[ 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!" ]
[ Evil Reginald, trying to stop him from being Iorveth's weighted blanket. He's a little afraid Reginald might actually try to manhandle him with those little, wrinkly hands of his, though, so he relents in his enthusiastic appreciation of Iorveth's very kissable face, slowly shifting over onto his back. ]
Ow, [ he says, staring pointedly at Reginald. It's all his fault that moving hurts, obviously, and that he's not in a shape to climb Iorveth like a lovely tree. ]
Define 'canoodling', will you? [ It's a vague term. Also a kind of gross term, but Astarion will give him a pass on account of probably being ancient. (Not like Astarion, who's so youthful and vivacious.) ] Surely it's all right if it only involves the hands.
[ "It's not even worth it to chide you, is it?" asks Gale, forlorn. ]
[ It feels a little heinous, having Astarion roll off of him, and Iorveth's expression turns sullen as he sits up with his back against the headboard, fingers still combing through Astarion's hair. As close as Iorveth will ever get to a tantrum.
"You two really should sleep in different rooms until you both recover," Reginald suggests, sensibly. "If I had a copper for every patient who's made their condition worse because they canoodled when I specifically told them not to―
―Well, I wouldn't be a rich man, but I'd be able to buy myself something nice."
He laughs at his own statement, then flits over to Astarion to do his cursory check. Glowing fingers travel over where the halfing remembers the worst fractures to have been, and though the feeling is likely unpleasant still, it shouldn't be excruciating. Hopefully. ]
I don't rest well when he's not near, [ Iorveth shoots back at Reginald, who glances at him with a look that says 'case in point'. "He's not always going to be near, is he?" ]
[ Astarion decides, without any real evidence, that Reginald is just old and jealous of their clearly thriving relationship. Obviously, he doesn't know what it's like to be madly in love with someone so eminently desirable and exceptionally sweet. Who would? Iorveth is the only one in the world who checks those boxes. ]
Of course I am.
[ His tone is more than a little defensive, and he crosses his arms petulantly as Reginald inspects his work. It is far less painful, and he has to admit that his leg feels infinitely better than it did yesterday, when it had seemed one wrong move away from simply turning to dust. ]
And I rest better after a spirited canoodling session.
[ Reginald is the only person who has ever given the both of them sound advice on how to function like a normal couple, but he has unfortunate timing: Iorveth is still wildly protective, and exasperated by third parties trying to test his patience. Damris, the hag, and now this. The saving grace is that Reginald is good at cleric-ing, and the fact that Astarion is in less pain smooths over some of Iorveth's inclinations to be jagged towards the halfling.
"Too much of anything can be a poison," Reginald warns cheerily, as he gives Astarion's leg one last poke. "But rest assured that your leg will be in prime canoodling condition in..." Making a mental calculation, counting off on his little wrinkly fingers. "...Four days, I think! I would usually give most people more time, but," even more cheerily: "you're a vampire, and it seems you heal faster than most. Fascinating!"
Iorveth shoots Reginald a Look. Gale shuffles his feet, and clears his throat.
"Well! How about we all have some breakfast, eh?" ]
[ Astarion opens his mouth, ready to complain about four days (Reginald just said two!!! No takebacks!!!) when—
'Vampire' rings in his ears, and he's unable to do anything but stay where he is, frozen and slackjawed. His eyes dart from Reginald to Gale and then back again, trying desperately to figure out if Gale told him (horrible) or if Reginald just figured it out by himself (worse). Paranoid as ever, he starts racking his brain for any hint as to what kind of cleric Reginald is, if maybe he's of the persuasion that want to rid the world of the undead...
But Reginald doesn't seem to be interested in smiting him as much as he is in scolding him, so he relaxes, just a little. ]
[ The mysterious and stupider possible third option: Damris panicked and outed himself and Astarion as vampires in some prey-animal outburst the night prior, but there's no way of knowing for sure. Iorveth doesn't press the issue, as much as he'd like to shove Reginald against the wall and demand he keep his chattering little mouth shut.
A flash of murder in that single moss-green eye again, before it abates; Iorveth would like to keep Gale as a friend. He waves the cleric away, rather forcefully creating more distance between the halfling and the bed with a push against his shoulder. ]
Go, [ he says, curt. ] You're already seen my love in smallclothes once, and I'll not allow it again.
[ Voyeur! Hmph. Reginald shrugs, and hops back to where poor Gale is questioning every decision he's made over the past two tendays. "Come lad, we'll check on the trembling tiefling," he chirps, and leaves as quickly as he came. A halfling-shaped storm.
