[ 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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.]