essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Sweet. Iorveth leans into Astarion's palm, relishing the coolness of it until the touch inevitably retracts, leaving Iorveth to watch as Gale bustles around like a brunet hurricane, gathering his things and doing some last-minute tidying with well-aimed spells and muttered incantations.

Before Astarion is rushed out of the door: ] Astarion. [ A soft press of his lips to that porcelain cheek. ] I love you.

[ In his language, a reminder of the night prior. With that said, there's also an addendum: ] Try not to start any wars, and enjoy yourself.

[ His lips curl up just slightly, and it's one more gentle sift of fingers through fine curls before Iorveth steps back and helps Gale usher Astarion out into the crowded night and towards the impressive operahouse with its more-than-impressive guestlist. Along the way, Astarion will be treated to running commentary about some of the more famous attendees― the aforementioned Lady Silverhand, Open Lord of Waterdeep, accompanied by the former High Mage of Silverymoon ("Taern Hornblade! He doesn't look a day over 70, but he's almost three centuries old, I think"). ]

[ Iorveth is so ridiculously sweet. It should make him sick, but instead, it only makes him glow with pleasure from the inside out. That happy glow lasts the whole walk to the opera house, and even after, once they've made it inside and Gale is yapping all about the place, regaling him with fun facts about its construction. He tunes most of it out, of course, but he finds himself blissfully unannoyed.

He was right about rich people enjoying their drink; there's plenty of champagne (from the Champagne region in Cormyr, of course) to go around, and although he can't quite enjoy all of its benefits himself, he plies Gale with enough that he's practically falling down when they return back to the tower. Gale giggles drunkenly as they stumble through the door (although Astarion's stumbling is only because he's trying to avoid getting slammed into by a clumsy Gale).

"I cannot believe you let me flirt with the Lady Silverhand so brazenly--" Gale is saying, bright red from both drink and embarrassment. ]

I can't believe you flirted with Taern Hornblade. Honestly, Gale, you're a menace to society.

[ Speaking of flirting and menaces－

－Iorveth, who has spent an entire night guarding dockworkers from Zhent thieves, is freshly out of the bath (scrubbing the scent of fish off his skin) and lounging in the sitting room sporting nothing but a soft pair of trousers and several new bruises. He lifts his head from the book he's reading (the one Astarion purchased for him, the rather well-written story about a man twice dishonored and getting revenge tenfold) and cranes backwards to greet the two returning men, still-damp hair sticking to his sharp features. ]

Tell me at least one of them flirted back.

[ For poor Gale's sake. Iorveth did tell him to have fun. ]

[ "One of them did, in fact!" ]

Yes, and for the sake of preserving our dear wizard's dignity, I won't say which one.

[ But it's pretty obvious. That old man totally wanted Gale. Carnally.

Astarion perches on the arm of the sitting chair Iorveth is sprawled out in, reaching out to run a hand down Iorveth's arm. He had fun, yes, but he missed Iorveth, too. This is the first time in a long time he's done something that didn't involve Iorveth, and, well—

It's probably, ugh, "healthy". But that doesn't mean his mind didn't continually wander to Iorveth, and that he didn't wish he was able to sift his fingers through Iorveth's hair or hold his hand. He does just that now, running his hand through Iorveth's damp locks. ]

And how was your night, working man?

[ "Taern Hornblade" sounds like a rival suitor for Nicholas' hand who would appear in the third book of the continuing saga (okay, maybe Iorveth is also slightly invested in the plot); Iorveth sets that thought aside and watches Gale stumble his way across the sitting room, mumbling something about the temperature of the room being far too high. He definitely needs a flat, soft surface to sit on and decompress for a while. And some water.

Maybe in a bit. Iorveth is distracted by the now-familiar, very-welcome touch along his arm and up to his hair. After a night of dealing with bad-smelling dockworkers and even worse-mannered Zhent bandits, Astarion's presence tugs him back to a softer, safer state of mind. A bit humbling, knowing the immediate and positive effect that Astarion has on him. ]

Full of unwashed Zhentarim by the docks. [ Definitely not as fun as watching Gale drink himself into oblivion, but fine enough. Iorveth reaches into his pocket and takes out a little leather pouch that he deposits into Astarion's free hand. Inside is a pretty pin in the shape of a golden sun, meant to clip onto a lapel or sleeve. ] Someone threw a fish at me, which was eventful.

