nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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. ]

You heard her, darling, [ Astarion teases. ] You mustn't hog all the biscuits, or I'll leave you for this beautiful creature.

[ He places a hand on the old woman's shoulder, shooting her a megawatt grin. She giggles, cheeks pinking with the pleasure of receiving a compliment usually reserved for those who are young and spry. "Oh, goodness," she exclaims, bashful. "Compliments like that should be reserved for your sweetheart!" ]

Yes, you're right. [ Astarion slips out from their table, extending a hand instead of tugging on Iorveth's arm or sleeve like he normally does. The watchful eye of the proprietress makes him self-conscious of his charmingness-to-demandingness ratio. His grin turns impish as he says, ] Come along, my sweetheart.

[ The woman smiles and turns to return to her work, and then Astarion does tug on Iorveth's arm. A leopard can't change its bossy spots. ]

A sun, perhaps. [ Apropos of nothing, so he adds, ] For the embroidery, I mean.

[ The torrential downpour of precious diminutives is staggering. Darlings, Iorveth hears being tossed around with casual finality, and he wonders if that's what they actually look like. Two normal elves with normal lives that normally revolve around each other. He wonders if that's what Astarion wants, and the unlikeliness of being able to provide that for him feels like a thorn lodged in the back of his throat.

He doesn't let it show, of course. The box of treats gets tucked under one arm, and the other, he lets Astarion grab to pull him back on his (willing) feet. His lips tug into a subtle smile again, despite existential misgivings. ]

A sun. It'd suit.

[ Whoever's heard of a vampire with a sun motif? No one, that's who. But Astarion isn't like anyone else, and being contradictory becomes him. Nodding at their kind host one last time, Iorveth threads his fingers around Astarion's and steps back out into the now-busy streets of the city. ]

―Speaking of suns. [ An epiphany!! ] We could borrow the Blood of Lathander from Lae'zel.

[ Never mind what they'd tell her they'd be using it for. "Elf business". ]

[ Iorveth's hand on his as they depart into the midday streets is unexpected, but not unwelcome. Sure, Iorveth got on his knees for him in a public shop, but handholding on the street—really handholding, not just for show like before—feels positively exhibitionist. He'd expected Iorveth to be repressed and restrained down to even the most innocent gestures of affection, perhaps even more so with them. (Hells, it probably does say something that Astarion had his hand down Iorveth's pants before they truly held hands.) It would have been fine, of course. He's used to making do with scraps.

But it feels immeasurably good not to have to. He grips Iorveth's hand a little tighter, a spring in his step as they make their way down the cobblestoned streets. ]

Oh, Cazador would hate that.

[ So of course he likes the idea, although he's been put in such a good mood by the handholding that he'd twirl his hair and say wow, Iorveth, you're sooo smart to just about anything right now. ]

And I do like the thought of reducing him to a pile of ash.

[ It's probably one of the top three fantasies he lulls himself to sleep at night with. Oh, the way Cazador would scream and scream. The only wrench in the plan is the words 'borrow' and 'from Lae'zel'. She's not exactly the type to lend easily, even if they nearly got disintegrated to procure it for her in the first place. ]

But, ugh, you know she'll make us jump through hoops. Can't we just steal it from her?

[ The frankly tiresome and overwrought process to get the weapon in question seems entirely worth the trouble, now that there's a real use for it. It's been languishing in their storage, a divine weapon, because Lae'zel prefers swords to maces. Apparently, it's lame to use a glorified night-light to vanquish foes; mostly, Iorveth didn't think getting a literally shiny new toy justified being nearly vaporized. ]

We could, [ he concedes, ] though it's not an easy thing to conceal.

[ He has no hands left to gesture with, so he shrugs his shoulders in a vague approximation of "it's bright". ]

It would be easier to convince Lae'zel that you need it for protection, if your pride would allow it.

[ A practical excuse, but not a particularly flattering one. In truth, Iorveth doesn't find Astarion's spawn siblings particularly threatening at all; he finds them roughly as threatening as Astarion, so.

You know. Things he won't say, especially not in this particular moment. ] ...Are we going to be heading back to Elfsong tonight?

[ The thought of convincing Lae'zel sounds humiliating. Astarion can picture her now, standing there with her arms crossed, looking up at him with a frown and a raised eyebrow as he explains that he needs to be able to burn his siblings to a crisp. Maybe he can blame it on the others, instead. Say that he needs to be able to defend them at a moment's notice, should the need arise.

