[Something in his stomach pitches down low, a frown darkening his face as it does. And why? The words are mild (the words are some of the least that they've ever exchanged, for both of them have tempers), so why does it hurt? Why does it leave him feeling so stung? His eyes dart about Astarion's face, watching the way he avoids his eye, and tries to understand.
Is it jealousy? The idea is a little thrilling, even if that's mean. But strange, too, for what is there to be jealous of? They've never kissed. They've never even thought about kissing, and anyway, even if they had, it's not Fenris' fault Elise got there first. No, Fenris decides, Astarion can't be jealous of that. He must be jealous that Fenris— who hates the spotlight, who abhors the idea of entertaining, who would rather die than be a courtesan— is better at this than him. ]
Elise likes anyone who will pay her attention.
[It's petulantly said, that frown still gracing his face.]
And she would have been on you that night if you'd been the one backstage— is that what you want me to say?
Or do you just want confirmation that you're still somehow better at this, too?
[It's the sort of logic that'd apply years ago: over who got what days off or what color shirt or even if— once the dynamic betwixt them all settled— Fenris got a deal more praise than he did. Now, though. Now it couldn't be farther from the truth. And the weight of said truth sits heavy in his lap the way he sits heavy atop Fenris, suddenly angry (or still? Still angry?) and unwilling to move. Keyed up on a landslide of a thousand different feelings, none of them with names.
Trying to shove him like that does less than nothing, only flattens his palms against the center of a willow-lean chest.]
How many times do I have to tell you? No, she wouldn't have— [Because I have standards. Because I asked you to come here and do this with me, you impossible, empty headed— ] How you even got so good at kissing is a mystery when you can't even listen, anyway! [Another shove is just to stand up on his feet, but the sheer momentum of it compared to how small he used to be smacks his head into the ceiling, dredging up an irate hiss.]
[He watches Astarion knock his head with no small measure of satisfaction, his frown evolved into a proper scowl. He doesn't know why they're fighting, only that they are— and much like in childhood, there comes a point where it's all reactionary.]
Listen to what? Last I heard, you couldn't even come up a compliment without stalling— or was I supposed to be impressed by something that half-assed?
[He doesn't get up, if only because getting up would mean crowding in Astarion's space, and that's the last thing he wants right now. But his hands are cold, and his lap feels empty where strong thighs had nestled not a moment before. His lips are aching and he doesn't understand what happened— only that it had to do with Elise, and kissing, and—]
What's your problem? You were the one who asked me to teach you! You can't be upset that I'm better at it!
Better— [Splits his voice before he knows it. A crack in his delivery that'd never happened before, going so shrill it borders on a shriek lacking in volume, too busy fuming to bother noticing that rawness in his throat.
With an almost involuntary jerk of outraged movement, his right foot shoots out, kicking hard against the meat of Fenris' thigh.]
I didn't ask you to teach me a godsdamned THING. [He snarls, lurching forwards as punctuation. One hand braced against an i-beam as counterleverage, dramatic as ever. (Red as ever, too. Flush across his cheeks beneath white curls.)]
I told you to help me PRACTICE you— illiterate— jackass!!
[Oh, that's it. That is it— with a low growl Fenris' leg shoots out and sweeps in one swift motion, knocking Astarion's legs out from under him and sprawling him flat on his ass. From there it's easy to scramble atop him— oh, so much easier when they were children, and even as Fenris grapples for his wrists there's a quiet note of surprise. This is easier than it should be, but oh, it's been a while since they've last fought . . .
There, and in an instant he has Astarion pinned flat on his back, his wrists locked in place and Fenris' thighs slung over his hips. It's how they always used to fight, scrambling to pin the other down— and right about now, Fenris thinks, is when he'd threaten to spit. That always earned a scream, so easily so that it almost felt like cheating.
He doesn't want to do that now.]
You need all my teaching and then some! You can't even kiss me without freaking out— how are you gonna deal with some idiot off the street!
[But that's just snarling. The real question comes as he glares down at that reddened face, struggling to find some semblance of understanding there.]
