[Again, he finds himself taken by surprise. Again, the forefront of his mind slips away into the gap between shock and sheer bewitchment— there, Fenris' face against his neck, cold with night sweat and flush with heat suffused underneath his skin all at once. There, the weight of sinew and muscle all real and undeniable no matter how his (formerly, he'd attest) juvenile mind defaults to thinking it's not real. It can't be real. It's too good, too tangible, too sharp with rampant clarity compared to the dullness of his life.
There, the words that leave him tight in the chest until he forgets that he's supposed to breathe.
You're mine, just like I'm yours.
He'd only meant it as a joke.
Or— no, not really. Not at all. Maybe he told himself it was a joke, but some part of him wanted it to be true: that Fenris would be his first customer. The only one that mattered. The only one that'd count. (Now the sentiment is small and pale. It's withered in its formerly perceived greatness, like a bite of apple that's too old to be anything but dry and spongy on the tongue.) He doesn't want to share his heart. Or himself. Or this.
Not with anyone that isn't Fenris.]
So you won't have to. [His head turns, cheek bearing against cheek as he tries to press a kiss to whatever edge of Fenris' face or temple or ear that he can find— less mouth to skin for the angle, but he can kiss the air and call it his lover too so long as they're the only ones here.] Not ever.
[He has to reach around strong shoulders to find the mess that was their bedding, tugging up a corner and a middle-section all at once. They're hopelessly intertwined; no straightening it out as he gives up and drags the bundle relatively over them in all the places where it counts, at least, with only an elbow or a foot or two left wanting for warm shelter.
Good enough, he thinks, collapsing across rucked pillows and slumping back into the boy who owns his heart, a few fingers threading through damp hair once more.]
You're my bodyguard....and I'm just yours.
[Even if he can't feel his fingertips, he likes the way straight strands twist between the pads of them.]
No, Fenris thinks distantly, surely not. Surely jealousy isn't so easily quelled; surely there will come a time when Astarion looks at some customer the way he's only meant to look at his Fenris, and that will hurt so badly. But . . . maybe it is, some small part of him whispers. It's the part that's currently melting beneath the way delicate fingers play with this hair; it's the part of him that rumbles softly in contentment as he settles beneath the covers and returns that clumsy kiss.
After all, isn't that how it's always worked between them? Ever since the beginning, back when Astarion had found him shattered into a hundred thousand pieces and offered him a handhold in the darkness. It's okay, you're okay, and though he'd known better even then to trust in such promises, Astarion has always had a way of achieving the impossible.
So why should this be any different?
It won't be, he thinks, his eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion begins to creep over him. He won't get jealous, and Astarion won't ever make him share. They'll be okay, because they're always okay. It won't be any different . . .]
It isn't any different than anyone else's first portraits.
[He cocks his head as he says it. It is, to his expert eye, a fairly good poster. The artist Zevlor hired knows how to arrange things just so, so that one's gaze is naturally drawn from the tangle of gleaming pearls wrapped carelessly around Astarion's hands down to the glass of bubbling champagne before him, and from there to the name of the establishment itself. Pale skin glows brightly against a black backdrop, and particular attention has been lovingly paid to the lines of Astarion's neck and collarbone.
None of that is the problem, of course, but still: it's a good painting.]
There's a wild-incredulous gleam within pale eyes as they turn to fix on Fenris, whipped away from the purported 'masterpiece'— his mouth hanging open, an eyebrow twitching.]
My fucking FACE for starters, Fenris!! I expected to see my own fucking FACE!
[Back and forth his hands snap between Fenris and the canvas: DO YOU SEE. THE ISSUE. HERE.
(Tiredly, Zevlor interjects that it's an advertisement for the establisment at large, not Astarion, but said interjection goes largely unheard beneath the cacophony unleashed by the youngest future-entertainer-in-waiting in the room.)]
To be fair to Astarion: it's not as if he's the only performer who's ever thrown a fit about not having his face in a poster. It's just that none of the others have ever mattered half so much as Astarion has, nor has anyone been quite so amusingly adorable in their puffed up rage. Biting his bottom lip to hide his grin, he glances just once at Zevlor before smoothly slipping one arm around Astarion's waist.
(It's not that Zevlor doesn't know (about them being a thing, anyway, though Fenris isn't sure if he knows about them having sex). But all of this is so new, and it's strange to try to find what new limitations and boundaries there are. For his part, Zevlor merely raises his brows for half a second, then turns his focus back towards Astarion.]
It's not your show.
[Blunt, but not unsympathetic. Nonetheless, there's the reason. Besides, it really is a nice poster . . . his hands a particularly well done touch, Fenris thinks. Clever fingers and defined tendons that offset the soft gleam of pearls . . . Fenris stares for a few seconds, caught by them, before remembering he's meant to be soothing.]
And anyway, did you not tell me that mystery was part of any diamant's allure?
[For whatever it's worth, Zevlor tries very hard not to know. In fact, the flattened expression and elsewhere aimed eyes in overt dismission are a sign that despite believing this is the byproduct of misdirected sibling bonding, and despite being grateful for Fenris' interference, he's in favor of assuming it will end soon. Young infatuation is a novelty, especially in this line of work.
Infatuation that, at present, looks a great deal like snarling pups.]
I am supposed to be the mystery! [He snaps back with something more akin to a whine than a snarl, increasingly pacified by the arm round his waist— moreover when it's chanced in front of Zevlor of all people. He is still riled. Still upset at the unveiling that he'd expected to go snubbing half of Paris with, and now instead will have to quibble over moles and the shape of his décolletage about, but....]
Tsk [ is a sinking against Fenris' side, oozing into his own posture in a way that resembles nothing of painted elegance or grace.
Only sulking.]
....I was supposed to be the mystery.
I bragged about this all week.
