[ It's the tug to his sleeve that will get Iorveth every time. There's something about the gesture that melts him, that makes the world dial down to where Astarion's fingers are curled around the fabric of his shirt.
His posture shifts; the domineering posture he'd adopted to throw up a wall between himself and the proprietress makes way for a slightly less straight-backed slant, a lean that edges him into the circle of Astarion's personal space. ]
Come, [ he says, hooking their arms together and stepping sideways. The cat looks mildly cross with Iorveth, as if protesting the displacement of something that was giving it attention when it wanted it. ] We can serve ourselves, if need be.
[ It should be all the same to the establishment, if Iorveth is offering them coin. He tugs Astarion towards the bar, ignoring the exasperated shrug that Mamzell tries to telegraph their way.
Once they've made enough distance between them and the front counter: ] The nerve of that human to assume that I don't pamper you.
[ Astarion is literally the only person he's ever nice to, gods. The disrespect. ]
[ Astarion can't help but crack a smile at Iorveth's offense. It's adorable that that's what he takes umbrage with; Iorveth, the dangerous terrorist, up in arms because someone didn't think him the pampering type. He presses his palm against Iorveth's arm, a placating gesture, as if to say, yes, darling, you're an excellent mollycoddler. In truth, there's probably no amount of coddling that could truly satisfy Astarion, but Iorveth has grown significantly more permissive. ]
Yet you're not offended by the offering of a drow foursome, I see.
[ It's all right to assume Iorveth is interested in freaky, forbidden group sex, just not that he doesn't properly pamper his vampire. Astarion snorts a little, then frowns. ]
I should have wanted that.
[ It's exactly the sort of hedonistic display of excessive self-indulgence he should be interested in. He feels a little angry with himself for feeling so threatened by the prospect; even now, Cazador's influence reaches from beyond the grave. ]
[ A quick "hold that thought", as Iorveth unwinds himself to go fetch a bottle of something dark and red from the resident barkeep. She looks hesitant to relinquish the entire bottle (no one likes a drunk in a brothel) until Iorveth drops coin on her counter, to which she responds by hurriedly sliding along two glasses to accompany the purchase and thanking the sullen-looking elf for his patronage.
Back by Astarion's side after nudging him to follow, Iorveth meanders the red-draped establishment until he finds a set of stairs that leads up to a half-floor between the first and second, lined by a sparse few tables and some comfortable-looking chairs. Presumably to watch some sort of spectacle at night that happens beyond the curtained stage below; it being midday, the space is empty save for one human who's passed out facedown on his table and has probably been there since the night prior.
Iorveth takes a seat, and motions for Astarion to do the same. Finally, once they're settled, he comes back to that held thought. ]
Why should you have wanted it?
[ Pouring Astarion a drink, and setting aside the fact that he wasn't offended by the proposition because it was too ridiculous to take seriously. He isn't precious about group sex, but the discovery of his affection for Astarion is far too new for him to consider watching anyone so much as touch Astarion with intent without feeling himself bristle. ]
[ His eyes flit over to the unconscious human, asleep in a puddle of his own drool, before they return to Iorveth. The glass he's pouring isn't full of the red liquid he'd really rather drink, but it would probably be uncouth to ask if they've any ox blood in the back. He lifts the glass delicately from the rim, watching the light reflect off of its claret-red contents as he swirls the wine idly. ]
It's the sort of thing people want, isn't it?
[ There's a reason this brothel exists in the first place. People want pleasure badly enough to pay for it. ]
It's the sort of thing I would have wanted.
[ Back when he was still a spoiled, privileged magistrate, before Cazador and all of those terrible nights spent entertaining victims. He could have just kidnapped them by force; it was deliberate, he thinks, a way to make the spawn feel helpless and debased. Admittedly, he can't remember if he was ever the kind of person to indulge in debauchery like this, but it does seem like him. Who he used to be, at least. ]
[ The sort of thing Astarion would have wanted. Iorveth rolls that thought around in his skull, leaning against the back of his chair with his eye set on Astarion, his focus hawklike. ]
Maybe so.
[ Trying to put together the splintered fragments of Astarion's far-flung past. There's so much that Iorveth still doesn't know about Astarion, but the most humbling part of that is that Astarion also has no idea. All they have is conjecture. ]
And, by all certainty, I would have been the sort of thing you didn't want.
[ So, here's another guess. A shot in the dark, but Iorveth thinks he has good aim; he's certain that Astarion the magistrate wouldn't have given him the time of day. Then again, Astarion the vampire spawn pre-tadpole probably wouldn't have given Iorveth the time of night, either－ funny, how these things work.
Iorveth takes a sip of wine. Not hard enough for the conversation, but they're day-drinking. He doesn't want to get completely fucked yet. ]
[ Almost visibly prickling, he says, ] Don't say that.
[ He doesn't want to hear it, because it's true and awful. From what he remembers of that very short portion of his very long life, he was ruthless and indifferent. He would have banged his gavel, sent Iorveth to the gallows for his crimes, and thought nothing of it. Even after the bite, he would only have seen Iorveth as a disposable tool to keep Cazador's boot from his own neck.
