The series of dull events that have led to the three of them being trapped in the same tavern, at the same table, while it rains or sleets or rains and then sleets outside, rendering Kirkwall's many steps treacherous and the ferryman unwilling to row until the worst passes: not important.
The conversation up to this point and whatever stray comment or fussy complaint has prompted Bastien to lay an urgent hand on Benedict's forearm and lean toward Astarion: also not important.
Maybe it wasn't even anything Benedict said, only the sudden and unbidden realization that Benedict is certainly having the least sex of the three of them, and he lives in a bunkroom besides, so how often can he be getting off even alone? Or boredom and restlessness sparking within Bastien a deep, instinctive need for mischief, like a dog who can't help digging up the garden.
All of the above. Whatever.
What is important: "We need to get him laid," Bastien says to Astarion. He turns his attention to Benedict to reiterate solemnly, "We are going to get you laid."
He laughs because he has to, understand. Because it’s too amusing not to, the sudden turn their night seems to have taken by way of both drink and impulsivity— and maybe, underneath that, a wicked surge of nosy mischief.
Whatever it is, this is a game Astarion likes. Whether Bastien means it or not, he’s wholly committed now, twisting around in his creaking seat to try and get a look at all the prospects scattered throughout the crowd.
Completely blindsided by this turn of conversation-- he was daydreaming about the nice warm bath he was going to have when he got back, thanks-- Benedict scrambles to keep up, glancing between the two others as if he can't quite believe they're serious.
"--fine," he resolves, but doesn't quite sell it. This is clearly a joke of some kind, and he hates to be mocked.
"Of course you are fine," Bastien says. For what it's worth, it doesn't sound condescending or sarcastic. He really does agree. "You should be better than fine." To Astarion, he adds, "He likes Allumin, non? That is a start."
If Benedict isn't going to cooperate and explain his own preferences, then they can work with what they know. Maybe. If there is a single person in this entire tavern, stuffed as it is with dockhands, foundry workers, miners, and off-duty guards, who has anything in common with a pretty blonde elf.
"Hardly a start. The elf's a puppy with a thin undersheen of bite when pressed. And it's not as if we're going to find much in the way of delicate features in a place like this—" He starts, lifting his glass for a sip that's soon stilled, only once he catches his own reflection.
"Aside from myself, of course." A rut that would only end in tears, no doubt. Benedict's pretty little kittenish tears.
Hardly what Bastien has in mind, he suspects.
"The real question should be is how endowed Allumin is." Crude, yes, but also, "Now there's a feature just about anyone might effectively share."
Though Benedict's face doesn't color easily, it's still pretty clear by the reddish tint in his cheeks that they've landed on something.
"He's busy anyway," he deflects, trying not to look too affected and failing, tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear. He doesn't rise to Astarion's bait, at least not yet.
"I'm perfectly capable of finding my own conquests, thanks." By which he of course means lying around stoned and going down on whoever takes him up on the offer, but that's neither here nor there. He sips surreptitiously at his wine.
"Of course you are capable," Bastien says in nearly the same tone as before, with just a little added urgency. Understand him. "This is not pity. This is camaraderie."
He's scanning the room. There are no puppies, no delicate features, but—
"Him," Bastien proposes, nudging Astarion's elbow with his own. He has more grace than to point, but he's looking at one of the room's twentysomethings, tall and darker-haired and relatively clean. "I have seen him before, in tighter trousers than those. He could do."
It seems only fair, after all, to ask the person being offered on a gilded little platter what it is they'd prefer— though Astarion's hardly fair even at the best of times, and his grin is practically predatory under the press of Bastien's elbow, head tipping sidelong to look listlessly at Benedict himself.
Bastien's reassurance actually manages to soothe the unease Benedict seems to be feeling, and he glances from him to Astarion once more, then off at the indicated candidate.
He bites his lower lip as he considers, tilting his head back and forth as though weighing the options. "...maybe. But he looks a bit..." His mouth twitches and his confidence recedes-- it's not a normal thing for him to speak openly about these things, and it'll take some getting used to.
They will find someone less nice. Someone not at their table. But first: with the air of someone introducing a stranger, Bastien puts his hand on the shoulder of the probably-perfectly-well-endowed, definitely-perfectly-cruel elf sitting right next to him.
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The conversation up to this point and whatever stray comment or fussy complaint has prompted Bastien to lay an urgent hand on Benedict's forearm and lean toward Astarion: also not important.
Maybe it wasn't even anything Benedict said, only the sudden and unbidden realization that Benedict is certainly having the least sex of the three of them, and he lives in a bunkroom besides, so how often can he be getting off even alone? Or boredom and restlessness sparking within Bastien a deep, instinctive need for mischief, like a dog who can't help digging up the garden.
All of the above. Whatever.
What is important: "We need to get him laid," Bastien says to Astarion. He turns his attention to Benedict to reiterate solemnly, "We are going to get you laid."
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Whatever it is, this is a game Astarion likes. Whether Bastien means it or not, he’s wholly committed now, twisting around in his creaking seat to try and get a look at all the prospects scattered throughout the crowd.
Too old. Too young. Too filthy, too—
No, wait, those are Astarion’s preferences.
With a glimpse over his shoulder, he asks:
“What sort of lay do you prefer, darling?”
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Completely blindsided by this turn of conversation-- he was daydreaming about the nice warm bath he was going to have when he got back, thanks-- Benedict scrambles to keep up, glancing between the two others as if he can't quite believe they're serious.
"--fine," he resolves, but doesn't quite sell it. This is clearly a joke of some kind, and he hates to be mocked.
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If Benedict isn't going to cooperate and explain his own preferences, then they can work with what they know. Maybe. If there is a single person in this entire tavern, stuffed as it is with dockhands, foundry workers, miners, and off-duty guards, who has anything in common with a pretty blonde elf.
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"Aside from myself, of course." A rut that would only end in tears, no doubt. Benedict's pretty little kittenish tears.
Hardly what Bastien has in mind, he suspects.
"The real question should be is how endowed Allumin is." Crude, yes, but also, "Now there's a feature just about anyone might effectively share."
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"He's busy anyway," he deflects, trying not to look too affected and failing, tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear. He doesn't rise to Astarion's bait, at least not yet.
"I'm perfectly capable of finding my own conquests, thanks." By which he of course means lying around stoned and going down on whoever takes him up on the offer, but that's neither here nor there.
He sips surreptitiously at his wine.
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He's scanning the room. There are no puppies, no delicate features, but—
"Him," Bastien proposes, nudging Astarion's elbow with his own. He has more grace than to point, but he's looking at one of the room's twentysomethings, tall and darker-haired and relatively clean. "I have seen him before, in tighter trousers than those. He could do."
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It seems only fair, after all, to ask the person being offered on a gilded little platter what it is they'd prefer— though Astarion's hardly fair even at the best of times, and his grin is practically predatory under the press of Bastien's elbow, head tipping sidelong to look listlessly at Benedict himself.
"Smash or pass?"
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He bites his lower lip as he considers, tilting his head back and forth as though weighing the options.
"...maybe. But he looks a bit..." His mouth twitches and his confidence recedes-- it's not a normal thing for him to speak openly about these things, and it'll take some getting used to.
"...a bit nice." As in, too nice.
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They will find someone less nice. Someone not at their table. But first: with the air of someone introducing a stranger, Bastien puts his hand on the shoulder of the probably-perfectly-well-endowed, definitely-perfectly-cruel elf sitting right next to him.
"Have you met Astarion?"