essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Astarion killed the vampire, as far as Iorveth is concerned. He doesn't know of any others (sorry Strahd), and by all accounts, a vampire who'd managed to collect enough souls to consider the Rite of Profane Ascension must have made Cazador one of the most powerful vampires out there.

Or, at least, the most careful, until he wasn't. Iorveth glances at Astarion, remembering how he'd absolutely pulverized that rat until he was a bloody mess; Astarion is the love of his life, truly.

While Iorveth draws hearts around Astarion's head, Gale keeps the conversation going. "Gods, I do wish you'd told us that you were going to do it. Far be it for us to have told you how to go about things, but we could have offered assistance."

A thing that Gale obviously still thinks about. Which is perhaps why he brought this up in the first place. "I am very happy to help you when I can, Astarion."

Big soft brown eyes. Wet dog very much wants to be friends with fluffy cat. ]

[ Astarion falters. Genuine displays of emotion from anyone who isn't Iorveth have always been difficult and uncomfortable to navigate, especially when it's regarding something so private and somewhat embarrassing as his history with Cazador. He looks down at his plate, poking the sausage with his fork. ]

...What's done is done.

[ Maybe he should have recruited the others, but he was terrified of them seeing something so personal. He couldn't bear the thought of that vulnerability; he could barely bear it with Iorveth. Still, it's kind of Gale. ]

But thank you. I do appreciate it.

[ He glances back up. ]

For now, the only help I need from you is locating that cloak. [ A pause, during which he glances at Iorveth's nearly empty plate. ] And, I suppose, continuing to feed this feral beast.

[ "And find that cloak I will," Gale replies, warm and happy to be asked. "As for Iorveth, well..."

Iorveth reaches for another helping of cheese, head tipped in distinct "feral animal" fashion.

"...I'll do my best."

Poor Gale. Iorveth laughs despite himself, low and soft. ] I'm already outstaying my welcome. Don't give him any more reasons to want to throw me out.

[ A wave of his hand, dismissive. Gale looks like he wants to say something about that, but is interrupted by Iorveth's addendum: ] For a start, we'll be going out tonight. No need to play host for dinner.

Oh, [ Astarion says. He'd forgotten all about his plan to visit the Yawning Portal, too distracted by their argument and subsequent making up. He straightens up, attentive. ] Yes, he's right. We do have plans.

[ "Oh," Gale echoes, seemingly surprised that Iorveth has any interest in 'going out'. "Well, that's wonderful. I did hope that you would get to appreciate Waterdeep's many splendors." He pauses, watching Iorveth eat. "—But I'll leave some food for you when you return, regardless. I'm used to cooking for an army nowadays, after all."

Astarion raises an eyebrow. Perhaps Gale misses the camaraderie of being in a group, and he actually wants to keep them here in the city for as long as he can. A strange realization — he'd been certain they'd be burdens to him, but Gale seems to enjoy the company. It's easy to forget that he'd spent a year locked in this tower, all alone with his problems. Maybe it's been difficult to return to such a place by himself. ]

We'll need to root through your closet, of course.

[ He can't go out looking less than stunning! Gale frowns a little at that. "You know, there are plenty of clothing shops in the city..." ]

Ugh. I promise I won't destroy any more of your things, [ he says, rolling his eyes as if Gale is being dramatic. ] Happy?

[ Gale is so... nice. Not a bad thing, in all certainty, but people-pleasing is what got a Netherese orb stuck in his chest, and what got him stuck with two finnicky (?) elves. He really needs some more self-preservation instincts, Iorveth thinks.

(Then again, Iorveth is the most paranoid person in the world, so there's that for comparison's sake.)

"I should hope you wouldn't," is the equivalent of a verbal finger-wag. Very ineffective against vampires. "I know you tried to open one of my chests last night－ it was very cross this morning."

A physical finger-wag. Gale continues: "Now, I can give you two some coin if you promise not to spend it in an ill-advised way. Fey Day is just around the bend, which means that there should be plenty of pretty things to peruse."

Gods. ] You're going to regret offering.

