Mm. [ He catches the slight evasion in Astarion’s phrasing, filed away for later. To be discussed in the morning, if he remembers this exchange as clearly as all that came before. Hard not to be distracted by the warm weight on his chest, heated by his touch alone.
Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]
You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.
[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)
And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]
no subject
Gale cards his fingers through Astarion’s hair, straying from their careful work only to soothe the tension at his temple and smooth the crease from his brow. At the back of his mind, he wonders: Has Mystra allowed him this as a final comfort? The last wishes of the dying, given only in exchange for his renewed devotion and ultimate sacrifice. ]
You’ll drink from me, won’t you? [ Tonight, as he drifts, or tomorrow, when Gale hopes to wake here, with a delicate hand on his chest and sharp teeth scraping his throat. ] It’s been too long.
[ A twinge of guilt, that his callousness kept sustenance from Astarion in this horrid place, bereft of wildlife. None of their companions stepped up to fill his role in the interim, or if they did, Astarion must have denied them. (Gale ignores the selfish pleasure he feels at that, when he would have viewed another bearing the bites like a lover coming to bed with lipstick on their throat.)
And after you’ve gone? His blunt nails drag against Astarion’s scalp. He’ll make arrangements. Wyll, maybe, in his kindness and heroism, though he hates the thought of it, even so. ]