Chapter Text
Out of the three true adventurers of the party, two remained in Faerûn. However much Fiachra liked Lae’zel, though, they were very different people with very different priorities. She disappeared a day after the fall of the Absolute, and appeared only briefly for the reunion.
Fiachra, for his part, tried to settle down for a while in Baldur’s Gate. The first few weeks were spent looking for Astarion, to no avail. Despite his tracking skills, he was not an urban explorer. So he helped the people of the city start to rebuild and that endeavor filled his time for many months. His Everburn Blade hung on the wall of a small house just outside Rivington, and his armor stored neatly in a chest.
He found it difficult to be on his own after weeks of companionship. His few friends pre-tadpole had been scattered to the wind and by the time he thought to reconnect they were less than nothing on his network. He had no family, having forsaken his mother in Menzoberranzan and forsaken his father on the surface.
The reunion was much appreciated and allowed for him to gain contact with Astarion, Shadowheart, and Gale. He visited Shadowheart after finding out she was nearby, and had a meal with her family every couple of weeks. He and Astarion became closer companions and often went to late theatre performances together. Both were grateful for company, and Astarion became all the more lively with that much more blood in him.
Gale was another story. The two companions had been close during their travels, but despite aches and hoping, Fiachra had made no move to attempt a romance. Much to his dismay, neither did Gale. Faichra had assumed that the wizard had no time to fuss over love, and further assumed that if he did, he would have no interest in a worn fighter. He was smart, sure, but he was not particularly intelligent or wise, having spent his teen years under the thumb of Menzoberranzan’s academy and rule.
But he had been invited by the wizard to stay at his home to guest lecture his students. He had accepted the invitation immediately without ever considering what subject he’d lecture on. In letters sent between the two he found there would be an interest in wildlife survival and the Underdark. Those were topics he was knowledgeable in and felt confident enough to lecture on. A date in late Spring was set, and soon enough Fiachra would be headed for Waterdeep.
///
Fiachra had packed lightly for his journey. All the fundamentals of travel were with him: food, water, clothes, and other bits and things. He also brought with him his sword and his journals from his time traveling both above and below ground.
It felt very good to have his sword on his back. He had lost his original on the nautiloid ship and had become very fond of his giant flaming blade. The journey lasted two tendays by foot, with the occasional reprieve found by wagon and cart. He slept under the stars and kept his thoughts occupied with Gale and the lecture to come.
///
He was welcomed with a tight and warm hug from Gale when he arrived early in the morning. Fiachra melted a little, though tried not to show it. He smiled with a how have you been? and was shepherded inside to a lovely little home connected to a tall tower. Gale ran him a bath, which Fiachra gladly indulged after such a journey. By the time he had washed up, Gale had made lunch, which he was even gladder to indulge.
“What is your new place like?” Gale asked while Fiachra shoveled spinach and eggs into his mouth. He covered his chewing with his hand.
“It’s alright. It’s not homey, yet. But it’s large enough that I could invite someone to stay.” He continued with his chewing, having not much to say on the topic.
“You don’t have an apartment number.”
“Hm? No, I have a house.” Fiachra dug into a piece of roasted sweet potato. Gale really was a good cook, and with his kitchen as spices at his disposal, he had Fiachra tasting things he never had before.
“A house?”
“I should’ve invited you. There’s a guest room- and an office. I don’t use either. You should come.”
“I-“ Gale ate another bite of egg and potato. He chewed and swallowed. Scooped up another forkful, “That would be lovely,” he stuffed his mouth again.
Fiachra was clearing off the last of his plate. “The lecture is later today, yes?”
“It is tomorrow.” Gale looked at his calendar hung on the wall. Fiachra squinted to see that he had arrived a day early.
“I didn’t realize that I had come a day early.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just didn’t know I made such good time.” He sipped a cup of coffee. “One less day under the stars, I guess.”
Gale stopped chewing. “Did you… did you walk here?”
“Yes,” Fiachra said it like it was obvious.
“How long did that take you? Baldur’s Gate is quite a distance.”
Fiachra pretended to think for a moment. “About three weeks.”
“Three weeks?! You walked that?” Gale’s astonishment was making Fiachra both a little giddy and a little uncomfortable.
“How else would I get here?”
