[ 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. ]
[ A flash of something, when Astarion doesn't decide to put the finger in his mouth. Disappointment? Something adjacent, which makes the back of Iorveth's throat burn again.
He flexes those same long fingers, then picks up the mess he's made of the pillowcase and sets it aside on the bedside dresser along with needle and thread. To be continued later. ]
News to me, that you were controlling yourself.
[ A bit mean, but more inquisitive than anything else. He's never been fond of the masks that Astarion likes to wear, anyway; whatever Astarion deems pathetic about himself, Iorveth has always interpreted to be truthful.
Swinging his legs up onto the mattress, Iorveth reaches to comb his uninjured hand through Astarion's hair. ]
[ It is mean, but Iorveth can't exactly be blamed. Astarion is hardly the picture of self-control. He struggles with self-restraint in almost all ways, impulsive and reckless. Even still, there's so many ways he's had to repress himself over the centuries, every desire dampened by shame.
He leans into Iorveth's hand, another example of his lack of control. ]
You make me hungry.
[ For lots of things. For blood, affection, intimacy. All the sorts of things he'd assumed he'd never get. ]
[ "Hungry". Out of Astarion's mouth, that word is dire: not just a scarcity of sustenance, but of everything. A dearth of consideration, safety, autonomy, not to mention the inability to say anything about said lacking.
Iorveth pulls his hand away to realign. Twisting on the mattress, sliding gracefully up and over towards Astarion until he's poised over him, sideways to Astarion's supine. He hovers like that for a moment, watching with careful scrutiny. Debating. Tempering his own reaction, which is hypocritical considering his request immediately prior.
He shouldn't. Astarion still needs time and space to think about himself. Iorveth shouldn't.
But he finds that he's hungry as well. Starving, even. When he leans forward to press their mouths together again, he feels it even more strongly; an itch in the back of his skull that has nothing to do with the parasite. ]
As do you. [ He huffs, pulling back. ] Does it frighten you?
[ His immediate instinct is to blurt out a defensive no. His life has been dominated by fear more than anything else, but it's always been unwise to express it. Showing vulnerability meant making himself a target, providing others with the dagger to plunge in his heart. They were always going to hurt him anyway, but the least he could do was make it more difficult for them.
But he doesn't want to lie to Iorveth, doesn't want to prick him on his sharp quills. That's the crux of the issue, because it does scare Astarion that he wants to be sincere with him. He wants to be seen and known and accepted even after he's shown his worst parts. It's his darkest, most depraved desire. ]
I don't know. [ A lie, so he amends, sounding exasperated with himself, ] —A little.
[ He squirms just admitting that much, rolling a loose thread on the bedspread between two of his fingers. ]
I've never cared for anyone the way I care for you. [ A thoughtful pause. ] I've never cared for anyone at all, really.
[ Iorveth is a known terrorist in the north. He's battle-hardened and paranoid, the kind of elf that had trouble sleeping on a comfortable bed the first few nights they stayed at Elfsong, because he'd grown so accustomed, in his century of half-awake trancing propped against trees, to being uncomfortable. He's not the kind of person anyone should care for unless they share a cause with him― a maladjusted freak, an hourglass shedding sand with each passing second.
Maybe Astarion needs a reminder. But Iorveth finds that he doesn't want to warn Astarion against him. His side of the same coin as Astarion: Iorveth finds comfort in the fact that Astarion cares for him, despite every effort he's made to the contrary.
Silence stretches between them, slow and contemplative. Iorveth fills it by combing through Astarion's hair again, tracing the curve and point of his ear.
Finally, he asks: ] If so, what do you want from me?
[ Unconsciously this time, his head leans into Iorveth's gentle touch like a flower craning toward the sun. It's pathetic how the faint slide of Iorveth's fingers against his ear makes him shiver in satisfaction, but he's finding that perhaps he's all right being a little pathetic around Iorveth if he keeps this up. It's funny; not long ago, anyone seeing his soft molten center would have been his worst nightmare. Now he's willing to roll over for a crumb of affection from the sort of terrorist he would have sent to the gallows as a magistrate.
