[ It’s silly, to feel bereft when Astarion dips from his side, but it’s the case for Gale nonetheless. Years without such closeness didn’t make him want it any less, it seems.
He still stumbles a little, when tugged, and takes a surreptitious glance around the area. Unsure what to do with his hands, now that he’s left to his own devices — or where to fix his gaze to avoid rousing suspicion.
Ultimately, he decides to face Astarion, so he doesn’t look ridiculous talking to the empty air, and clasps his hands behind his back. This way, he gets to see Astarion work, too: A marvel of elegant fingers and clever twists of the wrist. ]
I’ll have you know my tower’s spelled into tidiness, [ A beat. ] but we did have a bit of help, growing up. [ brightly, ] You’ll be shocked to hear I was something of a handful.
[ The magic (and tressym) only exacerbated that trait. ]
Shocked and appalled, [ he agrees, with very little of either in his tone. It's easy to picture Gale causing all sorts of mischief in the name of seeking arcane knowledge, his mother proud and exasperated in equal measure. He wonders, briefly, if he was a handful in his younger years. So little of his memories with his blood family remain, replaced by ones made unwillingly with the family Cazador made.
No use dwelling on it. He glances up at Gale, fleeting, before looking back to his work. ]
You're quite the handful now, darling.
[ What with that bomb in his chest and all. (Then again, he's not much more of a handful than Astarion and his many complications.) The lock clicks open, coaxed by his careful tinkering, and he tips his chin up in pride. As he stands, he gingerly opens the gate, the hinges squeaking faintly. ]
[ With a final glance over his shoulder, Gale follows behind Astarion, placing a hand at the small of his back to encourage him through the cracked gate. Best to keep close. If they’re spotted, it’s be far better to be thought of as a wayward couple than burglars. ]
Good hardly does you justice. [ slung back easily. It costs him nothing to flatter Astarion now, with his affections known. Gale eases the gate shut after him, spelling its creaking quiet with a fluttery gesture. ]
[ Quieter, then, but no less sure: ] Just as lucky doesn’t begin to cover my situation, at least in the matter of you.
[ A near miracle, with how poor his fortune has been in all else, of late. ]
Mind your step now. [ His fingers curl at Astarion’s hip to stop his advance. ] I suggest we keep to the left. [ A jerk of his head in that direction. ] Along the manor’s edge. [ by way of explanation, ] There’s magic about.
[ Lucky. That's debatable, surely, but Astarion can't help but bloom under the praise, easily pleased by the most off-handed of compliments. Praise—real praise, not idle flattery—was so rare to come by in his two centuries of servitude that he feels starved for it now.
He stops in his tracks, quiet as he tries to feel for the magic Gale claims is present. Astarion has never been attuned to magic the way he is, even with his elven heritage, and he only feels the cool evening breeze against his skin. It isn't like Gale to be wrong about magic, though, so he follows the instruction, keeping to the left. As they creep through the gardens, his eyes rove over the small statues of the Triad and the exotic flora, perhaps brought to Baldur's Gate from their mark's travels.
The sound of a doorknob turning provokes him to press Gale's back against the manor walls, cold palm slapped over his mouth. The last thing they need is for Gale to exclaim oh, heavens and give them away. A woman exits the manor, watering can in hand. A gardener, or at least a member of the staff. Her back is turned to them for now, but she can certainly still hear. Astarion withdraws his hand from Gale's mouth, but not before pressing a finger to his lips in the universal sign of keep your mouth shut. ]
[ Predictably, Astarion pushes, and Gale goes, clumsy but pliant. It takes him too long to understand why Astarion presses so close, gripping his waist tighter to balance himself. A muffled exclamation against Astarion’s palm goes unheard by the gardener before Gale finally looks from Astarion’s sharpened gaze to his point of focus. Ah.
His eyes flash back to Astarion, expression caught between flustered and chastened. Then, he nods against Astarion’s hand. In his periphery, he can see the gardener pause, still too close to the door. His fingers drum an impatient rhythm at Astarion’s back in answer. They’re near enough that he could count Astarion’s lashes, and he makes a start —
Only for the gardener to sigh and step forward, making her way around the corner. ]
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no subject
He still stumbles a little, when tugged, and takes a surreptitious glance around the area. Unsure what to do with his hands, now that he’s left to his own devices — or where to fix his gaze to avoid rousing suspicion.
Ultimately, he decides to face Astarion, so he doesn’t look ridiculous talking to the empty air, and clasps his hands behind his back. This way, he gets to see Astarion work, too: A marvel of elegant fingers and clever twists of the wrist. ]
I’ll have you know my tower’s spelled into tidiness, [ A beat. ] but we did have a bit of help, growing up. [ brightly, ] You’ll be shocked to hear I was something of a handful.
[ The magic (and tressym) only exacerbated that trait. ]
no subject
No use dwelling on it. He glances up at Gale, fleeting, before looking back to his work. ]
You're quite the handful now, darling.
[ What with that bomb in his chest and all. (Then again, he's not much more of a handful than Astarion and his many complications.) The lock clicks open, coaxed by his careful tinkering, and he tips his chin up in pride. As he stands, he gingerly opens the gate, the hinges squeaking faintly. ]
Luckily for you, I'm rather good with my hands.
no subject
Good hardly does you justice. [ slung back easily. It costs him nothing to flatter Astarion now, with his affections known. Gale eases the gate shut after him, spelling its creaking quiet with a fluttery gesture. ]
[ Quieter, then, but no less sure: ] Just as lucky doesn’t begin to cover my situation, at least in the matter of you.
[ A near miracle, with how poor his fortune has been in all else, of late. ]
Mind your step now. [ His fingers curl at Astarion’s hip to stop his advance. ] I suggest we keep to the left. [ A jerk of his head in that direction. ] Along the manor’s edge. [ by way of explanation, ] There’s magic about.
no subject
He stops in his tracks, quiet as he tries to feel for the magic Gale claims is present. Astarion has never been attuned to magic the way he is, even with his elven heritage, and he only feels the cool evening breeze against his skin. It isn't like Gale to be wrong about magic, though, so he follows the instruction, keeping to the left. As they creep through the gardens, his eyes rove over the small statues of the Triad and the exotic flora, perhaps brought to Baldur's Gate from their mark's travels.
The sound of a doorknob turning provokes him to press Gale's back against the manor walls, cold palm slapped over his mouth. The last thing they need is for Gale to exclaim oh, heavens and give them away. A woman exits the manor, watering can in hand. A gardener, or at least a member of the staff. Her back is turned to them for now, but she can certainly still hear. Astarion withdraws his hand from Gale's mouth, but not before pressing a finger to his lips in the universal sign of keep your mouth shut. ]
one million years later
His eyes flash back to Astarion, expression caught between flustered and chastened. Then, he nods against Astarion’s hand. In his periphery, he can see the gardener pause, still too close to the door. His fingers drum an impatient rhythm at Astarion’s back in answer. They’re near enough that he could count Astarion’s lashes, and he makes a start —
Only for the gardener to sigh and step forward, making her way around the corner. ]