[ I had hoped, a half-formed phrase that rends his ribcage. A touch at his wrist that opens his expression, robbing it of any lingering bravado. He yearns to apologise, to say he was a fool for ever thinking of oblivion when Astarion is here — but there’s a ways to go before the end, isn’t there. Only one of the dead three fallen, and a brain behind them. Still, that Gale can see a third path at all, when he’d looked at the stars contemplating his end alone, is a victory. He needn’t spoil it with his infinite calculations and corresponding anxieties. ]

Alive, for a start.

[ The fireworks pick up again, a triple-bang that startles his shoulders up. Alive, indeed. With a delirious little laugh, at his skittishness (his rabbiting heart), Gale reaches for Astarion’s hand again, grip sure this time, and tugs him toward the little balcony, snagging his coat the back of the desk chair along the way. A glittering rain falls before the next bang crashes overhead. ]

Hopeful, when I haven’t been in some time. [ Even before Elminster delivered his sentence, Gale did not think he would survive the year. He releases Astarion only to shake out his coat, a magician’s flourish, and drape it over his friend’s shoulders, a hand lingering on each side of the unfolded collar to ensure it sits snug enough to protect against the wind. ]

Grateful, most of all, for those who wouldn’t wish me dead. [ He ducks his head, then, a cascade of sleep-rumpled hair falling in his face, strand by strand. ] I had hoped [ a warm echo. ] to spend the day with one such person before I slept through it all. It’s another of their traditions, you know, the passing of one year to the next with someone — [ precious, dear, beloved; he leaves it at that. ] Best laid plans, eh.

[ For the day, for his death. How the night changes. ]