[ Astarion's brow raises, too, first at how low Iorveth's eyes wander and then at the very presumptuous finger under his chin. Yes, he was right — he should have known that Iorveth likes pretty things. A little competitive streak flares up inside him, and he watches the swish of Hyacinth's hips as she sashays away before kicking Iorveth underneath the table. (Gently. But with feeling.)
Their glasses clink together as his booted foot nudges against Iorveth's leg, the dark liquid sloshing inside its ornate container. ]
[ What is he getting kicked for!!!!!! A retaliatory knock of his toe against Astarion's shin (immature), and Iorveth downs a good portion of his glass in one gulp.
Oof. It is strong. Nose wrinkling as he feels the alcohol burn down his throat, he posits: ] What was I to do, not notice that the woman has half her ass hanging out of her dress?
[ An exaggeration, but. You know. ]
If I wanted to be lecherous, I'd be sitting beside you. [ Another sip of his wine, as he reaches for the complimentary bowl of candied nuts sitting on their table. Again, another stupid move: the combination of wine and sugar is an express ticket to dehydration town, but he might as well speedrun his bad decisions while the night is still young. Let no one ever say that Iorveth isn't efficient. ]
[ Yes, sitting across from him was Iorveth's strike one. He never once considered that Astarion might want to be lecherous with him! Getting an eyeful of the beautiful barkeep was strike two, and now he's on thin ice until Astarion forgets to be displeased with him.
Astarion takes a dainty sip of his drink, swishing it around in the glass like he knows anything about wine-tasting. He's had his fair share of wines, of course; he's been having sloppy-drunk tavern-goers order it for him for two centuries. He knows very little about how a nobleman is meant to enjoy it, though, his experience limited to watching Cazador and his sycophants toast at the parties he'd throw. ]
You don't even want to be a little bit lecherous?
[ Wine glass in one hand, he props his chin on the other, pouting. ]
I want to sit you on my knees and kiss you until you go limp.
[ Which, for the record, he doesn't think is lecherous; "grossly intimate" is probably how he'd describe it. Iorveth takes another handful of candied pecans and chews on them thoughtfully, purposely looking at the tavern's decor instead of the beautiful creature sitting opposite him. ]
But you've accused me both of going soft and not complaining enough. [ Airily, as he sips at his wine. ] Which is a challenge of sorts, I assume.
[ The dreaded course correcting. It's mostly just teasing― he would hardly be here, ready to get stupid drunk at Astarion's behest if he didn't want to indulge him― but he can pull Astarion's pigtails a bit. Lightly. Affectionately. ]
[ Astarion scoffs, sitting back in his seat and crossing his arms. A challenge! As if he actually wants for Iorveth to treat him poorly and complain. Well, maybe he wants him to complain a little bit. It's endearing when Iorveth is scornful. He makes this wonderful little scowl, with this furrow between his brows. Charming. ]
[ All this tapping under the table is making Iorveth impatient now, and he says as much. ]
Not being near you is the challenge.
[ An absurd thing to say, he knows. He is near Astarion. Close enough that they can keep kicking each other and tangling ankles, which is what he does, briefly, before pulling back and finishing his first glass of wine in record time. ]
But I wonder if milord will ask me sweetly to move and sit next to him at the table.
[ Then Iorveth can spoil him rotten. And get drunker faster, perhaps. ]
[ Astarion is really too easy, because he grins the instant that Iorveth suggests he wants to be near him. He wants to be near Iorveth, too, all the time, and it's pathetic and humiliating and awful, so it feels good to hear that he isn't alone in that desire, even if only for a moment.
Tempering his happiness: ] I'm not sure I've ever done anything sweetly.
[ He isn't a sweet person, no matter how much Iorveth might like to say otherwise. He's selfish and mean and every other unpleasant synonym in the dictionary.
It does make him feel all tingly to be called 'milord', though, so he throws Iorveth a bone. ]
—Iorveth. [ A pleading look. ] Darling. [ He pats the seat beside him. ] Do come over here.
[ Not particularly sweet, and not even really asking, but an effort was made. ]
[ It feels like a stupid skirmish to see who's being easier in this situation, him or Astarion, but Iorveth has to concede defeat once he sees that Look on Astarion's face; sincere or not, it's incredibly annoying (affectionate) how effective the big-eyed half-pout manages to be. Iorveth, proud elf of the north, brought to heel by a well-aimed "come here".
