essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Oh, Dolores might be more of a freak than Iorveth gave her credit for. Not a bad thing by any means, even if she is pinning and tucking him even more snugly into his new trousers.

Speaking of pinning, though. Iorveth narrows his eye dubiously at "some" accessories, which he's sure will turn into "many" accessories if given the chance. Unfortunately for Iorveth, Dolores has banished her army of cats and barred them entry into their fitting room, so he can't count on them for distraction or interruption; there's nothing here to stop anyone from covering him in sashes and jewelry, which means that this will become a test of his patience and tolerance.

A soft breath, and he reaches (without moving his legs, which are still being closely inspected) to tug at Astarion's sleeve. ]

You should change as well. Turnabout is fair play.

[ Reciprocal gawking is in order. Iorveth runs his thumb over the jut of Astarion's wrist. ]

Better for me to assess ahead of time how many flies I'll have to swat tonight.

[ Dolores beams again, her voice muffled between a pin between her lips: "you'll be working overtime－ he's going to look so beautiful!" ]

You flirt, [ he says to Dolores before patting Iorveth on the cheek and brushing past him to inspect his outfits, although not without motioning for Dolores to make the butt on Iorveth's pants tighter. She nods knowingly and complies.

He has no doubt that he'll look beautiful in this get-up—he looks beautiful in everything, or so he's been told—but he holds the clothing out to scrutinize it regardless. The black is preferable, he thinks, certainly more his style than the angelic silver-and-white. Shiny gold thread snakes through the fabric, and he runs a thumb over the handiwork approvingly. Dolores's marketing may leave something to be desired, but she's a hell of a seamstress.

His back turned away from Dolores (and his entire body moved away from any mirrors), Astarion changes while Iorveth gets the last bits of adjustment done on his attire. If the pants weren't lurid before, they certainly are now, thanks to Dolores's wonderful work. Once he pulls on his own dark trousers and gold-embroidered tunic, he smooths out the fabric with a small sigh, disappointed that he can't see how he actually looks.

Oh, well. He squares his shoulders and returns to Iorveth, arms out and twirling to show off the look. ]

Well? How do I look? Paint me a word picture.

[ It's a small miracle that Dolores hasn't noticed how both men seem to be avoiding mirrors like the plague, but she's being kept busy: Iorveth notes how thrilled she seems to be that she's getting not one, but two entire customers to flutter around, and wonders if the poor woman hasn't adopted a score of cats with her old fool of a husband out of loneliness. A bit of a crime, that. He would care less if she weren't so skilled with a needle and so sweet in her demeanor－ as it stands, Iorveth makes a mental note to bully Kurug (who turns out to be looking not only for an outfit, but an apprenticeship) to work on his marketing skills.

Idle, overly-empathetic thoughts while Astarion changes. Terrible. Thank the gods that Astarion is extremely distracting. He seems to shimmer in his new outfit, wrapped in silk (if that's what it is, Iorveth has no idea) and delicately-embroidered gold, framed and embellished with flawless ease.

After an obvious pause to take everything in, too long to be casual: ]

You'll have people lining up to make smalltalk with you all night.

[ Doesn't Astarion ever get tired of being so ridiculously good-looking??? Ugh. Iorveth takes a step forward and rakes his palm down Astarion's chest, unnecessarily smoothing the fabric down. ]

Still the most beautiful thing I've seen, [ he assesses. Not exactly painting a picture with words.

Second attempt: ] ...Your waist looks eminently hold-able.

[ Dolores actually laughs. At him, presumably. "Oh! It might be better to just look in a mirror, love. He's obviously speechless." ]

[ Drily: ] Obviously.

[ It's partly endearing and partly annoying, since Iorveth's assessment is all he has to go on for his appearance. Ah, but like all the things about Iorveth that are endearing-annoying, endearing wins out. ]

No need for a mirror. [ For obvious reasons. Dolores might be willing to allow a pair of persecuted lovers to track blood into her home and workplace, but Astarion isn't certain she'd be so accepting of a vampire. The thought makes him tug his collar up his neck self-consciously, hiding Cazador's teeth marks. ] I'm sure it suits. You've done excellent work, my dear.

