illithidnapped | little hands and quick work

Of course not, Zevlor. I just wanted a short break to rest my hands, is that such a terrible crime when I'm getting blisters on my blisters?

[Zevlor, whose hands knew nothing but calluses from the day he first picked up a sword, says nothing: already pretending to be fully preoccupied with blocking out the stage. It gives the performers a chance to stretch their legs a little. Rest their heels. Sip water and cast soft glances sideways over the slant of their shoulders.

It gives Elise a chance to sit beside them, one arm draped over theater seats and all that faintly weathered velvet. 'Having fun?' she asks.]

How would you know~? [Astarion answers in the most sing-song, knife-edged little purr.]

[It's exactly the person he didn't want to see, especially with Astarion in his lap, especially-especially so soon after all the drama. He still hasn't decided how to feel about her or what he ought to do (apologize? ignore it? he'd been leaning towards the latter, though Maker only knows why he thought that would fly in these halls). But they're all here now, and Astarion's in the mood to fight, if Fenris knows his darling's tones.

But so is Elise, if the little smile she offers Astarion is anything to go by. 'Because I know what Fenris looks like when he's excited,' she says, tossing her dark hair over one dainty shoulder. It's not that she cares at all about Fenris, but there's such indignity to thinking two boys were fighting over you, only to see them in each other's arms instead. It feels dangerously close to losing, and no one here likes that.

She waits a deliberate beat before adding sweetly: 'Do you?']

Elise—

['Well, he's new at this!' she pouts. 'It's only fair I give him a little help . . . maybe show him how to actually kiss instead of whatever attempts he's tried so far. Doesn't he need the practice?']

He does not. He's better than y—

['Aht— careful what you claim,' she interrupts, her eyes glittering. 'It's a bad idea to brag about someone untested . . . and you're not exactly a seasoned judge, are you?']

Edited 2025-08-05 04:15 (UTC)

[He tries to play it off. He really does. Partake in a modicum of Kanan's effortless grace or Satine's impassiveness or even Zevlor's calculating calm, bolstered by Fenris' support— and to his credit, he almost succeeds.

....If not for the way his ears lie flat like an angry cat about to bite. The brief spark of embarrassed shock in widened eyes, his pupils blowing out before they narrow. There's a twitch in his smile, and it wrinkles his nose on one side.

(He wonders how hard he'd have to lunge to slap his palm against the center of her face.)]

Then why'd you kiss him in the first place? [Is hot. Accusatory as it cuts across his tongue. It steers the topic just a bit, but that's all instinct rather than sense. He's leaning over Fenris' lap, angling too much pressure on one side.]

['Because he was there,' she says carelessly. Which isn't wrong, and it certainly isn't as if Fenris had cared about her either, but still: rude, and it only makes his scowl deepen. Astarion thrums with fury in his lap, his ears pinned back and his teeth ready to be bared, and though Fenris is absolutely ready to fight for him— still, he smooths one hand against his hip.

Settle. She means nothing, and he hopes it comes through.]

Better someone untrained than someone who kisses anyone available, [he says, mustering as much scornful disdain in his tone as he can manage.] Don't you have standards?

[She ignores him. He's less interesting to rile than Astarion, and besides: there's only a minute or two left before Zevlor calls them all back to practice. 'Do you want me to tell you who I kiss next? Seems like all you're really interested in is whoever I'm done with.']

[It's the nature of young things still gathering their bearings. Still learning what has weight and where and just how much matters— not just to themselves (irritation prickling along the back of Astarion's neck, and yet for what? Just because he's angry and protective doesn't make Elise the villain in this story when she bites back at their shamelessly unsubtle overtures: one foot in the antics they've grown up around and breathed in like a second language, the other in their own oh-so-serious hearts), but to those around them it's not particularly innocuous either, their flirting and atticborne howling and diminutive disturbances. Of course they're thrilling in each other, self-aware most often when perceived, but the execution is so so heavy handed, and their perspectives capped below the knees (Fenris significantly less so, but still).

Elise isn't wrong Astarion's easier to rile, in short. For him, this circling is deathly serious. A kitten puffing up its fur in mortal outrage over nothing but a handful of lazy, listless shots across the bow.]

