[ 'Celebrating vigorously'. A hum-laugh, and Iorveth finally lets the last of his posturing drain from his shoulders, succumbing to the pleasant feeling of Astarion's now-familiar touch. ]
Things rarely go as one hopes, love.
[ A mean, cynical statement, tempered (he hopes) by the use of that affectionate term, love. Still, Iorveth isn't quite looking to have the last word tonight, so he lets the preaching go.
Instead: ] Ambitious of you, regardless, to have assumed that you could have gotten erect after three days without rest.
[ Translation: "ain't no way you could have gotten a boner". Iorveth is the worst. ]
[ Iorveth is the worst. Astarion starts to sit up again, offended, but he quickly learns his lesson this time and settles back down, reclining. He does tug on Iorveth's ear as punishment, though. ]
For you, I could.
[ Unrealistic? Maybe. The truth of the matter doesn't change anything. Like it always is, the truth is boring. ]
Take off that hideous gambeson, and perhaps I still will.
[ He won't. Admittedly, he's in no emotional place to be taking his clothes off. And, for more practical reasons, the leg would be a real turn-off. ]
[ Oh, Astarion. A lying liar that lies, but in a way that makes Iorveth want to pick him up and squeeze him. Accepting the tug to his ear (deserved), he reaches up and pinches the bridge of Astarion's nose. Retaliatory. ]
You'd stay soft, and I'd be offended, and we'd have a row.
[ Joking. Literally none of that would happen minus the Astarion not getting an erection part, which is the only thread of truth here (again, incredibly rude). It's a funny mental image, though, especially with Gale and Damris in the other room, and Tara presumably one more strike away from expelling the two bad influences in her wizard son's life.
Iorveth relinquishes the pinch, and pets Astarion's hair. ]
[ Iorveth is the only person he'd allow to tease him in such a way. He hates being poked and prodded at, but the way Iorveth does it is affectionate, sweet in its juvenile nature. He doesn't mind being poked at all.
However: ]
It's... perhaps for the best.
[ A little faltering, as if reluctant to share but pushing through regardless. People who love each other are supposed to be honest with each other, he's pretty sure. Too bad being honest with anyone ever makes him want to jump off the nearest cliff. ]
I don't feel particularly... inclined toward that sort of thing. At the moment.
[ Before, being told that Astarion preferred not to be intimate would have made Iorveth pull away entirely, cautious of boundaries in a near-militant way. Now, he still stays within Astarion's periphery, letting his fingers sift through damp curls for one more lingering moment instead of yanking them away immediately. ]
Understandably.
[ Iorveth won't pretend that he doesn't see the outlines of that unspoken why. He's tried not to touch it, has left it well enough alone, but he ventures: ]
[ He always wants to talk about it, and he always wants to ignore it. Never happy, no matter what he does. What the hag did was awful, of course, and he feels horribly violated to have his most private thoughts breached in such a way, but conversely, it's almost a relief that someone else looked at his memories and thought that they were terrible, too. ]
I don't want you to see me in that way.
[ Iorveth has seemingly always been a fighter, holding onto his pride with white knuckles. Astarion was and is an endurer. Iorveth would probably be disgusted with the sort of things he put up with. He laughs, dry. ]
I suppose you always did say that I lacked self-respect.
[ A beat, as Iorveth takes a moment to realign himself on the floor. Perpendicular this time, legs folded, facing Astarion more properly. When he opens his mouth to speak, he knows that his opening statement won't be particularly pleasant to hear. ]
At the time, I believed you did. You tried to ingratiate me to you without warmth or sincerity.
[ Which felt insulting, and yes, self-effacing. Hardly something to lie about. ]
But I didn't know then what I know now. [ The why-s, the still-nebulous how-s. It's not that Iorveth wants Astarion to relive the specifics of his past to make a case for himself (no one is owed Astarion's anything), but: ] Do you think I would think less of you?
[ Astarion still feels a little defensive of his ingratiation. He had no idea then that Iorveth would be the first person to actually like the real him. Should he have just relied on what seemed, at the time, to require an impossible act of the gods, rather than use tried and true methods to establish himself as a party member worth protecting (and not staking)? Iorveth would probably say yes. But what does Iorveth know? He's always had a tribe of elves behind him. He doesn't know what it's like to have to navigate this world alone.
