essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ 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. ]

[ Iorveth's hand retracts from Astarion's face when the pillow replaces it, gravitating back to his own lap throughout the breath of Astarion's private musings. It stays there even after the pillow leaves, mirroring the contemplative expression on Iorveth's face. ]

Astarion. You've the right to feel what you need to feel.

[ Maybe it was forbidden in that death-ridden palace; maybe Cazador had punished Astarion severely for expressing negative emotions in his presence. Two hundred years of that, of suffering in silence. It's horrific.

Bedsprings creak, and Iorveth scoots closer without touching. Mindful of the possibility that Astarion needs space― gods know Iorveth has been around enough suffering elves to know when he needs to back the fuck off. ]

[ He hugs the pillow to his chest, shifting onto his side so that he can be face-to-face with Iorveth, a polite two inches between them not unlike the night they'd first shared a bed. Different, though, because Astarion isn't burning with embarrassment at the awkwardness of someone wanting to be close to him without having sex; the intimacy of innocent closeness is comfortable now, welcome. ]

I know.

[ Sort of. Iorveth has never shamed him for feeling, but that little prey animal part of him still wants to hide anything that could be a weakness for predators to latch onto. ]

But you've plenty on your plate as it is, and—

[ Another frown. ]

Besides. He's dead.

Very dead. [ Iorveth corroborates, with no small amount of satisfaction. ] You killed him, and now he's less than shit under a human's shoe.

[ A dry lilt. Warm but neutral, with careful fingertips brushing over the tip of one pointy ear before retracting again. ]

I can never have enough of you, but I can leave you to your thoughts if you wish.

[ Gale's offer of food still stands, and he knows better than to make Astarion feel smaller by inadvertently being too cloying; again, Iorveth can't stand the thought of his beloved suffering in silence, but he also hates the thought of Astarion feeling less than capable. He's free and unbeholden to men or women who expect certain behavior from him― sometimes one simply needs to be left alone to scream into pillows, and Iorveth can appreciate that.

Bedsprings creak again, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed. The scratches that Astarion left are healing, thinning into trace red lines that'll fade by morning. ]

[ Astarion watches as Iorveth gets up to leave, eyes on his lovely muscles moving in his lovely back that's covered by all those lovely scratches. Positively lovely, in every possible way. He would almost think that Iorveth was the gods' gift to him after centuries of suffering, but he knows better than to think that they care. No — Iorveth was a happy accident. He shudders to think of what his life might be like if not for the perfect alignment of their respective circumstances. ]

I— yes.

[ Although he's trying on maturity, he really would like to sulk and brood and kick things in the privacy of his own (temporary) room. Still, Iorveth doesn't need to see that. ]

A few moments alone would be... for the best, I think.

[ Just a few. Long enough to compose himself. ]

Run along downstairs. I'll join you soon.

[ Iorveth is convinced that no one in any plane of existence has any right to tell Astarion how to deal with two hundred years of being tormented by Cazador, which means that he wouldn't mind if Astarion tore their (Gale's) bedroom apart out of pent-up rage. Still, he can't help but reach for Astarion before he leaves, pressing a light kiss to the corner of that pouting mouth. Not out of any desire to discourage him from brooding, but simply because he wants to.

With that, he turns and slinks downstairs to demolish whatever food is left on the dining room table. As always, Gale has outdone himself― Iorveth can't tell if the guy usually spends so much time cooking for himself, or if he's been doing Gale a disservice by sleeping through dinners that Gale might have wanted him to join― and Iorveth is content to clear the plates in record time, fueling his overactive metabolism with stews and breads and casseroles. Phew.

He's mostly done with everything by the time Astarion comes down to join him, munching thoughtfully on the last of his dessert (a batch of very tasty and buttery biscuits) as he considers how best to barter with an old collector who may be loath to part with her things. People like that usually say that they can't be persuaded by coin; Iorveth has no clue what else he could barter with, which is a bit of a pain.

Anyway. He looks up, and motions for Astarion to sit next to him if he'd like. ]

I left you some wine.

[ Astarion isn't in a good mood, exactly, but the time alone seems to have done him some good. It's hard to feel quite as stressed once you've done some guttural screaming into a pillow. He only hopes that it didn't disturb Tara. ]

Sweet of you.

[ It is. He likes the way that Iorveth thinks of him even when they're apart. It makes him feel all warm inside, pleased at the way Iorveth fits him into his life in even the most minuscule of ways.

It's his morning, technically, but he pours himself a glass anyhow. If there's any justification for day-drinking, it's the specter of his old master being conjured. ]

—We'll need to stock up on supplies for our adventure tonight.

[ 'Adventure'. Probably more of a misadventure, but— ]

I suppose it could be fun. I hear Athkatla is quite scandalous.

The city of coin.

[ He recites. Information that he only recently learned, given he's never had cause to do any research into cities so far south. If not for the human invasion, Iorveth would never have had much cause to look beyond the forests of the north and its surrounding territories― even Baldur's Gate would have remained a relative mystery to him, let alone any location in Amn. ]

Admittedly not the sort of place I have any frame of reference for. [ Not a thing Iorveth really likes to say. The clever fox of the north doesn't love being out of his depth, but he can and will be honest about it with Astarion, at the very least.

Munching slowly on a biscuit: ] ...You may have to guide me. These cities tend to be...

[ Ugh. ] ...Overwhelming.

[ Astarion is cosmopolitan; Iorveth, demonstrably, isn't. It's likely Iorveth will stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of all that commercial, mercantile chaos. ]

[ The city of coin earns a nod from him, pleased that Iorveth knows, well, anything at all about a city. He would expect Iorveth to show little interest in anything urban, considering his general distaste for anything that isn't his precious forest. (He does, admittedly, take this as a sign that there's still hope for Iorveth to change his mind about cities, no matter how delusional that might be.) ]

Do they?

[ The forest is far more overwhelming in his opinion. All those trees and bugs and wild animals. Everything looks the same, shades of green and brown. Who can even tell what direction they're going? Meanwhile, the city is second nature to him; he could have navigated Baldur's Gate with his eyes closed. ]

Mmm. Don't worry. [ He reaches out, stroking the back of Iorveth's hand. ] I'm happy to hold your hand and lead you through the city.

[ A thoughtful pause, then— ]

But first, perhaps we should look into procuring something an old woman might want to haggle for. Crocheting supplies, perhaps?

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