essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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.

[ Yes, he sort of did think Iorveth was just that altruistic. Astarion's desires are simultaneously things that he can't possibly tolerate living without and must manipulate and lie to obtain, but are also so shameful that no one could ever want to fulfill them of their own free will. Complicated. He's a mess.

He presses his ear further against Iorveth's pulse, soothed by the sound. A little bit of hunger stirs up inside him from being so close to a warm body like this, but he beats it down. ]

I would hate your absence, [ he admits, his whole body relaxing at confessing the truth. ] —But I would endure it for you, if you asked.

[ And he really would. If Iorveth told him that it would make him happy, Astarion would swallow his displeasure and accept it. It's the least he owes Iorveth, he thinks. ]

[ A stretch of silence, again, to contemplate this. It's important enough that he'll give it the thought it deserves instead of dismissing it outright as something he'd never need to ask Astarion to do: in fact, he'd already considered it once before, when he'd mentioned sending Astarion to Waterdeep while he went north and braved the racists alone along the way.

Growth, he supposes. He combs through silver hair, watching it sift between his callused fingers. ]

I know that you would. [ Acknowledging, first. ] As would I, if you told me you needed to be elsewhere.

[ Freedom looks beautiful on Astarion; far be it for Iorveth to clip his wings in any way. ]

But I doubt I would be happy without you. Nothing I've felt in my past has ever felt like you.

[ 'I know you would', Iorveth says, as if Astarion hasn't thrown tantrum after tantrum and stomped his feet at the idea of being left alone. Iorveth would be forgiven for doubting him.

He leans his head into Iorveth's hand, every bit the finicky cat that Iorveth calls him. Only for Iorveth; there's no one else he'd want to pet him, no matter how gently. He isn't domesticated, exactly, but he is docile for one person only. In return, his fingernails scrape lightly against Iorveth's sides, up and down, carefully avoiding the scratches he left the previous night. ]

You just can't let me play the altruist for once, can you?

[ The scraping feels nice. Going with the cat associations, like being kneaded gently by paws with only slightly-retracted claws; there's always the promise that Astarion could fight back if displeased, and Iorveth loves that about him. A freak. ]

I could, [ he says, about altruism, ] but you would huff and brood and be unhappy, and if I pulled away now and left you to be independent, you would think I didn't love you.

Which I do, [ sounds just a little annoyed. Mostly at himself for being so besotted, as Astarion called it. ] To a frankly absurd degree.

[ Which is why he's staying right where he is, thank you very much. ]

Tell me you want to start rationing days where we sleep apart, and I will. But unless you propose it, love, I won't.

[ Astarion scoffs. He wouldn't think that Iorveth didn't love him. He knows, now, that he is loved, truly and irrevocably. Despite knowing that, though, it's true that he would have thought that Iorveth loved him less than he loved the Aen Seidhe. Perhaps that's even still true. As selfish as he is, he's still learning to share Iorveth with the rest of the world. ]

I don't.

[ Want to, that is. Astarion pulls back a little to see Iorveth's face. Ugly to Iorveth, but precious to him. ]

I loathe being apart from you.

[ He can't imagine being able to trance without Iorveth's body beside him. It's unhealthily dependent, maybe, but Iorveth's presence is the thing that makes him feel like the world might not be all bad. ]

I was stuck in eternal night for two centuries. You are my sunlight.

[ He watches Astarion watch him, and he watches those perfect lips forming those perfect words in that perfect voice. An overwhelming feeling. The offered sentiment percolates through his cracks like rainwater, leaving him feeling―

―warm. Too warm. He can feel heat creeping from his chest, slithering up his neck, dusting his cheeks, pooling at his ears; it flares a little hotter when he repeats what was said to him in the safety of his mind, that he, of all people, could be Astarion's sun.

Absurd. Astarion is his light. Evidenced by the pin on his lapel, the pattern he eventually still wants to stitch onto something of Astarion's at some point. Iorveth would say so, if he wasn't so busy trying to swallow some of this heat back into his chest.

Eventually, after a few seconds, he gives up. Ears still warm, he lifts a hand and presses his (also warm) palm over Astarion's eyes. No looking at his ugly face when he's flushed, thanks!! ]

You'll be the death of me.

[ He'd thought the sentiment was obvious, and that Iorveth already knew. It seems impossible for him not to — Astarion is long past hiding his obsession. He never would have said something so painfully vulnerable if he thought it weren't already common knowledge, and his face heats up in turn, going from cold to lukewarm.

