[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.
[Again, he finds himself surprised. Taken aback by the multitudes contained within someone he thought he knew so well. Between the two— yes, Kanan was always the more social one compared to Zevlor. Liked 'slumming' it at bars from time-to-time, even laughing with the guests of Moulin Rouge on those odd evenings when the whim struck. Where Zevlor excelled at business, Kanan was the one behind him, soft and steadfast behind the scenes. But—
He worked with costumes. He chose what drinks they stocked, or what lights they used, or where the couches went.
He wasn't a courtesan.
Picturing him amongst the herd, even partially imagined, feels....wrong.]
—what?
[Two overwhelming subjects competing for the small space of his mind, and Astarion blinks wide as his ears softly twitch with alertness, flush across his cheeks.]
—no. No, that— [he shakes his head] No. He wasn't just— I mean he was for practice but it wasn't only— I mean he's just a bodyguard. Or— will be. And that's not....
[His eyebrows drop. A look of consternation overtakes, and then:]
What do you mean you realized the life of a courtesan wasn't for you?
[On the one hand, this wasn't exactly how he and Zevlor had planned to tell Astarion. On the other hand, he thinks, watching a cacophony of emotions pass over his son's face, he was going to find out in some fashion sooner or later. Better he hears it now from Kanan himself than via some idle comment dropped by Satine or her cohorts.
He tips his head with a little hum, giving Astarion a two-second forewarning of what the answer will be.]
Two weeks.
[Said simply. He isn't ashamed of it, for all that it wasn't for him. And if Astarion is going to enter into that lifestyle (though oh, Kanan still quietly wishes he wouldn't), he'll have to get used to some of the, ah, less palatable aspects of that world.]
I suspect I could have continued further— I was a deft hand at it, [and maybe he's a little merciless in how he's telling this.] But one of my customers had a commander who wouldn't stop striking up conversations with me at the bar after my shift . . . and I found him more alluring than any kind of fame or wealth could ever be.
It hurt him to see me in such a profession— though I suspect he would have born that silently for years if I hadn't pressed him on it. [Loyal darling that he is, steadfast and so damned guarded, keeping everyone safe but himself.] But I think, looking back, it hurt me too— and it was never the act itself I enjoyed. Just the glamor of the theater.
[So . . . costumes. Drinks. Arranging all the details and aesthetics while his husband worries about income and outflow and all the finicky numbers. Add a reputable madam to the business who can wrangle all the courtesans, and you have a functioning cabaret.]
We weren't going to tell you when you were still a child, Astarion. But if you're old enouh to begin training, you're old enough to know such things.
[Is he? Is he really? Because right now the thinned out squint Astarion is wearing is reminiscent of a child being forced to confront the worst of what life has to offer— like broccoli, or the fact that his father was a whore, apparently, and that his other father might've even come here just to hit on him.
What's next, that they sleep together when Astarion's not looking? That they act like any paired-off couple in this place? Cavorting and drooling and—
It's fine that Satine is a courtesan. She has the whole of Paris and beyond beneath her thumb. She dazzles. She excites. She enthralls the way Astarion has wanted to for as long as he can remember. That's for them. And for other people, provided that they're good enough.
Who it is not for is the men who raised him.]
You quit because of some commander?
[Oh, Astarion....]
But you don't even act anymore, and— don't you miss it?
[Oh, Astarion . . . he resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead settling for a mildly unimpressed look. Don't you blech at him, sir, not after he's had to hear about you sticking your tongue down Fenris' throat.]
Not particularly.
[They'll come back to the question of the commander, but this is more important.]
It's the camaraderie I love, not the acting itself. The glamor of it all, the lights, the costumes, the jewelry and make-up . . . all of it I like being a part of facilitating, not necessarily wearing for myself.
[How many times had the two of them played backstage? Astarion demanding to be dressed up like a lost princeling or a glamorous Diamond, his little face turned up expectantly for paint on his eyelids and clip-on jewelry . . . he'd been so entranced by it. Night after night, over and over, and Kanan had loved to indulge it. He'd taught him all the little tricks: how to sculpt your face and ensure your eyes glitter even from the back of the room; how to know what fabrics will drape and what will sag; how to make any costume look a thousand times better with just a few stitches and tweaks . . .
