[ 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.
[ The space smells like leather and untouched props, alcohol mixed with a woman's perfume. Not the most pleasant scent for a brothel room, but that's probably the point.
Without touching anything that seems too suspect (he's not going anywhere near the rumpled-looking bed), Iorveth laughs and backs himself against the nearest bookshelf, as per Astarion's suggestion. ]
Yes, yes. You're very fearsome.
[ Hard to playact the role of a terrified elf being cornered by a vampire when he's the one that made the drunken suggestion in the first place. Still, whatever entices Astarion to sink his teeth in him, he supposes.
Turning his head, Iorveth bares his neck. Blearily, he can make out "One Night in Nashkel" sitting primly near his ear. ]
[ If Astarion had any misgivings about this idea—and he did, a little, given the nonzero chance of being interrupted by someone who might want to protect his innocent victim by stabbing him in the heart—the sight of Iorveth's bared throat wipes them all away. Entirely trusting, without fear or hesitation. Astarion swallows reflexively, pure animal instinct spurring his steps forward. ]
Keep up with that impertinence, darling. I could still decide to lock you in that chair.
[ Only teasing. It wouldn't be any fun to lock him up if he didn't want to be.
He wedges Iorveth between his own body and the bookcase, a weighty pressure to keep him upright even if Iorveth's legs do turn to jelly as Astarion had warned. One hand rests at Iorveth's shoulder, lightly grasping the soft fabric of his new shirt, and the other presses flat against his abdomen, handsy for the sake of it, because he's free and he's entitled to do what pleases him. His fangs pierce Iorveth's skin easily, and he sighs at the easy give, the sudden coppery tang in his mouth.
It doesn't taste like wine, exactly. Slightly different than usual, but not better or worse. It makes his head feel light and swimmy just the same as it always does, although there's a new thrill from the fact that only a wall separates them from the others in the brothel. A door opens and shuts in the hallway, and Astarion's every movement stops, although he can't bring himself to pull away. He hears the muffled sound of giggling and feet padding down the hallway — then nothing at all. Only a customer leaving their room.
It would be wise to stop now before they end up with a true close call, but no one has ever accused Astarion of being wise. He only resumes his gentle lapping, tongue pressing flat against the two small puncture marks he's made. ]
[ The world melts. It's pure hedonistic luxury, being drunk with his back to a bookshelf, cool lips and sharp teeth against his flushed skin. All of his usual paranoia and tightly-held control seem miles away; Iorveth's awareness of his surroundings dial down to the dull ache of two puncture wounds and the perversely soothing feeling of trusting someone else with his pain.
His knees don't exactly shake, but they do protest supporting the rest of him. Iorveth's shoulders slant, weight pressed heavily against the uncomfortable slats of wood digging into his back, his hip. He has one hand at Astarion's waist, its grip perfunctory, more form than function. ]
This will always feel good, [ he rasps, chin tipped and pupil slightly blown. The trust is what does it for him― the danger, and the paradoxical assurance that he's perfectly safe regardless. The last time he'd ever felt like this was probably when he was laid bare, letting someone ink his skin from jaw to thigh, but even that pales in comparison to Astarion's breath against his neck.
Catching the tip of a pale ear with his own teeth, he speaks around a mouthful of delicate cartilage: ] Astarion. [ Just his name first, slow and warm. Below them, he can hear music playing in the lobby-lounge. ] Are you drunk yet?
[ More footsteps out in the hallway. The sounds seem louder this time around, the muffled chatter too dangerously close; Iorveth feels something electric slide up his spine, but he taps the small of Astarion's back anyway, a signal that they should probably stop before Iorveth becomes too useless. ]
[ Astarion is greedy and endlessly hungry, every taste just making the monster inside ravenous for more. He doesn't want to stop—he never does—but Iorveth might never forgive him if he tries to push his luck, so he musters up every bit of self-control collecting cobwebs in his mind and wills his body to obey him. He tears himself away with a start, swallowing thickly around a mouthful of blood.
Back at the Spearhead, he'd said it was difficult to control himself around Iorveth. It's certainly challenging now, pressed close to keep him upright, the scent of his blood in the air. Astarion's own knees feel weak for reasons entirely unrelated to blood loss. He blinks a few times, eyes gone a little glassy and unfocused.
