essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ The silky lounge pants come off, and he's sorry to see them go. He's rarely had something so incredibly impractical and entirely luxurious; one can't wear lounge pants to kill Ketheric Thorm, but that makes them all the better. Besides, he's made some delicious memories in (and out of) these pants. Perhaps for the best, though, that he's not thinking about that at the circus. He'd told Iorveth he'd permit almost anything, but his ego would never fully recover from getting frisky at a circus.

As he pulls on his new trousers, he gives Iorveth an appraising glance. It does sting a little to be reminded that he'll never need a mirror, nor a blade with which to cut his hair. Cazador still steals things from him from beyond the grave. Still, it's hardly Iorveth's fault that Astarion allowed himself to be bitten by a vampire instead of bleeding to death in an alley. He wipes the sour look on his face off as quickly as he can before he starts slipping his robe down his arms. ]

I think you look fetching wearing it long. [ A pause, and then a tilt of his head, as if conceding a point he's arguing to himself. ] Mm, but you'd look fetching wearing it short, too.

[ However fetching it might be, though, it's not exactly high fashion, so he adds, ] You know, if you want a more stylish coif, I'd be willing to lend my services.

[ Is he in any way trained to be a barber? No. But is he opinionated enough about hair that he thinks he might as well be? Yes. ]

Threatening me with a good time.

[ A laugh, and Iorveth finishes buckling the last of his belts around his body, securing his bow cradle to his back with a gentle tug. ] Any excuse for you to point a sharp object at me, I'll take.

[ It's a joke, but not really. Iorveth smiles, though his mind flits towards a question that he wisely decides to keep to himself: if someone cut Astarion's hair, would it simply not grow back, or would it grow back just to the length that it used to be before it was cut? A horrific thing to consider, if the former is true. Iorveth vows to protect Astarion's curls with his life; he's too fond of them now.

With that unspoken promise made, Iorveth hesitates for a moment before concentrating on the parasite living in his skull; he feels the faint discomfort of it pushing against his consciousness, a writhing that he'll never get used to, but he channels it and pushes its power outward, sending invisible feelers out to tap Astarion's tadpole with. A silent let me show you something. ]

[ He pulls on the shirt Iorveth picked out for him with a grin, pleased. Iorveth would bite the head off of anyone who got too close to him with a sharp object, but he likes Astarion enough to let him. It's a bit ridiculous; the idea of holding a blade near Iorveth's most vulnerable parts shouldn't make him feel warm and affectionate — and yet. Smile spreading, he flattens a palm against his torso to smooth out any wayward wrinkles in the shirt, running his hand over the delicate embroidery.

The nudge of Iorveth's tadpole against his own is unexpected, but not unpleasant. It should be, reminder of their precarious predicament that it is, but it isn't. He wants to make his mark all over every part of Iorveth, his mind included.

In the past, his mind had felt like a vault. Endless locks, a cadre of guards standing watch to keep out intruders. Now, it's more like a chest, willing to open for whoever might have the key. His tadpole reaches out in turn, psychically coiling around its kin. ]

[ Astarion allows the link, and Iorveth, in turn, offers a bit of himself for Astarion's scrutiny: a memory from decades ago, slightly foggy with age, of sitting in front of a wall-length mirror in a sun-lit room. The polished glass shows the reflection of a young elf braiding the sides of his long black hair, a hairtie held between his intact lips as he swiftly winds strands together.

Two eyes, no scar, expression still a little sharper than it should be on youthful features. "Iorveth!", someone calls from outside, and the elf turns in his seat, his profile smooth and unmarred as he looks towards the window.

The memory ends there; just a sliver of Iorveth's past for Astarion's scrutiny. The psychic link lingers, the tadpole feeding off of its host's willingness to connect: it pulses willfully in Iorveth's skull, and sends a flood of other, more recent musings related to hair, most of it sense-memory about touching Astarion's. A psychic collage of all the times Iorveth'd run his fingers through Astarion's curls, accompanied by the rush of serotonin that'd accompanied the gesture. All the casual "I like you"-s Iorveth'd kept inside his head, drip-fed through the tadpole connection.

It's a bleedover he wasn't expecting; his attempt to sever the link stutters a few times before it finally succeeds, almost with a grumble from his parasite. ]

[ It feels strange, looking in on this private memory. Almost like he's walked into a room without knocking and seen someone with their clothes off. Iorveth's face in the memory is without flaw, the beautiful features common to elvenkind on full display. He's gorgeous, of course, in that wood elf sort of way. Long, shiny hair, that same strong nose, lips lacking their signature scowl.

