Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The call comes through in August. 

It’s only two weeks after he’d waved Karlach off at the airport. Two weeks of getting used to the flat being empty, to his texts going unanswered for hours at a time. 

Damn time differences. 

He flicks the chat log open. The last two weeks have been much the same; Karlach, surrounded by boxes, looking utterly defeated; and her standing on the beach, flexing her muscles, grinning as wide as the sun, a board under her arm. 

Now, finally, Astarion has some good news of his own. 

2:14pm
Little bitch: GOT IT!
Little bitch: I’m outta here

He hands his notice in immediately. The note has been written and ready to deploy for months; ever since he and Karlach made the pact to finally leave this place.

He doesn’t get a reply until much, much later. 

8:15pm
Vroomvroom: FUCK YES 

Vroomvroom: tell me he made the sour lemon face
Vroomvroom: is the pay any good??? 

Little bitch: No it’s shit and I don’t care

Vroomvroom: looool fair tho fuck that place
Vroomvroom: when do you start?

Little bitch: sent a photo

It’s a bad selfie, but Astarion doesn’t care when it’s Karlach. She’s the only one allowed to see his hair in disarray like this. He knows she’ll see what actually matters; that he’s happier than he’s been in a long time. The gleam in his eye. The flush in his cheeks. The empty ice behind him; a promise. 

Vroomvroom: FUCK YES!!! 
Vroomvroom: wait so the pay is bad but they’re paying for your resources right? you’re not having to pay for rink hire on top of this? 

Little bitch: All inclusive. MY RINK NOW, BITCH 

He sends a video from earlier; spinning in the middle of the rink, entirely by himself, the music tinny and loud in the background. 

Little bitch: Only evenings until I have to start training with my partner in October, but idc

Vroomvroom renamed the chat DEADBEAT DROPOUT DREAMBOATS

Vroomvroom changed your nickname to Queen Bitch

Queen Bitch: The dusty old olympic medal got me the job, the law degree got me fair treatment, if not fair pay 

Vroomvroom: when do you find out who they’re giving you 

Queen Bitch: September 

Vroomvroom: Uuuugh that’s ages away 
Vroomvroom: it could be anyone 
Vroomvroom: omg imagine it’s Leo???

Queen Bitch: HA. I just aged out of his range. Or have you forgotten how plastered you got? 
Queen Bitch: I wish, anyway. Like ITV have that clout

Vroomvroom: tbf I remember VERY little of your birthday

Queen Bitch: Given last year’s lineup, it’ll be some washed-up celebrity I’ll have to pretend I’ve heard of.
Queen Bitch: Ex-Eastenders? A news presenter? 

Vroomvroom: if she’s in TV at least she’ll be hot 

Queen Bitch: true - could curry some favour with the public, win the best-looking couple vote ;) 

Vroomvroom: wait do you still get paid if you get knocked out??

Queen Bitch: Until week 4, it’s week by week. After that point it’s all the same final paycheck 

Vroomvroom: so you’ll suddenly do a really shit job in week 5 then? :P 

Queen Bitch: Depends who they give me ;) 

Astarion has no love for London. Even on this warm summer evening, it’s soulless. The stone swallows the sunlight, the sunset lost between the grey buildings. He ducks down into the nearest station, half-abandoned, and slips through the broken barrier while only pretending to swipe his oyster card. The guard, asleep with his eyes open, doesn’t give him so much as a glance. 

Fucking soulless city.

It’s convenient, at least; leaving the rink, he slings his bag over his shoulder and disappears into the chaos and anonymity of the tube like he’s a nobody. 

Although, really, he is now. It’s been a decade or more since he had to even consider the paparazzi. Since his name meant anything other than ‘didn’t he win a medal once?’ 

The day he’d heard his own name on one of those TV quiz shows, he’d considered his career dead and buried. That had been the same day Karlach drunk him under the table; the day before they’d both agreed that they couldn’t stay at the firm any longer. 

He watches the stations rattle past, idly, as he passes under London’s streets. Karlach had been the only good thing about Law School, and had continued to be the only saving grace of working in law afterwards. Even the money hadn’t been worth it. Whether selling his soul to a reality TV show just for the chance to get back on the ice will turn out to be any better, he doesn’t know yet. But at least he won’t be helping rich people get richer. 

Besides, it’s not a bad idea to get out now, before anyone notices that he’s been skimming a little. 

Astarion runs up the stairs of the station, already thinking about training regimes and choreography. His phone pings at the top as he comes back in signal range. 

He grabs it excitedly, expecting it to be Karlach. 

Instead, it’s a message from his bank. 

Payment overdue: charges incurred. 

Fuck. 

-

Gale is on the phone to his new management when the email comes through. 

“... reliable schedule for the recording studio, too,” Minthara is saying. 

“Mhhm.” 

“Gale!” She snaps. 

“Right, yes, sorry,” Gale sits up straight and tucks his mobile between his shoulder and his cheek. “Recording studio schedule.” 

“Come in and see me tomorrow,” Minthara demands. “We will have to discuss this in person, if you cannot concentrate over the phone.” 

Gale slumps back in his chair. It’s not that he dislikes Minthara, exactly. It’s just a lot, lot easier to deal with her over the phone than in person. In person he always has the slight feeling that she’s going to decide to not just drop him, but bury him six feet under along with his career. She smiles like a shark, when she smiles at all.

“An email just caught my eye. Who did you say you have doing my PR?” 

“Why would I bother wasting my time learning their names?” Minthara says, shortly. “Do I need to fire her?” 

“No, no.” Gale says, quickly. “I’m just looking at something she’d forwarded me.” He reads it again, thoughtfully. “Have you heard of Dancing on Ice?” 

There is a long, long silence on the other side of the phone. 

“The ITV show?”

Gale is already halfway through a Google hole. 

“That’s the one! That sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Would you send a preliminary response for me, see what kind of figures they’re talking about?” 

“Ask your secretary,” Minthara snaps. 

“Right,” Gale kicks back from his desk and stands to pace his little office. “But it’s a good idea, isn’t it? Gives the media something to tear into me for other than Mystra. I bet I’d be good at it, too - dancing, music, it’s all in the occipital cortex and the frontal lobe. Let them laugh at me falling over a few times, and then wow them.” 

“Ice skating is not bigger news than the messiest celebrity divorce of the decade,” Minthara snaps. “I took you on two weeks ago, Gale, on the express agreement that you were keeping a low profile while you work on your next album.” 

“Ah, but it wouldn’t air until January next year,” Gale grins, delighted with himself and this whole idea. “They’ve got that Olympian joining them this year! The one who won gold with the routine he did to ‘Golden.’”  

“It has been a long time since your breakout single, Gale. If you want to meet the skater, that can be arranged,” Minthara says, smoothly. “The TV show is a waste of time.” 

“Hessie’s obsessed with ice skating at the moment. Well, all things ice-related, really. What is it with seven-year-olds and Frozen?” 

“I will not allow you to debase yourself and the entirety of my company by joining a reality TV show for the sake of entertaining your daughter, Gale.” 

“How about for me then?” Gale leans against the wall. “Humour me, Minthara. I don’t want the whole of this new album to be about how miserable divorce is and how much I miss my kid. I want it to have life. I want to bring something new to it. You took me on because we both want my music to go in a new direction. You took that risk despite the pressure Mystra put on your studio to drop me. I’m not going to get that angle by sitting around at home moping, am I?” 

He can hear her exasperation through the line. 

“Gale, we were just discussing whether or not you should do a tour, not whether you should spend a year of your life pouring all your time and energy into something utterly worthless!” 

“Four to six months,” Gale corrects. “I can’t tour with my old music anyway, Mystra owns all of it. What will I sing, Nessun Dorma?” 

“You got that email ten minutes ago,” Minthara says. “You are being stupid. I will talk to you about it tomorrow.” 

What she means is that she’ll try and talk him down from it. Gale, now he’s set his sights on this, cannot see that happening. 

“Excellent,” he grins. “Until then, I will work on perfecting my rendition of ‘Into the Unknown’.” 

Minthara sighs. 

“At least send a video to PR so they can put it on your TikTok.” 

“Oh yes, the platform we all must pander and bow to if we want to get paid a penny for a song instead of just having it stolen.” 

“Don’t be an old man,” Minthara snaps. “Do you want to improve your image or not?” 

Finally, she loses patience with him, and hangs up after her usual reminder that he’s supposed to be working on making her money, not trying to entertain his daughter. Minthara can be brutally honest, but Gale appreciates that. Given that his last manager was his ex-wife, the mother of his daughter and the winner of the custody battle for her, he will take pretty much anything from her successor. And Minthara, as sharp as she can be, is nothing if not efficient. 

Gale spends a happy few hours digging around on YouTube - watching old videos of Dancing on Ice competitors, then the few grainy clips of the Olympian who had danced to him. Astarion, YouTube informs him, when he tries ‘winter olympics british gold winner gale dekarios’. Fourteen years old, and ferocious in his determination. Off the ice, he had seemed a slim, withdrawn little boy. On it, he had been something else. 

More than a decade ago. Had it been that long? Gale had been young too; still just about seventeen, when that song had catapulted him to fame. Eighteen when the album followed the single. Nineteen when he married Mystra; two glorious, heady years after signing on with her. 

Gale can barely remember being that boy. 

It had meant so much, then. Nobody had ever really appreciated his music before. Mystra had taken a huge chance on him, and he still hadn’t been sure it would pay off. He had cried, watching Astarion skate. Tears of sweet, naive joy, to see someone else not just enjoy his music, but appreciate it. To do something breathtakingly beautiful with it. The boy had seemed sullen, off the ice. On it, though - on it, he was breathtaking. 

Gale watches the video a second time. Then a third. Ignoring that the royalties will go to Mystra. Astarion had given the performance of a lifetime. All these years later, it still pulls at him. The emotion of it. The lines, the grace; pushing the human body to its limits to create. To express. It’s something he hasn’t had in a long time. But this, this tinny, shaky video, reaches out to that little ember in his soul; what’s left of the fire he used to burn with. 

Maybe that’s why he wants to do this reality show. Maybe he wants to recapture that. 

He may as well. After all, he’s tried everything else. 

-

At the beginning of September, Gale receives the confirmation. They arrange a time to send a camera crew over the next week for the preliminary filming. Interviews, perhaps, Gale thinks. 

It arrives the same day that Mystra drops Hestia off at his door, the usual hour or so later than the agreed time. As usual, she rings the doorbell and is back in the car by the time he answers it. 

“Daddy!” Hestia yells, holding her arms up towards him. 

“Hessie!” 

He takes her under the arms and swings her around in the air as she shrieks with laughter. 

She hasn’t lost her willingness to chatter yet. He listens, utterly enamoured, and often without a clue of what she’s talking about. Most of it seems to be about how she’s made friends with a snowman. Disappointingly, his name is not Olaf. Hessie has apparently forgiven him for this crime, it transpires, because he’s a plushie. Mystra had taken her to build-a-bear and let her choose a voice to put in him. 

“Will I get to meet your new friend?” 

“No,” Hessie says, firmly. “He lives with mummy.” She jumps up and down on her little toes. “I see him again when I go home.” 

Home, Gale thinks, trying not to let the smile slip. Because he only gets Hessie for the weekends. Because ‘home’ will never be with him anymore. 

“You’ll have to tell me all about him then,” he says, instead. “Would I, perchance, be able to persuade my esteemed guest to deign to watch ice skating with me tonight?” 

There’s no way she understood all that, but she got the important bit; 

“Ice skating!” Hessie spins around in circles on his kitchen floor in her socks. He catches her, laughing, as she tips over. 

“You’re so good at skating already! Maybe we don’t need to watch any skating. I can just watch you!”

Hessie skids around the kitchen until she tires, at which point Gale stands her on his feet and they sock skate back and forth across the kitchen together, Hessie giggling like a loon. She will sleep well tonight, at least. It’s taken her a while to get used to her room in this house, but she’d picked out the wall colours and the furniture with him, and they’ve filled it with books and toys and things they collect on their ‘weekend adventures’. The nightmares are getting better, but she still ends up sleeping with him in his bed more than she stays in her own. 

Mystra wouldn’t have stood for it. Gale doesn’t care. If she’s going to confine him to weekends, he’s going to fully enjoy being the fun parent; and that means that when Hessie has nightmares, they stay up late and tell stories together, and he does not make her go back to her own room.

They curl up in his little home cinema after dinner, and he puts the most recent series of Dancing on Ice on. 

Hessie is immediately enraptured. She loves the concept, she loves watching the adults falling over on the ice, she loves the sparkly costumes and the big show numbers the professionals do and the drama of the voting. Three episodes in, it’s half nine, and she is absolutely wired and shows no signs of wanting to go to bed anytime soon. 

Hessie is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Sometimes he thinks she’s the only reason he’s still here. He has hated every moment of what they’ve put her through; the arguments, the divorce, having two homes. But she’s been so strong. So resilient. 

“I love you so much,” he says. 

She’s not old enough to be embarrassed by it yet. Instead, she puts her hands to her face and blows him a pantomime kiss. He blows it back, and she catches it from the air. 

“Ooh, can we go skating?” 

“We can go skating. In fact, we shall! I promise you, my lady, if it is ice skating that you wish for, it is ice skating you shall have.” 

Hessie bounces up and down. 

“Lady Hestia is most pleased!” 

“I am exceptionally glad to hear it. And would Lady Hestia like a bedtime story?” 

-

He has the housekeeper in before the TV crew come to film. He’s been on camera plenty before, of course, but usually while he’s performing. Watching every available previous season of Dancing on Ice this week has given him something of an idea of what to expect, but not much. 

The ‘crew’ it turns out, is just two people. A director, and a camerawoman. 

“Jen,” the director introduces herself. “This is Zel.” 

“Gale,” he holds his hand out, and Jen hesitates before taking it, as if surprised. “A pleasure to meet you. Please, come in. Welcome to my home. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?” 

“Water,” the woman hefting the giant camera says. Her eyes are sharp, her face thin and apparently uninclined towards smiling. “We will not be staying long.” 

“Fair enough,” Gale nods, showing them both through to the kitchen. “Jen?” 

“I’ll be fine,” the director shakes her head. “We’re just going to point the camera at you and ask a few questions.” 

“Of course,” Gale nods. “Where do you want me? At the table, here, in the light?” 

“Background’s fine,” Zel says, already setting her camera up. “Unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather show off?” 

“Oh, not at all, the kitchen is by far my favourite part of the house,” Gale smiles. 

It’s true; he spent twice as long deciding on how he wanted it than he and the interior designer spent on the rest of the place altogether. The cabinets, the islands, the Aga, they’re all chosen to be beautiful as well as efficient. He’s not really a living-room person. It had been slightly soulless, at first, but he and Hessie have made a solid start on the magnet collection, and the fridge is pulling its weight brightening up the place.

Jen is flicking through papers now, setting up. 

“Alright, let’s start with something more interesting than who you are, get you warmed up. Have you ever ice skated before?” 

“Once or twice,” Gale nods. 

“Talk to me, not the camera.” 

“Got it,” Gale changes his angle slightly. “Once or twice. I took my daughter a few weeks ago. She was much better at it than I was.” 

Jen nods. 

“Zel?” 

“Clear. Just one more.” 

“Once or twice,” Gale repeats, “I took my daughter a few weeks ago, but she was much better at it than me.” 

“Got it,” Jen says with an appreciative nod. “You’re much better at this than the footballers.” 

Gale, who has seen the top-secret list of other competitors already, sympathises. 

“Are you having to do everybody this week?” 

“Six today,” Zel says, faffing around with the camera. “Next, Jen.” 

“Six?” 

“The ones of you in London,” Jen explains. “Alright, what made you decide to do Dancing on Ice?” 

“Well,” Gale smiles. “It’s funny you should ask. I saw something in the news a few weeks ago, about a new name joining the professional team this year. Astarion Ancunin. I remember watching him win his gold. It was right at the start of my career, so when the request to use the copyright came through, it was the first time anyone had ever asked. I was recording through all the semis, so I didn’t get to watch him until the final - and I watched him win, live.” He knows he’s grinning, now, and he doesn’t bother trying to hold it back. “I can’t explain how it felt. Watching someone who is at the absolute top of their game take something that you’ve poured your whole soul into, and see it; not just see it, but make it into something incredible. I’ve never forgotten that moment. It’s still one of the highlights of my career. So when the invitation came through, it seemed like perfect timing.” 

Jen is nodding, happily. 

“That is perfect - Zel, please tell me we got that, I don’t think we can do it again.” 

“I got it,” Zel nods. 

The whole thing takes maybe ten more minutes. They do, at most, three takes of the other questions. Talking to Jen instead of the camera makes it easier for Gale to keep his answers from being too wooden, at least, and they’re pleased that he generally keeps his answers sharp and snappy. They always want to know the same thing at interviews; this isn’t really any different. It’s quite nice not to be fending off questions about the divorce, for once. 

“Alright,” Jen says, eventually. “Just one last thing then - we’re going to film the reveal of who we’re pairing you with.” 

“Ah,” Gale leans on the table, intrigued. “And how are we doing that?” 

“One moment.” 

Jen is setting something up on her laptop. Gale submits to letting Zel rearrange his position slightly as she does so. 

“Right,” Jen turns the laptop to him. Right now, it’s just a black screen and a play button. “Spacebar when I give you the cue. Zel?” 

Zel has set the camera up to capture Gale’s face. Presumably they’ll cut it with the contents of the video. 

“Try not to overthink your reaction,” Jen warns. “If you pantomime, it’ll be obvious and awkward. We want it to be natural.” 

“I’ve always been a natural,” Gale says, which Jen firmly ignores. 

Gale can’t hide the tingle of excitement. He knows all of the professionals, by now. Knows enough that he sort of knows their personalities; or their personalities as they play them to the camera and choreograph to, at least. He’s been trying not to wonder who they’re going to pair him with. 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

Zel counts him in, and Jen gives him the thumbs up. 

Gale hits play. 

His own name flashes across the screen first, in that gaudy, flashy font, with all the sparkles that he guesses are supposed to look like ice. 

Then, the music. 

His music. 

The video fades in slowly. The grainy, shaky footage he’s been finding his way back to every now and then ever since he signed this contract. Astarion, aged just fourteen, fades onto the screen. Sweeping across the ice. 

Gale doesn’t need to fake a single moment of his reaction. 

“No,” he says, disbelievingly. “You’re teasing. You must be. You are, aren’t you?” And when Jen shakes her head, the gasp of delight isn’t faked. “Oh, just wait until I tell my daughter. She’s going to be delighted.” He pats his hands on the table. “Ha ha! Oh my goodness. Really? Astarion. You’ve paired me with Astarion. Well.” He couldn’t force the smile down even if he tried. “This is really going to be something, isn’t it?” 

“Let’s hope so,” Jen agrees. 

-

9:02am
thebastard: Karlach
thebastard: Karlach
thebastard: Karlach answer me right now

simplythebreast: oh no what now

thebastard: I’m going back to the firm.

Simplythebreast: ???

thebastard: Karlach they’ve paired me with a guy

Simplythebreast: which guy? 

thebastard: does it matter?? 

thebastard: I didn’t sign up to be ‘Dancing on Ice’s first gay couple’

Simplythebreast: they didn’t ask you first?

thebastard: No they fucking didn’t or I would have told them to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine! 

Simplythebreast: lol 
Simplythebreast: fr tho who is it?

thebastard: Gale Dekarios

Simplythebreast: Astarion you’re kidding
Simplythebreast: yOU’RE FUCKING KIDDING
Simplythebreast: GALE DEKARIOS???
Simplythebreast: AND YOU’RE UPSET ABOUT IT????

thebastard: don’t be dense
thebastard: as if my career wasn’t dead enough already now I’m going to be typecast for the remainder of it 

Simplythebreast changed your nickname to TheTokenGay

TheTokenGay: I hate you

TheTokenGay changed your nickname to worstfriend

-

Gale should have known better than to schedule his shots and his checkup for the morning before he's due to finally meet Astarion. 

They overrun, because of course they do. He's been adjusting his exercise schedule anyway, but the doctor is concerned about the strain he's about to be putting his body under. They end up making him another appointment for the next week, to check in, and the doctor sends him away with a list of things to monitor. 

He can't take the car from the hospital either, because heaven forbid someone finds out he's been there, so instead he has to run three blocks down to find his chauffeur. 

He calls Minthara on the way. The driver is doing his best to make up time, but London is London and the London traffic system was probably designed by a demon with a score to settle. 

“I'm going to be fucking late,” Gale says, “and now we’re stuck in traffic. Do we have any of their numbers anywhere? I don't want them waiting on me.”
“Consider it done,” Minthara says. 

“No, wait, I-” 

She is gone. 

He had wanted to apologise personally. 

When they finally arrive, the rink is shabbier than he'd anticipated. Gale hops out of the car and hurries in, trying not to look too harried. 

The guy at the desk is asleep. There's nobody else there. Just some empty vending machines and a carpet so old that it's about as soft as the concrete peeking through it. 

“Excuse me,” Gale tries. The desk guy continues to snore. With a shrug, he decides to follow the music instead. 

It takes him through a set of double doors, and right out onto the side of the rink. The cold air hits him, sending a shudder down his spine. 

Astarion is on the ice. Gale hadn't really known what he would look like; it turns out, he's much the same. He still has a shock of white hair, though it seems more carefully styled now. He’s still lanky, and pale, though the strength in him is evident in the way he moves. There is that confidence; that precision. The respect for the music, for the vision of the piece. The scrape of skates against ice is familiar, somehow. 

As Astarion skates, something stirs in Gale's chest. 

“Perfect,” Zel’s voice makes him jump. “You're a natural on camera.” 

“I'm sorry I'm late,” Gale hurries to say. “I hope my manager let you know-” 

“She did,” Zel nods. “Come on. Jen is stressed now. Better get started.” 

Gale follows her in muted silence, stealing one last glance at Astarion over his shoulder. 

“Did you know your manager is a bitch?” Jen says, when he walks in. The locker room is evidently designed for about a hundred people; Jen and her equipment look a little lost, set up on a bench in the middle of it all. 

“They all are,” Gale agrees. “Minthara's one of the better ones, believe it or not. Do you want my number so we don't have to go through her?” 

“Please.” Jen sighs. “And don't worry, she made sure I knew better than to ask why you were late.” 

“According to her, I'm a walking PR nightmare,” Gale says, ruefully. “Right, set me to work then.” 

They start with another interview. 

“Have you been preparing?” 

“Adjusted my entire exercise schedule,” Gale nods. “I suppose now we find out if it made a difference.”
“And how do you feel about being Dancing on Ice’s first gay couple?” Jen asks, flatly. 

“I’m not gay,” Gale corrects. “I’m bi. But also it’s 2023, so.” He shrugs. “About time, really.” 

“You're late,” a voice says, behind him, acerbically. “You cannot pass comment on timeliness if you do not possess the basic ability to read a clock.” 

Gale stands and turns. Astarion is still wearing his skates; but he stands perfectly at ease, as if he's as used to them as Gale is to trainers. The rubber floor makes more sense, suddenly. 

They make him taller than Gale by quite some way. He tilts his head back, looking down at Gale over his nose with disdain. 

“Ah - you must be Astarion.” 

He must be in his late twenties now; his face has matured and filled out slightly, though he's still as pale and willowy as he had been, all those years ago. 

“And you must be Gale.” 

His voice is surprisingly smooth. There's something rich to it that immediately reads as a posh boy from old money. Gale, who had been decidedly working class before his star had risen, finds it vaguely irritating. Which is stupid, given who he is now. 

“It's an honour,” Gale starts. “I-” 

“Indeed?” Astarion interrupts. “An honour to be kept waiting for half an hour then yelled at by your dickhead of a manager, is it? I suppose we have much to look forward to, these next few months.” 

“Shit,” Gale punches the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry about Minthara.” 

“I couldn't care less about your manager, darling. She's your problem. What I care about is my time being wasted.” 

“I owe you my apologies. It was not my intention to-” 

“Do shut up, dear,” Astarion sighs. “Too late to go begging for forgiveness now, isn't it?” He turns to Zel. “Turn that camera off. We all know what this conversation is going to be.” 

He doesn't sit with them. Instead, he leans on the lockers, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“We need to decide how we’re going to play this, Gale Dekarios.” 

“Just Gale, please.” 

“Well, Just Gale, regardless of how casually you view being the first same-sex skaters in this show’s history, the rest of the viewership does not.” 

Gale sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“I suppose we’re going to talk about skating and schedules and so on later then.” 

“We’re going to be having some of that conversation on camera,” Astarion frowns. “We need to know how we’re going to be presenting it. I don't have a partner, and you're recently divorced, which means the moment that this is announced the rumour mill is going to eat us alive.” 

Gale winces. He's not wrong. 

“So, ground rules,” Astarion says. “We lean into this being about ‘Golden’, not either of our sexualities. I won't be choreographing anything romantic, and we won't be doing any of the hugging or hand-holding and whatever else my idiot colleagues get up to standing around on camera. You should probably not say things like ‘I’m not gay’ either. The internet will chew you up and spit you out.” 

“Right,” Gale sighs. “That all sounds eminently reasonable, and also like much more of a headache than I'd considered.”

Astarion is right, though. They're going to bring in views, but they're also going to have to work a lot harder at their image than the other couples. They'll be under much harsher scrutiny, both from the queer community and the homophobic idiots. 

“Zel and I fought to be able to film with you two for a reason,” Jen says, in her matter-of-fact sort of way. “We know it's going to be a challenge. Hopefully, we can help.” 

Gale smiles up at her, then taps his foot, thoughtfully. 

“Is there any chance you could send me the raw footage we’ve got so far so I can get it to my PR manager?” 

“No,” Zel says, in the same moment that Jen says; “Sure.” 

“Jenevelle,” Zel says. “This footage does not belong to us.” 

“But if you happen to play it to check it's all there and Gale happens to film it, nobody will know,” Jen says. 

“The alternative is having her follow me around on filming days,” Gale points out. “I'm sure she has better things to do, and to protect her from rumour they'd have to send another member of the team too, and an entourage is much harder to keep on the lowdown than just me.” 

“Entourage,” Astarion says, flatly. “You have a fucking entourage?” 

“No,” Gale sighs. “I do not, and I'd rather keep it that way if it's all the same to you.” 

In the end, they all end up swapping numbers. Gale has to introduce them all to the encoded messaging app he uses, but at least then they have a group chat and each other's contacts. 

“I'll send the themes and song options across later this week,” Astarion says. His phone is badly cracked. Gale wonders if it's from being dropped on the ice. 

“Excellent,” Gale begins to perk up. “Something to look forward to.” 

“We won't be using any of yours,” Astarion says, sharply. 

“No?” Gale grins. “That's a shame. I hadn't listened to them enough while I was recording them and then touring them and then re-recording them. I was actually really looking forward to listening to my own voice for another week at a time until I hated both you and myself and constructed an elaborate murder-suicide to escape the sound of my own fucking voice.” 

Astarion blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“Nevermind,” Gale sighs. “I'll keep the weird jokes for my daughter.” 

“If she thinks you’re funny, I'm worried about her,” Astarion says. 

They don't even make it on the ice that day. Instead, Astarion runs him through a series of exercises to gauge his strength and flexibility, and then rearranges his exercise routine to improve on them. Or at least, he tries. 

“I'll have to run it past my medic,” Gale says, looking at his notes. Astarion's handwriting is as spiky as he is. “But this all looks like it will be fine.” 

“Well obviously,” Astarion growls. “This is my job.” 

“So. What have you been doing, for the last decade or so?” Gale asks, thoughtfully, wiping the sweat from his brow with his towel. His body thrums, pleasantly, from having been pushed a little further than he usually would. 

“Law,” Astarion says, shortly. “There's not much else to tell, really. I got bored, and now I'm back on the ice.” 

Gale hums. 

“Law, goodness. That explains a lot. You must have a good head on those shoulders.” 

Astarion frowns at him. 

“What, did you not expect me to be intelligent as well as beautiful?” 

Gale blinks. Coming from anyone else, it would have been flirting. In Astarion's tone, however, it's just sardonic. 

“Well, given that I’m both, it would be rather short-sighted of me to think it impossible for anyone else to achieve.” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“You're supposed to say ‘well good thing you're both’” or something to that effect.” 

“Oh,” Gale grins. “I was under the impression that we weren't going to do anything that could get us in trouble, but if you want shallow praise do let me know. I’m sure I can breathe new life into some of my older lyrics for you.” 

“Ugh, if you manage to make this job more boring than corporate law I will be pissed,” Astarion sighs. 

Gale had been thinking about inviting him over for coffee. A little intense, perhaps, but they can hardly risk being spotted in a cafe together before the competitors are announced. The longer the day goes on, however, the more Gale is beginning to suspect that Astarion doesn't like him very much. 

He had been trying to be nice. He hasn't mentioned his divorce or his kid, which is usually when people gloss over. There's just nothing else he can say about himself that's interesting. But if Astarion doesn't want to talk about himself, either, they're going to have precious little common ground. 

“If you have a moment,” he says, slinging the towel over his shoulders. “Can I ask you something?” 

“If you must.” 

“Why did you choose to skate to ‘Golden’?” 

“I didn't,” Astarion says, shortly, closing the file. 

Oh, Gale thinks, and suddenly it all clicks into place. 

Astarion definitely doesn't like him. He's not especially fond of his music, either - if he had it forced on him, he probably resents it. On top of that, he now has to deal with Gale's already rather complicated set of issues, the extra weight of what ITV have thrown at them, and whatever else he has going on in his own life outside of that. 

Well, fine. They don't have to be friends at first. Gale will win him around eventually, though. He always does. 

“That’s not how it works. My old trainer chose it. Here - training schedule.” 

Gale takes it from him with a frown. 

“I can't do weekends.” 

“What?” 

“It was in the first thing we submitted for consideration. Obviously the live shows will be the exception, but I can't train at weekends.” 

Astarion glares at him. 

“Ever?” 

“Ever,” Gale says, firmly. 

It's a good thing that Jen and Zel have already headed home. 

Astarion says something that Gale doesn't quite catch; he doesn't need to, to get the gist of what it had been. 

“Right. I suppose I'll spend the rest of my day rewriting these then.” He pulls them out of Gale's unresisting hands and opens the file. A moment later, he looks back up. “Why are you still here?” 

“Are we finished for today?” 

Astarion sighs. 

“Gale. Take a hint; take a walk.” 

“Oh. Well. It's been lovely to meet you, Astarion.” 

“And you, I’m sure.” Astarion sighs at him, with about as little truth to it as he could possibly manage. 

Gale decides to pick his battles and leaves him be. They have a good few more weeks to figure out a dynamic. 

-

Astarion sends Karlach the link to the new messaging app. She downloads it the moment she can. 

Karlach Cliffgate: oooh, snazzy 
Karlach Cliffgate: nvm, I can't change our names, I hate it 

Astarion Ancunin: it's a safety thing
Astarion Ancunin: Gale's suggestion. It's encoded 

Karlach Cliffgate: oh? Are you going to be sending me secrets? 

Astarion Ancunin: no, but I am sending you this 

He forwards her the video Jen had sent them all, earlier. Of Gale's reaction to finding out that he's going to be paired with Astarion. 

Karlach Cliffgate: omg???
Karlach Cliffgate: HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE???

Astarion Ancunin: he knows that I danced to Golden. I told him today it wasn't my choice. 

Karlach Cliffgate: ??? Why would you do that???

Astarion Ancunin: because he was being an arrogant prick and fishing for compliments 
Astarion Ancunin: he basically called me ugly and refuses to train on the weekends but wouldn't say why 

Karlach Cliffgate: oh booooo I was really hoping he'd be one of those nice famous people 

Astarion Ancunin: why?? You've already got one famous best friend tyvm 

Karlach Cliffgate: omg baaaaabe are you jealous??? 
Karlach Cliffgate: don't be jealous you'll always be first in my heart 
Karlach Cliffgate: alongside my mum's lamb kofta 

Astarion Ancunin: you moved to Australia, and I quote, to ‘find someone I can build a life with out there’ 

Karlach Cliffgate: oh shut up 
Karlach Cliffgate: I got stood up last night 
Karlach Cliffgate: again 

Astarion Ancunin: ??? ARE THEY BLIND??? 
Astarion Ancunin: Come back to London where I can track them down and make their lives a waking misery

Karlach Cliffgate: if our love lives weren't equally, devastatingly barren, we wouldn't be such good friends 

Astarion Ancunin: maybe you're not getting any, bitch, but I am 

Karlach Cliffgate: lucky little twink 
Karlach Cliffgate: and getting laid doesn't count, you've been chronically single the entire time I've known you 

Astarion Ancunin: maybe I like it that way 

Karlach Cliffgate: you keep telling yourself that

-

Astarion Ancunin: here 
Astarion Ancunin: sent a photo 

Gale Dekarios: Thank you, Astarion. And thank you for today, as well. I appreciate the time and effort you're putting into this. 
Gale Dekarios: Also, is that a cat? Do you have a cat? 

Astarion squints at the photo of the new schedule he'd sent to the general group. He hadn't been paying much attention, but there is an errant tail in the corner. Bloody stray. 

Astarion Ancunin: It's a stray. I've been feeding it, for all the good it does me 
Astarion Ancunin: sent a photo 

The cat had scratched his hand for daring to try and pull his own notes out from underneath it. That's the photo he'd taken for Karlach originally. Of the little runaway, somewhere in the scrungly, raggedy stage between kitten and cat, looking thoroughly unbothered as Astarion shows it the damage it's done to his hand. 

Gale Dekarios: You don't choose the cat, the cat chooses you. 
Gale Dekarios: sent a photo 

Astarion taps it open and stares. 

Gale isn’t wearing a shirt. Not that anything other than his shoulders are visible, really, but it’s the first thing Astarion notices anyway. Gale is lounging, in the last of the autumn light, his head tilted to the side to expose his jawline, the cat standing on his shoulders. 

It looks fucking posed. It looks like it could go in a magazine. He must have a stupidly expensive phone camera. 

The cat is gorgeous though. She's a tortie, long-haired, with incredibly long whiskers and a regal set to her expression. 

Gale Dekarios: This is my old lady. 

Astarion Ancunin: cute 
Astarion Ancunin: what's her name? 

Gale Dekarios: Tara 
Gale Dekarios: Oh, and the training regime you gave me has been approved (thumbs up) 
Gale Dekarios: @jennevelle I’m adding my PR manager to this chat so I don't have to play middle man. 

Jenevelle: sure, whatever dude 
Jenevelle: Zel and I both have it muted already, no offence 

Gale Dekarios: None taken. 

Gale Dekarios added @AmyPR

AmyPR: Hello everybody! Lovely to meet you. 
AmyPR: Gale can I post that photo? 

Gale Dekarios: Why? I already sent you one of Tara today! 

AmyPR: The one with you and Tara in it. It's your Instagram, not your cat's

Gale Dekarios: :( 
Gale Dekarios: And no, thank you, if I wanted a few million people to see it I would have put a shirt on. 

AmyPR: You are aware how tight-fitting most ice skating costumes are, right? 

Gale Dekarios: Astarion has three months to whip me into shape before then. And given this regime he's made me, I will not be getting off easy. 

Astarion Ancunin: Skating isn't easy

Gale Dekarios: Exactly. 

-

Astarion sends Karlach the photo of Gale. 

Karlach Cliffgate: … you know maybe I'm not as gay as I thought I was 

Astarion Ancunin: the cat’s name is Tara 

Karlach Cliffgate: why did he give his cat an old lady name? 

Astarion Ancunin: I'm beginning to suspect he is chronically uncool 
Astarion Ancunin: between that and being an arrogant jerk even looking like that won't sway me 

Karlach Cliffgate: really? 
Karlach Cliffgate: really really? not even a little bit? 

Astarion Ancunin: I'm about to spend the absolute minimum of a week picking his ass up off the rink. It's not going to sway me. 

Karlach Cliffgate: okay but what if it's a good ass 

Astarion doesn't bother to reply to that. Instead, he quizzes Karlach on her new job, again, her colleagues, where she's taking her board at the weekend. 

He falls asleep with the phone still in his hand. 

-

His own schedule has them starting at 8 the next morning. 

He hates himself for it. The tube is rammed, even all the way out in this back end of beyond. He pulls his bag close and ducks his head in and tries not to breathe in the funk of other people, or flinch when they inevitably bump into him. 

Gale, of course, arrives by fucking chauffeur. 

“Good morning,” he waves, hopping out of the huge black car when he sees Astarion striding across the car park. 

He has somehow, again, managed to find a look that is giving both ‘middle-aged dad’ and ‘has a wardrobe team’ at the same time. The black turtleneck is sensible though, at least. 

“It's certainly a morning,” Astarion agrees, unlocking the rink for them. “I forgot to say, the coffee machine in here is broken. Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't recommend it.” 

“Noted,” Gale nods. “Do you drink coffee?” 

Astarion shrugs. 

“Sometimes.” 

Gale sighs. 

“I'm going to get Amy to grab coffee on her way in, do you want me to ask her to get you one too?” 

“Oh,” Astarion blinks. “Thank you, but I'd rather not owe you. I’m about to give you a whole lot of reasons to want to get back at me.” 

“Oh, I know - but what harm can I do with just a coffee?” Gale grins at him. “You're dedicating your whole day to me. Surely that's equal to at least a coffee.” 

“It's my job,” Astarion reminds him. 

Zel and Jen arrive shortly after, camera in tow. They film Gale putting his skates on as he keeps up a gentle patter about how they’re not the thick, blunt, snap-on boots they'd hired at the rink he’d taken his daughter to. These have been fitted to him for this; fresh black leather, new laces, the whole shebang. 

Astarion sits next to him on the bench and explains how to tie them, where the pressure should be and how important the ankle support is. Gale, to his credit, both listens avidly and asks follow-up questions that aren't entirely stupid. 

“Leave the guards on until you're about to step on the ice,” Astarion says, as he gets to his feet. “The sharper they are, the better.” 

“Losing a finger would be an extremely interesting way to end my career early,” Gale says, consideringly. 

“Then don't.” Astarion sighs. “Or do, I don’t care. Maybe it's the career shake-up you need.”

To his surprise, Gale actually laughs at that. 

Zel is also lacing skates on. Jen isn't, but she is now unpacking a camera of her own. 

“You're all multi-talented, it seems,” Gale says. 

“We've been filming this show for years,” Zel says, flatly. “I learned to skate for the first season I worked. Makes for more dynamic footage.”

“There's always about a million more viewers for the first episode,” Jen says. “We’re pretty sure it's just people tuning in to see celebrities get humiliated for a bit.” 

Gale smiles at that. 

“Well I have plenty of experience with that, at least. Falling over will be nothing, in comparison.” 

“Actually, the first thing I'm going to teach you to do is fall over,” Astarion says. 

“What?” Gale looks startled. “Why?” 

“Two reasons. Firstly, safety. If you know how to fall over safely at a standstill, you're more likely to do so when you're doing something more dangerous, so you limit your potential for injury. Secondly, to get it out of the way. The less afraid you are of falling over, and the more used to getting back up again straight away, the faster you'll learn.” 

“Oh lord,” Gale breathes. “I'm going to be black and blue by lunchtime, aren't I?” 

And despite himself, Astarion smiles. 

“Probably, yes.” 

He goes ahead of Gale to open the rink. It's been freshly cleared; the ice is smooth and clear, like a pond. Astarion leans on the side to pull his guards off, and steps onto the ice. 

There's always something about that first step. Carving the first line through the ice; making the day’s mark. He skims across the rink, then turns back, to watch Gale removing his skateguards and placing them next to Astarion's on the side. 

“Ready?” 

Astarion skates back towards him. 

“Hold on, let me get the camera on the rink first.” 

Zel appears behind Gale, gently shunting him out of the way. She slides backwards across the ice efficiently, but with no grace. If not for this exact context, Astarion would have pinned her as a hockey player. 

“Ready,” she nods. Astarion turns back to Gale. 

“First lesson; you don't skate like you walk. Don't lift your foot off the ice. Just put a little pressure behind it, and let the blade take you forward.” 

Gale does not fall over the moment he steps onto the ice. He wobbles and looks panicked, but stays upright. 

“Just a little push,” Astarion says. “Don't hold onto the side, either, or it’ll become a crutch. Come straight into the middle.” 

“Bold of you to assume I'm going anywhere at this rate,” Gale says, wryly. And, so saying, promptly falls over. 

“Yeah, okay,” Astarion sighs. “Falling lessons it is.” 

Gale, about two hours in, has fallen over so many times they've both lost count. 

“At what point do you have enough footage of this?” Gale asks the ceiling, though presumably he's actually talking to Zel. 

“Oh, ages ago,” she says. “This is for future blackmail material.” 

With a snort, Gale gets back to his feet. To be fair, Astarion had only had to help him up twice before he'd figured out how to do it on his own. 

“Here I go again on my own… ” he hums, and goes back to moving forward. 

-

They apparently won't be skating together very much to begin with. 

Astarion stands in the centre of the ring in his fluffy coat, watching, and correcting his form. Eventually, Gale manages a whole lap without falling over or running into the side. 

He promptly sits down out of sheer relief. 

“Your butt is going to get cold,” Astarion warns him. 

“All of me is cold,” Gale points out. “Besides, the ice will be good for the bruising.” 

“Never had a bruised behind before?” Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. “How boring of you.” 

Gale snorts at him. 

“I was married to a woman until quite recently, thank you very much.” 

“Oh,” Astarion looks thoughtful. “Bi in theory only then?” 

“I'm pretty fucking sure,” Gale pushes his hair back out of his face for the millionth time and wonders if he's going to have to start tying it up. “‘Gold star gay’ elitism is still alive and well, I see.” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Anyone can look at a rack of abs and think they want some. Up close, they often change their minds.” 

“Or your lovely, warm attitude scares them off first.” 

For a moment, Gale thinks he's put his foot in it. But Astarion, who had been mildly irritated before, now looks genuinely delighted. 

“You cheeky little-” 

“Coffee!” Amy yells, her voice echoing across the rink. 

“Oh for the love of...” Gale, realising that means he has to stand up and skate again, rests his head against the barrier and groans. “How do you do this?” 

“Practice,” Astarion says. “I actually quite enjoy it.” 

“Masochist,” Gale sighs. “Not that music is any different. Half agony, half hope.” 

“I think that's supposed to be love, isn't it?” Astarion frowns. 

“That too, I suppose,” Gale grins, getting to his feet. “I just got you a black americano. Figured you could take it or leave it.” 

“Let's take a break then,” Astarion says, begrudgingly. “There’s more paperwork to do anyway.” 

“Oh, yay, paperwork.” 

Astarion doesn't let him take his skates off yet. Instead Gale leans over the edge of the rink to drink his coffee, watching Zel film a little bit of an introduction interview for Astarion, who is still holding onto the cup Amy had given him as if he’s half expecting it to bite him. 

It's a strange experience. With the camera pointed at him, Astarion becomes quite a different person. The accent is almost charming, roguishly so, rather than abrasive. He smiles as he talks, the frown smoothed away. 

“I came to the UK to skate,” Astarion is saying. “Left all my family behind. It was just me and my coach and the other students.” 

“Was that Cazador?” 

“My coach? Yes. The one I was under at the Olympics.” 

“Where you won your gold.” 

“Won gold skating to ‘Golden’,” Astarion agrees, with a winning smile. “Cazador was very determined about the song choice. I thought it was a little on the nose - I still do.” He sounds like he's confessing something, there; sharing a secret with an audience of millions. Gale is almost impressed. 

“Would you have chosen something else?” 

“No!” Astarion laughs. It's the first time Gale has heard him do so. “No, absolutely not. He had the confidence in me that I didn't have in myself. I adored that song and that routine. I'm still proud of it.” 

“As you should be.” 

“Thank you.” 

When the camera is off again, he goes back to being his usual sharp, acerbic self. 

He still has a certain charm, in his own way. But then so does a tiger when it purrs. 

“Right,” Jen is laying out paperwork. “We’ve got a few kinks that still need ironing out. Neither of you listed any other hobbies in common, so we need to come up with something you can do as a bonding activity.” 

“Oh, joy,” Astarion sighs. “Because spending five hours a day training together isn't enough bonding time already.” 

“I spend every waking moment that I’m not with Hessie working on my music,” Gale says, apologetically. “I'm afraid it's all rather boring.” 

“Children are many things, but boring is rarely one of them,” Zel says. 

“A fair point,” Gale agrees. “And Hessie's the light of my life. But we don't want her face on TV. Not until she's old enough to make that decision for herself.” 

Astarion tilts his head. 

“That, I can understand. Though I'm afraid I have no musical talent at all, which leaves us rather at an impasse.” 

“We both have cats?” Gale suggests, in the same kind of tone that someone might say ‘Is this anything?’. Then he lights up; “Oh, I could cook for you! I adore cooking, and I have no reason to anymore. Do you have a favourite meal, perhaps?” 

“Not really,” Astarion shrugs. “Not fish?” 

“I can work with that,” Gale grins, turning to Jen, “If you can, of course.” 

“I used to do cocktails,” Astarion says, thoughtfully. “Bartended through uni,” he explains, to their confused expressions. “If you send me a menu I can whip something up. We can even give it a sellable name. Put the recipe on Instagram, and whatever else the PR lot will want.” 

“Classy,” Jen nods, scribbling furiously.  “It'll be a nice break from football, too. Keep coming up with ideas - we've got a month or so before we need to film that anyway.” 

Astarion nods. 

“And we have two more hours on the rink before I'm letting you stop for lunch. Get a move on, Gale.” 

Grumbling, Gale gives Amy his empty coffee cup and resigns himself to Astarion's whims again. 

“What was that?” Astarion says, sharply. 

“Nothing,” Gale pulls a smile back up. “Oh the joy of being back on the ice and getting humiliated!” 

Astarion’s lip twitches. There might almost, somewhere in there, have been a flicker of amusement. 

Aha, Gale thinks. I'll win you over yet, you prickly bastard.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Astarion receives his first message from just Gale, outside of their new group chat. 

Gale Dekarios: Question 

Astarion Ancunin: Answer 

Gale Dekarios: Hilarious.
Gale Dekarios: You missed your calling in comedy. 
Gale Dekarios: Are my feet supposed to hurt this much? 

Astarion Ancunin: Yes. 

Gale Dekarios: Delightful. 

Astarion Ancunin: you get used to it 

Gale Dekarios: Thank you, I feel better already. 

Astarion Ancunin: I do have that effect on people 

Gale Dekarios: Which people? I'd like to meet them, I have questions. 

Astarion catches himself smiling and swallows it. Given that the answer is an entire one person, and she recently moved to the other side of the world, he has no intention of giving Gale ammunition. 

“What did he say?” Karlach’s voice says, tinny through the speakers and the echo of the empty rink. 

“Bitching about how much pain he’s in,” Astarion says. “Do me a favour and shut up, I want to try and nail this before anyone else crashes in.” 

“I’m ready. You know, this is way nicer. I get to watch you showing off but I don’t have to freeze my tits off doing it.” 

“I’m not showing off, I’m trying to build my strength up.” 

“If you say so,” Karlach says. 

It’s entirely self-indulgent, as projects go, but it’s keeping him fit. Skating in slow circles behind Gale and occasionally picking him up off the ice isn’t doing that. 

In the early dawn light, the rink has something peaceful about it. Astarion hasn’t enjoyed having to share it, these last few days. Even without the school groups and kids classes, it’s been full of other people coming and going. Now, it’s peaceful. He skates to the middle, settling into place. 

“Play!” He shouts. 

“Counting in,” the AI says, over the speakers. “3, 2, 1-” 

“Wait, Astarion!” Karlach shouts, but the music cuts in. 

Maybe she’s missed the cue. Astarion doesn’t care. He can feel his legs starting to shake, his lungs burning. He has to do this now, or he’ll have missed his shot. They can try and film it again tomorrow. For now, he just wants to do what he can. Just to prove to himself it’s still there. 

-

It hadn’t occurred to Gale that someone would already be at the rink. Nor had he expected the song blasting through the doors to be Lana Del Ray, of all things. He pushes the door open, and stops.

Astarion is on the ice. He's wearing those black leggings that leave nothing to the imagination, but instead of his usual jumper over the top, he's just wearing a crop top. It occurs to Gale that he has yet to see Astarion wear anything other than long sleeves. It’s cold at the rink. He hadn’t thought anything of it. 

Astarion's arms are a patchwork of scar tissue. Line over line over line, healed and cut and healed and cut again. His back is similarly scarred, though the pattern of it is different; most of it is beneath his top, but what Gale can see of the edges of it is ragged and torn. Hence the long sleeves, Gale would presume. He knows better than to ask. It’s none of his business. 

Astarion isn't looking. He's concentrating on his movements, slowly building up speed as he curls around the rink. On the far side of the rink he's got a wooden stool with a laptop perched on it; presumably recording himself. 

Because he's not just skating pieces or a warmup. This is a routine. 

I've seen the world 

Done it all 

Had my cake now 

Now that Gale really truly understands how difficult this is, it takes his breath away. The ease with which Astarion moves, the beauty of the lines of his body, the poise and grace of it. The footwork is sharp and complicated, but he curves and curls into the music like a ballet dancer. Like he's dancing along the staves of the music itself. Like his soul is moving his body, and his brain has nothing to do with it. Like there's something broken in him, and the movement of it is healing him. 

Will you still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful  

Astarion splits his legs, throwing his head back to follow the circle of it around, then spins onto his knees, as if the music has pulled him down onto the ice, curling in on himself. Then the arm comes up, and the rest of him follows, like a puppet on a string; yanked back into the dance. 

I've seen the world 

Lit it up 

As my stage now  

Some part of Gale had intended to walk away. His body is still twisted, half into the room and half out. But he can't tear his eyes away from Astarion. He skates like the music is possessing him; like it's playing through his skin. It's building to something, too. His feet slide past each other with the kind of ease and precision that make it seem more like floating. 

Then the bridge hits, and Astarion jumps. 

Gale nearly gasps. He hadn't been expecting it, thinking the runup had been for a spiral or something; he doesn't manage to count the turns. It had definitely been a double, maybe even a triple. Astarion lands it with ease and immediately loops it into another one. There’s a sudden urgency to it; almost desperation. Then the music changes again, and Astarion mellows with it, smoothing it out into the long glide Gale had been expecting. He catches his foot and pulls it up behind his head, stretching into the splits like it's as easy as breathing. 

Gale doesn't think he blinks for the whole of the final chorus. Instead, he watches, utterly enraptured, as Astarion spins and twists and pulls the music in around him like a prayer, or a plea. There’s something almost agonising in his expression of it. Until, at last, Lana’s voice fades out. 

Astarion leans all the way back into the final note, his fingers skimming along the ice, his body held at an impossible angle. 

He skids to a stop in dead silence. His chest is heaving, sweat running down his face. He stands, slowly, and his legs are shaking. 

“Tell me you got that,” he says. 

“I got it,” a voice says, through the laptop, tinny and brittle. 

Gale finally steps forward, to the edge of the rink, remembering he's a person with a body and a voice, not just a vessel for the music. 

“That was incredible,” he says. 

Astarion whips around the face him. His expression is furious. 

“Gale?” 

“Seriously, Astarion, I might not be a dancer but I know that people would sell their souls to be able to-” 

“Out!” Astarion snaps. “Get out! Now!” 

Gale blinks at him, genuinely stunned. 

“Right, yes, of course. It wasn't my intention to - um, shall I just leave your coffee here?” 

He holds up the two takeaway cups in his hands. 

“Do I seem like I want fucking coffee?” Astarion snarls. 

He had ducked to pick up his jumper. Now he hurls it at Gale from the ice. 

What happens next, Gale isn't entirely sure. He had definitely flinched. It's been a long time since someone threw something at him, and a jumper would hardly do any damage, but he thinks of that too late to stop himself. 

Either that or one of the arms of the jumper catching on his thumb sends both coffee cups flying. They both land on the floor, caught up in the jumper. 

“Right,” Gale agrees, empty-handed and more shaken than he'd anticipated, “That was an invitation to leave if ever I heard one, it's just that now there's coffee all over the floor and all over your jumper and I've already seen the whole routine so you might as well let me help you clean it up now.” 

Astarion stares at him in mute, furious silence. 

“He's got a point,” the tinny voice says, in the background. 

“Shut up, Karlach,” Astarion rounds on the computer and gives it the middle finger from the far side of the rink. “You could have fucking said something!” 

“I tried!” Karlach protests. “The vid is sending, by the way.” 

“It isn't the routine I didn't want you seeing,” Astarion snaps, folding his arms over his chest. “Does being a musical genius mean that the rest of your brain shrivels and dies?” 

“Oh,” Gale realises. “I can lend you my jumper, if you want?” He has started pulling it off even before Astarion has responded. “It's going to be too wide for you, but it means Zel and Jen won't see. And I'm not going to ask any questions, either. You're entitled to your privacy.” 

“Am I?” Astarion snarls. “You just walked in and stayed to watch.” 

“I didn't realise - look, do you want the jumper or not?” 

Gale holds it out to him. 

For a moment, they stand there. It seems like Astarion might refuse him, purely out of spite. Instead, his shoulders slowly begin to relax. 

“Alright. Fine.” He snatches the jumper from Gale's hands. “It'll look better on me anyway.” 

Gale hums, disbelievingly. 

“It's tailored for me.” 

Astarion ignores him, skating back over to the laptop. 

“Go to bed, Karlach. Text me later.” 

“Aw, come on, I don't get to join training?” 

“No,” Astarion says. “You just want a chance to collect a famous friend for your portfolio, and we have enough work to do to get Gale up to scratch without me humouring you.” 

“I resent that,” Gale protests, trying not to shiver in his t-shirt. “Yesterday you said I'd fallen over less than I could have.” 

“Only because you looked like you weren't going to ever get up again if I didn't say something nice,” Astarion says, over his shoulder. 

“Your definition of ‘nice’ could do with some further consideration, I believe.” 

“Fuck off. Both of you. I'm going to shower.” 

“Yeah, yeah, love you too!” Karlach calls, cheerily. “Bye Gale! Nice to kind of meet you!” 

Astarion slams the laptop shut before Gale can respond. 

Having picked up both of the coffee cups and discarded the remainder of their contents, Gale takes the sodden jumper and follows Astarion into the changing room to try to squeeze the worst of the coffee out of it. 

It's really a very nice jumper, too, which is a shame. Proper wool. He hangs it over one of the stall doors to finish dripping, and returns to the sink to run his scalded hands under the tap. 

Astarion sticks his head out of the shower block and glares at him. His hair is wet, and mostly flat for it, but the very tips of it are trying to curl back up in defiance of gravity. It shouldn't be cute. Unfortunately, all Gale can see when he looks at Astarion now is the passion in his dance; the depth of emotion that he's refusing to acknowledge exists now. 

Gale knows he has a type. Devastatingly beautiful and emotionally unavailable seems to be his kryptonite. The fact that Astarion is a bit of a bitch isn't helping either. Astarion throwing something at him has set his heart racing. It’s pure adrenalin, but he’s never been good at distinguishing anxiety from arousal. 

It won't be the first time he's had an incredibly awkwardly timed crush. It will, however, take the cake for being the most awkward one yet. They haven't even got to the part where they're supposed to be dancing together yet. 

Goddamn his stupid brain. 

Not that it matters, given that Astarion seems to regard him with the same level of respect he would chewing gum stuck to his shoe. At least as long as that remains the case, he’ll be safe. 

“What are you doing? You're banging around like you're trying to kill something in here,” Astarion frowns. 

“Trying to save your jumper,” Gale says. “At least because it's black the stain won't show, but because it's such lovely wool you have to wash it with the proper level of care. Good as you look in a crop top, I’m pretty sure cropped jumpers aren't your style.” 

“I just got it in a charity shop. Don't waste your time.” 

“I will waste my time exactly how I wish,” Gale says, turning back to the sink to wash his hands. A moment later, Astarion emerges from the cubicle properly, wearing Gale's jumper. 

“This isn't my style either,” he says, with a put-upon sigh. 

“You mean an actual colour?” Gale grins. “You've only worn black before. Purple suits you.” 

Astarion scowls at him. 

“I didn't ask for your opinion.” 

“He wants shallow praise, he doesn't want shallow praise,” Gale sighs, turning his hands over under the water. “As fickle as fate and twice as belligerent.” 

Astarion frowns over his shoulder. 

“Are you hurt?” 

“Oh, just a little burn. Nothing to worry about, I promise. Not your fault, anyway, I overreacted. It was only a jumper.” 

Astarion studies him. Gale knows immediately that he doesn't believe a word of it. What he doesn't expect, however is for Astarion to ask; 

“Did Mystra hit you?” 

“No!” Gale says, too quickly. “Nothing like that, no.”

Astarion levels his piercing gaze at him. For just a moment, Gale manages to meet his ice-grey stare. Then he has to look away.  

“She has a bit of a temper,” Gale admits. “I think it’s the job. Management is stressful, and she has to be so cold and detached all the time. Sometimes when she came home it would… bubble over. A couple of smashed mugs, that kind of thing. She never did any damage. Not deliberately, anyway. Nothing permanent.” 

Astarion comes up beside him. It's impossible not to be hyper-aware of his presence. Whatever shampoo he uses has a hint of musk to it, balanced by something sharp, like citrus. 

“Does it hurt?” His fingertips are on Gale’s palms, gently tugging his hands out from under the running water to look at them. “Do we need to take you to A&E?” 

“I’m really fine, Astarion. The coffee had time to cool on the way here. I probably didn’t even really need to do this, I just have to be more careful of my hands than most.” 

“We should get you some proper skating gloves,” Astarion says, still frowning. “I’ll mention it to Jen, she’ll probably want to take you shopping and film it.” 

Gale doesn't know what to say to that.

Sniping, he can deal with. He almost enjoys it, with Astarion, though what that says about him he's not sure he wants to examine too closely.

In its turn, kindness should be accepted with due courtesy and equal thanks. In this moment, however, he can't quite summon the gallantry. Not that it matters overmuch in this instance. Astarion is not the type to be taken in by practiced charms; Gale's seen him turn his own on often enough already to know they have that in common. Instead he pulls his hands out of Astarion’s grip and shakes them dry. 

“That's not a bad idea, actually. Am I putting my skates on this morning?” 

“Not yet,” Astarion turns away, reaching for his towel. “Gym first.” 

When Astarion finally finishes drying his hair, Gale has begun to regret giving away his only decent layer. Astarion, in what could be interpreted as either an attempt to help or retribution for walking in on him skating, puts him through the most rigorous warm-up Gale has ever done. 

“I don't think warm-ups are supposed to last an hour!” Gale pants, as Astarion pushes carefully on his shoulders. “Ah, ah! That hurts.” 

“It's supposed to,” Astarion growls. “We’re not getting you into splits in three months unless it does.” 

“If you tear my ligaments I will set my whole management team on you like a pack of wolves,” Gale threatens, his teeth gritted. 

“I'd like to see you try,” Astarion snarks back. “If they're as fit as you, I could out-run them without breaking a sweat.” 

“You're a fucking Olympian,” Gale protests, “If I was as fit as you I'd be dead .” 

“Ex-olympian, darling,” Astarion says, cheerfully. “Be grateful I’m being gentle, Cazador used to sit on me for hours.” 

“This is gentle? ” 

“Christ, you really haven't ever fucked a man, have you?” 

“I can’t say either way, in all honesty. It’s entirely plausible that I have but don't retain any memory of the experience,” Gale growls, paying more attention to the burn in his thighs, and immediately regrets admitting to it when Astarion makes a noise of interest. 

“Oh? Had a wild youth, did you? Sex and drugs and rock and roll?” 

“Unfortunately it is nowhere near as fun as it sounds,” Gale grimaces. “Let's not. You have your secrets, I have mine.” 

“Fine,” Astarion shrugs, finally letting him go. “I don't really care, honestly.” 

Gale keels over sideways with a gasp of relief. 

When Astarion finally deems him warm and stretched enough, they move on to strength training. An hour after that, when Gale is considering giving up on life entirely and just melting into the ground, Astarion decides they're going to start the basics of dance. Which is, irritatingly, exactly when Zel and Jen decide to drop in on them. 

Gale sits with his back against the wall of mirrors so he doesn't have to see the colour of his own face and tries to draw them into conversation so he has five more minutes to breathe before Zel turns the camera on. 

“We’re getting to know each other,” he tells Jen, when she asks what they've been up to. “I met one of Astarion's friends this morning. Sort of, anyway.” 

“You have friends?” Zel asks Astarion. 

“Karlach took one look at me the first week of law school, decided I was going to be her friend, and despite my best efforts to put her off she hasn’t let me out of her sight since. And really, what can you say to someone who insists on adoring you? ‘Oh actually I'd rather you didn't?’” 

“She seemed lovely,” Gale says. 

“Yes, she refuses to see anything but the best in people. It's really her only flaw.” 

“Whereas you are flawless,” Gale says. 

“But of course, darling. I couldn't bear to be anything else.” 

Gale chuckles at him. 

After Astarion has spent an hour criticising everything from his rhythm to his posture to his lack of flow, he drags Gale back onto the ice and teaches him some basic exercises. Gale had thought he’d been getting the hang of going forwards, turning, and stops. Unfortunately his body seems to disagree. Astarion, utterly unperturbed, just makes him do them again. And again. And again. 

“I’m beginning to think you just like to have me bruised and sweating,” Gale complains, lying on his back on the ice, again, as Astarion skates up to look down at him with some amusement. 

“Trust me, if I was trying to get you hot and bothered, you’d know about it. It’s hardly my fault you’re so susceptible.” 

Finally, though, he lets Gale go. 

Gale just about makes it home and up to his bedroom before his legs fully give out on him. 

Everything hurts. It’s only two in the afternoon, but if he were to sleep now he’d probably still struggle to get up in time to make it back to the rink in the morning. Lying back on his bed, staring at the sparkling LED star-map in his ceiling, Gale allows himself to wonder, for the first time, if he had maybe been slightly foolhardy in his determination to go through with this. 

-

Astarion doesn't get the chance to watch the video Karlach sent him until that afternoon. Until he and Gale have gone their separate ways, and he's tucked up at home on his bed, still wearing the purple jumper. 

Gale had insisted he keep it to get home. He'd also stolen the black one, despite Astarion's protests, stubbornly determined to wash it properly and return it to its apparent former glory. He has yet to actually say the word ‘sorry’, but given that Astarion hasn't ever been great at that himself, he had begrudgingly accepted the alternative. 

Besides, Gale's jumper is nice. It smells slightly of what is probably very expensive cologne. 

Karlach’s video is about as good as can be expected, given it’s just screen capture of a video call from halfway around the world. The timing of the music is more than a little bit off. Astarion mutes it as he grabs his notebook and yanks the lid off a biro with his teeth. 

The first section is fairly clean. It’s all base choreo rather than complicated tricks or footwork, anyway. Even in the background, however, Astarion can see the way Gale’s posture changes when he realises what he’s walked in on. He really had butted in right at the start, the bastard. Stopped right by the door, too. If he’d come up to the edge of the rink, Astarion would have seen him and fucking stopped. 

He realises he’s been watching Gale’s face, and rewinds to properly study the footwork transition into the first chorus. The laptop’s spacebar is well-worn from exactly this - hours of going back and forth over his own footage, nitpicking and note-taking and perfecting. It’s all much, much cleaner than it was the last time he filmed it. 

He goes and digs out the previous one and plays them side by side, looking to see where he’s improved and what still needs more focus. Like it matters. Like anyone other than Karlach is ever going to see this routine. 

Well, other than Karlach and Gale. 

The laptop had been pointed right down the centre of the rink. Perfectly aligned with the door. No matter where Astarion pauses the video, no matter which part of the movement he’s trying to critique, he finds his eyes wandering back to Gale. To his expression. 

He has the kind of face that means he always looks like he’s frowning slightly, even when he’s smiling. That little crease in the centre of his brow that never smoothes out. It’s irritatingly handsome and excessively smug and Astarion doesn’t think he’s ever paid that much attention to someone’s forehead before. 

But watching Astarion skate, there’s something softer about his expression. The little line isn’t gone; it’s just different. He stares at Gale’s face, trying to figure out what it is about it, about Gale, that bothers him. 

He jumps when his phone buzzes.

Gale Dekarios: Astarion, are you busy? 

Astarion Ancunin: always, but I suppose I can spare you my attention for a few minutes 

Gale Dekarios: I know we didn't talk about it earlier, but I am sorry for walking in on you. 

Astarion Ancunin: you make it sound like I was doing something dirty 

Gale Dekarios: Honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if that would have been less voyeuristic.
Gale Dekarios: In all seriousness, Astarion. I have scars of my own. It's entirely your own business, but I might understand more than you'd expect me to, if you do ever want to talk about it. And if you don't, that's fine too. 
Gale Dekarios: I know we've got off to something of a rocky start, but I genuinely admire you and your work. It occurred to me in hindsight that I hadn’t been doing a very good job of conveying that, so I am attempting to do so now. 

Astarion Ancunin: are you drinking or something?

Gale Dekarios: No? Why? Am I making spelling mistakes? 

Astarion Ancunin: no  
Astarion Ancunin: you're good 

Admiration. 

That’s what it is. 

Gale is watching him skate, and he’s impressed. 

Astarion Ancunin: How are your hands? 

Gale Dekarios: No harm done! :)
Gale Dekarios: Thank you for asking, though. 

Astarion stares at Gale’s pixelated, paused face for half a second longer, then slams the laptop screen closed, and goes to try and track down the stray cat. 

-

Astarion’s plan had been to get to the rink earlier than agreed the next morning to work on some of the basic choreography that they’ll be using regardless of what music they end up with. It’s supposed to be a shorter day, anyway, starting at ten instead of eight so he doesn’t kill Gale in the first week of training. 

When he arrives at the rink at nine, however, the door is open. From inside, he can hear something; music. 

Taking care to be quiet, he sticks his head around the door to the rink. 

There, on the ice, is Gale. He’s gliding around the rink in smooth circles. Practising the control exercises Astarion had given him yesterday. 

It's not any of Gale's own music that he’s playing, so far as Astarion can tell. If anything, it seems to be an absolutely random mix of pop songs in which the piano is a main component. He doesn't recognise the one playing currently. He flicks open his phone, which informs him of the name; he adds it, to investigate later. 

Then Astarion leans over the barrier to watch. 

Gale's already a lot better than he was. It's like something has clicked; he's moving with the ice now, rather than against it. He's still wobbly, and his form needs some major corrections, but. 

Generally, an improvement has been made. 

“How long have you been here?” Astarion says. Gale looks up from his own feet, startled; the sudden change in his centre of balance is too much. His feet slip out from under him and he lands on the ice.  

“Ow,” he says. “Would you believe I hadn't fallen over once until you turned up?” 

“No,” Astarion says, quite honestly, to which Gale laughs. He gets up, brushing himself off, and resumes his circles. 

“I suppose this is my retribution for giving you a fright yesterday.” 

“How did you even get in? I very definitely remember locking up.” 

“Ah,” Gale looks ever so slightly abashed. Only slightly, though. Mostly he looks a little proud of himself. “You know how the receptionist is always asleep?” 

