[ 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.
[ A little distant, almost confused, like he doesn't understand how this could possibly be. Good things don't just happen, not without a catch, and yet one just has. He'd expected to feel elated, but he mostly feels dumbfounded.
He wraps his arms around Iorveth tightly, squeezing, like a more pleasant way of pinching oneself. Iorveth feels very solid and real, his breaths audible, heartbeat palpable when their chests are together. It must be reality, then, and not some ridiculous fantasy or horrible dream where the rug is about to be pulled out from under him.
Astarion laughs, a little hysterically. ]
This cloak is hideous.
[ It would be his fucking luck that the ugliest cloak is also the cloak. ]
[ One grand success, after wading through an absolute ocean of bullshit. Worth it, though, utterly. Iorveth walks them a little farther back, towards the exit and out onto the patio proper, blasted by the full (unconcentrated) strength of the morning sun, where he unloops his arms around Astarion to let him move, unburdened, if he wants to.
He's still misty-eyed. Sue him. He runs the back of his hand over his face, trying to remember the last time he'd felt like this was, and finding that it was when Astarion brought up the topic of marriage. Gods. Astarion really has no earthly idea how much of Iorveth's narrative he's changed in the past few tendays. ]
Fool－ you more than make up for it.
[ Sure, the cloak is an ugly shade of dark maroon, and sure, it could do with a wash and a press, but Iorveth isn't looking at it at all. He's looking at Astarion, and how the light catches him under that hideous cloak, which compels him to say: ] You're beautiful.
[ Profoundly. With feeling. No shame or embarrassment involved; just a statement of the painfully obvious. ]
[ Astarion does move away for a moment, stepping away to feel the sun on his face; the happiness he'd expected to feel does come, slowly, creeping in an inch for every second that he spends in the sun's warmth without bursting into flame. He turns back after a moment, and— gods, Iorveth's eye is wet. Taking a few steps in again, he wipes a thumb underneath it. ]
There's no reason to cry, my sweet.
[ Although seeing Iorveth get misty-eyed makes him a little misty-eyed, too. Not because of the cloak, although an insuppressible smile is quickly spreading across his face from the joy of it all, but because Iorveth really cares. Ridiculous. Wonderful. ]
Gods, what a relief. I thought we'd have to plan a night wedding.
[ A little huff, when called out about the crying. Nose dusted with red, more obvious in the bright of the morning than the dim of night; Iorveth'd almost forgotten how stark everything looks in light, especially by the waterside.
Why shouldn't he get emotional? If not now, when? He sniffs again, more composed this time, even if he still looks like a proud elf at his partner's graduation. Absurd, but earnest. ]
The time of day wouldn't have mattered, [ Iorveth pushes back without any real vehemence, hands flying up to Astarion's face to cradle it for a moment, to turn those pretty features from side to side to inspect it better under the sun. Under the sun. No tadpoles necessary, though he would have liked to have them for long enough to beam 'you are perfect' directly into Astarion's brainfolds. Unhinged. ]
But, Gods. I'll say it again: you were made for the sun.
[ Ugh!!! Still misty-eyed (a wood elf through and through, in these private moments away from scrutiny or judgment), he presses his lips to Astarion's forehead and lets go of him again, torn between the aggressive desire to sit Astarion down on the patio couch and kiss him all over, or to simply just watch Astarion do whatever the fuck he wants under daylight from a distance. He decides on the latter for now, moving away to take a seat as he takes in the sight of glittering water and Astarion backlit by it, the unflattering cloak doing nothing to detract from how stunning he is. Sure, Astarion is still ostensibly in his pajamas with one fucked-up hand, but that doesn't matter!!!!! ]
―Now you can do whatever you wish, whenever you wish.
[ Astarion would marry Iorveth at midnight as soon as he'd marry him at daybreak, but of course the time of day matters. He'd hoped to declare his quite literally undying love with the sun streaming in through the leaves of those trees Iorveth loves so much; it would be a perfect day, a perfect memory to keep with him forever. Gods, except the ugly cloak. He desperately hopes Gale can do something about this, because he's not getting married in maroon.
