[ He thinks he’d give anything for Astarion to continue saying his name like that — oh, Gale — only to realise no sacrifice or offering is required. Astarion will continue to sigh sweetly for as long as Gale dotes on him, and Gale would gladly do so for the whole of his life. An exchange of time and affection perfectly balanced, like the note in his hand. ]

I thought the same.

[ Gale folds the letter with care, minimising the creases in the paper, and presses it into the earth. Unable to keep from lingering, in the end, with so many words that say I love you printed on the page. Reluctantly, he sits up on his creaky knees to do the work of burying it amongst the seeds. In that moment, he thinks not of the grounds before them but of his mother’s beloved garden in Waterdeep. Of Astarion there, among the frostroses, haloed by the soft glow of the spring sun. ]

But then I remembered I’ve the man who wrote it.

[ A sideways glance, crooked smile tilting higher. Do you understand? With you, I want for nothing. ]

[ simply, ] And he inspires poetry in me with every look. I need only write it down.

[ And he will. I like to hear you say it the only encouragement he required to recognise his affirmations were worthwhile. Whatever Astarion likes, he should have. And Gale should be so lucky to give it to him. ]