[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.
[Such a belligerent stare. Such an angry, anguished little dumpling, and though Kanan has far from forgotten his own disappointment, still, a small part of him is vaguely endeared by that expression.
That declaration and subsequent collapse, too. Kanan sighs softly. He can just see the tip of a pointed nose beyond the steady rise and fall of a skinny chest, still blotchy and red from his tears.]
I know.
[Of course he does (of course he doesn't, not really, but emotions are so overwhelmingly definite at this age).]
Still, you understand him far better than I. [Does he? But that isn't the point.] Did he think he was helping you by telling you all that?
[He reaches over, gently rubbing one foot in a quiet attempt at soothing and comfort both (I'm still here).]
Perhaps he, too, wanted to be sure you didn't take anything the wrong way.
Pfft. [With a tug of his foot out of Kanan's hands he turns himself around, seizing the opportunity to reposition himself another way— with his head in his parent's lap, curling an arm over Kanan's closest leg to hug it as he would a blanket. In emotional turmoil he might be, but not so much that he doesn't want the closeness of dear comfort, the tried and true cure for all his wearied struggles.
When he speaks, it's into the side of Kanan's thigh, his head turned down.]
Then he did a shit job of it.
[This time, he won't curtail his own cursing. He's already been scolded, after all.]
....you think I should apologize to him? [Is earnest. It's why he doesn't look up from where he's buried himself, the humility he can broach, but can hardly stand to face.]
[Oh, there he is, and this time Kanan doesn't bother to hold back the rush of paternal affection that washes through him. Astarion willingly snuggling up against him is becoming a rarer thing these days; he won't turn down a chance to savor it. His fingers work through white curls, the backs of his knuckles occasionally brushing against the line of one fair ear.]
Yes.
[He steals a glance down at him as he murmurs it. Perhaps he'll spend all of Astarion's teenage years quietly comparing him to childhood, but gods, he can't help it. He looks at him and sees him as he once was: his little heart filled with guilt after throwing a temper tantrum at Zevlor— or eating far too many cherries when he'd been told not to.]
He's hurting after all that, I have no doubt. And so are you, little dumpling.
[A risk to use that name, but not much. Not when he's snuggled so close.]
Make sure you aren't the only one apologizing. This was not solely on you. [Fenris had his own part to play in this, and only some of it was inadvertent. And maybe someday, Kanan thinks, Astarion will be able to tell him just why this was all so heartbreakingly painful.] But it would be a shame to lose such a devoted friendship over someone so insignificant as Elise.
[Again, sorry, girl. He waits a few seconds before risking a tiny bit of levity as he adds gently:]
Not to mention such a dedicated partner in crime. Who else will you find to routinely try to fall on a sword for you, hm?
[He's right about Elise. Invoking her name that way— it affirms every last drop of Astarion's frustrations without telling him he's justified. It soothes him when he needs it most, particularly when everything in Astarion's small world feels both volatile and permanent.
The old touchstone of a name he usually scoffs at feels more grounding in this moment: he doesn't buck it, doesn't move from where he's turned inwards, braced hard against Kanan's form and clinging softly. Not so different from the stubborn child that didn't know how to tame his temper.
And yet so different, too.]
Did you talk to him? [Isn't accusatory. It comes in like the question that preceded it, slow-moving and tenderly cautious.
It wouldn't be beyond the pale to imagine Kanan looking after both his sons, after all. And if he is hurt....]
[I came to you first, and though Astarion's question wasn't accusatory, still, Kanan is glad to give that assurance. You were my first priority, not because he loves Fenris any less— but because it's Astarion he understands more. It's Astarion that's his, just as Fenris is Zevlor's: not more or less loved, but there's a unique bond there that can't be replicated.
His hand shifts, his palm running soothingly up and down the line of Astarion's torso and back.]
But nothing with him is so irreparable it cannot be mended. I can promise you that.
[Theres no hesitation when he lurches upright, settling back across both heels before lunging forwards to give the tightest bawling hug to his caregiver— not his favorite one, but the one he's connected to through understanding. The one who gets it. And while they're everything to him in equal measure, unquestionably so, in this moment it matters to have someone at his side that truly gets it.
