[The cork first, and it's easier than it seems to adjust his weight and bear down from straight above, so that nothing goes flying. It doesn't want to go back in, but shove anything hard enough and soon it won't have a choice— and honestly, he's a little pleased for that. It's quietly pleasing to feel Astarion's hands brace above his own.]

Why?

[He glances up as he says it, his head cocking. And then, because he's grown to know Astarion a little:]

The attention might be pleasing, and the outfits are pretty. [More than just pretty: Astarion had taken him on a whirlwind tour of some of the dressing rooms, dazzling Fenris with endless supplies of glittering fabric and jeweled costumes.] But it seems like a lot of work . . . and don't you have to talk to people all the time?

[He makes a little face. He loves hanging out with Astarion, but only Astarion. The others in the Moulin Rouge have been welcoming (for the most part, though there are always one or two nasty comments), but Fenris finds them overwhelming as a group. Everyone's always talking, or singing, or gossiping, or trying to get attention . . . it's exhausting.]

What would be the appeal?