Astarion's eyebrows shoot up. 

“Gale Dekarios, you shady thing.” 

“I only borrowed it! He's just never been awake enough to ask about spares, so. It was easier to just sort it out myself.” 

“It would have been easier to ask me,” Astarion points out. 

“Mmmm,” Gale hums, doubtfully. “I don't know if I'd ever consider you the ‘easier’ option, Astarion, I feel that would be doing your commitment to cantankerousness a great disservice.” 

I'd be extremely easy if you weren't so fucking annoying, Astarion thinks. 

“Did you swallow a thesaurus?” 

“No, but I have been writing,” Gale’s eyes are alright as he skims to a stop in front of him. 

“Not about me, I hope.” 

“Ha!” Gale laughs. “You should be so lucky. No, I've just been coming up with ideas for lyrics. There's something so joyous about words, don't you think? Writing song lyrics is like writing poetry. You can put a whole story into a song, but it'll never really be about what happens or to whom; it's about more than that. It's about the feeling you can conjure with it, the way it moves you; reaching across the void to a stranger, and finding your shared human experience in it. I can feel it, here,” he taps his chest, two fingers over his heart. “I was hoping skating might do that, might bring back that little sparkle I've been missing - but I didn't expect it to do it so quickly.” 

Astarion stares at him. 

Gale had spent most of yesterday complaining. He had fully expected today to be an uphill battle. Instead, Gale has found something in it. Something that has brought him here with a light in his eyes that's so ferocious it's almost contagious. 

“I don't suppose you'd be able to give Minthara that little speech?” Astarion suggests, acidly. “Then she might be less inclined to be a dick.” 

“Probably not,” Gale says, resuming his exercises. “That’s just the way she is, I’m afraid.” 

Five minutes later, Astarion has his skates strapped on, and joins him on the ice. 

There’s something less fraught about this, now. The time doesn’t drag. Once Gale starts to improve, he comes on in leaps and bounds in a very short time. Despite himself, Astarion can’t help but be pleased. Funny as it is to have him falling over all the time, it wouldn’t reflect well on him if Gale remained utterly shit, after all. 

It's the first day they've started late enough that Astarion makes them stop for lunch. 

Gale, evidently unsure what to do with himself when Astarion’s not bossing him around, ends up sort of trailing around after him like a lost puppy. Even after Amy arrives, the two of them sit with him in the lobby on the very tired-looking sofas, instead of literally anywhere else in the entirety of the rest of the completely empty building. 

So Astarion ignores them, lounging with his book. 

“I didn't know you were a reader, Astarion,” Gale says, eventually, when he and Amy have finished having their impromptu meeting. “I'm something of a bibliophile myself.” 

“I wouldn't claim such a title, personally.” Astarion says. 

“What book has succeeded in tempting you to indulge in its pages then?” Gale sits forward, trying to look at the cover. 

“The Future of Geography,” Astarion refuses to tilt it to make it any easier for him to see. 

“I don't think I've heard of that one. How are you finding it?” 

With a sigh, Astarion snaps the book shut. 

“I was quite enjoying reading about astropolitics, yes, but it's hard to concentrate when someone's talking to you.” 

“Astropolitics?” Gale says, intrigued. “Is it sci-fi?” 

“I don't have time for the frivolities of fiction.” 

“What?” Gale starts. “Don't get me wrong, I like non-fiction as much as the next man, but surely you must read some novels?” 

“I've never seen the point,” Astarion drawls. “What is there to learn from them?” 

“Oh come now,” Gale chuckles. “Do you read philosophy? Presumably you had to, at least a little bit, at university.” 

“Chomsky and so on,” Astarion agrees. “Not much by choice, anymore, but if something interesting comes up I won't turn it down.” 

“Aha!” Gale looks delighted. “But what is sci-fi, other than philosophy? You can't possibly write about the directions that humanity might take in the future without having a solid grounding in the present.” 

Astarion shrugs. 

“Maybe if I tried I'd like them, but I already have more I want to read than time to read in.” 

“The universal dilemma,” Gale agrees. “You must at least have read some classics, though. The Lord of the Rings, or something.”

“I don't have the patience for Tolkien. I haven't seen the films, either.” 

“What!” Gale throws his hands in the air, like Astarion has just told him that he eats babies for dinner. “Nonsense. You'll at least have heard the soundtrack, surely?” 

“Oh, probably.” 

“And the musical?” 

“There's a musical ? What am I saying, of course there is. There's a musical of everything now.” 

“It was the most expensive West End production ever,” Gale says. “It was incredible. Crashed out after only a year though. The soundtrack was A. R. Rahman, too. Man’s a genius. Well, he would have had to be, I suppose, Tolkien did base his magic system on music.” 

“Who?” 

“Astarion! Next you'll be telling me you've never seen a Bollywood movie!” 

“I haven't,” Astarion says. “I don't really do films.” 

“This cannot be allowed to stand. Tell me you're free this weekend.” 

“So you can force me to sit down to watch your favourite films with you?” Astarion wrinkles his nose. “I'll pass, thank you.” 

“Now who’s being boring?” 

Astarion stares at him, aghast. 

“Gale, are you pouting at me?” 

“Is it working?” 

“No!” 

He spends the remainder of the break showing Astarion various YouTube videos of the composer’s work, and talking about why, exactly, his work is so pivotal to the music industry as a whole. All Astarion has to say is ‘oh, really?’ and occasionally ‘sounds fascinating’ and Gale will just… keep talking. He’s still trying to quiz Astarion about the book after they return to the ice, even as Astarion is trying to teach him crossovers. 

“But can we even truly claim that the Antarctica agreement actually worked?” He says. “We ended up projecting all of our political hangups onto it and governing the place has birthed a whole new brand of pettiness in the guise of democracy. Unless we take an entirely different stance, we can hardly expect the inevitable colonisation of Space to break new ground. If anything we’ll just have yet another platform on which to repeat the mistakes of the past.” 

“Your foot needs to slide further under.” Astarion sighs. “You're going to trip over yourself if you keep them together like that.” 

“Show me again?” 

Astarion does so. 

“I'll lend you the book when I'm done if you stop asking me about it.” 

“It just sounds interesting!” 

Astarion gives up on trying to get him to pay attention, and makes him get off the ice so he can manhandle him. 

“Hand here,” he demands, moving Gale's hand to the edge of the rink to lean on it. “Now put your feet the way you had been. Like you're mid-crossover.” 

Gale does as he's told. 

“No,” Astarion snaps, kneeling, and grabs his ankle to reposition it. “This is where you were holding it - see the problem? You're going to catch your blades. You need it here.” He moves Gale's foot to where it should be, then lets him go. “Stand there and memorise the position of your body. You’re getting back on the ice when you can replicate it, and only then.” 

Gale looks down at him. 

“I do seem to remember that the last time someone was between my legs I had a lot more fun,” he says. 

“Yes, I can imagine you're used to being worshipped,” Astarion says, getting to his feet. “I’m afraid I'm not much inclined towards religion, darling, and your footwork is abysmal.” 

Gale only laughs. 

Literally nothing seems to put him off. He shakes insults off like water, and often gives just as good as he gets. And if Astarion stays silent, he’ll just talk to fill said silence. 

When he gets back on the ice, at least, his crossovers have improved. 

“Do you ever shut up?” Astarion says, eventually. 

“Very rarely,” Gale says, easily. “I did make a career of my voice.” 

He's irrepressibly cheerful now that he's starting to get the hang of it. He takes the corners with increasing confidence. Astarion skates backwards by his side, keeping a careful eye on his technique. 

“Must you always be slightly ahead?” Gale complains, with a grin. Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I can go backwards much faster than this. You couldn’t catch me if you tried.” 

“My word, that sounded suspiciously like a challenge, Astarion.” 

It’s immensely stupid, of course. Gale’s balance isn’t that good, yet. Still, it’s fun; Astarion picks up speed slowly, a little more at a time. Gale just about manages to keep pace with him, mirroring Astarion as he bends more, lowering his centre of gravity, letting the momentum of it drive the movement. Gale narrows his eyes at him, and Astarion can almost see the cogs turning in his brain; if he leans like this, moves just so, he can get just the tiniest bit more speed, get just the tiniest bit closer. Gale reaches his hand out, as if to catch him. 

“This is nearly something!” Astarion says. He reaches out, mirroring Gale, staying just out of reach of his fingertips. “Drop your shoulder.” 

Gale does; as if it occurs to him that this is about the way it looks, as well as the way it feels, his posture changes incrementally. He has the natural self-awareness of a performer. He twists his arm, slightly, exposing his inner elbow. He pulls his other shoulder back, accentuating the shape of the pose. 

It would be incredibly easy for Astarion to catch him. For a moment, he considers it. 

But then the phone rings. 

Gale startles. They’d been moving too fast; the slight change of stance throws him down on the ice. He skids to a stop with his shoulder against the barrier. 

Astarion is by his side in an instant. 

“You okay? You went down hard.” 

“It’s alright, I’m alright,” Gale winces, shaking himself as he gets to his feet. “I just hit bone. Amy, that’s mine!” 

“On it!” Amy calls back, then; “It’s Mystra!” 

Gale's entire posture changes. He draws himself up, sharply. 

“What the-” 

“Do you want me to answer it?” 

“No!” Gale skates across the rink to accept the phone from her. “Sorry, nothing personal, she’ll just eat you alive.” He picks up the call; “Hello?” 

There’s a short silence.

“Of course I’m not at the house, it’s a Thursday.” 

He frowns, idly rubbing his shoulder. 

“Well don’t leave her waiting on the step! I’ll get Amy to send you the address.” 

Amy gives him a thumbs up, already typing furiously. 

“Yes, I know it’s halfway across London! I’ll never say no to having Hessie, but if you don’t give me any warning I can’t rearrange-” he pulls the phone away from his ear. “And she hung up on me. Wonderful.” 

“They're half an hour away,” Amy says. “She just sent me a live location.” 

“Good,” Gale sighs. When he’s handed his phone back to Amy, Astarion skids to a stop beside him. 

“And so the training schedule I spent so long adjusting once already goes out the window again,” he says.

“We were going to finish at four anyway,” Gale points out. “I can’t be here at eight tomorrow, but I can make it for nine.” 

“Are you this irritatingly blasé about everything?” Astarion snipes. 

“It is mildly annoying, I’ll admit,” Gale allows. “But I get an extra evening with my daughter. I would put up with far worse for far less. Unfortunately for me, however, Mystra knows it.” 

Astarion, begrudgingly, lets him cool off and take his skates off. 

-

They wait for Hestia’s arrival in the lobby, where the receptionist has apparently abandoned his post entirely. The three of them sit with the broken coffee machine for company and watch the little dot come closer. Until, at last, Gale can't watch it any more and goes to stand outside. 

The car pulls up, and Hessie launches herself at him from it. She still has her school uniform on; one of her scrunchies has slipped, so her pigtails are uneven. Gale kneels to catch her, and picks her up to swing her around, as he always does. She's getting dangerously close to being too big for it. 

“We get extra adventure time!” Hessie yells, happily. “Oh, ew, daddy you stink.” 

Gale laughs. 

“I know, yes, I've been doing some very hard work and I'm not finished yet. I'm going to have to stink for a little longer, and hope that you'll forgive me for it.” 

Hessie sticks her tongue out at him and pulls a face. 

“Hestia, what have I told you about raising your voice?” Mystra snaps. 

“Let her be excited,” Gale sighs, putting Hessie back on her feet and ruffling her hair. “I missed you too, little lady. I hope you've been having a grand old time since we last went adventuring together - and I'm sorry for leaving you sitting on my doorstep. If I'd known you were coming I would have made sure to be home.” 

“If you cared that much you wouldn't have left in the first place,” Mystra says. 

It's a sharp little barb that seemingly came from nowhere; he hadn't been expecting it. 

“That's not true,” Gale frowns. “Hessie, you know that's not true, don't you? You know I left because it was going to make us all happier eventually, even if it was hard at first.” 

Hestia looks between them, like she doesn't know what to say. There isn't anything to say; any answer is the wrong answer. 

“The infamous Mystra,” a voice says, behind them; smooth, rich, and yet somehow managing to be offended by the mere existence of its subject. Mystra's eyes narrow. 

“And who might you be?” 

“Astarion Ancunin,” Astarion bows. “I would say it's a pleasure, but I'm afraid the pleasure is all yours.” 

“I doubt it,” Mystra sniffs. “Gale keeps increasingly dubious company these days.” 

“From what little I know of you, I’m a vast improvement,” Astarion says, leaning against the wall and inspecting his nails. “But then you have set the bar embarrassingly low.” 

“I gave him everything he could ever have wanted, and it still wasn’t enough,” Mystra says. As always, she manages to say it so tonelessly that it takes a second for the full impact of it to really hit. “You will not be any different.” 

“Hey,” Gale reprimands. “Stop it, both of you. This is entirely unnecessary. Now, Hessie, this is my friend Astarion. Astarion, this is my daughter, Hestia. Let's all be civil, shall we?” 

There's a small moment of silence. 

“Can we not be mean, please?” Hessie says, quietly. “I don't like it when we're mean.” 

“Agreed,” Gale says, smoothly, taking her hand and holding it firmly. “Let's go inside. Mystra, I'll see you on Sunday, as usual.” 

“Indeed.” 

Neither of them say goodbye. Astarion pushes the door open for he and Hessie, and follows them through it. 

“I'm sorry Hessie,” Gale says, immediately. “That was unfair of us, putting you in that position. I swear to you, I won't do it again.” 

“Why was mummy being mean?” Hessie demands, tearfully. “You said we wouldn't be mean anymore!” 

“I know,” Gale says, sadly, kneeling next to her. “But sometimes, when people are hurting, they say things that are mean or not true, because they want other people to know that they're hurting." She pulls a face at him, and he searches desperately for a relatable example. "Remember when I said you couldn't have more ice cream and you said you hated me?” 

“I don't hate you,” Hessie agrees, begrudgingly. “I just really love ice cream.” She sniffs. “Are you mummy's ice cream?” 

“Uh,” Gale stops. “Well. Sort of, I suppose.” 

“You're supposed to say when you're sad,” Hessie grumbles. “Then it gets smaller and then it can go away.” 

“Sometimes there's a lot of sadness, Hessie. Sometimes the sadness has other feelings in it too, and it's very hard to see what they all are, let alone know what to do about them. Mummy is doing her best, okay? But she's going to be sad and angry at me for a long time yet, and that's okay. When something has been big and important and it gets lost or broken, being sad and angry takes a long time before it can be small and go away.” 

“I want it to be better now,” Hessie says. “I don't like it when you're sad.” 

“We’re not sad,” Gale smiles. “I promise. Not anymore. Well, maybe a little bit, sometimes; but we’re happy more often than we’re sad.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

Hessie nods and lets him hug her, rubbing her snotty nose into the front of his jacket. Gale doesn't have the heart to scold her for it. 

“Can we do something fun, now? Please?” 

“Fun is going to have to wait, I'm afraid,” Gale looks up at Astarion over Hessie's head. “I think we both have homework to do.” 

“We do,” Astarion agrees. 

Hessie glares at him. 

“You were mean, too.” 

“Your mother was being rude to Gale, and he wasn’t defending himself,” Astarion says, shortly. 

“If someone hit you, would you hit them back?” Hessie demands. 

Behind her, Gale widens his eyes and shakes his head; like he knows what Astarion’s answer would be. 

“The correct answer to that question is ‘no’,” Astarion says. Gale pinches the bridge of his nose, but Hessie doesn’t notice. 

“Are you going to say sorry?” Hessie says. 

Astarion stares at her. 

“... sorry?” He repeats, incredulously. 

“Good,” Hessie grins at him. “Okay, we can be friends, too, if you want. If you promise to be nice.” 

Gale just about manages to cover his laugh with a cough. 

“Well then. Shall we?” 

When she’s properly calmed down, Hessie lies on the floor of the gym and does her maths as Astarion puts Gale through a shorter version of yesterday's strength and stretch training. His muscles had been sore already, even before spending hours on the ice, but this just feels like torture. He grits his teeth and bears it and tries not to let his mind wander. 

“You've gone quiet,” Astarion says, eventually, as they both stretch their legs out. Astarion, of course, is twice as flexible as he is. “I don't know whether or not to be disconcerted.” 

“Hmm?” Gale blinks at him. “Oh, I was just lost in thought. Hang on, weren't you telling me to shut up, earlier? Have you changed your mind about how annoying I am?” 

“No,” Astarion snaps. “I just can't afford to let you mope when we have so little time to train.” 

“Ah, of course,” Gale says, smugly. “I believe you, Astarion.” 

-

Astarion turns up at the rink at eight the next morning anyway, initially intending to improve on the Del Ray routine. Just as he's finished warming up, however, Gale rings him. 

“What now?” Astarion answers. 

“Good morning to you too,” Gale says, sounding tired. Somewhere in the background, he can hear who he presumes is Hessie screaming. 

“You sound like you're having fun.” 

“Mmm. Mmmm? Fun isn't exactly the word I would use for this situation.” Gale sighs. “Hessie, please, I'm trying to-” 

“He's my friend too!” Hessie yells, “Talking about people behind their backs is mean!” 

“I'm not talking about you behind your back, Hestia, you're right here,” Gale points out. “Astarion, can I put you on speaker so we can both talk to you, please?” 

“I’m getting the sense that this might actually be non-negotiable.” 

“No, you can always say no. Hestia knows about boundaries - don't you Hestia?” 

“But I want to talk to him!” 

“Hessie,” Gale says, warningly. “I said I'd only let you call Astarion if you were polite to him, and not respecting people's boundaries is not polite.” 

“It's alright,” Astarion sighs. “Go on, put me on speaker.” 

“Astarion!” Hessie yells. 

“Aren't you supposed to be at school by now, Hestia?” Astarion asks. 

“No!” Hessie shrieks. “Daddy doesn't do school days! Daddy days are adventure days!” 

“I also don't like last-minute routine changes,” Gale says, still somehow managing to sound patient and understanding. “But we can’t-”

“We did school from home before!” Hessie screams, like he's personally offended her. 

“We are no longer in the middle of a lockdown.” 

“I don't caaaaare!” 

It sounds suspiciously like feet are being stomped. 

“I don't think I'm helping,” Astarion says, shortly. “Hestia, could you stop screaming, please? It hurts my ears.” 

To his surprise, she takes a big gulp of air, and says, much more quietly; 

“Sorry.” 

“Thank you. Now, why did you want to talk to me?” 

Hessie sniffs. 

“Daddy says we both have to go to school today. I have to go to mine, and he has to go to school with you. But adults don't go to school!” 

“Your dad still has a lot to learn. Being an adult doesn't mean you know everything.” 

“But if you don't know, you can Google it,” Hessie says, determinedly. 

“You can Google how to do something, yes, but if you want to be any good at it you have to practise.” 

“But I don't want him to go!” Hessie wails. 

“Ah,” Astarion sighs. “Yes, I'm afraid that is something I can't help with. You have to go to school, and Gale has to come here, and if that doesn't happen everyone's going to be in a lot of trouble.” 

There's a short pause. 

“I’m going to get daddy in trouble with you if I don't go to school?” 

“I wouldn't be happy with him, no.” 

“I don't want to get him in trouble,” Hessie says, sadly. 

“Then I suppose you'd better go to school,” Astarion says. 

“Can't I come to school with you and daddy?” 

“No,” Astarion says, firmly. “You're not allowed.” 

“It's not fair!” Hessie wails. 

“Well, we're not allowed to come to school with you, either, are we?” 

“No,” Hessie sniffs. “Stop being right, it's annoying.” 

That makes him laugh; the giggle is out before he can catch it. 

“Hestia, I'm a teacher. It's my job to be right.” 

“I don't want to talk to you anymore,” she says. 

“Hestia!” Gale says, distantly, and then apparently takes the phone back off her, because his voice is much closer. “Say goodbye properly, please. That isn't how we talk to our friends.” 

“I don't want to talk to you anymore, thank you, goodbye.” Hessie says, from somewhere further away.  

“Good girl,” Gale says, then; “Astarion, I'll see you in… a bit.” 

“I'll just wait, I suppose.” 

“I am going to school,” Hessie is shouting. “You hear that, Astarion? I am GOING to SCHOOL!” 

“I do hear. Good luck with your little hurricane, Gale.” Astarion says, and hangs up before Gale can reply. 

Gale does, just about, make it in time for nine. 

“They should put Hestia on the contract,” Astarion says. “Seeing as I'm apparently dealing with her just as much as I am with you.” 

“Children are like that,” Gale agrees. “They take over everything.” 

-

06:06am

Astarion Ancunin: Prep for two days off the ice is as follows
Astarion Ancunin: sent a file ‘Foot care and stretches’
Astarion Ancunin: sent a file ‘Diet and nutrition considerations’ 
Astarion Ancunin: sent a file ‘Basic rules for rest days’ 

Gale Dekarios: Pop quiz on Monday? 

Astarion Ancunin: The pop quiz will be whether or not you can walk 

Gale Dekarios: How is the rest schedule somehow just as intense as the training one?

Astarion Ancunin: may I remind you that you were the one who signed up for this 

Gale Dekarios: Remind me all you like, complaining is a valid coping mechanism and I don’t need your sympathy for it to make me feel better. 
Gale Dekarios: sent a photo

Astarion Ancunin: spare me the photos of your breakfast, I’m not instagram 

Gale Dekarios: You sent me nutrition information, I am sending you proof that I am paying attention. 

Astarion Ancunin: sent a photo 
Astarion Ancunin: Oh, look, the sky. How exciting. I think that pigeon might just be the highlight of my day. I must send a photo to Gale, lest he think I forgot about him because I haven’t seen him in ten minutes. 

Gale Dekarios: sent a photo
Gale Dekarios: Hessie says hi!

Astarion Ancunin: Good morning, Hestia. Please tell your father to leave me in peace. 

Gale Dekarios: :( 

Astarion Ancunin: Are you pouting at me via text now??? 
Astarion Ancunin: I think this is bullying 

Gale Dekarios: sent a photo 

Astarion Ancunin: Hessie’s pout is endearing. You look like you have constipation. 

Gale Dekarios: You do know I was voted the most attractive singer of the year, right?

Astarion Ancunin: By who, your daughter? Was the competition Daft Punk?
Astarion Ancunin: can’t have been, actually, they’d have won  

Gale Dekarios: I’m vetoing your selfie privileges. 
Gale Dekarios: You’re getting food pictures and Tara’s butt for the rest of the weekend. 

Astarion Ancunin: Gale, you wound me. Not even a paw? A whisker?  

Gale Dekarios: By the way, all Hessie's been told is that I'm learning to dance. Apparently that's enough to satisfy her curiosity, as there have been no follow-up questions. 
Gale Dekarios: Well, other than ‘can we learn a dance together’. 
Gale Dekarios: So my ‘restful’ weekend isn't going to be that restful, I'm afraid. 

Astarion Ancunin: on your head be it 

-

11:12am 

AmyPR: Has anyone else been able to get hold of Gale? 

Astarion Ancunin: I haven't heard from him in a few hours 
Astarion Ancunin: why? 

AmyPR: He's supposed to be sending me content. I have a schedule, it's important. 
AmyPR: @everyone someone please tell me they know where he is before Minthara gets hold of me. 

Jen: Not a word, sorry 

Zel: nothing 

1:33pm 

Gale Dekarios: Shit, I'm so sorry Amy, we were in the music room and I forgot it blocks the signal! 
Gale Dekarios: Here, from this morning. Leiki Euda’s arrangement, the sheet music is available on his website if you can link it anywhere.
Gale Dekarios: sent a video 
Gale Dekarios: Hessie says I have to send you the blooper as well. 
Gale Dekarios: sent a video 

Astarion opens the video. It's just a shot of Gale's hands on his grand piano. He turns the volume up, and stops to listen. 

It's ‘Into the Unknown’, which probably shouldn't surprise him. A Hestia request, undoubtedly. The way Gale plays it, though, is with the same flair and reverence he'd expect to see given to Chopin or somebody. Of course it's going to be pretty clean, for social media, but there's something about it that Astarion finds almost mesmerising. The way Gale’s hands dance across the keys, the assuredness in the speed and flexibility and passion that he plays with. Having spent a week watching him go from being very bad to not as bad as ice skating, it had somehow slipped Astarion's mind that Gale is very, very, very good at what he does. 

He watches it three times before it occurs to him that he probably shouldn't spend that much time thinking about Gale's fingers.

The blooper starts out much the same; just before the chorus hits, however, Tara jumps up onto the piano. 

“Tara!” Gale's voice is warm with laughter. “Madam, I think you'll find that is quite the wrong key.” 

Tara sits down right in the centre of the shot and yowls at him. He can hear Hestia laughing, too, somewhere in the background, as Gale stops the video. 

Astarion Ancunin: that's a good arrangement 

Gale Dekarios: Ah, I shouldn't have sent that to the group. 

Astarion Ancunin: you did say you were withholding Tara content from me, and here you are, sending a whole video 

Gale Dekarios: I am of the opinion that the world in general would be much improved by more exposure to Tara. 

Astarion Ancunin: maybe she could teach my stray some manners 
Astarion Ancunin: I hope you weren't too attached to that jumper you loaned me, the cat pissed on it 

Gale Dekarios: sent a gif 

Astarion snorts at the gif of Olaf’s sad face, scratching said stray behind the ears. 

Astarion Ancunin: I am attempting to wash it 

Gale Dekarios: I am buying you a litter tray.  

Astarion Ancunin: I hope you mean you’re buying Bear a litter tray 
Astarion Ancunin: I am very well-trained

Gale Dekarios: You called the cat ‘Bear’?

Astarion Ancunin: Karlach has decided to call it Bear and I don’t have any better suggestions

Gale Dekarios: Do I want to know why?

Astarion Ancunin: It’s taken to climbing up my leg to try and eat whatever I’m holding. Apparently it looks like a bear climbing a tree. 

Gale Dekarios: Have you had your tetanus shots? 

Astarion Ancunin: I’m not dignifying that with a response 

Gale Dekarios: You just did.
Gale Dekarios: To clarify, I was joking about tetanus, but I feel I should warn you that stray cats can carry a veritable microscopic zoo of unpleasant diseases. 

Astarion Ancunin: and you text like you were born in 1882, but we can’t all be perfect, can we? 

AmyPR: Can you two please flirt outside of the group chat? This is giving me anxiety.

Chapter Text

Over the next few weeks, Gale begins to relax into the pattern of his new routine. As the last of summer settles into autumn, he realises how quickly the time is passing. He used to count out the days. Now it seems he can't keep up with them. 

Astarion remains an unforgiving trainer; and Gale, as is his way, has quite enjoyed rising to meet his expectations. And then, of course, exceeding them. The way they train has changed, too; they spend more than half of their time on the ice now. About a week ago, Astarion had declared Gale ready to graduate into actual choreographed moves. Initially surprised by how handsy pairs skating actually is, Gale is adjusting to it quickly. Most of it, for now, is for either support, balance, or momentum; holding hands, and wrists, or Astarion's hands at his hip or his waist as they transition through positions, guiding him - or, more commonly, correcting him. It still gives him that embarrassing little electric thrill, every single fucking time - but he's used to it now. He has to concentrate on much more important things, anyway; like not falling over just because Astarion is skating his shadow and Gale can feel his breath on his neck. 

More than that, though, he's enjoying getting good at it. He's nowhere near Astarion's level, of course, and never will be. That's not the point. The point is the joy of it. The sheer elation of the first time he'd managed a proper spin, and Astarion had actually clapped. The moment the whole concept of using his edges had properly clicked, and suddenly they were skating together, not just at the same time. The way that skating isn't a struggle, now. It's a challenge, yes, but it's a delicious one. And when he gets it - when he's in the flow of it - it feels like flying. 

Even though it's now dark when his alarm goes off, it's easier to get up in the mornings. It's not that the aches and bruises have lessened, exactly, but they bother him less. If anything, he takes them as a sign of progress, and wears them with a sort of pride. 

When he sits down at the piano, the music seems to come to him with some semblance of the ease it once had, without him having to tear himself apart to find it. Even Minthara is grudgingly impressed by how quickly the album is taking shape. Especially considering how much time he's spending on the ice. 

And Hessie has decided she wants to be an ice skater for Halloween. 

He sends Astarion a picture of Hessie going through his skating kit. 

Astarion Ancunin: I suppose we were only going to be able to keep it a secret for so long 

Gale Dekarios: She only really understands the concept of secrets if I don't call them that. She tends to be quite black and white about whether things are good or bad, and ‘secrets’ apparently sits firmly in the ‘bad’ category. I've told her it's a surprise, which is apparently acceptable. 

Astarion Ancunin: ITV will confirm the roster before Halloween anyway 

Gale Dekarios: In the meantime please could you assist in explaining to my seven-year-old why my skating leggings have ‘nappies’ in them? 

The protective padding reminds him mostly of cycle shorts, but Hessie hadn't known what those were, either. She'd decided that nappies were funny, and therefore nappies they now were. Thankfully there's little enough of his dignity left as is that he can laugh about it. 

Astarion Ancunin: HAHAHAHAHA 
Astarion Ancunin: absolutely not, you're on your own for that one 
Astarion Ancunin: tell her it's important if she ever wants siblings 

Gale Dekarios: I think Hestia is quite enough of a handful all on her own, thank you, I will not be giving her ideas OR the birds and bees conversation. 

After he's dropped Hessie back at the old house and waved her off for another week, Gale sits down to take his vitals for the doctor with the schedule for next week open on his tablet. 

It gives him something to do other than mope about the emptiness of the house, at least. He still hates Sunday evenings, but knowing what he's got to look forward to in the week ahead, to keep him busy until he sees Hessie again, takes some of the sting out of it. 

He pours himself a finger of whisky and settles in by the fire, thinking about opening the most recent book Astarion has recommended him. Having discovered that Gale's knowledge of queer history is truly abysmal, Astarion had written him out an entire list. Gale had bought them all, and has been steadily working his way through them. Julia Shaw’s ‘Bi’ had been an eye-opener for him, and one that kept their conversation ticking over for most of that week’s training. The next one in the pile is called ‘Nothing Ever Just Disappears’, and Gale already likes the look of it. 

He fills in the readings for his heart and lungs, and sends them off. While he's reading through the schedule, however, a message pops up in the group chat. 

AmyPR: Guys 
AmyPR: We have a problem. 
AmyPR: sent a link; ‘Is it finally time for Dancing on Ice’s first same-sex couple?’ 

Gale Dekarios: Oh. That really didn't take long at all, did it? 

Astarion Ancunin: washed up??? Since when am I WASHED UP??? 

Gale Dekarios: They could have been a lot more cruel. I think the reporter quite likes you, actually. 

Astarion Ancunin: easy for you to say, ‘devastatingly handsome divorcee’ 
Astarion Ancunin: so what do we do, mr professional PR team? cat’s out of the bag. 

AmyPR: Not yet, it isn't. There's whispers and rumours like this all the time. We don't need to worry about one corner of the internet getting a whiff of it. 
AmyPR: What we do need to worry about is whether anyone decides to follow this up. 
AmyPR: I'm already in contact with the team at ITV. Don't do anything yet. 

-

8:12pm 

Gale Dekarios: Amy thinks we’ll be okay to use the rink tomorrow, but it might be a better idea for me to give you a lift than for you to get the tube. 

Astarion Ancunin: I have legs, if you hadn't noticed. I'll walk. 

Gale Dekarios: Well, you can suit yourself, I'm sure. 
Gale Dekarios: But just so you know where we stand, she hasn't been able to confirm whether the rink location was leaked. The chance of there being at least a couple of paps is fairly high. 

Astarion Ancunin: This is bullshit

Gale Dekarios: It is, quite frankly, a ridiculous amount of fuss considering the progress that the queer rights movement has made over the last few years. If this had been 2012 then perhaps I might have understood. In 2023 it seems like a farce. 

Astarion Ancunin: I might actually agree with you for once 
Astarion Ancunin: on a not entirely unrelated note, I picked up Munroe Bergdorf’s book and Dancing on Eggshells on Saturday 

Gale Dekarios: Oh, John Whaite’s memoir? That's not a bad shout. Will you let me know if there's anything interesting in them? 
Gale Dekarios: I just googled Munroe Bergdorf, and I like the direction you're thinking in. Forewarned is forearmed, or something to that effect. 

Astarion Ancunin: I will. I think we're going to need all the help we can get, these next few months. 

Gale Dekarios: Good thing we’ve got each other’s backs then. 
Gale Dekarios: And Amy, obviously. 

Astarion Ancunin: maybe I'll take you up on that lift after all 

-

Astarion regrets his momentary weakness the moment the car pulls up the next morning. 

He hadn't been stupid enough to give Gale his actual address, of course. He's just given him the nearby park. 

What he'd forgotten was that to Gale fucking Dekarios, ‘I can give you a lift’ actually means ‘my chauffeur will give you a lift'. 

“Good morning,” Gale says, cheerily, as Astarion slips into the back seat beside him. 

“I feel like I'm being kidnapped,” Astarion says. “Big black car, tinted windows, a driver built like a tank. All very subtle, this.” 

Gale snorts, and knocks on the window separating them from the driver. The driver hits a button that rolls the window down.

“Hey Halsin! You know you don't have to keep this rolled up, don't you?” 

“I do not think you like my music,” Halsin says. 

“Halsin, Astarion, who you've already heard so much about. Astarion, Halsin is my security guard and my favourite driver.” Gale says. 

“I am your only driver,” Halsin says, flatly. There's something in his accent that Astarion recognises immediately. 

“You should play him your music,” Astarion says, in Russian. “It'll be good for him.” 

Halsin laughs; a bright, easy sound, incongruous with his bulk and the frown it replaces.  

“I'm afraid we're not actually going to the rink,” Gale says, turning his phone screen to show Astarion a photo. 

There's a crowd of photographers outside the double doors. 

“So where are we going?” Astarion frowns. “This isn't helping your case, you know.” 

“We're going to my place,” Gale says. “Mostly because we can get in and out without being seen.” 

“I had expected kidnapping to be a much ruder procedure, I suppose,” Astarion sighs. “Will there be coffee, at least?” 

He spends most of the rest of the drive chatting to Halsin in Russian. It's been a while since he had the chance, given Karlach's utter lack of interest in learning anything other than swear words, and his lack of contact with any Russian that isn't necessarily bureaucratic and stuck up. Mostly what the conversation amounts to, though, is complaining about how much they both hate London. For entirely different reasons, it transpires; Halsin is a country man, through and through, and Astarion had travelled just enough in his short-lived career as a professional skater to realise that most cities have a bit more life and colour to them. What they both agree on, though, is that London isn't where either of them would have chosen to be.

Gale’s house is exactly as ridiculous as Astarion would have imagined it, if he'd spared it a thought. From the front, it looks like a perfectly normal (which is already a misnomer) Chelsea townhouse. But Halsin takes them round the back, and the drive sinks down into a basement. 

“Well, this is terrifying,” Astarion holds onto his bag far too tightly as Gale leads him into the house. 

“All I wanted as a kid was a James Bond garage,” Gale grins. “I thought I'd grown out of it, until I gave the estate agent an extremely brief… well, ‘brief’, I suppose, that I needed somewhere secluded; where Hessie and I could come and go in privacy. This was by far the best option, but the garage sealed the deal. I only intended it to be a stopover, initially, but now it has a wine cellar and Hessie’s bedroom, and getting the baby grand into the studio was such a pain… well, I seem to have ended up staying.” 

None of the rest of the house has the same futuristic vibe as the garage. Instead, it's really quite cosy. Gale is not a minimalist, evidently, but that doesn't mean it's not tasteful. The corridor is lined with photos of he and Hessie at various stages of her life; as a baby, strapped to his chest in a carrier; as a toddler, sitting on his shoulders; on what looks like her first day of school. In nearly all of them, Gale is smiling at Hessie, rather than the camera. 

The kitchen is huge, but split in a way that means it isn't immediately obvious quite how large it is. There's a breakfast bar as well as a dining table, which seems more than a little excessive for one person. Gale has open shelves along the wall, lined with spices and sauces of more types than Astarion could even begin to name. He wasn’t kidding about the cooking, either, evidently.

Amy is sitting at the table. She waves at them, distractedly, as they come in. 

“Can I get you a drink, Astarion?” 

There's an entire separate coffee counter, complete with what looks to be a tray of sand, just by the large windows. Sunlight streams through, little visible of the street beyond besides a tree whose leaves are aesthetically autumnal. Astarion wouldn't be surprised if the windows had some kind of glaze or lining that means it's possible to see out, but not in. That, apparently, is the kind of life Gale lives. 

ITV put the official statement out while they're all still sitting around Gale's kitchen table, drinking coffee and trying to figure out how to get to the rink. 

They've used a photo Zel took earlier in the week - of Gale, leaning over the edge of the rink with water bottle in hand, slightly sweaty and looking like having the camera pointed at him has taken him pleasantly by surprise; he's smiling, charmingly. Astarion is standing behind his shoulder, a little further back on the ice, looking down his nose at the camera. 

“Like chalk and cheese,” Amy comments. “They've certainly captured you both flatteringly.” 

The photo doesn't say much, of course. They're not even standing very close together. It's just them both on the same rink. 

There's already a hundred comments on Instagram alone. 

Astarion's phone pings. 

Karlach Cliffgate: that was not the link I was expecting you to send me this evening 

Astarion Ancunin: I know 
Astarion Ancunin: turns out his ex-wife is a bitch 

Karlach Cliffgate: she leaked it??? 

Astarion Ancunin: nothing we can prove, but she's suspect numero uno 

“Don't read the comments,” Gale says, as Astarion flicks back to Instagram. “Unless you have a filter.” 

“A filter?” Astarion frowns. 

“You know, something that will hide all the slurs and people saying you'd be better off dead,” Gale says, perfectly casually. 

“I didn't know you could do that.” 

“We’ll download you one,” Amy says, quickly. “What phone are you using?” 

Astarion hands his phone over without thinking. He must be in shock or something. 

“Do you skate with this in your pocket? What happened to it?” 

Gale has stopped listening. He's wandering around the kitchen, humming along to the jazz music he's got playing in the room. He taps his fingers against the side as he goes, as if playing a piano that doesn't exist. His brow is creased with thought. 

“Your security is terrible,” Amy is frowning. “How old is this phone?” 

“Uh,” Astarion grimaces. “I think I got it when I started uni?” 

“We’ll have to get you a new one,” Amy says, matter-of-fact. “I've set up everything I can for now, though.” 

She hands it back. 

Before he can take the phone from her, though, it rings. 

“Oh,” Astarion frowns. “Nobody ever-” 

He stops. It’s one of the only numbers he has saved. 

“Oh, shit.” 

He answers in Russian. 

It is a phone call he has been expecting for a long, long time. That does not make it any less surreal. 

The woman at the embassy is actually very nice about the whole thing. Which is unfortunate because Astarion manages about two seconds of being polite back before he hangs up on her.

“What is it?” Gale asks, watching his expression. “That didn't sound like good news.” 

“It wasn't,” Astarion says. “I- hold on. I need to speak to someone.” 

He calls Karlach. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“You're lucky I'm still awake,” she grouses, voice thick with sleep. 

“They've done it,” Astarion says. “They've finally put me on the list.” 

“What?” Karlach says. “Those fuckers!” 

Gale looks up from his own phone, frowning. Astarion tries to ignore him. He breathes in, and out, counting quietly. It had only been a matter of time, of course, but he's been living under the threat of it for so long that it finally happening, so quickly, so simply - just like that? 

It's like drowning. 

“Astarion?” Karlach says, not for the first time. “Astarion don't go silent on me, for the love of-” 

“I'm not going back,” Astarion spits. “I won't. I won't .” 

“I won't let them take you,” Karlach swears. “If I have to fly across the ocean and kidnap you-” 

“The paperwork,” Astarion says, suddenly sick to his stomach. “We only got away with it because nobody was looking. They're going to look now. They're going to try to protect me, and instead they're going to find out that-” he looks up at Gale, just briefly. “That they’re forgeries.” 

“Oh,” Gale says, meeting his gaze. “Gosh.” 

If he was standing any closer Astarion might have punched him. 

“But they can't send you back,” Karlach says, firmly. “Even if we faked your documents, we can go to a charity. Amnesty international or-” 

“Karlach,” Astarion says. “Democracy takes longer than tyranny. I’ll have vanished long before it goes anywhere. I'll just be another name on a list.” 

There's silence on the other end of the line. 

“Fuck,” Karlach says, quietly. “Astarion, I'm looking at flights. I'm coming back.” 

“Don't be an idiot,” Astarion snaps. “What will you do, marry me?” 

“I would,” Karlach says. “You know I would.”

“They'll never believe it. We may have lived together for years but it was in a two-bed and you had that girlfriend who wasn't a girlfriend the whole time - and then when you finally actually broke up with her you moved to fucking Australia.” 

“Then we make up something about how being separated made us realise how much we actually love each other or some shit, I don't know. You're the one who's so good at lying, you can spin this.” 

“I can spin nearly anything, Karlach, but even I can't play it straight.” 

“That would be funny if I wasn't so fucking terrified right now,” Karlach says. “I can get back by Thursday.” 

“Stop it,” Astarion snaps. “You can't afford that, I know you can't. You'll lose the job it took you so long to get and then you'll have to sleep on my sofa and Bear will piss on you.” 

“Now that's true love if ever I heard it,” Karlach says. “Seriously, Astarion. What are you going to do?” 

Astarion stares at his wrists, the old scars peeking out from under his sleeves. 

“I don't know,” he says, quietly. “I have no fucking idea.” 

In the small silence, Gale says; 

“I'm going to call my legal advisor.”

Astarion's head snaps up. 

“Don't you dare, Gale.” 

“He can keep his mouth shut. I promise. We’ll figure this out.” 

“Is Gale there?” Karlach says. “Astarion, have you told someone other than me?” 

“I'm at Gale's house,” Astarion sighs. “There are photographers swamping the rink.” 

“Hello again Karlach,” Gale calls. “We really need to meet in better circumstances sometime.” 

“Agreed,” Karlach says. “Can you ask Gale about this legal advisor?” 

“Karlach says who’s your legal advisor?” Astarion relays. 

“His name's Wyll Ravengard. He's private, and unlike most lawyers he actually has morals. Halsin had a similar problem to you - he has cousins in Ukraine and refused to fight. Wyll helped him sort out the paperwork for him and his family.” 

“Oh,” Astarion says, “That's- you know, Karlach, he sounds like your kind of lawyer.” 

There's very little else they can do. Gale makes him more coffee as Amy paces in the corner, on the phone to Minthara and then a series of people at ITV and then Minthara again. 

“You don't have to do this,” Astarion says, quietly, as Gale hands him the cup. 

“Do what?” Gale frowns. “Did you want tea?” 

“No,” Astarion sighs, irritated all over again. “I mean… try and help me. They'll just find another skater to pair you with. They might even be a woman, and then you won't have to deal with all of this.” 

“What, and let you get dragged back like some criminal, just for being who you are?” Gale says, hotly. “I don't think so. What do you take me for, Astarion?” 

“It's just- I don't exactly come without my- complications.” 

“None of us do. Trust me, you don't know the half of it yet.” Suddenly, Gale smiles at him. “You know, before this, I barely left the house in nearly a year. Without Hessie, I don't think I would have done anything at all. Chaotic as this last month or so has been, and as much as I ache, I feel more alive than I have in months. Years, even. Part of that is the skating, of course - but part of it is skating with you.” 

“Oh,” Astarion clutches his cup. “That’s very sweet, darling, but given that we’ve barely skated together yet you may be jumping the gun somewhat.” 

Gale grins at him, leaning against the counter to drink his own coffee. Then the doorbell goes. 

Wyll, it turns out, is a softly-spoken, gentle-mannered young man, well-dressed, with a daughter the same age as Hessie. He and Gale chat about their kids as Gale makes him coffee, settling at the table. 

“I'm going to have to go and see some people,” Amy says, looking harried. “Gale, for the love of god, please behave yourself while I'm gone.”

“I always do!” Gale protests. 

“Wyll - hello, by the way - don't let him do anything stupid.” 

“No promises,” Wyll grins, with just a flash of humour. 

When she's gone, they get down to business. 

“So,” Wyll says. “No cousins in Ukraine, Astarion?” 

“No,” Astarion grimaces. “Somewhat worse, actually.” 

Wyll gets his notebook out, pen poised. 

“Ready when you are.” 

Astarion takes a deep breath. 

Then he begins to talk. 

It takes longer than he thinks it will. He has to go from first being chosen to skate, to coming to London with Cazador and the others before he was really old enough to know what it meant; that he wouldn't be going back. 

“I was about eight when we started talking about the Olympics,” he says. “Then we never talked about anything else. I didn't know anything about my visas, my paperwork - nothing. The one time I tried to ask about what would happen afterwards, Cazador made me regret it.

“So I worked. I won. And then there was the injury.” 

He stops. 

“You were sixteen when you fell, right?” Wyll says. 

“It wasn't a fall,” Astarion says. 

There's a small silence. 

“It was reported as a fall,” Wyll says. 

For a moment, Astarion considers agreeing. That’s true, after all; it was reported as a fall. How a fall was supposed to have torn his back to shreds like that, he doesn’t know. But, after all, nobody cared much by then. 

“You don’t have to tell us what happened,” Gale says. “If you don’t want to.” 

“Of course I don’t want to! But what good will that do me?” Astarion snaps. “No. If you’re so determined to help, you need to know exactly the kind of shitshow you’re signing up for.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn't fall,” he repeats. “I disobeyed. That was all it was; I went against Cazador's orders, and he wanted to punish me. To make an example of me. To make sure I never skated again. Obviously, he failed.” 

He clenches his fists in the arms of his shirt. It's too hot to be wearing the jumper intended for the rink indoors. The sun is blazing through the window, and Gale has the heating on. But it won't be coming off. 

“He used my skates. My own fucking skates.” 

He breathes. It's the first time he's told anyone, since Karlach. And he'd only told her when he'd had a chance to get very, very drunk first. 

“The school covered it up for him. He was too successful. I’m far from his only prodigy. So I trained under him for two more years, but I was never going to recover in time to skate the next Olympics.” 

“Two years?” Gale frowns. “They left you with him for two years? After he tried to maim you?” 

“And more,” Astarion agrees. “He was a bastard. But I knew I needed to get out, then. That kept me going. I applied for law school, partly for a student visa, and partly in case some day I could use it against him.”

“But you didn't?” Wyll frowns. 

“I didn't,” Astarion confirms. “I couldn't. I had intended to, at first. Then I got a job as a lawyer, and when I went to renew my visa there were two nasty surprises waiting for me. First, that my father isn't British at all. My dual nationality is entirely fake. Second, I couldn’t apply for a work visa anyway because I’m still technically under contract with Cazador.” 

Wyll had been nodding and scribbling furiously. Now, he stops. 

“Under contract?” 

“My family signed me over to him. He taught me to skate. He made me who I am. As long as I’m still skating, he owns me. Body and soul.” 

Gale makes a noise that Astarion doesn’t know entirely how to interpret; but it isn’t a happy one. 

“That must be unlawful,” Wyll frowns. 

“It definitely is,” Astarion agrees. “I suspect there's a lot more to the situation, but I've never wanted to poke that particular basket of snakes. If you'd forgotten, I'm also openly queer, and Russia isn't exactly going to welcome me with open arms.” 

“Shit,” Wyll taps. “Alright. What do you have with you? Can I see any of these contracts, visas, and any other paperwork you might have?” 

Astarion gets his laptop out.

“I don’t think you need me here for this,” Gale says, getting to his feet at the same time. “Wyll, you know where I’ll be. Astarion-” he stops. “We’ll figure this out. Whatever happens, whoever they try and send after you, they won’t find you alone.” 

-

Astarion doesn't look up from paperwork again until some time later; until a sound from outside the kitchen makes him look up. 

“What was that?” He asks Wyll. 

“Tara, I think,” Wyll pushes his glasses back onto the top of his head to rub his eyes. “This is probably a good place to stop. I need to go and look things up, talk to people-” he shuffles some paperwork around, looking thoughtful. “I have more than a few avenues of information to chase, though, before I start putting forward theories. I know it's an awful thing to have to wait on, but I don't think I'll have anything for you until the end of the week, at the earliest. However, what I can do is patch things up with ITV. They'd be insane to drop you for this, it would be terrible PR, but I'll confirm that for you anyway.” 

“I- thank you,” Astarion says. “But Wyll, I can't pay for this.” 

“Nobody can,” Wyll nods, stacking his papers and getting to his feet. “It's why nobody goes into human rights as a subsidiary of law anymore. If it makes you feel better, I'm not in it for the money.” 

Where Gale finds these people, he has no idea, but he can hardly complain. Not when the alternative is what it is. 

Wyll shows him down the corridor to the music room. Tara is sitting outside, looking petulant, and yowls as they approach, lashing her tail. 

“I'm guessing Gale's in there,” Astarion says. 

“That’s the studio,” Wyll confirms. “Look, I have to go, but tell Gale to check his phone later. I'll send you both updates.” 

“Oh and I'll just let myself into his private studio, shall I?” Astarion snaps. 

“He did give you permission,” Wyll says. “Go on, no time to waste.” 

Astarion makes an exasperated gesture at his retreating back. 

“Bye then!” He calls. Tara yowls at him in response. “Yes, alright,” he sighs at her, and pushes down on the handle. 

It's a huge, thick door. The moment it cracks open, he understands why; it's soundproofed. The piano bursts out into the corridor, familiar and, immediately, faltering. There had been a note of something else in there somewhere, too. Gale has been singing. 

Tara charges in, yowling. 

“My apologies madam, it wasn't my intention to ignore you,” Gale’s voice says, over the last fading hum of a note. Astarion steps in, letting the door close behind him. 

The studio is quite small, as it turns out. It was probably intended to be an office or a study, or something. Instead it holds a small desk of electronic equipment, a baby grand piano, and almost nothing else. Gale is sitting at the piano, Tara now purring in his lap and headbutting his chin as he scratches her behind the ears. 

“You were playing Golden,” Astarion says. 

Gale looks up at him. His expression is suddenly robbed of the gentle ease he's so used to seeing. 

“I didn't know, when you said Cazador chose it - I didn't know what that meant. I didn't know what he did to you.” 

Astarion stands with his back to the door, and tries to think of what to say. 

“Nobody did,” he says, quietly. “This doesn't mean I was lying, you know. When I said I loved the song, the routine - that's true, still. Even Cazador couldn't take that from me.” 

“You do?” Gale seems to breathe a little easier. “I didn't know whether having to see me so often would be… awful, for you.” 

“Gods no,” Astarion grins. “You're so self-centred, Gale, honestly. If your face caused me that much distress you'd know about it.” 

Gale sort of smiles at that, but not really. 

Astarion tilts his head. 

“There was something different about it, wasn't there? Just now, it sounded like it had changed.” 

“Well, having played it so often, it was bound to happen,” he shrugs, looking down at Tara, instead of meeting Astarion's gaze.“I'm actually trying to change it more. You know, Mystra owns the rights to nearly all of my music. Golden is one of the only ones I actually wrote, before she started getting people in to do it with, and for, me. All those, she still owns. I can re-record and re-release Golden, but that's about it.” He sighs. “I know I could just do it the way it was originally, but it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like my song anymore. I'm supposed to be working on new music, but instead I keep coming back to it. Trying to figure out what has changed.” 

“Meow!” Tara says, standing up on her back paws to push her nose into his face. 

“You haven't changed at all,” he tells her, smiling. “Anyway, there's no use in me getting all maudlin. Did Wyll manage to find anything useful for you?”

“You could play it for me.” 

“What?” Gale looks up at him. 

“You could play it for me,” Astarion repeats. “If you want to, of course. But I know the old version inside out. I might not know much about writing music, but I know how to interpret it. I could tell you what feels different about it to me.” 

Gale appraises him, for a moment, tilting his head as he considers this. 

“Maybe I will,” he says. “Your input could be very interesting indeed. Not yet, though.” He removes Tara from his lap, and puts the cover down over the keys. “We have more important things to worry about today, after all.” 

Tara leads them back to the kitchen, tail held high. Amy is back, apparently, sitting at the island and looking harried. 

“There you are!” She says, getting to her feet. “Astarion, I don't know what you told Wyll, but apparently ITV are going to re-do your contract and pay you more?” 

“Oh,” Astarion blinks. “Not what I was expecting, but not unwelcome, either.” 

It means that his contract is safe, at least. For now. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to text Karlach the good news. She responds immediately, despite the fact that it's now well past midnight in Sydney. 

Astarion Ancunin: GO TO BED 

Karlach Cliffgate: okay okay, jesus 
Karlach Cliffgate: spend less time hanging out with daddy, you're getting all responsible 

Astarion Ancunin: I'm going to tell him you called him that 

Karlach Cliffgate: lol, film his reaction for me please 

-

Gale is used to this kind of stress. It hadn't occurred to him quite how used to it he was, until he noticed how much it's bothering Astarion. Now he finds himself hovering, almost like he would with Hessie, trying to figure out what to do with himself. 

Astarion is sitting bolt upright. His shoulders are back, his chin held high. It's so brittle; Gale feels like if he were to reach out, to rest even his fingertips on Astarion's shoulder, it would shatter him completely. 

And Gale thinks he knows why. It's all spiralled out of their control so quickly. 

“I have an idea,” Gale says. “Now it's going to sound insane at first, but stay with me.”

“Oh no,” Amy says quietly. Gale ignores her. 

“We didn't sign up for being the first same-sex couple, but we are anyway. There's nothing we can do about the eyes of the world being on us, but we can control what they see. Until now, I've been thinking of it in terms of damage control. That we have to try and behave. But that's not what anybody wants to see, and if we’re not giving them something to watch for, the numbers are going to drop. Worse, people will be looking for things to nitpick at, regardless of how careful we are. 

“There's nothing we can do against that. They're going to tear into us whatever we do. So, I say we lean into it. If we're the ones deciding what they're going to be losing their minds over, we’re in control of the dialogue. So let's give them something to look at.” 

Astarion's expression is something to behold. He's looking at Gale like he's just stripped and got on his knees; like he's going to eat him alive and enjoy every fucking second of it. Gale looks at Amy instead and tries not to blush. 

“What are you suggesting, exactly?” She sounds wary; rightfully so, probably. 

Gale grins. 

“What are they saying - that Astarion hasn't skated for years, that he's only been chosen for the drama of it? Then we film him skating to something ridiculously over-the-top dramatic. It's a wink, it's satirical, but it's also silencing those claims. Nobody who sees him skate can claim he's not fucking brilliant at it.” 

“I think I like this plan,” Astarion grins. “I've been working on something a little risque that might just be perfect. Do you know Dove Cameron's ‘Boyfriend’, Amy?” 

Amy groans. 

“You get it!” Gale grins. “That's exactly the kind of thing I was thinking.” 

They eventually do manage to talk Amy round. Astarion is absolutely on side, just as Gale thought he would be; having any kind of control over this situation is better than nothing. That, at least, he can understand. 

It does, however, mean they need to get to the rink. Astarion spends most of the way over with his headphones plugged in, going over choreography notes. 

When they get there, the number of photographers has dwindled significantly. There's maybe four of them left. 

Halsin swings the car around and parks them as close to the entrance as he can. He rolls the screen down between the two sections of the car and turns to them. 

“I'll go first. Astarion, if you haven't done this before, this is the drill; duck your head, don't make eye contact. Don't answer any questions. Just keep walking. I'll make sure they don't get into the rink. Your job is just to get yourself there safely.” 

Gale nods; he turns to Astarion, and stops. 

Astarion's eyes are wide. He's doing the thing again; shoulders back, chin up. His jaw is clenched. 

Gale says nothing. But he glances at Halsin. Halsin's eyes flick between he and Astarion, and he nods. They've both noticed. 

“We don't have to do this,” Gale says, quietly. 

“Yes, we do.” Astarion bites back. “Shut up and get on with it.” 

Halsin glances at Gale, but nods. 

Even with just the few of them, they don't behave. The moment Halsin opens the door for him, Gale gets a camera shoved in his face. 

“How does Mystra feel about you being a gay skater?” Someone yells. 

He smiles, benignly, and waves. The two of them stand on either side of the door as Astarion slides out after them. His expression is fierce; like he's preparing for a fight, not a short walk across a pavement. 

“Let's go,” Halsin says, shutting the car door and locking it behind them. 

One of the photographers bumps into Gale's shoulder. He ignores them; until Astarion gasps. 

They'd grabbed him. 

“Don't touch me!” He snaps, attempting to yank his wrist free. 

“Hey!” Gale shouts, suddenly furious. “We don't touch people without their permission! That is not nice!” 

It might have been that which makes them step back and drop Astarion's wrist. It could, equally, have been Halsin suddenly looming over them. 

The photographer steps back. Halsin covers them as Gale and Astarion make a dash for the door of the rink. 

Astarion lets Halsin in behind them, slams the door, and locks it. 

“I didn't know so few people were capable of being such a violent mob,” he pants, as they duck out of the lobby and into the changing rooms. 

He's shaking. Gale pretends not to notice, and hands him a water bottle. Astarion takes it without apparently noticing that he has done, then stares at it, as if he has no idea how it got there. 

“The brutality of those denied what they crave most should never be underestimated,” Halsin growls. 

“Drink some,” Gale prompts. 

Astarion glares at him. 

“You using your ‘scolding a child’ voice on the paparazzi is hilarious but please stop trying to mother me.” 

“I'm not,” Gale frowns. “You don't stop having a shock reaction when you grow up. Also you should sit down.” 

“Do as Gale suggests,” Halsin says. “You'll feel better for it. I am going to call Minthara.” 

With that, he stalks off. 

Astarion takes a cursory sip of water and tries to hand the bottle back to Gale, who glares at him. 

“You know the limits of your body better than I ever will, Astarion. You know how you're reacting. I'll keep pretending I haven't noticed if you drink the damn water.” 

Astarion opens his mouth to snap back, then closes it again. 

“Fine,” he says. He downs a good bit more water, and then leans his elbows on his legs and breathes deeply. 

“Anything else I can do to help?” 

“Fuck off?” 

“Yeah, not happening,” Gale says. 

He stands there in silence for a long, long time. Eventually, Halsin comes back. 

“I am going to speak to the reporters,” he says. “I will be in the car when you're done. Gale, text me.” 

“Will do. Stay safe, Halsin.” 

“Thank you,” Astarion adds, as Halsin makes to leave. With a nod of acknowledgement, he goes, closing the door behind him. 

“So,” Gale says, when it's just the two of them. “I hate to ask the question, but if you don't like being touched-”

“I don't like being touched without permission,” Astarion looks up at him through his hair. “Nobody fucking does, do they?” 

“No,” Gale agrees, and he can feel the anger rising in it. “He was out of line, grabbing you like that. Like you were some kind of… thing.” 

“It's fine, Gale,” Astarion sighs. “I'm fine.” 

“That's not the point,” Gale fumes. “It's that…” he pauses, his voice softening. “If we have to skate together, I don't want to treat you like they do. I don't want to make you feel like that.” 

“You won't,” Astarion says. “Everything we do is agreed upon. I'm the one choreographing it. I'm in control. It's not the same.” 

“Good,” Gale nods. “Right. Well then.” 

“Your phone camera is better quality than mine,” Astarion says, turning away. “If you're happy to be on the ice with me, I can direct you. Just give me half an hour to warm up. If we film the whole thing we can choose what section looks best.” 

Gale nods. 

“I think I have something in my bag I can wear,” Astarion is saying, his gaze focused elsewhere. 

He vanishes into the showers. 

When he comes back, Gale does a double take. Astarion had gone in in his usual leggings and jumper; he'd come out in full costume. 

It looks like a shirt; it's collared, the top few buttons undone to expose Astarion's collarbones. The back and arms could be any well-fitted black shirt, but the front two panels of the shirt are sheer, his pale skin under them almost gleaming. Black diamantes swoop up from either side, one over his chest, one his hip, like hands, reaching. It sits far too close to his skin to be an actual shirt; it's definitely a leotard. His eyes are darkened with eyeliner. 

“You just had that in your bag?” Gale says, disbelievingly. 

“We’re not that far off having to consider dancing in costume,” Astarion shrugs. “If we're going to do this properly, I'm not doing it in a tracksuit.” 

“You don't have a tracksuit,” Gale points out. 

Astarion rolls his eyes, and puts the music on. 

Gale had forgotten how suggestive this song is. Even as Astarion skates in flat circles, stretching his shoulders and neck out, Gale is slowly realising he's just introduced a flame to a barrel of oil. 

It's too late now, of course. 

“I don't know if this song is on the nose enough,” he jokes, when Astarion is within hearing range. 

“No?” Astarion turns on his heel to skate back towards him. “I could do Prince’s Sexy Motherfucker instead?” 

Gale laughs. 

“Good luck getting that past the algorithm.” 

“Point,” Astarion agrees, smirking. “I suppose we do want as many people to see this as possible.” 

“And Unholy is overdone,” Gale agrees. 

“I don't love the rhythm of that one to skate to anyway,” Astarion says, casually ducking into a camel spin. 

“Show off,” Gale says. 

“Of course,” Astarion grins, coming out of it. “That is the point of this, is it not?” 

“Fair enough,” Gale agrees.

Amy calls him, so he leaves Astarion to warm up for a bit. 

“Minthara thinks this is a good idea,” she says, with a sigh. “I think it's a huge risk, but if it pays off-” 

“I know,” Gale nods. “It could go either way. But I think this is the only way we can control the narrative.” 

“I hate that you might be right. Zel and Jen are on their way, by the way. ITV have booked the rink out for the remainder of the afternoon so you don't get behind, and Minthara is sorting out extra security as we speak. On ITV’s tab, if she has her way.” 

“Which she will,” Gale nods. “What I wouldn't give to be a fly on that wall.” 

“I know,” Amy winces. “I almost feel sorry for them. Well, not really, knowing how much money they'll be making off using you as a publicity stunt, but-” 

“Yes, I know. I am electing to see this as an opportunity, but trust me, I'm far from unaware of the alternatives. Anyway, Astarion wants me to film from the ice, so I'd better get my skates on.” 

“Haha,” Amy sighs. “I always thought that working with celebrities would be glamorous, you know.” 

“Well, Astarion's pretty glamorous,” Gale points out. “My days of glitz and glamour may be behind me, I fear. Let me know if you want to know about music theory, though.”

She hangs up on him in response. Which is probably fair enough, really. 

By the time Gale has laced himself into his skates properly, Astarion is in full flow. Gale steps onto the ice with him, phone in hand. 

“Feeling confident on going backwards?” Astarion asks, skating up to him backwards, looking over his shoulder at Gale. 

“I think I'm about to get a lot better at it very quickly,” Gale says. “Where do you want me?” 

“On your knees,” Astarion says. 

“ Excuse me ?” 

Astarion laughs, unrepentant. 

“I'm actually not kidding. I want a lower angle to begin with.” 

“Did you have to say it like that?” Gale protests. 

They walk through it a couple of times first; Astarion only marking the moves, figuring out what angle he wants each shot from. They take it shot by shot then, rather than trying to do the whole thing in one go. Gale is laser-focused on what he's doing, rather than Astarion; skating backwards is bad enough, even without then trying to keep the camera still and Astarion in frame. Astarion, for his part, is incredibly dispassionate - almost clinical - about the choreography. It makes it easier for him to keep that distance. 

When Astarion is satisfied, Gale sends him the footage without looking at it, and they move on to their usual training schedule. 

“Is it safe for you to go home?” Gale asks, as Halsin brings the car up outside the rink, a few hours later. 

Astarion only shrugs. 

“They're hardly going to send the KGB after me, are they?” 

“I… don't know,” Gale frowns. “Are they?” 

“No they fucking won't, Jesus Christ,” Astarion sighs. “I forgot your sense of self-importance is so fucking inflated. Trust me, they have much more important things to worry about than me. Actual terrorists? The war they're losing?” 

“Right,” Gale nods. “As long as you feel safe.” 

“I didn't say I'm safe. I've never been safe ,” Astarion spits. “But this is how it is.” 

Gale frowns at him. 

“I’ve never accepted that. It's the way it is, perhaps, but it's not the way it has to be. I have a spare room, you know, you could always-” 

“Gale,” Astarion is thoroughly exasperated. “I'm not fucking moving in with you! Making instagram videos is one thing, cohabiting is entirely another. I think Minthara would shoot you.” 

“I didn’t mean permanently. Just until we can sort you out an alternative.” 

“The answer is no, Gale, now shut up.” 

It's later - much, much later - when Gale has almost managed to put it out of his mind completely, that Astarion sends him the edited video. 

Gale flicks it open without thinking. 

Astarion stands on the ice, back to the camera, his arms wrapped around himself so that his long, elegant fingers are digging into his back slightly.

His head is turned to the side, his eyes cast down, hair curling over his ear. He's done something to the lighting. It's darker than it had been. 

Then he starts to move. 

I can't believe 
We’re finally alone 
I can't believe 
I almost went home 

Gale allows himself to watch, properly. As Astarion bends into a turn. As he runs his hands up his body, throwing his head back as he twists. As he flicks his hip into a change of direction. 

I could be a better boyfriend than him 
I could do the shit that he never did 
Up all night I won't quit 

Astarion skates backwards, his gaze fixed on the camera; an invitation, a tease, a promise? All of the above. The fact that he was the one who filmed this, that he was the one behind the camera, completely slips Gale's mind. He simply watches, entranced, as Astarion moves. The way he glides, so effortlessly, as languid as a lover. He knows exactly when to touch himself; when he puts his fingers to his neck as he moves into a spin, Gale nearly shivers. As if it were his throat Astarion is touching; as if he might be the one to put his fingertips on that soft, pale skin. When Astarion breaks out of the spin, he casts a glance over his shoulder, and Gale feels caught. Like Astarion, somehow, knows that he's doing this. Watching him dance not with professional distance, but as if he's the intended audience. 

But he keeps watching. All the way through. All the way to the final shot. Where Astarion drops to his knees and slides across the ice towards the camera, hips first, hands in his hair. He'd been hot, by then; his torso slick with sweat, his chest heaving. 

When it finishes, Gale stares at the blank screen for a moment. 

Astarion Ancunin: ? 

Gale Dekarios: 👍

AmyPR: You're going to kill them. 

Astarion Ancunin: that was the idea, yes 

AmyPR: Gale did you just share that to your insta stories without running it by me first?? 

Gale Dekarios: Oh yes that was me. 
Gale Dekarios: Was I not supposed to? 

AmyPR: Gale. You shared it with the 👌 emoji. 

Gale Dekarios: Yes? I couldn't think of anything to say but it expresses admiration, does it not? 

AmyPR: … you have no idea what else that emoji is used for, do you? 

It takes Gale far, far too long to realise what he's done. 

Gale Dekarios: Oh 
Gale Dekarios: Oh dear.
Gale Dekarios: Astarion I am so sorry that was not my intention at all. 

Astarion Ancunin: I mean it's probably helping. More drama, more views. 

