[The look Astarion gives back can only be described as the very same characteristic squint that Zevlor wears when the word aghast falls short of all serviceable description.
And then he makes a noise that sounds something like a rat being run over, holding the now-starved kohl betwixt his fingers.
They'll talk about this later.]
Shut your eyes, princess, and distract me from my grief by telling me what it is your mother does for a living.
[As the last bits of midnight color smooth over her long lashes.]
[It's an apology, sort of. He will steal some for him, but they are most certainly going to Talk About This Later. Still: he doesn't feel bad enough to slink off, and indeed, instead shifts to face the other two more fully. Dalyria closes her eyes, white lashes stark against glittering purple skin, and obediently upturns her face.
'She runs a boutique,' Dalyria says casually. 'A particularly high-end one, at that.' No, they aren't nobility, but they're something close to it. Jumped-up merchant princess, someone had sneered once, and promptly gotten a fierce beating from her eldest sister. Dalyria's eyes flicker, her discomfort at having something dull slipped over her lashes apparent. 'Most of the noble houses commission her, especially for special occasions.'
She opens her eyes the moment the pressure abates (whether or not that coincides with Astarion being done is a different matter entirely). 'She'd like it here, she adds honestly. 'Though she might be rude about it being on the surface, but still. She likes attention paid to little details.']
And wind up with me taking the fall? Tsh. [Omits the fact that the tally stacks overwhelmingly in Fenris' favor when it comes to being blamed for his boyfriend's antics. Taken beyond face value, however, Astarion's huffing and puffing only loosely translates to don't get caught— which is the motto both of them seem to strive to live by, and doubly so now that both Dalyria and Fenris are looking quite fetching compared to the unkempt albinic thing bustling about between them.
Tossing the nub of useless wood and remnant pitch into the trash before tilting Dal's chin higher, motioning for her to relax her lips so he can line them.]
And you....went from that sort of prestige to stuffing gauze into cocks up here on the surface?
[As far as he knows, no one's ever actually had gauze stuffed up their cocks here as any sort of medical procedure. But then as far as he knows, there's probably not no medical procedure that involves stuffing gauze into cocks, so....]
[Fenris barks out a laugh as Dalyria chokes. Truly and actually chokes on her own spit, the most absurd noise emerging from her throat as she jerks back— and oh, there goes the lip liner, but she can't be bothered with that right now.]
I don't— that isn't—
[SIR.]
What kind of medical attention have you been receiving??
[Like, he's probably joking, but also: maybe not! People are fucking idiots sometimes! She has no idea of the standards of care here, and also, why did he go to that specifically.]
['Shut it—' comes rattling via a fist beat against Fenris' door in passing, followed by a different (arguably softer) voice than the first, which summarily tacks on that 'some of us have customers tonight' in a fashion reserved for cousins and siblings under the same roof at either the earliest or latest of hours. Passing chastisement, in other words, though it does nothing to dampen the curl flexing at either corner of Astarion's grin. Made wider thanks to a certain someone's laughter in the background.
It stays as he picks up a kerchief, wets it, and begins wiping at the extra line drawn round Dalyria's mouth.
Whilst leaving her enough room to speak, of course.]
What kind of medical attention have you been getting? [He all but cackles, letting it scrunch one side of his nose more than the other— casting a glance towards Fenris' delight— demeanor clearly riled up like an overly encouraged pup at playtime.]
Anyway I don't know. I hear some stuff can get pretty gnarly.
[Or maybe that's just backstage ghost story talk.]
[She starts as someone bangs on the door— and then throws both boys a quizzical look as they continue to snicker and snort. The tone was fond, yes, but the warning clear, and she doesn't understand why they're ignoring it. Is it because they're the proprietor's sons? Logic points that way, but Zevlor had seemed so stern during her interview . . .
Well, it won't be her that gets in trouble. Dalyria's voice is pitched lower, her fingers kneading against her thighs as Astarion works. It's kind of him to wipe away that mark, she thinks. An unexpected kindness, just as all this fussing has been.]
