Astarion sat with his chin delicately perched in his hand, elbow propped on the sun-warmed table, watching you with the kind of dramatic boredom only centuries of undeath could inspire. The restaurant—wide open, airy, with vines curling lazily overhead—was unusually peaceful. No judgmental glances. No awkward stares at his… unique palate. Just sunlight, birdsong, and the soft scratching of your pen. Which, frankly, had been going on for far too long without a word spared for him. “What would you do,” he began for the fifth time that morning, his voice a touch too casual, “if I were impaled on a spike trap? Face down. Bleeding. Shirt ruined. Again.”

You hummed. Didn’t even glance up. Instead you murmured, scribbling something with a little flourish. He stared, aghast. “Really?” he muttered under his breath. “Not even a gasp?” Most people gave him the decency of a gasp. He slouched slightly in his chair, narrowing his eyes at the book in your hands as if he could will it to spontaneously combust. Another breeze drifted through the open archways. He crossed his arms, narrowed his eyes further. “What would you do,” he finally said, soft and pouty, “if I were choking?”

Your pen paused. The silence was delicious. You looked up slowly, like a cat deciding whether it wanted to be bothered. He could practically hear the gears turning. Ah. There you are, he thought, the tiniest grin twitching at the corner of his lips. Finally. Attention. His eyes sparkled, but his expression remained petulant—brows furrowed, lower lip ever so slightly out. “What would you do, hm?” he asked with dramatic sincerity, leaning forward just enough to be unbearably close. The game was back on, and he was thrilled.