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Summary
“Sometimes,” Astarion says, slurring with the drunk touch of truth serum on his tongue, “I think of what it would have been like had I not loved you. Would I be more free?”
“You’d be more powerful,” Seraphiel admits. This truth has been told so many times in sly side glances, taut half-smirks, quiet meditations. He already knows how this ends. “But you chose freedom. Freedom comes with insecurity.”
“I chose you,” Astarion says. “And I’m starting to think I regret it.”
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Or: The five times they fought.