[ Baby steps. The longer they spend out in the world, maybe Astarion will find more things to like about it. Wishful thinking on Iorveth's part, maybe, given that the entire world is constantly looking for ways to kill the both of them (sometimes for good reason), but in a century from now, maybe the plight of the elves will have gotten better, and maybe Iorveth will no longer need to buy people's anger to keep his kin safe. That might give him more space to let Astarion enjoy peace.
May, maybe, might. A lot of hypotheticals. Still, at the very least, at least they have some sort of future together, which is more than Iorveth could ever have asked for before, with his reticence to say "stay with me". ]
Mm.
You are beautiful when you're angry and dressed in blood. [ A deranged reaction to someone saying they want to get revenge. The sensible thing to say would be something along the lines of "revenge doesn't solve anything so you don't have to do that, I'm fine," but Iorveth, the most vengeful elf in Toril, would be lying if he did.
A beat later, he softens and shifts to press a kiss to Astarion's temple, the faint sharp sting of preservative fluid still on his hair. ] But I would rather burn the entirety of Athkatla before I allowed you to be hurt within its walls again.
[ Unironically. Perhaps he has a skewed view of romance, but everything Iorveth says to him feels like the most romantic thing anyone has ever said in the history of time. Some might find Iorveth to be too intense, too morally-challenged — but there could be no one more perfect for Astarion, in his very unbiased opinion. He won't ever believe in the gods' meddling, not when they let him suffer for so long, but Iorveth's existence is almost enough to believe in divine providence. ]
I'm not opposed to burning the whole place down and starting fresh, but— well, we can talk about that later.
[ Clearly, though, the mere idea of torching a large city to the ground has lifted his spirits.
Another moment of contemplation, and he adds, ] What do you think the chances are that our rescue kitten claws us while we rest?
[ Slow, gentle petting through flyaway curls, to make sure that Astarion knows that this isn't a dream. Iorveth is still thinking about that fragile confession, the fear that one day Astarion will have the rug pulled out from under him again－ neither stupid nor unfounded－ which makes Iorveth feel even more protective than he already does.
He laughs about 'rescue kitten', though. ] I thought you were opposed to referring to him as a cat. [ Let alone a kitten. Very cute.
Knuckles brushing along Astarion's cheek, Iorveth notes the lingering dark circles, the lingering signs of puffiness from when he'd maybe, maybe cried. (Making Astarion cry is worse than a war crime by Iorveth's standards; he will fucking kill the hag, one day.) ]
I doubt he'll try anything. If Gale played his role correctly [ "terminal do-gooder far too ambitious for his own good" ], I expect Damris will have been charmed into not holding a knife against our throats.
[ But, like. It might be fun. Iorveth's tone suggests that he might look at Damris more favorably if he tries it, which says too much about him. ]
[ Astarion is opposed to Iorveth calling Damris a cat, because that's what he calls Astarion, and he's terrible at sharing. 'Kitten' is acceptable because it implies he's a lesser, unevolved form of Astarion, which is exactly what Damris is, in Astarion's opinion.
He leans his cheek into Iorveth's touch. It's astounding, really, how different it feels to the touches of his memory-nightmares. Those had been all for someone else, but when Iorveth touches him, he can tell that it's with the intention of making him feel cherished and cared for. He doesn't know how he ever survived without this sort of pure, chaste touching, because he craves it all the time. An embarrassing amount. If he had his way, Iorveth would do nothing but stroke his hair all day. ]
Ugh. Maybe we should reach out to Linus. I don't want him falling in love with Gale.
[ Which feels horribly possible, considering that Gale is probably one of the first people to ever treat him with kindness. Astarion absolutely, positively does not approve. ]
—But I suppose you're right. Besides, he hasn't anywhere else to go.
[ He could take to the streets, but Astarion knows where Damris is right now: lying in a soft, plush bed, safe and comfortable. He won't go.
Finally, finally, he breaches the topic he's been avoiding: ] Did we get the right cloak, do you think?
[ The touch travels up, fingers stroking lightly behind one ear. Tracing and defining, trying to memorize the entirety of Astarion through sense and texture. That hunger to know everything about someone, so that they can never surprise him－ Iorveth's own lingering fear and trauma－ but with Astarion, mostly just because he likes Astarion so much.