The question, though, raises an eyebrow. What does he want? He wants to be close to Iorveth all the time, to see a smile break that stony expression, to smell and taste him. That, though, is perhaps a little much, even if he's willing to look pathetic.
[ Something inside of Iorveth snaps. Heavy cords keeping his emotions in restraint; he recalls telling Astarion that it doesn't matter how he feels about anything.
It matters now. At least, right now, in this moment. The heaviness of his feeling breaks from his reason, the intensity of it pressing against the tadpole in his brain, telling it to whisper I adore you directly into Astarion's skull.
He has no control over whether or not that happens successfully, but he breaches the distance between them, physically, to wrap his arms around Astarion's shoulders. Pulling him into an embrace, jumping over the metaphorical cliff. ]
Then you'll have me. [ Softly, against Astarion's ear. ] However you wish.
[ His chest burns; it takes courage to want someone so badly. ] Stay with me, Astarion.
[ Astarion isn't used to being embraced. Caressing a lover, lying lazily across his bedmate's body, holding someone close as he drains their blood — yes. The only embraces he can recall, though, are the quick presses against each other that they shared yesterday, under the stress of Cazador's impending confrontation. This is different, more encompassing. He hardly knows what to do with himself, hands hovering awkwardly before they finally come to rest lightly against Iorveth's middle.
You'll have me — another thing he isn't used to, asking for something and receiving it. And then stay with me, like supplication. He feels warm all over, and not just from Iorveth's body radiating heat. But—
That sort of feeling shouldn't be trusted, even if he very much wants to. ]
[ A tenday ago, getting this reaction in response to stay with me would've had Iorveth recoil back, teeth bared in his familiar kneejerk insult me at your own peril retaliation. The instinct to do so is still there, springloaded on his consciousness and in the way his grip tenses, momentarily, a fraction; like he's about to push back, like he might've taken offense.
It eases. He sighs, and rests his forehead against Astarion's shoulder. ]
I'm not known to say things that I don't mean.
[ Ask the hundreds of dead men that he's threatened to kill. Not the point, though. ]
But if my words ring hollow, then I'll speak more clearly through my actions.
[ One sweet promise won't overturn two centuries of maltreatment. Iorveth is aware, and presses his fondness where his palm is resting between Astarion's shoulderblades, squeezing him gently. ] You needn't give me an answer now.
[ Astarion feels that tension in his grip, that immediate reaction— and he feels him relax, too, the offense draining out of him. Iorveth is right, of course. He doesn't say things he doesn't mean. His unwavering sincerity, even when it's unpleasant, is part of the reason Astarion even trusts him in the first place. He's spent so long surrounded by lies and masks, but Iorveth has never tried to be anything but what he is.
So why, then, is it difficult to believe that he's actually wanted, not just on a timer but indefinitely? Cazador is dead, but his words still ring in Astarion's head. Roach, rat, nothing. Iorveth doesn't see him that way, he knows, but there's still a part of himself that does.
That's far too much to explain. Instead, he says, ] You said that I look bad in green.
[ Iorveth actually laughs at that, low and warm. ]
The ego on you. Unbelievable. [ A biting comment in a different context, but in this one, just amused and bemused. Rearing up with his arms now loosely draped around Astarion, making enough space for a proper once-over, Iorveth curls the corners of his lips upwards. ]
You were beautiful when we were crawling in the mud under Henselt's basement. [ His looks are one thing, but the shape of Astarion is entirely another; not just the way his features are arranged, but the entirety of him. Iorveth finally lets go, but only to flick his nose with his index again. ] You'd look striking in green, if you chose to wear it.
