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?
Oh I never did strike a balance. I bought the Moulin Rouge to keep him happy— now look at me.
[And oh, on some level, beneath the lightness of a punchline only halfheartedly delivered it's entirely serious. Only a wry quirk at the far corner of his mouth betrays the weight of it, appearing not out of some smug sense of satisfaction or amusement, but purely for the look shot back at him through bright green eyes.
Grown in stature, yes, but not in heart. Not just yet. Still the young boy he's well familiar with, as bewildered as he ever was.
And then:]
Hmph.
[He shakes his head.]
You could try starting by not holding yourself responsible for what he says or does.
[Oh, and he never realized— but in retrospect, that makes sense. Zevlor runs the Moulin Rogue with a deft hand, but it's Kanan that always seems to thrive backstage. It's a strange bit of context to suddenly have, but a pleasant strange. Like when he'd grown enough to realize what some of the more obvious bits of double entendre in the bawdier songs meant; it's an odd moment of growing up just a little.]
I— . . . all right.
[That's fair. That's beyond fair, for he's always had the inclination to take the bullet, no matter how Astarion protested. But it does neither of them any good. It never has, not beyond getting Astarion upset at him.]
Though the plots . . . it's less that I seek to cover for him, and more that he inevitably drags me into them, you know. [He's preaching to the choir, he knows, for it's always been Zevlor who's had to deal with them in the sticky aftermath. But ah . . . he's going to have to think, then, on how to better protect Astarion. How to keep him safe without smothering him or coddling him unnecessary. And hells, it's not as if he's short on time to figure it out: right now, both their tempers are still hot enough that Fenris hasn't any inclination towards protectiveness anyway.]
And he makes it hard not to want to, to do such things . . . he always has . . .
[He drifts off. The end of that sentence is somewhere that drifts back into questionable territory, overwhelming and uncertain, and they needn't dwell on the scattershot feelings that flutter in his stomach. He exhales slowly, sounding like nothing so much as a weary old dog— and then glances over at Zevlor, adding a touch wryly:]
You bought an entire cabaret just to please your husband?
[He can tease him a little, surely. He's not in so much trouble he can't do that, probably. Maybe.]
You drank sherry and started a cat fight in the rafters.
[Such a narrow, barely perceptible smirk. Such a small bit of back and forth between a pair disinclined towards foolishness of any stripe.
Mind yourself, little 'old' dog.]
And as far as Astarion's sway is concerned, that is precisely how he'll manage getting himself out of any trouble he brings upon himself— and not solely what he visits on you.
[It wasn't a cat fight, Fenris protests. It's semantics, but semantics matter a lot when you're still growing— and a cat fight implies something undignified, which their fight was not. As far as anyone else is concerned, anyway, and since no one else was there, no one gets to say whether or not that's true.
Or maybe Astarion will simply call it a cat fight just to spite Fenris.
He wouldn't necessarily be wrong, Kanan thinks as he waits outside of Astarion's door. Nor would his spite be totally out of place, not after that bite. There's a part of him that still can't believe— but then again, they are teenagers, and gods know all kinds of hormones are firing off for both of them right now. The real question is whether or not Fenris knew what he was doing with that, but ah, that's for Zevlor to discover.
His task lies ahead.
He gives Astarion a little time. Not long enough to work himself up into a proper sulk, but just enough to take some of the immediate heat from the argument. It's a risky move, admittedly, because Astarion might now be upset that Kanan hadn't come immediately— but ah, everything is risky with teenagers.]
Astarion?
[He knocks twice and comes in anyway, in the spirit of both respecting his independence whilst still asserting his authority as parent. But while there's sternness in his expression, it's softer than Zevlor's fierce scowl, and there's a glimmer of understanding in his gaze.
He knows what it's like, you see, to want to succeed so badly and impress someone all at once. To hear that they've been with another, and feel such seething, hideously jealous inadequacy . . .
[He didn't need time to work himself into a sulk; he's been sour since Zevlor separated them both, sitting in front of his vanity (like the vain little creature that he is), staring into the reddened blot marks shaped like the outline of Fenris' teeth.
He doesn't sound cross with Kanan (when has he ever been?) He sounds agitated. Harsh. Like a bird shedding pretty warbling in favor of shrieking, they both have the same root desire: attention.]
I have. All kind of stories, ranging from the fantastical to the decidedly idiotic.
[He closes the door gently behind him and crosses the room, taking a seat behind Astarion. Seemingly unthinkingly, he reaches for a brush and begins combing at a low set of unruly curls. The motions are steady and soothing, a familiar ritual— though one easily shaken off if Astarion loathes it.]