Shame pulses through him, and he sinks further down into his chair, the urge to chant invisibilis and disappear growing. ]
I just don't like that he changed me. That's all.
[ An understatement; he hates it. Perhaps it's for the best that he can't see his own reflection, because he'd undoubtedly spend hours agonizing over his sallow skin, his red eyes, his sharp fangs. Worst of all, the two pinprick marks on his neck. All physical reminders of having been irrevocably altered.
Astarion had thought Iorveth might understand feeling like he's been ruined by the cruel acts of someone else, but he can't bear the possibility that he won't understand, so he lets his gaze drift back to the sleeping man. ]
Shall I see if our unconscious friend has a deck of cards in his pockets?
[ "We all change", Iorveth thinks to say. For better, for worse. He and Astarion both wear their changes on their skin in different ways, and they both have to live with the unbearable knowledge of what they've lost. Maybe, Iorveth considers, the problem is that Astarion is good and sweet enough to care that he's been changed, and is decent and sound of mind enough to grieve over who he used to be; maybe, Iorveth considers, the problem is that he himself has long since given up on himself as someone worth grieving over. He's Iorveth, a blight of his own making, long removed from any vestige of what he used to be.
Astarion probably deserves better. That thought returns in full force, a recurring character since the day prior. "You don't deserve him." He takes a sip of wine, and swallows the acid in the back of his throat.
The thought lingers anyway. Astarion deserves better. It takes someone strong to admit that they hate that someone hurt them. ]
―Mm, [ Iorveth eventually agrees, having forgotten entirely about the cards. Best to let the topic of changing drop for now, and let Astarion pick some pockets before he vibrates out of his skin. ] Are we betting with coin, trinkets, or favors?
[ Like truth or dare, but with cards. A dangerous game to play, especially with drinks in tow. (Not that Astarion could even get drunk.) ]
[ The change of conversation topic makes him perk up, sitting up straighter in his chair instead of the miserable and unflattering slumping he'd been doing. His shoulders relax into their natural slope, and he sets his glass down on the table, absentmindedly running his index along the rim. ]
Your coin is already my coin.
[ Very presumptuous, but not so presumptuous as to be untrue, he thinks. Iorveth may have his own coin purse in spirit, but Astarion has little doubt that he couldn't coax him into making a sizable donation to his own funds, should the need arise. ]
And I hate to say it, [ he starts, but by the tone of his voice he doesn't hate to say it at all, ] but your trinkets lack the, mm, flair I require in my belongings.
[ That is to say, anything Iorveth owns isn't nearly glitzy or shiny enough for his tastes. ]
What favor will I earn, if I win? [ And he plans to, since he has no qualms with cheating. He taps Iorveth's foot underneath the table playfully. ] You already pamper me.
[ Iorveth huffs around the rim of his wineglass, drinking a bit too quickly for the current time of day; he vaguely notes not to get too sauced before they make it to the circus, if they ever make it there. ]
Any that's within my power to grant. [ Regarding favors. He sits back in his chair, thinking back to past games he's played. ] For example, I lost the souvenir spearhead that'd taken my eye in a game of cards.
[ Very much aware that it was probably weird to have kept the thing that disfigured his face in the first place, and also very much aware that it was even more weird to have thought to put it up for a bet.
He tips his head, birdlike, and half-smirks. ]
Perhaps I'll make you wear only green and leather gear for a day, if I win.
[ The horror. He really doesn't deserve Astarion. ]
[ Astarion lets Iorveth drink; let him get sauced before they have to go to that awful circus. At least then it might be fun. (Besides, he'd sort of liked the last time he got Iorveth sloshed and they ended up in some ridiculous underground fighting ring.)
The corner of his mouth tugs up into a crooked, amused smile. A genuine smile, imperfect and lopsided, unlike the practiced grins he spends most of his time flashing. With a laugh, he says, ] You're incorrigible.
[ Elbow on the table, he rests his chin in his palm. He'd have been screamed at for putting his elbows on the table back in the palace. It feels good to flout the rules now. ]
Is that really what you want to see me wear? I'd parade you around in nothing but your eyepatch and a leaf to preserve your modesty.
[ Still not as humiliating as having to wear a monochrome outfit of green. Oh, the humanity. ]
But I'm sure I can think of better. I could have you ask Wyll to regale you with tales of his heroic exploits. You'd be there for hours.
[ An indelicate sound for an indelicate dare. Wyll isn't Iorveth's least favorite human by far (Wyll is actually very noble, despite all of Iorveth's misgivings about self-righteous humans), but it's difficult to endure him when he goes on about saving the world, one good deed at a time.
Another mouthful of alcohol. 'Their' bottle of red wine is quickly turning into 'his' bottle of red wine. ]
I'd sooner slit my own throat than suffer through his minotaur story again. [ Exaggeration. Astarion isn't the only drama king in this party. ] But, if you wish.
[ He'd do it just to watch Astarion smile the way he's smiling now, chin in hand and beautifully crooked. ] If the human doesn't have cards, I'll try my luck with the barkeep.
