nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ The difference between them is thus: Iorveth felt the urge to scream, and Astarion actually does it. It's a primal, guttural scream that escapes him as he mashes the last bits of Cazador to unrecognizable mush; after that, his tired arms give out and the mace clatters to the ground. Exhausted from exertion and pain, he collapses on the ground next to the red pulp that used to be Cazador, shaking from adrenaline, fear, and hatred.

Killing Cazador was the thing that was supposed to make everything in his life right. He should be elated, but he just feels empty. Astarion has spent two centuries despising him, and now—

Now what?

Awareness of his body comes back slowly. A sharp, pulsing pain in his shoulder. Lightning scorch burns. Arms that'll probably ache for a tenday. Whatever he feels, he realizes, Iorveth must feel it worse. That necrotic energy was potent, far more powerful than whatever miasma emanated from that little girl. ]

Are you all right?

[ Haunting, Iorveth thinks. There have been times when he'd wanted to burrow out of his own skin, the anger and grief felt like too much. A vestige of that returns here, watching Astarion's bent shoulders heave with the effort of persisting.

All that pain, housed in one body. The world is so senseless. It's not enough that a wretched monster is snuffed out of existence, even when it should be. Iorveth moves to crouch next to Astarion, similarly-scorched and bleeding, but by all other accounts, fine. Paler and more pinched than usual, but alive.

It guts him most that Astarion asks him if he's alright. ]

We've both been better.

[ A bitter understatement, but Iorveth isn't in the habit of lying. He reaches to wipe blood from Astarion's face, using his sleeve to scrape off bits of Cazador still lingering on cold skin. ]

But it's done. You saw it through.

[ You, he emphasizes. No great consolation, perhaps, but Iorveth hopes that Astarion can hold to the reality that he earned his own future. ]

[ Iorveth shouldn't be the one wiping blood from his cheek when Cazador drained his life energy, but Astarion is selfish enough to accept it anyway, even as shell-shocked as he is. He stares down at the pile of blood, guts, and flesh that he made, feeling somehow both overwhelmed and entirely distant, like watching himself from outside of his body.

His arms hang limply at his sides, jellylike, useless. Lae'zel was right to doubt his ability to wield a mace. ]

I can't bear to spend another second in this rotted, decaying place.

[ This was supposed to be his eternal home. He'd imagined what it would be like to take it for his own so many times. Now that he's actually here, the palace masterless and yearning to fill the void, he could crawl out of his burnt skin. It feels like being inside the carcass of some long-dead creature. ]

We'll go.

[ A nod, to indicate assent. There's still the problem of the imprisoned spawn and what to do with them, not to mention the other six siblings who will no doubt have realized, to some extent, that their immortal souls have been unbound. But those things can wait at least another day or two, resolved by another trip down to the crypt, with or without Astarion in tow. Iorveth would understand if Astarion never wants to set foot in here again; he can take the signet ring and remember the incantation himself, he thinks.

He wills tired legs to straighten, and offers a hand to help haul Astarion up. They look a frightful mess, stained and tattered and bruised, and the trek back up the stairs to the long hall leading to the elevator seems almost insurmountable at this point, but they'll have to persist.

The worst of it is, predictably, having to pass by the cells. Pale arms stretch from between bars in a silent plea for attention and absolution.

Instinctively, Iorveth says: ] Later. [ But he pauses, giving Astarion space to protest or contest if he wants to. ]

Edited 2024-08-21 03:42 (UTC)

[ These poor creatures are innocent. Or, at least, whatever crimes they might have committed aren't severe enough to be punished like this — no crime is, no matter how sinister. Despite the knowledge that he damned them to this existence, Astarion wants little more than to forget about them. They're walking, talking symbols of his disgrace and humiliation. ]

Come on, [ is all he says, grabbing Iorveth's hand and smearing Cazador's blood on his palm. He pulls him weakly along, eyes downcast, unable to look at the horrors he wrought. Later, Iorveth says, but gods, not right now.

Out in the foyer, the same servant still cleans that same damn spot. Pretending to look busy. He knows what that looks like from experience. She can't help but gasp as they appear in the doorway like a horrific vision, her hands clasping over her mouth to muffle any sound lest she be caught breaking a rule again. He should tell her that Cazador's gone, that she'll never get her wish for eternal life, that she can stop following his rules. ]

Don't worry, [ he says instead, voice dark and dry. ] I didn't tell on you.