But that's not the point of all of this, so Astarion pushes the offense down for now. ]
It's just that, well, you like me so much. [ Somehow. Miraculously. But Iorveth also sees him in a way that Astarion doesn't see. He'd once called him the least helpless person he'd ever known. If he saw the Astarion that Astarion sees, he might not feel that way anymore. ] And I'd really prefer for you to keep liking me.
[ So, yes. He does think Iorveth would think less of him. ]
[ It's the privilege of having a strong foundational core: when one has something to rally oneself around, when one builds himself around an unshakeable pillar, it makes it difficult to understand why others wouldn't also be confident or sure about themselves. Iorveth, who has now molded his future to Astarion's shape, can't quite see why Astarion wouldn't have been confident enough in his character to lead with it.
A bad, obnoxious bias. It bleeds into his reaction to Astarion essentially telling him that yes, Astarion anticipates Iorveth's negative judgment. An unwarranted sense of frustration, like the aftertremors of a big quake: 'why would he think that?' ]
If knowing you more makes me like you less, [ he states flatly (probably unhelpfully), ] then I clearly don't deserve you.
[ "If I suck, dump me," says the man who was proposed to just upwards of 24 hours ago. He has to be setting some sort of record, here. ]
[ Affronted: ] I don't care if you deserve me. I care if you like me.
[ He's not beating the lack of self-respect allegations today. Or ever, probably. Astarion's reaction to Iorveth's words is immediate, an instant raising of his hackles, puffing up like a threatened kitten. He just opened up about his deep, dark fear that Iorveth won't love him anymore after hearing about the things he did and that were done to him, and Iorveth responded if I suck, dump me, as if losing this relationship isn't the worst thing that could ever happen to him.
Astarion should be mature and not expect Iorveth to coddle him. He should probably say something like it upsets me when you say things like that, and then they could have a productive conversation. Instead, he undertakes the difficult task of turning himself away from Iorveth, wincing as he does so. ]
I don't want to talk about it, anyway. Why don't you go make sure that Dennis [ still Damris ] hasn't murdered our friend?
[ Iorveth could also stop taking it for granted that Astarion understands him, and be nice for once and speak the given into existence. "I love you no matter what" will never be a lie, even if he'd prefer that Astarion knew of Iorveth's unconditionality implicitly. It doesn't help to strongarm someone into having self-worth, but again― there are things that Iorveth simply doesn't grasp properly.
Which is why "I don't care if you deserve me, I care if you like me" feels deeply troubling: Iorveth's kneejerk mental response is "you actually shouldn't settle", but watching Astarion bristle and turn away is―
―well, it's sad. A juvenile term for something far more complicated. It makes Iorveth sit up, unfolding his legs to scoot and kneel closer to the edge of the bed, palm between Astarion's shoulderblades. ]
Astarion. [ As gentle as a man like Iorveth can manage. ] Look at me.
[ Astarion considers being cruel. He thinks it would wound Iorveth deeply if he told him not to touch him and sent him away, and that might make Astarion feel better for a fraction of a second. After that fraction of a second, though, he'd feel even worse, so he pushes the urge away. That counts as personal growth, probably.
He also thinks that the Iorveth of the past would probably have left upon being told to, and it would be fair to reward him for realizing that Astarion doesn't actually want him to go at all, and that when he pushes Iorveth away he actually wants Iorveth to come closer. (On the other hand, he should probably be punished for encouraging this sort of immature, emotionally constipated behavior, but Astarion won't be the one to do it.)
It was laborious to turn away, and it's laborious to turn back toward Iorveth. It does hurt a little, and he makes sure to say, ] Ow, [ in the most pathetic way and with the most pathetic expression he can muster so that Iorveth feels bad for him. Once a manipulator, always a manipulator. ]
[ Iorveth, who has experienced his own brand of being used and abused, who has vowed never again to allow someone to bend him to their own agenda, has a bad habit that he can't kick: he finds an exception, and gives them everything.
