[ 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.
[ A blanket looks ridiculous against his fancy party attire, but the fluffy pelt of whatever animal was killed to make it is warm and pleasant, so he allows it to stay, shrugging it over his shoulders. He might get himself a fur coat sometime, actually; stylish and functional.
In reply: ] Murdering your most detested person does have a way of sticking with you.
[ He'd know. The experience gets built up so much, the anticipation so great, and then when it happens it's just over, with nothing left to do but ruminate on it for the next eternity. Then again, Iorveth hardly relished in Henselt's suffering the way Astarion did with Cazador. It was quick — hells, maybe even painless. If it's a clean kill Iorveth was going for, it seems impossible that he'd be disappointed. ]
It's not Henselt I'll be remembering. Gods know that I don't want his face to be the last one I recall at death's door.
[ Another snort, and he pinches Astarion's nose. ]
I'll remember sharing a bed with you for the first meaningful time, you fool. So yes, a happy thought to take with me to oblivion.
[ The murder meant everything in a practical sense, but the murder didn't magically liberate his people; that's a future that still remains to be seen. Trancing with Astarion, however, was a turning point, and he'll remember that more fondly than slitting a man's throat. One is novel, the other is routine.
Releasing Astarion's poor abused nose (it's been bonked enough tonight), Iorveth lets himself smile briefly before flicking his attention towards the door, and by extension, the space outside it. No signs of anyone approaching yet, but they might be cutting it close. ]
[ It's genuine surprise, like it never occurred to him that that night was special to Iorveth for any reason other than seeing the man he hates dead on the floor. As he watches Iorveth's small smile, he feels his shriveled, blackened heart grow three sizes. It's awful how warm and fuzzy Iorveth makes him feel, like he's being wrapped up in a comforting embrace. ]
—You ridiculous romantic, [ he laughs, halfway between teasing and embarrassed at how much Iorveth's solemn declarations work for him. ] You do know how to make an elf swoon.
[ In spite of Iorveth's cautious glances toward the door, Astarion envelops them both in the furry blanket and presses their mouths together. Who cares about getting caught stealing from the rich? He wants to kiss Iorveth's stupid, wonderful face, and he wants to do it now. ]
[ Is it romantic if it's just true? He'd thought romance to be more about theater and less about being blunt, but whatever floats Astarion's ridiculous boat; he gets caught in the blanket and the contact too quickly to debate the matter any further.
Ugh. He adores Astarion far too much. Enough that he shoves a few items out of their way and awkwardly fumbles them towards an antique divan (a Cormyte royal family original), taking care not to trip over his cape (stupid, unnecessary thing) as he tries to sit Astarion down to kiss him in a more comfortable position.
High indulgence. Surrounded by items that most people would require a lifetime of work to pay for, wrapped in a fur blanket of a rare (and very dead) animal, nipping at Astarion's lower lip and sharing half-unnecessary breaths.
(Above them, a hired half-orc worker grumbles about having to go down to the basement to gather more auction items soon. "Just because I'm a half-orc," she grouses to a fellow employee, "they always think I like doing heavy lifting.")
Iorveth pulls Astarion closer, and laughs against his mouth. ] I didn't think anything could distract you from your trinkets.
[ More soft kisses. If they get caught making out in a storage room, well, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. ]
[ With a playful grin: ] Oh, but I have the loveliest trinket right here.
[ Iorveth can't seem to see himself as anything less than hideous, much less lovely, but Astarion's happy to keep beating it into his thick skull. All dressed up in his finery, with his eyepatch and cape and very tight pants, he's absolutely swoon-worthy. More desirable than all of the people upstairs combined, Astarion thinks.
