[ It isn't, for whatever it's worth, particularly difficult to tell when Astarion's being earnest — at least, not once the veil has lifted. The mask he wears is a heavy one, and not something he's found easy to part with. It's not totally a work of fiction — he is a vain creature, typically more easily motivated by personal wants and needs than any sense of the greater good — which makes the endeavor of separation all the more arduous. But, for all that remains the same, there's a marked change in his behavior, in the lack of a furrow in his brow, in a lighter timbre to the tone of his voice, in a slightly dialed-down level of melodrama and a less single-minded focus on carnal pursuits.

Those qualifiers — less but not gone completely — are what's made freedom such a strange gauntlet. There's no way of totally separating himself from the creature he'd been under Cazador's thumb, much as he might wish to. What that monster had built out of him had not been from scratch. He hates that, resents it. He hates not feeling like he belongs to himself.

And so, my first, she says, and he seems to pause. There is a thought that he wants to offer in return, that she's his first worth remembering, too, but the words feel like they take the wrong shape, if only because he knows how they could sound in his voice, like he's proud of having been a lothario. That's not how he means it, of course — what he means is, well, exactly what she's said. This is the first significant relationship he's really had — it's precious to him, something he doesn't want to ruin.

(Again, he remembers some things from his previous life — enough to know that he hadn't really left anyone behind, not like this. There's a blank space where love would be; after all, he hadn't thought death to be quite so close at hand. Not that he'd really been ready for it, in retrospect, at least not if his general personality is much of an indication.)

So, with the words beyond him, he smiles, instead, the expression slight, meant not for an audience but just for her. ]

A pity indeed, [ he murmurs, as his gaze travels over her features, his hand rising to mirror her gesture, brushing her hair gently from her face, lingering at her cheek. His fingers stay there, cupping her face, as he cranes down to kiss her — relatively chaste, this time, a single press of his lips before his mouth wanders to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. ]

And quite the conundrum — to please you, my dear, or to deliberately draw out our little date? [ Then, as he shifts to meet her gaze again: ] Though perhaps I've underestimated where you've set the bar.