thirsted | SALTBURNT

[ Gale, already feeling somewhat chastened, enters via his own door. He’s still damp — at the roots of his hair, the left-hand pocket turned inside out, shirt clinging to his skin — so he quickly toes off his shoes by the entryway. There’s also the matter of his latest trouble, evident in the twin marks at his neck, a watery red track trailing down his clavicle.

A glance around confirms that Shadowheart (half-elf) isn’t around to witness this, at least. ]

Astarion? [ called out as he fishes the two eggs he retrieved before his swim from his other pocket, their sparkling prizes meant for Astarion. He cracks them open above his desk, accidentally splattering some of his notes, and sighs, as though that’s to be expected. ]

Edited (forgot stuff) 2025-03-11 19:45 (UTC)

[ He wonders, as he's drawing the bath, if he'd been too cold. If he should have been more forthright with his concern, the ultimate root of his tetchiness. The water, increasingly warm, pinks the skin of his palm. How cold it must have been in the lake. (Is Armand as cold as he is?)

The sound of his name breaks the increasingly downward spiral of his reverie, and he appears in the bathroom doorway in the next instant. ]

Oh—

[ The blood, the matting of his hair — Astarion can't help the exclamation, sincere concern clear upon his features as he crosses the room, his hands flying to Gale's face, his neck. He doesn't even notice the jewels glinting on Gale's desk, too distracted by the sheer state of him. ]

My darling. [ Then, his brow pinching, ] I ought to kill the both of them.

[ It’s hard for Gale to think of what’s befallen him today anything but his own fault, yet more divine punishment for his follies. He’d therefore understand if Astarion were upset with him, though it’s a relief that he doesn’t lead with it.

Gale melts into his hands, an instinctive surrender — the cool grip he’d imagined when his head went below the waterline, the only teeth he wants in his neck. He bends just so to nose into the hollow of Astarion’s throat, arms slipping around his waist to pull him close. All shivery skin and shuddery breaths, far more rattled than he let on over text. ]

Sorry. [ about the wet and the cold, maybe even the worry. ] That might not be necessary.

[ which isn’t much of a protest, really. Has anyone ever fought for him like this? The sentiment touches him. He thinks of August swearing to end those who took Nick, of his own anger when Matt confessed to having accused Astarion, while he was alone. It’s an extension of the love they have for each other, so unlike the passive appreciation he’s known until now. ]

Perhaps it’s enough to be returned to you — with air in my lungs and blood in my veins. For the most part.

[ Pretty sure there’s still water in the former, and he’s lower on the latter than usual, but in principle. ]

Edited 2025-03-12 08:24 (UTC)

[ Astarion reacts to the chill and damp not unlike a cat, his shoulders rising on instinct before he allows himself to fully relax into Gale's embrace, his arms winding — confident, hardly ginger — around the wizard's neck.

The sensation of Gale's fear, so clear in the unsteady pattern his breath takes against the curve of his neck, is enough to shock some clarity into him. He'd been disappointed, before, when Gale had returned from the woods with a stab wound in his gut, unable to believe that someone as clever wouldn't be able to keep himself from such trouble, but the cleverness isn't the point. It had been his instinct toward kindness, at least in the case of Armand, and as for Spike, well. That hadn't really had to do with Gale at all.

So, ] I'll be the judge of that, [ is all he mumbles, soft instead of fiery, into the crown of Gale's head, holding him tight a moment longer before loosening his grasp just so to nose against the other man's cheek. He's already sent a few scolding messages, after all, and he's hardly about to let what he's recognizing as not Gale's fault to go unpunished. ]

But it's more than enough, for now. [ And, with a prompting press of his hand, ] Come. You'll catch cold if you stay like this.

[ A not quite laugh, puffed into Astarion’s neck as he squirms. He’d pull away, chagrined, if not for all they’ve faced together already — crypt dust on his brow and ReSculpt sunken into Astarion’s skin. That knowledge (and the tightness of Astarion’s embrace) assure him of his place here, heart slowing and breath evening. Safe in the circle of his arms. He’ll not protest Astarion’s protective instincts any more than that, pleased to be the recipient of such care. ]

That you will.

