essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

Ah, yes. The all-powerful archwizard, in need of a catnap.

[ Astarion scowls, far less amused by the situation than Iorveth. Honestly, Gale—and all of their other companions—should get the message that they aren't wanted here and clear out, so that he and Iorveth can have the place to themselves. He throws up his hands as he walks away, back toward Iorveth's bed. ]

Fine. I wouldn't want those dark circles under your eyes to get worse, Gale.

[ Petty.

He picks up Wyll's book—the one full of smut, not the courtly romance—and flops down on the bed, sticking his nose in it. Ugh, it really has too much plot for his tastes. The least the author could do is be honest with themself and stop pretending their work is anything but pornography. ]

[ What Iorveth could say: "You also have dark circles under your eyes, you know." What Iorveth doesn't say: that. Either way, the projection is satisfied (?) by the answer, and shimmers back into nothingness as the actual wizard carefully, carefully makes his way into the room, as unsubtle as a burglar in a fairytale.

Iorveth hasn't followed Astarion back to bed yet, having taken it upon himself to at least tidy up the mess they've made of the bathing area, Sweeping up fallen hair into one pile and bunching it into a spare rag that he then discards into the nearest trash receptacle. He barely reacts when Gale balks at his state of undress, and ignores the very pointed clearing of the human's throat to adjust the towel around his waist.

"I would like to remind you," Gale starts, to which Iorveth responds with a curt: ] You would, wouldn't you.

[ The meanest elf in the world. Gale looks offended, and calls out to Astarion's general direction:

"Gods, you've made him worse." ]

[ Oh, it does feel good to watch Gale be the subject of Iorveth's ire instead of being it himself. Astarion grins into the pages of his book, juvenile. ]

Oh, don't pout. It isn't becoming on you.

[ Unlike on me, is the unsaid implication. It's really too bad that Astarion looks adorable and brooding, while Gale just looks annoying! (At least, in Astarion's opinion.) He sets the book down on his lap for a moment, calling back: ]

Besides, you and I both know that no one can make Iorveth anything.

[ True. Iorveth is Iorveth, no matter what. Staunchly himself, which includes being incredibly rude and brusque. Astarion couldn't change him if he tried, and luckily, he doesn't want to. Iorveth's bad behavior is terribly endearing, as long as the victim is someone other than Astarion. ]

Look at your own bad manners, Gale. You didn't even compliment his haircut.

[ The matter of the haircut earns Iorveth a lingering few moments of focus from Gale, which reminds Iorveth that his face is still uncovered; he tips his face away and slips past the human and back towards his bed, ignoring Gale's soft oh.

"...It's very nice," Gale ventures as Iorveth is slinking back by Astarion's side, returning to him like a wild animal to a favored nest. "Have we abandoned the headscarf entirely?"

Iorveth, as he pulls on a pair of underwear so that he isn't quite as terribly naked when he goes to settle on the bed next to Astarion: ]

That would depend on how much our vampire would whine if I wore it again.

[ No one could make Iorveth do anything, but horror of horrors: Iorveth would take Astarion's opinions into account. A terrifying reality that Iorveth has to contend with now. ]

[ Gale looks relieved by Iorveth clothing himself, however minimally; what a prude, Astarion thinks, as if Gale wasn't just in real danger of getting an eyeful he wouldn't soon forget. The wizard creeps in toward his own bed, casting the both of them a wary look as if he's still traumatized from what he overheard the other day. Again, what a prude! Plenty of people would pay good money for the show that Gale got for free, he thinks.

At the mere mention of the headscarf, Astarion makes a face, nose wrinkled, lip curled. ]

That awful thing? Ugh, I was hoping to burn it.

[ So, he'd whine a lot. ]

[ Gale has had full-body sex on the astral plane, and thus has no room to judge anyone for harmless intimacy on the physical realm. In fact, Iorveth would have preferred not to hear about Gale's past exploits with Mystra, but he didn't raise a stink about it when the conversation came up in camp. Hmph.

Still largely naked save for his underwear, Iorveth pulls the apparently-loathed headscarf out from a drawer of his bedside dresser and tosses it onto Astarion's lap. ]

Do with it as you will.