I do love to hear those three little words. 'If you wish', [ he echoes dreamily. It's partially teasing and partially true. There's little that feels more satisfying than Iorveth giving into him, whatever form that might take. When he'd offered Astarion his blood for the first time; when he'd agreed to acting foolish on the night before Henselt's murder; when he'd let Astarion shove his hand down the front of his pants at Facemaker's despite his protests of making a mess.
Astarion makes his way over to their singular, slumbering companion, steps quick and light-footed. The man is snoring softly, face squished against the wooden table. If Astarion ever gets to the point of passing out face down in his own saliva at a brothel, he'll stake himself.
As he slips his hand into the sleeping man's pocket, he begins to stir, drowsy confusion in his tone as he tries to ask Astarion what he's doing and ends up saying something that sounds more like whuhhh. ]
Shhh. [ Astarion pats his back comfortingly. ] You're only dreaming.
[ "Oh," the man slurs, head dropping back down onto the table heavily. "OK."
When he returns, it's not with a deck of cards in hand but a folded piece of paper and a very nice ring. Burnished gold with a moss agate inset. A little on the woodsy side for his taste, but he tosses the jewelry onto the table with a flick of his thumb. ]
No deck of cards, but a gift for you.
[ As he sits back down, he unfolds the note, scanning over it with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. ]
And a very explicit love letter addressed to one of the courtesans.
[ He rolls his eyes, then furrows his brow as he examines the last lines of the letter. It dawns on him that the note and ring go together, and that the man is drowning his sorrows after a rejected proposal. He shuts the note quickly as if somehow Iorveth will know that he just gave him an engagement ring. ]
[ Astarion is a vision, even when he's robbing someone blind. Especially when he's robbing someone blind. Clever fingers, and the kind of voice you'd want to bathe in; framed beautifully against the backdrop of red velvet and dark lacquered wood, the least interesting thing about Astarion― his looks― is still stunningly striking.
Gods, Iorveth's lost the plot. He barely looks at the ring when it's tossed to him, though he notes that it's a pretty little thing. He's still watching Astarion and the curve of his lips, the way his expression shifts and moves on that pretty face. Expressive, vibrant.
Iorveth takes another swig of wine. ] I don't wear rings, [ he says, but slips the thing on his pinky: the only finger that the slim piece of jewelry fits.
He doesn't deserve Astarion. But he brushes his lips to silver hair before he winds his way down the stairs again, returning only after negotiating a pack of cards and another bottle of Baldur's Grape from Hoots Hooligan. ]
You'll look fetching in green, [ is a bold declaration, considering Astarion wiped the floor with him when they'd played cards prior. A part of him assumes, perhaps incorrectly, that Astarion won't cheat this time around. ]
[ Astarion leans back in his chair, drinking the sight of Iorveth in as he returns. In his high-end, well-tailored clothes, with his embossed leather eyepatch and a smooth ring on his finger, he's nigh unrecognizable from the man Astarion first met who wore the dirty, ill-fitting clothes of a vagabond. He looks handsome in a rugged way that makes the cold remnants of Astarion's heart do happy cartwheels. ]
I would, [ he concedes, then smirks, cocky. ] But you won't get to see it.
[ Astarion reaches for the deck, taking the liberty of shuffling. While he stacks the cards favorably for himself, he talks to distract Iorveth, saying, ] You know, you look terribly handsome. I could get used to dressing you up in pretty things.
[ He deals their hands with the quick, nimble movements of someone who's done this plenty of times before. There was little to do in the palace, but the taverns he frequented had card games enough for him to get good. Not good at playing honorably, but he never had any interest in that, anyway. ]
Once I trim that hair, you'll be irresistible.
[ He smiles down at his hand pleasantly. Iorveth's own hand is unfathomably shitty. ]
Edited (i hate the english language) 2024-09-12 19:40 (UTC)
[ The look on Iorveth's face as he's called handsome is roughly equivalent to "I don't buy it": half because he thinks he's really quite plain, the other half because Astarion is shuffling cards.
Suspicions are semi-confirmed when Iorveth peels his hand back from the tabletop and sees the mess of non-paired, disparate suits and arcana. The "you are not going to win this game" starter pack. He lets none of that show, lest frowning betray that his cards are, in fact, devastatingly shitty. ]
I've many talents, and being resistible is one of them. [ Which is to say, "there is no world in which people line up to look at or talk to me". He says so dryly, still leaning back into old habits when it comes to his appearances; to take focus away from himself, he moves to exchange three of his five cards, leaving it to his next draw to improve his odds.
The result is still bad. The Talis poker equivalent of going up against someone with a pair of threes. That said, Iorveth leans back in his chair, empties his half-full glass of wine in one long swallow, and declares, confidently: ] You can concede if you wish.
[ Tomorrow's headlines: local delusional terrorist tries to bluff his way to victory. He really isn't great at cards. ]
[ He may be a cheater, but he did mean what he said. Astarion doesn't deign to acknowledge the bluff, as overconfident as only a card sharp can be, only retorting, sweet as always, ] Not to me, you buffoon.