What the hell are you so pissy about? That I got here first? I didn't ask her to do it! She just— it just happened!
[His growl is raw and angry. He twists and thrashes, but what it amounts to more than anything else is the tight sensation of burning across his wrists from sheer friction, as senseless as they'd ever been years ago. Only this time everything feels harder to swallow. Bigger. Or angrier. Or more important, like it won't just go away over dinner. Something's changed, and as keyed-up as he is when he twists towards his side, using every ounce of strength to twist his arms closer to his body—
He tries to bite.
Tries to sink his teeth into the meat of Fenris' shoulder, or his arm, or— anything within reach. It's stupid and childish, but what else is there when he can't move or think or make sense of this? They're still who they were then, after all.]
I wouldn't be freaking out about some idiot off the street!!! [He was already when he asked for Fenris' help.] I wasn't— I wasn't freaking out about YOU anyway! [He doesn't care what's true or what's not. Like his efforts to fight back, it's all blind swings.] Why do you always have to make everything weird—
[Another snap of his teeth, glowering.]
'It just happened' and now you both think you're better than me, is that it?
[His own teeth ache in sympathetic eagerness, ready to snarl— or growl— or bite, desperate to sink his teeth in and make Astarion squall. His lips curl back, but he doesn't take the bait, not yet— not least of which he'll have to put himself in range if he wants to attack, and he isn't quite ready to get bitten just yet.]
You're the one making it weird!
[He's being too loud, too emotional, but he can't help it. Beneath him Astarion writhes, their hips grinding as they buck against one another, and oh— he's still half-hard. He's still aching, no matter that he doesn't want to be, and every little movement only makes it worse. With an audible growl he slams his hips down, trying to pin Astarion in place and keep him still.]
It just happened because Elise is a slut! [Oh, the sentence echoes, and it's mean and petty and not fair at all.] I didn't say I was better than you, I said I was better at kissing than you, and you freaked out about ME— stop—
[A snapped out response to another attempt at biting.]
Just— stop.
[A bodyguard is meant to deescalate, isn't he? And while he hasn't officially won, well— it's hard to argue Astarion is anything but caught right now. He glares down at him, his mouth pursed tight.]
You're the one who threw a tantrum just because I'm better at this. What's gonna stop you when some customer acts like an asshole, huh? You're always such a brat—
[And despite his better thoughts, despite his best effort, sometimes instinct wins out— which is to say that Fenris leans down in one swift movement and bites sharp at the crook of Astarion's neck, all instinct and no thought.]
[The noise he lets out comes on sharper than a growl or yelp. Threadier than sheer distress as something else cuts through it— his face contorts into a grimace with a tailing, harsh exhale— all that anger metabolizing quicker than a flash in a pan. Transmuting into a different shape, embarrassment the last thing on his mind though he's flush under his skin.
Before he can open his eyes again to fire off a peripheral glance— (or glare— he can't predict his own responses now; there's no one standing at the helm,) just like in the midst of their childhood, Zevlor's voice comes shouting up from below, this time with a heavy knock against the ladder they'd come up on, not so distant from the way someone shoos vermin from an attic with a broom.
'Astarion, Fenris, down here NOW!!'
And it's a stern questioning that evening, for they're not children anymore is what he's driving home each time he picks apart their reasoning. Their myriad excuses. Explanations that are more bickering than logic, tacking on chores alongside a time out in their room to cool off before they're at each others throats again for reasons he still can't follow.]
[He'd tried discussing it with Kanan. Kanan suggested broaching it with them. Helpful.]
So....you were trying to help him with his training....[Zevlor starts, rolling each word slowly so it comes on like a question rather than a statement. His arms are folded as he stands leaning in the doorway to Fenris' room, eyes narrowed over the spectacles he's begun wearing more and more these days, streaks of subtle white cut through his hair.] ....and that's when you two started hitting each other?
[Being alone has cooled Fenris' temper some, but not entirely. The moment Zevlor says that (and it isn't an accusation, no matter what his stung ego howls) Fenris' head snaps up, indignance already leaping to his tongue.]
