[ To have been a fly on the wall while Astarion was studying for law exams. Iorveth's still slightly sex-fuzzy brain floats to the mental image of a bespectacled Astarion sitting by a window surrounded by thick, leather-bound tomes, which, bizarrely, just makes him want to kiss Astarion again.
So he does. Lips to lips, breath to unnecessary breath. In Iorveth's mind, Astarion earned that spot for himself (delusional). ]
You'll have to put up with me correcting you.
[ He finally replies, once he settles back onto his pillow and relaxes into being sideways on the mattress. A beat to think of a sentence in his dialect that sounds close enough to the Elven language for Astarion to decipher, and he offers: ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
[ What Astarion said to him before, now in Aen Seidhe. ]
[ Astarion turns pink, embarrassed. How dare Iorveth remind him of the things he said when he was horny — he can't be held responsible for those. He'd happened to feel very obliging in that moment.
Still, he did say he wanted to speak Aen Seidhe (or the Elder speech, as Iorveth so pretentiously called it). He has to start somewhere, even if starting something new sounds unpleasant and scary. Being bad at something wasn't treated with gentleness and patience in the Szarr household; it was grounds for mockery, derision, and scorn. Usually, Astarion would just rather not try than do poorly.
But he does want to learn the dialect, both for practical and sentimental reasons. He doesn't want to use Iorveth as a translator for the rest of his eternal life, and he also wants to know something that seems important to Iorveth.
So, he repeats the phrase. Technically, there's nothing wrong with it. It's nowhere near his usual butchering of 'I like you', perfectly understandable, but— his accent is absolutely atrocious. ]
[ Because Astarion has foundational knowledge of Elven, the way he navigates the language isn't incorrect: he knows where to stop, he knows which words to stress, the conventions are all there and present. But it also sounds like a very affected version of the language, like someone trying to tiptoe around objects without stepping on them. Unnatural. But it's a start, and more than anything, Iorveth is touched to hear Astarion trying.
A half-smile, affectionate, and he repeats just the "my love". Not asking for a repetition this time, and just saying it for the sake of it.
After that: ] If Ciaran glares at you, say: "What are you looking at?" [ The essentials. Iorveth laughs under his breath, and reaches up to flick the tip of Astarion's nose. ] And if he doesn't stop, tell him: "kiss my ass".
[ What everyone wants to know: curses in other languages. ]
[ Iorveth laughs, and it makes Astarion laugh, grinning like a giddy schoolboy. Once more, he can't help himself around Iorveth. Being with him brings Astarion the sort of carefree, simple joy that he once thought was beyond his reach, never to be felt. How embarrassing! Except Iorveth also makes him feel like perhaps he doesn't need to be ashamed of his own feelings at all, that there'll be someone there who loves and accepts him regardless of any weakness or vulnerability.
He repeats the latter phrase—kiss my ass—which will surely come in handy in the future. It won't make him any friends, but he doesn't need friends, anyway. He has Iorveth. ]
But Ciaran won't glare at me. He's so terribly fond of me.
[ The rendition of "kiss my ass" is fairly accurate, and that truth coupled with the remark about Ciaran makes Iorveth laugh again, reedy and light. ]
He'll grow to be. He may grumble, but he's accepted you more than he lets on.
[ Callout post for Ciaran aep Easnillen, who will not appreciate his brother-in-arms exposing him to Astarion like this. Iorveth, still fuzzy from afterglow and affection, touches a palm to Astarion's cheek to feel how his grin spreads across his pretty face. ]
He told me that I deserve a life with you. Vouched for you in front of Saskia, apparently.
[ For whatever that's worth. Saskia is a noble creature, certainly, but she's a dragon at heart; she doesn't perceive things or understand love in the way that humans or elves might, so who knows how she'll react to Astarion. Knowing her, she'll find him to be a curiosity above all else. ]
[ Astarion's eyebrows shoot up, then furrow, nose scrunched in confusion. ]
—He did what when?
[ When the hells did Ciaran need to vouch for him in the first place? And to Saskia, whose name is still only vaguely familiar—he only half-listens when Iorveth talks about politics, after all—but brings to mind the image of someone important, someone with power. Someone he, quite frankly, doesn't give a shit about. ]
Saskia hardly gets to choose what you do and with who.
