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.
Eunh. [Is yet another aging noise that escapes him more and more, something akin to a 'yes' or an 'I see' or even a concession, depending on the conversation. A catch-all, general expression that can change its stripes to suit a variety of situations— quite fitting for a man of few words.] The Elise incident.
[How could anyone forget? It'd been the landmark for a suddden uptick in chaos behind the doors of then Moulin Rouge, and an uphill battle to keep it from affecting the front of house on any given day— and yet for Kanan was merely confirmation.
With the pads of three raised fingers he takes to rubbing at the corner of his brow, kneading as their path slides back towards his temple and his hairline, and lastly, his own cheek. Leaves them there as he exhales long and slow....and slumps backwards across the mattress, still holding Kanan's hand (although unwilling to drag him down by force).]
No, there's no discussion. [And no need for clarification: the answer, like the start of his retort, applies to everything just as aptly.] Fenris wears his irritability on his sleeve, as does Astarion, but only one of them comes to me for it— and he prefers to settle it in the ring.
[Except it occurs to Zevlor then he doesn't know that for certain. That it's what they've done to treat flares of distemper across the years right from the start, requested by a lurking little shadow too shy to do more than loiter by the arms rack and stare, but still. He's never once asked the boy for conversation, just saw it settled and assumed.]
Maybe I misled him. Treated him too much like one of the Riders. [When all you've ever reared are squadrons, every troupe and child becomes another facet of its shape. Astarion resisted it right from the moment he could talk, of course, and Zevlor always let him. But he had Kanan there beside him to teach him. Nurture him.
[He smiles faintly down at his husband first, for the sight of him sprawled out on the bed and huffing like a frustrated child is an endearing one. But after that, oh, of course he follows: lying down rather more sedately on his side, their fingers still intertwined and his golden eyes warm with affection.]
I very much doubt you've misled him. [Oh, no, they're going to nip that anguish right in the bud, thank you very much. Kanan's tone is sympathetic, but briskly so: none of that, for he won't have his husband fret over being a bad parent after all the sacrifices he's made over the years.] You're his father, just as you're Astarion's— and if your parenting style is influenced by the way you're used to command, so be it. They've both thrived beneath it, in one way if not another.
And before you take this upon yourself as another scar to bear: Fenris does not come to me for such things, not ever. He goes to you, for he knows that you'll help him settle his heart in the way you both love best. You've done well with him on that front— far, far better than I would have done.
[He squeezes his hand and meets his gaze as duel forms of emphasis: don't fret. And when even that doesn't feel enough, he inches over and presses their bodies together, silently emphasizing all he's said, for it is so hard for his battle-weary husband to not blame himself when things go awry.
Only when a moment of silence has passed does he add gently:]
But . . . if you want to attempt to talk to him, I don't think that would be the worst idea, either. He could use a confidant, and you two are far more alike than not. Treat him like one of the younger Riders if it suits you more— you must have had to talk with some of the younger recruits about growing up, surely? [Maybe, maybe not. In either case:] Or talk to him as you talk to me.
But do not take it as bad parenting if you do not, for Fenris has grown into a fine young man, and that is far from merely my own influence at work.
[Their fingers twist together, wending tighter. A mutual exchange on both sides of the equation.
A briefer pause for hesitation (raising children who are prone to gagging does that to you), he places warm fingertips against his lips in fonder gesture, never shutting or drawing away his eyes from the sight of Kanan's timeless face.]
No. [He surrenders,] Only mostly your influence.
[Which is a joke of course, but not by much. The boy came boxed with obeisance in his blood, and what he didn't start with, he found more in the company of softer voices than he likely did in Zevlor's stoicism— but still. A co-effort. One that draws an exhale out of him, deflating the center of his chest.]
....they really don't exhaust you like this?
[Asked after a moment of consideration cloaked in scrutinizing gaze.]
[This time he laughs, the sound low and warm, and leans forward to nuzzle against Zevlor's cheek. To hell with their children and their retching (an endless annoyance that Kanan is more than ready to pay back with a vengeance). They were a unit long before they became a family, and there are times when he wants that very direct reminder.]
