"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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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."
no subject
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?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"