[ Astarion presses the pad of his thumb between Iorveth's eyebrows, a nonverbal 'Don't pout, you'll get wrinkles'. ]

Look who's eager to get to the party all of a sudden.

[ Ha. He predicts Iorveth asking if they've done enough reveling yet five minutes in. An inveterate killjoy; he can hardly believe he likes such a grouser so much. Love works in mysterious ways, he supposes. ]

There's never enough gilding, but I guess you're suitably sparkly.

[ As is Astarion, but of course he is. He always sparkles! He wraps a hand around Iorveth's wrist, tugging gently. ]

Come, then. I wouldn't dream of making you wait another second.