Of course they do.
[It's a low hum, warm breath pushed against a hot cheek, before he draws back far enough to meet that searching look.]
Fenris terrifies me each time he picks up a blade. I loathe the sight of him with blood dripping down his face and bruises everywhere— gods, Zevlor, the night he broke his arm . . . [Oh, what a nightmare that had been for him. It was a sparring accident, nothing more, and such things happen, Zevlor had said, soothing him throughout the night. He'll be hale and whole again before you know it, and of course he was, not that it stopped Kanan from trying to baby him for weeks on end. Even the memory is enough to make him wince, which is why he promptly focuses back on the present.]
Always, it alarms me to no end . . . but I am not nearly used to such sights as you are, and I never will be.
Love and lust and all the hysterics contained therein . . . that has been my world for as long as I can remember. I have the advantage, for I have seen this kind of thing play out in a thousand variations across the years. Admittedly, none quite so, ah, close to home . . . [In more ways than one.] But this is my territory, sweetheart.
But they exhaust me. Their dramatics. Their endless stubbornness. Their ability to make trouble by merely existing, and spread that trouble around through sheer force of personality alone. Their insistence on not having to be reminded we are first and foremost a couple, not just their parents. As for the sight of them shoving their tongues down one another's throats . . .
[Blech, and he pulls a little face. Gross!]
Of course they exhaust me. But that is the role of children— and especially of teenagers. And though they can be tiresome little things, that isn't why you're upset.
Their being together . . . it doesn't alarm me, and perhaps therein lies the difference between us.
[He trails his fingers through brown strands, and then, without judgement:]
Is it intolerable to see them?
[It's okay if the answer is yes, that's what his tone means.]
It seems at times you can't bear to look at either of them— especially Astarion.
[Hn. He remembers that, the broken arm. The boy barely even let out a breath let alone a sound when it happened, silent as the grave the moment his arm went slack and his sword clattered to the ground. Hardly silent in the aftermath when he was practically sutured to Kanan's inner arm and hip at all hours— fretted over to the point that Zevlor later walked in on Astarion with his own wrist across the bartop counter and a hefty rock clutched in the other hand, albeit quickly snatched away. Jealous to the point of stupidity as ever, and it draws a lidded chuckle through him now beneath those fingers to think that in this context, he really should have seen the biting incident coming.
But the last question asked shakes him soundly from his reverie, burning eyes drawn open.]
I'd find it easier to look if they weren't halfway down each others' throats through projected thought alone.
[The sound this time is gentle. Almost amused, and far, far from insulted. It comes with a touch slipped underneath Kanan's chin, close equal to the way stone statues to the gods are tended— with equal dosage reverence and care.]
What is it you're thinking? [Isn't a literal question. If it was, he wouldn't be smiling right now.] That I wish I'd chosen differently? That I'd hoped to raise them better? That they're wearing on my last nerve?
[Oh, he's teasing. Kanan huffs quietly at him, offering up a laughably weak attempt at feigning annoyance. In truth he's delighted, for it's been an age (or so it seems) since they've gotten to flirt like this. They're both always so busy, after all, and it's hard to take the time to settle in and tease . . . but it makes this moment all the sweeter.]
That you regret letting them get so close, [is a tart reply, teasing and yet not. For he does worry, just a little. He has never once doubted Zevlor's love nor his parenting skills, but, well:]
This is a lot. Most fathers don't have to contend with their children growing up and falling in love. And both of them put such stock into your opinion— they do, [he insists.] Astarion may come to me with matters of the heart, but it's you he looks to first for praise.
[Likely because he knows how effusive Kanan can be. Never false, but far more easily earned, oh, yes. A compliment from Zevlor is earned, and both boys puff up with pride whenever they do.]
I simply . . . you mind everyone else in this theater. You worry over them. Protect them even when it isn't a good idea, or they barely deserve it. [The former are their children: a noble boy ousted out of fortune and title for no clear reason and a magister's house-slave. Both of them targets in their own right; both of them a headache and a half to keep, and it would have caused far less trouble to have passed them both by. But the latter is for their staff— for Kanan loves them, he does, but he cannot deny they're the most palatable bunch.]
