Fine Wine (you get better & better with time) - matchatonic (2024)

Chapter Text

“So, we’re setting up over here, then?”

The question is followed by the crunching of gravel, the hurried chattering of voices, and the all too familiar distant rumble of glass clinking together. A subdued beam of late-afternoon sunlight ricochets off of the foiled tips of bottles nestled in cardboard boxes as they are carried so gently across the lush grass of the courtyard lawn, up and over to the folding table that will soon be retrofitted into a bar. A frenetic sort of energy follows them—notable only for its novelty in an otherwise languid, quaint scene. A beautiful wedding, or…the making of one, at least. A hush falls over the small swath of green, save for the jostling of the aforementioned boxes being placed on the plastic hardtop with finality.

The alcohol has arrived, this much is apparent. And it appears that it’s shown up a bit behind schedule.

Soon, a commotion of sorts at the edge of the courtyard commences once again, ticking up in volume as sharp words are flung in the direction of the hired bar staff. The ringleader of the newly introduced troupe attempts to chat idly with the fervently anxious wedding coordinator, who’s taken to gesticulating to the gazebo where the small set of tables have been set up for them. It’s all tucked away from the main thoroughfare, but clear enough in its path so that guests logically know where to stumble to when they inevitably become too inebriated to watch their step.

During all of this, Astarion peers out of the open window of the bridal suite he’s currently occupying, gaining a fleeting vested interest in the crew of two. For his own selfish purposes, he appreciates how he’s managed to secure a front-row seat to the bar setup, so that he can better navigate his way there later—priorities, of course.

And it certainly doesn’t hurt that this bar service manager before him is…he’s, well…

He’s not bad on the eyes, Astarion admits. Tall, dark, handsome—oh, he’s practically the definition of the maxim. Sturdy frame, soft curls, expertly trimmed facial hair…Not the type Astarion normally finds aesthetically pleasing, yet there’s something so compelling about the angle of his exposed forearms, cut by the way his grey hairs shimmer in the brilliant sunlight. He’s gorgeous, and his countenance is equally so.

But it can’t just be that this stranger is physically stunning; he must also possess a scholarly, knowledgeable air about him—speaking to the wedding coordinator with conviction and purpose, like he means business. Astarion can’t hear anything above a low, distant murmur, but can read the movement of his lips and absorb the sharp darting out of his tongue upon certain enunciations. Something about maximizing the flow of the space to streamline the queue of wedding guests—a purposeful, laid-out path to corral them along, so as not to clutter up the exit and get them all in trouble with the fire marshal, blah blah blah….

Whatever he’s actually saying is delivered gracefully and diplomatically—so much so that it temporarily offsets the slow-boiling ire of the wedding coordinator, who looks like they’re on their last available nerve.

Then, an incredibly big, burly man with straw-colored hair—holding a large case of wine bottles up on his shoulders like it’s nothing—falls into step next to the man, having emerged from the pathway after another trip to the car for more boxes. Astarion cares less about analyzing him, but can aptly infer that he’s clearly the dark-haired hearthrob’s barback who is honor-bound to the chain of command, destined to do all of the heavy lifting. The clamoring of the dozen glass vessels in his arms sounds like the most pleasant of chimes again; a siren’s song, a morning bird’s croak…anyone could get lost in it.

“Hello?!” Jen calls out, waving a hand in Astarion’s general direction, in an attempt to garner his cognizance. “Earth to Astarion? A not-so friendly reminder that you’re supposed to be helping me get ready for my wedding?”

She emerges from behind a scalloped screen divider, dress billowing out in layers of embroidered tulle—the wedding gown he had helped her select, at that stuffy bridal boutique in the city that took ages to get an appointment at…the one Astarion was invited to solely because his usually unwarranted opinions on all things beautiful were actually meritorious, for once.

“A little help, please?” She asks, holding the bodice of her dress up to her breasts with both hands, awkwardly. She then motions behind her with a pointed look, turning slightly to face the reflective glass of the full-body vanity in the corner of the bridal suite. The stark fissure of her unzipped dress exposes a canvas of prickled skin, waiting to be concealed behind fabric. With his concentration broken by her verbal intrusion, he feels himself turn away from the floatiness of reverie, and back into the confines of the present. Only then does he stir from his perch and saunter over to her to resume his role as her personal attendant for the day.

As he makes to stand behind her, he takes note of the finer details of both her dress and general lineaments—how beautiful she looks, done up for perhaps one of the most monumental moments of her life. If he can remove his knee-jerk jealousy of how natural she makes such divinity look, he can concede her innately beauteous demeanor.

But he knows he doesn’t have it in him to say this all so brazenly. They’ve never been one to flower each other in obnoxious compliments, preferring to speak in knowing smirks and upturned eyebrows whenever applicable; facetiously catty and easily misinterpreted. They’ve known each other long enough—and went through the hell that was their sommelier coursework together—to acknowledge that words can only get you so far in life.

Besides, it’s much more rewarding to intuit someone’s opinion of you rather than being expressly told what to think.

“Where’d you find these guys? Craigslist?” Astarion says with playful disdain, as he reaches out for the small of her waist where the zipper of her dress begins.

“What, the bar service?”

“Who else?” He bites back with playful tonality. “They’ve come bumbling in only to disturb the peace, looking like cavemen playing at wait staff–”

“Stop it, now!”

Astarion snorts at her defense of them—rolls his eyes and tugs up on her fastener with a microscopic movement, before she continues.

“We thought it more advantageous to go with the route where the labor is cheaper and the wine selection less…basic. A win-win, you might say? So yes, I did find them on Craigslist, butttttt–!” She holds a finger up in protest as she draws out the length of the syllable, which does a decent job of burying Astarion’s condescending giggle. “They seem to be professional enough to get the job done tonight, barring any elitist sommeliers in attendance putting their two-cents in, hmm? Forgive me for thinking you’d be happy with me for such ingenuity, Mr. Wine Snob!”

“Oh, like you’re any better, Ms. ‘The wine must taste of the terroir–!’”

“That’s soon to be ‘Mrs.’ to you, thank you very much!”

“Not if I never zip you up!”

They bicker back and forth while Astarion intentionally musses with the train of Jen’s dress, oscillating between flattening and scrunching, scrunching and flattening. He reasons that a little light ribbing on your wedding day might provide a bit of respite from the chaos, and it helps that Jen’s never been afraid to give it back to him.

Eventually, they get back on the rails, with a return to the original topic of conversation.

“But I knew you were going to have opinions about our selection regardless, so I thought ahead.” Jen says this as she leans ever closer into her own reflection, only to muse over softening her rosy lip liner with her thumb. “There’s a bottle of brut from Loire that we gave to them—told them to pour it only for those who ask before the toast. So, that’ll be…only you partaking. You can thank me later.”

That’s not so bad, he thinks. In truth, that’s actually…extremely nice of her. Maybe he can chat up the bartender when he goes to get his first glass, he considers; a built-in excuse and a conversation starter. Lord knows it’s always easier to do so when you have to ask someone for something that you desire.

Silence falls between them as Astarion continues to fuss with her dress for her. Slowly but surely, everything comes together. She looks every part the gorgeous bride that little girls dream of being on their own wedding days—that’s all not lost on him.

“Jen,” He begins when he finally settles on the manner with which her train falls. “You know she’s going to absolutely flip when she sees you at the altar, don’t you?”

He can tell by the way she smiles back at him in her embarrassment at being perceived like this that she knows what he’s trying to convey—she looks truly beautiful, and she should know it.

She should know that he means it, too.

“Ready?” He asks her then, gracing his hands away from the back of her head to fall as her veil does. The contrast of her dark and bluntly cut hair to the bright ivory of her headpiece looks stunningly provocative, even he can admit.

Jen nods ever so slightly, self-consciously placing her hands on her ribs like she’s plugging a wound—to the bodice-boning of her wedding gown that can only shimmer and shine with the brilliance of such a gorgeous occasion.

“Thank you.” She says, whilst tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture makes the metal of his dangling, ornate earrings shimmer in the dusty light. “For everything. I mean it.”

Astarion feels slightly uncomfortable at that, for what does ‘everything’ entail?

But in a flash, he infers what he thinks she’s referring to—the hoops he jumped through in order to get the day off, despite the protestations of one Monsieur Cazador Szarr. In truth, he had been scheduled to accompany his boss for a several days-long trip to Nantes for an important wine conference—probably would’ve been just touching down at Paris CDG at this very moment, had Jen not chosen this weekend for her nuptials. It only took him prostrating himself—nearly literally—upon Cazador’s boot for weeks, assuring that he’d work diligently to make up for it. The atonement agreed upon had been the promise of several more articles beyond his normal workload for the coming indeterminate amount of months…all to be handed under the table and will go most certainly uncompensated for.

But in truth, he’s ever so grateful to not have been subjected to yet another exhausting international trip, playing the role of arm candy for his boss to prance around with. The last time he did something of a similar calibre had been…intense, to say the least. He remembers having to bite his tongue nearly the entire time, forced to ignore every bit inside himself that told him to run—that these things weren’t right, that money wasn’t worth suffering for–!

No matter. In spite of it all, he’s here. And he’s happy…or as happy as he can be, given his propensity to naturally abhor any and all such occasions by nature.

When Jen speaks again, it shocks Astarion back into his own body and out of his daydreaming.

