illithidnapped

[Somewhere in his head, Astarion's doing the rough-cut math: fourteen thousand years versus the nominal span of a typical mortal life? It's beyond night and day. Quicker than the blink of an eye. The vampire's eyes narrow slightly as he studies closely the set of Emet-Selch's otherwise passive expression, searching for a glimpse of something lurking just beneath the surface.]

So they didn't inherit your gifts.

[He sits upright in his seat, elbows across his knees, bundle still tucked in the crook of his arm.]

Did it bother you, that disparity? Watching them trudge on without you?

Of course it did. After all, everyone was nigh-eternal, once.

[There's a little more softness to his tone, less of an edge in his expression.]

They should never have become so short-lived. Susceptible to such fragility, vulnerable to illness. 'Twas best never to become attached to such a fleeting presence, when it was I who went on without them.

[Silent for a few beats more, Astarion pauses before he sets his intended gift aside— rising to his feet and crossing the distance, making the matter of meeting that mattress and straddling Emet-Selch with shapeless, shifting ease all the more nominal. Simple as breathing.

His gloved palms rest flat against Emet-Selch's chest, thumbs sinking into fabric.]

But you did grow attached.

[It gets him to glance up, watching Astarion-- evaluating, mostly, just what this is. Whether just a distraction from the topic, despite not changing the subject, or whether he simply has something else in mind beyond talking.

Emet-Selch doesn't reach up in turn, not at the moment, leaving his hands resting on the bed.]

...a momentary lapse, with the first of them. I did not repeat the same mistake with my other offspring, nor their own children.

[Astarion hadn’t expected a stirring response to his touch, truth be told: predatory as he is by default, the scent of figurative blood in the water will always draw his interest— and he can’t claim innocuity in this moment, knowing exactly what he himself was made for.

Well. Remade for.

And some learned habits don’t die easily.]

You know, [He starts, focused only on toying with the embroidered front of Emet-Selch’s coat.] your life could be normal here. You could have a family, if you wanted. One that’ll outlive you instead— though you’d need to find a native that wouldn’t shiver at the idea of that shard in your palm. Or the fact that eventually it’ll poison you.

But still. Small road bumps in the way of a little normalcy.

There is naught guaranteed to anyone with a mortal life.

[A quiet correction-- he outlived one child in his human lifetime, after all, and two more members of the royal family didn't make it much longer than Solus did. There are no promises in life, nothing to say they would not be lost as well.

One hand lifts, fingers wrapping around Astarion's wrist, but he doesn't pull his hand away for the moment; just holds it still.]

Nor is it completely certain that I have one, despite working under the assumption that I likely do. And assuming that should prove true-- I would have to have an interest in pursuing such a life to begin with.

Just how much do you believe I would even have in common, at this point, with those who have always dwelled in this world?

[Even among those who work here, who are more used to Rifters-- it's a heavy gap to bridge, between a being with his lifespan and anyone who has only ever been mortal.

It's a different thing entirely to consider whether he would want to share a life with anyone at all.]

[There's no objection to the way he's stilled; Astarion simply falls in like with it as though it were a correction, crimson stare lifting briefly now that there's nothing else left to distract him.]

Would you need to have anything in common just to care for someone? To let them warm your bed for a decade or two?

Plenty of people seem to get on just fine without it... [Well.] sometimes.

I do not know that I would care for them if we did not. If there were not at least some similarity, some capacity for them to understand.

[It's something that's been missing for a very long time. Something he only really had with a pair of people who he never would see in that sort of way, who used to be a brother and a colleague-- and then something that felt almost close enough to touch with a third, but which could never truly solidify.

It might exist here, just-- not with someone like that.]

Edited 2021-11-02 18:02 (UTC)

[Astarion is quiet, settled easily like silt. Like dust.

His fingers flex, smile twitching as it widens by the faintest measure, though his expression remains unreadable.]

I suppose everyone has their type.

I would not call it having a 'type,' to simply desire some form of common ground. Far too broad, for one.

[Entirely too simple, too easy.

He arches a brow, though, as his other hand finally shifts to settle on Astarion's hip.]

But I would not have expected you to have much interest in the subject.

[It's a welcome weight. Welcome warmth, too, and his snared hand shifts only a little lower, as if testing the limits of Emet-Selch's patience.]

What, romance? Or your preferences.

I suppose both.

[He lets that hand drift, the slight flexing of his fingers at Astarion's wrist the only outward sign he's paying attention to it at all.]

After all, surely you've little reason to be concerned about my preferences, when you've had what you want.

[-and can likely continue to.]

[There, he shrugs, letting his shoulders lift and fall with little in the way of fanfare or fuss. Assuming a lax grip is something akin to permission, he begins tugging idly at the fasteners lining Emet-Selch's coat once more.]

I find it fascinating, really. Novel in a way that very few things are.

Everyone tends to gravitate at times— like craving salt or sugar, water or wine.

And just what manner of craving is it for you, in this case?

