thirsted | SALTBURNT

[ The compliment gets a fond roll of his eyes and a brief pop of his hip before he follows in Matt's wake. ]

"Generally around the lake" sounds perfectly lovely to me.

[ He hadn't exactly had a destination in mind, before, and there's something freeing about the lack of a real plan, besides. The entire past month had been plans in different forms and configurations — the lack of pressure (and the lack of death means the air feels a little crisper, a little fresher, even aside from the changing of the seasons. He's happy to listen, too, as Matt rattles off the properties of the drink's components, the lilt of his voice an easy accompaniment to the night. ]

Nothing particular for cinnamon, then? [ he hums, still holding the mug in both hands. ] I had wondered. Even flowers have such a specific language; I don't think there's really a similar catch-all.

Lots of particular things for cinnamon, [ Matt corrects with a smile. ] I've read it's good in spells for strength, psychic enhancement, love ... success, luck, protection, healing--

[ Matt's smile curls into a grin as the list drags on. Even he can tell when he's really getting into the weeds, as it were. ]

And money, [ he concludes. A curious pause. ] You don't think lavender is multifunctional like that? I find myself casting with it a lot.

[ It's nice to be out here. It's quiet, a quiet that only feels more profound in the falling dark. Matt gets the sense he's being regarded from behind the hedges, but he always has creepy feelings like that around Saltburnt. You learn to make that background.

The further they get from the manor, the more Matt seems to ease. He tends to carry himself with a sense of pleasant belonging to the space he inhabits, an openness to its contours and its occupants. But the past few weeks have seen him turn inward, nursing wounds both physical and emotional. He was happy with Luffy and Dani, Chrissy and Bella, Erik when he returned; that's about it. Now, he starts to unfurl a little bit.

The alcohol helps, of course. Matt breathes in the scent of his drink, savoring it before he takes another pull. ]

I suppose I've just never thought of it that way, [ comes the answer, a little self-effacing. ] I don't cast magic with them — with herbs or flowers. The closest I come is the odd perfume, but even then, I'm only concerned with how the scents complement each other, not their more magical properties.

[ He pauses as he falls into step with Matt, the line of his shoulders smoothing out in parallel to Matt's own unwinding. Not to call him into the conversation again, but Gale would be better equipped for it — he'd wager the two would get along. ]

Where I come from, we draw magic from the Weave, [ he says slowly, aware to some degree that he isn't the best person to be explaining this. ] It's— like a raw material. Skilled spellcasters can tap into it, like pulling on the right strings of a tapestry. There are tools one can draw upon to help, but not quite in the way you mean, I'd wager.

[ Matt's eyebrows arch curiously at the word "perfume," which is definitely not one he was expecting. He thinks back, wondering if he's noticed any particular scents around Astarion. Most people smell good to Matt as a baseline, and he and Astarion only rarely been close enough for him to catch anything specific. ]

The weave, [ Matt echoes, smiling curiously. ] That's pretty. It makes a certain kind of sense to me, like ...

[ He shifts his mug to one hand (sneaking another sip as he does), and traces a shape in the air with a fingertip. There's a soft puff of his breath, steaming the evening air, and then a ribbon of golden light appears, following the path his hand has drawn. It's a symbol from the spell on their mugs, one of the shapes that stands for fire. As Matt's fingers flutter, more golden threads appear, recreating the filigree pattern of the rest of the spell. ]

It feels like strings, a lot of the time, [ he says. ] Or like, I don't know, where I come from some people say time and space are a fabric, so ... to say everything's interconnected in that way, that feels like how it works.

[ He lets the configuration fade, feeling like maybe he's actually babbled too long this time? Luckily, an appealing topic change is close at hand. ]

I didn't know you made perfume, [ he adds, glancing back Astarion's way. ] That's so fucking cool.

[ If Astarion tires of Matt's explaining, he makes no sign of it — and, more to the point, he isn't tired of it. It's nice, in its own way, to listen to someone talk about something they're passionate about, something constructive. It reminds him that there's more to think about than the fact he'd been living hand to mouth for the past two centuries, that there ought to be more to his being now than revenge.

