I'm aware. I've taken your underthings off before.
[ He'd found the little note on one particular piece about bedding or beheading quite funny, actually. Astarion really does fancy himself clever, and occasionally, he really is.
A half-chuckle, and Iorveth tries the next door over. This one is unlocked, and makes way to a vault room full of knickknacks shoved in open crates and scattered on desk-tops. One pile of items is labeled with a handwritten note that says "will anyone buy these???"
Huh. Iorveth picks up a perfectly ordinary-looking pan that comes with a separate note of its own, vouching that holding this particular pan over a fire will cause a perfect omelette to manifest in two minutes. Slightly novel. Next to it is a feather quill labeled "letters written by this quill will feel more persuasive than if it were written by a normal quill." ]
The circus all over again. [ Though there are a few pretty little trinkets here and there, brooches and rings that doubtless have useless addendums of their own. ]
[ The delight on Astarion's face as they walk into a room full to the brim of stealable items quickly fades when he realizes these items were probably left unguarded for a reason. No one's going to want to steal these, much less purchase them. It's difficult to imagine a bidding war over the Pan of Omelette Manifestation.
A little digging does, however, lead him to the new dagger he'd been requesting. He picks it up and reads off of the small notecard hanging from it: ]
'Whosoever is stabbed by this blade will be polymorphed into a sheep.'
[ Useless! With an exasperated sigh, he tosses it back in its crate. ]
This is all junk. Find me something I can pick that lock with.
[ Maybe, he reasons, they kept the good stuff under lock and key. ]
Turning one's enemy into a sheep my prove useful, [ Iorveth huffs, as he digs through more strange items. A tiara that makes one see dreams about flying, a bottle with enchanted nail varnish that will keep things from getting under one's nails. He tucks the latter into his pocket.
More digging. He fishes out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles (literally rose-tinted, promising to make the world feel more nostalgic while wearing it), and a lock pick that "doesn't make it easier to pick a lock, but makes others believe that you can".
So stupid. Iorveth gravitates over to Astarion, and tries putting the glasses on him first. ]
Look this way.
[ Just so he can see what Astarion looks like with them on. ]
[ Glasses aren't exactly part of his outfit, much less ones as goofy as these, but he adores Iorveth—who let Astarion dress him however he pleased—so he allows the spectacles to slide onto his face. He blinks a few times, the world gone a pleasing pink shade. One can hardly even tell that his eyes are red when he has the tinted glasses on.
There's very little to feel nostalgic about in this world, but there's Iorveth, who is really the only thing in here worth looking at anyway. It's difficult to say if the glasses work, though, because cartoon lovebirds nearly always twitter around his head when he's looking at Iorveth. Who can say if this round of adoration is due to the glasses or his own fondness?
Ah, well— it's worth expressing regardless. ]
You look even more handsome in pink.
[ With a tap to the side of the spectacles. Then, tilting his head so that Iorveth can see his best angle: ]
Well, do I look like a gorgeous and eccentric genius? [ 'Do these glasses make me look smart', essentially. ]
[ He'd expected Astarion to look more ridiculous than he does; how annoying, and yet, how predictable. Iorveth takes a step back, barely registering the compliment passed his way, too busy trying not to draw his own cartoon hearts around Astarion. It's so unbelievable that this is happening to him.
Rearranging Astarion's bangs, repositioning stray strands of hair that'd fallen when the guard'd bonked him in the face: ] Like someone I wouldn't trust my coin with. [ "Sketchy". An amused quirk of his lips, as he thumbs at Astarion's jaw. ]
Annoyingly beautiful, despite it. [ He flicks the bridge of Astarion's nose. ] I'll never tire of looking at you.
[ As he slips the lockpicking tool Astarion's way. Weirdly, he does become convinced that Astarion could open anything with it the moment it rests in his companion's grip. ]
[ Despite the fact that Iorveth has just called him suspicious-looking, he melts at the follow-up compliment. It's so odd; he knows he's beautiful, of course, has heard it a million times, but somehow hearing it from Iorveth's lips just sounds better. Again, despite the flick, he grins. ]
And I could look at you for eternity.
[ An overexaggeration for anyone else, but he actually has an eternity to spare. Why not spend it looking at Iorveth's lovely face?
