essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ Ah. Not dead, just heavily sedated. Well, that's fine by him. He only worries about what will happen when the sedation wears off. Like he said: vampire spawn are crafty. Iorveth has trussed him up very well, but if they don't kill him, they'll have to let him out eventually, and Astarion can't picture him being grateful.

A bridge he'll cross when he gets to it! Iorveth is the planner, not him. He peeks in dressed in, yes, the periwinkle robe. Not exactly his color, but he likes to think that he can pull anything off. ]

Oh, gods. So dramatic. [ He rolls his eyes. ] It's not like you haven't had worse.

[ Meanwhile, Astarion was tortured for two hundred years and would still throw a tantrum over a stubbed toe. ]

Oh! [ As if he's just thought of something. ] You should have asked him what his favorite flowers were, darling. [ Waving a hand: ] Eh. I'll just say roses.

[ Letting Damris' head loll back onto one of the cushions (which has developed a tear in the fabric from sharp horns raking against it), Iorveth gets back up and surveys his work. ]

Mm. I like roses, myself.

[ There are ruins back near his home forest with bushes full of the most delicate white roses, and thinking of it makes him slightly nostalgic. Both for better times, and for the scent of dewy moss on a quiet morning, but he doesn't want to say so now. Especially not after Astarion mentioned living in the forest with the sort of tone that implied that he doesn't love the idea of roughing it.

So. Wiping his palms on his bathrobe, he turns away from Damris and back towards Astarion, who manages to look very fetching in a color that Iorveth would have looked clownish in. ]

Have you ever worn a crown of flowers?

[ The most wood elf shit he could ever say. The tone here is that Iorveth absolutely has in the past. (And is unashamed of having done so.) ]

[ Astarion stares at Iorveth, raising his eyebrows as if the question is ridiculous — and it is. He adores Iorveth, just as he'd said, but surely he could use some context clues to suss this one out. ]

Oh, yes. The other spawn and I took turns weaving daisy chains for each other in between torturing each other.

[ It isn't biting, exactly—he still feels warm and fuzzy after Iorveth said such nice things in the bath—but a 'duh' wouldn't go amiss tacked onto the end. He doesn't like being reminded of the sort of things he missed out on (even if he can't imagine himself wearing something so twee before Cazador, either), but he especially doesn't like it happening in front of another spawn, half-conscious or not. A deep-seated habit not to show weakness in front of another vampire, maybe. ]

Obviously not.

[ A light laugh, dry. Head tipped and brow raised: ]

Magistrate Ancunín didn't have creative admirers, then.

[ Too soon? Maybe it'll always be too soon to talk about a past that Astarion can no longer remember. Devastating craters in someone's life will never get smaller, but maybe more distant with time.

It's meant to be light, though. Giving Damris one last nudge with the side of his foot (the tiefling responds with another soft groan), Iorveth tucks his now-beltless robe around himself with one hand and gestures for Astarion to follow him back to their bedroom. ]

Noted, for the future.

[ One day, Astarion will jumpscare Astarion with a flower crown, and it will be the most twee thing he'll ever put on his pretty head. ]

[ Once upon a time, he thinks that Iorveth would have taken a reaction like that poorly. Maybe he's grown used to Astarion, the way one grows used to the prickles of a hedgehog that they handle often. He follows behind as requested, hand coming to rest between Iorveth's shoulder blades, against the silky purple fabric of his robe. ]

Magistrate Ancunín wouldn't have worn it even if every one of his many [ —or so he assumes— ] admirers asked.

[ He recalls little about what sort of person he was back then, but this he knows. Astarion was never a flower crown-wearer, even before all of the bad things happened to him. He would have found them overly precious, and besides, he's never cared for flowers. Or any sort of nature, really. It's a wonder Iorveth puts up with him. ]

You're the only admirer I'd allow to gift such a thing to me.

