nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ It occurs to him, as Iorveth watches the woman fuss about, that so much of what Astarion got away with in the past was precisely because he acted in the cover of night, with a bunch of drunk fools who didn't care to pay attention. In the light of the mid-morning sun, Astarion's stark appearance does invite a certain level of alarm.

Time to throw him a bone. ] He's recovering from an illness. [ A hand to Astarion's elbow, as if to support his weight. ] He can't eat, but he can't seem to stay in bed, either. Humor him.

[ The woman buys the excuse; finds it sweet of the two of them, even. She promises to bring them a pot of tea as soon as they sit down, and disappears into the kitchen once Iorveth finds a nice table for the both of them. A corner seat near a window that looks out onto the street, where Iorveth can watch an assortment of faces and races pass by in relative states of peace and contentment. The occasional Steel Watcher mars the scenery, but their presence isn't as oppressive as they are in other parts of the city.

After they get their tea and Iorveth orders enough food for two: ] Sunlight suits you.

[ It's a little strange to sit at the table with Iorveth and not partake, but he does his best not to just sit and watch as Iorveth eats, no matter how appealing it might be. He glances out the window, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his skin as he watches a halfling who must be late for work hurrying along, scarfing down a roll on her way.

As he turns back to Iorveth, he runs the back of his hand across his own cheek. Dryly: ] Yes, I think I'm getting a tan.

[ He frowns faintly. It's just too bad he has to rely on the tadpole for it. ]

I will miss it, after. [ After the Netherbrain, after the tadpole is gone. He won't miss the feeling of something alive writhing around in his head, but— to go back to hiding in the dark and needing permission to enter homes feels unbearable. ] Unless...

[ If he completed that ritual of Cazador's, he'd never need to fear the sun again. He trails off before finishing that thought. Iorveth wouldn't approve, he thinks sullenly. ]

Unless.

[ He pours himself a cup of tea, and doesn't finish that thought until the woman hurrying over finishes laying out the first round of Iorveth's breakfast on the table. A stack of honeyed cakes, eggs, and cold cuts. Perhaps surprisingly, Iorveth makes a beeline for the sweets first.

After a mouthful of pastry: ] If you ascend, [ a hypothetical, ] what would you do with your new power?

[ No limits, no tethers. What does an all-powerful immortal do with all that authority, besides fear losing it all over again? It seems a miserable position to be in, with no respite in sight. ]

[ It's charming, that Iorveth goes for the sweet things first. Astarion would have pegged him as the type to eschew treats without any real nutritional value, but he's discovering new things about him every day. He watches Iorveth for a moment, endeared, before he answers. ]

I don't know what you mean.

[ Translation: he hasn't thought about it yet. He just wants them, covets them. Being powerful is enough. Does it matter what he does with it? ]

I'll— [ He waves a hand, physically grasping for words. ] Enjoy them, of course.

[ Sugar is a rare decadence; before this journey, he'd been without for, what, a few decades? He savors the sweetness in his mouth, and is reminded of suckling on honeycombs when he was still a small, careless little thing.

Packing the food away with alarming speed and casualness, he raises his brow at Astarion's non-answer. He'd expected it, to an extent, but still. ]

I don't expect you'd be enjoying them without using them in some way.

[ And the only way power becomes worth anything is if it's relative to things that have no power. Subtle hints from Iorveth, which is probably not want Astarion wants to hear after Iorveth put his mouth on his dick.

But, well. If the most Astarion has thought about ascending is the potential for him to walk in the sun again, there could be other fixes for that. Iorveth takes a sip of tea, and wipes his mouth. ]

[ Astarion raises an eyebrow at Iorveth's appetite. He'd thought he might let Astarion feed him, at least in some playful sort of way. Now, he only thinks to stay out of the way. The sight makes him wonder. Did Iorveth have this much food, back when he was fighting for his forest? Or did he have to make do without, and now he's gorging himself, the way Astarion does now that he finally has the taste of blood that isn't from festering rats?

Not the time to ask. It seems a rather gloomy subject. He concentrates instead on imagining what he might do as the vampire lord of Baldur's Gate. The only real model he has for that life is Cazador, but... he'd be different. Better. Somehow. ]

I'd only have to use them to dissuade anyone who thinks they can hurt me. Or to punish those who've tried.

