faderift | [CLOSED] I lie so you won't have to

“Hm,” Astarion hums, practically thrumming under the slide of Loki’s touch. He’s thinking, of course— transparent as the twitching tail of a cat when he takes a long pull from that cigarette, crimson eyes bright in cold moonlight.

Some part of him almost wishes they were noticed out here, like this. Their performance is excellent, their proficiency natural, and it means they’re performing for an empty theater at present.

Hardly lamentable, but....still. Astarion’s always craved attention.

“Divide and conquer, perhaps? You take the concierge over the next few days, confess you’ve an interest in the Duke. If the man’s Tevene, he’ll no doubt recognize your aspirations. Maybe even respect them. Sniffing around Maris might not hurt, either.”

Astarion, meanwhile, imagines his own presence in that respect would only seem irritating and nagging. About as good as a bracelet or a pet cat asking after a king.

“But with Zuzana, I might be in the perfect position to wend my way in. Flattery and charm and a certain level of curiosity can do wonders for a woman in high places who feels utterly divine in her own circle: as your darling, I can play to that.”

“And as for Vanda, well. I won’t be jealous if you get to him first, but I suppose we’ll just have to see which of us does their job better in finding his ear. Or his arm. Or— ”

He trails off there, teasing.

....probably teasing.

“Sound fair?”

Loki has the feeling they're being casually observed, at the very least; not that it would change his behavior in the slightest. He, like Astarion, thrives on attention but the small gestures are mostly for the benefit of the two of them.

Because he likes Astarion, strangely enough.

"Alright," he agrees easily. "I'll speak with the concierge, then, and see what I can discover. Probably tomorrow, as starting that project tonight would seem... suspicious, I think, or at the very least a little rushed." Better still that he have an improved sense of all of the pieces involved, and the appearance of taking a good night at the tables amongst his peers to improve his standing with the various courtiers currently flocking around the Duke, not to mention the Duke himself.

"Maris should be easily handled, albeit gently so." Though Loki will still be careful; can't have the boy running back to his lover with something that neither he nor Astarion wants him to repeat.

She strikes him as someone well-equipped to play the Game, even though she gives the appearance of hating all things Orlesian. Perhaps she, like others, would claim the Game is a Tevene import.

"Be careful of Vanda," is all he says to the last. Loki thrives on chaos, but that man seems to him the sort to thrive on suffering, which is a different matter entirely. "Though I have no reason to doubt you will be."

“You say that like I’m not the same.”

Spoken with a wicked half-breath of laughter, smoke curling vividly between sharp teeth. A little drunk, a little high, a little relaxed— and overwhelmingly thrilled by the prospects that lie ahead of them.

What more could he ask for?

Mm. Much more, actually. But he’ll start with this. For now.

His spine arches. He stretches languidly like a cat, never once pulling away from Loki, only angling in.

“Are you tired, darling?”

"Are you, now?" Loki doesn't actually know; he's had half of a story (which may very well be just a fiction, he has no way of corroborating what Astarion has told him thus far) and a conversation about extended lifetimes, a conversation he observed from a distance, and that's about it. As much as Loki sees the familiarity of himself within Astarion he knows that this, too, is possible. "Don't take my concern as any statement of disbelieving you're not capable of handling yourself."

Once upon a time, not long ago, Loki could have said that he was the same as Vanda as well.

Still. Astarion stretches and Loki's fingers continue their carding through the hair at the base of Astarion's skull as he ponders the question, checking in with himself to see if he is tired. The answer is yes, he's tired, but not overly so and not enough that he can't keep minding cards.

"I think I have another four hours or so in me." A strange realization but: physically and physiologically human now. What can one do about it? "What time do things wrap up here?"

Edited (*poof*) 2021-10-04 07:59 (UTC)

“Oh you sweetheart.”

