[ 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. ]
[ He laughs again, almost bemused this time; like it's caught him off-guard that Astarion would admit something like that, like it's a surprise to him that Astarion would actually want him to pine. Fairly ridiculous, all things considered.
The stupidest part of it is that Iorveth does want to remember how Astarion tastes, so he closes the gap between them to press his lips to that perfect grin, one hand snaking behind Astarion's head to keep him in place while he licks into his mouth. A little greedy, despite himself.
When he pulls back, he feels less sated than when he'd begun. Again, stupid. He feels stretched taut, desire like an irritation in the back of his throat. ]
Once upon a time, I would have called that unwarranted confidence. [ Another kiss, this time to Astarion's jaw. ] Unfortunate for me, that some tables can turn.
[ A sigh, dry but pleased, as Iorveth cranes back and gently flicks the tip of Astarion's nose with an index. ]
[ Astarion nips at Iorveth's finger, playful. How quickly he forgets the desire to keep his emotional distance, turned to putty under a little bit of affection. He wouldn't have minded if Iorveth did want to explore his options physically, but a hint of pleasure and pride climbs up his spine at the knowledge that he doesn't. Again, he feels the desire to have something that's all his.
He reaches out to swipe a thumb across Iorveth's lower lip, gathering leftover granules of sugar from the pastry he ate from between Astarion's fingers. After, he lets the pad of his thumb glide down, dimpling Iorveth's angular chin. ]
You'll allow it. [ Iorveth's lips curl up into a smile, fondly exasperated. Of all the non-humans in this world that he had to become infatuated with, it had to be the one that makes him doubt his sanity on the regular.
Then again, he, a madman, wouldn't trade Astarion for anyone easier or more palatable; "a lot", Astarion'd said, to a freedom fighter with a penchant for doing entirely too much.
Exhibit A: more kissing. Fingers brush Astarion's jaw, considering the angle, as their mouths meet. The contact is soft at first, a series of fleeting, featherlight whispers of lips against lips, touching for the sake of touching. There's novelty in being chaste, but the ache in the back of Iorveth's throat demands more than boyish pecks; eventually, he carefully coaxes their mouths open until he's raking tongue against tongue, inhaling every time Astarion exhales.
He's out of breath when he finally relents, pleasantly dizzy. Somewhere along the way, his fingers have wound themselves into silver curls, clutching without pulling. ]
I could do this all day, [ is a little fuzzy, a little smug. He punctuates it with another brief kiss to the corner of Astarion's mouth. ]
[ It's silly, how the light trace of Iorveth's lips against his excites him even more than Iorveth's tongue in his mouth. Excites him differently, at least. He's tangled tongues with more people than he can count, but it's rare that anyone has kissed him chastely, gently, like it's purely for the sake of affection and not to use him as an object for their release.
He smiles when Iorveth pulls away, giddy like the schoolboy he hasn't been in hundreds of years. The effect some sternfaced wood elf terrorist has on him should embarrass him, but he can't bring himself to be bashful about it. He has no choice but to accept the facts: he thinks about Iorveth when he wakes and when he lies down to trance, Iorveth's is the only touch that excites rather than startles, and he's the only one whose words can wreck or repair Astarion's day. ]
[ It's novel, how safe Iorveth feels. When most everyone he meets is a potential enemy (or turns into one because of the things that come out of his mouth), feeling secure around someone is a rare, precious thing. Counterintuitive, almost.
Iorveth tries not to look too fond, to middling results. Maybe the strip of cloth covering half of his face helps; it probably doesn't. ]
Most clerics would argue that fucking an injured man is the opposite of tending to them.
[ Bluntly, with his usual dry humor. He thinks of Shadowheart and her potential (inevitable) outrage at finding out that not only did Iorveth keep Astarion from her immediate care, he made things worse by bedding him. If this is how Iorveth gets exiled from their motley crew, he'd laugh and laugh.
It isn't that he doesn't want to: obviously, there's lust under all this affection. He'd be lying if he said that he doesn't want to slip his hand under the loose covering of the robe that he'd purchased.