[ The kindly old lady is all too happy to see Iorveth demolishing her food like an elf-shaped Bag of Holding; she clears one empty plate and replaces it with a stack of scones and little jars of different jams, oblivious to the fact that she's in the presence of a terrorist and the potential future Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate.

Licking honey off his thumb: ] Mm. [ Of all the things Astarion's said, that's something that Iorveth doesn't feel needs reproaching. ] That, I understand.

[ Protect what you're entitled to, and fight for your own freedom. Astarion has two hundred years of injustice for Cazador and his ilk to repay in full― that makes sense to Iorveth. ]

I'll not preach over breakfast. Call it idle curiosity. [ Obviously, he still has opinions about ascension, but he'll be content with knowing that Astarion hasn't actually given it too much thought. ] It's in my interest to know that you intend to be happy, at any rate.

[ The only time he's ever really felt happy was when he was with Iorveth. The realization makes him sad, and then angry with Iorveth for intending to take that away, and then shameful for wanting more than Iorveth is willing to give when he should make himself content with the fleeting joy he already doesn't deserve. It all mixes up into a feeling he can only describe as bad.

He's never been good at dealing with 'bad'. As he attempts to stuff those feelings back in the box and reenter the world of delusion he'd been in a moment ago, he curls up in his chair and leans his head against the window. Outside, a man and woman walk hand-in-hand, smiling and chatting. He sort of wants to set them on fire for being happy. ]

Mm-hmm, [ he says, sullen and petulant, before he manages to kick those emotions under the rug where they belong. A change of subject is in order, so he glances back at Iorveth, canting his head at the plate. ] What a sweet tooth you have, darling. Now I know what makes you so sweet.

[ Iorveth observes the stormclouds gathering above Astarion's head, and wonders which part of what he'd said was the culprit: the fact that he could've preached? The mention of his curiosity being idle? The use of the h-word?

A scone disappears into his mouth as he thinks, and he's still chewing when Astarion abruptly decides to stop brooding. No matter. He'll have the rest of the day to try to figure out where Astarion's head is at. ]

The entirety of the North would laugh, if they heard you. [ Including some of his own, who don't entirely agree with his methods even if they appreciate the sentiment. He laughs about it, and manages not to sound as bitter as he might have. ] Not even Ciaran would call me "sweet".

[ Or so he believes. He doesn't think he's ever given anyone any reason to think him capable of it, even now; he's been softer with Astarion, but he's not sure if that's the same as being sweet. Halsin is sweet, Wyll is sweet, Gale is sweet. ]

[ Astarion doesn't mention that Ciaran seemed like sort of a dick anyway. Even if he is, he's a dick who Iorveth loves, so he figures he shouldn't say such things. Not because Iorveth's love for him makes him unworthy of reproach, but because Astarion doesn't want to end up in the doghouse for disparaging Iorveth's brethren. ]

Good. I should be the only one you're sweet to.

[ It makes him feel special, being the recipient of Iorveth's softness. Special in a good way, unlike all of the bad ways he was special to Cazador. He wouldn't care if Iorveth wanted to fuck every last person in the city and then some, but he might die of rage and jealousy if Iorveth spoke to anyone else like he does to Astarion. He and Halsin could share in nature's bounty like the tree-hugging wood elves they are all they want, as long as Iorveth is mean to him afterward.

He slides a foot under the table, hooking an ankle around Iorveth's. ]

I don't like to share.

[ A soft huff, dry, though he makes no move to dislodge from the sudden tangle of their limbs. ]

If you've noticed, [ as he piles more jam onto his next scone, ] you don't have much in the way of competition.

[ He is, as he sees it, the least eligible bachelor in Faerûn. Too busy, too mean, too disfigured. A stark contrast to Astarion, who wears his charm with as much ease as his beauty. Reality is more complicated than that, of course, but it's hardly Astarion who has to worry about sharing.

That said, something warm pulses between Iorveth's ribs at the clear indication that, impossibly, his affection is wanted. Only would have rankled if it came out of anyone else's mouth; in that way, Astarion is correct. He is the only person that Iorveth is so permissive with. ]

And, besides― [ he says, toeing against the side of Astarion's leg, ] ―there won't be another like you. Not in the North, not in this city. Not in my lifetime.

[ Astarion visibly blooms at the praise, sinking into his chair in embarrassed delight. Is it bad to hope for Iorveth to be lonely and miserable without him when he returns to his forest? Probably. He still does, a little. Like he said, he doesn't share well with others. ]

There you go, being sweet again.

