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Chapter Text

Gale Dekarios can’t remember the crash that prematurely ended his Formula 1 career. He knows there was fire. That much is hard to forget; the reminder of it is permanently etched into his skin, where molten metal dripped onto his face and ran down his neck like tear tracks.

The before, during, and after, though? They’ve been erased by a mind doing itself a kindness. The screams, the horror on his mother’s face, the awful, sickening crunch of carbon fiber on steel — all the associated sights and sounds that haunt his nightmares were picked up later, from the footage.

He blinks at the bank of cameras and journalists facing him, suddenly aware of the expectant pause in the air.

“Sorry, what was the question again?” Gale tries not to let the ripple of laughter affect him, as he feels his Team Principal, Elminster Aumar, shift slightly in the next seat. They’re at a press conference for Weave Racing, dropping the double-barrelled announcement that, not only is Weave coming back to the sport but it’s bringing legendary driver Gale Dekarios back from the ashes and along for the ride. Gale is supposed to be presenting the image of a man who’s returned to full power, fighting fit and back on track — pun intended. He’s not quite nailing it just yet.

The young Sky Sports journalist has a kind face and she smiles as she repeats her question. “I was asking how it feels, mentally, to get back into a car after a crash like that. And whether you think your PTSD will affect your comeback?”

Oof.  

“Ah,” Gale can’t help but laugh at the irony of blanking out on this question specifically. “Yes, clearly there’s still some work to be done mentally.” Another ripple of laughter, but warmer this time. “Listen, obviously there are always going to be blocks to overcome after an incident like that, but testing has been going very well so I’m feeling prepared. I’m feeling ready.”

There’s an excited buzz in the room as the FIA rep picks out another journalist. “We’ve got time for one more, folks. Aradin?”

“Yep, Aradin Fairweather, F1 TV. My question is for Astarion.”

Gale glances at the man sitting on the other side of Elminster. For a rookie, Astarion Ancunin appears irritatingly at ease in this situation. He looks every inch the quintessential F1 driver, dressed impeccably in tailored trousers and designer trainers, his tight Weave Racing polo shirt hugging his biceps and narrow waist, his white curls set perfectly. His body language is relaxed, his smile easy. Between his looks and his wit, he’s been a hit with the press already. Gale is forced to admit that Elminster may have been correct in his choice of second driver, despite his initial reservations.

Gale’s old race engineer had approached him just under a year ago now, explaining that the owner of Weave Racing — the billionaire magnate Ao Summumens — wanted to bring the team back to F1. Ao felt that enough time had passed since Gale’s accident and the ensuing scandal. He wanted Elminster to replace Mystra as Team Principal. Elminster’s only condition was that he could bring Gale back with him. 

Which, of course, begged the question of who would be Gale’s second. 

Like most people in the industry, Gale had been following Ancunin’s career over the past couple of years, so he was aware of the young driver when Elminster set his name firmly on the table. 

As far as Gale was concerned, Astarion was just another cookie-cutter Monégasque rich boy bred for purpose. Born, cleaned off, and slotted right into a €20,000 Junior Kart. So far, so uninspiring. Gale, who had to work for everything he’d achieved, was not impressed. It’s hardly difficult to get good at a sport when you have all the money in the world to throw at it and an overbearing father to drive you forward at every turn. More than overbearing, if some of the rumors are to be believed…

But then, after a series of impressive F2 wins, Ancunin had been picked up as a reserve driver for Stabula Lathander, one of F1’s smaller teams. He was rapidly promoted to a seat — after an accident left Lathander’s main driver, Stedd Whitehorn, out of action — and went on to score points in his debut race, a rare accomplishment that could only be claimed by a small number (a number Gale was also proud to be part of). 

Over the ensuing season, Ancunin continued to prove he wasn’t just another daddy’s boy who made it to Formula 1 and buckled under the pressure. Gale has been forced to admit that Astarion is a beautiful driver, elegant even. He has an eye for opportunities, he takes risks, he rarely makes mistakes. It’s just a shame that he seems like such a complete prick outside of the car. The man has barely been in the sport a year and Gale is already sick of seeing his face plastered across newspapers and social media feeds. 

Ancunin is at every event, every red carpet, a different pretty young thing on his arm at each occasion. He’s been romantically linked to actresses, models, and once even a member of a minor European royal family. He’s regularly papped exiting clubs in a state of disarray, off his face on alcohol or worse. Not to mention the fact that both his in-car and off-track tantrums at Lathander have become somewhat legendary already.

And the public love him for it. Love his wayward partying and his frequent expletive-laden outbursts over the team radio. Gale supposes it might have something to do with the fact that the guy looks like a walking fairytale prince. A nastier side of Gale, the side that doles out self-loathing and bitterness on the regular, suspects that this is why Elminster took Astarion on in the first place. He’s the antidote to Gale’s ugliness, the unsightliness of his scars, the repugnance of his history. If Gale is experienced but weathered, Astarion is the breath of fresh air who’ll at least make the team photos look good. 

Gale tries to set these negative thoughts aside. He has every right to be on this team. Elminster sees something in him still — god knows what, but the old man sees something. Gale also has to remind himself that he was spoiled by his former teammate, Wyll Ravengard. They’d been two peas in a pod with their matching work ethic, dedication, and reputation for being honorable and pleasant to work with. Wyll is still racing, with Team Avernus now, and they maintain a close, personal friendship to this day. This is not the norm for teammates. Gale and Ancunin are here to be colleagues, not friends. 

“Hi Astarion, um, I wanted to ask how it feels for you as a rookie — only in your second F1 season — to be the Number 2 driver to someone as experienced and renowned as Gale? Are you excited to learn from him now you’re with Weave Racing?”

Astarion gives a gentle laugh, toying with his water bottle. When he speaks, it’s with the accent of an international school kid, tutored by ex-Etonians. “Who says I’m the Number 2?” 

The buzz in the room kicks up a notch as some of the journalists laugh and most of them start tapping furiously on their various tablets and laptops. Several hands shoot up amid the excited whispers and murmuring, but the FIA rep is waving them away; the press conference is over, there’s no more time. Gale realizes his fists are clenched under the table. Cocky, arrogant, little shit. He can tell that Elminster is also trying very hard not to look angry at Ancunin’s words, a tight smile on the old man’s face as he thanks the FIA and the press for attending. 

As the three of them step out of the room and into an empty adjoining hallway, Elminster sighs. “That was… unhelpful, Astarion.”

“Unhelpful!” Gale exclaims. “How about foolhardy, unprofessional, rude-”

“I can handle this, thank you, Gale.” Elminster raises a weary hand as Ancunin smirks, leaning up against a wall, his arms folded. “I’ve been through this with both of you — we need to present a united front. It was an uphill battle for Ao and I to get sponsors for the team after everything, and our stakeholders are nervy at best. Astarion, you’re untested in their eyes. It’s far more reassuring for them to see you as a promising young rookie mentored by an experienced former champion than this ridiculous on-camera posturing. We cannot have them thinking you’ll be fighting each other all seaso-”

Before Elminster can finish, a tall man slinks into the corridor. From the corner of his eye, Gale notices Astarion stand up straighter, unfolding his arms, hands going into his pockets like a schoolboy. 

“For there to be a fight, my son would have had to have been matched with a teammate who has even half his skill,” the man snickers, one hand going to Astarion’s shoulder. He glares at Gale. “This would hardly be a fight.”

Cazador Szarr. Gale grimaces. Astarion’s father is an ex-racer, infamous in the industry for his bullish and aggressive driving. He’d caused no end of accidents during his time, hospitalizing more than one fellow driver. It’s a poorly kept secret that the man now lives vicariously through his son, pushing him to ascend to heights Cazador never quite achieved himself, in order to feed off the associated glory.

Like Astarion, Szarr is impeccably dressed, his long black hair in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, a mist of expensive cologne emanating from his person. 

“Cazador,” Elminster responds evenly. “We were just discussi-”

“I must say, you looked well in the conference, Dekarios,” Cazador ignores the TP entirely. “Have you had work done on the old scars? They look slightly less grotesque than usual.”

Gale’s heart rate spikes and he tries to steady his breathing. He has to be careful with his heart after the accident. After the damage done. No stress — that was what his doctor had said, blissfully unaware that he was going back to racing. This taunt from Szarr is nothing, Gale has read worse about himself on social media. He won’t rise to the bait. 

“Not at all, Cazador. It must be your eyesight playing up again — that was always an issue for you, wasn’t it?” Damn, he rose to the bait. It is enjoyable to watch Szarr’s face twitch in irritation though. Gale’s jibe is referencing one of Cazador’s famous last races, where he claimed an ‘eyesight problem’ led him to miss the giant barrier he drove straight into. He’d lost his seat shortly after that and was never offered another. It obviously infuriates him.

“Hmm,” Cazador smirks. “Elminster, if you wish to go over my son’s contract again, you may schedule a meeting with me and his agent. But I do not recall anything in the terms about his being the Number 2 driver. Of the two of them, only one has ever totaled his car, himself, and an entire racing team in the process. In fact, I’m surprised you’re back at all, Dekarios. You didn’t learn from your father’s lesson? I suppose idiocy often runs in the blood.”

At this, Gale’s fists are clenching again. His father died in a racing accident when Gale was only 4. It’s an unbelievably low blow. He feels Elminster’s hand on his arm as he struggles to keep his voice measured. “As does arrogance,” is all he can manage in riposte. 

Szarr turns away with a nasty little laugh. “It’s fortunate for the rest of us that this industry requires you to wear a helmet much of the time, isn’t it? Hides all manner of sins.” 

Something about the way he says it, with his white-knuckle grip on his son’s shoulder, makes Gale wonder how many of the rumors about them are true. Is that bruising at the base of Astarion’s hairline? Before Gale can look more closely, Cazador is marching his son away down the corridor, Astarion only turning back to look at Gale with what appears to be wide-eyed loathing.

Gale sighs. It’s going to be a long season.

*

Astarion knows he shouldn’t have said anything. In fact, Cazador had expressly told him to keep his ‘dolt mouth’ closed. But the press conference is infuriating. The whole paddock is practically frothing at the mouth about Gale Dekarios’ grand comeback. As if some old failure who’s already crashed out of the sport once is more exciting than everything Astarion has been doing as a so-called ‘rookie’.

And then that F1 TV journalist calls him the Number 2 driver and Astarion’s ego can’t take it.

“Who says I’m the Number 2?” It slips from his mouth before he can really think it through. He knows it was Aumar’s intention for him to be Dekarios’ support rather than competition, but it was never expressly stated anywhere… 

Astarion feels the TP shifting uncomfortably in the seat next to him. No doubt he’ll be feeling the lash of the old man’s discontent after the conference. Still, it’s worth it for the look on Dekarios’ face. The other driver looks positively fuming. 

Good, thinks Astarion. There’s something about the man that he finds intensely irritating. He looks… scruffy. His long hair is always thrown back and he hasn’t shaved again. He’s wearing the most boring jeans Astarion has ever seen, and a Weave Racing jacket that doesn’t seem to fit him properly. The man is announcing his damned comeback, for god’s sake, and he looks like he’s just popped out to the petrol station — where’s the care? 

Astarion supposes he shouldn’t expect much from an aging driver who clearly can’t let go of his former glory. Really, these types ought to step aside and let fresh blood through. Yet so many of them cling on desperately, working their way down the grid until even the most impoverished teams don’t want them. 

Weave Racing is a step up for Astarion. Lathander is one of the worst teams on the grid, but Weave is an old, great name that was only dragged to its knees by Gale and Mystra’s hubris. He’s proud to take a seat as part of Weave Racing’s return to the sport. But for Gale? It’s embarrassing to go back to the team he destroyed, only dragged out of anonymity and disgrace by another old man who clearly can’t let go of the team’s former glory days either. Astarion feels sorry for Gale really. But not enough to be patronized.

Predictably, his answer has caused great excitement among the attending journalists. Astarion idly wonders whether this will lead to praise or punishment from Cazador later. 

He needn’t wonder for very long. As they file out of the press conference and Elminster starts droning on about stakeholders, Astarion’s father appears and grips his shoulder like a vice. Punishment it is, then. 

Astarion is so wrapped up in wondering what Cazador is going to do that he almost misses Gale’s barb about his father’s eyesight. He has to stop himself from snorting out loud. In all his time racing, Astarion has never seen anyone stand up to Cazador like that. He wouldn’t have thought Gale would have it in him. 

His enjoyment is somewhat tempered by Dekarios’ following jibe about both Astarion and his father being arrogant, and the resentment over the fact that Astarion will most likely now bear the brunt of his father’s resulting fury. But still. As Cazador drags him out of the team offices, Astarion glances back at Gale, eyes wide with newfound respect. It’s going to be an interesting season.

Chapter Text

“God DAMN IT!” Gale roars as he clambers out of his car, pulling the release lever on the steering wheel and taking it with him, years of training kicking in without thought. 

“Gale, can you confirm you’re okay?” His race engineer Vajra’s voice comes over his earpiece, filled with genuine concern, and Gale tears off his helmet, smashing it to the ground. Is he okay? No, not really. Heat beats up off the tarmac, warming his already sweat-soaked racing suit. His chest aches dangerously and he presses the heel of his hand to his sternum, gasping for breath, trying to force the flashbacks of fire and pain from his mind’s eye.

In front of him, his car rests sadly in the barrier, one side of the front wing crumpled. It hadn’t been a bad crash, thankfully. Nothing like before. Grass and gravel had taken much of the momentum out of his careen off-track after Astarion clipped his side pod as Gale overtook. 

Across the gravel trap, Gale can see his teammate climbing out of his own foundered car, steering wheel in hand, body as taut with rage as Gale’s is. Gale squares up as the man approaches him, discarding the heavy control interface to the floor, pulling off his own helmet, silver curls rippling in the heat. 

“What in the sweet hell were you thinking, overtaking like that? I was RIGHT THERE!” Astarion is gesticulating wildly and, for a moment, Gale thinks his teammate is about to hit him. Then Astarion actually does swing for him, shocking Gale so much that he can do nothing but grab the man’s slender wrist, diverting the force of the blow. The impetus of the effort carries Astarion forward and he crashes into Gale, knocking him backward, Gale yanking at his teammate’s wrist as he goes, dragging Astarion down with him.

Then they’re grappling in the dusty gravel like teenagers. Astarion has wriggled his way around to Gale’s back, locking Gale’s legs between his thighs, one arm around his neck as he tries to punch him and god, he doesn’t look like he should be this damned strong. Gale is gasping with the astonishment of it all, trying to pry Astarion’s hand from his throat, slightly stunned by the hate and rage in his steely gray eyes. Gale can hear the equally shocked cries of the crowd and the crunch of the stewards’ feet on stone as unknown hands desperately try to separate them from their undignified tussle.

The Australian Grand Prix has been a disaster from start to finish.


*


As far as Astarion is concerned, it all starts at the promo shoot. 

This is the most hated part of the job for him. For most F1 drivers, he’s sure, if any of them were being honest. The trite little promotional videos, tightly capped for social media, advertising this or that product that sponsors the team. They’re cringe-worthy enough as it is, but it’s even worse that he has to film them with his equally cringey teammate. 

He and Gale are standing on a cramped sound stage in the arse-end of Melbourne, surrounded by headache-inducing green screen, sweltering under the Australian late summer heat and bright studio lights. His Weave Racing t-shirt is tight — always tight, Cazador insists on this as part of his ‘look’ — and he tugs at the constricting collar. Plus, he’s had to wear the long-sleeve version to hide the bruising.

“So you guys say ‘Dancing Axe Brewery’ and then you do a little dance-” The buffoon directing them, Naaber something, appears to be fuelled by pure enthusiasm. “-and then you say the line…”

In fairness to Gale, Astarion’s teammate looks like he wishes he had a real axe almost as much as Astarion does. 

“Leave the dancing to them,” Gale groans, finishing the script they’d been handed a mere five minutes before arriving. Astarion says nothing and the director shoots him a worried glance.

“Awesome job, Gale! Oh and don’t forget to take a sip from the tin after the dance but before the line. And Astarion maybe just give a tiny bit more on the dance and, like, in general? Okay! Thank you so much, guys! Honestly, it’s so awesome to work with you. This is, oh boy, I’m tellin’ ya, this is really a dream come true for me. Okay, alrighty, are you guys good to go for a take? Awesome!” Naaber grins obliviously at their equally malevolent nods, giving them both a cheesy thumbs up. Fucking Americans.

At the word ‘action’, Gale attempts to do as he was directed. Astarion merely stands, arms folded, saying the lines in his most disinterested tone, side-eyeing his teammate with a smirk as the man does some half-hearted dad dancing.

“Cut!” Naaber hurries over. “So that was great, really awesome. But, uh, Astarion, if you could- uh- if you could dance as well-” His megawatt smile falters somewhat at the look on Astarion’s face.

“If this-” Astarion gestures at Gale. “-is what I’m going to look like? I don’t think so, thank you.”

“Did you not dance?” Gale is glaring at him, face reddening slightly. 

Astarion is getting a taste for winding Gale up. It’s extraordinarily easy to draw the smug bastard’s ire. Unfortunately, he's had regretfully few opportunities to do so. Astarion isn’t sure if it’s Cazador keeping them apart or Elminster but, after that first exhilarating press conference, he and Gale have had their pre-season schedules very carefully managed to prevent any more public in-fighting. All of their sim sessions, training, and media interviews have been conducted separately.

That is until they arrived here, for the first Grand Prix of the season and this bloody ridiculous shoot. The atmosphere in the room is stifling. They’ve only had one day to adjust after traveling to Australia and Astarion is hot, tired, and fed up.

“I won’t be dancing, as I said,” he smiles patronizingly at Gale. “But, by all means, darling, you go ahead. I understand why it’s in the script, it really is rather entertaining.”

The beer can crunches a little as Gale grips it tightly. “Just bloody get on with it. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can fu-”

“Hey, Gale!” Alfira, Gale’s agency and PR rep, steps forward, her expression bright, her eyes filled with warning. She flashes a smile at Naaber. “I’m sure we can come to a compromise. Let me just find Astarion’s manager-”

Panic floods Astarion’s chest, leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat. It’s kind of Alfira to call Cazador his ‘manager’ and not his ‘father’ like everyone else does, which always makes Astarion feel like a stupid little boy. But her calling Cazador is the last thing he wants. Astarion had suffered enough for opening his mouth during that first press conference. 

While Cazador had initially defended him in front of Gale and Elminster, he’d berated Astarion all the way back to the hotel, calling him stupid for making the team look bad and endangering his future there. He’d eventually shoved Astarion into his hotel room so hard that Astarion had fallen against his bed, landing awkwardly on his right hand, his wrist bending backward with a worrying pop. Then Cazador had locked him in there, no doubt telling the rest of the team that Astarion was ‘resting’ for the remainder of the night. That was the usual lie.

His wrist is still alarmingly swollen and turning a nasty purple color, but Astarion is too afraid to go to the team’s medical staff for fear of anyone asking how he got hurt. 

This is why he rolls his eyes at Alfira and tuts. “Fine, whatever, I’ll do it.”

Anything but summon Cazador from wherever in the building he’s lurking. No doubt a room where air-conditioning is allowed because it doesn’t wreak havoc on sound recording. 

“Great!” Naaber claps his hands together. “Can we get Astarion holding a can as well?”

Gale unknowingly shoves a beer into Astarion’s bad hand and Astarion tries to hide his grimace as pain ricochets up his arm. 

“Action!”

“Dancing Axe Brewery,” the teammates say in unison, voices equally flat. Then they both half-heartedly dance. Astarion does the bare minimum and it’s still utterly humiliating. “Leave the dancing to the-”

“Cut! Don’t forget to take a sip of the beer, guys!”

If he didn’t dislike him so much, Astarion might have laughed when Gale downs half a can on the next take, Alfira opening her mouth to say something before giving up with a sigh.

They have to endure 20 more takes until the odious Naaber is satisfied. By this point, Astarion feels a bit tipsy. The jet lag and the Melbourne heat have gone to his head and so has the beer he ends up drinking. 

“Okay, good job guys,” Alfira is checking Gale’s schedule on her tablet. “10 minutes to get changed then we’ll get you back for your track walk and the strategy meeting.”

Gale thanks her and hurries off the set, Astarion trailing behind. There’s only one tiny dressing room at the poorly equipped studio. Gale had already been here and changed when Astarion arrived. Now, though, they both have to share. 

Astarion hovers in the doorway, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist and chewing his lip, wondering if it would be weird for him to go and get changed in the bathrooms. The fluorescent lighting in here is unforgiving and his burgeoning headache is only made worse by the smell of whitewash and dust burning on vanity lights. 

Gale is standing in front of the lit mirror and he glances up, irritated.

“Will you shut the door?”

Astarion shoots him what he hopes is a sufficiently withering glare and steps inside, closing the door behind him. I guess we’re getting changed here, then. At least this room is air-conditioned.

As soon as the door is closed, Gale is pulling off his sweaty team shirt with a sigh of relief. Astarion can’t help but look — just checking out the competition, of course. 

Gale is tall, perhaps not quite as tall as Astarion, and broad where Astarion is slender. His muscled arms and torso are surprisingly tanned for a Brit. Astarion supposes he shouldn’t be surprised at the good shape the man is in; all of them have to go through rigorous physical training, after all. But Gale always seems so hunched over, Astarion had half-expected him to have a dad bod going on under those ill-fitting outfits.

He scans up Gale’s flat stomach and over his solid chest. Nestled in the smattering of dark hair, amid a few strands of white, is a silvery scar that runs vertically between Gale’s pecs, about four inches long. Astarion knows Gale had to have heart surgery after his accident, though he doesn’t know the details. Gale has burn scars too, faded but still just about visible as they travel up his neck all the way to the corner of his eyes, like two trails of tears.

When Astarion's gaze reaches Gale’s eyes, his teammate is scowling at him in the mirror. He’s been caught staring.

“Trying to think of more pithy quips about my scars? Daddy certainly seemed to have a lot to say.” Gale’s voice is low and cold. Astarion is torn between making fun of the phrase ‘pithy quips’ and biting back at the comment about Cazador. Astarion is aware of what everyone in the industry thinks of him; another rich kid from Monaco who’s only in the sport because his father invested in a team. If only they all knew what his life is really like... But he isn’t about to have a heart-to-heart with Gale Dekarios of all people. 

Instead, Astarion does what he always does when confronted with a situation that makes him uncomfortable. He puts on a show. 

“Just admiring the view,” he drawls, pulling off his top deliberately slowly. It’s only partly a lie. Gale is certainly more his type than the insipid models and socialites Cazador insists Astarion is seen with at all times, nearly every one of his rendezvous depressingly orchestrated. For all his reputation as a playboy and ladies’ man, Astarion has never actually had a real relationship. He’d laugh at the stories about him in the press if it wasn’t so bleak.

He’s smug when he sees Gale staring, patches of red blossoming up from the skin under the man’s beard. 

Astarion knows he’s good-looking; he’s seen himself on enough covers of sports magazines, he reads his comments on social media. It’s a gamble with Gale though; Astarion isn’t sure of the man’s orientation, Gale is known for keeping his private life private. There had been some rumors at the time of his accident, a scandalous dalliance with an older Team Principal, the infamous Mystra. Other than that, Astarion hasn’t heard even a whisper of relationship gossip in the press or from their peers. There’s no one hanging around the paddock for Gale the way that Adrielle, Astarion’s current sham paramour, hangs around for him. 

It feels like a point scored then, the way Gale is looking at his body. Except Astarion suddenly realizes Gale isn’t looking at his body; he’s staring at Astarion’s arm. God damn it. In his efforts to fluster the man, Astarion forgot about the ugly bruising that encircles his wrist like a shackle. He turns away rapidly, pulling a clean long-sleeved t-shirt over his head and walking out before Gale can voice the question that’s in his eyes.

*

48 hours later, Gale is sitting in an F1 car on a starting grid for the first time in two years. Adrenaline pounds through his veins and he tries to steady his breathing, to focus on his strategy for the race start. It just feels so exhilarating to be back, so right, the sturdy weight of his helmet above him, the car thrumming below.

He’d done fairly well in qualifying — the stage of the weekend that determines where each driver will start on the grid. Gale is starting in fourth place; not bad at all for a disgraced old-timer returning to the sport. Ahead of him, Hallow is in third. The prodigy female racer had been another of Elminster’s top choices for Weave, only putting herself out of the running when she made a shock exit from Shar Automotive to join Scuderia Selune pre-season. 

Both Bane Motorsports drivers are in second and pole position. Neither of their drivers, Gortash or Thorm, have had particularly stellar starts in the sport. Yet their practice and qualifying times are leaps and bounds ahead of everyone else. It’s suspicious. Gale is secretly of the opinion that the team is cheating somehow. 

He glances in his mirrors at Astarion’s car behind him, decked out in Weave Racing’s purple livery, just like his own. Gale knows that his teammate is furious to be starting behind him. Astarion had been even more furious when Elminster doubled down on the team’s strategy after practice and quali: they’re going to prioritize Gale’s race because he’s been the better driver so far this weekend. 

“If Gale comes out behind you after the pit stop, we’ll need you to let him past,” the old man had reiterated wearily, seemingly unperturbed by Astarion’s hostility. “He’s been outperforming you overall, Astarion. You know this.”

Gale had enjoyed the flicker of irritation that passed across those annoyingly perfect features, as his teammate slouched in his chair, signature scowl on his face, flanked by his race engineer, Karlach, on one side and Cazador on the other. 

Gale has been driving better than Astarion. He’d always been quietly confident that he would but the last couple of days have him wondering if there’s more to it than just his own skill. Astarion has been looking a little peaky. At the final strategy meeting, the man’s already pale skin was pasty, a sheen of sweat across his brow, and he’d been holding one of his arms awkwardly on his lap. Gale had not missed the unsightly bruising on his teammate’s wrist when they got changed at the studio. 

There’s no time to dwell on that particular mystery though, as Gale gets his five-second warning that they’re about to begin. The starting lights sequence counts down and Gale can almost hear Crofty in his head, the commentator’s famous words that punctuate the start of every race:

It’s lights out and away we go…

Gale gets a fantastic start, clearing the first sharp corner without incident and ducking around Hallow on the straight to take third position. A glance tells him Astarion is right behind him, making the overtake as well, looming in Gale’s rearview mirror like a shark.

Both Bane racers are already pulling away, out of catching distance. It’s frustrating but no more than Gale expected, an anticipated part of Weave’s plan. Their goal is for Gale to finish the race in third; a podium position for his first Grand Prix back, a reassuring sight for the team’s investors.

It’s all going perfectly to plan until Gale’s first pit stop. This too is part of Weave’s strategy; an early stop to get fresh tires on Gale’s car that he can use to hold on to his position until the end of the race. As predicted, he comes out of the pit lane directly behind Astarion’s car. The plan is that the two cars will switch then, Astarion letting Gale go past to secure third place once more.

When Gale accelerates to pass his teammate though, Astarion swerves at the last minute, blocking him off and forcing Gale to come down heavy on the brakes. 

“What is he doing??” Gale spits into his microphone, gripping his steering wheel to stop himself from spinning out, keeping the car close on Astarion’s tail. 

Vajra’s voice comes back, terse over the radio. “We’re checking, Gale. Hold tight.” Then, after a few moments: “He has been told to let you pass. We might have some miscommunication. Orders are still not to race.”

Gale grits his teeth and says nothing, even as Vajra repeats: “Please confirm you understand, Gale. Do not race each other.”

Gale ignores her, gunning down on the throttle. Arrogant arsehole bastard. Astarion knows the team strategy and he’s going for glory himself instead. Shithead wanking tosser. There’s an opportunity to overtake Astarion coming up and Gale is on fresher tires. Mouth twisting into a satisfied grin, Gale darts out and around Astarion’s car, pushing until they’re neck and neck.

Then Astarion steers directly into him. 

*

Astarion has worked his way up to third place when Gale drives into him like an absolute lunatic. 

He knows he was supposed to let his teammate pass; Astarion’s long-suffering race engineer had given him the instruction enough times. 

“Mate, do not race. I repeat: do not race each other,” Karlach had sounded uncharacteristically serious. “Gale is on fresher tires, Star. We’ve got to let him through.” Star. No one else would get away with a nickname like that but he likes Karlach, admires her no-nonsense honesty. 

Today, however, Astarion is in no mood to listen to her. He’d never even gotten close to a podium with Lathander. This is his shot, his chance to take a trophy at his first race with a new team in a new season, his opportunity to show everyone watching that he’s no Number Two driver.

Plus, now he knows Gale has been ordered not to race him either. Gale won’t step out of line, he’s too much of an Elminster’s boy for that…

Astarion watches in stupefaction as Gale swings his car out and around, pulling alongside, going for the overtake. What the devil- 

In response, Astarion pushes his car as hard as it’ll go, the chassis shaking and bouncing beneath him as he strains to hold Gale off. But they’re rapidly running out of space, approaching a corner, Gale needs to back off now or they’ll-

The force is immense as Gale clips Astarion’s front wing, pressing Astarion back into his seat, the car flying into a spin. Agony blooms up his arm as he fights the steering wheel, trying to keep the car on the track, but his wrist is too weak, the pain too great. He loses his grip and veers off the track at speed, skidding along the gravel for what feels like an eternity before the car finally comes to a rest. 

“Star?” Karlach sounds worried. 

“Fuck! FUCK!” Pain and shock fight for dominance in Astarion’s brain. He’s had crashes before, of course, but never one like this and never in an F1 car. His entire body is shaking. His wrist is excruciating.

“Star?? You okay?”

Ahead of him, Astarion can see Gale’s car lodged firmly in the barrier and both pain and shock are rapidly overtaken by anger. Still trembling, he yanks his steering wheel loose and jumps out of the cockpit, half-running towards his teammate, throwing his equipment to the floor, screaming.

“What in the sweet hell were you thinking, overtaking like that? I was RIGHT THERE!” 

Gale has the audacity to look angry at him and suddenly Astarion loses it. He’s hurt, he’s tired, and he’s so sick of these smug, awful bastards thinking they can control his every move. Before he’s even had a chance to think about what he’s doing, he finds himself swinging for Gale with his bad hand. It’s a mercy that the punch doesn’t land because it would have been agony. But then Gale is toppling backward, grabbing at Astarion’s wrist, the wrist that the man knows is injured, and Astarion is crying out with pain, grappling his teammate to the floor, desperately lashing out in an attempt to make Gale let go…

It takes several stewards to separate them in the end. They’re both dusty and disheveled by the time they’re bundled into a golf cart and driven hastily back to the paddock in stony silence, Gale sporting a bloody nose and Astarion trying to stem the laceration high on his own cheekbone, where he rolled onto a sharp piece of gravel.

The reception at the Weave hospitality suite is equally hostile. Almost no one greets the teammates as they trudge back into the pit garage, trying to avoid the lightning flash of paparazzi bulbs. Only Karlach steps forward to give Astarion a quick squeeze on his shoulder and a concerned look.

“Meeting room,” Elminster is as angry as Astarion thinks the old man is capable of being. “Now.”

Alongside the team’s strategists and PR, Cazador is already waiting at the large conference table when they arrive. Astarion’s rage gives way to fear at the expression on the man’s face. To his relief though, Elminster orders everyone to leave.

“I will speak to my drivers alone.” The old man’s tone has the rest of the team glancing nervously at each other, and they all file out. All except Cazador that is. 

“Everyone!” Elminster shouts and Cazador’s lip curls but he acquiesces, only pausing to give Astarion a look of pure disdain as he passes. Astarion knows what that look means. He’s in for it later. He shrinks down into his chair, wishing he could go home.

*

Elminster yells at them for nearly half an hour in the end, lecturing them about cooperation and compromise, and the responsibility they have for the rest of the team. Gale does feel guilty then. Weave has only just come back to racing. All the engineers, mechanics, designers, support staff, and personnel are relying on Gale and Astarion to keep the team going, to keep them in employment for next year. So much for no stress, he thinks ruefully, rubbing his chest. 

Elminster eyes him wearily. “Are you okay?”

Gale nods but Elminster is speaking into a walkie-talkie already. “Send in Ms. Ressym, please. Meeting room A.” He clips the device back onto his belt, giving both Gale and Astarion yet another disapproving look. “I’m going for a meeting with the stakeholders; I will do my best to control the damage you have both done. When you’ve been checked over, I want you both back at the hotel for the night. Do not speak to anyone. We will continue this conversation tomorrow. She’s on her way.” This last is directed at Gale, and then Elminster is stalking out of the room, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

She’s on her way. Oh god, Gale thinks with a groan. This is the last thing he needs.

When his physician arrives, it’s with an irate look on her face. “Symptoms?” she snaps.

“Hullo, Tara,” Gale smiles glumly but the gesture is ignored. With the bedside manner of a spitting wildcat, Tara instructs him to discard his racing suit and he has to sit in a t-shirt and his pants while she hooks him up to a portable ECG, expression still grim. Gale tries to ignore Astarion watching them both with curiosity as the doctor taps her foot impatiently on the floor, checking the display. Eventually, she relaxes.

“You’re fine. Your heart is fine, at least. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Gale shakes his head, wilting in the face of her discontent. Tara always makes him feel like a damned schoolboy. The doctor is an old university friend of his mother’s, and his godmother to boot. She had personally overseen his recovery after his first accident and had berated him almost as much as his mother had when she discovered he intended to go back to racing.

“I’m all good,” Gale reassures her, desperate to redirect her attention. “But I think Astarion hurt his arm when we fell.”

His teammate glances up at him in surprise and Gale forces a small smile behind Tara’s back. He knows Astarion was injured before the race but he’d clearly been trying to hide it for some reason, and Gale feels guilty for the way he’d grabbed that bruised wrist, even if it was an accident. Plus, he’s filled with burning shame and remorse for his actions on the track. If not for Astarion’s sake, for the team’s. They can’t go on like this. 

Tara is contemplating the other driver, taking in the way he’s cradling his arm and the cut on his cheek. “I can take a look,” she offers, and Astarion nods. He seems younger all of a sudden, small and ashamed and tired and in pain. Gale knows that feeling all too well.

“Call your mother,” Tara slams a phone down on the table, redirecting Gale’s attention. “She’s beside herself.”

More guilt. Gale’s mother, Morena, doesn’t attend any of his races anymore. She says her own heart can’t take it, not after losing a husband to the sport and then nearly losing a son in the same way. Tara must have been keeping her informed. With a heavy sigh, Gale taps his mother’s number into the phone.

“Tara? Is he okay??” Morena answers before the dial tone has even begun. 

“Hi mum, it’s me…”

*

“Ow!” Astarion flinches as Tara applies antiseptic to the cut on his cheek. She merely tuts, turning her attention to his wrist. 

“This injury was incurred just now?” Piercing amber eyes bore into his own and Astarion has to look away as he lies to the older woman with a nod. 

“Hmm.” Tara clearly doesn’t believe him, but she checks his wrist nonetheless, tenderly inspecting the swelling, testing his range of movement. 

To take his mind off the pain, Astarion watches Gale as he speaks to his mother. 

“I’m fine, mu- mum, listen, I’m fi- Ugh, mum!” Gale runs a hand through his silver-flecked hair. Despite his grays, he seems younger all of a sudden, small and ashamed and tired and in pain. Astarion knows that feeling all too well. “Yep- yeah, I know, mum. Yes. Okay, okay. I will- Honestly, I’m fi- yeah okay. I’ll call you from the hotel. I- yes, I know, I love you too.”

Bitterly, Astarion wonders what it’s like to have parents who care.

Gale hangs up the phone, shooting Astarion another rueful smile. His demeanor is taking Astarion by surprise, considering they’d been trying to punch each other less than an hour ago. Perhaps the man feels guilty for single-handedly ruining the team’s chances once again. Astarion tries to think of something friendly to say, to return the gesture.

“Doesn’t it make you feel bad about racing again, worrying her like that?” He’d meant it as a genuine question, an attempt to connect with his teammate, but it comes out judgy and disdainful. Either way, the comment evidently hits a nerve. Gale’s eyes widen and then he glowers, standing up so fast his chair scrapes the laminate floor with a grating screech. Snatching up his racing suit, Gale storms out of the meeting room, slamming the door behind him. 

Damn it. Astarion glances up at Tara but she won’t meet his eye. 

“You’ve got a grade 2 sprain,” Astarion winces as the doctor sets his wrist down none-too-gently. “I’ll have the medical team get you some anti-inflammatories.” Then she’s snatching up her phone and bag, sweeping out of the room in pursuit of Gale, leaving Astarion all on his own at the stark white table.

Chapter Text

A one-race ban and a €20,000 fine to come out of each of their salaries — this is Gale and Astarion’s penalty.

“The stewards determined that it is the obligation of sportsmen at this level to act appropriately and as role models to other drivers at all levels and found that Ancunin and Dekarios failed in this respect,” the FIA said. Apparently, the sport’s governing body sees mid-race fist fights as an “act prejudicial to the interests of Formula 1".

At least it’s not a complete disqualification, Gale had thought. It could be worse. Then he’d immediately kicked himself. There would have been a time when €20,000 was more than his entire year’s salary. Now it seems a small price to pay to keep Weave in the championship. When did he become so divested from reality? 

Elminster is furious about the ban. Not only did both his drivers fail to finish the first race of the season, but now neither will be competing in the second. That leaves Weave with no points so far, and he’s having to put forward the team's two young and inexperienced reserves in their place. 

As such, Gale is on his way to do ‘community service’ as an additional punishment. Namely, Elminster is making him and Astarion assist the catering team with the lunch rush at Saturday’s qualifying session in Bahrain. “Since you won’t be doing anything else that day,” Elminster had grumbled, before stalking off to stress about the strategy for the rest of the year. 

As always, Gale arrives on time and Astarion shows up 10 minutes later, waltzing into the kitchen like he’s there to sign autographs. He barely acknowledges Gale, only deigning to nod at the waiting head chef before lounging up against a counter and folding his arms tightly across his chest. Behind him, the kitchen staff are split between staring and grinning at the two disgruntled F1 stars standing in their midst. 

“Afternoon, Mr Ancunin!” Chef Roveer, the head of Weave’s catering team, gives the younger driver an unimpressed once-over. “Nice of you to join us!”

“It’s my pleasure, darling,” Astarion drawls. “I simply cannot wait to join in with-” He waves a hand vaguely. “-whatever it is you do here.”

Gale can’t help but let out a small snort of laughter, more at Astarion’s rudeness than his actual comment, and Astarion’s eyes flick to him with a grin.

They haven’t seen each other since after their fight. They were booked on separate flights from Australia and Gale hasn’t bumped into Astarion around the hotel here at all, though he has heard from other team members that this isn’t all that unusual when Cazador is ‘unhappy’ with his son.

Gale looks down at Astarion’s wrist, wondering if his injury was another result of Cazador’s ‘unhappiness’. The younger driver is wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt again, despite the heat.

“In that case, lads,” Roveer smiles ominously. “I think I’ve got the perfect job for you…”

“I actually have some cheffing experience-” Gale begins, but he’s cut off by Roveer’s guffaw.

“That’s no use to me, son!” The man is enjoying himself. “All we need from you two today is your elbow grease!”

Pot wash. Gale and Astarion are to spend their day washing dishes. And the rest of the team has kindly left them all the pots and pans from the breakfast service to get started with. 

“Wonderful!” Gale rolls up his sleeves as Roveer gestures towards the huge chrome double-sink. At least this is a familiar task. Might as well try to stay positive.

*

Pot wash. Astarion has never even heard this phrase in his life. This is apparently a real job that some people have. He’d assumed dishwashers would have put a stop to this sort of thing by now. 

“Wonderful!” Dekarios trills at the chef, marching confidently over to the sink, rolling up his sleeves and pulling on a pair of rubber gloves like it’s second nature. He doesn’t even sound like he’s being sarcastic. 

Astarion trails reluctantly over. 

“Scrub or rinse?” Gale asks, without looking at him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gale turns to him with a patronizing sigh. “Do you want to scrub the pots or would you like to rinse them?”

Astarion eyes the pile of pans, smothered in the remains of the morning’s service, bits of egg and bacon and sausage stuck like glue. “Rinse, I think,” he replies, feeling a little sick.

“Ha. I thought as much,” Gale grabs a scourer and makes a start on the huge pile of dirty pans. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

His teammate doesn’t respond, instead watching with amusement as Astarion fiddles with the bizarre dangling contraption that hangs over the sink. Eventually, Gale leans over and flicks the tap on for him, sending water cascading down the front of Astarion’s top. 

“Urgh!” he snaps. “Excellent. Thank you very much.” Astarion makes a big deal of wringing out his shirt but the water actually feels pleasantly cool. Bahrain is one of the hottest weekends of the whole circuit and the gleaming chrome expanse of the kitchen is roasting even though it’s not yet midday. Gale is in shorts and a t-shirt with his hair tied up but he’s already sweating, little strands of his hair escaping their binding to cling to his forehead. Astarion is regretting the necessity of his long-sleeved top.

“Oops,” Gale shrugs, with a small smile. Someone woke up and chose violence again today, Astarion thinks, glaring at him. Then Gale is thrusting a freshly scrubbed frying pan at him and Astarion gingerly rinses it off before placing it onto the drying rack on the counter. They soon fall into a rhythm, albeit in tense silence.

Predictably, Gale is the one to speak first. “You need to rinse them more thoroughly than that or the washing up liquid dries and leaves a residue.”

Astarion stares at him. “How do you know how to do this?”

“How do I know how to do washing up??” Gale’s response is incredulous and Astarion feels shame momentarily darken his cheeks. 

“Forgive me for having better things to do with my time,” he mutters. It’s a regretfully uninspired comeback and Gale gives it the scoff it deserves. 

“Forgive me for having actually worked for the life I have,” the man retorts, his voice dark. “Instead of having everything handed to me on a silver platter.” As if to punctuate his point, he shoves a clean silver platter into Astarion’s hands.

Gale must catch the wince that crosses Astarion’s face, as his broad shoulders sag. “Damn it, I’m sorry. Your wrist; I didn't think...”

Astarion shrugs, setting the platter down in the sink, trying not to let on how much pain he’s in. The anti-inflammatories Tara got him are helping but the recommended treatment for a sprain is rest and Cazador hasn’t given him an ounce. Furious that Astarion is banned from driving this race week, his father has forced him into relentless simulator sessions for the upcoming race in Japan instead. The car in the sim might be fake but the steering wheel replicates every judder and wrench of driving in real life. Astarion is beginning to worry that he might be doing some permanent damage. 

Dr Ressym, Gale’s physician, had voiced her concerns to Elminster too. Cazador rapidly shut them down though. He told the TP that he’d taken Astarion to their own family doctor, who confirmed Tara had misdiagnosed the sprain and ruled Astarion fit to continue training. It was all a lie, of course. There had been no other doctor.

“It’s fine,” Astarion mumbles. 

“Is it- are you okay? Is it getting bette-”

“I'm fine.” 

Gale sighs and carries on scrubbing. Astarion feels guilty for cutting him off but if he talks about Cazador now… There are press lurking around, eager to get a snapshot of the two naughty F1 drivers, getting their just desserts for fighting. The public is salivating over their rivalry and desperate for more details. In fact, the whole thing has ended up playing surprisingly well with most of their fans — Gale's, who are pleased to see some fire back in their favorite driver, and Astarion's, who love him for his bad boy reputation already. 

It's going to give off entirely the wrong look if the paparazzi get a photo of him crying at a kitchen sink. 

Astarion tries to think of something else to say to Gale instead but he comes up blank. Fortunately, it seems the man can't stay quiet for long.

“I worked in kitchens from 13,” he explains, still not looking at Astarion. “I started on pot wash — that's how I know how to do this.” 

“Oh,” says Astarion. He's known nothing but racing his entire life. Every weekend, every holiday, every evening after school was spent being put through rigorous training. He longs for a lost childhood where he got to have a Saturday job like a normal person. It's funny to think of himself at 13 in some disheveled little English pub somewhere, scrubbing dishes. 

Gale must catch the smirk on Astarion's face because he turns away with a scowl. God damn it. Astarion wasn’t even laughing at him; he’s tired of his teammate always thinking the worst. In an attempt to salvage whatever olive branch Gale was trying to offer, Astarion leans across to help him lift a particularly huge pot across the sinks to be rinsed. But his wrist gives way under the weight of the cast iron and the whole thing goes clattering back into Gale's sink with a huge crash. 

Astarion is about to apologize when he notices that Gale has shied away from the noise, his eyes closed, white knuckles gripping the edge of the counter. 

“...Are you okay?” 

Gale nods but he’s grimacing, eyes screwed shut. Not sure what to do, Astarion lays a hand on the man's arm. Gale is trembling. “What's wrong?” 

Gale shakes his head, taking a few deep breaths. “I'm fine.” Eventually, he opens his eyes, glancing down at Astarion’s hand, which Astarion immediately withdraws. “I'm fine,” he repeats. “Here.” 

He reaches down and helps Astarion lift the pot again, this time purposefully supporting Astarion’s right hand with his own to stop it from bearing too much of the heavy weight. At the warmth of Gale's hand over his, Astarion glances up at him in surprise. They lock eyes for a moment, Gale’s expression unreadable, but then the man quickly moves away and carries on working. They finish the rest of the service in silence.

*

2 hours later, the lunch service is done and Gale is in a car with tinted windows, being driven to Elminster’s second punishment of the day. Astarion is in the back with him, while the front seat is occupied by Khelben Arunsun, Weave’s operations director and Elminster's right-hand man. 

The car zooms along a wide highway lined with sand and palm trees, the sun beating down from a completely blue sky. Gale has no idea where they’re going, though they appear to be heading north.

“Almost there,” Khelben eyes Gale in the rearview mirror, impassive as ever, and Gale attempts a lighthearted eye-roll back.

In truth, he still feels shaky and disoriented. He’s had plenty of therapy since his accident but his flashbacks have been getting worse since he returned to driving. The sights and smells of the garage, the track, the car all regularly transport him back to the crash. Loud noises — like the dropped pot — are the worst though, sending him into a dizzying panic of sickness and cold sweat that it seems to take an age to recover from. Gale tries to keep his breathing steady, the new leather scent of the car's interior doing nothing to abate his nausea. 

Ancunin's reaction had been a pleasant surprise though. At first, his teammate’s snobby smirk about Gale working kitchens had filled Gale with shame. He's never really fit in with his peers in F1, coming from a poorer background and far more interested in the physics of the forces that affect a Formula 1 car than he is in girls or partying. 

Yet, when Gale’s flashback kicked in, Astarion had noticed. He'd even laid a comforting hand on Gale’s arm, his steady, cool touch helping Gale to ground himself, bring himself back from the brink. 

Gale had wanted to thank him, but he wasn't sure Astarion even knew what he'd done. So instead Gale attempted to meet kindness with kindness, supporting Astarion’s bad wrist as they lifted the heavy pot together. Astarion had looked at him with such surprise that Gale found himself wondering if anyone had been kind to the man in his life. 

Something about that look, paired with the touch of Astarion’s hand, has left Gale feeling a bit… confused. 

He can see Astarion’s face in his mind’s eye now, eyebrows raised where they’re usually furled, gray eyes wide where they’re usually narrowed, lips parted where they’re usually twisted into a scornful sneer. Gale had felt something like- well, something like the stirrings of attraction if he’s being honest.

You’re being pathetic, he tells himself sternly. Astarion was nice once — he’s odious the rest of the time. The man clearly detests him, or looks down on him at best. Gale is only feeling like this because he’s been lonely lately. He always gets lonely traveling from place to place for each race, moving from one nondescript hotel room to another. It's only his loneliness talking. Not to mention the fact that being attracted to his number 2 driver would be completely inappropriate, unprofessional, unethical, indecorous, and improper. These are not thoughts that should be entertained.

Gale risks a peek at his teammate. Astarion is gazing out of the window, chin resting elegantly on one hand, his bad arm lying across his lap. His curls are moving gently in the stream of the car’s air conditioning, and one has fallen over his forehead into his eyes. He moves to brush it away, turning and catching Gale staring in the process. 

Astarion quirks his head, raising an eyebrow and Gale is so close to echoing his teammate's words from the changing room — “Just enjoying the view…” — but he chickens out at the last minute, snapping his head around to look out of his own window and hoping Astarion doesn’t see the reddening at the back of his neck.

*

If Astarion isn’t mistaken, he just caught his teammate staring at him. Mildly amused, he watches Gale for a bit. The other driver is now looking steadfastly out of the window and won’t meet his eye. The back of his neck is all red. 

Astarion wonders what the man’s deal is. He can’t work him out. On one hand, Gale seems to find him endlessly irritating. It’s like he got it into his stubborn head that Astarion was going to be some sort of protegee he could mentor, and now he’s furious that Astarion is emerging as a challenger instead. 

On the other hand, Gale does seem to be looking out for him too. He’d covered for Astarion with Dr Ressym, lying for him without even being asked to. Then there had been that moment in the kitchen where it seemed like Gale was intentionally supporting Astarion’s bad wrist. 

And not once had Gale pushed him for information on how he got hurt. He seems content to just be nice, regardless of how rude Astarion is to him. It’s annoying. It makes Astarion want to be nice back.

At least he can repay Gale the favor of discretion. The man clearly has his own problems; god knows what that reaction was to the dropped pot in the kitchen. Gale had looked like he was going to pass out. PTSD, that’s what that reporter had said at the conference. Astarion had assumed she was just fishing but maybe it’s common knowledge that Gale’s crash gave him mental health problems.

Cazador says mental health problems are just a nickname for weakness. A weakness that lies dormant in Astarion too, apparently. A gift from his mother who died in a psychiatric hospital in the end. Cazador says that Astarion’s weakness must be quashed by discipline and hard work. Astarion isn’t so sure. It’s not like his own panic attacks have gone away under Cazador’s regime — he just has to hide them now.

He goes back to staring out of the car window, watching the palm trees zip past, his wrist quietly throbbing in his lap. Hopefully, whatever nonsense Elminster has planned next won’t take too long and he can go back to his room and get some rest.

*

The driver slows as they coast into what looks like a concrete car park, but then they turn a corner and the sea stretches out before them, glittering and turquoise. The driver pulls up next to a rough wooden jetty, a small speedboat waiting at one end. 

“Here we are,” Khelben gets out of the car, sounding weary. 

“What do you mean, ‘here we are’?” Gale scrambles out after him, Astarion following suit, lounging against the car, peering at the boat with distaste that is evident even behind his expensive sunglasses. “What’s going on, Khel?”

“You’re going on an excursion,” The operations director rolls his eyes as though he has far more important things to be doing. Which, to be fair, he does. “Elminster thinks you two need to bond.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Astarion is standing up straight now, glaring over his shades. “What kind of excursion?”

“He’s rented out an island,” Khelben says, to Gale’s disbelief. “When you get there, you’re going to find everything you need to catch and cook your own dinner, as well as equipment for camping.”

“Camping!?” Astarion exclaims as though Khelben has just said ‘prison’. “What do you mean ‘camping’??”

“How long for, Khel?” Gale is trying to stay calm but he’s sort of with Astarion on this one.

“Just overnight,” Khelben checks his phone. “Right, I’ll be back to pick you up in the morning. Can I have your devices, please?” He holds out a hand expectantly. 

“Now hold on a minute,” Gale protests. “This is ridiculous!”

“You’re telling me,” the operations manager sighs. “But Elminster’s exact words were: ‘I want them to bond, not scroll TikBook all evening’.”

“TikBook!?” Astarion shrieks as Gale exclaims: “What if we have an emergency??”

“Yes!” Astarion’s gestures are becoming increasingly dramatic. “An emergency like being forced to go fucking camping!”

Khelben reaches into his pocket and withdraws an old flip phone, tossing it to Gale. “Emergency services and my number in the contacts. Now, devices please, so I can leave. I would like to be able to watch at least some of the sport I am actually fucking paid to work in. Weave is still racing this weekend, you know. Believe it or not, the world doesn’t revolve around you two idiots.”

Astarion’s mouth falls open in shock but Gale begrudgingly fishes out his phone and hands it over, along with his smartwatch.

“You too, Ancunin. I don’t have all day.”

With a huff that wouldn’t be out of place in a daytime soap opera, Astarion sulkily pushes his phone into Khelben’s grasp. “That’s all I have,” he grumbles, holding out his hands like a caught thief. 

“Right,” Khelben gets back into the car, pausing before closing the door. “The skipper knows what time to bring you back tomorrow. Good luck, lads.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving Gale and Astarion stranded on the dusty jetty. 

Astarion peers at Gale over his sunglasses. “We’re not doing this, right? We can just get an Uber back to the hotel?”

“I don’t know that we’ve got much choice…” Gale shrugs haplessly. “We’ve got to show him that we’re trying, Astarion. We really fucked up last week.”

Gale thinks he’s being generous saying ‘we’, since the entire thing was Astarion’s fault, but his teammate is looking at him like he’s suggesting they make out and send Elminster pictures.

“You’re joking. I’m not getting on that boat.”

“I’m not joking. Maybe it would be good for us to-”

“My god, you are such a- such a-!” Astarion’s gestures are back as he presumably searches for a sufficiently offensive word.

“Such a what?” Gale sighs. He feels like a goddamned babysitter.

“Such a boy scout!” Astarion exclaims. Could have been worse, Gale thinks. But then it’s Astarion, so it does get worse.

“You don’t have to do everything Elminster tells you to, you know,” his teammate sneers. “You can stand up to WorkDaddy, he won’t abandon you.”

*

As soon as he says it, Astarion regrets it. He forgot that Gale’s real dad is dead. That’s probably the entire reason Gale looks up to Aumar in the first place. But it’s too late; the words are out there now. 

Gale’s eyes narrow. When he speaks, it’s with that same cold, dark tone he used in the changing room. “And you’d know all about standing up to fathers, wouldn’t you? What do you think will happen to your other wrist when Cazador finds out you’ve been disobeying team orders again?”

Astarion's face grows hot with shame and fear. You deserved that, a little voice in his head taunts. You always deserve it. Gale knows about Cazador then. Or suspects, at least. It always amazes Astarion how many people seem to know and yet how no one ever intervenes. Perhaps they all think he deserves it too.

Gale is also annoyingly right. Cazador dislikes Elminster but his strategy for Astarion’s career is two seasons at Weave before moving somewhere better like Shar, or even Bane. He’ll go ballistic if he finds out Astarion has been getting on the team principal’s wrong side again...

With one last glare, Gale turns and stalks down the jetty. 

“Where are you going?” Astarion hurries after him.

“A night on a deserted island is starting to sound genuinely enticing,” Gale growls, clambering onto the boat without looking back.

Astarion prevaricates for a moment before gingerly climbing aboard too.

*

The speed boat is small but Gale turns as far away from Astarion as possible, trying to enjoy the breeze on his face as the vessel skitters over white-tipped waves. He cannot believe he thought he was attracted to the man earlier. Astarion Ancunin is a nasty piece of work.

WorkDaddy, he scoffs to himself. Utterly ridiculous. Yes, as an old friend of his father’s, Elminster had taken an interest in Gale’s career from a young age. And yes, Elminster had played a big part in getting Gale into the Blackstaff Development Academy. And yes, Gale admires and looks up to the old man, craves — well, wants — his approval. But only in a strictly professional sense. Not as some sort of- sort of replacement dad or whatever Astarion was getting at.

At least Gale had managed to get his own back. Astarion had gone bright red when Gale brought up his wrist. But Gale can’t even bring himself to enjoy it; he’s never been one for taking pleasure in upsetting others. Another one of the multifarious ways in which he’s different from his bratty teammate. 

The boat’s engine putters to a low hum, pulling Gale from his reverie. They’ve all but stopped, bobbing about on the sparkling blue water, the skipper looking at them both expectantly. 

The island peeks out of the sea just ahead. Barely an island really, more a scrap of white sand littered with palm trees and a few of what appear to be palm-thatched huts. 

“There,” Astarion is on his feet, pointing at the island, talking slowly and loudly to the man driving the boat. “That. Is. Where. We need. To go.”

The man looks at him as though he’s an imbecile. “I’m aware…” He gestures at the small expanse of water between them and the shore. “But there are rocks under the water here. You’ll have to swim the rest of the way — well, most of it should be shallow enough to wade.”

Astarion looks aghast and Gale rolls his eyes. They can't be more than 20 meters from the island. It's hardly a big deal...

“Come on, princess.” Gale pulls off his trainers and starts tying the laces together, Astarion watching in horror.

“What the hell are you doing? I’m not swimming that.” He turns back to the skipper. “I’m not swimming that!”

“Then you can stay in the boat with me,” The man shrugs. “I’m returning to the mainland in the next two minutes.”

Astarion lets out an undignified noise, turning back to Gale. “This isn’t safe!”

“What? Afraid of a little paddling?” It’s so satisfying to see his teammate flustered that Gale can’t help but share a grin with the skipper.

“I’m not afraid,” Astarion snarls. “I’m just not stupid enough to throw myself in the ocean to please an old man who’s really only interested in how much money he can wring out of me by pretending he’s some sort of all-knowing father figu-”

Suddenly, Gale has had enough of Astarion’s vitriol. He’s sick of hearing it. As his teammate rants and raves, Gale finds that he really, really wants him to shut up, wants him to stop talking, wants him to just bloody well-

Gale leans forward and pushes Astarion into the sea.

The boat’s skipper lets out a guffaw as Astarion hits the water with a distressed shout, and Gale snorts too, mildly shocked at his own behavior. Then his laughter fades as white curls slip under the surface and fail to come back up again. 

“Oh- oh god. Astarion!”

Chapter Text

Astarion fell off a boat once when he was small. He still has nightmares about it sometimes, about the way the water felt like concrete as he hit its surface, knocking the breath out of him, the way the cold blue had sealed up over his head, taking the last of the air with it. The way the light of the sun had drifted further and further away as he sank.

But then there had been a splash nearby, arms around him, strong and warm, lifting him back to the surface, rubbing his back and helping him cough up salty water. There had been a soft, kind voice telling him that he was okay, he was okay, he was safe now. His mother’s voice. 

He’d buried his little curly head in her shoulder and bawled, even the scent of her expensive perfume not calming him down as it usually did. She’d had to climb up the ladder of the day boat Cazador hired with Astarion clinging to her like a baby monkey. 

Back on board, she’d wrapped him in a sun-warmed towel and whispered silly jokes to try to get him to stop crying but it was too late. There was another voice, hard and cruel. 

“Why is it making that noise!? Shut it up!” Cazador had been like that all day, driving the boat like a maniac, scaring them both, veering wildly between shouting at them and laughing hysterically.

“I never taught him to swim,” Astarion’s mother had said regretfully, in that odd sing-song way she had of speaking. It was one of the good days, the days before she started disappearing to the clinic more and more often. Before she got so stressed out by Astarion's bad behavior that she lost her mind, Cazador said. Even on those good days, however, she was often dazed and confused. It seemed to infuriate the man.

“What do you mean ‘taught him to swim’?” Cazador spat, looming over them. “Even dogs know how to swim without being taught.”

Then he had torn Astarion from her arms — both mother and child screaming — and thrown him back into the ocean.


*

The cold slap of the sea takes Gale’s breath away as he dives off the boat without a second thought, the unheeded shouts of the skipper ringing out behind him. 

The water is much deeper than he was expecting and, for a moment, he panics that Astarion has sunk too far out of reach. But then his grasping hands find a warm body in the dark and he folds his arms around Astarion’s chest, kicking frantically to get him to the surface.

Astarion is panicking, which doesn’t help matters at all. He claws at Gale’s face, neck, and shoulders, pushing Gale under the water in his attempts to find air.

“Astarion!” Gale gurgles as his head is half submerged. “You have to calm- calm dow- Astarion, calm down! You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

With relief, Gale feels his teammate relax in his arms and he manages to turn Astarion onto his back, resting the man’s head against his shoulder so he can keep his face out of the water. Astarion is letting out little shuddering gasps and Gale wraps an arm tightly around his shoulders as the waves knock them about. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

They’ve drifted closer to the island, quite far from the boat, and the skipper is shouting over the water in concern.  

“We’re okay!” Gale calls, hoping the man can hear him. 

“Are you sure? Is he alright?” comes the faint cry. “I can’t get to you, can you get back here?” 

Gale shifts Astarion’s head higher up his shoulder and looks around. “We’re closer to the island! I’m going to go ashore!” 

He can’t make out the man’s response.

The small spit is surrounded by a shelf in the sea bed and Gale doesn’t have to kick for long until his toes find sand. He helps Astarion find his feet too, getting one of his teammate’s arms over his shoulder and half-carrying him onto the island, where they both collapse onto the warm beach, Gale rolling onto his back.

“Are you- are you okay?” he gasps, catching his breath. When Astarion doesn’t answer, Gale sits up. His teammate’s expression is concerning; he looks completely lost, gazing through Gale as though he isn’t there. “Astarion?”

Fuck. Gale feels awful. He stands up, searching the water for the boat then waving frantically at the skipper. The man will have to navigate the rocks to pick them up. Or perhaps he can go and get help…

The skipper gives him a friendly wave back and a thumbs up, before taking off towards the mainland. 

“No!” Gale cries. “Damn it!”

Remembering the phone Khel gave them, Gale fishes it out of his pocket. The bloody thing is drenched. When he tries the power button, nothing happens. “For god’s sake!”

He glances down at his teammate again. Astarion is shaking all over, despite the relentless heat of the afternoon sun, and Gale is genuinely concerned about him. Unsure of what to do, he casts around to see what’s been left for them. There are a few of the huts he’d seen from the boat scattered across the island — Khel said they’d been left provisions, right?

“Are you okay here for a bit? I’m just going to- I’m going to check for supplies,” he tells Astarion as he leaves. The other driver merely nods. 

Up close, the huts are quite posh. The open-fronted A-frame walls are stylishly constructed from planks of different-coloured woods and the roofs are thatched with dried palm fronds. Each one has its own little covered porch surrounded by railings and housing a small table and chairs. The island is obviously part of some larger resort, and Gale wonders how much it cost the team to hire the whole place out. Some ridiculous amount no doubt. 

Most of the huts are empty but two have been kitted out with a platform bed each, bedding, and some towels labeled ‘Emerald Grove Beach Resort’. Elminster clearly didn’t rate their survival abilities. For once though, Gale is grateful to have been underestimated by the old man. He grabs a couple of towels and jogs back to Astarion, crouching next to him and holding one out.

“Hey, we need to get you dried off, okay?” 

Astarion blinks at him and nods. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m fine, I just-”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry,” Gale proffers the towel again and Astarion takes it uncertainly. “I can- do you want me to… I’m going to hang these out to dry.” He gestures at his own sodden clothes. “Do you want me to take yours as well?”

Astarion nods again. He goes to pull off his t-shirt but cries out when he bends his right hand. 

“Here- let me- keep your arm straight,” Gale helps Astarion out of his shirt, glancing with concern at the man’s wrist. It looks more swollen than ever. Astarion had been thrashing about in the water, it probably made his injury even worse. Gale awkwardly makes to help Astarion out of his shorts too but his teammate swats him away.

“If there’s ever a day I allow you to take off my trousers,” Astarion grumbles, “I want to be shot.”

Gale huffs a laugh of relief, turning away as his teammate wriggles out of his shorts and trainers. “Welcome back.”

Astarion merely holds out his clothes in response. 

When he’s hung their wet things over the railings of the nearest hut, Gale hesitates before returning. The adrenaline of their dramatic arrival is wearing off and he suddenly feels self-conscious, bared in nothing but his boxer shorts. He’s also nervous. He knows he needs to apologize but he has no idea how Astarion will take it, why he’d had such a reaction to being pushed into the water. With a sigh, Gale heads back.

Astarion is still sitting on the beach, albeit with his knees hugged up to his chest now. His chin is resting on his arms and he’s staring out to sea, his hair damp and hanging straight over his face, curling only slightly at the ends as it dries. His pale skin looks almost paper white in the harsh sun and Gale is half-worrying about him burning when he sees Astarion’s back for the first time.

Scored down his spine, as though with a knife, is a long scar. It’s raised but white, obviously healed some time ago, and it runs from the base of Astarion’s neck to the small of his back. On either side of the main scar are jagged dots — the telltale sign of stitches. Astarion has obviously had surgery too at some point. Gale had no idea. 

He settles onto the sand next to his teammate, wondering how to begin his apology. Astarion spares him the trouble.

“I fell into the sea when I was a kid, okay?” the other driver snaps defensively, still staring straight ahead. “It’s no big deal, it just- I can’t swim. It makes me panic to be in water sometimes.”

He’s still trembling, and Gale gently takes the unused towel from his unresisting hands and wraps it around him. Then, giving into a probably misguided whim, Gale leaves his arm around Astarion’s shoulders, squeezing the top of his arm slightly. “I’m so sorry, Astarion. I would never have done that if I’d known you can’t swim. I shouldn’t have done it anyway.”

“It’s- whatever… you didn’t know.” To Gale’s surprise, his teammate doesn’t shrug him off. If anything, Astarion seems to lean into the embrace. “I deserved it anyway.”

“No, you didn’t,” Gale can’t help but hold him a bit tighter, guilt prickling across his skin.

They sit there like that for a bit, the sand warm beneath them and the sun warm overhead, Gale not wanting to move as he feels Astarion’s shivering slowly abate. After some time, curls tickle his cheek as his teammate’s head droops against Gale’s shoulder. When Gale looks down, Astarion has fallen asleep.

*

Astarion wakes to a flickering behind his eyelids and the smell of woodsmoke. For a moment, he forgets where he is and his eyes fly open. He pushes himself up to sitting, taking in the white sand, the palm trees, and the dusky purple sky in dazed confusion.

Then it all comes flooding back: the boat, the water, his panic attack. He’s mortified. He’d dissociated completely over merely being pushed into the sea. A silly prank. Gale had had to carry him out, undress him, cover him up like a bloody child. 

He’s still only in his boxers, the towel wrapped around him, but there’s now another small bundle of towels on the sand where his head had been. A makeshift pillow, by the looks of it. 

Further along the beach, evidently in an attempt not to wake him, Gale has lit a campfire. Around the fire, there’s a… thing made of sticks — Astarion isn’t au fait with camping language but the structure is supporting another stick that goes directly over the flames, with two fish speared neatly across its middle.

Gale is gently turning the stick, cooking the fish. He’s put his shorts back on but he’s barefoot and shirtless, his hair loose and tousled with seawater. He looks almost primal crouched by the fire like that, the light casting shadows under taut muscle and flickering over his features, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

Astarion watches him for a bit, but his mouth starts watering at the smell of the food so he gets up and approaches quietly.

“Good god, you really are a boy scout,” he drawls, enjoying the way it makes Gale jump. 

His teammate’s head snaps round but he laughs when he sees Astarion, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “Well… I didn't have much opportunity to correct you the first time you called me that, but I was actually an Explorer.”

“What are you talking about?” Astarion sits down by the fire. The sand is warm and soft under his thighs and he runs his fingers through it. “Like an adventurer??”

“Er, no,” Gale’s gaze flicks back to the fire. He looks a little self-conscious. “Like the… older version of a scout.”

“Older?” Astarion holds back a snort. “How old?” 

“Well, I mean, I was technically school-age-”

“How old, Gale?”

“Seventeen…”

“Oh my god!” Astarion can’t keep the laughter contained then. “Seventeen! That is the most tragic thing I’ve ever heard!”

Gale tuts at him, albeit with a small smile playing around his lips. “You may laugh, but you wouldn’t be about to enjoy a dinner of freshly caught, flame-cooked sea bream had I not invested serious time in learning how to Be Prepared.” 

Astarion snorts again. “Fair. Did they really only leave us fishing equipment?"

“I also found tinned potatoes-” Gale gestures to a couple of open, steaming cans that he’s nestled into the side of the fire to heat. “-water and some bread.”

“A veritable feast!” It comes out more sarcastically than he intended and Astarion feels guilty when he sees Gale frown. “I mean it!” he adds hurriedly. “It smells amazing, we’d have been eating sand if it was up to me… Thank you, Gale.” Astarion cringes internally. Why does he always sound so insincere when he’s trying to be nice?

Gale smiles momentarily, but then the frown is back as he fiddles with the contraption over the fire. “How… how are you feeling?”

“A bit chilly.” 

His teammate gives him a pointed look. “Seriously, Astarion.”

“I am being serious, where are my clothes?”

“Oh! Sorry,” Gale points over at the nearest hut. “They should be dry now.” 

Astarion finds his shorts and t-shirt neatly hung on the porch of one of the shabby-looking constructions. A quick peek reveals a made-up bed inside and not much else. God, are they really expected to spend the night here? The open-fronted shanties look like they’ll let in all manner of winged bastards. He supposes he should at least be grateful it’s not a tent.

He puts his clothes back on, easing the shirt over his wrist, which looks alarmingly inflamed again. His tablets are back at the hotel. Bloody Elminster. Astarion hesitates over his socks and trainers before leaving them on the hut’s porch and padding back to the fire barefoot, pulling a long sleeve down over the ugly swelling on his arm. When he returns, Gale is dishing up their dinner on two halves of a palm leaf.