But: ] I'm content with this. [ Another kiss, for the hundredth time. ] Unless you're keen on watching me fight Shadowheart to the death.
[ Astarion's eyebrows raise skeptically, and he quips, ] How highly you must think of yourself to think you'd be so vigorous as to make my condition worse.
[ His voice somehow drips with both affection and judgment. Honestly! A very bold claim. Still, he has no desire to cajole anyone into intimacy—he's done enough of that in his time—so he simply slides his hand into Iorveth's, idly playing with his warm fingers. His own are as smooth as the day he was turned, the uncalloused hands of a privileged magistrate, but Iorveth's have the roughness of someone who's had to fight for everything they have. It's the rough parts that Astarion runs his fingers over the most, feeling for every scar and callus.
[ No comment about whether or not he's capable of being vigorous. Iorveth, a freak, who often finds himself turned on when Astarion has a sharp object in his hand, keeps his very untoward thoughts confined in his weird head for now. That flag stays rolled up without flying free today.
Instead: socks. He lets out a puff of breath at the reminder that he still needs to learn how to embroider a sun, rubbing the callused side of his thumb along the back of Astarion's hand. ]
If you've a sewing kit handy.
[ Iorveth'd left his back in Elfsong, back when they stumbled out of their previous room to pilfer the mace from Lae'zel. Maybe he's a little glad that he doesn't have to show Astarion all the crooked practice stitches he'd made. ]
[ Though he's loath to peel himself from Iorveth's side, Astarion releases his hand and gets up, gifted robe billowing behind him as he pads over to his pack to search through its contents. A moment later, he's perched on the edge of the bed with a needle and thread, removing the pillowcase to serve as Iorveth's practice canvas. He's already defiled one pillowcase, after all. Another is hardly anything to cry about. ]
Come.
[ He pats the mattress beside him. As appealing as sitting in the sun is, he'd rather lounge while Iorveth practices. ]
Edited (where'd my icon go) 2024-08-26 04:22 (UTC)
the thought of your default icon being astarion's reaction to iorveth's embroidery is sending me
[ Is it intolerably cute that Astarion keeps a sewing kit with him, the answer is yes. Like, Iorveth is fairly certain that the reason he has it on his person all the time is not for benign or precious reasons, but still. It's charming. It's convenient. Iorveth is insane.
Iorveth is, as it turns out, also amenable to trial and error. When beckoned, he settles on the bed with his long legs crossed, squinting at the needle and thread provided to him with near-comical seriousness. His first few practice lines are wobbly and uneven, and he scowls at them as if they're responsible for murdering his family.
Muttering a curse in Aen Seidhe under his breath, he tries another line. Over and under, down and through. He nearly stabs his thumb in the process, and he curses again. ]
Some people do this for hours, [ he grouses, without much heat behind the protest. He'll never underestimate a tailor again. ]
[ Likewise, it's intolerably cute that Iorveth has such a solemn approach to embroidery, his anger at his shaky practice lines sickeningly endearing. Astarion smiles, charmed, as he looks over Iorveth's shoulder at his attempt. Not good, by any means, but he somehow finds even those unsteady stitches pleasant in their own way. Anyone else, and he'd roll his eyes at their lack of skill at needlework. With Iorveth, it's sweet. ]
Yes, well, you have to put in effort if you want to look good. This doesn't just happen by the grace of the gods.
[ A gesture at his attire. ]
Now, careful. [ A rare word for him to use. He reaches out to steady Iorveth's hand. ] Prick yourself, and you'll whet my appetite.
[ All that dexterity and fine motor control with a bow and arrow, unsuccessfully applied to making tiny stitches in a pillowcase. Iorveth lists back slightly when Astarion leans forward, resting his weight comfortably against Astarion's chest. ]
You can have my blood later, [ he grunts, struggling to tie off the end of his dwindling piece of string, as offhanded as anything. So comfortable with the idea of letting Astarion drink from him that the sheer absurdity of being a constant source of sustenance for a vampire hardly registers anymore― it's just a matter of fact.