I was not the one who started it!
[He wishes he hadn't said it the moment it flies out of his mouth. He sounds like a child, not a very-nearly-almost adult. And Zevlor, for all that he can be exasperated with them both, doesn't usually leap to blame one over the other until he has all the facts. It was a question, nothing more.]
He—
[The briefest of hesitations, for some small part of Fenris doesn't want to tell Zevlor about this part. Best to go quick, then:] He wanted me to help him practice, and so I did. [Practice, yes, that's the term: far more innocuous-sounding than making out. A little faster, then:] Then he got pissy just because I'd done it before and he hadn't, and kept telling me I wasn't listening, and that I was only there to help him get in practice, and then he kicked me.
[His mouth twitches, and he adds with some small measure of satisfaction:]
It was the only hit he got in, though.
[So there.]
I did not start it. I simply finished it.
[And he's not displeased by that. But then, nosily:]
Obviously it was the only hit he got in. The boy's made of silk and senseless ambition. [Is dry enough to signal how much he is not playing along with petty teenage warring, wherein the greatest of their fears is how they're seen. A sense of pride extending only to the borders of their fingertips.
They don't have bills to pay. They don't have children to feed. They certainly do not have a play to be finished before Christmas ready to knock the whole of Paris off its feet, elsewise foreclosure's in the very real cards.]
Honestly, Fenris. [More a wearied sigh than anything else.] You bit him on the neck?
[He scowls as he glances away. Hours later, he's still not sure why he did it, if you want the truth. It'd been an impulse to the extreme, childish and yet not. Emotions he has no real name for churned in the pit of his belly— some mixture of lust and frustration and anger and confusion, all roiling and mixing together into one dizzying brew, and he'd had to get them out somehow.
But that's too hard to say. And he'd rather die than admit he'd gone even stiffer as he'd felt Astarion writhe beneath him, that sharp cry echoing in his ears. In fact, he thinks, his mind skipping ahead to where this conversation might go, he'd rather die than continue it at all.]
It was convenient.
[As excuses go, it's pretty weak, but hopefully the sharp shrug he offers will add some credibility. And just so they can move on:]
Did it interrupt the play?
[It's a real question, for all that he's suddenly trying to dodge the topic of Astarion.]
[There's little to be done about the way in which his features soften at a line of questioning that stands as the very definition of sincere; it is so much easier to deal with Fenris owing to that habit alone— the boy punishes himself before Zevlor has the chance.
Of course that won't free him from add added slew of chores, but it merits a shift in demeanor at the very least. A softened edge of leveled weariness come through, still defining just how much he hopes this won't become a regular occurrence.
....and just how much he knows about this entire situation that Fenris doesn't, apparently. Gods save them all from a pair of teenage boys.]
You did. [Is to the point, albeit soft-mouthed.] And no.
The entire company heard you two caterwauling about Elise. If they get the worst of their gossip out of their system by morning, enough to have relative focus during tomorrow's rehearsal, it'll be a bloody miracle, I suspect.
[Oh, Elise, and Fenris' ears lower further, his chin sinking down into his chest as he remembers what he'd shouted. Slut isn't a particularly unusual term in the Moulin Rouge, but still. It hadn't been his proudest moment.
(Even if she is kind of a slut, still).]
Was she upset?
[If they gossip about he and Astarion, well, that's one thing. He isn't happy about it, but nor can he deny they brought it on themselves. And maybe he's being a little too fretful, but on the other hand, she hadn't done a damn thing wrong, and it was unworthy of him to go after her just because he was upset.
And then there's that bit about the play . . . he peers up at Zevlor, his scowl eased into a grimace.]
Can I help at all? I realize things are . . . difficult, right now. And while I cannot get them to focus, I . . .
[But what? He's a willing pair of hands, but that only counts for so much.]
[He does, admittedly, feel a little bad for the poor boy. Wincing like that, knowing the lad can't act to save his soul. It's a fair sight different from Astarion's dramatics, and so immediately pained that it's everything Zevlor has in him right now to not sit beside him in earnest sympathy.
