[ Iorveth's declaration that he'll no longer act a fool in front of others makes Astarion frown, displeased. (He should care more about kissing Astarion's face than what people think of him!) The mention of nights deepens his frown. He doesn't want anything to do with the politics of a place he doesn't care about beyond Iorveth's attachment to it, but it does feel disappointing to know he'll have nothing to do with Iorveth's real life, under the sun. He'll be relegated to the darkness again, someone for Iorveth to visit only after nightfall.
Blatantly delusional: ] We don't know that the tadpole will stop granting me benefits after we destroy the brain.
[ There's nothing suggesting that it won't wither up and die, but gods, life without the tadpole sounds like a depressing existence. No, it is a depressing existence -- he knows because he had to endure it before. ]
For all we know, you won't need to lose a moment of beauty rest.
[ The possibility of the brainworm having altered Astarion's physical chemistry permanently is slim to none, but saying "honey, you are being very delusional" would be incredibly unhelpful, so. Iorveth keeps that thought to himself, and massages the rift between Astarion's brows with the flat of his thumb. ]
Not impossible. [ Diplomatically, to the tune of "we both know this is not going to happen". ] But I have other options if the parasite decides to disappoint us. Saskia is well-connected.
[ Saskia, being the dragon-turned-queen. ] I've also mentioned my own connections. I trust sorceresses as far as I can throw them, but there are one or two who've proved to be less awful than the rest.
[ Iorveth reaches for his drink, now mostly-empty. Bad decisionmaking dictates that he pours himself another glass. ]
Jaheira and her trap-filled basement may also prove useful. [ A bottle of wine swimming through his system apparently makes him more chatty than usual; he goes on, regardless of whether or not Astarion is paying attention. Obviously, he's been giving The Sun Problem a lot of thought over the past few tendays. ]
[ Astarion's frown grows fainter as he's charmed by how much thought Iorveth has put into his vampiric predicament. It doesn't entirely fade away, though, because the niggling little voice in the back of his head—that grows quieter with every passing day, but never seems to fully disappear—wonders if Iorveth has thought about it so deeply because he doesn't want to deal with the challenge of having a partner who can't even step outside on a sunny day.
No, he tells himself. Iorveth, of all people, doesn't fear a challenge. If he did, he'd never have gotten involved with Astarion in the first place. He does tend to be... challenging. ]
Jaheira?
[ The most promising place to start. Begging Iorveth's old (if one-sided) flame for help doesn't sit well with him, and he's not certain he'd enjoy being experimented on by sorceresses.
But— ] I would have hoped she would have told me if she possessed the cure for my affliction.
[ Very one-sided flame. One day, Astarion will ask Saskia what her deal was, and her reply will be roughly equivalent to "??? Gods, sorry, I would never fuck Iorveth." Rest in pieces, deranged elf.
But they're talking about Jaheira now, and because Iorveth has a bottle of wine in his system: ]
She's old, by human standards. [ This, about a literal hero who has saved countless lives in many situations. Iorveth respects her, sure, but he's also drunk. ] She may have something of use to us, which she's... [ A vague wave of his hand. ] ...Forgotten about.
[ An incredibly rude accusation, which boils down to "idk lol she's old". The rudest drunk in Faerûn. ]
[ Astarion doesn't even bat an eye at Iorveth's rudeness. He would have said worse; 'old bat', maybe, or 'crone', even though she's a century younger than him. He's young in spirit, which is what matters. ]
Hm.
[ It's genuinely thoughtful. Would Jaheira have something so valuable and just forget about it? It's possible that such a successful adventurer would find such things banal after a while. Maybe she has a sun-walking ring in the back of her closet, waiting for Astarion to fish it out.
(There's that delusion again.) ]
I'd rather start there than with those sorceresses of yours. [ A pointed look. ] It would be a travesty if I were turned into a toad.
[ Two delusional elves cuddling in the back of a tavern-turned-field-of-flowers. Iorveth bats away a piece of ribbon that's dislodged itself from the ceiling rafters to float down onto his head, and takes another bite of cheese dipped in honey.