[ Because it is sweet. Just like buying that eyepatch to please him was sweet, just like the way he fixed Astarion's hair and wiped the blood from his face was sweet. He feels sick with fondness, the feeling foreign and a little anxiety-provoking. Hating someone feels powerful, protective, familiar. Liking someone feels out of his control, disgustingly vulnerable, alien. ]

Ugh, you really have to stop.

[ He doesn't look like he wants Iorveth to stop, the tips of his ears pink with pleasure. ]

[ Is it sweet, if it's just Iorveth telling the truth? He finishes clearing his plate, one eye narrowing in ill-concealed fondness as Astarion seems to glow in the morning light. His sincerity was hard-earned, but worth everything. ]

"Kindness gives you hives", was it?

[ A knowing hum. Callback to when Iorveth'd been far more prickly when told to stop, offended that Astarion'd even teasingly pushed back on something that he rarely offers; now, all he does is laugh under his breath and finish his cup of tea. ]

I think I enjoy watching you squirm.

[ He has the rest of this entire day to give Astarion even more metaphorical hives. A threat and a promise from the meanest elf in the world, who sets his silverware aside to admire the view in front of him: Astarion, flushed and pretty. ]

[ He absolutely is squirming under the uncomfortable joy of being liked, but that really doesn't jive with his devil may care rake image. Astarion wills himself to stop burning up with glee and turns his nose up. Mustering up all the bravado he has inside of him, he leans forward, across the table, and croons, ] Mm. I think you're the one who's been doing the squirming today.

[ As he leans back in his chair, he taps Iorveth's leg with his boot playfully. Squirm isn't the right word, exactly. It doesn't do justice to what he got to watch, Iorveth soft and shockingly pliant under his hands. The feeling of his head resting on Astarion's shoulder is going to be on repeat for at least the next century. ]

How quickly one goes from 'oh no, you'll make a mess' to 'ravish me, you beast'.

[ This is, perhaps, not the most truthful recounting, but it's what he chooses to believe happened. ]

Edited (YOU DIDN'T SEE ME EDIT THIS TWICE) 2024-08-04 23:25 (UTC)

[ The sweet old woman comes by to take Iorveth's empty plate, and spares a surprised oh when she catches the tail end of "ravish me, you beast". Blushing pink, she hurriedly sets a bowl of oatmeal in front of the stern-looking one, murmuring "I promise not to eavesdrop, dears," and scurries back to her kitchen sanctuary.

Iorveth doesn't even have time to frown. He blinks, bemused, then cycles between indignance and amusement, finally settling on obstinate acknowledgment over a mouthful of oatmeal-bathed fruit. ]

I've wanted you for a while now. [ Which explains the incredibly stupid stunt he pulled, which he's now being forced to recognize over breakfast. Breakfast. Again, he's shocked at himself for not even waiting until after lunch; Iorveth is his own harshest critic. ] I'll not apologize for being eager.

[ Was it embarrassing? Yes. Is he going to say that it was a mistake? No. Vanity is weakness and lust is a distraction, but wanting something is fuel for the soul. He glances at Astarion, spoon in mouth, as unafraid and blunt as ever. ]

[ The interruption of their cute old server doesn't rattle Astarion at all. He's said far dirtier in public. Honestly, this is keeping it clean for him. He shoots her (what he believes to be) his most charming smile as she absconds back to the kitchen. As long as she brings Iorveth food, she can eavesdrop all she'd like. The way he scarfs down all of this food gives Astarion a bittersweet feeling; he knows what it is to be hungry, to go without, and he suddenly finds the idea of Iorveth doing so intolerable. ]

Oh, I don't want you to apologize. Eager is enticing.

[ He's had people be eager for intimacy before, but not like that. Other people were eager like someone eager to play with their new toy, an object to be used for their own gratification. And why wouldn't they see it that way? They were just drunk strangers he picked up at a tavern. Iorveth, though, was different. He didn't make Astarion feel interchangeable. ]

You know— [ Now he really is squirming, stumbling unusually over his words. ] That was the first time I... or at least the first time I wanted to—

[ Ugh, this is humiliating. He glances off to the side. ]

I only mean to say that, well. It was nice, is all.

[ The first time. Ironically, this isn't the first time Astarion has expressed this particular sentiment－ the first time he's drank blood, the first time he did anything for anybody without running away, the first time he kissed someone without it being unpleasant－ and though the sentiment makes Iorveth want to reach across the table and kiss Astarion breathless again, he also thinks of Cazador.

