essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion just shrugs. It's not Iorveth's fault that his love language is acts of service and all he knows how to do is kill. ]

And if you ever need someone to fix that mop you call hair, say the word.

[ Bullying. Gale's hair actually looks quite good, although Astarion will never admit it, lest Gale get a(n even) big(ger) head. It's important that Gale gets knocked down a peg every once in a while, and Astarion is happy to be of service.

Gale scoffs, offended, and opens his mouth to protest— ]

Thank you, truly.

[ —and is then rendered speechless by Astarion offering genuine gratitude. ]

You should get some rest, Gale. [ Innocently: ] I promise I won't go through your things while you're asleep.

[ Affectionate bullying from two elves. Gale should be so lucky, and is. It's evident that he's trying to be annoyed by the strong personalities jerking him around, but all he winds up doing is smiling, hands on his hips with his head (full of nice hair) shaking from side to side.

"Whatever are we to do with you two," he says to no one in particular (Tara has gone off somewhere, no doubt to do some very important tressym business). "Good night, then. And do be warned, some of my more precious things are enchanted."

Wagging his fingers in mock-intimidation, Gale smiles one more time at the two of them before slinking off to his bedroom for his well-earned beauty rest. Again: a good man who deserves better than Mystra. Iorveth is glad that he's no longer trailing after someone who neither loved him nor needed him. ]

You heard him, [ Iorveth calls to Astarion once Gale is out of earshot. ] Careful not to get your wandering hands magicked off.

You'd miss my wandering hands, wouldn't you?

[ A tease. He didn't get to bask in the afterglow of Iorveth's orgasm and get properly fawned over like he deserves, so he reaches out for Iorveth, wiggling his fingers. A cat begging for pets from its favorite person. ]

Come.

[ The corner of his mouth remains quirked up. Although he barely drank, he finds that hope gives the same sort of giddy feeling as indulging on blood, and he can't hide the happiness at something in life finally going his way. All it took was one ridiculous wizard. If this pans out, he'll truly have freedom -- a life, one he can live during the day like he deserves. ]

You didn't say much about Gale's idea. What do you make of it all?

[ The expression on his face makes it obvious that anything but pure optimistic encouragement will absolutely crush him. ]

[ Ugh. His sweet, eminently lovable cat. Iorveth gravitates back into his space, resting the pilfered book next to Astarion before sitting on the opposite side of it, scooting close and reaching to nest Astarion's head against his shoulder. That look of unfiltered, tentative hope twists something in Iorveth's chest, reminding him of younger elves who'd looked to him with the same sort of unblinking expectation, some sort of bettering of their current situation.

What can he say? The same thing he always does. ]

I think it's something that needs doing.

[ As in, he believes it's important, and that it should be acted upon. Terribly practical of him, as usual. ]

If there's anything in this world capable of giving you your freedom, you should pursue it. [ Obviously. Killing Cazador was a huge first step, and now Astarion needs to live; arguably just as difficult a task as murdering one's oppressor. ] ...You always looked happier in the light.

[ Astarion leans into the crook of Iorveth's neck, inhaling the comforting scent of his skin. Probably not the time to ask if he can have a proper meal. He squandered that opportunity, he thinks, by getting carried away upstairs. The little snack he had will have to last him. ]

It sounds as if that cloak could be anywhere in the world.

[ A problem, but not an insurmountable one, as long as it still exists in some fashion. Astarion has survived an illithid parasite in his brain; finding an enchanted piece of clothing can't be that hard. Still, it might take some time and some travel. An annoying inconvenience to him, having no other plans and no one to be beholden to but himself, but for Iorveth--

Hm. He's not sure. Casually: ] It could be further south.

[ Translation: not north, not where Iorveth is going. ]

It could be.

[ He concedes. Astarion, as ever, has unintentionally good aim; that's the heart of the problem, after all. The balancing of two diametrically opposing but equally important personal issues.

It would be disastrous for him, Iorveth knows, if he loses Astarion. It's the truth, as pathetic as it sounds to him in his own head. He's the sort of attachment Iorveth shouldn't have made if he intended to remain a weapon for the survival of northern wood elves, because weapons don't have personal feelings. They're wielded until they break, and that'd been his prerogative for upwards of a century.

Now, he's not entirely sure. He glances down at Astarion, at his pale skin and his soft curls, his long fingers, the slant of his shoulders. Familiar and, unfortunately, coveted. ]

It would take me further away from my clan than I'd ever intended to go. [ An honest assessment, now that Gale is gone.

He hums, then posits something rhetorical (which may not be interpreted as such): ] ...Would you allow me to part ways with you, even temporarily?

