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It was the last of their coin, everything that they had from the job as well as what they had taken off the corpses of the monster hunters, but Astarion said that it was worth it. One room, with one bed, in the nicest suite the inn had, with a bath.
“A large bath,” Astarion grinned and corrected, winking at the Innkeeper. Not only did he say that this was worth it but he would also get them back on their feet monetarily while they were in this little town. Barry knew what that meant, pick pocketing, but they weren’t in the mood to argue it.
The town was small, very gray and brown, though there were flourishes of red and yellow here and there. There was a wizard’s tower, up the hill, which looked like it had fallen to disrepair ages back. This was once a town of some renown but it had lost its spark. Barry doubted that there would be any pride left in the inn and that the price was a leftover from when this town was worth something.
It had been wrong before, it knew what it felt like.
The room was nice. Like, really nice. It wasn’t like The Elfsong, it wasn’t some noble’s lair, but there was a big bed with heavy wooden feet and a headboard made from the roots of a tree, all sorts of curls and coils that Astarion immediately made a joke about tying rope through. He was very much not the first. The covers were thick and soft and there wasn’t a hole in a single layer. The windows were open, with glass panes, and creamy yellow curtains, wafting in the wind, displaying boxes of flowers growing on the other side. There was a sheepskin rug before the fire, which had bright red shutters to keep the ash from spreading. Near the center was a table with two fine chairs and a cute set for tea, little plates that were shaped like lily pads while the pot was shaped like a frog with the mouth and tongue as a spout. But, most importantly, next to the window, was the bathtub.
It was massive and clawed, gold and porcelain. There was a young woman, the Innkeeper’s daughter, possibly, filling it with steaming water. It smelled of rosewater and myrrh, partially from the water, then the petals that she added to it from a basket, and also from the incense that mixed with the steam rising off of it. There was tile beneath the tub but a rug to keep their toes from freezing after the bath, two sets of fuzzy house slippers to the side with matching robes, and a doorless cabinet full of soaps, perfumes, and towels.
Once she finished setting up the tub she gave them both a little nod and made her way out of the room, leaving them alone.
“This seems a bit lavish, doesn’t it?” Barry chuckled, watching the petals dance in the water. “Like they were expecting us to do more than just bathe and sleep?”
“Perhaps they were. Like I said, worth every copper. If this is a honeymoon suite well, you know I’m not suited for the sun.”
Barry gave him a little glare. He knew that it wanted to give him another day in the sun.
“Here, you look tired, my dear, let your husband undress you,” Astarion joked. Still, after everything that they’ve been through, only to find themselves in a honeymoon suite, hearing him refer to himself as ‘husband’ was a thrill in Barry’s heart.
They smiled and turned and didn’t lift a finger while Astarion stripped them of their armor, gambeson, and all. It was always a delight when Astarion was on his knees, looking over the folds of Barry’s stomach at them, while he undid the clasps of their boots. It always made Barry think of better things Astarion could do on his knees. But that wasn’t for now. Right now Astarion was kissing up its stomach, chaste kisses, as he worked them out of their pants and underthings. There was nothing lewd here.
“I do believe that bath is large enough for both of us,” he smirked and kissed Barry’s lips, standing up fully to undress himself.
“Hey, hey, my turn,” Barry pressed, batting away Astarion’s hands to get him out of his own cloak and armor, daggers and poisons dropping to the floor.
Astarion grinned wildly, an expression that he would never see on himself, no matter how much it lit the night. They stumbled, holding onto one another, until they were in the bath fully, the water spilling over the sides and turning them both pink with the heat. They were both laughing, Astarion more of a cackle to Barry’s giggle. It had been so long since they were both so warm, feeling safe enough to relax like this. Barry sat on the bottom, legs bent, back leaned against the porcelain, and Astarion sat in its lap, leaned forward, against its chest. He didn’t waste any time in kissing them, over and over.
“So, we lived, technically,” Astarion joked.
“No more monster hunters, alright?” Barry replied, gathering water in its hands and pouring it over Astarion’s curls.
Astarion’s eyes went wide as his hair lost its bounce, as it dripped and framed his face. He looked so different like this, the pink in his cheeks making him seem so much more alive.
“What, I thought you wanted to bathe each other?” Barry asked.
“You intend to wash my hair?” Astarion asked, his voice real, all of the performance washed away. “No one’s... I only remember Cazador washing it. And that was… well.”
“Nothing like this, I gather,” Barry breathed, kissing his nose. “Let me take care of you for a bit.”
Astarion’s eyes softened and his smile returned, as did his weight, against Barry’s chest. He let the water run over him, through his locks, and he all but purred when Barry ran the shampoo through it, finding little knots and untangling them, fingers rubbing over his ears. It was gentle, nice, loving, and Barry got to see his every expression while it worked.
There was no rush here, no need for stress, they could just take their time with one another. Barry washed scalp and hair and ears, over shoulders, down Astarion’s back. Astarion groaned when it trailed, careful, some frothed soap and fingers, over his scars. Astarion hated them, what they represented, but they were working on it. Astarion had come a long way in allowing them to be touched, if the hands belonged to Barry. He still didn’t relish attention on them, but it was better. Barry loved his scars, as they were a sign that he had survived.