I'd be more interested if everyone you consorted with was of Fenris' caliber, but I don't see them lining up around the block. Run out of paying clients willing to shell out for your goods?

Having to resort to—

Astarion!! [A pang of irritation in his temples (throbbing just beneath his spectacles) as Zevlor finds little wisps of churlish conversation drifting into his long ears, briefly turning away from the jeweled column he'd been attempting to reposition before: ] Go. Do. Your. Work. If you've time enough to bother my performers then I'll have no choice but to find more to keep you busy.

[The briefest pause precedes one final slap upon the wrist.]

Or perhaps trim down your lessons with Satine.

What?!

So your dancers can take breaks but when I do the same—

[The noise Zevlor makes is hard edged and unquestioning. Astarion's half-grunt half-whine answers back in assent as finally he takes his cue to fully slink from Fenris' lap, resentful and still so stubborn that the only person he locks eyes with is the only one he'd been touching, mouthing out the words find me later when you're free.

It's Elise who rolls her eyes with a slight smirk, still cupping her chin in her palm. Elise who waves goodbye to the scowling elf skulking away with his otherwise loose shirt collar drawn round his throat in retreat, clutched close like an heiress' silk scarf. No longer the child stomping around the theater's ankles in a rage, and yet still so much the same.

Even at their most aggravating (and insulting), the boys are hard to resent.]

She's a bitch.

[Astarion grits out from his perch on Kanan's bed, lounging with his ankles tucked across each other as the tiefling works.]

I don't know why Zevlor even hires people like that.

[He plucks at a few strands of thread on a freshly mended garment, sequins nipping at his fingers.]

Sweet, kind people don't last long in this business.

[He focuses on his task with a frown, two fingers holding a seam together while his other hand works on pinning things together without stabbing himself. But he takes a moment to glance up, raising one eyebrow at his teenage son.]

She wasn't half as nasty to you as she could have been, and you know it. Though she might resort to it if you keep picking fights.

[Astarion isn't in trouble, and Kanon isn't angry— but nor will he be blindly supportive, thank you very much.]

Isn't it enough you're spiking Zevlor's blood pressure anytime he sees you in Fenris' lap?

You weren't there, Kanon, you didn't hear the awful things she was saying about Fenris!

[In other words: no. It's absolutely not enough.

He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows knitting in the middle before he reaches out to fix one of the sections of that garment that's gone and tangled— helping, yes, but in the way that any child helps when what they're really after is attention.

Or a break from the monotony of their chores.

Or both.]

Maybe I should poison her.

[Bid for attention or not, it's still helpful. Still: Kanan doesn't answer right away, flicking another few pins deftly through sheer fabric, before he glances up again.]

You'll do no such thing.

[Mild, that, but only because he doesn't think Astarion means it. But then he sighs and sets his project down in his lap.]

You have to stop, Astarion. There's no way this ends well for you— and you cannot keep unfairly punishing her for nothing.

[Oh, as if it will be as easy as that— but at least this will introduce the subject, if nothing else.]

Then what about fairly punishing her? [He asks, tipping his chin up in the middle of his efforts, managing to almost sound hopeful— not to mention innocent.

Almost.

He mimics Kanan's efforts, stabbing a few pins into the costume in key places along the h— ah. No. Just stabbing. And stabbing.]

Anyway you don't need to lie to me. You and Zevlor work here, so— not sweet, not always— but kind people do just fine.

[Stab. Stab. Absent, idle stab.]

I won't hurt her for being a misery inducing cunt.

You won't hurt her at all, intentionally or otherwise. Stop that—

[Stabbing the garment, he means. It doesn't leave such a big hole, but on the other hand, it would be nice to have a costume that doesn't seem inclined to fall apart on the third night in.]

She did nothing wrong, Astarion, no matter that your heart is still sore. Count yourself lucky she was inclined to play rather than strike you down, for she could have easily. She still could, and will, unless you mind yourself. You've seen it happen plenty of times, I know you have.

[From Elise, yes, but Brienne too, and Etudíe, and Violet, and Satine, and all the others who have come and gone through these halls. Vicious as harpies and keenly aware of the social pecking order, and it's just the way of things. Entering into the Moulin Rouge's employment means learning that and adapting to it— or not.

