illithidnapped | INBOX II

[He thinks of Fenris for a moment. Just a passing beat.

Astarion doesn't know if he's immortal still, after passing through the Fade into Thedas. If he is, then he'll outlive the elf he's fallen for—

And this is the first time he's realizing that, misery curdling in his chest. Fingers tightening around the edges of his crystal.]

...I suppose it is.

...then I suppose you can see how it would be best to avoid disappointment, where one can.

[He's had enough of that in his life, but-- it can't be outrun every time.]

I had no plans to change that.

Hard to say.

[Even with the knotted tangle of emotion rotting away beneath his ribs— even with his fingers bruisingly tight against the edges of his crystal— it slips out of him more easily than he'd ever anticipated.

As does the rest.]

Disappointment has a way of coming for us all, you know. Relentlessly, even.

I might not be as long-lived or overtly knowledgeable, but what I do understand is that misery is easy to find. Pain, too. Suffering. Sorrow— and it doesn't stop just because you pull back into yourself.

Better to have something for a little while than nothing at all.

[Whether or not Astarion actually believes that once he's back to 0 remains to be seen. But for now....

For now, he's certain.]

[There's a unique sort of sting to the words on this subject on particular. Anything else, any other time, and he might be more inclined to listen. Maybe take a bit of it to heart.]

Mayhap so-- if one should happen to find it within their reach.

[-is what he settles on saying, easy as ever, careful to keep it out of his tone. A touch of truth does end up in his answer, though:]

But it is not simply the fleeting nature of their lives. It is more difficult, I believe, for them to understand someone longer-lived, and to be fully understood in turn.

Difficult, yes. Maybe not impossible, though.

My experience with immortality is still different than my master's— or your own. I can imagine to my heart's content how far removed from the world you might feel, but I can't actually claim any of it's accurate.

But I also know that Fenris doesn't need a few hundred years tucked against his chest to comprehend pain and suffering that more than easily might rival my own. Or what it's like to let that go in favor of a little wicked fun.

And while I'm not normally the pep talk sort, I'll make an exception for you.

After all, I always did.

You're wasted on yourself, my darling. Don't keep shuttering your impulses away, especially now when there's no guarantee just how long we might have in this world—

[A mild beat, before, teasingly:]

Well, how long you might have in it. I'm going to bask forever on its tumultuous shores, no matter what it takes. But still. Point stays the same.

You're such a pretty thing. I'd hate to see you wither.

Not every impulse ought to be acted upon.

[It comes out shorter than he would like, perhaps, but he manages to tinge it with a little false exasperation-- just a response to the teasing, that's all. He both does and doesn't want to hear what Astarion has to say.]

Nor have I ever been quite so impulsive as you to begin with, you realize. I've no idea just what you believe I require the pep talk for, but I do expect that I shall manage well enough.

[There's the slightest pause left hanging there, a sort of non-verbal non-visible version of a quirked brow, set down knowing full well that if anyone's observant enough to grasp what it means, it's Emet-Selch.

And then he sighs.]

You are stubborn. You don't listen well. You consider yourself the eternal end-all-be-all source when it comes to just about everything, and in the rarer event that something new catches your eye, you're more likely to tut your tongue about it or study from the sidelines, hovering attractively— I'll give you that— but still.

You set yourself apart.

And take it from me, if you can die now [if they are all made mortal by their foray into Thedas itself ] you might as well go out in a blaze of brilliant glory, rather than all that tempting isolation.

All I'm saying is, just. In case you're struck with some bitter need to go back to old habits—

Leave yourself open this time around.

I know well enough where that leads.

[-he says, before fully thinking his answer through, and breathes out a soft sigh. A little too close, he thinks. A little too revealing.

This was, perhaps, a mistake. And so-]

At any rate, I have said what I called upon you to say. If I do not return to my work soon, it shall sit abandoned for the remainder of the night.

[Where that leads.

No, it's not more than a little revealing. It is explicity revealing to a creature designed to sniff out moods the way a blindfolded sommelier can scent out wines on command.]

Oh.

[An arched oh. The kind of needling oh Astarion so often uses on Venatori captives.

That oh.]

But you're not upset.

I've already told you, that is not--

[He cuts off with a mildly frustrated-sounding huff of breath. He didn't want to get into this, thank you very much.]

No, I would not say that I am upset.

Lucky I don't care what you'd say, then. Because whatever it is, it's obviously a lie.

[Tsk.]

Do you really think you can fool me, darling?

[Of course he does. He's spent millennia fooling people.

Astarion isn't someone he wishes to do it to, although he certainly doesn't wish to have this conversation either.]

It is not the word I would use. You make it sound as if I object in some manner.

[The softest, nastiest little gasp:] Oh. Do I?

Because think I don't make it sound like anything more than what it is.

You're hiding something.

What you think. How you feel. [An opinion or an objection or both, maybe, but:] It'd better be bloody important if you're so committed to treating me like a damned idiot.

[Damn it. He should simply have cut the connection-- he probably still should, really, ought to just end it.

Maybe it's the tone of Astarion's voice that keeps him from doing so. Instead, he exhales and just says, a little tiredly:]

Is this truly how you wish to continue this conversation?

[He's not certain, in the moment, if doing it at a distance is simpler or more difficult.]

How else would you suggest?

[Sharp, arching. It stands in lieu of snapping his teeth which is— well, it could be worse, all things considered.]

Because if it's 'go our separate ways and pretend I've noticed nothing at all', I'm going to have to pass.

What I am asking is whether we shall have to do this at a distance or in closer quarters, Astarion.

