[ 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?" ]
[ The intrusion is a whipcrack oh shit moment; it's a pity that other people existing in his general vicinity clears that cotton-soft fog of comfort that Iorveth rarely has the chance to indulge in, but that's life. He's a wild animal again, irritation like knives in his single eye, poised and primed at the three humans standing only several feet away from where he's leaned against dusty shelves.
Gods, fuck. His mind chugs slowly around the wine and bloodloss. ]
Have you prudes never heard of experimenting, [ he hisses. ] Stop gaping, you'll catch flies with those open mouths.
[ Sluggishly, he tries to loop his arms around Astarion's neck. It's so inconvenient that he can't murder his way out of this particular situation. He's reminded, once again, of being mud-caked and soggy in Umberlee's House, trying to explain their unwarranted presence. Swiveling his still-hazy focus back on Astarion and trying to will his knees to straighten more properly, Iorveth hikes his chin with obstinate pride.
Mamzell, on the other hand, only looks like she's at a complete fucking loss for a fraction of a second. Credit where it's due: she's obviously dealt with worse than two extremely suspicious men doing potentially weird sex acts in one of her empty rooms, though she does, in fact, glance behind her as if to look for anyone she can call upon if things go south.
"In my home," she recovers after a moment, "all are encouraged to explore their most lurid fantasies." Her laugh is low, twinkling. "Though we encourage doing so with one of our courtesans, instead of sneaking about like two naughty little mice with dirty secrets."
The man, still squinting at the pale elf with the blood-red eyes, only manages a skeptical "oh". ]
[ At least she didn't call them rats. It's like a bucket of cold water has been thrown over his pleasant high; he turns his face away, mouth a thin line, afraid that if he opens it too much his fangs will be on full display. He couldn't care less if he and Iorveth had been caught in flagrante delicto, but the idea of his vampirism being found out because he couldn't control himself in a brothel is intolerable. ]
Well, you've all ruined the mood now, [ he mumbles, eyes downcast in an attempt to hide their red hue. Maybe they'll mistake them for a particularly vibrant brown, or think he's just a very pale drow.
Iorveth still seems unsteady on his feet, but Astarion steps back and yanks on his arm. He doesn't like the way that man is looking at him. ]
[ Mamzell seems mollified by Astarion's compliance, but there's a questing glint in the man's eye that Iorveth notes as they try to slip past the trio on their way out of the room. The scrutiny takes physical form when the man reaches for Astarion's forearm when he's within range, fingers squeezing with the intent to keep him in place.
"Wait. I want names, before you two leave."
Authoritative, in stern neutral. The woman standing next to him looks embarrassed by her paramour's sudden insistence, and tugs at the hem of his shirt. "Oh, don't be like that― you're off-duty right now, and they were just trying to have some fun."
A Fist? Iorveth doesn't actually care what the man is, actually: his expression pinches into a dangerous frown, sluggish muscles coiling in the promise of a fight. ]
[ Astarion flinches at the unwanted touch, but survival instinct tells him to keep his head down, eyes trained on the floor. They're not exactly innocent to begin with, what with the fact that they murdered a visiting king not long ago, and robbed a vampire hunter after that. Maybe he recognizes them from the descriptions Henselt's mercenaries gave, or maybe the hunter decided to go to the Fists after their confrontation. There's any number of reasons this Fist could want their names, and none of them good.
"Trouble?" the man scoffs. "You're the one denying a Fist."
"Henrik," the woman says, a warning in her voice. "Come on. I wanted to see the—" Her voice lowers to an embarrassed whisper. "Naughty paladin's holy temple."
Henrik, as she'd called him, looks unconvinced. Mamzell just looks bored, like she can't wait for this arguing to stop so she can bilk a Fist out of his coin. ]
Petras, [ Astarion finally mutters, before canting his head toward Iorveth. ] That's Leon.
[ "Petras and Leon," Henrik parrots, sliding his attention sideways towards Iorveth without letting go of Astarion's arm. There seems to be another glimmer of semi-recognition in the man's steel-blue eyes, as if he's heard something related to a one-eyed elf in his recent memory, and is just having a hard time conjuring the context.
