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[ If he lets go of the armor he's been wearing since the moment he realized what his lot in death would be, if he looks past the peaks of guilt and loneliness and cynicism that have risen like a shield around his heart, he can admit to himself that the immense tenderness Gale shows him — the trust he places in him, the care he demonstrates — is not entirely the product of naïveté, nor something that Astarion would truly rebuke or dismiss with contempt. He craves it, as much as a man who has been lost in the wastes of the arctic would crave even the faintest heat despite the fact that it might burn to the touch.

He can't help the way his head tips into Gale's hand, his gaze searching the wizard's handsome features for a long moment. He wants to ask how on earth he could think him perfect when he's seen behind the curtain, to ask what it is that makes him willing to stay. What makes him deserving of such attention. But he stops short of giving voice to any of those questions; the moment is too fragile, and he daren't risk fracturing the tenuous peace they've come to.

(And there's one thought he does his best to dismiss entirely, wakened by the mention of memory — that he will have only his memories of Gale to keep him company, as the years wear on, even if the Netherese Orb in Gale's chest becomes a problem solved. Arguably, the simple matter of age is the bigger issue, a knife's edge he finds unusually sharp as his thoughts stray near it.)

But, instead, the patter of his words going from quick to slow as he attempts to remain bright: ] Stay here. Just until dinner.

[ No dear, no darling — the words plain and unadorned. ]

You're magic enough for me.

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