Maker's Breath, I hope I wasn't like that at that age.... [Zevlor mutters wearily from where he sits tucked beneath the covers of their bed, attempting to finish the day's ledger in relative peace— though it's a battle he's losing by the second.]
[The answer hummed out languidly as Kanan stretches out beneath the sheets. He’s far less tense than his perpetually worried husband, though it helps that he’s not the one looking at the ledger. It helps, too, that he often takes a more languid view of their children and their petty squabbles— and that he, himself, is a bit more at home with all the hormonal emotions racing through them right now.
He tips his head, peering up at Zevlor through a few stray wisps of brown hair. There’s a coy little smile on his face, amused despite himself.]
But I seem to remember a certain commander threatening all kinds of violence towards a patron here when he got fresh with one of the newer courtesans . . .
[Protective thing. Darling, beloved, hot-headed thing, growling and chuffing just because of a few insulting remarks. Kanan can’t even remember what the man had said, but he remembers Zevlor. Standing there like an avenging angel, ochre eyes blazing and fangs bared.]
Now put that down and tell me what Fenris told you. I’ll trade you story for story, hey?
That violence was warranted. [A hard-nosed statement proudly delivered past the lenses of his half-moon glasses. There's no room for debate in his retort; anyone who laid a hand on Kanan uninvited deserved more than just a visit to the floor head-first.
Or the impending threat of it.
But it's pleasant to— in the dark hours right as dawn creeps in— have the love of his life beside him, sprawled in easy comfort and relaxed. It unwinds pieces of himself that stay forever tightened otherwise, winding closer by magnetized degrees.
He closes the book he'd been holding, clawed fingers instead setting themselves to brushing away those soft stray strands of hair that've fallen across Kanan's brow.]
He said Astarion began it by asking him to practice together. And that he grew upset once he realized Fenris already knew how because he'd kissed someone [the whole theater knows who] before. Then Astarion insisted he wasn't listening, and that he was only there to help him practice, and then they started fighting.
[He hums softly in pleasure, his tail whipping back and forth beneath the sheets as warm fingers tend to him. He needs no prompting to feel a rush of love towards his husband, but so much talk of the past today has brought its own brand of nostalgic adoration.]
Ah . . . is that right? [It sounds somewhat close to the truth, anyway. As close as Fenris could possibly make it, bewildered little thing he must be. And he could recount Astarion's version, of course— all the dramatics and fierce accusations, callous insults and snarling declarations— but what Kanan ends up saying, quite simply, is:]
Astarion wanted it to be both their firsts. A romantic gesture under the guise of practice— one that I suspect Fenris inadvertently ruined by revealing he'd been kissed before.
The rest . . . you need not hear the details. He insulted him a bit cruelly, calling him illiterate and the like, though I suspect Fenris likely snarled himself. Astarion kicked him, but Fenris bit him. [So that evens out, sort of.]
And sooner or later, Astarion will go and apologize, or at least attempt to.
[It isn't over and done with just yet, but . . . perhaps in a few days. A week. Two at the most, Kanan decides, and sooner or later all the awkwardness will dissipate. He inches in closer to Zevlor, curling near his hip and nuzzling in, before remembering:]
Ah . . . and Astarion, ah, knows how we met. The real story, I mean.
You told— [The rest warrants little incredulity, exhausting as it may be (the pieces all fit together in the most natural way, though there's more he wants to press on overall— whether it truly was self confidence or attraction that drove Astarion's suggestion in the first place), but the latter hitches his claws where they've been working through soft hair, blinking in muted shock down towards his partner.
True, someday Astarion might want to hear it, he supposes, but he's so young yet, and it's an odd feeling to hear such a gravitational bit of news has been given to someone they both cherish without his knowledge, even if it doesn't truly bother him. Surprise, therefore, is a given— as well as the directness with which he wears his entirely paternal response— still, he'd also be the first to admit in these short moments of realization that he's somewhat relieved to have not been in the room for it.
