[ When Gale gets to his feet, for a single, terrifying moment, Astarion fears the worst. That he's been coddled, duped — that there's been a stranger in the adjoining room this entire time. It's writ clear upon his features, in the wide set of his eyes, the way the line of his jaw goes taut.

Then — relief. There's a flare of his nostrils as he breathes out, lets go of the worry he'd been holding onto, his expression remaining unusually open just a moment longer (because he sees the way Gale's hand hovers in the air, because something else entirely seizes his chest in that brief moment) before it changes again, taking on something like self-effacement as he allows himself a tsk and a slight stomp of his foot. Even his shoulders slump, leaving him looking small but at least less rudderless than he had been mere moments before. ]

Nor I, you. Any of you.

[ He speaks the words more easily than he typically does similarly honest sentiments, like the syllables are being pried out of a vise. He draws in a breath to say something more, then seems to change his mind, a shadow of Gale's gesture, extended and then curbed. ]

I've had rather enough of him, [ is what he settles on, his tone plaintive as his eyes bore a hole into the middle distance, his apparent lack of focus serving as an indicator of the mental strain used in jumping from one train of thought to another. ] The next time he calls me friend, I'll put stones in my pockets and walk into the lake.