[ Ceding the anger that he struggles to stoke himself, relieved for another to hold onto it when he can’t any longer. His mouth quirks faintly, as Astarion nuzzles his cheek, catlike in his affection. ]

Ah — quite right.

[ Though it’s only reluctantly that he releases his sweetheart, chucking Astarion under the chin in final thanks for his attentions (knuckles lingering there, admiring his sharp jaw and the moue of his mouth). Unsure whether he deserves a kiss, after holding Armand in the water, but wanting one anyway.

For now, he follows Astarion to the bathroom, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and the still-soaked roll of the sleeves at his elbows. The foggy warmth of the space takes the edge off immediately. And it’s a mercy that Gale can only see the blurred outline of his person in the mirror rather than the drowned reality. Standing alone, even though a shy glance over his shoulder reminds him Astarion is there, unseen in the glass (as if he could forget). He untucks his wet shirt with some effort and waits a heartbeat — for Astarion to stay or go — before raising it overhead. Rather than waste time folding it, he wrings it out above the sink. ]

[ Every touch is almost easy, like it comes from some parallel life in which they've always shared space like this, always known how to navigate around each other. From time to time, it jolts him as much as the lake water does, not to such an extent that it's ever really palpable but— like he's suddenly aware he's in a dream. Except it's not a dream, everything as real to him as the circle of scars on his back.

Were it a fantasy, he's not sure he'd feel his skin prickle as Gale pulls off his shirt, though he stays in the bathroom, turning off the taps after checking the water temperature, flicking a few warm droplets from his fingers. He can see the shape of Gale's shoulders in his peripheral vision, and for all that his gaze lingers — he's handsome even like this, Astarion's fancy prompting an assessment that borders on rugged — it strikes him very suddenly that Gale is hardly about to get into the bath with his trousers on.

It accounts for the moment he stands completely still, like he's lost his train of thought entirely, before actually turning to face Gale, keeping his gaze focused on his face, and just his face. Well, perhaps his chest, for a moment, though the tattoo on his skin helps jostle Astarion's attention back into place. ]

I could go.

[ The end of the thought ticks up, half question and half uncertainty, as much about whether he's wanted here in this immediate moment as it is a vocalization of his own surprise. It feels as though they've skipped around a little, falling into bed with each other before becoming intimate in that way, before seeing each other undressed. He's seen a naked body before, hardly anything to blush at, and yet— he does, anyway, the tips of his ears touched with pink as he hovers by the tub. ]

[ He hears the water slow to a drip, but not Astarion’s footsteps trail after it. He’s still there, then, watching Gale for the short window of time that Gale can’t — or won’t — watch him. Stalling, he twists the fabric until it seems pointless to do so any longer. When he finally risks turning back, he catches Astarion’s wide eyes, and they’re — well, they’re looking. Gale knows, when he typically takes the role of the keen observer.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, equally unprepared for the logical next steps of disrobing after he hangs his shirt on the door. Better to assess the situation. His attention flits over Astarion’s features, made elastic by surprise, then to the tips of his ears. Gale doubts the high colour has anything to do with the heat; no more than his own, a flush that follows the same path as the leylines of the orb. Climbing his chest, neck, cheeks. ]

You could.

[ Agreement, though it’s a touch strained (by the drowning, obviously). Merely acknowledging the escape route where he might have previously guided Astarion toward it, in the early stages of their courtship. His tongue runs along the back of his teeth, peaks out briefly, over his lip. ]

[ softer, ] Or you could stay.

[ Watch. Sit. Whatever it is he desires. His previous overture I only want it if you do of a piece with with Astarion’s I want you to want what you want — however haltingly, in whatever manner suits him, roundabout or circuitous or otherwise. Another pause, awaiting an indication of how to proceed until he realises that, unless Astarion floats away, it’s up to him.

Right. His pulse stutters and quickens, no longer sluggish from the cold. He ducks his head, relieved for how his hair falls in his face. Hands working the clasp of his trousers, trembling at the first attempt, and tugging them down on the second. It’s just — a body, isn’t it. His dreadfully human, imperfect person, not at all on par with Astarion’s eternal loveliness or Mystra’s otherworldly beauty. A sideways glance, to check whether Astarion looks any paler than usual (or disinterested or lost or —). His thumbs hook into his briefs, and he slips them off. A Rubicon, crossed, just like that. Like every touch, kiss and look that preceded it. ]

— hah! [ already halfway in the bath, arms braced on the rim. ] I should have known you liked it scorching.