['You're not even a diamond yet,' Zevlor exhales, filing the paperwork for the latest set of portraitures. The ire that it earns (oh the glare angled Zevlor's way from the bastion of Fenris' comfort), could burn the Moulin Rouge down if left with kindling.]
[He murmurs it in Astarion's ear, equal parts flirtatious and mollifying. The gesture earns another quick glance towards Zevlor, there and gone, but . . . well, if the man wants to ignore them for the time being, let him. That suits Fenris just fine, frankly. Kanan's been the opposite: almost unnervingly amused by their newfound relationship status, constantly teasing (mostly Astarion) about flirtations and notable bruises, and that embarrasses Fenris.
Turning his head, he nuzzles just once against perfumed curls. There, there, dearest heart . . .]
Anyway, you can still brag, can you not? Simply tell them you planned this. They won't know the difference, and you can still preen to your heart's content.
[A majority of the performers won't be fooled, but some of the younger ones might. Maybe. If Astarion sells it right, but his boyfriend is remarkably good at acting when he wants to be (or lying, if you look at it another way).]
Or don't. But there will be other posters, and soon enough with your face on them.
Fenris glances over uncertainly at Zevlor, and then, carefully, adds:]
[There's something palpable about the way Astarion melts in Fenris' arms, almost rumbling in his throat for how he's been so thoroughly pacified by only a few whispered words and the feeling of one soothing, pressed-in nuzzle.
Zevlor, on the other hand, might as well embody the concept of exasperation when he asks with pointed precision:
[Well, that's— that's a very good question, isn't it? Perfectly normal. And the answer Fenris has— and he has an answer, mind you— is perfectly normal too. Definitely not weird, or perverted, or covetous; he has a normal, ordinary reason for wanting a poster of his boyfriend, just like every other normal, ordinary, definitely not recently-sex-obsessed teenager in Paris.
There is a pause. And then, slowly:]
To . . . memorialize it. It's his first poster.
[8/10 on reasoning, 5/10 on delivery. Zevlor does not look any more impressed by Fenris' logic than he had when he was a child; it's the same flat, expectant expression. 'Is that why,' he says, and what he means is: no it fucking well isn't why, and we both know it.]
Can I have it or not?
['No,' Zevlor says firmly, and turns back to seemingly survey the poster. There's a rigidity to his posture that speaks of coiled tension; it's the same way he looks when he's three days away from firing an actor. 'You may not,' he adds somewhat obnoxiously, and Fenris scowls.]
Why?
[It's the wrong move. Zevlor's voice grows more taut, his amber eyes blazing as he finally glances over at them both. 'Because neither of you need any more encouragement,' he says firmly. 'And I don't intend to be the one to give it to you.']
Oh good, [Astarion huffs out in peripherally activated offense,] so now you're shunning both your sons— what's next, then, for the unsupportive father-et-employer of the year? Perhaps you'd like to dock our salaries too whilst you're at it? Take away our evening bread and gruel—
['You ate ham roast this morning.' Zevlor wearily exhales.]
—leave us starving in the streets?? Unknown. Unwanted. Unrecognized—
[There it is. The inevitable leap back round to the painting, coaxing a few irritated flicks out of the Moulin Rouge's impressively put-upon owner.
Then again, if one's truly keeping score, between both Fenris and Astarion it's not as if they ever left the subject, come to think of it.
Right, then.
There's a dust-filled snap of tallied pages as Zevlor shuts his ledger tight between his claws, narrowing more than just the slits of his pupils when his bifocals slide lower down his face.
'I was holding off on introductions until you both had finished your inspection of our latest show posters, but I can see now you're full of it already. This was not the only brokered arrangement brought to fruition tonight.'
Astarion's gasp is audible.]
—I knew it.
[His excitement doubly so.]
What is it?? Is it another painting? A special premiere edition— no, wait—! It's a copy, isn't it? You had two made, to privately commemorate—
['Fenris, Astarion,' There's a deliberate intent behind the order of their names, 'I'd like you to meet Dalyria. Our newest— and, apart from you two, youngest— hire.']
['Unless either of you have aspirations to heal instead of either defend or act, no,' Zevlor replies. Somehow he manages to convey a general sense of rolling his eyes without actually doing it; it's quite impressive, Dalyria thinks, and takes note of it to try and imitate later.
For now, she tips her chin back and stares at the two elven boys, their expressions equal parts bafflement and curiosity.
'A drow?' the dark-haired boy says bluntly, which earns him a chiding click from Zevlor. 'You find yourself far from home— is that not true?' he adds defensively to his father, who doesn't look any less unimpressed.]
Menzoberranzan has a limited amount of use for a healer. And the best ones to apprentice under tend to flock to Paris or Baldur's Gate.
[Not that she's apprenticing somewhere prestigious. Not that she's managed to get one of those coveted internships over at the Parisian Institute, but never mind that. Bodies are bodies, and working at a bawdy house will give her plenty of hands-on experience. The fact that the proprietor is a tiefling is a bonus; he hadn't blinked at the sight of a drow showing up in his office, never mind one looking to fill the position of healer.
And he pays her. That's important too.
'Fenris is training to become a bodyguard, Zevlor continues, 'and Astarion is on his way to becoming a courtesan. They also both happen to be my sons.'
If she's surprised by that, she doesn't let herself show it. Zevlor's eyes skim over both boys, warm pride and fond exasperation both flickering over his face. For a moment he hesitates in thought, then: 'Astarion will show you around,' he states. 'Fenris, go find Laira. She'll need your help unpacking stock— and when you're done, we'll have a lesson.'
The latter addition turns his irritable scowl into excitement; with one last lingering look towards the poster, he untangles himself from Astarion and heads for the door. Zevlor nods faintly, then turns towards Astarion. 'Introduce her to the others,' he orders. 'She'll be working with Talindra and Maude, but it would be good for her to know the insides and out. Her rooms are adjacent to theirs— you know what to do.'
