PSL — EXSANGUE

[corporeity]

— TEXTS, PROMPTS, STARTERS

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[corporeity]

[ Astarion’s sudden, brazen handling startles a soft sound from Gale’s throat. His pulse jumps and stutters. The bottle half-dropped, precarious between them. How much can Astarion glean from him with his enhanced senses? Far more than Gale can sense in return, surely, overwhelmed by the proximity. The strange intimacy of someone who reviles him nestling into the hollow of his throat, warm breath on his skin. His mouth — his teeth — closer than anyone has been in some time. A threat? He shivers. No, a curiosity, which is surely worse, since he shares the sentiment.

This is ridiculous. He ought to deliver Astarion another shock on principle. Instead, his fingers curl, just brushing the back of Astarion’s hand where it holds his pulse hostage. ]

Like ozone. [ Voice ticking up at the end of the word, questioning. Like the sharp sting of fresh air from the sea. Not the decay he was imagining. Quiet, then, more unsure than Astarion will have ever heard him: ]

Can you — is there anything else? [ Like rot, pungent and terrible. Like death, advancing on his body. His other hand shifts higher, tightening on Astarion’s thigh. ]

[exsangue]

[ Astarion is prepared to let Gale go, and begins to pull away but stops when Gale's hand grips his thigh.

His brow arches slightly, curious. Perhaps the grand reveal of his inevitable demise -- and Tav turning both of them down for a fairer creature -- has left Gale feeling vulnerable.

Astarion's thumb sweeps over the tendons of Gale's wrist as he leans back in, closing his eyes. Dryly, ] Not as much wine as I would have guessed. [ But -- A soft hum as Astarion's free hand lifts to Gale's face, not quite touching as he trails fingers down the darkest veins of the blight, finally hovering above his heart. ]

You smell like a wounded animal. [ Neither gleeful nor particularly kind; just matter-of-fact, as he tips his head enough to look at him. ] Not a fresh wound, mind you. Festering. Mostly here, of course. [ Fingertips fluttering just so, where his robe covers the blight. ]

[corporeity]

[ It’s hard not to find the arc of Astarion’s thumb comforting, an intimacy that ought to be reserved for a closer pair. Grounding, despite their emotional distance.

Gale’s lashes lower as Astarion follows the poison tendrils that climb his cheek, tracing them back to the source with his elegant hand. He’s never thought himself particularly handsome, but the increasingly visible toll of his affliction is far more unsightly than the greys at his temples. He watches, rapt, as Astarion delivers an unflinching assessment of ruinous state.

Strange, to think that no one has ever touched him in that aching place. ]

Of course. [ A beat. His tongue pushes against the back of his teeth. Gale leans forward just so, bringing his clothed chest flush with Astarion’s splayed hand. ] Is it unpleasant, for you?

[ It sounds it. Festering, but Astarion appears unruffled as ever. And he lingers still. ]

[exsangue]

[ Astarion's brows arch again as Gale leans in, human heart drumming beneath Astarion's open palm. What he feels in this moment isn't quite pity, after all the ways they've prodded each other; but it does feel as if there's a curtain being lifted that Astarion hasn't earned. A vulnerability he could take advantage of, though Gale is wiser to Astarion's machinations than he would like. ]

More unpleasant for you, I'd imagine. [ Astarion slackens the grip he had on Gale's wrist, but keeps his palm pressed over his heart. His tone is breezy, but the words are anything but. ] I've been entombed with piles of corpses in every stage of decay. Smothering me, sometimes. Your tainted blood doesn't begin to compare.

[corporeity]

[ Astarion’s grip slackens, and Gale realises, suddenly, that he doesn’t want him to let go. He isn’t warm the way he was that wretched night, but he’s close, alive by some definition. Gale hadn’t had this — had anything — in so long. Maybe it’s the wine saturating his blood. ]

Mm. [ One shoulder lifts in a noncommittal shrug. None know the extent of his pain, and it wouldn’t serve him to change that impression. ]

[ Hearing Astarion’s next words, he tips his head forward, intent. Horror and concern play across his expressive face, helpless at the thought of the scenario presented. ]

Of course. [ Acknowledgement of the surprising confession. A vulnerability gifted in exchange for his? Surely not, but what else could it be? Gale shifts his wrist in Astarion’s loose grip. Rather than pull away, he presses their palms together and tangles their fingers, not quite holding. Testing, as one would the fit of a glove. His gaze flickers there, a curious entanglement, then up to Astarion’s mouth. ]

I suppose I am offering, if you think you can stomach the taste.

[ His tongue swipes across his lower lip, considering. Perhaps all the wine he’s had will soften its sting. ]

[exsangue]

[ Astarion trusts his own reflexes, even if he certainly doesn't trust Gale; so he doesn't retract his hand, warmth blooming from the other man's palm as the air grows cooler with the setting sun.

Lightly, tilting his head as he follows Gale's eyes, ] What a clever way to poison me.

[ The hand at Gale's heart slides up over his robes until it finds the bare skin of his throat, the backs of Astarion's nails dragging up the apple of it. ] Still, I am curious. And hungry. You won't blow us both up, will you?

[corporeity]

[ Gale can’t tear his gaze from their flush hands, memorising the arc of Astarion’s long fingers — comparing the feel of them to the pressure at his throat. ]

Your life would hardly be worth the cost of my own. [ cutting, albeit in a passive way. ]

You won’t tear out my throat, hm? I may not be desired or adored, [ Astarion is, at least, the former. ] but my talents would be missed around the campfire and in the field.

[ A wizard is rather useful; that’s all. ]