[ His brows tick higher, at once surprised and entranced by how Astarion matches his tenor, a vibrato that plucks at something in his chest, pulse skipping and skidding around his veins. There was a time, not so long ago, where Astarion would have demurred. But that was before he’d pressed his fingers into the hollow at the base of Gale’s throat. Before he’d allowed his hand to wander the top of Gale’s chest or tucked his head against the warm curve of his shoulder (in their bed, in their room — their home, one day). ]

Anything.

[ Hardly a question, more echo and answer, smile tugging high on one side. Eyes sparking with obvious interest. Imagining far lower stakes displays in their future (he would have — has done — the same, though Astarion has only witnessed his magical efforts, thus far). ]

My, I’m sure your efforts will be positively educational for us both.

[ Gale catches his hand, threading their fingers together and tugging him toward the shore. ]

Though perhaps such experiments are best conducted on dry land.