[ Magistrate Ancunín wouldn't have given Iorveth-with-no-family-name the time of fucking day, and Iorveth-of-the-woods would have taken one look at a posh high elf and decided to hate him immediately. Really, the tadpole was the only thing keeping them in the same camp for a good portion of their initial journey: without that fixture in their heads, Iorveth would have split off and never given Astarion a second thought.

Terrifying to consider. Some things require time and patience, and Iorveth had neither back when they first met. A miracle, really, that circumstances forced him to see Astarion more clearly, because he doubts he would have chosen to do so otherwise.

Back into the bedroom they go, where Iorveth immediately chooses to be horizontal, letting his poison-tired body drape limply on clean sheets. He realizes too late that he's left his eyepatch back in the bathroom, but that's a problem for Iorveth of tomorrow. ]

Lucky me, [ he says, without irony or sarcasm. He does feel lucky, and this is the second time of the night that he's said so. ] What else would you let me gift you?

[ Gesturing for Astarion to join him in bed. ]

[ Iorveth looks terrifyingly inviting sprawled out on the sheets, soft and defenseless. Astarion slithers up beside him in an instant, pressing himself into the space that Iorveth's body creates. He's a big fan of his personal space, except when it comes to Iorveth. Then he's a fan of Iorveth's personal space.

Iorveth just doesn't feel like another person the way that other people do. Other people are scary, untrustworthy things, and being around them gives Astarion a constant low-level sense of anxiety and dread. Not Iorveth. 'My better half', he'd called Astarion, and while the 'better' part certainly isn't true, he does sometimes feel as if Iorveth is his other half in an almost literal way. A physical part of him that would hurt to be separated from. ]

Your time, [ he says, brushing hair out of Iorveth's face. ] Your love. [ A remarkably twee boop to Iorveth's nose, although he'd deny it ever happened if asked. ] Your kisses. What more could I ask for?

[ Astarion is still warm from the bath, but Iorveth tucks close to him anyway to keep that heat from escaping anywhere. An elf-shaped radiator, overprotective of Astarion's comfort.

The boop to the nose is twee, yes, but so is Iorveth's acceptance of it. Tipping his chin up to response, making the sort of soft noise an animal makes when someone scratches it behind its ear just right. ]

Compliments. Affirmations. [ Very unselfish of Astarion not to ask for them. Maybe they were included within 'love', though: the term encompasses a lot of things. ] Poetry about how beautiful you are.

[ The 'shallow praise' that Iorveth so often scoffed at. They're no longer shallow, now that Iorveth believes Astarion actually likes hearing them instead of being privately disgusted under his pretty mask.

Another soft, pleased hum, before he leans in for a very chaste kiss. ]

...The sun. I promise you that you'll have it back.

[ Famous last words, perhaps. But Iorveth has never said anything he doesn't mean, or intend to follow through to the end. ]

[ There's value in exploring the pleasure that he'd had rather violently taken from him, but there's something to be said about experiencing gentle touch for the sake of touch, too. Before Iorveth, he'd never had cause to believe that someone would want to touch him in order to make him happy, or to express affection for him. Touch always had an ulterior motive, he'd thought, and everyone else was just foolish for thinking otherwise.

He's addicted to it now. Iorveth's warm hand in his, his soft lips against Astarion's, his body curled around his. He remembers being so surprised the first time Iorveth had kissed him back; he'd expected Iorveth's kiss to be as harsh as him, but it had been light, shockingly sweet given Iorveth's rather sour personality. He talks of being ruined, but in the end, it's him who ruined Astarion for all others. In all of his most wildest fantasies, he never could have imagined someone touching him gently and speaking to him softly the way that Iorveth does. ]

My hero.

[ Really. It's the greatest gift anyone could ever give him. Iorveth is an idiot for putting himself through hell to get it, though. ]

But until the time comes that you can follow through on that one, I wouldn't say no to a few compliments.

[ The easiest way to follow through on "the sun" would likely be for Iorveth to sneak out while Astarion is trancing and torture an old woman until she surrenders, but Astarion has made his stance on Iorveth leaving him alone in bed, so. That's out. He'd be lying if he said that he doesn't want to be practical about all of this, but very little is worth risking Astarion's trust in him.