[ "Hopefully not a quipper", Gale interjects. "Very good fried, though." ]

Hopefully, [ Astarion corrects, ] you made them regret it.

[ He knows Iorveth did. Perhaps he even made the culprit regret being born. His feral little fox. Iorveth can take care of himself, of course, but part of him wishes he had been there to seek retribution. The idea of anyone treating Iorveth as less than precious makes the back of his neck prickle unpleasantly.

Gale has become too likable to simply tell to get lost, but he does long for a little alone time with Iorveth. While he doesn't mind public displays of affection in the least, it's embarrassing to be too sweet in front of others. Too much of that, and it might ruin his reputation. So: ]

Gale, you really should go lie down. I'm sure Tara is missing you terribly.

[ Iorveth had politely kept to the terms of the Code Legal and made it a point not to murder anyone, even with justification, but he's wearing some of the scuffles on his body: bruises where he banged up against some of the crates the Zhents were trying to break into, a few cuts and scrapes after getting into close-range tussles.

Nothing major. They make a nice tapestry against the bruises and nailmarks that Astarion left the night prior, and Iorveth hasn't bothered to hide them, too content to press his bath-warm body up against Astarion's side and breathe in some of the lingering scent from the operahouse: champagne, strangers' perfume, the velvet from the seats. Every bit the fox of his namesake.

Meanwhile, Gale concedes to needing to lie down and plods his way bravely towards the stairs, explaining to a very disapproving Tara that the champagne was offered to him, and that it would have been extremely rude to refuse.

When Gale moves out of earshot: ]

Tell me about what vices you indulged in without me. [ A light lilt at the end; he's joking. ]

[ Once Gale is gone, Astarion crawls into the chair, crowding them both on the seat as he swings his legs over Iorveth's lap like a child who's missed his favorite person. He opens up the gifted leather pouch now that Gale is gone, brightening at the contents within.

Removing the pin from its pouch, he gets to work on trying to blindly pin it to his lapel, saying, ] Oh, the usual. Sex, drugs, gambling.

[ Hardly. It was a respectable event, perfect for a fuddy-duddy like Gale. There'd been plenty of drinking, which Astarion could only participate in superficially, and food, which Astarion couldn't participate in at all. He hadn't minded it, though. Gale had been excellent company, although he'd never tell him so; he'd navigated the whole situation with ease, never letting Astarion feel like an outsider. ]

Don't worry. I thought of nothing but you.

[ Well, not nothing. He did have extensive critique of the opera. You call that a contralto?! ]

[ A hum, as he reaches to gently take the pin from Astarion to place it more strategically on his lapel. Idly fussing, while quirking his scarred lip upwards at the mental image of Astarion going to a den of iniquity with Gale. ]

As did I, while fending off unwashed criminals.

[ "I missed you too," essentially. He finishes with the placement of the sun against midnight blue, and moves his touch to rest on Astarion's cheek. ]

I imagined foreign dignitaries chomping at the bit for a chance to kiss your hand. [ Still teasing, his tone dry. Iorveth doesn't quite manage to hit "mean" or "sarcastic", mostly because he's biased enough now to believe that Astarion could be hit on by important people; he does, after all, think that Astarion is the most beautiful thing (un)alive. He says as much. ] In a room full of colorful birds, you must have been the most striking.

[ Tracing a shapely jaw with his thumb. Drinking Astarion in, since he'd been too rushed to properly appreciate his partner in this new ensemble before. ]

[ 'Striking', certainly, if one considers that Astarion was the only one there with lily-white skin and red eyes. He hardly had anyone lining up to kiss his hand, particularly because the only thing that gave him any importance at all was being an ex-archwizard's guest, but the majority of the people that Gale introduced him to were friendly enough. No one, though, treated him with the sort of reverence that Iorveth seems to think he deserves.

Fine enough. He gets plenty of reverence at home. ]

You would think so, you besotted fool.

[ Ostensibly a scold, but he sounds far too pleased for it to really be one. At the moment, even the mean little voice in his head has to admit that Iorveth loves him, totally and absolutely.