It should be more humiliating than it is. He plays at considering the pros and cons, lingering in his seat for half a second longer than necessary before getting up and making the brief journey around the table to take his rightful position next to Astarion.
Eyes from the other tables follow him; he can feel the other guests watching. Let them gawk. ]
If you wish it. [ And, because the spectators are persistent in their rubbernecking, he takes Astarion's hand and presses his lips to the back of it.
Under his breath: ] ...I can feel the others "seething with jealousy". [ To use Astarion's turn of phrase. ]
[ Obviously, he likes the idea. Astarion enjoys making anyone seethe, and if it's with jealousy, then all the better. His little grin grows wider, unable to be concealed; he gains too much joy from Iorveth to suppress it, which, gods, if someone had told him such a thing would be true back when he'd first met Iorveth, he would have thought it a bald-faced lie, and not even a good one. Obviously, he'd have said, there's nothing about a dour wood elf that could make him feel anything but bored to tears.
How wrong he would have been. Astarion scoots closer until their legs touch and he can feel the warmth of Iorveth's body. ]
Perhaps it's me they're jealous of.
[ A quirked eyebrow, then: ] After all, I have such a lovely elf at my beck and call.
Doubtful, [ is the predictable and immediate reply, even if there's nothing self-effacing about it. Iorveth is more amused than anything else, though he knows that saying so will ruffle Astarion's feathers.
Chair scraping against polished hardwood, Iorveth slots closer until their shoulders touch. Pressed side to side in a near-lean. ]
But I do intend for every other living thing in this tavern to realize that none of them will ever be loved the way you are.
[ Very mean. An awful thing to say and to wish. The one drink (and maybe half the champagne that he had at the auction) speaking, perhaps. Iorveth's eternal fuck-you to all the people in Astarion's past who ever looked at Astarion and saw something to be consumed instead of respected.
(Sure, some of them were lured into the consumption, but fuck them anyway. Iorveth is only a man.)
Reaching for his second glass, Iorveth swallows a mouthful before settling in. Not sloppy yet, but with ample opportunity to get there. (Hyacinth has seen her opportunity, and has started lining up bottles on her countertop.) ]
[ An awful thing to say, and from Astarion's perspective, terribly romantic. He could swoon! What's less romantic is the thought that he doubts anyone will ever love him this much ever again, and that even if he manages not to run Iorveth off, this relationship is still on a ticking time-clock. Iorveth's years will be up eventually, and then what is he supposed to do? He's already becoming far too accustomed to being cared about to give it up just like that.
It's enough to add a bittersweet tinge to his mood. He rests his chin in his hand again. ]
Ridiculous man, [ he says, fondly. Swiping a thumb across Iorveth's cheek: ] Far be it from me to dissuade you from adoring me, but you're only one glass in and already making sweeping declarations.
Unfortunately for you and I, I've never made a declaration that isn't sweeping.
[ A man in Iorveth's past has made the observation that Iorveth isn't just grandiose, he's also mad. An incredibly astute piece of truth that Iorveth keeps confirming every single day of his deranged life. ]
It's also a hobby of mine to make others' lives a living hell. [ Gesturing to the peanut gallery. ] Let me enjoy myself at their expense while I'm still sober enough to savor it.
[ His scarred lips curl into a light smirk, head angled to allow their foreheads to brush together. Iorveth breathes out through his nose, posture relaxing in increments. ]
[ Astarion scoffs again, rolling his eyes. Teasing: ] A living hell? What a bad, bad boy you are.
[ It's a little dramatic, but then again, there's no time that Iorveth isn't dramatic. It's one of the things Astarion found unbearably annoying and now finds wonderfully charming now that it's shifted in his favor. He slides Iorveth's glass closer to him with a lazy finger before tapping on the wood of the table, thoughtful. ]
Mm, I'm not certain I have any hobbies. Aside from being breathtaking.
[ He doubts killing people counts as a hobby. Reading, perhaps, although even that's more something that was picked up as a necessity, a way to escape reality and pass the time in Cazador's palace. ]
After we rid ourselves of these tadpoles [ —after, not if, even though he sometimes questions the probability of it— ] I suppose we'll have all the time in the world to try new things.