Instead he smiles dryly. A small, small gesture.]
On the contrary: I think she believes you're both fighting over her affection.
[Did they foresee that in all their scrapping? No, likely not.]
The rest I wouldn't worry about.
Most everyone on the Moulin Rouge's payroll tends to align more with the slut side of things.
[Well, at least she doesn't feel terrible over it, that assuages Fenris' guilt a fair bit. Those sorrowful puppydog eyes ease up, only to be replaced in the next instant by the most disgusted expression. He knows, in theory, that Zevlor must have some knowledge of sex, by virtue of being in a committed relationship and also running a goddamn whorehouse.
But it's one thing to know that in theory; it's quite another to hear his adopted father say something so crass as slut.]
[Don't, says the young buck that just upset an entire upscale whorehouse with his adolescent folly. It shouldn't be as amusing as it is.]
Oh it's had an effect, all right, and you'll be tending the whole of the bar yourself this week so that my performers can make up for the day they've lost.
[His head tilts in thought for just a moment, folded arms shifting.]
[His mouth tightens again, annoyance at (what he perceives as) blatant patronization flashing over his face. He isn't fully grown, no, but he's grown enough to try and help— and yet Zevlor has the irritating habit of trying to box him out. It's my concern, not yours, worry about your own tasks, and perhaps the tiefling means to be soothing— but more and more, Fenris finds he chafes under such protections.
He's argued against them before. He'll argue against them again, but not today.]
No.
[Of course not. But then:]
Maybe? It was not over her. I simply . . . I did not think Astarion cared about her. I only told him because I thought he'd want to know— and I still don't think he gives a damn about her. But he got so upset when she got brought up, and he kept talking about how we thought we were better than him— and she was the one who kissed me!
[Indignant, that last part, for it's still not his damn fault that happened.]
Either he wants her too— not that it would be so hard to get her— or he's upset because I beat him in this, but either way, it isn't my fault.
[And there's a third answer, of course, but it's not such an easy one to say. Not such an easy one to even acknowledge, not when it's so stomach-knottingly terrifying. Because there's so many ways it could go wrong; so many ways Astarion might hear of such a thing and laugh (did you really think it could be real? Someone like you with someone like me, and it's not that Astarion has ever been so cruel, but he might be).
No, it must be about experience. First times beaten, and he scowls.]
....mm. [Mmhmm, in fact, a low, digestive sort of humming as he mulls over the information he's been given....all at once, he might add. That he's taken aback by it doesn't show, thank the Maker himself for a business owner's inclinations: the ability to take in information whilst showing nothing in response.
Clawed digits rest against his chin, weighing his options with far more respect for risk than anything else thus far. It doesn't take a genius to grasp just how fragile a matter it is, dealing with adolescent elves possessed of both hormones and interest.]
Well....no, it isn't your fault. But— and I expect you to say nothing about this to Elise. Ever. [A stern look for added punctuation, left to linger.] —Astarion never struck me as the sort who would take interest in a woman like her.
[His stung pride is soothed by that admittance it wasn't his fault (because it wasn't, and he wants to be very clear on that point), and it makes the next part a lot easier. Something in Fenris relaxes as he wrinkles his nose.]
I don't. It was just . . . she just sort of . . . happened.
[He gestures vaguely in front of him, attempting to encapsulate the baffling proclivities of women.]
So you think he is jealous because I got there first. Like he wouldn't be crowing about it for a month if he had, calling me virginal and telling me I didn't know what I was doing— and I was only kissing him because he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of his teacher!
[Evidence somewhat indignantly presented, for Astarion has rubbed off on Fenris in any number of ways.]
If anything, he should've been thanking me. He wasn't even that good at it . . .
Things I did not need to know, thank you. [So flat he could wear it as a burial shroud— and might need to, if he keeps hearing offhand details like that from his adopted sons. Hells' teeth.] And for the record, telling Astarion anything along those lines likely didn't help settle things either.
[Which is gentle, but he has a point worth making:]
You're growing, Fenris.
So is Astarion.