Perhaps he should have foreseen what path Astarion would follow. That he wouldn't take Kanan's place, but Satine's, for his son has always delighted in having all eyes on him: proudly strutting up and down the stage, reveling in the adoring coos of all the courtesans, preening under all their teasing praise.]
I suppose I could return to it, if ever I truly wanted to. But I found getting to work on bringing a vision to life was far more rewarding than— [a brief hesitation, then:] — the pleasures of starring in the show.
[A few seconds pass, and he adds rather more sardonically:]
And it was not some commander. Zevlor made for quite the handsome figure when he was in full armor, you know— all trim waist and firm muscles beneath all that oiled-up metal. [He grins, knowing exactly what he's doing and utterly unrepentant.] I was the center of jealousy for quite some time for how he fixated on me, even when the others would flirt.
Blatantly, in some cases.
Ask your teacher. She's still sulky I got there first, I'm sure.
[It was all he adored back then, when the world towered over him and was full up to the brim with glitter and shed feathers and warm silk, like sequined canopies, and he had to crane up high onto his toes to receive a dab here or there from a sympathy-laden powder puff patted across his cheeks or dabbed against his eyes. His lips were the hardest part to beg off: he wasn't a messy thing, but every dancer had their preferred shade, and Zevlor would know instantly who was responsible for any bit of real color on his face. More often than not what couldn't be snuck in otherwise fell on Kanan instead to see to. Kanan, who wasn't afraid to cart in their chubby little adoptee when he was dripping with satin and gloss. Colored like a messy little clown, as he couldn't keep from fidgeting and swiping at his face once tired.
That, he doesn't remember. But the sense of awe lives on. That feeling of deep admiration permeating to the bone— all that doting. All that love. Unconditional. Electrifying.
He can't imagine giving it up for anything. Least of all— ]
He's shriveling. He's dying. He's sinking his chin into his chest and losing his neck as his small little canine teeth are revealed with a wincing grimace.]
Zevlor????
[His DAD??????????????????]
Satine was jealous at you over him??? [But he wears glasses. He sleeps early. He's always reading. Is there a different Zevlor, maybe? Someone he doesn't remember ever existing?
No, never mind. He can't take this anymore. Two fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his head shaking all the while.]
Well I won't give up anything for anyone else. Least of all Fenris after this. [Terminal embarrassment he can stand, but— realizing how much he's gagged and groaned into Kanan's shoulder these last few minutes— he tries to (albeit slightly sulkily) correct his own faux pas, knowing it's unkind.]
....even if I'm glad you're both happier now.
[Because he is, really. And he likes being here. And he loves them. So damned much.]
It's just not what I want for me, that's all. And if I can....you know, 'cultivate passion', then I can do anything I need to to get where I want to be, right?
[He won't say so (not now, at least), but oh, Astarion is the spitting image of Zevlor when he does that little move. Pinching his brow between two fingers and shaking his head as though the weight of the world bears itself upon his adolescent shoulders . . . but then again, he's always imitated Zevlor in the subtlest of ways. Canny and clever, and both of them shockingly ruthless beneath a deceptive set of pretty eyes.
There's a scolding little click of his tongue and a sharp tug to one errant curl, but that grumbling attempt at backtracking is enough. For now. Though there is a certain archness in Kanan's gaze as he looks back at him— that's his husband, thank you, and he's every bit as dashing now as he was all those years ago. Even more, maybe, for he's aged into his looks like a fine wine.]
. . . you can, yes. But Astarion . . .
[He frowns faintly, the waspishness lost from his expression.]
Be certain that it's what you want to do. I know it is now— but remember to ask yourself that as you go. There's no shame in changing your mind— and no cowardice in realizing that your drawn lines are very different than what you originally thought.
Simply cultivating passion isn't enough. There's more to it— and it's harder than it seems. I have no doubt you're capable of the work . . . but to become the Diamond of the Moulin Rogue means giving up so much. A social life. A life outside of these halls. Romance, potentially, unless you find a partner willing to endure jealousy night after night. And the loss of more intangible things, too. It takes a toll on your mind, working in such a manner, and wear you down year after year.
I would not want to see you regret it— nor rue the things you missed because of it.
That includes Fenris.
