corporeity | PSL — EXSANGUE

[ There's a buzz of anxiety under Astarion's skin that's fully at odds with the comfort of their surroundings. He feels on the precipice of something important - and more than likely dangerous, with Gale's completion of the sketch.

Thankfully, as he turns to look at Gale, there's something else to focus on first: a dark smudge of ink on his cheek that he doesn't appear to be aware of. Astarion approaches the vee of Gale's legs slowly, dripping from his shoulders down; the way the tub is sunken into the floor, he's just a hair above Gale's eye level while standing. ]

Hold still. [ Murmured, as he anchors one wet hand on Gale's clothed knee and lifts the other to swipe his thumb over his cheek, rubbing gently until it's more or less free of ink. He is doing his best to not drip on the drawing, rubbing whatever ink is left on his thumb on his own wet stomach. Then, echoing Gale, with a glint to his eyes: ] Perfect.

[ When Gale registers Astarion’s attention has fixed on his face and not the drawing in his lap, he arches his brows in silent question. For a split-second, his eyes flicker lower — before he snaps them back up, catching himself. Obedience, it seems, comes quick to the former Chosen of a goddess, and he stills on request.

A damp hand at his thigh and water-warmed fingers touching his cheek make for an impossible convergence, his mouth parting on an uneven breath. For a wild moment, he thinks Astarion might kiss him. Fresh heat under Astarion’s fingertips, as his pulse rockets. The frisson of intimacy, long-denied.

Gale watches a droplet glide grey down Astarion’s flat stomach, arcing into the divot at his hip. Understanding finally lifts his gaze. ]

Oh. [ Perfect reverbs in his ears. A hand flutters to his cheek, fingers perched where Astarion touched him. ] Thank you.

[ Astarion half-expects Gale to spook, or at the very least demand to know what he's doing. Instead, he stills, and blushes beautifully; and Astarion does consider kissing him, for a moment, his gaze lingering on Gale's parted lips, the hitch of his breath. ]

We might as well get comfortable with each other, if we're to be courting. [ Astarion settles to sit on the step below Gale, leaning close enough to see the drawing properly.

He can't speak to its accuracy, obviously, but the shape of it is - awful. It's awful, and it's a part of him. He reaches to touch the paper, then remembers his wet hands and retreats, not quite curling in on himself. Softly, ] Hideous. Not a commentary on your skills, of course.

Of course. [ Courting, yes. His mouth suddenly feels dry at the prospect. They’ll have all their clothes on for future showings, at least, but he can’t recall the last time someone affected him so. Proof that Astarion remains an unpredictable variable, or so he tells himself.

Astarion settles near enough that Gale feels the heat of proximity. ]

That’s quite alright. [ an immediate assurance. ] It’s not so stark, on your skin, you know.

[ A hollow consolation. He ignores the urge to reach beside him and slip his fingers into Astarion’s curls. A fool’s desire. Gale does, in fact, drag his fingers over the drawing instead, tracing the lines of a stubborn word. ]

Once we now what it is, exactly, we could look into how one might heal it. [ hastily, ] If you wished for that, Astarion. Our Lady of Love and Beauty has a more traditional temple than the one we’ve found ourselves in, with accomplished healers. [ a beat. ] Another consideration for the morning, perhaps. My mother insists no good decisions were ever made after midnight.

[ The reflection of the waning moon on the water suggests it’s too late, for such things. ]

[ Astarion wonders if the scars have softened Gale toward him, and whether pity has anything to do with it. He can be shameless about charity, but pity is something else. It makes him feel powerless, still; like Cazador still has him tethered, can snap him back to Baldur's Gate with nothing but a word.

It is entirely possible the scars bind him enough to do just that.

He's troubled by the thought, and doesn't manage to keep it off his face. Astarion pulls himself from the bath and reaches for a soft towel. He's never had luxuries like these, and it feels like they could be snatched from him at any moment. ]

I... do need time to think. [ He rubs at the curls at the nape of his neck, the only section of hair that clings with dampness to his skin. ] But thank you. For the drawing and - the kindness.

[ At the mention of midnight, he looks out the window again, sighing. ] We will need to head to your tower before dawn, I'm afraid. Unless you'd like to extend our stay until sundown tomorrow.

[ The events of the night have exposed a genuine vulnerability in Astarion. A potential complication, for their plans.

As Astarion stands, Gale averts his gaze, instead looking out to the water. He only glances back when Astarion addresses him directly, a small smile on his face. ]

I would be a terrible suitor, pretend or otherwise, if I didn’t offer you that.

[ Kindness. Partnerships have been built on less, but they’re no stronger for it. Gale rises and sets about gathering his things, securing the journal inside a pocket. The importance of timing serves as a reminder of Astarion’s vampirism: another strange, little wrinkle in their plans. Something manageable, though, in his opinion. ]

PSL — EXSANGUE

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