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[corporeity]

[ Oh. That’s — entirely unexpected. His features loosen, eyes widening to take in Astarion’s parted mouth, the shadows hollowing out his cheeks, his already too-sharp angles brought into relief.

Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders as they square to face Astarion properly. He taps the hardback with each finger in turn. ]

[ wry, ] You weren’t so unreasonable. [ His breath catches, and he coughs into his hand, trying to obscure the emotion that wells up at the thought of this past week (and of the Astarion he knows, gone). ]

Just — off. [ Ahem. ] How strange it is, to say I missed you, when you’ve been here, and yet.

[ Gale did. The real him. ]

[thirsted]

[ Off. Another word to say that what he'd been under ReSculpt's influence hadn't been quite right. He doesn't smile, exactly, but his lips twist as if in an attempt.

His hand skitters, briefly, out to his knee — in search of an anchor, a mooring touch — then retracts. ]

But I was— it was me. [ His gaze falls. Could shame trigger immolation, he would be in flames. ] I'm— what I was. I'm capable of that. I am that. Peel back enough skin, and there— there that ugliness would be.

[ His fingers, in his lap, twist at the sunstone ring still set on his hand, a token he now feels profoundly unworthy of. Perhaps if he had some other idea of where freedom and revenge might lead, he'd feel otherwise, but now— it's as though he's staring into a void. Even where once he might have played at pettiness, turned to meanness to drive Gale away, he can only find the strength for this terrible kind of honesty. He'd taught him how to see his own reflection, and what stares back at him is—

His lip wobbles. ]

You deserve someone beautiful.

cw suicidal ideation

[corporeity]

Astarion—

[ Halted as he edges closer, placing his hand on the arm of the chair, unsure how to move forward. His expression has cracked open, any attempt at academic neutrality or genial support forgotten. The helplessness that’s defined him all week threatens to resurface as he watches Astarion’s elegant hands skitter and twist when they should be — featherlight. Dexterous.

He reaches, then, touch light then firm at Astarion’s knee, imagining his hand still there beneath it. ]

Astarion, you must know, I — I could not think beyond Moonrise until you asked it of me. [ He shakes his head, destabilising the image of the same dark co rider that carries him to his present ruin. ] Until you gave me something to look forward to. [ Astarion with him, Astarion in Waterdeep, a reprieve from the loneliness that has shadowed him since boyhood. ]

To hope for. [ Always easier, isn’t it, to live for another than for oneself. They say that certain wounds can’t heal without the aid of another, don’t they? ] Any capacity you have for ugliness must be viewed in tandem with that — a capacity for beauty.

[ Gale thinks of it in different terms: The tension between that which makes one worthy and unworthy. In the end, it means the same thing. ]

[thirsted]

[ If he's honest, he isn't sure he believes what Gale is saying, but the touch of his hand (warm, present) and the gentle lilt of his voice diminish Astarion's ability to argue. If he's managed to pull the wool over Gale's eyes as to what he is, he can't simply sit back and allow him to continue to suffer under an illusion, but— Gale's already seen through it. Accepted him as he is, never once asked for anything more than what Astarion was ready and willing to give.

He aims for a smile and falls short, though the fondness in his voice makes up for the remaining margin. ]

You fool.

[ A word to encompass a multitude of kindnesses that Astarion, so unused to the sun, can hardly begin to understand. Tentatively, he reaches back out, his fingers barely brushing the hand on his knee. ]

You'd have found a way, with or without me.

[ He knows that, because he knows it's what Gale deserves — to choose his own path, to make his own decisions, unfettered from a being incapable of loving him. ]

But I'm glad it was with me. [ A breath. ] I suppose it's my turn to ask you to wait for me. I'll be— [ better, more beautiful, more amenable, except none of that had worked, none of that had been an issue, not really ] —more myself, once I've sweat through this fever.

[corporeity]

[ The resistant (and dour) part of Gale nearly quibbles Astarion’s faith in him, despite how it echoes what he feels to be true of his companion. The fact remains: He resigned himself to die the moment he left his tower. It was, ironically, that tadpole that saved him from a lonesome demise the first time. And his companions, Astarion included, the second.

But what good does it do to say that? To make it seem as though his tether to this world remains a tenuous thing, when Astarion is here. No, Gale decides he has never been so glad to be thought a fool.

With a quirk of his mouth, his counter comes soft and easy. ]

Of course it was with you.

[ Another echo, as he nudges Astarion’s outstretched fingers. A series of teasing follow-ups occur to him (about how only Astarion thinks him enchanting, or perhaps on the matter of how fetching he manages to look, even while a bit of a wet cat) but he can’t manage to see either through.

Instead, ]

It’s only you. [ Robbed of his eloquence and verbosity by the sincerity of it — and the fear that he’d lost any chance at this, that Astarion had thought himself unwanted — gaze suddenly flicking to their hands, touching but not grasping. ] That I’m waiting for.