He croons those words, and between the way his voice hitches slightly as he fawns, or the way his body rests a little more soundly against Loki’s own, he might actually mean that. “But no, you’re right about one thing: I can handle myself just fine— and without making a mess, too. I trust you’ll do the same.”

Astarion’s usage of the word trust is always loose, but in this case, he really does feel confident enough to bet on the idea that Loki won’t butcher their work here where someone else might. In fact he’d expected to go this alone, when the assignment had been given to him: do the heavy lifting himself, charm and tease and make fast friends however necessary, and at whatever cost—

But now he doesn’t have to. It’s quite novel. Charming, even.

He stamps out the stub of his cigarette against the gilded balcony beneath them.

“Sunrise, according to the staff. I doubt the Duke will last that long, but as for his companions? Mm. Could go either way.”

"I can be, at times." A sweetheart, that is; and as much as he'd love to make a mess of things here, the task at hand requires a minimum of chaos in the end, so he's reigning the impulse in, so to speak.

Winning at cards? Helps.

Loki makes a little noise of consideration, taking another pull on his own cigarette before he, too, puts it out. "I should have taken a page from your book and slept in." Still. He can order coffee, it'll be fine most likely. "Do we want to stay for the entirety of it, then, or just until only a few remain?"

“It’s going to be a long few days of this. I don’t see any reason to rush— and if we work to ingratiate ourselves too hard right from the start, we run the risk of seeming desperate to make new friends.”

And desperation is so very unpalatable, particularly from those in places of power, whether or not that power is either perceived or real.

So Astarion twists, pressing himself between Loki and the railing the way a pet might wend itself into its master’s lap: expectant and demanding, smooth in the way of certain confidence, even without room to be spared— chilled hands resting high against the stiff rise of Loki’s imperial collar. The curls there are soft, the man always seems to smell of clove, and Astarion idly wonders if that perfume comes from his hair or his skin. Something he might have to unearth later for the sake of curiosity.

(Astarion himself, even in disguise, smells only of lilac and leather oil— a constant yet to be changed.)

“Four hours. Then you meet me at the entrance, and we go back together. Safer that away.”

The hand that had been at Astarion's neck resettles with its companion at either side of his waist, instead, as he takes half a step backward. He smiles at Asterion, tilting his head down in the other man's direction.

"Four hours." It's a promise. In the meantime, he presses his lips to Astarion's forehead, closing his eyes while they have contact, before pulling away.

"Be good. Or don't; but at least have fun, hm?"

He'll return to the card tables, and order coffee, and continue to win more than he loses. Until 4am, when he takes his leave and collects his jacket and heads towards the entrance, looking around for Astarion.

Astarion, greedy as a starved serpent, is far from satisfied at that doting contact— but given the circumstances, makes peace with it regardless, lips curling into a serene smile. Half-true, half-feigned, elfroot still lingering in his senses along with the warmth of spent wine.

“Be vigilant, darling.” He corrects, before slipping away as though dismissed.

Four hours pass, and Astarion is late.

More than a handful of minutes, bordering on twenty or so by the time he shows up wearing a middlingly suppressed scowl. His footsteps are quick, he almost passes Loki entirely— taking the other man’s arm at the last second regardless of whether he’s ready or not, almost pulling him along, given that Astarion’s pace doesn’t slow.

“Let’s go.”

Well, after roughly twenty minutes Loki is definitely ready to go, though not expecting the grab for his arm as Astarion passes; he allows himself to be drug along out the door, giving a little waive to the waitstaff who'd been waiting alongside him for Astarion to show up.

"We're going," Loki remarks quietly as they make their way across the gangplank to the dock and then further out to the streets of Wycome, because clearly something has happened and he's unsure of what, exactly, it is. Only that it probably isn't good, all things considered. "Are you injured?"

Seems like a good place to start asking questions.

“I’m fine.” He snaps back, low and quiet. Almost hissed. His fingertips dig into the dark fabric of Loki’s ensemble, the gold flecks of his makeup smeared on one side. He smells of wine.