[ She drops her feather duster and bolts past them into the palace proper, calling, "Master! Master!" ]

[ A kennelmaster in pieces, a missing chamberlain, a dead master. The Szarr mansion is bereft, dismembered, defunct; good riddance, Iorveth would think, if the platitude didn't ring so hollow. Instead, he watches the servant scramble away, followed by a cloud of feral bats and displaced, stale air. The last of Cazador's empty legacy, infamy that was never built to last. It feels good, in some measure, to leave it all behind.

The sun is slowly relinquishing its position in the sky when they return to the rest of the world, like a giant head cocked in idle curiosity. It stains the city in fading red, and despite the overwhelming relief of feeling clean, unsullied air against his grime-covered skin, Iorveth finds that he's sick of the color for today.

Turning his hand in Astarion's grip, he shifts the point of contact down so that their fingers wind together. He keeps his eye ahead of him, ignoring horrified-looking passersby to beeline not towards Elfsong, but towards the Spearhead. He has neither the patience nor the energy to explain anything to anyone at this point, and most of all, he doesn't want Astarion to have to explain anything to anyone unless he's ready to.

They track blood behind them as they walk; the city can deal with it. When they pass through the front door of the inn, the young human manning the visitor's desk looks like he might refuse service, but shuts up when Iorveth tosses grime-covered gold onto the counter. Housecleaning is going to have a hell of a time. ]

[ It's a good thing Iorveth is able to bring them back to the inn, because Astarion walks the streets in a dreamlike daze. It's almost incomprehensible that none of the people passing them by with concerned looks know what just happened. It had felt like the whole world stopped when they entered the palace, but it had kept going on without them, regardless of what was going on inside that mansion.

He'd expected to return to the Elfsong given the state of their injuries, but it's a relief not to. As beaten and broken as his body feels, it's nothing compared to the anguish of having to answer to the worried, questioning looks of their companions. Hells, he can't even answer to the worried, questioning look of the inn employee, staying uncharacteristically silent all the way up to their room, save for the pained grunts he makes while walking up the stairs.

Once the door closes behind them, he slumps against the wall, smearing a line of wet blood down it. He stares at Iorveth, the only thing he can focus on. ]

Now you know me.

[ The real him. That whole fiasco was more exposing than stripping himself bare. A place filled with his subjugation, his humiliation, his shame. Don't think differently of me, he wants to beg. ]

[ Silence, as Iorveth slowly starts to unload himself of all of his packs (including one with the holy mace that saved their asses, because of course he remembered to pick it up). It takes a moment for him to respond to what Astarion says, his expression set in a grim semi-frown, almost irritated but not quite. ]

Good of you to tell me how I know you.

[ A jab and a chide. Not at all sharp, all things considered: it's not like Iorveth has been at all forthcoming about the details of his own past. Just the bare outlines of it, as opposed to all the blood-soaked indignity that Astarion has had to put on the table for scrutiny. Iorveth understands.

But in the same way that he couldn't bear "are you all right", he can't bear this. His palms find themselves on either side of Astarion's face, bracketing him, keeping him in place. Iorveth's one eye is tired, but clear. ]

I see you as I've always seen you.

Did you think more clarity would make me care less?

[ Stupid, if that's the case. Foolish, shortsighted vampire. Iorveth is devastatingly fond of him. ]

[ Yes. Yes, he did think that. Every bit of what Iorveth saw was unappealing, something no sane person could care for. His weakness, his wretchedness, his selfishness, his rage. Iorveth is no sane person, of course, and he should have known that; he cracks a tired smile, reaching up to run a thumb across Iorveth's cheek. Wet redness streaks across his skin, and Astarion looks down at his bloodied hands, his ruined clothing. ]

Oh.

[ His eyebrows raise, as if he's noticing for the first time that he's drenched in gore. ]

I must look ghastly.

[ A half-smile for the one he gets, brow similarly hiked. ]

Red is your color, [ he ventures casually, ] but not this shade.

[ Astarion has had Cazador under his skin for too long; it's time to wash himself clean of him. Iorveth backs off, tiredly surveying his own state of affairs, slowly doing away with his own dirtied top with some difficulty. ]

There's a washroom across the hall. I'll go see if it's empty.

[ No need to traumatize the rest of the clientele, not that Iorveth is actively keeping track of who he terrorizes. Again, he just doesn't have the patience to deal with people who aren't Astarion at this point. ]

—Yes, ah, that might be for the best.

