thirsted | SALTBURNT

I had a favor to ask of you, Astarion, if you have the time?

I've nothing but time, little duck. What is it you need?

I have some things I wanted to wear for the various Events coming up, but none of them fit right, of course. I wondered if I mean. Does your offer still stand? To help?

Oh, of course! Nothing would please me more.

Shall I meet you in your suite?

That's probably the best idea. I think I have everything I'd want adjusted spread out and it's all organized according to a very complicated system, and I don't want to mess it up.

[It's a system that makes no sense to anyone except Koby, of course -- it actually looks like he's just thrown random pieces of clothing all over the place.]

I'll put tea on, if you want some? It's been cold, lately.

Only if you'll be partaking — I can appreciate the scent of it, but regrettably not much more than that.

I'll see you shortly.

[ And, true to his word, Astarion arrives at Koby's rooms within the next ten minutes, a tote bag slung over one shoulder (containing needles, thread, scissors, everything he thinks he might need for assisting Koby in this endeavor). Though he considers bringing Shadowheart for Lincoln's sake, he decides against it, thinking that Koby likely already has enough on his mind, at least if "a very complicated system" is any indication.

Accompanying a light knock: ]

One tailor, as requested!

[It's good to know, about the tea at least -- Koby momentarily debates offering some of the chilled blood from the fridge, but decides to (wisely) refrain. The room is airy, light, a touch cluttered -- books and papers and charts covering the desk, more books stacked beside the bed -- but homey, with flowers in vases and an excess of pillows on the bed. These have been shoved aside for the moment, to better allow the assortment of clothes laid out -- some formal, fitted suits or shirts or sweaters, others more loose and flowing, running the gamut from masculine to feminine and back again.

Koby stands before it all, t-shirt that's surprisingly snug (he's been working out, okay) and loose-fitting jeans. He scurries over to open the door, offering a bit of a sheepish smile at the sheer mess.]

Thank you, again. Sorry about the, uh -- the clutter. I was reorganizing my notes when I started thinking about how I needed things to wear for the holidays and now I'm halfway through both.

[ As he steps into the room: ] Oh, my darling, you've no need to apologize. The mess is half the fun.

[ Or so he thinks, at least — to be able to make a choice is a luxury. Hiking his bag back up on the slope of his shoulder, he peers over the selection Koby's laid out on his bed. It's an impressive range of styles, all of which he can easily see on the sailor hovering next to him. ]

And what half-formed thoughts have we had about our garments thus far?

[ The notes are of interest, of course, but only one of the two issues at hand has a real deadline. ]

[Koby is immensely reassured by Astarion’s presence – the languid, calm drawl of his voice, the way he surveys the laid-out clothes with interest, rather than judgement or disapproval. It all conveys I know what I’m doing and I’m not bothered by a bit of it, and it has the tight knit of his shoulders relaxing, somewhat.

The clothes get a frustrated sort of hand-flick, like Koby wants to banish them all from his sight, followed by a forlorn sort of sigh.] Well, I’ve reached the point where I want to burn them all, so I think I’m about…2/3rds of the way through the process. If memory serves.

[There’s a laugh, but it’s more like a sound of despair as Koby shoves his glasses up into the mess of his hair, keeping it out of his face so he can bury it in his hands.] Everything either fits across the chest, but not in the waist or hips, or it fits across the waist and it’s too baggy in the chest. It’s the same problem I’ve had, since–

[Here he stops, peeks out between his fingers at Astarion, sizing him up for a moment.] I have an odd question. About – your world. Have you ever, in your travels, met anyone who…let’s say they grew up a particular way, with a particular name and appearance, but when they were old enough to...control all that, they chose a different name and different appearance? A drastically different one?

[It’s an open-ended question, one that could mean all sorts of things, but Koby errs on the side of caution in this area, whenever possible.]

[ Astarion has the good sense not to laugh despite how adorable Koby's display of frustration is, instead offering the wardrobe's worth of clothes a last look before fixing his gaze on Koby.

He thinks he can see what Koby's getting at, based on what they've touched on in the past, and if anything, he's touched to be asked— to be trusted. He's not in the same boat, but he understands the often confounding nature of identity, of figuring out one's place in the world when so much of it seems to be out of one's control. But those broader thoughts aren't the answer demanded of the question at hand. Rather— ]

A few times.

[ Spoken easily, in the hopes of putting Koby a little more at ease. ]

It's perhaps not common, but it's not unheard of, either. And only really frowned upon in the event that, say, one of noble birth attempts to shirk their responsibilities.

[ A beat, as he wonders how to continue. It's not for him to pry — if Koby's willing to broach the subject, he thinks it'd be best to let him take the least. ]

Should I assume the same cannot be said of your realm?

[Thank goodness for Astarion’s composure, since being laughed at this point might make Koby crawl under the bed and never come out. Instead he’s calm, gentle, light, and it soothes some of the fretful, frenetic pulse in the center of the young man’s chest, some rapid birdwing-flutter beneath his ribs. He even smiles back, shoulders dropping in relief at the easy answer. Sometimes it really is just that simple, despite all his anxious fretting.

The explanation gets a nod, Koby’s mind clicking over to – well, to certain people he knows who might have such restrictions on them. Reaching out to smooth one of the nearest garments – a sweater, loose-necked, soft, the color of new leaves – he keeps his eyes averted when he speaks.] And you were – okay with that? With them? [With me, unspoken, but there.

Then, glancing up, over the tops of his glasses:] I don’t really know. I thought I was the only one, until I came here and started reading. I’m sure there are others, but...the priority in my world is survival. Most people don’t care about anything else. [Koby lets go of the sweater, sits down on the bed amidst the clothes and folds his hands in his lap.] It’s hard to explain to them that it’s the same thing, for me. That – changing was necessary to my survival. It’s hard to explain to anyone.

[ The truth is that Astarion isn't the most open-minded man — he's quick to judge others and he's never held much regard for the more vertically challenged races present in Faerûn — but in this matter, and matters of personal freedom, he doesn't feel any doubt. It's there in the way he looks at Koby — direct, certain, empathetic. He diverts his attention only to offer Koby a reprieve, picking the sweater up from its place on the bed and holding it up as though to envision Koby wearing it.

As he does: ] You can't live half a life, not forever.

[ Half a life, lived under another's thumb. More than once, he's wondered if he'd recognize the face staring back at him if he could see himself in the mirror, not just for how long it's been but because he's led an existence that left any personal will or desire out of the question. ]

But you're not alone, in the grand scope of the world. Or worlds, rather. Not just when it comes to people who'd understand, but those who've been in your shoes.

[ He hesitates, then, setting the sweater carefully back down in its former place. ]

I'm happy for you. That you seem to have companions who love you as you are.

SALTBURNT | inbox.

text: un: koby

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cw: vague internalized transphobia, probably all through the thread

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