“Now can you be a dear and go into Karlach’s room to make sure she’s got her tie on right? I saw her practice attempts earlier this week to do it herself, and it was—as you can imagine—a pretty abysmal sight.”

He needs a drink. Needed it like, yesterday.

He’s just spent the last hour and some change trying desperately to conceal any trace of sentimentality, up in front of a hundred-odd people.

Yes, the ceremony was beautiful, and yes, he can admit that he’s glad to have been here. He recalls how tender it had felt to whisper in Jen’s ear, caught in the heat of the power of her moment—an “I’m so happy for you,” said so sincerely—before he took his designated place in the assembly line of the bridal party.

But then the flashing lights of the photo and videographers, the droning voice of the officiant right in his ear…As much as he adores being the center of attention, this level of it is just not the kind he’s looking for. In the extremely rare scenario that anyone asks him to be in another wedding, he is most decidedly poised to tersely refuse.

Then, of course, came the vows. Karlach’s hopeful jokes about their shared future enmeshed in Jen’s winsome sentiments had made it clear that no doubt, they’re a match made in heaven. Astarion’s favorite bit of it all had been getting to hear the version of Karlach and Jen’s first date, told from the perspective of Karlach—an account he hadn’t ever been quite privy to, even in the near decade he’s known the two of them together.

Yes, not a dry eye in the building…not even his own.

But then the “I do,” of it all sobered him up just enough not to have to reach for a stealthily placed handkerchief. Something about the idea of declaring any form of undying love with the finality of a kiss in front of hundreds of people will do that to you…sappy f*cking promises of eternal affection, the whole gambit.

Thus it bears repeating: he needs a drink now. Good thing he knows where to get one, and that he’s not above skipping the line of aunties and uncles all clamoring for a glass of a lukewarm Pinot Grigio.

He’s lingering at the bar off to the right side, eyeing the swift flow of the two bartenders who are working diligently to keep up with the boisterous line that has formed around their booth. They’re both wearing the standard catering uniform of black collared shirts and aprons with tawny leather straps, as they hurriedly fix their fair share of the “Hers and Hers” signature menu drinks. A well-oiled machine, they are—but it’s hard to judge the integrity of the co*cktails from observation alone.

Eventually, there’s a bit of a break in the queue, but Astarion has still not garnered a glance thrown over his way. In his impatience, he taps on the curved edge of the bartop with one hand while the other cards through his perfectly imperfect mess of curls.

Then finally a minute or two later, he gets what he so desires: attention.

“What can I pour you for?”

The question is delivered with an irksome, yet endearing smile—an overly friendly, customer service smirk Astarion’s gotten all too used to in this line of work. Even though he’s addressed Astarion directly, the bartender's hands move with fluid finesse as he multitasks batch-mixing what can only be at least four servings worth of mojitos. The muscles of his bare arms flex gorgeously with each sharp press of his muddling of fragrant mint leaves.

Astarion entertains the greeting with as much restraint as he can give. “That…doesn’t make any sense, but I applaud your attempt at—what would you call that, a wine witticism?”

The man laughs at that and falls back just a step, seemingly thrown off by Astarion’s acidulous greeting. The gesture captures the dynamism of the swell of his hair, halfway pulled up behind his skull. Although Astarion had gotten a decent view of him from his vantage point in Jen’s bridal suite, being up close and personal like this permits a chance to survey him further now.

He likes what he sees…likes it quite a bit, in fact.

But he’s got to say something—if not to get the drink that he came for, then to cut the tension of their less than favorable greeting.

“To answer your question though, I’ve been told there’s something put away for me for the toast.”

The man furrows his brow and bites at his lip, as if he’s combing through a laundry list of anecdotes he’s meant to remember. He ends on a blank stare.

“The Jo Landron?” Astarion tries again, speaking with a certain antagonized slowness embedded in his words. “The Folle Blanche–?”

“Aha! You must be Astarion, then!” He exclaims with vigor—holds up his hands, palms out, and smiles. Astarion can practically see the visual of a lightbulb flash above his head. “Yes, of course! You’re just as the brides described, and silly me for not putting two and two together!” He shuffles around as he speaks, reaching out for the neck of a foil-wrapped bottle nestled amongst others in the ice of a small wine bucket. “They weren’t lying when they said to keep a lookout for a head of platinum blond!”

Astarion chooses to huff at that, before saying, “My reputation seems to have preceded me. Such a shame.”

“No, no—just. You’re very, ah…eye-catching. Unique, in fact!” It’s more awkward than endearing, although the wide smile the man dons is ever-so-slightly inviting. “The hair, I mean—and the…everything, really.”

With an exalted pause, the tension grows; the man seems to realize that what he’s just said won’t warrant a direct response. It takes a restrained second, but the moment soon morphs into something else when he takes a slight breath—regains composure, and seems to have found his flow after some abysmal floundering on the onset. He narrows his gaze upon Astarion’s air of hesitant equanimity before his hands finally grasp at the elongated bottle of the drink before him. He’s got a tight grip on the body—makes a sharp clink sound with it when a ring on his forefinger collides with the glass that mingles so sweetly with what he says next.

“Are you some sort of snob, then? Bottom shelf, commoner’s prosecco not good enough for you? You are at a wedding, you know—most people are just happy to be sipping on any booze freely poured.”

Although there’s some merit to his statement, Astarion knows all too well that nothing ever comes free. Frankly, he’s not interested in anything that will not sate his ever-growing expectations. For a fraction of a second, he considers the term ‘snob’—how it uncannily harkens back to his conversation with Jen just a few hours ago.

He finds he’s rather comfortable owning the epithet, so long as this guy says it.

“You could say that I have an acquired taste. I know what I like, and I don’t drink unless I’m going to enjoy myself.”

“I’ll say, that’s fair enough! And I wouldn’t dare fault you for it. We all have our preferences—especially when there are options available to us beyond Chandon.”

There’s something about the way the man says it…flirty and forward and borderline erotic. And yet, there’s some held-back restraint.

It holds Astarion’s interest instantly.

Then, the bartender’s hands make quick work of unfastening the muselet from the cork, its metal cage so easily twisted off and discarded in favor of what comes next. His thumb applies pressure at the node of the plug, then makes a soft pop when released into the man’s palm—sweet and pleasant music amongst the thrum of commotion beyond the bar.

“I couldn’t help but admire it earlier, when we were setting up.” The man says, in a way that reads tangential. “Biodynamic, a Crémant de Loire, and made without racking so as to retain that natural je ne sais quoi!”

As he chats away absentmindedly, Astarion watches him tip the bottle with practiced grace—witnesses him hold the flute so delicately so as to let the flow of precious, frothy liquid foam in the glass at just the right pace. Precision, fluency, sophistication—it’s clear then that this man knows his way around a bottle of brut, educated on the importance of the pour. Perhaps he moonlights as a tasting room host at some high-end winery, Astarion figures. He’s no amateur.

“Thirty-six percent Folle Blanche, thirty-three percent Pinot Noir, and thirty-one percent Chardonnay—delicious, if you ask me.” He continues, as he grasps the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger to hand it over to him.

“A wonderful book report, you’ve just given me.” Astarion mocks, but takes the offered drink with an outstretched hand. “I see you’ve studied the back of the label. You’ve managed to hit nearly all of the buzzwords.”

The man staggers back at being called out so brazenly, but he’s got a good sense of humor about it. Instead of trying to defend himself, he gives a little shrug with a sly smile—an admission of his technique.

And now, it’s time to taste.

Before Astarion tips the glass back and lets himself be enveloped by the flavor and smell of bubbly wet stone and lime zest, he’s surprised to find that his gaze lingers on the bartender who’s taken to wiping his hands on the front of his apron, in nervous anticipation of his reaction. As if he himself bottled the wine, distributed it, and is responsible for its quality…

Then he grows transfixed by the seemingly microscopic evidence of aeration contained within his glass—how softly the fizz erupts when it reaches the curved edge of its surface, like sea spray. Briefly, he feels intoxicated before he’s even had a sip of the thing…the cloying embarrassment of drinking alone, drinking to cope. What has his life amounted to, that he should find himself chatting up the bartender-for-hire at his best friend’s wedding, desperately hoping for more from such conversation?

But embedded in all of this is some contradictory, crystalline moment—fanciful and candied and altogether too precious for a short second of interaction. A livewire of recognition that there’s something left to parse out within the newness of their congress, however trifling it may be.

Overall, Astarion agnizes his own innate desire to remain in this man’s presence…

And the wine isn’t half-bad, either.

“Well, go on! Tell me how it treats you!” The man’s command breaks him from his reverie as he gains sensation back in his extremities, back in the present.

He determines that an empty glass will serve as his answer—guzzles down such ambrosia, and only wants more. If not for his palate, then for the view. He’s earned it, hasn’t he?

Whatever it is can be left up for interpretation.

“Another.”

“That good, huh?” The man quirks his mouth into a wry smile at that, but obliges. The bottle seems to appear in his hands out of thin air, awaiting the cue to tip over. “Pace yourself, my friend.”

It isn’t said like a warning, more like an expression of admiration. Nonetheless, Astarion ignores it; slides his glass as best he can across the already sticky bartop, then flicks the thin walls of the bowl of the flute with a pointed nail, insistent.

“I’ve worked up a thirst.”