“I couldn’t find any plates,” he shrugs, adding: “I washed it.”

“It looks great, thanks.” 

It tastes great too. Gale has somehow managed to cook the bream flawlessly —  the flesh flaking off the bones, the skin perfectly crisped. They eat in silence, using their hands, burning their fingers on hot boiled potatoes, mopping up their makeshift plates with Bahraini flatbreads. 

“Impressive,” Astarion says through his last mouthful. “Indistinguishable from Monte Carlo’s finest seafood restaurants.”

“Stop it…” Gale laughs but he looks pleased. He throws a few more logs onto the fire before resting back on his hands, kicking his feet out into the sand, gazing out at the water. The sun has all but taken its daily dive into the sea and the lights of the city are popping up on the horizon like distant fireflies. 

For the first time, Astarion realizes how quiet it is. The island is silent bar the crackling of the fire, the swell of the waves, the chirping of crickets, and the call of a few lonely seabirds. It’s so different from his regular life, his flat above the bustling streets of Monaco, his work days filled with the roar of engines. It’s peaceful. 

He watches the Bahrain cityscape through lidded eyes, thinking about how far away Cazador is, all the way over there in the hotel, barred from reaching Astarion by the swathe of glittering water between them. He feels safer than he has done in a long time.

“Astarion?”

“Mm?” 

“I was just- I wanted to apologize again-” Gale’s face is full of remorse. He looks like a kicked puppy. As though he was the one who got thrown into the sea. 

“It’s fine.” Astarion doesn’t want to think about that now. He just wants to enjoy the sound of the waves and the way the stars are popping out one by one, as though someone is gently studding the darkening sky. But Gale is not one to be easily deterred.

“It’s not fine, I was… worried about you earlier.” 

Astarion sighs. Gale has taken care of him, fed him even. The man has been surprisingly gentle, kind, and patient. Nicer than anyone has been to Astarion in a long time. He might not be the worst person in the world to talk to…

*

“It’s like I said, I had an accident when I was a child. I fell off a boat in Port Hercule. I nearly drowned.”

“I’m sorry,” Gale doesn’t think he’s ever felt so bad about anything in his life. “I’m so sorry for pushing you.” 

“Gale, shut up.” Before Gale has a chance to be offended, Astarion smiles at him. It’s just a small smile but Gale thinks it might be the first genuine one he’s seen. “I already said it’s fine, you weren’t to know.”

“What happened? When you were a child?”

Astarion gets that same faraway look in his eyes and Gale is anxious that he’s asking too much, but then his teammate starts talking.

“I fell in the sea. My mother pulled me out but then Cazador- he was angry at how upset I got. He threw me back in again. A few times, actually. After the third time, I lost consciousness. I had to go to hospital.”

“God…” Gale is aghast. “That’s awful, I’m so sorry.” 

Astarion shrugs, unconsciously toying with the hem of his sleeve, staring into the fire. 

The rumors about Cazador could be true then. Gale hasn’t heard many details but it seems to be an open secret that the man treats his son badly. There have been whispered stories of punishing training regimes, cruel words overheard, even physical violence. He’d assumed it was an exaggeration but now he’s not so sure. Gale wonders if anyone has ever actually asked Astarion. He supposes that others in the industry, like him, simply assumed someone else would.

Hoping it’s not out of line, Gale decides to be that person. “Was it Cazador who hurt your wrist?”

“Not really,” Astarion shakes his head. “I mean, he pushed me into my hotel room but I tripped — it was my fault mostly.”

“Astarion…” Gale knows what it is to be blamed for your own suffering by the person who’s causing it. He searches for the right words, trying to think of what would have got through to him when he was in the thick of it, what would have coaxed him out from under Mystra’s thumb. “That doesn’t sound like it was your fault at all. In fact, it sounds like your father is abusive-”

“He’s not my father.” It’s blurted out quickly and quietly, the tips of Astarion’s ears going red, as though he’s divulging a secret that’s going to get him into trouble.

“Oh.” This is a surprise. Everyone in the industry refers to Cazador as Astarion’s father. Gale had noted the differing surnames, of course, but he assumed a divorce or something similar. “I thought-”

“It’s okay, everyone does. He was my mother’s boyfriend; he became my legal guardian when she died. We’d been living with him for years by then so the court ruled it was in my ‘best interests’,” Astarion laughs bitterly. “I was already doing well in karting at that age — I suppose he saw an investment.”

His teammate seems to be on a roll so Gale doesn’t interject but he shifts a bit closer, trying to show that he’s there, he’s listening. He wants to do more, hold Astarion’s hand maybe, or put his arm around him again, but he’s not sure what would be appropriate.

“He took me out of school as soon as he could. We started training nonstop, even when I was tired or sick. He made me drive in all sorts of weather to get used to it. I remember one time it was freezing cold — I couldn’t move my fingers at all and I was complaining so he put me in the car and told me to hold my hands directly in front of the heater… It was agony and he was laughing. He told me to shut up, he said the cold wouldn’t feel so bad in comparison…”

Gale does reach out then, he can’t help himself. He curls his hand around his teammate’s fingers in the sand. Astarion is still talking, the words tumbling out of him like they’ve been ready and waiting for someone to only ask. 

“He said I needed to learn how to be tough, to be in pain so I wouldn’t get distracted by it. He made me test setups on the kart that were… well, you know: low ride height, stiff chassis, aggressive steering… for hours and hours, days sometimes, until he got the data he wanted.”

Gale shakes his head again. He can feel his jaw clenching, his other hand — the one that Astarion can’t see — making a fist in the sand at his side. The setup Astarion is describing would give the kart maximum performance at the complete expense of the driver’s comfort. It would have been painful to drive even for an hour or so. Several hours would have been torture. Days, he can’t even imagine. 

“That must have done damage…” Gale is thinking of the scar that runs the length of Astarion’s back, cold realization flooding his veins.

His teammate nods. “I ended up with stress fractures in my spine. Cazador refused to take me to a doctor for years but I started getting hunched over, the parents of the other drivers started to notice. Eventually, he relented. He said I was no good to him if I was too weak to drive the car so he took me to get checked out. I think the doctor was quite shocked, he said there were multiple fractures that had compounded over time. I had to have surgery to stabilize my spine in the end.”

Gale fights against gripping Astarion’s hand, not wanting to hurt his wrist any more. “How old were you?” 

He isn’t prepared for the response. 

“Twelve.”

“Oh god, Astarion. That’s- I’m so sorry…”

Astarion shrugs again, that small smile back on his face. “You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s fine. I’m okay now.”

He’s so patently not okay but Gale doesn’t know what to say, how to help him see.

He thinks guiltily back on his own past, which he’s always thought of as tragic. The loss of his father at such an early age, the sadness of his mother, the way Mystra had treated him, and then the way he lost his livelihood so quickly and so brutally. In comparison to Astarion though, Gale’s life has been positively charmed. Yes, there was a painful gap where his father should have been, but his mother did more than enough to fill it. Yes, his relationship with Mystra was toxic, but he’s always had people who cared enough to help him see that the way he was being treated wasn’t right, helped him claw his way out of her grasp eventually. He’s been loved. He’s always been loved. Astarion has had no one.  

At least it helps him see Astarion’s behavior for what it is. All his arrogance, spite, and anger — it’s fear. It’s all just fear. He’s always been terrified of what Cazador would do to him if he failed.

“I’m not the only one with scars though, am I?” Astarion is asking, one arm on his knee, resting his head sideways on his forearm so he can look at Gale. “What’s wrong with your heart?”

*
 

Gale is holding Astarion’s hand. Barely, his warm palm is only covering Astarion’s fingertips but it feels nice nonetheless. Comforting. It made talking about Cazador that bit easier. He hadn’t really meant to say as much as he did but Gale had asked and had listened so patiently. It felt good to get it out, like a weight has lifted from his shoulders. 

Now though, Gale gently withdraws his touch, turning away as though he’s self-conscious of his scar. “It’s called a myocardial contusion from a BCI, a blunt cardiac injury.” He feeds another log into the fire. “Basically, my chest hit the steering wheel so hard I went into cardiac arrest.”

Astarion remembers seeing the crash on TV. He’d only been in Formula 2 then, but the accident sent shockwaves through the whole industry. 

Gale’s car had hydroplaned on a rain-soaked track, hitting one of the barriers front-first at full speed. The live coverage had cut away, as it always does until it’s been confirmed that a driver isn’t dead. Astarion had seen footage of it online later though. The car had burst into flames almost immediately; it seemed to take forever for the marshals to cut Gale out. A screen had been erected around him as he lay on the tarmac, paramedics rushing in, his apparently lifeless body loaded onto a stretcher and wheeled into a waiting ambulance some time later. It was horrific to watch as a person, let alone as a fellow driver. 

“I saw it,” Astarion murmurs. “It was awful.”

“I don’t remember much if I’m being honest,” Gale shrugs. 

“And there’s still something wrong with your heart now? Dr. Ressym seemed worried after our… incident.” Astarion wonders if he’s prying too much but his teammate doesn’t seem to mind.

Gale leans back onto his elbows. “I have scar tissue on my heart. It gives me an increased risk of having a heart attack; I’m supposed to avoid stressful situations…” He snorts. “Like almost murdering my teammate by pushing him into the sea.”

Or going back to the sport that nearly killed you… Astarion thinks, but he doesn’t want to come across as judgmental. Not when they’re getting on so well for once. “For what it’s worth,” he says instead. “I think you could have got away with manslaughter.”

Gale laughs out loud at that.  

They sit in companionable silence for a while, admiring the thickly clustered stars overhead. The sky is completely dark now and the constellations are much more visible away from the bright city lights. The crackling fire warms Astarion’s skin nicely and he starts to feel drowsy again, laying back on the still-warm sand, eyelids drooping, his good arm behind his head. 

Gale has rolled onto his side to face Astarion and Astarion turns to look at him too. Gale has his head propped on one hand and he’s smiling sleepily, hair falling across his face, his eyes glinting in the firelight. Astarion swallows, feeling something like- well, something like the stirrings of attraction if he’s being honest. 

You’re being pathetic, he tells himself sternly. Gale has been kind to him once and only because Astarion was being such a baby. So Gale is a Good Guy. It’s nothing Astarion didn’t already know. Gale is still boring. He’s still stuffy. He’s still going to expect Astarion to go back to being his backup driver when they fly to Japan next week.

For now, though, this is… nice. Astarion’s eyes flick across his teammate's face, tracing Gale’s scars from his neck up to his temple, like he’d done in the changing room in Australia. He imagines an alternate universe where he and Gale are lying by a campfire somewhere else entirely — maybe a forest or a pleasant wilderness — far away from racing and Cazador and work and the silly nonsense of their lives. Maybe in that universe, they’d be allies instead of competitors. Maybe in that universe, it wouldn’t be inappropriate to lean over and brush a stray strand of hair from Gale’s forehead…

Gale is talking, he should really listen.

*

When Astarion lays back on the white sand, Gale can’t help but admire him. He really is quite perfect — objectively, of course. The fire is dying out now and its dim glow highlights Astarion’s pearlescent skin, deepening the shadows under his cheekbones, and in the little dip above his lip, and the hollow of his neck.

Seeming to feel that he’s being watched, Astarion opens his eyes and turns his head. He’s got that small smile on his face again, and Gale can’t help but smile back before realizing he must look like a loon. He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry we got off to such a bad start, Astarion. I think I may have misread you.” 

“You probably didn’t, which I imagine was the problem,” Astarion laughs, looking back up at the stars. “I know I can be difficult. I am sorry for that." 

“And I know I can be overbearing. I suppose I’ve felt a bit… threatened by you.”

Astarion scoffs and Gale thinks he’s about to be rude again but then he says: “How do you think I’ve felt? Trying to live up to the reputation of the great Gale Dekarios .”

“Yes,” Gale laughs derisively. “The driver who tanked his career at 30. Some reputation.”

“I don’t know,” Astarion is absent-mindedly tracing a pattern in the sand with his bad hand. “From what I’ve read, it wasn’t your fault at all.”

Gale doesn’t expect the flood of emotion that hits him at hearing that. It’s not like Astarion is the first person who’s told him his accident was Mystra’s fault and not his own. His mother has said it countless times, Wyll has said it, Elminster has said it — hell, even Summumens said it when he welcomed Gale back to the team, Mystra long since dismissed. 

Astarion feels like the first impartial person to say it though. The first person without a vested interest in Gale’s well-being. He’s hardly Gale’s biggest fan and, for some reason, that gives his words more weight than anyone else’s. 

“Thank you,” Gale says gruffly. Then, because he doesn't want to talk about himself anymore: “I wonder how Oskar and Oliver got on today.” 

Astarion sits up, a wicked grin on his face. “Do you want me to check?”

Check…? “Check what?”

With a smirk that makes him look like a naughty schoolboy, Astarion sits up and reaches into his pocket. “Ta-da!” 

In his hand is a smartwatch. 

Gale’s mouth falls open. “Have you had that this whole time?”

“Yes…” Astarion answers uncertainly, seemingly disconcerted by Gale’s tone. 

For god’s sake! Gale is incredulous. “We could have called for help, you dimwit!”

“What do I need help for?” Astarion shrugs. “I’m traveling with a real-life Explorer!” 

The closest thing to Gale’s hand is the fish head from his dinner and he flings it unceremoniously at his teammate.

“Urgh! Gale!” Astarion dodges just in time. "Gross!"

“How did you even hide that from Khel??”

Astarion eyes him, then holds up his hands, making a show of passing the watch from one hand to the other, back and forth, before closing one fist around it. When he opens his hands again, the watch has gone. 

“Magic,” he whispers with a dramatic flourish of his fingers. 

Damn, that was impressive. Gale loves magic. But he’s still miffed that he spent the afternoon panicking about Astarion’s health when Astarion had a means of communication on him the entire time, so he outwardly rolls his eyes. 

“How did you do that?” he asks casually, trying not to sound too interested. 

“Sleight of hand,” Astarion shrugs. “I used to love magic when I was a kid. Cazador would never let me buy any of the tricks but I copied the close-up magic stuff off YouTube in secret. Wait, what’s that?”

Despite himself, Gale laughs as Astarion ‘magics’ the watch out from behind his ear, trying to ignore the way his teammate’s fingers brush against the side of his neck. “Hilarious... Maybe you could teach me sometime.”

“Darling, a magician never reveals his secrets…” Astarion slips the watch back on before looking up at Gale expectantly. “Well, do you want to know the quali results or not?”

“Fine!” Gale leans back onto the sand with a frustrated huff. “Go on then.”

Astarion fiddles with the watch for a bit. “Looks like… Tefoco twelfth, Fevras fourteenth.”

Gale raises his eyebrows. Weave’s two reserve drivers are untested, so it’s not a bad result for them at all. “Tefoco could score points in the race. They’ll be coming for our seats next.”

“Doubtful,” Astarion scoffs, unbothered. “No one scores points in their first race unless they’re very, very talented and very, very handsome.”

Gale laughs, wondering whether Astarion would change his mind if he knew Gale scored points in his first race too.

*
 

Astarion watches Gale’s reaction carefully. He knows his teammate scored points in his first race too — but it was probably a bit unprofessional to call the man handsome out loud. Unfortunately, Gale seems as unimpressed by Astarion’s compliment as he had been by his magic trick.

“Can you call Khel from your watch then?” Gale stretches out on the sand with a yawn. “We could probably get a boat back to the hotel on the grounds of me trying to manslaughter you.”

“No,” Astarion’s reply comes a little too quickly for his liking, causing Gale to glance up at him. “I mean, they probably can’t send a boat out in the dark and the huts seem fine for one night.” He doesn’t want to go back to the hotel. Cazador is at the hotel. 

“Okay,” Gale shrugs. “Do you have a hut preference?”

“Hmm, let me see,” Astarion taps his chin, pretending to consider his options. “I think I will take the dilapidated hovel on the right, it seems marginally less moldy than the dilapidated hovel on the left.”

Gale rolls his eyes with a laugh. “Thanks for leaving me the moldy one…”

“My pleasure,” Astarion gives a mock bow.

“Well, good night, Astarion.” 

“‘Night.”

Astarion watches Gale walk off to his hut, feeling slightly bereft. He’d never admit it out loud but he’d actually started to enjoy himself this evening. With a sigh, he pads off to his own hut, hoping it’s not already full of horrible beasties.

*

Gale has no idea what time it is when he hears his name whispered from outside his hut. 

“Hmph?” he murmurs, his tongue thick with sleep. Did he imagine it? All he can hear is crickets and waves, all he can see is a shaft of moonlight through the door, lighting a small square of the wooden floorboards.

“Gale? ”

He didn’t imagine it. Gale throws an arm over his eyes with a groan. 

“It’s me… Astarion.”

Under his arm, Gale rolls his eyes. “No… really? I was expecting Elminster.”

Astarion’s face peers around the door, looking annoyed. “Very funny. Did you hear that noise just now?”

Gale sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He momentarily panics that he’s naked before remembering he left his boxers on. Thank god. “What noise?”

“It was like a- a-” The rest of Astarion appears in the doorway as he starts making a weird guttural sound, and a snort escapes Gale’s throat. “It’s not funny, Gale! It sounded like a fucking… like a predator.”

“Astarion…” Gale pushes his hair away from his face, trying to wake up. “We can see the entirety of the island, where on earth would a predator be hiding? Ah… unless…” He raises a finger in the air, waiting to see if his teammate will take the bait.

“Unless what?” Astarion snaps. Bingo.

“Unless…” Gale hums, purposefully creasing his brow, looking worried. “Unless it was a Bahraini land-walking shark…”

“A Bahraini land-wa-” Astarion’s eyes widen and then he sees the smirk on Gale’s face. Gale only just ducks in time as his own balled-up socks are seized and thrown at him. “Fuck off!”

“You’re in my hut,” Gale points out. 

“Yes…” Astarion isn’t leaving. “Can I- can I sleep in here?”

This gives Gale pause. Of course that should be fine, it’s a double bed after all. Astarion is clearly freaking out about sleeping alone on the island. The man all but had a breakdown earlier; the nice thing to do would be to invite him in. 

Except Astarion is leaning against the doorframe with no shirt on again, and Gale knows that shouldn’t have any effect on him — they’re colleagues, teammates, it’s so inappropriate — but the idea of the man climbing into his bed is just…

“Sorry, I’m being stupid,” Astarion shakes his head. “Forget it, I’m sorry I woke you. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Astarion.”

The other driver looks up. “Yes?"

Against his better judgment, the words find their way out of Gale’s mouth on their own. “It’s fine, you can sleep in here if you want.”

Astarion chews the inside of his lip before nodding. “Thanks.” 

The bed takes up most of the wooden hut, so Astarion clambers along it awkwardly, wriggling under the covers when he reaches the top. 

Gale lies back down too but then the sides of their arms touch and he’s suddenly more aware of his limbs than he’s ever been in his life. He freezes, not sure if it’s weirder to move or stay where he is. 

Astarion rolls away onto his side with a sigh. 

“‘Night, Gale.”

“Goodnight.” 

Gale stays awake for some time, tense and self-conscious, wondering if he should say something else — but he can’t think of anything. 

Eventually, sleep takes him, and his dreams are flooded with turbulent water. He is swimming against an impossible current, carrying something fragile yet undefined in his hands. He knows he's supposed to be helping but the thing fights him at every turn, trying to drag them both into the darkness. Gale wraps his arms soothingly around the formless shape as it tosses and turns against him, wondering how he'll ever get it back to the surface without breaking it further. 

*

Astarion wakes at the sound of someone opening his hotel room door. He sits up, heart pounding, blinking against the inky black. 

The hut slowly swims into shape, a mass of shadows clarified by moonlight.

He’s not in his hotel. It was just a nightmare. He’s on the island. He’s safe.

A low, guttural hooting from outside has him flying from his bed and racing towards Gale’s hut. “Gale!” he hisses as he sprints across the scrubby ground, twigs sticking to his bare feet, eyes darting left and right, scanning the island, waiting for claws or teeth to sink into his skin. There’s nothing there though, only the outline of a few palm trees silhouetted against the sky. 

Astarion hovers outside Gale’s hut, suddenly self-conscious. He’s being ridiculous. He’s a grown man for god’s sake, he should just go back to-

The guttural noise rings out across the island again and Astarion scrambles up onto Gale’s porch. “Gale!”

His teammate doesn’t seem pleased to have been woken up and is even less pleased when Astarion asks if he can stay, embarrassment radiating off him in waves. Astarion knows he’s being stupid but his nightmares are bad at the best of times, let alone when he’s trying to sleep alone on an island with some kind of ravenous monster lurking around. 

To his surprise though, Gale eventually agrees. Only halfway through clambering up the bed does it occur to Astarion that this might be a terrible idea. Gale is sitting up, the sheets around his bare waist, bedhead hair sticking up on end. Astarion knows that shouldn’t have any effect on him — they’re colleagues, teammates, it’s so inappropriate — but the idea of climbing into bed with him suddenly feels… 

Then Gale lays down too and their arms touch and Astarion freezes, not sure if it’s weirder to move or stay where he is. He considers — for the briefest, most idiotic moment — reaching out for Gale’s hand, before sheer mortification has him rolling away onto his side, wondering what the sweet hell he’s thinking. 

“‘Night, Gale,” he says, in a desperate attempt to appear normal. 

“Goodnight.” 

His teammate still sounds terse and Astarion lays awake for some time, wondering if he should say something else — but he can’t think of anything. 

Eventually, the soothing heat of the man next to him lulls him into sleep. For the first time in a long time, Astarion doesn’t dream of anything at all. 

Chapter Text

Monaco. Astarion feels a frisson of adrenaline whenever he hears the name on the news or is asked how he feels about the upcoming race in his hometown. It’s not his first time racing in Monte Carlo, but last year he’d trailed at the back of the pack with Lathander, the sluggish car holding him back despite his best efforts. This year, he’s excited. This year, he’s with Weave Racing and — if his sim sessions are anything to go by — he actually has a shot at getting near the top.

Things have been looking up for Weave ever since Bahrain. Everyone has noticed the change over the past month: the way the team’s drivers are suddenly working together, the way Astarion has started to toe the line, no more rebellious mutinies. 

Over the last two races in Japan and Saudi Arabia, Weave has started to crawl its way back up the leaderboard, with both Gale and Astarion scoring high in the points. Gale had even nearly clinched third place in Jeddah, thanks to Astarion protecting his teammate from behind, fending off the other drivers for as long as he could. If it wasn’t for Thorm overtaking both of them at once with what felt like an impossible burst of speed, Gale would have been back on the podium holding a trophy for the first time in two years.

The press is speculating that Weave’s TP must have had ‘strong words’ with his drivers after their public spat. The fans are speculating that one of them must have been threatened with being fired (Astarion is usually the main culprit in these conspiracy theories, which he feels is unfair since it was Gale who drove into him in Australia but whatever). 

If the rest of the team has noticed the lighter atmosphere in meetings, the playful banter between the teammates around the garage, no one has said anything. Only Elminster is walking around looking so pleased with himself that you’d think he was some kind of chosen one. Astarion has to hide his reluctant smile every time he sees the TP grinning at him and Gale, lest the smug bastard’s head get any bigger. 

There are other benefits to his newfound camaraderie with his teammate as well. Now that they’re no longer separated for interviews and promo work, Astarion is left on his own with Cazador far less than he used to be. Miraculously, all of Gale’s sim sessions seem to now be booked immediately after Astarion’s, meaning Cazador can no longer force him to practice for hours more than he should.

In one particularly surprising meeting, Gale and Dr. Ressym had even blindsided Astarion by joining forces to suggest that the teammates start doing their physical training together too. Tara oversees Gale’s gym sessions to monitor his heart and she had expressed a desire for a similar setup with Astarion, to ensure he doesn’t hurt his wrist any further or ‘obtain any more injuries’. As the person usually in charge of Astarion’s sessions, Cazador had bristled at this, openly scoffing at the doctor and mocking her concerns. Tara had ignored him completely, talking directly to Elminster, not giving the TP a chance to say no. And now Gale and Astarion train together. Under Tara’s care, for the first time in weeks, Astarion’s wrist is healing.

So, yes, things are looking up for Astarion as well. He’s taking pleasure in his job in a way he hasn't before. He’s starting to feel genuine affection for his team and they’re responding in kind, where he’d only received detached professionalism in the past. He’s enjoying himself. He’s happy.

This morning, he strolls into Weave’s HQ at the Circuit de Monaco with a spring in his step. It’s weird, driving to a race weekend in his own car, directly from his flat instead of a hotel. It makes everything feel a bit more casual, a bit more personal. 

The atmosphere inside the hospitality unit is buzzing. Weave’s motorhome is so much more impressive than Lathander’s was. It always makes Astarion laugh that they’re called motorhomes at all, these huge portable structures that can be taken down from one race and put up at another in days. Weave’s unit is all glass and dark wood, with furnishings in the team’s signature purple. It’s also filled with greenery. According to Vajra, Gale’s race engineer, this is part of Elminster’s attempt to create an atmosphere that’s as far removed from Mystra as possible. Apparently, the last TP had favored stark whites and cold chrome. Vajra had been an assistant engineer when Mystra was in charge at Weave and she said the old decor was migraine-inducing. 

That was all Gale’s race engineer would reveal about Mystra’s tenure though. She wouldn’t tell Astarion a single thing about what happened between Gale and Mystra, or whether it was true that they were in a relationship. Astarion has to give her her due, Vajra is loyal. But then Astarion can see how Gale might be the kind of person who inspires loyalty. 

Now, he spies his teammate in the busy catering room, ordering his usual purple smoothie. 

“Morning, GC!” Astarion calls merrily on his way to grab a coffee cup, enjoying the way Gale turns to smile at him. Regretfully, the other driver has stopped blushing at the nickname, though it’s taken him a good three weeks to do so. Now, he usually grimaces or rolls his eyes instead. He’s not angry though, Astarion can tell by the way Gale’s initial reaction is always followed by the same sheepish grin. 

“Morning,” Gale groans. “I don’t know how you always drink coffee before practice, I’d die.”

“Yes, well, I don’t have a heart that’s on the verge of exploding at any minute,” Astarion fills his cup from the pot, the rich scent of the light roast only enhancing his good mood. “On account of my not being incredibly old and haggard like you.”

“You’re being extra nice today,” Gale observes, sipping his smoothie. “You called me ‘fucking decrepit’ last week.”

“What can I say? I’m in a good mood,” Astarion shrugs. “It’s Monaco.”

At this, Gale returns his grin. Astarion can tell he’s excited too; they’re all excited. Weave has made upgrades to the cars over the past week that should have them driving like a dream. For the first time this season, they might even be able to take on Bane.

“I’m going to get changed,” Astarion downs his coffee, making Gale grimace again. “See you out there!”

“See you.”

As Astarion heads for the changing rooms, he hears a low growl behind him. 

“What does it meaaaaan?”

He doesn’t even need to turn around to know who it is. “Morning, Kar,” he laughs, as his race engineer follows him out of the cafeteria. 

Karlach Cliffgate is probably his favorite person at Weave. The woman is what Astarion’s mother would have politely called ‘bien bâtie’. Or what Astarion has heard some of the British engineers refer to as ‘built like a brick shithouse’. Karlach always jokes that she would have become a driver if only she could fit into any of the karts. She’s Astarion’s opposite in almost every way: solid where he’s slight; blunt where he’s sharp; honest where he’s… not always so honest. They shouldn’t get on at all. For some reason, it makes them get on even more.

“Good… Car-guy!” Karlach hazards, bouncing along beside him.

Astarion snorts. “That doesn’t even make sense.” 

Ever since Bahrain, Karlach has been trying to guess what Astarion’s nickname for Gale means. Her theories haven’t much improved from her first guess of ‘Gale Car-man’. 

“Argh!” Karlach runs a frustrated hand through her dyed red hair, rubbing at her undercut. “OH! I know! GALE CAR-MAN!”

“I’m going to get changed,” Astarion laughs. “Meet you out there.”

“Oh, Star, fair warning,” Karlach’s energy drops along with her smile. “I bumped into Cazador coming in and he wants to see you before practice. He wouldn't say why…”

Astarion sighs. “Thanks for letting me know.”

Karlach gives his arm a squeeze before jogging off down the corridor.

Feeling only slightly deflated, Astarion heads into the changing rooms.

*

“Morning, GC!” 

Good god, when is he going to get tired of this nickname? Gale wonders, turning to his teammate with what he hopes is a disdainful smile. Astarion looks suspiciously chirpy this morning, positively bouncing in his designer trainers. He’s excited that they’re racing in his hometown. Gale has never seen Astarion excited before; it’s actually quite endearing. 

The man downs an espresso like it’s water before skipping off to get changed, followed shortly by his race engineer. 

“Morning, Good Car-guy!” Karlach calls over her shoulder as she hurries off after her driver.

“Good Car…” Gale murmurs to himself, confused. Oh. She’s trying to guess what GC means. Gale fervently hopes that she is unsuccessful. 

“Ready?” Vajra appears in the cafeteria doorway.

“Yes! Quite ready for you!” Gale beams back at her. Apparently, Astarion’s excitement is contagious. 

*

The practice session goes better than Astarion could have hoped. He’s never driven the Circuit de Monaco so quickly, he’s never been so focused, he’s never held the racing line so perfectly, never cut the corners so close. His lap times are better than anyone’s, even better than the drivers from Bane.

The fans are beside themselves with excitement, he can hear the cheers through his helmet, even over Karlach’s excited chatter over the team radio. You could win this weekend with these times, mate, you could really win.

Astarion never thought he’d be grateful to Cazador but his stepfather’s suggestion had been on the money. Just a helping hand to make sure he gets the result that they need in Monaco, the excellent publicity of winning in your home race. The kind of thing that catches the eye of other team principals, that gets you the biggest and best salary offerings.

The feeling as he pulls back into the garage and is greeted jubilantly by the rest of the team is pure euphoria. 

And all it had taken was one little pill. 

*

Gale’s anticipation for the race is mounting. The car is driving very nicely indeed and he’s pleased with his own practice times. But Astarion? Astarion is flying. 

As he hops out of his car and heads to get changed for his debrief, Gale ponders the fact that he’s genuinely pleased Astarion is outperforming him. He’s never experienced this with a teammate before — even with Wyll, there’d still been an amicable rivalry. Gale was happy for Wyll when he did well but he still wanted to beat him…

It’s not like that with Astarion. More and more, Gale is finding that he wants his teammate to succeed even if it’s to Gale’s detriment. Perhaps it’s because Astarion had opened up about the things that happen to him when he doesn’t. Perhaps it’s the fact that his teammate opened up at all. Perhaps it’s because of that night they spent in the hut together, the way they'd woken-

He’s so lost in thought that he walks into the changing room just as Astarion is leaving, his teammate exiting so fast that they bump right into each other. Astarion stumbles sideways, almost hitting the wall of the corridor.

“Woah there-” Gale laughs, grabbing hold of Astarion’s shoulders to stop him from falling over. Then, at the look on Astarion's face: “You okay?”  

“I’m fine,” Astarion spits through gritted teeth, turning his face away. It’s such a 180 from his attitude this morning that Gale can only blink at him for a moment.

When Astarion glares up at him defiantly, Gale’s heart sinks. His teammate’s eyes are red and wild, pupils blown, and Gale can feel Astarion trembling beneath his hands. He’s about to ask what’s wrong when Cazador exits the room too, pausing to take in the sight of Gale holding Astarion up.

“Is there a reason why you’re touching my son?”

He makes it sound so sordid that Gale’s grasp drops of its own accord. Unsupported, Astarion stumbles back into Cazador and a flash of irritation crosses the older man’s face, his arm coming up as though to strike. Before Gale can even register what he’s doing, his own hand shoots out to grasp Cazador by the wrist, preventing the slap from landing. 

Astarion stares at Gale as Cazador’s lip curls into a nasty sneer. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Take your hands off me before I report you to the FIA for assaulting us both.”

Gale isn’t thinking at all. All he can see in his mind’s eye is Astarion struggling to keep his head above the water. Or huddled in a car, frozen fingers pressed to the heater, face twisted in pain. Or cradling a sprained wrist as he sits on a hotel room floor. But Gale can’t risk any more trouble for the team. With a clenched jaw, he reluctantly lets go, tossing the man’s arm away, surprising even himself with the ice in his voice when he speaks.

“You will not lay another finger on him in front of me.”

A reptilian smile creeps across Cazador’s face. Maintaining eye contact with Gale, he lazily lifts a finger and traces it down the side of Astarion’s face and neck. It makes Gale sick to see how Astarion barely responds, only closing his eyes, his breathing shaky.

“I think you’ll find I will do what I please.” Cazador turns and stalks off down the corridor, clicking his fingers at his ward. “Come, Astarion.”

Gale wants to punch Cazador so badly but all he can do is watch with clenched fists as Astarion begins to follow, eyes downcast. The other driver doesn’t look right at all; he’s sweating and his movements are twitchy and uncoordinated, far from his usual effortless grace. It suddenly seems highly important not to leave him alone with his stepfather. 

“Actually-” Gale blurts out. “-Astarion and I have a quick meeting first.”

They both look back, Astarion confused and Cazador irritated.

“What meeting?” the older man snaps. 

“It’s an emergency debrief. We’re changing strategy after Astarion’s performance today. Elminster wants a private chat to make sure we’re both on the same page.” It’s so obviously nonsense, it’s not how things are done, but Gale doesn’t care. He only needs to get Astarion away.

“Why was I not informed of this?”

“I assume because you’re not the driver?” Gale beckons at his teammate, not giving Cazador a chance to protest. “Come on. It's in the Harpell room, we can go together.”

Astarion glances at his stepfather before nodding tersely, following Gale as he heads for the meeting rooms, heart pounding, leaving Cazador standing and glaring at them as they go.

While they walk, Gale fires a Whatsapp off to Vajra, who’s waiting for his actual debrief. 

GD: Sorry V, emergency meeting with Astarion. Will be with you shortly.

He’s about to pocket his phone when he sees another notification on the app. 1 new message.

Karlach Cliffgate: Hey mate, have you seen Astarion? We were supposed to have a debrief but he’s disappeared. He’s acting weird

Karlach Cliffgate: this is going to sound mad but I think Cazador might have given him something before practice?

Karlach Cliffgate: Please don’t tell him I said anything or show this to anyone. I could lose my job. So could he. Just worried 

Gale glances sideways at his teammate. Astarion’s entire body is fraught with tension as he walks, fists clenched, lower lip trembling. He’s breathing heavily and his skin is pallid and clammy. ‘ I think Cazador might have given him something’. What could she mean? Doping? It’s not unheard of; several drivers have been disqualified or banned for taking stimulants to improve their focus or reactions. And Astarion’s lap times were off the charts today. Would he cheat like that though? Would he take that risk?

GD: I’m with him now. Will talk to him

Karlach Cliffgate: 👍 thanks mate, sorry to bother you with this

GD: NP. Worried too.

Gale is relieved to find the Harpell meeting room empty when they arrive, ushering Astarion in and closing the door behind him.

“What is this?” Astarion’s eyes are darting around wildly. “Where’s Elminster?”

“Astarion, we need to talk-”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Astarion hisses. “You were lying?”

“Yes-” Gale is taken aback by the aggression in his teammate’s voice. “I was trying to-”

“For fuck’s sake!” Astarion cuts him off, beginning to pace the length of the conference table, running a shaking hand through his hair, talking quickly. “What the fuck, Gale? He’s going to know- he must know- he must know it's not a real meeting- he’s going to suspect- and why did you say that?? About him laying another finger on me? Now he’s going to know I’ve told you something- he’s going to be fucking fuming- you don’t understand- you don't- you can’t-”

“Astarion-” His teammate's agitation is disturbing and Gale reaches out for him but the other driver brushes him off. “Astarion, slow down-”

“Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t you?” Astarion wheels around to glare at him. He looks manic. “I’m not slowing down for you or anyone! Monaco is my race, Gale. Mine. I- I’ve got to-”

“Jesus Christ, Astarion. Stop!” Gale doesn’t mean to raise his voice but it has the intended effect. His teammate pauses, panting and wide-eyed. “What is going on? Have you taken something?”

“How dare you…” Astarion’s voice is laced with venom, but his eyes are filled with fear. “Just because I’m driving better than you- you can’t bear it, can you? You’re pathetic, Gale, you’re- you’re-”

“I’m pathetic? Look at yourself! You’re a mess- you’re shaking! Is this Cazador’s doing? Did he give you something?”

Gale can tell by the way Astarion hesitates that Karlach’s suspicions are correct.

“For god’s sake… we need to talk to Elminster-”

“Don’t you dare!” Astarion is shouting too now. “I just had the best fucking practice of my life. You can’t sabotage me, I’m going to win this weekend-”

“By cheating!” Gale shakes his head in despair. “God, if you get caught, you’re- you’re- putting your entire career on the line. I’m not trying to sabotage you, I’m worried. I care about you, Astarion. You can’t drive like this- this is dangerous.”

Astarion merely stares at him, breathing heavily, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Gale can’t tell if his words are getting through so he tries again.

“You don’t need this — whatever it is he’s given you — you don’t need it to win. Don’t take it again, Astarion, please-”

“Mind your goddamn business, Gale! This is my race. Monaco is my race.” Astarion flees, slamming the door behind him. 

Gale slumps into a chair, pressing the heel of his palm to his sternum. His chest feels tight, all his excitement for the weekend gone. Karlach is right then, Cazador has given Astarion something — some performance-enhancing drug. Probably a stimulant by the way he'd been acting. Gale bites his lip with worry. He can't let Astarion go out on the track for quali like that. He could kill someone. He could kill himself.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Gale opens his contacts, his finger hovering over a name. Elminster.

*

Astarion grips his steering wheel, staring at the seemingly impassable sea of cars ahead, all waiting for those five red lights to count down to the start of the race. 

He’s starting Monaco in seventh place. With his times in practice, he should have been in pole position but quali had been an unmitigated disaster and it’s all Gale’s fault. 

Astarion can just about make out the purple of his teammate’s car up ahead in fourth. They haven’t spoken since the altercation in the meeting room. To Astarion’s surprise though, Gale hasn’t reported him to Elminster or the FIA either. The call Astarion was expecting from their TP never came. The disqualification never happened. Astarion has no idea why Gale hasn’t turned him in. Trust, perhaps? Blind faith that Astarion would do the right thing and not cheat during the race itself? It’s odd, but that made Astarion want to prove him right more than the lecturing had. 

Gale’s words had rung in Astarion’s ears the rest of the day after their fight, the entire sleepless night, the whole anxious morning.

You don’t need this — whatever it is he’s given you — you don’t need it to win.

And so, when Cazador slipped him another little pill before the qualifying session, Astarion had held it under his tongue and pretended to swallow. 

Of course, without taking the drug again, the resulting comedown was awful and it hit just as he started his first lap in quali. His head was all over the place. He’d felt tired, anxious, and scatty, his lap times varying wildly, silly mistakes costing him precious seconds. 

All he could manage was seventh place. And the narrow Monaco street circuit is so infamously difficult to overtake on that Astarion will most likely be stuck in seventh for the entire race. It's a catastrophe, utterly humiliating after all the hype from the practice session. After all the headlines about the Monegasque boy with a shot at winning in his hometown. The Weave fans are devastated, Elminster disappointed, Cazador furious. 

Cottoning on to Astarion’s little trick before quali, his stepfather had tried to force him to swallow a pill again this morning before the race. Astarion had to fight him off, eventually choking out a threat against Cazador’s fist: stop or he’d go to Elminster, he'd tell the TP that Cazador had been drugging him.

Only then had the man backed away, panting, his usually sleek ponytail disheveled, fingers wet from where they’d been shoved into Astarion’s mouth.

It had felt like a victory at first, but now Astarion is filled with dread at what Cazador might do to him after the race instead. He takes a deep breath, still feeling the ghost of a thin hand gripping his throat.

Part of Astarion wishes he’d spoken to Gale about it, told his teammate how he’d stood up to Cazador and how it was all because of Gale’s words, Gale’s belief in him. He wishes he’d begged Gale to protect him from Cazador’s wrath as Astarion suspects his teammate has already been trying to do for the past few weeks. 

It felt too pathetic though, too shaming. Gale would know for sure then that Astarion only did well in practice because he cheated. Gale would be as let down by Astarion as everyone else is. 

In the end, Astarion had only allowed himself a brief smile at his teammate in their final strategy meeting this morning, desperately hoping Gale would notice that Astarion was in his right mind again and put two and two together on his own. He hadn't waited for Gale's reaction, looking away immediately, unable to bear the risk of seeing disappointment in his teammate's eyes. Because Astarion has also been clinging to the other thing Gale had said during their fight, the thing that seemingly slipped out without the man realizing. Five little words that have been bouncing around Astarion’s head ever since.

I care about you, Astarion.

For some reason, they fill him with even more resolve than the drugs had.

Ahead, Astarion sees the board go up for the five-second warning. He takes another deep breath and narrows his eyes. 


*

When Bane’s drivers start racing each other, Gale cannot believe his luck. The black and red cars are in first and second place but they start to meander dangerously as Gortash attempts to get past Thorm at every turn. 

The crash is inevitable; Gale almost sees it coming before it happens. After an attempt to overtake on the only straight available, Gortash enters one of the circuit’s 90-degree corners far too quickly, skidding out and taking Thorm with him, both cars sliding off the track. Up ahead, Hallow only just brakes in time to avoid getting caught up herself, both she and Gale swerving the bits of red and black fiberglass now scattered across the road.

A safety car is wheeled out to slow the rest of the drivers down as Bane’s cars are cleared, the debris swept up. It’s confirmed that Gortash and Thorm are both okay and the race is given the go-ahead once more. 

As he weaves back and forth behind the green Aston Martin, keeping his tires warm, Gale tries to steady his breathing. He’s in second. If he can catch Hallow in the last few laps, he could even win. 

A glimpse of purple in his peripheral vision has Gale glancing in his mirrors. Astarion? Has he managed to push forward already? It'll be an impressive feat if so. Especially in Monaco. And especially since Gale is fairly sure Astarion has done the right thing and decided not to cheat today.

They haven’t spoken since their fight but he’d seen Astarion this morning, calm and relaxed, moving with his characteristic elegance once more. He must have stood up to his stepfather and rejected whatever substance the man was forcing upon him. Based on what Astarion had told him on the island, that can't have been easy. Gale had felt an overwhelming burst of pride as he watched his teammate in their final pre-race meeting, back to his old self, laughing and joking with Karlach, his newly healed wrist draped casually over the back of his chair, gray eyes clear and sparkling again. 

Then Astarion caught Gale staring and smiled — a sweet, shy smile that was so unlike him that Gale couldn’t help but smile back. But his teammate had already looked away so Gale turned his attention back to the meeting, feeling a little embarrassed. Try as he might, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that smile ever since.

“How’s Astarion doing?” he asks over the team radio. 

“Focus on your own race please, Gale,” comes Vajra’s terse reply. “Starting again in five.”

Then they’re back into it, Gale pursuing Hallow relentlessly, less than half a second behind. But he’s not as stupid as Gortash; second place will be a fantastic result for Weave, he’ll be back on the podium again for the first time since his accident. He won’t throw away his race on a dangerous overtake.

There’s another flash of purple in Gale’s mirror and he sees Astarion dodge around the red of a Team Avernus car to take third place behind him. Gale might not have the nerve to risk an overtake at Monaco but it seems Astarion does…

*

The safety car is a godsend for Astarion, allowing him to close the gap to the other drivers as they all bunch together, held up by the speed restriction. Now he’s in third place, he can’t quite believe it. A strategic pit stop — a stroke of genius from Karlach — helped him to get out ahead of Ravengard. And then a last-minute error from Raphael Delfuoco had allowed Astarion to duck around the other Team Avernus car on the straight, rocketing him into third. 

There’s only one lap left to go. He’s almost guaranteed a trophy — two for Weave, considering Gale is in front of him in second place. They’ll both be up there on the podium together. The elation is nothing like practice, nothing like that unpleasant, nauseous haze that had overlaid his excitement. This is real, a real achievement, for him and for the team. For Gale. This is-

Up ahead, his teammate is slowing down. 

“What? No!” Astarion mutters. He slams his finger down on the radio button on his steering wheel. “Kar, what’s going on with Gale?”

“Focus on your own race please, Star,” comes the response, and then, more quietly: “Possibly engine problems, mate. We’re checking.”

“Fuck… ”  

Astarion is right behind Gale now and the straight is coming up again. As they enter Monte Carlo’s tunnel, Karlach’s voice rings out over the team radio, urgent and excited.

“Instructions are to swap! Swap! It’s not engine problems; you’re on fresher tires, you’re faster, you’ve got a better chance of catching Hallow — Gale is letting you past. Go get her, Star!”

Heart hammering in his chest, Astarion pulls out and around his teammate, the other purple car slowing and moving to the side to avoid a collision. Gale really is letting him pass. He’s sacrificing second place, sacrificing the points that come with it, slipping into third so that Astarion can go for first. 

Astarion can’t fight the urge to glance at his teammate as he goes past. It all happens so quickly that it’s impossible to tell, he probably imagines it, but it looks like Gale’s visor is directed his way too…

Astarion refocuses on the road. He’s got one chance, one last straight to get one last overtake and his tires are newer than Hallow’s. Selune’s driver fights with everything she’s got, desperately swerving to block him off, but she can’t match his speed. Astarion sails past to take first place. 

“YES MATE!” Karlach’s voice is deafening over the radio. “YOU DID IT! YOU FUCKING DID IT!”

The last part of the circuit is a blur as it hits Astarion that he’s going to win. His first ever win and it’s in Monaco, his home, the track his mother walked him along as a child, pointing out the famous corners he’s driving around now in pole position: Tabac, La Rascasse, Virage Antony Noghès…

Astarion crosses the finish line with tears in his eyes. 

In a daze, he drives into the parking slot labeled '1', following the procedures for powering down the car on autopilot. With shaking hands, he climbs out of the cockpit, pulling off his helmet, wiping his eyes as he waves at the crowd and the cameras, the roar of the fans ringing in his ears, Monaco flags dancing across the stalls. Hallow’s car is parked in the second place slot and she’s jogging over to shake his hand, grinning at him through her visor, white blonde hair plastered to her forehead. 

Behind her, Astarion can see Gale pulling up in third and he starts to walk toward his teammate, an inexorable pull drawing him forward. But a race official is at Astarion’s side, redirecting him away from Gale; Astarion needs to be weighed, it’s race protocol, then look here for the cameras, then wave there to the crowd. Astarion cranes his neck but Gale is almost lost in the hive of activity that surrounds them. Astarion only sees his teammate taking off his own helmet, a huge grin on his face.

Then the entirety of the Weave team is waiting, crammed behind barriers, cheering and shouting Astarion’s name. He sprints towards them, going faster and faster before finally jumping, launching himself into their waiting arms, hands clapping him on the back and ruffling his hair, hoarse voices congratulating him through tears and smiles. 

Cazador has pushed himself to the front of the fray and he grips Astarion’s head, kissing his cheek, but Karlach appears just in time, accidentally shoving the odious man out of the way and pulling Astarion into a bear hug over the barrier. Elminster is at her side, grasping Astarion’s hand and shaking it. 

Everything seems to be happening to Astarion through a veil of white noise. There’s a ringing in his ears as he’s jostled and hugged and spoken at and directed this way and that. All he can see in his mind’s eye is Gale, helmet under one arm, beaming like he’d won the race himself.

It’s not until he’s ushered into the cooldown room — the small space reserved for the top three drivers to catch their breath before the podium ceremony — that Astarion sees his teammate again. Gale is in there already, perched awkwardly on one of the three white stools, running a hand through damp hair as he chats to Hallow about the race, the highlights playing out on a big screen in front of them. 

When Astarion walks in, Gale turns, his face breaking into that huge smile again. 

“Congratulations PC,” he grins, brown eyes twinkling. 

Astarion lets out a choked laugh and throws himself at his teammate, not even giving Gale a chance to stand up before he wraps him in a tearful embrace. 

Chapter Text

Gale fusses over his outfit in his hotel room’s full-length mirror. He's wearing a deep indigo purple shirt as a nod to Weave's colors, with black jeans and shoes. His hair is half tied back to keep it out of his face and he's trimmed his beard in an attempt to look more presentable. 

He rolls his sleeves up and then pulls them down again, indecisive, but now they're wrinkled so he has to roll them back up again. It's almost a relief when Vajra knocks at the door and asks if he's ready.

In truth, the last thing Gale wants to do is go clubbing. He’s exhausted. Being back on the podium was overwhelming, even if it was only third place when it could have been second. A nightclub is not Gale's natural habitat. He'd much rather head to one of Monte Carlo’s classier jazz bars and discuss the race with Vajra over an expensive bottle of wine. 

Still, the whole team is out tonight and he'd promised Astarion he'd go.

The teammates hadn't had much of a chance to talk after the race. The cooldown room is mic’d up and not the place for a private conversation. After the ceremony, they'd gone straight into their separate interviews and debriefings. There had only been a snatched few minutes before they went up onto the podium.

“Why did you do that?” Astarion had asked in hushed tones. “Why did you let me win?” 

Gale had considered the question, wondering whether he should tell the truth. Because the real answer was that he felt like Astarion deserved it after everything he’d been through. Deserved to experience what it’s like to win in his hometown. Before the crash, Gale had won at Silverstone a handful of times; there’s nothing like it. Gale wanted that for Astarion, wanted to see that smile back on his face after an awful start to the weekend. Not only that, but he wanted to be the one who put it there.

A darker, more bitter part of Gale whispered that it was also because he knew Astarion could do what he could not. Because, when Gortash and Thorm had crashed, the jolt of anxiety through Gale’s chest had been painful. The grating sound of fiberglass on metal had spiked his heart rate and he’d nearly lost control of the car. The thought of overtaking Hallow on those narrow streets, of how close he’d have to push the car to the barriers… 

It’s starting to dawn on Gale that he simply no longer has the nerve. The thought is as upsetting as it is concerning.

But all of that had felt a bit heavy to unpack in the minute or so they had before the podium ceremony so Gale had shrugged instead. “You were on fresher tires, you had more of a chance at pole. It made the most sense, more points for the team.”

“Right,” Astarion had nodded with a small smile. “Of course.” If he didn't know any better, Gale might have thought his teammate looked a bit disappointed. 

He regrets it now, not being honest. So this is his way of making it up to Astarion. Going to some godawful club to celebrate his win. Maybe they’d get a chance to talk at some point this evening, the way they’d talked to each other on the island.

By the time Gale and Vajra arrive at the club, the Weave team is already there and already drunk, filling the club’s VIP area. The only person missing is Elminster. Gale longs for the day when he is also considered too old and too wise to frequent places like this. The club is hot, a headache of neon purple lights, a huge round chandelier dominating the main dance floor with glimmering flashes that blind when they catch his eye. The clientele is intimidating — Monte Carlo’s elite and beautiful — and the music is of the repetitive variety, the beat so loud it makes his lungs shake.

Any hopes of a heart-to-heart are dashed as soon as he sees Astarion. To Gale’s amusement, his teammate is already dancing on a table, a bottle of champagne dangling from his hand as the rest of the team cheer him on. He’s dressed in the signature black he always wears when not in Weave gear: a tight high-neck t-shirt that follows the taper of his waist into tailored trousers, chunky black loafers, his hair perfectly styled as always, a small silver earring glinting in his right ear. He fits right into this swanky exclusive club; he looks like a model.

He also seems to have an uncanny ability to know when he’s being observed. Astarion’s eyes scan the crowd briefly before they meet Gale’s.

“GC!” Astarion hops off the table and pushes through the throng of their colleagues, throwing himself at Gale again, just like he had after the race. The force of the hug knocks Gale back a bit and he laughs into it as the team around him cheers his arrival. 

It occurs to Gale that this is the fourth time he’s held Astarion in his arms and it’s starting to feel more oddly familiar than it probably should with a colleague. His arms wrap around his teammate’s waist perhaps a little more snugly than is proper, and his cheek rests on silver curls, inhaling the scent of bergamot for perhaps a touch longer than is normal.

It’s only when Gale looks up to see Vajra watching him from the bar with eyebrows raised that he grasps Astarion firmly by the shoulders and moves him back, the other driver pouting at being pushed away.

“You-” Astarion pokes his chest playfully, cheeks flushed from the heat of the club. “-need a drink.” 

“You-” Gale pokes him back. “-are right. Want one?”

Astarion chuckles, shaking his head and waving the champagne in the air before turning and sashaying back to his table, hips swaying to the music. 

Gale is on his way to join Vajra when he’s knocked sideways by another enthusiastic hug, this time in the form of Karlach, done up to the nines in a sleek red suit. 

“What does it meaaaaaan??” she roars at him, giving him a breath-stealing squeeze. 

“Mercy,” Gale gasps. “I refuse to be interrogated by someone who’s dressed like they work for Avernus.”

Karlach laughs and lets go, readjusting her suit. “Sorry, red’s just more my color. And don’t deflect.”

“Deflect what?”

“What does it mean!?” she gestures with annoyance. “GC/PC — I have to know!”

Oh god, not this again. “I honestly don’t know,” Gale lies. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Karlach assesses him with narrowed eyes. “Grandpa cartilage and… pokey… clavicles?”

“What- Why grandpa??”

“GESUS CHRIST and…” Karlach hums. “...Pesus Christ?”

Gale squints at her. “I was under the impression that engineers are supposed to be smart.”

Karlach is not listening. Instead, she’s looking down at his trousers with wide eyes. “Oh my god, is it Giant Co-”

“Enough! I’m getting a drink!” Gale beats a hasty retreat to the bar, where Vajra is waiting for him with a whisky on the rocks.

“Whatever!” Karlach calls after him. “I’m getting Astarion plastered enough to tell me anyway!”

Gale slides onto a bar stool with a grateful smile at Vajra as she pushes his drink over. At Weave’s table, he hears a burst of laughter and looks over to see Astarion and Karlach beaming at him. Clearly, the race engineer has just told Astarion her latest guess. Gale rolls his eyes and flips Astarion the finger, his teammate blowing a kiss back.

Gale is still laughing when he turns to Vajra and finds her staring at him.

“What?” It comes out a touch more defensively than he intended. 

“Nothing,” she smiles knowingly. “I’m just wondering what the hell happened on that island.”

“Good god,” Gale takes a swig of his whisky, the strength of the alcohol making him croak. “Nothing happened on the island!”

“Sure,” Vajra stirs her cocktail with her straw. “You just happened to go from public fistfights to the absolute dream team overnight because of… nothing. With bonus secret nicknames and overfamiliar hugging?”

“I-!” Gale wilts under the stern look in her brown eyes. “We talked, that’s all. We got to know each other better.”

“How much better?” Vajra asks, innocently sipping her drink. 

“For god’s sake, V!” 

“Fine!” Vajra shrugs. “Fine. Just be careful, Gale. I know you can get… attached to colleagues quite quickly…”

This stings and Gale glares at her. “That was uncalled for, this is nothing like Mystra-”

“Okay, okay,” His race engineer raises a hand in supplication. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up Mystra. I only meant-”

“I know,” Gale sags. “I didn’t mean to snap either. I’m merely pleased that Astarion and I are working well together after an undeniably rough start...”

“Mmhm,” Vajra nods infuriatingly. “That’s great.” 

“Yes,” Gale takes another swig of his drink. “It is.”

*

Astarion hasn’t felt this good in years. He is a Grand Prix winner. The Monaco Grand Prix, no less. This is a Weave-only event so Cazador is far away and Astarion is partying with his team, his lovely team that he loves so much. 

He’s also sliding blissfully over to the wrong side of tipsy. It’s all Karlach’s fault — she keeps plying him with bottles of champagne, pestering him to tell her what GC and PC stand for. 

Which reminds him… He scans the crowd for the hundredth time that night. Gale had promised he’d come and celebrate as well…

A flash of indigo in the crowd catches Astarion’s eye and he finally spots his teammate, lips parting involuntarily as he watches Gale make his way through the VIP area.

Astarion has never seen Gale dressed up before. Yes, it’s jeans again, which is unfortunate, but they’re black and flattering at least. And Gale’s shirt is well-cut, hugging his broad shoulders and accentuating his waist, the top few buttons undone, revealing the triangle of tanned skin that Astarion knows leads down to the scar between his pecs. Gale’s hair is pulled back into a half bun and he looks more groomed than usual, his beard trimmed down to a light stubble that grazes his strong jawline-

When Gale’s gaze turns towards him, Astarion quickly looks away, trying to pretend he hasn’t seen him, needing a moment to sort his head out. He’s drunk and he’s grateful to Gale, that’s all this rush is. His teammate has been looking out for him lately and his intervention this weekend had probably averted disaster. Then he’d handed Astarion the win without hesitation. No one has ever done anything that nice for Astarion before. No one has ever told him they cared, and so he’s getting stupidly attached, even though Gale had said himself that his actions didn’t mean anything. 

“It made the most sense, more points for the team.” Those were Gale's exact words. It was a smart, calculated decision from a seasoned, professional driver. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

Astarion sneaks a look back and Gale is still smiling up at him so he has no choice but to greet the man. 

“GC!” he cries, throwing himself at his teammate, switching into his usual performance to make up for the confusion he’s really feeling. The only problem with this is that now he’s hugging Gale, face half-pressed into the man’s neck, inhaling his scent of neroli and clean laundry, Gale’s strong arms slipping easily around his waist in a way that’s starting to feel oddly familiar…

It’s embarrassing when Gale gently but firmly pushes him back, so Astarion puts on his fakest pout.

“You need a drink!” he declares dramatically, hoping it distracts Gale from the blush he can feel heating his cheeks. Gale agrees and offers to buy him one too but Astarion is already making his way back to the team’s booth before he can do anything else idiotic. As he walks, he can’t help but swing his hips just a little. Just in case Gale is watching him go.

Moments later, Karlach flops onto the squeaky white leather beside him. “Gale wouldn’t tell me what it means either,” she wails, pulling another bottle of champagne from the ice bucket next to the table and thrusting it at Astarion. “I told him I thought it was “Giant Cock” and he nearly had an aneurysm.”

Astarion cackles and he sees Gale glance up from the bar before raising his middle finger at both of them. Champagne freshly fizzing through his brain, Astarion blows a kiss back. 

He’s still laughing when he turns to Karlach and finds her staring at him.

“What?” It comes out a touch more defensively than he intended. 

“Did you guys fuck on that island or something?” Karlach questions bluntly, swigging from her own bottle. 

“Karlach!” Astarion chokes on a mouthful of champagne. “What- No, we did not!”

“Okay,” she shrugs, then her eyes light up. “Oh my god, I love this song!”

Astarion hears the opening bars of Anthem by N-Joi and he reluctantly allows Karlach to pull him to his feet, giggling drunkenly as she half lifts him back onto the table.

*


“Well, he’s certainly having a good celebration,” Vajra nods over at Weave’s booth, where Astarion has been reinstated on the table and is liberally downing champagne, gyrating to the new song that’s started playing.

“Good,” Gale chuckles. “He deserves it.”

He watches Astarion dance for a while, wishing — not for the first time — that he had the man’s confidence. Though tonight it does seem to be at least 80% fuelled by alcohol. 

Gale is contemplating ordering another drink himself when he notices Astarion’s gaze sweeping the bar, as though he’s looking for something. When his eyes find Gale’s, his face breaks into a grin and he points, faux seductive, mouthing the words of the song.

I'm in love with you… 

Gale snorts as the rest of the team cheer, a few of them bouncing over to press around him, hands on his shoulders, clapping him on the back. 

Want you to love me too…

Astarion is still miming at Gale and their colleagues are roaring with laughter and suddenly Gale is being lifted out of his seat.

“Steady on!” he cries as he's transported towards the table but it's no use. Karlach gets involved and he's suddenly deposited without ceremony into Astarion's arms, his teammate pulling him into a dance as the others cheer them on. Astarion spins, pretending to grind against Gale, eliciting another roar from the crowd before he turns again, throwing one arm around Gale's neck, eyes twinkling. 

All Gale can think is that he's never seen his teammate this happy. Astarion's usual frowns and sneers have been replaced by a huge open smile. He’s beaming at the friends and colleagues jumping around them and it feels genuine; it makes the way he acts in front of the press seem entirely fake. He looks radiant. 

You should tell him that, the whisky says. 

Gale leans forward to speak into Astarion's ear just as Astarion turns to say something to him and, for the briefest moment, their lips bump together. Astarion pulls back with a laugh, eyes wide, but then Karlach yanks him backward by the t-shirt, carrying him off to the bar on her shoulder. He twists around to look back at Gale but Gale waves him off, climbing down from the table, his neck burning. Someone presses another bottle of champagne into his hand and Gale takes a hefty swig, trying to dampen the adrenaline that’s pulsing through every part of his body.

*

Fucking on the island, Astarion titters to himself as he dances. Karlach is so silly. She’s right though, this is a good song. Everyone should be dancing. Is Gale dancing? Where is Gale?

Astarion searches for his teammate in the crowd, finally spotting him at the bar. He’s watching Astarion dance again. Always watching, Astarion hums to himself thoughtfully, swaying his hips, maintaining eye contact. Maybe, maybe… 

On a whim, he points to Gale through the crowd, singing to him. The rest of the team gets the hint and drags Gale over and then they’re both on the table, both dancing. 

The club is hot and the three bottles of champagne are hitting all at once. Astarion feels a bit unsteady on his feet so he throws a hand around Gale’s neck, holding on for dear life, laughing with the rest of the team who surround them. 

They’re so close and Gale feels so strong and sturdy under his arm that Astarion wants to drape the other one around Gale’s neck too. Astarion can feel himself swaying slightly and he knows he's being incautious, knows what Cazador said about hiding who he really is, how he'd lose fans for it, for being what Cazador calls ‘abnormal’, but he’s had so much to drink he feels dizzy with it, and he probably should have eaten something earlier or at least had some water, and he turns to look into Gale’s warm brown eyes just as Gale turns to him and he can’t help himself but lean in-

Their lips brush together for a moment but the alarm in Gale’s eyes makes Astarion pull back with a nervous laugh then he’s being dragged backward off the table by his t-shirt, flung unceremoniously over a red-clad shoulder. 

“Mate, what are you doing?” Karlach hisses as she carries him away to the bar. “Did you just try and kiss him in front of the entire team?” 

“What?? No!” Did he? “We just bumped into each other! It was an accident!” Was it? Astarion twists to look at Gale, trying to read his teammate’s body language, but Gale is walking away into the crowd, swigging champagne, and Astarion can’t see his face. 

Karlach deposits him heavily onto a barstool and signals to the waiter to bring over some water. “How are you such a lightweight?” she snorts. “I thought you were a party boy?” 

Astarion laughs and shrugs playfully because he doubts he could get the truth out without slurring and doubts Karlach wants to hear it anyway. Everyone likes the idea of Playboy Astarion. In truth, he’d rather have good conversation (preferably about racing) and an expensive bottle of wine, but that doesn't grab headlines. It's why Cazador gives him all manner of recreational drugs before sending him out on wild nights with the right people: models, royals, politicians’ daughters — anyone to keep his name in the press. It gets him fans and F1 teams love a driver with a fanbase, Cazador says. It's good for sales. 

Karlach is pinching the skin underneath his tight t-shirt. 

“Maybe you need to eat more,” she chuckles and Astarion just laughs again, because what's the point of telling her that he's not allowed to do that either? She wouldn't understand. No one would understand because he's never talked to anyone about Cazador before. Anyone except…

Astarion looks around for Gale, his eyes narrowing as he spies his teammate on the dancefloor with Alfira, the PR rep. She's pretty, he thinks, even if the pink hair is a little passé in Astarion's opinion. He wonders if Gale likes pink hair. 

The barman brings over a couple of glasses of water and Karlach proffers one.

“I don't need water…” Astarion pouts again. “I need… I need…”

Astarion turns to look at Gale again just as Alfira cracks up at something the other driver said, her hand resting lightly on his arm. 

“...vodka,” Astarion finishes with a scowl. 

“Ooh, vodka!” Karlach claps, and Astarion calls the barman back over.

*

Gale has lost track of what time it is as he wanders the club, looking for a bathroom that doesn't have an outrageous queue. Midnight? 1 am? 

Surprisingly, he's not having a bad time at all. He's had a bit more to drink than he planned, his teammates keeping him topped up all night but it's nice to let loose for once. And nice to spend time with everyone free from the pressures of work, even if it's just for one evening. 

He'd actually spent most of the night with Alfira in the end. She's a great deal more convivial when not stressed out about shepherding him from one media obligation to another. She's actually quite funny. And she'd seemed to find him funny too. If Gale wasn't wholly mistaken, it had almost seemed like she was flirting with him — even though he knows he's far from the most desirable driver on the grid. 

Gale’s thoughts drift to Astarion. He hasn't spoken to his teammate since their mildly awkward moment on the table but he has seen Astarion at the bar, downing shots of varying colors with Karlach and looking more worse for wear by the minute. 

Part of Gale feels like he should probably have intervened. He's trying to remind himself that his teammate isn't his responsibility though, as much as Gale has made it his duty to watch out for Astarion lately. Astarion is a grown man — surely more than capable of looking after himself. Gale is worried that he's getting too involved. He has a tendency to get too involved. 

He's passing by the door to the venue's foyer when he hears a familiar voice, raised in anger. 

“Don't you know who I am!?” 

Gale pokes his head around the grand double doors to see Astarion standing at the front desk, hands on his hips. 

“You did not just pull the ‘don't you know who I am’ card…” Gale leans against the doorway, shaking his head at his teammate. 

Astarion's head whips around and he at least has the decency to go a bit pink. “Shut up. Tell them to give me my keys.”

“Your car keys??” Gale looks to the attendant at the desk, a slightly exasperated-looking man in a fancy uniform. “Don't give him his car keys!”

“Indeed, sir,” the man sighs, pained. “It is policy for our valet service to turn away our more… inebriated customers.” 

“Je ne suis pas en état d'ébriété, espèce d'idiot!” Astarion snaps, and hearing him talk French does something funny to Gale, even if he's fairly sure Astarion is being a brat. It takes Gale back to the island, to those stupid nicknames…

“Sorry about this," Gale finds himself saying, stepping forward. "I'll take him home.”

Astarion turns to him with his eyebrows raised. “Will you now?” 

“Hey Gale, you leaving?” Alfira totters out of the club, smiling at Gale a touch too intensely. She looks a little worse for wear herself. 

“Yes, he's taking me home,” Astarion leers at her and she blinks back. 

“Oh okay, cool. Well, there are some cars on standby outside, I can have one take you back to your flat if you like? Gale, we could share then, since we're both heading to the hotel?”

Out of nowhere, Astarion slumps against the desk. 

“Astarion!” Gale darts forward to catch him, one arm steadying his back. “Are you okay?”

“Oh dear,” Astarion's voice is faint as he rests his head on Gale's bicep. “I think I've had a bit too much to drink.” 

Gale sighs, smiling apologetically at Alfira. “I'll have to take him back to his flat — can you have a car sent round for us, Al?” 

“Fine,” she taps at her phone, then waits a moment before saying: “Take the first Range Rover outside. W34V.” She looks pissed off and Gale feels a bit bad. Perhaps she was expecting… But he can't very well let the idiot go home alone like this. 

“Thank you, Al. See you in the week-” 

She's already walking back into the club, clearly no longer in the mood to head back to the hotel. Gale sighs and hefts Astarion's arm over his shoulder. “Come on.”

Gale manages to get Astarion into the back seat of the car before hopping in the other side. The driver confirms that he knows where they’re going and they head off into the lamp-lit streets of Monte Carlo. 

*

Astarion does not feel good, so he’s decided to be sensible and leave before Karlach can ply him with any more alcohol. But the bastard at the club’s front desk won’t give him his car keys. 

Then Gale is there, ever the knight in shining armor, offering to take him home, and Astarion is reminded of the island, of how he’d had one of the best night’s sleep of his life and, perhaps, if Gale takes him home, he might be convinced to stay-

That annoying pink-haired woman appears out of nowhere, making stupid suggestions about Gale going to the hotel instead, and Astarion can’t have that so he pretends to faint a bit and it works like a charm. The next thing he remembers, he’s in the back of one of the team’s private cars with Gale, heading for his apartment. 

There’s a song playing on the radio that he’s not familiar with but Gale is humming along, gazing out of the window as the streetlights flash past.

If all you've got to do today is find peace of mind,

Come round,

You can take a piece of mine.

And if all you've got to do today is hesitate,

Come here, 

You can leave it late with me.

The woman singing has a funny accent. Astarion almost can’t understand the words. 

“Why does she sound weird?” he asks and Gale laughs. 

“She’s Welsh.”

“Oh.” 

If all you've got to prove today is your innocence,

Calm down, you're as guilty as can be,

But as all you've got to lose, alludes to yesterday,

Yesterday's through, now do anything you please.

Astarion’s head is starting to pound and he rests it on his hand, watching his teammate. Gale looks a bit more disheveled than he had when he first arrived at the club but it suits him. Astarion likes it when his hair gets loose at the front and falls over his eyes like that. 

