[It is nice, simply lying together, letting himself soak in the warmth of Gale's skin against his. He brushes his fingers through Gale's hair in a mirror to Gale's touch. It's soothing, grounding. He watches the dark strands slip through pale fingers as he turns over the thought of reaching out to his family.

His relationship with them was fraught even before his death, but to them he was no more than an adolescent. Running off to Baldur's Gate to charm his way into the workings of the city was seen as nothing more than youthful rebellion, and he never overcame how much he resented the thought.

Because then there was Cazador. Astarion's death so many miles away from anyone who shared his name. And centuries spent with the cold certainty that he'd never lay eyes upon them again.]

I—the thought hadn't crossed my mind. Hearing from your lost child after so long. I doubt they'd believe me even if I stood before them.