[It's permission enough, it seems-- or at least Emet-Selch isn't stopping him, allowing the coat to be undone and shrugging it from his shoulders as it loosens. In turn, he reaches to tug at one of Astarion's gloves in a moment where his fingers aren't occupied, trying to pull it free.]

[That, at least, is a slower process. More reluctant despite the fact that no one is present that will bat so much as an eyelash at Astarion’s shard.]

Royalty, apparently.

Though I hadn’t planned on it. Hadn’t even considered it until recently, when I was tallying the score, so to speak.

[The glove falls away, and Astarion shifts forward to sprawl as lazily as the cat drawn out somewhere off in sunlight, folding his forearms across Emet-Selch’s chest: the man is significantly taller than Astarion himself, which means he’s a luxury of space to admire.

And, come to think of it:]

Tall royalty.

[It's a process he pays more mind to, once he notes that reluctance; he spends a little more focus on it, long fingers entangled with Astarion's, working the glove off at a more leisurely pace rather than simply pulling faster to get it free. He still finds it more comfortable to leave his own on, around others-- this is something he doesn't question, much as it makes him wonder.]

Well, you do have a taste for the finer things, do you not?

[The fact that he hasn't been royalty since he cast off his last mortal identity is something he chooses, for now, not to make a point of. Astarion rests against him, and the hand at his hip shifts for that arm to drape around his waist instead.]

Here I thought I had a more unique manner of appeal to you, and now I find I am merely one among a list of the same.

[Said lightly, amused; the exaggerated sigh that eases its way from him carries no true disappointment in its tone.]

It’s a short list, if that helps. And you were—

[A pause, his chin sinking down against Emet-Selch’s collarbone.]

Oh. No, actually. You were the second, come to think of it.

[He’s teasing again. The way he digs in figurative claws to demand a rise of attention or response: unconcerned with the nature of it as much as the baseline promise of a reaction at his own prompting.

The arm around his waist feels snug. Comfortable.

Contentment comes easily.]

But I wonder, does an emperor trump a king?

[He leaves his arm there, comfortable enough himself with the arrangement. It may not be as warm as it would be with others, but that hardly bothers him; the closeness is something he indulges in more, in allowing this of anyone.

There's a roll of his eyes at that tease, not addressing it immediately with a verbal reaction-- he just reaches for Astarion's other hand to repeat the process and remove his other glove, his gaze dropping to follow as he does.]

I'm sure I don't know, [he hums out, the contemplative tone of his voice just overdone enough that it's clearly for show; he glances back to Astarion, then, when he continues.] Did this king of yours put forth a better showing?

[The answer itself isn't particularly important, especially when he half expects it to be 'yes' regardless of whether that's the truth.]

Oh my darling, I could never compare you two. It’s like night against day, or a wine against brandy: you’re both beautiful in your own ways. Tantalizing, distinctive— gravitational.

[And Astarion adores indulgence for what it is. For the comfort it brings, even if the silence left in its wake is a wicked mistress.]

But...if I had to name a victor...

You.

[The sweetest lie ever spoken as he sets his mouth to the warmer span of Emet-Selch’s chest, one long fang gently catching at the edge of his own attentive grin.]

Yes, I'm sure.

[Still faintly amused, a smirk pulling at his own lips. His other hand lifts, thumb brushing Astarion's cheek-- that answer is taken no more seriously than it would have been if he claimed Emet-Selch to be the loser between the two.]

And no doubt it has naught to do with flattery, nor with ensuring nothing here is cut short. Are we truly incomparable if you can name a victor regardless?

How do you expect me to look into that handsome face of yours and say something reasonable?

Honestly. [His cheek presses against the Ascian’s touch, as fond of it as a plant stretching out in search of the barest glimpse of sunlight.]

Don't ask questions you don't want the answer to.

[He continues the touch, at that reaction-- finishes brushing over his cheekbone and cups the side of his face, allowing Astarion to lean into it if he likes.]

Oh, I did want the answer. It just didn't particularly matter which it was.

[Just which he chose, and Emet is pleased enough with the decision.]

Oh.

[Impressed. Approving. Smile widening by degrees as he sinks in against the curve of that palm, relaxed down to the very marrow of his bones.

It's not often he finds someone so thoroughly devoid of pretense without also lacking in spine.]

Well in that case, how free are you this afternoon?

Free enough for what you have in mind, no doubt.

[Though, as he observes the way Astarion relaxes further into that touch, he adds:]

Or free enough for you to simply stay, if you can tolerate the place long enough.

[It doesn't have to be anything more; this can be an indulgence of its own.]

The former, darling. Always.

[Teasing. Coy, to say the least. He’s in a good mood, having been granted a peerless gift, flattery, indulgence— and a glimpse of tangible sorrow. Few things satisfy as much.

Or whet his appetite so.

He draws himself up, then, pulling away the loose fabric of his shirt— discarding it with the darkest of chuckles in the brightest streak of daylight. And when he pounces, catching the former emperor’s mouth with his own, it’s in anticipation of wickedness that will undoubtedly span an entire afternoon.]

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