He squeezes Astarion's shoulder in friendly dismissal, offers Dalyria a respectful nod, and strides out the door, already calling for someone to help him deal with the lighting.
Which just leaves her with this boy. This strange, vain little boy (who can't be more than a year younger than her, if that). She carefully tucks one silver strand of hair behind her ear, then asks:]
Is he really your brother, or is that another gimmick here?
[No judgement! No, really: drow are a lot more flexible about these kinds of things, or at least the nobility are, up to a certain point. But it's nice to know what the dynamics are early-on.]
A gimmick? [Finds itself possessed of a k like a kick: not aggressive outright, but there's enough consonant present to outweigh the rest of the entire word. Couple that with Astarion's still-folded arms and the brow he's left cocked high, and all that can be said is that he's more protective than defensive, at least, and attempting to project that through the basics of his tone.
The showing around portion will come after he's finished sniffing around this unfamiliar (figuratively) stray cat, as far as he's concerned.]
We were both adopted at different times. From different places.
[He doesn't say I found him on the streets and brought him home and taught him to use a fork, but if she sticks around here for anything longer than a month she'll hear it anyway. The Moulin Rouge bares more than just skin behind closed doors; when clothing is tantamount to small talk, there's no such thing as privacy. Secrets.]
He's my boyfriend— [squares up in how he measures her (delicate features, pretty enough to do more than stringent medical work, but with a keenness to her eyes.
Taller, too. But he's not fussed about it.
Much.)
She's one of the first drow he's ever seen, although hushed stories come to mind. Crooks his head towards his shoulder before he moves towards the door and gestures back for her to follow.] Zevlor doesn't know yet.
[There's a poster on the wall that debates that.
Astarion sounds only (slightly) petulant when he asks:]
[A polite expression of doubt. She hasn't any idea of who knows what or why, but she also isn't blind. If Zevlor doesn't know, then he must have some seriously misguided ideas about brotherly affection. But then there's that little question, and she frowns as she adds:]
No. I didn't study for three years for a gimmick. [A beat, and then:] But that's what this place specializes in, isn't it? I meant no offense in asking.
[Ask me something like that again when you're complaining about oozing sores and a scratched up back, boy, she thinks and does not say. Bedside manner is much more of a thing up on the surface, and she's doing her best to practice it. It's not hard, not really, for she's a softhearted thing when all's said and done— but some things come easier than others, and she's never had to learn how to mind her tongue before. Especially around a boy.
As they head out the door, she takes him in. Shorter than her (though knowing elves and drow, that could change any day; she's done growing, she suspects, though she longs for another few inches). Pretty, especially with those gold eyes (are they contacts or natural?), and he'll do well as a courtesan . . . though what, exactly, is the difference between a whore and a courtesan? She isn't sure, and she'd best learn quick if she's working here. But anyway: pretty, that's the point. Pretty and a little territorial, but who could blame him? And she knows better than to try and assert herself as anything but lowest on the social pecking order.
Around them, the Moulin Rouge— and there's really no better word for it— bustles. Men and women with bare legs and half-donned costumes flit about in twos and threes, giggling as they gossip cattily behind their hands; deftly they weave their way around the stagehands who stride with purpose, hauling set pieces or yanking up ropes. The sound of drifting notes echo from a distance as the musicians tune their instruments; the not-unpleasant scents of warm wood and powdery makeup fill the air, both of them underscored by the sharp scent of bodiewas (soon to be covered, she discovers later, by perfume specifically piped in when the Moulin Rouge is open for business). There are sets being painted and posters being glued up; in the distance, Fenris sighs heavily as yet another box of bottles is set down before him, one of an endless steam coming in from outside. Tables are being washed and set, lights are dimming and rising, someone is calling for Kanan and his needle and thread . . .
And there, standing like a ringmaster in the midst of his circus, is Zevlor. He calls out instructions or chidingly points out errors, and all the while answering a thousand questions from writers and artists and stagehands and actors. It's chaos, but a controlled chaos, and Dalyria watches it with no small degree of awe.
It's just so different from anything she's ever seen before. At home, things were always so orderly: everyone had their place and task, and everyone did as they were told, lest they earn the wrath of the matriarchs. Oh, there was fun to be found, and not everyone was all rigidity and obedience, but still, there was nothing like this. Nothing so masterfully chaotic.
She's stopped in her tracks, she realizes belatedly, and walks quickly to catch up.]
Is it always like this?
[It's debatable whether or not that's a complimentary tone or an overwhelmed one. Both, maybe.]
Like what? [He asks, his hackles already lost to laxity, having decided in a handful of seconds that he doesn't mind her presence so much— (or yet— ) now that the initial shock's worn off.
(Now that he's staked his claim as to what his heart belongs to, and she didn't prod it full of drow-sized holes.)
So that leaves them here in normalcy. His normalcy, that is, and having never known anything else apart from it in all his working memory, without a point of reference he's no idea whether Dalyria is asking him about the lighting or that their patchwork splendor's forever twelve steps away from falling apart. Sherry glass half-full or half-empty, that sort of thing, he supposes.
The floorboards creak under his heels. Old wood beneath rich carpet. He slows his steps to squint at her, tugging his too-large banyan robe (Kanan's robe, passed down) closed by quaint degrees.]
[She gestures around her, which is no help at all. But how to begin to describe it? She hesitates for a few seconds, and then:]
Chaotic.
[But that's not the right word, for that implies something negative. And for all that this is so dazzlingly new, it's not as if she dislikes it. There's something comfortingly precise about the way this all works . . . like a well-oiled clock, she thinks. One of those intricate ones with a hundred gears that all interconnect and sound like the apocalypse whenever the hour strikes . . . she's always loved clocks like that. It takes so much work to get them to all come together, but when it does, oh, what a glorious thing. Just like the body, really . . . a thousand different systems and functions that all rely on one another in order to work, and if just one thing goes out of place, it all comes crashing down . . .
