nibbling | open post pt. 2.

And I'd look dashing in it, [ he rebuts, dreamily.

No, it's not his color, but that doesn't fit the fantasy. In his fantasy, he'd look heart-stoppingly gorgeous in the clothes that he'd tailor himself. He'd steal from travelers and fill his treehouse with more shiny things than a magpie. He wouldn't care much about the Aen Seidhe plight, but if Iorveth would only point him in the direction of someone who needed killing, he'd stab them for him happily.

He might have stopped himself from fantasizing decades ago, but that doesn't mean he isn't still good at it. With a lazy sort of half-conscious slur, he mumbles, ] Mmm, yes. I think that'd do nicely.

[ The blood and the daydream lull him into tranquility, and he stills after a moment, slipping into his trance with thoughts of wearing green and climbing trees. ]

[ It doesn't take long for Iorveth to follow suit, succumbing to his meditative sleep with his face buried in Astarion's hair. Visions of the past and present and wishful future congeal together in one vague, formless mass: Iorveth will remember none of it when he opens his eye again, but it feels nice. Restful. Safe.

Still, morning is quick to come. Light filters through the room's window, pooling onto the mess that the two have made of the room, clothes and washcloths and baskets strewn haphazardly onto the blood-stained floor. Iorveth stirs first, nursing his usual bloodloss-induced headache (he can never remember to drink a potion or two after being drained) as he slowly unglues himself from Astarion's front.

They should go back to Elfsong. Check in with Lae'zel, see if she actually needs her ranger or her rogue today. Iorveth should secure more meaningful weapons to fight Cazador with. He should also bathe. Reality crashes against him like an inexorable wave, and he frowns about it before sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of their bed.

He stretches his cramped limbs, which is when he finally notices that someone's slipped a note under the door of their room. A piece of parchment folded into a neat square; he immediately regards it with disdain, but gets up to retrieve it. ]

[ Astarion breaks from his trance with the realization that he's colder than he was last night. It all comes back in increments: he was warm because he made Iorveth his own personal teddy bear. He'd asked Iorveth to invite him back to the forest (humiliating), and said he'd live in a tree (more humiliating). He'd come back covered in blood, propositioned Iorveth for a fuck, and said far too many vulnerable things while hopped up on blood.

He rolls onto his back, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes for a moment as he reorients to reality.

Reality, as it turns out, is kind of terrible.

He pushes himself up, realizing belatedly that he's still in his boots. As he swings his legs over the side of the mattress, he reaches for his shirt and holds it up to inspection, scowling. This one will take hours of scrubbing to clean. With a sigh, he stands, walking over to his bag of purchased clothing and fishing out something new to wear.

Iorveth is by the door. Astarion has no idea what to say to him. He made such a fool of himself last night, from the very moment he walked through the door to the second he fell unconscious. And Iorveth— well, part of him thinks kicking him out would have been kinder than what he did. All of those things he said just tug at Astarion's heartstrings in the worst way.

Walls up again, he glances at Iorveth, frowning. ]

Well, I'd say 'good morning', but I imagine you're not feeling your best. [ After all that blood loss, and everything. ] So... [ A beat. ] 'Morning'.

[ There's no immediate response to the "morning". Just the quiet rustle of parchment, the creak of Iorveth's weight displacing floorboards. When he finally divides his attention from the note back to Astarion, it's with his usual leonine calm. Both of them, back to basics.

(A part of him is still thinking about Astarion's teeth in his wrist, his eyes peering up at him, shining.) ]

Mm. [ Folding the parchment again, considering the pros and cons of telling Astarion anything about it. ] You look rested.

[ A little jab, harmless. He can tell by the look on Astarion's face that he doesn't seem to want to acknowledge the past few hours, so Iorveth leaves it at that. ]

The others will be wondering where we were. I could go back and let them know that we didn't die a gruesome death at the hands of cultists.

[ Astarion slips on his shirt, a sleek black thing with gold detailing, fresh and clean. No one would have any idea what he did last evening by looking at him. His pants are still smeared with the blood he wiped off on them, but he can scrub that off easily enough when Iorveth is gone.

Dryly: ] Tell them I died horribly. They could stand to cry about me a little.

[ A jest, although he doesn't meet Iorveth's eyes as he makes it. ]

Do what you like. I'll...

[ Well. He doesn't have much to do. It isn't like he's going to go eat with that nice old lady. ]

Be here.