Lae'zel probably won't believe that. He'll have to think of something better.

He cocks his head at Iorveth's question, swinging their hands a little, enjoying the feeling. ]

Why? You can't get enough of alone time with me?

[ Preening a little: ] Well, I can hardly blame you.

[ He notes that Astarion doesn't answer the question, which he interprets as a "no, my ego would not enjoy having to say that I require protection". They'll have to go over logistics later, then, when he's feeling more amenable.

For now－ well. Iorveth snorts. ] Inns don't rent out rooms by the hour. [ The pragmatic and very boring answer for why he might want to spend the night with Astarion in different lodgings; he can't think of any other place that would provide privacy for coin.

That said, he also tests his grip around Astarion's fingers, thumbing along his knuckles with idle ease. ]

That, and I can still smell me on you. [ Leaning over, putting his nose to Astarion's collar for a moment. The gesture is as bold as it is blunt. ] ...If we're going to be in the same room with the others, we'll have to sleep in different beds tonight.

[ He doesn't think he needs to say why. ]

[ Iorveth blatantly smelling him in the middle of the street is so weird. Astarion is into it. He likes that Iorveth is a little freak, because maybe he's a bit of a little freak, too.

What he doesn't like is the suggestion that he'd be banished to his own bed right after getting used to having a person-shaped heated blanket. The thought is inhumane. Being kept from kissing all over Iorveth's face is unpleasant, but certainly doable. He can work around that and transmit Iorveth all sorts of dirty thoughts across the tadpole connection. What's really unforgivable, though, is. Well. The fact that he won't get cuddled — sue him. You can't just kick a cat off of your lap without proper recourse. ]

I'd be cold, [ he argues, offended. It doesn't take him more than half a second to decide, ] An inn it is, then.

[ He pauses. ]

—Ah, not the Flophouse.

[ The point is that Astarion should try not to make the rest of the party hate them both while they're all sharing a room, but that's a bridge they'll have to cross later. For tonight, Iorveth is free from judgment and free to be the little freak that he is. ]

The Flophouse is the antithesis of private. Unless you've a taste for actual exhibitionism [ holding hands in public doesn't count ], we'll find something with walls and a ceiling.

[ Any place that doesn't immediately advertise itself as a place where desperate drunks go for a quick tryst will do. Fortunately, they're in the part of the Lower City that connects to the heart of Baldur's Gate－ the neighborhood is full of stately manors and long-established estates, and the lodgings that pepper the area are for those with the means to eventually meander over to the Upper City. A little further down, and they'll be back at the manse that Henselt used to occupy, near the Chionthar and the Water Queen's House.

As he walks, he finds a sturdy-looking two-story inn with a sign that reads "The Spearhead", which feels suitably ironic enough for him and his spear-induced injury. He gravitates towards it, finally letting go of Astarion's hand. ]

We'll need an alias for the guestbook. Give me a name to use.

[ Ooh, walls and a ceiling. He feels like a princess.

Astarion kindly makes no mention of Iorveth liking his spearhead, because again, he'd like not to end up in the doghouse. Besides, he'd rather not make Iorveth change his mind when this inn is perfectly suitable. He's never been in it before, which is a good thing. It's too respectable for the sort of things he used inn rooms for. And too expensive. It's not exactly the swanky sort of place he'd like to bunk in—those are in the Upper City—but it has a certain charm. It's robust, made of dark-stained wood reinforced with iron brackets, and a bold-lettered sign bearing its name hangs above the entrance.

While it may not be the inn of choice for dignitaries and nobles, it doesn't look particularly seedy, which is a relief. He's had enough of seedy. ]

An alias?

[ He furrows his brow for a moment. The thought of using an alias never once occurred to him. It probably should have, and a long time ago, too, but he'd given his real name without a second thought. ]

Oh, I don't know. [ He waves his hand. ] Call me Gale of Waterdeep.

[ A beat passes, thoughtful. ]

Mm, unless that puts you off. Understandable, of course.

[ Iorveth's spent all day arranging the sharp features on his face to look less severe, and this is finally the thing that makes him look sour. ]

First his shirt, now his name.

