[ In his room, in the whole of the manor, the world. That’s the thing about Gale. When his eyes meet another’s, the crowd blinks out.
The corners of his mouth quirk, faint but fond. ]
[ quieter, ] That can’t be right.
[ Despite all his chattering and the occasional flustering beneath the mistletoe. My heart remains conflicted, he told Armand, thinking not of the heavens but of their adjoining rooms. A little tousle of his hair into the wind, clearing his face. Not quite tidy, but passable.
He brings a hand to Astarion’s jaw, tipping it delicately. Watching his sharp features stretch and soften, awaiting the warning or gentle pity that would tell him to call the whole thing off. For Gale, it’s now been some weeks since he kissed Astarion — just the once, chased by entwined fingers and lingering glances — time instead spent traipsing through the dark alongside each other, a seemingly simple (terrifying) choice made more complex by the bonds now tethering him. ]
No need to rush, besides, [ a promise tucked inside his phrasing. ] when I’ve only a step to take.
[ Shoring up his reserves of courage has always been easier when they were buoyed by affection. ]
[ 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. ]
[ Every time Gale earns a laugh, the sound seems fuller, sweeter. He looks back, nerves dissipating under the familiar weight of dark eyes, rounding when they once only narrowed. He ought to make light of it, to hush if you insist as he ducks his head, but he’s struck speechless by the clarity of Astarion’s invitation. Unmistakable.
A final burst of nerves. A hummingbird heartbeat. Then, Gale brings his other hand to Astarion’s cheek, calloused fingers sliding back — to the shell of his ear, the give of moonlit curls. Both hands touching, tilting, seeking. Awe in the set of his eyes before they shutter. All in the name of a more intentive kiss than before. A little harder, a little surer — both a kiss for the sake of it and a kiss that could go somewhere. Until — ]
Apologies. [ Breathless and lingering close in the aftermath, heat blooming on his cheeks. ] I — You’re meant to wait until midnight. [ stupidly, ] For the tradition.
[ Impossible to keep his thumb from straying to the corner of Astarion’s pert mouth, even so. To stop himself from thinking about the inherent tenderness of Astarion having kissed a place that isn’t his mouth under the mistletoe. ]
[ The kiss is sweet. Astarion needn't search for another word for it, doesn't think of anything else in the moment but Gale, the thorny mass that has wound itself around any conception of intimacy in his head dissipating for a singular beat as he allows himself to want, to be wanted. He feels dizzy, almost, sensation overriding the myriad calculations that have characterized most intimate moments before this as he tilts his head into Gale's hand, meets his eyes with affection clear in his own. ]
Naughty.
[ Just as breathless, carried on a laugh. ]
I ought to have made you wait.
[ But there's no real heat or intention behind his words, just a gentle sort of teasing. It feels, almost, like stretching out the tiny shred of certainty he feels like so much dough over a larger plate — letting it fill him up, closing up the gaps so there's no room for anything else right now, even if fear or doubt set their claws in him later. Right now, there's just this.
This, as in the kiss Astarion presses to Gale's lips in return, confidence begetting more of the giddy same as his fingers curl in Gale's sleeve. He's almost shy when he pulls back, as though taken aback by his own desire. ]
Nothing more until midnight! [ Though he wavers on the spot, uncertain if he really wants to pull away. ] For the sake of tradition.
[ Astarion gifts him so much, culminating in that second, unexpected kiss. Offered freely, no influence but Gale himself to account for. Gale doesn’t let him go, isn’t sure he could, thinking, madly, what fool would ever wish to be anywhere but here? What matter the heavens, with earthly delights so bright? ]
Wow.
[ wholly captivated, despite that note of surprise, leaning forward like he’s awfully tempted to kiss Astarion again and again and again until they haven’t the faintest idea who is kissing who. Too much, too fast, possibly born of the same instinct that carried him around a darkened bend to an eerie glow. To have or to please — reigned in, to the barest press forehead-to-forehead, nose-to-nose before he lifts his head to a sociable distance. ]
Until midnight.
[ Echoed like a reminder to himself. Hopeful as a pup by the door, head tipped to one side. Gale lets his hand fall away from Astarion’s face, skimming down his arm to re-entwine their fingers. ]
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no subject
—There are other people here?
[ In his room, in the whole of the manor, the world. That’s the thing about Gale. When his eyes meet another’s, the crowd blinks out.
The corners of his mouth quirk, faint but fond. ]
[ quieter, ] That can’t be right.
[ Despite all his chattering and the occasional flustering beneath the mistletoe. My heart remains conflicted, he told Armand, thinking not of the heavens but of their adjoining rooms. A little tousle of his hair into the wind, clearing his face. Not quite tidy, but passable.
He brings a hand to Astarion’s jaw, tipping it delicately. Watching his sharp features stretch and soften, awaiting the warning or gentle pity that would tell him to call the whole thing off. For Gale, it’s now been some weeks since he kissed Astarion — just the once, chased by entwined fingers and lingering glances — time instead spent traipsing through the dark alongside each other, a seemingly simple (terrifying) choice made more complex by the bonds now tethering him. ]
No need to rush, besides, [ a promise tucked inside his phrasing. ] when I’ve only a step to take.
[ Shoring up his reserves of courage has always been easier when they were buoyed by affection. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
A final burst of nerves. A hummingbird heartbeat. Then, Gale brings his other hand to Astarion’s cheek, calloused fingers sliding back — to the shell of his ear, the give of moonlit curls. Both hands touching, tilting, seeking. Awe in the set of his eyes before they shutter. All in the name of a more intentive kiss than before. A little harder, a little surer — both a kiss for the sake of it and a kiss that could go somewhere. Until — ]
Apologies. [ Breathless and lingering close in the aftermath, heat blooming on his cheeks. ] I — You’re meant to wait until midnight. [ stupidly, ] For the tradition.
[ Impossible to keep his thumb from straying to the corner of Astarion’s pert mouth, even so. To stop himself from thinking about the inherent tenderness of Astarion having kissed a place that isn’t his mouth under the mistletoe. ]
no subject
Naughty.
[ Just as breathless, carried on a laugh. ]
I ought to have made you wait.
[ But there's no real heat or intention behind his words, just a gentle sort of teasing. It feels, almost, like stretching out the tiny shred of certainty he feels like so much dough over a larger plate — letting it fill him up, closing up the gaps so there's no room for anything else right now, even if fear or doubt set their claws in him later. Right now, there's just this.
This, as in the kiss Astarion presses to Gale's lips in return, confidence begetting more of the giddy same as his fingers curl in Gale's sleeve. He's almost shy when he pulls back, as though taken aback by his own desire. ]
Nothing more until midnight! [ Though he wavers on the spot, uncertain if he really wants to pull away. ] For the sake of tradition.
no subject
Wow.
[ wholly captivated, despite that note of surprise, leaning forward like he’s awfully tempted to kiss Astarion again and again and again until they haven’t the faintest idea who is kissing who. Too much, too fast, possibly born of the same instinct that carried him around a darkened bend to an eerie glow. To have or to please — reigned in, to the barest press forehead-to-forehead, nose-to-nose before he lifts his head to a sociable distance. ]
Until midnight.
[ Echoed like a reminder to himself. Hopeful as a pup by the door, head tipped to one side. Gale lets his hand fall away from Astarion’s face, skimming down his arm to re-entwine their fingers. ]
It’ll be worth the wait.