He snorts at the mention of Astarion being turned into a toad. It's not funny, because the kind of sorceresses he knows would actually do things like that (and worse), but. Gods. He imagines a slimy little creature with Astarion's red eyes, and has the gall to laugh. ]
You'd still be beautiful. Warts and all.
[ A half-orc on his way to the restroom groans loudly as he passes their table; Iorveth drawls "stuff it up your ass" in his native tongue. ]
We can speak to Jaheira, then. I'll find a different opportunity to see you as a toad.
[ Even if Iorveth would still love him as a toad. He couldn't bear to have warts.
He resumes his petting of Iorveth's hair, idle this time, touching for the sake of touching, affection for the sake of affection. Astarion never thought he'd be able to tolerate someone enough to touch them without feeling ill, much less that he'd want to touch someone for his own sake, but touching Iorveth feels good, comforting. Impossibly safe. He leans his temple against Iorveth's, pointy ears brushing. ]
You know, I'll loathe it if you decide not to act a lovesick fool there.
[ Again, other people don't matter, and neither should their opinions. Case in point: Astarion barely glanced at the groaning half-orc, entirely unbothered by the reactions of what might as well be insects to him. He's enjoying himself, which is all that matters.
Besides, he's put on far more disgusting displays in taverns than this. ]
Although I suppose there is some appeal to a warrior in the streets and a fool in the sheets.
[ From grudging acceptance that he might enjoy Astarion's presence, all the way to active appreciation. Things have changed, but they also haven't: Iorveth's pulse still hikes a beat faster when Astarion relaxes enough to press up against him like this, and he still doesn't take the closeness for granted. Familiar but new, every time.
Iorveth wants to kiss him. Wants to do more than kiss him, really, but he knows that some of it is the alcohol testing his ability to get away with being stupid. His middle ground is drawing circles against the small of Astarion's back, fingers slipping under the ornate jacket in search of just a little skin. Just a little. ]
You won't be a secret. [ Just to make that abundantly clear. ] －Though I take issue with the designation of "fool in the sheets".
[ A raised brow, and he pinches Astarion's waist. ]
You weren't laughing when I had you in my mouth. [ A hum, and he closes his eye. Thinking About It, clearly. ]
[ Not a secret. A comforting thought for someone who was, essentially, kept a secret for two centuries. He never expected Iorveth to keep him a secret, of course; it doesn't seem in his nature. He's terminally blunt, honest to a fault. Still, it's nice to have the confirmation.
He pauses his petting, eyebrow raised in amusement. ]
All of that flute-playing paid off, clearly.
[ If Iorveth can pull his pigtails, it's only fair that he pull Iorveth's right back. But-- ]
Fine. 'Fool' is perhaps the wrong word. 'Devotee', do you think? 'Worshipper'?
[ Perhaps the flute-playing did help with the oral fixation. That said: ]
You're worth being devoted to.
[ Can't embarrass him with descriptors that are true!! He shifts Astarion closer to him on their pushed-together chairs, adjusting his perch to sit a little higher on his knees. What this establishment is in sore need of is benches. ]
And in need of some worshipping, perhaps. [ Not just sexually, really. He combs a hand through Astarion's hair, adjusting bangs that don't need further adjusting. ] Not if you find it cloying, however.
[ Astarion hardly needs to be treated like something that might break at any moment; his resilience is something Iorveth respects and admires about him. ]
[ Iorveth is so sweet sometimes that it should rightfully be cloying, especially to someone like Astarion who's always been disdainful of things like romance and 'actually liking someone'. It's entirely unlike him to find such bald-faced fondness endearing rather than pathetic, but when it's Iorveth, he can't help it. Rose-colored glasses, perhaps. Only figurative ones, of course, because he doesn't think glasses hiding his features would flatter him at all. ]
Darling, you're many things, but not cloying.
[ No one would ever accuse Iorveth of being too sweet, although he is. Astarion preens, practically batting his eyelashes. ]
Are you going to worship me, then?
[ Iorveth really should not let him get away with this sort of behavior, and yet. He's only grown more bold. ]
[ Trusting someone is only pathetic when there's an inevitable rugpull, and Iorveth is― well, he's an expert in falling on his face. He's fought for someone, loved someone and held them higher than a god, because he'd believed that ideals and people were more sacrosanct than divinity.
