Chapter Text
It was a rainy afternoon, cold air rushing into the building while the heat wasn't quite on yet. A wet, humid feeling—where the fog seems to gather up inside you as well as around you—and Astarion shivered as he tugged his threadbare black hoodie tighter around himself. The word CHICAGO was slowly peeling, after the number of times that he had put it in the washer, but it would have to do. Besides, it was a rare thrift store find that he was allowed to keep.
As the bell rang with a half-hearted volume that suggested a lack of repairs, Astarion gathered up his desk, ignoring the teacher at the front of the room who was desperately trying to rein in the rapidly dispersing crowd. The people around him chattered about sitting together—about grabbing the corner together and rushing to the cafeteria for the best spot, about how the chocolate milk cartons ran out quickly—but Astarion couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn't as if he could afford it with his measly allowance anyway. Instead, walking a familiar path, he made for the building's roof.
Picking the lock with practiced ease, Astarion was glad to see that the sky was grey but luckily not pouring quite yet. The clouds greeted him with silence and somber moisture, and Astarion closed his eyes, hugging an arm around himself as he closed the roof door behind him and leaned on the creaking metal frame. He made to sit down, wincing as he bent his body and remembered that he was sore still. The memories of the previous night threatened to wash over him. No. He won't think about that now.
Trembling, Astarion forced his mind into a blank slate. His hands fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the lighter and a pack of cigarettes he had swiped off the counter of the convinience store he visited this morning. Lighting it, he inhaled more deliberately than usual, and finally relaxed a little bit as the smoke flowed into lungs. It was familiar, and he clung to the clarity that he was okay because he was here now. It made no sense to dwell on last night. It was just another night, after all, and his life had many nights left in it still.
He eyed the edge of the roof, where it stretched out towards the grey infinity of the sky, and contemplated tossing himself over it. A stupid idle thought, he quickly realized, because the building was only four stories high anyway. Unless he had a hidden talent for mid-air acrobatics, what would most likely happen is that he would break his leg, or spine, or both, and be paralyzed for the rest of his life. Perhaps not the worst fate for him—
Suddenly he felt his heart beating too loudly. Before he could bring his mind to a blank, memories bubbled up like sewage water from a clogged up drain—A crippled form in the foyer, Cazador leering, and jabbing the unmoving body with his cane, blood staining the stone floors and the faint white outline of where bone poked out of skin at an unnatural angle—screams rushed in his ear, his own, and, and…
The rooftop door slammed open with a BANG and Astarion found himself jolting up. His hand instinctively reached towards his waist, where he stored a long dark hairpin in his belt loop. But as the figure who opened the door rounded the corner, he realized that he was in for far worse. Ms. Nettie, his homeroom teacher, stood in the doorway, looking at him not with anger, but disappointment. Oh, how Astarion hated that expression. Worst of all, she had to care about him too; bringing him a sandwich on the days he fainted in class from hunger, giving him sweet encouraging comments on the essay he was too drugged to write well…And here she was again, disappointed in him.
Her eyes drifted to his hand, and Astarion realized that the cigarette was still between his fingers. He hastily tried to put it behind his back, but the wisps of smoke still clung to his arm. Besides, she'd seen it already.
"I'm sorry," He started with his silkiest voice, hoping that she was in a forgiving mood, or was too busy for him. Please, for Balduran's sake, he prayed, don't subject him to a lecture.
Ms. Nettie didn't budge.
"I'll clean out your classroom after school? I'll even sweep under the dusty cabinets, I promise" he offered again. He couldn't tell what her expression was anymore. She looked like she was less mad, but now more contemplative. What could she be thinking of?
After a dreadful pause, Ms. Nettie finally spoke: "No, Mr. Ancunín" Astarion hung his head. So this was going to be a lecture about smoking. He probably shouldn't have expected anything else, not with the recent anti-smoking assembly they had. Teachers were probably mandated to talk with him about this kind of thing anyway.
"Actually, I have a different punishment in mind," he looked up. This was new. "You are aware that Balduran High School is holding a charitable bake sale tomorrow, yes?" He wasn't aware at all, that sounds like the shit that Head Mystra would tell prospective students and parents about and would never actually care about, but he nodded anyway.