“I didn’t cheat today, you know,” he says. 

Gale glances at him in surprise but then his eyes soften. “I know.”

You could be taking it easy on yourself.

You should be making it easy on yourself.

Astarion doesn’t know why but he feels argumentative all of a sudden. It's annoying, the way Gale is looking at him. Confusing. “Is that why you gave me the win?” 

“I didn’t give you anything-” Gale starts but Astarion cuts him off.

“Or was it because we slept together?”

*

“Astarion!” For god’s sake. “We didn’t sleep together! Stop saying that!”

Astarion snickers drunkenly and Gale rolls his eyes, turning away to look out of the window again, thinking about that morning on the island. The morning he’d woken up to Astarion murmuring in French…

~

“Bonjour, grande cuillère…”

“Hngh?” Gale's eyes fly open. The voice startles him; he’s unaccustomed to waking up to someone else in his bed, it’s been so long. And not just in his bed but in his arms… 

“Oh god!” Gale bolts upright, scooting away from Astarion in horror, his back hitting the cool wooden wall of the hut. “Oh my god, Astarion, I’m so sorry.”

Gale’s arms had been wrapped completely around his teammate, one tucked under Astarion’s neck and curled up against his bare chest, the other wrapped around his stomach.  

His teammate is shaking with laughter. “De rien, grande cuillère…”

“What is that? What are you calling me?”

“Grande cuillère!” Astarion sits up, grinning, sheets pooling around his waist. “Big spoon! Et je suis ta petite cuillère!”

“Bloody hell,” Gale rubs his face ferociously, trying to bring himself round. “I was sound asleep, I did not mean-”

“It’s fine,” Astarion chuckles. “No harm done. I actually slept really well…”

“Bloody hell,” Gale says again. His thoughts are racing. He’d been spooning his teammate in his sleep. He’s mortified.

Even worse, he’s… roused in more ways than one. He folds his arms over the sheets across his lap, desperately hoping Astarion hadn’t noticed as they lay side-by-side. 

Astarion stretches like a cat, then hops out of the bed. “Well, we’d better call Khelben from the watch. Not to be fussy or anything but I’d prefer if he sent a smaller boat that can actually reach the island this morning…”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” Gale nods furiously, willing him to leave. 

“Okay!” Astarion flashes him another grin. “I’ll go get it.”

He slips out of the hut and Gale falls face-first on the bed, burying his head in the pillow.

*

Astarion wakes up feeling cozy and warm. Safe. He'd been so deeply asleep it takes him a while to come round, a while to realize someone is holding him.

He rolls over slightly, shock giving way to mirth as something tickles the side of his face. It’s a beard. Gale’s beard. Gale is spooning him.

His teammate is out cold, his cheek resting against Astarion’s hair, arms wrapped tightly around Astarion’s torso. Even more hilariously, Gale is as hard as a rock.

“Bonjour, grande cuillère…” Astarion whispers seductively, trying to keep the laughter from his voice. But he can't stifle it as his teammate bolts upright and throws himself across the bed, trying to hide his boner, face bright red. 

It's so funny that Astarion decides there and then that Gale will be 'grande cuillère' from here on out.

~

And if all you've got to do today is find peace of mind

Come here, 

You can take a piece of mine.

“GC?” Astarion murmurs sleepily.

“Mm?”

“Will you stay tonight?”

Gale looks at him nonplussed but Astarion is half asleep, eyes closed, curly head leaned against the blacked-out window of the car. Gale’s brow furrows with indecision. He should refuse, he knows that. He feels like he’s starting to get too close to his teammate, crossing some kind of professional boundary. Probably several. And Astarion seems to find it all hilarious. A massive joke. It’s not a joke to Gale.

'Cause you and I know,

It's all over the front page, 

You give me road rage,

Racing through the best days.

Then Astarion groans — “I don’t feel so good” — and Gale’s resolve crumbles.

It's up to you boy, you're driving me crazy,

Thinking you may be

Losing your mind.

“Okay,” Gale sighs. “I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

Astarion feels as though he's died, been buried, been resurrected, and then clawed his way out of his own grave before being subjected to 200 years of torture. 

So this is an alcohol hangover. 

He gazes queasily down at the small glass in front of him. “What is it?” 

The glass appears to hold a mixture of milk, a raw egg, Tabasco, some frozen peas, and something that smells like vinegar. It’s curdled. Just looking at it makes him feel sick.

“It's my mother's trusty Morning After shot,” Gale pushes it towards him over the breakfast bar. “Old Greek recipe, sorts a hangover out instantaneously.” 

“I don't want to be shot,” Astarion shakes his head, his English slipping in the way it only does when he's very tired, very sick, or very upset. 

Gale chuckles. “It'll make you feel better.”

Ugh. Astarion’s head is splitting in two, his stomach churning. He'll do anything to feel better. 

“Fine!” He picks up the shot and downs it. 

Gale's right, the effects are instantaneous. But they're not good. Astarion claps a hand over his mouth and runs, only just making it to the bathroom before he's violently sick. 

*

Astarion slinks back into the kitchen, pushing his hair out of his face and looking decidedly sorry for himself as he collapses onto one of the stools at his breakfast bar. His curls are uncharacteristically chaotic and he’s even more pallid than usual, dark circles around his drowsy eyes, his lips full and red where he’s scrubbed at them. 

Even then, it works for him. He resembles one of those new romantic vampire types from some nineties TV show. It’s like the man is incapable of looking bad. It's maddening. 

Gale puts on his best lecturing voice. 

"That is for being a pain in my arse last night." He winces. He probably could have phrased that a bit better. Luckily, Astarion is too preoccupied with the deception to make time for double entendre. His mouth has dropped open, eyes wide. 

“That wasn’t a hangover cure??”

“No,” Gale folds his arms. “I made it up.”

“You bastard!” Astarion manages to look furious and hurt at the same time. “You said it would make me feel better! It made me throw up, Gale!”

Gale does feel a bit bad about that. “Well, hopefully now you’ll learn your lesson,” he says pompously, trying not to let the guilt seep into his voice. He hadn’t expected Astarion to actually drink the shot, let alone for it to make him sick. His teammate clearly trusts him a bit more than Gale had accounted for…

“What lesson!?” Astarion is still staring at him, betrayal in his wide eyes. “You’re lecturing me about getting drunk??” 

“I’m lecturing you about trying to drive drunk, Astarion.” Ha. That shuts him up and Gale is back on the moral high ground, where he belongs.

Astarion looks at the floor, folding his arms and chewing his lips. “I wasn’t actually going to…” He peers up at Gale, a wicked glint in his eye. “I was just trying to lure you into taking me home…”

This gives Gale pause. He opens and then shuts his mouth, eying his teammate with a shiver of something he can’t quite name. 

Is Astarion flirting? 

As Gale lay on Astarion’s sofa the previous night, unable to drift off on the squeaky black leather, he’d asked himself the same question. They’ve been getting on well since their time on the island, of course, teasing each other, developing private jokes, enjoying their newfound repartee. 

Last night felt different though. Last night, it seemed like Astarion wanted something to happen.

~

“Les visiteurs devront s'inscrire.” The concierge in Astarion's building looks deeply unimpressed at the sight of the younger driver draped drunkenly over Gale's shoulder. 

Gale gazes around the expanse of stone-colored marble and spotlights. Astarion's building is impressive in a cold and austere kind of way. Le Palais… Gale reads the words inscribed in chrome over the reception. Rather a tacky name though. 

“Désolé,” he attempts when the concierge clears his throat impatiently. “Non parle français…”

“He no speaks French,” Astarion giggles at the man behind the desk. 

“You could help me!” Gale snaps at him. 

“Why would I? It's cute-” 

“Dois-je appeler Monsieur Szarr?” the concierge interrupts, voice icy. 

“Non!” Gale feels Astarion push away and attempt to stand up straight, his tone more serious. “Non, je vais bien. You need to sign in.” This last is directed at Gale, as Astarion gestures at a list on the concierge’s desk. 

“Does everyone have to do this?” Gale questions as he prints and then signs his name. 

“Everyone that visits me,” Astarion responds morosely, wandering off across the shiny marble floor towards a set of lifts. 

The concierge had said something about ‘Monsieur Szarr’, Gale is fairly sure. Does the man even control who visits Astarion in his own blasted apartment building? Gale glances back at the list on the concierge’s desk. Gale's is the only name there. 

The lift stops just short of the top floor. 

“I'd imagined you in the penthouse,” Gale jests, trying to dispel Astarion's sudden mood. His teammate is slouched against the lift's mirrored wall, arms folded, eyes downcast. 

“No,” is all he answers. “I'm not allowed up there.”

Gale frowns, checking the control panel as the lift doors slide open. Where the other floors are labeled by number, the uppermost button is simply denoted “M.S.” 

M.S. — Monsieur Szarr? Cazador must live here too. 

Before Gale can consider the implications of that, Astarion is walking up the tastefully lit corridor towards a forbidding-looking front door, tapping his smartwatch against the lock and pushing it open when it clicks.  

Gale follows him into a hallway that leads to a large open-plan living room and kitchen. Astarion's apartment is just as dourly impressive as the rest of the building, the far wall taken up by floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over Monte Carlo, the fashionable black window frames putting Gale in mind of a giant cage. 

A huge TV faces the long L-shaped leather sofa, while another wall is dominated by a glass case, filled with all of Astarion’s trophies and medals. It’s the only touch in the space that could be considered personal. And, even then, there are no photos or newspaper clippings. Only rows upon rows of carefully lit awards, locked away out of reach.

Gale thinks of his own home back in Hertfordshire, of its cheerful clutter and walls of photographs. It was an old schoolhouse once and Gale had fallen in love with its wisteria-covered red brick walls and arched windows, its eccentric little tower that rises up out of one corner, just begging to be turned into a library. It had felt empty when he started to go home without Mystra, but it never felt as cold and lonely as this.

Astarion is making his way unsteadily to one of the doors that lead off the living room, presumably to his bedroom, and Gale hesitates, unsure of what to do. Astarion probably needs water so Gale grabs a glass from one of the cupboards and fills it from the tap, before finding some paracetamol in another cupboard under the sink. Holding both of them in front of him like a shield, Gale follows Astarion into his room. 

His teammate is sprawled on the king-sized bed with one arm over his eyes so Gale sets the glass and tablets down on a side table and tries to creep out. But then Astarion lets out a deep sigh and Gale looks back to see him attempting to undress himself, t-shirt bunched up around his face. His chest and stomach are exposed, pulled taut by the way his arms stretch over his head and onto the pillow.

Gale stares for a moment before shaking his head. For god’s sake. What on earth is he thinking, ogling his passed-out colleague like this? Like a common creep??

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he murmurs, hurrying for the door. 

Astarion seems to have other ideas. “Gaale!” he moans. “He-elp…”

Gale pauses before turning back with a sigh. Just get this over and done with and get out. He clambers awkwardly onto the bed, pulling Astarion’s t-shirt over his head as quickly as possible and placing it on the duvet next to him. Astarion wiggles his hips next and Gale rolls his eyes, moving down the bed. How on earth is he going to get the man’s trousers off without touching him?

Swallowing heavily, Gale gingerly unbuttons the high-waisted slacks, trying not to let his fingertips brush against Astarion’s navel. Then, he carefully undoes the zip, holding it away from Astarion’s skin so his fingers don’t brush anything else either… 

Almost there. Gale hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the trousers and slides them down. 

Halfway through though, he makes the mistake of looking up. Astarion is watching him, a lazy smile on his face, and Gale is momentarily immobilized, their eyes locked, his hands at Astarion’s hips…

A voice in Gale’s head whispers get out, get out, get out, get out and he yanks the trousers down the rest of the way, earning himself a disgruntled yelp, before dumping Astarion’s clothes on a chair and making a run for it. 

“Gale?” 

What now?? Gale grips the doorframe like an anchor, watching as his teammate gets comfy on the bed, sliding one of his knees up and out, pulling his underwear tight across his crotch.  

Astarion gazes up at him through his eyelashes, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Thanks for making me come first,” he murmurs. 

Good god. 

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Gale manages to say, hating how strangled his voice sounds. He flees to the safety of the living room and the uncomfortable sofa, Astarion’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

*

Astarion doesn't know how to ask for what he needs. Mostly because he doesn't know exactly what that is. As he collapses onto his bed, the anxiety from the alcohol starts to set in and he's craving that feeling he awoke with on the island. Security? Comfort? 

He's not sure if it was being held in general or being held by Gale specifically that had done the trick. Either way, it feels like an inappropriate thing to ask of a friend, let alone a colleague. 

Gale brings in a glass of water and some paracetamol and Astarion watches him, wondering if his teammate would consider them friends now. Gale treats him more like a mildly annoying apprentice than anything else…

Alternatively, Astarion could seduce Gale instead. That way, he’d definitely stay for a cuddle after, wouldn't he? But the idea seems laughable. There’s no way boring, earnest Gale would ever really be tempted by someone as unserious and shallow as Astarion, would he?

Still, with no better ideas, Astarion turns to the only way he knows how to get what he wants. 

Step one: neglect to mention the guest bedroom to Gale. Step two… Astarion feigns an attempt to pull his t-shirt off, tugging it half-heartedly over his head before giving up with a sultry sigh, laying back on the pillows with his arms above his head, tilting his hips to arch his back slightly. 

Gale tuts, which isn't a good start, and then Astarion hears his teammate mutter something about privacy. 

Goddamnit, can't the man take a hint?? 

“Gaale!” Astarion moans, attempting to regain control of the situation. “He-elp!”

There's a hefty sigh and the bed creaks as Gale sits down next to him, unceremoniously pulling his t-shirt off first and then moving down to unbutton his trousers. It’s not the seductive moment Astarion was hoping for but he is surprised by how much it turns him on, watching Gale slide the expensive fabric down over his hips. 

Gale glances up and meets Astarion’s eye but then he yanks the trousers the rest of the way, making Astarion yelp with shock. Moving quickly, Gale folds the clothes and places them on the chair in the corner of the room before heading toward the door. 

“Gale?” In a last-ditch attempt, Astarion flutters his eyelashes and opens one of his knees to the side, trying to make himself look his most inviting. 

When the other driver looks back, Astarion purrs: “Thanks for making me come first…”

Gale backs out of the door so quickly that Astarion thinks he's fallen over for a minute. 

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Gale says as he goes, in such a stern tone that it makes Astarion giggle. 

Damn, overegged it… Astarion thinks, the edges of the room going hazy as he slips into a stupor. It’s not as good as the island but he still sleeps a bit easier knowing Gale is at least in the room next door.

~

Gale chews on the inside of his lip, wondering if he’s reading too much into his teammate’s behavior. Astarion flirts with everyone. He’s constantly turning on the charm with their colleagues, with members of the press, with fans. It’s hardly a big deal for him to flirt with Gale as well.

A possibly more pertinent question is: does Gale want Astarion to be flirting with him…?

He clearly takes too long to respond because Astarion rolls his eyes.

“Don’t have a heart attack, Gale,” he tuts, walking away from the kitchen and throwing himself onto the sofa. “I’m only joking.”

Ah, of course. The other option, the one Gale had also considered as he lay awake on that same sofa: Astarion merely enjoys winding him up, making him feel uncomfortable. It’s a much more likely explanation for Astarion’s behavior thus far.

“Well,” Gale says, feeling suddenly awkward and out of place. “You’ve probably got plans this morning. I’ll let you get on…”

“You’re so English,” Astarion snaps, flicking on the TV. “If you want to leave, just leave.”

He is so infuriating. “No,” Gale says sarcastically. “I’m desperate to stay and enjoy your delightful company. You’re exceedingly charming when you’re hungover.”

“Forgive me, I’m not feeling my best,” Astarion glares over the back of the settee. “Someone POISONED ME.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake-”

"Who is Pete??"

They both hear the sound of the front door opening at the same time, and Gale sees the way Astarion freezes at the voice that rings out from the hallway.

“Astarion, dear boy, look who I found downstairs!” 

Cazador appears at the living room door, taking in the scene in front of him with genteel surprise. “Oh! Dekarios… what… I wasn’t aware you were visiting today?”

Before Gale can respond, someone else appears in the doorway too. It’s a girl, beautiful, with hair as white blonde as Astarion’s. She can’t be more than 20. Gale feels like he recognizes her from somewhere…

“Did you forget about your brunch date this morning, darling?” Cazador croons. “Isobel was waiting for you in the lobby…”

“Hey,” Isobel waves awkwardly at Astarion, before turning to Gale with a smile. “Oh, hi Gale. It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve always enjoyed watching you race.”

Isobel Thorm. The name comes to Gale out of nowhere. Ketheric Thorm’s daughter. Thorm is one of the older drivers on the circuit but he still must have been young when he had her. And now she and Astarion are dating? Gale feels a bit silly. He’d had no idea. Last he knew, Astarion had some model following him around the paddock. He never seemed all that interested in her.

Gale glances at his teammate. Astarion hasn’t moved; he’s sitting stock still on the sofa, glaring at Cazador, fists tightly clenched on his knees. 

“Ah, a pleasure to meet you, Isobel,” Gale steps forward to shake her hand when Astarion doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt a team meeting-” Isobel responds hesitantly, her eyes flicking between Gale and Astarion.

“No, no. I was just leaving-” Gale sees Astarion’s head whip round to look at him but what else can he do? Crash their date?

“Okay,” Isobel smiles again. “Uh- is it okay if I use the restroom before we head out?” This is directed at Astarion but Cazador steps in.

“Of course, my dear,” he gestures at a door on the far side of the living space. “It’s just through there, next to the guest bedroom.”

Guest bedroom. Gale almost laughs as Isobel walks out. Astarion is such an arsehole…

“Well, don’t let us delay you,” Cazador looks down his nose at Gale but Astarion is on his feet, marching over to the kitchen.

“What is this? I don’t have anything planned today,” he hisses, his ears going pink.

“I’d advise you to rethink your tone,” Cazador snaps in return.

It’s upsetting to watch how Astarion sags so immediately and completely. Gale wants to reach out for his hand or to shove Cazador’s nasty leering face away from him. 

But then Cazador says: “It’s a condition of your move to Bane. Isobel has been estranged from her father and he wants you to… put in a good word for him, shall we say? Bring the little chick back to the roost. A favor for your new teammate.”

Your move… your new teammate…

“What?” Gale asks, almost at the same time as Astarion.

Cazador sighs as though they’re both simple, though he can barely mask the glee in his eyes. “You’re transferring to Bane Motorsports, Astarion — our plan has come to fruition! I had the confirmation this morning, it’s all arranged. Congratulations.”

Gale’s head is reeling and he turns to Astarion, “You’re leaving Weave?” 

Astarion merely stares at Cazador as his stepfather answers for him: “Indeed. Gortash has won himself no fans at the team with his on-track antics and they’ve been keen to replace him. With Astarion’s win yesterday, he sealed the deal." Cazador caresses the side of his stepson’s face in a way that makes Gale feel sick. “Astarion’s career is far too promising to be dragged down by has-beens like yourself and Elminster, Dekarios. It’s clear to anyone watching that you simply no longer have the stomach for the sport. We should never have joined Weave, it’s a sinking ship. I’m getting my boy out.”

Gale nods slowly as shame rises up from his stomach, stinging his throat. “Like a rat,” he responds coldly, still looking at his teammate. Cazador said ‘our plan’ — did Astarion know? Gale’s heart sinks when Astarion won’t meet his eye.

“I should be going,” Gale says with as much politeness as he can muster. “Enjoy your date, Astarion. And congratulations on your news.”

“We’ll see you in Miami, Dekarios,” Cazador steps in front of Astarion, gesturing to the hallway. “All things being well, it’ll hopefully be one of your last races together!”

Gale can’t help but slam the front door as he leaves.

*

Astarion is so angry he wants to cry. From the moment Cazador comes in with his ‘dear boy’ bullshit, Astarion knows the entire performance is for Gale’s benefit. Cazador knew Gale would be here; the bastard concierge probably told him as soon as Astarion and Gale arrived last night. 

He’s been expecting his stepfather to pull something like this, ever since Gale first stood up to Cazador on Astarion’s behalf. Cazador was never going to let that slide; he never lets Astarion get close to anyone for long. It was only a matter of time before he sought to separate them. But even Astarion wasn’t expecting him to move this quickly. 

Astarion can’t bear the look on Gale’s face when Cazador starts talking about Bane. 

It’s nonsense, all of it nonsense. They haven’t discussed this at all. Cazador’s career plan was for Astarion to go somewhere like Bane after a couple of years at Weave, not immediately. Astarion has no desire to switch teams halfway through the year. He has no desire to leave Weave at all, but he has no control over his career either. If this is what Cazador has decided, it’s what Astarion will have to do. 

Panic sets in at the thought of being taken away from the team that's brought him happiness for the first time since he can remember. He feels utterly helpless, hopeless, too paralyzed with it to even say anything as Gale turns to look at him, the hurt written clear as day in his eyes. 

“You’re leaving Weave?” 

I don’t want to, Astarion wants to scream. Can’t you see that this is news to me too!? But Cazador is talking again, going for the jugular, and his comment about Gale’s driving ability seems to hit home for some reason. Astarion sees Gale wince before the other driver carefully rearranges his expression into one of polite civility, bidding them a terse farewell, and walking out. Abandoning Astarion.

He's still staring at the front door when Cazador’s fist grasps the back of his hair, yanking his head back, sending pain rippling through his already aching skull. 

“Don’t fuck this up, boy,” Cazador hisses, teeth grazing Astarion’s ear. “It took a great deal of hard work to get you into Bane. They’re the best team on the grid, you will show me gratitude-”

The bathroom lock clicks open and Cazador’s hand slides down Astarion’s neck just in time for Isobel to re-enter the living room.

“Ready to go?” Cazador smiles at her, arm around Astarion’s shoulders, the picture of a loving stepfather.

Chapter Text

As Gale’s plane touches down in Miami, the weather matches his mood rather nicely. The sky over the city is a foreboding gray and flashes of lightning flicker across the horizon, thunder rumbling in the distance. 

The flight had been horrendous, even the luxury of the chartered jet not making up for the discomfort Gale felt as turbulence rattled him in his seat. The shaking fuselage and the rain hammering against the window took him right back to that day, put him back into that car as he fought for control over tires slipping on wet tarmac, watching in horror, unable to do anything, as the barrier loomed up in front of him at high speed…

Gale had gripped the armrest, knuckles white and chest aching, trying to breathe through it. He didn’t want to wake Elminster or the other members of the team who were traveling with him, all of them taking the opportunity of the overnight flight to catch up on some sleep before what will no doubt be a hectic weekend. 

Gale was unsurprised to see Astarion missing from the flight manifest. In the two weeks since Monaco, someone — Gale could take a guess at who — had leaked the breaking news that Astarion Ancunin would be making the surprise move from Weave Racing to Bane Motorsports. 

The industry is reeling, but none more so than the team at Weave. It’s a humongous blow directly after their win at Monaco. Gale has barely seen Elminster, sequestered as he is in meetings with Summumens and the team’s various stakeholders, desperately trying to come up with a plan for the rest of the season. Astarion will be leaving during the summer break, so they still have several races left together, but then the team will need to decide who replaces him.

It’s protocol for departing drivers to be excluded from most team strategy talks, so Gale has barely seen Astarion either, only catching glimpses of him around Weave’s HQ when he comes in for his private meetings with Karlach. Astarion’s race engineer seems to have been hit hard by his upcoming departure, her demeanor unusually quiet and downcast of late. The rest of the team has taken the news even more poorly, and Gale has noticed that none of them will talk to Astarion anymore. A stony silence settles over the garage every time he walks in and Astarion no longer eats with everyone in the canteen.

Gale had wanted to feel sorry for him but he still didn’t know whether Astarion was in on Cazador’s plan or not. He desperately wanted to believe that Astarion was as surprised as everyone else, but he hadn’t been able to talk to his teammate — his ex-teammate, he corrects himself — ever since that morning in Astarion’s flat in Monaco. 

It wasn’t for want of trying on Gale’s part. He’d tried to call Astarion over in the car park, tried to grab him for a chat whenever he’d seen him at Weave’s offices, even tried to book an official meeting with him. But his requests were refused and he could never get Astarion alone; Cazador was always there, Astarion behind him, eyes averted. Gale had tried calling and texting too but Astarion only ever responded once.

As the plane taxis to the hangar and the rest of the team begin wearily gathering their belongings, Gale switches his phone back on and opens his chat with Astarion, rereading their message exchange from that day in Monaco.

GD: Did you know?

PC: Of course, it’s always been my dream to drive with Bane 🙂

The only emoji Gale has ever received from Astarion in the past is: 🖕🏻 The message has to be from Cazador. And if Cazador is controlling Astarion’s communications, surely that means Astarion has had no say in any of this…

Eventually, Gale got so worried that he’d gone to Elminster and raised his concerns about Astarion’s stepfather. He hated himself for violating Astarion’s privacy but he didn’t know what else to do.

Elminster had all but shrugged. They don’t have any evidence that would warrant contact with the police and the TP refused to go into confidential details, but Astarion would need to legally extricate himself from Cazador to cut ties with the man. There certainly isn’t anything anyone else can do.

So Gale could only wait. Wait for this race weekend in Miami, where he’s determined he’s going to get a private conversation with Astarion even if he has to fight Cazador to get to him.

*

Astarion stares listlessly out of a rain-lashed car window at the threatening sky outside. 

He’s en route to the Ritz-Carlton in South Beach, Weave’s hotel for the week, and the drive out over the Venetian Causeway takes the car across several small islands, each one a painful reminder of his night with Gale in Bahrain. 

He tries to distract himself by imagining how nice it all must look when it’s not being battered by near hurricane-force winds. There’s been talk of the race being called off entirely. He hopes that won't be the case. Being in the car will be the only extended time he’s had away from Cazador in two weeks.

His stepfather is currently sitting next to him, going over something or other on his iPad. As they near the hotel, Cazador absentmindedly reaches into the briefcase on the seat between them, withdrawing a small medicine bottle and shaking it, making a clicking noise with his tongue. Still staring out of the window, Astarion takes the bottle, undoes the cap, and swallows two tablets. 

Cazador doesn’t always make him take sleeping pills of an evening. The hotel must not have doors that lock from the outside.

20 minutes later, Astarion is being shown up to his suite, accompanied by Cazador and a porter. The porter leaves Astarion’s bags at the door before walking off with a huff when no tip materializes. Then Astarion is shut in his room again. His stepfather doesn’t even have to shove him in anymore, Astarion walks in of his own accord, barely wincing when the door slams behind him. 

The sedatives have yet to take effect so Astarion sighs, deciding he may as well look around a bit before he needs to go and lie down. He pokes his head into the bathroom, which is nice enough, even if the white marble and mirrored lighting is a bit blinding. Further down the corridor, he finds the suite’s living room, a large-ish space with a comfy purple sofa, a huge TV, and a stylish dining area. He’s staring out of the balcony doors at the storm outside when a voice behind him nearly makes his heart give out.

“Hello, PC.”

Astarion wheels on the spot to find Gale leaning against the bedroom doorway.

“What-?” Astarion stammers. “How?”

“I persuaded the receptionist to tell me your room number and give me a keycard,” Gale grins. “He was a fan, fortunately. Well… that and I… gave him money.”

He looks so inordinately pleased with himself, so goofy, so stupid, that Astarion immediately bursts into tears.

“Astarion…” Gale has crossed the room in just a couple of long strides and Astarion feels strong arms go around his shoulders, a gentle hand cradling the back of his head. 

“I didn’t know, Gale. I didn’t- I had nothing to do with it-” Astarion sobs against Gale’s shoulder, the stress and sadness and fear and bone-deep weariness of the past two weeks all coming out at once.

“I know, I know-” Gale’s voice is low and comforting. “I’m so sorry.”

Astarion presses his face into Gale’s soft Weave t-shirt, steadying his breathing, inhaling the scent that shouldn’t be as familiar as it is. He’s been so preoccupied with being angry at Gale for falling for Cazador’s bullshit, for leaving, for not bothering to check in with him, that he hasn’t realized how much he’s missed him. 

The thought takes him by surprise. That can't be normal. It’s not normal for colleagues to long to see each other the way Astarion had longed for Gale to walk back through his apartment door for the past two weeks. It’s not normal, the way soft, warm relaxation seeps through Astarion’s muscles at the sensation of Gale’s hands on his skin.

On second thoughts, that last part could be the sleeping pills.

“Astarion?” Gale’s face creases with concern as Astarion’s knees buckle slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“I had medicine…” Astarion needs to lie down. He stumbles towards the bedroom, Gale in tow, one hand still on Astarion’s arm, supporting him.

“What do you mean? What medicine?” Gale’s voice sounds further away now. Even then, Astarion can hear the worry that runs through it. 

He makes it to the bed, sinking down into the soft duvet, eyes heavy. “It’s a habit of his…” Astarion sighs, hearing a sing-song lilt to his voice that’s vaguely familiar. “I… I think he used to do it to my mother…”

The more he’s considered this theory of late, the more it makes sense. In Astarion’s few memories of his mother, she had always seemed so lost and confused. She had always acted just as Astarion does when Cazador gives him sedatives. Right up until the moment Cazador had deemed her an unfit parent and shipped her off to the ward where she died. 

Somewhere deep in Astarion’s stomach, there’s a flaming sphere of white-hot rage, but — currently — it feels as distant as Gale’s voice.

“Astarion, please talk to me. What did he give you?” Gale sits down on the edge of the bed, brows knitted in distress.

“It’s just sleeping pills,” Astarion shrugs, turning his head on the pillow to look at his teammate. “I don’t want to leave Weave, you know…” 

“I know, I know. You need to help me help you though,” Gale’s eyes look a bit watery, and Astarion dimly wonders why. “Are you okay? Should I call Tara?”

The first question is too difficult to answer but the second drives a lance of panic through Astarion’s heart. He tries to sit up, struggling to fight off the sleep threatening to overwhelm him. “No, no — don’t call anyone-” 

“Okay, okay,” Gale says soothingly, running a hand over Astarion’s forehead and through his hair, stroking it softly. It doesn’t help with the drowsiness at all. “I want to help you but I don’t know how. Elminster couldn’t tell me what your situation was. Why can't you get away from Cazador?”

Get away from Cazador. Now there’s a thought, Astarion smiles but it rapidly turns to a frown as he remembers. “No. He controls everything…” 

That’s right, isn’t it? Yes, everything belongs to Cazador: Astarion’s earnings, his sponsorships, even the apartment building he lives in.

“How?” Gale asks, with just a hint of frustration. “That’s not- that can’t be legal.”

“I signed a power of attorney when I was 18…” That’s not quite right, but Astarion can’t be bothered to correct himself. Cazador made him sign a power of attorney. Astarion still remembers the disbelief he’d felt as his stepfather’s personal lawyer turned a blind eye to the bruises around Astarion’s neck and his bloodied nose, merely watching as Cazador pushed the pen into Astarion’s shaking hands.

“By god,” Gale breathes, resting his head against the headboard. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry.”

“Gale?” Tiredness has made Astarion freezing all of a sudden and he shivers. “I’m cold, will you-”

He doesn’t even have to finish the question, Gale swings his legs up onto the bed so that he’s half-sitting, half-lying alongside Astarion and Astarion allows himself to be pulled into a warm embrace, hesitating a moment before resting his head against Gale as well.

“I’m going to help you, Astarion,” Gale mutters fiercely against the top of his hair. “I’m going to get you away from him.” 

Astarion barely registers what Gale is saying as he drifts in and out of consciousness. Instead, he contemplates the way Gale’s arms are wrapped around his shoulders and the sensation of Gale’s broad chest slowly rising and falling under his cheek. It’s what he’s wanted ever since that night on the island. What he’d flirted and teased and tried to seduce his way into getting. 

As it turns out, all he’d had to do was ask. 

*

When Astarion collapses onto the bed, Gale can’t contain his worry. He doesn’t know whether he should call an ambulance or the police.

Then Astarion says, “It’s just sleeping pills”, as though that’s entirely normal and Gale finds himself welling up. How could he not have seen how much control Cazador has over his stepson? Astarion had told Gale some of it on the island and Gale knew Cazador had tried to make Astarion take something before Monaco. To his shame though, Gale had chalked it up to Cazador being just another aggressive, domineering F1 father. They’re hardly uncommon. 

It wasn’t until he went to Astarion’s flat and saw the guest list that was clearly for Cazador’s benefit, until Cazador cut Astarion off from him completely, that Gale started to suspect something more sinister. It’s a horrible feeling to learn that his suspicions were correct.

Gale leans against the headboard as the implications of what Astarion is saying sink in. It’s not just that Cazador wanted Astarion to take performance-enhancing drugs to clinch his move to Bane; the man has clearly been drugging his stepson regularly — if the casual way Astarion talks about it is anything to go by. And a power of attorney? Cazador must have total control over Astarion’s life, including his finances. It’s no wonder Astarion hasn’t simply walked away.

“Gale? I’m cold, will you-” 

Gale realizes Astarion is shivering and he’s moving before his teammate can even finish his sentence. It’s not until Gale has settled onto the bed, arms wrapped around Astarion once more, warming him up, that he realizes Astarion hadn’t actually asked him to do this. He freezes, kicking himself, thinking that Astarion was probably just asking for a blanket or for Gale to turn the AC down. Then Astarion rests his head against Gale’s chest with a sigh and Gale’s heart aches.

“I’m going to help you, Astarion.” Gale knows he’s making promises he might not be able to keep, but he can’t bear the thought of how resigned Astarion had looked when he walked into the hotel room. How he’d tottered off towards the bedroom chatting about ‘medicine’ as though this was all routine. “I’m going to get you away from him.” 

Astarion doesn’t say anything else. His breathing becomes slow and measured, so Gale sits there, ruminating, coming up with a plan to make good on his promise. Eventually, he dozes off himself.

He has no idea what time it is when he comes to again. It’s dark outside and the storm seems to have strengthened, rain battering against Astarion’s bedroom window and the rumble of thunder not so distant anymore. Gale's heart lurches at the thought of the race tomorrow. The sensation of losing control, of tires skidding on water, of fire, of pain. 

He shakes his head, turning his attention to his teammate. Catastrophizing won't help either of them. 

Astarion is sound asleep. He’s turned around so that his back is resting against Gale’s side and he’s so still that Gale panics for a moment, resting a hand on his upper back to check he’s still breathing. 

Not dead. That’s good. 

Gale pulls his phone from his pocket as carefully as he can, so as not to wake his teammate. 9pm. He has a number of notifications on WhatsApp, one from Vajra asking if he’s coming down for dinner, and an increasingly irritated series of messages from Tara, with whom he was supposed to check in this afternoon. 

Doc R: I am not above reporting this absence to your mother.

GD: I’m sorry! 

The response comes almost immediately.

Doc R: Too late, she’s on the first flight to Miami.

GD: Tara!

Doc R: Not really. Explain yourself.

GD: I fell asleep! I feel okay though. Check-in tomorrow?

Doc R: Very well. I’m going to tell your mother that you’re fine. Don’t make a liar of me, darling. 

GD: Thanks Tara 💜

Doc R: 🐈

GD: ?

Doc R: I don’t know how these work.

Smiling at his phone, Gale slips gently off the bed, trying not to feel guilty when Astarion lets out a small, sad sigh. Gale needs to shower and eat something, then go to bed properly. They’ve got a day of press obligations tomorrow and Alfira has been terse with him ever since Monaco. He doesn’t want to anger her further by turning up looking exhausted. 

He finds a pad and paper on the desk in the living room and leaves his teammate a brief note; instructions for Astarion to message when he wakes. Then he leaves as quietly as possible. 

He’s gently closing Astarion’s suite door behind him when Cazador strides up the corridor, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Gale leaving his stepson’s room. 

“Dekarios,” Cazador’s face twists into a rictus grin. “I know for a fact that my son is asleep. So I am curious as to what you were doing to him in there?”

The absolute gall of the man. Gale’s fists clench against his will.

Cazador notices and his eyes narrow. “When I said I would report you to the FIA for assault, I can assure you it was not an empty threat.”

Gale utters a humorless laugh at that. “I’m sure they’d be far more interested in hearing about how you know for a fact that your son is asleep.”

Cazador laughs too, as though they’re merely two acquaintances sharing a pleasant chat in a hotel corridor, though his eyes flash with anger. “Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of two teammates spending some of their last days together. Enjoy it while you still can. You don’t have long.”

“You know,” Gale folds his arms. “I rather think it’s the other way around.”

“Is that so?” The man regards him with cold intensity before another oleaginous smile creeps over his face. “Goodnight, Dekarios. I do so look forward to seeing how you drive in the rain tomorrow — I believe I’m correct in thinking it’ll be your first time since your… unfortunate incident? You cannot seem to catch a break at the moment, can you? Let’s hope we don’t see a repeat of that crash, hmm?”

Before Gale can answer, Cazador gives a mocking nod of his head and continues on down the corridor, disappearing into the lifts, leaving Gale tensed and anxious. 

*

Race day. Even now, Astarion awakes with a flutter of nervous excitement. The first day, with its press conferences and tedious interviews, had been long and boring but practice and quali had actually gone well for both himself and Gale. The rain had eased up and they were both able to get good lap times despite the wet track. There had even been something of their former camaraderie back; Gale had insisted Astarion ate his meals in the team canteen again, sitting with Vajra and Karlach as though nothing bad had happened at all. As though they’d all still be teammates this time next year. 

Neither of them has brought up their embrace on Astarion's bed. Astarion has wanted to but Gale seems dead set on pretending nothing out of the ordinary has happened between them at all. At work, he is the image of professionalism, treating Astarion no differently than he does the rest of the team. It’s verging on irritating, especially since Astarion is finding it increasingly difficult to do the same. 

The icy, mordacious attitude he’s hidden behind over so many years is thawing against the warmth that is Gale Dekarios and it’s driving him mad. He can’t stop thinking about how easily Gale had slipped onto his bed, how naturally they had fitted together, how normal it seemed, how good it felt when Gale ran his fingers through Astarion’s hair. At lunch the previous day, as Astarion had clambered awkwardly onto a dining bench next to Gale, all his usual grace gone out of the window, Gale had absentmindedly — or perhaps even subconsciously — steadied him with a hand at the small of Astarion’s back. Much to Karlach’s amusement, Astarion had dropped his freshly squeezed orange juice all over the table.

The only acknowledgment Gale had conceded was a slightly ominous text the morning after that first night in Miami.

AA: I am awake (informing you as instructed by the essay you left on my bedside table). 

GC: How do you feel? (It was hardly an essay).

AA: Fine. Thank you. (You covered both sides of the hotel notepaper. The instructions on how to properly rehydrate were unnecessary. As were the diagrams).

GC: I'm glad. (Just trying to make my advice more accessible. Although I know you love listening to my lectures).

AA: I mean it, Gale. Thank you. (I do not).

GC: I meant what I said as well. I will help you if that's what you want. I am looking into your options. 

Astarion had deleted the message immediately, afraid of what Cazador might do to Gale if he thought Astarion's teammate was plotting against him. Astarion doesn't know if Cazador would take the risk of hurting someone other than him, but he doesn't want to find out. 

His morning begins with the drive to the Autodrome for the usual race morning briefing, a mandatory meeting with the race director for all the drivers on the grid. Cazador is already sitting in the front seat of the car when Astarion slides into the back. To his surprise, Isobel is in the car as well.

“Morning,” she says with a rueful smile, clearly noticing that he’s taken aback. “I’m accompanying you to watch the race today. Apparently.”

“Your father will be delighted to see you there,” Cazador smiles at her in the rearview mirror, before going back to his iPad. 

“Mm,” says Isobel, pulling a face at Astarion. When he flashes a smile back, she reaches a hand over the seat between them and he takes it, smiling again when she gives his hand a quick squeeze.

Isobel is growing on Astarion. They’ve only been on two dates over the past two weeks but she’d opened up on the second, after a few glasses of wine. 

“I know what dad’s doing,” she’d sighed before explaining that she’s halfway through medical school and that Ketheric is threatening to stop her funding unless she shows public support for him at races, and dates who he wants her to date. “I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

“Likewise,” Astarion had said, and they’d spent the rest of the evening bonding over their mutually awful father figures.

When they arrive at the paddock, the rest of the drivers are in the foyer outside the meeting room, alongside various TPs, race engineers, and significant others. Astarion spots Gale chatting to the two drivers from Scuderia Selune — Jenny Hallow and the Welsh driver Morfred Mason — as well as a tall blonde woman who resembles a Scandinavian Karlach. Astarion vaguely recognizes her as Hallow’s race engineer. 

Almost like he’s been looking out for him, Gale turns and grins as soon as Astarion walks in, though his smile seems to falter slightly just afterward. Astarion sees his teammate’s eyes flick down and follows Gale’s gaze to his and Isobel’s intertwined fingers. Gale knows the relationship is just another of Cazador’s ploys, doesn't he? He probably feels sorry for them both. 

Astarion and Isobel make their way over to the group, Astarion introducing her to the others. 

“I’m sorry, we haven’t really met,” he falters when he gets to the tall, blonde woman.

“Aylin,” she smiles at Isobel, extending a hand. As suspected, her accent sounds Swedish or possibly Danish.

“My pleasure,” stammers Isobel. “I mean it’s a pleasure to meet you, Isobel. Aylin! I’m Isobel. Isobel is my name.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Isobel,” Aylin smiles again. 

When Astarion shoots Isobel a wry grin, she digs her nails into his hand.

“Excuse me,” Gale is breaking away from the group and heading for the refreshments table. “I spotted English breakfast tea for once and I will not be deprived.”

Such a dork, Astarion scoffs, following him, leaving Isobel to moon over her Viking. He leans against the table, folding his arms. “You know you can just order this stuff to the hotel?”

“It’s far more exciting to discover it in the wilds of the Americas,” Gale tuts, making a fuss over preparing his tea as Astarion looks on, amused. Eventually, Gale clears his throat. “Are you and Isobel officially an item, then?”

“An item…” Astarion echoes mockingly. Gale won’t meet his eye. Is he… jealous? “Yes… she’s terrific in bed, you know. We had the most fantastic shag last ni-”

“Okay, okay,” Gale raises his hands, nearly spilling his tea. “Too much information, thank you. I should go and find Va-”

“Gale…” Astarion reaches for Gale’s arm as his teammate attempts to make a swift exit. “Gale, I’m joking!”

Gale reluctantly stops and looks back.

“Isobel is… not straight,” Astarion grins, not missing the way Gale’s face relaxes.

“Oh!” his teammate laughs. “Oh, I see. But I thought-”

“That’s what this whole thing with her father is about in the first place. He doesn’t approve. He and Cazador have concocted this little fauxmance to save themselves from being publicly embarrassed by us, and we’re both having to go along with it. We have… bonded somewhat over our shared experience.”

“Oh,” Gale says again, inspecting his tea. “Are you- are you… not… straight?”

Astarion stares at him. 

“No, Gale…” he responds, unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. “...Are you joking?” 

“Well, I don’t know!” 

“You don’t know??” Astarion can feel his voice getting higher in pitch. Before he can question his stupid, oblivious teammate anymore though, he’s interrupted by the FIA rep calling them all into the briefing. 

“Better head in-” Gale ducks his head and hurries off, leaving Astarion to trail behind him in disbelief. 

The briefing drags. It’s nothing new, just a reminder of safety protocols for driving in the wet, an update on the weather, and so on. The race is still set to go ahead but the storm is moving unpredictably, so they go over the various situations that might occur, and at what stage the weather conditions might lead to a red flag.

Astarion sits, arms tightly folded, one leg crossed over the other and jiggling furiously, staring at Gale for the whole meeting. 'Are you not straight?’ Is the man deranged? Gale’s thick-headedness is actually making Astarion doubt himself. From the way Gale had snuck into his room, held him, stroked his hair, he’d thought… But now it turns out the man believed Astarion was straight the entire time? Can he really just be that friendly!?

When the last questions have been raised and the meeting ends, Gale tries to slip out but Astarion is hot on his heels, following him out of the building and into Weave’s HQ, walking quickly, trying to avoid the paparazzi and journalists who are hanging around the paddock.

“Gale-”

“Not now, Astarion. We need to focus on the race-”

“Gale, just- for god’s sake, slow down!” Astarion keeps pace, following his teammate through the corridors of the motorhome and all the way into Gale’s changing room.

“Astarion! I need to get ready-”

“What did you mean you didn’t know I'm not straight?” Astarion demands, slamming the door behind him. 

“It’s not- I didn’t-” Gale flounders as Astarion stalks towards him. “I suppose I’d never really thought about it.”

That stings a little more than Astarion would have expected. “You never thought about it…” he echoes, backing Gale into a corner. 

“It’s not a big deal!” Gale’s words are tumbling over themselves. “I mean… it doesn’t matter to me!”

‘It doesn’t matter to you…” Astarion can feel his own voice growing low and cold. The flaming sphere of rage is bubbling up into his throat now and it’s so much easier to direct it at his obtuse teammate than it is to direct it at Cazador. “I don’t matter to you?”

“No! I mean, yes!” Gale tries to smile as Astarion comes to a halt in front of him, within touching distance. “Of course you do! I merely mean-”

“You mean my sexuality is unimportant to you,” Astarion snaps. “It has no bearing on you whatsoever.”

“Astarion, I don’t understand-” 

“What don’t you understand, Gale?” They’re face to face now and Astarion can feel his chest heaving and his jaw clenching as he wills Gale to close the gap between them, to… to do something. Instead, Gale merely shakes his head.

“I don’t understand why you’re angry,” he says softly. “I’m saying I don’t care. We’re colleagues, Astarion. That sort of thing… It's none of my business. It doesn’t- it doesn’t have any bearing on your ability to do your job…”

Astarion feels like he’s been hit by lightning and he takes a couple of steps back. “You don’t care…” All he seems to be able to do is repeat Gale’s words back to him. 

“Not like that, Astarion… Of course, I care about you. I- Look, I know we’re not just colleagues…” Gale is reaching out for him, face and voice placating, and Astarion almost steps forward into his arms until Gale says: “We’re friends. I want to help you. You must know that.” 

Friends. Astarion feels like an idiot. He’d marched in here expecting… what? Some kind of confession? Or more?

He’s a fool. The man standing in front of him clearly doesn’t have the courage to own up to what Astarion is suddenly sure they're both feeling. Perhaps he never will. 

“Help me,” Astarion laughs derisively, backing away. “How could you ever help me?” The words spill out of him before he can stop them, the sting of rejection fuelling his anger. “Cazador’s right about you, you know. You don’t have the nerve.”

Astarion stalks out of the changing room so he doesn’t have to see what his words do to Gale’s face.

*

Gale’s nerves are already frayed by the time Gortash brake checks him in the pit lane. It would be an incredibly dangerous move at the best of times but, with rain-slicked tarmac beneath him, Gale nearly goes into the back of the Bane driver. 

“What the hell is he doing??” he growls into his team radio, even though he knows exactly what Enver is doing. 

They are currently halfway through the race and Gale and Gortash have been fighting for third place since the starting lights, with Hallow second, and Thorm first. 

Both Weave and Bane had made a pit stop to switch from wet tires onto intermediates in anticipation of the weather drying up. As they’d simultaneously pulled away from their garages, however, Gortash had darted out in front of Gale and then slammed on the brakes, forcing Gale to do the same, coming down so hard on the brake pedal that he thought he’d broken it at first. It’s a shitty tactic, Gortash is only trying to rattle Gale into backing off a bit. As if Gale isn’t rattled enough. 

“Fucking idiot!” The normally mild-mannered Vajra takes Gale by surprise. “We’re requesting he be investigated for unsafe release. Will keep you posted. Stay safe, Gale, he’s driving like a maniac.”

Gortash really does seem crazed. Gale supposes the news of the man’s imminent firing is stoking Gortash’s apparent need to prove himself but his driving is getting downright dangerous. Gale knows he should pull back, let Gortash have an accident by himself if he wants to, but Astarion’s words are ringing in his ears. 

‘Cazador’s right about you, you know. You don’t have the nerve.'

Gale is angry and, worst of all, it's himself he's angry at. It was horrible, what Astarion said, but Gale knows why his teammate was so worked up. Gale knows what Astarion was expecting. It's been growing between them for months now, this tension, this need he has to hold Astarion in his arms, to protect him, to- 

But, as Astarion so astutely noted, Gale is a coward. He'd lied and pretended he only saw Astarion as a friend. Because, as Astarion had raged at him, all Gale could hear was Mystra’s voice in the back of his mind. All those awful things she'd said towards the end.

“It was rather inappropriate, you coming on so strong to a colleague,” she titters over a glass of wine, her eyes cold and mocking. “I should have listened when everyone warned me that you were a bit of a creep.”

Gale was terrified that, if he opened up to Astarion about how he's really been feeling, Astarion would think all those things about him too. Even though he's sure it was Mystra who made the first move, not him. Even though he's sure he remembers the team Christmas party when she propositioned him, just a young reserve driver then. She was becoming TP at Weave, one of the oldest and most respected teams. She had it within her power to make sure he was chosen for a seat…

She had, however, spent so many years making him doubt himself that he no longer knew what was real and what wasn’t. Mystra had driven him to the point where he doubted his own ability so strongly that it wrecked his confidence and nearly cost him his life. 

He won’t be making that mistake again. He’s going to clinch another podium for Weave and then he’s going to talk to Astarion. Properly. He’s going to tell him how he feels.

But first, he needs to get past Gortash.

Gale’s eyes narrow and he hits the throttle hard as he gets back onto the track, chasing the Bane car, which is now chasing Hallow, all three of them bunching up on the track’s long straights, trying to get past each other. 

Against all predictions, the rain is getting heavier and Gale’s visibility is awful, the water churned up into a spray by the cars in front of him streaming off his visor so that he can barely see anything at all beyond the red flashing lights on the back of Gortash’s rear wing. It’s so reminiscent of the day of his crash that Gale feels the familiar sharp pains beginning in his chest, just beneath his scar. 

It’s not until a piece of flying rubber glances off his visor that Gale realizes Gortash and Hallow have crashed off the track, both cars skidding off over a wide expanse of turquoise tarmac, disappearing into the mist.

“Gale??” Vajra’s voice is in his ear, full of concern. “It looked like you got hit by something, are you okay?”

“I- yeah-” Gale feels breathless but his visor doesn’t appear to be cracked. “It was just a tiny piece of rubber, no damage done. Are Gortash and Jen out?”

“Yes, both out. They skidded off into each other, it’s too wet for intermediates. The storm isn’t moving as predicted. Everyone’s going back onto wet tires. Instructions are to box, box. Box, box.”

Weave wants Gale to go back into the pit lane to switch onto wet tires again like everyone else. But he’s in second place now…

Gale squints up at the sky. He’s sure there’s a break in the cloud coming. The racing line is fairly dry from the heat of the other cars. If he can stick to it precisely, without veering off onto the wet patches by even a centimeter, he shouldn’t skid off. He can stay on track and take pole while Thorm pits…

“Staying out,” he grunts into the radio. 

“Gale!” Vajra sounds shocked. “That was an order to come in and change tires. It’s not safe!”

When he doesn’t respond, she buzzes in again. “Gale… please don’t-”

“Just let me drive, V!” 

Gale sails past the exit for the pit lane, trying to ignore his race engineer shouting at him over the radio as he navigates the sharp corner that immediately follows. He hits the brakes hard, to slow the car as he begins the turn.

Nothing happens.

The back of the car slips terrifyingly and Gale taps the brake again, panic pulling his heart in two, before slamming his foot all the way down. Still no response.

He only has time to fold his arms protectively across his chest and bow his head before his car plows directly into the barrier.

*

“Box, box. Box, box,” Karlach’s voice comes through the radio. 

“Understood,” Astarion nods. It’s the expected strategy. The rain is getting heavier instead of clearing as predicted and it’s far too wet for intermediate tires. 

Ahead, he can see Gale approaching the exit for the pit lane as well. 

It’s a shock when his teammate sails right past. 

“What is he doing?” Astarion says, half to himself, half to Karlach, “What is he doing??”

“Uh-” Karlach sounds unsure. “It seems like Gale is staying out.”

“For fuck’s sake…” Astarion’s heart sinks as he realizes Gale’s plan. This is the strategy that caused his first crash. Mystra had been adamant that the weather would clear during that race as well. She had instructed Gale to stay out on intermediate tires, holding the racing line exactly so as not to slip, allowing him to gain an advantage while the other drivers went into the pits. It was recklessly dangerous; she was openly and blatantly prioritizing Weave over Gale’s life. And he had very nearly died for her. 

Astarion is slowing to enter the pit lane when he sees the back of Gale’s car lurch to one side and then to the other. He’s not braking, the car doesn’t seem to be stopping for the corner… 

Heart in his mouth, Astarion watches as Gale’s car hits the barrier square on and bursts into flames. 

“Gale!” The scream that rips out of him hurts Astarion’s throat. “Oh my god, oh my god-”

“Star…” Karlach is whispering. She sounds like she’s in shock. “Red flag, Star. Please continue to bring the car in. There are other cars still out, you’re not safe there.”

Astarion has stopped his own car without thinking. “Is he responding? Karlach, is he responding??”

“I-”

Astarion is up and out of the cockpit before he’s even had time to consider his own safety. Several voices ring out in his ears, first Karlach’s, then Elminster’s, then Cazador’s. 

“Get back into your car, idiot boy!” Cazador is screaming over the radio. “This puts you in pole! You’re throwing away a win!”

Astarion tears off his helmet and flings it to the ground, sprinting faster and faster toward Gale’s car, which is now an incandescent mass of white flame. As he gets closer, he can see, to his horror, that the car has ripped in two, the back half resting on the track, the front half — the cockpit — lodged in the metal barrier and burning bright. 

Stewards are running towards the accident too, but all Astarion can think about is how slow they were to pull Gale out last time. How long Gale had sat there in that car, molten metal running down his face as his heart gave out. His poor heart. Astarion’s own words play on repeat in his head as he runs so fast that his muscles and lungs ache with the effort.

‘Cazador’s right about you, you know. You don’t have the nerve.'

They cannot be his last words to Gale. They cannot. They cannot.

The fire is unbearably hot as Astarion approaches, barely able to see the cockpit through thick black smoke that stings his eyes. Covering his face with his arms, he pushes on, even as stewards shout at him to stay back, trying to extinguish the blaze. Their efforts are not enough. They’re too slow again. Gale must be so scared. Astarion won’t leave him in there. He can’t leave him in there.

Astarion’s racing suit, gloves, and balaclava are all fireproof but the heat still tears at his skin as he reaches the front of the car and searches desperately for Gale amid the smoke. He can just make out a figure slumped over the steering wheel, a mass of charred purple, and he reaches into the cockpit, coughing and choking against the acrid fumes, screaming at Gale to wake up.

Gale doesn’t respond, so Astarion wraps his arms around his teammate’s chest. He can feel the unprotected skin around his eyes starting to blister as he uses all of his strength to pull Gale from the wreckage. Then finally, finally, a steward is there, and another, and another, all of them helping him to pull Gale out and away from the fire, the two drivers collapsing onto the steaming tarmac.

“You’re okay, Gale, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Astarion scrambles to kneel by his teammate’s prone body, gently patting him all over, trying to extinguish the hungry flames that still greedily lick at his limbs.

Gale's head lolls to one side and Astarion tears off his scorched gloves, hands flying to Gale’s neck, the skin red raw beneath his fingertips. “It’s me, I’m here, Gale. It’s me, Astarion. You’re safe, you’re safe now, you’re okay, you’re okay.”

But Gale isn’t okay. Gale isn’t breathing at all. 

Chapter Text

Astarion sits in the middle of the track, storm-drenched and numb, as everything happens in slow motion around him.

Gale hasn't woken up. Astarion really thought Gale would wake up. He'd knelt beside his teammate, trying to shield him from the rain, stroking his hair the way Gale had done for him, whispering that he was sorry, silently praying to every god he'd ever heard of to let Gale be okay. 

They never answered. 

After what felt like hours, ambulances had barreled up the track like odd, oversized race cars. A privacy screen was rigged up around the accident and Astarion was gently moved aside as paramedics swarmed Gale's unresponsive body, carefully removing his helmet to begin CPR.

Of the team, Elminster had arrived first, pushing through the screen then stopping dead, his expression terrible as he took in the sight of his protégé lying lifeless on the floor. 

Then Vajra, hands going to her mouth as she saw her driver, her usually cool and composed face twisted in agony. 

Then last, but worst of all: Tara. Gale's godmother had clawed her way to his side, hissing instructions at paramedics and stewards alike, kneeling and feverishly checking Gale over, tears and raindrops intermingling on her cheeks as she worked.  

Astarion can't look as the paramedics defibrillate Gale again. It was awful the first time, how his legs and arms had jerked mindlessly like that. Just three days ago those warm hands had been caressing Astarion’s forehead. The memory is so visceral he can almost feel it... He can’t bear to see Gale’s hands lying unmoving on the wet tarmac now. 

Instead, he watches the resuscitation effort play out on the others' faces.

Clear!

Elminster stares, expressionless, his shoulders slumped.

Clear! 

Vajra turns her head away, hands over her face, tears escaping through her fingers. 

Clear! 

Tara clenches her jaw, gray hair plastered to her head by the rain, desperation in her amber eyes. 

Clear!

“Astarion, can you hear me?”

Astarion is dimly aware, through the high-pitched tone in his ears, that someone is talking to him. He turns to find a paramedic with a somber but kindly face, one hand on his shoulder. 

“Astarion, my name is Nettie.” Her strong Irish accent is odd to hear all the way out in Miami but it's warm and comforting too. “I need to check you over, okay? Can you tell me if anything hurts?”

He blinks at her. Everything, he wants to scream. Everything hurts because the last thing I said to my teammate was that he’s a coward and then he crashed trying to prove himself. And now he won't wake up and everything hurts because it's all my fault. 

Admitting that out loud would be more unbearably painful than anything Astarion can currently feel though, so he merely shakes his head. 

“Okay,” Nettie nods, listening to his chest with a stethoscope. “You’ve got some pretty bad burns on your face and you've inhaled a lot of smoke, I'd like to-”

There's movement around Gale. The paramedics are lifting him, getting him onto a stretcher.

“What's happening??” Astarion stands in panic, running after them as they load Gale into an ambulance. “Gale??”

Tara climbs in as well, sitting alongside her godson, grasping his hand, and she shoots Astarion a look of such despair that his knees go weak. Then she turns back to Gale, pressing his hand to her lips, gasping through her tears. 

“My little love…”

The doors close and the ambulance drives off, taking Gale away. 

“...Star?”

As his legs finally give way and he stumbles to the side, straining to breathe through his sobs, Karlach is there to catch him, guiding him to the ground as Nettie affixes an oxygen mask over his face. 

Astarion blacks out. 

*

Gale is floating, somewhere above the Miami International Autodrome. 

As views go, he’d probably rather have a different one, if it’s going to be his last. The track’s lurid turquoise run-off areas and faux marina don’t really have the gravitas he’d prefer for his final moments. A flight around the Duomo di Milano would be better. Or perhaps the view over Kema Sakuranomiya Park during a cherry blossom bloom. Or perhaps just one more glance over the quiet, rolling fields he can see from his library in his little tower at home. 

Alas, something is keeping him here, tethered to the rumpled-looking body he can see lying face up on the wet track below. 

Astarion is whispering as the paramedics sprint toward them. Gale can’t quite hear him from up here so he moves closer until he’s crouching opposite his teammate, leaning in.

“Désolé,” Astarion is gently stroking the singed hair that’s come loose between Gale’s helmet and his racing suit as his head lolls to one side. “Je suis vraiment désolé, Gale. Je ne le pensais pas. Je voulais seulement que tu-”

That’s all he gets the chance to say before paramedics are moving him away and going to work on Gale’s body, easing off his helmet and balaclava so they can administer CPR. 

Gale stands over himself as they attempt to bring him back. He looks remarkably well, all things considered. He’s got a nasty bruise across his forehead and the bridge of his nose, from where his face slammed against the inside of his helmet. However, the rest of him looks fairly normal, as though the fire had barely touched him. His racing suit is charred and smoldering but the only burns he can see are around his neck, where his balaclava pulled up as he slumped over his steering wheel. 

His problems are clearly internal then, he muses, as one paramedic rushes over with a defibrillator. His heart’s given out for good, most likely. 

It occurs to him that his mother is going to be furious. And Tara. She’s here too, coordinating the resuscitation effort like an incensed conductor, tears streaming down her face. He feels awful for putting them through this once, let alone twice. The crash is so uncannily similar to his first as to almost feel deliberate…

Gale wanders over to the remnants of his car. It’s quite a sight; the rear was sheared completely off by the impact, while the cockpit is wedged in the barrier. He hopes he survives, if only to thank the engineers at Weave. He would have been crushed completely if not for their design. 

The carcass of the car is still smoking; twisted, blackened metal is all that remains. This fire must have been just as ferocious as the last. Gale has been through enough safety briefings to know that his gear is fire-resistant for about 30 seconds. He can’t imagine what would have happened to him if Astarion hadn’t pulled him out when he did. 

Gale looks around for his teammate, finding him sitting on the floor in the same way he had that day on the island, knees hugged up to his chest and curls hanging damp over his face. Astarion looks just as lost now as he did then.

Gale walks over and sits next to him. Even damp, and soot-streaked, and red-eyed from the stinging smoke in the air, his teammate still looks beautiful. Gale reaches out to smooth Astarion’s hair away from his forehead before realizing that he can’t. What a fool he was, to deny himself the opportunity when he still could. Gale is surprised by the strength of the regret that hits him. He’s probably just getting sentimental because he’s dying.

His vision flashes white and, for a split second, everything becomes more vivid. He can almost feel the rain on his skin, the tarmac at his back-

The emergency team is using the defibrillator again. The shock of it reverberates through his consciousness once, twice, three more times, but it’s not working. Gale senses himself fading, his connection to the world slipping.

When he looks up again, he’s standing on the shore of a vast sea of stars that stretches out in front of him, and behind him, and somehow below and above him, too. Purples and pinks and blues swirl through inky indigo, punctuated by constellations of glimmering white. 

There’s a small rowing boat bumping gently against the shore, waiting for him. It would be peaceful, to climb in and set off across the iridescent surface. He should like to show Astarion this place one day, to show Astarion the beauty that exists in the universe, so far removed from the earthly, corporeal pain and cruelty that has made up so much of his teammate's life.

Astarion.

It wouldn’t be fair to go and leave him thinking it was his fault Gale died. Leave him without anyone to protect him from Cazador. Leave him without being honest about the way Gale's started to feel lately.

“No rest for the wicked,” Gale sighs. He steps back from the boat, turning and walking away from the shore.

Chapter Text

“He died,” Astarion repeats blankly.

Tara nods, her face drawn and weary. “For five whole minutes. It's a miracle he doesn't have brain damage.”

“He probably had a bit of brain to spare,” Astarion says absentmindedly. 

Gale died. For five minutes. There were five minutes where Gale did not exist in the world. None of his infuriating bossiness, none of his silly old man sayings, none of his stupid grins, none of his comforting hugs. 

It’s strangely unthinkable. Just five months ago, Astarion couldn’t have cared less about the man. Three months ago, there would have been a brief period where he’d have actively welcomed his teammate’s downfall. 

Now, he can’t wait to argue about race strategy while Gale chastises him for the amount of coffee he’s drinking. Or take part in some idiotic viral challenge for the Weave social media team. Or trade increasingly awful insults while they both grin at each other. Or feel the steadying support of a warm hand at the small of his back. 

Tara is filling Astarion in on the past few hours. Gale had been rushed into emergency surgery as soon as he arrived at the hospital. Then the decision had been made to fit a pacemaker when it seemed like Gale’s heart would no longer work properly alone. Astarion doesn’t want to think about what that means for Gale’s career. For now, the relief that he’s going to be okay is overwhelming. Astarion can see in Tara’s face what he’s feeling in his chest.

The older woman chuckles, sinking into the chair in his hospital room with a groan before studying Astarion for a while, her piercing gaze making him feel like a little boy. “Are you sure there’s no one you’d like me to call, dear? Any family or…”

Astarion shrinks into his hospital bed, self-consciously pulling the sheets up a bit, the IV line tugging at his hand. 

In his mind’s eye, he’s back at the track, the sound of the air ambulance rotors whirring to life in the distance as Cazador storms through the privacy screen.

“Is he dead?” Astarion’s stepfather had snapped. It wasn't clear who he was talking about.

“Gale is being air-lifted to the Jackson Memorial for emergency surgery,” Elminster had fired back, obviously rankled by Cazador’s tone. “Your son is following in an ambulance, though thankfully he’s only suffered minor-”

Cazador’s glare had sought Astarion then, finding him sitting at the back of the ambulance, waiting to go. He’d given Astarion one brief look of pure disdain before turning on his heel and marching off. 

“No, that’s okay,” Astarion shakes his head carefully, so as not to knock the oxygen line that’s hooked up to his face. “Thanks.”

“Hm,” Tara glances at her watch. “Well, they’re not expecting him to wake up for at least a few hours and Morena won’t get here much before then either…”

According to Tara, Gale’s mother had got on the first flight to Miami. Tara said making that phone call was one of the hardest things she’s had to do in her life. It had been 10 pm in the UK when Gale crashed; Morena had just been settling into bed with a book.

“...So I’ll sit here with you for a while,” Tara states matter of factly, before adding: “If you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Astarion says, rather too quickly. 

It’s been lonely, lying by himself in this private room, as fancy as it is. Elminster had phoned the room’s line once, to check in on him and tell him that Gale was having emergency surgery. Everyone else had been sent back to their hotels. It’s the early hours of the morning and no visitors are allowed until 6 am — apart from direct family members, of which Tara appears to have convinced the hospital staff she is one. Most of the time, Astarion has simply sat here alone, unable to sleep and sick with worry.

“Good,” Tara nods. “Ooh, is that Days of Our Lives?”

She’s gesturing to the flat-screen TV, which is quietly playing some god-awful American soap. 

“I can say with some pride that I have no idea, darling,” Astarion snarks, watching with amusement as Tara scoots her chair closer to the bed, eyes glued to the screen.

“You’re missing out. This is top-notch story-telling.”

“Tara,” he chides, “I’d have thought a doctor would be too smart for this nonsense.”

“Don’t be a snob, dear. The smartest brains are the ones most in need of escapism now and then.” She looks him over. “Not something I imagine someone as pretty as yourself struggles with.”

Astarion gasps at her and she grins, grabbing the remote and turning up the volume before he can think of a comeback. 

Pretending to sulk, Astarion settles into his bed, his eyelids growing heavy as the sound of the show washes over him. At some point, he wakes to a soft touch and sleepily glances down to see Tara’s hand in his as she watches her stories, gently rubbing a thumb back and forth over his knuckles.

Astarion wakes up again to hushed voices in the corridor. Tara is gone and sunlight is streaming through the window but he has no idea what time it is; there’s no clock on the wall and his phone and watch are probably still back in the motorhome along with his other things. 

He sits up. His mouth feels like it’s full of glue and he’s desperate for the bathroom. He’s in the process of trying to clamber out of the high bed when his oxygen line snags on an empty plastic water jug on his bedside table, sending it crashing to the floor.

“Shit.” 

Tara pokes her head around the door. 

“All okay?” she grins. 

“I-” Astarion sits back on the bed. “How’s Gale?”

Her face lights with quiet jubilance. “He’s just woken up.” 

The doctors hadn’t been expecting Gale to wake for hours at least. “What time is it??”

“4 pm, you’ve been asleep all night and all day. The doctor said you don’t need to be on the IV anymore, the nurse came to take it out a couple of hours ago but I threatened to scratch his eyes out if he woke you up. You looked like you hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a long while.”

“Not for a couple of months or so,” Astarion admits. “Can I see him?”

Tara smiles fondly at him again. “You’re still all hooked up, my dear. Let me see if I can find someone to-” She pauses at the door. “Oh, Morena’s going to head up here from his room in a bit. She’d very much like to meet you — would that be okay?”

“I- er-” Hell… Meeting Gale’s mother… Astarion is suddenly very conscious of his unwashed body and bad breath and messy hair. “I wouldn’t mind freshening up-”

“Karlach stopped by earlier with your things from the motorhome,” Tara gestures at the chair and Astarion sees a small pile of clothes, plus his phone and smartwatch on top. “I’ll go and find that nurse again, if he’s still speaking to me, see if they think you’re okay to move around. Back in a tick, dear!”

With that, she’s gone, so Astarion unhooks his oxygen cannula and eases himself out of the bed, awkwardly wheeling his IV pole into the private bathroom. 

His reflection in the mirror is somewhat of a shock. 

A thin strip of dressing runs across the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheeks — presumably where his skin had been exposed to the fire by the eye opening in his balaclava — and he’s got deep, dark circles under his eyes. The doctors had cleaned up his face when they assessed his burns, but his hair is lank and greasy from rain and sweat. His forearms are bruised from where he dragged Gale out of the car and a flip of his hospital gown reveals a huge purple and green mark on his hip where he’d fallen sideways onto the tarmac, his teammate in his arms. 