He winds his ankle around Iorveth's, pressing him closer, basking in all of the attention that he so rightfully deserves. Dressed in these soft, silky clothes, warmed by the expensive pelt around his shoulders, and enjoying the feel of Iorveth's breath, it's the closest he's ever going to get to Elysium. That is, until he hears, "Oh, gods! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—"
As he cranes his head, he sees a half-orc woman instinctively backstepping out of the room she so rudely entered without knocking. Halfway through, though, she stops, a look of realization crossing her face. "Hey, wait a minute..." ]
[ So good of her to piece together the conked-out dwarves and the picked padlock and come to the only logical conclusion: these two elves should not be making out in the room full of incredibly precious belongings. Iorveth frowns mid-kiss, his hand still cupped around Astarion's cheek, and makes a snap judgment－
－which is to pretend that he doesn't speak Common. He's used this tactic before in the past, and it usually helps buy him some time while the other party struggles through futile attempts to communicate. (He always wonders why they bother, but it's funny regardless.)
Sternly, he rattles off a few statements in his native language. Not even bothering to say anything relevant, really. "Nothing ever goes the way we want them to", essentially. The half-orc squints, having cautiously made her way towards the duo, her hands lifted as if she's approaching two wild animals in the middle of a forest.
"Uhh." Not a single employee in this mansion is being paid enough to deal with Iorveth. Iorveth is aware of this, as he watches the half-orc gesture back and forth between herself and him. "Speak... Common? Gods, you're not supposed to be down here."
Iorveth feigns ignorance, and imperiously delivers another statement in Aen Seidhe before planting another kiss to Astarion's jaw. The half-orc throws up her hands.
"Ohhhh Gods! Take the side job, they said! Being a flautist doesn't make coin, they said!" ]
[ Astarion's eyes flick from the half-orc to Iorveth, brow furrowed in confusion for a moment before recognition flits across his face. Ah. Going for the 'blameless foreigner' angle. The only issue with that, of course, is that Astarion is no foreigner. He can't speak Aen Seidhe worth a damn; even with its similarities to Elvish, he can only somewhat make out the words that sound familiar.
So, he goes with the only phrase he knows. "I like you", or something similar to it — Iorveth has never bothered to correct his garbled pronunciation, so it's hardly authentic. But it's foreign-sounding enough that the half-orc, who speaks even less of the Aen Seidhe dialect than he does, seems to believe that he's just another elf who can't speak Common.
"YOU," she says loudly (as if that'll somehow cross the language barrier), gesticulating wildly with each word, "UPSTAIRS." A point upwards. "NOT DOWNSTAIRS." ]
[ Iorveth is counting on the half-orc's reticence to spark a potential international incident because she antagonized a foreigner, and he should really focus on that instead of being enamored by Astarion's horrible pronunciation. "I like you," he corrects after a touch of a smile, and finally gets up off of the divan to approach the half-orc with entirely unwarranted confidence.
He looks her up and down; he earns the same level of scrutiny from her. "What?", is a valid question she tosses his way, keeping her hands raised as if she really doesn't want to start anything that might get her in trouble. "Listen, I know you don't understand, but I'm gonna be in so much trouble if anyone found out you were down here."
As soon as she stops talking, Iorveth presses an index finger to her mouth to hush her; she seems surprised by the gesture, breathing an oh as Iorveth draws close, as if she's being approached by a wild animal.
Meanwhile, he pushes against Astarion's tapole with his own, trying to convey "I'll distract her" through the psychic connection. His second attempt of the night, one that will hopefully be a bit more successful. ]
[ Astarion raises an eyebrow, watching as Iorveth stalks toward the half-orc interloper with some sort of intent. What kind, exactly, he can't say. Iorveth might just as easily kill her as kiss her, he thinks. Hopefully he fears Astarion's wrath enough not to do the latter. Getting physical with someone else is one thing—a thing he's growing less and less ambivalent about the more he realizes that physicality can, in fact, mean something—but getting physical with a half-orc? At least make it another elf!