[Warning given and taken to heart, he hopes. It won't be the last time he offers Astarion such an out, but there's no use in lingering on it now. Instead, a little briskly:]
Now, little Diamond: tell me how you plan to make up with him and spin this in your favor.
[The challenge is all he hears (later, those words will be relevant; later he'll look back and admit Kanan was right, and that he'd been too young to see it), and it's a fair one: the Sparkling Diamond has to field jealousy and gossip left and right, let alone their own rumored (or true) beginnings, and what's more is that it has to happen effortlessly, elsewise even a lie seems plausible to those who want it to be cast true.
An advanced lesson, beyond facilitating smooth conversation or the set of his own posture, so again, he strikes that Zevloresque reflection in thought, this time tapping a few curled fingers up against his chin.]
....
[His conclusion is a simple one.]
....he's not a customer, nor a performer I'll need work with. [So....] Do I need to make up with him?
[It's an answer swiftly delivered, crisp and unyielding. Such answers sometimes come after questions like do I really need to do my chores and is a bath every single day really necessary? It means there's no argument to be brooked, thank you very much (not that such a thing has ever stopped Astarion before).]
I won't have you two sniping at each other for weeks on end. He's your—
[Well, perhaps the word brother won't be so applicable anymore.]
—best friend, Astarion. You cannot simply avoid him or be passive-aggressive at him for the rest of your lives.
[A beat, and then, a little sardonically:]
Besides: do it quickly enough, and you can claim the title of more mature.
[His eyes glitter at an opportunity to set things right (to win out against his counterpart, consoling himself with the knowledge that if he can't have his first, then at least he won't come in second at something else: oh how maturity blossoms in him), which is a surefire sign that he is, of course, doing this for the right reasons....or something like that, anyway.
And therefore all admonishment melts away. Any sense of sensibility or balancing the scales is lost on him, as instead his focus shifts towards Kanan in newfound earnest, those oversized ears perking up just so.]
Mm. Well I would settle things, then. But I can't make up with him when he's wrong, Kanan, he'd just keep thinking that he's right about all this, and that I was jealous of him kissing her first [Technically, Astarion....]
How do I convince him to admit I was right all along?
[Precious little dumpling (though Kanan isn't allowed to call him that anymore). Sweet, manipulative little princeling whose heart is always in the right place (sort of), even if sometimes it's misaligned and needs a bit of correcting.
Or . . . a lot of correcting, perhaps. Internally Kanan sighs. It's his own fault, he knows, but it's so hard not to suggest such things when he knows how Astarion's mind works. And yet now he's left with this . . . hm.]
You can't.
[Blunt, but not unkind. He rests his chin in his palm.]
You were jealous— I won't say anything, but you were. [More than jealous, but he won't be so cruel as to point it out again, not now that Astarion's tears have abated.]
But that doesn't necessarily mean he's right, either. Certainly not about biting you.
[Pulling the threads apart in their little fights has always been an exercise in futility. Better not to declare winner and loser, but simply separate them, let them both cool down, and then nudge them into reconciling. It's always worked before, after all— and though teenagers are vastly different than children, surely not that much has yet changed. Right?]
So don't make it about right or wrong. Not every argument needs to be fully pulled apart, Astarion. Tell him what you're sorry for— I know there are some bits you must rue— and wait for him to do the same.
[Picking at his own sleeve cuff is a habit more telling than the stern, downright flinty angle of his brows; it's what he does when he's bordering on sheepish, usually because Zevlor's told him off without excuse or defense, simply swallowing his just desserts.
He doesn't enjoy doing it, but at least it distracts from the churn of frustration in his skull, his chest. Unrelated to the broader concept of being vexed, only an attempt at taming childish volatility. At being present with those feelings, minus letting them control him.
It's harder now than it used to be, somehow. Like before, in the rafters, on occasion he feels convinced he's made of embers and spilled spirit.]
It feels like it should be pulled apart. [He mutters for a moment, picking again at his sleeve. Like there's an injustice in not being understood— even if it was just a stupid, pointless argument.]
He won't say so, not least of which because Astarion would only take it as mockery. But he is. It's no mean feat to struggle through emotions, especially when all the simplicity of childhood has melted away, leaving a nightmarishly volatile set of hormones and anguish in its wake. But he's trying. He's trying, and what more can Kanan ask of him?]
Good.
