essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

It did.

[ And it also led him to being attacked by tentacled monsters and having a tadpole shoved into his frontal lobe, but perhaps it's better that Astarion doesn't mention that. ]

And imagine how droll and boring your life would be if not for me.

[ Well, probably not boring. There's little boring about being a guerrilla, although it does sound very unappealing to Astarion. Lots of sleeping on the cold, hard ground and eating rations. He wasn't designed for such an austere lifestyle, though, and perhaps Iorveth is. Still, he likes to think he adds a little je ne sais quoi to Iorveth's world. ]

But I find that, hm. [ He stops himself, brow furrowed, as if this is a very strange and complicated concept: ] Well, I think that I care for your happiness more than my own. Isn't that odd?

[ Odd, yes, but not necessarily bad. It feels nice to give a damn for once. ]

So if you want us to live in a— straw hut in the woods, [ he says, visibly disgusted by the thought of such a thing, ] then I don't mind simply taking a few... vacations to the city on my own every once in a while.

[ Growth, Iorveth thinks, even if he isn't exactly thrilled with the idea of Astarion holding Iorveth's needs above his own. Especially if it makes Astarion look like that, nose wrinkled and brows furrowed at the idea of living in squalor. ]

We have houses. [ This first, though. Not offended by the implication that all Aen Seidhe live like rats in burrows (he hasn't exactly given Astarion a clear impression of this prospective future), but a little defensive. ] You've never seen how we lived― our land used to be beautiful before the humans took them. Structures made of marble stretching above the forest canopy, sturdy homes meant to last centuries twining and threading along the forest floor. What set us apart from our invaders was that we only felled enough trees to live among them, instead of eliminating them entirely.

[ Proud of his culture. He could go on, but it's doubtful that Astarion wants a history lesson. ]

―But, yes. If you grow tired of the Aen Seidhe, you're free to go wherever you wish for as long as you wish. I'll hold you to my heart, regardless of where you are.

[ It's a little funny how defensive Iorveth is of his people, and the corner of Astarion's mouth twitches in amusement. How was he to know? His frame of reference for wood elves is Halsin, who probably thinks everyone should sleep naked in the dirt like animals to be closer to Silvanus.

The rest, though, makes him scowl again. ]

Ugh. Must you talk as if you want me to be away from you for years?

[ As long as he wishes. Ridiculous. ]

I only want to go for long enough to go on a few shopping sprees.

[ And go to taverns. Maybe the opera again. Perhaps he'll even visit a library. ]

[ Iorveth "I'm incredibly defensive but if you call me out on it I will kill you for insulting me" NoLastname. Funny, how there was a time when Iorveth wanted to punch Astarion in the face for daring to find Iorveth's self-serious antics even a little bit amusing.

Anyway. A cant of the head, followed by a low breath. ]

I'm an elf, and you're a vampire. Time tends to stretch without us realizing.

[ Blink, and it's been a year. That's how it's felt for him for a while. ]

In a few centuries, once you've found your footing, it may be good for you to see the world through your own eyes.

[ What should be amusing (but very much isn't) is how dedicated Iorveth is to trying to send him out on his own when Astarion has never once reacted positively to it. He'd already thought he'd shown a lot of growth by suggesting that Iorveth could stay with his stupid elves while he got his fix of cosmopolitanism. For a few weeks. Maybe a month. Not a year! His century-and-change might have flown by for Iorveth, but every moment of Astarion's past two centuries has felt like a godsdamned lifetime.

He visibly bristles, withdrawing his hand from its place on Iorveth's. ]

I see the world just fine through my own eyes.

[ He hardly needs a sabbatical from Iorveth to do that! His head cocks in thought, then, before he scoots away an inch. ]

Or do you think of me as some lost puppy blindly following around its— master?

[ Iorveth, obstinate, wants to believe that he's teaching someone to eat something they might not like because it has nutritional value. Narrow-minded, in a certain sense－ he has a specific understanding of the idea of liberation, clearly.

