[He turns his head as that alluring scent hits: the sharp sting of alcohol with a surprisingly floral undertone that he realizes must be Astarion himself. For a long moment Fenris stares, his eyes darting down to linger momentarily on pale skin and defined muscles; then they snap up again, momentary guilt swiftly smothered and shoved away.

At least being drunk means he can't be embarrassed for long. With no snickering laughter on Astarion's lips, Fenris settles back, resting on his forearms and offering him an echoing grin.]

Undignified idiots— but at least ones who are not about to be robbed.

[He's a touch breathless himself. The night is cool, the moon is bright, and there's a not-unpleasant breeze wafting off the harbor— there's no harm, Fenris thinks, in lingering here for a few moments longer.]

I don't suppose any of the drinks survived that . . .

[And why is that, Fenris?]

How drunk are you now, anyway? Drunk enough to get up here without killing yourself, at least.