A spare laugh, a hearty acknowledgment of his bite…but he does as he commands, and makes to fill his cup.

“I’m Gale, by the way.” He says, eyes trained down on the vortex flow of the liquid as he pours—the bubbling it produces. “I figure since I know your name, you should know mine, as I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you this evening. Judging by how fast you put that first glass away, that is.”

“Gale.” Astarion rolls his name around in his mouth like a marble. One syllable—short, and to the point, so unlike the man himself. “Yes, I think that’s safe to assume. Best to keep my tab open, so to speak.”

He eyes the large fishbowl of a tip jar in between them. There are a few stray notes amidst some more hearty tips, although it’s looking a little empty for this hour. If this Gale fellow continues to prioritize Astarion tonight, well…he’ll earn himself a nice little something …but until then, he’ll abstain from dropping any crisp bills there.

“Lovely. I’ll see you back here in…twenty minutes, I reckon? Or is that too long?”

Hmm. It’s honestly alarming how much he’s enjoying the allure of this man’s banter.

“Let’s just say, I think you should keep it within reach.”

The bartender feigns a little roll of his eyes in response to Astarion’s idiosyncratic remark. It’s friendly, it’s playful—no harm, no foul.

“Oh, and you’re welcome!” Gale calls out, but the sarcasm is lost on him—Astarion has already turned to step back into the party, and gets promptly pulled into a group conversation with some of the other Somms from work Jen felt obligated to extend an invitation to. His worst nightmare, frankly; he can’t stand a single one of them.

As he actively tunes out their insufferable small talk, he can’t help but take note of that sinking, cloyingly revolting feeling—the one he hasn’t felt in such a long time, in order to protect himself…

He finds himself thinking that he’d much rather be spending his evening talking to him.

It’s later in the evening now—dusk has settled, dinner has been served, and the wedding party speeches have come and gone. Now, all that’s left is cake and kisses and imbibed courage that’s just enough to get bodies out and onto the dance floor. Jen had forewarned him about this unavoidable shift in the night—that Karlach’s one concession for the elaborate reception had been assurance that there would be gratuitous amounts of stereotypical wedding tracks, played on some garish sound system. A teakwood dance floor, a disinterested DJ, perhaps a glistening plastic beach ball thrown around amongst the crowd for ‘fun’...a ubiquitous, basic experience to conclude an otherwise tasteful ceremony of their union.

To get ahead of avoiding it all, Astarion finds himself back at the bar, loitering like a gnat. He waits for Gale’s attention and drums his fingers against the counter—watches the showmanship of his dexterous hands when he inserts a corkscrew into the top of a bottle of Merlot.

What he would give to have those skilled hands around his–

“Back for another top-off? Or are we moving to something with less effervescence?”

Astarion responds back with a noncommittal noise—wants to appear indifferent to the drink, like some mysterious man that he most surely is not.

“Dealer’s choice.”

That’s met with a scoff. “Well, how intimidating! You’ve put me in a very precarious spot! The only thing I know about you is your name and that you have strong opinions on alcohol.”

We could definitely change that—you could stand to know a lot more about me, if only you were to ask.

But he doesn’t say any of that out loud, of course. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders back and settles on some flirty response. “Why don’t you give me whatever you made for the last person you served?”

Gale laughs so loud, it makes his bar partner co*ck his head to the side—inquisitively gauging what’s so funny.

“I’m not about to do that to you! Hell, I wouldn’t even do that to my worst enemy!” Astarion watches the man wag his finger in between their bodies teasingly, so cheekily sure of himself and his own assessment of such an ask. “Something tells me you wouldn’t take kindly to a well vodka soda, now would you?”

Oof. Well, he’s not wrong. Astarion visibly shudders at the thought.

“I’ve got something else for you, though. And we’ll keep it classic.”

Right away, Gale grabs at some bottles—notably, a handle of gin and the rest of the brut—and makes quick work of concocting a decent enough French 75. When he hands it over, he’s got a proud little grin smeared across his face.

“Will that do?”

Astarion takes a sip.

It most certainly will.

He’s slightly amazed that Gale expertly deciphers his intentions when he doesn’t immediately jot off with his drink—how he lingers, innately in pursuit of the prospect of a conversation.

“Are you from here?” Gale asks in that friendly manner that people use when they’re entertaining small talk.

“You could say that.” Astarion folds his hands together gracefully. “Not originally, of course—that much is obvious. And judging by your equally English accent, you aren’t either.” A telling smirk, a knowing prod; it’s not every day that he finds himself in the company of someone not born and bred in these rolling, aureate hills. Although it’s always refreshing to hear the familiar lilt of a place he’ll never call home again, he tries not to be too taken aback by any sort of novelty—this town’s a tourist hotbed, that’s for sure. Perhaps Gale’s just a man passing through on a working holiday.

“Ah, right!” Gale laughs, acknowledging some commonality that leans rather particular. “I meant to make mention of that before. Got a bit distracted by the words you were saying, rather than how you said them.”

Someone comes up then and breaks their banter to drunkenly order a vodka cranberry, which Astarion can’t help but turn his nose up at. Gale takes care of them, though—places a dehydrated lime wheel on top of the drink with finesse before he hands it up and over. They f*ck off quickly afterward, stumbling across the lawn in the direction of the rest of the wedding guests. Good riddance.

“I actually live in the next county over.” Gale says as he wipes at a spill left over from previous mixed drinks. “Though I am trying to arrange a new venture for myself, over in these parts! I’m opening a little bottle shop-meets-co*cktail bar sort of a thing? ‘The Arcana,’ we’re calling it—which was my big contribution! I admit, I’m rather fond of the name.” The grand way in which he declares the moniker of his business speaks to his pride, his surety. “But anyway, I suppose I best be getting used to making the commute to this side of town, as we’re set to be up and running in a few weeks. You should definitely stop by, since you’re local!”

It’s all very…interesting, this. The hopeful prospect of it all, the glint in Gale’s eye as he speaks—how naive can one person be, to think that what this place needs is another f*cking unoriginal, doomed-to-fail bottle shop.

The wheels in Astarion’s brain begin to turn. He never asks questions, he never implores if he doesn’t absolutely have to—but he finds the words leave his mouth before he can catch them.

“Why here?”

“Hm?”

“Why here, in this idyllically slow village of a place—where tasting rooms and co*cktail lounges are a dime a dozen?”

“Well, I wouldn’t quite go that far–!”

But Astarion doesn’t relent.

“Why set up shop halfway across the world? Even further away from whence you came, where real wine is actually grown? Yes, this place is renowned—but it pales in comparison to the likes of say, Bordeaux or Tuscany…Truly, we’re devoid of Old World charm out here—so new in fact, that everything constantly reads as inauthentic.”

Astarion’s thought about this himself numerous times—why he ran away from a career on the continent to come to a brand new one, west of the Atlantic; why he himself set his sights on the shiny, glimmering potential of novelty, of reinvention? Running away from a life previously squandered, back when he was once willing to sell his soul for a legal education…before he unequivocally f*cked everything up…Yes, pivoting to wine and following a pipedream has been both the best and worst decision he’s ever made—with varying degrees of severity. But, at least he’s making a career out of the ashes of his former self. He’s not so sure Gale can say the same.

He continues his tirade, impassioning himself even more with each new thought then turned into a spewed syllable.

“And then why come here, to a town where the culture shock never really wears off, the nearest city worth visiting is a two-hour drive on a good day, and the locals pretend to soften their cut-throat competitiveness by spouting nonsense like ‘No yeah, for sure,’ and ‘I’m stoked ’?”

The man sort of blinks at him—whether thrown off Astarion’s overall abrasive interrogation or the vitriol with which he mocks the local colloquial tongue, the world may never know. Eventually, he seems to land on discerning some humor in it all.

“You forgot to mention the ever-present fear of everything you own going up in a blaze when wildfire season rolls around.” Gale says playfully, a wagging finger jutting out to emphasize his statement. It should be read as purely vexing, but in a funny way, the man has a point; Astarion’s been through numerous evacuations, but none have managed to push him out. Not quite yet, at least.

But Gale addresses his leading question a beat later, in a far more wistful tone than the one he’d just given him. “Truth be told, I followed someone out this way and…never left, I suppose. Had a visa hinged on my participation in an enology and viticulture research fellowship program I was accepted to eons ago now, at this point. And when that ended, I just stuck around—taught a bit, took up some bartending jobs in the interim, and started making a life for myself here. But I wasn’t…wasn’t happy. Wasn’t doing well, in all of that.”

It’s hard not to linger on Gale’s words—on the way he says them like they’re reflexively spilling out, beyond his control. Like he can’t lasso back in the vulnerability to save his life.

“Eventually, I got this harebrained idea to build bridges with some prominent wineries in the area—bided my time as I formulated a way in which I could marry my background in the science and chemistry of winemaking with my love of craft and creation. The answer, to me at least, seemed to be to establish my own distillery and then open my own bar.”

There’s so much introspective yearning in this declaration, Astarion is slightly struck by it. The depth of Gale’s authentic conviction is assuredly original, especially in a field where grifting comes as second nature to most.

“It’s been a long, arduous journey, and it’s only just getting started again. And service gigs at weddings like this just help keep me and my business partners afloat, while everything settles with the bar opening. But all in all, the journey has been well worth it, especially in comparison to the position I was in even a year ago. I’m grateful I took the plunge—couldn’t stand my life being miserable anymore, yeah?”

