essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ It's so stupid that, of all the things in the world, seeing Astarion in loungewear is what does it for Iorveth. Finely-tailored doublets and slim trousers are nice, but seeing Astarion look comfortable has unlocked something heretofore untouched; something Iorveth will keep to himself lest Astarion think he really has lost his godsdamned mind.

He dips underwater for a second, and resurfaces like an elf-shaped sea monster. ]

Admittedly, it would be satisfying to ruin Enver Gortash's day.

[ And if a bit of terrorism achieves that, well. It wouldn't be the worst thing that Iorveth has done, and sweet little Dolores would probably appreciate not sharing her neighborhood with a bunch of clanking sentient armor. His lips curl into a wry smile, which he aims towards Astarion while combing his own bangs over the indent where his eye used to be. ]

And it would make you feel safer, I assume. [ Important. ] Or, at the very least, it would lower our chances of being arrested before we manage to invade a soiree.

[ Also important. ]

[ Astarion lets an arm dangle over the side of the bathtub, pointer finger dipped into the lukewarm water. He casts a small cantrip, warming the water a little, although it's nothing compared to the scalding hot baths that Gale can create. Oh, well. That's the only perk of being a wizard, as far as Astarion is concerned.

It's sweet that Iorveth is thinking of him. He fights the little smile spreading across his face; how romantic, committing terrorism for his sake! Of course, he doesn't address the idea of 'making him feel safer'. He doesn't want Iorveth to think that he needs to be in any way coddled or protected. He was helpless once, and he won't bear being helpless again. The latter comment, though— ]

Invade is such an ugly word.

[ Reaching for the soap, he lathers up a damp cloth before he takes the liberty of running it over Iorveth's shoulders and chest, paying special attention to his bite marks and the faint line left over from where that horrible Fist had carved into him. ]

I prefer calling it a surprise attendance.

Edited 2024-11-17 18:44 (UTC)

[ Iorveth hums in appreciation at the warmer water and the extra hands; they've come a long way from awkward soaking in a bathhouse, he thinks. ]

Search for a function that could benefit from your surprising presence, then.

[ There's bound to be many, in a city like this. Plenty of moderately-affluent citizens looking for a way to spend coin or show that they have it, plenty of merchants bringing in wares that they'd want to auction in grandiose venues. Iorveth has never lived in a place like Baldur's Gate, but he's done enough research to know that something is always going on.

He scrubs soap into his hair, far less careful with himself than he was with Astarion. Perfunctory, even. He's more interested in what Astarion will do with the pair of scissors once he's finished bathing, so he expedites the process until he feels ready to slowly lift himself out of the water. ]

[ Astarion tosses the cloth aside, letting it make a wet thwop sound as it hits the floor, and stands to give Iorveth room to step out of the tub. He places his hands on his hips and tilts his head as he watches Iorveth rise, pleasure tugging at the corner of his mouth. ]

I really do love to see you all moist and dewy.

[ He likes a wet man. What can he say? He bends to pick up the scissors Iorveth stole from poor Shadowheart, who'll soon find herself unable to trim her bangs, and tests them out in the air. Snip, snip. ]

I'll have to get you soiree-ready, of course. It won't do to have you walking into the party of the season with overgrown hair.

[ Canting his head toward the stool: ] Go on, sit. Clothing optional.

[ A wet, tattooed wood elf with old scars littering his long-limbed body. Iorveth really can't imagine that he's much to look at, but he'll allow Astarion's eyes on him as he towels off and makes his way back onto the stool, naked except for a strip of fluffy cloth spread over his lap. Not to preserve his nonexistent modesty, but to prevent stray pieces of hair from accidentally landing on his dick.

He glances up at Astarion from where he's sitting, and huffs a laugh. ]

No one is going to look twice at me, you realize.

[ Everyone is going to be admiring the pale-haired high elf in his (Iorveth assumes) glittering finery, not the sullen-looking country elf with his covered face and his new haircut. ]

But, mm. Do as you please. [ He closes his eye, and presents his damp head for Astarion's scrutiny. ] Your delusions are endearing.

[ The rudest elf in the world, showing affection through ribbing. The only reason he doesn't make an attempt to pull Astarion onto his lap is because Astarion is holding something sharp in his hand. ]

I'll look at you far more than twice.

