essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

Plenty, [ he says, sincerely, ] but you won't be offering anything.

[ It's his cloak, his problem. Iorveth doesn't need to give up anything for him; Astarion couldn't bear if Iorveth grew to resent him because he had to make sacrifices. No — the bartering is on him.

Unfortunately, Astarion doesn't really have anything that the wizards at Blackstaff Academy would find worth bartering for. Pretty little trinkets, the kind that he enjoys collecting like a magpie, are worthless to a school for the arcane. He frowns. ]

Perhaps the loan will have to be more of a theft.

[ Very criminal activities being discussed under a goody-two-shoes' roof. Gale would probably faint if he heard any of this, and Iorveth is more than a bit aware of possibly jeopardizing their friend's good station at the Academy if word got out that he was consorting with bad elves who steal important things. Hm. Not much worse than borrowing for keeps, but still. At least they could justify the loan to Blackstaff if they brought back an artefact in return that they could sink their nerd teeth into, but stealing might be a bit much.

So: ]

That would depend on how much we like Gale, I suppose.

[ Iorveth, continuing to be the worst elf in the world. He says this matter-of-factly, as if he doesn't care at all, but he obviously does. It's hard not to like Gale, despite all the ways in which Iorveth has tried to dislike him. ]

And if there are other places we could steal from.

[ Uuuughhh. Astarion copies Iorveth, leaning back in his chair now, limbs limp as he throws his head back and groans. Unfortunately, he does like Gale, and he'd rather dislike it if their friendship were to end over a tiff with the Academy. ]

I told you that this is too hard.

[ He can't do it! And yet he must, lest Iorveth become disappointed in him. A long moment passes, the gears in his head dusting off their cobwebs and turning. ]

I've read that Amn—Athkatla included—is presided over by some cadre of fancy wizards. [ The Cowled Wizards, to be specific, the arbiters of magic use in Amn. ] Perhaps one of them might have a collection for us to... appropriate.

"Cadre of fancy wizards." [ Repeated slowly, with more than a bit of disdain. ] They sound insufferable enough to steal from, yes.

[ Ask Iorveth about why he dislikes wizards and their propensity towards doing whatever serves their ambitions instead of the general good. Or don't. As ever, Iorveth has strong opinions based on personal biases, and some of these opinions are very difficult to negotiate around.

A sigh, and Iorveth gets back up again. ]

It seems our best course of action is to go to Athkatla, speak to the woman, see what she wants, and steal something that roughly corresponds to her desires. While avoiding other vampires, obviously.

[ Condensing their trials into something that sounds vaguely doable, despite it being, yes, hard. But this is about Astarion and what he wants, so instead of deciding unilaterally: ]

Does that agree with you?

[ One of the things Astarion loves most about Iorveth is how positively disdainful he is of most people — it's a trait they share, and he enjoys nothing more than listening to Iorveth say absolutely withering things about fancy, insufferable wizards. (Sounds a lot like Gale, actually, but—)

What he enjoys less is how many steps this plan seems to have. For Iorveth, who's always firmly situated in the future, mind running a million miles a minute to consider every possibility, perhaps it isn't much. For Astarion, whose plans usually boil down to I don't know, I'll just wing it, it's a lot. ]

I can't say it agrees with me.

[ It sounds difficult! And complex! And like there's many opportunities for failure! All of which he detests, but there seems to be little other choice if he wants to procure that cloak. ]

—But I will do it, if you're with me. I suppose that nearly anything feels possible with you by my side.

[ Moving over to where Astarion is still sitting, Iorveth reaches for him with both hands, palms cupping that perfect face. ]

Not a matter of if. I will be with you.

[ They had the (unnecessary) row about it, and Iorveth has already committed himself completely to Astarion's cause; there's no tearing him from it now, unless Astarion put his foot down about not wanting Iorveth anywhere near him.

(Even then, Iorveth might hover around to make sure Astarion gets by. Sneaky fox.)

A kiss to a smooth forehead, and Iorveth pulls away. ]

...We'll manage, gracefully or no. You're more capable than you give yourself credit for, beloved.

...When you say so, I do feel inclined to believe it.

[ Mostly. He's not sure he'll ever be entirely rid of self-doubt, but Iorveth does manage to make him feel better about himself than anyone else ever has. If Iorveth sees potential in him, then it must be there.

Astarion reaches for Iorveth's hand, tangling their fingers, keeping them connected. This sort of innocent affection doesn't feel nearly as scandalous as it used to, but he must admit that it affects him more strongly than anything more passionate. He's had to relearn touch, and this gentle intimacy is his favorite, safe and reassuring. ]

I guess there's nothing more to be done but acquire passage to Athkatla.