[ Chose being the operative word there. His expression softens another increment, and he soothes over the spot he'd flicked with his thumb. ]
[ Astarion crinkles his nose. It's a reasonable point to raise, if one looks beyond the surface meaning; Iorveth seemed not to think Astarion would belong. Then again, hells, he isn't sure he belongs anywhere. Not this city, not the woodlands. He'd like to belong with Iorveth, though. ]
I want to.
[ It's blurted out, words falling out of his mouth before he can put them into any sensible statement. He doesn't want to be alone. He'd always liked to think of himself as a lone wolf who doesn't need anyone else, but the thought of navigating the world on his lonesome after this is dread-inducing.
After a moment, he shakes his head, correcting, ] —Gods, no, I don't. I'm a winter, darling. It just wouldn't do.
[ He's still talking about clothing. But then, he adds, softly and almost shyly, ] But I want to be with you.
[ Iorveth recalls back－ far, far back－ to memories of a theatrically bereft elf standing near the ruins of a smoldering Nautiloid, pointing to a bush and stating, with improbable certainty, that there's a brain creature Right There, and won't they please Do Something About It. He'd disliked the pale stranger almost immediately: something about the aloof way he held himself, his insincere guilelessness, his inability to take anything seriously.
There's little of that Astarion now. Or, well. There are vestiges of him, made understandable with context. Iorveth doesn't care to make Astarion softer or more palatable or less; he sees Astarion now, saying I want to be with you, and feels, in an utterly unhinged way, grateful that he was abducted by squidmen that put a tadpole in his head.
Bracketing Astarion's face with both hands: ] Then come with me. [ A huff, soft and affectionate. ] We'll share a single ragged bedroll on the forest floor, and kill humans who cross us.
[ Glamorous. Maybe it won't even happen this way－ the others have made it clear that Iorveth will always be a temporary guest at best, even if he returns north. Who knows? Orin might zap them all into nonexistence tomorrow. Who knows? The Netherbrain might turn them all into thralls within the next tenday. Who knows?
Iorveth presses his mouth to Astarion's forehead, and sets those questions aside. Right now, this feels correct. ]
[ He'll probably burn the second the sun comes up if he's on the forest floor, and that's only if Iorveth's people haven't already burned him at the stake for being a monster. Still, it's nice to imagine a future where he doesn't worry about those things, where he can press Iorveth up against a tree and kiss him whenever he wants. It's so pleasant to imagine lying down with Iorveth at night and waking next to him in the morning that he hardly even minds the assertion that they'll be on a tattered bedroll in the dirt.
(But he does still mind, and so he lets himself imagine stealing a nicer one, instead.) ]
All right.
[ Iorveth had asked if his hunger frightened him. It does, and so does this. Any number of things could go wrong: the people of the forest could hate him, he could be condemned to lurking in the shadows for eternity, Iorveth could tire of him once he returns to his real life. He wants to be able to say that he'll be OK if any of those things happen, but the truth is that he'd seethe and despair. Even with that knowledge, all of that is still less frightening than the idea of being alone.
With feigned indifference: ] I suppose, when you ask so nicely, it would be uncouth to deny you your chance to continue adoring me.
[ He presses his mouth to Iorveth's, sealing their agreement with a kiss. ]
[ There are caveats and disclaimers to this agreement, but they can lay out regulations when Iorveth isn't busy rubbing noses with Astarion. Ridiculous. In the future, Iorveth is going to kill everyone who rightly calls him out for being, of all things, smitten. Halsin will be the first to fall. Wyll next, probably. He'll forgive Karlach (a personal bias).
A kiss, to chase the one he's been given. Quick but appreciative, a silent thank you to add to the pile. Giving up ascension, entertaining the notion of staying, tacitly agreeing to wearing green in his future. ]
When I make a choice, [ he murmurs, ] I don't stray from it.
