Pom very nearly freezes, and Gale can't particularly do anything about it, not when he's the one being carried. "You aren't required to say it back," he says, resting his hand on Pom's cheek. "I just needed you to know." Being the one who loves fiercely without having it returned is practically tradition for Gale at this point. He's not sure anyone ever returned his feelings with the same intensity he showed. Mystra looms largest in his memory, not merely because she was the most recent and not only because she was a goddess, but because his feelings for her were a, well, a gale, a storm, sweeping him out to sea to drown.
Pom is different, though. He suspects Pom has more trouble with the words than with the sentiment itself. After all, they're here, aren't they? It would have been easy for the other man to maintain an easy friendship, maintained just enough distance between them that Gale didn't notice it, keep the truth of himself and his life a secret behind fascinating lies. Pom had practice enough in that, and Gale has never been good at spotting that kind of deception in other people. He hadn't, though, and how there is no space between them at all, metaphorically or literally. Pom looks distressed at his own inability to answer in kind, but Gale thinks his feelings are clear throught his actions. Claws dig into his back, but the pain is less than what it would have been as a human, or perhaps just different, and he finds that some part of him likes it, skewing it into pleasure, his body reacting in unexpected ways.
Gale laughs, a little pop of surprised, sad sound. "It is a sad song," Gale agrees, "But it isn't over yet, is it? I think, together, we could change it, make something really beautiful."
Worried as he is about his own cowardice regarding his feelings, Pom finds himself relieved as Gale sees right through him. For all Pom's masks and lies and avoidances, Gale recognizes that he's utterly distressed at his inability to speak his mind, so accustomed to burying it all that he's left himself trapped in the hole he's made, the grave he's dug time and time again for the man he truly is - a man Pom isn't sure he ever knew to begin with.
But Gale knows him. Gale sees him, and that gives Pom hope he's never been able to hold for himself, not for very long. He never learned how to love properly, using it only for survival - both his and Purl's. It was a tool to get by, same as his other skills. He's always been a tool, allowing himself to be used long after he left his old life behind. Whatever he did, he did for Purl. He's largely done the same in the city - it was for someone else, one of his Imprints, or it was for himself with the sole purpose of surviving until he could get back home.
But he wants to do more than survive for a change. He wants more, more than anyone but Gale can give him. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling the sweat on the wizard's skin against him. Maybe he could learn for himself this time, Pom insists inwardly. It's still for his own survival, sure... but maybe it's for Gale's, too. They both need this - need each other.
So no, it's not like in the songs he usually sings at the Hub, romantic tales about easy love and happy endings for people who found each other right away. This isn't how it's supposed to be, two people finding solace in one another as they succumb to the monsters they're becoming and have, in some way, always been. However, Gale might be right, as he so often is: they can make a song of their own, something more beautiful than the dirges they've been dancing to their entire lives.
Pom arches his head upward, rubbing the side of his face against Gale's neck as he continues his way to the couch.
"I'd like that," he whispers into his skin. "I just hope you're a good teacher."
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Pom is different, though. He suspects Pom has more trouble with the words than with the sentiment itself. After all, they're here, aren't they? It would have been easy for the other man to maintain an easy friendship, maintained just enough distance between them that Gale didn't notice it, keep the truth of himself and his life a secret behind fascinating lies. Pom had practice enough in that, and Gale has never been good at spotting that kind of deception in other people. He hadn't, though, and how there is no space between them at all, metaphorically or literally. Pom looks distressed at his own inability to answer in kind, but Gale thinks his feelings are clear throught his actions. Claws dig into his back, but the pain is less than what it would have been as a human, or perhaps just different, and he finds that some part of him likes it, skewing it into pleasure, his body reacting in unexpected ways.
Gale laughs, a little pop of surprised, sad sound. "It is a sad song," Gale agrees, "But it isn't over yet, is it? I think, together, we could change it, make something really beautiful."
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But Gale knows him. Gale sees him, and that gives Pom hope he's never been able to hold for himself, not for very long. He never learned how to love properly, using it only for survival - both his and Purl's. It was a tool to get by, same as his other skills. He's always been a tool, allowing himself to be used long after he left his old life behind. Whatever he did, he did for Purl. He's largely done the same in the city - it was for someone else, one of his Imprints, or it was for himself with the sole purpose of surviving until he could get back home.
But he wants to do more than survive for a change. He wants more, more than anyone but Gale can give him. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling the sweat on the wizard's skin against him. Maybe he could learn for himself this time, Pom insists inwardly. It's still for his own survival, sure... but maybe it's for Gale's, too. They both need this - need each other.
So no, it's not like in the songs he usually sings at the Hub, romantic tales about easy love and happy endings for people who found each other right away. This isn't how it's supposed to be, two people finding solace in one another as they succumb to the monsters they're becoming and have, in some way, always been. However, Gale might be right, as he so often is: they can make a song of their own, something more beautiful than the dirges they've been dancing to their entire lives.
Pom arches his head upward, rubbing the side of his face against Gale's neck as he continues his way to the couch.
"I'd like that," he whispers into his skin. "I just hope you're a good teacher."