[ 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. ]
[ 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. ]
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. ]
[ Normally, he'd be more annoyed at being told what he can't do, and certainly annoyed at the fact that Iorveth plans to leave him without entertainment for the gods know how long, but he's still tired enough that he wouldn't mind lying in the sun for a little bit. After all, who knows how many more days he has left before he has to retreat to the shadows?
He flops over on his back, sprawling out languidly and closing his eyes. ]
I'll just wait here. Tantalizingly.
[ Just to make sure Iorveth imagines him lounging around looking gorgeous and alluring while he's out being served breakfast by that 'old biddy'. ]
[ Up Iorveth goes, fighting valiantly against the forces of gravity to stand, unwaveringly, back on his own two feet. It sucks. It sucks even more to have to preserve his modesty with stained clothes, but then again, he's not picky: he's stripped gear from corpses, and he's used to living in filth. He just prefers not to have to.
Pants are pulled on, boots are laced. The shirt-and-vest combo that he bought literally two days ago are too ruined to consider wearing, so they're thrown on top of the "to-burn" pile. Hopefully, the cafe doesn't have a dress code.
With that done, he tucks his coinpurse into his pocket, and meanders over to Astarion, who does, in fact, look very lovely and very distracting. Even with all his burns and cuts, he's the prettiest thing Iorveth has seen. It's incredibly annoying.
He bends forward, and kisses his navel. ]
I'll make you look like Halsin.
[ Like, yeah, they're both wood elves, but Iorveth can acknowledge that Halsin lays it on thick. ]
[ Iorveth's lips against the bare skin of his navel tickles, and he resists the urge to giggle like some pigtail-twirling schoolgirl. He pops an eye open instead, grinning impishly. ]
Is an archdruid what you fancy? Mmm, I can think of lots of ways for us to celebrate nature together.
[ He might only be teasing, but the worst part is that he's not entirely sure Halsin wouldn't consider getting naked in a public park a celebration of the natural world. Gods, druids are strange creatures. Then again, he used to think all wood elves were strange—hells, he sort of still does—and he still likes Iorveth, despite his tree-hugging ways. He laughs to himself, then closes his eye again, batting Iorveth away. ]
[ In the past, he might have scowled at being shooed away. Iorveth doesn't have it in him today. One more light brush of his fingers along Astarion's hair, and he steps away to put his eyepatch over his face, still preferring to cover as much as he can of his scar in front of strangers. ]
I'll announce myself when I get back. If anyone knocks, don't answer.
[ A word of caution, before he leaves and finds the world outside of the inn in the same exact state as they'd left it the day prior, entirely unaffected by the symbolic collapse of the Szarr mansion that still stands, like a tombstone, beyond the ramparts running through the city like veins; it reminds Iorveth of the grand emptiness of his victory against Henselt, and the sinking loneliness of that feeling, daunting enough that he'd asked Astarion to share a bed with him.
He should get back quickly.
His errands don't take long. The kind proprietress― who blushes when Iorveth shows up, "oh dear, it isn't that warm outside"― obliges his request to have his food to go with bursting enthusiasm, and makes sure, again, to pack extra for his "pretty darling, I do hope he's feeling better now."
Debatable. But Iorveth can't say that, so he thanks the lady with a bow of his head, and a promise to pass on her well-wishes. She looks pleased, leaving Iorveth feeling confident that, despite his hatred of the human race, he's found at least one that he wouldn't want to kill.
His visit to Facemaker's is less pleasant, but similarly fruitful: the dwarf looks slightly relieved that the weird elf duo has returned as a weird elf single, and though the customer service from Figaro lacks the flourish of a man who owes his life to the freak demanding clothes from his store, Iorveth isn't denied Figaro's vast collection of wares. He winds up leaving with an entirely new outfit for himself to change into later, and two other ensembles for Astarion, neither of them in green.
