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Getting me comfortable like this? The poets could discuss it extensively.
[ They're comfortable, however, and he doesn't want to do too much to ruin the moment.
Even now, with how far they've come as a group of misfits and weirdos, Astarion wants to take the quiet moments when he can. He knows that outside the tent the others could be discussing, preparing to tease them both, to make some silly comment, and he can't blame them: he'd do much the same. If he can keep this close to himself for a few moments longer, however... He'd keep it to himself, but he'd enjoy it.
Lifting his head, Astarion raises his eyebrows before he smiles softly, settling into the comfort of being held. ]
But they can wait. I'm rather enjoying myself, and I would hate to be interrupted.
[ They're comfortable, however, and he doesn't want to do too much to ruin the moment.
Even now, with how far they've come as a group of misfits and weirdos, Astarion wants to take the quiet moments when he can. He knows that outside the tent the others could be discussing, preparing to tease them both, to make some silly comment, and he can't blame them: he'd do much the same. If he can keep this close to himself for a few moments longer, however... He'd keep it to himself, but he'd enjoy it.
Lifting his head, Astarion raises his eyebrows before he smiles softly, settling into the comfort of being held. ]
But they can wait. I'm rather enjoying myself, and I would hate to be interrupted.
Sometimes, yes. I'm familiar.
[ Astarion had been on the other side of that often enough; crafting an illusion, the mirage of seduction, to do what was necessary for his Master. Growing away from that is a difficult process, shrugging off two centuries of shackles to try and become a person again rather than whatever he had been before.
All of them are being forced to come face to face with demons they'd rather ignore, and it has been difficult for each one. There is no denying it.
He doesn't want to talk in circles, to fall into the trap of it all, so instead - ]
And now we are growing.
[ Astarion had been on the other side of that often enough; crafting an illusion, the mirage of seduction, to do what was necessary for his Master. Growing away from that is a difficult process, shrugging off two centuries of shackles to try and become a person again rather than whatever he had been before.
All of them are being forced to come face to face with demons they'd rather ignore, and it has been difficult for each one. There is no denying it.
He doesn't want to talk in circles, to fall into the trap of it all, so instead - ]
And now we are growing.
Of all the things we've done at the dead of night, I'd be surprised that this would be the thing that piques their attention.
[He can't help but snort at the thought- a quiet little sound of mirth that is more a rush of air out of his nostrils than aught else. But it does make sense for their campmates to take notice. Astarion, as was his wont, took a special delight in pulling up their quirks and peculiarities and ridiculing them relentlessly for them. Turnabout, in their eyes most likely, would be fair play.
Yet that hardly mattered. He's more than confident that Astarion and his (at times, scathing) tongue would likely be able to turn any sort of commentary around on any foolish enough to bring it up.
He turns his attention fully to the other man, deciding to comb his hand through his curls. A risky move, normally, given how fastidious the other could be about his appearance and most specifically, his hair. Yet his lap has likely ruined the back of it already, and besides. His shoulders are finally starting to loosen up.]
I'm glad. You've never had anyone do this for you before, have you?
[A bit direct, granted. But such was his way.]
[He can't help but snort at the thought- a quiet little sound of mirth that is more a rush of air out of his nostrils than aught else. But it does make sense for their campmates to take notice. Astarion, as was his wont, took a special delight in pulling up their quirks and peculiarities and ridiculing them relentlessly for them. Turnabout, in their eyes most likely, would be fair play.
Yet that hardly mattered. He's more than confident that Astarion and his (at times, scathing) tongue would likely be able to turn any sort of commentary around on any foolish enough to bring it up.
He turns his attention fully to the other man, deciding to comb his hand through his curls. A risky move, normally, given how fastidious the other could be about his appearance and most specifically, his hair. Yet his lap has likely ruined the back of it already, and besides. His shoulders are finally starting to loosen up.]
I'm glad. You've never had anyone do this for you before, have you?
[A bit direct, granted. But such was his way.]
I wouldn't. They're terribly nosey, the lot of them.
[ It would be more alarming to hear quiet and tenderness from the tent than other things, considering the nature of their relationship and how often he had been the one to poke and tease at their fellow companions; Astarion would expect nothing less from them. Karlach and Wyll might be a little more subdued, that is true enough, but he doesn't imagine for even a moment that Gale and Shadowheart would be willing to bite their tongues.
He'll bite back, of course, in the metaphorical sense. Literal bites are reserved for specific occasions these days.