It's a belief he still holds, foolishly and desperately. Iorveth the Woodland Fox, Thrice-Betrayed, putting all his eggs in one basket despite past failures. It's what he's doing now, holding Astarion like he's the only person that's worth anything in this tragic mess of a world. Drunk, fuzzy, smitten. ]
I'd thought that to be the entire point of this night. [ Procuring lavish outfits, stealing pretty trinkets for Astarion to decorate himself with, drowning themselves in expensive drink. Sure, Astarion'd hated the party (he hadn't even known what to expect, which still breaks Iorveth a little), and they'd had to murder someone before winding up in a tavern full of exasperated people, but. Whatever.
The point is, Iorveth tips Astarion's chin and kisses the corner of his mouth. ] How do you wish to be worshiped? Or will you let me decide?
[ A sweet threat. Astarion should be running for the hills. ]
[ The entire point of this night is for them both to have a good time, not just for Astarion to be humored, but he can see why Iorveth might think otherwise. It isn't really pleasing him, though, unless it pleases Iorveth, too. Gods, how odd. He can't believe he actually cares about someone else's enjoyment. ]
I'm sure I could think of a few dozen ways.
[ An understatement. Astarion was born to command, forced to be commanded. Bossing others around comes naturally to him. ]
What would you do, if I graciously allowed you to choose?
[ Tracing Astarion's jaw with an index, considering. Affection, closeness, undivided attention. Despite Iorveth saying that it's for Astarion's benefit, it is, in fact, for his own benefit as well: this is the first time anyone has ever been so open to simply staying.
Still, he gives more thought to Astarion's preferences. As best he can, mind, with alcohol swimming through his system. ]
―More words, too. I know you like those. [ Compliments, acknowledgments. Not Iorveth's forte, but he can make attempts. ] More skin, if we were alone.
...I'd serve you that annoying human's head on a plate, too, if he keeps salivating at you. He could catch flies with his mouth hung open the way it is.
[ Not dignifying the man's behavior by looking at him, but huffing in annoyance anyway. ]
[ 'I know you like those,' Iorveth says, and Astarion should want to roll his eyes. They're words. Everyone likes them, when they're pretty. But the way Iorveth says it sounds so genuine, like he's really considering what Astarion likes, and no one has ever done that for him before. It's small and stupid, but it means something.
He smiles, eyes gone soft and fond, and doesn't even mention that the reason the man is gawking could very well be because he and Iorveth are acting entirely inappropriate in public. Besides, he'd hate for Iorveth to stop when he'd really rather him get more inappropriate.
Instead, he tucks a strand of hair behind Iorveth's pointy ear. ]
And how would one worship you, if they were so inclined?
[ Astarion asks, and maybe it's just the buzz of alcohol in Iorveth's system, but he doesn't Get It immediately. There's a beat that stretches after the question, invisible question marks joining the garlands strung across the ceiling above them.
For a moment, he really, truly has no idea why Astarion is asking. And then, when the moment passes: ]
I'd never considered it. [ He isn't posturing; he just. Hasn't. Rather happy to acknowledge instead of being acknowledged, what with the state of him and the purpose he serves. He tilts his head like a questioning dog. ] ―You've already agreed to stay.
[ That's his idea of being worshiped, which probably says too much about him. Hm. Even for a drunk man, that answer seems lame, so he searches for something slightly more practical, which turns out to be: ] Bathing with me, I suppose.
[ Warm, close, skin on skin. His idea of a good time. ]
[ There's something very sad about the way Iorveth responds to his question, as if the concept of being appreciated exists only for people other than him. Astarion is selfish at heart, and he adores being, well, adored, but he makes a mental note to adore Iorveth a little more.
Thoughtful: ] I rather think I'd like to try worshiping someone of my own free will.
[ Instead of living in fear of an omniscient, omnipotent god-vampire who forces worship, it might be nice to expend his energy on somebody worth worshipping. It'd be a brand new experience, at the very least, and he's already decided to seek out brand new experiences.
