[ 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. ]
[ Astarion's eyebrow shoots up as he bristles at the suggestion that he might need to improve his skills. The audacity! But he wouldn't mind making Iorveth show him how to stand by pressing up against him and adjusting his stance with his hands, and the thought pacifies him. Besides, the odds are still in Astarion's favor, what with all the cheating and Iorveth quickly becoming inebriated. ]
Some time with you for the purpose of improving your fashion.
[ A couple outfits from Facemaker's are not enough, especially when Astarion would like very much to make Iorveth go through an entire shopping montage. He fans his cards out on the table—five cards of the same suit—and lifts his eyebrows as if to ask well? ]
[ What the fuck. For a moment, when he'd looked at his passable pair of 5s and 9s in different suits, he'd thought that Astarion perhaps chose the honorable path this time around― how does that old adage about being fooled go, again? Hells, he's getting too sauced to remember.
He scowls. Obstinacy winds through his expression, a sentiment that's as familiar and well-loved as rage. Iorveth isn't actually mad, but he's stubborn enough that he hisses ] Again, [ and swipes the cards from the table before Astarion and his clever fingers can stack them to his advantage.
His shuffling, compared to Astarion's, is laborious. Not clumsy, but militant. Like trying to thread yellow thread through a pillowcase and drawing a lemon instead of a sun.
He deals their cards, forgetting to think of a wager this time around, and frowns even harder at his absolute shitshow of a hand despite all of his dramatics. What the fuck, part two. ]
Amused, Astarion grins as he watches Iorveth shuffle. Honestly, what did he expect? The wine really must be getting to his head if he thought there was a chance in all of the Nine Hells that Astarion wouldn't cheat again. His grin wanes as he looks down at his hand, though, suddenly not the ideal cards he'd been dealing himself but something entirely random. He delicately sets one of his cards to the side, drawing a new one instead.
He frowns, then sets his cards down face up. One pair. With a scowl: ] —Cards are just luck, anyway.
[ A bleary look at the cards on the table, and the ones in his hand. Iorveth does the math, and he tosses his own one-pair for Astarion's scrutiny with unearned smugness. ]
When they're played right, [ he says, as if he didn't eke out a win by virtue of his pair being slightly higher in number. Serious card-players would be embarrassed by this, but Iorveth has a bottle and a bit of wine in his tired system, so he doesn't care. ] And for my victory, you'll let me brush your hair at some point.
[ An even more embarrassing declaration, uninhibited by his usual steadfast stoicism, encouraged by drink. Definitely not the slam dunk his drunk mind thinks it is, to admit that he just really likes Astarion's hair. ]
[ He glowers for only a moment more before his hand flies to his head, smoothing over his curls in vain insecurity, feeling for tangles and cowlicks. ]
Does— [ Does it need badly to be brushed? he almost asks. Then— no, of course it doesn't. He spends every morning meticulously combing and styling it by touch alone, a skill honed over centuries with nothing else to do. He bursts out in genuinely amused laughter then, the sound more silvery and melodic than his usual scornful peals. ]
Oh, you ridiculous thing.
[ He lowers his hand, resting his chin in it as he peers across the table with a sly smile. ]
What a waste of a win. If you wanted to do that, you only had to ask. [ A split-second pause before he thinks to add, ] And to call me pretty while you do it.
[ He huffs in response to "ridiculous", folding his arms over his chest with wavering defensiveness. A caricature of his past guardedness, thick walls eroded by circumstance. Still upright and angular― Iorveth knows how to hold himself so that he looks imposing― but without the edge of purpose. ]
It wouldn't be to inflate your ego, [ is an attempt to explain. ] ...I've bushed and plaited hair countless times in the past, but yours is unique.
[ He can recall many times when he'd sat behind comrades and combed mud out of their long hair, preserved their vanity when they had little else left. Legitimately beautiful wood elves who had a reason to want to present themselves as such, a sort of tacit fuck-you to their human enemies.
So, yes, Iorveth's touched a lot of hair as a way to bond. But Astarion is still wholly singular, and the reminder of it is nice. ]
You're not Aen Seidhe at all. [ He slurs a bit, almost as if he'd been compelled to switch to his own language mid-sentence. Is he thinking out loud, at this point? Fuck. ] You're... [ A gesture, vague. ] You.
[ Where did the point go? Gods. ] ―Must be something in this wine.
