[ Of all the reactions that Astarion braces himself for, to bring a tear to Gale's eye isn't among them. Suddenly, he's not sure why — why he expects that any less than laughter or derision. Maybe it's too vulnerable, too tender, too close to the heart for him to be able to disregard it. He wants to apologize, like he's done something wrong, but Gale begins writing in the next moment. It's all the leeway Astarion needs to compose himself, looking up again only once he's finished planting. He fidgets as he waits, pinching the soil around the little hole they've dug as if to neaten it despite the fact that it's destined to be filled in within moments.
The message is more difficult to recover from.
At the very least, he's moved largely past the idea that he's duped Gale, somehow, but he's still not used to receiving such earnest affection. It feels, each time, like the moment he'd realized he could walk in the sun again, bright and warm and overwhelming, like breath in his lungs.
Softly, without thinking: ] Oh, Gale.
[ Even once the words leave his mouth, he doesn't seem to register them, lost in thought, reading the note again before he finally seems to return to earth, falling gently out of breathless orbit. ]
Here, [ he says, handing the parchment back, ] you bury it. I couldn't bear to part with it, if it were up to me.
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The message is more difficult to recover from.
At the very least, he's moved largely past the idea that he's duped Gale, somehow, but he's still not used to receiving such earnest affection. It feels, each time, like the moment he'd realized he could walk in the sun again, bright and warm and overwhelming, like breath in his lungs.
Softly, without thinking: ] Oh, Gale.
[ Even once the words leave his mouth, he doesn't seem to register them, lost in thought, reading the note again before he finally seems to return to earth, falling gently out of breathless orbit. ]
Here, [ he says, handing the parchment back, ] you bury it. I couldn't bear to part with it, if it were up to me.