[ Evidenced by his, well, everything. Over a century of fighting a war that literally everyone has told him to fucking quit, never finding a good middle ground for how angry injustice makes him feel. He's making a choice to be fiercely devoted to a vampire with two hundred years of unimaginable violence, and he's making it with no takebacks. It's the sort of insane thing that most people would reconsider; "actually, you're kind of deranged, so no thanks."
Iorveth sits back, then up. Reared up on the mattress like a proud woodland animal, looking down at Astarion with that still-sharp focus. The kind of focus he'll retain for centuries, even after this moment passes. ]
I'll adore you until I burn. [ A promise, a threat, a reassurance. Iorveth is, as always, grandiose. ]
[ A dusty pink blushes his chest, crawls up his neck, and dots his cheeks and ears. He's been desired, shallowly and superficially, but he's never been adored. He remembers looking down on the lovers he'd see strolling the streets at night, hand-in-hand. Pathetic, he'd thought, how they let someone else hold a knife to their throat in that way. He'd let Iorveth hold a knife to his throat any day, as long as he keeps saying those pretty words.
He laughs, incredulous. ] You ridiculous, wonderful man.
[ Flopping back down, he sighs, dreamy and restless all at the same time. Of course, he could match Iorveth's energy, make a dramatic speech about how he'll adore Iorveth for the rest of eternity and then some, but instead—
Dryly: ] You really mustn't say such things if you're trying to keep your clothes on.
[ Gods, Astarion is intolerably cute. Before, that sentence would have terminated at "intolerable", but with enough awareness that Astarion isn't provoking him just for the sake of rubbing him the wrong way or seducing him for some perceived future advantage, the additional descriptor gets tacked on with ease.
Sitting up, he trails his palm down the sliver of pale skin showing between the un-belted canyon of the robe he'd gifted Astarion, from neck to collarbone and down to Astarion's chest. The wanting hasn't abated any, even if the crux of what Iorveth wants Astarion to take away from this has nothing to do with sex; he's just resigned himself to the inexorable fact that all of this wanting comes with wanting to put his mouth on every inch of Astarion's body. ]
I've not much to take off. [ Still very much shirtless, with apologies to the kind old woman that he scandalized. ] Astarion.
[ To the tune of "pay attention". Iorveth's single eye is warm, half his face still concealed but not at all opaque to interpretation. ]
I want you. [ Plainly, without any room for misunderstanding. An ultimatum of sorts. Astarion will simply have to live with the fact that this deranged wood elf is being honest about this. ] I suppose it was never about the shape of your ears, or what you could do for me.
I wanted you since the first time you sunk your teeth in my neck.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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He flexes those same long fingers, then picks up the mess he's made of the pillowcase and sets it aside on the bedside dresser along with needle and thread. To be continued later. ]
News to me, that you were controlling yourself.
[ A bit mean, but more inquisitive than anything else. He's never been fond of the masks that Astarion likes to wear, anyway; whatever Astarion deems pathetic about himself, Iorveth has always interpreted to be truthful.
Swinging his legs up onto the mattress, Iorveth reaches to comb his uninjured hand through Astarion's hair. ]
It isn't the day for control. Speak your mind.
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He leans into Iorveth's hand, another example of his lack of control. ]
You make me hungry.
[ For lots of things. For blood, affection, intimacy. All the sorts of things he'd assumed he'd never get. ]
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Iorveth pulls his hand away to realign. Twisting on the mattress, sliding gracefully up and over towards Astarion until he's poised over him, sideways to Astarion's supine. He hovers like that for a moment, watching with careful scrutiny. Debating. Tempering his own reaction, which is hypocritical considering his request immediately prior.
He shouldn't. Astarion still needs time and space to think about himself. Iorveth shouldn't.
But he finds that he's hungry as well. Starving, even. When he leans forward to press their mouths together again, he feels it even more strongly; an itch in the back of his skull that has nothing to do with the parasite. ]
As do you. [ He huffs, pulling back. ] Does it frighten you?
