[ He seems to want Iorveth to be happy. Absurd. Iorveth snorts, the sound as undignified as the smile that pulls at his face. ]
Stranger still, then, that you've managed to become the source of my happiness.
[ Ever since he admitted to Astarion that he wanted Astarion to stay, and ever since Astarion answered in the affirmative. Iorveth'd doomed them to the narrative in that moment, and it's something he still thinks about― how things would have been different if he'd just decided to let the tryst be a tryst― but gods, he really is happy when he's with Astarion. Happy in a way that seems impossible, happy in a way that contradicts what and how he should be.
So. He coaxes Astarion closer again, another sliver of space between them breached, fingers loosely curled over the jut of Astarion's hip. ]
...I made you worry. [ An acknowledgment, low and simple. ] You were kind, to consider my feelings.
[ The sort of thing Iorveth will only ever say to Astarion: anyone else would be met with a swift and angry dismissal, a million permutations of "don't fucking patronize me". Iorveth can only trust one person in his life with the shape of his vulnerabilities and feelings, and poor Astarion is that one person. He leans forward for another kiss, murmuring something muffled in his native tongue followed by a rough translation against their pressed-together mouths: you're perfect.
(The sun is coming up. The madam of the inn-brothel is playing with the coin that Iorveth gave her earlier, toying with the idea of going to Commandant Loredo with information about the two elves, considering the pros and cons of having one or two of her girls visit her strange new customers just so she can be sure that the one-eyed one isn't actually "Edgar". Men usually forget to use aliases when they're getting their dick sucked, after all.) ]
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Stranger still, then, that you've managed to become the source of my happiness.
[ Ever since he admitted to Astarion that he wanted Astarion to stay, and ever since Astarion answered in the affirmative. Iorveth'd doomed them to the narrative in that moment, and it's something he still thinks about― how things would have been different if he'd just decided to let the tryst be a tryst― but gods, he really is happy when he's with Astarion. Happy in a way that seems impossible, happy in a way that contradicts what and how he should be.
So. He coaxes Astarion closer again, another sliver of space between them breached, fingers loosely curled over the jut of Astarion's hip. ]
...I made you worry. [ An acknowledgment, low and simple. ] You were kind, to consider my feelings.
[ The sort of thing Iorveth will only ever say to Astarion: anyone else would be met with a swift and angry dismissal, a million permutations of "don't fucking patronize me". Iorveth can only trust one person in his life with the shape of his vulnerabilities and feelings, and poor Astarion is that one person. He leans forward for another kiss, murmuring something muffled in his native tongue followed by a rough translation against their pressed-together mouths: you're perfect.
(The sun is coming up. The madam of the inn-brothel is playing with the coin that Iorveth gave her earlier, toying with the idea of going to Commandant Loredo with information about the two elves, considering the pros and cons of having one or two of her girls visit her strange new customers just so she can be sure that the one-eyed one isn't actually "Edgar". Men usually forget to use aliases when they're getting their dick sucked, after all.) ]