Still focused, he passes another thread through his needle, and tries to etch a circle into the pillowcase this time. It winds up looking more like a lemon than a sun, and he sighs in exasperation. ]
Show me, [ he eventually concedes, passing his sewing set back to Astarion with his chin tipped in haughty obstinacy. Not admitting defeat, but requesting a demonstration. ]
[ A lemon would perhaps be more accurate to Astarion's disposition, but it's not what he's after. Still, there's something endearing about those crooked stitches. Astarion takes the sewing kit and the pillow in hand, demonstrating with deft, fluid movements. It looks as if he's been doing this for centuries, and he has. There was little else to occupy his time in the palace, and this, at least, ensured he kept his appearance up.
He's never been a teacher before, but he imagines one is meant to be encouraging, so he says, ] You're on the right track. [ He immediately ruins it, though, by adding, ] Just, ah, do it right instead.
[ Handing back the pillow and needle, he places his hands over Iorveth's, directing him and trying (not as hard as he should) not to think about how warm his hands are, how they feel against his cheek and in his hair. ]
I wonder what sort of reward I might get for the information that this dangerous elven fugitive can be defeated by a mere needle and thread.
[ Astarion is from the Gale school of teaching when it comes to embroidery: demonstrate something expertly, then tell their student to follow suit. Still, there's a certain measure of pleasure in watching someone do their craft so deftly, so Iorveth manages not to scowl about it, and redoubles his efforts to get things right.
(Astarion's cool palm against his hand feels nice; he tries not to think about craning back and kissing him again.) ]
You'd get paid handsomely by stupid humans who, no doubt, would assume "needle and thread" was elven code for something else, and spend days trying to interpret it.
[ Dryly. There are still men out in the city who would love nothing more than to see Iorveth hang, and poking fun at them is how Iorveth copes.
His next attempt at a circle is fairly passable, if slightly oblong. Iorveth shows it to Astarion with a slightly pleased arch of his lips, a silent well? ]
[ Astarion perches his chin on Iorveth's shoulder to examine his work, the very picture of a cat that's decided to curl up in someone's lap. Iorveth smells nice up close, a mix of scented soap from the washroom and his own unique undertone, woody and deep. He grins not only at the improved work but at Iorveth's own pride in it, pleasure swelling in his chest at the sight.
Amused, but warm with satisfaction: ] What a dutiful student you are, my dear.
[ And with the added obstacle of having a very poor teacher indeed. Astarion wouldn't know how to explain something if his life depended on it, not when nearly everything he does is based on improvisation. ]
[ Iorveth isn't deluded enough to think that anything he accomplishes within the day will be good enough to embroider on any of Astarion's belongings; at best, it'll look like the clumsy efforts of a small child that only a parent could love, and his endgoal is to achieve something slightly better than "oh sweetie, you tried".
So. More practice. He winds up stabbing himself halfway into stitching the rays of his oblong sun, cursing as he drops the needle and pillowcase to keep from bleeding on it. ]
－A snack for you. [ A sigh, and he offers Astarion his injured index. ] I'll have improved by the time we've killed Gortash.
[ Setting personal milestones based on who they're going to murder next is perfectly legitimate, he thinks. ]
[ He only half-listens to what Iorveth says after that ruby drop of blood beads on his fingertip. Something about Gortash, who Astarion hasn't paid a second thought to all this time with Henselt and Cazador on his mind. He continues not paying him a second thought, taking Iorveth's hand in his and lifting it toward his mouth. On the way to his lips, he pauses, tilting his head and swiping his own finger along the side of Iorveth's index. ]
You have the most lovely, long fingers.
[ Iorveth deserves to know that he's striking, after all. He shows so much scorn toward praise, only words, but even he isn't made of enough steel to resist it forever. One of these days, he won't feel ruined anymore, and he won't scoff when Astarion calls him handsome.
He licks the blood away, then, lingering for a second longer than necessary before flopping back on the mattress with a sigh. ]
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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. ]
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(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. ]
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[ 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?
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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. ]
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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. ]
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...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. ]
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[ 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.
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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.