[He says it warmly, though there's a part of him taking note of that new addition to the story. Perhaps now the biting makes a tad more sense.]
I deem that an excellent start.
Is there anything else? There need not be.
[He asks only to pry open some space for any other potential guilt that might be struggling to break through to the surface, however minute. But then, in answer to that miserable, muttered tone:]
Pull it apart if you truly wish to— but not now. Not when the only point in doing so is to prove you right and him wrong. Later, when you both feel more amiable towards one another . . . then, yes, pull it apart, and see where you get.
[How many times have he and Zevlor done that? So many snappish, snarling fights eventually ended with tender cuddling and a gentle dissection of their words and motivations, all wrapped up neatly and sealed with a doting assertion of their love for one another. It isn't ideal, maybe, but it works for them. It has for nearly twenty years now.
And no, thirteen year olds aren't grown men comfortably settled within a relationship, no, but Maker, he's doing his best with what he knows. There isn't a manual for parenting, though there ought to be.]
I might've said something about him being illiterate? Maybe. [A twisting of that fabric, his eyes turned high towards the ceiling. Confession that isn't even fractionally as flippant as it looks when he's delivering his recount like Zevlor takes stock of what's run out behind the bar. If it was, he'd be scoffing it. If it was, he'd be declaring he was right as fervently as he did before, direct and wholly focused, pleading his case with sharp conviction. ]
[It's been quite a few years since Fenris has learned his letters, but still: it's low blow. And it's not that the pride of before has disappeared, but at the same time . . . Astarion, and he grimaces at him, acknowledging both the seriousness of that insult and the guilt that's lurking around the edges of Astarion's face.]
Astarion . . .
[Oh, dear. Dear, dear, dear, and he sighs softly. He's not mad, he's just a little disappointed.]
I don't remember! [He protests in a snapping whine, defensive as he shifts in his own seat, brows low and— most of all— knowing. It doesn't take a genius to grasp exactly why that's a cruelty aimed at anyone, let alone his own adoptive pairing. Someone he cares for dearly enough to descend into a screaming, frothing, stupid fit over, apparently, because the rest wasn't bad enough on its own.
Gods above.]
I said a lot of things!!
[Which is true.
Ears pinned back, ankles shifting till they cross. Another glance elsewhere (he couldn't look at Kanan for gold or gods right now), and his next exhale turns sharp enough to cut.]
He knows I didn't mean it.
He can read fine now— that's how he does all the delivery unloading. He probably reads more than I do! It's not that big a deal.
[Astarion may not be able to meet his father's eyes right now, but trust Kanan's eyes are locked on his son. His squirming, wriggling, guilt-ridden son, who would rather do anything than admit it.]
Is that right.
[That very much is not right, his flat tone suggests. Zevlor never minds verbally sparing with their little magistrate of a boy, but Kanan tires of it swiftly— and sometimes it's easier to cut to the chase.]
Try again. I think you know exactly why it's such a big deal.
[Oh, that doesn't sound like Fenris— though on the other hand, perhaps it isn't so far from the truth as it sounds. It's not as if the other boy is a saint; he can be plenty obnoxious (plenty vicious) when he wants to be. It doesn't take the largest leap of the imagination to picture Fenris bragging like that, whether out of defensiveness or sheer bravado.
His chin rests in his palm again, and while none of the disappointed air has left his expression, he is genuinely asking. Gods, it's going to be a long night piecing together the fragmented facts of this fight with Zevlor.]
And what were you telling him, exactly? That you wanted to practice? That you knew what you were doing?
[It's with a huff that he rises from his seat, pacing over to his bed to flop down in a dramatic heap of sprawled limbs, his legs dangling off the side from the knees down. All this emotion is too much to be contained by one small settee.]
It's not like I wanted just to go kiss him.
I mean— I did, but he didn't need to know that part! Especially not so he can just tell everyone I went and kissed him after her.
[He tilts his chin up, an indignant, belligerent little glare angled over his own stomach. In short, what Kanan sees is: >:[ ]
All that time he spends being quiet all the time, why couldn't he shut up about letting him lead? Or how Elise kissed this way. Or how I need to do something different.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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.
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He worked with costumes. He chose what drinks they stocked, or what lights they used, or where the couches went.
He wasn't a courtesan.