“A carriage? You really do have the money for that sort of thing. Or a horse like most travelers. Even a ride on a cart, if you were feeling thrifty.”
Fiachra took a long sip and licked his teeth. “I don’t, uh. Do horses. They don’t like me. And for the carriage… I guess I never thought of it. This is kinda my first time having money since,” he took another sip, “maybe I was ten.”
Gale wondered what happened when he was ten. The look must’ve been less subtle on his face than he would’ve liked. “My father was a professor. I… went with my mother when I turned double digits.”
It was clear Fiachra didn’t want to speak further on the subject. Gale switched the conversation. “I am holding two lectures this afternoon. You’re welcome to attend if you wish. The first from one to two, the other from two thirty to four. I’ll come home around six and dinner will be ready around seven. Do you have any ideas on what you’d like?”
“I’ll think about it.” Fiachra was not a picky eater, and despite all his travels, did not have the language to tell Gale about what he might want. He could never remember what he was fed was called, only the hundreds of faces that fed him. Gale had fed him quite often. He wasn’t just another in the hundred faces, though. Fiachra would think of something good for them. Maybe he could cook something.
The two of them finished breakfast in comfortable silence. Despite Gale’s insistence, Fiachra helped him wash the dishes. Then they retired to a comfortable living room, which held high windows and tchotchkes and half-melted candles and books: many, many books. Gale selected something for them to read, one an old journal from some wizard, one a foreign fiction novel.
Gale took a place on a loveseat, just wide enough for three people if squished. There were many other chairs, as well as a whole other couch, but he had taken the spot in the sunlight, which to Fiachra, was obviously the best place. He sat down right next to Gale, shoulders touching, and began to read. Gale tensed for a moment as his friend got comfortable, and then relaxed into the touch.
His movements were simple and small, and the quiet sound of birdsong lilted through the open window. The air was fresh and lovely, and the sun was warm on his back. And Gale was warm next to him. And the couch was plush and soft. And the near month of walking was catching up to him. All the aches had been smoothed by the bath and suddenly, gently, Fiachra was drifting off, his temple resting on Gale’s shoulder. His eyes fluttered shut, and the only thought was of the lovely birdsong.
///
Fiachra awoke to a warm presence on his chest. Blearily, he opened his good eye to see what it was. It was a feathered cat, the tressym Tara. “Hello?”
She ruffled her wings, “Hello, Fiachra. Do you have a family name I can call you? Out of respect, you know.”
“No. Just Fiachra. Can I get up?”
Tara rose and pattered off his chest, allowing him to sit rather than lay. “Why did you come here?”
Fiachra rubbed at his eyes and licked his dry lips. His jaw hurt, a clench in his sleep that had disrupted his teeth since his youth. “Gale asked me to?”
“You walked nearly three weeks to his house and made no effort at asking for help nor any complaint. You’re apparently more than happy to sleep on his couch while he goes off to work with only the promise of his return. Why?”
“I’ve never been one to complain, I guess.” He really didn’t know what to say or what she wanted to hear. Tara strutted over to the stairs.
“Well if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you the guest room Gale was kind enough to set up for you. I do hope it proves more comfortable by the couch. Oh, and grab your pack from the doorway. I tried to bring it up but it’s simply far too heavy for me.”
Fiachra followed her orders simply, as a student might a teacher. The stairs were winding, as befitted a wizard’s home, and made of a nice polished wood. The guest room was cozy, and had many nice paintings and furnishings and candles. Fiachra had scant time to appreciate it, for as soon as he sat down on the bed, (a bed with sheets that smelled of Gale), Tara felt it the proper time to continue her investigation.
“Do you love him?”
A fiery blush spread from cheek to ear and his fingers dug into the blankets. Fiachra was not a man who often lied, and he had a feeling the tressym would know even if he did. “I would have still come if I did not.”
“But you’re not denying it. You ought to know Mr. Dekarios was quite excited for you to visit.” Tara curled up on the bed sheets, quite at home.
“I could never bother Gale with my issues such as love.”
“I do think,” she stretched her wings before settling in, “he would like to be bothered. At least on occasion.”
Tara shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep. Fiachra, entirely awake and unsure of what to do with himself, decided to explore Gale’s home.