[ A third invoking will have Gale magically appear in front of them, like a certain fictional character that doesn't exist in this universe. Iorveth huffs, stopping with one foot resting on the stone steps leading up to the inn's heavy wooden entrance. ]

Come on then, "Gale".

[ To the tune of "you asked for it". Play Gale games, win Gale prizes. (With apologies to Gale, who is blameless in this situation.) ]

[ If one could pout and grin at the same time, he would. He hates to see Iorveth make that surly face at him, but the cause of it is, well, a little bit funny. Gale, of all people? Astarion takes a step up toward the entrance, wrapping a hand around Iorveth's arm. ]

Oh, don't be jealous. [ Or do, he thinks, because it's unbearably cute. Gods, he really has lost himself if he's thinking about how cute Iorveth is. ] I'd much rather wear your shirt.

[ From an amorous standpoint, anyway. (From a fashion standpoint, he doubts Iorveth's clothing in its abilities to flatter him.) After all, Gale's shirt ended up ripped and discarded in Facemaker's dressing room.

He pulls Iorveth close, knocking their shoulders together, and teases, ] And, of course, it's your name I'd rather call out in sweet carnal ecstasy.

[ An older man takes this moment to exit the Spearhead. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he sputters a little. "The state of our youth nowadays! Whatever happened to decorum?" he grumbles as he passes them. ]

[ The sour look on his face turns slightly pointed, poised for a protest about not being jealous, until a nosy human decides that it's a good time to chide Astarion about decorum.

Automatically: ] Funny for a human to be so precious about sex, when all your kind ever do is fuck and multiply like vermin.

[ Mean. A back off, in no uncertain terms. Sure, Iorveth can be snappy at Astarion about excessive provocation, but that doesn't mean that he's going to stand around and let a human be patronizing about it. The man in question looks stunned by what he perceives is a very unearned clapback to his morally correct statement, and hurries away, red-faced; Iorveth huffs through his aquiline nose, and mutters something in Aen Seidhe under his breath. "Bloede dh'oine." ]

Come. I'm tired of sharing our space with others. [ The spirit of Gale included. Tugging Astarion along, he hastily writes a name ("Isengrim") in the guest book sitting on the check-in counter and strongarms the innkeep into giving them the corner room on the second floor; it's a beeline journey after that, up the stairs and down the hall into a surprisingly tidy room with assorted furniture made of warm-colored wood, rugs that look hand-woven. There are two beds, but Iorveth doubts they'll use both― he approaches one and sets his spoils of the day down beside it with a flourish that speaks volumes: finally. ]

[ Iorveth's reaction is certainly outsized, but Astarion finds he doesn't mind. He likes when Iorveth is mean — to others. He can't take it, but he sure loves watching Iorveth dish it out.

Astarion kicks his shoes off when he enters their rented room, setting his weapons and his bag of clothing down. He thinks about asking who Isengrim is, and if he should be jealous, but doesn't. It's probably the name of one of the Aen Seidhe Iorveth will be returning to, and that alone makes him jealous in a way that's uglier and far less endearing than Iorveth's jealousy. He pushes the feeling down, because the last thing he wants is to be unappealing.

There's a window overlooking the street, and Astarion gravitates toward it, looking out and enjoying the warmth of daylight on his face. ]

You're so handsome when you're disparaging.

[ The room affords them a lovely view of the water: a wide ribbon of turquoise-blue, with boats floating serenely on its surface. Looking out onto the city from this vantage point, it's difficult to imagine there being an underground network of murder cultists jockeying for power against an ambitious would-be-tyrant who's overrun the city with metal soldiers. Here, now, things look idyllic. Peaceful. A well-dressed elderly halfling is walking his dog with a little girl who is presumably his granddaughter.

All of it feels like something Iorveth isn't entitled to. He can see Astarion fitting back nicely into the clamor and energy of Baldur's Gate, renewing an aristocratic position that was stolen from him when Cazador came around― this place suits him, the way selfishness and sunlight does.

Iorveth, not so much. Stepping out of his own boots, he gravitates towards Astarion and stands three steps to his left, leaning against the room's one desk. ]

And you're endearing when you're delusional.

[ Reticent to accept "handsome", but allowing himself to smile about it. ] Should I be more curt, if it excites you so much?