But I want to hear it from the only one whose take on it actually matters.
[His sneer curdles. The rest of him, though— like a tiger spitting before it recognizes a familiar silhouette, he melts beneath boarbristle, his eyes shutting even as he huffs. Familiar, yes.
The doting comfort that he craves, and normally would extract from the very fiend of the hour. Fenris. But it's been ages since he was fussed over by Kanon.
He's missed it.]
There is an idiot involved. [He murmurs bitterly, folding the front of his lush robes closed. Feathers and sheer patternwork two sizes too big on small shoulders— secondhand fare from an old stageplay.]
I asked Fenris to help me practice kissing for my training— since he's always begging to help me, you know. Fussing about what I'm up to. Where I'm going. [He's never once begged.] —and he BIT me.
[A little nod of understanding, less agreeing and more simply acknowledging that version of the story. Begging is given a brief quirk of his eyebrow, but bitten gets both raised up. A little glance to the now-covered spot, as all the while his hands keep up that steady stroke.]
Not in a way you enjoyed, then.
[A little wry, but not at Astarion's expense. He's a bit more comfortable with the idea of their son and sex (though there is a part of him that hopes they haven't quite gotten there just yet— not while part of his mind still eternally thinks of Astarion as that chubby toddler who once routinely clambered into their bed).]
Surely he didn't bite you from the start. Was he being overly ambitious, or just exceedingly clumsy?
[Oh. Oh, he turns a little red, then. Belated in his realization that there is actually another reason for biting someone whilst wrought up, unlike the way they've set their teeth onto each other in the past (a lesson he's learned and known about already, it's just— gods, it's different when it's them, isn't it? Something they're now capable of. Something they could do.)
He remembers fevered weight across his hips. Round his wrists, pinning him down.
But then he remembers furiously pinched, dark brows glowering down at him beneath dust-caked rafters, and his own do the same now.]
Neither! He kept insisting he was better than I was. That I was jealous he was more experienced just because he kissed that vapid idiot Elise!!
[That explains the rather biased exclamation that had echoed around the entirety of the Moulin Rouge. But oh, that derision . . . he lets the statement linger in the air for a few seconds, and then, gently:]
It's a foolish thing for him to say. Even if you were, it certainly wouldn't be of Elise of all creatures. [Sorry, Elise.] And experience doesn't necessarily make anyone better— growing up here, he should know that. There's plenty of whores who stay third-string for a reason.
[The brush moves higher, his head tipped low. But then, as golden eyes peer up through dark lashes, he adds gently:]
But . . . one might wonder whether or not you felt a bit of jealousy that someone else got to kiss him first.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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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[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.
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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.
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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.]
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[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.
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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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[And oh, on some level, beneath the lightness of a punchline only halfheartedly delivered it's entirely serious. Only a wry quirk at the far corner of his mouth betrays the weight of it, appearing not out of some smug sense of satisfaction or amusement, but purely for the look shot back at him through bright green eyes.
Grown in stature, yes, but not in heart. Not just yet. Still the young boy he's well familiar with, as bewildered as he ever was.
And then:]
Hmph.
[He shakes his head.]
You could try starting by not holding yourself responsible for what he says or does.
Or plots.
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I— . . . all right.
[That's fair. That's beyond fair, for he's always had the inclination to take the bullet, no matter how Astarion protested. But it does neither of them any good. It never has, not beyond getting Astarion upset at him.]
Though the plots . . . it's less that I seek to cover for him, and more that he inevitably drags me into them, you know. [He's preaching to the choir, he knows, for it's always been Zevlor who's had to deal with them in the sticky aftermath. But ah . . . he's going to have to think, then, on how to better protect Astarion. How to keep him safe without smothering him or coddling him unnecessary. And hells, it's not as if he's short on time to figure it out: right now, both their tempers are still hot enough that Fenris hasn't any inclination towards protectiveness anyway.]
And he makes it hard not to want to, to do such things . . . he always has . . .
[He drifts off. The end of that sentence is somewhere that drifts back into questionable territory, overwhelming and uncertain, and they needn't dwell on the scattershot feelings that flutter in his stomach. He exhales slowly, sounding like nothing so much as a weary old dog— and then glances over at Zevlor, adding a touch wryly:]
You bought an entire cabaret just to please your husband?
[He can tease him a little, surely. He's not in so much trouble he can't do that, probably. Maybe.]
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[Such a narrow, barely perceptible smirk. Such a small bit of back and forth between a pair disinclined towards foolishness of any stripe.
