Chapter Text
Clink.
"So, you just gonna watch Jamie lift all day? I feel like you're torturing yourself at this point."
Clink.
"Hello? Earth to Star..."
Clink.
"Seriously, Astarion, you're gonna creep them out!"
Astarion sighs. He could tell Karlach that he is absolutely not ogling Jamie, but that would be a stretch, even for him. He's left his station to lounge against the gym's check-in counter directly across from where Jamie's deadlifting. So instead, he gives her the best eyeroll he can muster.
"There is a literal horde of people surrounding them at all times, darling. I hardly think I'm going to disturb them, if their little fan club doesn't."
Karlach raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, but they're all doing something. They're paparazzi for the twink that deadlifts 500 as a warmup. You are bent like this—" She demonstrates Astarion's rigid pose, folded almost 90 degrees over the counter with his chin in his hand— "with your ass up and your eyes all moony. Plus, you work here. We gotta be, like, professional!"
Astarion, very pointedly, doesn't move. "'Professional?' Dear, you were forty-five minutes late and broke into Jen's car to smoke her blunt during your lunch break."
"And you didn't take a lunch break at all. Again."
Touché.
"You've no idea what I did and didn't do," Astarion sniffs. "You couldn't see through all the, you know, the clouds."
Karlach leans in, her expression deadly serious. "You have no idea how badly you need to hit a blunt, dude. It'd do you a world of good."
Astarion sneers and tries to think of a catty retort. Normally this requires very little effort, but his brain resists, his thoughts tumbling over each other. She's right, in a way: watching Jamie is a sort of torture. And it would be nice to smoke again. To quiet his mind. Slow his thoughts. But Cazador would never allow it. He'd smell it on Astarion's clothes, see the fog in his eyes, and remind him what happens to his "stars" who break his rules.
There's also the small matter of what cannabis does to one's appetite. So. Best leave it to Karlach.
Minor chaos erupts before him, blessedly wrenching him away from thoughts of Cazador. Jamie's just moved from a warmup to proper sets and is currently holding nearly 400 pounds above their head. Onlookers cheer, snap photos, gush into their cameras while they stream: "It's finally happening! I'm seeing Jamie Cross live!" a tiefling says. "It's confirmed: those videos of them? They're real!" a half-drow whoops. A gnome angles themself low to capture both Jamie and Tara, the resident cat who claimed a bench as her permanent perch, in the shot.
Even from across the gym, Astarion can see Jamie's tendons tightening, their veins bulging, their muscles working; he can almost smell the iron on their calloused hands and feel the warmth of their breath against his skin...
"Stop! Staring!" Karlach stage-whispers. "Aren't you gonna bang them in the locker room again anyways in, like, an hour?"
Astarion startles and heat rushes into his cheeks. "Karlach! What happened to all that talk of professionalism?"
"It only matters when other people are watching! And if anyone looks over here, they'll notice you gawking at the members, not me standing here talking." She lowers her voice from a painfully-loud whisper to a slightly-above-average whisper. "Not that I approve of whatever you and Jamie got going on, 'cause you're worth a hell of a lot more than quickies in the gender-neutral stall, but you already know how I feel about that."
"Yes, and I already don't give a damn."
"Uh-huh."
Karlach clearly has more to say, but her customer-service smile spreads over her face instead and she looks over his head at something—someone—behind him. Astarion takes her cue and stands up straight. His spine complains after spending so long hunched over.
"Hi, Lia!" Karlach says, bouncing on her heels. "Here for a class?"
Astarion gives Lia a half-hearted smile that she doesn't seem to notice.
"Yep!" She hands Karlach her phone to scan. "I'm so excited. I ran over the moment I heard Lae'zel is teaching self-defense. Gods know we could all use it in this city."
"Damn right, and there's no one better to teach it than our Lae," Karlach says as Lia's phone beeps against the scanner. "'Kay, you're checked in. Her class is six Gortcoin extra, though. That alright?"
Lia nods. "All good!"
Astarion glances away while Karlach handles the purchase. Gortcoin is quite possibly the dumbest invention he's ever heard of—why oh why has the world given up good old paper money for some politician's imaginary currency?—but jealousy twists in his chest all the same. He doesn't have a Gortcoin wallet. His paycheck goes straight into Cazador's account, released to Astarion on prepaid chips as Cazador sees fit.
