[ Astarion leaves one hand on the nape of Iorveth's neck, fingers tangling in his slightly damp hair. This is what people do for their loved ones who aren't feeling well, he thinks. They pamper them, pet them, treat them gently. It's novel, but not at all unpleasant.

Despite Astarion's insistence that he does, Iorveth has never really said that he belongs to Astarion, perhaps because of some ridiculous wood elf sentiment that people can't belong to other people, but even hearing it in jest makes him feel warm and fuzzy. His impish grin is so wide that his fangs show; yes, he would enjoy it. ]

Honestly, there's no one else worth talking to, anyway. You wouldn't be missing out.

[ People are boring and irritating and awful. He and Iorveth are really the only ones who truly matter, a belief that isn't unhealthy in the slightest. ]

I wouldn't mind defending your honor from any rakes and rapscallions. [ As if he isn't one himself. ] I'd tell them all that I saw you first.