Astarion acutely understands. More than he’d care to admit.

He decides he won’t push it anymore, won’t prod. He’s gotten as thorough an answer as is socially acceptable or expected. Really, it doesn’t matter much anyway what sort of skeletons this man might be hiding in his closet, mournful reminiscences or otherwise. He lets the silence in between them speak for itself, but gives a curt nod of understanding, of recognition.

“So, what do you do?” Gale says eventually—hesitantly, as if he’s bracing for another acerbic answer. “For work, I mean.”

Despite all that’s been shared between them already—how close they’ve gotten to some form of sentimentality—Astarion can’t help himself from responding derisively, in some attempt to stave off any more evocative emotion.

“Wine. Obviously.”

“Drinking it?” It’s said with a chary laugh, like the simplification of the idea is slightly absurd.

“Why yes, you brilliant boy.” Astarion snipes, speaking into his drink as he takes a hasty sip. When his lips part ways with the rim of the glass, he curls his mouth into a haughty smile. “I’m a critic. For Szarr’s Wine Opinion—ever heard of it?”

It’s only the most renowned and eminent wine review publication, both online and in print…even more so in this town, where everything runs on liquor. If Gale isn’t familiar with it, he hasn’t been paying enough attention to his own craft.

But his face says it all—gives it away that he’s distinctly impressed, and perhaps well acquainted with their articles. Cazador’s name has that effect on people, Astarion’s all too keenly familiar with that phenomenon. Having worked for the man for well over a decade now, he’s mastered the art of wielding it when need be, and omitting it when required. As he watches Gale’s eyes widen, there’s a fear that begins to grow inside of Astarion—paranoia over the idea that he had thought less of him, and had found some innate fault in his design.

It’s classic, it’s common; everyone changes their tune as soon as he throws around identifiers of the circles he runs in…runs for. What can they get out of him, and what do they seek to benefit from—just by making his acquaintance? Astarion has exhausted so much of his efforts over his life attempting to prove his worth to people who write him off as a tart with no promise. He’s better than that, more worthy of respect…yet, somehow always under the thumb of a man more powerful than him, more prestigious. Reliant on the name of someone else to garner any recognition.

The oversimplification Gale gives him next does nothing to abate such anxieties. Astarion feels his anger growing even before he gets a word out—preemptively predicts the misfire that always manages to wound his ego.

“So you write, then? Like a column?”

Oh, brother.

“I review, darling. Do keep up.” He holds a hand up to his chest in exaggerated outrage, cut with palpable resentment. “There’s a stark difference in the terminology. I taste, I observe, I evaluate—I don’t just come up with some fanciful, manufactured narrative, no. I come with credentials. ”

“That being…?”

“Advanced Sommelier.” It’s spoken proudly, like the achievement that it is. Blind taste tests and grueling wine service simulations be damned—he’s earned every bit of this accomplishment, and he’d like to be given his flowers for it.

But Gale doesn’t give that to him; instead, he pushes the envelope with a smirk, a taunt.

“Why not ‘Master’ yet?”

Oh, he says it so cheekily, he must think himself so clever…

Astarion should hate it—hate him. Calling out his perceived inadequacies so brazenly? Speaking to him like he hasn’t toiled away for years and years and years—practically clawed his way to this current rung of an ever-growing ladder!? Joking or not, the intrinsic degradation of his position feels like a low blow, but there’s something…something about it…

Who does he think he is, this total stranger?

And why the f*ck does the banter of it all turn him on so much?

“Working on it.” He manages to say through tight lips, as he tries to ignore a newfound tightness in his slacks. He rests his half-empty glass on the bar top and resigns himself to purposefully not finishing it, just to spite Gale. Like that’ll show him. “I’ll be taking the exam next spring.”

It’s a complicated subject for Astarion, the idea of achieving his Master Sommelier diploma. The only other Master Sommelier he knows on any sort of personal level is his boss, and for some wild, indescribable reason, Cazador has actively discouraged him from pursuing further credentials—has desired to keep Astarion confined to the secure spaces of a lower-ranked tier of wine expertise. You’d think the man would want only for all of his staff, not just his most senior critic, to aim for the stars and achieve what only 300-odd people have been able to accomplish in less than 75 years since the Court of Master Sommeliers’ inception, by passing this nearly impossible test…

Well, maybe it’s not such a wild concept, for it’s not lost on him that as soon as he earns this coveted title for himself, he’ll have evened the playing field between them that much more. Astarion’s role as subordinate will finally be greyed, and maybe—just maybe!—he’ll surpass Cazador in both knowledge and prestige.

He can’t wait for that day to come, truly.

“Which you, of course, will pass.” Gale says in response to Astarion’s last retort—and it reads sincerely, actually. “Plus, there’s no need to defend yourself to little old me—I’m really only taking the piss to see you irate. I know you aren’t meant to rush a work of art or a labor of love, and I can tell wine is very much both of those things to you.”

With that, any sort of fabricated indignation between them melts away upon Gale’s simple words. The comfort of knowing that his passion is clearly identifiable feels like more of a compliment than anything he’s been given in quite a while, if he’s being honest.

“Now go enjoy the party, Astarion! Shoo!” Gale flounces his hands playfully in Astarion’s direction, as if he has the ability to sweep him out and away from the bar, carried on the wind of his gesture. “And if I see you back over here in less than thirty minutes, you best believe I’ll cut you off!”

Maybe it’s all the bubbles going to his head. Or maybe it’s just him thinking with his dick…

But Astarion, for once in his life, decides to obey—steps back and saunters off to join the party again, and only lets himself look back over his shoulder once.

“Is an Advanced Sommelier such as yourself not above testing out a little champagne-forward co*cktail of my creation?”

The sun has finally set, some fireflies have descended upon the courtyard, and Astarion is back at his post, itching to pester the bartender.

“Oh, how could I say no to that? You haven’t quite led me astray yet, now have you?” Astarion responds, with only a hint of cynicism. “It's only fitting that I should agree, seeming as you’ve talked a mighty fine talk all evening about your skills as a mixologist!”

A bit bewildered at his acceptance, Gale takes a beat before clasping his hands together in delight.

“But only if you have one, too. It’s no fun to sip a fancy drink alone.” Astarion adds, hearing a smidge of inadvertent flirtation creep into his voice. Answering a question with a kittenish stipulation tends to land him in one of two scenarios—one being entirely embarrassing rejection, the other in somebody else’s bed.

He’d much prefer the latter situation with this guy, if he’s being quite honest.

But the man seems unphased and practically unaffected—smiles, nods ever so slightly, and reaches for two standard disposable glasses waiting to be poured into. Once set in front of him, he says a quick remark of, “Already one step ahead of you.”

From his apron’s chest pocket, Gale withdraws the silver corkscrew Astarion’s been beholden to all evening, very much in the manner of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. A showman, truly—a display of some sleight-of-hand magic, perhaps meant to disarm. And then from that same pocket, a frosted-glass flask emerges next and is promptly set down upright on the bar. From this, it’s evident that he’s pre-mixed whatever is inside of it for this drink, which raises a few warranted questions for Astarion.

“Do you make it a habit of carrying around tinctures on the off chance you find yourself needing to impress someone?” Astarion jokes, with hesitance.

Gale laughs and keeps his cool, not letting the quip distract him from the task at hand. It seems that he’s already getting a fine handle on fielding Astarion’s bite. “In truth, I made this for myself to enjoy after the gig ended—a little nightcap after a job well done, you might say.” With his left hand, he grasps at the roundness of a lemon nestled in a prep container; with his right, he arms himself with the hilt of a citrus peeler. “Although I am always happy to share with those I deem possess my similar good taste. As such, you’ve proven your worth.”

The essential elements—ingredients, if you will—are then all laid out beneath him in an orderly row: the flask, a bar spoon, the soon-to-be peeled lemon, a paring knife, and the cups filled with clear-cut ice. The whole arrangement looks formulaic. Clinical, even.

Gale’s about to get to work.

“But how about we play a little game, hmm? A practice run for your future tasting examination, if you will!” He reaches for that final thing—the metal jigger in his bartender’s arsenal—and holds it aloft for Astarion to see. “If you can correctly identify every component in this co*cktail, not only will you win my respect and admiration…” A heavy pause follows; Astarion recognizes a flash on Gale’s face that indicates he’s thinking very carefully about what to say next. “...but I will also excuse the ‘debt’ you owe me for keeping you laden with drink all evening. Consider your accrued gratuity covered—a proper clean slate.”

How very bold! Certainly, Gale could’ve easily stuck to just guilt-tripping him into tipping handsomely tonight—would’ve made a pretty penny off of it too, if Astarion weren’t so good at what he does.

“You’ll grow to regret that offer, but deal.” He grins with all his teeth visible, hungry like an animal with an insatiable appetite. “Let me show you how well I know liquor.”

In response, Gale gives his cup a little twirl, rocking the ice of the drink together with a satisfying trill. Challenge accepted.

It doesn’t take long to fix the drink. With the limited bar and the pre-mixed elixir at his disposal, all Gale has to do is measure out the mixture over ice, give it a good stir, top it with some leftover prosecco, and then peel and twist a lemon for garnish. Though Astarion is slightly pleased when he sees him expressing the lemon rind above the top of the drink before he drops it in. At least there’s a little bit of craft thrown in there, circ*mstances withstanding.

