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The two husbands arrived home just as dawn broke, exhausted from the long night of celebration. Simril had been just as good as any other year, spent in the company of friends and family. Most of their children came to see them to celebrate together, and Cassandra and Elizabeth had each brought their own little toddler-child. Naviidi and her wife had made the long trek back to the Sword Coast— alongside her eldest and his family from wherever in the realms they'd been— to celebrate both her birthday and the stargazing festival with them. Eliose had been in town, along with Gale's friends travelling up from the Gate— Wyll, Karlach, Shadowheart, and the like. Elijah's family had joined in setting up alongside them.
It was nice to see so many people that were so dear to them again, all in one place. Their was hardly a spare moment of the night where neither Gale nor Morgan didn't have someone's child in their arms. Being a grandfather was a very good look on Gale— the glasses, thick grey beard, jolly belly, wrinkles set deep around his smile— just as good as being a father had made him look. Morgan had found himself this night quite infatuated with watching him mind their grandchildren.
Good company, good food, good weather.
It had been a good night.
But now, they were both exhausted and set on spending the day sleeping off this night, as the rest of Waterdeep would also follow suit. Up in their bedroom, Morgan finally broke off of hanging on his husband's arm all night to wash up, disappearing into the bathroom. As he washed up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
He didn't quite know what to expect, but he reeled back for a moment, expecting himself to look… older. It wasn't as if his appearance had changed since the last time he'd seen his reflection, it was just… it hadn't changed. It hadn't quite struck him before now just how old everyone around him looked. Everyone around him was aging, and Morgan just… wasn't.
Morgan leaned closer to the mirror, hands bracing against the counter. He searched his face for wrinkles, pores, blemishes, any signs of aging, combed the scratch-less prosthetic hand through his hair, searching for any grey hair, even just one, and only finding bountiful curls of orange and gold. Every freckle was exactly where it had been for the last few decades, his skin was soft and firm, there was no sign of his thick hair receding.
Morgan looked exactly as he had the day Bhaal had killed him, all those years ago. Frozen in time at 28 years old.
He leaned back, looking himself up and down in the mirror. Reaching for his shirt, he held it up to examine his stomach. There was still the same pouch of fat sitting between his hips, the stretch marks from his first child; But this body had carried six of his babies, triplets even. Shouldn't his body keep score? Shouldn't there be some mark, some physical memory of the lifes they'd created? Seeing himself in this light, the disturbing thought surfaced that he looked more like his daughters' brother than their father.
He turned, craning over his shoulder and shifting his wings to see his back. Not a scar was there, not even from the Draco-Lich, or the Emperor, or Vecna, or countless other horrors he'd faced, places where he knows he'd taken killing blows before— blows that would've surely destroyed men who did not posses the godly blood he did. Was that it? Was it his blood keeping him from aging, from showing his well-earned battle scars? Was he so much more god than mortal man now that he'd lost his right to grow old? How long would he be 28 for? Another few centuries? A millennia? Forever?
What was the point of fighting so hard if he was denied the right to grow old with his husband and closest friends? To sit together with their grey hair and wrinkles and weakening bodies and admire the life they'd built together? Of course, he'd prepared for the reality that he would surely age slower and die later than his human husband, being a half-elf and all (at least in biology), but he'd prepared to only be behind by a hundred or so years. Even as a half-elf, he should've aged somewhat by now; His face should've changed, body should've kept the score of all it had been put through.
An even worse thought suddenly came to him then. Would he have to bury his own children?
If he already looked the same age, maybe even younger than them, would they keep aging and dying why Morgan simply… didn't? How many generations of Dekarioses would he be forced to bury before his time finally came?
It was that thought that finally pushed him over the edge. Morgan turned from the mirror, leaning back against the counter as he breathed deep, counting his exhales.
He must have spent an unusual amount of time in the bathroom, because there was a knock on the doorframe then. Gale poked his head in the bathroom.