Iorveth sighs. ] I wonder if Gale limits his company to eccentric elders who've lost their minds. [ Elminster, Reginald. ]
[ Trembling tiefling. As Reginald leaves, Astarion wonders what in the hells Damris has to be trembling about. They were his knights in shining armor, practically! They've saved him from an eternal life of misery! What, is he going to complain about it just because they didn't do it perfectly?
Ugh, Damris is so annoying. Petras deserves him in his flock. That's going to be a whole ordeal, actually, so the moment he begins to think about it he pushes it under the rug instead. Like everything that seems like it's going to be hard, he prefers to simply not acknowledge it until given no choice.
He moves his attention to more pleasant things: Iorveth. Blatantly ignoring... whatever Iorveth just said, Astarion gets to work on manhandling him back down so that he can crawl back on top of him, even as pain shoots up his poor, abused leg. Gale will probably come looking for them if they don't show up to the breakfast table in five minutes, but that's fine. He can kiss Iorveth breathless in five minutes. He's very good at it! ]
[ Iorveth's general exasperation towards people who are Not Astarion dissipates the moment he feels himself being dragged back onto the mattress, shoved into position and pinned like a cat's favorite toy. If anyone else tried to do this to him, instinct would have Iorveth shove a fist in their face, breaking their nose immediately, but the fight or flight instinct is dead in Astarion's proximity; his only reaction is to laugh, though he remembers the fact that Astarion should probably mind his injury. ]
Astarion, [ he chides, with no teeth. ] Your leg, you ridiculous creature.
[ Gods, Astarion really might lack object permanence. Iorveth loves him. He tries to shift and maneuver so that Astarion isn't leaning quite so heavily on that very-recently broken limb, but does not actually do anything to discourage incoming affection－ one way in which Astarion has affected him, perhaps for the better. Iorveth, so hesitant to accept that he can be loved, finally finding it in himself to be selfish about being on the receiving end of Astarion's doting.
He slots their lips together, a little miffed that Reginald ruined the post-trance haziness but ultimately being too enamored by the feeling of Astarion's mouth to care. Under the sharp scent of the embalming fluid that Astarion was doused in, he smells just a faint trace of sandalwood; he sighs, warm, and rubs their noses together. ]
[ Iorveth is definitely his most favorite toy. Ignoring Iorveth's very unconvincing protest, he peppers him with gentle kisses, soft and sweet despite the bullish way he holds Iorveth down. These past few days have been awful, but Iorveth isn't. Now that his head is a little clearer, he's deliriously happy that Iorveth is alive, and admittedly, inclined to replace the unpleasant sense-memory of unwanted touch that the hag had dredged up with Iorveth's kind, loving hands instead. ]
I don't think I'll let you go to breakfast with Gale.
[ Idle fantasy. There is no let when it comes to Iorveth, and he knows that. Actually, 'breakfast' is an interesting thought in itself. It's been an age since they shared a meal with someone at the proper time — when they were here last, their (well, Iorveth's) breakfast was Gale's dinner and vice versa. ]
I think I'll chain you to the bed and kiss your lovely mouth all day.
[ Someone said something about restricting canoodling. He can't remember. It probably wasn't important. ]
[ Red flags to most people: uses of terms like let and chain you to the bed. It's all fun and games until reinforcement of unhealthy behavior takes a dark turn, but (perhaps foolishly), Iorveth doesn't anticipate anything of the sort happening. How could he? Astarion is simply built differently, made differently, is different.
Iorveth's evidence? Personal opinion. He tips his chin up, meeting Astarion's mouth with the stillsame awe that he'd felt when they first kissed, taken by surprise every time by how good it feels. Familiar, but still a little like missing a step down the stairs. He keeps shifting, angling his jaw to see if the next kiss will feel less like vertigo, and is proven wrong; the only time he's glad that his instincts are off. ]
One shouldn't suggest something they don't intend to act on.
[ A grin, a challenge. Reginald is relegated to his mental graveyard, six feet under his surface consciousness. Wrapping his arms around Astarion, Iorveth demands fuller contact next time their mouths meet, surging forward when Astarion starts to pull back. It's a rush of adrenaline, as it really sinks in that they're both alive. They really could have died back in Athkatla, Iorveth turned into a bag of skin and Astarion's soul trapped inside it. ]
Maybe I do intend to, [ he murmurs against Iorveth's mouth. Iorveth should already know that he's not against a little light bondage, as long as the one being restrained isn't him. Some might say it's pathological, that he's reenacting things that have been done to him with the roles reversed so that he can feel powerful, but— fuck that. Maybe he just thinks Iorveth would look hot tied up.