On some level, he recognizes that Astarion plays into that permissiveness. But the manipulation is benign (to him), and despite all of Iorveth's cynicism, he still naively trusts Astarion not to hurt him. Not like the queen of the forests who bartered with his life, or the man who he loved and lost, or the dragon who never had emotional stakes in Iorveth's service. Astarion is different. He's not like anyone Iorveth has ever met.
And, he'd argue, his trust is justified. Case in point: Astarion doesn't tell him to fuck off, and he softens despite the melodrama of that ow. ]
Beloved. [ Smoothing a thumb over Astarion's cheek, under one of those big, sad eyes. ] You could have burned Neverwinter down in the past, and I'd not love you less for it.
[ Bad example: Neverwinter was decimated in recent history. But the point stands, and it's also heard by Gale, who balks a little and clears his throat at the foot of the stairs leading into the sitting room. ]
[ Astarion would probably feel less shame about burning down Neverwinter than he does about his past, which almost certainly says something about the type of person he is; to hurt someone—even many someones—of his own volition is less wretched than being hurt because he was too helpless to stop it. But he does soften at the statement, because of course that's what he wanted to hear but didn't know how to ask for, that Iorveth will love him no matter how wretched he might be.
And then Gale fucking ruins the moment. ]
My gods, Gale, can't you see that we're having a private conversation? [ To Iorveth: ] Some people have no manners.
[ "Oh, I apolo—" Gale starts, as if by reflex. A moment of thought, though, and he crosses his arms. "This is my home, may I remind you." ]
[ Poor Gale, who has to deal with a deranged elf saying deranged things to a vampire with a broken leg, after tending to a different vampire who was kidnapped from a different city for reasons that still remain largely unknown to him.
Iorveth kind of sympathizes (they've asked a lot of Gale in the past tenday), but he also agrees that this was Not The Moment, so: ]
If you're on your way to finding us a cleric, [ he huffs, gesturing towards the direction of the tower's entrance. ] Go.
[ 'Leave us alone for a bit', in a very practical albeit very rude manner of speaking. Gale looks a little appalled, and waggles his finger at Iorveth.
"You know, there are limits to my generosity. I expect you two to give me a thorough explanation of what went on, after you two recover from your..." A frustrated gesture. "...Injuries." ]
[ Astarion nods, making a cross motion over the spot on his chest where his dead heart lies. ]
You can count on us to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
[ He'll have come up with a proper lie by then. Or, if he hasn't, he'll just tell Gale that they're getting married to distract him. That'll undoubtedly work, because then Gale will immediately start writing his best man's speech (even though no one has asked him to be the best man).
Gale grumbles a little as he leaves, clearly disbelieving, but Astarion really doesn't care. He'll get over it as long as they pat him on the head and tell him he's a good boy. (Who's a good murder cover-upper? You's a good murder cover-upper!!)
A long moment passes as Astarion waits for Gale to be well and truly gone. This is a part of him for Iorveth's eyes only, and no matter how much he may like Gale, he'd hate to show vulnerability in front of him. Finally, he turns his attention back to Iorveth, reaching out for his hand. ]
I should apologize. [ Which he doesn't do to just anyone, so Iorveth had better feel special. ] The thought of losing your esteem is just... [ Unbearable. But that sounds very dramatic, so— ] Well, let's just say that I don't care for it.
[ It's kind of Gale to be fetching them a cleric, despite the fact that whatever's going on with Astarion's leg won't be an easy fix: it'll mend, but it'll probably be tender and fragile for a few days at least. Unpleasant to think about, but it might help keep Astarion in bed to get the rest he sorely needs.
He'll consider that when Gale inevitably interrupts them again in a few. Now, he shifts his attention back towards the more pressing matter at hand, which is the (occasionally) herculean task of convincing Astarion that the only way he could ever lose Iorveth's esteem is if he slaughters the rest of the Aen Seidhe, which seems like such an impossibility that he doesn't even think to entertain it.
So: ] My esteem for you isn't so easily diminished. [ This would have sounded more haughty before; that "how dare you underestimate me" that kept him from kissing Astarion way back when he still wasn't certain that he wouldn't be mocked for it. Now, it's a gentler statement of fact, pressed against the back of Astarion's hand. ] Who am I to tell you that you were wrong for surviving?
[ He closes his eye, considering. ] I'm grateful that you did. We may never have met, otherwise.