[ A return to form, thinking of all the times he’s had to wipe the bathroom mirror clean to shave in the mornings. ]

Edited 2025-03-13 22:14 (UTC)

[ In the split second Gale glances at Astarion as he undresses, he'll find the vampire with his cheeks red and ears slightly flattened by nerves, once again staring.

There's no point in pretending that he's not interested — or that he doesn't find Gale beautiful. (He has to remind himself of that, that he wants to look.) That's unusual in and of itself, though he doesn't currently have the wherewithal to notice it; he's shown himself to be a vain, preening creature, perfecting the coif of his hair and the set of his smile in order to seduce, but he's rarely thought about beauty the other way around — in no small part because it's not enough to really entice him, on its own. But he's already peeked into the contents of Gale's heart and found more treasure there than he's ever found in any deftly picked chest, which would be enough even if he didn't look like that.

(What he doesn't think about — or rather, what he suppresses — is the more intimate aspect of it, the vulnerability of nakedness and the typical overture toward sex that it serves. It's fine, it's just a step, and Gale's been so patient—)

He only looks away as Gale's briefs come down, busying himself with finding a little stool to bring to the tub's side. Granted, it's a gambit that only works so long, as he immediately glances over, half-crouched, at Gale's exclamation. I should have made it colder dies on his tongue, replaced by a laugh (pressed forward as he realizes that silence will be ice cold, here) as his hands, suddenly a little shaky, finish positioning the stool and he turns to take a seat upon it.

Is it want (the very real matter of how well-endowed his sweetheart is), or the natural flutter of a besotted heart? Are the two mutually exclusive? ]

You'll get used to it, [ he says, though he hardly sounds confident. Any bravery he feels is, arguably, redirected toward meeting Gale's gaze as his fingers wiggle in the direction of the tap. ]

Shall I—?

[ Gale settles into the water, relieved to hear the snick of the stool and the familiar bubble of nervous laughter amidst a silence that chokes. The heat prickles and pinks his skin (or maybe that’s the work of his audience). Had he been holding his breath before? It feels as if he might have been, his drowning a distant memory, nothing to do with the dizzying quality of his present surroundings. ]

—I’ll get used to it. [ Agreed hastily (hoping, perhaps, that the sentiment goes beyond the temperature and himself both). The stinging waterline at his chest only serves as a reminder of how bare he is. Though he doesn’t dare put his head under yet, instead carding a damp hand back through his hair. Cupping the water in his palms before splashing his face — easing the chill in his nose, his cheeks.

He looks up at Astarion through wet lashes. A new vantage point with which to admire the cut of his jaw, the dip above his clavicle. Light-headed fancies, a byproduct of the searing heat in his sodden bones. ]

Thank you. [ voice soft but intent, catching in his throat as the extent of Astarion’s efforts strike him. ] It was — awfully thoughtful of you, to do this.

[ To run the bath unasked, greet him with affection, stay with him now. He knows what Astarion has survived, even if they haven’t discussed what it means for their nascent relationship. Gale rests his arm on the lip of the tub and nestles his chin atop it. A familiar look worries his features, that of a man solving a particularly tricky equation.

His fingers curl and flex, working through the answer. ]

But I hope you know that I would be contented with you — with us — if things remained as they are. I was altogether pitiable when I said it last, [ unmoored, without his magic. ] and yet it was no exaggeration: You’re everything to me.

Edited 2025-03-16 01:24 (UTC)

[ With a shake of his head: ] It was the least I could do.

[ And he understands that it isn't, not in the traditional sense of the phrase, but it's right to him. He'd do nothing less for Gale, wouldn't dream of allowing him to remain cold and miserable and alone. It's there in the affection in his gaze, the way the set of his brow smooths out, no longer so knowing and sly. He's shy, almost, hands gathering in his lap as he leans against the side of the tub.

