[ Once upon a time, in a life that he lost long before he came here, Astarion had been born a high elf. He would have lived many centuries already, had he not been turned before he'd even reached a half century in age. He had known, very early on in his undead life, that immortality could be a curse. Especially when you had no control over your own future.
He had, perhaps, let some of his newfound power and freedom go to his head. Some. But then - why shouldn't he have let it?
Four months is not nearly enough time for him to accept his fault in the matter. The remains of his once majestic domain have only just stopped smoldering where they crashed into the surface of Horizon.
He has, actually, moved in these four months. Once to visit the site, where poisonous flowers immediately sprang from the wake of his steps. Once again he left to check on them out of boredom, and had found a festering meadow. ]
You hardly need me to move for that. [ he replies with a slight scowl, now currently lounging on the bed. The point is that Alucard could change the sheets if he very well wanted to with only a thought.
There's a wine bottle filled with blood on the little nightstand. The ceaseless ache left him centuries ago, but he still craves the taste - even here, where he hardly has the same physical restrictions as he once did. ]
Correct. You've caught me in an attempt to move you out of bed for five seconds.
[His arms are folded across his chest, and Alucard is pointedly not offering any sympathy in his face for the vampire crashing on his bed. In the first place, Alucard cannot imagine that Astarion would accept such a gesture in better times, and secondly, there is absolutely none to be had at the moment. The fallout of what has happened was not contained to only two people, and that is what Alucard considers a genuine problem.
Yet he hasn't kicked Astarion out. He has his own reasons for that.]
May I bribe you with food that isn't just wine instead in pursuit of the same goal?
[ Alucard is, as usual, correct in his read. On top of that, Astarion had yet to make apologies for any of the collateral damage he's caused - let alone acknowledge that such a thing may or may not have occurred multiple times in the centuries long maelstrom that was his wrecked marriage.
He does, after a long moment and a deep sigh, sit up - although he does not get out of bed just yet. There's something performative about his protests and his petulance, as though he going through the motions of his own behaviors out of habit, but Alucard might sense a disconnect. A lack of commitment. Or, worse, a lack of direction - because were he to allow himself to actually get up and do something about the way he's been thrown between fits of rage and sinking into despondency, he might actually lash out and do intentional damage somewhere. Not to Alucard, who could handle him in his violence, but to someone or somewhere that might not bear a raging god without breaking. ]
I suppose. [ he finally answers, eyeing his put upon friend and squashing a very sudden and unwanted wave of guilt. He didn't force himself into Alucard's space, and he's followed his 'rules'. He has no reason to feel guilty. Instead, he lets mockery slip into his tone. ]
[Alucard doesn't mind trying to match the attempt at banter. It is a first stab at something remotely approaching normal. and he does not assume it will actually land. Nothing that has happened is normal, even if Astarion's actions register at like a 2.5, maybe 3 on the vampire scale of overkill emotional reactions. (He spent a long time working on the scale. 4 is attempted destruction of a sizeable portion of the population, 5 is pulling it off.)
Just as dry and less hollow are the next words out of Alucard's mouth:]
[ He frowns at the offer a soup, and then his nose wrinkles at the insult that follows. Normally it might get a rise out of him, as he had only just seemed quite prickly and ready for banter a moment earlier, but for some reason those words just seem to suck all the air out of him, his tone defeated. Not despondent, but slightly pained. ]
Oh - what does it even matter now.
[ Astarion pulls the sheets around himself like a cocoon, shoulders slouched. Picnic or soup, it doesn't matter very much - does it? Nothing in Horizon matters. This entire space is their playground - and yet, it's been at least a century since any of his antics have felt fulfilling, here or in the Material Realm of Abraxas.
He laughs to himself, very abruptly and with little humor. ]
Maybe I ought to take a turn at appearing as some sewer-dwelling wretch for a decade or two. The change might be refreshing...
I don't mind cooking to preference if your ambitions are beyond soup, but point taken.
[Alucard knows that cooking in the Horizon is just playing house. He's never minded it before, but there's no surprise that the banter attempt fails. Time. Place. Emotion. He can't imagine what Astarion's interior thoughts are at the moment. Doubtlessly a nasty storm of everything.
But the act of the blanket burritoing oneself says everything. Alucard is quiet for a moment, then sits down on the floor. It puts him at a weird right angle from the vampire and at a lower level.
Also, the floor is good.]
It'd be different, if nothing else. I don't know what sort of general lifestyle activities are available in the sewer, but I imagine you'd invent new ones.
... you're much too accommodating, you know. It's maddening.
[ Maddening instead of infuriating, as he might've once said. In the back of his mind he knows he doesn't deserve loyalty like this. He grimaces, red eyes following Alucard's descent to floor seating.
The talk of sewers unfortunately stirs the dust off other memories, those now beginning to fade in the past century or so. In the first two centuries after he'd been turned he had found the loss of important details of his past upsetting. Now, he finds relief in not being able to recall the face of the monster the turned him, his name long forgotten. Even the scars on his back have begun to fade over time, the ugly, raised lines that mark him slightly less pronounced than they once were. Maybe in another few centuries they'll vanish all together.