Still, the segue prompts a laugh and a slight shrug. ]

I always thought I might have enjoyed it as a line of work, [ he admits, as he looks down into his mug, into the faint golden light that reflects back at him. ] But it's— a necessity, as much as it is a hobby. [ Lightly, disguising any bitterness or strangeness he feels about it: ] I'm a dead man — it's more obvious in some ways than others.

[ That's about as clearly as he's willing to spell it out for the moment; sharper noses will be able to tell that the fragrance he wears neuters the scent of a corpse, given that's ultimately what he is. A walking corpse, bound to life by vampiric means. ]

—I could make you a little something, if you tell me what you like.

[ They've come to the path around the lake by now. The dark water is placid this evening: no would-be victims chucked into it, no jumping summer fish. Matt ambles past the dock--for what boat, he always wonders--and glances to Astarion with a slightly sharper attention for the phrase dead man.

It doesn't come as the sort of surprise it would have when he arrived here. Daniel and Armand are dead too. But it's one more reminder that even those of them who come from similar-ish worlds still diverge in ways he can't predict. ]

I see. [ A gentle nod. ] Different from where I come from, then. Actually, so far I think my world's in the minority.

[ He, too, seems happy to leave it there. Especially in the face of the offer, which gets him perking up visibly. ]

That's so nice. [ The sentiment is genuine, though its fluidity might have something to do with the fact that he's managed to get halfway through his mug. (He may have overdone it on the bourbon. It's been a long few weeks.) Matt breathes in through his nose, trying to pick out the scents from each other like notes in a chord. ] Honestly, I think I like most scents that people tend to classify as good, so-- [ A crooked smile. ] Not helpful. But I'd be interested in seeing what you came up with as an artist, artisan. One of those.

[ It's pleasant — even in the relatively short while they've known each other, Matt has proven himself surprisingly adept at knowing how to direct a conversation, at least when it's just been the two of them. There are things Astarion doesn't really want to talk about, even if he's begun giving morsels away; here, for instance, he offers up one grim detail without really wanting to give away more, and Matt steers gracefully away.

It makes it easier to laugh when Matt fails to commit to a particular scent profile, when the lilt of his voice begins to betray a little tipsiness. This feels normal, at least in the context of their circumstances — no invisible axe hanging over them, no strings attached. His pace slows a little as they reach the lake — the bodies discovered in it had hardly been its fault, after all — admiring the moon's reflection in the water. ]

Give me one note to start on, [ he says by way of protest, the words carried on the tail end of a laugh. ] Floral, sweet, smoky — one word, and I'll take it from there.

[ Matt laughs when Astarion does, expression scrunching briefly into a grin. ]

It's so hard to choose. [ He's being silly, but on one level it's a deep truth about him. Matt always buys way more pastries than he needs when he's in a position to buy pastries, too many used books at the used bookstore. He works on too many magical projects at once, falls for too many people. He hates the thought of making a choice that cuts off future possibilities, that keeps him from experiencing all the vast loveliness of existence.

That said, after a slightly-too-long pause, he goes with, ] Smoky.

I think I know the least about that scent realm.

[ Incense, cigarettes, some ritual drugs. That's about it. ]

[ Teasing, ] Was that so hard?

[ Astarion comes to a stop, then, by the lake's edge, his fingers loosely linking together behind his back as his entire form cranes forward to inspect the moon's reflection in the water's surface.

In truth, he understands the dilemma of choice, having been essentially robbed of it for the past two centuries. Even after the tadpole had rid him of Cazador's influence, survival had winnowed what he imagines might otherwise have been broader horizons. Here, there's less of a shadow hanging over him, so the restriction, he supposes, is self-imposed, dictated by how reluctant he is to truly trust anyone else, to reveal anything about himself that might be taken for weakness. ]

I'd almost thought you'd request something toddy-esque. [ With a glance down into his mug, ] Warm, welcoming, spicy.

—But I'm not saying that as a means of changing your mind. You've made your bed already, no choice but to lie in it.