He rarely sees fit.
At least Gale offers employees free gym access. Cazador can't keep that from him.
Karlach completes the transaction and hands Lia back her phone. "All set! You'll find Lae in classroom three."
"Room four," Astarion corrects. Karlach gives him a curious look and he shrugs. "I saw her in there taking out her frustrations on what I believe to be a training dummy. A real person would bleed more, and the bones would make much snappier sounds, wouldn't you say, Karlach?"
"It's definitely a dummy!" Karlach says, more to Lia than Astarion. "And I have no idea what breaking bones sound like, so. Anyway!"
Lia offers them both a nervous smile, thanks Karlach specifically, and strides off towards the classrooms without meeting Astarion's eyes.
Fine, then. Gods forbid he try to be helpful.
Karlach rounds on him again and starts saying something—many things, probably about acting "normal" in front of patrons, how she didn't flee Zariel's gang just for people to still associate her with violence, so can he please try just a little harder in front of guests?—but Astarion's not listening. He's watching Jamie drop a weight onto a mat while the thinning crowd claps.
How do they do it? It must be the millionth time he's wondered. Jamie's even smaller than Astarion is. He can hardly see any muscle definition on their body, and gods know he is very familiar with it indeed. The whole of Jamie weighs less than one dumbbell of Karlach's.
Jamie drops the bar again. Most of the onlookers have dispersed now, their phones sufficiently full of clips and their appetites for content sated. Jamie hasn't paid a single one of them a moment's attention. They don't talk about their routine, they don't offer advice. It's like they never even noticed the vultures circling them.
Astarion wonders, not for the first time, what it would feel like to simply not notice people's hungry gazes. To rise above it the way Jamie Cross can.
He tunes back in when Karlach says, "So, we clear?"
"Crystal," he says airily.
"Cool. Thanks for understanding." She says it so earnestly that something resembling remorse squirms in Astarion's chest. "Jen's class is about to let out. Let's head back over to your station before they mob you. I'll help ya."
"Hm?" Astarion tears his gaze from Jamie and looks over his shoulder at the tiefling. "Why?"
Karlach blinks like it's obvious. "You know Jen hypes up your smoothies at the end of all her sessions. Her students always beeline straight to you."
"Yes, but I meant, why would you help me?"
"'Cause you look tired as fuck."
"Excuse you! I look beautiful as always."
"Beautiful and exhausted, choom."
Well. He can't argue with that.
Karlach was right. Karlach is always right. Astarion tells himself he will remember this and start listening to her more.
He probably won't.
Members exit Jenevelle's yoga class in a clump, and nearly all of them head directly for the smoothie bar. Gale was clever to build one directly inside his gym. Possibly less clever to hire Astarion, of all people, to run it.
Not that he's complaining. When Cazador finally allowed him to hold a day job, he was sure he'd end up delivering for RoveerEats like Petras does (but on foot, since he never figured out driving) or selling plasma at different centers every day like Dalyria does. Out of Szarr's seven stars, Astarion landed the best civilian gig. The apron does nothing for his figure, sure, but the patrons at Gale's Simulacrum are much kinder than the clients at Cazador's Crimson Palace.
"Hi! Can I have a strawberry-banana smoothie with protein powder, please?"
"Hey, could I get a kiwi-lime and a vitamin B shot?"
"How's it going, Astarion? My usual, if you don't mind."
Can I, everyone says. Could I. May I. Please.
He's not sure anyone's ever said any of that in the Palace. No, in Cazador's smoke-hazy den of debauchery, it's a steady stream of do this, do that, don't eat that, don't eat that either, touch me, moan for me, come here, stand there, you're mine, you're his, and boy, get back on your knees or else.
There, he is boy.
Here, he is Astarion.
The whir of the blender rushes in his ears. It's an almost physical sensation of something grating against his pounding head. The Palace, where he spends his nights, where he's damned to go as soon as Gale flips off the gym lights, swims in front of him.
The cold voice snakes into his mind. I was under the impression that you wanted to join my agency. To become a proper model. Yet still, after seven years, you have failed to pay off your debts.
