[It happens so bewilderingly fast. The thrilling sight of Astarion on his hands and knees, the wine bottle plucked neatly from his unresisting fingertips— and then all at once, the sudden swerve of alcohol poured not between two reddened lips but doused over the fire like so much cheap ale. Hundreds of gold coins wasted in ten seconds flat, and the only response afterwards is a tiny, belated curse—

And what can Fenris do but laugh?

Inelegantly, loudly: a snorting little chuckle that swiftly turned into something harder. It's not that funny and he doesn't care; he's drunk and happy and there's something, even now, that's so bone-deep satisfying about watching the waste of a magister's wealth.]

That is cheating.

[He says it with a grin, then reaches for the bottle, grabbing it just as swiftly as Astarion had so he can put it to his lips once more.]

Drunken thing . . . should I cut you off if you are going to make mistakes like that? I warn you: I am not going to supply you with wine when we go on the road. You will have to be put to the test sooner or later.

[Mm. The bottle's half-empty now— more than that, actually, he thinks, giving it another swig, and offers it back to Astarion.]

Finish it. Or don't. But throw it at the wall when you're through.