered. "Everything makes a difference. The temperature. The water. The sunlight. The earth itself and the hands that pass it up and down the supply chain. We've spent almost a week now discussing the importance of material and medium. If you can't understand something as simple as that, maybe I did make a mistake in bringing you here."
Astarion didn't even flinch. He watched the last few millilitres of champagne slosh around in his glass and slowly settle. The tiny bubbles raced to the surface and dissipated, evaporating into thin air. Astarion felt a bit like evaporating himself. "France, then."
Cazador's gaze suddenly softened. Lies. All lies.
"You really are all worn out. I don't blame you. You're not used to this kind of workload." A cold hand slid up Astarion's back and rested below the nape of his neck. "Let's go to bed. You can tell me more once we get comfortable."
While Cazador climbed into bed, Astarion pulled the blackout curtains closed. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window before the curtains fell. Cazador had kept his word. He got his pyjamas back.
And Astarion wouldn't tell him a goddamn thing.
The lights went out. Even with all the space in a queen size bed, they slept shoulder to shoulder. Maybe Cazador had done this to Leon every Design Week. Maybe that's why he spared the details. Maybe he'd done the same to Violet, too. To all of them.
"When did you find the time put this little composition together?"
Astarion folded his hands over his chest. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice.
"Just last month. I wanted to do a practice run before coming up with the next release."
"I thought creating Black Mass would have been enough practice in itself. I suppose not." Cazador paused. "What inspired you? An idea? A place? A person?"
Fear cracked through the numbness. Astarion's brain struggled to keep it from breaking through, slipping and sliding on too much champagne. Cazador was right. He was rather stupid.
"I'm too tired to talk right now. Can we pick this up again when I'm making a little more sense?"
"Too tired to talk? That's unusual for you." Cazador's long legs brushed against Astarion's. Even as Cazador inched closer, the temperature in the room seemed to drop around them. Astarion tilted his head towards the other side of the bed.
"That's right. Funny, isn't it? Besides, there's something else I'd rather do."
Without looking, Astarion reached over. He placed his fingers on the back of Cazador's head and drew him in.
The moment their lips touched, Astarion felt a cold spike stab through his own chest and his eyes shut, brows knitting with instinctive disgust.
Kissing Cazador was like kissing stone. There was no hatred or rage, but no passion either. When Astarion pulled away, all he could focus on in the dark was the cold glint in Cazador's eyes.
"What do you want from me this time?"
Astarion steeled himself in return. He felt his touch harden against Cazador's bony cheek.
"I know I'm not clever or good at what I do. I just wanted to say thank you for even thinking I was worthy enough to be here. That's all."
He knew Cazador knew that was another lie, but he could tell it didn't matter much anymore. He closed his eyes again and with another still, close-mouthed kiss, gave up.
Even with his eyes shut, Astarion could tell what Cazador's lips were moving towards. The scar on his neck. Despite the number of times he and Gale had sex, Gale never once commented on it. Maybe he was being courteous about it, the same way he expected Astarion to be courteous enough not to ask about the tattoo on his chest.
On top of him, Cazador's mouth closed, sinking into place in the broken crescent on Astarion's throat.
Astarion's eyes flew open. He felt untethered. He felt defenceless, the sense of dread only growing when his body remembered why he liked biting and being bitten. He couldn't want this, whatever this was. His toes curled and his heel scraped against the mattress, then stopped. With withering shame, he felt his cock harden as pleasure bled into the pain.
He tried to picture Gale, but no matter the strength of his imagination, he couldn't. There was no tenderness in the hold on his hair. No care or excitement in the drawstrings being undone around his hips.
Maybe it made Astarion a cheater. It definitely made him a liar. And if nothing else, it made him a survivor.
The ceiling was high above him. Four corners. Four lines, clockwise. Four letters he had to bite back when the first finger slipped inside.
One more day and he was going home.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion had never been so happy to step onto a university campus. It was quiet after hours, already dark late in the afternoon, with just a few students milling around the base of the staff building. It was nice to feel normal again. It was nice to slouch again.
His heart was pounding as he climbed the stairs to Gale's floor. It was either anticipation or the fact that he'd missed his workouts for a straight week. The stairs were a start.
The door to Gale's office was closed. The lights were off. Astarion crept closer and peered through the glass. The room was empty. He knocked to no reply. He twisted the doorknob. The door was locked.
Astarion backed away and looked around, searching for any signs of life. The only people present were two short bald men walking down the hall.
"Excuse me. Over here."
The two men turned around. They were around the same height. One was scowling, annoyed that their stroll had been interrupted. The other had wet, sad eyes like a kicked puppy's. "Are you lost?" the first one asked.
"Have you seen Dr. Dekarios?" Astarion asked. The men didn't respond. Astarion waved his hands. "Gale Dekarios?"
The sad-looking man cleared his throat. "He's in the engineering building. He's busy, though. The strike meeting's today at room 212."
"Really, Barcus?" The other man sighed, exasperated. "You can't go flapping your gums in front of people who aren't faculty."
"Strike? What strike?"
Not-Barcus crossed his arms. "Great. Now he's asking questions."
"But Wulbren—"
"Do you know where you need to go? Yes? I think we're done here." Wulbren began walking further down the hall. Barcus gave Astarion one last sopping wet look before following behind. He heard Wulbren muttering as they went. "And they've taken over our building. Unbelievable."
Astarion, by some miracle, managed to find the engineering building. After he climbed another set of stairs, he rounded the corner and the only thing that mattered in the world right now came into view.
A few people were filing out of the small classroom. There was a tall, thin man and a big burly one and waving them goodbye was—oh.
So this was what they meant by butterflies.
Gale spotted him and his eyes widened.
"Astarion? How did you find—"
Astarion's mouth crashed against his in a rough, needy kiss that caught Gale completely off guard. He threaded his hands through his hair, any care for propriety gone. Gale's hands fumbled, but steadied themselves against his waist. Astarion breathed in and he caught it: the soft blanket of roses and paper on Gale's collar. He nearly melted.
"Ah, love. With the greatest affection, there are better ways to sour our stomachs."
They broke apart. Gale wiped his mouth. "Sorry, Jaheira."
He was apologizing to an old woman with long white hair and sharp, keen eyes. Gale put his hand on Astarion's shoulder. "Jaheira, this is Astarion. Astarion, this is Jaheira. Our esteemed professor of ecology and conservation biology."
Jaheira extended her hand and as Astarion moved to shake it, she pulled him in. "We thought he would never move on after Mystra," she whispered into his ear. "Thank you."
Astarion grinned. With that new knowledge, he was feeling rather special. "So what's this I'm hearing about a strike?" he asked.
"I guess I never told you about it. It's a perfect storm," Gale began. "Hiring's decreased, we're stretched too thin and that erodes the quality of education, our salaries leave much to be desired..."
"..and she hasn't been taking us seriously." Rolan crossed one leg over the other in the chair he was sitting in. "Sorry. I meant administration."
Jaheira clucked her tongue. "You can say her name. Gale's not allergic to her."
"Mystra says the price of tuition isn't a priority right now. I wonder if she knows how much we're paying for our textbooks," Rolan spat.
"I see." Astarion leaned against the classroom door. "And which one of you sly devils orchestrated all of this?"
Jaheira looked towards Gale and Rolan's gaze followed. Pride glowed in Astarion's chest.
"You naughty thing."
Gale smiled back. The glow burst into flame.
"Gale's been working hard to organize the strike. Much more peacefully than I would, at least," Jaheira said. "As his partner, I'm sure the least you could do is help."
Gale protested. "Jaheira, please. He hasn't been filled in. And though I'd like his opinion, he's in no way obligated to contribute."
Astarion stepped towards Gale and chuckled. "If I'm being perfectly honest, I have no idea what the hell any of you doing." He wrapped an arm around Gale's waist. "Count me in."
Notes:
I'M SORRY. I'm sorry. If it makes you feel better, I felt like hurling after writing this chapter.
Brown-eyed Astarion has bewitched me, heart and soul. I know we all hc him as having blue/grey/green eyes before he was turned (and he probably did) but dark eyes with pale skin/hair is such a striking look that I had to keep it.
I go down to the closest Marriott for breakfast when my partner's dad is in town and for a while, I was obsessed with figuring out how hotels scented their lobbies. Turns out you can actually buy the scents individual hotels use (mainly the Ritz-Carlton, Westin, and Marriott). So yeah. Your living space can smell like a 5-star hotel if you want it to.
Gortash's work is inspired by Zenith, Dolce and Gabanna's NFTs (fuck D&G for that and many other reasons), and every crypto bro ever. Orin's collection is based off of Roberto Cavalli, Schiaparelli, and Iris Van Herpen (pretty much this entire post). Szarr is based on Creed, Bond No. 9, Guerlain, Penhaligon's, and Santa Maria Novella. But mostly Bond No. 9. Fuck Bond No.9 specifically. I can't begin to state how helpful their Glassdoor reviews have been for writing this fic.
Also, liquor flasks have become insanely sneaky. Umbrellas, sunscreen bottles, hairbrushes, tampons, power banks, you name it. I'm sure this won't come up again at some point.
Either after this chapter or the next one, I'll be taking a two-week break, mostly because work has been insane and also because I'm planning to write a holiday Bloodweave one-shot. It's going to be so fluffy your teeth are going to fall out and that's a threat.
Update (12/12/24): the two-week break will be extended to three or possibly four weeks. The holidays have been so much busier than I first anticipated, but new chapters are in the works! In the meantime, stay tuned and be excellent to each other.
Perfume inspo: Fucking Fabulous by Tom Ford
“Vibrant clary sage and fresh lavender command attention with aromatic foreplay. Bitter almond and notes of vanilla infuse textural richness to the leather heart, intensified by floral orris accord. Tonka bean drives the scent as amber undertones and blonde woods accords reverberate with a warm glow.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 12: Cedar
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Alcoholism
- Disordered eating
- Implied SAThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here. The email skin can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion returned to the Szarr office to find his desk in the room with no window completely covered in cling wrap.
Everyone who came back from Design Week was treated to a homecoming gift. In fact, Astarion personally put together last year's welcome by hiding all of Leon's belongings around the office, sending him on a scavenger hunt that took up a whole week.
Funny. It was hilarious in hindsight.
Someone had left him a pair of safety scissors. Astarion ignored it and tried ripping at the plastic, which only wadded up in his hands. After five minutes, he tried the scissors, which barely cut through. At ten minutes, he gave up after managing to claw a hole to reach the mouse and sat in the wrapped-up chair. Tomorrow, he'd come back in with a box cutter to cut his desk free and threaten to stab everyone around him if they didn't turn in the culprit.
Things were back to normal, or at least as normal as things could be in the House of Szarr. Cazador, for his many, many faults, was an excellent planner. He'd put Aurelia in charge of Astarion's inbox while he was gone and she'd done a good job of keeping it clean, deleting spam and responding to emails asking about interviews with Cazador, stockists, and one petition to bring back a discontinued release with more tact (though less "enthusiasm") than he would have.
Astarion cracked open his can of Monster Energy Zero Ultra. As soon as he took his first sip, a new notification appeared on the screen.
Inbox (1)
Now that his out of office status was cleared, the emails would start rushing in. First the trickle, then the flood. He clicked on the newest email and froze.
All the desks in the Szarr office, save for Cazador's, were set up with their backs to the door or hallway for easy viewing access. Astarion looked over his shoulder and once he was sure no one would come by, he opened his decoy tab, a spreadsheet with his perfume formulas, and checked again from left to right. He clicked on the email.
Design Week follow-up Inbox ☓ 
Minthara Baenre ˂[email protected]˃ 
9:36 AM (4 minutes ago)
to me▼
Astarion,
It was a pleasure to meet you last week. It's always inspiring to meet like-minded creatives from adjacent fields.
I would like to invite you to lunch at Ebonlake Grotto on Saturday. This will be an excellent chance to catch up and discuss our previous conversation. Let me know whether you are available.
I look forward to seeing you very shortly.
Minthara Baenre
Astarion's throat tightened. He was used to spending his Saturdays recovering from the night before. Since getting with Gale, though, his weekends had been a blur of mostly perfect days spent at Gale's flat, only snapping out of that rhythm when the D&D group invited them to do something else. But this wasn't an invitation. Someone like Minthara didn't give out invitations. They gave orders.
He typed out a reply, choosing his words carefully and double-checking, then triple-checking his spelling.
Re: Design Week follow-up Inbox ☓
The House of Szarr ˂[email protected]˃ 9:58 AM (0 minutes ago)
to Minthara Baenre▼
Hi Minthara,
I'd be delighted to go out for lunch. Does 12 work? If so, I look forward to picking up again on Saturday.
P.S. Next time, could you text me at 229-268-1492? This is personal business.
Cheers,
Astarion
Right after hitting 'Send', Astarion moved to conversation to the trash and deleted it forever, against company policy. He took another swig from the can and wondered what Minthara wanted from him. She didn't seem like the type to take pity. Maybe she saw potential. Promise. Whatever it was, if she wanted to poach him from the House of Szarr, he was ready to go yesterday.
Out of the corner of his eye, something moved in the corner of the monitor, a silhouette in the light through the open office door. Astarion put the can down with a thud and the figure in his monitor froze. It'd been trying to see if it could catch him off guard.
Astarion didn't bother turning around. "I know you're there," he said.
Dal's shoulders slumped but she came in. She leaned against Astarion's desk, seeming not to care about the static rubbing off on her twill trousers. "How are you?" she asked.
"All wrapped up with work." Astarion patted his desk.
Dal ran a finger over the plastic, trying to puncture a hole through it with her nail. She managed to get through the bare surface. "They must have used so many rolls," she said unhelpfully.
Astarion glanced up. "Who's 'they'?" he asked. He put a slight edge in his voice. Names, darling. Give me names.
Dal deflected. "I don't know. I wasn't involved."
Useless. But that was typical Dal. She kept the peace if it meant saving her own skin.
Astarion typed on his keyboard through the layers of cling wrap around it, adding another arbitrary row to the spreadsheet. He could sense Dal still watching him.
"Is there something I can do for you? Or are you going to keep standing around to keep me distracted?"
"I think you do that well enough on your own." Dal folded her arms. "Aurelia wanted me to tell you to look out for another collab. A smaller one this time. She wants to reach out to a few influencers."
"And she couldn't come here herself. How considerate." Astarion hit the spacebar. "Where is she, anyway?"
"Trying to convince Cazador it's a good idea in the first place."
"Cool. And why should I care?"
"Because if Cazador agrees, you'll be the one sending them samples and correspondence," Dal said. "Didn't you check the announcements channel? He said you did a good job at Design Week."
Astarion shot her a snide look. "You don't actually believe him, do you?"
"Of course not. But you should hear this." Dal scrolled down on her phone. She read the message aloud. "I’d like to take this opportunity to give special thanks to Astarion, who went above and beyond to make our guests and creative partner feel at home. I look forward to seeing him apply his talents to future collaborations."
Astarion swivelled around in his cling wrap-covered chair. He exhaled quietly through his nose. "Well. Shit."
"How did it actually go?"
Astarion blanked. His mind had already been working to block out last week's events. When he jogged it to give him something to work with, he didn't remember any galleries or glittering lights. He only heard Cazador telling him what to say; when to eat, shower, and sleep; where to put his hands and mouth. Night after night after night.
When he looked back at Dal, he saw concern. It sickened him.
"It was interesting," he began. "Minthara was delightful. I managed to get her to open up and chat, which is probably why Cazador has all eyes on me."
Dal nodded. "I'm glad you got to talk to someone, at least. I tried to reach you while you were away."
Astarion scoffed. "What the hell for?"
"No one's been able to contact you, Astarion. You don't check or respond to the group chat anymore. It's been a month. It's like you just disappeared."
"Or maybe I've found better company," Astarion said. "No hard feelings, I hope, but the Szarr Squad is such a drag. I'll think about coming back when you can talk about something else besides how Cazador would raise the price of the Costco hot dog. Even if you are right."
"You don't have any other friends. Unless." Dal's brow creased. "Are you seeing someone?"
Astarion leisurely lifted his chin but felt himself tense. "No. You know I don't do relationships."
"You seem happier these days."
"It looks good in the mirror."
"You've been smiling while you're on your phone."
"I've been following some adorable cats on Instagram."
"Case in point, you're usually a better liar than this."
"Maybe." Astarion sighed. Dal's eyes narrowed and he folded. "Yes. I'm seeing someone. But not a word about this to anyone, okay?"
"Okay. I promise." Dal tilted her head. "Who are they?"
Astarion thought about it. "He's a chemistry professor. He's..." Brilliant. Kind. Funny in his own little way. Hotter than hell. The most darling thing. "Sweet. And smart, even though he likes to go on these long-winded tangents."
Judging by the quirk of her eyebrows, Dal's interest was piqued. "What kind of chemistry?" she asked.
"Organic chemistry. I think you'd get along."
"I see." Dal gave the tiniest smile. "I'm happy for you."
Astarion threw his hands up. "Thank you. I wish more people would be."
Dal's small smile curved downward. "Just be careful. You don't want Cazador to hear about him. You know how he started treating Leon differently once he learned Leon had a dependent."
"Believe me, I've thought about it too much." Astarion turned around in his chair to focus back on his monitor. "As long as you can keep your mouth shut, I'll be fine and so will he. Now get back to your desk before Cazador realizes you're gone. Remember, not a word about this or—"
"You'll kill me in my sleep. See you around, Astarion."
Dal got up, dusted off her pants, and left the room. Astarion looked over his shoulders again. Left. Right. Left again. No signs of life. He waited for a few more seconds before pulling out his phone.
Like Dal said, the smile came to him automatically. Her message from last week, whatever it was, wherever it was, would have to wait.
◈━◈━◈
Saturday came mostly without incident. On Friday morning, Gale had texted Astarion in a hurry, urging him to come to the Blackstaff campus that night. Someone or several someones were taking down the strike flyers. Instead of ushering Astarion to the printer room (and letting Astarion have his way with him against the photocopier as he'd hoped), Gale took him across the campus to hunt down the remaining flyers. It was weirdly nice, going on a walking tour with a tube of wood glue in one hand and Gale's in the other. Especially because Gale put his hand in his pocket when he felt him shivering.
After gluing the last flyer to the lamppost outside the library, they sat on a bench with cups of tea and decaf black coffee. Gale's nose and cheeks, dusted pink from the late fall cold, blushed red when Astarion kissed him in full view of a study group going in through the glass doors.
Gale mumbled against his lips. "Astarion, please."
Astarion leaned deeper into the kiss, then drew back just far enough to whisper, "Please what, love?"
"Not in front of the students."
They pulled apart. Gale pulled his wool coat tighter around him. Astarion took his coffee cup from where it sat beside him on the bench.
"What does this have to do with them?"
They stared out at the campus. It was almost dark, with lights from the surrounding buildings beating back the night. Sparse black leaves shook on the trees.
"I've been known to everyone as Mystra's husband for a decade," Gale explained. "Not many people know about our separation. The last thing they need is to see you and assume the worst of us. You especially, dearest."
A cyclist passed by, wheeling towards the commons building across the street. Astarion tapped his fingers against the cardboard sleeve of his cup.
"Think Mystra's behind this? Taking down your flyers?"
He watched Gale's shrink into himself.
"I don't know," he admitted. "It wouldn't be like her. She's always been fair. She could be distant, callous, even, but fair. Never took her for the vengeful type."
Astarion squared his shoulders. "Then again, neither did I, you." He sidled closer to Gale until their knees touched. "You should be proud of yourself. Orchestrating this whole strike under Mystra's nose. Swaying your colleagues to your side, one by one. And if there's a little revenge as motivation, I won't judge."
Gale sighed. "But this isn't about revenge. It's about asking for liveable wages, some consideration for our students, enough support to continue with our livelihoods." He set his mouth into a thin, firm line. "If no one else is up to the task, then it looks like it falls to me."
Astarion glanced at Gale out of his peripherals. "Do you think your department would be better off with you in charge?" he asked. "The rest of Blackstaff?"
Silence. Gale gnawed on his lower lip, then took a sip from his cup. Astarion could smell the earl grey on his breath when he answered.
"I don't have the resources Mystra does, or as much of her natural talent. When she talks, people listen. She has this extraordinary presence that commands a room. But what for? She hasn't done anything for the worse since stepping into her position, but she hasn't changed anything for the better either. Maybe." He seemed to be testing the word on his tongue, feeling its weight. "I can lead this. I have to."
Astarion reached over and placed his hand on Gale's knee. "You will, darling."
"And I can't wait to introduce you to everyone. If that's alright with you."
Gale didn't kiss him, but he took both of Astarion's hands and squeezed them tight.
Truth be told, Astarion thought he'd never see the day a university would feel more like home than the restaurant in front of him.
Whoever designed Ebonlake Grotto was in perfect step with the mind behind the establishment. The interior was dimly lit and the floor was lined with velvety carpet that felt like moss under Astarion's feet. The occupied tables were lit with one tea light each, giving the restaurant the look of an underground cave.
Minthara was waiting at a table for two. She decided to dress down, wearing a sleeveless black jumpsuit with a plunging V-shaped neckline. It hadn't been visible the first time they met, but as he approached, Astarion noticed a small spiderweb tattoo on the side of her neck, the line work black and barely perceptible against her dusky skin.
"I'm glad you could make it," she said. "Please, sit."
She snapped her fingers.
Recognition hit and fury burst out of Astarion's chest. He didn't care that he was a man accosting a woman in public, towering over her from where she sat. He felt his voice drop and his jaw clench as he growled, "Snap your fingers at me again and it'll be the last time you have fingers."
Minthara just laughed, a low, throaty sound. "You have a spine. Good."
Astarion was tempted to turn on his heel and leave. Maybe Minthara was just like Cazador. A power-tripping sadist. The only thing stopping him was the issue of convenience. He'd found a potential collaborator and conspirator. It wasn't what he knew, but who, and Minthara seemed like a useful person to know.
He didn't wait for her to tell him to sit down again.
They perused the menus. Astarion lingered on the appetizers and salads section. He'd researched the menu ahead of time. His options included a red and green endive salad with honey vinaigrette, burrata with basil-infused olive oil, various soups, half a dozen oysters, and beef carpaccio.
Astarion snuck a peek at the entrées. He should at least try to look normal and order one. Mushroom risotto with morels and truffles. Herb-crusted chicken with creamed spinach. A Boursin and chive omelette. Sole with beurre blanc.
Nothing appealed. And Minthara made it very clear they would be splitting the bill.
He ordered the beef carpaccio.
As she typed out their orders on her tablet, the waitress asked, "Can I get you anything to drink?"
"One Bloody Mary with extra Tabasco." Astarion tacked on, "Please."
"And you?"
Minthara snapped her menu shut and passed it back. "Tonic and bitters."
When the waitress left, Minthara watched her go, then turned her attention back to Astarion. The look on her face was inquiring, if a little irritated. "Did you eat before you came?" she asked.
No. Astarion was starving. He ate dinner out of a can and he didn't do breakfast. He came up with another lie. "I had a big dinner last night. I didn't plan on still being somewhat full this morning."
"Hm." Minthara sounded unconvinced, but she left it alone.
The waitress came back with their drinks. Minthara's tonic and bitters came in a tumbler glass with with only a slice of lime for a garnish. A Bloody Mary was just the thing Astarion needed. The combination of tomato juice, vodka, hot sauce, and horseradish had to be the product of someone's hangover, but taking salty sinus-clearing sips periodically kept him alert. The celery stick also gave him something to fidget with while he watched Minthara drink.
As she put her glass down, he asked, "Where's the fun in tonic without the gin?"
Minthara simply smiled, frosty around the edges. "Business is my pleasure. I don't feel the need to mix both."
A basket of bread landed on the table with salted butter and olive oil and balsamic vinegar in a dipping plate. Like Gale said, it looked delicious. Light and airy sourdough with an open crumb and golden brown crust. Still warm, if the strength of the smell was any indication. While Minthara took a slice, Astarion kept his hands to himself.
For a high-end place, service was quick, or maybe it was because it was so expensive that service was quick. The beef carpaccio came first, paper-thin slices of raw beef dotted with capers, drizzled with aioli, and topped with a small nest of arugula. Minthara had ordered the mushroom risotto, thick and buried under parmesan and a few truffle shavings.
Astarion watched Minthara take a bite of her risotto. It was a little creepy, but he liked watching her eat. Minthara ate like she wasn't afraid of her food. She glared down the waitress when she asked her if she wanted pepper. She portioned her spoonfuls carefully, stacking parmesan and morels on top of creamy grains of risotto. She savoured each mouthful, chewing calmly, brows knit in thought.
"You like mushrooms, do you?"
Minthara looked up. "You sound curious," she noted.
Astarion stirred his Bloody Mary with his straw and took another drink. "I guess I've never given them much thought. They're vegetables or poisonous or otherwise just...there."
Minthara dipped her spoon back into her dish. "Fungi are veteran survivors of ecological disruption. Their ability to cling on—and often flourish—through catastrophic change is one of their defining characteristics. They are inventive, flexible, and collaborative," she said. "That has always been the ethos of Nightwarden."
Astarion gestured towards her with his fork. "I saw some of your other designs. You also work with spider silk."
"Spider silk? No. It's too inefficient. My textiles are made from microorganisms like E. coli bacteria modified to produce proteins resembling those in spider silk." Minthara's fingers closed around her glass of tonic and bitters and Astarion noticed she was wearing acrylics with black French tips. He was glad he'd also done his nails in a deep blood red.
They continued to eat in silence. Minthara returned to her risotto. Astarion took his time spearing each caper on a single tine of his fork and brought it to his mouth one by one. They burst between his teeth like cold, briny pearls. The beef was buttery, the richness cut through with a bite of aioli and peppery arugula. It sated a hunger that was more than physical.
It was the best meal he'd eaten lately, save for Gale's cooking. Thanks were in order, as well as a few questions.
Astarion dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Listen, I'm grateful for the invite. Love the place you've chosen. It's homey. But you clearly didn't ask me out to lunch out of the kindness of your heart, or what's left of it, anyway."
Minthara nudged a truffle sliver onto her spoon with the edge of her knife. "So you can be direct when you want. Let's be direct, then." She slipped it into her mouth and swallowed. "I reached out because I knew you before we met, in a roundabout way."
Astarion chewed slower. "Explain."
"Ancunín Family Law. Does that sound familiar?"
An uncomfortable prickle crept across the back of Astarion's neck. He stilled his fork. "What's it to you?"
"Shared history. Like yours, my life was privileged. But dangerous, thanks to a terrible inheritance dispute. My mother taught me to be resilient. She taught me how to survive. And when I was barely a legal adult, she tried to kill me." She began portioning out another spoonful. "Your mother helped me file a restraining order and claim self-defence for the scars I gave her."
Astarion blinked once. Twice. Stabbed at a slice of beef. "Good for you. Thank her, not me."
"I already did. During one of our appointments, I remember asking her if she had any children. She had one. A boy younger than me. Talkative, funny, and so handsome." Minthara adopted a puzzled look. "How did the son of such a formidable woman fall so low as to work under such a mediocre man?"
Astarion jabbed his fork in her direction. "First, ouch? Second, that's none of your business. Shit happens."
"It doesn't mean you have to roll around in said shit forever." Minthara's expression relaxed. "To her, I'm sure I was just another of her dozens of clients. But I am grateful."
Astarion couldn't do anything but laugh. It was the only thing he could bring himself to do. He looked around, as if waiting for someone else to acknowledge how fucking weird this situation was.
"Is this it? Did you take me out to lunch to repay a favour?" He laughed again. "I guess I've always wanted a fairy godmother. God knows I could've used one when things didn't go as planned."
Minthara took a small sip of her tonic and bitters. "I prefer to help people who help themselves. Still, I'll give you credit where it's due. You've managed to cut out a decent living, though I find it strange that you found work at a fragrance house." She wrinkled her nose. "You stink."
Astarion heard his fork clatter against his plate before he felt it slip out of his fingers. His eyes widened, then narrowed. The words that eventually came out were strangled with disbelief. "Excuse me?"
"The alcohol. It's literally seeping through your pores." Minthara rested her utensils on the sides of her plate. She said it matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about the weather. "You smell the same way my mother did, under all her perfume."
Astarion was too offended to snap back. Minthara continued. "I sympathize. Of course, you could just enjoy the feeling of being relaxed, happier, less inhibited. But oftentimes, addiction isn't the problem, but the solution. The problem is usually some deep discomfort with oneself. Every time I've talked to you, you seem deeply uncomfortable. On edge. Why?"
Astarion didn't answer. Minthara rose out of her seat and slipped past him, placing a hand on the back of his chair as she went.
"I'll give you a moment."
She weaved nimbly through the chairs and tables towards the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant. Astarion pushed his fork to the side of his plate, waited a moment, then pulled out his phone.
Astarion tucked his phone back into his pocket and took several hungry gulps of his Bloody Mary. He was tempted to flag the waitress down and order another, but thought better of it. He wanted to prove Minthara wrong.
And it wouldn't be such a bad thing if he surprised himself in the process, too.
When Minthara returned, she raised one eyebrow as she sat back down. A silent question.
"You're right," he admitted. "I'm not doing great. I've worked for Cazador for ten years. I had to sign two NDAs, one for every five. I read each one up and down. They're airtight. I literally can't leave. I could try, but it'd be easier for him to make sure I'll never find work again, so pardon me if I seem a little 'on edge'." He placed his elbow on the table. "Just so you know, this was never my first choice."
"It doesn't change the fact that you chose it."
"We crossed paths when I was out of options," Astarion shot back. "I needed a job and he gave me one. If I'd known, I would've. I would've never..." He felt his voice shake. He hated that it did. "This goes beyond crime. You don't know what he's done to me."
He waited for Minthara's response, paying careful attention to her expression. It didn't change. There was no gross, oozing pity. Just the same intrigue. If only everyone else could be like that.
Minthara draped her cloth napkin over her lap. "You've been deprived of freedom for so long that you're addicted to it, or the idea of it, among other things. As long as your addictions have a hold on you, you'll be just another cog. A slave."
"Don't say that." Several heads turned towards their table. Astarion glared at them, but breathed in and collected himself. "Being Cazador's...thing isn't my only purpose."
Minthara made an annoyed sound in the back of her throat. "What purpose do you have that doesn't involve him? You're afraid of him. You hate him."
"And I'll either kill him or die trying." Astarion leaned forward. "Listen. I don't want him sentenced to ten years behind bars with the possibility of parole." His voice went low. "I want him dead."
Minthara nodded. "As you should. But what's a fate worse than death?" She drew back. "Obscurity. You could have him rotting in jail knowing he won't get the chance to fix his reputation. That a lesser man, at least in his eyes, has ruined everything for him. That all his wealth and resources are just out of reach."
Astarion shook his head. "That's not going to happen. He'll still have those resources. He'll find a way to unleash them on me from whatever cell he's in." His voice grew bitter. "He always does."
"Not unless you take them," Minthara rebutted. "Do you want to destroy him? Then destroy his legacy. The man is nothing but legacy. Your brand is nothing but legacy. You could do us all a favour and start it over. Turn Szarr—or whatever you want to call it—into something worth its reputation."
"You're assuming I want to see the House standing after all this." Astarion toyed with the celery stick in his glass. "I appreciate the vision. Really. But I'll make it on my own."
Minthara sat still. She ate another spoonful of risotto. Chewed. Swallowed. Drank her tonic and bitters. Met Astarion's eyes.
"We're creatives," she said. "When I put my work out into the world, I'm not afraid that my audience won't like it. Some of my favourite reactions are their shock and disgust. At least it means I've made something meaningful. No, I'm afraid they simply won't care. And nobody would remember me." Steel entered her voice. "After my disinheritance, I had to grovel for every scrap of recognition. Every brand deal, every collaboration, all my supplies, my studio, my employees. Szarr already has it all. Take the foundations that have been built for you. Don't be so short-sighted as to throw them away."
Minthara settled back in her seat, watching him. Astarion's pulse quickened. He didn't know where he was going to go if the House was gone and Minthara knew it. She was right. Since his last night at Gale's, they'd talked endlessly about starting his own perfumery. It would be brutal work and he could only begin to imagine what he could do with everything currently at Cazador's disposal.
Minthara traced the point of a nail along the ridges of her glass. She carried on. "I'm not too proud to admit Cazador and I are alike, but not as similar as you are to him."
Astarion felt his temper flare again but choked it down. In his mind, he placed himself and Cazador side by side and tried to connect the dots. "He has ambition. I'll give him that," he admitted.
"Exactly. When the time comes, I only hope you don't just take him out of the picture, but insert yourself into the frame."
"I'm flattered, but it's not like I have a chance. He hates me, too."
"Does he? From what I've learned, you're the closest member of staff to Cazador. Cazador is also missing an heir, which has historically been the House's de facto successor." She polished off her risotto, letting the spoon rest in her empty dish. "If you were to get the law involved, they would be more inclined to listen to you than anyone else."
"Alright, say the law does its job for once. What do you suggest?"
"Have you learned nothing?" Minthara sighed. "Think. How does every case start? You gather evidence. Take screenshots of your messages and emails. Record your conversations together. It's not illegal, at least not here. Do I need to hold your hand every step of the way?"
"No, no. I get the picture." Astarion picked up his fork again. He twisted the handle between his fingers. "Cazador never deletes anything. He can't get enough of his notes and records."
"So there must be an archive of some kind. Find it."
"And the others have information, too. If I can get them to stand behind me, I can start building a case."
Minthara exhaled through her nose. "It's never that simple. Some of them might not give up that information, whether out of fear for their own safety or, god forbid, loyalty to Cazador. If it comes to it, would you go behind their backs to get it?"
The tines pierced the meat.
"Of course. Easy."
There was that smile from Minthara again, sinister and sphinx-like, but completely genuine.
As the waitress cleared their table, she asked, "Would you like some dessert?"
Minthara nodded and the waitress handed her the dessert menu. She read it for a moment, then passed it to Astarion. He was ready to decline, but he took it anyway for curiosity's sake. On the page, there was the aforementioned crème brûlée, a lemon and tarragon tart, blackberry and goat cheese panna cotta, and a chocolate lava cake with a gianduja centre.
Minthara turned to the waitress. "One crème brûlée," she said.
"And what about you? Can I get you anything?"
Astarion looked across the table at Minthara. She basked in the glow of the single tea light, completely at home among all the finery around them. She saw what she wanted and took it. She denied herself nothing. Life would be so much easier if he did the same.
Besides, it only took an hour of calisthenics to burn off the calories in a slice of chocolate cake.
"Actually, I'll have the chocolate lava cake."
The waitress jotted down his order and whisked their menus away. Astarion waited until she was out of sight to pick up the conversation.
"He has information on me, too, though. I'll never be able to scrub all of it," he said. Ten years of it. Emails, meeting notes, performance reviews, receipts, photos. The video.
"If you can't get rid it, then you must expose him before he has reason to suspect you. While working with Cazador these past few months, I understood what makes him successful. He's meticulous, but he thinks everyone else is beneath him. He won't see you coming because he doesn't even think you're capable. Explore all of your options. Fraud, bribery, intellectual property theft, many more, I'm sure." Minthara breathed deep and Astarion realized it was a sigh of exhilaration. She enjoyed picking Cazador to pieces. "I almost wish I were in your shoes."
Their desserts arrived, the crème brûlée in a wide, shallow ramekin and the lava cake with a smear of raspberry coulis curving around the plate. Minthara plucked the tuile garnish and took a bite. It shattered between her teeth.
"How do I avoid suspicion, then?" Astarion asked.
A beat passed between them, quick but sharp.
"You act the same as you always have. Keep being his personal assistant," she said. "It also helps to find out what makes him crack."
At the last word, the back of her spoon came down on the surface of the crème brûlée. Astarion watched the spoon sink into the custard, now embedded with shards of caramelized sugar.
He glanced down at his plate. A whole cake. He'd be damned. He followed Minthara's lead by slicing into it with his own spoon. The molten core oozed out, mingling with the raspberry sauce like thick ruby-red blood.
Bloodshed, apparently, tasted like heaven. As Astarion licked his spoon, tasting jammy raspberries, bitter chocolate, and toasted hazelnuts, he heard Minthara across from him.
"As long as you can keep a secret, you will have your revenge."
Astarion grinned. "I'll shred the receipt. You and I were never here."
"Good. By the way, get help. It's embarrassing to see someone waste their potential."
They paid for their meals separately. Astarion tried not to think too hard about the cost and instead about how he'd have the rest of the weekend off and how Gale would be glad to hear that he made it out alive and, for once, had a plan.
When it was printed out, Minthara placed her receipt on top of Astarion's. The cheque had come with two squares of chocolate. She pushed them all towards him. Her command was casual and caustic.
"Take it. It's yours."
Notes:
Minthara. GO BACK TO YOUR JOB. STAY AWAY FROM HIM.
We're so back babeyyyy. Thank you for your patience during December. Writing this chapter took me back to writing 'Sauced'. I love being a glutton. I love writing about food. Gale and Astarion will have a proper meal together one day, I swear. Thanks to meatcrimes for the joke about Cazador and the Costco hot dog.
This time of year is when I start growing mushrooms again now that the garden's dead for the winter, so revisiting mycology for this chapter, however briefly, was such a joy. Credit for the quote about fungi being survivors goes to Merlin Sheldrake, author of Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds & Shape Our Futures.
Minthara is starting to become one of my favourite characters to write. I went back into the game to listen to Minthara's thoughts on the companions to get her voice right and I was surprised that she uses the words "addicted" and "addiction" to describe Astarion specifically. Concerning? Yes. Vindicating? Also yes. How does she only have 10 WIS when she reads everyone in camp for filth?
Perfume inspo: Dark Lord by Kilian
“Dark Lord “Ex Tenebris Lux” is a gentleman of the night. Meet him in the most surprising of circumstances and his mystery slowly unfolds: A head-twisting mix of shadows and light, it seduces in seconds with its elegant, long-lasting accords of leather and strong vetiver, its jasmine drenched in rum, and a dandyish entrance of bergamot and pepper. From darkness, into light.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 13: Tonka
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Alcoholism
- Disordered eating
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
On the TV, Jareth the Goblin King juggled three crystal balls in the palm of his hand. Gale's coffee table was littered with drinking glasses, Xbox controllers, and a handful of popcorn kernels at the bottom of a large bowl. Astarion shifted his head, where it rested on the armrest of the leather couch, to get a better view of the screen.
"I don't get why she's in such a hurry."
"Mm?"
"The worst that's going to happen to her brother is that he's going to live with David Bowie for the rest of his life."
"Mhm."
"If someone tried to save me from living with David Bowie, I'd tell them to fuck—darling, how are you doing that?"
Gale was on the floor, kneeling between his legs. Astarion's briefs and jeans were discarded on the floor and his cock was hard and wet between Gale's lips, which worked over him, squeezing and pumping him in time with his hand. His tongue laved his length, swirled around his head, and stroked back down, sending little shockwaves of pleasure rippling through him.
"A practised tongue." Gale's tongue dipped into his slit. "A flick of the wrist. And a curl of the fingers for his pleasure." His hand twisted around the base. "It's all about technique and practice, no matter what kind of anatomy you've got down there."
"I've had practice with all kinds of parts, but this—" Gale sucked him in deeper and Astarion's head fell back with a moan. "This is sorcery."
Gale made an amused sound around his cock and it went straight through him, drawing his balls tight.
"I prefer wizardry."
Astarion held onto Gale as he bobbed over him, licking and sucking like he'd been born to do it. His hand tightened in his hair, yanking against his scalp to encourage him to move faster, to take him deeper. His back arched, thighs tensing as he began to pant.
"Gale. I'm—"
His orgasm knotted deep in his stomach, then released. His muscles went tight and Gale hummed around him, swallowing his load as it pulsed down his throat. White-hot pleasure pooled in his limbs, his body trembling as he came down slowly from his high. When Gale kissed him, Astarion could taste himself on his tongue. Gale's lips were slick and reddened.
Astarion fumbled for the remote, paused the movie, and dragged Gale up into his lap with a playful growl. "Your turn."
Gale protested. "No, no. You're coming down from a headache."
A mild hangover, technically. Their movie marathon had started last night, alternating between Gale's and Astarion's favourites. Good Will Hunting, then The Rocky Horror Picture Show, then Back to the Future, and now Labyrinth. Gale had made them a pitcher of something he called "bloody rum punch", with white rum, red wine, and triple sec.
And when Gale was fast asleep, Astarion snuck into the liquor cabinet. Gale's stash was sparse, but he found the fullest bottle in the back and drank a watered down glass of triple sec.
"Fine." Astarion sat up. "Finish on me."
Gale nodded and went back down on his knees. A hint of metal glinted at the tip of his cock. Gale had shown off his sex toy collection, which included a sounding rod, and Astarion thought he was going to pass out when he slipped it inside because no way that could possibly feel good. He was quickly proven wrong when Gale was reduced to an incoherent mess while he slid the rod in and out of himself as he . Now, his depraved darling rocked against his leg like a dog in heat with a rod up his cock, a plug up his ass, and Astarion's name on his tongue.
Gale pressed a sigh against the inside of his thigh, his eyes closing as he buried his face into the smooth skin around Astarion's spent cock. Astarion felt a soft inhale and he smirked. He'd been stoked to discover that Gale hadn't been lying about liking his musk.
"Is my dear boy enjoying himself?"
Gale nodded again, thrusting his cock into the tight circle of his fist. His hair tousled in Astarion's lap and Astarion gently stroked it, winding it in his fingers.
"Look at you. My pretty, needy thing." His voice was half teasing, half genuinely soft with wonder. When Gale tilted his head up, he lost himself in those deep brown eyes. No one had looked at him like that before. He was used to eyes glazed over with lust, unseeing. Eyes closed in the thick of pleasure. But not eyes wide with wonder like the ones under him. Like Gale's whole world narrowed onto him in that moment.
Gale climaxed with his cock twitching against Astarion's leg and pumps of cum leaking around the metal end. When he pulled out the rod, warm drops fell onto the floor and onto Astarion's bare feet. Astarion tutted.
"What a mess." He stroked Gale's hair again. "Are you going to clean it up?"
Still dazed, Gale looked around. His gaze drifted to the spot where his and Astarion's clothes lay in a crumpled pile on the floor. Astarion tugged at his hair again. He wouldn't let him go that far.
"Waste not, want not," he said.
Gale understood. He lowered himself and dragged his tongue across Astarion's ankle, licking up his own cum and chasing the trickle down to the floor. Astarion let him go and right away, Gale hauled himself up and dragged Astarion into a rough kiss. Gale licked across his teeth and bitter saltiness flooded Astarion's mouth as Gale pushed his cum down his throat. Astarion spluttered but fondness swept over him. Lately, he'd been seeing a newer side to Gale. He chalked it down to the strike and incoming pushback, but it set Gale on edge. It brought out a part of him that was crafty, ambitious, and sharp and Astarion wanted to cut himself on it. He was thrilled by it, wanted it, loved it all.
If this was love.
Gale collapsed beside him on the couch, head lolling onto the backrest. "How do I look?" he asked.
His hair was gloriously disheveled. His cheeks were splotchy pink and his chest was heaving, the orb tattoo rising and falling with his quick breaths.
Astarion snorted. "Do you really have to ask?"
"Well, yes, thank you—I mean, do I look presentable?"
Gale was thinking about the charity gala at Wyrm's Rock tonight. Astarion could take it or leave it, but he wasn't about to turn down a night out on the town, especially if it gave him an excuse to dust off his best clothes. And then there was the real reason for going.
It had taken him several weeks, a large order of materials, and a lot of experimentation, but he managed to do for the rest of their friends what he did for Gale. Five more vials of perfume were tucked away in Astarion's bag. He supposed he had to give Gale some credit. Gale told him about their friends, Astarion pieced the notes together, Gale double-checked his formulas. They made a good team, but the others' reactions would ultimately tell. At worst, this would be a batch of duds and he'd made plenty of those before. At best—well, he didn't know what came next but Gale would figure it out.
Astarion pressed a lazy kiss to Gale's shoulder, then throat. "You could use a shower. I hope you don't mind if I join in."
Gale raised an eyebrow. "As long as you don't peek when I get dressed."
Astarion fluttered his lashes comically. "A surprise present? For me? Darling, you shouldn't have." He fake-collapsed onto the couch, tackling Gale down with him. Gale's hands grasped his hips, squeezing as he pulled Astarion closer.
"What can I say? I'm nothing if not generous." Gale gave him a quick peck. "Do you have your presents?"
Astarion responded by crushing his lips against Gale's. He murmured into his mouth, sweet and sly.
"How could I forget?"
◈━◈━◈
Astarion didn't believe in the idea that beauty was pain. It was one of those things he never had to work for. A bit of product in his hair, concealer for his dark circles, and always—always—a touch of perfume. Looking good came to him effortlessly. Or it usually did, anyway. His nipples begged to differ.
It was November and his nipples were as hard as ice picks. Going shirtless under a too-thin suit jacket was, perhaps, not his biggest-brained move. His black ankle-length skirt and crew socks gave him more warmth and coverage when he stepped out of Gale's ancient Toyota Prius, but cold air bit his calves through the side slit in his skirt. He kept his arms folded over his chest as he and Gale walked into the Wyrm's Rock lobby and waited for the elevator to take them to the penthouse suite. His nipples were chafing and it was starting to get uncomfortable.
Gale was dressed in a much more sensible getup: a plum brown two-piece suit Astarion had never seen before and a lapel pin made up of metallic hexagons and connected lines—a molecule. He caught Astarion staring the pin after they stepped away from the coat check.
"The molecular structure of serotonin," he explained. "5-hydroxytryptamine." His finger traced the lines. "Serotonin molecules are linked by a series of hydrogen bonds between hydroxyl groups and amine nitrogen atoms."
Astarion straightened a minuscule wrinkle on Gale's collar. As he touched it, it gave off a whiff of rose, paper, and cedar. A smile, both amused and aroused, crept across Astarion's lips. "Why serotonin?" he asked.
"Because I'm happy to be here." Gale waved and Astarion turned around. He saw Lae'zel and Shadowheart in the crowd, Lae'zel pushing her way towards them with Shadowheart following closely behind.
"So you can clean up when you put your mind to it," Lae'zel said. Her kohl was a layer thicker and there were now a few braids in her hair.
"Come on, Lae'zel. Give him a little credit." Shadowheart swirled the can of wine spritzer in her hand. "And by him, I mean Astarion."
Shadowheart's sleeveless white dress swished around her heels. The dress was gorgeous, but it clashed with her black hair. Astarion made a mental note to meet up with her one of these days to finally get the bleach job done.
Gale cleared his throat. "I'll have you know I put this look together myself." He nodded towards Astarion. "As much as I appreciate your input and impeccable style."
Shadowheart snickered, but her expression softened. "Joking. You look great."
Gale returned the smile. "Glad to hear it. In fact, this might be the best I've looked all year."
When Shadowheart and Lae'zel left, Astarion whispered in his ear.
"I've seen you at the best you've looked all year. You didn't have any clothes on."
He saw Gale go red, squeezed his shoulder, and left to find the bar.
Astarion didn't count on any open bar to do a decent cocktail, so he ordered wine. The only red options were a cabernet sauvignon and merlot. As he waited for his glass of merlot, Wyll came up behind him.
"Astarion! I'm so glad you made it. Did you have any trouble getting here?"
"Barely. It's hard to miss Wyrm's Rock." Astarion glanced up at the red and yellow streamers overhead, picked to match the Flaming Fists' colours. "Nice place. It looks especially grotesque tonight."
Wyll didn't take offence, simply following Astarion's gaze up to the ceiling. "I won't lie, it looks different from how I remember it," he said. "But I haven't been here since I graduated high school seven years ago."
Astarion grimaced, remembering how much younger Wyll was than him. He tapped his fingers along the counter. "I could say the same about my own family home. We should swap stories."
"Wyll, could you come here for a second?"
A bald, solemn-looking man beckoned and Astarion recognized him instantly as Ulder Ravengard. He didn't bother saying hello. If the Ulder Ravengard wanted to talk to him, he would. "Hi Dad," he heard Wyll say as they stepped to the side.
The wine glass landed on the bar top and Astarion snatched it up. He strode several paces away from the bar, feigning interest in a plaque on a nearby wall. Behind him, Wyll and Ulder continued to talk.
"I didn't know you'd be bringing so many guests," he overheard Ulder say.
"They're guests, but they're my friends, too."
Astarion took his first sip of wine. It was flat and a little warm. He didn't know what he expected from the Flaming Fist, but he'd hoped for better. Ulder's voice travelled through the crowd again.
"Six is a lot. Are you sure your friends aren't taking advantage of you?"
"Dad, this isn't like last time."
"Don't bring her up, Wyll. Not here."
"That's all I had to say. I don't want to talk about Mizora either."
Astarion stepped back, doing his best to pretend he hadn't heard. Better to see and not be seen, especially if it meant scooping up delicious secrets in the process.
He cast his gaze around the room. Gale had found his way to their assigned table and he looked like he was supervising Shadowheart and Lae'zel's clearly captivating argument. The other guests were completely unremarkable. Astarion's eyes kept wandering back to Gale. He always listened so eagerly, carrying himself like a student and scholar rolled into one. He was especially handsome tonight. The colour of his suit flattered him tremendously. The contours of his face softened when he laughed at something Shadowheart said. His silky hair was combed back and tucked behind his ears, giving no indication that just hours ago, he was on his knees sucking Astarion's cock and licking his own cum off the floor.
Several guests passed by, briefly cutting off Astarion's view of the table. The man in the middle of the group was holding their attention like the sun juggling a couple of planets in orbit. He certainly had a show-stealing look.
A garishly patterned suit.
A comically upturned moustache.
A blue beret.
Astarion chugged the rest of his wine, slid his glass back to the bartender, and started moving, keeping close to the walls. The interviewer from Design Week was completely absorbed in conversation, though his head was on a swivel, no doubt looking for the elder Ravengard. His name was Volothamp, according to Cazador. He had to be some kind of event journalist or else a social climber, and Astarion had to kick him off before he hitched a ride on his coattails.
He slipped out the door to the event suite unnoticed. The elevators stood in front of him. A sign to the washrooms hung on the left. Astarion turned right, the soles of his twenty-dollar shoes clacking against the linoleum floor. The hallway curved sharply, ending at a side door. Astarion twisted the handle and pushed.
The fire escape spiralled down infinitely. There was nowhere to go but up. He started climbing.
He began to get lightheaded by the time he reached the next floor, but at least he was getting a workout in and getting as far away from that reporter as possible. When he pushed open the door to the rooftop and fresh, startlingly cold air hit him. The deck was sparser than he thought it would be. Chairs and umbrellas were folded up and the shrubbery was trimmed back for the winter. And he wasn't alone.
Karlach stood by the railing, taking in the view of the cityscape. Her sequinned red dress brought out the streaks in her hair and glittered in the dark.
"Karlach, what the hell are you doing? Get your ass back down to the party."
Karlach turned around with a huge smile. She didn't look like she needed space at all. "Astarion! Hey!" She motioned for him to come over and Astarion walked towards the railing. It was freezing. The wind ruffled his hair and he crossed his arms over his chest to hide his nipples, which were quickly stiffening again.
"You didn't answer my question," he said.
Karlach leaned against the rail as he settled in beside her. "I love parties, but this one's not really my thing, to be honest. I'm just here for Wyll." She looked down at their view of the street. "It's weird being around so many posh fuckers. Bet you're right at home, though."
Astarion followed her line of sight. A BMW pulled up to the lot and a few guests climbed out. "It doesn't take that much getting used to," he said. "Hard not to enjoy the good-looking people and libations."
Karlach sighed. "I don't know, man. I grew up dirt poor and all of this feels...excessive. But at least I got a beer before I came up here." She reached into the pocket of her leather jacket and produced a palm-sized box. She flipped it open and took a cigarette out of it, looking wistful. "I thought I was done with these."
Astarion reached forward, then paused, fingers hovering in front of her pack. "Do you mind?"
"Oh, sure!" Karlach held it out. "Never took you for a smoker, Astarion."
"I picked it up as a way to—" Astarion shook it off. Karlach didn't need that kind of baggage right now. "Unwind during law school," he offered.
Astarion helped himself to a cigarette. Marlboro Reds. He used to smoke the Golds. There were sixteen out of twenty left in Karlach's pack. Not a habitual smoker.
"Want a light?"
"Please, dear."
Karlach flicked her lighter on and Astarion watched the flame take.
He didn't like the effect cigarettes had. Staining his nails and teeth, ruining his sense of smell, leaving him with a permanent stink. But for old times' sake, he took a drag and coughed as it went down. It'd been years. He tried again, sucking the smoke back in and exhaling more slowly.
They watched the city below. Traffic buzzed up and down the streets. Apartment buildings twinkled along the skyline. He'd missed this, in a way. The camaraderie of bumming from someone else's pack, sharing a light, and watching the world from a corner for ten minutes.
"So. You and Gale, huh?"
Astarion blew smoke down. "What about it?"
"Come on. The way he looks at you every session. It's like you two have a secret." Karlach leaned closer. "Are you two...you know?"
"Fooling around? Going for a roll in the hay? Doing the devil's dance?" In spite of himself, Astarion bit back more euphemisms. He'd already told Dal. And despite having known Dal for years, he felt safer around Karlach. He thought about what it would look like to see Karlach beat Cazador into a pile of gore until the sound of laughter from the street pulled him back. "We are," he said.
"Yes! I knew it!" Karlach punched the air, then paused. "I mean, congratulations! When did you get together? How did you get together?"
Astarion took another drag. The smoke tasted tarry and absolutely filthy. "It happened last month. Took him for a date night and we made out at the club. You know Sharess?"
Karlach let out a low whistle. "Gale Dekarios at the club. Never thought I'd see the day he'd finally let loose. I haven't seen him this...alive in a long time." She ashed her cigarette, flicking the particles onto the floor. "We're not old friends by any means, but I was around when he and Mystra broke up."
Astarion pinched his cigarette between his fingers. "Did you ever get to meet Mystra?"
"Only once or twice. I guess we'll make that three times soon. Gale asked me to help him pick up his stuff once the divorce is done."
Astarion gestured up and down at Karlach's tall, well-built frame. "Of course. I mean, look at you."
She smiled. "Yeah, I guess. And he needs to borrow my pickup truck."
"But back to Mystra," Astarion said, trying to keep them on track. His curiosity had been piqued. "What's she like?"
Karlach watched the skyline. Her fingers stiffened as she rolled her cigarette between them. "She was really smart. Pretty. And pretty nice for the most part. But—don't tell Gale I said this—I thought their relationship was a little weird. I don't know if I'd call her controlling but he was completely whipped. If she was sick or had a bad day? D&D session cancelled. If she asked him to come home while we were hanging out? He'd up and leave. Happily. It would've been sweet if she reciprocated." Karlach took a drag. "I didn't see the breakup coming, but I'm not surprised she started it."
Astarion wasn't surprised either. He'd seen it too, at times; Gale's desperation to please him. "And how did he take it?"
Karlach shook her head. "Bad. We're talking didn't-leave-his-house-for-a-year bad. As far as I know, he went to work, came home, and did it all over again. He wrapped up our last campaign pretty quickly and didn't DM until, you know, two months ago. When we saw him in person again, he had a whole depression beard that he's still rocking."
The cigarette nearly fell out of Astarion's mouth. "Hold on, you're telling me Gale didn't always have a beard?"
"I know, right? It looks good on him." Karlach exhaled. "Long story short, that divorce destroyed him. I don't think he can take another heartbreak. He must've seen something special in you to give relationships another go." A warning edge entered her voice. "Don't fuck it up."
Karlach's cigarette smouldered in her grip, trailing smoke. The cherry glowed red, casting shadows along the strong angles of her face. This wasn't an idle threat. If Astarion hurt Gale, he knew she would break him bone by bone. Fear gripped him, more primal than the kind he was used to.
He lowered his gaze. "Yeah. Got it."
"There you are."
The door to the roof deck swung open. Astarion scowled. Clearly, Wyrm's Rock was no place for privacy. They turned around and Astarion recognized the figure approaching them.
Well above six feet tall. Broad-shouldered. Long brown hair. Kind eyes. Large and out of place in an urban environment.
"Halsin! Fuck yes, you're here!" Karlach opened her arms and in a few quick strides, Halsin folded her into what looked like a warm, tight hug. When they parted, Karlach shook her pack at him. "Want one?"
Halsin patted her on the shoulder. "If I'd known you'd be carrying a light, I would've brought my rolling papers. But none for me, thanks."
"Smart choice." Karlach beamed. "Guess what? Gale and Astarion are a thing now."
"Dating," Astarion clarified.
Halsin chuckled. "I go away and look what flourishes in my absence." Warmth crinkled along his eyes, but Astarion caught a second-long flash of concern. "For Gale's sake, more than just a romp, I hope?"
"Yes, but we romp plenty," Astarion said. The smoke made his voice huskier, which he liked. "Do you want to join us and see how much we enjoy each other?"
"Ooh, it's getting hot in here." Karlach laughed as she pulled off her jacket. For the first time, Astarion realized he was seeing her bare shoulders. Her arms rippled with muscle. Angular, almost tribal tattoos snaked down her left arm while on her right, raised veiny patches stretched over her shoulder, upper chest, and down to her elbow. The discolouration mottled her skin pink and red. Astarion's eyes widened. He was looking at third-degree burn scars.
"Jesus Christ. How did that happen?"
"Oh, these?" Karlach glanced down at her shoulder. "Occupational hazard. You don't get to be a firefighter without a few souvenirs." She grinned at Halsin. "You got any of your own, Halsin?"
"Just a sprained ankle from tripping in a bog. These weren't from work." Halsin pointed at the scars running across his face: three long, thin lines.
"What about you, Astarion?" Karlach asked, then paused. "Wait. I see something."
Astarion turned his shoulders away, trying to hold his cigarette up to block her view, but Karlach and Halsin had a height advantage. They were looking both at the base of his neck.
"It's nothing. It's just a birthmark," he muttered.
"It's an interesting shape, at least," Halsin said. "I've never seen one that resembles a crescent before. It looks a lot like an animal bite."
"That's the most interesting thing about it." Astarion took one last drag and exhaled sharply, not caring if smoke got in their faces. "We should get back. Before everyone else starts asking questions."
He put his cigarette out, nipping the cherry off between his thumb and forefinger, and slipped the remainder into his pocket. A little something for later. Karlach followed, crushing her cigarette butt under her foot.
When they came downstairs, Karlach went to find the bathroom, Halsin returned to their table for six, and Astarion went back to the bar to try out the wine spritzer Shadowheart was drinking earlier. Wyll was at another table, seated between his father and a woman in a long purple dress, but he kept turning around to wave at them. The reporter, Volothamp, was sitting in a far corner, lost in his own little world.
By the time Astarion made it back to their table, a pianist was playing on the stage. Gale made a face as Astarion sat down, clearly catching a whiff of the smoke on his clothes. He kept his eyes on the pianist.
"Interesting playing style," he whispered. "She's able to pass a melody between her hands very well but her shoulders seem tense."
Astarion cracked open his can. "You never told me you played the piano."
"I do. Or did. My piano's back at Mystra's. I used to be able to play Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Vivaldi." Gale glanced down at the spritzer. "Having some hair of the dog?"
Astarion brought the can to his lips. "It's not unheard of."
Karlach came bustling back to their table. She smelled like cigarettes and cheap hand soap and her jacket was back on. "God, I'm starving. Is there any food left?"
"You'll have to hurry," Halsin said. "Last I saw, there was barely any salad left."
Shadowheart craned her neck. "Seconded. I think they're about to bring out the desserts."
"No time to waste." Lae'zel was on her feet. One by one, the guests at their table got up and headed to the back of the room, ready to pick the buffet clean. Gale watched them go, tapped at his phone, then set it on the table and leaned in.
"Could you watch our stuff? I'll bring you a plate."
The corners of Astarion's lips twitched. "Any time, darling. And no thanks."
Gale stood and followed the others to the buffet table. Astarion took another sip from his can. He sat back and listened to the piano. He recognized the piece as Fauré's Après un rêve. Cazador loved classical music so he hated it on principle, but he made a few exceptions. He drank again. Notes of raspberry and blood orange washed over his tongue, sparkling and bright, while the notes from the keys floated over the room. Maybe Karlach was right. Maybe he was most at home in places like these.
Idly, Astarion took stock of what everyone had left behind on the table. Shadowheart had to have some interesting things in her black clutch. Eyeliner, one of those goth wallet chains, and a non-zero chance of incense. Karlach probably had another lighter somewhere. He wouldn't be surprised to find a pocket knife in Lae'zel's bag, the clever girl.
Gale's phone screen flashed as a notification popped up and Astarion's attention latched onto it immediately. Who was texting him on a Sunday night? Rolan? His mother? Mystra? He thought about how Karlach talked about her. From the sound of it, he adored her. Worshipped her. All Mystra had to do was call and Gale would answer.
Astarion stared at the black screen almost without blinking, contempt and envy clawing a cavity in his chest. She didn't get to order him around anymore. Tough shit. Gale was his now. If Gale didn't have the backbone to ignore her or say no, he did.
His hand hovered over the phone. Leave it. This is wrong, he thought. Then, Since when did I start caring about being wrong?
Astarion snuck a glance at the buffet table where the others were lined up. Their backs were turned, none the wiser. He could resist everything but temptation.
He turned the screen back on.
Astarion blinked, confused. He couldn't think of anything he'd done that would upset Gale and now Wyll. He pushed Gale's phone away and took another drink.
And then.
Ice flooded his veins, freezing his blood still. Gale had noticed. Of course he did. He commented on Astarion's drinking after their very first D&D session, but Astarion thought he'd done at least an okay job of hiding it since then. And the hiding was temporary. He'd always meant to quit and surely it would be easier now that he spent less time throwing back bottles of wine alone in his room. It was such a sad little habit, anyway.
Astarion panicked at the shallowness of his breath. He'd planned to handle this alone. He was used to working in the shadows and recovering from alcoholism, especially the functional kind, was usually a quiet affair. Usually, until Gale blew it wide open. Getting someone else involved was more than uncalled for. It was a violation of trust.
The three little words that ruled everything Astarion did repeated themselves. Trust no one.
Gale was the first one back. He returned with a small plate of caprese salad with cherry tomatoes and one dry-looking chicken skewer. As he sat down, he gave Astarion a smile, the fakest smile he'd ever seen. Astarion couldn't bring himself to fake a smile back. Gale faltered.
"Is something wrong?"
A beat of silence.
"If you're worried about me, it would've been nice of you to tell me to my face."
The pretence, the painfully polite front, came crashing down.
"It would've been nice of you not to snoop," Gale shot back. He collected himself. "I think I have reason enough to be worried. You haven't eaten a single thing since yesterday. But you had four drinks last night and the first thing you did when you recovered from your hangover was have another." Gale exhaled through his nose. "Sorry, two."
Astarion's throat tightened. "I know how much I can have at a time. I trust my own judgment."
"I usually do, too."
With a guilty set to his shoulders, Gale turned his attention back to the pianist.
The table filled up and pianist started a new song, one Astarion didn't recognize. Everyone else was talking about what they'd been up to that week. Gale's lectures, Shadowheart's patients, a laundry list of plants and animals Halsin had seen during his month away. Astarion barely heard and certainly didn't care.
At the start of the next song, Astarion got up, stalked to the nearest trash bin, held his can of spritzer over it, and let go. The heavy thunk of the mostly-full can dropping into the bin fell over the room.
When he sat back down, he didn't look at Gale.
The next half an hour crawled by. Ulder Ravengard took to the stage to a round of applause. Astarion was tapping his foot under the table. It wasn't the jittery agitation that came when he hadn't had something to drink for a while. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to go on a long run and to feel the rush of pain and adrenaline that came with his aching legs and being short of breath. He wanted to kick and fight and scream, though with the knowledge that whoever he lashed out at wouldn’t actually get hurt.
He thought about the glass vials in his pocket. It wouldn't take much to get up and leave, taking them with him. He could claim his headache had returned, excuse himself, and go back home where no one would keep score of the number of drinks he was having because it was his own damn business.
Astarion stared ahead as Ulder read off the Flaming Fists' donors. This could be him one day. Gathering support and sponsors would be drudgery, but a small price to pay in the end. He tried to imagine Minthara's voice in his ear. Get a hold of yourself. At least try to have some semblance of control.
He flinched suddenly. Those words could just as easily have been Cazador's. He refocused, repeating Minthara's voice until her low, gravelly tone drowned out Cazador's nasally whine. Better her voice than his. At least she would never be preachy.
And neither would he. That was the plan: he would get better, destroy Cazador, then take everything he had. The others wouldn't mind. Unlike Cazador, he wasn't out of touch. They'd see he was the better option.
It's us or them.
It's me or him.
Astarion felt a hand on his shoulder and jolted. The stage was empty. Gale's eyes came into focus. "We're heading out."
"Where?"
"McDonald's!" Karlach said. Everyone else at their table was packing up.
Astarion looked around at the other tables. The event was far from over. The goddamn journalist was still there. He met Shadowheart's gaze and mouthed 'why?'. Shadowheart shrugged. 'We're still hungry,' she mouthed back. Astarion got up. There were worse places to be.
Like Gale's car.
The ride to the nearest McDonald's was short but silent. The stereo was off and neither of them had said a word since Wyrm's Rock. The silence finally cracked at a stop light. Astarion felt Gale's eyes on him and looked to his side. The serotonin molecule pin on Gale's lapel reflected red.
"What are you looking at?" Astarion asked.
"You're quiet. It's unsettling."
Astarion fixed his eyes on the dashboard, waiting for the light to turn. "I'm fine," he ground out. And he was. He wasn't even buzzed. He'd be better off if Gale stopped trying to pry.
"I'm not asking whether you've had too much to drink, if that's what's bothering you."
Astarion was too tired to voice his anger at this point. He was used to being a disappointment. He disappointed everyone around him constantly, but letting Gale down felt different. It felt awful. He couldn't just brush it off like he did every other time.
"You know me, darling. I'm hardly bothered."
Gale's grip curled around the steering wheel. "I think you'll feel better once we get some food into you."
Astarion pressed his fingers to his temple. "Keep your eyes on the road," he snapped.
The light turned green.
The McDonald's was empty except for the staff behind the counter, who seemed barely surprised by the sight of seven adults in formal wear filing in through the doors. They split themselves across two tables. Wyll and Gale shared a box of nuggets, Shadowheart had a McFlurry, Lae'zel ordered off the all-day breakfast menu, and Halsin had an apple pie. Astarion balked at Karlach's double quarter pounder meal, then felt smug that he'd never let himself pig out like that. He ordered a large Coke Zero.
"Thanks for taking us out, Wyll," Shadowheart said.
Wyll laughed as Gale arranged the dipping sauce containers across the table in order of lowest to highest estimated pH. "To Wyrm's Rock or McDonald's?"
Lae'zel squirted salsa onto her breakfast burrito. "I think the answer is clear."
"Don't get me wrong, it was good to be back. And it was great to see my dad again." Wyll picked up a nugget. "But I'm starting to think I'm more at home with the rest of you."
A few aww's from Karlach and Shadowheart. Astarion focused on his cup, pushing down the buttons on the lid one by one clockwise. Chatter rolled around him.
"How much do I owe you?"
"I'll e-transfer you for my order."
"Don't worry, it's on me tonight."
"Wyll, you can't keep picking up the bill. I'm covering our next outing."
Karlach cut in. "Can I just say you're the bestest friends I could've asked for? I don't care where we go, it's always a good time with you lot." She took another bite of her burger. "God, it's good to be alive."
