essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Methodically, like working a lock, his fingers search out areas of tension and press in until they relax. It's not much compared to everything Iorveth has done to make him happy, but it's one thing he can do to be of service. Iorveth should always enter his trance feeling loose and at ease. He's spent enough nights stiff and stressed, Astarion thinks. ]

Oh, darling, [ is mock-exasperated. ] We just can't go one day without making a new enemy, can we?

[ It's the Zhentarim. He's not too beat-up about it. ]

Luckily, you do inspire me to play the hero.

[ More melting. Iorveth turns into a pliant mess of limbs under Astarion's gentle ministrations, unfurled and draped over his partner's body like an elf-shaped blanket. Long arms keep Astarion in a light hold, relaxed. ]

You play it better than you realize. [ Murmured, warm. ] I trust you, completely.

[ All those times that Astarion could have and should have run. Iorveth thinks back to the first time, to the head-spinning shock of Astarion standing his ground and the spike of genuine fear he'd felt when he heard something dull hit the back of Astarion's head.

Maybe that's the moment he fell irrevocably in love. In very strong like, at least. He cradles Astarion closer, and closes his eye. ]

Stay with me, [ he says softly, almost like an impulse before he has to relinquish consciousness. ]

[ Astarion plays a piss poor hero in his opinion, but if his elf-shaped security blanket is saying so, then he supposes he can't argue. His fingers stop their kneading, turning to light, lazy strokes up and down Iorveth's back. Soothing, meant to lull him into his trance. Tomorrow, they'll need to do some digging on Athkatla, see if Gale has had any opportunity to talk with his colleagues. Today, though, he only wants Iorveth to have the sort of lazy rest Astarion knows he rarely allows for himself. ]

You always say that.

[ Stay with me, as if Astarion has any intention of going anywhere. Ridiculous. Has he not been clear enough that he wants to be glued to Iorveth's side until the sun burns out or someone stakes him in the heart (whichever comes first)?

Hm. He'll need to think of a better way to show Iorveth that they're tied irrevocably now, that he couldn't possibly imagine a future without his scowling little elven terrorist in it. ]

You couldn't rid yourself of me if you tried.

[ And he closes his eyes, too, pressing his lips to Iorveth's temple before drifting off himself. ]

[ A lovely threat. It helps Iorveth set aside worst-case scenarios for now, and fall into the kind of trance that coalesces around pleasant sense-memories: bathhouses, breakfasts, ankles tangled under covered tables. He's fully relaxed by the time Gale peeks into their bedroom, the edges of his sharp features rounded by rest and comfort. Even his cheekbones look a little less knifelike in the dim, illuminated only by the conjured light hovering over Gale's open palm.

(It occurs to Iorveth that he hasn't seen daylight in more than a tenday. It doesn't bother him.)

He shifts, stretches. Runs his fingers through Astarion's hair, murmuring a greeting to him in Elder Speech. He can sense Gale wanting to approach them beyond his polite station by the open door, so he eventually gestures the wizard over, offering two impatient "closer"s until Gale is standing, hesitantly, by the foot of their bed.

"Er," Gale begins, and Iorveth cuts him off with a ] Sit, [ to which the mattress creaks underneath the tentatively-obliging weight. ]

Tell us your news, [ Iorveth continues, remaining pleasantly horizontal with Astarion still in the loop of his arms. Trusting his partner, obviously, and extending a bit of that trust to Gale, who has been graciously hosting them and doing the heavy lifting. A wary fox, letting his favorite person's friend touch him between his ears.

Gale clears his throat again, and finally offers: "well, it goes without saying that I have more information on the whereabouts of the cloak. Fortunately for us, it doesn't seem to be in the clutches of another vampire." ]

[ Astarion scoots up so that he's leaning against the headboard enough to properly see Gale, although he's careful not to dislodge Iorveth as he does so, pulling him to his chest and idly stroking his hair. Probably enough PDA to make Gale uncomfortable, but he doesn't particularly care. At least it's not Halsin, who'd probably congratulate them for something like 'taking succor in each other' and suggest that they take off their trousers to 'truly connect with one another and nature'.

