[ Although it's too tender to do so, Astarion longs to press the hand to Iorveth's cheek the way he'd done so long ago, in their room at the Elfsong, when they were still dancing awkwardly around each other. The both of them were too stubborn to admit the depth of their feeling back then, or perhaps too prideful even to realize it. If he could go back in time and tell himself to stop being such a fool and just love Iorveth already, he knows that he wouldn't listen to himself.

But he's long since overcome that hurdle, and how. He takes his uninjured hand and links it with Iorveth's instead. Holding Iorveth's hand is still the one thing he likes better than anything else, even now. All the sex in the world doesn't compare to the feeling of knowing Iorveth is right beside him and isn't going anywhere. ]

You are such a talented little seamstress these days.

[ One corner of his mouth tugs up a little further at the image of all of those crooked suns. ]

What will it be? A heart, perhaps? Another sun? Those are your specialty.