[ Iorveth loosens the embrace just enough to let Astarion get comfortable, allowing just enough distance between them so that Iorveth can see him properly instead of just indistinct, blurry blobs of skin and soft hair. His hands are indecisive, cycling between resting somewhere and moving to brush silver bangs out of Astarion's face, fixing his collar, touching his face. Trying to do something with all the cute aggression building inside his chest, a constant ache of pressure hammering against his ribs. ]

I remember. [ Sopping wet, annoyed, and reeling from the fact that Astarion hadn't fucking run. Iorveth can recall that entire night with shocking clarity. ] Oddly prophetic, now. Or maybe I loved you from the start.

[ Asking him to assist in regicide, giving him blood, feeling gutted when someone'd smashed a blunt weapon against his head. Maybe Iorveth had always had a stupid crush, and held the feeling at arm's length. Hells if he knows anymore－ he loves Astarion far too much now to be objective.

He laughs, and strokes the pointed end of Astarion's still-pink ear. ]

How troublesome for us that our cover story is the truth now.