Unless you know how to fix it, she thinks smugly, and glances over at Astarion.]
So much is happening . . . I didn't know such a place took this much effort to stay running. Or is today a day of repairs? Does everyone actually work here, or are some customers? And what do they do? Why isn't anyone dressed?
[That last question is a bit stupid, but to be fair to Dalyria, it's not every day someone walks by with their dick just, like, out and flopping around right in front of her.]
[Astarion's snort isn't derisive, it's laughter. They're halfway down the upstairs hallway (or balcony, however one calls it when a corridor breaks partway through into an overlook of the grand showroom:) finally stopping in his tracks to rest his forearms on the railing just beside her, grinning.]
You've never been to the theater before, have you? [He presses amusedly, his eyes watching the course hers follow.]
[It's defensive, but only a little. Dalyria grips the railing, feeling the wood dig into her skin, as she peers down at the flurry of activity below them. Then, when no mocking remarks come from her left, she adds:]
. . . but not as anything but a patron.
[And it was nothing like this. She watches the man in question continue on his way, his nudity treated as nothing more than an idle truth, until at last he disappears through a doorway.
It's fine, just . . . give her a minute. She's not even upset, it's just a lot— but not so much so she can't tentatively return that grin with a smile of her own.]
Does being in the theater mean you're allergic to clothing?
Instantly. [He chirps back, tilting his head a little higher. Whether or not she's looking is irrelevant; she's having her own struggles to reckon with with right now.] The moment we sign our backstage papers, we break out into terrible rashes.
[There's a flick of beadwork as he taps at his own sleeve.]
I only live with the pain.
[She'll see for herself why costume changes encourage freedom, and red lights the sort of naturalism that'd see one arrested in the streets when clients just won't— ahahah— stop coming. It's an ecosystem that makes sense to anyone that peers behind the curtain; too much explains itself compared to everything outside.
That's the world he doesn't understand. A language he doesn't ever care to speak.]
Do all doctors in Menzoberranzan have time for throwing their coin at artistic pursuits?
[Oh, yes. There's vague fondness to the way she invokes her title, but not much. Affection isn't particularly encouraged among mothers and daughters, and to have a girl-child more interested in healing than hurting . . . her mother loves her, Dalyria knows. She truly does. But she doesn't understand her, and sometimes that hurts worse.
Anyway. She glances over at him again, then back down at the stage. It's hard to know where to look, frankly, for everything happens so much around here.]
And the plays were nothing like the ones that happen here, I think. Nobody ever had sex at the end, [she adds a little unnecessarily. Do they all have sex at the end? It sort of seems like they would. Just a big old orgy right at the, aha, climax, so to speak . . .? Mm, maybe not.]
Or . . . are the actors and courtesans different? How does it work around here?
A loud, stupid squawk into the crook of his arms that echoes down into the belly of the theater itself, enough to startle Zevlor from his task— who justly narrows his eyes to see the son he'd asked to show Dalyria around now cackling in recline against the balcony railings.
If that bothers Astarion, it doesn't show: he continues on once he looks up, nesting his chin against his forearms as he meets Dalyria's fretful stare.]
Well we don't fuck on stage for one, we just pretend to— sort of.
When it's plot relevant.
[It's hard to define.]
More often it's alluded to: either through dancing or clever wordplay, and you'll find nudity is the scandalous, drool-worthy portion of the meal.
Because the actors are the courtesans— well, the headliners are, anyway— and [echoing the sly-tongued intonation of his teacher:] you want the audience to be hungry for you by the ending. Paint them a story that they're eager to see themselves penned into, and then watch as they drop as much wealth as it takes to make that happen.
[A pause. He knows his explanation makes sense— and if it doesn't, it will once she sees her first performance (or possibly rehearsal); there's little point in asking after it now.
So.]
Was it your mother's idea for you to come here?
[....to a brothel he doesn't say, though wants to. (Satine has him working on maintaining an inner monologue.)]
[She scowls when he laughs, her nose wrinkled and her mouth curved into a thin line, but it's a temporary thing. It helps that it doesn't feel as though he's set on mocking her; it helps that the explanation he offers does make sense, even if it's strange to think about.
We, she notices he says. We don't fuck on stage, we just pretend to . . . but does he, or is that more of a general thing? He speaks with an unmistakable familiarity, but there's something a little off about the way he tells her these things. And it's not that she's so knowledgeable about how a bawdy house works, but it doesn't take much insight for one student to know another.]
No.
[Short and curt. It lingers in the air for a few seconds before she blows out a heavy exhale and tightens her grip on the railing.]
She approved of my leaving home, though she could not understand what I could find on the surface. But she doesn't know I've apprenticed here.
[And she won't know, not if Dal has anything to say about it. All her visions of triumphantly returning to Menzoberranzan bearing knowledge and insight such as the city has never seen are still there, of course, but they don't involve her starting to ply her trade in a brothel. She'll just omit this part, she thinks yet again, and just as she always does, ignores the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.]
[He leans over the arch of his left foot, stretching lazily from toe to ankle as he listens.
This is the part he likes, actually. Getting to dig up who he's talking to when he doesn't really know them. Everyone here, although they come and go over the years (not to Bali so often, he learned), are all familiar souls: whores and dancers and runaways— not doctors. Not from Menzoberranzan.
He's about to ask if she'll ever tell her mother when he chokes back another rise of unexpected amusement, swallowing that question.]
Mmhm. He's married.
[Chin to the palm of his right hand, he points down with the other towards a pretty tiefling on the stage, knelt down beside an actor in regalia, stitching about as swiftly as clawed fingers can allow.] To Kanan. My other father. But you could say he's the 'mother' of the theater if that's your sort of thing— it's Zevlor that organizes everything, yet it's Kanan who keeps it breathing.
