essea | [ ELVES CATCHALL POST. ]

[ And isn't it wild, really, that Iorveth would miss Astarion if his body wasn't busy shutting itself down. He hums something vague in response, not wanting to confirm nor deny to make it easier for Astarion to leave the room without worrying about Iorveth's state of affairs, though there's something unbearable about letting Astarion go after trading loopy confessions pertaining to love and protection.

Certifiably in too deep. It wasn't too long ago that Iorveth'd said something to the effect of "our overlapping paths are temporary" and meant it with his entire chest, which feels fucking ridiculous now that his freak mind keeps vacillating wildly between "how many atrocities will I have to commit to make sure that Astarion is kept safe for the indefinite future" and "how hard is it going to be if or when I lose him".

Again: wild. He falls into a restless trance not long after Astarion slips out of the room, leaving him frowning and sweating under his blankets; it's likely how Astarion will find him later, turned onto his good side with his cat companion similarly-curled and nested under his chin. Kind of suffocating him, actually.

On the bright side, Kurug (who is still here, despite everything) and the gnome woman are all too happy to accommodate whatever Astarion asks for, all the while harmlessly gossiping about how Facemaker's provides quality clothing but subpar tailoring: "the man is trying to wear too many hats! He's an excellent salesman, but a couturier he isn't."

The tortoiseshell cat (Maisie, the lady calls her) happily rubs herself all over Astarion's trousers, leaving orange hair all over his leg. ]

[ Astarion, gossip that he is, appreciates the opportunity to talk shit with Kurug and the gnome seamstress, who he learns is called Dolores. He tells her that they've a swanky party to attend and that Iorveth simply has nothing to wear; she insists on doctoring something up for 'the poor dear' at a discount, and Astarion acts as if the offer surprises him even though it's the exact one he was hoping for. They discuss fabrics and styles until Dolores makes dinner, providing him with enough cheese pie and onion soup for two.

He returns to the guest room with the tray, setting it down on the nightstand before crouching beside Iorveth and waking him with a gentle nudge to the shoulder. ]

Darling, you're positively... moist.

[ And even hotter than usual. He presses the back of his cold hand to Iorveth's neck. ]

Are you all right?

[ He starts awake when touched, alarming the cat curled under his chin; he presses his lips to the crown of its little head to calm it down, momentarily mistaking it for the owner of the hand to the back of his neck. Once lucidity sets in, enough for him to piece together that Max the tuxedo cat is not, in fact, Astarion, he grunts and ushers the furry creature onto the floor to make more space for his cat on the mattress.

Sitting up: ] Seems I don't trance well without the right cat by my side. [ His voice is a low croak, but his posture is steady. ] ...Was I out long?

[ An hour? Two? He's lost all sense of time, but the way his stomach growls at the scent of food tells him that it's been long enough since his last meal. The fact that he has an appetite despite his light fever is a good thing, at least. ]

―I would say that we should leave after I finish eating, but I've no idea what the state of affairs is like outside.

[ Astarion isn't one to fetch food for someone, but he settles beside Iorveth on the bed and reaches for a bowl of soup regardless. It smells nice enough, but it doesn't whet his vampiric appetite in the slightest. He scoops up a piece of broth-soaked bread on the spoon and holds it to Iorveth's mouth, less like a caretaker feeding someone and more like a little girl playing at feeding her dolls. There's nothing deferential in it, and in fact he knows Iorveth would probably rather feed himself, but there's something almost fun about doing something so ridiculously soppy. He was telling the truth: he does enjoy caring for Iorveth. He's never had anyone he wanted to tend to before. ]

Don't worry about Heinrich. [ Is that his name? Whatever. ] I plan to tie up that loose end as soon as possible.

[ His tone couldn't be more casual, as if he's talking about the weather and not murdering a member of the Flaming Fists. Underscoring his complete lack of gravitas, he adds, ] —Oh, by the by, you've a fitting for a new soiree outfit next tenday.

[ Predictably, Iorveth's expression turns unmistakably sour when he's prompted to open his mouth for the incoming spoon, but resigns himself to the feeding with grudging acceptance. He'll give this one to Astarion, who hasn't had much to smile about all day.

On the flipside, he's about to comment on the ominous nature of Astarion having a plan regarding Henrik ("there's no way you actually have a real plan") when he's interrupted by yet another bit of similarly-ominous news.

Swallowing his mouthful of soup: ] ...I'm not wearing it if it has frills.

[ The hard line that Iorveth will draw in the sand. With that said, he opens his mouth for another bite of caramelized onion, and after it's given to him, he chews thoughtfully. ]

Do you know how to dance?