[ A confession that isn’t a jab at his myriad connections in the manor, simply a natural outcome of his affections, which have always been singular. ]

[thirsted]

[ The fact of the matter is that he remembers what Gale as said as clearly as he remembers the words that had left his own mouth. I care for you, as I’ve not cared for another before, the sentiment's weight diluted in the moment by the ReSculpt running through his veins. But when he thinks of it now, combined with a set of words that nearly knocks him back, it's only you, he feels a surge of warmth flood his chest as though there were blood in his veins once more, filling his body, his heart.

There are three words he thinks in response, but he keeps them to himself, because it's too much, especially now, when he's just had his knuckles rapped for overreaching. But it's the one thing he can be certain of amidst a staggering new uncertainty as to what the future holds for him — a different kind of sunlight to walk in, to grasp even if it means he's being selfish.

Pink colors the tips of his ears, the bridge of his nose; color, amidst how pale he's looked otherwise. His lips press together, failing in an attempt to suppress a smile. In tandem, he stretches out his pointer finger, hooking it delicately under the curve of Gale's. ]

Forget I was ever so sickly, once this is over, [ he says, a shade of his former confidence returning despite the shyness of his gesture. ] I'll never forgive you if you remember me looking like this.

[corporeity]

[ Astarion touches him the way he would have before ReSculpt forced his hand: Tentative and sweet, a balm to his wounded heart. It emboldens Gale to look up, and he finds himself duly rewarded for his bravery, enraptured by the pink of Astarion’s features, proof of health and hope, affection and humanity. His breath catches in his throat, awed by his luck, his lot, his — companion. ]

Certainly. [ Amusement brightens his eyes. And sincerely, ] How fortunate I am, to never have to content myself with memory in the matter of you. [ Even as he memorises every minute shift and lovely angle of Astarion’s features, sallow though they are.

He lifts his other hand to tidy Astarion’s hair behind his ear, to run a finger along the edge of it, up to the pointed tip. For want of moving closer to Astarion himself, he presses against the arm of the chair. ]

You’re burning up, you know.

[ Teasing, maybe, cloaking his lingering concern. Thumb straying back to his temple, fingers still curled protectively around the shell of his ear. He thinks of holding Astarion properly, arms around him as they’ve never been before. If not now, then one day, whenever it would be wanted. ]

Is there anything I can do to ease your discomfort?

[ With the magic in him replenished by August and Nick’s efforts, even as the orb grows more ravenous. Another update he intends to share, once they’ve settled the most urgent matters of care. He holds fire and ice in his fingertips, the ease of prestidigitation on his tongue. He’s already made a point to visit each day, bringing blood for Astarion and Caroline both. Whatever can be done, it’d please him to do it. ]

[thirsted]

[ 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.

[corporeity]

[ Astarion blooms under the attention, a flower opening in the sun, and Gale savours the sight of it (the answering warmth, in knowing he’s the reason for it). Not the work of an enchantment or a spell, just Gale.

And still, it surprises him, to be invited to stay, particularly without having been of use. The converted rehabilitation floor’s hardly Elysium, but he’d still anticipated a higher barrier to entry, after a lifetime of proving himself. You’re magic enough for me sweeter than any exaltation. ]

Aha. [ Gale ducks his head, a sudden flush striping across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. Much the same process of consideration and acceptance occurs in Gale’s mind. It’s impossible to fathom that he might be enough, particularly without the knowledge and power that made him worthy of a goddess, once. And yet, this Astarion, with his wounded heart, wouldn’t use a line to sway him. ]

If you’re certain.

[ A lesser questioning than what plagues his mind, in that if, sneaking a glance up through his lashes. He could sink to the floor, his place at Astarion’s feet, so like what came before — but that isn’t the way of things any longer. He knows that, even if it contradicts his longest, fiercest infatuation and leaves him uncertain how to proceed. Tempted to hide from that realisation, to be sure, and resisting it — ]

Budge up, then.

[ In that armchair that could nearly be built for two, thanks to the Balfours penchant for luxury. At the risk of destabilising their equilibrium, of overreaching himself, Gale squeezes beside Astarion and winds an arm around his shoulders (that bit narrower than his own). Progress over perfection. Like the way he talks. ]

🎀

[thirsted]

[ Even as he scoffs, scooting over to make just enough room for Gale to join him on the seat, Astarion thinks to himself that he doesn't truly mind it — the awkwardness, the things others might regard as childish or silly, all of it separate from the vocabulary he'd become proficient in across centuries. He cherishes it, the same way he cherishes the way Gale looks when he's been taken off-guard, the particular shade of pink he turns when flustered. Ever handsome, as much a figure from the stories he'd been told as a child as any dashing prince.

It comes across in his lack of resistance, not so pliant and eager as he once had been, but slightly stilted, as though still figuring out his own limbs, or how he might fit against another without the intent of seduction. His arms tuck in, his knees drawing up to his chest as he allows his frame to curl against Gale's.

It takes a last moment for him to let go completely, to allow his head to fall against Gale's shoulder (to feel like he can remit his care to somebody else).

A word comes to mind, but manifests only as an exhale, a breath let out through the slight smile that persists on his features. It's not for him to say, he thinks — it's sweeter on his companion's lips. Simple, singular — wow. ]