Picturing him amongst the herd, even partially imagined, feels....wrong.]
—what?
[Two overwhelming subjects competing for the small space of his mind, and Astarion blinks wide as his ears softly twitch with alertness, flush across his cheeks.]
—no. No, that— [he shakes his head] No. He wasn't just— I mean he was for practice but it wasn't only— I mean he's just a bodyguard. Or— will be. And that's not....
[His eyebrows drop. A look of consternation overtakes, and then:]
What do you mean you realized the life of a courtesan wasn't for you?
You weren't—
[. . . . ]
....were you....?
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He tips his head with a little hum, giving Astarion a two-second forewarning of what the answer will be.]
Two weeks.
[Said simply. He isn't ashamed of it, for all that it wasn't for him. And if Astarion is going to enter into that lifestyle (though oh, Kanan still quietly wishes he wouldn't), he'll have to get used to some of the, ah, less palatable aspects of that world.]
I suspect I could have continued further— I was a deft hand at it, [and maybe he's a little merciless in how he's telling this.] But one of my customers had a commander who wouldn't stop striking up conversations with me at the bar after my shift . . . and I found him more alluring than any kind of fame or wealth could ever be.
It hurt him to see me in such a profession— though I suspect he would have born that silently for years if I hadn't pressed him on it. [Loyal darling that he is, steadfast and so damned guarded, keeping everyone safe but himself.] But I think, looking back, it hurt me too— and it was never the act itself I enjoyed. Just the glamor of the theater.
[So . . . costumes. Drinks. Arranging all the details and aesthetics while his husband worries about income and outflow and all the finicky numbers. Add a reputable madam to the business who can wrangle all the courtesans, and you have a functioning cabaret.]
We weren't going to tell you when you were still a child, Astarion. But if you're old enouh to begin training, you're old enough to know such things.
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What's next, that they sleep together when Astarion's not looking? That they act like any paired-off couple in this place? Cavorting and drooling and—
It's fine that Satine is a courtesan. She has the whole of Paris and beyond beneath her thumb. She dazzles. She excites. She enthralls the way Astarion has wanted to for as long as he can remember. That's for them. And for other people, provided that they're good enough.
Who it is not for is the men who raised him.]
You quit because of some commander?
[Oh, Astarion....]
But you don't even act anymore, and— don't you miss it?
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Not particularly.
[They'll come back to the question of the commander, but this is more important.]
It's the camaraderie I love, not the acting itself. The glamor of it all, the lights, the costumes, the jewelry and make-up . . . all of it I like being a part of facilitating, not necessarily wearing for myself.
[How many times had the two of them played backstage? Astarion demanding to be dressed up like a lost princeling or a glamorous Diamond, his little face turned up expectantly for paint on his eyelids and clip-on jewelry . . . he'd been so entranced by it. Night after night, over and over, and Kanan had loved to indulge it. He'd taught him all the little tricks: how to sculpt your face and ensure your eyes glitter even from the back of the room; how to know what fabrics will drape and what will sag; how to make any costume look a thousand times better with just a few stitches and tweaks . . .
Perhaps he should have foreseen what path Astarion would follow. That he wouldn't take Kanan's place, but Satine's, for his son has always delighted in having all eyes on him: proudly strutting up and down the stage, reveling in the adoring coos of all the courtesans, preening under all their teasing praise.]
I suppose I could return to it, if ever I truly wanted to. But I found getting to work on bringing a vision to life was far more rewarding than— [a brief hesitation, then:] — the pleasures of starring in the show.
[A few seconds pass, and he adds rather more sardonically:]
And it was not some commander. Zevlor made for quite the handsome figure when he was in full armor, you know— all trim waist and firm muscles beneath all that oiled-up metal. [He grins, knowing exactly what he's doing and utterly unrepentant.] I was the center of jealousy for quite some time for how he fixated on me, even when the others would flirt.
Blatantly, in some cases.
Ask your teacher. She's still sulky I got there first, I'm sure.
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That, he doesn't remember. But the sense of awe lives on. That feeling of deep admiration permeating to the bone— all that doting. All that love. Unconditional. Electrifying.
He can't imagine giving it up for anything. Least of all— ]
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U G H.
UGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He's shriveling. He's dying. He's sinking his chin into his chest and losing his neck as his small little canine teeth are revealed with a wincing grimace.]
