nibbling | open post pt. 2.

[ 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.

[ The water feels nice; the hands, even better. Iorveth is as docile as he can allow himself to be underneath Astarion's attention, bowing his head when appropriate to let moisture sluice from his dirty hair, leaving the tub a little more murky for it.

He'll have to get out soon. The tub is getting lukewarm, and he doesn't have another spell left in him. ]

"Tender" will need negotiation, [ he semi-grouses, lest Astarion forget that he's the meanest elf in Faerûn. A shoddy reminder on the heels of all of this, but still.

Eventually, once the last of the soap sloughs off of him, he lifts himself back up and out of the water to dry off. He has no desire to put on his ruined clothes, so he wraps his waist with his towel and decides to call it a day. If someone is scandalized by a naked elf in the hallway, that is truly their problem, and not his.

There are a million things to say, a million things that still need discussing. But Iorveth is tired, and it seems unlikely that Astarion has energy left in him either. ]

[ That's OK, the Astarion of yesterday might tease. I like it rough, too. The Astarion of today is too exhausted—mentally and physically—to make that quip, so he only rolls his eyes and places a hand against Iorveth's temple to keep the soap from running into his remaining eye.

Once Iorveth is up and out, he forces himself off of the floor, every inch of his body protesting at the movement. He gathers up his bloodied clothes and stumbles out into the hall, where a meek tiefling eeps and shields her innocent eyes in embarrassment. It hardly registers; he makes a beeline for their room, where he throws down his clothing and flops onto the bed, still in his towel. Not the most elegant he's ever looked, but he deserves a break, if only for tonight.

He rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow, and lazily extends an arm toward Iorveth. Voice muffled against the pillow: ] Come. Don't make me ask you to cuddle.

[ Day has just only crept into night, but Iorveth feels like he could trance for the next week. He collapses into bed beside Astarion, hoisting the offered arm to sling it around his shoulder, bodily wedging himself between Astarion and the mattress.

Beckoned like a tamed animal. He doesn't have space to care about what this must look like, what the implication of this is－ what it means for him, what it's going to continue to mean for him.

Resting his face against silver hair, Iorveth settles his palm on the small of Astarion's back. He remembers the sound of him screaming, and fancies he can feel the tremor of it in the back of his own throat. ]

Closer.

[ Almost a complaint. A soft huff, as he realizes that they're both still naked aside from their flimsy towels. ] ...Astarion.

[ He debates this for a moment, before he decides to go through with it. ] Thank you.

[ Astarion smiles privately, face pressed into Iorveth's neck, pleased at his amenability to coming when called. He doesn't need a docile, domesticated creature, but he does enjoy a feral animal that purrs only for him. He shifts next to Iorveth, gently guiding his hand to his lower back instead, away from his scars. They may not lead to his sacrifice and eternal damnation, but that doesn't mean he likes them.

He's settling in, sinking against Iorveth, when he goes and thanks him. Just as Iorveth had in the bath, he lifts his head, resting his chin against Iorveth's shoulder. ]

—Whatever for?

[ His eyebrow lifts, surprised for a moment, before he composes himself. ]

For my dazzling company, I expect.

[ Not wrong, actually. The answer to the question of what for is multilayered, but the root of it is simple. ]

For not killing your heart.

[ An easy callback to what he'd said about ascension and its consequences. He makes sure to keep his fingers from easing up to the raised flesh of Astarion's scars, idly tracing his tailbone instead. ]

For all my talk of choice, it was the one I wanted you to make.

[ A wry admission, not easy to make. He closes his eye, vaguely contrite. ]

[ He doesn't have much of a heart left to kill. It was buried in the same coffin as him, but it didn't come out with him. Still, there is a small part of it that clung to life through all these years, a part that's been nurtured under Iorveth's attention. That same small part warms now, blooming in his chest.

Astarion peers at Iorveth, eye closed, the hard angles of his face softened in the dim. Whoever made him feel anything less than striking should be executed in the city square, he thinks. As he nuzzles back against Iorveth's neck, he breathes him in, the scent of clean skin pleasantly intoxicating.

Softly, he says, ] How could I kill it, when you've only just made it beat again?

[ It's just as difficult an admission to make, his face pressed against Iorveth's neck to muffle the words. ]

[ For a searing moment, the illithid parasite in Iorveth's brain flares. It alerts him to the presence of its cousin nearby, whispers to him in a voice that isn't his to connect, to know.

It's easy to silence that alien murmur, because he knows anyway. It kills Iorveth, that he knows. Once upon a time, maybe this could have meant nothing― a physical attraction, curiosity sated through idle, shallow indulgence― but gods, it's gutting that that isn't the way of things anymore. His feelings won't spare anyone.

Still, a surge of affection runs through him. Makes him shiver, and press the pads of his fingers more firmly against Astarion's skin. ]

Fool, [ he sighs. ] Keep talking like that, and I'll not let you go.

[ Want claws at Iorveth's ribs again. A desire that has fangs and claws and sharp edges. Iorveth would burn villages for his Aen Seidhe, and he'd kill anyone if they mistreated Astarion; the same side of the same coin.

