[ Coddling is bad, usually, but not when he's coddling a man who almost had his soul sucked out of him through nightmares by a hideous hag who also shattered his leg. Astarion deserves to have his every whim entertained for at least the next 48 hours as he staves off The Horrors, which is why Iorveth indulges him: Iorveth swings off the bed ("soft-boiled", he calls down to Gale), moving to the closet to get Astarion a comfortable robe (purple, to his dismay) and soft, loose pants that he can shimmy into without much trouble. ]
Well, then. [ Iorveth finally replies, as he helps Astarion close the front of his robe and then moves to find a brush for his hair. Falling into the morning grooming routine with the same care and efficiency he shows when tending to his weapons. ] You can tell whoever you please, whenever you please.
...Preferably not in witness of the cleric. I imagine he'd have some smart-assed thing to say about time and perspective.
[ As if Iorveth hasn't tried those things already, all to Astarion's distress. ]
Ugh. [ Regarding 'the cleric'. ] He's just jealous, obviously.
[ Reginald very much is not jealous, but Astarion has decided to convince himself that he is. It's the only thing that makes sense. Why else would someone suggest that he not be up Iorveth's ass every minute of the day? It's a very reasonable place to be. ]
I feel bad for him. [ He doesn't, but he sighs dramatically anyway. ] But not everyone can meet their perfect match, unfortunately.
[ And Iorveth is that for him, certainly. A perfect fit, like hand in glove. He smooths down the fabric of his pants and stands, obviously favoring his leg but far more mobile than before the healing. ]
After you eat, we should... [ He trails off, intimidated by the prospect of testing their arcane loot. ] You know. The cloaks.
[ A bit more rummaging, and Iorveth finds a rather adorable pair of owlbear slippers that he does not, in fact, give to Astarion to slip into. Instead, Astarion gets the comfortable-looking (also purple) indoor slippers, and Iorveth quickly goes through his own grooming routine, which consists of just tossing his dirty shirt off, putting his eyepatch on, and calling it a day.
He also picks up Astarion's lumpy pack when the subject of the cloaks is brought up, and slings it over his bare shoulder. ]
I'd not forgotten. [ The elephant in the room. Hard to ignore it when it's the reason why they went through hell in the first place. ] Our moment of truth.
[ Triumph, or devastation. Iorveth offers Astarion a hand as they walk downstairs to the dining room (which smells glorious― Gale continues to outdo himself). ]
[ Astarion has no real interest in mortal food, but even he can admit that it smells enticing. Meat, cheese, eggs; he wonders if doing all of this is easy for Gale because of his magic, or if he simply does it regardless of effort because he's incapable of doing anything halfway.
Gale lights up at their arrival, apron on and plates in hand. "Perfect timing, my friends," he says, grinning. "Breakfast is fresh off the flame!"
Astarion isn't looking at Gale, though. He's staring at a tiefling interloper sitting at the table. ]
I'm sorry, what is he doing here? He doesn't even eat.
[ Gale looks a little offended as he sets a plate down, piled high with sausage and breakfast rolls. For Iorveth, ostensibly, because a moment later there's an egg cup placed beside it. "You don't eat either, and you're no less a guest for it!" ]
[ Iorveth takes his seat, which is directly opposite Damris; the tiefling only glances at him before turning his attention towards Astarion, obviously competitive with him in a way that only two beautiful people who started off on the wrong foot can be.
"Unlike you lot, Gale has manners," he states crisply. Now that he's not bound and gagged, he's the picture of regality: tall, stately, his long black hair brushed into a low ponytail that trails down, nearly to his waist. "I can't imagine why he keeps such ugly, barbaric company."
The 'ugly' is lobbed at Astarion with casual nonchalance; again, a pretty person trying to aim below the belt when insulting another pretty person. Damris is probably starting a burn book, and Astarion is probably on the first page.
Iorveth shoots Damris a Look, but the insult is so ridiculous (there is no reality in which Astarion is not the most beautiful man in Toril) that it doesn't even warrant acknowledgment on his end― thus, he does something even ruder, which is to ignore Damris entirely and start piling his plate full of bread and cheese. ]
Sit, love. [ He motions for Astarion to settle down next to him. ] ―You can drink after my breakfast, if you wish.
[ Astarion settles in the chair beside Iorveth, stroking his hair in a sort of performative, defensive way as he glowers at Damris. A way that says this is mine, not because he thinks Damris has any designs on trying to steal Iorveth away from him, but because he wants Damris to know there would be consequences for trying to break his toy.