[ And he's sure he won't be the only one. Iorveth isn't conventionally pretty, no, but he has strong, handsome features, lovely tanned skin, and back muscles you could bounce a coin off of. The scars he's so certain have ruined his appearance forever make him look rugged, Astarion thinks, and he's always right. ]

No one else will be worth looking at, once I've gotten you into the ensemble Dolores and I have cooked up.

[ A compliment as well as a threat. Iorveth should be afraid.

He combs his fingers through Iorveth's wet hair, slicking it back and then bringing it forward again, trying out different styles. Iorveth's hair is dark and shiny, and he doesn't like the idea of it too shorn, but he also doesn't care to see it hang limp and unstyled in Iorveth's face. He'll trim the bangs and leave the rest long, he thinks, so that Iorveth might one day braid it again the way he had in the memory he showed Astarion.

Without asking Iorveth's opinion on the matter, he gathers up some of Iorveth's face-framing hair and snips. ]

I'll fight off any of your prospective suitors, though, don't you worry.

[ Snip, goes the scissors, and Iorveth doesn't even flinch. Astarion is the only person in Toril that could hold a sharp object near Iorveth's face without raising Iorveth's hackles; he stays perfectly still, palms face-down on his naked thighs. The nightmare memory of a raised spearpoint is too far away to touch him in this moment, overshadowed entirely by the pleasant wash of Astarion's voice, his presence. ]

My hero. [ Near-sarcastic, softened by a chuckle. He opens his one remaining eye a sliver, trying to see if he can flick his gaze up to meet Astarion's. ]

And how well do you expect me to behave? [ Because honestly, that should be Astarion's primary point of concern. Iorveth appreciates that Astarion would like to enjoy this hypothetical soiree, being that he has never been invited to one in the past two hundred years, and he can give Astarion his word that he'll do his utmost not to get them thrown out in the first five minutes of their stay.

Hopefully. ]

I should refrain from breaking too many fingers, I assume.

[ Disappointing. Many would likely assume that Iorveth is exaggerating here despite his matter-of-fact tone, but Iorveth has never in his deranged life made a threat he hasn't been willing to follow through on. ]

[ Iorveth opens one eye, and Astarion closes one, tongue running over the point of his fang in concentration as he trims the curve of Iorveth's bangs. He isn't particularly experienced in hair-cutting, but he's dexterous enough with the scissors that his work looks passable. Besides, he's spent more time looking at Iorveth's face than anyone else in the world, which probably helps.

More hair falls to the floor as he says, ] Well, maybe you can break some fingers.

[ It's hot when Iorveth hurts someone. He won't be accepting any criticism of his mental wellbeing at this time. ]

But parties really are for more subtle forms of violence. You know, spreading rumors, ending friendships, causing mass hysteria.

If anyone touches you without your express permission, [ Iorveth declares, perhaps with a bit too much self-satisfaction, ] I'll break a hand or two.

[ Or three, or four. Iorveth "if someone does a bad thing to someone I like, I will immediately resort to violence and/or murder" NoLastname. This isn't strictly exclusive to Astarion－ Ciaran has a few stories to tell, if he's ever asked.

Snip. It's a shame that Iorveth only has one eye, and thus his field of vision remains shot despite the trimming of his overgrown bangs; still, it's the sentiment that counts. He no longer feels the longest part of his hair hanging like a drape over his face, which may or may not be an improvement. He has no idea. ]

Though you're right, I suppose. It would benefit us to know who's planning on ending who in this city.

[ That's the Woodland Fox in him speaking. He hasn't forgotten that he committed regicide in a city where people are bound to talk about it, so it would be nice if he could gauge Baldurian reaction to that bit of information. ]

We've caused two power vacuums in quick succession. People are bound to be speaking about it.

[ Astarion picks up a long piece of Iorveth's hair and holds it between his index and middle fingers so he can cut it, blending the newly-shortened hair of Iorveth's bangs with the longer bits still left. Cut hair falls onto Iorveth's shoulder, and Astarion sweeps it off with his hand. ]

You know I love when you scheme.