Someone has left him toothpaste and a travel toothbrush by the sink, but no hairbrush, so Astarion does his best with his hair using only soap, water, and his hands. 

He suddenly feels quite nervous. “The inimitable, dare I say it sometimes unavoidable, Morena Dekarios.” That was how Gale had described his mother. She sounds terrifying. 

Washed as best he can, Astarion gets back into bed as Tara arrives with a slightly annoyed-looking young man in scrubs. The nurse takes Astarion’s IV out and Astarion just has time to get changed before there’s a knock from outside.

“Room for a little one?” a cheery voice calls from the corridor.

“Come in, Mor!” Tara calls. 

All five foot nothing of Morena Dekarios appears in the doorway. Aside from her diminutive height and the gray hair piled in a bun on her head, she looks so much like Gale that Astarion can only stare at her for a moment. She has the same tanned skin, the same broad nose with a little line across the top of its bridge, the same full bottom lip, the same sparkling brown eyes, albeit with several more wrinkles around them. When she smiles, it’s Gale’s smile and Astarion can’t help but smile back. 

“Hello, Astarion…” Morena's face softens and Astarion is surprised to see tears in her eyes. Then her lip wobbles and she hurries across the room, wrapping him in a warm embrace that feels oddly recognizable. 

Astarion’s hands flex for a moment, uncertain of what to do with this unfamiliar display of maternal affection. But then he relaxes into the hug, patting Morena’s back awkwardly as she cries.

“Thank you for saving him,” she whispers. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If you hadn’t been there- I can’t bear to think- I’m so glad he has you, Astarion. I will never forget this, not ever.”

“Oh… well…” says Astarion, because he doesn’t know how else to respond. 

Morena sniffs, pulling back and fetching a tissue from inside her cardigan sleeve. “Ugh, I’m sorry. Please forgive a foolish old woman her emotions, it’s been a long day.”

“Watch it, Dekarios,” Tara warns. “If you’re old that makes me old…”

“We are old,” Morena chuckles before suddenly raising a finger in the air as though she’s remembered something. “Ah! Talking of which, I forgot your coffees outside!”

She hurries out of the room, coming back in with two cups. “A latte for you, Tar, extra milk… aaaand an espresso for you, love. That’s right, isn’t it? Gale’s always going on about how many espressos you drink.”

“Yes… thank you…” Astarion takes the small cup with a polite smile but, inside, his head is reeling. Gale talks to his mother about him? Enough that she knows his coffee order? He supposes he and Gale do spend a lot of time together. It makes sense that Astarion would come up in their conversations… Still, the thought of Gale complaining to Morena about Astarion’s caffeine habits gives him a funny feeling in his stomach.

“How’s he doing?” Astarion asks, his voice hoarse.

“Surprisingly chatty,” Morena laughs. “Or should I say unsurprisingly? He- he’s tired, of course…” Her eyes well up again and she dabs at them with her tissue. “I don’t think it’s really hit him how long this recovery period is going to be…”

The rest of her train of thought hangs in the air, unspoken but understood by them all. Gale won’t be back to full health for weeks, possibly months. He surely won’t be able to drive again this year. He might not be able to drive again at all.

Morena clears her throat. “But Tara said you had a clean bill of health? That’s fantastic news. Will you be back for Imola then?”

Astarion forgot that Morena was wife to an F1 driver and is mother to another. Of course she knows the race schedule. “Uh, yes, I expect so…” he smiles, taking a sip of his espresso.

In reality, he’s been so worried about Gale that he hasn’t even thought about the rest of the season. He supposes he probably will have to go back for the next race. And, when he does go back, it’ll probably be without Gale. The coffee sours in his mouth and he sets it down on the side table. 

“Can I go and see him?”

“I think he’d like that very much,” Morena smiles. “Wyll’s in with him at the moment. He was here at 6 am sharp, for the beginning of visiting hours, bless him.”

“Bloody typical,” Tara sniffs. “The pair of us sit with him all night and he’s out like a light. His old teammate walks in and he wakes up almost instantly!”

Astarion smiles again as the old friends continue chattering about their charge, but the sour taste remains in his mouth. He had wanted to be there when Gale woke up, the way Gale had been there for him, a few times now. It’s stupid, but Astarion had sort of wanted to be the person Gale came back for…

That is stupid. He’s being stupid. The last time they saw each other, Astarion was shouting at Gale and calling him a coward. It’s right that the first face Gale saw should be someone he actually likes.

“Astarion?” Morena is looking at him expectantly.

“Hmm?” Astarion was miles away, picturing another universe where he and Gale hadn’t parted on such bad terms. Where Gale had woken up because Astarion walked into the room.

“Shall we go and see him?"

*

“I’ll try not to be offended, mate.” 

“Hngh?” Gale blinks heavily. His eyelids are leaden and his tongue feels like he’s talking through mud. 

He appears to be lying in a hospital bed, the steady beep of a heart rate monitor woven into the soundscape of the building around them: distant voices and the hum of medical machinery and shoes squeaking on vinyl floors and doors swinging to and fro. 

“Hngh?” Gale says again and he hears laughter as the face of Wyll Ravengard swims into view, wreathed in a broad grin. 

“Welcome back, G…”

Behind Wyll, Gale sees Tara and… no, surely not…

“You stupid boy!” Morena barrels into him, holding him as carefully as possible, sobbing against the side of his head. Gale smiles weakly as he rests his cheek against hers. He knew she’d be furious. 

“Ah, ah-” Tara tuts as Gale tries to hug his mother back. “Keep still, no lifting your arms above shoulder height for a month at least!”

A month… What happened…?

Bit by bit, the past 24 hours come back to him. There’d been a crash, another one, so like his first. Fire again. But this time, there’d been a guardian angel. No… That’s not right… He was rescued, wasn’t he? Rescued by…

“Astarion?” Gale asks, his drug-addled tongue still not quite up to the task of full sentences.

“There he goes again,” Wyll tuts with a wry smile. “Honestly, I come all this way, wake you up from the dead, and all you can talk about is your new teammate…”

“...Hngh?” 

“Astarion's okay, love,” Morena smiles affectionately down at him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, eyes still red. “He saved your life, Gale. He pulled you out of the fire…”

Gale remembers now. Amid the scorching, all-consuming heat, a pair of tear-filled ferocious gray eyes boring into his. Surprisingly strong arms around his chest. The most heavenly voice whispering words Gale didn’t understand. All except one.

“Désolé…”

“He’s here in the hospital too,” Tara chimes in. “I’ve been keeping an eye on him, don't worry. He's had a few burns and some smoke inhalation, but nothing serious.”

Gale relaxes back into the bed, overwhelmingly tired all of a sudden. He drifts off again, his mother stroking his hair. 

*

When Astarion walks into Gale’s room, the world stops, just for a moment. Gale is alive. He’s alive and he’s talking to Wyll Ravengard, laughing with him even. And now he’s turning to look at Astarion, the laugh fading from his face, replaced by something soft and warm. And Wyll is looking back and forth between them as they stare at each other, but Gale doesn’t seem to notice…

Astarion blinks and the rest of the room comes into focus. He sees all the wires and tubes attached to his teammate, the huge dressing that covers the majority of his chest, the jagged lines flashing rapidly across the heart monitor. And he has a panic attack. 

“Je ne peux pas… Déso- I mean, sorry, I- I-” He backs out of the door, half crashing into Morena, before turning and taking off down the corridor.

He can’t. He can’t bear to see Gale like that. Not when it’s his fault. He’s caused these nice people so much pain. They nearly lost Gale and it’s all Astarion’s fault. He’s hurt Gale, he’s ruined his life-

“Astarion!” 

He can hear Morena’s sturdy brown boots following him as he finds a quiet corner and sinks to the floor, back to the wall, head in his hands, breathing shallow.

“Astarion?”  

Warm palms are on his shoulders and, if he doesn’t open his eyes, he can pretend that it's Gale…

“Astarion, love, it’s okay. He’s okay,” Morena is murmuring comfortingly. “I know it looks scary. God knows I had the same reaction, but he’s okay, he’s going to be fine.”

Astarion shakes his head. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know. “It’s all my fault,” he croaks, unable to catch his breath.

“Astarion,” Morena’s voice is sharper now and one of her hands finds his chin, lifting his face. “Breathe with me, okay? In, 2, 3, 4... Hold, 2, 3, 4… Out, 2, 3, 4... Hold, 2, 3, 4…”

She continues like that for some time, holding his gaze, Gale’s eyes looking out at him, counting him through it until his breathing gets closer to normal and his head stops spinning. 

“Better?” she asks after a while and Astarion nods shakily. “Good.” 

She lets out a sigh, pulling him into a hug, the pair of them crouched on the beige hospital floor.

“I don’t know what you think you’ve done, Astarion-” Morena says fiercely against the side of his head, “-But Gale would be dead if it wasn’t for you. You saved his life, do you hear me? That is the only thing that matters.”

When Astarion looks up from Morena’s shoulder, Wyll is standing behind her. Astarion tries to get up, embarrassed. Ravengard is a contemporary, a rival, he must think Astarion pathetic…

To his surprise though, Wyll’s face holds nothing but empathy. 

“You and me both, mate,” he smiles kindly, helping Astarion get Morena to her feet. “I had pretty much the same reaction as well.”

“Thanks,” Astarion sniffs. “It’s just-” He shakes his head. “I should go back to my room, he won’t want to see me.”

“Are you kidding?” Wyll asks as Morena scoffs. “He woke up saying your name.”

*

Gale is chatting to Wyll when Astarion appears at the door and everything stills, just for a moment. 

Astarion is dressed in his usual black trousers and tight Weave t-shirt but his hair is soft and loose, more undone than usual, in a way Gale is growing to like. It’s how he’s looked during the brief times in their friendship where Astarion has been a little more honest, a little less performative. 

At first, Gale thinks his teammate is blushing. Then he realizes, with no small amount of sadness, that Astarion's cheeks and nose are burnt along the line of where his balaclava would have sat as he pulled Gale from the fire. It makes him look a bit like an anime character. Gale almost wants to laugh. Only Astarion could make first-degree facial burns cute. 

In return, Astarion takes one glance at Gale and runs away. 

“Gosh,” Gale jests weakly, as Morena goes after him. “Do I really look that bad?”

“Yeah, actually, to be fair,” Wyll chuckles, getting up as well. “I'll go see if he's okay.”

Tara makes space for Wyll to leave before leaning on the wall by the door. “Go easy on him, Gale. He's had a rough time of it.”

“What do you mean ‘go easy on him’??” Gale asks. He feels mildly put out all of a sudden, as his entire support network apparently abandons him for Astarion. “And thank you for the reminder. In contrast, I’ve been having the most excellent 24 hours of my life.”

“I assumed you’d had a falling out is all,” Tara says gently. “Astarion seems to be blaming himself for your accident for some reason.”

Gale winces at the question in her voice. He knew Astarion would feel that way. 

“We had a fight,” he admits. “Just before the race. Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Tara shakes her head. “But he was apologizing to you in his sleep.”

Gale is suddenly thankful for the pacemaker in his chest. Without it, he's not sure his heart could withstand the ache that ripples across it now. 

“Good job I speak French…” Tara adds, pompously. 

That stirs a distant memory and Gale frowns. “I don't suppose you know any French sayings about lemons…”

Wyll appears at the door before Tara can voice the bewilderment on her face. 

“Astarion’s on his way back. I'll give you some space,” Wyll says. “But I've extended my stay at the hotel for as long as possible until I have to leave for Italy so I'll be in again soon." 

Gale wishes he could get up and hug his old friend. For now, he hopes his smile conveys his gratitude. “Thank you, Wyll. You're the best.”

“Oh stop,” his old teammate chuckles on his way out. “See you soon.” 

“I’m taking your mother to get something to eat as well,” Tara stretches with a rumble of discontent. “There’s only so much hospital food I can tolerate in one lifetime. We’ll be back later.” She casts a glance out into the hallway before lowering her voice. “Talk to him, Gale. Be honest with him, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course-” Gale snaps, grouchily, taking a moment to register what his godmother said. “-Wait, what?” 

Tara only flashes him a smile as Morena looks in from the corridor, Astarion at her side. 

“See you later, love,” Gale’s mother blows him a kiss. “I’ll be back after dinner.”

Then they’re both gone, leaving Astarion standing awkwardly in the doorway. 

This time, he is blushing, his ears as pink as his cheeks. “Sorry-” he starts, at the same time Gale says: “Are you okay?”

“I just hate hospitals-” 

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for-” 

They both pause and then laugh, a sudden self-consciousness between them that feels strange after the past couple of months of friendship.

“Do you want to sit down?” Gale tries to sound casual. Astarion is hovering, half in and half out of the room. He looks like he might take off again any second. He gives the corridor behind him one more glance then reluctantly comes in and shuts the door behind him, taking a seat by Gale’s bed. Up close, he looks tired and Gale fights the urge to reach for his hand, unsure of where they stand. 

“How are you feeling?” Astarion asks quietly, not quite meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know,” Gale answers honestly. It’s the truth; his head is a mess. He feels everything all at once: happy to be alive, grateful to his little family, sick with guilt for putting them through this, furious at himself, afraid for his future, and some additional unknowable emotion — something like overwhelming relief — at seeing Astarion again. It’s all too much to untangle.

“I’m not sure I’ll make it to Imola,” he jokes instead of trying, and Astarion exhales a humorless laugh, staring at the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Gale-” He covers his face with his hands and Gale does try to reach for him then, only the damned IV line and pulse monitor on his finger holding him back.

“Astarion, this wasn’t your fault-”

“It was, I said those awful things and made you feel like you had to-”

“You didn’t,” Gale lies. Because of course Astarion’s voice had been in his head when he made the call not to pit. That doesn’t mean it’s Astarion’s fault though. “The decision to stay out was mine and mine alone. And I would have been fine if my brakes hadn’t failed.”

Astarion looks up at him in surprise. “Your brakes?”

“Yes, it was a problem with the brakes, that’s all. Just an accident.” 

Gale still isn’t being totally honest. A complete and sudden brake failure like that, with no prior warning? It’s almost unheard of. It would require a sloppiness in safety checks that he knows would never happen amongst his team at Weave. As to what really happened, Gale has no idea. When he’d tried to contact Vajra to discuss it, his mother had yelled at him and Wyll had taken his phone away.

“So please stop blaming yourself, Astarion,” Gale continues. “You saved my life. You threw the race, you could have won…”

Disbelief writes itself across Astarion’s pretty features at that. “You were burning to death at the time, if I recall, Gale. It seemed like it couldn’t really wait until after the podium ceremony.”

The sharpness in his teammate’s voice is reassuringly familiar and Gale snorts. “Well, I'm grateful for your sense of urgency.”

Astarion sniffs a laugh, and Gale sees him looking at the dressing on his chest.

“What did they do?”

“An emergency artery bypass first, then a pacemaker." Gale sighs. "A pacemaker... I can’t quite believe it. You always did call me an old man.”

“May I…?”

To Gale’s surprise, Astarion is lifting a hand to his chest, waiting for permission. Gale nods, swallowing hard as Astarion traces his fingers gently over the bandage, feeling the shape of the pacemaker underneath. 

Gale hasn’t seen the odd little alien orb poking out of his chest yet, but he fancies he can feel it shifting under his skin whenever he moves his arm. It makes him feel a bit sick. Then again, he’s on that many painkillers he’s probably hallucinating the sensation. He regrets them now, wishing he could better feel Astarion’s fingertips moving over his sternum.

“Does it hurt?” Astarion misreads Gale’s sudden discomfort.

“No.”

“Tara said you died.” Astarion’s hands go back to his lap and his eyes back to the floor, blinking rapidly. 

“Only a little bit,” Gale grins, pleased when it draws a small laugh. He toys with the edge of the bedsheet, unsure of how to say this, whether he even should say this. “I think- I think you kept me there, you know. When I was lying on the track, it was- it was like I was floating, floating away perhaps, but then I could hear you talking to me and so I stayed…”

“...You could hear me?” Astarion sits back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

“Yes,” Gale nods. “You were saying sorry, in French, and then you said something about lemons.”

*

“...Lemons?” 

Astarion’s heart had been in his mouth as he racked his brains, trying to remember what stupid things he might have whispered to Gale as they huddled on that rain-drenched track, unaware that his teammate could hear him the entire time.

But then Gale starts talking about lemons and Astarion relaxes. Gale has clearly lost his mind. Dieu merci…

“Yes,” his teammate is lost in thought. “You said ‘désolé’ and then you said something about lemons.”

“Right…” Astarion pats his hand. “Are we sure there wasn’t any lasting brain damage from you dying a little bit?”

Gale rolls his eyes. “I know what I heard.”

Lemons… Astarion tries to think of what he might have been trying to tell Gale. He’d told him that he was sorry, he didn’t mean the things he said, he only wanted-

“Seulement!” Astarion can’t help but laugh out loud. “Is that what you heard?”

“That’s it! What does it mean?”

“It means ‘only’,” Astarion is still laughing. Lemons… honestly….

“Ah, I see,” Gale laughs too. “I remember now… ‘Je voulais seulement que tu’. What does it mean?”

Astarion’s laugh dies in his throat and he coughs. Fucking hell. Only Gale could perfectly remember something he heard when he was half-dead.

“It’s nothing.”

“No,” Gale raises a finger in the air. “That’s ‘de rien’. I know that one.”

“I meant-” Astarion opens his mouth to snap but he realizes, from the grin on Gale’s face, that his teammate is taking the piss. “Very funny. Honestly, I have no idea what I was saying. I was panicking that you’d died.”

Gale’s face softens at that, and he quietly extends his hand on the bed, palm up. An invitation. 

Astarion looks at it for a while, hesitating before reaching over and covering Gale’s palm with his own. Instead of merely holding his hand though, Gale interlaces their fingers and Astarion's breath hitches. It feels meaningful. Intimate.

“Well,” Gale smiles, his brown eyes holding Astarion’s. “I’m very glad I didn’t.”

Astarion’s heart is beating so wildly that he wonders if Gale can feel his pulse in his hand. He bites his lip, trying to steady his voice as he responds. “I’m glad you didn’t too.”

“Thank you…”

*

When Gale interlaces their fingers and Astarion doesn’t take his hand away, Gale wonders whether he’s going to break his pacemaker on his very first day of using it.

“Well,” he smiles, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m very glad I didn’t.”

Astarion’s gray eyes seem to search Gale’s as he bites his lip. “I’m glad you didn’t too…”

“Thank you…”

“De rien,” Astarion flashes a lopsided grin that’s so debonair Gale can’t help but laugh. 

He thinks about Astarion flashing him that same grin at the club, hips swaying and eyes sultry. He thinks about Astarion lying on the beach, one hand behind his head and gazing at the stars, the campfire flickering over his pale skin. He thinks about Astarion reclining on his bed, as Gale slides expensive linen slowly over his hips. He thinks about the way Astarion had felt in his arms that morning on the island… and Gale can’t deny it to himself anymore.

He’s hopelessly attracted to his teammate, addicted to this spark between them, the push and pull, the way Astarion teases him, their verbal sparring, the red fire in his eyes when he’s passionate about something, the unexpected way he sighs when Gale holds him. 

Their eyes are still locked and Gale swallows again. It would be so easy to tug on Astarion’s hand and bring him closer, to lean in… Would Astarion pull away?

Astarion’s cold hand grips his even tighter but… something’s wrong. His head is turning towards the door. There’s a commotion echoing down the hallway outside. Someone’s shouting. And suddenly, it’s not passion lighting those gray eyes, it’s fear.

A cold voice rings out from the corridor.

“Where is he??”

Cazador bursts through the door. His eyes flick down to Gale and Astarion’s entwined fingers and then he strides across the room.

“I have been calling you all day! How dare you not answer me?” he shouts, dragging Astarion from the chair by his hair.

“Get off of him!” Gale roars. He tries to lift himself up but pain rips through his chest and he falls back onto the bed, panting. 

“Or what, Dekarios?” Cazador snarls, tossing Astarion against the wall. “What are you going to do? Look at you, you’re pathetic.” His voice lowers to a cold hiss. “You should have died in that car.”

There’s something about the way he says it… Gale sees a hundred expressions flit across Astarion’s face as he stares at his stepfather. His mouth drops open and his eyebrows raise, but then his eyes narrow. 

Before Gale has even realized what’s happening, Astarion launches himself at his stepfather.

*

“De rien…" Astarion is pleased when it draws a laugh.

He thinks about Gale laughing like that at the club, hands around Astarion’s waist. He thinks about Gale lying on the beach, torso bare and hair wild. He thinks about Gale sliding expensive linen slowly over his hips. He thinks about how comfortable he’d felt when he woke in Gale’s arms that morning on the island… and Astarion can’t deny it to himself anymore.

He’s hopelessly attracted to his teammate, addicted to this spark between them, the push and pull, the way Gale teases him, their verbal sparring, the way Gale blathers on when he’s passionate about something, the unexpected way Astarion feels so safe when Gale holds him. 

Their eyes are still locked and Astarion’s heart flutters in his chest. It would be so easy to lean forward on the bed, run a hand down the side of Gale’s face… Would Gale pull away?

There’s a commotion in the distance but he's so caught up in the moment that it doesn’t register at first. Then he hears a familiar voice and his blood runs cold.

It’s too late to let go of Gale’s hand by the time Cazador appears at the door. His stepfather clearly notices and, before Astarion can do anything, Cazador’s fist is in his hair and he’s being flung against the wall. 

Gale is shouting but he's collapsed back onto his bed, and Astarion is trying to get to him when he hears Cazador snarl.

“You should have died in that car.”

There’s something about the way he says it… Astarion turns to stare at his stepfather as his thoughts race. Cazador knew Gale was getting close to Astarion. Cazador monitors Astarion’s messages. Cazador could have seen that Gale was planning on helping Astarion get away from him. Cazador would never, ever let that happen.

Weave Racing cars don’t have complete and sudden brake failures out of nowhere.

Astarion sees red. 

A handful of nurses and porters appear at the door, drawn by the noise, but Astarion doesn’t care. He launches himself at Cazador, hitting him with a right hook that knocks his stepfather to the floor. 

Cazador lets out a cry of rage as blood blossoms from his nose but Astarion is upon him, every cruel word, every painful blow, every awful thing his stepfather has ever done to him ricocheting through his mind. 

Cazador who took his mother away from him. Cazador who took his freedom away from him. Cazador who tried to take Gale away from him when Astarion has only just found him. 

He punches his stepfather again, and then again, and again, and again, and again, until his hand is covered in blood. Unfamiliar voices are shouting at him and unseen hands grip his arms, tearing him away and to the other side of the room, where Astarion falls to his knees on the hospital floor and sobs.

Chapter Text

“And he has done it! What a way to end the first half of the year, from a man who has had an absolute rollercoaster of a season!”

“You’re not wrong! I mean, he’s gone from crashing out, to leaving his team, to staying with his team, to reaching the summer break with four consecutive wins under his belt — it is beyond impressive. Bane are going to be ecstatic to see that. Another phenomenal pole position finish from Gortash.”

“And, talking of things Bane are going to be ecstatic about seeing: the man they were going to replace Gortash with just crawling past the checkered flag.”

“A tenth-place finish for Ancunin, he is not going to be happy with that. No doubt there will be a lot of very tense team meetings behind closed doors at Weave over the summer…”

Gale watches long enough to see Astarion climb out of his car — pulling off his helmet and running a weary hand through silver curls — before he sighs and switches off the TV. 

He’s kept up with every single one of the races over the past few months but Gale still can’t bear watching the podium ceremony. He’s not sure whether it’s the constant sight of Thorm and Gortash’s smug faces or the thought that he’ll never get to stand up on one of those podiums again. Never get to experience that feeling one last time. 

Watching his old teammate’s post-race interviews has been increasingly difficult as well. Astarion has become more and more withdrawn and hostile over the past couple of months. He’s chastised interviewers for asking stupid questions and straight up walked away from one interview when they asked if he preferred driving with Tefoco instead of Dekarios. He’s not doing himself any favors. 

Then again, with everything going on, Gale doesn’t know how Astarion is still driving at all. 

Silence fills Gale’s living room as the summer sun streams through huge, arched windows. It’s a busy silence though; the gentle hum of bees carries through the open French doors to the garden, and Gale can hear the wind stirring the fruit trees in the orchard outside. The air is thick with pollen today and he can smell honeysuckle and rosemary on the breeze too. 

It’s been… strange, spending this much time at home. He loves this house, with its high, vaulted ceilings laced with old beams, its higgledy-piggledy wooden floors, its original stone fireplaces, and its gorgeous kitchen, the modern embedded in the historic. But the bucolic Hertfordshire countryside is a far cry from the hectic, jet-setting life he’s used to. 

Gale had known, from the minute the surgeon sat down at his hospital bedside with that overly sympathetic gleaming-white American smile, that his career in racing was finished. The man had used words like ‘possibly’, ‘probably’, ‘perhaps’, ‘potentially’. The pacemaker could possibly withstand the high G-forces experienced during a race. The electromagnetic fields generated by the car and the machinery in the garage probably wouldn’t be strong enough to affect the device’s function. So many adverbs beginning with ‘p’, Gale had thought at the time. Yet each option presented to him had the same caveat. But you might also die, so… there is that. 

The look on his mother’s face, and Tara’s, and even Astarion’s, had told Gale that attempting to race with the new intrusion in his chest wasn’t an option. It was over. He’d never work in F1 again. 

It had taken him weeks to recover enough to be flown home. Yet more weeks before his mother would agree to give him some peace. Now though, he misses her bustling around the house. He hates to admit it, but he’s lonely.

Gale picks up his phone, only to see that Tara has preempted his usual post-race text this week.


Doc R: He’s not in a good way.

Doc R: He said he’ll call you from the hotel.

GD: Thank you. Give him a hug from me

Doc R: You can give him one yourself when you see him. I think he’d scratch my eyes out.

Doc R: 🐈

GD: you sent the cat again 🤣

Doc R: It was appropriate this time.


Sure enough, Gale’s phone rings about an hour later, as he’s in the kitchen making a cup of tea.

“Hullo,” Astarion sounds glum. 

“They’re cheating, Ast, I know they are-”

“Gale-”

“I’ve just been rewatching the overtake on the Kemmel Straight. He didn’t have DRS, where did that speed come from??”

“Gale-”

“And Thorm getting past Jen like that-”

“Gale!” Astarion’s frustration cuts down the line and shuts Gale up. “It’s not Bane, it’s me. My head’s just… Halsin got in touch yesterday. Cazador filed his papers. It’s like we thought: he’s contesting the revocation on the grounds that I’m mentally unfit…”

Gale’s heart sinks. “Oh, Astarion…”

“It’s no more than Hal told me to expect,” Astarion sighs. He sounds exhausted. “The prick is using the fight at the hospital as evidence. And what happened to my mother-”

“Fucking bastard.”

“Oh and, get this, our fight in Australia. Apparently, it demonstrates that I’m ‘violently unstable’...”

“For god’s sake… I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay, you only drove into me because we weren’t friends then.”

“Not about that! And you drove into me!” Gale protests, but he’s heartened to hear the grin in Astarion’s voice as he responds. 

“You keep telling yourself that, darling…”

“So… what happens now? Can Halsin do anything?”

“Now it goes to court. Halsin says he’ll try to find proof that Cazador was misusing the POA. I’ll still have to have psychiatric evaluations though…”

“Ast-”

“What if he wins, Gale?” Astarion’s voice is quiet all of a sudden. Small. “I’ll be under his control forever…”

“He won’t, Astarion,” Gale’s fist clenches on the kitchen counter so fast that he almost knocks his tea over. “Halsin is bound to find something; there’s no way Cazador hasn’t got skeletons in his closet. And besides, you’ve got a whole party of us fighting at your side now.”

“I know…”

“Just try to get some rest, okay? We’ll look into it all when you get here. Together. What time’s your flight in the morning?”

“Erm-” Astarion hesitates and — for a brief, awful moment — Gale thinks he’s about to say he’s not coming anymore. “…Would it be okay if I fly over tonight instead?”

Gale’s fingers drift to the little circle in his chest as adrenaline floods his veins. It’s become somewhat of a nervous habit during moments of stress over the past couple of months, making sure the pacemaker is still there, still keeping him ticking over. 

“It’s fine if that’s a problem,” Astarion adds hurriedly. “I know you weren’t expecting me until tomorrow-”

“That would be wonderful,” Gale tries not to sound too excited. “Not a problem at all. It won’t take me any time to fix up the guest room.”

“Thanks. Everyone else is going out in Spa and I just- I don’t think I can…”

“I understand. Have you- do you need me to book the-”

“Tara’s going to book it for me, there’s one in a couple of hours.”

“Okay, great. Let me know what time you get in and I’ll meet you at arrivals.”

“Oh… there’s no need for that. I can have the team organize a car…”

“I’d like to.”

“Okay… I’ll see you soon, then.”

“See you soon.”

Gale hangs up and rests heavily against the kitchen counter. He doesn’t know why he lied to Astarion. The guest room has been made up for a week already. The minute Astarion had accepted Gale’s offer of a place to stay for the summer break, Gale had gone out and bought him everything he might need, equipping the en suite with a toothbrush, toothpaste, a variety of shower gels, the ridiculously expensive shampoo he knows Astarion is obsessed with. 

He’d even bought a damned espresso machine, for god’s sake.

Gale takes his tea and sinks back onto the sofa with a sigh. He shouldn’t be this excited to see Astarion. He shouldn’t have missed him as much as he has. He shouldn’t be feeling the things that he’s been feeling. It’s not appropriate when Astarion is going through such a difficult time. But, as much as he wants to, Gale can’t deny that he’s anxious to see his old teammate again.

It’s been two long months in total. They’ve spoken on the phone, almost every week. But they haven’t been in the same room. Not since the last emotional farewell at the hospital before Astarion set off for the Italian Grand Prix. 

Ever since then, Gale has felt utterly useless. He’s been unable to help Astarion due to his own weakness, just as he was unable to do anything as Astarion attacked Cazador that terrible day, as the older man clawed at Astarion’s face, as Astarion knelt and sobbed on the hospital room floor, face covered in blood, while nurses and doctors attended to his stepfather. He hadn’t been able to stop the police from taking Astarion away. 

Instead, Gale’s support network had to step up for his teammate in his place. Tara had gone with Astarion to the police station. When Gale called and told him what was going on, Elminster immediately assigned the young driver the best of Weave’s lawyers. Halsin Silverbough, a deceptively gentle mountain of a man, had made sure Astarion was freed immediately. He’d cited Florida’s 'Stand Your Ground' law at the Miami PD, and there had been enough witnesses to corroborate Astarion’s story — that Cazador attacked him first — for it to work.

Then they’d all had to convince Astarion to talk to Halsin about what was going on, how he’d been treated by Cazador. That had been an uphill battle too. Astarion doesn’t trust lawyers for some reason. “They’re all corrupt,” he’d said with some feeling, as though talking from personal experience. 

Bit by bit though, Halsin had won him over with his patience and kindness. He’d explained to Astarion that a Power of Attorney could be revoked. Eventually, he’d helped Astarion draw up the revocation document, an official notification to Cazador that Astarion was withdrawing his POA.

In return, Cazador had fought the process tooth and nail. He immediately contested the revocation, claiming Astarion wasn’t capable of managing his own life. He’d evicted Astarion from his building, saying he was ‘afraid for his personal safety’, and refused to provide Astarion with any bank details, leaving his stepson effectively homeless and penniless. 

Still bound by his contract to Weave, Astarion was traveling from hotel to hotel for races anyway, but he couldn't use his own money. “I’m broke,” he’d said over the phone to Gale during one call, his carefree laugh doing nothing to hide the fear in his voice.

Halsin attempted to petition the Monegasque courts to force Cazador to give Astarion access to his bank accounts. However, since Cazador was claiming Astarion was mentally ill, the court refused. Instead, they said they could appoint a temporary agent who would manage Astarion’s finances until he’s deemed fit to do it himself — or he’s returned to Cazador’s ‘care’.

Gale had offered to be Astarion’s conservator, of course, but Astarion had laughed and said he didn’t want Gale to be his ‘sugar daddy’, resulting in an extremely awkward silence over the phone as they both grappled with that concept. 

In the end, Astarion surprised everyone by asking Tara. And Tara, the crotchety old doctor, surprised everyone by accepting with tears in her eyes. Now, it's her duty to oversee Astarion’s finances, business decisions, and even his purchases until the court case is over. The first thing they'd done together was work on revoking Astarion's contract with Bane and reinstating him with Weave. The rival team is suing. Another thing for Halsin and his team to work on. 

Astarion is grateful to Tara, Gale knows he is, but it’s a humiliating scenario nonetheless. He’d heard the bitterness in his old teammate’s voice earlier. Tara’s going to book it for me…

It wasn’t until the summer break dawned — the annual three-week holiday from the racing year — that Gale was finally in a position to do something helpful. Astarion didn’t have anywhere to go, so Gale offered his home for the interim. 

Now he’s panicking that it’s a dreadful idea. He’d been so excited at the prospect of three weeks with Astarion that he hadn’t really considered that he’s going to have to spend three weeks with Astarion. Three whole weeks of hiding how he feels. Because Astarion needs support and stability now, not more complications and uncertainty. Gale doesn’t want him to be fearful that he’s going to lose a friend just because he doesn’t feel the same way Gale does. Even if there's a chance that Astarion does feel the same way, it’s hardly a priority right now.

And there is, possibly, a chance that Astarion feels the same way. Gale has been trying to put it to the back of his mind but, when Astarion left for Imola, Gale had used Google to translate the words he’d heard his teammate whispering after the crash. 

“Je suis vraiment désolé, Gale. Je ne le pensais pas. Je voulais seulement que tu-” 

“I’m so sorry, Gale. I didn’t mean it. I only wanted you to-”

To what…? Gale doesn’t know. But it’s possibly a chance.

Possibly. Potentially. Perhaps.

*

“Gale, this cannot be your car.”

Astarion is standing in front of an ancient Ford Capri that looks as out of place in the public car park as Astarion feels. He can’t remember the last time he was in a multi-storey; he’s so used to chauffeurs picking him up from airport terminals. It had felt strangely domestic, Gale collecting him from arrivals like a normal friend.

Not that most normal friends get papped on their way out of airports. Nor do they hug for almost an entire minute when they’re reunited.

“What do you mean?” Gale asks indignantly. “Do you know how expensive these are?”

“Well, yes,” Astarion looks down his nose at the vehicle. “I imagine there are some hefty bribes involved to get any half-decent mechanic to work on it.”

“I restored it myself, actually,” Gale smiles with more than a hint of pride.

“Of course you did,” Astarion pats him patronizingly on the arm. “I expect it was you who painted it purple as well?”

“Cool violet,” Gale corrects, and Astarion snorts with laughter. 

Gale is looking down at where Astarion’s hand still rests on his forearm, and Astarion removes it with another self-conscious laugh. He’s reminded of the same thing happening as the pair of them stood in a hot kitchen in Bahrain once. He needs to start being more careful. 

Astarion has barely had a chance to even think about that moment in the hospital, where Gale held his hand like he was never going to let go. Shortly afterward, Astarion’s entire life had gone to pure shit, and it's only been Gale, and his mother, and his godmother, and his team that have kept Astarion’s head above water thus far. He’s afraid that he’ll lose his friend if it turns out Gale doesn’t feel the same way Astarion does.

“So,” he snarks, to hide his emotions. “Should I get in or do I need to have Weave send me my helmet before riding in this death trap?”

Gale shoots him an unamused look as he loads Astarion’s cases into the back seat. “I can assure you that I’ve crashed this car fewer times than I have a race car.”

“That’s…” Astarion clambers into the surprisingly comfortable cream leather seat. “That’s not reassuring at all...”

They set off, Gale’s old man music playing over the radio, Astarion leaning his head on the window and gazing out as England zips past. He's always thought of the country as drab and dreary. London isn’t as majestic as Monte Carlo, or as stylish as Milan, or as vibrant as Mexico City. Weave’s UK headquarters are in Milton Keynes, which is honestly a place better bulldozed than visited, in Astarion’s opinion. 

Now, however, as the polluted concrete of the motorway gives way to hedge-lined lanes and soft folds of sheep-studded grass, he feels himself relax for the first time in two months. He doesn’t know if it's the beautiful countryside lulling him into peace or if it’s Gale’s voice.

They chat about this and that, nothing too heavy, about the race earlier, about how Tefoco is getting on with Vajra, about how Aylin asked Isobel out on a date. He’s forgotten how easy it is to talk to Gale, how easy it is to be with him. Everything has been a struggle lately. Everything has been difficult. But this is easy. 

The sun is considering setting by the time they pull up to Gale’s house and golden light wreaths the most ridiculously fairytale-looking building Astarion has ever seen. 

“Welcome to The Old Schoolhouse,” Gale grins, hopping out of the car and grabbing Astarion’s bags. 

Gale’s home is a massive jumble of red brick wings, with tall windows and some kind of purple climbing plant trailing all over the walls. The garden around it is a riot of flowers and scents that Astarion doesn’t recognize.

The absolute best part, though, is the little hexagonal tower that juts out of the far end of the building, topped with a full-blown slate-capped spire. Right at the apex of the spire, there’s a weather vane that — if Astarion isn’t mistaken — resembles a tiny brass race car.

It’s so Gale that Astarion nearly laughs.

“Do you want a tour?” Gale is through the large oak front door before Astarion can respond either way. 

He’s given a whistle-stop overview of the house, from the downstairs (a games room, a gym, a conservatory, a dining room, a utility room, an open-plan kitchen and living space with the squishiest sofas — nothing like the cold, hard designer leather settees in his own flat), to the second floor (a study and several bedrooms, one of which has been made up for Astarion with all his favorite products in the en suite somehow), to the third floor (a big bathroom with a roll top bath, and a mysterious door to Gale’s bedroom, which Gale doesn’t open), to the tower (books). 

“Oh, I forgot the dungeon!” Gale exclaims as they heave the last of Astarion’s things into his room. 

It is, disappointingly, not a sex dungeon but rather a wine cellar that spans the footprint of the house, complete with several massive old barrels and rows and rows of wine racks. 

“You live in Discworld,” Astarion remarks flatly, when Gale walks him around the garden, showing him the pond and the old wishing well and the orchard. “Or Middle-earth.”

Gale looks rather surprised. “I didn’t take you for a fantasy fan.”

“I told you I was obsessed with magic when I was a kid,” Astarion tuts. “What did you expect?”

Gale gives him an odd smile, sort of fond, and then he’s rapidly ushered into the kitchen, where a large Aga is emitting delicious smells and Astarion realizes Gale has made him dinner. 

The old oak dining table lies bare and ignored; Gale heaps stuffed aubergines, sauteed potatoes, and salad onto plates and takes them directly to the sofa, instructing Astarion to bring a bottle of red and two glasses with him. 

As Gale puts on some music with his phone and then starts tucking in, nattering about the potential hacks Bane could be using to gain an illegal advantage during races, Astarion sits for a moment, his plate on his lap, his wine in his hand, pink and orange sunlight from the windows warming his face, a soft cushion at his back. He is, for all intents and purposes, entirely overwhelmed. 

“Are you okay?” Gale is looking up at him, one knee crooked up on the sofa, expression concerned. “Sorry… I should really have asked what you wanted-”

“I’m fine,” Astarion smiles weakly, putting his wine down on the coffee table. “This is… thank you. It’s just been… everything’s been… a lot.”

“I know,” Gale nods. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really. How about you?”

“Not really.”

Astarion exhales a laugh and takes a bite of his dinner, his mouth flooding with flavors of rich spiced tomato and roasted vegetables. He hasn’t been allowed this much food in a long time. Cazador has always been controlling about his nutrition, about how Astarion’s body could best lend itself to the performance of the car. He kept a close eye on Astarion’s calorie intake, forcing him to put in longer hours at the gym whenever he thought Astarion was gaining too much body fat, starving him if he suspected Astarion overindulged at a dinner date.

Astarion shakes the memories from his head and eats some more. “This is delicious, thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it.” 

“Gale... I don’t know what I’m doing,” Astarion blurts out. Oh. Turns out he does want to talk about it. 

Gale sets down his plate on the coffee table and picks up his wine, but he doesn’t say anything. He merely leans forward, elbow on his knee, showing that he’s listening. For someone who talks so much, he’s surprisingly good at listening. 

“Almost my whole life, Cazador has controlled everything I do. What I eat, what I drink, what I wear, how I spend my time, who I…” Astarion shakes his head again. “Everything. And- it’s not that I… miss it or anything. I hate him. I never want to go back to living like that. But I just feel a bit…”

“Untethered?” Gale suggests and Astarion nods, because that’s exactly it. 

He has freedom, for the first time in his life, and he wants to make the most of it because there’s a terrifying chance it might get taken away again. Yet now that he has it, he has no idea what to do with himself.

“I understand,” Gale says heavily. 

“Do you?”

“I don’t want to make this about me-”

“Is it because of Mystra?”

Gale gazes at him, as though he’s trying to work out how much to say, then he nods. “Don’t get me wrong, she was nothing like Cazador. He- I mean he should go to prison for how he’s treated you, Astarion. Mystra was merely a toxic relationship...”

Astarion finishes his dinner as Gale tells the story, his speech noticeably — unusually — clipped and brief. He had been younger than Astarion when he and Mystra met; 21 and a rookie reserve with Weave. Mystra was 15 years older, she’d worked her way up from Operations Manager and had finally been offered the position of Team Principal. She wanted a cutthroat start to her tenure; she planned to fire Sam Master, Weave’s legendary first driver, and announce Gale as his replacement. That way the team would be truly hers, she’d said.

Her offer was not without caveats though, Gale explains. There was plenty she expected in return. 

“I thought she loved me,” he laughs self-consciously. “Everyone around me said differently, of course, but I was convinced. Even when I won my first championship and she criticized my driving, I told myself she only pushed me because she cared. Until that day she pushed too far and I nearly died. It still took me a long time after that to come to terms with the fact that she was using me to make herself look good.”

“What a fucking bitch,” Astarion says with feeling, taking a swig of his wine, and Gale laughs.

“Well, quite.”

“I’m sorry, Gale.”

“Water under the bridge,” Gale smiles sadly. “My point, which, as usual, attempts to elude me, is that I understand — to a lesser extent — how it feels to emerge from another’s control. How it can be terrifying as well as exhilarating.”

Astarion nods, gazing into his glass, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. “Thank you,” he croaks eventually. “That’s… nice. I feel as though everyone expects me to be excited about getting free of Cazador. To want to fight him. I do, most days. But a lot of the days I just want to… hide in bed.”

“More than understandable…” Gale has that look on his face that he gets just before he goes in for a hug. It’s the same look he had in the hospital room when he wound their fingers together, until Cazador came in and turned Astarion’s life upside down. 

To encourage him, Astarion shifts forward a little on the sofa, so their knees are touching. He’s missed this, missed Gale, probably more than he should. Tara is nice enough but she makes him feel like an errant son sometimes. Whereas Gale understands — more than Astarion ever thought possible. He almost laughs to think of going back in time and trying to explain this to himself five months ago, when he thought they were as different as two people could be.

It’s probably not appropriate, how much he wants his old teammate to lean forward on the sofa and take him into his arms like he did at the airport. When Gale looks at him like this though, Astarion can’t help but think there’s a chance he might be feeling the same way…

“So!” Gale scoots away and reaches for the bottle of wine. “What would you like to do over the summer break?”

Astarion blinks as his glass is refilled, trying to push down the feeling of rejection. He’s being stupid again. Gale has invited him into his home. For three weeks, no less. It’s hardly a rejection. He’s being a good friend and Astarion is being greedy. For god’s sake, the man’s already suffered sexual harassment from one colleague. Astarion would hate to make him feel like Mystra did.

He switches his attention to Gale’s question instead. Usually, his summer breaks are a relentless rotation of training, gym sessions, dinners with lecherous executives, uppers for nights out, downers to steady him enough for hours of publicity work the next day. If he’s being completely honest, all he really wants to do is…

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “I’ll have to have meetings with Hal, probably. Maybe Weave as well, to renegotiate… Until then, though, I’d really, really like to do nothing whatsoever.”

Gale laughs, relaxing back on the couch. “That can be arranged. Although…”

His slightly fearful expression makes Astarion nervous. “What…?”

“I did promise my mother we’d go and visit later in the week. I know it’s a pain, I can always go by myself…”

A pain thinks Astarion sadly. What he would give to have a mother, to have any parent, who wanted to spend time with him.

“I’d like that.”

“Really?” Gale brightens up. “She’ll be thrilled; she’s desperate to take you out for the day on The Yacht.”

“The Yacht?” Astarion thinks of Morena in her comfy jeans and her brown boots and her cardigan with tissues up the sleeve. She doesn’t strike him as the yachting type, even if she was married to an F1 driver once. Besides… “Aren’t we inland here?”

“You’ll see,” Gale chuckles. 

“The suspense is killing me,” Astarion smiles back before stretching with a yawn. “All right, let’s go and see the yacht.”

“You’re tired. God, you drove a whole race today, and here’s me yapping on,” Gale gets to his feet, taking the empty plates to the dishwasher and leaving Astarion feeling a bit bereft. “You should get some sleep. Do you remember which one was your room?”

“No, actually,” Astarion isn’t sure why he’s lying. Maybe he’s not quite ready to be on his own yet. “Sorry, could you show me?”

“Of course.”

Gale leads him up the stairs to the second floor and along the hallway to the guest room where he’d put Astarion’s bags earlier. It’s a beautiful room, all crooked wooden floors and tall ceilings with relaxing spot lighting nestled between the beams. Against one wall, there are tasteful built-in wardrobes, while a huge bed takes up most of the rest of the space.

Gale hovers at the door as Astarion looks around.

“The bathroom is just through that door, the taps are filter water if you get thirsty. There are some glasses in the bedside cabinets. Oh, I left some towels in the wardrobes in case you don’t have one. Other than that, they’re empty if you want to put your things away. Not that you have to put your things away if you don’t want to-”

“It’s lovely,” Astarion smiles at Gale’s rambling. He’s missed that too. “Thank you.”

“Okay, good,” Gale seems relieved. “Well, I’m upstairs if you need- if you need anything. Any time. I’ll leave the hallway light on, just in case- well- I mean feel free to wander around, or- whatever you want really-”

“Thank you, Gale,” Astarion repeats, trying to convey how deeply grateful he is. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately and Gale can’t possibly understand how much it means to him to know someone is there. 

“Yes, well, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

*

Astarion is pretending to be okay but Gale knows him well enough by now. He can see the tightness between his eyebrows, the shadows under his eyes, the way his mouth is slightly downturned, his lower lip jutting out.

So Gale gives him time and, eventually, Astarion talks about how he’s feeling. It’s so upsettingly familiar that Gale can’t help but talk about Mystra in return. He doesn’t tell him everything, of course. He leaves out the way Mystra made him feel towards the end of their relationship. The way she’d framed their union as an entitled young male driver coming on to a woman just trying to carve her place in a hostile, chauvinistic industry. How she’d told everyone on the team he was a creep, revealed personal information about their sex life, joked about his preferences and performance in bed until he could hardly face any of them. 

No, Gale only reveals the basics. Just enough to show he understands a little of what Astarion is going through.

It seems to work, too. There’s a moment between them afterward. Understanding, possibly, or kinship. He almost laughs to think of going back in time and trying to explain this to himself five months ago, when he thought they were as different as two people could be.

They’re so close on the sofa that their knees are touching. Something about sad Astarion makes Gale want to reach out and pull him into a hug, wrap himself around the man so that nothing else can hurt him. 

But talking about Mystra is like talking about the devil. There’s her voice, insidious and needling, in the back of his mind once more.

I think you don’t realize how intense you are sometimes, Gale. How much you creep people out…

Gale backs away. Changes the subject. Talks about his mother, of all things. Tries to ignore how Astarion has started calling Halsin, ‘Hal’.

It’s not until the other driver stretches with a yawn — an adorable action, which makes him look like a cat — that Gale realizes how tired he must be. 

Mortified to have blathered on for so long, Gale shows Astarion up to his room, watches his old teammate wander round, gently touching all the things inside it, another cat-like habit that makes Gale’s chest ache.

“The bathroom is just through that door, the taps are filter water if you get thirsty. There are some glasses in the bedside cabinets,’ Gale is rambling to cover the sudden awkwardness he feels. “Oh, I left some towels in the wardrobes in case you don’t have one. Other than that, they’re empty if you want to put your things away. Not that you have to put your things away if you don’t want to-”

“It’s lovely,” Astarion smiles politely. “Thank you.”

“Okay, good. Well, I’m upstairs if you need- if you need anything. Any time. I’ll leave the hallway light on, just in case-” Good god, Gale. What on earth are you talking about?  “Well- I mean feel free to wander around, or- whatever you want really-” For fuck’s sake, it sounds like you’re inviting him into your bloody bedroom! Leave!

“Thank you, Gale,” Astarion repeats pointedly, and Gale takes his cue to go before he passes out from all the blood rushing to his cheeks.

*

The first half of Astarion’s night isn’t bad. Gale’s guest room is quiet and peaceful, and it’s reassuring knowing Gale is upstairs. That the hallway light is on, just in case.

Then, around 2.30 am, Astarion wakes with the sensation of Cazador’s hands around his throat. Tears stream down his face and he’s gasping, his mouth dry as bone. He reaches for the glass of water he filled earlier, but his hands are shaking so much he nearly spills it. 

Every night has been like this since Astarion issued the revocation. He’s always had nightmares but they’re verging on night terrors these days. He’s so conditioned to expect Cazador’s retaliation whenever he misbehaves that he feels like he’ll never be able to relax again while his stepfather is displeased with him. 

Even when he lays back down, he can’t quiet his heart. It’s pounding in his ears, not letting him rest. He can’t seem to catch his breath. Every shadow in the room is suddenly Cazador, looming up out of the dark. Hovering over the bed like a specter. 

Astarion tosses and turns for another half an hour, eyeing the door, the little crack where the light is getting in. Eventually, he sits up, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Any time, that’s what Gale said, wasn’t it?

Heart still hammering, he slips out of the bed and out of the room, making his way along the hallway, climbing the stairs as quietly as possible, finding Gale’s bedroom door. It’s ajar, and Astarion wonders if that’s on purpose. Gale knows about his nightmares. He’d said he was upstairs if Astarion needed anything. 

Well, Astarion needs something.

“Gale?” he calls quietly through the door, recalling the time he’d stood outside Gale’s hut on the island doing exactly the same thing. So much has changed since then, and yet so little.

Gale doesn’t respond so Astarion pushes the door open further, until he can see his old teammate in the half-light. Gale is lying on his back in a tangle of sheets, dressed only in sleep shorts. One knee is raised and an arm is flung over his head on a pile of pillows, resting on his scattered hair. He’s snoring softly and he looks so peaceful, so beautiful, that Astarion changes his mind about waking him.

He’s backing out into the hallway, quietly closing the door, when Gale sits up groggily.

“Astarion?”

Damn. “I’m sorry- I- I couldn’t sleep again. I had a- I wondered if you were still up but-” What a stupid thing to say. It’s three in the morning. “I’m sorry-” 

“It’s okay,” Gale rubs his eyes, pushing his hair out of his face. “Come here.”

Astarion is biting the inside of his lip so hard he thinks he might draw blood. Hesitantly, he shuffles in, sitting awkwardly on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “It was just a bad nightmare-”

“It’s okay, honestly,” Gale’s smile is so kind. “I told you: any time. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Astarion echoes his words from earlier, cringing internally. Then why are you here, you fool? Just go back to bed and stop embarrassing yourself.

“Do- do you want to sleep in here?” 

Astarion’s heart jolts. Yes. “Er- I mean- I don’t- only if-”

“Come here,” Gale says again, and it takes Astarion a while to grasp his meaning. He’s holding out his arm. 

“Sorry,” Astarion whispers as he scoots up the bed, lying gingerly on his side, his back to his old teammate, not quite touching. “I just- I sleep a bit better when-”

“I know,” Gale sounds like he’s half-asleep himself as he curls into Astarion, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You didn’t spend half the year calling me GC for nothing…”

Astarion laughs quietly then, relaxing, letting his head sink into the soft pillows.

“‘Night PC,” Gale murmurs and it feels like mere seconds have passed before he’s gently snoring again.

“‘Night,” Astarion whispers.

Is this weird? Is this a normal thing for them to do? He’s only seeking a bit of comfort from a friend during a difficult time — and that’s okay, isn’t it?

As he drifts off to sleep, relaxation seeping into his bones with the warmth from Gale’s body pressed against his back, Astarion isn’t sure he cares either way. 

*

“Astarion?” Gale tries not to let on how startled he is to find a dark shape silhouetted against his bedroom door. It’s only the hallway light illuminating Astarion’s hair that puts him at ease that he isn’t about to be attacked in the middle of the night.

Gale can see, when his eyes adjust to the dim light, that Astarion isn’t doing okay. He’s trembling, his eyes large and wild. Gale sits up.

“I’m sorry- I- I couldn’t sleep again. I had a- I wondered if you were still up but- sorry.” 

It’s clear that Astarion needs solace but doesn’t know how to ask for it. And Gale’s sleep-muddled brain is unable to navigate the situation as tactfully as he probably should. Instead, he holds out his arm, inviting his old teammate into his bed.

When Astarion accepts, Gale wraps an arm around his waist, hoping it’s soothing, recalling the night in the hut on the island where he’d done exactly the same thing — albeit in his sleep that time. So much has changed since then, and yet so little. He makes a joke, to ease the tension, and he’s rewarded with the sweet sound of a soft laugh, the sensation of Astarion relaxing against him.

Is this weird? Is this a normal thing for them to do? He’s only offering a bit of comfort to a friend during a difficult time — and that’s okay, isn’t it?

As he drifts off to sleep, the heat of the night staved off by the pleasant coolness of Astarion’s body pressed against his chest, Gale isn’t sure he cares either way. 

Chapter Text

Wyll: Have you seen this?

Gale is sitting at his dining table when the WhatsApp message arrives. He'd been scrolling through the morning news and picking at the ‘heart-healthy’ breakfast his mother has bullied him into eating every morning — Greek yogurt, muesli with nuts and berries, and his favorite orange blossom honey that he has shipped over from Crete. 

He clicks the link his former teammate has attached. It takes him to a Guardian article with the headline ‘A Hero’s Welcome’. Underneath, there’s a paparazzi shot of him and Astarion hugging at Heathrow. The caption reads:

Formula One driver Gale Dekarios embraces teammate who saved his life

The rest of the article is pretty mundane, just a rundown of his accident and Astarion’s involvement in his rescue, plus updates on the rest of Weave’s catastrophic first half of the year. 

Annoyingly, there are also quotes from an ‘inside source’ claiming that Gale has developed a ‘phobia’ of crashing that will likely see him retire from the sport. He sighs, irritated. Alfira’s right. He needs to make a statement soon, needs to confirm that he’s being medically retired before the story gets away from them. 

The thought is daunting though. He keeps making excuses not to issue a press release. He’s still recovering, he’s still tired, he’s still thinking about it, he still needs to talk it through. In reality, he’s done all the thinking and talking he can possibly do. He’s had long, tearful conversations with his mother, practical online meetings with Elminster and Vajra, surprisingly emotive debates with Astarion. The conclusion is always the same. Gale can’t race anymore; it’s too dangerous. Everyone knows this. He knows this. He’s almost come to accept it. But announcing it publicly feels too final. The last step in acknowledging that he has no idea what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. 

Gale’s hand goes unconsciously to his chest and he scrolls back up to the headline, looking at the image again to take his mind off the feeling of dread he always gets when he thinks about his career. 

The photo is fairly suggestive, even if the article isn’t. He dreads to think what the accompanying captions in the tabloids are. Or, worse, social media. Gale very purposefully hasn’t checked any of his accounts for a while but it occurs to him that he might have to start soon. Before long, Alfira will stop managing his online presence. She won’t be his rep anymore. Harper, the agency she works for, is headed up by the renowned sports agent Jaheira Elerrathin. Gale is no longer in sports. 

Shaking his head to derail his spiraling thoughts, he opens the large version of the image in the Guardian app.

It depicts the arrivals lounge at Heathrow. In the foreground, he and Astarion are holding each other tightly while a few onlookers smile as they pass by. Astarion’s bags are discarded on the floor and he’s ever so slightly on his tiptoes, arms around Gale’s neck, face half-buried in Gale’s shoulder. Gale’s own face is hidden behind Astarion’s hair but his arms are locked around the other driver’s waist, hands grasping his lower rib cage. 

To the photographer’s credit, they’ve captured the moment beautifully. You can almost see Gale’s half-step back as Astarion crashed into him, can almost feel the squeeze of the embrace, can almost smell the bergamot of Astarion’s shampoo…

Gale zooms in. Astarion’s eyes are tightly closed, his familiar little frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. But he’s smiling. It looks like a sad smile, or perhaps something more complex. More wistful. On the other side of the photo, Gale knows his expression was exactly the same.

“What are you smiling at?”

Gale guiltily closes his phone, although he’s not quite sure why. Then he glances up and almost chokes on his muesli.

Astarion is back from his daily morning run. It’s become a habit of his over the past week, sprinting through the quiet Hertfordshire countryside in the early hours. He seems to find it grounding. Today though, the temperature is unusually hot for England and Astarion has foregone his usual running shirt. 

He strolls through the kitchen to refill his water bottle from the tap, leaning on the counter and taking a swig, his bare chest still rising and falling with the exertion of the run. Sweat beads on the muscles of his torso and collects in the V lines that run into the waistband of his shorts. His hair is slicked back with it, in a way that — annoyingly — suits him as much as his curls. 

Out of the blue, Gale is struck with the urge to stand up and stride into the kitchen, to grab Astarion by the thighs and lift him onto the counter, to taste that sweat-slicked skin-

“Gale?” 

“Ah- nothing,” Gale sets his phone down on the table, looking back at his bowl. “Just something Wyll sent me. How was your run?”

“Hot.”

“Mm,” Gale says, “Yes, it does seem hot today.”

“It is,” Astarion sounds sarcastic and Gale winces at himself. 

Good god, he needs to go on a date or something. Anything to take his mind off this overwhelming prickly heat that races across his skin whenever Astarion brushes against him in the kitchen or touches his arm or just, frankly, exists anywhere nearby. Gale had thought his crush — or whatever this is — would ease up after they spent more time together, getting through mundane tasks like cooking or cleaning or thinking about what to have for dinner. If anything, though, it’s got worse. 

They've done nothing and it’s already been one of the best weeks of Gale’s life. True to Astarion’s request, their days have been lazy, filled with the gentle walks that are part of Gale's recovery plan, lying on the sofa while Astarion eviscerates terrible superhero movies, reading quietly side-by-side in the garden. Astarion seems as reluctant as Gale to talk about ‘the real world’ and so they’ve simply shut it all out — an unspoken agreement to ignore everything and everyone else for as long as they can. 

They haven’t even talked about that first night, when Astarion crept into Gale’s bed and they slept wrapped around each other like they had on the island. Gale had woken up in the morning to find Astarion gone, out on the first of his runs. Astarion has slept in his own room ever since and neither of them has brought it up again, their relationship appearing to have fallen under the unspoken agreement too, packed up and put in a box labeled ‘To Be Dealt With Later’. 

In the kitchen, Astarion runs his hands through his hair, and Gale wants to cry.

He’s in desperate need of a distraction. Alfira had seemed like she was interested before, hadn't she? She won’t be his colleague soon so it wouldn't be inappropriate anymore... Then again, a sly voice in his head whispers, neither will Astarion. 

“What are you listening to?” Gale latches on to the tinny sound emitting from Astarion’s discarded earbuds, dragging his overthinking mind back to the present.

Astarion’s response, when it comes, is self-conscious. “Benjamin Ingrosso…”

“Again??” Gale laughs. Astarion has been listening to this artist for weeks, if not months. “You’re obsessed.”

“I am not! I just like upbeat music for running. Plus-” Astarion fiddles with his water bottle, before turning around to refill it again. “-it doesn’t hurt that he’s just my type.”

“Oh?” Gale tries to keep the ripple of jealousy out of his voice. He can’t, however, contain his curiosity. “What’s your-?”

“Are we leaving soon? I need to shower.” Astarion's response is abrupt, shutting down that line of conversation. 

Fair enough. The last time Astarion tried to talk to Gale about his sexuality, Gale — in his desperation to play it cool — ended up responding like a clueless HR person. “That sort of thing is none of my business. It doesn’t have any bearing on your ability to do your job.” It makes him cringe to think about it now. Not least because what he really should have told Astarion was that he isn’t exactly straight either.

It’s something Gale has wanted to rectify ever since, but the chance hasn’t arisen and it feels too odd to bring it up out of the blue. It’s a boat he’s probably missed.

On which note: “I told mum we’d be there around 10. So we should probably leave in about an hour?”

“Oui, OK.” 

Gale waits for him to leave before picking his phone up again and googling the singer.

Ah. 

*

Astarion is having a hard time staying with Gale. Quite literally, some mornings. It started that first day, when he awoke with Gale’s arm still wrapped around his waist, fingertips grazing the top of Astarion’s pajama bottoms. 

Gale was sound asleep but Astarion’s mind had started to wander, started to imagine how it might feel if Gale’s hand moved lower, if his fingers slipped under Astarion’s waistband… 

Seconds later, Astarion was sliding out of Gale’s bed, trying not to wake him, face red and pajama bottoms tight. He’d hurried to his room, got changed, and gone straight out for a run. He’s had to do the same most days ever since.

As the week goes on, he’s finding it more and more difficult to navigate this situation, his crush — or whatever this is — on his former teammate, his uncertainty over whether Gale feels the same way. 

Sometimes, he’s sure the attraction is mutual. Sometimes, Gale looks at Astarion as though he’s seconds away from leaning in... But he backs off without fail every time, changes the subject, makes some excuse to distance himself. It always leaves Astarion reeling, wondering if he’s imagining the whole thing. 

This morning, Astarion has returned from his run to the sight of Gale sitting at his dining table, bare feet up on another of his chairs, linen shirt fully open in the summer heat, sucking honey off a spoon. 

For fuck’s sake… Astarion watches him for a while, eyes traveling up over the hair on Gale’s stomach, the new scar tissue on his chest, the way his lips wrap absentmindedly around the tip of the spoon. 

Out of the blue, Astarion is struck with the urge to crawl into Gale’s lap, to straddle his hips and lace his fingers in Gale’s hair, to taste the honey on his tongue…

Then Gale smiles at something on his phone, a warm, soft smile, and Astarion can’t contain his curiosity.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks, trying to keep the ripple of jealousy out of his voice.

Gale looks up but he seems a million miles away, staring through Astarion, his mind clearly elsewhere, and Astarion is suddenly annoyed, half desperate to know what Gale is thinking about, half afraid to find out. 

“Gale?”

“Ah- nothing. Just something Wyll sent me.”

Astarion wishes he never asked. Bloody Wyll. The perfect ex-teammate. The ridiculously handsome prince-type who everyone would prefer to work with over Astarion, apparently. The other half of the duo that inspired the ‘Ravengarios’ hashtag on TikTok, filled with cutesy edits of Gale and Wyll in fits of laughter at this promo shoot or that publicity event. The best friend who arrived to visit Gale at the hospital at 6 am sharp. The person who was kind to Astarion when he had a panic attack. The man who Gale woke up for.

When Astarion had tentatively looked up himself and Gale on TikTok, all there had been were edits of the pair of them fighting set to Bad Blood by Taylor Swift. 

Astarion runs his hands through his hair, irritated, only giving Gale minimal answers to his questions until Gale starts joking about him being obsessed with Benjamin Ingrosso and it slips out.

“It doesn't hurt that he's just my type.”

Fuck. Astarion turns his back to Gale, filling his bottle again even though he's barely drunk any. 

Why did he say that?? It's too obvious, too careless. It's going to make things so awkward. If Gale googles Benjamin Ingrosso, he’s surely going to realize-

“What’s your-?”

“Are we leaving soon?” Astarion cuts Gale off before he can ask the question that's going to make this all even more uncomfortable. “I need to shower.”

“I told mum we’d be there around 10. So we should probably leave in about an hour?”

“Oui, OK.” Astarion flees to the safety of his bathroom. 

The drive to Morena’s house is mercifully short, considering how quiet both of them are. Gale is suspiciously reserved, only humming tunelessly to the songs on the radio. Astarion stares out of the window, watching the neat hedge-lined fields roll past, wondering if Gale did look up his favorite singer after all.

Just 25 minutes later, the purple Ford Capri pulls into a picturesque market town filled with white-washed cottages that jostle shoulders with Tudor-style houses and quaint, old-fashioned glass-fronted shops. All through the town, spanned by a series of hump-backed bridges, runs a length of glittering canal.

“England is ridiculous,” Astarion grumbles. “This place looks like a postcard.”

“It was a nice area to grow up in,” Gale chuckles. “For the most part…”

Despite his laugh, there’s something melancholy in his voice and Astarion looks over, raising his eyebrows questioningly when Gale glances at him. 

“The community here is lovely,” Gale sighs. “Unless you happen to be anything they might consider ‘different’...”

“Sounds like Monaco,” Astarion nods with feeling. Growing up pansexual in a country that had yet to recognize same-sex marriages wasn't exactly easy. Not to mention having a homophobic stepfather who would simultaneously berate him for his sexuality and yet offer him up to whoever could boost his career, regardless of their gender. 

He doesn't want to think about Cazador. Not here, in this absurdly pretty place. He puts the odious man from his mind and turns his attention back to what Gale is saying. Astarion can’t imagine anyone finding his old teammate particularly objectionable — or his mother, for that matter — and he says as much out loud.

“Oh, well, people knew who we were when we moved here. Who dad was, what happened to him. They were already talking about us. So,” Gale swallows, looking steadfastly through the windscreen as he drives. “I wasn’t really able to be… myself. That is to say… a young boy growing up and realizing that he found some of the other boys in his school just as attractive as he found his girlfriend. But I didn’t, er- I never… Not openly, you know? I didn’t want to make things worse for mum.”

Astarion glances at him in surprise. Did he just…

“And then there was the way we lived… well, you’ll see,” Gale nods at the cobbled street ahead, pulling the car up. “Here we are; welcome to Grey Harbour!”

If Astarion thought Gale’s house was twee, it’s nothing compared to Morena’s fairytale thatched cottage. But he finds he’s not really taking in many of the details. He’s still staring at Gale as they both get out of the car. If Astarion isn’t entirely mistaken, his former teammate just came out to him.

*

Gale feels a bit dizzy as he walks up the familiar stone-paved path to his mother’s house, waving when she opens the front door. 

He’s never really ‘come out’ per se. As a teenager, he’d talked to his mother about the confusion he was feeling, and she’d taught him that love is love regardless of sex, or gender, or preference. After that though, Mystra had been his only real relationship so it wasn’t like he’d ever had to face discrimination for who he was. As such, Gale had felt uncomfortable openly labeling himself as bisexual or pansexual or whatever he was. As though he was staking a claim on an identity he didn’t really embody, on a community that he somehow didn’t deserve to be a part of. 

Plus, there's the fact that he's a Formula 1 driver — was a Formula 1 driver, he corrects himself. For all its rainbow helmets and inclusivity campaigns, the sport is an environment fuelled by toxic masculinity. Despite his antics in Jeddah, even Astarion hasn’t talked about his identity in public. To Gale’s knowledge, there’s never been an openly gay driver on the grid at all. 

Still, it felt important to let Astarion know, for some reason. It doesn’t change anything between them. But it felt important to let him know.

He probably could have picked a better time and place than his car just as they pulled up to his mother’s house. Part of him is relieved though, not to have to deal with the myriad questions on Astarion’s face as Morena hurries towards them, arms open.

“My two favorite boys!” she squeals, pulling them both into an embrace at the same time, squashing them awkwardly together. “You made it! Astarion, it’s wonderful to see you again. Gale, hurry up and let’s get The Yacht going quickly before the first lock gets too busy. I’ve packed a picnic on board…”

More questions on Astarion’s face as Morena disappears into the darkness of her cottage, gesturing for them to follow. This time though, Gale merely grins and repeats his words from the car.

“You’ll see…”

*

Mind still spinning from Gale's confession, Astarion follows him and his mother through her hallway and her adorable living room with its low beamed ceilings, wood-burning stove, and infinite knickknacks. At the back of the room, a modern glass conservatory has been tastefully incorporated into the old architecture, and wide bifold doors are thrown open to the summer sun.

Beyond, lays a beautiful English country garden filled with scented herbs and fat roses in countless colors. Even more spectacular though, is the way the rambling lawn slopes all the way down to the canal itself. 

Grey Harbour… The name suddenly makes sense. Because there, tied up at the bottom of the garden, is the most bizarre-looking boat Astarion has ever seen.

“Welcome to The Yacht!” Morena strides off down the slope and steps aboard the back of the vessel, her arms spread wide, her face beaming.