Pressing a hand to one of the bruises that he didn't create on Iorveth: ] Which of those unwashed criminals did this? You know I'm the only one allowed to leave marks on you.

[ A besotted fool. Maybe so－ Iorveth doesn't do anything by halves. But to avoid the potential for Astarion to feel penned in, Iorveth lets his hand drop and shifts the book on his lap onto the coffeetable in front of him so that it isn't digging uncomfortably into Astarion's leg. ]

The ones currently facing flogging and imprisonment up to a tenday. Though, from what I've heard, the Code Legal doesn't apply to the Zhentarim in Waterdeep－ they've bought enough political power in the city to run rampant with impunity.

[ Listen closely enough, and one should be able to hear the cogs turning in Iorveth's mind again. Always wanting to know everything about what's going on in his periphery, never wanting to be surprised by anything. A survival tactic, hard to turn off. ]

But, mm. Yes, I do prefer your marks.

[ Gear shift. Iorveth knows Astarion isn't much for caring about who holds what seats in which levels of governance. ]

[ Astarion does care, insofar as he wants to know who to suck up to, but anything resembling actual politics leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It's all so boring. Honestly, he doesn't really care what the Zhentarim do, as long as it doesn't involve putting their hands on his precious Iorveth. ]

If I were still a magistrate, I'd sentence them to far worse than flogging.

[ Again, only because they roughed up Iorveth. Although admittedly, in the past, he probably would have cared about sending some sort of message with swift and brutal punishment.

He leans his head against Iorveth's, seeking out his hand to interlace their fingers. ]

What do you make of all of this city living, anyway?

[ Yes, this is an obvious ploy to see if Iorveth would ever be amenable to living in proper civilization. ]

[ Soft hair against his cheek, cool fingers tangling in his own, a pleasant weight against his side on a plush couch. Not the kind of position Iorveth would ever have imagined for himself before the tadpole incident, and not the kind of position he would ever have imagined for himself even when he'd asked Astarion to stay. It still feels incredibly improbable, not to mention deeply unearned.

But here he is. Iorveth turns his head, breathing in that scent of champagne and perfume again. ]

I don't feel connected to any of it.

[ An honest assessment, after a beat of consideration. No mincing words, even if he has an inkling that this isn't the answer Astarion wants to hear. ]

It's all clamor and clutter. [ Unlike his own culture, where everyone knew each other and saw each other clearly (a favorite complaint of his, that others don't see clearly). ] You remain the one thing I do feel connected to, among all the noise.

[ And Gale (and Tara), but Astarion should know what Iorveth means. ]

[ At one time, this answer would have sent him spiraling. It must be a sign of growth, then, that it doesn't. He hums in thought, rubbing his thumb idly against Iorveth's, a form of lazy affection. ]

I suppose it was too much to hope that you'd come to enjoy the clamor and clutter.

[ Things Astarion does enjoy. He likes having amenities at his fingertips, likes the streets being filled with people he's never met and never will, likes being somewhere important with important people. Baldur's Gate was all he'd ever known, and while Waterdeep is different in many ways, it's still similar enough. City life is exciting, with never a dull moment. ]

You must miss your people terribly.

[ A sentiment he'll never understand, but he hates the thought of Iorveth feeling lonely and unconnected all the same. ]

[ Hm, he murmurs again, considering. His focus flits down to where their fingers are laced, and he watches the lazy circling of that thumb, connecting the touch to the movement. ]

I do. I expect I always will. [ The consequence of caring too much and losing too much, both in quick succession. ] But Saskia was correct about one thing－ I'm not the elf I once was, and some would argue that I've changed too much to live among them once again.

[ A sharp, jagged thing thrown back into all the soft, rounded surfaces of peacetime. An unwelcome reminder of a tumultuous past, and an unpleasant manifestation of what they could become when overtaken by hatred. Iorveth has committed atrocities in the name of his people, but they were atrocities regardless. ]

If so, I suppose I'll have to get used to all the clamor and clutter.