[ Although he's not particularly excited by the idea of listening to boring political talk. He's even less excited by the idea of hearing the great and the good of the Gate discuss Cazador's untimely death unless they all plan to dance on his grave. Possible, considering how many influential people Cazador had under his thumb via blackmail and coercion, but still unlikely. ]

Ah, that does beg the question, though — who will take that human king's place now that we've ended his reign?

[ Henselt, he means, although he's already forgotten the name. He hadn't even considered that someone would take his place when they'd set out to kill him; even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. It's only now that he realizes Iorveth could very much still have an enemy out there in the world, growing a new head like a hydra. ]

[ A brief pause, similar to the pause before he spoke openly about Isengrim. Maybe that silence speaks volumes, maybe it doesn't― either way, Iorveth chooses to be frank. ]

A golden-scaled dragon disguised as a beautiful human woman.

[ Recycling a phrase he'd used earlier. He doesn't sound bitter, per se, but there's an effort to distance himself from this particular reality, given that the painful lesson he learned from her rejection of him is still fresh in his memory. Iorveth never loved her the way he loves Astarion now, selfishly and deeply personally, but it still stings to know that she won't accept him as he is. ]

Someone worthy of the crown we've worked to place on her head― a queen who would seek peace for all, including the Aen Seidhe.

[ She's the best he can hope for. But expanding on that would be more boring political talk for Astarion to sit through, so he waves it aside with one hand. ]

I might introduce you to her, if we go north. My presence may not be welcome, but she may be able to aid you.

[ He's not certain if this whole 'golden dragon' thing is literal or metaphorical, but he doesn't really care. It's weird, certainly, but it's none of his business if the north wants a scaled queen. He hardly gives a shit what happens to them politically, as long as Iorveth is happy.

He does question, though, ] Aid me?

[ Another snip, and Iorveth's split ends fall to the floor. ]

Not that I'm opposed to taking whatever a queen can offer me, but whatever would she aid me with?

[ Money? Maybe. Status? Sure. But those don't seem the type of thing Iorveth would be concerned about. ]

[ Iorveth blinks up at Astarion as if he doesn't understand the question, until he reminds himself that so much of what he thinks about exists in his own head and nowhere else.

After a brief pause, again: ] The matter of you conquering the sun.

[ Because yes, he's been thinking about it. Gears preternaturally turning― scheming, as Astarion'd put it. A survival instinct that extends to the important things and people in his periphery, a paranoid jitter. Sure, Astarion can live without the sun if he has to, but the sun would make him happier. ]

She's well-connected. If she can't help directly, she's likely to know someone who could.

[ A cabal of ambitious sorceresses comes to mind; Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ] Call it getting ahead of myself, if you wish.

Hm, [ is Astarion's thoughtful reply as he rounds Iorveth on the stool to get the back of his hair. It's difficult to pinpoint how he feels about Iorveth's queenly connection helping him to conquer the sun. From an objective standpoint, it's a wonderful idea, and terribly sweet of Iorveth to think of him. From an Astarion standpoint, he's not even sure he wants to admit that there's a very real possibility he won't be able to walk in the sun anymore after this journey.

And, of course, because he can't help but be pessimistic: ]

Aid like that doesn't come without a price.

[ There's no such thing as a free lunch. Everyone always has their own agenda. Even Wyll, the selfless hero among them, does his heroic deeds because he wants to feel like a hero. ]

It doesn't.

[ Iorveth agrees with that much, at least. It isn't pessimism, to him, as much as it's realism: one commonality that he shares with Astarion is that he's lived a lifetime of shattered hopes. He knows better than to rely on the goodness of another person's heart.

Scissors at his nape, Iorveth bows his head a little for easier access. ]

Not a single wizard or sorceress does anything that doesn't also further their goals. Be that as it may, they would be the only ones who would know how to go about freeing you from a nocturnal life.

[ Iorveth is no alchemist, and certainly no spellcaster. His knowledge of the arcane is academic, if even that; he isn't interested, and he isn't compelled.

But, again, he's getting ahead of himself. He breathes through his nose, and flicks a piece of hair away from his knee. ]

These are just my personal musings, mind. Ideas to occupy my restless mind with.

