[ The touch is familiar: cool against his warm skin, confident when it finds a perch. Like nothing and no one else. Iorveth has never taken himself for the melting type, but he finds himself molding to the shape of the body near and next to him, resting his weight on the palm between his shoulderblades with a low, long exhale. His hand loops around Astarion's waist again, and sits at his hip. ]

The fool part, specifically. [ Too proud to be constantly messy. That said: ] Acting in love with you is－

[ He waves his free hand. ]

－Mm. It's no act. [ The most vexing part of this whole affair. ] Here or in the north, that isn't liable to change.

[ A huff, amused. ] Do you think I'd wish to hide it?