He's had more than enough of his fill for today of teenagers and their opinion on the Craft.]
I thought it would be years before he'd hear it.
[His ledger fully set aside, Zevlor's arms fold over one another, tail twitching under sheets.]
[There's an honest answer, Kanan's voice a sarcastic drawl. For a moment guilt flares in the back of his mind, a belated realization that Zevlor might have wanted to be there to tell him such news— but ah, so it goes in parenting. Things don't always happen the way they want it to— and anyway, gods know Zevlor is so surprisingly uptight about sex, at least when it comes to Astarion and Fenris.]
Satine told him he was old enough to begin the basics of training, did you know? [Maybe, maybe not. With immense talent and fierce professionalism comes its own form of well-earned arrogance, and their Diamond is as likely to consult them as she is to pursue matters in her own time and fashion, alerting them only later. Normally Kanan doesn't mind, but . . . oh, everything is so different when it comes to Astarion. Especially in this career.] He asked after it, and . . . well. One topic led to another.
Especially when it came to kissing— and how to differentiate between kissing a customer, and kissing someone you truly desired.
[For a moment he says nothing, simply staring warmly up at Zevlor. Then, quietly:]
I told him why I left such a life, too— not that he heeded me.
I don't like the thought of him doing this, Zevlor.
Mmph. [Comes on softer than the rest, swallowing down any immediate reaction on his own part in favor of mute consideration (claws against temples, knuckles skirting afterwards just to admire the way light flows across soft features, cast by the shape of his hand; the interplay of light and dark, noise and silence, past and present)....and contemplation.
He doesn't like the thought of it as well, truth be told. Perhaps that unsaid truth would prove obvious to anyone that knew him, but....]
I didn't much care for it when a certain talented young man found his calling at the Moulin Rouge either, you know.
[An affectionate pull tugs against the grain of his mouth, deepening the gentle lines that've recently begun to form.
[But that's different. That was him and this is their baby— and yes, he knows that Astarion won't start working properly for years. He knows that Satine is a clever thing, just as likely to be meteing out lessons for the sake of settling Astarion than because he's anywhere near ready. But one lesson leads to another, and the seasons seem to be going by faster and faster these days, and someday soon—
A warm hand brushes against his cheek, and Kanan's eyes flick up. And just like that, the anxious whine building in the back of his mind quiets, just a little.]
That was different.
[It isn't snappish as it might have been a second ago; instead, his tone is quietly plaintive. Zevlor knows already, and the only reason Kanan says it is because he won't be able to later. Astarion has his heart set on this, and has for years now, and they lost the right to protest when they'd agreed in the first place. But here, now, in the dark alone with his husband . . . oh, he can fret here. His brow pinched and his eyes dimming with trepidation as he wends his way closer (impossible, surely, and yet he manages it, limbs knocking and bare skin meeting bare skin) around his husband.]
Though . . . I suppose Astarion will have someone of nearly the same caliber to protect him. [A fond little look, and he even manages to return that half-smile.] Though not half as handsome, I'm afraid. And, with any luck, he'll knock some sense into him.
[He scoffs out a little laugh and adds:]
Unless one ends up biting the other to death, I suppose. Or kicking. Or simply misunderstanding each other over and over until it brings the roof down around all our heads.
The latter seems most likely. [Eyes like burning embers take in the glow of their counterparts from beneath half-lidded lashes, his tone dry as weathered parchment but the rest of it is warm and docile. Comfortable. He can't fathom an existence where this isn't what they share after the stage lights have gone dim. That there is any universe but the one where he was swayed by a handsome face into abandoning his sword arm, or taking in a wayward child off the streets.
It makes the rest bearable. Settled thoughts of what ifs or countless deadlines.]
But....no.
[Is it selfish to admit that? Does it devalue his child compared to the love of his life? No, repeats itself within his mind, a soft refrain. A touchstone borne with confidence.]
It was harder to see you fielding more than your fair share of Paris' undeserving night after night, although I was resigned to it for your sake.
