nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ Astarion pushes himself up, grunting softly at the twinge in his shoulder, and surveys their loot with a discerning eye. He's careful not to touch either of the daggers Iorveth appropriated, the memory of that radiant burn still fresh in his mind. Instead, he opens the pack that had swung from the hunter's belt, peering at the contents from above instead of sticking his hand in for fear that there's more vampire-repellent inside.

Dryly: ] I hope you're not thinking to test it. [ He might walk in the day without difficulty now, but Astarion still doesn't relish the idea of being blasted with light. ] What's important is that it'll be effective against Cazador.

[ With care, he extracts a vial of clear liquid from the pack. ]

Ah, holy water. Nothing better to splash profane abominations with.

[ Iorveth plucks the daggers and the throwing knife to set them on the bedside table, away from accidental contact. The radiant energy only translates to him as a vague warmth imbued into the blade and hilt, a squint-and-see-it glow woven into the structure of the weapons. It seems permanent, which is convenient.

A glance towards the vial, and he hikes a brow. ]

Not enough of it to do anything but irritate.

[ But better than nothing. He fishes out a stake, and huffs. ]

How quickly does Cazador regenerate? If you've an idea. [ Maybe not; it doesn't seem likely that Astarion would ever have had a chance to see Cazador hurt. ]

Edited 2024-07-19 04:31 (UTC)

[ Astarion places the vial back in the pack, no interest in getting an accidental splash should he drop it, and watches Iorveth unearth the stake. It's funny. When they first met, the sight of Iorveth with a stake would have made him lunge for his own dagger. Like Iorveth when Astarion feigned threatening him in front of the hunter, letting him hold that stake is like allowing him to put a blade to Astarion's throat and trust that he won't do the cutting. He's surprised to find that he doesn't even flinch. Then again, Astarion already supplied him with deadlier weapons than a stake every time he opened up to him. If Iorveth wanted to hurt him, he could have already.

A sobering thought. ]

I don't know.

[ The question makes him frown. ]

He never needed to. [ Not that Astarion was ever privy to, anyway, but there's a part of him that believes Cazador has never been injured, never been weak. He ruled Astarion's life like a god for so long. It seems only reasonable that he's invulnerable like one, too. ] Undoubtedly fast.

[ Cazador is far more powerful than Astarion, even after this journey. A sick feeling forms in the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly doesn't want to think about facing Cazador anymore. He flops back on the mattress with a dejected sigh, too forceful for his own good. ]

Ow.

[ The stake is hefty in Iorveth's hand. Suitably heavy for a weapon to combat an immortal being. In all of Iorveth's many, many years spent fighting, he's never had to square off against anything that repels death in the way Cazador must.

It's still hard to imagine. Harder, still, to imagine being subjugated by an entity so inexorable. Iorveth has tried to relate, in part, through what he supposes might be their shared experiences in having to embrace futility: his resignation regarding the obliteration of his entire race, and Astarion's resignation regarding the obliteration of his entire being.

Heavy. At least Iorveth's had time to come to terms with himself, while Astarion has only had, what, weeks? Negligible. No wonder he flops back down onto the bed and away from the reminders of what have to be done, tempted as Iorveth is to scold him about staying on track.

Oh well. Iorveth can indulge the finicky cat just this once. Items get set aside again, and he scoots up close to Astarion, sitting up with his fingers carding lightly through Astarion's hair. ]

Something worth investigating when you have more blood in you. [ Pain makes people morose. He continues petting Astarion idly, listening for footsteps coming up the stairs. ] It beats looking for bits of clown in underground caves.

[ Look on the bright side― Dribbles is dead. Iorveth traces the tapered end of Astarion's ear, playing with the pleasant feel of cartilage between the pads of his fingers. ]

[ As pragmatic as Iorveth is, Astarion had expected to be chided for the little tantrum he's now throwing. He can practically hear the reprimand: wallowing won't make Cazador any less powerful or any more dead. It's a pleasant surprise to be offered comfort instead, and he leans into Iorveth's warm, gentle hand like a flower turning toward the sun. Hard to believe this is the man who stabbed him with an arrow last night. ]

Oh, I don't know. There's something rather satisfying about a dead clown.

[ A faint smile turns up the corners of his mouth, but it's fleeting, and the next moment he frowns again. Cazador would do such awful things to Iorveth if he knew how he made Astarion feel. You've brought home a stray, he'd say. Time to put it down. ]

I know I asked for your help, but— [ But what? He's scared? That's far too pathetic and vulnerable to say. ] Perhaps it's for the best that you sit it out, when the time comes.

