[ Astarion restores their equilibrium with a gesture that seems simple but isn’t at all. A fumbling, reaching touch becomes a hold, and Gale gives his elegant, trembling fingers a squeeze, hoping to communicate the shimmering affection that bubbles over at the sight of their threaded fingers. A perfect fit.

He brings his other hand to his own nape, bent as he flusters over the myriad implications. ]

Ah. [ Valiantly bypassing the lewd flash in his mind, the hot-wet of his fingers gliding over Astarion’s soft palette — ]

You’ve gone and done it anyway.

[ — to think on his more domestic fantasies. Breakfast in bed, clementines peeled by hand, a meal that he will one day know to be Astarion’s favourite, having been granted the dual privilege of making it and sharing it. Cooking is care. Recognising the way someone prefers a dish, altering the recipe just for them. ]

Will I hold the grapes in one hand and the fan in the other? [ Waving a hand, for want of an illustrative breeze. ] Could save the gold for your finery, though it seems equally pointless to gild perfection.

[ Seeing as Astarion is far more lovely, more lustrous than earthly riches, im his eyes. A testament to his worshipful instincts, even in jest. ]