(Oh, Halsin. He does wonder what that giant man is up to these days. Perhaps they should write him sometime.)

He sighs in relief at the news that he won't have to kill another vampire in his lair. ]

Thank the gods. You know, I really do hate having to involve myself with vampires. They're quite irritating creatures, present company excluded.

[ Then, with a raised eyebrow: ] —Well, go on. Where is the cloak, then? Still in Faerûn, I hope.

[ Iorveth reaches across Astarion for the eyepatch he'd left on the bedside dresser, pulling it on without interrupting the sifting of fingers through his hair.

Gale, valiantly trying not to get too caught up in the sight of bare skin and long limbs, continues.

"Very much in Faerûn, and very much still in Athkatla. The good news is that we know exactly where it is, down to the address－" Pause for effect or a spiritual "good boy", which Iorveth offers with a low hum. "－And the owner, who I hear is a very old woman with a penchant for collecting very old curiosities. With this information, one of my colleagues could easily transport you to the place in question!"

Another pause, this time to appreciate the resourcefulness and power of wizards. With that done, he moves on to what Iorveth assumes is the bad news, which Gale corroborates soon after.

"Unfortunately, the current state of things isn't without its downsides. You'll have to barter for the cloak, for one, and I hear that the proprietress doesn't relinquish pieces of her collection without a bit of a fight. This may be where Astarion's natural charm may save the day."

Wink wink. A bit of theater before the more sobering bit of information, which Gale relays with more seriousness.

"―The other problem is considerably more unpleasant. It seems another vampire is also looking into procuring this cloak for himself." ]

Gale! [ Astarion shoots up in annoyance — then corrects himself by lying back down again, hand returning to its idle petting. Gods forbid his love gets disturbed.

Still, his face contorts into a frown, and he hisses, ] You said there were no vampires to contend with.

[ Gale absolutely never said that, but as Iorveth has surely noticed, Astarion has a horrible habit of hearing only what he wants to hear. Poor Gale sputters, protesting—"I don't recall saying that!"—but Astarion only sighs, melodramatic, right in Iorveth's ear. ]

Fine. We'll just have to get there before him, obviously.

[ How hard can it be to charm one old lady into giving him her stuff? He's been training for it his whole life. ]

—And, worst case scenario, we'll just have to kill him. You don't mind beheading a vampire, do you, darling?

[ Iorveth is still lounging, craning up to nose along Astarion's earlobe and plant a lazy kiss along his jaw. Very unperturbed by the topic of vampires. ]

I've no qualms about killing anything that may harm you.

[ Matter-of-factly. Gale shoots Iorveth a look that's roughly the equivalent of "hello????? can you please chill for one second????", and finds himself summarily dismissed by a hiked chin and a huff. "Did I stutter?", essentially.

What does make Iorveth sit up a little straighter is Gale's follow-up, which is delivered with all the contriteness of a man who really doesn't want to bring this up:

"Be that as it may, there is something notable about this particular vampire. He... seems to have had prior correspondences with a certain someone."

Mealy-mouthed. Iorveth frowns, tension returning to broad shoulders. Gale, sensing the temperature drop in the room, raises his free hand and waves it in the universal sign for surrender.

"Merely an unfortunate coincidence! But still. This vampire, Mrel Alkam, had sent letters to the Szarr Palace in the past." ]

Oh.

[ If the temperature had dropped a degree before, it's freezing now. Astarion's hand stills, affectionate gestures forgotten in the face of Cazador Szarr. He's just a mangled corpse in a basement now, he tells himself. It doesn't help. ]

I— perhaps he spoke of an Alkam before. I don't know.

[ Although he'd sat up to talk with Gale, he finds himself slowly sinking down into the pillows now, like if he tries hard enough he'll slip right through them and disappear. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen. ]

It was hard to keep track of all of the competition that he hated.