[ Astarion beams. Gale is so nice, and so easy to extort things from. Their very own little dog, wagging his tail and begging to be liked. He places a delicate hand over his heart, turning solemn. ]

Oh, I'd never spend money in an ill-advised way.

[ It can't be ill-advised if you don't take advice in the first place. Astarion is a horrible, reckless spender, too excited by the concept of 'having things' to control himself in any meaningful way. It isn't just the excitement of having something pretty in his possession—although that's certainly part of it—but also the wonderful feeling of getting to choose, of being a real person again. He'd longed for so many things during his time as a spawn: a shiny ring in a window, a book on the shelf, a nice bottle of wine. Now, he's determined to buy himself all of the things he could never have. ]

I expect we'll need to trance first [ —because screaming at each other is a bit exhausting— ] but we'll be out of your hair [ and in his wallet ] the moment the sun goes down.

[ "Well, alright. But don't think I've forgotten about our opera tickets― I'll see if I can't conjure them for a different night."

Gale hasn't forgotten about the opera, but Iorveth sure has. Too late to invite himself to that outing, not that he wants to interrupt a nice night between friends. Astarion could probably stand to spend some time without Iorveth hovering behind him like a one-eyed specter.

Not today, though. Iorveth piles a few portable breakfast items onto a plate, and scrapes his chair back to get up onto his feet; as accustomed as he is to being exhausted, he isn't immune to a post-argument, post-food consumption coma, and he'd like to be in bed with Astarion when the wave of unconsciousness starts to knock. ]

Astarion. Come. [ A quick press of his lips against silver curls, coaxing. With that done, he glances towards Gale and offers: ] ...Where are my manners? The best breakfast I've had in an age― thank you.

[ Not since the one he had with Dolores' friend, the one who gave him embroidery lessons and thought Astarion was his terminally sick love. He won't say that, though, and not just because Gale wouldn't get it. Gods forbid anyone think him sentimental. ]

[ Tara, in the midst of nibbling on her meal, gives Iorveth an appreciative nod of the head at remembering his manners. If he hadn't, she would have had to have words with him — her Gale will not be taken for granted in his own home.

Astarion, on the other hand, should be annoyed by being beckoned like a dog, but making up with Iorveth and getting to participate in a meal like a real person have put him in a good mood. (How quickly he swings from one extreme to another; only hours ago, he was rooting through Gale's study, brooding about the future.) So, he offers Gale his own thanks for breakfast and takes Iorveth by the hand that isn't occupied with his plate to lead him back up the stairs and into the guest room. Gale calls after them, something about making sure not to leave crumbs on the bedsheets.

Back in the room, he takes the liberty of placing Iorveth's plate on the nightstand so that he can manhandle him onto the bed and crawl up beside him, slotting himself into the space created by Iorveth's body just for him. ]

I love you.

[ Just in case that was unclear at any point today. ]

[ Back to being horizontal. Iorveth is reaching behind him for a pillow when Astarion says what he says, and it disarms Iorveth completely; not because he thinks the statement is a lie, but because of the timing of it.

When it finally sinks in, it makes him feel heartsick all over again. One hand glides smoothly to Astarion's waist, pulling him inwards with a clear intent to keep him close. ]

...And I, you. [ The one thing that never wavered, even when he'd hit Astarion with the possibility that he might leave after Astarion got his cloak. Iorveth adores Astarion to death, and he doubts that that will change even if they wind up breaking each other's hearts. Some part of him will always belong to Astarion.

That said, being disarmed means that Iorveth's defenses crumble completely. If he'd retained some of the poised austerity that clings to him like a second skin during breakfast, he sheds it completely now: he looks more tired and raw, pressed against Astarion with his single eye half-narrowed in affection, but he also looks a little younger. Less burdened than usual. ]

...Nothing feels better than being beside you. [ Leaning in, he punctuates that with a nuzzle. ]

[ Iorveth softens, and Astarion loves him all the more for it. He adores watching Iorveth give others verbal—or physical—beatdowns, but he far prefers when Iorveth is sweet and unguarded, a feral fox whose affection and docility he's earned. He breaks out into a warm grin, fondness radiating out of him. ]

Nothing?

