i hope it's okay to add to this! this art touched me so so much i couldn't rest until i got this out of my system. thank you so much for drawing this, i think it healed part of my soul
“You’re dissociating again.”
Gale’s voice is a comfortable, distant rumble above him. Astarion finds the wizard’s eyes in the dark all of a sudden, ashamed that he can’t remember where he’d just been looking beforehand. Gale’s gaze is brown as rain-damp soil and just as soft. The kindness there is almost unbearable, and the only reason Astarion doesn’t flinch away from it is because he’s too busy slipping back into his own body. When he finally settles, Gale’s hand cups his cheek and disabuses him of the need entirely.
“We don’t have to do this, you know,” Gale says with a soft smile. The corners of his eyes crinkle, folding the tendrils of purple along the apple of his cheek with them.
Gale sits up and neatly hoists himself off Astarion. A breeze ripples through the clearing and ruffles his hair. It looks as though some unseen hand is carding fingers through the dark strands gently interspersed with rivers of silver. Astarion’s own fingers itch to do the same but he finds them curled into his palms as he pushes himself up off the dirt. Once he’s sitting, he attempts to regain control of the situation. Clears his throat to make sure his voice is steady. Bats his eyes. Smiles.
“Oh, darling,” he waves a pale hand, “Perish the thought.”
Gale does nothing but look incredibly patient as he shifts to his knees and brushes dirt off his thighs. There is no disappointment nor anger in his face, but Astarion feels his throat tighten around the lie even still.
Purring, he insists, “And I was just getting into it, too.”
Hells, he should have been more careful. He’s usually better at this. Where had his mind been? Frustration creases his brow and his fingernails start to dig into the dirt. His thoughts race.
Then, a hand brushes his knee.
“There are many ways to be intimate, Astarion,” Gale says, once more siphoning his attention back from the ether and holding it tenderly in the space between them. Astarion blinks at him, watching the way his hands gesticulate as he continues to speak. There’s something lovely about his hands—how they shape the night and make his words feel more like poetry than they should.
“Some by transcending our mortal bodies and becoming one with the Weave itself! But!” Gale holds up his fingers with a private little smile, “We’ll postpone such an endeavor for another day, shall we? For now, let’s start with something simpler, and considerably non-sexual.”
Gale pulls himself to his feet, his body sturdy and made of soft, inviting lines as he stretches to his full height. Astarion’s ruby gaze follows him, reverent.
“Come. Perhaps a nice bath?” Gale surveys the clearing, “I’ve got leaves in some rather undignified places that have truly no business being there.”
Astarion continues to stare. The tension in his shoulders relaxes and he hunches over himself slightly, spine curved and belly soft. The knot of worry slowly comes undone inside his chest as he watches Gale turn his head over his shoulder and smile at him.
“I could shampoo your hair,” he offers, “Shadowheart and I bought some gorgeous smelling soaps earlier that I think you’ll like.”
Astarion nods wordlessly. He barely trusts himself to speak.
“Excellent,” Gale says and with a flourish of his hands, a clawfoot tub appears before him. Steam rises from the surface of the water in whorling silvery wisps. Another wave of Gale’s hand produces a small wrapped parcel which he unwraps with the utmost care. The scent of lavender spreads through the clearing.
That brings Astarion to his feet and he pads his way through the cool grass to join him. He feels a little more himself with each step. Gale turns and inclines his head, gesturing a hand to the bath.
“After you.”
“Really,” Astarion huffs as he steps into the water, “It’s been this easy for you to conjure a bath this entire time and you’ve been letting me wallow in absolute filth?”
The aching warmth of the water as it slides up his calf nearly makes him moan. Astarion folds himself into the tub completely and lets the water crawl up to his throat, cocooning him in comfort. A sigh is hissed through his fangs.
“Hm, I happen to like your musk,” Gale says as he steps in carefully behind him. Astarion can hear the amused smile in his voice.
“Gods, you’re a freak.”
As Gale settles, his legs come around Astarion’s hips and Astarion leans back against his chest with a soft, contented hum. When he turns his head, his cheek rests along the outer curve of the tattoo along Gale’s skin. A place where magic has touched him and burrowed deep, lying in wait. Astarion finds his fingers brushing over the shape of it tenderly. As if he might erase it with a touch.
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment from you,” Gale says with unflinching optimism.
Then his hands reach up from the steaming water and start to gently wet Astarion’s curls. As the strands go heavy with moisture, Gale tucks them affectionately behind the elf’s ears.
Eventually, he begins to work the lavender shampoo into his scalp. The scent blooms and floods Astarion’s lungs. He’s usually one to turn his nose up—both literally and figuratively—at flowers, but finds he doesn’t mind imagining purple petals sprouting along the insides of his ribs as the fragrance unfolds. He lets his eyes slip closed.
This is…lovely. And yet—
“Gale?”
“Mmm?”
“You’re sure this is all right?” Astarion asks, indulging one last vestige of his anxiety. He swallows softly before continuing, “Just…this, and nothing else?”
Gale’s hands continue massaging through his hair without pause.
“It’s more than all right,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to the top of Astarion’s shoulder, “And it always will be for me.”
His hands resume and Astarion finds his eyes pulled open by some unknown force. They burn hot, and he’s surprised to find tears slicking his lower lashes all of a sudden.
Gale’s fingers rub patterns into his scalp. His chest rises and falls beneath Astarion’s scarred shoulders. Around them, the woods are quiet, soft and safe. Above, the moon gleams like bone and then settles into the reflection of his lap like a coin. The tears are gone just as soon as they came, and Astarion rests back against Gale with a slow breath through his nostrils.
He closes his eyes once more and allows himself to unravel completely.
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