[ Sincere, rueful, fond — Astarion can't begin to understand any of it, or perhaps he's simply unwilling to confront his metaphorical reflection in the face of such traits, lest it dig up his weakness for that brand of heroism. He's long buried that part of him, not just for his childhood predisposition for tales of bravery — strange that he should remember that, and so little else — and for the punishment he'd incurred the one time he'd indulged it after being turned. (A full year sealed inside a tomb, starving but unable to die, months spent scratching at the stone around him until his fingers bled. There's nothing, no one, for which he'd suffer that again.)

But two centuries' worth of stubborn compartmentalization means that the flicker in the vampire spawn's gaze is only momentary, giving way to a smile as Rand offers him his neck. He seems almost confident as he draws close, raising a hand to gently cup the back of Rand's head, the better to support him as he bares his fangs— and bites.

For Rand, the sensation will manifest as a brief flash of pain; twin needles, cold as ice, pricking his flesh. It lasts only a moment before subsiding, fading into a heady sort of numbness. For Astarion—

—from the first second Rand's blood fills his mouth, he feels as though he's been struck by lightning. He flinches, even, though it's not quite enough to get him to pull away immediately. There's a little of what he expects — the taste of something sweet, easily palatable, inviting — but Rand's blood tastes rich. He doesn't know how to process it all, the sharpness of the Light (a degree of power he's never encountered — had avoided, in a sense, given his mortal aversion to the sun), and then—

(—too much too dark too heavy sour madness lives upon lives upon lives lived and taken and—)

—when he pulls back, it's not nearly as smoothly as he's been thus far. Rather, it's like he's been slapped (as much for how unexpected this has all been as to avoid the temptation to keep drinking), a hand quickly rising to his face to brush away the red that remains on his lips. The rise and fall of his chest is quick for how composed he tries to seem, a glint in his eyes conveying both an immediate surprise and renewed interest. There's nothing for him to compare the taste to, besides knowing that he's never, ever tasted anything like it before. It's too late, he supposes, to pretend that he isn't surprised, so, pointedly: ]

Normally, I'd start with a thank you, but ... well, let's just say I assumed I'd always be the less forthcoming of the two of us.