You're everything to me. An impossibility, surely, if also one that warms him through and through — yet he knows Gale to be no liar. ]

That's why I—

[ He sucks a breath in through his teeth, head tilting to one side. ]

Why I want to. [ Deliberately left ambiguous, of seemingly infinite scope. ] And I— don't want to live only half of a life because of him.

[ His maker, ever a shadow over his play at freedom. Astarion's eyes fall to the twin pinpricks at Gale's neck, and his features fall only slightly, seized briefly by the knowledge that it all seems to come so much more easily to most of the people here — love, intimacy, honesty. He can't imagine that Armand, changed though he was, had hesitated at all in taking Gale into his embrace. ]

Gale.

[ His tongue flicks over his lips, suddenly dry. ]

I want you. [ He seems to collect himself, the light of his gaze shifting as his lashes lower. ] I want you. Don't doubt that.

[ Gale nearly elaborates, searching for the right phrase to communicate the extent of his adoration, but Astarion proves that he needn’t do so, attuned to him as no one else has ever been. Sunstone eyes glittering with warmth — tenderness — desire. A goddess lacks the capacity for all and, for the first time, Gale realises one elevated to godhood would, too (that the solution to the problem of his mortality, his lowly nature, might be deficient in some essential way).

The thought passes, unable to find purchase in the flurry of sensations set off by Astarion’s repeated assurance, his smouldering gaze. Gale, lovelier in his mouth than anyone else’s. ]

Oh.

[ He lifts his head, not unlike a puppy called to eager attention. ]

I won’t.

[ Not now, with the aching timbre of that second I want you travelling down his spine. He could articulate escape routes for Astarion again, reminding him that he can change his mind or consider someone of his caliber instead, at any point. But every excuse runs counter to Astarion’s declaration, so absurd as to be disrespectful. ]

I want you, too, you know.

[ earnest, though there’s a thinness to it that belies his own desire. He’s thought about it, blush ripening in his cheeks. I want you very badly, promised to another version of his sweetheart, emboldened by ReSculpt. True now as it was then. Images of Astarion’s teeth in his neck, his lockpick’s hands on him, the question of whether the whole of him pinks like his pointed ears finally answered — ]

Edited 2025-03-16 11:59 (UTC)

[ One ripple meets another, disturbing the surface of the water that they — especially Gale — work so hard to keep gentle and still. They've crashed into each other before, waves and wants misread and misunderstood. But they've managed to harmonize, too, their wave patterns forming a perfect ring without any need for correction or interference. Those words leave Gale's mouth (I want you, too), and there's no stutter in the smile that flashes across Astarion's face in response. He's not afraid of it. Not cowed, not unsure. He's never been surer, he thinks, than he has been now, one hand rising to cup Gale's cheek, his head bowing to kiss him.

Maybe it's just the steam rising from the bath that makes him feel so warm, but the moment stretches, easy and languid, the whole of him absorbed in the feeling of Gale's beard against his palm, the soft press of his lips. The only precipice he backs away from is the brief temptation to let his hand wander, to slide his fingers down to Gale's neck, his chest, below the surface of the water, but the twin trials he's just suffered — complete with physical marks of another's attempts on his life — turn the thought into so much smoke, dissipated as soon as Astarion once again opens his eyes, lashes heavy and cheeks flushed. ]

I know.

[ Conversational threads dangle, waiting for him to pick them up, but they're all old hat, disingenuous and meant for another life. Be good, and you'll see how much I want you — too controlling, for how they've both borne the weight of other masters. How could you not? — too flippant, meant for someone who'd still see him as only vain. The list goes on, no combination of words sufficient. ]

I could stand to see you like this more often, [ is what he manages, the words almost spoken in a hum. ] Though, I am quite fond of those jumpers you wear.

[ (One or two among them, now, repurposed for Astarion's wardrobe.) ]

[ Astarion has a smile like hanging stars. Dazzling. Any lingering doubts scattered by its light. Instinctively, Gale tips up to meet him, leaning into the cup of his hand.

