[ Unpleasant. Iorveth files that word away to be considered deeply later, and lifts their now-linked hands to press his lips against Astarion's knuckles, contrite. ]
I apologize.
[ Because he'd done it knowing that Astarion wouldn't like it, and it did neither of them any good. A particularly short-sighted strategy, especially given his own assertion before that he hated being perceived as someone who'd think Astarion to be disposable― he tells himself to think back to the mantra of being patient, of using a softer touch. They might understand each other far better now compared to pre-Henselt times, when Iorveth'd impatiently jostled his way through things, but Astarion is still an open wound in many respects.
Lowering their hands again, Iorveth nudges Astarion's shoulder with his own, tipping his head towards the bookstore. ]
―If you'd rather ruminate on Edgar and Nicholas, this is your chance to find them.
[ Iorveth has little to apologize for when much of their spat had been caused by Astarion's issues and sensitivities and general emotional immaturity. All the same, it feels good to be apologized to. Over two centuries, not a soul ever said they were sorry. He relishes the sound of the words now, turning them over in his mind before tucking it away in a special box inside his mind.
He laughs, squeezing Iorveth's hand. ]
I read more than smut, you know. I'm really rather lettered. [ Magistrates do plenty of reading — but he found solace in other worlds during his time at the palace, too. Along with embroidery, reading was one of the few hobbies he was ever able to indulge in. Unsurprisingly, he favors escapist stories. ] ...But I guess I am curious what dirty, depraved thing they'll do next.
[ And maybe he's a little invested in the romance! Sue him!!
The bookshop is quaint by Waterdhavian standards, but still glamorous compared to nearly everywhere else in the world. What seems like an endless supply of books line shelf upon shelf: To Kill a Firebird, reads one title. Of Weremice and Men, reads another. ]
Do wood elves fancy reading? [ he asks idly, thumbing over the embossed spine of a nearby book. A bit rude, perhaps, to paint them as such a monolith. At the same time, Iorveth has done little to dissuade him from that, considering how much he talks about wood elf communalism. ] Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I ever saw Halsin pick up a book.
[ He'd probably complain that a tree was killed to create it. ]
[ That laugh does wonders for Iorveth's peace of mind. Astarion is full of sounds, like a music box with its crank perpetually wound and turning, but his songbird-laugh is Iorveth's favorite.
Into the bookstore they go, with its selection of more accessible titles compared to the more dense, technical tomes that Gale's libraries are full of. The chronicles of Nicholas and Edgar are laid out on a table marked "Bestsellers", next to a duology set in the same universe (the Nicho-Ed-verse? the Ed-Olas-verse?) about Edgar's former flame and his paramour. Gods, how do they keep track of them all. ]
The Aen Seidhe read, yes. But I've no idea if Halsin is literate. [ Mean!!! Halsin is very learned, probably. But Iorveth is still sore about Halsin not offering solidarity with respect to the Aen Seidhe plight, so, to some extent, fuck him. (Affectionate.) ]
To elaborate: my people prefer poetry and song over prose. We have chronicled our history on paper, but much of our most important memories are passed down orally. [ And here's the depressing bit, as expected: ] Which is why, if we're purged, the proof of our existence will die with the last of us.
[ Anyway. That's a bummer, so Iorveth moves swiftly on. ]
I don't dislike prose, at any rate. Have you any recommendations?
[ Astarion is about to make a saucy comment about how he wouldn't mind if Iorveth orally passed down some memories to him— but then he adds that little tidbit about being purged and the proof of their existence dying and, well, it seems a little tone-deaf to make a blowjob joke.
He shrugs. ]
Until recently, I just read what I could get my hands on.
[ It isn't like he was able to go out and peruse the bookshop like this. Books were mostly stolen from tavern tables, from soon-to-be-victims' nightstands, from people who were trusting enough to walk away and leave their belongings unattended. ]
On the road, I read whatever Gale was too foolish to hide.
[ Teasing. Iorveth can't imagine Astarion spending more than half a second thinking about that weird old wizard and his obsession with cheese. Iorveth runs his free hand over a row of picture books for children, tracing the embossed gold lettering of titles like The Mermaid and the Harpy and When You Give a Hag a Biscuit. ]
Choose something for me. I'll read it while you're away with Gale.
