"You can't truly believe that." Astarion counters with the mildest tap of his own tongue against the backs of his fangs, lifting himself up to lean over Fenris instead— fingers still perched precisely where he'd left them— crimson stare focused fully on Fenris' own.

"Otherwise you wouldn't have let me come so close to begin with." Their paths would've diverged. Their focus split.

Or at least that's how Astarion imagines it, his silver brows creased into a narrowed pinch. Mouth pulled flat at its edges. It's not a disparaging look (it isn't even a judgmental one, in fact), only attentive in the way of someone searching for a hint of truer understanding. A glimpse of what's running circles in Fenris' mind beneath that relatively stolid stare.

"You would've left by now."

...wouldn't he?