AmyPR: You couldn't have just used a thumbs up, could you? 

Gale doesn't respond. He needs to go and take another shower. A very long, very hot shower.

-

urbestbitch: so I went to sleep thinking you were getting deported and woke up to your thirst trap having gone viral 

TheTokenGay: it's been an interesting day 

urbestbitch: no shit??? 
urbestbitch: explain. 

TheTokenGay: Gale's idea. He's very used to having the press turn on him. We can't change that they're going to talk about us, so instead we decide what we're going to give them to talk about

urbestbitch: playing them at their own game? 
urbestbitch: I don't know if I think that's very clever or very stupid 

TheTokenGay: a bit of both? 
TheTokenGay: He does have a point though. The more well-known I am, the riskier it is for anyone to try and come after me 

urbestbitch: Was it Gale who suggested making it thirsty af? 

TheTokenGay: well, that might have been me ;) 
TheTokenGay: he filmed it for me tho

urbestbitch changed your nickname to whore(affectionate) 

urbestbitch: Gale filmed that??? ALL OF IT?? 

whore(affectionate): it's a more dynamic perspective on the ice 

urbestbitch: are you trying to get him to fuck you now or something?? What changed?? 

whore(affectionate): honestly I was mostly doing it for the drama. The del ray routine is more polished, but was going to have way less of a reaction. He was just the only person on hand to film. Although if I got to show off a bit in the process, what's the harm?
whore(affectionate): not that it had any effect. The man’s either fucking blind or stupid 

urbestbitch: only you would respond to a threat against your actual life by whoring yourself out to the first person who can offer you protection

whore(affectionate): if I was doing that I would have gone for the lawyer 

urbestbitch: Astarion. 
urbestbitch: We talked about this. 

whore(affectionate): I'm not whoring myself out to anybody! 
whore(affectionate): more’s the pity 

-

Karlach Cliffgate: Astarion? 

Astarion Ancunin: oh are you going to question my sanity across multiple platforms now? 

Karlach Cliffgate: Do you actually like Gale? 

Astarion Ancunin: ?? Hello?? Where did this come from? 

Karlach Cliffgate: I'm serious

Astarion Ancunin: stop it. I can cope with the internet speculating about us just because we happen to be two queer skaters paired together, but not you as well. 
Astarion Ancunin: Have you liked every other fucking lesbian you've ever met?? How many of the straight pairs have actually ended up together over the years?? Like, two?? 
Astarion Ancunin: Besides, he's so obviously still hung up on his ex it’s painful 

Karlach Cliffgate: You're letting him be nice to you. 

Astarion Ancunin: ??? 
Astarion Ancunin: I am not. He offered me his spare room. I am texting you from my house. 

Karlach Cliffgate: from your house, which he gave you a lift back to, wearing the jumper he washed for you after he dropped the coffee he always brings you on it 

Astarion Ancunin: the coffee incident was weeks ago!! 

Karlach Cliffgate: Just be careful, Astarion. Please. 

Astarion Ancunin: I think I have more important things to be worrying about right now?? 

Chapter Text

The remainder of that week is the most stressful few days Astarion has lived through in a long, long time. He jumps at shadows. His mind wanders, and he slips when he shouldn't; on the ice and off. At one point he trips going up the steps to the rink, and Gale has to catch him to stop him bumping into one of the photographers that now haunt them. 

It hadn't been his proudest moment. Nor, however, had he been able to spare the energy to care about it all that much. 

And yet, nothing that he’d been dreading seems to have happened. Nobody has tried to come after him. No threatening letters, official or otherwise, have come through his door. Not even the number that sends him messages about how much money to pay and where and when has done anything other than provide the usual perfunctory instructions. 

And so, unable to do anything other than wait, Astarion has gone back to ignoring the entire situation. What the hell else is he supposed to do? 

What has changed, however, is their routine. 

Astarion doesn’t think he actually ever agreed to Gale and Halsin giving him a lift to and from the rink every day, but they seem to have fallen into the arrangement anyway. 

Usually they’ll use the time in the car to catch up on what’s going on in the media. The initial reaction had been quite something. The filter Amy had installed had been useful, but it is by no means infallible. The top comment that Astarion can see on his own reel is still ‘that man is a bottom’. The internet, apparently, has decided that not only is speculating on his private life open season, but it’s also the most important takeaway from all of it. Idiots. 

He hasn’t bothered to respond. It wouldn’t achieve anything. 

Hilariously, though, that video hadn’t even been the biggest splash they’d made that week. Or that Gale had made, anyway. The main rhetoric he’d faced had been that he shouldn’t have been paired with Astarion because he wasn’t gay. Gale, in his usual pragmatic way, had gone digging for a photo from decades earlier and re-created it. 

The original is of him, pre-fame and pre-beard, posing in front of a bi flag painted on a wall somewhere. Gale has aged into himself; he’d been a lanky, awkward fifteen-year-old. Over a decade later, with his characteristic long hair, early grey streaks and the earrings he never wears to the rink, he would barely be recognisable if he hadn’t posted them side-by-side. The mural hasn’t been re-painted in the meantime either, giving it an artistically washed-out kind of vibe. 

According to Amy, Gale had originally written a small essay under it, but she had strictly forbidden him from posting it. According to Gale, a picture says a thousand words. Either way, he ultimately hadn't captioned it at all. Unless ‘#bisexual’ counts as a caption. While not a direct response to the outcry, it was as overt a statement as he could possibly make. It is still, over a week later, racking up comments faster than instagram can properly keep track of. He has a knack for shit-stirring in his favour that Astarion is really beginning to admire. 

“Hello!” Gale calls, with all his usual cheer, opening the car door for Astarion. “Ready to face the cameras?” 

“I was born ready, darling,” Astarion dumps his skating bag in the footwell and gets comfortable. The kit is for this afternoon; this morning, they're off to the TV studio. 

“Speaking of - given that this is a longer drive than usual, I thought we could start doing some of the more specific planning. We only have a few weeks to get song choices approved.” 

They spend the rest of the drive bickering pleasantly about music; about what kind of vibe they want to go for, about which songs still work when cut down to less than two minutes, and which have openings that can be played into a performance piece. Gale, unsurprisingly, has a good instinct for what will and won't work. Not, of course, that Astarion would tell him as much. 

-

Being back in a TV studio, behind the scenes, getting his nose dusted with powder and hair fussed with by someone he's never met before and likely never will again, Gale suddenly feels like he's gone back in time. 

He's not used to being nervous about TV appearances. They are what they are. Some people will love him, some people will hate him, most won't care, and on he goes with his life and his career. Why this should be different, he isn't entirely sure. What he does know, unequivocally, is that he isn't enjoying it. 

Minthara has sent him a very long list of things that he cannot say. Amy has sent him an equally long list of things that it would be useful for him to say, that ITV will approve of or that will win him brownie points with Minthara or various other players in the game. He ignores both of them. Instead, he texts Astarion; 

Gale Dekarios: Are you going to watch this? 

Astarion Ancunin: Only if you promise to be worth watching. 

Gale Dekarios: I will endeavour to be entertaining. 

Astarion Ancunin: Just don't say anything stupid and you'll be fine darling 
Astarion Ancunin: wait, nevermind, I forgot who I was talking to 
Astarion Ancunin: maybe just try and say as little as possible 

Gale tucks his phone away, smiling, and adjusts his collar. The shirt is too pristine. He undoes his top button and rolls his sleeves up. 

By the time Holly introduces him, he's relaxed. He jogs up to join them on the sofa, leaning over the table to shake hands and exchange greetings before sitting down and settling in for a polite grilling. 

In the end, it goes quite smoothly. Holly asks cursory questions about what it's been like training, and Gale jokes in his turn about finally being able to tell people about this big secret he's been keeping. Then they talk about the media reaction. 

“We knew it was going to be like this,” Gale shrugs, leaning one hand over the back of the sofa, playing relaxed. “I think the general public forgot I was bi when I married a woman.” 

He smiles, cueing Holly in that it's okay to laugh at that. Unfortunately, she doesn't. 

“And what has it been like?” 

Gale tilts his head, considering. 

“Interesting. Whether or not we intended to be, we’re making a statement. And because we're the first, there's so much more pressure on getting it right. We carry the weight of representing the whole community, even though we can't possibly do that; we’re only human, after all, and the spectrum of queer experience is so incredibly wide. But what we can do, and what I hope we will do, is be wholly ourselves; as queer people, but also as human beings, with skills and flaws and personalities. And I hope by doing so, without shame or apology, we can open the door for more queer representation in the future that is more intersectional. I think that's all any of us can do, really; just do our best when making our footprints and hope that we leave the path a little clearer and easier for the people who will follow in them.” 

Holly blinks. 

“Wow. You sound like you've thought about this a lot!” 

“I absolutely have,” Gale agrees, with a smile. “I almost haven't been allowed to think about anything else since it was announced!” 

They joke around for a bit, bringing the tone back up. Then Holly asks him what it's like skating with Astarion. 

“What do you think it's like, skating with an Olympian when you've never set foot on the ice?” Gale laughs. “I've been told I can be arrogant, but if I am, then Astarion is doing his level best to cure me of it.” 

They laugh at that, but then Gale straightens his expression.

“In all seriousness, it's an incredible experience.” 

He tells them the story of Golden; how watching Astarion skate, and win, had made him cry. How much it means, still, well over a decade later. 

“Just being on the ice with him is an honour.” 

“Even when he's putting you through your paces?” 

“Even when I'm black and blue and bleeding,” Gale agrees. “I love a challenge. He's an unforgiving trainer, but that suits me. I want to do us both proud.” 

And then, just as he's beginning to think that she's not going to mention it, Holly brings up the video. 

“Is it true that you're behind the camera?” She asks, cheekily. 

“It is,” Gale says, easily. “But it wasn't as exciting as it sounds. I was concentrating on skating backwards without falling over. Do you know at the studio they have camera rigs that smooth the footage out, too? That was just my phone, if I wobbled then he'd vanish out of the frame, which really killed the vibe.” 

To his relief, she doesn't push it any further. 

“And will we be getting your version of that video anytime soon?” 

“Only if you ask nicely,” Gale says, then laughs at himself with them. “No, god, I can't do anything like that. I've only just about stopped falling over every time I stop paying attention to my feet.” 

They wrap up with the usual PR stuff; how long it will be until it starts airing, the fact the shows and skates are all live, the promise of drama and sparkles. 

When it's over, he finds himself back in the changing room alone, and goes first for his phone. 

Gale Dekarios: Acceptable? 

Astarion Ancunin: I don't think you said anything truly incendiary, but I suppose we'll see what the internet makes of it  
Astarion Ancunin: now please tell me you're free to come and rescue me from this makeup artist or I'm going to have to stab her with her own fucking eyelash curlers 

Gale Dekarios: A call for a knight in shining armour? I'll be there as soon as I can. 

Astarion Ancunin: I am no damsel, but I am in distress, and if you're here I can sacrifice you to this dragon in my stead. 

Astarion is halfway across the studio, in one of the other sets. 

Halsin is waiting for Gale outside the This Morning one, under the big screen showing what's going on on the camera at the moment. 

“Minthara has called me seven times in the past ten minutes,” Halsin says, in the kind of tone that suggests that if Gale doesn't do something about it, he may become less genial. 

“I was decompressing,” Gale protests, but then pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls her anyway. 

“Did you read my message at all?” 

“Hello, Minthara, and how has your morning been?” 

“You know exactly how it's been!” Minthara snaps. “I'm going to have to write Amy off for stress.” 

She spends the entirety of the way across the studio shouting at him. 

Apparently, ‘lampooning’ the entirety of the ‘general public’ for forgetting that marrying a woman doesn't make him straight is not subtle and nuanced enough of an observation to make. 

They stop under the sign outside the door declaring the photography studio, and Halsin knocks as Gale tries to find a way to politely interrupt Minthara for long enough to tell her that he really does actually need to go now. 

Evidently Astarion can hear them from inside, because he throws the door open.

His hair, as always, is utterly immaculate. He always looks fantastic in his skating kit too, because of course he does, but seeing him in a shirt with his collarbones out short-circuits Gale's brain for a moment. 

“Gale?” Minthara demands, apparently finally ready to hear from him in the one moment he wasn't prepared to jump in. 

“Hello, darlings!” Astarion greets both he and Halsin with cheek kisses, and immediately swipes Gale's phone from his hand. “Hello Minthara, a joy as always, but I'm afraid Gale is very busy getting glammed up for a photoshoot, so he's going to have to call you back later, okay?” 

He hangs up, and gives Gale his mischievous little grin as he hands the phone back. Astarion is in whirlwind mode; it's all Gale can do not to be swept away. 

“I see you escaped the glitter in the end, then?” Gale says. 

“You're going to have to have double the amount to make up for it, I suspect,” Astarion teases, cheerfully, dragging Gale into the room by the elbow. 

After how wrong-footed Astarion has been since last week, it should be reassuring. Instead, it just highlights to Gale how much of this is performative, for him. 

It's the first time that Gale has met some of the other skaters and competitors in the flesh. It's not all of them; it's far too early for that. Only the ones of them that have been announced. He smiles and shakes hands and tries to match the charming energy that Astarion is exuding like oil. The professionals, he knows, and manages to complement all of them on previous series or careers. Minthara had sent through the profiles of the other celebrities too, so Gale can say things like ‘I loved you in…’ and whatever else the situation might demand. It could have gone a lot worse. 

“I'm not really a glitter person,” he attempts to protest, as the makeup artist approaches him, menacingly, with a palette and brush. 

“Hestia would disagree,” Astarion points out, cheerfully. 

“And it took me over a week to wash it out of my beard properly,” Gale reminds him. “You still have glitter on your leggings.”

“Gale!” Astarion pretends to be scandalised. “What are you suggesting?” 

Behind him, the other skaters are laughing, so Gale plays along, pushing his reaction a notch higher up the drama scale. 

“Oh for the love of- I just meant that glitter gets everywhere!” He ducks the make-up brush being wielded at him. “No glitter, please, I beg of you!” 

“You could always shave the beard off,” Astarion suggests, helpfully. 

“Nobody needs to be subjected to that,” Gale says. “Least of all me.” 

He does, eventually, manage to escape both Astarion and the makeup artist. What the photos will look like, and what he says when they point the camera at him for an introduction, he has no idea. 

Astarion is having his photo taken as Gale escapes the interview. 

“Soften it, please!” The photographer is saying. “This is supposed to be a fun show, give it some pizazz.” 

Astarion does not smile. What he does do is look up, through those so-very-carefully curled lashes, and smirk at the camera. It is a dark, dangerous little smirk; it promises something. 

The photographer, eventually, gives up. Even if he did get one of Astarion smiling, they all know which shot he’ll actually end up using. 

“You know, I think I'm beginning to have fun, manipulating the press into the palms of our hands,” Astarion says, when they're finally free to escape to the car. “I suppose I should give you credit for the idea.” 

“You are considerably better at it than me,” Gale says, amused. 

“That's because I have sex appeal, dear,” Astarion says. “It's much easier to control people with desire than it is with your attempts at genuine honesty and charm.” 

“Well, if I keep it tucked away until I need it, it has more of an impact,” Gale agrees, easily.  

Astarion huffs at him. 

“I will believe that when I see it.” 

Gale could take that as a challenge. He's almost tempted to. 

Instead, he says; 

“Well, you're doing the opposite. You don't have to be genuine if you're playing sexy. We can choose some moments for you to be more vulnerable, and you'll have them falling at your feet.” 

Astarion gives him a look that Gale isn't entirely sure how to interpret. 

“You are full of surprises, aren't you?” He says. 

“Oh, I have the magic touch,” Gale grins, and Astarion groans at him. 

“I hope that wasn't an attempt to be sexy, Gale.” 

Gale isn't listening now; he has a string of very long messages from Minthara. 

“Ah,” Astarion says. “What's she upset about now?” 

“What I said this morning,” Gale sighs. 

“Why?” Astarion demands. “I thought you did just fine!” 

Gale runs his hands through his hair, exasperated. 

“That's the fundamental issue here; without having a degree in queer studies, ‘fine’ is my limit, and yet Minathara demands that I be ‘perfect’. I cannot strike this ideal, infallible, indefinable note every time! I am the world's leading expert in Gale Dekarios being bi, not queer theory, and I'm not going to attempt to feign otherwise.” 

“Seems perfectly reasonable to me,” Astarion says, easily. “Although you do usually rise to the occasion quite admirably when I'm the one demanding perfection.” 

“I am aware,” Gale sighs. “However, while you have a sharp tongue and high standards, you have never openly suggested that my mother should have strangled me at birth.” 

Astarion snorts, then realises that Gale isn't smiling. 

“Oh, she wasn't joking?” 

“She very rarely is.” 

“What the fuck is wrong with the music industry? I thought skating was bad!”

He makes that face where he looks like he's smelt something disgusting. It being at Minthara eases some of the tension in Gale's shoulders. 

“Trust me, you don't want to get me started.” 

-

The next day, they do at least start at the rink at their usual time. 

As per their agreement, it's Gale's choice of music for the day, which turns out to be fitting; ‘Waterloo’ is playing over the speakers as Gale manages to miss the final step of the sequence for the four hundredth time. 

“No,” Astarion sighs. “Again.” 

“ Finally facing my Waterloo ,” Gale sings. 

“Your Waterloo is this one damn step,” Astarion snaps. “Stop singing at me and get over here.” 

He slides into Gale’s shadow, hand on his waist. 

“Ready?” 

“Ready.”

“One, two, three.” 

Gale has taken to tying his hair up now, at least, so it doesn't hit Astarion in the face as they twist and cross over, Gale ducking under his arm to change direction. Over his shoulder, Astarion spots the door move. 

“Don't look now,” he says, as he catches Gale's waist to lean them both into a turn, “But a camera crew just arrived.” 

“I'll be on my best behaviour,” Gale promises, wryly. 

“I doubt that.” 

They finish this little step sequence where they'd intended to anyway; as Astarion lets him go he nods, just once. At least if Gale never gets it right again, Zel managed to catch that one single occasion on camera. 

However, it isn't just Jen and Zel waiting for them at the far end of the rink. It's Torvill and Dean. 

“Hello!” Gale calls across the ice, and then skates up and shakes both of their hands with genuine pleasure. 

“Please forgive the music choice,” Astarion says, behind him. “Gale is inflicting ABBA on me today, apparently.” 

“Some days are ABBA days,” Gale is unrepentant. “How may we be of assistance?” 

Jen explains the plan while Jayne and Chris get their skates on. They're still lacking a storyline for Gale's progress with learning to skate, so they're going to identify something that he needs to work on and have either Jayne or Chris practise it with him. 

“Why don't we ask them about switching roles?” Gale says, thoughtfully. “I doubt that's something any of the other couples will be doing - and it means they'll both have something useful to teach me and some screen time to do so.” 

“Works for me,” Jen scribbles something, furiously. “Alright, then we'll start with chatting to Astarion about your progress while you skate in the background.” 

“You can practise your spins,” Astarion says, immediately. 

Gale groans. 

“Oh no, I thought I was finished with the ‘falling over on camera’ stage.” 

“It's never over,” Astarion frowns. “You've seen me wipeout at least twice.” 

“Not from basic spins though.” 

“Well, no, I'm not ten anymore.” 

“The cheek,” Gale laughs. “Fine, I suppose if I'm going to catch up with you I had better get started.” 

Astarion watches him skate off, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“You two are getting on better then,” Jen says. 

“This job has been much more pleasant than I had expected it to be,” Astarion allows. 

“What's the best thing about skating with Gale?” 

Astarion considers this. 

“I admire his work ethic,” he says, eventually. “He’ll fall over forty times and still keep getting up and trying again. He’ll complain about it, of course, but he very rarely gets really frustrated.” 

“What about the worst?” Jen asks, cheekily. 

“He never shuts up,” Astarion says, immediately. “You'd think he'd be more careful with his voice, but no. If he’s not talking, he’s singing. He’ll even sing if he doesn't know the words. He just makes them up!” 

Jen laughs. 

“Most people would pay to hear him sing.” 

“Not after being subjected to months of it they wouldn't,” Astarion had been watching Gale out of the corner of his eye; he turns, and shouts across the rink; “Lazy leg!” 

“Lazy leg to you too!” Gale yells back, though he corrects his position.

“So does he have an opinion on your song choice? Do you let him have any input?” Jen asks.  

“It's a process,” Astarion says. “Hang on, I’ll demonstrate-” he turns, to shout across the ice again. 

“Gale! Name an icon!” 

“Adele!” Gale calls back. “Cher! Freddie Mercury!” 

“One!” Astarion clarifies. 

“... David Bowie! Beyonce! Prince!” 

“I said one ! You have to choose one !” 

“... Lady Gaga! Dusty Springfield! Elton John!” 

Astarion turns to Jen. 

“And people think this man is straight.” 

Gale skates up to them at speed, skidding to a stop and kicking ice at Astarion. 

“ One ,” Astarion insists, shaking ice out of his hair with a sigh. 

“No,” Gale says, cheerfully. “You might as well ask me to choose a favourite author. It's never going to happen.”

“I regret teaching you that.” 

“No you don't,” Gale denies. “You love the drama of it.” 

“Fine, you said Adele first, so I'm going with Adele.” 

“She's done some great ones,” Gale says, thoughtfully. “She's definitely recognisable enough, but there won't be many of her songs that have much of a rhythm change to them.” 

“It would be a challenge to do a slow one,” Astarion says. “It takes control and skill. Skyfall?” 

“A ballad doesn't always mean slow. Set Fire to the Rain?” Gale counterpoints. 

“It’s been done already - series eight, I think. Easy on Me?” 

The song in the background finishes, and the next begins; 

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning

Gale grabs his phone, and skips to the next song. Gimme Gimme Gimme starts playing instead.  

“Not a fan of that one?” Jen says. 

“It's one of the only occasions where I will accept that the film soundtrack version is better than the original,” Gale says. Then he's off again, back to tracing circles around the ice. Astarion watches him, but Gale is in his own little world again. 

“Stop watching your feet!” Astarion calls. 

Gale corrects his position, just in time to go into the spin. He breaks out of it, grinning, knowing he's nailed it. 

“He's getting better at that even as we're standing here,” Jen says, admiringly. 

“He does that,” Astarion agrees. 

“ There's not a soul out there! ” Gale sings, skating past him, “ No-one to hear my prayer! ” He spreads his arms wide, serenading the rink as he circles it. 

“Stop singing and concentrate!” Astarion shouts. 

Gale gives him the middle finger, and steps into the spin again. The entry is neater this time, but he doesn't quite maintain the momentum. 

“ Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows away? ” 

“He's really not bad, is he?” Jen says, as if surprised. 

“It is his job,” Astarion points out, amused. 

“Oh I meant at skating,” Jen says. “We were down with one of the footballers this morning, and let me say, for all the shit that comes with this, you could have had a much worse deal than Gale.” 

As if hearing her, despite being at the far end of the rink, Gale transitions into the footwork they'd just been practising. 

Chris and Jayne rejoin them as Gale finishes the last step of it - and tags the spin onto the end. Astarion blinks at him. 

“I didn't tell you to do that,” he says, as Gale skates up to him, looking smug. 

“No, but you've had me doing spins all morning for a reason, and if I was finishing on the wrong foot it would have killed the spin transition, so. If you'd told me that, I might have figured it out earlier.” 

“Oh it was my fault that you kept putting your foot in the wrong place?” Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Maybe,” Gale leans over the barrier next to him. His hair is wisping loose from the bun he's put it in. Sweat is running down his forehead. There's that familiar light in his eyes. “It's both easier and harder when you're not with me. I have one less thing to concentrate on, but I also don't have your guidance.” 

“It must be strange for you, Astarion,” Jayne says, conversationally. “Did you ever do pairs skating as part of your training?” 

“Not as such,” Astarion says, turning away from the camera. 

In the end, having Torvill and Dean on the ice with them is more of a gimmick than of any actual help. Gale, however, is his usual charming self. 

After making them all pose for a selfie, he ropes them into a sort of competition, which he knows he'll lose from the get-go, but makes for excellent footage; seeing which of them can spin for the longest. He has a natural flair for the dramatic, too, and has them kick off to the ‘me’ at the end of ‘lay all your love on me’. After a couple of goes at it, he managed to get his own spin all the way to the end of the note. All three of them leave him in the dust, of course - Astarion manages to get a scratch spin to last all the way into the next verse before he finally runs out of momentum. 

They're both utterly enamoured with him by the end of the session, and Gale is still asking them earnest questions about technique as Jen tries to usher them out of the door so they can get to the next rink. 

“Well,” he says, when they're finally gone. “That was exhausting.” 

“You can certainly turn on the charm when you want to,” Astarion comments. 

“I've been studying under an expert,” Gale nudges his elbow, playfully. “Do you think I gave you enough chances to show off without being too obvious about it?” 

Despite himself, Astarion laughs. 

“You are determined to play this in your favour, aren't you?” 

“Of course,” Gale skates backwards, still grinning. This smile, it seems, is genuine. “I'm not dedicating up to six months of my life to a PR project and then letting it become a smear campaign.” 

-

Jen texts them that evening to set up a ‘team bonding’ filming day. Given that Astarion has absolutely zero social obligations and even less inclination to admit to that, he agrees easily to Gale's suggestion that they do a bonfire night dinner. 

Gale Dekarios: It's something of a tradition. Do you mind if I invite a few friends? 

Astarion Ancunin: ask Jen, not me 

Gale Dekarios: They won't help us in the kitchen, they’ll just join us for dinner. 
Gale Dekarios: It also makes it less date-coded, as a whole situation. 

Astarion Ancunin: What are we cooking? 

Gale Dekarios: I was thinking of doing a chilli. I have a fire pit upstairs where we can watch the fireworks over the city as we eat. 

Astarion Ancunin: you have a fucking rooftop firepit? 

Gale Dekarios: That's where the bar is, yes. 
Gale Dekarios: sent a photo 

Astarion Ancunin: I was going to ask if you have cranberry juice but I'm going to take that as a yes 

Gale Dekarios: Let me know if you want some and I'll make sure to get it in. 

Astarion Ancunin: Depends what I make. Name your poison. 

Gale Dekarios: Whisky. 
Gale Dekarios: But I warn you, I like it straight. You'll have to do something special to win me over. 

Astarion Ancunin: oh, being made by me specifically for you isn't enough? 
Astarion Ancunin: I see how it is 

Gale Dekarios: It was not my intention to be ungrateful, my apologies. 

Astarion Ancunin: good lord, Gale, I'm kidding 

Gale Dekarios: oh
Gale Dekarios: I sometimes struggle to interpret the intended tone of a text. 

Astarion Ancunin: here, let me help 
Astarion Ancunin: oh, being made by me isn't enough? (this is sarcasm) 

Gale Dekarios: I don't think it is. Sarcasm implies the presence of irony, does it not? 

Astarion Ancunin: I am going to put pink lemonade in your most expensive whisky and make you drink it on camera so you have to be polite about it 

Gale Dekarios: Well now you're just being rude. 

Astarion Ancunin: A* tone interpretation. Gold star for accuracy. 

Gale Dekarios: Aha! Now THAT is sarcasm. 

Astarion puts his head in his pillow and groans. 

“You good?” Karlach says, breathing heavily. She's facetiming him on her morning run. 

“I have to go to Gale's for dinner tomorrow.” 

“Oh?” Karlach waggles her eyebrows at him. 

“Shut up, he's having friends over too. Plus a camera crew.” 

“Oh,” Karlach sounds disappointed.

“He's such an idiot,” Astarion says, exasperated. “I've never known anyone to be so intelligent and so stupid at the same time!” 

“You don't know anyone, to be fair,” Karlach says. “Who are these friends of his? Maybe you can get to know them.” 

Astarion hadn't asked, actually. Not that he particularly wants to ingratiate himself with Gale's friends. 

“I don't need to make more friends, I have you,” Astarion says. “Everyone else is insufferable.” 

-

It's strange, rocking up to Gale's house without him. They have to use the front door, for a start, although he can’t imagine either Jen or Zel being overly impressed by the garage. Zel stands behind his shoulder while he knocks, pointing the camera at him. 

To his surprise, it is Halsin who opens the door. 

“Are you working tonight?” Astarion asks. 

“Not as such,” Halsin shrugs, and refuses to elaborate further, showing them all in. 

Gale is in his kitchen. Zel stands behind Astarion as he opens the door to reveal Gale standing at the aga with his sleeves rolled up, his hair pulled up into a half-bun, and what appears to be a very nice outfit protected by an apron. 

“Hello!” He turns to greet them all. “Welcome to my kitchen. I hope you had a safe journey?” 

They make small talk as Gale shows Astarion around his kitchen for what is ostensibly the first time. 

“The kitchen should be the heart of the home,” Gale says, and despite it being an obviously practised line, there’s no doubt that he genuinely believes it. It's all very nice, but Astarion is immediately distracted by the fridge magnets. 

“What is this one even from?” He asks, intrigued, pointing to what looks like a severed foot. He expects the answer to be the London Dungeon or something. 

“Lapland,” Gale says. “I can't remember exactly what it's supposed to be an artists' rendition of. Either a snowshoe or a particularly unusual type of fish. You can tell it's art because it's not entirely clear. Hessie has exceptional taste in these things.” 

Astarion huffs a laugh. 

He had been slightly tense, walking into Gale's house again. He'd forgotten, however, how easy it is to relax in Gale's company, despite his weirdness and his awkwardness. Perhaps even because of them. 

Astarion ends up trying to help him with the sauce. Gale has charred some hot chillis on the grill and is de-seeding them to go in a blender. 

“I hope you like spice, Astarion.” 

“I was warned,” Astarion reminds him. 

Jen gives him a poke in the shoulder. 

“Oh, right. Can I help, Gale?” 

“You can certainly try,” Gale says, pretending he hadn't seen that at all. “They're going to need to be on a slow speed, at first-” 

Astarion should not have hit the button. 

He knows this. It is not the first time he's used a blender, he's not a heathen. He'd just been… distracted. 

Unfortunately he doesn't hit the button again fast enough to stop the resulting explosion. He had seen it coming; he’d jumped back, out of the way. 

Gale had not. 

“Oh,” Astarion says. “Whoops?” 

Gale blinks at him through the sauce. 

Astarion bites his lip, tries not to laugh, and fails utterly. 

“Gale, your face!” He doubles over, almost hysterical. 

Gale, after the initial moment of shock, is laughing too. 

“Zel, please tell me you got his expression on camera,” Astarion pleads between giggles. 

“I did,” Zel confirms. “You have a knack for the dramatic, Astarion.” 

“Well,” Gale is still chuckling as he undoes his apron. “Usually the apron is enough to protect me from even Hessie's best attempts at making a mess, but you seem to have outdone her already.” 

“It's a skill,” Astarion laughs. 

Gale pulls the apron off, and inspects the shirt underneath. 

“Well, there goes that one, I suppose. Do me a favour, Zel, and try not to get this on camera.” 

He starts undoing his buttons right there in the kitchen, dropping his shirt on the floor to try and wipe spice paste from his collarbones before it can drip all the way down to his trousers. 

Astarion stares. He can't help it. 

Gale had joked about being out of shape, at the start of this. Astarion had already known that wasn't entirely true; from the brief moments of having his hands on Gale's hips, his waist, he knows that Gale is strong. What he hadn't expected was for him to look like… well, that. If he had known, he might have been more inclined to choreograph some of their turns slightly differently. 

“Since when do you have a tattoo?” Jen says, with some surprise. 

“Oh, years,” Gale says, noncommittally. 

Astarion hadn't known he had any either. It looks like a cover-up. Or, on second thought, the antithesis of a cover-up; more like a frame. There's a scar, under there, something savage and deep, just under his collarbone. The tattoo encircles it, almost perfectly round, the linework wisping off across Gale's chest. It is beautiful and terrifying, in equal measure. It is, somehow, entirely incongruous with everything Astarion associates with Gale's character. 

He immediately starts wondering how he can get Gale to tell him about it. 

“I'm going to have to go and shower, I think,” Gale says, wryly, trying to wipe stock out of his hair with kitchen paper. “Astarion, don't touch anything else until I get back.” 

“I wouldn't dare,” Astarion lies, easily. “Although I don't suppose you have any spare clean shirts going, do you?” 

He shows Gale his sleeves, which hadn't escaped the blender’s scattershot aim either. 

“Oh no, not you as well,” Gale laughs. “I don't know if I'll have anything to your taste, but you're welcome to find out.” 

Jen and Zel, thankfully, stay in the kitchen as Gale leads Astarion upstairs. The stairwells are as full of pictures as the downstairs corridor. All of them, just as downstairs, are of Hestia and Gale, or just Hestia. Nobody else. 

“I’m beginning to think you have a vendetta against my wardrobe,” Gale says, as they reach the first landing. “You seem determined to spice it up.” 

Astarion groans. 

“Please, spare me the dad jokes.” 

“I have been curating my excellent collection of puns for far longer than Hessie's been around,” Gale says, cheerfully. “What size are you, usually?” 

“Medium?” Astarion hazards, not having bought anything other than skating gear for longer than he can remember.  

“Mmm,” Gale frowns. “We may have to see if I've still got anything from when I was a bit younger.” 

“Something slightly too big that definitely covers my arms would be better,” Astarion says, quietly, just in case they've got the camera on downstairs. 

“Noted,” Gale leads him into his bedroom. “God, I hope Zel didn't catch mine. That's not how I want that story breaking.” 

Gale's bedroom is a strange place. It's carefully designed, in an ‘interior design magazine’ sort of way. There's beautiful light fittings, gorgeous wood panelling, and almost nothing else. Just a bedside table with a lamp, and a book that is evidently half-read. 

If Astarion wasn't fully aware that Gale is quite a private person, he would think it was kept deliberately in showroom-style readiness. Instead, it just seems like the kind of place Gale spends very little time. 

“I didn't know,” Astarion says, sort of apologetically but not really.  

“That was the idea, yes,” Gale says, wryly. “Anyway, we can swap our scar sob stories another time. Preferably over something a little stronger than cocktails.” He opens the wardrobe door for him. “Help yourself. I'll be in the en suite.” 

Astarion stares at the wardrobe as Gale shuts the door behind him.

-

Gale showers as quickly as he can. There's nothing time-sensitive in the kitchen yet, but as simple as chilli is, it's still somewhat time-consuming. Depending on how much of a mess they made of the blender, he may also have to start the chilli paste from scratch. He heads downstairs without bothering to dry his hair properly. He's looked far worse on camera, and it'll dry fast enough in the warmth of the kitchen anyway. 

When he gets back down, he finds Astarion leaning against the counter, chatting to Zel and Jen as he waits. 

“There you are!” 

Astarion is wearing a red jumper that Gale hasn't seen in years. Over the top of it he's thrown a black leather jacket that Gale definitely never looked as good in as Astarion does. Something about the slight punk vibe of it just suits him better than it ever would Gale. 

“Ah yes, my apologies for keeping you waiting after you threw stock all over me,” Gale teases. 

In the end, the cooking isn't too painful. Astarion’s main complaint is how much standing around there is. To Jen’s amusement, they end up doing balance exercises as he helps Gale sear the meat, deglaze the pot and thicken the chilli. Trying to have a serious discussion about acceptable chilli toppings with their legs in the air, however, reduces them both into giggles again. 

It doesn't take too long to cook, with two sets of hands to share the work. In what seems to be no time at all, Gale has the chilli potted up and ready to carry upstairs. Astarion follows him up with a stack of toppings in bowls. 

It's long past dark by the time they make it up to the roof, but the fireworks aren't truly underway yet. Wyll and Halsin are sitting by the firepit, tending to the flame and, in Wyll's case, his wine. They both greet both their dinner and the camera with cheer. 

“I don't know if there's going to be enough for six of us,” Astarion frowns, thoughtfully. 

“On its own, no,” Gale agrees, kneeling to grab the fire-tongs, and pulling the sweet potatoes from the embers under the flames. “But I think you'll find I am a very experienced host, and letting your guests go hungry is the greatest faux-pas a host could commit.” 

“If we are not rolling home on our full bellies, it is not a Gale dinner party,” Halsin agrees. 

They actually start with soup; homemade leek and potato with a healthy handful of sharp cheddar, which Gale had made earlier and Halsin has been keeping warm for him over the fire. He'd made bread, too, which was probably slightly over the top, but he thoroughly enjoys passing the loaf around for the others to tear chunks from, instead of fussing around with a knife and a chopping board all the way up here. There's something joyously rustic about sharing a meal around a campfire. 

Admittedly, having a fully stocked bar behind them isn't so rustic, but then he's always enjoyed the finer things in life too. Astarion, as per his promise, goes to investigate the bar as Wyll helps Gale split the sweet potatoes, their soft middles steaming in the cold air, to heap chilli on them. 

Gale doesn't exactly catch what Astarion calls whatever the drink is that he hands him. He eyes the colour, suspiciously; it does not, however, look like it has anything pink in it. He takes a sip, and is pleasantly surprised. The whisky is a peated one, deep and smoky, but it's been lightened and sharpened; ginger, cranberry, maybe even a hint of orange. There's the smooth richness of the egg white too. A whisky sour with a seasonal twist. 

He hasn't expected them to all get their own, but Astarion blends each of them a unique drink. Even Jen and Zel. Halsin, to his amusement, gets a mocktail, to which Astarion adds a strip of orange peel and a sugared rim, just for kicks. 

“So,” Astarion settles in next to him, a glass of something dark and indistinguishable in his hand. “Have I won you over?” 

Gale raises his already half-empty glass to him. 

“Consider me impressed. Did you use the Raasay?” 

“I did, I'm afraid. Talisker would have been too much, and none of the others were quite enough.” 

“I might even ask you to write the recipe down for me,” Gale admits. To his amusement, Astarion beams at him. 

Gale had known for a fact that Jen was poised to prompt conversation topics, should it prove necessary. She'd cleared them with both he and Minthara first. It turns out to be entirely unnecessary; if anything, they end up talking over each other. 

In time, the conversation turns, as it often does, to skating. 

“But so much of the terminology makes sense,” Gale protests, putting his glass down so he can talk with both of his hands. “If they're named after people they're harder to remember, but it's perfectly logical - and if they're not, then they're self-explanatory, like mirroring and shadowing and stroking. It's only the spiral that-” 

“No, hold on,” Wyll raises his hand, “Stroking is not self-explanatory, Gale.” 

Gale rolls his eyes as the others laugh. 

“What are we, thirteen? Think of a pass over the ice as the stroke of a paintbrush - stroking is a way to build up speed, with your skates, on the ice, it is a perfectly legitimate use of terminology.” 

“Oh, you would not have enjoyed skating as a teenager,” Astarion puts in. “Stroking, edging - the possibilities are endless.” 

“I can't use that!” Jen protests, to which Astarion shrugs one shoulder, utterly unbothered. 

“You've been filming all night, you can delete ten seconds.” 

Gale puts his face in his hands. 

“I just don't know why it's called a spiral when you go in a straight line!” He bemoans. 

Even Halsin is laughing now. 

There have been firework displays going off around London all night, but that's when the local one finally gets started. Grateful to be saved from their terrible innuendoes, Gale takes his drink to the edge of the balcony to lean over and watch. The others join him, in their turn. 

“This is the best view of London,” Wyll sighs, happily. “If you ever move, we’ll have to break back into this place on bonfire nights just to continue this tradition.” 

Gale laughs. 

“I'm not going anywhere soon, don't worry. I've got London in my bones.” 

“I think I've got London in my lungs, mostly,” Astarion says, pithy as ever. “Although this is quite a show.” His head is tilted back, the gentle breeze blowing across the rooftops ruffling his curls. The fireworks above reflect in his eyes; for a moment, they aren't grey, but a riot of colour. Reds and greens and blues, gold and silver and white. He catches Gale looking, and raises an eyebrow at him. Gale looks away. 

“No man-made firecrackers will ever quite hold the wonder and majesty of the stars, for me,” Halsin says. “But even I must admit that there is something to be said for this. Knowing how many hundreds or even thousands of other people are watching the same show that we are.” 

Gale thinks of Hestia, hopefully out in the streets with Mystra somewhere, or tucked up at home with a hot drink. He hopes that she's enjoying the fireworks too. 

“Shall we toast some marshmallows?” He suggests. “I have some Mexican hot chocolate that would go perfectly with something a little sweeter.” 

“What's different about Mexican hot chocolate?” Astarion asks, curiously. 

“In general, I have no idea - but I picked some up last time I was touring and it's a little dark, a little bitter, and with an edge of something warm to it. Definitely cinnamon, definitely chilli, maybe clove?” 

“Sounds good,” Wyll agrees. “Halsin, you're on toasting duty, I just set them on fire.” 

Jen and Zel don't deign to stay for hot chocolate and marshmallows, so they wave them off, and settle back around the campfire. 

“Right,” Wyll says. “As pleasant as that was, I am glad I don't have to be on my best behaviour anymore.” 

“That was your best behaviour?” Astarion says, doubtfully. 

“You know lawyers,” Wyll grins. “Work hard, party harder.” 

“Zel’s a good egg,” Gale says, idly, tapping his finger on his second glass of not quite whiskey sour. “She'd delete anything incriminating - or Minthara will make her.” 

“She's terrifying,” Wyll says, unashamedly. 

“Zel or Minthara?” 

“Yes.” 

They spend the rest of the evening catching up properly. Gale tries to keep Astarion in the loop, but he seems quite content to just sit and listen for most of it. At one point, Gale looks up, and discovers that Tara has not only deigned to bless them with her company, but had decided that Astarion’s lap is where she wants to be. 

Astarion catches him looking, and puts his finger to his lips. 

-

Zel: hey 

Astarion Ancunin: Hello? 

Zel: Thought you might want a copy of these before I delete them 
Zel: sent a photo 
Zel: sent a photo 

Astarion stares at his phone. The first photo is almost quite sweet. He remembers the moment; catching Gale looking at him as he'd been watching the fireworks. Zel must have been watching too, the little shit. It's a perfectly nice and honestly quite benign photo; the two of them framed against a sky full of fireworks, just looking at each other. Neither of them are smiling, but there's a softness to it. They could just have paused mid-conversation, if Astarion didn't remember the context of the moment quite so clearly. 

The other one, however, is much worse. She'd managed to catch the exact moment Gale had started unbuttoning his shirt. And, for all his sins, Astarion's reaction to it. 

Astarion Ancunin: what do you want from me? 

Zel: nothing 
Zel: :) 

Astarion Ancunin: oh fuck you 
Astarion Ancunin: there's no way in hell you sent me those for no reason 
Astarion Ancunin: did you send them to Gale as well? 

Zel: no 

Astarion Ancunin: if you are trying to threaten or blackmail me you are doing a piss poor job of it 

Zel: Jen says my texts are less threatening if I add emoticons 
Zel: I added a smiley face so that you knew I wasn’t threatening you 
Zel: :) 

Astarion Ancunin: then why the fuck did you send me these? 

Zel: Jen is always bemoaning how few photos of us there are from before we started dating 

Astarion Ancunin: NOT YOU AS WELL

Chapter Text

At some point in what he could have sworn was mid-October, Gale had looked up and realised that it was, in fact, early November. November melds into December in much the same way. All of a sudden, he’s facing down Christmas. It’s not the first time he has lost months of his life in the blink of an eye; but following hot on the heels of what had felt like the longest summer of his life, it’s a peculiar sensation. 

It's not that his life had been empty before. That would be unfair to both Hestia and himself. But it has changed. 

That notion, half-realised, hovers in the back of his mind for a few days, maybe even weeks. It finally clicks into a realisation in a little street corner coffee shop halfway across the city. They’ve spent the last two hours walking around the Christmas lights at Kew Gardens with Wyll and his daughter. After Wyll had taken Kamara home, the remaining three of them had decided to stop into the cafe to try and warm their hands up before heading home. Gale is watching Astarion talking to Hestia. His hands are curled around his coffee. She’s mirroring him, not as subtly as she thinks she is; sitting sideways on her chair, trying to balance her elbow on the back of it whilst her little fingers curl around her babyccino, despite the fact that her arms aren’t long enough to do so. 

“Talking about an experience afterwards helps to cement those images in your long-term memory,” Astarion is saying. 

Hestia kicks her feet under the table, happily. 

“My favourite bit was the tunnel,” she says. 

“I could tell, from how long you spent running up and down it,” Astarion says, though there’s no real edge to it; and it goes right over Hestia’s head anyway. 

“I want to remember that forever!” 

“Well you’d better tell us about it then,” Gale suggests. 

Astarion has almost no experience with children, it turns out. His response to Hestia is to talk to her as if she's just an usually small adult. Hestia, of course, absolutely fucking adores him for it. When Mystra drops her off at the rink on a Friday after school, Hestia is almost as excited to see him as she is Gale. Gale would be offended, if it weren't so sweet a little friendship that he can practically feel himself developing cavities every time Astarion agrees to come on their weekend adventures with them and Hessie loses her mind with excitement.

And now, apparently, it is normal for them to be sitting around in a cafe like this of a weekend. Gale slips his phone from his pocket and sneaks a photo of them; Astarion notices and raises an eyebrow at him. Gale grins, unashamedly, making a mental note to send it to him later. The tips of Astarion’s nose and ears are pink with cold, his hair mussed up from Hestia trying to get him to put her woolly hat on. He’ll pretend he hates it, and then next week Gale will see it set as his phone background, and Astarion will tell him off for snooping. Because heaven forbid anybody think that Astarion is anything other than a beautiful, cold-hearted machine of a human being. 

“Daddy, you’re not listening !” Hestia complains, grabbing his coat sleeve to pull at it. 

“Yes Gale, do try and pay attention,” Astarion grins at him over his coffee cup. “This is a very important exercise in the formation of long-term memories.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m listening,” Gale puts his phone down and folds his hands together on the table. “Please continue, esteemed Professor Hestia. You have my rapt and undivided attention.” 

“Good,” Hestia opens her mouth, and then closes it again. “Oh, I forgot what I was going to say.” 

“You were saying how much you liked the tunnel,” Gale prompts. 

“We’d moved onto the giant flowers,” Astarion corrects. “Do try and keep up, darling.” 

“Oh I loved the giant flowers too,” Gale remembers. “There was something transportive about them; like we were under an enchantment. Off on an adventure in a giant, magical world.” 

“Like a borrower!” Hestia jumps in. 

“A borrower?” Astarion asks. 

So they spend a significant portion of their remaining time in the coffee shop explaining the plot of The Borrowers to Astarion, who has not only never read it, but never even heard of it. 

“It’s the reason so many socks go missing,” Hessie explains, entirely seriously. “They make very good sleeping bags, and towels, and sometimes blankets and rugs and curtains.” 

“Oh, like the domovoi,” Astarion says. 

“What’s a domovoi?” Gale asks, curiously. 

“Mischievous little household spirits. They’ll steal your socks and hide your keys and generally make petty nuisances of themselves, but if you respect them and look after them, they’ll protect your house and sometimes even do your chores for you. They’re very hard to befriend, but once you’ve won their friendship they are undyingly loyal.” 

“Oh!” Hestia grins. “Like you!” 

“No, not like me,” Astarion protests. “They’re little old men with beards, usually. Much more like Gale than me.” 

“Oi!” Gale laughs. “I’m hardly older than you at all, thank you very much.” 

If Gale had to try and pinpoint when this started, it would have been when Halsin added Astarion to their dinner party group chat. It's now the four of them that meet every Thursday evening, rather than three, for dinner and drinks at Gale's. It makes sense, in hindsight, that Astarion would get on with both Wyll and Halsin. Being both a trained lawyer and Russian, he has more in common with both of them than Gale does. In character they couldn't be more different, but something about it works. 

Gale looks forward to those evenings all week; the planning and anticipation give him as much pleasure as the evenings themselves. Astarion has taken to sending him incredibly difficult and/or obscure recipe requests just to wind him up. Unfortunately for him - or fortunately, depending on the results - Gale is absolutely incapable of refusing a challenge. Most of them have actually been pretty good, so far. The twice-baked soufflé, he's particularly proud of, and the fried polenta and pho have both made it into his regular cycle of meal plans. 

Astarion being a part of that group chat has led to him being part of the conversations of what else they do with their lives. Once Hestia had shyly requested that they also ask Astarion if he wanted to come to the Natural History Museum with them, he’d been invited to everything. Often he’d refuse, or be busy. But sometimes - increasingly regularly, actually - he will tag along. 

Gale is fairly certain that had been how he'd ended up at the children's ballet showing with he and Hessie. While necessary for Gale to book out a whole box, it had also seemed ridiculous not to offer the spare seats to the others. Both Wyll and Halsin had been busy, but Astarion was not. There have been plenty of other occasions, but that one stands out in Gale's memory. Of course Astarion had done a notable amount of ballet as part of his training, so he'd spent the majority of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker narrating the plot to Hessie in a half-whisper. Gale had spent more of it watching them than the stage. 

He has one photo from that evening in particular that he has saved in multiple places. He'd come back from the bathroom in the interval to find Astarion, suit jacket over the back of his seat, showing Hestia basic ballet moves. In the photo, Hestia is glowing; in her sparkly special occasion dress, beaming up at Astarion as she tries to arabesque as elegantly as he is and having the time of her life doing so. 

There's another version of the photo, unfortunately. Gale had been vindicated in booking out a private box; someone with a nose bigger than their brain had taken a grainy, zoomed-in shot of Hestia sitting on Astarion's knee as he pointed to something on the stage. Gale is sitting behind them, smiling fondly, his cheek propped up by an elbow over the edge of the box. Sweet, of course, but he, Amy and Minthara had been all over it minutes after the curtain fell. Hestia is far, far too young to have her face plastered all over the internet. Although he had carefully screenshotted it first. Purely for Hestia's expression, of course. 

They had been planning to leave the coffee shop eventually anyway, but Gale clocks someone in the queue pointing a phone at them at a weird angle. He meets Astarion’s gaze; he’s noticed too. 

“Well, I’m plenty warm enough now,” Astarion says, brusquely. “Shall we go?” 

Hestia is quite used to being bundled out of places at speed; more so than she would be, if Gale had any say in the matter. Her main protest is that Astarion is leaving. 

“You’ll see me next week,” Astarion reminds her as they duck through the doorway and out into the street, Hestia protected between them. 

Unwanted attention has stalked them through the weeks as surely as friendship had snuck up on them. In an attempt to channel the focus away from the less savoury and more private aspects of their lives, and building off the success of the ‘Boyfriend’ reel, Astarion has taken to skating to request. Well, it had been Gale's suggestion initially. Astarion had been dead set against it at first. After Gale had managed to talk him into it once, though, it had really taken off. The little song polls have become part of their weekly routine just as surely as the dinner parties. Gale thoroughly enjoys helping Astarion film them, too. 

Occasionally, if Zel or Amy is around to film instead, he’ll feature in them. To Astarion’s endless irritation and Gale’s amusement, they do almost twice as well when he does. If someone had attempted to tell Gale at the beginning of September, in the immediate aftermath of their somewhat disastrous first meeting, that Astarion’s most popular Tiktok of all time would be the two of them mucking around with rotational lifts to ‘Don’t Blame Me’, he wouldn’t have believed them. Although he also wouldn’t have believed he’d have been capable of lifting Astarion in September, let alone throwing him over his shoulder. 

It is, on all fronts, going exceptionally well. Not just the skating, either. Wyll is making progress with Astarion’s papers. Having finally given in to Astarion’s pestering about it, Gale had played him the newer version of Golden, and Astarion had had some surprisingly constructive and thoughtful feedback. Amy, having survived the first few weeks of the stress of it, is becoming a deft hand at handling the controlled drama of their social media ploys. Pleased though he is by it all, Gale finds himself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s a dangerous game, playing coy with Astarion on camera. People are already speculating about them. That had been the point, of course it had; but not all of the moments they’re picking up on are choreographed ones. Quietly, Gale suspects that Astarion has noticed. As he has yet to say anything about it, however, Gale is content to leave well alone. Or he tries to be. 

In an attempt to cheer Hestia up when they get home sans Astarion, they finally decorate the house. The two of them dance around singing those terrible Christmas pop songs that they both unironically adore. 

Gale manages to be excited with her and for her for the whole season. Right up until he drives by his old house on the way to the rink on Christmas Eve, and passes Hestia back over to Mystra for the family Christmas he is no longer invited to. 

They've tried to explain to Hestia already. They'd had the conversation multiple times, in fact. Every time she mentioned him being there for Christmas, however much it broke his heart, he had corrected her. Apparently she still hadn't believed him. When he tries to leave she clings to him and wails, like he's moving out all over again, and it's all he can do to peel her away without crying too. That, he saves for when he's back in the car. He has to text Astarion that he’ll be late; Halsin is off on his well-deserved break and Gale can't drive while he can barely see through his own tears. 

If he is subdued at the rink that day, Astarion doesn't mention it. 

They start off the ice. Gale should be used to that, by now, but it's been a while since they've used the studio. He'd forgotten how strange it is, to be watching his reflection the whole time. It's even stranger, to be watching Astarion, standing just behind his shoulder. 

“Arms up,” Astarion is saying. “Angle, please, we’ve been over this.” 

The one thing that the mirror is useful for, at least, is making sure that he's mirroring Astarion properly.  

“Do you have plans for Christmas?” Gale asks, eventually. 

“Not as such,” Astarion says, not really paying attention, coming up behind him to tap his chin. “Up. You're looking into the middle distance again, you're supposed to be making eye contact with your reflection.” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing. 

It had occurred to Gale that he could invite Astarion over for Christmas. In all honesty though, he's not sure he wants to subject Astarion to that. It's the first time he’ll be spending Christmas entirely alone, after all. So he says nothing. They exchange the usual seasonal pleasantries as Gale drops him off. And then Gale drives home. Alone. 

-

Astarion has never been much of a Christmas person. The lights and decorations make London less dour, but it also makes it twice as busy, which he can do without. 

So he treats it much like he would any other day. He'd spent the evening before on facetime with Karlach, who had been going off to spend her Christmas at a BBQ beach party with a bunch of her new surfing mates. He's glad for her; she's always been much more sociable than him. In truth, he's almost been looking forward to having the day to himself. 

In the new year he’ll be expected to start learning the professional routines, the big opening numbers. The song choices have been made and basic choreo sent through. So he has a quiet breakfast, puts his headphones on, and walks to the rink for the first time in several weeks. 

When he gets there, however, there's a familiar black car parked outside. 

It occurs to Astarion, for the first time, that he should have actually asked Gale what he was doing for Christmas. He'd just assumed that he'd be spending it with Hestia - and by necessity, Mystra. 

Evidently, he had been wrong. Gale is here. Now. 

Astarion lets himself in through the front door, then hesitates. 

It feels like a private moment. Although the moment he thinks that, he despairs at himself. It’s his bloody rink, and he’s got shit to do, Gale fucking Dekarios be damned. 

So Astarion pushes the double doors open. 

The cold air kisses his skin, sharp and inviting. Gale is skating in just his t-shirt, so he must have been here a while. He catches sight of Astarion immediately, and skates up to the edge of the rink to greet him with a smile. 

“Hello,” he leans over the edge. “Merry Christmas to you.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Now I have an excuse to be doing the sad, lonely bachelor act today, but you don't. Where's Hestia?” 

“Mystra does big family Christmases. I am no longer family.” He says it matter-of-factly, like that would stop anyone else. 

“That woman makes being a bitch an art form,” Astarion sighs. “I would almost be impressed if it wasn't at your expense.” 

Gale, surprised, smiles at him. 

“Hey, it's not so bad. Hessie and I are doing our own Christmas in a few days’ time. And I got bored of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, so here I am.” 

Astarion can't disagree with that. 

“Mind if I join you?” 

“Mind? I would be honoured!” 

“Gale, we do this every day.” 

“And it's an honour every time,” Gale agrees, easily. “I'm running out of exercises anyway. What were you planning on working on?” 

Astarion considers him, for a moment. He's been skating for long enough that he's worked up a sweat, his hair wisping free of the bun like it invariably does. The band t-shirt he's wearing is slightly wider around the neckline than his usual fare; the edge of the tattoo is just visible over the collar. 

“Actually,” he says, “I might have a use for you.” 

He hasn't been looking forward to the professional skates. When he shows Gale the choreography, though, Gale gets excited. 

“Oh I like that move,” he leans over Astarion's shoulder to tap his shattered screen, pausing the video. “Those lines, the sweep of the leg - it's gorgeous.” 

“It is,” Astarion agrees. “But it means someone I don't know has to- well, you can see.” 

“Oh,” Gale leans forward, to study the pose Astarion has paused it on more closely. Whether he sees it the same way Astarion does, he doubts; but even so, only a moment of studying it would reveal the issue. The lifter’s fingers bite into the inside of the flyer’s thigh. “Ah, yes, I do see.”

“Nothing about a stranger holding my thigh like that is in any way appealing.”

“I appreciate the clarification. Would it be the kind of thing you would be comfortable raising with the production team?” 

Astarion sighs.

“What would I say, exactly? ‘Oh, actually, I don't want to do the job you hired me to do’?” 

Gale winces, stepping back from the phone. For some reason, that irritates Astarion; although why, he can’t exactly conceive.

“I hate to say it, but surely it's not the first time they've had skaters who aren't particularly keen on the hands-on aspect of lifts and so on.” 

Astarion idly imagines hitting him over the head with his phone. Not that it would help, obviously, but it would be vaguely satisfying. Maybe it would knock some fucking sense into him, for once. 

“Gale, I knew I was signing up for this. Trust me, I know what I'm doing, and it's still better than pencil-pushing and babysitting some stuck-up rich kid’s trust fund.” 

“Fair,” Gale agrees, “What do you want to do then? How can I help?” 

“Well,” Astarion says. “I'm used to you. I think, perhaps, if I got used to doing this with you, before one of the others, it wouldn't be as bad.” 

Gale blinks at him. 

“I would love to help, Astarion, not to mention I’m flattered that you have that much faith in me, but I think I would drop you.” 

“Not on the ice,” Astarion sighs. “I don't have a death wish! When have we ever started a lift outside the studio? I'm not letting you come anywhere near me without several layers of safety mats.” 

“Oh,” Gale grins. “Well, in which case, consider me very much at your service.”  

Gale has been learning to shadow him for some time now. Astarion is used to having Gale's hands on his waist because that's the most common hold. It's not something he pays much attention to anymore. 

This one, however, requires someone - in this case, Gale - to grab his thigh. Skating or no, it’s not something he usually tolerates sober, let alone invites. And true to form, the first time he tries - even though they're walking through it, even though Astarion had just told him to do so, he still nearly kicks Gale in the head. 

“Ah,” Gale says. “Right, I'm beginning to see the problem.” 

“Sorry,” Astarion folds back away from the hold. “Fucking hell, I cannot do that to one of the others.” 

“I mean, you could,” Gale grins. “I bet some of them even deserve it.” 

Astarion kicks him gently in the shin. 

“You are not helping.” 

“On the contrary, you are smiling at me, which you were not ten seconds ago.” 

Flopping back onto the safety mat, Astarion groans.

“If you tell anyone about this I will fly Karlach back from Australia to help me bury your body.” 

“Why would I tell anyone?” Gale says, bemused. “I thought we were doing this specifically so that you don't have to tell anyone.” 

“It's not even a proper fucking lift position,” Astarion tells the ceiling. 

“It isn't?” 

“No! Group 3 to 5 lifts are nearly always hand to hand, and group 1 and 2 are almost never seen at competition level. It's just for the drama of it.” 

“I have no idea what any of that means.” 

“I’ll explain if and when it becomes relevant,” Astarion sits up. “Again. Don't try to lift me, don't do anything else, just- hold.” 

Gale nods. 

Astarion watches him in the mirror as they resume the position; Gale places one hand on his hip, the other poised to slip under his thigh. 

“Ready?” He asks. 

It takes a moment for Astarion to respond. He breathes, slow and calm. Trying to trick his brain out of the panic state. 

“Ready.” 

Gale puts his hand under Astarion's thigh. 

He doesn't kick, this time. The gut reaction flares, but he controls it. He breathes, carefully, staring at Gale's hand in the mirror. Gale’s fingers are spread out over his leggings. Braced and ready to take his weight. The longer they stay there, the less intense the urge to lash out becomes. Once he notices, it fades almost completely; as if, under scrutiny, it realises how unhelpful it is. Unfortunately, in its absence, Astarion notices that the rest of his reaction to having Gale gently holding his leg up for him isn’t entirely neutral. 

It’s not a moment in which Astarion appreciates how carefully Gale is watching him. 

“Alright,” he says. “Lift,” 

“No,” Gale lets go immediately. “You just nearly gave me a head injury, I'm not moving past it that quickly. You need to give yourself time to acclimatise.” 

“I'd rather not. If you lift me then it's going to get compartmentalised into the part of my brain reserved for skating, and it'll be easier to adjust.” 

Gale raises an eyebrow at him in the mirror, doubtfully. 

“If you want to keep feeling up my thighs, darling, you only have to ask.” 

“Don't try and flirt as a deflection,” Gale frowns. “If you want me to help then you have to let me help.” 

“I'm beginning to regret asking. Trust me, I'm not enjoying this any more than you are.” 

“I can tell. Do you want to stop?” 

“No!” Astarion snaps. “If we leave it and then come back to it, it'll be worse. I'll have had a chance to build it up in my head. Better to get it over with.” 

Gale nods, and resumes his previous position. 

“Tell me when, then.” 

It's not even a proper lift. It's more of a dip. It's a passing movement on the way through between two lifts that he will be leading, where he will be the one controlling it. 

By the time they've done it about thirty more times, he might actually be able to start treating it with the level of anxiety it actually requires; almost none. 

Eventually, Gale’s arms give out. 

“Still an improvement, considering I probably couldn't have lifted you at all, two months ago,” he comments cheerily. “Is it okay to stop here?” 

“It's fine,” Astarion says, brushing himself off. “I’m going to actually skate for a bit, and then head home.” 

“About that,” Gale says, stretching his back. “I don't suppose you'd want to come over for Christmas dinner? I can't quite bring myself to bother going to all the effort for just me, but for the two of us it would be worth doing. As long as you don't mind me using you as an excuse.” 

Astarion nearly turns him down without even thinking about it. 

But then he does think about it. Not that he minds being on his own in the flat, of course, but Gale is an exceptional cook. His own plan for dinner had been non-existent and entirely dependent on what his fridge might contain. Gale's house will be warmer, too. 

“Why not?” He says. “Although I'll have to stop by mine on the way back to make sure Bear’s alright.” 

“Of course,” Gale is beaming at him. “Most excellent, in fact.” 

They skate for more than an hour in the end, mostly just doing basic exercises; lunges and hops and turns, flip jumps and edge steps. Anything that improves control and balance. Gale chats at him as they go, like he usually does. One of the booksellers at Gay’s the Word has recommended him something that Astarion hasn't read, for a change. 

“I'll ask if the library have it - or if they can get it in for me,” Astarion says. “What did you say the author’s name was?” 

“Kit Heyman. I'll write it down for you. You could just borrow my copy when I finish it though.” 

“You're already making me dinner, I can't borrow your books as well.” 

“What if I make you help me with dinner and you promise to let me know what you thought of the book when you're done?” Gale suggests. 

Astarion sighs. 

“You do drive a hard bargain, don't you? But fine. I suppose I shall have to accept.” 

It's odd for Gale to be the one driving. Astarion is glad that they hadn't done anything too strenuous, or he'd be worried about Gale's legs. 

“Are you allowed to drive this?” 

“I have a licence, if that’s what you mean,” Gale says, over the top of the car as he opens the driver’s side. “But maybe don’t mention it to Minthara.” 

“Noted,” Astarion grins. “Although for the record I’d be disinclined to tell Minthara anything.” 

“A prudent decision. Oh, sorry-” Gale leans over as Astarion lets himself into the passenger side. “Would you hold onto that for me, just for a bit?” 

There's a potted poinsettia on the front seat. With a shrug, Astarion sits it on his lap instead as he buckles in. 

“I'm just going to make a quick stop on the way back,” Gale says. 

“It's Christmas Day, Gale. Everything's closed.” 

“Not everything,” Gale says, easily, starting the engine. 

“Fine, be mysterious,” Astarion leans back into the seat. “I don't care.” 

“It's not mysterious,” Gale says, flicking through radio channels. “Or at least, I hadn't intended it to be. I'm just going to stop by the cemetery, which is always open at Christmas, but generally when I mention that people tend to get awkward and don't know what to say.” 

“That they do,” Astarion agrees. “I like to pull out the ‘not having seen my parents since I was four’ card to get people to shut up and leave me alone, that tends to work pretty well too.” 

Gale snorts, leaning over the wheel to check both directions before steering the car out of the car park. The roads are almost empty, but it is still London; there are folks around, and cars on the road. 

“We can stop by yours first, and then by the cemetery on the way back to mine,” Gale says. “It’ll just be a quick stop, I won't keep you waiting.” 

“Take as long as you need,” Astarion shrugs. “I suppose cemeteries have a fair amount of foot traffic at Christmas, actually. Can't say I've ever considered it before.” 

“No more than usual, so far as I can tell,” Gale says. “By the way, do you want to give me your actual address, or would you prefer me to wait for you at the park like usual?” 

“At the park,” Astarion says, firmly. “It's not far.” 

Gale doesn't press him on it. 

The song playing on the radio ends, and the presenters start chatting; Astarion tunes them out, watching the world go by outside the window. The front seat windows aren't tinted, unlike the back ones; the streets look less dark and dingy than they usually do, even considering that it's started to drizzle. 

Bear isn't in when Astarion pops up to the flat. It rarely is, still; a stray at heart, no matter how long it’s been visiting now. Astarion tops up its food and water and double checks that the bathroom window is propped open just enough for a slim little stray to squeeze through. Then he throws something slightly more comfortable than his skating kit on, and heads back out. 

When he gets back to the car, Gale has his head in a book. Astarion taps on the window to get his attention, and Gale, apparently utterly enraptured by whatever he was reading, startles. 

“Good book?” He says, amused, as Gale lets him in. 

“Thoroughly engaging,” Gale says, popping the radio back on. “I'd recommend it to you, but it's fiction.” 

“Is that Hokusai’s Great Wave on the cover?” Astarion tilts his head. “With a Macbeth quote?” 

“Astutely observed. Given the theming of the novel so far, it’s a quite fascinating design choice,” Gale says - and proceeds to talk the entire way to the cemetery. Astarion lets him. Partially because he has nothing to add, and partially because Gale talking at him has become like white noise at this point. It is, in a way, strangely enjoyable. 

The cemetery, it turns out, is very small indeed; it would have to be, in central London, Astarion supposes. 

“Do you want company or shall I stay out here?” He asks, as Gale parks the car along the side of the road. 

“You can come if you like,” Gale says. There's a deceptive kind of ease to it. “I wouldn't want to burden you with this.” 

“Grief isn't a burden. It's just part of life. I wouldn't have offered if it bothered me. Would you prefer me to come with you, or would it be intruding?” 

Gale considers him, then smiles. 

“Maybe some company would be nice. Thank you.” 