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But he doesn't want to lie to Iorveth, doesn't want to prick him on his sharp quills. That's the crux of the issue, because it does scare Astarion that he wants to be sincere with him. He wants to be seen and known and accepted even after he's shown his worst parts. It's his darkest, most depraved desire. ]
I don't know. [ A lie, so he amends, sounding exasperated with himself, ] —A little.
[ He squirms just admitting that much, rolling a loose thread on the bedspread between two of his fingers. ]
I've never cared for anyone the way I care for you. [ A thoughtful pause. ] I've never cared for anyone at all, really.
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Maybe Astarion needs a reminder. But Iorveth finds that he doesn't want to warn Astarion against him. His side of the same coin as Astarion: Iorveth finds comfort in the fact that Astarion cares for him, despite every effort he's made to the contrary.
Silence stretches between them, slow and contemplative. Iorveth fills it by combing through Astarion's hair again, tracing the curve and point of his ear.
Finally, he asks: ] If so, what do you want from me?
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The question, though, raises an eyebrow. What does he want? He wants to be close to Iorveth all the time, to see a smile break that stony expression, to smell and taste him. That, though, is perhaps a little much, even if he's willing to look pathetic.
A compromise, then: ] I only want you.
[ In all ways. Too much. ]
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It matters now. At least, right now, in this moment. The heaviness of his feeling breaks from his reason, the intensity of it pressing against the tadpole in his brain, telling it to whisper I adore you directly into Astarion's skull.
He has no control over whether or not that happens successfully, but he breaches the distance between them, physically, to wrap his arms around Astarion's shoulders. Pulling him into an embrace, jumping over the metaphorical cliff. ]
Then you'll have me. [ Softly, against Astarion's ear. ] However you wish.
[ His chest burns; it takes courage to want someone so badly. ] Stay with me, Astarion.
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You'll have me — another thing he isn't used to, asking for something and receiving it. And then stay with me, like supplication. He feels warm all over, and not just from Iorveth's body radiating heat. But—
That sort of feeling shouldn't be trusted, even if he very much wants to. ]
Don't say things you don't mean.
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It eases. He sighs, and rests his forehead against Astarion's shoulder. ]
I'm not known to say things that I don't mean.
[ Ask the hundreds of dead men that he's threatened to kill. Not the point, though. ]
But if my words ring hollow, then I'll speak more clearly through my actions.
[ One sweet promise won't overturn two centuries of maltreatment. Iorveth is aware, and presses his fondness where his palm is resting between Astarion's shoulderblades, squeezing him gently. ] You needn't give me an answer now.
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So why, then, is it difficult to believe that he's actually wanted, not just on a timer but indefinitely? Cazador is dead, but his words still ring in Astarion's head. Roach, rat, nothing. Iorveth doesn't see him that way, he knows, but there's still a part of himself that does.
That's far too much to explain. Instead, he says, ] You said that I look bad in green.
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The ego on you. Unbelievable. [ A biting comment in a different context, but in this one, just amused and bemused. Rearing up with his arms now loosely draped around Astarion, making enough space for a proper once-over, Iorveth curls the corners of his lips upwards. ]
You were beautiful when we were crawling in the mud under Henselt's basement. [ His looks are one thing, but the shape of Astarion is entirely another; not just the way his features are arranged, but the entirety of him. Iorveth finally lets go, but only to flick his nose with his index again. ] You'd look striking in green, if you chose to wear it.
[ Chose being the operative word there. His expression softens another increment, and he soothes over the spot he'd flicked with his thumb. ]
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I want to.
[ It's blurted out, words falling out of his mouth before he can put them into any sensible statement. He doesn't want to be alone. He'd always liked to think of himself as a lone wolf who doesn't need anyone else, but the thought of navigating the world on his lonesome after this is dread-inducing.
After a moment, he shakes his head, correcting, ] —Gods, no, I don't. I'm a winter, darling. It just wouldn't do.