"Angel?"
The pet-name Gale had been calling him for decades, across realities, caught Morgan's attention, pulling him briefly from his spiral as his head turned.
Seeing his husband decent, Gale entered. A hand rested on Morgan's waist, leaning against the counter next to him.
"You've got that look on your face," Gale said.
Morgan's gaze had followed him as he came closer, shifting into his touch, "What look?"
"That look. Like something is wrong. I know all your looks," Gale chuckled softly, leaning closer still to press a kiss to Morgan's cheek. Gods, he even sounded older, Morgan thought.
Morgan sighed, eyes fluttering shut. There was very little he could hide from Gale; He was an open book in his husbands hands— his favourite book, even, oft studied and completely memorized.
"I don't look my age," He replied, quietly.
"Well, you sound upset about that. Most people would be delighted to retain their youth for so long."
Morgan angled his face up to return Gale's kiss properly. Then he pulled away, drifting back into their bedroom, "I look so… young, though. It feels wrong."
Morgan stopped at the foot of their bed. He pulled his shirt up over his head, discarding his clothes on the floor as he undressed. He detached his arm, leaving it to rest on his nightstand.
Gale followed behind him, "You have elven blood. We were never going to age at the same rate, I know you know. We've talked about this—"
"So do our daughters. But Cassandra and Clementine have started to almost look older than me. Imagine that— being older than your damn father. Does that not disturb you, Gale?"
Down to his shorts, Morgan pulled back the covers, crawling into bed.
Gale hesitated. "When you put it like that…"
He followed suit, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed.
"How does it make you feel when people think I'm too young to be married to a man your age?" Morgan pressed further, "Because it's never made me feel nice before when people have assumed that. I always wanted to grow old with you, I want us both to look our age. I don't want to be this young forever, I don't want my body to be in fighting shape forever."
Gale blew out the lamp on his nightstand and took off his glasses. With a sigh, he laid, rolling over to meet his husband's eyes.
"When does this end? When do I get to retire?" Morgan continued, his soft voice echoing through the dark room. Gale reached out a hand, cupping Morgan's cheek.
"Everyone looked so much older tonight. All our friends. It hadn't really hit me how much older everyone else was getting until now." Morgan's remaining hand came up to settle over the one on his cheek. He could feel Gale's skin under his, wrinkled and calloused with age, so much different from the strong, youthful hands he'd fallen in love with all those years ago.
"I don't know what to say, Angel," Gale replied back, his voice just as soft, "We could magically age you, I'm sure there's a spell for that. Or we could go on an adventure for a Deck of Many Things and make sure you pull the right card; It has been a long time since we've adventured together…"
Gale poked him in the ribs playfully, trying to to coax a smile from him. Morgan laughed despite himself, batting away his fingers.
"For good reason. I don't think you're up for adventuring anymore, old man," Morgan couldn't help but join in, returning Gale's teasing. His husband's smile was contagious.
"Why, you should respect your elders, young'in," Gale's poking had turned to proper tickling now, Morgan cringing away from his insistent hands, "I remember you used to like that I was older than you. I remember being called a few choice names in bed: Professor, Da—"
"Stop it!" Morgan cried through laughter. He grabbed at Gale's hands, but only having one hand to Gale's two was putting him at a disadvantage, "That was when you were ten years older than me, not fifty."
Gale finally pulled his hands away, "You don't like how old I look?"
Morgan rolled his eyes, "You look very good like this. I've only fallen more and more in love with you over the years. I just wished we looked the same."
Gale's smile faded away, his face turning serious once more. He drew closer in bed, and like clockwork Morgan intertwined himself around him like every other night the past few decades together. A wing extended to cover over both of them like a blanket.
"I know it bothers you, but if it's any consolation I still love you just as you are. Young or old, you're still the love of my life," Gale whispered. His lips met Morgan's. Morgan kissed back, sighing against him.