[ Snip, goes the scissors, and Iorveth doesn't even flinch. Astarion is the only person in Toril that could hold a sharp object near Iorveth's face without raising Iorveth's hackles; he stays perfectly still, palms face-down on his naked thighs. The nightmare memory of a raised spearpoint is too far away to touch him in this moment, overshadowed entirely by the pleasant wash of Astarion's voice, his presence. ]

My hero. [ Near-sarcastic, softened by a chuckle. He opens his one remaining eye a sliver, trying to see if he can flick his gaze up to meet Astarion's. ]

And how well do you expect me to behave? [ Because honestly, that should be Astarion's primary point of concern. Iorveth appreciates that Astarion would like to enjoy this hypothetical soiree, being that he has never been invited to one in the past two hundred years, and he can give Astarion his word that he'll do his utmost not to get them thrown out in the first five minutes of their stay.

Hopefully. ]

I should refrain from breaking too many fingers, I assume.

[ Disappointing. Many would likely assume that Iorveth is exaggerating here despite his matter-of-fact tone, but Iorveth has never in his deranged life made a threat he hasn't been willing to follow through on. ]