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The tower was dark most days. Sure, there were candles that danced dramatically and magic light that roamed the halls but; the sun did not grace their rooms anymore. Astarion was sure it use to, he has yet to ask Gale or Tara but the faded wood grain near the window was a tell tale sign of years of open windows and delicate sunshine.
By some windows, sun catchers cascaded down and twinkled — reflecting, nothing. Purples, blues, oranges and reds, forever contained in their small glass shapes. Forever stagnate, enclosed and purposeless. Now, though, curtains were almost always closed. It was dark, brooding and yet homely and warm. Few rooms had their curtains drawn, and even then, most often than not, they would be closed later, drowning out the sun. Gale cared too much for the well-being of a vampire to allow the sun to present herself to them.
Astarion did, though, miss the light. The warmth. He missed it whole heartedly. To bask in it was like being finally answered by the gods — and to be taken from it? The gods' realising their mistake. He missed touching sun warmed stones with manicured hands, to feel the sway of dew-dropped grass caress his skin. He, most of all, missed laying in the dying sunlight as he listened to narration from Gale. Laying together, against a tree, in the grass, against the river bank. He missed the feeling of an almost-kiss on his skin from the sun. Her love given to him as freely and as equally as she gave to the others. And swiftly taken from him once she realised what he was.
He tried not to lament, though. He sprawled out his favourite window seat. Collected by him were spools of beautiful thread. Some were centuries old, decades. Others were only a few years with most of them being newly aquired gifts. Golds, reds, wines, purples, blues. Delicate colours, loved by the both of them.
He loved to embroider. He always had- he thinks. As a child? Maybe. He had the skill for it regardless even if he wasn't sure when he picked it up. He was currently working on embroidery of a vase of flowers kept nearby. Gale had put some kind of charm on it, he's sure, as it has been a tenday and they are yet to droop. Quick threads followed by careful stitches filled his afternoon. He could hear Gale's piano playing some tune.
Gale had decided to enter at that moment, sighing at the calm sight, before coming over to the window seat and pulling up an ottoman to sit by the sprawling man. Astarion paused his threadwork — placing it behind him on a shelf built into the wall. He hummed at gale, as his hands reached for Astarion's thigh. Just to lay there. Just to feel.
"And to what do i owe the pleasure, my dear?" He asks Gale, moving a hand under his chin in a performative curiosity.
Gale sighed, his eyes lidded. He looked at Astarion with such adoration it was almost overwhelming. It was all consuming. It was not forceful, or demanding, it was just present.
"I came to see what you were up to, lounging here all by yourself. It can get quite lonely i have heard." He tuts at himself, as though he is telling himself off for something. "In truth, my love, i have just finished a rather uneventful novel and i wanted to spend the rest of my afternoon with someone who is... well... eventful."
The words feel as though they should have a special meaning. One that should make him run into his arms or away. One that would have been all demanding and forceful years- no, months, ago. One that would throw him to his knees or hold a warm body against a wall. But they aren't. They're an explanation. A story. A promise.
"Eventful? I am, i suppose." He slowly blinks, reaching out to make a quick grasping gesture. "What did you have in mind, then?"
Gale leans forward — moving his hand up to Astarion's waist. It is tentative, it is soft. It is a question. It is... overwhelming, still, to be cared for so gently. Gale looks at him, gentle, patient. A quiet 'Tell me if this isnt ok' and a 'You can move my hand if it hurts'. There is a pause before he continues his thoughts; spouting them as he always does.
"Well, what is better than a bottle of good wine and better company, hm?" He smiles softly, a knowing look passing over his face. "I know wine tastes like... well, vinegar to you now but perhaps a different drink will be of your liking? Something full-bodied and red, mayhaps?"
It isnt hard to guess what Gale is insinuating. Astarion was always hungry. It fills him, all consuming. Forever. He will never rid himself of the need for the red jewls that bead from life. He feels it now, that deep, wretched feeling. It fills his body, his need. He has done well, to drown it out. To live as a normal elf, albeit with a sun sensitivity and a need to be explicitly invited to enter a home. He looks at Gale, with that hunger.
"Oh, darling, you care so little for your own health. I love it." Theres a joke in there, something private. He smiles mid sentence- his words half hearted.