“Unfortunately, we’ve run out of proper glasses for the evening, but if you stop by the bar sometime, I can put it in its rightful coupe glass. For now though, these plastic cups will have to do.”

Their fingers graze when the cup is handed over. Call it cliche, but something electric passes between them within the movement—so much so that Astarion seeks to distract from the realization almost immediately.

“What do you call this? Has it a name?” He asks as he takes hold of the drink and squeezes the plastic in his fist, eyeing the contents of it incredulously. He has no idea what’s in front of him, but he supposes that he’s about to find out.

“I’ll tell you after you’ve tasted it.”

Fair enough. Astarion raises his glass up in the universal signal of a ‘cheers’, but does not reach the extra length to clink their cups together. Instead, he daintily brings the rim to his lips and sips.

A few seconds pass. Expectation builds.

“Thoughts?” Gale implores with eagerness—the importunate fool.

“Ough, would you give me a moment?”

Immediately, he registers that there’s a lot going on here—but this speaks more to the co*cktail’s complexity rather than its busyness. Citrus, with the softest touch of decadence. Tart from some source, and then comes the duality of the fight between liquid richness and alcoholic luminosity.

“Definitely getting the herb-sweetness of vermouth on the nose—contrasting with the fizziness from the brut.” Another sip, another consideration. Astarion’s mind files through known flavor profiles and infinite possibilities. “You’ve cut it with something, I…I think it must be peach bitters?”

He feels fairly confident in himself in what he’s identified so far, but there’s some sort of lingering flavor that buzzes on his tongue.

No, the drink itself is damn good—excellent,even. Cloyingly floral and distinctly piquant…The kind of co*cktail Astarion goes in for on his own accord, one made with the power of the aperitif in mind.

But there’s no way in hell he’d give him such explicit satisfaction. Keeps this evaluation to himself, and files it away for replicative purposes.

Astarion savors the flavor with another sip, then gives his final verdict.

“Oh, oh—I’ve got it! Cocchi Americano! It has to be!”

Gale gives him a laugh—a ticklish thing, a sort of astounded noise that comes out all quaint. There’s not a drop of malice attached to it, and yet it makes Astarion keenly nervous.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just–!” He cuts himself off and redirects his speech when he meets Astarion’s gaze. “Has anyone ever told you that your ears, ah…quirk when you’re thinking like that?” His hand reaches up to musingly pinch at the fleshy warble of his own helix. “They sort of uh, perk up and point when you scrunch your face, I—I was only observing.”

Oh. Oh no, oh no.

Astarion is ever so grateful that he’s not standing in front of a mirror, for he just knows he’d hate to see the heat he feels of his own blush coloring his cheeks. He can’t answer that, can’t entertain it. They’re staring at each other, neither of them speaking—just absorbing each other’s faces as if time has decided to stand still for only the two of them.

Gale breaks first to affirm Astarion’s astute taste buds. “But you are absolutely right, save for one thing.” He sips from his cup, as if he means to familiarize himself again with his own concoction. “It’s made with plum bitters. Not peach.”

“Plum.” Astarion echoes. He’s still burning from the idea of Gale perceiving him so transparently. “Yes…yes, of course it is. How silly of me.”

Silence grows for a beat. Astarion considers his options, until Gale brings him back down to earth.

“I think that means you lost.”

“On a technicality, really.” Astarion attempts to refute, but finds he starts going adrift in the way Gale looks so satisfied with himself, having bested the proprietor of taste and confidence. “How far off is a peach from a plum?”

“Pretty far, I reckon. And a loss is a loss.” The bartender says, and sets down his cup in between them. “But all is not dashed so quickly, Astarion! Take comfort in the fact that this means you are permitted a chance to earn a new honorific.” When Astarion looks up at him in confusion, Gale quickly adds, “I am sure you are aware of the adage that hot people always tip well, are you not?”

Ah, well…who is he to dispute that?

The game of cat and mouse they’ve been playing has reached an interesting precipice; no longer can it be ignored or explained away that they’re both vying for some sort of flirtatious engagement. It’s out in the open now which, in many ways, serves as the invitation to take things up a notch. Or two. Or several.

Astarion reaches for the tasteful money clip he keeps in his front right pocket, and drops a single, generous bill into the fishbowl. He stares a seductive hole into Gale’s chest the entire time—wants Gale to notice him now on his terms, wants him to know what he seeks to signal with such a grandiose gesture.

But he quickly realizes he’s the one being rather obviously observed. Again.

It’s evident that he’s not looking at the money, no—the total of the tip is quite literally irrelevant. No, Gale’s eyes are more concerned with tracing the outline of Astarion’s cuff-linked wrist, the crook of his elbow concealed by his suit, and the curve of his neck to just below his chiseled jaw. He’s checking him out, sizing him up…has his mouth slightly open, agape in wonderment. Astarion preens at that and shows off the defined line of his chin with a soft turn away of his head.

Let him look—let him gawk. I want him to know that he can earn the right to touch, if he keeps this up.

However long the seconds last of this lewdly restrained ogling is lost on the both of them, until they’re broken out of it. A commotion in the direction of the dancefloor erupts—shouts of pleasure and wild cheering are carried on the air to them whilst a steady beat picks up pace. Gale shifts to face where the sound is coming from, then smiles so pleasingly.

“Oh, I just love this song!” Gale says, eyes alight with newfound excitement. “This was, quite literally, the soundtrack of my early uni days!”

Gale’s got that look again, like he’s mulling things over and weighing his options. Then just as quickly as he had stepped into contemplation, so too has he decided what comes next.

“Halsin, do you think you can handle the bar for a tick?”

Upon hearing his name, his hulking associate gives him a quick glance up from his focus on filling up a party-goer’s cup, enough to give a swift nod in recognition. It’s a fair amount of clearance to forge ahead for Gale, it seems. They’re meant to be packing up soon anyway, and the line has died down, with folks petering out as the evening tips more and more to a close.

In a flash, Gale casts his apron off and throws it at the back table before stepping out from behind the bar. When he makes it the short distance over to stand beside Astarion and immediately grasps his hand in his own, the shock of it all throws him off-kilter. He stumbles back slightly, scuffing the side of his brogues against the dusty asphalt. He doesn’t have the breath to shout or protest before Gale then begins to pull him toward the courtyard, where the thump of the speakers flutters like his heartbeat.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?!” Astarion exclaims, eventually finding his words.

“Isn’t it obvious? We’re going to go be a part of the wedding reception and dance to this song I like.”

No. No, no, no.

Absolutely not. What a horrific idea.

“I do not, under any circ*mstances, dance–!”

“Oh, come on! Everyone says that! You have legs, don’t you? Have some fun! ”

“Really—I wouldn’t be caught dead–!”

Gale starts mouthing the words to the asinine, irksome hipster bullsh*t song pulsing all around them, cut only by the sounds of distant cheers coming from the same direction.

“If you knew my story word for word, had all of my history…”

He’s ignoring him, that much is clear.

“And aren’t you meant to be behind the bar, working for my best friend’s wedding–?!”

“...would you go along with someone like me?”

Astarion stops his protest and stares, then—absorbs the addictive look of Gale’s soft expression, mouth pulled into the most charming of smiles. They’ve reached the edge of the courtyard—can see the bobbing heads of the party-goers just above the hedge line. Everything seems to fit so nicely together, in this instance.

Gale hasn’t let go of his hand the entire time.

“Dance with me? Please?” Gale rubs a thumb across the back of his palm. “There’s nothing more I’d like tonight than to have a good time with you.”

The fairy light garlands hung across the overhead trellis that leads to the dance floor create a dazzling halo around his head. Brilliant and gilded, like some Byzantine icon.

It breaks him.

“Fine.” Astarion huffs to keep up the act, but the prospect of gratifying Gale already feels oddly warm and inviting. Within his acquiescence, he embeds a bit of himself—his surrender to a good time, and what can be extrapolated from it. “But this song only. No others.”

Gale looks so relieved, so pleased.

“Yes, of course. I promise.”

Once that’s settled, Gale takes charge, literally leading them beyond the hedge and to the corner of the courtyard where the congregation of wedding welldoers twirl and prance until the technicolor of their collective fabrics becomes one big blur. With a fine tug on his arm, he wills Astarion to step closer to the crowd. When he reluctantly complies, the bottoms of his shoes make a satisfying clack on the laminate dance floor.

Then out of the corner of his eye, Astarion is drawn to a big, stand-out swath of white; Jen and Karlach, undulating against each other with elongated smiles plastered across their faces. All the stress of the day seems to have melted away from their minds, and the only thing left to do is relish in their newfound roles as Mrs. and Mrs.

But just as they are a sight not easily mistaken, so too is Astarion—with his head of curls and lanky form marshaled out to the dance floor by a lovesome stranger. Both Jen and Karlach turn to look at him—them—long enough to stop their dance and absorb the spectacle. Astarion watches Jen’s eyes widen in bewilderment, while Karlach breaks out into a proud grin before she flashes him a thumbs-up.

God, he just wishes he could shrink.

He turns back to Gale, who’s got his head thrown back in sheer joy—crooning along again to the lyrics and oblivious to any eyes averted his way. So carefree, so ebullient…He doesn’t care about anyone pointing and laughing, not when he’s enjoying this moment.

