[ Because it's you. Before they were all thrown together by their shared problem, trust was an unfathomable thing to Astarion; and he suspects the majority of their party have a very tenuous amount in him, borne solely of necessity. The feeling is mutual.
Gale vocalizing his trust strikes a tender part of him, and Astarion wonders if he trusts Gale. Most people would have an easy answer, wouldn't they? If someone saves their life enough times, they trust them. But there's still something in Astarion that shrinks from the idea, guarded and sharp-clawed.
Astarion walks his fingers a little down Gale's arm and presses his lips to the veins at his wrist, holding his gaze. Here's where they would drink from each other, were they proper vampires. His lashes lower, and he listens to the sounds of the Underdark, the water as it stirs gently around their bodies and the jump of Gale's pulse, his breath.
He kisses up his arm, tugging Gale closer. Their feet touch on the slick rock beneath them, torsos nearly flush. Astarion is trying not to fall into the familiar steps that take him out of his body, focuses on Gale to keep himself here: a man he knows, not a stranger, who smells like bergamot soap and clean skin. A man who trusts him.
Astarion presses his mouth to the curve of Gale's shoulder, breathes in. ]
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Gale vocalizing his trust strikes a tender part of him, and Astarion wonders if he trusts Gale. Most people would have an easy answer, wouldn't they? If someone saves their life enough times, they trust them. But there's still something in Astarion that shrinks from the idea, guarded and sharp-clawed.
Astarion walks his fingers a little down Gale's arm and presses his lips to the veins at his wrist, holding his gaze. Here's where they would drink from each other, were they proper vampires. His lashes lower, and he listens to the sounds of the Underdark, the water as it stirs gently around their bodies and the jump of Gale's pulse, his breath.
He kisses up his arm, tugging Gale closer. Their feet touch on the slick rock beneath them, torsos nearly flush. Astarion is trying not to fall into the familiar steps that take him out of his body, focuses on Gale to keep himself here: a man he knows, not a stranger, who smells like bergamot soap and clean skin. A man who trusts him.
Astarion presses his mouth to the curve of Gale's shoulder, breathes in. ]
What else would you bare for me?