[ A snort, though the sound is laced with too much amusement to be acerbic. He's very resistable, and it's only Astarion who has cared to be dogged enough to think or believe otherwise.

Gods, Astarion is perfect. Iorveth has thought this a few thousand times already, but the observation feels novel every time it crosses his mind. Craning back an inch, he watches Astarion twinkle in candlelight, silver and red and everything beautiful about the world, sharp and quick and well-spoken, resilient and wary and strong. It makes him think that maybe Astarion was right about wanting immortality for him: forever doesn't seem long enough time to appreciate someone so singular.

His hand flits to Astarion's jaw, tracing the well-defined line of it up to his ear. ]

The only mistake I'd ever make more than once.

[ The only exception to his mantra of "never again". Iorveth's lips hike in a smile that he can't help, and he presses that elation against Astarion's mouth in what must be the hundredth kiss of the night (who's counting?). The contact is long, lingering, uncaring of anyone that might be watching.

When their lips finally part: ] I love you. Terribly, and without apology. I'll have you know that I don't equivocate when it comes to my devotion. You'll have all of it, or none at all.

[ "All of it" is, in fact, a bit of a threat. ]