[ By the time Astarion comes back to the guest bedroom, that thorn in Iorveth's chest is gone. Iorveth has had time to think about it, to examine it from all angles. He's swallowed it, and it sits now in the bottom of his gut, where its presence is known but aches less.
He's sitting on the bed, because he remembers the promise he'd made to Astarion ages ago: that he'd always return to their bed, regardless of their respective moods, or if they'd fought the day (night) before. He's sure Astarion doesn't remember it, and he glances at Astarion and the thick wall of feigned nonchalance that he's drawn up between them again.
Iorveth watches, and wonders if he loves Astarion less for it. He should, maybe. But he finds that he doesn't, not at all: nothing about Astarion has changed, after all. He's the same as he ever was, vulnerable and prideful and beloved. ]
We'll go, then. [ Plainly, without awkwardness. Iorveth sits up from where he'd been leaning against the headboard with Gale's book on magical artefacts (several pages in the section about the Cloak of Dragomir dog-eared, which he doesn't realize will make Gale scream), and glances towards the hand that Astarion is rubbing. ] ...Your hand. I told you to be careful.
[ Come, he beckons. He doesn't expect Astarion to oblige, but he might as well. ]
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He's sitting on the bed, because he remembers the promise he'd made to Astarion ages ago: that he'd always return to their bed, regardless of their respective moods, or if they'd fought the day (night) before. He's sure Astarion doesn't remember it, and he glances at Astarion and the thick wall of feigned nonchalance that he's drawn up between them again.
Iorveth watches, and wonders if he loves Astarion less for it. He should, maybe. But he finds that he doesn't, not at all: nothing about Astarion has changed, after all. He's the same as he ever was, vulnerable and prideful and beloved. ]
We'll go, then. [ Plainly, without awkwardness. Iorveth sits up from where he'd been leaning against the headboard with Gale's book on magical artefacts (several pages in the section about the Cloak of Dragomir dog-eared, which he doesn't realize will make Gale scream), and glances towards the hand that Astarion is rubbing. ] ...Your hand. I told you to be careful.
[ Come, he beckons. He doesn't expect Astarion to oblige, but he might as well. ]