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He won’t just get on with it. Astarion can get on his knees, kiss Wyll’s thighs, and Wyll will run gentle fingers through Astarion’s hair and before he knows it they’re talking about politics.
It’s wretched.
Astarion goes as far as briefly considering that Wyll perhaps doesn’t find him attractive but that’s ludicrous. He’s gorgeous.
At least he thinks he is.
Wyll is.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the waiting. He likes Wyll’s fingers in his hair, likes the sound of his voice, the warmth lying in his arms. The gentleness.
It won’t last. It can’t last. But lying their in Wyll’s arms sometimes he can pretend it will never go beyond this and, perhaps, a kiss. That Wyll might want that also.
Everything Astarion has learnt since death tells him that’s foolish. And he isn’t quite ready to accept yet that not everything he’s learnt since death is true.