[ A mild sound of offense, at "I should hope". Kind of a self-own: expressing disbelief over the fact that anyone aside from Astarion could ever love him enough to stay is a bit pathetic, but. If the shoe fits.
To the "let me": ] Tonight, I'd let you shave me bald if you wished it. [ In this state, Iorveth really couldn't refuse Astarion anything. A short laugh-exhale, and he shifts under Astarion's weight. ] Wind your arms around my shoulders.
[ He glances towards the bath, and the distance he'd have to walk from couch to pool; only a few steps. A short enough journey that he thinks he could get away with, yes, carrying Astarion― he's no Karlach, but he's been pulling bowstrings and climbing trees since he was old enough to speak. It takes a bit of mental preparation, but he manages to get on his feet with Astarion in tow, adjusting their positions just a bit so that he's hefting his partner bridal style instead of sack-of-potatoes-style.
Heavy. Astarion is no willowy waif, and requires concentration to keep steady until they reach the edge of the water, where Iorveth deposits him slowly, carefully. ]
[ Though he tries hard to suppress it, Astarion can barely conceal his delight at being carried into the water, every scoff and roll of his eyes undercut by the grin on his face. Iorveth might have the muscled back of an archer, but that doesn't mean he's accustomed to lugging around a full-grown vampire in his arms; it must be difficult for him, even crossing this small distance, but he did it to make Astarion happy.
It works. Astarion pulls him down alongside him to kiss him, insistent and pleased, like the only way he can rid himself of the overwhelming affection he feels is to press it into Iorveth's mouth. That doesn't work. He still feels just as fond when he's done. ]
Turn around. I'll wash that hair.
[ His damp hands find Iorveth's shoulders, shoving gently. ]
I never thought myself the type to enjoy this sort of thing. [ Domesticity. Doing something for another person, just because. ] But I find that I like having something worth caring for.
[ Having someone to tend to. To consider. To do an act of service for not because he has to, but because he wants to. ]
[ It's all so dazzlingly mundane, this. Amidst the chaos of their current circumstances (the tadpole, the cultists, the constant threats of murder around every corner), this strange thing that they've managed to carve out despite it all feels―
―important? Enormous. A lot, which is always the running theme. Iorveth settles in warm water (Jessamine wasn't lying about it being blessed) and turns to show Astarion his back without caution or hesitation. The only person in the world that Iorveth doesn't have a kneejerk sense of wariness about allowing into his blind side. ]
Again: my opinion is that you're more noble than you know.
[ As he tilts back, giving Astarion access to whatever he pleases. ]
[ 'Noble'. Astarion could dunk Iorveth for that. He considers dunking Iorveth for it, the image of a wet and spluttering wood elf vivid in his mind: oh, do you still think I'm noble now? He doesn't. Instead, he only tilts Iorveth back far enough to wet his hair properly before sitting him back up and combing his fingers through it, even darker and shinier now in the tub. ]
Ridiculous, [ he repeats for what must be the tenth time today. A pause stretches out, then he says, an admission: ] Perhaps you bring it out in me.
[ A bottle uncorks behind Iorveth, and Astarion pours sweet-smelling soap into his palm before working it through the tips of Iorveth's hair. ]
You make me want to be... soft.
[ The word is uttered with no small amount of humiliation. ]
[ He fully expects to be flicked in the face with water for noble, but settles for the way Astarion says that one word, soft, as if it's some unutterable curse. Understandable; he'd rebelled against it too, had to remind himself in the past to use a soft touch despite how little experience he'd had with it.
That said: Iorveth laughs. Probably a bit mean. ]
Adding to my ever-growing list of crimes. [ A light chuckle, as he leans into Astarion's hands, single green eye shuttering. ] "Ruining the resident vampire's rakish image."
[ The quotation marks are audible; there for dramatic flair. A bit of ribbing, before Iorveth gentles. ]
I consider myself lucky, then. To be cared for by you.
[ The soap lathers underneath his hands, and he rakes his fingers through every inch of Iorveth's hair until it's streaked with foam. Iorveth did this for him once, after their night out on the town. (Their possible last night alive, he'd said. A few of those have come and gone by now.) He'd felt awkward with someone else's hands in his hair, had hoped that Iorveth wasn't looking at his scars. What a difference a little bit of time makes.