Is he drunk? He feels happy, which might as well be drunk. His whole body vibrates with giddiness, but he isn't certain whether to attribute that to the wine or simply partaking in Iorveth's blood. He can't quite recall what it felt like to be tipsy from drink alone, but maybe the bloodletting has always been just as potent as a stiff ale. It hardly matters in the end. He feels good, galvanized from head to toe, buzzing with excitement. He wants badly to put his mouth to Iorveth's neck again and indulge until he feels sick, but he can't; instead, he presses an enthusiastic kiss to his lips, letting his weight lean against him. ]
You're intoxicating, [ he quips playfully, and that much is true regardless of the outcome of their experiment. ]
[ Gods, that smile. Iorveth is quickly finding out that drunk dehydration combined with bloodloss is a physically incompatible combination, but it's so difficult to care when Astarion beams at him like that, when he presses their mouths together and says something altogether so absurdly sweet.
He lifts one heavy arm and tangles his fingers in soft hair, playing with the soft strands at Astarion's nape. ]
You must be drunk, to say something like that.
[ His tone is light, reciprocating the playfulness. The world is spinning on too many axes, but Iorveth manages to lean in and find Astarion's lips, kissing the last of his own blood off of smiling lips and trying, with some success, not to slide down against the bookshelf and collapse into a pleased puddle by Astarion's feet.
Still more footsteps pass, with one female voice ringing too clearly through the door: "Elminster's Library...? What kind of fun do people usually get up to in there, I wonder?" ]
We should go, [ Iorveth murmurs sluggishly. ] ...In a minute. [ Still swaying, relying entirely on the bookshelf and Astarion's torso to keep him upright. The voices conversing in front of their door are saying something about a tour, but he really couldn't care less; he nuzzles into Astarion's neck, breathing through his nose to find his balance. ]
[ The sounds in the hall seem muffled and distant even to his keen elven ears, the world as big as Iorveth's flushed face against his neck and no larger. He likes the feeling of Iorveth slumped against him, soft and trusting. A starving creature of the night pressed to him while he's too weak to defend himself, but there's not an ounce of wariness in him. ]
Hurry, before I get impatient.
[ Another tease, an echo of Iorveth's own words. Impatient though he may be, Astarion doesn't mind waiting. He's in no rush to make it to the circus, especially when he'd rather keep Iorveth backed against a bookcase all day.
In the end, there isn't time for him to truly get impatient. The knob to the library turns, and the door opens. Mamzell Amira herself walks in, accompanied by what appears to be a young couple, hands intertwined and giggling at the scandalous things they're being shown. "This room is currently unoccupied while we search for a new librarian," Mamzell explains, then stops in her tracks.
Astarion thinks to step away, but then Iorveth might really fall to the floor, and he's not sure which would look worse. He gulps, still tasting blood on his tongue.
"I thought you said it was unoccupied," says the man, frowning. Mamzell opens her mouth to reply something undoubtedly along the lines of it is, but before she can, the intruder tilts his head, gaze on Iorveth. "...Is that man all right?"
The woman's brow furrows, and she places a hand to the side of her neck, right where one would find two faintly bleeding red dots on Iorveth's own. "—Is that blood?" ]
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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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Without touching anything that seems too suspect (he's not going anywhere near the rumpled-looking bed), Iorveth laughs and backs himself against the nearest bookshelf, as per Astarion's suggestion. ]
Yes, yes. You're very fearsome.
[ Hard to playact the role of a terrified elf being cornered by a vampire when he's the one that made the drunken suggestion in the first place. Still, whatever entices Astarion to sink his teeth in him, he supposes.
Turning his head, Iorveth bares his neck. Blearily, he can make out "One Night in Nashkel" sitting primly near his ear. ]
Now hurry, before I get impatient.
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Keep up with that impertinence, darling. I could still decide to lock you in that chair.
[ Only teasing. It wouldn't be any fun to lock him up if he didn't want to be.
He wedges Iorveth between his own body and the bookcase, a weighty pressure to keep him upright even if Iorveth's legs do turn to jelly as Astarion had warned. One hand rests at Iorveth's shoulder, lightly grasping the soft fabric of his new shirt, and the other presses flat against his abdomen, handsy for the sake of it, because he's free and he's entitled to do what pleases him. His fangs pierce Iorveth's skin easily, and he sighs at the easy give, the sudden coppery tang in his mouth.
