Chapter Text
The morning after ‘the morning after’ comes too soon.
Whatever rest Gale manages to get is fitful at best and tortured at worst. The city around them stands— barely— still on the precipice of ruin, and it’s hard to tell whether the shrieks and snaps and sobbing are real or a vestigial haze from their time tadpoled.
He palms the socket of his eye absentmindedly. It’s not quite that he misses the damned thing, but towards the end of their journey there was almost a sort of… security in its power, even if Gale had not partaken in the squirmier side of illithid offerings that some of them had. For him, the ability to understand and be understood in an instant had been enough, sometimes even a blessing when the time had come to explain the things that they couldn’t (or wouldn’t) put to words.
Because, despite what his allies might think, Gale doesn’t talk only to hear his own voice. Communication was an essential skill for wizards, imperative not only as a spellcasting component but also to share knowledge, ask questions, explain concepts! Gods be, there was a reason that Silence was such a popular spell!
So how is he supposed to not be unnerved by the sudden, lonesome quiet in his mind?
Thankfully, his companions don’t seem to be so adversely affected. Once everyone manages to patch their wounds and fill their bellies they are seemingly right as rain, and the Elfsong is a blissful cacophony of chaos once again.
“A party?” Karlach’s eyes sparkle with interest as she’s handed a small envelope, burning the ribbon closure off presumably before even noticing it. “Oh, hells yes! That’s just what we need, a couple’a free kegs and rowdy music and we—“
“It’s a bit more of a… formal affair, I fear.” Wyll grimaces apologetically, “Though I do imagine drinks will be served.”
Gale’s attention slips to Astarion almost instinctively, just in time to catch a flash of fanged laughter before the vampire’s invitation is thrust into his hands.
Join us for an evening celebrating the saviors of the Sword Coast…
“Oh my, a ball in our honor? I’d say that Duke Ravengard has outdone himself, but then I remember that we quite literally saved all of Faerun. It’s the least he can do.”
… music, dancing, and good company…
“A ball when Baldur’s Gate is in ruins?” His brow furrows. “I enjoy a revelry as much as the next wizard, but don’t we think the timing is a bit… inopportune? Hm? Not to assume the worst of your father, Wyll, but if he is simply using our renown to save his own reputation—”
All eyes turn to Gale, and he’s not quite sure why until Shadowheart sidles up beside him to tap her nail on the invite.
… all donations will benefit the reconstruction of the Baldur’s Gate Children’s Orphanage.
Oh. Well then.
The tips of his ears heat immediately. Karlach looks gobsmacked, heartbroken, only to wind back and clap a hand over his back, meanwhile Wyll tries and fails to muffle a chuckle with his fist.
Even Lae’zel gets in on the teasing, not even looking up from her whetstone as she throws “For once the wizard and I agree. Those children will learn to be better warriors without some cushy ‘orphanage.’” at him from across the room.
“I did not say that!”
“Such a shame you didn’t.” Astarion clicks his tongue. He’s rifling through a chest of drawers for something, and once he finds it, he spins back to the group with a grin. “Now, I highly doubt any of you, save the Blade of the Frontiers, have ever attended a Baldurian ball, and I will not have you embarrassing me. Line up, height order.”
Gale balks—surely he must be joking—yet their companions begin to fall in line. They may even be excited, judging by the abnormally technical conversation Astarion makes as he jots down each of their measurements. He hears Karlach ask Halsin something about an ‘inseam’ beneath her breath, and Shadowheart is insistently describing a garment that sounds torn straight from a bodice-ripper.
He leaves them to it, trying his best to slide back into the safety of his bunk. Unfortunately for him, though, that calculating, curious attention turns to him before he’s able to make his escape. Gooseflesh prickles down Gale’s arms, and he takes a step back without thinking.
“Oh, no. I appreciate your enthusiasm, Astarion, but I am more than capable of selecting an appropriate outfit for myself. I’ll have you know that I— ?! E-excuse you!”
A ribbon slips around his shoulders and Astarion pulls him closer with a smirk. “Because wizards are so known for their fashion sense. Come now, play along! Have I ever asked you for anything?”
“Yes, constantly! And I know for a fact that there’s plenty more you just take from my pack when I’m not looking.”
