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. ]
[ Astarion smiles at Iorveth's compliance, tearing another small piece from the pastry. It's sticky and sweet, granules of sugar sticking to the pads of his fingers in a way that he'd normally find irritating, but if it's for the sake of feeding his little parkside pigeon, he finds he doesn't mind. ]
Hm, [ he hums, noncommittal, before popping a bit of pastry in Iorveth's mouth. ]
I think I... have some figuring out to do.
[ A respectable way of saying that his entire life has just been upended, and he's completely lost. ]
[ Iorveth wasn't lying when he'd said that he was starving: he attacks every morsel with the intentness of a feral animal, teeth and tongue scraping at bits of frosting on Astarion's fingers. There'll be nothing like this for a while when he decides to journey back north, so he'll enjoy it for now, when he can.
(This, encompassing Astarion's steady presence. Still up in the air.)
He holds Astarion's wrist in place to lick a crumb off the side of his index, and hums in return. ]
Fair. [ A soft understatement, as he lets go. ] It's your life to live.
[ A daunting prospect, Iorveth knows. He feels a twinge of sympathy, and it softens him enough to attempt a brief bump of forehead to forehead in quiet solidarity. Sometimes, living is more difficult than anything else. ]
My undeath to live, [ he corrects. ] No matter how sprightly I may look, I'm still a vampire.
[ And all that entails. It does put a wrench in figuring things out; he's going to have to feed himself without being noticed, to operate entirely under the cover of darkness, to make certain no one finds out what he truly is. Gods, it's exhausting just thinking about it.
He shakes his head. ] But there's no need to dwell on that.
[ Or dwell on the future at all. What's coming is coming, and now that he's bashed his only chance for ascension in with a mace, there's no stopping it. ]
How shall we spend the day before we return to our gaggle of misfits?
[ A quick demolishing of his pastry and a mouthful of water later: ]
I'd planned to tend to you, and little else.
[ Pigs may fly: the freak with a plan doesn't have a plan. Or, well, he does, but it boils down to "spoil Astarion for the day", which is not something he'll say out loud, so. Aside from that, he has vague next steps of action for Astarion's future sunlight problem, but he doesn't want to get ahead of himself― after all, Astarion might not even want his help, specifically, for that issue.
Fifty things to do, at all times. The parasite problem, the cultist problem, the politics up north, his place in all of these things. If he lets the cogs of his mind start turning, they'd never stop. ]
If you can believe it, [ he drawls, ] I do worry about you.
[ Shoving a piece of sausage in his mouth, as a distraction. ]
[ Struck by the fact that Iorveth truly did plan to spend the day on him, Astarion smiles, playfully tapping Iorveth's shoe with his own foot. To be tended to is one thing, though, and to be worried about is another. It implies there's something to be worried about.
Perhaps in some way there is, Cazador and the mansion and his lack of ascension making his feelings a confusing swirl inside of him, but he's not certain he wants Iorveth to know about that. If their time together is limited, it shouldn't be spent on something dark and unpleasant. ]
Sweet of you, darling, but you've nothing to worry your lovely little head about.
[ He pats the aforementioned lovely little head. Too much of his face is covered by the makeshift scarf for Astarion's taste, but he's still handsome anyway. ]
But, [ he adds, cajoling, ] I won't say no to being spoiled.
[ Because whether Iorveth says it or not, that's what he hears. ]
[ He huffs, a lighter and more affectionate distant relative to his usual, sharper scoffs. As much as instinct tells him to, he doesn't swat Astarion's hand away from his head. ]
...Back north, when any of my men or women needed tending to, all they'd ask was that I hold them for some time.
[ Tired, grief-struck, wounded. They'd sit under the awning of an ancient tree, or huddle in caves cleared of native monsters; something that happened less and less as their numbers dwindled and their tragedies became more commonplace. A bittersweet memory.
Iorveth turns to Astarion, and sets his basket aside. ]
How do you wish me to tend to you?
[ The request isn't servile; Iorveth is far too proud to bow his head to most anyone. As always, he wants to know, to see Astarion in clearer focus. ]
Ah, [ comes his uncertain reply, put on the spot. Uncharacteristically diffident, he answers, ] I don't know.