[ Not a particularly funny joke, all things considered. Iorveth hesitates by the door, note tucked into his trouser pocket, before deciding to close the space between them. ]

Astarion. [ Reaching to tuck a piece of hair behind Astarion's ear, smoothing out his bedhead. ] ...Don't sulk. It makes it harder to leave.

[ For a fleeting second, he thinks to apologize for his behavior during the night prior, his embarrassing outburst and his subsequent covetousness, but he thinks that that might humiliate Astarion further; he tucks that away for later examination. ]

If you've something to say to me, say it now.

[ Don't sulk, Iorveth says, and it only makes him sulk more out of embarrassment at his sulking being called out. His mouth droops into a pout, brow furrowed in the perfect glower. For a moment, he's quiet, looking back at Iorveth.

What is there to say? He burns with humiliation. He acted so pathetic — no, not acted. The worst part is that all of it was him; he is pathetic. His secret thoughts, feelings, desires. Iorveth fueled him, practically egged him on, and for the first time Astarion isn't even certain if Iorveth meant what he said or if he was only pacifying him. Iorveth certainly doesn't think he belongs in the North, but he let Astarion babble on about it anyway.

He straightens his shoulders, glancing away as he says, ] I don't have anything to say.

[ It's true. Nothing he says will change anything. The sooner he can banish this to the recesses of his mind, the better. His face softens then, and he adds, ] And I'm not sulking. I've never felt better, actually.

If you say so.

[ Unconvinced, but hard-pressed to push the matter further. Iorveth is aware that he'd been irresponsible to say the things that he did, to say come with me when Astarion'd been feeling soft and pliant. He doesn't regret it, because he's not in the habit of saying anything that he doesn't mean, but the timing was all wrong.

He fumbles so much of his footing when he's around Astarion, and he wonders why that is.

Mm, he hums. He steps away, peeling off his rumpled shirt to trade it for a new one, as he debates whether or not he should say anything about the note. It seems the sort of thing that could blow up in his face if he chooses not to talk about it until later, but it also seems the sort of thing that could sour Astarion's mood for the entire day.

Ultimately, he decides that breaking it to Astarion after something goes south would be the nuclear option; pulling the clasps of his new vest tightly over his chest, he threads his next words together with deliberate care. ]

...I received a missive from the Szarr household, by the way. [ He can't imagine that Cazador penned it himself, but that hardly matters. ] I intend to go tell the messenger to stuff it up his ass.

[ Iorveth looks handsome in his new clothing. Astarion would normally say as much, but he's still embarrassed from his overly earnest behavior last night. He needs to pull back, let this be a fun, purely physical tryst that he won't be sad to let go. Easier said than done. His eyes linger, roving over the tattoo peeking out from the neckline, trailing down to his slightly-exposed wrists—and swallowing thickly at the memory of having his fangs embedded in them—but he doesn't say a word.

At least, not until the name Szarr comes out of Iorveth's mouth. Astarion bristles at the mere mention of the name, anger heating his blood in some Pavlovian reaction to it. Questions race through his head: how, why, when. ]

What? [ he all but squawks, closing the distance between them. ] When were you planning on telling me?

[ By the way, he'd said. As if it were a note from housekeeping and not from Astarion's eternal tormentor. ]

Show me.

[ The souring of mood is to be expected, but a shame. Still, better not to spare Astarion's feelings and be candid instead. Iorveth has never been good at the former, anyway.

He reaches inside his pocket for the folded-up note, and hands it to Astarion. It reads:

On behalf of Lord Cazador Szarr,

The master requests that you bring his wayward son to him,
as the boy's presence is required in a most immediate way;
though the child's impertinence will be punished with
necessary severity, if you would return him to the place that
he rightly belongs, the master is willing to extend,
to you, both his grace and his future favour, alongside
longevity, and a seat at his eternal table.

He will remind you that the boy is his,
and all of his things, inevitably, yearn to return.

Bring the child to the manse at sundown.
We will be expecting you. ]

Edited 2024-08-12 22:17 (UTC)

[ Astarion is a slow reader, but it only takes the first sentence to send him into apoplexy. He clutches the note tightly in both of his hands, so much so that the neat paper wrinkles and crinkles under the intensity of his grip. As he reads on, his anger only grows until he's seething, trembling with the force of his rage.

Son. Boy. Child. Did Cazador write this? No, he decides quickly. He wouldn't deign to. The arrogance practically spills off of the page and stains his hands, though, characteristic of Cazador's own words. It must have been dictated. To that awful chamberlain, perhaps, or one of Astarion's own siblings.