He leans Iorveth back again to rinse the lather from his hair. Even with it gone, dissipating into the pool, the warm smell of something pleasant remains. Vanilla, perhaps. ]
Careful not to count yourself too lucky. The world as we know it may still end in the next tenday.
[ The scent of vanilla, sweet and soft, isn't one he wouldn't have chosen for himself, but it fits the mood of the night. Water displaces around him as he floats back, tipping indulgently to rest his head on Astarion's shoulder. ]
If I die tomorrow, I'll at least have the memory of this.
[ Uncomplicated and peaceful. The sort of idle happiness he'd never considered having, nor wanting. It's strange that it took an illithid parasite being lodged in his skull for him to get here, but that's life. ]
I never even dreamed of anything like this, before you. In all my years, I'd only ever wanted--
[ There's so little they seem to have in common superficially, but every so often, Iorveth says something that reminds him why they understand each other. All of Astarion's few and fleeting moments of peace in the palace had been in solitude; even his fantasies of power had ended in having the power to be left alone. Other people were always something to fear or deride.
He runs a soapy hand across Iorveth's chest, tugging him closer. ]
[ What, as if the answer to that question isn't abundantly clear. There's a brief flicker of temptation to say something completely unrelated, like "taking Scratch out for a walk while the owlbear cub trails along", but going that route feels a little too twee.
The soapy hand feels nice. Everything does. Astarion's velvet voice against his ear, and the warm scent of vanilla suffused with just a trace hint of undead sharpness. Almost like mulled wine. Iorveth almost forgets to reply to the question still hanging in the air, soaking and luxuriating in the safety of their hard-earned space, but he finally gets there. ]
Quiet. A table full of food. [ He smiles, finding his mundane dreams very droll. ] You, in soft clothes, sitting by a fireplace. Reading.
[ His voice lowers to a murmur. ]
I've wanted to die for many causes, but you're the only thing I'd like to live for.
[ Good. Astarion wants Iorveth to live — a long, long time, maybe forever. He thinks, a little bitterly, that if he'd sacrificed all of those spawn, at least he'd be able to turn Iorveth. He'd really hate Astarion then, though, so he supposes the outcome would be the same.
He soaps up Iorveth's arm, all the way down to his hand and his fingers. ]
[ It's Iorveth's turn to melt, now. Utterly boneless, defenseless and unguarded against Astarion's chest as he lets Astarion maneuver him however he pleases. For a terrible second, he realizes that this is what being spoiled must feel like, but he brushes that moment of recognition aside; it feels too nice to pass up, especially since Astarion wasn't wrong in pointing out that they could lose this all in a matter of hours.
Pliant and pleasantly warm, Iorveth nuzzles against Astarion's jaw. ]
Mm. You do love the sound of your own voice. [ A brief laugh, almost inaudible. ] I'll amend the details of my dream.
[ A sigh, this time. Content. Astarion, he murmurs, speaking his companion's name just for the sake of it, just because he can. ]
[ Iorveth is so stunningly different from how he'd once appeared, wonderfully malleable and soft in his arms, nothing like the stiff-backed elf who'd once (all right, several times) threatened to slit Astarion's throat. This is what Elysium must be like, he thinks. Endless days of warmth, with someone he loves in his arms.
The washing up turns to idle swipes of his hand, no rhyme or reason except to keep touching Iorveth while he's like this, keep enjoying it while he can. He tucks Iorveth under his chin, sighing. ]
As long as you're there, I'm not sure I care about the finer details of the future.
[ He sounds a little surprised. Is a little surprised. Astarion's vision of the future has always been focused on material things: the city he'll live in, the money he'll have, the nice things he'll be surrounded with. All of that seems shockingly unimportant if Iorveth isn't in the picture. ]
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To the "let me": ] Tonight, I'd let you shave me bald if you wished it. [ In this state, Iorveth really couldn't refuse Astarion anything. A short laugh-exhale, and he shifts under Astarion's weight. ] Wind your arms around my shoulders.
[ He glances towards the bath, and the distance he'd have to walk from couch to pool; only a few steps. A short enough journey that he thinks he could get away with, yes, carrying Astarion― he's no Karlach, but he's been pulling bowstrings and climbing trees since he was old enough to speak. It takes a bit of mental preparation, but he manages to get on his feet with Astarion in tow, adjusting their positions just a bit so that he's hefting his partner bridal style instead of sack-of-potatoes-style.