[ He closes the small distance between them to press a kiss to the tip of Iorveth's nose, innocent, playful, and full of affection. ]

Not even this? [ Another kiss to Iorveth's strong chin. ] Or this? [ And one to his cheek— ] What about this?

[ Oh. Well, that's unfair. Laughing under his breath, Iorveth angles his head and gives Astarion's earlobe a light nibble in retaliation. He knows how much it means to be trusted with this sort of affection, especially after they've had a bit of a row. ]

Words, [ he laugh-sighs again. ] Fine. Nothing feels better than you.

[ If Astarion must know. Not as grudging of a rephrasing as it could have been, with Iorveth all too happy to spoil Astarion a bit for hurting him earlier, for making him think, even for a second, that Iorveth didn't believe that Astarion cares for him.

Rubbing noses, he drops a light peck to the corner of Astarion's mouth. ]

I wish to build the rest of my life with you.

[ Iorveth can't possibly know how much this chaste affection means to him, how wonderful it feels to engage in physicality without any pressure to go further. Healing, he might say, if that weren't an embarrassing thing to admit. He leans in with the intent to kiss Iorveth back, but he stops when Iorveth speaks again— ]

Oh, [ he says, stupidly. It isn't an unpleasant thing to hear, necessarily, but he hasn't any idea how to respond. No one has ever told him anything like it before. After all, before Iorveth, no one ever wanted more than a night with him.

He pulls back an inch, searching Iorveth's face like he's worried that there's some kind of catch, like maybe Iorveth doesn't actually mean it. ]

Really?

[ Said, again, stupidly. ]

[ Oh, Astarion says, and Iorveth thinks "too much?". After all they'd argued about, Iorveth'd thought it would be the logical conclusion: "I would follow you anywhere", seguing neatly into "I want to build my life with you". (An insane man's train of logic, probably.)

Iorveth is as serious as the plague. He returns the bemusement with a kind of bemusement of his own, a question mark floating above his own head, trying to work out if there's a simpler or more meaningful way to phrase what he'd already said. ]

Yes, [ he finally decides. ] You're no tryst. Nor a goal to fulfill, nor a challenge to overcome.

[ Those things have expiration dates, usually. Iorveth presses a palm to Astarion's cheek, keeping their mismatched eyes (one to two) locked. ]

It has become hard, [ he admits, ] to imagine a life without you. It becomes harder every day.

[ Feeling important to someone may be the greatest high in the world, more intoxicating than any drug or any blood. Over the years, worthless wretch started to feel less like an insult and more like a fact of life. To matter to someone is overwhelming in the best sort of way, his body overcome with warm, fuzzy feelings. ]

Every day with you lessens the pain of the past a little more.

[ Because Iorveth doesn't like to hear that his presence 'makes up' for Astarion's suffering. Still, Iorveth makes him so deliriously happy that he can't imagine going back and doing anything differently. All of the sadness and anger and loneliness was only a precursor to him. ]

—I want to keep you forever.

[ An unfair reminder that the rest of Iorveth's life is not exactly the rest of his life. ]

[ "Forever" is a little insane, mostly because Iorveth can't envision it. Two centuries has been enough for him to think about how much of his present is most non-elves' past, so he can't imagine what it must be like for someone that perceives time as nothing more than a routine instead of a creeping inevitability.

Iorveth likes insane, though. Astarion matches his own desire for impossibilities, which only makes Iorveth feel more affectionate. A vicious cycle. ]

Another problem for us to solve, then.

[ If Jaheira could extend her life far longer than she was entitled to, Iorveth might be able to squeeze an extra few centuries with Astarion using a magical trinket or other. It doesn't solve the problem of forever, but it'll be a start.

He rakes his hand through Astarion's hair, pushing it away from that beautiful face. ]

Your cloak first. I'm keen to see you in the sun again.

I'm keen to stand in the sun again, believe me.

[ He'd only had it back for such a short period, but the effect of no longer being confined to the night had been instant. Vampirism has plenty of drawbacks, but if he could at least solve that one, he thinks he can tolerate the rest. It helps that he has a willing donor to keep him well-fed; the hunger never really goes away, but Iorveth's blood quiets the worst of his cravings. ]

—But first, you should get some rest. I hear the Yawning Portal can get rather rowdy.