Compliments, then, in the meantime. Stroking Astarion's still somewhat damp hair and arranging it so he'll have minimal bedhead later, Iorveth laughs under his breath. ]

"A few". [ Not difficult. ] ―Hm.

You have expressive brows.

[ He says, as he presses his lips to them. The least sexy compliment in the world, but he means it so deeply. ]

[ All the better to raise at Iorveth. Which he does, an incredulous expression that proves Iorveth's 'compliment' right. If he weren't so earnest about it, Astarion would be convinced that it was sarcastic or perhaps poking fun at him. It is earnest, though, painfully so, so Astarion rolls his eyes. ]

Yes, I know. You've threatened that they'll give me wrinkles enough times.

[ The horror! Next Iorveth is going to tell him that his face will get stuck like that.

A sigh. ]

Honestly, my sweet, one would think that you don't know how to give a compliment. You're supposed to say something like that we don't need to talk to the old crone because I'm so handsome Alkam will just drop dead out of jealousy when he sees me.

[ Accused of being incapable of saying nice things, while in full doting mode. Iorveth lets Astarion make his case, but also makes sure to continue kissing all over his face as he does. Temple, nose, cheek.

With his mouth pressed, this time, to Astarion's jaw: ]

Ideally, he would.

[ Bias says that Astarion is the prettiest person in all of the planes, and if Alkam is a jealous man, he should combust at the reality that he will never serve face the way Astarion does. Alas. ]

Hm. Our wizard would have been more capable of poetry. [ Regarding his capacity to come up with actually good lines. "Words", Iorveth might have said before. He kisses a soft earlobe, then nibbles it ever-so-gently. ] I struggle to be eloquent when all I wish to do is kiss that perfect mouth of yours.

[ "You make me so stupid" is a valid compliment, he thinks. ]

[ A very valid compliment, and one that clearly makes Astarion glow with pleasure. He grins before kissing Iorveth's perfect mouth, ever impatient but still gentle; Iorveth had requested that they be kind to each other last night, and he finds himself still in the mood for softness. Not yet ready to act like they hate each other, evidently. ]

Good. [ And another kiss to the corner of Iorveth's mouth. ] You know that I prefer you thoughtless, unless those thoughts are about me.

[ Their suite is spacious, but it's a bit embarrassing to think that Damris might be able to overhear this shmoop, so he lowers his voice. ]

I want to hold you. [ Very polite of him to ask instead of forcing his love on Iorveth like he normally does, he thinks. He still reaches out without being given an answer. ] I... want to be certain that you're still there while I trance.

[ "I like it when you don't think about things" is a little questionable, especially since Iorveth's foundational trait is chronically planning and being paranoid, but he likes to think he understands what Astarion means. Iorveth charitably (?) interprets it as "hey, relax", which is what he does. A full-body slump, letting himself be vulnerable despite Damris' presence in the other room.

Another thing that's a bit questionable is the lingering concern that Iorveth might leave, but that's also explainable: he nearly died tonight. Bad dreams the night prior, followed by an attempted assassination. Iorveth, too, would feel on-edge.

So. Meeting the reach, Iorveth slides into Astarion's space and subjects himself to whatever maneuvering Astarion sees fit. ]

I'm right here. [ Iorveth of a few tendays ago might have said this to the tune of "you're being ridiculous", but not the Iorveth of today. ] I'll not leave you unless you tell me to.

[ Look at Iorveth, constantly finding Astarion questionable and choosing to love him anyway. Sweet! And unwise. But sweet all the same.

He winds his arms around Iorveth and pulls him close, chest to chest so that he can feel Iorveth's breath against him as a reminder that he is, in fact, still alive. Without it, he fears nightmares again, albeit of a different kind than the day prior. This night has already been a waking nightmare in so many ways.

As gentle as he's been trying to be, his embrace is a little restrictive, a loving straitjacket. It isn't that he thinks Iorveth will really get up and leave, but... just in case. ]

So sweet, [ he murmurs, eyes closing and forehead bumping against Iorveth's. ] You'll rot my teeth.