Then with the softest of breaths, Gale opens his eyes and leans close to Astarion’s ear. It’s done in a manner that does not invade his personal space, but beckons for a quiet acknowledgment of their closeness.

“...We could stick around and see this night through.”

Something in his heart stirs, at that. Gale doesn’t quite sing it, but rather speaks the words along to the song…and yet, it possesses this monumental weight. They’re emulating verses and metaphors—fielding emotions and tensions and expectations that feel cinematically picturesque, but also well and truly authentic. When Gale pulls away and then plants his feet directly in front of him, he eyes him over with fluttering lashes and a playful smirk.

The beat picks up, the whole crowd jumps… and Astarion makes up his mind in a split-second that he should be permitted to appreciate this. Appreciate him. With slightly gritted teeth and a touch of welling embarrassment, he shifts his weight from left to right, right to left—keeps his head down the entire time and prays to some non-existent god that he’ll be forgiven for these social sins he’s about to commit…in the name of pursuing strange dick, no less!

Gale mirrors his irresolute wobbling whilst he probes with a step between his legs—absent of brushed contact, but a maneuver that manages to get Astarion to amble backward, more physically involved in their tandem movement. He then interlaces their fingers down to the web, which aids even more in keeping them an arms distance apart in some sort of contrived safety net of separation, yet close enough so that they’re still dancing together.

As they gain equal courage, time flies out from underneath their feet. Astarion eventually lets himself be spun around in a small circle and into the chorus—permits his arms to be forcefully draped around Gale’s torso, while the other man navigates him step-by-step. When he finally divorces himself from the idea that everyone is watching them—and more specifically, that everyone is watching him—his limbs grow pleasantly pliant, caught off guard by the ebb and flow of the inherent caper within rhythm.

He takes to swaying, naturally leading with his hips as his feet shuffle closer to Gale’s—pointed dress shoes touching dusty, well-worn Chelsea boots. The leather and suede of it all.

He’s smiling, and it hurts in the most gratifying way possible.

Eventually, the cadence and fade-out of instrumentals signals the conclusion of the song, but not of amorous play. Gale now has his hands on Astarion’s hips—has linked his fingers in between the belt loops of his trousers on either side of him, and squeezes to the bone beneath the node of his hips.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” Gale says, ever so sweet and endearingly enunciatory. “If you are amenable to the idea, that is.”

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever find the courage.”

Despite Astarion’s inner monologue urging him to tread carefully here, he permits himself a chance to open up so nicely to the idea of a graze—for the master plan is not yet thwarted, if he still has his eyes keenly poised on the prize of pleasure. There’s nothing that says a kiss has to be romantic, he reasons. After all, he’s given and received his fair share of them, implemented as tools strictly to bypass ardent foreplay. No, this can be just the flame that lights the spark…the push that gives them momentum. Perhaps Gale might become more amenable to the idea of getting f*cked, with a bit of sentimentality sprinkled along the edge as bait…

Astarion purses his lips in anticipation, then shuts his eyes and counts slowly to himself. Behind his lids, he imagines the sinful sight of Gale pliant beneath him, soon. When seconds pass, he grows in his worry but isn’t fast enough in opening his eyes before he registers Gale’s motion. He feels the odd heat of his breath—not on his face or his cheek, no. Identifies the tickle of plush skin and scruff below his chin, along the bowed bulge of his own Adam's apple—titillating contact, but surprising in its location. He hasn’t quite caught up to speed yet, but it’s slowly, laggardly sinking in.

He’s f*cking…he’s f*cking kissing his neck.

His neck!

Time seems to slow down, then. Thrown off by his own miscalculation of what Gale meant when he asked to kiss him, Astarion stands frozen in the middle of the dance floor.

Gale’s none the wiser—starts to nuzzle his nose against Astarion’s jaw, in between the sounds of dulcet pecks. His lips linger on the two little pock marks along his neck, on the unwanted indents in his skin that he’s had since birth. They don’t feel like blemishes under Gale’s attention, subjected to the slight tip of his tongue…the first time he’s ever been hyper-cognizant, yet lacking any sort of disdain for them in his life.

So much better than a wet kiss on the lips, so much sweeter than some passionate, seductive manhandling…And as much as he craves the latter tonight, the lead-up to this is…different. New.

It’s the single most erotic thing anyone has ever done to him, frankly.

The song’s changed—the mood has shifted; they’re given a beat to stare at each other just a breath's distance apart and contemplate their unspoken attraction. Any and all flirtatiously hesitant resolve breaks, and he just knows that now is the time to ask.

“Do you want to…get out of here? Go to my room?” Astarion hears himself ask. Hates the way his voice quavers ever so slightly, afraid of being perceived as pathetically overeager. This isn’t the time for that, nor the place—he’s going to have to redirect his anxiety, and discard the rest with no strings attached.

Get it together! This is about f*cking him, this has to be exclusively about f*cking–!

Gale looks at him with reverence then, apparently pleased with Astarion’s ability to propose something they both desperately, desperately want. He answers him back with a diplomatic question, one that attempts to signal a normal amount of restraint and not the fevered lust at such implorement.

“You have no idea how much the thought pleases me. But I wonder, would the brides appreciate that?”

Astarion can only laugh at that—a high-pitched shrill of a thing.

“At least one of them has expressed ad nauseam just how much she’s wanted me to get laid for eons, so. Yes, I think they would.”

There’s a look of sweet innocence that falls upon Gale’s face—a jolt of surprise at Astarion’s brazen declaration of his expectations for the evening.

But then Gale nods in a manner so understandingly comforting, it nearly shocks Astarion out of his settlement to keep this strictly transactional.

“Then by all means, lead the way.”

It’s really rather a miracle that they’ve kept their hands off of each other until now, but away from the safety and sterility of the wedding, all bets are well and truly off.

Thank god Jen and Karlach booked the venue with a hotel on-site.

Astarion’s discarded any trace of tenderness on the walk over—has honed his desire into a fine, concentrated point. To distract from any lingering mawkishness, he takes to groping Gale’s pecs through his dress shirt, pawing over the outline of pert nipples as they stumble into the lift that will take them to the one place in the world they both want to be.

They will not kiss tonight…they absolutely will not. Cannot. After the tenderness of Gale’s lips on the dance floor, Astarion reasons that he mustn't risk any misstep, any co*ckup. That was a moment of weakness—this will be a moment of passion.

“What floor?” Gale moans, one hand roaming the expanse of Astarion’s upper chest while the other one ghosts over the raised button panel numbers, eager to push.

“Top, top!” Astarion cries, referring to his room situated on the uppermost level of the building.

“Oh, you would be, wouldn’t you?”

It’s said so needlessly breathless, Astarion barely catches it. There’s some hint at a double entendre in his voice, although he suspects Gale might not be so aware of what he’s managed to allude to with such a question. Perhaps he means that of course, Astarion would only stay in rooms in which he has no one above him out of proprietary refinement…or maybe, he’s cheekier than he looks. Regardless, the irony of it all is not lost on him. Either way, oh how he likes the way he thinks.

When they’re spat out on the proper floor, they walk those few precious steps left, and end at the door at the end of a long corridor. Astarion fiddles around in desperate search for the room keycard—finds he empties both his pockets turbulently in search of the plastic piece, even though there’s only one place it could logically be. He retrieves it eventually, and swipes it to open at the same time he impatiently jiggles the handle.

Lights flick on upon their entry, illuminating the sparse room in a softly cast glow. Astarion tugs Gale over the threshold by the jaw.

Then the door clicks shut, the deadbolt gets switched, and before he knows it, he’s pushing him up against the back of the entryway to better maul at Gale’s bulge in between them. When he leans in close, his eye catches a glimpse of the hallway through the peephole—like a miniature portal to a world from whence they came but will not be bothered with for the next hour or so. Gale notices him idling slightly and pushes him backward with a sensually firm shove.

Time to go.

They undress furiously, the shuffling of fabric and the soft drop of it onto sheared carpet being the only sounds that matter at this juncture. Gale makes much quicker work of ridding himself of his ensemble, due in part to his lack of suit jacket and necktie—so much so that when he finishes first, his dexterous fingers begin pulling at the buckle of Astarion’s belt for him, while he busies his own hands with finishing off undoing shirt buttons. Upon release of the metal fastener, Gale yanks on the leather and slides it out from the confines of his trouser loops. It drops to the floor and curls up at their feet, unceremoniously.

Once stripped down to nothing, Astarion registers Gale’s hands on the barest part of his lower back—feels them searching lower and lower and lower until both palms make contact with the supple roundness of his bottom. He then lustfully squeezes the flesh and works it in quick movements, gets a sound grip on him enough to pull him a few steps back and closer to the bed. With this, it becomes wildly apparent that Gale’s making an ardent attempt to lure him to the comfort of a soft place to land.

But something compels Astarion to fight against him. Sure, let’s get things initiated—but he’s certainly not about to be tugged down to the smooth surface of the pillow-top and be cuddled by him,heaven forbid. He wills his balance to not be influenced by Gale’s wandering pull.

“We’re going to do this my way. Understood?” Astarion slurs and steps away—steps back from him. “Up. On the bed. Face away.”