"Well, we currently only have one student who's organizing the whole thing, and it has been such a dreadful trouble to get anyone to volunteer their help. So, Mr. Ancunín, I would like you to meet Mr. Dekarios at 4:30pm sharp in the lower cafeteria today. He will tell you what to do—he's got a good head on his shoulders, and you will assist him in any way he asks."
Mr. Dekarios. He couldn't put a face to the name, but at least he was going to be able to avoid a lecture about smoking today. Besides, the guy is probably a nerdy, quiet sort that won't bother him if he is willingly subjecting himself to organize a bloody bake sale, of all things. He also didn't have a choice in the matter, it seemed. So he nodded, promised Ms. Nettie rather guiltily that he won't be caught smoking again (it was true, he thought—he will endeavour not to be caught again), and by the time the bell rang again, was lightly snoozing on the desk for his first afternoon class.
Astarion spent much of the afternoon alternating between dozing and picking at the threads on his black jeans, hoping to rip a small tear he found into a larger spot as his brain zoned out from something-or-other about derivatives that Mr. Menmos was going on about. His last period is with Shadowheart, who saved a seat near the back door for him, and conspiritorially pulled out a almost-empty bottle of chrome black nail polish from her bra as the bell rang.
Forty minutes of hearing about the Christ symbolism of Simon in Lord of the Flies later, his nails glinted with darkness, matching Shadowheart's eyeshadow. He asked her where the bottle came from, and she gave him her secret method: mingling with drunk goth uppercity girls in the park and looting their purses when they were intoxicated enough. By the end of the period, he's repaid her by scratching a design over the back of her hand with a sharpie—ivy leaves wrapped around the words "Fuck SHAR". She said he's a genius for designing her dream tattoo. He smiled, and to his surprise it was a genuine one.
Inevitably, 4:30 p.m. rolled around, and Shadowheart left him for a girl he'd never seen before. She must be Lae'zel, Astarion deduced, watching her confused, stiff movements in the bustling locker area. The transfer student from the other local highschool that Shadowheart had been at before. Shadowheart had revealed to him that Lae'zel had been kicked out for starting too many fights, and that she was only admitted to Balduran High on an athletics exception clause.
He gathered his things, adding another cigarette stub to his taped up collection of stubs in the back of his tattered locker, and considered ditching Mr. Dekarios again. The bake sale was tomorrow, after all, and even Ms. Nettie could do nothing about it if he didn't show up today. She'd be forced to assign him an easier detention tomorrow.
But as he glanced at the rapidly darkening sky and the heavy rainclouds, he suddenly didn't want to return home to his room, which would have no heating and only a small lamp. He didn't want to lie in the bed he laid in last night, after his services were no longer needed, didn't want to feel the damp spot of shame on his stained and unwashed sheets. His mind made up, Astarion made for the lower cafeteria. It was just prep work for a bake sale. A nice change of scenery even, from the hell that was his life.
The lower cafeteria lights were on when Astarion made his way into the room. It felt strange, seeing it so empty of the crowds that usually gathered, but Astarion never a reason to come here anytime other than lunch (hells, he barely even came here for lunch). On the far side of the room, he spotted what must be the bake sale preparation section. A large banner hung over the side of one bench, stating "Welcome to the Balduran BAKE SALE!" in large, blocked up, forcibly cheerful colors. The largest plastic containers he'd ever seen in his life were on another table—the kind that one usually stores clothes in—filled to the brim with what looked like chocolate chunk cookies and brownies. More large containers followed, labeled with allergens, covering four to five tables.
How did they expect one person to handle this? Head Mystra must truly be crazy, Astarion thought, as he walked towards the bustling figure hunched over a table. He assumed that this was Mr. Dekarios. From the back, he seemed to be rather tall, with wavy dark brown hair cascading down his shoulders and tied into a bun on top. Astarion immediately pegged him for one of those artsy types. Someone who preferred Ed Sheeran and Simon & Garfunkel. Someone who would never appreciate the true, emotional art of My Chemical Romance. Thank goodness Shadowheart was in his life.
To his surprise, Gale didn't notice him when Astarion walked up to him. He didn't notice when Astarion stood behind him, close enough to touch. He seemed to be fiddling with a small gadget on the table, furiously pressing a button the side. Leaning over to snoop what's wrong, Astarion caught a whiff of black tea, bergamot, and deep scents of chocolate. In fact, he smelt so strongly of chocolate that Astarion wouldn't be surprised if Gale had baked himself together with the brownies off to his side. Astarion dared to lean closer, but he must have breathed too loud, because Gale's head whipped up and Astarion's world exploded in pain as his vision went white for a second.