[ If Iorveth were resistible to him, it would be easier; he wouldn't make such a fool of himself acting like a twitterpated schoolgirl. He can't resist the tanned, calloused skin of Iorveth's hands, can't resist his smile or even—ugh—his ever-present scowl, can't resist that far too rustic tattoo of his. He even finds Iorveth striking when he's wearing that ugly headscarf, although he'd prefer to burn that thing. ]
Mmm, [ he hums, looking down at his cards. ] I've a new favor in mind. When I win, you'll let me tell you all about how enticing you are, and you'll believe it.
[ Whatever is within Iorveth's power to give, he'd said. He smiles pleasantly from behind his cards. ]
[ Daunting. Iorveth flicks his gaze down towards his cards, poker face so perfectly intact as to be near-suspicious, the immovable lines of his stern features speaking for themselves. It isn't that Iorveth doesn't want to believe it when Astarion says something flattering about him, it's just that it seems to clash harshly with what he's built of himself over the past few decades.
His eye narrows. A little skeptical, a little exasperated by all that confident pleasantness that Astarion is radiating. Finally, Iorveth sighs and tosses his shitty hand onto the table, face-up. ]
You counted cards, [ is a statement, not an accusation. ] I should have known.
[ That's not a "yes" to the newly-issued favor, but it's not a "no", either. Iorveth, keeping his word, et cetera, ad infinitum. He reaches for the now mostly-empty first bottle of wine, and pours the rest of its contents into his empty glass. ]
I'd recommend choosing a favor that benefits you more directly.
[ In response to Iorveth's assertion that he cheated, Astarion raises his eyebrows, expression screaming 'duh'. It's adorable that Iorveth thought they were playing honorably, but gods, why would he ever? Everything that's ever happened to him has taught Astarion that one has to use every weapon in their arsenal to succeed; if you can't make it by brawn or skill, then make it by being willing to swindle and deceive. That may be less relevant now than ever before, but it doesn't mean he plans to start playing cards genuinely. ]
Who says it doesn't?
[ He leans back in his seat, taking a sip from his wineglass. Still his first of the day. Although he could glut himself on blood, even the reddest wine doesn't offer quite the same appeal as it did before his turning. Cazador had kept plenty of wine around, though, none of it shared with his spawn, and the memory of that encourages him to take another, greedier sip. ]
You're already nice, [ Iorveth argues the point. ] To me, at least.
[ In case Astarion thinks that Iorveth's missed all the grand allowances that Astarion's made for him over the past tenday: the sleeping in his bed, the permission to touch, the not ascending. For the millionth time, it's likely that Iorveth doesn't deserve how much of himself Astarion has decided to place in Iorveth's hands, but he's held them, and noticed them for how precious they are, and wanted them.
Isn't that nice enough? Astarion doesn't have to spare Iorveth's feelings about his fucked-up face or his nonexistent charm, he thinks. If Astarion thinks he's ugly but still wants to be with him, that's entirely fine.
Cards scattered on the table, he leans back in his seat. ] You want to watch me squirm.
[ He barks a laugh at the idea that he's nice. Has Iorveth forgotten the thousands of wretched, starving souls underneath the palace that Astarion helped capture? Has he forgotten that they're still there now, suffering, because Astarion has no idea how to face them? Or perhaps he repressed the memory of Astarion stalking the streets of Baldur's Gate at night like the bloodthirsty monster he is, looking for prey because Iorveth had upset him.
Delusional. Adorable, but delusional. ]
Of course I do. [ Astarion shrugs, then hooks his ankle around Iorveth's underneath the table. ] But all the same, if I hadn't found you endlessly appealing, I would have let you stay the chaste companion you so persistently wanted to be.
[ He waves a hand. No need to talk of all the many times Iorveth rejected him. He fell prey to Astarion's charms in the end. Another laugh— ] I couldn't care less if you were hideous. But honestly, darling, I've thought of nothing else but you naked in that bed in the inn since.
[ Mostly true. There have been other things, but they don't seem as important to highlight as the fact that he likes every part of Iorveth, including his looks. ]
—And I rather think the eyepatch gives a rakish appeal.
[ Absurd. It'd taken Astarion getting hit in the head with the blunt side of a weapon for Iorveth to even consider that maybe, just maybe, Astarion felt something for him beyond the need for a meat shield; then again, Iorveth had only approached Astarion for regicide on the pretense that he needed someone good at picking locks. All of this is so ridiculous, so insane from every perceivable angle.
Alcohol buzzes pleasantly between Iorveth's ears. It's the fatigue speaking, he knows it: being Blighted by a vampire lord and operating purely on adrenaline for the past few days doesn't mix well with day drinking. He can usually hold his liquor better― he blames the wine for the warming of his blood, the slight reddening creeping over his face.
Stupid. He tries to will his temperature down, to little success. ]
No more. [ Slightly snappish, but without any real bite. His ankle remains twined around Astarion's, unable to resist that one point of contact. ] Unless you want me to bed you here.