He follows Iorveth's lead and stands, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, ugly mustard bag mostly concealed at his side. As he steps carefully to the side, he reaches inside and wraps a hand around the decorative golden shortsword he'd pilfered. As his eyes flicker back to Iorveth's, he lets the tadpole transmit the mental image of him stabbing the half-orc in the back while she's distracted with Iorveth. A can I kill her, pretty please. ]
[ He has to stifle a snort when he's hit with the mental image (literally) of a knife-happy Astarion. It's wholly unnecessary, he thinks, and he tries to convey it with a subtle wave of one hand behind the half-orc's back, a "don't bother, just go"―
―but is interrupted when the half-orc in question tries to look over her shoulder. "Hey, is the other one leaving?"
Uh-oh. More distraction necessary. Iorveth would sooner chew on dirt than kiss anyone who isn't Astarion, but he feigns the barest outline of intent by tipping the woman's chin back towards himself and craning forward, just enough so that their noses almost touch. Aristocratic and straight-backed, as if he's used to getting his way. (A little bit of Nicholas, a little bit of Edgar.)
"I've never hated anything more," he murmurs in Aen Seidhe. Apparently, it sounds sufficiently sultry to the half-orc, who interprets it as a come-on. "You elves are insatiable," she laughs, and reaches around Iorveth to unceremoniously squeeze his ass with one broad palm.
Ah. The "don't bother" regarding Astarion and his desire to stab graduates to "maybe you could stab her a little". Iorveth's kneejerk reaction is to beam his own mental image of stabbing the half-orc directly to Astarion's tadpole. ]
[ Ugh. He's spent so much time telling Iorveth that he doesn't care about any 'extracurricular' dalliances he might care to have, but the sight of Iorveth so near to another person makes his blood boil. Astarion isn't jealous, exactly, because there's no way in any of the hells that this half-orc holds a candle to him, but it's a different feeling that flares up inside him. Possessiveness, maybe. That's his leather-clad ass to grab.
Before he even fully registers what he's doing, he's pulling the shortsword from its hidden place in the makeshift bag. In one swift movement, he rears back and plunges it into her torso. A bit of an overreaction, perhaps, but she really shouldn't have touched his elf.
She opens her mouth in shock, but all she can do is sputter as she reaches out to steady herself, first on Iorveth's shoulders and then on the shelves of expensive items. Priceless artifacts go down with her as she collapses to the ground, the (mostly) innocent victim of Astarion's sour attitude.
With a scowl: ] You're no good at distracting. I'll do it from now on.
[ Ugh, the sequel. Iorveth steps back and away from the quickly-dying half-orc, careful not to get blood on any part of his new clothes or boots. ]
I did well enough, [ is his sullen retort, as he swats at his own shoulders and wipes his hands on nearby drapery. Getting rid of the lingering sensation of unwanted touch, shuddering phantom hands off of himself before approaching Astarion (rather rudely stepping over the body on the floor to do so; psycho behavior). ]
We need to go, [ he warns, wiping blood off of the back of Astarion's hand before attempting to wind his fingers around it. ] I'll listen to your criticisms once we leave this place behind.
[ Astarion is entitled to be as irate as he wants, but preferably not in a jail cell. That wouldn't do either of them any good. ]
[ Astarion gives the bloodied corpse of their poor interloper a kick with the toe of his boot, sullen and pouting. He didn't like watching that one bit. The image of someone's grimy hands all over Iorveth brings to mind all the times he had someone's grimy hands all over him, and it makes him full-body shudder in disgust.
He lets Iorveth tangle their fingers together, frown deepening into something petulant and disappointed. On one hand, getting out of here does sound like a good idea. On the other— ]
You haven't even gotten embarrassingly drunk yet.
[ What was all of this for if not to see Iorveth in pretty clothes, swaying back and forth like a sailor on the high seas? ]
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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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In reply: ] Murdering your most detested person does have a way of sticking with you.
[ He'd know. The experience gets built up so much, the anticipation so great, and then when it happens it's just over, with nothing left to do but ruminate on it for the next eternity. Then again, Iorveth hardly relished in Henselt's suffering the way Astarion did with Cazador. It was quick — hells, maybe even painless. If it's a clean kill Iorveth was going for, it seems impossible that he'd be disappointed. ]
—Happy thoughts, though, I hope.
