[ 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?
[ The biggest hypocrite in the world: Astarion would be gravely offended if Reginald focused on nearly anyone else during his time of need, but because it's Iorveth, he's actually gravely offended that Reginald doesn't give proper attention to his most precious, specialest boy in the whole world. He scowls at the pushing aside, although he doesn't have much time to be irritated, because the cleric works incredibly fast. An expert at his craft, indeed.
More accurately, it feels like being dunked into cold water. Astarion shivers at the sensation before it abruptly dissipates, and he begins to feel the return of those unnameable, intrinsic parts of himself that had felt stolen away. (Not like it really matters. His soul is never going to see any use.)
He bristles at the tug on his pant leg, pushing himself up so that he's vertical once more. ]
Don't wrinkle that. [ In actuality, he just can't stand the feeling of someone who isn't Iorveth trying to undress him. It's been a very long time since he felt it now, but the reaction is still just as visceral. ] —Gale, go. [ A wave of his hand. ] You wouldn't want to become overcome with wild lust and ruin our friendship, hm?
[ Gale sputters and gawks, clearly flustered by the mere implication, but he seems to get the picture. As he walks out, Astarion can hear him grumbling something along the lines of, "...think very highly of yourself..." ]
Darling. [ To Iorveth. ] Help me, if you would.
[ A less pathetic way of saying that he'd prefer Iorveth to stay for this, actually. Reginald seems nice enough, but he'd rather not be alone and pantsless in a room with a stranger. ]
[ Iorveth watches Gale slink away like the saddest golden retriever, then kneels next to Astarion on the couch to help him out of his trousers－
－which is slow going. Iorveth hadn't been able to see the extent of the damage done to the leg until now, but the more he sees of it as the pants shimmy down, the worse it looks. Bruising from internal bleeding along almost the entire length of it, horribly stark against such pale skin.
Iorveth doesn't wince, but he feels inclined to. Reginald, on the other hand, pipes up with an "oh!", impressed-adjacent as he scurries around.
"Hm, hm! A nasty break, nasty indeed... I'm surprised you aren't screaming in pain right now. Most people would have fainted from the agony."
Grim. It makes Iorveth think of all the impossible things Astarion had to endure under Cazador's thumb, which makes him grit his teeth. ]
[ The leg is tender enough that even the peeling away of fabric hurts, and Astarion finds himself caught between his desire to seem unflappable and his desire to throw a fit about anything unpleasant. He settles for scrunching up his face and grinding his teeth, only opening them once his leg is exposed to the air, which isn't much more comfortable.
He looks at Iorveth first, who looks like he's about to shatter his molars if he sets his jaw any harder; not a good sign. His eyes follow Iorveth's, and— ]
Oh, gods.
[ It's not his first injury of this sort, but it's the first that he's ever really gotten a good look at. He'd spent most of his time recuperating in the kennels where he couldn't look if he wanted to, and the rest of the time, he avoided getting undressed at all costs. This, though... ]
It's hideous.
[ A bigger problem than the pain by far. He looks up with a start, wide eyes beseeching Reginald for good news. ]
[ Oh. Iorveth blinks, stares, then laughs in a gallows-humor way, like he simply cannot believe that Astarion is worried about aesthetics instead of the fact that his leg is fucking shattered, but also, like. Of course he is. It makes Iorveth want to strangle him a little, but at the same time, the consistency makes Iorveth want to punch Astarion in the mouth with his own mouth. A familiar feeling.
Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
He reaches out for Iorveth's hands, an instinctive comfort-seeking, but it ends in less comfort and more squeezing his fingers so hard that it's a wonder they don't shatter, too. Iorveth's only saving grace is Astarion's utter lack of strength, because he's gripping as hard as he can, seeking some sort of outlet for the pain. He'll feel bad about it afterwards, surely, but at the moment, there isn't a coherent thought in his head.
His teeth gnash with such intensity that he's surprised he doesn't bite off his own tongue. It's not just the physical discomfort, although there's certainly a lot of that. It's the feeling of having someone inflict pain on him—no matter how good their intentions—and having to sit here and take it. It lights up something terribly unpleasant in his brain, and after what must be a fraction of a second but feels like forever: ]
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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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More accurately, it feels like being dunked into cold water. Astarion shivers at the sensation before it abruptly dissipates, and he begins to feel the return of those unnameable, intrinsic parts of himself that had felt stolen away. (Not like it really matters. His soul is never going to see any use.)