[ Preferably via a portal. He's had enough roughing it, thanks. ]

And, [ he adds pointedly, ] acquire new shoes.

[ A glance down at their linked fingers prompts a touch of a smile to soften the edges of Iorveth's face again. He's no stranger to affectionate gestures, having been raised, however briefly, in a community that held (in all definitions of the word) its members; still, he thought he'd given softness up when he chose his bow and sword. A part of him wonders if he deserves to relearn it after he'd discarded it.

The fact remains, though, that he can't unlearn all of this anymore. He knows what Astarion's temperature feels like against his skin, knows the gentle strength of Astarion's handhold. It'd probably ruin Iorveth to give it all up, even if he had to.

In contrast to all that affectionate internal musing: ]

I'm growing rather fond of the ugly sandals.

[ Tugging on Astarion's pigtails. Fondly. ]

[ How rude! He's the one who's supposed to pull pigtails here. Astarion squeezes Iorveth's hand threateningly, scowling. ]

Well, I'm not.

[ He cannot believe he slept with Iorveth after he walked around all night wearing those. Clearly, love has severely compromised his judgment. He tugs Iorveth closer all the same, wanting to be near to him. When they'd first woken and Gale had dropped that awful news about the vampire lord, he hadn't wanted to be touched at all, but now—as long as he doesn't think about it, which is his strategy for all unpleasant things—he craves Iorveth's closeness again. ]

A good-looking man should have good-looking shoes. Besides, you said that you enjoyed my gifts.

[ Relinquishing his hand, Astarion reaches over to fiddle with the chain around Iorveth's neck. ]

And I rather enjoy dressing you up.

[ Mercurial as always. Iorveth loves that about Astarion, actually－ much prefers it over the smooth mask of theatrical unflappability that he used to wear when they first met. ]

Difficult to argue with that logic.

[ He does like keeping reminders of Astarion around, and Astarion does seem to derive some joy from shoving Iorveth in fancy outfits. Mutually beneficial. He thumbs over the knuckles of the hand playing with the chain around his neck, maintaining little points of contact. ]

Though I wear shoes down to nothing fairly quickly. [ This is where Astarion might argue that city life might extend the longevity of his footwear; he'd have a point. ] If you're to give me anything, I'd have it be something that lasts.

[ Gesturing to his eyepatch. Still the one that Astarion chose for him, the one that's starting to see a little wear and tear. ]

[ Mm. It would be impractical, he supposes, for someone like Iorveth to wear fancy shoes. (Impractical, but still hot.) Still, there's surely something he could purchase for Iorveth that serves both of their purposes. A nice pair of leather boots, maybe; something that can survive all of Iorveth's trodding and look attractive. Like the eyepatch: covering Iorveth's eye is of no importance to Astarion, but it does look very rugged and handsome, he thinks.

Humming in thought, he unearths the ring from beneath Iorveth's collar. ]

Perhaps I'll get you a ring that actually fits you next time.

[ He is obsessed with Iorveth's hands, after all, and they'd look very nice decked out in shiny jewelry. ]

[ The poor stolen ring from Sharess' Caress. It sits pretty on his tan skin, jade-green stone fortuitously in theme with the wood elf aesthetic, its purpose as an engagement offer forgotten over time. That said, while rings aren't an indication of commitment in Aen Seidhe society, Iorveth is peripherally aware of the practice.

He won't assume, though. A quick upwards quirk of his brow, and he lets his expression settle back into warm neutral. ]

And I'll get you one to match it.

[ Equal, in all things. Iorveth wiggles his fingers, lightly teasing. ]

I briefly considered the idea of you putting ink to my skin, but you might find that a bit, [ hm, ] much.

[ The original recipient of the ring didn't even want it, so there's nothing wrong with his thievery of such an intimate object, Astarion thinks. She won't even miss it! (And he's sure it looks much better against Iorveth's lovely complexion than on some courtesan's finger, anyway.) He would, however, like to pick one out that's specifically for Iorveth rather than something stolen in a moment of opportunity. Something special, picked out with love and adoration.

The thought of him finding anything about Iorveth a bit much at this point makes him smile, an amused, crooked thing. He's only mentioned his desire to mark Iorveth (and actually done it) several times. To think he'd be in any way scandalized is, quite frankly, ridiculous. ]

What would you have me ink into you, hm?

[ A light snort, fond. ]

Oh? No ideas of your own? I'd thought you might want to write your name on my ass.

[ He pauses to give Astarion time to marinate on that ridiculous mental image. The real question, actually, is whether Astarion would write his name in Common or ask him how to write it in Aen Seidhe... actually, that isn't the real question, because this simply Will Not Happen.