[ Dolores flushes at the compliment. One gets the feeling she doesn't often praised for her work when there are much more prolific tailors in the city. A pity; hers is some of the finest needlework he's seen. Thoroughly flattered, she gets to examining the length of his sleeves and the cut of his shirt, a dedicated professional with an eye for detail.

Gaze flicking back to Iorveth: ] Now, what do we think about adding a cape to this get-up?

[ It would look so very debonair for Iorveth to drape one over his shoulder. ]

[ There is absolutely no earthly way Iorveth is going to go on and on about Astarion's pale skin contrasted with the dark fabric of his new jacket, or all the ways in which Iorveth would love to corral him against a wall－ at least, not when Dolores is within earshot. Not because he's afraid of scandalizing a woman who already seems to support the presence of a healthy libido, but because he doesn't want Dolores to think that he's quite as receptive to Astarion's fishing for compliments as he is.

(Fighting an uphill battle, probably.)

Freed from the sweet old woman's scrutiny for now, Iorveth circles Astarion with slow, deliberate strides. A fox surveying its surroundings. ]

I think it would be ridiculous. [ Predictably. He's blunt, but he manages not to sound entirely dismissive. ] A cloak is one thing, but there's no practical advantage to wearing a cape unless one loves to trip.

[ Dolores gives Astarion a sympathetic glance. Iorveth pretends not to see it. ]

I'll only agree to wear it if it matches something of yours.

[ 'Practical.' As if practicality has any place in fashion -- it's about looking hot as hell, which Iorveth will in a cape. Astarion rolls his eyes, sticking his leg out so Dolores can crouch down and inspect the hem. ]

Well, obviously.

[ There's no point in a cape if it doesn't match! He'll look like a fairy tale prince with one swooshing behind him -- not that Astarion is interested in fairy tale princes or anything. That would be pathetic. ]

I'm sure Dolores has one with gold. It'll complement your complexion.

[ "Oh, yes! Gold would stand out wonderfully!" Dolores coos, although Astarion gets the sense she would say that about just about any color. ]

[ Dolores whizzes around them, a gnome-shaped blur as she fusses with hems and the odd loose end. She promises to bring them a few selections of capes Iorveth can try－ suggesting one that drapes over one shoulder, if Astarion wants both the drama of a cape but also a practical view of Iorveth's back(side)－ and leaves the two to converse for a bit while she flits out to rummage through her atelier.

Some breathing room, finally. Iorveth lowers his shoulders and stretches his neck from side to side, relaxing in a way that he only does when he's in a room alone with someone he trusts, lowering some of his omnipresent walls. ]

I'm surprised that you didn't make her prepare gilded underclothes.

[ Not that they wouldn't look nice on Astarion, mind. All dolled up, and Iorveth is already looking forward to being naked; he's truly lost his mind. Navigating towards Astarion, he readjusts the high collar of Astarion's doublet and runs his thumb over delicate embroidery. ]

...You do look beautiful, [ is a quiet addendum. Just for the record. ] Regal. Finery suits you.

[ Astarion preens, visibly pleased. It isn't just that he's happy to look beautiful—although he is, of course, vain as he is—but that Iorveth thinks so. Iorveth, who thinks his looks are the least interesting thing about him, but thinks he's striking anyway. He can't help grinning. ]

It does, doesn't it?

[ This is the sort of clothing he must have worn when he was someone. He hardly remembers now, but he does remember that he's always been appearance-focused. If only his vampirism hadn't taken the ability to see himself away. ]

You look rather regal yourself.

[ Iorveth wears his clothing with a bit of an awkward, uncomfortable air, but it doesn't matter. The thrill of seeing him in well-fitted clothing outweighs any discomfort he might be putting off. Astarion wraps his arms around Iorveth's middle, hands clasping behind him.

