[ It’s near impossible to cling to nerves and insecurity with Astarion at his side, hands clasped and shoulders bumping. His confident declaration (I’ll find it) born of both cockiness and faith, the peculiar mix of which is so very Gale.
Before they venture into the shallows, Gale rolls his trousers, as one might don armour before battle. Shoes left beside Astarion’s, a picture of domesticity that makes his breath stutter in his throat. Quick to catch up, nearly sliding on a patch of unmoored silt despite Astarion’s warning — and laughing, as he steadies himself.
He casts about the lake’s edge, already refocused on his given task. Fingers twitch toward a wreath of wisteria, carried on a ripple, but Gale ultimately allows it to float past. He doesn’t look to Astarion for confirmation of his decision until well after it’s gone, a surreptitious peak. How in the heavens will he know? Will he know? He could cheat, mind you, a locator spell loaded in his wrist, but that seems a hollow victory.
Instead, Gale treads water to peer at three wreaths in a cluster, dazzled by the brilliant reds threaded around them, roses and carnations and lilies. A colour he once associated with Astarion, at the start of their journey together, that now seems indicative of a poorly sketched portrait. He thinks again of Astarion making the wreath, with his fine, steady hands. Imagining what he might be drawn to. Something elegant, like the man before him, haloed by sunlight. ]
None of these.
[ Half to himself, trying for self-assurance. He nudges them out, so they’ll find their person elsewhere. ]
no subject
Before they venture into the shallows, Gale rolls his trousers, as one might don armour before battle. Shoes left beside Astarion’s, a picture of domesticity that makes his breath stutter in his throat. Quick to catch up, nearly sliding on a patch of unmoored silt despite Astarion’s warning — and laughing, as he steadies himself.
He casts about the lake’s edge, already refocused on his given task. Fingers twitch toward a wreath of wisteria, carried on a ripple, but Gale ultimately allows it to float past. He doesn’t look to Astarion for confirmation of his decision until well after it’s gone, a surreptitious peak. How in the heavens will he know? Will he know? He could cheat, mind you, a locator spell loaded in his wrist, but that seems a hollow victory.
Instead, Gale treads water to peer at three wreaths in a cluster, dazzled by the brilliant reds threaded around them, roses and carnations and lilies. A colour he once associated with Astarion, at the start of their journey together, that now seems indicative of a poorly sketched portrait. He thinks again of Astarion making the wreath, with his fine, steady hands. Imagining what he might be drawn to. Something elegant, like the man before him, haloed by sunlight. ]
None of these.
[ Half to himself, trying for self-assurance. He nudges them out, so they’ll find their person elsewhere. ]