“Rise up,” Barry hinted, tugging gently on Astarion’s waist.
He followed, a little smile and a warm “Hmm,” on his lips. He sat up, straddling Barry, and the warm water ran down his rapidly cooling chest. The heat made his skin pink and his nipples bright little buds. He puffed out his chest, all but expecting a dirtier type of attention than Barry wanted to give.
It washed his chest, soap in round swaths over his pectorals, wiping down the middle, down over his stomach. Barry worked him over with a light pressure, enough to press their shape into Astarion’s belly. Astarion hissed when they scratched over the new pink scar from the silver arrow.
“Is that still sensitive?” Barry asked, cocking its head, wiping away soap to look.
“More emotionally than physically, my love,” Astarion explained, his expression flat. “We don’t need to focus on my imperfections.”
Barry smiled up at him, tracing it with their thumb. “I think we do. You took a silver arrow, you fell, I thought you were dead, but you weren’t. You survived again, and now you have a mark on you to remember I was at your side.”
“Can you stop being such an optimist?” Astarion rolled his eyes.
“I’m in a bath, in a honeymoon suite, with a man who just called himself my husband,” Barry chuckled, sliding up to kiss Astarion’s clavicle. After the bath it would lay him down and lick and kiss all over that new scar, mesmerize the texture of it on its tongue. “I think it’s to be expected that I’d be a bit optimistic.”
“Well, it’s contagious, you should stop it.”
“Hmm, no,” Barry smiled and kissed up Astarion’s throat, up to his lips. Astarion gasped with pleasure at that, like he always did, whenever Barry kissed the bite marks, taking him away from his late Master.
“If you’re not careful, we’ll never get clean,” Astarion groaned, rubbing himself on one of Barry’s wide thighs.
“Oh no, whatever shall we do, live in the bath?”
“Let me wash you first, we can play without dumping all of the bath water onto the floor, after.”
Barry lay back, taking its hands off of Astarion, folding them at the wrists above their head. “Alright, alright, fine. Wash me.”
Astarion did, kissing the tip of its nose and lathering up the shampoo in his hands. He crowded Barry wonderfully as he washed their hair, fingers twisting the strands.
“Your hair is getting long,” he said, pleased.
Barry shuddered. It didn’t like having long hair. As it was, it was long enough to cover their ears, tickling the back of their neck.
“I’m going to need it cut,” Barry pouted, “Would you do it for me?”
“But it’s looking so handsome,” Astarion hums, rinsing out the shampoo, “And grabbable.”
“Grabbable is part of the problem, the rest is the femininity. Sure it will look handsome now but in an inch? I don’t want that.”
Astarion leaned back again, looking it over. “But I like it.”
“And it will grow back,” Barry reminded, grabbing his hands and pushing them back into the wet locks.
“You’ll just make me cut it again.”
“Mmhmm!”
Astarion rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m going to pick the style, alright? I’ve been cutting Yusen and Aurelia’s hair for decades, I can make you look good.”
“Are you saying I didn’t already look good?” Barry grinned, teasing.
“Please! Your hair’s been drab all along The Sword Coast!”
“Then I’m lucky to be with someone so fashionable.”
“Yes! You very much are!” Astarion barked out a laugh, grabbing the oil and working it into the strands, conditioning it. He was careful and direct, pouring water into it to wash away excess before getting the soap and working his way down Barry’s chest, washing it as it had washed him. His hands were slim and cool and they disappeared under Barry’s bosom, but it always knew where he was. The cold felt so good with all of the surrounding heat. It hummed as they parted flesh and washed into the folds of its belly, along their sides. Astarion looked at them with a hunger so different from vampiric. Astarion had been in their head. It was true, honest, that he knew them like no one else ever would. He knew the truth of them.
“Astarion?” Barry asked, getting up and making the water slosh precariously, turning and resting on its tummy and arms on the porcelain.
Astarion was right back, in position, on Barry’s back, washing and scratching it to make it hiss and arch its spine. “Yes, my sweet?”
“You were joking, weren’t you? Earlier?” Nervousness crawled up Barry from the very center of its solar plexus, branching out through their lungs.
“I never joke,” Astarion joked, “What did I say that has you so unsure?”
“You called yourself my husband. Is that true?”
Astarion laughed and the nervousness spiked. “What? No, of course not! Do you know how elves woo their lovers? I surely don’t! But I bet it’s a long and unnecessarily complicated process! I can play at being your husband, but no, no, I’m going to have to put in a lot more effort to earn that title. And we’re going to have to find a temple that will approve of us, even after I spit on the statues of all their Gods!”
The cold fear of denial burned away and Barry grinned, looking over its shoulder at Astarion. “You could simply not spit on the statues.”
It was Astarion’s turn to pout. “No. I don’t think I can. You like it though, the idea of being married to me?”
The heat in Barry’s cheeks was more than just from the bath. “I love it.”
“Then I best get to researching, shouldn’t I?”