He wonders what it's like to remember before so vividly. A blessing and a curse, he supposes. If he had memories of his face before growing fangs and vampiric red eyes, he'd do nothing but reminisce. Does Iorveth feel resentment at the innocent person he used to be before someone hurt him, he wonders? Jealousy? Or does he only feel grief?

The other flashes of memory make him smile, chest glowing with warm fondness at the borrowed sense-memory of soft hair and happiness. He runs his own fingers over Iorveth's hair for a change, smoothing it away and out of his face. ]

What a handsome boy, [ he coos, complimentary. He won't lie and say Iorveth wasn't good-looking. ] But I like the handsome man before me.

－I'd meant to make you laugh, [ is almost a protest: "I wasn't fishing for compliments." ] Something about having looked the part of the stereotypical wood elf, hair and all.

[ The terrifying revelation that he would've matched Halsin in terms of hairstyle. Hells. Still, the compliment coupled with the touch makes his pulse skip, and Iorveth is glad that Astarion doesn't have his hand against his chest the way he did when he'd called him beautiful, of all things.

It doesn't pay to be brittle towards Astarion, though. Iorveth relaxes, bleeding potential tension through his fingers as he flexes them open and closed. He nudges their foreheads together for a beat, holding the point of contact for a second, then pulls back. ]

Unbelievable, that I've grown so attached to you. [ Offhandedly, as if he didn't just let Astarion into his serotonin-soaked brain. ] Get ready quickly, before I decide that the circus can wait.

[ Astarion frowns, his bristling only partially assuaged by the forehead touch. ]

I'm not so cruel.

[ Is that what Iorveth thinks entertains him? Laughter at someone else's expense? Well— he's not wrong, admittedly, but not at Iorveth's expense. He'd seethe and despair if he showed Iorveth a memory from his past, no matter how small, and received a laugh in return.

He perches on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on. A little haughty: ] You forgot to say that I'm handsome, too.

[ Iorveth, still a weirdo, has no idea why Astarion is bristling when Iorveth is the one that was fishing for the laugh: sometimes you want to show someone your semi-cringe teenage self (you have to laugh or be furious about bygone days if you have no more tears left to shed), just to put that truth in their hands.

He watches Astarion tug his boots on like someone slighted, and wonders if he should laugh or sigh. Both would probably be catastrophic, he thinks, and contents himself with keeping his expression warmly neutral, chin tipped to regard the furrow between Astarion's perfect brows with possibly rude fondness. ]

Yes, yes. [ A wave of his hand. ] Handsome, beautiful, ethereal.

[ Moving behind Astarion to find the bruise sitting above his collar, thumbing against it to make sure that it's properly visible. ]

Sweet. [ Just to let Astarion know that yes, Iorveth knows he's not needlessly cruel. Not to him, anyway. He cranes forward, and kisses that patch of discolored skin as punctuation. ]

[ If Iorveth thinks that a little praise and affection is going to be enough to soothe his offense, he's

Well, he's absolutely right. Astarion fights the smile creeping onto his face to no avail, the expression as insuppressible as it is unbidden. Maybe one day he'll be used to all this, and he won't melt like putty in Iorveth's hands at receiving a little kindness. Today isn't that day. ]

—Mm, three out of four isn't bad.

[ He's not so certain he's sweet. He's a bad person who's done awful things without blinking an eye. The only things sweet about him are his lies. ]

Come, [ he says, turning around to tug Iorveth by the forearm, ] let's get this necromancer business over with.

That's a no to "ethereal", then.

[ Iorveth can live with that－ Astarion does have a commanding presence. He would have made a great vampire ascendant, which is why Iorveth is glad that it didn't happen.

(If Astarion is going to be kind about him despite him being a heinous terrorist who would still slaughter a village full of humans without hesitation just to make them feel what he felt, well. He's not going to accept Astarion's refusal of sweet. It has to go both ways.)

Teeth in pale skin again to make sure that the point is made, and Iorveth finally concedes; they do have to go, and they've already missed the morning lull before the midday rush. By the time they travel from the city to Rivington, the place is certain to be packed with visitors and tired-looking refugees looking for any sort of escape from the uncertainty of their displaced lives－ Iorveth doesn't even hate the circus as much as the others seem to, but the clamor and chaos, he can do without.

