[ In the distant lands of Before, Iorveth might have been annoyed by that curious look and Astarion's refusal to provide any sort of counterproposal. "Is there nothing in that pretty head of yours", he might have said.

Now, instead of wanting to punch Astarion for having no plans, Iorveth just kind of wants to punch his mouth with his own mouth. Softly. He also wants to punch himself, and he also wants to punch Lae'zel for not giving Astarion a single godsdamned day just to exist and do nothing but be utterly spoiled by the party's resident human-killing terrorist.

Iorveth's lost his mind. But he pulls his new shirt on as if he's not having an existential meltdown, and tips his head in a show of casual contemplation. Composed as anything. ]

You are infuriatingly singular. [ Agreeing, with similar affection. ] The only thing you and that woman have in common is how much the both of you talk.

[ A dry half-drawl, teasing. Iorveth glances to the side, and hums when he finds his hairbrush sitting on top of his bow-maintenance tools. ]

I'd thought we could have a code, of sorts. A set response to a set question or statement. One that only we would know.