In an impulsive, explosive fit of fury, he tears the note to shreds, and then again, until it's in as many tiny pieces as he can manage. He throws them to floor and stomps on them, panting with white hot indignation. ]

[ Iorveth watches, unmoving and unflinching. The rage is expected－ there's a reason why his first instinct wasn't to show Astarion the note－ but as warranted as anything can be. If Henselt'd sent him a missive saying "hello Iorveth, I just wanted you to know that you need to give us permission to kill your entire clan, thanks", he would probably react in a similar manner, albeit with less stomping.

No, he can't make light of this situation at all. Iorveth, too, would love to burn the Szarr mansion down along with its master, but Astarion is the one who should really do the honors.

After a prolonged silence: ]

...The ramblings of a delusional old creature. I'd not give it much thought.

[ Astarion hears Iorveth, but he doesn't listen. Through the fog of anger, Iorveth's words feel faraway, like he's a sailor adrift in the ocean that's being called to from a distant shore. He stares down at the childish mess he's made on the floor, breathing evening out but face becoming no less contorted in fury. If he weren't so damn incensed, he'd have the decency to feel self-conscious about his juvenile outburst. As it is, he's fortunate just to stifle the desire to scream.

A long, silent moment passes as he replays the contents of the note in his head. He can practically hear Cazador's voice in every word, a pitch perfect recreation. It should be; after all, it's the same voice all of his worst thoughts have.

Finally, eyes still locked on the torn scraps of paper on the floor, he spits out, ] Fine. Let's give him what he so desperately wants.

[ His prodigal son home at last, having realized the error of his ways. ]

Astarion.

[ A warning, in those few syllables. He doesn't move from where he's standing, three swift steps away from Astarion and his boiling rage; it's hard, when he understands how it feels to want to kill someone beyond rationality or practicality. Despite all the softness and sweetness that Iorveth finds impossibly enchanting about Astarion, this is what he relates to the most.

Frowning softly, he tips his head. ]

You still don't have a plan, do you.

[ The courage, however, is commendable. He's reminded of his own cockamamie plan, of his own manacled hands and Astarion dropping his lockpicking tools. They really aren't so different, him and Astarion. ]

[ He looks up, finally, crossing those three steps to stand toe-to-toe with Iorveth. Every muscle in his body is tense, shoulders a rigid line. Their tadpoles don't need to be connected for Iorveth to sense the heavy hatred emanating off of him in noxious waves. He despises Cazador, despises how even now just reading his words on a page makes him feel so small.

As he lists his 'plan', he counts off each step on his fingers. ]

Wait until sundown, walk in through the front door, let Cazador think he's won before ending his miserable life. [ His hand clenches into a fist. ] Enthusiastically.

[ It scares him to think of seeing Cazador again, but hate is even stronger than fear. He wants to make Cazador beg for mercy. Wants to bury him under a pile of dirt and laugh as he tries to crawl his way out. He wants the very last thing Cazador ever sees to be his face. ]

That sounds like a plan to me.

[ Most people would likely try to talk Astarion off this ledge. They'd say something like "be practical" or "consider your options", and they would be correct, if not for the fact that most people have not suffered systematic oppression and torture for centuries. Iorveth has survived for a century because he's been careful, but he's also had the weight of an entire clan resting on his shoulders; even then, the only reason he'd escaped the gallows is because he'd been angry enough, furious enough, to act.

He looks at Astarion, red eyes like twin knives, glittering murder.

Still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, Iorveth thinks.

So: ] Fine.

[ Iorveth can only validate that anger, because it's correct. And, as far as Iorveth is concerned, every single individual in the Szarr mansion asked for it; they requested the fight to be brought to them. They declared war, with the now torn-up letter littered under Astarion's feet.

So they all have to die, Iorveth figures. ]

We'll have to get The Blood of Lathander from Lae'zel first, but the rest will be as you wish it.

[ Astarion expects Iorveth to dissuade him. To be, as he so often infuriatingly is, reasonable. Sensible. Practical. He's all ready to throw his hands up in frustration, to say that if Iorveth won't help him, he'll just have to find a way to do it by himself. He's had to survive with no one to hold his hand for centuries already. But then—

Fine, Iorveth says.

With his emotions running as high as they are, he can't resist the impulse to throw his arms around Iorveth, squeezing tightly, clutching the fabric of his vest in his fingers. He buries his head into the crook of Iorveth's neck, breathing him in. It's not befitting of a fun, purely physical tryst. He really has to stop this, but just this one more time, he tells himself. One more time, and then he swears he'll finally be able to cut Iorveth loose before Iorveth cuts him.