So Astarion follows him, apparently in charge of the poinsettia, now, as Gale picks his way between the headstones. The place is closed in from the outside world; the noise of the road is muffled by yew trees, and thick layers of ivy growing between the metal railings. 

“You know, I've only ever done this by myself before,” Gale says, conversationally. 

“I can't imagine most people would react well to being invited to a cemetery, no,” Astarion says. “You're lucky I'm not most people.” 

“You certainly aren't,” Gale agrees. 

At the back of the cemetery, there's a collection of much smaller graves. Gale stops, and kneels to brush a few fallen leaves from one in particular. The headstone has been kept in very good condition; the marble is cleaner than some of the headstones around it, though the format is much the same for nearly all of them. Some of them have little poems or epitaphs, or quotes from the bible. This one does not. There is no name; just a date. Just one single date. 

“I know a poinsettia is a tropical plant,” Gale says. “It won't last much longer than picked flowers would, out here in the cold. But I feel like I should mark Christmas, anyway.” 

Astarion kneels beside him to hand him the plant. 

They sit there for a while, in the quiet of the cemetery. 

“I never wanted to be a father,” Gale says, eventually. He is watching the headstone, his voice quiet. “My mother and I were perfectly content, just the two of us, but parenting wasn’t a skill I ever expected to possess. Mystra and I hadn't set out with the intention to start a family, either. Given the demanding nature of her job and my tour schedule, we had yet to even discuss the topic in the realm of the hypothetical, let alone potential. Although initially terrifying, of course, I was more taken by the thrill of it that I would ever have anticipated. Mystra was steadfast in her determination to carry it to term, regardless of my involvement. I embraced the idea sooner than either of us expected me to. It felt hopeful to do so. Looking back, of course, I recognise the folly of hoping a child could salvage a marriage already under strain. But at the time…” 

He sighs. 

“Well, at the time I suppose I was a different person. Suddenly, that child meant everything. So when we lost him-” 

He stops. 

“Sorry, you didn't ask for this. I don't know why I'm telling you.” 

“Is it helping?” 

Gale turns at last, to look at him. 

“Yes,” he says. “I think, anyway. I've never told anyone about this, I don't think. Other than my therapist, anyway, which in some ways counts for rather a lot and in others hardly at all.” 

Astarion tilts his head, in a facsimile of agreement. 

“Mystra didn't ever come here with you?” 

“No,” Gale turns away with a shake of his head. “You’ll have noticed that he doesn’t have a name.” 

A light breeze stirs the yew branches above them. The air is as cold as the rink, if not colder. Dusk is beginning to set in. The deep orange light and golden glow of awakening streetlights casts the little headstone in twilight’s softest shadow. Along the top of the marble, the damp air is beginning to freeze.

“I didn’t understand it, at the time. It was too early to have shared the news. Mystra dealt with it the way she dealt with any stumble in her life; she steadied herself up and carried on without looking back. Discussing it was out of the question. Life resumed, the world continued to turn, and yet every day I picked up that mask and played that role, something inside me was slowly becoming untethered.

“For something that is, statistically, both a common and ordinary occurrence- in truth, it is rarely either. Numbers offer little comfort when facing the unprecedented. The support for those navigating the loss of a pregnancy is as meagre as the discussion of it. We were both adrift, lost from each other in our own grief. Ultimately, it became the first time - of many - that we decided to take some space in an attempt to gain some perspective.” 

Something stirs in Astarion's memory. He's never really bothered with celebrity drama - it's all overblown and misrepresented and nowhere near as interesting as the gossip that law school and the firm provided, which was far more entertaining - but he's not actively avoided it, either. And he does vaguely remember something about a scandal. He hadn't thought much of it, really. It was the music industry, after all. 

“Was that the year that-” 

“Ah,” Gale ducks his head, “I wondered if you knew about that.” 

“I don't, really,” Astarion admits. “I was studying, and studying law doesn't leave you much space for anything else, let alone following whoever the tabloids have decided to torture that week.” 

“Hmm,” Gale almost smiles. “It was certainly less dramatic than it was made out to be.”

“Very much not the fun kind of sex, drugs and rock and roll, then,” Astarion says. 

“No,” Gale agrees. “I simply fell down the same hole that thousands have fallen down before me; I went looking for a way to numb the pain, so I could go on pretending, and instead I lost all sense of myself. Such is the folly of man. No matter how many times we see our fellow humans make mistakes we think beyond us, we fail to learn from their idiocies and repeat them as our own.” 

“How old were you?” 

Gale sighs. 

“Twenty-one. I know, I was very young. I know I should be kinder to myself about it. If it were anyone else, it would be easier. I know more than my fair share of people who have walked similar paths, and I don't think any less of them for it. Some of them, I think I admire more. When you walk to the edge, like that- when it would be easier, perhaps, to find solace and comfort in the void- to turn back, and choose otherwise? I don’t know if I’ve ever had to do anything harder in my whole life. But because it was me-” 

Astarion waits for him to finish the sentence, but he doesn’t. 

“But you did stop,” he says, eventually. It’s not a question. 

“Hestia,” Gale says, simply. “I had periods where I was almost clean. I'd come out of rehab, go back home, and for a few weeks I would be able to pretend again. I just couldn't stick to it. Until Mystra got pregnant again - equally accidentally, I don't know what we were doing wrong. She quite rightly said I'd have nothing to do with her if I didn't get clean, so I did. And here we are.” 

He presses his hand to his chest; to the place, under his coat and scarf, where the scar and the tattoo sit. Astarion wonders if they have something to do with this, or whether it's just a habit.

“Does Hestia know?” 

“Know what?” Gale blinks at him. “That she had an older sibling? That she's the only reason I'm still here? That her father was a drug addict?” 

“Okay, put like that I can see why you maybe haven't broached the topic,” Astarion agrees, wryly. “I don't know, I know nothing about children.” 

“Hestia likes you,” Gale says, getting to his feet and brushing himself off. “And she's quite hard to please, it turns out.”  

“The rest of the world can burn, as far as I'm concerned, as long as Hestia continues to hold me in high regard,” Astarion says, with only a hint of sarcasm, which makes Gale laugh. 

Astarion should not be as pleased about that as he is. He's never really cared what anybody thinks of him, let alone a child.

“Come on,” Gale says. “I believe I promised you dinner.” 

-

Gale changes into something more presentable than a sweaty old band t-shirt when he gets home, and gets started on being an actual gracious host, rather than a slightly tragic fuck-up. 

It's nice. Much as he loves Wyll and Halsin, having just Astarion in his kitchen, when they're not in the middle of a crisis, and there aren't cameras pointing at them, is very pleasant. Gale flicks through his records, wondering which ones will be to Astarion's taste. 

“Are you feeling jazzy?” He asks. 

Astarion makes a pained sound. 

“Gale, please never say that sentence, ever again.” 

Gale laughs. 

“Consider this a warning; if you don't express a preference, you're allowing me to subject you to whatever I'm in the mood for.” 

“Fine by me, I can always change it.” 

Gale pulls his Leon Bridges record out and sets it under the needle. Astarion comes to watch over his shoulder. 

“You have a - who am I kidding, of course you have a record player.” 

“Some music just sounds better on vinyl,” Gale says. “Leon is one of them. This album has something timeless about it. Do you want a drink?” 

The warm, smooth music fills the kitchen. Gale can feel himself relaxing into it already. 

“What are you having?” 

“Oh, I wasn't going to drink. Having tempted you out of your cave, the least I can do is drive you home.” 

Astarion huffs at him, leaning against the table with his arms crossed. 

“I have my oyster card, Gale. I'm a big boy. I can take the tube.” 

“Well, if you're that eager to see me under the influence, how could I decline?” Gale grins. “Now the real question is; red or white?” 

“Red,” Astarion says, immediately. “It is Christmas, after all.” 

As Gale is pouring him a glass, he says; 

“By the way, I might have bought Hestia a Christmas present.” 

“Oh dear,” Gale smiles. “You really are trying to usurp me as her favourite, aren't you?” 

“I wouldn't dare,” Astarion lies easily, eyeing Gale over his glass. “I just happened to be in Daunt’s the other day and they had a copy of The Nutcracker that had little buttons, with the music for each scene. It might be a bit young for her, though, so I wanted to check with you first.” 

Gale smiles at him. 

“It’s from you ; her favourite ballet tutor and adventurer extraordinaire. Whatever you got her, she would cherish it. In fact, I suspect she will be ecstatic.” 

“That's not the point,” Astarion says, huffily, “She's a perfectly capable reader, and I refuse to patronise her.” 

Gale agrees to vet it before Astarion gives it to her, and Astarion, as if to make up for his momentary softness, teases him mercilessly for having allowed her to hang pink tinsel on his tree despite it being utterly out of keeping with the rest of his decor. 

Gale hums along to the music as he starts laying out ingredients, and the conversation wanders over to different Christmas traditions. 

“We used to do Christmas on January 7th,” Astarion says, reflectively. 

“Halsin does too,” Gale agrees. “He’s not back until the 8th, I think.” 

“I suppose we’ll have to endeavour not to be attacked in the meantime.” 

Gale hums, swaying gently to the music. 

“He said he was going to bring me back some…” he pauses. “Kolyadka?” 

“Kolyadki,” Astarion corrects, the inflection in a slightly different place. “Rye cookies and cheese curd. He really was a rural boy - I don't think I've ever actually had any.” 

“That sounds like the kind of thing that could be unexpectedly delicious, or an acquired taste,” Gale considers. 

“I shall look forward to stealing the ones he brings you.” 

“You know he'd bring you some too, if you wanted them. Knowing Halsin, he probably will anyway.” 

The song changes to something a little more upbeat. Gale leans into it, twisting his hips. 

“What are you doing?” Astarion laughs. 

“The twist!” Gale grins at him. 

“That is not what the twist looks like.” 

“No, no, I learned this!” Gale puts the knife down to demonstrate. “You move your feet like so, and your hips like so - et voilà!” 

Astarion shakes his head, laughing. 

“You're lucky you're a better skater than you are a dancer.” 

“Skating is dancing!” Gale protests. “Like you'd be any better.” 

“I am better,” Astarion declares, hand to heart. 

“Are you, indeed? I don't appear to be seeing any proof of this statement.” 

“Well I don't know how to do whatever it is that you're doing, but if I did-”  

Gale laughs, holding his hands out. 

“You’ve never seen the Blues Brothers? Come on, I'll show you.” 

Astarion hesitates, just for a moment. Just for long enough that Gale realises that dancing in his kitchen is a very different situation to skating together. But then Astarion rolls his eyes, takes his hands, and begrudgingly allows Gale to teach him this one move. 

“Up on your toes,” Gale says, “Then you twist your feet one way and your knees the other, and kick.” 

Astarion picks it up almost immediately, but looks intensely uncomfortable doing it. Gale can't help but laugh. 

“What?” Astarion protests. “I'm doing what you told me!” 

“It's like watching a ballet dancer trying to do hip hop. You're too upright - you need to relax into it.” 

“I haven't had nearly enough wine for this,” Astarion lets him go. “I can't believe you convinced me to attempt your dad dancing.” 

“It's not dad dancing!” Gale protests, turning back to the vegetables. “Anyway, how do you feel about honey-roasted carrots?” 

“Extremely positively,” Astarion says. “Shall I get the honey for you?” 

Gale hadn't been entirely sure they'd have much to talk about, when they’re not skating and they don’t have Hestia to mediate. To his surprise and pleasure, however, the time flies by. Astarion is as sharp-tongued as always, but there's humour in it. Gale relaxes into the now-familiar back and forth of teasing and actually enjoys himself. 

When the record ends, he swaps it out for Paolo Nutini and sways along, singing to the bits he remembers the words for. 

“Grant my last request and just let me hold you
Don't shrug your shoulders,
lay down beside me,”

Gale leans into the little edge to it, to the deep, relaxed tone that has just an edge of something painful to it. 

“ Sure I can accept that we're going nowhere
But one last time let's go there,
lay down beside me, ” 

“Must you sing breakup songs?” Astarion sighs, eventually, tipping chopped potatoes into the bowl Gale has set out for him. 

“Any preferences for an alternative? I’m open to almost anything, although I’m afraid Frozen is off the table. One of the only outright lies I have ever told Hestia is that the soundtrack is not available on vinyl.” 

“I just don't want to listen to you wallowing all afternoon.” 

“Wallowing?” Gale blinks. “Oh, I'm not singing with Mystra in mind just because it's a song about the end of a relationship.” He smiles, almost amused. “God, if I was, I'd never be able to sing anything at all. You can find almost anything in any song, if you're looking hard enough. That's the joy and the heartbreak of music.”

Astarion says nothing to that. In the next chorus, though, Gale doesn't sing. 

“There's maybe two songs that I really do associate with particular moments, but that's all,” he says, when the song finishes. “One of them is a Taylor Swift song, too.” 

Astarion huffs a laugh at him. 

“Of course you're a swiftie.”

“I am a fan of pretty much all music,” Gale says. “I like to think I can appreciate anything, regardless of whether or not they're suited to my specific tastes. Although my tastes do tend to err towards the eclectic. My record collection in particular is a veritable smorgasbord of musical experimentation.” 

“So far you've been practically mainstream, darling,” Astarion leans against the counter, evidently finished. “Have you been holding out on me?” 

“Not everyone appreciates Mongolian rock metal,” Gale says, with an air of judiciousness. “Do you have any hilarious songs that remind you of exes?” 

“Oh, I don't have any,” Astarion shrugs. 

“Songs?” 

“Exes.” 

“Oh,” Gale blinks. “What, really ?” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I don't mean I’m a blushing virgin, Gale, I mean I'm not counting one night stands as ‘exes’. If I did, the playlist would be longer than we'd have time to listen to in a single evening.” 

“Hah,” Gale shakes his head. “Well, to each their own, I suppose. You know, every time I think we might be more similar than I'd given us credit for, we turn out to be polar opposites.” 

“I could have had a long-term relationship,” Astarion snipes, apparently offended. “I just didn't want to.” 

“As I said, to each their own,” Gale agrees. “Their loss, anyway.” 

Astarion blinks at him. 

“Well, yes, I mean of course I am, but…” he pauses. “I suppose I never really tried.” 

Gale looks up from chopping herbs for stuffing. 

Astarion is looking at him askance, like he's expecting Gale to say something judgemental. Gale says nothing; it seems like the kind of thing Astarion will either continue or move on from. 

“I don't have much to offer, really,” Astarion says, eventually. “Other than being excellent in bed, obviously.” 

Gale does frown then. 

“Of course you do.” 

Astarion's expression is hard to read. It occurs to Gale that it's entirely possible that nobody has ever told him this before. He puts the knife down and turns to look at him properly. 

“Astarion, I didn't just invite you over because it was preferable to being alone. Firstly, I'm perfectly at home in my own company. If I didn't genuinely enjoy yours, I wouldn't have bothered interrupting it. Secondly, I don't go out of my way to be polite, or out of pity, or whatever other misguided reasons you might have assumed. It’s a waste of time, as far as I'm concerned. I might not have the most expansive social circle, but it's at least in part by choice. My good opinion is hard to earn and even harder to maintain. You bear the rare accolade of having achieved both.” 

“Oh,” Astarion says. His expression has softened. It's usually so sharp; furrowed in concentration, or one eyebrow cocked, teasing. 

“Don't doubt yourself,” Gale says, turning back to his task. “You're a delight.” 

“Of course I am,” Astarion scoffs. But the tone of it is different. 

Gale lets him have it, going back to singing along. 

It's not the Christmas he'd been expecting. But it is, in its own way, really rather lovely. They're both several glasses down by the time dinner is finally ready, but it's worth the wait. They sit at one end of the dining table, Tara twisting around their legs and begging for ham. The sun has long since set, but neither of them are inclined to move. 

“I should have thought to get crackers,” Gale says, leaning back in his chair and swirling his wine in his glass. It's an exceptionally nice vintage. He was never going to have an excuse to drink it, otherwise, and Astarion is the kind of person to appreciate a bottle of something a little special. He had, in fact, been very pleased when Gale produced it. 

“We'd have had about six each,” Astarion points out. “They don't exactly do them for small parties.” 

“Maybe one of them would have had a good joke in it.” 

“By your standards, maybe.” 

“Evidently my wit is beyond your ken,” Gale grins. “More earwax than brain, or whatever Shakespeare said.” 

Astarion snorts. 

“Oh, you are drunk. I'm telling Amy you said ‘or whatever Shakespeare said’.” 

“Oh shush you,” Gale stretches. “I'm not drunk, anyway, just a tad tipsy. I was actually just thinking I could do with something a little stronger. I don't suppose I could persuade you to do something exquisite with my Raasay again, could I?”

“Oh, well, if you insist,” Astarion finishes his wine, and stands. “Same as last time, or something else?” 

“Surprise me,” Gale shrugs, getting to his feet and tidying their empty plates away. “The drinks trolley in the library is considerably less well-stocked than the bar upstairs, so you may have to get creative if you don't want to do the stairs.” 

“This place is like a tower,” Astarion says, following him out into the stairwell. “There's more floors than I can count and every time I think you can't have any more rooms tucked away, you somehow do!” 

“Ah,” Gale grins at him. “The library is extra special. I may have had some hand in the design.” 

“Oh?” Astarion sounds intrigued. “Should I be worried?” 

“Maybe,” Gale ducks under the stairwell, to the little bookshelf under the stairs. He grabs the one specific leather spine, and watches Astarion’s expression as the door clicks open. 

“You have a secret fucking library,” Astarion says, disbelievingly, “Behind a bookshelf?” 

“Welcome to my humble little patch of paradise,” Gale bows him in first, shutting the door behind them both. 

Astarion stops in the entryway. Gale can't help but be pleased by that response. The library is his own little universe. It's the only place that Hessie doesn't know about yet. He’ll show her when she's a little older, but for now it's where he keeps some of his less child-proof belongings. The walls are lined with floor to ceiling bookcases, fully stacked. The upright piano is built into the near wall, tucked into its little nook with the rug spread under it. Under the window he has his leather sofa and the drinks trolley, the window itself full of plants to give him a little more privacy from the outside world without cutting off his light. Right now, of course, there's no light from outside. Instead, Gale kneels by the hearth, and starts to build a fire. 

“This is both incredibly unexpected and so very you that I somehow feel that I shouldn't be surprised at all.” Astarion says, still staring around the room. 

“It wasn't here when I moved in,” Gale says, “There was a door opposite the kitchen door to a living room - but I'm not really a living room kind of person, so we filled in the doorway and put in the one under the stairs instead.” 

“It's so unnecessarily overdramatic,” Astarion says. “I adore it. Gale, I hope you realise you're never getting rid of me now. I'm going to live in this room forever.” 

Gale laughs, taking a match to his little pile of kindling. 

“In which case you'd better make yourself welcome with a drink,” he says. “Help yourself. If it's on the trolley, it's fair game.” 

It doesn't take long to start the fire. The room isn't too cold, of course - he wouldn't do that to the books or the piano. But it does add a little extra ambiance to the place, and for that he will undo a few shirt buttons. He doesn't have anything to hide from Astarion, anyway. He's already seen the tattoo. 

Astarion hands him a drink that is definitely a little different from the whisky sour. 

“Do I have to guess or are you going to give me the recipe?” He asks, settling into the corner of the sofa opposite Astarion. It's not a huge sofa, but there's enough space for the two of them to not be uncomfortably close. Astarion is lounging with his usual languid grace, holding his drink over the back of the sofa, one leg folded up on his lap and the other stretched out in front of him. 

“Guess first,” he says. “Given that you know what I had to work with, this should be easy.” 

Gale takes a sip. 

“Ginger beer,” he says, “Lime, mint…” 

“That's it,” Astarion nods. “A Moscow mule but made with whisky rather than vodka. I should have done it with an Irish whiskey but you didn't have any.” 

“If it's spelt with an ‘e’ it doesn't belong in this house,” Gale takes another sip and savours it, turning the flavours over on his tongue, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. 

Astarion shakes his head at him. 

“Are you one of those people who thinks Bourbon isn't a whiskey?” 

“Absolutely.” Gale agrees. “It isn't. I will happily debate you on the subject, should you have a valid argument to make.” 

“I couldn't give a shit either way,” Astarion grins at him over his glass as he takes a sip. “I don't care where it came from or what it's called, I care about the flavour profile.” 

“That is somehow equally snobbish, you do realise.” 

-

They get rowdier as the evening wears on. Gale has ridiculous opinions about almost everything, because of course he does, and Astarion thoroughly enjoys poking at him to see what on earth inspires such a random assortment of information to be stored in that brain of his. Gale softens when he drinks; he is always quick to smile, but there's something easier about it now. He smiles wider, actually showing his teeth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His laugh, usually a low, deep chuckle in the back of his throat, bursts out joyously now, filling the room. 

“But that's ridiculous!” Astarion is laughing. “You cannot-” 

“I can, in fact, do whatever I wish!” Gale declares. “You cannot stop me. I can, I shall, I will-” 

“I have no intention of stopping you! You can continue being ridiculous as long as you like, so long as you will admit to being ridiculous.”

“I will do no such thing,” Gale grins. He knows exactly what he's doing, and it mostly appears to be being stubborn for the fun of it. 

Astarion gives up. 

Gale is smiling at him, his cheeks flushed with wine or warmth, his eyes glittering with mirth. The fire keeps the room at a pleasant heat, but between that and the alcohol, Astarion is beginning to get uncomfortably warm. Finally, he caves, and rolls his sleeves up.  

“Do you want me to put the fire out?” Gale offers. 

“Nothing you haven't seen before,” Astarion shrugs. “Usually I'd have been quizzed about them by now. I don't know if I'm impressed or offended by your restraint.” 

“Oh, I do apologise,” Gale pretends to bow, as much as he can with his legs folded up on the sofa and a drink in his hand. “How dare I imply that you aren't the most fascinating person I've ever met.” 

“Well quite,” Astarion smirks. “I’m glad you recognise your transgressions, at least.” 

“I just don't like being asked about mine much,” Gale shrugs. “If you wanted me to know, it seemed like the kind of thing you'd do in your own time.” 

“How about we swap,” Astarion says, idly, as if Gale hadn't just handed him a card he can use to play closer to a mystery that has been nibbling at his curiosity for nearly two months now. “I tell you my tragic backstory, you tell me yours.” 

“Haven't you had enough of my ‘tragic backstory’ today?” Gale quips. 

“Not at all. If anything, you've made me curious. Why did you go to all the effort of getting a tattoo, and then refuse to show it off?” Astarion frowns, trying to puzzle it out. 

“It was for me,” Gale shrugs. “It's a long story. Do you want to hear it, or shall we move on to a more cheerful subject?” 

“I am curious,” Astarion says. “But only if you want to share.” 

“I don't mind telling you,” Gale says, leaning back against the sofa. “It's not the kind of thing I would tell any random stranger on the street, yes, but you're not that. Far from it, in fact; I hope you wouldn't be surprised to hear that I consider you a friend. You're the first person I've spent any significant time with in over a year, and the only one in much longer that I haven't been putting on a face for. You may be one of the few people who know exactly who I am, behind the name. I've come to trust you - and I trust you not to sell the story.” 

“Is it worth selling?” Astarion teases. 

“Perhaps,” Gale puts his fingertips on the scar. “This is self-inflicted.”

“What were you trying to do?” Astarion frowns. 

“Cut my heart out,” Gale says, simply. 

“I think you missed.” 

“Oh, definitely. But I was far beyond the reach of rational thought and my grasp of basic anatomy was somewhat compromised.” 

Astarion sits up, putting his glass down on the floor to get a proper look at the scar. He can see the jagged edge of it now. He can’t help but picture the slip of the knife against bone, and shudders. The fact that it was carved by Gale’s own hand makes it both more horrifying and more familiar, all in one breath. He had found the edge of a blade the only place he could feel, sometimes. For Gale, it seems, it had been exactly the opposite. And yet they meet in the middle. 

“Why your heart? Surely there are less arduous ways to approach self-immolation?” 

“I wasn't trying to kill myself,” Gale corrects. “The fact that it hadn’t occurred to me that it was a quite literally fatal attempt should tell you all you need to know about how insensible I was. I had identified my heart as the source of my maladies; despite how miserable it made us both, it was my heart that kept me pinned to Mystra, my heart that had broken once when we lost the baby, and again when she left me, and again, it seemed, every day since. I'd been escaping it by taking narcotics for so long it had stopped working. So instead, in my extremely non-logical state, I decided to try and remove the source of the problem.” 

“Jesus,” Astarion says. 

He leans forward, and presses his fingers to the scar tissue. Gale's breath hitches. It occurs to Astarion, through the haze of alcohol, that he probably should have asked. Gale, however, doesn't move away. 

“And the tattoo?”  

“Ownership,” Gale says, quietly. “A year after I finally got clean. I wanted to mark the occasion. To remember why I stopped; to put a new layer of meaning over it.” 

Astarion traces the line of the tattoo. It must have been painful to sit through; the needle had gone right over Gale's sternum, his ribcage. 

Astarion looks up, and finds Gale watching him. Those deep, soft eyes under his brow. There's no expectation in it; nothing but curiosity, really. And, maybe, something else. Or maybe that's just because Astarion wants there to be something else there. 

He sits back the moment the thought occurs to him. 

That is dangerous territory. 

“Well, we’re going to thoroughly disappoint anyone who wants to see either of us shirtless on TV,” he says.  

Gale chuckles. 

“At least we’ll have similar wardrobe considerations for the costume department.” 

Astarion looks down at his arms. He avoids looking at them, most of the time. He's no closer to understanding how he feels about them than he was when they were fresh. 

“Can I ask a question?” Gale says. “You don't have to answer.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Go on, then.” 

“If Cazador used your skates, on your back- what are the arms from?” 

Astarion stares at him, almost uncomprehending. 

“My back was Cazador's doing,” he says, slowly, turning his arms over to show Gale his wrists. “The arms were my own.” 

“Oh,” Gale’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. “I didn't realise.” 

“It was after,” Astarion says, quietly. “You know you have to take your blades out of your skates to sharpen them?” 

“Oof,” Gale winces. He takes Astarion's wrists in his hands. He's gentle about it, but not in an irritating way; not in a way that suggests that Astarion is in any way fragile. Just in understanding that he's human. The same way he handles Astarion on the ice; firm and sure and somehow gentle, all at once. The same way Astarion only thinks about when he’s very definitely alone. 

They do this all the time. But that is a necessity, and Astarion wears long sleeves and Gale wears those silly gloves that Astarion had suggested to protect his fingers. It's not like this. 

Gale runs the pad of his finger across one of the scars, light as a feather. 

“Do you have nerve damage?” He asks, quietly curious. “I can't feel the skin, here,” he taps the scar, “It’s weird, when I get hot or cold, that I have this little patch of nothingness. The tissue that I damaged underneath it aches sometimes though.” 

“I did wonder if your tattoo had hurt,” Astarion says. “Right on the bone, too.” 

“Some of it yes, some of it no,” Gale nods. 

Their hands are still resting between them, Gale’s fingers under his wrists, his palms warm. Those pianist's fingers, stretched out across Astarion's skin. 

“I've thought about having something done over mine,” Astarion says, thoughtfully. “But I can't think what. It's rather a rougher canvas for an artist to work with, too.” 

“There are specialists who work on scar tissue if you ever wanted to look into it,” Gale suggests. “Do you have any tattoos?” 

“I do not,” Astarion grins. “Sleeves would be a hell of a place to start, really.” 

Gale smiles back at him.

“I can see you doing it though. I don't know why, but you don't strike me as the kind of person to do anything by halves. You either fully commit, or don't bother to even begin.” 

“A fair character assessment.” 

“Takes one to know one,” Gale nods. At last, he lets go. Astarion puts his hands in his lap, fighting the urge to roll his sleeves down. 

Gale raises his glass. 

“Another?” 

“I'm not making it home tonight at this rate,” Astarion protests, drawing back up into himself. 

“I have a spare room,” Gale reminds him. “What do you say? We could be quite a party.” 

“How much of a party can you even have with two people?” Astarion grins. 

“Oh ye of little faith!” Gale protests. “Come now, weren't you listening to any of my torrid tales? I could be an entire party all by myself. You should be honoured to be invited to participate.” 

Astarion does laugh then, although when Gale's arrogance stopped being irritating and started being amusing he isn't exactly sure. 

“We haven't even been listening to music for the past… I don't know, however many hours it's been. You can't have a party without music.” 

“An excellent point, astutely made,” Gale hops to his feet, only wobbling slightly. “Go ahead, make your request. What should I play for you?” 

He is already at the little upright piano, lifting the cover from the keys, settling himself on the stool. He looks over his shoulder at Astarion, expectantly. 

For half a second, Astarion’s mind goes completely blank. Then he grins. 

“Sing me a song, piano man?” 

“Billy Joel?” Gale raises his eyebrows. “Cheerful.”

“Hey, you said to choose a song, you didn't say you'd be judging my choices. Unless you don't know it-” 

“Of course I know it! Are you offering to do the harmonica then?” Gale teases. 

“Absolutely not, I am tone deaf.” 

“Then we shall have to imagine it,” Gale raises his hands, and begins to play. 

His voice, when he sings, is as warm and deep and comforting as it is when he speaks. 

“He says, ‘Son, can you play me a memory?
I'm not really sure how it goes 
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete 
When I wore a younger man’s clothes.’”  

Astarion wanders across the room with his drink, to lean against the bookshelf and watch. Gale is concentrating, his attention wholly on his hands, so Astarion is free to watch him; the way he sways into the song, his fingers dancing over the keys, the way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips between verses. 

“Yes they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,
But it's better than drinking alone.”  

Gale misses a few notes here and there, his fingers slipping along the keys, but he still plays with the kind of finesse and showmanship that Astarion can appreciate. He stands, and listens, and just enjoys it. It doesn’t occur to him that he shouldn’t. 

“He was twenty four when he wrote that,” Gale says, when he finishes. “His debut. Can you imagine? Twenty four, and you write one of the most iconic songs of an entire generation.” 

“Weren't you seventeen?” Astarion says. Gale looks up at him, surprised. 

“Well, yes - but Golden is no Piano Man.” 

“The imagined harmonica was my favourite part,” Astarion says, quickly. Gale lets out a delighted little bark of a laugh. 

“Hard to please, aren't you?” 

“I don't know, play me something impressive, and we’ll see.” 

“I don't think I have anything impressive up my sleeve,” Gale admits. “I could probably figure most songs out as I go, but I haven't been working on anything-” he pauses. “Well, other than ABBA.” 

“You and fucking ABBA,” Astarion grins. “Which one?” 

“Slipping Through My Fingers,” Gale says, looking away. “It's not quite what I had in mind when I suggested we make this a little party.” 

“How,” Astarion says, consideringly, “Do you do the guitar solo on piano?” 

“Oh, easily enough,” Gale shrugs. “Anyway, I'm too drunk to do that to this poor old girl,” he pats the upright, fondly. “You're right though, we do need some music. And I'm feeling like dessert, too. Shall we go back to the kitchen?” 

-

Astarion wakes, the next morning - or potentially afternoon - with a headache the size of a small concussion and his face pressed into an unfamiliar-smelling pillow. 

He opens his eyes with a groan, and tries to figure out where he is. 

The bed is a double, which his very definitely is not. The lights are off, and the ceiling appears to be a glittering constellation of stars. He stares at it, confused, for several moments, before he realises there are LEDs drilled into the ceiling. 

The rest of the room is almost completely bare. 

It is, in fact, Gale's bedroom. Thankfully, Gale does not appear to be in it. Astarion is, however, wearing some very nice pyjamas that definitely aren't his own. Well, ‘nice’ only as in comfortable. They aren't exactly stylish. 

Astarion crawls out from under the duvet and goes in hunt of the ensuite. 

Apparently he'd found it last night too, because his phone is on the floor in there. He grabs it, and discovers that it is not only boxing day, but two in the afternoon on boxing day. What fucking time they went to bed, he has no idea. He has two missed calls and a series of increasingly worried texts from Karlach, but nothing else. 

He texts her back first. 

Bitchtits: I'm fine I'm fine stop panicking 

Yourmotherfuckingmother: THANK FUCKING GOD 
Yourmotherfuckingmother: don't you DARE do that to me again 
Yourmotherfuckingmother: what happened?? Where were you?? 

Bitchtits: it's a long story 

Yourmotherfuckingmother: well good for you I've got all fucking night 

Bitchtits: Gale invited me over for Christmas and we got drunk together 

Yourmotherfuckingmother: I take it all back. Stop texting me, go back to doing… whatever you were doing 
Yourmotherfuckingmother: Gale? 

Bitchtits: ha ha 
Bitchtits: at least if i’d got laid the hangover would have been worth it 
Bitchtits: i need to shower and drink about six litres of bleach, I'll text you later 

-

Astarion Ancunin: where the fuck are you? 
Astarion Ancunin: Gale, this isn't funny 
Astarion Ancunin: You can't abandon me in your house, I'll steal all your good alcohol 
Astarion Ancunin: GALE. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?? 

-

Astarion Ancunin: so fun question @everyone 
Astarion Ancunin: anyone know where Gale is? 

AmyPR: what do you mean? 

Astarion Ancunin: I mean I've fucking lost him?? In his own fucking house?? 

AmyPR: Why are you at Gale's house?? 

Astarion Ancunin: we ran into each other at the rink yesterday, he bullied me into coming back for Christmas dinner 
Astarion Ancunin: but I just woke up and having gone up and down his four fucking flights of stairs too many fucking times I still can't fucking find him 

AmyPR: you just woke up? At 2pm? 

Astarion Ancunin: there may have been alcohol involved 

Wyll Ravengard: Ah, did he drink you under the table? 

Astarion Ancunin: If it was a competition, we both lost. 
Astarion Ancunin: his cat is shouting at me and I don't know where her food is 

Gale Dekarios: hello 
Gale Dekarios: sorry, I am awake 
Gale Dekarios: unfortunately I'm not entirely sure where I am 

Astarion Ancunin: Gale what the actual fuck 

Gale Dekarios: Tara’s food is under the sink 

Astarion Ancunin: just scream, I'll use it as a siren to track you down 

Gale Dekarios: about that 
Gale Dekarios: I appear to have lost my voice 

AmyPR: GALE 
AmyPR: Minthara is going to be so pissed 

Gale Dekarios: :( 
Gale Dekarios: please don't shout at me I have a headache 

AmyPR: I’M NOT SHOUTING AT YOU WE ARE COMMUNICATING IN A WRITTEN FORMAT

Astarion Ancunin: how do you not know where you are?? 

Gale Dekarios: it's dark 

Astarion Ancunin: does your phone not have a torch?? 

Gale Dekarios: can't find my phone 

Astarion Ancunin: YOU ARE TEXTING ME FROM YOUR PHONE 

Gale Dekarios: oh yes! 
Gale Dekarios: oh I'm in the cinema 

Astarion Ancunin: and where the fuck is that??? 

Wyll Ravengard: Third floor, next to the second bathroom. 

Chapter Text

Gale hasn't entirely lost his voice, thankfully. He's a little hoarse, and there's no oomph to it, but they can at least communicate passably well. 

After managing to extract Gale from the sofa in the cinema room, after they've had coffee and bacon sandwiches and paracetamol and are both feeling somewhat more human, Astarion finally gives in and asks; 

“How much of last night do you remember?” 

Gale grimaces at him over his third cup of coffee. The sand tray Astarion had spotted on the coffee cart turns out to be for a specific method of brewing coffee that is Turkish. Drinking it is like being punched in the sinuses. It's doing wonders for his sobriety, though not for his memory. 

“Very little. I think I remember setting the Christmas pudding on fire?” 

“The first time or the second?”

Gale puts his head on the table and makes the kind of sound Astarion will now be stuck thinking about him making. 

“I have a horrible, horrible feeling about your camera reel.”

-

Karlach Cliffgate: well 
Karlach Cliffgate: who knew Gale Dekarios could do such a good Céline Dion cover? 
Karlach Cliffgate: although if he ever decides to record it, perhaps he could do so with his trousers on 
Karlach Cliffgate: and not on his kitchen table 

Astarion Ancunin: he's making me delete them off my phone 
Astarion Ancunin: I promised I would, I did not promise I wouldn't hoard them somewhere else for future blackmail purposes 
Astarion Ancunin: although if you show anyone else needless to say you will be hung, drawn and quartered 

Karlach Cliffgate: oh god, the tabloids would have a field day 
Karlach Cliffgate: why doesn't he have his trousers on? 

Astarion Ancunin: no fucking clue 
Astarion Ancunin: neither of us remember this happening 

Karlach Cliffgate: lol 
Karlach Cliffgate: you really did have a rager, then 
Karlach Cliffgate: seems like his reputation is earned, after all 

Astarion Ancunin: It was only alcohol. Nothing else. 
Astarion Ancunin: He's been clean since Hestia was born and he's keeping it that way. 

Karlach Cliffgate: uhoh, I got the full stops. Not something I should joke about? 

Astarion Ancunin: we don't joke about my scars

Karlach Cliffgate: fair 
Karlach Cliffgate: my bad
Karlach Cliffgate: I am gonna tease you about being protective of him tho 

Astarion Ancunin: oh fuck off 

-

Astarion Ancunin sent a video 

Gale Dekarios: ASTARION! 
Gale Dekarios: You promised you'd delete them!

Astarion Ancunin: And I have 
Astarion Ancunin: my finger just slipped and hit the send button by accident instead of the delete button 

Gale Dekarios: I don't believe that for a second. 

AmyPR: no offence Gale but why the fuck do you know the official vengaboys choreography?? 

Gale Dekarios sent a video 

Astarion Ancunin: somehow it's funnier watching you do this with Hestia and her absolutely slaying you at it than the drunk version 

Gale Dekarios: I don't think this will do as well on Instagram as your skating videos do. 

Astarion Ancunin: That's because it isn't a thirst trap, darling 

AmyPR: We cannot put this on Instagram. 

Gale Dekarios: Jesus Christ Amy, I was joking! Nobody needs to see this. 

Wyll Ravengard: When you said you and Hessie were learning to dance, Gale, this is not what I was picturing. 

Gale Dekarios: I don't know why the video for how to learn this isn't age-protected by YouTube. 

Wyll Ravengard: But the lyrics are so subtle. So open to interpretation. 

Gale Dekarios: She's seven, Wyll, she thinks ‘I want you in my room’ means they're reading bedtime stories. 

Astarion Ancunin sent a video 

Astarion Ancunin: whoops! Sorry Gale 
Astarion Ancunin: can't believe it happened again, what are the chances? 

Wyll Ravengard: Damn, Gale. Bonnie Tyler would be proud 

AmyPR: If I tell Minthara that you lost your voice doing Total Eclipse of the Heart for an audience of one she will actually murder you 

Gale Dekarios: She'll have to catch me before I murder Astarion first. 

AmyPR: This is supposed to be a work chat. 

Astarion Ancunin: I think Wyll is the only one of us with a normal job 

-

Gale is only really a little bit grumpy at him. Most of the videos are actually of Astarion's feet, and all that can be heard in the background is them laughing. 

“I would thank you for making it a Christmas worth remembering,” Gale says, ruefully, “If I could, in fact, remember any of it.” 

“By the way, I used your shower,” Astarion says. “Why the fuck do you ever shower at the rink when you have that in your house?” 

“It's quicker,” Gale says. “And I don't subject Halsin to my post-skating funk.”  

“Well I'm going to subject him to mine at least once a week now,” Astarion says. “You're not hoarding that thing to yourself.” 

Gale laughs, but doesn't protest, which Astarion decides to take as permission. 

“Also don't think I haven't noticed that you stole my pyjamas,” Gale says. “You're lucky I'm a magnanimous host.” 

“I actually can't find my clothes,” Astarion confesses. “I thought they'd be in the bathroom, but they very much aren't, and I did a whole sweep of the house before I found you.” 

Gale frowns, squinting at his coffee as if trying to remember something. 

“I wonder if you left them in the cinema with me?” 

Astarion stops breathing for just a second. 

“Why would I have given you my clothes?” 

“I think… you wanted to shower… but you found the cinema instead of the bathroom…” he gives up. “Fuck me, I haven't been this hungover in years.” 

“Gale,” Astarion says, slowly. “I didn't… we didn't…”

Gale blinks at him, confused. 

“Didn't… what?” Then he realises. “Oh, no! God no. Don't worry, nothing like that.” 

“Oh thank God,” Astarion closes his eyes. “You nearly gave me a heart attack, Gale, Jesus.” 

“Oi,” Gale is grinning. “Don't be rude, I'm a catch.” 

Astarion snorts. 

“For someone else, darling. You're far too much the ‘devoted to your one true love’ type for me.” 

“We are very different people,” Gale agrees. “Although I would hesitate to ascribe any real weight to ‘true love' as a concept, the number of my songs that dwell on the subject aside. I would prefer to believe that Mystra was not my only chance at a happy and successful partnership. Especially given how… proactive my role in ending it was.”

Astarion frowns at him. 

“Gale, I know very little about your divorce, but I now know a lot more about you, and I'm pretty damn sure it was not you that fucked that marriage up.” 

Gale looks up at him, expression softening. 

“Thank you, Astarion.” 

As if summoned by the mention of her own name, his phone suddenly rings. They both jump, the loud noise rattling through sore heads. Gale grabs it without even looking. 

“Hello?” He coughs, and tries to raise his voice. “Mystra? Sorry, you’ll have to turn your volume up.” 

Whatever she says, it has him sitting up straighter. The hand not holding the phone clenches on the table. 

“I didn't think you were going to call today.” 

A pause, then. 

“Yes I know it's Christmas! I had plans!” 

Another pause. 

“I organise my entire life around Hestia, Mystra. You know I do. I didn't pick up the phone this morning because I wasn't expecting a call, and I do actually do things with my life other than sitting around waiting for you to call me.” 

Astarion blinks. He hadn't expected Gale to get sharp with her. He's almost impressed. 

“You are the one who said I wasn't welcome anymore. If you've changed your mind and Hestia wants me there, I will be there.” 

A pause.

“Alright, but you’ll have to give me time. Halsin's on holiday, I'll have to get a taxi-” 

Whatever Mystra says in response, Astarion can hear the tone of it; she is not pleased. 

“He has a family too, Mystra, I'm not going to stand in the way of someone else's Christmas just because my own is a mess.” 

The voice on the other end sharpens. Gale's expression changes. 

“If you try and lecture me on getting too close to my employees I will hang up on you in disgust.” 

A pause. 

“Then bring her here, Mystra. Unless you have a better idea?” 

He hangs up. The phone gets dropped, unceremoniously, on the table. Gale turns away. 

“Hestia?” Astarion prompts. 

“First Christmas separated,” Gale says, shortly. “She did okay yesterday, but the rest of the family are leaving now and she wanted me to come back.” 

Astarion winces. 

“Fuck. Okay. How long do we have?” 

“About ten minutes,” Gale winces. “Sorry, I didn't want to be too far from them. I need to shower and do my teeth- if I give you the key, will you let them in if they turn up before I'm done?” 

Astarion nods. 

What exactly Mystra will make of him answering the door in Gale’s pyjamas, he has no idea. If nothing else, it might be funny.

In the end, though, Gale is back downstairs and pacing restless circles round the hallway when the doorbell goes. He jumps to open it, and Hestia throws herself into his arms. 

“Daddy!” 

Astarion watches, quietly, from the kitchen doorway. This is not a scene he has been invited to, after all. 

Mystra catches sight of him hovering, and narrows her eyes at him. He raises his mug in greeting, keeping his expression carefully blank.

“I didn't know you had company,” Mystra says, acerbically. 

“Yes,” Gale says, and then apparently gives up on his voice for now. He's sitting cross-legged on his front step, Hestia curled up in his lap, head tucked under his chin. She has apparently cried herself hoarse, because all she is doing now is hiccuping. 

“Gale treated me to a truly spectacular Christmas dinner,” Astarion drawls. 

It does and does not have the intended effect. For just a moment, something other than cool detachment flickers across Mystra's expression. But unfortunately, Hessie also looks up and notices him for the first time. 

“Were you having fun without me?” She asks, sadly. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Gale strokes her hair. “You know I still have a life to live when we're not hanging out together. I would have loved to spend Christmas with you, but we can't do that anymore.” 

“What happened to your voice?” Hestia curls her fingers into the front of his jumper. 

“Too much singing, not enough looking after it properly. I’m alright, I promise. It sounds worse than it is.” 

“I want you to come home,” she says, tearfully. “I just want it to all be okay again.” 

“Oh, Hestia,” Gale holds her close, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry.” 

“I want to stay,” Hestia says, determinedly. “I want to do Christmas with you now. Not tomorrow. It's not real Christmas anyway. We can do it whenever we want. You said so.” 

“I did say that,” Gale agrees. “But have you asked your mother if that's okay?” 

Hestia buries her head in his shoulder and says something into his shirt. 

“What was that, Hessie? I can't hear you.”

“Don't want to.” Hessie says, only slightly louder. 

“The worst she can say is no,” Gale says, gently. “And then you can see me tomorrow, like we promised.” 

“Don't you want me to be here?” Hessie's bottom lip is wobbling. 

“Of course I do!” Gale promises. “Hestia, I would fly halfway around the world if you wanted me to. If I had been shot into orbit on a rocket and you wanted to see me, I would find a way to get back to earth. I will always, always, always make time for you. Never doubt that. But I'm not the only person who wants to spend time with you. Your mother loves you very much too, so if we want to make plans, we have to ask her if those plans are okay with her too, don't we? So we don't hurt her feelings or make her feel like we don't want to spend time with her too.” 

“I want to spend time with both of you!” Hestia sniffles. “I don't understand.” 

“I know. I know.” 

Astarion glares at Mystra over their heads. She appears, as always, almost entirely unmoved. Only mildly irritated. 

“Come on, we practised this. You know how to ask nicely,” Gale is saying. 

Hestia climbs out of his lap and turns to Mystra. 

“Could I please stay with daddy today, instead of tomorrow?” 

Astarion narrows his eyes at Mystra. In some detail, he imagines the very many ways he could torture her if she refuses. It's quite gratifying. Not that she can hear, of course, but hopefully she'll get the general gist of what he's thinking. 

In truth, she barely spares him a glance. 

“Fine,” she says, with a sigh. “But you have to come back a day earlier too, then.” 

In moments, it's all rearranged. Gale takes Hestia by the hand and leads her into the house. 

Astarion gets to do the honours of shutting the door in Mystra's face. It is immensely satisfying, but not as satisfying as Hestia then shyly asking if she can give him a Christmas hug too. 

“Are you having a pyjama day?” She asks, as he kneels and acquiesces. “You can have as many hugs as you need if you're having a pyjama day.” 

“What's a pyjama day?” 

“When everything is too big and stressful so you stay in your pyjamas and hide from the world under blankets and watch films and eat good food!” Hestia says, like this is self-explanatory. 

“Oh. That sounds good, actually.” 

“Yay!” Hessie throws her hands in the air. “Pyjama day! Although you do have daddy's pyjamas on. Don't you have your own?” 

“Astarion came for a sleepover and forgot to pack his pyjamas,” Gale says, easily. “If you put your pyjamas on we can pretend we've all time-travelled back to Christmas morning and we can open your presents.” 

“Presents!” Hessie gasps. “I have presents?” 

“Santa must have delivered a few here by mistake,” Gale smiles. 

“Not by mistake,” Hestia corrects. “I live here too. It's complicated, it's okay that he didn't properly understand. I'm sure he was doing his best.” 

Astarion gets the book out and puts it under the tree while Gale is upstairs helping Hestia put her pyjamas on. Or, as it transpires, trying to decide which pair of pyjamas to wear. They end up with both, apparently; when Hestia comes charging back down the stairs and barrels into him she’s got a Christmas top on and rainbow bottoms. And, of course, the unicorn shaped slippers. 

“Oof,” Astarion says, detaching her from his shoulder. “Hestia, please be gentle with me, I am feeling fragile today.” 

“Sorry,” Hestia droops. 

“That's why we ask,” Gale reminds her, gently. “Consent is important. Even when we know someone well and they usually say yes, they might need more kindness and consideration sometimes. Okay?” 

“I think we both do,” Astarion points out. “Pyjama days for everyone, please.” 

Hestia has a way of taking up all the space in the room, but Astarion doesn't mind overmuch. He's not really a children person, but Hestia isn't just any child. She's Gale's little hurricane. The exception that proves the rule. 

She adores the book. Even with his head throbbing, Astarion appreciates her jumping up and down with excitement, then laying it out on the table to run her fingers over the gold foiling on the front cover. 

Then she realises that she hadn't got Astarion anything for Christmas and has a small crisis. 

“I didn't know!” She despairs. “I will get you more presents for your birthday. The best presents ever. When's your birthday?” 

“I don't need a Christmas present, Hestia,” Astarion tells her, firmly. “I didn't buy you something because I wanted a present back, I bought you something because I thought you'd like it.” 

Hestia grins at him. Then she frowns.

“Mummy says you're not nice,” she says, “Is she lying?” 

Gale pulls a face behind her; Astarion suspects Mystra will be hearing about that later. 

“I am not always nice,” Astarion allows. “I am nice to you because you are nice to me.” 

“Are you nice to daddy?” 

“I try to be.” 

“Okay,” Hestia grins. “Then I don't mind if you're not nice to other people. As long as you're only a little bit not nice and not very not nice. But I don't think you can be very not nice, because you bought me a musical ballet book.” 

“Well,” Gale puts in. “I did actually get Astarion a Christmas present, so if you want, Hestia, it can be from both of us.” 

“Did you?” Astarion looks up at him, surprised. “I didn't get you anything.” 

“As you said, we do not give gifts in some kind of economy of exchange. I simply thought that you would like it.” 

He hands Astarion a card. 

“Ooh,” Hestia tries to climb into his lap to see what it is. “What did we get you?”

Between the folds of the card, there's a book token. 

Astarion looks at it, and tries to figure out what to say. 

“Other than myself, you are the most voracious reader I have ever known.” Gale explains, “Admirable as your support of the library services is, I thought you might like to make an exception; to purchase some of your favourites, perhaps; or to pursue a more niche interest than the public services allow us to indulge. Whatever strikes your fancy, I suppose. The joy of a good bookshop is often as much in the browsing as the purchasing.” 

The amount isn't printed on the card. Presumably he'll have to go and ask at a bookshop to figure out exactly how generous a present this is. 

“I never buy books,” he admits. “It seems… frivolous. There was always something more important.” 

“Well, it seems to me that you're due a bit of frivolity. I hope you’ll allow me to be the enabler.” 

It's such a simple thing. Such a simple, ordinary thing. But he and Karlach hadn't ever done Christmas. They certainly hadn't bothered with cards, and usually buying each other drinks was as close as they got to presents. 

Not that it mattered, much. They'd done stock cards at the firm, usually, and he'd get twenty to thirty cards that didn't actually have his name on them; only the name of who they were from. He wouldn't even bother to take them home. They just got shoved in the recycling. 

But Gale has written him a Christmas card. A nice one, too. A snowscape, with skaters in a rink; knowing Gale, bought specifically for him, rather than as part of a value pack. It has fucking glitter on it. It's the kind of card that nobody has ever bothered to get him before.

In Gale's slightly scatty handwriting, it says; 

‘Astarion, 

Merry Christmas. Thank you for being one of the better parts of our 2023 and here's to a very successful 2024!

Gale, Hestia and Tara’ 

He'd even drawn a little paw print next to Tara’s name. 

Astarion closes it, quickly, before the sudden sting in his eyes gets any stronger. 

“Thank you.” 

Astarion is aware he hadn't managed to keep the softness out of that. Gale glances up at him; for a moment, their eyes meet. 

“I don't even know where to start,” Astarion says, looking away. 

“Well, if you need help spending it, I can always be persuaded to go book shopping,” Gale smiles. 

Astarion makes a grasp for the safety of his usual acerbic wit. 

“Careful, Gale. That almost sounds like a date.” 

“Barely,” Gale protests. “I'm a traditionalist, if I was going to invite you on a date there would be wine and dinner involved.”

“Oh, I'll tell Wyll and Halsin we’re unsuspectingly part of the world's most vanilla polycule.” 

“Next time we do dinner I'll make sure to light some candles,” Gale agrees, a tease in his smile. 

“What's a poly…cue?” Hestia asks, curiously. 

“Polycule,” Gale corrects, with a yawn. “Remember how I said some people only love one person at a time, and some people love more than one person at the same time and their families look a little different to ours?” 

“Oh,” Hestia nods. “Do you and your friends have adult sleepovers too?” 

Gale’s expression goes through a series of emotions that Astarion wishes he'd managed to capture on camera. He sticks his nose back in his coffee cup and tries not to laugh too obviously. 

“Um. No, no we don't. Astarion was joking.” 

“Oh,” Hestia looks disappointed for half a moment, but recovers her cheer astonishingly quickly. “Can we watch a film?” 

“I'm going to have to go home eventually,” Astarion realises. “I didn't see the cat yesterday, I want to make sure it's okay.” 

“I’ll be alright to drive you in an hour or two,” Gale suggests. “You could stay for a film first.” 

“Please!” Hestia turns her huge, brown eyes on Astarion. “Please stay and watch a film with us!” 

Astarion sighs. 

“It will entirely depend on which film you're suggesting.” 

This, it turns out, is absolute bollocks. He tries vetoing The Muppet Christmas Carol on multiple fronts and gets shouted down thoroughly every time, because he makes the mistake of admitting to never having seen it, and both Gale and Hestia agree that this is a travesty. Given that Gale is determined to correct said travesty with extremely buttery home-made popcorn and heated blankets, Astarion doesn't bother to complain. 

Hestia is a surprisingly quiet audience. She sings along, and grabs Astarion's arm with a shriek the first time Marley and Marley turn up, but other than that, she's so glued to the screen that she sits as still as stone. 

“I can't believe you approve of The Muppets taking hold of the legendary work of Charles Dickens like this,” Astarion murmurs to Gale, over Hestia's shoulder.

“The man was paid by the word,” Gale reminds him. “If you'd shown him the contract I bet he'd have signed it off in triplicate.” 

“That's not how that works,” Astarion begins to protest, but then Hestia shushes him for talking during the film. “But that's half the fun!”  

“It is extremely disrespectful to the time and effort that Gonzo put into this role,” Hestia says, seriously. 

“We don't have to be as strict when it's not live, Hestia,” Gale reminds her, amused. 

Although they do both shut up anyway. 

By the end, Gale has fallen asleep. And Astarion, because he is who he is, helps Hestia find a pen. They only get halfway through drawing Gale a pair of glasses before he wakes up and is so amused by their ploy that he forgets to even pretend to be irritated. 

And without quite meaning to, Astarion stays until after Hestia's bedtime. Gale had thrown his clothes in the wash before they started the film, and by the time they've had dinner and read Hestia a bedtime story, they're clean and dry. They had probably been dry before that, but Hestia had insisted that they read her new book, and that Astarion had to help her press all the buttons and name the pieces of music. 

When she finally falls asleep, Astarion changes, and gives Gale his pyjamas back, and realises that he's really run out of reasons to stay in the same moment that he realises he's been looking for them. 

“I'm sorry I can't give you a lift,” Gale apologises. 

“I could have left at any point before Hestia went to bed,” Astarion points out, shrugging his coat on. 

“I don't think she'd have let you,” Gale says, ruefully. He's leaning on the kitchen door frame as Astarion puts his boots on, still looking - and sounding - slightly worse for wear. They'd managed to wash the pen off very easily, but his hair is still wildly dishevelled, and he'd never rolled his sleeves back down after cooking dinner. He's thrown his dressing gown on over his rumpled shirt and jeans, the top button undone to reveal his scar and tattoo; the story that he'd trusted Astarion with. 

Astarion looks away. 

“To think, I used to be able to out-stubborn a seasoned Olympic coach, and I meet my match in a seven-year-old,” he sighs. “Although she is your seven-year-old, so I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised.” 

“She's got you wrapped around her little finger and you know it,” Gale is smiling at him. 

“I do,” Astarion agrees. A thought occurs to him, suddenly. “Gale - when we start filming, and every week might be the last time we skate together-” he stops. 

“I will still invite you to dinner and on our weekend adventures with Hestia,” Gale fills in. “And I do believe I made that very solemn and hallowed promise to take you book shopping.” 

“Good,” Astarion nods, sharply. “I'll hold you to that, you know.” 

“Please do,” Gale nods back. “Have a safe journey home, Astarion. Text me when you get back.” 

“I will.” Astarion cracks the door open, then turns back. “And thank you.” 

Then he slips out the door and down the street. 

Behind the closed door, still standing in the kitchen doorway, Gale drops his head back against the wall and sighs at himself. 

-

Minthara does not take kindly to Gale texting her to delay their next appointment. Especially considering that he delays it in order to go and see his doctor. 

He knows that he should have done it the moment he woke up with his throat aching, but usually all the caution amounts to nothing. He’d taken all his vitamins and medication and stayed hydrated and eaten well and, where possible, he and Hestia had had quiet time so he could rest his voice. They’d only had a few days together before she had to go back to Mystra. Not wanting to worry her had won out over being cautious. 

He pays the price when Minthara turns up at the hospital. 

“Chest scans!” She hisses, furious. How she managed to figure out where he’d been, he has no idea. It’s probably a good thing that Gale has just been banned from speaking for a little while, because his first thought is that this is supposed to be a private appointment. The doctor had shut the bloody door behind her when she went to go and get some paperwork. 

He pulls out his phone and texts her, just because it’s easier. 

Gale Dekarios: I have been told not to speak. 

“That’s fine,” Minthara growls. “I don’t need you to speak, I need you to listen. Or is that also impossible?” 

Gale Dekarios: Usually a conversation is two-sided. 

Thankfully, at that moment, the doctor reappears. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I am going to have to ask you to leave. Unless you are next of kin and have my patient’s permission to be here?”

Gale shakes his head. 

“His ability to speak is my business,” Minthara snaps. “I am his manager.” 

“Unless you are next of kin, you can find out the results of these tests when we are finished,” The doctor says, neatly. “Please excuse yourself, before I have to call security.” 

Minthara is, perhaps understandably, the most upset about it. Wyll, having seen the videos, thinks it’s hilarious. Astarion, apparently, is unbothered. 

AmyPR: How long are you not allowed to use your voice for? 

Gale Dekarios: A week, at first. We’ll review it based on the results of the chest scans and bloodwork. 

Astarion Ancunin: Well, this is going to be the quietest week I’ve had in quite some time. 

Jennevelle Hallowleaf: Good thing we’d already got most of the interviews and camera prep done. We might have to squash more into next week than we usually would, though. 

It does make skating… interesting. 

For the first day, Astarion thinks it's funny. Actually, he thinks it's hilarious. Especially because Jen has decided they can make a story out of it, so they have to put up with the cameras as well. 

About three hundred times that day, Astarion finds a way to mock him; 

“Hey Gale, do you think- oh, nevermind! Sorry darling, completely slipped my mind for a moment there.” 

“Gale, honestly, what are you doing? That was a rhetorical question, thankfully for you.” 

“Nod for yes, shake for no. Goodness me, isn't that refreshing? We should try this way of training more often, Gale.” 

At one point, Gale stumbles while skating Astarion’s shadow, and Astarion says; 

“Gale, why aren't you- oh, did you fall over? You're usually so loud about it I didn't notice!” 

Gale makes a rude gesture at him. Even laughing, though, Astarion skates back across the ice to help pick him up. 

“Not too badly bruised, are you?” 

Gale shakes his head. 

“Good. I'm going to make you do that about twenty more times while you can't protest too much.” 

Gale rolls his eyes. 

“Being robbed of your ability to talk hasn't reduced your inclination to sass me, I see,” Astarion grins. 

It makes the day less tedious than it could have been. 

The second day, however, the novelty and humour both begin to wear off. 

“I do not understand what you are not understanding,” Astarion snaps, about two hours into attempting to teach Gale a step sequence which neither of them would usually consider that hard. 

Equally irritated, Gale resorts to trying to convey meaning through hand signals, and holds up his finger. 

“One,” Astarion guesses. “Oh, first word? No, Gale, for the love of God, we are NOT resorting to charades. This is enough of a waste of time already.” 

Gale throws his arms in the air, and skates towards the exit. 

“Where are you going?” Astarion yells after him. “You can't just leave because it isn't going well!” 

When have I ever done that? Gale thinks, irritated, grabbing his phone and skating back towards Astarion, waving it at him. 

“Oh,” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Alright, no need to be so aggressive about it.” 

Gale pulls up his notes app; 

It's the edge transitions on the turn.  

Astarion nods, holding his hand out for the phone. 

“Right, give me that and show me what you're doing. Slowly.” 

Another hour, several notes pages and a whole lot of frustration later, they're finally getting somewhere. 

Astarion sighs through his nose when Gale finally gets his feet in the right place. 

“For the sake of our continued sanity, Gale, is there anything you can do to get your voice back sooner?” 

Astarion stands and stares at him, arms crossed, as he types. And, when he turns the phone around to show him, huffs an exasperated sigh when he reads it. 

I have a voice, Gale types. I'm just not allowed to use it. 

“Thank you for the entirely unnecessary clarification and for not answering the question at all.” 

It is equally frustrating for me. 

“I somehow doubt that.” 

It really shouldn't be flattering, but Gale hadn't actually expected Astarion to be pissed off by his inability to speak. Or, it transpires, their inability to communicate without having to stop what they're doing for Gale to type. They're spending a lot more time standing around on the ice than they did before Christmas. Hopefully, after the New Year, he’ll get the all clear. Until then, he will enjoy how much Astarion evidently misses him talking. Whether or not he's willing to admit it is another question entirely, but not one that Gale needs answering. 

I miss making fun of you too.

“You're doing just fine at winding me up without your voice,” Astarion says acerbically. “Remind me when you’re seeing your doctor?” 

Two days. 

“Two days too long,” Astarion mutters, and turns to skate away. “Come on, we’re doing that again.” 

Astarion Ancunin: I'm going to kill either him or myself by the end of the week 

Karlach Cliffgate: I never thought you'd admit that his silence is more annoying than his talking 

Astarion Ancunin: his incessant chatter doesn't interrupt his ability to skate 
Astarion Ancunin: plus I can just tune it out at this point 

The third day is equally irritating, though for an entirely different reason. Mainly that Astarion has decided that neither of them will survive another day of learning something intricate without bloody killing each other (Gale, silently, agrees), and so he just has Gale doing basic exercises. Control exercises, speed exercises, warm-up stuff. All. Damn. Day. It would be boring even before Astarion realises that Gale is humming along to his playlist under his breath. 

“Stop that!” He yells, skating over the ice to tell him off up close. “You are not supposed to be using your voice at all!” 

Gale, who hadn't even noticed he was doing it, grimaces at him. 

“Don't look at me like that. If you can't follow basic instructions I will turn the music off and you will have to skate in silence.” Gale must look truly horrified at that prospect, because Astarion says; “Exactly.” 

Unfortunately, Gale isn't always entirely paying attention to what he's doing with his voice when he's trying to practise transitions. The second time Astarion catches him humming, he threatens him again. The third time, he turns the music off. Gale goes for his phone. 

“No!” Astarion stands on his toe picks to hold it as high in the air above Gale's head as he possibly can. “I said no humming, or no music.” 

Gale doesn't want it for music, but can't think of a way to express that. Instead, he tries at first to stand on his toe picks to grab at the phone. Despite the fact that they're roughly the same height, Astarion is longer-limbed than him. Without literally shoving him up against the barrier, Gale has no hope of grabbing it. He gives up on that method. Instead, he pokes Astarion, hard, in the side. 

Astarion lets the phone go with a little gasp of surprise. It hits Gale in the shoulder on its way down. He manages to catch it, and skates off with his prize at speed. 

“You little shit!” Astarion shrieks, half shocked and half infuriated. Gale jumps straight over the far side of the rink barrier with it. He can hear Astarion's skates behind him, but far enough that he has time. He darts through the gateway without stopping for his skate-guards, and beelines for the only corner of the changing room not visible from the doorway. 

As he runs, he's trying to unlock his phone. Behind him, Astarion yells; 

“This is the stupidest way to blunt your skates! Get back here!” 

Gale had gone round the edge of the benches. This, it transpires, was a mistake. He casts a glance behind him just in time to catch Astarion jump the final bench and slam into him. They both land against the lockers. Astarion pins him there, one hand over his shoulder. 

“What the fuck was that?” Astarion growls. 

Gale stares up at him, silently. The phone is pressed between their chests. As are Gale's hands. Astarion is breathing quickly. It tickles his cheek. Gale can smell his sweat from the last few hours of skating, feel the warmth emanating off Astarion’s skin. His heart beats wildly in his chest; a natural instinct, of course, born of being chased. But there is very definitely blood rushing to his cheeks, and he's got no way of pretending that it isn't. 

He pushes the phone into Astarion's chest, gently. 

Astarion steps back. The rush of cold air where he had been stood hits Gale right in the chest. He turns the phone to show Astarion the screen; open on his audiobook app. 

Astarion stares at the screen, then up at Gale, then back at the screen; incredulous. 

“Was there not an easier way of telling me that you wanted to put an audiobook on?” Astarion protests. He steps back, again, further, and sits down on one of the benches. 

Gale shakes his head, and swaps to his notes app again to type; 

You didn't give me a chance! 

“But your first instinct was to go for my pressure points, steal your phone and run off with it?” Astarion runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. 

I apologise, that was a stronger reaction than I’d anticipated , Gale types, then hovers over the keyboard for a moment, before adding; 

One of Mystra's more well-intentioned efforts to prevent me from relapsing was to confiscate my phone. It cut off my contact with suppliers, of course, but with the rest of the outside world too. Overall I suspect it did as much harm as good and evidently it's something I retain stronger feelings about than I realised, although considering that it's the only form of communication available to me at the moment, in hindsight it makes perfect sense.   

Astarion's expression changes when he reads that. 

“That fucking bitch,” he swears. “Alright. If I promise not to take your phone without asking, will you promise not to do- whatever it was you just did?” 

I don't think we need to make an official agreement. I think we can both consider that a lesson well- learned, in much the same way that you don't throw things at me and I don't walk in on you without knocking. Gale types. 

“Pretty much,” Astarion agrees. “Look at us, setting boundaries. Hestia would be proud.” 

Gale's eyes suddenly widen with realisation.

Do not teach her that trick, he types, furiously. I don't think my kidneys would survive her prodding them twenty times a day just to laugh at me folding over. 

“Oh?” Astarion grins, the first flash of that sense of humour that Gale has seen all day. “Well, I don't see why I would need to. As long as I was properly compensated for my silence, of course.” 

I will continue inviting you to the dinner parties, Gale types. 

“Oh, that's cruel!” Astarion is properly smiling now. “You're a more underhanded bargainer than I thought you were. But fine.” 

Gale hesitates. It is tempting to smile with him, to brush past it and let the discomfort of the moment go. Instead, he types again; 

I am sorry for manhandling you without your permission. 

“Your choice of words leaves a lot to be desired,” Astarion says, sharply. “But, you said it; lesson learned. Just don't do it again.” 

I won't. Gale types. Then; Can I give you a hug?  