[ Cazador could talk for hours on end about vampires in foreign cities, and how they had it so much easier, you know, and it's far more impressive what Cazador had accomplished in Baldur's Gate. No matter his spawns' responses—if there was a response from them at all—he always seemed displeased. And their spawn aren't such dimwits, either! he'd complain. ]

...It doesn't matter. He'll die just like any other vampire.

[ Iorveth has shot messengers before, but there's no point in killing this one: Gale looks appropriately remorseful about having had to speak an unwelcome name in Astarion's presence, so Iorveth doesn't chew him out for it. Instead, he picks up where Astarion left off, sweeping his touch up to silver hair to fluff up some trance-matted curls. ]

Just another vampire, [ he agrees. ] You needn't try to recall an irrelevant name.

[ A soft press of his lips to the crown of Astarion's head later, Iorveth gives Gale a small nod in acknowledgment. ]

Thank you for the information. We'll prepare accordingly－ leave us for now.

[ There's a reason Astarion didn't recruit the rest of the party for help against Cazador; these moments of vulnerability are for Astarion, and Astarion only. Iorveth waves Gale away as gently as he can manage, still petting soft curls all the while. ]

[ He doesn't fault Gale for mentioning it—he did the right thing; Astarion would have found out sooner or later—but he is glad to see (well, hear, since he's currently staring up at the ceiling) Gale go. While he considers Gale a friend, there are some things that are too vulnerable to show even a friend, no matter how supportive that friend might be. For a long time, he didn't want anyone to see his vulnerabilities, ever. He'd learned to hide them for fear that they might be used against him. Iorveth is the first person he ever let see him.

"If you insist," Gale says with a nod, and Astarion can feel his weight lift from the mattress, hear the pitter-patter of his feet as he makes his way to the door. He stops in the doorway, turning back around to say, "There is supper left on the table for you, Iorveth, if you find yourself feeling peckish."

They'd spoken of being too good. Gale really is too good to the both of them. He absconds after that, presumably to start his nightly routine of reading and haircare. ]

He isn't special, [ Astarion says, still staring at the ceiling. ] So he exchanged a few letters with— [ He swallows. ] What do I care?

[ And then, as if arguing with himself, he adds, ] I don't.

[ Helpful, kind Gale. It isn't his fault that vampire politics are following them all the way to Athkatla, and it isn't Astarion's fault that remnants of Cazador are still scattered around the continent like plague rats.

Iorveth sits up, shoulders pressed against the headboard of the bed. He watches Astarion and his reluctance to look at anything but the blank canvas of the ceiling above them― a survival tactic, maybe. Or a regression of sorts. Something about being buried and only being able to look up.

Protective, Iorveth keeps one hand rested against Astarion's cheek. A point of contact, if nothing else. ]

Just another loathsome creature.

[ Simply, without any insistence. If Astarion wants to talk through his feelings, Iorveth won't stop him; he was patient after Iorveth had his nightmares before, and Iorveth wants to extend the same grace to Astarion. ]

[ A moment's silence, and then Astarion takes the pillow from beneath his head and presses it against his face. If only he needed to breathe; maybe then he could suffocate himself beneath it and not have to feel this way anymore.

Unfortunately, he doesn't need to breathe, and so he simply lies there, looking like a child throwing a tantrum. Which he is, he supposes. That's exactly what Cazador would have said. Speaking of— ]

He's not supposed to make me feel this way anymore.

[ Muffled underneath the pillow, but with feeling. He'd thought that he was fixed. He'd told Iorveth that being with him made up for every terrible thing that ever happened to him, and he'd believed it. This sudden twinge of fear and feeling of smallness is all the more humiliating for the fact that he really had thought he'd won.

Another moment, and he finally removes the pillow from his face, frowning. ]

I... apologize. [ A very mature thing to do, he thinks! Would a child throwing a tantrum do that? ] This isn't your issue to deal with.

[ He doesn't have to make his negative emotions everybody else's problem. That's growth. ]

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