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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. ]
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The stupidest part of it is that Iorveth does want to remember how Astarion tastes, so he closes the gap between them to press his lips to that perfect grin, one hand snaking behind Astarion's head to keep him in place while he licks into his mouth. A little greedy, despite himself.
When he pulls back, he feels less sated than when he'd begun. Again, stupid. He feels stretched taut, desire like an irritation in the back of his throat. ]
Once upon a time, I would have called that unwarranted confidence. [ Another kiss, this time to Astarion's jaw. ] Unfortunate for me, that some tables can turn.
[ A sigh, dry but pleased, as Iorveth cranes back and gently flicks the tip of Astarion's nose with an index. ]
I have no desire to kiss anyone but you.
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He reaches out to swipe a thumb across Iorveth's lower lip, gathering leftover granules of sugar from the pastry he ate from between Astarion's fingers. After, he lets the pad of his thumb glide down, dimpling Iorveth's angular chin. ]
Mm. I'll allow you to spoil me with them, then.
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Then again, he, a madman, wouldn't trade Astarion for anyone easier or more palatable; "a lot", Astarion'd said, to a freedom fighter with a penchant for doing entirely too much.
Exhibit A: more kissing. Fingers brush Astarion's jaw, considering the angle, as their mouths meet. The contact is soft at first, a series of fleeting, featherlight whispers of lips against lips, touching for the sake of touching. There's novelty in being chaste, but the ache in the back of Iorveth's throat demands more than boyish pecks; eventually, he carefully coaxes their mouths open until he's raking tongue against tongue, inhaling every time Astarion exhales.
He's out of breath when he finally relents, pleasantly dizzy. Somewhere along the way, his fingers have wound themselves into silver curls, clutching without pulling. ]
I could do this all day, [ is a little fuzzy, a little smug. He punctuates it with another brief kiss to the corner of Astarion's mouth. ]
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He smiles when Iorveth pulls away, giddy like the schoolboy he hasn't been in hundreds of years. The effect some sternfaced wood elf terrorist has on him should embarrass him, but he can't bring himself to be bashful about it. He has no choice but to accept the facts: he thinks about Iorveth when he wakes and when he lies down to trance, Iorveth's is the only touch that excites rather than startles, and he's the only one whose words can wreck or repair Astarion's day. ]
Well, if that's really all you want to do.
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Iorveth tries not to look too fond, to middling results. Maybe the strip of cloth covering half of his face helps; it probably doesn't. ]
Most clerics would argue that fucking an injured man is the opposite of tending to them.
[ Bluntly, with his usual dry humor. He thinks of Shadowheart and her potential (inevitable) outrage at finding out that not only did Iorveth keep Astarion from her immediate care, he made things worse by bedding him. If this is how Iorveth gets exiled from their motley crew, he'd laugh and laugh.
It isn't that he doesn't want to: obviously, there's lust under all this affection. He'd be lying if he said that he doesn't want to slip his hand under the loose covering of the robe that he'd purchased.
But: ] I'm content with this. [ Another kiss, for the hundredth time. ] Unless you're keen on watching me fight Shadowheart to the death.
[ Might be fun. ]
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[ His voice somehow drips with both affection and judgment. Honestly! A very bold claim. Still, he has no desire to cajole anyone into intimacy—he's done enough of that in his time—so he simply slides his hand into Iorveth's, idly playing with his warm fingers. His own are as smooth as the day he was turned, the uncalloused hands of a privileged magistrate, but Iorveth's have the roughness of someone who's had to fight for everything they have. It's the rough parts that Astarion runs his fingers over the most, feeling for every scar and callus.
A dry laugh escapes him, then. ]
Shall I teach you to darn socks, then?
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Instead: socks. He lets out a puff of breath at the reminder that he still needs to learn how to embroider a sun, rubbing the callused side of his thumb along the back of Astarion's hand. ]
If you've a sewing kit handy.
[ Iorveth'd left his back in Elfsong, back when they stumbled out of their previous room to pilfer the mace from Lae'zel. Maybe he's a little glad that he doesn't have to show Astarion all the crooked practice stitches he'd made. ]
If not, I'll go speak to the innkeep.
