illithidnapped | INBOX II

Maybe. Maybe like…

[ Bastien is no good at accents. That has to be the Maker specifically nerfing him, though, because he is otherwise so excellent at impressions that he would have been unstoppable. His replication of tenor and cadence, phrasing, feeling—all as flawless as they could be without literal shapeshifting. Posture and expression, too, but that’s useless through a crystal.

So for the next few words, he does sound very much like Fenris, if Fenris were feeling a little off (to so familiar an ear, at least) and had some Orlesian mangling that lovely/sinister Tevinter accent. ]

I find myself picky as I settle into middle age.

[ Something Fenris has said to him before. Testing it out as a baseline before the real proposal; next he sounds like a fellow might sound if talking like Fenris required talking from deep in the chest, with a natural voice that’s reedier, thinner, and higher. ]

I find myself picky as I settle into middle age.

[ Maybe it is also how Fenris might sound if he stubbed his toe badly enough. Who knows? Not Bastien. ]

Like that.

[It certainly gets a laugh out of Astarion, if nothing else— and really, it's not bad as far as impressions go. Orlesian lilt aside, he's rather endeared to the likeness.

And the idea behind it, too.]

And for a moment I almost thought he was here with us. [Mm. No, he didn't.]

But no, darling, much as I hate to spoil the fun of picturing him shedding that unique voice of his like a thick coat or heavy pair of gloves at the end of the day, that's...actually what he sounds like. All the time.

[And there are parts of Astarion that wonder if that tireless gruffness was once part of his training too: yet another wolfish trait Danarius had imparted upon the creature kept ever at his side (very, very likely, he imagines), but that would spoil the mood to bring up in conversation— and it isn't really his place to besides, regardless of whether or not Fenris would mind.

His privacy is his own.

And speaking of which...]

Might I ask what inspired this curious little question of yours?

You could've easily asked him yourself, you know. It's not as if he bites. And he's much less likely than I am to lie.

Infinitely less, in fact.

You would lie to me?

[ Shocked. Appalled.

He's laughing a little while he says it.

But as part of the same joke, he's perfectly honest in his answer: ]

I did not ask him because I do not know him as well, and it is a ridiculous thing to ask someone, and it is really only a pretext to ask you about him. You were quick to go from one bed?! to I will share with Fenris—and I know you have your choice of bedfellows.

Oh, well it—

[Wait.]

What? No—

Bedfellows? No. It's just. [Go ahead, Astarion. Say no again.] He and I trust one another, that's all.

[In ways that run deeper than blood. It's fine. And normal!!]

And besides, it wasn't one bed?! It was one bed. One. Bed....d. Hard stop. No lift.

Don't be so bloody Orlesian, you're in Kirkwall for gods' sake.

And don't think I don't know what exactly you're up to with this. I do.

[ Interesting, that Astarion doesn't take the opportunity to insinuate that there is something going on, truthfully or not. Sex is so much easier to come by than trust. Much less revealing.

On his end of the crystal, Bastien's head tilts curiously, and he waits out the rest of the response with great patience. ]

What am I up to?

[ A little warmth. It's a genuine question—what Astarion thinks he's trying to do. ]

[A h. That's the thing about pushy declarations, they don't actually scare off anyone clever enough to either A: see through them or B: follow through. In other words, this is the part where Astarion's given nickname of oison really does stand out like a sore thumb.]

You—

You're prying, obviously. Sniffing around for dirt, just like you did on the network not so long ago.

Well it won't work. Trust me when I say there's nothing to stick your curious little snoot into.

[And you know what? That last bit? Shockingly sounds sincere, in fact— even if he has been covering his own figurative tracks.]

Ah, mon oison—

[ speaking of ]

—I am curious about so many things besides who is fucking. And I like you, [ to continue treating forthright honesty like a sport he can win at, ] so I like to hear about your life.

I am glad you are finding people to trust, though. That’s a lot harder than finding someone to sleep with, in my experience—and my experience has been so much kinder than yours.

[It disarms him, that assurance. Obviously it’s meant to, and there’s a part of him that knows that, but there’s also far more of Astarion that believes it.

