[ 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.
[ The important thing is that, as far as Astarion can tell (and he fancies himself a rather good judge of character, though the truth may be less that and more an inherent unwillingness to give his trust away), the type of slyness that runs in Mat's behavior isn't born out of malice, or at least not any malice beyond a vague desire to see puffed-up fools appropriately un-puffed. Which is a matter of cosmic balance, ultimately, if one thinks of it a little more generously. ]
But hello is awfully boring, isn't it? Besides, I had to make sure there was something else to you besides a handsome face.
[ A truth — or a half-truth, at the very least. Again, he hadn't really intended upon agreeing to anything more, let alone an actual date, and yet here they are. Miracles really do happen. ]
And I wouldn't describe myself as easy to please — rather, let's say I've been taken by a generous mood. My present to you.
[ As much as his avoidance of any further heart-talk, lest they tread into too-sentimental territory for what is essentially a lead-up. (And, unfortunately, yes, staking really does happen, though one could sufficiently argue that a piece of wood driven through one's heart would be enough to dispatch pretty much anyone or anything, vampire spawn or no.) ]
Well, then, petal — I'll be waiting. Don't dally too long.
[ Turning his own ribbing around on him? The audacity. ]
As long as you DO admit, on record, once and for all, I'm a handsome devil.
I'm a fair person, too, [ sources needed ] if you need suggestions to add to that list. I would've called us even for budging on that point, but since you're feeling generous... why, yes, thank you, I have substance for days. I'll wow your metaphorical socks off instead.
[ Blithe as the words may read, he's smiling, pleased for all the mock quibbles along the way. ]
And let you get cold(er) feet? You're not getting off the hook that easy.
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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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But hello is awfully boring, isn't it? Besides, I had to make sure there was something else to you besides a handsome face.
[ A truth — or a half-truth, at the very least. Again, he hadn't really intended upon agreeing to anything more, let alone an actual date, and yet here they are. Miracles really do happen. ]
And I wouldn't describe myself as easy to please — rather, let's say I've been taken by a generous mood. My present to you.
[ As much as his avoidance of any further heart-talk, lest they tread into too-sentimental territory for what is essentially a lead-up. (And, unfortunately, yes, staking really does happen, though one could sufficiently argue that a piece of wood driven through one's heart would be enough to dispatch pretty much anyone or anything, vampire spawn or no.) ]
Well, then, petal — I'll be waiting. Don't dally too long.
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As long as you DO admit, on record, once and for all, I'm a handsome devil.
I'm a fair person, too, [ sources needed ] if you need suggestions to add to that list. I would've called us even for budging on that point, but since you're feeling generous... why, yes, thank you, I have substance for days. I'll wow your metaphorical socks off instead.
[ Blithe as the words may read, he's smiling, pleased for all the mock quibbles along the way. ]
And let you get cold(er) feet? You're not getting off the hook that easy.