[ Relief floods his face, loosening the tense lines of his brow and mouth. With concerted effort, he stops himself from unravelling and telling Astarion all, the extent of his affections trapped in his throat. ]

We do. [ Gale drops his chin so their noses can brush, still not seeking anything but contact. ] And a proper bed, if you’d share it with me. [ It feels important to speak plainly, after all Astarion has confessed. ]

[ sheepish, ] It’s not my four-poster in Waterdeep, but it’s closer to what you deserve than my tent. [ Though he’s had the privilege of awaking to Astarion there, too, after the occasional nap. Fingers tangled in his hair, mouth soft at his throat. A miracle made flesh. ] And I’ve wanted so very badly for you to be the last thing I see before I sleep and the first, when I wake. [ softer. ] It’s you I think of then, anyway.

[ Not Mystra, not since the night Astarion admitted to his uncertain desires. ]