"How could i not? When my sweet ravenous friend starves before me?" His voice tenderly drops to a barely there whisper. "And i know hunger. Please, let me do this for you."
It's hard not to believe him. His sincerity- his care and love. He wants to do this. He wants to gift him.
He moves forward more, lifting his hand from Astarion's stomach to bring it to his face. He holds his hand, just a bit away from his skin, before Astarion closes his eyes. Akin to a cat, slowly closing his eyes. Much like a feline, he did so to portray his trust. So, Gale did what he would to any cat that would trust him so innocently — he pet him. He brought his hand to Astarion's cheek. Gently caressing his the skin he found there, slowly swiping a finger just under his eye. His soft fingers graze his dark circles. Astarion leans into the touch. He nuzzles Gale's hand, moving slowly to kiss his palm. A quiet 'ok'. Permission. A confession and a boon of trust, all in one.
"Will you lay with me? I will grab a bottle, if you will." Gale's voice is almost shy, tentative. He moves his hand to card through Astarion's carefully styled hair.
"I will, i will be there, my sweet. Go- shoo." He peels away from Gale - moving his hand in a brushing movement. "Off with you. Get a bottle of red, then."
Gale stood, pressing a kiss to Astarion's nose before leaving to have a look through his wine collection.
---
The room was warm. Warmer than it should be in the later hours of the day and brighter than possible. The windows were closed, curtains tied together and securely shut. And yet... light poured in. No, no that wasn't right. It wasn't just light. It was sunlight. Sunlight bathed their shared bedroom. It poured over their bed, their desks, their delicate furniture. It poured over Gale. Framing him in a glow one could almost say was almost holy. Light flickered through the bottle of wine as it rich contents is poured into a delightful glass. Almost akin to what it felt like to walk in the sun again, to be alive again. And it was terrifying.
Had Gale suddenly decided he no longer wanted Astarion with him? Was he too much of a mess? Muddled and washed away from his elf features? Was his sun sensitivity and odd qualms finally catching up with him? Had he, too, realised what Astarion was — and had he decided to promptly take away his warmth, aswell?
He stood there, expression shifting through all of his thoughts. Like cutting through sand, grainy and glass like, it was almost as though his thoughts had properly voiced themselves.
Gale finally, finally, looked up from his drink to see him. His expression was warm, sweet, loving. He made a soft sound, a comfortable sound, as he glided towards the vampire. Stopping just short of him.
Astarion looked at him with fear, and he must of seen it. He must of realised. He must have as shy words spill from his lips as he fights the urge to touch him.
"Oh, oh my Star whats wrong?" Concern. His own brand of fear. And confusion. All mixed together in the words he spouted. "I assure you that.. that will not hurt you it's..." he seemed to have realised what the problem was at that.
"Its just an illusion my love, i... i know you've missed the sun's kiss so I thought... well that was truly my plan to drive you up here." He gives a nervous giggle, not sure what to do with his hands as he watches Astarion's face shift through the words.
He replies. Finally. Soft, gentle, unsure.
"Oh."
Gale holds his hand out, palm up. An invitation.
Gale and Astarion had similar hands. They were not the hands of someone who fought. They were not marred — not really. Gale had a permanent piece of the Weave engraved across his palm and up to his forearm. It was delicate. It was beautiful. Astarion did not have scars, not on his hands anyway. His hands appeared unblemished but... he had moles on the back of his hands. Small ones — star-like in nature. They were beautiful. Something to be catalogued away for later, to press gentle kisses and murmur sweet words.
They had an artist's hands. Not soft, not really. They were barely calloused though. They were strong, dexterous, careful. They wove needles and conjures spells. They wrote delicate manuscripts and carefully carved knife skills. They held on to each other, kept each other up right in times of turmoil and visceral flashbacks. They rubbed circles Into their backs, comforting and apologetic. They guided each other through dance, masterful and unique. They... showed each other what it meant to love one another and what it meant to be loved.
Astarion took that invitation, and held onto his outstretched palm.
Gale pulled him into their room. He did not burn. He did not melt. He did not scream.
He was being embraced by her again. His mournful smile replaced with one of giddiness. He looked at Gale, mouth agape as he smiled lovingly back at him.