Astarion does twitch a little at the touch to his hair, concerned, but - well. It's not as if he can fix his hair perfectly himself, with no reflection to help him, and if he asks then he's sure help will be offered. It's another awkward tenderness he didn't expect for himself, but he appreciates it all the same - being seen in a new way, cherished for more than just what he can offer in the quiet of night and the dark of a bedroom.
Pausing, he hesitates for a moment, as if the truth is a little too much to rationalise before he sighs and waves his hand, dropping it down to touch Tav's arm. ]
No. Who would?
[ It would be more alarming to hear quiet and tenderness from the tent than other things, considering the nature of their relationship and how often he had been the one to poke and tease at their fellow companions; Astarion would expect nothing less from them. Karlach and Wyll might be a little more subdued, that is true enough, but he doesn't imagine for even a moment that Gale and Shadowheart would be willing to bite their tongues.
He'll bite back, of course, in the metaphorical sense. Literal bites are reserved for specific occasions these days.
Astarion does twitch a little at the touch to his hair, concerned, but - well. It's not as if he can fix his hair perfectly himself, with no reflection to help him, and if he asks then he's sure help will be offered. It's another awkward tenderness he didn't expect for himself, but he appreciates it all the same - being seen in a new way, cherished for more than just what he can offer in the quiet of night and the dark of a bedroom.
Pausing, he hesitates for a moment, as if the truth is a little too much to rationalise before he sighs and waves his hand, dropping it down to touch Tav's arm. ]
No. Who would?
Mm.
[He should say more on the subject of their campmates- perhaps he should justify their nosiness a little. Perhaps he should say that they're likely simply curious, or playful- and that he feels that they're hardly strangers now. Or even allies any longer. More like friends.
But, he knows how to choose his battles. He already has his victory for the day- having time with his partner (relatively) relaxed and indulgent enough to partake of his affection. Waxing lyrical about the virtues of camp harmony and ~friendship~ would be pushing it for tonight.
His fingers move to trace slow circles against his scalp, just where neck becomes the base of his skull, his eyes halflidded as they focus upon Astarion's own eyes. So sharp. So piercing- even while his facial expression speaks to hesitation.]
Well...
[He didn't know the half of it, granted. But the picture Astarion had painted of life as one of Cazador's spawns, let alone his scars, hardly presented itself as one of comfort.]
I meant before you were turned. You've barely said anything about your life before that. [A small pause.] I can't imagine you were short of admirers.
[He should say more on the subject of their campmates- perhaps he should justify their nosiness a little. Perhaps he should say that they're likely simply curious, or playful- and that he feels that they're hardly strangers now. Or even allies any longer. More like friends.
But, he knows how to choose his battles. He already has his victory for the day- having time with his partner (relatively) relaxed and indulgent enough to partake of his affection. Waxing lyrical about the virtues of camp harmony and ~friendship~ would be pushing it for tonight.
His fingers move to trace slow circles against his scalp, just where neck becomes the base of his skull, his eyes halflidded as they focus upon Astarion's own eyes. So sharp. So piercing- even while his facial expression speaks to hesitation.]
Well...
[He didn't know the half of it, granted. But the picture Astarion had painted of life as one of Cazador's spawns, let alone his scars, hardly presented itself as one of comfort.]
I meant before you were turned. You've barely said anything about your life before that. [A small pause.] I can't imagine you were short of admirers.
Ah.
[ A difficult question to answer. When Astarion thinks back to his time as a magistrate it is an odd one, confusing to say the least - his foremost memories are the moments when he was close to death, when Cazador had found him and... The less he thinks about that, the better, in the long run. It just makes him feel a kind of sadness deep in his bones that has existed for such a long time, it has simply become a part of him.
The hands in his hair soften him a little bit, however, making his heart feel a little less heavy, and his eyes close briefly. He does not want to think too much about all of those things, but right now? He feels terribly safe, and it makes the burden of confession a little less intolerable.
Sighing, he relaxes, sinking into the legs below him, trying to find words to speak. ]
I don't remember that much, truthfully. There's no one that springs to mind.
[ No one from before he was turned, at least. There is one, or two, from his vampiric days, but those come with their own fair share of grief. ]
[ A difficult question to answer. When Astarion thinks back to his time as a magistrate it is an odd one, confusing to say the least - his foremost memories are the moments when he was close to death, when Cazador had found him and... The less he thinks about that, the better, in the long run. It just makes him feel a kind of sadness deep in his bones that has existed for such a long time, it has simply become a part of him.