I want to be sure someone is minding you. And that you don't feel as though you have to keep all your feelings to yourself for everyone else's sake.
I have heard most fathers don't raise adopted children in a whorehouse. [More than once he's thought that if he really wanted sound advice on what to do when two very stupid, chronically stubborn sons fall in love with one another, he'd start by asking the Chantry Sister in charge of running the orphanage two districts over how they've reckoned with it decade after decade.] Countless more don't have a partner like you around to dull the strangeness of their children's tomfoolery.
[It wouldn't be as offputting if he didn't see them as his own. That's not a choice, however; his heart's belonged to them the second he brought them home.]
Thank you for worrying. That you do is enough to keep my feelings from being buried despite my best attempts. [He's a man of few words, but there's no shortage of comforts to be found beside him now.]
[His eyes flit over Zelvor's face, a little frown gracing his own— but whatever he seeks, he seems to find, for in the next moment he exhales softly. Inching in closer, he fits himself half-over his husband, hovering so that he might nose gently at him. Don't hide, not from me, underscoring and reinforcing the notion for the next time this happens.]
Our lives are eternally strange. It suits that our children have inherited that, in one way if not another.
[He smiles faintly down at him.]
And I'll always worry about you. I'll always demand you tell me what you feel— for that is never, ever lesser than anything else that's happening. And—
[A beat, and his smile twists into a smirk.]
Consider this, my love: if nothing else, they haven't any room to complain if you and I become more affectionate in public. For every kiss they subject you to, you're entitled to the same— or more.
[Oh, it's been so long . . . but if they're old enough to fool around, they're old enough to learn to deal with their fathers being flirtatious again. And even if they aren't, too bad. Carefully his claws trace down the line of one arched cheek, his smirk growing by the second.]
And I have every intention of using that to my absolute advantage.
Hah! Now there's an exchange rate I'll happily agree to. [One the boys are long overdue to experience, he thinks, before shivering with the abrupt remembrance of just how long it's been— Maker, what it is to run a brothel and a family all at once: he's become chaste in new and exciting ways (by 'exciting' he means the heart attack he flirts with nightly) for less intriguing reasons than what shifts over him now, slender talons trickling over battleworn skin— eliciting a vibrant trickle of sensation. Something that kindles up the measure of his nerves and deadened scars, more awake now than they've been in ages, it feels.
A single, soft-throated —oh catches him as he conversely catches on. The difference between hypothetical teasing and intent by any bright-eyed name. By wandering fingertips and the way they've both wound up along the rails of this discussion, he's waking up with every second despite the mire of his thoughts confusing odalisque equivoque until now.
(There are grey hairs flocking at his temples. His stony joints too tense from hunching at a shutterd desk rather than working oiled steel, a little atrophied from time and lack of battle, but only insofar as a well-worked utensil is molded by its purpose. They vanish at the sight of a face that hasn't lost a fraction of its famed beauty, finally fixated on him and him alone.)
When he reaches up to bury strong fingers into silk— into places no straightlaced paladin would ever think to grace in worship— he's fifteen years lighter.]
2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
[It took three hours to repair their bed frame (all rushed in a frantic half-clothed sweat to finish before the Moulin Rouge awoke). Hard lessons learned about ancient bolts and the assumption that fine handiwork would last forever without routine maintenance, there's a crick wedged in Zevlor's spine jabbing straight into his lower neck— which isn't the foremost reason why he's having trouble looking over towards his righthand side, only chancing a single sidelong flick of attention through hooded eyes.]
....so....
[Feels like a noose, somehow. Voice creaking in the prelude to a cleared throat. Their swords are in their laps; a deliberate request before their usual sparring sessions.]
It's been a long time since Fenris felt that uniquely nauseating combination of uncertainty and trepidation churning in the pit of his stomach. For all that the Moulin Rouge is ever-changing and never-still, the proprietor in question has always been a solid rock amongst all that. Someone whose reactions and expectations have been comfortably predictable from the moment Fenris arrived here— indeed, the bedrock from which he formed his initial trust in the establishment, and which has only deepened the more time passed. The only exceptions have ever been for serious matters (when he broke his arm; when Danarius' agents came sniffing at their door three months after they took him in; when he and Astarion had blown up a few weeks ago).