Astarion fakes a pout, but he can’t argue the fact. There’s a beat of silence between them, and Gale doesn’t need the tadpole to know that he is scheming, changing tactics on the fly. “Well then why not let me get away with it again? Besides, it simply won’t do to have you dressed out-of-season, not when you’ll be representing Waterdeep.”
…Damn it all. He hates it when Astarion is right. He heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well in that case. You know I’m partial to violet.”
Much to Gale’s surprise, once he has acquiesced there is a sudden shift in the vampire’s countenance. Astarion’s focus intensifies, but not in the usual way; the tension in his shoulders drops, his jaw unclenches. There’s an air of… ease about him, even as he calculates something complex on his parchment. Gale wonders to himself if this is the sort of thing that Astarion used to do for fun.
Their quiet moment is short lived. Gale feels the ribbon tighten around his waist before he has a chance to suck in a breath, and Astarion hums. “Interesting.”
He’s on the defensive immediately, without stopping to consider why. “Is it? We’ve been eating hardier meals these last few days, surely I am not the only—”
“Hush, such boring insecurity doesn’t suit you at all.” There’s a hint of a laugh in his voice and, as if to punctuate his point, Astarion pinches Gale’s side. “Your proportions are plenty flattering for a man with your frame. I’m more so appalled that you have been hiding this,” Gale yelps as he’s grabbed around the waist with both hands, his scandalized flush only heating further when Astarion finally glances up from his knees with a grin. “Beneath that awful blueberry sack you wear every evening.”
He opens his mouth to protest, to defend his honor and his outfit, but before he gets the chance Astarion is gone, already slipping a shopping list into Wyll’s hand. Gale tries not to think about it further, even as his own hands notch into the slight, soft dip of his sides.
The next few days are a flurry of activity. There’s a whole afternoon where Astarion is just hunched over tubs of dye, and another where he’s got a dozen needles threaded in different colors all stuck into a singular swatch of fabric. Yet when Gale offers to assist —“There’s no pricking a Mage Hand, and it’s just as dexterous as my own!”— he’s unceremoniously kicked out of the suite for the rest of the day. And while a few hours alone at Sorcerous Sundries would typically be a dream, he can’t help but worry when his re-entry that evening is met with a rather insistent Shadowheart and Karlach whisking him down to the bar.
Astarion lets everyone else participate in his little workshop. Why not him? Gale knows that he shouldn’t assume the worst of his friend, but it’s impossible not to when he’s got everyone else acting so Gods damned suspicious along with him.
So instead Gale does what he does best.
He studies.
He reads the few unburnt books on Baldurian etiquette that he can find in Lady Janneth’s private library, then finds a few more ‘case studies’ from the historical fiction section. Desperate times, desperate measures.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, the customs of the patriars of Baldur’s Gate seem to be a mish-mash of customs from many locales; though out of them all, Gale found himself quite interested in the descriptions of high society storytelling. There was an expectation for guests to tell each other tales pertaining to their outfits, what far-off city the fabrics are imported from or from what mine their jewels were… well, mined. It speaks to a person’s worldliness and thoughtfulness, a sign of respect to the host that so much care has been taken in preparation for the gathering.
It gives Gale even more reason to feel put-out by Astarion’s secrecy. Does he mean to make a fool of him in front of the others? Watch him struggle to improvise a history, only to fill his own pockets with social currency by correcting him? He likes to think that they have become friends over the course of their travels—Hells, they bunk next to each other, even—what petty amusement can his embarrassment provide at this point?
Gale sighs and tucks Lady Darbyfaer’s Debut back into the shelves. There’s perhaps hope still that the celebration will be unconventional, given the current state of the city.
And at least this whole affair will be over tomorrow.
Lunch is as good as forgotten the moment that their vampiric couturier finally emerges. Astarion’s got a playful glint in his eyes and one by one he spirits their compatriots away, leaving Gale to begrudgingly eavesdrop on their reactions in anticipation.
He tries to keep from biting his nails, but there’s just something unsettling about this whole scenario. The hands on the clock seem to slip by too quickly. “Still waiting, you know!”
Astarion doesn’t even deign to pop his head out through the curtain. “So sorry, only so much space back here. Just a moment longer.”
