thirsted | SALTBURNT

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. ]

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