Gale sits down, too, smiling with forced chipperness. "Well. Doesn't it feel good to have breakfast with friends?"
There might as well be crickets.
Finally: ] Don't get too comfortable in Waterdeep, Dennis. We'll be arranging travel to the Underdark before long. [ A waved hand. ] Tell that lovesick fool of yours to meet you there, if you wish.
[ Not that Astarion cares what happens to nice, sweet, besotted Linus. Not at all!!! ]
[ Iorveth is piling cheese onto a piece of toast, head leaning into Astarion's touch like a fox unconsciously tipping towards scratches. Damris turns his nose up at the display, and Gale looks resigned; Reginald, who has also stuck around for breakfast, is happily demolishing his omelette, though he notes that he needs to get back and help his wife with the laundry soon.
"The Underdark?", Damris huffs, not deigning to address the subject of his mistaken name. "Absolutely not! Gale might introduce me to someone who has opened a night school for prospective wizards."
Gale clears his throat, avoiding Iorveth's scrutiny. Damris continues: "And what does Linus have to do with any of this?" ]
So you do acknowledge that he's in love with you, [ Iorveth points out, turning Damris a lovely shade of red. ]
[ Gale picks at his food, trying very hard not to look interested in the tea that is Damris's love life. (It's so juicy! It's been ages since Gale got to hear proper gossip.)
Meanwhile: ]
Ugh. Be in love with him, don't, I don't care.
[ He'd feel a little bad for Linus if his affections weren't reciprocated, but— that's just the brain damage the hag probably inflicted on him during all of that psychic assault talking, he assumes. ]
But you're going to the Underdark. Surely you didn't think I was going to let a vampire spawn run rampant in Waterdeep.
[ There is absolutely no acknowledgement of his hypocrisy here. Either he doesn't notice it, or he doesn't care. ]
[ The hypocrisy of this is not lost on Damris, who stops being mealy-mouthed about Linus to snap back, bristling. "Excuse me? I wasn't aware that I needed you to let me do anything."
He looks like he might throw his unused napkin at Astarion's face. Iorveth leans closer, still demolishing his toast, ready to catch stray shots if they come whizzing by.
"You're not better than me just because you found someone stupid enough to be your personal canteen. I'll be smarter than you. More resourceful." Turning his nose up at the pair. "...And if Linus decides to move to Waterdeep, well, then I'll have my own person to rely on. A sweeter one than yours, more handsome and generous."
He ends that last sentence with a smug hmph. Still haughty, still competitive. Iorveth pays Damris very little mind as he eats, but does nose at silver curls once Damris is done with his tirade to murmur: ]
I think he likes you.
[ Amused. All Iorveth sees is a kitten swatting at another cat for attention. (It's probably far more dangerous than this, and Damris would probably kill Iorveth if he could get away with it, but whatever. What else is new.) ]
I freed you, [ Astarion points out across the table. Obviously, he thinks he's owed some gratitude, not this impudence. ] And that personal canteen persuaded me to.
[ So he had better show some fucking respect!! Astarion briefly fantasizes about sending Damris right back where he came from, although he can't truly enjoy it. It's too close to home, too cruel even for him. Love has made him soft, he supposes. Not soft enough that he doesn't still fully intend on saddling Damris with Petras, though. ]
Gale! Don't you agree that a bustling city is no place for a newly freed spawn?
[ "Er," Gale says. ]
Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't try to eat you already.
[ Damris and Petras, twin youngest-brother-energy terrors. Iorveth tries to imagine it around a mouthful of egg, and finds himself mildly entertained by the thought of them hissing and spitting (harmlessly) at each other.
"I have manners," Damris huffs, "unlike you," to which Gale, the diplomat, tries to implore: "come now, Astarion. Surely we can extend him the same grace we extended you when we found you bent over Lae'zel with that lovely jaw unhinged?"
Stupid move. Reginald guffaws into his omelette, and Iorveth shoots Gale the most exasperated look he can muster. ]
Gods, which layer of Avernus is this? All this useless quibbling in the morning is giving me a headache. [ Chewing, swallowing. ] You'll all defer to Astarion's judgment. Gale, portal the gatekeep to Waterdeep tonight, and we'll discuss this further then.
[ "Gatekeep? Who?" asks Gale, and Reginald pipes up with "if you have a headache, I should take a look!" This really is like being in the hells. ]
[ 'Defer to Astarion's judgment' is the funniest thing someone could ever say, considering Astarion has no judgment to speak of, but Gale is seemingly intimidated enough by Iorveth to agree. (Thank the gods.)
