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[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. ]