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Come.
[ He pats the mattress beside him. As appealing as sitting in the sun is, he'd rather lounge while Iorveth practices. ]
the thought of your default icon being astarion's reaction to iorveth's embroidery is sending me
Iorveth is, as it turns out, also amenable to trial and error. When beckoned, he settles on the bed with his long legs crossed, squinting at the needle and thread provided to him with near-comical seriousness. His first few practice lines are wobbly and uneven, and he scowls at them as if they're responsible for murdering his family.
Muttering a curse in Aen Seidhe under his breath, he tries another line. Over and under, down and through. He nearly stabs his thumb in the process, and he curses again. ]
Some people do this for hours, [ he grouses, without much heat behind the protest. He'll never underestimate a tailor again. ]
fsjldkjfs DISGUSTED!!
Yes, well, you have to put in effort if you want to look good. This doesn't just happen by the grace of the gods.
[ A gesture at his attire. ]
Now, careful. [ A rare word for him to use. He reaches out to steady Iorveth's hand. ] Prick yourself, and you'll whet my appetite.
area vampire testifies that he should've ascended
You can have my blood later, [ he grunts, struggling to tie off the end of his dwindling piece of string, as offhanded as anything. So comfortable with the idea of letting Astarion drink from him that the sheer absurdity of being a constant source of sustenance for a vampire hardly registers anymore― it's just a matter of fact.
Still focused, he passes another thread through his needle, and tries to etch a circle into the pillowcase this time. It winds up looking more like a lemon than a sun, and he sighs in exasperation. ]
Show me, [ he eventually concedes, passing his sewing set back to Astarion with his chin tipped in haughty obstinacy. Not admitting defeat, but requesting a demonstration. ]
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He's never been a teacher before, but he imagines one is meant to be encouraging, so he says, ] You're on the right track. [ He immediately ruins it, though, by adding, ] Just, ah, do it right instead.
[ Handing back the pillow and needle, he places his hands over Iorveth's, directing him and trying (not as hard as he should) not to think about how warm his hands are, how they feel against his cheek and in his hair. ]
I wonder what sort of reward I might get for the information that this dangerous elven fugitive can be defeated by a mere needle and thread.
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(Astarion's cool palm against his hand feels nice; he tries not to think about craning back and kissing him again.) ]
You'd get paid handsomely by stupid humans who, no doubt, would assume "needle and thread" was elven code for something else, and spend days trying to interpret it.
[ Dryly. There are still men out in the city who would love nothing more than to see Iorveth hang, and poking fun at them is how Iorveth copes.
His next attempt at a circle is fairly passable, if slightly oblong. Iorveth shows it to Astarion with a slightly pleased arch of his lips, a silent well? ]
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Amused, but warm with satisfaction: ] What a dutiful student you are, my dear.
[ And with the added obstacle of having a very poor teacher indeed. Astarion wouldn't know how to explain something if his life depended on it, not when nearly everything he does is based on improvisation. ]
I should have known you'd be a quick learner.
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[ Iorveth isn't deluded enough to think that anything he accomplishes within the day will be good enough to embroider on any of Astarion's belongings; at best, it'll look like the clumsy efforts of a small child that only a parent could love, and his endgoal is to achieve something slightly better than "oh sweetie, you tried".
So. More practice. He winds up stabbing himself halfway into stitching the rays of his oblong sun, cursing as he drops the needle and pillowcase to keep from bleeding on it. ]
－A snack for you. [ A sigh, and he offers Astarion his injured index. ] I'll have improved by the time we've killed Gortash.
[ Setting personal milestones based on who they're going to murder next is perfectly legitimate, he thinks. ]
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You have the most lovely, long fingers.
[ Iorveth deserves to know that he's striking, after all. He shows so much scorn toward praise, only words, but even he isn't made of enough steel to resist it forever. One of these days, he won't feel ruined anymore, and he won't scoff when Astarion calls him handsome.
He licks the blood away, then, lingering for a second longer than necessary before flopping back on the mattress with a sigh. ]
It's difficult to control myself around you.
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