Edited 2025-03-25 02:46 (UTC)

[ Astarion should be overjoyed to hear that Iorveth would even consider not returning to live among the Aen Seidhe. It had been a significant point of contention before Iorveth asked him to come along, and Astarion still feels no small amount of anxiety knowing that, even if he learns their language, there's little chance he'll ever truly belong. Instead of relief, though, Astarion feels irritated. ]

Those fools should be welcoming you back with a parade.

[ He scowls. He wants Iorveth to be happy living in the city, not feel like he's been exiled. The only thing worse than having to live in the forest like some sort of Halsin would be Iorveth's discontent. ]

If any of them have an issue with your living with them, they can all—

[ An exasperated sigh, then, in Aen Seidhe: ] Kiss my ass.

[ A blink, and a laugh－ it's not the reaction Iorveth was expecting, but it's the sort of reaction that smooths over some of the more painful edges of his current displacement. Iorveth will always be loyal to his people, will always do whatever it takes, however it takes, to stem the metaphorical bleeding of the collective, but there's something about a person completely divorced from the situation vouching for him, personally.

It's sweet. Novel. Every time Iorveth thinks he can't possibly love Astarion more, he up and does something like this. ]

I've not been doing everything I've been doing to be appreciated. I've done what I must, and I am who I am. There will be those that see me and understand, and those that will no longer wish to.

[ He's accepted it; he wouldn't be doing this if he hadn't. ]

My people deserve their peace of mind, after all this grief. And besides－

[ A little huff, warm. ] －I have you. My peace of mind is with you.

I— must you be so irritatingly mature?

[ Astarion shouldn't be the only one angry about this! He doesn't even want to live among those stupid elves. He wants to have a sprawling mansion in the city, and to throw parties for the sole sake of causing drama among the elite, and to curl up in a nice, warm bed at night with as many blankets and pillows as he wants. But he also wants Iorveth to be the one to reject living with his people, not the other way around. As placid as he seems about it, surely such a spurning would hurt. ]

...We'll see what transpires when you return to them.

[ Perhaps Iorveth just thinks the worst, and those elves of his really will welcome him back with open arms. If not... ]

If they treat you poorly, I'll make certain they regret it.

[ This is your peace of mind??? You live like this??? ]

[ Another soft laugh, mostly at the accusation of him being mature. Lifting their laced hands, he presses a kiss to the back of Astarion's. ]

They're still my people. And I'd rather not give them cause to dislike you.

[ Complicated. Iorveth is a compacted ball of eminent rage who has already been forsaken by certain members of his beloved society, and he's had to live with that knowledge for a while now― but he has a feeling that putting that card on the table now would be bad timing. It would probably beg the question of why he's chosen to put himself on the line for people who were willing to sacrifice him for the greater good, and, well.

Long story. For once, he decides not to go on a tirade. ]

Astarion. You'll give yourself frown lines. [ Smoothing along the corner of Astarion's lips with his free hand. ]

—Well, I want you to be happy.

[ And if being accepted by some stupid, dumb elves who don't properly appreciate him would make him happy, then. Well. Astarion will do what it takes to make that happen, or make them pay dearly for refusing to. He loves Iorveth very, very much, and he can't stand the thought of him forever feeling rejected by the people that he loves the most.

For a brief moment, he's quiet, thoughtful. (As thoughtful as someone like him can be.) ]

...Would it help if you were to return home sooner?

[ Home, because that surely is still what the forest is to Iorveth. Astarion absolutely is giving himself frown lines now; the thought of Iorveth leaving him is nearly as unpleasant as the thought of his unhappiness. Still— ]

If you needed to make your case to your people. [ A(n unintentionally) dramatic sigh. ] I would go to Athkatla [ —or where the hells ever that cloak might be— ] alone, if it would help you.

[ He'd do anything if it would make Iorveth happy. Freedom only extends so far, he's learning. ]

[ Silence settles, measured and ominous. Iorveth turns those words over in his head, and lines them up with Astarion's previously-stated annoyance that Iorveth wouldn't choose him over his tree-hugging elves in the north. It could be that the outing today gave him fresh perspective, that he found it more enjoyable to spend time away from Iorveth rather than spend all of it together, and― ]

―It may be good for you, [ is the finished thought. ] To accomplish something on your own, on your own terms.