Zevlor????
[His DAD??????????????????]
Satine was jealous at you over him??? [But he wears glasses. He sleeps early. He's always reading. Is there a different Zevlor, maybe? Someone he doesn't remember ever existing?
No, never mind. He can't take this anymore. Two fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, his head shaking all the while.]
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....even if I'm glad you're both happier now.
[Because he is, really. And he likes being here. And he loves them. So damned much.]
It's just not what I want for me, that's all. And if I can....you know, 'cultivate passion', then I can do anything I need to to get where I want to be, right?
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There's a scolding little click of his tongue and a sharp tug to one errant curl, but that grumbling attempt at backtracking is enough. For now. Though there is a certain archness in Kanan's gaze as he looks back at him— that's his husband, thank you, and he's every bit as dashing now as he was all those years ago. Even more, maybe, for he's aged into his looks like a fine wine.]
. . . you can, yes. But Astarion . . .
[He frowns faintly, the waspishness lost from his expression.]
Be certain that it's what you want to do. I know it is now— but remember to ask yourself that as you go. There's no shame in changing your mind— and no cowardice in realizing that your drawn lines are very different than what you originally thought.
Simply cultivating passion isn't enough. There's more to it— and it's harder than it seems. I have no doubt you're capable of the work . . . but to become the Diamond of the Moulin Rogue means giving up so much. A social life. A life outside of these halls. Romance, potentially, unless you find a partner willing to endure jealousy night after night. And the loss of more intangible things, too. It takes a toll on your mind, working in such a manner, and wear you down year after year.
I would not want to see you regret it— nor rue the things you missed because of it.
That includes Fenris.
[Warning given and taken to heart, he hopes. It won't be the last time he offers Astarion such an out, but there's no use in lingering on it now. Instead, a little briskly:]
Now, little Diamond: tell me how you plan to make up with him and spin this in your favor.
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An advanced lesson, beyond facilitating smooth conversation or the set of his own posture, so again, he strikes that Zevloresque reflection in thought, this time tapping a few curled fingers up against his chin.]
....
[His conclusion is a simple one.]
....he's not a customer, nor a performer I'll need work with. [So....] Do I need to make up with him?
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[It's an answer swiftly delivered, crisp and unyielding. Such answers sometimes come after questions like do I really need to do my chores and is a bath every single day really necessary? It means there's no argument to be brooked, thank you very much (not that such a thing has ever stopped Astarion before).]
I won't have you two sniping at each other for weeks on end. He's your—
[Well, perhaps the word brother won't be so applicable anymore.]
—best friend, Astarion. You cannot simply avoid him or be passive-aggressive at him for the rest of your lives.
[A beat, and then, a little sardonically:]
Besides: do it quickly enough, and you can claim the title of more mature.
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And therefore all admonishment melts away. Any sense of sensibility or balancing the scales is lost on him, as instead his focus shifts towards Kanan in newfound earnest, those oversized ears perking up just so.]
Mm. Well I would settle things, then. But I can't make up with him when he's wrong, Kanan, he'd just keep thinking that he's right about all this, and that I was jealous of him kissing her first [Technically, Astarion....]
How do I convince him to admit I was right all along?
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Or . . . a lot of correcting, perhaps. Internally Kanan sighs. It's his own fault, he knows, but it's so hard not to suggest such things when he knows how Astarion's mind works. And yet now he's left with this . . . hm.]
You can't.
[Blunt, but not unkind. He rests his chin in his palm.]
You were jealous— I won't say anything, but you were. [More than jealous, but he won't be so cruel as to point it out again, not now that Astarion's tears have abated.]
But that doesn't necessarily mean he's right, either. Certainly not about biting you.
[Pulling the threads apart in their little fights has always been an exercise in futility. Better not to declare winner and loser, but simply separate them, let them both cool down, and then nudge them into reconciling. It's always worked before, after all— and though teenagers are vastly different than children, surely not that much has yet changed. Right?]
So don't make it about right or wrong. Not every argument needs to be fully pulled apart, Astarion. Tell him what you're sorry for— I know there are some bits you must rue— and wait for him to do the same.
[. . .]
Do you regret some parts, Astarion?