Halsin nodded. "You are definitely all a gift," he added.
"Fitting you should mention gifts," Gale said. He gave Astarion a cautious look. Astarion had a feeling that under every other scenario, Gale would've reached for his hand. "I think Astarion has something to say."
"I've brought a couple for you, my dears." Astarion aimed a gentle kick at Gale under the table. "Except for you, for putting me on the spot."
All eyes watched him as he reached into his pocket and took out the first vial. He went in order of the person sitting closest to him.
Shadowheart. A born-again church cult escapee. Mysterious but nowhere near as dark as brooding as she wanted to look. Gale tipped him off to the fact that orchids were her favourite flowers, so he tried to recreate the image of a purple cattleya orchid with notes of orchids, iris, blackcurrant, tonka, and patchouli.
Karlach sniffed as Shadowheart spritzed her wrists and neck. "That's what Hot Topic smells like," she said.
"Hot Topic doesn't have a smell."
"I'm sure it's the Platonic ideal of Hot Topic," Gale suggested. Shadowheart rolled her eyes, but a small smile spread across her face.
"I'm getting a lot of orchids, berries, and patchouli. Makes me smell like some kind of dark priestess." She looked pleased. "It doesn't smell like a Szarr perfume at all," she told Astarion. "I like this better."
Karlach. A firefighter, plain old fighter, and eternal optimist. She had a certain spark that reminded Astarion of cinnamon, bitter orange, sandalwood, and pink pepper.
"Smells like Christmas," Karlach said as she uncapped the lid of her vial.
"Interesting." Astarion winced. It had to be the combination of cinnamon and orange that gave her that impression. "Not what most people want to smell like."
"Are you kidding? It smells like my folks' home during the holidays. I love it," she gushed. "I'd hug you if you didn't hate hugs."
Wyll. A politician's son who (in Astarion's opinion, stupidly) cast away his inheritance for a life of social work. But something about that noble character was oddly sweet, so he threw together bourbon vanilla, praline, and guaiac wood.
Wyll gave his wrist a generous spritz and a faint woody scent filled the air. "It's very subtle," he remarked. "You said there's vanilla in this, too?"
Astarion slurped his Coke Zero. "Wait for it, darling."
They waited. Out of the woods (and backdrop of fryer oil) came a cloud of vanilla, warm, golden, and cashmere soft.
"I want to be wrapped in this forever," Karlach sighed.
"You could just say it reminds you of a hug," Halsin said.
Lae'zel. Only twenty-two but the most ruthless police recruit and D&D player in the city. Hers was a composition of ginger flower, dragon’s blood, nag champa, elemi, and musk that forced Astarion to air out his room for three whole days.
Karlach coughed as Lae'zel sprayed the inside of her elbow. "Holy shit, that's pungent," she wheezed.
"Hold on, Astarion, I don't think Lae'zel likes perfume," Shadowheart began.
Lae'zel held out her hand as if to shut her up. "Do not put words in my mouth." She brought her arm to her nose. Her nose was so tiny Astarion wondered whether its size affected her ability to smell but he knew she was smelling something pleasant when her tight features relaxed.
"It's true I don't care for perfume," she said at last. "But I wouldn't mind a candle scented like this."
Halsin. The wise biologist and, if Gale was to be believed, the most well-adjusted out of all of them. Astarion didn't know if Halsin was even going to be around for tonight's events, but the idea of making a garden in a bottle sounded like a fun challenge, which eventually sowed the seeds for a blend of eucalyptus, rosemary, thyme, vetiver, oakmoss, and labdanum.
Halsin spritzed a small portion on his wrists and started rubbing them together. Astarion's eyes widened.
"What are you—" Gale silenced him with a look that told him not to intervene, even if Halsin was ruining what Cazador would call Astarion's "artistic vision".
"Are these natural oils, Astarion?" Halsin asked.
"Nothing less, my dear." Sort of. Astarion was lucky Halsin's was the only composition made purely with essential oils.
"I thought so." Halsin inhaled appreciatively. "It smells much like the herbs in my garden."
Shadowheart put her McFlurry down. "Astarion, these are seriously good."
"That's what I've been trying to tell him," Gale said.
Astarion snorted. "Excuse me? I know I'm good."
Gale continued. "And it's why we've been trying to get his perfumery off the ground."
Lae'zel's head whipped around sharply. "You're starting your own perfumery?"
"What's it called?"
"Sunwalker."
"We haven't decided on a name yet. Or whether this perfumery's even going to be a thing," Astarion said quickly. "Honestly there's so much to do, I don't even know." It's just a flight of fancy, he wanted to say. An impossible dream. And even if it came to life, it would never see a fraction of Szarr's success. Not unless...
Shadowheart cleared her throat. "Do you have a logo yet? I can try drawing one."
Encouraging murmurs rose around her, too many to ignore. The space around them was a kaleidoscope of scent. Dizzying possibility. Astarion pushed his Coke Zero aside. His voice rose slightly.
"Can you now? Then get me a napkin."
He watched Shadowheart get up to grab one, then faced the rest of table. "Now, does anyone have a pen?"
Gale reached into a pocket, produced a ballpoint pen, and held it out. Astarion reached to take it and Gale's fingers darted back before they could meet.
Notes:
And so there's trouble in paradise. You didn't think this was going to be all sunshine and rainbows, did you?
It's been like a year since Neil's BAFTA outfit and I don't think I'll ever recover so I'm paying homage to it here. Karlach's dress is also based on Sam's BAFTA dress while Shadowheart's wearing the in-game Elegant Robe.
My favourite in-game friendship is Karlach's and Astarion's. Giant golden retriever woman + sneaky sphinx cat man = immaculate vibes and you're going to be seeing more of them. I can't wait to write more 1-1 scenes with the rest of the tadfools.
Update (1/15/25): After eight years, my laptop had the audacity to die this week, which means Chapter 14 will be postponed until next week. Thanks for waiting!
Perfume inspo: Orphéon by Diptyque
“Paying tribute to this era and to creative friendships, the bar is immortalised in the olfactory portrait that bears its name: Orphéon. Freeze frame: plumes of tobacco smoke mingle with powdery trails of blusher, lingering on burnished wood. At the heart of the composition is the atmosphere of that unforgettable place, recognisable through the warmth of the tonka bean, the depth of cedar and the vivacity of juniper berries.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 14: Palmarosa
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied alcoholism
- Implied disordered eating
- Non-con wax play
- Suicidal thoughts
- Mentions of self-harmThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion liked rock. He was a respectable late-thirty-something. According to his Spotify Wrapped, his most played artists were Nine Inch Nails, Depeche Mode, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers if he was in a good mood. The baselines swallowed him whole, pummelling him with feedback, noise, and rhythm. It was an electronic racket, steel-edged and assertively uncompromising.
And it gave him something to drown out his rage to while running.
The gym closest to the Szarr office had three floors, with the cardio room on the third. Unfortunately, the immaculately polished reception area, sauna, and hot yoga studio didn't change the sweaty equipment and the fact that the place was always crowded before 7 pm.
Working out at the gym annoyed Astarion, but not as much as Gale did these days. In addition to Astarion's drinking, he'd also started to get on his case for vaping ("It's got propylene glycol. Propylene glycol? The stuff in antifreeze?") and trying to feed him whenever they met. In just the last week alone, Dal ended up with more food on her desk than she could eat and while she raved about Gale's potato salad, lasagna, and chocolate muffins, the effort left a sour taste in Astarion's mouth.
Alright, Astarion thought. Alright. Point taken. And he would show Gale how alright he was, starting by revving up the treadmill at night.
With a tap, the opening riffs of Ghost's "Dance Macabre" blasted through his earbuds. He attached the safety clip to the waistband of his shorts, powered on the machine, and broke into a sprint.
You'll soon be hearing the chime
Close to midnight
If I could turn back the time
I'd make all right
How could it end like this?
There's a sting in the way you kiss me
Something within your eyes
Said it could be the last time
'Fore it's over
Astarion's heartbeat thudded through his chest and throat and sweat began to bead along the back of his neck. While his footsteps fell in time with the beat, he reached forward and raised the incline.
The city skyline was pitch black and the gym floor was empty, leaving Astarion with only his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window for company. He saw himself running in time to music no one else could hear. In the glass, he looked haggard, out of breath, and exhausted. With some bitterness, he wondered whether this was how Gale saw him.
Fuck that. What he was doing now was leagues above drinking alone in his apartment again. Gale should be proud.
Astarion raised the inclined further. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and ignored it. A part of him wanted to laugh—if only Gale knew the half of it. If he knew what drove him to drink. It wasn't like he chose this in the first place. It was a better alternative to sleepless nights interrupted by cold sweats, nightmares, and flashbacks. And at least he wasn't Petras, who was (allegedly) a cokehead also hooked on poppers, which would explain why he was as braindead as he was ugly.
In any case, he was trying to be better. He deserved at least some credit for that. One less drink, one less puff, one more kilometre on the treadmill at a time.
Astarion's workout playlist ended after half an hour and so did the run. He checked the distance and calorie calculator on the treadmill display and scowled. He stepped off the belt and onto the floor, stood with a wobble, and pulled his phone out.
A minute later, his phone rang and Astarion pressed it to his ear.
"Yes?"
"Hi, love," he heard Gale say. "If I recall correctly, you had a background in law prior to perfumery."
Since that at Wyrm's Rock, it was as if a light cold fog had settled between them. Gale's voice was loving as always, but without depth. Astarion pushed his curls out of his eyes as he grabbed his water bottle from the treadmill. He wandered over to the leg press machine and sat down, leaning back against the bench. "What about it?"
"I have my first hearing next week and I can't make heads or tails of what I need to do before then."
On the other end of the line, he heard the sound of a page turning. Astarion wiped his neck with the hem of his tank top, briefly admiring the flash of abs he caught in the mirror on the opposite wall.
"This is about the divorce, isn't it?" he asked. "I dabbled in criminal law so unless you or Mystra have done something naughty, I'm no expert."
"Neither of us have—I think. I just need your brain for a moment. And a smidge of moral support."
Another gymgoer climbed up the stairs to the third floor. She had shaved sides, several piercings, and a stinkeye aimed straight at Astarion when she realized he was on the phone. Fortunately, she decided to keep her mouth shut and boarded the elliptical. Astarion went back to watching his reflection in the mirror.
"Oh dear. Is your big scary attorney asking you to appear in court?"
"He can be a little frightening," Gale admitted. "Sometimes I question whether his tactics are underhanded, but I can't complain if it's all supposed to work out in the end. I just wish he'd be less evasive." He sighed. "Please, tell me what to expect."
Astarion took several gulps from his water bottle. He'd emptied two electrolyte packets into it and the sickly sweet tang of berry-flavoured stevia coated the inside of his mouth.
"It's simple, really," he said. "Be ready to discuss visitation, alimony, who owns what, restraining orders—that's always fun. Remember, whatever happens at this point, it's temporary."
"Temporary," Gale echoed. "That's a relief."
"It's only an hour of torment. Make sure you clean up, by the way. It helps to look unbothered."
"A tall order, but I'll try my best."
The girl on the elliptical shot Astarion another dirty look. He huffed, check the weights on the machine (five kilograms), and placed the soles of his sneakers against the foot plate. He pushed.
"You're not afraid of seeing her again, are you?"
Static crackled. "I'm not afraid of Mystra herself, no. It's the whole set of circumstances. It's all..."
Gale trailed off. The only sounds Astarion could hear were the swish of the elliptical and iron pumping beneath his feet, dragging out slow and steady.
"Fucked?"
Like that, some of the fog lifted. Gale laughed, a real laugh, the kind he made whenever he heard someone say something clever. One Astarion hadn't heard in a while.
"When my own words fail me, you always seem to have the mot juste," Gale said. "Can I ask one more thing from you?"
Astarion bent his knees and slowly lowered the weight towards his body. Once his legs reached a right angle, he drove the weight back up.
"Go on?"
"Find me after the appointment. If you're willing."
Astarion placed his feet higher and wider on the footrest. He rotated his hips outwards, keeping his knees in line with his toes. He pushed, repeating the movement three times, then got up to add on another five kilograms, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder.
"Cavalry's coming, darling. I'll be there."
◈━◈━◈
The two espressos in the coffee cup holder rattled and Astarion's shins burned. And his calves. And his quads. Last night's workout was amazing, but he was now sore and more irritable than usual. When Aurelia motioned to get his attention, he rolled his eyes but set the coffee down on the counter and stepped behind the reception desk.
"What do you want?"
"What do you think?" Aurelia held up her phone and played a YouTube short. They watched a young woman with auburn hair show off a floor-length green dress for the camera. "We got our creator. Firellia Jannath. Beauty and fashion influencer. She's on YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram. I've watched all of her videos and she sounds like a really nice person. Good track record, no controversies, never been cancelled for anything."
Astarion squinted at the screen. "Wasn't she the one who had a nasty breakup with Oskar Fevras? That artist? They were engaged."
"Well, he got caught saying he was going to marry her for the money." Aurelia swiped over to the next short. "If we do a brand deal with her, everyone's going to be rooting for her to get her bag. Good for her, good for Szarr."
"A pretty face never hurt either. Too bad we're going to drag her down with us." Astarion watched Firellia do a get ready with me. He noticed a humble perfume collection in the backdrop. "Does Cazador approve?"
"He doesn't do social media but he perked up once he heard she was a Jannath."
"So they've got history."
"Cazador won't have anything less. I've done my part, though. You're handling the rest from now on."
Astarion made a disapproving noise. "Any pointers on how to proceed?"
Aurelia scoffed. "You can't be serious. If I didn't get any support with finding Firellia, you don't get to ask for pointers."
Astarion tore away and picked up the coffee cup holder. "Helpful as always," he said. He started walking, taking the path straight under the chandelier.
"Don't mess this up for me," Aurelia called after him.
Astarion rounded the corners of the hallway. No one was leering at him from the kitchen or behind a door this time. Every head he passed was bowed deep in concentration and under unfathomable pressure. The release of Black Mass consumed them. He'd seen the preparations: the forecasting, the materials budget, the design mockups, the latter of which was the only thing he really cared about. Violet had always been a massive bitch but she brought his work to life beautifully, rendered in black edges and thin gold lines.
When he reached Cazador's office, he lifted his hand and knocked the familiar rhythm against the door.
Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock knock. Pause. Knock knock.
"Enter."
Like he did every day, Cazador sat motionless at his desk with Vellioth's portrait hanging behind him. A candle flickered by his left elbow, filling the office with the scent of tuberose. The shroud of white flowers rising to meet cold, stale air reminded Astarion of a funeral home bouquet.
As he placed an espresso cup in front of Cazador, Astarion cast his gaze around the room. Since his meeting with Minthara, he had begun to look at the Szarr office through new eyes, as if someone had let the light in after a century of keeping the curtains closed. Every object and piece of furniture became a weapon in his mind. He could bash Cazador's head against the edge of his desk. Throw his order of hot coffee over him. Drip honeyed words and keep the poison tucked behind his back.
Cazador snapped his fingers and Astarion sat down.
"Aurelia's made an interesting find," Cazador began. "What do you know about the Jannath family?"
Astarion didn't respond. Honestly, he didn't know anything, but that ignorance worked to his advantage for once.
"You didn't do your research. Typical." Cazador's fingers clenched around the cardboard sleeve. "They're mine owners. They had a politician in their family tree. They are not easily impressed."
Astarion nodded absently. He had to be careful about how he reacted. He made a goal of learning to control the muscles in face better. "Have we done this before?" he asked.
Cazador's lip curled. "We have designed scents for nobility dating back two hundred years. It seems you need a reminder of our history as well."
"I suppose I do." Astarion lowered his gaze. He tried to avoid looking at the cognac on the desk. The level of alcohol in the bottle had stayed the same since Design Week. "We must have had some kind of procedure for this, then. Do we have any letters? Communication between us and our patrons?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I'd like to see some examples."
A dangerous glint entered Cazador's eyes. "You wish to access the records?"
A million words lodged themselves in Astarion's throat. Reasons, excuses, lies. The only one that managed to come out was the truth. "Yes," he said.
The glint spread into a flare and Astarion knew Cazador was being battered by a wave of conflicting emotions. Angered by his audacity. Thrilled by the chance to manipulate. And then it was gone, replaced with cool indifference.
"Remember what you said you would do if you wanted something."
"I remember," Astarion agreed. "Anything."
Without hesitation, he slipped out of his chair and onto his knees. He wet his lips, readying himself for the task ahead. He looked up and smiled, charming and disarming. It disgusted him, but it was half genuine. It was starting to get easier to predict what Cazador expected of him.
He placed a hand on Cazador's knee, sliding it towards his thigh, trying to focus on the feeling of the wool trousers under his fingertips. Cazador grabbed his wrist roughly, pushing it away and knocking him off balance. Astarion managed to catch himself with the flat of his palm, which stung against the rug.
"Unimaginative creature," he spat. "But I suppose you can't help but do what you've been told." Cazador waited until Astarion regained his composure, kneeling on the ground with his hands folded in his lap. "Let this be today's lesson," he said. "Starting from its very inception, the House of Szarr accompanied each commission and gift with a personal, written message, an art lost to the sands of time, I'm afraid."
He relinquished his grip on the coffee cup. "You will write the Jannath girl a letter. You will use good quality paper and ink. You will pay attention to your handwriting—none of that infernal scratch. You will use the right salutation and watch your tone. And when you are done, you will take my ring and seal it."
Cazador extended his hand to display the ring on his index finger. Astarion didn't move. As with all things Cazador owned, he was allowed to look, but not touch.
"Go on, boy. Take a closer look. Feel it." Cazador took Astarion's hand and placed it over his, his long thumb holding Astarion's fingers in place. The metal was cold, barely warmed by Cazador's body. The sharp curves of the band sloped around Cazador's finger. "See, that's better," Cazador said. "It has been in our family for centuries. Sterling silver and pigeon blood ruby, worth half of your yearly salary. Now let me demonstrate. I'm sure I have wax around here somewhere."
With the grip of his thumb still tight over Astarion's fingers, Cazador pulled a drawer open and took out a stick of red wax. He lowered the wick into the candle flame and waited until it took. Astarion watched the lit end of the stick grow soft and wet as the wax melted around it, the sheen reflecting the candlelight. Cazador continued to peer into his drawer, clearly looking for something.
"Wax but no paper," he noted drily. "Shame. I'll have to ask Leon to order some more card stock. In the meantime, we can use a different medium."
Before he could register it, the wax cylinder descended on the back of Astarion's hand. He barely had time to scream, his eyes wide and fixed on the flame burning a hair's breadth away as hot wax spread over his skin. It burned, followed by a dull ache as Cazador pressed his knuckle against Astarion's hand, the sharp edges of his ring digging pinpricks into the molten wax. Astarion hissed, his breath coming out in quick and shallow pants as Cazador blew out the wick.
The imprint left behind was a perfect circle bordered by tiny diamonds in a pool of red. As Astarion watched the wax cool on his skin, still frozen in shock, Cazador admired his work.
"It takes some pressure to leave a clean imprint," he said. He let go of Astarion's hand and held out his own, waiting. "Commit it to memory."
The finger wearing the ring raised slightly. Astarion bent forward. His vision filled with Cazador's pale skin and the veins running through it. His teeth touched silver and his lips closed over the ruby.
With any luck, he would be the one wearing it soon.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion exhaled a puff of vapour, which blew back onto his face on a blue raspberry and mint-scented breeze. The bench a block away from the courthouse was slightly damp. Five more minutes until Gale would be done. He didn't care that Gale would smell and taste the vape juice on his breath. He was trying to be in a good mood for him—the keyword, again, being trying.
His thumb moved erratically, fidgeting between apps on his phone, waiting until he received the text from Gale. He checked Instagram, watched a reel of Lucretious's Last Days covering the murder of some Franc Peartree, and looked up Firellia's profile. It was beautifully curated. She clearly had taste and a strong artistic sense. She was too good for the House of Szarr.
He flicked over to his messages. He scrolled past the Szarr Squad chat (where he must have missed hundreds of texts at this point) and tapped on the D&D group.
Astarion tapped away from the conversation. A bizarre cocktail of envy and pity washed over him. Gale was good (too good) at pretending that nothing was wrong. Astarion had a hunch it had something to do with injured pride. It was a familiar feeling. Took one to know one.
He'd try to be on his best behaviour today. Gale deserved that much.
A notification flashed on the screen with a buzz. It was time.
It was another grey Friday. Astarion's scarf scratched against his chin as he ducked under a low branch. The trees lining the sidewalk were spindly and bare and the Prius was parked at the end of the street. The high beams flashed at him, on, then off. Astarion climbed into the passenger side of the car.
"Hello, you."
"Salutations."
Gale switched off the engine. Condensation fogged up the front and rear windows. Frost had collected on the sides of the windshield. They sat quietly. A pen rested against Gale's lower lip, where it had been since the moment Astarion got into the car. He wasn't chewing. It sounded like it had pained him to speak. Astarion shifted in his seat.
"So, how did it go?"
Gale removed the pen cap from his mouth. "Logistically, just fine. Our assets and living arrangements have been sorted for now. I've never been more glad to be childless. Besides," he let out a weak laugh, "I'm not sure I'd consider myself father material."
"What's your relationship to Tara, then?"
"She's my friend."
Another minute passed in silence. Two minutes. The city came and went quietly around them: the rush of tires, the beep of the pedestrian crosswalk. Astarion rubbed his thumb across the back of hand where Cazador had branded him. The wax peeled and flaked off quickly, leaving no trace, but the image of Cazador and his ring was seared into Astarion's mind. Gale didn't notice, or pretended not to notice. If this thing they had together was already falling apart, it was doing so in spectacular, excruciatingly slow fashion.
Just before the three-minute mark, Gale's phone rang. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and gestured with it.
“My mother.”
Before Gale could say hello, a loud flurry came from the phone. Even though it was muffled against Gale's ear, Astarion could hear the tone on the other end, agitated and gripped with worry.
“I’m fine.” Gale raked a hand through his hair. “No, I found the terms to be quite reasonable.”
Another ripple of noise. Astarion watched a couple emerge from a café outside the car window. The woman handed the man her cup of coffee.
"This was just the first court date. Two more to go." Gale made a sound halfway between a snort and a chuckle. "I guess you could put it that way."
The woman untied a leash from around a rail. A dog bounded up and the couple laughed. They started down the opposite way. Something grazed Astarion's elbow and he flinched.
"Yes, actually. Astarion's with me right now. Would you like to say hello?"
Astarion looked down to see Gale's fingers moving back. They exchanged a quick glance. When Astarion nodded, Gale tapped the speaker button. A woman's voice came from the phone.
"Hello?"
Astarion leaned forward. "Hello, Mrs. Dekarios."
"Hello?" The voice was mellow and fluid; lovely. "One second, please—my god, Gale, turn on your camera, I can't see anything."
Astarion tapped the video icon while Gale shook his head and smiled. At the same time his own face appeared in the corner, a woman blinked into view on the screen. She had long waves of dark hair with thick streaks of grey and deep-set, hooded brown eyes. Gale's eyes.
As soon as she saw him, Morena smiled warmly. With a flutter in his chest, Astarion recognized that smile as well.
"Astarion?" she asked. "It's so good to finally meet you! I had to make sure Gale was speaking properly when he first told me about you."
Gale leaned over to make himself seen and Astarion held the phone between them. Gale gave a short, quick wave. "I had to remind her your name's Astarion. With an 'a' in the middle, not an 'e', right, mum?"
"Yes, but I would have believed you if you said he was a river god. He's very handsome."
Gale blushed and Astarion felt heat rise along his neck as well, though he couldn't tell whether it was from pride or embarrassment.
"You told her about me?" he asked.
"Of course he did!" From out of frame, Morena picked up a pair of glasses and put them on. "Gale tells me everything. About his classes, his friends, Tara, and that witch. And you. Every time he calls me, he starts talking about you instead of what he's doing. But Gale, πρέπει να φάει κάτι. Δεν νομίζεις ότι είναι πολύ αδύνατος;”
"Mum."
"Φαίνεται κουρασμένος. Και είναι πολύ χλωμός. Πω πω, τον καημένο. Είναι καλά;"
“Mum.”
“I’m just saying.” The ‘j’ sounded like a ‘dz’, soft against her teeth.
Astarion cleared his throat. "Well, if I'd known I was going to meet the lovely Mrs. Dekarios today, I would've found us some better lighting."
Morena clucked her tongue. "Don't call me Mrs. Dekarios. It makes me feel old. Call me mum, mom, mama, whatever you want."
Astarion thought about it. "How about Morena?"
"Morena it is." She beamed. "Do you have family? You should come over for Christmas."
"As long as you don't mind the company," Gale said. "The Dekarios clan is spread far and wide. And rather large."
Astarion had spent his last few Christmases alone at home, or worse, at the bar with all the other lonely losers getting drunk precisely to forget that fact. He grinned. "A personal invitation? How could I say no?"
"Wonderful!" Morena peered at the screen and tapped at it. Her thumb covered the camera for several seconds. When she reappeared, she said, "I just added you to our guests next to Mr. Jergal. Do you remember the βιβλιοθηκάριος—the librarian?"
Gale nodded. "Didn't you say he visits for lunch?"
"Every Sunday. Ah, thank you for reminding me. I'm going to deliver some leftovers to him before he goes to bed and I forget. He's very old. I have no idea how he even walks all the way to our house with those bad knees."
Astarion shot Gale a sly look. Gale snorted.
Morena waved. "Gale, φροντίστε τον, okay? I'll call you back. Give Tara her arthritis medicine and make sure she doesn't escape outside. She got fat after she ate those pigeons. Σ'αγαπώ."
“I will, mum. Κι εγώ σ'αγαπώ.”
Morena's face disappeared from the screen and the line went quiet. Gale tucked his phone back into his pocket and slouched against his seat.
"There she goes. The inimitable, sometimes unavoidable, Morena Dekarios."
"Did she call Mystra a witch?" Astarion asked. He felt himself smirk. "I like her already."
Gale cracked a tiny smile back. "I think she likes you, too. It's more than could be said for Mystra. She and my mother never got along."
"I can't imagine why."
They fell into another silence, then Gale shattered it.
"Do you ever think about dying?"
Astarion turned, stunned, snapped out of his congealed state.
"Normally, we keep dirty thoughts like that to ourselves," he said. He saw the despair that crossed Gale's face, swore quietly, and backtracked. "Sometimes. Why?"
Gale remained silent. Astarion waited for the reproach. (He should be thinking about dying. He was destroying his lungs and liver. His body was one bad day from shutting down and Gale didn't want to lose him.) None came. Instead, Gale breathed in.
"Today was the first time I saw Mystra in almost a year. We sat across from each other during the hearing and when I turned to look at her, I remembered." He was staring straight ahead. "I remembered how tired I was of feeling like a burden. Tired of feeling awkward trying to rekindle something that she didn't want to rekindle. Tired of feeling like I had a lot of love to give and that I was silly for wanting it to go somewhere."
Gale gnawed on his bottom lip. Astarion's own grip drifted towards the back of his hand, as if to brace himself. His thumb resumed tracing circles.
"I saw it again today, that look that she used to give me when I was being too much. Too enthusiastic, too moved by something I read or heard or saw, too interested, too worried. I felt like I was always in the red with her in some way, that I was always making up for something I did or said. It doesn’t help that I made a lot of mistakes, I own that. But being cast aside not because I didn't do enough, but because I didn't do it right. Being an object of pity. I couldn't live with that."
Astarion stopped rubbing the back of his hand. He didn't have it in him to offer Gale a comforting touch. He seemed so fragile, like even looking at him the wrong way would break him.
"What's done is done. You don't have to think about your past mistakes," Astarion said stiffly. His words fell, flat and offensive and useless in his own ears. "But it was very brave of you to face your demons." Braver than me. Braver than I'll ever be.
Gale's shoulders relaxed. "You're right," he said. "I shouldn't be dwelling on her when I have us to look forward to." He looked down. "You must know by now that you're very special to me. I wish I'd said this sooner, under different circumstances." He looked back up. Those eyes, brown and beautiful, brimmed with emotion. "I'm in love with you."
Astarion felt the blood drain from his face. He should've been but wasn't happy—he was heartbroken. It was sad and awful and he always knew he was going to hate this part, even though he knew those words were coming one day, saw them coming from a mile away. Please don't, he wanted to say. Don't say you love me, I'm not going to say it back. He didn't remember love. He didn't know what to do with love.
But god, why was his heart suddenly pounding? Why could he feel his pulse in his wrists and neck?
He responded in the only way he knew how. He leaned over, cupped the side of Gale's face, and met his mouth with a kiss. Gale's lips were chapped, Astarion's breath was dry in his own mouth, and he hoped Gale would read the gesture as his feelings returned. When they parted, Astarion felt torn open, like his heart, raw and bloody, was in pieces between their teeth.
"Let's go home."
◈━◈━◈
The kettle whistled. Just beyond the kitchen, the shower ran behind the bathroom door. Gale had refused dinner, sex, and even a documentary watching marathon. He tried to reassure Astarion that a shower and sleep was all he needed, but Astarion wasn't convinced.
Tara sat by the kitchen counter, watching Astarion while he flung open the kitchen cabinets in search of a mug. Most of Gale's mugs were in the sink, unwashed and ringed with tea and coffee stains. He grabbed a clean and extra tall one with the rules of English grammar and punctuation printed all over it. He glanced at Tara.
"Is he like this when I'm not around?"
Tara chirped quietly.
"I'm not good at being a shoulder to cry on. What should I do?"
Tara blinked.
"I'm taking suggestions."
Tara got up and padded towards her food bowl.
"Useless cat," Astarion said, but he couldn't resist giving her a scratch between her ears while she chewed on her kibble. He pried open a tin of decaf earl grey tea bags and dropped one into the mug. He watched the tea bag steep like ink in water and smelled malty black tea and bergamot oil rising on wisps of steam.
The bathroom door clicked open. The scent of earl grey faded and lavender and sandalwood took over. Astarion looked up. Gale's wet hair hung loosely around his shoulders. He was wearing purple flannel pants and a Muse band tee.
"Hello, handsome." Astarion spread his arms and Gale walked towards him, sagging against him like dead weight. "Feeling better?"
"Somewhat. A shower's always a nice little pick-me-up." Gale rested his head against Astarion's shoulder and stared at the steaming mug on the counter. "You made me tea."
"Yes, I did."
"It's earl grey."
"Very observant, darling. Now stop gawking and drink up."
Gale obeyed, taking the mug in his hands. They returned to Gale's room. Astarion felt a weight brush along the back of his heel and Tara darted between them. The bedroom was cool and dark and Gale turned on the nightlight, casting a faint amber glow along the walls. The place was messier than usual except for Gale's desk, which was pristine. Sitting on it was a manila folder.
"What's that?"
Gale climbed into bed. "My documents for the discovery process. Go ahead and take a look. I've got nothing to hide. In fact, I could even use your input." He tilted his chin towards the side. "Pens and paper are over there."
Astarion undid the loops of string and sat at the foot of the bed. Most of the documents were dull: tax returns and bank statements he didn't care to read. One sheet of paper was printed with the logo of the scales of justice and 'Karsus Law Corporation' in large text.
"That's just there for safekeeping. An invoice from my attorney," Gale explained. "Raphael. Funny fellow, does his job well. I wish his rates weren't so high, but he has excellent reviews."
Astarion snuck a peek at the numbers and nearly did a double take.
"Ten thousand dollars for the initial retainer? God. I don't care if he pisses gold, he's bleeding you dry." He whirled around. "Did you find him yourself? Who set you up with him?"
Gale's hands closed around his mug of tea. He didn't seem half as indignant as Astarion wanted him to be. "He came at Mystra's recommendation."
"Of course he did." Astarion shoved the invoice back into the folder. "I'm going to find you another one."
He flicked over a couple more financial statements and printed emails. Another document caught his eye. Judging by the layout, it was an academic paper.
"I see you found my very first publication," Gale said. "I co-authored it the year I graduated from high school."
Astarion glimpsed the citation. Aumar, E. Dekarios, G. "Metabolic and gene expression controls on the production of biogenic volatile organic compounds." Journal of Molecular Catalysis B, Enzymatic, 66 (1–2) (2004), pp. 15-32.
"2004." Astarion did the math. "You were—"
"A prodigy," Gale muttered. "I'm aware. I have a bit of a love-hate relationship with that word."
"You were fifteen." Dread settled in Astarion's stomach and began to churn. "Gale. You were fifteen when you met Mystra."
"And she was twenty-three. Do you think I haven't had time to think about those ramifications?"
Astarion nearly tossed the folder back onto the desk. He had seen more than be bargained for. He felt ill and unsteady, but put on a brave face and slipped under the covers next to Gale. They lay there side by side, still except for Tara pacing around the bed. Astarion spoke first.
"Are you still thinking about dying?"
"If I'm being fully honest, I don't think there's ever a time when I'm not thinking about dying," Gale admitted. "It's always there, that nagging thought. I could be making dinner, reading, taking a shower, or lying in bed as I am now and the urge to simply not exist worms its way into me." Astarion's breath hitched and Gale turned towards him. "You needn't worry. It's more intrusive than anything. More irritating than anything." He carried on. "Sometimes, while looking at the ceiling, I see several feet of water above me as I picture myself drowning. Most of the time, I picture a knife pointed right at my chest. The tip hovering here."
Gale placed a finger over the centre of his tattoo, a circle of uninked skin. Astarion rolled over onto his side, taking in the sight of it half hidden by his t-shirt collar.
"Are you finally going to tell me about it or is it going to stay a mystery forever?"
Gale stirred lightly next to him.
"It started as a silly little thing Mystra and I came up with while planning our last campaign. The design was meant to represent Netherese magic. I decided to commemorate it a week after I was served those papers." Gale splayed his hand over his chest. "I picked this spot because it's always been a site of discomfort. Getting a tattoo right below the collarbones is a place that's more...unpleasant than most. It took two hours. It felt like the artist was tracing a lit match on my skin a few seconds at a time. Every once in a while, we would hit a nerve ending but eventually, it started to feel like one long, continuous cat scratch." Gale paused to pet Tara, who had leapt onto his side of the bed. "And I liked it."
Astarion tensed. "The pain, you mean?"
Gale nodded.
"Did you feel like you deserved it?"
"In a way." Gale sounded uncertain. "But more than that, if only for a moment, one kind of pain drowned out the other. It was a brief respite."
"I know the feeling." The bitterness in Astarion's voice wasn't lost on him.
Tara climbed over Gale's head, her tail swishing over his eyes. He barely blinked.
"Have you ever walked to the edge of a great precipice and shuddered at how easy it would be to step over? For months, I've felt like I was walking that edge. So many times, I thought about finding comfort in that void."
Astarion's throat tightened. He wanted to commiserate. While walking to work, the thought of standing still in the middle of the road and simply waiting occurred more often to him than not. He also found that he wasn't terribly afraid the idea of never waking up again after blacking out. They were both in the gutter, but at least they were there together. It was a small comfort.
They watched the ceiling, the shadows on the walls only shifting with Tara's movements.
"Thank you," Gale said.
Astarion's brow scrunched. "For what?"
"For reminding me what living can feel like."
Tara settled between them, curling into a tight ball. Cautiously, Astarion placed a hand on her. He caught the twinkle in Gale's eyes as he began to gently stroke her soft fur.
The fog was gone. The night was clear.
Astarion's throat tightened. "Did I hear you right? When you said you loved me?"
"You did."
Everyone's favourite line, Astarion wanted to say. He changed course. "Do you mean it?"
"I'm many things to many people, but I'm never a man to throw the l-word around lightly." Gale smiled faintly. "I said exactly what I meant. I love you. You should never, never doubt that."
The squeeze around Astarion's throat threatened to choke the words from him. "And if I can't say it back?"
"As long as you feel it too, it doesn't matter to me. I'd like to hope a bond like ours hardly needs words to express it."
The chokehold loosened. Something that felt a lot like adoration took its place, though it was equally as suffocating.
Astarion tossed his head back. "If it helps, I think you're magical, darling."
"I was hoping you'd say that." Gale reached over and squeezed Astarion's hand, closing the spaces between their fingers. He heard it, silent and deafening. Stay with me.
And Astarion did.
He watched the rise and fall of Gale's chest grow slow. When Gale's hold on his hand slackened and his eyelids closed, Astarion slid to his feet, careful not to disturb Gale and Tara. He sat in Gale's desk chair.
The myth of Gale Dekarios, the man who had everything, was everything, was snuffed out. But Astarion only had burdens, addictions, and a legion of skeletons in his closet. He had nothing to give him.
Not until he made something. And from now on, everything he made would be for the both of them.
Astarion scooted forward, picked up a pen and sheet of paper from the side of the desk, and began to write.
Notes:
Translations from Greek to English are below. I'm not Greek nor do I know Greek, so if you catch any inaccuracies, let me know and I'll be more than happy to change them.
πρέπει να φάει κάτι. - he needs to eat something.
Δεν νομίζεις ότι είναι πολύ αδύνατος; - Don't you think he's too thin?
Φαίνεται κουρασμένος. Και είναι πολύ χλωμός. - He looks tired. And he's very pale.
Πω πω, τον καημένο. - Oh, the poor thing/poor boy.
Είναι καλά; - Is he okay?
φροντίστε τον - look after him
Σ'αγαπώ. - I love you.
Κι εγώ σ'αγαπώ. - I love you too.Ἀστερίων (Asterion) is the name of a potamoi or one of the Greek river gods of Argos. So close and yet so far.
Writing Gale as a second generation immigrant is very near and dear to me. I'm not Greek but the universal immigrant experience is a mom who can't say "I love you" so she overfeeds us (but Morena can say it because she's a cool mom).
I do wax sealing once every holiday season when writing Christmas cards and while I haven't tried wax play, sealing wax melts at 160°F/71°C at a minimum. 0/10, do not recommend. Also, the sealing wax scene, out of all the heinous shit I've written, is the one that made me go 'I should try writing dead dove'.
Perfume inspo: Caesura by Folie à Plusiers
“Death and life happening side by side. Briefly gorgeous, eternally sacred.”
The perfume above is an olfactive profile of Ocean Vuong's novel On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous. You can read Folie's interview with Ocean on scent and writing here.
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 15: Cinnamon
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied alcoholism
- Implied disordered eating
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wind chimes swung with the opening door. There was cinnamon in the air at Elturel Roasters, floating high above the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The bags of beans on the shelf were now red—a holiday blend that would no doubt claim to shine with tasting notes of dark chocolate, candied orange, and cloves or something just as predictable. Someone had drawn snowflakes on the chalkboard menu. Probably Alfira.
Store traffic must have been slow since Alfira and Lakrissa were standing idle in the corner. Their heads were bowed and Astarion could make out the sound of giggling behind the acoustic guitar. He saw Alfira nudge Lakrissa playfully. As soon as she heard the chimes, Lakrissa pushed herself up from where she was leaning against the counter. Her long ponytail swished behind her as she walked towards the cashier.
"Good morning," she said, then looked up. She jolted. "Astarion?"
"Good morning."
Lakrissa continued to gawk for a few more seconds. Astarion had a feeling it had to do with the fact she'd never seen him in anything besides a suit.
She quickly glanced away. "Didn't expect to see you on a weekend," she said.
Astarion checked his nails, watching her over his knuckles. "Funny, I could've said the same thing."
Astarion hated going to Elturel alone. Not because he didn't like chitchat or didn't want to see Lakrissa and Alfira, but because the trip was boring without Gale. He had still been fast asleep by the time Astarion had left the flat, swiping a spare key off Gale's desk as he went. In any case, if Gale had a say, he would have opted to stay home. He was already planning on taking a "mental health day" off from work—whatever that was.
Now that he had more time to spare at the coffee shop, he felt his gaze roam more freely around the case of baked goods. He took in the sight of slices of gingerbread loaf, eggnog biscotti, almond croissants, a new spinach quiche, and the signature chocolate muffins. His stomach growled for what felt like the umpteen-billionth time that morning. He disguised the discomfort with a slick smile.
"Alright, sweethearts, I'm feeling decadent today." Astarion pulled out his debit card. "One small almond milk latte with one pump of sugar-free caramel syrup, please."
"Anything else?"
"Yes, actually." Astarion glanced up at the menu, searching for the most esoteric drink he could find. "Could I get a large Spanish latte as well?"
Lakrissa's eyebrows rose slightly as she punched in the order. "Two drinks that aren't espressos. What's the occasion?"
"I'm celebrating a personal achievement."
He tapped his card and moved to the side. Lakrissa acknowledged the transaction with a nod. She was more relaxed around him now. He had never apologized for his outburst all those months ago—not outright—but he was taking cues from Gale and Gale seemed much happier whenever Astarion remembered to say "please" and "thank you". So did the baristas at Elturel Roasters. Funny how being nice convinced most people to be nice back.
The coffee machine whirred, but not loudly enough to drown out the soft lilt of Alfira singing along to the guitar overhead. Astarion pretended to scroll through his Instagram feed as he listened in. Alfira was almost always singing or humming or swaying to the music while she worked. Astarion would've hated it if she didn't have an above-average voice. Today, it helped distract him, however temporarily, from his thoughts: what state he would find Gale in by the time he came back, whether the Szarr sponsorship was worth all this effort, whether the nearest liquor store had mini bottles in stock and whether they would fit in his pockets without too much bulge.
"Dance upon the stars tonight, smile and pain will fade away. Words of mine will change—no. Become—ugh. Change? No, damn it!"
Alfira gave a sharp, frustrated sigh. The rest of the notes carried on overhead, leaving her in the dust.
Lakrissa reached past her to knock an espresso puck. "Need some help, Alfie?"
"I think it's beyond saving." Alfira popped a carton of almond milk open. "If I knew this song was going to be the death of me, I never would've written it in the first place."
"Hold on. You composed this?"
Astarion pointed up, indicating towards the sound system. Both Alfira and Lakrissa froze, but while Alfira stayed wide-eyed, Lakrissa grinned proudly. "She's composed every song you've heard on the radio here," she said.
"I studied music," Alfira explained. "I think this is the closest I'll ever get to a musical career, though."
Astarion folded his arms, pressing his phone to his chest. He tilted his head. Normally, he wouldn't bother but she sounded so sad that he couldn't help but notice. "Why do you say that?"
"I've tried busking, teaching guitar lessons on the side, recording a few EPs. I've done everything right except for being at the right place, at the right time, in front of the right people." Alfira swallowed. She was still holding on to the carton of almond milk. "And now comes the writer's block. Nothing works, you know?"
Astarion tapped a finger along the top of his phone case. "That's the creative process for you. Agony and ecstasy. Mostly agony."
Alfira laughed nervously. "True. And when you finally perfect a song, there's nothing like it." Her face fell. "But when you're stuck and it's just getting worse? Ugh."
Lakrissa reached past her again, this time for the syrup. Alfira didn't seem to notice. "I don't have an audience. I don't have the money to keep trying. I don't have family in the business. I'll probably spend the rest of my life working a dead-end job like this one to pay off my student debt. But screw me for wanting to make something that matters and for someone to hear it, right?" Her voice cracked. "Is this it? Are coffee shops where artists go to die?"
Astarion had to actively fight the incoming eye roll. He wanted to tell her to shut up and get used to it. No one had afforded him the luxury of being precious about anything he made. His work—and he himself—were made to be consumed. Without credit, without thanks, and without much compensation either. He did what he did because he liked it and because he had nothing else.
He looked back at Alfira. Tears shimmered in her eyes but didn't fall. Astarion's jaw clenched. He didn't feel sympathy, but he did feel pity. She was younger, she didn't know any better, and the only thing worse than a crybaby was wasted potential.
"Come on. There are better places to roll over and give up." He shoved his phone into his pocket. Alfira's hands stilled. The three of them listened to the chords fading out. "What's the song supposed to be about, anyway?" he asked.
"My teacher, Lihala. She loved dancing. Had two left feet, mind. The last time I saw her, I was walking into her classroom and she must have thought she was alone. Literally dancing like no one was watching." The wistful look on Alfira's face vanished. "Thinking of it now, my heart hurts and my words just seem to crumble. Like ash." Her eyes widened. "Wait. Words of mine will turn to ash. That's perfect."
"Don't stop there," Lakrissa urged. "Put the rest of it together."
"Words of mine will turn to ash when you call the last light down. Yes. Yes!" Alfira grabbed her arm. "Lakrissa, could you—?"
"On it." Lakrissa took her phone from her apron pocket and tapped it, presumably to hit replay. The song restarted, the opening soft and slow. Alfira sang as she prepared the rest of the order.
"Dance upon the stars tonight, smile and pain will fade away. Words of mine will turn to ash when you call the last light down." Lakrissa passed over another cup. Alfira smiled, dazzling. "Moon reminds me of your grace, all the love I can't repay. Rest and know that I will pray, farewell my dear old friend."
Her voice climbed high over the varnished wood and bean hoppers. Light, steam, and the frothy smell of sugared milk warmed the room.
"Moon, sun, all remind me of your grace. Faith, care, all the love I can't repay."
Alfira stopped moving. Suddenly, she shut her eyes, causing the tears to spill over. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and placed lids on top of the two cups. "Sorry," she whispered.
Astarion glanced away and towards the potted fiddle leaf fig, which was decorated with string lights. He tried not to think about a wet sprinkling of salt in his coffee. "Well, would you look at this coffee shop. How charming. How...coffee-shop like."
"Very subtle." Alfira smiled through a sniffle. "That was the first time I've written anything since Lihala passed. It's not perfect. Nowhere close. I know it still needs more workshopping, but it's a start." She placed the two cups on the counter, nestled in a cardboard holder. "One Spanish latte and one small almond milk latte with caramel syrup for Astarion."
"Thank you." He took the coffees from her and paused. "You two are adorable together, by the way."
Their mouths gaped open. Astarion let out a high-pitched giggle and swept out the front door, sending the wind chimes jingling behind him.
◈━◈━◈
By the time Astarion slotted the spare key into the keyhole to Gale's flat, the coffees were lukewarm. The lights were on in the living room and kitchen but devoid of any other signs of life.
As he stepped forward, a barrage of smells hit him. The heating element of the stovetop. The lactonic funk of melting butter. The green pungency of chopped alliums. A pan was sizzling on a burner next to a carton of eggs, unattended.
"Gale, darling, I'm home," he called.
Silence, except for a rattle behind the door of Gale's room.
"Gale?"
As if summoned, Gale came hurrying in with Tara scooped up in his arms, looking bewildered and very miffed.
"There you are. Sorry, I had to go grab Tara. She's just had her bedroom access revoked for knocking Rolan's book recommendation onto the floor. I know she doesn't like horror, but that's a step too far." He looked down at Tara, trying to put on a show of disappointment. Tara squirmed out of his arms, landing on her feet. Gale watched her pad away and turned back to Astarion. "Otherwise, lovely day, this."
Gale was a beautiful mess. The beautiful was a given, but even the mess made Astarion ravenous. His band tee had wrinkles in it, his hair was rumpled, and Gale wasn't the only one who enjoyed the scent of a natural body. Under the thin layer of fabric softener, Astarion could smell Gale himself: his own musk, as deep as amber, with a touch of sweat and glowing with creamy luminescence. His cock stirred, but he put the thought out of his mind. It wasn't the right time.
"And you're better, just like that." Astarion set the coffees down on the kitchen island. "Are you going back to work on Monday, then?"
"Hell no." Gale cracked an egg into a bowl, then another. "I'm going to take some time to bring me back to myself. To do the things I love." He picked up a fork and started whisking. "Mind you, I love my work too."
Astarion came up behind him, an arm encircling Gale's waist. The other crept up Gale's chest, discreetly assessing his heartbeat. It thumped against his palm, slightly off-rhythm. All things considered, normal for his condition. "But you love me more," he said.
"Especially when you bring me coffee. And—" Gale squinted at the coffee cups. "All the way from Elturel? Astarion, you didn't have to go that far."
Astarion's fingers cupped Gale's chin. "My dear. You know I'd do almost anything for you."
"Conquer the world?"
"Of course."
"Bring the piteous masses to their knees?"
"Say less."
"Do my taxes?"
Astarion nipped the side of Gale's neck. "Cheeky little pup."
Gale caught his mouth in a kiss, gently nipping back. He sucked on Astarion's bottom lip and Astarion kissed back even harder. He buried a hand in Gale's hair, bringing him closer. Gale rolled his hips against Astarion's upper thigh.
The butter in the pan spluttered and they instinctively jerked away. Gale kissed Astarion's cheek. His ear. "What do you want for breakfast?" he asked.
"I get to choose, do I?" Astarion rested his chin on Gale's shoulder, watching him push the eggs around the pan. "Do you have hot sauce, by any chance?"
"Second cupboard from the right." Gale motioned with his wooden spatula.
"Delicious. I'll boil an egg." Astarion corrected himself so the portion size wouldn't raise the alarms. "Or two."
While Gale made toast and topped his scrambled eggs with chopped chives, two eggs boiled in the smallest pot Astarion could find. He picked through the condiments shelf and found bottles of Tabasco, Frank's Red Hot, and Nando's hot sauces packed between the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. He took the Tabasco.
They sat across from each other at the dining table, the coffee between them. Gale's pill bottle by his plate. Tara sitting by Gale's sock-clad feet. A grey sky morning.
Heaven.
As he cut his toast into triangles, Gale said, "You left a letter on my desk."
Astarion discarded the eggshells on the side of his plate, where they sat like a heap of broken dishes. "Oops."
"Imagine my disappointment when I realized it wasn't for me, but another collaboration? Back to back?" Gale reached across the table. "I'm tremendously proud of you."
Astarion accepted his hand and squeezed it. "It's a sponsorship, not a collaboration. And it's not the finished product. Far from it. I was practising my penmanship."
"And your formula development."
"Mm. You found that, too."
"Mind if I bring it out? I think it's absolutely fascinating."
Astarion waved him on. Gale got out of his chair and went into the bedroom. Tara stood on her hind legs, eyeing Astarion's plate of boiled eggs. He stuck his tongue out at her. Gale came back with the sheet of scrap paper. Out of the corner of his eye, Astarion saw his own handwriting in blue ink, unnaturally small, tight, and straight-edged.
Benzyl acetate - 20
Ethyl acetoacetate - 10
Allyl amyl glycolate - 10
10% Ambroxan - 40
Cascalone - 10
10% Cis-3-hexenol - 40
Citronellol - 40
10% Galoxide - 400
Geraniol - 130
Hedione HC - 400
Helional - 220
Hydroxycitronellal - 80
10% Indole - 10
Lysmerex - 380
Linalool - 100
Muscenone Delta - 200
Undecavertol - 300
"I'm not familiar with some of these, but from what I gather, these are parts per thousand, yes?" Gale examined the sheet more closely. "Benzyl acetate and ethyl acetoacetate. Those are esters. Hydroxycitronellal. Medium-chain aldehyde. Cis-3-hexenol." He traced a few lines on the dining table with the tip of his finger. "Leaf alcohol. Strong stuff."
"A great big beast of an alcohol." Astarion doused his eggs in even more hot sauce. "Smells like killing the Jolly Green Giant."
"So you're going for something very green, somewhat fruity, a little floral." Gale piled a forkful of scrambled eggs onto a slice of toast. "Who's Firellia?"
"Beauty and fashion influencer, formerly engaged to artist and pathetic wet rag Oskar Fevras."
Judging by Gale's puzzled look, not his usual content.
"Here." Astarion put his fork down, which he'd been twisting between his fingers. He took out his phone and showed Gale Firellia's newest TikTok. They both watched her put together an outfit before visiting a local art gallery, styling her long red hair in crown braids and shrugging on a gorgeously embroidered coat that had to cost more than his two-week salary. Astarion swiped away and touched the edge of the formula sheet.
"Do you think she's going to like it?"
Gale slid the tines of his fork between his teeth and held them there for a few seconds before removing them. "I'm sure she would, but if this is a Szarr venture, why make her something custom?"
"What's the point of any sponsorship or collaboration? Exposure." Astarion cut his first boiled egg into halves. "I've been thinking. You and I have been working towards something resembling an independent perfume label."
"Sunwalker."
"I guess that's what we're calling it now." Astarion worked his knife again and the halves became quarters. "If there's anything better than doing something for fun, it's doing it for profit. I can use my work with Szarr as a launchpad. There's no better way to get the word out than for my work to conveniently fall into the lap of someone with an audience in the millions."
"And your boss doesn't mind?"
Astarion laughed. "Who cares what he thinks?"
Gale's response was written on his face, hesitant but understanding. Astarion had told him about Cazador, but not really. The extent of Gale's knowledge began and ended with the vague idea that Cazador was terrible all around. Astarion spared the grisly details. He didn't want to suffer even more of Gale's concern, or make Gale suffer in turn.
Which meant he would have to be careful.
"Why not showcase what you've already made?" Gale asked. "Think of it like a portfolio."
Astarion's mouth opened in protest. It shut. His playbook so far had been to create something completely new for each of his muses, but he'd never be able to do that in the long run if he planned to have as many customers as he wanted. Surprise sprung up at this sudden development of foresight. It was a new thing for him, to think past tomorrow.
Astarion took his first bite. The sheer amount of hot sauce almost made tears prick at the corners of his eyes. "Like what?"
"The samples you made for everyone," Gale explained. "You have an incredible talent for variety and I think you should show that off."
"I do have extra quantities of each lying around." Astarion choked down a spice-induced cough. "It is terribly difficult to do tiny batches."
"There you have it, then. Your greatest hits, ready to go."
That would be the easy thing to do, yes. Astarion had started by wanting to make something more traditional to make it clear that he was the brilliance behind Szarr, but he had scoured every last bit of content Firellia uploaded. She was a modern woman. Szarr didn't fit her at all. When Firellia received her package, that black box tricked out in gold, he wanted her to know his name, not Cazador's. He wanted her to remember it and seek him out.
He wanted to be an addiction and he wanted everyone to beg for one. More. Drop.
"Work smarter, not harder," Astarion agreed. "I'll think about it."
Gale nodded. "Excellent. I'm glad the winds of change are blowing both of us in the right direction."
"You're talking about the strike, aren't you?" Astarion asked. "You've been so hush-hush about it, I wasn't sure—"
"That I'd be going through with it?" Gale mopped up the last of his breakfast with a corner of toast. "Just because I've been quiet about it lately doesn't mean it's not on my mind nearly every waking moment. You should see the momentum building at Blackstaff. I swear half of my lectures are taken up by Q&As from my students."
Astarion cut into the next egg. "They're discovering how much of a distraction you can be. Trust me, I'd know."
"And that's where I could use your help." Gale uncapped his pill bottle. "I don't think we're putting on enough pressure. How can I make this movement even more disruptive?"
Astarion grinned. The need to cause mischief fizzed in his chest. "Oh, my sweet. You came to the right person." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "First things first. How much trouble are you already causing?"
"We've opted to strike during the weeks leading up to final exams."
"Delicious. And?"
"Personally, I'm cancelling my classes. A few others are looking at doing the same."
"Good for you. You deserve a break." Astarion thought for a minute. "You should march. Rally the troops. Wave some signs around. Make a whole song and dance about it. It's beyond annoying, but that's the whole point, isn't it?"
Gale pushed his plate aside. "See, that's what Jaheira wants to do and she's been doing this kind of thing for decades. But I've always preferred quieter forms of resistance. They're perfectly legitimate."
"Make it optional, then. Anyone's welcome to tag along for a stroll or kick back just as long as nobody's working."
Gale chewed on his bottom lip. "Now that you say it, we could do a rotating strike. Cycle through absenteeism one day and raucous picketing the next. It'll keep admin on their toes, and not in a good way."
Astarion's gaze landed on Gale's mouth. He wanted to sink his own teeth there. "See? You're starting to think like a rebel. Bamboozle them."
Gale chuckled. "I've always liked that word."
"Bamboozle?"
"Yes. It's one of my favourites." Gale took his coffee. His expression was fond. "In addition to 'discombobulated'."
Astarion felt the smile on his face grow impish. "Tomfoolery."
"Hitherto."
"Mosquito."
"Rhubarb."
"Agog."
"Aghast."
They made eye contact. The dark brown pools across from Astarion lit up for the first time that week. The wit and soul that had dimmed in them returned with a cunning flash. They burst out laughing. Things were looking up.
They toasted with their cold coffees.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion stared at Gale. Shadowheart stared at Astarion. Lae'zel stared at Shadowheart. Wyll was politely trying not to stare at Karlach, who was pouring herself a glass of Halsin's home-brewed mead. Gale stared back at the table, waiting for someone to make a move. Astarion snatched the bottle from Karlach.
He didn't know why they were wasting so much time trying to save a bear.
"I would like to remind everyone that the goblin children are currently throwing rocks at the bear," Gale said.
The bear grunted, voiced by Halsin and weirdly realistic.
"I say we join in," Astarion said. "Sharper stones might cut through that fur."
Bear-Halsin whined.
Wyll's jaw dropped. "Astarion, you asshole."
"What? I'm playing an evil character." Astarion shrugged. "Be glad I'm not like this in real life."
"Yeah, fuck that." Karlach tossed her head. "How about a taste of your own medicine, you little pricks?"
Gale cut in. "The cave bear roars. Suddenly, it charges forward, knocking the door of its cage open. It falls on top of a goblin, killing her instantly." He clasped his hands. "Everyone, roll for initiative."
Astarion picked up the D20 Wyll had bought him (part of a gorgeous red liquid core set) and threw it down. Twelve. While the others rolled, he met Gale's eyes, which were fixed on him, initiating a silent conversation.
What?
Enjoying the libations, I hope?
I'm trying to be polite. It would be rude not to try the fruits of Halsin's labour.
I suppose it would. As long as you promise not to have too much.
Don't worry your pretty head. I can watch myself.
Astarion waited a few seconds before taking a cautious sip of mead. He'd never tried mead before. Golden honey trickled down his throat with notes of oak and vanilla unfurling behind it like wildflowers. It wasn't as sweet as he expected. It reminded him of white wine, but richer. Better.
And the only thing better than a good drink was good company. Karlach came first in initiative, followed by Lae'zel, the bear, Wyll, Astarion, and Shadowheart, with goblins sprinkled throughout the lineup. Karlach was nearly shimmying in her seat. Astarion loved combat, second only to pickpocketing and watching the gold in his inventory grow. Her excitement was infectious.
Gale chewed on his pen topper. "Karlach, you look like you're itching to say something. What would you like to do?"
"I would like to rage."
"What does it look like when your barbarian rages?"
Karlach rolled her dice around in her hand. "She's having the time of her life. The flames around her grow even hotter, the earth cracks beneath her feet, and she just screams."
"What kind of scream is it?" Gale prompted.
"This kind." Karlach squared her shoulders, threw her head back, and let out a long roar that started to taper off towards the end, likely from self-consciousness. Shadowheart looked at her admiringly. Lae'zel seemed impressed. Astarion was not.
She was Karlach fucking Cliffgate. If she wanted to scare them, she had to commit.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, darling. Put your back into it." Before anyone could get a word in, Astarion screamed. Loud, blood-curdling, and animalistic, it stretched on and ended with a guttural hiss. When he ran out of breath, he gasped for air, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He looked at Karlach down his nose as if to say, that's how it's done.
This felt good. He felt good. He wanted to do it again and again until his throat was raw, his voice was hoarse, and his lungs gave out. He wanted to keep screaming until he couldn't scream anymore. Maybe that would fix him.
Gale blinked. "Nat 20 on performance. You should consider multiclassing."
Astarion looked around the table. Everyone's pupils were blown wide. Shadowheart removed her fingers from her ears.
The fight carried on.
When the last goblin was cut down with Lae'zel's githyanki's sword, Gale gestured towards Halsin.
"With a burst of light, the bear transforms into a tall, muscular wood elf. You recognize him as a druid. Specifically, the missing druid from the Emerald Grove."
Halsin cleared his throat. "Pardon the viscera. One should cherish all of nature's bounty, but goblin guts are quite far down the list." His voice slowed, but maintained his same deep-chested warmth. "You aided a bear without knowing if it would savage you? A true friend of nature—or perhaps a lunatic."
With Halsin's formal introduction, the table cheered.
After a long rest, the party rolled back into combat. One by one, the goblin leaders fell. First, they cornered the priestess Gut in her private quarters. Then they assassinated the drow, whose uppity manners and ruthlessness reminded Astarion a lot of Minthara. Finally, they shot down the great Dror Ragzlin from the rafters of his throne room and he collapsed next to the mind flayer corpse on the floor.
The night ended with the party exhausted, various stages of bloodied and bruised, and almost encumbered with loot. Gale held both his palms out and gave a round of high-fives to celebrate their battle-heaviest session to date. When his hand met Gale's, Astarion lingered there and gave a giddy squeeze. He felt Gale squeeze back.
While everyone packed up, Gale retired to the armchair with his laptop. "Well played, everyone. Next session, come prepared to reap your rewards and make merry."
Karlach was unloading the rest of her beers into the back of Gale's fridge. "Hell yes. I know my girl would kill for a frosty pint."
"Mine wouldn't mind sharing a bottle," Shadowheart added.
Lae'zel smirked. "I would prefer to share a bed."
Halsin put away his empty bottle of mead, looking pleased that it was drained within an hour. "There are lots of thirsty people here tonight," he said.
"Careful, the lovebirds might get some ideas." Wyll tossed a knowing smile at Astarion and Astarion caught it with a wink.
"How does it feel to be the boyfriend of the DM, Astarion?" Shadowheart asked.
Astarion sauntered over to the armchair and seated himself on Gale's lap. Gale made room just in time, lifting his laptop out of the way. Astarion stroked his hair. He couldn't help but preen. They looked good together. Whenever they went out for a walk, he liked to catch a glimpse of their shared reflection in the storefront windows. There was enough visual contrast between them that they made a striking duo. He laced his fingers with Gale's. Porcelain skin and a sun-kissed tan. Silver and gold.
"Oh, I don't know," Astarion said. He swung his legs. "I get such privileges as picking out names for the ogres and hearing Gale chortle when he's looking up enemies in the Monster Manual."
Gale looked mortified. "I do not chortle."
"Yes, you do, dear. You're lucky I think it's cute."
Karlach gushed. "You're both cute! Ugh, I'm so happy for you two!"
"Thank you." Gale brought their hands, intertwined, to his lips and kissed the back of Astarion's hand. "I'm happy for us, too."
They waved everyone goodbye. It occurred to Astarion that he and Gale were standing side by side in the doorway, probably looking like a pair of spouses seeing off the neighbours they'd invited over for dinner. Two husbands sharing a bachelor pad, lofty ambitions, and an old crotchety cat.
Three months in and he was already thinking about settling down. God, he was whipped.
After locking the door, Gale turned to Astarion. "That was—"
"Incredible. I have no idea how you keep track of initiative, concentration spells, and everyone's hit points. Honestly, I couldn't be a DM if I tried."
Astarion threw himself onto the leather couch. The periodic table tapestry on the back slid down and draped itself over him. Gale sat beside him, pushing the tapestry out of the way.
"Don't sell yourself short. You've learned to position yourself very well on the map."
Astarion rolled his head back onto the armrest. "I'll admit it, my sneak attacks are deadly."
"That they are. When you remember not to make any noise."
Gale's voice was level, the tone cautiously reprimanding.
"Shit." Astarion sat up. "In our defence, it was all honest fun."
"I hope everyone felt the same way. The neighbours included." Gale glanced up at the ceiling, then straight at Astarion. "You weren't—you're not—?"
Neither of them dared to say the word. The taste of mead soured on Astarion's tongue.
A tightrope appeared under his feet. Gale's fears weren't exactly unfounded, but he only had one drink today and he was having a good time in spite of it. He was making progress. Why couldn't Gale see that?
"Oh, spit it out, darling. My head's clear. I'm thinking straight." Astarion exhaled, a silent apology. "Maybe I got overexcited. I feel happy, that's all."
"Excited enough to shout it from the rooftops, it seems." Gale's voice softened. "But alright. If you're happy, then I'm happy, too."
He shifted forward and pecked Astarion on the lips, an olive branch. Astarion leaned into the kiss, accepting it. He should be grateful that Gale was trying to look out for him, even when he didn't need it.
"If it's the screaming that worries you, we should go back to my place," Astarion purred. "I live alone, the walls are thick, and I don't even know my neighbours. We'll see how loud you can get."
Gale's brow quirked. "You're going to have to invite me over someday."
(Note to self: buy a bed frame.)
Astarion took hold of Gale, flipping him around. He pushed him back onto the couch, then crawled atop him. He felt the heat of his own breath radiating back at him off Gale's skin.
"I can't wait."
◈━◈━◈
The sewing machine hummed to life.
The curtains in Astarion's bedroom were drawn and the door was locked. He wet his lips against the rim of a shot glass, poured from a mini bottle of Grey Goose vodka, freezer-cold and fine for easy sipping.
He was the right kind of drunk. Buzzed but not clumsy yet. If anything, he was smoother, faster, more agile. He flowed as he adjusted the dials and threaded the bobbin, a touch reckless but in a good way for what he was trying to accomplish. It was a balancing act to maintain that level of inebriation, but he was occasionally good at those.
The design was simple. One top flap, seven pockets, one ribbon to tie them all together. He'd scrounged up the best fabric in his stash, a few yards of red velvet. He cut the right length, positioned the cloth under the needle, and put his foot on the pedal.
Straight stitch.
Astarion had been sewing for most of his life. He was barely worried about operating the machine while tipsy and his mind wandered away from the task at hand and towards what he had found in the Szarr archives.
When Cazador let Astarion access the records, he led him to the always closed door in his office, which Astarion had always assumed was a leftover broom closet. The door opened to reveal a room the size of a jail cell with no windows and a desk flanked by filing cabinets. Cazador gave him five minutes, locked the door behind him, and personally patted Astarion down to check for stolen goods after he was done. Finding nothing, Cazador sent him on his way.
He hadn't thought, however, to check Astarion's phone.
Tucked away in a hidden folder were dozens of screenshots. Astarion had found many examples of letters, all handwritten, between the House of Szarr and its clients, all blowing smoke about how "creating fragrances is an art and art is a journey" or some other bullshit. He also discovered more than he bargained for, the most interesting of which was a set of rules. He didn't have to look far to find it: it was nailed above the desk.
1. Dominate. Allow none to be your equal.
2. Power comes from solitude. To share with others is to be weak, and to be weak is to fail.
3. Act not in haste. You have time to plan, time to act, only when others will pay the price of action.
Cazador made no secret about the kind of perfumer—and father—Vellioth was. And yet he preserved every last remaining vestige of him, certainly not as a reminder of who not to be. He kept a portrait of the man behind his desk, for Christ's sake. It was time for a new agenda. By the time Astarion was done with him, no one would even think about or, if he did it right, remember Cazador Szarr.
Starting with this.
Before Astarion sewed on the ribbon, he finished his shot of vodka. He got to his feet, ready to flick through the liquor cabinet or fridge to see what else he had stashed away. If he was lucky, there would still be wine. An unfamiliar feeling stopped him.
He didn't feel the need to get any drunker than he already was. He was warm, not overheated, and lively. He was satisfied. A new kind of hunger had taken over.
He sat back down in his chair, not sure what to do with himself but not completely uncomfortable either.
Zigzag stitch.
This was the order of operations. Astarion would get the official Szarr letter, with all its flourishes, signed off and sealed. He would pack his samples under the Szarr ones, hiding them under the house's signature wrapping paper. When Cazador took his eyes off him to terrorize someone else, he would get around to his new reading material. Why, he had all week.