[ He's still talking about clothing. But then, he adds, softly and almost shyly, ] But I want to be with you.
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There's little of that Astarion now. Or, well. There are vestiges of him, made understandable with context. Iorveth doesn't care to make Astarion softer or more palatable or less; he sees Astarion now, saying I want to be with you, and feels, in an utterly unhinged way, grateful that he was abducted by squidmen that put a tadpole in his head.
Bracketing Astarion's face with both hands: ] Then come with me. [ A huff, soft and affectionate. ] We'll share a single ragged bedroll on the forest floor, and kill humans who cross us.
[ Glamorous. Maybe it won't even happen this way－ the others have made it clear that Iorveth will always be a temporary guest at best, even if he returns north. Who knows? Orin might zap them all into nonexistence tomorrow. Who knows? The Netherbrain might turn them all into thralls within the next tenday. Who knows?
Iorveth presses his mouth to Astarion's forehead, and sets those questions aside. Right now, this feels correct. ]
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(But he does still mind, and so he lets himself imagine stealing a nicer one, instead.) ]
All right.
[ Iorveth had asked if his hunger frightened him. It does, and so does this. Any number of things could go wrong: the people of the forest could hate him, he could be condemned to lurking in the shadows for eternity, Iorveth could tire of him once he returns to his real life. He wants to be able to say that he'll be OK if any of those things happen, but the truth is that he'd seethe and despair. Even with that knowledge, all of that is still less frightening than the idea of being alone.
With feigned indifference: ] I suppose, when you ask so nicely, it would be uncouth to deny you your chance to continue adoring me.
[ He presses his mouth to Iorveth's, sealing their agreement with a kiss. ]
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A kiss, to chase the one he's been given. Quick but appreciative, a silent thank you to add to the pile. Giving up ascension, entertaining the notion of staying, tacitly agreeing to wearing green in his future. ]
When I make a choice, [ he murmurs, ] I don't stray from it.
[ Evidenced by his, well, everything. Over a century of fighting a war that literally everyone has told him to fucking quit, never finding a good middle ground for how angry injustice makes him feel. He's making a choice to be fiercely devoted to a vampire with two hundred years of unimaginable violence, and he's making it with no takebacks. It's the sort of insane thing that most people would reconsider; "actually, you're kind of deranged, so no thanks."
Iorveth sits back, then up. Reared up on the mattress like a proud woodland animal, looking down at Astarion with that still-sharp focus. The kind of focus he'll retain for centuries, even after this moment passes. ]
I'll adore you until I burn. [ A promise, a threat, a reassurance. Iorveth is, as always, grandiose. ]
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He laughs, incredulous. ] You ridiculous, wonderful man.
[ Flopping back down, he sighs, dreamy and restless all at the same time. Of course, he could match Iorveth's energy, make a dramatic speech about how he'll adore Iorveth for the rest of eternity and then some, but instead—
Dryly: ] You really mustn't say such things if you're trying to keep your clothes on.
[ He's only a man. ]
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Sitting up, he trails his palm down the sliver of pale skin showing between the un-belted canyon of the robe he'd gifted Astarion, from neck to collarbone and down to Astarion's chest. The wanting hasn't abated any, even if the crux of what Iorveth wants Astarion to take away from this has nothing to do with sex; he's just resigned himself to the inexorable fact that all of this wanting comes with wanting to put his mouth on every inch of Astarion's body. ]
I've not much to take off. [ Still very much shirtless, with apologies to the kind old woman that he scandalized. ] Astarion.
[ To the tune of "pay attention". Iorveth's single eye is warm, half his face still concealed but not at all opaque to interpretation. ]
I want you. [ Plainly, without any room for misunderstanding. An ultimatum of sorts. Astarion will simply have to live with the fact that this deranged wood elf is being honest about this. ] I suppose it was never about the shape of your ears, or what you could do for me.
I wanted you since the first time you sunk your teeth in my neck.
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