So what the hell is happening that they're sitting here side by side, swords in their laps and the awkward tension between them growing thicker by the minute. Fenris glances over at his father, his own growing agony made worse by the clear discomfort in every line of Zevlor's body.]
Er . . .
[How are things? What the hell kind of question is that to ask him?? He glances over at him in bewilderment, but there's no hint as to what Zevlor is hoping to hear.]
Fine . . .?
[No, that's clearly not the right answer. But what the fu—
[Oh. Oh, of course— and the relief suffuses through him as Fenris realizes what the other man is trying to ask. Straightening up a little, he says with learned discipline:]
My strength is growing, and I'm more able to successfully wield a two-handed sword than before, but I still have trouble when it comes to hefting it gracefully, as well as transitioning from one move to the other. Footwork remains the same, and still requires improvement. Wielding something one-handed naturally remains easier in terms of strength, but I still struggle with blocking along my left side. In hand-to-hand, Marcus has been an effective instructor, and reports that my skill is growing, both in terms of strength as well as learned movements. We learned a new move this week to disarm someone, and I'm coming along well with it— I should have it down by next week. He told me to tell you that my legwork needs more attention, and that— [a very small wrinkling of his nose] — that I need to focus less on how things look and more on how they are.
[He is not immune to the giddying thrill of staring at himself in the mirror and thinking about how cool he looks (only to find himself flat on his ass in the next minute).]
And that I need more cardio.
[There, now. That's how things are: a thorough battlefield report on his own progress and room for growth. He sits far more at ease now, staring expectantly up at Zevlor; if he were a pup (or a tiefling child), his tail would be faintly wagging. Tell him he did good, please, for surely that's what was meant.
But he's still a teenager, not a battle-worn warrior. And so, a little impulsively, he adds:]
I have been doing cardio, though. Even Astarion has noticed. I can do a mile in under 12 minutes now.
[That's okay. He can do better, he knows he can— and he will, for he is so very determined to succeed at this. But tell him he did good, please, because in some ways he's just as eternally starved for praise as Astarion is.]
[Oh it takes him by surprise. The unfurling rush of storied information— aspects of his child's life he never knew existed all laid out before him as he sits stupefied, gawking with his wrists draped over his knees around the flat of his blade. Kanan had been right. (When hasn't Kanan been right?) And yet he'd fumbled into this moment under the assumption that the stern boy he once sheltered under his wing remained as ascetic as ever in his age, dragged into this or that simply because Astarion demanded it, only to find a capable, exciteable heart still bursting with eager pride all its own. A young man all too well-equipped to keep up with his—
Mm. Brother no longer, he amends. Amoureux feels more appropriate.]
Under twelve minutes? Really?
[It isn't feigned, the way his browridge lifts in soft surprise; for more reasons than can be counted, Fenris' father is impressed.]
[Oh— oh, and it's like sunlight suddenly shining on a flower: Fenris perks up, his eyes brightening as he takes in that praising tone. It's not that Zevlor has never praised him— oh, far from it— but earning something so unexpectedly is always a sweeter prize.]
Mmhm! 11 minutes and thirty-five seconds. But I bet I can get it down to under ten minutes by spring, if not sooner.
[Not that he's obsessed with his own abilities. Not that he's memorized the number in a fit of petulance, aggravated at his own slow progress, and never mind that he's faster than most of the Moulin Rouge. He's not fast enough, not yet, just like he isn't strong enough.]
And I was thinking . . . I'm getting better at the sword. And wouldn't it make sense to have me learn even more weapons? Hand-to-hand will still be most useful in the Moulin Rouge, but a crossbow or a pistol . . . it'd be good to learn, wouldn't it?
[Does he mean what he says? Oh, yes. Is this also because he really, really wants to try shooting a pistol and/or a flaming arrow out of a bow? Maybe. But oh, wait, he's getting ahead of himself. He's being too childish, he silently scolds, and composes his expression into something more serious.]
