[ Gale hopes he makes it sound so — easy, instinctive, well worn. He brings his free hand to Astarion’s nape, gentling through his curls. His other arm remains banded across Astarion’s back, intent on keeping him in the clutch of his arms for as long as he’ll stay. ]

You did?

[ Chin knocking lightly against the crown of Astarion’s head, voice tight, once again wowed and moved by the simple idea that it might not have taken Astarion long at all to fall for him. That there was no herculean effort to overlook his flaws or discard his other options.

He looses a helpless little laugh, at the idea of it. Love as a fact, simple and known. Not a prize to be won or a reward to be meted out to the dutiful. It’s tempting to ask When? How many times? To review each interaction for evidence of love, unconfessed — but that’s pointless, when Astarion gives him such things every day. Even in ensuring this moment was theirs alone, he showed his hand. ]

I’m afraid I feel awfully lightheaded just to think of you thinking it. [ A pause, as he realises how silly that sounds. ] Gosh, you thieve every higher thought from my mind. A rogue in true.

[ Ahem. ]

That is to say — [ He guides Astarion’s head up and back, so he can see the attractive rouge in his cheeks and cradle his sharp jaw. ] You did make it right. You made it perfect.

[ A testament to his thoughtfulness, his softness, that his master could not excise from him for all the pain in the world. ]