After a moment, he steps back, letting his arms fall awkwardly at his sides. ]

I— [ He's embarrassed. That's starting to happen a lot around Iorveth. ] Thank you.

[ His hands remain settled on Astarion's waist, even when Astarion pulls back. Holding him where he is, trying to feel the intensity of his emotions under his palm. It's a ridiculous compulsion, but Iorveth wasn't being facetious when he'd said, all those days ago, that he was drawn to Astarion's feral desperation. Drawn to his compulsion to live, despite all odds.

Gods, he really has lost the script. From "this is the only reason I can tolerate journeying with this stupid vampire", to "this is why I want this stupid vampire to be happy and free".

He leans forward, resting forehead against forehead for a precious beat before he finally lets go. ]

Mm. Thank me if we make it out alive.

[ A soft smile, as confident and reckless as ever. Iorveth is a madman. ] Will you come with me to speak to the others, or would you rather not?

[ Iorveth is a madman, but Astarion finds himself (against his better judgment) finding it endearing. Charming, even. The corners of his mouth curl up into a small echo of Iorveth's expression, his hard edges softened so quickly by one kind gesture from him. It's difficult to sulk for long when Iorveth is around, which is ironically the reason he even feels like sulking in the first place. Ridiculous, to be upset that someone in this world actually makes him happy.

As he stuffs down the feelings that rise when he hears Iorveth's voice saying the words 'come with me' again, he says, ] I'll come.

[ He answers a little too quickly to be entirely casual. He wants to spend time with Iorveth, even now. One more time. Then he'll be detached and unconcerned.

Tilting his chin up: ] I'm not afraid of Lae'zel.

[ Much. ]

[ There he is, the haughty cat. Iorveth wonders if it isn't exhausting to kaleidoscope so quickly between sour, sharp, and sweet, but Astarion wears all of it as well as anyone ever could. Very cute, in the kind of way that makes Iorveth want to step on his own foot to snap himself out of it.

A low laugh, offhanded; Iorveth sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for his abandoned basket from the day prior, and roots inside of it for the few remaining pastries that he'd wrapped in paper. ]

You shouldn't be. For all that she bites and hisses, she's soft on you.

[ Every member of their party is, if Astarion hasn't noticed. Lae'zel has groused about Astarion to Iorveth many times in the past, but all of their conversations have ended roughly the same way: "I haven't killed him yet, so I doubt I ever would." It's as close to "he is my friend" as Lae'zel can get right now, Iorveth fancies.

Iorveth demolishes two cakes in quick succession, and licks crumbs off of his fingers. ]

We'll leave when you're ready. Say the word, and we'll go.

[ Gods. Astarion watches Iorveth's tongue on his fingers and tries not to think about him licking things. He, of course, fails; it's all he thinks about as he crouches down to rummage through his bag of clothing and pull out a clean pair of pants. Dark, slim cut, nicely tailored — exactly his style. ]

Stop that. It's distracting.

[ Astarion has never been shy about his body, at least not since the hundredth or so person who saw it, but it feels somehow awkward to take his pants off in front of Iorveth with this lingering tension between them. He keeps his eyes glued on the floor while he changes instead of trying to alluringly strip tease like he might otherwise. ]

...And unseemly, of course, [ he appends, not finding it unseemly in the least.

Pants on, he searches through his pack for a comb and uses it to meticulously arrange his curls, gently running a hand over them to check how they look. Afterward, he straightens his collar and smooths down any wayward wrinkles, acutely aware of his appearance. ]

All right. [ Habit leads him to tug at the hem of Iorveth's sleeve. ] I'm ready to go.

[ He laughs, when chided. "Excuse my wood elf manners," is breezy, followed by another bite of a third pastry; he takes care not to be so messy that he has to clean himself off again, lest he scandalize.

Ridiculous. He had Astarion's cock in his mouth not even a full day earlier― too little too late for shyness. If anything, the knifepoint anger that Astarion'd deigned to show Iorveth up close has only made Iorveth want him more, which is likely something he should keep to himself.

Still, when Astarion tugs at his sleeve, Iorveth looks at him with the intensity of someone thinking very hard about whether or not he could get away with a kiss. He stares at Astarion's mouth for a hovering moment, head tipped, jaw angled...

...before he draws back and readjusts his bow against his back. ]

To Elfsong, then.

