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[illithidnapped]

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[illithidnapped]

An old friend.

At that mention, Astarion wonders if Emet-Selch’s loss was truly won, or if the old creature simply fell prey to overwhelming loneliness. The way emotion resonates so often, unconsciously weakening all defenses.

But he wasn’t there. No way to tell now, he supposes.

The attention sets Astarion’s own focus roaming, eyes drifting shut beneath the soft weight of scuffing fingertips.

“Mmhm. The cat, of course.”

[arkitect]

"Well, of course."

Carried on a hint of a huffed laugh, wry amusement in his tone.

"The cat, after all, is the only one who sleeps as much as I should like to. Truly the ideal companion."

[illithidnapped]

“When you put it like that, I’m surprised you’re not jealous of it instead.”

Wretched nuisance that it is in Astarion’s own opinion, Emet-Selch hardly seems inclined to agree— or vice versa for that matter, given the way it adheres itself to his side, purring even now.

Ugh.

[arkitect]

"Why, don't tell me that you are, to have such thoughts."

A little lazier, slower-- small signs that tiredness is creeping in, though he's not yet yawning with it.

[illithidnapped]

“Only of how much you spoil it, maybe.” That much he’ll readily admit, though perhaps it’s a touch unfair, given the way he’s being catered to at present— one hand of his own falling to rest light across the center of Emet-Selch’s chest.

“But I suppose there’s no harm in sharing from time to time.”

[arkitect]

"And here I thought you were spoiled enough, at least by my own standards."

Case in point: all of this, the way he allows it all easily enough (or just allows it, period.)

"Mayhap I should not go easy on either of you."

[illithidnapped]

“Mayhap you could try”

He confesses, yawning against his own will.

“But I think we both know you’d never be able to see it through.” One pet, one plant thriving away in the nearby sill— one stretch of thousands of years, trying to recover a world long lost.

“You’re a soft heart like that, darling.”

[arkitect]

"And you are hardly all sharp edges yourself."

His gaze drifts to the planter at that, briefly, the hand on astarion's head slowly settling into stillness. One more stroke through his hair.

"...go to sleep, Astarion," he says after that weighted moment, instead of adding anything else to that particular thought.