[ If he's honest, he isn't sure he believes what Gale is saying, but the touch of his hand (warm, present) and the gentle lilt of his voice diminish Astarion's ability to argue. If he's managed to pull the wool over Gale's eyes as to what he is, he can't simply sit back and allow him to continue to suffer under an illusion, but— Gale's already seen through it. Accepted him as he is, never once asked for anything more than what Astarion was ready and willing to give.

He aims for a smile and falls short, though the fondness in his voice makes up for the remaining margin. ]

You fool.

[ A word to encompass a multitude of kindnesses that Astarion, so unused to the sun, can hardly begin to understand. Tentatively, he reaches back out, his fingers barely brushing the hand on his knee. ]

You'd have found a way, with or without me.

[ He knows that, because he knows it's what Gale deserves — to choose his own path, to make his own decisions, unfettered from a being incapable of loving him. ]

But I'm glad it was with me. [ A breath. ] I suppose it's my turn to ask you to wait for me. I'll be— [ better, more beautiful, more amenable, except none of that had worked, none of that had been an issue, not really ] —more myself, once I've sweat through this fever.