[ Burn it, bury it, let the dogs have it. The headscarf is, in fact, Iorveth's first attempt at sewing anything, complete with the poorly-made hole on one side for his ear to poke out of; he doesn't have any particular attachment to it besides the fact that it's done a noble job of hiding his scars.

Gale, from the other side of the room, drawing his curtains and readying himself for a nap: "If I'm permitted to share my opinion, I think it's rather nice that we get to see more of you." A stuttering pause, as he clearly considers how that sounds in light of Iorveth's current state of undress. "Your face, I mean. More of your face." ]

[ Astarion snatches up the headscarf with new delight, a little bit rushed, like he doesn't want to give Iorveth the opportunity to change his mind. He hates this thing. Not only is it a crime against fashion, but it's a crime against Iorveth's face. And a crime against Astarion, for that matter, because it covers up something he adores so much. ]

Oh, Gale.

[ A tut-tut escapes him. Were it anyone besides Gale, it might have raised his hackles enough for him to stake his claim more obviously, but— well, it's Gale. The chances of Iorveth becoming romantically involved with him are less than zero. ]

Now I know why you stayed and listened, you naughty, naughty boy.

[ Gale turns bright red. "I'll have you know I cast Deafness—" ]

[ Poor Gale, is what a normal person would think; instead, Iorveth reacts by rolling his eye and sitting on the mattress next to Astarion with his sewing kit again. ]

The wizard may be desperate, but I doubt he's that desperate.

[ A low huff-chuckle, and he flicks the corner of the pilfered smut novel with an index finger. ]

That said, he may enjoy descriptions of a crown prince's glistening, spread thighs more than I do.

[ Poor Gale, Part 2. Iorveth hears him splutter and pointedly pull his blankets over his head.

"I came back for a nap, thank you very much." ]

Good. It's my book.

[ Wyll's, technically, but Astarion firmly believes in 'finders keepers'. Possession is ten-tenths of the law, and that's coming from a former magistrate. The smut is so-so, admittedly, but Astarion can't help but feel a little curious about how Nicholas and Edgar are ever going to work things out. And how many positions they're going to try while doing so.

He'd been lounging, but when Iorveth pulls out the sewing kit again—adorable—he sits up, shrugging off the sleeves of his robe and wrapping it around Iorveth's shoulders. Astarion couldn't care less about modesty, but Iorveth does look a little cold, sitting there nearly naked with his hair still damp from the bath. ]

As much as I hate to follow Gale's lead, I could stand to catch up on my beauty rest myself.

[ What neither of them know is that the book in Astarion's hands is that it's the first of a trilogy, and the erotic adventures of Edgar and Nicholas span several countries and involve every single position that bipedal creatures are capable of. The third and final instalment has just come out recently, is sold out everywhere, and is about 800 pages long.

Iorveth, who is more interested in etching circles in fabric than following Nicholas and Edgar's saga, softens his expression incrementally at the feeling of Astarion's robe settling around him. He edges closer to Astarion and tucks him near his side, sharing as much body heat as possible with their proximity. ]

Hm. You did do some strenuous exercising today.

[ An airy, sly drawl. Iorveth combs his fingers through Astarion's freshly-washed hair, and smiles despite himself. ]

Rest. You've earned it.

[ Astarion can practically hear Gale covering his ears with his pillow. He doesn't care. He presses a firm kiss to Iorveth's mouth before leaning over to draw the curtains around the bed closed; while he doesn't mind traumatizing Gale with public displays of affection, he'd rather not be witnessed cuddling if he can help it.

Out of the view of prying eyes, he curls up against Iorveth's side, pressed against the silky fabric of the robe. He leans his head into the crook of Iorveth's shoulder, shamelessly nudging against the warmth of his body. Iorveth is the one who really deserves rest, but Astarion doesn't say so; if he wants to lie here and embroider things all day, well, it's charming.

Instead, he only snuggles closer against him, a weight at Iorveth's side that no doubt interferes with any embroidering attempts. A contented sigh escapes him as he drifts surprisingly quickly into his trance, dreamless and thoughtless. ]

[ Ugh. Stupid, endearing cat. Iorveth, weighed down by the lukewarm body next to him and his own too-full heart, abandons the embroidery to comb his fingers through silver hair, memorizing Astarion's resting expression, the way his long lashes cast shadows over his pale skin.