[ Still resting against Astarion, Iorveth downs another mouthful of mulled wine; as if on cue, Hyacinth brushes by on her way to another table and rests a rather expensive-looking bottle next to Iorveth's empty glass. She's taken the hint.
Ignoring the woman completely (despite the hypnotic sway of her hips): ] Mm. [ The grand problem of what comes after this strange detour in all of their lives. ] Depending on how welcome my presence is in the north at the moment [ not very welcome, if Ciaran's reports are true ], we may have to spend a few tendays here. Or elsewhere－ whatever suits.
[ The price of regicide. The people get to enjoy the benefits of not having a tyrant presiding over them, but the killer still needs to be punished for, well, being a killer. ]
Have you anything in mind? Of what you'd like to try.
[ Perhaps they don't need to go north at all, if they're going to be such ingrates about it — but Astarion doesn't say so, because he's not certain Iorveth will be amenable to the idea. He was going to go north without Astarion before, and there's no reason for him to change his mind just because he calls Astarion 'beloved' now. ]
Hmm.
[ A thoughtful pause passes, before— ]
Everything. I think I'd like to try everything.
[ He's suppressed himself for so long that he barely knows what he'd like, but the mere act of trying something new seems promising. Life was so monotonous in that palace, every day without joy, but now he has the freedom to have new experiences. Intimidating, yes, but exciting, too. ]
We can start with the classics, I suppose. Gambling. Playing the lute. [ He has no particular musical skill, but surely it's not that hard if bards can do it. ] Archery lessons, perhaps. I know a very handsome teacher.
[ "Everything" is as nice as it is daunting. Like the first night Iorveth spent sleeping on a bedroll instead of hunched between two rocks in a cave, unaccustomed to and unnerved by the prospect of comfort. That feeling, amplified tenfold.
Stretching his legs and crossing them at his ankles, Iorveth leans back in his seat. ]
You have the instinct. The form needs work.
[ He reaches to press his palm to the small of Astarion's back, indicating where he needs to right his posture when he's holding a bow. The touch smooths up, and rests at Astarion's nape. ]
As for the lute, well. [ An amused puff of breath. ] I can accompany you on the flute.
[ Yes, he can play the flute. Yes, that is an insanely stereotypical wood elf thing to do. What of it!!!!!!! ]
[ Truthfully, Astarion couldn't care less about his form. His aim is good enough to hit people, which is what really matters. If it means Iorveth will spend time with him and touch him all over to correct him, though, he doesn't mind being educated. (Whether he'd actually pay attention is a different story, though.)
He laughs into the glass of wine he's still nursing, eyes crinkling in amusement, although he'd be terribly offended if Iorveth said anything about his laugh lines. ]
The flute? [ Playfully: ] Gods, and here I didn't think you could get sexier.
[ A tease, because the flute is, well, not the sexiest instrument. Still, he imagines he could find a way to be attracted to it as long as it's Iorveth doing the playing. ]
[ Sexier, Astarion says, when the truth of the matter is that Iorveth plays the least sexy version of the instrument: a recorder. That grand reveal is for another day, and Iorveth should rightfully get dunked on for how lame he is. The blowjob jokes will write themselves.
For now, though, Iorveth can sit in the (embarrassing) illusion that his flute-playing is cool, because he doesn't want to get in a fight about being laughed at for his stereotypical hobbies. ]
You see me as I am. What else would you know?
[ A flute-playing wood elf who loves as violently as he fights. What else is there? ]
I'll humor you. Any question you ask tonight, I'll answer.
[ For this, though, he definitely needs to be more drunk. The bottle that Hyacinth kindly left for them is uncorked, which means he can get to work right away on emptying it. ]
[ Lucky him. There's a nearly endless parade of all the things he wants to know marching through his head: did Iorveth love that other man? What does the future hold for them? Does Iorveth really think he looks bad in green?
He's hesitant to ask those, though, because he's afraid the answers won't be to his liking. Instead, a softball: ]
Among our friends, who would you, ah, nock your arrow in?
[ Astarion raises his eyebrows, impish, then suddenly— ]
[ Very much a softball. Also very cute that Astarion uses the term "friends", but Iorveth will keep that to himself.
The answer is easy, quick: ] Lae'zel. [ Definitely not Halsin. They're both wood elves, but they truly couldn't be more different in temperament and lived experiences; Halsin has tried to talk Iorveth down from ledges before, and Iorveth has hated it every single time.