[It sounds self pitying in hindsight, keeping vigil throughout those uncertain times when his heart stirred more deeply than his body would confess; brushing past it, then, comes quickly. He counters vulnerable sentiment with a soft grunt, and a diverging shift in topic.]
Whatever happens now, he'll have the best pair of advisors any performer— or bodyguard [because he adores his sons equally, and won't neglect one for the other in spite of current conversation] —could ever hope for standing just over his shoulder in the wings. And besides, the boy is smart: the Sparkling Diamond is a damnably prestigious title, able to spurn the common riffraff and pluck out their own preference from opportunity [perhaps he'll marry a prince or a duchess worth more than their own weight in gold] rather than finding himself tethered to the stage the way too many performers are. But the others are vicious when they've a mind to be, you know that better than anyone, my love. If he doesn't start with any real advantage in his training, they'd no doubt call it a form of nepotism if he ever inherited the title. [As is, Satine's tutelage can at least put that to rest.]
Still, perhaps you ought to speak to her, if you take umbridge with her aproach.
[He respects that shift in topic, knowing his husband's uneasiness with expressing his own desires and wants— but to Kanan's ears, it doesn't sound self-pitying. It never has. Zevlor strove to such agonizing lengths to keep his pain to himself, to the point that Kanan had once been fooled by the act, hurt by his lover's seeming indifference— oh, he's never once been selfish. Not his brave, noble guard, so steadfastly determined to prioritize everyone over himself.
He won't linger on it. But he would be remiss if he didn't acknowledge it on some level: a disagreeing hum rumbling low in the base of his throat as he strokes one palm against his thigh, soothing and comforting both. It wasn't selfish. I know. I remember. I remember how badly it hurt, I remember how jealous you were, when all the emotions had come to light and they were both trembling in pain . . .
A hurt long since mended, but even scars that are decades old still ache sometimes. And so he keeps up his steady stroke, his eyes locked up on his husband, and allows the topic to keep going. Zevlor isn't wrong (Zevlor is so rarely wrong, a fact that Kanan suspects their sons will only grow more aggravated with as they enter their teenage years). The Diamond is so very different than one of the regular courtesans, and anyway, it isn't as if Astarion doesn't know what the position entails. Gods, he's known for ages.
And when he's old enough (years from now, Kanan thinks, years and years and years), he'll have his pick and then some. And oh, he knows his vain little darling: he'll thrill in being doted upon by any number of rich clients, they all of them enamored by the pretty elf with silver eyes and a sharp tongue— and eager to shower him in all kinds of gifts.]
I wouldn't dare.
[He scoffs out a laugh aloud, but the way he burrows a little (nose knocking against one warm cheek, his hand catching Zevlor's so their fingers tangle together) gives him away.]
At best, she'd scold me until I retreated with my tail between my legs. At worst, she'd tell me to take over Astarion's instruction, and I've done more than my fair share as-is.
[Mm . . . but he can't help but think about Zevlor all those years ago, stoic and proud and nursing a broken heart. He can't help but think about Astarion tonight, whimpering in pain and aching from unintended betrayal.]
. . . you should talk to Fenris someday about that time in our lives. About what you went through.
[He tips his head.]
I know they're both still so young, and there's no guarantee they'll feel anything for one another . . . but I suspect there will be a time when Fenris is as jealous as you were— and expresses it about as well as you did.
[He's such a stoic boy, especially compared to Astarion. Especially when he's in pain.]
I don't want to watch them go through years of heartache for no reason, even if it ends with the two of them apart. They're already so fixated on each other . . . and they will be again, even if it takes some time.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
I can't remember. I was mad when I said it.
....or didn't say it.
[Grown men comfortably settled they are not.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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!
no subject
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?
no subject
[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.
no subject
That declaration and subsequent collapse, too. Kanan sighs softly. He can just see the tip of a pointed nose beyond the steady rise and fall of a skinny chest, still blotchy and red from his tears.]
I know.
[Of course he does (of course he doesn't, not really, but emotions are so overwhelmingly definite at this age).]