[ Unwinding his fingers from Astarion temporarily, to let him peruse. Iorveth anticipates being the one to carry Astarion's selections once he's made his choices, but being the designated bag boy doesn't rankle as much as it should. ]
[ Ha. Anything too magic-y and Astarion put it down immediately. Luckily for him, Gale is a book-hoarder of the highest degree, and he was able to find enough literature to entertain him on nights when trancing wasn't in the cards and days when Lae'zel didn't need a lockpicker (far too few — gods, can't anyone else learn to pick locks around here?). The only problem was that then Gale expected him to discuss them, like they were in some sort of book club. ]
An etiquette book, perhaps, [ he teases as he peruses the nearby shelf. ] I did promise to teach you some manners.
[ Somehow, though, Iorveth sitting primly and using the proper fork and knife seems wrong. He would rather watch Iorveth tear into his food like an animal.
Astarion plucks a book from the shelf. The front cover features a painting of a drow with long white hair wielding two scimitars, and the back cover notes that it chronicles the adventures of the legendary Drizzt Do'Urden. ]
[ The sad thing is that, if Astarion did buy him an etiquette book, Iorveth would read it cover to cover and not use it as kindling for fire. Whether he'd refer to the advice written in it is a different matter entirely, but the book will stay with him until he perishes.
Regarding drow, though: ] Contempt, mostly. Their society seems just as miserable as the humans'.
[ The backstabbing, the casual disregard for anything but the furthering of one's goals, the utter lack of love or respect for anything. There are, perhaps, individual drow who have resolved to find a better way of life on the surface world, and Iorveth can respect them, but his overarching impression of drow in general is Not Great. ]
And there was that one that wanted you to bite her. [ Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ] Odious, to say the least.
[ Oh, Araj. Her being a drow had been the least of her flaws, but she's dead now, so. Looks like he won. ]
Mmm, not this one, then.
[ Astarion moves to push the book back in its slot on the shelf, but pauses, considering. He does enjoy a good adventure, and Drizzt Do'Urden is unfortunately very cool. Withdrawing his hand, he holds it out for Iorveth to take instead. (He was right that he'd end up being the bag boy. Astarion needs his hands free to gesticulate!) ]
But maybe I'll read it instead. In the meantime, I suppose I should find you something about... [ A shrug. What does Iorveth like (besides Astarion)? Nature. Freedom. Single-mindedness. ] Well, I'm sure there's something about an underdog fighting against his plight here somewhere. And, if not, there's always Elminster's body hair.
[ Ciaran would be appalled if he saw the current goings-on: "are you making Iorveth hold your things???", coupled with "are you letting him do this to you, Iorveth???"
Yes, on both accounts. Iorveth holds out a hand, and takes the proffered book to carry. Astarion's lithe arms were made to stab, but not to carry hardcovers. ]
I don't mind reading about drow. [ Glancing down to read the title of the book he's holding, recognizing the name. ] But I'll leave the decision to you.
[ A beat, as he watches Astarion weave between ceiling-high bookshelves, a silver ghost in dim lighting. ] I've found that I enjoy receiving things from you, [ he finally appends, touching his free hand to the spot where his ring is hanging around his neck, under his borrowed shirt. ]
[ Astarion isn't often overcome by cute aggression. He's never really been one for cute things, honestly; cute often equals soft, and soft equals vulnerable, something that until very recently he found a deplorable trait. When Iorveth says that he likes receiving things from him, though, he finds himself flooded by so much affection that he feels he might burst with it. So much affection that he doesn't even make a dirty joke about all of the things Iorveth could receive from him.
He turns to face Iorveth bodily, looking somehow both warm and irritated at the same time. ]
Ugh. You can't just say adorable things like that!
[ He stomps his foot, fists clenched at his sides. ]
You make me want to do such disgusting things.
[ Like hug him and kiss him all over and gift him with everything he could ever want, like a feral cat bringing dead animals to its most beloved person. ]
[ The reaction is unexpected, which means that Astarion is treated to a moment of stunned silence that equates, roughly, to what did I do, which is not a sentiment that Iorveth often lets slip between his tightly-packed cracks.
After that moment passes, though, he laughs; the grumpy-looking halfling manning the store sits up from where he'd been half-dozing behind the counter and whispers a sharp shh! in response. ]
A taste of your own medicine, beloved.
[ Between aftershocks of that initial laugh, half-chuckles that shake his broad shoulders. Iorveth steps forward to ruffle Astarion's soft hair, alternating between mussing and fixing his curls. ]
[ 'Adorable' is not the word Astarion would use to describe anything he has ever done, but Iorveth has clearly been brain-damaged by one too many hits to the head, judging by how enamored he is with an annoying vampire, so Astarion lets the accusation(?) pass. Besides, Iorveth's laugh is making his cute aggression rise all over again. There's very little he enjoys more than the sound of Iorveth's happiness. (Gross! Who is he?)
