Page 72 of Astarion

“Normally, I would suggest a kept man, but I’m afraid you can’t afford me.” Astarion finished with the laces and pulled. The boot came off, and he let the momentum carry him backward, catching himself on his elbow, an act that disarrayed his towel to the point of mild indecency.

“That’s not quite what I meant,” den Suriel said, although his eyes were riveted to the towel. Astarion rearranged it decorously, and the aasimar looked immediately away.

“Could you really?” he asked abruptly. “If you wanted to?”

“Could I what?”

“Be a kept man.”

“Ah.” Astarion studied his nails. “No, not really.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

Whatever lay in the air between them—sexual tension, animosity, pity—was so thick that Astarion was surprised the windows hadn’t fogged up. Fortunately, it was interrupted by servants tapping on the door to bring in a fresh batch of hot water.

“My turn, then,” the aasimar said, getting to his feet. He picked up the bag of holding. “May I offer you a dressing gown?”

“You carry a dressing gown around with you?”

“Not at all. I carry two. You never know when you’ll need to loan one to a…friend.”

Astarion was careful not to show his glee at being referred to, even obliquely, as a friend. That was the wonderful thing about truly good people. It was so hard for them to keep their guard up.

The dressing gown from den Suriel’s wardrobe was a deep emerald green with copper dragons on the cuffs. Astarion folded them back quickly, and not just because they fell past his fingertips.

“It’s a bit large,” den Suriel observed.

“The statue of Balduran in the harbor is a bit large. This is immense.” Astarion rubbed the fabric between thumb and forefinger. Linen damask, lightweight, and not terribly expensive. The beauty lay in the weave and the way the color shifted as the fabric moved. “You could fit two of me in here.”

“Lathander forbid,” den Suriel muttered, heading behind the screen. “One of you is almost too many.”

“I heard that.”

“I meant you to.”

The hem of the dressing gown did not just drag on the floor, it was in danger of sweeping it. Astarion looked around for something to belt it with and saw that the paladin had left his bag of holding on his bed.

In for a copper…He opened it and stuck his hand in. It was clear from the cacophony of textures that den Suriel’s organizational skills left something to be desired. His fingertips brushed over fur, fabric, metal, leather, and glass, over surfaces rough and lumpy and sticky and smooth. How ever does the man find anything in here? And how are his clothes not a mass of wrinkles? And…wait, is this cheese? My god, it is. Astarion extracted a wheel of cheese from the bag, neatly sealed in wax. The stamp proclaimed it as Highmoon smokerind.

The man has good taste in cheese, if not in gods. I suppose if you can only have one of the two, cheese is more important.

The floorboards creaked. “What are you doing?”

“Going through your luggage,” Astarion said, not bothering to turn around.

“So you are.” Den Suriel’s bemusement was almost tangible. “Some people would consider that an invasion of privacy, you know.”

“My dear paladin, how else will I know if you’ve got anything worth stealing?”

“You are either the worst thief I’ve ever met or one of the best.” The aasimar was wearing an even more elaborate dressing gown of pink silk with embroidered red flowers dripping petals across his shoulders. It made such a ridiculous contrast to the sword hanging at his hip that Astarion couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Are you planning on stealing from me?” den Suriel asked.

“You can ask me the next time you cast that truth spell, but I’ll tell you now that I have definite designs on your cheese.” Astarion held up the ivory figurine he’d spotted earlier. It appeared to be an exquisitely carved elephant, perfect down to the wrinkled knees and delicate trunk. “Now, is this what I think it is?”

“A wondrous creature, yes. I have to tell you, it’s less useful than you might think. The situations that are improved by an emergency elephant are surprisingly few and far between. And I always feel dreadful when the poor creature dies.”