“A hug?” Astarion sighs. “What about you not being able to talk has made you regress to the emotional intelligence level of your daughter?” 

Gale begins typing out the psychology behind the offer, and then deletes it, opting instead for; 

Is that a no?  

Astarion sighs at him. 

“Fine. If it'll make you feel better.” 

So Gale tucks his phone in his pocket, and steps forward to give Astarion a hug. For a moment, Astarion seems unsure of what to do with himself. Then his arms settle around Gale's back, his head on Gale's shoulder. And, ever so slightly, he relaxes. 

-

Gale Dekarios: sent a voice note 

Astarion Ancunin: I didn't know you knew how to do that 
Astarion Ancunin: also hello, yes, I suppose it's quite nice to hear your voice again 

Gale Dekarios: I just took a screenshot of that message. I'm going to print it out and stick it on my fridge. 

Astarion Ancunin: fuck off 

Gale Dekarios: No. :) 

-

They have had to move the training schedule around again in the New Year to make space for Astarion to train at the purpose-built rink with the other professionals. Halfway through that Saturday morning, when a break is called, Astarion stops to refill his water and finds a text from Gale. 

Gale Dekarios: Dare I ask how it's going? 

Astarion Ancunin: I have yet to kick anybody in the head 

Gale Dekarios: I presume that means it's going well? 

Astarion Ancunin: You have depressingly low standards for ‘going well’ 

Gale Dekarios: Oh. 
Gale Dekarios: Anything I can bring you to help cheer you up? 

They aren't going to be on this ice, this afternoon, but they need more strength and flexibility training time. 

Astarion Ancunin: A spade to help me bury a body. 

Gale Dekarios: This might be an encoded app but I'm pretty sure that would still be cited as evidence of premeditation in a court of law. 

Astarion Ancunin: if you'd forgotten, I am the one of the two of us with a law degree  
Astarion Ancunin: are you refusing to help me bury a body? 

Gale Dekarios: I am refusing to be caught helping you bury a body. 

Astarion snorts, throws his phone back in his bag, and goes back to suffering. 

Gale, Halsin and Hestia turn up to pick him up almost exactly as they finish. Gale has not brought a shovel, but he has brought coffee, which Astarion grumblingly accepts as a suitable alternative. Hestia, delighted to be inside the set, is already trying to run up to the back of the seating to get a better look at the rink. Astarion watches Gale tense as she makes a break for it, and relax again as Halsin follows her. 

“You sound almost normal,” Astarion comments. “I suppose you’re going to resume your role as my on-ice podcast host?” 

“I could remain silent if you’d prefer,” Gale suggests. 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t be tedious, darling, that’s not funny and you know it.” 

Gale grins at him. 

“It's sweet that you missed me, you know.” 

“It is not,” Astarion denies, hotly. To his irritation, however, Isobel decides to take that moment to skate up to them and introduce herself. 

“And you must be the dare I say infamous Gale Dekarios,” she smiles, sweetly. “Isobel Thorm. It's my first season on Dancing on Ice too.” 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Gale leans over the barrier to shake her hand. “How are you finding it so far?” 

Isobel glances at Astarion with a grin, then gestures at her costume; a full pink cowboy suit, a la ‘Barbie’ 2023; 

“Interesting, to say the least. Astarion and I both came from competitive skating, which is a very different type of performance. Much less… theatrical.” She smiles, taking the hat off and plonking it on Astarion's head instead. 

“Watch it!” Astarion protests. 

“I’ve seen you skate,” Gale realises, suddenly. “Astarion has shown me some of your videos. Pairs, wasn't it?” 

“It was!” Isobel turns to Astarion with a smile. “And here I thought all you thought of me was that my position needed correcting all the time.” 

“It does,” Astarion says, flatly. “That doesn't mean there's nothing to admire about your work that Gale can't learn from.” 

Isobel smiles, then turns back to Gale. 

“Is that your daughter, running up and down those stairs?” 

“Hestia,” Gale agrees. “I would introduce you to her but woe betide I interrupt… whatever game it is they're playing.” 

“And your partner?” She nods at Halsin. 

“Security,” Gale corrects. “Halsin is my bodyguard, my driver, my spare pair of Hestia-wrangling hands and occasionally my first-aider.” 

Isobel blinks at that, apparently surprised that he needs security at all. 

“I didn't realise he had so many job titles,” Astarion says, leaning over the edge of the rink to drink his coffee. 

“Do you need protecting?” Isobel asks, her gentle face suddenly creased with concern. 

“Rarely,” Gale reassures her. “We’re just being cautious, at the moment. There's been a lot of media attention, not all of it positive.” 

“Ugh,” she grimaces. “I'd like to pretend I haven't seen it, but I have.” She pauses. “I know it doesn't make up for the horrible things people say, out there in the dark wilds of the internet, but- well, thank you, I suppose. You two doing this isn't easy, but it is important.” 

“It's always bloody important,” Astarion sighs. “Why can't we just exist without everyone and their fucking grandma having an opinion on it?” 

“Maybe it will be normal, eventually,” Isobel says, hopefully. 

“Isobel!” Someone yells. 

“I'm in here, my love!” Isobel calls back. Moments later, a woman appears through one of the backstage doors. She's wearing a sports hoodie, giant trainers, and a smile wide enough to put the sun to shame. 

“Isobel! My love, we are going to be late!” 

“I stopped for two minutes!” Isobel protests, laughing. “Astarion, Gale, this is my wife, Aylin. Aylin, this is my new colleague, Astarion, and his skate partner, Gale.” 

Aylin grabs Gale's hand and pumps it furiously. Up close, she is terrifyingly tall; she towers over the three of them by at least a head. 

“An honour to meet you. The very first time I made love to Isobel was to one of your albums. Now whenever I hear your voice, I think of her.” 

“Oh,” Gale says, utterly caught off guard. “Thank you? I think?” 

“Aylin,” Isobel hisses. “I'm so sorry, Gale.” 

Astarion is laughing so hard he has to hold on to the barrier for support. 

“Do you want to know which one?” Aylin beams. 

“No!” Gale says, “I mean, no, thank you, that's quite alright. Sounds… personal. How, um- how did you two meet?” 

“At the rink!” Aylin says, apparently completely immune to the awkwardness she's just caused. “I play ice hockey.” 

“Oh,” Gale brightens. “Yes, I can see that. What position do you play?” 

“Oh, no, I'm so sorry-” Isobel interrupts. “It has been lovely to meet you, but we do actually have lunch reservations, and if you start Aylin talking about hockey she won't stop.” 

With a few more pleasantries and a promise to exchange numbers sometime, they depart. 

“I would never be late to a date, my love,” Aylin says as they walk away. 

“You never mean to be,” Isobel agrees. 

Astarion is still giggling. 

“So,” he grins. 

“Nope,” Gale shuts it down before it can even begin. “I am not entertaining this line of questioning.” 

“You didn't know what I was going to ask!” 

“I don't need to, I could tell.” 

Astarion leans over the edge of the rink as Hestia comes charging back down the stairs, Halsin hot on her heels. She arrives by slamming into the side of the rink instead of stopping. The barrier is not a permanent installation. It's there for practices, but they'll take it down before the live shows. It wobbles, dangerously. He takes his weight off it before it can do anything more dangerous. 

“Can I borrow your hat?” Hestia asks, apparently unbothered, eyes shining. 

“You're welcome to it.” 

Astarion takes the pink cowboy hat off and plonks it on her head. It's far too big for her, and slips down over one eye. 

“Be gentle with it,” Gale reminds her. “You're only borrowing it, it's not yours.” 

“It's not mine either,” Astarion agrees, but Hestia is already dragging Halsin off to go and sit in the judging panel seats. 

“It's all starting to feel real now, isn't it?” Gale says, vaguely, looking around the set. Belatedly, it occurs to Astarion that it's the first time he's been here. 

“Must you make such vapid comments?” He sighs. “What about spending the last four months of your life on your arse on the ice didn't feel real enough to you?” 

Gale laughs, unbothered as usual. 

“I mean after all this, we’ve only got two weeks before we have to do an actual performance.” 

“It can't have been that long since you were on set. Or on a stage, I suppose.” 

“No, even if we don't count the Christmas incident,” Gale agrees. “But people pay to see me play because I'm good at it. I am not good at skating.” 

“Well,” Astarion tilts his head. “You're not as good as me . But that's fine, you don't need to be. You just need to be better than everyone else.” 

“Fighting talk,” Gale grins. 

“It's my first season, of course I want to win it,” Astarion says. “Now come on, you aren't improving by standing around chatting.” 

“Four point five!” Hestia shouts, one arm in the air and one holding her hat in place. She's standing on what Gale has come to think of as Jayne's chair on the panel. Halsin is standing behind her, arms out, ready to catch her if she shows even the slightest sign of being unsteady. 

“Boooo!” Gale calls across the rink. “They deserve a five at least!” 

“Your steps were unsteady and your performance lacked character!” Hestia declares. “You need more of this, and this, and this!” 

She starts pulling ridiculous poses. The hat falls off, and Halsin catches it. 

“This is much smaller than our rink,” Gale is studying the place with a frown. “I knew it wasn't full size, but I didn't realise quite how different it would be.” 

“Jen’s sent me the measurements. I'm going to mark out the edge with cones when we take the first elements of the routine to the ice.” 

“When do we get to practise on this rink again?” 

“This Thursday. We’ll be sharing, though.” 

Hestia arrives at speed, and thrusts the hat at Gale. 

“Your turn!” 

Gale submits to having Hestia shove the cowboy hat on his head. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” 

“It suits you,” Astarion grins. 

“I'm sure it does.” 

“Daddy!” Hestia hisses, tugging at his arm. “Daddy daddy daddy have you asked him yet?” 

“I have barely had a chance to say hello,” Gale protests. “Why don't you ask?” 

All of a sudden, Hestia comes over shy, ducking behind his legs. 

“Hestia,” Gale smiles. “What's so scary about Astarion?”

“No, no, that's a fair reaction,” Astarion protests. “I am, in fact, utterly terrifying. In fact I’ve been known to bite.” 

“Have you now,” Gale says, flatly. “Hestia, please stop trying to pull my trousers down, I would like to retain what little dignity is still left to me.” 

“Threatening to bite gets you to remove your trousers?” Astarion teases. “Noted, I suppose.” 

Gale glares at him. 

“We are literally in the TV studio, Astarion.” 

“Without any cameras on,” Astarion points out. “Besides, I thought we've been goading rumours.” 

“To a point,” Gale sighs. “Hestia, do you want to ask or do you want me to?” 

“I'll do it!” Hestia comes to stand in front of him, her arms very carefully behind her back. “Will you come for dinner with us tonight, Astarion?” 

“Dinner?” Astarion pretends to look thoughtful. “Well, maybe. Depends who's cooking.” 

“You,” Gale says, dryly. 

-

Gale Dekarios: Does anyone mind if I invite a couple of new friends on Thursday? 

Wyll Ravengard: and break the hallowed pact of the four? 

Halsin Silverbough: The last person we added was Astarion, and he has been nothing but an asset. Your choice of marriage partners may be somewhat suspect, but your taste in friends is much more refined.

Gale Dekarios: I will remind you that I met my ex-wife at seventeen. I don't know if any of us had good taste in partners at seventeen. Otherwise, I will take that statement as a compliment. 

Astarion Ancunin: I certainly am. 

Wyll Ravengard: Joking aside, Gale, it's your house and your cooking. Invite whoever you like! 

Astarion Ancunin: Or at least invite them this once so we can vet them and decide if they're worthy of being invited every time. 

Halsin Silverbough: I had assumed this would be the last dinner party for some time, given that you are about to be entering a competition. 

Gale Dekarios: Perish the thought! I think Astarion and I will both need non-skater company to keep us sane. 

Wyll Ravengard: I’ll be there, and I certainly hope this isn't to be the last 

Astarion Ancunin: If we get knocked out this weekend it won't be 

Gale Dekarios: Don't joke about it, that's my worst nightmare. 

Astarion Ancunin: …Gale. You've met the competition. We are not getting voted off in week 1. 

Wyll Ravengard: I haven't even seen you skate outside of Astarion's tiktoks and I know you're going to wipe the floor with them 

Astarion Ancunin: well, I wouldn't go that far 
Astarion Ancunin: he still has a lot of work to do 

For once, Astarion doesn't send Gale one of his increasingly ridiculous recipe suggestions. Between the training, the meetings, the prep and dodging back and forth between rinks, he probably barely has the time to breathe. 

When they finish up on Thursday, he looks about ready to keel over. 

“You don't have to come tonight, if you need to get some rest,” Gale suggests, gently. 

“I don't know whether I'm more offended at you insinuating that I look tired, or that you're uninviting me,” Astarion sighs. “It's the only thing I’m doing all week that isn't work.” 

“Oh, ouch,” Gale winces, “I take it back, stay as long as you like.” 

“I was promised a shower,” Astarion reminds him. 

When they get back, Astarion heads upstairs, and Gale makes a start on dinner. He'd done some prep beforehand; the samosas and bhajis are in the fridge ready to go, and he’d pre-made the raita. Being perhaps overly prepared makes it easier to balance the number of dishes he's planning. The butter dal and paneer are the easiest to get started with and benefit most from the extra time to marinate in their spices, so he begins there. Soon the kitchen is full of the smell of cooking spices, garlic and chilli. 

“How many guests did you invite?” Astarion asks, astonished, when he comes down from the shower and finds the table laid to bursting. It might, if Gale were forced to address it, be slightly overboard. But without knowing the dietary preferences or spice tolerances of their guests, he would much rather give them too many options than risk there being too few, and sending them home hungry. 

“Isobel and Aylin,” Gale says. “I wanted to do something with lots of options-”

He looks up from the pan and tries not to do a double-take. Astarion is wearing a loose black shirt with elegantly trailing sleeves, and a corset-style belt. He's paired it with little black heeled boots, somehow making his already long legs look even longer. Gale is suddenly self-conscious of the shirt he'd thrown on at the rink. 

“Do you want some chai?” He asks, just a little too hurriedly. 

“The tea?” Astarion clarifies. 

“Chai translates to ‘tea’ actually. A common misconception, that. Loose leaf Assam and spices simmered in milk. The spices used vary wildly from family to family, of course, never mind region to region, but after some experimentation I've settled on a recipe; green cardamom, cloves, cinnamon and black pepper, with a dash of fresh ginger to balance out the generous amount of sugar.” 

Astarion walks over to him, smiles, and tilts his head. 

“Are you flustered?” He grins. “Gale, don't tell me you've never seen a man in a corset before.” 

Gale clenches his jaw and turns back to the stove. 

“Could you not, please, I am trying to concentrate. Do you want chai or not?” 

“Please,” Astarion leans on the counter next to him, still smiling that dangerous little smile of his. The smell of him; shampoo, perfume, or some combination of the two, cuts through the tang of the spices. Neither of them usually wear earrings at the rink, for obvious reasons, but now Astarion, in keeping with the gothic vibe of the outfit, has little daggers hanging from his ears, with matching hoops in his secondaries. 

“Oh good,” Gale sighs. “Come to tease me now, have you?” 

“Of course,” Astarion grins, unrepentant. “I'm flattered that you’ve finally noticed what I look like.” 

“Astarion, at risk of inflaming your ego, I think I would have to be literally fucking blind not to.” 

Astarion laughs. 

“That is the point,” he admits. “It's useful to boost one's confidence, before performing for an audience of millions.” 

“True enough,” Gale, having strained some of the chai, hands him a glass. Astarion wraps his long, elegant fingers around it, dark red nail polish shining against his pale skin. “Although I hope you're not about to suggest I try a corset too.” 

“You could,” Astarion grins. “Oh don't look at me like that! Why-ever not?” 

“I don't think I’d be comfortable,” Gale admits. “I have tried drag, and it was a lot of fun, but it was very definitely a one-off and fashion generally is not my realm of expertise.” 

“You are robbing me and the world of a show,” Astarion complains. 

“If you say so. If you're not doing anything else, will you help me make roti?” 

With some grumbling, Astarion acquiesces. 

“This is a ridiculous amount of food, Gale. Six of us are never going to eat all this.” 

“Six of us including Halsin and Aylin,” Gale corrects. “And you, Isobel and I have been skating all day, too.” 

Astarion sighs. 

“What is it with you and food?” 

“We’re Greek on my mother's side,” Gale says, easily. “A dash of Italian, too. We’re feeders; food is the heart of a family. Food is friendship, and love, and laughter; food is the staple of every celebration, from weddings to funerals, and the glue that brings us together. Being able to cook wasn't so much a result as a requirement of being my mother's son.” 

He takes a spoonful of paneer from the pan, and offers it to him. 

“Here- try this for me.” 

He expects Astarion to take the spoon by the handle. That is not what happens. Instead, Astarion bends, takes the spoon in his mouth, and makes fucking eye contact as he does so. 

“Oh come on,” Gale sighs. “Now you're just being facetious.” 

“Always,” Astarion hums. “That's good. If I say you need more salt will you murder me?” 

“No, that was the point of you trying it.” 

Gale puts the now-dirty spoon in the sink and gets a new one out. 

“Was it your mother who taught you to cook?” Astarion asks. 

“To begin with, yes. She taught me my love of food, definitely. But she also wasn't much for experimenting. The moment I started travelling, and discovered how much more the world had to offer than even our fairly diverse little pocket of London had exposed me to- well, it's become something of a passion, I suppose.” He smiles. “Did you know that onion bhajis very likely aren't Indian?” 

“I did not,” Astarion admits, “And I suspect you're about to tell me all about it.” 

“It is a fascinating phenomenon.” 

Astarion has essentially invited him to talk, now, and so he does; the intersection of food and culture is an endlessly scintillating topic, and one that he could quite happily orate on for days at a time. For now, though, he sticks to describing the history of the bhaji as far as he knows it; as complex a history as most Anglo-Indian relations and cuisine, and one still up for debate. 

“I had heard that fish and chips aren't English either,” Astarion says. “It's originally a Polish dish, isn't it?” 

“Oh almost nothing deemed quintessentially ‘English’ ever originated in England,” Gale agrees. “It’s about the only thing my mother agreed with my father on.”

“He wasn't English either?” 

“Scotsman,” Gale grins. “So no, very much not. I've been reading a riveting book of the subject actually, Sathnam Sanghera cited it in the last book of his that I read and-” 

“Hang on, no, let's just pause this for a second while I try and imagine you speaking in a Scottish accent.” 

Gale bursts out laughing. 

“If you're having to imagine I can only assume I didn't break out The Proclaimers at Christmas.” 

By the time the doorbell goes, they very nearly have everything ready. Isobel and Aylin have made just as much of an effort as Astarion, to Gale's increasing embarrassment. 

“Did I somehow miss a dress code for my own damn dinner party?” He hisses to Astarion, under his breath, once Aylin and Isobel are settled in with drinks. 

“Don't be silly, darling, look at you,” Astarion sighs. 

Gale does, indeed, look down at himself. The purple shirt is a staple, and one that he's fond of; and while he's wearing jeans, they are at least black and well-fitted. There are still, however, just jeans. He has plenty of pairs of dress trousers he could have put on, if he'd had a chance to think about it. Hell, he could have put on a shirt with cufflinks instead of buttons. 

“Yes?” He says, bemusedly. “What exactly about this is on your level?” 

Before Astarion can respond, however, the doorbell goes again. Then the kitchen is full; Wyll has watched Aylin compete, it turns out, and corners her to talk about Hockey. Thankfully, Aylin is absolutely overjoyed to have a reason to do so. Isobel and Astarion stand by Gale's side and pull him into conversation about song choices. 

“It seemed like nearly all of my first choices were rejected,” Isobel is saying, thoughtfully. “They didn't specify on what grounds.” 

“Repetition, I would imagine,” Astarion says. “Really, darling, it's bad enough to be predictable without admitting to it too.”

Isobel laughs.

“Oh, and I suppose all of yours were accepted immediately?” 

“All but one,” Gale says. “And it wasn't a rejection so much as a quibble.” 

“Oh?” Isobel raises an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to ask, or is it all very hush hush?” 

“It won't be relevant if we don't make it to the final,” Gale says. 

“And if we do, I suppose you'll have something to look forward to,” Astarion agrees. 

“Well, I suppose if we don't make it that far I might vote for you. Although if we do, of course, I make no such promises.” 

“Who is your partner again?” Gale says. “Sorry not your wife, your skate partner.” 

He is, in fact, perfectly well aware of which actor she's been paired with. However, he knows it from the file he'd read rather than for any other reason, so asking had felt more polite. 

She brushes over the answer quickly and moves on. Gale catches Astarion’s eye; something about that had said that Isobel is not getting on well with her soap star. Astarion raises an eyebrow at him bu looks away quickly. One they'll be discussing later, no doubt. 

If Isobel had seen anything pass between them, she doesn't comment on it. 

“Didn't it feel strange, choosing songs for something so far in advance?” She says. “I’ll be very irritated to have gone to all that work only to get voted off in the first skate-off.” 

“I think it was easier for us because we went into it with such a clear idea of what kind of story arc we’re going to be following,” Gale says. “Very few of the songs we've chosen aren't about the pressure of performance, in some way or another.” 

“A bold strategy,” Isobel says. 

“Not as bold as the story we've decided to tell,” Astarion grins. “After all, people are watching for all sorts of reasons, but most of all, they're watching for the drama. And we shall be happy to provide.” 

Isobel studies them both, her keen eyes calculating. Behind her sweetness, she's got a sharp edge. 

“I've seen the rumours,” she says. 

“Have you seen the edits though?” Astarion says, gleefully. “Someone compiled all of the moments that Gale has been in my tiktoks and set them to Blank Space.” 

“Savage choice of song,” Isobel laughs. 

“Tell me about it,” Gale sighs. “I know we're playing into it, to a certain degree, but sometimes the level of stereotyping is exasperating.” 

“So,” Isobel studies them. “There's nothing to the rumours?” 

“No,” Gale says, with a shrug. “It's a ploy, really. As long as we’re the ones choreographing the drama, we can keep it at arms length.” 

Isobel nods, slowly. 

“Keep the crocodiles fed so they don't come scavenging.” 

“In essence, yes,” Astarion agrees. “So far it seems to be working even better than we'd anticipated. It's taken some getting used to, of course, and it won't be truly tested until the show hits the air, but so far so good.” 

“How far are you going to take it?” She asks, warily. 

“We’re never going to say anything official,” Gale says, quickly. “Pretending to date when we're not could do far more harm than good. We don't want to do anything that would cause real, tangible damage to the queer community just for the sake of a few more views. No, we’re just never going to confirm or deny either way. It's perfectly within our right to do so, of course, but it'll fan the flames of speculation just enough.” 

Isobel sighs. 

“I hope you're right. It sounds like a risky game, to me.” 

“That's the fun of it,” Astarion grins. “Speaking of, Isobel, how do you feel about a selfie for my stories?” 

The conversation over dinner doesn't end up being any less skating-focused. Isobel tells them the story of how she and Aylin met; about how they stayed together for years even as Isobel's career took her to seemingly every rink in the world other than the one that Aylin was based at, until her pairs partner retired and she decided it was time for a change of pace - and to be in the same place as her love. That leads to Wyll telling them the story of how he met his wife, too. The way he tells it, it's love at first sight; their eyes meet across the room, and so on. Gale knows for a fact that there's more to it than that, but he lets Wyll have his story. 

“I would ask you about your big white wedding, but I feel like I know everything about it already,” Isobel says to Gale, later on. 

“It's very probable. People tell me things about my wedding that I didn't know about, half the time.” 

“But did they actually happen, is the question?” Astarion asks, leaning in for Gale to dish the drama. 

“Who knows?” Gale shrugs. “I certainly don't. I think Wyll would agree that when you're focusing on trying to get the whole orchestrated chaos of the wedding to happen as close to the plan as possible, who ended up getting scandalously ravished in the rose bushes isn't exactly on your radar.” 

“I went missing for several hours on my wedding day,” Wyll agrees, easily. “And so did my wife. Nobody seems overly inclined to ask us about it.” 

“I hope it wasn't to fuck in a rose bush,” Astarion puts in. “I'm sure it sounds romantic, until you get thorns everywhere you don't want them.” 

“Is there anywhere you do want thorns?” Halsin wonders. 

“Personally? Maybe I would. Not that it's any of your business,” Astarion teases, “But I can't speak for Wyll.” 

“We would only have been gone for ten minutes, but we had to pick all those thorns out of our thighs after,” Wyll grins.

Laughter echoes around the table. 

They sit around chatting for a long time after they've finished eating. The atmosphere mellows, into something warm and comfortable. 

Some time later, it is Wyll who stands from his chair and raises a glass to toast them. 

“To our new friends!” He declares, to general approval. Isobel raises her glass too, and adds; 

“To surviving this weekend and all that comes after!” 

Clearing the table takes far less time with six sets of hands. Gale makes a start on the washing up while Wyll loads the dishwasher, and Halsin makes sure Isobel and Aylin get shepherded back to the table before they can do too much. 

Gale hums as he works, keeping half an ear on the conversation. The next time he tunes back in, it's to a debate of how tall his ceiling is. He turns just in time to see Isobel put her bare foot in Astarion's cupped palm, and for him to lift her. 

“Whoah!” He protests. “Should we be doing this without safety precautions?” 

“I won't drop her,” Astarion says, calmly. “Aylin won't let me.” 

Isobel laughs, stretching her arms up towards the kitchen ceiling. 

“I think we have more than enough clearance,” she says. “Hang on, let me tuck my dress up before you get an eyeful.” 

“It would be wasted on me,” Astarion agrees. “Although you fully sat on my head yesterday, so this can hardly be worse.” 

“And if your hand was where it was supposed to be I wouldn't have had a problem finding the right bit of your shoulder to kneel on,” Isobel says, primly, to which Astarion only laughs. 

“Touché, darling. What can I say? I'm used to much thicker thighs.” 

“This professionals’ routine sounds a lot more risqué than the usual ones,” Wyll jokes, as Isobel hops down from Astarion’s hold and stretches, then ties her dress around her thighs so her legs are free. 

“Risky, yes, risque maybe less so,” Astarion agrees. “Gale, I’m stealing your Spotify, it'll help with the timing.” 

“I thought we were having an adults’ night,” Gale protests, with no real irritation. 

“‘Barbie’ is not a children's film, it is a 12A and you would not let Hestia watch it,” Halsin points out. 

Astarion has hijacked the speakers by then, so any further input Gale might have had is firmly silenced by Dua Lipa. 

“Ready, and-” 

Gale dries his hands on the teatowel, leans back against his kitchen counter and watches with some amusement as Astarion hoists Isobel into the air. How they manage to make it look graceful, he has no idea, but somehow they're then balancing hand to hand. He even knows how most of the lifts work, now, and yet it all happens so fast he couldn't exactly say what they'd done. 

“You have to imagine the spinning,” she yells over the music. 

Aylin applauds, enthusiastically. 

With a bend and a twist Isobel is back on the floor. 

Astarion lets her go and turns the music down. 

“There, Gale, see? Nothing to worry about.” 

“Does he throw you around like that, Gale?” Wyll asks, disbelievingly. 

“Absolutely not,” Gale says. 

“Not yet,” Astarion adds. 

“Not ever,” Gale says, firmly. 

“Spoilsport.” 

Isobel, untucking her skirts, laughs at them. 

“After what Astarion's told me he's been training you on, I wouldn’t be surprised to see you doing something of that level, you know,” she grins. “And we’re all going to be at the studio rink for the rest of the week. There's still time to learn.” 

“Don't give him ideas!” Gale protests. “I can only just about keep up with him as it is!” 

-

Astarion posts the selfie, with Amy’s approval, the next morning. In it, he has his arm around Isobel. They're both smiling, though hers is natural and his, of course, is posed. In the background Gale is turned half-towards them, smiling at someone off-camera. 

He tags both Isobel and Gale in it. Isobel immediately reposts it to her own story, thanking them both for a lovely evening. Astarion, who hadn't exactly been sure why Gale had invited her initially, congratulates himself on a job well done on winning her over. It is never a bad idea to have allies in the know, especially on the inside. It will be useful to have someone to call on if their scheme needs a little extra assistance. 

Gale Dekarios: I didn't know I was in it too!

Astarion Ancunin: it's called a candid 
Astarion Ancunin: don't be sour, you look perfectly fine 

Gale Dekarios: I am wearing jeans! 

Astarion Ancunin: you were, yes, very well remembered. Do you want a gold star? A handshake? 

Gale Dekarios: Jeans are not and will never be acceptable smart-casual wear. 
Gale Dekarios: Isobel is wearing velvet, for heaven's sake. This picture makes me look like I have no class at all! 

Astarion Ancunin: well I did offer to let you try the corset 

Gale Dekarios: You are not as funny as you think you are. 

Astarion Ancunin: no I'm far funnier

Wyll Ravengard: You look fine, Gale! It's 2024, black jeans are basically formal attire. 

Gale Dekarios: What is the world coming to? 

Astarion Ancunin: if jeans are a problem and corsets are not, I think I approve of its trajectory

Chapter Text

Gale had been under the impression that they would spend most of Friday skating. This turns out to be both true and not; they spend the entirety of their usual training session on the ice, but that's only a fraction of what the day entails. After an hour of stretch and weight training, during which he now has to try and match Astarion, they skate their usual five hours of nine until one. 

Even having been doing it for months, Gale still finds himself exhausted at the end of it. They’d skated the routine for the creative director and head coach, the week prior; and they had, immediately, had changes to make. Which meant having to re-learn the whole damn thing, because they’d been doing it for long enough by then that muscle memory had begun to take over. Gale could swear it’s harder now, too. He aches in places he didn’t even know he could ache. Even after months of training under Astarion’s unforgiving eye, when he thought he'd found every single muscle in his body that he hadn't previously known about. They should make trainee medical students skate to help them find and name every muscle in the human body. 

“If I end up in some kind of horrifying accident and it lands me in a coma,” Gale pants, trying to unlace his skates while leaning down as little as possible, “I could be revived if you play the opening of Bones. The reaction is so instinctual now I think my body will leap up out of bed to start trying to skate this routine before my brain has had a chance to catch up.” 

Astarion laughs, and throws a towel at him. 

“I could be dead in the ground and the first bar of Golden would drag me zombie-like from the grave to skate it. Wipe your face, you're disgustingly sweaty.” 

“I would be halfway into the shower already if it wasn't for these bloody skates and their laces!” 

“Only halfway?” Astarion, of course, already has his skates off, and has swung them over his shoulder. “I think you might need to be a bit more thorough than that, darling. No offence, but you stink.” 

“As do you,” Gale agrees. 

“My stink is more refined than yours.” 

“I don't think it's possible for body odour to be refined.” 

“Well then you evidently haven't smelt mine enough.” Astarion walks over and throws his arms in the air, armpits out. “Behold; stench of kings. Sniff and weep.” 

Gale laughs, and kicks him in the shin with his only free foot. 

“They should bottle your sweat and sell it as perfume,” he agrees. “You are the forgotten muse of Patrick Suskind.” 

Astarion blinks. 

“Who?” 

“He wrote Perfume. I would say you might have seen the film if you haven't read the book, but given that you still haven't seen the Lord of the Rings-” 

“Wait, wasn't Perfume the one about the murderer?” 

“The perfumer who murdered people in an attempt to capture the scent of true ecstasy and caused an entire town to orgy themselves to death when he perfected it, if I remember the plot correctly.” 

“Good lord,” Astarion almost sounds impressed. “Well, if one must go, I suppose.” 

Gale grumbles all the way through the shower and to the car, at which point Astarion finally snaps. 

“Shut up and eat your sandwich,” he says. “Count yourself lucky that we’re in week one. If we were in week two we’d have to learn a skate-off routine as well. In fact we will have to do that every other week of this competition.” 

Gale eats his sandwich in silence, mostly because he's lost in thought rather than anything else. 

This is the only time the show will be split into two sections of competitors; half of them skate this week, half of them skate next week, and when one of them is knocked out, they go down to fitting everybody into the one show. He'd been glad when they found out they'd be in the first week; he didn't relish the idea of standing around watching the others skate and then having to wait another whole week before it was their turn. 

Astarion sighs, dramatically, interrupting his musings. 

“Alright, fine. I'm sorry for snapping, even though you were being irritating.” 

“Hmm?” Gale blinks at him through a mouthful of sandwich. “Oh, no,” he swallows it. “I was just lost in thought. I’ve never been bothered by you before, I don't see why I should start now.” 

They sit in silence for a moment longer, but Gale has well and truly lost the thread of his thought. 

“Do you think they’ll have moved the trailers again?” He asks, idly. 

Given that the set is purpose-built but only used for a maximum of four months of the year, there aren’t permanent dressing rooms. He’s used to getting ready in a trailer park though. It’s almost quite nostalgic of being on tour. 

“I bloody hope not,” Astarion growls. “If I’d known they were going to start carting the damn things around when we weren’t there I wouldn’t have left anything in them. My sewing kit’s a fucking mess.” 

“I will endeavour not to lose any sequins or split any seams,” Gale promises. 

The wardrobe and costumes trailer is, in fact, their first stop. They're a couple of minutes later than they'd intended to be, though Astarion is in no rush to rectify the situation. If anything, wasting Volo's time seems to bring him a certain amount of satisfaction. Gale doesn't know why Astarion seems to hate him so much; Volo’s a little over the top, but that’s theatre for you. There’s always someone in any industry that revolves around performance with far more charisma than sense. It’s half the joy of it. 

He steps in ahead and Volo immediately throws his arms in the air in greeting and comes in for a hug. 

“My friend! The man of the hour!” 

“Am I?” Gale says, bemusedly, fighting the urge to remind Volo that you’re supposed to ask before hugging people. Especially when wearing a spiked jacket. “Ow. Why, what have I done?” 

“Why, you are the star of my newest ‘behind the scenes’ exposé, of course!” 

He wags his finger at Gale, grinning delightedly behind his beard, which he seems to have spent some time working into tiny plaits. 

“Oh dear,” Astarion says, behind him. 

“Ah, you are both here,” Volo says, considerably less jubilantly. “Well, I suppose I did request it. Close the door behind you, if you please, it is January after all.” 

“What’s the exposé, Volo?” Gale asks, warily, already wondering what Minthara is going to make of this. 

“Why, that you’re alive, of course!” Volo looks delighted. While Gale is still trying to process that Volo drags him between the racks and racks of hanging costume-bags to the lit mirror cubicles. 

“Why would I not be alive?” Gale asks, cautiously, as Volo thrusts a costume-bag at him and then grabs a dressing gown off a huge pile of them and throws it in his general direction. Gale just about manages to catch it. 

“Oh, I’ve had a running theory for years,” Volo looks up. “Almost the moment you withdrew from the public eye, I had my suspicions.” He turns to Astarion, arms wide, and finds himself on the receiving end of a glower that would reduce Medusa herself to dust. 

“If you hug me I will stab you with your own jacket.” 

“Ah. Well. Ehem.” Volo pulls his arms back, instead taking a costume bag from the rack and handing it to him. It’s considerably bulkier than Gale’s; the professional group skate, as well as their one and the opening number. “In this one, if you wouldn’t mind.” He gestures to the other cubicle. 

“I do mind,” Astarion says. “There’s no reason for us to change here. I will be taking this back to our trailer.”

“Oh no,” Volo crosses his arms. “That is quite unacceptable, I’m afraid. My creative vision-” 

“Can wait. Robe.” Astarion tucks the bag over one arm and holds out the other, expectant. 

Volo narrows his eyes at him. For a moment, Gale wonders if they’re going to spat. Instead, Volo shrugs. 

“Here,” he makes the barest of efforts to pass it over; Astarion has to jerk forward to catch it before it drops to the floor. “Well, anyway, Gale, go right ahead.” 

“Actually, I think I’ll change back at the trailer too,” Gale says. 

“Really?” Volo sounds, suddenly, quite fascinated. “And why would that be, perhaps? What do you possibly have to hide from your dear friend Volo?” 

“Gale won’t change in front of his cat unless he has to, Volo,” Astarion sighs. “Don’t bully the man, it’s not his fault he’s a prude. Fame does the strangest things to people.” 

Gale glares at him over Volo’s shoulder, not entirely sure whether to be grateful for his input or not. 

“Doesn’t it just,” Volo studies him, curiously. “Doesn’t it just.” 

Gale skirts past him, and follows Astarion out of the trailer and back to their own. They have yet to properly use it; it's almost as cold inside it as out. 

“Weirdo,” Astarion mutters under his breath, the moment the door’s closed. 

“I was expecting… I don’t know, ‘a spurned lover’ or ‘a child who claims you’re their dad’, or something that someone will try and spin every now and then despite it holding less water than a sieve.” 

Gale hangs his costume bag up and leans down to flick the space heater on. It immediately smells of burning; it likely hasn't been used since the last season, and there's a year's worth of dust in the vents. It is, at least, enthusiastic. 

“You have many of those, do you?” 

“I’m a pianist, not a rock star,” Gale reminds him, sourly, sitting down in one of the two plastic folding chairs they've been generously provided and grabbing his phone to text Amy about it. 

Gale Dekarios: The wardrobe guy seems to be surprised that I’m alive? 

AmyPR: Oh, that’s Volo. Sorry, I thought we’d briefed you about it. He’s the conspiracy theorist. 

Gale Dekarios: That’s who that is? I thought it was someone we didn’t have to worry about! 

AmyPR: Gale, he’s been convinced you were dead for years. He’s been trying to claim that your appearances in Astarion’s tiktoks are AI generated. 

Gale Dekarios: I have now dedicated considerable thought to it, and yet I still cannot possibly fathom why. 

AmyPR: He has well over a million followers. I think people find him entertaining. 
AmyPR: It’s not just you, to be clear. He does it to multiple celebrities and other public figures. I would guess the number of people who actually believe him are the absolute minority of his followers, and everyone else is there because it’s hilariously stupid. 

Gale stares at his phone, nonplussed, for several seconds. Then an idea occurs to him. 

Gale Dekarios: Interesting. So if he posted a theory about us, people would perhaps be less inclined to believe it than before? Could be useful. 

“Careful,” Astarion says, from the other mirror. “If you’re too sharp, you’ll cut yourself.” 

“It’s a contingency plan, not a strategy,” Gale puts his phone down and spins his chair around. Astarion has laid his costumes and his schedule out on the sofa and is studying them in just his trousers. Gale blinks, surprised to see his back and scars bared so casually. 

“I wouldn’t trust Volo as far as I can throw him,” Astarion says, folding the schedule. 

“Oh I don’t trust him either,” Gale agrees. “Not to have any kind of integrity, anyway. But it sounds like he can’t resist the lure of an outlandish story. I’ll try and keep mostly on his good side, just in case we need him.” 

Astarion raises an eyebrow at him. 

“As long as you don’t expect me to do the same.” 

“I wouldn’t dare to even suggest it,” Gale grins. “Do you need a hand there?” 

“Hm? Oh, no,” Astarion waves the piece of paper and then dumps it on the Ikea desk serving as a vanity. “Just wondering when I’m supposed to eat, sleep, you know. Basic human needs.” 

“Whilst working ?” Gale grins. “Heaven forbid.” 

Astarion tuts at him, though there’s the ghost of a smile in his expression. 

“Don’t be a dick, that’s my job.” 

Gale chuckles at him. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

“Be where you need to be on time, and out of the way when you’re not.” 

Gale had expected sparkles, of course, but he’s quite pleased to find it somewhat subtle; there is gold thread woven into the weft of the black fabric of the trousers, which instead of giving it the aggressive sequin effect, creates a delicate shimmer. The studio lights will enhance it more than the bathroom’s single light bulb, of course, but it’s still quite tasteful, all things considered. He hadn’t entirely thought Volo capable of it. 

The shirt is a deep burgundy, without the shimmer, but embroidered across the shoulders and partway down the arms in the same gold thread; a swirling, non-specific pattern that he really quite likes. 

He knocks on the bathroom door when he’s done changing. 

“You decent?” 

“Morally? Almost never,” Astarion calls back. “But I am dressed, if that’s what you meant.” 

Gale lets himself out. Astarion is sitting at his vanity. His shirt is black with gold embroidery, his trousers burgundy and gold-weft. 

“Moral decency is extremely subjective,” Gale points out. 

Astarion is already standing, studying the way the shirt sits on his shoulders. 

“Put your arms up,” Astarion commands. When Gale does so, Astarion frowns. “Arms out to the side. Now twist.”  

“Acceptable?” Gale asks. 

“No. It’s not quite tight enough across the shoulders. I assume you aren’t intending to announce your tattoo to the nation on Sunday evening.” 

Gale winces. 

“Preferably not, no. When the time is right, perhaps, but Sunday night reality TV is not the exact situation I had envisioned.” 

Astarion nods, and goes to grab his sewing kit from under his vanity. He pulls a needle and a few different shades of thread from the box, and then turns to Gale. 

“I’m not used to things being too big for me,” Gale jokes, as Astarion starts fiddling with the way the shirt lies on his left shoulder. 

“You’ve said something along those lines a few times now,” Astarion says, thoughtfully. “I don’t know why. You’re in very good shape, for someone of your age and stature.” 

“I am now,” Gale agrees. “Four months of training with you has left me much less spare than there used to be.” 

Astarion looks up at him, frowning, and takes the needle out of his mouth. 

“You have more refined musculature, perhaps, but you weren’t carrying any extra before. If you’d had any less I would have been worried about you.” 

Gale blinks at him. 

“Should I not make comments about my weight around you? I do apologise, I endeavour not to, generally, but sometimes old habits die hard.” 

Astarion sighs. 

“This is not about me, Gale.” 

He slips his fingers under the shirt, along Gale’s collarbone, to pull the needle through. His fingers are cold, still, from outside. 

“I am perfectly content,” Gale reassures him. “I enjoy good food too much to be anything other than resigned to it. I appreciate your concern, though. And I know better than to mention anything about my own negative perception of my weight around Hestia. Heaven only knows she’s going to have enough ridiculous societal pressure to deal with already without my adding to it.” 

Astarion finishes his stitch, ties it off, and tucks the loose end away before responding. When he does, he fixes Gale with an ice-grey stare that seems to pierce right through him. For a moment, he doesn’t speak. When he does, it feels weighted. Considered. 

“Skating is a dangerous enough sport as it is. If you start to struggle with your self-image, however minor it may seem to you, especially if it starts affecting decisions you are making about your diet and nutrition, you are to tell me immediately. Do you understand?” 

“I-” Gale blinks. “It was a throwaway comment.” 

“One of too many,” Astarion says, sharply. “You are in my care. I am liable for you. I cannot have you weakening yourself and risking injuring yourself-” His tone had softened, just slightly, but then he recollects it and Gale might have imagined it; “-injuring either of us as a result. Do you understand, Gale?” 

Gale nods, slowly. 

“I understand.” 

Astarion nods, and goes back to fixing the shirt. For a little while, Gale lets him work in silence. Then he says, carefully; 

“You’re speaking from experience, aren't you?” 

“I am,” Astarion says, through the needle in his mouth. He pulls it out to continue working, and says; “Competitive sport is a known danger area. I lived and trained in an environment with other skaters, and nobody else; what our bodies were capable of, what we looked like and how far we could push ourselves, was our primary concern.” He stops to tie the stitch off, then steps back to put the needle away. “If anyone left, it was usually because they ended up in hospital. If that happened, it was the last we ever heard of them.” He tugs Gale’s shirt straight, then smoothes his hands over Gale’s shoulders. “Alright. Try that.” 

“Have you tried contacting any of them since?” Gale asks, quietly. 

“No,” Astarion frowns. “We talked about them like they were dead. They might as well have been.” 

Gale nods. 

“Can I hug you?” 

Astarion stares at him. Gale meets his gaze, refusing to look away. The silence stretches, longer, and even longer. Long enough that Gale starts to wonder if Astarion’s eyes are entirely grey, as he had first presumed. In this glaring, almost white light, there’s something else in there; the slightest hint of something blue, or perhaps green. Astarion’s expression seems perfectly, almost performatively blank. But then he finally looks down, he says;

“Yes.” 

And so Gale puts his arms around Astarion. Around his shoulders. Astarion leans against him, tucking his arms around Gale's waist. 

Their shirts are not designed for this; the metallic embroidery scratches against itself. Gale doesn't care. Astarion is tense, wound up like a spring, his breathing short and shallow; but as he rests his head on Gale's shoulder, that citrus tang of his scent in Gale's nose, he feels Astarion relax. Just slightly. His breathing slows. They stand there, warm and quiet, for much longer than Gale had anticipated. He does not want to be the first to let go. Eventually, Astarion steps back. 

“Thank you,” he says, quietly. “That is… nice. It is becoming quite a habit of yours, isn't it?” 

“Humans are social creatures,” Gale says. “We need hugs. It helps relieve anxiety, improve blood pressure and boost the immune system.” 

Astarion shakes his head, amused. 

“Of course you managed to make it scientific.” 

“It is nice,” Gale protests. “That's what I'm saying! I'm agreeing with you!” 

“Yes dear,” Astarion agrees. “Arms up, please.” 

Having declared himself satisfied with the alteration of the shirt, Gale is finally free to put the dressing gown on over the top. He hunches into it, waiting for it to warm up, while Astarion finishes packing his skates. 

“You would think I'd be used to the cold by now,” he observes, as Astarion locks the trailer behind them. 

“Gale! Astarion!” He turns at the voice, and smiles as Isobel comes to join them, trailing her skate partner behind her. His name is Mark or Max or maybe David or something, from Hollyoaks or maybe EastEnders - or maybe he's a footballer, actually. Gale is really going to have to look that up and remind himself before he puts his foot in it. 

“Isobel!” 

“Hug?” 

“Hug.” 

Gale shunts his skate bag to the side to give her a one-armed hug in greeting. 

“Damn, I was hoping to get a glimpse at what they've put you in before rehearsals started,” she grins, gesturing at Gale's robe. 

“I would show you if I wasn't freezing,” Gale grins. “Are you pleased with yours?” 

“It's fine,” Isobel shrugs. “I was always the ‘less is more’ kind of costume person, but Volo is not.” 

“I think he's colour-coded us,” Astarion frowns, gesturing to their dressing gowns. His is deep red, and Gale's is deep purple, and honestly Gale hadn't thought anything of it until just now, but Astarion has made an astute observation; Isobel's is a light, almost baby blue, and her partner's is an equally light grey. “He takes ‘extra’ to a whole new level.”

The four of them fall in together as they make their way to the practice rink behind the set.

“Pot, kettle,” Gale says. Isobel laughs, but Astarion only blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“The pot calling the kettle black,” he says. “It means to insult someone for something you're also guilty of. Because the pot and the kettle are both blackened over the fire.” 

Astarion shrugs at him. 

“The tongue is well-hung,” he says. 

“ What?”  

“Oh, my apologies, I thought we were swapping idioms.” 

“We are now. A Russian one, I presume? What does it mean?” 

“Someone who never shuts up,” Astarion says, dryly. 

That makes Gale laugh. 

“You're looking for the accent in the baker’s ass,” he says. 

“Okay that's not an English one,” Isobel protests. 

“It is not,” Gale agrees. “Greek. The story goes there was a stingy baker who used to take his trousers off to sit in his flour when he left the house, because then if he came back and someone had taken any flour, he'd know about it. His wife had a lover, and she gave him some flour, and then sat in the flour when she'd done so to put the print back. The Greek letter omega in lower case is like a rounded ‘w’ in the Latin alphabet - or the outline of someone's posterior, in this case - and for emphasis you could add an accent.”

“Oh no,” Isobel covers her mouth, smiling.

“So the husband came back and knew it wasn't his particular posterior that had made the print in question because the omega didn't have an accent. Hence ‘looking for the accent in the baker's ass’ means to make a fool of yourself looking for something that isn't there.” 

“What, the outline of his-” Isobel wiggles her eyebrows. 

“Exactly.” 

“Gale Dekarios, that is dirty ,” Astarion grins. “I didn't know you had it in you.” 

“You started it,” Gale points out. “A ‘well-hung’ tongue, indeed.” 

They're still chuckling when they arrive rinkside to find the rest of the crew and competitors standing around, apparently waiting for something. Isobel has to get on her knees to help her partner tie his skates, as he is apparently incapable of doing it himself, and Gale and Astarion exchange a glance over her head. 

The place is in full pre-show chaos, even days ahead; people in headsets and wielding clipboards and shouting instructions, carrying huge boxes back and forth. They make their way to the edge of the rink with the others, hoping it will mean they're mostly out of the way. 

“Do you think it ever gets less chaotic?” Isobel asks, as someone bumps into her shoulder and then apologises profusely whilst running backwards. 

Halsin suddenly appears behind them. How he does that, considering he towers above all of them, Gale will never know. 

“You alright, Halsin?” Gale asks, stepping away from where he was leaning on the barrier of the rink between Isobel and Astarion. “You look worried.” 

“There are more people here and more lax security measures than I had presumed,” Halsin says, quietly, putting a little more distance between the two of them and the rink. “I have done a sweep of the set and I am not comfortable leaving either you or Astarion unaccompanied unless there is no alternative. I have yet to speak to Minthara, but I'm sure she would agree.” 

Gale nods. 

“Alright. You're the expert. One moment,” he ducks back towards the others. His instinct is to go for Astarion's elbow; the level of noise in here makes shouting pointless. He remembers to stop himself in time, and taps the barrier next to him instead. Astarion turns to him, and Gale beckons him away. The three of them bend their heads together in a back corner. 

“There is no real reason to be concerned as of yet,” Halsin says, low and quiet. “There have been no direct threats. When we go live, however, that may change. It will be easier for people to expect my presence from the start than adjust to my introduction later. However, there is one of me and two of you. The closer you stay to each other, the easier my job will be.” 

Astarion frowns. 

“I already have a thousand places to be at once, Halsin.” 

“I don't,” Gale points out. “I suppose you'll just have to get used to me following you around.” 

“You do that anyway,” Astarion grumbles. 

Halsin nods. 

“Please keep an eye on each other, too. As I said, we currently have no reason to suspect that either of you are in any danger. But I would much rather be over-cautious and it be unwarranted than under-cautious and regret it.” 

“Halsin?” Astarion says, thoughtfully. “Do you actually carry weaponry?” 

Halsin glances at Gale and then back again. 

“I am not able to divulge that information.” 

“So yes then,” Astarion surmises, with a sigh. “Gale, if you get me killed I will be taking you down with me.” 

Halsin tilts his head, considering. 

“I currently have more reason to be concerned about your safety than Gale’s,” he points out. 

“Oh,” Astarion blinks. “But you aren't being paid to protect me.” 

“I am now,” Halsin says, easily. 

“It seems stupid not to,” Gale adds. “And I wasn't going to ask Halsin to do double the work without adjusting his salary accordingly.” 

They are both saved from the gathering wrath of Astarion's expression by the tannoy overhead announcing that stage rehearsals are about to begin. Astarion doesn't get a chance to say anything about it until they're on the ice, amongst all the others. Gale, who hasn't skated with many other people on the rink before, is a little overwhelmed. Sticking to the barrier to stretch, Astarion appears next to him. 

“How much are you paying him?” He hisses, under his breath. 

“That is Halsin's information to divulge or withhold as he pleases,” Gale says. “I truly do not understand what annoys you about this, Astarion.” 

“I won't refuse protection, especially given that half of this is your bloody fault. But whatever you expect in return, I can't give it. And I won’t. I will not be bought.” 

Gale looks up from trying to turn his heels out to find Astarion glaring at him. 

“... Expect?” He frowns. “Do you think I'm trying to manipulate you?” 

“Aren't you? I would be, if I had you on the back foot like this.” 

Gale glares at him in return now. 

“I am electing to ignore that, on the understanding that you are upset with me and therefore unlikely to be accurately articulating your cognitive processes,” He hisses, trying to keep his voice down as the others skate past. “I am trying to protect you because you are my friend, and I would hate it if anything happened to you that it would have been within my power to prevent!” 

Astarion looks at him like this is somehow incomprehensible. Like Gale hasn't told Astarion more about who he really is than he's told anyone else in years. Like he hadn't just given Astarion a fucking hug because it was all he could think to do to help. 

“Nobody cares about me,” Astarion says, quietly. 

“Well I do,” Gale whispers, irritated at himself for how much that hurts. “So does Hestia, and Karlach, and Halsin, and Wyll, and probably a whole lot more people who would be equally saddened to hear that you think that.” 

“You two alright?” Isobel skids up beside them. “You look like you're having a lover’s tiff,” 

“Very funny,” Gale says, without a hint of amusement. “We just had a misunderstanding.” 

“Right,” Astarion says. 

He's not frowning, now. If anything, he looks a little shell-shocked. 

The tilt of Isobel's head is doubtful, but she apparently decides to let it slide. 

“If you say so.” 

“Of course Karlach cares about me,” Astarion says, snappish, when Isobel is out of earshot. “She's my friend.” 

“That is not what you just said,” Gale points out, returning to his stretches. “My therapist would have a field day with you, you know.” 

“Fuck you,” Astarion says, idly, joining him in stretching. “This is stupid, let's talk about something else.” 

“I can give you his number?” 

“Who?” 

“My therapist.” 

“Sounds like a conflict of interests.” 

Gale makes an exasperated noise. 

“I mean he could find you someone he can vouch for.” 

“Oh, and an underhanded business deal. Wholesome.” 

“That is barely underhanded, it's a professional recommendation, and not something that’s ever seemed to bother you before, notably. I will remind you that your lawyer is my childhood friend and my security detail regularly has dinner and drinks with us.”  

It irritates Gale more than it should, that Astarion can be this blasé about it. Especially just having told him off for doing something that isn't a million miles away from exactly this; a throwaway comment that belies something cutting much deeper. 

Astarion is a fucking hypocrite and it pisses him off; that he'll force Gale to face up to himself but refuses to do so himself. And as long as he's upset, he's liable to be unreasonable, and that is not something he wants to do. 

“I am going to finish warming up,” Gale says, and skates off. 

He remains irritable for the entirety of the rest of the afternoon. With some restraint, he manages not to say anything underhanded or straight up rude when they skate through the routine. Instead, he focuses on his feet, and his posture, and does as Astarion tells him and keeps his mouth shut. 

In all honesty, he has plenty else to be focused on. The change of surroundings has thrown him more than he had expected it to. He makes a very basic mistake and falls on a mohawk, which he hasn’t done since October. 

“I'm not manipulating you,” Astarion says, when they're standing in the tunnel waiting to re-run the lighting and music cues. Apparently he's noticed that Gale is, however unintentionally, giving him the cold shoulder. Gale supposes it is quite hard not to, when they're skating so close. 

“Good to know.” 

“I'm not ,” Astarion insists, voice still lowered. “Trust me, you'd know. You have all your fucking clothes on, for a start.” 

“Fucking hell , Astarion.” 

That particular argument doesn't go any further, mostly because Jen yells for them. They don't get another moment, either; Gale gets banished from the rink so Astarion can do something that honestly he isn't listening to. He just gets the hell off the ice and tries to breathe. 

Thankfully, after that they really don't need him that much. The others go back to their trailers when they're not needed, but Gale has to stick around as long as Astarion is on the ice. So as they block the professional skates out for the camera crew, he grabs his book out of his bag and sits in the audience. 

“You argued about something,” Halsin says, quietly, when there's nobody in the vicinity. “I hope it wasn't me.” 

“Not really,” Gale sighs, turning his page. “We certainly both have our own issues, but I don't think Astarion is as aware of some of his as I thought he was.” 

“It seems unfair to be upset at him for that,” Halsin frowns. 

“I am upset ,” Gale says, quietly, “Because I have previously told him that I consider him to be one of my closest friends, and apparently he doesn't even think of me as a friend at all.” 

“Ah. I can see how that would be hurtful.” Halsin agrees. Then, a moment later; “There is another security guard here. He doesn't seem to have much to do. If you want to go back to the trailer until you are needed, I can send him with you.” 

Gale closes his book. 

“Perhaps that isn't a terrible idea.” 

It is a relief to be back at the trailer; to be able to turn his irritation over without knowing there is a roomful of people casting glances over their shoulders at him. For a little while, he gives up on the book, shoves his noise-cancelling headphones on, and lies on the sofa with AC/DC and Guns n’ Roses and their contemporaries turned up as far as he can conscionably manage without threatening his hearing. 

It isn’t loud enough to drown out his brain; or his heart.  

Gale vaguely remembers reading about broken hearts and attachment theory at some point in the immediate aftermath of having filed for divorce. A form of self-protection; to be attracted, romantically or otherwise, to people it would be impossible to have feelings reciprocated by. You can’t get your heart broken again if you never even had a chance. He’d had enough pairs of underwear thrown at the stage during his career to know he’s been on the other side of it, in the parasocial relationship category. This side isn’t as light-hearted as it had seemed. But then he hadn’t gone and fallen for a fictional character or someone famous and distant. No, he’s fallen for his fucking skate partner, who he has to work with every damn day. 

He’d made his peace with his less platonic feelings being unrequited months ago, even before they’d decided, entirely without his permission, to fledge into something stronger. He had, however, considered Astarion to be his friend. If anything, Gale had preferred that. It meant enjoying his company without any of the complications he’s probably still not ready for, no matter how long he spends lying awake at night, wondering if he really is happier on his own, with what feels like a hole in his chest where his heart should be. 

Eventually, the music is too much. Gale sits up, switches to something gentler, and gets his book back out. For a little while, he loses himself in the gentler world of Rosemary and Sissix and the other Wayfarers. This one, Gale re-reads every few years, but even if Astarion did read fiction he's not sure it would be his kind of thing. Far too soft and fluffy, intergalactic space battles notwithstanding. 

Irritated again, he flicks all the way back to the beginning of the book and starts searching out his favourite quotes instead of properly reading. 

Astarion returns, not that much longer later, and quietly lets himself in without knocking. Gale doesn't look up from his book or greet him, which he usually would, but he's still simmering with resentment. 

As he closes the door behind him, Astarion says; 

“Zel and I blocked out the routine so we know where the camera will be. I've tried to make sure it's as unobtrusive as possible.” 

“A sensible measure. The less there is to distract me, the better I will skate, and the better you will look,” Gale agrees, still not looking up. 

Astarion puts his skate bag down with a thump. 

“Careful!” Gale says, surprised. “Your skates!” 

“I've upset you,” Astarion says. 

Apparently this bears stating, as if it isn't entirely obvious. Gale sighs, and closes his book. 

“You appear to think that every kindness I have shown you for the past four months was part of some elaborate scheme to buy your favour. I don't know what I have done to make you think so little of me. I have been trying to unpick it, and instead I have found myself at the conclusion that despite being the insulted party, I am not the one at fault here.” 

Astarion throws his hands in the air. 

“I don't know anybody who doesn't want something from me!” 

Gale studies him. Part of him does want something more. But he would never, never push that. He values their friendship far too much. Or what he had thought was their friendship, anyway. 

“‘Friend’, noun. A person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection. A person whom you know well and like a lot. A person that you might, for example, invite to spend time with your friends, and your daughter, and think that they would enjoy said invitations given that they were accepted.” 

“I do,” Astarion says. “Enjoy them, I mean. I wouldn't have accepted if I didn't. You and Hestia both mean a lot to me.” 

Gale fights down the urge to be petty. He wants to bite back that they evidently don't mean that much, given that Astarion considers himself friendless, but he doesn't. 

“I'm not-” Astarion sighs. “I’m not good at this. Karlach is the only real friend I've ever had, and she just moved to the other side of the world. I don't know what having friends means, other than her. And the two of you are so different. I know what I am, to Karlach. I don't know what I am to you.” 

Gale still says nothing. He almost can't trust himself to. 

“I would like to be your friend,” Astarion says, quietly. “If you'll let me.” 

“I thought you already were,” Gale says. “Although to make it perfectly clear, I will continue to pay Halsin whether you consider me a friend or not, so if you're saying this to manipulate me it's a wasted effort.” 

It was a stupid thing to say. He knows it was, even before Astarion’s expression collapses through sadness and lands in anger. 

“Fine. And to be perfectly clear , I'm not offering you anything either. This is not a deal to be sweetened.” 

“I was-” Gale stands, quickly. “I'm sorry. That was a petty and decidedly unhelpful thing for me to say.” 

They are both upset because they do care about each other. He's aware of it, and Astarion is not, but that was not the reaction of man who is ambivalent towards him.

Gale pinches the bridge of his nose.

“If you didn't care about me, you wouldn't be upset at me for that,” he points out, gently. 

“And if you didn't care about me Halsin wouldn't have come and found me and told me off for… ‘hurting your feelings’,” Astarion agrees, with an exasperated sigh. “Excellent, glad we solved that. Now what?” 

“Now we go back to being friends,” Gale says, easily. “And perhaps you go to therapy.” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, fine, maybe.” He growls. “Are you done being annoyed at me now? Because I hate it.” 

Gale, exasperated, smiles at him. 

“Right. Because you care so much about what the rest of the world thinks of you, but heaven forbid I, who you are not friends with at all, get even mildly upset at you.” 

“I just said we’re friends!” Astarion protests. “What more do you want from me?” 

“For you to admit that you were wrong, and to apologise,” Gale says. “Although I would take either if both is too much.” 

Astarion crosses his arms and glares at him. 

“I'm sorry that I hurt your feelings. It turns out that we are quite good friends.” 

“Thank you,” Gale says, electing to ignore the tone that has veered into the insincere. “I'm sorry that I ever made you feel that you're not enough exactly as you are. If this little episode hasn't made it clear enough, your friendship is of great value to me.” 

Astarion softens. 

“I want to learn to apologise like you do,” he says.  

Gale raises an eyebrow at him. 

“It was not a lesson I learned easily. The repetition of stock phrases can render them stilted or diminish their impact. So, I have been cultivating the practice of articulating the source of the apology. Not just that I am sorry, but why .” 

Astarion pulls a face, like he didn't mean he wanted to learn right now , but then he growls; 

“I don't like it when you're unhappy with me. I don't know why, but I regret having done it and I don't want it to happen again.” 

“Because we're friends,” Gale sighs. “But I will accept that reasoning as a genuine motivation.” 

“Practice makes perfect,” Astarion says, ruefully. “Now please say we can go back to talking about skating, this is exhausting .”  

“Alright,” Gale concedes, in truth quite grateful that it had been so comparatively easily addressed. “What's next on the docket?” 

For a moment, Astarion stands there, still hovering. 

“Is there something else bothering you?” Gale asks, to which the answer is apparently yes, because Astarion makes an irritated noise and turns away. 

“I don't know.” 

Astarion leans on the vanity, studying his own face in the mirror. Then his attention flicks to Gale; watching him over his shoulder. The moment they make eye contact, something changes in his expression; softening, almost. 

“I think,” he says. “I might like a hug.” 

“Oh,” Gale smiles. “Now that's something I can help with.” 

Astarion stands up all in one movement, then stops, as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. When Gale steps forward, Astarion almost stumbles into him; pulls him close and holds onto him, tight, far more so than Gale had expected. All of his usual charm has been wiped away. There is only this; raw, and real, and precious as amber. 

“I do care about you,” he says, into Gale's shoulder. 

“Me too,” Gale agrees, closing his eyes and letting Astarion squeeze him even though it's slightly uncomfortable and the embroidery is scratching his cheek because he honestly doesn't care. He couldn’t care less. As long as Astarion stays in his arms and says that he cares and means it. 

“Don't stop inviting me,” Astarion says, quietly, almost a whisper, into his shoulder. 

“I wouldn't,” Gale promises. “I like having you there.” 

“I like being there.” 

“Good.” Gale breathes. “That's good.” 

He’s lost. He knows he is. And somehow, he is going to have to hide it from the whole world in just two days’ time. 

-

Jenevelle Hallowleaf: Sorry guys, we’re going to need you both back tomorrow morning. Raph's decided to change the set dressing so all the blocking notes we made for the cameras are out the window. 

Astarion Ancunin: What time? 

Jenevelle Hallowleaf: 9 at the latest 

Gale Dekarios: I can, but fair warning, I will have Hestia. 

Jenevelle Hallowleaf: I had presumed, it's a Saturday. 

Astarion Ancunin: set her on Raphael. Serves him right for being a dick

Gale Dekarios: I'm not sure even Raph deserves to deal with Hestia at 9am on a Saturday morning 

-

Hestia gets to choose the music in the car. Apparently it had been Gale's concession because they've interrupted their Saturday plans to go and walk Wyll and Kamara’s dog Scratch around Hyde Park with them, followed by doughnuts. Astarion can hardly complain. What that means, unfortunately, is they get a lot of Disney - followed, for some reason, by Michael Bublé. Hestia and Gale sing along to ‘Just Haven't Met You Yet’ with decidedly different levels of musical proficiency, and Astarion wonders - mostly with a genial sort of fondness and only mild irritation - how his life came to this. 

He had spent the evening on Facebook, for the first time in several years. Most of his old contacts are still on there, though as unlikely to post as he is. Not many of them are from the school. He hadn't had social media at all until university, and when he'd got it, he hadn't bothered to go looking for anyone else who might once have skated under Cazador. 

But when he had logged in, there had been, amongst several months’ worth of ignored notifications, a friend request. Like the universe had known. 

He doesn't recognise Sebastian’s last name anymore. What that means, he's not entirely sure, but for some reason it aches. 

He's opened and then closed the ‘say hello to your new friend’ message tab more times than he can count, now. He doesn't know what to say. That he's glad Sebastian is alive? 

He does it again, now, wondering if inspiration will suddenly sleet through the universe and hit him with the perfect phrase to break nearly a decade of silence. 

“What are you doing?” Hestia leans over his shoulder, curiously. 

“Excuse you,” Astarion says, without any real venom. “This is private, madam.” 

“Oh,” Hestia sits back and covers her eyes. “I'm not looking, I promise.” Astarion raises his eyebrow at her; inevitably, moments later, she peeks through her fingers at him and immediately realises she's been caught. 

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he warns her. 

“And satisfaction brought it back,” Gale finishes. “Although half-forgotten idioms aside, Hestia, you should not be snooping at other people's messages unless they invite you to.” 

“I wasn’t snooping!” 

“You absolutely were, young lady. Come here, leave Astarion alone.” 

Astarion probably shouldn't message Sebastian with Hestia in the middle seat between them. However, Gale has very effectively distracted her with a phone game, and suddenly the weight of not knowing is almost painful. 

Astarion: Hello 

Sebastian: Astarion! I didn't know if you'd ever respond to my friend request 

Astarion: I don't use facebook very often 

Sebastian: Nobody does anymore, I know, but I tried you on Instagram and Tiktok and didn't get a response

Astarion: I have a programme that filters out unsolicited messages 
Astarion: I can go and find you and add you 

Sebastian: Well it doesn't matter now 
Sebastian: God it's been so long! How are you? 

Astarion: a hell of a lot better now I'm not at that fucking school
Astarion: how are you? 

Sebastian: You can say that again 
Sebastian: Better. A lot better. So much has changed since I last saw you 
Sebastian: Maybe we should meet up for coffee sometime, catch up properly? 

Astarion: I would like that 

Sebastian: It would be good to see you again 

He closes the app and goes to flick through his messages on Instagram, but can't see anything. 

