[In a way, it actually does come as a surprise; not the idea that Hades had been open with him— honest and trusting, and perhaps warm as well, if the black blades perched ever at Astarion's hips mean anything— but the depth of it, he supposes. Old as the Ascian is, his stubbornness and stiffness have perpetually perplexed his younger companion whenever it came crawling to the forefront of their conversations: easy to relegate the physical portion of their exchanges to curiosity. Openness. A willingness to let himself be somewhat mortal again, while the rest of his mind clutched itself close.

Now, he isn't so sure.

And it shows, pinching his brows together. Thinning out the line of his mouth.]

I don't understand.

[Short. Clipped. He exhales once, and turns his attention towards the window.]

You've obviously let yourself be open with me: I was the one that took you in when you were cast off for being a villain-accused. I saw your past— heard everything of it. No unfeeling corpse goes sleeping with a paramour by night, and pours his own blood into bottled wine by day.

But you said you knew where this leads.

[Specific. Too specific.]

You can't have meant sooner than before we met, if that's the case. And it's only showing its teeth now.

[He doubts it needs to be asked out loud, but still:]

What am I missing?