Not like that.
[She's more still this time, speaking only when he seems to have paused.
'Then like what? Have you ever worked on a male before?' Fenris asks, not unkindly. 'Or's that going to be your first lesson here? How to handle a cock.' He aims a little smirk right back at Astarion, and oh, the two of them constantly making eyes at one another is going to get very tiring very quickly.]
I have. But I know enough not to shove anything up a man's urethra, thank you.
[Rather primly said, her tone slightly undercut by the way she purses her lips to try and see what Astarion has drawn. But oh, that answer isn't good enough, not when they're goading her.]
But . . . my teacher one knew a man who once broke his— thing.
['He broke it? How?' Fenris asks, an appropriate look of horror on his face. Good.]
By having sex too carelessly. You can't just do anything, you know. It can get torn and broken like any other body part, and then it'll take a lot more than gauze to undo the damage.
[You'd have thought she just told these boys that if they touch their pricks they'll spontaneously combust for the looks on both their faces: Astarion's forgotten everything he'd been doing in favor of standing rigid as a stalk with his lips peeled back in terror and his balls caught in his own throat.
Or his pulse.
Or both.
At this point even he doesn't know.]
You're fucking with us.
[Seems like a better world of logic than the one in which she's actually somehow telling the truth.]
[Smugly said as she glances between both boys and their matching expressions of horror.]
It goes all black and you have to go into surgery right away, or else your member might be broken forever. Or you won't be able to get hard, or it'll always curve—
['Why would it curve,' Fenris says flatly. He's crossed his legs a little tightly, and that amuses her as much as Astarion's bewildered expression.]
Because it's broken, and someone didn't fix it right. You can even break it all on yourself if you masturbate wrong—
['HOW?' is a yelp that earns another scolding knock from someone next door.]
[At this rate they're never going to get to the theater; Astarion has all but shrunken into his own skin let alone stepped back a good handful of inches as if Dalyria herself might somehow lash out at the tail end of this story, the way someone lunges after telling a particularly terrifying tale— only this time, he's now afraid his cock might shatter against his leg if he jumps too hard.
(If he does anything too hard, apparently.)]
—no. No that's not—
I've seen plenty of curved dicks before. They can't all be....
[....oh gods, maybe they are.]
WHY WOULD YOU TELL US THIS!?
[Another, louder bang. At this rate they're going to get an utter earful from someone, even if it's not Kanan or Zevlor.]
[She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, that same smirk still on her lips.]
It's something to avoid— at least now you know it's possible. And you haven't seen curved dicks like the ones when people break them, or else you would have known long before this. Besides: I doubt a brothel has much use for someone who can't even get it up.
[Now it's a little easier to slip into the vulgar vocabulary the boys have— to a point, anyway. But so long as she has their attention . . .]
Wait a moment.
[For her to cross the hall into the room her bags are deposited. It takes a little rummaging, but soon enough she's found the book she's looking for. One finger stuck within the pages, she returns, sitting with a little grin.]
Do you want to see?
[And then, on the tail of that:]
Don't scream if the answer is yes. You're going to get us all in trouble if you don't hush.
[Reluctantly, his hands clasp over his mouth from both sides, already squashing the idea of shrieking well before it's so much as begun considering he's standing more than a foot away. There is, after all, a very real risk involved in letting curiosity sate the proverbial cat. Especially when it's one who's about to peer into a tome full of grim, impossible to unsee nightmares.
As a matter of fact....
There's a shuffling— the sound of it audible where Astarion isn't— as he scoots himself around to stand fully behind Fenris instead, letting his bodyguard go first. Peeking around the outline of his shoulder with sharp ears tucked flat.
And, you know. Scooting him forward a bit. Just to make sure they don't miss out on vital information.]
[One brotherly, waspish hiss, for why should he have to be the one to see it first? But such is the role of a bodyguard. Whether it's storming through groping patrons to rescue his beloved or having to look at something he's half-convinced isn't real, it's all in a day's work. So with one short, sharp sigh, Fenris grimly fixes his gaze on the girl in front of him.