So. Lae'zel. ] Despite her penchant for leaving her partners bruised, she seems a riot. [ The funniest one of them all, Iorveth thinks. ] An added bonus, that it would make Shadowheart furious.
[ All hypothetical, of course. Iorveth has no interest in touching anyone but Astarion, but this is all based on the notion that Astarion is unavailable. ] You?
[ It shouldn't be surprising. After all, Iorveth clearly likes unpleasant people. Still, Astarion raises an eyebrow, as if Iorveth has admitted something very scandalous. A gith! Iorveth would likely find himself more than a little bruised. Then again, he'd probably like that. Something to consider. ]
Hmm, [ he says, considering his options. Obviously, Halsin is the most objectively attractive out of all of them, but he's incredibly irritating. Astarion would rather be celibate than have to listen to Halsin harp on about the beauty of nature for longer than he has to. Then there's Shadowheart, but gods, that's too many mean girl personalities in one relationship. He hums in thought for a moment, then: ]
Wyll.
[ A beat, then: ] He stands to inherit a castle.
[ Defensive, as if he preemptively expects to be mocked for liking, horror of horrors, nice men. ]
[ No judgment. If anything, Wyll is the answer that Iorveth expected. He leans back, scraping his chair an inch or two away for a better vantage point from which to observe Astarion from. An imaginary Wyll situates himself beside Astarion in Iorveth's mind's eye, and his simple assessment of it is: ]
You two would make a pretty pair.
[ An understatement. Wyll is everything that Iorveth isn't: handsome and kind and generous, high-born, slotting nicely in social situations. No one would look at Wyll standing next to Astarion and think him to be a valet, the way most would when they look at Iorveth.
Rocking back in his chair, Iorveth takes another sip of wine. ] He would treat you well, too. [ For all of Astarion's talk of debauchery, Iorveth likes to think that he knows where Astarion's true priorities lie. A brief smile, and he waves one hand. ] An ideal arrangement.
[ Iorveth smiles, and Astarion wrinkles his nose. ]
Eugh, you don't need to sound as if you're matchmaking us.
[ Admittedly, they would complement each other on an aesthetic level, but it would never work! Wyll is so unbearably good, noble in every sense of the word, the perfect prince. He wouldn't be able to handle the parts of Astarion that are dark and unpleasant and, well, ugly. How could he ever understand what it feels like to be subjugated for two centuries, after all, when he's only two decades into his life? He hasn't had time to become embittered by the world yet.
Besides, he's only got six or so decades left in him. Astarion is already distressed at the thought of Iorveth's death, and he has centuries to go if they're lucky.
Pouting: ] You could at least try to act jealous. Perhaps threaten to stab him over me.
[ Iorveth has a feeling that Astarion likes it when Iorveth is possessive, and that's certainly not something that he should encourage. Healthy boundaries, and all that. So, Iorveth makes the barest attempt at being diplomatic: ]
I wouldn't deny you a night with him if you wish it.
[ Just so that's clear. (That, and the party needs someone who can use Eldritch Blast.) With that said, he finishes his second glass of wine and rocks back closer to Astarion, tipping his chin with a careful index. ]
But your absence would be sorely felt. [ Diplomacy over. Again, Iorveth is just a man when he's with Astarion: not a commander, not the last of the free elves of the north. Just Iorveth.
Regardless, he laughs at how ridiculous it all is. Love makes people incredibly stupid, apparently. ]
[ Ugh. Astarion rolls his eyes at the thought of 'a night with Wyll'. He doesn't need a night with a man who's invested in the idea of courtly love. Even if he did have the desire to be with someone besides Iorveth—which he doesn't—he'd choose someone less liable to get... attached. The same qualities that are charming about Wyll are the ones that make him an awful choice for a one night stand. Astarion would probably wake the next morning to Wyll doodling Mr. Wyll Ancunín in a notebook. Or, gods, Mr. Astarion Ravengard. ]
You're especially alluring when you pine.
[ Unhealthy, probably, but the confirmation that someone cares to lose him feels good. As much as he's given Iorveth permission to seek outside pleasure—and meant it, or thought he did—he'd throw a fit if Iorveth ever let Lae'zel (or anyone else, for that matter) give him bruises. It's only natural, he thinks, to want to know that the feeling is mutual.