[ Politics in bed is not a good idea, but. Well. ]
She holds the future of my people in her hands.
[ Implied: "so she kind of does get to have a say in what I do, if I don't want to fuck this up for everyone". Thus the reason why the political marriage rumor was funny: it bordered just on the edge of being possible, if not for the fact that it just isn't something that Saskia would be interested in doing.
Not that Astarion knows any of this, of course. Iorveth smooths a thumb between those furrowed brows, touching him just for the sake of touching him. ]
I used to rally under her banner. She never commanded me, but she did hold certain sway over my decisions.
Did, [ Astarion echoes. Past tense. Maybe Iorveth used to be beholden to someone else's desires, but not anymore. (Well, at least, someone else who isn't Astarion.)
The pad of Iorveth's thumb sweeps between Astarion's eyebrows, and he can practically hear Iorveth's voice: you're going to get wrinkles. He tries his damnedest to stop scowling. It only half-works. ]
But you're not under anyone's banner now.
[ It is very possible that the reason this bothers him is because he's still afraid the Aen Seidhe are going to disapprove of him. Better to remind Iorveth now that he doesn't have to listen to them, just in case.
He pauses for a moment, then adds, a little irritated, ] —I wasn't aware a case had to be made for me.
[ He's still very much under the banner of Aen Seidhe rights, but Iorveth's not going to argue semantics when he can tell that Astarion is starting to puff up. Fickle cat. ]
I allowed an Illithid parasite to get lodged in my brain, [ he explains, though it was less about allowing and more about "getting knocked out and waking up to a tadpole in his skull". Hard to have done anything differently when the ambush was so random and unplanned. ] Some of my comrades believed that my judgment may have been compromised.
[ "Iorveth is traveling with a gith and a human wizard and a hellspawn on fire and a former Sharran and a warlock who made a pact with a cambion, and he happened to also fall in love with a weird pasty elf" was probably not reassuring to hear for many reasons. Iorveth pointing to Astarion and saying "I love him" was not the serve that he thought it was. ]
He can't help it; his brow furrows again, that little wrinkle appearing. It's a good thing he doesn't age, because Iorveth would have already given him so many stress wrinkles that he wouldn't know what to do with himself. ]
Terribly insulting.
[ And distressing. Iorveth probably should have thought harder before sharing that, apparently, his people thought so poorly of Astarion that they suspected Iorveth's affection for him was the result of a parasitic infection. The very same people Astarion is supposed to join, at some point. ]
Did no one think to tell them what I look like?
[ Because, you know, obviously then they'd understand why Iorveth likes him so much. ]
[ One day, someone in the Aen Seidhe community is going to point to Astarion and say "is that a vampire???", and it'll be all over for them. It's the one thing Iorveth has conveniently left out: "I love that guy" instead of "I love that guy and I also let him drink my blood on the regular".
Despite the somewhat serious nature of the conversation, Iorveth huffs a quick sigh-laugh anyway. ]
Ciaran may have. Perhaps I should ask him how he described you.
[ Not unflatteringly, Iorveth thinks. Ciaran is very good at telling the truth, which is why Iorveth trusts him as much as he does. ]
Though, again, your looks are far from the most compelling things about you.
[ Aen Seidhe elves are beautiful in principle; another pretty elf isn't very remarkable to them. ]
[ Astarion had hoped to have some uninterrupted post-coital bliss, but the subject makes him feel too uncomfortable to cuddle. He flops onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with a frown. ]
Your elves don't sound compelled.
[ And why should they be? Iorveth is the only one who likes him for his personality, because Iorveth is verifiably insane. They must know that he doesn't deserve someone as precious and perfect as Iorveth. Displeased, he sinks further into the softness of Gale's mattress; it feels warm now, after all of their exertion. ]
It sounds as if they already dislike me. [ Which sounds pathetic, so he adds, ] Not that I care, of course.
[ From giddy to sullen in seconds. Iorveth doesn't chase Astarion when he rolls, giving Astarion space to sulk a bit if he wants. Vampires do do brooding better than any other creature, Iorveth thinks. ]
They have no reason to dislike you. I suspect they're more worried about whether or not I've lost my mind.
[ Not because of Astarion, specifically, but because: ]
I'm not known to become infatuated. Not with anything or anyone.