[ Stop making him want to canoodle, it's embarrassing. ]
[ He does love to watch Iorveth squirm, the warm glow of satisfaction blooming in his chest as he watches that faint redness dust Iorveth's face. How strange, to be made happy by someone else's happiness, to care what they're feeling. Astarion still hasn't gotten used to it. For centuries, caring for someone else was a weakness. Sitting here now, with their legs tangled under the table, watching Iorveth blush like a schoolboy, it feels more like a drug. ]
Entirely tempting, [ he croons. His eyes flicker to the human sleeping away his sorrow at his failed proposal, and he wrinkles his nose. ] But I don't care much for the audience.
[ He reaches for Iorveth's losing cards, adding them back to the deck and performing a flourish, springing the cards from one hand to another. Showing off, looking to impress. ]
Another round?
[ Jocular, like he didn't just admit to cheating. ]
[ The threat to bed Astarion here is largely facetious. Iorveth can feel the occasional set of eyes on them from visitors meandering downstairs, most of them flitting by Iorveth and settling, naturally, on Astarion and his perfect profile, prettier than anyone else in this dimly-lit place of casual sin; even that rankles a bit, in Iorveth's half-buzzed state.
Instead of dwelling on that unprompted flare of unwarranted possessiveness: ] Another round, if playing rigged games amuse you. [ Brow raised at the card-based theatrics, impressed by Astarion's deftness despite himself. ] ―You really are clever with your hands.
[ Iorveth cracks open his second bottle of wine. ]
Lockpicking, pickpocketing, embroidering, shuffling. If I handed you an instrument, I wager it wouldn't take you long to learn to play it.
[ If, in fact, Astarion doesn't already know how to handle a lute or a violin. ]
[ Astarion waves a hand nonchalantly, but it's clear by the smile spreading inexorably across his face that the compliment pleases him. Praise on his looks is a dime a dozen, and he's never questioned his beauty as an incontrovertible fact. Things that really matter, though, things like who he is or what he can do, those are the things that he's been taught to doubt by endless criticism and disparagement.
Iorveth wouldn't deign to compliment his skills falsely. He presses his lips together in an attempt to smother the expression, but it's no use. ]
Oh, I know, [ is his airy reply. ] All that, and I look like this.
[ He shuffles the deck once more, and because he does enjoy playing rigged games, he stacks the cards in his favor again. The hand he deals out to Iorveth with a few flicks of his hand is considerably less awful than before, though. ]
What shall we play for this time? Should I play you a ballad if you win?
[ How disappointed Iorveth would be to find out that, no, Astarion doesn't know how to handle a lute or a violin, and he can't even whistle on key. ]
[ A hum in consideration, before he flips his cards. Iorveth can think of a few things he might ask Astarion to do, but he finally settles on: ]
For me: some time with you for the purpose of improving your skills in archery. You have good aim, but there's room for improvement.
[ Not an essential tool to add to Astarion's already-expansive kit, but one that Iorveth would like to polish for the sake of it. Astarion already handles knives and crossbows with deft proficiency, and probably wouldn't choose a cumbersome longbow over close-combat convenience, but still. It seems a shame not to at least correct his posture when he holds one.
More wine gets added to Iorveth's system. Someone should stop him; it's still lunchtime. ]
And you? [ Iorveth considers his first favor fulfilled already, since Astarion just made him, ugh, blush. There's no doubt in his mind that he must've looked stupid, unseemly. ]
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His posture shifts; the domineering posture he'd adopted to throw up a wall between himself and the proprietress makes way for a slightly less straight-backed slant, a lean that edges him into the circle of Astarion's personal space. ]
Come, [ he says, hooking their arms together and stepping sideways. The cat looks mildly cross with Iorveth, as if protesting the displacement of something that was giving it attention when it wanted it. ] We can serve ourselves, if need be.
[ It should be all the same to the establishment, if Iorveth is offering them coin. He tugs Astarion towards the bar, ignoring the exasperated shrug that Mamzell tries to telegraph their way.
Once they've made enough distance between them and the front counter: ] The nerve of that human to assume that I don't pamper you.
[ Astarion is literally the only person he's ever nice to, gods. The disrespect. ]
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Yet you're not offended by the offering of a drow foursome, I see.
[ It's all right to assume Iorveth is interested in freaky, forbidden group sex, just not that he doesn't properly pamper his vampire. Astarion snorts a little, then frowns. ]
I should have wanted that.
[ It's exactly the sort of hedonistic display of excessive self-indulgence he should be interested in. He feels a little angry with himself for feeling so threatened by the prospect; even now, Cazador's influence reaches from beyond the grave. ]
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Back by Astarion's side after nudging him to follow, Iorveth meanders the red-draped establishment until he finds a set of stairs that leads up to a half-floor between the first and second, lined by a sparse few tables and some comfortable-looking chairs. Presumably to watch some sort of spectacle at night that happens beyond the curtained stage below; it being midday, the space is empty save for one human who's passed out facedown on his table and has probably been there since the night prior.
Iorveth takes a seat, and motions for Astarion to do the same. Finally, once they're settled, he comes back to that held thought. ]
Why should you have wanted it?
