[ Soft hair against his cheek, cool fingers tangling in his own, a pleasant weight against his side on a plush couch. Not the kind of position Iorveth would ever have imagined for himself before the tadpole incident, and not the kind of position he would ever have imagined for himself even when he'd asked Astarion to stay. It still feels incredibly improbable, not to mention deeply unearned.

But here he is. Iorveth turns his head, breathing in that scent of champagne and perfume again. ]

I don't feel connected to any of it.

[ An honest assessment, after a beat of consideration. No mincing words, even if he has an inkling that this isn't the answer Astarion wants to hear. ]

It's all clamor and clutter. [ Unlike his own culture, where everyone knew each other and saw each other clearly (a favorite complaint of his, that others don't see clearly). ] You remain the one thing I do feel connected to, among all the noise.

[ And Gale (and Tara), but Astarion should know what Iorveth means. ]