The hands in his hair soften him a little bit, however, making his heart feel a little less heavy, and his eyes close briefly. He does not want to think too much about all of those things, but right now? He feels terribly safe, and it makes the burden of confession a little less intolerable.
Sighing, he relaxes, sinking into the legs below him, trying to find words to speak. ]
I don't remember that much, truthfully. There's no one that springs to mind.
[ No one from before he was turned, at least. There is one, or two, from his vampiric days, but those come with their own fair share of grief. ]
[ growing, she thinks with a little gust of breath, is one word for it. trying to, at any rate, through the growing pains; like flowers left to try to survive under a desert sun. more's the point — ]
Would you look at that. A touch of optimism from you, and you didn't combust into unholy flame.
It appears you're capable of it, after all.
[ checkmate. it's the saddest checkmate ever, derived from the most tragic circumstances possible, but — a proven point is a proven point. small victories. ]
Would you look at that. A touch of optimism from you, and you didn't combust into unholy flame.
It appears you're capable of it, after all.
[ checkmate. it's the saddest checkmate ever, derived from the most tragic circumstances possible, but — a proven point is a proven point. small victories. ]
[ It's not as if their situations could get worse, surely? Tadpoles, the ever present threat of danger, the fear of never being able to overcome anything... Well, he can imagine fewer worse things. ]
Not this time, but if I try it again I'm sure it'll be the end of me.
Not this time, but if I try it again I'm sure it'll be the end of me.
I see.
[The last time Tav had asked this, he had sensed an air of dismissal. Irritation. I was a magistrate at Baldur's Gate, he recalls the other saying. Very dull. Or uninteresting. or trite. The exact wording hardly springs to mind- yet the tone he remembers well. It was a different beast entirely to how he speaks now- adrift. Almost forlorn. He has no doubt that he truly can't remember anything about that time.
Despite his mixed blood affording a far longer lifespan than any human, Tav could not imagine the implications of living over two centuries- let alone what that sort of time could do to the memory. Astarion likely would have lived that and had so much more, were it not for the Gur. (or any other inpromptu murder that might have come his way.) So he does wonder, briefly, if the event, rather than time, rendered everything little but fog.
Not that it is horribly important. No doubt, it would have been little more than a story now. Perhaps a few amusing anecdotes would be peppered in. But it is hardly vital information. He uncoils a tress of the other's hair lightly between his fingertips as he remains silent, smiling slightly, despite himself, as it bounces back into perfection. And, gently:]
Well. I can't think of a better reason than that to do this more often. Perhaps we'll separate from the group for a few hours, when we can. Find somewhere bright, sunny- without numerous creatures, cultists, murderous Githyanki, or goblins baying for our blood- and take a few hours.
..If you want, of course.
[He can hardly predict the answer. But he seems to be enjoying this, so.]
[The last time Tav had asked this, he had sensed an air of dismissal. Irritation. I was a magistrate at Baldur's Gate, he recalls the other saying. Very dull. Or uninteresting. or trite. The exact wording hardly springs to mind- yet the tone he remembers well. It was a different beast entirely to how he speaks now- adrift. Almost forlorn. He has no doubt that he truly can't remember anything about that time.
Despite his mixed blood affording a far longer lifespan than any human, Tav could not imagine the implications of living over two centuries- let alone what that sort of time could do to the memory. Astarion likely would have lived that and had so much more, were it not for the Gur. (or any other inpromptu murder that might have come his way.) So he does wonder, briefly, if the event, rather than time, rendered everything little but fog.
Not that it is horribly important. No doubt, it would have been little more than a story now. Perhaps a few amusing anecdotes would be peppered in. But it is hardly vital information. He uncoils a tress of the other's hair lightly between his fingertips as he remains silent, smiling slightly, despite himself, as it bounces back into perfection. And, gently:]
Well. I can't think of a better reason than that to do this more often. Perhaps we'll separate from the group for a few hours, when we can. Find somewhere bright, sunny- without numerous creatures, cultists, murderous Githyanki, or goblins baying for our blood- and take a few hours.
..If you want, of course.
[He can hardly predict the answer. But he seems to be enjoying this, so.]
[ It's an odd situation, Astarion thinks to himself.
