[ In his haze of new relationship adoration, Astarion can't imagine growing to dislike it at all. He's never cared for someone in this way before—no, not exactly; there must have been companions and lovers before, but none important enough to withstand the ravages of centuries and slavery on his memory—and it's difficult to imagine lightning striking twice. Who else would be so irksome and appealing all at once? Who else could understand the humiliation of subjugation and the rage of revenge without needing to ask questions? Who else would offer their blood to a monster without flinching?

Iorveth's tipsy imbalance is more endearing than it should be, owing again to that silly infatuation, and Astarion stands to steady him, one arm at the small of his back. ]

But I like drunken Iorveth. He's very complimentary.

[ An amused, affectionate smile dances on his lips. There's still something so novel about the feeling of smiling for the sake of smiling, for the sake of happiness. He'd become so accustomed to performatively charming grins that he'd forgotten what it felt like to make an expression that isn't calculated.

His eyes drop to his own wineglass, still partially full of dark red liquid. A pity that it doesn't have the same effect for him as it does on Iorveth. ]

If anything, I envy you. You get to be intoxicated when we face the circus.