Gale nods in understanding; it appears he takes direction well. Doing as he’s told, he fixes his gazes in front of him and lowers his upper body down to the mattress. As a result of this maneuver, his ass raises up on full display—gives Astarion excellent vantage of his stunning hole, which only serves to excite him in thinking about pleasure well within reach now–

No. He can’t get ahead of himself already. He’s got to do his due diligence and prepare.

“Hang on.”

It isn’t hard to find the essentials they’ll be needing, tucked away in the front pouch of his duffel—some sachets and a strip of condoms and a minute to breathe, because they’re really about to do this…really about to amalgamate the consequences of the coquetting they’ve been engaged in all evening. He tosses these things haphazardly forward, where they land as close as they can to Gale’s face, pressed into the mattress.

With that settled, Astarion mounts the bed on his knees, sliding behind his bedfellow to slot their thighs together with florid touch. Involuntarily, he quavers and cants against him—wedging his hardening co*ck in between his cleft to tease, to taunt, to titillate. The deep-set howl this provokes from Gale incites Astarion to press harder.

With a hand unoccupied with a hold on Gale’s hip bones, Astarion tears into one of the packets of lubricant, messily—quickly rubs the sticky liquid in between his fingers to warm it just a tad before his hand glides down to Gale’s exposed bottom. Skillfully, he traces down a sinful, perfect line from tailbone to rim—ends at the pucker, and inserts a digit in one fell swoop. He can’t see his face, but he can just sense the second his eyes flutter at the intrusion, wishes he could flip him over and witness it beyond his imagination…

But this way is simpler. This way, he doesn’t have to fear the feeling of his eyes seeking to memorize the fine lines of the stranger’s face—the curve of his nose, of his brow, of his lips. He can’t grow distracted by the inexplicable beauty of his visage if he severs such temptations that seek to imprint unwelcome evocations.

Although his face may be concealed from view, the rest of him certainly isn’t. Astarion gets lost in the visual of the dip of his lower back, arched so perfectly to receive another finger with the promise of more to come. Below that, the flesh of his thighs and the contour of where that skin meets his cheeks is tantalizingly sumptuous, like some rogue Adonis on private and privileged display. His body hair—dark and thick across the expanse of his skin—feels real and tangible and so very unlike Astarion’s own fine, nearly-glabrous state.

Somewhere along the way, Astarion’s managed to roll a condom down onto himself, and then with the hand not currently working him open, cups that curve of him in the spirit of a playful spank. He relishes in the feeling of touch across his delicate skin—the way Gale’s back straightens from the whack in a slight quiver.

Minutes pass, and with each second in between, Gale grows more eager—bucks wildly against Astarion like a foal let out to run rampant in some greener pasture—and pants with lechery. They both haven’t spoken for some time at this point, but in the telling absence of words, something subtly shifts between them that’s indicative of permission to proceed.

He’s ready, no doubt.

Astarion plans not to deprive him—but even more so, himself—from any further dawdling. He takes his hands out and away, inches ever closer in search of flush touch, and lines himself up for admittance. Gale gives him the feedback that he knows what to expect next when a shiver runs through his spine.

And then it becomes easy—maybe even too easy —to push past his initial constriction, in order to plunge into rapture. He relishes in the way he immediately escapes into his body, the tight heat of learning how to make the right movements of his hips that warrant a vocal reaction. Upon registering the fullness within himself, Gale scrunches up his face and opens his mouth to make the shape of a sinful “O”, seen only when he endeavors to look back over his shoulder to gauge Astarion’s pleasure.

It’s perfect, he’s perfect. He’s so f*cking tight, it’s positively exquisite.

But in overzealous hubris, Gale takes to rocking his body weight back and forth upon him as if to set the speed of their f*cking himself, in a manner that counterly aligns with Astarion’s lead. By proxy, it causes them to fall out of sequence with one another—a great show of awkward bumping and grinding, rather than a machine-like push and pull. Perhaps Gale’s just adjusting to being filled and needs to move on his own accord, or maybe he assumes that he’s actually being helpful. Regardless, the effort he makes is distracting and disruptive to the cadence of a set tempo, so much so that Astarion is forced to reign Gale in and yank his ass back toward him with a firm grip, as he locks his hips in place to slow his pitching to a stop.

Gale assesses Astarion’s correction and halts his motion without a second thought, and in such a pleasing manner, too. There isn’t any time to stop and consider how well they communicate without so many words, but… They’re back in business. This is good. Great, even. It means that Astarion is once again, in control of the narrative of their encounter.

He then resumes a steady and constant rhythm in the pulsation of his hips, just as they both prefer it. His hands hover up to Gale’s shoulders and grip at the slightly freckled skin there, the backs of them tickled by the soft brush of his shoulder-length hair.

Much, much better.

Gale keens, letting his head hang low as his body wracks with shockwaves of borderline overstimulation when Astarion hits the right cadence inside of him. Over and over and over and over–

“Oh, my f*cking–!”

Astarion’s then distracted by a building, patterning thud of the headboard colliding with the wall—of tacky, generic artwork chipping at the paint with the force of their exertion. Having picked up the pace of his assault on Gale’s hole, he’s not so sure he’ll manage to check out tomorrow without extraneous, incidental charges added to the bill.

He speeds up his ministrations with wild abandon. In a deep-seated part of his darkest desires, he wants the frequency to be cataclysmically severe—borderline brutal.

He won’t forget this, won’t forget me.

“f*ck, if you aren’t gorgeous.” Astarion moans as he dips his chest lower to meet Gale’s back in order to leave a harsh kiss-turned-teeth-graze on the square of his shoulder blade. “To take me like this and look as good as you do, doing it.”

He hears the soft thud of Gale’s tip slap against the skin of his groin as he f*cks him—imagines the length connected to it, and the rosy-redness of his head. A steady, wet smack, smack, smack followed by combined rhythmic groans indicates their rapid descent towards completion.

“A-Astarion, please!” Gale wails and attempts to grip at the edge of the top of the mattress with sweaty palms. “So close, can—can I t-touch myself, please–?”

Oh, that nearly does him in—the implorement. But he’s still got a lot of bravado stored within himself…It would be a shame to cut it all short.

With his mouth close to his ear, Astarion leans into that little extra space between them, mouths at the skin behind it, and whispers, “When did I ever tell you that you couldn’t, Gale? ”

But he need not reach down to grasp himself any longer. With gifted permission now said out loud, Gale tips over his personal escarpment and comes loudly and desperate onto the sheets below him, in between his knees.

“f*ck, Astarion!”

Although the way Gale’s upper body wracks with exerted effort is beyond beautiful, Astarion finds that he’s drawn to the lines of liquid-delectation that attest to a job well done—and that which pairs well with the ardour of the visual of his thick co*ck slowly softening.

Satisfied with himself, he continues f*cking into him, nearly on autopilot with the momentum of their movement. In response, Gale’s frame has slightly collapsed in on itself, yet he’s able to hoist himself up with an outstretched arm on the headboard, enough to continually provide Astarion access to the hollow of his framework. He hangs his head in the crook of his right elbow, concealing most of his flushed face, save for his mouth.

And oh f*ck, he thinks he’s ruined for anyone else now, with that.

Eventually, Astarion begins to entertain a new idea.

With care, he manhandles Gale’s body with a firm tug on his hips—pulls out of him but keeps flush touch, then rolls them so that now his own back is on the surface of the mattress. Gale’s left facing away from him, with an empty, used chasm in himself to show for it. When the change in strategem and the absence of co*ck finally registers, Gale gives a little look back over his shoulder, takes in Astarion’s confident reclining form, and makes a short sound of confusion.

Well, he’ll spell it out for him, if he has to; intuits that Gale will rather like what he’s concocted in order to make himself come.

“I know how you’ve already finished, and oh, I can only imagine how exhausted you must be, my sweet pillow prince…” Astarion teasingly states at the same time he takes hold of both of Gale’s hands to cross his wrists together behind his back. “...but you’re going to ride my co*ck now, like a good boy. Until I tell you to stop.”

At this, he grips the base of his slick-wrapped co*ck for the show of it all—to perk it upwards towards the ceiling, forcing it out of its propensity to bob below his navel.

“I said, ride me.”

Gale keens at his words—shivers and nods and shimmies his way backward onto Astarion’s lap to rest with his knees on either side of his legs, levitating above him in anticipation of the rapture of being filled.

When he sinks down on it and convulses around him, Astarion is compelled to call him his everything.

The contraction in the muscles of Gale legs as they serve him in pistoning himself upon Astarion is downright enlivening. Impressive, even. Never once does he tire in his recoil; never once does he ask to take a break to soothe an aching physique. Going from f*cking Gale from behind with unruly abandon to this in the span of tens of minutes is undoubtedly a welcome change of pace. Now all he has to do is lay here…lay here, and f*ck into the prettiest thing he thinks he’s ever seen.

Astarion watches himself disappear and emerge over and over, taking note of the grip of Gale’s body and its propensity to hold out for desperate contact. He then gets lost in the visual of the divots of Gale’s lower back, bisecting the line where his sacrum and spine meet in a handsome, stacked row. In the theatre of his fantasy, aided by the immediacy of his current now, he imagines what it would look like—nay, what it would feel like—to pull out and push him over and tower above him, take hold of his co*ck and pump it above those indentation, and spill enough into them to overflow and drip down his–

That thought is too much, and certainly enough to teeter him beyond the point of no return…to the blinding-white light of the connection of form, and thus the function of liberation from carnal frustration.