A little sulky: ] You could deny me a little. Or is it a wood elf requirement to encourage free love?
[ Since, well, the other wood elf he knows certainly does. ]
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Their glasses clink together as his booted foot nudges against Iorveth's leg, the dark liquid sloshing inside its ornate container. ]
Cheers, you lech.
[ It's 75% teasing, 25% genuine petulant possessiveness. ]
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Oof. It is strong. Nose wrinkling as he feels the alcohol burn down his throat, he posits: ] What was I to do, not notice that the woman has half her ass hanging out of her dress?
[ An exaggeration, but. You know. ]
If I wanted to be lecherous, I'd be sitting beside you. [ Another sip of his wine, as he reaches for the complimentary bowl of candied nuts sitting on their table. Again, another stupid move: the combination of wine and sugar is an express ticket to dehydration town, but he might as well speedrun his bad decisions while the night is still young. Let no one ever say that Iorveth isn't efficient. ]
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Astarion takes a dainty sip of his drink, swishing it around in the glass like he knows anything about wine-tasting. He's had his fair share of wines, of course; he's been having sloppy-drunk tavern-goers order it for him for two centuries. He knows very little about how a nobleman is meant to enjoy it, though, his experience limited to watching Cazador and his sycophants toast at the parties he'd throw. ]
You don't even want to be a little bit lecherous?
[ Wine glass in one hand, he props his chin on the other, pouting. ]
Ugh, you might as well be a cloistered sister.
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I want to sit you on my knees and kiss you until you go limp.
[ Which, for the record, he doesn't think is lecherous; "grossly intimate" is probably how he'd describe it. Iorveth takes another handful of candied pecans and chews on them thoughtfully, purposely looking at the tavern's decor instead of the beautiful creature sitting opposite him. ]
But you've accused me both of going soft and not complaining enough. [ Airily, as he sips at his wine. ] Which is a challenge of sorts, I assume.
[ The dreaded course correcting. It's mostly just teasing― he would hardly be here, ready to get stupid drunk at Astarion's behest if he didn't want to indulge him― but he can pull Astarion's pigtails a bit. Lightly. Affectionately. ]
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A challenge?
[ Another tap of his foot against Iorveth's-- ]
Surely you don't find it a challenge to complain.
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Not being near you is the challenge.
[ An absurd thing to say, he knows. He is near Astarion. Close enough that they can keep kicking each other and tangling ankles, which is what he does, briefly, before pulling back and finishing his first glass of wine in record time. ]
But I wonder if milord will ask me sweetly to move and sit next to him at the table.
[ Then Iorveth can spoil him rotten. And get drunker faster, perhaps. ]
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Tempering his happiness: ] I'm not sure I've ever done anything sweetly.
[ He isn't a sweet person, no matter how much Iorveth might like to say otherwise. He's selfish and mean and every other unpleasant synonym in the dictionary.
It does make him feel all tingly to be called 'milord', though, so he throws Iorveth a bone. ]
—Iorveth. [ A pleading look. ] Darling. [ He pats the seat beside him. ] Do come over here.
[ Not particularly sweet, and not even really asking, but an effort was made. ]
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It should be more humiliating than it is. He plays at considering the pros and cons, lingering in his seat for half a second longer than necessary before getting up and making the brief journey around the table to take his rightful position next to Astarion.
Eyes from the other tables follow him; he can feel the other guests watching. Let them gawk. ]
If you wish it. [ And, because the spectators are persistent in their rubbernecking, he takes Astarion's hand and presses his lips to the back of it.
Under his breath: ] ...I can feel the others "seething with jealousy". [ To use Astarion's turn of phrase. ]
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[ Obviously, he likes the idea. Astarion enjoys making anyone seethe, and if it's with jealousy, then all the better. His little grin grows wider, unable to be concealed; he gains too much joy from Iorveth to suppress it, which, gods, if someone had told him such a thing would be true back when he'd first met Iorveth, he would have thought it a bald-faced lie, and not even a good one. Obviously, he'd have said, there's nothing about a dour wood elf that could make him feel anything but bored to tears.
How wrong he would have been. Astarion scoots closer until their legs touch and he can feel the warmth of Iorveth's body. ]
Perhaps it's me they're jealous of.
