[ A laugh, as he scrapes his chair back and gets up. Perfect wood-elf balance skewed, he sways lightly on his heels as he walks around the table. ]

If you grow to dislike it, speak up.

[ It'll hurt to let Astarion go, but it'd kill Iorveth to see Astarion unhappy. He punctuates that thought by pressing his lips to the crown of Astarion's silver head, as reverent as he can manage with one and a half rather large bottles of wine in his system. ]

...I'd thought to tell you when the thought of kissing you first crossed my mind, [ he sways again, backwards, almost bumping into the table adjacent, ] but I think I should fetch some water.

[ Obviously, being drunk isn't a good look on him. He's saying far too much. ]