[ 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. ]
[ Nature is gross, but Iorveth isn't, and Astarion would very much like to see the glow of sunlight on his body. He remembers, briefly, that they'd bought a tattoo ink that sparkles in the sunlight, and he's suddenly filled with renewed interest in the idea now that he'll actually get to see it glitter.
—But then Damris rears his (unfortunately not actually) ugly head. Astarion would have been embarrassed at being caught quite literally sitting in Iorveth's lap once upon a time, but no longer. If anyone has an issue with their very enthusiastic displays of affection, it's only because they're jealous of the depth of love they share. Most people will never experience such a thing! How sad for them.
He probably shouldn't antagonize Damris when he's wearing a cloak that Damris would have every reason to want to steal, but: ]
Ugh, you're like a bad copper.
[ Always turning up. ]
Can't you see I'm busy basking in the sun? The stench of your jealousy is wafting over here and ruining the atmosphere.
[ Very bold of Astarion to be acting so imperious when, only minutes ago, he'd been asking Iorveth to shove him into sunlight because he didn't want to step into it himself. Damris didn't see that, of course, so Iorveth doesn't touch on it. Astarion is entitled to do a few victory laps― he's earned it, no matter how stupid it might be to do them around this particular tiefling.
Damris looks the both of them up and down. His scrutiny is sharp and obvious, his irritation even more so. Envious of someone who has everything he wants for himself: blood, protection, daylight. Rather immaturely, he grabs a cushion from a nearby chair and throws it Astarion's way with a frustrated huff, then turns on his heels like a beautiful hurricane to storm off (presumably to plot Astarion's untimely demise).
Damris has bad aim. The cushion bounces harmlessly against the couch's armrest. ]
Well. Now the tiefling knows. [ Not great. But nothing can really dampen the triumph of having stolen the right cloak, so Iorveth sets aside the possibility of being poisoned again to bite a temporary mark along Astarion's collarbone. ] You'll have to wear this cloak to bed, if you want to safeguard it.
[ Damris is acting exactly how Astarion would—better, probably—so, obviously, Astarion thinks he's a rotten little brat. Getting a taste of his own personality in Damris has been truly intolerable. At least he'll have to deal with Petras for eternity, which is at least equivalent to infinite torture in the hells, if not worse. ]
I'll bathe in it if I must.
[ Astarion doesn't plan to take off this cloak ever, actually. It's the ugliest thing he's ever seen, and despite all of his vanity, he'll wear it forever. Or at least until there's a better alternative. ]
...But I wouldn't be terribly heartbroken if Gale could turn it into something a little less, mm, obtrusive.
[ Astarion's lot in life, Iorveth thinks, to attract younger-brother types. Maybe because Astarion constantly can't let sleeping dogs lie. Part of his charm, and part of the reason why they'll always have enemies. Keeps things interesting.
A gondola swims lazily across the water, several yards away. A few houses over, two children run down a small strip of pier with makeshift fishing rods, chattering animatedly amongst themselves about being able to catch something this time. The reminder that the term "in broad daylight" means something makes him stop nosing against Astarion's jaw, but he doesn't move to remove Astarion from his immediate proximity. ]
He did mention someone who could. [ A Something Silverhand? Waterdeep's Open Lord, or something of the like. Iorveth has only retained this information because it pertained to Astarion, but he remembers the woman being mentioned as someone who may or may not have attended the opera. ] I'll have them fashion it into a pair of sandals for you.
[ The beloathed Waterdhavian Crocs (that are actually still intact, unburned, in the closet of their borrowed bedroom). Pulling Astarion's pigtails with that mental image. ]
[ Swift and horrified. He is not a sandal-wearer! But he slings an arm around Iorveth's shoulders the next, unabashedly affectionate, so clearly the idea doesn't upset him that much. ]
And then I'll track down Reginald and make him bring you back.
[ Iorveth isn't getting out of this relationship that easy. He can die all he wants, and Astarion will just drag his corpse around until he finds someone to bully into bringing Iorveth back to life. (Whatever happened to Withers, he wonders. That old coot was annoyingly cryptic, but Astarion wouldn't mind keeping him around for emergencies.) ]
[ Iorveth NoLastname, terror of the north, finally killed by a vampire offended by his choice in footwear. What a way to go, hypothetically. Instead of being offended by the well-earned threat, Iorveth looks pleased that it was leveled against him with the sort of crooked grin that suggests that he enjoys the audacity. ]
At this rate, you'll have a ring on every finger.
[ Taking one of Astarion's very pretty hands, pressing his lips against its knuckles. ]
I'll speak to Gale about it soon, if you can't bear to look frumpy for too long.
[ Again, tugging at pigtails. Like Iorveth said, Astarion could be wearing a burlap sack and he'd still lovely in sunlight, but "I'll kill you" was cute, and he likes it when Astarion bites or scratches back. Cute aggression, but self-aimed. ]
[ 'Cute aggression', he calls it. 'Aggression I find cute', he should probably say.
Astarion pulls on Iorveth's precious little wood elf ear. ] Frumpy!
[ He recalls saying the cloak was frumpy, yes, but not himself. ...He does look frumpy, but that's none of Iorveth's business. Astarion probably looks near to the worst he's ever looked: in his pajamas with an ugly maroon cloak atop, with a messed up hand and an even more fucked up leg. But Iorveth had called him beautiful, and Astarion likes that he'd been seemingly deluded by love. ]
Ugh. You only get away with saying such things because I'm in no position to bend you over my knee.