[ Astarion's head pops off Iorveth's shoulder with such speed that it would be comical, were he in any position to find anything comical right now. He isn't. It sounds an awful lot like Iorveth is trying to break things off--'temporarily'--less than an hour after Astarion had his hand on his cock and his spend on his tongue. Gods, if he weren't dead, he could die of embarrassment.

It's lucky they no longer have tadpoles, because if Iorveth were able to see inside his mind, he would see Astarion kicking and screaming like the least mature 200-something this world has ever seen. Although he's unskilled with anything resembling 'coping with unpleasantness', he's at least become slightly more skilled at behaving as if he isn't internally throwing a tantrum. A long pause passes, wherein he wades through the bog of distress in his mind to form a sentence. It's a little snippy. ]

I suppose I can't tell you what to do outside the bedroom.

[ Ah. Another concession: maybe he didn't phrase that as gently as he could have. Iorveth waits while Astarion boils in his discomfort for a few seconds, and sighs under his breath at the response that he gets. He's fairly certain that, if he leans, he'll bump up against the psychic walls that Astarion's thrown up in record time. ]

Foolish cat. [ Mean. Same old Iorveth, but not really. Line that up with the "foolish vampire" that he used to say to Astarion pre-regicide, and they would be nothing alike in terms of tone or severity. ] I've starved you, harmed you, and made you feel small, all because of my asking you to come north with me.

[ An uncharitable read on their journey thus far, but it also isn't untrue. Astarion has followed Iorveth all the way here, relatively unquestioningly, which has not been particularly advantageous or healthy for him, in Iorveth's unprofessional opinion. ]

Tell me what you want, now. [ Sternly, resolutely. ] You're not some pretty thing I keep to serve me in the bedroom. You're worth more than that. Your wants hold weight.

[ Astarion slumps in his seat, pouting. Mercurial as always, his mood has turned from manic joy to petulant sullenness in an instant. Why should he have to tell Iorveth what he wants? Iorveth should just do the things he wants without having to be told! ]

I want to find that damned cloak.

[ More than anything. More than he wants to accompany Iorveth to the north, that's for sure. He's spent so much of his time following other people—Cazador, Lae'zel, Iorveth—but now, finally, he's decided to go after something for himself. Killing Cazador was step one, but that cloak would bring him near complete freedom. The sort of life he should have had. ]

...I would understand, if you had other matters to attend to.

[ He totally wouldn't, but he's trying to sound mature. ]

I'll do it with or without your help.

[ He sounds more confident than he is. In truth, he's terrified that he won't be able to accomplish it alone. ]

[ "I'll do it with or without your help is"―

―well, on one hand, it's great. A goal, a purpose. Something that maybe Astarion's been missing post-Cazador and post-Netherbrain. It's the sort of thing that he deserves to have, right alongside his freedom: the ability to carve out his own path, to walk on his own without following.

On the other hand, "with or without you" stings. An irrational response to what is, yes, a mature and healthy thing to say in a situation that requires compromise on a large scale. Iorveth isn't stupid; he knows that this is a "if you have something you can't give up, I won't tell you to", and not a "I don't need you".

Feelings. How inconvenient, that they all have to have them. A lingering moment, and he gets up from his perch with an exhale. ]

...My only wish is for your freedom and happiness. Whatever form that takes, and however you want it, is up to you.

[ What in the hells does that mean, Astarion wants to ask, but he also doesn't really want to hear Iorveth explain. He's already prickly enough, stung by the realization that he still comes in second place to the Aen Seidhe and internally berating himself for ever thinking otherwise. Iorveth is never going to love him more than he loves those stupid wood elves, and—

Actually, he's starting to feel less and less all right with that. He sits up, rolling his shoulders. ]

Well, this was a productive talk [ —not really— ] but I'm going to go look through all of Gale's private belongings.

[ That'll make him feel better. ]

[ Iorveth knows what Astarion wants to hear, and it's the thing he'd intended to do anyway: to set his journey aside to go with Astarion, wherever that would take them. He could say so, and he could also tell Astarion that he loves him more than anything, because Iorveth does. That's the worst part of it, Iorveth thinks― that he loves Astarion enough to set the plight of his kind aside.

He could say all this. But Astarion doesn't tell him what he wants to hear― "I want you to come with me"― and it makes Iorveth feel...

...what, exactly? Hurt? He doesn't want to think about the possibility of that; he's grown enough to know that Astarion is trying to protect himself, and that Iorveth, an insane freedom fighter with enormous amounts of baggage, isn't making things any easier.