[And now is when he moves to sit beside him, craning his head lower just to leave them eye-to-eye.] All those petty squabbles, the drama of this place— it's going to become part of your lives, too, I'm afraid.
[He doesn't say I don't want it to, for wanting means very little in this world, and he's known that since he was a child. But maybe some hint of it comes out in the way he hunches forward, shoulders rising up to his ears as he glances back at Zevlor.]
They're gossiping about us already.
[Not an argument, but a confirmation. He's heard the jokes, endured the teasing questions, but it's all different now. And he could so quickly get in over his head, he realizes. How many times has he seen that play out? The starlings of the Moulin Rouge are friendly enough, it's true, but that friendliness can turn vicious in the blink of an eye, for social creatures have such a tendency to pick on the weak. His being Zevlor's adopted ward won't change that. It might even make it worse.
It'll certainly make things worse for Astarion. What kind of Diamond is caught rolling around with his bodyguard? Whether because of a scrap or— or other reasons, no one will ever let him forget it. He already has so much to fight against, for he will have to earn his place as Diamond— prove it so thoroughly that no one will ever have leave to say it's only because Zevlor has a soft spot for his son.]
I'll . . .
[What? He doesn't know. There's no foolish thoughts about stopping their friendship, for he could not tolerate a life without Astarion in it. But . . . he cocks his head at Zevlor, something a little more canny in his gaze.]
His tutor . . . your Diamond.
She never once got into fights like these, right? She can't afford to.
[Because the second you show weakness, there's always someone hungry to take your place. Astarion isn't alone in that dream, not at all.]
He's going to have to learn to be . . . to not do that. How to control himself, no matter what happens or who insults him. And until he learns how, I'll do it for both of us.
I won't let things go so far. I won't let it dissolve into fights like that.
[For isn't that what it means to protect someone? It isn't always external fights. Sometimes it's from within. Sometimes it's even from yourself, and your confused, traitorous heart that wants more than it should.]
[Well, that means yes. Well, that means he won't be the one to say it aloud, but to his knowledge— to everyone's knowledge, in truth—she maintains her distance with good reason. No scandals save the gossip manifested from thin air, amounting ultimately to nothing.
His nod is acquiescing. A tactful, judgment-lacking agreement.]
She had the benefit of growing up outside these walls. Although I can't imagine childhood foolishness posing an insurmountable problem for any Diamond worthy of the title.
[It's heartwarming, that stalwart determination. That selflessness unflinching, burning brightly in the depths of Fenris' stare. He remembers adopting something like it when he and Kanan first met.]
You can't carry the burden of all his work, Fenris.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
Is it jealousy? The idea is a little thrilling, even if that's mean. But strange, too, for what is there to be jealous of? They've never kissed. They've never even thought about kissing, and anyway, even if they had, it's not Fenris' fault Elise got there first. No, Fenris decides, Astarion can't be jealous of that. He must be jealous that Fenris— who hates the spotlight, who abhors the idea of entertaining, who would rather die than be a courtesan— is better at this than him. ]
Elise likes anyone who will pay her attention.
[It's petulantly said, that frown still gracing his face.]
And she would have been on you that night if you'd been the one backstage— is that what you want me to say?
Or do you just want confirmation that you're still somehow better at this, too?
no subject
Trying to shove him like that does less than nothing, only flattens his palms against the center of a willow-lean chest.]
How many times do I have to tell you? No, she wouldn't have— [Because I have standards. Because I asked you to come here and do this with me, you impossible, empty headed— ] How you even got so good at kissing is a mystery when you can't even listen, anyway! [Another shove is just to stand up on his feet, but the sheer momentum of it compared to how small he used to be smacks his head into the ceiling, dredging up an irate hiss.]
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Listen to what? Last I heard, you couldn't even come up a compliment without stalling— or was I supposed to be impressed by something that half-assed?
[He doesn't get up, if only because getting up would mean crowding in Astarion's space, and that's the last thing he wants right now. But his hands are cold, and his lap feels empty where strong thighs had nestled not a moment before. His lips are aching and he doesn't understand what happened— only that it had to do with Elise, and kissing, and—]
What's your problem? You were the one who asked me to teach you! You can't be upset that I'm better at it!