Blinking with confusion and rapid pain flaring up his face, Astarion is met with brown eyes widened in concern and an angular face with a beard of all things. His first thought was, how many grades has this guy been held back? His second, was that his nose must be bleeding, as he felt warm liquid dripping down his face, and tasted familiar iron in the corner of his mouth. When the person in front of him opened his mouth though, Astarion immediately realized that his assumption was wrong.
"I'm so, so sorry! I didn't realize that there was someone else who was going to be here. Are you quite alright? No, of course not. You're bleeding, oh hells, you're really bleeding quite a lot, I'll get you a handkerchief, just give me quick second. I'm Gale Dekarios, by the way. Sorry, maybe you knew that already? I'll go get a handkerchief and ice." Dekarios seemed to fumble over his words, Astarion mused with interest. His voice was much younger than his beard made him look, filled with a nerdy anxiety. He was, indeed, a nerdy type, just as Astarion predicted.
After fumbling in his bag wildly, Dekarios stood back up and handed Astarion a neatly folded worn handkerchief that had faded strawberries embroidered on it. Astarion eyed it suspiciously, and Dekarios gave him an encouraging nod with a shockingly bright, albeit nervous, smile. So, he was okay with Astarion's blood on it? Astarion decided not to question it—he only had so many clothes that he could wear to school anyways, and access to the washer was never guaranteed.
Wiping the blood on his face, he bundled the handkerchief and held it to his face. He could feel more and more blood soaking into it, and his nose still burned from where Dekarios' shoulder had smashed into it. Closing his eyes, he tried to breathe through the blood soaked cloth—come on, you've done this before. A hand closed over his own, and he opened his eyes to jerk away, only to see Dekarios leaning down in front of him, applying pressure to the handkerchief.
Dekarios looked contemplative as Astarion tried to get used to the touch. It wasn't bad, in fact, it seemed to be stopping the bleeding. Catching his gaze, Dekarios looked away, though Astarion saw a flush creep up his neck. Easily embarassed, he mentally noted.
"Sorry, I know that was sudden -" Dekarios was talking again, his voice uncertain, "the bleeding capillaries of a nosebleed are usually in the septum, so pinching the sides of the nose shut helps to stem the bloodflow and allows for a clot to form. That was what I wanted to do."
He looked at Astarion again, "I would like to apologize again. I remember now, that Ms. Nettie told me that I would have a helper today, Mr…. Ancunín?"
It took Astarion a second to realize that he was waiting for a response. "Astarion, please. No need to call me Mister." He squeezed the words out, hoping that he didn't sound too nasal, though if he did, that was Dekarios' fault entirely. The man's fingers were like pincers against his nose.
"In fact, could you let go now, Dekarios? I think my nose is going to bruise if you keep squeezing it." Dekarios released his nose as if it shocked him. Obedient too, Astarion mused.
"Sorry, I tend to get…worried about people getting hurt." Dekarios scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "And please, just Gale, if I'm going to call you Astarion." He sounded out Astarion's name a little bit—the way that most people did—but Astarion couldn't help but notice that Gale said it with a bit of a musical flourish. It made him feel pretty.
With his nose finally released, Astarion took in the messed up scene in front of him. Gale seemed to have destroyed the small gadget in front of him - it looked like a label printer, judging by the pieces of label paper all over the table. There was a puddle of ink on the table under the device. Definitely broken, then.
Gale stood off to the side, looking sheepish. Seeing Astarion's eyes on the label printer, he hurried to explain, "sorry, I might have dropped it, and then… stepped on it. Now it doesn't print anything, and I can't fix it, and we have so many pieces of baked goods to label, they are all bagged up in baking paper bags but I don't know how we are going to do the labels for all of these things," he gestured helplessly at the many containers over at the other tables, "Mum wants me home at 7 today—but these have to get done, and I have to organize them into boxes too."
He looked up from his rambling, and Astarion knew an easy task for himself when he saw one. "How about I do the labels while you organize?" This would be very easy for him, much easier than even sweeping Ms. Nettie's classroom. His body felt sore from the rough use last night, and he was dying to sit down again even though he had only been standing for a little while. Gale looked desperate enough that he would accept the help, even though it probably was a small thing, considering his detention is punishment for the several school codes he broke.