[ Not because he has any qualms with traumatizing anyone, but because he really doesn't want to get on anyone's bad side right after ridding himself of the person who most wanted to kill him in the world. Walking into a crowded washroom covered in blood and guts could give someone the idea that he's worth looking into, and he's not interested in dealing with someone out to get him again. Not this soon.

Still slumped against the wall, he works on the buttons of his own shirt, muscles weak and protesting with every movement. The fabric sticks to his open wound and burns, and peeling it off is entirely unpleasant. Ever the complainer, he makes no attempt at concealing his displeasure, hissing and whining ow, ow. ]

Don't take too long. I'll worry you've collapsed.

[ Not a lot of energy left for spellcasting, but Iorveth spares a te curo for Astarion's trouble: it only really manages to seal the gaping knife wound and soothe over the worst of the burns, leaving Astarion to contend with all of his less major wounds and muscle pain, but Iorveth figures that it's better than nothing.

With that, he leaves to check on the washroom. Blessedly empty and surprisingly tidy, the space is occupied by two tubs and a dresser stocked with toiletries and fresh towels; there's a scroll of Create Water sitting primly on a tubside bench, and Iorveth uses it to (messily) fill one of the baths, which then requires him to heat the newly-created water with a separate spell. A lot of fucking work on the customer's end, Iorveth grouses privately.

With that done, exhausted, he plods back. Makes sure to right his posture and realign his expression to calm neutral before he opens the door- force of habit. Leaders of guerilla operations don't look tired. ]

You can use the washroom. It's been prepared. [ Iorveth tips his head. ] Speak up if you'd rather use it alone.

-And be honest about it.

Edited 2024-08-21 23:08 (UTC)

[ He can't very well roll around on the bed covered in pieces of Cazador's insides, so Astarion slides down the wall and sits there, legs splayed out in front of him, waiting. Even with the worst of his pain gone, he's still worn out, a bone-deep tired that's more psychological than physical. He'd thought he was strong enough now that returning to the mansion wouldn't affect him. How embarrassingly wrong he was.

His head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, when Iorveth returns. He opens his eyes to peer up at him, eyebrow quirked at that last comment. Does Iorveth think he'll pretend to want company when he doesn't, or that he'll claim not to when he really does? Being called out for a lie he hasn't yet told is embarrassing either way.

Looking up at him now, he feels like he must look about as pathetic as he'd looked when asking Iorveth what he was in his eyes. ]

I want you there.

[ The last thing he wants is to be alone with his own thoughts. Ever, but especially now.

A light addendum to undercut his pitifulness: ] I said I wanted to see you naked and wet, didn't I?

[ A mess of red and dull silver hunched in yellow lamplight. Astarion looks positively miserable, and it does something to Iorveth's stomach to see it, but what good is calling attention to something so obvious? He offers his hand again, the same way he'd done back in the pits of Cazador's palace, and helps Astarion back to weary upright. ]

Barely a consolation prize, after what you've endured.

[ A tenday ago, he would've sounded more sarcastic. Tonight, he undercuts all of his potential pointedness with gestures meant to be grounding, though Iorveth can't be sure of how successful they are; laced fingers might feel patronizing, but he winds their hands together again as he leads Astarion to the washroom, grip firm.

He doesn't want to be cloying. Softness has always been reserved for the most devastating portions of his life's history, and in recent memory, he's been asked to be soft less and less; most look to him for steadiness, for firmness.

So Iorveth has to relearn his old tenderness. Or what passes for it, whatever of it he still has left in him. He sits Astarion by the edge of the tub and encourages him to take off whatever is left of his blood-covered clothes, finding him a basin and a handtowel to scrape off the worst of the offending gore before he can sink into warm bathwater. Some people may call this fussing, but he tries to think of it as being practical. (He's fussing.) ]

[ Astarion likes the fussing. Moments of fussing in his life have been so rare as to be nearly nonexistent. He remembers feverishly scouring the dirt from his fingernails the night he crawled out of his grave; no one was there to help him then, and that pattern continued. It feels special and warm to be cared for by someone now. Iorveth got it just as bad as him, if not worse, but he lets it happen anyway, too selfish to deny himself.

He does, however, wring out the towel and reach out to scrub the smear of blood from Iorveth's cheek. Lightly, gently. ]

Aren't you a mother hen?