[ Astarion makes a displeased face at Iorveth, annoyed that he's putting his foot down about frills. In his opinion, he should be allowed to dress Iorveth in all the frills he wants, but he supposes he can allow him a little input. He wonders how deep he can request the collar be cut before Iorveth refuses to go outside wearing it. ]

It does seem like something I would know.

[ Which isn't quite an answer. Astarion has an inkling that he might have known once, back in his old life. He remembers being important, and important people get invited to fancy parties with wine and dancing. What he can't remember is actually dancing, although that doesn't mean he never did. Hells, he can't even remember his own family after two hundred years of torture. High society soirees didn't make the memory cut.

All of that is to say: no, he doesn't know how to dance, not anymore. How embarrassing. Defensive, almost like he expects to be ridiculed: ] I'm sure I can figure it out.

Edited 2024-10-21 01:43 (UTC)

[ Iorveth, a weird gremlin, draws the line at frills but wouldn't care about his nipples showing at a fancy function. That's a conversation for a tenday later though, when he's getting shoved into whatever absurd outfit Astarion conjures up for him.

Now, he reaches for a piece of cheese pie and breaks off the very end of its crust, holding it out for Max the cat to nibble on while he mulls over the implications of Astarion having to figure the act of dancing out. Yet another example of something from his old life that was irrevocably stolen, Iorveth assumes.

He doesn't want to reopen more of those old wounds－ gods know that Astarion has so many of them, still bleeding. ]

That makes two of us. [ Stretching stiff limbs cramped on his gnome-sized bed, Iorveth takes a deep breath. ] No matter. Everyone will be too busy looking at your face to notice the state of your feet.

[ Pretty privilege. ]

[ Of course. Iorveth wouldn't mock or ridicule him for his shortfalls. Two centuries of scorn have made him expect the worst, but Iorveth is too unbearably sweet for that. It's part of why Astarion— well. Loves him, he supposes. What a terrifying word. Even so, his mouth twists into a pleased little smile, lips pressed together tightly in a failed attempt at suppressing it. ]

Only if I rid myself of this hideous hair.

[ He's still horrified that Dolores and Kurug saw him like this. They'd been polite enough not to say anything, but that didn't stop him from continually arranging and rearranging his hair in the hopes of hiding the scorched strands. ]

Once I've purchased a new dagger, I'll trim those lovely locks of yours, too.

[ Iorveth's had enough of the food for now, and motions for Astarion to free his hands for Iorveth to nudge against with his fever-warm forehead. The worst of his flareup came and went during his nap while the poultice set into his wound, but it still feels good to press his flushed skin against cool, undead palms regardless.

An indulgence. He wouldn't be caught dead doing this in front of anyone else. ]

You couldn't be hideous if you tried.

[ Ridiculous, that Astarion is so self-conscious over slightly-scorched ends. If barely-singed bangs makes him hideous, there's no hope for anyone in any Plane of being attractive. ]

But yes, I'll allow you to clean me up. I could even feign being your exotic northern elf who doesn't speak a word of Common.

[ Mostly because he wouldn't want to talk to anyone. And because it would be funny. He smiles at the thought of it, and murmurs a string of diminutives against Astarion's palm in his language, low and melodic. ]

[ Astarion allows himself to be used as a humanoid ice pack, pressing both of his hands against Iorveth's forehead, his cheek. He's no cleric, but even he knows that it isn't good for Iorveth to be flushed like this after an injury, no matter how appealing it is when he's all hot and sweaty. That unpleasant helpless feeling flashes in his chest again, although he tries his best to stuff it back down. ]

Mmm, you are thoroughly tantalizing when you speak your language.

[ Is this a bad time to ask him to talk dirty in the Aen Seidhe dialect? Probably. He cups his hands around the back of Iorveth's neck, cooling it as he playfully quotes Iorveth's Aen Seidhe I like you, just as botched as the very first time. Not once has he ever said it correctly, but he says it with confidence anyway. ]

All of the debutantes would be atwitter. And seething in jealousy, of course.

[ Cute, he thinks, instead of being offended by Astarion's terrible pronunciation. Let him be wrong, if he's going to be endearing about it. ]

Jealous of who? You, for keeping a strange foreigner, or me, for being kept by you?

[ Likely the latter. Iorveth chuckles under his breath, listing sideways to rest his head against Astarion's shoulder, amused by how own choice of words. He'd already expressed his disdain for the concept of being anyone's trophy elf, but he wouldn't mind playing at it for one night if it pleases Astarion to indulge in a bit of theater.