[ The fingers sifting through Astarion's hair stop mid-motion. An obvious pause made even more glaring, since this is all very out-of-character for Iorveth; if Astarion cares to look, the expression that sits on Iorveth's face should be more familiar. The tight-lipped frown of clear offense, anger sitting right under that indignation. ]

You didn't run. Why should I?

[ An instinctive snapback, though Iorveth sees the hypocrisy in it the moment it comes out of his mouth. He'd offered Astarion the same escape route more than once, and had been angry when he didn't take it. It's the same offer, not given lightly or without a genuine reason, but his pride stings anyway.

He takes a moment to breathe. In, out. His frown falters on his face, even if the remnants of it linger. ]

...I thought you would've had plans to use me as your meat shield.

[ Clipped, but trying to ease into the real question of "what's the problem?" He lifts his hand from Astarion's hair, and rests it on the mattress instead. ]

Edited 2024-07-19 23:17 (UTC)

[ Astarion touches his fingertips to his head where Iorveth had stroked his hair, disappointed that he stopped. He shifts onto his side again, face half-buried in the pillow, eyes not quite meeting Iorveth's. ]

I— perhaps I'd hoped for that once. Tendays ago.

[ He'd been comfortable using them all as meat shields, back then. Unconcerned with the idea that they could all die to better his circumstances. The biggest problem he'd had was whether or not he could actually convince them to risk their lives for him; what happened after that, he'd thought, was of negligible importance. Then the stupid fools had gone and made him like them, Iorveth included, and— ]

But I've no intention of using you now.

[ A sobering gesture, Iorveth thinks. Astarion, turning onto his side to protect himself from his own unguarded admission. Most of his ire fades into the background when he takes it in, suffused by pesky, unaccounted-for affection. The first thing in ages that feels completely out of Iorveth's tight control. ]

The burden of caring. [ An observation that might touch a nerve. But Iorveth makes it anyway, hiking more of himself up onto the bed. ] Heavy, isn't it.

[ He gets it. He's cared for far too long, and for very little. Caring isn't new for him anymore, but it is for Astarion; Iorveth tries to remember what that weight'd felt like, back when it settled slightly more poorly on his shoulders. At least he'd had others to share it with.

He touches his hand to Astarion's shoulder, avoiding the inflamed wound. ]

What are your intentions with me now? Plainly.

[ "I won't be mad" seems like a ridiculous thing to say. Iorveth, a man who is more mad than anything else. ]

[ Iorveth's hand on his shoulder is a pleasant gesture, but not particularly comforting. It's that pleasantness that's the problem. If he didn't think Iorveth gave a damn, he'd be happy to put him in the line of fire, sacrifice him if needed — but Iorveth keeps doing horrible things like caring and, gods, even being kind. ]

I don't know, [ he says, sounding very petulant, voice partially muffled against the pillow. He hadn't really thought about it, in truth. Astarion had gone along, expecting Iorveth to throw himself alongside him into the lion's den, until just now when he realized how awful it would feel to lose someone who finally cares for him. It's all selfishness and cowardice, the fear of getting hurt. ]

I suppose I thought you could stay behind, and then I'd return triumphant, and we could celebrate my victory together. Vigorously.

[ Don't laugh, Iorveth tells himself. He's being vulnerable. Don't laugh.

He laughs. Not as derisively as he might have, as Astarion very accurately calculated, tendays ago. But he does laugh. ]

You're ridiculous. [ A child. He's noticed that Astarion isn't exactly the "sit down and map out meticulous courses of action" kind of person, but even so, the coupling of I don't know with I thought I'd win and we'd fuck is just.

Gods, it's fucking appalling to think of how horrific it must've been to live with Cazador for Astarion to end up like this, actually. Iorveth breathes, and rests back on his hands.

Fond. It's so annoying, how much he likes Astarion. ] Take me with you. You wouldn't last a minute in battle without me watching your back.

[ Iorveth actually laughs. The audacity! Astarion shoots him daggers, eyes narrowed and mouth curled into a pout. If not for the undercurrent of fondness to it, Astarion would shut down entirely and put up his emotional walls, but the slight affection to the way Iorveth calls him ridiculous is enough to keep him from closing in on himself. Pathetic.