Still, there's a thorn in his chest. He knows that continuing to converse with it still lodged where it is will make him say something he'll regret, so he doesn't. Instead, he hums under his breath, a half-assent, and moves towards the direction of the stairs without saying anything further. ]

[ What were you hoping for, asks the mean little voice in his head, that he'd try to stop you? Embarrassingly, yes. He'd hoped Iorveth would stop him and tell him that of course his freedom is more important than some ridiculous group of elves who don't even love Iorveth back, and that nothing matters more than achieving it together. If not that, then he'd sort of hoped that Iorveth might say something cruel so that they could have it out, maybe reach some sort of catharsis. When neither of those things happens, he deflates and skulks off to do what he'd promised: go through Gale's things.

He doesn't even try to talk to Iorveth until it's nearly morning, when he makes his way back up to the guest bedroom. He could trance in one of Gale's armchairs downstairs, but he shouldn't have to; it's Iorveth who's being unfair, after all, so if anyone should have to take the chair, it's him. Trudging up the stairs, he rubs circles around newfound tooth marks on his hand. One of Gale's damn chests bit him.

Feigning disinterest in Iorveth, he peeks through the drapes at the slowly lightening Waterdeep skyline. ]

There's a rather famous tavern in the Castle Ward. I thought I might pay it a visit tomorrow. [ With a glance back Iorveth's way: ] I expect you could find someone to discuss 'elf politics' with there.

[ By the time Astarion comes back to the guest bedroom, that thorn in Iorveth's chest is gone. Iorveth has had time to think about it, to examine it from all angles. He's swallowed it, and it sits now in the bottom of his gut, where its presence is known but aches less.

He's sitting on the bed, because he remembers the promise he'd made to Astarion ages ago: that he'd always return to their bed, regardless of their respective moods, or if they'd fought the day (night) before. He's sure Astarion doesn't remember it, and he glances at Astarion and the thick wall of feigned nonchalance that he's drawn up between them again.

Iorveth watches, and wonders if he loves Astarion less for it. He should, maybe. But he finds that he doesn't, not at all: nothing about Astarion has changed, after all. He's the same as he ever was, vulnerable and prideful and beloved. ]

We'll go, then. [ Plainly, without awkwardness. Iorveth sits up from where he'd been leaning against the headboard with Gale's book on magical artefacts (several pages in the section about the Cloak of Dragomir dog-eared, which he doesn't realize will make Gale scream), and glances towards the hand that Astarion is rubbing. ] ...Your hand. I told you to be careful.

[ Come, he beckons. He doesn't expect Astarion to oblige, but he might as well. ]

[ It isn't a scolding, or if it is it's a very mild one, but Astarion is in the mood to take it like one regardless. ]

Oh, well, if I'd only known to be careful.

[ Usually, he's like a stray cat rubbing up against Iorveth's legs, begging for affection from the first person to ever show it kindness and gentleness. Right now, though, he's more like a feral cat circling the perimeter, interested in Iorveth but too wary to accept a pet on the head. Taking affection from Iorveth now would just be humiliating.

He does soften slightly, leaning against the windowsill and inspecting the bite marks. A little bit red and ugly, but he's hardly maimed. ]

You needn't waste a spell. I guess it was just a matter of time before something bit back.

[ Two steps forward, ten steps back. This takes him back to when they were still trying to figure each other out, wary of intention and ulterior motives: the thing that's changed since then is that Iorveth is fairly certain that he has a better read on Astarion than he did before.

So. ] I want to use the spell, which means I'll not be wasting it.

[ Again, plainly. But he doesn't push beyond that, keeping that offer on the table and continuing to observe Astarion from his vantage point, head tipped and watchful. ]

Astarion. [ He ventures, after a beat. ] I spoke gracelessly last night. I acknowledge it.

[ The feral cat puffs up, fur standing on end. ]

—Ugh, must we really discuss it?

[ It's unpleasant and embarrassing and makes him feel bad. Iorveth had said something about making him feel small on this journey to the north, but it was the Commandant and those awful humans who made him feel that way; he'd never been made to feel small by Iorveth until he realized he was still second priority. He crosses his arms, staring intently at a small claw mark on the wall where Tara must have scratched. ]

I already told you that I understand.

[ Very maturely! He gets it. Some things are more important than individual desires— ]

I mean, why help me with a task that will decide the very course of my life when you could mother hen over a group of ingrate tree huggers?

[ All right. Maybe he's not that mature about it. ]

Edited (needed to be more dramatic) 2025-02-09 01:24 (UTC)

[ Be patient, Iorveth tells himself. Astarion has suffered two hundred years of indignity; be patient, he tells himself again.

He tells himself, but doesn't manage it entirely. The last addendum is like sandpaper to someplace soft, and it twists Iorveth's expression into a frown. ]

Those "ingrate tree huggers" are the reason I am who I am now.