Astarion snatches away Iorveth's hand, nipping at his fingers in an attempt to satisfy the desire to hold him between his teeth and shake his head like a rabid dog. Luckily, the halfling at the counter doesn't care enough to watch Astarion being a freak in his store. ]
Well, I've found that I enjoy giving you things.
[ Which is very strange, because usually he only wants to take. He releases Iorveth's hand, fingering the bit of chain visible above Iorveth's collar. ]
I suppose I like to make my mark on you. [ Something Iorveth should probably find abhorrent. ]
[ Cute aggression reciprocated: Iorveth wants to grab Astarion and shove him against the nearest bookshelf and kiss him stupid, but that might end up in their untimely demise. These shelves are probably not deadbolted to the floor.
Instead, he takes it upon himself to be the one guiding Astarion's hand this time around, sliding that touch from the chain around his neck to the tattoo visible above his collar, then up to the gifted eyepatch covering the crater where his eye used to be. ]
Surprisingly adept at it, too.
[ Astarion is the only reason Iorveth has foregone the headscarf entirely; it sits in the bottom of his pack now, sad and neglected, while the soft leather eyepatch with its limited capacity to hide his gruesome scars sits proudly on Iorveth's face. Iorveth might hate the idea of being kept, but he also knows (trusts) that Astarion wouldn't emulate any of Cazador's worst inclinations; he interprets "mark" as something a cat would do to someone's leg. ]
ーHurry and choose your books before we're thrown out. [ Another whisper of a laugh. Ridiculous. ]
[ Iorveth's laugh is more melodious than an instrument played by the world's finest bards. Astarion brushes a thumb over the outline of his eyepatch before leaning in to press their mouths together for a brief but enthusiastic kiss. Brief only because he'd rather not get kicked out for sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat in the bestsellers section, and because he'd really rather be sticking his tongue down Iorveth's throat in the comfort of Gale's guest room instead. ]
Only because I don't trust Gale's books not to bite.
[ You know, like that enchanted chest. Horrible! He rifles through the rest of the section, picking out novels based primarily on title and how pretty their covers are. By the end of it, he's stacked several on top of the book he already gave to Iorveth. One looks to be a pirate story, another a revenge story—he'd thought Iorveth might like that one, at least—and the last, of course, the second entry in the Nicholas and Edgar series.
Although Iorveth is the one being forced to carry all of the hardbacks, he pats his pockets, his ill-gotten coin jingling inside. ]
[ The books stack, nested against Iorveth's chest and tucked in the crook of one arm. A temporary luxury, as they'll probably have to leave the hardcovers with Gale once they set off for the cloak― not necessarily a bad thing, considering Gale might appreciate the excuse for the duo to come back in the future. "We're here for our books."
The thought of it is nice. It slots nicely into what he'd said to Astarion before, that he'd like to build a future predicated on Astarion's presence in his life. It's also in direct opposition to what he'd said before that, which is that he never deserved (deserves, present tense) Astarion. An interesting paradox, and one that he doesn't want to ruin the moment by dwelling on. ]
Then I shall gladly be provided for.
[ Sharing! Coexisting! Though Iorveth knows that this has nothing to do with wood elf instincts rubbing off on Astarion, he still watches with no small amount of fondness as Astarion goes and makes his purchase with the grouchy halfling who, despite having at least fifteen more minutes of the hour left until closing, tells them he's done for the night and that they need to get a move on.
So they do. A hop, skip, and a jump back to Gale's tower, where the man of the house has already retired to his bed after a long day of doing whatever wizards at academies do. There's a note for them outlining his findings regarding the cloak, which is minimal― more of a "I'm looking into it, I promise!" than anything else― and an apology that the item in question might, in fact, be in Athkatla, but that he knows someone who could teleport them there, albeit with no guarantee of how the pair might return back north. Details pending!
A lot to consider. But first, Iorveth moves to take his ugly sandals off. ]
[ Astarion has no interest in considering things tonight. That sounds like work, and he wasn't made to work. So, instead of ruminating on cloaks and portals and Athkatla, he presses his front against Iorveth's back, wrapping his arms around him and perching his chin on Iorveth's shoulder. He squeezes, a little bit of that cute aggression coming out. If he could, he'd squeeze until Iorveth popped. ]
Darling, [ he coos, sweetly.
