The point is: he spent the better part of an entire day and night vomiting cherries.

[Matter-of-fact and unoffended, purely tolerant of any and all grousing that might be sent his way, as he's now fared the entirety of his play being disrupted beyond salvage for the rest of the evening.

Compared to that grease fire, a few terse words are, on all accounts, as nothing.]

His white curls stayed as pink as his palms and mouth for weeks. And the very sight of cherry cordial red was so nausea-inducing that I think you'll find he still flinches away at the sight.

[His chuckle is for no one but himself. Distant as an inside joke, though he's only remembering the fat, wet tears rolling down pink cheeks after what felt like a gods damned heart attack: a murder scene where the only one hurt was an entire jug of cherries larger than Astarion's small head— ears included.

That was how he learned. How they all learned back then, come to think of it. One disaster at a time.]

Better that he doesn't break his neck, but it's the hard lessons that stick, Fenris. And I'd prefer it if he didn't drag you into every last one of them in the process.

Bodyguard or not.