The Yacht, it turns out, is no such thing. It’s low and long — probably around 60 feet from front to back — and incredibly narrow. More like a tube than a boat. It’s painted a beautiful forest green and absolutely laden to overflowing with flowers and hanging baskets and painted watering cans and what looks like a welly boot with some kind of vegetable growing out of it. The sides of the boat are dotted with gleaming brass portholes and there are two black and brass chimney spouts poking out of the chaos on the roof.

“The Yacht is a houseboat,” Astarion laughs with understanding. He’s seen similar craft in London before, when someone or other Cazador wanted him to date had taken him to a fancy restaurant next to the canal.

“Ah ah! Narrowboat,” Morena corrects him, raising her finger in that Dekarios way that pulls a chuckle out of Astarion against his will.

“Gosh, Astarion,” Gale nudges him playfully. “Get the terminology right…”

“Narrowboat,” Astarion grins at Morena. “My apologies, Captain Dekarios.”

“Apology accepted,” Morena nods, with a mock salute. “Would you like a tour?”

She holds out her hand, helping Astarion step up onto the back of the vessel, instructing him to watch out for the long tiller, which swings slightly back and forth. Then she disappears down some small wooden steps, Astarion following, Gale behind.

The first space at the back of the boat is a tiny bedroom, with a bed that folds down across the width of the boat. Beyond that is an engine room, filled by a huge green beast of an engine. Then there’s another bedroom with a built-in double bed, then a kitchen, then a living room with one sofa and a small wood burner. The whole space has rug-clad wooden floors and the walls are painted a fresh white, to combat the low light that streams through the portholes in dusty bars. 

“Two-bedroom, waterside property,” Morena jokes as she shows him a little bathroom hidden behind a saloon door. “I’ll leave it to Gale to explain the intricacies of the toilet as and when you need to use it.”

“It’s lovely,” Astarion says honestly. “Not the toilet, that looks like a nightmare. But the rest of it. It’s… tres bijou.”

“She’s not half bad,” Morena laughs, patting Gale fondly on the arm. “Certainly not the worst home we could have asked for.”

At first, Astarion doesn’t catch her meaning. “You… lived on this?”

“Mmhm, for 20 years!” Morena is nodding happily but Astarion notices that Gale is staring at the floor. He looks ashamed. “Not here, of course. We moved all around the canals. Until moromou here got into Formula 1 and moved me into Grey Harbour. The first thing he bought with his first year’s salary!”

Morena beams proudly at her son and Gale gives her a small smile back, still not looking at Astarion.

“Right!” Morena claps her hands together. “I’ll fire her up. Gale, you can show Astarion the ropes.”

She means this quite literally, Astarion finds out, as Gale takes him back outside and begins to untie the boat's long white ropes from a series of bollards that poke out of the ground. He shows Astarion a simple knot to use, making him practice untying and tying it a couple of times for when they need to stop and tether the boat again (‘mooring up’, Gale calls it). 

“I had no idea you grew up on a boat,” Astarion comments as they work, slightly mesmerized by the competence and confidence with which Gale’s tanned hands deftly maneuver the lines. 

He wants to bring up their conversation in the car as well but it doesn't feel like the right time with the man's mother just on the other side of a steel wall. Astarion has no idea whether Gale has ever spoken to Morena about being bi or pan or whatever he is. He has no idea if Gale has ever told anyone. Not that it's a huge surprise. Astarion has, after all, suspected that Gale might… but he’s never been sure… so to have it confirmed… 

It doesn’t change anything between them but Astarion still feels a bit dizzy.

“Yes, well-” Gale’s voice is curt, snapping Astarion back to the present. “I’ve had enough of my peers make fun of me for being the poor relation. I didn’t need it from my teammate as well.”

I wouldn’t have- Astarion is about to say but he stops himself, swallowing the lie. He has heard other drivers make fun of Gale in the past, had probably even made comments of his own. He should be the one who feels ashamed, not Gale.

“Wasn’t your father… why… how did you…” Astarion isn’t sure how to phrase what he’s trying to say without being rude. Luckily, Gale is two steps ahead as usual.

“How did we end up so poor when my father was an F1 driver?” Gale asks, a bitter note to his voice. When Astarion doesn’t respond, he continues. “Dad was a lot of things: a fantastic driver, a terrible cook, a mediocre gardener, an excellent hugger. He was also a hopeless gambling addict.” 

Gale straightens up with a sigh, stretching out his back. “He was thousands of pounds in debt. Hundreds of thousands. Mum had no idea until he died — he left her with the lot of it. It was… it was suspected that he might have gambled on the race he died in, that might have been why he was pushing so hard…”

“I’m sorry,” Astarion says quietly.

Gale shrugs. “I was only four. I barely remember any of that time. Mum managed to pay off most of the debt by selling the house and everything else. But she couldn't bring herself to get rid of The Yacht. It was Dad’s pride and joy, a silly joke of his; ‘Every F1 driver should have a yacht…' There was no money to buy anywhere else so mum and I moved in. I knew mum would always want to keep her so I bought her this place eventually,” Gale gestures at the cottage. “With a mooring at the end of the garden.”

"No wonder she’s so proud of you,” Astarion replies, surprising himself with the fondness that wraps his words. Gale looks taken aback too and they gaze at each other for a moment, soft smiles on both their faces.

Right next to them, the boat’s engine fires into life, a great rumbling chunter that sends puffs of smoke sputtering out of one of the chimneys and makes Astarion jump. Gale chuckles at him and the spell is broken, the moment gone.

Once the engine is ticking over with a gentle put-put-put-put, Morena appears at the back of the boat again.

“Ready? Okay, tally ho!”

Astarion copies how Gale holds onto the roof of the narrowboat, leaning his weight in to push it out into the canal. The only problem is that, at the last minute, Gale hops nimbly onto an absolutely tiny ledge that runs around the edge of the boat — while Astarion’s feet remain firmly planted on the bank.

“Gale!” he shouts as he’s gently stretched, his hands grasping the rapidly retreating boat, toes sliding on mud.

“Jump! Jump aboard!” Morena and Gale shout in tandem, extremely unhelpfully.

“WHERE?” They cannot be talking about the nanoscopic precipice Gale is standing on. The murky water of the canal looms up under him and Astarion’s hands slip with sudden sweat.

“Gale! Help him,” Morena chastises her son, who is nearly doubled over with laughter.

“I’m going to fall in!” Astarion shrieks, and this seems to do the trick. Gale runs along the ledge as though he's a mountain goat, grabbing hold of the roof with one hand and scooping his other arm around Astarion’s waist, pulling him aboard.

“You okay?” Gale’s face is serious. “The water, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think-”

“I’m fine,” Astarion says faintly, playing up to it a little, leaning into his old teammate. “I thought I was going in.”

“Not on my watch,” Gale grins and it’s so cheesy but Astarion doesn’t mind because Gale is holding him tightly and one of Astarion’s hands is on his chest-

“If you two lovebirds have finished cuddling-” Morena is shouting from where she’s steering the tiller at the back of the boat. “-the lock’s coming up!”

“Back to work!” Gale steps away with a self-conscious laugh, leaving Astarion feeling deprived. “Our captain is somewhat of a task-master, I’m afraid…”

* 

“I’m going to fall in!” 

There’s genuine fear in Astarion’s voice and Gale feels horrible all of a sudden. He completely forgot about Astarion’s phobia of water. 

He makes his way along the gunwale as fast as he can, reaching out and pulling Astarion on board. Astarion is still clinging to the boat with one hand but the other comes up to rest lightly on Gale’s chest.

“You okay?” The gruffness in Gale’s voice is embarrassing.

“I’m fine,” Astarion’s voice sounds faint and Gale pulls him in a little tighter, trying to make him feel safe-

Then his bloody mother calls them out and Gale moves back, mentally kicking himself for falling into the same behavior again and again. He just can’t help himself, not when Astarion needs him. 

They spend the next few hours pootling along the canal in the sunshine. Gale shows Astarion how to walk safely along the gunwale and Morena shows him how to steer the boat. Gale also teaches him how to operate the locks, the ingenious water-powered lifts that allow boats to move between different levels of the canal. It’s strenuous work but, to his credit, Astarion helps with two locks in a row before declaring that his hands are insured for €10K and that he’d better stop before he does any damage. 

It’s heartwarming, watching how he makes Morena laugh, how he perches on a spare bit of roof like a prince surveying his domain, silver curls ruffling slightly in the breeze as the boat rumbles along the water. Gale has to have a word with himself when he nearly slips off one of the lock gates because he's distracted by Astarion stretching atop the boat, his slightly cropped t-shirt lifting to reveal the taut stomach underneath. 

Around lunchtime, Morena disappears into the kitchen and comes out with neatly wrapped halloumi pittas, which they eat as they go. The summer sun is warm overhead and the gentle puttering of the engine is soothing. Before long, Astarion has fallen asleep stretched out on his back on the roof, half-eaten pitta at his side, arms behind his head and legs dangling off the side of the boat.

“He's like a cat,” Gale tuts fondly, leaning on the boat next to Morena as she steers. “He goes to sleep everywhere.” 

“He looks exhausted.”

“He doesn't sleep well at night. It’s this whole thing with his stepfather. He has terrible nightmares, he tosses and turns something chronic-”

Gale stops when Morena turns to him with one eyebrow raised. 

“-or so he tells me,” he finishes weakly, staring out over the canal as the hull cuts through little wavelets.  

“Gale…”

“Don't, mum.” 

He knows what she's going to say. Morena knows him better than anyone. He's felt her watching him all day, watching them together.

“What's the issue?” she asks gently. “What's stopping you?”

Gale shakes his head. “It's the last thing he needs right now, some clumsy confession from me. What he's been through, what he's going through… it's awful. He needs a friend, I want to be a good friend. And besides…”

It's been weighing on Gale's mind all morning and now it tumbles out of his mouth. 

“I'm not his type.”

Morena tuts, ruffling his hair. “You are everyone's type, moromou. You're the handsomest, most-”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Gale laughs, swatting her away. “I only mean… he talked about someone he found attractive this morning, a celebrity, and I- I looked them up-”

“Oh, Gale…” 

“The guy's Astarion's age or thereabouts. Younger anyway. Younger than me, I mean…”

“And?”

“And… well he obviously prefers people his own age, is my point!” Gale huffs with frustration, trying to keep his voice down so as not to wake Astarion. “I'm too old…”

“Gale,” Morena is laughing. “You are 32, you are not old. There can't be more than, what, a few years between you and Astarion?”

“Five…”

“Pishposh,” Morena scoffs. “Your father was eight years older than me and we were perfectly happy.”

“Yes, well that was a bit more normal in the olden days- ow!”

His mother's hand catches him about the back of his head, just hard enough for him to feel it. 

“Don't be cheeky!” She clicks her tongue. “Here, show me this singer who's supposed to be younger and more beautiful than my Gale.” 

Sighing again, Gale pulls out his phone and shows her a picture. 

Morena pauses for a long while, looking at the phone and then at Gale and then back at the phone again. Then she laughs, so loudly it startles a passing group of moorhens, sending them skittering away from the boat, squawking indignantly. 

“Oh, I raised a good boy but heavens if he isn't a stupid one.”

“Mum!”

“Gale…” Morena shakes her head at him, laughing some more. “This man looks just like you-”

“What are you giggling at?” Astarion has woken up, rolling sleepily onto his side to regard the pair of them. 

To her credit, Morena is quick. “The adorable picture of you two in the Guardian this morning,” She flicks the browser closed on Gale's phone. “Oops! I've lost it. Forgive me, such a boomer, I can't get the hang of these silly machines…”

Gale rolls his eyes heavily as she hands him back his phone. 

“Did you see it, Astarion?” Morena continues, her face the picture of innocence. 

“No…” Astarion's eyes flick between the two of them. “Did you, Gale?”

“Yes,” Gale sighs, opening his phone again, pulling up the article and handing it over. “Wyll sent it to me earlier.”

Astarion glances sharply at him, before taking the phone.

Gale's heart skips a beat at the half-smile that crosses Astarion's face as he looks at the article. Then it sinks when Astarion sneers. 

“Hero… I never pictured myself as a hero,” he laughs bitterly, handing the phone back. “I hate it. This is awful.”  

“Yes, well…” Gale pockets the device, feeling embarrassed. “It's only a small article. Hopefully, not many people will see it…”

Of course, Astarion hates the photo. It looks like they're… it's a complete misrepresentation of their friendship. Gale has half a mind to contact the sports editor at the paper and demand that they wipe the entire stupid thing off the internet. 

Seeming to detect his dismay, Morena pats his arm. “We'd better turn around if we want to make it back before dinner. You will stay for dinner, won't you? I thought we could have a barbecue…”

*

“Wyll sent it to me earlier.”

Astarion's heart skips a beat, remembering Gale's words in the kitchen this morning as he smiled fondly at his phone. Just something that Wyll sent me…  

Was it this photo he was looking at? This image of the two of them locked in an embrace, oblivious to everything and everyone around them?

Astarion can’t help but smile at the picture as well. The photographer has certainly captured the moment beautifully. You can almost see the relief on Astarion’s face, to be away from real life for a few weeks, to be back with Gale.

Then he reads the headline and the caption and feels a bit sick. A Hero’s Welcome. Teammate who saved his life. 

Hardly. The teammate who endangered his life in the first place, more like. The teammate who drove him to almost kill himself on the track. 

The article brings all of his guilt flooding back and Astarion hands Gale his phone, feeling cold. He doesn’t deserve to be here, enjoying this beautiful day, welcomed into Gale’s family like this. Not when it was his fault that Gale nearly died in the first place.

Seeming to notice the shiver that runs over him, Morena suggests they head back.

It takes them another couple of hours to return, all of them quieter this time in the haze of the afternoon sun. They moor up back at the cottage, Astarion proudly tying the boat with the knot Gale showed him. Gale fires up a barbecue at the bottom of the garden and Morena fetches food and a couple of bottles of orange wine from her pantry, seating them all around a small table by the boat.

“I’m driving,” Gale complains as Morena pours him a large glass.

“You don’t have to. You could stay on The Yacht,” she suggests. “The bed’s big enou- I mean, there are two beds…”

Gale eyes Astarion uncertainly. “I’m sure Astarion doesn't want to sta-”

“I do!” Astarion interrupts him, surprising himself. Months ago, he wouldn’t have been able to think of anything worse than sleeping in the cramped vessel as it bobbed about on the canal. Now, however, the idea is bizarrely appealing. Something about it being reminiscent of the hut on the island perhaps. A secret little escape by the water.

“Really?” Gale looks just as surprised, but Morena is handing him his glass before he can say anything else.

“Wonderful!” she trills. “Are you ready for some Greek sausage, Astarion?”

He very almost chokes on his wine as Gale’s mother busies herself with the barbecue, her back turned to them. Gale is grinning at him over his glass, rolling his eyes, his cheeks red, and Astarion feels his glum mood start to dissipate, replaced by a gently warming happiness. It bubbles up out of him and onto his face in a way that he can’t contain. He doesn't stop smiling for the entirety of the meal.

It’s only after they’ve eaten, after the sun starts to sink behind the horizon, after the barbecue has burnt down to embers, after every last drop of delicious Greek bean stew has been mopped up with pieces of crusty bread, after several glasses of wine, that Morena completely and entirely drops Astarion in it.

“Gale!” Her damned finger is in the air again. “I didn’t want to talk shop as soon as I saw you but I’ve been meaning to ask: have you given any thought to Elminster’s proposal?”

*

Gale is so caught up in how happy Astarion looks that he almost doesn’t take in his mother’s words.

“Hm?” His brain catches up. “What proposal?”

Astarion’s face has fallen and Morena is looking between the two of them, confused.

“He doesn’t know yet,” Astarion says and, to her credit, Morena looks genuinely distraught. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Astarion. I assumed-”

“Know what?” Gale snaps, anxiety tugging at his chest. “What don’t I know?”

“I-” Morena stammers, looking at Astarion. 

“It’s okay, Mor,” Astarion’s smile is tired. “I was going to ask him on the drive home anyway.” After a pause, he adds: “How do you know?”

“Tara told me-”

“Told you what??” Gale loses his patience, rubbing at his chest with the heel of his hand, and they both turn to him, concerned. 

“It’s late,” Morena makes a show of looking at her watch, even though it can’t be more than 9 pm. “I’m going to head up to the house and let you boys talk. I made the beds up in the boat this morning, just in case, so it’s all ready for you, but let me know if you need anything…”

Conniving wench, thinks Gale but he accepts her kiss on the top of his head with only a small grumble. After she bids them goodnight and makes her way back up to the garden, he turns back to Astarion, his voice demanding.

“Ask me what?” 

Astarion stretches, pushing at the small of his back with his hands. “Can we sit somewhere else? These seats are doing my back in…”

“Astarion!” Gale snaps but the other driver is gathering up wine and glasses, clambering back onto the front of the boat where there is a bench built into the prow and stuffed with comfortable cushions. 

Gale follows, settling next to his old teammate, who's looking out over the canal. “Astarion, spit it out. What is mum talking about? What proposal?”

Astarion hands Gale his glass with a sigh. “Karlach got in touch the other day. She’s been head-hunted by Avernus-”

“What??”

“Gale! Let me finish-”

“Sorry.”

Gale listens in growing confusion, trying not to interject, as Astarion explains. Karlach, though happy at Weave, has apparently been obsessed with Wyll ever since she started in F1. He’s her favorite driver and it had been her hope to one day become his race engineer — but Wyll left Weave for Avernus before she could get to that level. Now, taking note of Karlach's excellent strategy work and capitalizing on the assumption that she’d be disappointed with Astarion’s lackluster performance of late, the rival team has offered her the chance at her dream pairing.

“She’s really upset about it,” Astarion smiles fondly. “She didn’t want me to think she doesn't like being my engineer but I know she's desperate to work with Wyll, so I told her to go for it.”

“That’s nice of you,” Gale can’t help but feel a touch impatient. “But what has it got to do with me? Why was mum talking about a proposal?”

“Well…” Astarion is toying with the stem of his glass. “I spoke to Elminster about it and he suggested- well, I suggested and he agreed- I mean it was more of a joint idea-”

“Astarion!”

“I wondered if you’d consider coming back to Weave… as my race engineer.”

*

Gale sits heavily back against the bench, one hand balancing his wine on his knee, the other at his chest. It’s worrying Astarion how much Gale keeps rubbing at his scarring, so he gently takes Gale’s hand and sets it down on the bench. 

“Karlach’s still contracted for the rest of this year. You don’t have to give an answer right away,” he says quietly, feeling a little dismayed at how unsettled Gale looks. Astarion had hoped Gale would be happy with the idea, but now he worries that he’s upset his old teammate. Perhaps it feels like a poor consolation prize, swapping a seat in a car for a seat at the pit wall. Perhaps Gale is insulted…

“I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have-”

“No, no-” Gale cuts him off with a smile. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting… But it is a pleasant image to be sure! Most pleasant, in fact. Most welcome.”

“Really?” Relief floods over him and Astarion grins. “You’d consider it?”

“I would. I- I have to admit that I’ve been… well, truth be told, I’ve been worried sick about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I love F1. It was devastating, the idea of having to leave it all behind again. This would at least… I just don’t know if…”

Gale trails off, gazing at Astarion for a long while. “I don’t know if it would be better to back off completely. If it’s going to be even more painful being so close but unable to…” He clears his throat. “Unable to race, you know?”

Astarion nods. He can understand that. As much as he’s been shoe-horned into his career, forced to dedicate his life to it in a way that’s unhealthy, he still loves to drive. There’s no high like it, no feeling like executing the perfect overtake, like crossing the finish line in pole position, like standing up on that podium while your fans cheer you on…

“Can I think about it?” Gale is asking. 

“Of course,” Astarion replies. “I wasn’t even sure about asking you until the end of the summer break but I thought you’d appreciate some time to consider it before Elminster marches back to work and starts demanding answers.”

Gale chuckles. “I do appreciate that, thank you.”

Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the tiredness of a long day boating in the sun, maybe it’s the way Gale has relaxed a bit, the weight of his arm heavy and warm against Astarion’s, but Astarion finds himself resting his head on Gale’s shoulder. “De rien.”

“I mean it, Astarion,” Gale repeats, his voice low. “Thank you.” 

Astarion only nods again, a thrill running through him as Gale rests his own cheek on the top of Astarion’s head.

“Mais oui, amigu.”

*

“Really?” Astarion is grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You’d consider it?”

Gale feels like his heart is tearing in two again. He wonders if Astarion truly understands the weight of the offer he’s just made. He’s giving Gale a chance at returning to the sport he loves with his whole being, the sport he thought he’d be locked out of for the rest of his life.

And he and Astarion would be teammates once more. That in itself is a lovely thought, except… 

Gale gazes at the face smiling at him. Astarion is clearly excited by the prospect. He’s caught the sun, the pinkness across his cheeks and nose mimicking the scarring he sustained after pulling Gale from the fire, now long faded. He looks absolutely beautiful, curls lit by the warm orange glow of the sunset, gray eyes glittering in the light rippling off the canal. 

If Gale says yes to this opportunity, they’d be colleagues again. A race engineer and his driver. It would surely rule out any chance of anything happening between them in the future, if there was ever a chance of that in the first place…

“Can I think about it?” Gale asks, his head spinning with unknowns. 

Astarion agrees and Gale thanks him and then, to Gale’s surprise, the driver rests his head on Gale’s shoulder. 

“I mean it, Astarion,” Gale struggles to keep the emotion out of his voice. “Thank you.” 

He feels Astarion nod and can’t resist letting his own head drop to the side, allowing his cheek to touch that soft hair, breathing in the familiar scent of him as Astarion sighs and slips into his native tongue. 

“Mais oui, amigu.”

Then they sit in silence for some time, watching the sunset, Gale contemplating the paths that lie ahead of him, wondering which one he's going to choose.

Chapter Text

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Gale’s hand is warm in Astarion’s hair and his words whisper-soft against Astarion’s temple. “It’s going to be okay.”

Astarion stares listlessly at his own blood on the floor, dotted with shattered glass, and tries to believe him.

*

Halsin’s call comes in the last few days of the summer break.

Spirits are already low in Gale’s house. Earlier in the week, Astarion had been asked to schedule his psychiatric evaluation. He’d requested a Zoom session, so he could stay at Gale’s right up until the second half of the season. But the courts are insisting on an in-person assessment, which means he’ll have to fly back to Monaco early to fit it in before he heads to the Netherlands for the Dutch Grand Prix. 

He’s been in a terrible mood ever since. He won’t talk about it, so Gale doesn’t know whether he’s nervous about the evaluation or afraid to go back to the city where the shadow of Cazador lurks behind every corner.

For Gale’s part, he’s feeling increasingly glum the closer they get to Astarion leaving. Unless he trails the team around the world for the second half of the season, which would be weird, he probably won’t see Astarion until the next break in six weeks time — or at the end of the year. And that’s assuming Astarion wants to see him, of course. Depending on where the court case is, Astarion might want time to relax on his own. He might be starting a new life by then, free of Cazador, living wherever he wants to live and dating whoever he wants to date. Or he might be bound to Cazador forever. Gale doesn’t want to know what Astarion will do if it's the latter.

Of course, the other option is for Gale to accept Astarion’s proposal and become his race engineer. That way, he would need to shadow Karlach for several races. He could feasibly spend the rest of the year with Weave. He could be there for Astarion. 

But as a colleague. As a friend. Nothing more.  

It was bad enough when they were teammates but a relationship between a driver and his race engineer? It would be unthinkable. It would be unsafe. A race engineer needs to be impartial and unbiased, not- not swayed by personal relationships or… or love.

Thus, Gale still can’t make a decision, regardless of how many impatient emails Elminster sends. And the more time he and Astarion spend together, the more difficult it’s getting. 

Gale sighs and stretches out in his bed, kicking off the duvet against the hot summer morning, resuming his scrolling through pictures of Benjamin Ingrosso. When he first looked up the singer, all he’d seen was someone younger, prettier than him. On second inspection though, the man does have some similarities to Gale. And Astarion had said ‘type’, hadn’t he? Maybe his mother does have a point…  

Bloody woman. Gale hadn’t overlooked her little trick on the boat that night. Forgot to provide a duvet for the second bedroom? Likely story… Gale had been about to head back up to the house to fetch one for himself when Astarion climbed into the boat’s double bed and pulled his shirt off.

“I don't mind if you don't,” he'd shrugged. When Gale hesitated, trying not to look at the other driver’s bare chest, Astarion had rolled his eyes. “For god's sake Gale, it's not the first time we've shared a bed and it probably won't be the last.”

Pacemaker working overtime, Gale had stared at him. “What do you mean, won’t be the last?”

“Well,” Astarion pulled the sheets up around himself then. “I just mean, if we’re going to be traveling around together again and I keep having night terrors…”

He looked self-conscious suddenly and Gale felt awful but he’d had to step away. If they’re going to be traveling around together… If that’s going to happen, they need boundaries, not more of this confusing intimacy.

“Aha, I see,” Gale forced a chuckle. “Well, it’s cramped enough in here as it is; I’d rather you were comfortable. I’ll pop back up to the house and get another duvet. But-” he’d paused at the bedroom door. “Yes, I’ll just be at the other end of the boat if you do need me in the night.”

Astarion hadn’t needed him, as it turned out. Gale had slept all the way through until late morning, something oddly comforting about being back in his childhood bedroom, the gentle rocking of the boat, the noise of the water against the hull. He’d woken up to the sound of Astarion and Morena cackling outside.

“And then he started marching around yelling, ‘I am the Wave Mother!’” Morena was crowing. 

Heavens above, Gale had scrambled from the boat in a panic. She’s showing him that bloody picture…

Morena and Astarion were sitting at the garden table as Morena poured coffee from a fresh cafetière. Pastries, bread, and fruit were piled up in front of them, and, sure enough, the photo album was out and Astarion was thumbing through it.

“Morning love!” Morena grinned.

“Good morning, Wave Mother!” Astarion’s smile was equally sly as he held up the album.

Stuck to one of the open pages, Gale cringed to see a photo of himself at eight years old, dressed in one of his mother’s award ceremony gowns — a shimmering, pale blue dress slit up to the thigh on both sides, making it trail out behind his little legs like a train — brandishing a garden fork like Poseideon’s trident. 

“For god’s sake, mum, really??” 

Gale closes his phone, rolling out of bed and chuckling at the memory of Morena and Astarion’s joint howls of laughter. Honestly, the pair of them- they’re a complete nightmare. Two of your favorite people really shouldn’t give you so much grief-

Downstairs, there’s a yell and a loud crash, like smashing glass. Even now, after months of CBT, Gale’s initial reaction is one of panic. He starts, pins and needles rippling over his skin as he sees, in his mind’s eye, the Miami track barrier approaching at high speed… But the sensation is rapidly overridden by a jolt of concern.

“Astarion?!”

He’s out of bed and running immediately, taking the stairs two at a time, racing along the corridor to the guest room.

The door is ajar and, through the crack, Gale can see Astarion sitting on the bed, his back to the hallway. He’s wearing his running gear and he’s hunched over, trembling.

Gale pushes the door open and walks in hesitantly. There’s broken glass all over the floor and water up the wall. 

“Astarion?”

“I’m sorry-” Astarion jolts as though he’s been shocked. “I smashed a glass, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. What ha-”

“I’ll tidy it up-” Astarion is on his hands and knees in an instant, trying to pick up the pieces of shattered glass with his bare hands. 

“Astarion, it’s okay-”

“Putain!” Blood blossoms at the tip of one of Astarion’s fingers as he’s nicked by a particularly sharp shard. “Fuck!!”

Before Gale can stop him, Astarion closes his fist around the glass and squeezes.

“Oh god,” Gale runs forward and drops to his knees, taking hold of Astarion’s wrist, peeling back his fingers. “Here, let me- It’s okay, you’re okay-” 

Astarion stares blankly, hyperventilating, tears streaming down his face as Gale carefully removes the piece of glass from his shaking palm, more blood pouring from the wound. “Hang on, stay there-”

Gale hurries to the en suite, grabbing a towel, before running back to Astarion’s side and pressing it to his hand, stemming the flow. 

“Okay, up you get, come on,” Gale helps Astarion to his feet and sits him on the bed, still holding the towel around his hand. “It’s not too deep, we’ll just wait for the bleeding to stop and then get it cleaned up, okay? It’s okay, you’re okay-” 

Gale’s heart is racing dangerously as he pulls Astarion into his chest, one hand keeping pressure on the wound, the other stroking his hair. Astarion’s breathing is worryingly shallow and Gale rests their heads together, murmuring against the other man’s temple. “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

It seems to take an age but, gradually, Astarion’s breathing steadies and he slumps against Gale. “I’m sorry-”

“Stop apologizing.” Gale gingerly unwraps the blood-soaked towel. “Can you stand? We should wash this…”

Astarion gets up, still shaky, and Gale helps him into the bathroom, rinsing the cut under cool water. 

“What happened?” he asks gently, watching Astarion in the mirror. The younger driver still looks completely checked out, idly observing the blood swirling around the plughole. 

“Halsin called,” Astarion’s voice is barely above a whisper. “He can’t find anything. Cazador has done everything by the book, there’s nothing that would get me out of the POA…”

Gale’s heart sinks. He’d been so sure that Weave’s lawyers would turn up something in Cazador’s paperwork or finances, some evidence of wrongdoing that would free Astarion from the man’s clutches. 

“They might be able to prove that moving me to Bane was detrimental to my career,” Astarion continues. “Cazador accepted a lower salary than I was getting at Weave without telling me. But Hal says it’ll be hard to prove it was malicious and not just bad judgment…”

Cazador negotiated a pay cut for Astarion just to get him away from Weave. Gale tries to damp down his own anger. He won’t help Astarion by getting equally riled up. He chooses his next words carefully, not sure whether it’s okay to ask. 

“What did Halsin say about… about the way Cazador has treated you?”

Astarion shakes his head. “They need evidence. I never went to a doctor with any of my injuries or reported him to the police. Even my surgery was… Cazador acted like it was an unfortunate outcome of racing.”

Astarion hasn’t opened up much about Cazador’s violence, but Gale has heard enough to know that he’s been subjected to years and years of abuse. And Cazador’s going to get away with it. It's nauseating. 

“Of course,” Astarion continues, eyes narrowing as Gale dries his hand. “There is the fact that he tried to kill you.”

Gale sighs. Not this again. “Ast, we’ve been through this. It was a fault with the hydraulics, that’s all...” 

Weave’s internal investigation into Gale’s crash hadn’t yielded anything unusual in the end. Catastrophic brake failure, that was the diagnosis from the telemetry data. The car itself was too burned up to offer any more clues. Yes, it was unusual. Yes, the team’s engineers were adamant they had done their safety checks. But these things can happen, Gale supposes.

Astarion scoffs angrily. “And the corrupted CCTV from the garage that night? And the fire!? Gale, you know your car catching fire the first time was a freak accident. What are the chances it would happen again in exactly the same way? And you heard what he said at the hos-”

“Astarion,” Gale pauses his ministrations for a moment. “Think about what you’re saying. That would be… I mean it’d be attempted murder-”

“And you don’t think he’s capable of that? After everything he’s done to me?”

“I’m not saying that-”

“Then what are you saying, Gale?” Astarion snaps, snatching his hand away. “That you don’t believe me? You think I'm making it all up? You think I’m crazy too!?”

Gale finds himself flinching at Astarion's tone and he has to remind himself: he’s not Mystra, he’s not Mystra, he’s not Mystra.

Astarion must see it in his face because his shoulders drop. “I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay,” Gale tries to sound positive, fishing around in the bathroom cabinet for plasters, giving himself a moment to compose his expression. “Remember that it's not crucial for us to prove anything. You can still get out of the POA even if he hasn’t done anything illegal-”

“Not if he convinces everyone I’ve lost the plot! I mean look at me,” Astarion laughs bitterly, gesturing at his hand. “Maybe I am crazy.”

“You’re just stressed and tired. Did you sleep at all last night?” Gale sighs when Astarion shakes his head. “Why don’t you try and get some rest now, and then-” He affixes a plaster to the gash on Astarion’s palm. “-when you wake up, I’ll make us something nice to eat and we can do nothing but watch TV the rest of the day.”

He’s pleased when Astarion smiles, even though it’s small and sad. 

“Okay… thank you. That sounds nice.”

They head back into the bedroom and Gale is halfway out of the door when Astarion calls his name. He turns back, the sight of his friend hunched alone on the bed making him ache with sorrow. 

“Would you-” Astarion is staring fiercely at the duvet, rubbing his finger over a spot of red blood. “Could you stay until I fall asleep?”

“Of course,” Gale finds himself saying before he has a chance to remember his stupid self-imposed boundaries. “Of course I will.”

Trying to hold in a sigh, he returns to the bed, making himself comfortable as Astarion lies down.

“I’m sorry about the glass,” Astarion says quietly. “And the towel.”

“It’s okay,” Gale laughs to keep from crying. “I’ll start saving up for some new ones.”

Astarion huffs a laugh in return before rolling away and closing his eyes. Gale loses track of how long he lies there, waiting for the telltale slowness of breathing that means Astarion has fallen asleep. Only then does Gale allow a couple of the tears that have been burning the back of his eyes to fall, brushing them angrily from his cheek, feeling stupid. He isn’t the one suffering. But sometimes it hurts almost as much as if he is.

*

Astarion wakes up alone, again, but he can hear the distant noise of Gale singing in the kitchen, which means that he’s cooking. The broken glass has been swept up and the floor is dry, as though nothing has happened.

The pain in his hand is a sufficient enough reminder. The cut stings below the large plaster Gale put on. But the shame is worse. He needs to get it together or he’s going to make Cazador’s job even easier. 

The depression that has settled over Astarion the past few days has been unshakeable though. The time for him to leave Gale’s house is rapidly approaching, hastened by this stupid psych eval he has to go back to Monaco for. He’s not overly worried about that, he knows he’s not crazy. Well, he’s fairly sure. No doubt living with Cazador his whole life has fucked him up a bit but that won’t show up in his evaluation, will it?

It’s not really the problem though. The problem is that he doesn’t want to leave Gale’s. Astarion has been happy here for the past few weeks. Truly happy, content, at peace. All that awaits him in the rest of the world is stress and isolation and fear. 

Unless Gale trails the team for the second half of the season, which he probably has no desire to do, Astarion won’t see him until the next break in six weeks time — or at the end of the year. And that’s assuming Gale wants to see him, of course. He might be doing something completely different by then. Living a new life, with someone else. Gale hasn’t brought up the race engineer position again since he asked for time to think about it. If he turns it down, he might not want anything to do with F1 at all in the future. ‘I don’t know if it would be better to back off completely’, that’s what he’d said on the boat...

Astarion doesn’t want to think about that night either. It had been such a perfect day, a perfect evening, and he’d ruined it with his stupid drunken comment. ‘It's not the first time we've shared a bed and it probably won't be the last.’ An idiotic attempt at flirting that obviously weirded Gale out because his old teammate had taken himself off to the tiny bedroom at the back of the boat and hadn’t emerged until morning. 

Astarion had woken in the early hours, fresh from a nightmare in which Cazador shut him in some tiny space underground and never let him out again. He'd wanted so desperately to run to Gale but, instead, he lay there until dawn showed its face at the portholes, heart pounding and breathing shallow, not wanting to embarrass himself any further. 

And now he’s gone and done exactly that with this stupid outburst. Throwing a glass against the wall. Dissociating. Self-harming again for the first time in years. All in front of Gale. He could die from the mortification. 

It had just been so disappointing, hearing the resignation in Hal’s voice.

“I’m sorry, Astarion,” he'd said when he called. “We can’t find anything. I’m still of the opinion that Cazador has been embezzling funds from you but there’s so much paperwork missing, we can’t prove anything. I might be able to demonstrate a lack of informed consent around your move to Bane and the pay cut but…” Halsin sighed. “It’ll be hard to prove any detriment was intentional. We really need evidence of something illegal to raise the kind of criminal case that would have an effect on our civil one.”

Evidence of something illegal. That phrase in particular made Astarion feel sick. It made him think of how many times he’s pressed his finger down on a shutter button, the familiar high-pitched whir of a tiny motor, the hole in his apartment wall where he’s hidden every indignity he’s ever suffered…

Shame wells up again and Astarion eases himself out of bed, desperate for a distraction. He takes a shower, gets dressed in comfy clothes, and heads downstairs. 

The sight of Gale dad dancing around the kitchen as he cooks is at least enough to lift Astarion's spirits somewhat. He doesn't recognize the song; it sounds very elder millennial. 

You'd better run, run, run, boy,

Faster than the past,

Through the looking glass,

If you want the night to last.

Gale is buttering what look like long brioche buns as he goes, humming along, occasionally checking on some popcorn that's crackling away on the stove.

'Cause tonight, we're gonna spend

All tomorrow's happiness,

If we don't break before we bend.

And tonight, your soul is sighing:

“It'll turn out nice again,

It's only money in the end…”

“Good god!” Gale turns and jumps out of his skin at the sight of Astarion leaning against the doorway, watching him with a smile. 

“Oh, don't stop. I was enjoying the show.”

“I didn't hear you come down!” Gale shoots him a rueful smile. “How are you feeling?” 

Astarion shrugs. “I'm sorry about that, I-”

“What did I tell you about apologizing?”

“I know. I just wanted to explain. Sometimes, the frustration is just so- it's like there's nowhere for it to go and I-”

Astarion peters out as his words fail him in both English and French. But Gale has stopped for a moment, leaning against the counter, his face kind and understanding. 

“I know how that feels.” 

“Really?”

“Mmhm. Which is why I also happen to know that the cure is lots of junk food and a good four to six hours of television. Hence-” Gale retrieves a tray from the grill. “-we have hot dogs, popcorn, multiple horrendous sugar-based items that I probably shouldn’t be eating, and copious amounts of tea.”

Astarion checks his watch. “Is it an English custom to eat hotdogs at 11 am?”

“Yes,” Gale nods decisively. “A fine old Hertfordshire tradition. Dates back centuries.”

Astarion can’t help but grin as Gale deposits the hotdogs on a plate and hands him a few bowls of snacks to take over to the coffee table. “We are also, despite your somewhat controversial opinions on Alucard, going to finish Castlevania today.”

“Ugh, fine,” Astarion groans. “But I get first dibs on sweet popcorn.”

“Not a problem, salted is far superior at any rate.”

“Salted!? You're deranged-”

“You’re the one who likes sugar on corn-”

They bicker back and forth until all of the supplies have been transported from the kitchen to the living room and Astarion has almost forgotten that anything bad has happened to him at all.

*

“See! This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Astarion is curled up in the opposite corner of the sofa, waving half a hot dog in the vague direction of the TV. “His whole brooding vampire thing is so irritating.”

Gale cups a mug of tea in his hands and watches Astarion with a smile. It’s good to see him almost back to normal. Only the bandage on his hand and the redness in his eyes give him away.

It was awful, finding him like that earlier. Gale has felt shaken ever since. He can’t bear the thought of Astarion going back to Monaco on his own in a couple of days. Halsin will be there, and Tara is flying out to meet him before the evaluation but he’ll be alone in the hotel all night…

“Give me Trevor any day,” Astarion’s diatribe continues. “Tall, dark, and handsome, no bullshit, always a little bit drunk. Perfect! Although-” He pops the hotdog in his mouth in a way that makes Gale avert his eyes, talking with his mouth full. “-really, this whole story would be so much better if they stopped bickering and just kissed.”

“I can’t disagree with you there.”

Astarion turns to him, mischief in his eyes. “So… are you an Alucard or a Trevor man?”

“Hm,” Gale ponders the question. “Alucard, I think.”

“Oh god, really?” Astarion snorts. “Melodramatic blonde vampire is your type?”

“You know, come to think of it, one of my first-ever crushes was Spike from Buffy,” Gale sips his tea thoughtfully. “So you might be onto something there.”

Gale only makes the connection after he's spoken. Troubled men with white blonde hair and unreasonable cheekbones? Jesus Christ, he couldn't possibly be any more obvious. 

When he sneaks a glance at his old teammate to see if he's picked up on the link as well, Astarion is gazing at him intently. Gale's breath catches in his throat. 

“...Gale?”

“Yes?”

*

Astarion doesn't know how he does it but Gale always makes him feel better. He can be in the worst mood, the deepest darkest depression, and Gale will pick him up, dust him off, and just… care him back to some semblance of normality. 

In an attempt not to acknowledge that, not to consider how that makes him feel, Astarion is rambling about Castlevania instead. 

But he can't stop thinking about how nice this is, how happy he is here, how he's on the verge of losing it for good. If Cazador wins the court case, there’s no way he'll allow Astarion to see Gale again.

When he looks up at his old teammate, wracked with pain at the thought of being kept from him, Gale is looking back at him too. The smile on his face is so soft that Astarion can't keep his words contained any longer. 

“...Gale?”

“Yes?”

“There is evidence…” 

*

Gale had booked a flight to Monaco immediately, and they moved Astarion's forward a couple of days so they could travel together. 

Astarion didn't want to step foot in his old building again so he's waiting in the hotel, Tara on standby in a nearby room, while Gale meets Halsin outside Le Palais. 

The lawyer is carrying his briefcase but he's dressed more casually than Gale is used to seeing, his smart suit that he wears around Weave's HQ swapped for light chinos and a black t-shirt that strains over his muscled arms, his long hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.

Not knowing Cazador's whereabouts, they don't waste any time. Halsin nods a greeting and then they make their way in, the concierge eyeing them but not saying anything when Halsin presents his business card. 

“I’m Mr Ancunin’s legal representative. We're here to collect some of his belongings.”

The concierge merely inclines his head towards the lifts, though Gale sees the man reaching for the phone as the elevator doors close in front of them. 

Thankfully, Astarion's smartwatch still works on the apartment door — the first hurdle cleared. It strikes Gale as odd that Cazador wouldn't have changed the permissions on the lock, but then they get inside the flat and his blood runs cold. 

It's been months since Astarion was last here. When he learned that Cazador was evicting him, he merely bought new clothes and said there was nothing in the apartment he wanted. 

Yet Cazador has preserved the space as though Astarion has only popped out momentarily. There is a bowl on the counter with a spoon placed carefully next to it and a box of low-fat muesli waiting to be poured. The fridge is stocked with food too. Gale checks and it's all fresh. 

When Halsin ducks his head into Astarion's bedroom to make sure the flat is empty, he calls to Gale, his voice low and concerned. 

“Look at this…”

On Astarion's bed, Cazador has laid out an outfit for him — a Bane t-shirt and some freshly pressed trousers, with underwear and even socks picked out, trainers neatly together on the floor underneath. 

Cazador must have been so sure Astarion would come back to him that he's kept the apartment ready. Gale feels sick. 

“Let's get this over with,” he shudders, and they head back into the living area, finding the painting just as Astarion described it in the far corner of the room. It depicts the Prince’s Palace of Monaco, but it’s not what’s in the painting that’s important.

Halsin carefully lifts the frame off the wall and Gale's heart rate spikes when he sees the hole carved into the plasterboard behind it. 

Inside the wall, Astarion has hidden a small box, balanced on an old Polaroid camera and piles and piles of photos. 

As Halsin retrieves the box, a couple of the pictures fall to the floor and Gale stoops to pick them up, the lump in his throat growing by the minute.

The first one he looks at is a mirror selfie. Astarion stands, shirtless and red-eyed, his skin paper-white in the harsh light of a hotel bathroom. He’s holding his arm up and his wrist is swollen and dark purple. Underneath, in the driver’s sharp, angular handwriting, is written: 

UK, February 2024, spoke out in press conference, pushed to the floor

Tears prickle in Gale’s eyes as he guiltily remembers grabbing that same wrist when he and Astarion fought in the Melbourne dust. 

The next two polaroids are also mirror selfies, also labeled ‘UK, February 2024’ but the description differs:

quiet in interview, beaten

In one of them, Astarion’s stomach is bruised in several places. In the next, he’s twisting in the mirror to show more bruising on the back of his neck — the marks Gale had thought he’d seen at their first-ever press conference. 

Gale looks up from the images as the sound of a child’s voice echoes across the room. 

Halsin has seated himself on the sofa, his briefcase open and his laptop retrieved from within. Plugged into the device is an old USB stick and, on his screen, a video is playing, poor-quality and grainy. 

A young boy, skinny and pale, with a mop of unruly white curls, practices a magic trick in front of the camera.

Astarion.

Polaroids still clutched in his hand, Gale moves over to the sofa to watch the video. The boy on the screen deftly flicks a coin into the air before catching it and rolling it back and forth across his fingers.

Astarion can’t be more than 10 or 11 and his face is animated as he chatters away in French, making the coin disappear with a dramatic flourish. Gale wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t known to look for it, but the boy’s back is ever so slightly hunched over.

There’s a noise off-camera and the coin falls to the floor with an audible clatter. 

“Garçun!” 

Astarion is looking to the side with fear as Cazador’s voice rings out over the footage.

“Qu'est-ce que je t'ai dit sur le fait de perdre ton temps avec ces enfantillages??”

Before Gale can look away, a younger version of Cazador strides into view, backhanding his stepson across the face. The Astarion on screen goes down with a quiet cry and Halsin lets out a long exhale.

Gale walks away from the laptop, unable to watch. With shaking hands, he retrieves a shopping bag from the kitchen and goes back to the hole in the wall, pulling out polaroids and stuffing them into the bag, trying to block out the sound of belt leather on skin, the sound of Cazador berating Astarion.

“Arrête de pleurer!”

In his haste, Gale dislodges a stack of photos and they start to cascade from the wall in their dozens, hundreds even. Astarion must have been taking them and hiding them for years, each one a record of decades of mistreatment and violence, the boy in the mirror getting smaller the further back they go. They pour out onto the floor until Gale is on his knees amongst them, weeping, the bag slack in his hands, Halsin’s warm hand on his shoulder. 

*

Astarion is sitting at the end of his hotel room bed, staring at the wall, when Gale returns. 

He can tell by the look on Gale’s face that they found the photographs. It’s the look that has prevented him from ever showing them to anyone else in his life. Pity. He hates it. 

Gale starts forward and Astarion flinches, having to remind himself: he’s not Cazador, he’s not Cazador, he’s not Cazador.

“Astarion-” 

“You found them?”

“Yes.”

“Is it enough?” Astarion weaves his fingers together, trying to hide the trembling in his hands. “Did Halsin say it would be enough?”

Gale nods. “The er- the photos- he said those aren’t concrete proof but- but the video-” Gale’s lip wobbles then and Astarion suddenly realizes that he’s been crying. “The video is enough.”

Astarion looks away with a nod, staring at the floor. He feels completely numb. He feels as though he should be comforting Gale for subjecting him to such horrors. 

The bed moves as Gale sits down next to him. 

“Why… I’m not blaming you, Astarion, I promise, but… why didn’t you show anyone these before?”

Unbidden, Cazador’s face swims into Astarion’s mind, twisted and snarling, a belt buckle glinting in his raised fist. ‘Tu es faible! Tu as toujours été faible, tout comme ta mère!’

“I- I didn’t want anyone to know how weak I was…”

Gale lets out a noise that sounds like a sob and then his arms are around Astarion’s shoulders, pulling him in close. 

Astarion rests his head against Gale’s chest.

“Gale?”

“Yes?” Gale sniffs.

“Please don’t leave.” Astarion doesn’t know whether he means now, or in the future, or ever. He doesn’t know if he’s talking about the hotel or Weave or their friendship. But he keeps saying it nonetheless. 

“Please don’t leave me.”

*

When Gale gets back to the hotel room, the way Astarion looks up at him breaks his heart. The driver’s expression is blank, but he’s twisting his fingers together like he’s worried he’s in trouble. Then he flinches when Gale walks towards him and Gale can hardly keep from crying again. 

Not knowing what else to do, he sits on the bed and holds his friend close, almost more for his own comfort than anything. 

It’s then that Astarion makes his request. 

“Please don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”

It’s not clear whether he means now, or in the future, or ever. Gale doesn’t know if Astarion is talking about the hotel or Weave or their friendship. But he finds himself nodding nonetheless.

“Okay,” he whispers into unruly white curls. “Okay, I won’t. I’ll take the race engineer job and I won’t leave.”

Chapter Text

Bane win the Championship. And the Constructors’ Championship, for that matter. It wasn’t even a close run thing in the end; Gortash actually clinched the title in São Paulo, four races early, by which time he’d accumulated so many points that no one else had a chance of beating him. Jen and Wyll put up an admirable fight but Bane got the coveted one-two finish. 

That was over a month ago now, long before Astarion sails around the last lap at the Abu Dhabi GP, the final race of the season. For his part, he’s merely relieved that it’s all over. It was almost nice when Gortash won early. It took the pressure off. Astarion could focus on getting himself and the car safely across the finish line — no mean feat given how stressed and distracted he’s been.

Stretching his neck wearily, he passes the chequered flag in a respectable fifth place, seventh overall in the championship. Underwhelming but not catastrophic. Not that Astarion really cares anymore. It’s been hard to care about anything other than the upcoming verdict. Two days. That’s all that’s left of the trial. Two days until the Tribunal Criminel issues its prononcé du jugement. Two days until he finds out whether Cazador will be sent to jail or not. Two days until he finds out if he’s free.

With a shiver of apprehension, Astarion raises one hand from the steering wheel to give a tired wave to his fans. In the stands, he can see a few ‘Free Astarion’ signs, and his lip curls behind the safety of his helmet. He’s sure at least some of them are well-intentioned but the press and social media coverage around Cazador’s court case has been brutal. The international public is finding it hard to have compassion for the poor little rich boy. It’s understandable, he supposes, but it still hurts that his suffering is a joke to these people. 

“Well done, Star,” Karlach’s voice sounds tearful over the radio. “That is the last chequered flag of the year, mate. You made it.”

“No thanks to your sketchy decision-making on lap 17,” Astarion grins to mask his own emotions, which are too complex and numerous to parse.

“Fuck off. See you in a bit,” she sniffs a laugh and the radio cuts out.

Operating on autopilot, as he does most races these days, Astarion completes his cooldown lap, drives the car back to parc fermé, powers it down, climbs out, removes his helmet and balaclava, submits to being weighed, participates in his post-race interview as best he can, not even really aware of what he’s saying. One step after another, one foot in front of the other. This is his motto at present. Well, it’s Gale’s motto. Astarion can almost hear him saying it, he’s repeated the words so often over the past few months. 

He’s there, Gale, waiting in the garage as he always is after every race. He’s been shadowing Karlach since the end of the summer break, learning the ropes of race engineering, throwing himself into his technical training with a gusto that can only be described as disgustingly nerdy.

He and the rest of the Weave team break into applause as Astarion and Oliver walk back in. Weave hasn’t finished as high in the standings as they’d all hoped this year, but both drivers have performed admirably considering the circumstances. Tefoco in particular has done extraordinarily well for a rookie thrown into a seat at the last minute — much in the way Astarion had started his own F1 career. And he’s fine, as teammates go. Astarion gets on with him reasonably well, even if their team promos have been a bit lackluster, their social media stunts a little forced. It’s hardly Tefoco’s fault. He can’t help it that he’s not Gale.

Karlach barrels into Astarion almost as soon as he enters, tears streaming down her face. 

“Well done, mate. I’m really proud of you.” It’s warm in the garage, despite the season, and her hug verges on stifling but it’s Karlach, so he allows it. “I’m going to miss this.”

“Liar,” Astarion squeezes her in return. “Your prospects are looking much better next year, what with you and Wyll being future spouses- I mean future race engineer and driver.”

“You can talk,” she murmurs quietly into his ear before pulling back, flashing a wicked grin in the face of Astarion’s warning glare. “This move isn’t for my benefit; I’m doing you a favor. I’m sure you’re going to have a much better time arguing with Giant Cock over the radio than you’ve ever had with me.”

This last is loud and in the direction of Gale, who’s leaning against the wall, wincing at the nickname. “I don’t know about arguing,” he shrugs. “I personally agreed with Astarion that he could have lasted another lap on those tires and boxed on lap 18 instead.”

“Right??” Astarion gestures wildly before he and Gale simultaneously say: “Would’ve nailed the undercut that way-”

“Thank you!” Astarion exclaims, trying not to acknowledge the secret thrill he always gets when he and Gale say the same thing at the same time. It’s happening a lot lately, but they’ve been spending almost every day together so it’s only to be expected, isn’t it?

“Okay, fuck you both,” Karlach laughs, wiping her eyes. “I can’t wait to help Wyll beat your asses next year.” She claps Astarion on the shoulder. “Are you joining us tonight?”

He shakes his head sadly. “We’re flying back to Monaco first thing, I think I just need to…”

Karlach nods, her eyes filling again as she pats his arm. “I get it, rest up. I’ll be thinking of you, Star. Nearly there, mate. Two more days until that prick is in jail and we can go out and have the party of a fucking lifetime.”

He smiles weakly in return. Karlach isn’t the only one who’s confident that Cazador will be imprisoned. Everyone seems to think it’s a done deal. But Astarion can’t bring himself to share their confidence. He can’t allow himself to hope.

“All right, guys,” Karlach hugs Gale too, although it’s a touch more brisk and formal than the way she embraced Astarion. “Keep me posted.”

With that, she’s gone, bouncing over to congratulate Oliver and Vajra, leaving Astarion and Gale in their own little quiet corner of the garage.

“The last race; you made it,” Gale’s got that look on his face again, his eyes and smile soft, and Astarion leans in for the inevitable-

"Well done, mate." Gale gives him a one-armed hug that’s as cursory and professional as the one he gave Karlach. 

Mate.

Astarion's heart doesn't even sink anymore. The first time Gale acted like this had been a physical shock, like a slap to the face or having a bucket of ice water thrown over you. Astarion can mark the moment the change happened; it started as he sat on the sofa in Gale's office while Gale made the call to Elminster to say he'd be taking the job as Weave’s new race engineer. 

Ever since then, the odd but comforting intimacy they've fostered has gone out of the window. There have been no more lingering hugs, no more casual closeness on the sofa while they watch TV, no more invitations into Gale’s bed. Gale may as well have taken him to the beach and drawn an actual line in the sand, Astarion thinks bitterly. 

He shakes his head to clear the thought. It's not fair of him to feel like this. Like he misses Gale. Not when Gale has been there for him every step of the way over the past few months. By taking the engineer position, Gale has been able to travel with the team for the rest of the year. Which meant he was there for Astarion throughout every high and every low of Cazador’s trial.

Gale was there when Astarion and Halsin went to the Monaco Police Department to press charges. Gale was there when Astarion had a meltdown after his psychiatric evaluation, convinced that the tears he’d cried during the assessment would condemn him. Gale was there when a young lawyer — Rolan Elturel, a former paralegal at Lorroakan & Associates — came forward to testify that his old boss, Cazador’s personal lawyer, had divulged that Astarion signed his POA under duress. 

Gale was there alongside Halsin, helping to trawl the mountains of hidden paperwork and financial information that came to light when Astarion’s case became a criminal one. Gale was there to break the news that Halsin’s team had finally found evidence of embezzlement, that Cazador had been skimming off the top of Astarion’s earnings for decades, secretly siphoning it into offshore bank accounts, stealing millions from him. Gale was there when Astarion found out Cazador was introducing a late plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, citing his own history of abuse at the hands of his father, the Monegasque casino owner Martinet Vellioth.

Gale had also been there when the entire story leaked to the press, first to the British papers, then to the world. It wasn’t clear where the leak originated but — by the way the Daily Mail wrote about Astarion’s ‘promiscuous lifestyle’ and the article’s sympathetic tone when it spoke of Cazador’s strict upbringing — Astarion was sure it came from his stepfather’s camp. Gale had gently encouraged Astarion to log out of all his social media accounts, signing them completely over to Alfira for the time being, so he didn’t have to read all the hate that was coming his way, all the people accusing him of lying. 

And Gale had held Astarion’s hand at the hearing when the court-appointed psychiatrist stated she believed Astarion was of sound mind, actually lauding his strength instead of proclaiming him crazy as he’d expected.

“It is my professional assessment that Mr. Ancunin exhibits no significant cognitive impairments, and demonstrates the mental capacity to both comprehend and execute a revocation of the Power of Attorney. Indeed, I find it astonishing how well Mr. Ancunin is doing considering everything he’s been subjected to. It is a testament to both his courage and fortitude.”  

Her words had been a shock. Plenty of people have complimented Astarion's looks and his charisma, but no one has ever complimented his strength before. Astarion had wept with the relief of it all, feeling as though this well of tears inside him must surely dry up soon. And Gale had been there, a sturdy arm around his shoulder, a gentle word of encouragement in his ear, time after time after time.

Astarion has only had one chance to repay the favor so far. While going through Cazador’s accounts, Halsin had uncovered a suspiciously large payment to an individual named Z’rell. An individual who was discovered to have washed up dead on the shores of the Moonrise Beach resort in Mauritius only months prior, her drowning ruled an unfortunate accident. An individual who had formerly worked at Weave as a security guard, and who had quit shortly after the Miami Grand Prix.

Without any further evidence, Halsin was unable to convince the police that the now-deceased security guard had been bribed to tamper with Gale’s car. But the timing of the payment and Z’rell’s death were suspicious enough to bring Gale around to thinking what Astarion had believed all along. His second crash, just like his first, wasn’t his fault. He’d lost his career in racing not through his own hubris, but because Cazador tried to have him killed.

The realization hit Gale hard at the time. He had gone quiet for a few days, for the first time since Astarion has known him. And Astarion had the opportunity to be there for him instead, wishing that Gale would let him do more than just listen as he finally mourned the career he'd worked so hard to achieve, only to have it snatched away.

But, god, it’s difficult to maintain this distance, especially when there are flashes of the old Gale amid the detachment. Like now, for example, when his hand slides unthinkingly down Astarion’s arm to loosely hold his wrist, thumb stroking the skin there, offering comfort.

“Just two more days, Ast. Then it’s Castlevania and hot dogs on tap,” Gale smiles. "Or, perhaps festive spiced sausages, given the season.”

Astarion responds with what he hopes is a convincing smile and Gale’s fingertips slip from his wrist. 

“Ready for the debriefing?” he asks, formality restored.

“Sure,” Astarion follows him into the meeting room, the ache in his chest now familiar enough to be easily ignored.

*

Gale is worried about Astarion. Nothing new there, he supposes. Yet, as the end of the trial draws closer, the driver is becoming more and more pixilated. He seems to be driving on autopilot, talking on autopilot, living on autopilot.

Astarion is on the large screen in the Weave garage now, having his post-race interview. 

“Astarion!” The interviewer's voice can just be heard over the noise of the engineers buzzing around the car, a note of celebration to their chatter, like the last day of school. “The final race of the year, how are you feeling?” 

“Uhh,” Astarion rubs the back of his neck, ears coloring slightly. He seems to be searching for the words in English, which is so unlike him. “It's been… it's been a tough year and so I'm proud of how well we've done, considering.”

“You should be!” The interviewer's voice is sickly sweet as she pouts a little. “As you've said, it's been a very hard year. I wanted to ask about Cazador’s trial. You must have been thinking about it today?”

Astarion’s eyes narrow. “The thing that will decide my fate forevermore?” he snaps, voice drenched in sarcasm. “Ye-es, it’s been on my mind. Why?”

Gale winces. Astarion has every right to be angry; the sports press really shouldn’t ask these questions about his personal life. But he does himself no favors with his responses.

“Er- I- I just-” the interviewer stammers, glancing at the camera. “I suppose I just wanted to say that we wish you well and we’re excited to see what you do when this is all behind you next year.”

“Next year…” Astarion sighs, a note of contrition tinging his words. “I- you know, at the moment I'm just looking forward to spending Christmas at home in Hertfordshire. Next year…. Next year, we'll see about later.”

At home in Hertfordshire. Gale's blood thunders in his ears as he stands up a bit straighter. He has invited Astarion for Christmas, of course. And not just because the younger driver has nowhere else to go. Astarion clearly thinks Cazador is going to win this fight. Gale wanted him to have plans beyond the trial, to stop thinking about the day of the verdict as the day he loses his freedom once more.

But home. Gale had no idea that Astarion thinks of The Old Schoolhouse as home. He supposes it has been the closest thing to a home Astarion has had for a while. He hasn’t returned to the flat in Monaco since he left, and he'd come back to stay with Gale for a month during the short break in October too, the pair of them slipping into their old routines as easy as breathing. 

Gale shifts uncomfortably, trying not to acknowledge the secret thrill it gives him to hear Astarion call his house ‘home’. That does not fall within Gale’s strict new boundaries whatsoever. He’s been so careful, ever since he called Elminster and accepted his new role. He’s quashed any thoughts he might have harbored about taking their relationship further, and he’s focused on supporting Astarion as a friend throughout the whole hideousness of the trial. But, god, it’s difficult to maintain this distance. Especially when Astarion looks as exhausted and lost as he does now when he steps back into the garage.

Astarion gives a tired smile as the team applauds, and Gale’s heart goes out to him. His silvery hair lies damp against his forehead and he has large, dark circles under his eyes that make him look even thinner than he is. Only Karlach hurtling in for a hug seems to brighten him up. 

She whispers something to Astarion that Gale can’t hear, but then she’s glancing Gale’s way.

“I’m sure you’re going to have a much better time arguing with Giant Cock over the radio than you’ve ever had with me,” she crows. 

“I don’t know about arguing,” Gale shrugs, suddenly annoyed at the insinuation that he and Astarion would ever argue. Even though it’s what they spend most of their time doing. “I personally agreed with Astarion that he could have lasted another lap on those tires and boxed on lap 18 instead.”

“Right??” Astarion gestures wildly. He adds, “Would’ve nailed the undercut that way-” at exactly the same time Gale does, his gray eyes flicking towards Gale with a barely concealed grin, the way they always do when he and Gale say something at the same time. It does seem to be happening a lot lately, no matter how much Gale tries to pretend it isn’t.

Karlach hugs Gale too and then bounces off, leaving him and Astarion in their own little quiet corner of the garage.

“The last race,” Gale finds himself smiling, suddenly filled with pride. Astarion has been extraordinary this year, still driving to an impeccable standard despite everything. The way he’s performed at half-capacity — or even less than — is better than some drivers could hope to perform in a lifetime. “You made it.”

Astarion smiles and leans in for a hug and Gale panics, giving him a brief one-armed squeeze. “Well done, mate.”

Mate. Gale isn’t sure he’s called anyone ‘mate’ in his life. Astarion reacts as though Gale has physically pushed him away, stepping back and shaking his head lightly, eyes downcast, and Gale can’t help but feel guilty. He finds himself reaching for Astarion without even really realizing what he’s doing, only stopping short of taking his hand.

“Just two more days, Ast.” His fingers are at Astarion’s wrist and he can feel the pulse fluttering there. It’s distracting, so he blathers, like always. “Then it’s Castlevania and hot dogs on tap. Or, perhaps festive spiced sausages, given the season.”

Astarion responds with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and Gale lets his hand fall from his driver’s wrist.

“Ready for the debriefing?” he asks, hating the formality in his voice.

“Sure,” Astarion says quietly, and Gale walks into the meeting room before the ache in his chest makes him do anything else stupid.

*

Two days later, Astarion is staring blankly at himself in the full-length mirror of his hotel room in Monaco. The suite looks like every other one he’s stayed in, all low-lighting and mahogany wardrobes. It smells faintly of bleach and it’s giving him a headache.

He tugs at the sleeve of his jacket. He’s wearing a dark gray Armani suit, much plainer and more austere than he would ever choose normally. He’d wanted to wear something that made him feel like himself, but Halsin advised that the court of public opinion could be just as lethal as the legal one. And the papers had already convinced most people that Astarion was a feckless, licentious cad. So, plain and stuffy it is, the starched collar tight around his neck.

There’s a knock at the door. Gale. Their car is here. It’s time. 

Gale is dressed just as somberly, and Astarion almost gets panic giggles. They look like they’re going to a funeral. It’s not helping with his nausea. 

“How are you doing?” Gale’s voice is low and gentle in the back of the car as Astarion watches the familiar streets of his hometown slide past the window.

How am I doing? Astarion doesn’t know anymore. He’d expected to feel nervous. On good days, he’d even expected to feel hopeful. But now that they come to it, the day of the verdict, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all except an overwhelming numbness. Perhaps he’s exhausted his capacity to feel. Perhaps his body is simply physically unable to sustain the level of fear that’s haunted him for the past few months. Fear that Cazador will win like he always does. Fear that he'll gain control of Astarion once more. Fear that Astarion will lose his freedom all over again.

By the time they pull up to the grand edifice of the Palais de Justice de Monaco, the place is swarming with international press. Halsin hurries down the stone steps, paparazzi scattering in the wake of sheer brute strength. Astarion is sandwiched between him and Gale and they make their way through the pack of monsters, cameras flashing and questions snapping in Astarion’s face. 

“Astarion! What do you think the verdict will be?” “Astarion! Do you have anything to say to the people who think you're lying?” “Astarion! Gale! Are the rumors about you true?”

Gale’s head snaps round at that last one, but then the security guards close the large old wooden doors behind them and they’re enveloped in the cold silence of the marble foyer.

Astarion moves through the security screening in a daze, sitting in the quiet waiting area, Gale and Halsin’s murmured conversation going over his head. Then they’re called in, taking seats on hard wooden pews, the imposing walls of the courtroom soaring upwards, cold white Italian sea tuff stone studded with the corpses of oceanic creatures long dead. Paired with the huge, ominous cross looming over the judges’ bench, the overall atmosphere is positively ecclesiastical. It would be a momentous place for what is hopefully his final showdown with Cazador if it didn’t make Astarion feel so god damned small. 

He can sense his stepfather’s gaze boring into his skull like claws. Astarion can’t meet his stare but he’d glimpsed Cazador as the man was brought into the dock. He’s evidently leaning into his insanity plea, his suit unkempt and his hair loose and lank. Manipulative piece of shit.

Astarion feels Gale’s hand in his, and his heart leaps into his mouth as he looks up to see the judges file into the court.

“Mesdames et messieurs,” the presiding judge’s voice echoes across the cold stone walls. “Nous sommes ici aujourd'hui pour rendre le verdict de l'affaire Cazador Szarr.”

It’s only when Halsin’s large hand rests on his shoulder that Astarion even realizes he’s shaking. As the judge recaps the charges — child abuse, assault, battery, fraud, coercion, theft — Astarion tries to focus on the lawyer’s reassuring smile, but he feels like his vision is blurring around the edges. 

Then Cazador is asked to stand.

*

Gale can’t understand what the judge is saying. But he can feel Astarion shaking like a leaf as Cazador gets to his feet to hear the verdict.

“Nous déclarons l'accusé… coupable de tous les chefs d'accusation.”

Cazador lets out a strangled sound and Astarion slumps at Gale’s side. For a moment, Gale thinks he’s passed out but Astarion’s forehead is pressed against his shoulder and he’s breathing heavily.

Gale looks desperately to Halsin and the lawyer translates under his breath in an urgent whisper. “Guilty! Guilty of all charges, but-”

“Cependant,” the judge continues. “Nous prenons en considération le plaidoyer de trouble psychiatrique et déclarons l'irresponsabilité pénale pour cause de troubles mentaux. Aucune peine de prison ne sera donc prononcée.”

“They’re accepting his plea of insanity, they’re not sending him to prison-”

“No…” Gale murmurs, wrapping an arm around Astarion as the younger driver lets out a moan of raw pain.

“En revanche, compte tenu de la gravité et de la violence de ses crimes, le prévenu est condamné à perpétuité au service psychiatrique du Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace.”

*

Astarion’s head shoots up from Gale’s shoulder, his mouth dropping open in shock.

“What?” Gale is whispering. “What happened??” His face is wracked with concern, and Astarion wants to kiss him there and then. 

“They’re not sending him to prison, they’re sentencing him to life in the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace psychiatric ward,” Astarion’s own voice sounds a million miles away, slow and steeped in wonder. “It’s the same ward where he sent my mother to die...”

Cazador is raging in the dock, screaming at his lawyer, screaming at the judges, screaming at Astarion. And, for the first time in the entire trial, Astarion is able to look him in his wild, red eyes and smile. 

Chapter Text

One week after he enjoyed the satisfying sight of watching Cazador dragged kicking and screaming from the courtroom — automatically undermining his appeal in the process — Astarion goes shopping on his own for the first time in his life. 

Well, almost on his own. 

“My friend is going to watch,” he explains to the tailor, propping up his phone on one of the fitting room’s elegantly underlit shelves.

The man inclines his head. “Of course, sir.”

“Hullo,” Gale waves on the screen. 

Astarion had wanted Gale to come with him to the fitting, but Gale insisted he needed to study. Just like he’d insisted on speed-running an MSc in Mechanical Engineering, even though Elminster had said it wasn’t necessary. Astarion wouldn’t have bothered, personally, but Gale seems to be actively enjoying the intensive schedule. 

It’s unusual for him to deny Astarion anything, so Astarion also suspects Gale was gently pushing him into venturing out on his own. The thought is simultaneously irritating and touching. 