Time like this is a luxury. Strangely, he remembers Isengrim for a brief moment, how he'd laid beside his commander and, with Isengrim's long hair tangled in his fingers, thought that surely, one day, they would die together.
A good thing that Iorveth didn't. For the first time since losing Isengrim, Iorveth feels entirely at peace with that loss, and marvels at how right it feels to be nested up against Astarion's now-familiar shape. ]
I can't say. [ He finally replies, after taking that moment to savor his current company. Not at all magically inclined. ] ―I could go get it tested with Gale tomorrow, if you wish. While you rest.
[ If it would be too nervewracking for Astarion to try it out himself, and risk the disappointment. ]
[ His eyelids are heavy, and under Iorveth's gentle ministrations, they fall closed whether he wants them to or not. It's easy to be lured into relaxation this way, even if his thinking mind (at least, as much thinking as Astarion does) wants to resist it. Almost unconsciously, his arms snake around Iorveth's middle and his good leg tangles with Iorveth's. Instinct. His body wants to be close to Iorveth just as much as his mind does. ]
I don't want to hear bad news from Gale, [ he says, voice a little distant and a lot tired. ] He'll prattle on for an hour before getting to the point.
[ Not like Astarion, who uses his words very judiciously. ]
I'll test it myself.
[ A daunting idea. He doesn't even have the first idea of how to properly test it, much less what he'll do if one of the cloaks has a malicious effect. ]
Just let me rest for a few hours, and I'll be fresh as a daisy.
[ Iorveth considers what might happen if neither of the cloaks in their pack are what they're looking for, and how absolutely horrific it'll be if Astarion burns under the sun in both of them, condemning him, yet again, to darkness even after all they've been through.
It would be devastating. It's also likely, given their odds. The sort of thing they both have to be ready for, though Iorveth won't speak that possibility into existence. Instead, he shifts closer to Astarion when arms loop around his middle, and dots tired, soft kisses against Astarion's forehead, his temple. ]
You'll need more than a few hours. [ A few days, really. ] But, yes. Rest, beloved. I'll be here when you wake.
[ A featherlight kiss, this time to Astarion's mouth proper. ]
...And I'll shoo our kitten away if he tries to crawl into bed with us.
[ Levity. The bed is big enough, but three is definitely a crowd. ]
[ Despite everything, Astarion smiles at the image of Damris trying to crawl into bed with them like an unruly kitten. Ha. He'd probably hate that Astarion so much as pictured it, so he makes sure to linger on the thought, just to be rude.
It takes far longer for him to fall into his trance than normal, partly owing to conscious resistance but mostly to unconscious resistance; every time he feels himself falling into his trance, his whole body tenses up and he has to start the whole process of relaxation again, pulling Iorveth closer like a life-sized teddy bear (with a lot more sharp angles). Finally, though, after what feels like hours, he slips into unconsciousness. Not nightmares — just a void, as if he's too tired even to meditate or create dreams.
He stays like that for much longer than the 'few hours' that he'd promised. In fact, dawn is breaking all over again by the time he begins to stir, a lump on the mattress coming back to life. ]
[ Despite the posturing, Iorveth, too, is exhausted from the events of the day-night, and falls into his own void not long after making sure that Astarion is down and out for the count. Time and existence melts away for those long hours; once or twice, some instinct tells him that Gale has come in to check on them (presumably to make sure that they aren't dead).
Morning comes, and Iorveth is awake by the time Astarion stirs, bullied into consciousness by his mortal body and its needs: namely, his stomach growling. He ignores it for now, more pleased by the fact that Astarion seems to have gotten at least some measure of rest instead of being plagued by horrors again.
Combing bangs away from Astarion's face: ] There you are. [ Warmly. As if he missed Astarion while he was asleep, which is just absurd enough to maybe be true. ] How do you feel?
[ It feels good to wake to Iorveth close to him, touching him gently. His body responds before his mind does, reaching up to press a sleep-warm hand to Iorveth's cheek. Still slightly cooler than Iorveth's body, but barely; lying in bed pressed against Iorveth has kept him warm, both in a very literal and very metaphorical sense.
He mumbles something incoherent, still half-unconscious, before trying again. ]
Fresh as a daisy, [ like he'd said. Then, pleased: ] You stayed.
[ He's not sure how long he's been out. Probably a while. ]
[ Time has simply lost all meaning: the last time Iorveth saw sun was to torture Damris with it, and his circadian rhythm has been monumentally fucked since leaving Baldur's Gate. It really is a good thing that he's had more than a few decades to acclimate to horrible lifestyles. A saner man might have started losing his mind (ha).
