Quite the cruel and unusual punishment, though I must applaud your inventiveness.
[ The hypothetical sits squarely at the juncture of Astarion's ego that says he'd look good in anything yet would also refuse, on pain of death, to wear anything he thought to be garish. A hideous, feathered cap? To cover this hair? Perish the thought! ]
Pot, kettle — you know, you never did say if I was your type.
Hey, if the shoe fits... I just call it like I see it.
[ But there's a limit to teasing, no matter how lightly meant in response to a slight in truth just as lightly taken, that stops him short of blame your parents. Family can often enough be a concealed rat burrow to twist one's ankle in; who can say what form it takes for one so old and... eaten? Changed? ... Tadpole'd? Elves must have parents. Or else maybe he just sprang out of the center of a flower like that. ]
I'm not done with my checklist of considerations. [ What, you think he'd just be walking down the street and pick him out of a crowd like "yes, that high maintenance-looking one who's awfully quick to get on the drop on heckling me first"? Light help him. And that's not talking spitting distance to see the eyes or the chompers. ]
Setting aside you can hardly expect me to commit myself to this flip-flopping and fight off your army of pretty suitors at the same time. I hate to share, I'd be overcome with jealousy.
[ It's for the best that the thought is one Mat forgoes — what Astarion remembers of his family, now, are shadows rather than fully-formed memories, tidbits used by his master to mock him, to remind him of to whom his allegiance ought to lie. Granted, the two of them aren't at a stage where Astarion would volunteer any of this information — more likely, he'd gloss over it, happy enough to play at normalcy rather than confronting the truth.
Also, look, the one rule that any heckler knows is that if you ain't first, you're last. ]
What good is an army of suitors if there's only one I want?
[ Is he just being flirtatious, does he really mean any of it — that's for him to know and the player to spend three acts delving through significant trauma Mat to find out. ]
[ Completely understandable evasive maneuvers for completely understandable evasive reasons, if one were to ask Mat Cauthon, which the other doesn't, and for which Mat can remain blithely grateful for himself. For if they start posing personal questions, the other will have to answer for them, and then they'd both be waving knives and dancing around topics they'd be more comfortable avoiding with a merry detente.
Who wants to crack the lids and go exhuming around in those cans of worms? He tells stories to get around matters of family, lies so he does not have to address the dirt he crawled out of to get here and still wears in his blood and his bones. He'd be remiss to go trailblazing in no man's land first and leave his glass house behind, doors unlocked, waiting to be egged and painted on. ]
You better hold that thought. It might change depending how you feel about cuddling.
[ Oh, he's good, though. 👏
PCs forcing you to talk about trauma? What the fuck is that? You've come to the right place; get on the Randland wavelength where everyone talks about everything but that for fourteen books, and they have to trick you at your own games to get you to expose you even have it. It's enough, surely, that it makes him laugh. ]
[ Fourteen books of not having to talk anything that happened to him in the past ... sounds blissful ... ]
I'm beginning to think that "hot and cold" was a descriptor you meant for yourself. You chide me for not playing nice and then hold me at arm's length — why, I might get my feelings hurt.
[ Considering their general dispositions, he feels Mat's qualitative comment could go either way — either that Mat himself isn't much for it or that he (rightly) assumes that Astarion isn't really the cuddly type (though that has everything to do with the fact that he's never genuinely cared about anyone he's slept with), hence falling back on being a little brat. ]
[ 🤝 Welcome aboard the good ship "ignore it and it will go away." We keep it tight here, we keep it repressed. ]
How do you figure? It's about type. If you don't like cuddling, it's a matter of a compatibility issue.
[ Joke's on you, it's a (semi)-serious question!
When your repressed hunger for affection vents straight into a desire to make positive connections with everyone you sleep with, and be a cuddle fiend, and spend those fourteen books working out how to convince people who can and will throat punch you to let you cuddle them instead, you're not afraid to say it. ]
[ Having lost the out of leaving the question unanswered, Astarion considers his options ... and comes straight back around to a fairly weasel-y option: ]
Well, let me put it to you like this: It'll take a little extra work getting cozy, as I run quite cold.
[ On account of being dead, a blank he leaves for Mat's imagination to either fill or require some further explanation of (which he's perfectly happy to provide).
The truth of the matter is that he doesn't really know how to answer. His typical instinct is to avoid being touched entirely, but— if pressed, he wouldn't argue against the notion that a tender touch might actually be welcome. But that comes with its own host of questions, from what Mat does or doesn't stand to gain from their embarking on whatever kind of relationship or situationship this is, to whether or not he'll ever be willing to tie himself to another person.
All this to say, he's a little envious of Mat's forthrightness. While he'd never call himself a liar, he also finds it much easier to figure out what other people want to hear rather than figuring out what he really wants. You know, classic repression stuff. ]
Thus two additional considerations emerge. Firstly, has the horn of flirtatious chicken sounded?
Usually people he's pegged for feigned interest back down once offers for a kiss and a cuddle hit the table, weeding out those who don't appreciate being threatened with a good time (close encounters with mangy peasants). He'd taken a gamble, allowing the possibility for scenarios to exist in which Astarion does not simply come within proximity to warm bodies and dementor-peck them or some such, but in so doing had bet on this not being something Astarion would want to hear and not much farther ahead than that.
Not to say he's told a strict lie himself, but... Blood and ashes. Is this bastard trying to bluff him on making good on come-ons as he bluffs him?
... well.
It's only really a bluff if he's unable or unwilling to back it up. And the prevalent factors that typically would dissuade him—heads being torn from bodies, puffed-up imperiousness, temperaments too obnoxious to bother with (Moiraine, most people in the Two Rivers), sneering insincerity (when the most stunning woman nature and the One Power ever created sizes you up like a prize pig, you do not go there and some people should really take that wisdom)—have not quite made this supposed checklist as yet.
Well, peacocking, maybe. ]
I suppose there's a reason some people wear socks to bed.
Just stay away from me with those cold feet.
[ The second consideration brings him back a step to mathlady.gif over vampire physiology a moment more. Right. Undead blood circulation. So when a boy vampire and a girl vampire or any combination therein like each other very much, how do they... ? Can they? The usual flushed and frisky way or does generating some heat involve part of the... work?
Thank everything he and his stirrings of embarrassment drifting back toward this line of thinking are safely at a distance, do not perceive him. ]
Do you feel cold? To yourself, I mean. Is that uncomfortable?
[ It does seem as though the horn of flirtatious chicken, as it were, is becoming more of a siren, wailing as they get close to having to deal with any real consequences and quieting as they find their respective ways of veering back into more lower-stakes banter, so that neither of them have to admit to bluffing at all. At the very least, it makes it very clear to the both of them that they're dealing with kindred spirits insomuch as an ability to bullshit to the nth degree.
And, luckily, through a text exchange, he has no expression by which to gauge Mat's thoughts — best to leave such questions until they become truly relevant, anyway. ]
I can feel warmth, in others, but I don't feel cold, myself.
