[Oh, Astarion is so sweetly endearing when he looks at him like that. So sweetly shocked, tears still clinging to his lashes and yet his mind already shifting past his anger and his grief— he never tires of seeing it. And as for that description: Zevlor might well flinch at the thought of his son kissing his beloved friend, but Kanan feels nothing but vague, triumphant vindication. How many years had they watched the two of them orbit around one another? Astarion and his little shadow, Fenris and his eternal partner-in-crime . . . he smiles faintly throughout it, nodding in agreement at that rather more believable assessment. He cups his cheek, his thumb swiping away an errant year, and offers Astarion a little half-smile.]

Yes. Once or twice, before I realized the life of a courtesan was not for me. And it is very, very different than truly desiring someone.

The former, I can give you lessons on, though Satine will be more of an education. It involves finding something— some trait, some feature— that you can turn into something that appeals. Whether it's pretending you're a person who gets off on red hair or terrible jokes, or simply leaning into enjoying the hue of their eyes . . . it helps. It becomes less about what you, yourself, find appealing, and more about becoming whatever it is they desire— which is, after all, someone who desires them in turn.

[It's a bit of a twisted explanation, admittedly, and he wrinkles his nose as he says it. But ah:]

But for the latter— for someone like Fenris— Astarion, little wonder you kept losing focus, for that's precisely what you ought to have done.

Unless you meant to kiss him solely as practice and nothing else, that is.