"Henrik," his partner hisses at him. "Will you leave them alone." Her embarrassment has made way for genuine ire; Iorveth can see it brewing under her pretty face, her frown turning into a glower, until her frustration bubbles over after being told, slightly condescendingly, to "wait a moment, Delia, this is important."
"Oh, of course, your work is always more important than my plans, isn't it," she snaps. "I saved up for us to have a bit of fun with the Caress' new paladin because your prick is always useless after you've exhausted yourself at your precious work!"
Iorveth's brow arcs; he stifles an urge to bark a laugh as he pries Astarion away from the human's now-faltering grip, and observes the catastrophe unfolding in front of him. The argument rages on, and after hurling a few more heated insults, the woman― Delia― turns to the both of them, pointing with dramatic passion.
"At least they're having sex!", she shouts at Henrik, before lowering her voice to speak to Astarion. "Petras, was it? Gods, I'm so sorry, I don't care if you are a dangerous criminal, you don't deserve this." ]
[ Paranoia had closed around his heart like a vise, but its grip on him loosens with Henrik's. Astarion still finds himself taking one unconscious, surreptitious step behind Iorveth as he watches the madness unfold. He has his voice back, though, and he lets his gaze flicker up at Delia for a brief moment. With any luck, his reluctance to be looked at will be seen as a sign of a demure personality. ]
A dangerous criminal? Why, I wouldn't hurt a fly. [ He glances at Iorveth. ] —Outside of the bedroom, of course.
[ "What I wouldn't give!" Delia groans before turning back to Henrik, her stare withering. "Is that it? You're jealous that they actually have some adventure in the bedroom instead of lying there like a dead fish while I do all the work?"
That's a death blow. Astarion lifts a hand to cover his mouth, concealing both the laugh that pours out of him and his fangs. Henrik has gone red from head to toe, hissing, "Delia! Not in front of strangers!" ]
Ah— clearly, you two could use the library more than we could. [ Torrid sex life, and all. It does always seem to come back to that cover story one way or another. As light and breezy as he can muster, he adds, ] We'll just take our leave. Try the chair, why don't you? Restraints always work a treat to get this one excited.
[ With a pleasant smile plastered on his face, he shoves Iorveth toward the door. ]
[ More chatter, this time about how Delia envies a couple that can take risks, and how unhealthy it is that Henrik is taking his work everywhere with him. Henrik is trying to counter with his vague recollections about a one-eyed terrorist, to which he's met with an onslaught of fresh reprimands: "oh, now you're giving the poor elf a hard time about his face?! I can't believe you!"
Iorveth staggers outside the door, but not without a quick: ] I suggest you find someone with a functional cock, [ which is probably not the wisest thing he could've said, given that he is now Henrik's public enemy number one, but Iorveth doesn't care. If they ever meet outside this brothel, it's Henrik's head, not his. So says the loudest and meanest elf in any given room.
He meanders across walkways and down flights of stairs, past the cat manning the front counter and out onto the street. To bystanders, he's sure they look like a pair of lovers who have done something stupid in a den of debauchery, and they're not wrong― he barks a short laugh, slightly brittle from adrenaline and paranoia, but a laugh nevertheless. ]
Not our finest moment, [ he huffs. ] My stupidity almost cost you your head. Apologies.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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Gods, fuck. His mind chugs slowly around the wine and bloodloss. ]
Have you prudes never heard of experimenting, [ he hisses. ] Stop gaping, you'll catch flies with those open mouths.
[ Sluggishly, he tries to loop his arms around Astarion's neck. It's so inconvenient that he can't murder his way out of this particular situation. He's reminded, once again, of being mud-caked and soggy in Umberlee's House, trying to explain their unwarranted presence. Swiveling his still-hazy focus back on Astarion and trying to will his knees to straighten more properly, Iorveth hikes his chin with obstinate pride.
Mamzell, on the other hand, only looks like she's at a complete fucking loss for a fraction of a second. Credit where it's due: she's obviously dealt with worse than two extremely suspicious men doing potentially weird sex acts in one of her empty rooms, though she does, in fact, glance behind her as if to look for anyone she can call upon if things go south.