A pause, then, ] But I'm not certain that dingy little washtub in the Elfsong will fit us both. It barely fits Halsin.
[ Iorveth still doesn't Get It― does Astarion think he's unhappy? That he's just blithely going through the motions? Does he think that Iorveth is just putting up with this, and not getting anything out of it?― but the statement about choosing to do something of his own free will smooths over Iorveth's jagged edges.
More drink disappears down Iorveth's throat, and pools in his stomach. His tan skin is slightly more flushed, warmed by alcohol, which makes the temperature difference between himself and his partner more enticing; whoever says that embracing an undead is uncomfortable clearly has no idea what they're talking about. ]
There are bathhouses. [ Like the one they went to all those tendays ago, when they'd barely tolerated each other in states of undress. Remembering it makes Iorveth laugh. ] But all I require is you.
[ Stupid, sweet fool. He kisses Astarion again, wine lingering on his tongue. ] ...I'll have to take you to the elven baths in the north. You might enjoy them.
[ Elven bathhouses in the north should irritate him. After all, it's not all about elves and that beloved forest of Iorveth's. It doesn't annoy him, though, strangely, because Iorveth is warm and drunk and affectionate, and it's hard to be annoyed by anything with him like this. He'd accused Iorveth of going soft, but it's him who has, really.
Cold hand creeping under the low, low vee of Iorveth's collar: ]
If it involves you, naked and wet, I'm sure I'll enjoy myself.
[ A halfling one table over wrinkles her nose in disgust. ]
[ Iorveth, in need of several Faerûnian equivalents of Blues' Clues, loses even more INT points the moment Astarion puts his hand down the wide dip of his collar. He struggles gainfully with himself, of course― he'd die before being on the same level as the two humans still gawking at them from across the room― but instinct tells him to enjoy the touch, which. Well.
He does. He nudges against Astarion's jaw with his nose, breathing a soft exhale. ]
Don't make me want you here.
[ Fighting losing battles, etc. The halfling picks up her drink and goes to sit with a dwarf who's dozing peacefully next to his stack of playing cards. ]
[ Again, he's done far worse in taverns. Running his fingers over Iorveth's chest is downright prudish, really. ]
—But, [ he adds, melodramatic, ] if you insist.
[ He withdraws his hand, swinging his legs over so his feet are once again flat on the ground, scooting his chair back to its original position. A polite few inches stand between them now, and he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. ]
I'll keep my hands to myself. I wouldn't want to be improper.
Oh. Iorveth feels Astarion slink away, every bit like a cat that's grown tired of being held, and looks.
Stunned? Taken aback. A little annoyed. One hand twitches, slides over the table. ]
...You're fishing.
[ "You want me to tell you to stay close." Iorveth has a feeling that he knows what this is about, and that he's playing right into Astarion's hand, but still.
His fingers drum over lacquered wood again, impatient. ] Astarion.
[ He's absolutely fishing, and so what? Iorveth did say that the night was about pleasing him, and he'd even said he'd give Astarion 'words', since he favors them so much. It's not unreasonable to expect him to follow through now.
Iorveth's impatience has little to no effect on him; he barely seems to pay it any notice, only craning forward and cupping a hand behind his ear. ]
You'll have to speak up, dear. I can't hear you from all the way over here.
[ Astarion is so lucky (citation needed) that Iorveth loves him. Were he anyone else, Iorveth would harm him physically in unnecessarily creative ways; because he's Astarion, the worst Iorveth can do is scowl.
No grabbing, no yanking. In situations like these, Iorveth refuses to touch Astarion without express permission. So: ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ False. What's unbearable is being this close without touching, which is a bonkers thing to think. ] ...Put your wandering hands anywhere you wish, as long as you stay close to me.
[ Do not deprive the deranged drunk elf of his comfort person, he means. Iorveth stays put where he is, but expectation is written clearly on his distinct, sharp features. ]
[ No, he's right — Astarion is unbearable. Difficult, annoying, the type of person you'd have to be a deranged drunk elf to derive any comfort from the presence of. He crosses his ankles primly, staring back at Iorveth with raised eyebrows, his red eyes full of mischief and amusement. Unbearable indeed.