But the boys haven't had to learn it, not yet. Exempt from the hierarchy by virtue of being the two sons of the proprietor, they've gotten to enjoy years of wandering around with no limits nor leashes. After all: no one is going to put a toddler nor a child in their place, not when they could tease and dote upon them. Even when they began to hit puberty, there was a grace period where no one looked at them as anything but gangling, gawky little things, nonthreatening and relatively unimportant.

But now . . . now, things are shifting. It began yesterday, Kanan realizes, and he was foolish not to realize it.]

You cannot keep antagonizing people here on a whim. Especially not if those people are to be your coworkers— and especially not if you want any of them to see you as anything other than the temperamental child they watched grow up.

Sulking and pouting won't win you their respect, Astarion. And picking a fight over nothing is only going to make things harder in the long run.

I know— [comes out so much harsher than he means, even if it is nothing more than a whine— he hears himself and wilts into the covers, correcting himself before Kanan feels like he has to, letting his arms and wrists go slack as he sinks into the crook of them, face-down.] I know....but it's just—

[A muffled grunt of frustration, eyebrows locked together when he lifts his head again, glaring into nothing.]

They weren't my coworkers before.

[Poor thing, Kanan thinks mildly. Poor vexed thing, struggling with the growing pains they all of them have to go through— and it's not that Astarion shouldn't, but oh, his are a uniquely difficult set, aren't they? Fated to try and carve out a niche within a world that's watched him go from bossy toddler to lanky-limbed Diamond-in-training . . . Kanan leans over, running his fingers through his hair just once, back to front.]

They weren't. And you had many years to get used to tugging their tails as you pleased.

[It's hard. And it's not that Zevlor can't be sympathetic in his own way, but oh, his husband is a blunter thing. Compassionate, but not one to let either of their boys wallow overlong. Kanan has a little more room for that— which is why it's he, not Zevlor, that Astarion so often goes to when he's fretful.]

But you have time to learn again. And, [he adds, tweaking one downtipped ear,] it doesn't mean you can never spar with them. Simply . . . gentler. Less presumptuous. And not until you earn your place among them.

[Which is all very good in the longer sense, of course, but Astarion needs some more immediate course-correcting.]

But for now, you could start by not flaunting Fenris around like a prize. No one wants to see that.

[Zevlor included, and perhaps it's not a shock his husband's temper is a little more strained than it might otherwise be.]

[His hair sticks up the opposite way, little white fingers of curls going this way or that, which winds up matching the way he twists around where he lies to squint over his shoulder at Kanan. His lip pinched up on one side over his teeth, his brow knotted up tighter than the jewelry in his washroom cabinet— a tight-wound sign he's struggling to process what he's just heard.

Not the first part.

The second.]

In the Moulin Rouge?

[Is so incredulous that his tiny voice breaks all on its own.]

Where pople pay good money to see flaunti—

[He gasps. Scoots up onto his hands and knees, leaning to view Kanan eye-to-eye like a dog squinting at an unfamiliar hound.]

—are you just saying that because of Zevlor??

No.

[Though that's in no small part why he's saying it here and now, but never mind that. Kanan sets the costume down so he can tick off each crisp point on slender fingers, one after the other.]

First of all: people pay good money to see beautiful, experienced courtesans enact rehearsed displays of flaunted lewdity, carefully choreographed and expertly delivered. Secondly: they pay to see adults. You'll note nowhere in there did I say they wanted to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats with no thought for anyone's pleasure but their own.

And thirdly, no one in this company is paying to see you two. Point in fact, I'd wager one or two of them would pay to not see you go at it— and that, my dear, is where Zevlor comes in.

Have mercy on him. He's still getting used to you being a teenager, never mind dallying with Fenris. Have mercy on all of us, who have to live and breathe sex and sensuality without having to endure it on our off-times. And if nothing else, Astarion . . .

[A little more affectionate, then:]

Savor keeping such things private. There won't be much chance of that the further you get in your training— and you deserve to have something to yourself.