[ Iorveth'd been there for Cazador, for the decision not to ascend, for the decision to let the spawn go instead of condemn them to death. Maybe Astarion should have one thing to call his own, untied to Iorveth and his perspectives. Not unreasonable. Incredibly healthy, actually.

Unlacing their fingers, Iorveth leans back towards the armrest. Force of habit: he always wants a good vantage point. ]

The forest is my home. I would go to it, if you would let me. But not at your expense, and certainly not if you think I would be happier without you.

[ Astarion had, perhaps, hoped for a different response. Something like I could never bear being apart from you or you're so much more important to me than some ingrate elves. Time has taught him, though, that 'what Astarion wants' and 'what Astarion gets' are usually two different things. At some point, he's going to have to learn to be all right with that.

No better time than the present, he supposes. Hand relinquished, he folds the both of them in his lap, looking down at them as if they're more interesting than the opera he just watched. ]

You aren't my kept elf. [ No matter how much Astarion would like him to be. ] And I'm not your master. [ Again, no matter how much he might like to be at times. The person who can hurt you most having free will is a little terrifying. ] There is no let.

[ He would be miserable. The forest is Iorveth's home, but Iorveth is his home. (Hard not to burn with jealousy.) Still, he straightens his back, hiking up his chin, trying very hard to be mature about all of this. ]

If it makes you at peace, I would... survive. One way or another.

[ The purpose of the vantage point is to watch, and Iorveth watches as Astarion scoots and repositions, chin momentarily dipping towards the hands folded on his lap until it snap upwards again with false purpose. A mask, Iorveth thinks― one that Astarion wears well, and perhaps even wears until the bravado becomes real, but a mask nevertheless.

He sighs. Soft, almost inaudible. With that done, he relinquishes his advantage of perspective to close the gap again, sliding his arms around Astarion's shoulders to tug him, a little forcibly, into an embrace. ]

Fool. [ Annoyed, almost. Fondly, but with exasperation. ] Do you think I could bear the thought of you surviving?

[ Memories of Astarion huddled under that broken bridge, talking about how humiliated he'd felt when the sun rejected him again― they overlay onto unpleasant offers made by Astarion, the suggestions that he could seduce his way out of things again. Iorveth wants none of that to touch his beloved again, ever. ]

If you care a whit about my happiness, know that it's tied to yours. Or did you think I was speaking falsely when I said I wished to build my future with you?

[ More chiding. ]

[ Even while being scolded, he can't help melting into Iorveth's warmth, hands instinctively winding around his middle. Although he's come to tolerate touch from his most trusted companions, there's no one whose touch brings comfort except Iorveth. He rests his head on Iorveth's shoulder, unconsciously gravitating into him. ]

You've never spoken falsely in your life.

[ It's something Astarion both liked and hated him for from the beginning. A straight shooter, never manipulative. Astarion always knew what to expect. At the same time, Iorveth never hesitated to scold or chide him. Still doesn't hesitate to do so, obviously. ]

It's just—

[ If he keeps asking Iorveth to make sacrifices for him, how long until he comes to resent Astarion and that future never comes to pass? A humiliating thing to say, so he doesn't. ]

I know that I... ask quite a lot.

[ An understatement. Astarion takes and takes and takes, and Iorveth just gives. He asks for attention, love, blood. He asks for Iorveth to stay with him even when he'd rather be elsewhere. Hells, he's been trying to force immortality onto Iorveth when he's never shown any inclination toward it himself. It might not bother Iorveth now, but in a tenday or a month or a year, maybe it finally will. ]

[ A puff of breath, near-offended. ]

You've never asked for something that I didn't want to give.

[ Something that they have in common: a deep-seated distaste for forced subservience. Iorveth hauls Astarion closer to his bare skin, tangling fingers in his hair to position one pointy ear closer to his pulsepoint. Under the thin layer of his tan skin, Astarion should be able to hear his heartbeat, slow and steady. Relaxed, at rest. ]

―Save for immortality, perhaps. [ Correcting himself, because he doesn't like to lie. ] It'd never crossed my mind.

[ As something possible, or something Astarion would even want. Most people can't stand Iorveth in small doses, let alone an eternity. ]

But surely you can't believe that I spoil you only for your own benefit. Touching, that you think me so altruistic.

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