"He's—" Damris turns a little red again. "I'll tell you about him later, Gale." ]
Oh, I'm sure Gale would love for you to braid each other's hair and talk about boys.
[ Unironically. As much as they've inconvenienced Gale, he's hardly complained. Astarion has to imagine it's out of a happiness to have companionship. Before they leave for the north, Astarion will have to take him to the opera again. (Ugh. More of that softness.)
That seems to be that, for the moment. An argument probably just postponed until after Linus gets here, but that's a problem for future Astarion. For now, he leans in toward Iorveth, murmuring at a volume that's definitely still too loud for the breakfast table, ] Mm, that stern voice does make me all atingle.
[ Iorveth is used to bossing people around. He was the de facto leader of his freedom-fighting guerilla group after Isengrim left, and he can still shift into that role when he feels he needs to make an executive decision (about letting Astarion make executive decisions). Right now, he's prioritizing finishing breakfast and moving swiftly on to testing the cloaks in their packs; depending on the results of their test, he'll stay inside with Astarion and hold him through his disappointment and let the others figure Damris out, or...
...he hasn't actually thought about what would happen if they succeeded. Call it cynical of him, or call it a desire to let Astarion dictate what he does with his freedom. True freedom.
Finishing up the contents of his plate (and finishing up the contents of what would have been a second and third person's plates), he huffs a laugh under his breath. ]
So you say. You'd pout if I were stern with you.
[ Literally ignoring everyone else at the table to coddle Astarion a bit and press his lips lightly against Astarion's temple. Damris gags. ]
[ Oh, he'd absolutely pout if Iorveth were stern with him, but it's very attractive to watch him be stern with other people. It makes Astarion love him even more for his sweetness, that he can be harsh with an idiot one moment and then soft with Astarion (also an idiot) the next. He does so love to be coddled.
Astarion responds to Damris's gagging with a malicious little smile, then presses a kiss back to Iorveth's cheek. Absolutely sickening PDA happening here at the breakfast table today. ]
As I'll ever be.
[ Which is to say, he's not really ready, but he doesn't have much of a choice. Then, to the rest of the table: ]
Iorveth and I will be busy for the next hour or so. Don't bother us.
[ "Oh, disgusting," Damris says. "You don't need to announce that to the table."
It's clear what Damris has interpreted 'busy' as (and one can hardly blame him for it), but Iorveth doesn't correct him. Instead, he gets up after he wipes his mouth, downs his water, then gives Gale a nod. Conspiratorial. Gale seems to get it, and－ finally happy to be included in his two unhinged friends' plans－ gestures for his guests to keep eating, suggesting that they all keep away from the back patio for the next hour or so.
("I couldn't go, even if I wanted to," is Damris's sullen complaint. He really is kind of a brat.)
With that done... well. It's off to the back patio they go. It doesn't take long to traverse the diameter of the tower to get to the cozy nook overlooking the water, separated from the second sitting room (how many sitting rooms can one wizard have? the answer is many) not by a door, but an open walkway. Light is pouring in from that space, bright and warm: it extends as a strip of gold from the threshold to the middle of the sitting room, a catwalk from indoors to outdoors.
Iorveth reaches for Astarion's hand, then squeezes it gently. The pack of cloaks is slung over his shoulder, and he lets it slide down to where their fingers are linked. ]
[ Astarion wishes they were doing what Damris suspects instead. The knowledge that everything they just went through could very well have been for nothing looms large, and he takes the pack with a heavy sense of dread. He doesn't want to be pessimistic, it's just that everything that's ever happened in his life has taught him to be a cynic. Good things don't just happen to him.
Except one good thing. With the pack in one hand, he reaches out to squeeze Iorveth's again with his other.
He crouches by the strip of sunlight, pack beside him as he rifles through it for the cloaks. They look the same as they had in the hag's den: plain, unassuming. He runs a hand over the black velvet one first, desperately hoping to feel some sort of arcane pulse that would suggest it's the one he's looking for. Nothing. He dons it anyway, tying the strings around his neck. It must look ridiculous; he feels ridiculous, wearing a black velvet cloak like some kind of—
Well, vampire. But a really on-the-nose one.
Slowly, he reaches his hand out, dipping it into the sun's rays. It's warm, and then hot, and then blazing. He can see the skin of his hand scorching, blistering in the sun, but he keeps it there out of some delusional hope that maybe it's a delayed effect, or maybe it'll heal, or maybe—
Finally, he can't take it anymore. The pain is too great. He snatches his hand back into the comfort of darkness. ]
[ Pale skin roils, burns. Iorveth feels compelled to reach and pull Astarion away from the light far before Astarion makes that decision for himself, sickened by the sight of it; still, he waits until he hears that fuck to pull Astarion further into the shade around them, hovering for a quick Cure Wounds that only makes the worst of the scorching fade into a less angry red.