Nuzzling into that hand, he presses his lips to the cradle of Astarion's fingers. ]
That surprises you, does it. [ This would have sounded far more sarcastic before; now, it just sounds like a dry tease. ] ―I wished to be the first thing you saw when you woke up.
[ A pleased hum, reciprocated. Early-morning flirting, as he pinches the tip of a pointed ear. No intention for anything to get hot or heavy, but laying it on thick anyway. The perks of being smitten.
He hears footsteps coming up the stairs: two different strides, a pitter-patter of light feet and longer strides to catch up. Reginald and Gale again? Maybe they're here for Damris. Whatever. He wants to savor a sleepy Astarion for a little while longer, so he nuzzles again and slides one hand up the back of Astarion's shirt, just for some extra skin-on-skin. ]
[ Resting well has put him in a shockingly good mood, all things considered. The aftershocks of yesterday are still there, but they're not quite as strong; it's hard to believe that anything could hurt him too badly when the world is narrowed down to this, just a soft bed and a warm body. This is what he wants forever, every day until eternity runs out. When it does, he'll hold Iorveth just like this as the sun burns out.
Too deranged for this early in the morning. He says none of it, just brushes his lips against Iorveth's in a light approximation of a kiss. ]
How convenient. I also wished for your lovely face to be the first thing I saw.
[ Astarion hears the footsteps, technically, but anything happening outside this room is so unimportant as not to exist. He runs the back of his fingers down Iorveth's cheek, mouth twitching up. ]
I know I'm the man of the hour, but how do you feel?
[ There are voices lingering outside their room: "--well, lad, we should wake them!" "Hm, well, you see... they tend to..."
Iorveth stops paying attention. He rolls onto his back instead, taking Astarion with him and letting Astarion's weight bear down, chest to chest. The hand under the shirt stays where it is, palm smoothing up scarred and unscathed skin, massaging slowly. ]
I'm famished. [ A gentle bite to Astarion's jaw, as punctuation. ] Sore, as well.
Otherwise? Fine. My head was beyond saving. [ He laughs, mouth still pressed to Astarion's skin.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door: "well, if they're healthy enough to potentially get intimate, they can handle a checkup!" ]
[ You get freaky in your friend's house, like, one or two times, and suddenly he's afraid to open the door when you're alone with your boyfriend (fiancé). At least, that's what Astarion would be thinking if he were listening, which he isn't. It's been days since he's felt anywhere close to all right, but with Iorveth underneath him just like he likes, soft and pliant and going nowhere, he feels— good, he thinks. Sore as well, leg protesting even this amount of movement, but he can live with it. ]
Oh, I don't know. Your head looks rather perfect to me. [ Sickly sweet, the sort of tone he'd die if anyone other than Iorveth ever heard. ] Perfect here [ —a kiss to Iorveth's eyelid— ] and here [ —his scarred cheek— ] and, oh, most definitely here.
[ He's allowed a little life-affirming making out as a treat, so his next kiss is to Iorveth's (perfect!) mouth, a smile on his own lips. At least until he hears the sound of a doorknob turning, and—
"Oh!" Gale's voice. "I'm afraid I did warn you, Master Reginald..." ]
[ Very inconsiderate of the wizard whose room they're renting and the cleric who fixed them up to interrupt a morning makeout session. Iorveth is about to crane up and see if Astarion is amenable to a bit of tongue when the door opens, and he grunts in frustration at being deterred. ]
Not a single moment of peace.
[ If it's not Damris in the other room, it's people who genuinely wish them well. Horrible!!! Their lives are so hard. Iorveth keeps his hands where they are, one still tucked under Astarion's shirt and the other pressed against Astarion's cheek, making no effort to move until the halfling is on him like a ginger hurricane, whacking his forearm with the flat of a cane.
"No, no, no! If you care a whit about your partner, don't let him put his weight on his leg that way!"
Reginald motions with his hands, like rolling a ball of dough.
"Get him on his back, please! And a cushion under the sore leg! If you want to canoodle, do it two days from now!" ]
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May, maybe, might. A lot of hypotheticals. Still, at the very least, at least they have some sort of future together, which is more than Iorveth could ever have asked for before, with his reticence to say "stay with me". ]
Mm.