He closes a hand around Iorveth's, tugging him back out to the padlocked door. ]
If there's nothing of worth through here, we may have to just burn the whole place down.
[ Finally, a grin. Fangy, crooked, imperfect. Iorveth tucks Astarion's reaction into his mental pocket, alongside the actual, physical tea cozy that he tries to cram in his too-tight leather pants. A gift for Dolores ("any object kept inside this cozy will retain its temperature indefinitely"), who really should have thought to make his trousers less form-fitting.
Tugged outside of the junk room and back in front of the (hopefully) treasure room, he barks a soft laugh at Astarion's casual mention of arson. ]
An appealing notion. [ Because Iorveth is not a nice person, and it seems like everyone in this mansion kind of deserve what's coming to them. Still: ] Or we could return to the party, pilfer a bottle or two of red, and leave.
[ He steps back, giving Astarion more space to do the lockpicking. ]
[ The smile lingers on his face even as he crouches down to work the lock, coaxing it with deft movements of the pick. His grin fades, though, at the mention of dancing, his expression taking a more embarrassed form before he schools it back into something casual. ]
Ah, I don't know if I know how to dance.
[ A pause, and then he corrects: ] I'm sure I knew, once. [ His life pre-Cazador is a bit blurry, but he's certain he was the type of person who got invited to balls and galas. He wouldn't have hesitated to make himself the center of attention on the dance floor. ] I'm just not sure if I... remember.
[ But he can already hear Iorveth's response: you think I know how to dance? As the lock clicks open, he adds, ] Well. I'm sure it's nothing a hefty amount of wine can't fix.
[ Astarion used to know, once. Iorveth turns that thought over in his mind, and feels that now all-too-familiar twinge in his chest. The same unpleasant mental itch he'd felt when Astarion said that he thought the party would be more fun for him. Not pity or sympathy― closer to anger, if he had to categorize the murky emotion.
He'll unpack that on his own time. Click goes the lock, yielding under Astarion's clever ministrations. ]
Alcohol never seems to do anything to you, [ Iorveth reminds, which means that he'll be the one sloshed and trying to sway awkwardly if they do decide to be ridiculous. By now, he's given up on trying to outdrink Astarion, which he has finally discovered to be a losing battle. ] But I'll enjoy watching you be graceless, for once.
[ An affectionate pat to Astarion's head, and Iorveth slowly pushes the now-unpadlocked door open, wary of any additional traps. Thankfully, they're not immediately engulfed in flames or frozen on the spot, and all that greets them is a room full of rare items in varying shapes and sizes: furs and weapons and clothing, gilded furniture and paintings of strangers who look like they might be nobility. ]
―I'm reminded of Gerringothe, [ Iorveth murmurs, as he avoids stepping on something that looks like an egg of some sort. An exotic creature for some bored noble to exploit, he suspects. ]
[ Yes, he opens his mouth to say, the wine is for you. You know, so Iorveth doesn't notice that he doesn't remember how to dance. The words die in his throat, though, as his greedy eyes widen to saucers in the face of all of this treasure. He immediately makes a beeline for the sparkliest thing he can find, a large gem that appears black at first but reflects prismatic color when held up to the light.
As he inspects it: ] Who?
[ A beat passes before recognition comes to him, and he says, ] Oh! That beast of a woman.
[ He didn't remember her name, because it wasn't worth remembering. Just another strange encounter on the way to Moonrise Towers.
Whirling around to face Iorveth, he holds the gem up— then frowns. ] Mm. I don't think this will fit in your pockets.
[ By his own fault, the pants are a bit... form-fitting. ]
[ A moment of near-exasperation, as Iorveth gears up to say "what do you mean, who"― it comes and goes, replaced by a look that, this time, says "yeah, that checks out" (rude), which is subsequently subsumed by a hike of one brow. "Wow, you remembered". A bit uncharitable, all of it. Iorveth loves Astarion more than anyone else in this godsforsaken world, but sometimes he worries about Astarion's awareness of...
...well, awareness of things in general. And his inability to plan ahead. Take, for example, the state of his pocket space, or the lack thereof. ]
You should have thought of that before encouraging Dolores to paint these trousers on me.