(It's actually being confined to the prison of Cazador's palace that would've made Iorveth resent Astarion― this, he's still sure of.) ]

I expect you'd enjoy it if I answered every idiot who approached me with "don't speak to me, I'm his."

[ His, meaning Astarion's. Another half-laugh as Iorveth imagines two mean elves making a fool of everyone else in whatever soiree they show up uninvited in. ]

[ Astarion leaves one hand on the nape of Iorveth's neck, fingers tangling in his slightly damp hair. This is what people do for their loved ones who aren't feeling well, he thinks. They pamper them, pet them, treat them gently. It's novel, but not at all unpleasant.

Despite Astarion's insistence that he does, Iorveth has never really said that he belongs to Astarion, perhaps because of some ridiculous wood elf sentiment that people can't belong to other people, but even hearing it in jest makes him feel warm and fuzzy. His impish grin is so wide that his fangs show; yes, he would enjoy it. ]

Honestly, there's no one else worth talking to, anyway. You wouldn't be missing out.

[ People are boring and irritating and awful. He and Iorveth are really the only ones who truly matter, a belief that isn't unhealthy in the slightest. ]

I wouldn't mind defending your honor from any rakes and rapscallions. [ As if he isn't one himself. ] I'd tell them all that I saw you first.

[ A normal person would say something to the effect of "of course there are people who are worth talking to, the world is full of good people", but Iorveth is of the opinion that every human Baldurian who willingly subscribes to the sort of shitty institutions that put men like Enver Gortash in power suck and deserve to die if they do anything slightly bad, so. There are no good influences here. Instead of being a reasonable elf with moderate stances on things, Iorveth, still woozy, hums in assent and nuzzles closer to Astarion's neck. ]

That would be amusing. [ Airily, because all of this is purely hypothetical, and Iorveth knows that, in reality, not a single person would bother talking to a weird one-eyed elf who looks like he'd rather stab someone before engaging them in conversation. If anyone is strange enough to try, it might be fun watching Astarion dress someone down for sport.

He voices the sentiment, tucking his sly smile against Astarion's collarbone. ] I've found that I enjoy it when you tell people to piss off.

[ Like watching a proud cat refuse unwanted hands with a well-timed hiss. Astarion makes haughty aloofness look pretty. ]

Of course you do. I'm dazzling when I'm berating.

[ It probably isn't a good thing for their personal development that they both enjoy watching each other treat people awfully, but Astarion isn't interested in personal development. Why would he be, when he's already achieved contentment beyond his wildest fantasies with his current unpleasant personality? If Iorveth likes him like this, then he has no inclination to change.

He pets Iorveth's hair, soothing, and hums. ]

I suppose you aren't in any position to come watch me dress down that Fist.

[ Although he hopes to do more than dress him down. A melodramatic sigh. ]

Perhaps I'll have the worm show you.

[ Astarion can be kinder to the world after he's convinced that the world has become kinder to him. Besides, he's shown plenty of progress, which is how even someone as jaded and cynical as Iorveth sees it: Iorveth still thinks that Astarion's first forays into choice in the underground caverns of Cazador's palace were impossibly impressive, thus worth commending and upholding.

His beautiful, very problematic cat. Iorveth lists even more against Astarion's side, effectively soothed by the gentle touch to his hair (it's so stupid, how safe Astarion makes him feel sometimes)―

―until the mention of Henrik makes him tense. ]

...I want to see that human dead as much as you do, [ which is not a "hey, maybe you should just leave the guy alone"; Iorveth is not a good person, ] but you'd be putting yourself in danger.

[ Sitting up, Iorveth untangles himself from the comfortable cradle of Astarion's shoulder to make eye contact. ]

Astarion. You remember what I said about what I'd do if any harm came to you.

[ If he needs a reminder, Iorveth will be all to happy to give it to him. "I'd burn this entire city down as retribution." ]

[ Astarion frowns, more at Iorveth moving away than anything he's said. He reaches out, urging him back with an insistent tug. It had felt good to have Iorveth, weary and drained, leaning on him for support, and he doesn't give up things that feel good easily. After all, there are so very few of them. ]

I'm not going to challenge him to fisticuffs. I'm going to get a new dagger first.

[ His tone practically screams 'duh'. Once he actually has a weapon and the opportunity to get the drop on Henrik, he's confident he'll come out of that scuffle the victor. Iorveth would be correct, though, in assuming that 'get dagger' and 'stab Henrik' are the only two points in his plan for revenge; the entire middle is a big question mark.