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He doesn't enjoy doing it, but at least it distracts from the churn of frustration in his skull, his chest. Unrelated to the broader concept of being vexed, only an attempt at taming childish volatility. At being present with those feelings, minus letting them control him.
It's harder now than it used to be, somehow. Like before, in the rafters, on occasion he feels convinced he's made of embers and spilled spirit.]
It feels like it should be pulled apart. [He mutters for a moment, picking again at his sleeve. Like there's an injustice in not being understood— even if it was just a stupid, pointless argument.]
Maybe....kicking him.
[Is very, very quiet.]
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He won't say so, not least of which because Astarion would only take it as mockery. But he is. It's no mean feat to struggle through emotions, especially when all the simplicity of childhood has melted away, leaving a nightmarishly volatile set of hormones and anguish in its wake. But he's trying. He's trying, and what more can Kanan ask of him?]
Good.
[He says it warmly, though there's a part of him taking note of that new addition to the story. Perhaps now the biting makes a tad more sense.]
I deem that an excellent start.
Is there anything else? There need not be.
[He asks only to pry open some space for any other potential guilt that might be struggling to break through to the surface, however minute. But then, in answer to that miserable, muttered tone:]
Pull it apart if you truly wish to— but not now. Not when the only point in doing so is to prove you right and him wrong. Later, when you both feel more amiable towards one another . . . then, yes, pull it apart, and see where you get.
[How many times have he and Zevlor done that? So many snappish, snarling fights eventually ended with tender cuddling and a gentle dissection of their words and motivations, all wrapped up neatly and sealed with a doting assertion of their love for one another. It isn't ideal, maybe, but it works for them. It has for nearly twenty years now.
And no, thirteen year olds aren't grown men comfortably settled within a relationship, no, but Maker, he's doing his best with what he knows. There isn't a manual for parenting, though there ought to be.]
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I can't remember. I was mad when I said it.
....or didn't say it.
[Grown men comfortably settled they are not.]
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[It's been quite a few years since Fenris has learned his letters, but still: it's low blow. And it's not that the pride of before has disappeared, but at the same time . . . Astarion, and he grimaces at him, acknowledging both the seriousness of that insult and the guilt that's lurking around the edges of Astarion's face.]
Astarion . . .
[Oh, dear. Dear, dear, dear, and he sighs softly. He's not mad, he's just a little disappointed.]
Was that all you said?
[Let's hear it out, now.]
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Gods above.]
I said a lot of things!!
[Which is true.
Ears pinned back, ankles shifting till they cross. Another glance elsewhere (he couldn't look at Kanan for gold or gods right now), and his next exhale turns sharp enough to cut.]
He knows I didn't mean it.
He can read fine now— that's how he does all the delivery unloading. He probably reads more than I do! It's not that big a deal.
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Is that right.
[That very much is not right, his flat tone suggests. Zevlor never minds verbally sparing with their little magistrate of a boy, but Kanan tires of it swiftly— and sometimes it's easier to cut to the chase.]
Try again. I think you know exactly why it's such a big deal.
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But Kanan he really did start it— bragging about the two of them, telling me how he knew everything there was to know about kissing because—
[**Author's note: the events recounted here are not accurate to true historical events, and do not represent the views of the writer.]
—well, you know!
He just wouldn't shut up even when I told him the same bloody thing over and over again, I couldn't take it anymore!
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His chin rests in his palm again, and while none of the disappointed air has left his expression, he is genuinely asking. Gods, it's going to be a long night piecing together the fragmented facts of this fight with Zevlor.]
And what were you telling him, exactly? That you wanted to practice? That you knew what you were doing?
Or that you wanted to kiss him?
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[It's with a huff that he rises from his seat, pacing over to his bed to flop down in a dramatic heap of sprawled limbs, his legs dangling off the side from the knees down. All this emotion is too much to be contained by one small settee.]
It's not like I wanted just to go kiss him.
I mean— I did, but he didn't need to know that part! Especially not so he can just tell everyone I went and kissed him after her.
[He tilts his chin up, an indignant, belligerent little glare angled over his own stomach. In short, what Kanan sees is: >:[ ]
All that time he spends being quiet all the time, why couldn't he shut up about letting him lead? Or how Elise kissed this way. Or how I need to do something different.
[Another huff. Another collapse.]
I hate him.
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