[ Another flicker of surprise, as Astarion takes over in the attendant’s stead. Immediately, Gale complies, re-lifting his arm and actually endeavouring to keep it still, this time. A herculean effort, particularly given the now deepened crease in Astarion’s brow that Gale itches to smooth out.

For the last year, he’s only had Tara to fuss over him. Even before that, he can’t think of many who would do this for him, even with insults rolling off their tongue. He flushes, at the joke, and clears his throat. ]

You jest, but it was a rather forward entreaty that tipped me off.

[ He quite literally did not fall for that, hah!!! It’s strange enough that Astarion seems perturbed by his injury; he can’t imagine Shadowheart missing him enough to proposition him on arrival. Or, uh, ever. ]

[ sobering, ] I have no intention of dying, Astarion. [ Not like that, not yet caught in his throat, when it offers so little comfort. It shows on his face all the same, conflict apparent on his taut features. It’s just the two of them here. Perhaps that’s why Astarion seems so — off-kilter, about all this. ] I’ll set wards to keep us safe in our rooms, and we’ll think of a way to always know whether the other is indeed themselves. As a start.