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[thirsted]

[ When Gale gets to his feet, for a single, terrifying moment, Astarion fears the worst. That he's been coddled, duped — that there's been a stranger in the adjoining room this entire time. It's writ clear upon his features, in the wide set of his eyes, the way the line of his jaw goes taut.

Then — relief. There's a flare of his nostrils as he breathes out, lets go of the worry he'd been holding onto, his expression remaining unusually open just a moment longer (because he sees the way Gale's hand hovers in the air, because something else entirely seizes his chest in that brief moment) before it changes again, taking on something like self-effacement as he allows himself a tsk and a slight stomp of his foot. Even his shoulders slump, leaving him looking small but at least less rudderless than he had been mere moments before. ]

Nor I, you. Any of you.

[ He speaks the words more easily than he typically does similarly honest sentiments, like the syllables are being pried out of a vise. He draws in a breath to say something more, then seems to change his mind, a shadow of Gale's gesture, extended and then curbed. ]

I've had rather enough of him, [ is what he settles on, his tone plaintive as his eyes bore a hole into the middle distance, his apparent lack of focus serving as an indicator of the mental strain used in jumping from one train of thought to another. ] The next time he calls me friend, I'll put stones in my pockets and walk into the lake.

[corporeity]

[ A familiar helplessness overtakes him, at the sight of Astarion’s uncharacteristically open (and therefore vulnerable) features. Whyever did he stand up, if he was only going to add to his companion’s unease and then bloody stand there, unable to do anything more? They’re suspended for a moment longer before Astarion stomps his foot, and Gale cards his offending hand back through his hair, skimming off the top of the surface tension — then trying and failing not to look touched by the answering reassurance, unasked for. Truer for it, when Gale has begged praise from others since he first started casting.

You remember me, and I remember you. Recalled from their first conversation, an axiom-like rhythm to it that sticks in his mind. A comfort, for its reciprocity. ]

Come now, surely your roguish talents are better served putting stones in his pockets.

[ A sly, half-smile, hesitant in the offering, as he resists the urge to ask where it is Astarion goes, when he looks elsewhere. Better to make oneself worth paying attention to here. ]

Would you like to see the wards I’m setting? [ Already doubling back to the safety of his desk, rearranging his papers to find the sigils in question and sliding them out of his messy notes on everything from ki to their twisting timelines. ] Tilanus, Orin, anyone entering without our leave will find themselves in for a nasty surprise. A changeling can fool the human — or elven — eye, but not [ he raps his knuckles against the wood. ] the arcane.

[thirsted]

[ Time, thank the gods, resumes its usual flow. A breath looses itself from Astarion's ribs, forming into a half-laugh (to complement that half-smile on Gale's features) as he imagines the hypothetical outcome. A step removed from the fear that had taken him just a moment ago, he almost thinks he's reacted too harshly against the Drow, but— he's not the type to stew in that type of regret, and besides, it's useless to take issue with a feral cat for using its claws.

(He's grateful, though he won't say as much out loud, for Gale's resetting the conversation, his seemingly ever-steady hand leading them, without much issue, into safer waters. Once, he'd have said it's a skill he's just as deft at using, but— well, here they are.)

Step light, he crosses the room, his hands linking loosely behind his back (as though to keep them out of any further trouble) as he peers over the papers laid out over Gale's desk. Characteristically meticulous — and not as boring to Astarion as he likes to pretend. He suspects that Gale knows as much, that the time they've spent traveling has, for better or worse, dispelled some of the illusion he typically maintains (even if it isn't born of magic). ]

And what kind of surprises have you cooked up for our would-be intruders? [ he asks, with a glance toward the door. ]

[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. ]