You are beautiful when you're angry and dressed in blood. [ A deranged reaction to someone saying they want to get revenge. The sensible thing to say would be something along the lines of "revenge doesn't solve anything so you don't have to do that, I'm fine," but Iorveth, the most vengeful elf in Toril, would be lying if he did.
A beat later, he softens and shifts to press a kiss to Astarion's temple, the faint sharp sting of preservative fluid still on his hair. ] But I would rather burn the entirety of Athkatla before I allowed you to be hurt within its walls again.
[ Again. Not a good person. ]
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[ Unironically. Perhaps he has a skewed view of romance, but everything Iorveth says to him feels like the most romantic thing anyone has ever said in the history of time. Some might find Iorveth to be too intense, too morally-challenged — but there could be no one more perfect for Astarion, in his very unbiased opinion. He won't ever believe in the gods' meddling, not when they let him suffer for so long, but Iorveth's existence is almost enough to believe in divine providence. ]
I'm not opposed to burning the whole place down and starting fresh, but— well, we can talk about that later.
[ Clearly, though, the mere idea of torching a large city to the ground has lifted his spirits.
Another moment of contemplation, and he adds, ] What do you think the chances are that our rescue kitten claws us while we rest?
[ Damris. ]
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He laughs about 'rescue kitten', though. ] I thought you were opposed to referring to him as a cat. [ Let alone a kitten. Very cute.
Knuckles brushing along Astarion's cheek, Iorveth notes the lingering dark circles, the lingering signs of puffiness from when he'd maybe, maybe cried. (Making Astarion cry is worse than a war crime by Iorveth's standards; he will fucking kill the hag, one day.) ]
I doubt he'll try anything. If Gale played his role correctly [ "terminal do-gooder far too ambitious for his own good" ], I expect Damris will have been charmed into not holding a knife against our throats.
[ But, like. It might be fun. Iorveth's tone suggests that he might look at Damris more favorably if he tries it, which says too much about him. ]
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He leans his cheek into Iorveth's touch. It's astounding, really, how different it feels to the touches of his memory-nightmares. Those had been all for someone else, but when Iorveth touches him, he can tell that it's with the intention of making him feel cherished and cared for. He doesn't know how he ever survived without this sort of pure, chaste touching, because he craves it all the time. An embarrassing amount. If he had his way, Iorveth would do nothing but stroke his hair all day. ]
Ugh. Maybe we should reach out to Linus. I don't want him falling in love with Gale.
[ Which feels horribly possible, considering that Gale is probably one of the first people to ever treat him with kindness. Astarion absolutely, positively does not approve. ]
—But I suppose you're right. Besides, he hasn't anywhere else to go.
[ He could take to the streets, but Astarion knows where Damris is right now: lying in a soft, plush bed, safe and comfortable. He won't go.
Finally, finally, he breaches the topic he's been avoiding: ] Did we get the right cloak, do you think?
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Time like this is a luxury. Strangely, he remembers Isengrim for a brief moment, how he'd laid beside his commander and, with Isengrim's long hair tangled in his fingers, thought that surely, one day, they would die together.
A good thing that Iorveth didn't. For the first time since losing Isengrim, Iorveth feels entirely at peace with that loss, and marvels at how right it feels to be nested up against Astarion's now-familiar shape. ]
I can't say. [ He finally replies, after taking that moment to savor his current company. Not at all magically inclined. ] ―I could go get it tested with Gale tomorrow, if you wish. While you rest.
[ If it would be too nervewracking for Astarion to try it out himself, and risk the disappointment. ]
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I don't want to hear bad news from Gale, [ he says, voice a little distant and a lot tired. ] He'll prattle on for an hour before getting to the point.
[ Not like Astarion, who uses his words very judiciously. ]
I'll test it myself.
[ A daunting idea. He doesn't even have the first idea of how to properly test it, much less what he'll do if one of the cloaks has a malicious effect. ]
Just let me rest for a few hours, and I'll be fresh as a daisy.
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It would be devastating. It's also likely, given their odds. The sort of thing they both have to be ready for, though Iorveth won't speak that possibility into existence. Instead, he shifts closer to Astarion when arms loop around his middle, and dots tired, soft kisses against Astarion's forehead, his temple. ]
You'll need more than a few hours. [ A few days, really. ] But, yes. Rest, beloved. I'll be here when you wake.
