[ He doesn't understand it, how easily Gale can draw laughter from him — not by using meanness, which used to be the only means by which he could be plied — but by the simple virtue of his earnestness. He laughs when the dirt disappears from his fingers, when Gale tips his chin up and kisses him. He thinks, for a moment, that he'd be content to while away the rest of the day here in the garden, basking in the warmth of the sun and of Gale's affection, all the more remarkable for how it seems to come innately to him. It's only Gale's dedication (and the gentle weight of the object he's had in his pocket since dressing himself this morning) that keeps him from giving in to the impulse, instead turning his head to smile into Gale's cheek. ]
I'll come with you.
[ And so he does, keeping their hands linked as he gets to his feet, leading them to the lake. Around them, other guests wander, couples indulging in the newly pleasant weather and the activities at hand — Astarion barely registers any of them, focused instead on the so-slight pressure of Gale's shoulder against his own. In his mind's eye, he pictures the wreath (sage leaves blooming into sprigs of lavender and white cherry blossoms, wound through with a delicate gold ribbon), his typical sharpness manifesting only in the brief thought that this might be a foolish exercise, expecting Gale to solve a mystery with nearly no clues at all.
(So he looks over once, just once, squinting just so, before glancing away again. If anyone could, Gale could, if for no other reason than that he indulges him in the first place.)
It's telling that he doesn't fuss, only going so far as to slip off his shoes before stepping into the water. ]
Watch your step, [ he says, a thoughtless aside. ] The shore isn't quite as well-tended as the rest of the lawn.
no subject
I'll come with you.
[ And so he does, keeping their hands linked as he gets to his feet, leading them to the lake. Around them, other guests wander, couples indulging in the newly pleasant weather and the activities at hand — Astarion barely registers any of them, focused instead on the so-slight pressure of Gale's shoulder against his own. In his mind's eye, he pictures the wreath (sage leaves blooming into sprigs of lavender and white cherry blossoms, wound through with a delicate gold ribbon), his typical sharpness manifesting only in the brief thought that this might be a foolish exercise, expecting Gale to solve a mystery with nearly no clues at all.
(So he looks over once, just once, squinting just so, before glancing away again. If anyone could, Gale could, if for no other reason than that he indulges him in the first place.)
It's telling that he doesn't fuss, only going so far as to slip off his shoes before stepping into the water. ]
Watch your step, [ he says, a thoughtless aside. ] The shore isn't quite as well-tended as the rest of the lawn.