He expected Gale to agree, but not for the man to fucking beam at him with the full concentrated power of the sun. Gale's smile spread across his face with a warmth that just didn't feel like it belonged in Astarion's life as he exclaimed, "oh, that would be wonderful!" Astarion watched him rummage in his bag for a marker, and wondered if this afternoon would be an enjoyable one for once.
Soon, Gale had found him a pair of scissors to cut out labels from the long roll of label paper, and he was given a price sheet of the baked goods. He set up his work station far away from the ink spillage, and started to put ridiculously high prices on brownies and cookies. Gale moved the big plastic boxes so he would have easy access to their contents, and put the ones he'd already labeled into smaller cardboard containers, presumably to be distributed to different spots around the school the next day.
They worked in harmonious silence for a few minutes, before Gale started speaking again. "So, Astarion, what did you do to be consigned here with me?" Astarion considered his answers. On one hand, Gale seemed like a goody two-shoes. An obedient, earnest nerd? Astarion would bet his soul that Gale had never taken a singular puff of cigarette smoke in his life. On the other hand, the beard, so perhaps he wouldn't be so scandalized after all. Perhaps he was one of those weed hippies. That would explain why he was so happy.
At any rate, Ms. Nettie already knew, and so he'd be in no more trouble if Gale tattled. Astarion decided on the truth."Oh, Ms. Nettie caught me smoking on the roof earlier today. I must say, it was an amateur mistake. I should've remembered to lock the door after me, I mean, it isn't the first time-"
He chanced a look at Gale, only to see him looking scandalized, as if Astarion had just confessed to skinny dipping in the decoration fountain in front of the building. He had, for a bet he lost with Shadowheart, but its not as if he did it in the middle of the day and its not as if he'd just told Gale that. "What? You look like you swallowed a frog, darling. Cigarettes are a part of my life. Don't be so surprised."
That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Gale's frowns, "Astarion, I hope I don't have to re-educate you on the contents of the anti-smoking assembly we just had last week." Astarion groaned internally, and then he groaned out loud, too. Gale continued, "I had thought that the assembly was utterly unnecessary given that the student body generally learns the same information through the biology coursework, the section on respiration and lungs, but perhaps I was wrong."
"Now, Gale, hold on, I know all of that—" He tried to backtrack his words, but it was all too late, as Gale launched into a full on lecture about the biological impacts of cigarette smoke. Astarion continued to draw labels mindlessly as Gale discussed emphezema, the alveoli in the lungs sticking together, and something about nicotine too. As soothing as Gale's voice was, Astarion was getting annoyed.
Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. Looking up at Gale who was animatedly talking with his hands about lung cancer, he tried something else to stop the man from talking. "Well, how do you know? You've never smoked anyway. Perhaps the benefits really do outweigh the problems—we're all going to die some day in this life anyway, and isn't the point of life to take pleasure in living it?" The words sounded hollow to him, with the life he was living, but he thought, at least, that he would be right about Gale not smoking.
Gale did stop. "No, I guess I haven't ever smoked," he said, a little bit resigned at this bizzare argument. Astarion almost found his defeat a little endearing, and his annoyance faded as quickly as it started. Watching Gale's frustrated face, an idea came to him. A most devilish idea—to turn Gale Dekarios to the dark side. "You know, Gale, I still have a few cigs left—in the spirit of academic honesty, how about you come to your own conclusions? About cigarettes, that is?"
He delightfully watched Gale's expression change: confusion, a brief moment of the scandalized look again, contemplation, then a fierce determination. Oh, he'd caught the bait—hook, line and sinker. Astarion contained a victorious smirk as Gale said, "of course. You are right—how about after we finish these labels? The rooftop should be deserted." Unfortunately, right at that moment, thunder CRACKED down outside, and they watched as lightning struck outside the window, before rain began to pour.
Gale turned to him, sheepish again, as if the rain was somehow his fault, "tomorrow then. I hope this rain clears before we have to go home."
The rain did not clear. In fact, after they had finished labeling all of the boxes, it poured down in a heavier torrent, looking more like pillars of grey water coming down from the sky than harmless droplets. Gale put on a hideous chunky purple jacket and Astarion tightened the strings on his hoodie, and they walked to the doors of the building together. Astarion lingered, it would be worth anything to delay his inevitable return to Cazador's house, especially if he had to do it soaked to the bone.
