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And even after that, I hope.

[ he rereads it, thumb swiping up the screen. ]

Gosh, you have me flushed in the shop.

On the one day I decide not to accompany you to work. How cruel!
I've half a mind to remedy that, though the other thinks of how I could greet you when you return home.

[ after about 20 distinct fantasies — ]

I couldn’t tell you what I’d prefer if I thought about it for hours.
But, perhaps, if something of mine appealed to you…

[ He’s worn less of Gale’s belongings as spring supplants winter, leaving Gale to ponder exactly how much he savoured it. Astarion, all wrapped up in him, even while spending time with another — ]

Now there's a thought.

[ And that text is it, for a while, until—

—at intervals, the minutes in between presumably spent putting each outfit together, Astarion sends along a series of photos: pieces from Gale's wardrobe, carefully selected and placed on their bed (for lack of properly being able to photograph himself), at first laid out smooth, still on the hanger, then — by the third picture — posed, the fold of an arm mimicking a hand behind the head, the pants legs crossed. One of Gale's cream-colored shirts, paired with Astarion's black trousers (which, hadn't he been wearing those this morning); one of Gale's polos and a pair of his slacks. Nothing too racy, save for the sixth (and for the moment, final) photo, which features another curated look — and a pair of Gale's underwear, peeking out from underneath. ]

[ For the duration of Astarion’s silence, Gale returns to his (unpaid) work. Shelving here, tweaking a display there. The first picture stops him in his tracks, looking down in initial confusion, then blushing understanding. He clips himself on the corner of their potions’ table upon recognising the trousers Astarion had almost certainly been wearing when he left, instead splayed on their bed. Unable to keep himself from thinking of — well — every inch of pale skin Astarion has allowed him to regard and touch, of late.

And it’s cute, besides, which is surely not a word many would apply to a centuries-old vampire. Gale can think of no other descriptor for the effort. The silly little poses arranged for their amusement alone.

By the time he straightens all the bottles, the final photo has pinged his phone. ]

Wow 😳
It would be terribly useless of me to say they’d all suit you, wouldn’t it?
And yet it would be true.

The first and the last stand out, though I’m afraid I’ll be tempted to swiftly undress you, in either case.

Hardly useless when it's the correct answer.
I wouldn't pick out something that didn't suit me, would I?

[ Typed out as he lies on his back, phone held over his face, feet kicking happily over the edge of the bed. Is it strange to still be so taken by flirtation? To find the effort of sustaining interest to be effortless? ]

At any rate, I shan't spoil the surprise.
You'll have to wait until the end of your shift to see what I've chosen.
And to take it off of me.
😇

I suppose not.

[ and isn’t that pleasing, to have said the right thing without effort. To not strive to please, exactly — but to do so, anyway. ]

How lucky I am.
And how tortured! To content myself with fantasy until then.

Tortured, hm?
Send me one little photo, won't you?
I want to see that adorable little pinch in your brow.

[ after touching his brow and finding it furrowed — ]

Ha.
However could I deny you?

[ that pinch persists, chiefly as a consequence of trying to get the angle of the selfie just right. nothing too different from the usual, then: hair half-up to make shelving easier, button-down open at his chest and sleeves rolled, gifted earring glinting in the afternoon sun of the greenhouse. complete with a bashful smile on his face. ]

[ When the picture comes through, he smiles without thinking, thumbing over the screen — over that little divot of concentration — as he tallies each other detail like a dragon collecting bits of gold for its hoard. He startles a little when he realizes he still hasn't responding, sending first, ]

♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️

[ And then (after setting the picture as his phone background), ]

Alina's lucky I don't spend all day at the shop when you're on duty.
Hurry home when you're done. I'll count the seconds.

I so love to hear you say that.

[ “home” ]

Promise I’ll be there soon.
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻🏃🏻

[ Sooner even than he intended, leaving an hour or so early with a ludicrous grin and stammered excuse. He loves the shop, he loves their community of mages, unlike anything he’s known, untainted by competition — but nothing compares to the comforts (and wiles, it seems) of home. Gale hardly makes it through the door before casting about for Astarion. And as much as he’s been cycling through fantasies for the whole of the afternoon, unable to remember even the most basic potion recipes, the real thing outdoes his imaginings.

