[Astarion’s careful to pull away from that touch not long after it starts; even through the gauntlet Fenris wears, he imagines it’s probably not the most pleasant experience. Smile widening for that flicker of visible embarrassment— stare glinting wickedly in the next second for the question that follows:]

Oh. You think I got this legitimately?

Well that’s the first thing you should know about me: now that I’m free, I play by my own rules.

[And he is so very proud of that fact.]

This one was a return gift from a Hightown soirée I attended. Tucked my ears away, pretended I belonged. Brought a present— which, for the record, was just a watered down bottle of swill from the Hanged Man’s stores with the labels swapped. Sealed with leftover wax from the Scouting Division’s missives, of course.

They were none the wiser.

[He finishes his own glass at last, sliding it over in a silent request for refilling (with the good stuff, thank you very much).]

Then again I find most of Hightown’s residents aren’t all that bright to begin with. Spoiled things. Utterly blind, even after everything that’s happened.

It’s enough to almost make me feel sorry for them.

Almost.

[Reaching across the table, he grabs for a little silver box, embossed with a flower motif. Popping the lid (ring finger to the latch, index finger digging around inside until he pulls loose a pinch of dried herb), fitting it to cigarette paper in a perfect line, rolling it up.

Sealing it with his tongue.

He lights it shortly thereafter with an enchanted lighter, extending it in offered exchange for his own presumably now-full glass.]