[ If there's a point to be made, Astarion isn't certain Iorveth has made it. Or, if he has, it wasn't comprehensible, much less eloquent. It's a little funny—although he digs the point of a fang into his lip to stop from laughing—that Iorveth, who always expresses himself with such surety, has found himself tongue-tied on the very serious subject of Astarion's hair. ]
I'm me, am I? [ With teasing theatricality: ] Darling, desist with these flowery compliments or I'll have to ravish you right here.
[ It's really not his best work in the praise department. There's not many people Astarion has ever wanted to be less than himself, although... hm. For centuries, he would have exchanged his life (or lack thereof) with another's for a mere trifle, but now he's not so sure. He has an eternity of dealing with the curse of vampirism ahead of him, and that's only if he survives the parasite in his head threatening to turn him into a tentacled thrall, but there might be some appeal to being himself yet.
He leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with curiosity. ]
Honestly, I would have thought you'd prefer someone of your kind.
[ They share pointed ears but little else. His expression is impassive, purposefully blasé so as not to let his abject jealousy at how deeply Iorveth loves his people show. ]
Or is that a little too, ah, all in the family for you?
[ It is Astarion. Iorveth looks at him through his haze of drink (adding more fog with another mouthful of wine), the details of him slightly fuzzy because of the alcohol, but the shape of him unmistakable. It isn't so much about the pretty parts that comprise Astarion, but how he holds it all together: the careless lean, the tilt of his head, graceful and intentional. All nervous, sweet, tentative energy. Sure and unsure.
He really isn't Aen Seidhe at all. There's not an inch of Astarion that hearkens back to the familiar comforts of the people that Iorveth has spent the better part of his life loving and losing and killing for. Without context, and just on paper, Astarion is the opposite of Iorveth's type. ]
I do. [ Prefer someone of his kind, he means. Bluntly, without pretense. ] If all I want is a quick fuck, I prefer giving my body to those I trust.
So you can appreciate, [ he gestures again, offhanded, ] why I had no interest in you before.
[ Astarion's looks did absolutely nothing for him before he decided to be stupid and put Astarion into context. Sure, he thinks the pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty smile are compelling now, but they'd all been masklike before. ]
[ It smarts to hear it confirmed that Iorveth prefers Aen Seidhe, although of course he'd always known it. The jealousy flares up brighter now, and he feels himself mentally stamping the fire out. He can't tell whether he's jealous of the Aen Seidhe or jealous of Iorveth. He's never had the luxury of a clan he could trust. He likes the others in their little group well enough, but it's only Iorveth who he truly feels close enough with to extend his faith. A pang of loneliness hits him, a homesickness for a place he can't remember, a place that maybe never existed.
He crosses his arms, trying not to look sour. ]
You were supposed to say that you've been madly attracted to my animal magnetism since day one, and that you only resisted my advances because the depth of your feeling intimidated you.
[ He snorts over the rim of his wineglass: ] Admit it, Astarion. I wasn't your first choice either.
[ Trying to extend his memory back to early days, where Lae'zel and Shadowheart were still actively trying to kill each other, when Karlach was still too hot to touch, when Wyll was still getting used to his new infernal transformation, and when Gale was still stuffing shoes into chest. By process of elimination, a terrorist with a bad attitude was perhaps Astarion's safest bet.
That's fine. Iorveth doesn't intend to be another Cazador in Astarion's life, another monolith that demands absolutes from him. There's still so much of the world that Astarion hasn't seen, and ample opportunity for him to gather more perspective and decide that Iorveth isn't actually what he wants for his foreseeable future.
Gods, he should drink more water. Iorveth leans back in his seat and tips his chin up, finding a spot on the ceiling to focus on. ]
I prefer it that way. That you chose to see me, despite not initially having wanted to.
[ Astarion's feral cat way of saying that he's charmed by the notion. Getting hives, as it may be. It isn't very romantic, the idea of two people who weren't each other's first choices, but he supposes that hardly matters now. Still, if anyone asks, he'll say that Iorveth has been madly in love with him from the moment Astarion pulled a knife on the group. ]
No, you weren't my first choice. [ He blows a stray hand of hair out of his face, huffing. ] Truthfully, I found you unfathomably vexing.
[ A laugh bubbles up out of him, like he's just thought of a private joke with himself. ]
I still do, of course. But I find I rather like being vexed by you.
[ A laugh, as he scrapes his chair back and gets up. Perfect wood-elf balance skewed, he sways lightly on his heels as he walks around the table. ]
If you grow to dislike it, speak up.