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With an almost involuntary jerk of outraged movement, his right foot shoots out, kicking hard against the meat of Fenris' thigh.]
I didn't ask you to teach me a godsdamned THING. [He snarls, lurching forwards as punctuation. One hand braced against an i-beam as counterleverage, dramatic as ever. (Red as ever, too. Flush across his cheeks beneath white curls.)]
I told you to help me PRACTICE you— illiterate— jackass!!
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There, and in an instant he has Astarion pinned flat on his back, his wrists locked in place and Fenris' thighs slung over his hips. It's how they always used to fight, scrambling to pin the other down— and right about now, Fenris thinks, is when he'd threaten to spit. That always earned a scream, so easily so that it almost felt like cheating.
He doesn't want to do that now.]
You need all my teaching and then some! You can't even kiss me without freaking out— how are you gonna deal with some idiot off the street!
[But that's just snarling. The real question comes as he glares down at that reddened face, struggling to find some semblance of understanding there.]
What the hell are you so pissy about? That I got here first? I didn't ask her to do it! She just— it just happened!
somewhere below:
no subject
He tries to bite.
Tries to sink his teeth into the meat of Fenris' shoulder, or his arm, or— anything within reach. It's stupid and childish, but what else is there when he can't move or think or make sense of this? They're still who they were then, after all.]
I wouldn't be freaking out about some idiot off the street!!! [He was already when he asked for Fenris' help.] I wasn't— I wasn't freaking out about YOU anyway! [He doesn't care what's true or what's not. Like his efforts to fight back, it's all blind swings.] Why do you always have to make everything weird—
[Another snap of his teeth, glowering.]
'It just happened' and now you both think you're better than me, is that it?
no subject
You're the one making it weird!
[He's being too loud, too emotional, but he can't help it. Beneath him Astarion writhes, their hips grinding as they buck against one another, and oh— he's still half-hard. He's still aching, no matter that he doesn't want to be, and every little movement only makes it worse. With an audible growl he slams his hips down, trying to pin Astarion in place and keep him still.]
It just happened because Elise is a slut! [Oh, the sentence echoes, and it's mean and petty and not fair at all.] I didn't say I was better than you, I said I was better at kissing than you, and you freaked out about ME— stop—
[A snapped out response to another attempt at biting.]
Just— stop.
[A bodyguard is meant to deescalate, isn't he? And while he hasn't officially won, well— it's hard to argue Astarion is anything but caught right now. He glares down at him, his mouth pursed tight.]
You're the one who threw a tantrum just because I'm better at this. What's gonna stop you when some customer acts like an asshole, huh? You're always such a brat—
[And despite his better thoughts, despite his best effort, sometimes instinct wins out— which is to say that Fenris leans down in one swift movement and bites sharp at the crook of Astarion's neck, all instinct and no thought.]
1/2
Before he can open his eyes again to fire off a peripheral glance— (or glare— he can't predict his own responses now; there's no one standing at the helm,) just like in the midst of their childhood, Zevlor's voice comes shouting up from below, this time with a heavy knock against the ladder they'd come up on, not so distant from the way someone shoos vermin from an attic with a broom.
'Astarion, Fenris, down here NOW!!'
And it's a stern questioning that evening, for they're not children anymore is what he's driving home each time he picks apart their reasoning. Their myriad excuses. Explanations that are more bickering than logic, tacking on chores alongside a time out in their room to cool off before they're at each others throats again for reasons he still can't follow.]
2/2
So....you were trying to help him with his training....[Zevlor starts, rolling each word slowly so it comes on like a question rather than a statement. His arms are folded as he stands leaning in the doorway to Fenris' room, eyes narrowed over the spectacles he's begun wearing more and more these days, streaks of subtle white cut through his hair.] ....and that's when you two started hitting each other?
[The arched brow is a given.]
Are you certain it wasn't the other way around?
no subject
I was not the one who started it!