[ What did Astarion expect!!!!!!!!!!! Blithely, Iorveth walks over to a rack stocked full of expensive-looking finery, and picks out a pair of mustard-yellow harem pants that are doubtless expensive (squint close enough and there are pure gold patterns woven into the yellow fabric), but also criminally ugly. They are, however, very good for storing things in. ]
The price of short-sightedness. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
[ He's never put forethought into anything before, and he's not going to start now. Besides, he may never have a chance to force Iorveth into tight pants again, and giving up his one opportunity would be ridiculously foolish.
Astarion steps forward, inspecting the yellow pants with a look of abject disgust. Sure, they're expensive, but the cost of wearing these is far greater than any coin. It costs dignity. His lip curls at the ugliness before him before he glances up at Iorveth, eyes suddenly gone wide and pleading. ]
I hope you're suggesting that you wear them.
[ Iorveth would never suggest something so awful as putting Astarion in ugly clothes! ]
[ Iorveth wasn't going to make Astarion wear these pants, but the doe-eyed pleading works anyway. Appalling. Cute aggression whispers in the back of Iorveth's mind again, telling him to chew on some part of Astarion, but it only manifests as a hike of Iorveth's brow. Repress, don't address. ]
Neither of us will wear them. [ Obviously, he thinks it's stupid that Astarion wants to see his ass in tight pants when he can see his bare ass literally any day he pleases, but that's beside the point. Iorveth turns the pilfered pants upside down and ties off both legs at their ankles, creating a rather strange-looking impromptu bag.
Holding it out for Astarion to take: ] Now you can fill it with trinkets. [ Gesturing to the furs, the jewelry, the wall-length spider-silk robe hanging a few feet away. There's a lot to peruse, and some of the items look fairly suspect (a gold lamp sits primly on a pedestal); he's not sure if any of House Szarr's goods made it down here, but Astarion should be able to pick them out if there are any.
Meanwhile, Iorveth gravitates towards a well-catalogued set of woven leather accessories that look familiar to him. Sure enough, the note reads "authentic accessories made by the wild wood elves of the north. Donation from the house of the late Henselt". His expression twists into an angry grimace. ]
[ Iorveth's resourcefulness is so charming that he can hardly find it in himself to make fun of it, even if it is sort of ridiculous to create a makeshift bag out of an ugly pair of pants. Endeared, he says, ] Aren't you handy?
[ The 'bag' is as large as it is ugly, so he takes the opportunity to turn around and start shoving the most exciting items inside. Jewels, a glittering golden shortsword that's likely more for decoration than practical use, a pair of fine leather shoes with silver filigree. When he looks over his shoulder to glance at Iorveth, he's smiling, but not for long. The expression on Iorveth's face makes him raise an eyebrow, curious. ]
What are those knick-knacks that you're so furious at?
[ Leather bracelets, chokers, things to braid into hair. Judging by the level of craftsmanship, he assumes that they were all heirloom items― stripped from the dead, most likely. Not items that would have been exchanged for coin or food, no matter how desperate one might have been. Iorveth's grimace turns somber, then flattens completely as he tempers his anger into something more manageable for the moment. ]
A sobering reminder that humans will stop at nothing to humiliate us, even after we're dead.
[ He laughs, wry, and starts to wrap all of the items in the silk scarf that they'd been displayed on. ]
―But I'll spare you the diatribe. Have you found anything noteworthy?
[ Oh. Perhaps he shouldn't have called them 'knick-knacks'. ...Oh, well. If Iorveth were going to end this relationship over Astarion's insensitivity, he surely would have done it already. ]
Plenty of shiny things. [ Rings, necklaces, earrings. If it glitters or sparkles, he tossed it into his bright yellow pants-bag. ] Don't worry, I'll share what doesn't flatter me with you.
[ A selfless offer! ]
Ah, but— [ Always a 'but' to his generosity. ] I'd like to retain some things to sell, too.
[ Selling stolen things for money that he then spends lawfully — gods, it's like he's turning into a goody two-shoes. There's something about the experience of actually buying things, though; after so long having to steal whatever he might need, there's appeal to being a valued customer. ]
I've had my eye [ —or, well, nose— ] on a rather expensive scent at the perfumer.