He scowls to himself.]
You must think I'm pathetic. Or simply being dramatic. Histrionic.
[ And over what? A rejection. From someone he feels nothing for anymore, who he hasn't felt anything for in decades. It's hard to remember what even brought the two of them together in the first place, or why he feels so gutted. ]
Truthfully? I assume that whatever I say is nothing in comparison to your own thoughts, and whatever I say on the matter is something you've had run through your mind fifty times at least so far.
[Alucard leans his head back, closing his eyes to at least give Astarion the illusion of privacy. Whatever his thoughts are, even as they turn to sewers, they're not pleasant. He knows that much.]
I think two things: that you're grieving something that held meaning and if I say anything you suspect brushes against pity, you'll have my throat out.
[The pity part is something Alucard recalls when Astarion first showed up in Abraxas, defenses raised all too high and in a way that smacked of...well. Never mind who it reminded him of. That person's not going to be showing up in Abraxas now. And if he did, or if Sypha returned, how would they react to any of it?
[ He barks out a short, humorless laugh as confirmation to the first part, taking a moment to study Alucard's features when the dhampir's eyes close. As for the rest, as for his grieving -
A sudden, terrible impulse toward violence stirs within him. He has spent a good part of the past few centuries giving in to that impulse without care, and sometimes needing little cause. Better to destroy what could betray you than give it the chance to do harm. Perhaps that's what went wrong with him and his lovely wife. They couldn't kill one another, but they couldn't survive each other either.
He imagines his fist closing around Alucard's throat, sharpened nails digging in the second before he tears into that lovely, pale skin with his teeth. The dhampir had once been able to easily overpower him. Now? Astarion suspects the ascension has put them on a more even playing field.
But those thoughts are followed by a sudden, thick revulsion that rises in his throat like bile. ]
Too pretty a throat to ruin, unfortunately. [ he drawls, though there's a tension across his form now, mostly hidden beneath the blankets.
Sulking again, he throws them over his head and lies down again, curling up on himself. His voice is muffled beneath the thick fabric. ]
You must have better things to do. Go. I'll have your soup later.
[It's nice to know that he's right. That laugh confirms that much, and saves some time. Alucard won't complain about either.
He's glad not to fully be in Astarion's head for the rest. Alucard can take a guess, and if any of the fantasies were said, he'd simply shrug and point out that if he can murder his father, anyone else is easy in comparison. Deity or not.]
If you were in a better frame of mind, I'd take that bait. But fine.
[Astarion sat up for at least a few minutes. That is a victory, so far as Alucard is concerned. He gets himself up off the floor, leaving his guest to continue his noble line of work as a sad pile of blankets.
At some point, there is indeed soup left for the sad blanket pile. Tomato, along with a substantial cheese plate, although it is left at the door to force someone out of bed just a little bit more.
Alucard has figured it'll be like this for a while. He can manage that.]
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He had, perhaps, let some of his newfound power and freedom go to his head. Some. But then - why shouldn't he have let it?
Four months is not nearly enough time for him to accept his fault in the matter. The remains of his once majestic domain have only just stopped smoldering where they crashed into the surface of Horizon.
He has, actually, moved in these four months. Once to visit the site, where poisonous flowers immediately sprang from the wake of his steps. Once again he left to check on them out of boredom, and had found a festering meadow. ]
You hardly need me to move for that. [ he replies with a slight scowl, now currently lounging on the bed. The point is that Alucard could change the sheets if he very well wanted to with only a thought.
There's a wine bottle filled with blood on the little nightstand. The ceaseless ache left him centuries ago, but he still craves the taste - even here, where he hardly has the same physical restrictions as he once did. ]
no subject
[His arms are folded across his chest, and Alucard is pointedly not offering any sympathy in his face for the vampire crashing on his bed. In the first place, Alucard cannot imagine that Astarion would accept such a gesture in better times, and secondly, there is absolutely none to be had at the moment. The fallout of what has happened was not contained to only two people, and that is what Alucard considers a genuine problem.
Yet he hasn't kicked Astarion out. He has his own reasons for that.]
May I bribe you with food that isn't just wine instead in pursuit of the same goal?
no subject
He does, after a long moment and a deep sigh, sit up - although he does not get out of bed just yet. There's something performative about his protests and his petulance, as though he going through the motions of his own behaviors out of habit, but Alucard might sense a disconnect. A lack of commitment. Or, worse, a lack of direction - because were he to allow himself to actually get up and do something about the way he's been thrown between fits of rage and sinking into despondency, he might actually lash out and do intentional damage somewhere. Not to Alucard, who could handle him in his violence, but to someone or somewhere that might not bear a raging god without breaking. ]
I suppose. [ he finally answers, eyeing his put upon friend and squashing a very sudden and unwanted wave of guilt. He didn't force himself into Alucard's space, and he's followed his 'rules'. He has no reason to feel guilty. Instead, he lets mockery slip into his tone. ]
What shall it be - are we to have a picnic, then?
no subject
[Alucard doesn't mind trying to match the attempt at banter. It is a first stab at something remotely approaching normal. and he does not assume it will actually land. Nothing that has happened is normal, even if Astarion's actions register at like a 2.5, maybe 3 on the vampire scale of overkill emotional reactions. (He spent a long time working on the scale. 4 is attempted destruction of a sizeable portion of the population, 5 is pulling it off.)