Edge stitch.
With the final touch, Astarion slipped a perfume vial into each pocket. He took out the card he'd written, which was lying ready on his vanity, and skimmed it one more time. He could barely register the handwriting as his own, but he recognized the logo that Shadowheart had drawn for him on the back of a McDonald's napkin. The paper was a lovely pearl white, the opposite of Szarr's signature black.
Darling Firellia,
Thank you for choosing The House of Szarr. As an extra token of gratitude, I've enclosed a few samples I've been cooking up on the side. Adventure is good the soul, after all.
In here you'll find seven 5ml vials, each inspired by those nearest and dearest to me, each entirely unique. The power of the self, harnessed and wearable.
Magic Touch - A rose-tinted library on cedar shelves.
Nightsong - To bloom in the darkest night.
Silver Sword - A dance of dragon's blood.
Infernal - Sizzling sweet cinnamon.
Frontiers - Spiced vanilla, forever dauntless.
Oak Father - Enjoying nature's gifts?
Radiant - Boozy bergamot, a new twist on the old.
Directions: Rest the samples for 48 hours (the perfumes are temperamental after being jostled during shipping). Apply generously, regret nothing.
With compliments from the nose,
Astarion Ancunín
Astarion turned the card over, making sure his contact information on the back was correct and printed neatly. He hesitated for a moment, then took a spare atomizer on his vanity and sprayed the card, once on the front and once on the back. Droplets speckled the card stock and he wafted it to let them dry. Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy filled the room.
He went to the kitchen to drop the shot glass into the sink and returned to his room, allowing himself to be enveloped in a cloud of scent, the scent of himself. He checked the time. It was 3 am.
He had it all under control.
Notes:
Oh no he's developing empathy.
We're back at Elturel Roasters! This chapter is inspired by my partner's sisters, one of whom is a musician and the other who's a graphic designer and barista. I've always imagined Astarion and Gale and Alfira and Lakrissa doing the Spiderman meme point at each other when they're all in the same room. Maybe one of these days.
Huge thanks to perfume.archaeology (Mathieu Saint-Dizier) on Instagram for making perfume formulation so accessible. The formula in this chapter is a truncated version of DKNY's Be Delicious because the ingredients list for commercial perfumes are long. Looooong.
The cloth perfume pouch is based on Strega del Castello's fragrance sets. It strikes me as something someone with good taste and talent would make on a limited budget. Now only if Astarion had a shred of self-preservation on top of that.
Perfume inspo: Église de Velours by Pierre Guillaume
“Paris, July 1997, the final preparations for a haute couture show. Velvet Napoleon III chairs, rolls of precious fabrics lining the walls, wisps of cigarette smoke float in the air. A familiar voice, slow and fragile, breaks the monastic silence that reigns in this place. A model with the face of a Madonna emerges from a room accompanied by two seamstresses helping her with the ruffles of a dress under construction…
There’s something divine about this temple of beauty: the solemnity, the meditation, the fervour of the “Atelier faithful” around the Creator-Demiurge. Doubt and then the miracle: inspiration and the advent of creation.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 16: Vanilla
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Graphic SA. Emphasis on graphic, so proceed at your own risk. The scene begins at "Astarion looked over his shoulder, tracking his movements. Cazador was standing between him and the door. He couldn't run now. But he could fight." and continues until the end of the chapter.
- Choking
- Violence
- Alcoholism
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Christ, darling, why do you do this to yourself?"
Astarion handed over the last hair tie. Shadowheart loosened her braid and shook out her hair, which fell down her back and her oversized t-shirt. Tubes and tubs of powder lightener, developer, and toner were scattered around the coffee table in Shadowheart and Lae'zel's shared apartment. Shadowheart sat kneeling on the floor. A burnt out stick of palo santo lay in a bowl on the windowsill.
"It's a thing. You go through a mental breakdown or major life event and the first thing you do is dye or cut your hair, drink a whole bottle of wine, or both. Haven't you done that before?"
Astarion balked. "Cut my hair on a whim? Absolutely not. Drink? All the time."
Shadowheart smiled approvingly and they clinked their glasses full of cheap, shitty boxed red wine. They were listening to Nightwish, Evanescence, and Within Temptation, then t.A.T.u., Garbage, and Alanis Morisette on Shadowheart's Bluetooth speaker. It was the kind of trashy fun Astarion missed. He also went through a black nail polish and stompy boots phase. Unlike Shadowheart, though, it was just a phase.
Astarion wiped a few drops of wine from his lips. "Just so you know, I'm down to do this again. Good thing we're going to need two sessions at least."
"Over how many days?"
"Days? We're talking weeks."
Shadowheart paled. "Oh, hell. I knew it was going to take a while, but weeks?"
"The difference between you and me, my dear, is that under all of this," Astarion raked a hand through his curls, "I'm blond. We'll have to take you from level one to ten and we can't do all it in one go. You can live with the orangey brass for a bit." He picked up a section of her hair, studying it. It was the opposite of his—pin straight, black, and long. "And because I like you, I won't bleach your hair for days back to back. Take it from me. That—and the buzzcut afterwards—are mistakes I won't be making again."
Shadowheart nearly choked. "You had a buzzcut?" Astarion glared at her with murder in his eyes and she looked away. "Understood. I'll spare you the rest of the trouble and cut my own bangs."
Shadowheart picked up her phone and continued to sip on her wine while Astarion pulled on a pair of plastic gloves and mixed the bleach with the developer. He bleached the shafts and ends first, working his way up into the roots. The solution was as thick as toothpaste and the stench of ammonia seared his nose. When he was halfway up the length of her hair, Shadowheart stopped scrolling.
"Is it supposed to burn?"
"A little, if it gets on your scalp."
The front door clicked and Lae'zel pushed her way in, shouldering several grocery bags. Shadowheart made a move to turn around and Astarion smacked her head lightly, keeping her in place.
"Hey, Lae'zel," she said.
"Lae'zel, be a dear and get Shadowheart a snack," Astarion called over his shoulder.
Lae'zel ignored him and approached their setup, tiny nose wrinkling at the chemical haze in the air.
"I don't understand why you would dye your hair silver," she said. "Imagine the upkeep. The cost, the damage, the frequent touchups..."
"All that conditioner and purple shampoo," Astarion interjected.
"You would be better off with some henna and indigo. The blue-black colour would suit you."
Shadowheart glanced up, her gaze cool under her lashes. "Lae'zel, you got henna in the sink last year and it still hasn't washed out."
"Hmph." Lae'zel stalked off, groceries in tow. The sounds of bags rustling and doors opening and closing came from the kitchen. Astarion watched her go, then sectioned out another part of Shadowheart's hair.
"Why the hell did you two choose to live together?"
"That's the thing. We didn't." Shadowheart bowed her head forward, giving Astarion better access the nape of her neck. "My old roommate, Nocturne, moved out after I deconstructed."
Astarion cocked his head. He brushed on some more bleach. "So you had a falling out."
"No, no, not at all." Shadowheart folded her hands in her lap. "We still talk sometimes. I just don't think she was ready to leave the faith. She was already having a hard time transitioning and losing a friend to 'the sins of the world' was too much for her at the time." She sounded wistful. "I miss her. She used to do my hair. She's the reason I put it up in a braid."
"Who? Nocturne?"
Lae'zel came back into the living room. She sat on the floor across from them, cross-legged. She tossed something that looked like a mini jello cup, which hit Shadowheart's knee. Shadowheart peeled back the top, sending up a faint trail of lychee and coconut.
"I was just telling Astarion about how we became roommates," she explained.
Lae'zel lifted her chin. "Oh, yes. We despised each other."
"From the second Lae'zel moved in, I should mention," Shadowheart added.
"I thought you were stupid. Spineless. Impossibly bland."
"And I thought you were cruel, stubborn, and judgemental."
"I did make fun of your hair and face," Lae'zel admitted, though she didn't seem completely sorry.
"We almost came to literal blows one night." Shadowheart popped the jello into her mouth and smirked at Lae'zel. "I got the jump on you."
"It was a good thing you came to your senses before I hit you. You wouldn't have seen it coming."
"You didn't actually fight?" Astarion whined. "I wish I'd been a fly on the wall."
Shadowheart picked her phone up again, swiping to clear her notifications. "You missed your chance. We've buried the hatchet."
Lae'zel sighed. "I'll never understand that saying."
After five more minutes, Astarion put down the bowl and brush. "There. Put the shower cap on." He pulled his gloves off, taking care to avoid getting any bleach on his skin, and tossed them into the nearest trash can. He was starting to get woozy from the fumes. "We've got half an hour to kill."
Shadowheart did as she was told, adjusting a clear shower cap over her gooped-up hair. "We'll watch something. Your choice."
Astarion seized the opportunity. Last week, he fired off the Szarr package with everyone none the wiser and set up a professional-ish landing page on Instagram. He knew exactly what he wanted to watch.
He found her channel quickly, self-titled Firellia Jannath (@finebyfirellia). Astarion was familiar with her upload schedule by now. She released new videos every Saturday, the thumbnails easy on the eye, the video titles usually featuring one or two emojis for a visual pop. He clicked on the channel page, searching for the most recent video.
HOUSE OF SZARR FRAGRANCES FIRST IMPRESSIONS AND REVIEW 🦇 | Firellia Jannath
Astarion nearly dropped his phone, but his quick reflexes snapped it up before it left his hand.
"Oh shit, she uploaded. That was fast."
Lae'zel craned her neck to get a better view of his screen. "What are we watching?"
Astarion collected himself, tucking his hair behind his ear. "We did an influencer sponsorship at work. I want to hear what our collaborator has to say."
"Want me to put on some Woe for the occasion?" Shadowheart asked.
"Don't you fucking dare."
Astarion poured himself another glass. He was glad Shadowheart was generous with the wine. It kept his fingers quick and steady and made any self-doubt slide off his brain. He settled in between Lae'zel and Shadowheart on the couch and hit the play button.
"Hi everyone, welcome back to my channel! If you're new here, my name's Firellia and I'm all about fashion, beauty, and beauty products, and I have hundreds of videos like this covering new ranges and releases, so do check out my other videos. And if you're a regular viewer, subscribe and give a thumbs up—"
Astarion fast-forwarded the video by a minute. He liked her voice, though. Calm, composed, and not totally obnoxious.
"Before we dive into it, let's talk a little bit about the brand. The House of Szarr started out as a perfume company in the 1800s. Even in the 21st century, it's still small batch and family-owned and operated."
Shadowheart giggled as Astarion put up scare quotes with his fingers towards the end of the sentence.
"Obviously, the branding and marketing are very beautiful, very traditional, very gothic, and I'm so thankful to be sponsored by the House of Szarr. They've been kind enough to send me a discovery kit with all of their current scents—by the way, you're unboxing this at the same time I am so I hope you're just as excited. So first up, there's a letter from the House of Szarr themselves. Keeping with tradition, every letter is personally handwritten and sealed with wax, which I think is incredible."
On the screen, Firellia displayed the envelope and the red wax seal with the Szarr signet. As she read the short message enclosed within, the back of Astarion's hand stung.
Lae'zel's face scrunched. "You wrote that? It doesn't sound like you. It's too concise. Too efficient."
"It wasn't my choice."
The three of them listened as Firellia described the notes and her impressions of Rhapsody, Woe, Poetry, Amanita, and Lady Incognita in their scant two-millilitre sampler vials. Each review was accompanied by a helpful infographic of the notes of each composition. She was eloquent. She was too charitable. She claimed to like everything, if not love it outright. That was the deal, or so Astarion guessed. She got free or heavily discounted merchandise, they got good or satisfactory press. A quid pro quo.
Two thirds of the way through, Shadowheart stretched her leg past Astarion and aimed a kick at Lae'zel. Lae'zel came to. She'd been zoning out, uncharacteristically for her. Firellia continued to speak, tinny through Astarion's phone speaker.
"There's a reason I have so much fun unboxing fragrance packages. When you go digging through the wrapping paper, there are usually some more samples hiding and—oh?"
Firellia put something away out of frame. She reached into the box and pulled out the card. Astarion detected a jump cut between the time she read the card and displayed it for the camera. Otherwise, he would have seen her eyes scanning the text frantically, trying to make sense of the words in her hands. His words.
The confused look on Firellia's quickly morphed into a smile. Astarion had to hand it to her. She was a goddamn professional.
"I also received an extra note in here." She fluttered the card. "It smells wonderful, by the way. And not like anything else I've smelled in that discovery kit, though it has a bit of that same vintage vibe. Let's see what it says." She held the card up and read it aloud. "'Darling Firellia, thank you for choosing The House of Szarr. As an extra token of gratitude, I've enclosed a few samples I've been cooking up on the side. Adventure is good the soul, after all.'"
Firellia laughed. She seemed genuinely amused. Astarion felt elation rise in his throat before it was promptly shot down. "'In here, you'll find seven 5ml vials, each inspired by those nearest and dearest to me, each entirely unique. The power of the self, harnessed and wearable.'"
Shadowheart stirred as Firellia read off the descriptions of each scent.
"Wait, is that my—?"
"Directions: Rest the samples for forty-eight hours (the perfumes are temperamental after being jostled during shipping). Apply generously, regret nothing. With compliments from the nose, Astarion Ancunín.'"
Astarion wasn't listening as Firellia briefly explained what a nose was. Cold fear bled from his chest and into the rest of his body. It crackled when there was another jump cut to Firellia against a much less polished backdrop, with her hair down and in an oversized sweater.
"Editing Firellia here. I just did a quick search and Astarion is a perfumer from the House of Szarr. He also has his own label called Sunwalker. The link to his Instagram is in the description below. He's very well-written, very witty, and so generous, so please go send him some love. Astarion, if you're watching this, hi. I absolutely adore your work and I can't wait to see what else you come up with. Now back to the video."
The rest of the video ambled on. Firellia did another impromptu review, describing Nightsong as "bewitching" and Infernal as a "magical cinnamon potion". She was enamoured with Astarion's own signature scent but like him, she loved Gale's composition the most, calling it "smart, sharp, and charismatic", the roses giving her a slap on the cheek and the paper a peck right after.
Even though he barely registered the footage of his own velvet pouch and tiny glass bottles shown off by perfectly manicured fingers, Astarion felt his eyes widen. He could see the marked difference between her reaction to the House of Szarr creations and his own after stepping out of its shadow. Gale had the right idea all along—Sunwalker was the most apt name he could have chosen. Firellia seemed brighter, more radiant when she talked about his work. She was actually excited by these new, fresh offerings. Here was someone who could speak his language and with it, she made a clear declaration: between him and Cazador, she liked him more.
And Cazador was going to kill him for it.
A hand touched his arm. Astarion jerked away.
"Astarion?" Shadowheart cleared her throat. "Are you okay?"
Astarion came back to himself in a blink. "It's been half an hour. Go. Wash your hair before you don't have any of it left." He shooed her and Shadowheart scrambled to her feet. He turned to Lae'zel. "Lae'zel, help her out."
Lae'zel's eyes narrowed. "You would order me around my own home?"
"Yes, I would. Kitchen sink. Make sure she doesn't get any of it in her eyes. Chop-chop." Astarion snapped his fingers at her. She scowled, but got up and followed Shadowheart to the kitchen. A few seconds later, he heard the faucet running. It wasn't loud enough to drown out the thoughts screaming at him.
He turned down the volume on the video and hit rewind, backtracking by a few minutes to hear Firellia speak about his work again, letting the barely audible words wash over his ears. Self-curated. Daring. A diamond. Astarion squeezed his eyes shut. So this was freedom. Creative freedom. He could taste it, bittersweet like vermouth. He finally had the recognition and adoration he'd always wanted.
It was only going to cost him everything.
◈━◈━◈
On Monday morning, Astarion could barely breathe. He didn't like ties but today, he was wearing a simple grey tie he borrowed from Gale and knotted as tightly as he could manage without strangling himself. It was like buckling himself into a restraint on a roller coaster. It kept him from falling out and splattering all over the floor.
Gale had clocked Astarion's dread the second he came back to his apartment. The weekend was a give and take of slow, exploratory care. Gale cooked him lighter, easier meals, not seeming to mind as much if Astarion couldn't do much more than pick at them. Astarion did the laundry on Sunday morning, washing a load he assumed Gale had been too depressed to take care of last week. They shared a shower, which ended with ragged, panting breaths and their climaxes slicking their skin, then washing away under the stream.
Now at Elturel Roasters, Gale rubbed circles onto the back of Astarion's hand with his thumb while Alfira and Lakrissa prepared their orders. Alfira was singing, which meant her new song was done. Astarion wasn't paying attention. He was picking up his order of two espressos early, before Cazador told him to. He wasn't expecting praise, but he hoped Cazador would see that he was taking initiative and that the gesture would soften the blow to come.
Gale clasped Astarion's hands between his, enclosing them in warmth.
"It's going to be a rough day, isn't it, dearest?"
Astarion usually didn't like being coddled, but he shifted closer and rested his head on Gale's shoulder. It felt nice. The solid weight of Gale's body kept him grounded, as did his scent. The roses were wilted this morning, folding under smoky paper and vanilla at the base of his throat.
"You don't know the half of it."
Gale kissed the tips of his fingers. "Is there anything I can do to make it better?"
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Astarion shook his head against Gale's wool coat. The image of Cazador came to mind, so tall that he may as well have been a mountain. Astarion cycled through his possible punishments. He might expect a slap, maybe a beating, maybe worse now that Cazador had poured molten fucking wax on him. But when the claw came down at last, in whatever shape it took, Astarion hoped it would leave a mark for the camera.
"Why don't you stop by my place?" Gale insisted. "I'll make us dinner. Anything you want. We can watch that true crime channel—Lucretious, was it?"
Astarion murmured into his collar. "Promise you won't get nightmares?"
Gale huffed out a short chuckle. "I used to read H.P. Lovecraft and Stephen King before bed. I fell asleep with my fingers stuck between the pages, woke up, and continued where I left off."
Astarion raised his head. "Then there's nothing I'd like more."
When they were passed their coffees over the counter, they headed out into the cold. Gale pulled Astarion's hand into his own pocket, shielding it from the wind. Before they parted ways on their usual street corner, Astarion kissed Gale on the sidewalk as hard as he could, then harder, drawing the warmth from his mouth and tasting the peppermint mocha on his tongue. He slid his free hand up the back of Gale's neck to tug him closer, earning a low, satisfied hum.
Gale smiled against his mouth, fond. "My dear. What's gotten into you?"
"Hm?" Astarion nibbled on his lower lip. "I'm excited." When he pulled away, he dusted an invisible speck off Gale's coat. He gently turned Gale around and brushed his hair back. He dipped into a sultry purr. "I'll see you tonight." The false confidence was meant for Gale, but some of it—no, most of it—was for him, too.
It was no way to say goodbye. But maybe this didn't have to be goodbye. He'd come back alive at the end of the day. Maybe.
The walk back was frosty and damp. Aurelia bristled in her seat as soon as Astarion stepped through the doors into the Szarr office. She mouthed something that looked a lot like 'what the fuck'. Astarion decided to ignore her. As he passed under the chandelier, he heard her chair scrape loudly against the floor.
"This was our chance. My chance. You won't ruin it, Astarion."
Astarion turned around. Aurelia's expression was furious. He kept on walking.
There were no eyes on him as he rounded the corner except for those in the paintings lining the corridor. Come to think of it, Astarion could never recognize any of the subjects in the frames. They could be Szarr predecessors. Getting a portrait done might be a posthumous kind of deal, he thought. He wondered what it would be like to have his own.
Astarion forced his brain to stay quiet as he arrived at Cazador's office door. He raised his hand and knocked the same old rhythm. Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock knock. Pause. Knock knock.
There was no response. He frowned and knocked the sequence again, waiting a few seconds before repeating. The silence stretched on. After the third time, Cazador's voice finally burst out from the other side.
"For god's sake, boy, what is it?"
Astarion took it as his invitation to enter. He stood in the doorway, not daring to go any further. Cazador sat as his desk, clutching a pen between his fingers. Astarion raised the coffee cup holder.
"I got you your—"
Cazador cut him off. "Did I ask for coffee this morning?"
Astarion faltered. He couldn't fathom why the sweet hell Cazador wouldn't want coffee now if he had it every morning.
"I thought—"
"Did you now? Did you think?"
A beat passed between them. This couldn't have been a change in routine. Cazador had adhered to the same ritual for over ten years now: ordering two espressos, never drinking them in front of anyone, and tormenting Astarion for ten minutes on the dot every morning. But Cazador wasn't asking him to figure out what was different.
Astarion lowered his gaze. "No. You didn't ask for coffee."
"No, I did not. So get out."
Cazador went back to his work, which looked like writing a cheque. Astarion blinked, incredulous. He stepped forward once. Cazador didn't acknowledge the movement. Astarion took the exit and his good fortune and closed the door behind him.
At his desk, Astarion drank the first espresso. Instead of sharpening his focus, it scattered him. His heartbeat jumped and his chest hurt with a long, lancing pain as he tapped at his keyboard and failed to concentrate over and over. This was what Gale must feel like without his medication.
At noon, the reverie broke. Astarion was filing Cazador's emails when something moved in the corner of his monitor. Several somethings. He swivelled around in his chair to find Petras standing over him, arms crossed. Dal hovered behind, looking more anxious than ever.
Astarion switched off his monitor display and glanced up. "Are you all going to jump me now? Space is a little tight. You're going to have to get in line."
Dal swallowed. "Astarion, why—how could you think this was a good idea?"
Astarion put on a grin, all teeth and malice. "I'm full of good ideas. I have no clue what you're talking about."
"Cut the bullshit," Petras snapped. "We've all seen it. Advertising your own work on a sponsorship video. We always knew you were a selfish pig, but this is a new low, even for you."
Astarion scoffed. "Excuse me? It's always been my own work. It's time I'm due some credit because god knows Cazador isn't going to give it to me."
Petras seethed. "He would have given us all the praise your arrogant ass was looking for if you just stayed out of it."
Astarion pulled himself out of his chair. He stalked towards Petras. Satisfaction bloomed as he backed up to make way. "Oh, please. When has Cazador given us anything besides mountains of work and a slap in the face for thanks?"
"You know the consequences aren't just going to fall on you." Dal's voice wavered. "I can't believe you'd turn on us. On your own family."
Astarion burst into a laugh, loud and derisive. "Oh, so now you've gone and drank the Kool-Aid." He leaned in towards her. "How does it taste? Is it good because your mom never complimented your drawings or your dad forgot to attend your graduation? Cazador doesn't care about anyone other than himself. Saying we're family isn't going to save you from him."
Dal shrank back. Petras sneered. "Don't listen to him, Dalyria. We've been loyal. Unlike this prick." A smug smile wormed its way onto his face. "And if Cazador's right, he's going to get what's coming for him."
The three of them could have heard a pin drop in the ensuing silence. Petras's tone reeked of delight. He looked like a child holding a magnifying glass over an ant, waiting for the sun to hit.
"What's coming?" Astarion hissed. "What did he say?"
Petras didn't answer. He continued to stand there, wearing his stupid, slack-jawed grin.
"What did he say?" Astarion repeated, his voice growing louder. "Tell me."
He lunged forward and grabbed Petras.
Petras staggered, fists and feet flailing, but the sudden movement threw him off balance. Astarion wrenched Petras's arm behind his back and shoved Petras against the nearest wall. Petras screeched, pained.
Dal screamed. "Astarion, stop!"
Astarion jerked Petras's arm upward, twisting it into an even more awkward angle. If his shoulder wasn’t dislocated, it was close. Astarion leaned in. He would've been scared if he wasn't so impressed with himself. With a quick thought, he reached into the desk drawer where he kept the box cutter he used to cut his desk free after Design Week.
Astarion held up it, inching it towards Petras's face. "Tell me what he's going to do to me."
Petras roared. "You're a freak. A monster."
"Please, Astarion, just let him go," Dal begged.
Astarion didn't. Petras thrashed about, starting to wheeze with panic. He caved.
"He wants to see you," he choked out.
"It didn't seem that way this morning." Astarion moved his thumb along the handle, the blade click-click-clicking up from its sheath.
Petras's eyes darted to and from the blade wildly. "He wants to see you after work," he said. "He says he's going to take disciplinary action."
"What time?"
"Five fifteen. Sharp." Petras wriggled in his grasp. "His door will be open."
"And the nature of this...'disciplinary action'?" Astarion tightened his grip and jerked Petras's arm further back. Petras shrieked.
"I don't know. I swear I don't know."
Astarion released Petras and took a step back. Petras's hand flew to his shoulder. Dal rushed to his side, then hesitated. Astarion knew she wanted to tend to Petras's injuries, but she was afraid.
Afraid of him.
Petras whirled towards Astarion. He growled, "This is assault. You'll pay for this. I'm going to tell Cazador, and then I'm going to call the cops."
Astarion chucked the box cutter back into his drawer. He turned to Petras, eyes cold.
"Brother, dear. Get out of my office."
Petras stormed out, still gripping his shoulder and wincing. Dal took a step back, unsteady on her feet, and shook her head.
She fled.
After checking the wall for damage, Astarion sat back down. His computer and the second espresso were waiting for him. Once he managed to catch his breath, he took several gulps quickly, the cold, bitter brew flooding his throat. It felt and tasted underwhelming, considering all the trouble he just went through. He deserved a little treat.
Since Design Week, Astarion had kept the sunscreen flask topped up with chocolate liqueur and shoved it under all the junk he accumulated in his work desk. That way, he'd never be tempted to drink from it. It was disgusting and artificial and way too sickly sweet to enjoy on its own.
With a mixer, however?
Astarion paused. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He needed his wits about him in case anyone else tried to pay him a visit, and for when he faced Cazador at the end of the day. But he also needed respite, the only one he would get all day. And if he drank enough water over the course of the afternoon, he could flush it out of his system in time.
Fuck it. He unscrewed the cap and emptied the flask until the coffee cup was full again. He could do a lot worse than an improvised espresso martini. Astarion drank deeply, savouring the warm afterglow, and it quelled the anger inside him like the magic medicine it was.
The hours crawled by. With the numbers ticking up from twelve, anxiety wound tighter and tighter inside him, like a coiled spring ready to snap. The blood pounded in his head, a raging river. An ache began to settle along his brow. He pushed his fingers into his eyes until light burst against his closed lids.
Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
He also discovered that straight chocolate liqueur wasn't so bad once he got used to the taste.
When it was five minutes past 5 o'clock, Astarion finally got out of his seat. He could hear activity rustling across the office and down the halls, the sound of people leaving for the day. Of course, no one stopped by to wish him luck. He turned his computer off and tidied his desk space, stashing the flask back into the drawer. As he shut it, he thought about hiding his box cutter in his sock like they did in spy movies, but he ultimately decided against it. Besides, thinking on his feet had always been his greatest asset.
He made his way from his desk down to the foyer, under the chandelier, and into the hallway leading towards Cazador's office. The faces in the paintings turned their eyes on him again and he felt like he was heading for the guillotine. Marie Antoinette, the queen of France, allegedly uttered her last words when she accidentally stepped on her executioner's foot, which were, Pardon me, monsieur, I did not do it on purpose. The difference, though, was that he had.
And what about it? These people were cockroaches. Everything would be so much easier if he stepped on all of them.
Astarion took several deep breaths. He tread carefully, keeping his footsteps soft to avoid announcing his arrival. Cazador's office waited for him at the end of the hall. Like Petras told him, the door was ajar.
His fingers reached into his blazer pocket. Before entering, he took out his phone, found the app, and hit record.
This afternoon, Cazador was reading. He barely bothered to look up, snapping his fingers when he heard Astarion shut the door behind him. Astarion sat down. A few opened envelopes sat on the far end of the desk, weighed down by a sheathed letter opener. A Szarr candle burned, cocooning the room in tuberose.
"How was your day?" Astarion asked. Cazador didn't answer. Astarion shifted in his seat. He tried again, making an effort to sound more earnest than irritated. "Sir?"
Cazador turned a page. "Productive," he replied. "I reviewed some invoices from The Counting House and had a nice chat with some of our retailers. I set up a meeting with Mrel Alkam next week. I even managed to get some light reading in."
He kept his attention on the book, idling as if time meant nothing to him. In a way, it did. Astarion knew Cazador would always be the more patient one between the two of them and he hated him for it. Grudgingly, he asked, "What are you reading?"
Cazador's thin lips curved upwards. He was pleased that he took the bait. "There's a book I think every budding perfumer should pick up right away. I enjoy the art of perfumery, but after reading this, I think I should give more attention to the science as well. Have a look. It's very good, perfect for the layman."
Cazador placed a filigree bookmark on the page he was reading and shut the book. He slid it across his desk for Astarion to see. The cover art was that of a crystal ball with molecular structures veining inside it like a plasma ball lamp. The title stood out in white text.
Periodic Tales: The Everyday Magic of Organic Chemistry by Gale Dekarios.
It started like a wine glass rolling down a flight of stairs. Realization gained momentum, tumbling and building speed before abruptly shattering. Astarion jolted. He pressed his lips together, failing to form words. The chapped skin told him his mouth had gone dry.
His reaction must have been visceral, since Cazador took his chance to speak.
"'Seven vials, each inspired by those nearest and dearest to me.'" Cazador took the book back, setting it down next to the cognac, which Astarion quickly looked away from. "Shame none of your colleagues made the list. After everything they've done for you. After everything I've done for you."
Fear sharpened into rage, growing teeth and the urge to protect. Astarion spat. "You've done jack shit."
Cazador stood, chair nearly tipping over from the force, and slammed his hand on the desk. "I took you under my wing. I said you had potential. I nurtured that potential. And the thanks I get is a sneaking, lying little upstart."
Cazador's insults didn't hurt anymore. That he had managed to learn about Gale was far more agonizing. As for how—well, he didn't know, but with a man as rich and influential as Cazador, it was never going to be out of the realm of possibility. All that mattered now was goading Cazador enough to incriminate himself. To that effect, Astarion stayed quiet.
Relishing the silence, Cazador pressed a finger to his lips, as if he just remembered a secret. "Not just a liar, but a thief as well," he said. "Rose de Mai absolute. From France. Remember?"
Past and present blurred then collapsed in on themselves, a slow explosion. Days of being whittled down during Design Week. Sitting side by side, looking at that godawful abstract painting in their hotel room. And then he remembered. Cazador had plied him with so much champagne on the night of their showing that even if he hadn't meant to, the truth rose to the surface on streams of golden bubbles.
Astarion stiffened. Trying to keep calm was like trying to hold back a mounting tsunami. "Every perfumer works with rose. Your point?"
Cazador folded his hands. His signet ring gleamed, a drop of blood red. "I pay you well, but not so well that you can afford materials from a private reserve." He gave a small smile. "Don't say I'm not self-aware."
Cornered, Astarion grit his teeth. He couldn't expect something reasonable, like deducting the amount he'd stolen from his next paycheque. Or being fired. He straightened himself, poised and upright.
"Come on, then. Petras said you were going to punish me, so let's get it over with."
Cazador's grin twisted downward. "Discipline," he snarled, "is not something we 'get over'. It is a fundamental principle of the House of Szarr, one you would do well to understand." He walked around his desk and came to a stop behind Astarion's chair. His fingers closed over the high back. "I would say learn, but I can only teach you this lesson so many times." He stilled. "But perhaps I've been using the wrong method. You learn best by doing, don't you?"
Astarion looked over his shoulder, following his movement. Cazador was standing between him and the door. He couldn't run now. But he could fight. Cazador's voice came clipped.
"The rules. What are they?"
Astarion clenched his jaw. His molars ground against each other.
Cazador seethed. "Stupid boy. My rules. Recite them."
Astarion felt both of Cazador's hands leave the back of his chair and tangle in his hair.
"Rule number one," he goaded.
The hands pulled. The back of Astarion's skull screamed and searing heat pricked at his eyes. He resisted until he felt strands tearing from his scalp. His lids flew open.
"I will not think I'm more important than any of the others."
Cazador's cold hands slid down Astarion's face and the pain vanished. The fingers cupped his chin, holding his head steady, poised as if to snap his neck. It would've been a mercy.
"Stand."
Astarion obeyed, rising from his seat. Cazador's hands moved to rest on his shoulders. They must have looked like they were about to take an oath. Vellioth's portrait looked on, bearing witness.
From behind, Cazador's teeth scraped the skin of his neck, finding their way home to the scar. Astarion bit back a shuddering groan. As he pulled at Astarion's flesh with his mouth, he brushed over his waist. Astarion's hands pressed against Cazador's chest, shoving against him, but he couldn’t dislodge him.
"Rule number two."
Astarion cast his gaze around the desk, looking for something he could turn into a weapon. For so long, he'd wanted to swing the bottle of cognac into Cazador's head, sending glass and grey matter spraying, but it was too large and indiscreet. Then he saw it again. The letter opener. If he made a show of bending over, he might be able to reach it.
"I will obey you in all things," he said quickly.
"Give yourself to me."
It was a command Astarion was familiar with. How kind, Astarion wanted to laugh, that he gave him a heads up first. He obliged, leaning forward and giving into the kiss, solemn and binding, the kind of kiss he knew Cazador liked. Everything with him had to have gravitas.
Cazador forced him into another kiss and Astarion turned his head away as much as he could. Cazador's lips slid over his jaw, his cheek. His teeth found his earlobe and clamped down. Astarion hissed. Just out of his field of vision, the letter opener winked at him, the embossed sheath singing. He could play along for a little longer.
Astarion reached to pull down his zipper, slowly grinding his hips. The sound echoed throughout the room. Satisfied with the show of obedience, Cazador gave his next order.
"Lean forward."
Astarion complied, widening his stance and steadying himself on the desk on his elbows. The mahogany was smooth and cool under his palms, which he shielded with his torso and inched towards the other side. Cazador's hands gripped his hips, digging into the bones that jutted out of his waistband. Suddenly, one of them drew back and came down with a crack between his shoulder blades. With another strike from the opposite hand, Astarion doubled over. He landed on the desk face-first and a dull ache crushed the bridge of his nose.
Cazador settled the weight of his body over his, pressing his hips between his legs. Astarion felt long fingers undoing his clothes. He jerked his head up, heaving for breath.
The letter opener was gone.
Astarion lifted himself, waiting for the edge, which was no doubt now in Cazador's hands, to touch the back of his neck. He met air. He arched his back, which only pressed against the barest warmth of Cazador's chest.
Then he felt the cold, blunt tip. It snaked down the small of his back, lighting up his nerves as it descended, circled his entrance, then pushed inside him roughly.
Astarion's body went rigid as he screamed. He fell forward and clamped his teeth over his closed fist, his jaw spasming around his knuckles. The sheath—or the handle—withdrew, then drove back into him.
"Fitting disciplinary action for a backstabber, don't you think?" Cazador's voice was level. "It all started with a letter. It's only poetic to end with one."
Astarion gasped with each thrust, trying and failing to relax his muscles enough to ease the glide. He reached behind to cling onto Cazador's shirt. Cazador allowed it. Astarion wound his fingers in the fabric, gaining leverage, and pulled himself up. His head sank backward, resting on Cazador's shoulder. He angled his chin up, inhaling metallic white flowers and faded cloves.
Then he bit him.
Cazador slammed his head against the desk, his hands around his throat. Choking, Astarion clawed at his wrists. It took all his strength to keep that fragile column of muscle and bone from being crushed with Cazador's full weight as he tried to draw his chin down to his chest. Cazador consumed his vision. His rage-filled eyes, the shallow mark on his neck. A curse formed in Astarion's mouth. He didn't even get to draw blood.
“Never again,” Cazador snarled.
Astarion wrenched his head to the side so he could breathe, but nothing entered his lungs. Thin, rapid streams of air rushed in and out of his nose and the sound of his own hyperventilating filled his ears. His gaze landed on the space between the book and the cognac bottle.
Time slid past them, a slow, gruelling agony. What they were doing—what was being done to him—was filled with rage, a burning cord that wrapped tightly around them, strangling them both. Astarion wasn't too proud to admit he cried the first time it happened. He couldn't help it. He'd always been the expressive kind, which enthralled Cazador, who could chastise him for having no self-control in the open and savour his screams behind closed doors. But he was out of tears now.
He bent his head. His sight was swallowed up by the ground as it rocked below him. He saw the polished shine of his own shoe, flanked by Cazador's.
Move your foot.
Cazador's voice came from above. "Rule number three."
With one hand still gripping his throat, Cazador's fingers wandered up Astarion's untucked shirt. They splayed along the hollows of his ribcage and pinched, chastising him for how ugly and malnourished he was. His nails raked across his skin and they felt like claws. A glimmer of hope sparked in Astarion's chest. They might leave marks.
Move. Your. Foot.
"I will not leave your side unless directed."
At the words, Astarion heard a drawer open to his left. Cazador reached below his neck and yanked at his tie, pulling it impossibly tight and dragging him towards the source of the sound. The drawer slammed shut.
Astarion finally aimed a kick backwards. The tie caught him and his shin hit the edge of the drawer, sending pain shooting up his leg. He was leashed.
"Does he know?" Cazador asked. "That you're a liar, a thief, and a cheat? A useless drunk?"
Astarion shook his head. His brain was foggy. He tried to figure out who the "he" in question was.
"Of course not. Dr. Dekarios is a very intelligent man. A prodigy, judging by the sources. But he can't claim to know you better than me. I made you what you are, after all. Or at least I tried my best." The sheath thrust back in. "Rule number four."
Fine. Move your elbow. Throw him off. Any way you can. Just get up, goddamn you.
The edge of the desk bit into Astarion's cheek. He was losing power. His heels scrabbled, the soles of his shoes scraping the rug in short, frantic kicks. He needed air. When he opened his mouth, his voice was thin and weak.
"I will know that I am yours."
Get up.
With one hand still around Astarion's neck, Cazador struck a blow to the back of his head. The book fell off the desk and out of sight. Astarion could picture it on the floor, the covers splayed open, the pages crumpled.
"Again."
All that was left was the cognac bottle. Astarion saw his reflection in the fluted edges, broken into little pieces. He watched the contraction of his brows, the way his eyelids fluttered as they struggled not to close, how his mouth was open in a silent scream, gargling on nothing. The amber liquid inside sloshed with their movements and suddenly, Astarion knew. Cazador probed everyone around him for weakness. When he served him that glass of cognac and then another and another after that, he found one more.
"I'm yours."
Get up.
Astarion gagged. He felt his own clawing hands fade into twitching grasps. The wood grain, the grooves under his fingernails.
"Again."
The lights flickered on and off.
Get up.
"I'm yours."
Long, elegant fingers carded through his hair, matted with cold sweat, and rested on the back of his neck. It rose, then fell. A conciliatory pat. A gentle caress.
And the world was gone.
Notes:
Astarion you apologize to Dal right fucking now.
I called this chapter an avian extinction event in the Bloodweave Brainrot Discord because we've veered into dead dove territory with this one. You did heed the warnings, didn't you? If it's any consolation, this is about as bad as it gets, though the angst train is still chugging down the track.
Shoutout to all the other girlies who've bleached our naturally straight black hair. Out of all the Origins, Shadowheart is the one who's nearest and dearest to me for personal reasons and it was so much fun to write her chapter. Someone on r/okbuddybaldur also modded a human Lae'zel and that's it, that's what Lae'zel looks like in this fic. You're welcome.
Cazador's finally caught wind so run, Gale, run. Just remember not to leave Astarion behind.
Perfume inspo: Double Attack by Mind Games
“Double Attack utilizes the multifaceted notes of chocolate to deliver a medley of bittersweet, woody notes that drive the fragrance. Exceptionally effective in breaking down defenses, all who experience it are enveloped in an opening of spices and florals that give way to the underlying base notes of bourbon and vanilla fragrance, captivating the sense of smell on multiple levels."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 17: Amyris
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Alcoholism
- SA
- Graphic description of vomitThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ten years ago, Astarion Ancunín first met Cazador Szarr at his own house, a decision he thought was going to be the best one of his life.
Being cut off by your own family wasn't so bad when you were gorgeous. Astarion quickly got a gig bartending at a miserable little hole-in-the-wall called The Waning Moon, mostly thanks to his pretty face. It opened him up to the joys of nightlife, which included aching feet, ringing ears, and disgusting cleanup. He was overqualified, reduced to fake smiling and cracking jokes at indecisive customers who'd return later, all drunk and handsy. Astarion decided if he was going to be hit on and pawed every night, he deserved to be paid for it. He mixed martinis and gimlets five times a week and learned to sell himself on the other two.
The best clients were people with no time and no family. Cazador Szarr fit the bill perfectly. When he read Cazador's response to his ad in his inbox (formal, well-written, polite) and did a cursory Google search, Astarion felt sorry for him, but the pity quickly disappeared when he realized he was going to strike it rich.
The night before, he sat on the floor of a bedroom covered in posters and suffocated in a cloud of peach and cherry blossom body mist. Nym sat cross-legged on the bed while her brother paraded across the space between the closet and the door. His shoulders, chest, and arms were covered in thin red lines.
Astarion slurped his Capri-Sun. "Jesus fuck, Sorn."
"After every show." Sorn twisted around and traced an angry-looking cut on his hip. "Scratches. From acrylic nails." He shrugged his shirt back on. "Makes you think twice about being on call for a bachelorette party, eh, Star?"
"If I were you, I'd miss teabagging the bridesmaids."
"I think it's time we get booked with a club," Nym said. "You'll get a safer contract that way."
"Time for you, maybe." Astarion smirked. "I've got other plans."
"Selling your nudes online again?"
Astarion laughed. "Better."
Instead of booking a room at an upscale hotel as expected, Cazador extended an invitation to his personal residence. Astarion walked twenty minutes from the nearest bus stop to arrive at a tall mansion flanked by columns and shaded by overhanging eaves and trees. When he stepped inside, his feet sank into the mahogany carpet. His black duffel bag looked like literal trash next to Cazador's finery. Cazador greeted him in the doorway with a firm handshake and a hand towel scented with rosewater to clean off the grime of public transit (the stink of Astarion's relative poverty). It was magnificent.
Cazador made him feel magnificent, too. He noted how Astarion was a cut above the other escorts he'd met. Astarion was from decent people, he said, he could tell. He was educated. Refined. Wittier and more charming than all of them put together. Astarion remembered Cazador's surprised look when he identified the notes in his cologne. He didn't know about the House of Szarr then, just that the Szarr mansion was a perfumer's paradise and he loved getting lost in it. Cazador was a collector. He owned perfume from the eighteenth century, limited edition flankers painted by hand or bedazzled with crystals and pearls. While Astarion stared at the display cases in awe, Cazador called him a gem, his sparkling diamond.
He knew it in hindsight now, but Cazador had recognized he was vain from the moment he walked in. He indulged that vanity, fed it, and wielded it like a knife. His fangs came out that night when Cazador laid him out on his silk sheets and plunged his teeth into the side of his neck between deft fingers and heavy breaths. Astarion remembered how loudly he screamed—he was weak back then and unused to pain—and Cazador apologizing profusely, his voice sickly sweet, explaining that he'd gotten carried away.
He remembered Cazador getting up, leaving Astarion alone in his king-sized bed. He returned with a handkerchief, which he dabbed along Astarion's neck. Fear gripped him by the throat when it came away bloodied. But a dollar was a dollar was a dollar and Cazador patched him up, his careful, almost tender touch persuading him that it all had been really, truly, an accident. Astarion finished the job and scampered off into the night.
The payment came the next morning. Astarion only mustered up the courage to peel back the bandage when he heard the notification ping. He examined his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The blood had dried, leaving behind a broken crescent ringed in red. The curve was made up of serrated marks. Teeth.
He checked his phone. The number lingered behind his eyelids when he shut them.
One thousand dollars.
Astarion opened his eyes and craned his neck up towards the mirror. It burned where the wound stretched. It was deeper than he first thought. What would Cazador do to him next time? He probably wouldn't maim him; if he was disfigured, he would be useless. And Cazador wouldn't pay him if he wanted him dead.
Astarion looked at his neck in his reflection, scabbed over and inflamed. He looked back at the transaction.
He needed this. He needed him.
He went back.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion came to with a gasp and ragged coughing fit. His head hit the ceiling with a thud. No, it wasn't a ceiling—he was curled up on his side, the space around him tight and dark. He fumbled for his blazer pocket and squinted at the light from his phone screen. It was 6:01 pm. The recording was still going and he stopped it. If he had to guess, he'd been out for half an hour.
He made out the shape of chair legs by his feet. He was under Cazador's desk. He pushed them forward and crawled out. His clothes were put back on and tucked and buttoned neatly, but as he stood, a warm, sticky wetness dribbled down his thighs. Cazador had his way with him after all.
The door to the office was closed and the lights were off. Astarion lowered himself into Cazador's chair, placed his elbows along the armrests, and took a minute to catch his breath. Everything hurt. His head ached. His throat was sore. He shifted his hips, smearing wetness onto the seat (Good.), and reached over to turn on the lamp. The office became a salon filled with warmth and light. From his chair, he could see the full length of the room, from the cabinets to the floor globe. He had a clear view of the door and from this angle, Astarion realized that if it were open, he would be able to see all the way into the main hall.
To think he'd always been in close proximity to such power. He'd been in just the right place to tug at all the right strings to get off the hook or make things happen the way he wanted. Despite it all, his attempt at following his own star, was clumsy. Doomed to fail.
Worse, he failed Gale.
That poor, sweet man. His darling boy who knew so much and yet so little about him, whose only crime was trying too hard and wanting too much, which wasn't a crime at all. He had so much unfounded belief in Astarion that he was in danger now. Astarion was a rat, vermin skittering around in the dark, but not Gale. He was an academic, one of the best and brightest of his age, and Cazador was drawn to that kind of prestige like a moth to a flame, to take it for himself or destroy it.
Astarion looked to the left and saw the book at the foot of the desk, still crumpled and facedown on the rug. He bent down to pick it up by its spine. The pages would never be smooth again. He turned the book over in his hands to find Gale's photo on the back of the book jacket.
Gale Dekarios is a chemist, author, and speaker with a background in organic chemistry, analytical chemistry, and rheology. He is currently a lecturer at the Department of Organic Chemistry at Blackstaff University and a Distinguished Research Fellow at the institute's Centre for the Study of Science and Innovation Policy. He became Blackstaff University's youngest Ph.D. graduate at the age of twenty-three and has been named one of Melvar Magazine's Top 10 Scientists to Watch.
Dr. Dekarios lives with his wife, Nobel Prize nominee Dr. Mystra Dekarios, and is a proud parent to their cat, Tara.
Astarion placed the book back on the desk, cover side up. At this point, the divorce proceedings would be the least of Gale's problems. And what for? Astarion's five seconds of fame that would have never have been worth it if he knew the cost.
Astarion slid backwards and pain shot up his spine. Cazador's chair was definitely not made for slouching. Think. Think. Think. He could see the headlines.
Blackstaff University professor retires "effective immediately" amidst scandal.
Fraud scheme unfolds at Blackstaff University, professor arrested.
Blackstaff University professor Gale Dekarios found dead, aged 35.
A small comfort came to him. He had the recording. Hell if he was going to play it back, but he didn't care who found it. One listen and they would know who was at fault. He smiled, which lanced pain through the muscles in his face, and decided to check how he looked.
When held his phone out in front of him and turned the camera on, the first thing he noticed was his hair, smoothed back and tidied but not the way he liked. Astarion scowled and fixed it. As he fluffed his curls and moved them into place, the pale strands brought out his deep, bruise-like eyebags. He turned his head to one side, then the other. He couldn't find any cuts, scratches, or bruises apart from a faint imprint on his right cheek where he'd lain on the floor. He snapped a picture. It was better than nothing.
Astarion's tie was still around his neck, knotted as tightly as it was when he put it on in the morning. He examined the hem by holding it up to the lamp. His vision was adjusting to the darkness and he saw the frayed threads where it was trapped in the drawer. He angled the camera down and took another photo. Astarion loosened the tie, flinging it onto the desk, and undid the first button of his shirt. A faint patch of discolouration sat at the base of his throat. His heartbeat sped up as he undid another button, parting the collar of his shirt like a coroner unzipping a body bag. His fingers flew down, exposing his bare chest to the cool air and the lingering smell of white flowers.
The shadows cast around the room tried to play tricks on his eyes, but the camera didn't lie. The small beginnings of bruises bloomed sporadically across his torso, red on white.
Hope.
Fingers trembling, Astarion raised his phone. He started with the elongated marks along his ribs. Snap.
The horizontal smudge of red on his hips. Snap.
The thin, jagged lines on his chest. Snap.
He tilted his chin up to show off the softly mottled skin, resting his head on the back of the chair. Astarion never realized how tall the ceiling in the office was until now. He looked at his reflection and had to remind himself that now wasn't the time to smile for the camera. Snap.
When he put his phone away, a giggle burst from his lips. It was just as Minthara said. Cazador didn't even think he was capable. He never saw him coming and blindsided, he lashed out and tracked evidence everywhere. Cazador had taken his pound of flesh, but Astarion, the whore of the House of Szarr, was holding a whole new deck of cards.
He kept his head thrown back, as if drinking a drizzle after a year without rain. He laughed and laughed. In the end, he was still standing.
◈━◈━◈
The phone buzzed on the bathroom sink. Astarion ignored it. He sat in the bathtub under the shower stream, watching the blood seep out from between his legs and circle the drain. The bathroom fogged up with steam, making him dizzy. He flexed his toes. Once. Twice. He had to make an active effort to feel anything at all.
When Astarion turned off the shower head and stumbled out of the bathroom, phone in hand, his head went light and his vision blacked out. He stood still, placing his palm flat against the wall to keep his balance enough to stay upright. Around him, the corridor closed in, swaying. His field of view cleared and he kept walking.
He slathered on a thick layer of unscented lotion, making sure to reach his feet and the back of his neck. After a scalding hot shower, every inch of him felt paper-dry, but no part felt clean. He sat at the vanity and read Gale's reply as it soaked in.
Astarion scoffed. No, he wasn't alright. He was. He faltered. He was thirsty. He hadn't said a single word for hours, leaving his mouth uncomfortably empty. It hurt to sit. His bare feet were cold. He was just so, so tired.
According to the weather forecast, it was going to rain next week. They were going to spend most of their time together indoors. He should try to liven up the place. Rearrange the furniture. Vacuum the floor. Make it smell nicer than dust and days-old liquor.
Astarion towelled himself off, pulled on a pair of sweats and an old shirt, then sat back down. He watched his reflection settle in the mirror. The pointed face looking back at him raised an eyebrow, taunting him.
Honestly, what did you think was going to happen? That everything was going to turn out okay? That you and Gale would sail off into the sunset happily ever after? That you would start your own perfumery? Delusional. Cazador found out. Cazador always finds out.
The reflection smirked, the lips humourless and thin. Astarion was overcome with the sudden urge to smash it, but tore himself away in the nick of time. He was losing it, floating like a boat in the ocean, and he needed to put himself back in his body.
The smell of his own perfume was always the one thing that kept him grounded. The lotion would work as a fixative. He would smell like himself until the morning and maybe even until tomorrow night and by then, he'd be fine. Astarion took the familiar amber bottle off the vanity and unscrewed the cap.
It smelled revolting.
It wasn't necessarily the smell itself, but the effect it had. Astarion felt the bridge of his nose pinch reflexively and a sickening ache start to form between his brows. Something in the batch had gone bad. It was possible that he didn't seal the bottle properly when he dispensed it into the vial he sent to Firellia, but there had definitely been some traction to the cap. Like a good perfumer, he studied his materials.
Astarion never got into aromatherapy. Too wishy-washy, too basic. But the effect of smell on mood was undeniable and the notes that made up his signature scent were said to be mood boosters and stress relievers (like every essential oil on the market). He took down the three from his rack.
Bergamot, for stress and anxiety. The liquid in the bottle was greenish gold, the colour of olive oil. He held the bottle to his nose and pictured his fingernail scraping peel to pith to pulp, nicking flesh and dripping juice. Citrusy and bitter, with a hint of floral spice. Normal.
Rosemary, to improve concentration. The oil was pale, a light butter yellow. Woody, smooth, and herbal, with a slight camphorous note. With another inhale, he could feel the leaves feathering between his fingers, the flexible branches tethered to the soil. Normal.
The brandy note was to blame. Astarion bought it as a cheap premixed oil on a whim one day and it served him right. If he wanted a job done right, he had to do it himself.
Astarion's hand hovered over the rack as he tried to fit the pieces together. Ethyl acetate. Phenoxy ethyl isobutyrate. Davana essential oil. Oakwood CO2 extra. All diluted to ten percent. Astarion turned on the scale and dripped the components into a small flask filled with alcohol. When he swirled it and gave it a sniff, his lip curled in disgust. The mixture was sour, plasticky, and artificial, like fermenting plums and varnish.
Astarion bolted out of his chair and ran to the bathroom. He emptied the flask into the toilet and flushed. Oil and water swirled, dancing around each other, never mixing until they disappeared from sight.
He returned the flask to his room, got up wearily, and opened the refrigerator to take down a bottle of merlot. The cap came off to reveal a garden of delights and he inhaled, long and appreciative. Velvety purple grapes, sweet wood, dark vines, and plump, finger-staining blackberries. The real deal. Astarion poured himself a glass. Something inside him screamed with outrage but he ignored it. He drank half of it in a series of quick swallows and stood around and waited until he could feel it. The same voice rose to a fever pitch when he finished the glass and poured another. He carried it and the wine bottle back to his room.
One by one, Astarion put the vials away and pushed the rack into a far corner of the vanity. He buried his nose in his wine glass to distract himself from the lingering stench of the failed brandy accord. It was too late and he was too tired to clean up the mess, which meant he would have to sit and stew in it all night. Cazador always said the best work came from pain, though that advice wasn't doing Astarion any favours. Maybe he needed to be angrier, more upset, more broken, because all he was now was numb and he couldn't make something out of nothing.
Cazador was right about a few things. Astarion was afraid. He'd always been afraid. He was all talk and swagger until he was hit. He wasn't deserving. His mind drifted to the times Gale expressed adoration for his quick wit and artistry. They weren't lies—Gale always had the best intentions—but they were misguided. Someone like Gale didn't know that real, honest praise should be given sparingly so the other person wouldn't develop a complex. How could he? He'd been showered with it all his life.
And Gale certainly wouldn't have any praise left for him once he knew Astarion had put both of them in harm's way.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, and Astarion had learned a valuable lesson. He wasn't cut out for greatness. He had nothing left to prove, but the thought of it was liberating. It was okay if he never made perfume again. He would have his revenge, then enjoy the freefall.
Astarion flung his closet open and dug through the pocket of the suit jacket he wore to the gala at Wyrm's Rock. The half of the Marlboro Red was still there. He squeezed the pinched end open and started looking for a lighter. He finally found it in an old winter coat, where it fell through the hole in its pocket. There wasn't much fluid left. He jammed the cigarette between his teeth and flicked the lighter once, twice, and one more time before it sparked.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Astarion watched the plume of smoke rise from his lips. He thought about opening a window, but the smoke was welcome kind of meditation. The tobacco and menthol mingled with boozy dark berries. Astarion smiled to himself. He first picked up smoking a decade ago to curb his appetite and because it enraged Cazador. Cazador used to scream at him that he was destroying himself and what little talent he had as if he wasn't doing the lion's share of the task.
Astarion polished off the bottle and turned off the light. He climbed into bed, cigarette in hand. The lit ember glowed inches from his face. It was almost midnight. The heater was off and the room was as cold and cruel as a storm.
And the wine was getting low. There were only two more bottles in the kitchen cabinet.
◈━◈━◈
The water in the pool was warm.
Astarion didn't remember if he could swim, but the light blue ripples danced and the sunlit bottom moved and winked, refracting the open sky. At least he could walk. The deck simmered hot under the soles of his feet. He decided to take the ladder. It rattled as he stepped in, the sound muffled underwater like glass bottles clinking in a paper bag while walking home.
A splash, and the blue screen shimmered and parted to let him in. The ebb and flow pulled him deeper, deeper, engulfing his waist, then his shoulders. Sucking in a deep breath, he let his head go under.
Astarion didn't like hugs, but he liked this particular embrace. All-encompassing, all-enrapturing liquid smooth summer. He let go of the ladder, pushing off with a kick of his feet. The momentum propelled him up, then he sank like a stone. His hair floated around him and he embraced it. It was a relief to no longer have to hold up his own wretched body.
His chest ached and his lungs began to burn. He was floating in a way entirely disconnected from holding his own head underwater, but the longer he stayed, the better he felt. As long as this minute lasted, the season could be any time between July and dawn and that was fine by him. He was weightless. The chamber was soundless save for the quiet bubbling of his own breath. No pain, no nightmares, no grabbing hands, no thoughts. Just him and the weight of water.
Astarion opened his eyes. Shafts of light pierced the surface of the water, warming his skin from on high. He shut his eyes again and let gravity take him, falling backwards into the sun.
◈━◈━◈
One week later, Astarion woke up too sick to get out of bed. When he tried to sit up, he couldn't. His head and stomach were throbbing. He was still wearing his work clothes from the day before and he felt suffocated by them, but he was too weak to pull them off.
There was a third of a glass of wine next to the futon. Astarion managed to roll over and take a sip before he started to retch. For a moment, he thought he was choking but managed to catch his breath and finish the drink. He tried sitting up again and it worked. He stayed in bed for a few minutes to calm down before he climbed out and walked unsteadily towards the bathroom. Just as he shut the door behind him, another wave of nausea surged and he collapsed forward, vomiting into the toilet.
His chin clipped the edge of the toilet seat and his rasping echoed sharply around him in the bowl. He turned his head to the side and rested it on his forearms, too weak to keep it propped up. His knees dug into the tiles under him. The vomit turning the water cloudy was mostly liquid and reddish-purple, foaming like a wine-dark sea.
Astarion was pleasantly surprised that he'd puked up his dinner of canned soup along with the wine, but the satisfaction was quickly taken over by fear. He'd never felt this sick from alcohol before. His stomach contracted and he vomited again, throwing up more sour, boozy bile. Saliva dripped down his chin and he licked up what he could. It tasted faintly vinegary. Astarion felt his muscles cramp as he straightened up. Chills ran down his shoulders. Sweat beaded along his back and forehead and undisguised by perfume or sobriety, he could smell it emanating from his own body. Acetone.
He was going to die like this. Poisoned on wine and rum and brandy.
His kneecaps were starting to rub raw through his pants. He took his phone out from his pocket and clutched it in one outstretched arm while he stayed slumped over the toilet. Astarion didn't know any emergency numbers besides 911. The poison control centre was for things like snake bites or accidentally eating toothpaste. It was too much trouble to drag himself to the ER. He didn't want to talk to an absent first responder on the other end who had seen it all and was going to be out of sympathy.
Astarion needed Gale.
Conveniently, Gale was coming over today. No doubt he was going to show up wearing clean knitwear, smelling like paper and rosewater, and bearing extra soup and adorable photos of Tara. Astarion tapped over to his messages and tried to recall their last conversation. To be fair, he was doing a good job of keeping himself together. Nobody asked him if anything was wrong when he went back to work at the start of the week. Even Gale, who met him most mornings at Elturel Roasters, didn't seem to notice. Astarion was simultaneously offended and pleased with himself.
Astarion stared at the text message field. The text cursor blinked every half a second. The words weren't coming to him. Astarion's lips moved, forming words but no sounds. It finally happened. All the alcohol had killed his brain cells. Astarion's thumbs hovered, cycling and twitching in the air as he thought of what to say. The screen went black in the meantime.
Don't come over today.
I need help.
You deserve better than me.
I love you.
Eventually he figured it out, prying himself away from the toilet seat and sitting up against the full-length mirror, pulling his knees to his chest as he tapped at his screen.
Astarion's shirt was clinging to his back, drenched in cold sweat, and he pulled it off. His bruises had darkened. They were now purplish-grey, green in some places. As they grew more vivid throughout the week, he took more photos in the mirror. He discovered lesions on his back, too deep and regular to be made by fingernails. Cazador had actually cut him after he passed out. He probably got off on it, too.
Nausea churned in Astarion's stomach and he gagged again, but nothing came up. He did this to himself. He planted his soles flat against the tiles and hissed at the freezing cold, but forced himself to stay put until his breathing slowed down. He wiped his face and neck with his shirt, put it back on, and carried on with his day.
Astarion cleaned up by loading the clutter he found throughout the flat into a reusable shopping bag. He played detective with the clues left behind. If the trail was to be believed, he'd been drinking for days. He didn't bother counting the bottles of wine standing on the dining table, but made a reminder to take them down to recycling in the afternoon. He headed to the kitchen to find a half-eaten sleeve of saltines on the counter. A skimpy top was hanging off the back of the couch in the living room—and he thought that kind of inebriation only existed in the movies. When the flat was mostly tidy, Astarion dragged the bag back to his room and stuffed it in the closet.
After he swept the kitchen, Astarion showered and got dressed. He started wearing looser, darker clothes since last week and he actually kind of liked them. They were perfect for blending in with the crowd. He dotted on some concealer for his dark circles and the bruise around his throat. It took days for that particular bruise to fully form and when it did, it grew fingers, long and thin, crisscrossing over one another to create a chokehold. Astarion took his time blending the concealer over his neck, colour-correcting as he went. After that, he would have all the time in the world.
Waiting was the worst part. Astarion didn't have anything to do. He didn't have enough time to start a sewing project and he didn't want to look at his perfume rack. He was worse than bored. Outside the window, the sky was white and streaked with grey. If he had the attention span, it would've been a perfect day to lounge back with a novel and a Black Russian but after this morning, even Astarion couldn't hide the stupidity of that idea from himself. He was an alcoholic, not an idiot. He'd be good and wait for Gale so they could indulge together.
Until then, he had time to kill.
He hadn't drunken all day.
Time. To. Kill.
Gale texted Astarion at half past five to tell him he was on his way. Like he told himself he would, Astarion took the empty wine bottles down to recycling and tipped them into the bin, the sounds of glass breaking against each other reverberating around the room. He walked up to the end of the block and stood on the street corner, hands jammed into his pockets.
Headlights shone out of the dark, red, white, and amber flashes of light that slowed into far-reaching starbursts as they swerved closer. The sun set hours ago. There weren't enough people outside and there was nothing to look at. Astarion fidgeted, tapping the toe of his boot against the ground. He waited again.
Gale appeared a minute before 6 pm. When Gale made eye contact with Astarion from across the street, he gave a small wave. Astarion blew a kiss and Gale's open hand closed, catching it. By the time Gale reached the other side of the crosswalk, Astarion pulled him over the curb. Gale's eyes widened, but he welcomed the tug of Astarion's hands on his waist. The tote bag swinging from his shoulder was covered with constellations.
"Hello, beautiful." Astarion gave Gale's lower lip a nibble.
Gale tilted Astarion's chin down. "Likewise. You're quite the dashing rogue in all this black."
He giggled. "Aren't I? I can't wait to steal you away."
Astarion offered his hand and Gale took it. They reached the apartment in two minutes. Astarion fumbled with his fob and they went inside.
When they came in through the entryway of the flat, the stale, fruity smell was a shock. There was an embarrassed silence as Astarion turned on the lights in the living room and looked around. He hadn't noticed the dust on the windowsills or the stains on the dining table. There was a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. The whole place was dark and musty.
"What have you been up to?" Gale asked politely.
"I've been busy."
"I believe it."
Astarion took Gale's wool coat and hung it up for him while Gale moved to the kitchen, presumably to put the container of fasolada in the fridge. Astarion let out a short sigh of relief. At least the floor there was clean. He called over his shoulder.
"Help yourself to anything you want, darling. And while you're there, could you get me a drink?"
"Of course."
Astarion crossed the room to the window and quickly swiped a finger across the windowsill, flicking the dust onto the floor. There were only two chairs at the dining table. He wasn't used to having people over. He took a seat on one of the chairs. Crossed his ankles. Uncrossed them.
Gale came back in with two tumbler glasses. Moving through the drab flat in his purple sweater, he looked like the new centrepiece of the room. Astarion reached up and tugged Gale down by his collar, drawing his centre of orbit in for a kiss.
"Thank you, darling."
"Anytime."
Gale kissed the top of his head before circling over to the other chair. Astarion was distinctly aware of the ringed stains on the table. He should really invest in some coasters. He shook the thought and lifted his glass to his nose.
Gale gave him water.
Astarion smiled tightly. "When people say 'drink', we usually mean something stiffer. Something to keep in mind for next time," he said.
"Alcohol is technically a beverage." Gale sat down across from him. "A beverage is a liquid specifically prepared for human consumption, while a drink is any liquid that can be consumed, including water."
"Fascinating."
They drank in silence. Astarion was thirsty and the water made him feel a little better, but it was missing that familiar glow.
"So, how's the strike? The Blackstaff resistance?" he asked.
"My students are thrilled by the lack of finals, for one," Gale replied. "I've also stopped tracking attendance and the final lab will be turned in online. Just to give them further incentive to stay outside the classroom. Physically, that is."
"I saw your reviews on that professor rating site. No wonder everybody loves you." Astarion swallowed the last of his water and put his glass down. "A real drink, please."
"Are you asking for one?"
"It's not just for me. We'll share."
Gale took the tumbler from him. Intelligent eyes dilated, calculating. He finished his own water.
"I don't think so."
Gale stood. The ceiling light over the table haloed his head. An angel of mercy, an angel of death. Astarion's eyes narrowed. Gale's know-it-all-ism, he could handle. But being patronizing? That was just rude.
"Look, it's been a long week." Astarion waved his arm in the general direction of the kitchen. "Drinks are in the cabinet closest to the fridge. Or I can get them myself since finding them is too hard for you."
"Too hard?" An accusatory edge entered Gale's voice. "What are you trying to say?"
"I was hoping we'd spend the next few days unwinding. I've had to put up with unfathomable shit. My coworkers talking about me behind my back, tattling to management, management doling out discipline", he spat the word, "instead of having an HR department. I've spent weeks, months, years knowing I'll never go any higher, never be appreciated, never do anything that matters in the long run. I don't see why that would change now." Astarion huffed. "Not that you'd know what it's like."
Gale didn’t stiffen. He had better control over himself than that. He did, however, look away.
"No. No, I don't know what it's like," Gale admitted. "What I am familiar with is checking the amount left in each bottle in my liquor cabinet every time you come over."
"I bring my own sometimes," Astarion said, defensive. "What are you getting at?"
"I have to spend each D&D session juggling DMing and keeping an eye on you."
"You're a multitasker. I like that about you."
"But I can't let up around you. Last month, you spent one whole morning curled up in bed with my good mixing bowl. I was out picking up Gatorade and you were still passed out by the time I came home."
Astarion frowned. "I don't remember that."
"I don't expect you to. Alcohol isn't exactly known for jogging one's memory." Gale snatched up the tumblers and started walking towards the kitchen. "Maybe this will refresh it."
"Hold on—"
Astarion got up and followed Gale to find him standing in front of the liquor cabinet. The door was open.
"Wine, as expected. Usually, I'd go for quality over quantity but far be it from me to judge another man's tastes. And what's this?" Gale pushed past the wine and started pulling empty bottles out from the back of the shelf. "One, two, three, four. Ah, I see we've graduated to hard liquor." He placed them on the kitchen counter, one after the other. Whiskey, rum, gin, whiskey. Gale grimaced as he picked up the drained bottle of Woodford Reserve. "I never knew you liked whiskey."
Astarion folded his arms. "Those were from last month. I forgot to throw them out."
Gale's demeanour didn't change. "I think it's time you and I had a chat. An honest one."