Sputtering, he curls his fingers underneath Iorveth hand to forcibly peel it from his face (rude!). ]

—Well, I thought you already knew!

[ He would die for Iorveth, he would kill for Iorveth (either way, what bliss). He wants nothing more than to spend eternity with Iorveth at his side. Why would he ever want to do these things, if not because Iorveth is his light in the darkness? ]

Isn't it obvious? Out of all the shit I've been dealt [ —said with a not-insignificant amount of bitterness— ] you are the one gift that life has given me.

[ Iorveth relents when Astarion demands to see again, but doesn't retract completely: it presses itself against Astarion's now slightly-pink cheek, distracting himself from his own warmth, because―

―Gods, he shouldn't be encouraged to love someone more. Every word out of Astarion's mouth makes Iorveth want to pick him up and carry him to bed and keep him wrapped in his arms, seen and heard and tended to and indulged. ]

―There will be other gifts. [ Iorveth finally manages, breaking through the wall of his cute-aggression-possessiveness to point out the sensible truth (?) that life will open itself up to Astarion again. Case in point: tonight, where Astarion went to an opera with a dear friend and hopefully enjoyed himself without Iorveth hovering like a feral animal.

But with that said, he cranes forward for a soft but proper kiss. Astarion's vulnerability shouldn't be swept aside, and he savors the taste of it on his tongue before relenting for a breath. ]

...My beautiful, powerful, day-walking vampire. [ An exhale, bordering on a half-laugh. Bemused, amused. Iorveth thumbs along Astarion's jaw, and kisses him briefly again. ] Look how you've tamed the sun.

[ "I'm yours", essentially. A thing Iorveth would never have thought to say before Astarion came and turned his entire world upside down. ]

[ He still hasn't come around to the belief that there will be other gifts, but even if that's the case, he finds he doesn't terribly mind. Iorveth is the only gift he needs, because he turns everything he touches into gold. As long as Iorveth is around, he doesn't feel the weight of the last two hundred years; he feels like the future is something worth looking forward to.

A heavy burden to place on one person who's already had so much burden on his shoulders, hence his (poor) attempt at altruism. ]

I wouldn't want to tame you entirely, [ he laughs, hand closing over Iorveth's. ] I do enjoy your more... feral moments.

[ But he does enjoy having a wild animal curl up on his lap, too. A creature that would just as soon bite anyone else's hand, nuzzling into his. ]

[ The blood of the elves, the future of a vampire: both important things for Iorveth's overactive mind to latch onto. War trauma, perhaps. As much as he wants peace for the collective, he has an inkling that he wouldn't know what to do with himself after he's expended his practical use－ people hang up bows after a battle is done, but what do they do with a broken elf with a broken face who really only remembers what it feels like to fight?

He curls up around a vampire's feet and snaps at said vampire's enemies, apparently. Iorveth closes his eye for a moment, willing some of that residual heat to leave his face (to middling success) as he turns his hand over and lowers it, fingers laced around Astarion's. ]

Clearly. [ Trailing their held hands over a few scratches on his shoulders from the night prior. ] "Tamed" may not have been the best term.

[ He'll never not be sharp. He's a weird, misshapen creature that isn't worth bringing to parties and showing off the way Astarion might have wanted to do with a pretty, well-kept and well-behaved lover, but. Oh well. ]

[ Astarion is really awful, because although he still feels displeased at clawing Iorveth up like a rabid animal, he finds a twisted sort of enjoyment in feeling the scratches on his skin a whole day later. A mark that says I was here, this person is mine. The tips of his ears pink before he leans in to press a kiss to the corner of Iorveth's lovely mouth. ]

Take me to bed.

[ And then, to avoid Iorveth misunderstanding in disastrous fashion— ]

Just bed.

[ But then he worries that Iorveth might think that there's ever a moment when he doesn't desire him, which wouldn't be true at all, so he adds, with some embarrassment, ] I'm still a little, ah. Sore.

[ "Just bed" sets Iorveth up for a fondly exasperated "I don't need us to fuck every day, you realize", but the addendum of being sore makes Iorveth－

－well, not laugh (too rude even by his standards), but grin. Sly, foxlike. ]

And to think you spent the whole night sitting at the opera.