Just as sweetly: ] Don't ever wear those hideous shoes ever again.
[ Iorveth was made to work, but (un)fortunately for him, Astarion is very distracting. Thoughts of logistics and complications dissipate once Astarion winds arms around his middle and croons into his ear－ his presence is so distracting, even, that Iorveth almost misses the content of what Astarion is saying entirely.
Once it settles in: ] Nothing else fits.
[ An amused huff, as he sets the note down and picks up their books again, walking over towards their shared bed with Astarion in tow. ] At this rate, everything I put on my body will have to be approved by you.
[ Again, his poor headscarf... may it rest in peace. Hardbacks bounce on the mattress and settle next to their pillows; Iorveth cranes back to nuzzle against Astarion's hair. ]
[ Astarion remains attached to Iorveth as he moves, every bit the overgrown housecat draped over its owner, kneading its claws lovingly into skin. From this position, he can smell Iorveth's neck, of his hair; he inhales, soothed by the familiar scent. ]
That might prove difficult.
[ Not because he doesn't have opinions. Oh, gods, does he have opinions! Ones about, yes, every piece of clothing Iorveth puts on himself. Iorveth's sole criteria for clothing seems to be 'it fits' and 'it isn't completely covered in blood'. How lucky that he has someone with discerning taste to tell him when he's wrong.
That being said: ]
I'd really rather you not put anything on your body.
[ The copper tang of blood, the woody scent of the oil polish that he uses for his bow, and the amber warmth of sandalwood. Iorveth had mentioned before that he wants Astarion to have Iorveth's scent on his collar, and so he takes advantage of their proximity now, nestling close to make good on his promise.
A low exhale, and he cranes his neck backwards to get a glimpse of that pretty face. The least interesting thing about Astarion by a good mile, but still annoyingly captivating. ]
An unexpectedly Halsin thing for you to say.
[ His tone is dry, but Astarion should be able to hear the affection laced in there; it's the way he lilts a little, more melodic than usual, leaning towards how he speaks his native language. A sign of comfort and trust. ]
I could oblige you within these four walls, but... [ He laughs, because that's apparently the running theme of the day. ] ...Mm, what did it say in Waterdeep's Code Legal?
Imprisonment up to a tenday for brandishing weapons without due cause?
[ Stupid. The most unserious thing Iorveth has said all day. ]
[ Ew!!! How dare Iorveth compare him to Halsin. It's charming when he says it, weird when Halsin says it. Mostly because Astarion only wants Iorveth naked so that he can ogle him, and Halsin would want him naked because clothes aren't part of nature's design, or something equally cringeworthy.
Even worse than that accusation is that joke. Iorveth is lucky that Astarion is actually very charmed by this eternally stern terrorist making a dirty joke, or he'd be getting broken up with right now. ]
—Gods, you deserve imprisonment for that.
[ Chiding, but affectionate. Someone has to scold Iorveth for his transgressions. ]
I'll imprison you in my bed, I think. [ Gale's bed. Whatever. ] A tenday there and you're sure to learn your lesson.
[ All the arguments they've had, and what gets Iorveth finally broken up with will be a badly timed joke with worse delivery. RIP. He lets the chiding roll off his broad shoulders, though, and obliges the implied suggestion to move onto the bed the way he'd wordlessly conceded to holding Astarion's books: a quick turn in the loop of Astarion's arms, bringing them face-to-face, and he falls backwards with Astarion on top of him on the mattress. ]
Whether or not I agree to imprisonment depends entirely on if you'll be sharing said bed.
[ He roots around, blindly sliding one warm palm under Astarion's shirt to smooth up his spine, not minding the pattern of scars that Cazador has left on otherwise unblemished skin. Astarion is Astarion: there's not an inch of him that Iorveth doesn't hold sacred.
Iorveth's turn to bury his face in Astarion's neck. He breathes him in, and kisses his jaw. ]
[ It's not the first time someone has called him that. It was a frequent refrain among his conquests (or marks, or victims, or however one describes such a wretched, doomed person). They'd only meant physically, of course; they didn't know him well enough—didn't know him at all, really—to speak on anything more than skin-deep. Even then, they'd been wrong, unaware of the ugly etching from the top of his spine to the bottom of his ribcage.
Iorveth is delusional for saying so, especially while the pads of his fingers glide over the rough texture of his scars, especially not after their second argument in two days that was, admittedly, ninety percent Astarion's fault. To be perfect in Iorveth's mind, though, is enough, however untrue it might be in reality.