[ It's a balm to that blunt ache, to watch Astarion hop from shiny object to shiny object like a silver magpie. It's a testament to how big of a space his stupid vampire occupies in Iorveth's heart, that Iorveth can set aside a potential hour-long denunciation of the human race in favor of listening to Astarion talk about material possessions.
He lets his freshly-wrapped items sit on a tabletop for the time being, and slinks behind Astarion to wrap his arms around his middle. Relishing the solid presence after that unpleasant reminder of his dwindling clan, almost like a stay here in the form of an embrace. Not that Iorveth registers it as such; he only acknowledges it as a kneejerk compulsion, and he uses the closeness as an excuse to nose against the space behind Astarion's ear. ]
Hm. [ A slow inhale. ] What is it made of, gold and night orchid?
[ Iorveth doesn't know anything about expensive scents, but he likes the way Astarion smells already; it's become a comforting routine at the end of the day, pressing his nose to Astarion's hair and breathing him in before falling into his trance. ]
[ Iorveth's nose tickles Astarion's ear, and he fights the urge to giggle in an entirely undignified way. It's strange how averse he is to the idea of being touched by most people--hells, even to the idea of them standing too near--but how very much in favor he is of being close to Iorveth. His torso is warm against Astarion's back, his arms snug and comforting around his middle. Astarion shifts the makeshift bag to one hand, using his freed one to move Iorveth's arms a little tighter around him. ]
Jasmine and honey, I think, but perhaps I should commission gold and orchids instead. I don't mind the idea.
[ He is the type of person who deserves a unique, one-of-a-kind scent... that isn't the stench of undead. ]
I'll spend some of the coin on you, of course. I rather enjoy seeing you be spoiled with sweets.
[ It's so utterly incongruous with Iorveth's stern demeanor. Watching him shovel cakes and pastries into his mouth is entertainment all its own. ]
[ He takes advantage of the tacit permission to press a little closer, arms hugging with content intent. ]
Terrifying, that your attempts to make a hedonist of me aren't complete failures.
[ Case in point: Iorveth is kissing Astarion's jaw while embracing him in the basement of a white-collar criminal while they steal said white-collar criminal's belongings. This entire night is about breaking the law to make sure that one individual is happy, and that isn't the definition of pleasure-seeking, Iorveth doesn't know what is.
A little nibble to the small sliver of neck he has access to, and Iorveth finally lets Astarion go, smoothing down the back of his jacket to remove any wrinkles. ]
...I'd enjoy the sweets, [ is a shocking testimony from a man who never talks about enjoying anything. ] Having breakfast with you that morning was...
[ The dreaded "f" word: ] ...Fun. [ The audacity of Astarion to make him have fun when Iorveth is meant primarily to be an elf-shaped weapon to kill humans with!! Unbelievable. ]
[ The sentiment is so endearing that Astarion can't help but turn around and fist his fingers into the fabric of Iorveth's shirt, tugging him close so that he can press a kiss to his mouth. Fun. Iorveth prides himself on his sharp edges, but it's his soft ones that Astarion most adores. When he speaks gently, when the crease between his eyebrows fades, when he smiles. A surge of fondness courses through him with such an intensity that it's actually disgusting, but he doesn't have it in him to feel embarrassed.
When he pulls away, it's with a grin and eyes far too full of obvious affection. ]
I won't tell anyone that the big, bad freedom fighter had fun. I'd hate to ruin your sourpuss reputation.
[ Not that anyone would believe him if he told them that Iorveth sat at a table happily eating cakes made by an old lady who later gave him embroidery lessons. ]
Your hedonism [ —if one considers allowing himself some of the most basic pleasures of life 'hedonism'— ] will be our little secret.
[ "Freedom fighter", not "terrorist". Iorveth could press his already kiss-flushed mouth to Astarion's again for those choice of words, but he'd start wanting to peel layers off if he does, and Dolores would be so upset if Iorveth accidentally tore any part of that delicately-embroidered jacket with impatient fingers. Tch.
An affectionate brush of his thumb against Astarion's jaw, and Iorveth steps back. ]
My hedonism, and your moments of shining nobility. [ Opposite sides of the same coin. Iorveth sometimes thinks that they have no reason to be compatible, and yet, here they are. ] Our secrets to keep.
