[ The kiss is enough, for Gale. Astarion may not whisper the same poetry that he favours in the quiet of the night, but he shows his care in other ways. He keeps coming back, ducking under his tent flap and falling into step beside him, a consistent presence unlike all who came before. Gale chases the contact with a kiss at the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, all the more wanting for not knowing how long heβll have this.
He snags Astarionβs hand in his, tugging him along as he steps back, toward the inn. ]
Like me? [ too pleased by the idea that Astarion might prefer that, if only in comparison to cursed linens. ] I could conjure a bed more to your tastes, if thatβs the sticking point.
no subject
He snags Astarionβs hand in his, tugging him along as he steps back, toward the inn. ]
Like me? [ too pleased by the idea that Astarion might prefer that, if only in comparison to cursed linens. ] I could conjure a bed more to your tastes, if thatβs the sticking point.