[ Astarion is glad that he survived to meet Iorveth, too, but it hadn't felt like a choice at the time. He couldn't die, and he couldn't live, so he did what he could: endure. It doesn't feel particularly gratifying to have done. There's certainly nothing to be proud of. ]
—You would have done more than survive.
[ This isn't Astarion getting down on himself, although he probably could. It's just the truth: Iorveth would have fought much more than Astarion did. He would have fought every second of every day, no matter how tired and miserable it made him, because the alternative would have been worse. That's where the fear of being looked down on comes from, he supposes. The knowledge that Iorveth would have done it all better. ]
But I appreciate the sentiment all the same.
[ He presses his mouth to Iorveth's fingers. ]
It isn't worth dwelling on the past, I suppose, when I have you as my future.
[ Iorveth thinks about that. "You would have done more". He has nothing to compare it to, not concretely, but he thinks that it's likely the truth; he knows himself, and he remembers how he acted when he was caught and paraded like livestock, and how he should have died with the rest of his brigade.
Stupid, if Astarion thinks Iorveth will think less of him because Iorveth is somehow the authority on how to act under duress. His lips turn upwards in a grim smile, turning his hand in Astarion's loose hold to stroke under that shapely chin. ]
I would have done more, certainly. I would have fought, and earned Cazador's ire, and I would have been locked in the prison under that cursed mansion to rot like the rest.
[ Too willful, too unwilling to break. A nuisance. ]
I would have been dead before I found you. [ If their roles had been reversed. ] Unlike you― my clever, resourceful cat.
[ Maybe things would have gone better for Iorveth if he had even a fraction of Astarion's charm. Maybe people would have trusted him more, maybe he would have been more diplomatic. Iorveth is far from perfect, but he can only be himself. ]
[ ...Yes, Iorveth does have a point. Cazador didn't like any of his spawn, but he did have a twisted sort of affection for them, or at least for what they could do for him. But Iorveth would offer no such benefits for Cazador, and his stubborn resistance would incense him. Cazador hated everyone, but he would hate Iorveth. There would never have been an Iorveth for Astarion to meet, if their positions were reversed. He would have died—or gone mad—resisting until the bitter end. ]
Everyone does seem to want to kill you.
[ Dry, but warm. It's a little funny, except for how it really isn't. ]
That hag nearly skinned you.
[ He curls his fingers around Iorveth's, squeezing. ]
That was worse than any nightmare she could give me.
[ Iorveth resumes his seated position against the edge of the couch, his side to the edge of it and elbow on a cushion, holding Astarion's hand. It'll be nice to be on a bed with him again, Iorveth thinks; he can't remember the last time he's tranced well without Astarion stuck to him like glue. ]
The gall of that creature, to inhabit your mind. [ Smoothing his thumb over Astarion's knuckles, idle and affectionate. ] ...At any rate, I'm here. With all my skin.
[ Craning forward, he presses a kiss to Astarion's temple. ]
If you wish, I'll speak sweetly to you while you rest. [ This is meant to be a joke, but how Astarion receives it is up to him. ] It might ward the nightmares away.
[ There's a playfulness to it, but it's genuine, too. How could there be anything in the world that he likes less than Iorveth's voice in his ear, telling him nice things? The sound of Iorveth's voice is like being enveloped in a warm hug, safe and cradled in the embrace. If that weren't embarrassing to say, it would certainly be deranged, so he keeps such thoughts to himself. Maybe Iorveth doesn't need to know quite how much Astarion loves him. ]
...I'll be fine. [ He sounds trepidatious even as he says it, but there is no alternative. The hag can't haunt his dreams forever, and neither can Cazador, for that matter. ] As long as you stay.
[ A role reversal. It's usually Iorveth asking him—ridiculously—to stay, as if there were anywhere else that he'd want to go. ]
—But if you're inclined to sing my praises as I drift off, I really can't stop you.
[ A ghost of a laugh, as Iorveth settles with their hands still twined, still mulling over what the hells they're going to do if Astarion's nightmares persist (Iorveth might have to break his promise if so). They haven't even addressed whether they really think one of the cloaks in Astarion's possession will turn out to be the one they want― the thought of having turned tail for nothing is too much to contemplate at this point in time, still aching and haunted as they are.