So. A light frown, as if he doesn't quite see why Astarion is upset, even if he knows that Astarion is. ]

The point is that I don't want to restrict you.

[ Piggybacking off of that initial kneejerk response to Astarion telling him that he cares more about Iorveth's happiness than his own, which brings him to a startling, unwelcome revelation; gods, is this his own weird insecurity speaking? Could he perhaps... be trying to brace himself against what he'd always believed was the inevitable moment when someone would want to distance themselves from him... in the guise of telling them that that's what's good for them...???

Hells. He pauses, visibly unnerved by this frankly uncomfortable moment of self-reflection, and frowns more. ]

―Hm. Therein lies the truth of the matter, it seems. I.

[ Gods. No one told him that loving someone makes it that much easier to identify how much he sucks. Unbelievable. ]

You haven't restricted me, you absolute idiot.

[ Sure, maybe it would be wise for him to strike out on his own in the way that he'd not been able to do before, but 'free' and 'alone' aren't the same thing. He would know: he spent the last two centuries alone. He'd made himself believe that solitude was safety because in the palace it was, but his time out in the world disabused him of that notion (rather forcefully). Solitude doesn't make him any more safe or free, it just makes him lonely.

He glances over at the trio of bards in the distance, who seem to have picked up on the tension and the air and started playing something a little more bittersweet. Easier to look at them than Iorveth. ]

...You've tried to get rid of me, certainly. Rather incessantly.

[ The time frame might change, but the notion is still the same. Every time, Astarion gets upset, Iorveth relents, and then the whole damned thing starts over again. It feels awful to have the rug pulled out from under him each time.

With a sigh: ]

I don't even know where I would go. What I would do.

[ Which is, perhaps, an admission that he is a little bit of a lost puppy. ]

[ Animal impulse tells Iorveth to say something biting, like case in point, but he realizes that this isn't about him being right (shocker, he isn't), or proving a point (which has been how he navigated the world for decades, almost a century); it's about what he's said, and how that was received.

An awkward, hanging moment later: ]

I don't want to get rid of you.

[ This, first and foremost. To get it out of the way. The rest is something he has to wrestle with, which he knows is not a flattering look－ it isn't that being honest is difficult, it's that the contents of his words feel like sandpaper between his teeth. Petty, small. ]

It's only that it's been easier. For me. To think that you would land on your feet if you left.

[ Does this make sense? Iorveth doesn't quite know. ]

You said you'd stay. It's no fault of yours that I struggle with the notion.

[ "I don't deserve you" is a thought that's no one's fault but Iorveth's. A bitter pill to swallow, but one he keeps in the back of his throat. ]

[ 'I don't want to get rid of you' has an instant effect, his whole body visibly relaxing. It's a comfort: as long as Iorveth wants him to stay, surely nothing too bad can ever happen.

His face contorts as he listens to Iorveth continue, though, first out of confusion and then disbelief. ]

If I left, [ he repeats as he turns to look at Iorveth again, the words sounding ridiculous even in his own voice. Again—where would he go, and what would he do? If Iorveth cut him loose now, he wouldn't land on his feet. He'd probably find himself in much the same sort of situation he was in before, aimlessly roaming the city streets at night and draining alley cats and pigeons of their blood.

Incredulously: ] Is your skull really so thick that I can't beat it into you that I love you?

[ Mean, but true. All day—or all night, as it may be—he tells Iorveth that he's handsome, sweet, wonderful; he calls him 'darling', 'my sweet', 'my love'. Sure, maybe he shouldn't expect to heal Iorveth's deep-seated insecurities in such a short time when his own neuroses are still alive and well, but— he crosses his arms, irritated. ]

Understandable, of course. I only said that I wanted to keep you forever and offered to buy you a ring. Honestly, I've been very unclear in my intentions.

