[ Astarion doesn't know what to do with words like this, with a confession that sounds like it's meant for someone much sweeter, much kinder than him. He's heard it all before, but none of it meant anything before Gale. He never would have imagined they'd wind up here, when they found each other by the fire that night - bound up in something much bigger than a simple arrangement between party members.

And Astarion doesn’t know how to articulate what Gale is to him - because there has never been anyone like him. The belief he could have anyone like him, anything like this died inside Astarion long ago.

So he kisses Gale, in lieu of words. Not a charlatan's kiss but a real one, soft and a little unsteady. ]

I like your tent, you know. Soft pillows, endless reading material. [ His hand sweeps down Gale's neck to the collar of his robe, tugging at it lightly. ] Smells like you, which is preferable to shadow-cursed musty bedsheets.