[Astarion doesn't need to tell him twice; Gale picks up the pace, allowing them to reach the upper floors in no time. He pushes open the door to the master suite, the space just as they left it before dinner: there are a few sets of jackets and pants tossed across the bed haphazardly, all choices decided against as Gale paced across the carpet and talked himself into a tizzy; some shirts hang over the folding screen near the wall, not a single one of them as fine as Astarion's usual wardrobe requires; two pairs of well-made, formal shoes wait beside the bed, both bought for the occasion before being passed over in favor of an older pair with gold embroidery.

Gale heads for the wardrobe first, hanging up his coat before he undoes his tie and starts working on the laces of his shirt.]

I was worried about you, you know. I wasn't sure how well you'd take having to swallow down food you can't even taste.