He pulls back, finally, but only to dot kisses along the underside of Iorveth's jaw instead. ]
I don't ever want you out of my sight.
[ Another red flag, probably, but he's convinced it's normal and healthy and not at all a trauma response. ]
[ Compatible, in perhaps the worst way: Iorveth, competitive, always looks to match someone else's intensity. Give as much as he's given, never one to be satisfied with only taking. It's a strange thing to not be the only one with the pathological baseline― usually, it's the other side of his equation struggling to keep up with him.
He says as much, musing out loud: ] And how intoxicating it is, being seen by you. [ One traumatized elf seeking another traumatized elf for shelter. Iorveth kind of sees it in those terms, but it feels less alarming and terrible and more 'we were made for each other'. Grandiose and delusional. ] I've never loved anyone the way I love you.
[ Chin tipped, his statement punctuated by a low sigh. Content, thoughtful. He'd thought Isengrim was an unhinged baseline for love, bonded through war and grief and survival; not to compare, but if that relationship felt like trying to grasp at something with broken nails and bleeding fingers, this one feels like sinking into a warm, comfortable, very bottomless pit. ]
[ Iorveth really knows all the right things to say. Astarion does want him to compare everyone he's ever loved before, and he wants Iorveth to find them wanting. None of that 'I didn't love them less, just differently' tripe. Iorveth should absolutely love everyone who isn't Astarion less.
But, you know. No red flags here. ]
I've never loved anyone else at all, [ he muses, brushing Iorveth's hair away from his face and arranging it artfully around him. If he really were a cat, as Iorveth is so fond of saying, he'd be licking Iorveth. (Which he's also not opposed to doing.) ] And I never will.
[ "Iorveth," comes Gale's voice as he starts up the stairs again. "I hate to admit that I don't know after all this time, but— how do you like your eggs?" ]
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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!" ]
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Ow, [ he says, staring pointedly at Reginald. It's all his fault that moving hurts, obviously, and that he's not in a shape to climb Iorveth like a lovely tree. ]
Define 'canoodling', will you? [ It's a vague term. Also a kind of gross term, but Astarion will give him a pass on account of probably being ancient. (Not like Astarion, who's so youthful and vivacious.) ] Surely it's all right if it only involves the hands.
[ "It's not even worth it to chide you, is it?" asks Gale, forlorn. ]
It's a medical question!
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"You two really should sleep in different rooms until you both recover," Reginald suggests, sensibly. "If I had a copper for every patient who's made their condition worse because they canoodled when I specifically told them not to―
―Well, I wouldn't be a rich man, but I'd be able to buy myself something nice."
He laughs at his own statement, then flits over to Astarion to do his cursory check. Glowing fingers travel over where the halfing remembers the worst fractures to have been, and though the feeling is likely unpleasant still, it shouldn't be excruciating. Hopefully. ]
I don't rest well when he's not near, [ Iorveth shoots back at Reginald, who glances at him with a look that says 'case in point'. "He's not always going to be near, is he?" ]
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Of course I am.
[ His tone is more than a little defensive, and he crosses his arms petulantly as Reginald inspects his work. It is far less painful, and he has to admit that his leg feels infinitely better than it did yesterday, when it had seemed one wrong move away from simply turning to dust. ]
And I rest better after a spirited canoodling session.
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"Too much of anything can be a poison," Reginald warns cheerily, as he gives Astarion's leg one last poke. "But rest assured that your leg will be in prime canoodling condition in..." Making a mental calculation, counting off on his little wrinkly fingers. "...Four days, I think! I would usually give most people more time, but," even more cheerily: "you're a vampire, and it seems you heal faster than most. Fascinating!"
Iorveth shoots Reginald a Look. Gale shuffles his feet, and clears his throat.
"Well! How about we all have some breakfast, eh?" ]
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'Vampire' rings in his ears, and he's unable to do anything but stay where he is, frozen and slackjawed. His eyes dart from Reginald to Gale and then back again, trying desperately to figure out if Gale told him (horrible) or if Reginald just figured it out by himself (worse). Paranoid as ever, he starts racking his brain for any hint as to what kind of cleric Reginald is, if maybe he's of the persuasion that want to rid the world of the undead...
But Reginald doesn't seem to be interested in smiting him as much as he is in scolding him, so he relaxes, just a little. ]
—At least let me make myself presentable first.
[ Iorveth's blood is still on his shirt. ]
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A flash of murder in that single moss-green eye again, before it abates; Iorveth would like to keep Gale as a friend. He waves the cleric away, rather forcefully creating more distance between the halfling and the bed with a push against his shoulder. ]
Go, [ he says, curt. ] You're already seen my love in smallclothes once, and I'll not allow it again.