Mind yourself, little 'old' dog.]
And as far as Astarion's sway is concerned, that is precisely how he'll manage getting himself out of any trouble he brings upon himself— and not solely what he visits on you.
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Or maybe Astarion will simply call it a cat fight just to spite Fenris.
He wouldn't necessarily be wrong, Kanan thinks as he waits outside of Astarion's door. Nor would his spite be totally out of place, not after that bite. There's a part of him that still can't believe— but then again, they are teenagers, and gods know all kinds of hormones are firing off for both of them right now. The real question is whether or not Fenris knew what he was doing with that, but ah, that's for Zevlor to discover.
His task lies ahead.
He gives Astarion a little time. Not long enough to work himself up into a proper sulk, but just enough to take some of the immediate heat from the argument. It's a risky move, admittedly, because Astarion might now be upset that Kanan hadn't come immediately— but ah, everything is risky with teenagers.]
Astarion?
[He knocks twice and comes in anyway, in the spirit of both respecting his independence whilst still asserting his authority as parent. But while there's sternness in his expression, it's softer than Zevlor's fierce scowl, and there's a glimmer of understanding in his gaze.
He knows what it's like, you see, to want to succeed so badly and impress someone all at once. To hear that they've been with another, and feel such seething, hideously jealous inadequacy . . .
He closes the door behind him.]
Tell me what happened.
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[He didn't need time to work himself into a sulk; he's been sour since Zevlor separated them both, sitting in front of his vanity (like the vain little creature that he is), staring into the reddened blot marks shaped like the outline of Fenris' teeth.
He doesn't sound cross with Kanan (when has he ever been?) He sounds agitated. Harsh. Like a bird shedding pretty warbling in favor of shrieking, they both have the same root desire: attention.]
You didn't hear it from everyone else already??
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[He closes the door gently behind him and crosses the room, taking a seat behind Astarion. Seemingly unthinkingly, he reaches for a brush and begins combing at a low set of unruly curls. The motions are steady and soothing, a familiar ritual— though one easily shaken off if Astarion loathes it.]
But I want to hear it from the only one whose take on it actually matters.
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[His sneer curdles. The rest of him, though— like a tiger spitting before it recognizes a familiar silhouette, he melts beneath boarbristle, his eyes shutting even as he huffs. Familiar, yes.
The doting comfort that he craves, and normally would extract from the very fiend of the hour. Fenris. But it's been ages since he was fussed over by Kanon.
He's missed it.]
There is an idiot involved. [He murmurs bitterly, folding the front of his lush robes closed. Feathers and sheer patternwork two sizes too big on small shoulders— secondhand fare from an old stageplay.]
I asked Fenris to help me practice kissing for my training— since he's always begging to help me, you know. Fussing about what I'm up to. Where I'm going. [He's never once begged.] —and he BIT me.
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Not in a way you enjoyed, then.
[A little wry, but not at Astarion's expense. He's a bit more comfortable with the idea of their son and sex (though there is a part of him that hopes they haven't quite gotten there just yet— not while part of his mind still eternally thinks of Astarion as that chubby toddler who once routinely clambered into their bed).]
Surely he didn't bite you from the start. Was he being overly ambitious, or just exceedingly clumsy?
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[Oh. Oh, he turns a little red, then. Belated in his realization that there is actually another reason for biting someone whilst wrought up, unlike the way they've set their teeth onto each other in the past (a lesson he's learned and known about already, it's just— gods, it's different when it's them, isn't it? Something they're now capable of. Something they could do.)
He remembers fevered weight across his hips. Round his wrists, pinning him down.
But then he remembers furiously pinched, dark brows glowering down at him beneath dust-caked rafters, and his own do the same now.]
Neither! He kept insisting he was better than I was. That I was jealous he was more experienced just because he kissed that vapid idiot Elise!!
[Elise!!!]
Can you believe that— jealous of a fucking whore.
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[That explains the rather biased exclamation that had echoed around the entirety of the Moulin Rouge. But oh, that derision . . . he lets the statement linger in the air for a few seconds, and then, gently:]
It's a foolish thing for him to say. Even if you were, it certainly wouldn't be of Elise of all creatures. [Sorry, Elise.] And experience doesn't necessarily make anyone better— growing up here, he should know that. There's plenty of whores who stay third-string for a reason.
[The brush moves higher, his head tipped low. But then, as golden eyes peer up through dark lashes, he adds gently:]
But . . . one might wonder whether or not you felt a bit of jealousy that someone else got to kiss him first.