It is, of course, difficult to deprive himself of touching someone he loves now that he knows that being close to someone can actually feel good. Surely none of the depraved things he did for his marks even came close to making them feel as wonderful as the mere warmth of Iorveth's palm against his cheek. Still, he is unbearable, and it's easier to have willpower when it irritates someone else. He clasps his hands together on his lap. ]
Anywhere I wish?
[ The tsk, tsk he makes is an obvious indicator that Iorveth hasn't passed his imaginary test. ]
Darling, I'd hate to put my wandering hands anywhere that you didn't wish. Don't you worry, they'll stay right here.
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Blatantly delusional: ] We don't know that the tadpole will stop granting me benefits after we destroy the brain.
[ There's nothing suggesting that it won't wither up and die, but gods, life without the tadpole sounds like a depressing existence. No, it is a depressing existence -- he knows because he had to endure it before. ]
For all we know, you won't need to lose a moment of beauty rest.
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Not impossible. [ Diplomatically, to the tune of "we both know this is not going to happen". ] But I have other options if the parasite decides to disappoint us. Saskia is well-connected.
[ Saskia, being the dragon-turned-queen. ] I've also mentioned my own connections. I trust sorceresses as far as I can throw them, but there are one or two who've proved to be less awful than the rest.
[ Iorveth reaches for his drink, now mostly-empty. Bad decisionmaking dictates that he pours himself another glass. ]
Jaheira and her trap-filled basement may also prove useful. [ A bottle of wine swimming through his system apparently makes him more chatty than usual; he goes on, regardless of whether or not Astarion is paying attention. Obviously, he's been giving The Sun Problem a lot of thought over the past few tendays. ]
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No, he tells himself. Iorveth, of all people, doesn't fear a challenge. If he did, he'd never have gotten involved with Astarion in the first place. He does tend to be... challenging. ]
Jaheira?
[ The most promising place to start. Begging Iorveth's old (if one-sided) flame for help doesn't sit well with him, and he's not certain he'd enjoy being experimented on by sorceresses.
But— ] I would have hoped she would have told me if she possessed the cure for my affliction.
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But they're talking about Jaheira now, and because Iorveth has a bottle of wine in his system: ]
She's old, by human standards. [ This, about a literal hero who has saved countless lives in many situations. Iorveth respects her, sure, but he's also drunk. ] She may have something of use to us, which she's... [ A vague wave of his hand. ] ...Forgotten about.
[ An incredibly rude accusation, which boils down to "idk lol she's old". The rudest drunk in Faerûn. ]
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Hm.
[ It's genuinely thoughtful. Would Jaheira have something so valuable and just forget about it? It's possible that such a successful adventurer would find such things banal after a while. Maybe she has a sun-walking ring in the back of her closet, waiting for Astarion to fish it out.
(There's that delusion again.) ]
I'd rather start there than with those sorceresses of yours. [ A pointed look. ] It would be a travesty if I were turned into a toad.
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He snorts at the mention of Astarion being turned into a toad. It's not funny, because the kind of sorceresses he knows would actually do things like that (and worse), but. Gods. He imagines a slimy little creature with Astarion's red eyes, and has the gall to laugh. ]
You'd still be beautiful. Warts and all.
[ A half-orc on his way to the restroom groans loudly as he passes their table; Iorveth drawls "stuff it up your ass" in his native tongue. ]
We can speak to Jaheira, then. I'll find a different opportunity to see you as a toad.
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[ Even if Iorveth would still love him as a toad. He couldn't bear to have warts.
He resumes his petting of Iorveth's hair, idle this time, touching for the sake of touching, affection for the sake of affection. Astarion never thought he'd be able to tolerate someone enough to touch them without feeling ill, much less that he'd want to touch someone for his own sake, but touching Iorveth feels good, comforting. Impossibly safe. He leans his temple against Iorveth's, pointy ears brushing. ]
You know, I'll loathe it if you decide not to act a lovesick fool there.
[ Again, other people don't matter, and neither should their opinions. Case in point: Astarion barely glanced at the groaning half-orc, entirely unbothered by the reactions of what might as well be insects to him. He's enjoying himself, which is all that matters.
