[ Again, Astarion can only laugh. It seems to happen more and more these days, especially around Gale. Laughter, hapless and genuine and light, rather than a reaction manufactured to draw its listener closer in. Yet Gale draws closer regardless — gentle touch, sweet gaze, given despite a lack of artifice on Astarion's part. Doubts well up inside him — most keenly, the thought that Gale would turn away from him if he knew what he'd done, if he understood the covenant he'd made at Cazador's feet — but they fade into nothingness as the other man's hand finds his jaw, as their eyes meet again.
He understands that this isn't magic, not like the pull of the mistletoe, and yet a tinge of that coloring remains. The rainbow of colors that blossoms across Gale's features as the fireworks continue overhead, sparks mirrored in the pools of his gaze. Elsewhere in the house, in the garden, revelry is in full swing, carrying faint currents of chatter and music, a song he can't quite place, to their balcony.
For a long moment, he just looks at him, like time has stopped, like the moment has suspended itself. Then, finally, on a breath: ]
Take it, then.
[ Not a warning, not pity, but an invitation properly extended. ]
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He understands that this isn't magic, not like the pull of the mistletoe, and yet a tinge of that coloring remains. The rainbow of colors that blossoms across Gale's features as the fireworks continue overhead, sparks mirrored in the pools of his gaze. Elsewhere in the house, in the garden, revelry is in full swing, carrying faint currents of chatter and music, a song he can't quite place, to their balcony.
For a long moment, he just looks at him, like time has stopped, like the moment has suspended itself. Then, finally, on a breath: ]
Take it, then.
[ Not a warning, not pity, but an invitation properly extended. ]