He watched as Gale grimaced at the rain, pulled out his BlackBerry, and punched in a number. A woman's voice sounded—Astarion couldn't quite hear her. Gale said "yes, please. Thank you." He hung up, and Astarion wondered idly who it was.
Seeming to read his mind, Gale explained, "my mother is driving here to pick me up. Dreadful weather we're having today." Astarion nodded, wondering how quickly he could run through the streets, and whether his cigs wcould get soggy from the rain. Gale interrupted his train of thought, "Say, do you have anyone who's picking you up?" Astarion scoffed, surprised that the question even was asked, but then he looked at Gale's earnest face and remembered that he had to explain.
"Um, no. My foster father, he doesn't go out much." A blatant lie. Cazador did go out, all the time, but never to pick up one of his spawn. They could crawl his way back to him like the rats in the street for all he cared, so long as they returned, because they were his property. Gale didn't need to know that, though. Astarion was certain that if he said something along the lines of the truth, they'd be here until the next morning before Gale stopped asking his questions.
"I see." Gale's brows furrowed further, and Astarion was grateful for how he didn't press. The next moment though, Gale said something even more horrifying, "Well, in that case, perhaps my mother can drive you and drop you off at your place?" Astarion hissed out a vehement "no," before he can even comprehend why. Perhaps, he didn't want Gale to ever step foot near the place that was his personal hell.
Either way, Gale deflated and recoiled. Astarion felt like perhaps he should apologize, but he didn't. He didn't do that kind of thing—apologies. Gale murmured, "well, perhaps mum will have an umbrella in her car," and Astarion nodded mutely. They stood in awkward silence for the last few minutes of the wait. Astarion entertained himself by observing how the rain cascaded off the stones, lining a path through the grass. He breathed in the freshness of the rain-soaked dirt. He hugged himself tight with his hoodie, and tried to remember what it was like to be warm. He'd soon be needing it, when he ran through the rain.
Gale's voice broke him out of his thoughts, "Mum's at the back gate." Astarion followed him as they went to the back entrance of the building, confused why he was still there. He had already rejected offers of a ride. He was being polite, he thought. Making sure that Gale would still keep up the deal to smoke a cig tomorrow. The thought drew another small smile to his face.
No, wait—he was here to get an umbrella. That was why.
Focus.
A beaten-up chocolate brown Toyota was waiting for them at the backgate. It looked worn, the headlight covers were dusty, and Astarion swore that the bike rack at the top looked a little crooked, but well-maintained nonetheless. The window rolled down, and a woman who shared Gale's dark brown hair poked her head out, grimacing at the raindrops. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and streaked partially with grey, but her eyes shone with something hard that made Astarion immediately know that he shouldn't underestimate her.
"Gale!" She called, "its pouring, get in the car!"
She squinted at him, and he opened his mouth to say something smooth, but Gale beat him to it. "Mother! Do you have an umbrella in your car? Astarion needs one!" So much for being smooth, he thought, smiling as charmingly as he can towards Morena and nodding in what he hoped was a polite manner.
"No, but get in the car, Astarion! We'll have one at home that I can lend you!"
Before he could say anything to express: no, that really won't be necessary, Gale took his hand, and rushed him through the rain, throwing open the car door and saying "go, go, go!" He pushed on Astarion to get into the car's back seat as he waited in the rain. On autopilot, Astarion scrambled to get into the seat to allow Gale the space to get in, and before he could protest—Gale got in beside him and closed the door behind himself. Morena reminded them of their seatbelts, before she stepped on the gas, and they were off, rushing through the rain.
Astarion looked around the car that he had been all but snatched up into. The interior was homey, Morena had a cat paw key chain hanging above her rearview mirror. The seats looked clean, though the leather had cracks in its lining from use. If he'd have to guess, this was a used car. Good. That was good. It wasn't like the sleek limos that he had been sat in the last time he was in a car. But when he closed his eyes, the smell of the leather carseat still reminded him of that night, when he was made to crawl in the tight footwell, his naked body being rubbed raw by the carpet as hands pulled at his body and he opened his mouth for something hard, prodding…
He felt Gale's hand on his, and he flinched away hard. Breathing deeply, he opened his eyes. Gale was staring at him. Oh gods, did he do the embarassing thing again? Shadowheart referred to it as 'when he spaced.'