Iorveth clears his throat. Tries not to grin. ]

―That said, tracing around puncture marks you've left may be too on-the-nose.

[ Gods. Astarion laughs at that, light and tinkling and full of genuine amusement. Of course he would absolutely write his name on Iorveth's ass, if only Iorveth gave him the chance. 'Property of Astarion Ancunín' right above his lovely bottom sounds just right to him.

But even he knows a pipe dream when he sees one, so he doesn't try to convince Iorveth that it would actually be very tasteful, very classy. Instead, he pivots to the next idea, tracing down the side of Iorveth's neck. ]

I am fond of the idea of us matching.

[ Astarion, with the puncture marks that he absolutely hates. Iorveth, with the puncture marks that Astarion absolutely loves. ]

—But my understanding is that such a thing is rather permanent.

[ Just in case Iorveth wants to rethink the idea of having Astarion's mark on him for life. He really shouldn't even give him the opportunity to reconsider, but he loves Iorveth enough to not want to saddle him with something that will one day make him unhappy. Astarion knows what it feels like to be permanently changed by someone that you resent for it, even if you asked for it at the time. ]

[ Loving a man halfway to death also means not allowing them to run rampant with ink and needle－ even Halsin would (probably) side-eye a tramp stamp (citation needed). Two roughly-circular marks on his neck seems demure in comparison, and people would likely question it less on Iorveth's neck, too busy with everything else going on from the chin up to note discreet pinpricks precariously close to his jugular.

So: ] That would be the point, foolish cat.

[ Flick, goes his index finger against the tip of Astarion's shapely nose. ]

Your mark on my skin, in your shape, permanently. [ Bluntly. Almost the opposite of romantic, if not for the fact that he places his palm over the hand tracking the veins on his neck; maybe not romantic, even then. Most people would probably be weirded out by someone casually expressing that he wants their teeth tattooed onto his skin, and reconsider being in a relationship with someone who thinks that that's normal, but.

Well. Iorveth will be Iorveth. ]

Pretty marks below an ugly face. I call it balance.

[ Most people would find this unnerving, but Astarion has absolutely no idea what's normal in a relationship, and as far as he's concerned, this is the most romantic thing he could possibly imagine. His marks on Iorveth's skin, in his shape, permanently. His heart doesn't beat, but he could swear that he feels it do a cartwheel in his chest.

There is one thing that he doesn't find romantic, though: ]

I detest when you call yourself that.

[ Ugly. As if a little maiming could ever truly mar his lovely features. Astarion finds him attractive partly because he thinks the sun shines out of his unfortunately un-tramp-stamped ass, but he also finds him hot because he's, well, hot. So what if he's missing an eye? One look from him can still make Astarion's legs turn to jelly. ]

You're beautiful. And yes, I mean that in the most shallow of senses.

[ In case Iorveth thinks it's only about his insides being beautiful — which they are, obviously. ]

[ Ah. A subtle quirk of his brow at "detest", which is a strong word, followed by a bit of hesitation following "beautiful". Reluctant to accept it, obviously, because― well. "Beautiful" is the sort of term one would use to describe people like Astarion or Ciaran, symmetrical and chiseled and objectively comely. Even if he had his missing eye, Iorveth thinks he skews rather on the plainer end of elven appearances: not as gaunt as he was when he first met Astarion, but still a little too sharp to be ethereal, a little too mean-looking to be feylike.

But this isn't what he thinks of his own looks― it's about what Astarion sees when Astarion looks at him, and though Iorveth has a dozen and a half ways to say something along the lines of "you know that that's not true", he decides not to.

Instead: ] ...If you were the only one to think so, I would be content.

[ He might not be beautiful, but he's fine with Astarion thinking so. He turns his head slightly, an instinctive inclination to cast his face in profile so that the unbroken side is facing Astarion more properly, and clears his throat. ]

Thank you.

[ The best reaction he could realistically hope for, Astarion supposes. Still not quite as confident as he'd like. Iorveth is, in his opinion, the most perfect, beautiful, cunning creature on all of Toril. Yes, it's partially rose-colored glasses, but he also is simply magnificent. ]

You know, [ he says, lightly tracing the line of Iorveth's jaw. Sharp enough to cut himself on. He loves it. ] I couldn't even bear to imagine intimacy before you.

[ The mere thought had been repulsive. He'd thought he had something severely wrong with him that could never be fixed, an inability to even tolerate something that the rest of the world found pleasurable. ]

The first time I did, it was with the image of your lovely face in my mind.