[ He smiles despite himself, and turns towards a rather luxurious blanket hanging off the side of a large armchair. He picks it up and hefts it in his arms, feeling the velvet-soft texture of it. Possibly the fur of some creature he can't identify. It's warm, and seems like something Astarion might like curling up with; he folds it over his forearm to keep, anticipating raised brows from the other party members later. ]
ーI've never been particularly fond of trancing before I met you. [ Since he's looking at blankets, and talking about secrets. ] How is it that you manage to make me enjoy the most mundane things, I wonder.
[ Ugh!! Denied further affection. Astarion pouts like the spoiled brat he is when Iorveth steps away, displeased at being cut off. The sweet admission of not having enjoyed trancing softens the blow, though, and he gravitates toward Iorveth again, slinging the mustard-colored 'bag' over his shoulder and petting the soft blanket. ]
Oh, I hated it.
[ His own admission, albeit offhanded. Trancing only meant restlessness and reliving events he'd rather forget. Even in a semiconscious, meditative state, he had no peace. ]
Sharing a room with my imbecilic siblings didn't help. Ugh, Yousen snored louder than Karlach.
[ How can one gnome be so godsdamned loud? Regardless— ]
[ Sharing a room, Astarion says, and Iorveth remembers the dingy door leading into what Astarion'd dubbed the "kennel". Obviously, no one was getting a good night's rest in there. Iorveth knows what it feels like to trance with one eye (ha) open, ever-vigilant, but at least he'd had comrades to soften the indignity that came from living like rats in caves.
He makes a vague sound in the back of his throat, a half-assent, and leans against the nearest piece of probably-expensive furniture ("all items stored in this dresser will remain perpetually pressed and clean"). ]
I rest better when you're near. [ Matter-of-factly. Not embarrassed or ashamed; a simple truth.
After that, he appends with a tilt of his head: ] Did you find it strange, all those tendays ago, when I asked you to share a bed after killing Henselt?
[ Astarion glances up from the warm, furry blanket his palm is resting on, eyebrow quirked. Obviously he thought it was strange to be asked to share a bed by someone who'd continually rebuffed his advances and frequently scolded him. He'd still thought that the only reason Iorveth tolerated him at all was his elvishness, and that he was only considered an improvement on Halsin because, well, Halsin is annoying.
That doesn't mean that he didn't like it, though, strange as it was. Again, obviously, based on the way he kept crawling into Iorveth's bed like a stray cat brought in from the cold. ]
Well. [ A shrug, followed by a somewhat embarrassed snort. It feels stupid to say so now, but— ] I found it strange that you wanted to share a bed with our clothes on.
[ A soft snort of his own, less embarrassed and more amused. ]
A testament to how little you thought of me back then, to assume I'd demand sex after asking you to risk life and limb for my crusade.
[ Not that Iorveth blames Astarion, exactly. It's not like he'd been particularly forthright with his feelings about anything either, especially not the ones leaning more positive. He's only become less reticent recently, and still with some level of self-reflection.
Another sigh, and he gentles as he experimentally wraps the fuzzy blanket around Astarion's shoulders. ]
I still think about that night. It's likely I'll think about it until the day I die.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I'm aware. I've taken your underthings off before.
[ He'd found the little note on one particular piece about bedding or beheading quite funny, actually. Astarion really does fancy himself clever, and occasionally, he really is.
A half-chuckle, and Iorveth tries the next door over. This one is unlocked, and makes way to a vault room full of knickknacks shoved in open crates and scattered on desk-tops. One pile of items is labeled with a handwritten note that says "will anyone buy these???"
Huh. Iorveth picks up a perfectly ordinary-looking pan that comes with a separate note of its own, vouching that holding this particular pan over a fire will cause a perfect omelette to manifest in two minutes. Slightly novel. Next to it is a feather quill labeled "letters written by this quill will feel more persuasive than if it were written by a normal quill." ]
The circus all over again. [ Though there are a few pretty little trinkets here and there, brooches and rings that doubtless have useless addendums of their own. ]
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A little digging does, however, lead him to the new dagger he'd been requesting. He picks it up and reads off of the small notecard hanging from it: ]
'Whosoever is stabbed by this blade will be polymorphed into a sheep.'