"Are you alright?" Gale's voice was gentle, but Astarion had lost the mood to be gentle back. "Don't touch me," he snapped, before he could register that he was, in fact, in Gale's mother's car so that they could lend him an umbrella.
Well. They should want nothing to do with him now, and he knew better than to outstay his welcome. Astarion made his voice neutral, "Mrs. Dekarios, please just drop me off at the next light. It's really no bother about the umbrella." Morena's gaze sharpened as she looked at him in the rearview mirror. Astarion put on his best fake smile, the kind where he looks like a prim and proper school boy.
"Astarion," she spoke firmly, "I can do that. But do you want to walk home, cold and drenched? It's so rare that Gale brings a friend home. I would love to bring you back to ours so that at least we could bring you an umbrella. It's your choice—what do you want?"
What did he want? Astarion hadn't been asked that in the longest time. He turned to look at Gale—they certainly weren't friends—but Gale was making frantic hand motions that could only mean 'just go along with it please.' So Gale didn't care, then, that he had snapped at him. Perhaps he could be selfish for once, then. He caught Morena's firm gaze again in the mirror, and inexplicably, he found himself saying, "well, if it won't be any trouble, then yes, I would appreciate an umbrella."
Instead of answering, Morena simply put on a CD and cranked up the volume. To his surprise, he recognized the beat from the shady convinience store down from Cazador's house. Gale groaned, "Mom, not 21 Century Breakdown again!" He turned to Astarion, as though they knew each other well enough to be having this kind of conversation: "She's been obsessed with this since June. It's been three whole months."
Astarion caught a smile from Morena in the mirror. His own lips quirked up, "Gale, I don't know what you mean. This track is a piece of art, and your mother is simply paying respect to the greats." Gale let out another dramatic groan, and Morena laughed.
"Oh Gale, I like this one. He's got taste!" As Morena began to sing along to Billy Joe Armstrong, Astarion's smile stayed on his face a little longer than it normally would. He stared at the grey rain outside the toyota's windows, and was glad that he could be out of it for a little while longer.
When they arrived, he thought that Gale's house was both everything and nothing like he expected. The placed appeared to be a normal house, though it was jammed rather strangely (and illegally, Astarion thought), between two garages of neighboring houses. He held his tongue about the legality of the building, and followed Gale and Morena in, the toyota parked on the side of the road.
When Morena flicked on the light, the room's warm brown interior lit up. The wallpaper was cream, but the areas close to the floor had crayon drawings on them: planes, trains, cars, a dinosaur, all trudging chaotically through endless flowers drawn in all the colors of the rainbow. Next to a green flower, there was a tiny TV cabinet, and books stacked all the way to the ceiling. A papermache of the earth sat on top of a stack of books. Next to the door frame, Astarion saw marker lines that went up in height, each one marked with a date.
Gale had grown up here, and his home was lived in with such vivid life. To his horror, Astarion felt tears prick at his eyes, because this house was what he had imagined when he thought of a home, back when he still dared to dream of such things. He wiped at his eyes hastily, hoping no one could see. Thankfully, Morena had headed into the kitchen, and Gale was in the bathroom. He hoped that his eyes were not rimmed with red—that would be embarassing, if he were to be seen crying the first time he visited someone's house.
Tentatively, he ran his fingers over the marks on the door, imagining Gale being a toddler, imagining what kind of person he would be. He ran his fingers over the 'age 12' mark—Gale had quite the growth spurt that year, it seemed. Somehow, he couldn't quite imagine Gale without his beard. For Astarion, it was the year that he had met Cazador. The rest—he shouldn't be thinking about it, at any rate. He'd had enough pity parties for himself in his own room. No point doing it in a stranger's home.
"Hey!" Overly cheerful. That seemed to be a theme. Astarion turned to see Gale walking towards him. Gale had switched into a faded, forest green Vampire Weekend jumper, looking much more comfortable. It was clear that he had hastily put it on, because some of his long hair was still tucked inside the collar of the jumper. Astarion decided not to tell him.
"Wat'cha doin'?" Gale examined the door frame.
What was he doing? Astarion didn't know. So instead, he responded with, "where's your umbrella? I have to be on my way."
Gale opened his mouth to say something, but Morena interrupted him: "boys, come to the table!" He turned, and it took Astarion a second to realize that he was also one of the boys. Confused, he walked to the round dining table and took a seat in one of the colorful mismatched chairs. Morena had set down two mugs of hot milk, and a plate of what looked like warmed brownies lay in between them.