Bitterness and anger slough off of Iorveth for the first time in decades; for a perfect moment, the world feels still. At peace.

Terrifying. Iorveth has shattered over the depths of his losses before, but he can't anticipate how painful it will be if or when Astarion ever leaves; it'd break him, but that's the only way Iorveth knows how to love anything-- with blood under his nails, his throat hoarse from screaming.

He turns, curls, and follows Astarion into his own trance, which is how their companions will find them later, limbs pretzeled and torsos pressed close. It's how their companions will find them every subsequent night afterwards, a day turning into a tenday, Gondians found and saved, a Foundry infiltrated and blown to smithereens. A shared bed for every shared disaster, chaos in the daytime blending into soothing, uncomplicated tangling at night--

--until they find themselves back at Dolores' place, handed a fresh new predicament to contend with. Or, well. A predicament for Iorveth exclusively, given the fact that Astarion is the one that set this particular predicament up for him in the first place. ]

No frills.

[ This should be the thing that makes him reconsider being in love with Astarion, and yet. Iorveth still wants to continue sharing a bed with his stupid, endearing cat, and has thus resigned himself to this fitting session, and the auction ball that's to follow in the evening. Somewhere in the near distance, a clown horn honks. ]

[ Thank the gods that Dolores believed their tall tale about being persecuted lovers on the run and kept their appointment. It helps that Astarion lays it on thick with flattery about how her little business is so much better than Figaro's, and that he's going to tell all of his high society friends to come here instead. Dolores beams at the praise, blushing a bright pink as she gathers her supplies for the fitting.

As she returns with an outfit draped over her shoulder—in the earth tones Astarion specified, cream and burnt sienna on top and a dark brown leather on the bottom—she pauses, frowning. "No frills?" She glances at the shirt hanging over her shoulder, which sports an unmistakable ruffle down its lace-up collar. Very much also Astarion's doing. ]

Some frills, [ he corrects, hands clasped innocently behind his back. ]

[ Iorveth has sweetened the deal for kind Dolores by bringing along a piece of the Steel Watch Foundry, implying that the latest bit of gossip circulating around Baldur's Gate about the lack of clanging constructs were, perhaps, the doing of the two troublemakers who shacked up in her spare bedroom that one time. Liker her acceptance of Astarion's blood-covered return in the morning, it seems like Dolores is willing to forgive a little bit of chaos if it's done in the name of (what she perceives) is good― Iorveth's kind of woman, to be honest.

On one end of the room sits Astarion's potential new outfit, in two colorways: silver and white, black and gold. Iorveth is more comfortable looking at those than the cream shirt he's being handed, far more delicate than anything he's ever worn in his lifetime. ]

You're trying to make a fool of me, [ he huffs, as he holds up the shirt to the light. ] It wouldn't suit.

[ Spiritually, not physically. Once he pulls it on, he finds that it fits him like a stylish glove: tapering in the right places, looser where it counts. Generous around the shoulders, with a neckline that makes it easy for him to breathe.

Almost a little too easy. The frilled collar cuts down, down, past his collarbone and to his chest. He can see his tattoo from the open fabric, green leaves and vines against soft cream. ]

Gods, [ he mutters. Dolores flits around him like a restless bird, pins in hand, ready to adjust. ]

Mmm, [ says Astarion, grinning from ear to ear. ] You look positively delicious, my dear.

[ And he does! Iorveth so rarely wears clothing that actually fits and wasn't just tugged off of some unfortunate dead human. This, though, was made with Iorveth's long, lean physique in mind, and the difference is stark. He's never going to let Iorveth wear something frumpy again; it's a crime against Astarion to give him something like this and then take it away.

"Very handsome," Dolores agrees, pinning the waist a little narrower. "If I were twenty years younger— oh." She squeaks, like she didn't realize she was saying that part out loud.

Astarion takes the opportunity to pluck the trousers from her shoulder, holding them out for Iorveth to take. The dark, warm leather is a complement to Iorveth's eyepatch, and the fabric feels soft to the touch. ]

Go on, don't be shy. Dolores doesn't mind seeing you pantsless, I'm sure.