The dry laughter creaks in his head. Oh no, my child. You owe far, far more than that.
The blender roars louder. Closer. It may as well be inside of him, filling him with static and froth.
He's not there now, Astarion reminds himself desperately. He's not with Cazador. The sun is out. He's at the gym with Karlach and Jen, and Lae is somewhere, and Gale's on his way, and Jamie's nearly done working out which means they'll be able to sneak away with him soon. Astarion does not have to perform here.
He doesn't have to dance or kiss or strip. He doesn't have to find a fat-walleted-someone to get on his back for. All he must do is say hello, blend some fruit with some powders and potions, and scan those horrid Gortcoin readers until closing.
Until nightfall.
It's only at night, only at the Palace, that he must truly work. And one day, he won't have to do that anymore, either. One day, Cazador will get him on front covers and runways and yes, then all these years of pure shit will have been worth something. Right?
"Star!"
He jerks his head up at the sound of Karlach's voice again and comes back to himself. She's standing at the bar, gesturing at the line of customers and the roaring blender.
Shit. He's been motionless beside the shelf of Malus's Multivitamins in a daze for... however long.
"Where are you today, Starman?" Karlach sounds frustrated, but only just. "Come back to earth and swap with me, bud. I'll grab the ingredients. You blend."
He nods dumbly, gratefully, and moves into position. This he can do. Load the ingredients, press the button, wait, pour slush into those gaudy purple cups Gale keeps ordering from Oskar Fevras's print shop, try not to grimace visibly at said cups, slide drinks to the customers, and carry on. Wash, rinse, repeat.
That's it. Astarion feels himself slowly returning to this moment, to this body, as he repeats his ritual.
It's not that he enjoys the work, exactly. He certainly has no passion for smoothies (nor an allowance for sugar, even if he did), but repetition quiets the mind and makes the time pass that much easier.
Before long, he's fulfilled enough orders that his thoughts have slowed and he becomes vaguely aware of the world around him again.
Which means it's time to eavesdrop.
One can hardly blame him. Gale's gym is expensive! Any one of its well-connected patrons could have exciting gossip to dish, and if they choose to do so within earshot of nosy elves who crave distractions, well. That's on them.
A half-orc and a human sidle up to his bar hand-in-hand and order two peach-and-cream smoothies. Charming of them, truly. They pay Astarion little mind while he blends.
"Well, I asked GortGPT—" the half-orc starts.
"Eww, babe, not the Gortbot!" the human moans. "That thing lies, like, 33% of the time. Lemme send you Wyll Ravengard's article about it in The Mouth, you'll see."
"At least GortGPT is independent!The Mouth is legacy media. Ravengard's a fraud!"
Astarion turns away so they can't see them scowl as he pours their smoothies into those branded plastic cups. Karlach sees, though, and snorts derisively. She's right to be angry. Doesn't the half-orc realize that Wyll's reporting exposed the Tiamat corruption scandal less than a decade ago? The kid damn well saved this city. Memories like gods-damned goldfish, half-orcs.
Karlach shifts pointedly and taps the side of her neck once, then twice. Astarion feels something in him light up. He's had zero energy today since the adrenaline rush when he rolled off the couch this morning and begged Petras for another ride to work—but now she's invoking the secret code.
Oh, it's been so long! And in their friend Wyll's honor, too?
Time for some fun at last.
Astarion plays his part perfectly, obviously. He holds eye contact with the human as he reaches out to serve him the smoothie, smiling with all his teeth. He compliments the man's Figaro shirt (even though it's obviously from last season's line), says everything he can to keep his gaze fixated on Astarion's dazzling face, and then—
"Oh hells, I'm so sorry, saer!"—
he drops it.
Pink slush blooms all over the bar, the half-orc's hairy arms, the human's outdated shirt. Only a single drop lands on Astarion, splashing back up onto his neck. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.
"Oh, no worries!" the human says, brushing smoothie off of his shirt, "accidents happen!"
Accidents, indeed.
The half-orc growls and glowers and stalks away to grab clean towels while Karlach springs into her part of the plan.
The human remains distracted, wringing out his shirt and watching his lover walk away. It gives Karlach the cover she needs to dart over to the blender where the half-orc's portion sits waiting.