[ It'll hurt to let Astarion go, but it'd kill Iorveth to see Astarion unhappy. He punctuates that thought by pressing his lips to the crown of Astarion's silver head, as reverent as he can manage with one and a half rather large bottles of wine in his system. ]
...I'd thought to tell you when the thought of kissing you first crossed my mind, [ he sways again, backwards, almost bumping into the table adjacent, ] but I think I should fetch some water.
[ Obviously, being drunk isn't a good look on him. He's saying far too much. ]
[ In his haze of new relationship adoration, Astarion can't imagine growing to dislike it at all. He's never cared for someone in this way before—no, not exactly; there must have been companions and lovers before, but none important enough to withstand the ravages of centuries and slavery on his memory—and it's difficult to imagine lightning striking twice. Who else would be so irksome and appealing all at once? Who else could understand the humiliation of subjugation and the rage of revenge without needing to ask questions? Who else would offer their blood to a monster without flinching?
Iorveth's tipsy imbalance is more endearing than it should be, owing again to that silly infatuation, and Astarion stands to steady him, one arm at the small of his back. ]
But I like drunken Iorveth. He's very complimentary.
[ An amused, affectionate smile dances on his lips. There's still something so novel about the feeling of smiling for the sake of smiling, for the sake of happiness. He'd become so accustomed to performatively charming grins that he'd forgotten what it felt like to make an expression that isn't calculated.
His eyes drop to his own wineglass, still partially full of dark red liquid. A pity that it doesn't have the same effect for him as it does on Iorveth. ]
If anything, I envy you. You get to be intoxicated when we face the circus.
[ Ugh. Yet another thing Cazador took from Astarion: the ability to be day drunk. It really is a shame that you only get to kill certain individuals once. Now that Iorveth can paint a picture of the now-deceased vampire in his mind, he can at least fantasize in greater detail about stabbing the smug-faced creature again, even if the threat of him is gone.
He sways closer to Astarion, instinctively protective. That spike of anger is taken over quickly, though― Astarion feels so nice against his alcohol-flushed skin. Pivoting on his feet, Iorveth presses his face to Astarion's neck. Like a dog in summer pressing its face to cool glass. ]
If you drink my blood right now, [ like 12 am shower thoughts, this is a drunk guy question, ] would you taste the wine?
[ Definitely not how bodies work. Or is it? Whatever. He kind of wants to curl up with his face pressed to Astarion's chest for the next thirty minutes, actually, but he did promise Lae'zel. ]
[ Complimentary and affectionate. Iorveth's drunken antics are a dream come true. He isn't the first to sloppily press himself to Astarion while inebriated, but he is the first that Astarion hasn't wished he could shove away. He inhales Iorveth's familiar woody scent, mixed now with the dark fruity aroma of wine, and scratches lightly at his back through his clothing, the way he imagines he might want someone to do for him if he were blood-drunk in the middle of the day.
It's a very drunken question, but one he would deign to entertain if he had the answer. Unfortunately, he doesn't. Dalyria might know, physician that she claims to be. Cazador surely knew; most of the victims Astarion brought to him were far more intoxicated than Iorveth is now. ]
I know I'm the leading expert on vampirism in the group, but I'm afraid I don't know. I've never tried.
[ He snorts under his breath, wry. ]
I was practically a vegetarian before you offered up your veins.
[ Right. Being starved, feeding off rats. Iorveth lodges another knife in imaginary Cazador, and kicks him in the ribs for good measure.
Trying to straighten his posture (vaguely aware that none of this is painting him in a particularly flattering light), blindly reaching sideways for Astarion's still-full glass: ] We could see.
[ Ah, there it is. He downs the rest of the glass' contents in a single, needlessly graceful tip of his head, then sets it back down. Imperious in the way that only a drunk guy with too much confidence can be. ]
If I'm to be drunk at the circus, you should be too.
[ You know. Sound logic. Never mind that blood alcohol content isn't actually about one's blood fermenting in one's veins; it just makes sense to Iorveth that they should be equal in all things, being buzzed at a family-friendly environment included. ]
[ Bemused and charmed all at once, he laughs through saying, ] You are drunk.
[ As if snuggling against Astarion's neck and downing his drink wasn't proof enough. The last time Iorveth drank this much, it was because Astarion goaded him into it. The small, rational voice in his brain suggests that perhaps he question why Iorveth has decided to get day-drunk now of all times, but the impulsive, illogical voice screams loud enough to drown it out. Of course it's a bad idea, one that possibly won't even work, but it's endearing, too. And rather stirring, thinking about pressing himself up against Iorveth while he's pliant and a little helpless. ]
I— I can't be held responsible if your legs turn to jelly and you can't make the walk to the circus, you know.