He grins, fingers creeping around to the back of Iorveth's head to unfasten his eyepatch. ]
As are you, my love.
[ Genuine, warm. The kind of sincerity he'd been far too afraid to show not long ago. ]
A moment with you and I forget a thousand moments of the past.
[ No protest, when Astarion unclasps the little fastener holding the eyepatch taut across Iorveth's face― not even a flinch. A tacit acceptance of Astarion's reciprocated sentiment, even if Iorveth, too, thinks that it's highly contentious.
He doesn't want to argue the point. He doesn't want to argue against the idea that he could undo any of Astarion's pain, either, doesn't want to lecture that being in love with someone doesn't magically wipe someone's slate clean; no more fighting. (At least, for now.) It was monstrous of him to turn his back on Astarion and walk away, and it would be monstrous now to fortify himself against Astarion's kindness.
So he moves his touch, down and out from under Astarion's thin shirt, up and through silver hair, smoothing soft bangs away from the now-familiar map of his most important person's perfectly-aligned features. Iorveth stays that way for a few beats, taking everything in, committing that relaxed smile and the warm glow of red eyes to memory. ]
Then you can have as many moments with me as you please.
[ "I want you to be happy", essentially. Softening, Iorveth settles back with his head resting on Gale's impossibly soft pillow, still stroking Astarion's hair. ]
...Never doubt that you are― and will remain― the most important person in my life.
[ If Astarion needs it said a thousand times, Iorveth will. ]
[ Astarion will doubt it, probably, especially when they return to Iorveth's old stomping grounds, but to be affirmed in such a way quiets his insecurities for the time being. He strokes across the line of Iorveth's strong jaw with his fingers, affectionate. As ugly as Iorveth thinks he is, there is no one in this world more flaw-free to Astarion. ]
My beautiful boy.
[ Hardly a 'boy' at his big age, and maybe not beautiful in the most traditional sense, but perfect in Astarion's eyes. ]
Inside and out, [ he appends, thumb resting on Iorveth's chin. ] Who could have predicted you'd be such a softie?
[ Not him. When they'd first met, he'd thought that Iorveth's scowl was permanently affixed to his face, grimness his perpetual state of being. Even once they'd gotten to know each other better, hells, even after Astarion had started to actually like him, he'd expected Iorveth to remain eternally serious, incessantly unhappy. What a relief to be wrong. ]
[ "Boy" is funny, so he laughs about that bit first. Sure, he's lagging a few decades behind Astarion (who is... actually, Iorveth has no idea, two centuries and a half years young?), but he's certainly no boy. It's as preposterous as "softie", but this one is at least partially true, as loath as Iorveth is to admit it. ]
Only to you.
[ The rest of the world doesn't require him to be soft, or gentle, or kind. He's a sword in the right hands, or a thorn in others; people either hold him by the hilt, or cut themselves on his edges. Only Astarion gets to have the bits of him that aren't blunt or serrated, which still feels novel and new.
Case in point: Iorveth lifts his head for a quick kiss, then follows it up for a few more for good measure. ]
You give me reason to be.
[ A low murmur against Astarion's lips later, he settles back again. ] I wasn't so soft back at Flotsam.
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I apologize.
[ Because he'd done it knowing that Astarion wouldn't like it, and it did neither of them any good. A particularly short-sighted strategy, especially given his own assertion before that he hated being perceived as someone who'd think Astarion to be disposable― he tells himself to think back to the mantra of being patient, of using a softer touch. They might understand each other far better now compared to pre-Henselt times, when Iorveth'd impatiently jostled his way through things, but Astarion is still an open wound in many respects.
Lowering their hands again, Iorveth nudges Astarion's shoulder with his own, tipping his head towards the bookstore. ]
―If you'd rather ruminate on Edgar and Nicholas, this is your chance to find them.
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He laughs, squeezing Iorveth's hand. ]
I read more than smut, you know. I'm really rather lettered. [ Magistrates do plenty of reading — but he found solace in other worlds during his time at the palace, too. Along with embroidery, reading was one of the few hobbies he was ever able to indulge in. Unsurprisingly, he favors escapist stories. ] ...But I guess I am curious what dirty, depraved thing they'll do next.
[ And maybe he's a little invested in the romance! Sue him!!