She coughs hard in the back of her throat and seasons the drink with a truly horrific globule of spit and phlegm.
"Karlach, I fear for you," Astarion whispers. "That color seems... eugh. Unnatural."
"Shut up and blend it in," she manages between fits of laughter she's struggling to suppress. "That's, like, the one weird downside of all those blunts."
He smirks and lets the blender roar for a few more seconds, trying not to watch with horrified intrigue as the glob mixes into the fruit.
When the half-orc returns, Astarion hands him the tainted drink and starts to remake the human's spilled one (sans saliva, because the fellow seems alright). Karlach tells the patrons both drinks are on the house today as the half-orc takes a long sip.
"And you know what, mate? Keep the towels, too!" Karlach beams.
The half-orc makes a satisfied noise and smiles down into his cup. Karlach has to cover her mouth to hide her cackles.
Astarion quietly hands the human his mostly-uncontaminated (but very ugly) cup, and Karlach wishes them well.
Ah, Karlach. Small wonder that she's his best friend.
Jenevelle pulls up to the smoothie bar the second her last student is out the door. A shy elf attending their first class, they give Astarion free rein to concoct their drink. He sent them on their way with an orange-mint special he's quite proud of. He didn't taste it, of course, but if looks account for anything (and he knows they do), it's simply divine.
"How convenient that you arrive just as we've finished and not a moment before," he says, slinging a rag at Jen. "Be a dear and help me wipe down the bar, would you?"
She catches the rag between her thumb and forefinger and wrinkles her nose at the sticky surface. "I was feeding Tara and Myshka. Help you? I think you mean do it for you."
Astarion winks.
"Everything's all... reddish," Jen says. "Have you finally snapped and killed someone?"
"You might wanna get your eyes checked," Karlach calls from over her shoulder. She's currently underneath the bar sink, twisting pipes to try and fix the incessant leak Gale swears he'll have someone look at one day but never will. "That's pink, not red."
"I said -ish. And besides, blood dries pink," Jen says, like that's not alarming at all.
"Or brown," Astarion adds, like that's not alarming either.
Karlach sighs deep in her chest. "Yeah, but that's not dry. It takes way longer for blood to dry than that. Can we please talk about something else?"
"Good idea," Jenevelle says. Astarion says nothing. Dread creeps up his neck at Jen's tone: he knows exactly what she's going to talk about instead, and he'd really rather she didn't.
Perhaps if he looks busy, she'll focus her sights elsewhere. He snatches the rag back from her—she wasn't going to use it anyway—and starts wiping down his own damn bar like he should have in the first place.
"Can I talk you out of seeing Jamie again?" Jen begins, as predicted. Astarion shakes his head and scrubs unnecessarily at an old stain he knows won't come off.
"You can stop talking to me about Jamie at all, actually," he says.
Jen gives Karlach a pleading look that Astarion wasn't meant to see, so he pretends he didn't. Karlach motions towards the sink as if to say sorry, babe, I'm fixing this other broken piece of shit right now.
"I just think it's clear that you want more from Jamie than they'll ever give you," Jen tells him, "and I don't want you to get hurt hoping that one day it'll be something real."
Fuck the bar. Astarion pauses and looks up at her, still slouching but no longer scrubbing.
"I never said I wanted 'more' or 'real' or any of that romantic nonsense. Where did you get that idea?"
"From wine night on Friday!" Karlach calls, apparently deciding she can in fact handle two broken objects at once. "You always do this, Star. You come over on an empty stomach, drink too much wine, say shit you've kept bottled up, and forget all about it."
"Say shit? Never. ...What sort of shit?"
"Like how you want more with Jamie." Jen leans against the bar and her white braid sweeps across it, streaking through a spot of pink smoothie mess. Astarion does not warn her about it. So there.
"It's true," Karlach says, almost apologetic. She stands up and stretches her back, which audibly pops in a way that makes Astarion cringe and Jen blush. "You told us you wanna go on a real date with them. Specifically, a dinner date at Jaheira's Café. I dunno though, Jamie seems more like an Auntie Ethel's Tea House type to me. That's not a compliment."
"A dinner date?" Astarion splutters. "That hardly sounds like me at all. I didn't say that."