As a compromise — and after much pouting on Astarion’s part — Gale has agreed to sit in on the fitting remotely and give his opinion. He’s at the desk in his Monte Carlo hotel room, phone propped up on something unseen, his hair thrown back in a messy bun, a few loose strands falling over the new reading glasses he acquired when he started studying. He’s also distracted. Astarion can just make out the edges of the papers and textbooks spread out on the table, Gale’s focus clearly on thermodynamic equations or whatever. It’s annoying.

“If sir would like some privacy…” The tailor has prepared a selection of tuxedos for Astarion to try, and he holds his arm out to indicate a curtained area in which to get changed.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Astarion says loudly, whipping his t-shirt off without a second’s hesitation and throwing it on a chair. When he looks back at his phone, he’s pleased to see he has his teammate’s full attention now. Gale’s eyes are wide and his pencil is in his mouth, rubber resting between his parted lips, expression slightly dazed.

Astarion smirks. “You can stop staring.”

“Hmm? Oh,” Gale’s eyes flick back down to his notes and he clears his throat. “I was leagues away. Let’s see this suit then.”

Astarion frowns as he tries on the first look, a forest green tux with silk lapels. A little garish for the occasion perhaps. Or maybe not garish enough. He’s never been able to pick out his own clothes before. His entire wardrobe was purchased and coordinated by Cazador. The upcoming Prize Giving Ceremony is the first big event he’ll get to choose his own outfit for and he intends to make it count. He also intends to spend a filthy amount of money — the first big purchase of his life where he won’t have to get someone else’s approval beforehand. 

It should all feel liberating. It does. It does feel liberating. But Astarion has yet to shake the odd sensation that he’s floating. It’s definitely a positive sensation overall, but he’s spent the past week feeling vaguely disconnected from the world. He’d floated through all his end-of-season media obligations and press conferences. He’d floated to the hearing with Tara, where his POA was automatically revoked as a result of Cazador’s criminal convictions. He’d floated to the bank with Halsin to transfer all of his accounts into his own name. And he floats through his meals at the hotel with Gale, sitting across from his teammate and wondering when what he thought was a harmless crush turned into something more.

Up until now, Astarion has been so consumed by Cazador, by the trial, by the verdict, by trying to get through the year without any further disaster, that he hasn’t had the capacity to even think about his relationship with his teammate. Gale’s steady presence had been a given throughout the entire dreadful ordeal — as a friend, as a support — and that was enough. Astarion was grateful. 

It’s only now it’s all over that he’s starting to feel like it’s not enough anymore. He can’t help it; he’s been attracted to Gale for a long time. Ever since that first race weekend in Australia, really, no matter how many times he’d tried to tell himself he couldn't stand the guy.

It’s not just that Gale looks out for him, looks after him, really. It’s also that, underneath the nerdy exterior, Gale is funny, and calming, and annoyingly smart. He’s interesting to talk to and he gives as good as he gets, the first person who seems to enjoy verbally sparring with Astarion instead of getting confused or offended. And he’s so good-looking, in an understated, humble way that makes it even more devastating. 

This isn’t just a crush anymore; Astarion has feelings for Gale, and he has absolutely no idea what to do about it. He wants more. He wants them to be something real. 

For a while, it seemed like Gale might want that too. Those precious few intimacies spin around Astarion’s mind all the time. Gale’s arms around him in bed, clasped hands on starchy hospital sheets, heads resting together as they watched the sunset dance on the surface of the canal, Astarion’s toes tucked under Gale’s warm thigh as they watched TV together on the sofa at the Old Schoolhouse, Gale grumpily complaining that Astarion’s feet were cold but making absolutely no attempt to move him… Astarion is fairly sure there was more to those moments than mere friendship.

Whatever it was though, It doesn’t seem like Gale wants any of it now. Astarion has spent a long time wondering if he did something wrong. Gale seemed to change after the mid-season break, around the time he accepted the job at Weave. There’s a chance his withdrawal has something to do with that, some sense of propriety or professionalism, or perhaps a reluctance to get involved with a colleague again after everything that happened with Mystra.

But the change also happened right after they spent the summer together, right around the time the trial started and Astarion broke almost completely. Perhaps Gale has been put off by the intensity of his trauma. Astarion is a lot to take on, after all. He knows this. He’s been told it enough times. After years of having every part of his life micromanaged by Cazador, he’s barely a functioning adult. He has to have the most basic things done for him. He’s hard work. Maybe Gale is tired of working.

And so Astarion has tried his best to respect the distance that Gale is maintaining, but the truth is he misses the way they were so much that it’s physically painful. He’s finding himself slipping into old habits, bad habits, being overly flirtatious and faux seductive just to get a rise out of Gale. Just to enjoy some semblance of the attention he used to get from his teammate. Like whipping off his shirt just now, smirking when he thought Gale was staring, only for Gale to awkwardly point out that he wasn’t paying attention at all.

Astarion never expected his first week of freedom to look like this. When he was younger, when he dared let himself hope he’d ever escape Cazador, he’d pictured days of hedonistic debauchery in some disgustingly expensive hotel suite. Or throwing himself into Monte Carlo’s club scene, making out with everyone and anyone he wanted.

Instead, all he wants to do is hang out with Gale. Instead of cringe-inducing photoshoots for vapid magazines, he finds himself wanting to go back to the hotel for their now routine dinners. Instead of boring interviews and press conferences, he can’t wait to get home to The Old Schoolhouse and spend Christmas Day with Morena and Tara on the boat. Even today, instead of trying on luxury suits in one of Monaco’s finest tailors, preparing for an exclusive gala where he’s nominated for an award, he’d really rather be on the other side of his phone screen, lounging on the hotel bed and annoying Gale while he studies. 

He shifts uncomfortably in the suit, glancing at his teammate’s face on the screen. Astarion has never had feelings for anyone before. There had been people Cazador forced him to go out with who were nicer than the others. Kinder, or easier to talk to. At the start of his career, there had been one beautiful boy in particular — Sebastian, the son of the man who owned Stabula Lathander — who Astarion thought he might have fallen for, given the chance. But he wasn’t given the chance. He seduced Sebastian and then Cazador got his fangs into the boy, whispering in his ear about how much Astarion would love to drive for Lathander, how pleased he’d be if Sebastian could put in a good word with his father. And the minute Astarion got the role as a reserve driver, Cazador stopped him from seeing Sebastian altogether. The boy hadn’t given up easily, attempting to contact Astarion for months afterward. The messages from him were so heartbreaking that Astarion had to block him in the end.

“Sir?” 

“What? Oh-”

The tailor has been waiting patiently while Astarion stares unseeingly into the mirror.

“Er, Gale, what do you think?” Astarion turns this way and that in the green suit, unsure.

“You look perfect.” Even over the tinny WhatsApp video, the tone in Gale’s voice gives Astarion butterflies and he can see his own ears going pink in his reflection. 

Then Gale says “You look perfect” in response to every other tux Astarion tries on as well, until Astarion gets annoyed and hangs up on him.

*

“You can stop staring.”

Gale has been caught, again. He wasn’t even looking at Astarion’s body. Instead, he was enjoying how happy his teammate seems, thinking about how nice it is to see Astarion slowly come back to himself. His smiles — both the genuine and the devilish — emerging more easily, his quick wit resurfacing, even the return of his biting sarcasm a welcome reprieve from how introverted he’s been up until recently.

It’s especially nice to see him standing on his own two feet. Astarion had wanted Gale to go with him to the fitting, apprehensive at not having done something like this alone. After much pouting and melodramatic sighing, he finally confessed to Gale that he was anxious because he didn't know how to pay for things. Cazador never permitted him his own bank card before.

Trying to hide the lump in his throat, Gale explained how the card machine would work.

“For fuck’s sake,” Astarion tutted his way through the explanation, obviously embarrassed, arms tightly folded. “Sometimes I feel like I’m 200 years old.”

To Gale, it seems the opposite. It makes him feel sick to see how Cazador has maintained Astarion’s dependence by controlling every little thing in his life — keeping him like a child, frozen in time. 

And so, though he barely has it in him to deny Astarion anything these days, Gale had denied him his company today. It felt important to help him take these first steps towards independence, no matter how tentative. 

Clearly, though, Astarion has failed to pick up on the gesture. 

“You’re useless!” he snaps on the video call, “How am I supposed to choose when you’ve said I look perfect in all of them!”

He hangs up before Gale gets the chance to explain that he meant it every time. 

*

“Ohh you look perfect, love!”

“For god’s sake,” Astarion pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re just as useless as your son!”

“Mor,” Tara is shaking her head on Astarion’s phone screen. She and Gale’s mother are perched on one of the squishy sofas in the living room at Grey Harbour, phone balanced on the coffee table. Astarion can hear the crackle of a fire in the wood-burning stove and can see the edge of Morena’s Christmas tree twinkling behind them. “You’ve said he looks perfect in every single option so far.”

“Well, he does!” Morena bristles, turning back to Astarion. “And what do you mean as useless as my son?”

“He said the same thing,” Astarion pouts. “Honestly, you’re no help at all…”

The two older women glance at each other, but then Tara is talking again.

“I will be helpful,” she says decisively. “This one is absolutely not appropriate for a black-tie event. You look like a… a hustler.”

“A hustler,” Astarion snorts. “I don’t even know what that means…”

“You’re a smart boy, I’m sure you can guess,” Tara’s response is prim.

“In that case,” Astarion picks up his phone. “This one it is!”

He just about catches the beginning of Morena’s shriek of laughter and Tara’s exasperated sigh as he grins and hangs up on them too.

*

At 7 pm sharp, Gale knocks twice on Astarion’s hotel room door before stepping back, pulling at the collar of his tux. Not having Astarion’s confidence in his looks, he’d gone for something boring in the end — a plain, regular penguin suit — but he's still uncomfortable. 

Self-consciousness tugs his chin and gaze towards the floor as Astarion’s door opens, and so the first bit of his teammate he sees is his shoes; chunky black loafers as usual. Gale’s eyes travel up one velvet-clad leg, sliding over cream silk until he reaches Astarion’s face, an exhale escaping his lips at the full picture.

Astarion is wearing a fitted black velvet suit with leather piping around the lapels and down the side of the trousers. The jacket hangs open, revealing a cream, ruffled silk shirt underneath, the top buttons undone to his sternum. Instead of a traditional bow tie, Astarion’s long neck is clad with a black velvet bow tie choker.

But it’s his face that leaves Gale speechless. Astarion has ringed his eyes with smokey makeup that makes his gray irises look almost ethereal, and there’s a subtle sheen to his brow and cheekbones. His lips are glossy and Gale is staring at them when they quirk upwards into a lopsided smile. 

“What do you think?” To Gale’s surprise, his teammate seems self-conscious too. “Tara said I look like a hustler.”

“Of the highest caliber,” Gale inclines his head in a mock bow, teasing to stave off the voice in his head urging him to run his fingertips over cream silk, slip a hand inside that open jacket. His tongue betrays him as usual though: “You look perfect, Ast.”

“A meaningless compliment from you,” Astarion rolls his eyes but the smile remains, still playing around his full lips. He steps forward to adjust Gale’s bow tie. “You always say that.”

His long, elegant fingers are at Gale’s collarbone and Gale can hardly breathe. “It’s always true,” he manages, breath hitching again when Astarion’s eyes flick up to his face.

“Hmm,” Astarion holds Gale’s gaze, letting his palms rest on Gale’s lapels just long enough that Gale wonders whether his teammate can feel his heart pounding underneath. Then Astarion steps away. “You look halfway decent yourself, for once.”

Gale exhales a laugh that’s half amusement, half relief at the sudden absence of proximity. “Charmed, I’m sure.” He tugs at his collar again. “I abhor these things. Give me a pair of overalls and a car engine any day.”

Astarion laughs, hitting his arm playfully. “Nerd.”

“Dandy,” Gale retaliates, hitting him back. “Come on, we’d better go. You’ve taken so long to get ready the chauffeur will have probably left by now.”

“We’d be a lot quicker if I didn’t have to spend so much time working out your vocabulary,” Astarion marches off down the hallway, Gale falling into place at his side. “What the hell is a dandy? You’re as bad as Tara. Was it her who taught you to talk like you’re from the 1500s?”

They bicker all the way to the car, Gale’s heart nearly full to bursting. 

*

Astarion glances across the back seat of the Weave Range Rover to where his teammate sits, apparently lost in thought. 

Gale looks so handsome, it’s not fair. The tux suits him; it’s elegant and understated, though adorably personalized with a dark purple bow tie and cufflinks. Gale’s hair is slicked back away from his face and his stubble makes him look slightly rugged despite the fancy ensemble — a pleasant reminder of the man on the beach in Bahrain, shirt off and crouched over a fire, the first of many times he’d make Astarion feel safe and cared for. 

Seeming to feel Astarion’s gaze, Gale turns, a question in his eyes, but the car is slowing. All too soon, they arrive at the gala and Gale shoots Astarion a grin before they step out together, the flash of cameras and the shout of paparazzi verging on overwhelming. 

This year’s Prize Giving Ceremony is taking place at Monte Carlo’s Salle Des Étoiles and the grand stone building is lit up in blinding white, perched at the top of a staircase like a giant wedding cake. A rich red carpet flows down the stairs and journalists and fans alike crowd its edges. Notables from the world of motorsports are paused at various intervals along the scarlet nylon, smiling for the cameras, and Gale and Astarion reluctantly stop to do the same, neither of them overly enamored with the press of late.

“Astarion! This way!” “Astarion, tell us about your suit!” “Astarion! Gale! Can we get one of the two of you together?”

Astarion obligingly steps towards his teammate but Gale backs off, raising a hand and smiling at the paparazzi. “That’s enough, I think,” he murmurs before hurrying into the venue, Astarion trailing behind.

*

Gale sits in the back of the car, wondering how he’s going to get through the next year. Wondering how he’s ever going to get over Astarion when the man teases him the way he does, touches him the way he does, looking the way he does. Wondering how they’re going to keep spending this much time together without Gale slipping up somehow. He cannot have feelings for his driver, he cannot. Yet he does, nonetheless. 

It’s not just that Astarion is attractive, although he is, devastatingly so. It’s also that, underneath the prickly exterior, he’s funny, and smart, and exciting to be around. He’s just as passionate about racing as Gale is, the first person to make Gale feel interesting instead of boring. And he’s so strong, so enduring in the face of so much hardship and cruelty — without even realizing it, which makes it even more impressive. Gale has been captivated by Astarion ever since that first race weekend in Australia, really, no matter how many times he’d tried to tell himself he couldn't stand the guy.

But it feels like it’s too late. Gale made his choice when he accepted the job at Weave and he has no idea what to do with these feelings now. He can’t act on them, can he?

Gale turns to look at his teammate, only to find Astarion gazing back. Then the car slows before Gale can say anything, the noise of the crowd and the paparazzi distracting. Astarion seems nervous so Gale tries to give him a reassuring smile as they step out onto the red carpet together. 

He doesn’t like red carpets at the best of times but the press have treated Astarion horribly this past year so he feels even less inclined to oblige them. As they near the door of the venue, one particularly leering photographer shouts for them to pose together and Gale is reminded of the questions outside the courtroom before Cazador's trial. 

“Astarion! Gale! Are the rumors about you true?”

It had worried Gale at the time because he didn't know what rumors the man was talking about, but Cazador's verdict wiped everything else from his mind. It wasn't until a couple of days later that he opened Google and typed “Dekarios Ancunin rumours”. 

He was horrified to find multiple Reddit threads with titles like “Dekarios and Ancunin — dating?” or “I’m pretty sure Ancunin is gay but is Dekarios as well?”

He clicked on the first one, a post on r/F1Guys from a few months ago. 

WeaveFan: Is it just me or do these two seem a bit more than just teammates?

The post was accompanied by a picture Gale hadn't seen before: a paparazzi shot of him and Astarion leaving the club after Astarion’s GP win, arms around each other. Astarion was plastered at the time and Gale was carrying him to the car — but that’s not what it looked like in the photo. 

He’d flicked through the comments with morbid fascination. 

| fF1on: I’m glad it’s not just me who noticed 😍 Wasn’t there something about them moving in together over the summer break as well??

| GalesGal: wtf I will never understand why people ship these two. Did you not see their literal fistfight on the side of the track in Oz?? They obviously hate each other! They are completely different people. Gale seems like a really nice down-to-earth guy whereas Ancunin is a vile little rich boy. He’s so nasty to Gale in press conferences and interviews. Gale is way too smart, there’s no way he would ever find that attractive

    | WeaveFan: I’m not sure this is still true actually. Maybe at the beginning but have you seen them in videos together lately? They seem to get on really well now. I follow all of Weave’s social media and they actually have really cute bants

        | fF1on: This ^ and u/galesgal did YOU not see the footage after Gale’s crash?? Astarion looked fully heartbroken 😭 I don’t think he’s the ‘vile little rich boy’ everyone thinks he is

            | GalesGal: well yeah he just witnessed a crash! And they were teammates!! Obviously he’s not going to be unaffected by that. But making it romantic is such a fucking reach istg smh

| PetrolHead66: FFS can’t two professional men do their job any more without you people making it about gay

    | GalesGal: thank you

    | WeaveFan: ‘making it about gay’ 🤣🤣

    | fF1on: ur so right, we shouldn’t make this about gay. These are clearly just two professionals being professional teammates going about their professional lives as teammates and nothing more

The last comment was a link to the Guardian article Wyll sent Gale over the summer, with the picture of him and Astarion embracing at the airport. 

Gale had closed Reddit with a sigh. The reaction was exactly what he’d feared when he first saw that photo, the public deciding what he and Astarion are before they've even talked about it themselves. It’s also the last thing Astarion needs. He isn’t out publicly and he doesn’t deserve to have that decision taken away from him. Not after everything else he’s been through.

It’s why Gale backs away when Astarion steps in close to him on the red carpet, giving the press one last awkward wave and hurrying into the venue, trying not to feel bad at the way Astarion’s face falls as he does.

*

The Salle Des Étoiles is as spectacular as ever. Astarion has been here a few times, for various events and concerts, but the grandeur of the room never fails to impress. The retractable ceiling is closed tonight, shutting out the colder December air, but the enormous curved wall of floor-to-ceiling glass arches still offers impressive views over the bay and the lights of Monte Carlo. 

The room is emblazoned with FIA logos and long tables sweep outwards from the brightly lit stage, each one hosting a different team from Formula 1, Formula E, Rallycross, Karting, and more. 

The atmosphere at Weave’s table is jubilant; Tefoco has just won Rookie of the Year. 

His speech, thanking Weave and Elminster and Astarion and Vajra, was heartfelt and Astarion and Gale had great fun teasing Vajra when she teared up halfway through. Now, Tefoco is sitting back at the table, a giant silver trophy in front of him, his expression a little dazed under his shock of curly hair.

Astarion beams at his teammate. It’s a well-deserved win. Oliver has been a consummate professional this year, stepping into Gale’s seat halfway through the season, dealing gracefully with the furor around Astarion, and still managing to score highly in multiple races. Astarion is pleased for him and he raises a glass when Karlach does.

“To Oliver!”

They all clink their champagne flutes and Astarion takes a hefty swig, nervous about what’s coming next.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, coming up we have one of our most exciting awards of the evening!” The hosts have resumed their place center stage. “Action of the Year!”

Astarion had been vaguely aware of his nomination in this category a month ago, when an email arrived from the FIA saying he was being put forward for his role in saving Gale’s life after the crash. He’d been so entrenched in the trial then that it had barely registered.

Now, he watches anxiously as the various nominees play out on the huge screens around the stage. Most of them are in-race actions, nail-biting overtakes or impressive corners in battered rally cars. Then a hush falls over the room and he sees himself, looking tiny in the drone shots of the Miami International Autodrome, sprinting towards the plume of smoke which is all that’s visible of Gale’s car.

When Astarion glances at him, Gale is staring at the tablecloth, gently shredding a napkin in his lap, Elminster’s hand on his shoulder. Though things have improved massively since he stopped driving, Gale is still having regular therapy for his PTSD and Astarion knows it’s hard for him to see footage of the crash — not least while being stared at by an event hall full of hundreds of people. 

Emboldened by the champagne, Astarion reaches under the table and takes his hand.

Gale looks up at him with surprise that turns into grateful affection, and he squeezes Astarion’s fingers. Astarion maintains eye contact, hoping his meaning is coming across. Keep your eyes on me, I'm here, you're safe. 

“And the award goes to…”

Astarion is so wrapped up in holding Gale’s hand and staring into his eyes that he’s not paying much attention to anything else. It’s not until Gale’s face breaks into a huge grin, until the room bursts into applause, until Karlach leaps out of her seat and starts jumping up and down, that Astarion realizes the host has called out his name.

*

Just like after the Monaco GP, Gale is finding that he loves to see Astarion win. Astarion deserves it. He deserves the world. 

Gale could have done without the FIA playing footage of his crash on the huge screens around the Star Room, of course. But, as the tiny Astarion in the video rescued the tiny Gale, the Astarion next to him rescued him too, seemingly sensing Gale’s panic and taking his hand, holding his gaze until the footage mercifully stopped and Astarion was summoned on stage to accept his award.

Even Gortash riding on top of his winning car as it was wheeled through the room amid ridiculous pyrotechnics couldn’t dampen the mood of the Weave team after that. The decision was very rapidly made — in no small part led by Karlach — to attend the unofficial afterparty at the neighboring beach club.

And so Gale finds himself celebrating with his team in a Monaco nightclub once more. He’s making his way out of the bathroom, looking for Astarion, when he spots Alfira on the dance floor. Harper, Gale’s former and Astarion’s current agency, had its own table at the Prize Giving Ceremony and Alfira is here with the rest of her colleagues.

“Have you seen Astarion?” It’s hard to make himself heard over the loud house music thumping out of the speakers. It doesn’t help that Alfira is already more than tipsy.

“Come and do shots with me,” she giggles, tugging at his arm. “I’m going to see if I can make Jaheira do one!”

“Maybe in a minute!” Gale shouts as politely as possible. “I’m looking for Astarion.”

Alfira rolls her eyes. “I think Karlach said he was down at the beach.”

The beach, that’s odd. Monaco isn’t snowy like it is at home right now, but it’s still chilly outside and Astarion hates the cold. 

Gale leaves Alfira with another half-hearted promise to come back and ‘do shots’, before making his way out of the glass doors at the back of the club. 

There are a handful of people outside, mostly smokers huddling under heat lamps dotted around the pristine white outdoor furniture, but the beach itself is quiet and dark bar a small row of tiki torches, spitting stubbornly in the winter breeze. Gale follows their trail down to the water’s edge, where he finds Astarion sitting on the sand, his knees hugged up to his chest. His chin is resting on his arms and he’s staring out to sea.

“Hey,” he says gently, trying and failing not to make Astarion jump.

“Jesus Christ, Gale,” Astarion clutches melodramatically at his heart. “It’s a good job I’m not the one with the pacemaker.”

“Sorry,” Gale chuckles, sitting down next to him on the sand. “You okay?”

Astarion appears to contemplate the question for a while, before laughing ruefully. “I’m so tired…”

“Do you want to go?”

“No, I’m having a good time.”

“Okay,” Gale nods and both of them sit there for a bit, watching the waves ebb and flow under the starlit sky like they had one evening all those months ago. Except now they’re pulling suit jackets around themselves against the Monaco cold, instead of basking in the Dubai heat.

Gale is about to draw the comparison when his teammate turns, face serious.

“Actually, do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.”

Gale’s chest clenches. “Okay,” he says again dumbly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I just-” Astarion shifts on the sand to face him. “I never really thanked you properly for everything this year and I feel awful. There’s been so much going on but I- I don’t want you to think that I take you for granted, your help and support and- and, well, everything, you know? You- you're incredible. You've been incredible."

“Oh,” Gale waves a hand, embarrassed. “There’s no need, honestly. I mean, you saved my life after all. In award-winning style, no less!”

Astarion exhales a small laugh, but his eyes are still wide and serious. “You saved mine too.”

Gale has no idea how to respond to that so he simply sits there, pinioned by those gray eyes, until Astarion speaks again.

“I- I suppose what I’m trying to say is…” Long, pale fingers sift nervously through sand but Astarion’s eyes never leave Gale’s face. “I love you, Gale.”

Gale damn well nearly goes into cardiac arrest again, but then Astarion adds: “You’re the best friend I ever had.”

Of course. Gale’s shoulders sag. Of course he means as a friend. Gale had a similar conversation with Wyll once, after Mystra. They had said they loved each other then too.

It’s physically painful to say it now without the sentiment he really feels, but Gale forces a smile. “I love you too, mate.”

There’s a brief pause before Astarion gives a small smile back. Then he claps his hands together, so brisk and so loud that it makes Gale jump. 

“Well!” He climbs to his feet. “That’s quite enough sentimentality for one evening, don’t you think? Shall we get drunk, darling?”

Gale blinks at him for a moment. It’s been so long since Astarion has called him ‘darling’, so long since he’s directed this nonchalant energy Gale’s way, that Gale almost doesn’t recognize him. 

“Right,” Gale nods slowly, disconcerted. “Okay. I think Alfira was getting some shots in.”

“Marvelous,” Astarion strides up the beach towards the club, Gale trailing behind.

*

The club is hot and noisy and Astarion feels exhausted and overwhelmed all of a sudden. He’s looking for Gale when Karlach bounces past, a bottle of champagne in hand.

“‘Sup hero!” 

“Shut up,” Astarion swats her away with a laugh. “Have you seen Gale?”

“No, sorry mate. You okay?”

“Just a bit- you know…”

She pauses then, and nods sympathetically. “You need your comfort Gale, huh? Oh wait, that’s CG isn’t it, not GC…”

“Oh my god, just-” Astarion walks away towards the outdoor area of the club, calling back over his shoulder. “Tell him I’m looking for him if you see him.”

It’s cold outside but the beach looks peaceful and quiet, so Astarion pulls his jacket tightly around himself and makes his way down to the water’s edge, sitting on the soft sand and staring out to sea. 

He’s not sure how long he’s been there when a voice behind him makes him jump out of his skin. 

Gale has come to check up on him as usual, always somehow aware of when Astarion needs him. It occurs to Astarion that he hasn’t actually thanked Gale once, for his help and support and- and, well, everything. He feels awful.

Astarion tries but, ever the bloody Brit, Gale waves him off and makes jokes, so Astarion tries again. He needs Gale to know, needs him to understand-

“I love you, Gale.”

Gale’s eyes widen in what looks like pure horror and Astarion chickens out.

“You’re the best friend I ever had,” he adds hurriedly, trying to mitigate the words he can’t take back now.

Gale’s shoulders sag with relief. “I love you too, mate.”

Mate. 

Astarion tries to smile but he’s too embarrassed, too wounded. He leaps to his feet, makes some glib comment, and hurries back to the club, suddenly wanting to get very, very drunk.

*

“Now shots??” Alfira yells at Gale the minute he gets back inside. Apparently, she’s had a few in between. 

Astarion has returned to the dancefloor without a backward glance, and Gale sighs. 

“Yes,” he nods heavily. “Now shots.”

“Yaaaaaaay!”

“You shouldn’t encourage her, you know…” A woman Gale doesn’t recognize falls into step with him as he follows Alfira to the VIP bar. She holds out her hand with a smile. “Lakrissa.”

“Ah, from Harper. We’ve E-met.”

She laughs. “We have indeed. Are you having a good night?”

“Yes,” Gale lies, sitting on a barstool and helping himself to some of the champagne that’s been set out for them. “You?”

Before Lakrissa can answer, Alfira turns drunkenly and runs back to the dance floor. “I forgot to get Jaheira! Bee arr bee! Gale, don’t shots without me!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gale laughs but she’s gone already, wobbling off through the crowd. 

“She’s in love with you, you know.” 

Gale nearly chokes on his champagne. “Pardon?”

“Alfira,” Lakrissa says sadly. “She’s had a crush on you for ages.”

“Oh.” 

The look on Lakrissa’s face as she watches her colleague is painfully recognisable and Gale’s heart goes out to her. He can empathize after all. 

“And how long have you had a crush on Alfira?” he asks gently.

“Oh god,” Lakrissa laughs. “Am I that obvious?”

“Not really. Let’s just say I’m no stranger to unrequited love.” Gale takes another gulp of champagne. “Why don’t you tell her?”

“I can’t,” Lakrissa shakes her head. “We’re colleagues, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Ah, pish posh. What’s a job in comparison to love?” 

Gale hears his own words as he says them, and his eyes find Astarion in the crowd. The driver is dancing with Karlach, suit jacket discarded and champagne in hand, carefree and beautiful. 

As always, Astarion seems to feel Gale watching him and he turns, their eyes meeting across the crowd. 

“Excuse me, Lakrissa.”

* 

Astarion finds Karlach on the dancefloor and she cheers as he grabs her champagne bottle from her hand and takes a swig. If he can just drink enough, he can forget for a bit. Forget embarrassing himself with Gale. Forget Cazador. Forget all of it. 

It’s hot in the club and he pulls off his jacket, flinging it on a random table nearby. Thousands of pounds worth of suit. He’ll probably regret that in the morning. Oh well. It won’t be the only thing. 

He’s dancing hard, sweat starting to bead at his brow when, mid-spin, he sees Gale watching him. Astarion stops, panting, as Gale stands up from his barstool and starts walking towards the dancefloor. 

But bloody Alfira jumps on him before he can reach Astarion. She flings her arms around Gale’s neck and he places his hands on her waist. She's whispering something and Gale is laughing and she leans in, and then — to Astarion’s horror — they’re kissing. 

Astarion looks away sharply, eyes prickling and pain lancing through his chest. Fuck this. Fuck it. He clenches his jaw and turns back towards the bar, pacing towards Gale and Alfira, holding out his hand when he stops, voice demanding.

“Dance with me.”

*

Gale is trying to get to Astarion when Alfira accosts him. 

“Mm, Jaheira said she’d fire me if I try to make her do shots again,” she giggles, throwing her arms around his neck. “So maybe we should just drink them together.”

“Ah, yes,” Gale is trying to keep his eye on Astarion amid the heaving dance floor and flashing lights. “Well, perhaps in a minute-”

“Noooo,” Alfira wails. “Noooow! You promised…” She gazes up at him, eyes sultry and lips pouting. “Unless you want to make it up to me in a different way?”

Gale's laugh is uncomfortable. He’s gingerly trying to push her away, hands at her waist, when she leans in and plants a kiss directly on his mouth. 

“Mm-no!” He really does push her away then and she stumbles slightly, gasping. “I’m sorry, Alfira, but I really don’t-” 

Gale trails off as he sees Astarion stalking towards them, but his teammate stops just short of where Gale and Alfira are standing, approaching a man at the edge of the dancefloor instead. Gale recognises the guy, though he doesn’t know him; Olly Najemnik, son of the renowned driver Rugan Najemnik. He and Astarion were peers in F2 before Astarion moved to F1, as far as Gale knows. He’s young. Handsome. 

Astarion’s voice carries over the music as he holds his hand out to Olly, his request loud and demanding. “Dance with me.”

The F2 driver laughs before seeming to realize Astarion is serious, taking his hand and letting Astarion lead him through the crowd and onto the dancefloor. 

Like a car crash, Gale can’t look away as Astarion begins to dance, lacing his fingers at the back of Olly’s neck, the younger driver gazing at him in awe.

Astarion’s eyes meet Gale’s one more time and then he’s closing them, leaning and pressing his lips to Olly's in a deep and passionate kiss.

Chapter Text

“Okay, that’s P4, Ast, P4. Well done, mate. 10 more laps to go, we can pick up the pace.”

“Oh, really?” Astarion’s voice sounds over the radio, rich and laced with sarcasm, like poisoned wine. “I thought I’d drive a bit slower now, just for fun.”

Gale does his best to swallow the retort that rises up in his throat. He keeps his voice measured, despite his clenched jaw. “We can still go with Plan A if you push harder on this lap.”

Plan A is for Astarion to chase P3, third place. He should be able to achieve it according to the data from practice and quali. It would be an excellent start to the season: a Weave podium for the first race, a trophy, bringing the team back with a bang after the disappointing end to the previous year. 

Plan B is to let Tefoco pass if he’s faster — and Gale wants to avoid it at all costs. He's not sure Astarion would deal particularly well with that knock to his confidence so early in the year. 

His teammate’s voice purrs into his ear again.

“Push harder on this lap? Darling, if I had a nickel for every time someone’s asked me to do that…”

Gale shifts in the uncomfortable pit wall seat and adjusts his headphones. He’s not used to wearing them for this long and they’re giving him a headache. Or perhaps it’s the Melbourne heat. Or perhaps it’s Astarion. 

He’s been like this all week. Combative, contrary, cantankerous. Throughout practice and quali, through all of their press conferences and debriefs and meetings. It’s just like when they first met and Gale can’t work out why. It’s the opening race of the season; they should be excited. Gale had been excited. Astarion seemed to come out of the winter break refreshed and determined to prove himself now that he was out of Cazador’s clutches. He was sharper, leaner, hungrier for the win. Gale quite liked it.

But Astarion seems to be having trouble adjusting to taking instructions from Gale. All Gale is trying to do is stay professional, prove that they can do this. The more he tries though, the more Astarion bites back with this damned attitude. 

With a shudder, Gale is reminded of the last time they were here at Albert Park, their first race as teammates. It had ended with them fighting each other in the trackside gravel while the world watched. There’s a chance they might end up the same way if they carry on like this. He glances down the pit wall at Elminster, the TP’s face impassive as he watches the race data on the pit wall monitors. He's already aired his doubts about how well Gale and Astarion could work as a team and this can't be helping at all. Perhaps they'll both simply get fired after the race and Gale won't have to worry about it anymore. 

After two more laps, Elminster’s eyes slide over to meet Gale’s and he holds up two fingers. Plan B. Tefoco must be driving faster. Fuck. Astarion is not going to like this one bit.

“Er,” Gale’s mouth feels dry all of a sudden. “Plan B, Ast. Plan B.”

“No,” comes the cold reply. God damn it.

Gale searches for some reason to give his driver that doesn’t make the change of plan Astarion’s fault. That won't make this yet another fight. “We’re getting a lot of deg on the tires from the heat, Ast. You’re losing grip. It’s not safe to push for Plan A now.”

“I can do it,” Astarion’s voice turns from wine to steel. “I can do better.”

“Those are team orders, Astarion.”

Gale curses how pompous he sounds. He really didn't think it was ever going to be like this again between them. Of course, there had been that brief, awful time after the Prize-Giving Ceremony, when Gale had stood there and watched as Astarion kissed someone else the way Gale had imagined kissing him for months. It hurt to see, so much more than he expected. It made him feel sick. He'd had to stop himself from running towards them and pulling Astarion away, shouting at Olly that Astarion was his. Because Astarion categorically isn’t. His, that is. Indeed, Gale has spent the past five months trying to prove that to anyone and everyone who’d listen. Astarion included.

So all Gale could do was turn and walk out of the club without a word. Not even to Alfira, who was still standing there gawping at him. It’s embarrassing to think about it now. He had no right to react like that. Astarion wasn’t doing anything wrong by kissing Olly. It was just that Gale didn’t think his heart would survive witnessing it. 

He hadn’t seen his teammate until late the next morning at the hotel, when Astarion had slunk down for the end of the breakfast service, looking more than a little worse for wear. 

“Good night?” Gale asked, really really not wanting to know the answer. 

Thankfully, Astarion merely grunted, slouching in the leather dining chair opposite while the waiter poured his usual espresso. 

“You?” he countered, huddling in his oversized black hoodie and cradling his cup. His voice was husky. “Where did you go?”

“Er, just back here,” Gale had busied himself with his own cup of tea, stirring it so much he was surprised the milk didn’t curdle. 

“Oh?” Astarion raised an eyebrow. “I thought you left with Alfira.”

“God, no!” Gale had laughed at that at least. “No, I rather think she got the wrong impression there.”

Astarion stared at him over his cup. “Oh,” he repeated.

“I had to fend her off, it was a bit embarrassing. For both of us, I imagine. Did you see? Although, ah- no- you- you were otherwise occupied yourself at that point in time…”

His teammate had flushed then, a deep pink haze that spread across his nose and cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“You weren’t the only one who had an embarrassing night,” he muttered. 

“I see. You didn’t, ah- you and Olly…?”

“He’s got a girlfriend, apparently,” Astarion rolled his eyes heavenward, his long black lashes stark against his pale skin. “He used to have a crush on me when we were younger so I assumed… stupidly. He was nice about it, but… yeah.”

Gale felt awful taking joy in Astarion’s embarrassment, but his heart was leaping. Nothing had happened between Astarion and Olly. Olly put a stop to it. The kiss wasn’t a real kiss. Not that it mattered at all. Not that it was any of Gale's business. It was just nice. Nice to know. 

“Well!” he’d said jovially. “I suppose you and Alfira learned the same lesson last night then!”

Astarion’s eyes had narrowed. “What lesson?”

“Oh, just that-” Gale swallowed a mouthful of too-hot tea. “Just that it’s not… you can’t… it might not be the wisest choice to kiss someone like that without knowing they want to kiss you back is all.”

“I see,” Astarion sounded pissed off all of a sudden and Gale wondered if his comment hadn’t come off as lighthearted as he intended. “Thank you so much for the advice. Tell me, Gale, as the team’s resident expert on long-lasting relationships: what would you have recommended instead? Should I have organized a meeting with him to discuss? Scheduled a Zoom call? As we were there with his fucking arms around me, how else was I supposed to know exactly?” He was leaning across the table then, voice low and hissing. “What would you have done, Gale? Crafted him a politely worded email? ‘I say, mate, I've rather been wondering if you'd like to kiss me’??”

The unflattering impression of Gale was uncalled for — as was ‘the team’s resident expert on long-lasting relationships’ — and Gale had bristled. 

“Well, yes, you could try asking the next person, like an adult. If you can hear them over the music that is,” he added for good measure. 

Astarion had stood up so quickly that it made Gale jump. “I’m going to go and pack, unless you have any more pearls of wisdom to share?”

He’d stalked off before Gale could respond and they hadn’t talked to each other until they’d boarded the chartered Weave jet back to the UK, ferrying the British members of the team home for Christmas. Astarion had slept for the whole flight and the whole car ride back to the Old Schoolhouse, taking to his bed as soon as they got home. 

There, they had stayed apart for a couple of days, only really coming together for quiet mealtimes in front of the TV. It wasn't until Christmas Day at his mother’s that the icy atmosphere between them seemed to finally thaw. It was heart-warming how well Astarion slotted in with Gale’s odd little family, nestling on the couch with Morena and Tara, sampling various liqueurs and yelling the wrong answers to Trivial Pursuit. 

For his part, Astarion seemed like he wanted to bury the unspoken hatchet too. When they got home, he'd hugged Gale before he went to bed. Not a long hug, but a tight one, his breath hot against Gale's cheek and tinged with brandy as he wished him one last ‘Merry Christmas’. 

Gale had rested his head on soft silver curls as his mother's words echoed around his mind. 

“If you walked into that boat right now and kissed that man, I am sure he would melt.”  

Then Astarion wandered off upstairs with a slightly tipsy sigh and Gale went to bed feeling warmer than he should in that big old house during winter, wishing it was always this way between them.

Which makes the current cold war even more frustrating. It doesn’t need to be like this, they could be such a good team-

“Go fuck yourself, Gale.”

Elminster pulls off his headphones in anger and Gale nearly draws blood biting his own tongue. 

“Astarion-” 

“I’m going for Plan A.”

*

Astarion is hot and pissed off. The temperature on the Australian track is relentless and he wrestles the car through a sharp 90-degree turn, giving it everything he’s got, while Gale essentially tells him to give up. They can’t achieve Plan A. Astarion isn’t good enough.

“I can do it, I can do better.” Astarion tries to fill his voice with confidence. He needs this. He needs to prove to himself that he’s more than what Cazador made him. That he doesn’t need to be punished into excelling. He needs Gale to believe in him.

His jaw clenches as his race engineer’s voice sounds over the radio, clipped and cold, like icy water.

“Those are team orders, Astarion.” 

Gale has been like this all week. Pompous, pushy, patronizing. Throughout practice and quali, through all of their press conferences and debriefs and meetings. It's just like when they first met and Astarion is fed up with him. It’s the opening race of the season and they should be excited. Astarion had been excited. He’d come out of the winter break refreshed and ready. No more distractions, only focus and a determination to win. To make Gale proud.

Instead, Gale is being a dick. He's so obsessed with proving himself to Elminster that he keeps talking to Astarion like he's a subordinate, instead of his best friend. 

His words after the Prize-Giving Ceremony had especially stung. “Maybe you learned a lesson last night… it might not be the wisest choice to kiss someone like that… you could try asking the next person, like an adult.”

As if Astarion wasn't already mortified enough. As if he wasn’t still getting flashbacks of Olly’s face, eyes wide and apologetic. “Oh no… sorry, mate. I've got a girlfriend…”

Even learning that Alfira and Gale hadn't actually kissed only made Astarion feel more stupid. It's so embarrassing, the way he responded to seeing them together. He had no right to react like that. It shouldn’t matter at all if Gale kisses someone else or not. It's none of Astarion's business. Although it was nice that he hadn't. Nice to know. 

Christmas was nice too. Astarion has never had a family Christmas before, not that he'd told Gale that, too embarrassed to seem even more pathetic than he already did. Morena and Tara welcomed him like a son and even Gale appeared to want to bury the unspoken hatchet, sitting close to him on the sofa while they played board games, kissing his cheek under the mistletoe. Warm with brandy and the love of a family for the first time in his life, Astarion hadn't been able to help but lean in for a hug when they said goodnight that evening. He'd rested his head against Gale's broad shoulder, wishing it was always this way between them. 

Which makes the current cold war even more frustrating. It doesn’t need to be like this. It could be so much better if Gale would stop pretending, if he would allow them to be what they are, if he would stop being so bloody obtuse…

“Go fuck yourself, Gale.” It slips out by accident, born of exasperation more than anything else. “I'm going for Plan A.”

If Gale refuses to believe in him, refuses to believe in them, Astarion will just have to damn well show him. 

*

"Box, box. Box, box." 

"Say please, darling." 

"Astarion..."  

"Well? I'm approaching the exit, what'll it be, boss?" 

"Astarion!" 

"Quickly, Gale..." Astarion’s voice sounds deliberately breathy. "I don't know how much longer I can last. My rear is getting ever so slippery-" 

"Box, box!" Gale cuts him off in a panic. "Please." 

Astarion cackles as he pulls into the pit lane.

Gale winces as Elminster reaches down and stops the recording with a sharp tap on the laptop keyboard.

“Is that enough of an example for you, Ancunin?” The TP’s voice is glacial. 

Around the mahogany meeting room table, various Weave team members are trying their best not to laugh. Tefoco’s eyes are watering and even Vajra’s gaze up to the ceiling is accompanied by a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. 

“I rather think the ends outweighed the means,” Astarion is sitting next to Gale and he lounges back in his chair, folding his arms cockily. “Don't you agree, boss?” 

“You drove well but I don't think you can take credit for Gortash’s engine failing,” Gale manages through gritted teeth.

“I still made it to P2 though, didn't I?” Astarion is jubilant. “That's a damn sight better than Plan fucking B, isn't it?”

“If you'd have listened to any of my radio communications, we could've-”

“Enough!” Elminster pinches the bridge of his nose as Astarion mutters ‘radio communications’ under his breath. “Gale, don't even get me started on your comms…”

“Me??”

“Might I remind you that your messages are supposed to be brief-”

Gale splutters as Astarion snorts with laughter. “I hardly think I'm the problem here-”

“You're both the problem!” Elminster shouts, making them all jump. “A problem I'd rather not take drastic measures to solve! You have a week to sort yourselves out before Shanghai or, god help me, I'll have to do it myself. We're done here.”

As the rest of the team files out, Gale calls to his driver. 

“Astarion? A word?” 

Astarion halts and throws his head back with a groan, like a teenager. “We just had an hour-long debrief, Gale…”

“Astarion-”

“Besides, I don't think you're capable of a word, singular-”

“Astarion!” Gale reaches out and grabs his wrist, pulling him back into the room. “What is your problem, Ast??”

Astarion pulls his hand away, sinking into a chair and folding his arms. “My problem? What's your problem?”

“Your attitude is my problem!” Gale feels like tearing his hair out. “What’s going on? Have I done something to piss you off?”

“Get over yourself, Gale. Not everything is about you.”

“Oh, well that’s very helpful. Very mature.”

“I'm just having a bit of fun," Astarion won't look at him. "Just trying to enjoy myself, enjoy my job for once. Karlach never had a problem with it.”

“That’s because you listened to Karlach!”

“Well, maybe if you weren't such a pompous fucking git about everything!” Astarion flings his hands in the air melodramatically, finally making eye contact. “I’m allowed to disagree with you on strategy, Gale. I’m allowed to make my own decisions. It got me to P2 today, didn’t it? As much as it seems to have escaped your notice, you’re not always right about everything!” 

“I’m doing my best, Ast!” Gale folds his arms too now. Pompous. Bossy. Superior. These are words that have been leveraged against him before and shame fuels his anger. “I can't help you win if we’re arguing in the middle of a race. And Elminster is going to fire one or both of us if we carry on like this! It’s my career on the line as well as yours; it would be wonderful if you could bring anything to the table besides bored insouciance!”

“What does that even mean??”

“Indifference! Nonchalance! Carelessness!”

“Carelessness!?” Astarion spits, standing up, frustration driving him to his feet. “You think I don't care about you- about your career??” 

“If you do care, you do a mighty poor job of showing it!” Gale fires back, voice raised, eyes flashing a challenge. 

“How dare you,” Astarion snarls, stalking towards him. He looks furious all of a sudden. “How dare you accuse me of not caring. Have you forgotten who pulled you out of that car, Gale? I fucking care.”

Gale is backed up against the meeting room's whiteboard now and he's becoming aware that they’re not talking about the Championship anymore.

“I fucking care, Gale,” Astarion repeats, glaring, fists clenched. 

“Then act like it!” 

*

“Astarion? A word?”

Fucking hell, even the way Gale asks to talk is annoying. How did this guy become the best friend Astarion ever had? How had Astarion ever wanted them to be something more-

Then Gale grabs him by the wrist and pulls him back into the room and it sends white heat shooting through Astarion’s stomach. And Gale is having a go at him about whatever, calling Astarion careless, which is a fucking joke because the idiot would be dead if Astarion didn’t care about him so much, and Astarion is frustrated, and angry, but he’s also- he’s also something else- something aching and urgent- something that’s driving him towards Gale, backing him up against the wall.

Astarion is reminded of the last time they fought like this, in a changing room at the Miami Grand Prix, how he’d willed Gale to close the gap between them, how he’d been too afraid to do it himself, how he’d regretted it later that day when he nearly lost Gale for good. Astarion is tired of feeling afraid. He doesn’t want to feel afraid ever again. 

“I fucking care, Gale,” he repeats, glaring, fists clenched. 

“Then act like it!” 

*

Gale winces as Astarion jerks forward, half-expecting the driver to lash out like he did last time they were in Australia. Instead, Astarion's hands fly up to the sides of Gale’s face and Gale is pushed back into the wall as the driver presses forward, standing on his tiptoes, crashing their lips together in a clumsy, urgent kiss. 

Gale barely has a chance to respond before Astarion steps back, blinking, then turns on his heel, grabbing his bag and racing out of the meeting room, slamming the door behind him.

*

Astarion flies out of the Weave HQ in a panic, striding through the paddock. He doesn’t want to wait for someone to fetch him a car so he runs for the nearest taxi rank, blocking out the colleagues, and acquaintances, and press, and fans who call his name. All he can hear are Gale’s words echoing around his mind.

"It might not be the wisest choice to kiss someone like that without knowing they want to kiss you back."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Crown Towers,” he croaks at the taxi driver, ducking into the seat, heart pounding.

“No worri- oh!” The taxi driver is staring at him in the rearview mirror. “Hello, Mr Ancunin! P2 today, eh? Good on ya, mate!”

“Thanks,” Astarion replies weakly, wondering when everyone’s going to stop fucking calling him ‘mate’.

The driver is clearly an F1 aficionado and he chatters all the way to the hotel. Thankfully, the drive is mercifully short and Astarion massively overpays the man in an effort to get out of the taxi as quickly as possible. 

Ignoring the stares of guests and hotel staff alike, Astarion runs to the lifts and hurries up to his room.

He’s been pacing his suite for all of five minutes, staring blankly out of the huge glass wall that overlooks the streets of Melbourne, when there’s a frantic hammering at the door. 

He opens it to find Gale standing there, hair coming loose from its half-bun, the little Weave logo on his t-shirt going up and down as his chest heaves like he’s run up a flight of stairs. Maybe he has.

“You can’t-” Gale gasps. “You can’t just-”

*

Gale slumps against the wall, panting and lips parted as Astarion darts out of the meeting room. 

For a moment, his head is completely empty. All he can feel is the sensation of pale, elegant fingers entwined in his hair, tugging him forward as cool lips touched his. Gale presses the heel of his hand into his chest, where his heart is pounding dangerously.

Astarion kissed him. His Astarion kissed him the way Gale has wanted him to for so long… and then he left.

“Gale?”

Gale starts, his senses flooding back to him all at once with a roar, the spotlights in the meeting room too bright, the chemical smell of the pristine carpet too overwhelming. He realizes he’s gripping the wall behind him with both hands.

Alfira is hovering in the doorway. “I er- your car’s ready to take you guys back to the- “ She looks around the room. “Where’s Astarion?” 

“I- yes-” Gale grabs his bag from the floor. “He made his own way back. Can we go?”

“Oh,” she seems a bit perturbed by his urgency. “Sure. Is everything… are you okay?”

No, I don’t know, possibly? “Yep!” he says brightly, following her out of the HQ and into the waiting car.

The journey to the hotel feels like it takes forever. There’s a queue for the lifts when he arrives so Gale runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time, feeling regret deep in his knees somewhere around the fourth floor.

He’s so out of breath by the time he gets to Astarion’s door that he has to take a moment, forearm leaning against the wall, chest heaving. It occurs to him that he has no idea what he’s going to say, what he’s going to do. 

He bangs on the door anyway.

When Astarion answers, he’s anxiously biting his lip.

“You can’t-” Gale gasps. “You can’t just-”

“I know!” Astarion cries, walking back into his suite, leaving the door open. “I shouldn’t have- I know- Can we just- Fuck, I’m sorry, Gale. I’ve fucking done it again, haven’t I?”

“What?” Gale has no idea what he’s talking about. He walks into the suite, closing the door behind him, following Astarion into the large open-plan living room. “Done what again?”

“Kissed someone who doesn't want to kiss me back!” 

Astarion looks so distraught that Gale has to stifle the laugh of disbelief that wells up from his chest.

“No,” he shakes his head slowly, voice soft with emotion. “No, Astarion… you haven’t.”

Astarion pauses his pacing then, turning to look at Gale, and Gale sees the moment those gray eyes light up with understanding. When Astarion starts to walk towards him, Gale raises his hands.

“But we can’t-”

“Why not?” Astarion doesn’t stop moving forward and Gale can barely get his words out. 

“Because- we- our jobs- I’m your race engineer. It’s against the rules…”

Astarion pauses, tilting his head, brows knitting together. “Is that all?”

“Astarion…”

“Gale, is that the only reason?”

“Yes, but it’s hardly-”

“Didn’t you have a fistfight with your teammate at this exact grand prix last year?” 

The change of tack throws Gale completely and he stammers. “W- what?”

“Didn’t you drink five cans of beer at a promo shoot in the middle of that same race week?”

“Why-” 

“Didn’t you push your teammate into the sea when he was being annoying?”

“What are you-” Astarion has started to walk towards him again and Gale can’t understand what he’s talking about, can hardly even think straight.

“Didn’t you feed him a fake hangover shot as a prank?”

“I-” Gale laughs breathlessly. “Again, I feel very bad about tha-”

“Didn’t you bribe a receptionist to get into said teammate's hotel room?”

“Yes, well, you were-”

“Didn’t you fail to report him when you knew he’d been given performance-enhancing drugs?”

“Astarion…”

“Didn’t you defy team orders so that he could get his first-ever win at his home race?” Astarion comes to a stop right in front of Gale. 

“I-”

“My point is,” Astarion murmurs, gazing up at him through his eyelashes. “You’re Gale Dekarios, when have you ever cared about rules?”

He’s trying to sound flippant, Gale knows he is, but Astarion is trembling, his face wracked with nerves. Gale suddenly hates that he's the cause. He doesn’t want Astarion to feel afraid. He doesn’t want Astarion to feel afraid ever again.

Slowly, reverently, Gale reaches a hand forward to cup that beautiful face, allowing his fingers to slip into those curls, inhaling the citrus and herbal scent of Astarion’s shampoo that’s so deliciously familiar now. He gazes into gray eyes and brushes his thumb gently along one high cheekbone. As Astarion’s face begins to break into a grin, Gale leans down and pulls him into a kiss. 

Chapter Text

Gale tastes like cinnamon and honey. Or, possibly, it’s all in Astarion’s head. Either way, he can’t get enough. The kiss in the meeting room had been unsatisfying and brief, driven by months of pure frustration. But then Gale had pursued him to the hotel room — which was actually really fucking romantic — and now he’s touching Astarion’s face and gazing into his eyes and suddenly everything feels… right.

It’s lightning when their lips meet. Lightning and fire and ice all at once. Pleasant shivers caress Astarion’s skin as electricity runs down his spine and heat pools in his stomach. Wanting more, his hands go to Gale’s sides as they kiss, sliding down then up under his shirt, thumbs pressing into Gale’s hip bones before stroking the downy skin above his waistband. 

His teammate grabs his wrists, mumbling against his lips, breath hitching.

“Astarion, wait-”

Reluctantly, Astarion pulls back as Gale smiles at him, eyes slightly glassy. In the burnt orange light of the Melbourne sunset, his skin looks like copper.

“Can we- is it okay if we just- can we slow down? This is all-”

All too fast? All too much? All a mistake?? Astarion gazes into tender brown eyes, every close call between them flashing through his mind. Every accidental touch, every lingering hug, every longing glance. All the times he’d wanted Gale to hold him exactly like this. To kiss him exactly like this. Please Gale, he wills. Please don’t make this another close call.

“-incredible,” Gale finishes, voice hushed with awe. “I don’t want to- to rush it. I’ve wanted this for so long…”

“Really?” 

“Yes!” Gale laughs incredulously, as though it should have been obvious.

Just like that, Astarion is floating again. 

Of course, he’s suspected over the months — hoped, rather — that Gale might reciprocate his feelings to some extent. But then Gale had backed off, pushed him away, held him at arm’s length for so long that Astarion seriously started to doubt his own intuition.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He’s whispering now, clinging to Gale’s hands.

Gale’s smile, when it comes, is sad. “Everything kept getting in the way. My crash and then the trial and then I thought- well, you and Olly-”

“Oh god,” Astarion winces. “I only kissed him because I was- I thought you and Alfira…”

“What? Really??” 

Gale seems so genuinely taken aback that Astarion can’t help but laugh. 

“Bon sang…” He rests his forehead on Gale’s broad shoulder. “We’re fucking idiots.”

He feels the rumble of Gale’s chuckle as warm arms wrap around him. Then Gale’s hand moves up again, gently gripping Astarion’s chin between thumb and forefinger, lifting his face. Gale searches his eyes for a moment before pulling him in for another kiss.

*

Gale is lying on his back on Astarion's bed, not really watching the local news stories that cycle on the hotel room's huge TV. Beside him, Astarion lies, stomach down, idly perusing the room service menu. 

Nothing about the scenario is unfamiliar. They've been this close before, closer even, at various points over the past few months. But every sensation feels novel and thrilling. The warmth of Astarion's body at his side, just close enough to touch. The scent of his hair. The way one of Astarion's hands rests lightly on Gale's stomach. 

Gale turns his head on the pillow, admiring Astarion's profile like it's the first time he's seen it. The soft swell of his upper lip, the way his nose turns up ever so slightly at the end, the crinkle that appears between his eyebrows whenever he has to make a decision. Perhaps it is the first time, really. The first time Gale has truly allowed himself to acknowledge how utterly enraptured he is by his teammate. How often has he pushed these feelings down? How many times has he quashed the urge to kiss him? Gale so badly wants to kiss Astarion now too, and he realizes with a jolt that he can. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, covering Astarion's hand with his own. 

Astarion looks over and smiles and Gale wonders how he ever resisted in the first place. 

“Have you decided what you want yet?” Astarion inclines his head towards the menu but Gale finds himself grinning.

“Yes.” 

He grasps the pale hand on his stomach and uses it to pull Astarion towards him, the younger man laughing as their lips meet. 

“Dork,” Astarion mumbles into Gale’s mouth, but then he’s kissing back with just as much enthusiasm, lying on Gale’s chest, hands in his hair. 

It feels sensational. Unbelievable, really. Gale’s entire world has turned on its head, in the best way possible, in the space of one short evening. This morning, he’d been miserable: nervous about his first race as an engineer, desperate to prove he was up to the task, upset with the tension between himself and his driver. Then Astarion kissed him and it all fell away. Nothing else mattered. Everything in Gale’s life was suddenly… right. 

Above him, Astarion pulls back with a pout, sliding one knee suggestively up over Gale’s thigh. “Still want to take it slow?”

He’s positively purring through kiss-reddened lips and Gale nearly loses his resolve. He wants nothing more than to drag Astarion back down onto his chest, to lose himself in the taste of him, to trace his fingertips down Astarion’s side and under the waistband of his joggers… 

Gale has waited months for this though; one more night won’t hurt.

“Yes,” he groans, reluctantly. “I meant what I said earlier, I want to take the time to do things properly.”

To his credit, Astarion backs off immediately, just as he did half an hour ago when Gale broke away from their rapidly escalating kiss, catching hold of Astarion’s wandering hands to explain that he doesn’t want to rush things between them. He’s heard enough horror stories from Astarion’s dating past, has even witnessed the way Cazador forced his stepson into being with various celebrities and notables like Isobel. Astarion deserves more. He deserves to know what a real relationship is like. He deserves romance. 

So Gale has resolved to take him on a proper date. They have one day off before they have to fly to China and Gale has been planning it for the past 20 minutes. They’re going to visit the Royal Botanic Gardens in the morning, then they’re going to spend the afternoon in the hotel spa before going out for dinner. 

It’s silly. Gale knows he’s being silly. It’s Astarion. They’ve practically lived together. They’ve slept in the same bed multiple times. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that he needs Astarion to know this isn’t just lust on Gale’s part. That this new development between them means something. It means everything.

“Fi-ine. Woo me,” Astarion rolls away, flopping melodramatically onto the crisp white linen of the hotel bed, arms over his face in a mock sulk. “You can start by ordering me a cheeseburger.”

“An excellent choice,” Gale swiftly kisses the top of his head one more time before reaching for the phone on the bedside table. “Hi, can I order two cheeseburgers, please? Room 460. No, that’s all, tha- ow!” A swift kick to his thigh has Gale rolling his eyes. “Wait, with chips, please. Ye- ow! And a chocolate brownie. Tha- ow! With ice cream.”

“Thank you,” Astarion says pointedly as Gale hangs up, grabbing the remote and flicking the TV over to Netflix. 

Gale laughs when he sees Castlevania on the screen again. “You’re sure this is how you want to spend your evening? You don’t want to go out with the others? It’s you they’re celebrating.”

Astarion nods emphatically, scooting over a bit to rest his back against Gale’s chest. “I don’t want to go anywhere. The heat was brutal today. Keeping the car on the track with those tires was fucking exhausting…”

Gale gasps. He knew it. “I told you there was too much deg!”

“Yeah, I know,” Astarion giggles. "Still got P2 though, didn't I?" He ignores Gale's tut, twisting his head around to look at Gale’s face. “Did you want to go out?”

“No,” Gale shakes his head, sliding an arm around Astarion’s shoulders. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Ugh,” Astarion makes a gagging noise. “Five seconds into this relationship and I already want to break up with you.”

“...Relationship?” Gale draws out the ensuing silence, enjoying a bird's-eye view of Astarion’s ears slowly going pink. 

“Well, I mean-” Astarion says eventually, sitting up, looking self-conscious. “I don’t-”

“I’m teasing,” Gale laughs as Astarion rolls his eyes, not quite able to hide the relief that crosses his face. “I’d… I’d like that. If you would.”

Astarion nods slowly before fixing Gale with a stare, his gray eyes suddenly shrewd. “What... what is that going to look like for us, though? A relationship?”

“Much the same as our life now?” Gale jests, but it’s weak. He knows what Astarion means. A relationship — a real relationship — means telling people. It means coming out publicly, even if only by default. It could mean one or both of them losing their jobs. 

When Astarion doesn’t respond, only studying the duvet and twisting his lips in thought, Gale sighs. “I don’t know, Ast. I don’t- I don’t know. Maybe we could- It might be nice to keep things to ourselves for the time being-”

“Keep it a secret, you mean?” 

Astarion’s mood has dimmed and Gale feels awful. He sits up too, taking the driver’s hands. “I’m not ashamed, Astarion. Not of myself or of you. This is just all so new. Telling people… that’s a lot of additional pressure. Not to mention our jobs-”

“Fuck our jobs,” Astarion snaps. “Seriously, I’ll quit. I’ll quit Weave. I’ll call Elminster and quit right now. Stop laughing! I mean it, Gale. I don’t care. I’ll do anything. I’m so- I’m so happy. This is better than driving. Better than winning at Monaco-”

“Okay, okay-” Gale envelops him in a hug, not sure if he wants to keep laughing or start crying. ”Perhaps let’s wait until we’ve been together for at least half an hour before you throw your career down the drain for me.”

“All right,” Astarion shrugs in Gale’s arms. “I can wait another 10 minutes.”

*

“I tried to kiss you in Monaco.”

“No, you didn’t!” 

The next morning, Astarion and Gale walk side-by-side through Melbourne's Royal Botanic Gardens. It’s not as hot today, and a pleasant breeze stirs Astarion’s hair as they take in the lush, tropical greenery around them. He feels more relaxed than he has done in months. It turns out all he'd needed was a good night's sleep at Gale's side, without any of the anxieties or embarrassments that used to come from sharing a bed with his teammate. They hadn't done anything, as per Gale's wishes, but Astarion had woken in the morning to Gale sound asleep and holding his hand.

“I did,” Astarion laughs quietly. “When we were dancing on the table-”

“We bumped into each other!” Gale’s voice is low too, but his expression resides somewhere between scandalized and delighted.

“That’s what you think,” Astarion snickers. “You didn’t notice my very subtle seduction techniques that night, either? I literally asked you to take my clothes off.”

“I-” Gale shakes his head, laughing. “To be honest, I assumed you were winding me up. Having fun at my expense.”

Oh, Gale… Astarion so badly wants to take the idiot’s hand but, though the gardens are quiet on this Monday morning, there are still a few other visitors around and he wants to respect Gale’s desire to keep things private between them for now. It wouldn’t do for them to get papped holding hands like teenagers. Instead, he contents himself with moving closer, just enough that the backs of their fingers touch. 

“I would very much like to kiss you again right now,” he murmurs, enjoying the way Gale can’t contain his resulting smile. 

Gale looks around them. They’re nearing a shady patch of trees by the side of the ornamental lake and there’s no one currently nearby. When he turns back, there’s a glint in his brown eyes that Astarion hasn’t seen for a while. Not since the days when they fought every time they spoke. It’s wicked and delicious. 

“Elminster’s not around,” Gale shrugs with a grin. “So might as well.”

Arousal surges through Astarion as Gale grabs his wrist and pulls him into the darkness of the copse, Astarion’s fists scrunching into Gale’s t-shirt as Gale backs him into the rough base of a tall palm tree, gasping as their lips meet. Astarion slides his hands up Gale’s sturdy chest, interlacing his fingers behind Gale’s neck as the kiss deepens, grinding against the thigh that slips between his legs as Gale presses into him-

The distant whir of a strimmer heralds the arrival of a gardener and Gale breaks away, panting, leaving Astarion equally breathless against the tree. 

“Ah yes, I see what you mean,” Astarion turns and pretends to inspect the palm’s bark as the gardener appears around the corner, trimming the greenery along the edges of the path. “It certainly feels like very hard wood.”

Gale snorts loudly, before hurriedly following suit as the gardener glances over at them with a frown of distant recognition. “Indeed. A large and impressive buttress.”

The gardener shakes her head, seemingly unable to place their faces, and moves on with her task so Astarion and Gale hastily resume their walk too, adjusting their clothes, still laughing like schoolboys.

“You know who else has a large and impressive buttress?” Astarion whispers.

“Stop it,” Gale responds weakly. “I need a cold shower.”

“Will ice cream do instead?”

*

They kiss again when they get back to the safety of the hotel room, tongues still sugar-sweet. Astarion had chosen frozen Greek yogurt in the end, topping it with chopped figs, honey, and cinnamon as Gale watched on with a strange sense of nationalistic pride. His own choice — Earl Grey ice cream with a blueberry and balsamic swirl — was sharp and citrusy with bergamot, his new favorite flavor. The tastes mingle pleasantly together as their fingers intertwine on the bedspread.

They kiss again in the warm turquoise waters of the hotel’s spa, a stolen moment between other guests arriving and vacating the dimly lit pool, their thighs pressed together under the scented surface.

They kiss again when Gale arrives at Astarion’s door, picking him up for their date as is correct and proper, the pair of them furtively glancing up and down the hotel corridor before locking lips up against expensive wallpaper, flowers dangling, forgotten, from Gale's hand.

And they kiss again when they return to the suite, full from dinner and wine-tipsy, after a breathy “Your place or mine?” from a grinning Astarion in the back of the taxi. 

Now, a frisson of nerves makes Gale’s fingers tingle as Astarion takes him by the hand and leads him to the bedroom, sitting him down on the edge of the bed, the low light of the bedside lamp making his hair look golden. 

Slowly, as though mindful of Gale’s trepidation, Astarion crawls onto his lap, knees on either side of Gale’s thighs, pale hands cupping his face. The driver’s high-neck black shirt feels silky under Gale’s palms, and a solitary white curl falls over his liner-ringed gray eyes. He looks absolutely breathtaking and Gale feels suddenly plain in his white button-down and boring trousers.

“Astarion… we don’t- you don’t have to-”

Astarion pauses. 

“Likewise,” His brows knit together as he searches Gale’s face. “I want to though… I thought- but if you don’t-”

“I do,” Gale’s voice is shaky. “I just want things to be perfect for you. You deserve it. I don’t want you to think that I- I don’t want you to feel used-”

“Gale…” Astarion leans in, voice low and soft, their mouths so close that Gale can feel Astarion’s breath on his lips. “You’ve done nothing but take care of me from the moment we met. I know you’re not using me. I want this.”

It’s all Gale needs to hear. His hands encircle Astarion’s narrow waist and he kisses him again, allowing all the weight of his emotion to flood into their embrace. Astarion responds in kind, moaning quietly into Gale’s mouth and writhing in his lap, grinding their hips together in a way that has Gale making similar noises. As Gale feels himself hardening against the friction, Astarion stops, eyes wide.

"Well..." he exhales. “Karlach wasn't entirely wrong with her nickname guesses then?"

“Mm?” Gale is kissing Astarion’s neck, tracing his lips over the smooth skin of his throat, so far gone with the sensation of it that he doesn’t grasp Astarion’s meaning at first.

“GC?” Astarion murmurs lasciviously, with a roll of his hips. “I mean, I thought I felt it that morning on the island but I was worried ‘Giant Cock’ was just wishful thinking…”

“My god, Astarion!” Gale’s face goes hot as he stares up at him. “You- you felt it that morning??”

“Yes,” Astarion cackles. “I must admit, I’m glad it wasn’t a false memory-”

Before he can say anything else, Gale twists his hips and flips Astarion over onto his back, straddling him and pinning his hands to the bed, Astarion shrieking with laughter. “You are incorrigible!”

“I have no idea what that means,” Astarion grins up at him, before biting his lower lip. “But you obviously love it…”

Gale stills for a moment then, just long enough to process that this is really happening. His beautiful, infuriating, hilarious friend — both the bane and the light of his life — is really here, lying beneath him, looking up at Gale as though he’s equally enthralled. 

“I do,” Gale breathes, then he leans down and kisses Astarion again, deeply and more passionately this time, hands slowly going to Astarion's collar, fingers carefully undoing his top button, then the next, and the next, and the next until Astarion’s shirt falls open and he wriggles out of it, tossing it on the floor. 

Gale pulls his own shirt off before going back to kissing Astarion’s neck, the younger man’s breathing growing shallow as Gale’s lips move down over his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. As he explores every inch of soft skin, Gale’s hands move to Astarion’s waistband next, first undoing the button, then the zip. 

He's reminded of the last time he did this, as Astarion lay sulking on his bed in his Monaco apartment. Of how careful he’d been not to touch him as he undid his trousers. Now, Gale deliberately allows his knuckles to brush against Astarion’s erection. When he glances up, as he’d done that night that feels like a thousand years ago, there’s no smug smile on Astarion’s face this time. His lips are parted, eyes wide as he watches Gale slip off his trousers and then, finally, his boxers. 