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[ Another snort, and he pinches Astarion's nose. ]
I'll remember sharing a bed with you for the first meaningful time, you fool. So yes, a happy thought to take with me to oblivion.
[ The murder meant everything in a practical sense, but the murder didn't magically liberate his people; that's a future that still remains to be seen. Trancing with Astarion, however, was a turning point, and he'll remember that more fondly than slitting a man's throat. One is novel, the other is routine.
Releasing Astarion's poor abused nose (it's been bonked enough tonight), Iorveth lets himself smile briefly before flicking his attention towards the door, and by extension, the space outside it. No signs of anyone approaching yet, but they might be cutting it close. ]
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[ It's genuine surprise, like it never occurred to him that that night was special to Iorveth for any reason other than seeing the man he hates dead on the floor. As he watches Iorveth's small smile, he feels his shriveled, blackened heart grow three sizes. It's awful how warm and fuzzy Iorveth makes him feel, like he's being wrapped up in a comforting embrace. ]
—You ridiculous romantic, [ he laughs, halfway between teasing and embarrassed at how much Iorveth's solemn declarations work for him. ] You do know how to make an elf swoon.
[ In spite of Iorveth's cautious glances toward the door, Astarion envelops them both in the furry blanket and presses their mouths together. Who cares about getting caught stealing from the rich? He wants to kiss Iorveth's stupid, wonderful face, and he wants to do it now. ]
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Ugh. He adores Astarion far too much. Enough that he shoves a few items out of their way and awkwardly fumbles them towards an antique divan (a Cormyte royal family original), taking care not to trip over his cape (stupid, unnecessary thing) as he tries to sit Astarion down to kiss him in a more comfortable position.
High indulgence. Surrounded by items that most people would require a lifetime of work to pay for, wrapped in a fur blanket of a rare (and very dead) animal, nipping at Astarion's lower lip and sharing half-unnecessary breaths.
(Above them, a hired half-orc worker grumbles about having to go down to the basement to gather more auction items soon. "Just because I'm a half-orc," she grouses to a fellow employee, "they always think I like doing heavy lifting.")
Iorveth pulls Astarion closer, and laughs against his mouth. ] I didn't think anything could distract you from your trinkets.
[ More soft kisses. If they get caught making out in a storage room, well, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. ]
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[ Iorveth can't seem to see himself as anything less than hideous, much less lovely, but Astarion's happy to keep beating it into his thick skull. All dressed up in his finery, with his eyepatch and cape and very tight pants, he's absolutely swoon-worthy. More desirable than all of the people upstairs combined, Astarion thinks.
He winds his ankle around Iorveth's, pressing him closer, basking in all of the attention that he so rightfully deserves. Dressed in these soft, silky clothes, warmed by the expensive pelt around his shoulders, and enjoying the feel of Iorveth's breath, it's the closest he's ever going to get to Elysium. That is, until he hears, "Oh, gods! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt—"
As he cranes his head, he sees a half-orc woman instinctively backstepping out of the room she so rudely entered without knocking. Halfway through, though, she stops, a look of realization crossing her face. "Hey, wait a minute..." ]
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－which is to pretend that he doesn't speak Common. He's used this tactic before in the past, and it usually helps buy him some time while the other party struggles through futile attempts to communicate. (He always wonders why they bother, but it's funny regardless.)
Sternly, he rattles off a few statements in his native language. Not even bothering to say anything relevant, really. "Nothing ever goes the way we want them to", essentially. The half-orc squints, having cautiously made her way towards the duo, her hands lifted as if she's approaching two wild animals in the middle of a forest.
"Uhh." Not a single employee in this mansion is being paid enough to deal with Iorveth. Iorveth is aware of this, as he watches the half-orc gesture back and forth between herself and him. "Speak... Common? Gods, you're not supposed to be down here."
Iorveth feigns ignorance, and imperiously delivers another statement in Aen Seidhe before planting another kiss to Astarion's jaw. The half-orc throws up her hands.
