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Gale glanced up as Gorran—his lover, his partner, his hulking mountain of a monk—sat beside him. Gale’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners, soft as he warmed at the sight of Gorran.
Gorran’s large hands dwarfed the simple thread and needle he held between his fingers, and yet he held his hand open. Gale sighed, an admittedly long-winded objection on his lips—what could a basic thread and needle do compared to magic reinforcement? Especially with Gorran’s hands at the wheel?—but gave Gorran his arm regardless.
The dichotomy between Gorran’s immense hands and the nimble dexterity he used to gently sew Gale’s sleeve never failed to amaze the wizard. But Gale knew by now that Gorran was a walking contradiction of a half-orc. Born with the taste of copper in his lungs, yet defying his own DNA in every breath, every step, every decision of “actually, violence would make this worse.”
“Told you to stay behind me,” Gorran’s voice rumbled softly.
Gale furrowed his brow. “Well, yes, but the justifications for my efforts are quite straightforward.”
Gorran lifted his head, the white of his false eye glinting in the firelight. That damned hag—Auntie Ethel, she’d gone by. How absurd to think that making a deal with a hag would end up with any result that’s mutually beneficial. But Gorran hadn't known any better—the man was wiser than anyone Gale had ever known, but he’d been desperate.
Of course he'd been. Gorran had been fighting against double the negative influences—the tadpole and, unknown at the time back then, his own gruesome heritage.
A Bhaalspawn.
Honestly, how could the man in front of him—wise, brave, heroic, always putting others’ lives ahead of his own, so patient, so forgiving, so self-deprecatingly modest, so endearingly awkward, so full of love he was bursting at the seams to give to Gale but didn’t think he deserved the same back! That half-orc, that man, his Gorran…be a creation of the god of murder? It was…the dichotomy to end all dichotomies, and yet.
And yet.
Gale knew that look on Gorran’s face—he’d been on the receiving end of that look more times than he could count. The furrowed brow of deep affection yet the relaxed jaw of fond exasperation. A look that said both ‘Your “justifications” can be foolhardy at times, love,’ and ‘you’re the light of my life, so please don't accidentally burn yourself out if I can help it.’
Mystra never gave him such a tenderly exasperated look. She was his everything, his reason to wake up in the morning, the reason he treasured the Weave, yet somehow, Gorran had seemingly turned that upside-down with nothing more than his bashfully self-deprecating humor and fists of strength. Now Gale couldn't imagine revering someone, let alone a god, to the extent he had before.
Is that what self-worth was? Realizing that not only did he deserve to live, but he wants to live, even if only just to see his partner’s smile every day for as long as he lives?
Would Mystra had taken the time to fix his torn sleeve?
Gale glanced over at Gorran.
Gorran met his eyes, his own heterochromatic eyes—one blue as the Weave itself, the other a scarred, glossy white—softening with such open affection and fondness that Gale’s brain fully disposed of the name Mystra entirely.
Gale cleared his throat, looking away. “As I previously mentioned, my justifications for my efforts were…quite straightforward. Thorough and unequivocal.”
“So why’d you move from behind me?”
Gale muttered his answer under his breath.
Gorran paused his sewing, a small smirk twitching against his tusks. “What was that?”
Gale sighed. Gods knew the monk was too insightful for his own good. “Because I-I was merely watching—er, observing you in all facets to make sure you weren't in danger! Preservation of the highest regard for my partner, that’s my priority!”
Gorran’s hands resumed their sewing, while the tips of his ears tinged red. “You got distracted looking at me from behind and moved ahead to focus on the battle, I’m presuming.”
Gale sputtered in indignation. “Wha—I—you—how very well dare you! I am a wizard, a prestidigitator of the highest degree, Mystra’s Chosen himself—”
“Former Chosen, love.”