And Gale, whose mind is always working, comparing the present to the past, exploring potential problems and constructing their solutions — a man who could swiftly be called back to the drowning depths — doesn’t think of anything at all. Ever eager, but calmed, the languid press of his mouth easing into yawning drags. Contented to kiss and be kissed, lips parted on a sigh. Made whole again by Astarion’s perfect mouth. His hand covers Astarion’s at his cheek, to hold and keep him there. ]

Mm. [ Smile dimpling. Love-struck and kiss-stupid on the reverb on the action, unable to think of anything charming or sly to add. I know better than any other reply, for how secure it makes him feel. Chased by a request that warms him from the inside out. To be wanted like that — it’s different from the approving gaze of a goddess. Gale can’t stop himself from reaching out, releasing Astarion’s hand to gentle his cheek, thumb smoothing around the apple of it. Eyes blown wide, nothing short of adoring. ]

They do look fetching on you.

[ Because of course he noticed, mouth dry and cheeks pinked, attention caught on the slightly too wide neckline, the scent of lavender clinging to the fabric. Astarion, all wrapped up in him, even when stood apart.

His hand falls away, making ripples in the water, then carding back through his hair. ]

I’ll keep that in mind. [ Almost shy. He’s been — careful until now. ] Particularly once Shadowheart has a room of her own.

[ Some things are meant for their world of two. ]

[ Under most other circumstances, Astarion would call all of this indulgent, but— considering the month they'd spent both displaced and ever-wary of the undead, let alone Gale suffering two assaults in the space of the past hour, taking the time to simply enjoy each others' company isn't an indulgence but a reward. Something for them to savor, and a moment Astarion decides to recreate some other time, entirely separate from the attention of others. He doesn't want to be thinking of Armand or Spike as he kisses Gale, or for worry to still be a note in the thrum of his thoughts.

But he leans forward, regardless, chasing Gale for another peck before settling back onto his little stool.

He deserves someone to tell him how terribly handsome he is, not least because he suspects that Mystra hadn't been the sort to bestow what she'd likely consider to be idle compliments. But Gale is beautiful — the kind of man most would easily swoon over, easily transposed into the role of dashing prince or knight in shining armor. Clever and thoughtful, giving to a fault. ]

As glad as I am that she's here, I'll be happier when we're no longer sharing quarters, [ he hums, draping his arm over the side of the tub in a mirror of the pose Gale had held before. The opposite of how Astarion, in his darkest moments, perceives himself. ]

We could convert one of the rooms into a study for you. [ Then, hurriedly, ] Or keep them as they are.

[ Gale finally ducks his head under, made impossibly warm and dreamier for it. He leans back in the water, trying not to chase the thought that the tub is big enough for two, particularly with Astarion leaning over the lip and looking — like that. Like he always does. Elven and ethereal and lovely. The waterline rises up his chest, lavender and rose erasing the lingering traces of the lake. It’s such a balm to his aching bones that he sighs aloud.

He folds an arm behind his head to better regard Astarion, unable to keep his pleasant surprise from sharpening the arch of his brows. Old insecurities resurface, at the thought of sharing permanently, what if you tire of me, what if I upset you, what if what if what if, all quelled by the thought of Astarion’s arm around his waist or his head atop Gale’s chest.

With his other hand, Gale traces patterns in the water, working through the possibilities. ]

A study for me — and a workshop for you?

[ A hopeful smile. For his perfumerie, his tailoring, all the talents Astarion has never had the time or space to indulge before coming here. ]

My room is already more library than bedroom.

[ He’d gladly give it up, for Astarion. He’d give up most everything, in fact, to keep him near. ]

Edited 2025-03-24 09:49 (UTC)

I'd like that.

[ Not just to have his own space but to share it. To have something that belongs to them, real and material as opposed to the futures they've imagined beyond the manor's walls. Astarion's smile turns a tad dopey, no longer fully within his control, though he attempts to hide it by extending his other arm, walking his fingers across the surface of the water, past the ripples cast by Gale's hand, the pad of his pointer finger coming to rest squarely at Gale's collarbone. (His gaze lingers there, on the difference in their skin tones, the hair — neat, by Astarion's estimation — covering Gale's chest. The rest of his hand very helpfully blots out the sight of most of his tattoo.) ]

We'll have to move some of your things into my room— our room.