It doesn't taste like wine, exactly. Slightly different than usual, but not better or worse. It makes his head feel light and swimmy just the same as it always does, although there's a new thrill from the fact that only a wall separates them from the others in the brothel. A door opens and shuts in the hallway, and Astarion's every movement stops, although he can't bring himself to pull away. He hears the muffled sound of giggling and feet padding down the hallway — then nothing at all. Only a customer leaving their room.
It would be wise to stop now before they end up with a true close call, but no one has ever accused Astarion of being wise. He only resumes his gentle lapping, tongue pressing flat against the two small puncture marks he's made. ]
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His knees don't exactly shake, but they do protest supporting the rest of him. Iorveth's shoulders slant, weight pressed heavily against the uncomfortable slats of wood digging into his back, his hip. He has one hand at Astarion's waist, its grip perfunctory, more form than function. ]
This will always feel good, [ he rasps, chin tipped and pupil slightly blown. The trust is what does it for him― the danger, and the paradoxical assurance that he's perfectly safe regardless. The last time he'd ever felt like this was probably when he was laid bare, letting someone ink his skin from jaw to thigh, but even that pales in comparison to Astarion's breath against his neck.
Catching the tip of a pale ear with his own teeth, he speaks around a mouthful of delicate cartilage: ] Astarion. [ Just his name first, slow and warm. Below them, he can hear music playing in the lobby-lounge. ] Are you drunk yet?
[ More footsteps out in the hallway. The sounds seem louder this time around, the muffled chatter too dangerously close; Iorveth feels something electric slide up his spine, but he taps the small of Astarion's back anyway, a signal that they should probably stop before Iorveth becomes too useless. ]
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Back at the Spearhead, he'd said it was difficult to control himself around Iorveth. It's certainly challenging now, pressed close to keep him upright, the scent of his blood in the air. Astarion's own knees feel weak for reasons entirely unrelated to blood loss. He blinks a few times, eyes gone a little glassy and unfocused.
Is he drunk? He feels happy, which might as well be drunk. His whole body vibrates with giddiness, but he isn't certain whether to attribute that to the wine or simply partaking in Iorveth's blood. He can't quite recall what it felt like to be tipsy from drink alone, but maybe the bloodletting has always been just as potent as a stiff ale. It hardly matters in the end. He feels good, galvanized from head to toe, buzzing with excitement. He wants badly to put his mouth to Iorveth's neck again and indulge until he feels sick, but he can't; instead, he presses an enthusiastic kiss to his lips, letting his weight lean against him. ]
You're intoxicating, [ he quips playfully, and that much is true regardless of the outcome of their experiment. ]
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He lifts one heavy arm and tangles his fingers in soft hair, playing with the soft strands at Astarion's nape. ]
You must be drunk, to say something like that.
[ His tone is light, reciprocating the playfulness. The world is spinning on too many axes, but Iorveth manages to lean in and find Astarion's lips, kissing the last of his own blood off of smiling lips and trying, with some success, not to slide down against the bookshelf and collapse into a pleased puddle by Astarion's feet.
Still more footsteps pass, with one female voice ringing too clearly through the door: "Elminster's Library...? What kind of fun do people usually get up to in there, I wonder?" ]
We should go, [ Iorveth murmurs sluggishly. ] ...In a minute. [ Still swaying, relying entirely on the bookshelf and Astarion's torso to keep him upright. The voices conversing in front of their door are saying something about a tour, but he really couldn't care less; he nuzzles into Astarion's neck, breathing through his nose to find his balance. ]
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Hurry, before I get impatient.
[ Another tease, an echo of Iorveth's own words. Impatient though he may be, Astarion doesn't mind waiting. He's in no rush to make it to the circus, especially when he'd rather keep Iorveth backed against a bookcase all day.
In the end, there isn't time for him to truly get impatient. The knob to the library turns, and the door opens. Mamzell Amira herself walks in, accompanied by what appears to be a young couple, hands intertwined and giggling at the scandalous things they're being shown. "This room is currently unoccupied while we search for a new librarian," Mamzell explains, then stops in her tracks.
Astarion thinks to step away, but then Iorveth might really fall to the floor, and he's not sure which would look worse. He gulps, still tasting blood on his tongue.
"I thought you said it was unoccupied," says the man, frowning. Mamzell opens her mouth to reply something undoubtedly along the lines of it is, but before she can, the intruder tilts his head, gaze on Iorveth. "...Is that man all right?"
The woman's brow furrows, and she places a hand to the side of her neck, right where one would find two faintly bleeding red dots on Iorveth's own. "—Is that blood?" ]
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