[ Oh, of course Astarion had to bring up the ring thing now. It's like being hit in the head with a hammer, and it'd cripple Iorveth if he thinks too deeply about it now (holy shit), so―

―mental pivot. He's not sure what the heat between his ribs is, if it hurts or if it's pleasant, but it's there.

Another lingering moment later, an admission: ] You've been clear. [ Again, Astarion isn't to blame for unresolved personal neuroses. It's humbling to know that he has more of them than he'd previously catalogued. Hells. ]

Very clear. To the point where I have to feign maturity to cope with how much I've come to need you.

[ Exhibit A: all of This Bullshit. Iorveth lifts the hand that's been tracing the bench, waving it for emphasis. ]

If I wanted maturity, I'd seek out Jaheira.

[ 'Ha, ha, Jaheira is old'. Never mind that she's a century younger than him. It's about being old in spirit.

He looks away again, watching as a passing couple drop a few coins in the troubadours' hat. They look happy and uncomplicated, arms linked, faces smiling. Ugh, he sort of hates them for it. No one should be allowed to be happy if he isn't happy. ]

I've been denied for two hundred years.

[ Denied everything — blood, freedom, basic kindness. ]

Have you any idea how your maturity feels when it threatens to snatch away the first precious thing I've ever had?

[ Oh, that's terrible. Iorveth scours his memory, and he can't think of a time when Astarion made Iorveth feel the way Astarion is sure to be feeling now. That puts things into stark perspective, and makes him shift closer to Astarion's side. Instinct over intellect. ]

Terrible. As if your love meant less to me than my desire to think that I know better.

[ That's what it boils down to, in a sense. Iorveth thinking that he knows what's best for Astarion, ignoring the signs that point to the opposite. That's a Him Problem, not an Astarion Problem; it must have made him feel horrible. The worst thing Iorveth could do, really, to refuse to see Astarion at his clearest. ]

Astarion. I was wrong. [ The easiest three words to say, under the circumstances. Iorveth doesn't reach to touch Astarion, but something under his skin itches to. ] I'm sorry.

I don't want an apology, you fool.

[ He turns to look at Iorveth again, somehow warm and terribly irritated at the same time. It's charming, he supposes, that Iorveth apologizes for, what, believing Astarion would be better off without him? If there's anyone he should apologize to, it's himself. ]

I want you to believe that I don't consider you so— what was it you said, hmm? Easily discarded.

[ Hearkening back to what Iorveth had said to him. Their neuroses line up perfectly. It would be romantic, if it weren't such a disaster. ]

Or do you think I want to foist immortality on every half-decent elf I see?

I should hope not. [ An instinctive response. ] I'd have to kill every last one of them.

[ Strong opinions for someone with equally strong neuroses. Obviously, if Astarion actually loved these hypothetical immortal elves, Iorveth might still his hand.

―Might.

But Astarion is trying to, again, put a hammer to Iorveth's head and knock sense into him, so he switches gears. Accepting that he's loved is far more difficult than doing the loving, but more than that, he feels safe around Astarion. That matters more to him than pride. ]

I know what I am. Difficult. Jagged. [ Which is what he's made of himself, and what he'd been happy to be. He keeps Astarion's gaze, implicitly imploring Astarion not to look away. ] But I do wish to be loved by you. And I know that you do.

[ Ha. Astarion can't find it in himself to be outraged at the idea that Iorveth would kill his potential suitors, because, well, he'd do the same. (Maybe not kill. He's turned over a new leaf. He'd just threaten, or maim. Growth!) He laughs under his breath, quiet and subdued, two words which rarely apply to him. ]

As you know, I'm an indefatigible flirt and a chronic windbag, so I suppose we all have our flaws.

[ Astarion is far from perfect -- 'difficult' and 'jagged', just as Iorveth is. He reaches out to place his hand on Iorveth's again, fingers working their way between Iorveth's.

A little commanding, albeit not without affection: ] Don't ask me to go again, darling, not unless you really mean it.