"Ohhhh Gods! Take the side job, they said! Being a flautist doesn't make coin, they said!" ]
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So, he goes with the only phrase he knows. "I like you", or something similar to it — Iorveth has never bothered to correct his garbled pronunciation, so it's hardly authentic. But it's foreign-sounding enough that the half-orc, who speaks even less of the Aen Seidhe dialect than he does, seems to believe that he's just another elf who can't speak Common.
"YOU," she says loudly (as if that'll somehow cross the language barrier), gesticulating wildly with each word, "UPSTAIRS." A point upwards. "NOT DOWNSTAIRS." ]
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He looks her up and down; he earns the same level of scrutiny from her. "What?", is a valid question she tosses his way, keeping her hands raised as if she really doesn't want to start anything that might get her in trouble. "Listen, I know you don't understand, but I'm gonna be in so much trouble if anyone found out you were down here."
As soon as she stops talking, Iorveth presses an index finger to her mouth to hush her; she seems surprised by the gesture, breathing an oh as Iorveth draws close, as if she's being approached by a wild animal.
Meanwhile, he pushes against Astarion's tapole with his own, trying to convey "I'll distract her" through the psychic connection. His second attempt of the night, one that will hopefully be a bit more successful. ]
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He follows Iorveth's lead and stands, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, ugly mustard bag mostly concealed at his side. As he steps carefully to the side, he reaches inside and wraps a hand around the decorative golden shortsword he'd pilfered. As his eyes flicker back to Iorveth's, he lets the tadpole transmit the mental image of him stabbing the half-orc in the back while she's distracted with Iorveth. A can I kill her, pretty please. ]
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―but is interrupted when the half-orc in question tries to look over her shoulder. "Hey, is the other one leaving?"
Uh-oh. More distraction necessary. Iorveth would sooner chew on dirt than kiss anyone who isn't Astarion, but he feigns the barest outline of intent by tipping the woman's chin back towards himself and craning forward, just enough so that their noses almost touch. Aristocratic and straight-backed, as if he's used to getting his way. (A little bit of Nicholas, a little bit of Edgar.)
"I've never hated anything more," he murmurs in Aen Seidhe. Apparently, it sounds sufficiently sultry to the half-orc, who interprets it as a come-on. "You elves are insatiable," she laughs, and reaches around Iorveth to unceremoniously squeeze his ass with one broad palm.
Ah. The "don't bother" regarding Astarion and his desire to stab graduates to "maybe you could stab her a little". Iorveth's kneejerk reaction is to beam his own mental image of stabbing the half-orc directly to Astarion's tadpole. ]
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Before he even fully registers what he's doing, he's pulling the shortsword from its hidden place in the makeshift bag. In one swift movement, he rears back and plunges it into her torso. A bit of an overreaction, perhaps, but she really shouldn't have touched his elf.
She opens her mouth in shock, but all she can do is sputter as she reaches out to steady herself, first on Iorveth's shoulders and then on the shelves of expensive items. Priceless artifacts go down with her as she collapses to the ground, the (mostly) innocent victim of Astarion's sour attitude.
With a scowl: ] You're no good at distracting. I'll do it from now on.
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I did well enough, [ is his sullen retort, as he swats at his own shoulders and wipes his hands on nearby drapery. Getting rid of the lingering sensation of unwanted touch, shuddering phantom hands off of himself before approaching Astarion (rather rudely stepping over the body on the floor to do so; psycho behavior). ]
We need to go, [ he warns, wiping blood off of the back of Astarion's hand before attempting to wind his fingers around it. ] I'll listen to your criticisms once we leave this place behind.
[ Astarion is entitled to be as irate as he wants, but preferably not in a jail cell. That wouldn't do either of them any good. ]
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He lets Iorveth tangle their fingers together, frown deepening into something petulant and disappointed. On one hand, getting out of here does sound like a good idea. On the other— ]
You haven't even gotten embarrassingly drunk yet.
[ What was all of this for if not to see Iorveth in pretty clothes, swaying back and forth like a sailor on the high seas? ]
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