Gale waved his free hand as if swatting the whole concept of being Chosen aside. “—Semantics! My focus is absolutely impenetrable! Just because you’re quite considerable in size, and more muscular than the whole party combined, and the way you looked when you dragged me back to relative safety in your arms, doesn't mean—”
Gorran finished his sewing, gently lifted Gale’s arm to inspect his handiwork, then quietly nodded to himself before lowering his arm and softly kissing Gale’s knuckles. “Alright, alright, I understand, wordsmith. Your focus is unparalled.”
Gale’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “You…you did that on purpose.”
Gorran squeezed his hand. “Maybe. But your sleeve’s fixed.”
“Hmmph.” He looked down to inspect the stitching. Rough at the edges, but composed all the same. “…Suppose it is. I could've done it myself in less time.”
“Sure, but whenever you see my stitching, you’ll think of me, hopefully.” Gorran shrugged, then seemed to realize what he said, and promptly ducked his head to busy himself putting the thread and needle away.
It was astounding to Gale how Gorran could go from confident partner to bashful monk, back and forth, in the blink of an eye. As if the half-orc still believed it was pure luck or an accident that Gale fell for him (Gale was confident Gorran did think that, the half-orc’s self-worth wavered along the same mid-to-low lengths as Gale’s had back when they first met).
Gale’s face softened even more. He cupped Gorran’s jaw and tilted him up to meet his eyes. “You never cease to amaze me in the most unadorned of ways.”
“Is that a compliment, or…?”
“The highest level of adoration, my love.”
“Oh. Good, then. That needle was finicky.” Gorran placed his hand over Gale’s, dwarfing Gale’s considerably, yet leaned into his touch as if he thought Gale would disappear if he didn't. “You scared me out there, you know?”
“Scared? You?”
Gorran huffed through his nose, the warm air hitting Gale’s curls. “Yes. Gods knows how many times I’ve had to save you because you ran out of spell slots at the most inconvenient of times. But…I’ve already caused enough loss and lost enough myself. My father, my history…my life. I don't…if I lost you too, I’d…” His voice shook, not in sadness, but grief, as if he’d already pre-prepared for being without Gale.
Gale knew he had. Gorran’s brain was the number one spot holder of the “I’m destined to ruin or kill everyone I love so I should just be alone forever so nobody else has to deal with me,” even though Gorran literally had the testimony of their companions (who all trusted Gorran with their lives), everyone he’d helped, and most importantly, Gale himself, who’d rather give up magic entirely than see Gorran convince himself that he wasn't worth being loved.
Gale bonked his forehead gently against Gorran’s—which probably felt like a poke to the half-orc but nearly knocked Gale off the log.
Gorran steadied him with a hand. “What was that for?”
Gale placed a hand on his forehead, rubbing away the ache. “Knocking some sense into you, that’s what! Because I already know that if I lecture to you about how incredible you are and how lucky I am to have you in my life, you’ll do the same dance and song. You like to get physical, so I gave you something. Er, not like that—”
“Gale.”
“Gorran,” Gale kissed Gorran’s nose. “You won't lose me. Not if I have anything to say about it, and we both know I can go on for hours willingly if unstopped.”
“Gale…”
“No.” A kiss to his forehead. “No ‘ifs, ands, or buts.” A kiss to his cheek, “No ‘you deserve better,’” his tusks, “No ‘what about,’ no pontificating, I won't hear anything of the sort.” A final kiss on his lips, slow and soft. “Repeat after me: I'm yours, you’re mine, that’s final.”
“Gale—”
“Repeat, Gorran, don't make me say it twice.”
Gorran hummed gently. “I’m yours. You’re…you’re mine. That’s final.”
“Good. Now, I believe we were in the middle of discussing the consequences of my very justified actions…ah, yes. I suppose I’ll just have to stay firmly by your side, under your protection.”
“Dreadful.”
Gale shook his head. “Anticipatory. Enthusiating. Worthwhile.”
“You always know what to say, don't you?”
“For you, my dear monk? I’d read a thousand thesauruses to have enough words to describe how you make me feel on a daily basis.”
“Please don't. We still have a world to save.”
“Hmmph. Fine. Weekend plans, then.”