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.
[Oh the look Astarion angles towards Kanan in the mirror is accusatory. Scrunching in on itself in rankled disgust that's one part childhood instincts and two parts defensiveness outright, poorly mixed. That he'd been worked up in the moment— red from the tips of his ears to the end of his collar— that's irrelevant, now. Because now is when the suggestion feels affronting. Now is when it steps on the choreography he'd imagined for this whole exchange, veering away from talk of 'poor darling Astarion' into territory where his wants are questioned, and those questions—
He doesn't have an answer to.
So he does the next best thing. He scoffs.]
You think I wanted to kiss him?? That I planned the whole thing out just so I could get to him first!?!
[Honestly, it's the test of a lifetime not to laugh at that expression. It's the exact same face that Astarion used to level at anyone who dared tease him, equal parts deeply offended and fiercely indignant. For a moment he can almost see that chubby face surrounded by untameable curls, ears flushed in embarrassment and a little frown on his face . . . oh, precious thing. Darling boy. He finally compromises by biting his lip, only semi-successfully hiding a smile, and that will have to be enough.]
Did you?
[And then, before a screeching indignant no can ring out:]
When was the last time you ever did anything you didn't wholeheartedly want to do? Half the time Zevlor can't get you to do your chores without having to twist your arm, much less kiss anyone.
[A beat. He works the brush carefully through a stubborn knot, then catches Astarion's eye in the mirror. There's an amused little smile on his lips as he adds:]
Besides: the two of you have been inseparable from the moment you brought him here. You were endlessly possessive of him even as a friend, and now that you're both older . . . don't tell me you've never thought about it before.
[Kanan is so dangerously close to being bitten. Not on the neck, of course— because only an uncivilized, rabid elf would do something so unhinged. Probably something contagious Fenris got from Elise even, Astarion thinks— before he winces at that knot's tender resistance giving way, leaving behind a few white locks shaped like odd zig-zag crinkles, forgetting his anger in place of another sore sensation.
But he doesn't stop his sulking. And he doesn't pull his burning stare away from Kanan, either. As much in the dog house now as he was when telling a small, pudgy-fingered child he couldn't have dessert early.]
I take this seriously, Kanan, that's why it's different! I'm not going to be washing dishes or scrubbing floors when I'm eighty unless I royally fuck up— which at this rate—
[Helplessly he huffs. He puffs. He throws his hands into the air near shoulder height before they collapse back down into his lap.]
How in the world did he manage to kiss someone else first....
[Oh, there it is. There it is, and his smile disappears as his heart aches in sympathy. Beneath all the dramatic sulkiness and frustration lies a heart so terribly fragile, and so few ever manage to get at it. The steady brushstrokes cease, but only so he can run a warm hand against the side of Astarion's neck, slipping down to rub between his shoulderblades.]
Because she had nothing to lose, I suspect.
[His voice is far softer now.]
She kissed him, didn't she? I thought so, [for he knows Fenris, and knows how he gets around the performers and courtesans both.] If it went wrong, you know her: she would simply laugh it off, for she cares little about the creatures she beds. He meant nothing to her beyond an afternoon's entertainment . . . and I suspect he was swept up in her wake.
[Which doesn't make it any better, and it certainly won't ease that aching, wailing heart. But maybe it will help a tiny bit. Maybe some part of Astarion can soothe himself with the thought that at least it wasn't a deliberate choice, with Astarion made the loser.]
How long had you been planning it?
[Gods, it must have been like a slap to the face, he thinks, still rubbing his back. It must have felt like the cruelest little drop back to reality in a place where romantic fantasies are meant to thrive . . . oh, his little Astarion, and Kanan fights the urge to gather him up as if he were still a child.]
[Every inch of muscle that he has sinks into those waiting hands, thick tears welling in his eyes; the back of his throat feels clotted with compressed spit before he knows it. He's not a child anymore but he feels like it, crying into Kanan's arms over stupid things like skinned knees and ruined toys. A bad dream that felt too real.
This one isn't, though.
A bad dream, that is.
Eventually, he's going to have to face it again. The next time he sees Fenris— or the next time he sees Elise. There's no coming back from this, he's convinced of it, and it aches like the throbbing of his neck.]
