Chapter Text
Astarion briefly closes his eyes. He grabs his toothbrush, spreads the toothpaste on it. He knows how to do this. He can do this. He’s done it thousands of times. Why would today be any different? It won’t.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he brings the innocent plastic piece to his mouth. He brushes it against the surface of his gritted teeth. Nothing. It’s fine. Everything is fine. Why wouldn’t it be?
His gesture becomes slightly more energetic as relief washes over him. In the mirror, his reflection looks back at him, even paler than usual. He almost immediately averts his gaze.
Slowly, he relaxes enough to dare opening his mouth, the brush leaving a heavy mint flavor on his tongue.
It’s just plastic. It’s just plastic. It’s just plastic. Everything is fine.
The toothbrush scrapes against his canines. Nothing.
Then, he cleans his premolars, very gently. All good.
He moves the stupid little plastic object a little further, brushing against his molars. One brush. Fine. A second one. Fine. Just one more, to finally feel clean.
He gags. One time. Two times. Tears well up in his eyes, his entire body feels cold, his stomach churns with the strength of his nausea. The taste of mint overwhelms his tastebuds as he chokes on a sob. He spits the thick foam. Again. And again. And again. The taste still lingers. As it did last night. And the night before.
He rinses his mouth four times, almost inhaling the tape water. But the water isn’t enough to wash the mint taste off his mouth. It never was enough. He coughs, spit on his lips, and the damned mint is still here. He needs something else. Something stronger. He still feels so dirty.
His entire body screams at the feeling of his existence. He has washed every smallest part of his limbs several times. He has scrubbed his skin until it got red and sensitive. But he still feels disgusting. Nasty.
Stomach and esophagus still tight, he stumbles out of the bathroom, his legs barely supporting him. And the fucking mint taste still lasts in his mouth. A few steps, and he finally reaches the kitchen of his apartment. Dirty dishes still wait in the sink. The sole idea of touching these makes him want to crawl out of his skin. He opens the fridge in search of something to eat. Something to keep himself alive.
A cheap ready-made dish lies on a sticky shelf. Something spilled here, a few days ago, and he didn’t find it in him to clean up. What a mess.
He picks up the plastic plate. It has expired. Shit. And not by a few days, no. Weeks. But he has nothing else, and if he refuses to eat it, he knows there will be consequences.
As the microwave hums, he opens another cupboard and grabs an unlabeled bottle. Its clear liquid swirls with the shaking of his own hands. He doesn’t bother taking a glass. He doesn’t have any clean one anyway. The burning and familiar sensation of the cheap vodka floods his mouth, his throat, his stomach, leaving an unpleasant trail. Still better than the mint.
The “food” is ready. The smell isn’t too bad. It probably means it’s fine, right? It looks straight up nasty, though. Like a foul mush, where he can’t distinguish what is supposed to be a vegetable, and what is supposed to be meat. His stomach protests in an atrocious mixture of hunger and disgust.
He takes another big swig out of the bottle, trying to numb his tastebuds before the mint comes back.
One bite. The food tastes okay. Not good, but not bad. He tries to muffle the small voice in him, that keeps telling him that the food has expired. A second bite. Is this how it’s supposed to taste though? He forces his jaw to unclench, taking another big mouthful. The sooner it’s over, the better.
Except it’s not. It’s too much. Suddenly, the “okay” taste is different. It mixes with that fucking disgusting mint. Fuck. Shit. Why is the mint still here?! And why does the food taste like mold all of a sudden? The taste is still the same, but somehow, he’s now convinced this is the taste of rot and decay.
He gags, once again, his whole carcass of a body shaken by the strength of his own diaphragm. Ironic considering how all his other muscles feel weak and shaky. He tries to swallow a bit of the mush in his mouth, but his throat is tight. Too tight. He retches. He can feel his heart painfully beating in his chest, tears now streaming down his face. It hurts. Another swallow, another retch. Little by little, he force-feeds himself, until his mouth is finally empty, leaving him exhausted and shaking, snot, spit and tears on his face. He eyes the rest of the dish. It’s getting cold, the sauce even thicker. He can’t do this. Not tonight. He reached the point where nausea takes over hunger.
A voice in his mind insidiously whispers to him that it’s for the better. That if he dares gaining weight, if he’s not beautiful anymore, he won’t be useful. And if he’s not useful, there’s no point for Cazador to keep him alive. Maybe he’ll beat him up for spoiling the food, but at least, he won’t go further. He’ll continue making sure he doesn’t leave more scars.
The pale man painfully moves to his room, bottle still clenched in his fist.
The mattress on the floor almost looks inviting. He can’t wait for sleep to take over tonight. If he’s lucky enough, he won’t even dream, and have at least a few hours to escape his life and to shut his brain up. He gives the bottle a look. It’s almost empty, he’d better finish it tonight. Maybe it will even help him find some rest, for once.
A few gulps later, the now empty bottle falls on the wooden floor. His half-empty stomach churns, but he ignores it, head heavy. He falls back onto the mattress, eyes riveted on the ceiling. For a second, he considers giving up. Wouldn’t it be easier? To just sleep his life away?
