[Astarion wends in without a word like a cat slithering into the crack in a sill, making transference anything but a loss: boneless volume charting a course for the rest of him to follow— which isn't entirely unlike the conversation passed back and forth between them (his slight ears softly perked; his lashes lowered after a long day where his tired eyes sting with fainter dryness) as he listens, not at all inclined to sleep just yet. At least not while he's outlining all the passed-on details in real time as he compiles them: that Fenris' master wasn't young. He liked— or he was obligated to— the grandeur of his station more than the motions of it. But was it glory over pleasure, or was it simply the odd, contagious numbness that runs rampant amongst nobility? Did he like anything? Did he even notice Fenris at all?

And it's methodical and thoughtless in the background of all that musing, the way Astarion compares himself to it, ascertaining absently that there's a difference. (I'm young. I don't keep slaves. I don't hate fun— all the petty, pointless divides that promise— I'm not him.

Does Fenris know that he's not him?)]

Watching isn't the same thing as doing. [Asserts the young rake to the proverbial choir, not even registering what the layout of experience looks like between them anyway (Have you ever been properly fucked, little brat? Have you ever been driven out of your mind? I doubt it.)

Circling the past instead of diving for it, and shifting more onto his side just to tip his view towards the lower end of his guardian's face.]

If you've never actually gone through the motions, you won't do any better than I did shooting a gun.

—what, though? Afraid I'll drag you to every ball and dinner party this side of Faerûn? [Astarion asks, finally letting his mouth slant around his teeth at that final inquisition.]

Because if so: yes.

[Though it's with the sharper nudge of a settled elbow that he adds, mildly:]

But unlike your old master, I know how to have fun.