Heavy. Astarion is no willowy waif, and requires concentration to keep steady until they reach the edge of the water, where Iorveth deposits him slowly, carefully. ]
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It works. Astarion pulls him down alongside him to kiss him, insistent and pleased, like the only way he can rid himself of the overwhelming affection he feels is to press it into Iorveth's mouth. That doesn't work. He still feels just as fond when he's done. ]
Turn around. I'll wash that hair.
[ His damp hands find Iorveth's shoulders, shoving gently. ]
I never thought myself the type to enjoy this sort of thing. [ Domesticity. Doing something for another person, just because. ] But I find that I like having something worth caring for.
[ Having someone to tend to. To consider. To do an act of service for not because he has to, but because he wants to. ]
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―important? Enormous. A lot, which is always the running theme. Iorveth settles in warm water (Jessamine wasn't lying about it being blessed) and turns to show Astarion his back without caution or hesitation. The only person in the world that Iorveth doesn't have a kneejerk sense of wariness about allowing into his blind side. ]
Again: my opinion is that you're more noble than you know.
[ As he tilts back, giving Astarion access to whatever he pleases. ]
I'll not let anyone else know.
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Ridiculous, [ he repeats for what must be the tenth time today. A pause stretches out, then he says, an admission: ] Perhaps you bring it out in me.
[ A bottle uncorks behind Iorveth, and Astarion pours sweet-smelling soap into his palm before working it through the tips of Iorveth's hair. ]
You make me want to be... soft.
[ The word is uttered with no small amount of humiliation. ]
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That said: Iorveth laughs. Probably a bit mean. ]
Adding to my ever-growing list of crimes. [ A light chuckle, as he leans into Astarion's hands, single green eye shuttering. ] "Ruining the resident vampire's rakish image."
[ The quotation marks are audible; there for dramatic flair. A bit of ribbing, before Iorveth gentles. ]
I consider myself lucky, then. To be cared for by you.
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He leans Iorveth back again to rinse the lather from his hair. Even with it gone, dissipating into the pool, the warm smell of something pleasant remains. Vanilla, perhaps. ]
Careful not to count yourself too lucky. The world as we know it may still end in the next tenday.
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If I die tomorrow, I'll at least have the memory of this.
[ Uncomplicated and peaceful. The sort of idle happiness he'd never considered having, nor wanting. It's strange that it took an illithid parasite being lodged in his skull for him to get here, but that's life. ]
I never even dreamed of anything like this, before you. In all my years, I'd only ever wanted--
[ A vague wave of his hand. ]
--Quiet. A table full of food. Never with anyone.
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He runs a soapy hand across Iorveth's chest, tugging him closer. ]
And what do you dream of now?
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The soapy hand feels nice. Everything does. Astarion's velvet voice against his ear, and the warm scent of vanilla suffused with just a trace hint of undead sharpness. Almost like mulled wine. Iorveth almost forgets to reply to the question still hanging in the air, soaking and luxuriating in the safety of their hard-earned space, but he finally gets there. ]
Quiet. A table full of food. [ He smiles, finding his mundane dreams very droll. ] You, in soft clothes, sitting by a fireplace. Reading.
[ His voice lowers to a murmur. ]
I've wanted to die for many causes, but you're the only thing I'd like to live for.
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He soaps up Iorveth's arm, all the way down to his hand and his fingers. ]
'Quiet' may be asking quite a lot from me.
[ Professional yapper, etc. ]
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Pliant and pleasantly warm, Iorveth nuzzles against Astarion's jaw. ]
Mm. You do love the sound of your own voice. [ A brief laugh, almost inaudible. ] I'll amend the details of my dream.
[ A sigh, this time. Content. Astarion, he murmurs, speaking his companion's name just for the sake of it, just because he can. ]
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The washing up turns to idle swipes of his hand, no rhyme or reason except to keep touching Iorveth while he's like this, keep enjoying it while he can. He tucks Iorveth under his chin, sighing. ]
As long as you're there, I'm not sure I care about the finer details of the future.
[ He sounds a little surprised. Is a little surprised. Astarion's vision of the future has always been focused on material things: the city he'll live in, the money he'll have, the nice things he'll be surrounded with. All of that seems shockingly unimportant if Iorveth isn't in the picture. ]