[ Dedicated, sure. Passionate, definitely. Loyal, absolutely. But pointing someone out as his other half? Not so much. That, coupled with a brainworm, are definite grounds for "is Iorveth okay". ]
[ He very much does want to sulk. Astarion hadn't expected a welcome parade, exactly, but it still stings to have Ciaran of all people have to be the one to stand up for him. Ciaran, who Astarion is fairly sure wouldn't piss on him if he were ablaze. He hasn't belonged anywhere in a very long time, and he hadn't expected to belong in the north by any means, but he supposes he had hoped for some sort of acceptance. Pathetic.
Astarion wriggles under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. It feels rather humiliating to brood with one's cock out.
Like a petulant child: ] What of Eisenhower?
[ Isengrim. He knows the right name, but he's too glum to say it. ]
[ No one up north has even met Astarion, and Iorveth is fairly sure that they'll be annoyed by him at first but warm to him quickly. Citation needed, perhaps, but the others they traveled with during the Illithid panic is evidence enough. Those weirdos love Astarion, even if they don't say it out loud (with the exception of Karlach and Wyll, who none of them deserve).
Astarion turns himself into a burrito, and Iorveth still lounges around, naked and unashamed, relaxed. Contrasting personalities, yet again. He huffs a laugh at the ridiculous pettiness of "Eisenhower", and finds more pillows to fortify themselves with. ]
I cared for him, certainly.
[ This is probably where he should say "forget him babe, you're the only one that matters", but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]
But we were bound to each other by pain, I suppose. [ A bit of solemnity creeps into his voice, distant and detached. Like reciting history. The moment is brief; he comes back into himself, and rests a hand on Astarion's stomach over the blankets. ] You're different.
You were supposed to say that he didn't hold a candle to me.
[ Also, he was supposed to say that Isengrim's dick was small. It's like Iorveth doesn't know anything about being romantic! Like most of Astarion's emotions, though, the wave of indignation passes relatively quickly, and after a moment he lets his fingers brush over the tips of Iorveth's. ]
What are we bound by, then, hmm?
[ He tips his chin up, a little challenging, like if Iorveth says the wrong thing he'll scratch him with his kitty-cat claws. ]
[ "He was ugly and short and had a micropenis" was the correct (but wildly untrue) answer, but alas. Iorveth does not actually hate Isengrim despite the fact that the guy vanished into thin air, which is perhaps his biggest failing.
That said "does not actually hate" is not the same as "love", which is the prevailing emotion Iorveth feels when Astarion hikes his chin up and tries to look haughty-threatening, which is an expression that sits very pretty on his pretty face. He has no doubt Astarion could scratch his eye out with his nails, which makes that lovely threat even better.
After a moment, he delivers his verdict: ] Happiness. [ Dramatic? Maybe. But again, as ever, it's his truth. ] You make me happy.
[ Which isn't to say that he was deeply unhappy with his past partners, but it wasn't a priority for Iorveth at all, the notion of being happy. If anything, personal happiness was something to be avoided; Iorveth mulls over that difference, fingers drumming gently over Astarion's stomach. ]
[ Astarion waits a moment, mulling the answer over in his head. 'Happiness'. What a small word for what Iorveth makes him feel. He isn't particularly inclined towards poeticism, but how he feels about Iorveth has to be too large to be contained in such a mundane word.
Still, it's the closest thing he has. He lets his hand slide atop Iorveth's. ]
I'm afraid you make me deliriously happy.
[ Hence why he's always so neurotic about their relationship. Iorveth gave him his first taste of happiness in two hundred years. The thought of ever having that ripped away from him makes him feel sick. ]
I just— I suppose I've a bit of trepidation about meeting the family.
[ Iorveth doesn't think Astarion's behavior is neurotic at all: it all rings very logical for Iorveth, who has constantly had everything good in his life taken from him by callous third parties with no respect for things he held sacred. Everything precious in his life, then, should be protected by force if necessary, and if someone like Astarion also expresses extreme protectiveness over the things that make him happy, well. Who is Iorveth to tell him to change?
No moderating force here, no objective perspective to tell them both to chill the fuck out. "Deliriously happy" makes Iorveth feel proud－ not of himself, but of Astarion and his capacity to feel that way－ so he turns his hand over under Astarion's, palm to palm with fingers loosely curled. ]
You're not a difficult man to like. Even Lae'zel was fond of you by the time we got to Moonrise.
