The low, throaty, near-cough of a sound Astarion lets off in the wake of his sip says everything for him: bitterness burning in his throat with its own entirely flat bouquet, the former vampire almost winces with distaste as he holds the glass back out towards Hades himself, clearly expecting the Ascian to take it.

Eugh.

“Apparently I was right.” Weighty consolation that it is.

“You know, if all your experiments are like this, I could get used to this Research Division thing— ” but he cuts himself off there, the lip of his designated wine glass fit just against his lower lip.

Wait.

“...you’re not going to actually report this to anyone, are you.”