[ They wait, and time hangs－ later, Iorveth would not be able to say to anyone that he knew the second cloak would work, because he, too, stands there for the other shoe to drop, and expects the ghastly hiss of skin burning, the stomach-dropping horror of seeing Astarion hurt－
－and it doesn't. Happen, that is. The shoe stays where it is, suspended and perfect, and Astarion remains intact in the loop of Iorveth's arms, pale face drenched in golden sun, silver hair reflecting and refracting light.
Nothing. No catastrophe. No grief. Nothing but the stretch of seconds passing with no incident. Iorveth blinks around his surprise (again, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone "I told him so"), then blinks some more, then blinks away what feels like－
－moisture in his eye. Misty, from this slow-creeping realization. He clears his throat once, twice, but the emotion stays clogged, too full and ever-swelling. ]
Yes, [ he ventures, breathless. ] You've been dead.
[ Stupid, beautiful, perfect vampire. Vision still blurred, he squeezes Astarion closer to his chest. ] Gods, you were made for the sun.
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－and it doesn't. Happen, that is. The shoe stays where it is, suspended and perfect, and Astarion remains intact in the loop of Iorveth's arms, pale face drenched in golden sun, silver hair reflecting and refracting light.
Nothing. No catastrophe. No grief. Nothing but the stretch of seconds passing with no incident. Iorveth blinks around his surprise (again, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone "I told him so"), then blinks some more, then blinks away what feels like－
－moisture in his eye. Misty, from this slow-creeping realization. He clears his throat once, twice, but the emotion stays clogged, too full and ever-swelling. ]
Yes, [ he ventures, breathless. ] You've been dead.
[ Stupid, beautiful, perfect vampire. Vision still blurred, he squeezes Astarion closer to his chest. ] Gods, you were made for the sun.