[With a record like that, Zevlor could easily be convinced his boy is faster than more than half of Paris— and more than that particular half divided out further, where even the halest and fittest of the bunch would meet their match. He's seen the difference, after all. Tested so many Hellriders in the hopes that they'd be ready for a war that'd cull them if they weren't, and out of all the candidates that shuffled in and onwards only one or two at a time had the sort of merit you could clock with just a glance.
Something Fenris has in spades.]
I just.... [Proves halting when he starts, blinking as the wrinkles on his forehead stay high from earlier astonishment. Redoubling it now (or, to translate: shaking his horned head at the way Fenris is reeling it all back in towards composure faster than his own thoughts could hope to stop it).] I don't know.
[He blinks again, his eyes fixed elsewhere.]
I suppose I realized we don't talk as much as we ought to. [Isn't that the jist of it? Isn't that why he'd been so startled when Kanan admitted what he knew about their sons?] And that for a long time now I should have been asking how you were instead of assuming what you wanted. How you felt.
[His exhale's steady. Relaxes his chest enough to coax an upwards tilt by degrees at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't want his son to mimic him, after all; he wants him happy.]
You grew up fast.
[He says to the child there beside him in his memories. The little boy with glittering green eyes.
And then looks towards his teenage son. More careful than walking over ice when he asks the only question left.]
[It flies out of his mouth and bypasses his brain entirely, an impulse born entirely from want and want alone. Yes, of course he wants a crossbow, and only belatedly does the rest of that trickle in.
And Fenris doesn't quite know what to do with all of that.
The pride and love that shine so damned brightly in Zevlor's eyes as he looks over at him. The confession of wanting to talk (and only now does Fenris realize that his own impulse was misguided— or, if not that, at least not fully what was meant). The way the older tiefling makes a point of relaxing himself (and Fenris, unconscious even now to the way he mimics his father, does so too). The achingly soft way that the tiefling looks at him as he says something so devastating as you grew up fast, and just why it makes a lump rise in Fenris' throat as anxiety spikes in his veins, though by all rights it shouldn't.
For a moment he has the impulse to— oh, gods, he doesn't even know what. To reach for one of Zevlor's hands, maybe, or flit his way beneath one arm to wrap his own securely around his waist, clinging close the way he only ever did as a child on the worst nights. Something childish. Something grounding, keeping him tethered securely to his adopted father even as the man admires him for what he's become. It's confusing at best and distressing at worst, a muddle of unexpected feelings and childish impulses that he has no idea how to interpret, much less articulate.
(It won't be until hours later, when the Moulin Rouge is quiet and he lies alone in the dark, will Fenris be able to begin to understand: that for a child whose first parent was torn unexpectedly from him, any perceived distance is frightening— even the ones that aren't real distance at all. Even the ones that are the opposite of that, for what is this conversation if not an attempt at deepened intimacy?).]
You . . .
[He takes in a deep breath, his eyes darting up at Zevlor before away again. Weaponry and battles are one thing, but feelings? How he is, what he wants . . . his fingers begin picking at the edge of his practice sword, fussing with the bits of athletic tape that never lie flat. Maybe it's best not to approach this as how do you feel, but rather:]
Do you— is it—
[Gods, this is so much harder.]
What did you assume I felt? Or wanted.
[It's not what he means to ask, but it's at least a start.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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[How could anyone forget? It'd been the landmark for a suddden uptick in chaos behind the doors of then Moulin Rouge, and an uphill battle to keep it from affecting the front of house on any given day— and yet for Kanan was merely confirmation.
With the pads of three raised fingers he takes to rubbing at the corner of his brow, kneading as their path slides back towards his temple and his hairline, and lastly, his own cheek. Leaves them there as he exhales long and slow....and slumps backwards across the mattress, still holding Kanan's hand (although unwilling to drag him down by force).]
No, there's no discussion. [And no need for clarification: the answer, like the start of his retort, applies to everything just as aptly.] Fenris wears his irritability on his sleeve, as does Astarion, but only one of them comes to me for it— and he prefers to settle it in the ring.