A silence hung between them, tired and heavy. This again. Around and around they went. The dead horse had been beaten into paste. Astarion sighed, exasperated. "Fine."
"I wasn't so sure when we met. Running into someone at a bar on a Friday night is far from out of the ordinary. You also mentioned that you went through a bit of a partying phase. But the more time we spent together, the more the symptoms became clear." Gale spread his hands. "I don't think there should be any shame about substance use disorder. Besides, I'm quite open-minded. It's one of my best traits and I have plenty of good ones. I'm asking, not judging."
Astarion paced towards the living room. "I don't think you know what average alcohol consumption looks like. It's perfectly normal to have a few drinks at the end of the day. And I only have a few."
"Why do you keep lying?" Astarion turned around. Gale tensed. "I swear, you're one of the most dishonest people I've had the pleasure of knowing and I feel conflicted about that statement to say the least."
Astarion stood over the dining table, watching Gale take position across from him. "I guess that makes two, if your divorce is anything to go by."
Gale gripped the back of his chair. "At least Mystra never lied."
Astarion laughed. "So that's the reason for all this hopeless pining. Mystra this, Mystra that." He shrugged, putting on a show of nonchalance. "I know you weren't the one who initiated the divorce. If it's me or her, go for her. Go for someone who actually has their shit together and isn't a failure and a useless addict. Ask her for forgiveness or whatever. Grovel if you have to. You do it so well."
Gale flinched. "If I did, I'd still pity you. You can't escape your own company."
He was leaning fully on the chair, as if gathering up enough momentum to push himself up and out the door. He was going to take the colour out of the room with him, leaving Astarion in an ugly pit. That was fine. He'd always been alone. He could be alone again.
Last call at the closest bar was at midnight. He should go before he did something he might regret. Astarion stepped away, backing towards the door.
"Astarion—"
Gale grabbed his wrist and Astarion swivelled around. His words came out as a scream.
"Don't fucking touch me."
The shove was light and it came before Astarion realized Gale had doubled over. The weariness slammed into him with sudden force, the only good thing in his life depending, even if only temporarily, on his ability not to fuck up. Astarion felt the muscles in his hands straining where he held onto the edge of the table as he stared at Gale. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide. Gale's right hand clutched tightly at his chest.
"Your heart."
Gale nodded quickly. His right hand clenched.
"What do I do?"
"I'm alright. Just help me over." Gale motioned towards the couch with his chin.
Not knowing whether he was doing more harm than good, Astarion placed a hand on Gale's back and led him to the couch. He helped him down and they sat side by side. Astarion watched Gale shift forward, keeping his feet flat against the floor. He breathed in slowly through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, pinching his nose. He pressed his hand to his chest again.
"Do you have ice?" he asked.
"In the freezer."
"The majority of these episodes settle down on their own," Gale explained. He smiled weakly. "If you've ever wondered why I never fell into alcoholism, alcohol significantly worsens atrial fibrillation."
"Well, I didn't mean to make you feel left out."
"Not to worry. Stress is almost always the culprit in my case." Gale's hand left his chest and rested on his own knee. Astarion looked at the ground.
"I'm sorry. That was awful of me."
"It was." Astarion felt Gale's eyes on him. "Something's really rattled you, hasn't it?"
"You don't say."
"Why drink?" Gale held up his hands. "Just so you're aware, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want me to."
"I don't want to tell you a goddamn thing, but that wouldn't help either of us, would it?" Astarion pressed his lips into a thin line and inhaled. "It started just a few years ago. Three or four, I think. I know I complain about work a lot, but it's not just a toxic place. We're pitted against each other, all crabs in a bucket. We're told we should be grateful for getting the chance to work in an industry like this and take whatever comes with it. Even if it meant I couldn't sleep most nights." The room was slipping around him. "Listen, I'll—I'll call it what it is. It's abusive, plain and simple."
He couldn't bring himself to look at Gale, but he could sense a worried frown tightening Gale's face.
"As for why I couldn't come over last week." Astarion opened his mouth, readying the words, but closed it. "Here. I'd rather show you."
Astarion got off the couch and pulled his shirt over his head, baring his wounds. He faced left, centre, right, like a subject under inspection.
Cazador liked to call his body a canvas. Not even art. Astarion was something to be painted on and marked, nothing more, and Gale was looking at the artist's handiwork in shades of white, crimson, purple, and grey. He heard the shaky breath hiss from between Gale's teeth.
"Did your boss do this to you?" he heard Gale say. "I heard about Rolan's situation briefly from faculty before he was transferred to me, but if I'd known..."
"He used me. Sexually. Has for years. For his own pleasure and a few others'." Astarion stared ahead, unseeing. His words sounded mechanical, especially to his own ears. "I know what it looks like. I didn't want it. I never once enjoyed it, I promise."
"I never would have accused you of it. Do you really think so little of me?"
"It doesn't change the fact that I'm a liar and a cheater and I have a hard time living with it sometimes." Astarion put his shirt back on and turned around to face Gale. He gave a little mock bow. "I never asked to be a drunk, but that's why I do it. Happy?"
Gale sat back, dazed. "God, no, not at all. Astarion. I'm so sorry." He held his hands out, as if he wanted to pull Astarion closer, but was afraid he was going to break him. Loathing sank into the pit of Astarion's stomach. He knew this would happen. "I always thought I'd know what to say in a situation like this. But here we are and I find myself at a complete loss for words."
Astarion bristled. This isn't about you. "Don't say anything, then."
They stayed quiet for a long time. Astarion breathed hard through his nose. This was powerlessness. The thing he hated the most, save for Cazador himself. Heat prickled under his skin and at the back of his eyes. The tears gathering there were the worst, most self-pitying and humiliating kind. He wasn't the one who spent half a year wishing he were dead.
He allowed himself one sharp, low sob.
Gale shifted closer and ducked his head to press his forehead against Astarion's.
"We'll bring him to justice."
Astarion shuddered. He didn't want justice. He wanted blood.
"Cazador Szarr. My boss. I can't face him right now," he muttered. "The man has more money than God and centuries of legacy. One word and he can do whatever he wants to me or get someone to do it to me." He grabbed Gale's hands. "You, on the other hand." He's coming for you, he wanted to say. "You're on the outside. You have friends in high places. You could help me take him down." It was like a dam breaking. His words were spilling uncontrollably. He let go of Gale. "I need to do it. If I don't, there's going to be nothing left for me to do. I'll just drink."
"It looks like you do that anyway."
"I need to quit drinking and fix this place up. Look at the dust on the floor." Astarion nudged a bit of grey fluff on the white circle rug with his foot. He knew he wasn't making much sense.
Gale studied him.
"If you weren't here, I'd be having a bottle of wine."
Astarion still had all those bottles of red wine in the cabinet with one in the fridge. For a moment, he became impatient, still wishing Gale would leave (in disgust, for good) so he could get one out, twist the cap off, and pour himself a glass. He felt the sensation in the back of his throat.
"You know me. I don't take things lying down. I was ready to fight back. I tried kicking him." Astarion chuckled. "Didn't work."
"Please, stop. Stop talking like you were in control, like you could have done something about it."
Astarion flared with impotent rage, then fizzled out. They were the right words. It was the truth. It felt false anyway.
Gale continued. "Whatever he did, it doesn't change anything."
"Between us, you mean." Astarion was still shaking and he wished he would stop already, but a vast swell of relief rolled over him. "Thank you. You don't know what that means."
He lifted his head and pressed a kiss to Gale's lips, dry and gentle. Gale cupped his cheek and kissed him back. Astarion sighed and dropped his head onto Gale's shoulder. He put on a smile. "Now that my life's deepest, darkest secrets are out of the bag, is there anything else depressing you'd like to discuss?"
"Your safe foods. What are they?"
Astarion blinked. "What?"
"Drinking's not your only problem. I can see your bones through your shirt. Now, you could be naturally thin, but this level of emaciation can't be healthy." Gale squeezed his shoulder. "Your safe foods, please."
Astarion scooted backwards. "I'm guessing you want to know why I don't eat either," he said. "That came after the drinking. It was my response to it getting out of hand and never knowing what would happen to me on any given day. Yanking back control in whatever stupid little way I could. Not to mention I was starting to look a little puffy." He snorted. "And now I've been doing it so long that I'm stuck."
"I know." Gale touched two fingers to the space between his collarbones. "It used to be my go-to reaction to everything. Everything could be fixed by knowing more and having complete mastery and control. Since meeting you, though, I've learned to enjoy the chaos. You've saved me in that way."
Astarion didn't like the idea of saving someone else. It made him uncomfortable and embarrassed and he wondered how long that gratitude would reach. But it wasn't just gratitude at this point. Not with Gale.
"Here's what you're going to do," Gale said. "As much as it pains me to say it, I can't fix you. But, if you're willing—and you have to be willing—we will get you help."
Astarion nodded. "I am," he said. He was tired of living like this.
"Excellent." For the first time this evening, Gale seemed alive. "As for your abuser, this Cazador of the House of Szarr." A gleam entered Gale's eye. "We're going to stop him with chemistry."
Astarion gawked. "Gale." He sighed. "Look, I appreciate the enthusiasm and your lifelong hyperfixation with chemistry, but darling, sweetheart, now is not the time."
"Isn't it?" Gale's voice was calm, but there was force behind it. "If he's doing unspeakably illegal actions, who's to say he isn't using illegal substances in his products? We can eliminate Cazador by levying abuse charges, but provide proof of banned substances and we could shut down the whole operation."
Astarion buried his face in his hands. "God. You brilliant, stupid man." He looked up. "It's worth a shot."
Gale's face fell. "I failed you. I should've known. The signs were all there."
"Come on. Don't start now. You couldn't have. I was hiding it."
"But I'll make it up to you. Any way I can. If I find you in an early grave because I wasn't paying attention or wasn't doing enough, I swear I'll..." Gale steeled himself. "I'll be damned if I'm losing you now."
Astarion groaned. "It's going to take forever to put all this together."
"Gathering evidence isn't the hard part. But we'll think about it later." Gale swallowed. "What do you want to do right now?"
The couch dipped as Astarion crossed his legs. His throat was dry. He wouldn't mind another glass of water. "I'd like you to stay."
The city lights stilled. It started out slow. Astarion leaned against Gale's chest, trying to contain the tremors rocking up his arms and down his spine. As he fell apart, Gale held him close, drawing him back from the drop.
Notes:
I love the idea of Astarion as a bartender since that's pretty much what you find him doing during the goblin party. The official Forgotten Realms Wiki also quotes Astarion on its page for wine. Really not shaking the possibility that he'd be an alcoholic if he wasn't on a blood-only diet but I still had fun giving him his Coyote Ugly moment. (And he can pry Victoria's Secret's Love Spell from my cold, dead hands.)
While researching, I wanted to know what going on a bender felt like to other people and I've heard it feels like walking into a swimming pool while not being able to swim. It's short but one of my favourite scenes I've written so far.
And now Gale's in on the whole disaster that is the House of Szarr. He's been on his best behaviour up until now and I can't wait to see him. Fuck. Shit. Up. Because that's what partners in crime/science bros/murder boyfriends are for.
Update (3/20/25): chapter 18 will be delayed until next week, so thank you for your patience. In the meantime, I wrote Bloodweave cavemen this week as something to tide you over until then.
Perfume inspo: L'Heure Bleue by Guerlain
“L’Heure Bleue diffuses its atmosphere at the very moment when the sun disappears beneath the horizon and the sky is painted with night’s velvet...It superbly expresses the moment when 'the night has not yet found its star'."
"Intoxicating with its top note filled with the boldness of aniseed and the freshness of bergamot, at the heart of this scent is a delicate and sensual neroli and a carnation accord. Its ambery, powdery base becomes all the more seductive thanks to powdery iris notes, gourmand vanilla, benzoin and tonka bean."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 18: Incense
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Mentions of alcoholism
- Disordered eatingThe Google search skin can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was a new rule in place at the House of Szarr. As Astarion served Cazador his two espressos, it was decreed that if he went anywhere outside of the usual bounds of his own desk and the common areas, he was going to be under supervision.
Since the day he was left for dead under Cazador's desk, a new feeling had settled over him. Astarion had always known his own anger as a geyser. Constantly simmering just below the surface, occasionally erupting before dying down as quickly as it boiled over. Now, it was a gathering storm.
He could feel the tension constantly rippling between his eyebrows and along his jaw. He had to plug in to heavy rock and metal at max volume on the way back from his daily coffee run to drown out the dread that mounted as he neared the building. Coming up to Cazador's door made a deadly tightness clutch at his throat and when Cazador spoke to him, he faked eye contact by focusing on his chin.
Astarion told himself this was him biding his time. Absorbing information, like Gale wanted. Plotting his next move, like Minthara told him to. The next time Cazador put his hands on him, he had to be ready. He had to fight back or else he wouldn't be able to live with himself. That kind of preparation took time and this wasn't the time for anger.
Besides, he was going to the warehouse.
Leon was about happy with the arrangement as Astarion. They stayed stubbornly quiet as they passed through the lowest floor of the building. The Szarr warehouse was on the small side, with only enough space to house office supplies and equipment for Godey's lab. Leon and Astarion were carrying clipboards. Astarion's pen was tucked behind his ear. He glanced around the room, the wooden shelves, the dusty floor, and inhaled the smell of cardboard and furniture polish. The only light came from sparsely spaced bulbs hanging from the ceiling.
Astarion clucked his tongue. "I thought being a product manager would be a cushier job than this."
"It usually is. No thanks to you."
Leon's ballpoint pen scratched across the paper as they walked towards the back. His footsteps fell heavy, with Astarion's quick and light behind him.
"What was the point in bringing me down here again?"
"It's a punishment after that stunt you pulled with Firellia. Cazador knows you hate this kind of work." A sour look crossed Leon's face. If he had to guess, Astarion thought it said, You're lucky this was your only punishment.
"I'll find something fun to do. Somehow." Astarion moved the nearest cardboard box. "Ooh, bigarade oil."
"Don't touch that," Leon snapped. "You're worse than Victoria and she's a child."
Astarion drew his hand back and continued following Leon. "How's your brat, anyway?" he asked. "I heard Dal had some words for her."
"She said that if I was barely going to be around to raise her, she's going to grow up into a dropout delinquent." He sneered. "What does Dal know about being a parent?"
"Nothing."
"Damn right."
They crossed over to the other side of the room. Leon knelt down and opened up a box on the bottom shelf. He took stock studiously. His shoulders were stiff, as if he expected someone other than Astarion to be standing behind him. Astarion decided to preoccupy himself with the job he was sent to do and started logging the newest shipment of aroma chemicals: their quantity, description, unit cost, and CAS numbers. Mind-numbing.
All the while, he was working on a second task. Gale's plan was to start looking for illegal chemicals. The warehouse was a start, but it didn't have all the chemicals the House of Szarr was currently using. Worse, Astarion simply didn't have enough time and he could feel Leon's eyes trained on him with every movement. No doubt he'd been ordered to keep Astarion on a tight leash. He gave up—at least for now—and tapped at his phone, making sure to bump up the volume on the Instagram reel he was watching.
"So. You think Petras does coke?"
Leon looked up from his clipboard. "What kind of question is that?"
"I was trying to make conversation." Astarion huffed. "Cazador's right. You really are a stick in the mud."
"At least I'm not a violent thug." Leon stood. "Petras told everyone what you did."
"He had it coming. Don't tell me you haven't felt like decking him before."
"Who hasn't?" Leon jotted something down. "But there's a difference between teaching him a lesson and doing it by holding him at knifepoint."
Astarion circled the shelf and started counting the bottles of tolu balsam resinoid. "Please. You don't get to be Cazador's favourite by holding the moral high ground."
"Being employee of the year doesn't make me the favourite. That honour goes to you." Leon spat the word. "It's funny. Like you, I expected it to be Petras. Or Violet. She has that mean streak he likes." He started counting again.
"Why not Petras? It would get him out of our hair."
"Cazador tells him to roll over and he does several tricks in a row without being asked. He never had to break him in. Petras is boring and he's better off for it." Leon moved on to the next box. "If you're lucky, he'll get bored of you, too."
"So Cazador's a brat tamer. Colour me shocked." Astarion took the pen from where it sat behind his ear and began to twirl it between his fingers. He stretched his voice out into a theatrical drawl. "I bet Petras calls him 'master'."
Leon chuckled, humourless. "He prefers 'sir'."
The pen dropped.
Astarion didn't take his eyes off the floor. Leon was looking away. He knew that he knew. They weren't going to say it out loud, of course. Leon had no reason to trust Astarion and Astarion wasn't interested in being upfront with Leon.
But as Astarion bent down to pick up the pen, he realized they had that in common. And if Cazador had put the two of them through that special kind of hell, chances were the others had been through it, too. His eyes widened. Of course. Cazador wasn't inventive enough to come up with unique punishments for all of them. All he had to do was appeal to their sense of rage, resentment, and misery—the only things they had in common, really.
The realization unsheathed itself like a blade in his hand. All he had to do was learn to wield it.
Astarion lowered his voice, half-pretending, half-not. "I'm going to kill him for what he did to us."
"Us?" Leon balked. "Since when did you care about what happens to the rest of us? You, the most selfish person in the whole office?"
"I—" Astarion faltered, shifting on his feet. "It's mutually beneficial. We both want to get rid of Cazador, don't we? We can even keep it civil. We'll turn him in to the authorities. Unsatisfying, but bloodless. We'll all get to walk away clean."
Leon grit his teeth. "I tried to at one point. I roped you, Dal, and Aurelia in. You said it didn't matter to you."
Astarion felt his brow furrow. He genuinely couldn't recall. "Did I?"
"See, you don't even remember," Leon spat. "Stop pretending you give a shit about anyone else besides yourself. You want to go head-to-head with Cazador? Good luck. Leave me out of it."
"I was scared, okay?" Astarion exploded. There it was. Honesty, in all its pale nakedness. When Astarion tried to speak again, it felt like molasses coated his molars, gluing them shut. "I thought we were going to get caught." He wet his lips. "But things are different now. I can get close to him. Closer than you, at least, and you know it. Tell me what you know about him. I'll take care of the rest."
Leon didn't say anything. He seemed to be studying Astarion. It wasn't the way Cazador studied him, probing for weakness, or even the way Gale did when they first met, with curiosity. He was trying to get a read on him. After half a minute, he said, "You do look different now. You seem livelier. There's more confidence in your voice, though you're still slouching."
Astarion laughed. Leon knew nothing about what happened between him and Cazador and yet. And yet. He settled into a loose, smug smile. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, surprising himself with how friendly he sounded.
Leon nodded curtly. "Check the chat," he said, then went back to work.
Astarion didn't move. Was there a scheme already underway? Was Leon trying to throw him off? He would have to see for himself. Before he returned to his own task, there was one more thing on his mind.
"Leon?"
"What?"
"Do you know where you can buy a Szarr discovery set?"
◈━◈━◈
Astarion shouldn't have been surprised to find Rolan in Gale's office, but he was disappointed. He wanted time alone with Gale. It wasn't just that he wanted to see Gale. He needed to see that Gale had meant it when he said nothing about him, nor what had been done to him, changed anything. He didn't want kid gloves. When he slinked into the office and locked eyes with Gale, he wanted to be devoured, or be given free rein to devour.
He wondered how they would do it. On his knees, his mouth working under Gale's desk while Gale attempted to make coherent conversation uninterrupted by heavy moans. Or his quick hand smoothing a line up Gale's back as the other bent him over, undid his belt, and dropped his pants right there in the staff building. Gale's coworkers watching, horrified, as Astarion ate him out or fucked him on his fingers, his bared teeth dragging along his neck.
Astarion smiled to himself. Gale's desk did look wonderfully sturdy.
Unfortunately, there was Rolan.
Astarion tilted his head, the pleasant picture of innocence. "Where's Gale?"
Rolan was standing by the bookshelf, reading a paperback. Astarion couldn't tell whether it was his copy or Gale's, but he remembered the image of Gale's book facedown and crumpled on the floor of Cazador's office. He swallowed. Rolan turned a page.
"He's chatting with Dr. Blurg and Dr. Omeluum. The strike officially started today."
"Ah. Long live the revolution." Astarion motioned towards Gale's chair. "You should sit down."
"It's not my office."
"Mine, then." Astarion flung his bag on the desk and luxuriated in the chair, relaxing against its high back. He reached for the edge of the desk and tossed the copper paperweight in his hand. "You have too much respect for authority, darling."
"Ready, dearest?"
Gale poked his head through the open door. He looked extra smart today, his hair swept half up, half down, and glasses perched low on his nose. He pushed them up and Astarion's heart beat in his ears. If he kissed him now, he knew Gale would taste like warm earl grey tea.
"I got what you were looking for." Astarion reached into his bag and pulled out the discovery set, a small box of five 2-ml perfume vials. "Is it going to be enough?"
"The gas chromatograph can handle quantities in the microlitre," Rolan said. He shut the book and put it back on the shelf. "Trust me, your sample size is very generous."
Astarion shot a wary, almost accusing glance at Gale. "Rolan's in on this?"
Gale took the discovery set from him, taking no notice whatsoever. "Of course. It's going to be a valuable learning experience for all of us."
"Hardly my first time with a gas chromatograph," Rolan clarified.
Gale clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. "Shall we? The lab's in the chemistry building."
The Blackstaff campus was much emptier than Astarion remembered. Normally, he would chalk it up to finals season but it was deathly, eerily quiet. Frost sparkled on the lawns and a single cyclist wheeled by. To avoid more of the cold, Gale steered them through the lecture halls. A few students dotted the stairways, minding their own business. The fossils were still in their glass cases.
"Gas chromatography is simple," Gale explained as they climbed the stairs. "We inject the sample into a gaseous mobile phase. The mobile phase carries the sample through a column that separates components based on their ability to partition between the mobile phase and the stationary phase."
"Gas chromatography is one of the only forms of chromatography that doesn't use the mobile phase to interact with the analyte," Rolan added.
"You and I have very different definitions of simple," Astarion muttered.
The lab they were looking for was on the third floor. It was different from the first lab Gale snuck Astarion into to make pop rocks. It was larger, spanning several doors. A security guard stood by the door with a plaque with the room number. Gale nodded politely at her.
"You've done your part," he told Astarion. "I'll have Rolan inject the samples and I'll analyze the results. All you have to do is wait while each cycle runs."
Astarion scowled. "This is going to take ages, isn't it?"
"Let's just say we'll be here a while."
When they approached, the guard stepped between them and the door. "Excuse me, I'm going to have to ask you to stay out of the lab," she said.
"Not to worry. I'm faculty." Gale lifted his lanyard and presented what Astarion assumed was a staff ID card. The security guard examined it for half a second.
"Gale Dekarios." She seemed unimpressed. "Like I said, I'm going to have to ask you to stay out of the lab."
Gale gnawed on his lower lip. "Has there been an accident? An emergency?"
"The lab is perfectly safe. But I'm afraid you'll have to stay out," the guard repeated.
"Says who?" Rolan asked.
"Yes." Gale's eyes narrowed. "On whose authority?"
The guard lifted her chin. "For the duration of the strike, its organizers are prohibited from using research services and facilities."
They froze. Gale was staring at the guard in consternation while Rolan seemed to be flipping through several emotions at once before ultimately taking a step back to defer to Gale's judgment.
Gale laughed, a poor attempt to cover up his shock. He chewed on his lip again. "Well, that's absurd," he said. "That includes the libraries. Labs. Databases. I understand that as strikers, our goal is to disrupt activity, but surely—"
The guard folded her arms. "Instructions from the Dean of Science. If you have any concerns, I suggest taking them up with the admin manager."
"Is the Dean not receiving correspondence directly?" Gale demanded.
"I don't know. Follow the chain of communication and I'm sure you'll receive a reply shortly."
Astarion strode forward. "Listen here," he checked her badge, "Edwynna, is it? It's cute that the Dean has a blacklist, but I'm afraid it doesn't apply to me."
Edwynna's voice began to rise. "Sir, please remain calm."
Astarion brushed her off. "Tell us how to get in contact with her. While you're at it, tell the Dean bureaucracy makes her look so much older, and she already needs help in that department."
The only student in the hallway pretended not to see them as he scooted by. Adrenaline prickled along Astarion's shoulders. He felt fingertips on his arm and with a jolt, looked to his side.
"Astarion. That's enough." Gale nodded at Edwynna again. "Very well. Have a good rest of your day."
Astarion, while glaring murderously, let himself be led away behind a corner with Rolan in tow. When the guard was out of sight, Gale gave them an apologetic look.
"I'm sorry it didn't go according to plan," he said. "Once the strike lifts, I'm sure we'll be let back in."
"This can't wait." Astarion glanced back in the direction of the lab. "I'll find a way inside."
Rolan nodded. "I'll help."
"Rolan, no." Gale's mouth was set in a firm line.
"You told me about all the times you went sneaking around as a student. Look at you. You turned out fine."
Gale sighed. "I had resources. Other opportunities. I was lucky, tremendously so. Rolan, you're—"
"A refugee who wouldn't be here if I didn't win a full-ride scholarship?" Rolan fired back. "Way to rub it in."
Gale clasped his hands behind his back. "I can't let you risk your academic career."
Astarion cut in. "He's an adult, Gale. He can make his own choices."
Gale looked at him, then back at Rolan. His expression softened. "Think about Cal and Lia. They wouldn't want you to get in trouble."
Rolan bristled. "Oh no. You don't get to pull the sympathy card," he hissed. "You don't get to tell me to do the right thing and then turn around and say I can't."
"I'm offering a point of consideration. You have to be careful when you're up against unjust authority." From where he was standing, Astarion could see Gale's fingers fidgeting. Frustration began to mount in his tone.
"Right. You've never had trouble with authority. You see this," Rolan waved his hands, "and you roll over. You wind everyone up with talk about making your own rules and advocating for your own terms until you come face-to-face with her." Rolan paused. "For the record, I think my siblings would be proud. But if you think my time is better spent elsewhere, fine."
Rolan turned on his heel and stalked off down the hall. Gale looked like he wanted to call after him, but held himself back. He resorted to placing his hands on his hips.
"Why, I never. If I was anything like that, my advisor would've pushed me out the window."
"Sure you weren't."
Astarion leaned against a locker, watching him. Gale took off his glasses and clenched a tip between his teeth. He took it out of his mouth, then started to put it back in, as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to calm down or speak up. He ended up wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt in absent circles.
"I'm sure I could pull a few strings. Find a colleague to do it on my behalf. I can write a recommendation or..."
Astarion pushed himself off the locker, the metal rattling with the movement.
"You'll come up with something. You always do." He offered Gale his hand. "Let's get out of here."
◈━◈━◈
Astarion had never seen Gale this angry. Specifically, he knew Gale was angry because he wasn't talking on the drive back to Astarion's flat. There weren't any songs or podcasts playing either. Astarion would have offered to take over, but he hadn't driven in years. All he could do was wait until the dam finally broke when they came in through the front door.
"Who gave her the right?" Gale kicked off his shoes. "I mean, I know she has the authority. I just didn't expect the audacity." He hung up his coat. "I helped her write her speeches, for Christ's sake." He stormed towards the bathroom. "This is the antithesis of everything she said she stood for. 'Commited to creating an inclusive and accessible environment' my ass." The tap started running. "It's a flagrant abuse of power."
Astarion set Gale's shoes upright by the entryway, then followed him. "Welcome to the club."
"Yes, but at least it doesn't feel like a knife in the back to you." A pump of soap. "The Mystra I know wouldn't have done this."
"What if she's not the Mystra you know anymore?" Astarion breathed in slowly. He noted how wonderful rosemary smelled on Gale's skin. "I've seen more than my fair share of divorces. It makes people ugly."
Gale dried his hands. "You think this is personal, then."
"Maybe? You're an awfully convenient target."
"I can see that. But there's no good reason for it. As students and workers, we have the right to strike." Gale wandered back out into the hallway, to the living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. "Blackstaff is the epicentre of research. To cut me and other educators off from our life's work. It's a retaliation."
"It's like punishing the whole office because one person fucked up." Cazador and his methods came to mind and Astarion shuddered.
"That's it, exactly."
Gale's face was growing a blotchy red and Astarion remembered his condition. If he didn't stop the gears from turning in Gale's head, they would burn out spectacularly. Astarion came up to Gale and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "Darling, I hate to say this, but eat something and maybe you'll feel better?"
Gale quieted, a sign that he thought it was a good idea. "As long as you eat, too. Promise?"
Astarion wanted to retort. He wasn't hungry. This was him looking out for Gale's needs and trying to forgo his own wants for once, but he gave in with a huff. This hill wasn't worth dying on.
"Promise."
Astarion didn't expect Gale to heat up the soup in the fridge on the stove. With some directions, he watched Gale retrieve a pot from the bottom shelf of the cabinet and hoped he wasn't judging him too harshly for his barely used cookware. In lieu of a ladle, Gale stirred the soup with a bar spoon and carefully poured the contents of the pot into two bowls. Astarion took a bottle of pinot noir from the fridge and raised it in Gale's direction. Gale nodded and Astarion poured himself a glass.
He hated this, hated looking like he had to ask for permission, but this was the process of tapering off. One bottle a day to three glasses, to two, to one, to possibly none ever again. It felt like too harsh a sentence for something that wasn't his fault.
While Gale insisted on garnishing their dinner (with what, Astarion couldn't imagine), Astarion set the table. He didn't have a tablecloth or placemats, so he set the mood by lighting an old Szarr candle, filling the room with lavender, amber, and sandalwood.
Dinner was served: two servings of tomato-tinted white bean soup studded with carrots, celery, and cracked black pepper. A thin sliver of lemon (a little shrunken, initially bought for cocktails) bobbed on the surface of each bowl. A small loaf of crusty bread Gale must have snuck in sat between them. They dug in.
Fasolada was starting to become Astarion's new favourite food. It was no steak—god, he'd kill for one, rare and dripping—but the beans were almost as satisfying as meat, thickening the hot broth into something substantial. He chased it with a sip of wine.
"You're wolfing that down with no trouble at all," Gale observed. "Would you call this a safe food?"
Astarion frowned. "I guess? It's also just good, plain and simple." He lifted his spoon and went in for another mouthful. "My compliments to the chef."
"You have her number. She'd be delighted if you told her directly." Gale looked thoughtful. "What makes it safe?"
Astarion studied his bowl. "It's mostly beans. The rest of it's vegetables all the way down." He gave it a stir. "And there's only a tiny bit of oil."
"Fat's good for you. You need it for brain function." Gale tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it into his soup.
The spoon went under and Astarion sighed. "See, it's one thing to know it," he said. "It's another to for your brain to freak out even though it knows olive oil is good for it. In small amounts, anyway. It's stupid. It's like how my brain's afraid of that bread." He pointed at the plate at the centre of the table.
Gale stared incredulously. "You're afraid of...bread?"
"Terrified."
Gale visibly mulled over this information, holding his spoon between his teeth. "Take me through your thought process. What's the worst that could happen if you eat the bread?" He held up a hand. "If you're alright with sharing, of course."
Astarion thought about it. "It's going to taste incredible at first. And then." His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, trying to let his unreasonable, uncontrollable train of thought run wild as it careened off the tracks. "It's going to push me over my daily allowance and make me bloated and ugly and," the word sat thick and clumsy on his tongue, "useless."
"But you look incredible," Gale insisted, dumbfounded. "Do you know how many people would kill to have a face or body like yours?"
Astarion rested his elbows on the table. That's what they all say, he thought bitterly. Instead, he said, "It has nothing to do with that."
"No?"
"That's not how any of this works."
"What am I supposed to say?" Gale asked. "Do you not want to be told you're beautiful?"
"Excuse me, I know I'm beautiful." Astarion broke off. "Sorry, I—it's both that and not. I don't know. Honestly, I don't know." He took another, longer drink of wine. He was enjoying it more than the soup and felt guilty about it. "I appreciate it. Really. But it isn't just about wanting to look good. I mean, again, it is and it isn't. And it's not that I don't care about food either. Quite the opposite. I promise, no one thinks about food as much as someone who deprives themself of it."
Gale pushed his empty bowl to the side. He looked crestfallen. "That's miserable. How do you manage?"
"For a damn long time. If I don't have all of this," Astarion gestured up and down his person, "what do I have, you know? You try being told all your life that you're a pretty face and not much else." He leaned back in his seat, watching the small flame dancing on the candle wick. "I guess it's the same way you feel about your intelligence. Your abilities."
Gale helped himself to some more bread. "When you put it that way, it makes much more sense."
"It's never going to make sense. The same with, you know." Astarion tapped his glass.
"I may not understand it fully yet," Gale said, "but I'll learn. There must be so many resources out there."
"Or you could just ask." Astarion picked up his spoon again. "Some other time, though. I want to savour our meal."
Gale's features relaxed. "Trust me, there will be many more to savour as long as I'm around."
It took no time for them to move on to happier subjects. Tara was doing well; a completely insane but doting elderly neighbour named Halaster was looking after her while Gale stayed over. Morena was beyond thrilled to have Astarion over for Christmas and promised he would get to meet all of Gale's cousins (Astarion got to twelve before he stopped counting). He managed to finish the soup before it went cold and they moved from the dining table to the single couch, Astarion with his wine glass and Gale with water fixed with an electrolyte packet. Astarion grimaced. He'd never been a very good host and he needed to find something better for Gale to drink the next time he was over.
Gale fished out his laptop from his backpack. Astarion had never been able to see it very well before because he sat right next to Gale on D&D nights, but it was covered with stickers. As Gale booted it up, Astarion asked, "Have you looked at the news lately? Anything about Blackstaff?"
"I read about the strike and outgoing research," Gale replied. "Why?"
"I've been thinking," Astarion said. It was true. Since that afternoon, all the alarm bells in his head had been ringing. All fingers were pointing at Cazador. To be fair, it had become Astarion's default defence mechanism. Bad day at work? Cazador's fault. Drank too much at night? Because of Cazador. Turned away from a university lab not remotely connected to the House of Szarr? Cazador again, probably.
But that connection wasn't so spotty anymore, not when Cazador knew about Gale's existence and, without a doubt, about their connection. Astarion didn't put it past Cazador to be a raving, jealous maniac. In fact, he was sure of it.
Rule number four. Above all things, you will know that you are mine.
"Still thinking?"
Astarion blinked. "Mystra hasn't made any public statements, has she?" he ventured.
Gale took a tentative sip of his electrolyte water. "Of course not. If she announced she's cutting off all research services and facilities, there'd be mutiny."
"Judging by the way you've been talking about this, it sounds like it'd be frowned upon by just about everyone." Astarion shrugged, offering up a hint.
"Barring access to premises is also unlawful."
"Then she has to be stopped, yes?"
"I know you've been hitting back yourself." Gale reached out to touch the side of Astarion's neck, fingertips brushing the scar and the teeth-shaped indents punctured into his skin. "Are you sure this is the way?"
"You heard Rolan." Gale flinched and Astarion changed course. "You could do more than bring up this one grievance. You wanted to be dean at one point, didn't you?" It was Astarion's turn to reach back, taking Gale's chin in his hand and tilting it upwards. "Do you still want it?"
Gale closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was steel in them.
"Given what has transpired, I rather do."
Admiration flourished in Astarion's chest. Gale was coming into his own. He just needed a little nudge in the right direction and if that meant whispering the right words into his ear, so be it.
"I'll need to build a solid case, though," Gale said, turning his attention back to the screen. "If we're going to do it, we'll do it like we're attacking Cazador. From all sides."
Astarion leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek. "Go on, darling. If you start digging, I'm sure you'll find dirt."
He went back into the kitchen and brought out the wine. Like he did before, Astarion raised it and made sure he topped up his glass within Gale's line of sight. When he returned, he sat back down on the couch, crossed his ankles over Gale's lap, and squinted at the screen.
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ariel manx
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"Who's Ariel Manx?"
"Mystra wasn't always Mystra." Gale continued scrolling down past the images. "She changed her legal name before we met."
Astarion sniffed. "All the names in the world and she chose the one that makes her sound like a circus fortune teller."
Gale snickered and clicked on a link. Astarion shifted over to get a closer look. It was an old, old Facebook page. A few pictures flashed by. With some envy, Astarion recognized that Mystra had barely aged a day since her TA days. She looked like she was in her early twenties. Mystra in a study group, sitting on the floor because there weren't enough chairs. Mystra in a little black dress, the red flash of the camera reflected in her pupils. Mystra in sunglasses, passing out flyers for some movement or protest. Mystra in the backseat of a car with her friends, looking like she was ranting about a professor who didn't understand her.
Or Ariel, as she was known back then.
"We were always upfront with each other about our histories. These were from before we met." Gale scrolled past a photo of Mystra at a podium. "I used to tease her that she liked them young and she was courteous enough not to deny it, but now I can't help but wonder if it was a pattern."
Astarion swirled his glass. "Let me get this straight. You think she's preying on some young, dumb thing right now."
"The opposite of dumb, but otherwise correct." Gale lowered his laptop screen. "She certainly had a type. Partners who were exceptionally talented for their age. I think she liked being the older one because she got to be with a brilliant mind, but not one smarter or more mature than hers. And of course, she relished having a partner who was utterly thrilled to be noticed by someone like her." Gale pressed two fingers to his temple, as if warding off a headache. "We managed to last so long because that's exactly what I was."
With a tap, Gale navigated back from the Facebook page to the search results. He scrolled further down and Astarion glimpsed a fleeting headline. A Girl Einstein Startles the World of Chemistry.
"They weren't particularly sensitive when writing about women in the sciences back then," Gale remarked.
Astarion craned his neck to get a better view. "How many of her achievements were legitimate, anyway?"
Gale inhaled sharply. "I never want to accuse a fellow academic of dishonesty." He glanced away. "Still, I was afraid to ask that. If she's comfortable delivering retribution in such a lawless way, what else has she done?"
Astarion took a lengthy sip of wine. He waved a casual hand, which balled into a fist on the armrest. "I can't begin to imagine. But if you want my two cents, you could do so much better than her."
It was a while before Gale looked back at him. "Yes. I suppose you're right." He shut his laptop and put it aside. "If I were in her position, the last thing I would do is hold anyone back from their full potential. Let them ask for more. Let them strike. I would have proper answers at the ready, not whatever this secretive, backhanded garbage is."
The wine glass settled on the coffee table and Astarion leaned forward, closing his fingers over Gale's knee. "Then let's make it happen."
Gale smiled. He looked the most satisfied Astarion had seen him all day, even in his office in the faculty tower. "I'll always appreciate your confidence in me," he said.
"You don't need me, darling, it's all you."
Astarion hoisted himself into Gale's lap. His hands fisting reflexively in Gale's hair. Gale's lips were firm and demanding, coaxing Astarion's own apart with a flick of his tongue that had Astarion melting against him and huffing impatiently when Gale continued to lick across his parted lips rather than slip inside. He jerked back from the kiss.
"Bed," he said. Gale's ambition made heat trickle throughout his body, pooling thick and fast in his groin.
He guided Gale to his bedroom and flicked on the lights. While Astarion dug up the lube from his closet, Gale gravitated towards the vanity. He examined himself in the mirror, then gazed wistfully at Astarion's perfume lab.
"I'll never get tired of seeing this." Gale peered at the row of flasks and desk organizer of materials. "Even I don't have such a setup."
"Bed," Astarion ordered again. His hand came down on Gale's ass with a resounding slap, then yanked him onto the floor by his shirtsleeve. He caught Gale as they landed backwards on the futon.
"It's a surprise," Gale said. "I never thought you'd be the type to sleep without a bed frame. I hear it's good for one's sleeping posture."
"It also makes the room look bigger." Astarion rolled over and caught Gale in another hungry kiss. Gale's hands slid over his shoulders and down his chest, trailing a path to his hips and quickly busying themselves with tugging off his slacks and briefs. Astarion felt Gale's breath hitch along his throat, where his lips grazed stubble. With the softest growl, Gale coaxed him to turn around and dragged his hips down, spreading his cheeks apart. He pressed kisses along the backs of Astarion's thighs. His tongue pushed past the tight ring of muscle, dipping into and licking across Astarion's entrance, teasing him open.
Then he pulled away.
"We don't have to do this." Gale's breath against his hole was barely a whisper, cool on the wet trail he left behind.
Astarion looked back. "Why not?"
"It's still so recent. He hurt you." Gale's fingers curled over the small of his back, resting there. "All those bruises. You had cuts on your back. And..." he trailed off, the horror palpable.
"Yes, that violation left me a little sore." Astarion wriggled his hips, agitation growing. No kid gloves. "How do I look?"
"Fine." Gale's tongue flicked out and licked at his hole, causing Astarion's head to drop with a sharp gasp. "But more importantly, how do you feel? I want to make you feel good, however I can,” Gale said earnestly. “You tell me what you need me to do, and I’ll do it.”
"I do so enjoy your determination," Astarion murmured. "Alright, then." He turned back around and flicked the collar of Gale's shirt. "Off with these."
Astarion lowered himself onto his side, propping himself up by his elbow, and watched leisurely as Gale slowly undid each button. No flashy showmanship, just the confidence of a man who was eager to please and knew he was doing a good job. His shirt fell away. His belt buckle slid apart. His fingers hooked the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down to his knees before he kicked them off.
“Tell me what’s good for you.” A mischievous twinkle entered Gale's eye. “Or I could just touch you everywhere until I find out what you like best.” He inched closer to Astarion, narrowing the gap between them. He kissed Astarion's cheek, then moved on to his ear.
"You like your ears taken care of, for one."
His tongue curved over the shell of Astarion's ear, hot and wet. He gently nipped his earlobe, making Astarion's back arch against the mattress.
"And your neck, though I won't bite unless you ask very, very nicely."
Gale buried his face in the crook of Astarion's neck and left a feather-soft kiss. His hands slid under Astarion's shirt and Astarion grabbed his wrists.
"The shirt stays on."
"As you wish." One hand let go immediately, with the other splayed over Astarion's hipbone. Gale shifted onto his back. They looked up at the ceiling, the harsh lighting illuminating all its pockmarked hideousness. Gale's hand wrapped around Astarion's half-hard cock, slowly running the pads of his fingers up and down his shaft in lazy strokes.
"Is this alright?"
Astarion turned his head towards him. "I'll tell you if it isn't."
"Thank you." Gale thumbed his slit, smearing the thinnest strip of precum along as his hand slid back down. "For trusting me." His other arm stretched out to grab the lube.
"The feeling's mutual, dear." Astarion hummed with pleasure. His own hand wandered over between Gale's hips. Gale was much harder and positively dripping, and it took no time for Astarion to work an easy glide over his cock. Gale let out an intelligible, helpless sound and a bolt of lust made Astarion press his forehead to Gale's shoulder. He breathed in the heady scent of Gale's skin, the musk, salt, and soap, all swimming under a sea of roses and cedar.
"So that means you're going to let me take care of you."
In the span of a second, Astarion maneuvered Gale on top of him so he was straddling his thighs. His hand was still closed tightly around Gale's cock.
"One more thing. You don't tell me what to do in bed."
Gale quirked an eyebrow. "Never?"
"Until I say otherwise."
Gale simply nodded, his smile sated and warm. "As you wish," he said again.
Astarion shifted his hips closer. He could feel Gale's balls sitting on top of his and the individual veins in Gale's cock where they pressed up against the underside of his own. Astarion's hands weren't large, but he managed to guide Gale's up and squeeze it around the both of them. His fingers closed over Gale's knuckles and they moved together. He set his preferred pace, quick and firm, knowing Gale would cum first, and groaned when Gale thrust deeper into his closed fist. His free hand drifted up to cup Gale's cheek. He liked the look of this, Gale naked and vulnerable while he was given the grace of keeping some of his clothes on.
"You've been incredible," he breathed. "You really want what's best for me, don't you?"
Gale's eyelids fluttered shut, then open, his body seizing and tensing over him. He was struggling for lucidity and grasped it when he locked eyes on Astarion.
"I want what's best for you."
"Sweet thing." Astarion's heart skipped, lurching into his mouth, but he kept his tone honeyed. "You deserve nothing but the best, too." His hand sped up. He slid his fist up until his fingers pressed the head of Gale's cock into the underside of his own. Gale shoved his own hand down to help, jerking his hips up. Astarion moaned, near crazed with pleasure at the thought of Gale taking what he was owed. He spread his legs wider.
"That's it. Go on, take it. It's yours."
Gale ducked his head, voice strained with lust.
"Ours."
Gale came, body heaving, spilling onto Astarion's thigh and shirt. Astarion nipped his shoulder, continuing to stroke, their hands slick and messy with Gale's release. On top of him, Gale whimpered and shivered from the overstimulation but kept moving his hand with Astarion's. The sight of him brought Astarion to his brink and his vision went blurry. His abs spasmed and he was only somewhat aware of cum spurting onto his chest and stomach, coating his fingers and soaking through his shirt.
Astarion fought to catch his breath. Next to him, Gale was surreal in his afterglow, skin flushed and hair everywhere. Astarion watched, committing each detail to memory, then tucked several loose strands behind Gale's ear. The atom earring jangled, dim in the shade, with no light to reflect.
"Bewitching creature," Astarion whispered. "I never thought I'd have my own personal succubus."
"Incubus."
"Sorry?"
"Incubus," Gale repeated. "'Succubus' comes from the Latin succubare, or 'to lie under'. I was on top of you."
The thwack of Astarion's pillow was just loud enough to muffle Gale's surprised yelp.
Notes:
And we're back! This chapter took way longer than expected, so thank you so much for your patience in the meantime.
Obligatory fasolada recipe. I used to live around the corner from a Greek restaurant and at my worst, fasolada was one of the only things on the menu I had no trouble eating. (No Greek salad because cucumbers are things of the devil.)
I'll be real with y'all, I've never done gas chromatography in my life. But I also edit material I know nothing about on a weekly basis (last week, it was aboveground storage tanks) so it was all in a day's work.
Though Astarion might be making amends with the Szarr Squad, it's a one step forward, two steps back kind of deal. Playing (good) Origin Astarion feels like dragging yourself on your knees to beg forgiveness from everyone by the time you get to Act 3 because you've been such a shitty person. But he's trying.
Sorry, did I say good? Don't expect this Astarion to become a good person anytime soon.
Perfume inspo: Dent de Lait by Serge Lutens
“I am talking about something far removed from the tooth fairy and the coins she slips under your pillow. Here, the loss of your first tooth is like an initiation which marks the end of childhood and the beginning of the age of reason. It is when blood fuses with milk. Now weary of the tongue’s games which have, for weeks on end, been loosening its tooth, a young wolf is anxious to move from milk to blood."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 19: Vetiver
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Depictions of vomit
- AlcoholismThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion's eyelids cracked open to a dark room. A stream of cool air slipped into his lungs, but not before he doubled over on his side.
A wave of nausea tore through his throat and spilled from his mouth. His gums burned. He couldn't stop shaking. His neck and the backs of his knees felt clammy, heat flaring up his arms and legs. The smell—and quickly seeping feel—of sick through the sheets was unmistakable. He swore, hacked up a wet cough, and swore again.
"I have to admit, that was one of the more disturbing things I've seen."
Gale was sitting up beside him, knees pulled to his chest under the covers. Astarion turned away and groaned.
"God, that was disgusting." He would have thrown his arm over his face if it wasn't trembling and he hadn't just puked onto his side of the bed. "Sorry. Do me a favour and pretend you didn't see that."
Gale tilted his head. "I was awake before you were. I wasn't having the deepest sleep, but nothing compared to your fitful slumber."
"What was I doing?"
"You were twitching. You started thrashing towards the end, right before you woke up. It sounded like you were having a nightmare."
"Did I say anything?"
"Just 'no'. Over and over."
"Shit." Astarion rubbed his eyes. His vision was starting to adjust to the low light. The clothes on the floor were thankfully at the foot of the futon. He kicked off the blanket but instead of being met with sweet relief, an unpleasant chill descended onto his bare skin. Gale's voice came up behind him, tinged with worry.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Astarion stiffened. "No. I need..."
"What do you need, my love? Just say the word."
A drink, Astarion wanted to scream. Something to slow his brain down and keep the rest of his sleep deep and dreamless. He could taste it, the first drop of wine or liquor, the warmth spreading over his tongue and lighting up his mouth from the inside. And how predictable of him. He blinked slowly, wearily.
"Paper towels. I'll handle this. You go back to sleep." He huffed out a tired laugh. "Though I don't blame you if you never want to share a bed with me again."
"All things considered, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. Thankfully, I know just the thing to magic it away," Gale said. "Do you have hydrogen peroxide, by any chance?"
"Mm? No."
"We'll have to remedy that. White vinegar? Baking soda?"
"Vinegar's in the pantry. I'll get it."
"You stay put."
Gale tugged on his boxers, turned on the lights, and left the room. Astarion was secretly glad—he didn't know whether his legs would be able to carry him all the way to the kitchen. As he listened to Gale clatter through the cupboards, he rolled onto his back and sank deeper into his thoughts, trying to recall the nightmare. Most of it spilled through his fingers like falling water, but he caught fragments of a dark night and a thick sea of blue fog. He was in the woods. What was he doing in the woods?
Astarion wiped the corner of his mouth with his pillowcase. It was ruined anyway.
"The perks of staying the night with a perfumer. Spray nozzles everywhere."
Gale swept back in with, no doubt, a master chemist cure-all in a spray bottle. For the first time, he was glad he didn't have a bed frame so the only place the mess had to go was on the floor. While he stripped the bed, Gale cleverly mopped up the remains with paper towels and a set of tongs, spritzing a solution that smelled a lot like dish soap and vinegar as he went. Astarion tossed the sheets into the washing machine and left them there (a problem for future Astarion to deal with).
One change of clothes later, they sat across from each other on the bare mattress. It was 3 am. With the lights on, sheets gone, and the room cold, Astarion had a feeling neither of them would be going back to sleep any time soon.
"Thank you, darling. You didn't have to help out. That was." He made a face. "Ugh."
"An ugh that happens to the best of us at one point or another," Gale said. He fiddled with the strings of his borrowed hoodie, twisting them around his finger. "What do you think caused all of this?"
"My stomach hurts," Astarion said unhelpfully. It wasn't untrue. Since the moment he woke up, a dull, swirling ache had opened up in the pit of his stomach, adding on to the laundry list of ailments that were uncomfortable on their own but came together to form a shitstorm of sickness.
"Was it dinner?" Gale asked.
Astarion wrinkled his nose. "I doubt it." He focused on Gale's mismatched socks (chevron and cats), flexing his own toes against the mattress. Then, "Oh, god."
"What is it?"
"Withdrawal. It's setting in, I think."
The space between them grew uneasy and tense. Astarion felt Gale's eyes trained on him and could practically hear him checking off the symptoms that presented on his person.
"The hallucinations aren't supposed to happen until a few days later." Gale corrected himself. "If you experience hallucinations at all."
"It doesn't matter what they are, what matters is that they're here. And I don't want you to have to see me like...that." Astarion waved a hand over the length of the futon. "It's not going to be pretty. Let me have my fits and shakes and I'll come back to you in a bit."
Gale crossed his legs, propping his elbows on his knees. "I'm not going to leave you alone. You could die, literally die, from this."
"I know."
"Then don't be an idiot. Let me stay."
The embarrassment Astarion was already feeling twisted into shame. He was an idiot, but not for the reason Gale suggested. He was the person who got himself into this mess in the first place. It was only fair for the punishment to fit the crime. Astarion didn't believe in karma the same way he didn't believe in higher powers, but maybe this was what he deserved for all his sins: damnation in the form of addiction and the longest, most agonizing repentance in withdrawal. Besides, he'd always gone alone. He didn't see why that had to change now, especially if it meant dragging Gale down with him.
Astarion straightened up. Gale remained still, the only movement on his face concentrated in the gnawing on his lower lip.
"Even if I vomited all over the bed," Astarion said.
"Even if you vomited blood."
"Even if I started seizing and drooling on the floor."
"Even if I had to tie you down myself."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Astarion nudged Gale, which turned into a quick grab as he pulled him closer. His arms circled around Gale's shoulders and he shifted onto his lap to bury his face in the crook of his neck. The spell was broken. "You're the best."
"That's all I want to be."
Astarion put more of his weight on Gale's lap and Gale took it. With both titillation and fear, he realized that he probably wouldn't be able to knock him over if he tried. His teeth grazed the side of Gale's throat, sinking into the vibration thrumming against his lips. Then he tore himself away.
"You have to let me do something for you at some point. Don't you dare say me being me is enough. I can make myself useful, too."
To his satisfaction, Gale seemed to consider the offer as he rubbed circles into Astarion's lower back. He kissed Astarion's shoulder. "Right now, I'm in the market for a new lawyer. Can you believe Raphael is actually a contract attorney?"
"I can. He should be making pennies. No wonder he charged a fortune the second he started running his own firm."
"And I'll be glad to be rid of him for that." Gale ran his fingers through Astarion's hair, coming to a stop at the nape of his neck. "Would you be able to refer me to someone more suited to the task? Ideally, one who specializes in family affairs?"
Astarion was glad his chin was resting on Gale's shoulder so he wouldn't be able to see the way the muscles in his face tightened, then slackened, then shifted into an expression he wouldn't have been able to name if asked.
"Yes, I think I can."
Gale pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.
"You, my dear, are a treasure."
Astarion turned his head, catching Gale's lower lip. His own lips were chapped, but Gale's were soft and invitingly pliant. Gale's low and appreciative hum reverberated through his chest, more satisfying than any wine. Astarion would be happy to sip on Gale's mouth for the rest of the night, for the rest of time. The thought was somewhere between weird and extremely obsessive, but it at least it was healthier than alcohol.
Astarion clambered off Gale and settled onto his back. The mattress shifted next to him as Gale did the same. He closed his lids to the ceiling light. When he opened them again, Gale had somehow managed to fall back asleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He came out of a Toulouse-Lautrec painting: a creature of the night caught in a private moment, flesh and blood outlined in flattened colours.
Careful not to wake him, Astarion got up, turned the lights back off, and rolled onto his side, his back to Gale just in case he threw up again. He reached for his phone. The blue light blazed out at him in the dark and he tapped over to his messages while squinting. Pressure closed around his throat and he couldn't tell whether it was anxiety or sickness. He saw his chair with the clothes piled up in the corner of the room. He looked back at Gale.
Against his better judgment (not that he had much to begin with), he rose to his feet and dug into his jacket pocket for his vape. He wandered into the living room as he turned it over in his hand, the lights still off. He'd only sworn off alcohol. No one said anything about nicotine.
Astarion pushed a window open and leaned out into the open air. It was almost freezing and the wind cut into his face as he took a hit and thought about what to say.
He knew just the person to represent Gale and it wasn't going to be a cordial reunion. The last message he sent was going to be branded on the screen and had been in the back of his mind for the past decade.
I'd say good luck out there but honestly, I hope you die screaming.
He could've hit his younger self. He'd always been an arrogant, venomous piece of shit, even though that venom kept him alive. He was always on the run, from his problems, from people who had power and wielded it against him, from allowing himself to feel remotely bad about anything ever. Astarion took another hit and wondered what it would be like to have a life where he didn't have to run. A life like that would start with justice.
One of the first things Astarion learned about justice, whether at home, in the lecture hall, or his limited time in the courtroom, was that justice should be a harsh lesson. All the better if he could deliver that lesson with conviction.
He was his mother's son. He didn't go down without a fight, and Gale was his fight now.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It took what felt like a whole night to write two sentences, but Astarion managed by drawing on every lesson about niceties and sincerity he'd ever learned. As soon as he hit the 'send' button, fingers shaking, he closed the app and turned off his phone. He felt displaced and unsteady, like he would blow out the window if he didn't hold on to the windowsill. He took a hit, rolling the taste of blue raspberry around in his mouth. He knew vapes came in the nicotine-free variety. He should try those sometime. Until then, though, he would sit and wait and plot.
He took another hit, exhaled, and watched the vapour spiral into the night.
◈━◈━◈
The spin cycle was on. The washing machine thudded against the dryer. Each jolt shot through to Astarion's bones as he stood in the doorway, pulsing through the soles of his feet. In the kitchen, water was boiling.
Tea wasn't Astarion's drink, but Gale insisted he just needed to find the right one. So far, they'd tried black tea, green tea, pu'erh, and various herbal tisanes. Astarion was almost afraid to admit he tolerated the hibiscus-berry blend the best, but it was the lesser of two evils between that and the idea of hot electrolyte water.
Roses, paper, and cedar unfurled to his right. Gale had joined him.
"Dearest, I don't think it's the best idea to watch the washing machine right now."
Astarion glanced sideways. "Then what are you doing here?"
"Helping you get on with your day. Come on." Gale placed a hand on Astarion's back. The room swung from floor to ceiling. "How are you feeling?" he heard Gale ask.
"Like shit." Astarion trudged towards the living room, where he knew Gale wanted him to go. That was the funny thing about relationships, he discovered. They didn't share thoughts, but their intentions, more often than not, were the same. And while Gale couldn't possibly understand all of him (and maybe he never would), it felt good to share the same wavelength with someone as intelligent as Gale.
Two mugs sat steaming on the coffee table next to Gale's laptop and pill bottle. As Gale sat down beside him, Astarion held out his hand, testing the temperature. The tea was still too hot to drink.
"I can cancel this week's session, if you'd like."
Astarion turned. "Absolutely not," he protested. "We're supposed to have our big tiefling party for doing the right thing, saving the grove, and being heroes."
"You sound almost upset about that."
"On the contrary." Astarion kept the flat of his palm over the mug, basking in the steam. When the heat became too much to bear, he drew his hand back and held it to the side of his face, inhaling through his nose as the warmth spread over his skin. He pressed his fingertips against his cheekbones, feeling out their sharpness. "I think we deserve a reward. Mostly for waiting ages for you to roll for every single goblin."
Gale shrugged as he uncapped the bottle and shook out a pill. "I gave you the option for each character to take individual actions with fewer hit points or to fight clustered enemies with more hit points. The poll didn't lie."
"Because Wyll's the only one with area of effect spells."
"When in doubt, the answer is always more mages."
Astarion blew on his mug, sending ripples across the surface, and detected mint, lemon myrtle, and another vaguely peppery, basil-like note. He drank. The tea tasted unremarkable, but his stomach was already starting to feel a bit better.
"Are you sure you don't want to reschedule?" Gale asked.
"I'm prepared this time." Astarion held up three fingers. "Aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, Pedialyte."
"I've never seen so much Pedialyte in my life," Gale admitted.
"So trust me. I'll be fine."
Gale breathed through his nose, then took a sip of tea. He set his mug down with a firm clunk on the table. "The minute you start to feel worse, you need to speak up. Understood?"
"Yeah." Gale glared, a look he probably gave his students when they turned in their assignments late, and Astarion grumbled. "Understood."
They fell into a comfortable silence. Gale eventually picked up his laptop and started typing. He could've been doing any number of things—fleshing out his worldbuilding document, answering emails, digging up more dirt on Mystra. A hint of glee flitted around in Astarion's brain at the thought of the latter. It was just the thing for a lazy morning: exorcising their personal demons.
Astarion settled back against the armrest and propped up his cold feet on Gale's thigh. When Gale poked him, he kicked back. As long as Gale was around, he felt like he could do anything.
Today, he was feeling brave enough to check on Sunwalker, an endeavour he'd left for dead since the Firellia incident. He fielded several emails, DMs, and comments on the Instagram page he started up, most claiming to be Firellia's viewers and asking about a waitlist, a reaction he wasn't expecting and was unabashedly smug about. At least ten comments were some variation of 'oh no he's hot' and one called the piece inspired by Lae'zel "a freakazoid fragrance made for people who can control both eyes independently like a chameleon". Astarion responded with a red heart and middle finger emoji.
He swiped over to his messages. The text he sent to his mother showed a read receipt. Astarion was sure she woke up with a panic attack after hearing from her prodigal son and decided to give it time. Patience was never his virtue, but he was trying in the spirit of turning over a new leaf. He checked the D&D group chat next. Apart from agreeing to meet at the same time and place and the occasional meme or reaction gif, the only news came in the form of an announcement from Gale.
"She has a point," Gale said.
Astarion stroked the side of his thigh with a toe. "That's rich coming from you, Mr. 'I-was-raised-better-than-this'."
"Is it?" Gale punctuated the question with a decisive punch of the 'Enter' key. "I would never lie to someone I knew to be honest, but when it comes to Cazador, lying by omission sounds like a matter of survival."
"Well." Astarion's eyebrows rose. "You might last a day at the House of Szarr yet."
With Gale's wrist resting on his ankle, Astarion opened the chat he'd been avoiding for so long.
There were at least a hundred missed messages waiting for him. He didn't bother catching up on any of them, but tapped all the way down to the most recent message and prepared to make his entrance.
Several people were typing. Astarion wriggled in place and Gale hummed quietly in response. He'd missed this: wreaking havoc just by existing.
While his phone continued to buzz sporadically, Astarion reached for the mug and swallowed a mouthful of mint tea. Just as he put it down, his ringtone blared to life. Astarion's mood plummeted. He grit his teeth and bolted up off the couch, hitting the speaker button as he ran to his room and shut the door behind him. Conversation exploded as he sat down at the vanity.
"Petras, not again," he heard Aurelia groan.
Petras's ragged voice came in. "Listen up, asshole. You don't get to threaten me. I already told Cazador what you did and I'm going to do it again."
Astarion straightened up against the back of his chair. "And what did he do about it?" He heard an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. "That's right. Nothing." Astarion adjusted his posture. The movement sent a dull ache running up his shoulders. "Wouldn't you like to work for someone who actually cares about you?"
More silence, then, "Cazador's always had high standards, but we're better off for it."
Astarion crossed an arm over his chest and examined his nails, the chipped black nail polish. He turned his head to the left. "Really. Is that what you tell yourself when he uses you or pimps you out, then tosses you aside like a dirty cum sock?"
Someone—either Aurelia or Yousen—sucked in a sharp breath.
"What the fuck?" Violet demanded.
"Let's not kid ourselves. Cazador has us all running his little errands. Bribes, favours, a bit of stress relief on the side. All yes sir, no sir, let me make you feel good, sir." Astarion curled his hand into a fist, nails biting skin. "Isn't that right, Leon?"
Leon hissed. "You—"
"Oh, don't sound so taken aback. And Petras, before you come for me, you wouldn't accuse me of sleeping with Cazador right before Design Week if you weren't doing the same. You don't have the imagination."
Petras spluttered but couldn't retort and Astarion pictured him going blue in the face, a satisfying image. Violet growled.
"So did you come back to drag us and dip? We should've just blocked you."
"Admit it, we're all sick and tired of this place. We'd be better off parting ways. I haven't said anything until now because I didn't realize he was torturing all of us. Think of it as my way of making it up to you for the stint with Firellia." Astarion planted his feet flat on the floor. "Once I'm done with Cazador, you'll be free to go. I'll see to it."
Aurelia cleared her throat. "You mean—"
"Yes, darling. Our NDAs will be cleared. And all the non-compete clauses. I just need you to back me up."
The phone speaker crackled wordlessly. Astarion knew everyone on the call was weighing their options. The NDAs they had all been made to sign when they were swallowed into the House of Szarr were renewed every five years. It forbade them from finding work at any of Szarr's competitors (and, if they looked closely at the fine print, prevented them from leaving at all). While he waited for them to recognize the opportunity they were being given, Astarion turned his attention to his rack of oils and raw materials. He plucked a bottle of cocoa resinoid, uncapped it, and savoured the warm, nutty, subtly spicy aroma.
"With what?" Leon finally asked.
"Your testimonies," Astarion said. "Write them up, find me face-to-face and have a sit down, I don't care. I'll send them to the right people."
"And that's it?"
It was Astarion's turn to think. Gale's words came back to him and they rang true. Lying by omission is a matter of survival. A tempting idea, or he could be an honest, better man. He tipped a few specks of resinoid powder into his fingers and rubbed them together, the smell of earthy dark chocolate lingering in his nostrils.
"It would be terribly kind of you to vouch for me to lead the House of Szarr once Cazador's behind bars."
"You?" Petras sneered.
Leon sighed. "I knew this was what you were getting at. You're not as complex as you think."
Astarion crossed his ankles. "Who cares? It's not like you're going to stick around."
"It's true. Let the perfumer do his perfumery things. At least we won't be there when he runs it into the ground," Aurelia pointed out.
"See? There's that optimism I like." Astarion put the bottle down. His mouth was moving faster than his brain. "Get it out of your system. Tell me every last thing he did to you and I'll make sure Cazador never sees the light of day again."
The speaker crackled again, quietly. A unanimous agreement.
"Someone's gotta brief Dal on all this," Yousen muttered.
Astarion smiled, tight-lipped. "Leave it to me."
A few awkward pauses and murmured goodbyes later, the line went dead. Astarion capped the bottle and shelved it into its place on the rack. He had set the pieces in motion. Once he had their testimonies, a written record of all of Cazador Szarr's sins, the world would open up for him. Once everyone was gone, he would be free to build an empire of his own.
There was a knock on the bedroom door.
"Astarion?"
Astarion climbed out of his chair and opened it. Gale stood in the doorway, wide-eyed.
"My word, I thought I heard shouting. Is everything alright?"
Astarion stepped forward. He put his arms around Gale, enveloping him in a hug. Pink roses and dark chocolate mingled. After a moment, Gale's hands found his waist, reassured that the morning had returned to normal, if just barely.
"Yes, darling, everything's alright. In fact, I've never been better."
◈━◈━◈
Flutes, lutes, and drums floated on the air as bardcore covers of pop classics came streaming out of Shadowheart's Bluetooth speaker. The lights around Gale's dining table were dimmed. For the occasion, Astarion broke out his most opulent candle, which threw wisps of beeswax, leather, cashmere wood, and cinnamon bark that mingled with the scent of dried fruit, pastries, and melted brie. Tara had decided to entertain her guests for once and eyed everyone warily from her spot on the backrest of one of the couches. It was well and truly a party, sans the tieflings now crowding their camp.
It didn't take much effort for Gale to convince everyone to bring their ugliest sweaters to this session. Gale himself was wearing a sweater with the periodic symbol of holmium printed three times across it. Wyll's wreath getup came with an adorable bow, Halsin had a plush reindeer head poking out of his chest, Karlach's sweater actually lit up, and Lae'zel was the grudging half of Shadowheart's "naughty or nice" set. Astarion refused outright—he would never own something intentionally ugly—but he tied a red cashmere sweater around himself and called it an avant-garde look.
In the candlelight, Gale's cheeks were flushed a pretty pink. He looked happier than Astarion had seen him in days. A pang of guilt jabbed at him. Looking after him must have been killing Gale. He had spent his time not just cleaning up disgusting vomit, but watching Astarion lie listless and shivering during the day and thrash about and talk to himself in his sleep at night. He felt like a burden. He knew he was a burden.
He felt a hand on his knee. A light squeeze. Gale seemed to glow as he summarized the events of their last few sessions.
"You did it. You defeated the three leaders of the goblin camp, sparing the Emerald Grove and the refugees inside. The druids and tieflings have made their way to your camp for the night to celebrate their safety and your victory. The drinks are flowing, the music's playing, and a tiefling mage is setting off a light show that sparkles against the sky. The night is young, adventurers. What would you like to do?"
Wyll raised his hand. "I'm going to go sulk in the corner. I'll say it's because my infernal features are going to scare the children." He crossed his arms and put on a mock pout that made him look like a kicked puppy.
Karlach swiped a cracker through the melted brie and popped it into her mouth. "Oi, what do you have against infernal features? And in case you forgot, the children are tieflings. Tieflings? Like me?"