There’s another half-hour before finally, finally, Astarion comes to find him. He’s changed his own clothes already; his usual shirt has been replaced with one dyed a deep, smoky mauve, with a banded collar diligently buttoned to cover his puncture marks. It’s almost subtle, at least until he gets to the waistcoat. Then it begins to look more Astarion’s style. Wine red with golden buttons, cut fashionably long to reach his middle-thigh. His suit coat is striking white in comparison, with laurel brocade climbing up the fabric.
He’s not too proud to admit that the other man looks good. Great, actually. It’s as if Astarion has always belonged in clothes like these, and Gale feels a dull ache settle in his stomach.
“We don’t have all day, darling. Pick your tongue off the ground and come on.”
Gale blinks, then hurries back behind the curtain, forgetting whatever ill-placed sentimentality the moment that Astarion drapes his new robe over his arm.
The first thing that Gale notices is that, yes, it is violet. At first he even thinks that it might even be the same fabric as the one he’d worn back in the grove when they’d first met, but it is of a much finer quality. His next realization is that it is in a Waterdhavian style: a deceptively simple silhouette with the illusion of layering achieved with invisible seams throughout, and a trio of silver fastenings on each side to cinch the fabric in at his waistline just slightly.
The neckline dips below his collarbones to expose the orb, yet it’s clearly intentional. There are thin, wisping threads of sapphire radiating out from it—as if the Weave itself has been sewn into the fabric—yet they’re only visible when they catch the light.
Gale realizes what Astarion has done. He’s made the orb a symbol of Gale’s own power, made it seem like something worthy of display; he knows he shouldn’t feel awestruck, but it’s the first time he’s been able to look at it without thinking of her.
There’s lightning in his veins again, crackling at his fingertips.
“Dear me, have I managed the impossible? Rendered the Gale of Waterdeep speechless?”
Gale chuckles. “Not quite, but perhaps the closest anyone has gotten yet.”
Astarion smiles in a way that all but guarantees that this is a trick somehow, and sure enough the kicker comes but a moment later.
“Astarion… where are my trousers?”
“Hm?” Silver eyebrows jump in faux-surprise, “Oh, those old things? I couldn’t let my dearest wizard wear rags to the Upper City!”
“I appreciate your concern, if you can call it that. But,” Gale grimaces as he peeks an ankle through the slit in the robe. One of the slits. Because there are two, one for each leg, each high enough to almost reach the hem of his briefs. “I’m a bit… exposed, don’t you think?”
Astarion tips his head, then simply reaches out to pull the fabric wider. Gale recoils on instinct, which of course just leads to the whole of his thigh being bared instead. “Well, this is an easy fix. I’ve got just the thing.”
…Stockings. His answer is a pair of black stockings.
“Surely you can’t be serious.”
“As the dead, darling.”
“They aren’t even opaque!”
“It’s only really noticeable if you make it noticeable.” Astarion tuts, “Just find a little corner of the ballroom and play chaste for a few hours. Let the party come to you!”
Gale rolls his eyes. Karlach shouts from somewhere outside the curtain. “Oi, lovebirds! Clock’s tickin’! Quit your necking and let’s go!”
“We are not—!” He shoots a look to Astarion, who is a little too amused by his frustration. It is a fruitless endeavor to argue the point, especially when Astarion clearly seems more inclined to push the matter farther just to see his reaction. The best course of action in situations like these was to simply not give him the pleasure. “…Alright, you win. But if anyone at all asks why I’m so immodestly dressed, I’ll be telling them that this was your doing, Astarion.”
“A delightful idea, Gale.” His name is purred against the shell of his ear as Astarion ghosts a palm over his side, but doesn’t touch.
Gale swallows down the anticipation in his throat. It’s another of his games, he thinks, that roguish, half-hearted teasing that he does with everyone.
Yet somehow he’s the only one getting paraded into high society with a minx’s legwear beneath his robes. A strange sort of special treatment, Gale supposes, because he knows better than to hope for anything at this point. Surely he’d used a lifetime’s worth of luck several times over already, and there was no reason to assume that Astarion is doing anything beyond chasing his own amusement.