[ Astarion isn't certain he likes Iorveth occupying his restless mind with thoughts of Astarion's upcoming return to the dark. Is it because he dreads being saddled with a partner who can't even walk outside during the day without burning to a crisp? Whatever drawbacks Astarion will have, Iorveth will have, too. It makes him feel— well, bad. For another person's misfortune, which is still a strange and foreign concept. ]

You mustn't worry that pretty little head of yours, [ he says, stroking Iorveth's hair as he comes back around to the front. ]

Not when I've given you so many better things to occupy your restless mind with. Although I fear some of them may only make you more restless.

[ He cocks his head as he surveys his work. Shorter bangs, swept to the side and out of Iorveth's face. Kept longer on the sides and the back, but cleaned up; Iorveth's hair no longer looks scraggly and uncared for, like the hair of, well, a woodland terrorist. He fluffs the sides a bit, pleased. ]

I'd offer you a mirror, but I don't keep one on hand. [ For obvious reasons. Shadowheart probably keeps one for doing that ghastly makeup, though. ] Go look.

[ Someone has to consider how to navigate their uncertain future, Iorveth thinks, but he doesn't say so. No indictments tonight, not even about Astarion's underutilized brain cells. (Like Iorveth is one to talk.)

He gets up off of the stool and brushes the last of his fallen hair from his bath-warm skin, then wraps the towel on his lap around his waist as a perfunctory way to hide his privates. ]

You keep me busy, either way.

[ Which is a good thing, if Astarion is wondering. Iorveth plants a quick peck to Astarion's forehead before doing as he's told (gods, when did he become so easy), navigating towards poor Shadowheart's ransacked things to examine himself in her handmirror. He still isn't much to look at, but regardless: ]

―Mm. You truly are good with your hands. [ Tipping his head to the side, watching nicely-trimmed hair fall tidily into place. ] Talented, even.

[ Iorveth could have said that when Astarion was up to his knuckles inside him, but he's feeling generous, so now is good, too. He peers into the mirror from behind Iorveth, entirely invisible in the reflection. ]

Yes, [ he says, narcissistically, ] but even the most talented artist does better with a lovely canvas.

[ He tucks a strand of hair behind Iorveth's ear. In the mirror, the hair seems to move by itself. ]

And you are lovely.

[ Perhaps the refreshed hairdo will make him more likely to believe Astarion's compliments. He'd certainly like if that were the case; someone so wonderful should never have to feel undesirable.

Speaking of undesirable, Astarion fingers a curl at the front of his own head, frowning. ]

Now you'll need to rid me of this charred thing. I'm not going to a soiree looking like this.

[ Still skeptical of "lovely", but not recoiling at the compliment outright. The resistance is no longer a matter of mistrusting Astarion or his so-called shallow praise, but a lingering reticence to acknowledge his appearance. Not uncomfortable by the prospect, per se, but out of practice.

A shame, that he can't distract himself with Astarion's reflection in the looking glass. Iorveth sets the thing back down onto Shadowheart's dresser after a quick dip of his head (an underwhelming reaction to being complimented, perhaps, but not an outright dismissal), and turns to Astarion to survey the barely-there damage to the very tips of soft silver bangs. ]

You trust me with a sharp object near your precious hair, do you.

[ Joking!!! Joking. Still, Iorveth can't resist taking the scissors from Astarion and snipping it threateningly in the air, lopping off an imaginary chunk of hair from that lovely head. ]

Stay still, lest I accidentally shave you bald.

[ The horror. It would be tragic if Iorveth got dumped right after sleeping with someone, but if anyone could make something like that happen, it would be Iorveth. ]

[ Astarion reacts to the threat with appropriate horror, eyes widening at the snip, snip of the scissors. Even more horrific: he really does trust Iorveth with a sharp object near his precious hair. Gods, he'd trust him with a sharp object at his throat. What kind of misanthrope is he? One that's stupidly, deliriously in love, apparently, beyond all reason and rationality. ]

You wouldn't.

[ His wide eyes narrow, and he sticks his nose up in the air, haughty. ]

Then you wouldn't have any more soft hair to tangle those fingers of yours in.