[He wishes he hadn't said it the moment it flies out of his mouth. He sounds like a child, not a very-nearly-almost adult. And Zevlor, for all that he can be exasperated with them both, doesn't usually leap to blame one over the other until he has all the facts. It was a question, nothing more.]
He—
[The briefest of hesitations, for some small part of Fenris doesn't want to tell Zevlor about this part. Best to go quick, then:] He wanted me to help him practice, and so I did. [Practice, yes, that's the term: far more innocuous-sounding than making out. A little faster, then:] Then he got pissy just because I'd done it before and he hadn't, and kept telling me I wasn't listening, and that I was only there to help him get in practice, and then he kicked me.
[His mouth twitches, and he adds with some small measure of satisfaction:]
It was the only hit he got in, though.
[So there.]
I did not start it. I simply finished it.
[And he's not displeased by that. But then, nosily:]
Did he tell you I started it?
no subject
They don't have bills to pay. They don't have children to feed. They certainly do not have a play to be finished before Christmas ready to knock the whole of Paris off its feet, elsewise foreclosure's in the very real cards.]
Honestly, Fenris. [More a wearied sigh than anything else.] You bit him on the neck?
no subject
But that's too hard to say. And he'd rather die than admit he'd gone even stiffer as he'd felt Astarion writhe beneath him, that sharp cry echoing in his ears. In fact, he thinks, his mind skipping ahead to where this conversation might go, he'd rather die than continue it at all.]
It was convenient.
[As excuses go, it's pretty weak, but hopefully the sharp shrug he offers will add some credibility. And just so they can move on:]
Did it interrupt the play?
[It's a real question, for all that he's suddenly trying to dodge the topic of Astarion.]
Is everything still going okay?
no subject
Of course that won't free him from add added slew of chores, but it merits a shift in demeanor at the very least. A softened edge of leveled weariness come through, still defining just how much he hopes this won't become a regular occurrence.
....and just how much he knows about this entire situation that Fenris doesn't, apparently. Gods save them all from a pair of teenage boys.]
You did. [Is to the point, albeit soft-mouthed.] And no.
The entire company heard you two caterwauling about Elise. If they get the worst of their gossip out of their system by morning, enough to have relative focus during tomorrow's rehearsal, it'll be a bloody miracle, I suspect.
no subject
(Even if she is kind of a slut, still).]
Was she upset?
[If they gossip about he and Astarion, well, that's one thing. He isn't happy about it, but nor can he deny they brought it on themselves. And maybe he's being a little too fretful, but on the other hand, she hadn't done a damn thing wrong, and it was unworthy of him to go after her just because he was upset.
And then there's that bit about the play . . . he peers up at Zevlor, his scowl eased into a grimace.]
Can I help at all? I realize things are . . . difficult, right now. And while I cannot get them to focus, I . . .
[But what? He's a willing pair of hands, but that only counts for so much.]
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Instead he smiles dryly. A small, small gesture.]
On the contrary: I think she believes you're both fighting over her affection.
[Did they foresee that in all their scrapping? No, likely not.]
The rest I wouldn't worry about.
Most everyone on the Moulin Rouge's payroll tends to align more with the slut side of things.
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But it's one thing to know that in theory; it's quite another to hear his adopted father say something so crass as slut.]
Don't—
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It is something to worry about. You talk about how strained we are all the time, and this cannot help— it has an effect, do not pretend it doesn't.
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Oh it's had an effect, all right, and you'll be tending the whole of the bar yourself this week so that my performers can make up for the day they've lost.
[His head tilts in thought for just a moment, folded arms shifting.]
Was it really her you were fighting over?
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He's argued against them before. He'll argue against them again, but not today.]
No.
[Of course not. But then:]
Maybe? It was not over her. I simply . . . I did not think Astarion cared about her. I only told him because I thought he'd want to know— and I still don't think he gives a damn about her. But he got so upset when she got brought up, and he kept talking about how we thought we were better than him— and she was the one who kissed me!
[Indignant, that last part, for it's still not his damn fault that happened.]