Astarion pulled him towards their bed, climbing over the chest at the end of it. Gale followed along as they nestled together onto the bed. They lounged together, gazing up into the would-be sky.
The ceiling it was... divine. No God or Goddess could of gifted him this. They would not have listened to his pleas. Only one could have, and he is laying beside him. Only Gale. The afternoon sky plastered across it — clouds and sunbeams marking the beautiful blue. It felt... it felt like the real thing.
"I've been trying to figure out, well, how i could put the sun in our lives again. Without it being the sun itself." He giggled to himself, pressing his head against Astarion's side. He gestured towards the faux sky. "Its a mix of the light cantrip and the daylight spell... with a few adjustments here and there. i think i could cast it for you to lounge in."
Astarion didn't say anything. Not immediately. He just laid there. Basking. Basking in the warmth he longed for. The warmth he desired more than anything. The warmth that... was taken from the sun once she realised what he was. But returned once his love... his Gale... realised who he was.
The warmth he craved was not the sun's... it was his.
"Thank you... truly, Gale." He sounded breathless. It was soft, barely a whisper. It was gentle.
And it was tender how Gale moved himself up, pulling Astarion with him. He rested atop of Gale. Strong hands... soft hands... in his hair. They caressed, they held. And they stilled near his ears. Astarion was not sure when he closed his eyes but opening them to the gentle look on his love's face was a treat more delicious and delicate than any blood he's had the fortune of tasting.
Gale seemed to understand his way of thinking, moving his head to give Astarion better access to his arteries. He took no time deliberating.
Astarion leaned forward, soft in his movements. He placed a kind kiss to Gale's bearded cheek. Leaning down further, peppering kisses and soft murmurs. He kisses slowly, the mark he feeds from occasionally. Gale makes a content noise, shifting his hands from Astarion's hair to his sides. Astarion does it like a prayer. He bites, it is not harsh. It is not hungry. It is... soft, almost. As soft as breaking skin can be. He feeds.
There is no feeling like it. Nothing compares. Nothing compares to the blood gushing into his mouth. The taste... oh the taste. It is... undescribable. It feels like warm soup with toasted, buttered, sourdough. Dipped and warmed by broth. Filled with love and devotion and care. It feels like the soft warmth of a delicate hot chocolate, steadily guzzled down. The taste... nothing truly compares. It is not acidic, it is not like iron. It is not how it once tasted.
It is like trying a carrot cake spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg for the first time. Like trying a loaf baked with pumpkin and sunflower seeds with the softest cream cheese. Akin to the warmth of freshly baked banana bread, sneakily stolen and cooled in ones own mouth. It is sweet. It is bitter. It is spiced like no other. There is nothing that could rival it. Nothing that could rival knowing it was given to him with affection.
He pulls away, swiftly licking away stray droplets. Circles are rubbed into his back. He places one last kiss to his neck before moving back to lay against Gale's chest. Head on his heart, hearing the quicken beat slowly steady.
An arm wrapped around him, soft, comforting. A kiss pressed to his temple.
"I want you to feel safe again," He hears Gale whisper as sunbeams warm his cold skin. "I care about you more than you know."
It is quiet. Its not quite a confession but it was something so... sincere. So domestic. So... Astarion could not put a name to it. Lest he weep.
So, he instead, moved his hand across Gale's stomach. A soft sigh in contentment from the man. He kneads, almost, like a cat. Running shapes across his clothed skin. Resting. Basking. Hoping.
They laid together. Sprawled out and comfortable. An odd sort of sunbaking. Caressing each other, promises are muttered, whispered. Promises that say 'i will always be here', 'i will keep you safe for as long as i can', 'you will never have to worry'.
The sun may have cast him to the shadows. Kept her loving caress to herself. But Gale would never be so cruel. Beams poured down, cast them in golden light. Nothing was hidden in shadow. Like a hidden grotto... a secret for them to exploit. To graze in. To stretch out in and bask in warmth. Hands running across bodies, tentative, warm, kind. This would not leave. This stayed because of what he was. Because Astarion... because Gale... they were survivors in their own right. They deserve a small peace. They deserve sunshine.
It... was not the sun. It never will be. But the sun paled in comparison to the warmth that radiates from his love. His sweet. His Gale