[ Hilarious. Astarion lays out that he thought Iorveth uninterested in intimacy, while Iorveth looks at that accusatory finger and thinks about putting it in his mouth. A private joke for Iorveth to smile internally about, while he leans sideways against the bath-pool's edge and watches steam curl artfully around Astarion's shoulders. ]

Mm. I think I told you that I would go to a brothel if all I wanted was to bed someone pretty.

[ Incredibly rude of him, in hindsight. But it was true at the time, and it's still somewhat true now: he doesn't want Astarion because he's hot and fuckable. He is hot and fuckable, mind, but that's not why Iorveth wants him. ]

I wanted to know you. You. The man who stayed when I told him not to, the man who agreed to sharing a bed when I felt I would die from how hollow I'd felt after killing Henselt.

[ He didn't show it at the time, nor talk about it; he can admit it more freely now, comfortable with sharing these vulnerabilities with someone he keeps so close to his heart. ]

And now, I know you. [ Or, well. He likes to think. A light laugh, and he lists even more into the water, limp and relaxed. ] And wanting you is a constant state of being.