[ It'd likely be more apt to say that any such discomfort is vastly outweighed by the discomfort of vampiric hunger, but, in fairness, if he stops to think about it, it's not as though he's constantly shivering in his boots. But that's not a very appealing sort of thing to learn about, especially not where flirtation is concerned, and so Astarion elects to keep that to himself, at least for now. Who wants to hear, oh, and also, I feel a constant, all-consuming hunger that can only be temporarily sated by human blood? No one.
More importantly, that's not why he's jumped into this conversation to begin with, and he doesn't really want to leave any room for the impression that it is. ]
Maybe it did make me uncomfortable, once, but ... two hundred years is ample time to get used to almost anything.
[ Two centuries and change? That's probably not older than socks, but maybe older than Moiraine. There are likely better reflexive responses than to laughingly file these insights away thinking by the Light, he is a damn grandpa—
But there it is: old. ]
They do say feeling cold happens as you age.
[ Listen, at no point did he promise, outwardly or inwardly, that as he keeps the door to an open mind propped ajar, in good faith seeing what sort of sum amounts from Astarion's parts, he was going to do so without recurrent heckling. The art of juggling requires balancing many balls.
And it helps, perhaps outwardly and inwardly, to rub out some of the plaintive sting from the shadowed subtleties revealed by his answer. Vampiric children's stories don't really expound on if it must be a difficult or sad thing, for the one who had gone from once living to chilled flesh, light to dark, free to obeisance to strange superstitions like invitations. Even if they pass across his mind, he follows his own personal policy to avoid sentiments that he, himself, would find shrug-worthy to hear: that sounds more than uncomfortable, that sounds hard; that sounds awful. ]
Lucky for you, people perfectly alive who feel like ice blocks all year round exist. You're hardly alone there.
[ In terms of finding companionship for himself, surely. Touch. Repellent for use in shooting down cuddling jests, sure, but in reality odds are he must not find it a dealbreaker. It's just thought exercises all around today. ]
Not such a bad move, you know. Blankets. Bundling close for warmth. The ambient heat of a still living heart, steamy but not sweaty. They pull it off in the romances.
Edited (correct a typo, make a new typo, so it goes) 2023-11-01 07:11 (UTC)
[ For what it's worth, he appreciates the avoidance of any real sentiment, if only because he wouldn't know what to do with it beyond pretend that sympathy isn't necessary. (The opposite is true, of course — he wants to be reached out to — but that's something he's yet to really admit to himself, given the relatively short period he's had to be free of Cazador's immediate influence.) Heckling is easier to deal with, to respond to, because he knows how to ford that particular stream, has grown so comfortable with it — and the act of flirtation — that anything else feels unsettlingly alien. Some people experience arrested development and others get turned into vampire spawn when they're thirty-nine ... same thing.
It's not particularly fun to talk about, either — nothing dampens a conversation like discussing being beaten to death and subsequently diving head-first into two centuries of enslavement.
So: ]
Blankets, or the company of a hot-blooded young thing like you — not the worst options I've ever been presented with.
[ Hot-blooded being slightly more pointed in this context, even if he doesn't mean it as such. ]
I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic.
[ In the same way that most wouldn't assume as much about Astarion, really, despite the fact that he is ultimately susceptible to such things. ]
I suppose I've a little ground to recover if I'm to be anything close to a dashing prince.
sad pearl clutching for every backstory nesting doll opened
[ Same thing, same hat, same native language for the untenable tickle to the sensibilities that is compassion. And words alone so often fail to reach the deep wounds that have been licked and licked and protectively guarded—and who wants to feel pitied, even if just by the threat of it?
No, he doesn't pity Astarion.
Cracking open the empathy door, though? That's a dangerous gateway drug for the sentiment-skirters in the crowd. Got to keep an eye on that. ]
A hot-blooded young thing like me. 🌹🌹🌹 [ Colorfully embellished echo directly correlating to the amount of amusement being awarded the designation. ] Well, now you've done it. You can't go around saying that and expect me to hare off from a challenge. What are the best ones to warm you up?
[ Hope you like blanket burritos. ]
Who doesn't like a little cuddle and romance?
[ By his rather one-way definition of romancing—a favored gambit plucked from his tool belt of charms. Gestures performed to enjoy others' company for a spell, however brief and fleeting. When one is not an elven head-turner and has serious doubts about character and desirability to surpass, one must carve out a skill set to stand apart from the redheads with immaculate cheekbones and blacksmiths made out of shyness and muscle. Climbing into a thorn bush to pick flowers to entice eyes to him is worth the effort for the days or weeks indulging in a bit of playing around.
Being romanced doesn't fit the same equation. Now you're just drifting into his flirt lane. What's he supposed to do with dashes or princes? Once one of those enters the ring, it's gg. They're all anyone can pay attention to at that point. ]
That's all right, not my type. Although I can certainly recommend one or two people who might be into it. I'm not sure I could pull off the stockings for a damsel, myself.
[ What happens when two people with slightly tarnished prince routines encounter each other in the wild? Do they cancel each other out? Lock antlers and spin each other around, each leading with their left foot? Brandish bouquets of flowers instead of knives?
Perhaps if you ain't first, you're last and confused because you both tried to surprise the other at their house at the same time. ]
[ Astarion isn't a stranger to being pursued — his beauty had been the primary tool in his arsenal as a hunter, an easy lure — but it certainly feels a little funny taking this particular form; not purely earnest (or lustful) pursuit, but a beating around the metaphorical bush that rings quite close to his own approach to the world. A front made up of charm, smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand for the sake of both stunning its audience and drawing attention away from the machinations behind it.
That said, he doesn't expect Mat to really have any ulterior motive in this other than a good time, as precariously close to the edge of genuine sentiment they might come. It doesn't not feel like trying to outfox one's own reflection, stumped at each new turn by the fact that they've essentially taken the same step — an endless game of one offering the other the chance to go through a doorway first.
(And what is he supposed to do with that?)
On top of all that, it doesn't escape him that Mat has generally maneuvered around anything deeper than, "Aren't I a scamp," without breaking a sweat. ]
So, no to the archetypal dashing prince, but at least a maybe to the bloodsucking monster. It must be my lucky day.
[ It's a little bit of self-effacement — he resents being referred to as a monster and has started fights over less. He trusts, implicitly, that it's not a line of joking that Mat will try to follow. ]
And don't try to pawn me off already, or I might take umbrage. I seem to recall you saying you're not one to share.
slaps coffin, this bad boy can fit so much suffering
[ Advantages in tactical experience and the full 360 degree view of both pursued and pursuer, possibly, if not luck. One of them hasn't been pursued in his entire blighted life; it's enough to have him walking in circles under his own perplexed steam looking behind him, trying to figure out what's nipping at his tail.
With every question dodged on the other end, he seems a step closer to feeling out the outer boundaries to the other's teases, like being blindfolded in a completely dark room and left to map out an unknown shape with hands out. He's been pushing those boundaries on purpose—waiting for fissures of impatience to breach an act, as he can say with confidence he's more used to people wanting something they're beating around the bush to get to, when the princess sweeps in with her best charming smile seeking favours and appeals to his vanity.
