[Things like flattery and depth are wasted on the young. Astarion feels them keener than a knife to tender skin, but it's a warm, balmy aura rather than a present awareness he can track, make use of— voice. He is glad to have something so precious shared with him. Grateful to know that Fenris doesn't hide a thing anymore, only strives to stitch bonds back and forth whenever opportunity walks in. It's the undernote to everything; it swells heady in his chest, and he knows, intrinsically without thinking, that he is happy in this moment.
no subject
But all he types is:]
Would you want to see them again?