....since last week, when Satine told me I'm old enough to start practicing if I want to.
[He swipes his nose across the sleeve of that robe, leaving a wet trail across the back of his wrist through sheer silk. In the mirror, his reflection looks angry, but that's always how he's looked when hurt. Burning from the inside out.]
[It's so obvious a lie as to not need counteracting, but that's all the more reason to do so. You matter, this matters, for he will grow up in a world that tells him so often that his feelings don't. Soon, he'll have to learn how to hide everything, rage and grief and joy and delight. He'll have to learn how to put on a mask and keep it on almost always, and that's fine. That's the bargain. That's what it means to become the Sparkling Diamond, but—
Not yet. Not here in this room, when he's still a child nursing a broken heart.]
Come here. Come here, now—
[It's an awkward angle and it doesn't matter, not when it's his son— one way or another Kanan gathers him up, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him towards his lap. Clawed fingers work through silken curls as he makes wordless noises of comfort, just as he always did for every scraped knee and broken toy.
And when the worst of the grief seems to have subsided— when the tears abate, or the anger cools— Kanan murmurs:]
[Yes it is— and as pale fingertips curl in fine fabric, he's angry yet again. Yes it is— and he can't fathom anything but this: frustration hot as coal beneath his ribs, an overwhelming sense of wasted everything, as if everything that mattered is long lost and done for. All the chapters of his life till now, all the ways he'd pictured this going— he's young. Willowy and stubborn-minded and ambitious, which is, when he can't see past the tips of his fingers and knows nothing of the world outside these walls beyond the market down the street, a disastrous combination of traits. Raised by theatrics and thespians, what else could he be other than a little firebomb, wearing too-large clothes: wanting everything to be perfect, or it's nothing at all.
He clings to Kanan like he did when he was that wailing child. Angry still. Latched on till his fingers go completely numb, snuffling and chuffing and muttering low.]
You can't make him un-kiss her.
[His voice barely clears the edge of Kanan's shoulder. He's nothing but curls and balled-up fingers and a pair of glowering, red-limned eyes staring off at nothing at all.]
You can't make him not have bitten, with everyone and the fu— [he bites his tongue to correct himself] bloody Maker listening in, telling me I was jealous.
[It feels pretty fucking unfixable, is the point here.]
[No, he most certainly can't, though his gentle hum of agreement is meant to soothe as well as agree. I know, dearest, I know, not patronizing insomuch as making sure he doesn't snag at the edges of that spitting temper.]
Satine wasn't the first Diamond, you know. She wasn't even the first to come up with her routines— those were inherited, just like her costumes and most of her jewelry, not to mention her . And yet I cannot tell you the name of her predecessor, not off the top of my head, for she outshone them so brilliantly.
You need not be the first to have kissed him. Just better than Elise— and that will not be a hard bar to clear, Astarion, for I know him and I know her, and she means nothing to him.
[He tips his head.]
A lesson for you, before you begin with Satine. What makes for a good kiss is not just technique, nor focus, but passion. Cultivating that heated desire for your customers is what she'll teach you, but I would wager a month's sums that Elise had none of it for Fenris— and you have plenty.
[It's deft, that interruption. The swiftness of Kanan's intrusion into everything he'd wreathed himself in so thorough that for a moment he forgets he's weeping. Forgets his ire, too, drawing back by half a centimeter with the most bewildered look of fascination— as if some hidden codex is revealed. As if his world is shaken.
He's scarcely in his teenage years; to him, Satine had existed ages and ages beforehand. Since the dawn of time, before the Moulin Rouge, to Astarion's young mind, he'd imagined her a touchstone. In the beginning, there was sunlight, and the dust of the earth, and Paris, and Zevlor and Kanan, and the Moulin Rouge, and Satine.
He wipes his eyes, bleary and confused. Awestruck to say the least. (And beneath all that, hopeful now.]
—I....[Another blink, pausing.] I don't know. I wasn't thinking. [I was upset.]
It was.... [Warm. Hot. Comforting. Suffocating— in a good way: his blood boiled and his temples ached from the dizzying rush.] Nice? I think. I kept getting distracted every time I tried to focus, I mean, and he kept instructing me, but....