Horrible. He'd thought― well, the cloak even looks like it would have been the one, on-the-nose styling and all. It's the kind of disappointment that might make one reconsider trying the remaining item altogether, preemptively mortified by the possibility that it, too, will fail them.
Iorveth unwinds the strings around Astarion's neck, and hastily moves to peel the offending item off. ]
Cursed thing― [ He snaps, curt and furious. How fucking dare this cloak, honestly. A few more choice curses in his native language as he inspects the injured hand, frowning hard enough to make his already-angular features look even more knife-sharp. ] ―Shall I go call the halfling?
[ It hurts, really hurts, but the last thing he wants is fucking Reginald in here to scold him for doing it to himself. He holds his hand by the wrist because it's too tender to touch the burned skin directly, squeezing tight as if the pressure might distract from the pain. It's not that the pain is intolerable—although Astarion hates any sort of unpleasant sensation, so it sort of is—but that what it represents is. ]
Godsdammit. [ Instantly, he's spiraling. ] I knew it.
[ He hasn't even tried the second cloak, but he's a glass half-empty kind of guy. Grabbing the cloak, he wads it up and tosses it angrily in the corner. ]
[ Oh, this might end poorly for them. For Astarion, more like. The other cloak sits on the floor near them, taunting them with its potential to make Astarion experience the same humiliation again, and the thought fills Iorveth with loathing.
He hovers, then lowers his hands. Stays close, without touching. It isn't in his nature to be optimistic about Plan B when Plan A fails― a realist, through and through― so he only offers the second cloak with a sort of grim determination, the kind of resignation that says 'we might as well' instead of 'this might be the one'. ]
If you're to blame anyone, blame me for the half-baked plan. Not yourself.
[ Terrible, to think of Astarion wallowing in self-directed anger. This situation is really no one's fault but Cazador's (motherfucker), but Iorveth is happier to be the subject of Astarion's ire if that helps Astarion not sink into a level of self-loathing.
After a pause: ]
Do you wish to continue?
[ Understandable if the answer is no, though Iorveth thinks it'd be wiser to rip off the proverbial bandage (or, against all odds, experience the triumph). Better to know than not. ]
[ Yes. No. He wants to know so badly, but he's terrified to know, too. Hope is so dangerous. The higher his hopes, the more painful the crash when they're inevitably let down.
He takes the cloak in his hands, although he doesn't move to put it on yet. There's no strange runes embedded in the leather, no magical glowing. Honestly, it's even plainer and uglier than the last one. It doesn't go with any of his outfits. ]
It could very well be the cloak, [ he says slowly, talking himself into it. And then, talking himself out of it: ] But it could also be a useless piece of junk.
[ Or worse, cursed. ]
But we won't know until we try, [ he reasons. ] But on the other hand, perhaps it's better not to know.
[ His eyes flick up to Iorveth, beseeching. Tell me what to do. ]
[ "Defer to Astarion's judgment", Iorveth had said at the breakfast table. The sentiment still holds here, in this specific situation that has everything to do with how Astarion might navigate his future: in the sun, or in the darkness for a little while longer (because Iorveth is determined to find a way to fulfill the former, even if it kills him).
It's not a call that Iorveth can make. It isn't even a call that Iorveth should make. But he can provide counsel, which is the plea that he's seeing in those wide, red eyes. Some sort of direction. Foolish cat, asking an opinionated terrorist for advice. ]
Better to have tried and failed than to have done nothing at all.
[ The expected answer, from an elf who has spent the last century and change doing something that everyone told him was a mission doomed to failure. (Who will win? Forces of extinction, or one crazy asshole?)
He takes Astarion's uninjured hand again, bringing it up to his lips to kiss its knuckles. ]
There will be other options, if the cloak is a dud. And I'll not rest until we've exhausted all of them.
[ He needed Iorveth to tell him to do it. He needed Iorveth to tell him that it would be all right if he did fail, that the world will keep spinning whether he can frolic in the sun or not. That Iorveth will still be by his side, even if it means he's condemned to the dark, too.