Instead of terms, Astarion dangles loose threads—curious loose threads he wants to tug on to see where they go. If he would just kindly stop handing out motive, imagine the time saved writing each other off, but no! ]
Will he go dancing with me?
[ This hypothetical sharp-toothed somebody, whatever he's into roleplaying in the bedroom, no judgment.
Now that sharp tongue, though... ]
No, no, no—I wouldn't dream of holding you back, is all. Far be it for me to get in the way if you have a taste and a type for curvy women, say.
[ Speaking of what's known to draw Mat's attention in a crowded tavern. ]
[ Frankly, the conversation's gone past the length Astarion would typically entertain, despite (or perhaps because of) Mat's habit of pushing back. He doesn't feel uncomfortable or nervous about it, per se, just a little uncertain. There's nothing he really stands to gain out of this interaction, as far as he can tell, and it's hardly as though he wants to jump head-first into an affair, either. (Trust doesn't come easily enough to him, and as for an actual desire for physical intimacy— well, it's complicated.)
With all that in mind, it's difficult to account for his willingness to play along, or the fondness with which he engages in it. But the fact that they're both circling as opposed to showing their hands tells him that, perhaps, what trust he is willing to put in Mat isn't misplaced. ]
If you asked.
[ Yet another challenge, yet another dare, though Astarion finds that he extends it without much agonizing at all. He's tempted to ask if that's what Mat genuinely would find to be a good time, but he keeps the thought to himself, both for the sake of keeping his message appropriately mysterious and because he doesn't want to give off the impression that it'd be a bad thing. ]
Oh, I think I've heard of this tactic before: "It's not you, it's me"? More to the point, don't let me clip your wings either, my dear.
[ If the 200+ year old vampire with a thirst for human blood is doubtful about raising the stakes on this game of chicken and duelling big talk, his casual acceptance conceals it with the utmost aplomb. Well then. He's still coming like the koolaid man blasting through every opportunity to take an out—not an ounce of surrender. A summons to contest against Mat's available moves, another square of space on a board eaten up.
Consequently, the always somewhat hyper-nervous human who, not long ago, would've claimed zero interest in looking out for the welfare of his soft, supple neck or in puffed-up popinjays, is made to pause and realize—has he talked him into talking himself into talking the other into a date? All signs point to: it seems... so?
Some might make of this a sign and an off-ramp to second thoughts' disengagement, but there's a particular point of no return for people of his stock and jerky-dry crust. A one-directional cattle chute triggering in the hindbrain so the only possible means of walking backward the laws of physical will allow is doing so while facing the Creator and all the gods. One way to go and that's onward and upward.
A gamble, then, as much as a game board. A toss of the dice, no way of telling how they'll fall. ]
All right, then. Consider me asking. Would you care to take a spin with me sometime, Astarion?
[ As well it seems he might have been snagged on a point of contradiction, greedy infatuation and its antithesis in freewheeling unconstraint, but in someone with shades of covetous and addictive layered into the whole, who has had nothing to keep or covet, the two aren't mutually exclusive. One should be avoided in favor of the other, that's just a matter of sense. ]
I could be mad jealous of whoever catches your eye but I'm not fool enough to think I could keep it.
[ A pause, then in consideration of where they started and where they've got off to, a sprig more parsing: ]
If it were that, those sorts of things are better said plainly. I'd lay it out like it is, and I'd hope you'd do the same. False hopes about what you're getting and having are what bring on the sore feelings.
[ Were he a wiser man, he'd cut the whole thing off now, consider it a fun little exercise in flirting with no strings attached now that hunting isn't a priority, and move on. But he doesn't. Perhaps it's because of the petty part of himself that refuses to follow the rules as dictated to him, or out of simple curiosity as to what will come next, or a desire to keep playing the game.
The latter scenario isn't impossible — an actual ask brings their game of chicken to an impasse, but only one that will last until they next meet. Can he wheedle Mat into being the one to suggest a second date, will they ever broach the topic of genuine affection, etc.
Then again, perish the thought, but perhaps it's because he actually wants to go. ]
I would. Name the time and the place, and I'll be there.
[ And perhaps — not so divorced from any of the former hypotheticals — there's something about Mat's general earnestness (try as he might not to be) that makes the idea of being pursued appealing. At the very least, he hasn't been scared off by the fact that he's a vampire spawn; that's not nothing. ]
Don't sell yourself so short. That's my job, I think.
[ And as for that last point, somewhat harder for Astarion to brook without outright admitting that he simply loves to never give a straight answer to anything: ]
I suppose it doesn't cost me anything to promise you that much, though I won't go so far as to say it's the least I can do.
[ How did they get here? Looking back, he had presumed them to be on one of two paths, either "is he going to murder me" or "is he voting me off hypothetical bedmate island by mere cosmetic virtue of looks and will I wonder about that more than a responsible adult should." And now the unanticipated third path arises: RSVP to a rendezvous, sans musings about vampiric bed habits with the close quarters potential for murder.
Yet— He's come out with dividends for the casting of lots, compelling him to sit up straighter. Already smiling unconsciously in anticipation at this unexpected—but not objectionable—fork in the road that unanswered questions does little to dampen.
He can't count it a loss, certainly. Fair to say on his personal scale of most "least fun" to "most fun" ways to pass an evening, death via exsanguination is at the bottom, while dicing games and filling too-empty beds with company float near the top. But going out for a bit of revelry with company? It ranks about even—differing thrills, equivalent rewards. In spite of it being his thrown gauntlet, only in facing he's locked in to making it happen does a surge of eagerness follow. Truthfully, he does quite like dancing. They could have a good time? Doing something... normal. Light, it's been a while since he's had so much as the opportunity for it. And even if a creature of the night currently with a tadpole in his brain had designs to be some manner of tit about it, Mat thinks he could turn him onto liking a dance or two.
(—to like it with him? Does that matter? Insane to think why not?
Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe it would be worthwhile to fashion a few pleasant hours as the culmination to their stand-off, if nothing else were to come of it; to just make a night of it together and see how prissy the master of priss is off the clock.) ]
Okay, it's a date. [ Round one. ] I'll look into it.
[ Ideas percolate as he says as much. There's always an excuse to strike up dancing music somewhere... and if they went into the city—? ]
Hey, no promises, no disappointments, right? As long as everyone's enjoying themselves, that's all that matters. That's enough for me.
[ Better to rip the bandaid off and say things that need saying; best not to hold anyone to anything when promises can so easily curdle to betrayed expectations, or blow away with the wind.
Apt to say he might spread his wings; it isn't the first time someone has named him a bird that startles to flight at the first hint of being held down, and he has no desire to hold anyone by the foot, either. So no promises needed—Astarion is free to dance how, and around, and to whom he likes, the same for him. ]
[ The tadpole had changed quite a lot — had broken him out of a thrall he'd thought he'd be laboring under for the rest of his life, had allowed him to walk in the sun, to come startlingly close to enjoying a normal existence again. But circumstances had drawn a rather limiting set of boundaries around what kind of paths he could take, so this — to flirt without too heavy a consideration as to consequence, to potentially go on a date that features no connection to the world-saving quest he and his companions have been on — is really the most notable chance he's had just to enjoy himself.