She's grinning. She should not be grinning, some part of him thinks with mild offense. She can't know how just how important a man's cock is, of course, but still. He wouldn't tease if you could, you know, break your cunt. Just saying. Wait, can you—?
He's getting off topic.
'Don't fuss,' she says again, and flips open the book. And it's—]
[It's all he can do not to gag. Things are bent in ways they should never be bent. Things are a sickly shade of purple-black that they absolutely should not be. Right angles are involved in an increasingly distressing way, and Fenris thinks he might never get the image out of his mind except the next page is even worse—]
[She says it primly, as if everyone ought to be comfortable with a diagram of a split-open cock. Fenris recoils back, his cheeks pale and his lips drawn back in a grimace of horror; one arm blindly flails back, as if he might somehow belatedly save Astarion from having to see this.]
Well, sort of too late: around Fenris' shoulder, Astarion had only caught a glimpse of the upper right-hand corner of— something. But whatever that fleshy something was was more than enough to have him nearly tripping over his own feet as he careens— or shrinks— or buries himself like a dog against the back of Fenris' arm, both grabbing and yelping out pitched whines for the sake of expressing his dismay, the two of them now closer to being halfway up the wall than standing on their feet.
You're a monster! is the jist of Astarion's accusatory wailing, barely muffled in a sea of finely sewn linen (and even finer muscle), for the last and final time prompting a rattling of the handle— ]
For gods' sakes, Kanan. There is something wrong with those boys.
[Shrieking like children, shirking their obligations, property damage. If his fingers could pinch tighter round the bridge of his own knows without gouging out his eyes, they would— that's how much pressure he needs to abate the eternal migrane he's been nursing for the last five years now.]
[It's a deliberately neutral hum offered up from the mattress as Kanan watches his husband pace. They're safely locked away in their rooms, well away from both the prying ears of their elven children and equally noisy employees, which suits Kanan's idea perfectly. It isn't often anymore that Zevlor erupts, but he has a vague feeling they're heading in that direction.]
Is there?
[He reaches out and snags his husband's wrist in passing, tugging faintly: sit with me, gentle and yet insistent.]
I can't say I'm impressed with them, but what makes this so different from the last time they were too loud? At least they weren't brawling this time.
[Oh, he knows, but Zevlor has to say it. That's part of this.]
Brawling, no. It can't be simple as that anymore, can it? [Is winding up in its frustration, but snares on the simple weight of Kanan's fingers curled around his own. Between that and the look in his husband's eyes, it softens the old battlewearied burrs flocking his own silhouette. Coaxes him to sit, at least.
But then what can't Kanan coax from him these days? (Or ever, for that matter....)
Still, he's stiff throughout his spine once he settles deep into the mattress' edge, no less capable of grousing than before.]
Now they have to make eyes at one another all night and noise all day when they're not busy wrecking everything in their path— I asked Astarion to show the new girl around so she could learn her station and instead, I find myself called upstairs in the middle of rehearsals to find the three of them caterwauling over medical texts loud enough to keep the other staff from sleeping!
[He offers up another little hum, this one more agreeable. Little brats, though at this point, it's to be expected that one will drag the other into trouble no matter what they do. They're rambunctious things and always have been; age has only done so much to temper that.]
Of course they were. This is the first time since Fenris came here that they've had someone their age to play with. Though that doesn't lessen their collective idiocy.
[Fondly said now that they're alone together, though trust Kanan had been every bit as cross when he'd heard what had happened. He tips his head, regarding his husband as he tries to decide what tactic to take— but oh, bluntness has always worked well when it comes to Zevlor.]
Tell me.
[He says it firmly, ducking his head down to catch Zevlor's gaze.]
Not about their wailing today . . . you've been angry all week, snapping at everyone save them. Don't think I haven't noticed. The staff has, too— or did you think they've all been on their best behavior for no reason?
[He takes one hand between his own, his palms warm.]
