[ It isn’t that Gale no longer worries about overstepping — ever mindful, always watchful of Astarion’s reactions — but that he has a clearer understanding of where the dotted lines still lay and how one might safely cross them. He knows now, for instance, that even his longest looks are welcome and returned. Observing a stutter of those thick lashes, just for him, ink-dark against Astarion’s pale cheek. Tracking the sweep of his tongue over his lower lip. It’s charming, how seriously he’s taken this entire affair.

In turn, Gale settles his hands on Astarion’s waist. Feigns consideration, when Astarion could have asked him to do anything, and he would surely find a way to comply. ]

A worthy task from on high. [ A divine mandate. A generous trade. Rather than hitch his thighs up, as he did last time, he bends his knees and sweeps an arm under Astarion’s legs to bridal carry him. ] I accept.

[ And it’s worth the undignified creak to win whatever laugh or flush Astarion deems fit to give him. A reward in and of itself, before they ever make it to the bed. ]

—Though you mustn’t ask me to do this for any great distance, for your own sake.

[ Such showmanship is tenable only for a brief moment, which is all Gale requires to settle him on the duvet, atop their decadent throne of pillows (a collection doubled when Gale vacated his former lodgings). Easier this way to resist the urge to give chase, instead covering his eyes with a splayed hand to reset the scene. He waits a beat to peak between his fingers. No need to exaggerate his grin, crinkling the corners of his eyes. ]

Wha-ow.

[ The flop of his snowy curls back, the line of his bared throat, the waistband of his trousers that catches below his hipbone, too loose. ]