[ Which he likes, of course. A theatre kid lives for the drama. ]

[ Vampires look lovely in moonlight with their pale skin and red eyes, but Iorveth still recalls how beautiful Astarion'd looked with his silver hair catching the gold glow of midday sun. He deserves that again, Iorveth thinks, and reaches sideways to pull Gale's obscenely soft blankets over their bodies. ]

If you want me to throw a few punches in a tavern to earn you some coin, [ he murmurs, ] I'll consider it.

[ "Acting a fool", Iorveth'd said of things like this once. His opinion hasn't changed― it is foolish to engage in tavern brawls for a lark― but it's also nice, doing things that make someone important to him happy.

His single eye shutters. It's a luxury, still, to feel the weighted assurance of Astarion's presence against his body while he rests. The stillsame sense of being anchored, even when his trancing mind threatens to pull him into unpleasant directions. Like the first night he'd ever spent with Astarion, he focuses on the comfortable reality of the body near him; his meditation becomes peaceful and unburdened, but poor Astarion will have to contend with Iorveth's arms wrapped around him, unwilling to let go without some coaxing. ]

[ Were it anyone else with their arms wrapped around him, Astarion would feel suffocated and trapped. With Iorveth's arms around him, he feels safe, loved. He nestles into the crook of Iorveth's shoulder, mouth pressed against his skin, until night falls and then some. He wakes from his trance before Iorveth does, and he closes his eyes again, pretending to still be meditating while he soaks in Iorveth's affection.

He stays like that for awhile, content, until he grows restless enough to want Iorveth to consciously pay attention to him again. Shifting in his arms, Astarion kisses the delicate bit of skin behind Iorveth's ear, unable to resist nibbling gently on his earlobe. What can he say? He likes how vulnerable and defenseless Iorveth looks while trancing, which is probably questionably healthy. ]

Darling, [ he whispers, nudging lightly. ]

[ Astarion, privy to all of Iorveth's vulnerabilities. He shifts where he's wrapped himself around the body next to him, smoothing a palm up what he knows is Astarion's back, before cracking open his remaining green eye. Kneaded awake by his favorite cat. ]

...A pleasant thing, for your face to be the first thing I see. [ Everyone who modded out Grinchstarion is weak....... Iorveth plants a kiss to Astarion's jaw, and slowly, slowly unfurls his grip from around that eminently holdable waist. ] Is it already dark?

[ He'll answer his own question: a sideways roll that unfortunately pulls him away from the not-so-warm body on the bed, to peek through the curtains at the state of the outside world, at the bustling night that follows the busy day in Waterdeep. ]

Mm. We should get ready to leave.

We should, [ he agrees. They're on a time table; he'd hate to get stuck at the tavern just as the sun rises.

Still. Astarion isn't exactly the type of person to hop to. He flops onto his back, sprawled out over more bed than he can politely claim, pouting a little. He longs for the days when they'll have nothing to do but lie in bed with the curtains open, basking in the sunlight (a realistic goal when one is in a relationship with Iorveth, who couldn't be idle if he tried). ]

At least kiss me good morning first. [ A pause, then a correction: ] Well. Good night.

[ Iorveth listens to his instinct to roll his eye at the request, but the exasperation is largely dampened by the slight smile touching at the corner of his lips. He hasn't been sane about Astarion in a while, but he objectively acknowledges his insanity every time this kind of behavior registers as cute instead of annoying.

Sliding gracefully back to Astarion's side, Iorveth cups his cheek and tilts his chin up to slot their mouths together, lingering in that contact for perhaps longer than strictly necessary. Despite everything, this really is his favorite gesture of affection.

Once he pulls back, exhaling softly against Astarion's lips: ]

Ceádmil, elaine.

[ Essentially "hi beautiful" in his language. An indulgent combing of fingers through trance-mussed curls, and Iorveth draws himself up and off of the bed. ]

Come. If you lounge so sweetly, we'll never leave this room.

