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[thirsted]

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ASTARION

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[thirsted]

[ Under the pad of Gale's finger, the knife-shape of Astarion's ear twitches obligingly, mirroring the brightness that crests on his features, sunny in his gaze and then soft in the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes.

They always find their way here. Not to compromise but to a point it feels like they've already agreed upon, as though they were scaling opposite sides of a mountain and then met upon the peak. They're learning to find each other on that mountain more quickly, joining hands on the path and coming to the summit together. ]

A double act, [ he agrees, pecking Gale on one cheek and then the other. As he is, still on his toes, he leans in, pressing their foreheads together. H'es a little nervous to speak again — but he needn't be, when they've essentially covered this ground already. ]

Like a marriage, hm?

[corporeity]

[ And there it is, the answer Gale had at the start brought into relief by the clarity of Astarion’s sunset gaze. Gale would not have mentioned it if he didn’t want it — indeed, if he didn’t think if might suit them both — but to hear Astarion reach the same conclusion on his own sets his mortal (bruised and battered) heart aflutter. His breath catches in his throat, though he doesn’t blink, watercolour eyes made darker by their intensity.

Surely no twist of fate or illusion of the house could keep them from one another, not when Astarion’s attention lights the way more clearly than the stars overhead. ]

Like a marriage. [ agreed with a faint lift of surprise in that final syllable. Reconciling the words in Astarion’s mouth in real time. His smile splits, helplessly wide. ]

—Have I told you lately just how clever you are?

[ Quicker than Gale in so many matters, despite his bookishness and brilliance. He fits his other hand at Astarion’s waist to tip him further into his arms, lifted that bit off his feet. ]

Sharper than any dagger and twice as quick. Canny as well as radiant. Moreso than even Evereskan diamonds and Moonsea rubies. Than the crown jewels of Underhome.

[ He could (and will go on), having never been bluffing about his near endless thoughts on Astarion’s appeal. Reams of poetry, still to be written. ]

[thirsted]

[ He ought to demur, or at least tease — to goad Gale into hours more of sweetly spin tribute, or tell him he could do better, or even say he still expects a real proposal — and yet, as his feet lose their purchase on solid ground, he can only smile, any evidence of cleverness momentarily lost. (Possibly, he thinks, never to be found, so long as he's transfixed by that adoring stare.) In lieu of a verbal response, one of his hands finds Gale's face, his fingers ghosting over the corners of his mouth as if to memorize the angles, to burn not only the look of his smile but the shape and feeling of it into his mind.

A shame it isn't permanent. A shame it isn't an object he could hold onto and keep. Then again, he doesn't want it to be unchanging. He wants to see it through each season, see it fill with so much more love, because he has so much more of it to give. ]

Will you always smile like that, for me?

[ His voice is small, a little shy, so unlike the mockingbird's call he's perfected over centuries. He could fill his nest with the jewels Gale describes — none would bring him half so much joy as the sight of him, happy and hale, in love. He must have been a fool not to recognize it earlier. Gale is chosen, not by the gods or by fate, but by what Astarion would call a miracle, to coax a dead thing back to life with nothing more than care. (Nothing more than, as if care weren't something monumental in and of itself.) ]

This is precious, [ he adds, thumb catching on the uptick of his expression. ] The most precious thing, I think, I've ever stolen.

[corporeity]

[ It’s a wonder that after months of intent observations, copious mental notes, and advances in understanding, Astarion can surprise him. A new tone of voice, light as the sea breeze. A touch that doesn’t quite conform to any previous patterns, long fingers mapping his features, the topography of his still curved mouth. Gale, in turn, tips into his hand (the safest place in the manor, despite lacking the wards and spells that would make that an empirical truth). ]

Always.

[ The only response needed — or, indeed, manageable — under the blinding rays, the impossible warmth of his attention. Any other answer would seem boyish and inadequate.

He tries to kiss Astarion’s fingertips, then the center of his palm. Eager to prove his affection, when words have failed him. Precious, it turns out, is the exact right thing to say — but reversed, truer of Astarion, so light in his arms. Gale folds into him, beard brushing his cheek, as though even the smallest distance between them is
unacceptable. ]

[ with a happy sigh, ] How I love to share that word with you.

[ to keep and be kept, whether by thievery or any other mechanism. ]