[ A final near miss, with a wreath of pale peonies, better suited to Astarionās marbled complexion. His hand twitches, arm outstretched, but he merely dips his fingers into the water alongside it. Not quite right, something missing from the arrangement.
Itās at that moment of contemplation, of almost puzzling out a solution, that Astarionās wreath nudges his ankle. Gale peers down, bewilderment tipping into surprise at a wreath having found him. Only as he reaches for it does he begin to comprehend the treasure in hand, sunlight sparkling on the water. Awe stretches his features. The missing piece from the wreath of white now evident: Lavender, of course, because Astarion didnāt make it for himself alone but for Gale, too. Oh.
He lifts the wreath from the water with both hands, mindful of its finer elements. His pointer finger traces a shimmering ribbon to its end, curling the damp fabric around his knuckle. Not unlike the invisible strings that guide him back Astarion, always. A tether that keeps him grounded on this plane, when he might otherwise float away.
His eyes sting as he realises what it means. Proof that Gale is not only chosen but beloved. Thereās no doubt in his mind that heās found the one, in every sense of the word. He turns to meet Astarionās gaze across the water, soft (touched) where he thought heād be triumphant. As Gale makes his way back, his pace quickens, eager to present Astarion with their prize. The once neat fold of his trouser legs has become uneven, damp from his foray into the shallows, but it hardly bothers him ā nothing could, really. ]
Thought I might have to swim out for it. [ murmured with a tip of his head within kissing distance, wreath held in one hand between them while the other cups Astarionās elbow, brushing where his cool fingertips have come to rest. ] Which I wouldāve done, in case youāve any doubt.
[ Mouth tugging high on one side. He wouldāve dove to the bottom of the lake. The sea. Wherever Astarion led him. ]
Itās beautiful. [ adoring, ] Youāre so beautiful.
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Itās at that moment of contemplation, of almost puzzling out a solution, that Astarionās wreath nudges his ankle. Gale peers down, bewilderment tipping into surprise at a wreath having found him. Only as he reaches for it does he begin to comprehend the treasure in hand, sunlight sparkling on the water. Awe stretches his features. The missing piece from the wreath of white now evident: Lavender, of course, because Astarion didnāt make it for himself alone but for Gale, too. Oh.
He lifts the wreath from the water with both hands, mindful of its finer elements. His pointer finger traces a shimmering ribbon to its end, curling the damp fabric around his knuckle. Not unlike the invisible strings that guide him back Astarion, always. A tether that keeps him grounded on this plane, when he might otherwise float away.
His eyes sting as he realises what it means. Proof that Gale is not only chosen but beloved. Thereās no doubt in his mind that heās found the one, in every sense of the word. He turns to meet Astarionās gaze across the water, soft (touched) where he thought heād be triumphant. As Gale makes his way back, his pace quickens, eager to present Astarion with their prize. The once neat fold of his trouser legs has become uneven, damp from his foray into the shallows, but it hardly bothers him ā nothing could, really. ]
Thought I might have to swim out for it. [ murmured with a tip of his head within kissing distance, wreath held in one hand between them while the other cups Astarionās elbow, brushing where his cool fingertips have come to rest. ] Which I wouldāve done, in case youāve any doubt.
[ Mouth tugging high on one side. He wouldāve dove to the bottom of the lake. The sea. Wherever Astarion led him. ]
Itās beautiful. [ adoring, ] Youāre so beautiful.