[ And that's that. Out they go, back into early morning daylight, through familiar streets and past the park, where, beyond raised bridges and walls, the Szarr mansion sits like a lesion in the landscape. An infuriating reminder of words that make Iorveth sick: "the boy is his, and all of his things, inevitably, yearn to return".

Arriving at Elfsong is a semi-welcome reprieve from dark thoughts of slitting a faceless Cazador's throat. They walk up familiar steps, and are greeted by the pitter-patter of paws on wooden flooring: Scratch, the best of them all, spends their first few moments upon arrival monopolizing their attention with plaintive kneading against both of their legs. ]

Ugh, get off of me, you mangy mutt, [ Astarion complains, while scratching behind Scratch's ears. He can't help it. He likes the slobbering thing. Astarion has never had someone who regarded him with such unconditional affection before; there's something incredibly endearing about Scratch's enthusiastically wagging tail whenever he sees Astarion.

But he won't say that, of course. At least, not when others are around.

Shadowheart is holding a handheld mirror with one hand and applying her ghastly smoky eye makeup with the other. When they arrive, she glances up at them with a raised brow. "Where have you two been?" she asks, like she already knows exactly what they've been up to. (Minus the murder and plotting to kill his former master, anyway.) ]

Out, [ he replies childishly. ] Surely you've heard of it.

[ Gale pops his head out from his bed, where he's preparing his spells for the day. "Might I say, you're both looking quite dapper." ]

I always look dapper. [ Crossing his arms, eyes wandering the room searching for the yellow-green of a githyanki: ] I need to speak with Lae'zel.

[ Returning to the casual familiarity of what he's come to know as "The Group" is somewhat jarring after the events of the past few hours. He leaves Astarion to manhandle his way through his current conversations, assuming that he doesn't need (or more importantly, doesn't want) to have his hand held through the entire morning: he gravitates towards his space in the room and finds it exactly as he'd left it, stolen goods for killing vampires and all. The extra pack gets clipped onto his belt, another unyielding weight against his hip.

Speaking of unyielding. Lae'zel, summoned, slips out from under her privacy curtains and approaches Astarion with ambient wariness, like she's aware that these weird elves are up to Something and she can't tell if she needs to pummel the bad ideas out of them or just let them walk it off like a flesh wound.

"Speak," she tells Astarion, with a warning attached: "Without embellishment." The impatience is characteristically gith, but also purely Lae'zel.

Iorveth watches from an insignificant distance, ready to chime in if necessary; he momentarily locks eye(s) with Jaheira, who looks at him with what feels like half-maternal amusement. He ignores it. ]

[ "Hey, Iorveth!" Karlach calls from a far corner of the room, where she and Wyll are doing morning calisthenics. Eugh. You couldn't pay Astarion to do a one-armed push-up ever, much less right after getting up. "New threads? You look snazzy as hells!" A moment later, she returns to her exercise, counting out one-hundred and one, one-hundred and two...

Astarion ignores all of that nonsense and focuses on Lae'zel peering up at him. For such a fearsome warrior, she is rather small. ]

Life without embellishment would be horribly drab. [ Lae'zel doesn't seem to agree, if her scowl is any indication. ] —Fine. Do you recall that rinky-dink old mace we found in that monastery?

[ "I recall a legendary relic fit for a warrior." Just not her, apparently, since maces aren't her style. "It remains in my possession until I find one worthy of wielding its power." ]

Mm. Right. Well, I just thought that since I was nearly disintegrated to obtain it, you might let me... borrow it. Just for a day! You won't even notice its absence, honestly.

[ Lae'zel's eyes narrow, tiny nose crinkling like she can smell the stupidity in the air and it smells foul. "You're surprisingly competent with the weapons you already have." As rude as this is, he's pretty sure it's meant as a compliment. What she says next, however, is not. Eyes dipping to look disparagingly at his arms, she adds, "And I question your ability to swing a mace effectively."

"What could you need the Blood of Lathander for?" asks Shadowheart, not even trying not to insert herself in the conversation.

"Yes," Lae'zel says, arms crossed and eyebrows raised expectantly. "State your purpose, and I may grant your request."

Gods. This is why he just wanted to steal it. Astarion huffs, fumbling over his words. She certainly won't give it to him if he spills that he plans to impulsively murder a vampire lord with it. She'd say something about how a true victor strategizes, and he'd groan. ]

I— things. [ A beat passes with her looking at him. ] Private things.

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