[Oh, pretty thing. Pretty, petulant, lonely thing, and Fenris' amusement quiets as he regards that bitter expression. His fingers finally loosen their grip in silver curls, sweeping gently through his hair as he keeps him close.]

You are my only lover. And you are a friend, and one I trust more than, perhaps, you realize.

[He says it simply, though trust his heart races as he does. It's nothing that they haven't been dancing around, but it's one thing to obliquely refer to it; it's quite another to say it aloud. His fingers comb patiently through Astarion's hair, his other hand splaying gently against the small of his back. Settle, not a harsh command but soft cajole.]

And Karlach is . . .

[Mm.]

Not unlike what I am, and then again not unlike what I was, too. She is far more devoted to her master than I ever was— but it helped, having someone understand all the rigors of service.

[But oh, she's so devoted to Gortash. Fanatical about him, really, starry-eyed and adoring. Fenris has met the man but once, and he cannot say he doesn't understand— but nor does he have any love for him. A man who deals even obliquely with slaves, even if he's so very careful not to get his own hands dirty, is not someone Fenris can ever regard with anything but disgust.

He's told her as such, angrily and emphatically both, for all the good it's ever done. She's too fanatical to see what her master truly is, and Fenris only hopes it isn't when he has a blade at her throat.]

And as for your friends . . .

[He scoffs dismissively.]

Why value their opinions so highly? You must know most of them are fools.