Arms full and warmed by morning sun, he returns to their room in the Spearhead. As promised, he announces himself with a measured "Astarion, it's me, I'm coming inside", and quietly pokes his head in through the door, just in case Astarion's fallen asleep again. ]
[ He isn't asleep. Astarion has positioned himself on the floor, sitting in the rays of light that come in through the window like the fluffy white cat Iorveth thinks he is. He leans his head against the wall, eyes closed, soaking the sunlight in. He feels— he's not sure how he feels, which is admittedly nothing new when he's spent his whole life avoiding the horrors of acknowledging his feelings.
There's a physical pleasure there, the wonders of warm rays of daylight on his bare skin, but the better it feels the more he despairs at the thought of it, like so many other things, being snatched away from him. It's like he's grieving the person he thought he'd become after ascension, or perhaps the person he used to be before Cazador's teeth sunk into his flesh.
When Iorveth enters, he opens his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly upward in wry amusement. ]
How speedy of you.
[ He could have stopped and ate at the restaurant, if he really wanted to. Astarion is certain that sweet old lady would have no problem keeping him company. After everything they went through yesterday—and everything Astarion has put him through, perhaps ever—Iorveth deserves a break. ]
[ Silver hair, red eyes, pale skin warming under sunlight. Iorveth is still convinced that the way Astarion looks is definitively the least interesting thing about him, but even the least interesting thing about him still makes Iorveth stop in his tracks every so often.
The door closes behind them; gods forbid anyone passes by and tries to get curious. Iorveth moves to the bed, where he deposits his things and marinates on the question of whether or not he did miss Astarion, in the not-actually-significant amount of time that he'd spent away.
Ridiculous. Still, the verdict is an absentminded: ] Somewhat. [ Difficult to deny that Astarion was on his mind, when every choice Iorveth'd made after leaving the room hinged on what would please him. ]
[ Somewhat. Iorveth is incorrigible, but Astarion can't help finding it endearing. It's awful to be so charmed by someone so vexing.
When Iorveth offers to leave, though, he raises an eyebrow. It hadn't been a reprimand that he arrived back quickly. He'd thought it sweet, actually. He has no desire to be alone with his thoughts and feelings; in fact, he'd rather avoid them. His uncertain future inches ever closer, but he only knows how to stick his head in the sand. ]
What, to sit and brood alone? [ He snorts, dismissive. ] I had enough of that in the last two centuries to last me at least two more.
[ In truth, it was less brooding and more disconnecting from a painful reality, but that's splitting hairs. He cants his head at Iorveth's bag. ]
Show me the clothing you brought for me, unless you plan for me to sit here naked all day.
Brooding might do you some good. [ Reflection is healthy, is the implication. Probably very funny, coming from a wood elf who has chosen to systematically murder his oppressors instead of literally anything else; he is likely not the patron saint of healthy decisions made by individuals with perfect mental health.
But, well. Astarion probably should put some clothes on. Iorveth reaches inside his bag and fishes out his purchases for Astarion's perusal. The first outfit is the more expensive cousin to Astarion's usual campwear: a white shirt with a V-shaped neckline, collar and sleeves embroidered with delicate gold thread, and a pair of smartly-tailored midnight-black pants to accompany it. The second is a long, tastefully decorated black robe with an accompanying silver belt to keep everything in place, meant more for comfort than anything else; the pants accompanying it are softer, easier to lounge in. Some clean underwear, too, though handing it over feels a bit, hm.
His eye flicks to the side, not quite bashful, but polite for his own sake. ]
None of these are scandalous enough for your taste, I assume.
[ As his eyes rove greedily over the selection, his mouth curves into a soft, insuppressible smile. They're to his taste, picked out because Iorveth thought he would like them. The thought of Iorveth standing in the middle of that boutique, thinking of him, is oddly exhilarating. His impulsive, indulgent mind can't help wondering if Iorveth thought about what they did there together while he stood there looking at pants.
Juvenile as always, he lets the underwear dangle from his index finger. ]
Yes, I was really hoping for something red and lacy.