[ It's beyond satisfying to watch Iorveth actually smile at a compliment for his looks, like a flower slowly blooming. The pleasure is selfish; he likes the idea that Iorveth is blooming for him, that it's a side of him only Astarion gets to see. He makes a mental note to praise Iorveth more often. Maybe one day he'll even accept the compliment.

He closes those three steps immediately, leaning next to Iorveth so that their elbows brush scandalously. ]

Oh, are you going to scold me?

[ His smile is puckish, his tone light-hearted. There's a 50-50 chance he'll get scolded for this very thing, knowing Iorveth, but he really can't help himself. ]

I've been a very bad boy.

[ How inconvenient for Iorveth, that he now knows that the come-ons aren't strictly about getting a rise out of him or about playing him for a fool. He can still feel Astarion's fingers in his hair, tugging, and the heat of him bumped against his throat, speaking of "bad boy"s.

Hells. Iorveth's gaze flicks sideways, fixed on a spot where the wall meets the ceiling. What an interesting right angle that doesn't at all distract him from the not-warm body pressed against him. Ugh. ]

That's expected of you, [ is a little dry, masking some of the residual heat he's trying to stave off. One more baleful glare at the corner of the room later, he pivots his attention back towards Astarion. The scowl fades, and Iorveth pauses.

Then: ] I'd be inclined to say that you've been the opposite, today. [ Has he been? Who cares. Shut up, Iorveth tells the rational majority in his mind.

A tip of his head, and a knowing smile later: ] "Good boy". [ Fingers comb through Astarion's hair, as if to praise a cat for not having scratched his bedpost into oblivion. ]

[ Astarion should be offended at receiving the sort of praise usually reserved for a loyal dog. I'm a bloodsucking monster, not Scratch, he should say. Hells, he should be annoyed at the fact that Iorveth is probably messing up his dutifully styled hair. None of this comes to pass, because it feels good to be spoken to and touched gently. Astarion is nothing if not a slave to impulse, and his impulse right now is to lean his head into Iorveth's hand, eyes slipping shut for a moment just to enjoy the feeling.

He laughs wryly, eyes opening to smile at Iorveth, crooked and amused. It would be difficult to find an insult he hasn't yet heard—from Cazador or Godey or even his siblings, although he wasn't blameless with them—but, until recently, being ignored was the best compliment he could expect. He believes it about as much as Iorveth believes that he's handsome, but he's never been one to turn down undeserved praise. ]

Now there's something I've never heard before.

[ He pauses mid-motion, fingers stopping where they'd been sifting, slow and indulgent, through silver hair. Grappling, he realizes, with the kind of protectiveness that'd prompted him to take up arms, so many decades ago. It stuns him to think that all this caring snuck up on him without warning, tangled around his ribs and took root.

It'll take two hundred more years for Astarion to unlearn what Cazador beat into him, Iorveth thinks. It's not the sort of thing that a handful of tendays of positive affirmation can undo. But Iorveth also thinks that it'd be nice to spend those two hundred years of Astarion's initial freedom with him, watching him realign himself in the context of the world－

－if he decides not to ascend, of course. Complicated, that. He resumes the measured raking of his touch through Astarion's hair, and traces one ear to its pointed tip. ]

Mm. I've told you before－ you're nobler than you know. [ All that business of promising he'd save his own skin in a pinch, and doing precisely the opposite. Iorveth traces his hand down to where Astarion'd been bludgeoned by one of Henselt's men; ancient history by now (not actually), but he thumbs along the spot with quiet reverence. ] I'd not be here if it weren't for you.

[ Astarion wraps his fingers around Iorveth's wrist, pleased and guilty all at once. It would feel so wonderful to give in and delude himself into thinking that there's something noble here, but ] I'm really not.

[ All the people he's led to the proverbial gallows could corroborate that. Or they could, anyway, if they weren't dead. Men, women, even the Gur children he helped Cazador kidnap. His own siblings would substantiate it, too. All the times he tortured them at Cazador's behest, and worse, the things he did of his own free will because he let Cazador turn them against each other.

A fang digs into his lip, and he glances away. ]

I didn't stay behind out of some moral righteousness.

[ He's never done anything out of moral righteousness, and he doubts he ever will. Righteousness is for people like Wyll. Good people, when it comes down to it.

Matter-of-fact: ] I did it because I liked you.

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