The bottom floor was the house section. There were the rooms he was acquainted with: the bathroom with the lovely, milky teal and jade tiles, the kitchen, with lacquered dark wood and beautiful glass windows, and the living room, with its ornate paintings and comfortable furniture, almost parlor-like, where it not for the massive rows of books.
Beyond that there was a laundry room, a basement full of dusty equipment, and a porch. Moving up the stairs there was the guest bedroom. The opposite to that, a small crack in the doorway revealed Gale’s room, which he did not explore.
There was then the tower. A spire that reached up into the sky, with stairs ascending through three rooms. The lowest was an office of sorts, which had a desk both wide and long, and alchemical equipment galore. Tubes and pipettes and glass equipment sat both on shelves and on the desk, and many flowers sat in sunlight, illuminated by more tall windows. After that came the true library, which was stocked floor to ceiling with books of all topics, age, and thicknesses. A library ladder clung to the shelves and perched on small wheels. The very top room was a marvel. It was an observatory, with a massive telescope and a small desk and chair. It was warm and bright, and the sky was blue and cloudless.
How beautiful. He hoped Gale would take him up here and show him the night sky. He remembered the illusion of the Aurora Borealis and thought that his illusion could not compare to his hypothetical night with the wizard of Waterdeep. Oh, how coy. Fiachra was being foolish and childish, fantasizing about his friend.
He wound his way back downstairs and sought something to do. In the kitchen the dishes, which he and Gale had washed, were completely dry. He made his way through the cabinets until all of them were put away, and felt accomplished that he then knew where everything went. With the rest of the day ahead of him he itched to be productive.
A broom on the wall! Fiachra hoped that it was not magic, and took it, examining the bristles and knots in the wood. It looked non-magical enough. He started to sweep from corner to corner of the kitchen, then moved all the furniture and swept under it. He kept the chairs and table askew with the intent to mop after.
Next came the living room, which was quite the endeavor, and then the laundry room. He finished sweeping and after that filled a bucket with water and soap and began to scrub. On his hands and knees he again went from corner to corner, suds coating his hands. His bucket grew murky halfway through, and while fetching more water he realized just how warm it had become. He was sticky with sweat and the house was humid. He opened a window in each room and propped open the door to the porch. Still not enough, he took off his shirt and patted off some sweat. Then, for good measure, abandoned his stockings.
He returned to scrubbing. All the rugs in the house had been moved to the porch and batted out with the broom. On all fours he continued his work on the floor, working his muscles and cleaning Gale’s home. Fiachra was enjoying himself, allowing himself to get lost in the sounds of birdsong and the ever present shush shush shush shush of the wet brush.
It was a similar feeling to cleaning his blade, something he hadn’t had to do in some time. The motions of work were familiar and gratifying to the fighter, and even more gratifying knowing that Gale would come from work to a polished home.
Tara came soaring down the stairs and, careful to not undo his hard work, perched on the end of the handrail. “My, my, Fiachra. It seems you have kept yourself busy. Mr. Dekarios will be very pleased.”
Fiachra’s warm body continued to work. Sweaty hair plastered to his forehead as he looked up from where he knelt at the base of the stairs. He smiled. “Hm? Yes.”
Tara smiled a wide grin but said nothing. She knew about the two companions’ fondness for one another, and also knew the two of them were very foolish. She would leave them be, for now, until they proved too insufferable. She flapped her wings and floated away, letting her guest continue.
Fiachra finished scrubbing, and once Fiachra could not find more things to do, (and he truly searched, but did not consider himself capable of distinguishing what needed cleaning in the alchemical lab), he was well and truly sweaty. It rolled down his face and back. It sullied his hair and worked itself into the creases of his trousers. He stretched, feeling joints shift and pop satisfyingly.
The day had grown ever warmer, and Fiachra fancied himself a swim. The porch looked over the water and a small backyard. Beyond a shadow of a doubt he knew his next course of action. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and laid it on the reclining chair of the porch. Then, joyously and without remorse, he dove into the water. It was cool and bracing and he found he quite missed swimming. It was something he had no time for when adventuring and unfortunately it was strongly unadvised to swim in the Chionthar.
He had no idea about the safety of the water of Waterdeep, only knew that it was deep, which was no issue for the strong swimmer. He pushed the hair from his eyes and continued to bask in the water. It ran over his skin like ribbons and pressed against his body comfortably. He had spent so long doing anything but allowing himself to be free. Then, in the lake for which his friend’s city was named, he was floating. However long he wanted, and wherever he wanted.