[ Matt pulls another face at him, though he doesn't succeed in looking genuinely aggrieved. At least, not until Astarion says toddy-esque, whereupon his eyes widen, and his gaze drops from Astarion's face to his mug and back. ]

Oh, that's brilliant, [ he protests. ] That's really good.

[ Matt joins him by the water's edge, stopping at a distance that feels natural to him: within easy talking distance, just outside of touching range. It's the sort of thing Matt doesn't think about consciously, except perhaps when he'd visited Danny in his cell. It's just gravity. ]

I'll abide by "first thought best thought," [ he allows, lips quirking towards another smile. He sips from his mug. ] But maybe I can offer you something for subsequent perfumes? Enchanted item?

[ A few nights of good sleep, Matt thinks, and he should be back in serious spellcasting shape. A week max. ]

[ As they stand by the water's edge, Astarion keeps Matt in his periphery, never fully turning his head to face him but allowing his gaze to flicker every now and then - a sort of equivalent to the easy distance Matt puts between them, faintly aware that it could be more, could be less. It's a vantage point from which it's easy to pretend he isn't thinking about it, to let out a thoughtful hum at the idea of a little gift in return. ]

What sort of enchantments did you have in mind, my dear? [ he asks, as he brings his mug up to his face, not quite pantomiming drinking from it as he breathes in its scent. ]

Not that I expect you'd leave me with a curse, but it seems worth asking.

[ Matt feels a bittersweet pang over this reaction. Sweet, because my dear, like all of Astarion's endearments, sinks warmly into his skin. Matt gets the sense that Astarion peppers affectionate terms into conversation in general, but it doesn't make him like them any less. Endearments feel as tangible to him as caresses, little touches made of sound and syllable.

Bitter, because the question strikes Matt as a very reasonable one. In their brief history thus far, Astarion can't be sure what he's going to get from Matt, can he? ]

Charms to ward off nightmares have been popular this month, [ Matt notes with a rueful smile. ] Um, I've made enchanted items that alert people to danger or untruths, that calm and center you emotionally, that turn you invisible ... all kinds of things. [ Another sip from his diminishing, but still-warm toddy. Speaking of enchanted items, this spell was such a good call. ] And I like trying to figure out how new ones would work, so even if I've never created an effect before, it doesn't necessarily mean I can't.

A charm for calm does sound quite nice, [ Astarion hums, as he tries to make out their reflections in the dark water. Two murky silhouettes. ] As for invisibility — I'll have you know I can do that myself.

[ He wonders faintly if that will come as a surprise — Matt knows he can do some magic, after all, but it's not like they've really talked about it in much more explicit terms. ]

All that to say I'll happily take you up on it. I do love a little trinket.

Sold, then. [ Matt smiles. ] I usually do sachets or jewelry, just because those are easy to wear next to the skin. But I won't be offended if you find my accessory efforts a little inelegant.

[ He'd like to circle back to how Astarion defines the word trinket, but a more pressing matter presents itself. At least, more pressing in his current frame of mind, smoothed by whiskey and softened by the pleasant evening. ]

Wait, you already know how to turn invisible? [ He does seem surprised, but only en route to delight. ] Can you do it now, can I see? Or ... not see?

Of course, dear. All you had to do was ask.

[ Carefully, Astarion passes Matt the mug he's holding, then taking a step back — out of a sense of showmanship more than anything else, really, considering that it's hardly as though he's about to conjure an explosion out of thin air. The spell itself takes only a second: Astarion draws his hands through the air as a blue light begins to shimmer around him, and then, when he draws them together, he — and the light — abruptly disappear, as though he'd never been there at all. There's only the slight compression of the grass where his feet used to be to suggest his presence, an indication that it really is invisibility as opposed to spiriting himself away entirely.

Still, there's no reflection, either — just an empty space where he used to be. ]

[ Matt accepts the mug easily, though not without a moment spent tipsily contemplating the delta between Astarion's mug (full) and his own (near the dregs). Half of him thinks maybe he should just drink both? While the other half wonders, with a guilty pang, if he should've offered to--

Hold that thought. Astarion's small flourish is the kind of attention to detail that Matt always appreciates, even if he doesn't think he could carry it off himself. He watches his hands move, notes the cool blue like the color of those lights he'd summoned the night of the feast.