Wyll kept pouting. "My horns are going to pop the balloons."
Astarion leaned over. "Leave him be, darling, he's having an identity crisis. Couldn't be me, though. I think my horns would be fetching."
"I can confirm you are one handsome devil," Gale said. Astarion winked back. Shadowheart giggled and Karlach wiggled her eyebrows. Gale nodded at the rest of the table. "Is anyone else doing anything?"
Shadowheart raised her can of Dr. Pepper. "I'll be looking for someone to share a bottle."
"I'll be doing more than just sharing a bottle," Lae'zel said.
Gale helped himself to a handful of raisins. "What about you, Astarion? You look like you want to say something."
"I suppose I'll have some wine as well," he sniffed. "Even if it's going to taste like vinegar to my poor vampire."
"I'll go mingle," Halsin offered, "without the libations."
Karlach shimmied in her seat. "I'm going to dance my ass off."
Wyll's pout disappeared. "I'd be right there with you if I weren't moping."
"Wyll, do you dance?" Lae'zel asked.
"Of course. Countless lessons as a kid. Ballroom, mostly, but I liked ballet best. Here, I'll show you." Wyll got out of his chair, did a plié, then leapt into several brisés to excited murmurs and applause. As he sat back down, the living room quickly filled with a resounding chant of dance, dance, dance. Karlach jumped to her feet and did a few quick twists. While returning from the kitchen, Halsin shifted from side to side, following up with a sequence of dad dance moves. Wyll started up a clapping rhythm that picked up speed around the table.
"Dance," Lae'zel commanded, pointing at both Gale and Astarion.
"Do a lift," Shadowheart called.
Gale shook his head. "Oh no, I couldn't even if I wanted to."
"And I'd kill you if you dropped me," Astarion added.
Karlach stood back up and held out her arms. "Hup hup."
As soon as Astarion gingerly took her hands, he found himself hoisted up and slung effortlessly over her shoulders as the table flew into an uproar. Meanwhile, Astarion felt like a sack of potatoes (heavy and very undignified), but he didn't have to look like it. He tightened his core, extending his arms and legs to hoots, hollers, and even more applause as Karlach turned around, still lifting him high. Astarion finally joined in on the laughter. He loved feeling this weightless. He was a dream. Dreams weighed nothing.
Karlach let Astarion down and he landed nimbly on his feet. She looked him up and down and he caught a quick flash of concern.
"Shit, man, you're lighter than some of the kids I've carried. You good?"
Astarion smoothed his clothes down. "I'm fantastic. You're not so bad yourself. I'm willing to go for a spin again, if you're offering."
"Oh no, I'm done here. I'm clearing the floor for you and Gale."
Lae'zel butted in. "Karlach's right. Are you two going to dance or not?"
Astarion exchanged glances with Gale, who smiled back.
The bardcore cover of Pink Pony Club abruptly switched over to a bardcore cover of Friday I'm in Love. Gently plucked strings travelled overhead as everyone cleared enough room for Astarion and Gale to make their way to the space between the couches and the dining table. Astarion was reminded of their first (proper) date at Sharess and how flighty and out of place Gale had been with his absinthe cocktail and pristine white tennis shoes. Tonight, he was confident and eager to impress, according to the square shoulders and light jaunt of his hips. The world was their stage—everyone else was just a player in it.
They met by the coffee table.
Astarion shucked off his haphazardly tied red sweater. "Hello, you."
Gale offered his hand. "With me now."
The cover had no lyrics, but he watched Gale's lips move and felt his own mouth begin to form the words they both knew.
I don't care if Monday's blue
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too
Thursday I don't care about you
It's Friday, I'm in love
Without strong beats or sweeping instrumentals, they started out slow, swaying in place, fingers intertwined. It occurred to Astarion that they had never danced together as a couple. Sharess didn't count. At that point, Gale had been a little more than just another one night stand whose benefits included the secrets to making Astarion a better, more useful perfumer, and a gloriously pert ass.
But now.
Shadowheart watched them from the dining table, chin resting in her hand. "I'm not always the biggest fan of PDA, but you two are adorable."
"You'll give him inspiration at the end of this, right?" Halsin asked. He was sitting on the armrest of the leather couch. Tara, surprisingly, seemed to tolerate his presence.
Gale glanced over his shoulder. "Everyone who dances gets inspiration. It's only fair."
Astarion sidestepped. "Do I get more inspiration for doing tricks?"
"Tricks?" Gale chuckled, shaking his head. "Love, you're not a dog. But don't let me hold you back."
Gale raised his arm and flicked his wrist, and Astarion took the cue immediately. He let Gale spin him out between the coffee table and Tara's couch. They moved as one. At the start of the next bar, Astarion flexed his fingers with a slight tug, asking to be maneuvered, around and around again. Even when he was back on his feet in Gale's arms, the room kept spinning. Candlelight and faces swam by. His head was light, chest expanding. He was losing his breath. From under the surface, the wave hit.
He fell.
The music stopped and chairs slid back.
"Holy shit, Fangs."
Astarion blinked at the ceiling, trying to recover the air that had been knocked from his lungs. He'd managed to keep his head from hitting the ground by falling on his back, which now radiated pain from the lower half of his spine. Shadowheart was beside him. Tara darted onto the floor and bolted into Gale's room.
Gale helped him up. "God, I'm so, so sorry. I should've caught you."
"I'm fine," Astarion said. He grinned at everybody else. "Don't know where that came from. We're used to being a little more coordinated."
Halsin bent down. "Are you injured? Does anything hurt?"
The well of sickness from the past few days was churning in Astarion's stomach. He thought himself immune. He could've been, for one night. More sleep, more nausea meds. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Astarion scowled as he flopped onto the couch. "I fell, of course it hurts."
"Let me see. Gale, get me some ice. Maybe we can stop any swelling before it starts." As Gale went for the fridge, Shadowheart rolled up the back hem of Astarion's shirt. He let her. As soon as she did, she dropped it. "Oh, hell," she whispered.
Astarion tried to look behind him. "What? What's going on?"
"Your back. You've got scars all over it. Fresh ones."
Astarion's heart beat twice as fast, then slowed to practically nothing. He knew Cazador had cut him. He should've foreseen that those cuts would scar. Treatment meant seeking medical help, which would lead to questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Gale returned with an ice pack from the freezer. All eyes fell on him and though everyone's heads were turned, Astarion could see the looks on their faces. Questioning, wondering, accusing. He lifted his chin.
"Don't you dare. He didn't do anything."
"Then what happened?" Lae'zel asked.
Astarion sat up and folded his hands in his lap. Slowly, Gale took a seat behind him. His hands slid up the back of his shirt again, needing no line of sight to know exactly what Shadowheart had seen and where. Fingertips brushed thin, raised lines, coaxing out the truth. Astarion exhaled through his nose.
"Karlach, dear, remember when you said my boss sucks?"
Wyll was the first to catch on. His hand flew to his mouth. "Jesus Christ."
"Impossible. No, that's illegal." Even through her anger, Lae'zel's voice caught in her throat.
"What the fuck, man. He did this to you?" Karlach's volume was steadily rising.
Astarion took the ice pack from Gale and reached behind to press it to the sore spot on his lower back. To his surprise, the ice didn't sting. "Well, it's one of the things he's done to me."
Karlach started pacing from one corner of the living room to another. "What the fuck! Shit!" For a second, she looked like she wanted to kick the wall but backed off. She whirled around and Astarion didn't see just rage contorting her features, but devastated pain. All on his behalf. "We could've helped you, Astarion. Why did you have to keep it to yourself? All you had to do was ask."
"I guess this is me asking for help now," Astarion shot back. "So, will you?"
The table was quiet, food, dice trays, and plans for a tiefling party forgotten. The candle flame continued to flicker, crackling along the burnt black wick.
"Is there anything else we should know?" Halsin asked.
"You must tell us," Lae'zel urged.
Astarion's head throbbed. There was so much to tell them, but did they need to know everything? He couldn't figure out whether he was shaking again. He could go into every horrifying little detail, do the whole miserable song and dance that he did with Gale, but there wasn't time. There was only one thing that mattered.
He looked straight at Gale. "He knows about you." Astarion's mouth was going dry as he spoke. "I didn't tell him anything, but he has his ways."
Gale's expression was puzzled. "Me? Why should that matter?"
Astarion flinched. Even he was afraid of his next words. "You've seen what he's done to me. He could do that to you. And he will, just to get at me because he's a psychotic monster. He hurts people. That's what he does."
Gale bit down on his lower lip. Astarion could see the gears turning and with his beautiful, brilliant mind, it didn't take him long. He seemed to understand, fully understand what was at stake. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
Astarion fixed his gaze on the patterns in the woodgrain on the floor. This should have been a private discussion. Pouring out his feelings in front of all their friends was, objectively, the worst.
"I didn't want you to be too scared to stick around," Astarion admitted. He hoped the hunched shoulders would send the rest of the message. Like me. Astarion shook his head. "I need him gone. That's the hard part. His pockets are bottomless and his sadism is extreme and—"
"None of that will matter when I can match him."
Astarion turned to Gale. The terror chipped away by one or two pieces, giving way to adoration. He barely resisted the urge to kiss his cheek, neck, everything. He settled for massaging his approval into the back of Gale's hand with his thumb.
Halsin's brows knit. "Gale, what are you going on about?"
"Ah. I suppose I haven't told you." Gale laced his fingers with Astarion's. "I'm gunning for the position of dean again."
"Isn't that position currently filled by, you know?" Karlach raised and lowered one shoulder.
"Who's entirely undeserving of it," Gale snapped. Judging by the way the room fell silent, Astarion could confirm that this was a new reaction.
"Are they taking applications?" Shadowheart asked.
"No."
"Then are you sure this is the best idea?" Shadowheart swallowed. "Gale, I know she hurt you, but it sounds like this is personal when it shouldn't be."
Lae'zel seethed. "This is madness. Challenge her unprompted and you will lose your career."
Gale's grip on Astarion's hand tightened. He looked like a storm, dark and foreboding, which sent a thrill through Astarion. "What other option do I have? Go on, I'm listening."
"If there's anyone worth being dean, it's Gale," Astarion argued.
"Find tenure at another school? Go back into research? You have many accomplishments and talents," Halsin insisted.
Gale was resolute. "Blackstaff means too much to me. I'm not leaving it. But I can make it better and that's exactly what I'm going to do."
"You're already making it better. Your students adore you," Karlach said. "You can spread all that Gale goodness somewhere else."
The group had departed from the dining table and were now convened around Astarion and Gale. Astarion wanted to smack sense into all of them. Their loss if they couldn't see the vision. They wouldn't be the ones to hold Gale back. Astarion looked around. He was surrounded by warmth and light and Gale's friends. His friends. Gale cared about their opinions, too easily swayed. Unfortunately, it was also coincidence that Astarion cared too much about Gale to keep him from making his own decisions.
Astarion made a soft, disgusted noise. "First of all, never say 'Gale goodness' again. Second, if you're all planning a group hug, I'm actually going to be sick."
Quiet, hesitant chuckles rippled around the room. A hand came down on his shoulder from above. In spite of himself, Astarion didn't bother shrugging it off.
"The same goes for you, Astarion. We're going to get you out of that place." Wyll said.
Astarion splayed his fingers against the couch, taking in the feel of smooth, worn leather, the smells of food and drink, and the body heat of the people around him. As long as he sat here and didn't move from this one spot, he was safe.
"You can try. He'll be coming for you."
He was speaking to everyone, but he only saw Gale. The storm clouds gathering in Gale's eyes parted.
"And when he does, he won't find us alone."
Notes:
I demand more Wyll love. He is beauty, he is grace, and he is the moment. That's how it goes, right?
Bardcore Pink Pony Club and Friday I'm in Love for y'all. The holiday tiefling party is one of the happier scenes I've written lately and I'm just so happy that Astarion is surrounded by people who care about him?? Happy days. But this is the House of Szarr, so happiness is
deadtemporary.I also demand more ugly sweaters for everyone. We can be silly geese in this overly serious fic, as a treat.
Perfume inspo: Santal 33 by Le Labo
“Imagine sitting in solitude on the rugged, wide plains of the American West, firelight on your face, indigo-blue night skies above. There is nothing around save for the soft, desert wind. You. Are. Free.
From this defining vision was born Santal 33: a perfume that touches the vast and wild universality of this dream...It combines a mix of cardamom and notes of iris and violet, which crackle in the formula. Added to this smoking wood alloy (Australian sandalwood, cedarwood) are some spicy, leathery, musky notes, giving this perfume its signature and addictive comforting scent.
Here is, in a few words, what Santal 33 is...An open fire...The soft drift of smoke...Where sensuality rises after the light has gone."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 20: Benzoin
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied alcoholism
- Implied disordered eatingThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The sun wouldn't rise until 8 am, so Gale's Prius sped along the road in the dark. It was a velvet morning, hazy but brisk. Two lukewarm coffees from Elturel Roasters jostled in the cup holder as Radiohead droned from the sound system. Astarion's reflection followed him in the side window. Even with the lack of colour, he could see the shadows under his eyes and imagined how much worse his skin looked. They were up at the time he was always up, but he was already tired.
Gale sat in stasis. He wasn't bursting with excitement, but he didn't look anxious either. He tapped his finger on the wheel along to the music, took a quick bite of his chocolate muffin at each red light, and spouted fun facts about the landmarks they drove by. Nothing out of the ordinary.
"Just so we're clear, what do you do when Cazador tries to contact you?"
Astarion stirred, the back of his neck bumping lightly against the headrest. "Don't answer," he replied.
Gale signalled right. "And when he threatens you? Because I have a feeling it's going to be a when, not an if."
Astarion's reflection blinked slowly back at him. Now wasn't the time for a pop quiz. "Take a screenshot."
Gale turned into a residential neighbourhood. The open road narrowed into a series of clustered houses, cars parked on both sides of the streets. Streaks of sky were opening up between the telephone lines. It was shaping up to be a clear day. "What else?"
A sigh, irritated. "Ignore him. Don't talk back."
"Well done."
"I haven't done anything yet, but thank you." Astarion reached for the cup holder. He felt somewhat justified asking for oat milk in his coffee since he'd be walking for an hour in the cold today. He'd also steadied himself with an aspirin and had a pack of anti-nausea pills in his pocket. He never claimed to be a fast learner, but he had learned his lesson.
Gale parked a short walk from the campus, muttering about something having been done to his usual spot. Astarion checked his phone. They were half an hour early. Outside the passenger window, strings of Christmas lights twinkled along the roof of the closest house. An inflatable snowman stood at attention on the front lawn.
Gale switched off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. Instead of getting out, he leaned forward, as if trying to see beyond the windshield. His elbows bumped the edge of the steering wheel. He fished out his pen and chewed on the topper, jaw visibly clenching. Astarion tracked his line of sight to the rearview mirror, then to the front again.
Astarion crossed one knee over the other. He tried not to jounce his leg to avoid coming across as impatient. "Don't tell me you're reconsidering."
Gale removed the pen topper from between his teeth. "I won't lie. I've always wondered what it'd be like to be nervous," he said at last. Humour crinkled along his crow's feet. "I hate it."
Astarion cracked a smile. "That's my boy."
Gale put his pen away. From the side window, the light hit his eyes, turning deep brown to bronze. "Say it again."
He could refuse him nothing. Astarion unbuckled his own seatbelt and leaned over to the driver's side. He cupped the side of Gale's face. The kiss was soft and reassuring. "My darling boy." His tongue swept over Gale's lower teeth. "My sweet." He growled. "Mine."
Gale's fingers tangled in his hair. His lips parted and Astarion moaned softly. They had time to spare. He and Gale could retreat to the backseat. He wanted to spend the next few minutes with his face buried between Gale's legs. He thought about coming up for air and looking over his shoulder to watch Gale's reflection writhe in the rearview, with both hands tangled in Astarion's hair, skin glistening with sweat as Astarion brought him to completion. They could forget this whole wretched business.
Gale brought them back on track by fumbling for the car door and opening it. Cold air rushed in as he stepped out and shut it, then walked around and opened up Astarion's side.
When one foot was on the ground, Astarion put on his sternest glare. "None of this waffling or doubt. You'll do great. Got it?"
Gale kissed his forehead. "Got it."
On a normal day, they would've walked hand in hand. Astarion decided to give Gale some distance, partially for Gale's peace of mind, partially because he liked watching Gale come into his own. He walked a few paces ahead. His feet were steady. The sun coming up haloed him in gold, rendering him unfairly gorgeous. He looked like a god.
Jaheira was already waiting for them at the entrance to the staff tower, alongside a large bald man who towered over her. He waved at them with both arms, burly and unburdened by outerwear.
"Dr. Dekarios!" the man bellowed. "I didn't know you had friends."
Gale placed a hand on Astarion's back. "Minsc, Astarion. Astarion, Minsc."
Immediately, Astarion clocked that there wasn't a single thought behind those eyes. He looked down—up—his nose at Minsc and held back from offering a handshake. He liked having his bones inside his body. "Charmed. What do you do, exactly?"
"Minsc is a janitor." Minsc looked especially proud. "The fight for justice is for everybody, especially the so-called blue collar. It is unfortunate Minsc does not look good in blue."
A lump wriggled in his shirt pocket. Minsc reached inside and pulled out a large golden hamster. Jaheira sighed and Astarion did a double take.
"See? Boo agrees." Minsc petted Boo's tiny head with the tip of his finger. The hamster sat placidly in the palm of his hand. "But Boo need not worry because Boo has no need for clothes."
As Gale guided Astarion towards another group, Astarion flung a glance behind his shoulder at Minsc, who was still talking excitedly to Boo. "Is he...?" Astarion gestured at his head.
"There's method to his madness, I promise. Besides, Boo's become a bit of a school mascot." Gale waved at two others. "Drs. Omeluum and Blurg. You've met. They're microbiologists."
"Mycologists, specifically," Omeluum said. He fit the stereotype that came to Astarion's mind. He was tall and gaunt and gave off the impression that he'd barely seen the sun.
"And husbands." Blurg grinned at Omeluum and patted his arm. Omeluum remained expressionless, but his shoulders relaxed. They were an odd-looking pair, but they looked happy and unbothered and that was more than Astarion could say for Gale and himself, at least right now.
"I hope we're not late."
Rolan was walking towards them, bundled up in a long scarf. Keeping in stride with him were two others. Both bore a striking resemblance to each other and looked somewhat like Rolan. Rolan nodded at Gale and smiled tightly. It seemed they had reconciled.
"Not even fashionably so. You're going to have to do better next time, dear." Astarion sidled over to the two strangers. "Well, hello. You must be Cal and Lia."
The boy, Cal, nodded earnestly. "Yes, that's right."
Lia didn't even whisper. "Oh my god, Rolan, he actually looks like a real-life vampire."
"Oh, for the love of—" Astarion tossed his head. "That'd better mean I'm beautiful."
Another young man approached their group. He and Rolan had arrived together. The first thing that struck Astarion were his bright blue eyes, then his neatly tied topknot, then the fact that he was the first person who came up to him without checking in with Gale first.
"Hi, I'm Dammon. Master's in mechanical engineering." His handshake was warm but firm and his fingers were calloused. "I don't think I've seen you before. What's your name?"
Astarion accepted the gesture, glad that he wasn't going to be crushed this time. "I'm Astarion."
Dammon smiled. "That's a lovely name."
"Funny, that's what Dr. Dekarios over there said when we first met."
"Speaking of, this is for him. Gale?" Dammon beckoned Gale over and passed him a metal plate poster that read, 'Education, Not Inflation' tricked out in the black and gold school colours. "Just in case we get roughed up," he said.
Gale shook his head. "Oh Dammon, you didn't have to. I don't think we're expecting any kind of violence." He took the sign from Dammon anyway, admiring it. "But thank you. It's very well made, as always. Are you sure I can't reimburse you for the effort?"
"Not at all. This is my idea of fun."
"And I have a mind to put this up in my office."
Drumming his fingers along the sign, Gale made his way to another small group of strikers and stopped in front of a woman with her arms folded. "Araj! You were at the seminar a while back. Chemical contaminants in blood and their implications in chronic disease. Such a fascinating topic. How are you?"
"Just fine," Araj said. Her gaze, borderline dismissive, wandered from Gale to Astarion. As soon as she locked eyes on him, sudden fascination came over her. Red eyeshadow glimmered around her lashes. "Is he yours?"
"Mine?" Gale exchanged glances with Astarion. "He's his own person."
"Silly. I meant your partner." She brushed past Gale, stopping in front of Astarion. "Araj Oblodra. Pathology and laboratory medicine."
A strange shiver prickled along Astarion's neck. It wasn't her voice. It was smooth and husky, rather pleasant. It wasn't her look either. She was pretty enough, if intense. It was her smell. The perfume Araj was wearing—or that mixed with her body chemistry—was off. Briny, balsamic, smoky, and cold, like squid ink and salt on wet stone. It was nothing like anything he'd encountered before and not in a good way. Astarion smiled or grimaced; he couldn't tell which.
"Pleasure."
The way Araj looked at him gave him the creeps. It reminded Astarion of how men and women would watch him from across the bar on Friday nights before getting together with Gale, with heavy-lidded eyes and their voices thick with desire.
Astarion backed away slowly and bumped into the solid weight of another person. As he was about to apologize, he turned around and looked up at Halsin.
"Astarion! Hi!" Karlach, Wyll, and Shadowheart were right behind him. Karlach waved a cardboard sign that read, 'The hammer's gonna fall', complete with a hammer about to fall on top of a crudely-drawn Blackstaff logo. The sun shone beautifully on Shadowheart's now fully silver hair and Astarion knew he was going to be smug about his handiwork for ages.
Jaheira strolled over. "We're going to take up the whole sidewalk at this point. Excellent." She gave Halsin a sly, knowing look. "Halsin. How is the off-season treating you?"
Halsin spread his hands. "I'm sure you know, Jaheira. I'm itching to be outside again, but not for a 5 am field shift."
Astarion looked back and forth between Jaheira and Halsin. "Hold on. You two know each other?"
"We worked together before I put my clinometer down and retired into academia," Jaheira explained.
"I don't know if I'd call this retirement," a wavering voice said from below. A bald head popped up and Astarion recognized him as the short, watery-eyed man from the faculty tower.
Gale bent down. "Good morning, Barcus. Where's Wulbren?"
"He didn't want to come." Barcus clasped his hands, looking downcast. "He said it was going to be a waste of time."
"Sounded like he was going to be a waste of space, anyway," Astarion sniffed. Gale looked aghast, but Jaheira barely concealed a snort.
They heard a soft laugh. "Agreed. That's why I came along." The strikers were making way for another figure. He approached carefully, feeling his way across the pavement with his white cane. He was accompanied by a young woman, who lent him her arm.
"Zanner!" Barcus cried.
Gale leaned close. "That's Dr. Zanner Toobin. A legend in mechatronics."
"And this is my daughter, Obelia." Zanner had appeared next to them. Astarion caught his and Gale's reflections in his sunglasses. "Gale, the one good thing about losing my sight is that my hearing has become significantly sharper."
While Gale did a cursory head count, Astarion looked around. It was five minutes to 9 am. A sizeable group had gathered at the bottom of the staff tower. The campus was bathed in sunshine, which reflected off the tower windows. Strikers warmed their hands or held up signs, puffs of breath coming out in short clouds. All things considered, it was far from the worst place to be. Astarion felt the weight of his phone in his pocket. His fingers twitched.
Would Cazador go out of his way to find him? Would he find him here, rolling up in his black Bentley with Vilhelm at the wheel? If he did, would he be protected by all these people? Would they care?
"Gale, my boy."
The throng of people parted again. Long white hair tumbled out from under the old man's knitted hat, flowing into an equally long white beard. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his red jacket and his gait was careful as he strode towards them. Gale turned.
"Elminster?"
They met in the middle. Elminster clasped Gale's hand and patted him on the back. Up until now, the thought that Gale grew up without a father had barely crossed Astarion's mind. Of course, he thought. Of course Gale latched on to the first eccentric old man who paid him any mind.
As they parted, Elminster peered at Gale curiously. "You sound surprised. Did you think I wouldn't come?"
Gale started. "No, it's just. Well, you like to keep yourself busy."
"I'm retired." Judging by looks, Elminster had to be around eighty years old. It was no small miracle that he was still alive and kicking. He raised his head and approached Astarion. His eyes, ice blue and piercing, seemed to hold him down. "Astarion," he said.
Astarion exhaled through his nose. "What now?"
Elminster suddenly burst into a hearty chuckle. He leaned back towards Gale. "I thought so."
Gale gave Jaheira a nod. "I think we're all here," he said.
Karlach let out a whoop. "Let's march!"
Slowly, the group of strikers began to file out, streaming towards the main boulevard. Everyone was surprisingly quiet. No one was shouting slogans or waving megaphones around. It was almost boring. It felt like going on a walk with several dozen new friends. Gale was at the front of the line, next to Jaheira and Minsc, while Astarion ended up towards the back, stuck with the latecomers and stragglers.
"Too much energy for this time of day," Barcus mumbled as he started plodding forward.
Astarion gave him an equally disgruntled look. "That's Karlach for you."
Dammon fell in step. "Karlach, is it?"
"That's my name!" Karlach beamed at him from over her shoulder. "Hey, good-looking."
Dammon turned a bright scarlet. "Oh, uh, wow. I mean, hi."
Astarion pushed his way forward, leaving Karlach and Dammon behind. He landed behind a head of long hair that he guessed belonged to Lia.
"So you're the one who recommended Carmilla."
"To Rolan, yeah," Lia said. "I didn't realize he'd go around recommending it to everyone else, though."
"Just to Gale, actually. Carmilla's for people with exquisite taste." Astarion let his voice dip in a way that suggested that Lia was among said people. She giggled, taking the bait.
"So who's your favourite vampire?" she asked.
Astarion thought about it. "It's hard not to go with the classic Dracula. Or Strahd von Zarovich."
Rolan turned around. "I'm surprised you didn't say Lestat."
"And why not?" Astarion kept his tone cool, but Rolan had brought up a good point.
"You're one and the same. Vain, haughty, disastrously short-sighted—"
Astarion feigned offence. "Goodness, what has Gale told you about me? I should accuse him of slander."
Rolan shoved his hands into his pockets. "He didn't have to tell me any of that. On the other hand, he did tell me something else. Something about you and a hostile work environment."
Once upon a time, Astarion would have been furious. At this point, he didn't care who knew it. The more people who learned about what a monster Cazador was, the better. He let his posture relax. "Alright, what happened to you? What's your sob story?"
Rolan stepped closer, distancing himself from his siblings, who were chatting with Wyll. "When I started my graduate program, I was onboarded as a research assistant. His name was Dr. Loroakkan. Doctor, mind. Always doctor. He said he'd earned that title through discipline and hard work, and I would get to do the same if I had what it takes. And I would have, if the goalposts didn't keep shifting." Rolan's voice dropped. "One time, I forgot to call him 'doctor' and he yelled at me for it. Then he yelled at me for other things. Then the yelling turned to hitting."
"Or both at the same time," Astarion offered.
Rolan smiled grimly. "He liked to spring questions on me. It kept me sharp, he said. Every time I got one wrong, I got a slap or punch to the face. I told Cal and Lia I started picking up boxing to vent off steam."
Light hit the glass panes on an upcoming building. Astarion shielded his eyes from it. "There are dozens of professors here and you stayed with him."
The smile disappeared. "That's academia. Doc—Loroakkan was a braggart and a hypocrite, but he had what I needed. Resources. Knowledge in my field. I told myself I could stick it out for a little bit longer if it meant reaching my full potential."
The crowd of strikers passed under a row of bare trees. The branches scattered the sunlight, shifting Rolan's features. Astarion saw himself, then Gale, then himself again. Funny how he had no issue calling anyone else a victim, but the word fit him like a shirt a few sizes too small. As a sensation, it was unfamiliar and uncomfortable, even though he should have come to terms with the word a long, long time ago.
Astarion ducked under a low branch. "So how did he get caught? How'd you do it?"
"I got lucky," Rolan admitted. "He was the one who lost control. I dropped some of his papers before a 9 am class and he struck me. He didn't realize his students were already coming into the lecture hall."
Astarion deflated. He'd been hoping for a more riveting tale. And Rolan was lucky. Not for being found, but for having someone (multiple someones, many someones) who gave enough of a damn to save him. He thought about the visitors to the House of Szarr over the years. Clients, creative collaborators, postal workers and delivery drivers with their shipments. No one said anything. He shook the resentment from his head. "That must've been disappointing. To have not had the chance to exact your revenge."
"I never wanted revenge."
"No?"
"He was fired. He'll never teach again. That's enough for me."
The Astarion of several months ago would have defaulted to derision. Naïve. Coward. Cazador's voice would have joined the fray. Ineffectual. Weak. Astarion warmed his hands by rubbing them together. He pitied Rolan, content to be kicked around without retribution. "Good for you, I guess," he said.
"It's not worth it," Rolan insisted. "You'll be no better than him. Would you be proud of that?"
Astarion tightened his coat around him. "We can agree to disagree," he said stiffly. "This is all for the sake of debate, of course."
"But think about it, will you?"
Astarion couldn't remember whether he acknowledged Rolan. He kept on walking and found himself next to Araj. Her mood had improved considerably. Her cheeks were flushed and there was a spring in her step. It could have been the fresh air or sunshine, or the fact that Astarion was in her orbit.
"Isn't this exciting?" she asked. "Can you believe I've never been part of a rally before? All this rebellion and revolution in the air. I feel like we should all be holding hands right now."
"Um, no thanks."
He pressed on, surrounding himself with a few other professors who were content to keep walking in silence. Everyone they passed by stared at them or tried not to stare, and a few of the strikers waved back. Just as they passed by the library, Astarion's phone buzzed.
His legs went numb. His ears stopped up. The phantom sensation against his thigh continued to buzz. It had been a text message or several, not a call, and yet Astarion could hear Cazador's reedy snarl in his ear. An imaginary hand grabbed his wrist. Closed around his throat.
Against his better judgment, he checked.
Astarion's fingers twitched. A hundred comebacks threw themselves against the inside of his skull. He wasn't Rolan. He wasn't going to lie down and take it. But as Gale instructed, he took a screenshot, then lingered on the messages. Cazador would see the 'read' receipt. He needed to shut him up.
Ready, aim, fire.
Astarion slipped his phone back into his pocket. Not even a minute later, it buzzed again. Astarion ignored it. A wicked grin grew across his face. He knew what Cazador was like when he was enraged. Astarion had always been afraid of Cazador. He still was, especially when he was breathing down his neck or one hallway down. When he was far enough away that he couldn't reach him, though, Cazador being angry was hilarious.
Cazador, typing in all caps.
Cazador, turning an unflattering shade of red.
Cazador, screaming at everyone else at back the House of Szarr and throwing things while they cowered.
Good. Fucking. Riddance.
Astarion giggled. He tried to smother it behind his hand, but it kept on coming. He laughed. He laughed the way Cazador hated. High-pitched, ear-shattering, loud. He turned a few heads, but paid them no mind.
Freedom. This is what it felt like.
Gale's was one of the heads that turned. Instead of confusion, Astarion saw fondness, like his honest-to-god ugly laughter was a welcome track to their morning stroll.
"Ah. There you are."
"Yes, here I am." Astarion moved towards the front and dropped his voice into a whisper. "Darling, pardon me if I haven't been paying attention up until now, but what's the point of going on a march again?"
"We're taking up time that would otherwise be spent in the classroom," Gale whispered back.
"Time wasting for good? Imagine that."
"Of course. That's why I brought you. Come on."
Gale held out his hand. Astarion took it. Gale's fingers fit in the spaces between his own. Whole. Perfect.
The strike walk came to a pause at a large fountain at the very centre of the campus. The water was frozen over, the sun blinding against the ice. Jaheira lifted herself onto the ledge with shocking agility, then turned to face the group gathered around her.
Jaheira looked pleased with herself. "I had a passion for theatrics when I was younger," she said. There were several chuckles. Minsc flashed two thumbs up. Jaheira continued.
"First of all, I want to thank every one of you for coming out. Part of what's made me so hopeful is the fact that so many young people have been mobilized because historically, much of the progress that we've made has been because of them and you." The lines in her face softened. "When I go home and look at the faces of my children, of Rion, Jord, Jhessem, Tate, and even my youngest, I see limitless potential that deserves to flourish. I see that in all of you as well."
A ripple of applause went through the crowd. Astarion conceded to allowing her some sentimentality.
"Graduate students and student workers desperately need better funding to cover tuition and living expenses. Our funding relative to the cost of living is unsustainable. When I was a student, my funding was less than half of my current salary. Since then, inflation has gone up, and rent and tuition as well. Frankly, I do not know how anyone can afford to live if they study at Blackstaff. I admit I did not study here, but I know someone who has." Jaheira glanced downwards. "Gale, do you have anything to say?"
Gale seemed to suddenly register all the eyes on him. "I don't suppose you want me to get up on the fountain?"
Jaheira smirked. "Only if you want to be outdone by an old woman."
Gale relented. "If you insist."
"We do insist," Halsin called.
Karlach waved her sign over her head. "Go on, Gale."
Gale clambered onto the fountain while Astarion helped him up. It looked like he was having more trouble than Jaheira, despite her decades on him. Astarion decided to push his luck and shielding Gale's hand from the crowd, pressed his lips to Gale's knuckles. Gale squeezed his shoulder in response as he ascended.
Gale wavered as he found his footing. "It's hard to follow up on a seasoned veteran and much better storyteller, but I can try." A few murmurs and quiet laughter. "I was a PhD candidate here at Blackstaff more than ten years ago. I wasn't much older than twenty. I thought there was no better place to be in the world. It took me too many more years to see otherwise." The melancholy evaporated. "Enough is enough. After years of being overworked, underpaid, and undervalued, I'm done waiting. Despite already cutting a hundred jobs, Blackstaff University has refused to provide stronger job security. Conduct by fellow faculty has likewise been unacceptable. Blackstaff has been complicit—no, responsible for its role in causing harm through a pattern of predatory and abusive behaviour."
Astarion looked at Rolan. Rolan was looking at Gale. There was a brief glint of something—sadness, regret, anger—in his eyes, but he was nodding.
Gale carried on. "Extreme status hierarchies make it difficult to hold faculty members, especially those who have brought us good press or funding, to account. Fortunately, I have no such difficulties." His voice dripped with contempt. "Not even a week into this semester, charges of physical battery were levied against one of our own. An unthinkable crime. Next, we began talks of this very strike only to be met with inaction, at least when it came to diplomacy. Instead, leadership has refused to sit down and talk, used stall tactics, beefed up security, and issued lockouts."
Signs swayed and shook in agreement.
"If nothing else, I am demanding that we do better." Gale put his hand on his chest. His index finger rested where his tattoo sat under all his layers. "I will do better."
Applause rained down and Astarion decided to join in. His hands hurt from how hard he was clapping. Being a supportive boyfriend was tiring, but worth it. Gale raised his hand and the applause quieted. Pride and envy tangled up in each other. Gale wielded such authority and Astarion's inner optimist (whatever little there was left of it) hoped he would be generous enough to share.
"Now, we must make sure that we follow through because at some point, attention moves away. At some point, protests start to dwindle in size. It's very important for us to take the momentum we've created. We won't accept empty promises. We won't accept disrespect. We—"
Gale froze. Astarion turned, full circle.
She was the same woman in the picture frame in Gale's drawer and the Facebook photos. Long black hair. Barely aged a day. Ethereal, austere beauty. Mystra's long black coat flapped in the breeze.
If Astarion didn't recognize her, he would have thought she was an illusion. Astarion might have also made that mistake if not for how drab her tote bag was compared to the rest of her. Her knuckles were white as they clenched around the straps. She must have been walking to her office, wherever her ivory tower was, only to be drawn in by the commotion. She pursed her lips and her mouth moved, but made no sound.
"Gale. Focus."
Elminster's voice, barely audible, drew Gale back. Gale looked at Elminster, then at Astarion. Astarion held his gaze, anchoring him, holding tight, and fishing him up from the abyss. The light entered his eyes again. The clack of Mystra's heels against the pavement faded. Gale turned back to the crowd and gave a smile.
"This is not the end, I can promise you that." He bowed his head. "Thank you for your time, everyone. I'm proud of you. Proud of you all."
Applause thundered around the fountain. Gale stepped down and Astarion helped him as his feet touched the ground. The tremble in his limbs went straight to Astarion's bones. Jaheira's voice rose above the crowd. Some people began to disperse with handshakes, hugs, and "see you later"s. Gale was a thousand miles away.
"So that's what it took to get her attention," he said. "After all the times I tried to reach out. Emails, texts, calls, everything."
Astarion was still gripping his arm. He could feel Gale's pulse pounding and it had to be going even harder in his chest. "You were making quite the spectacle, dear."
Elminster guided them a few steps away. His brow creased. "She'll be expecting you now. You need to talk to her after this. Face to face."
Astarion gestured with his arm. "And you know this how?"
The colour drained from Gale's face. "I don't know if I can right now."
"There is no can. I've seen that look. More importantly, I've seen her give you that look before." Elminster was fixed on the spot where Mystra stood. "She's not giving you a choice."
◈━◈━◈
Gale instructed Jaheira to take the rest of them to the nearest café for post-strike coffees, fending off questions by telling everyone he and Astarion would catch up with them later. With some hesitation, Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart, and Halsin followed after Jaheira. Minsc trailed behind them, still holding Boo in his hand. Boo's pink nose wiggled as he groomed himself.
"Are you sure Minsc cannot get you anything?" he asked.
Gale reached for his collar to put his glasses back on. "I'm sure, Minsc, thank you. In fact, just the mention of caffeine is about to send my heart exploding right out of my chest."
The message was lost on Minsc. "Okay! Find Minsc if you need me to put it back in for you."
Elminster came up beside them, watching the much smaller crowd disappear into the student union building. "There isn't much else I can say, but cooler heads will prevail. Remember that."
Gale nodded. "I will. This conversation has been long overdue on both our ends."
Returning the nod, Elminster left to join the others. They were alone at the fountain.
Astarion sat down on the ledge. His back braced against the small sea of ice behind him. The granite was gritty, cold, and hard and it hurt his ass. He could do with a bit more cushioning. Gale took a seat next to him, pulled out his pen, and resumed gnawing on it now that Astarion was the only one around. Astarion was also itching for a distraction. A drink or a hit of his vape. Anything so he didn't have to sit with the discomfort of seeing Gale's rise followed so quickly by an inconvenient stumble.
The sky above them was a deep, endless blue. Gale was looking at the floor. Astarion was looking at Gale's shoes.
"Are you thinking about dying again?"
Gale snickered. "Ha." He stopped chewing. "I'm thinking more along the lines of cryostasis. Put me in a nice, long nap and wake me up when these circumstances have blown over and Mystra's forgotten who I am." A brisk wind ruffled his hair. "What do you think she even wants from me?"
Astarion shrugged. "A pinky promise that you'll never, ever do this again? And your complete and total subordination. Maybe a foot rub to seal the deal."
"See, it's always the little things you miss." Gale gesticulated with his pen. "Any more words of wisdom before we go?"
Astarion's legs swung, soles scuffing the ground. "I'm just surprised you're letting me tag along. Flattered, even. This is personal business."
A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Gale's mouth. "So what if I want to show her how much better I can do?"
Astarion laughed. "So petty. And pretty." He kissed Gale on the cheek. "Make it hurt."
Gale hummed contentedly. "Make her squirm, more like. I don't want this confrontation to end too quickly."
Eye roll. "Ugh. Fine."
Gale knew where to go by instinct. Even though it was nearing midday, the air around them felt colder as they walked up the path to a tower beside the staff building, one that had never caught Astarion's eye despite the number of times he'd visited the campus. A harsh gust blew between the two buildings, sending Astarion's hair into his eyes and making Gale squint behind his glasses. They took the elevator up to the third floor. It couldn't have taken more than half a minute, but the ride was both agonizingly long and terrifyingly short.
The doors opened. This second building was more well-kept, with shinier floors and the rooms spaced further apart. The dean's office was labelled in stainless steel letters. Its door was closed.
Gale raised his hand and knocked three sharp raps. No code or pattern buried in the rhythm, as far as Astarion could tell.
A woman's voice, measured and calm, answered back. "Come in."
Gale turned the knob. Mystra was at her desk. The room around her was bright and open. Light came from above, from outside, and from the lamp standing next to a tall bookshelf stuffed from end to end. A gallery of plaques and awards hung on the back wall. The office resembled Gale's—or the other way around—but it was sterile, with none of the whimsy or charm Astarion loved.
Mystra looked up, then it hit.
It was the smell of rosewater. The rose Astarion first smelled on Gale was a luscious oil, bringing to mind velvety petals with facets of tea and honey. Gale had no doubt been inspired by or sought to mimic his then-wife. On the other hand, Mystra's roses were pale, purely synthetic, cloying, and headache-inducing. Worst, it was a scent done to death. It was one-note and banal. There was nothing that made Astarion want to come back and smell it, and that was the greatest crime of all.
They approached and the scent swallowed them whole. Pink roses, like a set of gums, grew milk-white teeth and gnashed at them. Astarion recoiled. He didn't care if he never smelled roses again.
"Gale. You look well."
Mystra inclined her head towards him, barely acknowledging Astarion's presence. An atom earring hung from her left ear: a direct mirror image of Gale's. Malice twisted hard in Astarion's chest. The audacity of this bitch. The audacity to leave Gale in the dust and continue wearing the symbol of their union long after the fact.
"As do you." Gale folded his arms. "But I'm assuming we didn't come here to exchange compliments. You wanted to talk, so let's talk."
"Yes, I wanted a word. In private. I didn't expect guests."
Mystra's eyes finally fell on Astarion. It was close to the way Cazador looked at him, though with much more indifference than cruelty. He felt like an ant under her gaze, pinned and wriggling. But if Cazador liked burning him with a glass, Mystra examined him like he was about to be under her shoe: insignificant, inconsequential, and invisible.
Astarion's lip curled, offering barely disguised disdain in return. He had to get rid of the Rose de Mai in Gale's perfume as soon as possible.
Gale made an irritated noise. "You always did insist on doing everything on your terms."
Mystra rose to her feet, planting her hands on her desk. "I didn't come to work today to be admonished. Certainly not by you." She stood firm. "We will talk. Alone."
The sharpness in her tone cut off all other options. Astarion lifted his head. "Shout if you need to be rescued."
Gale huffed a chuckle. Mystra ignored him entirely. She walked around her desk, towards the door, and shut it behind Gale. The trail of her scent lingered.
There was nowhere to go in the hall. Astarion leaned against the wall by the door. The roses were still there, growing out of the jambs. Another painting came to mind: The Roses of Heliogabalus. Guests at a Roman banquet smothered to death under blankets of pink rose petals falling from a false ceiling. Astarion held his breath, inched towards the door, and listened.
He heard Mystra's voice first. "This is a futile endeavour. I told you as much the last time we spoke. You went ahead and did it anyway. Why?"
"These are our students. These are the people we work with every day, and they make our jobs possible. We need them to be respected and well-regarded, and not worried about how they’re going to pay their rent or their grocery bills. They've said as much and you've turned a blind eye. Is there not enough to go around? Or are they—sorry, we—all beneath you now?"
Astarion couldn't help but smile. Gale sounded so angry that he was proud.
"I've known you for twenty years, Gale. You would be better off if you didn't pretend that your efforts, your protest, are only for the greater good."
"So maybe I've used my station to pull a few strings. Maybe I want a little more reach so I can accomplish more. What about it? It would be more than you've done."
"It's all pretense and self-pity in the end. Your saviour complex is never just about you. You have this terrible, pathological need to be praised and admired. To be seen as the shining example."
"As do you. Comes with the territory, I suppose. 'Gifted', they called us. I'm starting to think it's more of a curse." Gale gave a short, sharp laugh. "But now that you have everything you wanted, your title and all its privileges, you've done nothing but maintain the status quo. Nothing has changed. Do you think you'll hold this position forever?"
"This again?" Astarion heard a light thud. A chair shifting, a hand coming down. "You always were stubborn. Always the wronged one, the martyr, the sacred cow. If you still want my position, I'd rather you come out and say it."
"Then I will. I think I would make a better dean. And in the spirit of honesty, I'd rather be a perpetual victim than a predator."
"Enough."
"I was so young. I was a child. It took me being with someone else to recognize that. How could you?" The hurt in Gale's voice seeped out from under the crack in the door, threatening to choke Astarion along with the roses. "Who's to say you aren't doing the same now that your influence has grown? How many subordinates have you turned into your playthings? How many more were there before me?"
Astarion grit his teeth. The rose petals continued to fall. He was wading in them now.
"Search me, then, if you're so hungry for information. See what you find." There was silence and Astarion imagined Mystra shaking her head. "You can't let it go, can you? Even after all this time."
A pause. Gale's voice cracked. "I wanted to be worthy."
Another beat. "You always were. I'm not the deciding factor."
"Believe me, I have no plans of letting you be so again."
The door clicked open and Astarion darted back. Gale stepped into the hall. Mystra was nowhere to be seen. The expression on Gale's face was unreadable. Astarion stepped forward cautiously.
"Darling?"
The blankness turned into resignation. "We should go," Gale said.
They didn't say a thing while they waited for the elevator. Only when they stepped inside did Gale break the silence with, "That's more than enough excitement for one day. I might just go home."
Astarion tapped his foot. "You know what? I couldn't agree more."
When the elevator doors slid open, Elminster was waiting.
Gale blinked. "How—"
Astarion sighed, exasperated. "You followed us? Really?"
Elminster was nonchalant. "I didn't have to follow you. Ask anyone and they'll tell you where the Dean resides. Well, anyone important." He waved a hand. "I had a mediocre cup of tea and excellent conversation with your companions. A little bird told me you tried to sneak into a lab?"
Astarion cast a sideways glance, demanding to know who Gale had spilled to.
"We wanted to access a gas chromatograph," Gale said. "For Astarion. We were going to test some perfume samples for banned substances."
For a second, Elminster looked intrigued. Then he shrugged. "Come with me when you're ready. Bring your samples and an appetite," he said.
The weird old freak was proving to be more useful by the minute. Astarion tilted this head. "An appetite?"
Elminster's eyes twinkled. "I hope you like cheese."
◈━◈━◈
Astarion rolled a grape between his fingers as he studied the cheese board. He was barraged by the sights and smells on the folding table in Elminster's basement. Wedges of sharp cheddar, Danish blue, and Jarlsberg. Cubes of Appenzeller. Slivers of brunost. A whole wheel of double cream brie, oozing out of its bloomy rind. A ramekin of quark, which felt like an inside joke between the two chemists sitting across from him.
"So, how did you come to possess a gas chromatograph?"
Elminster turned away from the computer screen and the data scrolling across it. The system whirred buzzed, clearly straining to keep up with its demands. The whole thing might as well have been witchcraft to Astarion. He had no idea how anyone could interpret the mess of lines peaking and falling in troughs.
"It's the least exciting thing I own," he answered. "Goodness, I have several centrifuges, an HPLC system, and an atomic absorption spectrometer to name a few. Even a cryostat." Elminster pointed at a printer-like contraption in the corner.
"I've learned not to ask where he got them," Gale added. He was cleaning out the syringe they used to inject each sample. Beyond the cheese board, the basement smelled like old person must and Szarr perfume.
Elminster snorted. "Don't let Gale fool you. I'm open to questions."
Astarion stopped rolling the grape. The motion was starting to make him dizzy. "Alright then, how do you know about Mystra? Didn't Gale get with her after he graduated from high school?"
"Gale wrote to me throughout the years. Still does. And I say write because he uses pen and paper and mails it to me in an envelope." Elminster reached for the table and dolloped some quark onto a cracker. "He was already an old man at the age of sixteen."
Gale cleared his throat. "I prefer 'old-fashioned'."
Astarion wriggled his eyebrows. "Does that make you a good old-fashioned lover boy?"
Elminster chuckled. "As long as he sits on your hot-seat of love."
Gale groaned as they both cackled. Elminster munched on his cracker. "I've known a perfumer or two in my day," he said. "Pretentious, fussy people."
Astarion gave a half-mocking, half-genuine bow. "Why, thank you." The computer stopping whining, a sign that it was done or had given up completely. Elminster scooted back towards the machine in his wheeled office chair.
"Gale, get me my notes," he called.
"A 'please' would have been nice." Gale found a spiral notebook sitting on a bench and handed it over. He joined Astarion at the folding table. "It'll take him a while. I'll help. Can you get your sources ready?"
Astarion grumbled, but pulled up the latest standards in fragrance safety on his phone. While waiting for the machine to work its magic, he had seen Cazador's reply: a seething string of messages (in all caps, as predicted). He laughed again and left him on read. In the background, the only sounds were pencils scratching against paper.
Several minutes later, Elminster wheeled over and pointed to something on his sheet. "See that spike at the ten-minute mark? That looks interesting."
"Yes, it's in mine, too." Gale leaned over. "CAS number?"
"108-88-3."
"Let's see." Gale tapped on his phone and swiped down. "108-88-3," he muttered to himself. He raised his head. "Toluene. Astarion, love, what do the standards say?"
Astarion didn't need the standards. He'd been here before, back when Gale's scent was nothing more than a shapeless tune thrumming, keeping him up at night. A component in recreating the smell of old books, no doubt used by Cazador and Godey to lend their creations an old, storied bent. Toluene. Clear, colourless, flammable, and sweet, and—
"It's banned," he said. "It's straight-up banned." He realized his voice, not to mention the rest of him, was starting to shake but he couldn't have cared less. He got up slowly and faced Gale. "Holy hell, we've got him."
One, two steps forward and Astarion wrapped his arms around Gale while Elminster watched. He didn't care about that either. Gale's arms closed around him as he hugged him back. The roses on his skin and clothes were faint, giving way to the cedar, smoke, and vanilla underneath.
"You already did. You collected all your evidence. This is just the nail in the coffin."
Elminster examined the back of the sampler box, skimming over the ingredients. "Second on the list, 'Fragrance'. How informative. Trade secrets, I reckon."
Astarion sat back down. "Obviously."
Elminster tossed the box into the trash. "I wonder what else Cazador Szarr has under lock and key," he mused.
"Everyone around him, honestly." Astarion ran a fingertip along the table's edge. "Airtight NDAs, all of us."
Elminster helped himself to another cracker. "And how long do these agreements last?"
"Five years, renewed at the end of November. Like clockwork."
Gale frowned. "You've worked at Szarr coming up ten years now, yes? You never mentioned anything in November. I'm sure I would've heard about it."
The room shrunk, then opened up. Astarion steadied himself against the table, bracing for another wave of withdrawal-induced nausea. It never came. This was different. It felt like his arms were growing, chest expanding. A weight that had lanced itself through his shoulder blades and into his gut, a weight that Astarion thought was permanent, slid out slowly, taking his breath with it. He was less than weightless.
Cazador had forgotten. It could have been age (Cazador wasn't that old) or a faulty memory (Cazador's memory never failed). Or it could have been that Astarion had rattled him so deeply by attempting to strike out on his own that the agreement escaped him altogether. Cazador had been so focused on punishing Astarion for that transgression that he forgot—or simply didn't realize—that being legally trapped with him was a punishment itself.
"Astarion?"
Astarion looked up. Gale and Elminster were staring back at him.
"I need a moment," was all he said.
Gale obliged. "Take as long as you need."
As long as Astarion needed was an hour more, maybe two. He remembered stepping out of Elminster's front door and being blinded by the sun. He remembered thanking Elminster. Probably. He only came to when he was back in the shotgun seat of the Prius, where the smell of leather pulled him back into his body.
Next to him, Gale was buzzing as he pulled up an album to listen to. "This is the most productive day I've had in ages," he said. "You should be feeling quite pleased yourself. We have the incriminating chemical."
"And my NDA. It ended." Astarion's murmur felt distant in his own ears. He decided to buckle himself in just in case he drifted away.
"Then consider yourself free."
The first few bars of a piano and electric guitar flooded the car. Astarion glanced out the window. It couldn't be that easy. Was it, though? Gale's voice returned as he tried and failed to come up with an answer. "On a similar note, I've been meaning to ask you something for a while. My final hearing with Mystra is coming up and our assets have been settled. I want you to come with me when I pick them up." Gale held up his hands. "You don't have to, of course. I don't imagine it's easy seeing your lover with his ex-lover, though I'm not sure how much you heard back at Blackstaff—"
Everything. I heard everything. Gale was right. There was no love left between them. They were both going to be free and that was reason enough to celebrate. Astarion's gaze flicked down to Gale's lips and he shifted forward for a kiss. The taste of Gale's mouth, the perfume on his collar, and warmth of his skin exploded in technicolour. Every one of his senses was on fire. He was alive.
"Don't be stupid." Astarion sat up. As the car flew into motion, he reached for the volume dial and turned it up. "Where you go, I'll be there, too."
Notes:
Welcome to the ultimate 'Avengers assemble' chapter. The gang's all here, even Araj. (P.S. Araj's scent is based on Squid by Zoologist, in lieu of squidfucking in the bloodline.)
And look, I'm not going to put it past Elminster to have a chemistry lab in his basement with machines from questionable places. Stranger things have happened, including old man deus ex machina.
Note that this is a supremely dumbed-down example of gas chromatography, mostly because I'm very dumb when it comes to science. IRL, this would take much longer and way more effort.
I also spent so much time digging through the IFRA 51 for prohibited substances only to realize toluene was there, waiting for me since chapter 7. I shit you not, the first results I saw when searching up the smell of toluene were Reddit posts by chemists talking about how much they love huffing toluene despite how unhealthy it is. Funny how it all works out in the end.
If you want to see me infodump even more, this time about Viking and Anglo-Saxon history, I've been providing historical/linguistic/cultural input for ShadowViking's Long My Love Awaited, a Viking AU fic for the Bloodweave Brainrot April AU collection. Because we're all nerds here.
Perfume inspo: Cosmic Pepper by Mancera
“Cosmic Pepper is a world in motion, expanding at the speed of light to span the distance between Spicy heat and Amber roundness. It's a bright and deep fragrance, spicy and sharped like a solar disc in total eclipse from the sparkle of citrus. Fresh and extremely sensual...Expand your horizons, feel your spirit soar up to the stars, while your feet stay on Terra Firma."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 21: Sandalwood
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Alcoholism
- Body checking behaviour
- Implied SA
- Implied disordered eatingThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here. The email skin can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Astarion never thought he would see the day, but Cazador's punishment was tame.
When he arrived at work the next day, shins burning and espressos in hand (no added sugar, no milk, no bells and whistles—nothing was going to make up for his absence), Astarion expected divine retribution. A slap in the face or light choking to start the morning. Maybe Cazador would finally stick his hand in the candle. Instead, Cazador simply accepted his coffees. The blinds were drawn, the room was cold, and the scent of white lilies and tuberose engulfed them. The bottle of cognac was still on the table. All his impotent rage was gone. His hands closed around the cardboard sleeve, sucking the warmth from it.
"You took yesterday off without asking for permission."
Astarion came prepared with the easiest lie in the world. He knew how much Cazador hated germs. "I was sick," he said.
Cazador sneered. "Yes, the way a child is sick. Disgusting, ungrateful, and petulant the entire time. And how strange—or fortuitous—that you show no signs of illness today." He almost smiled. Astarion caught the flash of blinding white teeth. "You will make up the hours you tried to avoid by working them on top of your usual."
Sixteen hours. Astarion's eyes widened, but narrowed when he started looking for a way out. Doors of escape opened and shut down a dark hallway. "You know you'll need someone to watch me, right?" he asked.
Cazador's fingers laced through each other more tightly. "I hold the keys. So does Godey. You don't have to pretend to be clever."
He was going to be locked in for sixteen hours. Astarion stared straight ahead, keeping his line of sight level with Cazador's chin. Cazador was reaching for the upper hand and now was his chance to slap him away. Astarion curled his fingers inwards, trying to hide that they were trembling. "I never claimed to be. Now, do you have anything else to say?"
Cazador's thin lips twisted. "Get back to work before you embarrass yourself further. And," his voice cooled, "send my regards to Dr. Dekarios."
Astarion let the door to Cazador's office swing shut behind him with a bang. He was going to look on the bright side: more time alone in the office meant more time to snoop. When he sat down at his desk, he swiped over to the chat.
Astarion slumped back in his chair in disbelief. He didn't think it'd be so easy. Maybe they were all just rats scurrying aimlessly, desperate for someone to impose structure. He didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.
But he had to conduct himself properly. If he wanted authority, he needed to act like he already had it. Astarion thought about Gale at the Blackstaff strike and his easy but warm confidence. He held out his hand, palm open, the way Gale did to silence the crowd. It felt like a kneejerk reaction. It wasn't deliberate enough. He tried again, opening up his hand but pushing it out with the delicate flick of his wrist. Yes. He liked that. It suited him better.
Like Cazador told him, he went back to work.
A few minutes after noon, the others were on their lunch break, judging by the sounds of voices and footsteps downstairs. Cazador was out and Astarion only had half an hour to act. He stepped into the open concept break room.
"Black Cadillac," he said.
Leon, Yousen, and Violet looked up. Astarion kept his posture straight and shoulders squared. Tightness coiled around the base of his throat, reminding him to breathe. He turned out his wrist and put on a show of relaxed confidence. The three of them looked away.
"Black Cadillac," Leon said back.
"Black Cadillac," Yousen echoed.
Violet stabbed at her lunch. "Yeah, yeah."
Astarion lowered his chin and swept away. He would excuse Violet's nonchalance since she was the one who came up with their car code in the first place. Red Porsche. White Dodge. Black Cadillac. We really, really need to work together this time.
Now he had to wait to hold them to that promise.
At five, Astarion listened again for the telltale signs of Cazador leaving: the door to his office clicking shut and a few minutes later, the black Bentley swerving into the street from the view from the break room window. Slowly, as if not to attract attention, he backed away towards the reception desk.
"Are you expecting any more visitors?"
Aurelia's gaze quickly darted to the bottom of her screen. "No," she replied.
"Then into the boardroom. Now. Hurry up."
The process was quick but far from painless. Getting anyone to open up was like pulling teeth. Fortunately for Astarion, he was brilliant at making people angry and giving that anger somewhere else to go.
It was a comfort, however small, that they all knew what the inside of The Fraygo looked like. It had completely escaped Astarion's notice until now, but Cazador had a type. For the most part, light-haired, dark-eyed, fair-skinned, all at least a decade younger than him. He called them all family, turned the House of Szarr into an incestuous hotbed, and drained them dry of their individual talents.
"I reply to bad reviews with lawsuits," Aurelia said.
"I covered up our ingredients list," Leon said.
"I sent bribe money," Yousen said.
"I think I committed tax fraud?" Petras didn't look completely with it.
"I threatened a collaborator with violence," Violet said. "Physical violence. From Cazador's cronies."
Astarion looked up from his keyboard. "Aw, why didn't I get to do that? I'm his assistant."
"Too bad." Violet flashed a middle finger at him. She tapped her fingers along her jaw, elbow slumped against her desk. "You're going to kill him, right?"
Astarion scoffed, offended that she had any doubt. "Obviously."
"So how're you gonna do it?"
"I." Astarion frowned. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet," he admitted.
Violet's grin vanished. "That fucker raped me," she said. "Think faster, or I will." She stood and stalked off, leaving Astarion alone in her cubicle.
Dal was the last one to be interviewed. When he pulled up a chair, she didn't have anything to say. They sat still as tears slipped out past her lashes and wet her cheeks. After a minute, Astarion set his phone facedown on her desk.
"For Christ's sake, Dal, I can't get anything done if all you're going to do is cry."
Dal rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve and looked at the ground, trying to keep any more from falling. "Fine." She took a long breath. "This was never the life I wanted for myself. I was struggling to find work, even with my education and credentials. Szarr's been around for two centuries. I thought it was nothing if not reputable."
"Any reads on Cazador?"
"You know how he grabs our wrists? I figured out why. He's trying to feel your pulse, sense how scared you are. I learned to breathe a certain way to lower my blood pressure."
Astarion touched the inside of his own wrist, suddenly self-conscious. "And on the business end? What did he do to you specifically?"
Dal breathed deep again. "People sometimes have reactions to our products. Dermal sensitization or systemic toxicity, mostly. I know, I know, it's not that uncommon," she said. "After we take down every complaint we find, we want to avoid further mistakes." She lifted her right hand, as if to show Astarion something. It looked completely normal. "I'm forced to test everything on myself. Why spend a thing on proper, ethical reports when you have a perfectly good employee down the hall who can tell you what's happening as her skin breaks out in hives?" Her eyes were rimmed red. "That's all we are to him. Lab rats, pawns, his pretty porcelain dolls."
Astarion crossed his legs and pressed his fingers to his temple. At that moment, he realized how well he and Dal could pass for real siblings. The only difference was that Dal's usual expression made her look extra miserable, which Cazador must have loved. "Well. Shit."
"You're the one who comes up with each formula, so I thought it was your fault and you just didn't care." A short laugh slipped out between a sniffle. "See, that's how he gets us. We've been so awful to each other, and what for?"
Astarion shrugged. He watched Dal rub at her arms through her sweater. "I mean, I didn't care. Until now. Because I just learned about it," he said. He quickly glanced to the side, trying not to give away that he'd been searching her for rashes or sores. "So that's why you look terrible. God. You're actually physically uncomfortable all the time."
"It's better than drinking myself to death." Dal smirked. Astarion snorted. He knew that all was forgiven, even though Dal's smile gradually fell away. "In the group chat, you said you were recovering," she said. "Is that true?"
It was Astarion's turn to go quiet, though with irritation this time. His recovery (this had to be his fourth, fifth try by now) wasn't up for scrutiny.
"I don't know? Everything's changed for the worse. I feel like shit all the time. All shaky and nauseous. My head hurts constantly. It's pathetic," he said. "And everyone's hovering around me, treating me like I'm made of cake crumbs. I just want the world to leave me alone until I get better." Astarion put his fingers up in scare quotes, then sighed. "But I'm trying. Isn't that what counts?"
Dal leaned forward, but didn't try to reach out to touch him. She knew him well enough.
"Of course it does. You might want to watch your caffeine intake, though." She nodded at Astarion's third can of Monster Energy Zero.
Footsteps tromped up the stairs and a chemical whiff filled the floor. "OUT. OUT." Godey's raspy voice screeched down the corridor. "Unless you want to be stuck here."
Astarion raised himself up, just high enough for Godey to see his head poking over the cubicle. "Don't I have a say in the matter?"
Godey shut his mouth so hard his teeth clicked. "We didn't get the notice that you would be absent. Even now, you're wasting time on chatter. No escape, no more shirking your duties."
Dal started packing her bag. "See you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, then. Ta-ta." Astarion waggled his fingers in a wave, mostly at Godey. Godey snarled back and started heading for the entrance. Dal rushed ahead of him. Astarion heard the door lock in place.
The countdown began.
It took Astarion only four hours to find out that there was nothing left for him to do. Cazador was perfectly capable of answering his own emails. The release of Black Mass had long since been out of his hands. It was also the holidays. Everyone who mattered was on vacation. The promo posts were released, the department stores were stocked, and all they had to do was rake in the cash come the new year.
Astarion didn't know how many cameras were around, but there was nothing to suggest anything that could pick up on an audio feed. He blasted hard rock through the House of Szarr so loudly that his eardrums ached and the vibrations ran through the furniture. He tried to open each door he came across. Cazador had locked up everything except for the broom closet. Astarion left it alone. Cazador would have to leave the cleaning to someone else.
He flopped onto the antique chaise under the chandelier, which wouldn't be the worst place to fall asleep. The view of the street outside was pitch black and the nature of this particular punishment began to set in. Cazador had meant to leave him alone with his own boredom and spiralling thoughts. At this time of day, he probably pictured Astarion collapsed and twitching, overcome with cold sweats and agony from withdrawal like the pitiful addict he was. Cazador knew Astarion was an addict. Cazador didn't know he was trying not to be.
Astarion reached into his back pocket. He could, technically, get out. He could call Gale or the police right now and they would rescue him. They would also deprive him of his chance to act on his time.
He clicked off his phone and went back upstairs to his desk. A notification from his inbox was waiting for him. Irritation was quickly replaced by curiosity. A fellow moonlighter.
Invitation to Interview Inbox ☓
Volothamp Geddarm ˂[email protected]˃ 9:58 PM (23 minutes ago)
to me▼
To whom it may concern,
My name is Volothamp Geddarm and I'm a reporter with Baldur's Mouth. I'm doing a story about why perfume makes the perfect Christmas present as part of our gift guide. Seeing as Baldur's Mouth has worked with the House of Szarr before, I would be delighted to interview you once again on this topic.
I understand your Creative Director, Cazador Szarr, likely has a packed schedule so do let me know if there is someone else available on his behalf if he is not. If so, would they have time this week for a quick interview either online or on site at Baldur's Mouth?
I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
Volo (he/him)
Astarion knew the standard procedure. Forward the email to Cazador and try not to let his eyes roll into the back of his head as Cazador bitched about reporters and how much he hated them but still had them all under this thumb. Astarion's mind wandered back to the conversations he had hours ago. How many outlets had Cazador bought or bribed?
His stomach growled, breaking his train of thought. Thanks to Gale's divine cooking and the lack of alcohol blissfully clouding his mind, Astarion was actually starting to feel hungry nowadays. That was fine. He and hunger were best friends. He could put the thought of food out of his mind for the rest of the night with several glasses of water and the right motivation.
Astarion's nose wrinkled as he shut the door to the bathroom. The orange blossom diffuser had been swapped out for clove. He stepped up to the mirrors above the sinks, untucked the hem of his shirt, and lifted it out of the way.
It wasn't by much, but his body had softened slightly. If he stretched the right way, he could still see the rungs of his ribcage along his sides. The hard lines of his abs were still there until he slowly relaxed, unclenching his core. The definition grew fainter. He turned to examine his side profile. He rolled up his sleeves and checked the width of his elbows against his forearms. Terror clutched at his chest.
He thought about what Cazador would say the next time he put his hands on him. If he put his hands on him. It was one thing to panic about his own appearance. It was another to have those fears affirmed by someone else and it wasn't like Astarion could rely on Gale to tell it to him straight, but Cazador was a proven liar. He couldn't let it happen again.
Astarion paced in front of the row of mirrors. He would have to goad Cazador into attacking first to offset the blame. That wouldn't be hard. Cazador had impeccable control over everything, it seemed, except his temper. A few well-placed jabs and an attitude would send him rising out of his chair and lunging forward.
He sidestepped to the right and aimed a punch, just stopping before the mirror. As he exhaled, his knuckles grazed the glass, leaving behind a faint smudge. He wasn't a fighter and even he could tell his form was shaky. Apart from the tussle with Petras, he'd never been in a physical fight. He should ask Lae'zel to teach him self-defence, or whatever it was cops learned.
Astarion let his fists fall to his sides. He hated feeling this useless. Everyone kept telling him to wait, to gather more evidence from more people, then find the right people to hand it off to, all the while pretending nothing was happening.
He was tired of waiting. He was going to make something happen.
Astarion slammed the bathroom door behind him and came to a stop by the doors to the office. He held out his phone in front of him and turned on the camera one more time. The final pieces were slotting into place.
"Good evening, it's a gorgeous night at the House of Szarr studio. Night, because I've been locked in here since 6 pm." He grabbed the door handle and tugged at it. The glass rattled, but didn't budge. "It's currently half past ten. Highly illegal if you ask me." He turned the camera back on himself. "While we're stuck, let's do a tour, shall we?"
