[ He watches Astarion watch him, and he watches those perfect lips forming those perfect words in that perfect voice. An overwhelming feeling. The offered sentiment percolates through his cracks like rainwater, leaving him feeling―
―warm. Too warm. He can feel heat creeping from his chest, slithering up his neck, dusting his cheeks, pooling at his ears; it flares a little hotter when he repeats what was said to him in the safety of his mind, that he, of all people, could be Astarion's sun.
Absurd. Astarion is his light. Evidenced by the pin on his lapel, the pattern he eventually still wants to stitch onto something of Astarion's at some point. Iorveth would say so, if he wasn't so busy trying to swallow some of this heat back into his chest.
Eventually, after a few seconds, he gives up. Ears still warm, he lifts a hand and presses his (also warm) palm over Astarion's eyes. No looking at his ugly face when he's flushed, thanks!! ]
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―warm. Too warm. He can feel heat creeping from his chest, slithering up his neck, dusting his cheeks, pooling at his ears; it flares a little hotter when he repeats what was said to him in the safety of his mind, that he, of all people, could be Astarion's sun.
Absurd. Astarion is his light. Evidenced by the pin on his lapel, the pattern he eventually still wants to stitch onto something of Astarion's at some point. Iorveth would say so, if he wasn't so busy trying to swallow some of this heat back into his chest.
Eventually, after a few seconds, he gives up. Ears still warm, he lifts a hand and presses his (also warm) palm over Astarion's eyes. No looking at his ugly face when he's flushed, thanks!! ]
You'll be the death of me.