A small exhale slips from Gale’s throat as he takes in the sight before him. He's seen Astarion shirtless several times but Astarion naked is something else. His limbs are muscled but long and lean, his stomach toned and flat, his arched lower back showing off the slight curve of his hips. He's perfect. Divine, even. Gale is almost afraid to touch him.

“Are you okay?” Astarion has pushed himself up onto his elbows and is watching Gale with evident concern, head tilted. 

“Yeah,” Gale swallows. “Yes. I, ah- I've not done this with a man before, so I, ah-”

Embarrassment heats Gale's face. It's strange, being the inexperienced one for once. As it turns out though, he needn't have worried. Astarion smiles and it's that shy, sweet smile that's rarer than a blue moon and twice as beautiful. 

“It's only me,” he shrugs, as though he could ever be only anything. “Come here.” 

Gale takes the outstretched hand offered to him and moves up the bed until they're both lying on their sides, face to face. Maintaining eye contact, Astarion reaches down and undoes Gale's trousers, an impatient tug on the waistband signaling for Gale to take them and his boxers off. 

Then they're both naked and there's something soothing in doing this with his best friend, the person with whom Gale feels most comfortable in the world. Every touch is both calming and electrifying; he's never felt anything like it. This, Gale thinks through the white noise in his brain, this is the feeling people write novels about.  

Astarion kisses him again and Gale allows himself to relax, caressing Astarion's hip as long fingers start to explore his body, lovingly tracing his chest and scars. In true Astarion style, he's teasing, his fingertips moving slowly. It feels like an age until they're trailing over the hair on Gale's lower stomach, the sensitive skin of his upper thighs, only the lightest touch occasionally brushing Gale's cock. Gale doesn't think he's ever been so turned on in his life.

He's bereft when Astarion rolls away from him, but Astarion is leaning over to his bedside cabinet, retrieving an expensive-looking brown glass bottle from the drawer. It's only when he upends the bottle into his palm that Gale realizes it's lube. 

Astarion must catch Gale's raised eyebrow because he shoots one back in return.

“Always Be Prepared,” he snarks. “I thought you'd have known that, as the world's oldest boy scou-”

Gale cuts him off with a kiss, Astarion giggling against his lips as Gale takes the bottle from him and coats his own palm. Gale loves this, loves that they can laugh together even during their first time, a time that could be so fraught but instead feels as easy as breathing. 

Astarion only ceases his wriggling when Gale reaches down to touch him for the first time. 

“That's enough talking from you,” Gale scolds, his voice gruff, and Astarion dutifully says nothing in return, merely burying his face in Gale's neck and gasping as Gale begins to slowly move his hand, doing some teasing of his own.

It's delightful, the way Astarion writhes under his touch, one slender leg winding around Gale's as he rocks into his hand, eventually — finally — reaching down to stroke Gale too.

They're both panting by the time Astarion pulls back, a sinful grin on his face as he whispers, “Spoon me, GC.” 

* 

“Are you okay?”

It's strange to see Gale nervous. Astarion didn't think his friend had it in him. The race engineer’s usual unwavering confidence seems to have given way to shyness as he kneels between Astarion's parted thighs, one hand on his still-clothed knee, the other tucking his hair behind his ear in an apparently anxious gesture. 

“Yeah,” Gale’s voice is quiet. “Yes. I, ah- I've not done this with a man before, so I, ah-”

Astarion melts. Gale has looked after him, cared for him for so long, and he finally has a chance to return the favor. 

“Come here,” he says fondly and they lie side-by-side, face-to-face, taking the rest of Gale's clothes off.

Then they're both naked, and there's something liberating in doing this with his best friend, the person with whom Astarion feels most comfortable in the world. Every touch is both intimate and electrifying; he's never felt anything like it. This, Astarion thinks through the white noise in his brain, this is the feeling people write songs about. 

Gale's body is still toned, but softer now that he's no longer bound by such an extreme training regime. It's unbelievably sexy and Astarion takes his time tracing fingertips over tanned skin, touching the silvery scars on Gale's chest, the dark curled hair on his stomach, the velvet of his upper thighs. Astarion doesn't think he's ever been so turned on in his life. Every so often he feels Gale's erection twitch against his hand and Astarion lets his imagination run away with him for a moment, imagining seating himself fully in Gale's lap, head flung back-

Another time, perhaps. For now, he reaches for the lube in his bedside cabinet, only wanting to make Gale feel as good as he makes Astarion feel all the time. 

Gale, however, evidently has other ideas. He grabs the bottle as they tease each other and Astarion loves this, loves that they can laugh together even during their first time, a time that could be so fraught but instead feels as easy as breathing. 

Watching Gale leisurely drizzle lube into his palm makes Astarion so painfully hard that it's a relief when Gale eventually — finally — touches him, wrapping strong, warm fingers around him and moving them painstakingly slowly. It feels good but Astarion is craving more. More contact, more closeness. He wants to be held. 

“Spoon me, GC,” he murmurs, rolling onto his side, turning his back to Gale, and grinding their hips together again.

Gale hesitates, his beard tickling Astarion’s ear as he speaks. “I don't- I've never-”

“That's okay,” Astarion whispers. “We don't have to- to do that yet… we can- here-”

He grabs the lube again, trickling it liberally over his thighs before squeezing them together and reaching back for Gale's hips, guiding him forward, humming happily when Gale gets the idea and starts to thrust between them with a groan, at first slow and then faster. One of Gale's arms wraps around Astarion from underneath, cradling his chest, while his other hand slides over Astarion's hip and down his stomach, stroking him again. With every thrust, the head of Gale’s cock hits the base of Astarion’s and it’s driving him wild.

“Fuck, Gale, yes, that's so good, please-” Astarion isn't even paying attention to what he's saying anymore. All he knows is that this is what he's been missing, what he’d wanted every time he climbed into Gale's bed. Gale’s warm hands on him, his sturdy, familiar weight at Astarion's back, it all feels incredible, better than he ever imagined. “Fuck, you're going to make me come-”

*

“Here…”

At first, Gale doesn't understand what Astarion means, thinks he wants Gale to- and Gale doesn’t feel quite ready for that yet, he knows he’d need to prepare Astarion but he’s not completely sure how and he’s terrified of hurting him and-

Gale’s thoughts are starting to spiral again when Astarion reassures him, reaching behind himself and gripping Gale’s hip, urging him forward until Gale’s cock slips between the now-slick supple muscles of Astarion’s thighs and fuck, Gale has never done this before but it feels so good. He caresses Astarion’s side and his smooth stomach before taking hold of him, stroking him in time with his thrusts, mesmerized by the breathy noises Astarion is making as he arches his back into Gale’s touch, head resting against Gale’s shoulder. It’s better than Gale could have ever imagined, what he’d wanted every time Astarion climbed into his bed.

“Putain, Gale, oui, c’est bon, s’il te plait, putain, tu vas me faire jouir-”

Astarion has slipped into French, seemingly without realizing, and it’s driving Gale wild. He increases the pace with both his hips and his hand, feeling his own release coiling in his stomach as Astarion cries out, stomach clenching and whole body shaking. When he moans Gale’s name, voice husky and awe-struck, it pushes Gale over the edge too and he comes across Astarion’s thighs, face buried in the damp curls at the back of his neck.

For a while, they lay there like that, Gale’s arms wrapped around Astarion’s torso, legs intertwined, until Astarion's breathing slows and Gale realizes he's fallen asleep. Feeling a bit guilty about the mess he's made of Astarion's perfect skin, Gale quietly tries to disentangle himself but a lean, pale arm shoots out and grips his hip. 

“No,” Astarion demands, sleepily. 

Gale laughs, kissing his cheek. “I'll be right back.”

*

Astarion is half asleep, mourning the loss of his big spoon to the bathroom, when Gale returns, a towel around his waist and a hot washcloth in his hand.

“Let me clean you up,” he says gently.

Astarion has always loved Gale's voice but now it's even deeper and more gravelly. Paired with the sight of his long wet hair dripping down his naked chest, the sound turns Astarion on all over again. 

He rolls onto his back, watching with curiosity as Gale sits on the bed next to him and starts to wipe him down. No one has ever done this for him before. The hot cloth feels good on his sensitive skin and Gale is tender and meticulous. It's a million miles away from the sad, solitary showers Astarion is used to, filled with shame and regret. 

Gale's eyes flick up to meet his, expression faintly amused. “Again?” He nods towards Astarion's evident renewed arousal. 

“Well,” Astarion puts his hands behind his head. “You're very attractive and we have a lot of catching up to do.”

“You think I'm attractive?” Gale pauses his ministrations for a moment to grin up at him and Astarion snorts.

“No, Gale. I'm sleeping with you because I admire your race strategy.”

Gale frowns. “You don't admire my ra-”

“Oh my god, yes, I also admire your race strategy,” Astarion sits up and grabs the cloth, throwing it at Gale while he laughs. “I'm clean, come back to bed.” 

“Fine,” Gale discards both towels and Astarion swallows at the sight of him as Gale switches off the bedside light and climbs back under the duvet, a few droplets of water still clinging to the silver-streaked hairs on his chest, shining in the moonlight that now bathes the room. “Though I’m afraid I don't have your stamina-”

“Bah,” Astarion shrugs dismissively, rolling onto his side and pulling Gale into spooning him again. “I can wait. It's not your fault you're so decrepit…” 

*

“Thank you ever so,” Gale chuckles, curling around him once more, the coolness of Astarion's skin pleasant after the heat of the shower. “We have a few hours before the flight tomorrow, I'm sure I can make it up to you then.”

“Sounds good,” Astarion mumbles into the pillow, apparently half-asleep again already. “‘Night, GC.”

Gale rests his cheek against Astarion's, pulling him close, fighting the drooping of his own eyelids, wanting this moment, this feeling, to last forever. 

“‘Night, PC,” he murmurs with a smile.

Chapter Text

“Do you miss it?” 

Elminster leans against the bar in Weave’s motorhome hospitality room, arms folded. Like Gale, his gaze is directed up at the large flat-screen TV on the wall, which currently shows Astarion and Tefoco being interviewed out on the grid. 

The volume on the television is turned down, but Gale has participated in enough race days to know what Astarion will be hearing right now. The interviewer’s questions, echoing around the huge crowd. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people screaming things like 'Good luck today, Astarion!’, or ‘P1 Ancunin!, or ‘I love you!’. So odd that strangers feel comfortable shouting at Astarion the very thing Gale wishes he could work up the courage to say out loud. 

“I miss driving,” he admits, turning to his boss after thanking the barista for his tea. “Not all the rest of it, if I’m being honest.”

Gale is being honest. He never cared for the fame side of being an F1 star very much. He hated the incursions into his private life, the way the tabloids went mad when the rumors emerged about his and Mystra’s relationship. He doesn’t even miss the money, really, although that might be because he invested wisely during his time as a driver, not wanting to make the same mistakes as his father. As a race engineer, his salary is still good; he’s already got more than he’d ever be able to spend anyway.

The driving though? Sometimes he misses it so much it hurts. 

It’s hit him harder than he expected over the last few weeks. Amid the trial ending and their relationship beginning, Gale has been so focused on Astarion for so long that he completely forgot to check in with his own feelings. Instead of processing the loss of his old career, he threw himself into the new one. His mother has asked, of course, as has Tara. Gale always responded with enthusiasm about the change of role. Now that they’re a couple of races into the season though, he sometimes wonders whether he was being entirely truthful with them or himself. 

On a logical level, he knows he can’t drive again. Knows it’s not worth the risk. But it’s difficult when he feels so good, so healthy. It’s painful to take part in strategy meetings, and to be in the garage, and to help get the car set up — only to watch Astarion climb into it instead. 

There’s a closeup of the driver on the screen now, and it distracts Gale from his maudlin musings. Astarion looks so beautiful, nose and cheeks slightly flushed in the crisp morning air, his Weave jacket zipped up to his chin against the cold, purple cap rammed down over unruly curls. Gale can’t help but smile, thinking about how he snuck into Astarion’s room last night after the rest of the team went to bed. How they did little but hold each other and talk, the driver not in the mood for more after a stressful day at the track. How Astarion had kissed him, like he never wanted to stop when Gale said he needed to go back to his own room lest they get caught. How Gale had gone to sleep with a grin still stretching from ear to ear.

The interviewer is talking now, evidently asking some inane question judging by the look on Astarion’s face. He’s never quite returned to the level of easy charm he used to display during media obligations when they first started driving together. Gale isn’t sure if it's because of the way the press treated him during the trial, or whether he’s simply more comfortable being himself these days, without the threat of punishment from Cazador hanging over his head. Astarion does seem unusually reticent today though, even for him…

“Can we have a quick word about Ancunin?” Elminster lowers his voice amid the hubbub and chatter of the rest of the team, and Gale finds himself flushing slightly, apprehension welling up at the back of his throat. “In private?”

“Of course,” Gale swallows nervously, following Elminster up the stairs to his small office, shutting the door behind them both. 

The Team Principal gazes out of his window at the busy paddock below, hands laced behind his back. “You two are close now, are you not?”

Anxiety prickles over Gale’s skin. “Yes, we are… friends.”

“Then-” Elminster turns. “-do you have any insight as to what’s going on with him?”

“...What do you mean?” It’s taking everything in Gale’s power not to stammer.

“He’s not fast enough, Gale.” The TP’s gaze is piercing. “His entire performance this week has been haphazard at best. He seems… distracted. Has anything changed that you’re aware of?”

“I-” Gale shifts guiltily. 

Elminster’s right; Astarion has been behaving strangely this week. When they’re alone together, he seems fine — happy, even. At work though, he’s been quiet. His lap times during practice were awful and then he didn’t even make it into Q3 during quali, which is so unlike him. His driving is slow, wary, cautious where he once took risks.

When they talked about it last night, Astarion blamed the uneven track for his performance. Gale had wanted to note that the driver had no issues with the same circuit last year, but Astarion was so stressed about starting the race in eleventh place that Gale didn’t have the heart to make the observation out loud.

Not least when he’s worried that Astarion’s troubles might be his fault.

Is Astarion distracted by their relationship? Or is he secretly unhappy? Disappointed with having to hide who they are? Bored of Gale already? 

When Gale doesn’t respond quickly enough, Elminster sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“We are all very sympathetic to everything Astarion went through last year, of course. But that sympathy only goes so far for our stakeholders, Gale, for Ao-”

“It’s only been four months since the end of the trial!” Gale interrupts, indignant. “A lifetime of abuse isn’t something you get over in less than half a year-”

“You’re soft on him.”

“What??” Gale feels his face go hot as Elminster shoots him a quizzical look. 

“I said, you’re too soft on him.”

“Oh.” For god’s sake, Gale, get a grip. “I just- I know what he’s been through-”

“Everyone on the grid has problems, m’boy. Astarion can either let his ruin his career, or not.”

“I-” Gale sags. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Please do.”

He feels Elminster’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he leaves the office, clammy palms near slipping on the handle of the door. 

*

“And Astarion, P11 — talk to us about that quali result. Were you hoping for a better start this weekend?”

Were you hoping for a better start… Astarion fumes as he walks back to the garage with Oliver. What a stupid fucking question. ‘No,’ he’d wanted to reply. ‘I was hoping for a worse start because I just hate winning, you know??’

Instead, he’d given the interviewer what Gale calls ‘one of Astarion’s looks’ and answered: “Well… yeah.”

The roar of laughter from the crowd had been gratifying at the time but the wall of noise only serves to stress him out further now. Amid the cheering, a few particularly loud screams ring out. “Don’t give up, Ancunin!”, “I love you, Astarion!” He waves, a forced smile on his face, trying not to think about how odd it is to hear those three little words being shouted by everyone except the person he wants to hear them from. 

He’s treated to a few sympathetic smiles and pats on the back as he mopes through the garage. Most of the team’s attention is still on the big screens that are replaying Tefoco’s fastest lap in Q3. His teammate is driving brilliantly this weekend, Astarion notes with no small amount of bitterness. Oliver clearly isn’t suffering from whatever malady is afflicting Astarion. Whatever curse he has that just won’t let him be happy.

Astarion looks around for Gale but the race engineer is nowhere to be found; he’s probably in a strategy meeting or doing a last-minute track walk. This too is irritating. They’ve barely had a moment to themselves all week, the previous night’s rushed rendezvous barely affording them enough time to catch up on each other’s day, let alone delve into whatever it is that’s making Astarion drive like pure shit. When Gale tentatively brought it up, Astarion blamed the track tarmac, knowing that Gale wasn’t buying the lame excuse for what was wrong with him.

Because the truth is that Astarion doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He’d been in such a good mood when they arrived in China, still on a high from the perfect day in Melbourne, ecstatic when Gale allowed him to send a selfie of them to Morena, to tell her Gale is his boyfriend. 

Then he’d climbed into the car the following day and everything had fallen apart. 

Steering felt impossible all of a sudden. The corners of the circuit were too tight, the straight had too much crosswind, he kept imagining he was losing grip in the tires, although all of the data (and Gale’s patient reassurance) said otherwise. He couldn’t bring himself to pick up his speed. It was like he’d forgotten how to drive entirely.

The next practice was just as bad, as was the one after that. Quali was even worse. Now it’s race day and Astarion’s heart hasn’t left his throat. His stomach hurts and he can’t eat for the anxiety of it all, can barely even bring himself to talk in team meetings. 

The noise and the burnt rubber smell of the garage makes him feel nauseous and he tells Alfira as much, ignoring her pleas to come and sign merch for half an hour in favor of heading up to his changing room early. The space is small — just a vanity desk, a small table and chairs, and a tiny bathroom — but it’s private at least. Astarion gratefully closes the door behind him, leaning against it with a pained sigh.

It’s not until he’s zipping up his race suit, staring at his reflection, willing himself to calm down, that a quiet knock at the door heralds Gale’s arrival.

“You okay?” 

In the mirror, Astarion sees Gale slip into the room, the concern on his face only serving to irritate Astarion further. 

He shrugs in response. 

Frowning, Gale shuts the door behind himself and sits on the edge of the table, arms folded. “Talk to me.”

Astarion keeps his eyes on the mirror, pretending to fuss with his hair. “What would you like to talk about, darling?” 

“You don’t have to do that with me, Ast…”

“Don’t have to do what?” 

“Pretend that everything's fine-”

“All right,” Astarion snaps. He doesn't even know why he's being like this. He doesn't want to fight with Gale. But he's so embarrassed, so ashamed of letting everyone down that it's easier to lash out than be honest. “The car’s a piece of shit.”

“No, it’s not,” Gale is infuriatingly calm. “Try again.”

“Oh!” Astarion scoffs in disbelief, glaring at him in the mirror. “I suppose it must be me then? I’ve lost my touch??”

“Ast,” Gale tilts his head, looking unimpressed. “You’re one of the best drivers I’ve had the privilege of watching race. One bad week doesn’t mean you’ve lost your touch. But if there is something wrong, something that’s bothering you, you can talk to me abou-”

“I’m scared, okay??”

*

Gale can tell, from the minute he walks into Astarion’s room, that something isn't right. The driver is staring listlessly at himself in the mirror, hands toying with the velcro fastening at the neck of his suit, doing it up and undoing it again, over and over. 

And Astarion tries to downplay it, tries to deflect, but Gale knows him well enough by now. It’s obvious that he’s feeling embarrassed or ashamed, so Gale perseveres and-

“I’m scared, okay??”

The words lash out in classic Astarion fashion, like a whip, but Gale can see the truth of them in gray eyes. He’s witnessed Astarion afraid before and he recognizes that same expression on his face now. 

“Okay…” The driver still won’t look at him so Gale gets up and takes him by the shoulders, turning him around. “Scared of what?”

“Of crashing!” Astarion exclaims, arms tense under Gale’s palms. “Obviously!”

“Oh,” Gale frowns, searching the driver’s face, trying to work out what’s going on, trying to parse through all the complicated layers that Astarion hides behind. “Well, that’s… eminently reasonable. But you’ve never been scared of crashing before-”

“I never had anything to live for before.”

It slips out quietly and with lowered eyes, but it may as well have been a gut punch for Gale, the way it takes his breath away. He never had anything to live for before…

Gale wants to pull Astarion into an embrace but Astarion looks like he wants to keep talking so Gale merely slides his grip down the driver’s arms to take hold of his hands.

“I've been trying to work out what's wrong and I think I've gotten scared,” Astarion continues, still staring at the floor. “I never used to feel fear when I was driving. I used to be reckless, really. I didn’t fully realize it at the time but now I think it- it’s because I didn't care about dying. Some- some of the days with Cazador I was- I was all but begging for death anyway.”

“Ast…” It’s so painful to hear that all Gale can do is repeat his name, squeezing his hands, trying to convey the depth of his caring through touch alone. 

“Don’t,” Astarion's voice is fierce. “Don’t pity me, Gale.”

“I’m not. I’m not, I promise-”

“I’m fine, it’s just that-” Astarion pulls away slightly so he can finally meet Gale’s eye. “Now I have something to live for and it’s making me- I’m scared of losing it- losing you. I can’t- There was always so much… so much shit before. I suppose I felt like I was… I don’t know, buried underneath it all for so long. Trapped in the dark. But you- you’re like… like sunshine, Gale… Fuck,” He stops to laugh with a self-conscious shake of his curls. “I’m so bad at this…”

“I love you.” 

Astarion freezes. “I- what?”

Gale didn't mean to say it like that. Not in Astarion's cramped driver's room a mere hour before the Chinese Grand Prix. Now that he's said it out loud though, he realizes how true it is, so he says it again. 

“I love you.” 

Astarion stares at him, eyes bright. “Gosh, darling. We’ve barely been together a week.”

Gale laughs. A year ago, a comment like that would have floored him. Would have broken his already shattered heart. Now though, he can see that Astarion is only teasing because he’s overwhelmed, can see that he’s welling up.

“Oh, I’ve loved you for a lot longer than a week,” Gale chuckles. 

He’s met with the unstoppable force that is one of Astarion’s kisses, hungry and wanting, as though he’s trying to consume Gale’s very essence. 

“When I,” Astarion pants in-between, arms wrapped around Gale’s neck. “Told you. On the beach. After the- In Monaco- I meant it. Really meant it, I mean. Not just. As a friend. I love you. I love you too, Gale.”

Gale winds fingers into Astarion’s hair, kissing him back just as eagerly, cradling that beautiful face between his palms as though he’s trying to hold on to this precious gift that he’s never truly been given before. Mystra’s ‘I love you's' were passionate but so fragile, so conditional. Gale used to tiptoe among them, terrified of breaking one. Astarion's burn just as brightly — brighter, even — but they feel more authentic, more soothing. The cool, unwavering light of a full moon in place of a raging inferno. 

Astarion loves him. Astarion loves him even though Astarion is vibrant, and talented, and perfect, where Gale is washed up and broken. Astarion loves him anyway. Gale can’t quite believe it. 

They’re pressed into the vanity desk now, Astarion’s back against the mirror, Gale surging forward between his parted legs, and he can feel the driver’s arousal through his racing suit. With a smile, Gale trails kisses up Astarion’s sharp jawline, sliding a hand down the front of the suit to cup his erection, whispering into his ear. 

“Naughty.”

To his delight, Astarion whimpers. 

“Gale, we should-"

“I know, I know-” Gale is pulling away when Astarion grips into his shirt. 

“No,” he growls. “I was going to say we should lock the fucking door.”

*

The last person to tell Astarion that they loved him was his mother. A well-dressed blonde woman with a neatly pressed skirt and an overnight bag, bending down to plant a kiss on a forehead covered with tousled white curls. “I love you, my little star."

Even then, he was so young when she left that he wonders if he invented the memory. Hashed together a patchwork of scenes from various movies, perhaps. Because it wasn’t calm like that when she was taken away. The memory clashes with others, more awful ones in which he sat on the stairs with small fingers pressed into his ears to block out her wailing.

He hasn’t realized how much he’s craved those words until Gale says them now, in his ineffably Gale way: open and honest and utterly heartfelt. 

“I love you.”

It’s almost more than Astarion can bear and — stupid idiot that he is — he makes a joke about it. 

“Gosh, darling. We’ve barely been together a week.”

Astarion is preparing to backtrack, to apologize, when Gale merely laughs at him. 

“Oh, I’ve loved you for a lot longer than a week.”

It’s said simply, easily, but it hits Astarion like a gut punch, taking his breath away. I’ve loved you for a lot longer than a week…

The ensuing rush of emotion has Astarion pulling Gale towards him, wrapping eager arms around his neck. And Astarion tries, he tries to explain that he loves Gale too but his words never feel good enough, never come as easily as they seem to for Gale, so he shows him with kisses instead.

Gale loves him. Gale loves him even though Gale is brilliant, and strong, and perfect, where Astarion is fucked up and broken. Gale loves him anyway. Astarion can’t quite believe it. 

He’s never considered himself someone who gets particularly turned on by romance, but that thought alone gets Astarion hard as he and Gale press against each other, mouths and lips and tongues moving frantically together. Gale clearly notices because he stops, slides a hot hand over Astarion’s clothed erection, murmurs ‘naughty’ in Astarion’s ear in that filthy low voice of his and it takes everything Astarion’s got not to come there and then. 

“Gale-” Did he just whimper?? “We should-”

Gale misunderstands and tries to stop and Astarion’s voice, when it comes out, is animalistic in a way he’s never heard himself before.

“No! I was going to say we should lock the fucking door.”

*

Gale can’t help it, Astarion’s voice goes right to his cock and he’s stumbling towards the door, slamming the lock home while Astarion laughs breathlessly behind him. When Gale turns back, the driver is resting against the dressing table, hands gripping its surface, watching Gale with the most indecent look on his face. And, this time, Gale approaches slowly, drinking in the sight of him, his flushed cheeks and tousled hair, the way his head tips to one side and his eyes close and his lips part with a gasp when Gale reaches up for the velcro fastening around his collar, gently pulling it open to expose the hollow of his throat.

When Gale kisses the smooth, pale neck underneath, Astarion lets out a moan so loud that Gale is sure someone is going to hear them. He lifts a finger to Astarion’s lips, savoring the plush feel of them against his skin.

“Shh… Be quiet, my love.” 

“Make me.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Astarion opens his mouth and sucks on Gale's finger.

Gale might black out for a bit, or glaze over, he’s not sure, but — whatever happens — it must show on his face because Astarion breaks out in a grin that’s so self-satisfied, Gale decides something needs to be done about it immediately. 

“I said,” Gale leans forward to murmur in Astarion’s ear, pushing another finger into his mouth. “Be quiet.”

Astarion watches, gray eyes wide, as Gale uses his other hand to undo Astarion’s racing suit, moving slowly, reverently, drawing the zip all the way down his body. It’s only when he slides the fastening over Astarion’s straining erection that Gale removes his hand from the driver’s mouth and wraps his arm around Astarion’s narrow waist instead, supporting him from one side while his other hand pulls up Astarion’s undershirt, slips into his underwear, frees him from its confines. 

“Ah-” Astarion whimpers again, head lolling onto Gale’s shoulder as Gale begins to stroke him. Gale shushes him once more, but it's only half-hearted; the sounds Astarion is making are delicious. He looks debauched like this, slumped against Gale’s chest, forehead pressed into his neck, suit pulled open, the flat expanse of his stomach exposed, skin pink, muscles flexing rapidly beneath Gale’s touch.

Gale keeps his movements slow and deliberate, enjoying the way Astarion’s hips begin to roll impatiently into his hand. He wants more. He deserves more. 

There’s a small noise of protest when Gale lets go for a moment but Astarion quickly gets the idea when Gale seizes hold of his racing suit by the sleeves, helping him to slide it off his shoulders, wriggling his arms free so Gale can keep pulling first the suit and then his underwear all the way down. 

Astarion gasps again as Gale gets to his knees and takes him into his mouth.

*

The nervous Gale from their first night in Melbourne is gone, evidently. Perhaps, Astarion ponders, now Gale has had the opportunity to freely say how he feels, he’s no longer self-conscious about showing it anymore. Whatever it is, Astarion isn’t complaining. His heart pounds in his chest as Gale walks towards him with the most indecent look on his face, as confident hands make short work of the velcro on Astarion’s suit, as Gale kisses his neck. Stubble scratches against Astarion’s skin in the most delicious way and a moan slips from his throat that’s so loud he’s sure someone is going to hear them. Fuck it. Let them.

Gale clearly doesn’t share the sentiment. The pad of his finger is on Astarion’s lips in a flash, breath tickling Astarion’s ear as he tells him to be quiet, calls him ‘my love’, as though that’s going to make Astarion moan any less.

Astarion sucks on his finger to teach him a lesson and is immediately stymied when Gale — fucking Gale — slips another finger into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue and using his other hand to slowly unzip Astarion’s racing suit. Fuck. Astarion is now so hard it’s painful and it feels like an age before Gale finally wraps a hand around his cock.

Gale’s other arm is around his waist and Astarion slumps against his broad chest, burying his face in Gale’s neck, muscles twitching and breath stuttering, hips thrusting into Gale’s fist. When Gale moves away, Astarion whimpers again — apparently, this is something he does now, something Gale does to him — but, somewhere in the bleary, pleasure-induced haze he realizes Gale is undressing him, is getting to his knees. 

When Gale’s mouth — warm and generous and perfect, just like every other bit of him — wraps around Astarion, it feels so good that his knees nearly give way. He clings to the vanity desk for dear life, head tilted back against the mirror, sliding against the delicious wetness of Gale’s tongue, pleasure rippling from the head of his cock and through his limbs, making his skin tingle.

Gale’s hands are wandering, smoothing up and down Astarion’s legs, caressing his hips, pushing against his thighs to reach between Astarion’s legs, and Astarion’s breath hitches as Gale begins to massage him there too. 

“This okay?” Gale's voice rumbles against him and Astarion can only nod, staring down at the wide brown eyes gazing up at him, whimpering again when Gale gently slips a spit-wet finger inside him. Whether by accident or design, Gale’s finger brushes against his prostate and Astarion convulses. 

“Fuck, Gale!” His strangled whisper turns into a yelp as Gale sits back on his heels and pinches Astarion’s inner thigh.

“If you can’t keep quiet…” Gale warns, voice low, breath hot on sensitive skin. Astarion dutifully clamps his own hand over his mouth, moaning into it as Gale chuckles around his cock. Then a finger is pressed against that spot inside of him again and again, so precise and exquisite it can’t be by accident, but how is Gale so good at this? Gale who said he’d never slept with a man before? It occurs to Astarion that he’s probably been studying and the thought makes him want to laugh but then Gale begins to match the pressure inside with the hot, slick movement of his mouth outside and, before long, Astarion is nearly doubled over, hands clutching at Gale’s hair, whispering frantically. 

“Gale- Ah- I- Oh god- I- I’m going to-” 

His cock hits the back of Gale’s throat and it tips Astarion over the edge, his entire body shaking with pleasure as Gale holds his hips steady and swallows.

*

Gale would never admit it to Astarion but he’s done a fair bit of studying in private over the past week. Their first night together was good — wonderful, even — but Gale has never relished being an amateur at anything. 

It seems to be paying off too, if the way Astarion’s legs are shaking is anything to go by. It’s so gratifying having him like this, putty in Gale’s hands, all his sharp edges softened out. He’s slumped against the vanity table now, blushing and trembling as he comes down from his climax, fingers still loosely woven into Gale’s hair. 

“I-” Astarion whispers, eyes closed. “Mm.”

Gale laughs, disentangling himself, standing up, feeling smug, moving forward when Astarion reaches for him, holding the driver in his arms. 

“I love you,” Astarion murmurs, nuzzling into Gale’s neck and reaching for the button on his jeans. Gale catches hold of his hands. 

“I love you too but we don’t have time for that, you’ve got a race to win.”

“Mm, nah,” Astarion yawns, resting his cheek against Gale’s shoulder, stroking a hand lazily up and down his stomach. “Think I’m just going to stay here for a bi- urgh!”

The driver leans back and Gale looks down to see what’s caused him such consternation. Where Astarion had pressed up against him for a hug, there’s a small wet patch on Gale’s shirt. 

“Oh, shit! God damn it..." Gale whispers, holding the fabric away from his skin, trying to wipe off the smear. "No! I can’t go to the pit wall with cum on my shirt! Stop laughing!”

Astarion has doubled over again but with giggles this time, trying to stifle them with his hands as Gale hurries to the small bathroom, running the tap and pulling off his t-shirt, pushing it under the stream of water. It’s no good, there’s a very visible stain. 

He pokes his head out of the bathroom to see Astarion still resting against the dressing table, still half naked, racing suit still around his ankles, eyes still shining with mirth. Such a shit.

“Put your suit back on, you little slut, and go and find me a spare shirt!” Gale whispers, a matching grin on his face.

“What did you just call me??” Astarion lets out a snort of laughter that’s so contagious Gale joins him, the pair of them half-dressed and wheezing, the race, and the anxiety, and the rest of the world forgotten for a brief, beautiful moment.

*

Astarion isn’t sure if it was the orgasm or the laughter or the love, or some heady combination of all three, but he’s never felt so relaxed on a starting grid before. It's as though all of his fear from earlier has melted away. In place of the usual shiver of anticipation, satisfaction cloaks him like a weighted blanket. The car feels more comfortable than ever, the steering wheel sturdy under his gloved hands, his helmet a reassuring weight on his shoulders. 

As a result, he gets off to a flying start. Everything feels easy. Eleventh place rapidly turns to tenth, to ninth, to eighth, to seventh, to sixth, to fifth, to fourth, to third as he catches and overtakes the other drivers effortlessly. 

Gortash coming up on the inside with an impossible amount of speed? No problem; Astarion makes sure to let him pass just before the hairpin on turn 14, watching in satisfaction as the idiot doesn’t leave himself enough time to slow for the corner, crashing off across the gravel. 

“Plan A, Ast,” Gale’s voice over the radio sounds as smug as Astarion feels. “Plan A.”

“Yes, boss,” Astarion purrs. Orchestral music may as well be playing.

He sets his sights on Wyll next, feeling only the faintest rumblings of guilt on Karlach’s behalf when he slides neatly past the Avernus driver.

“That was a good pre-race ritual today,” Astarion hums into the radio, adrenaline coursing through his veins, making him jubilant and reckless. “Most effective.”

He expects Gale to sound flustered but the race engineer is completely calm as he responds. 

“Yes, the exercise was most effective indeed. Though I think you can take a bit more next time.”

It’s the only point during the entire race that Astarion fears he might crash.

There are fifteen laps and Thorm left to go when Gale has Astarion execute the perfect overcut, staying out while the Bane driver pits, not going for the stop until the last possible minute. With fresher tires, Astarion breezes by Thorm into first place without even breaking a sweat. He’s still laughing when he flies over the finish line moments later, Gale’s voice triumphant in his ear.

“That’s P1, Ast! P1!” Gale shouts. “You did it!”

*

When Gale’s accident cost him his career, he assumed he’d never stand on a winner’s podium again, never experience the thunderous rush of a cheering crowd, the confetti, the fireworks. 

Yet here he finds himself, on the pit balcony at the Shanghai International Circuit, on his own little platform alongside the top three drivers, the roar of the fans making his ears ring. Wyll is on the third-place podium directly to Gale’s left, and his old friend can't stop turning and grinning at him. 

As the winners of the race, Weave will be awarded a Constructor’s Trophy. It’s normally Dammon, the team’s lead engineer up here to receive it. Or sometimes Elminster. But, today, the team had collectively nominated Gale.

“This is your win as much as Astarion’s,” the TP was positively beaming as he shook Gale’s hand.

Now, Gale thinks his heart might burst with pride as he watches his lover lift the first-place trophy into the air to a cacophony of applause and screams and fireworks and the overture from Carmen. 

By the time Gale sees Astarion seek him out, a wicked grin on his face, it’s too late. Gale has hardly any time to shield his eyes before the driver grabs the magnum of champagne at his feet and shakes it, leaping off his podium to spray it all over Gale, drenching him from head to toe. Then Wyll joins in, directing his champagne over the pair of them, only Thorm hanging back, sipping from his own bottle with an icy grimace. Gale is gasping with laughter as he takes a swig of Astarion’s champagne and then the driver is in his arms again, squeezing the breath out of him. Gale so badly wants to kiss him but he can’t — not here, not in front of the world. 

Astarion seems to have the same idea because he leans in, keeping a careful, friendly expression on his face as he whispers in Gale’s ear, covering his mouth with his hand to stave off those dreadful lip-readers on TikTok. 

“I’m going to lick this off you later.” 

That said, Astarion smiles politely and claps him on the back, turning away to congratulate Wyll as Gale gawks at him, champagne dripping from his beard. 

Gale is on a high from that comment as much as everything else when he returns to the garage after the ceremony, smiling and accepting congratulations from his own team and the VIPs dotted around. As Astarion is whisked off for more interviews, Gale is wringing out his hair, wondering if he has enough time to shower before the post-race debrief, when a cool voice makes him jump.

“It’s good to see you back up on that podium, Gale.”

The smell of her perfume drags memory after memory from the recesses of his brain in rapid succession, wrenching them from the deep, dark place he pushed them to forget. That perfume mixed with the scent of cinnamon and pine needles, as a seductive voice told him he had the potential to be so much more than a reserve driver, that they had the potential to be so much more together. That perfume mixed with the scent of wine and fresh laundry as he was pushed backward onto the most expensive sheets he’d ever slept on in his life, not entirely certain this was what he wanted but reminding himself that he was lucky to have caught her attention. That perfume mixed with the smell of bleach and stale hospital food as she sat at his bedside and explained that he’d embarrassed her with his failure, that their whole relationship was a mistake, that she’d felt pressured into being with him by the intensity of his affection, affection that she now described as ‘creepy’.

Mystra.

Gale’s head whips around to where she stands behind him. His former TP, his former lover, looks almost exactly the same as she always did — ‘the hands of God and God’s most talented surgeon’, Morena used to say. Mystra is well dressed, in a white shirt and pristine cream trousers, with court shoes and an expensive-looking trench coat thrown over the top. Her brunette locks are in their usual style, sleek and pushed back, not a hair out of place. 

“Though I daresay you look far better in a racing suit…” She’s smiling at him as though they’re old friends, as though there’s no bad blood between them, as though she didn’t nearly ruin his life. 

“Mystra,” Gale chokes out, hating how small his voice sounds, how small she still makes him feel. 

“Hello, Gale. Congratulations for today.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a detail about her outfit that’s throwing him off but Gale can’t quite put his finger on it until he takes in the VIP pass around her neck. She’s wearing a Bane lanyard.

“Do you have a moment to talk?” Her voice is buttery smooth. “I’ve got something of a proposition for you.”

Chapter Text

“Tell me again what she said exactly.”

Astarion is in heaven. Or, rather, he’s lying on Gale’s squishy sofa, in Gale’s ridiculously pretty living room, in Gale’s gorgeous house — which is essentially the same thing. His boyfriend’s house. Boyfriend. It's still funny calling each other that.

It feels real though, now, here. For the first time ever, they don’t have to hide. They can sleep in the same bed without one of them having to sneak out in the morning. They can sit side-by-side on the sofa like this, having breakfast in their dressing gowns like a proper couple. 

Heaven.

They’ve got a precious week off between the GPs in Japan and Saudi Arabia, and Gale had been thrilled when Astarion suggested they spend it back in the UK. Mother’s Day clashed with Suzuka this year, and he could tell Gale was feeling guilty about not spending it with his mum, about not seeing Morena in so long. He’d never ask Astarion to travel unnecessarily between races though, and he wouldn’t go anywhere without him either. So Astarion lied and said he was craving the peace and quiet of The Old Schoolhouse, saving Gale the pressure of feeling like a burden.

Well, half-lied. He never feels as comfortable anywhere else as he does here in Gale’s home. There’s still a chill in the spring air that blows through the French doors (that Gale insisted on opening because ‘it’s the first day of April, Ast!’ and that’s the kind of thing that’s important to him for some reason), but Astarion is wrapped in one of the fluffy robes they stole from the Radisson Blu in Shanghai (that Gale confessed he went back and paid for because that’s the kind of thing Gale worries about). There’s fresh coffee and warm pastries on the table (that Gale ordered from the bakery in the village because Astarion said he missed pain au chocolat after a month of traveling on the other side of the world, and that’s the kind of thing Gale remembers).

Indeed the whole morning would have been perfect if Astarion hadn't mentioned Mystra.

It's worrying, how instantly quiet Gale goes. It’s worrying when Gale is quiet at the best of times, but something's been off ever since his run-in with his former lover and boss. Ever since that bitch stalked him in his workplace, Astarion should say. Surrounded by their teammates at the hotel and on the flight home, they haven't really had a chance to talk until now.

“Just what I told you already,” Gale shrugs further into his own dressing gown. It's a tatty old purple thing that's far too big for him. Once upon a time, Astarion would have cajoled him into buying a new one. Now he finds it rather endearing. It makes Gale look a bit like a wizard. 

“Okay… so, after nearly getting you killed and stonewalling you for two years, she waltzed in, told you she's taking over at Bane, and offered you a job as a driver again,” Astarion can't hide the incredulity in his voice. “Just like that? No other chitchat?”

“Mmhm,” Gale sips his tea carefully.  

“How did she react when you said no?” 

Gale won't meet his eye and Astarion's heart sinks. 

“Gale... You said no, didn't you?”

Gale sighs and sets his tea down on the coffee table, running a stressed hand through his hair. 

“I told her I needed time to think about it.”

Astarion feels a burning frustration that rises in his throat like acid, making him sit up and dig his nails into his palms. You’ve got to be kidding me, he wants to shout. After everything she’s done to you, you want to go back? After your doctors told you that driving again could kill you? And what about me? Do you want to leave me??

Then he sees how ducked Gale’s head is, how tightly his shoulders are wound, how sad his eyes are. As though shouting is exactly what he expects. And Astarion remembers every time he’s been self-destructive or made a stupid decision or acted irrationally himself since they’ve known each other. How patient and calm Gale has always been. How comforting and forgiving. Astarion takes a deep breath.

“Gale…” he scoots forward on the sofa, sliding his toes under Gale’s thigh, taking one of his hands. “Talk to me. Are you really considering this? It’s okay if you are… it’s just that… Mystra… After everything you’ve told me, it’s a shock is all. I only want to understand…”

To his relief, Gale’s shoulders relax a little and he flashes Astarion a small, grateful smile. 

“I know it’s stupid. Trust me,” Gale holds onto Astarion’s hand like a lifeline. “She is the last person in the world I want to work with, I promise. And I have no desire to leave Weave, especially you. But I suppose I… I never thought I’d get the chance to race again. Elminster wouldn’t entertain the idea in a thousand years…”

“There’s a reason for that, mon coeur,” Astarion moves even closer, tucking himself into Gale’s side and slipping his hand into Gale’s dressing gown, caressing the scars on his chest. 

“I know. It hasn’t escaped my notice that Mystra is the only one asking me to put my life in danger again,” Gale leans his head against Astarion’s. “I just… I miss driving, Ast.”

Guilt tugs at Astarion’s stomach. They’ve only properly talked about this once before, when Gale came around to suspecting Cazador might be responsible for his crash. After that, the trial had taken up all of Astarion’s attention and then it had been a mad rush to get ready for the new year. Gale had seemed excited by the prospect of becoming a race engineer. Astarion thought he was excited. He feels awful that he never checked in to see if Gale was really coping with the change. 

“Gale…”

“That’s not to say I don’t love working with you,” Gale adds in a hurry. “I do. Of course I do. I-”

“Hey,” Astarion gives him a squeeze. “Driving’s been my whole life too, remember? I get it.” 

Gale kisses the top of his head. “Thank you.”

“I’m never going to think this is a good idea though,” Astarion pulls back to make eye contact. “Your heart, it’s not safe-”

“I know, I know,” Gale’s voice is placating. “I thought I might chat to my cardiologist first. It has been nearly a year. If he says it’s unquestionably too dangerous, I’ll tell her no.”

He’s doing those damned puppy dog eyes again. Astarion never, ever thought he’d be a sucker for a grown man doing puppy dog eyes. 

“Fine,” he sniffs. “While you’re at it, you should ask your personal doctor too. I’m sure she would have many, many, many words to say about the idea of you driving for Mystra again. Your mother too, and Wyll.”

Gale groans, burying his head in Astarion’s shoulder as Astarion continues talking, trying to ignore the way Gale’s hand has alighted on his bare knee.

“I’m serious,” he protests, as warm fingertips inch up the groove of his inner thigh. “I wasn’t around when you were with Mystra. Obviously, otherwise you would never have looked twice at the old bat–”

“Obviously,” Gale chuckles into Astarion’s neck, his words turning to light kisses that trail down to Astarion’s shoulder and along his collarbone.

“–but you should- you should talk to the people who were around- they- you might-” 

Astarion is fighting a losing battle. Gale’s fingers have reached the apex of his thighs and Astarion suddenly doesn’t have enough breath to finish his sentence. 

“Is this okay?” Gale murmurs and Astarion sighs.

“Yes,” he grumbles because it’s a distraction technique, he knows it is. But as Gale gently pushes him onto his back, puppy eyes replaced by something entirely more carnal, Astarion finds himself quite willing to be distracted.

“But- we- ah- we will talk about this later-” He tries and fails to sound stern as Gale nudges his thighs apart with a knee, knocking one of Astarion’s legs off the sofa. 

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing…” Gale hums as he slowly pulls open the ties on Astarion’s dressing gown.

“What I’m doing??”

“Mm…” Gale replies, eyes running over Astarion’s body with an appreciation that makes him giddy. “You only don’t want me to return to driving because you’re worried I’ll beat you again.”

“Ha!” Astarion snorts, wriggling as Gale begins to kiss down his torso, beard tickling the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. “More like I’m worried you’ll come back and drive into me again.”

This gives Gale pause and his head snaps up. “I beg your pardon; you drove into me!” 

“Shhhh… you’re having memory problems, vieillard,” Astarion tries to push Gale’s head back down but the stubborn bastard puts his years of driver neck training to good use.

“Admit it,” he says, refusing to budge. 

“What??”

“Admit that you drove into me,” Gale settles on his own stomach, forearms resting on Astarion’s thighs, his soft, gorgeous mouth close, so close to Astarion’s already aching erection.

“I would but I’d hate to lie to you, darling,” Astarion impatiently shifts his hips up but Gale holds him down. 

“Are you sure?” he murmurs in his lowest, huskiest voice. “Seems a shame to waste my practiced tongue on this old argument when you could be putting it to better use…”

To illustrate his point, Gale ghosts the tip of his tongue along the underside of Astarion’s cock, smirking when Astarion lets out a high-pitched moan. 

“I’m sure,” Astarion gasps, never sounding more unsure of anything in his life. 

“Very well!” Gale hops briskly off the sofa, retying his own dressing gown and striding away across the living room, leaving Astarion sprawled and gawping. “We can continue the debate after my shower then. I told mum we’d meet her around one, and we’ll probably head to dinner straight from hers, so-”

“Bastard!” Astarion scrambles off the sofa too, giving chase as Gale breaks into a run, laughing. “I’m getting in that shower with you!”

“You’ll have to catch me first!” Gale disappears up the stairs, Astarion close behind. “Maybe you’ll have more luck on foot than you ever did in the car-”

“Bastard!”

*

“Tell me again what she said exactly.”

Gale can see that Wyll is trying hard not to look disapproving. The crease between his eyebrows and the downturn of his pursed lips is giving him away though. 

“Erm…” Gale swirls his wine around his glass, glancing around, conscious of their fellow diners. 

The pub around them is unassuming — misshapen beams, old wooden floors, clean white tablecloths — but the food here is legendary. Good enough to pull a steady stream of London gourmands out of the loving embrace of the M25. The dining room is packed, and the four of them have already drawn several curious glances. Gale isn’t sure if it’s because the other customers recognize them, or because of how beautiful Astarion looks. 

His boyfriend — boyfriend; it still feels peculiar calling each other that — is wearing a pair of long, wide-leg gray trousers that are endlessly flattering, emphasizing his narrow waist where his cream short-sleeve shirt is casually tucked in. He’s stunning. It’s intolerable, having to sit so close to him without touching. Especially after a few days of rare freedom at The Old Schoolhouse. Gale wants to kiss Astarion like he does at home, or hold his hand, or shout to the whole restaurant that they’re together. But he can’t. Because the people around them don’t know. Wyll and Karlach sitting across from them don’t know. The world doesn’t know.

It’s not until Astarion raises an eyebrow at him that Gale realizes he’s forgotten to answer his old friend. He clears his throat. “She wasn’t… overly impressed with the notion…”

“I believe Morena’s exact words were: ‘You will work with that bitch again over my dead body’,” Astarion cuts in, before primly sipping his wine. 

“I fucking love Morena,” Karlach’s swig of her own drink is less graceful. 

“You’ve never met her,” Astarion laughs. 

“No, but she sounds hilarious,” Karlach picks up an olive and pops it in her mouth. “I didn’t even know Xvim was resigning,” she muses. “Why would he leave just when Bane has been doing so well? Weirdly well, considering Gortash is such a shithead, and everything going on with the Thorms…”

Gale had had the same thought about Xvim when Mystra approached him — Bane are on just as good form this season as they had been the last. Their cars are faster than Weave’s, only Astarion’s extraordinary skill allowing him to keep up with their unexpected bursts of speed. Even then, he’d only managed third place in Suzuka, with the Bane drivers nabbing the coveted one-two. 

And all that despite rumors of trouble in the team; the ever-ambitious Gortash is apparently dissatisfied with his role as second driver, while Thorm is dealing with the fallout of Isobel and Aylin going public with their relationship — including a tell-all interview in which Isobel revealed just how hard her father had worked to keep her sexuality under wraps.

“Mystra said Xvim is leaving because of some ethical issue,” Gale shrugs. “A hush-hush controversy. She made it seem like he’d done something wrong but maybe he’s just fed up with them all-”

“Regardless,” Wyll cuts in. “I’m inclined to say I agree with your mum, here. Gale, I’m surprised you’re even giving Mystra’s proposal any consideration at all. After everything-”

“I know, I know,” Gale groans. God, he’s getting tired of hearing the same thing from all of his loved ones. After everything that’s happened, after everything she’s done…

The worst thing is that Gale really does know. He knows they’re all right. He knows it’s a terrible idea. He’s known as much ever since Mystra pulled him aside, walking into a Weave meeting room like she was still the team's TP, setting out her proposition. ‘What better way to make a splash than to fire Gortash and bring you back in his place…’

It was insulting, really. She’d said nothing about his skill as a driver and everything about how much press it would get her when she started as Bane’s new Team Principal after the summer break. She hadn’t once asked about his accident, instead chatting excitedly about how she’d been Bane’s first choice when it came to light that their current TP, Iyachtu Xvim, was resigning. She hadn’t even asked if it was safe for Gale to drive at all — she just waxed lyrical about how other teams had written her off after what happened at Weave but that Bane valued her ability to put her team’s interests above all else. 

‘All else’ including my life, Gale had thought bitterly. He wasn’t lying when he told Astarion she was the last person in the world he wanted to work with.

Yet, for some reason, he couldn’t say no. It’s nothing to do with Mystra at all. He simply can’t stop picturing himself back on that podium. And not on the little race engineer platform at the back either. Front and center. Pole position. Feeling like a god-

“This isn’t…” Wyll is grimacing. “You’re not hoping to rekindle something with her, are you?”

“Gosh!” Astarion turns to him, an elegant hand over his mouth in mock surprise. “I didn’t think about that — are you getting back together with Mystra? I mean, you have been painfully single for such a long time now but, even so…”

Little shit.

“No,” Gale responds drily. “I have no desire to jump into a romance with a colleague ever again. I can't imagine anything worse.”

Astarion kicks him under the table. 

Gale is about to kick him back when he notices that Karlach has gone bright red, choking slightly on her wine. 

“You okay, Kar?” Astarion has seen it too.

“Mmhm!” She’s staring at the tablecloth so hard that it might burst into flames, one hand fiddling anxiously with her napkin.

To Gale’s surprise, Wyll lifts his hand and discreetly places it over Karlach’s, stilling her nervous fidgeting.

“Erm, on that note,” the Avernus driver seems suddenly bashful. “There was a reason we asked to meet you guys for dinner today.”

“Nooooo…” Astarion breathes and Gale glances sharply at him. What does he know that Gale doesn’t? “Wyll Ravengard, you sly dog!”

“What-” Gale will eventually blame the wine for how long it takes him to cotton on. He looks back and forth between Wyll’s hesitant smile, Karlach’s scarlet cheeks, their clasped hand on the stark white linen, and Astarion's delighted gasp before it hits him. “Hold on, you two??”

“April Fools!” Karlach crows, her voice wavering.

“Kar,” Wyll rubs his eyes with his other hand. “It is not an April Fools.”

“Sorry, I panicked...”

“What is going on??” Gale interrupts their bickering as Astarion cries with laughter. “Are you two in a relationship?”

“Keep your voice down!” Wyll glances around in the same furtive way Gale did earlier. “We’re not ready to tell everyone yet, but yes…”

“Since when??”

“January,” Wyll looks so happy. Gale isn't sure he's ever seen him look this happy. 

“Bloody hell!” Astarion exclaims, sparking that faint hint of pride Gale feels when he notices his own verbal idiosyncrasies making their way into Astarion's vocabulary. “You didn't wait long…”

“Well,” Wyll chuckles, embarrassed. “We realized rather quickly that we’ve both been somewhat secret admirers of each other for a long time…”

“It is early doors yet,” Karlach cuts in with a shy nod. “We were tired of hiding though, especially from our friends.”

“Congratulations,” Astarion grins at his old race engineer but Gale thinks he detects a hint of something else in his expression. Sadness perhaps. “You finally bagged him.”

“Shut up, Star!” Karlach swats at him over the table but she’s grinning too, pleased as punch, even more red-faced than before as Wyll gazes at her, equally elated.

“But- I-” Gale is still struggling to catch up. “How- you work together…”

He can feel Astarion’s amused gaze, almost hear the driver in his head, as though they have some kind of telepathic connection. Hypocrite, Astarion’s disembodied voice is snickering. 

Wyll gives Karlach’s hand a squeeze and she smiles at him. “We went and spoke to Zariel together. She wasn’t best pleased at first but I argued that we’ve been doing a good job so far so there’s no reason to stop us from working together now. We just had to agree that Karlach would switch to being Raph’s engineer if that ever changes.”

“That’s wonderful news,” Astarion says pointedly, taking another sip of his wine. “Isn’t that wonderful news, Gale?”

“I- ah- yes! Wonderful!” Gale’s head is spinning. Could it really be that easy? If Zariel — Avernus’ notoriously merciless TP — could be talked around, can Elminster? Just one quick meeting and a blissful end to all this secrecy? Could Gale kiss Astarion whenever he wanted then? Finally hold his hand like Wyll is holding Karlach’s? “I had no idea… But I- I’m delighted for both of you!”

“Thanks,” Karlach smiles again. “Like we said, we’re not really telling anyone yet. You guys are our best work pals though, so…”

“Stop, I’m going to be sick,” Astarion makes a gagging noise and she sticks her tongue out at him as he raises his glass. “To ill-advised workplace relationships!”

“For god’s sake…” Wyll ducks his head, looking around again to make sure no one’s listening before reluctantly clinking his glass against the others, wincing at his girlfriend’s less-than-subtle whooping.

“Right!” Karlach lets out a big sigh of relief, slumping back into her chair. “Can we talk about something else now? Secret relationships are fucking stressful!” 

“Mm!” Astarion makes a non-committal noise into his wine glass and Karlach eyes him.

“What’s going on with you, Ast? Anything strange or startling?”

“Ummm… let me see…” Astarion turns to look at Gale, head tilted and eyebrows raised. “Nothing comes to mind. Can you think of anything, boss?”

Gale knows what Astarion is doing. He’s giving Gale a choice. There’s that disembodied voice again. To tell them or not to tell them? Up to you, darling…

Gale hates himself as he takes another swig of wine and shakes his head. “Er- no, I can’t think of anything either.”

“Well, in that case,” Karlach pulls out her phone. “It’s time for me to read out my new list of guesses! Ahem. Okay: Great Cornering and Perfect Cornering? No? Okay, hang on- wait, wait- Grid Champion and Paddock Champion! Wait- no, listen: Pale Curlyman and Grizzly Companion! Really?? Shit, I thought that was a good one… Argh, fuuuuuck, what does it meaaaaaan!?”

As Karlach continues to read out her GC/PC theories, Gale glances at Astarion but his boyfriend is too busy laughing at the list to notice. Only Wyll meets his eye, flashing him a curiously sad smile.

*

“Tell me again what she said exactly.”

“Nothing!” Astarion throws his rucksack down in the hallway of The Old Schoolhouse, kicking off his trainers, and stomping straight up the stairs.

He's had a shitty day at Weave’s shitty HQ in shitty Milton Keynes with shitty journalists and he's sick of shitty British weather. It's supposed to be spring, yet slate-gray sleet has been sheeting from the sky non-stop for three days. He's wet and he’s cold and he's tired and he's going to get in Gale's massive bath whether they're in the middle of a conversation or not. 

“It doesn't seem like nothing…” Gale follows up two flights of stairs to the master bathroom, leaning against the wall as Astarion flings on the tap in the free-standing tub, dumping an exorbitant amount of bubble bath into the water. 

“Ugh, she just-” He pulls off his soggy clothes and tosses them onto the laundry basket, before hopping into the tub as it fills, enjoying a pleasant shiver as the rising heat warms his damp skin. 

“You’re the only person I know who gets in a bath before it’s finished running,” Gale tuts with a laugh. “Aren’t you cold?”

Astarion sits up, playfully patting the water. “Get in and warm me up then.” 

He pouts, even though he knows he doesn’t have to. Before he’s even finished talking, Gale is stripping off. Astarion shifts forward with a smug smile as his boyfriend climbs into the bath behind him, enjoying the sensation of muscled fuzzy thighs sliding along either side of his, relaxing back against Gale’s solid chest as strong arms wrap around his shoulders. 

“You were telling me what the journalist said,” Gale prompts, kissing the tip of his ear.

“She asked if I had any more ‘stunts’ planned for Jeddah,” Astarion scowls, toying with the bubbles that are building up around them. “Because I wore a rainbow t-shirt last time… Like I only did it as a publicity stunt. She asked me about the ‘LGBT etc debate’ — her words, not mine, by the way. She asked why it matters so much to me, specifically. ”

Astarion knows there have been whispers about his sexuality in tabloids and online forums for as long as he’s been F1. A more recent foray into social media revealed that there are now not only two hashtags for he and Gale (#dekunin and #ancarios — with much fierce debate over which one is superior) but also one for him and Tefoco, one for him and Wyll, and even one with bloody Gortash. There are already multiple edits of him arriving at Suzuka in a cropped t-shirt, overlaid with the song Million Dollar Baby and captions like “Slay” or “CUNTY”.

And Astarion has to admit that he’s leaned into it in the past. He’d been particularly pleased with his interview after winning at Shanghai, when he’d been asked about the pre-race ritual he mentioned to Gale over the radio. 

“I’m sure the other teams are dying to know what this ritual was,” the interviewer had grinned. “They’ll probably want to replicate it with their own drivers!” 

Astarion had nearly choked on his water. “Ah- my engineer just gave me a helping hand today,” he smiled politely.

“I see! It must be useful having a former World Champion in your ear on race day? How's Dekarios adjusting to life as a race engineer?”

“Oh yes,” Astarion had laughed. “We’re both very happy with the switch. He’s extremely versatile and he’s adjusted to this new position very easily.”

Gale had had a few choice words to say about that exchange afterward. 

But that was all in jest. Tongue-in-cheek. Just tenuous enough for plausible deniability. Today’s interview felt different. The memory of the journalist’s smug face surfaces in Astarion’s mind. She was vicious; the condescension in her tone left no doubt as to her intention. 

“I think she was trying to out me,” he murmurs quietly. “Or get me to out myself. On camera.”

Gale’s arms tighten around him. “That is abysmal, we should-” 

“It’s my fault, I’m hardly subtle-”

Astarion feels Gale’s indignation rumble through his chest. “You shouldn’t have to be subtle about who you are-” 

“I don’t want to be, anymore.”

Gale stills behind him and Astarion switches off the tap, awkwardly turning himself round to rest on the other side of that bath so they can talk face to face.

“I think I want to come out.” 

The words leave Astarion’s mouth almost of their own accord. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about coming out before; he has, countless times. It just always felt like a bit of an abstract concept in the past. Something he’d maybe think about after his career in F1 was over. When he no longer had to work in countries where his very existence was against the law. 

Then again, freedom from Cazador always seemed unimaginable too, and look at him now. With Gale at his side, nothing feels impossible these days.

“Publicly, I mean,” he clarifies when Gale doesn’t say anything. “Like Isobel did. Before the choice gets taken away from me.”

“Okay…” Gale nods with a nervous smile. He’s obviously trying to be supportive but Astarion can see the fear in his eyes, can almost hear the overthinking kick in, as though they have some kind of telepathic connection.

“Not…” Astarion reaches over and strokes Gale’s knee. “Don’t worry, I don’t mean us. I only mean me.”

“God…” Gale runs a wet hand over his face and through his hair, slicking it back. “I’m so sorry, Ast.”

“It’s okay-”

“It’s not okay! First the restaurant, and now this. I’m sorry. I never thought myself a coward-”

Gale looks as distraught as he had the night they came home from dinner with Wyll and Karlach. Astarion could tell it was eating him up all throughout the rest of the meal. And in the taxi home, when Gale had reached across the back seat to hold Astarion’s hand underneath their discarded coats, hidden from the prying eyes of the taxi driver who kept staring at them in the rearview mirror. Gale barely got through the door of The Old Schoolhouse before he was desperately apologizing, guilt written all over his face. “I’m so sorry, Ast. I’m not ready…”

“Gale,” Astarion smiles at him fondly now, affection warming him even more than the bath. “You just got into your first gay relationship two weeks ago. Give yourself a break. I've known I was queer since I was a boy. This is just something I need to do for me, I don’t want you to rush anything-"

“I don't want you to do this alone-”

“I'm not alone, am I?” Astarion pokes Gale’s stomach with his toe. “I’ve got you.”

“You do,” Gale grabs hold of his foot, massaging it with strong fingers. “Always, Ast.”

“I know.”

“And I promise I want to- one day, I will-”

“I know.”

They’re quiet for a moment then, Astarion sinking further into the bath as both the hot water and Gale’s foot massage leech the tension of the day from his muscles. 

Gale seems lost in thought, only speaking up when the water has started to cool and his fingers have begun to prune, rough against the soles of Astarion’s feet.

“What about Jeddah?”

Astarion hums thoughtfully. “Mm.”

“We could talk to Elminster, maybe ask the FIA for an exemption? A boycott?”

“I’m not sure…” 

“Ast,” Gale looks concerned. “I’m not completely up to date with the laws there but I’m fairly sure it’s illegal to be gay- I don’t know-”

“I don’t know either. But if anyone can go safely, as a queer man, it’s got to be me — right?” Astarion wishes he was as confident as he sounds. “F1 is worth millions to the Saudi government, they’re not going to arrest or deport one of the sport’s leading lights-” 

Gale snorts. “Maybe not for being gay but possibly for being hopelessly self-important…”

“For being hopelessly correct, you mean.” Astarion splashes him, before tilting his head back against the rolled top of the bath, watching icy rain hammer against the bathroom’s skylight above. “Imagine what that would do for representation… in Saudi Arabia but everywhere else, too. Imagine if you'd seen an openly gay driver on the grid when you were growing up — would you have felt the need to hide who you are?”

“...Maybe not,” Gale admits. “But I’m worried-

“I know…” Astarion sighs. “I just can’t- I can’t let my life be ruled by fear anymore…”

There's a pause before Gale speaks again, his voice rough. “I am so proud of you.”

When Astarion glances back at him, Gale's eyes are welling up, the sappy thing. God, Astarion loves him so much.

“Oh, you're to blame entirely,” he sniffs. “Something about you makes me want to be a better person for some reason. Or to try, at least. It's disgusting really.”

Gale laughs, dashing the back of his hand across his eyes, making them wetter than they were before. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Astarion shivers. “Though not enough to stay in this ice bath any longer.”

“Oh! I do beg your pardon,” Gale scrambles out of the tub, grabbing Astarion’s fluffy dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door, holding it out as Astarion emerges, bundling him up. “Wait one second, please…”

Astarion pulls the robe around himself, laughing as Gale throws on his own dressing gown and hurries off into the adjacent room. There are some thumping and clanking noises, and then a delicious smell of smoke that tells Astarion that Gale is lighting up the old wood burner in his bedroom.

“Come in!” 

When Astarion walks through the door, the stove is already radiating heat, and Gale has lit candles around the room. 

“Welcome to your cozy boudoir,” Gale gestures grandly at the bed. “If Her Majesty would like to retire for the evening, I can arrange for dinner in bed. Maybe with a nice wine pairing, since we’ve got the day off tomorrow.”

Astarion sits on the edge of the duvet, taking a moment to marvel at his life, at the ridiculously handsome man standing before him, hair still wet and tousled from the steam of the bath, goofy grin on his face. 

“I can think of other things I’d rather put in my mouth right now,” he says with an innocent smile, enjoying the way Gale’s expression rapidly shifts from shock to embarrassment to elation. 

“I see,” he coughs as Astarion crawls over the bed towards him. “Well, I can probably call down to the kitchen and- ah-”

Astarion tugs the purple robe open, kneeling on the bed and grinning up at Gale as he sucks him between his lips, enjoying the way Gale’s eyes close and his words falter.

“And- ah- ask the chef to ah- delay the meal- ah- god, Ast…”

Astarion is almost tempted to tease like he was teased the other day, to hop off the bed and saunter out of the room but Gale looks so good like this, head tilted back and lips parted, that Astarion can’t bring himself to. Instead, he slides his mouth off his boyfriend and reaches over to the bedside table, feeling around for the lube he knows is there, setting it down on the bed. 

“Sit down,” he instructs, and Gale obediently sits next to him, leaning back on his hands, dressing gown falling off his shoulders, eyelids heavy. 

Astarion stands and slips off his own robe before slinging a leg over Gale’s hips, sitting in his boyfriend’s lap. When Gale’s hands inevitably reach for his waist, Astarion smiles and catches hold of one of them, picking up the lube and liberally — deliberately — coating Gale’s middle and index fingers. 

Wrapping his arms around his boyfriend’s neck, he leans forward and purrs in his ear. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

Gale swallows heavily. “Are- are you sure?”

They’ve done most things by now but not that, instead working their way up to it, getting to know each other’s bodies as well as they know their minds. But Astarion has privately fantasized about this moment — about sitting in Gale's lap just like this — for a long time, long before they ever even acknowledged their feelings for one another. 

“Mmhm,” Astarion kisses Gale's neck, rolling his hips so his own hard cock presses against his boyfriend's. “Very sure.”

Gale lets out a little noise that’s somewhere between a grunt and a groan. A noise of acquiescence, perhaps. Or surrender. With what feels like veneration, he runs his now-slick hands over Astarion’s sides, and then his behind, and then between his cheeks. They kiss again as Gale begins to work him open so slowly and so carefully that Astarion eventually rocks back on his fingers with a whine of frustration, causing Gale to chuckle into his mouth. 

“Impatient,” he scolds, tracing his lips over Astarion’s jawline and down his throat, finally sliding his fingers free and gripping Astarion’s thighs with both hands, raising him up. “I’ll take it slow…”

Astarion almost scoffs; he’s not the one who’s new to this, after all. But then Gale presses up against him, starts to pull Astarion down by the hips, and Astarion gasps, supporting himself with his forearms on Gale’s shoulders, resting their foreheads together.

“F-fuck-”

“You okay?”

“Yes-”

“Should I stop?”

“No.”

Gale laughs again, drawing Astarion into another kiss as he slowly eases into him until Astarion is fully seated in his lap. It feels divine, all of it: the sensation of Gale inside him, the stretch, the way Gale holds him tight as he breathes through it, fingers running soothingly up and down Astarion’s spine, tracing his scar. 

“You’re so big,” Astarion laughs breathlessly against Gale’s lips, eyes still closed.

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry!?” Astarion’s eyes fly open to find Gale grinning back at him. “Ridiculous man.”

“This feels incredible,” Gale hums, kissing him again. “You feel incredible-” 

“Likewise,” Astarion rolls his pelvis and Gale’s words trail off into another moan that rapidly turns into labored breathing as Astarion begins to set a steady pace, first slowly undulating his hips, then lifting himself up and down on his knees, moving more quickly, eventually finding the angle that has the head of Gale’s cock brushing against his prostate with every movement, throwing his head back, fingers laced behind Gale’s neck. Gale begins to match his rhythm, thrusting upwards until Astarion’s legs become jelly, supporting him with one hand while the other reaches between them to stroke Astarion’s cock, kissing his chest, sucking and nibbling at his nipples, sending almost unbearable pleasure tingling through Astarion’s entire body.

Thighs shaking, Astarion feels his orgasm rapidly building at the base of his spine, looks down to find Gale gazing up at him, pupils blown, expression awe-struck. Love. So much love. On both their faces. It’s overwhelming. Astarion wants to cry. 