Fiachra swam for as long as he wished, and then floated on his back, feeling the water below him and the sky above him. This place was nothing like the Underdark. The people of Waterdeep would not threaten him for his pleasure. That fact was like music to him, music coupled with birdsong. By the world above, he was in love with his life and in love with the facts of it.
The fighter was ready to be done with his time in the water. He swam over to the shore, where Gale’s backyard dipped into the lake, and climbed out. He shook his hair out over the herb garden and sauntered over to Tara, who was napping on his towel.
“Tara? Are you here just to bother me?” Fiachra laughed good-naturedly as he tried to slowly pull the towel out from under the tressym. She opened an eye at him.
“You happen to put your towel across my favorite napping spot. It can hardly be considered my fault.” She didn’t move, but yowled angrily when Fiachra rolled her off the towel.
“Then it’s hardly my fault that I need my towel. Unless I should dry myself off with you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Fiachra put a wet hand on her tail, which she swatted away. She scoffed in disgust and flew up from the chair, “You are terrible! Simply terrible!”
The fighter dried his hair and wiped down the rest of his body before laying the towel back out. “You should consider a swim on your own. I find them quite lovely. But alas, you may find the same comfort in a nice damp towel.”
Tara settled down tentatively, feeling the fibers beneath her paws. “I would never degrade myself by getting my fur wet on purpose, but I suppose you’re far less furry than I am.”
Fiachra laughed and walked off, going to change his pants. His hair was still wet, and with more than an hour before Gale’s return, he wondered what to do. He placidly wandered through the house, examining his good work. He didn’t wish to read, feeling a bit too tired for the foreign novel. He wasn’t going to cook, for if he started now he wouldn’t have enough time to finish before Gale came. Before he could decide on any solid plan, he had made his way to the observatory.
Yes, oh yes. This would make for a splendid hour.
The glass of the windows was thick, and between each pane was a few inches of wrought metal, with a latch connecting them. Fiachra undid one of the latches and the pane swung inward. A light breeze wafted through the place, dispelling the humidity from the room. He laid down on the warm floor and let the sunlight dance across his skin. He found that every moment he spent in Gale’s house was one of content and ease. Easier than his own home, where he had no expectation of Gale’s company. But at the tower, he was excited to know that soon he’d be there.
///
When Gale returned to his home, he immediately saw a window pane in his observatory open. This worried Gale, for he remembered that it rained at midnight the night before, and didn’t wish for his equipment or floor to get ruined. He quickly shuffled inside and dropped his bag on the kitchen table. He stopped in his tracks for a moment, for his floor was immaculately clean. Dust had disappeared from surfaces, as had cobwebs, and the windows had even been polished. A strange thing, to happen to your own home without your action. In the living room the rugs had been beaten and cleaned, and books that were left out had been rearranged into neat piles.
Tara was lounging on the porch across a damp towel. “Tara, do you know if I left one of the observatory windows open?”
“No, I don’t know. You haven’t been up there in the past couple days, have you?”
“I have not. Well, thank you anyway, Tara.” Gale continued upstairs, noticing still the clean floors. The office and lab had a perfunctory sweep, but all his equipment remained untouched, which he was glad for. The library had been dusted, and the one large window cracked open slightly. Again, any stray books had been placed in neat piles on the table.
Finally he made his way to the observatory. There, eyes closed and body relaxed, was Fiachra, enjoying the day. His hair was damp and he was wearing a different pair of pants than when Gale had left for work. That, and he was completely shirtless. His muscled arms splayed out at his sides and his legs were spread comfortably. His bare chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. A gentle wind rustled papers benignly.
“Did,” Gale began in nearly a whisper, “you clean?”
Fiachra did not open his eyes, but a pleasant smile crossed his face, like he was ever so happy to hear his voice. “I did. I got well acquainted with your home. And I went swimming. Tara did not join me, but I’d be happy to go again if you wanted to.”
Gale nearly blushed at the thought of watching Fiachra swim. The fighter’s body was tan, and speckled with white scars and dark freckles. Tattoos danced in swatches on his torso, and a few dipped below his waistline. His waistline, which, unlike other elves, had hair dusting the front. He supposed it was his human side’s gift to Gale.