He bristles at the tug on his pant leg, pushing himself up so that he's vertical once more. ]
Don't wrinkle that. [ In actuality, he just can't stand the feeling of someone who isn't Iorveth trying to undress him. It's been a very long time since he felt it now, but the reaction is still just as visceral. ] —Gale, go. [ A wave of his hand. ] You wouldn't want to become overcome with wild lust and ruin our friendship, hm?
[ Gale sputters and gawks, clearly flustered by the mere implication, but he seems to get the picture. As he walks out, Astarion can hear him grumbling something along the lines of, "...think very highly of yourself..." ]
Darling. [ To Iorveth. ] Help me, if you would.
[ A less pathetic way of saying that he'd prefer Iorveth to stay for this, actually. Reginald seems nice enough, but he'd rather not be alone and pantsless in a room with a stranger. ]
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－which is slow going. Iorveth hadn't been able to see the extent of the damage done to the leg until now, but the more he sees of it as the pants shimmy down, the worse it looks. Bruising from internal bleeding along almost the entire length of it, horribly stark against such pale skin.
Iorveth doesn't wince, but he feels inclined to. Reginald, on the other hand, pipes up with an "oh!", impressed-adjacent as he scurries around.
"Hm, hm! A nasty break, nasty indeed... I'm surprised you aren't screaming in pain right now. Most people would have fainted from the agony."
Grim. It makes Iorveth think of all the impossible things Astarion had to endure under Cazador's thumb, which makes him grit his teeth. ]
Enough talking. Fix it.
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He looks at Iorveth first, who looks like he's about to shatter his molars if he sets his jaw any harder; not a good sign. His eyes follow Iorveth's, and— ]
Oh, gods.
[ It's not his first injury of this sort, but it's the first that he's ever really gotten a good look at. He'd spent most of his time recuperating in the kennels where he couldn't look if he wanted to, and the rest of the time, he avoided getting undressed at all costs. This, though... ]
It's hideous.
[ A bigger problem than the pain by far. He looks up with a start, wide eyes beseeching Reginald for good news. ]
Say that it won't be ugly forever.
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Reginald watches Iorveth laugh, and shakes his head. "Mmmm, this one has been hit in the head." Drag him, grandpa. Still, a deranged elf doesn't flip his established triage priorities, so Reginald hops on over towards the injured leg, leaning in so close that his nose is almost brushing over the inflamed skin.
(It's so swollen that it almost looks like Astarion has cankles............. a true tragedy.)
"Oh no, it won't be hideous forever," the cleric says cheerfully, not bothering to use more delicate phrasing. "It will be hideous for the next few days, however! Perhaps less hideous six days from now. But slightly hideous until then."
Iorveth considers throwing the halfling out the window, but stops once he notes that Reginald is starting to spellcast, fingers glowing yellow-gold again.
"No exercising on the leg until then! Absolutely no running for the next three days, and certainly no jumping, no hopping, no skipping." Cheerfully: "Oh, this will hurt, by the way."
Nimble hands suddenly grip along Astarion's leg, deft fingers kneading into discolored skin as if they can press through the barrier of skin and put the bone back together that way. (Gale, curious, is peeking from a corner, as if he's taking mental notes on technique.) ]
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He reaches out for Iorveth's hands, an instinctive comfort-seeking, but it ends in less comfort and more squeezing his fingers so hard that it's a wonder they don't shatter, too. Iorveth's only saving grace is Astarion's utter lack of strength, because he's gripping as hard as he can, seeking some sort of outlet for the pain. He'll feel bad about it afterwards, surely, but at the moment, there isn't a coherent thought in his head.
His teeth gnash with such intensity that he's surprised he doesn't bite off his own tongue. It's not just the physical discomfort, although there's certainly a lot of that. It's the feeling of having someone inflict pain on him—no matter how good their intentions—and having to sit here and take it. It lights up something terribly unpleasant in his brain, and after what must be a fraction of a second but feels like forever: ]
I can't do it, stop.
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