[ He laughs under his breath at his own jest before setting his new unmentionables down and running a hand over the embroidered sleeves of the white shirt. Quality tailoring, expensive thread. Will he still be able to have nice clothes like this after this is all said and done? Or will it be back to mending his things until they fall apart?
With no plans to do anything but pose languidly around the room, he opts for the soft loungewear. He doesn't bother to get up to change, only lifting his hips to slip on his underwear and pants. ]
Don't worry, I can cause a scandal no matter what I'm wearing. [ He slips the robe on next, letting it hang open to cultivate a casual, devil-may-care aesthetic. The fabric is soft, and he stifles the urge to rub his face against it. ] You did well.
[ Leaning back against the wall, legs stretched lazily in front of him, he says, ] You know, you're the only one who's ever given me anything.
[ There's your reflection. He doesn't sound sad about it, only contemplative. ]
[ Well, if Astarion is going to change, he might as well too. His selection is far more modest, just a pair of dark brown pants and a jade-green tunic; he slips on the former, decides to wear the latter when he feels more like it. He also replaces his eyepatch with a new one, temporarily― the one Astarion chose for him will have to be tended to later, soaked carefully to get some stains out. Iorveth wants it to last as long as it can, so he substitutes it for a strip of soft cloth that covers more of his face.
With that done: ] Pretty as always. [ As promised, tending to Astarion. (Specifically, his ego.) Iorveth settles next to him with his basket of food, leaving a polite inch of space between them as he starts to rummage through his breakfast, caught with a mouthful of pastry when Astarion mentions never having been gifted anything.
Hm, he hums, and swallows. ] I may be the first, but I'll not be the last.
[ Maybe Astarion didn't have the freedom to receive anything from anyone before, but that doesn't hold true anymore. Iorveth glances towards Astarion, expression softening a fraction. ] Do you see your worth more clearly, now?
[ He really shouldn't—after all, it was he who said they should keep their distance, knowing their upcoming separation—but Astarion cannot deny an impulse, or at least he doesn't try very hard, so he scoots closer, bridging that polite one inch gap to press their bodies against each other from shoulder to ankle. Although Astarion has been basking in the sun, Iorveth is still warmer. The benefits of being alive. ]
I've always known my worth, [ he says a little defensively. In actuality, it's difficult to see anything clearly when he feels so adrift. Killing Cazador was all he ever wanted, and now that it's done, there's a gaping hole where his purpose used to be. He has eternity in front of him, and no clue what to do with it.
Astarion reaches into the basket, tearing a small piece off of one of the pastries and pressing it to Iorveth's mouth. The action might seem sickeningly sweet coming from anyone else, but there's something selfish and childlike to it now, like he's having fun trying out something new that he's never done before. ]
[ Iorveth of the past would've drawn his shoulders back and scowled at being treated like a parkside pigeon being fed breadcrumbs, but Iorveth of now parts his lips for the mouthful, nibbling at Astarion's fingertips in idle provocation. Stupid cat, doing cute things.
He thinks about "I'm delightful" as he chews, and replies: ] You're compelling. [ An assent, so he can go back to his original point. ] If you see yourself clearly, others will follow.
[ And they'll want to stay with him, is Iorveth's point. There's no reason for Astarion to be alone anymore. Tipping his head, he opens his mouth again, silently asking for another bite of food. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ Normally, he'd be more annoyed at being told what he can't do, and certainly annoyed at the fact that Iorveth plans to leave him without entertainment for the gods know how long, but he's still tired enough that he wouldn't mind lying in the sun for a little bit. After all, who knows how many more days he has left before he has to retreat to the shadows?
He flops over on his back, sprawling out languidly and closing his eyes. ]
I'll just wait here. Tantalizingly.
[ Just to make sure Iorveth imagines him lounging around looking gorgeous and alluring while he's out being served breakfast by that 'old biddy'. ]
Don't bring me anything dowdy to wear.
no subject
Pants are pulled on, boots are laced. The shirt-and-vest combo that he bought literally two days ago are too ruined to consider wearing, so they're thrown on top of the "to-burn" pile. Hopefully, the cafe doesn't have a dress code.