Strange, then, that it should make him feel uncertain, not in terms of whether or not he wants to go, but about what freedom entails to him, whether or not he knows himself outside of a setting where looking out for himself is the name of the game. Who is he, given the chance to take off his mask, given the chance to invest even the faintest amount of interest in someone else.
But — no promises, no disappointments. If he doesn't feel glad about that pronouncement, he doesn't feel bitter about it, either, which is about as good as such things can get. ]
You do make it difficult not to have a good time, at least where a little banter is concerned. We'll see how well you measure up in other areas.
[ Always handy to set a base level of interaction, e.g. being a little bitchy for the sake of being bitchy, which he thinks Mat can take perfectly well if only because at least some of their respective pages seem to be taken from the same book.
Besides, he can't complain too much about setting casual expectations — he knows how to handle that, at least, and it'll make things easier should either of them catch fright and decide to scarper. Granted, it becomes a little bit of a battle, then, to see who'll be able to extricate themselves first (winner) and leave the other empty-handed (loser), but they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. ]
Wear whatever you think makes you look the most handsome.
[ In contrast, Mat finds steadier ground in the nebulousness of where this thread is leading. Perhaps he has cause to remain wary in Astarion's crosshairs; perhaps it matters to indulge in areas not merely the paranoia from prior bites and resulting shyness; perhaps he'll see how frequently Astarion and laughter flirt; perhaps it'll be a horror show and they'll find each other so loathsome they'll strangle each other to (un)death; perhaps the thing he cannot trust anymore is his ability to make guarantees, and he would be remiss to act as though he could.
But this he can do and do well. Nebulous and casual need not make anyone a loser. He and partners had had their time together, or things ran their course as they do, and partings were amicable more often than not. In a perfect world he'd entice kisses from someone with beautiful eyes and more besides, but all he'd ever really sought was fishing out the means to a laugh and a smile. To leave an impression better than it was worse. (And he hasn't survived slaloming around matchmaking housewives, or pretty Darkfriends, or Trollocs with fangs the size of his forearm to trip up at his own bloody game now.) ]
You do know how to sweet talk a person. I can tell I'm getting warmer on the spectrum. I'll win your cold dead feet over yet.
You're not so terrible, either, whatever you feel like being.
[ Space for blanks to be filled.
That being said, he still isn't entirely convinced Astarion isn't going to try boxing him into formal ballroom waltzes, prim spines and trim distancing, likely fit for someone born to the city and high off the ground, at that. The second half of the message does little to assuage the suspicion. ]
So come as you are?
[ Mat at Mat, looking bemusedly down at what he's wearing (at least 50% what he also slept in, a solid 100% what his plotting mind had yet to consider): wait, we have to adhere to real date best practices on a fake date? To Astarion's credit, it's a gracious step removed from a you have to dress up, but nonetheless destined to be a simple selection process from an otherwise limited wardrobe.
Gracious is as gracious does, he leaves it open for an interpretive freebie: the general "you" or a specific and directed "you could fasten a potato sack over your birthday suit and be fine." All the same... a quaint thought Astarion's plotting mind might already be engaging seriously on the matter of primping and grooming, pouncing on all four paws. ]
Light, I'm flattered you find me boundlessly handsome and not starting a list of demands. [ "I also choose to take this as—" ] But I suppose if you had those, you had better tell me beforehand.
[ On the day-to-day, for the majority of comers? Intractably uncooperative and as quick to slip off the hook as a greased eel. Inside the practices of taking someone out? It may have started as poking a vampire spawn with a stick to see what he does, but if he's doing this, he'll do it going all in on it, no takebacks. Fashion sense aside, which will assuredly not be improving in great leaps and bounds in the time it takes to sort out any last skeptical second thoughts and carve out a suitable opportunity. Astarion did make the choice to poke back at a raccoon person and they'll both just have to live with that. ]
[ Here is what Astarion knows about attachment, of any sort: it's best to be avoided. Even this is a risk, in that respect, despite his confidence that he can come out of a (real? fake?) date without catching feelings. When he'd still lived at the Palace, he hadn't really had to worry about it, considering that anyone he brought back would be gone in a matter of hours, if not less, and it wasn't as though he or his siblings held each other in particularly high regard.
(And the one exception to the rule had taught him better. One man, early on, who'd been so sweet, so earnest, so tailored to tug on Astarion's heartstrings, that he'd let him go. The consequence — an entire year spent locked in a tomb, alternating between wishing for death and scratching his fingers raw and bloody against the stone — hadn't, in his estimation, been worth it, and the lesson learned has made him unwilling, if not outright averse, to entertaining exceptions again, even if Cazador can no longer really do anything about them.)
But there's no real way around the fact that agreeing to go out on a whatever-this-is isn't motivated by anything other than curiosity and perhaps a little selfishness — the desire to have fun and be admired on his own terms, to not have to give away anything more than a smile or maybe a kiss. ]
"Not so terrible"? Trying to make my heart flutter with praise, are we?
[ The second part of that message, he leaves well enough alone. What he knows how to be is what Cazador had made of him — but he doesn't want that, anymore. ]
As you are, if you like.
[ It's not like he's actually going to set ground rules for something that's supposed to be an uncomplicated good time. Besides, he's had enough of being molded by someone else to feel very keen about doing the same thing to someone else — or at least someone he actually likes. Well, finds interesting, anyway.
So: ]
Let's save the idea of demands for a second date, shall we?
[ And, just in case that alone is too much pressure on their commitmentphobic selves, a quick follow-up: ]
Unless this is your way of telling me you'd like to hear more compliments, as I'd be happy to oblige that particular request.
[ "A maybe kiss of death," among forty possible endings in this edition of Choose Your Own Adventure. ]
A warm and fuzzy quaver, maybe. I thought there was a solid chance you were an insufferable prat who'd make me pay a toll fee for the conversation. [ aka he can reconcile vampiric dietary restrictions as part and parcel of the world, but the barest whiff of "most popular snob in high school" and the prejudicial torches and pitchforks of negging generalizations come out.
Guess we'll both see. It puts him in a similar boat, really, not expecting the conversation to run the length it has, or make the turns it has, if for different reasons—but he's willing to eat crow when wrong. Neither would he say he'd be disappointed continuing to be wrong.
He does his best not to linger on dead-ends or intrigues that fizzle, but on the opposite hand, dare he say he might even be a tad disappointed if the other backed down from their stand-off before knowing how it plays out?
As you are, he returns. Well! How can he say no with Astarion going to such pains to ramp up flutters into blushes? (Not today, Satan.) Despite the well of compliments to drop coppers into on offer, assumptions of a bloodless and willing encore barely fazes him beyond the burst of amusement that follows. After all, it'd seem to imply a high likelihood of shaking a legitimate confession out of Astarion that he's heart-struck by this handsome face atop his neck (or else determined to get close to him for another reason, but you know; let a guy have his fantasies it's always the former). ]
I was aiming along the lines of likes or dislikes, personal interests, venue picks, possibly vampire-related considerations I should know about... But hey, if you want to shower me in praise, knock yourself out.
