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Soft breath and silk sheets.
Astarion lay sprawled across the bed, deep in her meditation, the indulgences of the night still written plainly on his skin. A faint, glistening sheen of sweat caught the flicker of the dying candles, each slow pulse of light tracing the elegant lines of him. His mind replayed the hours before with vivid clarity, every sensation returning as if summoned.
The scent of Gale lingered everywhere, cinnamon and papyrus, warm and familiar. The golden tone of his skin, the way that long chestnut hair had been gathered into a careless bun before he had sunk to his knees in front of Astarion. Those deep brown eyes, always so intent, had looked up at him as that talented mouth wrapped around him, as it had so many times before, and yet somehow never felt the same twice. The thrill of Gale, of loving Gale, was so potent that he knew if his heart still beat, it would skip just for him.
Astarion twitched faintly in his meditation as the memory deepened. Silk sheets tangled around his long, graceful fingers, the soft resistance of fabric giving way as Gale pressed into him. There had been a fullness then, unmistakable and overwhelming, not only of body but of heart as well. It was that warmth, that certainty of being wanted and chosen, that lingered longest as the candles burned low and the room fell back into hush.
A faint, fleeting awareness stirred at the back of Astarion’s mind, a scattering of tingles and soft, deliberate touches tracing along his neck and collarbone. He lingered there for a heartbeat, half lost in the sensation, before thought finally followed feeling. His eyes fluttered open, red irises blinking as the world came back into focus. The touch was real, and it was very much wanted.
Gale hovered above him, close enough that Astarion could feel his warmth. He was handsome in that infuriating, earnest way of his, hair loosened from sleep and candlelight painting him in gold. The low glow softened his features, catching in the curve of his smile and the dark depth of his eyes.
“Hello, my love,” Gale murmured. His voice was gentle, slightly roughened from the many sounds he had given freely throughout the night.
Astarion’s lips curved, amused and fond all at once. Gale would make an abysmal liar. Where Astarion thrived on deception, on carefully chosen words and practised expressions, Gale was hopelessly transparent. An open book, every page turned outward. And right now, that book spoke only of devotion, of warmth, of a love that did not know how to hide itself. And Astarion loved him just as much right back.
The curtains were still drawn, sealing the room away from the outside world. Only the last remnants of candlelight remained, leaving Astarion disoriented as to whether dawn waited just beyond the glass or if the night still claimed the sky. Slowly, he lifted one long, pale finger and traced it along Gale’s cheek, down the line of his bearded jaw, and over the smooth column of his throat. His touch paused where faint puncture marks lingered, a quiet reminder of where he had fed. Gale’s blood had been rich and nourishing, no longer tainted by the Netherese poison that once haunted him.
“Oh, what is this?” Astarion purred, his voice low and velvet-smooth. “Ready for round two? Or is it round four? I find I’ve quite lost track.”
Gale answered with a soft huff of laughter, leaning closer and capturing Astarion’s grinning lips in a kiss that would steal Astarion’s breath if he still had any.
“While I would very much like to indulge you later, my love, I have something else in mind just now,” Gale murmured. He lifted Astarion’s hand and pressed a slow kiss into his palm, then along his wrist, lingering as if savouring the coolness of his skin against his lips.
Astarion tilted his head, brows drawing together in faint confusion as he watched him.
“Oh gods, have I forgotten something?” he asked, a note of genuine concern slipping through the teasing. “A birthday? An anniversary?”
Gale smiled and shook his head, dark eyes warm and amused. “No, Astarion. Nothing like that.” He lowered another kiss, this one softer, more deliberate. “Today is the Midwinter Solstice.”
Recognition did not quite dawn, but curiosity did. Gale continued, his thumb brushing lightly over Astarion’s wrist as he followed the line of his arm upward with unhurried intent.
“It is a day usually marked by all manner of delights,” he added, his voice dropping just enough to carry promise. His eyebrow lifted, unmistakably suggestive, as his kisses traced higher along Astarion’s arm, each one an unspoken invitation layered atop the last.
“But it is marked by a very particular tradition in Waterdeep,” Gale went on, his voice carrying a hint of ceremony. “A gift.”
At the mention of it, Astarion’s eyes brightened immediately, delight sparking sharply and unmistakably.
“Oh, well,” he replied, lips curving into a pleased smirk, “I do adore presents.”
Gale rolled his eyes, though the affection in the gesture ruined any attempt at severity. He pushed himself up from the bed and stood, reaching for a loose pair of silk sleeping trousers. The deep purple fabric slid easily over his hips, hanging low and doing very little to hide the sculpted lines of his body. Astarion did not bother to disguise his attention, his gaze following the tempting trail of dark hair from Gale’s navel into the waistband of his trousers, already cataloguing intentions for later.
With a small, expectant gesture, Gale motioned for Astarion to stand. He complied, though only after releasing an exaggerated sigh, the picture of long-suffering dramatics as he rose and pulled on his own pair of trousers.
“You are a strange one, Wizard,” Astarion said, tone rich with mock reproach. “I truly do not understand why this could not have waited until after my meditation. You left me quite drained after our little adventures.”