[ A quirked eyebrow, then: ] After all, I have such a lovely elf at my beck and call.
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Chair scraping against polished hardwood, Iorveth slots closer until their shoulders touch. Pressed side to side in a near-lean. ]
But I do intend for every other living thing in this tavern to realize that none of them will ever be loved the way you are.
[ Very mean. An awful thing to say and to wish. The one drink (and maybe half the champagne that he had at the auction) speaking, perhaps. Iorveth's eternal fuck-you to all the people in Astarion's past who ever looked at Astarion and saw something to be consumed instead of respected.
(Sure, some of them were lured into the consumption, but fuck them anyway. Iorveth is only a man.)
Reaching for his second glass, Iorveth swallows a mouthful before settling in. Not sloppy yet, but with ample opportunity to get there. (Hyacinth has seen her opportunity, and has started lining up bottles on her countertop.) ]
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It's enough to add a bittersweet tinge to his mood. He rests his chin in his hand again. ]
Ridiculous man, [ he says, fondly. Swiping a thumb across Iorveth's cheek: ] Far be it from me to dissuade you from adoring me, but you're only one glass in and already making sweeping declarations.
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[ A man in Iorveth's past has made the observation that Iorveth isn't just grandiose, he's also mad. An incredibly astute piece of truth that Iorveth keeps confirming every single day of his deranged life. ]
It's also a hobby of mine to make others' lives a living hell. [ Gesturing to the peanut gallery. ] Let me enjoy myself at their expense while I'm still sober enough to savor it.
[ His scarred lips curl into a light smirk, head angled to allow their foreheads to brush together. Iorveth breathes out through his nose, posture relaxing in increments. ]
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[ It's a little dramatic, but then again, there's no time that Iorveth isn't dramatic. It's one of the things Astarion found unbearably annoying and now finds wonderfully charming now that it's shifted in his favor. He slides Iorveth's glass closer to him with a lazy finger before tapping on the wood of the table, thoughtful. ]
Mm, I'm not certain I have any hobbies. Aside from being breathtaking.
[ He doubts killing people counts as a hobby. Reading, perhaps, although even that's more something that was picked up as a necessity, a way to escape reality and pass the time in Cazador's palace. ]
After we rid ourselves of these tadpoles [ —after, not if, even though he sometimes questions the probability of it— ] I suppose we'll have all the time in the world to try new things.
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Ignoring the woman completely (despite the hypnotic sway of her hips): ] Mm. [ The grand problem of what comes after this strange detour in all of their lives. ] Depending on how welcome my presence is in the north at the moment [ not very welcome, if Ciaran's reports are true ], we may have to spend a few tendays here. Or elsewhere－ whatever suits.
[ The price of regicide. The people get to enjoy the benefits of not having a tyrant presiding over them, but the killer still needs to be punished for, well, being a killer. ]
Have you anything in mind? Of what you'd like to try.
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Hmm.
[ A thoughtful pause passes, before— ]
Everything. I think I'd like to try everything.
[ He's suppressed himself for so long that he barely knows what he'd like, but the mere act of trying something new seems promising. Life was so monotonous in that palace, every day without joy, but now he has the freedom to have new experiences. Intimidating, yes, but exciting, too. ]
We can start with the classics, I suppose. Gambling. Playing the lute. [ He has no particular musical skill, but surely it's not that hard if bards can do it. ] Archery lessons, perhaps. I know a very handsome teacher.
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Stretching his legs and crossing them at his ankles, Iorveth leans back in his seat. ]
You have the instinct. The form needs work.
[ He reaches to press his palm to the small of Astarion's back, indicating where he needs to right his posture when he's holding a bow. The touch smooths up, and rests at Astarion's nape. ]
As for the lute, well. [ An amused puff of breath. ] I can accompany you on the flute.
[ Yes, he can play the flute. Yes, that is an insanely stereotypical wood elf thing to do. What of it!!!!!!! ]
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He laughs into the glass of wine he's still nursing, eyes crinkling in amusement, although he'd be terribly offended if Iorveth said anything about his laugh lines. ]
The flute? [ Playfully: ] Gods, and here I didn't think you could get sexier.
[ A tease, because the flute is, well, not the sexiest instrument. Still, he imagines he could find a way to be attracted to it as long as it's Iorveth doing the playing. ]
What else don't I know about you?
