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“Astarion.”
Eidolon’s voice is exhausted, yet amused. The office is smothered, head to toe, with scrolls, parchments, books, you name it. Sat right in the middle of the mess is the vampire himself, hunched over a pile of spell tomes. He stares at them as if they’d personally wronged him, and knowing the nature of the magic that Astarion likes to collect, Eidolon wouldn’t be shocked if they somehow had done exactly that.
“Ah, ah.” Astarion doesn’t look up as Eidolon takes a step into the cluttered room, merely holding up a hand and stopping him in his tracks. “Not another step, darling, I’ve nearly got this figured out.”
“Have you, now?” Eidolon asks, his gaze once again sweeping across the office. “And what exactly is ‘this’?”
“Reorganizing. Obviously.” Astarion scoffs. He grabs a stack of spell scrolls and gently taps them against the floor until they’re flush with each other. Astarion then glances behind him, and Eidolon sees the way he represses a groan at the scattered mess he has yet to go through.
“Would you like help, dear?” Eidolon offers. “I’m sure there’s a much better way to do this.”
“Oh, hush. I know exactly what I’m doing.” Astarion insists. He reaches for another book, slapping it down on top of the ever growing pile. The vampire coughs as a layer of dust puffs up into his face, and scowls at Eidolon’s chuckle.
“I don’t doubt that you do.” Eidolon says. He carefully sidesteps the already organized papers, mindful of his tail, and takes a seat beside his beloved. “But I believe that four hands are better than two. Allow me - just tell me how you want to do this.”
Astarion affixes Eidolon with a half hearted glare, but relinquishes some of the spell scrolls anyways. “Here.” Astarion says. “You know your way around these wretched things better than I do.”
“I could teach you, you know.” Eidolon says. “How exactly did this happen, by the way? Your office was spotless just the other day.” The mention of said cleanliness makes Astarion roll his eyes. He sorts through the piles of paper on the floor, until he pulls out a scroll with a wind symbol on it.
“This. This little roach of a scroll was defective!” Astarion cries, waving it around in the air. “I certainly did NOT recite a ‘Gust’ spell, yet what does the little wretch decide to do? Scatter all of my possessions around this room as if I didn’t know how to organize my things! Honestly, the nerve! And now it STILL sits here, taunting me, laughing at my misery!”
Astarion holds a hand to his head, dramatically falling backwards onto Eidolon’s lap. “Gods, darling, you have no idea how difficult it is to fight with pieces of parchment all day long.”
Eidolon laughs, combing his fingers through Astarion’s hair. He massages Astarion’s temples, earning a contented hum. “No, I don’t. Sorcerers don’t tend to need scrolls for their spells, in case you forgot.”
“Oh, yes, just flaunt your magical prowess in front of my poor, talentless soul.” Astarion scoffs. “You wound me, darling.”
“Whatever shall I do to make it better, hm?” Eidolon asks, leaning over Astarion to meet his gaze. Astarion cracks his eyes open, and a cheeky smirk flits across his face. Astarion reaches up and pulls Eidolon closer, locking their lips together in a short kiss.
“That,” Astarion mumbles, “should more than suffice. For now.” Eidolon smiles in response, and Astarion sits back up. “Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, this lovely little mess. For the scrolls I want offensive spells off to the right…”
The rest of the evening hours are spent in a comfortable rhythm of shelving books and rustling papers. And if a myriad of swear words could be heard from their little home after a suspiciously strong gust of wind blew through an open window, well, it’s best not to mention it.