"You definitely did," Jen says.
"It was adorable! Storybook sweet," Karlach says dreamily. "You started talking about all the different foods you wanted to eat on this hypothetical date and then went on about food for, what, ten minutes?"
Jen nods. "Mm-hmm. Gale finally got up and made you some butter noodles. He only overcooked them a little bit."
Astarion freezes. His chest feels too tight and his stomach suddenly feels very heavy despite having nothing in it but the coconut water he swiped from the break-room fridge earlier.
"Did I eat them?" he asks before he can think better of it. His voice sounds hoarse.
"Almost the whole pot!" Karlach grins, oblivious. "I was so proud. Still am."
"There was broccoli in it, if that helps," Jen adds, slightly less oblivious.
All Astarion can think to say is "oh."
Because it does not help. It doesn't help at all. They don't even understand how little that helps. Hopefully they never will.
He must be making a face because Karlach claps him on the back and smiles.
Don't touch me, he does not say.
"Star, come on. Look at that tight little body!" she says, patting his side for emphasis. He feels an incomprehensible urge to bit her. "Still bony as it gets. One pasta dinner is nothing, man. You should have, like, ten more and then some. That slavedriver you call a boss is not gonna notice."
Astarion laughs dryly, not because it's funny but because she expects it. "He's... strict. Hawk-eyed. Nothing slips past him."
Cazador flashes back into Astarion's mind, sitting straight-backed at his desk. Godey looms by the door, a traitorous, treasonous measuring tape in his gaunt hand. A breathless Dalyria says something, pleads, recites some medical nonsense—nutrients, body fat, brain function. She points at Astarion where he stands before the mirror. He can't make out his reflection. Hasn't anyone ever told Dal that pointing is rude? She talks too fast. His head swims. Her words swim within it, like fish. Fish! Sea bass. Tilapia. Gods, he could go for some salmon. Salmon with butter and lemon. Salmon with potatoes on the side. He doesn't even care for fish. Does he? He doesn't remember. He would eat it. He barely notices Cazador strike Dalyria. Then Cazador turns to Astarion, and—
"Relax." Jen's voice cuts through the scene and it cracks like glass. "You don't need to look so terrified. It was a week ago. I'm sure you've stuck to your celery-and-suffering diet ever since."
"I thought they taught you to mind your business in that cult of yours!" Astarion snaps.
The shocked look on Jen's face should chasten him, but Astarion's too busy trying to dispel Cazador from his mind to feel things like that. To feel things at all, really. Sometimes he's almost jealous of Jen, growing up in that doomsday cult. At least the members of Absentia were free from all this feeling.
"Whoa, Astarion." Karlach's voice has hardened. Astarion can feel her engine heating up from here. "The fuck did you say?"
"It's fine, Karlach," Jen says softly. She lifts herself onto the now-clean bar and sits cross-legged. "Try to cool off. I was being indelicate."
There's still pink in her hair. Astarion still lets it stay.
"It's not fine," Karlach growls. "Astarion, you've been a bitch all damn day. I get it, whatever your nighttime job is seems pretty shit, but you can't take it out on Jen or zone out when we have customers! We have stuff to do! And we're friends. I hope."
"We are friends," Astarion says. "My apologies, Jenevelle."
But he's not sorry. Not really. It's difficult to feel sorry for Jen because... because Jen got help.
Because one day, a hero swooped in and saved her from that underground hellhole.
Minthara Baenre's program for women ensnared in cults is the entire reason Jen and Lae'zel are even employed here. (Conveniently, founding said program also helped Minthara avoid prison time for murdering Orin Redd, the so-called leader of the Absolute megachurch that drove Minthara and the others to ritual murders. Until Minthara murdered her, that is.)
She gives the Jenevelles and Lae'zels of the world jobs and homes and degrees. She helps girls who were trapped, chained, tormented against their will.
But nobody helps whores stupid enough to walk right through Cazador Szarr's front door.
They must help themselves, one night at a time.
Karlach's arms are crossed, waiting for him to apologize properly, to fix this mess he's made. Jen appears calmer, if one can ignore the faraway look in her eyes.
Astarion takes a breath. "Can I offer you an apology beverage, Jen? I've received rave reviews today."
