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[corporeity]

[ The other side of Gale’s mouth hooks high in turn, balanced out by the joy of sharing his craft (and, in this case, mischief) with a friend. He glances sideways to meet Astarion’s gaze, eyes brightening, before he singles out a torn page with a familiar sigil, tapping his fingers upon its fine lines. ]

A shock, to start. The warning shot, nocked in our bow.

[ Their shoulders bump as he shifts his hand, fingers splaying below another symbol at the top of his desk, more intricate and rarer than the last. ]

But violence, while it has its place, seems a tad gauche, don’t you think — with Portia’s ancestral carpets and portraiture at risk. It may even prove ineffective, when many have defensive or healing abilities.

[ An earnest, quickening lilt, seeking Astarion’s approval of his work. Yes, he knows now that Astarion doesn’t find him as dreadfully boring as he once feigned, but he yearns to impress, always (and soothe any lingering anxieties, too). ]

Polymorph will make for a greater deterrent and mark our intruder for all to see. [ A final tap of the paper for emphasis. ] Nothing quite so satisfying as reducing one’s enemies to baaing in protest.

[thirsted]

[ This, at least, is easy. Their laughter, their conversation, their proximity — he doesn't feel the need to shy away or otherwise close himself off. Even that little brush of Gale's shoulder— all it prompts is a shifting of his posture so that his chest is at a perpendicular angle to his companion's, a slight drawing closer that doesn't demand either of them give up any space. ]

Polymorph! [ he repeats, with a bright laugh. (Approval sought and easily given, more and more so with each passing day. He's aware, in some faint capacity, that Gale looks for it, the same way that Astarion himself does. The desire of an unwanted or discarded thing to be wanted.) ] Well, you've certainly got my approval. And I'm sure Shadowheart would appreciate having a new source of prey — not that the very human forms of the other guests have really served as a deterrent.

[ His head tilts, his cheek finding his shoulder as he braces one arm against the desk, admiring the notes covering the breadth of Gale's desk.

Then, mildly, ] Though, one would hope this doesn't result in a menagerie. As much as I'd like to see your wards deployed, I think one or two sheep would be quite enough, if not too much already.

[corporeity]

[ It feels like a victory, to have Astarion draw close and laugh aloud, the sound tinkling in his ear. Delight and surprise written in those fine features, each emotion satisfying to witness from this vantage point. A charming peak of fangs (gods, something must be wrong with him, to find a predator’s razored edges so charming). If he looks a little too long — or leans a tick closer — anyone would understand. All part of the frightfully human instinct to linger in the sun’s warmth, impossible to resist. Even Astarion wouldn’t begrudge him it, surely, after a year in the dark.

Gale’s laughter joins his own, myriad anxieties eased by Astarion’s words and proximity — the admiring look in his eye — prompting a pleased flush. ]

Let us hope we don’t reduce the population to cattle, lest Shadowheart grow envious.

[ Gale starts reorganising his notes, sliding the sigils to one side and his lengthy notes to the other. ]

[ almost shy, ] I’m like to finish this up tonight, if you’d keep me company.

[ As if Astarion would be doing him the favour, despite being far more rattled by their lot than Gale. A glance from the notes to the armchair in the corner, where Astarion might prefer to linger, together without clinging. He imagines (hopes) continued contact would help soothe them both, after this uneven week. ]

[thirsted]

Oh, hardly. It'd just make it easier for her to lay waste to the place.

[ It's with that thought that Astarion pushes himself off from the desk, a satellite reentering its orbit after lingering too close to a sun. (He registers the blush upon Gale's features, moves away to linger on its sweetness, on how much he finds he likes to see it. He's handsome, Astarion's always known that, and yet—)

He's halfway back to his usual sense of ease when Gale speaks again. For a second, Astarion simply looks surprised, casting a glance back over his shoulder, going still ... then shrugging. Ease to counter the near-shyness in Gale's voice, even if he isn't certain he doesn't feel a little shy, too. Better long to linger on the feeling, anyway. ]

I suppose it'd only be fair. You are doing this for both our benefits, after all.

[ Though he doesn't go to the chair, first, instead checking the door to the bathroom, through which Shadowheart, as though summoned, comes tip-tapping, circling Astarion's ankles once before beelining for the darkest corner of Gale's room.

Then, then he finds the chair, settling in it with his legs thrown over one arm and his back against the other, watching Gale a moment longer before diverting his attention to his phone. ]