Astarion slowly drapes the cloak around his shoulders. It's lighter than the other one, meant for more casual, daily wear. He's not sure if that's a good sign or not. It doesn't feel as if it's causing any ill effects, which is better than the alternative, so he ties the strings together and stares at the strip of sunlight beaming through the room. ]
[ The situation looms heavy over them－ a matter of profound disappointment, or profound accomplishment. Iorveth can live with either as long as Astarion remains a constant, daywalking or no.
So. Just to take the edge off of things: ]
Things truly are dire, if you're asking me to shove you.
[ As if watching Astarion burn his hand wasn't enough. Iorveth is actually going to be distressed if Astarion's entire person starts smoking and scorching, but he gets it. Sometimes Astarion wants to be a control freak, and sometimes he just wants someone else to make the hard decisions so he doesn't have to. Some people might find it hypocritical and opportunistic (Iorveth might have thought it unprincipled and exasperating, once upon a time), but.
Well. Iorveth wraps his arms around Astarion anyway, minding the burned hand. Catching Astarion in the embrace, he turns and starts walking backwards into the light, one slow step at a time.
Warmth bathes him－ first his back, then his shoulders, then where he has Astarion nested against his chest. His breathing is slow and steady, his heartbeat matching the rhythm of that inhale-exhale. Ready to bolt back indoors at the first signs of burning, but calm despite it. ]
[ Iorveth's embrace is comforting, but it's not enough to stop the terrible feeling of dread in him as they walk into the sunlight. It grows and grows until Astarion feels warmth on his skin, and he squeezes his eyes shut, readying himself to turn to cinders in Iorveth's arms. It'll be humiliating and awful, and he'll probably bawl for the second time in two days, but at least Iorveth will be there to comfort him through it.
[ They wait, and time hangs－ later, Iorveth would not be able to say to anyone that he knew the second cloak would work, because he, too, stands there for the other shoe to drop, and expects the ghastly hiss of skin burning, the stomach-dropping horror of seeing Astarion hurt－
－and it doesn't. Happen, that is. The shoe stays where it is, suspended and perfect, and Astarion remains intact in the loop of Iorveth's arms, pale face drenched in golden sun, silver hair reflecting and refracting light.
Nothing. No catastrophe. No grief. Nothing but the stretch of seconds passing with no incident. Iorveth blinks around his surprise (again, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone "I told him so"), then blinks some more, then blinks away what feels like－
－moisture in his eye. Misty, from this slow-creeping realization. He clears his throat once, twice, but the emotion stays clogged, too full and ever-swelling. ]
Yes, [ he ventures, breathless. ] You've been dead.
[ Stupid, beautiful, perfect vampire. Vision still blurred, he squeezes Astarion closer to his chest. ] Gods, you were made for the sun.
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Well, then. [ Iorveth finally replies, as he helps Astarion close the front of his robe and then moves to find a brush for his hair. Falling into the morning grooming routine with the same care and efficiency he shows when tending to his weapons. ] You can tell whoever you please, whenever you please.
...Preferably not in witness of the cleric. I imagine he'd have some smart-assed thing to say about time and perspective.
[ As if Iorveth hasn't tried those things already, all to Astarion's distress. ]
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[ Reginald very much is not jealous, but Astarion has decided to convince himself that he is. It's the only thing that makes sense. Why else would someone suggest that he not be up Iorveth's ass every minute of the day? It's a very reasonable place to be. ]
I feel bad for him. [ He doesn't, but he sighs dramatically anyway. ] But not everyone can meet their perfect match, unfortunately.
[ And Iorveth is that for him, certainly. A perfect fit, like hand in glove. He smooths down the fabric of his pants and stands, obviously favoring his leg but far more mobile than before the healing. ]
After you eat, we should... [ He trails off, intimidated by the prospect of testing their arcane loot. ] You know. The cloaks.
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He also picks up Astarion's lumpy pack when the subject of the cloaks is brought up, and slings it over his bare shoulder. ]
I'd not forgotten. [ The elephant in the room. Hard to ignore it when it's the reason why they went through hell in the first place. ] Our moment of truth.
[ Triumph, or devastation. Iorveth offers Astarion a hand as they walk downstairs to the dining room (which smells glorious― Gale continues to outdo himself). ]
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Gale lights up at their arrival, apron on and plates in hand. "Perfect timing, my friends," he says, grinning. "Breakfast is fresh off the flame!"
Astarion isn't looking at Gale, though. He's staring at a tiefling interloper sitting at the table. ]
I'm sorry, what is he doing here? He doesn't even eat.
