[ It’s hard for Gale to think of what’s befallen him today anything but his own fault, yet more divine punishment for his follies. He’d therefore understand if Astarion were upset with him, though it’s a relief that he doesn’t lead with it.

Gale melts into his hands, an instinctive surrender — the cool grip he’d imagined when his head went below the waterline, the only teeth he wants in his neck. He bends just so to nose into the hollow of Astarion’s throat, arms slipping around his waist to pull him close. All shivery skin and shuddery breaths, far more rattled than he let on over text. ]

Sorry. [ about the wet and the cold, maybe even the worry. ] That might not be necessary.

[ which isn’t much of a protest, really. Has anyone ever fought for him like this? The sentiment touches him. He thinks of August swearing to end those who took Nick, of his own anger when Matt confessed to having accused Astarion, while he was alone. It’s an extension of the love they have for each other, so unlike the passive appreciation he’s known until now. ]

Perhaps it’s enough to be returned to you — with air in my lungs and blood in my veins. For the most part.

[ Pretty sure there’s still water in the former, and he’s lower on the latter than usual, but in principle. ]