He looked up at Morena. She pushed one of the mugs towards him.
Gale already held the other mug. He took a large sip, and grabbed a brownie as well. Astarion couldn't help but notice the white milk stain that formed in his fuzzy beard, and the sight brought a smile to his face.
He was still confused about the mug in front of him. Morena had kept standing, so he wondered if he was taking her seat at the table. He made to stand up, but Morena shook her head. "This is for you," she said, nudging the mug in his direction again.
Words were being formed out of habit in his mouth before he even knew, "no, I couldn't possibly," he found himself saying. Things were not offered to him, for free. What reason did they have for offering things to him? They had just met.
He voiced his confusion, but Morena just shrugged, "Gale told me that you helped him with the bake sale. Its just a thank you, that's all. Besides, I would love an honest opinion about whether they're actually any good." She ruffled Gale's hair as Gale took a bite from the brownie, sighing in satisfaction with his mouth full. "After all, I can't trust his feedback on what I make—he tries too hard to be nice."
Gale, too polite to open his mouth with food in it to object, let out an indignant huff. Morena smiled at Astarion conspiratorially, "I once put triple the salt in the spaghetti sauce, and he told me it was the best thing he had ever had while grimacing." Astarion could imagine it. Eager to please, he thought. A desperate nerd, then. Desperate for what, though? Gale Dekarios seemed to have everything anyone could want in life. A doting mother, a cozy home, and he doesn't even look half bad himself, despite the fuzzy beard.
His stomach growled it's audible discontent that he ate smoke rather than lunch, making itself known. He looked down at the mug and brownies again. He looked up at Morena. She mouthed please.
Fuck it. Even if there was a price for the food, he'd pay it afterwards. Surely, Gale Dekarios couldn't have been anticipating his detention and planning to drug him with his mother. Nothing they could do for him could be worse than what Cazador has already done. He grabbed a brownie, and tentatively took a bite.
Flavor burst in his mouth. Rich chocolate, real chocolate, not artificial flavoring, and the thickness of the butter that formed the smooth taste. Crispy outsides, charred to perfection so that his teeth cracked the texture with just a bit of force, and a soft inside that was chewy to just the right amount that it complimented the harder texture of the skin. Most of all, it was so warm.
For days on end, he'd subsisted off of a combination of whatever he could scavenge from trash cans and the half-off string cheese he'd begged off the convenience store clerk. It was fully edible, just a few days past the expiration date. But it was always cold, wet, gummy. Morena's brownie was nothing like that. It warmed him to the soul, giving and offering so much more than he ever had. It made him realize how much he hated being cold. He had to stop himself from letting out a debauched moan as he took another bite.
Gale was grinning at him, that stupidly cheerful one, again. "It's good, right? I know the bake sale will be a success."
"Is that why the prices were so outrageously high?" Astarion thought that 10 gold pieces for one brownie was rather expensive.
"It's for the Balduran children's hospital charity, Astarion."
Oh. He felt his ears warm, but Gale was too busy munching on another brownie to realize. Morena smiled at him.
"RING, RING, RING!" The sudden alarm made him jump in his seat. "Oh, the next batch must be ready in the oven!" Morena walked to the kitchen, but Astarion was miles away in his head. Fuck, he thought. Cazador had told him—a guest—today at 8, or 8:30?
He glanced at the crooked clock on the wall, and it read an unrelenting 7:36 p.m. Fuck, he was going to be late. He estimated that it would be at least half an hour by bus from the nearest bus stop, Waterdeep, to Central Tower street. That is, if the traffic was going to be relenting, which it certainly wasn't going to be in this pouring rain.
The brownie flavor still lingered in his mouth, but Astarion couldn't afford to linger on its taste anymore. He stood up, startling Gale with his abrupt movement, but he didn't care. He would be made to suffer tonight, for every minute of lateness. He made for the door, growling as Gale stood up and started to ask after him.
"Astarion? Are you in a rush?" He was in no mood to lie. He had no more time to coddle Gale.
"I have to go. My father will be mad if I am home too late." He grit out.
"Take some brownies, maybe?" Gale Dekarios didn't understand what urgency meant. Why would he? He was out of time.
