[ Astarion doesn't even fail his Perception check, because he doesn't make it to begin with. Iorveth is a level of observant that he simply isn't; he's too wrapped up in himself to even notice Iorveth's wayward glances. He lets his thumb gently stroke the pulse point on Iorveth's wrist, feeling the familiar thump-thump of Iorveth's blood pumping. ]

That may be it, [ he agrees, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. ] I do believe I'm allergic to tacky decor.

[ Somewhere, the proprietor of this place, clad in head-to-toe mauve, shivers in offense and doesn't know why.

Astarion releases Iorveth's wrist, then, hands doing their best to blindly style the mess that's become of his hair. ]

—Just give me a moment to freshen up, and I'll be as good as new.