[ Pouring Astarion a drink, and setting aside the fact that he wasn't offended by the proposition because it was too ridiculous to take seriously. He isn't precious about group sex, but the discovery of his affection for Astarion is far too new for him to consider watching anyone so much as touch Astarion with intent without feeling himself bristle. ]
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It's the sort of thing people want, isn't it?
[ There's a reason this brothel exists in the first place. People want pleasure badly enough to pay for it. ]
It's the sort of thing I would have wanted.
[ Back when he was still a spoiled, privileged magistrate, before Cazador and all of those terrible nights spent entertaining victims. He could have just kidnapped them by force; it was deliberate, he thinks, a way to make the spawn feel helpless and debased. Admittedly, he can't remember if he was ever the kind of person to indulge in debauchery like this, but it does seem like him. Who he used to be, at least. ]
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Maybe so.
[ Trying to put together the splintered fragments of Astarion's far-flung past. There's so much that Iorveth still doesn't know about Astarion, but the most humbling part of that is that Astarion also has no idea. All they have is conjecture. ]
And, by all certainty, I would have been the sort of thing you didn't want.
[ So, here's another guess. A shot in the dark, but Iorveth thinks he has good aim; he's certain that Astarion the magistrate wouldn't have given him the time of day. Then again, Astarion the vampire spawn pre-tadpole probably wouldn't have given Iorveth the time of night, either－ funny, how these things work.
Iorveth takes a sip of wine. Not hard enough for the conversation, but they're day-drinking. He doesn't want to get completely fucked yet. ]
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[ He doesn't want to hear it, because it's true and awful. From what he remembers of that very short portion of his very long life, he was ruthless and indifferent. He would have banged his gavel, sent Iorveth to the gallows for his crimes, and thought nothing of it. Even after the bite, he would only have seen Iorveth as a disposable tool to keep Cazador's boot from his own neck.
Shame pulses through him, and he sinks further down into his chair, the urge to chant invisibilis and disappear growing. ]
I just don't like that he changed me. That's all.
[ An understatement; he hates it. Perhaps it's for the best that he can't see his own reflection, because he'd undoubtedly spend hours agonizing over his sallow skin, his red eyes, his sharp fangs. Worst of all, the two pinprick marks on his neck. All physical reminders of having been irrevocably altered.
Astarion had thought Iorveth might understand feeling like he's been ruined by the cruel acts of someone else, but he can't bear the possibility that he won't understand, so he lets his gaze drift back to the sleeping man. ]
Shall I see if our unconscious friend has a deck of cards in his pockets?
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Astarion probably deserves better. That thought returns in full force, a recurring character since the day prior. "You don't deserve him." He takes a sip of wine, and swallows the acid in the back of his throat.
The thought lingers anyway. Astarion deserves better. It takes someone strong to admit that they hate that someone hurt them. ]
―Mm, [ Iorveth eventually agrees, having forgotten entirely about the cards. Best to let the topic of changing drop for now, and let Astarion pick some pockets before he vibrates out of his skin. ] Are we betting with coin, trinkets, or favors?
[ Like truth or dare, but with cards. A dangerous game to play, especially with drinks in tow. (Not that Astarion could even get drunk.) ]
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Your coin is already my coin.
[ Very presumptuous, but not so presumptuous as to be untrue, he thinks. Iorveth may have his own coin purse in spirit, but Astarion has little doubt that he couldn't coax him into making a sizable donation to his own funds, should the need arise. ]
And I hate to say it, [ he starts, but by the tone of his voice he doesn't hate to say it at all, ] but your trinkets lack the, mm, flair I require in my belongings.
[ That is to say, anything Iorveth owns isn't nearly glitzy or shiny enough for his tastes. ]
What favor will I earn, if I win? [ And he plans to, since he has no qualms with cheating. He taps Iorveth's foot underneath the table playfully. ] You already pamper me.
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Any that's within my power to grant. [ Regarding favors. He sits back in his chair, thinking back to past games he's played. ] For example, I lost the souvenir spearhead that'd taken my eye in a game of cards.
[ Very much aware that it was probably weird to have kept the thing that disfigured his face in the first place, and also very much aware that it was even more weird to have thought to put it up for a bet.
He tips his head, birdlike, and half-smirks. ]
Perhaps I'll make you wear only green and leather gear for a day, if I win.
[ The horror. He really doesn't deserve Astarion. ]
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The corner of his mouth tugs up into a crooked, amused smile. A genuine smile, imperfect and lopsided, unlike the practiced grins he spends most of his time flashing. With a laugh, he says, ] You're incorrigible.
[ Elbow on the table, he rests his chin in his palm. He'd have been screamed at for putting his elbows on the table back in the palace. It feels good to flout the rules now. ]
Is that really what you want to see me wear? I'd parade you around in nothing but your eyepatch and a leaf to preserve your modesty.
[ Still not as humiliating as having to wear a monochrome outfit of green. Oh, the humanity. ]
But I'm sure I can think of better. I could have you ask Wyll to regale you with tales of his heroic exploits. You'd be there for hours.
