[ He huffs in response to "ridiculous", folding his arms over his chest with wavering defensiveness. A caricature of his past guardedness, thick walls eroded by circumstance. Still upright and angular― Iorveth knows how to hold himself so that he looks imposing― but without the edge of purpose. ]

It wouldn't be to inflate your ego, [ is an attempt to explain. ] ...I've bushed and plaited hair countless times in the past, but yours is unique.

[ He can recall many times when he'd sat behind comrades and combed mud out of their long hair, preserved their vanity when they had little else left. Legitimately beautiful wood elves who had a reason to want to present themselves as such, a sort of tacit fuck-you to their human enemies.

So, yes, Iorveth's touched a lot of hair as a way to bond. But Astarion is still wholly singular, and the reminder of it is nice. ]

You're not Aen Seidhe at all. [ He slurs a bit, almost as if he'd been compelled to switch to his own language mid-sentence. Is he thinking out loud, at this point? Fuck. ] You're... [ A gesture, vague. ] You.

[ Where did the point go? Gods. ] ―Must be something in this wine.