So...yes. He drops his guard. A little. As much as he knows how when he’s speaking to someone that isn't Fenris or Ellie: the pair that've come to take up full time residence in his withered, blackened heart. It lives in the way his voice drops. Tone lighter. Far, far more fragile when Astarion finally adds:]

He—

He means a great deal to me, you know.

[A truth.

An understatement.]

And it’s not that I wouldn’t sleep with him [The words 'I'm not blind' muttered somewhere underneath his breath as emphasis underlining the fact that yes, the man is absolutely alluring by Astarion's surprisingly picky standards.] and it’d certainly be a lot easier to discuss if we were knocking figurative boots. It’s that he isn’t—

Well. I’m not his type.

[ Because he's heard the way Fenris speaks about the people in his past. The exchanges he's had, and held, and left behind. Because Astarion’s tried before, after all, painted in a thousand near misses and absolute misses, and the longer time goes on, the more Astarion finds himself at ease with that truth despite all his longing. Loki once said love can transcend things like that.

Astarion’s starting to believe it.]

And that’s fine. Really. Mostly.

Sort of.

[Look.]

I don’t care if it’s unrequited, so long as he stays. And I worry, after his memory loss. It’s not as if the Venatori don’t experiment on everything they can get their filthy little hands on. What if—

[He cuts himself off there, breath leaving him in a narrow, constricted little noise that's squeezed out through set fangs.]

Tch.

Look, if there really are Crows in Antiva looking to hurt anyone aligned with us, then I want to be with him.

I want to make sure he’s all right.

[Because so much more than anything else:]

I can’t lose him again.

[ Bastien frowns at his crystal, as it spills out far more than he’d expected. ]

My first love—

[ Is this Astarion’s? It seems likely that it’s the first he can remember, or at least the first he’s experiencing as something aching instead of friendly and fizzy. ]

I wasn’t his type, either.

[ Bastien doesn’t want to talk about Vincent. He’s not mentioning it to talk about it. Only to make a tacit promise to be as careful with this raw piece of heart as he would have wanted someone to be with his own. There won’t be any further eyebrow waggling from his corner. ]

You won’t lose him. He will be alright. We are taking a lot of precautions—and you will look out for him. [ Gently, ] And he will look out for you, non?

[ Not rhetorical. He wants to hear it. It’s one thing not to be someone’s type. It’s another to be so entirely devoted to someone who doesn’t care—as a friend or brother or whatever other way they can offer—just as much in return. ]

Most likely. He’s a very devoted creature, I think.

[Mine, being the word Astarion had offered, and Fenris had met it so willingly that Astarion amends his own typical cynicism immediately when he adds:]

Yes, actually. I think he will.

[Not that Astarion isn't content to always look after himself first and foremost, but the thought is, admittedly, oddly refreshing. That he has someone at his back to rely on. To safeguard. To cherish, even— and yes, to love, too. Conditionless a thing as it is.

Strange. Wonderful. Terrifying....just a little.

Something Astarion can easily bear in exchange.]

But it’ll be easier to ensure that if we’re sharing the same space. Which reminds me—

[Now that he’s confident this is a safe, trustworthy exchange filled with earnest investment on all sides, and not the (far from malicious) curiosity of a once-spy now bored:]

I won’t be living in Lowtown anymore.

We can still flit about as we like. Fetch something to eat whenever you miss the ferry— you’ll just need to stop by Hightown first. Or 'knock on my crystal', so to speak.

[Horrible joke. Just awful.]

I only mention it because I’d hate for you to turn up at my door and find some ruffian instead.

There are so many in the city’s underside, after all.

Mm. I enjoy a ruffian, now and then.

[ Did enjoy a ruffian, now and then, before everyone but Byerly lost their lustre.

Anyway— ]

Is that safe? Hightown.

[ Elves in Hightown. Bastien knows—he talks to people, he listens well—that Fenris lives there, so it’s no huge leap to imagine where in Hightown Astarion might be staying. And he knows Fenris must know Kirkwall better than any of them.

Still. ]

[A different sort of ruffian, then.

Thought in the beat before his voice shifts away from softness into wryness in its entirety:]

Ohh, you're not worried about us, are you?

I know you are very fast and very fierce.