The nature of it is odd in itself - being attacked and turned, not being certain of what was happening but knowing only that he now belonged to someone else, enslaved. It's not something that anyone could have imagined for him, nor could he have predicted it for himself. He was terribly young when Cazador turned him, comparatively, and surely no one could blame him if the shock of it all had been enough to traumatise most of his memories off and away, leaving him with barely a recollection of how he had even appeared.
When he tries to think about it, it is totally foreign. He can remember a little of the curve of his jaw, and the curls in his hair, but defining features? He knows those only through touch now, from being able to reach out and sense the shape of himself. Not only that, but he wouldn't trust the descriptions of most others, considering most of the time he was attempting to seduce them back for their lives to be taken from them. The idea of trusting someone who wanted to sleep with him to be honest was ridiculous.
Lifting his head a little, he looks at Tav before he speaks. ]
I cannot imagine us having time enough between fighting, monsters, strangers and wiggling creatures in our brains, but I suppose we can make an effort.
[ One eye remains open. ]
If you'd like.
The nature of it is odd in itself - being attacked and turned, not being certain of what was happening but knowing only that he now belonged to someone else, enslaved. It's not something that anyone could have imagined for him, nor could he have predicted it for himself. He was terribly young when Cazador turned him, comparatively, and surely no one could blame him if the shock of it all had been enough to traumatise most of his memories off and away, leaving him with barely a recollection of how he had even appeared.
When he tries to think about it, it is totally foreign. He can remember a little of the curve of his jaw, and the curls in his hair, but defining features? He knows those only through touch now, from being able to reach out and sense the shape of himself. Not only that, but he wouldn't trust the descriptions of most others, considering most of the time he was attempting to seduce them back for their lives to be taken from them. The idea of trusting someone who wanted to sleep with him to be honest was ridiculous.
Lifting his head a little, he looks at Tav before he speaks. ]
I cannot imagine us having time enough between fighting, monsters, strangers and wiggling creatures in our brains, but I suppose we can make an effort.
[ One eye remains open. ]
If you'd like.
[Indeed, it is. It is odd, and it is uniquely terrible- to be frozen in time in the singular moment of the worst thing that had ever happened to you. ...That was, until things got even worse with Cazador himself. Tav had hardly scratched the surface of it. Yet he has seen the scars. And even those are horrifying.
But. The parasite, for all of the problems that presents, has enabled Astarion to make his escape. To be free of him- at least for now. Regardless of how many Gur trackers that were sent.
He lowers his head slightly, the slight breath of a laugh laced underneath his words.]
Let's. I'm finding I'm enjoying myself. And if we take our crossbows, we'll be fine. Mostly.
[Strange as it sounds, strange as it feels, there's a very understated joy in this. Not just in the fact that he gets to gaze down at someone oh so very beautiful as they half-doze upon his lap. Astarion is beautiful, after all. But as the night sky is dark and daytime sky is blue, that's a statement that's simply factual.
Instead, his contentment comes from the fact that the other appears entirely relaxed now. That simply sitting around and talking seems to be doing him some good. That for the first time in days, he does not seem to be preoccupied with being tracked, or in siphoning what information he can from the book found within the necromancer's basement.
Astarion must be somewhere closer to feeling contentment, too. Just the fact that Tav's not been (curtly) told to leave so far indicates as much. He turns quiet then, moving his hands away from Astarion's hair to lean back on his hands.
Some time passes. A minute? Ten? Who knows. Then...]
Astarion?
But. The parasite, for all of the problems that presents, has enabled Astarion to make his escape. To be free of him- at least for now. Regardless of how many Gur trackers that were sent.
He lowers his head slightly, the slight breath of a laugh laced underneath his words.]
Let's. I'm finding I'm enjoying myself. And if we take our crossbows, we'll be fine. Mostly.
[Strange as it sounds, strange as it feels, there's a very understated joy in this. Not just in the fact that he gets to gaze down at someone oh so very beautiful as they half-doze upon his lap. Astarion is beautiful, after all. But as the night sky is dark and daytime sky is blue, that's a statement that's simply factual.
Instead, his contentment comes from the fact that the other appears entirely relaxed now. That simply sitting around and talking seems to be doing him some good. That for the first time in days, he does not seem to be preoccupied with being tracked, or in siphoning what information he can from the book found within the necromancer's basement.
Astarion must be somewhere closer to feeling contentment, too. Just the fact that Tav's not been (curtly) told to leave so far indicates as much. He turns quiet then, moving his hands away from Astarion's hair to lean back on his hands.
Some time passes. A minute? Ten? Who knows. Then...]
Astarion?
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