“I- fuck- I fucking love you,” he whispers, bearing down as Gale groans low and loud, hips stuttering, a few forceful thrusts that have Astarion crumpling with the strength of his climax, burying his face into Gale’s neck, whining into tangled brown hair as he comes pressed against the clenched muscles of Gale’s stomach. 

“I love you,” Gale echoes, voice hoarse as they both grow still, breathing heavy, skin slick with sweat. “Gods, I love you.”

Later, when they lie on the bed in a jumble of bare limbs, eating pizza and washing it down with a smoky red that’s altogether too fancy for the pairing, Astarion rolls his head on Gale’s shoulder to look up into his face. 

“You said ‘gods’, earlier,” he snickers. “Plural.”

“Did I?” Gale laughs. “Well, I suppose some things feel so divine that it seems like the work of more than just one.”

“Nerd,” Astarion nuzzles back into Gale’s shoulder, privately thanking any gods that might be listening, just in case. 

*

“Okay, one more time, Astarion. Tell me again what you just said exactly.”

Astarion takes a deep breath as Alfira fiddles with the tripod-mounted phone once again, hits record, then gives him a thumbs up. 

Gray eyes look directly into the camera. 

“Hi, my name is Astarion Ancunin and I’m a driver for Weave Racing. I am also queer.”

Gale waits by the door of the small meeting room in Weave’s HQ, watching Astarion film his statement. Alfira had advised a simple setup in the end: a video shot in greyscale against a plain white wall. No distractions, just Astarion’s message. 

And what a message it is. Gale has helped him draft it up over the past couple of days, the pair of them going over and over every sentence until they both know it by rote. Gale can almost mouth the words alongside Astarion as he speaks.

“Over the past couple of years, during my time in F1, I have seen plenty of conjecture about my sexuality. I have read tabloid headlines calling me ‘flamboyant’ or ‘effeminate’. I have read social media posts speculating that I'm gay. I want to set the record straight: I am pansexual. That means that I’m attracted to people regardless of their gender or sex. 

“I'm not announcing this because I've been forced into it or outed. It's quite the opposite. As I’m sure many of you are aware, I’ve not always had a great deal of control over my life. This is a part of myself that I’ve been compelled to keep hidden in the past — but I no longer wish to hide.

“It felt especially important to talk about this in the lead-up to the Grand Prix in Saudi Arabia, a country where it is against the law to be gay. Where it is illegal for me to be who I am. For a long time, I wondered if it would be better to not race there at all, in protest and for my own safety. However, after a great deal of thought and consideration, I have decided that I won’t be boycotting Jeddah this year — unless I am told I am not permitted to go. As Formula 1 drivers, we race in many countries that are problematic for many different reasons. In my own home country, Monaco, for example, same-sex marriages are still not recognized and trans people are not allowed to legally change their gender.

“I hope that being open about who I am will encourage the start of a wider conversation with the FIA about the direction of this industry, and about the regimes the sport willingly works with. I hope to encourage others to raise their voices, and I hope to show support for and solidarity with those of us around the world who are not represented by their governments. 

“And I will race in Jeddah — if I can — as myself: an out and proud queer man with rainbows all over my fucking car.”

Gale lets out an involuntary sound that’s half laugh, half sob. He didn't have any hand in that last bit.

“Brilliant,” Alfira wipes the corner of her eye too, ending the recording. “That was brilliant, Astarion. Okay, one more for luck.”

“Fucking hell, Al!” Astarion’s laugh is shaky and Gale nearly steps in, demanding that Alfira give him a break, but the younger driver flashes him a small smile and a nod. I’m okay, I can do this.  

He can. Gale has no doubt. Astarion has given him many reasons to be proud over the past year but today he feels overwhelmed with admiration. It’s inspirational, Astarion’s courage. It’s infectious.

“I’m going to make a quick call,” Gale tells them, before adding quietly: “You’re doing amazing, Ast.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” Astarion echoes in a sing-song American accent, before tutting when Gale clearly fails to pick up on whatever ghastly reality TV show he’s clearly referencing. “Okay but don’t be long, I need you to come and rescue me before Alfira decides we need to film six seasons and a movie.”

Gale chuckles as Alfira rolls her eyes, setting up the shot again. “I’ll be right back.”

Down the corridor, Gale finds another empty meeting room and slips inside, closing the door behind him. With a heavy heart, he pulls his wallet out of his pocket, finding Mystra’s card. His mind churns with the same thoughts that have occupied it ever since she made her offer. 

Getting back into the driving seat could be dangerous for Gale. Deadly, even. Then again, Astarion doesn’t deserve to do this alone. If Gale were a driver again, on a different team, it might make things easier for them, might allow them to be open about their relationship…

Hoping he’s making the right choice, Gale dials Mystra’s number.

“Gale,” her voice sounds over the line almost immediately. She’s still got his number saved. The idea unsettles him slightly. 

“Mystra.”

“So, when can you start?” He can hear the smile in her voice and it makes his chest clench with grief for his younger self, who never recognized the poison in it, the manipulation. 

“I won’t be taking you up on your offer.”

There’s a pause. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like you’re going to get any others. Who else is going to take you on at your age and in such poor condition?”

He almost laughs at that, Astarion's voice echoing in his mind. What a fucking bitch. “I don't want to drive anymore. I don’t need to take that risk. I have so much more to live for now than I did when I was with you.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re talking about Ancunin,” Mystra spits, low and nasty. “Oh yes, I’ve heard the rumors. Shacking up with a colleague again? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Though I must say I’m a little shocked at the way your tastes have… developed.”

If Gale didn’t know better, he’d say she sounds jealous. Is that what this is all about? Envy? An attempt to lure him away from Ast?

“I’m afraid I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he smiles, keeping his voice light and easy despite the roiling in his stomach. “Though I’m flattered you think I could bag someone like Ancunin, to be honest. I’ve always set my sights slightly lower in the past.”

“You’re pathetic,” That struck a nerve, evidently. “Good to see you’re as immature as when we were together.”

“If I seemed immature when we were together, Mystra,” Gale is struggling to maintain an even tone. “It was because you were 36 and I was 21.”

“Oh, for god's sake, get over it,” she snaps. “You cannot distinguish personal from business, can you? That was always your problem. You're going to throw away this opportunity because I broke up with you-”

“No,” Gale grinds out. “I’m going to decline this poisoned chalice because I'd rather let Gortash hit me with his car than work with someone as self-involved, manipulative, and profiteering as you, ever again.” 

“You're going to regret this, Gale,” There's the venom he so often failed to detect in the past. The threat. It seems so obvious now that he's free. “I can tell you with complete certainty that Bane is going to win this championship, and you're going to be on the losing side-”

“Thanks for the warning,” he cuts her off politely. “I look forward to watching Astarion prove you wrong.”

Gale hangs up.

Chapter Text

Astarion’s video eclipses all other F1 news for months. 

Even, to Gale’s delight, the carefully orchestrated 'surprise' announcement that Mystra Altivo — former disgraced TP of Weave Racing — would be taking over at Bane during the summer break. Her statement had barely made a ripple in the sport headlines, bar a few opinion pieces wondering how little notice Bane’s existing TP must have given for the team to have to turn to someone like Mystra. 

She must be fuming.

In contrast, Astarion’s coming out has been met with such an outpouring of love that the driver has been quite overwhelmed. Not only was his video reported on by sports news outlets, but it made main headlines too. Racing Pride hosted an interview with him on their Instagram account that got millions of views, and his front cover for Attitude has gained him a multitude of new fans and sponsorships. Astarion is still skeptical about brands using him for rainbow-washing, but Gale personally couldn’t blame every marketing department in the world for jumping on him after seeing that photoshoot. In the cover image, Astarion is sitting on the floor, completely nude, with only a chequered flag covering his modesty, alongside the headline: 'Astarion Ancunin has nothing to hide'.

To Astarion’s mortification, Gale had immediately cut out the image and stuck it to the wall in his bedroom, like a teenager with a poster of a favorite celebrity. Their bedroom, really, nowadays.

After the issue went to print, one of the younger drivers in F2 even came out as bi, citing Astarion as inspiration. It warmed Gale’s heart no end. It made him wish things had been different when he was a young man in the sport, silent and confused. It made him wish he could be braver now.

Every day, Gale looks at Astarion’s front cover and works up the courage to make that headline come true. To go public as a couple and make sure Astarion really doesn’t have anything to hide anymore. It’s been six long months but Gale is finally coming around to the idea. He’s allowed himself to picture what it might be like to go out for dinner together, without having to pretend to be only colleagues or friends. To book hotel rooms together for once. He makes his own chest warm thinking of their friends referring to The Old Schoolhouse as “Gale and Astarion’s place”, even though they’re away from home so often they haven’t really made their living arrangements official yet (though Astarion has conveniently neglected to buy his own place thus far). Gale wouldn’t half mind if the public knew Astarion was in a relationship if only so people would stop ‘sliding into his DMs’, as Astarion puts it. 

He just needs to find the right time. Because now the furor around Astarion coming out has died down, Gale almost feels guilty at the idea of stirring it all up again. Because of course everything hasn’t been completely plain sailing. Because there will always be those who let their ignorance drive their hate. 

Most of it has been on social media, which is easier to ignore. Gale will be forever grateful to Alfira for pushing Weave to put Astarion’s video on the team's social accounts rather than his own. She’s done a brilliant job of shielding him from the worst of it, telling Gale in private that she feels she owes Astarion a debt too, since his video also inspired Lakrissa to come clean about her own feelings. 

Jeddah had been tense as well, though their anxieties were unfounded in the end. The FIA provided both Astarion and the Weave team with additional security just in case, but nothing happened. The sport’s representatives and officials in the country steadfastly refused to acknowledge Astarion at all, besides reiterating the country’s existing statement that “all visitors, including LGBT visitors, are welcome.” And, true to his word, Astarion had worked with Dammon and the team to put as many rainbow stickers on the car as the aerodynamics would allow.

Gale doesn’t think anything has ever felt so satisfying as seeing Astarion lift the winner’s trophy that weekend, before popping his fake champagne and blowing a kiss to the stands. Gale almost regrets not walking up onto the podium and kissing Astarion right there and then in front of all of them. 

Perhaps he should have done. He isn’t sure he’ll get the chance again. Ever since the summer break, ever since Mystra took over at Bane, Astarion has been firmly relegated to third place in the championship. It’s infuriating. Every time Weave comes up with a new setup for the car, every time Astarion holds his nerve to pull off the most daring overtake, every time Gale comes up with a brilliant strategy — they’re bested by Bane’s inconceivable speed. Thorm and Gortash are just unbeatable. 

They are, quite literally, the bane of Weave’s life.

Which is why Gale is currently hunched over his desk in the Grand Hyatt São Paulo, nose almost touching his laptop, as he reviews footage from last week’s race in Austin. The camera is following Thorm’s car, way out ahead in first place.

“There!” Gale cries out triumphantly, finger jabbing at the screen as Wyll leans forward to peer at the video. 

“I don’t see anything,” Astarion bends over Gale’s shoulder to get a closer look as well, and Gale relishes the sturdy weight of him, has to stop himself from slipping his arm around his lover’s hips. Instead, he makes do with admiring the porcelain skin of Astarion’s neck, the delicate blue veins that thread its surface, the way his hair curls under the curve of his ear. There are two freckles on the side of Astarion’s throat, one on top of the other, like bite marks from fangs. They have a running joke that Astarion only pretends to hate Alucard so much because he’s secretly cheating on Gale with the vampire. The last time they’d bantered about it, Astarion had pinned Gale to the bed and bitten the side of his neck. First gently, then not so gently at all. The memory makes Gale shiver with desire and he makes a mental note to do the same to Astarion later, imagining dragging his tongue over those freckles and down into the groove over his collarbone-

“...Gale?” Wyll sits back in the neighboring seat, eyeing Gale with what looks like amusement.

“Ah, yes-” Gale clears his throat, dragging the slider back to replay the relevant part of the video, trying to ignore how Astarion’s hip is now resting against his arm. “If I slow it down, perhaps… hang on… there.”

“Well, hello…” Astarion purrs, a wicked grin creeping onto his face as he stares at the screen.

“I’ll be devilled…” Wyll breathes. “I think you’re right…”

It’s a tiny movement — so small Gale almost thought he was imagining it the first time — but, as Thorm flies down the long straight at the Circuit of the Americas, the rear wing of his car appears to bow in the middle. 

“Look, it shouldn’t flex like that,” Gale replays the split-second clip. “It’s giving them a huge advantage but it only happens at speed on the straights, which must be how they slipped it past FIA testing…”

“They’re cheating,” Wyll shakes his head in disbelief. 

“I checked footage from earlier in the year as well and it’s there too but nowhere near as noticeable,” Gale sits back, allowing himself to lean ever so slightly into Astarion. “Seems they really crossed a line after the summer break.”

“After Mystra took over,” Astarion says with a curled lip.

“She said they were looking for someone who’d put the team’s interests above all else… She always did push too far,” Gale sighs, fire, fiberglass, metal, flashing briefly through his mind. “I wonder if that’s why Xvim resigned, because of the cheating...”

“I can’t believe no one else spotted it before,” Wyll shakes his head again.

“Well, no one else is as clever as Gale!” Astarion crows, squeezing Gale’s shoulder. Gale wants to reach up and cover Astarion’s hand with his own but he stops himself. Later, Wyll won’t be here and Gale can tell Astarion just how much he enjoys being told he’s clever…

Wyll sits back with an exhale, running a hand over his braids. “So what now? What do we do with this?”

“I can send you a copy,” Gale cuts and saves the relevant part of the video as he speaks. “I suggest you take it to Zariel and we’ll take it to Elminster. Then it’s up to them to report it to the FIA.”

“Then Bane gets disqualified and I win the Championship. The. End,” Astarion sings with a laugh.

He’s joking, but Gale gets a little thrill of excitement at the thought. If the FIA takes the complaint seriously, if Bane really is punished for cheating…

“Excuse you,” Wyll sniffs. “You mean I win, and you get second place-”

“Darling, you haven’t a chance in hell-” Astarion’s phone pings and he looks at it with annoyance. “Ugh, Alfira’s here with the car. I’ve got another session with the sadist…”

“Bonne chance,” Gale chuckles. Abdirak, Astarion’s new PT, is a taskmaster but Gale has to admit that “Abs with Abs” isn’t just a catchy slogan. His focus wanders again, remembering how he slid his hand under his boyfriend’s t-shirt last night, tracing fingertips over his muscled stomach…

“See you at the track?” Astarion sighs and, before Gale can stop him, he brushes a piece of hair away from Gale’s face and kisses him on the forehead, grabbing his bag and jogging out of the door.

*

Astarion is halfway to the Autódromo, zoning out as Alfira prattles about some woman called Larissa or something, when he realizes what he just did.

In alarm, he yanks his phone from his pocket and opens WhatsApp.

AA: Oh my god

GC: Don’t panic.

AA: Oh my god I’m sorry

GC: It’s okay.

AA: Fuck I’m so sorry

GC is typing…

AA: I stg I didn’t mean to do that

GC is typing…

AA: I’m sorry, please don’t be mad

GC: AST!

AA: ?

GC: Let me finish typing ​😅 It’s okay.

GC: Wyll already knew.

AA: ????

GC: Apparently.

AA: wdym?

GC: He says he and Karlach already knew about us. Or guessed, at least.

AA: How??

GC: 🤷🏻‍♂️ He says he suspected my feelings for you ever since the hospital (!) after my crash.

GC: And that Karlach had her suspicions about you as well. They put two and two together when they first started going out.

GC: Apparently she's very excited about us double dating.

AA: omg 

AA: I was freaking out

GC: 💜 It’s fine. Everything’s okay.

AA: I didn’t ruin you coming out to your best friend?

GC: If anything, you facilitated it. 

GC: It had to be done at some point. 

GC: It’s nice.

GC: Nice to be able to talk to him about you, I mean. I want

GC: *I want to be able to talk to everyone about you like this, all the time.

Astarion’s heart skips a beat and he clutches his phone tightly. 

GC: Anyway, you’re my best friend.

GC: (Don’t tell Wyll I said that).

AA: ❤️

AA: I love you

GC: I love you too.

Astarion relaxes back into the plush leather seat of the Range Rover, unable to hide the grin that’s creeping across his face.

“So yeah,” Alfira is still talking, picking at her nails with one hand and staring out of the window. “I don’t know, maybe it was a stupid thing to do…”

“If she’s the right person for you,” Astarion reaches across the seat and pats her hand. “She’ll love you even when you do stupid things.”

“I-” The rep pauses to glance at him with surprise. “Yeah… you’re right. Thanks, Astarion.”

“No worries,” Astarion goes back to smiling happily at his phone. He has no idea what or who she’s talking about but it feels good to spread the love. 

*

Mexico City is unseasonably hot for November. A month after the sweltering Brazilian GP (another third place for Astarion) Gale lounges on a sticky leather chair in the fitness area of Weave’s motorhome, gripping a cold bottle of water. He’s almost envious of the ice bath waiting for Astarion after quali. 

The driver himself looks less impressed.

“Must we do this?” Astarion grumbles, arms wrapped around his bare torso.

“The bath or the video?” Gale questions, trying and failing not to stare at his boyfriend’s towel-clad body as Alfira bustles around, setting up her phone on a tripod. 

“Both??”

Alfira tuts. “Yes, we must. This ice bath content kills on TikTok, I’m afraid. All the teams are doing it…”

“There’s no way Ketheric is filming ice bath TikToks!” Astarion cries indignantly.

“Okay, not him,” Alfria concedes. “But Gortash does!"

There’s a pause where they all shudder at that mental image, and then Alfira gets ready to hit record.

“Just climb into the bath and say something like ‘Brrrr, this is meeping freezing-’”

“What?? I am not saying that.”

“Astarion! I want to get a meep reference in, it’s playing so well with the fans,” Alfira pouts. “Maybe you could just say ‘meep meep’ then jump in…”

The resulting look on Astarion’s face has Gale laughing out loud.

“You can shut up,” Astarion snaps. “This is all your mother’s fault.”

Gale chuckles at that too. Over the previous weekend, at the Vegas Grand Prix, it had been Astarion’s birthday. Last year, the day had been overshadowed by Cazador's trial, and Astarion — weary and hopeless — had asked not to do anything, not to tell anyone. He wasn’t in the mood and he’d never really had a birthday celebration before, he said, so missing another one was no big deal.

This year, Gale made sure everyone knew. And the industry came through. On the day of the race, a birthday message was broadcast on the city’s giant Sphere, courtesy of the FIA. It featured a whole range of fans wishing Astarion a ‘Happy Birthday’ with banners and signs. Gale half expected Astarion to hate it but the driver had gazed up at that ridiculously huge LED screen with shining eyes, blinking away unshed tears that glittered in the neon lights.

In the week leading up to Astarion’s birthday, Alfira marked the occasion on social media with a video of various members of the team presenting the gifts they’d be giving Astarion that year. He’d laughed at Tefoco’s personalized Benjamin Ingrosso calendar, and at Elminster’s magnum of champagne (“So you’ve got one to actually drink, instead of just spraying it everywhere”), and at Khelben’s year’s supply of ground coffee (“Because you love your espressos… and to help you get out of bed so you’re not late all the time”), and laughed again when Tara had the same idea with her gifted alarm clock. When he saw the electromagnetic ‘floating object’ magic trick that Dammon and the other engineers made for him by hand, Astarion had outright gasped in wonder. 

And he’d played along with Gale’s ‘gift’, dutifully rolling his eyes at the replacement radio earpiece (“Since you apparently can’t hear my instructions a lot of the time”), knowing that he has Gale’s real gift to look forward to over the winter break — a week’s private booking at the Emerald Grove Beach Resort.

With the driver having no family of his own to ask, Alfira had also approached Gale’s mother for the video. Morena had willingly and enthusiastically obliged, filming a short clip of herself in Grey Harbour’s living room.

“Happy Birthday, Asty,” she’d beamed into the camera. “This isn’t new, but I hope you’ll like it anyway.”

At that, she held up a miniature Looney Tunes Road Runner, its paint faded and chipped with age. 

“This used to belong to my Gale, a gift from his father and me to our speedy boy. It was his good luck charm at races for many years, but I’m sure he won’t mind me passing it on now that he doesn’t need it anymore.” (She had, in fact, expressly made sure Gale didn’t mind as soon as she came up with the idea, and he’d given his whole-hearted permission.) “I hope it brings you luck in Vegas this week! Meep meep!”

Astarion had teared up at that video, and again when the statuette arrived by courier later, along with a hamper of his favorite Greek foods and a note:

These treats probably aren’t Weave nutritionist-approved but, as my husband used to say:

 “Live life like it’s your last lap.” 

Happy Birthday, darling boy, 

love from your honorary Mum 

x

To be fair to Astarion, Gale had welled up at that too.

The Weave fans have apparently been equally moved. In just a week, the Road Runner has become an official Ancunin supporter meme, with thousands of videos on social media using the iconic ‘meep meep’ audio over various clips of Astarion racing. Fans have turned up in both Vegas and now Mexico City with ‘meep meep’ banners, Road Runner t-shirts, and even one full-body Road Runner costume, complete with a blonde wig and a Weave t-shirt over the top.

“Go on, Ast,” Gale grins at his boyfriend’s disgruntled expression. “The fans love it-”

Gale’s voice peters out as Astarion whips off the towel and climbs into the ice bath, letting out a long, low groan that borders on indecent. 

“Fuck me, that’s cold,” he moans, adding as though it's an afterthought: “Meep.”

“Right, well,” Alfira tuts, averting her eyes and cutting the recording. “I can’t use that, can I?”

“Oh no, really?” Astarion’s smirk quavers a little as he shivers. “I’m so sorry. What a bother.”

“It’s not just you,” Alfira turns to Gale, quirking her eyebrow. “No offense but you were in the background and you look a bit pervy-”

“Pervy??” Gale splutters as Astarion dies with laughter. “I’m just sitting here!”

“Why are you sitting here?”

Before Gale can think of an excuse that isn’t ‘I wanted to watch my excessively attractive boyfriend take an ice bath’, Elminster appears in the doorway.

“Ancunin, Dekarios. My office. Now.”

*

Astarion panics all the way through getting dried and dressed and all the way up to Elminster’s office.

Has Aumar found out about them? Has the press? Has someone spotted them sneaking in and out of each other’s hotel rooms? They’ve been so careful. Has someone told him? No one knows except Wyll and Karlach and Morena and Tara. They’ve been so careful, they’ve been so careful.

By the look on Gale’s face, the same thoughts are running through his head as well.

“Sit,” Elminster gestures at the two chairs in front of his desk, and Astarion and Gale both sit down quietly, like apprehensive schoolboys summoned before the headmaster.

“The FIA has been in touch,” Elminster sits too, steepling his fingers and regarding them both seriously. “They’re upholding our complaint about Bane.”

Relief and adrenaline race through Astarion’s veins simultaneously. This isn’t about him and Gale. They haven’t been found out. Thank god, they haven’t been found out. This is about Bane.

“They’re upholding our complaint??” he questions.

Gale sounds almost as dazed. “What does that mean?”

“They agree that Bane has broken the rules,” Elminster can no longer hide the excitement on his face. He’s practically bouncing in his designer office chair.

“Tell me they’re going to be disqualified,” Gale blurts and Elminster laughs.

“The news isn’t quite that good, I'm afraid, but it is good. The FIA has docked points for every race where they can find video proof of the non-regulation rear wing.” The TP’s eyes are sparkling. Astarion doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this happy. “It’s every race since the summer break.”

“My god…” Gale breathes. 

Astarion’s brain is slowly filling up with white noise. In the corner of his eye, he can see Gale looking at him with concern, as though he doesn’t think Astarion has realized the significance of what Elminster just said. 

Of course I’ve realized, Astarion wants to yell at him. There are only three races left this year. If I can score highly in all of them, I might actually have a shot at winning the championship...

*

“It’s every race since the summer break.”

Gale’s pacemaker must be working overtime as he quickly does the maths in his head. Bane dominated the first half of the year, but with that many points taken away, it means…

From the look on Astarion’s face, he hasn’t quite realized the significance of what Elminster has just said. But Gale won’t point it out. He can’t point it out. It’s way too much pressure. He can’t stress Astarion out like that. He won’t-

“Astarion, do you understand what this means?” Elminster exclaims. “If you win tomorrow, you win the entire championship immediately.”

“What??”

*

“I’m going to crash,” Astarion groans, burying his head in his pillow. “I’m going to fuck up turn 1."

“No, you’re not,” Gale’s voice is as soothing as his hands, which slowly slide up Astarion’s spine, smoothing massage oil over his bare back, kneading at the tension in his shoulders as Astarion lays face down on the hotel bed. “And even if you do, it’s fine. Three races left, remember? That’s three more chances.”

“Not if Thorm wins all of them,” Astarion mumbles into Egyptian cotton. “He’s starting on pole again tomorrow, I haven’t been able to get past him all year…”

“You did before the summer break. And he can’t cheat anymore; Bane can’t cheat anymore.” Gale gently massages Astarion’s neck, fingertips scratching at the base of his skull and Astarion starts to relax despite himself. “You can do this, Ast. And if you can’t do it tomorrow, you’ll do it at the next race.”

“And what if I can’t do it then?”

Gale sighs and Astarion feels the brush of warm lips between his shoulder blades. “Then we go and spend Christmas on a luxury tropical island and come back and try again next year.” Soft kisses move up over Astarion’s shoulder, along the side of his neck. “We’ve got time, Ast. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Astarion rolls over, looking up at his boyfriend. Gale is gazing down at him, the fine creases of his smile just visible through silver-flecked stubble. His hair has grown out a little and it’s curling against his broad shoulders. It suits him. Astarion wonders how in the world he ever found someone so wonderful. 

He runs his hand along the side of Gale’s face, and Gale leans his head into the touch.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said in Brazil,” Astarion asks, only slightly nervously. “About wanting to be able to talk to everyone about us?”

Gale sits back on his knees and nods. “I meant it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but you’ve got enough on your plate at the moment-”

Astarion’s heart starts to sink but then Gale continues: “I thought… perhaps over the winter break, we could talk to Elminster, and then — depending on how that goes — to Jaheira, get her opinion on the best way to go about this- mmf!”

Astarion cuts him off with a kiss, snaking his arms around Gale’s shoulders. He wants them to go public as a couple. He wants to do it this winter. He's finally ready. It’d be the best Christmas gift Astarion could ask for. 

Gale laughs as Astarion impatiently tugs his t-shirt over his head. 

“I’m supposed to be giving you a massage,” he murmurs between kisses. “Helping you relax.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Astarion slides off both his joggers and boxers, only breaking eye contact to roll over and lie on his front again, looking back over his shoulder and tilting his pelvis suggestively. “Massage away.” 

Gale’s throaty chuckle is enough to get Astarion hard on its own, let alone the way he pushes Astarion’s legs apart so he can kneel between them, reaching for the oil and drizzling more down Astarion’s spine, massaging his lower back, and then his cheeks.

Astarion gasps as he feels Gale shift and a warm tongue run from the base of his cock up to his sacrum and back down again. He sinks into the bed with a moan as Gale begins to lick him open, whimpers when Gale places firm hands on his hips, pulling his pelvis up to prevent him from getting any relief by grinding against the mattress. 

Then Gale’s tongue is replaced by fingers, sliding inside Astarion, massaging his prostate, moving agonizingly slowly for what feels like hours as Astarion bucks against the air in vain. 

“Gale…” he hears himself whine entirely unintentionally. 

“Mm?” 

“Please-”

There’s that husky laugh again, and the leisurely slide of an unfastening zip.

*

“Please-”

Gale thinks he might explode if he doesn’t take Astarion immediately, but he loves seeing him like this, sweating and writhing. Craving. 

He’s so hard that it’s starting to hurt though, so he slowly undoes the zipper on his shorts, shedding his clothing, and moving back between Astarion’s thighs, taking hold of his hips once more, pressing himself forward inch by inch until Astarion is gasping, legs shaking. 

Then Gale begins to move and, hell, it feels so good he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. As always, he takes it slowly, gently undulating his hips until Astarion lifts himself up onto his elbows in frustration, begins to rock against Gale in a way that makes Gale let out a groan of his own. 

“Ah- god, Astarion-” Gale folds over his back, taking the hint, moving faster and faster, gently tugging at silver curls and kissing the side of Astarion’s pale neck as his head tilts back with pleasure. 

“Putain, Gale, oui-”

Gale loves it when Astarion speaks French at the best of times but then he angles his hips and Astarion cries out — “Je t’aime” — and Gale can’t hold back his own orgasm as Astarion comes beneath him, entirely untouched. 

Astarion’s knees buckle and he crumples onto the mattress, letting out a gentle ‘oof’ as Gale lands on top of him, the pair of them panting and laughing.  

“Mon dieu,” Gale breathes, rolling sideways onto his back. “Zut alors…” He only just ducks out of the way as Astarion swats lazily at his face.

“Stop that." He curls into Gale’s side, sliding a hand over his torso, stroking the hair on his stomach. “Your permission to speak French is officially revoked.”

“Sacre bleu.”

“Bon sang…”

“That too.”

Astarion giggles into his neck and Gale wraps an arm around him, pulling him in close. “I can’t wait until we can do this in public.”

“Well," Astarion’s snort is unladylike. "I mean, I’m not shy but-”

“This,” Gale grumbles, squeezing him tighter. “Hugging, you deviant.”

“Moi aussi…”

Gale feels soft hair tickle his cheek as Astarion looks up at him, gray eyes already growing sleepy.

“There’s still no rush, you know. Not from me. We’ve got time,” Astarion grins. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“I know,” Gale kisses his forehead. “But I can’t wait nonetheless.”

*

Less than 24 hours later, Astarion watches the starting lights tick down on what could be one of the most important races of his life. 

He’s in third again, Thorm and Gortash ahead, Wyll and Raphael behind, Oliver behind them. 

“You’ve got this, Ast,” Gale murmurs in his ear and then they’re away, Astarion slamming down on the throttle, giving it everything he’s got on the first long straight, trying to get around Gortash early.

“Take it easy,” Gale warns. “Slow it down for the corners, don’t overheat the tires.”

For once, Astarion listens to him and, 30 laps in, he reaps the rewards. Unlike Astarion, Gortash has been pushing too hard, trying to maintain the distance between them. Except now he’s losing grip and, when he slips on a particularly tight turn, Astarion pounces, trying not to punch the air as he overtakes, gliding into second place.

“Ha!” Gale’s voice sounds jubilant over the radio. “Not so fast without cheating, are they!?”

“Allegedly,” he adds a few seconds later, and Astarion snorts with laughter. 

After another 10 laps, his good mood is waning slightly. 

“Gap to Thorm is 1.5 seconds.” 

Astarion huffs in frustration. He’s struggling to get close enough to pass Thorm, to get below the crucial one-second gap that he needs to activate the DRS that will let him overtake. With grim determination, he pushes the car harder.

“Gap to Thorm is 1.4 seconds.”

It’s not enough. Thorm speeds up as well, the pair of them taking the hairpin corners far too fast.

“Take it easy, Ast. Gap to Thorm is 1.3 seconds.”

“How can I take it easy!?” Astarion spits, hitting the throttle even harder. "I can't fucking catch him."

There are 25 more laps to go and they’re on a one-stop strategy so Astarion won’t get the chance to change onto fresher tires again. He has to get the overtake now.

“Gap to Thorm is 1.2 seconds.”

Every one of Astarion’s muscles screams with the effort of keeping the car on the racing line as he leaves the braking later and later, wears his tires out more and more, pushing, pushing, pushing-

“Gap to Thorm is 1.1 seconds.”

It’s still not enough. He’s not going to be able to do it, he’s not going to be able to win, he’s not good enough-

On the dreaded turn 1, Astarion locks up, braking too hard and sending the wheels into a skid.

“Gale!?” he cries as he loses control, the car beginning to slide along the track.

He doesn’t even remember pressing the radio button but Gale is there again in his ear, calm and soothing. “You’re okay, you're okay. Take it slow out of the corner. Breath.”

Heart pounding, Astarion follows the instructions on autopilot. His head is fuzzy with panic but he gets safely out of the turn, narrowly avoiding a crash.

“There you go.” He can hear the smile in Gale’s voice. “Just a wobble. Nothing to worry about. Gap to Thorm is 1.2 seconds but we’ve still got 20 laps left. We’ve got time, Ast. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

The familiar words land heavy in Astarion’s chest and he finds himself smiling, relaxing, focusing. 

One lap later, the other drivers start to go in for a second pit. 

“Gortash is closing the gap behind you. 1.4 seconds.” Gale sounds more tense now and Astarion grits his teeth. “The heat is wearing everyone’s tires more quickly than expected. Bane, Avernus, and Selune all switching to a two-stop strategy.”

“Okay, I’ll come in on the next lap.”

“No, stay out.”

“Gale!” Astarion grips the steering wheel in aggravation. “They’ll all be on fresher tires than me, I won’t be able to hold them off.”

“If you pit now, you'll lose your place. Stay out, Ast,” Gale insists. “Trust me.” 

With a growl, Astarion does as he's told, driving past the pit lane. “You’d better be right about this…”

“When am I ever wrong about anything?”

Another four laps later, Gortash crashes on turn 1. 

As the safety car pulls out ahead of Thorm, slowing all the drivers down until Gortash’s car can be removed from the track, Astarion cackles into his radio.

“You clever bastard…” He shakes his head. “You knew Gortash was going to crash, you knew there’d be a safety car.”

“Enjoy your free pitstop,” Gale has never sounded so smug, as Astarion pulls into the pit lane, has his tires changed, and pulls back out into the race without losing a single position. 

When the safety car finally leaves the track, five laps later, Astarion is on the freshest tires of the pack and he’s flying.

“Gap to Thorm 1.1 seconds,” Astarion is approaching the DRS zone. He’s close, he’s so close-

“Gap to Thorm, one second.” Gale is grinning, Astarion can hear it.

“Gap to Thorm, 0.9 seconds. DRS available... Go get him, Ast.”

Jubilation lancing his heart, Astarion hits the DRS button and his car surges forward, an exhilarating burst of speed that carries him past the Bane driver and straight into pole position. 

*

“That’s P1! P1!” Gale tries and fails to hide the excitement in his voice as he bounces in his pit wall seat. “Just nine laps left, Ast. You’ve got this!”

*

Astarion feels like he’s entered some kind of trance as Gale counts down the rest of the laps of the race, Thorm slowly disappearing from his rearview mirror as Astarion hits clean air and starts to drive even faster. 

*

“Three laps left to go and you just set the fastest time,” Gale laughs, feeling giddy. “That’s an extra point for you, not that you need it now!”

*

“Two laps left to go.” The sheer amount of concentration is getting to Astarion. He’s tired, so tired, but Gale’s voice keeps him going. “You’re so nearly there, you can do this. You’re amazing.” 

*  

“One lap left to go,” Gale is getting teary, despite himself. “Thorm is miles away. It’s yours. The championship is yours.”

*

As Astarion flies across the finish line, the only thing he registers is Gale’s voice, hushed and in awe.

“That’s P1. You did it. You’re the World Champion, Ast.”

Astarion doesn’t remember the cooldown lap, doesn’t remember driving the car into the P1 spot, doesn’t remember what any of the photographers shout at him over the relentless flashing bulbs as he pulls his helmet and balaclava off, gazing unseeingly at the seething mass of the crowd. 

All Astarion remembers is looking for Gale. He remembers the moment he spots him at the front of the barrier, an oasis of calm smiles and tear-wet eyes amid the rest of the team jumping and screaming around him in slow motion. 

Astarion remembers walking, then jogging, then running towards them all, but only seeking Gale, only wanting to feel Gale’s arms around him as the momentousness of the occasion starts to overwhelm his every sense. 

As he jumps over the barrier, Gale catches him and everything else fades away, the noise of the crowd dimming to a distant roar like waves crashing on the beach of a deserted island, like the flow of water through a canal lock, like the cascading of rain on fire-scorched tarmac, like wind whispering through the orchard of an old schoolhouse. 

Gale sets him down gently, their eyes locked as they grip each other in disbelief. He’s openly crying and Astarion is mesmerized by a single tear that races down the track laid out by Gale's scars. In a daze, Astarion lifts his hand to Gale's face and brushes the tear away with the pad of his thumb, lingering over the crinkles at the edges of smiling brown eyes.

But no. This is wrong. There are cameras all around them, a crowd, their entire team, the world watching. He can't be doing this in front of millions of people. 

Astarion is about to lower his hand when Gale's comes up to cover it, pressing a warm palm over Astarion's fingers and resting their foreheads together. 

Then Gale leans in.

*

Gale is overwhelmed by emotion as he watches Astarion park his car in the winner’s space, climbing out slowly and waving a shaky hand at his screaming fans. 

When he pulls off his helmet and balaclava, his perfect face looks dazed. He’s moving like he’s in a trance and all Gale wants to do is hold him, tell him how incredible he is, how proud Gale feels.

Not for the first time, Gale sees gray eyes seek him out amid the crowd. Astarion starts towards him, walking, then jogging, then running and Gale is ready with open arms when he jumps, catching him easily, holding his slight frame up in the air as the team jumps around them. 

Then Gale gently sets Astarion down and everything else fades away as they gaze into each other's eyes, the noise of the crowd dimming to a distant roar like waves crashing on the beach of a deserted island, like the gentle lap of water against a narrowboat hull, like a calming heartbeat in a pale chest, like the gentle whisper of indecipherable words that once kept him tethered to life.

Astarion lifts a hand to brush away one of Gale’s tears with the pad of his thumb and Gale wonders how in the world he ever found someone so wonderful. 

He sees the instant Astarion’s eyes flick to one side, feels Astarion’s hand start to drop from his face, but Gale doesn’t want this moment to end. He reaches up to cup Astarion’s hand, keeping it in place, resting their foreheads together.

There are cameras all around them, a crowd, their entire team, the world watching.

Gale no longer cares. 

His hands reach for Astarion’s waist and he tugs him forward into a deep and tender kiss. 

Chapter Text

Isobel and Aylin

Astarion straightens Gale's tie before giving him a small kiss on the tip of his nose.

"You don't half scrub up well for an old git," he says with a happy sigh.

"Listen to you," Gale responds proudly. "You sound like a Brit."

Astarion gives a playful little wiggle of his hips before returning to the hotel room mirror and re-adjusting his hair for the umpteenth time.

Gale smiles to himself as he sits on the bed to tie his shoes. Astarion has never attended a wedding before, and he's nervous; Gale knows he is. He also knows that Astarion would rather relinquish his current 10-point lead in the Championship than admit it.

Consequently, Gale waits and, sure enough…

"So…" Astarion spins on the heel of his Tom Ford shoe, an anxious look on his pretty face. "We're definitely not supposed to… do anything during the ceremony?"

"No," Gale laughs. "You don't have to do anything except go where you're told and eat and drink when it's offered. It's the best thing about other people's weddings. We're the least important people there; we're NPCs today."

"Hm," Astarion grumbles, going back to straightening his suit in the mirror. "Sounds boring."

Gale can't blame his boyfriend for being bemused. It's a novel concept for Astarion, not being the center of attention. Especially since he claimed his first World Championship last year and is well on his way to his second.

It's almost unimaginable that that day in Mexico was nearly eight months ago now. Eight months since he and Astarion kissed in front of the entire world. Eight months since the Autodromo Hermanos Rodriguez collectively held its breath before dissolving into a cacophony of raucous cheering and applause.

At the eye of the chaos, Astarion and Gale had broken apart to find their entire team staring at them. The entire paddock, it felt like.

Gale's gaze had immediately gone to Elminster, the Weave Team Principal standing nearby with his hands on his hips and his eyes fixedly heavenwards.

Then Alfira was there in her Weave gear, eyes wide and grin wider as she pulled Astarion away for his interviews, the driver stumbling slightly as he glanced back at Gale, his face mirroring every one of the emotions Gale was feeling.

Shock. Joy. Fear.

Gale had wanted to go with him, hadn't wanted to abandon Astarion to the brutal maw of the press. Instead, he'd been carried in a tide of purple back to the Weave garage, where protocol was out the window and champagne was on the table. Arms were thrown around Gale's shoulders, and hands patted his back. To his utter shock, his teammates were more concerned with Astarion's win than what they'd just witnessed in parc fermé. None of them seemed surprised in the slightest.

"You alright?" Dammon had grinned, handing him a plastic cup.

Gale had nodded, dazed.

"Glad you two finally got your shit together," the engineer laughed, before strolling off to attempt to corral his team into some semblance of their post-race duties.

On the big TVs in the garage, a beaming Jenson Button was welcoming Astarion to the screen, and Gale had hurried forward to watch, straining to hear the interview.

"Astarion Ancunin!" Jenson was laughing. "World Champion! How does it feel?"

"I-" Astarion shook his head, running a hand through damp, unruly curls with a breathless laugh of his own. "Yeah… it feels good."

"Understatement of the year, I'd imagine!" Jenson had waggled his eyebrows at the camera. "Now, I won't be forgiven if I don't ask: that celebration with your former teammate, your current race engineer, Gale — is there something the two of you want to share with the rest of us?"

Astarion had paused, giving Gale's pacemaker a run for its money as he bit his lip and looked at the floor, suppressing a tiny, bashful smile, ears turning a familiar pink. Then he'd cleared his throat and shrugged.

"You know, Jenson…" He'd gazed right down the barrel of the camera, and it felt like those huge gray eyes were looking directly at Gale when he winked. "I've got no idea what you're talking about, darling."

The rest of the day was a blur, each second more surreal than the last, none more so than the moment Astarion leapt from the winner's podium and poured champagne directly into Gale's mouth, before following it with his tongue.

Of course, more fraught moments followed. After the champagne and celebrations and fireworks, came the discussions and the PR strategy and the fire-fighting. Elminster, Gale, and Astarion had spent a long time locked away in a meeting room that evening, just the three of them, the TP with the weary air of a man who'd just downed a quarter of whisky on his own in his office.

Like Dammon (and almost everyone else, it seemed), Elminster knew about Gale and Astarion. Or at least had his suspicions. But he was not impressed with how the two of them chose to enlighten the rest of the industry. He lamented the kiss overshadowing the team's success, complained that Weave might be labeled unprofessional, worried that they'd lose stakeholders over the controversy.

Gale had — very calmly — responded that the team was better off without any stakeholders who might take issue with two men kissing anyway. He had deliberately reached across the tabletop to hold Astarion's hand and assured Elminster that, if Weave had any similar issues, Gale would have no problem resigning with immediate effect.

Astarion had — not so calmly — agreed.

As it turned out, they didn't lose a single stakeholder or sponsor in the end. Because, no matter which way the press framed it, no one could escape the obvious truth. Astarion had won. Astarion and Gale had won. Together. Not just the race but the entire Championship. There could be no better proof that their relationship wouldn't jeopardize the team's success.

It helps that they've gone on to prove it race after race ever since. The metaphorical dream team. If they carry on the way they have been this season, Astarion is set to win his second Championship in as many years.

"Gale?"

"Mm?"

When Gale looks up, Astarion is watching him in the mirror, gray eyes twinkling with amusement. "Where did you just go?"

"Mexico." Gale smiles, moving over to stand behind him, slipping arms around his waist under his jacket, resting his chin on Astarion's shoulder, careful not to crease his suit.

"Always Mexico," Astarion laughs, tilting his head to rest their cheeks together. "Well, come back, mon coeur — we're going to be late."

*

Isobel and Aylin's wedding starts in 10 minutes and Astarion cannot get his hair to sit right. He fusses with it in the ornate mirror of the grand old hotel room, flattening then mussing the errant curl that seems intent on sticking in his eye.

If he's being completely honest with himself, he might be a tad nervous. He's never been to a wedding before and he isn't sure what's expected of him. It's making it worse that they've flown all the way to Oslo — Aylin's hometown — for the occasion. Even their relatively luxurious suite at the Lodsby Gods hotel, and the peace of the surrounding Norwegian forest, can't make up for the fact that he's about to find himself among a bunch of strangers at an event he's entirely unfamiliar with.

He'd rather relinquish his current 10-point lead in the Championship than admit it to Gale though.

These things still get to him sometimes. Little deficiencies in his lived experience. Gale, who is friend to everyone and a member of a giant Greek extended family, has been to hundreds of weddings over the years. Astarion feels silly for not knowing what to anticipate.

Still, he reckons he's doing a good job of keeping his nerves hidden. He pretends the whole thing sounds tedious instead of anxiety-inducing, and Gale — sat on the bed, nonchalantly tying his shoelaces — doesn't seem to suspect a thing.

In fact, he looks a million miles away, a soft smile crinkling the edges of his mouth as he hums that bloody song again. I Love You Always Forever by Betty Who. The Emerald Grove Beach Resort bar had played it non-stop during their holiday. The pair of them haven't been able to get it out of their heads ever since. Astarion pretends it drives him mad but he's sort of come to think of it as their song.

He glances at his watch. Shit. Five minutes.

"Gale?"

"Mm?"

Astarion can't help but smile as Gale meets his eye in the mirror, that dopey grin so familiar and yet still so endearing. "Where did you just go?"

"Mexico." Gale's smile broadens, and he moves over to hug Astarion from behind. He's creasing Astarion's suit but it feels so nice that Astarion can't bring himself to be annoyed.

"Always Mexico," he laughs, tilting his head to rest their cheeks together. "Well, come back, mon coeur — we're going to be late."

Alfira and Lakrissa

Astarion straightens Gale's tie as another couple enters the hotel lift, the four of them squeezing awkwardly into the small space.

At least, Astarion is pretending to straighten Gale's tie to cover for the fact that he just had Gale pressed up against the mirrored wall, cupping his erection through the linen of his expensive suit as he sucked on his lower lip, moments before the lift unexpectedly stopped at a different floor.

"Evening." The man is staring at Astarion. His wife is wrapped up in her phone but he's obviously recognized the two-time Formula 1 World Champion.

"Evening," Astarion replies smoothly, completely unflustered.

Gale settles for merely nodding, his smile as strained as his damned trousers. He shifts behind his boyfriend even more, desperately trying to hide himself, only for Astarion to subtly grind back against him. Little shit.

Bing.

The lift stops again, the sleek chrome doors sliding open and the couple disembarking, the woman still staring at her phone, her husband still staring at Astarion.

"'Night," he says as they start off down the hotel corridor.

"Good night," Astarion smiles politely as he slides his hand behind himself to caress the outline of Gale's cock. Gale grunts in surprise and Astarion cackles with laughter as the doors slide closed, turning and pouncing once more, nibbling at Gale's neck.

"Bloody hell, Ast," Gale groans, clinging to his boyfriend's waist for dear life. "You're going to get us arrested for public indecency."

"Hmm," Astarion laughs, breath hot against Gale's skin. "Just imagine all the things you could do to me if I were in handcuffs."

"Bloody hell," Gale repeats, though it's more of a moan this time.

The lift arrives at their floor and they tumble out of it, stumbling towards their room, Astarion dragging Gale's suit jacket off as Gale fumbles with the electronic key card, yanking open the door and pulling Astarion through.

They kiss all the way to the bed, laughing as they nearly topple over, tipsy from all the free wine at Alfira and Lakrissa's cute pub reception.

Astarion is trying to take off his own clothes when Gale pushes him back onto the bed, crawling over him and grasping at silk lapels, pulling Astarion up into a kiss before tugging his jacket off and discarding it on the floor.

He's been thinking about doing this all day. Ever since Astarion walked out of the hotel bathroom in his forest green tux with its sleek lines that hug his waist and show off the soft curve of his hips. God, he looks so beautiful tonight. He always does, but there's something about seeing him in formal wear that never fails to make Gale's stomach flip. Perhaps it reminds him of having his breath taken away before that first Prize Giving Ceremony in Monaco. Or perhaps it's seeing Astarion in the setting of a wedding…

Gale puts that daydream to rest immediately. It's too soon for thoughts like that, far too soon. They've not even reached their two-year anniversary yet. Not to mention the fact that Astarion dismissed his first wedding experience as 'boring' and has now dragged Gale out of his second about an hour earlier than was probably polite.

It's hard to worry about social faux pas, however, when a now-shirtless Astarion leans up to lick at the side of his neck.

"You're in your head, Dekarios," Astarion pauses to whisper into his ear, raising goosebumps all over Gale's skin. "I need my race engineer focused if I'm going to get pole…"

Gale snorts, reaching down to trace his boyfriend's very evident erection through his trousers, putting on his best Astarion impression. "I don't think that's going to be a problem, boss."

Astarion gasps in mock outrage before shooting him a wicked grin, pulling off Gale's tie and unbuttoning his shirt as Gale slides off Astarion's trousers and boxers. Astarion's next gasp is anything but fake as Gale grabs lube from the bedside table and begins to leisurely drizzle it over him.

"Putain," he pants into Gale's mouth. "You're as slow in the bedroom as you were in a car. Fuck me already."

"And you're as reckless," Gale shakes his head with a laugh. "I don't want to hurt you!"

"Not a problem," Astarion giggles breathlessly, unbuckling Gale's belt. "See for yourself."

Frowning, Gale's hand slides between his boyfriend's legs. Astarion is wearing a plug.

It's Gale's turn to gasp. "Did you have this in for the whole wedding??"

His cock throbs as Astarion nods, biting his lip and grinning. "Take it out."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Gale reaches down and slowly removes the plug, enjoying the way it makes Astarion suck a breath through his teeth.

"Look at it!" His boyfriend is positively vibrating with excitement and, baffled, Gale examines the sturdy silicone. The plug's flared base is purple and decorated with a familiar silver wheel logo…

Gale's mouth falls open.

"Where in the blazes did you get a Weave Racing butt plug?!" he exclaims.

Astarion is wheezing so hard he can barely answer. "Kar- Karlach sent me the link on Etsy-"

"Oh my god!" Gale nearly collapses on him in a fit of laughter, yelping as Astarion takes the moment of weakness as an opportunity to roll him over and climb on top.

Gale gazes up at him, in awe, as ever, at his beauty. Astarion is straddling his hips, his cool hands splayed out on Gale's chest, toying with the curled hair there.

"So," Astarion purrs, lifting a hand to brush a loose strand from Gale's forehead and making Gale's brain go fuzzy. "As I was saying, let's pick up the pace on this lap, shall we?"

*
Astarion has been daydreaming about doing this all day. Ever since Gale put on that unfairly sexy navy blue suit and pushed his hair back and put on his glasses that he wears more often than not these days.

When their song came on at Alfira and Lakrissa's reception (again!), and Gale pulled Astarion into his arms on the dance floor and sang quietly into his ear, blocking out the real lyrics with his own version — 'you've got the most unbelievable gray eyes I've ever seen' — Astarion nearly had cause to severely regret the sizable plug he secretly slipped in this morning.

He'd had half a mind to tell Gale he was wearing it at the reception, just to see the scandalized look on his face, but this way has worked out even more fun. Now, Gale's expression is just as lustful as it is surprised.

Astarion gazes down at him, in awe, as ever, at his beauty. Gale is resting against the plush hotel pillows, his deep summer tan even starker against the crisp white linen. His warm hands gently caress the crease between Astarion's hips and thighs, and his hair has come loose from its carefully pushed back style, several strands falling into his eyes, glasses long since discarded.

"So," Astarion purrs, leaning down to tuck a silvering lock behind Gale's ear, dizzy with want as Gale sucks his own lower lip between his teeth. "As I was saying, let's pick up the pace on this lap, shall we?"

He bears down but the bastard slips his hands under Astarion's thighs.

"Ah, ah, ah," Gale tuts, big brown eyes glinting. "You seem to have forgotten who's the actual boss here."

With a huff of frustration, Astarion tries to push his weight down again but Gale easily stops him.

"Oh dear," Gale murmurs. "Can't hold yourself up? If you want to become a four-time World Champion like me, you're going to have to have a bit more stamina than that…"

Bastard.

"Pah," Astarion laughs breathlessly as Gale's fingers trace up and down the insides of his thighs. "I've got double your stamina, vieillard."

"Is that so?" Gale's smirk is insufferable. "Stay like that then, until you can't any longer."

Astarion smirks right back, effortlessly raising himself on his thighs, holding himself over Gale's hips and folding his arms across his chest. "You'll cave before I do."

"Let's find out, shall we?" Gale's fingers creep higher.

"That's cheating," Astarion pouts.

"Really?" Gale murmurs as he traces a line up the underside of Astarion's cock. "It was my understanding that the best F1 drivers should be able to withstand distractions of any kind."

"I- mm-" Astarion tries to stifle his moan as warm fingers wrap around him and begin to stroke once more. "I give it 30 seconds before you're doing an Australian GP."

When Gale hesitates, flashing him a look of confusion, Astarion leans down and whispers in his ear.

"Driving into me."

"That's it!" Gale chokes in playful outrage. "You just earned yourself a penalty."

Astarion shrieks with laughter as Gale reaches round and gently pushes a finger inside him, finding his prostate easily, their bodies as familiar to each other now as their own.

"You drove into me!" Gale begins to massage, applying just the right amount of pressure to send warm pleasure rippling through Astarion's torso. "Admit it."

"Hngh- no."

Another finger.

"Astarion…"

"Shan't." Astarion closes his eyes and shakes his head to hide the rapidly intensifying shake in his legs. His folded arms slip on the sweat starting to bead on his chest, and he reaches behind himself to rest his palms on Gale's bent knees, arching his back, riding his boyfriend's fingers with a purposefully lascivious whimper.

"Damn it..."

*

Gale never stood a chance at this game; he should have known that from the start. Even just the sight of Astarion — curly head thrown back, pale, slender thighs and sweat-slick stomach flexed with the effort of holding himself up — is enough to push Gale to the brink on its own.

"Damn it..." With a growl of only mostly faux annoyance, Gale slips his fingers from his boyfriend and replaces them with his cock, lifting his hips only slightly, giving Astarion complete control.

The resulting smirk on Astarion's face isn't enough to drown out the sheer pleasure as he sinks slowly downward, letting out another deliberately prolonged moan that has Gale's breath catching in his throat.

"The room next door is going to complain," he grunts as Astarion begins to roll his hips.

"Oh dear." Hips still and an elegant hand goes to plush lips in mock concern. "I'd better stop then."

"Don't you dare…"

Gale finally lets his hips buck upwards, enjoying the way it makes those lips part and gray eyes widen then close in bliss. He circles Astarion's waist with his hands, guiding his movements, faster and faster, breath catching again when Astarion's lashes flutter open and their eyes meet.

It's that, in the end, that does it for Gale. That white-hot, silk-strong connection between them, the one that's been there almost from the moment they met. Sometimes taut, sometimes frayed, but always, always pulling them together. Gale tugs at it now, dragging Astarion down by the waist into a deep kiss as they come as one.

*
"Don't you dare…"

Oh, this is what gets Astarion off, when Gale's voice gets that growl to it and all his self-consciousness goes out the window. When his movements become feral and instinctive and all Astarion can do is hold on for dear life.

Astarion's eyes close reflexively but he wants… oh, he wants to see Gale's face, wants to watch that desire overtake him… wants to look into his eyes as he…

It's that, in the end, that does it for Astarion. That white-hot, silk-strong connection between them, the one that's been there almost from the moment they met. Sometimes taut, sometimes frayed, but always, always pulling them together. Astarion allows himself to be pulled under by it now, sinking into Gale's arms to kiss him deeply as they come as one.

*

"What did you think of your second wedding then?" Gale murmurs into Astarion's ear as he spoons him later, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible. He's not at all invested in the answer. That would be ridiculous.

"It was fun," Astarion shrugs. "I enjoyed the after-party much more though."

Gale chuckles. "Well, you'll have another to attend soon, look at this…"

He rolls over to retrieve his phone from the bedside table, flicking open his WhatsApp chat with Wyll and showing Astarion the screen.

Astarion sits up and gasps, taking the phone. "No way…"

Amid the messages is a close-up photo of a diamond and ruby ring.

"She is going to spontaneously combust," Astarion says decisively, admiring the picture.

Gale chuckles again, pulling his little spoon back down as Astarion croons playfully:

"A straight wedding! How novel."

Wyll and Karlach

Astarion straightens Gale's tie from where it's come loose after hours of dancing.

"Thanks, love," Gale says, kissing his forehead in return.

Astarion watches him carefully. Gale seems a little melancholy this evening. Or… wistful perhaps? Astarion had found him outside on the patio, leaning on a balustrade and gazing up at the stars, seemingly hiding from the colorful swirl of lights and pumping music pouring out from the orangery behind them.

"How was Karlach's toilet trip?" Gale asks, amusement deepening the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.

"Eventful," Astarion laughs, resting his elbows on the stone too, so that their arms touch. "She was convinced she was going to pee on her dress. It took four of us to lift it up in the end."

"She looks beautiful," Gale responds sincerely, looking up at the sky again. "I don't think I've ever seen Wyll so happy."

"Mm," Astarion agrees. He's been thinking the same thing all evening; how content both bride and groom look, how nice it is to see them surrounded by their friends and family, to witness such a strong outpouring of love in all directions.

To Astarion's surprise, it had started to stir something within him. Some silly desire that he thought he was above, honestly. He glances sideways at Gale, admiring his profile in the moonlight, the straight line of his nose, the curve of his chin with its silver-flecked beard.

"Wyll's right," Astarion sighs as he leans his head on his boyfriend's shoulder, inhaling his familiar, comforting scent of neroli and clean laundry. "You really are the best man."

*

"You really are the best man."

Gale glances down at the top of his boyfriend's head with affection, before resting his cheek on silver curls, breathing in his familiar, comforting scent of bergamot.

Astarion seems happy tonight. Gale will never, ever tire of seeing Astarion happy.

It's why he's pleased he's done such a good job of masking his own melancholy. He doesn't know quite what's got into him but it had felt something like jealousy earlier, watching the way Wyll looked at his new wife.

Gale wants that for himself, for him and Astarion, but Astarion's opinion of weddings hasn't improved much in the three years since his first. Indeed, Wyll and Karlach's wedding seems to have made things even worse. With Gale as Wyll's Best Man and Astarion as Karlach's Aide of Honor, they've been privy to the chaos of trying to plan a day that pleased both Wyll's exorbitantly upper-class father and Karlach's huge, working-class London family. Astarion had denounced the entire thing as a nightmare. Gale had tried not to make it a big deal in his head, but he couldn't help feeling just a little upset that Astarion would never want this for the two of them.

"You know," Astarion reflects through a small yawn, pulling Gale from his thoughts. "I didn't care for weddings at first, but I do now." He twists his head on Gale's shoulder, looking up at him with a small smile that looses a kaleidoscope of butterflies in Gale's stomach. "It might not be the worst thing in the world to have one of these of our own one day."

"Oh," Gale nods slowly, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's slender shoulders, nearly laughing at the thought of the rude awakening his pacemaker is currently getting. "Yes. Not the worst thing in the world."

Tara

Astarion straightens Gale's tie, feeling his lip wobble as he tries to return his boyfriend's sad smile. His hands are shaking, and Gale reaches up to take them in his own.

"Ast…"

"I can't," Astarion blinks furiously as he shakes his head. "I can't do it, I can't say goodbye."

Gale's brown eyes are tear-filled too and Astarion hates it, he hates it.

"Hey," Gale's voice is choked as he pulls Astarion into his arms. "One step after another, one foot in front of the other. That's what she always used to tell me-"

"The car's here, boys."

Morena and Elminster appear in Grey Harbour's kitchen doorway. Gale's mother is clinging to Elminster's arm, a handkerchief clutched in one hand. She seems completely lost.

"Oh, you both look lovely," she whispers as Gale strides forward to envelop her in a hug, her voice muffled by his embrace. "She would have- she would have been so proud-"

Astarion rushes forward then, the three of them clinging to each other as they cry.

The last funeral Astarion went to was his mother's. That he should be here now, saying goodbye to the only other person to play that role in his life, feels beyond cruel.

It's not fair. It's not fair. That's what he'd said to her, over and over, when Tara told him her diagnosis. And again, when she told him she didn't want to put herself through any more chemo. And again, when he sat at her bedside in Grey Harbour, holding her frighteningly frail hand while they watched her silly stories.

He can't bear to think of her in that casket in the back of that black car outside. Can't bear to think of her lying still under earth when she should be marching through Grey Harbour's front door and telling them all to lighten up.

Morena lets out a quiet sob, and Astarion holds on to her and Gale even tighter, trying to steady his breathing for her sake.

"Come on, Mor." He pulls away eventually, wiping his eyes and reaching for her hand, Gale gently taking her other arm. "We can do this. One step after another, one foot in front of the other."

*

Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,
Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche…

Gale leans against the hotel bar, watching Astarion and Morena dance to La Vie en Rose, Tara's favorite song.

The room is beautifully decorated for the wake, white lilies scenting the air around old photographs of Tara with her loved ones, hiking mountains, dolled up in scrubs, sitting in a Formula 1 car.

Gale smiles as he thinks about their last proper conversation in Grey Harbour and her joy when he told her what he was planning. The way she'd strained to sit up in her bed, bossily ordering him to go to her flat in London and dig through an old box in a bedroom cupboard. To find the smaller box that was kept safe within.

"I was going to leave it to him anyway," she'd chuckled, the wheeze in her voice a dagger to his heart. "It's my only heirloom and he's the closest I've got to a son besides you…"

"Is that a whisky on the rocks?" Elminster appears at Gale's side, sinking heavily onto the stool next to him and signaling to the barman. "A most excellent idea. I'll take one of those too."

Gale clinks his glass against the TP's when it arrives, and they sit in comfortable silence for a while — until Elminster clears his throat.

"Not to talk shop at a funeral, but…"

Gale rolls his eyes, and Elminster raises a hand in supplication.

"I know, I know. But you need to make a decision soon, m'boy. It won't be long until the new season and the window for a handover is closing."

"I know," Gale echoes.

"You've got to admit," Elminster lowers his voice. "Gale Dekarios, Team Principal of Weave Racing. It's got a ring to it."

He's not wrong, Gale thinks. Team Principal. He could get used to that.

A petty part of him finds it even sweeter to take the title that Mystra once held over his head. A title she'll never hold again after getting fired from Bane.

"You're sure?" he sighs. "About retiring? About… me?"

"I can't think of anyone I'd rather hand the reins to," Elminster shrugs, a twinkle in his eye. He follows Gale's gaze to Astarion, who's waving over at them both. "Have you told him yet?"

"No," Gale smiles, waving back as Astarion blows him a kiss. "There's something else I want to ask him first."

Gale and Astarion

Astarion straightens Gale's bow tie before wiping a tear from his cheek.

"You're doing great, sweetie," he half-laughs, half-sobs, wiping his own eyes as their friends and family chuckle and sniffle in equal measure.

He knew Gale would struggle to get through his vows without crying but Astarion never expected to get so emotional himself. It had all just got to him a bit this morning, walking out of their living room and into the Schoolhouse's garden, now complete with a luxury stretch tipi, white wooden chairs set out in lines in front of an archway woven with flowers plucked from the greenery around them.

Tara's letter hadn't helped either, even though she'd left strict instructions that they only look at it the night before the wedding so as not to 'depress anyone on the big day'. He and Gale had read it together yesterday evening, sat by the old wishing well, soaked in tears and the setting sun, promising her they'd be good to each other, just as she'd instructed.

Astarion glances fondly at the picture of her resting on the chair they left empty in the front row. He smiles to himself. She would have hated all this maudlin nonsense.

Gale finishes his vows with a heartfelt, tear-filled 'I love you', and then it's Astarion's turn, his heart pounding almost as much as it does on the grid.

He'd royally freaked out about writing these. Gale seemed to find it so simple; words have always come more easily to him than they have to Astarion. After weeks of panic, the solution had arrived in the form of Karlach, frustrated with his histrionics, blurting out that he should just say his vows in French so that no one can understand them anyway.

"Gale," Astarion takes a deep breath and slips into his native tongue. It feels right, really. Like having a small piece of his mother here with him on his big day. "I was once given an award for saving your life. It's always felt ironic to me, since it's you who's saved mine over and over again. And, as if that wasn't enough, you've given me a life too. One I never thought was possible. You've given me a family and friends. You've given me a home. You've given me three World Championships!"

Astarion pauses for the ripple of laughter from the French speakers among the guests.

"In return, I promise I'll do everything I can to give you the world. I love you, Gale Dekarios… Even if you did drive into me in Australia."

"Steady on!" There's more laughter as Gale gasps through his tears. "I'm nearly fluent now, you can't get away with that!"

"On that note!" Wyll chuckles and claps his hands together when Astarion and Gale have finished hugging. "If I could ask my beautiful wife to bring forward the rings..."

Karlach leaps up from her chair, nearly knocking it over, beaming at them both through mascara-streaked eyes as she hands over the rings; Astarion's, Tara's heirloom, a beautiful twist of platinum and diamond; and Gale's, his father's simple gold wedding band, a gift from Morena when he told her he was going to propose.

"Gale Dekarios," Wyll grins at his old friend. "Do you take this man, Astarion Ancunin, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," Gale whispers with a smile that sets Astarion's heart to thumping again.

"And Astarion Ancunin, do you take this man, Gale Dekarios, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," Astarion squeezes Gale's hands with a grin. "Bien sûr…"

"Then, as your officiant, all that remains for me to say is…" Wyll looks between them both, his smile wide. "I now pronounce you: husband and husband!"

With a sob of happiness, Astarion launches himself into Gale's arms as their guests launch confetti into the air, dried petals in a rainbow of colors cascading around them as they kiss.

*

Quand il me prend dans ses bras,
Il me parle tout bas,
Je vois la vie en rose…

Gale takes Astarion in his arms, singing to him softly as they sway under a canopy of hanging lights. Alfira stands on a makeshift stage at the top of the garden, her surprisingly sweet voice weaving harmonies with Lakrissa's gently plucked guitar — their wedding gift to their friends.

It's been a perfect day so far, from the mouthwatering feast laid on by the Greek caterers to Morena's endlessly popular honey and orange-infused wedding cake with its little Road Runner topper. Oh god, and the speeches. Gale had nearly choked on his champagne when Karlach proudly stood at the head of one long table and announced that she had, at last, finally guessed what 'GC' and 'PC' stood for.

"Grande cuillère and petite cuillère!" she'd exclaimed triumphantly. "It came to me when I was helping Ast with his vows. It's French! Right!? I'm right, aren't I??"

Gale was on the verge of congratulating her when Astarion kicked him under the table.

"Afraid not, darling," he'd shrugged. "Keep guessing."

"What!? Noooo!" Karlach had wailed. "I was so sure! Argh! What does it meeeean!? I guess I'll have to go back to my original guess of 'Giant Co-'"

"Okay!" Her husband had hastily cut her off as the tipi filled with the raucous laughter of the guests. "I think it's my turn to talk now!"

Gale smiles again at the thought of it, closing his eyes and letting the music wash over him.

Il me dit des mots d’amour,
Des mots de tous les jours.
Et ça me fait quelque chose…

It had been easy to pick their first dance, it was the first song that came to mind for both of them as soon as they'd been asked to choose. Just like it was easy to name the kitten Astarion had surprised Gale with for his birthday just a few months before.

"What are you going to call her?" Astarion had asked, lying on the sofa while the scrappy little tabby jumped and batted at silver curls.

"Tara," Gale had said, without a moment's hesitation, then sat next to his fiancé as they both shed a couple of quiet tears, hand in hand, the kitten weaving between their feet.

Now, Gale translates the lyrics in his head as they dance to Tara's favorite song. He wasn't lying earlier; his French has greatly improved after years of not-always-patient tutelage from Astarion.

He’s entered my heart,
A piece of happiness,
I know the cause.

It’s me for him and him for me
In life, he said it to me and swore it for life.

The final bars of La Vie en Rose give way to a familiar melody, and Astarion whoops loudly, grabbing Gale's hands and slowly spinning him around.

Feels like
I'm standing in a timeless dream.
A light mist
of pale amber rose…

With a chorus of cheers and applause, their friends and family rush to join them on the dance floor, surrounding them with hugs and claps on the back and congratulations and love. Hands are held and arms slipped around waists as the dancing begins.

You've got
The most unbelievable…

"Gray eyes!" Gale sings over the lyrics, just as Astarion shouts 'brown eyes' right back at him, the pair of them laughing as Gale lifts him up like he did that day all those years ago when Astarion won his first World Championship.

As we lay there, under a blue sky with pure white stars
Exotic sweetness, a magical time…

Just as he was then, Astarion is gazing down at Gale now, those gray eyes slightly glassy, sparkling in the dancing lights above.

And Gale says it again, because he can't stop saying it, because he'll never get over how strongly he feels it.

"I love you."

*

Astarion gazes down into brown eyes that sparkle in the dancing lights above.

"I love you," Gale murmurs.

And Astarion says it back, because he can't stop saying it, because he'll never get over how strongly he feels it.

"I love you."

He leans down to give Gale a small kiss on the tip of his nose before sinking back into his arms, resting his head on his husband's shoulder and whispering in his ear.

"Always, forever."