“I-I’m–I’m f*cking coming–!”

It’s categorically unlike him to announce his own org*sm, but he finds the words fall out from parched lips—from some hole inside himself that cannot be quite filled, only covered. Any other nonsense he would’ve been able to babble out is drowned by Gale’s sinful exclamation of delight, followed by his overly eager, bouncing excitement in the throes of his partner’s ecstasy. Eventually, he stills and seeks out leverage—places his hands firmly on Astarion’s knees and squeezes the ball of bone there, at the joint.

The come-down hits Astarion's system moments later, pumped and coursing through vibrating veins that sing of some trophy, actualized. Little aftershocks and microscopic tingles course through parts of his extremities he’s never been cognizant of before. Gale murmurs something that Astarion can’t make out, as he leans his head back and stares at the ceiling, enraptured.

It feels divinely dismal to be forced to pull out of him. But he does, he knows he has to.

Once released, Astarion lies loose and boneless on his back for a moment before he decides to paw at the condom and slip it off with surreptitious efficiency. Shallow breathing mellows and the temperature of the room drops—the sweat-stickiness of sex evaporates as quickly as it had been initiated. But Gale, now empty, sits up stock-straight on his haunches and trains his eyes to anywhere in the room but at Astarion. His face is pale, his eyebrows scrunched…and it looks like he has something to say.

“T-that was…” He begins, mussing his hair back down with the flat of his palm nervously.

“Fun?”

“Foolish!” Gale admits alternatively, nearly crying at Astarion’s trivialization of the situation. “Stupid! Careless! I don’t know what just…came over me.”

Something is off with him, something is…different. Some apprehensive, cold energy has infected Gale’s previously elated countenance.

Ugh, can he get away with calling him a buzzkill?

“Now, now...” Astarion huffs—places his hands on his hips dramatically in a show of mock outrage. “Oh, like you weren’t enjoying yourself! What? You get some post-coital clarity, and all of a sudden, you’ve become a vicar?” When Gale tries to interrupt, Astarion holds out a pointed finger and wags it in between them. “And need I remind you, it was technically you who propositioned me?”

That’s a lie, and he knows it—knows very well it was he who proposed they find themselves here. Sure, Gale’s the one who, in more bold terms, initiated the earnestness of it all...

...Which has got to count for something, right?

Gale gives him a look with narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, that tells him that he’s not helping in the slightest. “I don’t…I don’t do this.” It’s evident that he’s actively going through a crisis, as his eyes then cast downward to where his belt lays tangled on the floor beneath him. “I don’t…engage in this kind of behavior, I…I don’t know…!”

“Well, you did. You’ve just done it, and you did it with me. So now, you’ve just got to relish in it.” Astarion finds it hard to sympathize with Gale’s coping mechanism of wishing his supposed sins away, but has enough wherewithal to offer up a bit of general consolation. He scrapes a hand across his cheek gently, rubs along the rough texture of his beard. “Rest assured, this stays between us. I won’t go running around, spilling your secrets. I promise.”

And he does, he really does promise…Although it’s mostly for self-serving reasons and not for Gale’s propriety that he’ll abstain from kissing and telling.

None of this seems to ease Gale’s transition back to the land of the unaddled. “Oh, I’m absolutely screwed, aren’t I?”

For a moment there, Astarion thinks that Gale might be breaching into panic attack territory—witnesses it in the rise and fall of his chest and the labored breathing that’s coming out even shallower than when Astarion was f*cking him.

He works on instinct and reaches out to take Gale’s hand in his own and grips it—hard. It isn’t tender, isn’t meant in any sort of sensual way. It’s a tether—a lifeline thrown out to sea. Yes, out of the kindness of some deeply nestled, barely functioning valve in his heart, but a kindness just the same.

Gale peers up at him with beautifully misty pools for eyes like some forlorn waif. Astarion would be lying if he were to deny their effectiveness.

“Don’t look so glum.” He says, firm and just. “If you’re worried about anyone seeing you leaving, I assure you that there are numerous guests who are going to be nursing monstrous hangovers tomorrow—which is all your handiwork, need I remind you? They won’t give a sh*t that you’re leaving my room at some ungodly hour, won’t even hear you open the–”

“No, it’s not that—that’s so far from my chief concern.”

Astarion pauses to squint at him, racking his brain for any other idea for what could cause such malaise. He settles on asking the only other thing he can think of.

“Is it because you’re closeted? I’m sorry darling, but I’m really not interested in holding your hand through a sexuality crisis–”

“No! God, please…will you just listen to me? It’s…It’s just…!” He hiccups with the exerted breath it takes to make out words beyond a mumble. “I haven’t…haven’t with–!” God, if he f*cking starts crying, Astarion might revoke all kindness he’s extended thus far. “You’re my…er, this was…my first time in a-a long time, doing anything...remotely casual, and I’m frankly not…I’m just not used to this. The feeling of this. Of saying yes to things I haven’t thought through, dictated solely by my own desires.”

It’s honest, honest to a fault. Painfully frank and indicative of a festering wound not yet addressed beyond what’s been just spoken aloud. But who is Gale, if not honest? Even Astarion has gleaned this much from the handful of hours they’ve spent together in totality.

He appears so small amidst the weight of his confession, made larger by the fact that he’s admitted it to a stranger. A stranger who’s been inside of him—a stranger who he appears to be inviting in again to some other, even more personal degree.

“Perhaps you should learn to say yes to things more often, then.” Astarion settles on saying, doing his best to portray with the tone of his voice that he seeks not to enmesh himself in the perpetuation of this caliber of conversation, but that he can entertain a moment of reverence. Best to stay away from tenderness. “For what it’s worth, at least I can say that I thoroughly enjoyed our little…dalliance. And it seems like you might’ve needed it.”

It’s enough of a deflection—a turn away from whatever’s troubling Gale’s mind—to warrant a shy smile. Astarion finds the corners of his mouth upturning too, in response to his rather contagious simper. It feels…nice, to witness him momentarily forget his trepidation, now that they’ve completed their impassioned exchange. Like his work here is done, like they can move on.

But of course, just when Astarion thinks that they’ve reached some sort of homeostasis so that he can walk out of this encounter guilt-free, he hears Gale’s naively hopeful voice.

“Will…will I see you again, Astarion? This doesn’t have to be a…a one-time thing, really. This doesn’t have to be casual.”

Astarion can’t help himself, he really can’t.

“Would you like that?”

There is no hesitance in Gale’s voice when he replies, “Yes. Very much, I would.”

Astarion can’t quite find the words to respond to that, at least not immediately.

Tonight has been both nothing and everything—fleeting, yet somehow enduring. He can’t complicate it anymore by perpetuating interaction with a man he’s just met, who runs in similar circles as he does, but is not of his world. As much as this has all been unforgettable, the reality of their situation proves pressing.

Eventually, he settles on saying, “We’ll see. But you best be going now, I think. Go call your barback and beg for his forgiveness after you abandoned him.” He pauses long enough to pull the duvet he’s under up enough to cover his naked chest, as a sign that he’s settling in. To rib him just a bit more, he asks, “Or, would you like me to call you a cab, hm?”

Gale sort of snorts at that, but doesn’t have anything profound to say. That alone feels very final in some labyrinthine way, for he understands that he’s being let down easily. Once it has fully sunken in, he stands up from his seat at the edge of the bed and reaches for his pile of clothes. Astarion watches him dress, in contemplation.

One night, one explosion of passion, one slightly providential collision of connection with another human being. One. Singular…That’s all this can be, all that it's meant to be.

Astarion looks over to the alarm clock on the bedside table—traces the outline of the garish digital numbers that tell him it’s well past one in the morning. He sighs.

The poison of sentimentality always has a way of bleeding through, doesn’t it?

“Gale?”

“Yes?”

“You never told me the name of your drink. From earlier.” His voice sounds small, sounds like he’s speaking from far away. “You said that you would.”

Gale looks well and truly stunned, his face glowing in the light of his phone screen held up mid-text message. His expression seems to say that that was the last thing on earth he ever thought Astarion would ask him.

“The ‘Charlatan.’” He says, tight-lipped and hesitant. He’s standing with his back against the opposite wall of where Astarion sits, like he’s too tired to hold himself upright on his own. “Equal parts sour and botanical, with a tenacious, velvety finish.”

Astarion makes a noise in the back of his throat upon hearing that—feels the slight ire embedded in its declaration—for he knows it’s meant to allude to him. Knows Gale has just made it up on the spot, in some sick twisting of a knife called rejection, right into his abdomen. Is it possible to be wounded by words alone? By half-truths and confessions, layered in identifiers?

For a man so otherwise noble and principled, Gale’s slight dig at him leaves a devastating blow.

Gale is nearly all dressed—just has one boot left to tug on—by the time he speaks again.

“Well. I…I don’t know quite what to say to you besides…goodnight, Astarion.” A pause, a plea. Things could be different, if only they didn’t have to deny what felt right earlier. “And I guess, good luck. With everything.”

He doesn’t wait to hear Astarion's response, doesn’t stop to entertain any sort of final repartee they might have to end the evening. Instead, he turns his head toward the door and makes the five or so steps it takes to get there.

And he leaves.

When the door clicks shut and silence finally permeates the room, Astarion lets out a deep-held sigh so long, it hurts his lungs.