Iorveth very much chose the wrong option, because whatever the fuck Astarion wants is always Iorveth. He gravitates toward Iorveth instantly, putting his knee up on the couch and using the leverage to lean in— ]
Fuck.
[ Wrong knee. That really fucking hurts. He switches knees, leaning in on his good leg now, pressing a kiss to Iorveth's cheek. ]
You know I only wish to be with you. [ A pause. ] Mmm, but perhaps I might get a tan, too.
[ A 'tan'. He might turn mildly less translucent. ]
[ "Your leg", Iorveth groans as Astarion leans in for the peck, protesting too much even when he's sitting there with 'I-love-this-guy' tears lingering on his face. He keeps Astarion braced on the couch with his hands at Astarion's hips, looking up at him with the sort of awe that says 'I cannot believe you are making me feel this way (irritated) (affectionate)'. ]
You can go anywhere you please now without fear, [ he says, somewhat incredulously, ] and yet you still wish to be with me and get an impossible tan.
[ Like, Astarion could go anywhere. He could actually go to Cormyr and be able to say anything about it. Maybe he still has other restrictions pertaining to having to be invited to places and burning when touching running water, but still.
Freedom. So much of it. Iorveth is happy for him, profoundly and impossibly. ]
Well? [ Pinching the end of Astarion's cloak, letting it billow a bit. ] What did you envision yourself doing first, when the sun was eventually returned to you?
[ Astarion could go to Cormyr, yes. Maybe he will. But what Iorveth can't seem to get through his thick skull (very irritated) (very affectionate) is that Astarion has no interest in going anywhere that his favorite person isn't. When he thinks of going to someplace like Cormyr, it's only exciting because he imagines showing off his fancy Cormyrean leather boots to Iorveth, and buying a nice new sword for Iorveth, and taking Iorveth to dinner to watch him stuff his face.
That's what love is, he thinks. He only ever used to dream of finally being left alone, and now he dreams of forever being kept company.
He sighs, taking Iorveth's face in his hands and smoothing his thumbs over those lovely, sharp cheekbones. ]
Making sweet, degenerate love to you in the midday sun. [ What love is, also: being able to say the words 'making love' without gagging. With a pout: ] But I've been put on canoodling restriction.
[ He should've seen that answer coming from leagues away. Iorveth laughs, a sort of surprised half-bark, and tries to see if he can finagle Astarion up onto his lap without jostling that injured leg too much in the process. Eventually, he semi-strongarms Astarion to sit sideways across his knees, and keeps him in place with his palm to the small of Astarion's back. ]
Making love outdoors? [ Still laughing under his breath, shaking his head as if in disbelief. ] I'll make a wood elf of you yet.
[ The closest Astarion has gotten to degeneracy, honestly. Very cute. Iorveth rubs up against Astarion's jaw, mimicking a fox rubbing up against a leg－
－and ignores Damris, who has come to snoop despite expressly being told not to. From the back of the sitting room leading out into the patio, in the safety of shade, Damris is watching with obvious shock and actual jealousy at Astarion, who has managed to get the cloak that everyone else he knows has tried and failed to acquire. ]
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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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[ A little distant, almost confused, like he doesn't understand how this could possibly be. Good things don't just happen, not without a catch, and yet one just has. He'd expected to feel elated, but he mostly feels dumbfounded.
He wraps his arms around Iorveth tightly, squeezing, like a more pleasant way of pinching oneself. Iorveth feels very solid and real, his breaths audible, heartbeat palpable when their chests are together. It must be reality, then, and not some ridiculous fantasy or horrible dream where the rug is about to be pulled out from under him.
Astarion laughs, a little hysterically. ]
This cloak is hideous.
[ It would be his fucking luck that the ugliest cloak is also the cloak. ]
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He's still misty-eyed. Sue him. He runs the back of his hand over his face, trying to remember the last time he'd felt like this was, and finding that it was when Astarion brought up the topic of marriage. Gods. Astarion really has no earthly idea how much of Iorveth's narrative he's changed in the past few tendays. ]
Fool－ you more than make up for it.