So. Sweet things. To salvage just a sliver of his prickly terrorist veneer, he murmurs compliments to Astarion in his native tongue, a string of musical nonsense intermittently decipherable when he uses terms that he's already taught Astarion: "beloved", and "I love you". For all Astarion knows, Iorveth might be reciting recipes and throwing in a few terms of endearment for flavor.
(He isn't. He's sparing Astarion the abject embarrassment, honestly.)
And this is how the cleric, when he bursts into the sitting room, will find his patients: nested against each other like one big bruise, a shocking mess of silver hair and black hair, tan skin and pale skin.
"No, no, this won't do!" The elderly halfling crows, approaching the two with hurricanelike intensity. "No crowding the patient, please! He needs space to breathe!"
Iorveth feels sharp raps between his shoulderblades with the flat of a cane, punctuating the request to move. Ow. He relents with drowsy irritation, only relinquishing his position because he knows Astarion needs to be tended to. ]
[ Astarion always used to hate when Iorveth would speak in his language, paranoid that there was something Iorveth was keeping from him, that there was some private joke he wasn't in on. He doesn't feel that way anymore. Iorveth's native tongue is precious, musical, all him. It would be sexy, if he had the capacity to find anything sexy right now. Astarion murmurs back poorly-accented I love yous, focusing on the sound of Iorveth's voice and the feel of his palm against his until he manages to— not drift off, exactly, but relax enough that it's close to resting. It's restorative, by any means.
At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
[ "Hm? Oh? So it was, so he is." The halfling squints up at Iorveth, tapping the side of his face with his cane (surprisingly impudent for a cleric, Iorveth thinks) before nudging him aside again. Triage instincts, perhaps.
"Later, for him. I sense a lot of unpleasantness on you."
Popping by Astarion's side like a mustachioed gopher, the cleric― "Master Reginald is an expert at his craft," Gale explains once he finally catches up, huffing and puffing― mumbles a few spells under his breath and hovers his hands over Astarion's chest, palms glowing a soft gold. The magic seems to peel away at some spiritual mud still left clinging on Astarion, attacking residual corruption from parts of him having been cased in the (now-destroyed) soul bag. The sensation will be like momentarily dipping into cool water― a blink, and the feeling abates.
"Dealt with a malevolent creature, did you? A lich, maybe? Very bad things," he continues chirping, scooting over to Astarion's legs. "Now, off with your trousers, please! I heard there was some more unpleasantness with your leg."
Iorveth boggles at the halfling's tugging at Astarion's pant leg, and not-so-gently displaces him with an elbow to the man's side and a shove. ]
Mind how you speak to him, [ he snaps, then glances towards Astarion. ] Should Gale and I leave the room for this?
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Things rarely go as one hopes, love.
[ A mean, cynical statement, tempered (he hopes) by the use of that affectionate term, love. Still, Iorveth isn't quite looking to have the last word tonight, so he lets the preaching go.
Instead: ] Ambitious of you, regardless, to have assumed that you could have gotten erect after three days without rest.
[ Translation: "ain't no way you could have gotten a boner". Iorveth is the worst. ]
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For you, I could.
[ Unrealistic? Maybe. The truth of the matter doesn't change anything. Like it always is, the truth is boring. ]
Take off that hideous gambeson, and perhaps I still will.
[ He won't. Admittedly, he's in no emotional place to be taking his clothes off. And, for more practical reasons, the leg would be a real turn-off. ]
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You'd stay soft, and I'd be offended, and we'd have a row.
[ Joking. Literally none of that would happen minus the Astarion not getting an erection part, which is the only thread of truth here (again, incredibly rude). It's a funny mental image, though, especially with Gale and Damris in the other room, and Tara presumably one more strike away from expelling the two bad influences in her wizard son's life.
Iorveth relinquishes the pinch, and pets Astarion's hair. ]
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However: ]
It's... perhaps for the best.
[ A little faltering, as if reluctant to share but pushing through regardless. People who love each other are supposed to be honest with each other, he's pretty sure. Too bad being honest with anyone ever makes him want to jump off the nearest cliff. ]
I don't feel particularly... inclined toward that sort of thing. At the moment.
