[ Astarion squeezes Iorveth's hand as the needle punctures his skin, and once he bends over in pain, he crouches in front of him, palms pressed to either side of Iorveth's too-warm face. ]
Darling.
[ He should be embarrassed at this display in front of Damris, but he isn't. It's all too scary: the thought of losing Iorveth, the sight of him in pain. He strokes Iorveth's cheeks with his thumbs, Damris suddenly no more than an irrelevant footnote. He's never been a comforting presence, but he tries for it now; Cazador would laugh at the attempt, but he doesn't care. ]
It's all right. The worst is over.
[ He... hopes. A pause, and he finally tears his gaze away from Iorveth—with great effort—to look at Damris instead. ]
no subject
Darling.
[ He should be embarrassed at this display in front of Damris, but he isn't. It's all too scary: the thought of losing Iorveth, the sight of him in pain. He strokes Iorveth's cheeks with his thumbs, Damris suddenly no more than an irrelevant footnote. He's never been a comforting presence, but he tries for it now; Cazador would laugh at the attempt, but he doesn't care. ]
It's all right. The worst is over.
[ He... hopes. A pause, and he finally tears his gaze away from Iorveth—with great effort—to look at Damris instead. ]
How long until it works?