[ Even without the warmth that should accompany it, the feeling of Astarion slipping his hand beneath his robes, brushing over his heart-centre, heats his skin.

With his hands free, he shifts to sit back more comfortably. Because if he doesn’t mishandle this — a real possibility — he might get to stay for a little while. Gale has always liked this part most of all, the closeness that comes after intimacy of any kind. His hands find Astarion’s hips, tentative then sure, and Gale pulls him onto his lap. It’s more comfortable than leaning over each other, and it’s much easier to see Astarion like this, besides — vaulted above Gale just so. ]

A bard would do you more justice. [ At once teasing and self-deprecating. Ever dutiful, Gale does tip back to regard Astarion. Mildly, then — ] You’ve seen your hair. [ And felt just how much Gale wanted to run his fingers through it then and now. ]

I don’t know how you get it like that without a mirror. [ Mumbled half to himself, when Gale only bothers to brush his hair or tie it back, depending on the task at hand. ] It frames your face nicely. [ Softening all his hard, macabre angles. ] And at the risk of encouraging your vanity, you are — striking. [ Handsome seems inadequate. He clears his throat. ] I was trying very hard not to look at you today. [ A silly thing to do and a sillier thing to admit, when he doubts Astarion noticed. ] Which amounts to same thing as just looking.

[ Because he was so conscious of it, all stray thoughts turned to the exact thing he was avoiding. Astarion had his attention, regardless. ]