Hah. Hah. [Astarion snorts back as his nose wrinkles just the way it did when they were children. Disapproval laced through an otherwise distracted expression, it only takes the rolling of those sleeves for him to forget what they were talking about.

Or doing.

His eyes roll anyway, more performative than not, and when they return to the present view, they're lowered for a half beat longer, watching the flexion pull of tender muscle under skin.]

I'm not fretful.

[Saying that makes him sound fretful, even when he isn't. Too contrarian. Too argumentatively blunt. He's learned the patterns of fine conversation but he's not there yet for using them.

Least of all when he's talking to his childhood best friend.]

But I've no one else to practice on, and the last thing I want to do is look like a godsdamned amateur in front of the others.

[Never mind that he is. Technically.]