[ 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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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. ]