[ Astarion is the only person in Toril capable of tempting Iorveth into being lazy. Very dangerous. With some finality, he strides towards the door and opens it, where he finds a basket with a rather large coinpurse settled neatly inside, accompanied by a letter:

"Friends,

You'll find in this handy purse an allowance that should keep you well entertained for the next few days.
Do try not to spend it all in the first night. Tara will get cross with you for being reckless with finances, and her forms of retribution can be quite petty.

(Don't tell her I said that.)

Take care, and have fun― responsibly!

Yours in fond camaraderie,

G. Dekarios" ]

[ Slowly, lazily, Astarion forces himself up and out of bed, following behind Iorveth. It is, perhaps, good for him that Iorveth is so full of dogged determination. If not, they'd never get anything done. He rests his chin on Iorveth's shoulder as he peers over it out into the hall, eyes scanning Gale's letter. ]

'Responsibly'.

[ A scoff. When have they ever done anything responsibly? He doesn't intend to start now — responsibility is boring.

Astarion peels himself away from Iorveth to pick up the coin purse, feeling its weight and shaking it a little before opening it to peek inside. ]

Hmm. I could spend this all in one night.

[ A lot of gold and silver, with a few twinkles of what could probably be platinum. Iorveth has no idea what "market value" entails, or what common luxuries are worth (he can definitely haggle and call bullshit on the value of weapons and armor), but the contents of the purse seem to be enough to feed someone comfortably for, say, at least a tenday. ]

I'll hold the purse, then.

[ He says, plucking it from Astarion's hand and patting at his pant leg for pockets that, unfortunately, he doesn't have; all of this done with austere solemnity, as if Iorveth isn't immune to Astarion asking him for things with big sad cat eyes. It's all over for him if and when he feels a tug on his sleeve. ]

We'll leave in half a bell's time. Go get changed.

[ Unfortunately for Gale, the fact that he hasn't designated clothes for them to borrow means that he's given Astarion carte blanche to rifle through his things. Iorveth, on the other hand, finds a suitably green shirt (ill-fitting) to slip on, and jams himself into ugly brown trousers that he chose specifically because the pockets are deep enough― the worst addition to the already tragic outfit is a heinous slip-on sandal that Iorveth has stuck his feet into, mostly because none of Gale's shoes fit him. A Criminal. ]

[ It's cute that Iorveth pretends he can say 'no' to Astarion, but he allows him to continue on with that delusion. It'll make it all the more satisfying when Iorveth crumbles because of a well-timed pout. Instead of arguing about who gets to hold the purse, Astarion carries on and gets to searching through Gale's clothing. He, of course, takes his time, unwilling to wear anything that might be—gasp—unflattering.

He returns to Iorveth dressed in what's probably one of Gale's more expensive outfits; a silky purple (of course) shirt with silver embroidery, tucked in to hide how ill-fitting it is, and a pair of dark trousers cinched with a belt to keep them from falling off of his elfin frame. It's all a bit too baggy to be truly flattering, but at least it isn't ugly.

The same can't be said for Iorveth. When he returns to their room, Gale's loafers padding softly against the floor as he walks, he regards Iorveth's outfit with wide, horrified eyes. ]

Oh, my sweet. [ Said with the same intonation as bless your heart. ] Not sandals!

[ Iorveth has blinders on; to him, Astarion is basically the prettiest person not-alive, no matter what he's wearing. On the flipside, he's working his way up from less than zero, so his concern is more "stay covered" instead of "look good".

Case in point: the sandals. Waterdhavian Crocs, in the worst shade of custard-beige possible. The only nice thing he's wearing is the eyepatch that Astarion got for him, and the little ring on a chain he finally took out of his traveling pack to slip back around his neck. ]

They fit, [ he says, as if that solves the problem of them being, well. Extremely ugly. He'd been looking all over for his traveling boots, but it's very likely that Gale took them out back and burned them for being hopelessly waterlogged and muddy.

Iorveth has no idea how close to getting dumped he is, so he extends a hand and motions towards the general direction of the tower exit. ] Come. You'll have to lead the way, I've no idea where this tavern of yours is.

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