[The well-defeated grumble underneath his breath roughly translates to 'fine' by any and all adolescent standards, and the thing is— he's not so childish that he can blatantly ignore all the telltale hallmarks of Kanan's heartfelt reaching, intermingled with the rest. The way he counts off on his fingers might be coy, but the rest? The interthreaded emotion, the hint of something bordering on heartbreak or happiness, too unfamiliar to be read with any expert deftness by a younger creature lacking in experience, but it catches all the same. Bounces off awareness like a tuning fork, leaving slight ripples in its wake.

He sits back on his heels. He thinks. And for a moment, he's retreated fully inward: consumed by thoughts left unconveyed.

And then, in pure defiance of the frustration that'd seen needles plunged through sequin scales (oh so much the child that he was before these last few years), his grin is bright and shining. A shimmer in pale silver eyes, electric when he throws his arms round Kanan's throat, past those still-raised fingers.]

—Thank you, Kanan.

[He gets it, now, he does. The point of all this, strung between the last conversation that they'd had and this one. The faceted, important bottom line he'd overlooked like the foolish thing he was.]

[He corners Fenris once the theater's cleared out. Nothing but paper scraps and dust and the props that need to be wiped down and put away before the evening crowds descend. Like dawn, the sunset portion of the day is oddly quiet what with most of the cast off getting in their washing and meals and rest, and it has the added effect of pouring Astarion's slight voice around within that empty space, making it louder than it should be.

Or maybe just as loud.

His arms are folded around the plush velvet of a theater seat from behind, grinning hard enough to show all his teeth as Fenris sweeps.]

I know what I have to do now.

[Oh yes, he'd deciphered his parent's cryptic code. He's grasped the secrets of maturity and beyond and tapped into the Rosetta Stone of Maturity that they'd both lacked, all underlining why it's been so vexing and so hard.]

To fix all this. Get Zevlor and everyone off our backs and make it so we can do what we want without getting punished for it.

[He pulls his hands back, palms together facing downwards in a steeple, tapping his fingertips against the seat back the way that someone reveals an earth-shattering play.]

I have to get better at sex.

[The broom clatters so loudly as it drops to the floor.

Fenris dives down in the next second, scrambling to pick it up and secretly grateful for the distraction it provides, because—

Well, because a lot of things, actually, starting with the expression on Astarion's face, stopping somewhere in the middle for the word sex being uttered by his paramour of not even a week, and ending around the steamy, searing implications behind I need to get better at it.]

I—

[Broom: upright. Fenris: also upright, his ears flushed dark and his brain no more ready to supply coherent thought than it had been a minute ago. Belatedly he glances around, but of course they're alone. They're always alone this time of day.]

With— with me?

[Of course with you, some tiny sense of ego shrieks— only to then double back, whimpering softly: surely with me? It's just that Astarion's lessons with Satine are going to pick up speed soon; it's just that all of this is so sudden, so overwhelming, and he can barely keep up.]

[Fenris rubs his hand over his mouth, scowling faintly, trying to think (it's just that the word sex keeps blaring in his mind like a klaxon, overwhelming and utterly unable to ignore). But then a thought strikes at him, and he adds:]

What do you mean, it'll fix everything? How is you getting good at sex going to help anything? Zevlor's not gonna—

[But he can't think about Zevlor and sex at the same time, it's too WEIRD and gross and uncomfortable.]

All he's gonna do is get even more upset at us. And why's it just you and not us?

Edited 2025-08-15 02:40 (UTC)

It'll be both of us. [Pretends it didn't just watch the broom nearly crack the theater in half by force before being seized between tanned hands— his own chin tucked in his palm around a smug, self-satisfied grin— cattishly slitted eyes busy taking in the line of Fenris' neck. The slant up to reddened, tucked-in ears.

He's thought this through.]

In the Moulin Rouge, beauty and skill are everything: we're not children anymore, Fenris, isn't it obvious? I'm learning, yes, but— well, I mean, even you were quick to point out that I still had more to learn forsomeonewithnaturaltalent. And I'm only going to have to progress my studies more and more, and now that we're together, everyone knows who I'll choose to practice on— and now that I am? Of course it'd drive the others crazy. Of course Zevlor would bark at us for stealing away.

