[ The line of Astarion's shoulders slumps briefly before he straightens up again, his mouth twisting into a bitter sort of smile. The evening's been a trying one, but— he's glad to be here with Matt, at least. Glad to be understood, to whatever degree. It's a rare thing, rarer still to find someone willing to talk through it. (His mind flickers, briefly, to what Matt might think of what he'd done while under the heel of Cazador's boot, if he'd try to absolve him of it, if he'd even want him to. But that's a conversation for another time — possibly never, if he really has his druthers.)
Perhaps just as reluctant to further press the bounds of vulnerability, he looks away, back at the lights that dance between them.
fin.
Perhaps just as reluctant to further press the bounds of vulnerability, he looks away, back at the lights that dance between them.
Softly: ] Nor you, my dear Matt.