It was another normal day; the sun streaked through the satin curtains, the familiar smoke hung heavy above the streets of London, and Astarion was going through a well-thumbed book you had left in the living room of your shared flat. He had made some tea, and was eating pomegranates, the sweet juices spilling down his chin and staining pale hands. The sunlight illuminating the dancing dust and cupping his cheekbones perfectly made him look rather beautiful on this fine morning.