An unimportant detail. He'll wing it. ]

And you don't have to be jealous. [ Said as if there's any chance that that's the issue Iorveth has with this. ] I won't drink a single drop of his blood.

[ Effectively tugged back, Iorveth gives up his center of gravity and settles back against Astarion's shoulder with a slump and a huff.

To the tune of "I am very fond of you, but": ] Have you given any thought to this beyond "find a sharp object and stick it in the Fist's skull"?

[ Credit where credit is due: Astarion managed not to be discovered and killed in the 200 years he spent gathering victims for Cazador, and has shown himself to be resourceful and capable over the course of their Illithid-related journey. That said, sometimes Iorveth marvels at the fact that Astarion is, for a given value of the word, alive.

(Pot, kettle, etc.)

He pinches Astarion's knee, which, in Iorveth's current state, is as effective as a wolf trying to bite someone with no teeth. ]

The Fists are like ants. They mill about, finding strength in numbers. You can't go around stabbing every red-armored human until you get to the right one.

[ That's better. With Iorveth forcibly cuddling him, he tilts his head to rest his temple against the crown of Iorveth's head, resuming his petting like a spoiled child forcing his new puppy to endure his love. This is the sort of display of affection he found entirely pathetic for two hundred years—and the sort he'd still be embarrassed to be caught doing—but now that he has someone to do it with, it has its appeal.

When he replies, his voice is airy, like discussing the mass murder of the Flaming Fists is just a sweet nothing to be mumbled into Iorveth's pointy ear. To him, it practically is. ]

Why not? That sounds like an excellent idea. Hells, I'll throw in the dwarves and tieflings, too.

[ He'd add the elves, too, if it weren't liable to upset Iorveth. They can live another day, but they're on thin ice. ]

The less people with swords who know about a one-eyed terrorist, the better.

[ Another soft breath, though he does very little to break the comfortable tangle they've re-established. If anything, he worms closer (much to the tuxedo cat's displeasure) and loops his good arm around Astarion's waist, wondering if cuddling could actually persuade Astarion to stay here and not get himself thrown into a dungeon in Wyrm's Rock Fortress.

Worth a shot. He noses at Astarion's collar and presses his mouth to an open patch of neck, idly nibbling to watch pale skin bloom pink. ]

There'll be scores of them.

[ Honestly, he's surprised that half of them didn't quit after Gortash gave himself the keys to the city; Iorveth truly cannot imagine degrading himself by serving under that greasy-looking raccoon, and thus, considers anyone under Enver Gortash's employ to be useless rabble.

Anyway. Another light bite, just under Astarion's fangmark scars. ]

I don't envy your stabbing arm. Think of how sore you'll be.

[ Hard labor! The horror. ]

Edited 2024-10-23 02:43 (UTC)

Oh, I don't mind a bit of soreness, [ comes out automatically, suggestive and mischievous, before he remembers that one of them is already more than sore. Now is not the time to try to get into Iorveth's pants, even if the sensation of Iorveth's blunt teeth scraping against his skin tickles a long-neglected part of his brain. He does crane his neck regardless; he can still have a little light nibbling as a treat. ]

It would be worth it.

[ It really would. Peace of mind is priceless, and knowing that he's stamped out one potential avenue for having Iorveth—and consequently, happiness—taken away from him would provide at least a modicum of that. He's spent all of this time ruminating on the possibility of Iorveth choosing to abandon him when there's also the chance that someone takes him away unwillingly.

A selfish reason to fear harm coming to Iorveth, really. He was right when he said that Astarion was afraid of everything, but he's afraid of getting hurt more than anything.

Sweetly: ] I'd stab a thousand Fists for you, my dear, and only partly because I like stabbing.

[ Ugh. Worth it, Astarion says, and the spark of conviction that Iorveth thinks he hears makes it difficult for him to contest. Iorveth is weak to courage in general, but doubly so when it's Astarion exhibiting signs of it.

Triply so, considering that the courage is in his name. It's mind-numbingly sweet. Plenty of Seidhe have pledged their lives to him throughout the course of their hopeless fight against extinction, but it's never felt like this.

Iorveth shivers, and runs his tongue over the harmless lovebite he's made. ]

Absurd. [ It's not worth doing all that if Astarion winds up imprisoned for it. But the retort lacks teeth (ha), and Iorveth kisses up the rise of Astarion's throat with bald-faced affection. ]

I couldn't stop you from doing anything in this state. [ He'll need another half day of rest until he's back on his feet again, maybe faster if he gets a potion or two in him. Until then, he's confined to this gnome-sized bed with a cat kneading biscuits on his leg. ] But－

[ Hm, he hums. Clearly debating whether or not he wants to finish that thought. The woozy, bloodless part of his brain tells him that he has very little to lose. ] －At least stay until I trance again.