[ He already sounds excited by the prospect of redecorating — at his own pace, rather than one dictated by the ongoing renovations. ]

Shadowheart will stay with us, of course. The hen, I mean. Or— I wonder if she'd appreciate her own space, once we convert the other side of the suite ...

[ He sounds excited, and he is excited. It makes sense, after weeks spent in transience, moving from place to place with a bedroll carried on his back — and even more so given the former quarters Gale has yet to encounter. The bunks he's slept in in the Szarr Palace, privacy and ownership mere fantasy. Yet he shakes it all off in the next moment, shaking his head as he lets his hand fall. ]

Never mind. We'll discuss it further when you're better rested, shall we?

[ For a moment, Gale can hardly think, wholly absorbed in the feeling of Astarion’s hand on him, the promise of it wandering the expanse of his chest — in time — at his leisure — because he wants to. A flush rises in his cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat or the steam. ]

Our room. [ agreed and affirmed. ] Yes, we shall.

[ Why wait to start their life together in the after, when they have each other now? As ever, he looks utterly transfixed by Astarion’s babbling, his fine features made even more handsome by his brilliant smile, briefly undimmed by self-consciousness. Nothing of that kind to worry about, is there, in their world of two.

As Astarion pulls away, Gale catches his hand to kiss his fingertips, trying to keep him there a little while longer. ]

I left a token for you on the study desk, you know. [ slyly, ] Before I was altogether misfortunate in the evening, I was lucky in the scavenger hunt.

[ Finding a necklace in the shape of a crescent moon, like the symbol of his house, of Waterdeep, and accented with an opal, the same as the earring Astarion gifted him. ]

[ Where once Astarion might have batted Gale's hand away, now he allows himself to be easily reeled back, as though tied to Gale by some invisible string — a lonely moon finally drawn into an orbit, finally belonging to a system rather than the inky void. ]

A token?

[ His shoulders rise in an aborted larger movement, waiting for a nod from Gale before he retraces his steps back into Gale's room (no, their study). There upon his desk, twinkling amidst water-blotched notes and plastic eggshell halves, glitter the charm and chain. Even alone — or perhaps purely because he is — Astarion can't help the gasp that escapes him, the sound shifting into a soft coo as he picks up the necklace, letting the opals catch the light.

When he returns to the bathroom, it's hanging around his neck, perfectly framed by the vee of his collar. ]

And to think all I found were those terrible, chalky hearts, [ he says, as he sits back down by the tub, chin tipping up to provide a better view of the piece he now wears. ]

What do you think? Does it suit?

[ Gale loves this, too: The tone of surprise, the twitch of Astarion’s shoulders that suggests excitement, perfectly complemented by the warmth that blooms in his chest at having caused both. He sits up a little straighter, watching Astarion flit into the other room (the study). Leaning over the lip of the tub again, chin propped on his palm. ]

Anything would suit you, [ gaze admiring. ] lovely as you are.

[ Easy and true, unable to help himself, or keep the moon-eyed look from his features. It makes for a fine excuse, besides, to let himself study the arch of Astarion’s neck, the raised ridge of his elegant collarbone. ]

But it looks exceptional, to be sure. And I thought — [ a tip of his head, his earring catching the low light of the bathroom. ] Well, you’ll already know. If that isn’t too bold.

[ To want them to match, evidence of the other’s presence and affection shining for all to see. Less a claim, like the token he donned before, with every servant of the gods capable of recognising him as belonging to another. More a symbol, to look upon fondly. ]

Edited 2025-03-28 17:47 (UTC)

[ Likewise, Astarion's gaze catches not on the earring Gale wears, not quite, but the line of his jaw, the musculature of his neck, the sweeping point where his neck meets his collarbone — not out of hunger, as he might once have, but simple admiration. All of that preening now pointed in another direction as his hand wanders to Gale's shoulder again, brushing a few wet strands of hair away from his neck. ]

I quite like your boldness.

[ As much as his patience, as they become closer and closer — as his hands and gaze linger longer with each touch. When his fingers draw away, this time, it's not out of shyness but to find the pendant hanging from his neck, the pads of his fingers running over the raised opals. When before has he been given such a gift? Not just a pretty bauble but something actively sought, given further meaning by the piece it's meant to complement.

First, earnest, ] Thank you.