[ His tone is as gentle as his hands, affectionate.

His boots come off, the soles of them caked in crypt grime and blood, followed by his pants and too-fancy underwear. He's too tired to strike a pose and ask Iorveth if he likes what he sees. Instead, he quietly cleans Cazador's entrails from his hair, his face, his body. He scrubs vigorously, even when it hurts, like he'll be able to scrub away every inch of himself that was ever in that palace.

When he's rid himself of enough gore, he lowers himself into the water, cupping enough in his hands to wet his hair. ]

I should thank you. For— [ Gods, where to begin. ] Well, for everything, I suppose. [ He looks down at his hands, submerged in the warm water. ] I know I've been... a lot.

[ Too much, some might say. ]

[ Iorveth is less gore-soaked, so he takes it upon himself to wait his turn, naked from the waist up and sitting on damp floorboards next to the tub. The long scratch that Cazador left on his torso is blessedly on the side of him that isn't tattooed, so he isn't too pressed about not having tended to it yet; he lounges with his arms folded and his elbows resting on the edge of the bath, watching Astarion with quiet focus. Like a wolf curled up by someone's feet.

At thank you, he lifts his head from the cradle of his elbows. Just a fraction of an inch. Not surprised by the sincerity of the statement, but by the timing. To extend anyone the grace of a "thank you" after such a catastrophe is admirable. ]

Nothing new, I should think. [ As gentle as Astarion's observation about Iorveth being a mother hen. Iorveth unwinds one arm from his tangle and reaches for Astarion's hair, picking a stubborn piece of blood from his bangs. ] There's no reason to thank me. I only did exactly as I wished to, no more and no less.

[ Not about balancing scales, or about owing anyone anything. Iorveth huffs, tired and amused, as he sinks back into the nest of his forearms. ]

To borrow your words, "I did it because I liked you".

[ There's every reason to thank him, but Astarion doesn't push it. He only draws his knees up to his chest, resting his temple against them as he watches Iorveth. For a second, he's quiet, the only sound the gentle sloshing of bathwater. Then: ]

The, ah, the way I acted last night.

[ He squirms a little, obviously uncomfortable. His experience with genuine contrition is even more minimal than his experience with gratitude. He's rarely received an apology, and the ones he's given were inauthentic at best, coerced at worst. ]

It was... foolish.

[ Lifting his head, he stares into the water. Perhaps he might drown himself. Spare himself the humiliation. ]

[ Another little lift, mirroring the previous one, but not matching it in sentiment. This time, Iorveth is surprised. Last night seems like ancient history, and he remembers it more as his overreaction to a very stupid but very unintentional misstep on Astarion's part. It's actually more mortifying for him to reflect back on it; the impulse to defenestrate himself is what he recalls most vividly.

So. ] And I misjudged you for your foolishness, which was more offensive.

[ They, apparently, are pros at making each other mad. Iorveth smiles about it despite himself, a thin sliver that he tucks into his folded arms. ]

You were sweet, afterwards. Think nothing of it.

I—

[ The sweetness was part of the foolishness, but maybe it's better not to dredge it up. If Iorveth liked it, then it's only him who has to feel pathetic at the memory of telling Iorveth all those things, of putting his hands under Iorveth's shirt and pulling him close after the way he behaved, of asking him for an invitation to come with him. That's an embarrassment he'll have to bear himself. ]

Yes, I guess I was rather charming.

[ He's quick to bathe, a holdover from when baths were a cold, unpleasant necessity and not a warm luxury. Some efficient scrubbing later, and he's stepping out of the washtub, dripping water everywhere as he searches for a towel. Another luxury they didn't have in the spawn dormitories. ]

All yours.

[ Astarion is full of these small, fascinating contradictions. Vain but spartan, grandiose but sparing. A hedonist with a bruised heart; Iorveth continues to watch him until he can't get away with it anymore, and finally gets back up onto his feet to take Astarion's place in the bath.

It feels good to be out of his blood-soaked clothes. Iorveth stretches his long limbs and slides into the water with obvious relief, his legs a little too lanky for the space; he folds himself a bit to fit, and finally removes his eyepatch before dipping under the surface for a few seconds. He eventually comes up, overgrown bangs sticking to the angles of his face.

(Iorveth's not-quite-secret: he loves baths.)