[ Again with the horrible, terrifying request for Astarion to stay. His grip tightens around Astarion's waist like a tug to a sleeve. ]

[ You couldn't stop me from doing anything in any state, he thinks but doesn't say. Astarion would just opine about being freedom and independence and Iorveth would eventually have no choice but to fold. Honestly, he's too easy. ]

If you wanted a snuggle, you could have just said so.

[ Like he isn't the one who forced Iorveth to keep cuddling him. Sue him! After two centuries being disgusted by the feeling of another person's body against his, he finally has somebody he actually enjoys being close to. Every second with Iorveth feels like he's erasing one of those old, shameful memories and replacing it with a better one. It's only reasonable that he takes as much advantage of that as he can.

The bed is too small for an elf, much less two elves, but he crams himself into the tiny space regardless, legs bent in order to keep his feet from dangling off. He usually prefers to be the one cradled, but Iorveth is unwell, so he generously maneuvers him to lie against his chest.

Max the tuxedo cat jumps up onto the mattress to join them, and Astarion nudges him with a spindly knee. ]

Get lost, furball.

[ Torture will be the only way Iorveth could ever be persuaded to say the word "snuggle", but it is, in fact, what he's angling for, so he can't be irate about it. Folding himself to the best of his ability without leaning on his injured shoulder, he settles his head against Astarion's collarbone and drapes an arm over his stomach. ]

Let it stay, [ Iorveth murmurs. ] I'm starting to develop an affinity for cats.

[ Clearly. He crooks a finger at Max, who happily steps over Astarion and tries to wedge itself in the space between Iorveth's bent knees and his stomach.

Three's a crowd on this small bed, but Iorveth's tired body benefits from the huddle; it doesn't take long for him to fall back into his trance, this one deeper than the last despite the little part of his brain that always screams at him to be alert and aware of his surroundings.

He can only hope that Astarion doesn't get arrested during his extended nap. Gods. ]

[ It's difficult to extract himself from both Iorveth and the cat, but Astarion is nothing if not nimble. Once Iorveth is unconscious, Astarion crawls over him and onto his feet, stepping lightly on the creaky floorboards. Max couldn't care less that he's going; he only nuzzles closer to Iorveth, purring steadily.

The one benefit of having spent most of his life in taverns is that he learned where people—Flaming Fists included—tend to congregate. Even still, it's a good couple of hours before he returns, a brand new shiny dagger on his hip and blood on his shirt and palms. His cold skin is damp with the sweat of exertion, and he's sporting a nick to his chin and the beginnings of a pommel-shaped bruise to his temple, but he's mostly intact.

He's quite a bit clumsier about crawling back in to bed, made fatigued by the struggle. All he can do is try to avoid Iorveth's injured arm when he flops down into the crevice between the mattress and the wall. He's smearing blood and sweat on the sheets, but he really couldn't care less.

At least until Dolores finds them in the early morning and shrieks, dropping the plate of food she'd been carrying in shock. "Garl's golden nugget!" she squeals. ]

[ Iorveth only opens his eye once between falling unconscious and being properly roused by the sound of Dolores dropping her food (what a waste!!!)－ Astarion's absence had been unsettling, but he'd made the executive decision not to hand-wring over a grown-ass elf's decision to go do something on his own. Gods forbid Astarion want to have fun on his own every once in a while.

Now, finding the pleasant weight of a familiar body near his, Iorveth is content with the outcome of the night despite the heavy scent of blood in the air and the fuzzy discoloration on Astarion's face that's slowly starting to come into focus. The best case scenario, all things considered.

Sleepily: ] Don't cause a scene. [ To the poor gnome, who has every right to be incredibly alarmed by the sight of two strange, bloody and battered elves: ] My cat brought back a mouse, is all this is.

[ In spirit, not literally. Iorveth would not actually have appreciated Iorveth bringing Henrik's literal head back for his approval. He feels groggy, but significantly better than he did the night prior; amazing, what a long rest can do.

Sitting up, he swings his legs over the side of the bed, uprooting Max who, after a plaintive whine, scurries onto the floor and sniffs at the scrambled eggs scattered on the floorboard.

"Gods, am I keeping murderers in my home?!" Dolores hiss-yells. From directly above them, the old man's voice bellows: "SWEET PEA? DID YOU TRIP OVER THE CATS AGAIN?" ]

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