[ Who else's hair would he run his fingers through? Lae'zel? Gale? Please. ]

—But, [ he adds, pointing a finger, ] do be careful. This coiffure is two hundred years in the making, you know.

[ It's the only haircut he knows how to style without a mirror, too. ]

You should cast your head in plaster and immortalize it, then.

[ Another dry joke, affectionate. Turnabout is fair play: Iorveth has trusted Astarion with sharp teeth near his jugular, so now Astarion has to trust Iorveth with a scissor to his precious, centuries-old hairstyle.

It's a good thing that the trim doesn't take much time or finesse at all. Just a single snip, slow and careful, to the slightly-burnt ends of one damp curl. There, Iorveth mouths, and makes sure that it falls artfully along Astarion's forehead. ]

I barely recognize you.

[ More teasing, pulling at Astarion's metaphorical pigtails. Still the most relaxed he's been since their journey, comfortable enough with the man in front of him to let his smile linger on his face. ]

[ He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel even a little trepidation as those scissors near his hair. There's a fleeting but very real fear of what might happen if Iorveth's hand slips and he takes a chunk out right by Astarion's face, leaving him hideous for (potentially) eternity.

It's an unfounded fear, because Iorveth is good with his hands, too, and careful not to trim more than what he has to. Astarion touches the curl, feeling its soft end compared to the crunchy, ashy feeling of before, and smiles. It's so minuscule in the grand scheme of things, but there's something about having someone to do this sort of thing for him. It's surprisingly nice not to be all alone in the world.

He curls his arms around Iorveth's neck, fingers toying with the newly-cut hairs at the nape. ]

Here's where you say I'm lovely, you fool.

[ Gods, he likes Astarion so much. Iorveth can't decide if Astarion is the exact opposite of what he'd usually be attracted to, or if Astarion is the exact example of what he actually is attracted to, and just never knew until now. Either way, Iorveth finds himself juggling both an impossible compulsion to punch himself in the face and an infuriating desire to kiss Astarion breathless.

He ends up doing neither; instead, he loops his arms around Astarion's middle and keeps him in a loose embrace. ]

Something so obvious hardly bears saying.

[ Even when Iorveth couldn't stand how Astarion weaponized his looks, he'd still been annoyingly lovely. Iorveth nuzzles against Astarion's neck, finding an unmarked patch of skin to gently worry his teeth over―

―when he's interrupted by a sudden shimmer of magic in his periphery, a faint tremor in the air near them that forms, eventually, into a glowing outline of a familiar wizard. An illusory figure, cheery as ever.

"Hello!", it chirps. "Once again, you find me here on behalf of Gale of Waterdeep, who wishes to know if it would be appropriate to, ah, interrupt the current proceedings by entering what he would like to remind is a common area, for the entire group." ]

[ Astarion grins, tilting his head to allow Iorveth more access to his neck. He, too, likes Iorveth so much, but he doesn't feel the need to punch himself, only kiss Iorveth until neither of them can think straight. He's poised to do just that when the apparition of Gale pops up like the grim specter of cockblocking. Godsdammit. ]

Godsdammit.

[ Well, it's better than if they'd been interrupted earlier. He really would have killed Gale for that. Still, he raises his hackles like a displeased alley cat, fists clenched beside him as he stomps his foot at the projection. ]

What could you possibly want now?

[ His tone says 'this better be good'. ]

[ Wizards are so passive-aggressive. Iorveth doesn't quite step away from Astarion, but he unwinds his hands and pivots to face the projection, who doesn't seem to be fazed by the two elves' obvious ire. Instead:

"To turn in after a spot of meaningful adventuring, I'd imagine!"

All smiles, the shimmering image of Gale spreads his arms. Needlessly grandiose despite the simplicity of his answer. If it rankles a bit that they were interrupted by Gale needing a nap, it's smoothed over somewhat by how comical it is.

Iorveth folds his arms across his chest, snorts, and finally steps away from Astarion. ]

All this time, we've been accusing the wrong person for being high-maintenance.

[ Which isn't to say that Astarion isn't, but Gale is such a baby. Or, at least, Iorveth is allowed to think so now that he's demoted Gale to the bottom of the group hierarchy. Iorveth is awful. ]

Let him in. I don't want an accidental Netherese explosion on our hands.

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