[ Astarion’s throwaway explanation gives him pause. An empathetic twinge, at the thought of not having the small comforts of life.
When Astarion turns from him, Gale walks his eyes to his glass for the sake of politeness. Astarion must be at ease in his body, to undress before a stranger (one he already propositioned, granted), or angling for an advantage in their arrangement. Either way, it’s in everyone’s best interests for Gale to act as though he’s fully clothed. Unfortunately, the deep hue of his wine brings Astarion’s eyes to mind (claret or crimson?), so he risks a glance and instantly pays for it with the very air in his lungs.
Although Gale hasn’t been with a man — or anyone, for that matter — since his school days, he never lost appreciation for their form. Against all his higher instincts, Gale follows the notches of Astarion’s spine to his lower back (where you had your hand). Predictably, he gets caught staring at the moment Astarion exposes the curve of his ass — jerking his head up, slack jaw and round eyes on the shamed end of flustered.
Disrobing isn’t an invitation to leer, even if Astarion means to tempt him. Still, Gale looks and looks and looks, at the nape of his neck, along the arc of his shoulders; unable to turn from the sound of his name in Astarion’s mouth. It takes him longer than it should to process the markings swirling on his skin — not tattooed but rather carved, scars made with an intentional hand. Familiar shapes. Lettering. ]
I — [ A touch bewildered, as he recalls the question. ] It’s difficult to want for anything but what I’ve lost. [ Her. An incomplete truth. Gale is adrift. His wants were entwined with Mystra’s for so long. Without her as teacher, muse, purpose, his internal compass whirls without end. He hasn’t considered what he might do, if she never calls him back, and he certainly doesn’t wish to start now.
A perfect time as any for an abrupt change of topic. ]
no subject
When Astarion turns from him, Gale walks his eyes to his glass for the sake of politeness. Astarion must be at ease in his body, to undress before a stranger (one he already propositioned, granted), or angling for an advantage in their arrangement. Either way, it’s in everyone’s best interests for Gale to act as though he’s fully clothed. Unfortunately, the deep hue of his wine brings Astarion’s eyes to mind (claret or crimson?), so he risks a glance and instantly pays for it with the very air in his lungs.
Although Gale hasn’t been with a man — or anyone, for that matter — since his school days, he never lost appreciation for their form. Against all his higher instincts, Gale follows the notches of Astarion’s spine to his lower back (where you had your hand). Predictably, he gets caught staring at the moment Astarion exposes the curve of his ass — jerking his head up, slack jaw and round eyes on the shamed end of flustered.
Disrobing isn’t an invitation to leer, even if Astarion means to tempt him. Still, Gale looks and looks and looks, at the nape of his neck, along the arc of his shoulders; unable to turn from the sound of his name in Astarion’s mouth. It takes him longer than it should to process the markings swirling on his skin — not tattooed but rather carved, scars made with an intentional hand. Familiar shapes. Lettering. ]
I — [ A touch bewildered, as he recalls the question. ] It’s difficult to want for anything but what I’ve lost. [ Her. An incomplete truth. Gale is adrift. His wants were entwined with Mystra’s for so long. Without her as teacher, muse, purpose, his internal compass whirls without end. He hasn’t considered what he might do, if she never calls him back, and he certainly doesn’t wish to start now.
A perfect time as any for an abrupt change of topic. ]
Is there a reason you’ve infernal on your back?