[He stands up from his perch, the chair creaking slightly in its moors as he leans all his weight across it.]

We're making them look less polished.

[Something about that logic doesn't quite scan, but for the life of him he can't figure out what. It's a little because sex is still written in searing ink across the backs of his eyelids, a little because he's still giddily caught on studies and all that implies— but mostly it's because of the way Astarion is looking at him.

He very much likes that look.

He swallows thickly and wills himself to, if not calm down, at least appear that way. Setting the broom down, he comes forward until the seat's edge presses into his thighs, only a few inches between them.]

So . . .

[Hm. His pulse is still hammering, but some of the shock is beginning to ebb. His eyes flit over Astarion's face, taking in the glittering thrill in his gaze (familiar, for he looks so smugly self-satisfied before every clever little plan he hatches) and the way his lips are flushed red from bitten vexation (new, and so, so endlessly fascinating).]

So if we have sex and get really good at it, that'll make them all look better in turn? [Or something like that . . .? God, he could absolutely not give a shit about the reasoning right now, not when Astarion has that excited flush to his cheek. He hesitates, then reaches between them, catching one of Astarion's hands in his own and twining their fingers together.]

So . . . when, when do you wanna?

[No, that's not good enough. It isn't the way he'd been the other night, suave and confident. Lifting their joined hands, he skims his fingers against the inside of his wrist, his eyes flicking down and then up again.]

Tonight. When everybody's busy . . . nobody'll be looking for us in my room.

[He'd suggest their usual spot, but, well, no. It's uncomfortable and too small, and Maker forbid someone actually catch them in the middle of it. It doesn't matter that he's seen everyone in a state of near-nakedness since he was ten; he doesn't want anyone seeing him that way.]

Mmhm. More like....they'll know we're serious about this.

[They are, aren't they? One glance cast down towards their tangled fingers. A distant look of ardent consideration housed within pale eyes.]

That we're not just the same stupid kids still playing about the rafters like we used to.

['Used to', as if they weren't up there yesterday or the day before entirely of their own unserious volition. As if they wouldn't retreat there now, because sophistication and Santa Claus have one thing in common, and it's that they both obviously arrive overnight.]

Kanan said no one 'wants to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats'. [Which is the point, but he quickly murmurs when he adds that a few would pay not to see it as per that same conversation. There was something in there about savoring what they have solely to themselves, but Astarion already does that, doesn't he? What more is there to do but focus up? Start planning for the futures that they want in earnest, rather than pantomiming it to an audience of none like children.] We've spent our whole lives in the theater. Satine took me in as her pupil. [Kanan and Zevlor are right.] We have to be mature about this. Grow up.

After the doors open, then.

[Busy. Everyone will be busy. So much noise and light and energy, and it's not like they're allowed to loiter during work hours unless it's to get something from the storeroom or grab a costume from backstage for mending; no one will even know what they're up to.

His eyes don't lift for a beat longer, but his smile does. Sharp and self-assured.]

I'll see you then.

[He's sweeter than honeyed wine backstage in that short prelude to opetide, purring once again like the favored 'little star' he'd always been before he grew well past the point of stubby fingers and dinner-stained cheeks. So much so that even the other courtesans forgive him, slipping back into (mostly) doting words. Letting him use their perfumes, combing out his tangled hair and pinning jewelry to his ears— and it mostly fits him now, though they do droop a bit from the added weight. Too oversized to fully self-sustain under the press of rhinestones and imitation gold. He looks at himself in the mirror and he's pleased to find he looks like any of the other performers. The collared choker might sag a little near his throat, and the gauzy shirt might not stay on both shoulders, but that's nothing at all worth noting.

He looks at himself in the mirror and he tugs the necklace back. Pulls the shirt a little lower in the front, lacing loose across his sternum.

He looks at himself in the mirror and takes the fucking necklace off. Combs his hair a different way. Glares at the gloss across his lips because it doesn't catch the light the way he wants it to, tugging makeup out of console drawers.

He's forty minutes late to show up at Fenris' door, shifting from one foot to the other, a cloud of cologne choking out the air in his wake.]

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