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And again, Gale learns that he's nothing more than his magic.
That the vampire only made love to whatever power he thought Gale still wields.
That this was a lie from the very beginning.
The realisation hurts—perhaps more than it should. It's not like they even know each other, no matter if they've seen and touched every single inch of each other's bodies.
Gods, what an absolute fool he's been.
But it'd been ages since he'd last felt wanted.
"I think what you need is a friend," he says, not at all convinced that he can be that person.
Astarion doesn't know why he's here, beneath this canopy of beauty and wonder, after breaking the wizard's heart by telling him the truth.
And maybe his own heart, too.
"I've been miserable," Gale says, as if reading his thoughts.
The wizard leans in to touch him, and for the first time Astarion follows the urge to pull away.
"I'm sorry," they both mumble.
Gale's eyes are wide and wet.
"I can't—" Astarion manages. The more he wants to want it, the less he does.
The wizard looks up, at the stars he's created.
"Then I'll settle for what you can."
Gale knows he should be furious.
"—if I would've wanted you to see me like that—"
And he is.
"—no, Astarion, it's not the same thing as, to quote you, having seen me while we fucked—"
But for the most part, he's humiliated.
The former lover of the goddess of magic herself, being forced to take care of his carnal needs with the help of a mage hand.
And Astarion, his—he doesn't even know what they are to each other, for gods' sake—travelling companion, seeing and hearing him spill over cool spectral fingers while whimpering the vampire's name.
So maybe Astarion was a bit of a prick, spying on the wizard's wank.
He hasn't done it again, even though he very well could. Without getting caught like some bloody amateur.
It's an unnerving thought but it's there all the same: he misses Gale's body.
He just doesn't know what he'd like to do with it.
"I want to watch you," he blurts.
"Watch me?"
"Touch yourself."
Gale's brows furrow; eyes darken.
"But you don't wish to partake?"
"I… don't think so."
That night he slips into Gale's tent—invited—and observes in silence as the wizard falls apart.
It's a selfish thing to suggest, but Gale supposes he's always been a selfish man.
"I could teach you to conjure one."
Astarion considers the words, and Gale can see the exact moment their true meaning dawns on him.
"To touch you," the vampire says.
Haste. "Only if you wish to do so." Hesitation. "But… yes."
There's no reply, so Gale continues.
"I'm aware that I told you that I'll wait for as long as it takes, yet—"
Yet he craves a touch that isn't his own.
Astarion smiles warily. "What kind of rogue wouldn't want an extra hand, hm?"
If two centuries of whoring himself taught Astarion anything, it's this: it doesn't take much to make a lonely man come. What he never learnt was what any of them really liked. It made no difference. They were in search of nothing more than an easy lay just as much as he was.
Gale, on the other hand, is an intricate lock to be picked.
A challenge, albeit one skewed towards Astarion's talent.
"Astarion— fuck," Gale gasps a fraction of a moment before finishing on himself.
Amongst other things, Astarion's learnt how to make the great Wizard of Waterdeep curse.
Gale lies on his bedroll, eyes closed, imagining it's the vampire's undead fingers disrobing him, trailing along his mortal flesh, sinking into him.
It's different from how Astarion touched him before, when it was all skin and sweat and swift climaxes. Precision Gale now knows was practised, purposeful. An act he fell for, wanted to fall for—and in all honesty, likely still couldn't resist falling for.
The touch of Astarion's spectral digits is more uncertain, tentative. Perhaps it's due to the vampire's command of the Weave being mediocre at best—or perhaps it's because this time it's something real.
Gale's a vision like this, twitching and shuddering as Astarion's mage hand massages him from the inside. Groaning Astarion's name as he comes untouched. Clenching around nothing as Astarion dispels the illusion mid-orgasm.
If Astarion had known what it actually feels like, to control something as powerful as the Weave, he would've asked Gale to teach him earlier.
(Well, the wizard had offered once, only for Astarion to turn him down.)
And Hells, if he'd only known what it actually feels like, to be able to enjoy someone else's pleasure.
Sometimes, he lets Gale watch as he strokes himself afterwards.
Cazador Szarr is dead.
And Astarion made the right choice.
Gale doesn't know what he was expecting, but the vampire—the spawn, now and forever—doesn't seem at ease.
"Touch me," Astarion says suddenly.
"Are you serious? We're in a graveyard, it's hardly appropriate—"
Gale hasn't really touched Astarion since learning the truth. Even when sharing a bedroll and bodyheat, he's cautious; never lets his fingers roam or slip beneath the fabrics carefully separating their skins.
"We're on my grave. I get to say what's appropriate."
A glowing hand floats between them; a sparkle of blue against the indigo shadows.
The bastard is dead.
But Astarion Ancunín remains dead, too.
Leaning against the tombstone, with the carved letters of his own name pressing against the scars he'll never be rid of, the spectral hand caressing his hair makes it easier to focus on that which has not been taken away from him.
"I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you," Gale says, but Astarion can hear how his heart picks up the pace.
After they've exchanged blinks, the illusion fades into the night.
Gale's fingers are warm as they explore him for what feels like their first time.
