[Perhaps the world had changed to be a kinder one. Or perhaps not.
At 25 years old, Tav could not offer meaningful opinions even if Astarion felt like voicing these thoughts- yet the fact that Tav was an outlier to the general way of things was obvious. His take (much to Astarion's exasperation a lot of the time) was that it was better to be kind. That if there was a balance in the world, it tipped toward the negative- so upsetting this balance via general acts of boyscoutery was highly unlikely.
...And his confidence helped. He was well aware that he left himself vulnerable by being kind. Because he knew he could handle any and all betrayals of this kindness. He was a sorcerer, after all. And the fact that he now traveled with powerful company hardly changed matters.
Regardless. The ear in question is looking much better now- so he draws his hand away, recorking the bottle and crosses his arms over the vampire spawn's chest, clearly with no intention to move.]
Ulterior motives? Sounds like I've missed a trick. Tell me what I should be doing.
[He can't help but laugh. Light, gentle- yet his gaze is distinctly amused as he looks down to the other.]
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.
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?
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. ]
[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.
[ 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. ]
[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.
[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...]
[ The tenderness is still something strange and unusual for Astarion, still something he is painfully adjusting to - but he wants more of this. He finds himself longing for the soft touches, the smiles, the way that he could reach out and stroke his hands over skin without the need for it to lead to something more. Being able to ask for it is a whole different matter entirely, however, and he doesn't feel as though he quite has the confidence for that level of vulnerability.
Things are progressing, however, and he is getting better. More comfortable. Settled. He can believe that there is something more to this, something real, and he doesn't want to let it go.
Smiling, he tilts his head, watching for a long moment. ]
Consider it a date, then, darling.
[ The tension has bled out of him, leaving him comfortable and settled, and he can simply allow himself to feel this. He can let himself take the comfort, the contentment, all of it - because it is permitted, with no hidden agenda. Astarion is starting to realise he doesn't need to read between the lines of this relationship: they care about one another, and there is no motive beyond caring.
When the hands move away, he tilts his head, pausing when he hears his name. ]
On Tav's side, perhaps his intentions weren't exactly pure the first time he was propositioned by Astarion at camp. In his defense, what had led to it- running the Gur hunter off for instance- was well and truly a decision made with good intentions in mind. As was that night when Astarion had tried to feed off him- of not immediately reaching for a stake, of hearing him out, and of doing his best to understand... and then of offering himself. Solely altruistic, better sense be damned- he hardly had good sense in abundance, anyway.
But yes. Taking Astarion up on his offer of a little fun, at the time, was certainly not anything close.
Even so, what had come after that proposition- the sight of Astarion's scars, a real, tangible display of Cazador's brutality, of identifying their language, of drawing them out so the other man could ponder them, rage over them, of just simply listening while he did all of this- brought about feeling within him. Something altogether more solid than the need to blow off as much steam as possible before ceremorphosis took them all.
He can't help but think, perhaps against what better sense he did have, that Astarion had changed somewhat, as well. Here, in the dim light of his tent, it certainly seemed that way. He's less hardened. Less brittle. Less likely to cut- with his words or... well, literally. If just for this moment.
So.]
...Sorry about your ear.
[He can't help but have a little mirth in his tone as he recalls Astarion's whole... take at being chewed upon while he was feeding- because. Well. the look on his face was priceless.]
[ It is an adjustment, a comfort, to find something or someone that he can let his guard down around. Astarion might never admit it or put it into words, but he is doing what he can to express it, to show the way that he feels now: the fact that he can trust in Tav to take care of him, to ensure his safety, to not hold what he says in anger or frustration against him.
It's painfully strange to admit, but Astarion is getting better at it the more time goes on. He is adjusting, and it's both frightening and wonderful.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the guard and armour he had built around himself has been dismantled, has been cut down and destroyed, and he has bared himself to Tav. From his scars, physical and emotional, to his vulnerabilities and the nature of who he is... Slowly but surely he has come to peace with it all. It's something he can accept now, something that allows him to start to think about the possibility of hope for the future. He'd never had that before.
Tav speaks, and Astarion can't help his little snort of a laugh, shaking his head. ]
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no subject
At 25 years old, Tav could not offer meaningful opinions even if Astarion felt like voicing these thoughts- yet the fact that Tav was an outlier to the general way of things was obvious. His take (much to Astarion's exasperation a lot of the time) was that it was better to be kind. That if there was a balance in the world, it tipped toward the negative- so upsetting this balance via general acts of boyscoutery was highly unlikely.
...And his confidence helped. He was well aware that he left himself vulnerable by being kind. Because he knew he could handle any and all betrayals of this kindness. He was a sorcerer, after all. And the fact that he now traveled with powerful company hardly changed matters.
Regardless. The ear in question is looking much better now- so he draws his hand away, recorking the bottle and crosses his arms over the vampire spawn's chest, clearly with no intention to move.]
Ulterior motives? Sounds like I've missed a trick. Tell me what I should be doing.
[He can't help but laugh. Light, gentle- yet his gaze is distinctly amused as he looks down to the other.]
no subject
[ 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.
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[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.]
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[ 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?
no subject
[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.
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[ 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. ]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.
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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?
no subject
Things are progressing, however, and he is getting better. More comfortable. Settled. He can believe that there is something more to this, something real, and he doesn't want to let it go.
Smiling, he tilts his head, watching for a long moment. ]
Consider it a date, then, darling.
[ The tension has bled out of him, leaving him comfortable and settled, and he can simply allow himself to feel this. He can let himself take the comfort, the contentment, all of it - because it is permitted, with no hidden agenda. Astarion is starting to realise he doesn't need to read between the lines of this relationship: they care about one another, and there is no motive beyond caring.
When the hands move away, he tilts his head, pausing when he hears his name. ]
Yes, darling?
no subject
On Tav's side, perhaps his intentions weren't exactly pure the first time he was propositioned by Astarion at camp. In his defense, what had led to it- running the Gur hunter off for instance- was well and truly a decision made with good intentions in mind. As was that night when Astarion had tried to feed off him- of not immediately reaching for a stake, of hearing him out, and of doing his best to understand... and then of offering himself. Solely altruistic, better sense be damned- he hardly had good sense in abundance, anyway.
But yes. Taking Astarion up on his offer of a little fun, at the time, was certainly not anything close.
Even so, what had come after that proposition- the sight of Astarion's scars, a real, tangible display of Cazador's brutality, of identifying their language, of drawing them out so the other man could ponder them, rage over them, of just simply listening while he did all of this- brought about feeling within him. Something altogether more solid than the need to blow off as much steam as possible before ceremorphosis took them all.
He can't help but think, perhaps against what better sense he did have, that Astarion had changed somewhat, as well. Here, in the dim light of his tent, it certainly seemed that way. He's less hardened. Less brittle. Less likely to cut- with his words or... well, literally. If just for this moment.
So.]
...Sorry about your ear.
[He can't help but have a little mirth in his tone as he recalls Astarion's whole... take at being chewed upon while he was feeding- because. Well. the look on his face was priceless.]
no subject
It's painfully strange to admit, but Astarion is getting better at it the more time goes on. He is adjusting, and it's both frightening and wonderful.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the guard and armour he had built around himself has been dismantled, has been cut down and destroyed, and he has bared himself to Tav. From his scars, physical and emotional, to his vulnerabilities and the nature of who he is... Slowly but surely he has come to peace with it all. It's something he can accept now, something that allows him to start to think about the possibility of hope for the future. He'd never had that before.
Tav speaks, and Astarion can't help his little snort of a laugh, shaking his head. ]
You are very forgiven, I assure you.