[A tepid little beat, and then, watching her with curiosity from the corner of his eyes:]
[That doesn't answer a very basic biological question, but then again, it sort of does. Dalyria watches Kanan for a few seconds, studying the tiefling. He is a pretty thing, it's true, but it's the contrast to his husband that intrigues her the most. Both of them are commanding in their own ways, but whereas Zevlor is a loud figure, a beacon to whom everyone can flock, Kanan's energy is smaller. Softer. No less powerful, for that actor is hanging on to his every word as he stitches, but still: more subdued.]
Hm? No.
[She'd been expecting this question, honestly, and takes her time to choose her words.]
We— they— don't hate men. It's simply . . . a matter of place and position. Take a tailor and put a sword in his hands and it does not matter how earnestly he wants to be a solider, for his hands will always be better suited to a needle and thread. Similarly, men have certain positions they simply do better than women.
[Not that it's framed that way, obviously, but this is how she thinks about it.]
Somewhere like this . . . if it weren't for the species difference, it would do well there. Zevlor and Kanan— Kanan?— holding such positions would be acceptable, as would you.
[It's not the reason she picked the Moulin Rouge, but she can't deny there's a relieving sense of familiarity to have a male in charge of a brothel. Not that she'd ever gone to brothels in Menzoberranzan, but still, it rings culturally true.]
Anyway, money makes the most difference. A male born into one of the House families will have a far easier time than a poor one.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
There, the words that leave him tight in the chest until he forgets that he's supposed to breathe.
You're mine, just like I'm yours.
He'd only meant it as a joke.
Or— no, not really. Not at all. Maybe he told himself it was a joke, but some part of him wanted it to be true: that Fenris would be his first customer. The only one that mattered. The only one that'd count. (Now the sentiment is small and pale. It's withered in its formerly perceived greatness, like a bite of apple that's too old to be anything but dry and spongy on the tongue.) He doesn't want to share his heart. Or himself. Or this.
Not with anyone that isn't Fenris.]
So you won't have to. [His head turns, cheek bearing against cheek as he tries to press a kiss to whatever edge of Fenris' face or temple or ear that he can find— less mouth to skin for the angle, but he can kiss the air and call it his lover too so long as they're the only ones here.] Not ever.
[He has to reach around strong shoulders to find the mess that was their bedding, tugging up a corner and a middle-section all at once. They're hopelessly intertwined; no straightening it out as he gives up and drags the bundle relatively over them in all the places where it counts, at least, with only an elbow or a foot or two left wanting for warm shelter.
Good enough, he thinks, collapsing across rucked pillows and slumping back into the boy who owns his heart, a few fingers threading through damp hair once more.]
You're my bodyguard....and I'm just yours.
[Even if he can't feel his fingertips, he likes the way straight strands twist between the pads of them.]
no subject
Can it be so easy as that?
No, Fenris thinks distantly, surely not. Surely jealousy isn't so easily quelled; surely there will come a time when Astarion looks at some customer the way he's only meant to look at his Fenris, and that will hurt so badly. But . . . maybe it is, some small part of him whispers. It's the part that's currently melting beneath the way delicate fingers play with this hair; it's the part of him that rumbles softly in contentment as he settles beneath the covers and returns that clumsy kiss.
After all, isn't that how it's always worked between them? Ever since the beginning, back when Astarion had found him shattered into a hundred thousand pieces and offered him a handhold in the darkness. It's okay, you're okay, and though he'd known better even then to trust in such promises, Astarion has always had a way of achieving the impossible.
So why should this be any different?
It won't be, he thinks, his eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion begins to creep over him. He won't get jealous, and Astarion won't ever make him share. They'll be okay, because they're always okay. It won't be any different . . .]
2/2
[He cocks his head as he says it. It is, to his expert eye, a fairly good poster. The artist Zevlor hired knows how to arrange things just so, so that one's gaze is naturally drawn from the tangle of gleaming pearls wrapped carelessly around Astarion's hands down to the glass of bubbling champagne before him, and from there to the name of the establishment itself. Pale skin glows brightly against a black backdrop, and particular attention has been lovingly paid to the lines of Astarion's neck and collarbone.
None of that is the problem, of course, but still: it's a good painting.]
What did you expect?
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[What did he expect??
There's a wild-incredulous gleam within pale eyes as they turn to fix on Fenris, whipped away from the purported 'masterpiece'— his mouth hanging open, an eyebrow twitching.]
My fucking FACE for starters, Fenris!! I expected to see my own fucking FACE!
[Back and forth his hands snap between Fenris and the canvas: DO YOU SEE. THE ISSUE. HERE.
(Tiredly, Zevlor interjects that it's an advertisement for the establisment at large, not Astarion, but said interjection goes largely unheard beneath the cacophony unleashed by the youngest future-entertainer-in-waiting in the room.)]
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To be fair to Astarion: it's not as if he's the only performer who's ever thrown a fit about not having his face in a poster. It's just that none of the others have ever mattered half so much as Astarion has, nor has anyone been quite so amusingly adorable in their puffed up rage. Biting his bottom lip to hide his grin, he glances just once at Zevlor before smoothly slipping one arm around Astarion's waist.
(It's not that Zevlor doesn't know (about them being a thing, anyway, though Fenris isn't sure if he knows about them having sex). But all of this is so new, and it's strange to try to find what new limitations and boundaries there are. For his part, Zevlor merely raises his brows for half a second, then turns his focus back towards Astarion.]
It's not your show.
[Blunt, but not unsympathetic. Nonetheless, there's the reason. Besides, it really is a nice poster . . . his hands a particularly well done touch, Fenris thinks. Clever fingers and defined tendons that offset the soft gleam of pearls . . . Fenris stares for a few seconds, caught by them, before remembering he's meant to be soothing.]