He braves sitting up again, although he brings the knee of his uninjured leg to his chest, wrapping his arms around it as if to protect himself. ]

You've given me some sort of horrible affliction, [ he accuses before his tone turns almost disbelieving. ] I want to keep you safe.

[ It's awful. He can hardly believe people live like this all the time, just caring about people willy-nilly. ]

[ Iorveth's turn, as he digests that horrible, achingly wanted word, safe, to think about audacity. The affectionate smirk fades, making way for surprise mixed with a kneejerk instinct to pull back and away. Safe, as if there's ever been anyone in one hundred years who could've tried to assure him of the possibility of it.

It's staggering, coming from Astarion. If anyone'd asked him before Moonrise Towers, under the threat of death, to choose one person out of the group he'd likely feel secure around, Astarion wouldn't even have been on the list of candidates.

Stupid. Utterly foolish. He can't believe Astarion would do this to him, would blindside him, would break beyond casual interest to whatever-the-fuck this is.

Ugh. Iorveth leans sideways to press their mouths together, no finesse and all instinct. When he pulls back, it's only a sliver; he hisses, just as accusatory: ]

You've seen my face. You've had my blood. You've been in my bed. [ Another kiss, to punctuate the point. ] ―This is the safest I've ever felt, you fool.

[ For a horrible split second, he's afraid he said something wrong. He's never cared for someone, doesn't know the steps. The look of surprise on Iorveth's face makes his stomach drop, his inner voice berating him for ever saying something so stupid and vulnerable. His mouth is open in an instant, poised to take it back, say something cruel and hurtful that will give him back the power in this interaction— but then Iorveth's mouth is on his, and he's confused but certainly not displeased.

His brain shuts off after that, if it were ever on to begin with; Iorveth might as well be speaking in his Aen Seidhe dialect, for all that Astarion comprehends it. When he pulls away, Astarion wraps a hand around the nape of his neck, chasing him. It's only as he's attempting to slide his tongue inside Iorveth's mouth that he remembers the conversation they were having only moments ago, and he pulls himself back with some effort. ]

You won't feel safe when you're staring down a vampire lord in his lair.

[ When that started mattering to him, he's not sure. He thinks back to Henselt, how he'd refused every out he was given with some excuse or another. How he'd had the chance to leave Iorveth for dead and couldn't do it, how he'd lied and said he had a better chance of survival with Iorveth because he couldn't bear to admit that he might actually care. ]

I just— don't want something to happen. [ To you, is the unsaid meaning. ]

[ Iorveth knows exactly what his response might've been to "I don't want something to happen to you", if it was either spoken in the past or by someone else: "I've evaded the gallows for more than a century, and I don't need to be condescended to." But it's Astarion saying it, with all of his complexities and context, and it makes Iorveth ache, not angry.

He should be gentler about pulling their bodies close, but kissing Astarion again feels too urgent. The entire party could come back right now, burst through that door, and he would hardly register it. Far too busy closing the gap, parting his lips for better access to Astarion's tongue, trying to taste him. His voice is a low rasp by the time he tips back for air, his breathing verging on ragged. ]

And? Do you think I could bear it if something happened to you in my absence?

[ He could, technically. He knows that he's endured loss many times over, and that he'll continue to endure whatever he must until he finally dies from it. But the grief would be immense, and holding it would break something in him, as these things always do. He would become even more jagged than he already is, would never invite anyone else into his space again.

He lowers his head, letting their foreheads touch. ] It's you that Cazador wants. I'll not stand idly by.

[ He feels thoughtless and fuzzy from the inviting heat of Iorveth's mouth, eyes a little glazed over and unfocused when they separate. How thrilling, to have someone express that they care so plainly and assertively. The naked affection of it feels downright salacious, his face hot as if Iorveth has just said something scandalous. It is scandalous, these exchanged words far more intimate than anything he's ever done with his body. ]

You unbearable man, [ he says, although he doesn't sound particularly upset. ] You're intolerably vexing.

[ Astarion has never had anything for his own before; he longs to lock it away, keep it safe so no one can take it. It's exasperating that Iorveth won't just listen to him, won't just do what he says. It's a similar irritation to when Iorveth rejected the idea of being kept, although the feeling is buffered by fondness.

Warning: ] I'm going to be very upset with you if you die.

[ Even then, death is hardly the worst thing that Cazador could do to him. Iorveth will resent Astarion, he's sure, if he's forced into subjugation again for his sake. ]

—I forbid it, actually.