They’ve traversed so much ground together, his proffered hand and hesitant questions far from the now sure grip at Astarion’s waist, swiftly tugging him close, back to chest. Forgetting that he was meant to be admiring Astarion’s curated ensemble and instead nosing after his pulse, peppering kisses along the waning crescent of his throat. ]

[ The time being what it is (or rather, Gale's sense of dedication being what it is), Astarion visibly startles when the door opens. Then again, perhaps it's less surprise than it is the parallel note of delight. He'd heard the footsteps in the hall, known the gait and weight of them, and yet—

Any sense of decorum seemingly forgotten, he yelps, the sound dissolving into bubbling laughter as Gale's arms wrap around him. The book he'd been reading almost falls from his hands entirely — and he has half a mind to let it, if not for the fact that it's the volume Gale had given him for Christmas, now not just a distraction but an object of some sentimental value. ]

You're back early, [ he says, breathless, his head falling pliantly to one side to bare more of his neck. Greedy, as he's swiftly proven himself to be, for Gale's attention and affection, though he wriggles in the next moment, suddenly stricken. ] Wait, wait—

[ As soon as he manages to pry himself free, he — though the effect is somewhat lessened by how excited he still is — strikes a pose, one leg stuck out, his hands on his hips, a grin splitting his features even as the tilt of his head attempts coyness. Heather grey trousers, cornflower blue shirt, slightly large on his frame — both Gale's. ]

Better on a model than on the bed, don't you think?

[ Oh, there’s the laugh. Like bells, like soaring music. Beautiful and happy and his, when he had hardly heard it before, in their first walks together, those early days in the manor, with Gale trailing after him like a stray dog, fed once by the hand that accepted his favour and unable to forget it. ]

Better. [ breathed more than said, as he steps closer, unable to hold himself apart, even in service of appreciating the sight of Astarion, all wrapped up in him. His, not to keep but to guard. They haven’t plainly discussed his desires, partly because Gale thinks it so obvious. I want you and only you forever written in shaky hands and unwavering looks. He can hardly decide where to fix his attention, with the looser neckline revealing Astarion’s lovely collarbone, the cuffed trousers indicative of that slight difference in their builds, the blue that somehow makes him look lighter, younger, freer, or maybe that’s the flush of excitement. The slouchier fit only looks refined on him, an intentional elegance that Gale could never pull off. ]

[ mouth twitching, smile all crooked — ] Far better than anything I could imagine.

[ And he imagined so much, in the intervening hours. It takes an herculean effort not to kiss him, as soon as he re-enters his orbit, drawn close enough to slide his knuckles under Astarion’s jaw, eyes still flickering between his and the rest of his person, bright hazel made dark by intent. ]

—And if I want to see the model on the bed?

[ In his clothes, in their room, ]

[ He decides, in that moment, that this is better than any mirror. His countenance reflected not by glass but by the shine of Gale's reaction. Who else is he preening or performing for, after all, than for the person he's deemed singular in his life, in his world? He can see himself, more beautiful than he'd ever boast even in his most facile moments, in the warm color of Gale's eyes, imperfections smudged away under a kind of adoration that accepts them as written.

There's no resistance as Gale reaches for him again, chin tipping up at the encouragement of Gale's hand, lips parted as though around a thought. (He likes to be looked at, by him. Could stand to be looked at by him forever.) ]

Well.

[ He doesn't attempt to hide the fact that he's thinking, his tongue peeking out onto his lips as the cogs turn. There are a multitude of answers — then ask nicely, or I can make that happen — and he takes his time in sifting through them all in search for the right one. When he finds it, a lightbulb seems to go off in his head, brightening his features and straightening the set of his posture. He glances behind him, once, and turns back, swaying as he settles his arms around Gale's neck, his smile turning a little teasing. ]

You'll have to place him, then.

[ 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. ]

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