Still, you understand him far better than I. [Does he? But that isn't the point.] Did he think he was helping you by telling you all that?
[He reaches over, gently rubbing one foot in a quiet attempt at soothing and comfort both (I'm still here).]
Perhaps he, too, wanted to be sure you didn't take anything the wrong way.
no subject
When he speaks, it's into the side of Kanan's thigh, his head turned down.]
Then he did a shit job of it.
[This time, he won't curtail his own cursing. He's already been scolded, after all.]
....you think I should apologize to him? [Is earnest. It's why he doesn't look up from where he's buried himself, the humility he can broach, but can hardly stand to face.]
no subject
Yes.
[He steals a glance down at him as he murmurs it. Perhaps he'll spend all of Astarion's teenage years quietly comparing him to childhood, but gods, he can't help it. He looks at him and sees him as he once was: his little heart filled with guilt after throwing a temper tantrum at Zevlor— or eating far too many cherries when he'd been told not to.]
He's hurting after all that, I have no doubt. And so are you, little dumpling.
[A risk to use that name, but not much. Not when he's snuggled so close.]
Make sure you aren't the only one apologizing. This was not solely on you. [Fenris had his own part to play in this, and only some of it was inadvertent. And maybe someday, Kanan thinks, Astarion will be able to tell him just why this was all so heartbreakingly painful.] But it would be a shame to lose such a devoted friendship over someone so insignificant as Elise.
[Again, sorry, girl. He waits a few seconds before risking a tiny bit of levity as he adds gently:]
Not to mention such a dedicated partner in crime. Who else will you find to routinely try to fall on a sword for you, hm?
no subject
The old touchstone of a name he usually scoffs at feels more grounding in this moment: he doesn't buck it, doesn't move from where he's turned inwards, braced hard against Kanan's form and clinging softly. Not so different from the stubborn child that didn't know how to tame his temper.
And yet so different, too.]
Did you talk to him? [Isn't accusatory. It comes in like the question that preceded it, slow-moving and tenderly cautious.
It wouldn't be beyond the pale to imagine Kanan looking after both his sons, after all. And if he is hurt....]
no subject
[I came to you first, and though Astarion's question wasn't accusatory, still, Kanan is glad to give that assurance. You were my first priority, not because he loves Fenris any less— but because it's Astarion he understands more. It's Astarion that's his, just as Fenris is Zevlor's: not more or less loved, but there's a unique bond there that can't be replicated.
His hand shifts, his palm running soothingly up and down the line of Astarion's torso and back.]
But nothing with him is so irreparable it cannot be mended. I can promise you that.
no subject
The strife and volatility both.]
2/2
no subject
[The answer hummed out languidly as Kanan stretches out beneath the sheets. He’s far less tense than his perpetually worried husband, though it helps that he’s not the one looking at the ledger. It helps, too, that he often takes a more languid view of their children and their petty squabbles— and that he, himself, is a bit more at home with all the hormonal emotions racing through them right now.
He tips his head, peering up at Zevlor through a few stray wisps of brown hair. There’s a coy little smile on his face, amused despite himself.]
But I seem to remember a certain commander threatening all kinds of violence towards a patron here when he got fresh with one of the newer courtesans . . .
[Protective thing. Darling, beloved, hot-headed thing, growling and chuffing just because of a few insulting remarks. Kanan can’t even remember what the man had said, but he remembers Zevlor. Standing there like an avenging angel, ochre eyes blazing and fangs bared.]
Now put that down and tell me what Fenris told you. I’ll trade you story for story, hey?
no subject
Or the impending threat of it.
But it's pleasant to— in the dark hours right as dawn creeps in— have the love of his life beside him, sprawled in easy comfort and relaxed. It unwinds pieces of himself that stay forever tightened otherwise, winding closer by magnetized degrees.
He closes the book he'd been holding, clawed fingers instead setting themselves to brushing away those soft stray strands of hair that've fallen across Kanan's brow.]