[Except it occurs to Zevlor then he doesn't know that for certain. That it's what they've done to treat flares of distemper across the years right from the start, requested by a lurking little shadow too shy to do more than loiter by the arms rack and stare, but still. He's never once asked the boy for conversation, just saw it settled and assumed.]
Maybe I misled him. Treated him too much like one of the Riders. [When all you've ever reared are squadrons, every troupe and child becomes another facet of its shape. Astarion resisted it right from the moment he could talk, of course, and Zevlor always let him. But he had Kanan there beside him to teach him. Nurture him.
Fenris, though....]
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I very much doubt you've misled him. [Oh, no, they're going to nip that anguish right in the bud, thank you very much. Kanan's tone is sympathetic, but briskly so: none of that, for he won't have his husband fret over being a bad parent after all the sacrifices he's made over the years.] You're his father, just as you're Astarion's— and if your parenting style is influenced by the way you're used to command, so be it. They've both thrived beneath it, in one way if not another.
And before you take this upon yourself as another scar to bear: Fenris does not come to me for such things, not ever. He goes to you, for he knows that you'll help him settle his heart in the way you both love best. You've done well with him on that front— far, far better than I would have done.
[He squeezes his hand and meets his gaze as duel forms of emphasis: don't fret. And when even that doesn't feel enough, he inches over and presses their bodies together, silently emphasizing all he's said, for it is so hard for his battle-weary husband to not blame himself when things go awry.
Only when a moment of silence has passed does he add gently:]
But . . . if you want to attempt to talk to him, I don't think that would be the worst idea, either. He could use a confidant, and you two are far more alike than not. Treat him like one of the younger Riders if it suits you more— you must have had to talk with some of the younger recruits about growing up, surely? [Maybe, maybe not. In either case:] Or talk to him as you talk to me.
But do not take it as bad parenting if you do not, for Fenris has grown into a fine young man, and that is far from merely my own influence at work.
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A briefer pause for hesitation (raising children who are prone to gagging does that to you), he places warm fingertips against his lips in fonder gesture, never shutting or drawing away his eyes from the sight of Kanan's timeless face.]
No. [He surrenders,] Only mostly your influence.
[Which is a joke of course, but not by much. The boy came boxed with obeisance in his blood, and what he didn't start with, he found more in the company of softer voices than he likely did in Zevlor's stoicism— but still. A co-effort. One that draws an exhale out of him, deflating the center of his chest.]
....they really don't exhaust you like this?
[Asked after a moment of consideration cloaked in scrutinizing gaze.]
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Of course they do.
[It's a low hum, warm breath pushed against a hot cheek, before he draws back far enough to meet that searching look.]
Fenris terrifies me each time he picks up a blade. I loathe the sight of him with blood dripping down his face and bruises everywhere— gods, Zevlor, the night he broke his arm . . . [Oh, what a nightmare that had been for him. It was a sparring accident, nothing more, and such things happen, Zevlor had said, soothing him throughout the night. He'll be hale and whole again before you know it, and of course he was, not that it stopped Kanan from trying to baby him for weeks on end. Even the memory is enough to make him wince, which is why he promptly focuses back on the present.]
Always, it alarms me to no end . . . but I am not nearly used to such sights as you are, and I never will be.
Love and lust and all the hysterics contained therein . . . that has been my world for as long as I can remember. I have the advantage, for I have seen this kind of thing play out in a thousand variations across the years. Admittedly, none quite so, ah, close to home . . . [In more ways than one.] But this is my territory, sweetheart.
But they exhaust me. Their dramatics. Their endless stubbornness. Their ability to make trouble by merely existing, and spread that trouble around through sheer force of personality alone. Their insistence on not having to be reminded we are first and foremost a couple, not just their parents. As for the sight of them shoving their tongues down one another's throats . . .
[Blech, and he pulls a little face. Gross!]
Of course they exhaust me. But that is the role of children— and especially of teenagers. And though they can be tiresome little things, that isn't why you're upset.
Their being together . . . it doesn't alarm me, and perhaps therein lies the difference between us.
[He trails his fingers through brown strands, and then, without judgement:]
Is it intolerable to see them?
