Thinking about the way Gale exhales through his nose when he pulls away from a kiss. Thinking about the way he moans, almost whimpers, as your kiss deepens. Thinking about the way he looks at you--his eyes soft, his gaze reverent--when you return his affection with the wholeness of your heart.
Thinking about that final kiss before the Netherbrain where he forgoes his typical pleasantries--the slow approaches, the trailing touches, the gentle kisses that draw you both closer as they deepen. He is a man with nothing left to lose, knowing the uncertainty that lies ahead because, gods, he's reasoned every possibility a million times over. He is a man on borrowed time. He has been. So when you ask him to kiss you, your eyes filled with the unforgiving chill of fear, he does not squander it. He rushes you, his heart racing with a desperation he's come to know all too well in your presence. He refuses to waste another moment without your lips on his, your bodies flush, his fingers winding through your battle-weary hair. He refuses to let you enter the final stretch without the warmth you had once granted him when he was drowning in winter waters. He refuses to let you go on without knowing the depth of his devotion. He refuses to let you go on without knowing that if the fates deem it so, he would kiss you a thousand times over. He kisses you as if he has to make up for it if not. And selfishly, he refuses to die without the sensation of your love--real, honest to gods love--still lingering upon him before he closes his eyes forever.