[Age hasn't done enough, he reckons, not nearly enough. If there were a button to be pressed or some year-mark wherein the pair of them might actually settle down instead of finding new and interesting ways to wind up, he'd be moved to utter tears at this point, for all that the bar has sunken fully into the flooring.
And beyond.]
Aht— [Is such a fatherly noise of alarm, despite his best attempts to sound less like a nanny goat in his hours off. Still there's no helping it this time, when you disapprove of the two of them together sounds more singular than plural. As if Zevlor is the only one here driven to tail-flicking irritation by their incessant boldness, and in the face of that (thankfully tethered by the hands wrapped round his own), he balks.]
I disapprove of them breaking into the stockrooms after hours. I disapprove of needing to replace the curtains in the lobby— twice. What they're doing goes beyond that entirely: they're still children, Kanan.
[No, not just that:]
They're my children— [Ah. Well. Sheepishly, he adds, ] our children.
[It isn't the possessiveness that bothers Kanan, not when they've had so many years together (though it's sweet the way he goes sheepish as he corrects himself). But there's such agitation in his husband's bearing, and that emphasis on children . . . oh, love.]
They're getting older, sweetheart.
[His voice is more tender than most of the Moulin Rouge has ever heard it, but Zevlor is— and always has been— Kanan's eternal exception. He strokes his thumb against the back of one battle-worn hand, absently tracing an old scar there.]
They'll always be our children, but the days of them toddling after us and clinging to our tails are long gone.
[Make no mistake, he mourns the loss. He misses those days of bright eyes and giddy babble from an elven toddler who waddled after them with adoring single-mindedness. Or when he would climb into bed with them, chubby cheeks streaked with tears from a nightmare . . . oh, those early days were so hard, but they'd poured so much love into their newfound child. And as for Fenris . . . he cannot say he misses the little wraith, if only because Fenris seems so much happier the more he's grown. But there was such delight in watching the two of them excitedly play together: two lonely pups finally finding companionship, and hadn't the Moulin Rouge seemed a little lighter with the ringing of children's laughter echoing around the stage . . .?
Gods. He's going to get lost in nostalgia if he lingers too long. Kanan blinks, pushing himself out of it, and continues:]
And with adulthood comes . . . some discomfort. There was a dancer . . . before you came here. She had a child, and while she didn't raise her within the Moulin Rouge, I remember the stories she would tell. She did not begrudge her growing up, but there would be so many days when she missed the infant and child and rued the teenager that fought her on every turn. From how to dress to how to act to whether she was allowed to stay out late . . . it was a battle, and she missed the simpler days, for all that she loved seeing her daughter grow.
[And of course, that isn't the point at all— but perhaps it will help illustrate the fact that the lesser half of this discomfort isn't so unusual. That they will always miss their babies, but that there's joy, too, in seeing the person that emerges. He huffs a small laugh and adds gently:]
Besides: I wager you don't miss the more difficult parts of when they were young, hm? And we have more time for ourselves now . . .
[All the shrieking tantrums and sulking fits, all the ways in which a child needs endless attention and love and guidance . . . it was well worth it, but it's easy to forget when looking through the lens of nostalgia. And gods, Kanan never once has regretted taking either boy in, but it is so damn nice to be able to have time for just himself and his husband again.
But the other half of the problem is still there. Kanan gives it a few seconds, and then, gently:]
But it isn't that which bothers you. [A statement, not a question.] Zevlor, I can't say I love the thought of the two of them together— point in fact, the less I know about what they get up to, the better. But they aren't related by blood, my love. And though they will always be our children, they have never grown up assuming themselves as brothers.
[By adoption, yes. By camaraderie and loyalty and love, always. But not in the sense that Zevlor is thinking.]
. . . Astarion confides in me. I knew of his obsession for quite some time, for there were only so many times I could hear about his jealousy or his fixation on the, ah, changes in Fenris' physique without suspecting. But Fenris doesn't do the same to you, does he? At least not in the same way.