[ A (hopefully) classier way of saying 'babe, you're so hot I touch myself to you'. He places a thumb over Iorveth's angular chin, affectionate. ]

You'll look even more striking once I've put a needle and ink to you.

[ His heart skips a beat at the mental image of Astarion in moments of solo intimacy, not just because he would be very pretty doing it, but because of the claim that he allocated any sort of brainpower to thinking of Iorveth while it happened. It makes Iorveth a little warmer under Astarion's literal thumb, his face angling to meet the touch. ]

...Then we'll find a needle and ink.

[ Ugh. Iorveth can't help it― he's infatuated. ]

I've never wished to be appealing to anyone but you.

[ A kind-of admission. Iorveth likes to be tidy, clean, but he's never been vain in the sense that he wanted to be desirable to others; grooming was and still is a matter of personal pride, later subsumed by a bitter desire to say fuck-you to the humans who would rather see him dirt-caked and pitiful.

He would, however, like for Astarion to enjoy looking at him, so. His arms wrap around Astarion's middle, and he nestles his face into Astarion's hair. ]

[ Damn. Astarion can't relate. He needs to be the most fuckable person at the grocery store. But it's better this way, he thinks; two exceedingly vain creatures would constantly be at each other's throats, and he much prefers Iorveth only to think of being desirable to him, anyway. ]

You're impossibly appealing, [ he coos as he strokes Iorveth's hair. ] If I didn't know any better, I would swear that you made my heart beat again.

[ Unfortunately, he does know better. Still cold and dead in his chest, no matter how much love there is in it. He finds that he doesn't mind being dead, though, as long as it means he gets to spend eternity with his most cherished companion. ]

—Now, I could stay here and praise you all night, I assure you, but I'm afraid the shops will close for the night before long.

[ Please, he definitely can't take being complimented for any longer than this. One more little nuzzle against the side of Astarion's head, and Iorveth draws back to give him some breathing (ha) room. ]

Time to say goodbye to the shoes, then. How disappointing.

[ A tattoo parlor usually stays open much later than boutiques; they're going to have to hurry if Astarion doesn't want Iorveth to continue wearing Waterdhavian Crocs－

－which Iorveth does, in fact, slip into by the time they get ready to go out. He's in a less reprehensible ensemble tonight (a neatly tailored dress shirt in soft cream, sleek black pants with a belt to cinch the waistline in), bolstered by Astarion's claim that he finds Iorveth not unpleasant to look at, but the ugly sandals are still the only feetwear that fit him. Tragique. ]

[ Astarion gives him an obvious up-and-down appraisal, overjoyed that Iorveth is dressed so smartly yet irritated beyond belief by the hideous shoes ruining everything. Honestly, he can never have anything! He gravitates toward Iorveth all the same, hands wrapping around his middle and pulling him in. ]

Mmmm. I suppose those shoes have some purpose after all. If not for them, I'd be inclined to rip your clothes off where you stand.

[ He still is, a little bit, but he's always a little bit inclined to do that. ]

I dare say a chastity belt wouldn't be more effective.

[ Light bullying. He's obviously still pleased with the rest of Iorveth's ensemble, hands wandering up to adjust his collar like an animal grooming another animal. ]

They're shoes, [ Iorveth notes with a twinkle of a laugh, obviously amused by how much his partner seems to sincerely fucking hate these sandals. ] I should keep them just to surprise you every so often.

[ Giving as good as he's getting, on the bullying front. Another huff-laugh, and Iorveth reaches into his picket for the sun-shaped pin he gifted the night before to slot it on Astarion's lapel. Reciprocal fussing alongside the reciprocal ribbing. ]

You look beautiful, by the way.

[ To the tune of "it's sunny outside". It goes without saying, but Iorveth knows Astarion likes to hear it. With that statement of the obvious out of the way, Iorveth leads the both of them outside into the still-lively Waterdhavian nightlife, where a passing dwarf, when inquired, informs the two of them that "Thentavva's Boots" is the best place in the city, nay, perhaps all of Faerûn, to buy quality footwear.

"Thentavva can even fix up what's on your feet now! Make them last centuries!", the dwarf claims, emphatically. ]

Ah. My beloved would like that, I think.

[ Astarion keeps his hand curled around the crook of Iorveth's arm, somewhere between affectionate and possessive. Possessively affectionate, affectionately possessive. He likes the world to know that Iorveth is his, that he has somebody who loves him. He likes when Iorveth calls him 'beloved', too. Very much.

He likes the idea of keeping these awful sandals for centuries far less. Scowling, he says, ] Absolutely not.

[ Boots sound promising, though. No way to make those mesh, he thinks. (And desperately hopes.) ]

Where might we find this Thentavva's?

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