You know, I hadn't considered the idea of a conversational fee before. It's not a bad idea — but I'll waive it, at least, for you, even if your apparent initial impression of me is not one I would call flattering.
[ He stops just short of a precipice that he finds uncomfortable — namely, bringing the idea of being paid of his time too far into the mix, considering the degree to which such a principle had been central to his life under the heel of Cazador's boot. But that's not stuff for polite — or flirtatious — conversation.
As for the latter part of Mat's message, well— it's nice, isn't it, to be asked?
It occurs to him, in a pathetic sort of way (pathetic to him, in how much he finds he likes it), that no one's really bothered to ask before. Part of it, he supposes he could chalk up to the fact that most interactions he'd had had been part of an active hunt, in which it was more his prerogative to suss such things out, but on the other hand— it's new, plain and simple. And, as such, he finds himself a little lost as to how to address any of it honestly.
He debates an I'm not picky to suffice, but that's not entirely true. ]
I'll admit to a taste for pretty things, but that's somewhat less imperative to me than, shall we say, a little fun. And as far as vampire-related considerations go ... so long as you aren't about to drive a non-metaphorical stake through my heart (the metaphorical sort, I can weather), I'd say there's nothing to worry yourself about.
[ The tadpole has taken care of quite a lot, after all, and thank the gods for that. Not being able to walk in the sun is a considerable hamper to almost any normal activity, as is the need to explicitly be invited into a home before getting up to mischief. ]
As for the latter consideration: besides, as far as prettiness and fun go, you have both in spades.
[ Is this it? Is this the vampire spawn's confession he's been sitting on long-held feelings of smitten provenance? 🙈 Ooooh, how do gothic romance protagonists handle the suspense? He'd be distraught to learn the other has a fleeting infatuation with his curl game only until one (terribly shaven, nearly bald) beefcake by the name of Rand al'Thor regrows those luscious red ringlets again. Utterly distraught. ]
Oh? What's this? You mean to say you were knocked off your feet the first time you laid eyes on me?
[ Give him an inch and he'll favorably and jestingly interpret a mile, all but confirming Astarion's point that teasing and dallying overlap to a synonymous degree—and which side of the line it falls has been known to rest on how partial others are to it. Some don't warm to the crooked smiles, the slyness—but then, Astarion's a sly shit, too, isn't he.
The honest truth, if he were inclined to serve it up without a tussle to drag it out of him, is he likes the vampire's propensity to gambol, loosening some of those early preconceived misgivings. It may in fact be a wonder he's survived as long as he has avoiding honey traps in the form of gorgeous faces, but finding a playful vampire interesting enough to stick his hand into the lion's maw. ]
I had no idea you were so sweet on me all this time. Don't be shy. Here you could've just said hello.
That's all, though? You're easy to please. Don't you worry. Hearts are delicate and the one thing you can't replace, I wouldn't handle them as roughly as that. Plus, that sounds like an awful lot of work, even more than the wash basin.
[ Seriously, a stake? Does that actually happen? Puts a new spin on a heartbreaker. He'll give Astarion another for free and refrain from throwing garlic or blessed water in his face short of only the most homicidal, life-preserving requirements. ]
Comparing our definitions of fun, though—that I can do. I'll let you know.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ Or a cluster of stars denoting big hair. He feels quite accurate and correct about that. ]
Oh, the hot and cold routine. Playing games with my heart.
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[ The hypothetical sits squarely at the juncture of Astarion's ego that says he'd look good in anything yet would also refuse, on pain of death, to wear anything he thought to be garish. A hideous, feathered cap? To cover this hair? Perish the thought! ]
Pot, kettle — you know, you never did say if I was your type.
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[ But there's a limit to teasing, no matter how lightly meant in response to a slight in truth just as lightly taken, that stops him short of blame your parents. Family can often enough be a concealed rat burrow to twist one's ankle in; who can say what form it takes for one so old and... eaten? Changed? ... Tadpole'd? Elves must have parents. Or else maybe he just sprang out of the center of a flower like that. ]
I'm not done with my checklist of considerations. [ What, you think he'd just be walking down the street and pick him out of a crowd like "yes, that high maintenance-looking one who's awfully quick to get on the drop on heckling me first"? Light help him. And that's not talking spitting distance to see the eyes or the chompers. ]
Setting aside you can hardly expect me to commit myself to this flip-flopping and fight off your army of pretty suitors at the same time. I hate to share, I'd be overcome with jealousy.
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Also, look, the one rule that any heckler knows is that if you ain't first, you're last. ]
What good is an army of suitors if there's only one I want?
[ Is he just being flirtatious, does he really mean any of it — that's for him to know and
the player to spend three acts delving through significant traumaMat to find out. ]no subject
Who wants to crack the lids and go exhuming around in those cans of worms? He tells stories to get around matters of family, lies so he does not have to address the dirt he crawled out of to get here and still wears in his blood and his bones. He'd be remiss to go trailblazing in no man's land first and leave his glass house behind, doors unlocked, waiting to be egged and painted on. ]
You better hold that thought. It might change depending how you feel about cuddling.
[ Oh, he's good, though. 👏
PCs forcing you to talk about trauma? What the fuck is that? You've come to the right place; get on the Randland wavelength where everyone talks about everything but that for fourteen books, and they have to trick you at your own games to get you to expose you even have it. It's enough, surely, that it makes him laugh. ]
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I'm beginning to think that "hot and cold" was a descriptor you meant for yourself. You chide me for not playing nice and then hold me at arm's length — why, I might get my feelings hurt.
[ Considering their general dispositions, he feels Mat's qualitative comment could go either way — either that Mat himself isn't much for it or that he (rightly) assumes that Astarion isn't really the cuddly type (though that has everything to do with the fact that he's never genuinely cared about anyone he's slept with), hence falling back on being a little brat. ]
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How do you figure? It's about type. If you don't like cuddling, it's a matter of a compatibility issue.
[ Joke's on you, it's a (semi)-serious question!
When your repressed hunger for affection vents straight into a desire to make positive connections with everyone you sleep with, and be a cuddle fiend, and spend those fourteen books working out how to convince people who can and will throat punch you to let you cuddle them instead, you're not afraid to say it. ]
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Well, let me put it to you like this: It'll take a little extra work getting cozy, as I run quite cold.
[ On account of being dead, a blank he leaves for Mat's imagination to either fill or require some further explanation of (which he's perfectly happy to provide).
The truth of the matter is that he doesn't really know how to answer. His typical instinct is to avoid being touched entirely, but— if pressed, he wouldn't argue against the notion that a tender touch might actually be welcome. But that comes with its own host of questions, from what Mat does or doesn't stand to gain from their embarking on whatever kind of relationship or situationship this is, to whether or not he'll ever be willing to tie himself to another person.
All this to say, he's a little envious of Mat's forthrightness. While he'd never call himself a liar, he also finds it much easier to figure out what other people want to hear rather than figuring out what he really wants. You know, classic repression stuff. ]
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Thus two additional considerations emerge. Firstly, has the horn of flirtatious chicken sounded?