[ Fingers flutter along Astarion's slightly-flushed cheek, enamored by the temperature change. Iorveth's tone matches the touch, his usual drawl made warmer by the irritatingly pervasive sense of endearment that sits in the back of his throat. ]

"Upset". [ He parrots the term, tracing Astarion's jaw. ] Well. We can't have that, can we.

[ A string of words that could've sounded mocking if not for the way he punctuates the statement, again, with a light kiss. It's his way of conceding to something he never really would in any other situation― death is fickle, and it'll eventually come for him. After all, he's not an undead immortal.

Oh well. Pragmatism can come later. He tucks a piece of hair behind Astarion's hair, and shifts back to give him more breathing room. ]

I've done many men the discourtesy of surviving, for over a century. Cazador won't be the thing that kills me, I assure you.

[ Astarion isn't so certain that's an assurance that can be made, but he doesn't fight it. Iorveth is incorrigibly stubborn, and no amount of arguing will sway him — gods, it might actually entrench him in his position further. It'll have to be Astarion's anxiety to grit his teeth and bear.

He lets his hand slide down Iorveth's neck, his shoulder, and then onto the mattress. A physical letting go to accompany his metaphorical one. A sigh, then: ]

We can discuss the finer points of vampiricide later.

[ Not that he has much to add to the discussion. His plan at the moment is mostly to stake Cazador over and over again until he stops moving. ]

I suppose I'll allow you to go shopping without me, if needs must.

[ He snorts at allow, giving Astarion a warning poke near the bandaged wound on his thigh. The meanest elf in the world will allow Astarion the exclusivity of his softness, the impossible matters of his heart, but he's still fundamentally Iorveth. ]

After I send for someone. It's unwise to leave you alone in this place.

[ The bed creaks, and Iorveth gets up onto his feet. Gathering all the stolen goods, he packs them up again and slots them behind his usual supplies, out of immediate view without hiding them altogether. It's not like he's ashamed of stealing from someone that attacked them, provocation aside.

Afterwards, he writes a quick note on parchment before wandering towards the window, waiting by its edge until he spots a courier pigeon; wood elf charisma accompanied by Animal Friendship ensures that his pointed demand for Shadowheart to come back will be delivered quickly.

With that done, he can gear himself up to find that half-elf and do very untoward things to him for information. ] Do you want anything from the city?

Ow. [ He pouts as the jab, more dramatic than is strictly necessary.

Astarion doesn't need to be babysat, but he won't argue with a few more minutes of precious time alone with Iorveth, either. Soon the others will return, and if Iorveth's behavior this morning was any indication, he won't pay Astarion nearly as much attention when there are prying eyes around. Leaning back on his hands, he watches as Iorveth casts his magic. A useful little trick.

He quips, ] A scroll of Silence will come in handy once Shadowheart sees what we've gotten up to.

[ She's on her last nerve with their tomfoolery. He can already hear her scolding him while she heals his wounds. With that future in mind, he waves a hand dismissively. ]

Sweet of you to offer, but I got everything I needed from our hunter friend today. [ "Friend". ] Unless you see something particularly shiny, that is.

[ T-minus however-many minutes until Lae'zel and Shadowheart show up and bang the banhammer on Iorveth and Astarion doing anything together. Hypocritical, Iorveth thinks. It wasn't long ago that the women were trying to claw each other's eyes out after every conversation, and look at them now.

(A mental stutter, here. Hells, is that how the others are going to perceive them now. "Iorveth's spent this entire journey looking at Astarion like he wanted to kill him, and look at him now"? Mortifying.)

It is what it is. He slips gloves back onto his callused hands, walks back towards Astarion, and spends a brief moment wondering if he should kiss him again; no dice. He can hear voices outside, Shadowheart clearly having used a Waypoint to expedite her journey, and that's Iorveth's cue. ]

Later, then. [ A thin smile, and an awkward flexing of his fingers. A conscious decision not to touch Astarion again, lest it delay him further. Footsteps are coming up the stairs, and Iorveth slips out through the open window and up onto the roof, narrowly evading the stormlike presence that is a wrathful Shadowheart.

He hears her yelling "twice!! In one day!!". In his mind's eye, he sees two albino magpies crowing at each other; it's so annoying how fond he is of these morons now. ]

[ Shadowheart is, as expected, unimpressed by the buffoonery they've engaged in. He keeps it vague; no need to explain that they went looking for monster hunters to rob. To hear him tell it, a bar fight—"What in the hells were you doing drinking at this hour?"—followed them out the door, and Astarion was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of their opponent's blade.