[ A half-smile, remembering the rough start they all had. Iorveth didn't even really want to share a camp with those losers (affectionate) way back when. ]
...It's no small thing, that you still want to go north with me. That you want to learn my language, and that you've given these things thought.
[ "Meeting the family". Iorveth wonders if Astarion really understands what that sounds like, how some may interpret it. ]
[ Astarion is incredibly difficult to like, but he chooses not to correct Iorveth on that point. Still, he wonders if Iorveth can't remember just how much Astarion used to aggravate him. In the beginning, most of their conversations had been snipes. Maybe it does say something about his charm, he concedes, that he managed to turn those snipes into sweet nothings. Or maybe it just says something about Iorveth's poor taste in men. ]
Why wouldn't I have?
[ Of course he's given these things thought. He wants to fit into Iorveth's life, no matter how poorly-suited he may be to it. If he has to adapt, he'll adapt. ]
I thought you wanted to spend the rest of your irritatingly mortal lifespan with me.
[ So, obviously, when he thinks of the future, it's in that context. ]
[ Ah. "Irritatingly mortal" puts a damper on things, even if it's true. Iorveth sits up a little, finding a better vantage point from where he can gauge Astarion's expression, propped up on a pillow with his elbow resting on soft fabric. ]
I do. Four more centuries, give or take, if someone doesn't kill me first.
[ They sure can try. Iorveth reaches out to stroke Astarion's hair, brushing stray strands out of his face and behind his ear. ]
...My people will protect you, even after I die. I'll make sure of it.
[ Unless there's a cloak of immortality that they can find in Athkatla alongside Astarion's cloak of daywalking, Astarion will outlive Iorveth by the span of an eternity. Depressing. Astarion should probably find himself a vampire to love after this, so they can live with each other without fear of loss and longevity. Iorveth doesn't say so, because he doesn't want it to be taken the wrong way. ]
[ A lucky thing that they no longer have the tadpoles and their psionic connection, because Astarion has the fleeting thought that maybe he should have ascended after all and turned Iorveth. It's an ephemeral thought, because he knows Iorveth would despise him for it, but a thought all the same. Four centuries is nothing at all, and it'll fly by before they know it. Then Astarion will have the rest of eternity to be lonely.
A dark thought. He pulls the covers up a little further. ]
I don't want to be protected. I want to have you.
[ He would absolutely sacrifice every single one of Iorveth's people if it meant he could keep Iorveth forever. An inside thought that does not make it to the outside, because he doesn't want to be broken up with today. ]
[ Oh, this is bad. Somehow, erroneously, Iorveth had assumed that the promise of safety might appease Astarion somewhat, and that the prospect of having people to guarantee his wellbeing might lessen the blow of Iorveth's passing; not so, apparently. A first, by all metrics. As someone who has also endured atrocity, Iorveth doesn't take the value of security lightly.
So, again: this is bad. Iorveth watches Astarion curl further into their blankets and feels his heart do two diametrically opposing things: compact into a painfully tight ball while expanding ten sizes in his chest. It's the sort of feeling of love that hurts, the kind that tightens the back of his throat and makes him feel short on air. ]
If only I could, [ he finally says, running his fingertips over Astarion's cheek. ] I would never let loneliness touch you again.
[ Astarion deserves to be happy, to be blessed with companionship, to be able to share his time with others. Iorveth would do anything to make sure that Astarion is happy until the world collapses on itself, but he's just an elf.
(Somewhere in Athkatla, a cadre of hags and cambions sit bolt upright, sensing the existence of two dumb elves who might be persuaded into doing something very stupid in exchange for alluring promises. Hm.) ]
[ Astarion wants very badly to be angry at Iorveth for having the hypothetical gall to die in four hundred years. How dare he make Astarion love him, when he knew from the start that it was always going to be temporary! He can't, though, because he really does love Iorveth. So much that he can't even be upset with him for something that he supposes technically isn't his fault.
He does still want to be upset, though. It takes every ounce of maturity and self-control that he has (which is not much) not to throw a temper tantrum about Iorveth's mortality, but he manages it, only grinding his teeth unpleasantly. ]
...A problem we have four hundred years to solve, I'm sure.