The bookshop is quaint by Waterdhavian standards, but still glamorous compared to nearly everywhere else in the world. What seems like an endless supply of books line shelf upon shelf: To Kill a Firebird, reads one title. Of Weremice and Men, reads another. ]
Do wood elves fancy reading? [ he asks idly, thumbing over the embossed spine of a nearby book. A bit rude, perhaps, to paint them as such a monolith. At the same time, Iorveth has done little to dissuade him from that, considering how much he talks about wood elf communalism. ] Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I ever saw Halsin pick up a book.
[ He'd probably complain that a tree was killed to create it. ]
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Into the bookstore they go, with its selection of more accessible titles compared to the more dense, technical tomes that Gale's libraries are full of. The chronicles of Nicholas and Edgar are laid out on a table marked "Bestsellers", next to a duology set in the same universe (the Nicho-Ed-verse? the Ed-Olas-verse?) about Edgar's former flame and his paramour. Gods, how do they keep track of them all. ]
The Aen Seidhe read, yes. But I've no idea if Halsin is literate. [ Mean!!! Halsin is very learned, probably. But Iorveth is still sore about Halsin not offering solidarity with respect to the Aen Seidhe plight, so, to some extent, fuck him. (Affectionate.) ]
To elaborate: my people prefer poetry and song over prose. We have chronicled our history on paper, but much of our most important memories are passed down orally. [ And here's the depressing bit, as expected: ] Which is why, if we're purged, the proof of our existence will die with the last of us.
[ Anyway. That's a bummer, so Iorveth moves swiftly on. ]
I don't dislike prose, at any rate. Have you any recommendations?
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He shrugs. ]
Until recently, I just read what I could get my hands on.
[ It isn't like he was able to go out and peruse the bookshop like this. Books were mostly stolen from tavern tables, from soon-to-be-victims' nightstands, from people who were trusting enough to walk away and leave their belongings unattended. ]
On the road, I read whatever Gale was too foolish to hide.
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[ Teasing. Iorveth can't imagine Astarion spending more than half a second thinking about that weird old wizard and his obsession with cheese. Iorveth runs his free hand over a row of picture books for children, tracing the embossed gold lettering of titles like The Mermaid and the Harpy and When You Give a Hag a Biscuit. ]
Choose something for me. I'll read it while you're away with Gale.
[ Unwinding his fingers from Astarion temporarily, to let him peruse. Iorveth anticipates being the one to carry Astarion's selections once he's made his choices, but being the designated bag boy doesn't rankle as much as it should. ]
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An etiquette book, perhaps, [ he teases as he peruses the nearby shelf. ] I did promise to teach you some manners.
[ Somehow, though, Iorveth sitting primly and using the proper fork and knife seems wrong. He would rather watch Iorveth tear into his food like an animal.
Astarion plucks a book from the shelf. The front cover features a painting of a drow with long white hair wielding two scimitars, and the back cover notes that it chronicles the adventures of the legendary Drizzt Do'Urden. ]
How do you feel about drow?
[ They are elves, technically. ]
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Regarding drow, though: ] Contempt, mostly. Their society seems just as miserable as the humans'.
[ The backstabbing, the casual disregard for anything but the furthering of one's goals, the utter lack of love or respect for anything. There are, perhaps, individual drow who have resolved to find a better way of life on the surface world, and Iorveth can respect them, but his overarching impression of drow in general is Not Great. ]
And there was that one that wanted you to bite her. [ Iorveth wrinkles his nose. ] Odious, to say the least.
[ He's biased, is what he's saying. ]
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Mmm, not this one, then.
[ Astarion moves to push the book back in its slot on the shelf, but pauses, considering. He does enjoy a good adventure, and Drizzt Do'Urden is unfortunately very cool. Withdrawing his hand, he holds it out for Iorveth to take instead. (He was right that he'd end up being the bag boy. Astarion needs his hands free to gesticulate!) ]
But maybe I'll read it instead. In the meantime, I suppose I should find you something about... [ A shrug. What does Iorveth like (besides Astarion)? Nature. Freedom. Single-mindedness. ] Well, I'm sure there's something about an underdog fighting against his plight here somewhere. And, if not, there's always Elminster's body hair.
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Yes, on both accounts. Iorveth holds out a hand, and takes the proffered book to carry. Astarion's lithe arms were made to stab, but not to carry hardcovers. ]
I don't mind reading about drow. [ Glancing down to read the title of the book he's holding, recognizing the name. ] But I'll leave the decision to you.
[ A beat, as he watches Astarion weave between ceiling-high bookshelves, a silver ghost in dim lighting. ] I've found that I enjoy receiving things from you, [ he finally appends, touching his free hand to the spot where his ring is hanging around his neck, under his borrowed shirt. ]
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He turns to face Iorveth bodily, looking somehow both warm and irritated at the same time. ]
Ugh. You can't just say adorable things like that!