[ Voyeur! Hmph. Reginald shrugs, and hops back to where poor Gale is questioning every decision he's made over the past two tendays. "Come lad, we'll check on the trembling tiefling," he chirps, and leaves as quickly as he came. A halfling-shaped storm.
Iorveth sighs. ] I wonder if Gale limits his company to eccentric elders who've lost their minds. [ Elminster, Reginald. ]
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Ugh, Damris is so annoying. Petras deserves him in his flock. That's going to be a whole ordeal, actually, so the moment he begins to think about it he pushes it under the rug instead. Like everything that seems like it's going to be hard, he prefers to simply not acknowledge it until given no choice.
He moves his attention to more pleasant things: Iorveth. Blatantly ignoring... whatever Iorveth just said, Astarion gets to work on manhandling him back down so that he can crawl back on top of him, even as pain shoots up his poor, abused leg. Gale will probably come looking for them if they don't show up to the breakfast table in five minutes, but that's fine. He can kiss Iorveth breathless in five minutes. He's very good at it! ]
Where was I?
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Astarion, [ he chides, with no teeth. ] Your leg, you ridiculous creature.
[ Gods, Astarion really might lack object permanence. Iorveth loves him. He tries to shift and maneuver so that Astarion isn't leaning quite so heavily on that very-recently broken limb, but does not actually do anything to discourage incoming affection－ one way in which Astarion has affected him, perhaps for the better. Iorveth, so hesitant to accept that he can be loved, finally finding it in himself to be selfish about being on the receiving end of Astarion's doting.
He slots their lips together, a little miffed that Reginald ruined the post-trance haziness but ultimately being too enamored by the feeling of Astarion's mouth to care. Under the sharp scent of the embalming fluid that Astarion was doused in, he smells just a faint trace of sandalwood; he sighs, warm, and rubs their noses together. ]
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I don't think I'll let you go to breakfast with Gale.
[ Idle fantasy. There is no let when it comes to Iorveth, and he knows that. Actually, 'breakfast' is an interesting thought in itself. It's been an age since they shared a meal with someone at the proper time — when they were here last, their (well, Iorveth's) breakfast was Gale's dinner and vice versa. ]
I think I'll chain you to the bed and kiss your lovely mouth all day.
[ Someone said something about restricting canoodling. He can't remember. It probably wasn't important. ]
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Iorveth's evidence? Personal opinion. He tips his chin up, meeting Astarion's mouth with the stillsame awe that he'd felt when they first kissed, taken by surprise every time by how good it feels. Familiar, but still a little like missing a step down the stairs. He keeps shifting, angling his jaw to see if the next kiss will feel less like vertigo, and is proven wrong; the only time he's glad that his instincts are off. ]
One shouldn't suggest something they don't intend to act on.
[ A grin, a challenge. Reginald is relegated to his mental graveyard, six feet under his surface consciousness. Wrapping his arms around Astarion, Iorveth demands fuller contact next time their mouths meet, surging forward when Astarion starts to pull back. It's a rush of adrenaline, as it really sinks in that they're both alive. They really could have died back in Athkatla, Iorveth turned into a bag of skin and Astarion's soul trapped inside it. ]
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He pulls back, finally, but only to dot kisses along the underside of Iorveth's jaw instead. ]
I don't ever want you out of my sight.
[ Another red flag, probably, but he's convinced it's normal and healthy and not at all a trauma response. ]
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He says as much, musing out loud: ] And how intoxicating it is, being seen by you. [ One traumatized elf seeking another traumatized elf for shelter. Iorveth kind of sees it in those terms, but it feels less alarming and terrible and more 'we were made for each other'. Grandiose and delusional. ] I've never loved anyone the way I love you.
[ Chin tipped, his statement punctuated by a low sigh. Content, thoughtful. He'd thought Isengrim was an unhinged baseline for love, bonded through war and grief and survival; not to compare, but if that relationship felt like trying to grasp at something with broken nails and bleeding fingers, this one feels like sinking into a warm, comfortable, very bottomless pit. ]
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But, you know. No red flags here. ]
I've never loved anyone else at all, [ he muses, brushing Iorveth's hair away from his face and arranging it artfully around him. If he really were a cat, as Iorveth is so fond of saying, he'd be licking Iorveth. (Which he's also not opposed to doing.) ] And I never will.
[ "Iorveth," comes Gale's voice as he starts up the stairs again. "I hate to admit that I don't know after all this time, but— how do you like your eggs?" ]