Good, I won't need to play sweet with you, then. [Some people might take deep, cutting offense to being called a resource, of course. And maybe Bastien does too for all Astarion knows— but he keeps his tone sweet as spun sugar for that reason alone. The coaxing coast of caring fingertips across a faintly stinging mark is always better than just the press of a hand itself, after all.

And so with little delay, true to his word, Astarion is there in short order: pale and pleasantly poised in the full depth of the midday sun, all the more pleased to feel its warmth across skin that's been far too long deprived, dressed (as usual) without any amount of modesty. He does not offer his arm, however, against all typical instinct.

For his own sake, more than Bastien's. Public opinion always holds weight.] Aren't you just as radiant as ever. You know, for a little while I almost wondered if you'd actually wait for me.

I'm glad you did.