[ Delivered more coldly than Iorveth would've liked. He breathes through his teeth, aggravation sharpening his already-obvious edges. ]

...I adore you, you stupid cat. If you asked it of me, I would follow you to the edge of Toril to keep you safe.

[ A dry laugh, and a shake of his head. ]

But you don't see me clearly.

[ He likes to hear how adored he is, but the rest of it—the tone, the laugh— rankles. They're two wild animals, sharp in all the wrong places. Astarion has half a mind to keep arguing about the Aen Seidhe, but he knows it's pointless expended energy. Iorveth is right; they are the reason he is who he is. One can't separate a terrorist from his cause.

So he leans back, eyebrow arched, obviously displeased at the assertion that he doesn't see anything clearly (or that he isn't right, all the time, about everything). ]

Do tell me more about how I see you.

[ Iorveth knows how this feels: like teetering on the edge of falling, again. Again. His queen sold him as collateral, his comrade disappeared without a word, his dragon told him that there was no space for him. He's always been the common denominator, him. (Ugly, broken, unlovable.)

His pride screams at himself, but there's so little of it left when he's with Astarion. What use is it, when he's already bowed his head in front of Astarion and pleaded with him to stay? The smarter, more strategic thing to do in this situation would be to leave, to not dignify that statement with an answer that isn't a curt "why don't you think for yourself", but he hasn't been smart or strategic around Astarion in a small age. ]

Someone who would discard you if you became inconvenient.

[ Bluntly. He hates saying it; the words taste like ash in his mouth. ]

I didn't say that.

[ He thought it. But he didn't say it, so Iorveth has no right to call him out on it. Besides, it isn't as much about Iorveth—who he still thinks is the best person in the world, even now—as it is about himself. He'd be lying if he said he weren't worried that he's... discardable. Inconvenient isn't so much a worry as a fact; he's spent enough time trying not to be inconvenient that he knows it's a near impossible feat for him.

Astarion shifts uncomfortably, irritated by Iorveth's pinpoint precision. ]

I just think that— [ He sniffs indignantly, tipping up his chin. ] Even I deserve more than to play second fiddle to a cause.

[ Silence follows that last statement. They're words he's spoken many times to himself, made manifest: you don't deserve him.

He agrees. ] I've never deserved you. [ A fact. Iorveth has never had anything to offer Astarion beyond this stupid, unhinged depth of feeling, and even this, Astarion could probably get from someone less insane.

Iorveth knows. No two ways around it. ]

But, I say again: if you want me to aid you in finding the cloak, you need only say so. I will― I'd intended it from the start.

And if, when you find your freedom, you wish to go your own way, then I'll not ask you to stay again.

[ Oh, now that pisses him off. Incensed, his neck flushes red, and he squeezes his hands into fists. ]

Gods, you're so—

[ He kicks Gale's very nice wall, which hurts— ] Fuck. [ Which infuriates him more. He was trying to be mature about this at one point, but he's already completely forgotten that. Toes throbbing, he turns back to Iorveth, throwing his hands up. ]

You're supposed to beg me to stay.

[ Babe, you're not really acting like my idealized version of you. ]

[ Oh. Well. Maturity has left the chat, then. Iorveth blinks, then huffs a laugh that's distinctly unkind, this time around. ]

Is that right. So you think me a pathetic mother hen to a doomed pack of tree-huggers: a foolish terrorist whose only virtue is groveling at your feet for your affection.

[ That voice telling himself to be patient is awfully quiet. Truly, where is Gale and his terrible timing, because now would've been a great time to come upstairs to tell Iorveth that breakfast will be served in thirty minutes. Instead, the tower is quiet save for the sound of two prickly elves fighting, which is a sorry state for it to be in. ]

I asked you what you wanted, because I wanted you to tell me that you wanted me. I would do anything for you, if you ask. [ Clipped but truthful, swallowing his pride for this particularly embarrassing confession. ] But you'd rather I beg and plead for your permission to stay.

[ Astarion blinks, taken aback. He's so used to Iorveth's affection now that it feels foreign and strange and deeply unpleasant to earn his ire. He sputters a little, at an uncharacteristic loss for words. I didn't say that is on the tip of his tongue, but he very much did say it, even though it sounds quite a bit worse when Iorveth repeats it.

He has no choice but to embrace what he's said, so he crosses his arms again, scowling. ]

Oh, I know. I'm so very awful.

[ Well, he is. Iorveth should have known as much. He's horrible and selfish, and he wants to be something Iorveth cares to lose rather than something he can just dispassionately cut loose. ]

After all, I certainly haven't made any sacrifices. I had so much fun leaving civilization and trudging, starving, through the woods until I got tied up in some awful man's dirty basement.

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