"In my home," she recovers after a moment, "all are encouraged to explore their most lurid fantasies." Her laugh is low, twinkling. "Though we encourage doing so with one of our courtesans, instead of sneaking about like two naughty little mice with dirty secrets."
The man, still squinting at the pale elf with the blood-red eyes, only manages a skeptical "oh". ]
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Well, you've all ruined the mood now, [ he mumbles, eyes downcast in an attempt to hide their red hue. Maybe they'll mistake them for a particularly vibrant brown, or think he's just a very pale drow.
Iorveth still seems unsteady on his feet, but Astarion steps back and yanks on his arm. He doesn't like the way that man is looking at him. ]
So we'll just be going.
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"Wait. I want names, before you two leave."
Authoritative, in stern neutral. The woman standing next to him looks embarrassed by her paramour's sudden insistence, and tugs at the hem of his shirt. "Oh, don't be like that― you're off-duty right now, and they were just trying to have some fun."
A Fist? Iorveth doesn't actually care what the man is, actually: his expression pinches into a dangerous frown, sluggish muscles coiling in the promise of a fight. ]
Don't make trouble, human.
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"Trouble?" the man scoffs. "You're the one denying a Fist."
"Henrik," the woman says, a warning in her voice. "Come on. I wanted to see the—" Her voice lowers to an embarrassed whisper. "Naughty paladin's holy temple."
Henrik, as she'd called him, looks unconvinced. Mamzell just looks bored, like she can't wait for this arguing to stop so she can bilk a Fist out of his coin. ]
Petras, [ Astarion finally mutters, before canting his head toward Iorveth. ] That's Leon.
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"Henrik," his partner hisses at him. "Will you leave them alone." Her embarrassment has made way for genuine ire; Iorveth can see it brewing under her pretty face, her frown turning into a glower, until her frustration bubbles over after being told, slightly condescendingly, to "wait a moment, Delia, this is important."
"Oh, of course, your work is always more important than my plans, isn't it," she snaps. "I saved up for us to have a bit of fun with the Caress' new paladin because your prick is always useless after you've exhausted yourself at your precious work!"
Iorveth's brow arcs; he stifles an urge to bark a laugh as he pries Astarion away from the human's now-faltering grip, and observes the catastrophe unfolding in front of him. The argument rages on, and after hurling a few more heated insults, the woman― Delia― turns to the both of them, pointing with dramatic passion.
"At least they're having sex!", she shouts at Henrik, before lowering her voice to speak to Astarion. "Petras, was it? Gods, I'm so sorry, I don't care if you are a dangerous criminal, you don't deserve this." ]
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A dangerous criminal? Why, I wouldn't hurt a fly. [ He glances at Iorveth. ] —Outside of the bedroom, of course.
[ "What I wouldn't give!" Delia groans before turning back to Henrik, her stare withering. "Is that it? You're jealous that they actually have some adventure in the bedroom instead of lying there like a dead fish while I do all the work?"
That's a death blow. Astarion lifts a hand to cover his mouth, concealing both the laugh that pours out of him and his fangs. Henrik has gone red from head to toe, hissing, "Delia! Not in front of strangers!" ]
Ah— clearly, you two could use the library more than we could. [ Torrid sex life, and all. It does always seem to come back to that cover story one way or another. As light and breezy as he can muster, he adds, ] We'll just take our leave. Try the chair, why don't you? Restraints always work a treat to get this one excited.
[ With a pleasant smile plastered on his face, he shoves Iorveth toward the door. ]
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Iorveth staggers outside the door, but not without a quick: ] I suggest you find someone with a functional cock, [ which is probably not the wisest thing he could've said, given that he is now Henrik's public enemy number one, but Iorveth doesn't care. If they ever meet outside this brothel, it's Henrik's head, not his. So says the loudest and meanest elf in any given room.
He meanders across walkways and down flights of stairs, past the cat manning the front counter and out onto the street. To bystanders, he's sure they look like a pair of lovers who have done something stupid in a den of debauchery, and they're not wrong― he barks a short laugh, slightly brittle from adrenaline and paranoia, but a laugh nevertheless. ]
Not our finest moment, [ he huffs. ] My stupidity almost cost you your head. Apologies.
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