[ Astarion lets go, and Iorveth shifts so that he's resting sideways against the couch, not-quite-parallel and not-quite-perpendicular, legs sprawled in front of him and his shoulder to the edge of the couch cushion, head listing near Astarion's forearm. ]

A turn for the worse, [ he parrots, softly amused. ] Who knows? A blow to the head could have fixed my personality.

[ One can only hope. Iorveth is staunchly opposed to the idea of Astarion losing more rest just to make sure he doesn't get sick all over himself during the day, though, so he shakes his head (ugh, not a good idea). ]

We'll both trance properly once Gale brings the cleric over for your leg.