[ His lips twist as though in amusement at some private joke, and there's a slight sparkle visible in his eye before he allows himself to look down, catching the edge of the crescent moon in his gaze. ]

I don't think anything would suit me, [ he says, the first time he's ever expressed anything but vanity in this particular regard, before the tone of his voice smooths out again. ] I think it suits me because it came from you.

[ Never has he been tended so closely — not observed from above, as if he were an interesting little ant — but intimately, on level ground, with curiosity and appreciation. His skin has warmed from the steam, the water, the attention. The icy depths of the lake all but forgotten (at least for as long as Astarion looks upon him).

He ducks his chin, bashful in the face of Astarion’s praise. Sneaking a glance at the crescent of opals through his lashes, still, mesmerised by the way Astarion’s fingertips pass over the gems. I like your boldness. A simple compliment, surely without deeper meaning (though it calls to mind his penchant for overreaching, for pushing, that lost him everything, flipped instead into something positive).

He wants to quibble Astarion’s point and detail exactly how many things would suit him, fabrics and stones and precious metals. Gale’s overcoat and jumpers and scarves. The fashions of their realm and the strange styles of this one.

All those thoughts shimmer and scatter. Because it came from you. ]

Astarion.

[ Trying for reproachful and ending up altogether soft. He drags a hand over his beard, knuckles brushing his mouth. ]

Are you suggesting I suit you?

[ Hadn't their positions been reversed, not so long ago? Astarion ever bashful under Gale's tender affections, flustered by an attention he knows to be genuine, meaningful beyond a brief dalliance. The thought widens Astarion's smile, the tips of his fangs visible behind his lips as he tips his head to one side, playfulness twinkling in his sunstone eyes. ]

Do you disagree?

[ There's certainty in his voice, not because he necessarily thinks Gale feels as he does — he knows, despite their tendency to talk around it, that they both bear an amount of doubt as to their worthiness, having spent so many years having such a thing measurably quantified — or that he'll have to strong-arm him into agreeing, but because he doesn't feel any doubt. He knows Gale suits him, the same way he knows what sound means a lock pulling free, what pick to use when disarming a trap. ]

I think you suit me.

[ From his sweetness to the way their bodies fit when pressed together, when he rests his head on the swell of Gale's shoulder. ]

And I suit you.

[ Even that playful question has Gale straightening up, gaze flitting from Astarion’s sparkling eyes to the little peak of his fangs. There’s the smile, so beautiful, so beloved. It isn’t that he disagrees, exactly, when they’ve fallen into a near perfect rhythm. They counterbalance each other in times of trouble, ensuring neither of them sink or drift away. And they trade who will guide them forward, ever closer, with ease.

He simply hasn’t thought about it in those terms. (And he does wonder if he’s worthy of the high praise, of Astarion at at all, as his partner suspects.) ]

Not at all. [ a soft sound, flustered to the point of brevity, yet eager enough that he leans forward, big eyes ticking that bit wider. ]

Well. It’s only that you make me sound so — [ perfect, at least for him. Ahem. ] — but I, ah, suppose that’s the intention.

[ Finally, ]

Thank you.

[ for saying so, for picking him. ]

[ For once, Astarion, usually so quick with his words, with a quip or cutting remark, says nothing at all. Instead, he holds Gale's gaze, something liquid and melting in his eyes as he reaches out, careful and tentative. His fingertips alight first on Gale's forehead, then tracing down his cheek, his jaw, before his hand smooths out along Gale's neck, curling gently around his nape.

He'd been picked by Gale, as much as the other way around. No one current of affection would have managed all of this on its own. They'd met each other in the middle of the stream, fording through extraordinary circumstance after extraordinary circumstance as the shape of their feelings had become clearer. Maybe it's not perfect. Maybe they're not. But when all it takes is the thought of Gale to warm him entirely, what more can he ask for? A gift, given not by the gods or some other greater cosmic force, but by time and effort. Little things, all added up into something sweet and worth protecting.

It's that thought that lingers when he leans forward, closing the distance that remains between them to kiss Gale's lips, lingering against the heat of his skin and the steam that still rises from the water.

A thank you of his own, as simply as he can give it. ]

SALTBURNT | inbox.

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🎀