Usually people he's pegged for feigned interest back down once offers for a kiss and a cuddle hit the table, weeding out those who don't appreciate being threatened with a good time (close encounters with mangy peasants). He'd taken a gamble, allowing the possibility for scenarios to exist in which Astarion does not simply come within proximity to warm bodies and dementor-peck them or some such, but in so doing had bet on this not being something Astarion would want to hear and not much farther ahead than that.
Not to say he's told a strict lie himself, but... Blood and ashes. Is this bastard trying to bluff him on making good on come-ons as he bluffs him?
... well.
It's only really a bluff if he's unable or unwilling to back it up. And the prevalent factors that typically would dissuade him—heads being torn from bodies, puffed-up imperiousness, temperaments too obnoxious to bother with (Moiraine, most people in the Two Rivers), sneering insincerity (when the most stunning woman nature and the One Power ever created sizes you up like a prize pig, you do not go there and some people should really take that wisdom)—have not quite made this supposed checklist as yet.
Well, peacocking, maybe. ]
I suppose there's a reason some people wear socks to bed.
Just stay away from me with those cold feet.
[ The second consideration brings him back a step to mathlady.gif over vampire physiology a moment more. Right. Undead blood circulation. So when a boy vampire and a girl vampire or any combination therein like each other very much, how do they... ? Can they? The usual flushed and frisky way or does generating some heat involve part of the... work?
Thank everything he and his stirrings of embarrassment drifting back toward this line of thinking are safely at a distance, do not perceive him. ]
Do you feel cold? To yourself, I mean. Is that uncomfortable?
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And, luckily, through a text exchange, he has no expression by which to gauge Mat's thoughts — best to leave such questions until they become truly relevant, anyway. ]
I can feel warmth, in others, but I don't feel cold, myself.
[ It'd likely be more apt to say that any such discomfort is vastly outweighed by the discomfort of vampiric hunger, but, in fairness, if he stops to think about it, it's not as though he's constantly shivering in his boots. But that's not a very appealing sort of thing to learn about, especially not where flirtation is concerned, and so Astarion elects to keep that to himself, at least for now. Who wants to hear, oh, and also, I feel a constant, all-consuming hunger that can only be temporarily sated by human blood? No one.
More importantly, that's not why he's jumped into this conversation to begin with, and he doesn't really want to leave any room for the impression that it is. ]
Maybe it did make me uncomfortable, once, but ... two hundred years is ample time to get used to almost anything.
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But there it is: old. ]
They do say feeling cold happens as you age.
[ Listen, at no point did he promise, outwardly or inwardly, that as he keeps the door to an open mind propped ajar, in good faith seeing what sort of sum amounts from Astarion's parts, he was going to do so without recurrent heckling. The art of juggling requires balancing many balls.
And it helps, perhaps outwardly and inwardly, to rub out some of the plaintive sting from the shadowed subtleties revealed by his answer. Vampiric children's stories don't really expound on if it must be a difficult or sad thing, for the one who had gone from once living to chilled flesh, light to dark, free to obeisance to strange superstitions like invitations. Even if they pass across his mind, he follows his own personal policy to avoid sentiments that he, himself, would find shrug-worthy to hear: that sounds more than uncomfortable, that sounds hard; that sounds awful. ]
Lucky for you, people perfectly alive who feel like ice blocks all year round exist. You're hardly alone there.
[ In terms of finding companionship for himself, surely. Touch. Repellent for use in shooting down cuddling jests, sure, but in reality odds are he must not find it a dealbreaker. It's just thought exercises all around today. ]
Not such a bad move, you know. Blankets. Bundling close for warmth. The ambient heat of a still living heart, steamy but not sweaty. They pull it off in the romances.
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It's not particularly fun to talk about, either — nothing dampens a conversation like discussing being beaten to death and subsequently diving head-first into two centuries of enslavement.
So: ]
Blankets, or the company of a hot-blooded young thing like you — not the worst options I've ever been presented with.
[ Hot-blooded being slightly more pointed in this context, even if he doesn't mean it as such. ]
I wouldn't have taken you for a romantic.
[ In the same way that most wouldn't assume as much about Astarion, really, despite the fact that he is ultimately susceptible to such things. ]
I suppose I've a little ground to recover if I'm to be anything close to a dashing prince.
sad pearl clutching for every backstory nesting doll opened
No, he doesn't pity Astarion.
Cracking open the empathy door, though? That's a dangerous gateway drug for the sentiment-skirters in the crowd. Got to keep an eye on that. ]
A hot-blooded young thing like me. 🌹🌹🌹 [ Colorfully embellished echo directly correlating to the amount of amusement being awarded the designation. ] Well, now you've done it. You can't go around saying that and expect me to hare off from a challenge. What are the best ones to warm you up?
[ Hope you like blanket burritos. ]
Who doesn't like a little cuddle and romance?
[ By his rather one-way definition of romancing—a favored gambit plucked from his tool belt of charms. Gestures performed to enjoy others' company for a spell, however brief and fleeting. When one is not an elven head-turner and has serious doubts about character and desirability to surpass, one must carve out a skill set to stand apart from the redheads with immaculate cheekbones and blacksmiths made out of shyness and muscle. Climbing into a thorn bush to pick flowers to entice eyes to him is worth the effort for the days or weeks indulging in a bit of playing around.
Being romanced doesn't fit the same equation. Now you're just drifting into his flirt lane. What's he supposed to do with dashes or princes? Once one of those enters the ring, it's gg. They're all anyone can pay attention to at that point. ]
That's all right, not my type. Although I can certainly recommend one or two people who might be into it. I'm not sure I could pull off the stockings for a damsel, myself.
[ What happens when two people with slightly tarnished prince routines encounter each other in the wild? Do they cancel each other out? Lock antlers and spin each other around, each leading with their left foot? Brandish bouquets of flowers instead of knives?
Perhaps if you ain't first, you're last and confused because you both tried to surprise the other at their house at the same time. ]
the ol' "misery matryoshka"
That said, he doesn't expect Mat to really have any ulterior motive in this other than a good time, as precariously close to the edge of genuine sentiment they might come. It doesn't not feel like trying to outfox one's own reflection, stumped at each new turn by the fact that they've essentially taken the same step — an endless game of one offering the other the chance to go through a doorway first.
(And what is he supposed to do with that?)
On top of all that, it doesn't escape him that Mat has generally maneuvered around anything deeper than, "Aren't I a scamp," without breaking a sweat. ]
So, no to the archetypal dashing prince, but at least a maybe to the bloodsucking monster. It must be my lucky day.
[ It's a little bit of self-effacement — he resents being referred to as a monster and has started fights over less. He trusts, implicitly, that it's not a line of joking that Mat will try to follow. ]
And don't try to pawn me off already, or I might take umbrage. I seem to recall you saying you're not one to share.
slaps coffin, this bad boy can fit so much suffering
With every question dodged on the other end, he seems a step closer to feeling out the outer boundaries to the other's teases, like being blindfolded in a completely dark room and left to map out an unknown shape with hands out. He's been pushing those boundaries on purpose—waiting for fissures of impatience to breach an act, as he can say with confidence he's more used to people wanting something they're beating around the bush to get to, when the princess sweeps in with her best charming smile seeking favours and appeals to his vanity.