Gale merely smiled and stepped closer, lifting a hand to boop Astarion’s nose with a light, playful touch. Astarion drew back with a soft sound of indignation, even as the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement.
“Because, dear one, I have a plan,” Gale said.
His hands came up to rest on Astarion’s shoulders, firm but gentle, guiding him until he stood precisely where Gale wanted him. The touch lingered a fraction longer than necessary, and it was then that Astarion noticed it. The tension beneath Gale’s confidence. The careful way he seemed to measure each movement, each breath. Nervousness. It was so unexpected that Astarion almost missed it. Even facing the Netherbrain, Gale had been composed, if not outright overconfident. Seeing him like this felt strangely intimate.
“Close your eyes,” Gale asked softly.
Astarion’s lips parted, a protest already forming, but Gale added, quieter still, “Please.”
That single word did it. Astarion let out an exaggerated sigh, heavy with theatrical suffering, before finally closing his eyes.
“Good. Now do not open them until I say,” Gale instructed, his voice careful, deliberate.
Astarion heard him move, footsteps circling slowly, the soft whisper of fabric shifting. Warmth approached again, and Gale’s scent filled the space around him, familiar and intoxicating. Then Gale took his hand, fingers steady despite everything else, and slipped something onto his finger.
Before Astarion could voice his confusion, Gale stepped away. There was the faint shuffle of material.
“Open your eyes, Astarion,” Gale said at last.
Astarion flinched at first, instinctive and sharp. The sudden rush of light was almost blinding, panic surging through him. For a moment, perhaps two, he was certain of what should have happened. Pain. Burning. Ash.
But none of it came.
Slowly, cautiously, he took in the sight before him and realised the truth. The light was not harming him. It was simply there.
The curtains had been drawn back, the tower’s windows standing tall and wide, and beyond them stretched the morning sky. The sun hung low on the horizon, its rays washing the world in gold, pink and soft amber blending together in quiet splendour. Below, the sea of Waterdeep caught that light and scattered it, the water sparkling as though dusted with glitter.
The light spilt into the room, warm and real, and it touched Astarion’s skin without cruelty. The sensation made his breath hitch, more from habit than need. Warmth settled over him, gentle and reassuring, a comfort he had long ago believed was lost to him forever.
His eyes shone as emotion overtook him, vision blurring as tears gathered and finally escaped, one tracking down the sharp line of his cheek. His lips parted, soundless, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. He stood bathed in sunlight, not burning, not fleeing, but simply existing within it, and the enormity of that truth sank in.
“How…” he managed to choke out, the word barely more than a whisper as emotion tightened around his throat.
Gale stood a short distance away, watching not the sunrise beyond the windows, but something far more captivating. His lover. His love. His life. Astarion bathed in sunlight, luminous and fragile all at once, a sight so achingly beautiful it felt as though it could move even the gods to tears.
“A while ago,” Gale began quietly, “when I was returning home from the university, knowing you were here waiting for me, I passed a woman on the street. She was cradling her baby, only a few months old, humming a tune as she walked. A lullaby I remembered from my childhood.” He smiled softly at the memory. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when the skies are grey. You will never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
His gaze returned to Astarion. “In that moment, I realised that is what loving you feels like. Sunshine. You are pale and beautiful as moonlight, Astarion, but the way you make me feel is the pure, concentrated power of the sun. Warmth. Safety. Home.” His voice grew more certain as he spoke. “The sun lights our way. It nourishes us. And it was denied to you, not once, but twice. I vowed that day I would find a way to give it back to you, in all its splendour, because you deserve nothing less.”
He reached for Astarion’s hand and lifted it gently, pressing a kiss to the ring now resting on his finger. Astarion looked down at it, a dark metal band set with a single ruby at its centre. It was warm against his skin, thrumming faintly, undeniably magical. Special. He opened his mouth to ask, but the question vanished when Gale slowly lowered himself to one knee and looked up at him.
“I spent days, then weeks, buried in the archives at Blackstaff,” Gale continued. “I pestered colleagues, paid bards and mercenaries for half-forgotten tales, chased down anything that hinted at a solution. And eventually, I found it. The Ring of the Sunwalker. Its magic allows the wearer to walk in sunlight as long as it remains on their hand.” His breath hitched. “The moment I learned what it was, I knew it had to be this ring. The one I gave you when I told you all of this.”
He paused, clearing his throat and drawing a steadying breath.
“You were unexpected,” Gale said softly. “A tease who delighted in flirting and provoking me in equal measure. Then you became my friend. My confidant. My lover.” His voice trembled, but he did not look away. “Now I know, without doubt, that you are the love of my life. I would do anything for you. Anything. I would give you the sun itself, though even in all its beauty, it pales beside you.”
His voice cracked, emotion breaking through despite his effort to contain it. “I love you. I want to love you for the rest of my nights and my days. Marry me.”
For a moment, Astarion could have sworn he felt it again, the steady thump of a heartbeat in his chest, filling the space where Gale had made his home. Astarion, so often dramatic and sharp-tongued, found himself utterly without words. No wit. No flourish. Only truth.
At last, he spoke the single word that mattered. The word that changed everything.
“Yes.”