[ When Gale's fingers find his chin, Astarion doesn't resist, his sunset eyes glittering as flicker up to meet his gaze. He's seen Gale flustered before, yet there's something in his chest that catches each time he sees him so moved, his sheer depth of feeling enough to startle him when he's spent so many years cultivating facile versions of obsession and attraction. Even in his most idle moments, his memories track back to Gale's gentle reassurance — that he'd be happy merely to be with him, that to forgo physical intimacy wouldn't affect how he thinks of him.

So he doesn't mind being moved like this, can't help the pleased press of his lips as he raises his head. It's a rare and lovely thing, to be admired this way. ]

As if you haven't cast a spell over me in turn.

[ One hand creeps upward, skittering lightly up Gale's cheek to rest near his crown, fingers threading through his chestnut hair. And they're close, so close, that he doesn't try to resist the pull back into orbit, kissing Gale again despite the way breathlessness — such as it is — still suffuses his nerves.

Spoken into the sliver of warm space between them: ] And you hardly make it difficult.

[ Even in utter darkness, one would be able to hear the smile that shapes his mouth. ]

Each thought, a gift, freely given.