Oh, but Gale must refuse. He wasn’t even sure if he had swimming clothes. And in his months recovering from his journey, returned to his normal weight, which was significantly heavier than Fiachra. “Maybe later. I’m not much of a swimmer and we have dinner to make. Did you decide on what you want to eat?”
Fiachra held an intense look in his eyes. Gale wasn’t sure what it meant, but he had seen it a few times before, locked on him across camp. Then his eyes flitted away and he was getting up from the ground. “I’m sure you have some wonderful recipe you’ve been dying to make. Let me be an excuse. Make me whatever you’d like and I’ll help.”
Gale thought he saw some sort of flower or vine under his friend’s arm. But he refocused. His mother had gifted him a cookbook of all her recipes, and he wanted to attempt one of his favorite meals from his childhood.
Was that too intimate? Gale had shared many terrible things about his past with his friend, but they had been vital to their survival. The meals he ate when he was a child were simply memories that he could revive. He could share them. He wanted to. “As a matter of fact I do. My mother has recently bestowed a recipe book, if you’d like to examine it.”
Fiachra closed the window. “I’m not picky, but I’d be glad to look with you.” He circled back to Gale, who hadn’t stopped staring at his back. He thought it was highly inappropriate for him to be doing such a thing, but could not help himself. His friend was glorious.
“Of course.”
The two of them descended the stairs, and two thoughts warred within Gale on whether he wanted Fiachra to put a damn shirt on or not. The battle was either lost or won, as Fiachra darted into his room to grab one.
In the nice clean kitchen they looked through the book, picked a recipe that had both vegetable and rice.
“Pardon me, but could you dice these up whilst I go and change?” Gale handed him a few carrots and looked at his academy uniform.
“Yes, go right ahead.” Gale whisked away and Fiachra finely chopped the carrots. The wizard returned in a comfortable knitted shirt and a pair of lax pants, which tied at the waist. Fiachra thought he looked quite handsome like that.
“You didn’t peel them?” Gale looked over his shoulder. Fiachra frowned.
“All of the nutrients are in the skin. Why would I peel them?”
Gale shrugged. “I never knew that. Very well, I’ll make sure to not peel them in the future.”
Fiachra was assigned to grinding up spices with a comment on how much finer he’d be able to make them than Gale. Gale, in turn, chopped up onion, celery, and turnip. They fried them in oil with the spices and added a little of a jarred stock Gale’s mother had made in the autumn.
While it roasted and boiled, Gale made rice. Fragrances filled the kitchen, wafting a hazy sort of comfort through the house. Fiachra wanted to lean on Gale’s shoulder while things simmered, but thought better of it and instead set the table.
“Do you want to get out two wine glasses?” Gale pushed around the vegetables.
“What for?”
Gale turned over his shoulder. “For… wine?”
“Oh,” Fiachra said dumbly. He bit the skin of his lip. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had wine.”
“How have you never had wine?” Gale was aghast. Fiachra stumbled over what to say.
“I’ve never had money? Or time to drink, really.” There were so many reasons as to why, “And alcohol dulls the senses anyway. And wine isn’t really the thing rogues break out when they’re trying to get something from you, so really I’ve only ever really had whiskey, rum, and gin.”
“What a tragedy,” the wizard said bluntly. “Well I have a fantastic cellar with many things you can try. If you’d like.”
“Yes, yes, alright. I know your affinity for wine. I’d be happy to indulge.” He felt safe enough to try both something new and something alcoholic. The day had unwound any worries he might’ve held and Gale seemed eager to have him try. If it was something that Gale was passionate about, Fiachra would be happy to do anything.
“Fantastic! Do you know what you’d like?” Fiachra shook his head. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, I think with this meal a white wine would be in order. I’ll fetch us one- and a red, if this is a first taste. Finish adding the rest of the stock and let it simmer some more. I shan't be long.”
Gale took the rice off the stove before disappearing down the stairs to the basement. Fiachra did as he was told, and then grabbed two glasses. They looked familiar to him, and that was the best he could hope for. Then Gale still hadn’t appeared, so he tasted the broth. Then he stirred it. And stood around. Then Gale finally reemerged with two wine bottles in his hands. “Sorry for the delay, I wanted your first experience to be a good one and just could not decide.”