[ His tone of voice—a touch of sing-song recitation, an equal touch of flatness—makes that complimentary allowance actually mean I am worried anyway. ]

[His own laugh in response is sincere, if nothing else. No false guard or lilting, performative tone. Proof enough that in his own way, he's actually touched by it, that concern.]

And shockingly handsome, too. Can't forget the most important detail.

Between my sharp eyes and his...oddly bare feet [what is it with native elves, huh] that are admittedly probably very good at running, we'll see gilded trouble coming from well far away, I'm sure.

And it's not as if you won't be looking out for us, too.

[And maybe it's unfair to circle back now that they're so far out, but Astarion's conversational tides travel as a habit: with all pressing topics pushed aside, the one detail that's stuck in his head since it was first mentioned is the only thing left clinging to the tip of his tongue.]

...you know, you mentioned your first love, before.

What ever happened to him?

[Not that they couldn't have drifted apart, but Thedas is a tumultuous place, and Astarion imagines it wasn't always easy, living in it as Bastien did.]

[ On his end of the crystal, Bastien’s concerned frown has begun to stretch into a smile, at the jokes and at the fact that Astarion thinks (correctly) Bastien would look out for them. And for Fenris, sure. Bastien hardly knows him, but for Riftwatch’s sake. For Astarion’s.

The question doesn’t make him stop smiling. It makes him smile wider. It’s reflex. Easier and often less suspicious to channel a grimace into a grin than to do nothing at all. ]

Oh.

[ He rubs the smile off his face with his hand. He shouldn’t be caught off guard by this. The circling-back. Bastien does it to people often enough, himself, and Astarion’s done it before. But still. ]

He died. He was hanged—two years ago now.

We hadn’t been close for years before that.

[ A footnote to avoid pity, to avoid claiming any portion of grief larger than rightfully belongs to him. Vincent had a wife. Vincent had three children. They were there when he died—the oldest, at least—and Bastien wasn’t. ]

The lesson to take from this, my young old vampire, [ is lighter, in a gallows humor kind of way, ] is never move on and never get [ mostly ] over anything, or someone will die.

[Strangely enough, Astarion doesn’t laugh.

Mostly because it’s difficult for him to imagine what it might be like, standing in Bastien’s softer soled shoes. Because he doesn’t like the idea of it, he realizes suddenly. Falling for someone the way he’s fallen for Fenris, watching him sink onto someone else’s arms—

Losing him, piece by piece, until it all means next to nothing in hindsight.

So maybe Bastien needs that humor; Astarion can’t be sure.

And he doesn’t ask.

Not about that, at least. His voice still lingering on the edge of lightness when he gives in to a different train of thought:]

Oddly specific, hanging.

[Was he a thief? A mercenary or swindler, perhaps— or just a man unlucky. Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.]

Yes.

[ That's nearly all he says. The instinct to stonewall, to take advantage of other people's willingness to leave things alone. He thinks Astarion, who has in the past tolerated only so much investigation and inspection before his mood has twisted sharply to prickly darkness or sharp-toothed humor to force a subject closed, would understand.

But Astarion has been so awfully honest today.

So, still grimly good-humored: ] A little sedition goes a long way.

[ That is all he's going to say. There's a noise, quiet for him but perhaps loud for Astarion, as he taps his fingernail on the sending crystal twice, like a punctuation mark. ]

I am sorry about his memory loss. That must be...

[ Terrible. Of course. ]

Do you think there is any hope he will recover from it?

I don’t know. [And that’s honest, too. An equally accomodating shift from one brittle topic to the next, much like navigating broken glass while barefoot.

He trusts Bastien enough now to make the effort, even if it is an uncomfortable one.]

It’s possible. But he’s lost— [ah, no. That’s Fenris’ business. Leto’s business. And it isn’t his story to tell.] a great deal, overall.

And it’s not as if our story was any different before then, compared to now.

[His heart didn’t beat for Astarion when they fist met. It doesn’t beat for him now.] I suppose I should be grateful for that. Could’ve been worse.

[Ah. Glass. Just there.]

And if nothing else, he still remembers the Champion of Kirkwall, so I imagine he’s still quite useful to Riftwatch and all its diplomatic needs.

