[ Strange, how much things can change in a night. Even after Astarion allowed him to stay a while in his tent, Gale never thought they’d make it here — to the sort of closeness that can soothe the long-held hole in his chest, a balm to the loneliness of the last year. There’s a steadying arm at his waist, all lean muscles, and warm words washing over him. Let’s get you fed. They’re both going to eat well, if this arrangement continues. ]

Very generous of me, I know — or simply a clever plot to keep you here. [ Both, maybe. Soap in hand, he chucks Astarion under the chin, playful. Only Gale finds himself too tempted by his red mouth and its hesitant curve to go without for long. A quick peck shifts into yawning drags, too wanting. Every pang in his thigh serves as a reminder of where Astarion has been (where he might go, in different circumstances). It isn’t the first time he’s been left wanting, at the edge of relief, but it’s a different sort of ache, on this plane. Gale pulls away with obvious reluctance. ]

Bow your head. There — perfect. [ So Gale can lather in water and soap, hands winding and unwinding, thumb soothing circles at any knots of tension, fingers curling behind the tip of a pointed ear. He may bear the obvious marks of their tryst but Astarion isn’t unscathed — smelling of fresh orange and amber, of his tower in Waterdeep, of Gale. He smooths one hand over Astarion’s brow, holding it below his hairline to keep the soap from his eyes. ] Under the water now, hm?