And Gale does look quite good in the stockings, loath as he is to admit it.
He has to struggle a bit to fit them over his calves, but once they are on he might even describe them as flattering. Upon closer inspection they are not black, but a dark midnight blue. It is obvious that Astarion had been planning this all along, judging by the way they coordinate seamlessly with his garment. Yet the seam up the back of them is a stark silver; thankfully it’s doubtful that anyone will see those, since the slits are only on the front of his robe.
Maybe they truly aren’t that noticeable. With their darker coloring and the thin edge of the slits, there’s almost an illusion of an underskirt. He can work with this, so long as he doesn’t need to splay his legs at any point of the evening.
Gale finally joins the rest of his companions, and he’s happy to see that everyone else seems remarkably pleased with their outfits. Karlach looks dashing in a fitted suit, her hair arranged in a high and messy ponytail with rubies laced throughout. For Lae’zel, Astarion has somehow managed to adapt a Githyanki shoulderguard into a stunning accessory, making it seem as if she has a golden dragon perched atop her shoulder with its tail snaking down her bare arm. And while Shadowheart has never shied away from a low neckline, it's still somewhat shocking to see that she has chosen a lovely dress with a neckline down to her navel. The dark fabric appears as if it should be sheer if laid flat, but there’s just so much of it draped over and over that instead there is almost the appearance of rippling waves with every movement she makes, her hair falling loose down her back in pretty curls.
Wyll has managed to retain his swarthy charms, yet the luxurious materials elevate his simple shirt and meticulously-tailored breeches to the level of high fashion. There’s a half-cape slung over one arm and held in place with bronze clasps, and he’s got a lovely new sword sheath fastened on the other side. “I must say, you clean up quite well, Gale.”
He feels a small swell of pride in his chest. “As do you, my friend. Now, shall we be off?”
They arrive in the Upper City in a matter of moments thanks to the waypoint Duke Ravengard has helpfully shared with his son beforehand. While the Upper City has seemingly been less ravaged by the battle—or perhaps just better at hiding it—there’s still a general sense of unease pinching at Gale’s shoulders. It feels off, as if he in particular is in danger, and he absentmindedly brings a hand up to touch his earring. He could likely see the temple from here if he squints, and he—
—He hesitates at the last moment, and isn’t sure why.
“If you are attempting to escape, wizard, I will gladly use force to restrain you.” Lae’zel bumps into him from behind with her un-dragoned shoulder, forcing his attention back to the rest of their group. He chuckles beneath his breath, thankful for the distraction.
Wyll then leads them through a private entrance to where Duke Ravengard and Councilor Florrick are waiting to receive them. Pleasantries are exchanged and hands are shaken, even though they are all plenty well acquainted. It’s a warm-up for the evening's festivities, and Gale can already begin to feel the pieces of his long-neglected ‘Guest of Honor’ facade clicking into place. Gracious smiles and humble bragging and ‘Have you ever been to Waterdeep? You must visit in the summer.’ A sip of champagne before the punchline of a joke.
They say that there will be a small presentation an hour or so into the evening, but are otherwise free to enjoy. Their companions begin to filter into the ballroom, but before Gale has the chance to reach the threshold he finds himself unceremoniously yanked back by the wrist.
“Oh, Gale?” Astarion effortlessly slips behind him wearing a smile laced with mischief, “I forgot the finishing touch. Just one more moment.”
His pale hands drag through Gale’s hair, pulling his front locks back gently and affixing them in a loose bun at the base of his skull. Gale shifts slightly, only for Astarion to catch him by the jaw as he slides something through the tie.
“There, perfect! I couldn’t have done it better myself. Oh wait— Haha!”
“…Well then. Thank you, Astarion. I will trust that you waited until the last moment out of genuine forgetfulness, and not solely so that I would not have the chance to check my appearance again.”
Astarion chuckles. “Who can say?”
Not the most encouraging answer, though Astarion is hardly known for his reassuring nature. So Gale sees to his own confidence; he takes a slow, full breath and feels it mingle with the Weave as it works through his body. Careful, powerful, controlled. There’s a familiar prickling through his chest, but it is no longer holding his heart in a vice.
Gale finally exhales, smiles, and says, “Shall we?”