[ Iorveth doesn't know about 'sweet'. 'Vigilant', maybe. 'Paranoid', definitely. Astarion has had two centuries of unspeakable torture inflicted upon him, and Iorveth has had more than a century to grit his teeth into stumps about tragedy and irrational cruelty: the only thing Iorveth fears in this entire world isn't his own end, but the end of the things he cares about.

So, here he is－ trying to fight for someone's peace of mind with the entire breadth of his very limited but very unhinged strength. He doesn't close his eye when Astarion closes his, remaining awake long after Astarion drifts, determined to stay awake despite his exhaustion to be aware of even the fleeting possibility of nightmares on the horizon.

(Meanwhile from the ethereal plane: a hag, attempting, with variable success, to reach out to at least one of her two potential victims on the material plane. Appealing to the worst of her target's fears, while being, perhaps, a little disappointed that neither of the elves have a vampire lord's hand in tow.

It's very annoying to her that one of her targets isn't trancing, but whatever. Maybe the white-haired one will wind up in her soul bag soon, a pretty little trophy that she can toy with when she gets bored.) ]

[ This couldn't be a more perfect setup for his trance. An enemy hogtied and gagged in the other room, his most beloved person trapped in his arms. So why, then, does he find himself restless again? The trance brings back feelings he'd thought long forgotten, and he shifts, uneasy, against Iorveth's body, soft sounds of displeasure coming from the back of his throat.

Finally, suddenly, he lets out a half-unconscious: ]

Get off of me.

[ Accompanied by a hard shove, the complete antithesis to the clinging he'd been doing. ]

[ In that fuzzy space between exhaustion and superhuman obstinacy, Iorveth watches the first signs of something amiss manifesting as soft shifts; instantly more alert, he's mid-motion in an attempt to press his palm against Astarion's cheek when he's shoved at, forcibly peeled from Astarion's front with that two-handed pushback.

It's both surprising and not－ he can hazard a guess as to what kind of trance would inspire Astarion to lash out. A breath to steady himself later, Iorveth sits up just slightly to honor the armspan of space that's been made between them, and brushes his fingers through Astarion's hair. ]

Astarion, [ he says, careful but steady. A few feet away, daylight is streaming through a crack in the curtains, drawing a line of yellow-gold along purple carpet. Still high noon, Iorveth notes. ] It's only a dream.

[ Keeping the contact to light petting, avoiding the potential to make Astarion feel cloistered. His expression pinches into a troubled frown as he makes a precursory check of the room, and wonders if Damris is spellcasting in the other room－ he couldn't be capable of that, surely. ]

[ The sound of Iorveth's voice, warm and familiar, breaks him out of his unpleasant trance, and for a moment he feels adrift, stuck between this world and the world he'd just been inhabiting. He blinks, looking down at his hands that are still keeping Iorveth at arm's length before he slowly retracts them. Despite his attempts to push Iorveth away, the feeling of fingers in his hair is pleasant, soothing. As always, he loves those hands. ]

Oh.

[ Embarrassment floods him, coloring his face and neck. Gods, tell him he didn't just shove the man he loves after begging him to stay close. ]

I didn't mean— I was just... confused. You know how vivid a trance can be.

[ Iorveth watches Astarion turn red, but doesn't waste time: he closes the gap between them an inch, indicating a desire to be close again, while he gives Astarion's hair another encouraging comb-through. ]

How long has this been going on for?

[ He doesn't think he remembers Astarion's trances being so fitful while they were still in Waterdeep; he doesn't even remember them being quite as violently negative while they were roughing it after leaving Baldur's Gate. There's either a reason for this rooted in their current location, or the things they've been surrounded by since they arrived.

(Something to do with the inn itself? The spawn in the other room? Anxieties about the cloak?) ]

You look more tired than before you tranced.

