[ Once upon a time, he thinks that Iorveth would have taken a reaction like that poorly. Maybe he's grown used to Astarion, the way one grows used to the prickles of a hedgehog that they handle often. He follows behind as requested, hand coming to rest between Iorveth's shoulder blades, against the silky purple fabric of his robe. ]

Magistrate Ancunín wouldn't have worn it even if every one of his many [ —or so he assumes— ] admirers asked.

[ He recalls little about what sort of person he was back then, but this he knows. Astarion was never a flower crown-wearer, even before all of the bad things happened to him. He would have found them overly precious, and besides, he's never cared for flowers. Or any sort of nature, really. It's a wonder Iorveth puts up with him. ]

You're the only admirer I'd allow to gift such a thing to me.