[ Although he's frequently demanding, he has little understanding of what to do when his demands are met. He's never been truly tended to by anyone other than himself, and even that was a disconnected sort of caring for oneself, the whole time detached from the mind and body that he couldn't bear to be in.
His eyes flick to the side, embarrassed. ]
As much as I'd love to give you orders [ —which is undoubtedly not what Iorveth meant— ] I'm not sure I know where to begin.
[ Intellectually or emotionally. He hardly knows what being cared for looks like, and further still, verbalizing the things he does want seems an insurmountable task. It's easy to demand things like praise, more difficult to demand things that feel small and vulnerable. ]
I suppose... [ He fumbles for his words. ] Well, I'd like to give you a day to remember me by. When you're hugging trees and sleeping in the dirt.
[ A day to remember him by. Iorveth tries to steel himself against what that implication makes him feel, but he's already admitted that he isn't made of stone, and the brief inwards pinch of his brows, he can tell, falls short of neutral. Almost a wince.
He smooths his expression over a moment later, trying for a recovery. Sticks the landing, if precariously. ]
I've never "hugged a tree" in my life. [ Because that's what he should be objecting to out of all of this, right. It's a weak rebuttal, but better than blurting out something stupid when the timing isn't right.
(When is the correct timing, then? The day they get rid of their brainworms? The day after? A hundred years from now?) ]
And you've already given me plenty to remember you by. I doubt I'll be able to purchase clothes without thinking of you in my mouth.
[ Bluntly. A bit uncouth for the topic at hand, but Iorveth continues. ]
I'll not have breakfast without thinking of your ankle against mine, or feel the sharp end of something at my throat without recalling your teeth. Every time something tugs at my sleeve, I'll think of your fingers.
[ Iorveth, a freak, has committed all of these things to memory. He says it matter-of-factly, as if he's explaining scars he's gotten in battle. ]
All this, and you still wish me to yearn more. [ A light laugh. ] You really are a monster.
[ As mundane as Iorveth makes his list sound, gods, it's the height of romance to Astarion. He's spent so much of his life feeling unimportant, no better than dirt beneath Cazador's shoe, and Iorveth—ridiculous, harsh, irritating, sweet Iorveth—can make him feel like he actually matters, just like that. Something worth remembering, a memory to cherish. His body moves of its own volition, leaning in to press an emphatic kiss to Iorveth's lips, like he doesn't know how else to manage the warmth inside him besides pouring it into Iorveth.
When he leans back, it's with a fond grin plastered across his face, painfully sincere. ]
I am, [ he agrees, because as selfish as he is, he does want Iorveth to yearn. Then at least he won't be alone, lying awake at night, longing. ] I don't want you to be able to kiss another soul without tasting me.
[ Possessive, in his own way. Iorveth can kiss and fuck his way through every dirt-sleeping tree-hugger out there, as long as Astarion is on his mind. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
Hm, [ he hums, noncommittal, before popping a bit of pastry in Iorveth's mouth. ]
I think I... have some figuring out to do.
[ A respectable way of saying that his entire life has just been upended, and he's completely lost. ]
no subject
(This, encompassing Astarion's steady presence. Still up in the air.)
He holds Astarion's wrist in place to lick a crumb off the side of his index, and hums in return. ]
Fair. [ A soft understatement, as he lets go. ] It's your life to live.
[ A daunting prospect, Iorveth knows. He feels a twinge of sympathy, and it softens him enough to attempt a brief bump of forehead to forehead in quiet solidarity. Sometimes, living is more difficult than anything else. ]
no subject
[ And all that entails. It does put a wrench in figuring things out; he's going to have to feed himself without being noticed, to operate entirely under the cover of darkness, to make certain no one finds out what he truly is. Gods, it's exhausting just thinking about it.
He shakes his head. ] But there's no need to dwell on that.
[ Or dwell on the future at all. What's coming is coming, and now that he's bashed his only chance for ascension in with a mace, there's no stopping it. ]
How shall we spend the day before we return to our gaggle of misfits?
no subject
I'd planned to tend to you, and little else.