He thinks of stepping on Cazador's throat until his neck snaps. Of putting a knife through his skull. Of burning him in the same sunlight that makes Astarion look so striking. (It's too bad that he doesn't actually have a clue as to what the monster looks like.) Iorveth thinks these things without moving his face at all, his composure without reproach, swallowing that familiar feeling of simmering anger with easy practice.

Swallowing his food, Iorveth sets down his spoon and touches his palm to Astarion's cheek. ]

...I'd expect you to tell me if you didn't want anything. Loudly, and preferably with a blade.

[ An affectionate joke. "I'm glad, and you're free to tell me to fuck off if you ever want to." After a moment, he does decide to crane forward and press a brief kiss to the corner of Astarion's mouth, which is noticed by another couple walking by their window. Whatever. Let them look. ]

Edited 2024-08-05 01:27 (UTC)

[ Unconsciously, Astarion leans his cheek into Iorveth's hand, not unlike a cat nuzzling its person's palm. He laughs a little at the dramatics of turning Iorveth down with a blade to the throat, but it's affectionate. That Iorveth encourages him to say 'no' is strange and endearing and oddly alluring. He doesn't know how to explain that Iorveth offering not to blow him made him want Iorveth to blow him really, really bad, though, so he doesn't try, only shaking his head lightly. ]

I think I've had my fill of using my blade on you.

[ As appealing as it was to see Iorveth bloodied and unhinged. There will certainly be other opportunities to see that, so he isn't overly concerned.

An afterthought: ] Unless, of course, you ask me to.

[ He's not sure how freaky Iorveth is. He was shockingly ready to go right after killing two people. ]

But otherwise— hm. [ Sounding incredulous even as he says it: ] I find that I'd rather be nice to you. I really am going to break out in hives.

[ Iorveth tucks that "unless you ask" into a mental pocket for safekeeping, freak that he is. Which isn't to say that the rest of what Astarion says isn't noted with equal amounts of care, because it is: there's something a little funny about two grown-ass adult elves finding it shocking that they want to be kind, but it's a breakthrough nevertheless. ]

Your loss, my gain. [ A subtle smile, cast to the side. Reserved, but pleased. ] I'll ask Shadowheart for lotion to put on your skin.

[ Gods, Iorveth hopes one of Astarion's siblings interrupts them right now, just so he can have a way to vent all this fondness into something practical. Preferably the one with the bad hair, Petras. Otherwise he's going to have to ask the kind old lady to wrap everything else left in a basket and tug Astarion into an inn that isn't Elfsong, and do heinous things like brush his hair and call him pretty. Absurd. ]

There is one thing that I've been interested in, now that you mention "nice".

[ Oh, that smile. Astarion thinks about complimenting him on it, although he wonders if Iorveth will take the praise. He doesn't care what Iorveth looks like, a shocking turn of events for someone whose relationships—if one can even call them that—have been entirely shallow, but he is more good-looking than he thinks. (And even more good-looking when looked at with Astarion's current debuffs: Rose-Colored Glasses and Had An Orgasm.)

It's second nature to react to just about anything flippantly, so he raises an eyebrow and grins, saying, ] Oh? Is it that you'd like to rub lotion all over my soft, supple skin? That would be very nice.

[ Only after does he fear Iorveth might see this as pushback in some way, tetchy as he can be, so he clears his throat and waves a hand as if to wave that quip away. ]

Do tell me. I'm all ears.

[ Good thing Iorveth has gained levels in Astarion Handling, which gives him a +5 proficiency bonus and a higher probability of rolling a nat 20 on patience check rolls. He only looks like he wants to say "will you take me fucking seriously" for a fraction of a second, which is a marked improvement over pre-leveled Iorveth, who would both have said it and also have gotten up to leave. Whether or not the leveling is a boon or a bane is yet to be seen.

For now, he's content to let this crush on Astarion take him where it will. Possibly in Cazador's dungeon for the rest of his life, but that's a pessimistic outlook on things. Instead of focusing on that not-nice thing, he will choose, instead, to focus on the nice thing, which is: ]

You mentioned before that you can mend shirts.

[ The kind old woman peers out from the kitchen, wondering when the two handsome elves have switched from talking about ravaging each other to. Well. Shirt mending. Very charming of them, she thinks. Iorveth notices her watching, but decides to keep going. ]

If you're any good at needlework, you could teach me.

