[ Following the steady rhythm of Astarion’s reply, Gale rises and walks to the balcony overlooking the hearth. Strange, for a space that only he and Tara have made their home to welcome another without fanfare. His gaze snags on the image of Astarion in his clothes, settled despite being here for mere hours — as if he belongs. It stokes the the fire in his chest, and the hearth itself sparks in turn, in tune with him and his magic. ]

You’ll receive no argument from me. [ on the subject of exceptionalism, since he would also like to think most people wouldn’t manage to trick him. Best not to contemplate why he was so distracted that night, however, and instead move on to the matters at hand. The floorboards creak as he eases down the stairs, hands clasped behind his back. His voice lilts, not offended by the intrusion, but rather amused: ] I imagine Lady Cressim isn’t overly bothered by such details. Her tenacity is her strength, [ a long-suffering sigh. ] though I’m hopeful she’ll direct it elsewhere soon enough.

[ Provided he and Astarion each uphold their end of this strange bargain.

At the foot of the stairs, Gale stalls. Caught on the curve of Astarion’s pale shoulder, stark against the deep purple of his borrowed attired. You’re meant to wear the tunic with the matching trousers, he almost says, but Astarion would relish the acknowledgment of his bare legs too much. ]

Good afternoon, by the way. [ From the sleep-soft tousle of his hair, Gale can presume he rested well. Good. The realisation soothes a concern that he hadn’t known was brewing until now. ] You’ve arrived just in time for your welcome gift.

[ He waits for Astarion to look at him, hands still hidden at his back, and schools his expression into neutrality. ]