[ And if he does really mean it, then -- Astarion will deal with it when the time comes. ]

Edited 2025-04-10 23:43 (UTC)

[ Iorveth can say that he really tried to be an adult about all of this, that he tried to give Astarion every possible out, but really－ it's all in his overactive head. Chronically turning over "what-if"s, terrified of the thought of not knowing what to do when the worst comes. Contingencies on contingencies on contingencies. He has to remind himself that Astarion hasn't given him any indication of being unhappy, and the only times he's been unhappy were, well. When Iorveth implied that he would be unhappy. Phew.

His pulse feels a little too fast; he's sure Astarion can feel it when they link hands, fingers loose under that cool grip until they finally curl and squeeze. ]

Then I never will.

[ Slowly, with grim conviction. Iorveth never would, and the reality of that feels. Threatening? Maybe it's unhealthy. Probably. ]

I'll be graceless and selfish with your time.

[ Leave it to Iorveth to make his confessions of undying devotion so damned dire. It makes Astarion's heart feel warm regardless. That's all he wanted, really: for Iorveth to feel the same as he does, to be as selfish as he is. Equal in all things, after all. He squeezes Iorveth's hand back, mouth quirking up into a crooked smile. ]

I've infinite time, need I remind you.

[ All the time in the world, quite literally. Iorveth can take and take and take it, and still there'll be more left. A daunting thought, if not for having someone he loves to spend it with. What did he ever imagine he'd fill his time with after ascension? No amount of spawn or thralls could fill the void of Iorveth. ]

—Let's return to the tower. I plan to shower with you affection, and I wouldn't want to make the bards jealous.

[ Residual contrition still rests in Iorveth's body language: if he were a fox, his ears might be slightly lowered. A rare moment for someone who makes it a point, usually, not to apologize for anything.

He breathes out, releasing some of that pent-up miasma of unpleasant feeling from the pit of his gut, and sways sideways to rest his forehead on Astarion's shoulder. It's so fucking stupid how instantly good it feels to be close again, like all it takes is proximity to make Iorveth relax. ]

Let them be jealous. [ Sullenly. ] I hope the strings on their lutes snap for gawking at us all this time.

[ The most toothless threat Iorveth has ever made in his life. More grumbling, as he nuzzles against Astarion's collarbone. ]

―And now they're pronouncing all the elven names incorrectly. Perhaps we should go, before I throttle the lot.

[ Throttling seems quite the penalty for mispronouncing names, considering that Iorveth is currently nuzzling someone who called Isengrim 'Eisenhower'. As long as it isn't him, though, Astarion couldn't care less who Iorveth wants to throttle. Let him. He's very handsome when he's murdering.

The closeness does feel good, Iorveth's body a soothing warmth against his own. He angles his head to press his lips to Iorveth's hair. He wonders, briefly, if Iorveth might let him comb through it with that fancy brush. Grooming does seem the sort of thing the Aen Seidhe do to show affection, and— well, he'll never be one of them, even if he tries, but he can make Iorveth feel loved like one of them would. ]

As much as I'd enjoy the sight [ —of Iorveth throttling people, that is— ] it would be awfully difficult to kiss you mid-throttle.

[ Iorveth can smell the combined scent of vanilla and sandalwood on Astarion's skin, and the kick of serotonin that accompanies it is immeasurable. He'd said before that sometimes he just wants to swallow Astarion whole (metaphorically), and that's the dizzying feeling he gets now, pressed to Astarion's chest while the bards shift their playlist again to croon about spring breezes kissing lovers' cheeks. He really might kill them.

Taking Astarion's wrist, he kisses where the cologne sits heavy on his skin. ]

Mm. Kisses from you are surprisingly more appealing than murder.

[ Crazy! If he had to choose between killing a human for being an asshole and getting kisses from Astarion, he might actually beeline for the latter. ]

The bards will live to see another night, then. Let's go.