Besides, he's put on far more disgusting displays in taverns than this. ]
Although I suppose there is some appeal to a warrior in the streets and a fool in the sheets.
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Iorveth wants to kiss him. Wants to do more than kiss him, really, but he knows that some of it is the alcohol testing his ability to get away with being stupid. His middle ground is drawing circles against the small of Astarion's back, fingers slipping under the ornate jacket in search of just a little skin. Just a little. ]
You won't be a secret. [ Just to make that abundantly clear. ] －Though I take issue with the designation of "fool in the sheets".
[ A raised brow, and he pinches Astarion's waist. ]
You weren't laughing when I had you in my mouth. [ A hum, and he closes his eye. Thinking About It, clearly. ]
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He pauses his petting, eyebrow raised in amusement. ]
All of that flute-playing paid off, clearly.
[ If Iorveth can pull his pigtails, it's only fair that he pull Iorveth's right back. But-- ]
Fine. 'Fool' is perhaps the wrong word. 'Devotee', do you think? 'Worshipper'?
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You're worth being devoted to.
[ Can't embarrass him with descriptors that are true!! He shifts Astarion closer to him on their pushed-together chairs, adjusting his perch to sit a little higher on his knees. What this establishment is in sore need of is benches. ]
And in need of some worshipping, perhaps. [ Not just sexually, really. He combs a hand through Astarion's hair, adjusting bangs that don't need further adjusting. ] Not if you find it cloying, however.
[ Astarion hardly needs to be treated like something that might break at any moment; his resilience is something Iorveth respects and admires about him. ]
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Darling, you're many things, but not cloying.
[ No one would ever accuse Iorveth of being too sweet, although he is. Astarion preens, practically batting his eyelashes. ]
Are you going to worship me, then?
[ Iorveth really should not let him get away with this sort of behavior, and yet. He's only grown more bold. ]
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It's a belief he still holds, foolishly and desperately. Iorveth the Woodland Fox, Thrice-Betrayed, putting all his eggs in one basket despite past failures. It's what he's doing now, holding Astarion like he's the only person that's worth anything in this tragic mess of a world. Drunk, fuzzy, smitten. ]
I'd thought that to be the entire point of this night. [ Procuring lavish outfits, stealing pretty trinkets for Astarion to decorate himself with, drowning themselves in expensive drink. Sure, Astarion'd hated the party (he hadn't even known what to expect, which still breaks Iorveth a little), and they'd had to murder someone before winding up in a tavern full of exasperated people, but. Whatever.
The point is, Iorveth tips Astarion's chin and kisses the corner of his mouth. ] How do you wish to be worshiped? Or will you let me decide?
[ A sweet threat. Astarion should be running for the hills. ]
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I'm sure I could think of a few dozen ways.
[ An understatement. Astarion was born to command, forced to be commanded. Bossing others around comes naturally to him. ]
What would you do, if I graciously allowed you to choose?
[ Like it's a privilege. ]
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[ Tracing Astarion's jaw with an index, considering. Affection, closeness, undivided attention. Despite Iorveth saying that it's for Astarion's benefit, it is, in fact, for his own benefit as well: this is the first time anyone has ever been so open to simply staying.
Still, he gives more thought to Astarion's preferences. As best he can, mind, with alcohol swimming through his system. ]
―More words, too. I know you like those. [ Compliments, acknowledgments. Not Iorveth's forte, but he can make attempts. ] More skin, if we were alone.
...I'd serve you that annoying human's head on a plate, too, if he keeps salivating at you. He could catch flies with his mouth hung open the way it is.
[ Not dignifying the man's behavior by looking at him, but huffing in annoyance anyway. ]
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He smiles, eyes gone soft and fond, and doesn't even mention that the reason the man is gawking could very well be because he and Iorveth are acting entirely inappropriate in public. Besides, he'd hate for Iorveth to stop when he'd really rather him get more inappropriate.
Instead, he tucks a strand of hair behind Iorveth's pointy ear. ]
And how would one worship you, if they were so inclined?