[His fears, his anguish, his confidence . . . all those are things Fenris has gone to Zevlor with. But his emotions, embarrassment or fluster or growing attraction, well, that's harder. Especially when Fenris can be such a taciturn thing; especially when Zevlor, gods bless his battlemaster of a husband, can be so direct. Not cruel nor mean, not by any means, but . . . not, perhaps, the easiest person to be vulnerable in front of. Not especially if he disapproves.]
Is it because it's such a shock? Or because the thought truly unnerves you?
[The sound he makes is groaning, winnowy; the wind of indignity has left his sails, and no amount of hardiness will bring it back when his husband's fingertips trace those markers of his past. Their past. Their children's past. All past.
How very exhausting it is to remain in the present, some days. He wants that known regardless of whether or not he lacks the verbosity for it.
—And then he finds himself derailed.]
Astarion speaks to you like that?
[(He's the epitome of dad-coded dad, okay. This is earth-shattering news.)]
[He chuckles sympathetically for that groan and leans heavily against his husband, shoulder bumping against ridged shoulder. It's exhausting, oh yes. It's exhausting and annoying and wearying and they neither of them would exchange it for the world (most of it, anyway). Such is the fate of all parents, Kanan suspects— or the good ones, at least.]
Oh, yes.
[Simply said, though then he adds:]
Fenris doesn't. [Just in case there was an issue of jealousy.] But Astarion . . . I suspect he can't hold in all the things he feels, for they burn so brightly within him. But none of it was direct, not really. More like little comments and remarks made over the years— admiring Fenris' prowess in the ring, or seething when some of the others would tease him. Fixating on him no matter what he did, or musing about how best to describe his eyes . . .
[Bob's Burgers voice: it's not subtle.]
And then, of course, the Elise incident happened. And it all sort of came spilling out.
[He cocks his head.]
Is it so shocking? Surely Fenris must confide in you— perhaps not to the same degree, but he's closer to you than he is to me.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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And then he makes a noise that sounds something like a rat being run over, holding the now-starved kohl betwixt his fingers.
They'll talk about this later.]
Shut your eyes, princess, and distract me from my grief by telling me what it is your mother does for a living.
[As the last bits of midnight color smooth over her long lashes.]
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I'll steal some for you later.
[It's an apology, sort of. He will steal some for him, but they are most certainly going to Talk About This Later. Still: he doesn't feel bad enough to slink off, and indeed, instead shifts to face the other two more fully. Dalyria closes her eyes, white lashes stark against glittering purple skin, and obediently upturns her face.
'She runs a boutique,' Dalyria says casually. 'A particularly high-end one, at that.' No, they aren't nobility, but they're something close to it. Jumped-up merchant princess, someone had sneered once, and promptly gotten a fierce beating from her eldest sister. Dalyria's eyes flicker, her discomfort at having something dull slipped over her lashes apparent. 'Most of the noble houses commission her, especially for special occasions.'
She opens her eyes the moment the pressure abates (whether or not that coincides with Astarion being done is a different matter entirely). 'She'd like it here, she adds honestly. 'Though she might be rude about it being on the surface, but still. She likes attention paid to little details.']
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Tossing the nub of useless wood and remnant pitch into the trash before tilting Dal's chin higher, motioning for her to relax her lips so he can line them.]
And you....went from that sort of prestige to stuffing gauze into cocks up here on the surface?
[As far as he knows, no one's ever actually had gauze stuffed up their cocks here as any sort of medical procedure. But then as far as he knows, there's probably not no medical procedure that involves stuffing gauze into cocks, so....]
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I don't— that isn't—
[SIR.]
What kind of medical attention have you been receiving??
[Like, he's probably joking, but also: maybe not! People are fucking idiots sometimes! She has no idea of the standards of care here, and also, why did he go to that specifically.]
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It stays as he picks up a kerchief, wets it, and begins wiping at the extra line drawn round Dalyria's mouth.
Whilst leaving her enough room to speak, of course.]
What kind of medical attention have you been getting? [He all but cackles, letting it scrunch one side of his nose more than the other— casting a glance towards Fenris' delight— demeanor clearly riled up like an overly encouraged pup at playtime.]