Astarion Ancunin: how do I see messages that have been filtered out? 
Astarion Ancunin: an old friend tried to contact me and I can't find him 

AmyPR: oh, you should be able to do it from your settings 
AmyPR: Gale can show you 

Astarion Ancunin: he's busy with Hestia at the moment 
Astarion Ancunin: I'll ask later 

-

When they turn up at the studio, Astarion goes off to find Raphael while Gale and Halsin wrangle Hestia out of her car seat. 

Gale hopes that they won't be giving up all of their Saturdays to this place, but Hestia, at least for now, enjoys the novelty of it. Whether she continues to do so will be an interesting question. As they reach the doors he turns to her, and realises that both Hestia and Halsin are walking not beside him, but behind him. 

“What,” Gale asks, “Are you doing?” 

“Being ducklings!” Hestia bounces on her toes. “You're the duck.” 

“Am I indeed? Quack?” 

“And Halsin and I are your ducklings! Cheep cheep cheep!” 

Hestia does not make a cheeping sound, but rather says the word ‘cheep’, and Gale makes a mental note to take her to the park in a month or so to make sure she knows that isn't actually what ducklings sound like. In the meantime, he raises an eyebrow at Halsin, over Hestia's head. 

“Usually the ducklings are smaller, are they not?” 

“Oh,” for a moment, Hestia looks concerned. Then she brightens. “Oh, no, it's okay! Halsin can be our ugly duckling!” 

“Oh dear,” Halsin says. “That's not very nice.” 

“No no no, I mean I mean-” Hestia tries to shout above both he and Halsin laughing. “I didn't mean it like that! The ugly duckling is bigger than the others and it's because it turns out he's a swan! They only call him ugly because he doesn't look like them, he's not actually ugly at all!” 

“I know, Hestia, I am teasing,” Halsin ruffles her hair. “I am happy to be the duckling who has yet to discover his inherent value is not dependent on how others measure his beauty and learns to be at home with himself exactly the way he is.” 

Hestia deflates, relieved. 

“Good. You are one of my best friends and I think that you're beautiful, Mr Halsin, inside and out.” She pauses. “Well, you're one of my grown-up best friends, which is nearly as good as my best friends.” 

“You're one of my best friends too,” Halsin agrees. “And you have one of the most beautiful souls I have ever had the pleasure to know.” 

Hestia beams at him, holding onto his hand, and then skips the rest of the way through the studio, running ahead of them and pausing dramatically every time Gale calls after her not to get too far away. 

In short succession, Hestia finds the props storage and the wardrobe trailer that Volo has left inadvisably unlocked. Having had to ask her to put the feather boa back no less than four times, Gale gives up and picks her up before she can cause any actual damage from the sheer level of excitement alone. 

“I have legs!” She yells. 

“And sticky fingers, and no self restraint,” Gale agrees. “A truly terrifying combination of attributes.” 

Unfortunately for both of them, Raph emerges with Astarion in tow exactly at that moment. 

“Astarion!” Hestia shrieks. “Daddy's being boring!” 

“He usually is,” Astarion agrees, with a grin. 

“It's rotten work, but someone has to do it,” Gale says. “So where do you need us Raph?” 

“About that,” Raphael smiles. Presumably there's an apology in it somewhere, though Gale can't detect even a hint of it. “Astarion and Zel have talked me down from changing it. It's about the drama, the theatre, the performance of it,” he talks with his hands and into the distance, in a way that Gale immediately reads as a theatre school grad. He wonders if Raph is looking for Shakespeare in ITV and failing to find it. 

“So you won't be needing us after all?” He clarifies. 

“I have been persuaded that we capture the essence of the piece more effectively with the current staging,” Raphael agrees. “Apologies, for dragging you all the way out here on your day off.” 

It is the most insincere apology Gale has ever heard. 

“Well, Hestia's had fun at least,” he says, finally putting her down, as she's stopped wiggling and trying to kick him in the thigh. “I'll call Wyll and see if they're still up for hanging out. Do you want to come with us, Astarion?” 

“Please do!” Hestia says, immediately, glueing herself to his leg. “I promise I won't try to read your messages over your shoulder. And you can have some of my doughnut!” 

“I do not need to be bribed into spending time with you,” Astarion tells her, perfectly seriously. “You are more than enough of a delight all by yourself.” 

“I love you too,” Hestia says, and kisses his kneecaps. “Even when you're keeping secrets.” 

Gale tries not to laugh at Astarion’s expression; it would be rude. But there is something unexpectedly sweet about how shocked he is, just for a moment, that Hestia can and will declare her affection for him so easily. The fact that it then immediately gets buried under his usual mild irritation is not surprising, but for some reason it leaves him feeling slightly saddened. Like Hestia had, for a moment, managed to glimpse the real Astarion under all his protective layers of charm and spite. 

“I'm not keeping secrets!” Astarion protests. “Some things are just private.” 

“Now you're being boring!” Hestia moans. “I want doughnuts and gossip!” 

“Your young lady has excellent taste,” Raphael agrees. “I will see you all very soon, I'm sure.” 

Gale finds himself glaring at Raphael’s back as he walks away, though he's not entirely sure why. Something about his attitude seems wildly insincere. 

Wyll, it turns out, has yet to set off, and he and Kamara are as happy to have their morning plan back with extra company as Ali is to have the house to herself for a few hours. They meet them at the park. 

“I presume Kamara named the dog?” Astarion asks, when they spot Wyll up ahead with Scratch on a lead. 

“He was a rescue,” Hestia says, skipping along with her hand in Halsin's. “That was his name when they got him, and he won't answer to anything else. How would you like it if someone adopted you and changed your name without asking?” 

“I wouldn’t let them, obviously.” 

“ Exactly .” 

Wyll finally turns and spots them, and raises his hand to wave. 

Hestia screams with excitement and hurls herself at Kamara. The two of them both end up on the floor in a pile of happy giggles, with Scratch doing his level best to lick both of their faces. When they've been picked up and brushed off by their respective fathers, Hestia and Kamara chase up and down the paths with Scratch, all three of them with seemingly an endless amount of energy. 

“Always a joy to have you join us, Astarion,” Wyll smiles. “How are you two feeling about tomorrow?” 

“We're on a rest day,” Gale protests. “Let's not talk about work.” 

“You haven't talked about anything but skating for months,” Wyll points out, laughingly. 

The path is too thin for all four of them to walk together, so Wyll and Halsin end up falling behind to leave Gale with Astarion. 

“Did you say something to them?” Astarion says, quietly. 

“To who?” Gale blinks, pulling his mind back from wondering if he'd be able to make stuffed doughnuts at home. 

“To Wyll. And Hestia.” 

“About what?” Gale frowns. 

Astarion sighs at him. 

“About… what I said yesterday.” 

“Oh no, absolutely not. I wouldn't.” 

“So they both just… said those things, about me, of their own accord?” 

“People do that,” Gale agrees. “I did say more people care about you than you seemed to believe.” 

Astarion hums, and says nothing for a moment. 

It's bitterly cold out here, even for January, and Gale hunches into his coat and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. 

“I'm going to grab a coffee,” Astarion says, having spotted the cafe across the way. “Want one? It'll warm your hands up.” 

Gale smiles at him from under his scarf. 

“Thank you, that would be lovely.” 

“Even though it will be shit coffee,” Astarion agrees. 

“As a hand-warmer, I will accept shitty park coffee,” Gale agrees. “Especially if it's from you.” 

“Okay, now you're mocking me,” Astarion sighs. 

“Only a little bit. And with affection. Friendly mocking, if you will.” 

Astarion ignores him, turning to shout back to the others; 

“Wyll! Halsin! Do you want coffee?” 

Kamara and Hestia then also want hot chocolate, so Gale ends up going with him to help him carry all the cups back. And if his wallet slips and he accidentally pays for it while Astarion isn't looking, what's the harm?

“You know doing that defeats the point of me being the one to buy coffee,” Astarion says, as they work their way back to the others. 

“Not really,” Gale shrugs. “It's the gesture of the thing. Besides, you apparently need to practise letting people be nice to you, so if anything, I'm being helpful.” 

“I do not need practice,” Astarion frowns. 

“Oh, would you rather I stopped?” Gale grins. 

“I- no, but.” Astarion frowns. “Oh shut up.” 

“I didn't say anything!” 

“You were thinking it so loudly I could hear it. You can't manipulate me into being a nicer person, you know.” 

“I'm not manipulating you,” Gale sighs. “I am being nice to you, because I can and I want to, and you apparently haven't had enough of it.” 

Astarion pulls a face at him. 

“But now I want to be nice to you in return.” 

“That's-” Gale laughs. “That's not me manipulating you, Astarion. You wanting to be nice to people is all you.” He hums. “There is this prevailing notion in Western philosophy that humans are inherently inclined towards evil and must be taught to be good. The prevalence of Christianity with its concept of ‘original sin’ probably hasn’t helped. I’m more inclined to believe the most recent studies in sociology and psychology that suggest it’s quite the opposite; that it is our capacity for kindness that has pushed human evolution beyond what any other species has achieved. There's a fascinating book called Humankind by Rutger Bregman…” 

“Oh my god,” Astarion sighs. “Next you'll be saying that Raphael is a perfectly nice person deep down and he just needs a better environment to thrive.” 

“Well… in essence, yes. I don't know Raph very well, admittedly.” 

“ Really , Gale. He's in it for the drama and the money.” 

“Aren't we all, in our own way? I embarked on my journey because I was looking for something to stir my soul, so who's to say he didn't as well? We have heeded the call to create, the desire to bring about change. Every act of creation, no matter how small, has the potential to better whatever corner of the world we inhabit. I think that everyone who yearns to create wishes not just to express themselves, but to be witnessed in the act of that expression by those who may gain a richer understanding of themselves or their world as a result.” 

Astarion had been listening, head tilted, as if Gale's little philosophy had genuinely hit home. But when he's finished, instead of adding anything to it, he just says; 

“Even Volo?” 

Gale sighs. 

“Yes, even Volo. Although perhaps for some people the appeal of being seen has more allure than being the mirror to reflect back at the person doing the perceiving.” 

“Do you think Minthara is a good person deep down too?” Astarion presses. 

“Of course!” Gale nods. “She just needs someone to listen. We all do.” 

Astarion shakes his head, bemused. 

“I need to read this book, I think. Mostly because I cannot understand how you can think like that.” 

“Easily,” Gale says. “The vast majority of my numerous acquaintances have been better off for being granted the benefit of the doubt and treated with kindness. I will not submit to pessimism on the basis of the outliers to a general rule. Genuinely nasty and evil people do exist, undoubtedly. But given the opportunity, I believe most people would choose kindness. If they do not, it is because the world has worn them thin. Why should I adjust my entire behaviour and mentality for the few exceptions?” 

They’ve caught up with the others before Astarion can respond to that. It's really too cold to be sitting still for long, but in the interests of Kamara and Hestia not spilling hot chocolate everywhere, the six of them perch around a picnic table for a few minutes while they reduce the liquid levels in their cups. 

In all honesty Hestia is probably excited enough already without the addition of more sugar, but as she seems to be having a good time, Gale mentally adds a potential nap into their afternoon plans and pinches one of her mini marshmallows. 

“Daddy!” She protests. “That was naughty!” 

“I have been on my best behaviour all week, it was getting exhausting,” Gale winks at her. “If I promise you more marshmallows later will I be forgiven?” 

“I already forgave you,” Hestia says, generously. “Even though I really, really, really like marshmallows. That's how much I love you.” 

“I am honoured,” Gale says, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “And I love you too. Even more than marshmallows.” 

“Sssh,” Hestia protests. “Don't let the marshmallows hear you say that, they'll be sad!” 

“I love you even more than marshmallows,” Gale stage-whispers. 

Hestia grins at him, kicking her feet under the table. 

“Um,” a voice says, “I'm so sorry to interrupt but we just had to ask-” he looks up, and sees the face of a stranger, alight with that hopeful sort of embarrassment that he really should be used to by now. “You're Gale Dekarios, aren't you?” 

“I am,” he says, sitting up straight. Halsin has already clocked what's happening; he's probably been watching all morning. “And who might you be?” 

In the end, they don't have that much to say to him. He grabs the little stack of autograph cards and a pen to sign for them on something a little more long-lived than the back of a bus ticket, then smiles for a selfie and waves them away as they giggle happily. Unfortunately, having said yes, he's opened the floodgates. Two more people approach, and behind them there's another little group whispering and glancing at them. Gale glances at Wyll, who is laughing at him already. 

Not that being recognised and asked for autographs isn't nice, of course, but after a decade of it the novelty has worn off. On top of that, he keeps expecting them to ask awkward questions about his private life which he has to find a polite way not to answer. He defends, as he usually does, by asking them questions about themselves; what their names are, where they're from, what they do, and so on and so forth. Before he can do much more, however, Hestia decides to take matters into her own hands. 

“Daddy!” She yells. 

“There's no need to shout, Hestia, I'm right here,” Gale protests, gently.

“But daddy I need a wee!” 

Gale swallows his laughter and nods, seriously. 

“Alright, Hestia, can you wait five minutes or-” 

“No! I need a wee now !” 

She makes an attempt at stamping her foot, despite the fact that she's sitting down. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, to the lovely lady who had asked him to address his autograph to her mother, whose name is Marian, and who apparently is one of the few people who has his first album on CD, of all things. “Hestia, let me finish here, and then we can go. Can you hold it for just a little longer?” 

“Uuuuuuuuugh!” Hestia throws her head back and groans, in the truly theatrical way that only children can. 

“Thank you,” Gale smiles at her, then turns back to his little queue of hopefuls. “Sorry, you know kids. How am I spelling Marian?” 

They are very polite about it, but none of them keep him long, then; Gale signs two more autographs, poses for another selfie, shoves his autograph cards back in his bag and makes his escape, hand in hand with Hestia. 

“Do you actually need to go to the toilet?” He asks when they’re a safe distance down the path. He glances over his shoulder to check that the others are catching up to him, which thankfully they are. 

“No,” Hestia says, cheerfully, skipping along with her hand in his. “I just didn't want to share you today and you were doing your not very real smile.” 

Gale laughs, and squeezes her hand. 

“Don't tell anyone else, sweetheart, but I think you might be my favourite person ever.” 

“That's okay, because you're mine too,” Hestia agrees. “Well, you and mummy both are. Do I get extra marshmallows for rescuing you?” 

“Maybe,” Gale grins. 

“Oh!” Hestia gasps, pulling her hand free of his grasp. “I didn't give Astarion a marshmallow! ASTARION!” 

“Didn't you need the toilet ten seconds ago?” Astarion protests, just about catching up to them. 

“I was lying,” Hestia declares. “Autographs are boring, and I don't mind sharing my daddy days with you, but I don't want to share them with anyone else. Do you want a marshmallow?”

“I didn't think lying was a very nice thing to do?” Astarion says, bemusedly, apparently still not having come around to the realisation that moral decency is extremely subjective even before it's being practised (or malpracticed, in this case) by a literal child. 

“It's not really,” Hestia confesses. “But some lies aren't as naughty as others, and I won't tell anyone if you don't.”  

“Your secret is safe with me,” he promises, and accepts her slightly sticky little gift with every sign of enjoyment. 

-

Wyll: Halsin, can I get your opinion on something? 

Halsin: I can certainly try.

Wyll: The photo that I took of Gale and Astarion earlier. Should I, or should I not, send it to Gale? 

Halsin: Hmm. 
Halsin: Over facebook, no. 

Wyll: No, no, I wouldn't! I'm just not sure if he knows . I don't know if I should be the one to point it out. 

Halsin: I think he is at least somewhat aware of his own feelings. From what I understand, however, Astarion is not on either count; of Gale's or his own. 

Wyll: Well, no, I’d guessed that. 
Wyll: I don't think sending it to him would achieve anything, really. It just feels like the kind of thing he should have. 

Halsin: Maybe you should ask him? 

Wyll: I thought you might say that. 
Wyll: I have no idea how to approach ‘I haven't seen you look at anyone that way since Mystra and I accidentally caught it on camera’. 

Halsin: Then leave it for now. Affairs of the heart are not things that are often improved by the meddling of outsiders. 

Wyll: On the one hand, you are correct. On the other, I don't know if they’ll ever figure it out by themselves if we don't give them a little push. 

-

Gale Dekarios: I have a question. 

Astarion Ancunin: uhoh 

Gale Dekarios: Hestia and I have spent the afternoon re-watching some of last year's episodes, and I'm not sure your plan of not hugging, holding hands or whatever else when we come off the ice is going to work. 

Astarion Ancunin: You are allowed to hug me in private. Not on national TV. 

Gale Dekarios: Not exactly what I meant, but noted. I more meant that we need to figure out an alternative to standing awkwardly next to each other. 
Gale Dekarios sent a photo 
Gale Dekarios sent a photo 
Gale Dekarios sent a photo 

Astarion Ancunin: alright alright, you don't have to send me screenshots of all of last year's couples getting their scores, thank you, I have seen them before 

Gale Dekarios: None of them are hugging, is the point. 

Astarion Ancunin: I fail to see how you putting an arm around my shoulders is any different 

Gale Dekarios: I'm suggesting that you do it. That way you're in control. You can grab my elbow or just put your hand on my back or pretty much anything, as long as it looks less awkward than us standing next to each other like we're at a business conference. 
Gale Dekarios: All the standing around on camera is as much a performance as the skate itself. 

Astarion Ancunin: ‘pretty much anything’? 

Gale Dekarios: You know what I mean. 

Astarion Ancunin: I'm not sure I do. Are you or are you not giving me permission to grab your arse on national TV? 

Gale Dekarios: Caveat; ‘pretty much anything’ does not include any part of me that might be considered inappropriate, unwarranted or in any way an erogenous zone. 

Astarion Ancunin: Oh well now we're back on me not touching you at all. Anything is an erogenous zone if you try hard enough. 

Gale Dekarios: Yes, very funny. I suppose we’ll both do our best robot impressions then and let everyone think we secretly hate each other. 

Astarion Ancunin: I hate it when you're right, it means you're going to be smug at me 
Astarion Ancunin: fine. 
Astarion Ancunin: but don't get used to it 

Gale Dekarios: I would be just as confused about you putting an arm around me as I would be by you attempting to lift me, if it were, for example, in my kitchen on a Thursday evening. There is a time and a place. 

Astarion Ancunin: thank you 

Gale Dekarios: You're welcome. 

Astarion Ancunin: I can HEAR you being smug about this you bastard 

-

Jenevelle Hallowleaf: Running order is finally in. You two are skating last. 

Gale Dekarios: Bollocks. 

Astarion Ancunin: No, that's good. If we're either first or last, people are more likely to remember us. 

Gale Dekarios: It means we have to watch everybody else skate first, and we'll know what scores we’re up against. Much more nerve-wracking than opening it on a clean slate. 

Astarion Ancunin: historically they put the best couples at the end, don't they Jen? 

Jenevelle Hallowleaf: I can neither confirm nor deny that. 

-

Wyll Ravengard: my knees ache, and all we did was go for a walk 

Gale Dekarios: I was going to recommend taking up a new sport but I don't think I ache less, I think I've adjusted to a new baseline level of pain. 
Gale Dekarios: When did we get old, Wyll? 

Wyll Ravengard: uhoh, I know how this one goes 
Wyll Ravengard: ‘ah, but it seems like only yesterday we were still at school, sleeping through maths classes and waiting for the practice rooms to be free so we could go and pretend we were on our way to being rich and famous’ 

Gale Dekarios: I was sleeping through maths, you were not. 

Wyll Ravengard: Point. 

Gale Dekarios: Is this the story you're going to bring up tomorrow when Holly asks how you know me etc? 

Wyll Ravengard: Actually I thought I was going to tell her about the time after Hestia was born where you were doing skin to skin contact with her and called me crying about how tiny she was and that you were going to get her name tattooed on your wrist and then fell asleep still on the phone to me 

Gale Dekarios: I don’t think the British public would be as interested to hear that as some of the other stories that you could tell. 

Wyll Ravengard: True, although unlike some seven-and-very-nearly-eight-year-olds I could mention, I can keep my mouth shut when necessary
Wyll Ravengard: Gale, can I ask you something? 

Gale Dekarios: You can certainly ask, I can't promise an answer. 

Wyll Ravengard: I usually get one anyway, with you 

Gale Dekarios: That's what I do, I drink and I know things. 

Wyll Ravengard: One day I will read those books 

Gale Dekarios: Don't, they're much more violent than you’d find enjoyable. 

Wyll Ravengard: I have a photo of you from earlier, I wondered if you wanted me to send it over 

Gale Dekarios: Of me and Hestia? Always. 

Wyll Ravengard: No, it's of you and Astarion.

Gale Dekarios: Oh!
Gale Dekarios: Why were you taking photos of Astarion and I? 

Wyll Ravengard: I wasn't actually intending to, I was taking a picture of Kamara, but. 
Wyll Ravengard: Look, I’m just going to send it to you. 
Wyll Ravengard sent a photo 

Gale Dekarios: Ah. 

Wyll Ravengard: it's the way you're looking at him. 

Gale Dekarios: I am worse at hiding it than I thought I was, and I didn't think I was doing very well to begin with. 
Gale Dekarios: Thank you for the warning. I will keep it in mind tomorrow night. 

Wyll Ravengard: I'm sorry 

Gale Dekarios: What for? It's a lovely photo. 
Gale Dekarios: Incriminating and sincerely embarrassing, but lovely nonetheless. 

Wyll Ravengard: We didn't know if you knew. 

Gale Dekarios: ‘We’? 

Wyll Ravengard: Halsin and I. 

Gale Dekarios: Oh. Well, I know. I am, in fact, perhaps cripplingly aware. It is not mutual, however, and it will fade. Time heals all. 
Gale Dekarios: If nothing else, it's good inspiration for the album, to have two people to be broken-hearted over instead of one. 

Wyll Ravengard: Even for the eternal optimist, that is one hell of a leap to try and find a ‘silver lining’. 

Chapter Text

Astarion does not sleep well. 

This is irritating. For one, he has had a very long and busy week, and there is no reason that he shouldn't sleep like the dead. For two, he really, really needs it. And yet Sunday morning dawns, and his eyes ache, and Bear decides to come and yowl at him. Astarion gets up, checks the food bowl, the water bowl and the litter tray, all of which are in perfectly acceptable states, then stares nonplussed at the screaming ball of fluff and irritation before he realises that the wind has blown the bathroom window shut and the damn cat can't get out. 

After that, there's no going back to sleep. He double-checks that his alarm is set and tries anyway, because there's only so much work that coffee and concealer can do for a man. 

Dozing somewhere between asleep and awake, he dreams of sunshine; of a park in summer, and someone smiling at him. He wakes, gently, feeling soft and warm and cared for; and then tries desperately to work out what the fuck he'd been dreaming about, with very little success. 

The sense of warmth and safety is very quickly ousted by his reality; his freezing, tiny little bedsit, where he lives with a cat that isn't even really his. 

Not that he resents Karlach for leaving. They had both needed a fresh start; if anything, he'd encouraged her to go. No, what he resents is himself. For not being selfish. For persuading her that he'd be just fine without her. He is, obviously. But he's also beginning to realise how cripplingly lonely it is. 

Gale had shown him how to get past the filter, yesterday. Now he rolls over and flicks Instagram open. 

Sebastian is married. It had been a few years ago; Astarion wouldn't like to admit how far back he'd scrolled. The rest of his pictures are the usual stuff; selfies with his partner, holiday snaps, the occasional beer or food shot. He looks happy. He looks normal. 

Astarion has agreed to meet him for coffee, and wonders if he will be able to ask Sebastian the question that burns through his lungs to his tongue, every time he looks at that photo of Sebastian smiling at his husband, devastatingly, truly happy; 

Are you really free? 

How did you do that? 

Can I do it too?  

Bear leaps up onto the bed. Astarion jumps, and drops his phone, sending the cat screeching back into the far corner of the kitchen. Which, it must be said, is really not that far away. 

“You can't startle me and then get upset when I startle you,” he tells it, shuffling out from under the duvet. The cold air of the flat bites his skin, sharper and far less welcoming than the rink, as he hops across to his wardrobe to pull out the extra dressing-gown he'd pinched from Volo. 

Astarion Ancunin: morning sunshine 
Astarion Ancunin: ready for the day? 

Gale Dekarios: I’ll be fine until I have to take Hestia home this morning instead of this afternoon. 

Astarion Ancunin: we could always kidnap her back 

Gale Dekarios: A perfectly reasonable solution. I can't imagine why I never thought of that. 

Astarion Ancunin: Glad to know you're on side. Have you ever attempted a heist before? 

Gale Dekarios: Can't say I have. 

Astarion Ancunin: you're missing out. I'll bring a mini balaclava for Hestia to wear too 

Gale Dekarios: You cannot kidnap my daughter. 

Astarion Ancunin: it wouldn't be kidnapping, she'd agree to it. That would make her complicit. 

Gale Dekarios: I genuinely cannot tell if you're joking and it concerns me. 

Astarion Ancunin: I am mostly joking. 
Astarion Ancunin: if it does ever come up, let me know. 

Gale Dekarios: Good to know I'm not the only one who would go to ridiculous lengths for Hestia. 

Astarion Ancunin: I'll tell Karlach that her position as my ride-or-die has been usurped 

Gale Dekarios: I see now why you were so keen to try and convince me that you couldn’t be bribed, if all it took was a marshmallow. 

Astarion Ancunin: It cost Hestia a marshmallow. It would cost you considerably more. 

Gale Dekarios: Damn, and I'm fresh out of marshmallows too. 
Gale Dekarios: I might be a little nervous, actually. 

Astarion Ancunin: did your therapist ever teach you techniques for calming down? 

Gale Dekarios: Not really. I haven't needed them before. 
Gale Dekarios: It's very different, doing a concert. I can get a little tense just before going on, but it will settle over the course of it. I'm up there for hours, usually, rather than the few minutes of this routine. And music is one of the things I find soothing, so playing helps. 

Astarion Ancunin: I'm going to guess that you don't find skating soothing

Gale Dekarios: With you? No, soothing isn't exactly the word that comes to mind. Much as I have come to enjoy skating with you, I think if I so much as tried to relax you'd bite my head off. 

Astarion Ancunin: you make me sound like some kind of taskmaster
Astarion Ancunin: I do know some tips for trying to circumvent a panic response. Karlach taught me. It's mostly just breathing, but I can show you if you’d like

Gale Dekarios: I would appreciate that, actually. Although you've reminded me I had intended to look up some of the psychology behind performance. If I have a chance before I see you at the rink, we can swap ideas. 

-

Their trailer is already beginning to feel more lived-in than it had. They sit in it as the sun sets, after final stage rehearsals, equally disinclined to sit with the others in the marquee-bar thing while the producers run around being panicked and shouting instructions. Instead they eat their dinner, just the two of them, each sitting at his own desk-vanity in companionable quiet. Although Gale, unable to exist without music in the background, still has one headphone in. 

Astarion had brought his ring-light and his makeup box, which between them take up about half of his ikea-desk-vanity, and Gale, not to be left out, had stacked two books, one of his composition notebooks and a cup full of pens on his. 

“I'm giving you two weeks before a coffee machine appears in here,” Astarion says, rubbing moisturiser into his nose. “Please tell me you're going to do something nicer with your hair than that.” 

Gale, who has shoved it up into its usual bun and attempted to gel back the more irritating wisps without removing too many of the smaller ones to avoid looking like a 70’s greaser, looks up from his schedule. 

“Like what?” 

“I don't know, we have a whole makeup and hair team, go and ask one of them.” 

Gale pulls a face. 

“I'm not overly keen on letting strangers touch my hair. One of the very few benefits of gender stereotyping is that even with long hair they usually leave me be.”

Astarion huffs at him. 

“Okay, fine, can I do something with it then?” 

Gale considers this for a moment, then shrugs. 

“I don't see why not.” 

Astarion comes to stand behind him, and studies his face in the mirror. 

“Square jaw, strong brow- hmm, yes, I can see why you don't like having it all pulled back out of your face, especially with the beard.”

“I can't have it detracting from my best features,” Gale agrees. Astarion ignores that, much more interested in fussing with it;

“It needs some volume, too.” 

Gale raises an eyebrow at him. 

“I didn't realise you were such an expert.” 

“In personal grooming? Darling, do pay attention. I'm a performer . It's all part of the job. I’m only surprised you're not better at it.” 

Gale acquiesces, and allows Astarion to partition his hair. 

“The long hair and beard was an accident. I let myself go, when I was- well, you know.” He shrugs. “I was surprised by how much I liked it, so here we are. But it was never an intentional choice, as such.” 

“I have seen the pictures of you previously,” Astarion cards his fingers through Gale's hair, playing with different ways to style it, pulling strands loose to frame his face and then gathering them back up again, fingertips soft against Gale's forehead. He’s painted his nails black, and it makes his hands look even paler and more elegant than ever. “The less said about that, the better.” 

“You are an absolute master of the backhanded compliment, Astarion,” Gale laughs. 

“Your ego is hardly fragile enough to suffer from it. Besides, you're quite adept at making the artfully tousled musician look work for you. Now stop moving, I somehow have to balance this between giving you volume and not actually moving when you skate, and that is a challenge.” 

It's a challenge which, it turns out, requires a whole lot of hairspray. 

Gale doesn't have a lot of protests. He'd been more wound up than he had wanted to be, and Astarion sorting out his hair is soothing. 

“There,” Astarion says, eventually. “Shake your head. Gently.” 

Gale isn't entirely sure what he's done, but it does look rather nice - and when he shakes his head, it stays firmly in place. 

“Now don't touch it,” Astarion warns. 

In his years on the stage, Gale has worn some truly questionable costumes. Mostly he'd managed to stick to suits and shirts and the occasional outlier, and the less said about those the better. Volo, apparently, has spared them his usual flamboyance for their routine, but has no such qualms for the opening number. 

Gale sighs at his chrome bomber jacket. 

“It could be worse,” Astarion grins. “Isn’t that what you usually say?” 

“There are considerably worse colours than silver and chrome,” Gale agrees. “Unfortunately I'm more comfortable in cardigans than bomber jackets.” 

“Oh, we should dress you up as a librarian,” Astarion grins. “I wonder what week’s theme that would work for.” 

“I didn't know your fantasies were so tame, Astarion,” Gale grins, shrugging the bomber jacket on despite his protests. Astarion’s silver-spangled and diamanté shirt is, to be quite honest, considerably worse. “Find the threat of late fees titillating, do you?” 

“Titillating?” Astarion looks at the ceiling, exasperated. “ Titillating ? How you say these things without even a trace of irony I will never know.” 

“The English language is an enthusiast’s playground and a linguist’s nightmare,” Gale agrees. 

“And if you were to roleplay a librarian you'd get far too into it and put your poor partner to sleep before anything exciting happened,” Astarion says. “Stop lecturing me on linguistics and put your damn skates on.” 

“That was barely a lecture,” Gale protests. “It was a passing mention! If I were to lecture you on the subject I would have started with the IPA, at the very least-” 

“No!” Astarion exclaims. “I don't even know what the IPA is, and I don't care-” 

“International Phonetic Alphabet, how do you not know-” 

“Oh my god, I should have strangled you with your own hair while I had the chance.” 

Between the teasing and Astarion having done his hair, Gale is much more relaxed by the time they're winding up to go live. The tension in the air is exciting, now, rather than stressful. 

“Hello again,” Isobel appears beside them as they join the others backstage. “Hiding from the masses, were you?” 

“Trying to get at least a little quiet before the chaos,” Gale agrees. 

“As much quiet as one can get, in Gale’s company,” Astarion says, dryly. “Don’t ask me about the IPA, Isobel, I will spontaneously combust.” 

Isobel eyes them both, concerned at first, before she realises that Gale is laughing and Astarion’s lip is curled in his usual tease; then she smiles along. 

Out in the rink, Gale can hear one of the producers going through the setup with the live studio audience. 

“Everyone alright?” 

Jaheira, one of the only skaters who has been with the show for all fifteen - now sixteen - of its seasons, is walking along the line, checking in with people. 

“Ah, all the cubs are in one corner,” she greets Astarion and Isobel. “How convenient that neither of you can escape my pre-show pep-talk. Gale, do me a favour and show Minsc where he's supposed to stand when he's not following me around.” 

Minsc, her partner this year and whose hulking figure belays his career as a boxer, droops almost comically. They’ve put him in, of all things, a silver string-vest. Poor Jaheira, by no means a small woman, is half his size. 

“Oh no,” Minsc says, in nothing near as quiet as a whisper as he thinks it is. “Not the word-wizard, Jaheira, please. I do not understand the half of what he says.”

“That is exactly why he will be good for you,” Jaheira says, unbothered. “Go on, go. The show is starting.” 

“Pleasure to see you again Minsc,” Gale says, with an easy smile. “Shall we?” 

“Of course!” Minsc attempts his own smile in return, but instead only manages a grimace. “As quietly as possible, perhaps?” 

“Ah, are your nerves getting to you?” Gale suggests. 

“My nerves are exactly where they are supposed to be,” Minsc says, looking a little panicked. “Are they not? They are not attacking me, are they?”  

Astarion snorts behind his hand as Gale gives up and escorts Minsc off. 

“Right, first-timers,” Jaheira begins as they get out of hearing range, and Gale can’t shake the feeling that they’ve somehow escaped. The huddle of professional skaters is certainly less rag-tag looking than the collection of celebrities now standing around looking a little lost. 

“Evening,” Gale greets as he joins them, noting with some relief that he isn’t the only one with a ridiculous jacket on. Although Mark-Max-David the actor-footballer has somehow wrangled a black shirt with silver detailing, which Gale considers remarkably unfair. 

“No need to warm up yet,” Raph claps his hands, gathering them around him. “We’re just going to do a quick little run-through of what tonight is going to look like, as a reminder, so please do most graciously lend me your ears and your attention for a moment and this will all go swimmingly.” 

Gale listens, as he is bid, for the four-hundredth time, and tries not to let his mind wander. However, Raphael is more fond of the sound of his own voice than is flattering, and it’s not until he claps his hands again that Gale realises he’s missed half of it. 

“Now, we’re about twenty minutes off going live, so we’re going to introduce you to our live audience in your pairs, and then you are all going to stand politely and quietly at the back of the stage while we prepare. Is that quite clear?” There’s a small round of nods and murmurs of agreement, to which Raphael sighs, putting his hand dramatically over his eyes. “We’re going to try that again, and this time when I say ‘is that clear’, you are going to say ‘yes Raphael’. Ready? Is that clear?” 

“Yes Raphael,” Minsc booms, dutifully, drowning out the rest of them. 

And just like that, it's time. They line up along the corridor of ice that leads into the entry tunnel. 

Gale hums, idly, tapping the pads of his fingers together. 

“You'd be terrible at poker,” Astarion says. 

“I am,” Gale agrees. 

“What are you humming?” 

Gale stops, and hums it again. 

“Oh, the opening scream of Led Zeppelin's ‘Immigrant Song’.” 

Astarion snorts. 

“An… expressive choice.” 

“My subconscious is a lot more emotionally intelligent than my conscious,” Gale agrees. “Toxic fucking masculinity.” 

“Sometimes I forget you've been to therapy, and sometimes you come out with shit like that,” Astarion says. 

“Some of it was a fascination with psychology and self-help books just after Hestia was born,” Gale admits. “It started out as child development, but the more I began to understand the structure and development of the brain the more I began to understand myself, too. After all, what subject does one never tire of but oneself?” 

He tries to say it with a flash of humour, but it doesn't quite hide the bitterness of it. 

Astarion gives him a strange, sideways look, like he's about to say something; but then the voiceover mic chimes as it connects to the speaker system;

“Good evening everybody! We’re going to introduce you to our skaters, and then it will be just moments before we go live!” 

Gale keeps steady as they skate out into the rink; the lights on them are just as bright as they are at a concert, the audience beyond just shapes and figures in the darkness. The heat of the lights above and then cold air of the ice below is a strange dichotomy. It's an incredibly specific sensory experience that he can't recall ever having before. Astarion takes his hand and lifts his arm and Gale remembers to present the way he's supposed to; arms raised, back straight, smile and wave. Astarion, of course, manages to make it look a thousand times more elegant. 

“Good luck!” Gale calls after him, as he skates off to join the other professionals in their opening formations. 

“Is everybody ready?” The voiceover guy yells. “Let's make some nooooise!” 

The lights go down. The first bars of p!nk’s ‘Never Gonna Not Dance Again’ kick in. The ‘live’ sign clicks on, because apparently the technology for that hasn't improved since the fucking 80’s. 

And the spectacle begins. 

-

It's the first time Gale has seen the introduction video for this season. It's as corny as the rest of them have been. It begins with Torvill and Dean on the ice. 

If someone told me that 
the world would end tonight 
You could take all that I got 
For once I wouldn't start a fight

Hand in hand, Jayne and Chris skate out into the streets of London with the help of some slightly low-budget CGI, to collect the rest of the cast. 

There’s a lot of them. 

They start with the other judges; picking Ashley and Oti up from their respective dance studios. 

But oh one thing I'm never gonna do 
Is throw away my dancing shoes 

Then it's the professionals, who they seem to collect from random landmarks around London. Jaheira from outside Buckingham Palace, Isobel from the Natural History Museum. 

And oh lord, don't try me really not tonight  

Astarion had been in the British Library, where he is perusing the Russian literature section before Isobel grabs him and drags him onto the CGI ‘streets’ with the rest of them.  

We’ve already wasted enough time

The video ends as the chorus kicks in, and they skate onto the rink; 

I'm never gonna not dance again 
I'm never gonna not dance again  

Gale doesn't actually have much to do in the opening. They all stand on the platform at the back and watch the professionals around them; Gale catches a glimpse of the lift Astarion and Isobel had done in his kitchen, but then the lights change.
“Please welcome our Class of 2024!”
And Astarion is right there, holding his hand out. Gale takes it and steps onto the ice with him. 

It greets him like an old friend, now. He glides into it like he's always been doing this. There's no need to fake the smile; it comes easily. He stays steady, grinning at Zel as she flashes past with the whole camera rig balanced on her shoulders.  

The rest of them are already skating off the rink as the camera focuses on Stephen and Holly introducing the 2024 season of ‘the greatest show on ice’. The music fades out, and they duck back through the tunnel and out of sight of the cameras. 

“And so it begins,” he says, as he and Astarion make their way back to the trailer for the first of what will be many changes that evening. “Feel any different now that we’ve been on TV?” 

“Not particularly,” Astarion shrugs. “The studio audience are far louder and more annoying than the cameras.” 

“We just have to imagine they're several million strong,” Gale agrees. 

“Million,” Astarion repeats flatly. 

“I- yes, have you not seen the figures? Four million for the opening weekend, usually.” 

“No, I know,” Astarion shakes his head. “I just could have done without the reminder. Wonderful.” 

Gale rids himself of his bomber jacket gladly. He hangs it up gently, his personal feelings about the wardrobe choices aside, and then rescues Astarion’s shirt from where he'd flung it on the sofa to do the same. 

“I can hang my own clothes,” Astarion points out. 

“I am fully aware, yes, but it gives me something to do with my hands,” Gale says, by way of explanation. “I don't think I've ever been on stage doing anything other than music before today. It's similar, and yet not the same at all.” 

“The great Gale Dekarios has stage fright! Who’d have guessed?” Astarion teases. “Don't forget all those breathing exercises we did.” 

Gale chuckles at him. 

“I’d hardly call it stage fright. Aren't you even a tiny bit nervous?” 

“Darling,” Astarion sits back in his chair to regard him. “I have not had anyone see me skating live for well over a decade. I don't think ‘nervous’ would be the right term. It feels like half the world is watching, and given the nature of the show, that half of them are hoping for me to fail, just for entertainment value.” 

He turns back to the mirror to continue re-setting his curls and tidying up his eyeliner. 

“Well then we shall have to take great delight in disappointing them then,” Gale says, jovially. 

Astarion smirks at him from the mirror. 

“Oh, I intend to. The question is, will you?” 

“It would hardly do for me to disappoint you now. I've been doing so well so far!” 

“You did an excellent job of skating to and from your little platform and then standing there like a lemon,” Astarion agrees, which only makes Gale chuckle again. 

When they've finished changing and are on their way back out the trailer, Gale says; 

“I will do my absolute best, just so you know.” 

“I would expect nothing less, knowing you.” Astarion agrees. “Nerves are useful, you know. They keep you sharp.” 

Gale nods. 

“I might not be used to sharing the stage, Astarion, let alone with someone more talented than me - but I'm glad that it's you.” 

“As am I,” Astarion agrees. “Especially so now that I've seen the others skate.” 

He gives Gale's elbow a little nudge, despite the tease in his tone. And, strangely, the combination of the levity of his attitude and the little physical reassurance does actually steady some of the anxiety churning in Gale's chest.

They've already missed the start of the first skate by the time they arrive at the balcony where they and the rest of the competitors are to stand and watch the remainder of the show when they're not performing. Isobel and her partner are on the ice, and Gale is surprised by how steady they are. 

He wraps his robe close around him to keep out the cold, and tries to settle into this. 

Gale enjoys watching them skate more, now that he knows what they're doing. He enjoys being able to gauge how complicated the choreography is, too. It doesn't take the little shard of ice-cold fear from his chest, though. 

“Oh,” Astarion says, incredibly quietly. “Watching the others skate is making you more nervous, isn't it?” 

“Maybe,” Gale hisses back. Whether or not the others can hear them, he's not sure, but he'd rather they didn't. 

Astarion leans in closer to his ear, so his voice is barely a murmur, and says; 

“His posture isn't as strong as yours. He's letting the nerves get to him; the slips are out of character, it's because he's holding himself too upright.” 

“I know you think this is helping,” Gale hisses back, “But you're just giving me a list of other things I didn't even know I could do wrong.” 

“You won't,” Astarion breathes. “Skate like you always do, and this will be a walk in the park. I trust you. You need to trust yourself.” 

For the remainder of the routine, Gale watches in silence, and tries to remember to breathe. He didn't even know he was capable of being nervous about performing anymore. To be so intensely so, and for such an extended time frame, is exhausting . 

When at last they finish, and the crowd rises to cheer, Astarion leans into his ear again. 

“Relax, Gale. You look like someone's shoved an iron poker up your ass.” 

Gale only just about stifles a laugh. 

“Stop it!” He hisses, eyeing the camera pointed at them, warily. “They'll think we’re laughing at the other skaters!” 

“You might not be, but I am.” Astarion whispers. They run out of volume for cover, then. Astarion waits until the judges are assigning their scores and the audience are variously cheering and booing to add; “I didn't think you'd be the type to get performance anxiety.” 

“Usually, no,” Gale mutters. “Not that it's any of your business.” 

Astarion huffs, the surprised little laugh he always does when Gale bites back. Like he's still not used to it, even now. 

They get used to the pattern quite quickly. The skates aren't long; they're a minute and a half, followed by another minute or so where they get their scores and the judges’ feedback and then, usually, there's an ad break while they clear the ice and shuffle the set around and get the next pair and their introduction video montage ready. 

You've done far more stressful performances than this, he tells himself, Hell, Gale, you did Glastonbury. You can do this. 

It will be fine, and if it is not, he can deal with the fallout. He's dealt with worse. 

But that was different. 

With a little huff, Astarion steps a tiny bit closer, to rest their shoulders together. 

“We’ll be fine, Gale,” he murmurs. “I promise. Stop panicking.” 

“I'm not panicking,” Gale hisses back. “And if I was I would hardly be able to stop on command.” 

Astarion shuffles, adjusting his robe. It comes to rest over Gale's elbow, hiding their hands; as Astarion puts his palm in Gale's and squeezes, gently. 

“Breathe,” he reminds him. 

And then, far too quickly, it's their turn. 

All day, other than the quiet moments they'd stolen, they've been surrounded by people. By chaos. All at once, it's just the two of them, and the ice. The rink feels much larger without the rest of the cast. 

As they take their places, the introduction video starts playing. 

Of course Gale had known there wouldn't be a whole lot of time attributed to the behind the scenes stuff. Zel had been very upfront about the vast majority of it being padding for the later shows, when there are less contestants skating to fit in; if they get knocked out before then, it’ll all be deleted. 

Still, seeing four months of his life distilled into the space of just a few minutes is extremely disturbing. Watching it play across the back of the rink they're about to skate on is twice as surreal.  

“Hello, I'm Gale Dekarios. I'm best known for being a singer and a songwriter.” 

They cut to footage of one of his concerts, from the last tour; where they'd even got that, he has no idea. 

For the others, it had then cut to their professional partner. Theirs doesn't; instead, they clip in the story; why he signed up for the show. 

It's more dramatic, he’ll give them that. He talks about Golden, about Astarion;

“Watching someone who is at the absolute top of their game take something that you’ve poured your whole soul into, and make it into something incredible… I’ve never forgotten that moment. It’s still one of the highlights of my career.”

Only then do they cut to Astarion. 

“Astarion Ancunin. This is my first season of Dancing on Ice.” They cut away from him to show the footage of him skating at the Olympics; then overlay it with footage of him skating now, as he says; “I won gold at the Olympics when I was fourteen, skating to Golden by Gale Dekarios.” 

It's so overplayed that Gale almost cringes at it. 

Thankfully that's all there is to it; the next shot is of the reveal; Gale watching the video, his reaction continuing to play over the very first time he'd arrived at the rink. That morning when he'd been running late; when walking in to find Astarion skating had taken him entirely by surprise. He'd forgotten that Zel had caught this. The expression on his face is entirely too revealing. Whether anyone else can see it, he doesn't know; but to him, it's writ clear as the stars in the night sky. From that very first moment, there had been a spark of something. 

Thankfully, the shot only lasts a second or so, and then he gets to watch his very first steps on the ice; Astarion resigning himself to teaching Gale how to fall over safely rolls into a montage of Gale learning to skate. Or rather, falling over. Again, and again, and again. And, at the end, Gale lying on his back and asking Zel if surely she doesn't have enough footage of this by now. A titter runs through the audience. Even Gale smiles, watching it. 

“The music choice is a little on the nose,” Astarion hisses into his ear.

Gale honestly hadn't thought about it. He knows ‘Brand New’, of course; Ben Rector is a pianist and composer, and therefore on his radar. He hadn’t really thought about the music choice beyond the title being fitting and the vibe being upbeat. 

“It could have been worse,” he murmurs. 

Like when I close my eyes 
and don't even care if anyone sees me dancing

It's a little out of order; they have Torvill and Dean come and skate with him seemingly a while before they interview Astarion about what skating with him is like, rather than it all being the same day. 

Like I can fly
and don't even think of touching the ground

“I admire his work ethic,” Astarion is saying, then Gale skates past, singing ABBA at him, and Astarion says; “He never shuts up!” 

That makes Gale chuckle; a nervous little laugh that bubbles out of him. 

Like a heartbeat skip, like an open page

Astarion grips his wrist. Whether it's supposed to be a comfort or a warning, he's not sure. 

They use the This Morning interview too, the audio of Gale saying; “I've been told I can be arrogant, but if I am, then Astarion is doing his level best to cure me of it,” plays over Astarion drilling him through spins for the hundredth time. “I love a challenge. He's an unforgiving trainer, but that suits me. I want to do us both proud.”

They use the tiktok videos too, and Astarion's initial reel - the ‘Boyfriend’ skate that had made such a splash. Showing off exactly how well Astarion can skate. 

It's the way that I feel when I'm with you 
Brand New  

It finishes with the two of them skating side by side, practising the footwork. Waltz steps into a spiral, Astarion's hand on his waist, and over it, Gale, from the very beginning, saying; 

“This is really going to be something, isn’t it?” 

In the end, there hadn't been a single mention of them being the first same-sex couple. Not even an acknowledgement of it. On the one hand, of course, there shouldn't be; they should be treated just like the other pairs. On the other, however, it had been everywhere; the press, social media, in multiple of the interviews they had taken other clips from. To have not touched on it at all feels almost wilfully blind. 

But now is not the time to be focusing on that. 

“Ready?” Astarion's voice in his ear. 

“Ready.” 

“Please welcome our next skaters!” 

The lights go up. The background changes. The screens fade into black, swirled through with red and gold, like paint, or blood. The rink is bathed in red light; the spotlight clicks on. 

Gale breathes, and readies himself. Arms up in front of his face, fingers splayed, elbows pulled into his chest. The lights behind him cast his silhouette, beside Astarion's. 

This is a performance. Half of it is the steps, but half of it is him. The way he moves, the way he presents himself. The confidence and the consistency. Hours and hours of skating videos, and what he remembers most is never the greatest jumps, or scariest falls; it is those moments of fleeting beauty. When the lines of skaters’ arms will flow together and be something beautiful, just for a moment. When the movement captures something of what it means to feel, to exist; that is what he wants to bring to this. 

The way he feels when he plays. The way it feels to give something beautiful. The joy, the fury, the confusion. 

Gale pulls the thought close, and waits. And then, at last, the music; 

Gimme gimme gimme some time to think  
I'm in the bathroom looking at me  
Face in the mirror’s all I need

Astarion's palm meets his; mirror image. Their silhouettes mirrored on the wall, sharp angles and tensely poised. Then Astarion wraps his fingers around Gale's wrist, and they're moving.

His awareness of everything else fades out. There is no audience; there are no camera rigs hanging from the ceiling, no judges watching them. Even Zel and her camera are a distant blur. There is only Astarion, and the music. 

My patience is waning 
Is this entertaining?

Gale gives it everything he has. It's precise, and it's fast, and he needs to be exactly where he's supposed to be at every point. 

Our patience is waning
is this entertaining?

He keeps his footwork sure and steady as Astarion shadows him. When they pull into the forward spiral he lifts his chin and holds his leg high, focusing on turning his hip out. For once, Astarion does not pull his hip further back, only resting his hand there for support. And that, for some reason, gives Gale the extra little boost of confidence that he needs. 

I-I-I got this feeling, yeah you know
Where I'm losing all control 
‘Cause there's magic in my bones  

He turns, braces, and rolls into the momentum; up onto Astarion's shoulder. 

It feels flawless. The balance of his hips on Astarion's shoulder is sturdy, Astarion's hands under his arms. He hits the beat, flicks his head up and his arms out exactly when he's supposed to, trusting Astarion to hold him there. After weeks and weeks of practice, he had thought it might never be this smooth. But he throws his head back and the air rushes past and the audience is screaming. 

Then he's turning, across Astarion's back, back onto his feet, and he'd wobbled at this point a thousand times in practice but today he lands it like he's been doing it for years, leaning back into a backwards lunge, knee almost to the ice, extending as gracefully as he can, palm to palm with Astarion as he leans down to arabesque with his leg high and his lines perfect, as always. 

It is the memory of Astarion’s voice in his head that takes him through the rest of the routine; 

arms up, elbows soft, let them guide your weight, lean into the curve of the corner, sharp wrists, now soften , perform it- 

Astarion is there, holding his hand out to catch him, guiding him into position for the next jump. Face to face, Astarion’s hands at Gale's waist, Gale braces his forearms across Astarion's shoulders as he uses their momentum to half-pull, half-lift Gale off the ice for what feels like forever but must only be moments. It's the less dramatic of the two lifts, but it's freer. It feels like flying. 

The moment his skates come back into contact with the ice Gale bends into it, trusting Astarion’s weight now, and they counterbalance their way to a sit-spin. One arm around Astarion's neck, one held out to mirror the shape of his leg, Gale can feel Astarion's heart beating under his palm, steady and sure. Astarion meets his gaze with the tiniest hint of a smile; and Gale realises it is going as well as it feels. For that moment where they're staring at each other, holding the spin in perfect balance, the world beyond them blurs. There is only this one little microcosm, of he and Astarion and the ice, the music and the movement.

And Gale thinks; yes. 

This is what I was looking for. 

I-I-I got this feeling in my soul 
Go ahead and throw your stones 
Cause there's magic in my bones  

It's calmer for a moment as they both centre, long, easy steps that look harder than they are. 

And then Astarion is launching him off the end of the sequence and Gale pushes into the one-footed spin. It's not quite as fast as he wanted to be, but he lifts his leg and pulls it in and raises his arm and tilts his head back, and when he slides out of it and back into Astarion's arms for the final steps, Astarion’s satisfied expression tells him everything he needs to know. 

He turns, their arms drawing up to be the archways that then become support struts as they lean into each other. That one final position; the symmetry of the way they'd started, but closer; entwined where they had been separate. Their single silhouette on the back wall. 

And, just like that, it's over. 

The music fades out. The cheering is like white noise, buzzing in his ears, as Astarion pulls him back upright. He's smiling; really, truly smiling, the way that he does so rarely it feels like a gift. 

“Good?” Gale gasps, suddenly realising how hard he's breathing, but unable to hold back the smile that's trying to split his face in half. 

“Might be the best you've ever done it,” Astarion says, squeezing his fingers before letting him go. “Camera’s waiting.” 

The voiceover guy is talking the audience through the highlights of the routine with all his usual terrible puns; Gale just about picks out some of his song titles ham-fisted into descriptions, but he knows what elements they'll have pulled because all of that was planned; the rollup, the leap into the sit-spin, maybe the step sequence or the two of them doing the spiral together, depending on how much time they have. 

They skate up next to Holly and Stephen, positioning themselves carefully. Astarion does put his arm around Gale's shoulders, and even though he knows it's posed, Gale is grateful for it. There's no need to play up any of his nerves. The performance has been electric, over in a second like a bolt of lightning, and it has left him feeling just as manically invigorated and alive as playing first did, however many years ago. Astarion can probably feel him shaking. It is not from the cold. 

“And it's time to hear how the judges have scored our Golden boy…” 

Gale groans; that was bad even by his standards. 

“Ashley!” 

Ashley is grinning, wide and pleased; Gale has an inkling, in that half second, that it's going to be good. It still doesn't prepare him for Ashley then yelling; 

“Eight!” 

Gale gasps .

Astarion squeezes his shoulder and Gale looks at him, genuinely astonished; only to find Astarion smiling at him just as genuinely as he had been at the end of the routine. Like this isn't an insanely high score. 

“Oti!” 

“Eight!”

The audience is screaming now. 

“Jayne!” 

“Seven point five!” 

“And last but not least, Chris!” 

“Seven point five!” 

“And that is a combined score of 31 in week 1, that may be the highest score we have ever had, I am just getting confirmation - it is! The highest score we have ever had for an opening skate!” 

Gale has no idea what to do with himself. They've suspended the scoreboard behind the judges, and all he can do is stare at it, eyes wide. 

“But I-” 

Before he gets any further, Astarion is hugging him. Fully, arms wrapped around him, head over his shoulder, hugging him. Gale grabs him, holding on, still in shock and jubilant and utterly flummoxed by all of it. 

“You beautiful, beautiful bastard,” Astarion laughs into his shoulder. 

“But the previous high score was set by a professional dancer!” Gale protests, wildly. “I'm just me!” 

“You aren't just anything, Gale,” Astarion finally lets him go, still smiling like Gale didn't even know he could . 

I did that , Gale thinks. Not the score; not breaking a record. But making Astarion smile like that. Like he means it. It's Astarion who takes him by the shoulders and points him at the presenters; so that when the cheering finally dies down, Gale is looking in the right direction.  

Holly has to shout over the roar of the crowd; 

“My god, you've been under a lot of pressure, but you came out and just wowed us.” 

Gale grins at her, aware that he looks like an idiot and really not entirely sure what to do to help his cause. 

“How are you feeling?” Stephen asks. 

Gale shakes his head, slowly. 

“About ten years younger,” he says, truthfully, which gets a bit of a laugh it doesn't really deserve. “There's nothing like that feeling of stepping off a stage, knowing that you gave everything you had, you did the best that you could, but even though I could tell it went well, I never in a million years would have expected-” he glances at Astarion again, as if to verify- “Thirty-one?” 

“Thirty-one,” Astarion agrees, amused and exasperated at him all in one breath. “Congratulations, you can count.” 

Gale grins at him, then back at Holly and Stephen. 

“You set a record!” Stephen does his over-the-top little presenter thing, his knees bent and his arms thrust out, as if to say ‘look at you!’ 

“We set a record!” 

“Do you need someone to pinch you?” Stephen pretends like he's going to step on the ice to do so, but then mimes remembering that he shouldn't do that. “Health and safety!” He yells, to some scattered laughter. “Sorry, sorry!”

“I don't think I have the words to describe it,” Gale says. 

“That's a first,” Astarion says, dryly, which makes Gale laugh more than it should; but he's riding the high, now, of the adrenalin. 

“Shall we hear what the judges have to say?” Holly suggests, evidently giving up on getting anything sensible out of him. “Ashley?”

They turn to the panel, and Gale suddenly realises that despite all his promises, he is very firmly gripping Astarion's hand. He tries to let go, and Astarion does not let him. 

“I mean - wow. Just wow,” Ashley says. “That was fast, that was ferocious, the musicality is there, the confidence is there, but Gale - you're not supposed to be singing along.” 

“Was I? Oh no, I didn't even notice!”  

“You were,” Astarion confirms, though he's smiling. 

“It's alright, it's alright,” Ashley's laughing. “There has to be something for you to work on! But that score is absolutely deserved. That's not the kind of skating we ever expect to see in week one.” 

“Thank you,” Gale breathes, not knowing what else to say. 

“Oti?” 

“I mean, Gale - is there anything left for the rest of the show? You've done it all already! We had solo step sequences, we had single-leg spins, we had beautiful lifts- what else can you do? I have to know! And you looked like you were having so much fun!” 

“I was,” Gale confesses. 

“You can tell, and you are bringing that energy with you and inviting us into it, and it is joyous.” 

“Jayne?” 

“Yes, not bad,” Jayne grins, and then when the audience boo her she laughs. “I'm kidding! You have the rhythm of a musician but you've managed to translate that into movement and performance and you know how to tell a story with that choreography. I can tell that you listened to what we told you and have been working on your extensions and your turnout too, and it's paying off, because that was a whole step above what we saw you doing in training. Your lines were beautiful. You should both be incredibly proud.” 

Astarion squeezes his shoulder, turning his head into Gale's neck to whisper; 

“Told you so.” 

“Chris?” 

“I don't know what training Astarion is putting you through, but I think we all need a boot camp!” Chris says, with a laugh. “Really though Gale, if there's one thing we’ve seen from you since the first day you joined us, it's that determination. I cannot wait to see how far it can take you. My only thing is-” 

“Lazy leg?” Gale guesses. 

“Lazy leg,” Chris agrees. “Point your toe, please! But if you can fix that, I honestly wouldn't have anything else to criticise about the way you skated today.” 

“Thank you,” Gale says. “I- thank you.” 

Who knows what else he says before they wave the two of them away. Astarion takes him gently by the elbow and steers him across the ice, through the tunnel and out of range of cameras and mics. 

Behind them, he can hear Stephen and Holly announcing that the public vote is now open. 

“I'm going to tape your non-skating leg in place,” Astarion says, but he's smiling. They stop at the barrier to slip their skate-guards on. 

“Highest score,” Gale says, again, like if he says it enough times, it'll feel real. “Highest ever week one score.” 

“You can stop gloating about it now,” Astarion pats his shoulder. “Come on, I don't know about you but I need a litre of water and I have about twenty seconds to change.” 

“Right,” Gale realises. “Shit, yes, Barbie time.” 

“Are you always this inarticulate backstage?” 

“No, I think I'm in shock,” Gale confesses, as they run down the side of the rink to the trailer. 

“Well snap out of it quickly then,” Astarion says, unsympathetically. “Show’s not over yet.” 

Astarion changes in about ten seconds flat. Gale had looked away to make an attempt at getting a wet wipe under the very tight shirt to tackle the worst of the sweat, and looks up what seems like only moments later to Astarion in full cowboy-Ken regalia. The black trousers, the white fringing and embroidery. It even goes down to his elbows. 

“You could just unbutton your shirt,” Astarion points out, amused.

“I'd much rather leave you with the memory of my skating having set a new record than my personal follies. How are you feeling about the lift sequence with Isobel?” 

Astarion clicks his tongue at him, irritated. But then he stops, and actually considers the answer. 

“Fine, I think.” He ducks his head, fixing his buttons. “More than I would have been without your help. So… thank you.” 

“Any time,” Gale says. “And at least now you know Isobel, too.” 

“Oh,” Astarion says, as if he's just realised something. “Is that why you invited her to dinner?” 

Gale blinks at him. 

“Now that would have been a clever idea, actually, but no. She and Aylin seem nice, they've just moved to the area and I thought that they could do with some friends. That's about all there was to the thought process, really.” 

Astarion grins at him, sideways, but then his eyes widen. 

“Oh, you're serious.” 

Gale smiles at him. 

“I usually am. Eventually you're going to stop being surprised by that, I hope.” 

“Hmm,” Astarion says, noncommittally, and grabs his pink kerchief to tie it around his neck. “Less dallying, Gale, we have places to be.” 

They dart back out and split off, Astarion joining the other professionals as Gale grabs his robe and goes to stand in the competitors’ balcony with the others. 

They greet him jubilantly, genuinely pleased for him, and Gale submits to being hugged and congratulated and apologises for being sweaty, although really they're all just as bad. 

Holly is working her way along the front seats with the mic, and she reaches Wyll just as Gale is released from the various congratulations of the others. 

“And this is Wyll, and you're Gale's oldest friend, aren't you?” 

“He definitely has friends older than me,” Wyll protests, smiling. “But we have been best friends since we were ten, yes.” 

“And what did you think of his performance tonight?” 

Wyll laughs. 

“We actually did a couple of ballroom dancing classes while I was at uni, but we didn't get past the stepping on each other’s toes stage before he went off on tour!” 

“Is he better now, then?” 

“Of course! Other than this, the only time I have seen Gale dance it has been dad dancing or drunk dancing at my wedding, and it was terrible! I had no idea he could dance like that! But it is so very, very Gale to come out and blow us all away with a once-in-a-lifetime performance like that.” 

-

Astarion slips into place beside Isobel, who leans into him to whisper; 

“I thought you said you weren't doing lifts!” 

“They weren't proper lifts,” Astarion hisses back, “Gale never went above my head.” 

“You did a rollup!” Isobel is grinning at him. “Show-off.” 

“What? He's good, I wasn't going to play that down. This is a competition, isn't it?” 

“You've set a standard now,” Isobel teases. “You two are going to be the ones to beat.” 

Astarion shrugs one shoulder and then leans closer to her ear to whisper; 

“Shall we show them what you're capable of when you've got a competent partner, darling?” 

“Let's do that,” Isobel whispers back, even quieter. 

Astarion doesn't think, for the entirety of the routine. He just follows the music and lets his memory guide him. Not having to worry about his partner makes it easier, in some senses; but it also means that he blinks, and it's over. He doesn't even remember Isobel dipping him. So much for all that practice with Gale. Although perhaps if they hadn't, it would have been more memorable. It's hard to say. 

Isobel puts the pink cowboy hat on him at the end again, and Astarion rolls his eyes at her as they skate off. 

“Don't lose it,” she warns him, “Volo will have histrionics.” 

“Sounds entertaining,” Astarion grins, but they don't have time for anything else. He runs back to the trailer, throws the routine outfit back on, and is back with the others just in time for them to all be lining up to get back on the ice. 

“Why don't you just change rinkside?” Isobel hisses at him. “You nearly gave Raph a heart attack.” 

“Serves him right,” Astarion bites back, under his breath, and goes to grab Gale and drag him into place. 

“I do know where I'm supposed to be,” Gale says, without much venom, letting Astarion guide him by the elbow. 

“Well why weren't you there then?” 

“Waiting for you, of course. Nervous?” Gale grins at him, evidently not at all. 

“Not really.” 

“If we get voted off now I would be incredibly surprised,” Gale agrees. “Although one shouldn't count their chickens, as they say.” 

Some of the atmosphere of it does get to Astarion a little bit, if he had to admit it. Something about standing on the ice, lined up with the other pairs, the music and the spotlights; it's hard not to get caught up in the drama of it. Although equally he could still be running high on adrenaline from the Barbie routine. 

“And in no particular order, the first couple safely through are…” 

That's bullshit, and Astarion knows it. He had mentally predicted the order they'd be announcing the safe couples in when he'd seen the final scoreboard, and he had been correct. 

Astarion puts his arm around him, wondering when that became so natural, but then Gale puts his hand up to where Astarion’s is resting on his shoulder. He squeezes Astarion’s fingers, looking at him over his shoulder to smile, as if Astarion is somehow in need of reassurance, in this moment; and Astarion smiles back. For the sake of the cameras, obviously. 

Isobel and Mark are safe for another week, unfortunately for Isobel, and then; 

“Gale and Astarion!” 

Gale does relax, ever so slightly. Evidently he had been nervous after all.

That's the thing about being so fearlessly earnest, as Gale is; the more you care, the more likely you are to get hurt. It is, objectively, a rather stupid way to live. But Gale seems to not only be fully aware of it, but to embrace it. He had told Astarion as much, openly and to his face, and with his usual utter lack of inhibition or self-consciousness. 

And instead of thinking of it as naive, now that he knows that it's a choice, Astarion cannot be irritated by it. If anything, he admires it. He may almost be a little jealous. 

Isobel is waiting for them back through the tunnel, giving them each a half-hug and congratulations and a joke about musicals week before they pop their skate-guards back on and head up to the competitors’ balcony for the last time. 

By the time they get there, they've already finished announcing, and Stephen is closing the show. 

And just like that, it's over. 

“Well,” Astarion says. “That was that, then.” 

Gale grins at him. 

“We set a record,” he says, again, to which Astarion can only roll his eyes. 

“Oh good, you're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?” 

“Oh absolutely,” Gale grins. And does, to his credit, continue to be insufferably cheerful all the way back to the trailer. Where, just as Gale’s taking his shirt off, the phone rings. Astarion picks up his robe and throws it at him so he doesn’t freeze while answering. 

“Hestia!” Gale says, “I hope you're on your way to bed, little lady.” 

In the quiet of the trailer, Astarion can hear Hestia’s response loud and clear;

“I am, I am! But mummy said I could call you first and tell you how good you were! You were SO GOOD daddy!” 

“Thank you, Hestia. Did you have fun watching?” 

“It was so much fun!” Hestia squeals. “Is Astarion there? Can I tell him how good he did too?” 

Gale looks up, and Astarion nods, coming to sit beside him on the sofa. 

“Hello, Hestia,” he says, and gets another excited squeak in response. 

“Astarion! You were amazing too! I'm so proud of you!” 

Astarion's first thought is what for? It's my job.  

But that's not what he says. Instead, he says; 

“Thank you, Hestia. I appreciate that.” 

“Are you daddy's boyfriend now?” 

Gale looks up in the same moment that Astarion does; they make equally shocked eye contact. 

“No,” Gale says, quickly, “That's- not how that works, Hestia.” 

“Oh,” Hestia sounds disappointed. “But mummy's facebook says you're boyfriends.” 

“Oh,” Gale puts his head in his hands. “Already. Right. Okay.” He breathes. “Remember how not everything that someone says online is necessarily true, love?” 