[ Useless! With an exasperated sigh, he tosses it back in its crate. ]
This is all junk. Find me something I can pick that lock with.
[ Maybe, he reasons, they kept the good stuff under lock and key. ]
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More digging. He fishes out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles (literally rose-tinted, promising to make the world feel more nostalgic while wearing it), and a lock pick that "doesn't make it easier to pick a lock, but makes others believe that you can".
So stupid. Iorveth gravitates over to Astarion, and tries putting the glasses on him first. ]
Look this way.
[ Just so he can see what Astarion looks like with them on. ]
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There's very little to feel nostalgic about in this world, but there's Iorveth, who is really the only thing in here worth looking at anyway. It's difficult to say if the glasses work, though, because cartoon lovebirds nearly always twitter around his head when he's looking at Iorveth. Who can say if this round of adoration is due to the glasses or his own fondness?
Ah, well— it's worth expressing regardless. ]
You look even more handsome in pink.
[ With a tap to the side of the spectacles. Then, tilting his head so that Iorveth can see his best angle: ]
Well, do I look like a gorgeous and eccentric genius? [ 'Do these glasses make me look smart', essentially. ]
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Rearranging Astarion's bangs, repositioning stray strands of hair that'd fallen when the guard'd bonked him in the face: ] Like someone I wouldn't trust my coin with. [ "Sketchy". An amused quirk of his lips, as he thumbs at Astarion's jaw. ]
Annoyingly beautiful, despite it. [ He flicks the bridge of Astarion's nose. ] I'll never tire of looking at you.
[ As he slips the lockpicking tool Astarion's way. Weirdly, he does become convinced that Astarion could open anything with it the moment it rests in his companion's grip. ]
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And I could look at you for eternity.
[ An overexaggeration for anyone else, but he actually has an eternity to spare. Why not spend it looking at Iorveth's lovely face?
He closes a hand around Iorveth's, tugging him back out to the padlocked door. ]
If there's nothing of worth through here, we may have to just burn the whole place down.
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Tugged outside of the junk room and back in front of the (hopefully) treasure room, he barks a soft laugh at Astarion's casual mention of arson. ]
An appealing notion. [ Because Iorveth is not a nice person, and it seems like everyone in this mansion kind of deserve what's coming to them. Still: ] Or we could return to the party, pilfer a bottle or two of red, and leave.
[ He steps back, giving Astarion more space to do the lockpicking. ]
We can dance elsewhere.
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Ah, I don't know if I know how to dance.
[ A pause, and then he corrects: ] I'm sure I knew, once. [ His life pre-Cazador is a bit blurry, but he's certain he was the type of person who got invited to balls and galas. He wouldn't have hesitated to make himself the center of attention on the dance floor. ] I'm just not sure if I... remember.
[ But he can already hear Iorveth's response: you think I know how to dance? As the lock clicks open, he adds, ] Well. I'm sure it's nothing a hefty amount of wine can't fix.
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He'll unpack that on his own time. Click goes the lock, yielding under Astarion's clever ministrations. ]
Alcohol never seems to do anything to you, [ Iorveth reminds, which means that he'll be the one sloshed and trying to sway awkwardly if they do decide to be ridiculous. By now, he's given up on trying to outdrink Astarion, which he has finally discovered to be a losing battle. ] But I'll enjoy watching you be graceless, for once.
[ An affectionate pat to Astarion's head, and Iorveth slowly pushes the now-unpadlocked door open, wary of any additional traps. Thankfully, they're not immediately engulfed in flames or frozen on the spot, and all that greets them is a room full of rare items in varying shapes and sizes: furs and weapons and clothing, gilded furniture and paintings of strangers who look like they might be nobility. ]
―I'm reminded of Gerringothe, [ Iorveth murmurs, as he avoids stepping on something that looks like an egg of some sort. An exotic creature for some bored noble to exploit, he suspects. ]
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As he inspects it: ] Who?
[ A beat passes before recognition comes to him, and he says, ] Oh! That beast of a woman.
[ He didn't remember her name, because it wasn't worth remembering. Just another strange encounter on the way to Moonrise Towers.
Whirling around to face Iorveth, he holds the gem up— then frowns. ] Mm. I don't think this will fit in your pockets.