Anyway I don't know. I hear some stuff can get pretty gnarly.
[Or maybe that's just backstage ghost story talk.]
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Well, it won't be her that gets in trouble. Dalyria's voice is pitched lower, her fingers kneading against her thighs as Astarion works. It's kind of him to wipe away that mark, she thinks. An unexpected kindness, just as all this fussing has been.]
Not like that.
[She's more still this time, speaking only when he seems to have paused.
'Then like what? Have you ever worked on a male before?' Fenris asks, not unkindly. 'Or's that going to be your first lesson here? How to handle a cock.' He aims a little smirk right back at Astarion, and oh, the two of them constantly making eyes at one another is going to get very tiring very quickly.]
I have. But I know enough not to shove anything up a man's urethra, thank you.
[Rather primly said, her tone slightly undercut by the way she purses her lips to try and see what Astarion has drawn. But oh, that answer isn't good enough, not when they're goading her.]
But . . . my teacher one knew a man who once broke his— thing.
['He broke it? How?' Fenris asks, an appropriate look of horror on his face. Good.]
By having sex too carelessly. You can't just do anything, you know. It can get torn and broken like any other body part, and then it'll take a lot more than gauze to undo the damage.
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Or his pulse.
Or both.
At this point even he doesn't know.]
You're fucking with us.
[Seems like a better world of logic than the one in which she's actually somehow telling the truth.]
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[Smugly said as she glances between both boys and their matching expressions of horror.]
It goes all black and you have to go into surgery right away, or else your member might be broken forever. Or you won't be able to get hard, or it'll always curve—
['Why would it curve,' Fenris says flatly. He's crossed his legs a little tightly, and that amuses her as much as Astarion's bewildered expression.]
Because it's broken, and someone didn't fix it right. You can even break it all on yourself if you masturbate wrong—
['HOW?' is a yelp that earns another scolding knock from someone next door.]
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(If he does anything too hard, apparently.)]
—no. No that's not—
I've seen plenty of curved dicks before. They can't all be....
[....oh gods, maybe they are.]
WHY WOULD YOU TELL US THIS!?
[Another, louder bang. At this rate they're going to get an utter earful from someone, even if it's not Kanan or Zevlor.]
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[She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, that same smirk still on her lips.]
It's something to avoid— at least now you know it's possible. And you haven't seen curved dicks like the ones when people break them, or else you would have known long before this. Besides: I doubt a brothel has much use for someone who can't even get it up.
[Now it's a little easier to slip into the vulgar vocabulary the boys have— to a point, anyway. But so long as she has their attention . . .]
Wait a moment.
[For her to cross the hall into the room her bags are deposited. It takes a little rummaging, but soon enough she's found the book she's looking for. One finger stuck within the pages, she returns, sitting with a little grin.]
Do you want to see?
[And then, on the tail of that:]
Don't scream if the answer is yes. You're going to get us all in trouble if you don't hush.
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As a matter of fact....
There's a shuffling— the sound of it audible where Astarion isn't— as he scoots himself around to stand fully behind Fenris instead, letting his bodyguard go first. Peeking around the outline of his shoulder with sharp ears tucked flat.
And, you know. Scooting him forward a bit. Just to make sure they don't miss out on vital information.]
1/3
[One brotherly, waspish hiss, for why should he have to be the one to see it first? But such is the role of a bodyguard. Whether it's storming through groping patrons to rescue his beloved or having to look at something he's half-convinced isn't real, it's all in a day's work. So with one short, sharp sigh, Fenris grimly fixes his gaze on the girl in front of him.
She's grinning. She should not be grinning, some part of him thinks with mild offense. She can't know how just how important a man's cock is, of course, but still. He wouldn't tease if you could, you know, break your cunt. Just saying. Wait, can you—?
He's getting off topic.
