[ Astarion always used to hate when Iorveth would speak in his language, paranoid that there was something Iorveth was keeping from him, that there was some private joke he wasn't in on. He doesn't feel that way anymore. Iorveth's native tongue is precious, musical, all him. It would be sexy, if he had the capacity to find anything sexy right now. Astarion murmurs back poorly-accented I love yous, focusing on the sound of Iorveth's voice and the feel of his palm against his until he manages to— not drift off, exactly, but relax enough that it's close to resting. It's restorative, by any means.
At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
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At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.