He set the two bottles on the table and got to opening them. He went to grab a glass and looked confused at the pair. “Champagne glasses?”
“Are those champagne glasses?” Fiachra tried to remain outwardly cool even as his intestines started to melt. He pulled a strand of hair in front of his face.
“Well champagne is a kind of wine, so they are technically wine glasses, but yes, these are for champagne.” Gale put the two glasses away and produced another pair, which were wider and more bulbous. “These are traditional wine glasses.”
Fiachra was still standing by the stove, hair over his face. Gale, with two fingers, moved his hand away. “There you are. No need to be embarrassed. How would you have known? And there’s no shame in not knowing something, for the pursuit of knowledge is the greatest pride.”
Some gross bitter part of Fiachra’s brain thought that he didn’t deserve such a kind treatment. That kind of mistake in Menzoberranzan would’ve had him lashed with one of the cleric snake whips. He pushed the thought aside. The poor drow of the Underdark were not taught kindness. But Gale was. Gale was kind and knew how to treat people.
“Now for dinner, hm? I think everything is set.” Fiachra nodded and sat down for Gale to serve dinner. With a wave of the hand candles around the room were lit, as the sun started to set. Two bowls were set, and Gale sat across from him. “So this wine is a white wine, which are typically paired with lighter foods like this vegetable soup. They tend to be drier and have less body than a red. Red wines have more body and while they can be dry, tend to have more sweeter varieties.”
All of this information was lost to Fiachra, having no clue how a drink could have ‘body’ or be dry, but he enjoyed hearing his friend’s voice. Gale held out the wine as he was explaining the variations of wine, before standing to pour. Caught in the candlelight, in comfortable clothes, and speaking passionately, Gale looked splendid. Fiachra’s heart let loose some strange feeling, something akin to seeing the surface after ten years of the Underdark. Elation, or joy, or both, and some other thing his tongue had never spoken and had only tasted once before.
Gale poured the wine and handed the glass to him by the stem. He took it and they clinked glasses. Fiachra took a sip and it tasted like the wine was stealing the moisture from his mouth. Oh my gods, he thought, that’s what dry means. Gale laughed, “It is an acquired taste.”
He must’ve made some funny face. “Why would I want to acquire a taste for this?”
His friend laughed louder. A long, hearty laugh. “I remember not enjoying my first glass of wine. But wine, much like people, takes getting to know. Your tongue starts to acclimate to the bitter parts until you become used to it, and then the subtle, pleasurable tastes come to you.”
Gale’s brown eyes reflected the candle light. It was warm and Fiachra would swear he could smell his friend’s cologne. “I think I get it.”
He took another sip, allowing the slight tang to sit on his tongue. He licked his teeth, the taste rolling across his mouth. No, he didn’t think he liked it. Gale swirled the last of his wine in his glass. “You don’t have to finish it. Shall we try the red? It’s a little sweeter.”
Fiachra’s glass was still half full. “What should I do with this?”
Gale took the glass from his hand and finished it in one smooth drink. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll always take care of it.”
Fiachra had nothing to say to that, and simply sat shocked at the motion. Gale had already moved to the red wine and poured him a much smaller glass. “Now this may be a bit more to your liking.”
He handed the glass back to his friend, who waited for him to pour himself his own before clinking glasses and taking a sip. This was still plenty dry to Fiachra’s tastes, but held in his mouth with a bit more weight. It was sweeter, too, almost actually tasting of grapes. Still, it was ot the best thing the fighter had tasted. He swallowed. “It tastes a bit like blood.”
Gale’s sip was interrupted by a startled and stunted choke. He cleared his chest. “What?”
Fiachra swished the remainder of his glass, looking at the hypnotic swirls. “There’s a coppery tang to it. Like blood.”
“You may be tasting notes of red currant. Or perhaps the flavors made rich by the oaken barrel it was aged in.” A gentleman, Gale tried to bargain and understand what Fiachra was tasting.
“I don’t know what a currant is, but I’ve had blood in my mouth before. This tastes like that.”
“Well,” Gale set down his glass. “At least you’re picking up on the subtle flavors. You’d make the most vampiric sommelier I’ve ever met.”
