[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.
[He does. Oh, not as well as he will when he's an adult, but being raised the way he has— first in slavery, then in a brothel— will mature anyone beyond their years. He knows he can't do it all for Astarion, but . . .]
Not all of it. But enough. Some of it, until he can handle it all himself.
[Because Astarion, unlike Fenris, has such big dreams. He has passion beyond anything that Fenris can conceive of, and he, Fenris, will not be the one to stand in his way. He won't ruin things even inadvertently, even if it hurts. Better a little heartache now than to see his most cherished friend— his rescuer— lose it all just because Fenris couldn't control himself.]
He's getting better. He is— and if I encourage him, he'll get there faster. I'm good at controlling myself, Zevlor, it will not be hard to teach him. And doesn't he need to know that to be a Diamond, anyway?
[It's low, the long hum Zevlor lets out. Drags on longer than just consideration could ever possibly merit, and comes with the most weary, unsure glance from over the flat top of his spectacles.
Shooting holes in Fenris' determination now is akin to kicking a puppy, he's very quickly realizing. A very noble, very earnest, very hopeful green-eyed puppy.]
You know, there was a time when Astarion— much, much younger than you'd been when he brought you here— realized he could very easily pull, with some effort, the little jar of candied cherries from its shelf beneath the bar. At first we'd been keeping it on the lowest rung, you see, and once we caught him the first time we started moving it higher and higher—
[His hand raises, in horizontal alignment with the floor, in order to mimic successively higher shelving.]
—to which he then responded to by stacking shallow crates on one another and climbing onto them.
His hands were so small then, we thought he wasn't capable. Or at least, after the first few attempts that surely he couldn't go any higher. Yet inevitably he did, and so we spoke to him. Scolded him. Told him he'd be sick if all he ate was cherries, and that in time he'd fall and break his neck.
[He listens, despite his own internal turmoil. He's heard the story of the starlit boy countless times (and enjoyed it just as many, for Zevlor is surprisingly wonderful at taking the mundane and making it fanciful), but rarer do the more ordinary stories of Astarion's youth come forth. And he likes hearing those, too: little clues as to who the pale elf was, before he became Fenris' savior.]
He didn't break his neck.
[Gentle rebuttal, for he can sense there's more yet to come. Some of the misery ebbs out of his expression, his back straightening as he regards his foster father.]
So, what, the point is that he won't ever stop or shut up, even when he should?
[Ah, still a sullen teenager beneath it all, for the backsass comes out no matter what.]
The point is: he spent the better part of an entire day and night vomiting cherries.
[Matter-of-fact and unoffended, purely tolerant of any and all grousing that might be sent his way, as he's now fared the entirety of his play being disrupted beyond salvage for the rest of the evening.
Compared to that grease fire, a few terse words are, on all accounts, as nothing.]
His white curls stayed as pink as his palms and mouth for weeks. And the very sight of cherry cordial red was so nausea-inducing that I think you'll find he still flinches away at the sight.
[His chuckle is for no one but himself. Distant as an inside joke, though he's only remembering the fat, wet tears rolling down pink cheeks after what felt like a gods damned heart attack: a murder scene where the only one hurt was an entire jug of cherries larger than Astarion's small head— ears included.
That was how he learned. How they all learned back then, come to think of it. One disaster at a time.]
Better that he doesn't break his neck, but it's the hard lessons that stick, Fenris. And I'd prefer it if he didn't drag you into every last one of them in the process.
[Zevlor is right. Zevlor is nearly always right, which is both exceedingly annoying and incredibly helpful, depending on the circumstance. And yet . . . that's my job, some part of him wants to say. There's a dull flush to the tip of his ears for that reminder of bodyguard, though the gods know Zevlor has never once mocked him for the assertion. It's my job to keep him safe, no matter what— what good am I if I just let him fall?
He hesitates.]
Then how do you— how did you balance it?
[As one fighter to another. As one besotted warrior to another, how did he ever stand it? Kanan isn't Astarion, of course, and Zevlor was a commander, not a bodyguard, but still.]
I do not seek to coddle him, and I know you speak the truth: I cannot protect him from everything. Nor would I want to. I simply fear . . . so much of what happens here hinges on a single word, a glance. How can I let him learn such things when his aspirations are so high, and so easily shattered?
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
[He does. Oh, not as well as he will when he's an adult, but being raised the way he has— first in slavery, then in a brothel— will mature anyone beyond their years. He knows he can't do it all for Astarion, but . . .]
Not all of it. But enough. Some of it, until he can handle it all himself.
[Because Astarion, unlike Fenris, has such big dreams. He has passion beyond anything that Fenris can conceive of, and he, Fenris, will not be the one to stand in his way. He won't ruin things even inadvertently, even if it hurts. Better a little heartache now than to see his most cherished friend— his rescuer— lose it all just because Fenris couldn't control himself.]
He's getting better. He is— and if I encourage him, he'll get there faster. I'm good at controlling myself, Zevlor, it will not be hard to teach him. And doesn't he need to know that to be a Diamond, anyway?
It's for the best.
no subject
Shooting holes in Fenris' determination now is akin to kicking a puppy, he's very quickly realizing. A very noble, very earnest, very hopeful green-eyed puppy.]
You know, there was a time when Astarion— much, much younger than you'd been when he brought you here— realized he could very easily pull, with some effort, the little jar of candied cherries from its shelf beneath the bar. At first we'd been keeping it on the lowest rung, you see, and once we caught him the first time we started moving it higher and higher—
[His hand raises, in horizontal alignment with the floor, in order to mimic successively higher shelving.]
—to which he then responded to by stacking shallow crates on one another and climbing onto them.
His hands were so small then, we thought he wasn't capable. Or at least, after the first few attempts that surely he couldn't go any higher. Yet inevitably he did, and so we spoke to him. Scolded him. Told him he'd be sick if all he ate was cherries, and that in time he'd fall and break his neck.
no subject
He didn't break his neck.
[Gentle rebuttal, for he can sense there's more yet to come. Some of the misery ebbs out of his expression, his back straightening as he regards his foster father.]
So, what, the point is that he won't ever stop or shut up, even when he should?
[Ah, still a sullen teenager beneath it all, for the backsass comes out no matter what.]
no subject
[Matter-of-fact and unoffended, purely tolerant of any and all grousing that might be sent his way, as he's now fared the entirety of his play being disrupted beyond salvage for the rest of the evening.
Compared to that grease fire, a few terse words are, on all accounts, as nothing.]
His white curls stayed as pink as his palms and mouth for weeks. And the very sight of cherry cordial red was so nausea-inducing that I think you'll find he still flinches away at the sight.
[His chuckle is for no one but himself. Distant as an inside joke, though he's only remembering the fat, wet tears rolling down pink cheeks after what felt like a gods damned heart attack: a murder scene where the only one hurt was an entire jug of cherries larger than Astarion's small head— ears included.
That was how he learned. How they all learned back then, come to think of it. One disaster at a time.]
Better that he doesn't break his neck, but it's the hard lessons that stick, Fenris. And I'd prefer it if he didn't drag you into every last one of them in the process.
Bodyguard or not.
no subject
He hesitates.]
Then how do you— how did you balance it?
[As one fighter to another. As one besotted warrior to another, how did he ever stand it? Kanan isn't Astarion, of course, and Zevlor was a commander, not a bodyguard, but still.]
I do not seek to coddle him, and I know you speak the truth: I cannot protect him from everything. Nor would I want to. I simply fear . . . so much of what happens here hinges on a single word, a glance. How can I let him learn such things when his aspirations are so high, and so easily shattered?