Instead of answering, Astarion simply stalked to the door, swung it open. He gasped when the downpour splashed on the porch, and cold water stained the legs of his trousers.
"Here. At least take this," Gale was there again, holding a black umbrella out to him. Astarion had no more time to think about why Gale was being so nice to a near stranger. He took the umbrella, started walking down the street, ignoring how cold water immediately soaked through the broken bottom of his shoes.
He looked back. Gale was still standing in the doorway, owlbear slippers on his feet, jumper splashed with droplets of rain. The light shining out from behind him was a fairytale yellow, a homey look that was what Asatrion imagined the lamp post in Narnia would look like. He turned away. It was not for him, and it would never be.
The bus took forty-five minutes. The sky outside was a sobbing night. There was no music. Astarion cursed himself for enjoying it at all.
Standing in front of the familiar black iron door, engraved with a skull, Astarion knocked three times. Idly, he wondered what the guest would be like tonight. Man or woman? Cazador had told him to dress prettily.
The door opened. Godey smiled at him, an unnatural smile stretched across a long face. It made him look like some sort of hellish skeleton. Astarion tried to shoulder past the man, but a strong, bony hand grabbed his shoulder to pull him back.
"Astarion, you know the rules. You were—" Godey pulled out a golden pocket watch. Astarion knew it was all for show. Godey certainly owns quite a few BlackBerrys, and they had clocks all over the house, "—39 minutes late. Come take your punishment, boy."
He wanted to run. But the streets were cold. And he didn't have a warm place to go to, and he was so tired. Even with the brownie, his legs were already shaking from exhaustion and hunger. So he let himself be led by Godey into a darkened room that he knew well. He let himself be laid on his stomach on a table, and as Godey's whip came down, he only closed his eyes.
He must have passed out between lashes, for when he woke, Godey was counting down the last few strokes. It was a rare miracle when the man didn't notice. If he did, Astarion was sure to suffer them all again.
"Boy, go to your room and put on some black lace, then come down at once to the drawing room."
The orders washed over him, and Astarion let habit take him, his back and thighs throbbing from the still bleeding marks left by Godey's whip. Mechanically, he returned to his dingy room, took off his hoodie, and put on the tight black lace lingerie that always chafed his skin red. There was no mirror to check upon his appearance, but since Cazador ordered his punishment before his service, Asatrion suspected that the guest wouldn't mind if he looked a little rough.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable. Astarion walked downstaris, wincing on every step. He wondered why his body hadn't become numb to the pain yet, after enduring it day after day. Where was the adaptation in evolution that Mr. Bex spoke about in biology class?
In the drawing room, he could see Cazador and the guest sharing some red wine. He knelt at the door, as he was used to.
"Crawl here, boy."
So, it was that kind of guest. The kind that enjoyed seeing him debase himself, humiliate himself, and finally fall apart for them. That was fine. He had no energy to fight back, or even to flirt, tonight. Perhaps it was a lucky day for him, after all.
He crawled as he was commanded. He groveled in front of the guest, who turned out to be a business man in some kind of mining industry. Astarion played the part of a slutty secretary, objectifying himself to the man's desires. He licked, played and sucked on the man's sweaty balls, sucking on a short cock that smelled like piss, and faked a gag, even when the man was barely long enough to reach his throat. When the time came, he got on his hands and knees, and moaned wantonly as the man penetrated him. He had prepared himself upstairs, of course. Cazador encouraged the man to grip his still-raw back and thighs, and Astarion strained to disguise the pain in his voice for arousal.
When he was finally able to crawl back into his own bed that night, his thighs were red raw from the night's use and punishment, and caked in the man's spend. He would not be able to wash before morning—Cazador didn't permit them to disturb his sleep with the shower's noise. His hole felt raw from the man's horrid obsession with inserting larger and larger toys into him after coming inside him, and not giving him any moment to adjust throughout.
His bed was too cold, even with the blanket he stashed away. The rain pounded at his windows, and some drops even blew into his room through the years-old crack in the glass. Despite his earlier misgivings about dirtying his hoodie after a guest night, survival seemed more important in this moment.
Astarion gingerly lifted himself out of bed again, and grabbed his hoodie off the floor. As he put it on and laid back in bed, he suddenly registered that the fabric still smelled like warm brownies.
He was too tired to cry. His sobs were dry as he inhaled the scent of rich chocolate, and fell into a fitful sleep.