[ The years seem to stretch as Astarion wonders just how long he's wanted something like this — not just wanted but eventually thought impossible, each passing year eroding his faith in the idea that a relationship could be anything but transactional, that anyone would want him as more than a toy to be picked up and then discarded once the shine of him wore off. (Some part of him still fears that that'll hold true, that Gale will grow tired of him and cast him off later down the line, but— Gale has already cut his heart open in coming here. It's Astarion's turn to do the same.)
He can't help the silence that precedes his answer, the pause born out of sheer wonderment rather than any actual hesitation, though the wobbling smile he wears serves as an answer before a single word leaves his lips. It's just that he wants to remember this — the way Gale is looking at him, the passing of one year into another and the rainbow shimmer of fireworks in the sky above them, too close and too earnest to be a dream. ]
You may.
[ The words almost break on a laugh, on his realization of how silly it is to keep up the act, or to pretend that he doesn't want this so badly that it lances through his chest, the ache so sharp he nearly doubles over. He can't recall his heart ever having beaten so quickly — the rush of it feels almost completely alien, as though he'd never before registered the pulse of it at all. ]
Yes, [ he amends, almost shy. His hand settles at the nape of Gale's neck, the barest press of his fingers urging him closer. ]
no subject
He can't help the silence that precedes his answer, the pause born out of sheer wonderment rather than any actual hesitation, though the wobbling smile he wears serves as an answer before a single word leaves his lips. It's just that he wants to remember this — the way Gale is looking at him, the passing of one year into another and the rainbow shimmer of fireworks in the sky above them, too close and too earnest to be a dream. ]
You may.
[ The words almost break on a laugh, on his realization of how silly it is to keep up the act, or to pretend that he doesn't want this so badly that it lances through his chest, the ache so sharp he nearly doubles over. He can't recall his heart ever having beaten so quickly — the rush of it feels almost completely alien, as though he'd never before registered the pulse of it at all. ]
Yes, [ he amends, almost shy. His hand settles at the nape of Gale's neck, the barest press of his fingers urging him closer. ]
Please.