Mm.

[He should say more on the subject of their campmates- perhaps he should justify their nosiness a little. Perhaps he should say that they're likely simply curious, or playful- and that he feels that they're hardly strangers now. Or even allies any longer. More like friends.

But, he knows how to choose his battles. He already has his victory for the day- having time with his partner (relatively) relaxed and indulgent enough to partake of his affection. Waxing lyrical about the virtues of camp harmony and ~friendship~ would be pushing it for tonight.

His fingers move to trace slow circles against his scalp, just where neck becomes the base of his skull, his eyes halflidded as they focus upon Astarion's own eyes. So sharp. So piercing- even while his facial expression speaks to hesitation.]

Well...

[He didn't know the half of it, granted. But the picture Astarion had painted of life as one of Cazador's spawns, let alone his scars, hardly presented itself as one of comfort.]

I meant before you were turned. You've barely said anything about your life before that. [A small pause.] I can't imagine you were short of admirers.