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For a moment, he really, truly has no idea why Astarion is asking. And then, when the moment passes: ]
I'd never considered it. [ He isn't posturing; he just. Hasn't. Rather happy to acknowledge instead of being acknowledged, what with the state of him and the purpose he serves. He tilts his head like a questioning dog. ] ―You've already agreed to stay.
[ That's his idea of being worshiped, which probably says too much about him. Hm. Even for a drunk man, that answer seems lame, so he searches for something slightly more practical, which turns out to be: ] Bathing with me, I suppose.
[ Warm, close, skin on skin. His idea of a good time. ]
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Thoughtful: ] I rather think I'd like to try worshiping someone of my own free will.
[ Instead of living in fear of an omniscient, omnipotent god-vampire who forces worship, it might be nice to expend his energy on somebody worth worshipping. It'd be a brand new experience, at the very least, and he's already decided to seek out brand new experiences.
A pause, then, ] But I'm not certain that dingy little washtub in the Elfsong will fit us both. It barely fits Halsin.
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More drink disappears down Iorveth's throat, and pools in his stomach. His tan skin is slightly more flushed, warmed by alcohol, which makes the temperature difference between himself and his partner more enticing; whoever says that embracing an undead is uncomfortable clearly has no idea what they're talking about. ]
There are bathhouses. [ Like the one they went to all those tendays ago, when they'd barely tolerated each other in states of undress. Remembering it makes Iorveth laugh. ] But all I require is you.
[ Stupid, sweet fool. He kisses Astarion again, wine lingering on his tongue. ] ...I'll have to take you to the elven baths in the north. You might enjoy them.
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Cold hand creeping under the low, low vee of Iorveth's collar: ]
If it involves you, naked and wet, I'm sure I'll enjoy myself.
[ A halfling one table over wrinkles her nose in disgust. ]
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He does. He nudges against Astarion's jaw with his nose, breathing a soft exhale. ]
Don't make me want you here.
[ Fighting losing battles, etc. The halfling picks up her drink and goes to sit with a dwarf who's dozing peacefully next to his stack of playing cards. ]
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[ Again, he's done far worse in taverns. Running his fingers over Iorveth's chest is downright prudish, really. ]
—But, [ he adds, melodramatic, ] if you insist.
[ He withdraws his hand, swinging his legs over so his feet are once again flat on the ground, scooting his chair back to its original position. A polite few inches stand between them now, and he crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. ]
I'll keep my hands to myself. I wouldn't want to be improper.
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Oh. Iorveth feels Astarion slink away, every bit like a cat that's grown tired of being held, and looks.
Stunned? Taken aback. A little annoyed. One hand twitches, slides over the table. ]
...You're fishing.
[ "You want me to tell you to stay close." Iorveth has a feeling that he knows what this is about, and that he's playing right into Astarion's hand, but still.
His fingers drum over lacquered wood again, impatient. ] Astarion.
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Iorveth's impatience has little to no effect on him; he barely seems to pay it any notice, only craning forward and cupping a hand behind his ear. ]
You'll have to speak up, dear. I can't hear you from all the way over here.
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No grabbing, no yanking. In situations like these, Iorveth refuses to touch Astarion without express permission. So: ]
Gods, you're unbearable. [ False. What's unbearable is being this close without touching, which is a bonkers thing to think. ] ...Put your wandering hands anywhere you wish, as long as you stay close to me.
[ Do not deprive the deranged drunk elf of his comfort person, he means. Iorveth stays put where he is, but expectation is written clearly on his distinct, sharp features. ]
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It is, of course, difficult to deprive himself of touching someone he loves now that he knows that being close to someone can actually feel good. Surely none of the depraved things he did for his marks even came close to making them feel as wonderful as the mere warmth of Iorveth's palm against his cheek. Still, he is unbearable, and it's easier to have willpower when it irritates someone else. He clasps his hands together on his lap. ]
Anywhere I wish?
[ The tsk, tsk he makes is an obvious indicator that Iorveth hasn't passed his imaginary test. ]
Darling, I'd hate to put my wandering hands anywhere that you didn't wish. Don't you worry, they'll stay right here.
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