[ By his own fault, the pants are a bit... form-fitting. ]
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...well, awareness of things in general. And his inability to plan ahead. Take, for example, the state of his pocket space, or the lack thereof. ]
You should have thought of that before encouraging Dolores to paint these trousers on me.
[ What did Astarion expect!!!!!!!!!!! Blithely, Iorveth walks over to a rack stocked full of expensive-looking finery, and picks out a pair of mustard-yellow harem pants that are doubtless expensive (squint close enough and there are pure gold patterns woven into the yellow fabric), but also criminally ugly. They are, however, very good for storing things in. ]
The price of short-sightedness. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
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Astarion steps forward, inspecting the yellow pants with a look of abject disgust. Sure, they're expensive, but the cost of wearing these is far greater than any coin. It costs dignity. His lip curls at the ugliness before him before he glances up at Iorveth, eyes suddenly gone wide and pleading. ]
I hope you're suggesting that you wear them.
[ Iorveth would never suggest something so awful as putting Astarion in ugly clothes! ]
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Neither of us will wear them. [ Obviously, he thinks it's stupid that Astarion wants to see his ass in tight pants when he can see his bare ass literally any day he pleases, but that's beside the point. Iorveth turns the pilfered pants upside down and ties off both legs at their ankles, creating a rather strange-looking impromptu bag.
Holding it out for Astarion to take: ] Now you can fill it with trinkets. [ Gesturing to the furs, the jewelry, the wall-length spider-silk robe hanging a few feet away. There's a lot to peruse, and some of the items look fairly suspect (a gold lamp sits primly on a pedestal); he's not sure if any of House Szarr's goods made it down here, but Astarion should be able to pick them out if there are any.
Meanwhile, Iorveth gravitates towards a well-catalogued set of woven leather accessories that look familiar to him. Sure enough, the note reads "authentic accessories made by the wild wood elves of the north. Donation from the house of the late Henselt". His expression twists into an angry grimace. ]
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[ The 'bag' is as large as it is ugly, so he takes the opportunity to turn around and start shoving the most exciting items inside. Jewels, a glittering golden shortsword that's likely more for decoration than practical use, a pair of fine leather shoes with silver filigree. When he looks over his shoulder to glance at Iorveth, he's smiling, but not for long. The expression on Iorveth's face makes him raise an eyebrow, curious. ]
What are those knick-knacks that you're so furious at?
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[ Leather bracelets, chokers, things to braid into hair. Judging by the level of craftsmanship, he assumes that they were all heirloom items― stripped from the dead, most likely. Not items that would have been exchanged for coin or food, no matter how desperate one might have been. Iorveth's grimace turns somber, then flattens completely as he tempers his anger into something more manageable for the moment. ]
A sobering reminder that humans will stop at nothing to humiliate us, even after we're dead.
[ He laughs, wry, and starts to wrap all of the items in the silk scarf that they'd been displayed on. ]
―But I'll spare you the diatribe. Have you found anything noteworthy?
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Plenty of shiny things. [ Rings, necklaces, earrings. If it glitters or sparkles, he tossed it into his bright yellow pants-bag. ] Don't worry, I'll share what doesn't flatter me with you.
[ A selfless offer! ]
Ah, but— [ Always a 'but' to his generosity. ] I'd like to retain some things to sell, too.
[ Selling stolen things for money that he then spends lawfully — gods, it's like he's turning into a goody two-shoes. There's something about the experience of actually buying things, though; after so long having to steal whatever he might need, there's appeal to being a valued customer. ]
I've had my eye [ —or, well, nose— ] on a rather expensive scent at the perfumer.
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He lets his freshly-wrapped items sit on a tabletop for the time being, and slinks behind Astarion to wrap his arms around his middle. Relishing the solid presence after that unpleasant reminder of his dwindling clan, almost like a stay here in the form of an embrace. Not that Iorveth registers it as such; he only acknowledges it as a kneejerk compulsion, and he uses the closeness as an excuse to nose against the space behind Astarion's ear. ]
Hm. [ A slow inhale. ] What is it made of, gold and night orchid?