[ Without elaborating on why he'd want to learn. ]

Of course I'm good at it.

[ To the tune of how dare you suggest otherwise. It's not a talent he's particularly keen to show off, unlike knifework or lockpicking, but it's one he worked at all the same. When he'd first torn a shirt and realized there would be no replacement, he'd worked tirelessly, pricking his fingers with the needle, only to have an incredibly ugly-looking repair. Deft as his fingers may be, he'd never bothered to mend anything in his previous life, and it took years to build up the proficiency that he has now. ]

I could teach you, [ he says slowly, brow furrowed in confusion. ] But I don't see why you'd want to learn.

[ He'd already said before that he intended to simply replace his ruined shirt. Most people probably would. It's only Astarion that finds it hard to let go of his things, even when it's decidedly time. That's probably a metaphor, but he chooses not to examine it. ]

[ Examining why Astarion is so good at mending his things will only cause Iorveth to want to kill Cazador more, so he sets that aside for a rainy day (if it rains between now and their attack on the Szarr mansion); instead, this is where he actually squirms a bit, realigning his posture against the back of his seat and finding a more comfortable way to cross his too-long legs under the table.

While he's composing his answer, the sweet-faced woman approaches Iorveth and asks him if he'd like anything else ("I've never seen anyone clean these plates as nicely as you did, dear!"); he shakes his head first, pauses, then retracts the gesture to ask for a few more cakes to take back with him.

Watching the delighted proprietress bustle back to her station, he finally answers offhandedly: ] I thought I would embroider something on your shirt.

[ There's a warning somewhere in there, the familiar "I am going to be so angry if you make fun of me for this". So much of Iorveth's cageyness comes from the overarching principle of "why should I tell you anything when you'd tell me to shove it up my ass", which he realizes is a defense mechanism that he's built up from decades of dealing with humans who have been callous with things that are important to him; it doesn't apply to Astarion, not really, but old habits die hard. ]

Edited 2024-08-05 04:50 (UTC)

[ The owner of this cozy little place is intolerably adorable, even by Astarion's misanthropic standards, and he can't help the dimple in his cheek as he watches her scurry away to box up more sweet treats for Iorveth. He's reaching into his coin purse and placing her pay on the table when Iorveth answers, terribly casual and off-the-cuff for what he's suggesting, and Astarion glances up at him in surprise.

It isn't that he finds the idea in any way laughable, and in fact the offer fills him with the giddy joy of a teenager being asked on a date for the first time. It's instinct to deflect and repress when it comes to any strong emotion, though, a holdover from the centuries when expressing his thoughts and feelings was just about the most dangerous thing he could do. Only the slight warning edge of Iorveth's voice stops him from making some cheeky remark, it giving him pause just long enough to consider that Iorveth seems to respond better to authenticity. After all, he'd been so soft after Astarion simply told him that he liked him.

Being sincere feels odd, but it's a concession he's willing to make. ]

All right. I'll teach you.

[ He even holds himself back from making a comment about dirty student-teacher roleplay. That's growth. He does, however, say, ] I would like to see your nimble fingers in action.

[ In his defense, that's true. ]

Are you going to tell me what it'll be, or am I to be kept in suspense?

[ Iorveth can tell, plainly, that Astarion is Trying. How can he tell? Because Iorveth, too, is Trying. Or, more accurately, acclimating to the bizarre comfort of being around someone he trusts and wants to be around to do something as benign as embroidering fabric. He finishes the last of the tea in the pot, and relaxes into his seat. ]

I haven't decided yet. I don't expect that you'd want anything wood-related.

[ Gesturing to the leaves and branches that curl up his neck and disappear under his shirt, as an example. As much as he thinks an embroidered leaf would look pretty on Astarion's collar, it probably isn't to his taste. He's thinking of alternatives when their thoughtful server returns with a generously-sized box of treats; she sets it in front of Iorveth, and implores them to come by again with a gentleness that makes him overlook the fact that her ears don't taper at their tips. She beams when he nods in assent and turns towards Astarion next, soft eyes twinkling in morning light.

"There's some extra biscuits in there for you, too― for when you get your appetite back. Don't let your darling eat them all!"

Such nice boys, she says to herself, gathering the coin from the table. Never mind that she's less than half of both of their ages. ]

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