[ Jealous. Iorveth has to force himself not to frown at the implication, though he does feel his face warm just slightly at how close the callout skims to the truth. Not jealous, per se－ Astarion can do with his newfound freedom however he pleases－ but incredibly resistant to the idea of Astarion's mind wandering, at the very least, when they're sharing the same space.

Brows furrow, then smooth again; Iorveth can feel his hands getting warmer in Astarion's grip to match the tips of his ears. Ugh. ]

They needn't be filthy, [ is the pushback, though it probably doesn't help. If anything, it might be an even more revealing admission. Ugh, part two. ] Gods, you do worse things to my brain than the tadpole could ever hope to. Plying me with drink in this state may prove disastrous.

[ "Why does my intellect take a nosedive when I'm with you," in (slightly) less (?) rude terms. Still, he doesn't tear his hands away from Astarion the way he might have done before. ]