essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

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?

[ The touch is nice― it makes Iorveth wonder about Astarion's current state and if he's feeling slightly better, but bringing it up will probably muddy those waters again. Best just to be mindful without walking on eggshells. ]

Presumably, she'll want to trade one old artefact for another.

[ So no, no crocheting supplies. (Killjoy.) A slight frown, and Iorveth sits back in his chair, licking crumbs off his thumb as he considers. ]

We could defer to Gale on what he would consider a good exchange for a magical cloak, but it does boil down to a matter of taste. We could offer the woman a pot that boils water into gold, but be rejected if she doesn't find it interesting.

[ Ugh. Iorveth loathes uncertainties; it shows. ]

[ Iorveth is a killjoy. Astarion frowns, just slightly, at the unpredictability of their circumstances. How is he to know what an old lady would find interesting? (Crocheting supplies!) He retracts his hand and picks up his glass, swirling it and staring contemplatively into the dark pool of liquid. ]

What could be more interesting than a gift from a vampire? [ he asks, petulantly. Whatever he tries to trade should be eccentric enough given that it's coming from a creature of the night. Then again, their opponent in this bidding war happens to be a member of the undead, too. Thinking of that vampire lord and his letters to Cazador again drops his mood, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. ]

Ugh. Worst case scenario, we kill her and rob her corpse.

[ Worst worst case scenario, Mrel Alkam does that before they get the chance to. ]

What bothers me is that the other bidders haven't done so already.

[ Killjoy, part 2. It seems simple enough a thing, if not to kill the old woman outright, to rob one cloak from her. The fact that it hasn't been done yet is troubling, but it might just be Iorveth's paranoia speaking.

Finishing the last of his sweets, Iorveth starts stacking plates to wash. Not quite fidgety, but restless; a habit of his, when his mind is turning a mile a minute. His hands follow suit, looking for something to do. ]

...Mm. But you're more persuasive than most. We might have more luck.

[ "More persuasive than most", Iorveth says, without realizing that this really just boils down to "you can persuade me to do a lot of things". Astarion remains the one thing he can't be completely objective about, apparently. ]

[ Iorveth is always thinking ten steps ahead. He and Gale would have quite the lanceboard match, Astarion thinks. He hadn't even considered the fact that an old woman with a magical antique collection would be an easy target, especially in such an unruly city, and that perhaps there's a reason why she hasn't had all of her treasures misappropriated.

Oh, it's all too complicated, and it's going to be so hard. Astarion feels the urge to give up before they've even started, but he knows that Iorveth would find such a proposal ridiculous. ]

Right, well. I suppose we won't know until we're in the thick of it.

[ How annoying. ]

For now, we can focus our energy on more important things. Like finding you a good pair of shoes.

[ Oh. Iorveth stops stacking plates to swivel his attention back towards Astarion with the sort of expression that says "you realize we're planning all this for your sake, right?" ]

You realize we're planning all of this for your sake.

[ His words agree with his face. Forget his fucking shoes!!!! This is the cloak that is going to let Astarion walk in the sun!!!!!!! ]

Getting you back in sunlight is the priority, you fool. I'll wear Gale's ugly sandals to my grave if that's what it takes.

[ A threat. ]

You will not, [ is his first, immediate comment, definitive and lordly. He loves Iorveth, but gods, they must have standards! Besides, doesn't Iorveth know that Astarion is trying to make it so that he doesn't have a grave?

A moment later: ]

It's just... [ He hangs his head, sighing. ] It's going to be hard.

[ Perhaps Iorveth did have a point when he mentioned Astarion needing to accomplish something for himself. He hates hard work and perseverance, and his instinct when faced with any sort of difficulty is to forfeit. Iorveth might believe in him, but he certainly doesn't believe in himself. ]

—And besides, maybe I was just trying to get you alone in a dressing room again.

[ Oh no, Iorveth thinks. Not this time. Astarion can't complain about difficult challenges being hard, especially if these difficult challenges will benefit him in the long run. Astarion doesn't get to sigh and moan about procuring a cloak that he said he'd go to the ends of Toril for. He has to participate in the heavy lifting and the planning if he wants this so badly―

―is what Iorveth thinks, as he bats away memories of Astarion sinking onto pillows and looking genuinely distressed at the mentioning of certain unmentionables. A war happens in Iorveth's head in real time: be firm fistfights with indulge him.

Gods. He can't. He can't fold every time Astarion looks at him with big, pretty doe eyes and pouts and says something cute. He can't!!! He cannot!!! ]

...We can find an artefact, [ Iorveth finally manages, ] and then we can buy the new shoes.

[ Stand firm, he tells himself. As long as Astarion stops looking up at him through his pretty lashes, he can stand firm. ]

[ He would go to the ends of Toril for the cloak. Just, you know, not if it's in any way challenging. He wants to walk in the sun again so badly that it aches, but he has very little faith in his own ability to accomplish something so difficult, especially when his competition happens to be the very sort of creature that kept him feeling small and worthless for the vast majority of his life.

But if there's anyone in the world who holds sway over him, it's Iorveth. If Iorveth says they're going to find an artefact, well. He guesses that's just what's going to happen. ]

Fine.

[ He does pout a little. ]

But I hardly know where to begin. I imagine Gale ate the lion's share of his magical trinkets.

[ If the way they had to go searching for Gale-snacks every so often is any indication. ]

And I doubt he'd part easily with the ones that he does have.

[ Iorveth's unwarranted (?) confidence in himself extends, of course, to Astarion. He's seen Astarion maneuver through an admittedly clumsy regicide, has seen him bludgeon Cazador to death, has seen him guide Petras and the other spawn to freedom. Astarion can, and Iorveth will do everything in his power to make sure that Astarion will.

So. He takes the "fine", and lets it fuel him. Getting up with his stack of plates, Iorveth makes his way over to the sink to scrub at porcelain while he thinks out loud. Again, always moving. ]

I suppose we could ask the staff at Blackstaff for a loan.

[ Humming, as he rinses a bowl. ]

We simply won't mention that the loan is indefinite.

[ It's underhanded, yeah, but between making a bunch of nerds mad and making Astarion happy, Iorveth knows which one he'd choose. ]

[ It's absolutely underhanded. Gale would be scandalized, and Astarion can practically hear him say that the artefacts at Blackstaff Academy are not toys for one to play with as they wish, but important pieces of magical history— Whatever. He'll get over it.

Astarion rests his elbows on the table, chin in his hands. ]

I expect they'll want some sort of collateral.

[ If they're as brainy as they claim to be, anyway. ]

Something we won't be getting back.

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