With that done, he tucks his coinpurse into his pocket, and meanders over to Astarion, who does, in fact, look very lovely and very distracting. Even with all his burns and cuts, he's the prettiest thing Iorveth has seen. It's incredibly annoying.
He bends forward, and kisses his navel. ]
I'll make you look like Halsin.
[ Like, yeah, they're both wood elves, but Iorveth can acknowledge that Halsin lays it on thick. ]
no subject
Is an archdruid what you fancy? Mmm, I can think of lots of ways for us to celebrate nature together.
[ He might only be teasing, but the worst part is that he's not entirely sure Halsin wouldn't consider getting naked in a public park a celebration of the natural world. Gods, druids are strange creatures. Then again, he used to think all wood elves were strange—hells, he sort of still does—and he still likes Iorveth, despite his tree-hugging ways. He laughs to himself, then closes his eye again, batting Iorveth away. ]
Go, before I decide to keep you here.
no subject
I'll announce myself when I get back. If anyone knocks, don't answer.
[ A word of caution, before he leaves and finds the world outside of the inn in the same exact state as they'd left it the day prior, entirely unaffected by the symbolic collapse of the Szarr mansion that still stands, like a tombstone, beyond the ramparts running through the city like veins; it reminds Iorveth of the grand emptiness of his victory against Henselt, and the sinking loneliness of that feeling, daunting enough that he'd asked Astarion to share a bed with him.
He should get back quickly.
His errands don't take long. The kind proprietress― who blushes when Iorveth shows up, "oh dear, it isn't that warm outside"― obliges his request to have his food to go with bursting enthusiasm, and makes sure, again, to pack extra for his "pretty darling, I do hope he's feeling better now."
Debatable. But Iorveth can't say that, so he thanks the lady with a bow of his head, and a promise to pass on her well-wishes. She looks pleased, leaving Iorveth feeling confident that, despite his hatred of the human race, he's found at least one that he wouldn't want to kill.
His visit to Facemaker's is less pleasant, but similarly fruitful: the dwarf looks slightly relieved that the weird elf duo has returned as a weird elf single, and though the customer service from Figaro lacks the flourish of a man who owes his life to the freak demanding clothes from his store, Iorveth isn't denied Figaro's vast collection of wares. He winds up leaving with an entirely new outfit for himself to change into later, and two other ensembles for Astarion, neither of them in green.
Arms full and warmed by morning sun, he returns to their room in the Spearhead. As promised, he announces himself with a measured "Astarion, it's me, I'm coming inside", and quietly pokes his head in through the door, just in case Astarion's fallen asleep again. ]
no subject
There's a physical pleasure there, the wonders of warm rays of daylight on his bare skin, but the better it feels the more he despairs at the thought of it, like so many other things, being snatched away from him. It's like he's grieving the person he thought he'd become after ascension, or perhaps the person he used to be before Cazador's teeth sunk into his flesh.
When Iorveth enters, he opens his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging faintly upward in wry amusement. ]
How speedy of you.
[ He could have stopped and ate at the restaurant, if he really wanted to. Astarion is certain that sweet old lady would have no problem keeping him company. After everything they went through yesterday—and everything Astarion has put him through, perhaps ever—Iorveth deserves a break. ]
Did you miss me that much?
no subject
The door closes behind them; gods forbid anyone passes by and tries to get curious. Iorveth moves to the bed, where he deposits his things and marinates on the question of whether or not he did miss Astarion, in the not-actually-significant amount of time that he'd spent away.