Astarion stepped back and panned up to the chandelier. "Installed in the 1850s. All hand-cut crystal. Pawn it off and everyone could earn $5,000 more this year." He started walking his usual path. "Break room. You're lucky if you get a break at all." He swivelled over to the long table with every Szarr bottle on display. "No one who actually works here uses this." He held his phone over the start of the descending stairwell. "That, down there, is where the magic happens. But you're not allowed in the perfume lab unless you're a hideous octogenarian with really, obviously fake teeth." He turned away. "Godey, I would say I'm sorry but it's not like you're going to watch this anyway."
The tour continued down the corridor towards Cazador's office. Astarion demonstrated the rhythm he knocked against the door. He pointed out each cubicle and who worked there. As he walked by, he tapped on the ancient computers that Cazador couldn't be bothered to update. The whole thing felt surprisingly natural, even fun. If the taking-the-House-of-Szarr scheme fell through, a career as a content creator could be next.
When Astarion reached his desk at the very end of the hall, he kicked back in his chair, did a light spin, and faced the camera. The overhead lighting made him look washed out and awful. "There we have it, darlings. Don't buy from us, don't leave us a review. That's all there is to say about the House of Szarr, really. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some emails to answer."
Astarion hit the pause button and stopped recording. His room with no windows was dead silent.
The video was longer than he expected at three minutes. He moved it to the evidence folder on his phone, where every other incriminating file sat. Screenshots of the texts between the other Szarr employees and Cazador himself (Leon and Dal were the most meticulous by far). Astarion's own screenshots. Photos in the full-length mirror in his bathroom at home. His back with fresh cuts, spine jutting out between his shoulder blades. Bruises mottling his throat. The selfie from Cazador's office from his cum- and blood-stained chair. The audio recording he still couldn't bring himself to listen to.
Astarion glanced back at his monitor. He could never forget what happened the last time he attempted to undermine Cazador. He had the literal scars to show for it. But that was last time. When Astarion came for Cazador, he wanted Cazador to know it was him and to fear for his fucking life.
The wait was over, starting now. Besides, Cazador never liked Volo anyway.
The lights were off throughout the office. Astarion pulled himself up to his keyboard and began typing.
Re: Invitation to Interview Inbox ☓
The House of Szarr ˂[email protected]˃ 10:47 PM (0 minutes ago)
to Volothamp Geddarm▼
Hi Volo,
Thank you for contacting the House of Szarr. Mr. Szarr is currently unavailable, but I can take this interview on his behalf. That said, I'm only available on the weekends. Is Baldur's Mouth open on Saturday?
Best,
Astarion Ancunín
◈━◈━◈
The Baldur's Mouth office was open seven days a week after all. Astarion had changed his outfit at least three times before settling on dressy casual. He envied Gale's leisurely Saturday morning spent in pajamas, watching Tara on the Furbo Jaheira got him for Christmas, and scrambling eggs on the stovetop. Astarion barely managed to finish breakfast even though he had half of Gale's portion and no toast. He chalked it up to nerves and for the first time, he wasn't lying.
"I'm just asking you to be discerning," Gale said as he put their empty plates in the sink. "You can't predict how the media circus will spin what you give them. You have the upper hand now. Play your opening like a book, the middle game like a magician, and the endgame like a machine."
"Darling." Astarion came up behind Gale and wrapped his arms around his waist. He fisted the soft fabric of Gale's henley shirt. "I've never played chess in my life."
Gale twisted around to land a peck on his forehead. "Just be on the defence and throw out a distraction if you need it. Knowing you, you'll manage."
"And how will you manage when I'm gone?"
"I'll stay right here."
Astarion buried his nose along the nape of Gale's neck. His hair smelled like musk, lavender shampoo, and the fading notes of vanilla smoke and cedar. "There's a coffee shop right across the street from Baldur's Mouth."
"It's not Elturel."
Astarion sank his face into Gale's shoulder. "Hmmmph."
He pried himself off of Gale with great difficulty, loathe to part from the warm, comforting weight of his body. As he zipped up his boots and grabbed his coat by the doorway, Gale stepped forward and took the dagger pendant hanging from Astarion's neck between his thumb and forefinger, gently pulling him closer. He cupped Astarion's face and pressed their lips together.
"Good luck, dear." Gale's phone chirruped in his other hand. "Tara says good luck, too."
Baldur's Mouth was located downtown, occupying several floors of a glass-panelled office building. The lobby was thronged with security guards who watched Astarion walk through the doors, but said nothing. He took the elevator to the second floor.
The receptionist behind the front desk was in her fifties or sixties, with grey hair and total boredom on her face. She blinked slowly as Astarion approached.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here for an interview with Volo Geddarm."
"For which role?"
"No, this is for the story about the House of Szarr."
"Oh." The receptionist somehow looked even more disappointed. She grabbed a clipboard and pushed it over the counter. "Sign in, please." Astarion took a pen from the mug nearby and jotted down his name and the current time. The receptionist nodded to the side. "Take a seat."
Astarion obeyed, sitting down on a black folding chair. The building was wonderfully modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows, white lights, and floors made of linoleum instead of wood. He could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. A water cooler sat near a boardroom. Astarion ran his tongue along the back of his teeth. His mouth was beyond dry. He needed a drink. Water, of course. Cold water. Cold water in a paper cup.
Just as he stood to approach the water cooler, Volo came bustling into the lobby.
"Ah, my good fellow!"
Volo vigorously shook Astarion's hand (Astarion didn't have the chance to shake back) and waved at the receptionist. "I'll take him from here. Thank you, Zita!" he called. Zita grunted in response.
Volo led Astarion through the open office. Employees went to and from the printer room. A number of what looked like tired interns sat typing at their keyboards. Volo walked on by with quick strides.
"There's so much to be done," he said. "We get Christmas—not even Christmas Eve—and New Year's Day off, then it's right back to the grind. What about you? Are you going anywhere for the holidays?"
Astarion had to gain speed to keep up. "Not really. I'll be visiting my boyfriend's family."
"How exciting! Or dreadful. Do you know what to expect?"
"Not at all. They're Greek."
Volo closed the door to his office, gesturing for Astarion to sit in an armchair in the corner. Volo took a seat at his own desk. It was a homely little place, as homely as a corporately beige office could be. A round clock hung on the opposite wall. As Volo rummaged around in a drawer, he paused. He sniffed the air. "Do you smell that?" he asked.
"Smell what?" Astarion asked drily. He knew exactly what it was. He also liked seeing how easy it was to get Volo to chase his own tail.
Volo sniffed again, the thing he was looking for forgotten. "It's herbal but fruity...oh, I can't quite place it."
"It's me." Astarion tugged lightly at his collar. "Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy."
"And which perfume is that?"
"It's my own. I made it."
"Of course you did. Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous." Volo sounded genuinely fascinated. He reached back into the drawer and placed a notepad, pen, and a palm-sized black device on the desk. "That's my recorder, by the way," he explained. "Let's get started, shall we?"
Astarion gave a curt nod. Volo pressed the button on his recorder. "To preface it all, this is Baldur's Mouth second annual gift guide and we're putting together the most giftable, truly worth-it items. Perfume made it onto the list this year, so I have to ask you to confirm or deny. Why does perfume make a great present?"
Astarion adjusted his expression to that of polite neutrality. He could see that denying wasn't an option. "The moment we put on a good fragrance, we feel refreshed, stronger, ready to take on the world. You might as well gift those feelings if you're spending. The pretty packaging certainly doesn't hurt."
"Certainly not," Volo agreed. "I've heard there are bottles studded with all sorts of gold and jewels."
"Exactly. They run for tens of thousands of dollars. I would never recommend dropping that much on a single flanker, but I don't own millions. What do I know?" Astarion crossed his legs, knee over knee. "You have to be careful, of course. It takes a lot to know a person's tastes. Goodness, most people don't even know what they like." He couldn't resist a giggle. "But get it right and it shows that you haven’t just picked up a random or impersonal present only because it was conveniently placed next to the checkout."
"Of course, of course. The checkout is for gum and beef jerky." Volo twirled his mustache. "Who do you think is the ideal recipient for such a gift?"
Astarion drummed his fingers along the armrests. He was already bored. "Everyone and anyone, except children. They get to sneak spritzes from everyone else's bottles like we all did. It's a right of passage at this point."
Volo guffawed and Astarion grimaced behind a polite smile. "I can attest to that," Volo said. "Do you have any perfume recommendations?"
"I can't, in good conscience, give a recommendation. Everyone's too different. But look at our bestsellers page and take your pick."
"Let me get that down." Volo clicked his pen and started scribbling in his notepad. "Tell...Salene...to...look up House of Szarr bestsellers. Perfect." He faced Astarion again. "Perhaps tangentially related, what is the House of Szarr up to these days?"
Astarion tilted his head. "We're gearing up for a new release next year, but I can't say anything more than that."
"What about a hint? A name, perhaps."
"Again, my lips are sealed."
"But you have been busy. You've been keeping up with current events." Volo sounded giddy, like he knew a delicious little secret. He turned the page of his notepad. "What is the House's official stance on the Blackstaff University strike?"
The question socked Astarion in the jaw from out of left field, knocking the smile off his face. His composure cracked. "I'm sorry?"
"I was at the scene. You were at the strike at the very front of the crowd. Were you one of the organizers?"
Astarion squinted. "Wait. How did you—?"
"Where there's an event, I simply have to be there. We're also very understaffed." Volo laughed again. There was zero joy behind his eyes. "Please send help."
Terror and anxiety pulsed through Astarion's head. Cazador had told him to send Gale his regards. Were there photos? Was Gale mentioned by name? How soon until he closed in on Gale? Gale, for all his intelligence and eloquence, had no defences. With Astarion out of the picture for even an hour, Gale could be minutes from death or dying or dead. Gruesome images flashed by until Astarion jerked his head up.
"It's funny you should say that." Astarion steepled his fingers. On the inside, his fingers gripped the wheel tight and steered. "I didn't attend the Blackstaff strike on behalf of the House of Szarr. I didn't organize it either. However, I recognize a common cause when I see one."
"A common cause?"
Astarion affected a thoughtful, somewhat melancholy seriousness. "It's a rampant problem these days," he said. "Hostile work environments. Constant harassment, unrealistic workloads, low pay, nonconstructive criticism. Flat-out abuse." He let his voice fall quiet at the end. "I speak from personal experience, of course."
Volo stilled. Astarion could see the insatiable curiosity taking over as he leaned in closer. "Do you now?" he asked.
"Yes. But," Astarion waved a casual hand, "that's not what you reached out to me for. I'd hate to put a damper on our little chat. Maybe we can pick this up some other day."
"Wait!"
Unused to manipulation and mind games, Volo threw himself around Astarion's little finger. Astarion could see it clearly: Volo wasn't clueless but he was too trusting, which was almost worse. At the same time, Volo understood that he was giving him an offer. An offer he'd be stupid to refuse.
Astarion adopted a confused look. "You want to hear about it? Right now?"
"Yes!"
"Are you sure? I don't want to take up too much of your precious time. And it's not exactly jolly, feel-good material."
Volo nodded vigorously, imploring. "Absolutely. We'll publish it after the new year. An exposé." His voice was a hushed, wonderstruck whisper. "You have no idea how much we've needed a story like this."
Astarion knit his brow in faux-contemplation. On the inside, he simply grinned, cat-like. He couldn't get enough of the grovelling. "Come to think of it, I don't have much else to do today. Very well, then."
Volo's eyes widened. His mouth parted into a perfect 'O'. "Oh, Ettvard's going to love this," he whispered. "If I can pitch it to him, of course." He started quickly flipping through his notepad. "I'll get Malek or Ty on the story, we can get some photos taken—"
Astarion held out his hand, complete with the soft flick of his wrist. "Actually, I'd prefer if you wrote it."
"Would you? Thank you. Thank you." Granted full authority from his source, Volo practically melted into a puddle of relief. "There will be nothing off record, I promise," he said. "We'll start whenever you want. Just say the word."
The clock hung on the wall behind him. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Astarion's heart hung in the centre of his chest, strung up by a web of nerves.
Tick.
It was the sound of the heel of his shoe against the floor. Astarion was walking out onto an empty stage in front of rows of faceless audience members that rolled out as far as his mind's eye could see. A cold sensation wrapped around his wrist and slid along his jaw. Cazador's breath was in his ear, in his mouth. Smile, boy, and stand up straight. Everyone's watching.
Astarion stayed hunched. He swallowed. "I was twenty-nine at the time. I was a bartender at The Waning Moon—I think it closed down a few years ago—and I was strapped for cash. What was I supposed to do?"
The spotlight was on.
It was like a tap dance. Astarion had to be careful where to step. His words fell into a steady rhythm that took all of his focus to keep up. He fed a stream of information that flowed to the beat of his heart pounding in his ears, lengthening his words like a step from heel to toe. He put on the pressure, rehearsed to be varied enough to keep his audience captive. Light. (I've been the nose behind least ten Szarr releases. He didn't give me credit for a thing.) Heavy. (I was taken to The Fraygo just six months in. Oh, I must've had at least a dozen clients.) A flourish. (See this scar? He gave it to me. Yes, he bit me.)
The spotlight burned. Sweat beaded along the sides of his face. Sweat, not tears. Astarion knew his face was flushed. He felt unbearably hot. He was blinded and on fire. He was the sun, and he felt clever enough to juggle several planets before lunch.
This was his danse macabre—his dance of death—and wasn't Cazador right all along? Wasn't he meant to give everything he had to his craft until there was nothing left?
He kept on dancing.
When Astarion was finished, he was out of breath. The room no longer felt real. There was no applause, but he was met with awestruck silence. Volo switched the recorder off. He clasped his hands.
"My word. I need a moment."
"Take your time."
Volo put his pen down and removed his blue beret, setting it down next to his notepad. Astarion watched him, keeping his body language neutral. Baldur's Mouth was trash. Its reporters were vultures, but they had a place in every healthy ecosystem.
With a deep sigh, Volo put his beret back on. "Between you and me, Astarion, when I interviewed him during Design Week, he looked at me like I was dirt on the bottom of his shoe. I'd never felt so small."
"Then you got lucky."
Volo cowered and Astarion swore he heard a whimper. Astarion silently took his dagger pendant in hand, digging the point into the tip of his index finger just to feel something.
After a minute, Volo asked, "Mind if I get your picture? If you want your name attached to this. Completely understandable if you want to remain anonymous—"
"Please."
Volo took out a camera. Astarion noticed his hands were shaking as he turned it on. Volo rested his elbows on his desk to keep them steady. "If you could turn sliiiightly towards the window. Yes, that's good. Could you roll your turtleneck back down? If that's okay with you, of course." Astarion adjusted his position, tilting his chin down and craning his neck to expose more of his scar. From his seat, he looked through the gaps in the shutters. It had started to snow.
The shutter clicked several times. "You're very photogenic," Volo remarked. "Have you done any modelling work?"
"Professionally? Never got the chance."
"Then consider this your debut, my friend." Volo lowered the camera and beckoned for Astarion to come over to take a look. For once, Astarion was grateful for his extremely cool tones. They made him look sombre and against the beige wall, his skin was so white it was almost grey. His dark circles were in full force. His red turtleneck splashed out from the screen like blood. He looked like a husk of a person. The perfect victim.
"This story is going to be huge. An atom bomb." Volo spread his hands as if to convey the scope of the impact he was imagining. He looked suddenly sheepish. "Is there more information?" he asked. "Is there corroborating evidence from anybody else at the House of Szarr?"
The taste of dark chocolate and raspberries filled Astarion's mouth.
If it comes to it, would you go behind their backs to get it?
Of course. Easy.
Astarion couldn't hesitate now. He had told Minthara he would have no problem turning around and stabbing those closest to him in the back. If he spread the blame thin, Cazador would also have six more targets on which to take out his rage, leaving Astarion free to sneak up on him. Without naming names, they would all be an indistinct horde, red-eyed and shambling out of the shadows towards him from all sides. Monsters of his own making.
"There is. I have everything you need. Photos. Videos. And I'll give them to you on one condition." Astarion shifted forward in his seat. He placed a hand on his knee. "Don't think about finding anyone else's names."
The order was punctuated with the snap of his fingers.
◈━◈━◈
A powdery, minerally-smelling layer of white was dusted along the sidewalk outside the Baldur's Mouth building by the time Astarion left. He needed to take a walk, the kind that lasted for five hours and would put blisters on his feet. As he crossed the street and passed the café where Gale wasn't, he reached for his coat pocket and took out his nicotine-free vape. He took a quick hit. It tasted like mint and blue raspberry and it was extremely unsatisfying.
The trees in the park square where he and Gale had walked together under his shared umbrella were now bare. Astarion didn't want to go home yet, but he didn't know where else to be. A few aimless turns later, Astarion recognized where his feet were taking him. He fought them at each crosswalk, but they continued to pull him along until they reached their subconscious destination.
The window of Highberry's Liquor looked just the same except for the tiny glimpse of Christmas lights along the frame. Astarion tried to will himself to carry on his way. If he wanted to walk, he could hike to Elturel for a coffee. If he wanted to shop, he could swing by Beehive's for a grocery run. Neither appealed and by the time Astarion came to that conclusion, he'd been standing at the storefront for so long that it would be awkward to turn away all of a sudden.
He'd pop in, pretend nothing was interesting, and head back out. This was a simple detour, nothing more.
The glass door rattled as it opened. Cora Highberry poked her head over the counter. "Good afternoon—oh! Astarion!"
"Good afternoon."
Astarion's gaze passed over the store. He moved forward towards the beer fridge, where he knew there wasn't much to tempt him. The rush of cold air both from the closing door and the fridge was almost unbearable, but Astarion felt strangely at home. The shelves were comfortably tight around him and he felt a strange thrill from being surrounded by so many breakable objects.
"We moved the baskets closer to the door, dear," Cora called.
Astarion smiled tightly. "Right. Of course."
Great. Now he had a basket.
Astarion approached the tiny shelf of mixers. He never paid them much attention before but now it would be downright weird if he didn't get anything. He dropped a pack of fancy bottled club soda into the basket. For good measure, he threw in a bottle of orange bitters. Good, now go the checkout.
He proceeded into the next aisle. Astarion inhaled. Past the floor polish and faintly woody scent of cardboard boxes and pallets, he could practically smell the liqueur, rivers of rich, golden sugar flowing through a field of spices and aromatics. To Astarion's surprise, he managed to make it to the end of the aisle without picking up one bottle. All he had to do was keep walking. Towards the checkout, dumbass.
Instead, he turned into the next aisle. Again. Shelves of wine bottles flanked him on either side, red and white and Astarion knew backing out wouldn't be as easy. He stayed laser focused on the whites, trying to think about notes of lemon, thyme, elderflower, and sunshine, all unsuited for this time of year.
It wasn't like he'd quit altogether. He was tapering down to two glasses of wine a day, one if he was doing a very good job. But the holidays were for indulgence and for all the trouble he just went through and was sure to follow, he deserved a treat. He would get a more expensive bottle (not cheap alcoholic fodder). He would split it with Gale.
Astarion knelt down and pulled out a 10-year vintage port and finally approached the checkout. (Finally! You're useless, you know that?) Tiny bottles of spirits led up to the counter. Astarion grabbed a bottle of spiced rum the size of his finger. Gale liked to bake. Maybe he'd know what to do with it.
At the checkout, Astarion stared at the paper bags behind Cora. He hadn't brought his own and a paper bag would be a dead giveaway. He could carry the club sodas in his hand and the rum in his pocket and—
"Sorry, Astarion, could you try again? I don't think your card is working."
Astarion blinked and tapped his card against the reader again. He heard the error message before he saw it. Roger looked over Cora's shoulder. "It looks like insufficient funds."
"Insufficient funds?" Astarion scrunched his brow, trying to recall any major recent purchases. He must have spent most of his last pay check on rent. "Get rid of the bitters, then."
The transaction went through.
◈━◈━◈
The snow continued to fall for the next few days, blanketing the whole city. There would be no D&D sessions until next year, so Astarion spent his nights at his vanity while Gale was in the living room, marking final assignments and preparing his syllabus for the next term. Occasionally, he could hear Gale on the phone with his mother. From their muffled voices alternating between English and Greek and Greeklish, Astarion knew Morena was borrowing Tara, she was going to enlist Gale's help for Christmas preparations, and she couldn't wait to meet him.
Astarion lined up the bottles of materials he needed and retrieved his scale. Perfumer's alcohol, Iso E Super, hedione, galaxolide, and methyl ionone gamma cœur, all in equal measure. He placed a beaker on the scale and fumbled for a pipette.
He'd never had to go through the whole meeting-the-parents ordeal before, but the bitterness curdling in his stomach went beyond first-time jitters. Morena wouldn't want to meet him if she knew who he really was. Astarion wasn't a Nobel Prize runner-up. He had nothing to give her only son besides new burdens. He stabbed people in the back all the time and enjoyed it, usually. He wasn't as proud of drinking the spiced rum and stashing the port in his closet, where he snuck sips from the bottle. He never ended up sharing.
He could still taste it: sugarplums, dark chocolate, and deep, deep guilt. Astarion wished he had a full glass beside him as he worked to reinvent Gale's perfume. He had to get rid of the roses, which meant starting from scratch while Bob Dylan and Kate Bush crooned in his ears once again. He wet his lips, filled his mouth with saliva, and swallowed: he also had to get rid of any lingering alcohol on his breath.
A gentle knock landed on the door. Gale entered as Astarion removed an earbud. Gale was carrying a steaming mug of herbal tea, introducing discordant notes of mint and peppery basil to the composition.
"It's unbelievable," Gale started. "I keep trying to tell my mother that she doesn't have to host the holidays at her place every year and yet she insists. I keep trying to impress upon her that age comes for us all and she needs to take a break, but I suppose it's nice not to be reminded." He paused to inhale the velvety, softly woody air in the room. His eyes were fond, which made Astarion want to recoil. "Something smells interesting. What are you making?"
Astarion swirled his flask. "The Grojsman accord," he replied. "It's a beginner's base. It's in almost everything." The corners of his mouth twitched. "Also known as the 'hug me' accord."
Gale chuckled. "Is that your way of asking for a hug?"
Astarion relented. Gale set his mug aside and wrapped his arms around Astarion, resting his chin on his head. His breath warmed Astarion's scalp. Astarion caught a glimpse of them in the mirror, Gale, healthy, alive, and none the wiser. Himself, a sallow and pale corpse. Along his back, Astarion felt the beat of Gale's heart and the rise and fall of his chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady and Astarion cursed himself for being the reason his heart rate was going to shoot up in a few minutes. He could spare Gale the knowledge, of course. He could also be called a liar and a fake, which was nothing new. But Gale deserved better.
Astarion glanced away from their reflections in the mirror. He wished he could turn far enough away to look out the window instead, where the streetlights on the snow bathed the world in an eerie glow. In a voice barely louder than a whisper, he said, "I think I've relapsed."
Gale lingered. His hands slid up Astarion's chest and stayed there. His face shifted against the back of Astarion's head. Astarion braced himself for a litany of questions. Why? When did it happen? What are you drinking? Gale asked, "What do you want to do about it?"
"But it's a good thing."
Gale was stunned into silence. He broke away. Astarion seized the chance to explain himself, even though it felt like his brain was trying to slot mismatched puzzle pieces together as quickly as possible. "I concentrate better when I drink. It keeps me calm. I make my best work when I'm just a little bit tipsy. Fewer doubts and inhibitions and all."
Astarion dared to look back in the mirror. Gale was frozen in disbelief, as he predicted. Predictability was nice. He watched Gale's jaw flex and tighten. "Astarion, are you even hearing yourself?" Gale shook his head. "God, what extraordinary leaps in logic. There's no possible way you can justify all of this," he gestured wildly, "as a good thing."
Astarion grit his teeth. "Alright, so I don't have a reason. Not a good one, anyway. It just happened and I really wish it didn't," he snapped. He withdrew, crossing his arms and leaning over the vanity. "If you're expecting the best from me, forget it. I can't stand it. I can't be the person you want to see in me."
"I—"
"I'm not Mystra," Astarion said. It was a point he'd made before. It rang true then and it rang true now. "I'm not going to excel alongside you or outdo you in being good or responsible or whatever. Go ahead. Be disappointed. Be angry." His voice cracked and self-loathing flooded his throat. "You should be."
Gale's features twisted. "I am disappointed. And somewhat angry." He exhaled sharply through his nose, but inhaled slowly. He kept his distance. "But you can admit to your mistakes. That's more than Mystra ever did. In fact," he reached over and picked his mug back up, "that's what I came in here to bother you about in the first place."
"And not your mother growing old?" Astarion bit back.
"I have a lot to talk about, grim subject matter or no. It's something my mother and I have in common." Gale lowered himself to sit cross-legged on the futon. He cradled the mug in the palm of his hand. "She was all too happy to help me find a reason to oust Mystra from her position."
"See, I knew I liked her."
Gale broke into a smile. Astarion found himself mirroring it, as torn as he felt on the inside. He let Gale continue. "We scoured past messages, articles, and posts. Predatory behaviour tends to be a pattern after all, and it's likely that she either participated in that pattern before me or continued it after."
"And what did you find?"
"Nothing."
They stared at each other. Gale took a sip of tea. Astarion stretched his legs out and tsk'ed. Mystra was smarter than Cazador, no doubt, but Gale's thoroughness would have exhumed any trails she left behind, no matter how deeply they were buried. "That sucks."
"It certainly does."
"But what the hell does that mean?"
"It seems I was her only victim. I find it hard to believe, but there's literally nothing to suggest otherwise," Gale said. "On one hand, I'm grateful that no one else has had to suffer her demands. On the other, it's...lonely. There's nobody with whom I can commiserate." He flinched. "And I feel selfish for saying it."
"It makes sense, though," Astarion argued.
"I'm aware. Doesn't make it feel any better."
They fell back into silence. The smells of the base and tea had meshed together so jarringly that Astarion knew he would have to start all over again. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I don't know." Gale turned the mug around in his hands. The steam was long gone. "I reckon I feel as lost as you do right now."
Astarion let out a laugh. "God, we're a miserable pair, aren't we?" He got up to join Gale on the mattress. "And to think we were riding high just the other day. What do you know? Nothing is forever."
Gale held up a finger. "You'd do well to remember that, dear." He slid closer to Astarion's side. Their shoulders brushed. Astarion could now see through the window and the white, ethereal glow smothering the roofs outside. Astarion shot him a wry grin.
"Just promise to keep being mad when I slip up. Mad, I can handle. Don't you dare take pity if I relapse again."
The snow continued falling. Gale smiled back faintly.
"If."
Notes:
The tressym's out of the bag. There's no going back now.
If you want to learn more about the Grojsman accord which is super cool, thank you very much, I've enjoyed this intro.
I also keep going on about Christmas so without too many other spoilers, it's going to be Christmas next chapter and thank Ao because we all need feel-good fluff with Morena and Tara and the extended Dekarios clan. Stay tuned for My Big Fat Greek Christmas?
Update (5/22/25): I have a packed weekend so next chapter will be delayed by a week. Thanks for waiting!
Perfume inspo: Né il Giorno Né L’Ora by Filippo Sorcinelli
"Yet the existence of fear always requires something else: not lack of courage, but the presence of what we most desire. What remains most men’s highest aspiration is also a harbinger of trouble: freedom.
The perfume conveys the idea of destruction, the choice to be silent, and the introspection needed to delve into the depths of the skin’s most remote existence.”
Much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 22: Oakmoss
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied alcoholism
- Implied disordered eating
- Suicidal thoughtsThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Morena Dekarios's house was two storeys tall. Not a mansion, but not a shoebox either. Icicles descended from the roof, hanging above the bare shrubs leading up to the front door. Astarion sat in Gale's Prius, trying to see through the frosty passenger side window.
"You're sure she's not going to hate me."
Gale snorted. "She's thrilled that you're only a little older."
Astarion turned away from the window. "Yeah, but does she know...?"
Gale exhaled through his nose. The lines on his forehead grew more pronounced as he touched the end of his purple scarf.
"Your conditions are between you and whomever you choose to tell. I haven't said anything."
Astarion peered beyond the windshield. Along the edges of his peripherals, evergreens were bending under the weight of snow. The sidewalks were covered in six inches of white. Astarion breathed into his open palms and rubbed them together.
"Thank you. Now, can we go inside? I'm about to freeze to death."
If the inside of the Prius was cold, the street outside was arctic. Astarion could feel his teeth start to chatter embarrassingly quickly during the half minute it took him and Gale to walk up the steps to the door. Before Gale rung the doorbell, Astarion smoothed his coat down and brushed his hair back, hoping his curls would stay in place. The tone echoed throughout the inside of the house. A few seconds later, the front door opened.
The woman standing in the doorway was tinier than Astarion expected and frankly, Astarion had expected her to be vast. On the phone, she had the presence of someone who took up much more space than she did in real life. Then she gave them a warm grin and Astarion felt like he could stop shivering for more than one second.
Gale beamed back. "Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas!" Morena threw her arms around Gale as he drew her into a hug. Gale was by no means a tall man, but his mother only came up to his chin. She rubbed small circles into his shoulder, then tried to take a step back. "Okay, okay, move." She smacked Gale lightly on the arm and he let go so she could focus her attention on Astarion.
Even though he was trying not to make an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, Astarion felt Morena rove over the edges of his face. He never felt self-conscious about his appearance, but he could tell she was inspecting each feature for tells about his character. Dangerous eyes. Sharp cheekbones. Eyebrows that sloped towards a pointed nose. A crooked curve to the corners of his lips. One fleeting look would tell her he was not to be trusted.
She took it all in.
Then she hugged him.
Astarion froze. His breath went shallow or disappeared altogether, he couldn't tell which. He slowly brought his arms around Morena loosely. He glanced back at Gale to silently ask, is this normal? or stiff face muscles failing him, help. Gale went similarly still, but a smile was growing across his face.
Once the front door was closed and they took their snow-crusted shoes off, Tara came trotting out to greet them, tail raised high and headbutting their legs. She continued to follow them as they moved towards the kitchen. Astarion paused.
Nutmeg.
He stood in place as Gale and Morena went ahead. He had grown so accustomed to the smell of Gale's flat that it simply didn't register anymore but he could smell it here in full force. Astarion inhaled again. Where the nutmeg in Gale's house was lightly earthy and woody, the nutmeg here was amplified, transformed, by butter and vanilla and cinnamon, making it even sweeter and all the more thrilling.
He snuck a peek into the kitchen. Gale was trying to help Morena carry out a tray of coffee into the living room. She shooed him away, placing it on the table between the couches. Two small plates of cookies sat on the tray next to the small pot of coffee, one drizzled with nuts and honey and the other dusted generously with icing sugar.
"Sit, sit." Morena waved a hand at Gale and Astarion. "Coffee?"
"Yes, please," Astarion replied. Morena passed him a tiny white cup on a saucer and the thin layer of chocolate-brown foam floating on the surface parted to reveal black coffee. Astarion lifted the cup closer to his nose and, detecting no sweetness, took a cautious sip. He coughed.
"I know it's strong," Morena said.
"Not at all." Astarion sniffed the coffee again. It smelled like smoky, nutty dark chocolate, and he started to understand where Gale's preference for dark roasts came from. He grabbed a cookie and tucked it under the cup handle. "Thank you. This would be sublime with amaretto."
Morena considered it. "We don't have that but we have wine, beer...Gale? Πού είναι τη τσίπουρο;"
Gale dusted crumbs off his fingers. "It should be in the cabinet with all the rest, I think."
"You think? Go check."
"Mum, first you want me to sit down and then—"
"Now." Gale scrambled off the couch with his cup and Morena craned her neck as she called after him. "Αλλά mη του το δώσεις. Δεν μπορεί να το χειριστεί. And get started on the sides. They're not going to make themselves."
Clattering came from the kitchen. Astarion gestured towards the sound. "Should I help?"
"Absolutely not."
Morena settled against the couch and dropped a sugar cube into her cup. Astarion knew she would have been glamorous in her younger days. Shoulder pads taller than God, weapon-like jewelry, and thick, voluminous hair stiff enough to poke an eye out. She would have worn chypres or brash florals with spice and an eons-long amber base. She was also likely responsible for ninety percent of Gale's good looks.
Astarion felt her gaze land on him again, unflinching now that they had the luxury of time. He decided to look at the multi-coloured geometric patterned rug under his feet, then at the mantle, where he was met with the holy icon of a saint on horseback stabbing a dragon. Blood poured from the dragon's mouth. Delightful.
"So, Morena," he began. "You've been busy. Putting together this whole celebration, herding your family into one place for the holidays, and somehow finding the time to dig up dirt on your ex-daughter-in-law."
Morena didn't look the least bit offended as she stirred her coffee with a tiny spoon. "The final hearing is coming soon. I want him to reach a fair agreement."
"Gale said you never got along with Mystra."
"No, we didn't." Morena tapped her spoon against her cup to dry it off. "She's a smart girl. Very accomplished and beautiful. And," she admitted, "she gave me ten years of bragging rights." She took a long drink of her coffee, not stopping until she had drained most of it. She gave a satisfied sigh. "But I think she got too used to too many people treating her like she was better than everyone else. It went straight to her head."
Astarion tsk'ed. "Burdened by glorious purpose, I'm sure."
"I'm more than sure," Morena said. "She was always gracious, always said 'thank you', but I got the sense that she secretly felt like she was owed something. And unlike you, she never offered to help around the house."
"Morena, my dear, don't accept crumbs and try to convince yourself it's a full meal." Before Morena could refuse, Astarion reached over to top up her cup. He kept his voice hushed as he poured, watching the light trail of steam rise from the pot. "Did Gale tell you he wants to apply for dean again?"
"Of course he did. I said it was a bad idea."
"Why?" Astarion set the pot back down on the tray, a little harder than he meant to. "Don't you think he deserves it?"
"I think he deserves to be happy. And he would be happy as dean at first. Then he would think to himself that he'd be happier as provost. Then vice president. Then president."
"But that's the corporate ladder. The natural progression of things. Wouldn't you be proud of him?"
"I would," Morena agreed, "if he was doing it for the right reasons. Gale doesn't want to be dean because he wants to lead, he's doing it because he's angry. He wants to get even."
"He's a good leader," Astarion insisted.
Morena cradled her cup of coffee. "All he's ever wanted is to spend his life doing the one thing he loves. Chemistry. He has no better purpose than passing on everything he knows. Teaching gives him that. Being dean would take him further away from it."
For a moment, they sat at an impasse.
You too, then. You're holding him back.
You claim to know him better than me, his mother?
Astarion returned to his coffee. Loose grounds swam throughout his drink and he didn't know whether he was supposed to drink them or if there was an art to keeping them at the bottom. He clamped his teeth along the edge, filtering them out as he swallowed. He licked across his teeth, searching for any grittiness.
Then he said, "It's up to him at the end of the day. He has to be able to choose."
Morena placed her cup down on the table and folded her hands in her lap. She blinked. Once. Twice. "Yes. You're right," she said. "Forgive me for being forward. Gale's had questionable choices in romantic partners, as I'm sure you know." She crossed her legs. "What about you? What do you do?"
Astarion peered down into his cup, wondering whether he could divine an answer from the coffee grounds. The icing sugar-dusted cookie glanced up at him from the saucer, uneaten.
I'm a perfumer. I've been working for over a decade. I'm definitely not a broke alcoholic with murder on the mind.
"I'm a perfumer with the House of Szarr," he replied.
Morena's mild expression remained unchanged. She knew this. "Do you like your work?" she asked.
Astarion shrugged. "Things could be better."
"Like what?"
Astarion bit back the urge to bark out a laugh. The stories he could tell would scar her for life, not to mention the rest of Christmas. "I'd like to do the same thing...somewhere else," he said, conveniently skirting around what he would need to do in order for that to happen. "Under new management. With more creative freedom."
Morena tilted her head. "What about your own business?"
"Hm. Gale told you about that." She was going to be disappointed that he hadn't made much progress. To be fair, Astarion had tried to lower his expectations. He didn't expect to become an overnight sensation, even with the boost from Firellia. But after that blip of exposure, the comments and tags gradually faded. Keeping up with his frankly unimpressive Instagram account felt insignificant in the face of everything that had happened recently. Besides, it's not a business, he thought, "It's a backup plan."
"Still, it's smart," Morena remarked. "It was also smart—and kind—of you to bring in your mother as Gale's new attorney. I never liked that Raphael anyway." She tilted her head. "Ancunín." She seemed to roll the name around in her mouth, catching the last syllable between her teeth. "Russian? Finnish?"
"Belarusian, from my dad's side."
Morena made an intrigued sound. "Well, Astarion? What other questions do you have?"
Astarion took a tiny bite of the cookie sitting on the saucer. It was crumbly and buttery and tasted like almonds and anxiety, which he wiped away along with the icing sugar on his mouth. "I've always wanted to know why you named him 'Gale'. Was he conceived on a particularly windy day?"
"His full name is Galenos. Galini, if he was born a girl."
Astarion nearly choked. "Hold on."
Morena stared. "He never told you?"
Astarion shook his head, eyes wide. Morena muttered something under her breath and poured herself a third cup of coffee. At the same time, Gale came back out into the living room. Flour streaked his jeans. Astarion twisted around with a smirk.
"Nice of you to join us, Galenos Dekarios."
A look of mortified horror crossed Gale's face and they burst out laughing.
Despite Morena's protests, Astarion insisted on making himself useful. Not because he really felt like it, but it was a good way to kill two birds with one stone: to outdo Mystra at just one thing and to stave off the boredom of waiting several hours for the guests to trickle in. While Gale and Morena cooked, he cleaned. He managed to put up more decorations and tidy up each room on the ground floor even further to Morena's great approval ("Look at how neatly he folded the towels. Why can't you do that when you come over?"). To Astarion's relief, lunch was only a light bowl of soup before getting back to work.
The doorbell rang again at 5 pm. Group by group, the Dekarios clan entered through the front door. Gale had more cousins than Astarion had fingers on both hands and the house quickly filled up with laughter and dozens of hugs, which was more affection than Astarion had seen between any of his family members. While he gawked at Gale's relatives, they regarded him curiously back. He felt like a waterlogged white swan among colourful, fluttering birds as Gale herded him around and fielded questions.
"I didn't know you were gay."
Gale placed a hand on Astarion's back. "I'm pansexual, and so is he."
"How did you two meet?"
Gale gently touched Astarion's elbow, prompting him to step aside as two children zigzagged past. "At Elturel Roasters, the coffee shop."
"I pick up orders for my boss," Astarion added quickly.
"Does he know you're divorced?"
There were few winces and disappointed looks. Astarion felt all eyes fall onto him. He stepped closer to Gale, shoulder to shoulder, and spoke up.
"I do. It doesn't matter to me."
Gale's shoulder relaxed against his. A tray of shot glasses came by and everyone took one. Astarion hung back. His fingers twitched.
He heard a whisper in his ear. "You don't have to."
Colourless cloudy liquid sloshed around in the glasses. Astarion took one and lifted it to his nose. Alcohol seared his nostrils, along with anise and faint notes of vanilla, earthy grapes, and fir. Somehow, the need to come up with excuses for not drinking had escaped his notice completely. I don't like the taste. (Lies.) Not feeling it tonight. (Lies.) It doesn't mix with my meds. (He didn't take meds.)
He held it out to Gale. "What is it?" he asked.
"That's τσίπουρο."
"Un-aged brandy," Gale explained.
Astarion swirled the glass. "Tsipoura."
"No, that's a fish."
He tried again. "Tsipouro," he said. "And only one drink tonight, alright? I don’t like the part after you drink when you wake up in the woods covered in blood.”
Laughter echoed around the small circle that had formed in the corner of the living room. Glasses chimed as people toasted.
"Γειά μας." Gale clinked his glass against Astarion's. "To your health."
Astarion took a shot. Everyone around him cheered, but his eyes were only on Gale, trying to parse a reaction. He couldn't get a read, but at least he didn't seem disappointed. A hand heavier than Gale's came down on his shoulder and he shuddered.
"So when's the wedding?"
Gale groaned. "Not again."
"Next year," Astarion cut in. He clung to Gale's arm. For the first time in ages, he was starting to feel lightheaded. "The proposal was awkward—that's Gale for you—but we're going to be married in a hawthorn grove on a cliffside at dusk. You're all invited, of course."
Someone had started playing Mariah Carey and the circle began to drift away. With a squeeze of Astarion's hand, Gale retreated. While the older adults sat drinking at the dining table, the younger cousins were gathered around the couches. Some were putting an old Xbox console to use. The others chatted or scrolled on their phones. Astarion made an effort to mingle, but lost track by the third or fourth Yiannis, Elena, or Theodoros. He wandered into the kitchen.
The smells of roasted meat and cooked starches clouded the air. Morena was stirring something bubbling away in a pot with a glass of wine in hand. With his back to her, Gale was shredding a head of cabbage on a wooden cutting board.
"Astarion? A hand?" Gale pushed two carafes of olive oil and vinegar his way, then a measuring cup. "Half a cup, three parts oil to one part vinegar."
"On it."
Astarion measured out the condiments, silently counting each glug that went into the cup. From behind, he sensed Morena's eyes locking onto him again. He reached for the shakers and added a dash of salt.
The doorbell rang. Morena dried her hands on a dish towel and rushed out to the entrance. Gale looked up.
"Here comes Mr. Jergal."
Hobbling out of the doorway at a snail's pace was an old man, older than Elminster and wrinklier than a prune. He slowly crossed the room to make his way to the armchair, where Tara bounded onto the floor and into the kitchen. Before long, Mr. Jergal bowed his head as the conversation continued all around him. Astarion turned back to Gale.
"I can't wait to be old enough to nod off in the corner during a party and for no one to give a shit."
"I didn't think I'd make it to thirty-five. I'll take anything I can get." Gale took a closer look. "And I don't think he's asleep."
Gale checked on the oven, which was loaded with at least three dishes, then checked his phone. Tara was drinking from her water bowl. Astarion dumped the olive oil dressing over the cabbage and sighed.
"I'm bored. Can you give me a tour of the place?"
Gale folded his arms. "You spent the past few hours cleaning."
"The ground floor. I haven't been to your room."
"It's upstairs. Do you want to see it?"
"Uh. Duh."
They backed away slowly and climbed to the second floor. Gale's bedroom was the closest one to the stairwell. When he flicked the light switch, the bulb hanging from the ceiling glowed a faint yellow. A single bed was pushed up against the farthest wall. Stacks of books sat balanced on a desk in front of the window. Astarion walked over and drew the curtains closed.
"Cozy little place. Who have you smuggled in here?" he asked.
Gale shut the door, then sat on the edge of the bed. "Mystra's been here a few times. We mostly spent our time going through my old textbooks, though."
"Your mom's right. You do have a questionable taste in significant others."
Astarion fell back onto the mattress. Gale followed. The wall next to the bed was covered in postcard-style NASA posters and a large periodic table. Glow-in-the-dark stars were stuck near the ceiling. The adhesive was peeling off.
The bed was too small for two people and Astarion's heels were hanging off the foot of the bed. He bent his knees and planted his feet against the sheets. They lay there.
Muffled music and laughter came from downstairs. Astarion rested his head against Gale's shoulder, shifting until he found it. That heartbeat. Sometimes, when Gale stayed over and was sound asleep, Astarion ended up with his ear pressed against Gale's chest in the dark and listened, like it was the only thing he was living for.
Gale gestured towards the lightbulb. "I would lie awake at night until one or two in the morning. I was too busy imagining all the things I could do—who I could become—to fall asleep." He looked wistful. "I had so much optimism," he said. "I wonder where it all went."
Astarion mumbled into Gale's shirt. "Why do I get the feeling you're the type to get all mopey and sad around the new year?"
"Guilty as charged."
Astarion lifted his arm behind his head, or as well as he could while squashed against the wall. "Was there really no one? No high school sweethearts?"
"There was the occasional crush. I didn't act on anything, though." Gale continued to look up. "Maybe it was for the best. My peers were perfectly good, normal people, but I didn't click with any of them."
Astarion grimaced. No college nights out at a house party. No awkward dates or dances. No secret makeout sessions or sneaking into a bedroom for a mutually inexperienced first time. "You missed out," he said.
"I'm aware." Astarion felt the scratch of stubble against his cheek. "It looks like I have some catching up to do."
Gale's mouth was on his. It was a soft, gentle brush of warm, dry lips against cool, smooth ones. Gale was arched upward, Astarion angled downward. There was some shuffling until they were nose to nose.
Astarion wiggled down further on the bed until he found his thigh positioned between Gale's legs. Using his feet to gain leverage, Gale lifted his hips, creating friction where he needed it most. He wrapped one leg around Astarion's waist and used the other to nudge the leg closest to the edge of the bed. Gale's heels locked and pulled their bodies closer. He reached for the fly on Astarion's pants and Astarion swatted his hand away.
"Ah-ah. We're doing this the right way. Frustrated and with clothes on."
Gale grit his teeth but obliged, lifting his arms out of the way. Astarion pinned Gale's wrists above his head and nipped at his lower lip, chastising him for the misstep, then returned to kissing in short, chaste bursts. He wasn't touching anything else, but he felt himself grow achingly hard at the chance to show Gale what he'd been missing, even if it was coming twenty years late. Astarion rolled his hips and was pleased to find that even through his jeans, Gale was even harder.
Under him, Gale shifted again, pressing the lengths of their cocks together from tip to base. Astarion placed his hand on Gale's lower back, gently encouraging him to grind. They rutted against one another in an easy rhythm, dragging out the pleasure as they pushed one another closer, breathing in the same panted air. Astarion chuckled quietly before dipping his head to graze the side of Gale's neck with his teeth. He missed being a tease. He thought about undoing his belt and pushing down his waistband to expose the tip of his cock, which was leaking on the inside of his briefs.
Gale's hands came around his waist and slid down the cleft of his ass through his pants. Astarion arched his back, stifling a soft moan against Gale's shirt. If only Gale had a bottle of lube hiding somewhere. Astarion pictured Gale hooking his thumbs along his belt loops, then using those same thumbs to expose his hole to the room. As he continued to rock, he imagined the drizzle of cool lube and the warm press of the head of Gale's cock stretching him wide.
Astarion leaned forward and Gale caught his lips in a kiss. One of Gale's hands slid from Astarion's waist down to the curve of his ass, a single finger pressing against the seam of his pants. Right over his hole.
There was a knock on the door. Astarion and Gale tore apart.
"Gale," Morena's voice came from the other side. "You can't just leave in the middle of cooking. Get back to the kitchen and make sure everyone's served."
Even though she couldn't hear him, Gale nodded wordlessly, completely still with embarrassment. Astarion simply grinned and hugged him closer.
When they went downstairs, there was more food laid out than Astarion had seen in a long time, even at the Wyrm's Rock gala. Each place was set with a large plate, cutlery, and a wine glass. The table was loaded with roast lamb, lemon potatoes, chestnut stuffing, that particular coleslaw, salads, and pies. Astarion took a seat, with Gale to his left and Mr. Jergal to his right. Astarion decided to wait until everyone else had their fill, then helped himself to a serving of each the size of a shot glass.
"You're eating too little, that's why you're so skinny. Have some more."
Morena pulled several dishes toward him. With resignation, Astarion heaped another spoonful of stuffing and a few more morsels of lamb onto his plate. When he looked up, his wine glass had been filled.
He'd already had one shot. Only one tonight, he'd said. Still, it wasn't like a single glass of wine was going to break him. It was the dose that made the poison and it wasn't like he'd stopped drinking completely. He heard the guests around him chatter and thank Morena. Were they going to think he couldn't hold his liquor? He'd always been the life of the party and now he was going to look boring and dull.
Gale sensed the dilemma roiling inside him. "I'll take it for you," he said.
Astarion sighed. "Your heart."
"My heart can take a little excess for one night."
"Darling, I don't need you doubled over."
"Then you should refuse." Mr. Jergal scooted his chair closer to the table. Astarion turned and held his tongue, barely. It wasn't that easy, it would never be that easy, and it was none of the decrepit old fossil's business, anyway.
Astarion forced a tight, cool smile. "A bit too late for that now, don't you think?" he asked.
"There are many here who would bear this...burden...for you," said Mr. Jergal. "You only need ask." He ducked his bald, wrinkled head and went back to smushing the potatoes on his plate with the back of his fork.
Astarion faced the rest of the table again. He held up his glass. "I've got free wine up for grabs."
A random hand darted out and snatched it up. Gale returned with water in time for the dinner toast.
With that peace of mind, Astarion tucked into his meal. He polished off the coleslaw first. It had too much vinegar for his liking, so he washed it down with a forkful of chestnut stuffing. It was decadent, but nowhere near as meltingly tender as the potatoes. He slowly maneuvered his way around the plate until he reached the main entrée and took a bite. The lamb fat crackled and the browned garlic lent a rich sweetness to the salty crust. The meat was gloriously juicy, crispy on the outside and falling apart. A small but very indecent noise escaped him and he pressed his fingers to his lips in shock.
Across the table, Morena winked.
The night passed by in a sober but warm haze. At one point, tables and chairs were moved aside to let people dance and 70s and 80s hits play. Astarion remembered what happened the last time he danced and decided to integrate himself into a game of Cheat with three uncles. He quickly swept the table clean of his deck of cards, only being humbled when Gale sat down to beat him at cribbage.
The guests began to filter out by 11 pm. Astarion felt like at least one of his ribs had been cracked by aunts who smothered him with amber- and orris-scented hugs on the way out. Gale's cousins gave him sly, knowing looks as they put on their puffer jackets and scarves.
"You're a lot more fun than Mystra."
"And a lot hotter."
"Ahem." Gale was holding the door open. Cold winter air blasted through the entrance as the last visitors were ushered outside. Mr. Jergal was the last to leave. He stooped down to retrieve his shoes and pulled his long coat around himself.
"Can we send you off with anything, Mr. Jergal?" Gale asked.
"No." Mr. Jergal hobbled forward, but stopped to turn towards Astarion. His dark, bottomless eyes bored into him and an indescribable shiver went down Astarion's spine. "We have met, and I know your face."
With that, the old man descended the front step. Astarion raised an eyebrow at Gale.
"What's his deal?"
Gale shut the door. "I won't lie, he's a bit odd, even by my standards. But nice enough."
They found Morena seated at the dining table. Tara had come out of her hiding place and was lazing on the rug. Gale lowered himself into the chair next to her.
"I'd call that a success, don't you think?"
Morena plucked a honey and nut cookie from the mostly cleared plates. She bit into it then muttered, "If I smoked, I would be having two cigarettes right now. At the same time."
Astarion pulled out the other chair next to her. "The nearest corner store has to be open. I'll get a pack for you."
"Astarion!" Gale admonished, but his mother was laughing.
They left half an hour later, loaded with leftovers and Tara, who was too worn out after the festivities to make a fuss about being wrangled into her carrier. Gale embraced Morena one more time and Astarion accepted another hug from her, with more grace this time.
"Thank you for having me around, dear." Astarion let her go with a light pat on the arm. "I would extend an invitation to my place, but it's a sad little hole compared to your resplendent residence."
Morena snorted. "I doubt that somehow, but you're welcome here any time, αγόρι μου."
They started the snowy trek to the car. Astarion's shoes were already caked in frost and he didn't care. The street was glowing at night, eerie and soft. He was glowing, inside and out, and he didn't care who knew it. He swung his hand out. Gale caught it and while they walked, Astarion caught his gaze.
"I didn't get that bit at the end. What did she say?"
"Αγόρι μου." Gale's breath was a short, soft wisp. "My boy."
◈━◈━◈
Astarion stood on the front step of the courthouse. He'd been inside as a younger man, a legal assistant for a seasoned lawyer embroiled in a criminal trial, and many times before that waiting for his mother to wrap up her day spent working on a domestic dispute or divorce. From Astarion's view on the outside, the upholstery and furniture had changed since then, but the procedure would be the same.
On one side, Mystra Manx and whatever shiny suit she managed to dredge up from the bar association directory.
On the other, Gale Dekarios and Anastasia Ancunín.
The judge would be sitting at the bench at the front of the room, listening to each testimony.
(There has been a breakdown of the marriage relationship such that the objects of matrimony have been destroyed and there remains no reasonable likelihood that the marriage can be preserved.)
(I do not believe there is any possibility of reconciliation.)
(I ask that our property be divided as set out in the decree I have presented to the Court. I believe this division is fair to both me and my spouse.)
(I have read all of the terms of the proposed judgment, and I agree with them.)
(I ask that this Court grant an absolute Judgment of Divorce.)
Astarion reached for his phone. His fingers flew across the keyboard.
He pocketed his phone again, shoved his hands into his pockets, and waited.
Gale finally came out of the courthouse at half past ten. He looked like he'd aged five years. His dress shirt under his coat was wrinkled, his beard was untrimmed, and he had faint dark circles under his eyes. Mystra was nowhere to be seen.
Still, he managed to lighten up when he noticed Astarion in the doorway. Gale gave Astarion a peck on the lips and he returned Gale's kiss with fervour. Gale's scent had faded and the notes that lingered reminded Astarion of the incense-soaked walls of an old cathedral, every surface darkened by resinous smoke. When he pulled away, Gale's expression was searching.
"Your mother's still inside. Why don't you talk to her?" he asked.
"We have more to catch up on than can be covered in a five-minute chat."
"Five minutes could be all you need. She's lovely. I see where you got your sharp tongue."
"Leave it, darling. Please." Astarion searched the road, hoping Karlach's pickup truck would arrive within the next minute.
Instead, he heard the clack of heels behind them. Heels, even when it was icy out. Of course.
Astarion's mother had always looked tired. But there was a new depth to her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Her blonde curls had turned white, making the two of them look even more strikingly similar. Her lipstick stood out against her face, red on white. She now wore pearls, not diamonds, in her ears. The smell of her perfume clung to her and Astarion's throat tightened. Dark plums and honey squeezed over tuberose and burning incense, muted by the cold but still deadly enough to kill the wearer or the onlooker. Exactly as he remembered.
"I won't be able to repay you for this. Thank you again, Mrs. Ancunín," Gale said.
His mother turned around. Her soles were black, not red. She was being humble.
"Ana," she said. "Ana's fine. I hope to work with you again the next time you need anything."
Astarion looked away, wishing someone would brick him up into the nearest wall. He had never been more aware of the eyes on him. They were waiting. Expecting.
A polite honk—as polite as a honk could be—sounded from the street. The large red pickup truck and its driver were unmistakeable.
Astarion fled.
He heard Gale begin to call out but hold himself back. Astarion walked faster. He needed to go before a few words changed everything. It was easier to see things in black and white, right or wrong (and he'd been the wronged one, over and over again). If she had an apology, she could stuff it. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to hear any of it. He didn't have it in him to stomach forgiveness.
Astarion wasted no time climbing into the shotgun seat next to Karlach. Soon, Gale followed in the back. They drove away.
Mystra's (formerly Gale's) house was farther out than the suburbs. Determined not to meet with Mystra more times than necessary, Gale had opted to pick up the last of his things that same day. Apart from Van Halen on the speaker and Karlach singing along to the occasional chorus, the ride was silent. Flat, white fields rolled as far as the eye could see, punctuated by the sparse bare tree or silo. It had been a grey morning and noon was announced by a deepening grey: of sky, snow, faces, spirits.
The house itself was impossible to miss. Tall trees bordering a long driveway led up to a Victorian-style mansion, the roof almost buried between the branches. The truck rolled to a stop several feet from a silver Mercedes-Benz. From the side window, Astarion saw Mystra waiting on the front porch. She hadn't had time to change after court, so she was still in the long black coat he remembered her wearing the day of the Blackstaff strike. Disdain lodged itself in his skin like pinpricks.
Karlach switched off the engine and they stepped out of the truck. Gale approached the house first, flanked by Astarion and Karlach. Mystra stepped down from the porch to meet them halfway. Roses danced on ice.
Her long-lashed eyes, a striking hazel, met Gale's first. "You presented yourself well," she said.
Gale bowed his head. "As did you. Though I'm afraid most of the oratory praise should go to my attorney."
The corner of Mystra's lips twitched. Astarion couldn't tell whether she was annoyed or amused. "Your humility is unprecedented."
"I know to give others credit when it's due."
Gale clasped his hands behind his back, a sign that he was going to stay put outside. Mystra looked away from him.
"I'm glad you got here safely. Karlach, it's good to see you again. Astarion." She gave him a quick, curt nod. "Make yourselves at home."
Astarion's smile back was terse. "Don't worry. We won't be long."
They pushed ahead.
Warmth caressed Astarion's cheeks and nose, inviting him in. The interior of the home was beautiful, legitimately beautiful. Arches, columns, interior balconies, rich tones, and French windows waited for them behind the door. Tufted upholstery sat on top of weathered wood. Astarion's mind began to fill in the blanks. The loveseat was bare, like a periodic table tapestry had once been draped over the back. Tara might have enjoyed sitting on the ottoman. But that was it.
Astarion breathed in softly. The air was thick with pink roses and a few other ambrosial smells underneath: gardenia, almond blossom, and white musk. He searched for paper and wood and turned up with stale cardboard. The space was so overwhelmingly Mystra that it was as if Gale had no say in it at all.
The majority of the boxes were in the living room. Judging by the evenly distributed weight when Astarion lifted one, they were most likely books. He and Karlach began to carry them out and load them into the back of her truck, passing Gale and Mystra on the way. After the altercation at the staff tower, Astarion expected raised voices, but he could barely hear their exchange over the wind. They stood on the porch an arm's length apart, two stone statues.
Karlach noticed Astarion looking over his shoulder as they tied down the boxes. "What do you think they're talking about?" she whispered.
"Hm?" Astarion pushed a cardboard box towards the back of the truck bed. "No idea. I don't know why he bothers."
"You know what? Me neither, but I'm glad he's getting closure." Karlach's face was flushed from the cold and physical exertion. She patted the box closest to Astarion. "C'mon. We've got one more thing to grab."
Karlach led Astarion up the stairs and twisted the knob of the door at the end of the left corridor. In the centre of the room was a small digital piano in front of the window, its cord bound up on the floor. The shelves lining the walls were bare, stripped of their books. This was Gale's home office once upon a time. A safe haven tucked away from the rest of the world.
Karlach whistled as she tapped her finger against an empty shelf. "I'm surprised she kept his stuff," she said. "The first thing I want to do after a breakup is throw my ex's shit out onto the sidewalk. It's kind of nice of her."
"Isn't it?" Astarion sneered, ending the sentence with a sharp, sardonic bite. He approached the piano and pressed down on one of the ivory keys. There was no weight to it. Which note it was meant for, he didn't know. He didn't play any instruments. Gale did, though, and he was a man of taste. He never would have wanted a piece of plastic junk, even as his first.
Two scenarios played out. The piano had likely been a gift. Alternatively, Mystra hadn't allowed Gale to buy anything with a better sound or performance. He was actively kept from playing at his full potential.
Astarion saw it all in agonizing clarity. This wasn't just about the piano. Mystra pursued Gale because she knew she could have him. Gale was fifteen when they met; a child. He would have been enamoured with her beauty, her genius, and her standing. She would have been charmed by his youthful, naïve ambition. She wanted someone who could keep up with her but never surpass her. The second Gale was no longer satisfied with playing second fiddle, she discarded him.
Mystra wasn't Cazador. Not even close. No one was like Cazador: sadistic and plain evil enough to secure a seat next to the Devil in Hell. Mystra's fatal flaws were banal: a sense of entitlement and unchecked ego that, if Gale had followed through with all his plans, would have eventually consumed him, too. An alternate mirrored path opened up, one where everything went right for Gale while Astarion failed to find his footing. Fake smiles. Envy. Snide remarks. Resentment. Separate rooms. Loathing.
With a growl, Astarion lifted the piano off the ground. Karlach rushed over.
"Hey, hey. At least let me help you with the other side."
They carried the instrument downstairs, Astarion in the front and Karlach at the back. They went back out into the cold, past Gale and Mystra. Astarion decided to let Karlach strap the piano down with bungee cords and tried to listen in on the conversation above the tarp rustling as it was pulled over the truck bed.
Gale's hands hung by his sides, struggling not to curl in on themselves. He offered a conciliatory half-smile. "We tried our best. That's what counts."
"We started out with our best," Mystra corrected him. There was a hint of reproach in her tone. "Was it good enough for you?"
Gale shrugged, noncommittal. "You know me. When it all comes down to it, nothing ever is."
"It's a miserable way to live," Mystra said. "I pity you."
Gale stiffened. After a while, he said, "I feel sorry for you as well."
"Then you don't know me at all." A breeze picked up and Mystra wrapped her coat tighter around herself. "The divorce is done. Your strike is over. Applications are closed. You tried to search me for some scandal so egregious that it would end my career, all so you could take my place. Would you be deserving of it, then? Can you really call yourself a good man after all that?"
Gale glanced down at their footprints. All the fight in him was gone, leaving behind a cracked shell. He didn't have an answer.
Mystra stepped towards him. The wind continued to blow, but her voice was just loud enough to hear. "Look at yourself. What happened?"
"I don't know." Gale carried his head low, seemingly by instinct. He seemed so small. "I don't know."
Astarion left Karlach's side. He walked up the driveway and hooked his arm with Gale's. He kissed Gale's cheek, marking his territory. Mystra looked on. It was clear she didn't care.
"A life with no purpose is no life at all," she said. Hazel eyes darkened into umber. "I hope you find yours, whatever it is."
Astarion's teeth ground together, but his self-control surprised him. The muscles in his arm tightened, letting Gale know that it was time to go. Gale put up no resistance and with a gentle tug, he followed Astarion back to the truck. They piled into the leather seats. Karlach floored the gas and they sped off, leaving Mystra and the old house behind.
Karlach read the room well enough to leave the radio off. Astarion found himself glancing in the rearview mirror at Gale. Gale was staring out the window. Telephone lines crossed over each other, splitting the sky into pieces.
Karlach only managed to stay quiet for a few minutes. When she exploded, she cried, "Is that how she talked to you when we weren't around? That patronizing, condescending—shit!" She shook her head. "I swear, if that was happening this whole time, right under my nose, I'll never—"
Astarion raised his voice. "Hush. You didn't know." With a sullen bitterness, he added, "She kept it behind closed doors. That's what they do." He turned around and asked, "Is everything alright, darling?"
Gale nodded. Astarion forced gentleness into his smile and hoped Gale would be able to sense it. "Look on the bright side," he said. "We got the piano."
Karlach grinned. "Fuck yeah, we got the piano!"
The truck continued to rumble along the road, jolting over the occasional sheet of blackened slush and ice. The sun began to break behind them. A thin shaft of white light spilled from a crack in the clouds, throwing shadows along the highway.
"Would you look at that," Astarion murmured. "There's your divine blessing."
"I know, right?" Karlach checked over her shoulder. "Hold on, I've got to do something."
With one hand on the wheel, Karlach rolled down her window, which sent a freezing gust of air blasting into the car. She stuck her head out, hair whipping in the wind.
"Fuck you, Mystra!" she yelled.
Astarion felt the thrum of her voice in his bones before it disappeared down the highway. She threw her head back and let out a loud whoop. As her window came up, a few cars drifted out of their lane.
"God, that felt good. Your turn, Fangs."
Astarion rolled down his own window. His hair flew into his eyes and the cold sliced his cheeks, but the sun caressed the back of his neck. He leaned out and screamed.
"Fuck you, Mystra!"
The scream was swallowed up by the wind. The words were gone, but he continued screaming until his voice gave out. His lungs squeezed on the verge of collapse. When Astarion ducked his head back into the truck, his throat was raw. He lolled back and grinned.
"That's it!" Karlach laughed. "Come on, Gale. You wanna scream about it? Going once, going twice—"
Gale shook his head. Astarion said, "Gale's not quite the chaotic type. It's nice. He keeps us grounded."
Karlach leaned her elbow on the windowsill. "Keeps us fed, too. Speaking of, you're not cooking today, magic man. Sauceman Chorizo's for dinner? On me. Their hot honey pizza is unbelievable."
Astarion giggled. "Oh, I do like spicy food. I wish they did it by the slice, though. Do you think the others will join us or is this more of a private affair?"
Karlach cocked her head. "I say we get the gang together. If they can't make it, there's always next week. A new rage room opened up."
"Devil's Fee?"
"That's the one! They give you really interesting things to smash. Creepy dolls, old movie props, Halloween decorations, mirrors if you're not superstitious."
"Can you bring your own stuff?"
"God, yes. Got something to break?"
"Please. I have so many—"
"CAN YOU ALL SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR ONE SECOND."
The truck went dead silent. Karlach continued to drive. She kept her eyes fixed on the road, but they were wide and unblinking. Astarion's shoulders stiffened. Only when his chest started to hurt did he remember to breathe.
Gale whispered, "Oh, god. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have...I shouldn't..."
"Gale," Astarion said blindly. He looked back. "Gale?"
Gale didn't answer or move. Astarion noticed his nails digging into his knees. Gale brought his head slowly down between his hands, not moving, not making any sound.
A sob broke from him.
When Gale came up for air, the surface of his eyes shimmered. His teeth clamped down on his lower lip to keep from crying. A dull, tight pain clutched at Astarion's throat, but they couldn't stop on the road so he could climb into the backseat and hold onto Gale like he was the last thing keeping him alive.
They veered onto their exit. Open country gave way to rolling fields. Buildings and bridges into the city lay on the edge of the horizon, drawing closer by the minute. Gale lifted his head.
"Stop," he whispered. The truck kept moving. His voice rose. "Stop the car."
Karlach pulled the truck off the road. Sparse traffic sped by. Gale unbuckled his seatbelt and flung the side door open.
"What the hell are you doing?" Karlach yelled.
Gale climbed out of the truck, then held up the keys to his apartment. He tossed them and they hit Karlach in the shoulder. "Head home, Karlach. I'll meet you there." His voice scraped over gravel, but was otherwise perfectly calm and level.
"It's an hour's walk back home!" Karlach turned to Astarion. "Fuck," she hissed. "What the fucking fuck. Is he okay?"
"Clearly not." Astarion started to unbuckle his own seatbelt. He swallowed, throat dry. He didn't knew Gale to be reckless. Destructive, absolutely, but never at anybody else's expense. The scariest part was that Gale was stone sober. There was no easily handwaved explanation for this other than a complete break from sanity.
Gale called back. "Don't worry about unloading anything into the apartment. Help yourself to anything you want."
Karlach sounded like she was about to cry herself. "I'm not leaving."
Gale pushed himself off the car door and started walking. "You might be waiting a while," Astarion insisted.
"Then I'll wait. I'm not going anywhere."
For the first time, Astarion thought about hugging Karlach and knew how much she would have loved it, but he couldn't afford to waste time. He nodded back at her and shut the door. He began a clumsy half-run after Gale. The snow beneath him crunched and as he reached the border of the field, the trees also were cracking with the cold. The two sharp noises sounded like guns firing in the distance.
Astarion found Gale kneeling in the snow. Gale's bare hands were submerged in the snow. Astarion knew the feeling well—he was trying to physically numb himself. He moved from a crouch onto his knees. The snow seeped into his pants.
They sat there next to each other. Gale's atom earring glinted. Astarion wanted to rip it off with his teeth and throw it into the nearest snow bank, but he waited, shivering as the minutes passed. When Gale finally turned around, Astarion sucked in a sharp breath.
"Christ, darling. Your lip."
Gale's skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, the snow only adding to the effect. A deep gash ran down his chapped lower lip. He had bitten down so hard he drew blood.
Astarion lifted the back of his hand, thought about the blood staining his gloves, and took them off. Then he thought about getting blood on his skin.