[ "Oh hush, is Dolores's flustered retort, accompanied by a harmless swat to Astarion's leg with the end of her measuring tape. Iorveth chuckles as he watches her puff up, still birdie in her mannerisms, and moves to take his trousers off. ]

Nothing she hasn't seen before, I'm sure.

[ Unless she doesn't get many elves in her salon, which would be a shame. Elves in Baldur's Gate are clearly sleeping on Dolores if they're not frequenting her business: his new pants fit perfectly when he shimmies into them, which isn't something he's experienced since he's taken to cramming himself into human-proportioned clothing. Finally, something that isn't cropped above his ankles and doesn't require a belt to keep up.

That said: ] It might fit too well. We're going to an auction fête, not a sex party.

[ Another small splutter from Dolores, who protests that he looks very formal-party ready, and that the pants aren't at all lurid. To be fair, the party they're infiltrating tonight is a gathering of less reputable members of the city, planning to peddle ill-gotten gains to other individuals of questionable repute; they probably wouldn't care if Iorveth showed up naked. ]

[ The pants are a little lurid, if only because one can actually see the shape of Iorveth's body instead of him looking like a formless mass swimming in an outfit that's somehow both too big and too small. Dolores has outdone herself, honestly. He's going to be fantasizing about Iorveth in these pants for tendays, if they're lucky enough to survive that long. ]

Unfortunately, [ he says in regards to their lack of invitation to a Baldurian sex party. In actuality, he'd hate being at any gathering that centered around sex. Although he's improved with the help of their companions—Shadowheart's gentle healing, Karlach's bear hugs, Wyll's pats on the back—Iorveth's is still the only touch he can tolerate for extended periods of time. ] But we must persevere despite our disappointments.

[ As Dolores flits around Iorveth, Astarion takes the liberty of tucking his shirt in a little tighter, pulling the waistband of his trousers up to cinch everything in at the waist. No boyfriend of his will ever look sloppy at a party if he has anything to say about it! ]

You look stunning, darling. I'm all atingle.

[ Perhaps not the most appropriate thing to say in front of dear Dolores, but she's hardly flustered by it as she kneels down to check the length of his pant legs. A fastidious woman, dedicated to her craft. ]

[ Disappointments, Astarion says, as if Iorveth would have agreed to go to any sort of function that involved public laying of foreign hands not only on him, but on Astarion. Astarion is free to pursue exploits if he wants, as long as they're out of eyeshot; Iorveth trusts himself not to be jealous, per se, but he thinks he could be terribly possessive if the mood takes him. Especially if they're dressed in finery, if Astarion's already prominently-featured beauty is embellished further by fine-crafted clothing.

He huffs a breath through his nose, but doesn't move from where he's standing, pushed and prodded by two sets of hands. ]

Well, if it pleases you. [ Feigning sarcasm despite the fact that the only reason he's doing this at all to please Astarion. Weak. He's appalled by himself, really. ] ...There's nothing of my outfit that evokes yours.

[ A small complaint. His outfit is rendered in creams and earth tones, with bits of silver embroidery as embellishment; as much as Iorveth really doesn't care about appearances, that not-so-insignificant possessive streak whispers that he wants, at the very least, to show others that Astarion is with him.

Dolores seems to catch the drift. She beams at him, obviously pleased by this obvious display of affection (?). ]

[ Astarion's hand trails up, fiddling idly with the chained ring around Iorveth's neck. With his neckline open like this, the ring is perfectly framed against his chest. Dolores works diligently around him, even though he's very much in the way. ]

With what I'm going to be doing to you, no one will question that we're there together.

[ Again, a very inappropriate thing to say in the company of a kindly older woman, but she seems to relate. "Oh, you two remind me of me and my sweetheart..." Astarion doesn't even complain about being compared to a doddering, half-deaf old man, although he could. He's on his best behavior today, too pleased with Iorveth's compliance to be prickly. ]

But I'm sure a few accessories could tie the ensembles together.

[ The implication being that Iorveth's outfit is not yet done, and that accessories are a foregone conclusion. ]

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