[ Gale looks a little offended as he sets a plate down, piled high with sausage and breakfast rolls. For Iorveth, ostensibly, because a moment later there's an egg cup placed beside it. "You don't eat either, and you're no less a guest for it!" ]
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"Unlike you lot, Gale has manners," he states crisply. Now that he's not bound and gagged, he's the picture of regality: tall, stately, his long black hair brushed into a low ponytail that trails down, nearly to his waist. "I can't imagine why he keeps such ugly, barbaric company."
The 'ugly' is lobbed at Astarion with casual nonchalance; again, a pretty person trying to aim below the belt when insulting another pretty person. Damris is probably starting a burn book, and Astarion is probably on the first page.
Iorveth shoots Damris a Look, but the insult is so ridiculous (there is no reality in which Astarion is not the most beautiful man in Toril) that it doesn't even warrant acknowledgment on his end― thus, he does something even ruder, which is to ignore Damris entirely and start piling his plate full of bread and cheese. ]
Sit, love. [ He motions for Astarion to settle down next to him. ] ―You can drink after my breakfast, if you wish.
[ Damris, knowing what drink entails, scowls. ]
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Gale sits down, too, smiling with forced chipperness. "Well. Doesn't it feel good to have breakfast with friends?"
There might as well be crickets.
Finally: ] Don't get too comfortable in Waterdeep, Dennis. We'll be arranging travel to the Underdark before long. [ A waved hand. ] Tell that lovesick fool of yours to meet you there, if you wish.
[ Not that Astarion cares what happens to nice, sweet, besotted Linus. Not at all!!! ]
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"The Underdark?", Damris huffs, not deigning to address the subject of his mistaken name. "Absolutely not! Gale might introduce me to someone who has opened a night school for prospective wizards."
Gale clears his throat, avoiding Iorveth's scrutiny. Damris continues: "And what does Linus have to do with any of this?" ]
So you do acknowledge that he's in love with you, [ Iorveth points out, turning Damris a lovely shade of red. ]
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Meanwhile: ]
Ugh. Be in love with him, don't, I don't care.
[ He'd feel a little bad for Linus if his affections weren't reciprocated, but— that's just the brain damage the hag probably inflicted on him during all of that psychic assault talking, he assumes. ]
But you're going to the Underdark. Surely you didn't think I was going to let a vampire spawn run rampant in Waterdeep.
[ There is absolutely no acknowledgement of his hypocrisy here. Either he doesn't notice it, or he doesn't care. ]
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He looks like he might throw his unused napkin at Astarion's face. Iorveth leans closer, still demolishing his toast, ready to catch stray shots if they come whizzing by.
"You're not better than me just because you found someone stupid enough to be your personal canteen. I'll be smarter than you. More resourceful." Turning his nose up at the pair. "...And if Linus decides to move to Waterdeep, well, then I'll have my own person to rely on. A sweeter one than yours, more handsome and generous."
He ends that last sentence with a smug hmph. Still haughty, still competitive. Iorveth pays Damris very little mind as he eats, but does nose at silver curls once Damris is done with his tirade to murmur: ]
I think he likes you.
[ Amused. All Iorveth sees is a kitten swatting at another cat for attention. (It's probably far more dangerous than this, and Damris would probably kill Iorveth if he could get away with it, but whatever. What else is new.) ]
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[ So he had better show some fucking respect!! Astarion briefly fantasizes about sending Damris right back where he came from, although he can't truly enjoy it. It's too close to home, too cruel even for him. Love has made him soft, he supposes. Not soft enough that he doesn't still fully intend on saddling Damris with Petras, though. ]
Gale! Don't you agree that a bustling city is no place for a newly freed spawn?
[ "Er," Gale says. ]
Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't try to eat you already.
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"I have manners," Damris huffs, "unlike you," to which Gale, the diplomat, tries to implore: "come now, Astarion. Surely we can extend him the same grace we extended you when we found you bent over Lae'zel with that lovely jaw unhinged?"
Stupid move. Reginald guffaws into his omelette, and Iorveth shoots Gale the most exasperated look he can muster. ]
Gods, which layer of Avernus is this? All this useless quibbling in the morning is giving me a headache. [ Chewing, swallowing. ] You'll all defer to Astarion's judgment. Gale, portal the gatekeep to Waterdeep tonight, and we'll discuss this further then.
[ "Gatekeep? Who?" asks Gale, and Reginald pipes up with "if you have a headache, I should take a look!" This really is like being in the hells. ]
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"He's—" Damris turns a little red again. "I'll tell you about him later, Gale." ]
Oh, I'm sure Gale would love for you to braid each other's hair and talk about boys.