Ridiculous. Still, the verdict is an absentminded: ] Somewhat. [ Difficult to deny that Astarion was on his mind, when every choice Iorveth'd made after leaving the room hinged on what would please him. ]
If you need the space, I'll go.
no subject
When Iorveth offers to leave, though, he raises an eyebrow. It hadn't been a reprimand that he arrived back quickly. He'd thought it sweet, actually. He has no desire to be alone with his thoughts and feelings; in fact, he'd rather avoid them. His uncertain future inches ever closer, but he only knows how to stick his head in the sand. ]
What, to sit and brood alone? [ He snorts, dismissive. ] I had enough of that in the last two centuries to last me at least two more.
[ In truth, it was less brooding and more disconnecting from a painful reality, but that's splitting hairs. He cants his head at Iorveth's bag. ]
Show me the clothing you brought for me, unless you plan for me to sit here naked all day.
no subject
But, well. Astarion probably should put some clothes on. Iorveth reaches inside his bag and fishes out his purchases for Astarion's perusal. The first outfit is the more expensive cousin to Astarion's usual campwear: a white shirt with a V-shaped neckline, collar and sleeves embroidered with delicate gold thread, and a pair of smartly-tailored midnight-black pants to accompany it. The second is a long, tastefully decorated black robe with an accompanying silver belt to keep everything in place, meant more for comfort than anything else; the pants accompanying it are softer, easier to lounge in. Some clean underwear, too, though handing it over feels a bit, hm.
His eye flicks to the side, not quite bashful, but polite for his own sake. ]
None of these are scandalous enough for your taste, I assume.
no subject
Juvenile as always, he lets the underwear dangle from his index finger. ]
Yes, I was really hoping for something red and lacy.
[ He laughs under his breath at his own jest before setting his new unmentionables down and running a hand over the embroidered sleeves of the white shirt. Quality tailoring, expensive thread. Will he still be able to have nice clothes like this after this is all said and done? Or will it be back to mending his things until they fall apart?
With no plans to do anything but pose languidly around the room, he opts for the soft loungewear. He doesn't bother to get up to change, only lifting his hips to slip on his underwear and pants. ]
Don't worry, I can cause a scandal no matter what I'm wearing. [ He slips the robe on next, letting it hang open to cultivate a casual, devil-may-care aesthetic. The fabric is soft, and he stifles the urge to rub his face against it. ] You did well.
[ Leaning back against the wall, legs stretched lazily in front of him, he says, ] You know, you're the only one who's ever given me anything.
[ There's your reflection. He doesn't sound sad about it, only contemplative. ]
no subject
With that done: ] Pretty as always. [ As promised, tending to Astarion. (Specifically, his ego.) Iorveth settles next to him with his basket of food, leaving a polite inch of space between them as he starts to rummage through his breakfast, caught with a mouthful of pastry when Astarion mentions never having been gifted anything.
Hm, he hums, and swallows. ] I may be the first, but I'll not be the last.
[ Maybe Astarion didn't have the freedom to receive anything from anyone before, but that doesn't hold true anymore. Iorveth glances towards Astarion, expression softening a fraction. ] Do you see your worth more clearly, now?
no subject
I've always known my worth, [ he says a little defensively. In actuality, it's difficult to see anything clearly when he feels so adrift. Killing Cazador was all he ever wanted, and now that it's done, there's a gaping hole where his purpose used to be. He has eternity in front of him, and no clue what to do with it.
Astarion reaches into the basket, tearing a small piece off of one of the pastries and pressing it to Iorveth's mouth. The action might seem sickeningly sweet coming from anyone else, but there's something selfish and childlike to it now, like he's having fun trying out something new that he's never done before. ]
I'm delightful.
no subject
He thinks about "I'm delightful" as he chews, and replies: ] You're compelling. [ An assent, so he can go back to his original point. ] If you see yourself clearly, others will follow.
[ And they'll want to stay with him, is Iorveth's point. There's no reason for Astarion to be alone anymore. Tipping his head, he opens his mouth again, silently asking for another bite of food. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
the thought of your default icon being astarion's reaction to iorveth's embroidery is sending me
fsjldkjfs DISGUSTED!!
area vampire testifies that he should've ascended
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)