Instead of terms, Astarion dangles loose threads—curious loose threads he wants to tug on to see where they go. If he would just kindly stop handing out motive, imagine the time saved writing each other off, but no! ]
Will he go dancing with me?
[ This hypothetical sharp-toothed somebody, whatever he's into roleplaying in the bedroom, no judgment.
Now that sharp tongue, though... ]
No, no, no—I wouldn't dream of holding you back, is all. Far be it for me to get in the way if you have a taste and a type for curvy women, say.
[ Speaking of what's known to draw Mat's attention in a crowded tavern. ]
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With all that in mind, it's difficult to account for his willingness to play along, or the fondness with which he engages in it. But the fact that they're both circling as opposed to showing their hands tells him that, perhaps, what trust he is willing to put in Mat isn't misplaced. ]
If you asked.
[ Yet another challenge, yet another dare, though Astarion finds that he extends it without much agonizing at all. He's tempted to ask if that's what Mat genuinely would find to be a good time, but he keeps the thought to himself, both for the sake of keeping his message appropriately mysterious and because he doesn't want to give off the impression that it'd be a bad thing. ]
Oh, I think I've heard of this tactic before: "It's not you, it's me"? More to the point, don't let me clip your wings either, my dear.
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Consequently, the always somewhat hyper-nervous human who, not long ago, would've claimed zero interest in looking out for the welfare of his soft, supple neck or in puffed-up popinjays, is made to pause and realize—has he talked him into talking himself into talking the other into a date? All signs point to: it seems... so?
Some might make of this a sign and an off-ramp to second thoughts' disengagement, but there's a particular point of no return for people of his stock and jerky-dry crust. A one-directional cattle chute triggering in the hindbrain so the only possible means of walking backward the laws of physical will allow is doing so while facing the Creator and all the gods. One way to go and that's onward and upward.
A gamble, then, as much as a game board. A toss of the dice, no way of telling how they'll fall. ]
All right, then. Consider me asking. Would you care to take a spin with me sometime, Astarion?
[ As well it seems he might have been snagged on a point of contradiction, greedy infatuation and its antithesis in freewheeling unconstraint, but in someone with shades of covetous and addictive layered into the whole, who has had nothing to keep or covet, the two aren't mutually exclusive. One should be avoided in favor of the other, that's just a matter of sense. ]
I could be mad jealous of whoever catches your eye but I'm not fool enough to think I could keep it.
[ A pause, then in consideration of where they started and where they've got off to, a sprig more parsing: ]
If it were that, those sorts of things are better said plainly. I'd lay it out like it is, and I'd hope you'd do the same. False hopes about what you're getting and having are what bring on the sore feelings.
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The latter scenario isn't impossible — an actual ask brings their game of chicken to an impasse, but only one that will last until they next meet. Can he wheedle Mat into being the one to suggest a second date, will they ever broach the topic of genuine affection, etc.
Then again, perish the thought, but perhaps it's because he actually wants to go. ]
I would. Name the time and the place, and I'll be there.
[ And perhaps — not so divorced from any of the former hypotheticals — there's something about Mat's general earnestness (try as he might not to be) that makes the idea of being pursued appealing. At the very least, he hasn't been scared off by the fact that he's a vampire spawn; that's not nothing. ]
Don't sell yourself so short. That's my job, I think.
[ And as for that last point, somewhat harder for Astarion to brook without outright admitting that he simply loves to never give a straight answer to anything: ]
I suppose it doesn't cost me anything to promise you that much, though I won't go so far as to say it's the least I can do.
But you have my answer, on both fronts, now.
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Yet— He's come out with dividends for the casting of lots, compelling him to sit up straighter. Already smiling unconsciously in anticipation at this unexpected—but not objectionable—fork in the road that unanswered questions does little to dampen.
He can't count it a loss, certainly. Fair to say on his personal scale of most "least fun" to "most fun" ways to pass an evening, death via exsanguination is at the bottom, while dicing games and filling too-empty beds with company float near the top. But going out for a bit of revelry with company? It ranks about even—differing thrills, equivalent rewards. In spite of it being his thrown gauntlet, only in facing he's locked in to making it happen does a surge of eagerness follow. Truthfully, he does quite like dancing. They could have a good time? Doing something... normal. Light, it's been a while since he's had so much as the opportunity for it. And even if a creature of the night currently with a tadpole in his brain had designs to be some manner of tit about it, Mat thinks he could turn him onto liking a dance or two.
(—to like it with him? Does that matter? Insane to think why not?
Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe it would be worthwhile to fashion a few pleasant hours as the culmination to their stand-off, if nothing else were to come of it; to just make a night of it together and see how prissy the master of priss is off the clock.) ]
Okay, it's a date. [ Round one. ] I'll look into it.
[ Ideas percolate as he says as much. There's always an excuse to strike up dancing music somewhere... and if they went into the city—? ]
Hey, no promises, no disappointments, right? As long as everyone's enjoying themselves, that's all that matters. That's enough for me.
[ Better to rip the bandaid off and say things that need saying; best not to hold anyone to anything when promises can so easily curdle to betrayed expectations, or blow away with the wind.
Apt to say he might spread his wings; it isn't the first time someone has named him a bird that startles to flight at the first hint of being held down, and he has no desire to hold anyone by the foot, either. So no promises needed—Astarion is free to dance how, and around, and to whom he likes, the same for him. ]
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Strange, then, that it should make him feel uncertain, not in terms of whether or not he wants to go, but about what freedom entails to him, whether or not he knows himself outside of a setting where looking out for himself is the name of the game. Who is he, given the chance to take off his mask, given the chance to invest even the faintest amount of interest in someone else.
But — no promises, no disappointments. If he doesn't feel glad about that pronouncement, he doesn't feel bitter about it, either, which is about as good as such things can get. ]
You do make it difficult not to have a good time, at least where a little banter is concerned. We'll see how well you measure up in other areas.
[ Always handy to set a base level of interaction, e.g. being a little bitchy for the sake of being bitchy, which he thinks Mat can take perfectly well if only because at least some of their respective pages seem to be taken from the same book.
Besides, he can't complain too much about setting casual expectations — he knows how to handle that, at least, and it'll make things easier should either of them catch fright and decide to scarper. Granted, it becomes a little bit of a battle, then, to see who'll be able to extricate themselves first (winner) and leave the other empty-handed (loser), but they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. ]
Wear whatever you think makes you look the most handsome.
[ Because he certainly will. ]
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But this he can do and do well. Nebulous and casual need not make anyone a loser. He and partners had had their time together, or things ran their course as they do, and partings were amicable more often than not. In a perfect world he'd entice kisses from someone with beautiful eyes and more besides, but all he'd ever really sought was fishing out the means to a laugh and a smile. To leave an impression better than it was worse. (And he hasn't survived slaloming around matchmaking housewives, or pretty Darkfriends, or Trollocs with fangs the size of his forearm to trip up at his own bloody game now.) ]
You do know how to sweet talk a person. I can tell I'm getting warmer on the spectrum. I'll win your cold dead feet over yet.