[ Unironically. As much as they've inconvenienced Gale, he's hardly complained. Astarion has to imagine it's out of a happiness to have companionship. Before they leave for the north, Astarion will have to take him to the opera again. (Ugh. More of that softness.)
That seems to be that, for the moment. An argument probably just postponed until after Linus gets here, but that's a problem for future Astarion. For now, he leans in toward Iorveth, murmuring at a volume that's definitely still too loud for the breakfast table, ] Mm, that stern voice does make me all atingle.
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...he hasn't actually thought about what would happen if they succeeded. Call it cynical of him, or call it a desire to let Astarion dictate what he does with his freedom. True freedom.
Finishing up the contents of his plate (and finishing up the contents of what would have been a second and third person's plates), he huffs a laugh under his breath. ]
So you say. You'd pout if I were stern with you.
[ Literally ignoring everyone else at the table to coddle Astarion a bit and press his lips lightly against Astarion's temple. Damris gags. ]
―I'll finish in a moment. Are you ready?
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Astarion responds to Damris's gagging with a malicious little smile, then presses a kiss back to Iorveth's cheek. Absolutely sickening PDA happening here at the breakfast table today. ]
As I'll ever be.
[ Which is to say, he's not really ready, but he doesn't have much of a choice. Then, to the rest of the table: ]
Iorveth and I will be busy for the next hour or so. Don't bother us.
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It's clear what Damris has interpreted 'busy' as (and one can hardly blame him for it), but Iorveth doesn't correct him. Instead, he gets up after he wipes his mouth, downs his water, then gives Gale a nod. Conspiratorial. Gale seems to get it, and－ finally happy to be included in his two unhinged friends' plans－ gestures for his guests to keep eating, suggesting that they all keep away from the back patio for the next hour or so.
("I couldn't go, even if I wanted to," is Damris's sullen complaint. He really is kind of a brat.)
With that done... well. It's off to the back patio they go. It doesn't take long to traverse the diameter of the tower to get to the cozy nook overlooking the water, separated from the second sitting room (how many sitting rooms can one wizard have? the answer is many) not by a door, but an open walkway. Light is pouring in from that space, bright and warm: it extends as a strip of gold from the threshold to the middle of the sitting room, a catwalk from indoors to outdoors.
Iorveth reaches for Astarion's hand, then squeezes it gently. The pack of cloaks is slung over his shoulder, and he lets it slide down to where their fingers are linked. ]
Well. Time to test our luck.
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Except one good thing. With the pack in one hand, he reaches out to squeeze Iorveth's again with his other.
He crouches by the strip of sunlight, pack beside him as he rifles through it for the cloaks. They look the same as they had in the hag's den: plain, unassuming. He runs a hand over the black velvet one first, desperately hoping to feel some sort of arcane pulse that would suggest it's the one he's looking for. Nothing. He dons it anyway, tying the strings around his neck. It must look ridiculous; he feels ridiculous, wearing a black velvet cloak like some kind of—
Well, vampire. But a really on-the-nose one.
Slowly, he reaches his hand out, dipping it into the sun's rays. It's warm, and then hot, and then blazing. He can see the skin of his hand scorching, blistering in the sun, but he keeps it there out of some delusional hope that maybe it's a delayed effect, or maybe it'll heal, or maybe—
Finally, he can't take it anymore. The pain is too great. He snatches his hand back into the comfort of darkness. ]
Fuck. Fuck.
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[ Pale skin roils, burns. Iorveth feels compelled to reach and pull Astarion away from the light far before Astarion makes that decision for himself, sickened by the sight of it; still, he waits until he hears that fuck to pull Astarion further into the shade around them, hovering for a quick Cure Wounds that only makes the worst of the scorching fade into a less angry red.
Horrible. He'd thought― well, the cloak even looks like it would have been the one, on-the-nose styling and all. It's the kind of disappointment that might make one reconsider trying the remaining item altogether, preemptively mortified by the possibility that it, too, will fail them.
Iorveth unwinds the strings around Astarion's neck, and hastily moves to peel the offending item off. ]
Cursed thing― [ He snaps, curt and furious. How fucking dare this cloak, honestly. A few more choice curses in his native language as he inspects the injured hand, frowning hard enough to make his already-angular features look even more knife-sharp. ] ―Shall I go call the halfling?
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[ It hurts, really hurts, but the last thing he wants is fucking Reginald in here to scold him for doing it to himself. He holds his hand by the wrist because it's too tender to touch the burned skin directly, squeezing tight as if the pressure might distract from the pain. It's not that the pain is intolerable—although Astarion hates any sort of unpleasant sensation, so it sort of is—but that what it represents is. ]
Godsdammit. [ Instantly, he's spiraling. ] I knew it.