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Ugh.
[ An indelicate sound for an indelicate dare. Wyll isn't Iorveth's least favorite human by far (Wyll is actually very noble, despite all of Iorveth's misgivings about self-righteous humans), but it's difficult to endure him when he goes on about saving the world, one good deed at a time.
Another mouthful of alcohol. 'Their' bottle of red wine is quickly turning into 'his' bottle of red wine. ]
I'd sooner slit my own throat than suffer through his minotaur story again. [ Exaggeration. Astarion isn't the only drama king in this party. ] But, if you wish.
[ He'd do it just to watch Astarion smile the way he's smiling now, chin in hand and beautifully crooked. ] If the human doesn't have cards, I'll try my luck with the barkeep.
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Astarion makes his way over to their singular, slumbering companion, steps quick and light-footed. The man is snoring softly, face squished against the wooden table. If Astarion ever gets to the point of passing out face down in his own saliva at a brothel, he'll stake himself.
As he slips his hand into the sleeping man's pocket, he begins to stir, drowsy confusion in his tone as he tries to ask Astarion what he's doing and ends up saying something that sounds more like whuhhh. ]
Shhh. [ Astarion pats his back comfortingly. ] You're only dreaming.
[ "Oh," the man slurs, head dropping back down onto the table heavily. "OK."
When he returns, it's not with a deck of cards in hand but a folded piece of paper and a very nice ring. Burnished gold with a moss agate inset. A little on the woodsy side for his taste, but he tosses the jewelry onto the table with a flick of his thumb. ]
No deck of cards, but a gift for you.
[ As he sits back down, he unfolds the note, scanning over it with raised eyebrows and a wicked grin. ]
And a very explicit love letter addressed to one of the courtesans.
[ He rolls his eyes, then furrows his brow as he examines the last lines of the letter. It dawns on him that the note and ring go together, and that the man is drowning his sorrows after a rejected proposal. He shuts the note quickly as if somehow Iorveth will know that he just gave him an engagement ring. ]
The barkeep will have some cards, I'm sure.
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Gods, Iorveth's lost the plot. He barely looks at the ring when it's tossed to him, though he notes that it's a pretty little thing. He's still watching Astarion and the curve of his lips, the way his expression shifts and moves on that pretty face. Expressive, vibrant.
Iorveth takes another swig of wine. ] I don't wear rings, [ he says, but slips the thing on his pinky: the only finger that the slim piece of jewelry fits.
He doesn't deserve Astarion. But he brushes his lips to silver hair before he winds his way down the stairs again, returning only after negotiating a pack of cards and another bottle of Baldur's Grape from Hoots Hooligan. ]
You'll look fetching in green, [ is a bold declaration, considering Astarion wiped the floor with him when they'd played cards prior. A part of him assumes, perhaps incorrectly, that Astarion won't cheat this time around. ]
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I would, [ he concedes, then smirks, cocky. ] But you won't get to see it.
[ Astarion reaches for the deck, taking the liberty of shuffling. While he stacks the cards favorably for himself, he talks to distract Iorveth, saying, ] You know, you look terribly handsome. I could get used to dressing you up in pretty things.
[ He deals their hands with the quick, nimble movements of someone who's done this plenty of times before. There was little to do in the palace, but the taverns he frequented had card games enough for him to get good. Not good at playing honorably, but he never had any interest in that, anyway. ]
Once I trim that hair, you'll be irresistible.
[ He smiles down at his hand pleasantly. Iorveth's own hand is unfathomably shitty. ]
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Suspicions are semi-confirmed when Iorveth peels his hand back from the tabletop and sees the mess of non-paired, disparate suits and arcana. The "you are not going to win this game" starter pack. He lets none of that show, lest frowning betray that his cards are, in fact, devastatingly shitty. ]
I've many talents, and being resistible is one of them. [ Which is to say, "there is no world in which people line up to look at or talk to me". He says so dryly, still leaning back into old habits when it comes to his appearances; to take focus away from himself, he moves to exchange three of his five cards, leaving it to his next draw to improve his odds.
The result is still bad. The Talis poker equivalent of going up against someone with a pair of threes. That said, Iorveth leans back in his chair, empties his half-full glass of wine in one long swallow, and declares, confidently: ] You can concede if you wish.
[ Tomorrow's headlines: local delusional terrorist tries to bluff his way to victory. He really isn't great at cards. ]
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[ If Iorveth were resistible to him, it would be easier; he wouldn't make such a fool of himself acting like a twitterpated schoolgirl. He can't resist the tanned, calloused skin of Iorveth's hands, can't resist his smile or even—ugh—his ever-present scowl, can't resist that far too rustic tattoo of his. He even finds Iorveth striking when he's wearing that ugly headscarf, although he'd prefer to burn that thing. ]
Mmm, [ he hums, looking down at his cards. ] I've a new favor in mind. When I win, you'll let me tell you all about how enticing you are, and you'll believe it.