You're not so terrible, either, whatever you feel like being.
[ Space for blanks to be filled.
That being said, he still isn't entirely convinced Astarion isn't going to try boxing him into formal ballroom waltzes, prim spines and trim distancing, likely fit for someone born to the city and high off the ground, at that. The second half of the message does little to assuage the suspicion. ]
So come as you are?
[ Mat at Mat, looking bemusedly down at what he's wearing (at least 50% what he also slept in, a solid 100% what his plotting mind had yet to consider): wait, we have to adhere to real date best practices on a fake date? To Astarion's credit, it's a gracious step removed from a you have to dress up, but nonetheless destined to be a simple selection process from an otherwise limited wardrobe.
Gracious is as gracious does, he leaves it open for an interpretive freebie: the general "you" or a specific and directed "you could fasten a potato sack over your birthday suit and be fine." All the same... a quaint thought Astarion's plotting mind might already be engaging seriously on the matter of primping and grooming, pouncing on all four paws. ]
Light, I'm flattered you find me boundlessly handsome and not starting a list of demands. [ "I also choose to take this as—" ] But I suppose if you had those, you had better tell me beforehand.
[ On the day-to-day, for the majority of comers? Intractably uncooperative and as quick to slip off the hook as a greased eel. Inside the practices of taking someone out? It may have started as poking a vampire spawn with a stick to see what he does, but if he's doing this, he'll do it going all in on it, no takebacks. Fashion sense aside, which will assuredly not be improving in great leaps and bounds in the time it takes to sort out any last skeptical second thoughts and carve out a suitable opportunity. Astarion did make the choice to poke back at a raccoon person and they'll both just have to live with that. ]
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(And the one exception to the rule had taught him better. One man, early on, who'd been so sweet, so earnest, so tailored to tug on Astarion's heartstrings, that he'd let him go. The consequence — an entire year spent locked in a tomb, alternating between wishing for death and scratching his fingers raw and bloody against the stone — hadn't, in his estimation, been worth it, and the lesson learned has made him unwilling, if not outright averse, to entertaining exceptions again, even if Cazador can no longer really do anything about them.)
But there's no real way around the fact that agreeing to go out on a whatever-this-is isn't motivated by anything other than curiosity and perhaps a little selfishness — the desire to have fun and be admired on his own terms, to not have to give away anything more than a smile or maybe a kiss. ]
"Not so terrible"? Trying to make my heart flutter with praise, are we?
[ The second part of that message, he leaves well enough alone. What he knows how to be is what Cazador had made of him — but he doesn't want that, anymore. ]
As you are, if you like.
[ It's not like he's actually going to set ground rules for something that's supposed to be an uncomplicated good time. Besides, he's had enough of being molded by someone else to feel very keen about doing the same thing to someone else — or at least someone he actually likes. Well, finds interesting, anyway.
So: ]
Let's save the idea of demands for a second date, shall we?
[ And, just in case that alone is too much pressure on their commitmentphobic selves, a quick follow-up: ]
Unless this is your way of telling me you'd like to hear more compliments, as I'd be happy to oblige that particular request.
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A warm and fuzzy quaver, maybe. I thought there was a solid chance you were an insufferable prat who'd make me pay a toll fee for the conversation. [ aka he can reconcile vampiric dietary restrictions as part and parcel of the world, but the barest whiff of "most popular snob in high school" and the prejudicial torches and pitchforks of negging generalizations come out.
Guess we'll both see. It puts him in a similar boat, really, not expecting the conversation to run the length it has, or make the turns it has, if for different reasons—but he's willing to eat crow when wrong. Neither would he say he'd be disappointed continuing to be wrong.
He does his best not to linger on dead-ends or intrigues that fizzle, but on the opposite hand, dare he say he might even be a tad disappointed if the other backed down from their stand-off before knowing how it plays out?
As you are, he returns. Well! How can he say no with Astarion going to such pains to ramp up flutters into blushes? (Not today, Satan.) Despite the well of compliments to drop coppers into on offer, assumptions of a bloodless and willing encore barely fazes him beyond the burst of amusement that follows. After all, it'd seem to imply a high likelihood of shaking a legitimate confession out of Astarion that he's heart-struck by this handsome face atop his neck (or else determined to get close to him for another reason, but you know; let a guy have his fantasies it's always the former). ]
I was aiming along the lines of likes or dislikes, personal interests, venue picks, possibly vampire-related considerations I should know about... But hey, if you want to shower me in praise, knock yourself out.
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[ He stops just short of a precipice that he finds uncomfortable — namely, bringing the idea of being paid of his time too far into the mix, considering the degree to which such a principle had been central to his life under the heel of Cazador's boot. But that's not stuff for polite — or flirtatious — conversation.
As for the latter part of Mat's message, well— it's nice, isn't it, to be asked?
It occurs to him, in a pathetic sort of way (pathetic to him, in how much he finds he likes it), that no one's really bothered to ask before. Part of it, he supposes he could chalk up to the fact that most interactions he'd had had been part of an active hunt, in which it was more his prerogative to suss such things out, but on the other hand— it's new, plain and simple. And, as such, he finds himself a little lost as to how to address any of it honestly.
He debates an I'm not picky to suffice, but that's not entirely true. ]
I'll admit to a taste for pretty things, but that's somewhat less imperative to me than, shall we say, a little fun. And as far as vampire-related considerations go ... so long as you aren't about to drive a non-metaphorical stake through my heart (the metaphorical sort, I can weather), I'd say there's nothing to worry yourself about.
[ The tadpole has taken care of quite a lot, after all, and thank the gods for that. Not being able to walk in the sun is a considerable hamper to almost any normal activity, as is the need to explicitly be invited into a home before getting up to mischief. ]
As for the latter consideration: besides, as far as prettiness and fun go, you have both in spades.
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Oh? What's this? You mean to say you were knocked off your feet the first time you laid eyes on me?
[ Give him an inch and he'll favorably and jestingly interpret a mile, all but confirming Astarion's point that teasing and dallying overlap to a synonymous degree—and which side of the line it falls has been known to rest on how partial others are to it. Some don't warm to the crooked smiles, the slyness—but then, Astarion's a sly shit, too, isn't he.
The honest truth, if he were inclined to serve it up without a tussle to drag it out of him, is he likes the vampire's propensity to gambol, loosening some of those early preconceived misgivings. It may in fact be a wonder he's survived as long as he has avoiding honey traps in the form of gorgeous faces, but finding a playful vampire interesting enough to stick his hand into the lion's maw. ]
I had no idea you were so sweet on me all this time. Don't be shy. Here you could've just said hello.
That's all, though? You're easy to please. Don't you worry. Hearts are delicate and the one thing you can't replace, I wouldn't handle them as roughly as that. Plus, that sounds like an awful lot of work, even more than the wash basin.
[ Seriously, a stake? Does that actually happen? Puts a new spin on a heartbreaker. He'll give Astarion another for free and refrain from throwing garlic or blessed water in his face short of only the most homicidal, life-preserving requirements. ]
Comparing our definitions of fun, though—that I can do. I'll let you know.
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