After a moment, Astarion leaned forward, cupped Gale's face, hands shaking, and pressed their lips together. He tasted iron and salt. Gale let out a quiet hiss of pain as Astarion swiped his tongue across his lower lip, licking it clean. They parted.
Astarion swallowed blood and dry air. Gale inhaled, breath shuddering. Astarion noticed the left side of his upper lip lift once or twice as though he was about to snarl or cry. He offered Gale his hands. Gale noticed but kept his own hands to himself. He did, however, move closer.
"She's really rattled you, hasn't she?"
Gale nodded. Tears wet his face and froze there.
"Why? It's over."
Gale sighed, frustrated and tired. "I know," he said. "But that doesn't change the fact that she's right. I don't know what to do with myself. Not anymore." He looked down at his upturned palms resting in his lap. "I don't know what's happened to me."
"What do you mean?"
"I could have been something. I was supposed to be more than this," he said. "How am I supposed to tell everyone that Mr. Perfect became a professor?"
He said the word like it was a curse. Astarion frowned. "I don't follow."
"I don't know how to tell people about where I am now. Sometimes I feel that it's unfair that some of these people are in high places with more pay and prestige when I know that they were copying off of me during exams." He chuckled, humourless. "But at the end of the day, I'm not concerned about what anyone else thinks. I don't begrudge anyone else their success. It's me who's ashamed of me, as it were," he said. "I've never cared for being good at everything. That's an impossible task. But the things I care about, truly care about. If I can't see them through, if I can't be the best, then—"
I don't want to be at all.
This exposure drew them violently together. Astarion knew he was the closest person in the world to Gale now, and he to him. Especially now with Gale's plumes of breath puffing out, his nose and eyes gone red, and his cheeks red too, in large, irregular blotches.
Astarion exhaled through his nose. "So what? I've never been good at anything, except whining and drinking myself half to death. I'm not special either."
Gale flinched. "Don't say that."
"Kind of you to think so, but what makes you say that? What extraordinary, earth-shattering thing have I accomplished, exactly?"
Seconds swirled around them. Gale drew his bottom lip into his mouth. Licked his wound. Let go.
"This isn't about what I've accomplished." He saw the look Astarion shot him and sighed again. "Fine. Not just about what I've accomplished. I've let down the people closest to me. A better life for my students, dashed. More stability for the two of us, gone. And," he admitted, "those hopes that you'd be more impressed with me. With the divorce, we went right back to the start of it all. Sitting there in that courtroom and listening to evidence of my failure from different mouths, on repeat, reopened the wound."
Astarion saw the wound, too. It sat in the centre of Gale's chest, raw, bloody, and wide open. His heart, beating its irregular, jagged rhythm, was exposed. They watched the wide, empty field. The cold brought a painful chill to the tips of Astarion's ears. The crook of his arm yearned for Gale's shoulder as if for something just out of reach.
Gale seemed to be reaching for something as well. His fingers scrabbled over the tops of his thighs, absently, clutching at nothing. "I don't have anything to give you."
Astarion offered Gale his hands again, giving him something to hold on to. This time, Gale took them. Astarion twisted his lips, pained and vulnerable.
"I didn't care much for anything before I met you. I don't think I wanted to die, not really, anyway. And I really didn’t want to be the one to kill myself." He fiddled with Gale's hands, trying to warm himself on cold skin. "But I was tired. Tired of people using me, then throwing me away. Tired of being told I was worthless and believing it. I didn’t think things were going to get better. Then there you were."
The wind was ripping the words out of his throat and Astarion fought it for control. He failed. "You and your clumsiness and hideous ties and the way you never shut up. The way you—listen to me, don't listen to that bitch—you're a good person, so good it makes me sick sometimes. You're a better person than I'll ever be. You have given me everything." Astarion inhaled. His heart split in his chest. He gave in. "I love you."
An air of uncertainty settled between them, silently inquiring over the state of their relationship. Gale was silent too. Astarion shifted. "I don't blame you if you don't believe me," he said. "I know I haven't been able say I love you back. It didn't start out that way. I certainly didn't act like it. I'm sorry for all the times I didn't. But I do and I mean it. I love you. As you are."
Gale's face had been struggling to stay calm as he listened. He nodded his head, jaw tightening. His eyes closed on tears. “I believe you. It’s okay because I understand and I believe you. You’ve already shown me and I believe you.”
Gale raised their intertwined hands. He kissed the back of Astarion's knuckles, between his middle and ring fingers. He moved their hands so they rested against the side of Astarion's face. Astarion leaned in. He kissed the last of the blood from Gale's lips, leisurely and unhurried until he felt him relax. Gale's mouth moved against his to form words. Even though he wasn't sure whether he heard them, Astarion felt the words spoken into his lungs.
"I love you too. As you are."
The sun blazed somewhere too low on the horizon to be seen directly, but it shed a glimmer all around. The light picked up faint particles of whiteness floating in the air. The trees held their ground against the snow and sky. Nothing stirred.
Astarion breathed, "Well. What a day."
Gale rose onto his knees. "It has felt like waking dream. I can barely tell what's real anymore, but as long as you are, that's fine by me." As he turned his head, the clean rays bathed him in perfect lighting. "You'll still be here tomorrow, won't you?"
Astarion stood. He heard the distant rumble of traffic and knew there was the red truck parked on the side of the road, but as far as he cared, they were the only ones in the world, painted white and gold.
"Yes, darling. Tomorrow," he said, and meant forever.
Notes:
You. Have. No idea how long I've waited to write the final scene it's been almost a whole year. Thank you all for your patience and for bearing with this super long chapter. I'm devastated and stupidly happy for my boys. And Karlach is the best girl, hands down.
I'm one half of a cross-cultural couple so writing Astarion being dragged through his new extended family was a blast. I adore Slav-descent Astarion (I blame The Season) but Astarion being Belarusian on his dad's side is mostly another nod to Neil Newbon. As for Gale's full name being Galenos, my headcanon is that he started asking to be called Gale as a kid because his teachers couldn't pronounce his name. 😭
Translations from Greek to English are below. Once again, I'm not Greek nor do I know Greek, so if you catch any inaccuracies, let me know and I'll be more than happy to change them. Huge shoutout to Ouchiness for helping me get the terms of endearment right!
Πού είναι τη τσίπουρο; - Where is the tsipouro?
Αλλά mη του το δώσεις. - But don't give it to him.
Δεν μπορεί να το χειριστεί. - He can't handle it.
Γειά μας - Cheers, "to our health".
Αγόρι μου. - "My boy", used as a term of endearment for a male loved one.Many thanks to ShadowViking for showing me how to survive a big Balkan family Christmas. They're a prolific writer and a superb co-author for our shared Viking AU. Check them out!
We also have art for this fic by the wonderful keeweescribbles on Tumblr as a beautiful homage to Chapter 7. Please send her lots of love and support on her Ko-fi if you're so inclined.
Update (6/10/25): I'll be on vacation starting this week so I'll see if I can get some writing done on the plane, but if not, hang tight. I'll be back as soon as possible.
Perfume inspo: Things We Never Shared by Toskovat'
“Today I remembered the week before Christmas. Sunday 18.12. Waiting at the train station in Paris, years ago, for a promise made 6 months prior in Vienna. People around me coming from the fair, flowers gifted, drinks had, sweet moments shared… Sweet nothings.
We had so many plans too. We spoke about so much in such little time. And still said too little. You gave me all of you, I gave you all that was left of me.
A toddler is crying on a bench to my right, his hands touching a hot cocoa cup for the first time. I am cold, too. My hands are cracked, and yours are absent. I put some sun cream on to remember the better days.
Maybe next year.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 23: Patchouli
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Implied alcoholism
- Descriptions of SA
- Graphic violenceThe texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Baldur's Mouth
The House of Szarr: A House of Horrors
After two hundred years, the vault opens to reveal rot at the heart of the legendary perfume house.
By Volothamp Geddarm
Astarion Ancunín is 38 years old. He has an ethereal, high fashion look about him: all sharp angles and snark, with intense brown eyes that flick from side to side, watching for an ever-present audience. It comes as a genuine surprise when he tells me that he's never been a model, but that might be because he's a perfumer.
In the Baldur's Mouth office, Ancunín's cool, collected energy is a far cry from what you'd expect a member of the multi-billion-dollar beauty industry to be: obnoxious, catty, and uptight. Some might say his eloquence and elegance reminds them of an 18th-century dandy; others might say his truant's smile and brand of glam is more reminiscent of an 80's rockstar. To me, he looks like an enfant terrible: young at heart, mischievous, and ready to prop his boots up on my desk while he talks. He sports vestiges of punk rock as he sits across from me: curly hair tousled just so, a dagger necklace, chipped black nail polish that he examines before making eye contact. Speaking to him is like listening to a smooth-voiced audiobook of an encyclopedia of fragrance. As expected, he smells phenomenal, wearing a blend that he tells me is bergamot, rosemary, and brandy, which sounds too deceptively simple. I let him keep what few secrets he'll have left after our interview.
Ancunín is the house's main perfumer, otherwise known as a nose in the industry. "You wouldn't know it, though," he says. Despite his decade-long career, Ancunín has never once been credited. Over its 200-year history, the company has put its name to a hundred perfumes, the recipes hand-written in a family formula book stored in a safe. Time has occasionally necessitated changes. Legislation forced reformulations and improved workers’ rights, or it would have if Szarr paid them any mind.
When you’re super rich, you can be forgetful in this way. Which is maybe why no one thought much of the instances in which Szarr did other things that seemed odd: negative reviews vanished off websites days after they were made, creative collaborators dropped their working relationships with the House of Szarr if they didn't drop like flies altogether, and the company has barely expanded in the last twenty years. In fact, the House of Szarr's most bizarre behaviour lies with its employees. Szarr's employees are listed nowhere online or in public press despite the house's frequent media involvement and there might be a reason why.
"See this scar?" Ancunín rolls down his red turtleneck, revealing a pale white throat and a faded, serrated half-circle sunken into the left side. "He gave it to me. Yes, he bit me."
Ancunín first met Cazador Szarr when he worked as a bartender at The Waning Moon pub on Reithwin Street, which was closed several years ago. Short on cash, he accepted the job offer to be Szarr's personal assistant soon after their first meeting, with the promise of mentorship in perfumery, supported the house's extensive resources. What followed instead were ten years of torture.
Baldur's Mouth has covered Cazador Szarr before. Szarr is the heir to the perfumery with his and his forefathers' name, as well as their fortune and legacy. During Design Week the previous year, I met him at his flagship store, where he collaborated with Minthara Baenre of Nightwarden, a design agency specializing in novel biomaterials, to release a series of limited edition flankers. The creative director served champagne and smiled for the cameras at nine in the morning, then raped his assistant that night.
Szarr had booked a shared room for the event without Ancunín's knowledge or consent. After their showing, they celebrated with a bottle of leftover champagne, a Louis Roederer Cristal Brut. According to Ancunín, after being plied with alcohol, he was instructed to join Szarr in their bed. Szarr never gave a thought to safety or lubrication, much less Ancunín's sexual preferences, and he lay there until Szarr was finished, periodically passing out from the pain. Three months ago, Ancunín was raped again in an act he alleges was retribution for launching Sunwalker, his own perfume label. A struggle ensued in the House of Szarr's office, during which Szarr assaulted Ancunín and struck him on the back of the head. The altercation ended with Szarr strangling Ancunín until he fell unconscious. Szarr left Ancunín under his desk in his personal office, neglecting to call for medical aid or alert anyone to Ancunín's presence as he left the building.
Ancunín is quick to tell me that he isn't Szarr's only victim. Szarr's closest circle consists of an exclusive seven members of staff, Ancunín included, and biting them is the least of the grievous bodily harm committed by the creative director. Szarr has been an annual attendee of Design Week since its inception and each employee he brought with him shared the same experience. This is nothing to say of the violence that occurs within the office of the House of Szarr itself. Other alleged instances of maltreatment from Szarr's staff have included verbal and emotional abuse and physical battery, including injury by chemical burns in lieu of toxicology testing for the house's products. A chemical analysis of Szarr’s perfumes was also carried out last month by Elminster Aumar, Ph.D., and Gale Dekarios, professor of organic chemistry at Blackstaff University. The results yielded evidence of the presence of substances banned by the International Fragrance Association.
Given Szarr's willingness to cut corners and flout the law, the alleged abundance of white collar crime is no surprise. Some of Szarr's employees, whom Ancunín has declined to name, have also accused the CEO of tax fraud, threats to other industry professionals, and bribery. There is also evidence that Szarr has stolen perfume formulas from other houses or their perfumers. Their courage is commendable, considering most of Szarr's abuse has been directed at them. Employees are not guaranteed breaks, are frequently required to work overtime for no additional pay, and compete with each other for the bare minimum of decency from Szarr. Ancunín was recently punished for a day's absence from work by being locked in the office to make up his hours. He recorded his night spent trapped in the building and narrated the tour around the halls.
When I ask Ancunín how he thinks Szarr has managed to avoid detection for so long, he fidgets in his chair. He's uncomfortable. "From the outside, he's this eccentric artist who's weird and macabre, but he keeps to himself so he doesn't give the impression that he's hurting anyone. If you didn't know any better, the obvious thing to do would be to get into his good graces. This house has cultivated two centuries of goodwill just through the fact that it's lasted this long. And Cazador [Szarr] was born into power. Unimaginable wealth and power. He's always had it, why the hell shouldn't he use it?" In other press pieces, Szarr has cultivated a reputation for being generous, and in a way, he has never deigned to keep all of his secrets to himself.
"I was taken to The Fraygo a year in," Ancunín tells me. The mid-range hotel, wedged between banks and designer stores downtown, is just upscale to be unassuming. Before Ancunín tells his story, he holds up a palm. "Just so we're clear, I have nothing against the establishment. Lovely little place. For anyone else, at least."
Ancunín was sent to the hotel to meet with Szarr's clients, shareholders, and other connections and provide sexual favours in exchange for the house's social and financial security. When I ask him how many, he says, "Oh, I must've had at least a dozen." The glibness with which he rattles off the number is deeply unsettling, as is the detail that he was so traumatized after his first time that he had to be tranquilized. In spite of everything, Ancunín has a biting, acerbic sense of humour and smiling comes to him easily. "Cazador didn't have to worry from then on. I did the rest of the tranquilizing myself," he jokes. A few years later, Ancunín fell into substance abuse, requiring at least a bottle of wine every evening to guarantee sleep without nightmares.
Sexual abuse is one of the most confusing forms of violence that a person can experience. The majority of people who have endured it do not immediately recognize it as such; some never do. In the meantime, the brain conveniently fills in the gaps. Ancunín admits that he doesn't remember the names of any of his assailants. "If you pointed them out to me on the street, maybe." He runs slender fingers through his silver curls. "I like to think I'd go up to them and punch them, but honestly, I don't know. Maybe they deserve worse than that. Or maybe I'd just run."
I ask Ancunín what he wants to see happen to the perfume house. I wonder if he, as a perfumer, would feel some degree of sadness if the house goes under. Szarr is to the history of perfume as Beethoven is to music and Astaire is to dance. "Rejuvenation, not retirement," he corrects me. "I guess I wouldn't mind so much if the House of Szarr started from scratch, if someone more reasonable were in charge. Get rid of the old masters. Get rid of the old name."
I find this curious since it's clear from his theatrical, contemptuous drawl that he has no love for the house. I ask Ancunín what new name he would like to see, floating 'The House of Ancunín' as a potential rebrand. He laughs loudly in response, then composes himself.
"God, no. That's so dated." He curls his fingers into scare quotes. "The 'House of' part, I mean." I point out that he doesn't object to seeing his own name on the label and a wistful look comes over his face. "Why not?" he muses. "After all this time, I wouldn't mind some credit. Hell—I'll say it—I wouldn't mind picking up what's left of the House of Szarr. There's going to be a lot of potential and capital going to waste otherwise. Call me the king of ashes, king of dirt and rubble, whatever. I've had nothing for so long. Nothing." Ancunín swallows with some difficulty and a lump forms in my own throat. He says, "At least it's going to be mine."
We talk some more about his creations and Sunwalker, the brand he's been building on the side. Ancunín's latest launch for the House of Szarr is primed to be released this coming fall, "if it will be released at all after this piece comes out," he adds. I ask him if the way he develops perfumes for the House of Szarr is different from that of Sunwalker and, more importantly, what sets Sunwalker apart from his previous work. Ancunín pauses to think for a moment. "It's bold, boundary-breaking, and beautifully in-between," he says. "In a world where so many perfumes are designed by focus groups and corporate marketing teams, I want to create something raw and real—perfumes with soul. I'm not here to please everyone. There's nothing old or storied about the things I make and that's by design."
Szarr has sought to preserve his perfumery's rich past, interring each scent, packaging design, and core ingredient as if looking after artifacts in a museum collection. Ancunín is launching himself in the opposite direction. He has made it abundantly clear that he has no interest in tradition and ingratiating himself with those who hold it in high regard.
"Whatever I do, I'm not going to be anything like Szarr," Ancunín says. Judging by his uneasy expression, he's referring to both the company and the man who currently runs it. "That's the last thing I want to be."
Snow has started falling outside in big, fat flakes. Ancunín's attention turns to the window. His eyes are on the city skyline, which is slowly turning white. My eyes are on him. Time will tell if he keeps his word.
◈━◈━◈
Astarion's alarm went off earlier than it was supposed to, which was not at all since it was a Saturday. He flung an arm out and slapped around haphazardly for his phone, yanking it off the charging cable on Gale's nightstand. An unknown number glared at him on the screen. It wasn't his alarm, but his ringtone.
The phone kept ringing. He briefly turned on his side to look at Gale, who was just as handsome in his sleep as he was when showered, shaved, and dressed. The smart thing to do would be to hang up, go back to sleep, and cuddle closer into Gale's side, where he would be safe from the rest of the world, if only for a few more hours.
He answered the phone.
"Fuck off," he said.
There was a crackle on the other end of the line, then, "Did no one tell you that airing your dirty laundry in public only makes you smell bad?"
The deep, husky voice was a dead giveaway. Astarion rubbed the sleep from his eyes, which were struggling to adjust to the lack of light. "Good morning to you too, Minthara. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I don't know whether you're playing dumb or are actually dumb, but sinking your reputation with the help of the press was an objectively bad idea."
"Ah," he said, "That."
He moved out of bed slowly, carefully slipping out from under the covers so as not to wake Gale. The cold air hit his bare skin while Minthara continued.
"First, you chose Baldur's Mouth as your mouthpiece to launch your accusations."
"Uh-huh." Astarion reached for his pair of briefs on the floor and tugged them on. He had the feeling this was a conversation he needed to be dressed for. He started searching for his pyjama pants, not caring enough to find his shirt.
"Baldur's Mouth is a dirty rag that's about as credible as it is groundbreaking. I can tell they first reached out to you, or, knowing you, Cazador, about their holiday gift guide. You cannot expect them to take your story seriously, or get anyone else to. Your second mistake was choosing to break the story to Volothamp Geddarm."
Even though she wasn't in the room with him, Astarion shrugged. He dropped his voice into a whisper. "He's an idiot, but he's harmless."
"Volo does not understand subtlety. His writing runs high with emotion and embellishment and he has already portrayed you as an arrogant upstart."
Astarion swept out of the bedroom. "I thought I sounded confident. I took my suffering in stride."
"Another wrong move." After a long pause, Minthara said, "You should have consulted me."
"Oh, Minthara." Astarion closed the door behind him. The knob turned, then clicked softly into place. "You do care."
"I care in the way one cares about an investment," Minthara ground out. "What you've done goes against all sense. You've tarnished your name by connecting your brand to this scandal and uploading your video evidence on your account."
She wasn't exactly wrong. Astarion had uploaded the video to Sunwalker's Instagram and TikTok accounts as a way of distancing Astarion the person from Astarion the perfumer. Since the exposé from Baldur's Mouth dropped, he dared to look at how many views it had amassed. Tens of thousands of views, thousands of likes, hundreds of comments. Coming clean about Cazador Szarr and his perfume house had launched him to far greater heights than putting himself in league with Firellia Jannath.
Astarion tapped out of the call screen and snuck another guilty peek at the TikTok. The outpouring of support had been overwhelming. Almost overnight, he had gone from a complete nobody to less of a nobody—at least in comparison to Cazador—whose username was tagged so many times in the comments that he had to ultimately turn his notifications off. The buzz from knowing virtually everybody was on his side, though, was addicting. Scandal was a drug or a drink, and Astarion secretly hoped for just one more.
He crept down the hall. Tara came up to him, chittering. He put his finger to his lips and walked past her. She followed behind, tail swishing from side to side.
"For god's sake, darling, would it kill you to congratulate someone on a job well done?" Astarion waved a hand at no one. "Would you rather I hand it over to Baldur's Mouth and let them run amok?"
"It's your very first video. A strong start, to be sure."
Astarion flinched at the bite in Minthara's tone. "What's done is done," he muttered. "All that's left to do is take Cazador out of the picture."
Minthara scoffed. "Do you really think you can attempt it now? When he knows you're coming for him?"
"That's the point." Astarion raised his voice back to an even volume now that he was far from the bedroom. He sat on Gale's couch, bunching up the periodic table tapestry and tossing it aside. The leather was cool against his back. "I want him to be afraid."
He wet his lips. The thought of Cazador knowing his days were numbered, the terror in his eyes the next time Astarion saw him with the knowledge that he was cornered, was delicious. Astarion grinned. He could taste Cazador's fear, smell it from across the city: iodine, white flowers, and blood.
"Where will you strike? At his home, where an untold number of security measures and traps will be waiting for you? At your place of work, where you will invite even more spectacle?"
Astarion flew through the options. He had been to Cazador's home before, the very first time they met. Cazador lived completely alone, but he had to have a security team and bodyguards at his beck and call. At the office, he would be given less space to manoeuvre around. His coworkers were also loose cannons. There was no telling who would join him on his side after he had cast Cazador's ire on all of them one last time.
Flying by the seat of his pants, as unwise as it was, had worked for him up until now. Unpredictability was his greatest strength against a man who lived and breathed rules.
"Check the news," he said.
Minthara made a noise. Astarion pictured her in the back of an Uber, or already at her office, shaking her head. A look of disgust or disappointment would have been drawn tight across her face. "You had promise," she said. "Your own creation, aborted before it grew legs to stand on." She sighed. "I suppose we can't all be exceptional. It's in the word itself."
"And I suppose we can’t all get along. I had high hopes for you, too." Astarion stared ahead at the blank wall across from him. With the lights off, the plaster was bathed in grey. "Good luck, dear."
"And to you as well. You'll need it."
The line went dead. Astarion slumped back against the armchair and set his phone facedown on his thigh. Tara came up to him. Her green eyes blinked slowly.
Astarion looked down. "You wouldn't doubt me, would you?"
Tara meowed.
"That's what I thought."
Astarion got up from the armchair and padded back towards the hall. He stopped right before the kitchen and thought about brewing coffee, of opening the cupboard, pouring some Brimstone Blend beans into the grinder, and cranking the handle while the kettle boiled. He imagined Gale waking up slow, strolling to the kitchen to give Astarion a hug, then getting started on breakfast. Pretending that everything was alright.
Astarion passed by the kitchen and bathroom and quietly opened the bedroom door. Gale was still asleep. Astarion climbed into bed next to him and Gale pulled him closer. His bare skin was soft and smelled like soap and warm musk. He buried his face into the crook of Gale's neck. Breathe in. Breathe out.
He would rest while he still could.
◈━◈━◈
On a cloudy morning in the middle of January, Astarion got out of bed at five in the morning. He hadn't slept all night. His flat was dark and empty. Undisguised by the lingering veil of stale liquor, the smells of home had started to reveal themselves. Cold concrete, soft oak and cork, cashmere, airy and light.
He pushed himself to his feet, walked to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and put on his war paint.
Astarion scrunched his fingers through his hair, loosening up his curls so a few swept over his forehead. Salt spray, not gel, kept them in place. He swiped sunscreen across his cheeks and put a dab of concealer under each eye. He fastened his dagger necklace around his throat, tucking the pendant under his shirt. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he looked luminous. The ceiling light was the sun coming up over him. He was an angel of vengeance.
A day like this called for a shot of liquid courage. Black coffee spiked with dark rum or vodka. Astarion didn't have either of those things around at home anymore, so he settled on an electrolyte packet emptied into a glass of water. After a second thought, he opened the pantry door and reached for a chocolate protein bar, taking care to chew and swallow thoroughly so he wouldn't throw up.
Before he left his flat, he spritzed on his perfume. Neck, collar, wrists. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy, the last accord made new and stronger with a punch of spice. He was himself again.
The police station was open 24 hours a day. It was the only good thing about it. Police stations were ugly buildings, all grey and squat with bleach-smelling air on the inside. But at 6 am, the waiting area was empty and there was no line leading up to the partitioned service desks. Only one was occupied.
"My, my. The fierce and terrible Lae'zel, a pencil-pushing desk jockey."
Lae'zel wrinkled her snub nose at Astarion from behind the glass. "Bold of you to say so when you aren't doing much better," she said. "I assume this is about Cazador Szarr?"
"That's right."
"And what are you reporting?"
Astarion hesitated. Cazador's crimes were countless. "Can I report him for all-around shittiness?" he asked.
Lae'zel picked up a transceiver on her desk. "Voss," she called. "A civilian—a friend of mine—would like to report his employer for sexual assault, assault and battery, trafficking, and violence and harassment in the workplace."
The device crackled in her hand and she put it down. Astarion folded his arms, sending the scent of rosemary through the sterile space. "I take it you read the Baldur's Mouth article."
"Everybody has," Lae'zel said. "I, for one, am glad you decided to involve the law because Cazador will not."
The toe of Astarion's shoe came down on the floor. He made sure he had waxed his footwear over the weekend. He had banked on this outcome, of course, but he wouldn’t be able to forgive his friends or himself if they felt too sorry for him after reading his deepest, darkest secrets. ”Fine. Just don't tell me you pity me."
Lae'zel frowned. She was choosing her words carefully. She said, "If I had known how deep those wrongs went, we would not be here right now. We would have searched his office and home a long time ago."
Cazador would have never agreed to a search. There would have been a raid. He would come home to find his double doors splintered open, papers on his desk strewn everywhere, his collection of vintage perfumes, likely priced in the millions, confiscated or smashed. Astarion relished the thrill, then silently cursed that he wouldn't have been there to see it. "Better late than never," he said unhelpfully.
It took several minutes, but an officer came out the back door. He was thin and lanky, with greying hair standing stiff atop his head. The tip of his right ear was gone, as if clipped or bitten off, and scarred. Officer Voss Y’llek wasted no time ushering Astarion to a side room.
The exchange was quick, efficient, and much smoother than Astarion had expected. His main piece of evidence was a single USB drive with every picture he had ever taken. Screenshots of text messages, email exchanges, and records from his coworkers. He passed along a binder with all the gas chromatography readings and a report written up by Gale. The recording, which Astarion transferred to the drive, was passed along, then immediately deleted from his phone. He also submitted the frayed tie Gale had lent him and the pair of underwear he wore that day. By the time he learned that he could wash them out with hydrogen peroxide, the bloodstains had already set.
After a short interrogation, Officer Voss returned Astarion to Lae'zel. She was waiting for him with her hand outstretched. "Your phone," she demanded. Astarion stared down at her, confused. Lae'zel huffed. "We don't do wires anymore," she explained. "You're confronting him today, are you not?"
Astarion shifted in place. "Who knows what he's going to do? He might not even come to work."
"You have more than enough evidence that he is a criminal." Lae'zel stepped forward, silently asking for permission to borrow Astarion's phone. He granted it. Lae'zel began typing. "This is for your safety. If he disappears, we will find him."
The corners of Astarion's lips twitched. "As long as I'll be able to join the hunt."
"You will be front and centre." Lae'zel passed Astarion's phone back to him, which was prompting him to input his password. As he typed it out, she squinted. "You're planning something," she accused him.
Astarion fought back a snort. “Yes. I’m planning not to die." The phone changed hands again and Lae'zel returned her attention to the screen. It looked like she was downloading some kind of app and that she didn't believe a word Astarion said. Thankfully, she left the issue alone.
"This app provides location tracking services, an audio and video recorder. We are prepared to apprehend him. Call us as soon as you suspect you are in danger," she instructed him. "Act quickly and with sound judgment. Do not do something you might regret. The last statement goes without saying for most people, but I know you, Astarion."
Astarion was in danger every time he stepped into the Szarr office, but he let Lae'zel keep her peace of mind. "Aren't you sweet," he murmured. Lae'zel scowled back, but the look was temporary. She returned the phone with a new app, one for the city police, displayed on his home screen. She crossed her arms, then placed her hands on her hips. She was worried and trying not to show it. Astarion pretended not to notice.
"Start recording when you approach him. We stand at the ready," she said.
Astarion relaxed his shoulders. He felt like Lae'zel was expecting him to launch into a monologue. They exchanged nods instead.
"I owe you," Astarion said.
Lae'zel tsk'ed. "You owe nobody anything. You, however, are owed much better than what you have been given."
Astarion brought his head up. A sly grin was growing. "Thank you, darling."
With his evidence turned in and backup one call away, he went back out into the cold.
Astarion had fifteen minutes to make it to work and three items left on his to-do list to check off. The first was sending a message to the House of Szarr chat.
Then he sent another to Gale. As Astarion thought about what to say, his throat went dry. Tears threatened to prick the backs of his eyes at the thought of never hearing Gale call him dearest again. Never reading books in bed again. Never being cock warmed by Gale again. Never waking up next to him again. He had to come out on the other side if not victorious, then alive.
Astarion pocketed his phone and waited for the crosswalk light to turn green. Minutes without Gale passed like years, each second more agonizing than the last. The light turned and he crossed the street briskly, coming to a stop in front of a large display window.
The House of Szarr's flagship store was still closed. Even with the lights off, Astarion could see the checkered tiles stretching out into a black abyss. A dark chandelier hung overhead like the gallows. Ivory pedestals rose out of the floor, imitations of Roman columns and reminiscent of chess pieces. Exclusive flankers sat atop each plinth. The board was set. It could all be his today if he played the right moves.
Astarion widened his field of view and observed his reflection clearly in the storefront window. He fixed his hair, righted his collar, and went on his way. Streets and signs passed. Every beat of his heart and thought in his head launched into a fervent drumming. His breath pulsed through his lungs, which moved in synchronicity like an engine. He couldn't bring himself to listen to music today, lest any of the songs become tainted. One more turn and the building came into view. Thirty feet. Twenty. Ten. Five.
He pushed his way in.
Oud clawed into his face, urging him to keep out. Astarion continued walking. He passed the front desk, under the chandelier he was ready to bring crashing down into a million pieces. Aurelia's eyes darted frantically between him and the hall. She didn't say a word and when he started moving towards Cazador's office, she quickly looked away. At least she was keeping her word.
The drumbeat turned into a roll. Astarion kept his head on a swivel, looking around for any signs of life. No one else was visible from the corridor. Astarion's chest sank when he realized Dal was missing, but she would keep her head down or stay away from the office entirely if she knew what was good for her. He saw a head of blond hair move in a doorway. Petras, probably. Astarion sneered. His second order of business would be putting down Cazador's second most faithful lapdog.
Around him, the building was completely devoid of noise, just as it was supposed to be. Cazador demanded total silence from everybody around him. Today, Astarion would make sure he heard him coming.
Astarion walked along the wooden parts of floor, avoiding the rug running down the centre of the hallway. He moved with purpose. His footfalls echoed off the walls. He passed the glass case of antique flankers. Click. A mahogany console with matching chairs. Click. Generations of Szarr predecessors and their portraits hanging in golden frames. Click. He reached the door.
He had never paid much attention to the door before, mostly because he had always been in a rush to get to it in time. It was an objectively beautiful piece of furniture, almost as tall as the ceiling. The door was made of lustrous dark wood, shined to sparkling and engraved with the geometric Szarr sigil and severe lines. The borders were engraved with swirls and scrolls as thin as rat tails.
So many atrocities had happened behind that closed door. Astarion had entered through it thousands of times and came back out feeling less human each time until he didn't even feel like an animal. He felt like dirt itself, a stain on the bottom of a shoe. He hoped law enforcement wouldn't mind that he had some cleanup to do and it was private business.
His fingers flexed around his phone case. His thumb circled the screen.
He didn't hit record.
Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock. Pause. Knock knock knock. Pause. Knock knock.
There was no response. Impatience tore across Astarion's tongue and he swore under his breath. This wasn't going to be like last time. He stepped back, exhaled, and threw the door open.
Cazador rose out of his seat immediately. "Get out," he shouted. "I am preoccupied until I tell you otherwise."
The heir and creative director of the House of Szarr looked…normal, considering the circumstances. His voice, however, was not. He sounded more manic than man, ragged around the edges with hysteria. Another candle sat on the desk, scenting the room with lilies and tuberose. Cazador seemed to be awfully fond of icy white florals lately. The flame flickered, lending an infernal bent to the look of madness straining his face.
Astarion rolled his eyes. ”I put your calendar together. I know you're free."
Cazador's upper lip curled, then went slack. Astarion knew that he knew he was right. Not waiting for permission, he pulled out the velvet chair he had sat in hundreds of times and propped his elbows on the back.
They watched each other for a moment. If anyone else had walked in on them, they would have seen a mirror image: the acolyte and the reverend, the apprentice and the sage. From Astarion's point of view, however, he only saw a monster.
He infused his voice with a casual iciness. “Relax. It's only going to take a few minutes.”
Cazador smiled with contemptuous disregard. He had gone perfectly still.
"If I entertain you and your drivel, will you entertain me?"
Astarion bared his teeth. "Spit it out.”
"What do you know about Louis XIV?"
The question caught Astarion off guard, but rather than guessing (and giving Cazador the satisfaction of delivering whatever villain monologue he had prepared), he set his jaw firm.
“Nothing I care for."
Cazador pushed the candle towards himself. The light cast flickering shadows along his chin. He said, "Louis was born just before the Age of the Enlightenment and took the throne at the age of four. When the boy king grew up, he began the construction of the Palace of Versailles. With enough room to house the whole court, the Palace and its surrounding buildings rapidly attracted the nobility, who were prepared to go to any lengths to be close to their king. Intimidating, majestic, and kept informed by an army of spies, he controlled everything."
In turn, Astarion glanced around the desk, taking care not to move his head. He counted a monitor and keyboard, the candle, the cognac bottle, and a perfume flanker. A glint caught his eye and dread sliced open a cavern in his gut. The letter opener lay out in the open.
"The king surrounded himself with the leading talent of his day. He staged the finest comedies, operas, and tragedies and organized spectacular parties. He himself was a veritable connoisseur of music, dance, and other forms of art, including perfume."
Cazador picked up the perfume bottle resting on his desk. With a flick of Cazador's wrist, Astarion recognized it as Poetry. It was one of three perfumes Cazador had claimed to create himself, the others being Rhapsody and Woe. Another prop for the performance.
"Throughout the Palace, bowls were filled with flower petals to sweeten the air. Furniture, the fountain, and even visitors were sprayed with perfume upon entering. The air at the French court was so fragrant that it became known as ‘the Perfumed Court’. Louis himself was particularly fond of a blend of nutmeg, storax, cloves, and benzoin, all boiled in rosewater. And at the end of his life, it was said he could only tolerate the scent of orange blossom, distilled from the orange trees at Versailles itself."
Astarion inhaled, envisioning himself in the middle of an orange grove. The air was warm. The sun was shining. The clusters of white flowers were opulent, honeyed, full-bodied, and inviting. He said nothing.
Cazador continued. "Funny, then, that it was said he only took three baths in his life. He was terrified of water. There were no restrooms at all. Bad breath and rotten teeth prevailed. His court was a place of filth and squalor. In spite of it all, do you know what he called himself?"
For the first time, Astarion waited longer than Cazador's patience could hold out. He smiled to himself at this new small victory.
"The Sun King." Cazador punctuated the last word with a cluck of his tongue. "Now, tell me, is that how you see yourself?"
Astarion's fingers trailed over the back of the chair. "Quite the accusation. I'm shocked." They clenched. "But no, not really. That description sounds more like you than me."
"The sun is the star which gives life to all things, rising and setting with unfailing regularity. It is eternal." Cazador sounded both bored and annoyed. "A poor choice of a name, considering Sunwalker won't see the light of day."
Astarion shrugged, a careful roll of the shoulders up and back. "You know, I would be sad about that prospect if I didn't have other options."
Cazador's lips twisted in grim acknowledgement. "I saw. 'Get rid of the old masters. Get rid of the old name.'" His grin twitched wider, white teeth glistening. "Do you think you will succeed? You are replaceable. There are thousands of miserable wretches with no direction, living lives of quiet desperation until somebody gives them a purpose, one they would be grateful for. Granted, not everybody can mobilize a team, but the rest of them," he gestured beyond the door, "are just like you."
Astarion smirked. "They'll be thrilled to hear that, I'm sure."
Cazador reached down and adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves. "I'm afraid that's where your merits end. You possess neither longevity nor legitimacy. You, an impulsive, inattentive, short-sighted, naïve boy and." Cazador paused. It was a genuine pause, through which he inhaled lightly. "You smell different today."
"I smell like myself." Astarion stepped over so he was side-by-side with the velvet chair. "This," he flicked his collar, "is something I made all on my own. That’s more than you can say. You've never had a single original thought in your life. Your precious rules? Those were written and nailed to the wall in that room over there before you were born." He flung an arm out at the side door. "You’ve stolen years of work. My work. You destroy everything you touch. You drain the will to live out of everyone who even looks at you." He shook his head and barked out a laugh, but it was angry. "My god. You're a vampire."
Cazador snarled back. “And you are a pest. A rat skittering around, spreading filth everywhere it goes. When one is caught in a trap, ten more crawl out of the gutter. A cockroach who just won’t keel over and die.” His hand balled into a fist and Astarion’s heart jumped. “I should have disposed of you."
“Then why didn't you?" Astarion faked thoughtfulness, then laughed again. "Right. You're obsessed. That’s why you couldn’t stand me having a life outside of you. Being in love with someone else. Not that I ever loved you in the first place." He took one step closer. "You can't get enough of me. Well, too bad. Neither can everyone else. You're going to take your place in the backwater of the history books. With any luck, you'll drown."
Cazador's smile fell. "You're delusional."
"So knock some sense into me," Astarion pried himself off the chair and lowered himself into a mock bow, "sir."
Silence descended over them again. Astarion waited. Something resembling a plan scrabbled for purchase in his brain. The need for everything to go perfectly felt like skating on a razor's edge. He needed plausible deniability. When the cops came knocking on the door of the House of Szarr (and they would, on his command), he needed to be able to claim self-defence.
Cazador walked over from behind his desk. Elation scraped up Astarion's throat. Cazador really was that stupid. Or not stupid, just deluded that he was the one still in control. He was taking the bait either way. Cazador closed in on him, the soft trace of cloves flooding his senses.
The slap was not unexpected, jerking Astarion's head to the side with the force. The hand closing around his wrist was. The grip was tight and bruising, but Astarion forced himself not to struggle. The more he fought, the more Cazador would enjoy it. He held his next breath and let it out slowly, shallow and slow, partially in disbelief. He took the bait. The clutch of Cazador's hand and the nails digging into his veins, feeling out the quickness of his pulse, was almost euphoric.
Cazador's arm twisted, tugging at the sockets in his forearm and tearing ligaments. Astarion grinned through the pain. His leg tensed, a tightly coiled spring.
Three. Two. One.
Astarion's shoe connected with Cazador's shin and Cazador fell back, releasing him.
Astarion didn't just want freedom. He wanted revenge. Astarion grabbed the back of the chair and swung it around with all the force he could muster. A leg struck Cazador in the shoulder. He doubled over, but remained infuriatingly upright. As Astarion gasped for breath, Cazador came up behind him. One cold hand squeezed around his throat.
His dagger necklace had swung from his shirt like a pendulum. Cazador grabbed the chain with his free hand and yanked. Metal cut into skin. The breath Astarion attempted to suck in went nowhere, but bile threatened to fill his mouth as Cazador's erection ground against his back. This motherfucker was getting off on killing him. Lungs beginning to burn, Astarion pressed against Cazador again, but his hand was immovable. His chest ached. Darkness crept in at the edges of thought, and his eyes slipped closed.
He twisted around and threw his elbow back as hard as he could, nailing Cazador in the ribs.
Cazador grunted and slid to the side. Before Astarion could register what it was, a perfume bottle hurtled towards his head. He dropped to the ground and it cracked against the wall. Geranium and palisander spilled across the floor.
Pain shot through his thighs and knees, and black spots bloomed in his vision. Another objected sailed through the air and grazed Astarion's forehead. It landed with a crash beside him. He smelled the blood before he felt it dribbling down the side of his face. He looked down and saw the broken remains of a snifter glass. He caught the movement of Cazador's arm and rolled onto his side before another glass smashed overhead. He dove for cover under Cazador's desk, trying not to recall the last time he ended up under there.
Astarion's breath came out in quick, shallow bursts. He clambered onto his knees, not caring that shards of glass were skinning them open through his pants and that his wounds stung as spilt perfume seeped into them. A long, slender shape winked out at him from the wood grain swimming across his vision.
They both reached for the letter opener.
Astarion threw his leg out, catching Cazador's ankle. He fired the last of his power into a kick, sending Cazador sprawling across the floor. Astarion wasted no time unsheathing the letter opener as Cazador struggled up on his elbows and knees.
The fine suit was shredded. Tiny rivulets of blood stained his white dress shirt the same colour as his ruby cufflinks. Blade in hand, Astarion hauled him up by his hair. Cazador shrieked. "Let go of me, you worm."
The heel of Astarion's polished shoe came down on Cazador's hand. Cazador screamed. It was music. An aria of agony, composed just for him. Astarion grabbed him by the back of his suit jacket, then shoved his head down onto the desk. He held the blade to the back of Cazador's neck. The object itself was an antique sterling silver. Astarion's reflection glanced up at him, bloodied and bruised but unbowed.
"I'm not the one in the dirt."
Astarion shifted his weight forward and held Cazador in place with his hips and legs. The teeth in his mouth were pointed.
Bending down, he whispered, "How does it feel? Do you feel like nobody yet?" Cazador didn't answer. Astarion growled, "Oh, for fuck's sake. Look at me when I talk to you."
He reached under and grabbed Cazador again, this time by his lapels, and turned him around. The letter opener stayed in place. Cazador's chin clipped the edge of the desk. Bloodshot eyes stared blindly upward as he thrashed out. They weren't fixed on Astarion, but something overhead. Astarion looked up. The portrait of Vellioth Szarr watched them back.
Cazador struggled again and the grip of Astarion's thighs tightened. He let one hand come down and smooth Cazador's hair back with false tenderness, gratifying and degrading all at once. Cazador shuddered. Someone had done this to him before. It was too late for Astarion to reflect on the implications.
"What do you see?"
Cazador's reedy, extremely annoying voice broke the silence. Astarion tilted the blade, but didn't dig it in. He thought about cutting Cazador into pieces, starting with his tongue. Cazador repeated himself. "Look at me. What do you see? Everything you need to release your mass-market chemistry experiments, laid out at your feet?"
Blood leaked down Astarion's chin. His tongue darted out the side of his mouth and he licked it up. It was strong and robust. It was a sign that he was still alive. God, he had never felt so alive.
"No. I see the throne and it's about to be empty."
Cazador laughed, a hoarse, wheezing sound. Even his breath was cold. "I gave you everything. I let you create Black Mass and dozens more before that, or have you forgotten already?"
Astarion traded the letter opener for the cognac bottle. It clinked against the desk as he tossed it aside. The bottle felt like an extension of his arm, more hammer than hand. It was trembling from a cocktail of adrenaline and rage. "That was fun," he conceded, "but I can create just fine on my own. I don't need your permission or you, for that matter."
Fury warped Cazador's features. Even now, with a blade to his throat, he still stubbornly refused to go down. He was a survivor, too. Astarion willed himself to block the thought out, but there was nothing else to linger on. "Do it," Cazador seethed. "Do it. Anything for your art. Isn't that right? Anything."
Astarion raised the bottle, a wordless promise. He had dreamed about this for so long. Every time he blinked, he saw Cazador's face and head smashed in a little bit further, oozing brain matter, pale skin mangled to an unrecognizable pulp and embedded with shards of glass. He would not grant him a slow end.
Then why hadn't he gone through with it already?
Maybe he needed another moment to bask in his victory. It couldn't hurt to see Cazador like this a minute longer, pinned and wriggling and useless. Drawing out the dreadful anticipation was another side benefit. It felt good to be the one in control. Power tasted sweeter than any fine wine and was much more intoxicating. If he had this from the start, he wouldn't have made such a mess of himself. He never would have gone through the motions, drinking and starving himself just to feel alive and picking up somebody else's same coffee order day after day.
He never would have met Gale.
Now was not the time. Now was the time. Astarion clenched his jaw. He tried not to think about how, before meeting Gale, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Gale had changed everything—he had lit a fire of resentment and anger in him that grew into something brighter but still less painful to hold. Astarion imagined the feeling of Gale's warm hands around his, closing around the neck of the bottle, exacting vengeance as one. They vanished as quickly as he summoned them.
Gale wouldn't be proud of this. His other friends' reactions, he could handle. Wyll's and Halsin's disappointment, Shadowheart's sadness, Lae'zel's anger, Karlach's despair. Gale would never look at him the same way again.
Sweat slicked Astarion's palms and he tightened his grip around the bottle. He wanted to argue with himself. Gale was reasonable and someone like Cazador didn't understand reason. Gale hadn't been wronged by Mystra the way Cazador had abused—tortured—Astarion. But Gale had always pushed him to be his best. To Astarion, 'best' was synonymous with 'safe'. 'Free'. A life free of anything Szarr. Free to start over again.
Maybe Astarion had been right the first time. He didn't need Cazador. He had everything he needed. He was everything he needed. He was loved. As he was.
Besides, killing Cazador Szarr would enshrine him in public memory for the rest of time. He deserved so much worse.
Astarion swung with a scream through gritted teeth and brought the bottle down next to Cazador's head.
The crash deafened them both. Glass and alcohol fell like rain. The air twisted violently around them. Lilies and tuberose petals were ripped from their stems and flung through the thick, golden spice of spilled cognac. The letter opener and candle clattered onto the floor. Astarion backed away. A storm of scent gathered around him. Flowers and blood and bergamot and rosemary and brandy swirled into rushing clouds. His eyes watered. His nostrils burned. Another smell, a thread-thin trail, joined the fray.
The smoke.
The spark.
The flame.
Notes:
The fall is here. And I finally got to write a proper fight scene! 10/10 would recommend, even if I had to choreograph/storyboard that section. I've immensely enjoyed writing Cazador getting the shit beaten out of him.
So I may or may not have been hit with a minor case of the AO3 author's curse. You'd think vacation would be the best time to bang out at least one chapter, but not when you're being ferried around to visit at least a dozen different people. Then I got food poisoning when I came home yesterday. Yippee.
But in all seriousness, thank you for your patience and support. It's hard to believe we're nearing the end, but we're not done yet. We need to see the House of Szarr actually go up in smoke because we're gluttons for punishment.
The punishment's going to hit Astarion too. Sorry not sorry.
Perfume inspo: Fils de Dieu by L’Etat Libre D’Orange
"He brings the sun. Here, find an innocent wisdom that points to dreams and liberation. This is the golden eye that reflects beauty and conflict, rapture and pain.
Fils de Dieu is an emotional fragrance, a scent that requires a sympathetic connection between the server and the served, the giver and the taker, and the willingness to exchange roles.
With the refreshing zest of lime and ginger, spiced with cardamon and coriander, soothed with shiso and rice, infused with the tropical warmth of the coconut, this is a scent that supports the escape from conformity and eases the way to freedom from convention.”
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 24: Oud
Notes:
Content warnings for this chapter
- Graphic violence
- Alcoholism
- Vomiting
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The first flame licked up the side of the desk. Yellow, orange, red. One turned into two, two into a trail of forked tongues that tasted spilled blood, perfume, and cognac. Tendrils of white smoke curled around the overturned chairs and Astarion's ankles and crept under the crack in the door.
From on his knees, Cazador struggled up onto his feet. His breathing was ragged. His hair hung around him in loose jet-black strands. Blood trickled from his nose. His eyes burned red, those of an avenging devil, and all the adrenaline that coursed through Astarion turned into mortal terror.
"You—"
Astarion stumbled back towards the door, tracking sticky red footprints across the rug. He did what he did best.
He started running.
Astarion bolted out of Cazador's office, not caring enough to close it off behind him. The portraits watched him passively as he ran by. He pounded on every door in the hallway, throwing his bruised forearm against the wood until it felt like his bones would break. The heat against his back was building.
One door cracked open and Yousen looked up at him.
"Astarion, what the—holy shit."
"Fire," he screamed. Yousen stared blankly back at him. Astarion slammed the wall next to them. "Fucking go!"
Yousen's eyes widened. Astarion didn't wait for him to act, rushing to the next door. He could hear Godey shrieking from the floor below, more from panic than burning alive, although Astarion wouldn't have minded the latter. The smell of smoke and turpentine—fragrant, bitter, sickly sweet—filled the hall. As he reached the foot of the stairs, he saw Dal rounding the corner.
Frustration ripped at Astarion's throat. "There's a fire. Why the hell are you still here?"
Dal hurried past him. "I'm finding the others," she said.
Astarion grabbed her arm. Dal flinched, but didn't pull away. "Forget the others," he urged. "You'll be of no use to anyone else if you're dead."
"There's still time, you know."
They turned. Petras was standing behind them. Against the distant crackle of flames and burning wood, Astarion's voice was faint in his own ears. "What?"
"The safe. It's downstairs. All the works Szarr has ever produced. Black Mass." Petras wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead. "It's shit to lose your job in one day, but I've got the password. You can take it back."
Astarion froze. The scream of sirens from several streets away drew closer. Priceless raw materials were going up in smoke in Godey's lab. He wouldn't be able to save them all, but he could still save what mattered and what mattered wasn't in the vault. He shook his head.
"I don't want it," he said. He didn't know whether anyone heard him. "I don't want it."
Petras took off. Dal looked back once, then followed him out. Once they were out of sight, Astarion bolted up the stairs. His thighs and shins burned along with the floor below him. Red lights flashed outside.
Astarion sprinted towards the end of the hall and the room with no window. He dove for his desk drawer, shoving stray papers out of the way to retrieve his notebook, and crammed it into his interior coat pocket. As he stepped back out into the open, the air in the building had turned into a screen of grey-black. There was no way but out. He knelt towards to the ground and descended into the sea of smoke.
Heat pressed down on his shoulders and he coughed. Astarion felt his way through the room, walking his fingertips along the wall. A light fixture fell to the floor with a crash and sparks flew. Astarion loosed a stream of curses and crouched lower. He continued to feel his way along the wall until he reached the stairwell again. Sound turned to static in his ears. The floor was a puddle beneath his feet.
He could feel it in his blood. In his bones. So this was how it was going to end. Astarion would admit that he had dreamed about setting fire to the House of Szarr. From a distance, with someone else doing the grunt work. He wondered what the spectacle looked like from the outside. It would have been glorious at night, a mile-high bonfire sending years of anguish up in smoke and dividing them down into harmless molecules. If he were with Gale, he'd insist they wear their finest—Gale in a tailored cape, him with rubies and pearls—and toast with a stiff drink, served cold, while they watched the house burn. Or whatever the hell the non-alcoholic equivalent of a stiff drink was.
Astarion tried to imagine what Gale would tell him. The cool, rich tone of his voice flowed like water over the flames. Gale said, "Onward, my love. You have to keep going. You're almost there." Then, "There's carbon monoxide and particulate matter everywhere. What are we going to do about it?"
Astarion covered his mouth with the crook of his elbow and pressed forward.
He tested the next few paces in front of him with his foot. The open air confirmed the presence of descending steps. Astarion gripped the railing to steady himself, but drew his hand back from the metal with a hiss. He planted a palm against the floor and began a crawl, then a slide down. The heat grew more suffocating around him, the smoke thicker and darker. The air streaming rapidly in and out of his nostrils was growing thin. He could make out the outline of the grand chandelier swinging from the ceiling. Its crystals were dulled by soot.
When Astarion reached even ground, there was a distant knock, then a thud against the floor. The sound came from far ahead. The exit.
"Stand clear!"
Three heartbeats passed. Though he couldn't see it, Astarion heard the door swing open and hit the wall. Tiny pinpricks of white light shone out of the haze. A low, gruff male voice called out. "Fire department, anyone in here?"
"FANGS."
The name washed over him, a balm on a burn. The local fire brigade was nicknamed the Hellriders and Karlach was one of its loudest, proudest members. Some of Astarion's physical pain receded as he stumbled towards the sound. "Over here," he shouted.
"Fangs! Astarion!" Relief flooded Karlach's voice. "Zevlor. Zevlor, there's a victim. He's conscious."
Two tall figures emerged from the smoke just inches away, connected to one another by a corded orange rope. Karlach's face was barely visible behind her helmet and respirator.
"God, what the fuck happened to you?"
Astarion's eyes burned as he looked up at her. He could barely keep them open. "It's done," he whispered hoarsely. "It's over."
Karlach threw up her gloved hands. "You're going to be the death of me, you leech. You and Gale both," she wailed.
Astarion managed a small, dazed smile. "I know. It's like we deserve each other."
"And if we get a move on, you'll get to see him again." Karlach held out her arms. "Hup hup."
Astarion didn't waste a second. He let Karlach lift him over her shoulders, for the first time, not caring how heavy he was. Her jacket smelled like ashes, sweat, and cinnamon. Karlach and Zevlor started for the exit. With each stride, the notebook jostled around in Astarion's coat pocket, hitting him in the ribs. His nails sank into the thick fabric of Karlach's jacket. The threads felt like live wires and he committed them to memory. They were alive. He was alive.
Zevlor's voice thundered in one ear. "Easy now, sir. You did well covering up your airways. The paramedics are right outside."
Karlach's murmured in the other. "We're going to get you some help, take a quick ride to the hospital. We'll see if Fringe is in today, yeah?"
All Astarion could do was nod against her shoulder. The dark, smoky corridor gave way to light. Blue flashes had joined the red, reflecting off of countless glass windows and the snow on the sidewalk. His eyes watered, itching uncontrollably against the cold, dry air. He gasped for air and wheezed. The wheezing gave way to a coughing fit so violent Astarion could taste iron at the base of his throat. Karlach put him down and he collapsed onto the sidewalk. The solid weight of her hand rested between his shoulder blades.
"There you go, soldier, cough it up. Can you breathe?"
The world was too cold, too white, too bright, too much after the inferno. It swung up and down as Karlach helped Astarion sit up. It was too open and exposed; too many people could see him. Astarion didn't realize how much sweat had soaked through his clothes until he realized he was shivering. He touched his fingertips to the side of his face and his hand came away covered in ash. Black debris fell from his coat. He could only rasp.
"Yes, darling. I think. I—"
A fist flew into the side of his jaw. Astarion hit the ground face-first.
Then Cazador was on him, slamming his fist into Astarion's face repeatedly. Each strike broke against his nose, mouth, cheek. Blood gushed down his lips and chin, filling his mouth. Astarion curled into a ball, arms shielding his head. A boot connected with his shin, then his forearms. Astarion lurched forward instinctively as he was struck a second time, a third, a fourth, until he lost count and his body radiated fire.
From above, Cazador was a spectre of death, promising untold torment. "You." Crack. "Worthless." Crack. "Wretch," he snarled.
Astarion's chest heaved. He flipped onto his stomach. The back of his collar was yanked up.
"That's right. Run, boy, run." Each whispered syllable flayed skin from muscle. Astarion ground his jaw, swallowing down the noises trying to escape. "I will have my due and you will get what you deserve."
Every nerve ending screamed at him to fight back. Every shake of his spine told him he was too weak. A vicious sound came from behind him, a roar of unbridled rage.
"Get the fuck away from him!"
The fists stopped, but Astarion's lips burned from where they smashed into his teeth. When he dared to open his eyes, Karlach had Cazador pinned down. Police were encroaching on them. Lae'zel was nowhere to be seen. Every emergency service had swarmed out onto the middle of the street. Passersby stood frozen in place or moved away in slow motion.
Astarion blinked again. He was on the floor. Cazador was on the floor, encircled by officers. Grains of road salt dug into his scalp. His breath came out in long, slow plumes. The sky was an endless stretch of white.
The world went sideways, then black.
◈━◈━◈
Heaven looked weirder than Astarion expected.
He anticipated all the white lights, but not tiles. That was a pedestrian design choice. He inhaled. The air smelled miserable, like disinfectant, rubber, bodily odours, and poor wages. Astarion felt himself smile. No way someone like him would make it into heaven. And if he were in heaven, he would definitely be able to move.
His forehead was numb. When he tried to furrow his brow, dried blood flaked onto the inside of the gauze plastered over his skin. His arms and legs felt like lead, all stiff and tight. He glanced down. There was something in his arm, a needle taped to the back of his right wrist. He blinked slowly. His eyes were sore and crusty.
A nurse was approaching the foot of his bed. For a second, Astarion thought she'd been crying but he squinted and saw that her mascara and eyeliner were smudged, probably from a long shift. Her eyes snapped up to meet his. They were clear and alert and the colour of her light blue scrubs.
"Hi, I'm Isobel," she said. "I'm just changing out your IV bag."
She scooted past the bed. Metal clinked and plastic rustled overhead and behind him. Isobel shifted back into view. A name tag was clipped to her scrubs, which read 'Isobel Thorm' in large letters and "Registered Nurse" in smaller text. Astarion's head fell back onto the pillow.
"I can read," he muttered.
"Good," Isobel said. "That means you're not all woozy from the painkillers." She retrieved the old bag of fluids. "We checked you for smoke inhalation and potential burns."
Astarion's gaze flicked between her and his bandaged limbs. The text on the bag read '5% glucose'. He scowled. He didn't want to think about how many calories he was just drip-fed without his permission. "And?"
"Are you in a place to hear about it right now or should I come back later?"
Astarion shut his eyes and nodded. He had nothing better to do.
His body was a wreck. He received fourteen stitches to his forehead and a minor procedure to remove the glass embedded throughout his body. Outside of his injuries, he was visibly thin and haggard. Blood tests, initially carried out for smoke inhalation, revealed low platelet counts. Electrolyte abnormalities. Defective red blood cells. Severe anemia.
In spite of it all, Isobel said, "You're lucky. I heard you were the last one out of the building. It's a miracle you didn't sustain any significant burns."
"It looks like my life has been a series of minor miracles lately," Astarion deadpanned.
"I agree," Isobel said, without a hint of bite or sarcasm. "Did you have any questions?"
For the first time since he woke up, Astarion took a good look at his surroundings. The curtain pushed to the side was a sickly green colour. Electricity hummed and Astarion realized he was hooked up to multiple machines and monitors. The floor was a blank space next to his bed.
"My stuff. Where is it?"
Astarion remembered the great (stupid, reckless) pains he had taken to secure his notes. He could eventually get over giving up the heritage building that was the House of Szarr and the priceless antiques and materials within. If he had lost his own work (his art, his pitifully limited genius, all the evidence that he wasn't a worthless wretch), winding up immobile in a hospital, however temporary, would be the coldest comfort of all.
"They're in storage. All you had on you were your clothes and valuables. There was also a notebook in your coat. Would you like me to get them for you?"
Astarion nodded again. Isobel drew the curtain closed on her way out. He exhaled the relief he was holding in his chest.
The room around him was quiet, mostly. Muffled footsteps came and went from beyond the curtain. A few patients' names called, the rush of wheels against linoleum. Laughter. Astarion couldn't tell what time of day it was. He hoped no one he knew was in the beds on either side of him.
Everything hurt now that Astarion wasn't being pushed by adrenaline and panic, but despite the pain, everything felt sharper and clearer than before, less dream-like. The hospital gown was practically falling off his shoulders. Unease gnawed at his empty stomach and he found himself thinking he would kill for a glass of rum to make it go away. It didn't.
Astarion felt empty.
He had won. He had won. The House of Szarr had gone up in smoke. Cazador was apprehended god knows where. The monster was gone. And this was Astarion's reward for risking it all: waking up alone in a hospital bed, surrounded by the smell of sickness and a hideous mint green curtain. But he was alive. He was free.
The road ahead of him was wide open, hurtling towards the horizon. Sun beat down on the asphalt. For some reason, that frightened him. Experience told him that he belonged in the shadows, in cramped spaces with stagnant water and crawling things. That he didn't deserve the light.
The curtain parted and Astarion bolted up, wincing from the sudden movement. Shadowheart appeared. Every feature was etched with worry. She went in for a hug.
"Oh god, there you are. I had to sneak past Isobel to get to you—"
"Don't. Touch me."
"Sorry." Shadowheart stepped back. "Though as one of your current healthcare providers, you might want to think about staying in my good graces."
"Sure, Jen." Astarion rolled his eyes, but held back from snickering at the 'Jenevelle Hallowleaf' on her name tag and gratefully accepted the paper cup of water she held out to him. Astarion's raw throat convulsed when he took the first sip. He downed the rest with ravenous gulps and the thought of entertaining visitors suddenly became tolerable.
Once he finished his water, Astarion wet his lips. "Where's—"
"Gale's on his way."
"Is he—?"
"Scared shitless. And grateful that you're alive." Shadowheart stooped so she was eye level with him. "So am I."
"Me three." Astarion lifted his hand. The needle in his wrist pinched and he laid it back down on his lap. He flexed his fingers instead. "Funny. I feel better all bound up in a hospital bed than I ever did on a good day at work."
"Comes with working at a house of horrors like Szarr, I suppose." Shadowheart's face fell. "I'm sorry you lost your source of employment in one fell swoop, though. And in such a way. You're going to be traumatized."
Astarion clucked his tongue. "Already was."
"Figured. I saw the article, the one from Baldur's Mouth."
"Spare me the sympathy, darling. Please." The corners of Astarion's lips twitched up. "Besides, I prefer to say I was liberated."
Shadowheart patted the rail on his bed. "You should be out in a day. Relax, or at least as well as you can."
"Jen, go back to the ICU. I thought I told you to stay away from him."
Isobel returned with a duffel bag in hand. Shadowheart folded her arms, concern fading into cool indifference. "No one said anything after Aylin got into that motorcycle accident and you wouldn't leave her side for days," she said.
"She asked for me specifically," Isobel countered.
"Exactly. And she was terribly irate when we said no."
"Alright, what does the patient want?"
Shadowheart and Isobel looked at Astarion. He shrugged as best as he could with his entire body aching by raising and lowering one shoulder. "Don't mind me. I'm just enjoying the show," he said.
Shadowheart pursed her lips. "That's his way of saying he wants us both to leave him alone." She took the empty paper cup back from Astarion. "See you around. One of these days."
Astarion wiggled his fingers in a wave. Shadowheart walked out of the room, silver braid swinging. The sign above the door read 'Emergency' in large red letters. Isobel set the duffel bag down by the bed. "Here you go. One of us will be back in time for dinner but until then, we'll give you enough space to rest."
She stepped back and turned to leave. One thought shot towards the forefront of Astarion's mind.
"Wait," he blurted out.
Isobel looked up. Astarion faltered, then sighed. "I need help."
Isobel continued to stare, uncomprehending. For a moment, Astarion considered asking her for a sedative so he could forget he said anything. Finding the words, then forcing them out, was as painful as pulling his own teeth. Astarion braced for the ache. It was now or never.
"There's no delicate way to put this, but," he glanced away, "I have a drinking problem."
Isobel's brows knit. Astarion's left hand clutched at the flimsy blanket draped over his knees. "It's been going on for a few years now. I'm tired. I'm sick of it all. I know I need to go sober but I don't know if I can accept that I can never have another drink ever again. I don't even know where to start. I mean, I've been tapering, but it's not like that's a long-term solution." He watched Isobel, who was still standing by his bedside. "You're a medical professional, we're in a hospital, surely there's something we can do."
Astarion clamped his mouth shut before more words fell out of him. He loathed any kind of medical attention and avoided hospitals like the plague. With doctor's visits came questions and when he gave honest answers about his habits, he was met with silent but obvious judgment. As if to affirm his doubts, Isobel's only response was tilting her head to one side.
"I see," she said.
Embarrassment turned into annoyance and Astarion snapped. "Look, can you help? Or am I sorry I asked?"
Isobel clasped her hands. "We can put you in touch with a rehab service to get started. You'll probably be able to choose whether to detox at a centre or at home," she offered. "Lots of them also provide counselling, which I recommend looking into after everything that happened this morning."
Astarion weighed the options. Plans formed, then fizzled, and he let them. This was going to be something for his future self to figure out. "It's alright. You don't have to do much. A couple of names or referrals are good enough." After a pause, he said, "Thank you."
"Of course. Can I get you anything else?"
Astarion swallowed. There was one last thing he needed. "Gale—my partner—should be here soon. Is there room for him here? I mean, is he allowed to visit?"
He shook his head, cursing himself for fumbling, and Isobel giggled. "We have 24/7 visiting hours. There's enough room for him to stay overnight as long as he behaves himself. Clear?"
"Crystal."
Isobel smiled. "I'll see if that's something he wants."
Astarion nodded his thanks. Isobel left one more time, closing the curtain and obscuring day from night. Astarion settled back into bed and waited for sleep to take him. He already knew the answer.
◈━◈━◈
When Gale finally arrived, it took calling for Shadowheart to get him to stop admonishing Astarion for "needless and reckless endangerment" and "nearly inducing the onset of potentially fatal cardiac arrest", which somehow made Astarion both a "rube" and "the most incredible man alive". Once Gale calmed down, he refused to leave Astarion's side from that point on.
They went home to Gale's apartment. The days slotted together into an unsteady routine. Piece by piece, the bandages and medical tape came off. The stitches in Astarion's forehead were taken out after a week, mercifully leaving behind no scars. He slept early and he no longer had to wake up at the crack of dawn, though that didn't stop his body's internal clock from trying.
Astarion was listless. He couldn't focus long enough to finish a book, so he prodded at embroidery projects in the time between. The only reading material that never tired him out was his notebook. When Astarion was unable to rest, he shuffled through notes and accords like a deck of cards. He turned the desk chair towards the bed and watched Gale sleep so he didn't have to see Cazador's face and his red eyes glowing out at him from the dark, reflecting fire and hatred. The (unchewed) pen he borrowed from Gale scratched across smoke-scented paper, the smell so deeply set that it would never come out.
Get rid of the roses
Rose oxide HC - 10Cedarwood oil (Atlas)- 400Sandalwood oil - 400
Dihydroionone gamma - 110
10% Orris root tincture - 85
Methyl ionone alpha - 45
10% Heliotropin - 10
Ethyl vanillin - 100
Ethylene brassylate - 5
50% Opoponax resinoid - 50
Phenyl propyl alcohol - 5
Coumarin - 10
Galaxolide - 50
Isoeugenol - 10
Kephalis - 40
Isobutyl quinoline - 10
10% Birch tar oil (rectified) - 10
3% Ambergris tincture - 40
They both agreed that the single worst thing for Astarion to do was stay at home, bored and alone with a liquor cabinet for company. While Gale taught his second semester classes, Astarion paced around the Blackstaff campus and learned the routes from the staff tower to the student building, to each library and lecture hall. From Gale's office, he helped Rolan grade multiple choice quizzes as long as there was an answer key. It didn't take long for Astarion to beg Gale to give him something more interesting to do. A life of total leisure wasn't everything he had chalked it up to be.
