[He doesn't know how to reply, either. He doesn't want this subject—still twisted up like thorny bramble inside of him, not yet sorted out in his heart or his head—to bring down the mood. Gods knows he only wants to enjoy himself, and to have Winter enjoy himself, too, without the other thinking he's stumbled into... a tangled knot of issues, insecurities, a mess of the person he'd become in two long centuries. (Even if that's exactly what he is.)

Yet somehow, Winter's touch manages to pull words out of him. He unknowingly tilts his head into it even as he frowns, his red eyes have darkened with remembrance.]

Oh, the kinder ones did, certainly.

[The ones who thought they really, truly loved him. The ones who cared and were sweet and gentle, and those were the ones that hurt the most.]

But even then, what I wanted didn't matter. Whatever I said in return was lip service, because it all amounted to the same: seduce some poor fool so my master could benefit from it. This is the first time I've...

[Even come close to being truly intimate with anyone since his freedom. Or even before that; since he started carrying around this dreadful tadpole.]

Been this close to someone since then.