[ The question, ultimately, is less what Lestat wants from him so much as what Astarion wants from Lestat. He's not compelled into anything, here β at least, not in this particular context, a sufficient distance from Archibald and the fae forest β and so the question of personal want and desire muscles its way to the forefront. When he meets Lestat's gaze, there's only the faintest veil pulled over the impression of a deer caught by a hunter's lamp; the illusion of confidence, however poorly drawn it may be, sketched out for the sake of avoiding a more complete surrender to uncertainty.
He allows himself to be drawn closer β to peer more closely into Lestat's unnaturally blue eyes, into the apparent utter confidence that Astarion finds magnetic and an object of envy, in turns β though he knows, even without stepping into such territory, that overtures toward anything further will have him scampering away. ]
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He allows himself to be drawn closer β to peer more closely into Lestat's unnaturally blue eyes, into the apparent utter confidence that Astarion finds magnetic and an object of envy, in turns β though he knows, even without stepping into such territory, that overtures toward anything further will have him scampering away. ]
Mon Γ©toile, [ he repeats, searching Lestat's features as though he could divine the words' meaning that way. (He and his kin, such as they are, have a way with words, don't they?) And it's a pause, besides, from addressing the more forward offer Lestat has placed between them. ] I don't know that I've heard the term before.