“Awwww,” Hessie sighs. “Okay, fine. But I'll see you on Friday, won't I Astarion?” Hestia says. “Please say yes!” 

“Of course you will,” Astarion says, to which she shrieks with excitement again. Gale winces through his smile. 

“Hestia, sweetheart, mind our ears.” 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Hestia says, and it sounds like she's bouncing. “Mummy says it's bedtime now but I love you!” 

“Love you too, kiddo,” Gale says. “Sweet dreams. See you at the weekend.” 

When she hangs up, Gale stands, leaving Astarion by himself on the sofa. 

“So,” Astarion says. “Here we go.” 

“Here we go,” Gale agrees, tapping away at something furiously on his phone. “Yeah, I've accidentally been ignoring Amy's messages. She's going to meet us outside in a minute.” 

“I had hoped there'd be more headlines about record-breaking, but-” 

Astarion makes the mistake of flicking open his own facebook first. The headline, right at the top, is the two of them; the moment Astarion had turned to Gale and hugged him, cameras be damned, and Gale's expression is frozen in almost comical shock. The headline under it wonders if the score was justified, or whether they're getting leeway for being the first same-sex couple. 

Astarion feels the moment the pleasant sort of geniality fades; replaced, as is more familiar, with a simmering fury. 

“Those bastards,” he says. “What about us both being men would make any difference to how you skated?” 

Gale shrugs one shoulder. 

“They were always going to say that. Just as they were always going to speculate about us. Most of it is generally quite flattering, at least. We’ll just have to try and keep doing our best and ignore the headlines.” He grins, then sings; “ Go ahead and throw your stones .” 

Astarion can't help but smile, though he covers it quickly. 

“Well, I can't see what Hestia picked up on.” 

This is not entirely true. He can't see any specific headlines, no, but there are pictures. The ones from while they're skating, he doesn't mind so much. That's part of the performance. But there are others. 

“She's not great at the concept of adults having friends,” Gale winces, continuing a conversation that Astarion had fully tapped out of. “Mystra and I should probably have tried to keep a wider social circle. She probably just saw us skating together and decided we were dating.”

Annoyingly, Zel has already managed to find a way to send Astarion better-quality versions of the shots he's seeing plastered all over socials; the one of the two of them smiling at each other as the scores are announced, Gale's smile as charming as always, and Astarion’s wide and stupid and showing his teeth; then when they were saved from the skate-off, when Gale is looking at him with relief, holding the hand that Astarion has put around his shoulder, and Astarion is smiling, again, almost softly . Neither of them are the smiles he practised in the mirror, and neither of them are particularly flattering. He looks like a goddamn idiot when he smiles with his teeth. 

Zel: for your growing collection 

Astarion Ancunin: fuck you very much 

Zel: you're welcome :)

Gale, utterly unaware of the small scuffle going on within Astarion’s phone, hums another bar of Bones, apparently having it stuck in his head now. “I don't envy Mystra the task of getting her to settle tonight.” 

Astarion puts his phone away and resolves to kick Zel in the teeth later. 

“I do not understand how someone so heartless and sour can end up with a kid so sweet and happy,” Astarion frowns. 

“You know Mystra's not always like that,” Gale says. He's got his back to Astarion, now, packing his bags. “For all that we were miserable, I still broke her heart when I left. Most of the time when you break up with someone you have a chance to process that, to put some distance between you, but we still have Hestia. She has every right to be upset with me.” 

Astarion frowns. 

“To be upset with you, maybe, but not to treat you like she does.” 

“Perhaps now isn't the time,” Gale says, finally turning to him. “We made it through the first week, and we just set a record breaking score. Let's focus on that, rather than my divorce, shall we?” 

When they're dressed and tidied and Astarion is locking up the trailer behind them, Gale vanishes to give Wyll a hug over the barrier keeping the audience out of the trailer park. 

“Did you have to mention the dad dancing?” Gale is laughing, though there's no venom in it. 

“I could have said so much worse than I did,” Wyll reminds him. “I heard there's a marquee with drinks?” 

“There is indeed,” Gale grins. “Astarion! Are you joining us?” 

“It would be rude not to,” Astarion agrees, “I did leave my skates in the trailer.” 

“They better have champagne,” Wyll grins. 

“We’ll need it,” Gale agrees. “Amy is waiting. PR meeting before anything else.” 

“Ugh,” Wyll grimaces. “I'll get started on a bottle for you.” 

-

Gale: What article did Hessie see? 

Mystra: No idea. It was just something that came up on my feed. 
Mystra: Her name is Hestia. 

Gale: I know. Believe it or not, I helped to name her. 
Gale: If you come across it again, will you let me know? It'll be easier to explain the miscommunication to her if I know where she got the idea from. 

Mystra: Will do. 
Mystra: Although given how you're fawning over him, it's just as likely to be you that she got the idea from. 

Gale: This is a novel concept to you, I know, but it is possible to care about someone without bedding them. You should try it sometime. 

Mystra: Being rude to me over text is no less immature than being rude in person. 

Gale: Oh, was that rude? My apologies, I thought I was simply making an observation. 

Mystra: Your capacity for pettiness never ceases to astound. I assume you are drinking, if you've decided to grow enough of a spine to pick arguments with me. 

Gale: At risk of soundly proving your point, you fucking started it. 

-

Gale Dekarios: Home safe.
Gale Dekarios: We set a record!! 

Astarion Ancunin: You set a record, darling. I'm not getting marked. 

Gale Dekarios: You're the only reason I'm upright on the ice at all, let alone skating with any skill. 
Gale Dekarios: We set a record. 

-

There had not been that much champagne. Something is fizzing in Astarion's blood, though. Invigorating and nauseating in equal measure. Maybe it's still adrenalin; the high of the skate and the score. Of performing again. 

It had been hard not to get caught up in it. Some part of him had remembered what it used to be like; to know that his every mistake counted. That he had to be perfect . Every step, every stroke, every turn and angle and pose, was watched. Was considered. Was weighed against him. 

His body says he should be facing Cazador right now. 

It used to be like that all the time. He used to think he'd never be able to skate without the memory of Cazador in it. But it had faded. This will, too. The more they do it, the more it will become its own thing. 

It's just that in the meantime, it will be miserable for a little bit. 

Astarion lies in bed, wide awake into the small hours of the morning, and eventually gives up on trying to sleep. Instead he drags his phone out. He had been intending to find the YouTube video of the routine. It had felt good, skating it, but he hasn't had a chance to watch it back, yet. 

Before he gets there, though, he realises he has another message from Gale. 

Gale Dekarios: I suspect this will be what you wake up to tomorrow morning, for which I can only apologise. 
Gale Dekarios sent a link. 

It hadn't been that long ago; apparently he's not the only one still awake. 

The link is to an article that is speculating on if they're dating. It's about three lines long, and cites a whole two pieces of evidence; that they're both single, and that they'd been holding hands as they'd got the judges’ feedback. It completely ignores the fact that the vast majority of the pairs do. 

Astarion Ancunin: I take it that this is what Hestia saw? 

Gale Dekarios: Oh hello! Also still awake then? 
Gale Dekarios: Mystra says she doesn't know the exact one but it's my best guess. 

Astarion Ancunin: Oh god, are there more? 

Gale Dekarios: Oh yes. Well, not articles, just tweets and comments on other posts and articles, but yes. 
Gale Dekarios: Just like the simulations. 

Astarion Ancunin: … you didn't actually run simulations did you? 

Gale Dekarios: No, it's a Star Wars quote. 
Gale Dekarios: I just meant that everything is going according to plan. 
Gale Dekarios: You have seen Star Wars, haven't you? Please tell me you've seen Star Wars. 

Astarion Ancunin: Karlach made me watch it at uni. 
Astarion Ancunin: why are you still awake? We still have training tomorrow 

Gale Dekarios: Mystra. 
Gale Dekarios: We disagree about Hestia's exposure to social media. 
Gale Dekarios: I am attempting to amuse myself by poking around at these things rather than dwelling in my irritation. We have a tag already. 

Astarion Ancunin: … a tag? 

Gale Dekarios: Where people post about the two of us together. It's #goldenboys 
Gale Dekarios: Or at least they're trying to get that to take off at the moment, the others are just combinations of our names, which don't really hit the same. 

Astarion Ancunin: …Golden Boys. 

Gale Dekarios: I knew you'd hate it. I had hoped to tell you in person just to hear your rant. 

Astarion Ancunin: Then I shall save it for tomorrow. 

Gale Dekarios: Not to add fuel to the fire, but Raph just text me to say they've had the best viewer figures for opening night in a long time, and the demographic shows a bunch of new interest, so if we can please ‘keep on doing what you're doing’ he would appreciate it. 

Astarion Ancunin: I hate that man. 

Gale Dekarios: He's growing on me. 

Astarion Ancunin: Have you ever met anyone you didn't like? 

Gale Dekarios: Oh, probably. Can't remember anyone though. I even liked you when we first met, and you were actively unfriendly. 

Astarion Ancunin: I think there might be something wrong with you. 

Gale Dekarios: You are aware of most of the many things that are wrong with me at this point, I believe. Level 2 friendship: tragic backstory unlocked. 

Astarion Ancunin: What's level 3? 

Gale Dekarios: No idea. Skating together in front of a nation definitely could be a contender though.  
Gale Dekarios: It did feel like it was the two of us against the rest of the world. 

Astarion Ancunin: And we won. 

Gale Dekarios: We did! 

-

mylittlephony: we have a fucking hashtag 

Bodhibitch: dude you can't just ignore all of my questions about how you are and how it went 

mylittlephony: I don't know, I think ‘we have a fucking hashtag’ about sums up my evening 

Bodhibitch: Look at you, hugging people of your own volition. I'm so proud! My little star, all grown up. 

mylittlephony: ugh, don't call me that 

Bodhibitch: I'll call you what I want, you're being a twat 

mylittlephony: Fine! It was all fine. Skating in front of people was less stressful than I thought it would be. Gale was much more nervous than I was, so I was distracted trying to keep him calm. He skated brilliantly, I am very proud of him, I'm very happy that we set a record and I am pissed off that multiple people are trying to frame it like we got leeway because we're the first same-sex couple rather than because he earned it. 

Bodhibitch: holy shit Astarion that was… way more than I was expecting
Bodhibitch: I’m actually SO proud of you, have I mentioned that? I know you just skated on national TV under a lot of pressure but damn. I don't think you've ever been able to tell me exactly how you're feeling so clearly before. 

mylittlephony: must you be so fucking patronising

Bodhibitch: to you? Always 
Bodhibitch: it's why you love me 
Bodhibitch: wait so what's the hashtag? 

mylittlephony: goldenboys 

Bodhibitch: AHAHAHAHA 
Bodhibitch: fuck that's so terrible oh my god I love it 

Bodhibitch changed your name to goldenboy

goldenboy: how did I fucking know you were going to do that 

Bodhibitch: Because I'm hilarious
Bodhibitch: also, isn't it super late for you? Go the fuck to sleep 

goldenboy: I think my body is expecting Cazador to turn up 
goldenboy: I cannot calm down. It is… irritating. 

Bodhibitch: that fucking asshole, I swear to god if I ever find him I will rip him a new one 

goldenboy: you can get in line, I have fucking dibs on making his life a misery 

-

Gale Dekarios: By the way, have you watched the routine back yet? They've put it up on the official Dancing on Ice YouTube channel. 

Astarion Ancunin: I have. I've been making notes. We’ll go over it properly tomorrow. 

Gale Dekarios: I've already spotted all of the instances where my foot isn't where it's supposed to be, so you can save yourself that effort, at least. 

Astarion Ancunin: So far most of the notes that I've made are positive. I’m wondering if we could push some more technical elements into the next routine. 

Gale Dekarios: I suppose we have to keep pushing the bar higher and higher now. 
Gale Dekarios: I really like this lift, is it as complicated as it looks? 
Gale Dekarios sent a photo 

Astarion Ancunin: We can give it a go on the mats and see if it's feasible
Astarion Ancunin: you should go to sleep

Gale Dekarios: Trust me, I would love to. So should you, for that matter. 

Astarion Ancunin: Yes, insomnia is a bitch like that. 

Gale Dekarios: Apparently, lying in bed with your eyes closed, while not as good as sleep, is still effective enough as a form of rest that it's preferable to, for example, scrolling or reading or getting up to do something else. 

Astarion Ancunin: fine, fine. I'll put my phone down if you do. 

Gale Dekarios: And I'll see you tomorrow at ten. 
Gale Dekarios: Goodnight, Astarion. I hope you get some sleep eventually. 

Astarion Ancunin: Goodnight, Gale. 

Chapter Text

Since escaping the firm, Astarion has not had as much of a grudge against Monday mornings as he once had. This particular Monday, however, is being a bitch. 

It had started with a champagne hangover. How exactly that had happened, he isn't sure. He could have sworn he'd only had two flutes. 

At some point in the night, Bear had kicked litter all over the bathroom floor. When Astarion has just about finished fishing bits of cat-piss-filled grit out from between the tiles, Bear decides to re-emerge. 

“And what do you have to say for yourself?” 

Bear looks at him with its huge yellow eyes. 

“You need to teach me that trick,” Astarion mutters. 

He's just about ready to forgive it when he walks back into the bedsit, and discovers it had also decided to rampage through the kitchen overnight. As he inspects the instant coffee that he doesn't even like anyway slowly disintegrating in the sink, Bear decides to climb his leg. 

Astarion arrives at the park uncaffeinated, slightly late and extremely displeased. Gale is waiting for him. He's standing outside of the car for once, leaning back against it with his arms crossed, head tipped back and eyes closed, enjoying the winter sunlight on his skin. The light pulls out both his grey and the almost chestnut-gold threads in his hair. 

“If you must stand around posing, at least put some effort into it,” Astarion grouses. 

Gale opens his eyes, and the peaceful expression becomes the warmth of his smile. 

“Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed, I see. Didn’t get to sleep easily last night?” 

“None of your business,” Astarion grumbles. “How come you’re so bloody cheerful? You can’t have got that much more rest than me.” 

“No,” Gale agrees, opening the door for him and ushering Astarion into the backseat like a gentleman. “But we did set a record yesterday.” 

When Astarion is settled in the back seat, Gale hands him his coffee. And perhaps the day isn't such a write-off after all. 

-

Karlach Cliffgate: sooooo how was your day? 

Astarion Ancunin: you are up early and also messaging me here instead of on messenger, what is this about? 

Karlach Cliffgate: Astarion. You are EVERYWHERE. 
Karlach Cliffgate: I've seen more of your face than when we lived together 

Astarion Ancunin: lucky you 
Astarion Ancunin: just facetime me, it's easier 

He's still in the kitchen when Karlach calls. 

“We had a three hour PR meeting this morning,” he says, by way of greeting. “And that was after we’d fought our way through a bloody mob of photographers to get into the rink. Half of it was Amy blacklisting certain tags and key terms for me as and when they were surfacing, half of it was trying to talk the creative director of the show down from changing all of our routines to romantic songs, and the rest of it was a waste of fucking time. Remember those meetings we used to have to sit through at the firm where everyone would just state the obvious for three hours and then pat themselves on the back for a job well done? The only thing that kept me sane was texting Gale under the table about how fucking idiotic most of Raphael's ideas are.” 

“Good morning to you too,” Karlach says. 

“Evening to me,” Astarion reminds her, just to be annoying. 

“I've been awake for ten minutes,” she informs him. 

From what he can see of her, she's in her kitchen too. He could almost pretend, though she's making breakfast in the summer sun and he's scraping together a vaguely nutritious attempt at dinner in the depths of winter, that they're still banging around together in the same kitchen. 

“I might have done something stupid,” he says.

“Oh?” Karlach reappears on her screen to eyeball him. “How stupid? You stupid or me stupid?” 

“I will never achieve your levels of stupidity, dear,” Astarion grins. “Do you remember Sebastian?” 

Karlach sighs at him. 

“Kind of hard to forget, really.” 

She's not wrong; Astarion had sort of referred to Sebastian blithely as his ex for a long time, and the admission of what had actually happened had involved a lot of wine and tears on both sides. Karlach had started crying first, but once she'd begun there was no stopping either of them. He would, in all honesty, quite like to forget the whole thing. 

“Why, what have you done?” 

“Agreed to meet him for coffee.” 

She drops everything to pick up her phone and look at him properly. 

“Holy shit. So he is alive?” 

“Very much alive. Thriving, even. He's married.” 

“Holy shit,” Karlach repeats, quietly. “I mean- wow. That's great, of course it's great, I'm glad he got out and he seems to be doing okay, but. Shit.” 

“I know.” 

“Are you… okay, about it? I mean fuck, Astarion, he's the reason Cazador tried to kill you-” 

“Cazador was losing control over me and he knew it,” Astarion interrupts. “Something was going to tip him over the edge. It was just finding me with Sebastian that did it.” 

“Right,” Karlach agrees. “But the last time you saw him you nearly died, and now you're going to just… meet for coffee?” 

Astarion shrugs. 

“What else are we supposed to do?” 

It's a hell of a question. Karlach knows it, too. For a moment, he stirs soup in silence. Then he says; 

“Cazador tried to kill us both. He was more obvious about it with me, but Sebastian didn't escape either. While I was in hospital he was isolated and bullied, and they let him get much, much worse than they should have before anyone did anything about it.” 

Nobody had told him about it. Not in so many words. When he had finally come back, after his ‘fall’, Sebastian was simply gone. It had taken a long, long time to piece together what had happened. 

“I always had it coming. Cazador hated me from the start. But Sebastian - I could have picked any of them. I didn't even like him much more than any of the others, he was just the easiest. I already knew he liked me. If I'd left him be, he might have made something of himself. Instead, Cazador let me believe I’d killed him.” 

Karlach growls. 

“It was not your fault, Astarion. What Cazador did to you - to both of you - is on him and him alone.” 

“I know that,” Astarion sighs. “But I don't know, if I look him in the face again, if I'll be able to believe it.” He turns the hob off, still looking away from the phone. “Why aren't you in fucking London so I can make you come with me?” 

“You have more friends than just me,” Karlach points out. “What about Gale?” 

Astarion winces. 

“Uhoh,” Karlach knows him too fucking well. “What was that face for?” 

“I… may have upset Gale.” 

“How?” Karlach says, sharply. “Were you mean to his kid?” 

“What?” Astarion nearly drops his bowl. “No! Hestia is a fucking delight, I don't have a single bad word to say about her. Her mother, on the other hand-” 

“Oi!” Karlach waves at him. “Stop ranting, back on topic! What did you do to piss Gale off?” 

Astarion looks at his wooden spoon. 

“I… may have said that nobody cares about me.” 

There's a small silence. 

“Yeah, okay, I'm a bit pissed at you for that too,” Karlach says. “This is why you need to go to therapy. I wouldn't have lived with you for eight years if I didn't care about you.” 

“I know,” Astarion growls. “He didn't talk to me all the way through stage rehearsals on Friday afternoon and then-” he hunches into himself. “Then he made me apologise and admit I was wrong.” 

To his irritation, Karlach bursts out laughing. 

“Holy shit, Astarion, did you actually?” 

“I did, yes. He's right, we are very good friends now. I was just too blind to see it.” 

Karlach's laughter dies in her throat. 

“Fuck, Astarion.” They stand in silence for a moment, and then Karlach says; “Hey, I'm sorry for laughing.” 

“Shut up. What I mean is that I don't know if I want to ask him to come to have coffee with Sebastian and me.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ugh, I don't know,” Astarion sighs. “Because it turns out that Gale actually likes me, as a person, instead of just wanting to fuck me, and I don't want to give him a reason to change his mind?” 

“Why would he change his mind?” Karlach sighs. “Astarion, you are not generally a stupid person. You have a fucking law degree. But you are being so fucking dumb about this.” 

“I am not-” 

“Firstly,” Karlach continues talking, determinedly. “Why would he change his mind if he met Sebastian? What happened was not your fault. Secondly, clearly your friendship is important to Gale, and he'd probably be very happy to come along and be moral support.” 

“I do not need moral support, I just-” 

“THIRDLY,” Karlach continues, “He absolutely does want to fuck you, are you kidding? Are we even looking at the same photographs? The man looks at you like the sun shines out of your arse.” 

“Oh for-” Astarion rolls his eyes. “Did you miss the whole thing about the three-hour PR meeting? We’re playing it up for the camera! He doesn't look at me like that normally!” 

-

He does ask Gale, eventually. It takes him the entirety of Tuesday and Wednesday to work up the courage, which is frankly embarrassing, but he does it. 

“Can I ask you a question?” He says, on Thursday morning, as they both lace themselves into their skates. 

“Of course,” Gale grins up at him from where he's bending over his knees. “What can I do for you?” 

“I'm going to meet someone for coffee, after we finish today,” Astarion says. 

“Oh?” Gale raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you need me on standby in case you need rescuing?” 

“What?” 

“It's a strategy Wyll and I devised. We had a code for if a date was going awry. If you find yourself in dire need of an exit strategy, I can stage a convenient ‘emergency’ and voila! You escape, potentially even leaving them with the bill. Not that I condone that sort of behaviour usually, of course, but on occasion.” 

“It's not a date,” Astarion says, dryly. “Or at least I hope it's not, given that he's bringing his husband.” 

“Could be a very interesting date,” Gale suggests, grinning. 

“Well it's not,” Astarion sighs. “I was going to ask you to come with me, but now I'm regretting it.” 

“Oh, I can do that,” Gale says, easily, finishing tying his laces. “What time?” 

“Two.” 

“Easy enough,” Gale nods. “You might as well come straight to mine after though, otherwise you'll get home just in time to turn around and go out again.” 

It takes Astarion half their warm-up time to realise what's still bothering him about that response. 

“You aren't going to ask me why I want you there?” He asks, leaning into his lunges. 

“Where?” Gale frowns. “Oh, coffee? Not really, no. I figured you would prefer some company. I can’t say I'm not curious, but you didn't volunteer the information. Did you want me to ask about it?” 

“I don't know,” Astarion admits. “I do feel like it would be unfair to throw you into this lacking context.” 

Gale shrugs one shoulder. 

“I can probably cope. Unless it's particularly fraught.” 

Astarion turns that one over. 

“Well, yes. Cazador caught us together, tried to kill me with my own skates and bullied Sebastian into a spiral that landed him in hospital while I was gone. So the last time I saw him was through my own blood with his trousers around his ankles and for the majority of the last decade I've assumed he was dead.” 

Gale skids to a stop beside him. 

“Okay,” he says, slowly. “I think that qualifies as pretty fraught, yes.” 

“Mmm,” Astarion agrees. He takes a deep breath. “I… want to see him. Part of me still doesn't believe he's alive. But I don't want to go alone.” 

“Then I'll be there,” Gale says, firmly. “And thank you. I appreciate the context, especially considering that it's not easy to share.” 

“Tragic backstory unlocked,” Astarion agrees. “Although you did know that my back was Cazador already, I suppose. Does that push us up to level four friendship or no?” 

“How many levels are there?” Gale smiles, and to Astarion's surprise there is no pity in it; nothing other than his usual geniality. Although he had just said ‘oh’ when he found out about the paperwork. Evidently he's quite hard to phase. Given what Astarion knows about him now, perhaps that's not so surprising. 

“I don't know, you're the expert,” Astarion points out. 

“I am very much not,” Gale refutes. “For years my only friend outside of Mystra was Wyll, and for much of that time it was a one-sided friendship; he absolutely refused to let me fully withdraw from society, but I did little to either deserve or reward his tenacity. Without Wyll, it would have been just Tara and I after Mystra. I can only hope I am a better friend to him now.” 

Astarion hums. 

“Cazador used to do that too. Isolate us, I mean. He'd feed us all awful lies about each other, behind our backs, so we all learned to hate each other as much as we hated him.” 

Gale pulls a face. 

“I know I haven't met this man, but for the sake of his face, I do hope I never have reason to.” 

Astarion snorts at the idea of Gale - genial, over-enthusiastic, girl dad Gale - managing to land a punch on Cazador. A satisfying thought, but very definitely a fantasy. 

“If I go to therapy because of you do we reach level five?” Astarion wonders, which makes Gale chuckle. 

“You're just going to push this as far as you can, aren't you?” 

“Of course,” Astarion grins. “I've discovered it's something I can get better at, and therefore I must be the best. What level of friendship are you at with Wyll and Halsin? How far do I have to go?” 

-

It's a good session. They're both in a good mood by the end of it, talking about the way it's going to be staged and trying to guess how awful Volo’s costumes are going to be. 

“You'd make an excellent Elsa,” Gale grins, hopping in the back. “It's the white-blond hair.” 

“I used to have it long,” Astarion remembers. “At uni. Karlach probably still has photos.” 

“Really?” Gale sounds intrigued. “Don't tell Hestia, she'll be devastated that you had her dream hair and cut it.” 

“Maybe I'll grow it out again for her.” 

They'd already text Halsin the change of plan and the address. Astarion attempts to continue to chat idly the rest of the way there, and increasingly fails. 

About halfway there, he realises that Gale isn't talking at all. He's just put his hand on the middle seat between them, palm-up. Like an offering. He must have been waiting a while; he's turned to look out the window now, watching the world go by. 

Astarion keeps his hands to himself. It doesn't appear to bother Gale at all that he does so; he moves his hand when Halsin stops the car, only to let himself out. 

It's only half one. By the time they're settled in, two of them at a table for four, it's only twenty to two. 

“It might help,” Gale says, quietly, “To do some of the breathing exercises you taught me.” 

“I thought it would take us longer to change at the rink,” Astarion admits. 

“You were clock-watching for the last hour,” Gale says, without any sort of judgement; just an observation. “You're alright to be nervous, you know. If there were ever a situation that justified it, it's this.” 

Astarion hisses through his teeth. 

“Yes, thank you, I'm aware.” 

Gale picks up his own coffee, and blows over the top of it. 

“You could tell him we’re here already. If he's nearby too.” 

“I don't know if I'll recognise him,” Astarion admits, irritably. “We were just kids. We were sixteen. I don't look anything at all like I did at sixteen.” 

Gale raises an eyebrow at him.

“You do, actually. You've definitely changed, obviously, but you are quite… distinctive.” 

“That was a terrible attempt at a compliment,” Astarion snips, which makes Gale chuckle at him. 

“You need about as much help stroking your ego as I do. I'm surprised the two of us aren't drawing more attention, handsome fellows that we are.” 

Astarion sighs, but he can feel himself smiling through it. 

“That was a better effort, darling, although you still have a lot of practice to do.” 

“And you could be a lot subtler about fishing for compliments.” 

“What on earth for?” Astarion is teasing now, and he knows it; but it's nice. It's easier, to relax into this pattern of back and forth, than to sit in silence and tap his foot and worry. “I couldn't possibly risk the loss of an opportunity to preen.” 

Whatever Gale says in response, however, Astarion misses completely. Over Gale's shoulder, the door had opened; and through it, walks Sebastian. 

He looks healthy. That's the first thing; Astarion had known him, as they all were, willowed out and hewn from stone, tough and talented and beyond the reach of the rest of the world. Part of the reason he had pursued Sebastian in the first place was his softness. The fact that he hadn't been as worn down from it as the rest of them. There had still been something gentle to him, in his core, that Astarion had wanted for himself. 

Now, it seems to glow from him. His skin is darker, tanned from seeing the actual sun. His eyes and his smile are warm, looking over his shoulder as he talks to the man he's here with. His husband, presumably. His hair is long, the way he'd always wanted but never been allowed, plaited over one shoulder in a way that would be almost hippie-ish, if he wasn't dressed so well. Pristine loafers, casual blazer over a jumper over a shirt, and all so well-kept and clean and detailed that it's obvious he's got both money and time. 

Astarion stands, without quite meaning to. 

“Astarion!” Sebastian smiles, genuinely. “It is you!” 

“You're alright,” Astarion says. “I never knew - you're really okay.” 

Which of them starts it, he isn't quite sure, but suddenly Sebastian has his arms around him and Astarion is holding him against his chest, eyes squeezed shut against threatening tears. 

“I'm so sorry,” Sebastian says, into his shoulder, voice wavering. “All this time, it never occured to me you didn't know-” 

“Don't,” Astarion says, “It wasn't your fault.” 

Sebastian doesn't smell like he used to. They all used to use the same shampoo, the same soap, the same body wash; of course he'd have his own, now. It still feels like a loss. 

“You got better, you got out.” 

“As did you,” Sebastian finally lets him go. “God, we have so much to catch up on. I hope you two haven't been waiting too long.” 

His face has changed. Of course it has. His voice is different, too; he'd had a much more pronounced accent that has softened in the last decade. Astarion wonders if Sebastian remembers trying to teach him Spanish. He wishes he'd been more attentive, more interested. He wishes he remembered any of it. 

“No, we just came straight from the rink,” Astarion shakes his head. “Sorry, Sebastian, this is Gale-” 

“Oh, I know,” Sebastian says, with a twinkle. “Did Astarion tell you he had a poster of you on his wall in the dorms?” 

“Hey,” Astarion is suddenly sixteen again, putting up with the others teasing him for having that torn-out poster from a magazine tacked to his wall. “It was an article about me, mostly!” 

“Sure it was,” Sebastian is laughing. “Astarion, my husband, Andres.” 

“I've heard so much about you,” Andres is shaking his hand, and smiling, and Astarion blinks because what the hell would Sebastian have to tell his husband about him other than that Astarion was the idiot who got them caught, who got them hurt, and separated- 

“What do you two want to drink?” Gale is saying, as they settle at the table, and then goes off to order for them, leaving Astarion feeling very suddenly adrift. 

“I had no idea you'd still be skating,” Sebastian says, with a smile. “Let alone for ITV!” 

“I actually trained as a lawyer. That was how I got out of the school, after everything. But the whole field is so full of assholes there wasn't space for me as well, so here I am.” He grins, but Sebastian just looks a little perplexed. “How- how did you get out?” 

Sebastian glances at Andres. 

“It's a long story. I was very ill, for a very long time, but when I started getting better, I wanted to do something to help people like me. I wanted to make sure that nobody else would have to go through what I did. So now I work in nutrition. Which is where I met Andres.” 

Astarion nods at Andres, and suddenly hopes that Gale will be back any moment, because he actually has no idea how to continue this conversation along the vein of small talk. They hadn't really done a lot of talking, before. Their scant stolen moments were too precious for that. 

“Do you still skate?”

“God no,” Sebastian shudders. “I don't think I can. I hope you won't be offended, but I can't even watch it anymore.” 

“I'm not offended,” Astarion smiles, slightly. “Actually, I'd rather you didn't. It's all very theatrical.” 

“How come you do skate still? The way Cazador left you, we all thought-” 

“I know,” Astarion pulls his jumper down over his wrists, a habit more than anything. “He missed my spine. I don't know how. I have some pretty deep tissue damage, but nothing that could stop me from getting back on the ice. The more he wanted to keep me off it, the more I was determined to stay.” He grips his cold cup. “I won't let him take it from me.” 

“Good,” Sebastian nods. “I don't think I ever loved it the way you did. I tried to go back for a long time, but eventually we decided it was doing me more harm than good.” 

“I understand,” Astarion says. “It is a loss, though. You were a beautiful skater.” 

Sebastian’s expression softens, slightly; like he remembers the way they used to look at each other too. That he regrets the chance they never had. 

Finally, Gale comes back, balancing a tray like he's their personal waiter. 

“Here,” he puts a fresh cup of coffee in front of Astarion as well as the others, then collects up the old ones onto the tray, which he then hands off to the waitress who has spotted him doing her job and is wholly embarrassed by it. 

“Don't be silly, Mr Dekarios, give that here-” 

Gale sits down again. 

“Oh, do you two come here often?” Andres asks, politely. 

“Oh no, first time,” Gale smiles. “Sorry, you get used to it eventually.”

“No you don't,” Astarion teases, enjoying having a fresh warm cup to keep his fingers warm. “Don't ask him for an autograph, Andres, it'll open the floodgates and we'll be here until nightfall.” 

“It is not that bad,” Gale protests. “You are exaggerating.” 

“I often am,” Astarion agrees. “But in this case, I am not. How long did you spend signing in Hyde Park last week before Hestia rescued you?” 

“Ten minutes, at the absolute most,” Gale is smiling now. “Although that was very funny, I do need to have a conversation with her about lying. We don't want to set a precedent.” 

“Sorry, who's Hestia?” Sebastian asks. 

“My daughter,” Gale fills in. “She's adopted Astarion, he's teaching her ballet.” 

Sebastian is smiling at them. It takes Astarion a little while to notice; but there becomes a pattern to it. Andres doesn't appear to be much of a talker, so he and Gale and Sebastian chat back and forth about skating and life and everything else, and occasionally Sebastian will drop out and just watch he and Gale for a little while. 

Eventually, Gale excuses himself to go to the loo, and Sebastian turns to him. 

“It's so nice to see you happy.” 

Astarion doesn't know what to say to that. 

“I… suppose I am,” he says. “I hadn't really thought about it.” 

“How long have you been together?” 

“Oh,” Astarion frowns. “No, we aren't. Just friends. Good friends.” 

“Oh!” Sebastian looks genuinely surprised. “I’m so sorry, I assumed-” 

“The news, yes,” Astarion rolls his eyes. “We have a fucking PR team.” 

“I don't read the news anymore,” Sebastian admits. “I just- the way you- I'm sorry I assumed.” 

“You and the rest of the world,” Astarion agrees. “We’ll make an official statement or something once the season is over, lay all the rumours to rest, but for now we're just letting them talk.” 

“Right,” Sebastian nods. “Of course.” 

There's a stilted sort of silence. 

Then Sebastian says, jokingly; 

“So he's single, then?” 

“Good luck with that,” Astarion grins, at Andres’ look of mock-offence. “His one and only love is his daughter, nobody else is getting a look-in. Well, other than his cat.” 

“Damn,” Sebastian sighs. “Well, a man can dream, I suppose.” 

“You do not need to dream, I am right here,” Andres protests. To which Sebastian kisses his nose. 

“You are, dearest, I'm sorry for teasing.” 

They are, evidently, deliriously happy together. 

“I have a question,” Astarion says. “Since you left, you haven't heard anything from Cazador, have you?” 

“No,” Sebastian looks relieved. “Not a word.” 

“Good,” Astarion says, and means it. 

“Why?” Sebastian studies him, curious and a little concerned. “You haven't, have you?” 

“Of course not,” Astarion lies, easily. “I'm just trying to find out what happened to him.” 

“Closure,” Sebastian nods. “I don't know, I'm afraid. If I hear anything, I'll let you know.” 

“I'll do the same,” Astarion agrees. “If you want to know.” 

“I don't think I do, actually,” Sebastian shakes his head. “I don't think I care.” 

They don't stay much longer after that. Sebastian and Andres take their leave, and Astarion, finally, relaxes. 

“How are you doing?” Gale asks, quietly, as the door closes behind them. 

“Okay,” Astarion nods. And for once, he almost believes it. 

-

Gale has had a lot of practice at holding himself together. It's easier to do it for someone else, too; to turn the focus outwards. 

On the way back to the house, Astarion's attention is elsewhere. Gale shows him to the spare room so he can have some space to himself before the evening, and leaves him to it. 

Then he goes down to the library, closes himself in, and slumps down onto the sofa. 

Astarion's expression, seeing Sebastian’s face, is torturing him. The rawness of it. That glimpse of the depth and strength of his feelings so often buried safely away. Gale has yearned for that; for the glimpses he's had, the moments of quiet and that authentic self. Astarion is a puzzle; a challenge, and an irresistible one. An unanswered question that draws him like a moth to a flame. 

In Astarion's expression, looking at Sebastian, Gale knows he's found another piece of the puzzle. 

No exes, Astarion had said. And yet it's clear they'd been more than just friends. More than lovers, perhaps. Gale knows all too well the heady draw of first love, intoxicating and irreplaceable. 

He could be happy for Astarion, Gale thinks, if he were in love with someone else who made him happy. Instead, the only piece of his heart he seems to have lost is to a man married to someone else. Astarion spent a decade or more thinking Sebastian was dead. And yet in all that time, he never loved again. 

And that hurts. Because Gale can't be happy for him. He can't soothe his own ache with it. If anything, it exacerbates it. The hollow, hungry yearning to fix it for him; to somehow go back and change the past, to give Astarion a chance to have something real. To make him happy. 

And all at once, holding it in is taking everything he has. It feels like it’s suffocating him. 

It doesn’t matter that the album is nearly finished. It doesn’t matter that this doesn’t fit the tone or the story or the flow of it. It grasps at him, a fist around his heart, and the only release he can find is by sitting at the piano, letting it bleed through his fingers. 

The song writes itself. It’s simple enough. Just a pattern, a melody, pared back and bare and frank as the lyrics. 

Pour your gold into my cracks 
Let me hold your shattered heart 
This tenderness, this holy art
My love, I’d tear myself apart 
For you
And always you  

The empty house around him swallows it, like it was nothing. Leaves him in silence. His chest aches; not from singing. The burn of a heart left empty by this outpouring. It’s a release. Like he’s wiped the slate clean of his confusion and found its clarity. 

He closes the lid of the piano. The gentle thunk echoes. And Gale puts his head on the beloved instrument, and finally, finally lets the anguish of it subsume him. Just for a moment. 

Then he stands, clips the recording, and sends it to Minthara. 

-

Much as he had appreciated Gale giving him some space, Astarion also hadn't been entirely sure what to do with it. He'd texted Sebastian a cursory sort of ‘it was nice to see you’ thing, but offered no follow-up. He's not entirely sure he wants to see Sebastian again. It's enough, knowing he's alive. Knowing he's alright. But they don't have much in common, anymore, other than the worst time of both of their lives. 

Sebastian appears to agree, because he also does not suggest they meet again. 

After that, he texts Karlach a small essay of what had been said, but gets no reply. Not that he was expecting one. It is the middle of the night, for her. But that sort of runs out the list of things he'd wanted to do, and Gale's spare room is nice but it's not exactly his space, and the only place to sit is the bed.  

So Astarion gets up, and opens the door. 

From downstairs, he catches the thread of the piano. 

It's not something he recognises. It's familiar, but not in a way that it would be if he'd heard it before. He stops in the doorway, and listens. 

Gale is singing. Now he knows this isn't one he's heard. He can't hear the words, exactly, but he knows this is new. One of Gale's, perhaps. It isn't his usual style; there's something desperate in it. Something that tugs at his heartstrings. Although Gale does usually sing about love, and given that he hasn't written anything since being divorced, it makes sense that it would be a little different. 

Astarion stops, and listens. 

Evidently it's something Gale is still working on; he goes round on it a few times, changing little bits. It gets more confident. 

After a while, Astarion sits down on the top step. The piano drifting up from below resonates through the whole house. Like it's carrying him. He leans back, and lies on the landing, and just listens. It's the kind of thing he'd like to skate to. Even without being able to hear the lyrics, he can feel the emotion in it; is already thinking about how it would translate to movement. Maybe when the new album releases, he'll ask Gale about it. 

He lies there for longer than Gale plays. At what point Gale stops, he isn't entirely sure. His mind had wandered. 

So Astarion sits up, and goes to find him. 

Gale is in the kitchen, predictably. To Astarion’s surprise, however, he seems to be listening to Hozier. Not an artist he's come to associate with Gale, despite how eclectic his taste is. He can hear him singing along, as he comes down the stairs; deep and warm and resonant, from his chest. 

“ You know I'm good on my own, 
Baby, no, it's more the being unknown .” 

Astarion hesitates in the doorway of the kitchen. Gale isn't cooking; he's standing at the counter, resting his hands on it, his back to the door. His head is tipped back, hair tumbling loose over his shoulders, his eyes closed as he sings. As he draws the pain and the power of his voice into the words. 

Something about it feels intensely intimate. Astarion coughs. 

“Didn't know you were a Hozier fan.” 

Gale almost jumps. 

“Astarion!” 

“Hello.” 

For a moment Gale just stares at him. 

“I- right. No. I don't listen to him in the background, usually, I find it too emotional. This one, especially, listen-” he pauses, holding his hand up, listening to the swell of the music. “It's like a wave, crashing over you.” 

He breathes, deep, then tips his head back and lets the lyrics tear through him; 

“ Do you know I could break beneath the weight 
Of the goodness, love, I still carry for you ?” 

Astarion watches his expression as he does so; moving through the pain of it. 

He doesn't know why Gale doesn't appear to hate Mystra. He should. Astarion is beginning to, and he doesn't have even half of the reason. But seeing this, seeing Gale expressing this ache, he wonders if he doesn't know how. If, after loving someone so long, you even can hate them. He wouldn't know. 

“Should I be worried about you being emotional?” He asks. 

“No,” Gale opens his eyes and smiles, as if to reassure him. “I was writing. Trying to capture a feeling. I have a tendency to intellectualise the way I feel, to distance myself from the brunt of it with explanations of what it is and how it got there. But to write well, and to write something that burns - I have to feel. I have to let myself feel. So, Hozier.” He shakes himself a little. “Anyway, if you're joining me, I'll put something more sociable on.” 

“Don't,” Astarion says. “Hozier is good. Besides, I think I can cope with you being a little emotional every now and then. Just don't cry on me.” 

Gale grins at him, over his shoulder. 

“I wouldn't dare. Nor would I bring up the fact that you apparently had a poster of me on your wall.” 

Astarion snorts. 

“God, I had honestly forgotten about that. It was one of those spreads about your inspirations or whatever, and you'd mentioned the Golden routine. That was the bit I had on my wall, I'm afraid, your face being attached to it was somewhat circumstantial. Do you need a hand?” 

“Damn,” Gale sighs, getting another chopping board down and grabbing a knife for him. “And here I was thinking you were another fan-” 

“It was pre-beard,” Astarion reminds him. “Maybe now I'd have a picture of you on my wall. Maybe . Probably only if Tara was in it.” 

Gale laughs, easily. 

“What if I signed it for you?” 

“No, I'm afraid I'm immune to the lure of your fame, I've spent too much time watching you fall on your arse.” Gale throws a tomato at him, and Astarion just about manages to catch it. “If you're going to heckle me I think you're supposed to use rotten ones.” 

“That's your dinner, be grateful it's not,” Gale is still chuckling. 

“The real question is, would you have a picture of me on your wall?” 

“Oh yes, my very bare and deliberately minimalist sleeping space that's supposed to help with insomnia,” Gale agrees. “I was thinking a life-size cardboard cutout, actually, so I wake up in the middle of the night and scare myself stupid thinking someone's broken in.” 

Astarion laughs at the idea of that. 

“Want me to sign it for you?” 

“You do know I have your autograph, right?” Gale says, amused. “Does that make you feel better about Sebastian outing you for having my face on your wall?” 

“Do you actually?” Astarion blinks. “What, still ? Gale, you're nearly thirty.” 

“I am,” Gale agrees. “And I've had it since I was seventeen. I wouldn't throw my BRIT Award out, would I?” 

“How is my autograph on the same level as a BRIT?” Astarion says, bemusedly. 

“To the rest of the music industry, maybe not, but I've told you what that skate meant to me,” he grins, putting down the knife. “Come on.” 

Astarion follows him out through the kitchen door and back down through the bookshelf door, into the library. He hadn't realised that there's a couple of things on the mantelpiece; they blend into the busyness of the background, the books. 

There's a platinum record, the BRIT, a couple of other bits and pieces that Astarion couldn't name - and a little CD. 

“Just before streaming really took over,” Gale says. 

Astarion stops. He recognises this. It's the single of Golden, the one with the paper cover that had arrived wrapped in layers of plastic and bubble-wrap. In the top corner, against the black background, in the gold Sharpie they'd given him, is the little ‘A’, turned into a star, that he'd spent the whole afternoon coming up with and then practising before daring to put pen to paper. Or pen to single, in this case. 

“Gale,” he says, slowly. “That was the first signature I ever did.” 

“Really?” Gale looks up, jubilant. “You're joking.” 

“I am not. I remember being told it was a special album, I didn't know it was for you.” 

“That's amazing,” Gale grins. “Oh no, you know what this means.” 

“What?” Astarion says, suddenly wary. 

“We have to tell Amy.” 

-

Gale Dekarios: Hello, friendly local PR manager. 

AmyPR: Oh god, what now 
AmyPR: I don't think I've slept since Monday 

Astarion Ancunin sent a photo 

Gale Dekarios: Turns out I own the first ever example of Astarion's signature. And it's on the first print CD of Golden. 
Gale Dekarios: We thought you might like a photo. 

AmyPR: OH. 
AmyPR: You were correct, I DO like this photo. 
AmyPR: However, I might not post it just yet. We might want a couple of things to keep in reserve to use as emergency distraction techniques. 

Gale Dekarios: Sounds good! 

AmyPR: Although speaking of, who were you two hanging out with in that coffee shop earlier? 

Astarion Ancunin: Oh for fuck’s sake 

-

They're still on facetime with Amy when the doorbell rings. Gale gets up to let Wyll in as Astarion tries to explain to Amy who Sebastian is without actually telling her. 

“Hello,” Wyll takes one look at Gale's expression and sobers. “Oh no. And I thought I had a bad day.” 

“Your bad day was probably much worse than mine,” Gale points out, not without humour. “It sounds like wine is in order, then?” 

“You are a godsend, Gale.” 

He does not ask Wyll about his job very often. It's part of an unspoken agreement between them; these evenings especially are a chance to wind down. To let go. Asking Wyll about what cases he's working on is something he will do when Wyll raises it, and not before. 

Instead he just gives Wyll a hug. 

Wyll, idiot that he is, tries to lift Gale off the floor as he does so. 

“No!” Gale protests. “I’ve spent my whole day being thrown around by Astarion, I'm not going to let you do it too!” 

Wyll releases him, laughing, without having managed to get his toes off the floor.

“I've been throwing you around for far longer than Astarion has,” he points out, slipping his coat off his shoulders. 

“Dragging me around, more like,” Gale takes it from him to hang it up, and then leads him back into the kitchen. 

“Dragging you up by your bootstraps,” Wyll agrees. “One of us has to be a good influence.” 

“I can't just stop living my life because it's inconvenient to you!” Astarion snaps, as Wyll follows Gale back into the kitchen. 

“I'm not asking you to,” Amy says, soothingly. “I'm just saying we have to be more careful about it next time.” 

“There won't be a next time.” 

“Oh,” Gale says, surprised. “I was going to ask if you wanted to invite them to dinner with us one Thursday.” 

Astarion wrinkles his nose. 

“I'm perfectly content to consider that chapter of my life closed,” he says, decisively. “Amy, nobody sane actually cares about us being spotted doing something as benign as drinking coffee in, of all places, a coffee shop. Nobody's personal life is that lacking in intrigue. Call us back when something we actually need to worry about happens.”

“We’re not worrying about it,” Amy sighs. “I'm keeping you in the loop. This is a line we want to tread very carefully, and having the two of you out with a married couple and then a photo of you at Gale's house within a week of your first skate is much too quick.” 

“God forbid we be friends! I know you say we should always assume nothing, but surely it's occured to the general viewer that it's taken me longer than a week to get Gale to this level of skating ability.” 

“It's not the average viewer we have to worry about. It's the 1% that will run to twitter or X or whatever to spout bullshit.” 

“Fine, next time I leave the house for anything other than work I will make sure to run it by you first.” 

“Astarion-” 

He hangs up, and hands Gale’s phone back to him. Gale texts Amy an apology, but he doesn't pick up her attempt to call him again. He's with Astarion on this one; it was just coffee. 

“Sounds like a fun day,” Wyll sympathises. “Wait, hang on, which one of you put Hozier on?” 

“Oh, Astarion-” Gale starts to say, in the same moment that Astarion says; 

“Gale was-” 

They both stop and look at each other. 

“Gale,” Wyll says, warningly. “Don't lie to me, you're shit at it and I can tell.” 

“I wasn't moping!” Gale protests, backing away from Wyll's far-too-knowing expression. “I was trying to write and I like the direction it's going in but the lyrics aren't there and Hozier is one of those artists-” 

“That you listen to when you're having a breakdown.” 

Wyll follows him, and Gale tries to put the table between them, like that will protect him.

“Which I am clearly not doing right now,” Gale says. “I am not moping, or pining, or yearning, or whatever the hell else you're going to accuse me of-” 

“All of the above?” 

He leans left, and Wyll follows him - goes back the other way, and he does the same. 

“I'm trying to actually feel my feelings! It's a good thing that I need to practise-” 

“Except you only listen to Hozier when you're going to call me at three in the morning-” 

“It's 5pm!” Gale protests, laughing now, as Wyll tries to reach him round the table. He ducks out of the way of Wyll's grasp, and they're both running now, grinning like idiots; like they're still kids chasing each other around the classroom. Feigning left, dodging right, Gale trying to keep the distance between them and Wyll trying to close it. 

“I'm not drinking, I'm not smoking, I'm not even singing along-” 

“Anymore,” Astarion puts in, unhelpfully, watching them with some amusement from one of the stools at the breakfast bar where he's perched himself, legs crossed, leaning on one elbow. 

“Astarion, you are not helping!” 

“I was not trying to,” Astarion grins. 

Distracted for half a moment, Gale doesn't move in time, and Wyll fully leaps the table and rugby tackles him. 

Gale makes a noise that is somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, trying to grab onto him as they both tip over onto the very not welcoming wooden floor. It is, predictably, both cold and hard. 

“Oof!” 

“Argh!” Wyll laughs. “What happened to all that strength training you've been doing?” 

“I’m not strong enough to catch you when you fling your entire body weight at me!” Gale protests, laughing, trying to free a hand so he can get his hair out of his eyes. Wyll, unrepentant and undeterred, promptly tries to get him in a headlock. 

“Try not to injure him too badly,” Astarion drawls, in the kind of tone that suggests he should have a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette-holder in the other. “Unfortunately, I need him.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn't injure me at all!” Gale huffs, trying to shove Wyll off, but Wyll only grins. 

“I'm cheering you up! You were all miserable when I got here, and now look at you.” 

“Bullying me doesn't count as cheering me up!” Gale yells, trying and failing to wriggle out of his grasp. 

“We have talked about wallowing, Gale-” 

“I wasn't wallowing!” 

He probably would be able to get out of it if he wasn’t laughing so hard, but Wyll is being ridiculous. 

“You're both terrible at this,” Astarion says, from above them. “I've seen maybe one rugby match in my whole life and I can tell you're terrible.” 

“That's because Wyll did fucking ballroom dance and I did extra science classes-” Gale gives up on trying to kick Wyll in the shins and submits, flopping onto the floorboards. “We are not twelve, Wyll.” 

The dad tone has no effect on Wyll, unfortunately. 

“You might as well be, you emotionally stunted idiot-” 

“You rugby tackled me instead of giving me a damn hug!” Gale laughs. “Get off me, you lump, I am fine .” 

Before either of them can move, however, Tara leaps onto Gale's chest and yowls at Wyll, which makes them both collapse into giggles all over again. 

Which is, of course, the exact moment that Halsin rings the doorbell. Astarion leaves them tangled on the floor and goes to let him in; when they walk back into the kitchen, Wyll and Gale are still trying to extract themselves from Tara, who has apparently taken great offence at Wyll ‘attacking’ Gale, however playfully. 

Astarion sighs at them. 

“Don't ask me what's happening here, Halsin, it's all very homoerotic.” 

“It is not,” Gale says, grunting as he gets to his feet. “Damn, I am sore.” 

“That was barely even a tumble,” Wyll teases. 

“Easy for you to say, I took the brunt of the fall, you landed on me.” 

Wyll gives him a sideways look. It's more piercing than it has any right to be. 

“You alright?” 

He could be asking if he'd actually hurt Gale, but equally he could be asking about his emotional state. Either way, it's not a question he's willing to answer honestly in present company. 

“Fine,” Gale rolls his eyes. “No thanks to you.” 

“Tired from five minutes of rolling around on the floor,” Wyll continues, with an easy grin. “We really do need to get you laid, you are very out of shape.” 

Gale rests his hands on his knees and glares up at Wyll through his fringe. 

“Was that an offer? That sounded suspiciously like an offer, Wyll,” he grins. “Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered, but I don't think Ali would be very impressed with you.” 

“Hilarious,” Wyll deadpans. “We had our chance, Gale. We could have been something. But alas, now I am married to the love of my life, and you are simply a footnote in my history.”

Gale laughs properly at that. 

“Not even a notch on your bedpost,” he bemoans. 

“One kiss without tongue is not bedpost-notch material,” Wyll grins. “Especially considering the first thing you said afterwards was ‘well, I think I am bi, but not for you’.” 

Gale, who had completely forgotten that he'd said that, bursts out laughing. 

Then they have to explain the story, of course, as both Halsin and Astarion are apparently unaware of that little footnote. 

“I was trying to help Gale though his identity crisis,” Wyll explains, as they all settle around the table and Gale pours him some wine. 

“It would have been an excellent plan, if it hadn't backfired on you spectacularly,” Gale agrees. 

“There were at least twelve of us playing spin the bottle! The chances of it landing on me were incredibly slim,” Wyll points out. 

“Ah, but now you bear the dubious honour of being fifty percent of the people on this planet who can claim to have been kissed by the one and only Gale Dekarios.” He grins, wilfully ignoring the fact that it's more accurate to say that he's only one of only two people that Gale remembers kissing. It's not a clarification he needs to make. “We should get you a certificate.” 

“I don't think people usually want to boast about those kinds of odds, darling,” Astarion says, which makes them all laugh all over again. 

It's a very pleasant evening. Having it be just the four of them again is more relaxed, as nice as having Isobel and Aylin join them had been. 

After dinner, he and Wyll get the guitars out, and Astarion and Halsin leave them to it, switching to chatting in Russian. 

“Fleetwood Mac,” Wyll suggests. 

“Oh, that's cruel,” Gale strums, gently. “How about I choose one and then you choose one?” 

“You know what I'll choose,” Wyll grins, matching his pattern, his fingers walking up and down the strings in his own little improvisation. 

“Landslide first then?” Gale suggests, and they slip into the opening, easy and familiar. 

“I took my love, I took it down,” 

It's an easy song to lose himself in. Wyll has known this one since they were only about thirteen, and plays it with the kind of familiarity and finesse that he approaches all their old favourites. 

It hadn't meant much to either of them, then. They'd just been songs they liked, words they sang. Now, of course, they both bring something a little different to it. Mellow, bittersweet, and wanting. 

“Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides? 
Can I handle the seasons of my life?” 

The doorbell startles him. 

He and Wyll both look up in the same moment. 

“Carry on,” Halsin gets to his feet. “I'll get it. I'll call you if it's for you.” 

Gale nods, not having let his fingers off the strings anyway, and goes back to the chorus. 

“Well I've been afraid of changing 
'Cause I’ve built my life around you,” 

The front door goes, but he can't hear anything other than quiet voices; then the door closes again, and there is silence. Cold callers, probably. Jehovah's Witness, maybe. He focuses on his hands and his voice, and stops thinking about it. 

“But time makes you bolder, 
Even children get older 
And I'm getting older too.” 

Wyll puts his own little twist on the guitar break, as he always does, and Gale closes his eyes and listens and relaxes into this old familiarity and warmth. Some things do change, but this, at least, never will. 

When they draw the song to an end, Wyll looks up with a ready smile; then his expression changes. 

Gale looks over his shoulder, not entirely knowing what to expect. He stiffens. He had wondered if it was Mystra, given her tendency to show up unannounced; he had not expected her to be accompanied by Minthara. The both of them look equally sour. 

“Apologies for the lack of welcome,” Gale says. “We weren't expecting more company.” 

“Evidently,” Mystra purses her lips. 

“I presume you want something from me?” Gale puts the guitar to the side, gently, exchanging a quick glance with Wyll. “Fairly urgent, I hope.” 

“You do seem to be exceptionally busy,” Mystra notes. “Providing free entertainment, I see.” 

“It is late, you are unannounced, and there's two of you,” Gale refuses to rise to it. “Where's Hestia?” 

“At home.”

“With?” 

“My mother.” 

Gale grimaces, but only internally. 

“A dispute has been raised,” Minthara says, sharply into the ensuing silence. “Perhaps we can talk about it in your office?” 

“That shouldn't be necessary,” Gale hops off the table and to his feet, feigning a calmness he does not feel. “Join us, won't you? Would either of you like a drink?” 

“This is not a social call,” Mystra says, sharply. “And what we have to discuss is nobody else's business.” 

“Indeed,” Gale sets out two glasses anyway. Minthara doesn't drink, he knows, so he pours her water from the filter. Mystra’s tastes might have changed in the last few months, but he doubts it. He pours her a glass of white, and sets the glasses down at empty seats at the table before taking his place beside Wyll. Astarion has taken the chair beside him, and Halsin is seated at the end of the table, as if overviewing proceedings. 

“Well, I suspect I would have to fill in Wyll and Halsin anyway, and as Astarion is my guest, I can hardly kick him out. Although none of you are beholden to stay, I should say. You're fully welcome to excuse yourselves.” 

“I think we'll stay,” Astarion says, quite calmly, sipping his red. “It seems a shame to cut such an enjoyable evening short for a few gatecrashers.” 

Gale fails at burying his smile at that, and when he turns back to Mystra, her frown is slowly deepening. 

Minthara, as always, is all business. 

“There has been an attempt to claim royalties for Golden from the-” 

Gale sighs. 

“Again,” he says. “Really, Mystra. Can you not even let me have the one damn song.” 

“It was a mistake,” Mystra says, smoothly. “A misinterpretation of my instructions from an intern in the finance department.” 

“Of course it was,” Gale agrees, genially. “And has the claim been removed?” 

“We are attempting to ascertain-” 

“So no, then.” 

“To ascertain the validity of said claim before dismissing it out of pocket.” 

“I wrote it,” Gale repeats, for the thousandth time. “When I was fifteen, no less.” 

“And if you can prove that-” 

“You do not want me to produce the proof,” Gale says, quietly. “Trust me.” 

Mystra's mouth snaps shut. For a moment, silence reigns. 

“There is a reason that I haven't pushed it,” Gale says, quietly, studying her expression. “I have been able to prove it is, irrefutably, entirely my own work from the very beginning. I was trying not to have to, initially, out of good faith. Now, it's because I would prefer not to drag this back into the public eye. I have no interest in putting Hestia - or myself, for that matter - back through that. She has enough to deal with between us without watching us dragging each other through the courts for petty grievances. But if you keep ‘accidentally’ trying to claim ownership, I can prove I wrote it, and I will, and it will be to your detriment. I might even suggest it may be at the cost of your career. Again, I do not want to do that to Hestia. But you are making it very, very difficult for me to do anything else.” 

“I am currently off the clock,” Wyll says, into the silence that descends. “But if Gale chooses to send me anything in a professional capacity, I cannot turn a blind eye. I'm sure you understand. My reputation would be on the line.” 

Mystra narrows her eyes at him. Nothing more, however, is said. 

“Well,” Gale takes a sip of his drink. “I think that was considerably shorter than we were all expecting, but I trust that it has been resolved to your satisfaction?” 

Mystra stands all in one movement, collecting her coat from the back of her chair as she does. 

“Give my love to Hestia,” Gale calls after her. The only response he gets is the door slamming behind her. 

“Oh, that was fun,” Astarion grins. “How long have you been waiting to drop that one on her?” 

“I was hoping I wouldn't have to,” Gale stretches, then gets to his feet. “Anything else I can do for you, Minthara?” 

“You need to rearrange your training schedule,” Minthara pulls a file from her bag. “That clip you sent me earlier - we want to record it next week.” 

“Oh,” Gale blinks. “They're filler lyrics.” 

“You're keeping them,” Minthara says, flatly. “Exactly as they are. And we're going to rethink the shape of the album and the promotional angle. This is lead single material. I doubt we’ll get it recorded to my satisfaction in one setting but I have an excellent studio producer-” 

“Hang on,” Astarion interrupts. “How much time are you asking for?” 

Minthara turns her gaze on him. 

“I do not recall asking for anything. I need at least a full day from Gale next week.” 

“No,” Astarion says, immediately. “If you weren't aware, we’re on something of a tight schedule.” 

Minthara closes the file with a slam and turns the full force of her gaze on him. It's a stare that Gale has to pretend doesn't make him quake, but Astarion glares back like it's nothing. 

“I am in control of Gale's entire career,” Minthara says, dangerously. “You are a useful addendum to a PR stunt that will last a few weeks.” 

Gale puts his glass down with a thump. 

“That's unnecessary, Minthara, we can-” 

“Shut up, Gale,” Astarion sighs, not turning away from Minthara for a moment. Gale could swear neither of them are blinking. “I have him for the mornings. Eight till one. After that, he's all yours.” 

“I can't split a recording session over afternoons,” Minthara snaps. “The expense is-” 

“Going to be more than covered by how much you'll make off that song,” Astarion says. “I've heard it. If Gale doesn't have another platinum record to add to his collection when it's released, I will be incredibly surprised.” His gaze flicks to Gale for a second. “Providing you'll have the energy to play after a skating session, of course.” 

“I would ask you to go easy on me, but I might as well as the rain not to fall,” Gale says, ruefully. “I don't think I'm actually going to get a say in this, am I?” 

“Of course,” Astarion frowns at him. “Legally, nothing is stopping you from dropping out of this to record your album.” 

“I'm not doing that. You and Amy both would hunt me down. And you're being ridiculous anyway Minthara, it is nowhere near ready to take to the studio. Astarion is right though, when it is ready we can do it in afternoon sessions.” 

Minthara sits back with a hum, studying Astarion with more respect than Gale had thought her capable of. Then she nods, sharply. 

“Done. Gale, I expect a breakdown of exactly what work still needs doing on that song and an estimate of how long it will take you to land in my inbox tomorrow morning.” 

And with that, she's gone. For a moment, Gale blinks after them. 

“Well,” he says, eventually. “If we weren't skating tomorrow I would have another glass of wine.” 

“But you are,” Astarion agrees. “God, I hate both of them. What is it with you and attracting the most detestable women?” 

“I think Minthara quite likes you,” Gale says. “Also, when did you hear the song?” 

“Oh I didn't,” Astarion shrugs. “I’ve known plenty of people like Minthara. She was trying too hard not to give away her suspicions about how big it will be, and thus gave away everything.” 

“Do we get to hear this song?” Wyll asks, curiously. 

“Not yet,” Gale tries not to be too relieved that Astarion hadn't heard it, earlier. He doesn't think he's quite ready for that yet. “When it's a little more polished, maybe.” 

-

AmyPR: Hey, I'm sorry, I know you have a lot to worry about at the moment, but I really need to make sure we're keeping up with your regular posting schedule. We don't want anyone to be wondering if there's something we're hiding. 

Gale Dekarios: Sorry, yes, I hadn't forgotten, I just haven't had it in me this week. 
Gale Dekarios: You don't have anything upbeat that's on trend or something at the moment, do you? 

AmyPR: it doesn't always have to be upbeat, you know 
AmyPR: Maybe a different tone would be nice for once? Minthara said the new one is a little different, it wouldn't be a bad idea to work in that direction. 

Gale Dekarios: You're sure? 

AmyPR: We’re not too worried about figures at the moment. You're on TV, they're climbing anyway. It's more important to just get something out there 
AmyPR: and it's better to have something with feeling than something flat 

Gale Dekarios: Alright, how about I send you something and then you decide whether or not to post it? 

AmyPR: sounds good to me 

Gale Dekarios sent a video 

-

Wyll Ravengard: Gale. I know that you said you're fine. 

Gale Dekarios: Oh no, is this about the video? 

Wyll Ravengard: I didn't want to push it while Astarion was there but you literally just did a cover of a song called ‘Lonely’ 

Gale Dekarios: Noah Cyrus is a fascinating artist, I wanted to know if I could make it work with my range. 
Gale Dekarios: I think I succeeded, given the views. 

Wyll Ravengard: If you mean that you made half of us cry by singing your broken heart into every line, yes, you could call that a success. 

Gale Dekarios: It's better to work through it than ignore it, surely? 

Wyll Ravengard: Yes, of course. But telling me that you're fine when you're not is not ‘working through it'. 

Gale Dekarios: What was I supposed to say? 
Gale Dekarios: Astarion asked me to go for coffee with a friend. 

Wyll Ravengard: Oh, the one that people took photos of? 

Gale Dekarios: Yes. It turns out they were much more than friends, but he's married to someone else now, and I'm not entirely sure that Astarion isn't still in love with him. It's… complicated. 

Wyll Ravengard: Oh god. Okay. 
Wyll Ravengard: Why can you never fall for the easy ones, Gale  
Wyll Ravengard: the song is about him, isn't it? 

Gale Dekarios: It doesn't even have a title yet, it's hardly about anything. 

Wyll Ravengard: You're the world’s worst liar, Gale, I don't know why you still try it with me. 

-

Astarion Ancunin: second opinion? 

Karlach Cliffgate: You know, you have a point about this app. Whenever you message me here I get this sudden creeping dread. 

Astarion Ancunin: Potentially justified, in this case. 
Astarion Ancunin: Things I found out about Gale today: 
Astarion Ancunin: 1. Mystra has tried to make claims of ownership on one of his songs more than once 

Karlach Cliffgate: Bitch 

Astarion Ancunin: 2. Gale has had definitive proof that the song in question is his the whole time, but hasn't used it. He implied that if he does, it'll ruin Mystra's career. 

Karlach Cliffgate: Oh? 
Karlach Cliffgate: this sounds juicy 

Astarion Ancunin: Yes except he wouldn't say why. Which leads me to 3. 
Astarion Ancunin: The evidence is from when he was fifteen. 

Karlach Cliffgate: The evidence that he wrote it that would ruin Mystra's career. 

Astarion Ancunin: Are we on the same page here?  

Karlach Cliffgate: Google is telling me that Gale's going to be 30 in May, but remains suspiciously quiet on the case of Mystra's age. 

Astarion Ancunin: 36, or thereabouts. She was just about 30 when they had Hestia. 

Karlach Cliffgate: Shit. You mean when Gale was… what, 22? 23? 

Astarion Ancunin: Him being 17 and her 23/24 was bad enough. But 15 to 21/22? 

Karlach Cliffgate: Fuck, yeah. I mean, that's illegal. 
Karlach Cliffgate: I bet he really doesn't want to use that unless he has to. 

Astarion Ancunin: He said it was mostly for Hestia's sake that he hadn't, but yes. 

Astarion puts his phone down. 

He'd intended to talk to Karlach about Sebastian. Instead, Gale's comment has been bothering him. He picks the phone up again, opens the messenger to his conversation history with Gale, and then stops. How the fuck do you ask something like that? 

Astarion Ancunin: Gale? 

Gale Dekarios: Hello? 
Gale Dekarios: Are you alright? Is there something I can do for you? 

Astarion starts typing, deletes it, tries again, and then gives up. 

Astarion Ancunin: Thank you for coming with me today. 

Gale Dekarios: Of course! Always happy to help. 
Gale Dekarios: How are you feeling about it now? 

Astarion considers that. It's not an easy question to answer. 

Astarion Ancunin: Calm? 
Astarion Ancunin: It's been holding onto me. I can let it go, now. 