[ He doesn't include why. ]
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Understandably.
[ Iorveth won't pretend that he doesn't see the outlines of that unspoken why. He's tried not to touch it, has left it well enough alone, but he ventures: ]
Do you wish to speak about it?
[ Just in case. ]
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[ He always wants to talk about it, and he always wants to ignore it. Never happy, no matter what he does. What the hag did was awful, of course, and he feels horribly violated to have his most private thoughts breached in such a way, but conversely, it's almost a relief that someone else looked at his memories and thought that they were terrible, too. ]
I don't want you to see me in that way.
[ Iorveth has seemingly always been a fighter, holding onto his pride with white knuckles. Astarion was and is an endurer. Iorveth would probably be disgusted with the sort of things he put up with. He laughs, dry. ]
I suppose you always did say that I lacked self-respect.
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At the time, I believed you did. You tried to ingratiate me to you without warmth or sincerity.
[ Which felt insulting, and yes, self-effacing. Hardly something to lie about. ]
But I didn't know then what I know now. [ The why-s, the still-nebulous how-s. It's not that Iorveth wants Astarion to relive the specifics of his past to make a case for himself (no one is owed Astarion's anything), but: ] Do you think I would think less of you?
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But that's not the point of all of this, so Astarion pushes the offense down for now. ]
It's just that, well, you like me so much. [ Somehow. Miraculously. But Iorveth also sees him in a way that Astarion doesn't see. He'd once called him the least helpless person he'd ever known. If he saw the Astarion that Astarion sees, he might not feel that way anymore. ] And I'd really prefer for you to keep liking me.
[ So, yes. He does think Iorveth would think less of him. ]
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A bad, obnoxious bias. It bleeds into his reaction to Astarion essentially telling him that yes, Astarion anticipates Iorveth's negative judgment. An unwarranted sense of frustration, like the aftertremors of a big quake: 'why would he think that?' ]
If knowing you more makes me like you less, [ he states flatly (probably unhelpfully), ] then I clearly don't deserve you.
[ "If I suck, dump me," says the man who was proposed to just upwards of 24 hours ago. He has to be setting some sort of record, here. ]
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[ He's not beating the lack of self-respect allegations today. Or ever, probably. Astarion's reaction to Iorveth's words is immediate, an instant raising of his hackles, puffing up like a threatened kitten. He just opened up about his deep, dark fear that Iorveth won't love him anymore after hearing about the things he did and that were done to him, and Iorveth responded if I suck, dump me, as if losing this relationship isn't the worst thing that could ever happen to him.
Astarion should be mature and not expect Iorveth to coddle him. He should probably say something like it upsets me when you say things like that, and then they could have a productive conversation. Instead, he undertakes the difficult task of turning himself away from Iorveth, wincing as he does so. ]
I don't want to talk about it, anyway. Why don't you go make sure that Dennis [ still Damris ] hasn't murdered our friend?
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Which is why "I don't care if you deserve me, I care if you like me" feels deeply troubling: Iorveth's kneejerk mental response is "you actually shouldn't settle", but watching Astarion bristle and turn away is―
―well, it's sad. A juvenile term for something far more complicated. It makes Iorveth sit up, unfolding his legs to scoot and kneel closer to the edge of the bed, palm between Astarion's shoulderblades. ]
Astarion. [ As gentle as a man like Iorveth can manage. ] Look at me.
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He also thinks that the Iorveth of the past would probably have left upon being told to, and it would be fair to reward him for realizing that Astarion doesn't actually want him to go at all, and that when he pushes Iorveth away he actually wants Iorveth to come closer. (On the other hand, he should probably be punished for encouraging this sort of immature, emotionally constipated behavior, but Astarion won't be the one to do it.)
It was laborious to turn away, and it's laborious to turn back toward Iorveth. It does hurt a little, and he makes sure to say, ] Ow, [ in the most pathetic way and with the most pathetic expression he can muster so that Iorveth feels bad for him. Once a manipulator, always a manipulator. ]
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On some level, he recognizes that Astarion plays into that permissiveness. But the manipulation is benign (to him), and despite all of Iorveth's cynicism, he still naively trusts Astarion not to hurt him. Not like the queen of the forests who bartered with his life, or the man who he loved and lost, or the dragon who never had emotional stakes in Iorveth's service. Astarion is different. He's not like anyone Iorveth has ever met.