[ Untrue. Astarion would and has let Iorveth get away with murder. ]
[ Iorveth has already made a mental list of things he can say to tease Astarion without actually offending him: obviously untrue things about his appearance is one (something he can get away with, since he's fairly certain that Astarion knows that Iorveth thinks he's infuriatingly pretty), threatening him with ugly sandals is another. Iorveth is also compiling a list of things he can say that will actually make Astarion upset, which he is trying to avoid, but occasionally says anyway because they hold true in the moment.
Right now, he's just having fun watching Astarion's expressions kaleidoscope under the sun. No one in Iorveth's past has been quite as expressive, though they've come close to being as dramatic. ]
I "get away with such things" because I'd enjoy being bent over your knee.
[ And thus, the so-called punishment would be smugly accepted, and Astarion would only be rewarding Iorveth for bad behavior. Freak elf strikes again. That said, he's not sure if he would actually enjoy any of that, but he just wants to see how Astarion would react. ]
How intolerable it must be for you that I love you so much.
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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. ]
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—But then Damris rears his (unfortunately not actually) ugly head. Astarion would have been embarrassed at being caught quite literally sitting in Iorveth's lap once upon a time, but no longer. If anyone has an issue with their very enthusiastic displays of affection, it's only because they're jealous of the depth of love they share. Most people will never experience such a thing! How sad for them.
He probably shouldn't antagonize Damris when he's wearing a cloak that Damris would have every reason to want to steal, but: ]
Ugh, you're like a bad copper.
[ Always turning up. ]
Can't you see I'm busy basking in the sun? The stench of your jealousy is wafting over here and ruining the atmosphere.
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Damris looks the both of them up and down. His scrutiny is sharp and obvious, his irritation even more so. Envious of someone who has everything he wants for himself: blood, protection, daylight. Rather immaturely, he grabs a cushion from a nearby chair and throws it Astarion's way with a frustrated huff, then turns on his heels like a beautiful hurricane to storm off (presumably to plot Astarion's untimely demise).
Damris has bad aim. The cushion bounces harmlessly against the couch's armrest. ]
Well. Now the tiefling knows. [ Not great. But nothing can really dampen the triumph of having stolen the right cloak, so Iorveth sets aside the possibility of being poisoned again to bite a temporary mark along Astarion's collarbone. ] You'll have to wear this cloak to bed, if you want to safeguard it.
[ Stuck in ugly maroon forever. A light tease. ]
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I'll bathe in it if I must.
[ Astarion doesn't plan to take off this cloak ever, actually. It's the ugliest thing he's ever seen, and despite all of his vanity, he'll wear it forever. Or at least until there's a better alternative. ]
...But I wouldn't be terribly heartbroken if Gale could turn it into something a little less, mm, obtrusive.
[ And hideous. ]
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A gondola swims lazily across the water, several yards away. A few houses over, two children run down a small strip of pier with makeshift fishing rods, chattering animatedly amongst themselves about being able to catch something this time. The reminder that the term "in broad daylight" means something makes him stop nosing against Astarion's jaw, but he doesn't move to remove Astarion from his immediate proximity. ]
He did mention someone who could. [ A Something Silverhand? Waterdeep's Open Lord, or something of the like. Iorveth has only retained this information because it pertained to Astarion, but he remembers the woman being mentioned as someone who may or may not have attended the opera. ] I'll have them fashion it into a pair of sandals for you.
[ The beloathed Waterdhavian Crocs (that are actually still intact, unburned, in the closet of their borrowed bedroom). Pulling Astarion's pigtails with that mental image. ]
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[ Swift and horrified. He is not a sandal-wearer! But he slings an arm around Iorveth's shoulders the next, unabashedly affectionate, so clearly the idea doesn't upset him that much. ]
And then I'll track down Reginald and make him bring you back.
[ Iorveth isn't getting out of this relationship that easy. He can die all he wants, and Astarion will just drag his corpse around until he finds someone to bully into bringing Iorveth back to life. (Whatever happened to Withers, he wonders. That old coot was annoyingly cryptic, but Astarion wouldn't mind keeping him around for emergencies.) ]
An amulet, maybe. Or a ring.
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At this rate, you'll have a ring on every finger.
[ Taking one of Astarion's very pretty hands, pressing his lips against its knuckles. ]
I'll speak to Gale about it soon, if you can't bear to look frumpy for too long.
[ Again, tugging at pigtails. Like Iorveth said, Astarion could be wearing a burlap sack and he'd still lovely in sunlight, but "I'll kill you" was cute, and he likes it when Astarion bites or scratches back. Cute aggression, but self-aimed. ]
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Astarion pulls on Iorveth's precious little wood elf ear. ] Frumpy!
[ He recalls saying the cloak was frumpy, yes, but not himself. ...He does look frumpy, but that's none of Iorveth's business. Astarion probably looks near to the worst he's ever looked: in his pajamas with an ugly maroon cloak atop, with a messed up hand and an even more fucked up leg. But Iorveth had called him beautiful, and Astarion likes that he'd been seemingly deluded by love. ]
Ugh. You only get away with saying such things because I'm in no position to bend you over my knee.
[ Untrue. Astarion would and has let Iorveth get away with murder. ]
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Right now, he's just having fun watching Astarion's expressions kaleidoscope under the sun. No one in Iorveth's past has been quite as expressive, though they've come close to being as dramatic. ]
I "get away with such things" because I'd enjoy being bent over your knee.
[ And thus, the so-called punishment would be smugly accepted, and Astarion would only be rewarding Iorveth for bad behavior. Freak elf strikes again. That said, he's not sure if he would actually enjoy any of that, but he just wants to see how Astarion would react. ]
How intolerable it must be for you that I love you so much.