And anyway, did you not tell me that mystery was part of any diamant's allure?
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Infatuation that, at present, looks a great deal like snarling pups.]
I am supposed to be the mystery! [He snaps back with something more akin to a whine than a snarl, increasingly pacified by the arm round his waist— moreover when it's chanced in front of Zevlor of all people. He is still riled. Still upset at the unveiling that he'd expected to go snubbing half of Paris with, and now instead will have to quibble over moles and the shape of his décolletage about, but....]
Tsk [ is a sinking against Fenris' side, oozing into his own posture in a way that resembles nothing of painted elegance or grace.
Only sulking.]
....I was supposed to be the mystery.
I bragged about this all week.
['You're not even a diamond yet,' Zevlor exhales, filing the paperwork for the latest set of portraitures. The ire that it earns (oh the glare angled Zevlor's way from the bastion of Fenris' comfort), could burn the Moulin Rouge down if left with kindling.]
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[He murmurs it in Astarion's ear, equal parts flirtatious and mollifying. The gesture earns another quick glance towards Zevlor, there and gone, but . . . well, if the man wants to ignore them for the time being, let him. That suits Fenris just fine, frankly. Kanan's been the opposite: almost unnervingly amused by their newfound relationship status, constantly teasing (mostly Astarion) about flirtations and notable bruises, and that embarrasses Fenris.
Turning his head, he nuzzles just once against perfumed curls. There, there, dearest heart . . .]
Anyway, you can still brag, can you not? Simply tell them you planned this. They won't know the difference, and you can still preen to your heart's content.
[A majority of the performers won't be fooled, but some of the younger ones might. Maybe. If Astarion sells it right, but his boyfriend is remarkably good at acting when he wants to be (or lying, if you look at it another way).]
Or don't. But there will be other posters, and soon enough with your face on them.
Fenris glances over uncertainly at Zevlor, and then, carefully, adds:]
How long is going to stay up for?
[Just. Curious.]
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Zevlor, on the other hand, might as well embody the concept of exasperation when he asks with pointed precision:
'Why.']
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There is a pause. And then, slowly:]
To . . . memorialize it. It's his first poster.
[8/10 on reasoning, 5/10 on delivery. Zevlor does not look any more impressed by Fenris' logic than he had when he was a child; it's the same flat, expectant expression. 'Is that why,' he says, and what he means is: no it fucking well isn't why, and we both know it.]
Can I have it or not?
['No,' Zevlor says firmly, and turns back to seemingly survey the poster. There's a rigidity to his posture that speaks of coiled tension; it's the same way he looks when he's three days away from firing an actor. 'You may not,' he adds somewhat obnoxiously, and Fenris scowls.]
Why?
[It's the wrong move. Zevlor's voice grows more taut, his amber eyes blazing as he finally glances over at them both. 'Because neither of you need any more encouragement,' he says firmly. 'And I don't intend to be the one to give it to you.']
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['You ate ham roast this morning.' Zevlor wearily exhales.]
—leave us starving in the streets?? Unknown. Unwanted. Unrecognized—
[There it is. The inevitable leap back round to the painting, coaxing a few irritated flicks out of the Moulin Rouge's impressively put-upon owner.
Then again, if one's truly keeping score, between both Fenris and Astarion it's not as if they ever left the subject, come to think of it.
Right, then.
There's a dust-filled snap of tallied pages as Zevlor shuts his ledger tight between his claws, narrowing more than just the slits of his pupils when his bifocals slide lower down his face.
'I was holding off on introductions until you both had finished your inspection of our latest show posters, but I can see now you're full of it already. This was not the only brokered arrangement brought to fruition tonight.'
Astarion's gasp is audible.]
—I knew it.
[His excitement doubly so.]
What is it?? Is it another painting? A special premiere edition— no, wait—! It's a copy, isn't it? You had two made, to privately commemorate—
['Fenris, Astarion,' There's a deliberate intent behind the order of their names, 'I'd like you to meet Dalyria. Our newest— and, apart from you two, youngest— hire.']
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ᴛʜᴇ.
FUCK.
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For now, she tips her chin back and stares at the two elven boys, their expressions equal parts bafflement and curiosity.
'A drow?' the dark-haired boy says bluntly, which earns him a chiding click from Zevlor. 'You find yourself far from home— is that not true?' he adds defensively to his father, who doesn't look any less unimpressed.]
Menzoberranzan has a limited amount of use for a healer. And the best ones to apprentice under tend to flock to Paris or Baldur's Gate.
[Not that she's apprenticing somewhere prestigious. Not that she's managed to get one of those coveted internships over at the Parisian Institute, but never mind that. Bodies are bodies, and working at a bawdy house will give her plenty of hands-on experience. The fact that the proprietor is a tiefling is a bonus; he hadn't blinked at the sight of a drow showing up in his office, never mind one looking to fill the position of healer.
And he pays her. That's important too.
'Fenris is training to become a bodyguard, Zevlor continues, 'and Astarion is on his way to becoming a courtesan. They also both happen to be my sons.'
If she's surprised by that, she doesn't let herself show it. Zevlor's eyes skim over both boys, warm pride and fond exasperation both flickering over his face. For a moment he hesitates in thought, then: 'Astarion will show you around,' he states. 'Fenris, go find Laira. She'll need your help unpacking stock— and when you're done, we'll have a lesson.'
The latter addition turns his irritable scowl into excitement; with one last lingering look towards the poster, he untangles himself from Astarion and heads for the door. Zevlor nods faintly, then turns towards Astarion. 'Introduce her to the others,' he orders. 'She'll be working with Talindra and Maude, but it would be good for her to know the insides and out. Her rooms are adjacent to theirs— you know what to do.'