[ If Iorveth isn't being reasonable, it feels as if Astarion should at least give reason lip-service, if nothing else. ]
Or if I drink all of your blood and leave only wine behind.
[ Which seems unlikely, but his medical knowledge begins and ends at the locations of the best veins and arteries from which to take his fill. For all he knows, it could happen. ]
You're free, [ Iorveth reminds, leaning into the whole concept of Astarion being able to whatever the hells he wants now, ] you're entitled to try whatever you please, since I'm offering.
[ A rousing call to arms. Iorveth sticks a few more sharp things into imaginary Cazador. ]
Come.
[ Motioning for Astarion to follow him, up the half-flight of stairs (a precarious journey) and to the upstairs rooms that they have decidedly not paid for. Iorveth swings one door open to find three women piled on top of each other on a canopied bed, limbs tangled, and curses under his breath as he slams the door shut again. ]
Brothels, [ he mutters under his breath, as if he isn't the one being a menace. His next attempt at finding a room yields a better result: the abandoned room of the now-deceased Stern Librarian, which will do nicely for a private space for Astarion to do a bit of bloodletting. He stumbles inside, and almost falls into the intimidating-looking recliner with far too many straps and buckles for his liking. Eugh. ]
[ The 'library' is hardly a library at all save for the collection of dirty books along the shelves, which is just fine with Astarion; he makes an internal note to steal one for his perusal later. He's got to find some way to pass the time at the Elfsong, after all. He tilts his head as he reads a notice entitled Rules of the Reading Room, detailing all of the rules the visitors are expected to follow and the salacious 'punishments' should they fail.
With a wrinkle of his nose, he says, ] I don't think the Librarian would have been for me.
[ He's had enough of following rules, even if the discipline doled out here is more of the titillating type.
He eyes the chair—another thing he wouldn't have cared for; once you've been chained to the wall enough times, being bound loses its appeal—and glances up at Iorveth, eyes twinkling mischievously. ]
If you'd rather I just push you up against the bookcase, all you have to do is say so.
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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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Some time with you for the purpose of improving your fashion.
[ A couple outfits from Facemaker's are not enough, especially when Astarion would like very much to make Iorveth go through an entire shopping montage. He fans his cards out on the table—five cards of the same suit—and lifts his eyebrows as if to ask well? ]
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He scowls. Obstinacy winds through his expression, a sentiment that's as familiar and well-loved as rage. Iorveth isn't actually mad, but he's stubborn enough that he hisses ] Again, [ and swipes the cards from the table before Astarion and his clever fingers can stack them to his advantage.
His shuffling, compared to Astarion's, is laborious. Not clumsy, but militant. Like trying to thread yellow thread through a pillowcase and drawing a lemon instead of a sun.
He deals their cards, forgetting to think of a wager this time around, and frowns even harder at his absolute shitshow of a hand despite all of his dramatics. What the fuck, part two. ]
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Amused, Astarion grins as he watches Iorveth shuffle. Honestly, what did he expect? The wine really must be getting to his head if he thought there was a chance in all of the Nine Hells that Astarion wouldn't cheat again. His grin wanes as he looks down at his hand, though, suddenly not the ideal cards he'd been dealing himself but something entirely random. He delicately sets one of his cards to the side, drawing a new one instead.
He frowns, then sets his cards down face up. One pair. With a scowl: ] —Cards are just luck, anyway.
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When they're played right, [ he says, as if he didn't eke out a win by virtue of his pair being slightly higher in number. Serious card-players would be embarrassed by this, but Iorveth has a bottle and a bit of wine in his tired system, so he doesn't care. ] And for my victory, you'll let me brush your hair at some point.
[ An even more embarrassing declaration, uninhibited by his usual steadfast stoicism, encouraged by drink. Definitely not the slam dunk his drunk mind thinks it is, to admit that he just really likes Astarion's hair. ]
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Does— [ Does it need badly to be brushed? he almost asks. Then— no, of course it doesn't. He spends every morning meticulously combing and styling it by touch alone, a skill honed over centuries with nothing else to do. He bursts out in genuinely amused laughter then, the sound more silvery and melodic than his usual scornful peals. ]
Oh, you ridiculous thing.