He said Astarion began it by asking him to practice together. And that he grew upset once he realized Fenris already knew how because he'd kissed someone [the whole theater knows who] before. Then Astarion insisted he wasn't listening, and that he was only there to help him practice, and then they started fighting.
no subject
Ah . . . is that right? [It sounds somewhat close to the truth, anyway. As close as Fenris could possibly make it, bewildered little thing he must be. And he could recount Astarion's version, of course— all the dramatics and fierce accusations, callous insults and snarling declarations— but what Kanan ends up saying, quite simply, is:]
Astarion wanted it to be both their firsts. A romantic gesture under the guise of practice— one that I suspect Fenris inadvertently ruined by revealing he'd been kissed before.
The rest . . . you need not hear the details. He insulted him a bit cruelly, calling him illiterate and the like, though I suspect Fenris likely snarled himself. Astarion kicked him, but Fenris bit him. [So that evens out, sort of.]
And sooner or later, Astarion will go and apologize, or at least attempt to.
[It isn't over and done with just yet, but . . . perhaps in a few days. A week. Two at the most, Kanan decides, and sooner or later all the awkwardness will dissipate. He inches in closer to Zevlor, curling near his hip and nuzzling in, before remembering:]
Ah . . . and Astarion, ah, knows how we met. The real story, I mean.
[So. There's that, too.]
no subject
True, someday Astarion might want to hear it, he supposes, but he's so young yet, and it's an odd feeling to hear such a gravitational bit of news has been given to someone they both cherish without his knowledge, even if it doesn't truly bother him. Surprise, therefore, is a given— as well as the directness with which he wears his entirely paternal response— still, he'd also be the first to admit in these short moments of realization that he's somewhat relieved to have not been in the room for it.
He's had more than enough of his fill for today of teenagers and their opinion on the Craft.]
I thought it would be years before he'd hear it.
[His ledger fully set aside, Zevlor's arms fold over one another, tail twitching under sheets.]
How did he take it?
no subject
[There's an honest answer, Kanan's voice a sarcastic drawl. For a moment guilt flares in the back of his mind, a belated realization that Zevlor might have wanted to be there to tell him such news— but ah, so it goes in parenting. Things don't always happen the way they want it to— and anyway, gods know Zevlor is so surprisingly uptight about sex, at least when it comes to Astarion and Fenris.]
Satine told him he was old enough to begin the basics of training, did you know? [Maybe, maybe not. With immense talent and fierce professionalism comes its own form of well-earned arrogance, and their Diamond is as likely to consult them as she is to pursue matters in her own time and fashion, alerting them only later. Normally Kanan doesn't mind, but . . . oh, everything is so different when it comes to Astarion. Especially in this career.] He asked after it, and . . . well. One topic led to another.
Especially when it came to kissing— and how to differentiate between kissing a customer, and kissing someone you truly desired.
[For a moment he says nothing, simply staring warmly up at Zevlor. Then, quietly:]
I told him why I left such a life, too— not that he heeded me.
I don't like the thought of him doing this, Zevlor.
no subject
He doesn't like the thought of it as well, truth be told. Perhaps that unsaid truth would prove obvious to anyone that knew him, but....]
I didn't much care for it when a certain talented young man found his calling at the Moulin Rouge either, you know.
[An affectionate pull tugs against the grain of his mouth, deepening the gentle lines that've recently begun to form.
He nudges the edge of Kanan's cheek. ]
no subject
A warm hand brushes against his cheek, and Kanan's eyes flick up. And just like that, the anxious whine building in the back of his mind quiets, just a little.]
That was different.
[It isn't snappish as it might have been a second ago; instead, his tone is quietly plaintive. Zevlor knows already, and the only reason Kanan says it is because he won't be able to later. Astarion has his heart set on this, and has for years now, and they lost the right to protest when they'd agreed in the first place. But here, now, in the dark alone with his husband . . . oh, he can fret here. His brow pinched and his eyes dimming with trepidation as he wends his way closer (impossible, surely, and yet he manages it, limbs knocking and bare skin meeting bare skin) around his husband.]
