[ It is Astarion. Iorveth looks at him through his haze of drink (adding more fog with another mouthful of wine), the details of him slightly fuzzy because of the alcohol, but the shape of him unmistakable. It isn't so much about the pretty parts that comprise Astarion, but how he holds it all together: the careless lean, the tilt of his head, graceful and intentional. All nervous, sweet, tentative energy. Sure and unsure.

He really isn't Aen Seidhe at all. There's not an inch of Astarion that hearkens back to the familiar comforts of the people that Iorveth has spent the better part of his life loving and losing and killing for. Without context, and just on paper, Astarion is the opposite of Iorveth's type. ]

I do. [ Prefer someone of his kind, he means. Bluntly, without pretense. ] If all I want is a quick fuck, I prefer giving my body to those I trust.

So you can appreciate, [ he gestures again, offhanded, ] why I had no interest in you before.

[ Astarion's looks did absolutely nothing for him before he decided to be stupid and put Astarion into context. Sure, he thinks the pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty smile are compelling now, but they'd all been masklike before. ]

A different story now, though.