He can let Sebastian go, he realises. There will always be a part of him that regrets what happened, of course. If only the guilt were as easy to shrug off as that. But it's a start, at least. 

Gale Dekarios: That sounds like it's a good thing. I'm happy for you. 

Astarion Ancunin: has anyone ever told you that using full stops when you text shit like that makes you seem insincere? 

Gale Dekarios: My apologies, that wasn't my intention at all 

Astarion Ancunin: I know, I'm joking 

Gale Dekarios: Oh, right. 

Astarion Ancunin: Are you alright? 

Gale Dekarios: If this is about the video, Wyll has already asked, and if you want me to explain the concept of a performance to you then I will, but I wasn't under the impression it would be necessary. 

Astarion stares at that for a second. Then he goes and opens Gale's tiktok. 

The video is the same format as his usual covers; just his hands and the keys. He doesn't recognise the song. But he does recognise the way Gale sings this; the way it seems to ache through the air. 

I'm slowly killing myself

It's deceptively straightforward, in the kind of way that a punch to the gut is. It doesn't need subtlety or finesse to hit home. 

Cause I don't know much about me 
I'm still ashamed of who I used to be  

The way Gale plays, leaning into it, there's just a shadow of his face that dips into the shot occasionally; and Astarion wonders if that's what Wyll was worried about. Because when Gale sings, he wears the emotion of it like Astarion would slip on a costume. In that tiny glimpse, Gale carries all the pain that he's throwing into the lyrics; 

Can't someone help me 
Oh please someone help me
I don't care, anyone, anything
'cause I'm so sick of being so lonely  

Astarion sits and listens to the whole thing before responding.

Astarion Ancunin: It's very different from your usual tone 
Astarion Ancunin: I hadn't seen it until you mentioned it though 

Gale Dekarios: In which case I apologise, apparently it's upsetting even without the choral buildup of the original. I had been under the impression that was the point of sad songs, but it appears I must somehow have misunderstood, as it seems to have caused a stir. 

Astarion Ancunin: Was there a particular reason for the change of tone? 

Gale Dekarios: I forgot to film anything for Amy to post earlier in the week, and she reminded me after Mystra's visit earlier. I didn't have it in me to do anything more upbeat, so I decided to lean the other way. 

Astarion Ancunin: Understandable. I could have punched Mystra earlier. 

Gale Dekarios: Nothing she hasn't said before. I only regret having to put my foot down. 

Astarion breathes, then types; 

Astarion Ancunin: You said the evidence was from when you were fifteen. And that it would ruin Mystra's career. 

Gale Dekarios: Ah. 
Gale Dekarios: We weren't romantically or otherwise involved until I was seventeen. But we knew each other before that. It would complicate things, for both of us, if that came out. 

Astarion Ancunin: I have no intention of telling anybody. You have my word on that. 

Gale Dekarios: Thank you. 

Astarion Ancunin: I can't promise I won't give her something to think about next time I see her though. My fist, potentially. 

Gale Dekarios: I'd rather you didn't. 

Astarion Ancunin: how sweet and yet utterly infuriating of you
Astarion Ancunin: she's such a bitch to you and you continue to defend her 

Gale Dekarios: I’m not defending her. But I won't hate her, either. My parents were always spitting poison about each other, trying to win my favour. I won't let Hestia feel like a bargaining chip, and I won't force her to listen to vitriol about her own mother, especially not from me. She can make her own mind up when she's old enough to understand.  

Astarion throws his phone on the bed in frustration. 

He's remembering Gale as he had been this afternoon; as he sang; as he rolled on the floor with Wyll; his hair falling in his eyes, leaning over the guitar, coaxing its strings into something beautiful. All of it, gone, the moment Mystra walked in. Shut down, and shut away. 

Although watching Gale utterly wreck Mystra had been something else. It had almost been impressive. There had been no intonation to it, nothing dangerous. Just quiet assurance. 

Astarion lies back on the duvet and hums; the tune that Gale had been working on has lodged itself in his head. 

He should probably feel bad about lying to Gale about having heard it. It hadn't occurred to him, lying on the carpet in Gale's house, listening to Gale's music, that he might not have invited an audience. It makes him feel uncomfortable, in a way that he doesn't enjoy. 

Astarion Ancunin: I have an admission to make 
Astarion Ancunin: I could hear you playing, earlier 

Gale Dekarios: Oh. 
Gale Dekarios: Why did you lie to me about it? 

Astarion Ancunin: No idea 
Astarion Ancunin: Instinct? 
Astarion Ancunin: You seemed upset that I'd heard 

Gale Dekarios: I wasn't upset, exactly, I just wasn't ready for anyone to hear it yet. 

Astarion Ancunin: It's good. Really good. And I don't hand out compliments like that for just anything, you know. 

Gale Dekarios: I know. Thank you. 

Astarion shoves his face into his pillow and groans in frustration. He can't tell if Gale is upset with him again or that's just how he's typing. 

He gives up, and calls him. Gale picks up almost immediately. 

“Astarion?” 

“I'm sorry I lied to you.” 

There's a short pause. Then Gale chuckles. 

“You are a conundrum, you know that?” 

Astarion almost hangs up on him in sheer frustration. 

“I told you, I don't like having upset you, and I didn't mean to do it again!” 

Gale is laughing properly now. 

“Stop that!” Astarion tries to snap, but he's smiling now too. There's something about Gale's laugh that is infectious. 

“Sorry,” Gale is smiling; even without being able to see him, Astarion can hear it in his voice. “Why would you think I’m upset with you?” 

“You always text like you're fucking pissed off, I can't tell!” 

“I text with proper grammar, yes,” Gale agrees, but then he softens; “I’m not upset with you, Astarion. I promise.”

“Oh.” Astarion closes his mouth, suddenly feeling stupid. 

“I'm just- having a strange week.” 

“What, stranger than usual?” 

“Point. But yes, I haven't been in the media this much for months, and I'm trying to write something that's very unusual for me.” 

Astarion huffs. 

“Anything I can do to help?” 

“Do you have to sound so reluctant about asking?” Gale's voice is still warm, almost affectionate, and for some reason that is making it harder for Astarion to concentrate. 

“I told you, I'm not used to having friends. I don't know what I'm doing.” 

“You're doing very well at it so far,” Gale says, perfectly seriously. “I'm very fond of you, Astarion. You know that.” 

“Good. I mean, obviously. As you should be.” 

Then Gale is laughing again. And it's stupid, but the tightness in his chest is easing. 

“Well, thank you for offering, but I think I just need time.” 

“And to not listen to Hozier.” 

“I am not listening to Hozier,” Gale confirms. 

“Okay. Fine. Good.” Astarion breathes. “It is very good. Your song.” 

Gale makes a noise he doesn't know how to interpret.

“I think it will be.” 

“No, it is already. I was lying on the landing choreographing for it. That's incredibly rare, for a first listen, usually it takes two or three at least to get a sense of the kind of movement that would work for it.” 

“You were lying… on the landing?” 

“The piano comes up through the floor. I wanted to feel the music, not just hear it.” 

“Right.” 

It is unlike Gale to be lost for words. Astarion doesn't know what to do with it, which he abhors. 

“God dammit, Gale. I hate that there's something bothering you that I can't fix.” 

“I think you are helping, actually,” Gale says, sounding surprised, which personally Astarion thinks is quite rude. 

“Of course I am,” he says. “Do you want me to come back?” 

“It's midnight.” 

“So it is. I'm glad you can apparently tell the time.” 

“I- no.” Gale is smiling again. “As nice as that would be, I am about to go to bed.” 

“Ugh, sleep.” Astarion flops back against his pillows. “Does having your bedroom so bare actually help?” 

He eyes the cluttered flat, joylessly. It isn't open storage so much as utter lack of storage. There's not a lot he could do to make it less so. 

“Not notably,” Gale admits. 

“Damn.” 

“I'm going to go, Astarion.” 

“Must you? We’re both just going to lie awake for ages anyway. We may as well lie awake together.” 

Gale snorts. 

“I had been led to believe that you were a lot smoother than that.”

“I am, that was not some cack-handed attempt to tire you out the obvious way,” Astarion protests. “Karlach and I used to do it all the time when we were in the same timezone. At one point she was trying to escape her awful ex who was in her bed and we didn't have a sofa at the time and so we just slept in mine. Best night of sleep I had in months.” 

“I’m not convinced that we're quite at that level of friendship yet.” 

“Ugh, well what level do we need to be at then?” 

“I can't put a number on it.” 

“Irritating of you. Fine then, suffer until you've decided we're at a suitable level.” 

“What level are we at, now?” Gale wonders. 

“Five.” 

“I thought it was four.” 

“I have agreed to spend my Saturday off watching Frozen with you and Hestia. It's five.” 

“Fair,” Gale agrees with a chuckle. “Goodnight, Astarion. See you tomorrow.” 

“Please be feeling better.” 

“I can promise to try?” 

“Acceptable.” 

There's a moment of silence. 

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” 

Astarion throws his phone on the floor, rolls over, and tries to imagine himself warm. As he drifts off, he half-dreams and half-imagines a figure at his back, warm and comfortable; shielding him against the emptiness. 

On the other side of the city, Gale curls into his duvet, pulling it tight, and half-imagines, half-dreams someone's arms around him; that for once, he isn't alone in the middle of the bed. 

Chapter Text

Astarion gets up earlier than he usually would on a Saturday. 

It would be more practical to go to Foyles or the Piccadilly Waterstones, just for the range of options and the fact he'd barely have to divert on the way to Gale's. But regardless of how early it is, it's still a Saturday in London. Besides, Daunt Books are just better for non-fiction. 

He's been keeping the book token in the Christmas card, pressed safely between his current library books on the shelf. Now he pulls it out, tucks the book token in his wallet, and carefully replaces the card. 

He braves the commuter tube and makes it to the bookshop just past opening, and is relieved to find himself one of the only customers in there. Karlach had sent him some ideas, but none of them had quite been what he was looking for. The library had also been irritatingly lacking in the kind of thing he'd hoped they would have. Well, they’d had something about the risks of online grooming for internet-shy parents that had so obviously been produced in the early 00’s that Astarion had considered throwing it out for them to save them the trouble.  

He starts in psychology. He recognises some of the titles; Gale has either read or recommended them. That's not what he's looking for today, though. 

He wanders off between the shelves, hoping that something will grab his eye. 

Eventually, it does; he spots a yellow and pink spine that says; ‘Why Did You Stay?’ 

It's a stupid question, but it catches his attention. When he picks up the book, the first thing it does is call it a stupid question, and then he's more amenable to it. 

Astarion is not a blurb person. With non-fiction especially, it’s usually written by someone who hasn't even read the damn thing. Instead he flicks the book open, and reads the introduction. Then he reads the first chapter. 

He was not expecting it to be so immediately interesting. But there's something about the tone of it. He reads about the heady whirlwind of the start of the romance; then he googles ‘love bombing’, which is a familiar concept but one he appreciates having defined. 

It's early enough that Karlach is still up. He sends her a photo of the cover. 

uselesslesbian: it looks like it's got good reviews? 
uselesslesbian: i thought you were looking for psychology tho, this is a memoir 

moreuselessgay: all the ‘psychology’ ones are incredibly patronising
moreuselessgay: who knows, maybe her lived experience will be more useful than a quack 

uselesslesbian: it definitely does the very public breakup angle 
uselesslesbian: do you think she who must not be named is a narcissist? 

moreuselessgay: guess I'll find out 

uselesslesbian: keep me updated 

He carries the book back to the fiction section with him, like it can protect him against this unknown land. It's not split into bloody genre, which doesn't help. 

He stares at the shelves, suddenly realising that a vague memory of a title and the colour of the cover isn't going to get him very far, when a bookseller appears helpfully at his elbow. 

“Good morning! Did you need a hand at all today?” 

Astarion frowns, and bites down the response to tell them to fuck off. They're too young for the TV generation, probably, and he does, actually, need a hand. 

“My friend was reading a book,” he says, slowly. “It's sci-fi, I think, and by the looks of his copy it's not a new one. Stars on the cover, a title like ‘long way out’, or something.” 

“The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet?” The bookseller suggests, cheerfully, and pops their pile of shelving down to grab him a copy from the shelf. “Becky Chambers. Brilliant author. Completely changed my opinion on sci-fi as a genre.” 

“Oh?” Astarion stares at the cover. It was definitely this one that Gale had been reading last week; his copy had been considerably more well-loved, which for Gale was incredibly unusual. All the books he has loaned Astarion, despite being read, have been in almost pristine condition. His copy of this, however, had a cracked spine, worn edges, and very obviously had been read so many times that even the utmost care couldn't preserve it. “If it was for someone who didn't read much fiction, then, would it be a good place to start?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” the bookseller smiles. “You almost couldn't do any better, really. Can I help you with anything else today?” 

Astarion slips the book in with the memoir. 

“Yes, actually - do you have any of the Story Orchestra books? The children’s ones?” 

Hilariously, they have The Magic Flute. It might be a little on the nose to give Hestia a book about an evil Queen of the Night, but it is also one of his favourites. Mozart knew how to do drama, and had no interest in holding back. Astarion appreciates that in a composer. 

He feels a little bad about buying a book for Hestia and not for Gale, but only a little. Attempting to do so would be a dangerous game. He has absolutely no idea what Gale does and does not have already. 

“I don't know how much is on this,” he tells the cashier at the till, handing her the book token. She scans it, and then hands it back with a smile. 

“Still over sixty quid on it. Keep it safe!” 

“Will do,” Astarion mutters, and decamps with his books to a coffee shop around the corner. 

Bloody Gale and his bloody generosity. Idiot man. 

Astarion is, now, hours too early to turn up at Gale's. So he sits in the back corner of the cafe and decides that now is as good a time as any to see what the world of fiction has to offer. 

-

moreuselessgay: Karlach 
moreuselessgay: I know that you don't read because you're a heathen 
moreuselessgay: but I just found your fictional equivalent
moreuselessgay send a photo 

uselesslesbian: AHAHA 
uselesslesbian: oh I love Kizzy 

moreuselessgay: I thought you would 

uselesslesbian: wait, since when do you read fiction? 

moreuselessgay: I don't. I'm trying it out 

uselesslesbian: did Gale recommend this one? 

moreuselessgay: not as such 

uselesslesbian: ?? elaborate?? 

moreuselessgay: other than jokingly trying to get me to read LotR, he hasn’t recommended me fiction since he found out I only do non-fic. But I thought I might give it a go, and I saw him reading this one, so. 

uselesslesbian changed your nickname to themostuselessgayffs

themostuselessgayffs: I am TRYING. To be a GOOD. FRIEND. 
themostuselessgayffs: it's called personal development, you should try it sometime 

uselesslesbian: bitch 

-

“You’re not in costume!” Hestia says, accusingly, when she opens the door. She’s wearing both a sparkly dress and a tiara complete with a ginger wig, which is sitting atop her head somewhat lopsidedly, dark curls poking out from underneath. 

“Hello, Hestia. My apologies, I wasn’t aware there was a dress code.” 

“I think what Hestia meant to say,” Gale says, ushering Astarion in and taking his coat, “Is ‘Hello, Astarion, how was your week’?” 

“No, I didn’t,” Hestia crosses her arms at him. 

“ Hessie .” 

For the sake of peacekeeping, Astarion decides not to mention that Gale also doesn’t appear to be in costume. 

“If I give you your present will I be forgiven?” 

Hestia looks torn. 

“Is that brib- briber- bider-?” She squints at him. “I will not be bought!” 

“Bribery,” Gale fills in, encouragingly. “You were nearly there.” 

Astarion grins at her. 

“I would never insult you by even attempting to bribe you. No, I’m going to give it to you anyway. It’s up to you if you forgive me or not.” 

Hestia looks at Gale, who shakes his head. 

“I can’t make that decision for you, sweetheart.” 

“Present first,” Hestia says, determinedly. “Then I’ll decide.” 

She adores the book. They pull the tab out for her and sit at the kitchen table to read it then and there. 

“Is this one a ballet too?” She asks, squinting at the character’s feet, which are notably lacking in pointe shoes. 

“It’s an opera,” Astarion says, letting her lean against his side to reach for the next page to turn. “One of the actually good ones.” 

“There are plenty of good operas,” Gale defends, because of fucking course he has an opinion on this too. Astarion grins, sensing an opportunity to wind him up. 

“Which you would know, of course.” 

“I am classically trained,” Gale reminds him, “I am partial to the ones with particularly interesting or challenging tenor arias.” 

Astarion had known about Gale’s background in classical piano, but not that it had extended to his vocal training. He raises an eyebrow, genuinely intrigued. 

“Such as?” 

“The Magic Flute,” Gale says, easily. “If it's one of your favourites, I will allow that you have exceptional taste.” 

“Oh you're no fun.” Astarion complains. 

“Don't be mean,” Hestia pats his arm, either in recrimination or in some kind of attempt to pacify him. “It’s one of my favourites too. I don’t know any others, but this one has a dragon in it, so they can’t be that much better.” 

“That, I cannot argue with,” Astarion agrees. 

They end up reading it with her three times before she finally remembers that they were, actually, going to watch Frozen. Then she drags them upstairs to the cinema. 

“What was the present for ?” She asks, attempting to climb into Astarion’s lap while still leaving her feet in Gale’s. “Sit closer , I keep falling down between you!” 

Astarion complies, and Hestia settles happily lying across their knees. It’ll probably last for all of two seconds before she realises she’s intensely uncomfortable. 

“Do I have to have a reason to buy you presents?” Astarion protests. 

“Christmas and Birthdays,” Hestia says, immediately. “And if you’ve done something you’re really sorry about and just saying sorry isn’t enough.” 

“Well, it’s none of those,” Astarion removes her tiny hand from his thigh before she causes him an injury. “I thought you’d like it, is all.”

“I do!” Hestia says vehemently. “We have the same favourite opera now.” 

“That we do,” Astarion agrees, and gets a faceful of ginger wig for his trouble as she wiggles. “You have excellent taste in many things, it turns out. For such a small person you are extremely erudite.” 

Hestia grins at him. 

“Can I give you presents ‘just because’ as well?” She asks, rolling over and kicking her legs excitedly. Gale leans back, out of the way of her flailing feet, and Astarion catches his eye over Hestia’s head with a smile. 

“You can give anyone presents just because,” Gale says. “It’s nice to make people happy.” 

“Oh!” Hestia rolls off them both and hops to her feet, “I have an idea!” 

“We’ll just pause this, shall we?” Gale reaches for the remote. The DVD is still playing through the ads, but Hestia is long gone. 

“How long does it usually take you to watch this hour-and-a-half long film?” Astarion asks, amused. 

Gale shifts his weight away slightly, putting more distance between them. 

“Just the two of us? Not that long,” he says. “With you here, God only knows. Hours, probably.” 

“I didn’t have any evening plans anyway,” Astarion says. There’s a moment of silence, and then he says; “I’ve started a new book.” 

“Oh?” Gale settles, slightly more comfortably, against the far arm of the sofa. “Anything good?” 

“So far, I’m intrigued,” Astarion admits. “Though all I've done is meet the cast. Kizzy reminds me of Karlach; more heart than brain, sometimes. Keeps the others on the straight and narrow just by existing. Rosemary’s a bit of a wet rag, but then she is an accountant.”

Gale’s eyes have widened. 

“You’re reading Becky Chambers?”

“I saw it when I was shopping and recognized it. You’ve read it, I believe?” 

“It’s one of my favourites,” Gale is smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be excited that you’re reading it, terrified that you’re going to hate it, or offended that you went book shopping without me.” 

“I’ll take you next time. I need to find something else for Hestia, there’s only so many of those Story Orchestra books, I’m going to run out before her birthday at this rate.” 

“You mean you’re going to spoil my daughter rotten at this rate,” Gale protests, perfectly jovially. 

“Somebody has to. It might as well be me. Now here's a question; I thought about getting her ice-themed nail decals and suitable colours but I’ve never seen her with her nails painted.” 

“She’s probably old enough to have a go with supervision,” Gale says, thoughtfully. “The only reason we didn’t before was because she has a tendency to get excited and knock things over.” 

“I can teach her,” Astarion offers. “I wouldn’t get her colours I wouldn’t wear, anyway. We can match.” 

Gale gives him the kind of look that Astarion doesn’t quite know how to interpret. 

“Not to be unduly suspicious, but… why? Why go to all this effort?” 

Astarion rolls his eyes. 

“Because it makes her happy, obviously. People can just do nice things, you know. I seem to remember someone telling me that… hmm, almost exactly a week ago.” 

Gale chuckles at him. 

“Well, far be it from me to complain about you setting exceptionally high standards for her. I’m already apprehensive of the challenges we may face navigating her teenage years.” 

Astarion wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, don’t. She’s so cute now, I think it might be illegal for her to grow up.”

“I’d like to see you argue that one in court.” 

“I’d win, obviously,” Astarion sniffs. 

“The idea of you being a lawyer is terrifying,” Gale agrees. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” He tilts his head. “Again, anyway.”

“I was never pissed off at you,” Astarion points out, although it’s only half-true. “More at the situation we found ourselves in.” 

“Well,” Gale shuffles, flexing his toes. “It’s not been so bad, has it?” 

“Have you been doing your stretches?” Astarion frowns, distracted. “Your toes shouldn’t be hurting if you are.” 

“My toes always hurt,” Gale protests. 

“Hurting more than usual,” Astarion shuffles his foot across the gap to kick the arch of Gale’s foot. “Sock. Off. Let me see.” 

“I can’t believe this is normal now,” Gale sighs, but does as he’s told. 

Astarion flattens out, makes Gale put his feet in his lap, and presses his thumbs into the arch of Gale’s foot. Gale grimaces. 

“You are ridiculously tense,” Astarion bends his fingers and cracks Gale’s toes, pushing them apart to stretch the ligaments. 

“Gosh, I wonder why,” Gale says, dryly. “It’s not like we spend all week laced into boots and putting them under a huge amount of stress or anything.” 

“Hot baths,” Astarion says. “It’ll help with the bruising, too.” 

“I think the bruises are just a permanent fixture now. I can’t even remember what some of them are from.” 

“This week, probably me landing on you,” Astarion huffs, which makes Gale laugh. 

“It’s only happened… oh, actually, I might have lost count.” 

“Exactly. Counterweight lifts are impressive, and if we try to take it out now Raphael will kill us, but if we manage it flawlessly next Sunday I will be astonished.” 

“Hmmm,” Gale’s attention is elsewhere. “Hold on, I could hear Hestia until just now, but she’s gone quiet-” 

“DAAAAD!” 

“Ah, the combined joy and horror of being proved right.” Gale hops to his still-bare feet, and out through the door. “Where are you, Hessie? What happened?” 

“MY BRACELET KIT IS ALL TANGLED UP!” 

“Well did you put it away properly last time?” 

His voice vanishes down the stairs, leaving Astarion to wonder, belatedly, if he should have gone with. Instead, he curls up in the far corner of the sofa with his phone, and goes back to his choreo notes. 

-

Sunday evening is something of an anticlimax. 

Gale hadn't really been expecting anything else. They'd gone down earlier than strictly necessary because it was stupid to make Astarion find his own way there just because they needed him and not Gale for stage rehearsals. He tucks himself away in the trailer with a book until it's time to get dressed.

“What are you reading?” Astarion tilts his head to try and get a better look at the cover, so Gale lifts it off his lap to show him. 

“Magisteria. It's about the entwined histories of religion and science,” he says, cheerfully. “It's quite fascinating.” 

“They shouldn't put a cover that nice on a book so boring-sounding,” Astarion grumbles, sitting at his vanity. 

“It is quite magisterial,” Gale agrees. Astarion throws a foundation sponge at him. Laughing, Gale catches it and throws it back. “The marketers at a publishing house must know better than anyone that the age-old adage that one must never judge a book by its cover has never been less abided by. Although it is a fascinating read.” 

“I finished The Long Way,” Astarion says, into his bag. 

“You did?” Gale pops his bookmark in and sets the book aside. “Well, don't keep me in suspense.” 

“I just told you, I finished it,” Astarion huffs. “I do not have the same dedication to slogging through tripe that you do. The fact that I persevered at all is testament to the writer. I did find it a tad twee, perhaps, which seems a strange word to apply to a book about intergalactic politics and race relations, but it wasn't a waste of time. I might, if I saw her again, be tempted to pick up another of her works.” 

“Truly?” Gale tries to hold back his smile and fails. 

“No, I'm indulging you purely for the sake of it, as I am so often known to do,” Astarion snipes. Though, as is increasingly the case, there's no real venom in it. 

Gale chuckles. 

“You know, Astarion, you never cease to surprise me.” 

“We've had this discussion about compliments, darling, you really can do better than that.” 

“It wasn’t a compliment. Just an observation.” 

Gale gets to his feet, and goes to grab his costume bag. When he gets back out of the bathroom, Astarion is tidying his hair and setting his curls in place with an unholy amount of hairspray. His white shirt is undone at the top, revealing his collarbones. 

Even though Astarion is only going to be on the ice for about thirty seconds in total, Gale spots the necklace Hestia had made him around his neck. 

“She’d love to know you’re wearing that.” 

“Take a picture if you like,” Astarion says. “Although she won't be able to see it when I’m on camera, it'll be tucked under my shirt.” 

“Safer that way,” Gale agrees. He has yet to see Astarion actually take it off since Hestia gave it to him yesterday; he'd worn it the entire time he'd been with them, and had been wearing it when Gale picked him up this afternoon. 

It is somewhat gratifying, considering how long it had taken Gale to help Hestia untangle her string in order to be able to make it for him. She'd been dead set on a bracelet until he'd reminded her that might be a little less practical, and then she'd panicked and run up to ask Astarion if he would wear a necklace, which he had agreed that he would, of course. 

She'd tried to banish him again, but by then Astarion had wanted to help make it, especially as Hestia had decided she was going to put their initials on it, and he had opinions about the colour choices. They had - eventually - settled on a red A, a light blue H and a purple G, separated by little golden star-beads. Gale had helped her tie the clasps on. 

“It's for good luck,” she had declared. “And just because.” 

He sends the photo to Mystra, because Hestia doesn't actually have a phone. 

Mystra: YAY!!! LOVE YOU!!! GOOD LUCK!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️
Mystra: That was Hestia, by the way. 

Gale: Thank you for the clarification. I never would have guessed. 

Gale mostly spends the hour or so that they're live standing around at Astarion’s side on the competitors' balcony, smiling when the camera is pointed at them. 

Unsurprisingly, Jaheira and Minsc are the first elimination of the year. 

Afterwards, when they're standing around in the marquee, Minsc seems almost pleased about it. 

“It has been an interesting time,” he says, a plastic pint in his giant hand. “But I do not think I will be coming back to the ice.” 

“You excel at many things,” Jaheira agrees. “Skating is not one of them.” 

“But you will not be getting rid of me so easily,” Minsc says, entirely unoffended. “Jaheira says I will have a front-row seat for the rest of the season, so I will do my loudest cheering for all of you!” 

“And I always seem to end up coaching,” Jaheira agrees. “So if anything, you will be seeing more of me, now.” 

There is no champagne, tonight. No hugs, or congratulations, or late night text exchanges. They go off air, the audience files out, they stand around sharing commiserations with Jaheira and Minsc for a bit, and then they all go home. 

Standing in his hallway, alone, still really too early to go to bed and with the anxiety of having been live on TV notably absent, Gale realises he's not really tired. Mentally or physically. 

He's going to have trouble sleeping. Again. 

-

True to her word, Jaheira is waiting for them at the rink on Monday; along with Raph, Jen, Zel, and Amy. 

“We’re practically a party,” Gale comments, as they all settle into the sofas in the lobby. Having escorted them in, Halsin is standing outside, keeping the photographers at bay. There are, thankfully, considerably less of them this week. 

“We cannot spend another three hours talking about nothing,” Astarion says, irritably. “We have more important things to be doing.” 

“This will be very short,” Raphael says, smoothly. “Our retention figures were down from where we'd expected them to be last night, and the most notable demographic was new viewership. Astarion, I couldn't help but notice that you didn't post a tiktok this week.” 

“I didn't last week either,” Astarion reminds him, leaning back against the threadbare sofa like it's a chaise at a Ritz. 

“We should rectify that at our earliest convenience.” 

“We’re already working on a very tight schedule, learning two whole routines every week,” Astarion bites back. 

“That's why I'm assigning you Jaheira,” Raphael says, smoothly. “She can pick up some of that workload.” 

“Which bits?” Astarion frowns. 

“We can figure that out amongst ourselves,” Jaheira says. 

“And Jen and Zel are going to be here more often because they'll be filming behind the scenes content for our YouTube channel,” Raphael smiles through his sickly-sweet drawl. “We’ve decided to take a risk on creating more content outside of the show itself this year. Isn't that exciting ?” 

Gale isn't sure ‘exciting’ would be the word he'd use for that, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Raphael has really taken on board what I've been telling him about expanding across new platforms to reach new demographics,” Amy says. Gale gives her a look. Mostly, she seems quite cheerful about that. Meeting his gaze, however, her smile becomes somewhat strained. “We also don't have time to do the tiktok polls for song choices, Astarion, but I was thinking we could still ask for input, try and keep some level of engagement. If we ask for song suggestions on a Monday you have a whole week to get it ready. If we post on a Saturday, we can remind people to tune in the following evening.” She looks at him, almost pleadingly. It makes Gale wonder whether Minthara is in on this plan, too. It wouldn't surprise him; she's a solid believer that no publicity is bad publicity. “Gale’s video did very well last week, we can use a slower song so it'll be a less demanding skate.” 

“That is not how that works,” Astarion says with a sigh. “But fine. No rest for the wicked, I suppose. What else is there to discuss?” 

“Nothing for now,” Raphael gets to his feet. “Jen and Zel can chat to you about story development and so on.” 

He sees himself out, waving jubilantly to the photographers as he goes. 

Gale stares after him, trying to figure out why his gut reaction to the man is still ‘slimeball’. 

“I doubt you actually need my help,” Jaheira says, patting her knees and getting to her feet. “But nobody says no to Raphael, and this means that I get paid. So. I will be in the changing rooms if you need me. If you do not, leave me alone. I am perfectly capable of entertaining myself.” 

And so saying, she wanders off. 

“Well,” Gale says, now it's just the five of them. “Seems like we all have a lot more to be getting on with than we'd anticipated. We’d better get started.” 

“One last thing,” Jen says, quickly. “Gale, you have a cinema at your house, don't you?” 

Gale tilts his head. 

“Well, ‘cinema’ might be a bit of a stretch. It's a big screen with a big sofa and surround-sound.” 

“If we sat you on the sofa, would it look like you were in a cinema?” Zel asks, flatly. “That is all we need to know.” 

“Oh, then probably.” 

“Good. Renting an actual cinema is expensive. Can we use your house to film this week's interviews tomorrow and Wednesday from 2 to 5pm? That should fit with your training schedule.” 

Gale glances at Amy. 

“If Minthara doesn't need me at the studio, that should be fine, but-” 

“She won't yet,” Amy says. “She's got you scheduled for next week, currently.” 

That is what Gale had asked for, but he's surprised all the same. 

“Then sure. If we could be a little careful about handing out my address, however, I would appreciate it.” 

“Of course,” Jen nods to the crowd outside. “We don't want to have to deal with that lot any more than you do.” 

“I do,” Zel says, “But you said that I am not allowed to.” 

“You're not, if you want to keep your job,” Jen agrees. “Right then. Raph said you're doing a counterbalance lift and he wants some footage of you falling over.” 

“Great,” Gale sighs. “Well, easily done.” 

“I have missed my daily opportunity to kick you in the chest,” Astarion agrees, getting to his feet. “Come on then. Maybe Jaheira can actually help.” 

Jaheira, when she sees the rough outline of the routine, thinks they're insane. She says as much. If anything though, that seems to goad Astarion on. Equally fuelled by the desire to prove her wrong, Gale agrees easily to spending the morning tackling the counterweight lift. 

Calling this counterbalance a lift still seems a little inaccurate, to Gale. Technically, both of Astarion's skates leave the ice, but only barely. To get into it, Gale has to pick him up, but he’s in the air for maybe half a second in total. Not even really in the air, because he has to put his legs around Gale for the transition to work. 

It had been deceptively easy to do in the studio. They re-record the steps of learning it with Zel, which honestly had mostly consisted of Astarion jumping into his arms, which never gets less silly. Especially when Astarion is then sitting on his hips and trying to correct Gale’s hold. 

“Your hand is too high up. I’m a grown man, not a seven-year-old.” 

“Could’ve fooled me,” Gale grins, and promptly shunts Astarion onto his hip in the same way he’d lift Hestia. “See? Much more comfortable for everyone.” 

“Put me down , you oaf,” Astarion protests, though he’s grinning. 

“You are not helping your case, here,” Gale sets him back on the floor. 

“You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to get me to call you daddy.” 

Gale snorts in the same moment that Jen sighs. 

“Stop saying shit like that on camera, Astarion, we can’t fucking use it!” 

“I think the whole show would be much improved by being pushed back past the watershed,” Astarion grins, utterly unrepentant. “Besides, everyone seems fine with Raphael having decided to make me sit in Gale’s fucking lap this week.” 

“Does it count as in my lap if it's only one leg?” Gale muses. 

“Trust me, you only need one,” Astarion grins, at which point Jen decides they’ve got enough footage and banishes them both to the ice. 

On the ice, it is considerably harder. Balancing the weight of two people is one thing when Gale's doing it on one foot, but it's quite another to do it on a single blade. 

They are getting better at it. Unfortunately, that means they do it at speed now. So when it does go wrong, it goes much more drastically wrong, much more quickly. The entirety of Astarion's weight is balanced on his thigh. Gale feels the moment his foot slips; but there's nothing he can do about it. Astarion had been leaning all the way back, head towards the ice, the weight of it in the foot that Gale is leaning on - his hand against the ice. 

“ASTA-” It's not much warning, but it's all he can manage. He yanks Astarion back up and manages to grab him around the waist before they both hit the ice sideways. Gale's back and shoulder take the brunt of it, burning through the momentum. They skid to a stop. 

“Fuck,” Astarion says, somewhere over his shoulder. Zel had been filming; he's going to be in trouble for that one. 

Gale's head is in Astarion's chest, somewhere, but he can't quite figure out how. There's a skate digging awkwardly into his thigh, but it could belong to either of their feet. 

Astarion manages to extract an arm to push himself off Gale's face, and Gale blinks in the sudden bright light of the rink. 

“Hello,” he says, to Astarion’s irritated expression. And then to his great surprise, Astarion bursts out laughing.

“What the fuck did you do ?” 

“I have no idea,” Gale grins, mostly relieved that neither of them appear to be badly hurt. 

“That was going fine until you screamed.” 

“I didn't scream!” Gale protests, laughingly trying to disentangle his legs from Astarion's. “I was trying to warn you-” 

He accidentally kicks Astarion’s leg out from under him, and he lands back over Gale's shoulder with a little ‘oomph’ of surprise. 

“Oh.” Gale can hear his own voice muffled by Astarion's shirt. “Not my best work.” 

Astarion just lies there and laughs for a solid few seconds. 

“Do you need to be rescued?” Jaheira shouts. 

“No!” Gale and Astarion yell back in the same moment. 

“I'm getting up,” Astarion giggles, peeling himself off Gale’s chest and managing to wiggle his skate free from whatever awkward angle it had been pinned at under Gale's knee. “I have no idea how you did that, Gale.” 

“Me neither,” Gale admits, trying to drag his brain back from the corner that is shrieking about Astarion lying on him, being able to smell the sweat on his skin, the warmth of him through the thin fabric of their shirts, his hipbones pressed into Gale's abdomen and shaking as he laughed. 

“I appreciate my brains not being dashed over the ice, at least,” Astarion hauls himself to his feet and helps Gale to his. “Again. From the beginning.” 

“Could you get it right at least once so we know what it's supposed to look like?” Zel says, re-shouldering the camera into a more comfortable position. 

“You said it was going just fine last week,” Jaheira says, skating up to join them. “Perhaps we review the footage? It was too fast for me to catch, this time.” 

“I could do with a minute to catch my breath,” Gale admits. 

They watch the fall on Jen’s laptop, leaning over the edge of the rink. She puts it in slow motion, and Gale studies his feet; his hands. The moment he'd lifted Astarion had been clean. Then the bend into the kneel and setting Astarion on his thigh, that had been clean too. He'd managed to get his hand in the right place at the right time, pushing his weight against Astarion's outstretched leg, then they both lean backwards- 

“I was too slow,” Astarion says, with a sigh. “I didn't move back into it fast enough, look-,” he leans over Jen’s shoulder to tap the spacebar, then scrolls back to the moment before. They're supposed to be in perfect symmetry; one of Astarion's legs around Gale's midriff, the other outstretched under his hand where Gale presses his skate to the ice. But where Gale is fully bent back into an arch, Astarion is only halfway there. His arm, which should be ready to touch the ice in his arch, is only halfway over his head. “I would have thrown off your centre of gravity.” 

“It is refreshing for you to be the one to get something wrong for once,” Gale says, easily. 

Astarion rolls his eyes at him. 

“Again. The more we do that step sequence the better anyway.” 

They do, the next attempt, manage it. It's a little scruffy, and Jaheira yells at him for not extending fully, but nobody gets hurt. Gale is so surprised he almost forgets what step is supposed to come next. 

“And this is why we put the hardest moves at the end of the routine,” Astarion says, when they finish, because of course he'd noticed Gale's half a second of hesitation once he'd set Astarion back on the ice. 

“Let's keep doing it then,” Gale says, shaking his shoulders out and cracking his neck. “If we can get at least one perfect attempt on camera to prove we're capable of it, I won't be as upset if we flub it on Sunday.” 

“We’re not going to flub it on Sunday,” Astarion says, sharply. 

“Okay,” Gale agrees, mostly because it's easier to. “I mean, I am planning on skating the whole thing perfectly, obviously.” 

“Obviously,” Astarion agrees. “And that will be the last time I hear this soundtrack, I hope.” 

“Hah,” Gale skates into the starting position, opposite him. “It won't be if Hestia has any say in it.” 

Astarion goes live at the very end of the session, after Gale has already stepped off the ice to do his off-ice stretches. 

“We’re not doing a poll,” he tells the phone. “I want to skate to something I haven't heard before, so suggest interesting things, for the love of God.” 

Gale laughs at him, which makes Astarion sigh. 

“Yes, chat, Gale is here. Gale!” 

“Why do you always do this when I'm so objectionably sweaty?” Gale says. “If you point that camera at me I will start a ruckus.” 

“I don't think you're capable of a ruckus,” Astarion grins. “Anyway, ideas in the comments, please. Interesting covers of well-known songs are acceptable, but only barely, and the choice is mine so no whining.” 

Gale is laughing again as he shuts the video off. 

“Amy hates it when you scold them,” he grins, just about managing to push down into the splits. 

“Further,” Astarion hops the barrier like it's nothing, grabs his skate guards, and leans on Gale's shoulders. 

“I'm cooling down!” Gale protests, as he hits the floor. “Agh.” 

“You're not losing it now you've got there,” Astarion says. “Do you have any song suggestions?” 

“No,” Gale grouses at his knees. “Fuck off.” 

Astarion, laughing, lets him go. 

-

Gale Dekarios sent a link 

Astarion Ancunin: oh so you do have suggestions 
Astarion Ancunin: this is one you’ve played before, it's not new to me 

Gale Dekarios: Oh you're going to be really strict about this, okay. 
Gale Dekarios: Hestia wants to know if she can suggest one, by the way. 

Astarion Ancunin: She's welcome to, but please remind her I now have heard the soundtracks of both Frozen films in their entirety 

Gale Dekarios: I’m sure she remembers. 
Gale Dekarios sent a link. 

Astarion Ancunin: oh, this is a new one to me 

Gale Dekarios: You've never heard Chasing Cars? 

Astarion Ancunin: Done by Fluerie? No. 
Astarion Ancunin: Hmm. Not a bad shout at all. Those long breaks are perfect for spirals or spins. 

Gale Dekarios: And Hestia will be delighted if you choose her suggestion. 

Astarion Ancunin: Oh that was Hestia, not you? 

Gale Dekarios: She has a musical ear already. 
Gale Dekarios: I quote; ‘I like the dramatic ones and Astarion likes the dramatic ones and this is the most dramatic one I know that isn't in Frozen.’ 

Astarion Ancunin: She knows me well. 

Gale Dekarios: Would you be opposed to me inviting Isobel and Aylin on Thursday? I think Isobel needs some good company and potentially a distraction. 

Astarion Ancunin: oh no, what's Mark done now? 

Gale Dekarios: Marcus now, apparently. Isobel asked him to stop calling her Iz because only Aylin does that, and he took offence and demanded she call him by his full name too. 

Astarion Ancunin: You know I thought I was all in favour of people choosing to be known under whatever name they want, but apparently we've found the exception, and it's that douchebag. 

Astarion Ancunin: Invite them both, I will always be a willing ear for her to bitch at. 
Astarion Ancunin: And by both I mean Isobel and Aylin. If you invite Marco Polo I will leave in disgust 
Astarion Ancunin: Mark the narc. Lord Marquaard. 
Astarion Ancunin: What's that one youtuber? 

Gale Dekarios: Markiplier? 

Astarion Ancunin: Also not good
Astarion Ancunin: Although none of these need to be good to be annoying, I'll probably use them anyway. 

Gale Dekarios: Magic Mark. The knock-off version of Magic Mike. 

Astarion Ancunin: Mank

Gale Dekarios: Skidmark. 

Astarion Ancunin: SKIDMARK 
Astarion Ancunin: You are a genius, Gale Dekarios

Gale Dekarios: Thank you, I know. 
Gale Dekarios: I couldn't remember his name anyway, I think I'll just stick to calling him Mike. 

Astarion Ancunin: He asked to be known by his full name, Gale, that's Michael to you 

Gale Dekarios: Oh yes, of course, how remiss of me. 

-

Gale Dekarios: Quick tonal shift for Thursday evening’s plans. Mystra has to go to New York at short notice, so I'm going to have Hestia. If you’d prefer to reschedule for another time I completely understand, but you’re still very welcome to come for dinner. 

Isobel Thorm: Not a problem at all! I adore kids, it would be lovely to meet her properly. 

Aylin Dame: By ‘adore kids’ what Isobel actually means is that if you’re not looking she will kidnap Hestia and take her home. 

Astarion Ancunin: I will hunt you down. 

Aylin Dame: That was a joke, Astarion. 

Astarion Ancunin: I know. 

Aylin Dame: Oh. Were you joking too? 

Astarion Ancunin: No. 

-

Astarion is required at Gale’s on Tuesday afternoon. That's the day they film their interview for the week. He is not required on Wednesday. However, Gale has apparently missed the memo that they're using his place as a set, not that he's somehow supposed to be hosting the film crew and all the other skaters in their comings and goings. Without entirely meaning to, Astarion ends up back at Gale's after the morning’s training, trying to keep up with him as he keeps the steady slew of visitors. Gale is in his element; handing around cups of tea and coffee and a seemingly increasing number of bowls of crisps, olives, cured meats and cheeses, baklava, sugared almonds and so many other tidbits that nobody will be needing dinner for hours. The crew have ended up using the kitchen as a sort of base camp as a result, and so there are standing cameras and half-written scripts and boxes of makeup everywhere. 

It's into this chaos that Wyll arrives with Kamara and Hestia, fresh out of school. 

“Astarion!” He greets, holding his hand out to shake. “What a lovely surprise. What brings you here?” 

“I honestly don't know,” Astarion hands him a tray and bends down to give Hestia a hug. When he stands up, he makes no move to reclaim it from him.“Oh no dear, you stood in one place for too long, that makes you a server as well.” 

“Oh well,” Wyll grins. “At least it's pickles.” 

“Eww!” Kamara complains. “You're so gross, dad.” 

“I know,” Wyll pops one in his mouth, and crunches happily. “I have some updates for you, Astarion, if you've got a moment.” 

And so saying, he manages to do something Astarion has been failing to do for the last hour, and hands the tray to someone else who wanders off with it. 

“Anything good?” 

“I'm afraid not. If we have any major breakthroughs I'll let you know immediately. I thought you might like to know how it's been going, though.” 

Astarion wrinkles his nose. 

“I'd rather do Hestia's homework.” 

“Oooh, yes please!” Hestia grabs his thigh. 

“I was joking,” Astarion informs her. “You're perfectly capable of doing it yourself, aren't you?” 

“Well obviously ,” Hestia says, in such a good imitation of his tone that for a moment Astarion thinks she's mocking him. She's not. “But it would be much more fun if you helped.” 

And so saying, she ducks across the kitchen and grabs Gale's legs instead. It only occurs to Astarion when she lets go that he hadn't jumped; even in a kitchen full of strangers, he hadn’t reacted. 

Gale, who hadn't heard them enter, picks her up and gives her a jubilant hug, squishing their noses together until Hestia is giggling and trying to push him away. 

They clear themselves some space at the table and Astarion - at first begrudgingly, and then with increasing interest - helps Hestia with her homework. 

“But what is the use of this?” He pokes at the timeline of a castle that they've got laid out on a black and white printout. “Presumably there's some point to this knowledge?” 

“Perhaps the point of it is the joy of knowledge itself,” Gale says, leaning over them to hand Hestia and Kamara their squash. “Imagine standing in the ruins of that castle now, on the same spot that so many thousands of people stood before you. First there were the iron age farmers who built the hill fort, then the Romans who made it into a villa and a temple. It fell to ruin, the mosaics broken up by wind and rain, the walls tumbling down, and then the Normans came and turned it into a castle again. So many stories, all under your feet. So many lives lived in that one place, in such different ways, and yet all so human. We might think we don't have much in common with the people who built their wattle-and-daub huts on a hillside, but we do. They had the same sorrows and joys that we do. They played music and made beautiful art and told stories around the campfire. They fell in love and broke each other’s hearts and started families and fought battles and grieved and got up and kept going. All we have left of them is a few stones, perhaps, and maybe some pieces of pottery, but that doesn't change who they were, or the lives they lived. And I think that's incredible .” 

Wyll nods. 

“And that's why, if you hadn't gone into music, you'd be a professor of some obscure subject at Oxbridge or something.” 

“I didn't even go to university,” Gale reminds him, easily. 

“Never say never!” Wyll grins, helping himself to another crisp. 

It's about then that Isobel finally comes down from her interview with Mark. He heads off immediately, but she sticks around in the kitchen to chat for a while. Astarion swaps out with Gale, who is actually brushed up on British history enough to be helpful, whereas Astarion had been relying heavily on Google. 

“You know, I was a little intimidated by him at first,” Isobel says, leaning against the kitchen counter and watching the chaos of the film crew moving around the equally chaotic but very different vibe of the homework crew. 

Astarion takes a second to process that. 

“Intimidated? By Gale ?” 

“He's an incredible musician,” Isobel says, like this has somehow slipped Astarion's mind. “And I'd only ever seen him performing.” 

“Right,” Astarion says, thinking of how Gale frowns when he's focused. “Except then he opened his mouth and you found out he was actually just a weirdo?” 

Isobel laughs. 

“That's rich, coming from you!”

“I'm not weird,” Astarion protests. 

“You're so weird. You're one of the weirdest people I know,” Isobel teases. “You both are. And you're both much nicer than you seem at first, as well. Maybe that's why you work so well together.” 

“I’m not weird ,” Astarion sulks into his coffee. “Just because I refuse to do what everyone else is doing. That I'm not mainstream, I will allow. I know what I like and I don't care what anyone else thinks of me, so long as they acknowledge I’m gorgeous. That doesn't make me weird.” 

Isobel giggles.

“Hey, I'm not saying it's a bad thing. Mark’s the most normal dude I've ever met, and God knows I would take literally anybody's company over his right now.” 

“So what you're saying is that the bar is through the floor,” Astarion grumbles. “Thank you, Isobel, truly.”

“I am married to the biggest weirdo I know,” Isobel reminds him. “And she's the best damn thing that ever happened to me.” 

“Sickening,” Astarion teases. 

“Says you.” Isobel’s gaze flicks pointedly over to Gale. Astarion kicks her in the shin. 

“Stop that. People will start getting the wrong idea.” 

“They've already got the idea,” Isobel says, sipping her tea with an air of gentility. “And it was not from me.” 

Astarion elects to ignore her. He's given up trying to explain that it's part of the plan. 

-

Gale is unused to having his house so consistently full of people. It's really rather nice. The housekeeper very kindly agrees to come in on Thursday morning while he's at the rink and give the place a bit of a tidy-up before he's hosting again on Thursday evening. 

They pick Hestia up from school on the way back from the rink, and are then both required to help her decide what to wear to her first ever proper dinner party. She settles on her ballet dress, mostly because Gale promises to wear his burgundy jumper that matches. He has to throw a proper white shirt on under it to make it smart enough, which is playing with fire if Hestia is going to help him cook, but he does need to step up his game, given that Astarion has once again outdone himself in a cream satin top that tumbles off his shoulders, grecian-style, into a sinfully deep v-neck. His nails are a deep wine-red too. They almost look like they coordinated it deliberately. 

Astarion nearly always wears high-waisted trousers, and today is no different; the black trousers hug his hipbones, his sharp waist, accentuating that infamous ice-skater toning of his glutes and the curve of his lower back. If he hadn't, Gale might have worn some slightly looser trousers himself, but he's feeling reckless. He goes for a pair of deep grey dress trousers that are tighter than he would have been comfortable in, this time last year. But tonight, it feels good. It feels like maybe he's allowed to dress like he's got a body worth showing off. 

And, if the appreciative little nod Astarion gives him is anything to go by, he's not wrong. Even Wyll, when he arrives, gives him a once-over and a low whistle. 

“Well, hello, handsome. What's the occasion?” 

“Hestia's first dinner party,” Gale takes his jacket. “And it hasn't been that long since I wore something like this.” 

“It has been too long, though,” Wyll grins. “Really though, you look great . You should dress like this more often.” 

“I gave up on competing with you years ago,” Gale jokes, as Hestia appears from the kitchen and waves eagerly at Wyll. 

“I helped make dinner!” She calls. “I'm going to be a chef just like daddy!” 

Gale had bought her red grape juice and a plastic wine glass, so she can sit at the table and drink with them and feel properly grown up. Hestia, her eyelids slightly sparkly where Astarion had dabbed just the tiniest bit of glittery eyeshadow, has the time of her life. It's at least partially down to the fact that it turns out that Isobel and Aylin are in the process of trying for a baby, and Isobel in particular is absolutely smitten with her from the moment they arrive. 

“I helped make dinner!” Hestia proclaims, proudly, to general acclaim. 

“It's very good,” Isobel says, happily. “Which bits did you do?” 

“The stirring,” Hestia says, “And the chopping. And putting the seasonings in.” 

“All the most important bits,” Gale agrees, without a shadow of irony. 

She does ask some slightly awkward questions about how babies are made, but she's also young enough that Isobel's vague allusions to the doctor helping are enough to satisfy her curiosity, for now. 

It does, however, take a lot of persuading for her to go to bed at a reasonable time. Gale helps her take her sparkly eyeshadow off, get into her pyjamas, brush her teeth free of the purple stain of the juice, and then reads her a bedtime story. Then he comes down into the kitchen, and ten minutes later, Hestia joins them again. 

“It's scary up there,” she says, leaning around the kitchen doorway and looking up at him with the biggest, saddest puppy eyes she can possibly muster. “I'm all alone.” 

Gale puts his glass down and goes to her. 

“You're not alone,” he reminds her, “We’re all right here. If you need me, you can just come down the stairs like you did just now, can't you? But you've got school and I've got work tomorrow, and if we don't get the sleep we need it will be a much less fun day for everybody. I think we need to be nice to ourselves tonight so that we can have a better day tomorrow.” 

“Can I have a bedtime story?” She asks, holding her hands up towards him to be picked up. 

“You had a bedtime story,” Gale points out, gently, though he complies, settling her on his hip. 

“But only from you,” Hestia complains, “Can't Astarion read me a story?” 

Gale looks over her shoulder at Astarion. 

“Do you want to ask Astarion instead of me, sweetheart?” 

“No,” Hestia shakes her head into his neck, rubbing her forehead into his shirt. “What if he says no?” 

Isobel is holding her hands over her mouth, apparently trying to stop herself from making the noises she evidently wants to about how cute Hestia is. Gale can't blame her. 

“Then he’ll have said no,” he says, gently. 

“Not that I ever say no to you, Hestia,” Astarion points out, getting to his feet. “What story do you want?” 

“Mozart!” Hestia yells, running to him as Gale puts her down. “Do the voices do the voices do the voices!” 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Gale grins. “Are my voices not good enough?” 

“You make me practise reading,” Hestia points out. “Astarion makes them say things that aren't on the page. Funnier things.” 

Astarion sticks his tongue out at Gale over her head, which makes not just Gale, but the entirety of the table, laugh. 

“I can only do as my Lady Hestia desires,” Gale raises his hands in defeat. “Goodnight then, sweetheart. You know where to find me.” 

“You aren't coming?” Hestia stops, her hand in Astarion's, to look at him with her wide, brown eyes. 

“Someone has to look after our guests, little love. Especially if Hestia herself is leaving.” 

“We can look after ourselves,” Isobel puts in, quickly. 

“I shall be on my best behaviour,” Wyll agrees, in the tone that makes Gale eye him suspiciously. 

However, when he comes back down five minutes after, they are still all sitting around the table being very well-behaved. 

“That was quick,” Wyll raises an eyebrow at him. 

“She is not asleep,” Gale says, running a hand through his hair. “She is doing ballet with Astarion. I can only hope it will tire her out somewhat.” 

Wyll shakes his head, smiling. 

“Does it ever?” 

“It hasn't yet,” Gale agrees, grinning. “But he can't say no to her. Give him half an hour of correcting her pliés though, and maybe the excitement of having him around will have worn off.” 

Isobel makes a tiny little sound of anguish, clutching her hands to her chest. 

“I don't think you're helping with the broodiness,” Aylin says, though she doesn't look overly upset about it. 

“She's so cute,” Isobel says, tearfully. “She wanted a bedtime story from both of you and now she's doing ballet with Astarion? Aylin, can we go back to the clinic tomorrow? Please?” 

“That is not how the clinic operates,” Aylin reminds her, but then catches her expression, and folds. “But we can try.” 

Astarion comes down about ten minutes later, looking pleased with himself. 

“She's not asleep,” he says, to Gale's enquiring gaze. “But she has promised to try. And her form is improving. She is probably my favourite student.” 

“You wound me,” Gale teases. “I don't know how you get her to listen so diligently. The stories I could tell from lockdown lessons…” he shakes his head. 

“Don't remind me,” Wyll groans. “I'm still worried about Kamara. How we're supposed to know what will be normal for them, I don't know.” 

“Oh, of course,” Isobel's eyes are round. “They were lockdown kids.” 

Gale shakes his head. 

“She's so much better than she was; once we could bubble with Wyll and Ali and Kamara, her social skills improved exponentially. But she's still not where she should be, for her age. Sometimes I think she's growing up faster than she ever should have had reason to, and sometimes I wonder if she's still years behind where she's supposed to be.” 

“She's happy though,” Astarion says, shortly. “That probably counts for more.” 

Gale smiles, at him and then at Wyll. 

“You're right, actually. I'm not concerned about her development so much as her ability to live a happy life when she grows up. Psychology would suggest that-” 

“Gale,” Wyll interrupts, grinning. “I love you, but it is 9pm on a work night and I do not have the energy for one of your lectures.” 

-

Astarion had been keeping an ear out for movement from above. It is not entirely a surprise when a small stuffed rain cloud lands by his chair, its embroidered little face frowning up at him, legs akimbo. He looks up, and Hestia is standing in the doorway, doing her own little thundercloud expression. She's put a circlet on; gold laurel leaves that sit around the back of her head and tangle in her curls. 

“The sleeping is going well, I see,” he says. 

“Hestia,” Gale sighs, getting to his feet to pick the cloud up off the floor. “Use your words, please.” 

“I am a Goddess!” Hestia declares, crossing her arms over her chest. “Goddesses do not need sleep.” 

“You are named after a Goddess, sweetheart, that's not entirely the same thing,” Gale reminds her. “And Hestia is also the Goddess of peace; even she needs rest.” 

“Well I do not,” Hestia declares, resetting her circlet, which had slipped sideways somewhat. “Not when everybody else is having fun without me. I am the heart and the hearth of the home and no party is a party without a Hestia!”

And so saying, she ducks under the table. 

“You little rapscallion,” Gale laughs. “You're already up way past your bedtime!” 

“Don't care!” 

Hestia ducks behind Halsin’s chair. 

“Quick, hide me,” she hisses. 

“I think Gale knows where you are,” Halsin stage-whispers back. 

“You're supposed to help, Mr Halsin,” Hestia complains, and then shrieks and ducks back under the table as Gale appears around the corner of it. 

“Hessie!” Gale protests. “This is exceptionally rambunctious, even for you.” 

“I don't know what that means and I don't care!” Hestia sings, scrambling out the other side and appearing at Astarion’s knees. “Help me hide!” 

Astarion picks her up and flings her over his back, shrieking with laughter. Hestia grabs him around the waist, tiny fingers digging in. 

“Can I help you, Gale?” 

“You appear to have my daughter held hostage,” Gale crosses his arms at Astarion, though he’s grinning. 

“Do I?” Astarion turns, doing a full circle. “No, I don’t think so. I can’t see her anywhere.” 

“You are holding her by the ankles,” Gale points out, laughing now. 

“I’m just scratching my back,” Astarion grins. “That’s why my arms are up here.” 

“I’m a figure skater!” Hestia yells, happily. “We’re doing lifts!” 

“Your lines could do with some refining,” Astarion says, dryly, and turns around so Gale can grab Hestia from his back and set her back on the floor. 

“Betrayal!” Hestia shrieks, “Traitor! Treason of the highest order!” 

“Where do you learn these words?” Astarion wonders. 

“Pirate books!” 

“There aren't really orders of magnitude to treason, either,” Gale points out, trying to extract her from between his legs where she's collapsed onto her knees and is leaning tragically mournfully against his leg. “Hestia, come on now, we-” 

Hestia stands up, and headbutts him firmly in the crotch. 

“Oof,” Gale says, and then, in a somewhat more strained tone; “Mother fucker -” 

“Pottymouth!” Hestia yells, as Gale keels over. Wyll is already on his feet, half helping to hold Gale up, but also counting him out like a wrestling tournament; 

“10, 9, 8-” 

“Daddy are you playing?” Hestia suddenly looks concerned. “Did I really really hurt you?” 

She throws her arms around him and Gale gives up, sprawling onto the kitchen floor. 

“Round, set and match to Hestia,” Wyll declares. “Need some ice there, Gale?” 

“You're fine, I didn't want any other kids anyway,” Gale wheezes. 

Hestia climbs onto his chest and promptly knees him in the diaphragm. 

“Stop playing! It's not funny!” She wails. 

“I'm not playing, Hestia, that hurt,” Gale lifts her knee gently off his chest. “And mind my lungs, please, I need those.” 

“I thought you only had one lung,” Hestia sprawls sadly across his chest, arms over his shoulders and dark curls in his face. “Can I kiss it better?” 

“Wh- I definitely have two lungs, Hestia, who told you that?” Gale is frowning. 

“Mummy says one of your lungs doesn't work,” Hestia says, blinking up at him. “Was she fibbing again?” 

“Not fibbing,” Gale corrects. “It's just a bit more complicated than that.” 

“How much more complicated?” Astarion is frowning. He hadn't sat down again, and now he's glad. It means he can glare down at Gale with the full force of his displeasure. “This is the first I've heard of this, and it sounds pretty damn important, given how hard we train.” 

“It's not as functional as it should be,” Gale pushes Hestia off and kneels up, still grimacing. He's probably going to be feeling that one for a while. Astarion would be more sympathetic if he wasn't so pissed off right now. 

“How functional is it then?” Astarion demands. “Gale, at what point were you going to mention this?” 

“Stop it!” Hestia places herself between them, her hands on her hips, bottom lip shaking. “Stop shouting at him! I won't let you hurt him!” 

Astarion stops, swallowing his words and his anger in one go. 

The silence in the kitchen is suddenly as deep and impenetrable as cavewater. 

“He's not going to hurt me, sweetheart,” Gale says, gently. “It's alright. It's just Astarion. He's upset because he's trying to look after me, that's all.” 

Hestia is shaking, now, staring up at Astarion with her eyes wide and fearful. Astarion, not knowing what else to do, gets down on his knees and folds his hands away. 

“I didn't mean to scare you.” 

“I wasn't scared,” Hestia whispers, tucking her chin into her chest. 

“It's okay if you were,” Gale says, gently. “Do you need a hug, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah,” Hestia turns and buries her head in his chest, tearfully. Astarion meets Gale's gaze. 

“It's scar tissue,” Gale says, quietly. “From when I hurt my chest. We are very, very, very careful about it, and I have had a lot of practice and know my own limits.” This, he says to Astarion more than Hestia, watching him, the both of them still kneeling on the kitchen floor. “But now it's nearly all normal. I'm more liable to get chest infections, but that's all.” 

“You are going to show me your medical history,” Astarion says, far, far more calmly than he feels. “And then I will decide whether or not to change the training schedule.” 

“It's not your call to make,” Gale says, sharply. “I told you I showed the schedule to my doctor before we started and it was fine.” 

“No arguing!” Hestia puts her hands on his cheeks. “Stop being mean!” 

“I'm not,” Gale sighs, and suddenly instead of fierce he sounds exhausted; utterly and completely exhausted. “I think it's time for you to go to bed, you menace. You have caused quite enough chaos for one evening.” 

“Sorry, daddy.” 

Gale stands up, picks her up, and tucks her into his hip. 

“You hurt me, Hestia. Do you think this might be why we don't stay up past bedtime and get hyper?” 

“Maybe,” Hestia turns her head into his neck, suddenly sounding tearful. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.” 

“I know, sweetheart,” Gale kisses her forehead. “Are you ready to go now?” 

“I'm ready to go to bed,” Hestia droops over his shoulder, like she's melting with sadness, and Gale has to adjust the way he's holding her to stop her from dropping all the way onto the floor. 

When he carries her out of the kitchen, Astarion turns to Halsin, slipping into Russian; 

“Did you know?” 

“I was aware, yes,” Halsin says, calmly. “It is one of the reasons Gale hired me.” 

“First aid,” Astarion growls. “He said you were fucking ‘first aid’ not that there was something wrong with his lungs .” 

“Stop that,” Wyll says, sharply. “If you're going to argue, do it in English or not at all.” 

Astarion acquiesces, unhappily. 

“I'm fucking liable for him,” he hisses. “What if he'd been hurt?” The look Wyll gives him is entirely too knowing. “I'm in enough shit already,” Astarion reminds him. “You know exactly how much.” 

The silence of a kitchen full of people is suddenly more than he knows how to deal with. He turns back to Halsin, back to Russian; 

“Tell Gale I'll be in the library when he's done. I need some space.” 

Halsin nods, and Astarion slips out of the room without bothering to glance at the others’ expressions. 

Fucking Gale. Bloody fucking Gale and his bloody fucking issues. 

He slams the stupid bookshelf door behind him and drops down onto the sofa. The sofa they'd been sat on when Gale told him about the scar, just a few weeks ago. Astarion hadn't been angry about it, then. It hadn't occurred to him to be. 

But this is different. Gale has been lying to him. By omission, but it stings the same. 

The problem, of course, is that Astarion is doing the same. He has had a hundred chances or more to tell Gale about Cazador. About his phone. About the texts, and the money, and the fact that none of it is as far in his past as he wants it to be. 

He lies there for a long, long time. Or perhaps it's not so very long at all. He hears Gale's footsteps come down the stairs. Hears the others' voices, muted now, then slowly regaining their warmth. The murmur of laughter at something someone has said. And then, the front door opening and closing. 

Finally, the library door clicks open. 

“Astarion?” Gale's voice is soft. 

Astarion doesn't move. He's perfectly comfortable, sprawled on the sofa with his legs in the air. Gale has to walk all the way into the room, and when he's done so he hovers, awkwardly, looking down at him. 

“So Hestia saw Mystra hurt you,” Astarion says, slowly. “At least once.” 

Gale's expression changes; he folds his concern away, becoming wooden. 

“She would never hurt Hestia. I know you think she's a scourge upon the earth, but she's a good mother. Strict, undeniably, but she would never even raise her voice to Hestia. She never did when we were together, and she never has since. Most importantly, Hestia knows she can tell me anything like that.” His voice drops, fierce and quiet and powerful; “I will never, ever give her reason to be afraid of me.” 

“Good,” Astarion says. “I don't doubt it. If you thought Hestia was in even the slightest danger, you would make sure Mystra never saw her again.” 

Some of the tension leaks from Gale's shoulders. He stands there, silent, for a moment. 

“She's not going to settle until you've gone up. She thinks that we're arguing and that it's her fault.” 

“We are, and it's not.” Astarion finally rolls off the sofa and getting to his feet. “Gale, I-” he sighs. 

Gale is looking at him, with those big brown eyes that Hestia uses too, and Astarion knows he should tell him. He knows that he should say that he's upset with Gale for lying, and more upset with himself that it hurts that Gale was lying, but he's not ready to admit that. Nor is he ready to tell Gale the truth. Not yet. Not until he knows that they're good enough friends that Gale will accept it, rather than shoving him away for it. Not until he knows he's safe. 

So instead, he has to tell the other part of the truth. The part he has even less words for. 

“I'm upset that you didn't tell me, because I don't want to be anything like her,” he says. 

Gale's expression falls open; shock, maybe even something like tenderness. 

“You deserve better than that,” Astarion says, and he knows he sounds furious because he is; because he knows what it's like, to be so fully under someone else's thumb that they begin to wipe you away. “But you didn't tell me , and I- could have hurt you anyway. Without meaning to.” 

“Astarion,” Gale says. That's all. Just his name. And yet there's something in there that yanks at him. His voice had been so soft, so quiet and full of tenderness. 

And this fucking man who never stops talking says only his fucking name and nothing else. Like that's somehow everything he'd needed to say. And, somehow, it is. 

Astarion can't look at him one fucking second longer. Instead he steps forward, and Gale meets him there; puts his arms under Astarion's and lets Astarion pull him to his chest, and he wants to hold on as hard as he had the last time, but he can't; instead he holds Gale like he's precious. As gently as he can possibly bear. 

“Please,” Astarion says. “Please show me your medical records. So that I can make sure that I won't hurt you.” 

“I will,” Gale agrees. “I promise.” 

As long as Astarion holds him there, he can believe they're safe; he can believe that something as simple and brittle as a hug, his arms around Gale, can protect him from the damage he did to himself. From the woman who pushed him to that edge. From the shadow Astarion carries with him that he doesn't know how to shake; that he refuses to drag Gale into with him. 

When they pull apart, Gale’s hand finds his necklace; fingers resting on the beads, on Astarion's exposed sternum for just a moment before he pulls it back, returning it to his side. 

“Do you remember when you were here for Bonfire Night?” 

“Well yes, it wasn't that long ago,” Astarion frowns, but that only makes Gale smile.