And, he'd argue, his trust is justified. Case in point: Astarion doesn't tell him to fuck off, and he softens despite the melodrama of that ow. ]
Beloved. [ Smoothing a thumb over Astarion's cheek, under one of those big, sad eyes. ] You could have burned Neverwinter down in the past, and I'd not love you less for it.
[ Bad example: Neverwinter was decimated in recent history. But the point stands, and it's also heard by Gale, who balks a little and clears his throat at the foot of the stairs leading into the sitting room. ]
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And then Gale fucking ruins the moment. ]
My gods, Gale, can't you see that we're having a private conversation? [ To Iorveth: ] Some people have no manners.
[ "Oh, I apolo—" Gale starts, as if by reflex. A moment of thought, though, and he crosses his arms. "This is my home, may I remind you." ]
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Iorveth kind of sympathizes (they've asked a lot of Gale in the past tenday), but he also agrees that this was Not The Moment, so: ]
If you're on your way to finding us a cleric, [ he huffs, gesturing towards the direction of the tower's entrance. ] Go.
[ 'Leave us alone for a bit', in a very practical albeit very rude manner of speaking. Gale looks a little appalled, and waggles his finger at Iorveth.
"You know, there are limits to my generosity. I expect you two to give me a thorough explanation of what went on, after you two recover from your..." A frustrated gesture. "...Injuries." ]
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[ Astarion nods, making a cross motion over the spot on his chest where his dead heart lies. ]
You can count on us to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
[ He'll have come up with a proper lie by then. Or, if he hasn't, he'll just tell Gale that they're getting married to distract him. That'll undoubtedly work, because then Gale will immediately start writing his best man's speech (even though no one has asked him to be the best man).
Gale grumbles a little as he leaves, clearly disbelieving, but Astarion really doesn't care. He'll get over it as long as they pat him on the head and tell him he's a good boy. (Who's a good murder cover-upper? You's a good murder cover-upper!!)
A long moment passes as Astarion waits for Gale to be well and truly gone. This is a part of him for Iorveth's eyes only, and no matter how much he may like Gale, he'd hate to show vulnerability in front of him. Finally, he turns his attention back to Iorveth, reaching out for his hand. ]
I should apologize. [ Which he doesn't do to just anyone, so Iorveth had better feel special. ] The thought of losing your esteem is just... [ Unbearable. But that sounds very dramatic, so— ] Well, let's just say that I don't care for it.
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He'll consider that when Gale inevitably interrupts them again in a few. Now, he shifts his attention back towards the more pressing matter at hand, which is the (occasionally) herculean task of convincing Astarion that the only way he could ever lose Iorveth's esteem is if he slaughters the rest of the Aen Seidhe, which seems like such an impossibility that he doesn't even think to entertain it.
So: ] My esteem for you isn't so easily diminished. [ This would have sounded more haughty before; that "how dare you underestimate me" that kept him from kissing Astarion way back when he still wasn't certain that he wouldn't be mocked for it. Now, it's a gentler statement of fact, pressed against the back of Astarion's hand. ] Who am I to tell you that you were wrong for surviving?
[ He closes his eye, considering. ] I'm grateful that you did. We may never have met, otherwise.
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—You would have done more than survive.
[ This isn't Astarion getting down on himself, although he probably could. It's just the truth: Iorveth would have fought much more than Astarion did. He would have fought every second of every day, no matter how tired and miserable it made him, because the alternative would have been worse. That's where the fear of being looked down on comes from, he supposes. The knowledge that Iorveth would have done it all better. ]
But I appreciate the sentiment all the same.
[ He presses his mouth to Iorveth's fingers. ]
It isn't worth dwelling on the past, I suppose, when I have you as my future.
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Stupid, if Astarion thinks Iorveth will think less of him because Iorveth is somehow the authority on how to act under duress. His lips turn upwards in a grim smile, turning his hand in Astarion's loose hold to stroke under that shapely chin. ]
I would have done more, certainly. I would have fought, and earned Cazador's ire, and I would have been locked in the prison under that cursed mansion to rot like the rest.