[ Said with the utmost of scowls. He hates this. ]
[ Iorveth will take the L on this one― he is the one who crossed the line from "little tryst" to "serious attachment" first, and he is the one who will inevitably die first.
His hand stops ghosting over Astarion's cheek and settles more firmly against the jut of his tightly-clenched jaw. A thumb glides against the shapely outline, trying to coax Astarion to relax. ]
I'll do my utmost not to be killed.
[ Honestly, the only thing he can offer at this point. Coppers instead of gold. ]
Beloved. [ Tilting Astarion's face, just a fraction of a sliver. ] I do want to be with you until the end.
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So he does. Lips to lips, breath to unnecessary breath. In Iorveth's mind, Astarion earned that spot for himself (delusional). ]
You'll have to put up with me correcting you.
[ He finally replies, once he settles back onto his pillow and relaxes into being sideways on the mattress. A beat to think of a sentence in his dialect that sounds close enough to the Elven language for Astarion to decipher, and he offers: ]
"What my love wants, my love gets."
[ What Astarion said to him before, now in Aen Seidhe. ]
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Still, he did say he wanted to speak Aen Seidhe (or the Elder speech, as Iorveth so pretentiously called it). He has to start somewhere, even if starting something new sounds unpleasant and scary. Being bad at something wasn't treated with gentleness and patience in the Szarr household; it was grounds for mockery, derision, and scorn. Usually, Astarion would just rather not try than do poorly.
But he does want to learn the dialect, both for practical and sentimental reasons. He doesn't want to use Iorveth as a translator for the rest of his eternal life, and he also wants to know something that seems important to Iorveth.
So, he repeats the phrase. Technically, there's nothing wrong with it. It's nowhere near his usual butchering of 'I like you', perfectly understandable, but— his accent is absolutely atrocious. ]
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A half-smile, affectionate, and he repeats just the "my love". Not asking for a repetition this time, and just saying it for the sake of it.
After that: ] If Ciaran glares at you, say: "What are you looking at?" [ The essentials. Iorveth laughs under his breath, and reaches up to flick the tip of Astarion's nose. ] And if he doesn't stop, tell him: "kiss my ass".
[ What everyone wants to know: curses in other languages. ]
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He repeats the latter phrase—kiss my ass—which will surely come in handy in the future. It won't make him any friends, but he doesn't need friends, anyway. He has Iorveth. ]
But Ciaran won't glare at me. He's so terribly fond of me.
[ Ha. ]
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He'll grow to be. He may grumble, but he's accepted you more than he lets on.
[ Callout post for Ciaran aep Easnillen, who will not appreciate his brother-in-arms exposing him to Astarion like this. Iorveth, still fuzzy from afterglow and affection, touches a palm to Astarion's cheek to feel how his grin spreads across his pretty face. ]
He told me that I deserve a life with you. Vouched for you in front of Saskia, apparently.
[ For whatever that's worth. Saskia is a noble creature, certainly, but she's a dragon at heart; she doesn't perceive things or understand love in the way that humans or elves might, so who knows how she'll react to Astarion. Knowing her, she'll find him to be a curiosity above all else. ]
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—He did what when?
[ When the hells did Ciaran need to vouch for him in the first place? And to Saskia, whose name is still only vaguely familiar—he only half-listens when Iorveth talks about politics, after all—but brings to mind the image of someone important, someone with power. Someone he, quite frankly, doesn't give a shit about. ]
Saskia hardly gets to choose what you do and with who.
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She holds the future of my people in her hands.
[ Implied: "so she kind of does get to have a say in what I do, if I don't want to fuck this up for everyone". Thus the reason why the political marriage rumor was funny: it bordered just on the edge of being possible, if not for the fact that it just isn't something that Saskia would be interested in doing.
Not that Astarion knows any of this, of course. Iorveth smooths a thumb between those furrowed brows, touching him just for the sake of touching him. ]
I used to rally under her banner. She never commanded me, but she did hold certain sway over my decisions.
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The pad of Iorveth's thumb sweeps between Astarion's eyebrows, and he can practically hear Iorveth's voice: you're going to get wrinkles. He tries his damnedest to stop scowling. It only half-works. ]
But you're not under anyone's banner now.