[ He lowers his hand, resting his chin in it as he peers across the table with a sly smile. ]
What a waste of a win. If you wanted to do that, you only had to ask. [ A split-second pause before he thinks to add, ] And to call me pretty while you do it.
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It wouldn't be to inflate your ego, [ is an attempt to explain. ] ...I've bushed and plaited hair countless times in the past, but yours is unique.
[ He can recall many times when he'd sat behind comrades and combed mud out of their long hair, preserved their vanity when they had little else left. Legitimately beautiful wood elves who had a reason to want to present themselves as such, a sort of tacit fuck-you to their human enemies.
So, yes, Iorveth's touched a lot of hair as a way to bond. But Astarion is still wholly singular, and the reminder of it is nice. ]
You're not Aen Seidhe at all. [ He slurs a bit, almost as if he'd been compelled to switch to his own language mid-sentence. Is he thinking out loud, at this point? Fuck. ] You're... [ A gesture, vague. ] You.
[ Where did the point go? Gods. ] ―Must be something in this wine.
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I'm me, am I? [ With teasing theatricality: ] Darling, desist with these flowery compliments or I'll have to ravish you right here.
[ It's really not his best work in the praise department. There's not many people Astarion has ever wanted to be less than himself, although... hm. For centuries, he would have exchanged his life (or lack thereof) with another's for a mere trifle, but now he's not so sure. He has an eternity of dealing with the curse of vampirism ahead of him, and that's only if he survives the parasite in his head threatening to turn him into a tentacled thrall, but there might be some appeal to being himself yet.
He leans back in his chair, eyes glinting with curiosity. ]
Honestly, I would have thought you'd prefer someone of your kind.
[ They share pointed ears but little else. His expression is impassive, purposefully blasé so as not to let his abject jealousy at how deeply Iorveth loves his people show. ]
Or is that a little too, ah, all in the family for you?
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He really isn't Aen Seidhe at all. There's not an inch of Astarion that hearkens back to the familiar comforts of the people that Iorveth has spent the better part of his life loving and losing and killing for. Without context, and just on paper, Astarion is the opposite of Iorveth's type. ]
I do. [ Prefer someone of his kind, he means. Bluntly, without pretense. ] If all I want is a quick fuck, I prefer giving my body to those I trust.
So you can appreciate, [ he gestures again, offhanded, ] why I had no interest in you before.
[ Astarion's looks did absolutely nothing for him before he decided to be stupid and put Astarion into context. Sure, he thinks the pretty hair and the pretty eyes and the pretty smile are compelling now, but they'd all been masklike before. ]
A different story now, though.
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He crosses his arms, trying not to look sour. ]
You were supposed to say that you've been madly attracted to my animal magnetism since day one, and that you only resisted my advances because the depth of your feeling intimidated you.
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[ Trying to extend his memory back to early days, where Lae'zel and Shadowheart were still actively trying to kill each other, when Karlach was still too hot to touch, when Wyll was still getting used to his new infernal transformation, and when Gale was still stuffing shoes into chest. By process of elimination, a terrorist with a bad attitude was perhaps Astarion's safest bet.
That's fine. Iorveth doesn't intend to be another Cazador in Astarion's life, another monolith that demands absolutes from him. There's still so much of the world that Astarion hasn't seen, and ample opportunity for him to gather more perspective and decide that Iorveth isn't actually what he wants for his foreseeable future.
Gods, he should drink more water. Iorveth leans back in his seat and tips his chin up, finding a spot on the ceiling to focus on. ]
I prefer it that way. That you chose to see me, despite not initially having wanted to.
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[ Astarion's feral cat way of saying that he's charmed by the notion. Getting hives, as it may be. It isn't very romantic, the idea of two people who weren't each other's first choices, but he supposes that hardly matters now. Still, if anyone asks, he'll say that Iorveth has been madly in love with him from the moment Astarion pulled a knife on the group. ]
No, you weren't my first choice. [ He blows a stray hand of hair out of his face, huffing. ] Truthfully, I found you unfathomably vexing.
[ A laugh bubbles up out of him, like he's just thought of a private joke with himself. ]
I still do, of course. But I find I rather like being vexed by you.
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If you grow to dislike it, speak up.
[ It'll hurt to let Astarion go, but it'd kill Iorveth to see Astarion unhappy. He punctuates that thought by pressing his lips to the crown of Astarion's silver head, as reverent as he can manage with one and a half rather large bottles of wine in his system. ]
...I'd thought to tell you when the thought of kissing you first crossed my mind, [ he sways again, backwards, almost bumping into the table adjacent, ] but I think I should fetch some water.