Relaxed and slightly limp: ] Wake me if I fall asleep. [ Wouldn't it be a funny if he died today not because of an immortal vampire, but because he passed out in a bathtub? Life is ridiculous. ]

[ Astarion towels off, careful not to muss up his curls, before wrapping the towel around his waist. Clean, at least physically. He can still feel Cazador's blood on him like a phantom.

He settles next to the washtub when he's done, legs stretched out in front of him in an attempt to soothe their aching. He never asked Iorveth if he wanted any company in the bath, he realizes, but as always, he's too selfish to in case Iorveth asks him to leave. If he allows himself to be alone, he's only going to replay everything they experienced in the mansion over and over again. ]

Mm. I'd rather drag your glistening body out myself and give you mouth-to-mouth.

[ A joke. Astarion wouldn't have the slightest idea what to do if Iorveth started drowning. Speaking of Iorveth's glistening body, he lets his eyes rove over it now, less lascivious and more searching. ]

You're certain you don't want healing?

[ There's no heat behind Astarion's provocation, naturally― they're both far too exhausted and injured for any sort of fooling around, even of the perfunctory sort. Iorveth is also a mess of bruised and burn-red skin, but he's cavalier about in the usual Iorveth Way, chin tipped and daring anyone to call attention to the sorry state of him.

Not that the concern isn't nice. It's far easier to accept when it's coming from Astarion, and far easier to lean into when he's in a warm bath. ]

There's a potion in my bag. [ Wherever he put it in their room; he can't remember. ] We can split it later.

[ He goes quiet after that proposition, letting his body go limp. Everything still hurts, but the pain is a reminder that he's still alive. Like a madman, Iorveth contents himself with that notion. ]

Astarion, [ he murmurs after a bit, gesturing with one hand. ] Come.

[ Should Astarion oblige him, Iorveth will crane forward to rest his damp forehead on Astarion's shoulder. A bit of reciprocal vulnerability for all that Astarion has trusted him with today, and the night prior. He breathes him in, blood and soap, and sighs. ]

[ He does oblige Iorveth, even if he feels a little bit like he's being beckoned like a pet. His shoulder is still warm from the bath, a rarity for him, and Iorveth's damp forehead feels nice against his skin. The rational part of him says he shouldn't, but the impulsive, emotional part of him is so much bigger; he reaches out to thread his fingers through Iorveth's wet hair, stroking it gently. ]

Aren't you such a sweet little fox?

[ Well, hardly 'little' when he can barely fit his long limbs into the tub — but 'little' in that he's something precious that makes Astarion want to squeeze him until he pops. He scratches his fingernails against Iorveth's scalp lightly, idly, the way one might scratch behind an animal's ears. ]

My little fox, [ he adds, more affectionate than possessive, although he can't deny the urge of someone who's never had anything wanting something that's mine, all mine. After a moment: ] For tonight.

[ Words cling to the back of his throat, wanting to be spoken. "Stay with me, come north." The suggestion is written on the planes of Iorveth's face, in the focus of his one eye, but he presses it carefully into the crook of Astarion's shoulder where he won't be able to see it yet.

Iorveth is grown; he knows better than to ask someone something life-altering when they're going through an entire existential crisis.

He nudges closer at for tonight, though. Obstinate, maybe. Like he might want to debate that addendum. Astarion gave up ascension, he's here, and Iorveth, who had given up entirely on ever wanting anything for himself, finds himself wanting Astarion so badly that it might kill him. (Almost did, today.)

Dipping his head and kissing, gently, against the still-tender knife wound and the angry-red inflammation around it, Iorveth finally pulls away. ]

...Stay with me tomorrow, too. [ His overarching request, redux. ] I'll tend to you.

[ He knows they'll both be completely useless in their current states. A convenient excuse. ]

[ There's something incongruous about these gentle touches after bashing Cazador's head in with a mace, but Astarion leans into them anyway. He soaps up his hands and reaches out to comb the foamy substance through the tip of Iorveth's hair all the way up to his scalp, the way Iorveth had done for him that night at the bathhouse. The action is almost deferential in manner, something he'd never do if Iorveth weren't, well, Iorveth. ]

Oh, will you?

[ A smile tugs at his lips. Mother hen, he doesn't need to say again. Iorveth is like a cracked egg, hard on the outside but soft and gooey on the inside. Iorveth is too tall to easily tilt back in the tub, so Astarion cups some of the water in his palms and rinses his hair. ]

Yes, I do think I'll require lots and lots of tender care.

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