[ Trusting someone is only pathetic when there's an inevitable rugpull, and Iorveth is― well, he's an expert in falling on his face. He's fought for someone, loved someone and held them higher than a god, because he'd believed that ideals and people were more sacrosanct than divinity.

It's a belief he still holds, foolishly and desperately. Iorveth the Woodland Fox, Thrice-Betrayed, putting all his eggs in one basket despite past failures. It's what he's doing now, holding Astarion like he's the only person that's worth anything in this tragic mess of a world. Drunk, fuzzy, smitten. ]

I'd thought that to be the entire point of this night. [ Procuring lavish outfits, stealing pretty trinkets for Astarion to decorate himself with, drowning themselves in expensive drink. Sure, Astarion'd hated the party (he hadn't even known what to expect, which still breaks Iorveth a little), and they'd had to murder someone before winding up in a tavern full of exasperated people, but. Whatever.

The point is, Iorveth tips Astarion's chin and kisses the corner of his mouth. ] How do you wish to be worshiped? Or will you let me decide?

[ A sweet threat. Astarion should be running for the hills. ]