You know, I don't think he was faring any better, either.
[The way he'd shifted, the way he moved. Even the way he stuttered.]
[Oh, Astarion is so sweetly endearing when he looks at him like that. So sweetly shocked, tears still clinging to his lashes and yet his mind already shifting past his anger and his grief— he never tires of seeing it. And as for that description: Zevlor might well flinch at the thought of his son kissing his beloved friend, but Kanan feels nothing but vague, triumphant vindication. How many years had they watched the two of them orbit around one another? Astarion and his little shadow, Fenris and his eternal partner-in-crime . . . he smiles faintly throughout it, nodding in agreement at that rather more believable assessment. He cups his cheek, his thumb swiping away an errant year, and offers Astarion a little half-smile.]
Yes. Once or twice, before I realized the life of a courtesan was not for me. And it is very, very different than truly desiring someone.
The former, I can give you lessons on, though Satine will be more of an education. It involves finding something— some trait, some feature— that you can turn into something that appeals. Whether it's pretending you're a person who gets off on red hair or terrible jokes, or simply leaning into enjoying the hue of their eyes . . . it helps. It becomes less about what you, yourself, find appealing, and more about becoming whatever it is they desire— which is, after all, someone who desires them in turn.
[It's a bit of a twisted explanation, admittedly, and he wrinkles his nose as he says it. But ah:]
But for the latter— for someone like Fenris— Astarion, little wonder you kept losing focus, for that's precisely what you ought to have done.
Unless you meant to kiss him solely as practice and nothing else, that is.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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.
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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.
1/2
2/2
He doesn't have an answer to.
So he does the next best thing. He scoffs.]
You think I wanted to kiss him?? That I planned the whole thing out just so I could get to him first!?!
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Did you?
[And then, before a screeching indignant no can ring out:]
When was the last time you ever did anything you didn't wholeheartedly want to do? Half the time Zevlor can't get you to do your chores without having to twist your arm, much less kiss anyone.
[A beat. He works the brush carefully through a stubborn knot, then catches Astarion's eye in the mirror. There's an amused little smile on his lips as he adds:]
Besides: the two of you have been inseparable from the moment you brought him here. You were endlessly possessive of him even as a friend, and now that you're both older . . . don't tell me you've never thought about it before.
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But he doesn't stop his sulking. And he doesn't pull his burning stare away from Kanan, either. As much in the dog house now as he was when telling a small, pudgy-fingered child he couldn't have dessert early.]
I take this seriously, Kanan, that's why it's different! I'm not going to be washing dishes or scrubbing floors when I'm eighty unless I royally fuck up— which at this rate—
[Helplessly he huffs. He puffs. He throws his hands into the air near shoulder height before they collapse back down into his lap.]
How in the world did he manage to kiss someone else first....
[A beat, small.]
....and why did it have to be her?
[Maybe. Maybe he has thought about it before.]
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Because she had nothing to lose, I suspect.
[His voice is far softer now.]
She kissed him, didn't she? I thought so, [for he knows Fenris, and knows how he gets around the performers and courtesans both.] If it went wrong, you know her: she would simply laugh it off, for she cares little about the creatures she beds. He meant nothing to her beyond an afternoon's entertainment . . . and I suspect he was swept up in her wake.
[Which doesn't make it any better, and it certainly won't ease that aching, wailing heart. But maybe it will help a tiny bit. Maybe some part of Astarion can soothe himself with the thought that at least it wasn't a deliberate choice, with Astarion made the loser.]
How long had you been planning it?
[Gods, it must have been like a slap to the face, he thinks, still rubbing his back. It must have felt like the cruelest little drop back to reality in a place where romantic fantasies are meant to thrive . . . oh, his little Astarion, and Kanan fights the urge to gather him up as if he were still a child.]
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This one isn't, though.
A bad dream, that is.
Eventually, he's going to have to face it again. The next time he sees Fenris— or the next time he sees Elise. There's no coming back from this, he's convinced of it, and it aches like the throbbing of his neck.]
....since last week, when Satine told me I'm old enough to start practicing if I want to.
[He swipes his nose across the sleeve of that robe, leaving a wet trail across the back of his wrist through sheer silk. In the mirror, his reflection looks angry, but that's always how he's looked when hurt. Burning from the inside out.]