And he's gone.

Matt blinks, then peers with narrowed eyes at the spot Astarion just occupied. ]

Oh, wow. [ He takes a step forward, wondering if he'll be able to--not hear him, or smell him, and probably not detect body heat. But maybe feel that sense of gravity he experiences when he's near enough to someone else. ] That's really good. I usually need spell components for mine, or else looking in my direction makes the whole thing break.

[ Matt steps forward, and in accordance, Astarion leans back, his frame hanging in that reclined state for a moment before he slips out of Matt's immediate periphery, treading quietly to stop a few steps behind him before dispelling the illusion. ]

I suppose it's a trade-off, [ he says, as he brushes off his hands (despite having absolutely no reason to do so — it's just a little extra melodrama). ] I don't need any components, but my ability to channel magic is— limited. It isn't as though I can cast spells as many times as I'd like. And more difficult spells take more effort.

[ Or so goes the most reasonable explanation for spell slots one can muster without breaking the fourth wall. ]

Some people just use scrolls. It's an easy in to more complicated magic, if also, well, limited by how many you have.

[ Matt has a pretty good attunement to bodies in space, but this is hard mode. And Astarion's so quiet. When his voice comes from the unexpected direction, Matt lets out a startled sound--something that might be transcribed as gyAHh--and whirls around with a grin. Despite his surprise, ~~due to rolling a 19 on die~~ Matt manages not to spill a drop from either of their mugs. ]

Ah--

Well, I can't cast them as many times as I want either, [ he notes wryly. He's always known that, but recent events have proved it to him beyond a shadow of a doubt. ] Pretty sure that's entropy at work, law of conservation of something. But either way--that's nice. That's really neat.

[ He offers Astarion his mug back. ]

I should've asked this hours ago, [ he adds with a crooked smile, ] but if I put some blood in this, could you actually drink it?

[ Trickster that he is, Astarion can't help a laugh at Matt's surprise, a bright ha! that leans into an easier timbre of his voice, freed of anything performative. Still, he composes himself quickly enough, his expression settling into something more thoughtful as Matt explains his own school of magic before— startling, in turn, at the implied offer.

Hawk, now Matt— he doesn't quite understand what it is that makes it so easy for them to make an offer that he thinks of as gargantuan. Part of him balks, afraid of being caught in some kind of trap; another part of him wants to laugh, that the people here are so generally trusting; and another part of him simply hungers. The eternal curse of vampire-kind, to never be sated, to constantly be in a state of wanting. ]

You know, I don't know, [ he says, looking down into the mug as he takes his back. ] I've never tried—

[ He's never tried drinking from a human. ]

Best not to waste such a thing, [ is what he settles on, momentarily. ] But thank you. Truly.

[ Matt watches Astarion's face, trying to gauge his response. If he'd met him back home, he wouldn't have thought anything at all of asking. He doesn't think much now, but he's gleaned enough from the other vampires here to figure out that blood-drinking isn't always a straightforward proposition. ]

Sure. No problem. [ A gentle shrug. ] If you do ever want to, I used to do it pretty frequently back home, for--not just my ex. People I knew.

[ For a given value of "know," which may or may not have included their last names or more than a few hours of an evening. Matt pauses a moment; then, as if bracing himself, he tips his head back to drain his mug, straightens with a roll of his shoulders. Exhales on a whew. ]

Okay. [ With a smile. ] Should we keep going?

[ He finds himself envious, every now and then, of the other vampires. It's not just a matter of numbers, but— for so long, he's considered his lot in life to be one of permanent struggle. He has no bond to his fellow spawn, no friends until relatively recently, no one who'd bare their neck to him with such little fanfare.

And in this case, it's even more abstract. For blood-giving to be presumably such a fact of life that Matt should be able to speak about it so casually ...

But he shakes the thought away for now, focusing on the moment, on the unfamiliar sensations of comfort and gratefulness. ]

Let's.

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