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For now, though, Iorveth can sit in the (embarrassing) illusion that his flute-playing is cool, because he doesn't want to get in a fight about being laughed at for his stereotypical hobbies. ]
You see me as I am. What else would you know?
[ A flute-playing wood elf who loves as violently as he fights. What else is there? ]
I'll humor you. Any question you ask tonight, I'll answer.
[ For this, though, he definitely needs to be more drunk. The bottle that Hyacinth kindly left for them is uncorked, which means he can get to work right away on emptying it. ]
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[ Lucky him. There's a nearly endless parade of all the things he wants to know marching through his head: did Iorveth love that other man? What does the future hold for them? Does Iorveth really think he looks bad in green?
He's hesitant to ask those, though, because he's afraid the answers won't be to his liking. Instead, a softball: ]
Among our friends, who would you, ah, nock your arrow in?
[ Astarion raises his eyebrows, impish, then suddenly— ]
Ugh, don't say Halsin.
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The answer is easy, quick: ] Lae'zel. [ Definitely not Halsin. They're both wood elves, but they truly couldn't be more different in temperament and lived experiences; Halsin has tried to talk Iorveth down from ledges before, and Iorveth has hated it every single time.
So. Lae'zel. ] Despite her penchant for leaving her partners bruised, she seems a riot. [ The funniest one of them all, Iorveth thinks. ] An added bonus, that it would make Shadowheart furious.
[ All hypothetical, of course. Iorveth has no interest in touching anyone but Astarion, but this is all based on the notion that Astarion is unavailable. ] You?
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Hmm, [ he says, considering his options. Obviously, Halsin is the most objectively attractive out of all of them, but he's incredibly irritating. Astarion would rather be celibate than have to listen to Halsin harp on about the beauty of nature for longer than he has to. Then there's Shadowheart, but gods, that's too many mean girl personalities in one relationship. He hums in thought for a moment, then: ]
Wyll.
[ A beat, then: ] He stands to inherit a castle.
[ Defensive, as if he preemptively expects to be mocked for liking, horror of horrors, nice men. ]
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You two would make a pretty pair.
[ An understatement. Wyll is everything that Iorveth isn't: handsome and kind and generous, high-born, slotting nicely in social situations. No one would look at Wyll standing next to Astarion and think him to be a valet, the way most would when they look at Iorveth.
Rocking back in his chair, Iorveth takes another sip of wine. ] He would treat you well, too. [ For all of Astarion's talk of debauchery, Iorveth likes to think that he knows where Astarion's true priorities lie. A brief smile, and he waves one hand. ] An ideal arrangement.
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Eugh, you don't need to sound as if you're matchmaking us.
[ Admittedly, they would complement each other on an aesthetic level, but it would never work! Wyll is so unbearably good, noble in every sense of the word, the perfect prince. He wouldn't be able to handle the parts of Astarion that are dark and unpleasant and, well, ugly. How could he ever understand what it feels like to be subjugated for two centuries, after all, when he's only two decades into his life? He hasn't had time to become embittered by the world yet.
Besides, he's only got six or so decades left in him. Astarion is already distressed at the thought of Iorveth's death, and he has centuries to go if they're lucky.
Pouting: ] You could at least try to act jealous. Perhaps threaten to stab him over me.
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I wouldn't deny you a night with him if you wish it.
[ Just so that's clear. (That, and the party needs someone who can use Eldritch Blast.) With that said, he finishes his second glass of wine and rocks back closer to Astarion, tipping his chin with a careful index. ]
But your absence would be sorely felt. [ Diplomacy over. Again, Iorveth is just a man when he's with Astarion: not a commander, not the last of the free elves of the north. Just Iorveth.
Regardless, he laughs at how ridiculous it all is. Love makes people incredibly stupid, apparently. ]
I suspect you like making me pine.
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You're especially alluring when you pine.
[ Unhealthy, probably, but the confirmation that someone cares to lose him feels good. As much as he's given Iorveth permission to seek outside pleasure—and meant it, or thought he did—he'd throw a fit if Iorveth ever let Lae'zel (or anyone else, for that matter) give him bruises. It's only natural, he thinks, to want to know that the feeling is mutual.
A little sulky: ] You could deny me a little. Or is it a wood elf requirement to encourage free love?
[ Since, well, the other wood elf he knows certainly does. ]
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