[ It is very possible that the reason this bothers him is because he's still afraid the Aen Seidhe are going to disapprove of him. Better to remind Iorveth now that he doesn't have to listen to them, just in case.
He pauses for a moment, then adds, a little irritated, ] —I wasn't aware a case had to be made for me.
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I allowed an Illithid parasite to get lodged in my brain, [ he explains, though it was less about allowing and more about "getting knocked out and waking up to a tadpole in his skull". Hard to have done anything differently when the ambush was so random and unplanned. ] Some of my comrades believed that my judgment may have been compromised.
[ "Iorveth is traveling with a gith and a human wizard and a hellspawn on fire and a former Sharran and a warlock who made a pact with a cambion, and he happened to also fall in love with a weird pasty elf" was probably not reassuring to hear for many reasons. Iorveth pointing to Astarion and saying "I love him" was not the serve that he thought it was. ]
Insulting, but understandable.
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He can't help it; his brow furrows again, that little wrinkle appearing. It's a good thing he doesn't age, because Iorveth would have already given him so many stress wrinkles that he wouldn't know what to do with himself. ]
Terribly insulting.
[ And distressing. Iorveth probably should have thought harder before sharing that, apparently, his people thought so poorly of Astarion that they suspected Iorveth's affection for him was the result of a parasitic infection. The very same people Astarion is supposed to join, at some point. ]
Did no one think to tell them what I look like?
[ Because, you know, obviously then they'd understand why Iorveth likes him so much. ]
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Despite the somewhat serious nature of the conversation, Iorveth huffs a quick sigh-laugh anyway. ]
Ciaran may have. Perhaps I should ask him how he described you.
[ Not unflatteringly, Iorveth thinks. Ciaran is very good at telling the truth, which is why Iorveth trusts him as much as he does. ]
Though, again, your looks are far from the most compelling things about you.
[ Aen Seidhe elves are beautiful in principle; another pretty elf isn't very remarkable to them. ]
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Your elves don't sound compelled.
[ And why should they be? Iorveth is the only one who likes him for his personality, because Iorveth is verifiably insane. They must know that he doesn't deserve someone as precious and perfect as Iorveth. Displeased, he sinks further into the softness of Gale's mattress; it feels warm now, after all of their exertion. ]
It sounds as if they already dislike me. [ Which sounds pathetic, so he adds, ] Not that I care, of course.
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They have no reason to dislike you. I suspect they're more worried about whether or not I've lost my mind.
[ Not because of Astarion, specifically, but because: ]
I'm not known to become infatuated. Not with anything or anyone.
[ Dedicated, sure. Passionate, definitely. Loyal, absolutely. But pointing someone out as his other half? Not so much. That, coupled with a brainworm, are definite grounds for "is Iorveth okay". ]
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Astarion wriggles under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. It feels rather humiliating to brood with one's cock out.
Like a petulant child: ] What of Eisenhower?
[ Isengrim. He knows the right name, but he's too glum to say it. ]
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Astarion turns himself into a burrito, and Iorveth still lounges around, naked and unashamed, relaxed. Contrasting personalities, yet again. He huffs a laugh at the ridiculous pettiness of "Eisenhower", and finds more pillows to fortify themselves with. ]
I cared for him, certainly.
[ This is probably where he should say "forget him babe, you're the only one that matters", but Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]
But we were bound to each other by pain, I suppose. [ A bit of solemnity creeps into his voice, distant and detached. Like reciting history. The moment is brief; he comes back into himself, and rests a hand on Astarion's stomach over the blankets. ] You're different.
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[ Astarion glowers. ]
You were supposed to say that he didn't hold a candle to me.
[ Also, he was supposed to say that Isengrim's dick was small. It's like Iorveth doesn't know anything about being romantic! Like most of Astarion's emotions, though, the wave of indignation passes relatively quickly, and after a moment he lets his fingers brush over the tips of Iorveth's. ]
What are we bound by, then, hmm?
[ He tips his chin up, a little challenging, like if Iorveth says the wrong thing he'll scratch him with his kitty-cat claws. ]
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That said "does not actually hate" is not the same as "love", which is the prevailing emotion Iorveth feels when Astarion hikes his chin up and tries to look haughty-threatening, which is an expression that sits very pretty on his pretty face. He has no doubt Astarion could scratch his eye out with his nails, which makes that lovely threat even better.