It takes her a moment to reply. Astarion wonders briefly where she went, what she was picturing, before he reminds himself not to think too much about it.
"Why not?" she says. "Something with apple, please."
Astarion groans. "I'll do it, but I won't have you complaining his time when the consistency is watery. That's just how apples work."
He turns to grab an apple from the basket when there's a hand on his shoulder—another one, really? He jumps. He can't help it. They're lucky he didn't strike.
"Apologies!" Gale holds his hands up and gives Astarion a gentle look. "I should have asked before touching you. I've broken a house rule. Mea culpa."
"Hi, boss man!" Karlach says. Jen slides off the bar top and makes a peace sign. "Didn't hear you come in. How was class? New kids treating you right?"
"Oh, they're delightful! Full of riveting ideas and a burning passion for the arcane arts, and they're never distracted by technology during my lectures."
"Really?!"
"No, Karlach."
"Damn. Sorry to hear it."
Karlach snaps her fingers in a can't-win-'em-all fashion and Jen snorts as Gale settles onto a barstool with a weary smile. A weary body, honestly. He slumps forward a bit and watches Astarion with soft eyes, and Astarion provides the welcoming nod expected of him.
Gale's penultimate year of doctoral study has been... troubled. Not least because the nation's Department of Magic is chaired by his ex-wife, Mystra, who Astarion suspects is pressuring the university to withhold Gale's degree. So far, appointing Karlach daytime manager has been enough to keep the gym open while Gale's reading or teaching or pining or whatever it is he does, but Astarion's no fool. Any day now the stress could prompt him to shutter the place. The man already has a heart condition, after all.
"Now, I couldn't help but overhear some 'body talk' as I entered," Gale says directly to Astarion. "Allow me to remind you all of another, very important house rule. Our members expect an environment free of judgement—even directed inwardly. That's what sets our space apart! All shapes, all sizes, and all diets are welcome in this community. We should model that by refraining from that particular topic."
Astarion is quite sure he talked about bodies the least just now, but what does he know.
"Um, right," he says. "Apologies, Gale."
Gale nods, satisfied, and Karlach salutes him. "You got it, magic man!"
Astarion sets about making the watery apple smoothie while Jen asks about a new wet food she thinks Tara would enjoy (Gale remains unconvinced because "Tara's palate is exceptionally discerning").
Finally, he shuts off the blender with a satisfying click. Jen's smoothie is watery, but he tops it with a mint leaf and a rosemary sprig to distract from its otherwise lackluster appearance.
For a moment, all is peaceful. Gale and Karlach talk about the sink repairs while Jen sips her smoothie mostly-happily.
"Is the sink still usable, or have you fully dismantled it?" Astarion asks Karlach, holding the blender container aloft.
"Wash it, Astarion," the others say in unison.
"Alright, alright!" Damn. He'd rather been hoping for an excuse.
Before he turns towards the sink, he chances another glance at the free-weight area. Jamie's racking their weights, a towel slung around that darling neck of theirs. Their hair sticks to their head in a way that should not be attractive. It should be even less attractive when they hinge their hips and shake their hands through their hair, sending beads of sweat flying across the floor and dotting the mirror—but their hips are hinged, you see, so the sweat is not what Astarion focuses on just now.
Jamie shoots upright and flips their hair back where it belongs. They open their eyes and catch his gaze from across the room, then grin slightly. A private signal, just for him. They tilt their head towards the hallway by the smoothie bar, which leads to the locker rooms, and cock an eyebrow. You down?
Astarion's stomach flutters and he feels his palms grow warm (not sweaty, thank you, just warm). He places the blender in the sink basin. Someone else will have to handle it.
Even if that someone is him, in a little while.
"I'm taking my break now, Gale," he announces.
Jen scoffs and Karlach throws her hands up. Gale, though, creases his brow."It's quite late, Astarion, have you not eaten yet? By all means, go!"
Oh, sweet Gale.
Astarion goes.
"You've got fruit in your hair, darling," he tells Jen as he breezes past her. "Borrow my shampoo. It's in the first-aid kit."
"You store hair products in the first-aid kit?" Gale calls after him.
Astarion pretends not to catch that.