[ Too willful, too unwilling to break. A nuisance. ]
I would have been dead before I found you. [ If their roles had been reversed. ] Unlike you― my clever, resourceful cat.
[ Maybe things would have gone better for Iorveth if he had even a fraction of Astarion's charm. Maybe people would have trusted him more, maybe he would have been more diplomatic. Iorveth is far from perfect, but he can only be himself. ]
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Everyone does seem to want to kill you.
[ Dry, but warm. It's a little funny, except for how it really isn't. ]
That hag nearly skinned you.
[ He curls his fingers around Iorveth's, squeezing. ]
That was worse than any nightmare she could give me.
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The gall of that creature, to inhabit your mind. [ Smoothing his thumb over Astarion's knuckles, idle and affectionate. ] ...At any rate, I'm here. With all my skin.
[ Craning forward, he presses a kiss to Astarion's temple. ]
If you wish, I'll speak sweetly to you while you rest. [ This is meant to be a joke, but how Astarion receives it is up to him. ] It might ward the nightmares away.
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[ There's a playfulness to it, but it's genuine, too. How could there be anything in the world that he likes less than Iorveth's voice in his ear, telling him nice things? The sound of Iorveth's voice is like being enveloped in a warm hug, safe and cradled in the embrace. If that weren't embarrassing to say, it would certainly be deranged, so he keeps such thoughts to himself. Maybe Iorveth doesn't need to know quite how much Astarion loves him. ]
...I'll be fine. [ He sounds trepidatious even as he says it, but there is no alternative. The hag can't haunt his dreams forever, and neither can Cazador, for that matter. ] As long as you stay.
[ A role reversal. It's usually Iorveth asking him—ridiculously—to stay, as if there were anywhere else that he'd want to go. ]
—But if you're inclined to sing my praises as I drift off, I really can't stop you.
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So. Sweet things. To salvage just a sliver of his prickly terrorist veneer, he murmurs compliments to Astarion in his native tongue, a string of musical nonsense intermittently decipherable when he uses terms that he's already taught Astarion: "beloved", and "I love you". For all Astarion knows, Iorveth might be reciting recipes and throwing in a few terms of endearment for flavor.
(He isn't. He's sparing Astarion the abject embarrassment, honestly.)
And this is how the cleric, when he bursts into the sitting room, will find his patients: nested against each other like one big bruise, a shocking mess of silver hair and black hair, tan skin and pale skin.
"No, no, this won't do!" The elderly halfling crows, approaching the two with hurricanelike intensity. "No crowding the patient, please! He needs space to breathe!"
Iorveth feels sharp raps between his shoulderblades with the flat of a cane, punctuating the request to move. Ow. He relents with drowsy irritation, only relinquishing his position because he knows Astarion needs to be tended to. ]
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At least, it is until they're so rudely interrupted by a halfling. Astarion's eyes crack open, and he frowns as Iorveth moves, fingers slipping away. ]
You're mistaken, old man.
[ Instantly rude. Softness only exists for Iorveth. ]
You have two patients. His face was clawed at, and his brain scrambled.
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"Later, for him. I sense a lot of unpleasantness on you."
Popping by Astarion's side like a mustachioed gopher, the cleric― "Master Reginald is an expert at his craft," Gale explains once he finally catches up, huffing and puffing― mumbles a few spells under his breath and hovers his hands over Astarion's chest, palms glowing a soft gold. The magic seems to peel away at some spiritual mud still left clinging on Astarion, attacking residual corruption from parts of him having been cased in the (now-destroyed) soul bag. The sensation will be like momentarily dipping into cool water― a blink, and the feeling abates.
"Dealt with a malevolent creature, did you? A lich, maybe? Very bad things," he continues chirping, scooting over to Astarion's legs. "Now, off with your trousers, please! I heard there was some more unpleasantness with your leg."
Iorveth boggles at the halfling's tugging at Astarion's pant leg, and not-so-gently displaces him with an elbow to the man's side and a shove. ]
Mind how you speak to him, [ he snaps, then glances towards Astarion. ] Should Gale and I leave the room for this?
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