essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Ah. As much as Iorveth has told himself to be calm and understanding, that last bit elicits the kind of involuntary flinch that he'll look back on later and be embarrassed by; the sort of little twitch that says you've hurt me.

Because it does. Hurt, he means. It hurts because Iorveth loves Astarion so completely, and he would forgive him in a second if Astarion said that he wanted him. Everything else is just noise, something he can work around. But, again, Iorveth loves Astarion, and the thought that he was wearing himself thin the past tenday, that he hated what Iorveth put him through, makes Iorveth feel tight-chested.

He swings his legs off of the bed, and gets up. ]

Astarion. I love you.

[ Simply. An immovable, unshakeable truth. Iorveth's expression pulls into a frown, then relaxes, tired and open. ]

But if you're suffering me, say so.

[ Oh. He'd thought it would feel good to hurt Iorveth. He feels hurt, and the best way to deal with that, historically, has been to take it out on someone else, but there's no relief from it. It feels bad, actually, so bad that he finds himself wishing he could combust where he stands. In a millisecond, his shoulders lower and he uncrosses his arms in an aborted attempt to reach out and comfort Iorveth. ]

And you accuse me of not seeing things clearly! [ he says, voice still clipped but full of significantly less venom. He still has argument left in him, particularly regarding the fact that it feels as if Iorveth is continually trying to get rid of him, but he can't relish Iorveth's pain. ]

I tolerated all of those things because it meant that I was with you.

[ Said as if Iorveth is the dumbest elf in the world. Has nearly any of this tenday been pleasant? No. It's been terrible, but he didn't care, because he had Iorveth at his side.

A rephrase, then, lest Iorveth be convinced to take him the wrong way: ] It was all tolerable because of you, you absolute numbskull.

[ An awkward cycle: "why are you trying to get rid of me" and "I don't want to force you to stay if it makes you unhappy". Iorveth frowns again, displeased to think of Astarion tolerating their days together (again: he deserves better), but understanding, mostly, that this is a significant concession on Astarion's part.

So, instead of his intended trajectory out, he moves towards Astarion. A step, two, until he's within arm's length. ]

―Tell me you want me to be by your side, then. That you want me to go with you, wherever you need to be.

[ Solemnly, because this is all Iorveth really needs: his most important person to tell him to stay. Pathetic and humiliating, perhaps, but he doesn't really care.

And, well. Since nothing is above him, and it seems unfair to demand without giving in return: ] ...I beg you, Astarion.

[ Part of Astarion wants to get indignant again. He doesn't want to have to ask; he wants to be important enough to Iorveth that staying together is a foregone conclusion, that it's obvious Iorveth would never choose his crusade over him. Again: selfish. He really is awful.

But Iorveth looks open and vulnerable and exhausted, and Astarion finds that he doesn't have it in him to drain him further. The truth of the matter is that, despite everything, he loves Iorveth (perhaps too much) and wants to see him happy. Iorveth had said he'd do anything for Astarion if he only asked. He supposes he should reciprocate, no matter how uncomfortable it is to open himself up like this.

For a moment, silence stretches out as he musters up the courage. Then, sounding more childishly demanding than he intends: ]

I don't want you to go north. I want you to stay with me.

[ It's probably unfair of Iorveth to demand that they do this on his terms. A lot of hangups happening with this guy: aware that, historically, things haven't gone terribly well with the people he's decided to attach his name to, leading him to say "never again" until he does it all over again.

So maybe it's the only sliver of insecurity that Iorveth possesses that makes him demand that Astarion tell him to stay. If he can believe that he's needed, then he can do whatever it takes to do just that. Stay.

It's a big ask, so it wouldn't have mattered even if Astarion had delivered his verdict by stamping his feet and punching Iorveth in the face; it settles like water in dry cracks, and Iorveth moves forward to take one of Astarion's hands in his own. (Ready to let go if that point of contact is too much.) ]

Then you'll have me.

[ Relieved, almost. Funny, how Iorveth is a perpetually-boiling rage furnace that also derives absolutely no joy from being mad at Astarion, specifically. ]

[ Astarion still feels a little prickly at having been made to ask in such a way, but just as he couldn't deny Iorveth his words, he can't deny him his affection. He allows Iorveth to take a pale, spindly hand in his, although he gently rearranges their fingers so that Iorveth doesn't have to touch any enchanted-chest bite marks. It is a relief, of course, to be told that Iorveth will stay with him, but there's still a deep ache in his chest, unpleasant and shameful. He feels ashamed not only of what he said--although he does--but of what was said about him. Gods, Iorveth made him sound like Cazador, a monster who only cares for subjugating others.

Hesitantly, he ventures, ] Do you truly think that of me?

[ 'Tell me you don't,' he wishes he could demand, but that would be in direct opposition to what he hopes to accomplish. ]

That I believe your only virtue is in groveling?

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