I wish you would change your mind. [Astarion says, pinning the tip of his tongue to the base of his leftmost canine— a newer habit. He's as tall as Laira now, which is impressive for the fact that it means he's mastered walking in heels without managing to break his own neck, and for that Laira has always been incredibly, undeniably short. Setting his forearms against the bartop bends his shoulders forwards, so he cranes his weight towards it, relieving the aching throb gnawing his heels.

Fenris is stooped low behind the bar, dutifully charged with the one thing he'd been reprimanded for as a child: unpacking inventory, and Astarion can't help leveling his stare at the space between strong shoulders. A rapidly developing ridge of muscle he's never seen before lies there, peeking from beneath the borders of a cotton shirt.

Only yesterday he was a scrawny thing, it feels like. Now he's like a garden, or a freshly founded whorehouse: new growth everywhere.]

Zevlor would forgive you for skipping out on busywork for just an hour. Hells, he probably wouldn't even notice you were gone.

And besides....

[He huffs, tangling his fingers.]

I need you more.