[Who better indeed? Astarion does seem to thrive in the spotlight. It's why they work well together: when Fenris shies away from the cacophony, Astarion is there to take it all instead, deflecting it and absorbing it happily. And— Fenris thinks this fondly— he's such a peacock, too. They've been caught pawing through the wardrobes more than once, but it's Astarion who suggests they go, not Fenris; it's Astarion who dresses them both up, thrilling in play-acting out imaginary scenes and snippets of dialogue from whatever play is in season.

He nods as he draws his hands back (he can still feel the ghost of his fingertips atop his own), affirming that statement: yes, it does suit, doesn't it?]

I'll help you, if ever you need it. If you want it.

[How? He has no idea. But he wants to, with all the earnestness and loyalty of a child. Astarion is his only friend, and that's worth so much.]

Zevlor likes you already, that will be a good start.

[Ah, but:]

What about the current diamond?

[Fenris hasn't ever even met her, that's how elite she is.]

She isn't that old. She won't be dead when we're grown. Do they retire?