'Don't fuss,' she says again, and flips open the book. And it's—]
2/4
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[It's all he can do not to gag. Things are bent in ways they should never be bent. Things are a sickly shade of purple-black that they absolutely should not be. Right angles are involved in an increasingly distressing way, and Fenris thinks he might never get the image out of his mind except the next page is even worse—]
5/5
[She says it primly, as if everyone ought to be comfortable with a diagram of a split-open cock. Fenris recoils back, his cheeks pale and his lips drawn back in a grimace of horror; one arm blindly flails back, as if he might somehow belatedly save Astarion from having to see this.]
What? Too gory?
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Well, sort of too late: around Fenris' shoulder, Astarion had only caught a glimpse of the upper right-hand corner of— something. But whatever that fleshy something was was more than enough to have him nearly tripping over his own feet as he careens— or shrinks— or buries himself like a dog against the back of Fenris' arm, both grabbing and yelping out pitched whines for the sake of expressing his dismay, the two of them now closer to being halfway up the wall than standing on their feet.
You're a monster! is the jist of Astarion's accusatory wailing, barely muffled in a sea of finely sewn linen (and even finer muscle), for the last and final time prompting a rattling of the handle— ]
2/2
[Shrieking like children, shirking their obligations, property damage. If his fingers could pinch tighter round the bridge of his own knows without gouging out his eyes, they would— that's how much pressure he needs to abate the eternal migrane he's been nursing for the last five years now.]
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[It's a deliberately neutral hum offered up from the mattress as Kanan watches his husband pace. They're safely locked away in their rooms, well away from both the prying ears of their elven children and equally noisy employees, which suits Kanan's idea perfectly. It isn't often anymore that Zevlor erupts, but he has a vague feeling they're heading in that direction.]
Is there?
[He reaches out and snags his husband's wrist in passing, tugging faintly: sit with me, gentle and yet insistent.]
I can't say I'm impressed with them, but what makes this so different from the last time they were too loud? At least they weren't brawling this time.
[Oh, he knows, but Zevlor has to say it. That's part of this.]
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But then what can't Kanan coax from him these days? (Or ever, for that matter....)
Still, he's stiff throughout his spine once he settles deep into the mattress' edge, no less capable of grousing than before.]
Now they have to make eyes at one another all night and noise all day when they're not busy wrecking everything in their path— I asked Astarion to show the new girl around so she could learn her station and instead, I find myself called upstairs in the middle of rehearsals to find the three of them caterwauling over medical texts loud enough to keep the other staff from sleeping!
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Of course they were. This is the first time since Fenris came here that they've had someone their age to play with. Though that doesn't lessen their collective idiocy.
[Fondly said now that they're alone together, though trust Kanan had been every bit as cross when he'd heard what had happened. He tips his head, regarding his husband as he tries to decide what tactic to take— but oh, bluntness has always worked well when it comes to Zevlor.]
Tell me.
[He says it firmly, ducking his head down to catch Zevlor's gaze.]
Not about their wailing today . . . you've been angry all week, snapping at everyone save them. Don't think I haven't noticed. The staff has, too— or did you think they've all been on their best behavior for no reason?
[He takes one hand between his own, his palms warm.]
You disapprove of the two of them together.
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And beyond.]
Aht— [Is such a fatherly noise of alarm, despite his best attempts to sound less like a nanny goat in his hours off. Still there's no helping it this time, when you disapprove of the two of them together sounds more singular than plural. As if Zevlor is the only one here driven to tail-flicking irritation by their incessant boldness, and in the face of that (thankfully tethered by the hands wrapped round his own), he balks.]
I disapprove of them breaking into the stockrooms after hours. I disapprove of needing to replace the curtains in the lobby— twice. What they're doing goes beyond that entirely: they're still children, Kanan.
[No, not just that:]
They're my children— [Ah. Well. Sheepishly, he adds, ] our children.
The least they could do is act like it.
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They're getting older, sweetheart.
[His voice is more tender than most of the Moulin Rouge has ever heard it, but Zevlor is— and always has been— Kanan's eternal exception. He strokes his thumb against the back of one battle-worn hand, absently tracing an old scar there.]