[ Bastien hums in agreeable acknowledgment. Since they're being awfully honest, he won't claim not to give a damn about Fenris' usefulness or connections. The stakes are the world, etc. etc. etc. But that part is not what is interesting at the moment. ]

Was she his type?

[ Was that the emphasis of respect or the emphasis of jealous resentment? ]

[Being Astarion, the latter is the safest bet... and also the correct one, technically.]

Maybe. [He never asked, ghosts being what they are. The way culture in Thedas tends to deify and villify however it pleases, and how discussing it seemed to hurt. Like nooses and old flames, sometimes the hint of a story is enough.]

One of her allies was for certain— not that I actually blame him, given what I’ve heard of her.

[Well.]

Not that I blame him at all, regardless.

I might enjoy every flavor there is to catalogue, but it’s not as if people get to choose which ones actually melt across their tongues.

[Even so:]

...doesn’t mean I’m thrilled to find myself the odd man out, though. Irony of ironies, and all that.

Go two hundred years seducing people and without feeling a thing, and—

Well.

As you Orlesians say: c’est la whatever.

[ A single huff's worth of laughter. ]

Oui. And the whatever goes on. All that has happened to you, everyone you have met since you arrived—in five years you will have seen five times as much.

[ When he was deep in the muck of unrequited love, he would have loathed anyone who told him there was something better waiting. Doubly if they did it from the perch of a dizzyingly happy relationship. So he's not going to say it. He's only going to imply it. That's much better.

What he would have liked someone to offer him, down in that muck—or on his perch, too, honestly— ]

Tell me about him. Nothing private, I mean, but... What is it that has you so aflutter? The eyes?

[ An invitation to gush. ]

[Five years.

A dream he doesn't let himself hope for, and yet wants all the same.]

His eyes, yes. Pretty as they are. [And there's the temptation to leave it at that level precisely. Stick to the figurative shallows of it all: talk about how he's breathtaking to look at, captivating in a fight. The strength of his bridge line or the narrowness of his hips. How his voice thrums when he speaks, so characteristically his own, and unmistakably unique. The little downturned slant to his ears, a little doggish— and entirely precious, compared to the knifing sharpness (ignoring the local terminology) of the ears Astarion possesses and is used to from his life in Toril (not home, anymore).

At first, yes, back when this world was all fresh tracks in untouched snow to his mind, he was drawn to each of those superficial facets with ease, but now...]

I wasn't alone, you know. In enslavement, I mean. Enthrallment. Whatever you want to call it.

My master had countless other spawn at his beck and call, and when he sent me out to hunt for him— as I've mentioned to you before— I was at least able to drown myself for a time in the company of the living. [And soon to be dead.] I knew people. I thought I knew them all, much in the same way I imagine a bard does, too: set your sights on someone, watch them for a time, and their world might as well make itself into an open book.

Usually an ugly one.

And it never bothered me so much that I was a monster when everyone else around me was one too, albeit just a different sort of breed: the rich, the greedy, the callous, the lustful, the utterly, selfishly spoiled— who always will be exactly what they are from the moment they're born till the day they die.

[There are times when he's proud of his fangs. His eyes. His ability to be terrible and terrifying in perfectly equal floes. There are times when he can't stand to look in the mirror, if only because he still sees everything he's lost for good.]

He's different.

And I don't mean because he understands what it is to be so trapped, and I don't mean because he suffered. I've met plenty of others that have in all its varying degrees, and there certainly isn't a shortage here.

When he's beside me, I find myself capable of so much more than I ever thought possible.

[Not better. Not kinder. Not gentler, the way some people insist it's meant to go, where betterment is the only goal of being near someone else, just— ]

I'm finally at ease.

[ Is it better or worse, to do this over the sending crystals, where Astarion can't see the way his answer makes Bastien smile? On one hand it might embarrass him, shut him up prematurely; on the other, it would be answer enough on its own, if he saw it. No need to say anything. ]

Good.

[ Since he has to say something. ]

I think that is more than a lot of people ever have.

[ Even if it isn't everything he wants. ]

INBOX II

no subject

no subject

no subject

1/??

2/??

3/3

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)