[ In the strangeness of betwixtmas — that period between Christmas and New Year, a particularly unreal time for all who inhabit it — Gale feels as though a line has been drawn, or perhaps crossed, by their gifts exchanged and hands entwined.
He reaches for Astarion’s hand again on Boxing Day, in the quiet of his favourite little library, half to prove to himself that he didn’t dream their intimacy (and half because Astarion’s elegant hand was there, laid flat against the upholstery between them, the promise of where else it might fit held in the sunstone upon his pointer finger). At mealtimes, he leans his chin into the cup of his palm to regard Astarion openly. Looking toward, not away. Something galvanising about the rare instances of the gaze returned. Diligently, he avoids the mistletoe about the manor, when it might — well, it wouldn’t — he knows they aren’t, of course — but it could be counterproductive, in light of whatever miracle is happening to him now.
On the eve of the New Year, Gale doesn’t awaken with the winter light, as he has every morning since his arrival. Instead, he slumbers until the evening, blinking to life with a hungover sort of disorientation, head and heart pounding. At first, he thinks he’ll be sick from the strangeness of it all. New-old memories, jostling about his skull. Then, he wonders at the veracity of the recollections, satisfied only when he finds a freshly scarred cut on his collarbone, hard-won in their fight against Myrkul. ]
Where are you?
[ Swiftly realising that might sound ominous or perhaps even demanding, as if Astarion ought to have waited for him while he slept like a lunk — ]
I’ve good news.
[ He types and deletes said news, consumed by the thought of Astarion’s fluttering features, on hearing it. ]
✉️ — 31/12.
He reaches for Astarion’s hand again on Boxing Day, in the quiet of his favourite little library, half to prove to himself that he didn’t dream their intimacy (and half because Astarion’s elegant hand was there, laid flat against the upholstery between them, the promise of where else it might fit held in the sunstone upon his pointer finger). At mealtimes, he leans his chin into the cup of his palm to regard Astarion openly. Looking toward, not away. Something galvanising about the rare instances of the gaze returned. Diligently, he avoids the mistletoe about the manor, when it might — well, it wouldn’t — he knows they aren’t, of course — but it could be counterproductive, in light of whatever miracle is happening to him now.
On the eve of the New Year, Gale doesn’t awaken with the winter light, as he has every morning since his arrival. Instead, he slumbers until the evening, blinking to life with a hungover sort of disorientation, head and heart pounding. At first, he thinks he’ll be sick from the strangeness of it all. New-old memories, jostling about his skull. Then, he wonders at the veracity of the recollections, satisfied only when he finds a freshly scarred cut on his collarbone, hard-won in their fight against Myrkul. ]
Where are you?
[ Swiftly realising that might sound ominous or perhaps even demanding, as if Astarion ought to have waited for him while he slept like a lunk — ]
I’ve good news.
[ He types and deletes said news, consumed by the thought of Astarion’s fluttering features, on hearing it. ]