[ Obviously, being drunk isn't a good look on him. He's saying far too much. ]
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Iorveth's tipsy imbalance is more endearing than it should be, owing again to that silly infatuation, and Astarion stands to steady him, one arm at the small of his back. ]
But I like drunken Iorveth. He's very complimentary.
[ An amused, affectionate smile dances on his lips. There's still something so novel about the feeling of smiling for the sake of smiling, for the sake of happiness. He'd become so accustomed to performatively charming grins that he'd forgotten what it felt like to make an expression that isn't calculated.
His eyes drop to his own wineglass, still partially full of dark red liquid. A pity that it doesn't have the same effect for him as it does on Iorveth. ]
If anything, I envy you. You get to be intoxicated when we face the circus.
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He sways closer to Astarion, instinctively protective. That spike of anger is taken over quickly, though― Astarion feels so nice against his alcohol-flushed skin. Pivoting on his feet, Iorveth presses his face to Astarion's neck. Like a dog in summer pressing its face to cool glass. ]
If you drink my blood right now, [ like 12 am shower thoughts, this is a drunk guy question, ] would you taste the wine?
[ Definitely not how bodies work. Or is it? Whatever. He kind of wants to curl up with his face pressed to Astarion's chest for the next thirty minutes, actually, but he did promise Lae'zel. ]
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It's a very drunken question, but one he would deign to entertain if he had the answer. Unfortunately, he doesn't. Dalyria might know, physician that she claims to be. Cazador surely knew; most of the victims Astarion brought to him were far more intoxicated than Iorveth is now. ]
I know I'm the leading expert on vampirism in the group, but I'm afraid I don't know. I've never tried.
[ He snorts under his breath, wry. ]
I was practically a vegetarian before you offered up your veins.
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Trying to straighten his posture (vaguely aware that none of this is painting him in a particularly flattering light), blindly reaching sideways for Astarion's still-full glass: ] We could see.
[ Ah, there it is. He downs the rest of the glass' contents in a single, needlessly graceful tip of his head, then sets it back down. Imperious in the way that only a drunk guy with too much confidence can be. ]
If I'm to be drunk at the circus, you should be too.
[ You know. Sound logic. Never mind that blood alcohol content isn't actually about one's blood fermenting in one's veins; it just makes sense to Iorveth that they should be equal in all things, being buzzed at a family-friendly environment included. ]
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[ As if snuggling against Astarion's neck and downing his drink wasn't proof enough. The last time Iorveth drank this much, it was because Astarion goaded him into it. The small, rational voice in his brain suggests that perhaps he question why Iorveth has decided to get day-drunk now of all times, but the impulsive, illogical voice screams loud enough to drown it out. Of course it's a bad idea, one that possibly won't even work, but it's endearing, too. And rather stirring, thinking about pressing himself up against Iorveth while he's pliant and a little helpless. ]
I— I can't be held responsible if your legs turn to jelly and you can't make the walk to the circus, you know.
[ If Iorveth isn't being reasonable, it feels as if Astarion should at least give reason lip-service, if nothing else. ]
Or if I drink all of your blood and leave only wine behind.
[ Which seems unlikely, but his medical knowledge begins and ends at the locations of the best veins and arteries from which to take his fill. For all he knows, it could happen. ]
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[ A rousing call to arms. Iorveth sticks a few more sharp things into imaginary Cazador. ]
Come.
[ Motioning for Astarion to follow him, up the half-flight of stairs (a precarious journey) and to the upstairs rooms that they have decidedly not paid for. Iorveth swings one door open to find three women piled on top of each other on a canopied bed, limbs tangled, and curses under his breath as he slams the door shut again. ]
Brothels, [ he mutters under his breath, as if he isn't the one being a menace. His next attempt at finding a room yields a better result: the abandoned room of the now-deceased Stern Librarian, which will do nicely for a private space for Astarion to do a bit of bloodletting. He stumbles inside, and almost falls into the intimidating-looking recliner with far too many straps and buckles for his liking. Eugh. ]
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With a wrinkle of his nose, he says, ] I don't think the Librarian would have been for me.
[ He's had enough of following rules, even if the discipline doled out here is more of the titillating type.
He eyes the chair—another thing he wouldn't have cared for; once you've been chained to the wall enough times, being bound loses its appeal—and glances up at Iorveth, eyes twinkling mischievously. ]
If you'd rather I just push you up against the bookcase, all you have to do is say so.
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