He squeezes Astarion's shoulder in friendly dismissal, offers Dalyria a respectful nod, and strides out the door, already calling for someone to help him deal with the lighting.
Which just leaves her with this boy. This strange, vain little boy (who can't be more than a year younger than her, if that). She carefully tucks one silver strand of hair behind her ear, then asks:]
Is he really your brother, or is that another gimmick here?
[No judgement! No, really: drow are a lot more flexible about these kinds of things, or at least the nobility are, up to a certain point. But it's nice to know what the dynamics are early-on.]
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The showing around portion will come after he's finished sniffing around this unfamiliar (figuratively) stray cat, as far as he's concerned.]
We were both adopted at different times. From different places.
[He doesn't say I found him on the streets and brought him home and taught him to use a fork, but if she sticks around here for anything longer than a month she'll hear it anyway. The Moulin Rouge bares more than just skin behind closed doors; when clothing is tantamount to small talk, there's no such thing as privacy. Secrets.]
He's my boyfriend— [squares up in how he measures her (delicate features, pretty enough to do more than stringent medical work, but with a keenness to her eyes.
Taller, too. But he's not fussed about it.
Much.)
She's one of the first drow he's ever seen, although hushed stories come to mind. Crooks his head towards his shoulder before he moves towards the door and gestures back for her to follow.] Zevlor doesn't know yet.
[There's a poster on the wall that debates that.
Astarion sounds only (slightly) petulant when he asks:]
Is the doctor thing a gimmick?
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Oh, no . . .?
[A polite expression of doubt. She hasn't any idea of who knows what or why, but she also isn't blind. If Zevlor doesn't know, then he must have some seriously misguided ideas about brotherly affection. But then there's that little question, and she frowns as she adds:]
No. I didn't study for three years for a gimmick. [A beat, and then:] But that's what this place specializes in, isn't it? I meant no offense in asking.
[Ask me something like that again when you're complaining about oozing sores and a scratched up back, boy, she thinks and does not say. Bedside manner is much more of a thing up on the surface, and she's doing her best to practice it. It's not hard, not really, for she's a softhearted thing when all's said and done— but some things come easier than others, and she's never had to learn how to mind her tongue before. Especially around a boy.
As they head out the door, she takes him in. Shorter than her (though knowing elves and drow, that could change any day; she's done growing, she suspects, though she longs for another few inches). Pretty, especially with those gold eyes (are they contacts or natural?), and he'll do well as a courtesan . . . though what, exactly, is the difference between a whore and a courtesan? She isn't sure, and she'd best learn quick if she's working here. But anyway: pretty, that's the point. Pretty and a little territorial, but who could blame him? And she knows better than to try and assert herself as anything but lowest on the social pecking order.
Around them, the Moulin Rouge— and there's really no better word for it— bustles. Men and women with bare legs and half-donned costumes flit about in twos and threes, giggling as they gossip cattily behind their hands; deftly they weave their way around the stagehands who stride with purpose, hauling set pieces or yanking up ropes. The sound of drifting notes echo from a distance as the musicians tune their instruments; the not-unpleasant scents of warm wood and powdery makeup fill the air, both of them underscored by the sharp scent of bodiewas (soon to be covered, she discovers later, by perfume specifically piped in when the Moulin Rouge is open for business). There are sets being painted and posters being glued up; in the distance, Fenris sighs heavily as yet another box of bottles is set down before him, one of an endless steam coming in from outside. Tables are being washed and set, lights are dimming and rising, someone is calling for Kanan and his needle and thread . . .
And there, standing like a ringmaster in the midst of his circus, is Zevlor. He calls out instructions or chidingly points out errors, and all the while answering a thousand questions from writers and artists and stagehands and actors. It's chaos, but a controlled chaos, and Dalyria watches it with no small degree of awe.
It's just so different from anything she's ever seen before. At home, things were always so orderly: everyone had their place and task, and everyone did as they were told, lest they earn the wrath of the matriarchs. Oh, there was fun to be found, and not everyone was all rigidity and obedience, but still, there was nothing like this. Nothing so masterfully chaotic.
She's stopped in her tracks, she realizes belatedly, and walks quickly to catch up.]
Is it always like this?
[It's debatable whether or not that's a complimentary tone or an overwhelmed one. Both, maybe.]
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(Now that he's staked his claim as to what his heart belongs to, and she didn't prod it full of drow-sized holes.)
So that leaves them here in normalcy. His normalcy, that is, and having never known anything else apart from it in all his working memory, without a point of reference he's no idea whether Dalyria is asking him about the lighting or that their patchwork splendor's forever twelve steps away from falling apart. Sherry glass half-full or half-empty, that sort of thing, he supposes.
The floorboards creak under his heels. Old wood beneath rich carpet. He slows his steps to squint at her, tugging his too-large banyan robe (Kanan's robe, passed down) closed by quaint degrees.]
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[She gestures around her, which is no help at all. But how to begin to describe it? She hesitates for a few seconds, and then:]
Chaotic.
[But that's not the right word, for that implies something negative. And for all that this is so dazzlingly new, it's not as if she dislikes it. There's something comfortingly precise about the way this all works . . . like a well-oiled clock, she thinks. One of those intricate ones with a hundred gears that all interconnect and sound like the apocalypse whenever the hour strikes . . . she's always loved clocks like that. It takes so much work to get them to all come together, but when it does, oh, what a glorious thing. Just like the body, really . . . a thousand different systems and functions that all rely on one another in order to work, and if just one thing goes out of place, it all comes crashing down . . .
Unless you know how to fix it, she thinks smugly, and glances over at Astarion.]
So much is happening . . . I didn't know such a place took this much effort to stay running. Or is today a day of repairs? Does everyone actually work here, or are some customers? And what do they do? Why isn't anyone dressed?
[That last question is a bit stupid, but to be fair to Dalyria, it's not every day someone walks by with their dick just, like, out and flopping around right in front of her.]