Fiachra decided to take whatever that was as a compliment. The taste was slowly becoming enjoyable enough that maybe he could learn to like it. They started to eat in comfortable silence. Gale finished off his glass of red quickly before moving back to white. He was right, Fiachra thought, wine does go well with soup.
He really did marvel at his friend’s cooking. Gale had wordlessly volunteered to cook every night at the campfire and still managed to scrape together something good. With a kitchen at his disposal his food was sublime. In a clean house with good food and company, Fiachra was content.
“Did you bring an outfit to lecture in?” Fiachra internally frowned. He had assumed some question like this would come. When the crew had saved Baldur’s Gate both Astarion and public advisor’s had lectured him on finery and appearance before forcing him into a well fitted doublet. Still, he had hoped the topic would not come up, and had not packed something up to academic standards.
“Uhm,” Fiachra set down his spoon and looked down at his worn boots. He didn’t feel guilty about it until he looked up and saw Gale frowning.
“Any professor, even a guest lecturer, should be dressed in a way that demands respect. Not that you, uh, don’t already, but perhaps something more formal may be in order.” Gale took his friend’s hands and led him up to his bedroom and into a wide walk in closet.
“Now I know we aren’t quite the same size, but in my younger years I was a far more trim lad than I am now,” Fiachra made a face at that, one that Gale missed. “So I may have a robe that will fit you nicely.”
The fighter was awfully dubious about a robe to begin with, and he could not imagine what college-age Gale thought was the height of fashion. He didn’t have long to think as Gale produced a long, deep blue robe decorated with embroidered doves and finches. It was lovely all things considered, but Fiachra was concerned about comfort. Gale looked at him expectantly. He pried off his boots and took off his shirt, (his friend looked away without a word) and grabbed the lapis colored robe.
Unbuttoned, it fit alright. When Gale clasped all the tiny closures in the back it became clear that Fiachra’s body was far not at all the correct shape for the dress. The middle section near the waist was far too wide, and Gale could not close the top four buttons. Even with that bit of space there was no freedom of movement in the shoulders.
Fiachra turned to look at Gale. He was red and stuttering, and the fighter felt bad for having embarrassed the wizard. He wanted to reach out and assure him that there was no shame in being built differently. He knew very well that Gale had not toiled in the same way he had, and there should be no expectation for them to look the same. Gale looked wonderful now, and Fiachra was sure that he looked wonderful then.
“Well this clearly doesn’t fit,” Gale started to unbutton it, “I’m sure I have something else that does.”
Fiachra felt his friend’s fingers shaking. As soon as the last button was undone he spun around and grabbed his hands. “It’s quite alright, Gale. I have a jacket that I can wax. It’s nice enough, I promise. I swear it has no stain nor tear in it. Please, let me wear that.”
His attempt at soothing his friend appeared to have failed. Gale tripped over some half-aborted sentence and startled, the red only growing deeper. “Yes, of course. I don’t wish for you to be uncomfortable. And I’m sure you’ll, uh, look dashing.”
Wishing to prolong the conversation no longer, Fiachra stepped out of the robe, handed it to Gale, and ran off to his room. In his bag, in case of bad weather, Fiachra had packed a leather jacket. It was one of his few souvenirs from his time adventuring pre-Absolute. It was one of his most prized possessions. It was black, and adorned with protective spikes, mail, and monster skin tanned and patched over the elbows, shoulders, and cuffs. Hooks and clasps were attached at the hip for carrying his sword and helm. It had not seen recent use, but remained a staple of the fighter’s wardrobe.
He spent two hours cleaning and reinforcing it. Stitches that looked close to coming undone were sewn over and buckles and spikes were polished to perfection. He would not disappoint Gale, nor did he wish to see him at that moment. Fiachra had made things awkward, and he hoped by morning the incident would be forgotten, and if not forgotten, then forgiven with the quality of his jacket.
Working by a magic light, he would’ve obsessively worked until the sun rose. But he was working by candlelight and stopped when the wax snuffed out what was left of the wick. He would have used his darkvision had it been a smooth transition, but the snuffing candle proved to be the most apt reminder of the late hour and the incoming lecture of the morning.
Fiachra changed for bed, establishing himself deep under the covers, (which still smelt of Gale), and did his best to fall into blissful slumber.