[ Iorveth doesn't know anything about expensive scents, but he likes the way Astarion smells already; it's become a comforting routine at the end of the day, pressing his nose to Astarion's hair and breathing him in before falling into his trance. ]
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Jasmine and honey, I think, but perhaps I should commission gold and orchids instead. I don't mind the idea.
[ He is the type of person who deserves a unique, one-of-a-kind scent... that isn't the stench of undead. ]
I'll spend some of the coin on you, of course. I rather enjoy seeing you be spoiled with sweets.
[ It's so utterly incongruous with Iorveth's stern demeanor. Watching him shovel cakes and pastries into his mouth is entertainment all its own. ]
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Terrifying, that your attempts to make a hedonist of me aren't complete failures.
[ Case in point: Iorveth is kissing Astarion's jaw while embracing him in the basement of a white-collar criminal while they steal said white-collar criminal's belongings. This entire night is about breaking the law to make sure that one individual is happy, and that isn't the definition of pleasure-seeking, Iorveth doesn't know what is.
A little nibble to the small sliver of neck he has access to, and Iorveth finally lets Astarion go, smoothing down the back of his jacket to remove any wrinkles. ]
...I'd enjoy the sweets, [ is a shocking testimony from a man who never talks about enjoying anything. ] Having breakfast with you that morning was...
[ The dreaded "f" word: ] ...Fun. [ The audacity of Astarion to make him have fun when Iorveth is meant primarily to be an elf-shaped weapon to kill humans with!! Unbelievable. ]
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When he pulls away, it's with a grin and eyes far too full of obvious affection. ]
I won't tell anyone that the big, bad freedom fighter had fun. I'd hate to ruin your sourpuss reputation.
[ Not that anyone would believe him if he told them that Iorveth sat at a table happily eating cakes made by an old lady who later gave him embroidery lessons. ]
Your hedonism [ —if one considers allowing himself some of the most basic pleasures of life 'hedonism'— ] will be our little secret.
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An affectionate brush of his thumb against Astarion's jaw, and Iorveth steps back. ]
My hedonism, and your moments of shining nobility. [ Opposite sides of the same coin. Iorveth sometimes thinks that they have no reason to be compatible, and yet, here they are. ] Our secrets to keep.
[ He smiles despite himself, and turns towards a rather luxurious blanket hanging off the side of a large armchair. He picks it up and hefts it in his arms, feeling the velvet-soft texture of it. Possibly the fur of some creature he can't identify. It's warm, and seems like something Astarion might like curling up with; he folds it over his forearm to keep, anticipating raised brows from the other party members later. ]
ーI've never been particularly fond of trancing before I met you. [ Since he's looking at blankets, and talking about secrets. ] How is it that you manage to make me enjoy the most mundane things, I wonder.
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Oh, I hated it.
[ His own admission, albeit offhanded. Trancing only meant restlessness and reliving events he'd rather forget. Even in a semiconscious, meditative state, he had no peace. ]
Sharing a room with my imbecilic siblings didn't help. Ugh, Yousen snored louder than Karlach.
[ How can one gnome be so godsdamned loud? Regardless— ]
But I've much better bedfellows now.
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He makes a vague sound in the back of his throat, a half-assent, and leans against the nearest piece of probably-expensive furniture ("all items stored in this dresser will remain perpetually pressed and clean"). ]
I rest better when you're near. [ Matter-of-factly. Not embarrassed or ashamed; a simple truth.
After that, he appends with a tilt of his head: ] Did you find it strange, all those tendays ago, when I asked you to share a bed after killing Henselt?
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That doesn't mean that he didn't like it, though, strange as it was. Again, obviously, based on the way he kept crawling into Iorveth's bed like a stray cat brought in from the cold. ]
Well. [ A shrug, followed by a somewhat embarrassed snort. It feels stupid to say so now, but— ] I found it strange that you wanted to share a bed with our clothes on.
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A testament to how little you thought of me back then, to assume I'd demand sex after asking you to risk life and limb for my crusade.
[ Not that Iorveth blames Astarion, exactly. It's not like he'd been particularly forthright with his feelings about anything either, especially not the ones leaning more positive. He's only become less reticent recently, and still with some level of self-reflection.
Another sigh, and he gentles as he experimentally wraps the fuzzy blanket around Astarion's shoulders. ]
I still think about that night. It's likely I'll think about it until the day I die.
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