[ To be a vampire is to experience an eternal hunger, to be cursed to feel the pang of emptiness for years that stretch into decades into centuries. Yet, as Astarion watches Gale pluck the wreath from the surface of the lake, the droplets of water along the leaves and petals catching the warm light of the sun, he feels full, as though his heart might burst. He's not sure when his feet begin to carry him forward — worried, for a fraction of a second, that Gale might slip again — coming to meet him in the early shallows as though pulled by the same tether.
Even the rise and fall of Gale's words are like magic. Had he really been so unmoved by that current, when they'd first met — when now his expression opens and blooms on the ring of each consonant and vowel? ]
I never doubted you.
[ Quiet, even a little rough around the edges. His own spell broken, the heavy peaks and valleys of his usual speech smoothed out and made painfully earnest. No artifice, not when it's not necessary, not when he knows Gale could see through it as easily as a pane of glass.
It's that thought that causes Astarion's brow to crumple at Gale's invocation of beauty. Beauty, a curse under Cazador's reign, yet raised into something near-holy in Gale's hands, not least because Astarion understands the scope of it, accounting not just for his outward appearance but for every silly, ugly part of himself that he's revealed over the course of the past several months. All of it patiently endured, tolerated, accepted.
His eyes have begun to shine by the time he averts his gaze, looking down as he fishes into his pocket with a trembling hand, a kiss foregone out of buzzing nerves. ]
A prize, for the intrepid wizard.
[ And, after a pause — a slight jump of his eyebrows — he reveals what he's been carrying: nestled in the center of his palm is a silver pocket watch, the same one Gale had given to Astarion as his favor during the faire, ticking where it had been silent before. ]
no subject
Even the rise and fall of Gale's words are like magic. Had he really been so unmoved by that current, when they'd first met — when now his expression opens and blooms on the ring of each consonant and vowel? ]
I never doubted you.
[ Quiet, even a little rough around the edges. His own spell broken, the heavy peaks and valleys of his usual speech smoothed out and made painfully earnest. No artifice, not when it's not necessary, not when he knows Gale could see through it as easily as a pane of glass.
It's that thought that causes Astarion's brow to crumple at Gale's invocation of beauty. Beauty, a curse under Cazador's reign, yet raised into something near-holy in Gale's hands, not least because Astarion understands the scope of it, accounting not just for his outward appearance but for every silly, ugly part of himself that he's revealed over the course of the past several months. All of it patiently endured, tolerated, accepted.
His eyes have begun to shine by the time he averts his gaze, looking down as he fishes into his pocket with a trembling hand, a kiss foregone out of buzzing nerves. ]
A prize, for the intrepid wizard.
[ And, after a pause — a slight jump of his eyebrows — he reveals what he's been carrying: nestled in the center of his palm is a silver pocket watch, the same one Gale had given to Astarion as his favor during the faire, ticking where it had been silent before. ]
—A token of my love for you.