[He swallows down the hiss of pain; it's nothing, a brief sting that will be well worth it. And hah, no, perhaps not such a joyful answer, but still, an interesting one.]

Do not take this the wrong way. But I am shocked you are . . .

[How to say this? Fenris gestures vaguely at all of Astarion. Vivid and bright, capable of drawling jokes and teasing flirtations, hedonistic and kind . . .]

That there is a you that exists outside of his shadow.

Six months out of slavery . . .

[He remembers himself six months out of slavery, and oh, what a strange creature he was. Half-feral, really; a scrap of personality mixed in with paranoid terror and overwhelming grief and guilt . . . he barely spoke to anyone, eking out survival and slowly learning how to function one day at a time.

Fenris smiles thinly.]

You handle it far better than I did.

Then again: perhaps we were used to different ends. A personality, beyond intimidating, was not what my master designed me for— ah.

[He say that out of pain, surely. Certainly not for the frankly unfamiliar sensation of someone else's fingers against his skin. Not sexual, nothing like that, but . . . it's been a long time since he's been touched by anyone, friend or foe.]