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You've never been to the theater before, have you? [He presses amusedly, his eyes watching the course hers follow.]
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[It's defensive, but only a little. Dalyria grips the railing, feeling the wood dig into her skin, as she peers down at the flurry of activity below them. Then, when no mocking remarks come from her left, she adds:]
. . . but not as anything but a patron.
[And it was nothing like this. She watches the man in question continue on his way, his nudity treated as nothing more than an idle truth, until at last he disappears through a doorway.
It's fine, just . . . give her a minute. She's not even upset, it's just a lot— but not so much so she can't tentatively return that grin with a smile of her own.]
Does being in the theater mean you're allergic to clothing?
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[There's a flick of beadwork as he taps at his own sleeve.]
I only live with the pain.
[She'll see for herself why costume changes encourage freedom, and red lights the sort of naturalism that'd see one arrested in the streets when clients just won't— ahahah— stop coming. It's an ecosystem that makes sense to anyone that peers behind the curtain; too much explains itself compared to everything outside.
That's the world he doesn't understand. A language he doesn't ever care to speak.]
Do all doctors in Menzoberranzan have time for throwing their coin at artistic pursuits?
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[Oh, yes. There's vague fondness to the way she invokes her title, but not much. Affection isn't particularly encouraged among mothers and daughters, and to have a girl-child more interested in healing than hurting . . . her mother loves her, Dalyria knows. She truly does. But she doesn't understand her, and sometimes that hurts worse.
Anyway. She glances over at him again, then back down at the stage. It's hard to know where to look, frankly, for everything happens so much around here.]
And the plays were nothing like the ones that happen here, I think. Nobody ever had sex at the end, [she adds a little unnecessarily. Do they all have sex at the end? It sort of seems like they would. Just a big old orgy right at the, aha, climax, so to speak . . .? Mm, maybe not.]
Or . . . are the actors and courtesans different? How does it work around here?
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He guffaws.
A loud, stupid squawk into the crook of his arms that echoes down into the belly of the theater itself, enough to startle Zevlor from his task— who justly narrows his eyes to see the son he'd asked to show Dalyria around now cackling in recline against the balcony railings.
If that bothers Astarion, it doesn't show: he continues on once he looks up, nesting his chin against his forearms as he meets Dalyria's fretful stare.]
Well we don't fuck on stage for one, we just pretend to— sort of.
When it's plot relevant.
[It's hard to define.]
More often it's alluded to: either through dancing or clever wordplay, and you'll find nudity is the scandalous, drool-worthy portion of the meal.
Because the actors are the courtesans— well, the headliners are, anyway— and [echoing the sly-tongued intonation of his teacher:] you want the audience to be hungry for you by the ending. Paint them a story that they're eager to see themselves penned into, and then watch as they drop as much wealth as it takes to make that happen.
[A pause. He knows his explanation makes sense— and if it doesn't, it will once she sees her first performance (or possibly rehearsal); there's little point in asking after it now.
So.]
Was it your mother's idea for you to come here?
[....to a brothel he doesn't say, though wants to. (Satine has him working on maintaining an inner monologue.)]
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We, she notices he says. We don't fuck on stage, we just pretend to . . . but does he, or is that more of a general thing? He speaks with an unmistakable familiarity, but there's something a little off about the way he tells her these things. And it's not that she's so knowledgeable about how a bawdy house works, but it doesn't take much insight for one student to know another.]
No.
[Short and curt. It lingers in the air for a few seconds before she blows out a heavy exhale and tightens her grip on the railing.]
She approved of my leaving home, though she could not understand what I could find on the surface. But she doesn't know I've apprenticed here.
[And she won't know, not if Dal has anything to say about it. All her visions of triumphantly returning to Menzoberranzan bearing knowledge and insight such as the city has never seen are still there, of course, but they don't involve her starting to ply her trade in a brothel. She'll just omit this part, she thinks yet again, and just as she always does, ignores the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.]
Where's yours? Is Zevlor married?
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This is the part he likes, actually. Getting to dig up who he's talking to when he doesn't really know them. Everyone here, although they come and go over the years (not to Bali so often, he learned), are all familiar souls: whores and dancers and runaways— not doctors. Not from Menzoberranzan.
He's about to ask if she'll ever tell her mother when he chokes back another rise of unexpected amusement, swallowing that question.]
Mmhm. He's married.
[Chin to the palm of his right hand, he points down with the other towards a pretty tiefling on the stage, knelt down beside an actor in regalia, stitching about as swiftly as clawed fingers can allow.] To Kanan. My other father. But you could say he's the 'mother' of the theater if that's your sort of thing— it's Zevlor that organizes everything, yet it's Kanan who keeps it breathing.
[A tepid little beat, and then, watching her with curiosity from the corner of his eyes:]
Is it true all drow hate men?
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Hm? No.
[She'd been expecting this question, honestly, and takes her time to choose her words.]
We— they— don't hate men. It's simply . . . a matter of place and position. Take a tailor and put a sword in his hands and it does not matter how earnestly he wants to be a solider, for his hands will always be better suited to a needle and thread. Similarly, men have certain positions they simply do better than women.
[Not that it's framed that way, obviously, but this is how she thinks about it.]
Somewhere like this . . . if it weren't for the species difference, it would do well there. Zevlor and Kanan— Kanan?— holding such positions would be acceptable, as would you.
[It's not the reason she picked the Moulin Rouge, but she can't deny there's a relieving sense of familiarity to have a male in charge of a brothel. Not that she'd ever gone to brothels in Menzoberranzan, but still, it rings culturally true.]
Anyway, money makes the most difference. A male born into one of the House families will have a far easier time than a poor one.
[A little shrug of her shoulders.]
Is that all you know of us? That we hate men?
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2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
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2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
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