They'll always be our children, but the days of them toddling after us and clinging to our tails are long gone.
[Make no mistake, he mourns the loss. He misses those days of bright eyes and giddy babble from an elven toddler who waddled after them with adoring single-mindedness. Or when he would climb into bed with them, chubby cheeks streaked with tears from a nightmare . . . oh, those early days were so hard, but they'd poured so much love into their newfound child. And as for Fenris . . . he cannot say he misses the little wraith, if only because Fenris seems so much happier the more he's grown. But there was such delight in watching the two of them excitedly play together: two lonely pups finally finding companionship, and hadn't the Moulin Rouge seemed a little lighter with the ringing of children's laughter echoing around the stage . . .?
Gods. He's going to get lost in nostalgia if he lingers too long. Kanan blinks, pushing himself out of it, and continues:]
And with adulthood comes . . . some discomfort. There was a dancer . . . before you came here. She had a child, and while she didn't raise her within the Moulin Rouge, I remember the stories she would tell. She did not begrudge her growing up, but there would be so many days when she missed the infant and child and rued the teenager that fought her on every turn. From how to dress to how to act to whether she was allowed to stay out late . . . it was a battle, and she missed the simpler days, for all that she loved seeing her daughter grow.
[And of course, that isn't the point at all— but perhaps it will help illustrate the fact that the lesser half of this discomfort isn't so unusual. That they will always miss their babies, but that there's joy, too, in seeing the person that emerges. He huffs a small laugh and adds gently:]
Besides: I wager you don't miss the more difficult parts of when they were young, hm? And we have more time for ourselves now . . .
[All the shrieking tantrums and sulking fits, all the ways in which a child needs endless attention and love and guidance . . . it was well worth it, but it's easy to forget when looking through the lens of nostalgia. And gods, Kanan never once has regretted taking either boy in, but it is so damn nice to be able to have time for just himself and his husband again.
But the other half of the problem is still there. Kanan gives it a few seconds, and then, gently:]
But it isn't that which bothers you. [A statement, not a question.] Zevlor, I can't say I love the thought of the two of them together— point in fact, the less I know about what they get up to, the better. But they aren't related by blood, my love. And though they will always be our children, they have never grown up assuming themselves as brothers.
[By adoption, yes. By camaraderie and loyalty and love, always. But not in the sense that Zevlor is thinking.]
. . . Astarion confides in me. I knew of his obsession for quite some time, for there were only so many times I could hear about his jealousy or his fixation on the, ah, changes in Fenris' physique without suspecting. But Fenris doesn't do the same to you, does he? At least not in the same way.
[His fears, his anguish, his confidence . . . all those are things Fenris has gone to Zevlor with. But his emotions, embarrassment or fluster or growing attraction, well, that's harder. Especially when Fenris can be such a taciturn thing; especially when Zevlor, gods bless his battlemaster of a husband, can be so direct. Not cruel nor mean, not by any means, but . . . not, perhaps, the easiest person to be vulnerable in front of. Not especially if he disapproves.]
Is it because it's such a shock? Or because the thought truly unnerves you?
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How very exhausting it is to remain in the present, some days. He wants that known regardless of whether or not he lacks the verbosity for it.
—And then he finds himself derailed.]
Astarion speaks to you like that?
[(He's the epitome of dad-coded dad, okay. This is earth-shattering news.)]
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Oh, yes.
[Simply said, though then he adds:]
Fenris doesn't. [Just in case there was an issue of jealousy.] But Astarion . . . I suspect he can't hold in all the things he feels, for they burn so brightly within him. But none of it was direct, not really. More like little comments and remarks made over the years— admiring Fenris' prowess in the ring, or seething when some of the others would tease him. Fixating on him no matter what he did, or musing about how best to describe his eyes . . .
[Bob's Burgers voice: it's not subtle.]
And then, of course, the Elise incident happened. And it all sort of came spilling out.
[He cocks his head.]
Is it so shocking? Surely Fenris must confide in you— perhaps not to the same degree, but he's closer to you than he is to me.
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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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