Lae'zel narrows her eyes at the both of them as they leave: a silent "you two better fucking behave". Iorveth, hefting his bow and his pack of anti-vampire items, looks at her with the sort of imperious half-smile that says "I am going to do precisely what I want to do". Incorrigible as always. No wonder why everyone up north wants him dead.

Out they go, into daylight and towards the Circus of The Last Days. Gortash's Steel Watch clang around as they pass from Baldur's Gate to Wyrm's Rock, down the oppressive stone walkway where the Fists regard them with casual disdain. ]

[ Even the clanking of those ugly constructs doesn't mar the experience of warm sunlight on his face, and Astarion winds a hand around the crook of Iorveth's arm, eyes closing to bask in the feeling. It's heaven, strolling these streets with the sun shining down on them and Iorveth beside him. Absolutely nothing could temper his good mood— Well, except for the fact that they're going to the circus. He does hate the circus as much as the others — well, perhaps except Wyll. He was far too entertained by that clown. ]

You know, [ he starts, cajoling, leaning into Iorveth. ] It's not like Lae'zel will really know if we actually did what she asked.

[ She might really kick them out of the group if she finds out they didn't even do such a minor task, but that's only if she finds out. ]

[ Iorveth is aware of eyes on them as they meander past the first line of guards stopping refugees from entering the city proper: bitter glares from asylum-seekers who clearly don't love seeing two well-dressed elves, and the hungry glint of merchants who see an opportunity in the shape of two well-dressed elves. A few scantly-covered individuals milling near Sharess' Caress smile at them meaningfully, but Iorveth pays them no mind. ]

She won't. But I've already given her my word.

[ He may be a monster, a terrorist, a criminal, but let no one ever say that he doesn't keep his promises. A sideways glance at Astarion (who is tucked against his left, on his good side, where he can look at him with impunity), and he curls his lips upwards just a fraction of a centimeter. ]

Color me curious, though. What other mischief were you planning on getting us into?

[ Conspiratorial, against Astarion's ear. ]

[ Iorveth's breath tickles his ear, and his lips curl upward far more than a fraction of a centimeter. He imagines the Iorveth of a few tendays ago might have dismissed his 'mischief' as pointless frivolity at best and abject stupidity at worst, so it's a pleasure that he at least humors Astarion now. It's one of the small things about Iorveth that fills him with a narcissistic satisfaction; he likes to be special. ]

I hadn't decided yet.

[ Iorveth should have known better. Expecting Astarion to have a plan is like expecting a pig to fly. ]

I suppose we could go see what deals those brothel workers are offering.

[ Only a joke. He has next to no desire for any strangers to see him naked ever again. ]

Or we could go, ah. What do normal people do? [ He wrinkles his nose. ] Sit in the park and feed the pigeons?

[ Notably, he doesn't mention freeing the spawn from their underground prison. As sick as he feels when he thinks about them down there, he feels even sicker at the prospect of seeing their gaunt faces and dead eyes again. ]

[ A dry, obviously amused exhale-laugh later: ] You're asking me what normal people do.

[ No inflection at the end to indicate that it's a question. He's mostly just repeating "normal people" because he thinks it's hilarious, not because he wants an answer to a query that doesn't need one. Lae'zel is a githyanki, and she's probably more normal than Iorveth is.

Gods, he likes Astarion so much. Enough to spend foolish hours doing indulgent nonsense instead of hurrying on his way to destroying the Netherbrain. ]

We could play cards at the brothel. [ A casual suggestion, decidedly not normal. ] Or find the Sharran who gave Shadowheart trouble. [ Ferg Drogher, or whatever his name was. Iorveth would love to bully him for sport― also not normal. ] Or, yes, we could sit by the Chionthar and I could teach you how to hold a bird in your hand, I suppose.

And let it relieve itself in my palm? [ He shoots Iorveth a look of disgust. ] No, I think I'll leave the woodland creatures to you.

[ What is it they say? A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? He'd rather they stay in the bush, if it's all the same. ]

And I have no interest in ruining any more of my clothing with blood and knives.

[ Which a Sharran would most certainly do, he thinks. Worshipers of loss aren't the type to hold back. It says something about him that he's more concerned about the state of his clothing than the potential of getting his throat sliced by a Sharran cultist; if he has to die, he'd like to die looking stylish.

Contemplative, he adds, ] I suppose we could play cards, if you promise not to find any of the workers more alluring than me.