It’s only once they’re back behind closed doors that he exhales the rest of his own vitriol, passing to the mirror to examine the edges of his curls where they’ve gone pink with staining somewhere just to the side of his ear— expression bitter. Resentful.

It’s been a nice long while since someone dared to call him a freak.

If only she’d known the truth.

“Couldn’t get near either Vanda or Zuzana, before you start asking if this mess was their doing.” Grabbing the nearest basin, he douses a rag into its perfumed water, wringing it out and scrubbing harshly at his hair.

“One of the other drunken nobles, a nuisance in her own damn right, apparently was far too riled to play nice with an unfamiliar face loitering too near to her own quarry.”

He watches Astarion scrub at his hair for a moment before Loki goes through his pack, eventually procuring a small bottle of shampoo and a comb. Some of the clove scent Astarion noticed earlier is from here, definitely, and Loki uncaps the bottle before going over and taking the rag from Asterion's hands and putting a dollop of the shampoo on the fabric.

"Let me see that."

He makes suds with the damp rag and gently scrubs at the pink-tinged hair around Astarion's temple and ear, mindful of the latter. "She threw wine at you?" He sucks his teeth. "Some people's children, honestly." He's glad, however, that it appears throwing wine is about all she did.

It feels— nice.

It feels overwhelmingly nice, in fact, to be cared for. Dislodging the faintest flicker of a memory that Astarion, with his eyes closed and his thoughts roaming free in the dark of it, has to scramble to mentally pin safely away into the iron lockbox of his mind. The softness of it dangerous. He’s holding his breath.

He inhales lightly a second later.

Composure resumed.

“It’s always the risk, with crowds like this. The later things drag on, the more money they lose or win, the more wine they lap up like water, the more they act out without a shred of self-restraint.” His head tilts into the scuff of Loki’s fingertips, cracking one eye to watch their reflection in the washroom mirror.

“I should be glad she made her scene out of earshot of the others. Means I won’t have to wrestle with the embarrassment of it tomorrow— though I should’ve been more careful in the first place.”

A pause, the edge of his painted lips pursing.

“Did you do well?”

Loki's attention is wholly on Astarion's hair, now, working small sections of curls in between layers of soapy cloth in order to get the wine out. He's aware of the mirror, much like he'd been aware of Astarion holding his breath for a moment there, but neither are as important as what he's doing.

"There was a moment when some of the servants seemed very interested in being elsewhere while I waited." He wonders if that's when the woman took her agitation out of Astarion of if something else was afoot. Difficult to tell; he'd pretended he didn't notice the comings and goings of the help, as was befitting his cover.

"I lost a little more, but still came out well overall. Maris and I had a conversation about keeping lovers pleased; the poor boy is very in over his head." Loki huffs out a laugh and shakes his head.

Once Astarion's hair is clean, he takes the comb and runs it through a few times. "There. Good as new, hm?"

Edited 2021-10-10 20:15 (UTC)

“My my. Know a thing or two about that, do you? I’m surprised.”

Offhanded. Middlingly teasing.

Damp as they are now, the normally high set of his hair has gone limp— his curls wound tighter save for the edges nearer to his scalp. He eyes himself for a beat in the mirror once finished, looking past the smudged finish of his own makeup, seemingly pacified.

Given all his usual expressiveness, it’s somewhat obvious when he’s not simmering in brooding contention.

He reaches high, snaring Loki’s fingers before he has an opportunity to pull away entirely, fingertip tracing the edge of that thumb he’d bitten earlier. Subtle.

“Not bad.”

Which is, of course, a stand in for thank you— or something like it.

“Though I’d like to point out this is the second time you’ve doused me on this trip so far.”

[CLOSED] I lie so you won't have to

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been misspelling astarion's name this whole time, great googly moogly

and here I didn’t even notice lmao— ADD powers, activate

attention deficit brains for the win!

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dice betrayal

whoops

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