It is fiction, and Winter frowns at the look he earns for it. Out of automatic instinct, he shifts his body language, going from politely open to strict, his back straight and his shoulders squared. His chin lifts slightly and he folds the book he's already got a little closer to his chest. There's a faint buzzing noise, annoying and annoyed.

"And who says that fiction cannot be serious? Isn't it an admirable thing, to create an entire world from nothing? Not everything in life must be a remark upon the world around us."

It's not anything he'd be willing to argue with back home, not with everything expected of him, but here? Here, he's allowed, and he's allowing himself.