There’s a difference between dancing with someone out of their depth and someone that knows exactly what they’re doing. Astarion, proudly enough, isn’t bluffing: for centuries he’s been the latter, the same way that a cub goes from stumbling over its own paws to perfectly leaping for prey each and every time— it wasn’t the need to hunt that made him good at this, but it was what made it part of his own instinctive legacy.

Emet-Selch, it seems, is either sharp enough or old enough to be just as skilled.

Astarion has to keep one arm held exceptionally high to balance out the difference between them, his other resting squarely against the small of Emet-Selch’s back which— coincidentally— also rests higher, and if the vampire feels absurd for taking the lead in such a scenario (he doesn’t) there isn’t a hint of it to be found in an otherwise perfectly contented expression.

The world is burning. He’s getting to dance.

“One of these days you’re going to get tired of doubting me.”