Jedao flushes darker pink, a tide that spreads down his throat and crashes against the strange pale surf of his chest scars.

"Alright," he agrees, voice slightly strangled, surprised and suddenly feeling the exposure, but not in a bad way. He's not hard yet, but he's not all the way soft, either.

Jedao finds the closest likely-looking bench, something that will give Astarion access on both sides, and hop-scoots onto to it. He lies back still blushing, reaches to grip a bar above his head with the hand on the bloody side, shuddering for a moment as he stretches out.