Either he wants her too— not that it would be so hard to get her— or he's upset because I beat him in this, but either way, it isn't my fault.
[And there's a third answer, of course, but it's not such an easy one to say. Not such an easy one to even acknowledge, not when it's so stomach-knottingly terrifying. Because there's so many ways it could go wrong; so many ways Astarion might hear of such a thing and laugh (did you really think it could be real? Someone like you with someone like me, and it's not that Astarion has ever been so cruel, but he might be).
No, it must be about experience. First times beaten, and he scowls.]
He's such a sore loser . . .
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Clawed digits rest against his chin, weighing his options with far more respect for risk than anything else thus far. It doesn't take a genius to grasp just how fragile a matter it is, dealing with adolescent elves possessed of both hormones and interest.]
Well....no, it isn't your fault. But— and I expect you to say nothing about this to Elise. Ever. [A stern look for added punctuation, left to linger.] —Astarion never struck me as the sort who would take interest in a woman like her.
Then again, neither did you.
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I don't. It was just . . . she just sort of . . . happened.
[He gestures vaguely in front of him, attempting to encapsulate the baffling proclivities of women.]
So you think he is jealous because I got there first. Like he wouldn't be crowing about it for a month if he had, calling me virginal and telling me I didn't know what I was doing— and I was only kissing him because he didn't want to look like an idiot in front of his teacher!
[Evidence somewhat indignantly presented, for Astarion has rubbed off on Fenris in any number of ways.]
If anything, he should've been thanking me. He wasn't even that good at it . . .
[Oh, that's not true at all.]
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[Which is gentle, but he has a point worth making:]
You're growing, Fenris.
So is Astarion.
[And now is when he moves to sit beside him, craning his head lower just to leave them eye-to-eye.] All those petty squabbles, the drama of this place— it's going to become part of your lives, too, I'm afraid.
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They're gossiping about us already.
[Not an argument, but a confirmation. He's heard the jokes, endured the teasing questions, but it's all different now. And he could so quickly get in over his head, he realizes. How many times has he seen that play out? The starlings of the Moulin Rouge are friendly enough, it's true, but that friendliness can turn vicious in the blink of an eye, for social creatures have such a tendency to pick on the weak. His being Zevlor's adopted ward won't change that. It might even make it worse.
It'll certainly make things worse for Astarion. What kind of Diamond is caught rolling around with his bodyguard? Whether because of a scrap or— or other reasons, no one will ever let him forget it. He already has so much to fight against, for he will have to earn his place as Diamond— prove it so thoroughly that no one will ever have leave to say it's only because Zevlor has a soft spot for his son.]
I'll . . .
[What? He doesn't know. There's no foolish thoughts about stopping their friendship, for he could not tolerate a life without Astarion in it. But . . . he cocks his head at Zevlor, something a little more canny in his gaze.]
His tutor . . . your Diamond.
She never once got into fights like these, right? She can't afford to.
[Because the second you show weakness, there's always someone hungry to take your place. Astarion isn't alone in that dream, not at all.]
He's going to have to learn to be . . . to not do that. How to control himself, no matter what happens or who insults him. And until he learns how, I'll do it for both of us.
I won't let things go so far. I won't let it dissolve into fights like that.
[For isn't that what it means to protect someone? It isn't always external fights. Sometimes it's from within. Sometimes it's even from yourself, and your confused, traitorous heart that wants more than it should.]
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[Well, that means yes. Well, that means he won't be the one to say it aloud, but to his knowledge— to everyone's knowledge, in truth—she maintains her distance with good reason. No scandals save the gossip manifested from thin air, amounting ultimately to nothing.
His nod is acquiescing. A tactful, judgment-lacking agreement.]
She had the benefit of growing up outside these walls. Although I can't imagine childhood foolishness posing an insurmountable problem for any Diamond worthy of the title.
[It's heartwarming, that stalwart determination. That selflessness unflinching, burning brightly in the depths of Fenris' stare. He remembers adopting something like it when he and Kanan first met.]
You can't carry the burden of all his work, Fenris.
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