[It's past being able to say he wants to pretend there was nothing to this at all, much as he might have preferred to do so.]

[Somehow, all this offer seems to be— given what Astarion suspects— is a potential disaster in the making. That's not to say he hasn't waded into the muddy waters of emotion before, only that he's used to doing it to people he doesn't care about, is all.

Hades isn't that.

Which means this could go wrong, meeting face to face. Trying to feel out what exactly seems to be driving the Ascian to (higher than usual) stiffness. He pauses for a moment, and then:]

Fine. In person, then.

[And in less than an hour, he's there, rapping gloved knuckles against Hades' doorframe, stony-faced, but far, far from livid.]

-fine.

[And when he arrives, Hades opens the door for him, pausing a moment to take in his expression. His demeanor.

...a slight pause, then, before he exhales a sigh and steps back, beckoning him in, moving to go take a seat on his own bed. His sword is propped in its usual place, the planter still on his windowsill; the crystal grace in it seems to be well cared for.]

Ask what you wish to ask, then.

[Good signs, if nothing else. There's no scattering of ancient texts across every surface while everything else withers and rots, which means he isn't likely sinking into a pit of corrupted, sword-induced madness— and probably isn't cursed, either. Which means whatever has him so stiffened at already stiff seams is likely just....

Real.

Just him.

Astarion strolls inside like he belongs there, as he's done a hundred times before, settling down in that chair opposite the bed.]

You know what I'm asking. Don't make me spell it out.

It is not such a simple thing to speak of, Astarion.

[He hasn't found himself in this position before, not really. Only once-- but it was a difference of opinion, of chosen paths, which led to him losing someone while they still lived.

It wasn't like this.]

You clearly have your assumptions. I would know precisely what they are, ere I correct them.

[Assumptions isn't exactly the word for it. At least not how Astarion would describe it if pressed— which he supposes he is, now.

His lips thin out for how he flexes them, attention drifting towards the Crystal Grace where it catches little slivers of light. Better to look at while he thinks....and then, once he finally has it, back to Hades yet again (he can't afford not to read his companion's every response, if he's sniffing out half-hidden truths).]

Something's bothering you.

[There. A start. Not a judgmental one, either.]

I don't know if it's me, or this news, or something else you're trying to bury, but as I said before: you can't fool me, darling.

I'm no slouch at this particular game.

[For such a long, long time, it was all he knew.]

You are not, no, but I must tell you that is not necessarily a benefit in certain moments.

[He sighs that out, shakes his head slightly; his hair falls a bit into his face, now that he's grown it long enough to do so, and he brushes it back.

Both arms fold as he leans forward, braced on his knees, posture hunched.]

I intended to say nothing of it because I did not wish for it to become a disruption, but as we have clearly passed that point...

[His mouth thins as he debates how to continue. How honest to be, to someone doubtless evaluating his every word. Someone who can be as good at it as Hades is, himself.]

I still do not wish for it to put further distance between us.

[The word choice is fully intentional, finally getting around to pointing out what he'd read as a growing lack of interest. He knows his seclusion here, forced or not, did them no favors, and he knows how long it's been since they shared a bed (the Rialto arrangements notwithstanding.]

Then let me counter that argument.

[It's not that he's resentful; the glittering cast to blood red eyes isn't filled to the brim with overwhelming anger or the urge to sink his teeth into whatever part of Hades lies within reach.

Without the crystal barring expression or intonation from being read, Astarion's also infinitely more transparent.

He's being wary.]

I don't like being left in the dark.

[A byproduct of his past, if the Ascian's feeling particularly insightful; the stiffness in his posture is too telling, the depth of his tone and the rigidity it offers up are just too easily placed.

It's the same tone he always uses when Cazador is involved.]

I know.

["He's not gonna know shit about how to handle it," he'd been warned, just before. "He might even be an asshole about it, because he'll be worried he's going to lose you."

Hades glances back up to him, taking him in once more, observing the wary cast to his expression and the stiffness in his bearing, and quietly thinks that-- well, at least they are both out of place in this.]

It is not exactly you, nor exactly the news. More than anything-- [He huffs a short breath of a laugh, though it isn't very funny.] More than anything it is what you said after. I am wasted on myself, I should be more open with others, I ought not restrain my impulses-- you do not even know what they are, do you?

You insist I cannot fool you, but you've yet to realize that I have left myself open. With you.

[In a way, it actually does come as a surprise; not the idea that Hades had been open with him— honest and trusting, and perhaps warm as well, if the black blades perched ever at Astarion's hips mean anything— but the depth of it, he supposes. Old as the Ascian is, his stubbornness and stiffness have perpetually perplexed his younger companion whenever it came crawling to the forefront of their conversations: easy to relegate the physical portion of their exchanges to curiosity. Openness. A willingness to let himself be somewhat mortal again, while the rest of his mind clutched itself close.

Now, he isn't so sure.

And it shows, pinching his brows together. Thinning out the line of his mouth.]

I don't understand.

[Short. Clipped. He exhales once, and turns his attention towards the window.]

You've obviously let yourself be open with me: I was the one that took you in when you were cast off for being a villain-accused. I saw your past— heard everything of it. No unfeeling corpse goes sleeping with a paramour by night, and pours his own blood into bottled wine by day.

But you said you knew where this leads.

[Specific. Too specific.]

You can't have meant sooner than before we met, if that's the case. And it's only showing its teeth now.

[He doubts it needs to be asked out loud, but still:]

What am I missing?

Edited 2022-07-01 08:21 (UTC)

INBOX II

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