[ He hasn't even tried the second cloak, but he's a glass half-empty kind of guy. Grabbing the cloak, he wads it up and tosses it angrily in the corner. ]
Stupid, ugly cloak.
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He hovers, then lowers his hands. Stays close, without touching. It isn't in his nature to be optimistic about Plan B when Plan A fails― a realist, through and through― so he only offers the second cloak with a sort of grim determination, the kind of resignation that says 'we might as well' instead of 'this might be the one'. ]
If you're to blame anyone, blame me for the half-baked plan. Not yourself.
[ Terrible, to think of Astarion wallowing in self-directed anger. This situation is really no one's fault but Cazador's (motherfucker), but Iorveth is happier to be the subject of Astarion's ire if that helps Astarion not sink into a level of self-loathing.
After a pause: ]
Do you wish to continue?
[ Understandable if the answer is no, though Iorveth thinks it'd be wiser to rip off the proverbial bandage (or, against all odds, experience the triumph). Better to know than not. ]
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He takes the cloak in his hands, although he doesn't move to put it on yet. There's no strange runes embedded in the leather, no magical glowing. Honestly, it's even plainer and uglier than the last one. It doesn't go with any of his outfits. ]
It could very well be the cloak, [ he says slowly, talking himself into it. And then, talking himself out of it: ] But it could also be a useless piece of junk.
[ Or worse, cursed. ]
But we won't know until we try, [ he reasons. ] But on the other hand, perhaps it's better not to know.
[ His eyes flick up to Iorveth, beseeching. Tell me what to do. ]
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It's not a call that Iorveth can make. It isn't even a call that Iorveth should make. But he can provide counsel, which is the plea that he's seeing in those wide, red eyes. Some sort of direction. Foolish cat, asking an opinionated terrorist for advice. ]
Better to have tried and failed than to have done nothing at all.
[ The expected answer, from an elf who has spent the last century and change doing something that everyone told him was a mission doomed to failure. (Who will win? Forces of extinction, or one crazy asshole?)
He takes Astarion's uninjured hand again, bringing it up to his lips to kiss its knuckles. ]
There will be other options, if the cloak is a dud. And I'll not rest until we've exhausted all of them.
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Astarion slowly drapes the cloak around his shoulders. It's lighter than the other one, meant for more casual, daily wear. He's not sure if that's a good sign or not. It doesn't feel as if it's causing any ill effects, which is better than the alternative, so he ties the strings together and stares at the strip of sunlight beaming through the room. ]
Perhaps you could just shove me into it.
[ Rip off the bandage. ]
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So. Just to take the edge off of things: ]
Things truly are dire, if you're asking me to shove you.
[ As if watching Astarion burn his hand wasn't enough. Iorveth is actually going to be distressed if Astarion's entire person starts smoking and scorching, but he gets it. Sometimes Astarion wants to be a control freak, and sometimes he just wants someone else to make the hard decisions so he doesn't have to. Some people might find it hypocritical and opportunistic (Iorveth might have thought it unprincipled and exasperating, once upon a time), but.
Well. Iorveth wraps his arms around Astarion anyway, minding the burned hand. Catching Astarion in the embrace, he turns and starts walking backwards into the light, one slow step at a time.
Warmth bathes him－ first his back, then his shoulders, then where he has Astarion nested against his chest. His breathing is slow and steady, his heartbeat matching the rhythm of that inhale-exhale. Ready to bolt back indoors at the first signs of burning, but calm despite it. ]
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He waits. Another moment, and another.
Astarion cracks open an eye. ]
—Am I dead yet?
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－and it doesn't. Happen, that is. The shoe stays where it is, suspended and perfect, and Astarion remains intact in the loop of Iorveth's arms, pale face drenched in golden sun, silver hair reflecting and refracting light.
Nothing. No catastrophe. No grief. Nothing but the stretch of seconds passing with no incident. Iorveth blinks around his surprise (again, he wouldn't be able to tell anyone "I told him so"), then blinks some more, then blinks away what feels like－
－moisture in his eye. Misty, from this slow-creeping realization. He clears his throat once, twice, but the emotion stays clogged, too full and ever-swelling. ]
Yes, [ he ventures, breathless. ] You've been dead.
[ Stupid, beautiful, perfect vampire. Vision still blurred, he squeezes Astarion closer to his chest. ] Gods, you were made for the sun.
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