Just as dry and less hollow are the next words out of Alucard's mouth:]
You also look like shit.
no subject
Oh - what does it even matter now.
[ Astarion pulls the sheets around himself like a cocoon, shoulders slouched. Picnic or soup, it doesn't matter very much - does it? Nothing in Horizon matters. This entire space is their playground - and yet, it's been at least a century since any of his antics have felt fulfilling, here or in the Material Realm of Abraxas.
He laughs to himself, very abruptly and with little humor. ]
Maybe I ought to take a turn at appearing as some sewer-dwelling wretch for a decade or two. The change might be refreshing...
no subject
[Alucard knows that cooking in the Horizon is just playing house. He's never minded it before, but there's no surprise that the banter attempt fails. Time. Place. Emotion. He can't imagine what Astarion's interior thoughts are at the moment. Doubtlessly a nasty storm of everything.
But the act of the blanket burritoing oneself says everything. Alucard is quiet for a moment, then sits down on the floor. It puts him at a weird right angle from the vampire and at a lower level.
Also, the floor is good.]
It'd be different, if nothing else. I don't know what sort of general lifestyle activities are available in the sewer, but I imagine you'd invent new ones.
no subject
[ Maddening instead of infuriating, as he might've once said. In the back of his mind he knows he doesn't deserve loyalty like this. He grimaces, red eyes following Alucard's descent to floor seating.
The talk of sewers unfortunately stirs the dust off other memories, those now beginning to fade in the past century or so. In the first two centuries after he'd been turned he had found the loss of important details of his past upsetting. Now, he finds relief in not being able to recall the face of the monster the turned him, his name long forgotten. Even the scars on his back have begun to fade over time, the ugly, raised lines that mark him slightly less pronounced than they once were. Maybe in another few centuries they'll vanish all together.
He scowls to himself.]
You must think I'm pathetic. Or simply being dramatic. Histrionic.
[ And over what? A rejection. From someone he feels nothing for anymore, who he hasn't felt anything for in decades. It's hard to remember what even brought the two of them together in the first place, or why he feels so gutted. ]
no subject
[Alucard leans his head back, closing his eyes to at least give Astarion the illusion of privacy. Whatever his thoughts are, even as they turn to sewers, they're not pleasant. He knows that much.]
I think two things: that you're grieving something that held meaning and if I say anything you suspect brushes against pity, you'll have my throat out.
[The pity part is something Alucard recalls when Astarion first showed up in Abraxas, defenses raised all too high and in a way that smacked of...well. Never mind who it reminded him of. That person's not going to be showing up in Abraxas now. And if he did, or if Sypha returned, how would they react to any of it?
That's not an Alucard problem.]
feel free to skip ahead when needed!
A sudden, terrible impulse toward violence stirs within him. He has spent a good part of the past few centuries giving in to that impulse without care, and sometimes needing little cause. Better to destroy what could betray you than give it the chance to do harm. Perhaps that's what went wrong with him and his lovely wife. They couldn't kill one another, but they couldn't survive each other either.
He imagines his fist closing around Alucard's throat, sharpened nails digging in the second before he tears into that lovely, pale skin with his teeth. The dhampir had once been able to easily overpower him. Now? Astarion suspects the ascension has put them on a more even playing field.
But those thoughts are followed by a sudden, thick revulsion that rises in his throat like bile. ]
Too pretty a throat to ruin, unfortunately. [ he drawls, though there's a tension across his form now, mostly hidden beneath the blankets.
Sulking again, he throws them over his head and lies down again, curling up on himself. His voice is muffled beneath the thick fabric. ]
You must have better things to do. Go. I'll have your soup later.
no subject
He's glad not to fully be in Astarion's head for the rest. Alucard can take a guess, and if any of the fantasies were said, he'd simply shrug and point out that if he can murder his father, anyone else is easy in comparison. Deity or not.]
If you were in a better frame of mind, I'd take that bait. But fine.
[Astarion sat up for at least a few minutes. That is a victory, so far as Alucard is concerned. He gets himself up off the floor, leaving his guest to continue his noble line of work as a sad pile of blankets.
At some point, there is indeed soup left for the sad blanket pile. Tomato, along with a substantial cheese plate, although it is left at the door to force someone out of bed just a little bit more.
Alucard has figured it'll be like this for a while. He can manage that.]