As Shadowheart reprimands him like a schoolteacher speaking to a particularly unruly student, Lae'zel comments that it always seems to be the two of them getting into violent trouble. "If neither of you are skilled enough to defend the other, perhaps you should seek more proficient company." He glowers at that.

The healing glow of Selûnite magic patches up the worst of his pain, although Shadowheart warns that he'll be sore until he rests. Rest he does, although sitting idle after kissing Iorveth like that is a difficult task. He thieves a racy-looking book from Shadowheart's pack when she's occupied speaking with Lae'zel and absconds back to Iorveth's bed, where he lies reading about the unlikely but steamy romance between two paladins of opposing faiths while trying to tune out the unlikely but steamy romance between Shadowheart and Lae'zel.

After a while, his mind drifts to Iorveth again, which has nothing to do with the unholy acts the paladins are engaging in on the page. Every slight noise has him looking up, wondering if Iorveth has returned — then immediately stuffing his nose back into his book, trying to seem uninterested. Gods forbid he seem desperate. ]

[ Wyll returns first, then Karlach, then Gale. Iorveth is a straggler, the sun low against the horizon by the time he walks back in, bare-handed with his very noticeably bloodied gloves tucked under one elbow. Scratch circles his feet with uneasy concern before deciding that the copper scent on the wood elf isn't the familiar scent of said wood elf's blood, and thus warrants no further investigation; away he goes, back by the foot of Jaheira's bed, leaving Iorveth to peer over towards his space to find Astarion still perched there, reading.

"He's been there all day," Karlach grins at him, nudging with her elbow. "When'd you two get so close?"

Iorveth brushes by her, brow raised. "For me to know and none of you to find out."

(Karlach hurries back to Wyll, and whisper-yells: "he didn't deny close!")

Depositing his soiled gloves on the floor next to the bed, Iorveth approaches Astarion with his usual straight-backed poise, single eye flitting over the title of the book that Astarion is holding. It makes the corner of his lips twitch, amused.

Unhitching his bow from its sling across his back: ] I would imagine that two paladins fucking would be dreadfully dull.

[ Astarion answers with feigned casualness, like he hasn't been thinking about Iorveth this whole time, getting impatient waiting for his return so he can— well, he's not entirely sure. Stare at him from a respectable distance away? Suddenly, these roommates are cramping his style. ]

Mm, I don't know. All that repression does add a little something.

[ He chooses not to investigate what that says about his attraction to Iorveth.

His eyes finally flick up from the page he's been rereading for the past few minutes, falling to Iorveth's bloodied gloves. Putting down His Holy Lance, he raises a suspicious eyebrow. ]

Shopping is rather gorier than I remember it being.

[ Blood on his gloves, blood on his lapel, streaks of blood against the side of his trousers. The others might not have called him out on it, but Iorveth knows that he must reek of copper. A bath or a washcloth would do him a world of good.

Without sitting next to Astarion on the bed (yet), he starts taking off his disparate pieces of armor in preparation for the night. A marked change from the beginning of their journey, when Iorveth would sleep fully armed and away from their campfire. ]

I was shopping for information. [ You know, because that's a normal thing that normal people who aren't completely unhinged do. He does reach into his pocket, though, and fishes out a gold ring with a ruby inset to toss Astarion's way. A souvenir, though the style of it might be a little too bulky for Astarion's refined tastes. ] The half-elf in the tavern didn't know much, but he gave me enough.

[ Again, just normal things that a normal person says about a day out in town. Iorveth rolls his shoulders, working out tension as he sniffs his collar. Ugh. ]

[ The incredulous look Astarion gives Iorveth is based not on the fact that he'd (apparently) maim a man, but that he'd do it for Astarion's sake. Pleasure blooms in his chest. Iorveth tortured a monster hunter for him; gods, he could swoon. ]

You might have invited me along.

[ Astarion does have ample experience torturing, albeit not by his own will. He rubs the ring against his shirt in case there's any blood on that, too, and slips it on his finger to admire. A little heavy on his spindly—or delicate, he prefers to think—finger, but there's sentimental value to it.

Glancing up again, he asks mildly, ] And where is he now?

[ Another enemy to keep his eyes peeled for? ]

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