seagull_soda
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Gale had desperately clasped Astarion's wrist, preventing him from fully wrenching away. From fleeing. And for a brief moment Astarion was ready to lash out with all of the feral fury a starving spawn had to offer.
The memory of that scorching touch was like a scar. The imprint of his lightly calloused, bare palm on Astarion's slender wrist was an invisible, white-hot brand upon his flesh. It was only Gale's wide, worried eyes and immediate surrender of Astarion's captured limb that saved him from being torn to ribbons by long-forgotten vampiric claws.
He loathed it. Touching and being touched.
People did not touch Astarion and survive.
Astarion did not touch people destined to live.
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Astarion has a complicated relationship with physical touch. It brings up a wellspring of memories best left forgotten, and he doesn't even know if he could enjoy it anymore should he ever let anyone close enough to try... or five times Astarion sees Gale being held and has a lot of difficult feelings about it the one time he does it himself and knows exactly how he feels about it.
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Now that Astarion was watching him fumble his way through meeting several other guests at Jen's behest, all while constantly throwing him the saddest little glances, Astarion decided that he had dodged a bullet.
Yes.
Gale would have been a terrible date to this silly little event.
It's the night of the Rivington Public Library's annual fundraiser dinner, and though Astarion has come to enjoy his new, quiet life as a librarian, tonight has proven rather challenging... and it's all Gale's fault.
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Perhaps he was looking a bit too comfortable, because as he pulled his laptop from his bag, the gray cat a few tables down rose into a languid stretch and began a leisurely stroll in his direction. It was a bit funny looking, its head crooked slightly to the side and its steps a bit unsure. Though Astarion was certain he was about to get a face full of tuna breath, the cat paused a short distance away, content to sit and stare.
Lovely.
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Astarion is the deeply under-appreciated social media manager for ProFang Ascension, an online media company, where he is constantly trying to put out the fires started by his terrible boss. Fortunately for him, his dear friend Shadowheart has just the thing to help him decompress- a voucher for the sleepy little cat café she works at.
Or, a slow-paced, laid-back, extremely fluffy first meeting between an Astarion who is trying really hard to have a bad time, and a very tired Gale who will ensure that does not happen.
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"Your face is red," Astarion said softly, strangely uncritical.
"That's what happens when you cry," Gale informed him patiently, oddly placid as well.
"Why?"
"Well, there are multiple factors that can cause such a reaction, and it varies person to person-"
"Why were you crying?" Astarion interrupted, his voice low. "What's that going to solve?"
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The orb is stabilized and Gale gets to have a big ugly cry as a treat. Please heed the tags and proceed with caution- there is some non-graphic rumination on Gale's mission from Mystra/Elminster.
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The first time they gathered like this, it felt like a shameful secret. Slinking away in the dead of night when their surroundings were still verdant and a good measure safer, when the orb in Gale's chest was still extending new roots through his body, its dark tendrils latching into living flesh to leech away the vitality, and the pain of it was starting to grow unbearable. Gale hadn't asked for his help, of course-
Gale aches, and the Dark Urge has a means of alleviating it, if only for a little while. Pining and ruminating on the similarities between their plights from the POV of my human Dark Urge bard, Paris.