[ Iorveth steps them both out of the middle of the street and towards the many alcoves nestled between the rickety buildings lining the road leading towards Wyrm's Rock. In front of them is the vine-covered, ramshackle facade of Fraygo's Flophouse, where a group of halflings are arguing fiercely about how much coin they have left to spare at Sharess'.

Leaning into the shade of an overhang, Iorveth curls the corner of his scarred lips. ]

Ridiculous. [ "You're fishing for a compliment again" is implied. It would be an indictment if he didn't feel inclined to dish said compliments out to Astarion for free today. ] One of them could shove their hands down my trousers and my prick wouldn't so much as twitch.

[ He flicks under Astarion's chin, teasing. ]

Don't insult me. I'm not so easily swayed.

[ He scrunches up his face at the flick, although he's not truly bothered by it. How could he be? Iorveth's casual affection was a hard-earned prize. A grin breaks out across his face after, stupidly charmed by Iorveth's relaxed teasing, before he shakes his head. ]

I wouldn't fault you if it did twitch, my sweet.

[ It's as genuine as he's capable of being. Iorveth is only a man, and no matter how much self-discipline he claims to have, surely he doesn't have so much as to manually control his attraction. Besides, he's had enough meaningless dalliances to know that sex is what you make of it; one certainly doesn't have to be in love to take their clothing off for someone. It's the stirring of Iorveth's heart that Astarion feels possessive of, really, and ugh, he's a little disgusted with himself for that.

Astarion leans back against the wall of the Flophouse. A miserable place where he'd picked up so many victims who wouldn't be missed. He has no desire to play cards there, at the very least. ]

It's all right if you're stirred by, ah— [ He squints at the sign out front of Sharess' advertising their newest offer. ] 'The naughty paladin'. [ An immature giggle under his breath. ] Just as long as you still like me best.

[ Sex is sport: it can mean as little or as much as Iorveth allows it to. Still, it doesn't sit well with Iorveth, who likes clear lines in the sand, who likes to project himself exactly as he is, with no room for doubt. The thought of making Astarion wonder is like sandpaper against his skin.

Maybe a bit much, considering they're just joking around. Iorveth eases away from the comfortable edge of his emotional cliff, and folds his arms across his chest. ]

"Like you best". [ He parrots, brow arched. After a second to turn the concept over in his head, he breathes a soft chuckle. Smug, almost. ] In other words, I can lust, as long as my love is for you.

[ A lot of four-lettered words that start with 'L', and that last one is the most dangerous. Probably not the most romantic place in the world to use it, with their back to Fraygo's and their front to Sharress' Caress, but. Oh well. ]

I detest paladins. I'd say you're safe for today.

[ Facetious, and Iorveth knows it. A damaged creature like himself can only fall in love once. ]

[ Astarion tilts his head like a curious dog. He's heard the word 'love' in relation to himself before, of course, and he's said it plenty of times, but everyone involved knew that it was only farce. Lonely people liked it when he pretended to love them, and impulsive people would say just about anything when someone with two hundred years of experience was pleasuring them. He's never heard it outside of the context of sex and seduction, though, removed from the concept of 'lust'. Only when Cazador was in one of his rages, ranting about how Astarion was an unlovable worm no one but him could ever care for.

He almost feels a little defensive, like he wants to snap at Iorveth and tell him not to say things he doesn't mean again. Iorveth wouldn't play with his feelings the way he'd played with his victims', he knows, but it's hard not to feel like the other shoe is going to drop any second. Happiness is so precarious. ]

—Yes, [ he replies belatedly, realizing he'd been lost in thought. Now that's a rarity. ] Rogues are more fun. [ With a wiggle of his fingers: ] Better with our hands.

[ He clasps his hands behind his back, then, watching Iorveth. ]

Aren't you going to say how you'd fly into a jealous rage if I ever let another sate my depraved, carnal desires?

[ Iorveth observes the reaction, and lingers in the ensuing silence for a few beats. It says enough: shelf the 'l'-word for now. Too quick, too soon, too much. Stay was selfish enough on Iorveth's part for possibly the better part of the next century－ he can keep some of these cards closer to his chest until they're both ready to play them.

Leaning against his own section of wall with the good side of his profile facing Astarion, Iorveth adjusts the strap of his bow sling so that the cradle doesn't dig uncomfortably into his back. ]

Don't lie. You'd despise it if I did.

[ His nose wrinkles a bit, recalling things in very recent memory. ]

Besides, I've already made a fool of myself once in that regard.