[ A featherlight kiss, this time to Astarion's mouth proper. ]
...And I'll shoo our kitten away if he tries to crawl into bed with us.
[ Levity. The bed is big enough, but three is definitely a crowd. ]
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It takes far longer for him to fall into his trance than normal, partly owing to conscious resistance but mostly to unconscious resistance; every time he feels himself falling into his trance, his whole body tenses up and he has to start the whole process of relaxation again, pulling Iorveth closer like a life-sized teddy bear (with a lot more sharp angles). Finally, though, after what feels like hours, he slips into unconsciousness. Not nightmares — just a void, as if he's too tired even to meditate or create dreams.
He stays like that for much longer than the 'few hours' that he'd promised. In fact, dawn is breaking all over again by the time he begins to stir, a lump on the mattress coming back to life. ]
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Morning comes, and Iorveth is awake by the time Astarion stirs, bullied into consciousness by his mortal body and its needs: namely, his stomach growling. He ignores it for now, more pleased by the fact that Astarion seems to have gotten at least some measure of rest instead of being plagued by horrors again.
Combing bangs away from Astarion's face: ] There you are. [ Warmly. As if he missed Astarion while he was asleep, which is just absurd enough to maybe be true. ] How do you feel?
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He mumbles something incoherent, still half-unconscious, before trying again. ]
Fresh as a daisy, [ like he'd said. Then, pleased: ] You stayed.
[ He's not sure how long he's been out. Probably a while. ]
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Nuzzling into that hand, he presses his lips to the cradle of Astarion's fingers. ]
That surprises you, does it. [ This would have sounded far more sarcastic before; now, it just sounds like a dry tease. ] ―I wished to be the first thing you saw when you woke up.
[ A pleased hum, reciprocated. Early-morning flirting, as he pinches the tip of a pointed ear. No intention for anything to get hot or heavy, but laying it on thick anyway. The perks of being smitten.
He hears footsteps coming up the stairs: two different strides, a pitter-patter of light feet and longer strides to catch up. Reginald and Gale again? Maybe they're here for Damris. Whatever. He wants to savor a sleepy Astarion for a little while longer, so he nuzzles again and slides one hand up the back of Astarion's shirt, just for some extra skin-on-skin. ]
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Too deranged for this early in the morning. He says none of it, just brushes his lips against Iorveth's in a light approximation of a kiss. ]
How convenient. I also wished for your lovely face to be the first thing I saw.
[ Astarion hears the footsteps, technically, but anything happening outside this room is so unimportant as not to exist. He runs the back of his fingers down Iorveth's cheek, mouth twitching up. ]
I know I'm the man of the hour, but how do you feel?
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Iorveth stops paying attention. He rolls onto his back instead, taking Astarion with him and letting Astarion's weight bear down, chest to chest. The hand under the shirt stays where it is, palm smoothing up scarred and unscathed skin, massaging slowly. ]
I'm famished. [ A gentle bite to Astarion's jaw, as punctuation. ] Sore, as well.
Otherwise? Fine. My head was beyond saving. [ He laughs, mouth still pressed to Astarion's skin.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door: "well, if they're healthy enough to potentially get intimate, they can handle a checkup!" ]
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Oh, I don't know. Your head looks rather perfect to me. [ Sickly sweet, the sort of tone he'd die if anyone other than Iorveth ever heard. ] Perfect here [ —a kiss to Iorveth's eyelid— ] and here [ —his scarred cheek— ] and, oh, most definitely here.
[ He's allowed a little life-affirming making out as a treat, so his next kiss is to Iorveth's (perfect!) mouth, a smile on his own lips. At least until he hears the sound of a doorknob turning, and—
"Oh!" Gale's voice. "I'm afraid I did warn you, Master Reginald..." ]
Gods, can't you see we're busy?
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Not a single moment of peace.
[ If it's not Damris in the other room, it's people who genuinely wish them well. Horrible!!! Their lives are so hard. Iorveth keeps his hands where they are, one still tucked under Astarion's shirt and the other pressed against Astarion's cheek, making no effort to move until the halfling is on him like a ginger hurricane, whacking his forearm with the flat of a cane.
"No, no, no! If you care a whit about your partner, don't let him put his weight on his leg that way!"
Reginald motions with his hands, like rolling a ball of dough.
"Get him on his back, please! And a cushion under the sore leg! If you want to canoodle, do it two days from now!" ]