It doesn't matter.
[Is a lie.]
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[It's so obvious a lie as to not need counteracting, but that's all the more reason to do so. You matter, this matters, for he will grow up in a world that tells him so often that his feelings don't. Soon, he'll have to learn how to hide everything, rage and grief and joy and delight. He'll have to learn how to put on a mask and keep it on almost always, and that's fine. That's the bargain. That's what it means to become the Sparkling Diamond, but—
Not yet. Not here in this room, when he's still a child nursing a broken heart.]
Come here. Come here, now—
[It's an awkward angle and it doesn't matter, not when it's his son— one way or another Kanan gathers him up, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him towards his lap. Clawed fingers work through silken curls as he makes wordless noises of comfort, just as he always did for every scraped knee and broken toy.
And when the worst of the grief seems to have subsided— when the tears abate, or the anger cools— Kanan murmurs:]
It isn't as unfixable as it appears, Viniquessë.
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He clings to Kanan like he did when he was that wailing child. Angry still. Latched on till his fingers go completely numb, snuffling and chuffing and muttering low.]
You can't make him un-kiss her.
[His voice barely clears the edge of Kanan's shoulder. He's nothing but curls and balled-up fingers and a pair of glowering, red-limned eyes staring off at nothing at all.]
You can't make him not have bitten, with everyone and the fu— [he bites his tongue to correct himself] bloody Maker listening in, telling me I was jealous.
[It feels pretty fucking unfixable, is the point here.]
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[No, he most certainly can't, though his gentle hum of agreement is meant to soothe as well as agree. I know, dearest, I know, not patronizing insomuch as making sure he doesn't snag at the edges of that spitting temper.]
Satine wasn't the first Diamond, you know. She wasn't even the first to come up with her routines— those were inherited, just like her costumes and most of her jewelry, not to mention her . And yet I cannot tell you the name of her predecessor, not off the top of my head, for she outshone them so brilliantly.
You need not be the first to have kissed him. Just better than Elise— and that will not be a hard bar to clear, Astarion, for I know him and I know her, and she means nothing to him.
[He tips his head.]
A lesson for you, before you begin with Satine. What makes for a good kiss is not just technique, nor focus, but passion. Cultivating that heated desire for your customers is what she'll teach you, but I would wager a month's sums that Elise had none of it for Fenris— and you have plenty.
What was it like, before he bit you?
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He's scarcely in his teenage years; to him, Satine had existed ages and ages beforehand. Since the dawn of time, before the Moulin Rouge, to Astarion's young mind, he'd imagined her a touchstone. In the beginning, there was sunlight, and the dust of the earth, and Paris, and Zevlor and Kanan, and the Moulin Rouge, and Satine.
He wipes his eyes, bleary and confused. Awestruck to say the least. (And beneath all that, hopeful now.]
—I....[Another blink, pausing.] I don't know. I wasn't thinking. [I was upset.]
It was.... [Warm. Hot. Comforting. Suffocating— in a good way: his blood boiled and his temples ached from the dizzying rush.] Nice? I think. I kept getting distracted every time I tried to focus, I mean, and he kept instructing me, but....
You know, I don't think he was faring any better, either.
[The way he'd shifted, the way he moved. Even the way he stuttered.]
Have you ever done it? Not—
[kissing. Not that. No.]
'Cultivating desire'. For someone else.
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Yes. Once or twice, before I realized the life of a courtesan was not for me. And it is very, very different than truly desiring someone.
The former, I can give you lessons on, though Satine will be more of an education. It involves finding something— some trait, some feature— that you can turn into something that appeals. Whether it's pretending you're a person who gets off on red hair or terrible jokes, or simply leaning into enjoying the hue of their eyes . . . it helps. It becomes less about what you, yourself, find appealing, and more about becoming whatever it is they desire— which is, after all, someone who desires them in turn.
[It's a bit of a twisted explanation, admittedly, and he wrinkles his nose as he says it. But ah:]
But for the latter— for someone like Fenris— Astarion, little wonder you kept losing focus, for that's precisely what you ought to have done.
Unless you meant to kiss him solely as practice and nothing else, that is.