[ Sure, the cloak is an ugly shade of dark maroon, and sure, it could do with a wash and a press, but Iorveth isn't looking at it at all. He's looking at Astarion, and how the light catches him under that hideous cloak, which compels him to say: ] You're beautiful.
[ Profoundly. With feeling. No shame or embarrassment involved; just a statement of the painfully obvious. ]
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There's no reason to cry, my sweet.
[ Although seeing Iorveth get misty-eyed makes him a little misty-eyed, too. Not because of the cloak, although an insuppressible smile is quickly spreading across his face from the joy of it all, but because Iorveth really cares. Ridiculous. Wonderful. ]
Gods, what a relief. I thought we'd have to plan a night wedding.
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Why shouldn't he get emotional? If not now, when? He sniffs again, more composed this time, even if he still looks like a proud elf at his partner's graduation. Absurd, but earnest. ]
The time of day wouldn't have mattered, [ Iorveth pushes back without any real vehemence, hands flying up to Astarion's face to cradle it for a moment, to turn those pretty features from side to side to inspect it better under the sun. Under the sun. No tadpoles necessary, though he would have liked to have them for long enough to beam 'you are perfect' directly into Astarion's brainfolds. Unhinged. ]
But, Gods. I'll say it again: you were made for the sun.
[ Ugh!!! Still misty-eyed (a wood elf through and through, in these private moments away from scrutiny or judgment), he presses his lips to Astarion's forehead and lets go of him again, torn between the aggressive desire to sit Astarion down on the patio couch and kiss him all over, or to simply just watch Astarion do whatever the fuck he wants under daylight from a distance. He decides on the latter for now, moving away to take a seat as he takes in the sight of glittering water and Astarion backlit by it, the unflattering cloak doing nothing to detract from how stunning he is. Sure, Astarion is still ostensibly in his pajamas with one fucked-up hand, but that doesn't matter!!!!! ]
―Now you can do whatever you wish, whenever you wish.
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Iorveth very much chose the wrong option, because whatever the fuck Astarion wants is always Iorveth. He gravitates toward Iorveth instantly, putting his knee up on the couch and using the leverage to lean in— ]
Fuck.
[ Wrong knee. That really fucking hurts. He switches knees, leaning in on his good leg now, pressing a kiss to Iorveth's cheek. ]
You know I only wish to be with you. [ A pause. ] Mmm, but perhaps I might get a tan, too.
[ A 'tan'. He might turn mildly less translucent. ]
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You can go anywhere you please now without fear, [ he says, somewhat incredulously, ] and yet you still wish to be with me and get an impossible tan.
[ Like, Astarion could go anywhere. He could actually go to Cormyr and be able to say anything about it. Maybe he still has other restrictions pertaining to having to be invited to places and burning when touching running water, but still.
Freedom. So much of it. Iorveth is happy for him, profoundly and impossibly. ]
Well? [ Pinching the end of Astarion's cloak, letting it billow a bit. ] What did you envision yourself doing first, when the sun was eventually returned to you?
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That's what love is, he thinks. He only ever used to dream of finally being left alone, and now he dreams of forever being kept company.
He sighs, taking Iorveth's face in his hands and smoothing his thumbs over those lovely, sharp cheekbones. ]
Making sweet, degenerate love to you in the midday sun. [ What love is, also: being able to say the words 'making love' without gagging. With a pout: ] But I've been put on canoodling restriction.
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Making love outdoors? [ Still laughing under his breath, shaking his head as if in disbelief. ] I'll make a wood elf of you yet.
[ The closest Astarion has gotten to degeneracy, honestly. Very cute. Iorveth rubs up against Astarion's jaw, mimicking a fox rubbing up against a leg－
－and ignores Damris, who has come to snoop despite expressly being told not to. From the back of the sitting room leading out into the patio, in the safety of shade, Damris is watching with obvious shock and actual jealousy at Astarion, who has managed to get the cloak that everyone else he knows has tried and failed to acquire. ]