[ He stomps his foot, fists clenched at his sides. ]
You make me want to do such disgusting things.
[ Like hug him and kiss him all over and gift him with everything he could ever want, like a feral cat bringing dead animals to its most beloved person. ]
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After that moment passes, though, he laughs; the grumpy-looking halfling manning the store sits up from where he'd been half-dozing behind the counter and whispers a sharp shh! in response. ]
A taste of your own medicine, beloved.
[ Between aftershocks of that initial laugh, half-chuckles that shake his broad shoulders. Iorveth steps forward to ruffle Astarion's soft hair, alternating between mussing and fixing his curls. ]
Now you begin to understand how I feel.
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Astarion snatches away Iorveth's hand, nipping at his fingers in an attempt to satisfy the desire to hold him between his teeth and shake his head like a rabid dog. Luckily, the halfling at the counter doesn't care enough to watch Astarion being a freak in his store. ]
Well, I've found that I enjoy giving you things.
[ Which is very strange, because usually he only wants to take. He releases Iorveth's hand, fingering the bit of chain visible above Iorveth's collar. ]
I suppose I like to make my mark on you. [ Something Iorveth should probably find abhorrent. ]
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Instead, he takes it upon himself to be the one guiding Astarion's hand this time around, sliding that touch from the chain around his neck to the tattoo visible above his collar, then up to the gifted eyepatch covering the crater where his eye used to be. ]
Surprisingly adept at it, too.
[ Astarion is the only reason Iorveth has foregone the headscarf entirely; it sits in the bottom of his pack now, sad and neglected, while the soft leather eyepatch with its limited capacity to hide his gruesome scars sits proudly on Iorveth's face. Iorveth might hate the idea of being kept, but he also knows (trusts) that Astarion wouldn't emulate any of Cazador's worst inclinations; he interprets "mark" as something a cat would do to someone's leg. ]
ーHurry and choose your books before we're thrown out. [ Another whisper of a laugh. Ridiculous. ]
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Only because I don't trust Gale's books not to bite.
[ You know, like that enchanted chest. Horrible! He rifles through the rest of the section, picking out novels based primarily on title and how pretty their covers are. By the end of it, he's stacked several on top of the book he already gave to Iorveth. One looks to be a pirate story, another a revenge story—he'd thought Iorveth might like that one, at least—and the last, of course, the second entry in the Nicholas and Edgar series.
Although Iorveth is the one being forced to carry all of the hardbacks, he pats his pockets, his ill-gotten coin jingling inside. ]
It's on me, my love.
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The thought of it is nice. It slots nicely into what he'd said to Astarion before, that he'd like to build a future predicated on Astarion's presence in his life. It's also in direct opposition to what he'd said before that, which is that he never deserved (deserves, present tense) Astarion. An interesting paradox, and one that he doesn't want to ruin the moment by dwelling on. ]
Then I shall gladly be provided for.
[ Sharing! Coexisting! Though Iorveth knows that this has nothing to do with wood elf instincts rubbing off on Astarion, he still watches with no small amount of fondness as Astarion goes and makes his purchase with the grouchy halfling who, despite having at least fifteen more minutes of the hour left until closing, tells them he's done for the night and that they need to get a move on.
So they do. A hop, skip, and a jump back to Gale's tower, where the man of the house has already retired to his bed after a long day of doing whatever wizards at academies do. There's a note for them outlining his findings regarding the cloak, which is minimal― more of a "I'm looking into it, I promise!" than anything else― and an apology that the item in question might, in fact, be in Athkatla, but that he knows someone who could teleport them there, albeit with no guarantee of how the pair might return back north. Details pending!
A lot to consider. But first, Iorveth moves to take his ugly sandals off. ]
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Darling, [ he coos, sweetly.
Just as sweetly: ] Don't ever wear those hideous shoes ever again.
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Once it settles in: ] Nothing else fits.
[ An amused huff, as he sets the note down and picks up their books again, walking over towards their shared bed with Astarion in tow. ] At this rate, everything I put on my body will have to be approved by you.
[ Again, his poor headscarf... may it rest in peace. Hardbacks bounce on the mattress and settle next to their pillows; Iorveth cranes back to nuzzle against Astarion's hair. ]
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That might prove difficult.