[ Pigs may fly: the freak with a plan doesn't have a plan. Or, well, he does, but it boils down to "spoil Astarion for the day", which is not something he'll say out loud, so. Aside from that, he has vague next steps of action for Astarion's future sunlight problem, but he doesn't want to get ahead of himself― after all, Astarion might not even want his help, specifically, for that issue.
Fifty things to do, at all times. The parasite problem, the cultist problem, the politics up north, his place in all of these things. If he lets the cogs of his mind start turning, they'd never stop. ]
If you can believe it, [ he drawls, ] I do worry about you.
[ Shoving a piece of sausage in his mouth, as a distraction. ]
no subject
Perhaps in some way there is, Cazador and the mansion and his lack of ascension making his feelings a confusing swirl inside of him, but he's not certain he wants Iorveth to know about that. If their time together is limited, it shouldn't be spent on something dark and unpleasant. ]
Sweet of you, darling, but you've nothing to worry your lovely little head about.
[ He pats the aforementioned lovely little head. Too much of his face is covered by the makeshift scarf for Astarion's taste, but he's still handsome anyway. ]
But, [ he adds, cajoling, ] I won't say no to being spoiled.
[ Because whether Iorveth says it or not, that's what he hears. ]
no subject
...Back north, when any of my men or women needed tending to, all they'd ask was that I hold them for some time.
[ Tired, grief-struck, wounded. They'd sit under the awning of an ancient tree, or huddle in caves cleared of native monsters; something that happened less and less as their numbers dwindled and their tragedies became more commonplace. A bittersweet memory.
Iorveth turns to Astarion, and sets his basket aside. ]
How do you wish me to tend to you?
[ The request isn't servile; Iorveth is far too proud to bow his head to most anyone. As always, he wants to know, to see Astarion in clearer focus. ]
no subject
[ Although he's frequently demanding, he has little understanding of what to do when his demands are met. He's never been truly tended to by anyone other than himself, and even that was a disconnected sort of caring for oneself, the whole time detached from the mind and body that he couldn't bear to be in.
His eyes flick to the side, embarrassed. ]
As much as I'd love to give you orders [ —which is undoubtedly not what Iorveth meant— ] I'm not sure I know where to begin.
[ Intellectually or emotionally. He hardly knows what being cared for looks like, and further still, verbalizing the things he does want seems an insurmountable task. It's easy to demand things like praise, more difficult to demand things that feel small and vulnerable. ]
I suppose... [ He fumbles for his words. ] Well, I'd like to give you a day to remember me by. When you're hugging trees and sleeping in the dirt.
no subject
He smooths his expression over a moment later, trying for a recovery. Sticks the landing, if precariously. ]
I've never "hugged a tree" in my life. [ Because that's what he should be objecting to out of all of this, right. It's a weak rebuttal, but better than blurting out something stupid when the timing isn't right.
(When is the correct timing, then? The day they get rid of their brainworms? The day after? A hundred years from now?) ]
And you've already given me plenty to remember you by. I doubt I'll be able to purchase clothes without thinking of you in my mouth.
[ Bluntly. A bit uncouth for the topic at hand, but Iorveth continues. ]
I'll not have breakfast without thinking of your ankle against mine, or feel the sharp end of something at my throat without recalling your teeth. Every time something tugs at my sleeve, I'll think of your fingers.
[ Iorveth, a freak, has committed all of these things to memory. He says it matter-of-factly, as if he's explaining scars he's gotten in battle. ]
All this, and you still wish me to yearn more. [ A light laugh. ] You really are a monster.
no subject
When he leans back, it's with a fond grin plastered across his face, painfully sincere. ]
I am, [ he agrees, because as selfish as he is, he does want Iorveth to yearn. Then at least he won't be alone, lying awake at night, longing. ] I don't want you to be able to kiss another soul without tasting me.
[ Possessive, in his own way. Iorveth can kiss and fuck his way through every dirt-sleeping tree-hugger out there, as long as Astarion is on his mind. ]
(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)