[No, and then there days like this one, where he's thrown himself into bodily harm for the sake of another, where he's gotten angry at Winter for doing the same for him. There are moments that do feel sincere, and the enjoyment derived from them very much so. Astarion looks forward to these talks, kept to themselves under the blanket of night (or the caverns of the Underdark), and more and more he realizes that isn't necessarily because he wants to sate the hunger perpetually living inside of him.
And then there are moments like precisely now, where Winter says such things and raises his eyes to meet his own, an unspoken question hanging between them. Astarion feels like he's had his heart gently scooped out and put on display between them; that foreign openness of vulnerability, something he doesn't know what to do with. Doesn't know how to approach it. It's almost... embarrassing.
Yet he finds he can't look away.]
...Well. You'll tell me once you do, won't you? I'd like to know for myself.
no subject
And then there are moments like precisely now, where Winter says such things and raises his eyes to meet his own, an unspoken question hanging between them. Astarion feels like he's had his heart gently scooped out and put on display between them; that foreign openness of vulnerability, something he doesn't know what to do with. Doesn't know how to approach it. It's almost... embarrassing.
Yet he finds he can't look away.]
...Well. You'll tell me once you do, won't you? I'd like to know for myself.
[Oh gods, what's wrong with him?]