[Perhaps the mood darkens with that admission, but it's that which causes Fenris to forget his awkwardness and turn towards Astarion once more. Boy, and it is no rare title among slaves, especially favorites, but still: what an odd thing to hear from another's lips. He wonders how old Astarion's master is; he wonders what it must feel like to be two hundred and still patronized and belittled, reduced to nothing more than a child in your master's eyes . . .

He wonders what it feels like to be two centuries old. Fenris, well into his forties now, scoffs at the antics of those braying bucks who fill the taverns and brag of overexaggerated deeds; what must it feel like to have hundreds of years on another person? Does he look at Fenris now and think him young and foolish?

No. No, he doesn't, Fenris thinks in the next moment. Whatever their difference in age and relative experience might be, they even out, he suspects.]

I will, if it suits you. I am, among other things, particularly good at being rude and blunt, driving others away within a single sentence.

[He lingers a little too long on those S's, but who's listening for slurred words right now? He grins and reaches over, stealing that bottle the moment it's free from Astarion's lips. Quick as anything he sets it to his own, only vaguely registering the sweetness lingering there before wine smothers it.]

Though you may regret it. You have seen me at my best; I have heard, not unfairly, that my worst is deeply unpleasant.

[Another sip, the bottle's mouth lingering against his lips before he passes it back to Astarion and adds abruptly:]

My own master used to call me that. Boy.