[ Astarion laughs. Oh, Iorveth must really love him if he's choosing Astarion's affection over indiscriminate murder of humans. Astarion is a little bit deranged, too—or maybe a lot—so he finds this incredibly endearing. Grinning, he stands and pulls Iorveth to his feet, grabbing Iorveth's pack to carry with his free hand. Like a gentleman. He loathes carrying just about anything, weak as his arms are, but Iorveth needs to be pampered until it finally makes it through his thick head that Astarion is obsessed with him.

As they pass the playing bards, he says to the crooning one, with great offense, ] You're mispronouncing the elven names, you know!

[ Again, this is very hypocritical of him, considering he has little respect for names himself. It's all theater for Iorveth's sake.

Tugging him along as the bards try to play through the rude interruption: ]

Come along, darling.

[ The crooning bard clutches his invisible pearls, obviously flustered by the callout. Comically, the next time he tries to sing the elven name in question, he fumbles it even more. The toxic power of second-guessing: Iorveth supposes that this is meant to be a lesson for himself, too.

It's well-learned. Iorveth sticks next to Astarion's side like a stray dog that's finally been plucked from the rain, a little scraggly and a lot loyal, extending a hand every so often to make sure that the contents of their packs are intact. Boots and brushes and bottles.

Once they're almost back to the tower, Iorveth finally cycles back to: ]

Am I permitted to be big-headed about the ring?

[ Yeah, yeah. He knows it's a stupid question. But it's worth knowing for certain, so he doesn't interpret it incorrectly in the future. (Again, overthinking it.) ]

[ Astarion turns pink again. It's one thing to dance around it in an argument, but it's quite another to speak directly about it. He feels a little embarrassed. Awkward. Certainly like his inexperience is showing. He lets his gaze stay strictly in front of him, and not to his side where Iorveth walks. ]

I suppose the Aen Seidhe don't really— wood elves seem to be the free love type.

[ He's not sure if Iorveth's people even have things like commitment. Maybe they all believe each of them belongs to every one of them and none of them at the same time, or some communal, nature-loving nonsense like that. Admittedly, his knowledge of wood elf culture still rests primarily on Halsin, who probably only wants to put a ring on, ah, other appendages. ]

—It isn't like I expect you to say anything in front of a cleric. You know how I feel about the gods.

[ So it is a gesture of commitment. A wild act of courage on Astarion's part, to be willing to even consider it after two hundred years of being beholden to an individual. Iorveth would have thought that Astarion would recoil at even the idea of it, but apparently－

－well, apparently Iorveth is loved. Iorveth reels internally, hit with the same mental hammer as before, brain rolling around in his skull. ]

Yes, [ is the initial response. "Yes, I want the ring", and "yes, fuck the gods". His strides get slightly longer, his pace faster; he wants to be inside Gale's stupid fancy tower and in their stupid fancy bed so he can properly wrap his mind around this.

A moment later: ] And no. [ "No, I'm not the free love type", lest Astarion mistake the "yes" as a response to the first part of what he said. Fuck. Iorveth starts walking even faster. ]

Ugh. Yes to the ring, no to sharing myself.

[ Zero brainpower. The tower finally looms in front of them, and Iorveth almost tugs Astarion inside. ]

Edited 2025-04-11 04:35 (UTC)

[ Astarion has never been good at keeping an impassive expression, but the face journey he goes through as Iorveth waffles between 'yes' and 'no' is probably excessive. Yes, Iorveth wants this? Or yes, he knows Astarion's opinion on the gods? Or, gods, yes, Iorveth secretly wants to sow his wild oats with every wood elf in the forest? And then no, which is a more terrifying thought. No, Iorveth doesn't want this after all, and asking about it was simply some cruel joke?

Obviously not. Iorveth wouldn't do that to him. All the same, his eyes dart to the side, a little paranoid, before Iorveth finally expands on his initial reactions. He relaxes as Iorveth tugs him inside, tension draining from his shoulders. ]

Well, then. I suppose I have some shopping to do in Athkatla.

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