No. Surviving is still better than being dead, right? Surviving implies the possibility of, one day, living. He has to hold on in case, one day, he’s allowed to live again. Slumber slowly takes over him, bringing an illusory relief. But despite his exhaustion, in his comatose dreams, the mint always manages to creep back in his mouth.
Oh. But was this ever about the mint?
Gale tightens the tie around his neck. He can feel how tensed his shoulders are. And yet, everything is fine. It always is. But it’s not the “fine” he wanted for his life. Sure, he has a house, a job, a wife, a cat. But everything is dull, bland and boring. Depression has been weaving its web around him for too many years now. He isn’t loved, and doesn’t love anymore. Not his house, not his job, not his wife. Maybe his cat, a bit. But he can’t count on an old, sick cat to keep him afloat in the mess of his life.
His eyes meet his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired, as always. Maybe even more than usual. He almost immediately averts his gaze.
His self-image has been degrading lately. Not that it was ever good to begin with. But he has been gaining weight. He has stopped taking care of himself as thoroughly as he used to. His beard looks unkept, patchy, and more grey hairs keep decorating it. He takes the shortest showers he can to avoid having to see his body too often. He can’t stand his own face. He is disgusting. Nasty.
He did consider going to therapy. He tried it. But the mention of anti-depressants scared him off. He can’t reasonably consider spending the rest of his life depending on pills to fake a feeling of happiness he perfectly knows he won’t genuinely feel, can he? He does not want to admit he has reached the point where he would need drugs to artificially keep himself alive.
After mindlessly brushing his teeth, he goes out of the bathroom, steps slow and heavy. Almost mechanically, he goes down the stairs and reaches the kitchen. He takes a look around him. He knows she’s not here, but he can’t help himself. He always checks. Old habits are hard to chase away. He opens a cupboard, and grabs one small innocent mint candy. It’s weird how addicting these can be. Although they are mostly made of sugar, the freshness of their taste takes over the sugary flavor. The taste lasts long enough to prevent him from eating -or drinking- anything else. These candies are the only thing that don’t feel dull, bland and boring.
The sound of the plastic wrap makes his wince with a strange mixture of shame and anticipation. Mystra would scold him like a child if she was here. She often does. About many things. His food, his looks, his research, his cat. The mint candies. Especially the mint candies.
He sees the alcohol cupboard in the corner of his eye. No, Gale. Focus on the shitty mint flavor. It will spoil the taste of this very expensive whiskey you’ve been eyeing. You’ve been sober for weeks now; it would be a shame to waste all these efforts.
He tears his gaze off the tantalizing bottle. He should start cooking diner before Mystra comes back. She’s always so tired when she comes back from work. Always on edge, ready to snap at anything he says or does. He doesn’t want to feel the shame tonight.
He opens the fridge and gets a look at the fresh vegetables. He always makes sure to pick the best quality ingredients, even if he knows, in the end, it will all taste the same for him. Dull, bland and boring.
He takes the knife he had bought in Japan, as a souvenir. Its sharp and heavy blade has now begun to lose its shine, no longer as beautiful as it used to be.
He was so young when he had bought it. He was attending his first international congress, and a renowned one at that. He was extremely proud of himself. His presentation had gone quite well and Mystra, his supervisor at the time, had been very pleased with her student. That night, before parting to go to their respective hotel rooms, she had kissed him for the first time. He had not known how to react, paralyzed by surprise and fear, the minty taste of her lips lingering on his.
He frowns, looking at those stupid -dull, bland, boring- carrots. He had so many dreams back then. Ambition, even. He had really thought she would help him and support him. She was supposed to love him forever. At least, that’s what she had promised on so many occasions.
Now, he’s just stuck in a life he doesn’t want, married to a woman who doesn’t want him. It’s like being a side character of his own life. He doesn’t even grasp the concept of his own existence anymore. Sometimes, he wishes he could just sleep his life away. Go to bed and never wake up.
But that would mean completely giving up on his dreams, and a foolish part of him can’t accept this. Not yet. Maybe one day, something will change and he’ll get a chance to start over.
Suddenly, the tie around his neck feels too tight. Suffocating. Tears start to well up in his eyes. How pathetic. If Mystra was here… he can almost hear her voice.
His hands frantically reach for the piece of fabric, loosen it, unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt. But the feeling remains. He’s chocking on his own regrets, an ocean in his throat.
His breathing hitches, his head starts spinning. He can’t afford to have a panic attack now. He needs to… diner needs to be ready before she’s home. He clutches the counter between his fingers, trying to anchor himself in the pain and mint taste on his tongue. With the anxiety, comes back the shame. She’s going to know. She will smell the mint on his breath. She will shame him again.
His stomach drops at the idea of getting humiliated one more night. His chest hurts, the pang of panic stronger than ever. His left arm feels numb, he drops the heavy sharp knife with a loud clatter. When he bends over to pick it up, he stumbles, his knees giving up under his weight.
As if in slow-motion, his vision darkens, small dots dancing before his eyes as he, ever so slowly, falls to the ground. The last thing he feels, before passing out, is the mint on his tongue, mixed with the irony taste of blood.
His last thought goes to the candy that fell out of his mouth and now lies on the floor of the kitchen. It’s going to leave a sticky minty stain on the parquet. Mystra is going to be mad at him.
Oh. But was this ever about the mint?