[ The further Gale wades into the water, the more intensely Astarion finds he draws his attention. There are endless other tangents — the pursuit of the instinct to photograph their shoes side by side, the impulse to look through the various wreaths that now populate the surface of the lake — and yet his focus never wavers. It's not out of anxiety (far from it, he feels oddly at ease, ready to accept any outcome) but his arms still fold over his chest, his hands cupping his own elbows.
Perhaps it's to combat the pull he feels — the urge to follow Gale into the water just for the sake of staying close despite the fact that he's only just begun to get used to swimming again — or perhaps it's a point of focus to help keep his expression relatively still. No flinches, no nods, nothing that would give away the game despite the electric currents that flicker through his nerves.
He thinks, suddenly, that he ought to have brought a towel, maybe even a change of clothes. (Acts of service, more and more both second nature and clear declarations of affection.) So much for best-laid plans. At the very least, he spots little such preparation around them, with some even wading into the water alone.
And besides, the worry evaporates completely as soon as he spots the wreath he'd woven that morning, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at the thrill of recognition. The ends of the ribbon he'd tied through it trail in the water, sending gold shimmers up through to the surface as the delicate construction comes to a slow stop near Gale's ankle, blinking for his attention. ]
no subject
Perhaps it's to combat the pull he feels — the urge to follow Gale into the water just for the sake of staying close despite the fact that he's only just begun to get used to swimming again — or perhaps it's a point of focus to help keep his expression relatively still. No flinches, no nods, nothing that would give away the game despite the electric currents that flicker through his nerves.
He thinks, suddenly, that he ought to have brought a towel, maybe even a change of clothes. (Acts of service, more and more both second nature and clear declarations of affection.) So much for best-laid plans. At the very least, he spots little such preparation around them, with some even wading into the water alone.
And besides, the worry evaporates completely as soon as he spots the wreath he'd woven that morning, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt at the thrill of recognition. The ends of the ribbon he'd tied through it trail in the water, sending gold shimmers up through to the surface as the delicate construction comes to a slow stop near Gale's ankle, blinking for his attention. ]