[ Astarion isn't a swooning noblewoman, so it shouldn't please him so much to simply be touched on the hand, but it does; his white cheeks color with satisfaction even as he tries to suppress it. It feels terribly intimate for someone to touch his hands like this, like they're something special, and not just because they're good at getting people off. ]

You are ridiculous, [ he says warmly. Iorveth is awfully strange, but somehow it's become charming rather than off-putting. He's more precious than a mere weapon, Astarion thinks, but perhaps Iorveth sees it differently. That bow of his is something cherished. Maybe he sees a weapon as something worthy of being loved.

With his free hand, Astarion combs Iorveth's hair to the side, out of his face. ]

You're plenty sharp already, but I don't mind keeping you in tip-top shape. You know, it came as a surprise, but I rather like caring for you.

[ Except for all the times that having feelings made him so distressed that he felt like retching, but he doesn't need to bring up those right now. ]