Though . . . I suppose Astarion will have someone of nearly the same caliber to protect him. [A fond little look, and he even manages to return that half-smile.] Though not half as handsome, I'm afraid. And, with any luck, he'll knock some sense into him.
[He scoffs out a little laugh and adds:]
Unless one ends up biting the other to death, I suppose. Or kicking. Or simply misunderstanding each other over and over until it brings the roof down around all our heads.
[Another little nuzzle.]
. . . was it as hard for you then as it is now?
no subject
It makes the rest bearable. Settled thoughts of what ifs or countless deadlines.]
But....no.
[Is it selfish to admit that? Does it devalue his child compared to the love of his life? No, repeats itself within his mind, a soft refrain. A touchstone borne with confidence.]
It was harder to see you fielding more than your fair share of Paris' undeserving night after night, although I was resigned to it for your sake.
[It sounds self pitying in hindsight, keeping vigil throughout those uncertain times when his heart stirred more deeply than his body would confess; brushing past it, then, comes quickly. He counters vulnerable sentiment with a soft grunt, and a diverging shift in topic.]
Whatever happens now, he'll have the best pair of advisors any performer— or bodyguard [because he adores his sons equally, and won't neglect one for the other in spite of current conversation] —could ever hope for standing just over his shoulder in the wings. And besides, the boy is smart: the Sparkling Diamond is a damnably prestigious title, able to spurn the common riffraff and pluck out their own preference from opportunity [perhaps he'll marry a prince or a duchess worth more than their own weight in gold] rather than finding himself tethered to the stage the way too many performers are. But the others are vicious when they've a mind to be, you know that better than anyone, my love. If he doesn't start with any real advantage in his training, they'd no doubt call it a form of nepotism if he ever inherited the title. [As is, Satine's tutelage can at least put that to rest.]
Still, perhaps you ought to speak to her, if you take umbridge with her aproach.
no subject
He won't linger on it. But he would be remiss if he didn't acknowledge it on some level: a disagreeing hum rumbling low in the base of his throat as he strokes one palm against his thigh, soothing and comforting both. It wasn't selfish. I know. I remember. I remember how badly it hurt, I remember how jealous you were, when all the emotions had come to light and they were both trembling in pain . . .
A hurt long since mended, but even scars that are decades old still ache sometimes. And so he keeps up his steady stroke, his eyes locked up on his husband, and allows the topic to keep going. Zevlor isn't wrong (Zevlor is so rarely wrong, a fact that Kanan suspects their sons will only grow more aggravated with as they enter their teenage years). The Diamond is so very different than one of the regular courtesans, and anyway, it isn't as if Astarion doesn't know what the position entails. Gods, he's known for ages.
And when he's old enough (years from now, Kanan thinks, years and years and years), he'll have his pick and then some. And oh, he knows his vain little darling: he'll thrill in being doted upon by any number of rich clients, they all of them enamored by the pretty elf with silver eyes and a sharp tongue— and eager to shower him in all kinds of gifts.]
I wouldn't dare.
[He scoffs out a laugh aloud, but the way he burrows a little (nose knocking against one warm cheek, his hand catching Zevlor's so their fingers tangle together) gives him away.]
At best, she'd scold me until I retreated with my tail between my legs. At worst, she'd tell me to take over Astarion's instruction, and I've done more than my fair share as-is.
[Mm . . . but he can't help but think about Zevlor all those years ago, stoic and proud and nursing a broken heart. He can't help but think about Astarion tonight, whimpering in pain and aching from unintended betrayal.]
. . . you should talk to Fenris someday about that time in our lives. About what you went through.
[He tips his head.]
I know they're both still so young, and there's no guarantee they'll feel anything for one another . . . but I suspect there will be a time when Fenris is as jealous as you were— and expresses it about as well as you did.
[He's such a stoic boy, especially compared to Astarion. Especially when he's in pain.]
I don't want to watch them go through years of heartache for no reason, even if it ends with the two of them apart. They're already so fixated on each other . . . and they will be again, even if it takes some time.
(no subject)
(no subject)