[ Matt's eyebrows arch curiously at the word "perfume," which is definitely not one he was expecting. He thinks back, wondering if he's noticed any particular scents around Astarion. Most people smell good to Matt as a baseline, and he and Astarion only rarely been close enough for him to catch anything specific. ]

The weave, [ Matt echoes, smiling curiously. ] That's pretty. It makes a certain kind of sense to me, like ...

[ He shifts his mug to one hand (sneaking another sip as he does), and traces a shape in the air with a fingertip. There's a soft puff of his breath, steaming the evening air, and then a ribbon of golden light appears, following the path his hand has drawn. It's a symbol from the spell on their mugs, one of the shapes that stands for fire. As Matt's fingers flutter, more golden threads appear, recreating the filigree pattern of the rest of the spell. ]

It feels like strings, a lot of the time, [ he says. ] Or like, I don't know, where I come from some people say time and space are a fabric, so ... to say everything's interconnected in that way, that feels like how it works.

[ He lets the configuration fade, feeling like maybe he's actually babbled too long this time? Luckily, an appealing topic change is close at hand. ]

I didn't know you made perfume, [ he adds, glancing back Astarion's way. ] That's so fucking cool.