[ A worried frown, and Iorveth sits up more properly. The cogs in his brain start turning furiously again, mapping out possibilities and courses of action. ]

[ He's loath to look weak, but he's also loath to stay apart from Iorveth, which wins out in the end. His fingers curl into the fabric of Iorveth's silky robe, tugging him back in so that he can be comforted by the heat radiating from Iorveth's body. It doesn't make the distress of the trance he just left go away, but it does make him feel a little safer. So embarrassing. ]

Can't you just lie and say that I look dewy and refreshed?

[ Very rude to tell him he looks tired, although with those vampiric dark circles, he always looks a little tired. Still, Iorveth's observation is right -- he doesn't feel rested at all. The opposite, in fact. ]

I always used to trance poorly, but-- [ He hasn't had a nightmare like this in quite a while. Since one of his first nights in their little makeshift camp. ] It started again when we came here. I suppose Athkatla just doesn't agree with me.

[ Inclined to get up so that he can scour the suite and make sure that Damris isn't doing anything questionable, but effectively crippled by that hand clutching his robe. For better or for worse, Astarion is Iorveth's single greatest weakness: he finds it difficult, now, to do something that will cause Astarion to feel badly, even if feeling badly is a byproduct of what needs to be done.

An internal struggle later, visible on Iorveth's face, he settles back down beside Astarion and pulls close again, arms wrapping around tense shoulders, bridging the gap. ]

Miserable city, [ Iorveth hisses. ] I'll send word to Gale about a portal back to Waterdeep.

[ It'll likely take a few days, but Iorveth would rather they start preparations for that now, so that Astarion doesn't have to be in Athkatla with all these vampires and stressors for longer than necessary. Scowling (at the city in general), he presses a kiss against the side of Astarion's head, worry beating out rage in the end. ]

...I suppose you returning first to recuperate is unrealistic. [ Astarion said so before: he rests better with Iorveth in bed with him. There'd be no point in him moving locations if he's still going to be missing an elf-shaped space heater in his bed. ]

[ Oh, Iorveth. Beholden to the feelings of someone who feels bad when the wind blows wrong. How the mighty have fallen.

He nuzzles into the warmth of Iorveth's embrace, the sort of humiliating vulnerability that he'd be willing to kill to hide if the witness were anyone but Iorveth. So strange, feeling as if he can show his soft underbelly to someone without fear that they'll stick a knife in his gut. He'll hurt you in a foreign voice still rings in his head, but it seems so very farfetched. Iorveth is the only person in the world that he can trust not to hurt him.

Except-- Iorveth could still hurt him, if only unintentionally. If anything were to happen to him, it would hurt him far worse than any other person ever could. ]

And let you take on a vampire lord by your lonesome? I wouldn't be able to trance at all.

[ "You're coddling him," some would say, and they'd be right. Iorveth doesn't want to be Astarion's kept elf, beholden to his whims, but he does want to make sure that their foundation of trust and safety is ironclad; these things are still so fragile, the latter perhaps more so than the former.

A hum of acknowledgment, and Iorveth starts rubbing slow circles between Astarion's shoulderblades, trying to coax some of that perpetually-kept tension out of those coiled muscles. ]

True. I'd give that pretty face of yours stress lines.

[ An affectionate jab, to make up for what he knows is an unpleasant line of follow-up questioning: ]

What were your unpleasant meditations about? Generally.

[ A very unpleasant question. Although the tension slowly seeps out of his shoulders with Iorveth's soothing rubbing, he immediately grows tense again at the inquiry. These are the sort of things one is supposed to talk about with the person they love; he knows this, yet the idea of actually opening his mouth and saying it in front of Iorveth makes him feel sick. He doesn't want Iorveth to ever see him the way that he was in those 'unpleasant meditations'. He'd rather die. ]

I don't know, [ is his immediate answer, as it always is when it's something he doesn't want to think about. Iorveth will see through that instantly, because Iorveth knows him. 'Sees him clearly', as he might like to say.

He lets his gaze drop to Iorveth's chin, hesitant to look him in the eye. ]

The past. Getting hurt. Stupid, silly things.

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