He's close to passing out, but he kisses Astarion's temple before the blissful void of his trance can claim him. He mouths something in his language, close enough to standard Elvish that it almost sounds like three words he shouldn't string together. He passes into unconsciousness seconds later, wrapped around Astarion with gentle vehemence. ]

[ Astarion is so exhausted that he actually sleeps, deep and dreamless. When consciousness slowly trickles back to him in the wee hours of the morning, he finds he's been clumsily petting Iorveth's hair in his sleep, mouth leaving a damp spot against his neck. Drowsily, he noses along Iorveth's jugular, pressing his teeth against the skin harmlessly. It's only when his consciousness fully returns that he stops himself, a more pressing matter coming to the forefront.

Petulant, he whines, ] Everything hurts.

[ It's to be expected, having gone on a rage-induced rampage with only a Cure Wounds to ease his pain, but that doesn't mean he's going to be stoic about it. ]

Where's that potion?

[ He had thought to be a gentleman and allow Iorveth all of it, but circumstances have changed. ]

[ Blight's done a number on him; Iorveth sleeps like the dead, and no part of the rest is meditative. His limbs feel like lead when he's woken up by Astarion's mewling (sluggish mental associations conjuring an image of a white cat begging for a meal), so he rolls over and away instead of gracefully sitting up, letting one arm dangle off the side of the bed so that he can fish blindly for the pack that he tossed onto the floor the night prior.

Tired fingers catch the edge of a strap, and with a light grunt, Iorveth tugs the bag onto the mattress. ]

Here, [ he murmurs, still drowsy. Another roll, to deliver his supplies to Astarion. ] There's one or two, drink them both if you're in such pain.

[ Not quite as grumpy as he could've been. Heartened, in some measure, by the complaining― far preferable to the Astarion he'd seen in the manor, head down and docile. ]

I thought you were going to tend to me, [ he grouses, clearly finding Iorveth's tending lacking. He should be coddling Astarion and treating him like the most special boy who's suffered more than anyone else in the world. Instead, Astarion gets a pack shoved in his face. Life really isn't fair.

A blind dig through the pack finally unearths a vial of healing potion, bright red and viscous. Astarion uncorks the vial with a flick of his thumb and downs the liquid inside while still lying down, coughing a little as some of it goes down the wrong way. Immediately, there's a sense of relief, pain seeping away little by little. It isn't gone, but it's far more tolerable. He tosses the vial onto the floor after that, where it rolls under the bed.

He digs out another potion, looking at it for a moment in consideration before uncorking it and pressing it unceremoniously to Iorveth's mouth. ]

Perhaps once you've had this, you'll find your sweetness.

[ They must look ridiculous, naked and trying to drink potions without sitting up. Iorveth grunts at the clumsy offering of the vial, considering if he should refuse it and insist that Astarion drink this one too, but decides that he really is no use to the guy if he's an aching lump on the mattress.

He laps the fluid out of the bottle, narrowing his eye in vague annoyance when a bit of it trickles out of his mouth and down his chin. The process is clumsy, but the result is relief; he licks around the rim once there's nothing else to drink, and wipes his face with the back of his hand. ]

Mm. [ Edging closer, reaching for the pack to dump it back onto the floor behind him. He wraps a lazy arm around Astarion's middle again. ] I'm starving.

[ He'll probably be even sweeter after he gets some food in him. ]

[ As Iorveth wraps an arm around him, he sighs, pleased. Petting Iorveth's forearm, he purrs, ] There's my sweet thing.

[ Despite his demanding nature, he's actually incredibly easy to please. A drop of affection goes a long way with someone who's been starved of it. That doesn't mean he isn't still hungry for more, more, more, of course, but he's able to savor even the smallest crumbs. ]

I hope you don't intend for me to serve you breakfast in bed.

[ The only one who's allowed to be served breakfast in bed is him, obviously, if you consider blood 'breakfast'. He quiets for a moment, thinking. ]

I'm sure that old biddy wouldn't mind serving you again.

[ The one at the cute little cafe down the street. She doesn't deserve to be called a biddy, really. Even Astarion finds himself surprisingly fond of her. ]

[ A soft huff, laugh-adjacent. ]

Mind what you say about that "old biddy". She's the only sensible human I've met in an age.

[ (Gale, somewhere: "am I a joke to you?" Poor Gale, suffering the brunt of Iorveth's casual hatred of both humans and wizards.)

Iorveth lingers, loosely holding Astarion against him. Force of habit tells him that there's no reason for him to be idle― he's already thought of five things he should be doing by the end of the day― but he quells that automatic reflex and glances at Astarion, maps the lines of fatigue on his face. ]

You can't go anywhere in your ruined clothes. [ It's also the truth that Iorveth doesn't want Astarion to pull them back on, what with them being covered in Cazador. He should burn them, really. ] I'll go find something for you after I fetch myself some food.

[ His own clothes are... well, they're not fine, but no one's going to be scandalized by a shirtless elf in grimy pants. ]

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