[ Entirely Iorveth's fault. He hums, then gets up off of the couch to drop into a low crouch by Astarion's side, looping his arms under long legs and across Astarion's shoulders to pick him up into a sideways carry. Not exactly the easiest thing in the world to manage, and there's actually no way Iorveth is going to manage going upstairs with Astarion in tow, but. Let it never be said that Iorveth doesn't try to be dramatic. ]

[ It's the first time he's ever liked the soreness instead of feeling used up and disgusted (disgusting). A reminder of someone that loves him. He didn't mind sitting all night at all.

Iorveth sweeps him off of his feet in the most literal way, and he giggles like some sort of infatuated schoolgirl. It would be humiliating if he weren't too charmed to care. Astarion makes a point of swooning, grinning as he says, ] Oh, my hero.

[ He wouldn't admit it even under pain of death, but he's always had a thing for gallant knights. Iorveth is hardly a knight, but he fits all the most necessary criteria all the same: handsome, devoted, ready to whisk him away to a better life. He's everything Astarion ever fantasized about during those dark, lonely nights in the palace. ]

Put me down before you pull something, my love.

[ Oh, to be Karlach with enough strength to pick people up and put them down without a second thought. Iorveth doesn't huff and puff his way to the stairs, but looks mildly vexed by the fact that he cannot, in fact, scale the stairs with a grown-ass adult man in tow. Tragic.

A grunt of dissatisfaction, as he sets Astarion down. ]

I've fallen behind in my training.

[ All this lounging around in bed with Astarion and eating Gale's food... not very guerilla warrior of him. A problem for future Iorveth, though, as current Iorveth is too busy leading Astarion upstairs and into bed, where he moves to undo the various buttons and clasps on his (Gale's) fancy midnight-blue doublet.

Undressing, just for the sake of comfort. Changing out of something into something more comfortable, instead of being made to strip. Iorveth wants the world for Astarion, including all of these small creature comforts. ]

[ Gods, he can hardly believe this is his life. Lying on a nice, soft, warm bed, someone tenderly undressing him for bed. He's been undressed more times than he can remember, clothing ripped off in service of getting to sex faster. Never to make him comfortable, never with clever, callused fingers that have stroked his cheek and sifted through his hair.

Sometimes, Iorveth treats him so gently that he could sob with how much it means to him. That would be humiliating, though, and he fears he'd never live it down, so he doesn't, only helps Iorveth undress him by slipping his arms out of the sleeves. ]

You're too good to me.

[ His voice is filled, somehow, with both warm affection and disapproval. Astarion adores Iorveth, loves him more than anything in this world, but he really is too good to him. No self-respecting person would be this good. ]

[ Reaching over to drape the doublet (now Astarion's, as Iorveth doesn't really plan on returning it to Gale) over the back of a nearby chair, Iorveth looks over his shoulder at Astarion, taking in the would-be chiding with a raised brow. ]

The world was never good enough to you.

[ A matter-of-fact correction. He holds that belief about his people, too: brutalized and murdered without consideration, chased and starved through winters. The world is neither fair nor sensible, and if there's one thing that his journey with their merry band taught him, it's that the Gods don't give a single shit about their individual plights. Iorveth will always be furious about this, without distinction; he will always Stay Mad about what Cazador did to Astarion, and he'd never allow it to happen again.

A familiar flicker of rage, there and gone again. Iorveth calms (weirdo), and edges back onto the mattress. ]

It pleases me to do this. Don't deprive me.

I could never deprive you of anything.

[ Astarion spent centuries unable to say 'no'; it's his favorite word now, but one he never wants to utter to Iorveth. Iorveth has been given just as shit a run of it as he has, and he deserves everything good in this world to make up for it. Astarion reaches out to tug Iorveth down onto the bed, pulling him close so that they can be bare chest to bare chest, beating heart to unbeating heart. ]

You lovely man.

[ He lets a hand snake under Iorveth's arm and onto his back, gently working out the knots there after a long night of work. ]

Tell me how to spoil you.

[ Tension bleeds from tension-taut muscles the moment Astarion starts kneading them. Clever lockpicker, able to untangle a terminally straight-backed elf in seconds.

Iorveth thinks about the request, melting slowly into the mattress. His turn to nest now, face against Astarion's neck, hand at Astarion's hip.

Finally: ] You could buy me a new pair of shoes tomorrow.

[ He presses his grin into pale skin, humor ruining his dry drawl. Astarion has a knack for making him smile, which is crazy; no one has ever made him consistently veer away from scowling at everything. ]

And protect me from the Zhentarim. I suspect I might have gotten on their bad side.

[ Literally what else is new. ]

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