So, like all good things, it came to an end.
One morning, Astarion sat next to Gale on his leather couch. He scrolled absently through his phone, then tucked it away. He checked it again. The lockscreen said it was February. For a whole month now, Astarion had busied himself with the Herculean task of getting better.
Two cups of coffee sat on the table. One with cream and sugar, the other with oat milk and sweetener.
Two pill bottles sat side by side. His and his. It was rather romantic.
Gale reached across Astarion's lap. "Naltrexone," he read aloud. "It's the derivative of oxymorphone. Specifically, the derivative of oxymorphone in which the tertiary amine methyl substituent is replaced with methylcyclopropane."
"I would say it's all Greek to me, but you know." Astarion waved a hand.
"Interesting mechanism of action as well." Gale turned the pill bottle over. "It blocks the effect of endorphins on opioid receptors, which stops the chain reaction that leads to elevated dopamine levels."
Astarion took a sip of his coffee. The sweetener was caramel-flavoured. Amusement flitted across his lips. "So that means alcohol's going to go from yeah to meh," he said.
"Exactly." Gale blew on his drink as Tara approached the couch.
Astarion gave a humourless chuckle. "Just what I need. One more thing to strip the joy from me."
Gale set his mug down and crossed his legs. Today, he was wearing purple flannel pants and cat print socks, which made him look silly. The shift in his voice was anything but. "You sound like you're having doubts."
"No, that's not it," Astarion protested. Gale raised an eyebrow. Astarion fidgeted with the mug handle as he tried to come up with a way to show Gale that he was sincere. He only managed to stumble over his words. "I want this. Really. I'm just..."
"Afraid of the side effects? The second you start to show signs of significant deterioration, I'm rushing you to rehab."
Gale opened up his palm. Astarion placed his hand on top and Gale's fingers closed around his. Warm. Safe. A pure gesture of trust.
"Much appreciated, darling."
They sat still. Their cups of coffee steamed between them. Astarion's thumb brushed over Gale's knuckles deliberately, preemptively preparing him for the words to come. For good measure, he lifted the back of Gale's hand to his lips and kissed his middle and ring fingers. He said, "I worry I'm not going to find happiness in anything again the way I did with the bottle. It's rotten of me, isn't it?" He gestured towards Gale with his free hand. "No slight towards present company, of course."
"I, for one, am glad you're not addicted to me. I've had enough of unhealthy dynamics." Gale's expression softened. "But believe me, it's going to be more than worthwhile. You're going to find joy in many other activities, especially once sobriety frees up even more of your time."
Astarion smiled, heavy-lidded. He laced his fingers with Gale's and dropped his voice into a purr. He knew the look he was giving Gale was practically predatory. "Activities like what?"
Gale smiled back. His pinky touched Astarion's knee, teasingly close. "Have I ever told you I think you'd make an excellent archer?"
All suggestiveness vanished and Astarion laughed out loud. He wanted to accuse Gale of playing too much Dungeons and Dragons or tell him that archery wasn't a real, modern-day hobby for modern people. Instead, he asked, "What gives?"
"You're pure grace."
Astarion preened. "Go on."
"You have coordination, adaptability, and mental fortitude in spades."
"Hmm."
"And you would look damn good doing it."
Astarion leaned in and nuzzled Gale's pulse point. He rested his head on Gale's shoulder and watched Gale clear his notification centre.
"What are they saying?" he asked.
The media circus had been treated to a tragedy in two acts. While the Baldur's Mouth exposé had set the rumour mill spinning, the burning of the House of Szarr was as explosive as the fire itself. The two bombs about the same perfume house dropped so closely in succession fed each other, breeding an ouroboros of scandal. A few sources said there was an arsonist, others said it was an accident. Either way, the press agreed unanimously on one thing: Cazador was guilty and Astarion was innocent, and he intended to keep the narrative that way.
Still, some good had crawled out of the rubble. Interest in Sunwalker was more than rejuvenated. It was fully resurrected. The mob, having run out of terrible things to discover about Cazador Szarr (an impressive feat), threw themselves onto Astarion's online footprint. They wanted to see the perfumer who survived a burning building and what they got was a half-baked landing page with nothing for sale. They devoured it anyway. Astarion let them. He was in no place to deny them their hunger for knowledge.
"It's same old story about the fall of a giant. David and Goliath, Odysseus and Polyphemus." Gale set his phone facedown on the armrest. "At least the buzzards have decided to leave you alone."
Astarion hummed nonchalantly. "Until the trial date comes."
"Which you want to be sober for."
With a huff, Astarion glanced back at the table. Those had been his own words, admittedly. The pill bottle was still waiting for him. He opened it, depositing one pill into the cap. The white oblong tablet seemed so unassuming.
Tara pulled herself onto the couch and settled between them. Gale gave her a few scratches. "Reason number one: clarity and presence of mind when you're on the stand."
Astarion scoffed. "We're not going to start writing adorable motivational post-it notes, are we?"
Tara curled into a ball. She began to doze off and Gale brushed her forehead with the back of his pointer finger. "Not unless you want to, but it helps to have at least one reminder of why we're doing this in the first place," he told him.
The words suggested expectation. Astarion mulled them over. A solid working memory would be nice. His and Gale's friends deserved better than his drunken, sorry self. Vomiting was also straight-out disgusting. Astarion wasn't too proud to admit that having more money in the bank was by far the most convincing case, as was being even more beautiful than he already was. At the same time, it wasn't enough.
Astarion had forgotten what it was like to abandon himself to his senses. He had been numb to the world for so long, and the world was insipid and colourless in return. The will to carry on brimmed at his fingertips. Astarion stretched, flexing his healed muscles. He listened to Tara's soft snores. He drank in the taste of caramel and warm coffee. He breathed in lavender shampoo and perfume that still had too much rose in it.
"I want to live," he said.
It was such a cliché, useless thing to say that when Gale looked up, Astarion's breath hitched at the gentleness he was met with. "That's a fine goal," Gale agreed.
"Just fine?"
Gale moved closer. He took Astarion's face in his hands and the world narrowed onto deep-set eyes dark enough for Astarion to want to hang the stars in them. Astarion settled for tangling his fingers in Gale's hair.
"It's the best goal there is," Gale said. "And I promise you, my love, I'll move heaven and earth to make sure you do."
Astarion captured Gale's mouth with his in one motion. The kiss lingered. Astarion was aware that his lips were chapped and tender even a month after his injuries, but Gale's were soft and invitingly pliant. They parted slightly as Gale exhaled and Astarion opened for him. It felt like kissing him for the first time, except there was no crowd, no bass, no strobes, just sunlight, sunlight, sunlight.
They returned to their respective pill bottles. Gale tipped his into the palm of his hand, then held his pill out towards Astarion. His was circular and orange.
"Down the hatch."
Astarion obliged with a snort. They touched pills as if they were toasting with glasses.
Gale popped his pill into his mouth. Astarion did the same, chasing it with a sip of coffee. The pill rolled along the tip of his tongue.
He swallowed it down.
◈━◈━◈
The first day passed in relative peace.
Astarion woke up cocooned in a thin veil of nausea. He was used to it and similar sensations, so he slipped out of bed without much difficulty and managed to stay on his feet as he walked down the hall towards the kitchen. He snuck Tara a treat along with her kibble, then set about making coffee. While the water boiled, he buried his nose in the bag of beans.
Using coffee beans to reset one's sense of smell was a myth, but Astarion desperately needed something to keep him grounded when he felt like sinking through the kitchen floor. Elturel's Brimstone Blend had distinctive roasted facets and subtle chocolatey undertones that he was loathe to admit the first time he smelled it. He rooted deeper. His fingers turned over black, loamy earth. A sophisticated woody-nutty character thrummed in the humid air. He parted the glossy, dark green foliage of the coffee shrubs.
Red coffee cherries burst into flames. The clouds overhead turned into smoke. The forest was on fire.
"This isn't a side effect I'm not aware of, is it?"
Astarion tore away from the bag. Gale was standing in the doorway. Tara came up to him, tail raised high, and Gale picked her up. Her green eyes were trained on Astarion, unblinking.
"How do you feel?" Gale asked.
The kettle screeched. Astarion grimaced and wandered towards the mug cabinet. He opened the doors and stood there. A few seconds crawled by before he noticed he was hanging off the handles for support.
"Dizzy."
Tara squirmed and Gale let her down. He came up beside Astarion and wrapped an arm around his waist. “Get some water. Drink a full glass for me, then go back to bed.”
"That's dumb. I just got up," Astarion whined. "I'd rather not waste the day."
"A day of rest isn't a day wasted," Gale chided him.
"Says you."
"Yes, dear, you got me. I'm working on it, too." Gale squeezed Astarion's shoulder. "Come on now."
Sulking, Astarion obeyed anyway, following Gale back to the bedroom. He flopped onto the bed. Gale disappeared. When he returned, he pressed a kiss to Astarion's forehead. The smell coming from the bedside table wasn't that of coffee, but herbal tea. Astarion shifted onto his side and retrieved his phone. He flicked through Instagram, then TikTok. Comments flooded his Sunwalker accounts, asking if he was ever coming back to the Internet and when he was going to start putting out a product line. Astarion scrolled past them. He couldn't do anything about it.
So he slept.
The second day was the worst.
The sudden spikes of vertigo became even harder to ignore. They slammed into Astarion's body like a tidal wave and nearly knocked him to the floor each time they surged forward. He got away with grabbing onto the nearest piece of furniture each time he stood, but sometimes they attacked when he was already up and standing, in the middle of the room with nothing around him to hold onto but Gale.
His concentration was hardly better, if only now because it took actual effort to keep from sinking to the ground after a few seconds of being stationary. His eyes felt like they were constantly trying to close and every so often, his heart decided to skip slightly before returning to its usual beat. As Astarion took his daily pill, he couldn't believe that this stupid little thing was responsible for making him feel this shitty.
Then came the wine.
Each day, Astarion would have one glass of wine half an hour after his medicine. He loaded up on a red blend because he felt like he would miss it the least but as he poured himself his drink, it dawned on him that he might have set himself up to taint every variety. It was too late to back out, though, so he shut up, drank, and went back to watching a Society of Brilliance video with Gale.
Halfway through the video, Astarion's chest tightened. The narrator was droning on about the most probable number of legs for a dragon to have. He threw back another gulp of wine. It warmed his throat on the way down. Astarion swirled his glass again and sipped. All the flavours were accounted for: ripe blackberry and blackcurrant with hints of prune. The glow spread through his mouth. The pleasure of it, however, was gone.
The bridge between the bottle and his brain had crumbled. It felt wrong. So very wrong. The taste of wine was no more enjoyable than earthy juice. The burn was a flash in the pan and when it faded, it didn't go to his head, but plummeted into his stomach. A nauseating churning joined it. Astarion stood.
Gale paused the video. "Astarion?"
Astarion stumbled away from Gale and broke into a light run. He nearly crashed into the bathroom door, unable to think about anything other than the way his mouth was quickly filling with saliva again, except this time, he wasn't able to swallow it back down. He knelt over the toilet and choked on a gag, but nothing came up except bile and spit. Still, he couldn't bring himself to stop. He just kept heaving and choking, and he couldn't breathe in between.
When he finally managed to cough something up, the bile foamed, red on white.
The third day was torture.
Every inch of his skin was on fire, every gasp of air like a grater dragged into his lungs. He was lying on a bed of nails and the walls were as rough as granite. Every sound from the hallway might as well have been a shotgun firing given how painful it was.
Everything pissed Astarion off.
Astarion didn't remember what flipped the switch. What he did recall was screaming at Gale that he didn’t know anything and to "mind his own fucking business". He cursed the day he met Gale and all the sacrifice and suffering that led him to this point. If not for Gale, he would still have a job, a sense of normalcy, and something to actually look forward to at the end of each day instead of gloom and wretchedness and complete and utter misery in limbo with no end in sight.
Gale left.
But before that, he looked at him so lost, so heartbroken, that it made Astarion want to tear his own skin off. He looked at Astarion like he couldn’t recognize the person he was looking at.
It was the first thing Astarion felt in days that wasn’t sick, irritable, or tired. It was more than just sadness. It was more than just anger. The feeling clogging up his chest seemed an awful lot like despair, and Astarion hated himself for it.
The key in the front door turned at 9 pm, or at least it was what Astarion thought he heard. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, there was a weight next to him, dipping the mattress. Gale's back was turned to him. Astarion reached out and placed his hand flat against Gale's spine. Gale didn't flinch, but he didn't acknowledge the touch either. Astarion whispered, careful not to disturb the silence.
"Darling?"
There was a long silence. Astarion strained, listening closely, and heard faint breathing. He tried again. "I'm sorry. About earlier."
More silence. Gale's voice was cool and collected as he spoke in the direction of the wall. "Answer me this. Are you sorry for the harm you've caused? Or are you sorry for yourself?"
Astarion went quiet because platitudes would only annoy and he didn't have anything else to offer. He chose his words carefully—not to deceive or persuade, but to try to express himself with everything he had—which felt like a first. Emotion gripped his throat. He had failed himself, clearly. He had also failed Gale, multiple times. He let Cazador discover his existence, but that was nothing compared to the very real possibility of Gale discovering him on the floor, dying or dead. It never struck Astarion as a problem. He hadn't believed anyone cared enough; that hurting himself hurt Gale, too.
Astarion's breaths came in harsh. The bridge of his nose grew tight. The splinter in his heart widened into a chasm.
"Yes, I am. I'm sorry for all of it." He sniffled and a tear fell and oh god, here comes the sentimental. He couldn't stand the sentimental. He didn't even like being sentimental. "I can't even begin to understand how selfish I've been. I know I've been cruel. I've been merciless. I thought that would keep me alive. I was wrong. Shit." He wiped at his nose. "You deserve so much better than me. I'll do better so I deserve you." Another tear fell, leaving a track down his cheek. "It's fine if you don't trust me, by the way. After all, I've never trusted anyone, I certainly haven't done anything to deserve it in turn—"
Gale's arms wrapped around him.
Astarion pressed his face against Gale's neck, letting a sob slip past his lips and not even bothering to muffle it. Sobs turned into choked-off hyperventilation. He was crying so hard that he was scared of starting to heave again, but Gale's arms never left.
He wasn't sure how many minutes passed before his breathing turned from sobs to uneven gasps, but Astarion decided that he didn't want to worry about it. He was tired. His chest hurt.
There was no fourth day.
The sun rose behind the curtain, but Astarion didn't count it. There was no point in marking the days. There was only this day and the day after and the day after that, all the same and all unending in their routines and their illness and their despair. If the world had been desaturated before, it was now that and featureless. He refused his daily allowance of wine.
He didn't want to drink. He wanted to disappear completely.
One week later, Astarion heard music.
He opened his eyes to an empty bed. When he pulled the covers off, the air was chilly, but not unbearably so like it had been the past few days. His stomach rumbled, annoyed at having been deprived of food for so long. Despite his heavy eyelids, Astarion got to his feet and stepped quickly, afraid that the music coming from the other end of the flat was an ephemeral thing, that it would disappear if he took too long.
The piano had been moved out to the living room. Gale sat at the bench. He pressed a single key, drawing out a long note. A second key followed, then a third. He paused as the third note died off. He flexed his fingers and started playing a simple melody, naïve but soulful. Astarion wasn't trained in music, but Gale's playing sounded awkward, as if he had suddenly been asked to play in front of an audience at a party or function. It was only when Astarion caught Gale's closed eyes that he recognized that this bashfulness was part of the song and completely deliberate.
When he finished, Astarion emerged from the shadows, applauding lightly. "That didn't sound like Tchaikovsky."
Gale took his fingers off the keys. He gave a little bow. "Good ear," he said. He placed his hand on the piano bench. Astarion sat beside him. Outside, it was another cloudy day. The snow was melting into slushy patches on the surrounding apartment roofs.
"How are you feeling?"
Astarion's bare foot brushed the rightmost pedal, reacquainting himself with the sensation of cold. He didn't feel good, per se. Sane sounded more apt. His stomach beat him to it, growling loudly. Astarion gestured to it. "That," he said lamely.
Gale nodded. "I'll take that as a sign of renewed health." His fingers danced along the left side of the piano, filling the room with deep resonance. "What would you like to do? Besides have breakfast."
Astarion's foot pressed down on the pedal and he waited for it to do something to the notes. If it did, he couldn't hear it. He sat still and thought. And thought some more. Then he said, "I want to get away."
The playing stopped. Gale looked confused. "I admire the enthusiasm, but I think it might be a little soon, dearest."
Astarion threw his head back and laughed. "Not right now, silly goose." His voice quieted. "I could use a change of scenery," he explained. "No shade to these four walls, but I want to see what's out there. I have options now. I might as well figure out what to do with myself." His fingers curled under the seat of the piano bench. "And who knows? I might come back inspired. A chance to begin again."
Gale's fingers moved towards him and the notes climbed up the scale. "I've been thinking the same thing," he admitted. "It's hard to do any form of productive soul-searching when you're confronted with the circumstances that spurred it on in the first place."
Astarion's mouth fell open. "Please don't tell me you're quitting your job."
The fingers leapt from the ivory to the black keys. "What? No. I was talking about a vacation. That's what you meant, right?"
Astarion frowned. His foot let go of the pedal. "Sorry, love, the concept of a vacation is so foreign to me that I don't remember what it feels like." He brushed a curl out of his eyes. "I. I guess? Yes."
A flourish. "Exactly. A week of wanton, hedonistic pleasure."
Astarion ducked his head. The smile growing across his face was going to crease into laughter lines and he didn't care. "With you there, my sweet, how could it be anything but?"
Gale grinned in response, then returned to playing the simple, sweet melody Astarion heard when he woke up. A voice in Astarion's head said he deserved a drink for that answer. That voice would only go away if it starved to death. It had begged and pleaded with Astarion for years. It had tugged on Astarion's ear endlessly. It was a perpetual devil on his shoulder and there was no reasoning with it because he knew it would say anything to stay alive.
Astarion's left hand jumped the divide to play the keys between Gale's hands.
He was really going to enjoy watching it die.
Notes:
PSA: if you ever go through alcoholic withdrawals, go to the ER. Don't quit cold turkey if you can. Go be seen by a healthcare professional. It's one of the few substance withdrawals that can kill you and it won't take much for serious damage to happen.
Again, thank you all again for waiting. The research for this chapter was intensive, but hopefully worth it. The perfume formula in this chapter is my actual recipe for the final version Gale's perfume if anyone wants to give it a go. Will I? Maybe, but I'll never financially recover from it.
It's hard to believe this is the second-to-last chapter. I might be wrecked when it ends, but I know with complete confidence that I am and will be forever grateful to you for giving this fic a chance. It really—really, really—means a lot.
Perfume inspo: Eyes Closed by Byredo
"Eyes Closed offers a unique sensory experience that bridges the ancient with the contemporary. The fragrance opens with the warm, enveloping embrace of cinnamon and cardamom, evoking an immediate sense of closeness. At its heart, the unexpected freshness of carrot, orris butter, and ginger introduces a modern balance, adding depth and contrast. A grounding base of papyrus and patchouli brings complexity and cozy warmth, anchoring the scent in a rich, textured embrace."
As always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this chapter. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
Chapter 25: Labdanum
Notes:
The texting skin featured in this chapter can be found here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The round clock sat on the blank wall. Thin strips of light streamed in through the closed blinds. It was 10:05 in the morning.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
An art print hung next to the clock. A Matisse cutout, all bright colours and abstract shapes, likely chosen without much thought besides mass appeal. The surrounding room was clinical, air conditioned, and scented with hand sanitizer.
Tick.
Astarion exhaled, leaned forward in the armchair, and faced the woman across from him.
Her name was Ulma. She was almost seventy years old with cropped grey hair and a frank attitude that Astarion found refreshing. He fully expected to be treated like tissue paper when he signed up for counselling, especially considering his laundry list of issues and neuroses. Instead, he was assigned to a therapist as sharp as himself who was more than ready to call him out on his snide remarks, exasperated sighs, and eye rolls. He was relieved, almost grateful.
Recovery had been mostly kind to Astarion. He had always been pale, but a light flush returned to his skin just three weeks in. His hair grew thicker and shinier. His hunger returned in full force. He panicked when he found his clothes clinging tighter as the weather grew warmer, but the feeling vanished when he realized he could think again. The fog over his mind cleared, allowing him to string together thoughts that weren't just drink, sleep, and tomorrow. He could exchange verbal jabs with Gale, faster and more viciously, and absorb Gale's laughter in full when his darling admitted to being outwitted.
He even began to create perfumes again, filling up his notebook with formulas note by note, line by line. He made nothing revolutionary and progress came and went in unpredictable bursts, but everything was written out in his own time, everything was imperfect, and it was his.
The dark circles under his eyes stayed. And so did the rage.
"No one tells you about the anger," Ulma said. "How quickly it comes. How intense it is. When we think about trauma, the emotions we associate most with it are fear, sadness, and even numbness. Those are the appropriate ones to express, at least. But it does no one any good to try to be the perfect victim." She folded her hands in her lap. "Anger in particular gives you the energy you need to act quickly and help yourself or others. In the moment, its purpose is to make sure you survive. It's going to keep serving that purpose when you find yourself in the same kind of danger or a reminder of it."
Astarion rested his elbows on his knees and let his anger flow through him, rippling like stakes from his spine. It came to him so many times without warning, while out for a drive with Gale on a highway, when unboxing a new package of raw materials, while making new posts on Sunwalker's social media accounts and feeling that he deserved more than fighting for scraps of recognition as recompense for everything he'd been through. Despite the initial flush of discomfort, the familiarity of the feeling gave him the strength to speak.
"When I saw him sitting there, I thought I'd be overjoyed. Smug, at the very least. But all I wanted to do was vault over the stand and stab him."
The case of The People v. Szarr went to trial at the start of July. All of Astarion and Gale's friends were in attendance, as well as witnesses Leon Onufrio, and surprisingly, Violet Goldhammer. The rest of Szarr's former employees were scattered to the wind. Astarion told himself he couldn't care less but the night before the first court date, he found himself missing Dalyria's sound advice and wishing the Szarr Squad group chat was still around if only so he wouldn't feel so alone.
As he walked up the stairs of the old courthouse in the sweltering heat, Astarion's blood ran cold. Gale gave him a chaste kiss before they entered the courtroom and Astarion barely felt it on his lips. His throat closed up when he took his seat at the plaintiff's table. When Cazador appeared, he stopped breathing altogether.
There was one surreal moment when Astarion didn't recognize the man escorted into the room in handcuffs. Cazador's hair, usually pinned and perfect, was overgrown. His age was starting to show now that he was barred access from whatever procedures, products, or blood sacrifices were keeping him rejuvenated. Astarion wanted to find the orange jumpsuit comical, but nothing about this was funny, just sad and unfair and aggravating. Then Cazador looked up.
It was in that fury that Astarion recognized his tormentor, and even with the older man stripped of his power and restrained, he flinched. He imagined Cazador breaking free of his restraints and inflicting all the harm he caused in the past ten years ten times over. Nothing in the world would be able to stop him, least of all the man he had chosen to be his defence.
Raphael of Karsus Law Corporation had a funny way of showing up everywhere whether he was expected to or not. That day, he cut a devilish figure in his seersucker suit, smelling like smoky cherries and palmarosa. Astarion finally had the chance to see him wheel and deal and it quickly became clear that Raphael's specialties were theatrics, tugging hard at heartstrings, and speaking quickly and more eloquently than the opposition. He regaled the courtroom with stories of Cazador's own upbringing in the historical perfume house. The Szarr heir's sense of morality, Raphael argued, was flawed. He had known nothing but cruelty and betrayal. Every single day his father was alive was a test of inner strength and cunning. Vellioth Szarr tried to bury his son, but his seed bore unsurprisingly evil fruit. Cazador Szarr didn't need prison, he needed a psych ward.
Raphael was also eager to point out Astarion's own misdemeanours, namely going behind Cazador's back to speak to the press and the theft of company property. True to his expertise, he identified a dozen clauses Astarion had violated while his NDA was still active. He also explained how, according to Cazador's testament, Astarion was a willing participant in the violence. Medical records showed a broken wrist, which Astarion allegedly caused "with great enjoyment" as he stomped on the back of the creative director's hand the day the House of Szarr went up in flames.
On the other side of the room, Ana Ancunín was unimpressed and unfazed. Astarion had been hesitant to let her provide input or even ask for another favour. It was a conflict of interest. More than that, it was deeply uncomfortable. However, his mother insisted and they had been removed from each other's lives for so long that biased, preferential treatment was unlikely. Astarion recognized it as her way of extending an olive branch and being out of other options ultimately nudged him towards taking it.
The prosecution was decisive and lethal. They examined the evidence that Cazador lived and breathed premeditation. They watched footage of the aftermath of the fire taken from a bystander who posted it online for the media circus to gawk at. Black smoke and white flowers filled Astarion's nostrils. Fists flew over slushy snow and road salt. There was no audio, but the sound of knuckles hitting bone cracked against Astarion's eardrums. One of the figures on the ground was so gaunt and covered in grime and ash that it took the camera zooming in onto the man's face for Astarion to realize he was looking at himself.
Astarion reached up towards his face and, to his shock and embarrassment, his fingers came away wet. He didn't know which was worse: watching one of the worst days of his life on a screen or launching into a panic attack because of it in front of the court, in front of Cazador, when he always used to be able to stay so composed. Friends and witnesses were watching. Cameras were watching. Cazador was watching and Astarion swore to never give him that satisfaction again. He turned around.
The courtroom dimmed. The light fell only on him and on one spot towards the gallery. Gale sat perfectly still. Wrath swirled around him, thick like smog. Gale's beautiful brown eyes were terrible, shining out from the back of the courtroom with a promise: anyone who laid a finger on his beloved again would be ripped limb from limb.
Astarion's rapidly wavering need to flee or fight folded under the weight of Gale's rage. Gale could be just as much of a wicked tempest, a wild animal, as he was. Adoration flourished in Astarion's chest at seeing the power that roiled in Gale again. He hadn't been provoked to his full potential in front of Mystra. Astarion wanted Cazador to lose control one more time—all sense of his propriety and stupid stolen rules—just so he could see Gale unleashed.
As for him, he was in the eye of the storm. He was safe. He was loved.
The hearing adjourned an hour later. The projector screen switched off as the judge rose from his seat and the members of the jury filed out of the room. Prison guards stepped forward and led Cazador away. Dark eyes focused only on Astarion, and Astarion, for the first time in his life, thought he looked fragile.
Ulma typed on her keyboard. "What held you back?" she asked.
"Murder in a court of law. And," Astarion shrugged, "it wouldn't have been worth it. It's like someone I used to know said. Why deliver a swift end when he could spend the rest of his life rotting in a cell, ruminating on all the mistakes that led him up to that point, on repeat, ad infinitum?"
"That sounds like hell," Ulma said.
"That's the point."
Astarion crossed his arms, laying down a silent challenge. Ulma could extract his secrets from him like drawing blood from a stone. She could crack his shell. She could insist on exhuming the past and make him pick at that old scab, but if she asked him to find sympathy for the devil, she would turn up empty.
"I don't expect you to entertain forgiveness. Our priority is making sure you have the strategies you need to stay in the present and to find things that can help you rebuild your sense of self after having it eroded for such a long time." Ulma set her mouth into a firm line. "The last time we spoke, we set a goal to try to look for an outlet for your anger."
Astarion splayed his fingers. "I've been getting into knife throwing," he said. "Gale and I went to a range for my birthday. We tried archery first, then the knives. It wasn't his thing, but I thought it was fun. Whatever gets you through a midlife crisis, I suppose."
Ulma chuckled. Astarion glared and she calmed down. "Astarion, I've been practising martial arts—knife throwing included—longer than you've been alive. If you enjoyed it, it's going to continue far past your so-called midlife crisis."
Astarion raked his fingers through his curls. "Well, we all need a hobby. So long as my mother never finds out."
"Naturally." Ulma raised an eyebrow, which told Astarion that she wouldn't have minded if her children or grandchildren started hurling blades. She typed some more. "How is she doing, by the way?"
Astarion counted the strips of sunlight on the wall. It bought him time while he thought of what to tell her. He wanted to keep every part of his old life before Szarr, his mother included, at arm's length even though he had no good reason for it. He couldn't fully place why. The best explanation Astarion could come up with was that stepping back felt like trying to slip into a pair of shoes several sizes too small, but he tossed it aside when that combination of words sounded ridiculous.
"She's fine," he said at last. It was the easiest thing to say. Fine was neither good or bad and that was the sum of their relationship; neither good or bad. It just was.
That idea dawned on Astarion when he stopped by the old office space occupied by Ancunín Family Law. His parents purchased the place when he was still a boy. He remembered how excited they had both been, as well as countless days after school spent sitting in a particular chair outside his mother's office or sneaking around and eavesdropping on the salacious (but usually dreadfully boring) details of each new case that came in. When Astarion ventured inside, the interior seemed more polished than he remembered it, with shinier woodwork as though a coat of varnish had been put over everything to preserve it. Preserved along with it, like stale air in an unopened room, was the certain tautness of being tied to a set future, so much of it that he hadn't even known it was there in the first place.
Even though his eyes needed adjusting, Astarion's feet remembered the way up the stairs and to the right. The picture frames had changed. The chair was still sitting outside the door. He heard her before he saw her. She was on the phone. Astarion knew she had been reviewing his case and it occurred to him that in all his thirty-nine years, he had never seen his mother cry.
Astarion was tempted to turn away like he did on the courthouse steps after Gale's divorce. If he walked in, he would find her remorseful. She would go on and on about what could have been if she didn't push him, if she hadn't been so stubborn, and what did she think she would accomplish, telling him something like that? He didn't care. He didn’t want to hear any of it. Not now or ever.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to leave.
Two clerks descended the stairs—new employees Astarion didn't recognize—or maybe they'd been there forever; he'd been gone for so long. He leaned against the opposite wall. He wasn't sticking around in the hallway because she was his mother. He just had unfinished business. They would never be like Gale and Morena. He had grown enough, though, to admit where he was wrong. If she used to be insufferable and stubborn, he was a prick. And he was tired.
Astarion waited for any noise to quiet, then raised his hand to the door and gave two sharp knocks. His mother answered it, giving no indication of tears or a hitch in her voice. Astarion did her the kindness of pretending he never noticed. It was a start.
"That's good," Ulma said. "I take it you haven't included her in other parts of your life, but you don't need to. All that matters is that you still have a support system in your partner and your friends. Didn't you say that wildlife biologist made you nonalcoholic mead?"
"It lacks body, but it's delightfully effervescent." Astarion shook his head to himself. His friends' generosity surprised him at every turn. Halsin started keeping a hive and insisted that everyone take what they needed from his garden plot. Shadowheart stopped by once a week after the incident to check on Astarion's healing injuries. Lae'zel kept him up to date about the progress Officer Voss was making on his evidence package, sometimes in too much detail. Wyll funded extra legal expenses and stubbornly ignored Astarion's and Gale's protests. Karlach, having already done so much for them, was always down if he needed a distraction, a damn good time, or both at once.
At the beginning, Astarion was more than happy to take from them when it suited him. These days, though, guilt started to eat away at him—just a little bit—for not having much to give in return. He blamed them for that feeling, too.
"Put me in touch with him. I'll have to try it for myself." Ulma inclined her head. "You've been sober for almost half a year now, haven't you?"
Astarion blinked. Since escaping from the House of Szarr, time felt like a fickle thing. The seasons passed on schedule, but their pattern was broken. The last of the snow fell when he moved into Gale's flat and he watched from the windows as the trees grew buds and leaves unfurled in blinding clarity. The days grew longer. The metallic zing of ice turned into a rounded, earthy greenness, into the hay-sweet scent of midsummer, which Astarion barely noticed while he was being throttled by Cazador and his punishing rhythm.
He frowned. "I guess?"
"And how does it feel?"
Astarion burst out, "I don't know what to do with all this time." He sighed. "I mean, it's nice not to spend my days hungover in bed but that makes it all the more clear to me that I have no idea what I'm doing. I sleep better, but then I get nightmares. I don't think I'll ever be free of him. I don't know how I managed. I should have gone mad." He quieted, reaching for his dagger necklace and pushing the point of the pendant against his thumb. He gave it a twist. "I swing between feeling genuinely good and genuinely broken. It's a 'yes and' situation sometimes, if I'm being honest."
"But it has been overwhelmingly a 'yes', correct?"
Astarion averted his gaze, choosing to focus on the art print this time. The abstract shapes he noticed earlier turned out to be fronds in blues, reds, oranges, and greens. Their simplicity was comforting, unlike his current predicament. He had his life back, but he didn't know what that meant.
And yet.
Despite the many times Astarion had tried (and failed miserably) to get better, the only thing that changed was having friends. Friends. Astarion was so used to being a disappointment, a failure, a hopeless wretch and a worm. Having people who thought he mattered, despite his many mistakes and general disdain for closeness, gave him a new reason to try. It was with some surprise—and terror—that he realized that hurting himself hurt them too.
So he got back up. Over and over and over again because living well was the only way to get back at the world for beating him down.
"Yes," Astarion admitted. "By which I mean that's a 'yes'."
"How many days has it been?"
Astarion huffed. "Does anyone bother keeping track after a while?"
"It depends on the person," Ulma explained. "Tracking can be a good motivator. Some find having a concrete number comforting, to have a fact of the matter when your mind and body are spinning half-truths. It's also rewarding to see that number go up. I wouldn't rain on someone else's parade if counting the days works for them." She returned to her keyboard. "Is this something you're interested in finding out?"
If living with Gale had taught Astarion anything, it was that there was value to empirical evidence. He relented. "I don't see why not."
Ulma waited patiently as Astarion tapped his phone. Neither he or Gale did anything to commemorate the starting date besides marking it in his calendar, but that was enough for both of them. Numbers and the names of months whizzed past as Astarion scrolled up until he reached the date underlined in blue. He calculated the number of days between now and then through his Google search bar and his eyes widened. He muttered under his breath. "Shit."
"Well?"
Astarion looked up. "162 days."
Ulma smiled, triumphant.
The rest of the session flew by. Prior to seeing Ulma, Astarion was convinced that therapy was unhelpful at best. It was the kind of self-pitying drivel that powerful men like Cazador (like Astarion wanted to be) sneered at. They had themselves. That was all that mattered. And, truth be told, he felt the same way until his third session or so when Ulma told him that the opposite of addiction wasn't sobriety, it was connection. Astarion scoffed, then went home and ruminated on it for a whole week. Even then, it took him another week to come around to the thought that maybe she did have a point with that trite little saying.
Trust wasn't weakness. Power wasn't the means to every end. Just because he quashed one addiction didn't mean he had conquered them all. His life would be one of constant vigilance. Even though he had caused a lot of harm, there was still time to make amends. Each session unveiled a new lesson, but for all the effort that went into mending his own mind, all Astarion wanted at the end of the day was peace.
At 11:00 am, Astarion got up from his armchair. They set up another appointment in a month's time since he and Gale would be going on vacation next week. Ulma told Astarion to go for a hike, he told her to bugger off, and they both laughed. Before he reached the door, Ulma cleared her throat.
"Astarion?"
"Hm?"
"I hope you find that peace."
The front door of the office building opened to an impossibly tall and cloudless sky. The sun beat down on Astarion's bare arms. It was one of those baking, leisurely days when Astarion could feel the heat of the pavement through the soles of his shoes. He reached into his jeans pocket and slipped on a pair of sunglasses. As he tucked the case back in, his phone buzzed against his thigh.
Five minutes later, the Prius rolled to a slow stop by the sidewalk. Astarion got into the passenger side of the car and buckled his seatbelt. As he leaned over to give Gale a peck on the cheek, he breathed deep.
Violets for steadfastness. Iris for wisdom, trust, and hope. The roses would always be a part of him, but as a passing trail instead of the centrepiece of the bouquet. The notes of wood and paper were heady in the summer heat, books fresh off the printing press enclosing soft, supple musk. This was no longer a library surrounded by pink petals and thorns. It was pure feeling. Subtle elegance touched with wistfulness that made the air around Gale turn into silk.
Astarion drew back and took a second to admire Gale's atom earring, which glinted in the sun. Gale refused to get rid of it, a decision that annoyed Astarion to no end until Gale had the piece set with a tiny ruby. Chemistry would always be a part of him but this way, he explained, it was no longer a carbon copy of Mystra's. He chose a ruby because red was Astarion's favourite colour. The gem was placed in the centre to represent the nucleus, the heart of all matter and life, and to remind Gale that he wanted to live, too.
And Gale looked so full of that life, suntanned, with his hair up and wearing that expression Astarion loved so much: the calm, focused look with a twinkle of daring that said I'm ready for adventure when you are.
"Salutations."
"Hello, you."
A large cold brew sat in the cup holder. Next to it was a half-eaten piece of macadamia lime biscotti that Gale had invented in tandem with Elturel Roasters and a medium iced latte with one pump of raspberry syrup (cream, full sugar, not the watery, flavourless swill Astarion pretended to like for so long). A quick glance at the display hinted that Gale was listening to Alfira's new EP on the way here.
"What now? You said you had a surprise." Astarion craned his neck, pretending to look around the driver's seat for a package.
"Indeed." Gale turned down the air conditioning. "Rolan was just invited to do a PhD. Cal and Lia, of course, are ecstatic. Rolan says it's everything he's ever wanted, but he's going to take a semester off and start in the winter. He says he's going to slow down a little. That makes him wiser than me."
It was only natural for Gale to celebrate academic achievements. Astarion, on the other hand, was hoping for something a little more toothsome. He deflated slightly. "Good for him. I never had any doubt, and all work and no play makes Rolan a very dull boy indeed, but was that all?"
"Far from it. Here." Gale pulled out his phone. "It should be updated by now. One second please, let me refresh the page..."
Gale tapped the screen, then handed it over. Astarion was met with the Blackstaff University faculty website. Gale shifted in his seat, clearly anxious.
"And?"
"Give me a second, darling, not everyone can read as quickly as you." Astarion scrolled down and quickly scanned the page. Gale's staff photo was updated as well. The lighting in the picture did nothing to hide Gale's grey hairs and crow's feet and even though Astarion didn't necessarily like the thought of himself aging, these features suited Gale. He was also wearing that silly, hideous atom print tie. God, he was handsome. "Well, well. Dr. Gale Dekarios, professor of...food science?"
"It was the most intuitive next step," Gale explained. "I'll still be teaching chemistry, except I'll be lecturing on the constituents of food like proteins and lipids and the procedures for analyzing them."
Astarion scrolled further down. Notably, the site colour scheme looked different. Gale wasn't part of the chemistry department anymore. "And you've managed to wriggle out from under Mystra's thumb in the very same move." He gave a quiet whistle. "Look at you."
Gale nodded eagerly. "The life sciences department is much more lax. It's clear the courses were created by people with the passion and freedom to teach for the love of it. You wouldn't believe the variety of electives on offer just within the food science program. Advances in cell-based foods, fish nutrition, wine science—hm. I'll stay away from that last one."
"Don't let me deny you your thirst for knowledge." Astarion passed Gale's phone back to him, but not before tilting his chin up. "Congratulations, my dear."
Gale ducked his head, but the attempt to look humble was no use. "Thank you. It's nice to know someone appreciates the effort."
Astarion's stomach, on the other hand, was more concerned about its hunger, which it expressed by growling. Astarion reached for the raspberry latte and took a long drink. He wiped his mouth, savouring the unusual combination of fruity and tart bitterness and asked, "What's for lunch?"
Gale pondered. "Something light, I think. I'm preparing a full spread for tonight."
Astarion rolled his eyes. "It's a tabletop game, darling, not a Roman banquet. Next you're going to tell me we're having stuffed pheasant and pomegranates with that disgusting fish sauce—"
"Garum."
"Gar-um, no thank you." Astarion lowered his shades and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror while Gale snorted. Finding everything in place, Astarion pushed them back up. "Let me know if you need any help."
Gale's thanks came in the form of kissing Astarion on the mouth, a soft meeting of lips. He quietly stroked Astarion's hair while they sat still, his fingers combing through short silver curls. Astarion's smile widened. Looking into Gale's eyes, with some wry appreciation for the word ‘lovestruck’, his heart actually felt like it might burst.
Gale's face smelled like sunscreen. His mouth tasted like coffee and a clear blue morning.
They drove away.
◈━◈━◈
"What do you mean we've been in the Underdark for half a year?"
Lae'zel's head was in her hands. Tara dozed on the couch, basking in the oscillating airstream of a floor fan. Popcorn kernels went off in the microwave like bottle rockets. There were no more candles on the table.
The window in Astarion's and Gale's living room was cracked open to let in the smells of a balmy summer night, which shifted between sweet grass, the herbal undertones of lavender, a softly smoking grill, and hot, dry asphalt. Crickets chirped. A car honked from the street below, then swerved away.
"Think of it this way: you've been productive." Gale flipped a page in his notebook while he gnawed on his pen topper. "First, you nearly died to some arcane turrets when you descended through the Selûnite outpost. Then you encountered a Sussur tree, a sad day for the spellcasters in the party."
Wyll emptied the popcorn into a large bowl. "Yeah, Halsin, why is it your first impulse to lick everything you come across?"
"Or everyone." Shadowheart sipped nonchalantly on her bubble tea.
Halsin held up his hands. "In my defence, all the plants we've gathered so far have been useful potion ingredients," he said.
Gale carried on. "You stumbled upon an arcane tower, ripe with magic and secrets about its previous owner."
"And hugged the construct," Lae'zel muttered. Astarion disapproved just as much, but because they definitely missed out on rare and valuable loot.
"You sought refuge within Ebonlake Grotto, a whimsical myconid colony belying a bloody struggle for vengeance and power."
Karlach sighed. "Aw, love those little guys."
"At the myconids' behest, you made your way down to the decrepit village by the beach, promptly slaughtered all the duergar there, and returned to the colony to—"
"Oh my god, can we get to the part where we chop off this guy's head?"
"Which brings us to our next order of business." Gale met Astarion's gaze and tapped the end of his pen once against the table. "Following the Sovereign's demand to bring him the head of the True Soul Nere, you sailed to the Grymforge. You discovered the old Adamantine forge, somehow stole a whole barrel of runepowder—"
"Thanks, Astarion," Shadowheart called. Astarion blew a kiss back.
"—and at long last, blew up the pile of rubble trapping Nere. After a long and bitter fight, defeated, the drow now lies dead at your feet."
Wyll grinned and rubbed his hands together. "What are we waiting for? Let's get that head."
"Head, you say?" Gale wiggled his eyebrows as Shadowheart and Karlach snickered. "This is going to be a strength check," he said.
Lae'zel raised her hand. "I have a +3 to strength," she announced.
"So do I," Karlach said through a mouthful of nachos.
"I think we should give the honour to the one who defeated a real-life slaver," Halsin said.
All eyes were on Astarion and Astarion looked around the table boldly. He sensed admiration, not the pity he had long since dreaded, the pity he was afraid would come with victimhood. They were giving him permission and he took it freely, without coyness or deflection or whataboutism.
After all, he could still afford to be a little selfish.
Astarion turned to Gale and put on his famous puppy dog pout. "Can we change this to a sleight of hand check?"
Gale flipped a page in his notebook. "Hmm. No."
"Straight dexterity roll."
"No."
"I cast Guidance," Shadowheart added helpfully.
"The head's coming off either way, dear," Gale said. "It's just a matter of how cleanly you can cut it."
Astarion flashed a grin. "Excellent. I'll take your Guidance."
He fished through his dice pouch. Like Gale predicted, it took no time for Astarion to become a dice goblin. He now had several sets: one jet black, one moonstone, and one with red wine liquid cores because even if he couldn't drink, he could still play with his food. His favourite one, however, was an extremely sharp white set with swirls of red studded throughout like blood in water. Astarion reached for his D20. The edges of the die bit into his palms, then he let it go.
He peered down at the dice tray. "Ten."
"Don't forget your D4."
Astarion rolled the pyramid-shaped die. "Twelve."
Gale rested his pen against his lower lip. "With Shadowheart's help, you manage to sever Nere's head cleanly from his body. What does it look like when you do it?"
Astarion formed a fist to mime holding a dagger. "I kneel by the body. I grip Nere by his hair and slice cleanly across the base of his throat in one quick motion," he said. "As he saws the rest of the head off, he—my vampire—thinks of his old master. How good it would feel to do the same thing to him. All of this, the running, the unbearable thirst, the fear. It's only going to be over the moment his master is dead. He'll never tell them, but he needs this party because he can't do it alone."
The dining table had gone quiet. The only sound was that of the fan blades whirring faintly and cool air spinning between them. No one spoke out of silent acknowledgement of the moment, but no one looked away or fidgeted either. Astarion dusted his hands. "Then I stand back up, still gripping the head, and regret that I can't drink a drop of the blood gushing out of his stump."
Halsin choked. Wyll grimaced. "Ew, brother, ew."
"No one's stopping you. Sate your thirst," Lae'zel goaded him.
Astarion raised his glass of cranberry juice and started tonguing it comically like a cat lapping up water.
Gale turned back to the rest of the table. "While Astarion licks the blood off the floor, you all take time for a short rest, restoring a couple of hit points and shaking off any conditions from the fight." He leaned over to Astarion. "Not going to check in with the deep gnomes after you've completely upended their lives?"
Astarion made a face. "Ugh. No."
The whole table laughed.
After a brief discussion about where everyone wanted to go and making last stops at merchants, Gale narrated their journey to the colony and back to the Grymforge through murky waters lit by glowing fungi and fauna. Shadowheart got up halfway out of her chair to dim the lights and when Astarion closed his eyes, he imagined the pungent smell of mycelium, brine, and burrowed-through earth. Gale's rich, even voice coursed through the room like falling water as he spoke.
"You have gathered your party at the gates of the Grymforge. With nothing left to do but press onward, you ascend the steps into a shadowy corridor. You can feel the chill even from here, the cold hand of death waiting for you just beyond these walls. But there is no turning back. You hold your torches high and press on, from darkness into light."
The session ended at half past ten. As per usual, Gale shoved leftovers out the door. Winter boots and coats were traded for sandals and sneakers, quickly clearing the entryway.
"Have fun on your vacation!" Wyll called with a wave.
"You and Karlach, too. I hear the Mojave Desert is hotter than hell this time of year." Astarion winked. "We'll get you all souvenirs."
Shadowheart watched Tara adoringly as she waited for Lae'zel to lace up her shoes. "That's kind of you, but I'm happy with my custom order, so long as you don't take too long."
It turned out Astarion didn't mind taking commissions. In fact, he was the one who suggested creating the daytime counterpart to the first thing he made for her, a "light orchid" to complement the concept of a "night orchid". The notes sang out right away: a soliflore, which brought to mind a pure white orchid draped in a solar accord. Putting their minds together was the most fun he'd had in a long time, but Astarion feigned offence by pressing a hand to his chest. "Just so you know, I come with a rush fee," he told her.
Shadowheart propped her elbows against the back of a chair. "Even for a friend?"
"Especially for a friend. I don't work for cheap. Not anymore."
Chatter and promises to meet up again eventually faded down the hall. Astarion shut the front door while Gale shut his laptop. He came up behind Gale, encircling his waist. Gale nuzzled his cheek against the side of his neck.
"Good game, dearest."
Astarion hummed. "There wasn't much game to be had. It was a swift beheading then shopping, which, to be fair, is my kind of night."
Gale rifled through the popcorn kernels at the bottom of the bowl. "I thought you should stock up on more scrolls and potions, seeing how I nearly killed you all last session."
Astarion poked him in the shoulder. "You based that hobgoblin and mindflayer on Drs. Blurg and Omeluum, don't lie."
"So I did." Gale tossed a kernel into his mouth, smug. "Who wouldn't want to live happily ever with the love of their life in an underground cave, surrounded by books, fungi, and a menagerie of beasts that could tear you to shreds in a second?"
Astarion fluttered his lashes and sighed dreamily. "Oh, darling. You do know how to sweep me off my feet."
On the couch, Tara yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep. Gale lowered his voice. "Metaphorically, of course. I wouldn't risk my knees to—"
He yelped as Astarion suddenly hoisted him into his arms. Gale's legs tentatively wrapped around Astarion's hips as he clung on for dear life, which only made Astarion throw his head back and laugh.
"—do that. Goodness," Gale mumbled into Astarion's hair as he started carrying him to their room, the mess out in the living room forgotten. They backed into the bedroom door and he said, "Careful, I'm heavy."
"I've gotten stronger." Still carrying Gale, Astarion closed the door with a careful stretch and flex of his foot. The lights in the room were low, the bed unmade. Books, perfumery and embroidery projects, and several mugs were strewn about.
"Yes, I can feel it." Gale's breath audibly left him when Astarion set him down on the edge of their bed. "Who knew a substantial diet, regular exercise, and a clear mind would do wonders for your health?"
"Beats me."
That was the last thing Astarion said for a long time, clambering over to kiss the vestiges of dinner from Gale's lips, leisurely and unhurried until he felt Gale relax under him, his body soft and pliant. Every time they parted for air, Astarion took a good look at Gale. Cheeks pink, lips slightly parted, eyelashes fluttering. His gaze fixed onto the slope of Gale's jaw, the line of his neck leading down to the tendrils of his tattoo peeking over his t-shirt collar. It was a sight, how the blush moved across Gale's skin, how it turned his cheeks and his chest red while his throat stayed relatively unchanged.
Astarion pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, pulled Gale flush against him, and sighed. One of his arms stayed wrapped around him while the other rested on his chest. He clasped his right hand and pressed it next to his left, threading their fingers together.
He could die like this, he realized. He could die like this and be happy.
"You're relaxed," Gale observed. "It looks good on you."
"What about you? Do you need help getting there?" Astarion rubbed circles into the back of Gale's hand with his thumb. "I've got plenty of massage oils. We could share a bath before bed."
"That's thoughtful of you, but I wouldn't want to dilute your taste."
Astarion giggled. It was all he could do try and fail to overcome the sudden rush of desire that drove every spare drop of blood to his cock. He didn't have to stir for Gale to notice the tent in his denim and Gale caught him by surprise, toppling him off by throwing his hip against his side. With a guiding hand on Astarion's chest, Gale coaxed him into lying flat. His thumbs brushed across Astarion's hips and the tops of his thighs as he deepened the kiss. Astarion let his hand wander up Gale's back and under his shirt, rubbing at tensed muscles in an attempt to ease the stress of living, especially with somebody like him. In response, Gale's touch ghosted against his ears, dragging against his sensitive lobes slowly enough that Astarion knew he was doing it on purpose.
Astarion smirked. "We're going there, are we?"
Gale paused, his fingers still trailing along Astarion's ears. His short nails grazed the nape of his neck. "If that's what you want. What do you want?"
Faint recognition prodded at Astarion's mind and he recalled their first time when Gale asked him the same question. He had replied with one of those silly lines he used to rehearse and wait all night for the right moment to drop; only now he was being completely honest. He didn't even have to think that hard.
"You," he said, and the simplicity of that answer made him feel dumb although it was correct.
"I'm yours, then." Gale kissed him soundly. Of course he did. Sincerity, no matter how sentimental, was always rewarded and Astarion was in love with him for it, even if he didn't say it out loud.
I love you, he thought as Gale managed to pull his clothes off even with his whole weight on top of him.
I love you, he thought as Gale got stuck in his shirt and threw it to the ground once he wrestled it off, looking dishevelled, bewildered, and utterly adorable.
I love you, he thought as he spread his legs, showing off the view he knew Gale couldn't get enough of.
Gale took a moment to catch his breath, and then knelt down in front of Astarion, hands on his knees. When he spoke, his voice seemed to caress him all by itself.
"I hope you don't mind that I'm going to fuck you into our bed until the scent of you never comes out of it."
Astarion laughed sharply, but he was amused. "That'd better be a promise," he said.
"I'm quite literal. It's part of my charm."
Gale's hands moved down, touching Astarion's skin only to close his fingers around each nipple. He dipped his head to taste them, grazing with lips and laving with tongue. He continued to move lower and when his tongue slipped over his tip at last, it was a slow, savouring stroke. Gale sucked him carefully, meeting Astarion's shallow thrusts and swallowing around his cock as his nose pressed against his abdomen. He joined his mouth with his hand and Astarion slid his own fingers into Gale's hair and tugged. Gale's moan around his cock sent vibrations to the very base of his spine while the scratch of his stubble and suction of his lips fired them into every extremity.
When Astarion felt his thighs trembling, Gale held his hips down and pulled back. Astarion's frustrated hiss was replaced by a soft groan when Gale's mouth dipped and worked into the slick opening at his rear. Gale's tongue fit into his ass perfectly and Astarion didn't care that spit and sweat were soaking into the sheets as Gale licked into him eagerly. He reached down, finding his cock straining into his hand, and stroked it.
Gale prepared him with patience, slow but thorough. One finger slipped inside of him, then another, then another, moving in widening circles. It didn't hurt, not anymore. Astarion's breaths grew heavy, and more gasps and even a few moans escaped him as he built up. He felt his own body struggle against itself, unsure if it wanted to press forward or back and his hips rolled involuntarily as he tried to do both.
“Are you ready for me, my love?”
Astarion raised his head. Keeping his words honeyed was getting harder by the second. "You rotten tease. Bastard." Gale's fingers curled and he arched back. "Fuck me already."
"Such language," Gale admonished, but obliged, positioning the head of his cock against his entrance. With a quick exchange of nods, he pushed his way in, then eased his way out; almost all the way out, before he began the process again. He took him fully, gripping him tight and making him shudder. He settled all the way into him and then did it again, a careful and savouring drag. Gale was a solid, stretching weight and Astarion felt crushed into himself, like he was finally back in his body.
And Gale smelled so good. Despite everything Astarion made, all his little experiments and concoctions and darling-you-have-to-try-this giddiness when he created something unexpectedly wonderful, he'd never thought Gale smelled this good before. Their room was thick with the musk of sex. Lurking on Gale's skin was a decadent feast of powdery vanilla and salt backed by the subtle essence of worn-in leather. Gale bent down to kiss Astarion's open mouth and Astarion wanted to preserve the best part of him and make it his own: the principle of his scent.
Gale buried his nose in Astarion's curls. His lips brushed his jaw as he said, "Hell, you're tight."
Astarion licked his lips. "That's a first."
Gale shook his head. "I mean it. I can barely move. But this might make things easier."
He lifted Astarion's legs and pushed them back until his knees were flush against his own chest, but not before reaching out to grab a pillow to shove under his hips. Gale hadn't withdrawn and with each movement, Astarion felt his cock twitch and throb inside him. He hooked his legs over Gale's broad shoulders, digging his heels into the muscle on either side of Gale's spine to push him another inch in. He decided to help him along further by letting his hands wander down Gale's back, relishing the heat of his body and uncommonly soft skin. His fingertips delved lower, deeper, towards the cleft of Gale's ass only to be met with metal.
"Gale?"
"Yes?"
"Have you been wearing a plug this whole time?"
Gale brushed loose strands out of his eyes. "Better. A vibrating plug."
"You hid the remote from me."
The mischief in Gale's eyes glinted from above. Astarion guffawed. "Cheeky slut. My very good, devious, cheeky slut."
The way Astarion drawled out that term of possession made Gale blush, then thrust all the way into him like a key fitted into a lock. The pace he set was slow, sensual, and sickeningly sweet, but any demands to go faster or harder died on Astarion's lips when Gale kissed them away. He was quiet at first, only soft little breaths, but gradually his control cracked at the edges and his hips began to jerk. Breaths turned into gasps, gasps turned into whimpers as Gale kept hitting him dead-on.
Astarion didn't mind. Gale, the sweet, precious thing, had wasted too much of his life giving everything he had. It was time for him to take. He deserved that much. And Astarion—damn it, he thought—was his. All that he was at that moment. All that he ever was.
As his whole body shook, Gale took his face in his hands, eyes closed, and pressed their foreheads together.
"Breathe," he instructed.
Astarion nodded. His lungs swelled with breath and he drew out each inhalation. His teeth found Gale's throat and bit down, and for a moment, everything went blinding white. He spasmed, helpless and then hovering on the edge again because Gale was continuing to grind against his prostate. Pleasure mixed with pain mixed with pleasure until Gale gave one last inward thrust, burying himself deep as he could, and came. Warmth flooded Astarion's insides and he could have sworn it made its way to his heart.
From under heavy lids, Astarion watched Gale slide off of him in a shuddering heap. Astarion hugged him around the waist again and with a sly grin into Gale's shoulder and a deft hand, slipped out the plug and slid home into his tight warmth before he softened completely. They stayed that way for what felt like forever, catching ragged breaths. Sweat cooled to stickiness in the nighttime heat.
When Astarion opened his eyes, it was still dark. He smiled and intertwined their fingers. Gale kissed the back of his hand, then his nose and the point of his chin. Astarion nipped him back.
It was love.
◈━◈━◈
If you were to ask Astarion what he hated the most alongside tuxedos, waiting, and Cazador Szarr, he would have added airports to the list.
It wasn't just the screaming children, tiny seats, and unwashed middle-aged men. His and Gale's flight was departing at seven in the morning, which meant they had to get up at five. While Gale stumbled groggily after Tara around the flat until he managed to herd her into her carrier, Astarion got dressed and packed their toiletries and chargers. Patting himself down felt like second nature at this point. Wallet, keys, phone. Wallet, keys, phone. Passport. Embarrassingly, Astarion thought his passport had long since disappeared and he never cared to go looking for it; the possibility of being able to go abroad again was that out of reach. He only found it in the move to Gale's apartment and elected not to tell anyone it went missing in the first place.
Half an hour later, they took the elevator down to the lobby, wheeling their suitcases behind them. A compact car sat idling in the street. Gale waved at the driver inside. They loaded their baggage into the trunk and climbed in.
"Mum, you didn't have to," Gale said as he closed the car door.
"And what?" Morena lowered the volume on the stereo. "Risk you driving sleep-deprived there and sleep-deprived back? No. Absolutely not."
The seatbelt buckle clicked into place and Astarion slouched against his headrest. Despite the early hour, he couldn't sleep. The city clamoured for his attention. Downtown passed by in a meandering twist of buildings recognizable even when the sun wasn't yet up. They cruised by closed bars and old and new hotels—including the Fraygo—that dotted shop-lined streets. The trees in the park square put out full deep blue foliage and the street lights twinkled between the leaves like stars.
Greek and English flitted across the front of the car. Melodic, rhythmic, and smooth; a whisper that was neither fast nor slow. Consonants rolled against each other like rounded pebbles. Around them, skyscrapers gave way to a bridge, then a highway. The horizon flattened out and first light glanced off the glass panels lining the structure ahead. Morena pulled over by the departure terminal, which was mostly deserted. She switched off the ignition and turned around in her seat. Gale turned with her.
"We'll miss you, mum," he said.
"What for? You call me every night." Morena waved a hand, but she looked at her son fondly. "Don't forget to text me when you land. And take your medicine." She shifted her attention to Astarion. "Remember, eat, take lots of pictures, and have fun. And the most important words you need to know are Χρειάζομαι αντιηλιακό."
"I'm not going to pretend I know how to pronounce that." Astarion shot a wary look at Gale, who was holding back laughter in the seat in front of him.
Morena's size belied surprising strength and she refused to accept any help unloading their suitcases onto the sidewalk. Before she climbed back into the car, she gave Gale a tight hug and did the same for Astarion, embracing him warmly.
"Have a safe flight, ἀστήρ μου. Love you."
Astarion hugged her back. "Love you too." It was awkward to say, but in the moment, he couldn't think of another way to express that he meant every word.
Gale was the kind of person who needed to be at the airport three hours early while Astarion was fine with repeatedly refreshing the airline app until the next flight opened up. They compromised by arriving an hour before their flight. Checking in went smoothly, apart from Gale being stopped at security for having "a suspicious amount of books", and they arrived at their gate with time to kill.
Astarion didn't need Gale to tell him there was a magic to airports very early in the morning. The touch and go of tired feet. The sky turning light blue before the rest of the world was awake. The steadily growing aroma of coffee beans melding with heat. A space meant for hundreds, if not thousands of people, was wide open and empty.
Gale stopped by a concession stand. He was staring straight ahead, lost in thought. Careful not to startle him, Astarion slowly brought his hand in front of Gale's face, which snapped him back to himself.
"You want to get lost in the paperbacks, don't you?" Astarion asked.
Gale waggled a finger. "You know me well."
Astarion left Gale to browse and wandered down the carpeted aisles. The only other places that were open were a café kiosk and the duty free store. Astarion opted for the latter. He walked over the linoleum floor, past the souvenirs and liquor to the only section that mattered.
Perfume bottles, both packaged and opened as testers, lined the shelves. Astarion only paused to take stock of the latest trends (sophisticated neogourmands, oud, skin scents redolent with white musk and aldehydes) and to come to a stop in front of a line of square black bottles. He didn't need to read the label when he reached for the one in the middle.
Woe. Cazador's first creation, the one that propelled him into his seat of power on the wind of geranium, oud, palisander, and amber. Astarion uncapped the bottle, though he didn't dare spray it in case the scent lingered on him. He lifted the nozzle to his nose and the cold claws snaked out, tightening around his wrist, searching for a pulse. He shuddered. He was standing on the precipice of the void while the void called out, but nothing would make him fall in.
Objectively, it was a beautiful fragrance. A maelstrom of florals and spice; dark, thick, and opulent. A tragedy given form in scent. Art for art's sake, which was all it had to be now that the author was dead.
"I didn't think you would go for that one."
Astarion jerked back. A man was standing behind him. Astarion frowned.
"Sorry, do I know you?"
He had spoken too soon. When he searched the man's face for a second longer, Astarion noticed long hair, now pulled back. A shy look. An early September night under the streetlight outside the bar when his mouth was full of warm breath and booze and his ears with lyrics drunkenly sung along to the radio.
"I suppose I do," Astarion mumbled, mostly to himself. Gingerly, he put the bottle back on the stand. It would be rude to leave, but he still felt the need to fill the silence with useless chatter. "Early flight?" he asked.
"I work here."
"...ah." It sounded even stupider than the last thing that came out of his mouth and Astarion wondered why, for all its merits, therapy hadn't taught him to shut up. "You remembered me," he said at last.
"I couldn't not."
"Never been kissed," Astarion recalled.
"Working long hours at an airport outside of town doesn't give me many chances." Sebastian shrugged. "At least you have all the time in the world now."
Astarion's eyes narrowed. He folded his arms. "And what do you know about what I've been up to?" he asked.
"It's not every day you see a past fling on the news, getting his lights punched out in front of a burning building. You started your own label, too. Sunwalker."
The suspicion—and touch of shame—vanished. Astarion smiled. "That's right."
Sebastian pushed a few bottles in place, readjusting the merchandise. "You're doing pre-orders now. I had a look. It's unique stuff. You clearly love what you do."
Astarion sidestepped, leaving the shelf with the Szarr bottles behind. "Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment."
"So long as it doesn't go to your head. Are you going to fall into that same trap?"
Astarion paused, then shook his head. He didn't need a legacy. He didn't need an empire. He didn't need glory and the adoration of everyone in the world. Everything told him that eternity was more trouble than it was worth. He was valuable. He was loved. As he was.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.
Sebastian exhaled through his nose. "You're less of an ass now."
It was a joke, but Astarion detected mournfulness and in some small way, he mourned with Sebastian. He hated that he had been his worst, most callous and cruel self for so long, and that loathing in itself was a comfort. For all of Cazador's diamonds and gold, at least in this, Astarion would always be better.
Astarion opened his mouth to respond (with an "I know", "touché", maybe even an "I'm sorry") when he saw Gale approaching. He shifted on his feet, unsure of what to do with them, eventually deciding that he should go before he did anything he might regret. Before that, he gave one more small smile.
"It was good to see you again," was all he said.
He met Gale in the middle. Gale had a book in one hand and he offered Astarion the other.
"Come on now, it's time to board."
A line was snaking towards the gate. The PA system crackled overhead. "This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight AEE603 to Athens. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately fifteen minutes. Thank you."
They joined the crowd. Astarion produced his boarding pass, which was crumpled from being stuffed into his pocket.
"We would like to begin boarding for flight AEE603 to Athens at this time. We ask that all passengers holding boarding passes for this flight make their way to the gate."
They descended the walkway and down the aisle of the plane. From behind, Astarion only just noticed that Gale's backpack was studded with pins. A winged cat. A crystal ball. A D20. Straight lines stretching out from two hexagons: the molecular structure of serotonin.
Gale insisted Astarion take the seat closest to the window. Outside, trucks and tugs milled around grounded planes. Astarion slipped his earbuds in, only stopping to take them out when Gale gently nudged him before the safety demonstration.
Astarion had spent most of his life being afraid, but he wasn't afraid this morning. He had rolled the dice, taken a chance, hoped, and loved—the most dangerous thing he had ever done. The sky was on fire and looking up, Astarion realized he was receiving his due. All the world was waiting just for him.
He looked to his left. And someone to share it with.
The plane began to move. Astarion took Gale's hand and squeezed. Momentum turned into a rumble and all at once, they were moving forward and up, rising into the sun.
Notes:
Χρειάζομαι αντιηλιακό - I need some sunscreen
ἀστήρ μου - my starAnd with that, thus concludes my very first multi-chapter fic.
To each of my readers and commenters, thank you for giving this work a chance and for sharing your own love of perfume and snippets of your lives with each chapter. Whether or not you've left a kudos, comment, or bookmark, I'm glad you took the time to check out this heavy, self-indulgent, sometimes navel-gazey read.
Special shoutout to the Bloodweave Brainrot server for being there to bounce off ideas and cheer me on, whether I'm buzzing with excitement about my special interest or whether there's much frustration and wailing and gnashing of teeth. (I also had no idea how many people liked perfume until I joined.) I hope I've made it abundantly clear that community and connection are vital to creators and the many lovely, talented authors, artists, and readers in BWBR have showed me that.
This fic has been brought to you by lots of long nights, hot tea, and an ungodly amount of Stereophonics. Music is essential to my writing and you can listen to the House of Szarr playlist here and the songs I listened to on repeat (and repeat...and repeat) while writing here. That's the short of it, at least.
The long of it
The Fall of the House of Szarr has been the culmination of over a year of work. It’s a love letter to perfume and the science and artistry behind it. It's a reminder of the creative process and what it means to be a creator. It’s my way of grappling with perfectionism, comparison, envy, validation, and self-worth in my own writing. It’s my response to my partner telling me he's an addict and figuring out what to do with that information.
This never had to be an addiction story. However, many of the episodes Astarion goes through were based on real life events that happened before and while writing this fic. The best way I've always been able to help is by trying to understand the 'why's first and in putting this story together, I hope I've made some strides. If you are struggling with addiction, I can't pretend to tell you I've been there or guarantee that you will shake it off, but there's hope for recovery if you want it. And above all, I hope you live well in spite of it.
If you want to learn more about perfume, you can find a fulsome list of resources here. But most importantly, go out and smell things. Touch grass. Explore. The world is yours for the taking.
I'll continue to write in a limited capacity and I'll do one more large-scale edit of this fic, but until then, I can't thank you all enough for your support.
Perfume inspo: Solaris by Penhaligons
"Sensational. Generous. Warming. An ode to the sun, reaching through time and space. A Zenith-like, lively citrus beams down to blend with powerful blackcurrant. Cedar, sandalwood and vanilla creates an eau de parfum with uplifting strength and celestial grace."
And as always, much love from me to you for making it to the end of this fic. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!
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