[ Not because he doesn't have opinions. Oh, gods, does he have opinions! Ones about, yes, every piece of clothing Iorveth puts on himself. Iorveth's sole criteria for clothing seems to be 'it fits' and 'it isn't completely covered in blood'. How lucky that he has someone with discerning taste to tell him when he's wrong.
That being said: ]
I'd really rather you not put anything on your body.
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A low exhale, and he cranes his neck backwards to get a glimpse of that pretty face. The least interesting thing about Astarion by a good mile, but still annoyingly captivating. ]
An unexpectedly Halsin thing for you to say.
[ His tone is dry, but Astarion should be able to hear the affection laced in there; it's the way he lilts a little, more melodic than usual, leaning towards how he speaks his native language. A sign of comfort and trust. ]
I could oblige you within these four walls, but... [ He laughs, because that's apparently the running theme of the day. ] ...Mm, what did it say in Waterdeep's Code Legal?
Imprisonment up to a tenday for brandishing weapons without due cause?
[ Stupid. The most unserious thing Iorveth has said all day. ]
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Even worse than that accusation is that joke. Iorveth is lucky that Astarion is actually very charmed by this eternally stern terrorist making a dirty joke, or he'd be getting broken up with right now. ]
—Gods, you deserve imprisonment for that.
[ Chiding, but affectionate. Someone has to scold Iorveth for his transgressions. ]
I'll imprison you in my bed, I think. [ Gale's bed. Whatever. ] A tenday there and you're sure to learn your lesson.
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Whether or not I agree to imprisonment depends entirely on if you'll be sharing said bed.
[ He roots around, blindly sliding one warm palm under Astarion's shirt to smooth up his spine, not minding the pattern of scars that Cazador has left on otherwise unblemished skin. Astarion is Astarion: there's not an inch of him that Iorveth doesn't hold sacred.
Iorveth's turn to bury his face in Astarion's neck. He breathes him in, and kisses his jaw. ]
Gods, you're perfect.
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Iorveth is delusional for saying so, especially while the pads of his fingers glide over the rough texture of his scars, especially not after their second argument in two days that was, admittedly, ninety percent Astarion's fault. To be perfect in Iorveth's mind, though, is enough, however untrue it might be in reality.
He grins, fingers creeping around to the back of Iorveth's head to unfasten his eyepatch. ]
As are you, my love.
[ Genuine, warm. The kind of sincerity he'd been far too afraid to show not long ago. ]
A moment with you and I forget a thousand moments of the past.
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He doesn't want to argue the point. He doesn't want to argue against the idea that he could undo any of Astarion's pain, either, doesn't want to lecture that being in love with someone doesn't magically wipe someone's slate clean; no more fighting. (At least, for now.) It was monstrous of him to turn his back on Astarion and walk away, and it would be monstrous now to fortify himself against Astarion's kindness.
So he moves his touch, down and out from under Astarion's thin shirt, up and through silver hair, smoothing soft bangs away from the now-familiar map of his most important person's perfectly-aligned features. Iorveth stays that way for a few beats, taking everything in, committing that relaxed smile and the warm glow of red eyes to memory. ]
Then you can have as many moments with me as you please.
[ "I want you to be happy", essentially. Softening, Iorveth settles back with his head resting on Gale's impossibly soft pillow, still stroking Astarion's hair. ]
...Never doubt that you are― and will remain― the most important person in my life.
[ If Astarion needs it said a thousand times, Iorveth will. ]
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My beautiful boy.
[ Hardly a 'boy' at his big age, and maybe not beautiful in the most traditional sense, but perfect in Astarion's eyes. ]
Inside and out, [ he appends, thumb resting on Iorveth's chin. ] Who could have predicted you'd be such a softie?
[ Not him. When they'd first met, he'd thought that Iorveth's scowl was permanently affixed to his face, grimness his perpetual state of being. Even once they'd gotten to know each other better, hells, even after Astarion had started to actually like him, he'd expected Iorveth to remain eternally serious, incessantly unhappy. What a relief to be wrong. ]
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Only to you.
[ The rest of the world doesn't require him to be soft, or gentle, or kind. He's a sword in the right hands, or a thorn in others; people either hold him by the hilt, or cut themselves on his edges. Only Astarion gets to have the bits of him that aren't blunt or serrated, which still feels novel and new.
Case in point: Iorveth lifts his head for a quick kiss, then follows it up for a few more for good measure. ]
You give me reason to be.
[ A low murmur against Astarion's lips later, he settles back again. ] I wasn't so soft back at Flotsam.
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