[ Ugh. The abject embarrassment of having gotten so up in arms over Astarion biting someone else. Mortifying. ]

[ Astarion's nose wrinkles right back, albeit for a different reason. ]

Ugh. There was nothing 'carnal' about that.

[ No more carnal than the goblins he drank from near the Grove, and those wretched little things did nothing to inflame his lusts. It was killing, plain and simple, a way of trying to fill the yawning void inside of him. It had felt unbearably big that night, and he'd longed for nothing more than to stop wanting. Of course, filling the hole that way hadn't made it go away. It had only made it hungrier.

It's different with Iorveth. Not sexual, exactly—although a few more invitations to indulge while fooling around and it might be—but surely intimate. Like having someone see the monstrous thing he is and decide to care for it. His vampirism is hardly a point of pride, not when it's such a stark reminder of just how permanently Cazador changed him, but it feels more tolerable with Iorveth's freely given blood in his mouth.

He knocks their shoulders together, smiling roguishly. ]

You're the only one I want to do depraved things to.

[ Admitting that it bothered Iorveth that Astarion wandered back with someone else's blood on his mouth is admitting that there's something he finds sacrosanct about the act of bloodletting. Some of it is the lingering, ego-driven pleasure of having been Astarion's first (a staggering revelation), and most of it is the importance of trust: maybe Iorveth just doesn't love the idea that someone else gets to have that life-or-death negotiation with Astarion and live to talk about it. Something he'll have to unpack on a rainy day.

He acknowledges that it's stupid. Romanticizing vampirism is a slippery slope. It's very possible that liking Astarion is a slippery slope.

He gives in to it. A hundred years of crouching in front of broken corpses and feeling himself splinter, holding himself together with fury and grief and madness; Astarion makes him happy despite the sick rage that still runs rampant in Iorveth's veins. Iorveth wants him. So he tips Astarion's chin and kisses him, quick and fleeting, in witness of the thinly-dressed women and men watching them both from the second floor balconies of Sharess' Caress. ]

I have my doubts about your so-called depravity.

[ If it exists, Iorveth doesn't think he's seen it. His sweet cat, who often looks so accomplished when asking for trifles like an arm around his waist while he sleeps. ]

[ If his heart weren't cold and dead, it would flutter. For such an innocent kiss, he feels inordinately atwitter. Because it's such an innocent kiss. The prospect of pressing his mouth to someone else's not to lick obscenely into it but to show simple affection is a thunderstrike. He turns over the word 'love' in his head again before shoving it into a box to think about later.

As for his depravity, he huffs, although he really can't dispute it. No, he hasn't been particularly deviant. How warm he feels from chaste physical affection is proof of that. ]

I spent so long doing sordid and degrading things for someone else's benefit. I'm still getting used to the idea of having my own preferences. Liking things instead of gritting my teeth and bearing them.

[ Feeling safe, having his own wants and needs cared about, being desired as more than just a tool to be used. It's all very new. ]

But who knows what perversion the future might bring? I certainly don't mind exploring, if it's with you.

[ A low breath, a half-sigh. ]

If your perversion boils down to this, [ reaching for Astarion's hand to grip it, fingers laced with fingers for a moment before relinquishing, ] and this, [ another quick press of his lips, this time to Astarion's hair, ] I wouldn't complain.

[ Perversion might have lost its luster, if it ever had one to begin with. Iorveth wouldn't mind in either direction: he's enough of a freak to let Astarion tie him up if he wanted to try it, but also tired enough to be satisfied with cuddling for the rest of his life. An elf containing multitudes.

At any rate, the women and men in the brothel's employ filter back into their respective upstairs rooms, abandoning their eavesdropping positions after deciding that the two well-dressed elves probably won't be visiting them anytime soon. Iorveth huffs again. ]

Though I'll want to buy some oil. Just in case. [ Local freak elf, determined not to make the same mistake twice. ]

[ A haughty scoff rings out as Astarion rolls his eyes. ]

You talk as if we'll have even a lick of privacy for the foreseeable future.

[ He can barely cuddle Iorveth without being exposed by one of their troublesome companions. As much as he'd like to make their roommates go red in the face, he'd die—again—if they were interrupted. He's been watched enough. So, delectably deviant public handholding and pecks exchanged on the street it is.

With a grumble, he adds, ] Lae'zel already critiques me on how I handle my blade. I'd rather not hear her criticism on how I handle your blade.

[ All right, he does have to laugh at that, juvenile that he is. He titters in amusement, although he's trying very hard to keep his frown. ]

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