[ Whatever is within Iorveth's power to give, he'd said. He smiles pleasantly from behind his cards. ]
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His eye narrows. A little skeptical, a little exasperated by all that confident pleasantness that Astarion is radiating. Finally, Iorveth sighs and tosses his shitty hand onto the table, face-up. ]
You counted cards, [ is a statement, not an accusation. ] I should have known.
[ That's not a "yes" to the newly-issued favor, but it's not a "no", either. Iorveth, keeping his word, et cetera, ad infinitum. He reaches for the now mostly-empty first bottle of wine, and pours the rest of its contents into his empty glass. ]
I'd recommend choosing a favor that benefits you more directly.
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Who says it doesn't?
[ He leans back in his seat, taking a sip from his wineglass. Still his first of the day. Although he could glut himself on blood, even the reddest wine doesn't offer quite the same appeal as it did before his turning. Cazador had kept plenty of wine around, though, none of it shared with his spawn, and the memory of that encourages him to take another, greedier sip. ]
Perhaps I'd like to be nice for once.
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[ In case Astarion thinks that Iorveth's missed all the grand allowances that Astarion's made for him over the past tenday: the sleeping in his bed, the permission to touch, the not ascending. For the millionth time, it's likely that Iorveth doesn't deserve how much of himself Astarion has decided to place in Iorveth's hands, but he's held them, and noticed them for how precious they are, and wanted them.
Isn't that nice enough? Astarion doesn't have to spare Iorveth's feelings about his fucked-up face or his nonexistent charm, he thinks. If Astarion thinks he's ugly but still wants to be with him, that's entirely fine.
Cards scattered on the table, he leans back in his seat. ] You want to watch me squirm.
[ Which, like. Fair. ]
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Delusional. Adorable, but delusional. ]
Of course I do. [ Astarion shrugs, then hooks his ankle around Iorveth's underneath the table. ] But all the same, if I hadn't found you endlessly appealing, I would have let you stay the chaste companion you so persistently wanted to be.
[ He waves a hand. No need to talk of all the many times Iorveth rejected him. He fell prey to Astarion's charms in the end. Another laugh— ] I couldn't care less if you were hideous. But honestly, darling, I've thought of nothing else but you naked in that bed in the inn since.
[ Mostly true. There have been other things, but they don't seem as important to highlight as the fact that he likes every part of Iorveth, including his looks. ]
—And I rather think the eyepatch gives a rakish appeal.
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Alcohol buzzes pleasantly between Iorveth's ears. It's the fatigue speaking, he knows it: being Blighted by a vampire lord and operating purely on adrenaline for the past few days doesn't mix well with day drinking. He can usually hold his liquor better― he blames the wine for the warming of his blood, the slight reddening creeping over his face.
Stupid. He tries to will his temperature down, to little success. ]
No more. [ Slightly snappish, but without any real bite. His ankle remains twined around Astarion's, unable to resist that one point of contact. ] Unless you want me to bed you here.
[ Stop making him want to canoodle, it's embarrassing. ]
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Entirely tempting, [ he croons. His eyes flicker to the human sleeping away his sorrow at his failed proposal, and he wrinkles his nose. ] But I don't care much for the audience.
[ He reaches for Iorveth's losing cards, adding them back to the deck and performing a flourish, springing the cards from one hand to another. Showing off, looking to impress. ]
Another round?
[ Jocular, like he didn't just admit to cheating. ]
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Instead of dwelling on that unprompted flare of unwarranted possessiveness: ] Another round, if playing rigged games amuse you. [ Brow raised at the card-based theatrics, impressed by Astarion's deftness despite himself. ] ―You really are clever with your hands.
[ Iorveth cracks open his second bottle of wine. ]
Lockpicking, pickpocketing, embroidering, shuffling. If I handed you an instrument, I wager it wouldn't take you long to learn to play it.
[ If, in fact, Astarion doesn't already know how to handle a lute or a violin. ]
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Iorveth wouldn't deign to compliment his skills falsely. He presses his lips together in an attempt to smother the expression, but it's no use. ]
Oh, I know, [ is his airy reply. ] All that, and I look like this.
[ He shuffles the deck once more, and because he does enjoy playing rigged games, he stacks the cards in his favor again. The hand he deals out to Iorveth with a few flicks of his hand is considerably less awful than before, though. ]
What shall we play for this time? Should I play you a ballad if you win?
[ How disappointed Iorveth would be to find out that, no, Astarion doesn't know how to handle a lute or a violin, and he can't even whistle on key. ]
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For me: some time with you for the purpose of improving your skills in archery. You have good aim, but there's room for improvement.
[ Not an essential tool to add to Astarion's already-expansive kit, but one that Iorveth would like to polish for the sake of it. Astarion already handles knives and crossbows with deft proficiency, and probably wouldn't choose a cumbersome longbow over close-combat convenience, but still. It seems a shame not to at least correct his posture when he holds one.
More wine gets added to Iorveth's system. Someone should stop him; it's still lunchtime. ]
And you? [ Iorveth considers his first favor fulfilled already, since Astarion just made him, ugh, blush. There's no doubt in his mind that he must've looked stupid, unseemly. ]
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