Teasing: ] And your waist eminently holdable.

[ This is probably the life that suits Astarion most: gilded to the teeth, weaponizing himself like a finely-sharpened blade. Beautiful, and liable to make someone bleed if they came too close. Iorveth tips his head, wondering briefly if Astarion wouldn't prefer being a tailor in Baldur's Gate to more adventuring in the wilderness.

Well. He'll see how the party goes. Iorveth is planning on purchasing or stealing some pretty bauble from the less-than-reputable members that will show up to the auction-fête; perhaps that'll keep Astarion pleased enough to be around a weird wood elf for another tenday or two. ]

Don't test me, vampire. [ A low hum, too warm to be breezy. ] The proprietress would have my head if I tore your pretty clothes under her roof.

[ Putting his own hands on Astarion, both palms bracketing his toned waist. He's so attractive, and what for!!!! Iorveth is angry about it every single day, which one would assume would be a negative thing, but by Iorveth's deranged standards is extremely positive.

Another formless sound, and Iorveth rests his forehead against Astarion's. His palms slide down, tracing shapely thighs. ]

Mm. Your pants don't have pockets. [ A problem, if he's planning on having sticky fingers tonight. ]

[ Chiding: ] Pockets would ruin the silhouette.

[ His tone says you should know this. What in the hells is Iorveth learning during their time together if not for the tenets of fashion? He sighs, shaking his head and tsking in disapproval. ]

When will you learn that practicality has no place in fashion?

[ First his ridiculous argument against the cape, and now this! The implication of what having no pockets means for him isn't lost on him, though, and after a moment more of his disapproving stare, he shrugs, hands sliding very presumptuously into the pockets of Iorveth's trousers. ]

Besides, I'll have my fingers in your pockets so often that I'll hardly need my own.

[ Another spike of pure indignation, warmed by inconvenient infatuation. Iorveth absolutely refuses to get hard under Dolores' roof, so it's only iron willpower that keeps him from pushing Astarion against the nearest wall and shoving that cool hand down his new leather trousers. Maybe the desire to do so flits across his expression, single green eye made noticeably sharper by a moment of daggerpoint desire.

Infuriating. Iorveth scours his touch over Astarion's hips, slotting their bodies a little closer. ]

You expect me to be your pageboy, do you.

[ A dry laugh; Ciaran would boggle if he ever found out that Iorveth was playing at being anyone's elven servant. Which reminds Iorveth: ]

―Will you be using an alias? [ Leaning back just a little, looking over his shoulder to make sure Dolores doesn't come back while they're talking shop. ] Or is it too likely that someone would know you by name?

[ If Iorveth intended to throw a bucket of cold water on Astarion, that's exactly what he's done. A shadow darts across his face, there and then gone in an instant. ]

No one who'd know me by name ever got away.

[ Images of those gaunt, ghastly spawn in Cazador's dungeon flood his mind. Their skin sallow and sickly, their eyes and cheeks sunken, ravenous hunger only in the eyes of the ones that weren't too starved to feel anymore. Thinking of the misfortunate creatures scurrying around like vermin in the dark underground of Baldur's Gate makes him feel a little disgusted with himself, but he swallows down the bile in his throat and smiles. ]

What name shall I take?

[ The flicker isn't missed, but Iorveth doesn't call attention to it; he catalogues the misstep for his own reference, makes sure to remember that Astarion still prefers not to contend with the things he had to do in the grand void of post-Cazador, pre-tadpole.

Without moving away, Iorveth considers his reply to the reciprocated question. ]

"Astarion", then.

[ If no one is going to try to kill Astarion mid-party after hearing his name, then there's no need for him to use an alias. Iorveth says as much. ] Unless you'd like to go as "Nicholas".

[ Which would make Iorveth the Edgar of the pair. Hmm. ]

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