After a moment, he delivers his verdict: ] Happiness. [ Dramatic? Maybe. But again, as ever, it's his truth. ] You make me happy.
[ Which isn't to say that he was deeply unhappy with his past partners, but it wasn't a priority for Iorveth at all, the notion of being happy. If anything, personal happiness was something to be avoided; Iorveth mulls over that difference, fingers drumming gently over Astarion's stomach. ]
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Still, it's the closest thing he has. He lets his hand slide atop Iorveth's. ]
I'm afraid you make me deliriously happy.
[ Hence why he's always so neurotic about their relationship. Iorveth gave him his first taste of happiness in two hundred years. The thought of ever having that ripped away from him makes him feel sick. ]
I just— I suppose I've a bit of trepidation about meeting the family.
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No moderating force here, no objective perspective to tell them both to chill the fuck out. "Deliriously happy" makes Iorveth feel proud－ not of himself, but of Astarion and his capacity to feel that way－ so he turns his hand over under Astarion's, palm to palm with fingers loosely curled. ]
You're not a difficult man to like. Even Lae'zel was fond of you by the time we got to Moonrise.
[ A half-smile, remembering the rough start they all had. Iorveth didn't even really want to share a camp with those losers (affectionate) way back when. ]
...It's no small thing, that you still want to go north with me. That you want to learn my language, and that you've given these things thought.
[ "Meeting the family". Iorveth wonders if Astarion really understands what that sounds like, how some may interpret it. ]
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Why wouldn't I have?
[ Of course he's given these things thought. He wants to fit into Iorveth's life, no matter how poorly-suited he may be to it. If he has to adapt, he'll adapt. ]
I thought you wanted to spend the rest of your irritatingly mortal lifespan with me.
[ So, obviously, when he thinks of the future, it's in that context. ]
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I do. Four more centuries, give or take, if someone doesn't kill me first.
[ They sure can try. Iorveth reaches out to stroke Astarion's hair, brushing stray strands out of his face and behind his ear. ]
...My people will protect you, even after I die. I'll make sure of it.
[ Unless there's a cloak of immortality that they can find in Athkatla alongside Astarion's cloak of daywalking, Astarion will outlive Iorveth by the span of an eternity. Depressing. Astarion should probably find himself a vampire to love after this, so they can live with each other without fear of loss and longevity. Iorveth doesn't say so, because he doesn't want it to be taken the wrong way. ]
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A dark thought. He pulls the covers up a little further. ]
I don't want to be protected. I want to have you.
[ He would absolutely sacrifice every single one of Iorveth's people if it meant he could keep Iorveth forever. An inside thought that does not make it to the outside, because he doesn't want to be broken up with today. ]
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So, again: this is bad. Iorveth watches Astarion curl further into their blankets and feels his heart do two diametrically opposing things: compact into a painfully tight ball while expanding ten sizes in his chest. It's the sort of feeling of love that hurts, the kind that tightens the back of his throat and makes him feel short on air. ]
If only I could, [ he finally says, running his fingertips over Astarion's cheek. ] I would never let loneliness touch you again.
[ Astarion deserves to be happy, to be blessed with companionship, to be able to share his time with others. Iorveth would do anything to make sure that Astarion is happy until the world collapses on itself, but he's just an elf.
(Somewhere in Athkatla, a cadre of hags and cambions sit bolt upright, sensing the existence of two dumb elves who might be persuaded into doing something very stupid in exchange for alluring promises. Hm.) ]
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He does still want to be upset, though. It takes every ounce of maturity and self-control that he has (which is not much) not to throw a temper tantrum about Iorveth's mortality, but he manages it, only grinding his teeth unpleasantly. ]
...A problem we have four hundred years to solve, I'm sure.
[ Said with the utmost of scowls. He hates this. ]
Give or take. If you aren't killed first.
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His hand stops ghosting over Astarion's cheek and settles more firmly against the jut of his tightly-clenched jaw. A thumb glides against the shapely outline, trying to coax Astarion to relax. ]
I'll do my utmost not to be killed.
[ Honestly, the only thing he can offer at this point. Coppers instead of gold. ]
Beloved. [ Tilting Astarion's face, just a fraction of a sliver. ] I do want to be with you until the end.
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