[It's okay if the answer is yes, that's what his tone means.]
It seems at times you can't bear to look at either of them— especially Astarion.
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But the last question asked shakes him soundly from his reverie, burning eyes drawn open.]
I'd find it easier to look if they weren't halfway down each others' throats through projected thought alone.
[The sound this time is gentle. Almost amused, and far, far from insulted. It comes with a touch slipped underneath Kanan's chin, close equal to the way stone statues to the gods are tended— with equal dosage reverence and care.]
What is it you're thinking? [Isn't a literal question. If it was, he wouldn't be smiling right now.] That I wish I'd chosen differently? That I'd hoped to raise them better? That they're wearing on my last nerve?
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[Oh, he's teasing. Kanan huffs quietly at him, offering up a laughably weak attempt at feigning annoyance. In truth he's delighted, for it's been an age (or so it seems) since they've gotten to flirt like this. They're both always so busy, after all, and it's hard to take the time to settle in and tease . . . but it makes this moment all the sweeter.]
That you regret letting them get so close, [is a tart reply, teasing and yet not. For he does worry, just a little. He has never once doubted Zevlor's love nor his parenting skills, but, well:]
This is a lot. Most fathers don't have to contend with their children growing up and falling in love. And both of them put such stock into your opinion— they do, [he insists.] Astarion may come to me with matters of the heart, but it's you he looks to first for praise.
[Likely because he knows how effusive Kanan can be. Never false, but far more easily earned, oh, yes. A compliment from Zevlor is earned, and both boys puff up with pride whenever they do.]
I simply . . . you mind everyone else in this theater. You worry over them. Protect them even when it isn't a good idea, or they barely deserve it. [The former are their children: a noble boy ousted out of fortune and title for no clear reason and a magister's house-slave. Both of them targets in their own right; both of them a headache and a half to keep, and it would have caused far less trouble to have passed them both by. But the latter is for their staff— for Kanan loves them, he does, but he cannot deny they're the most palatable bunch.]
I want to be sure someone is minding you. And that you don't feel as though you have to keep all your feelings to yourself for everyone else's sake.
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[It wouldn't be as offputting if he didn't see them as his own. That's not a choice, however; his heart's belonged to them the second he brought them home.]
Thank you for worrying. That you do is enough to keep my feelings from being buried despite my best attempts. [He's a man of few words, but there's no shortage of comforts to be found beside him now.]
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Our lives are eternally strange. It suits that our children have inherited that, in one way if not another.
[He smiles faintly down at him.]
And I'll always worry about you. I'll always demand you tell me what you feel— for that is never, ever lesser than anything else that's happening. And—
[A beat, and his smile twists into a smirk.]
Consider this, my love: if nothing else, they haven't any room to complain if you and I become more affectionate in public. For every kiss they subject you to, you're entitled to the same— or more.
[Oh, it's been so long . . . but if they're old enough to fool around, they're old enough to learn to deal with their fathers being flirtatious again. And even if they aren't, too bad. Carefully his claws trace down the line of one arched cheek, his smirk growing by the second.]
And I have every intention of using that to my absolute advantage.
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A single, soft-throated —oh catches him as he conversely catches on. The difference between hypothetical teasing and intent by any bright-eyed name. By wandering fingertips and the way they've both wound up along the rails of this discussion, he's waking up with every second despite the mire of his thoughts confusing odalisque equivoque until now.
(There are grey hairs flocking at his temples. His stony joints too tense from hunching at a shutterd desk rather than working oiled steel, a little atrophied from time and lack of battle, but only insofar as a well-worked utensil is molded by its purpose. They vanish at the sight of a face that hasn't lost a fraction of its famed beauty, finally fixated on him and him alone.)
When he reaches up to bury strong fingers into silk— into places no straightlaced paladin would ever think to grace in worship— he's fifteen years lighter.]
2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
....so....
[Feels like a noose, somehow. Voice creaking in the prelude to a cleared throat. Their swords are in their laps; a deliberate request before their usual sparring sessions.]
....how are....things?
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It's been a long time since Fenris felt that uniquely nauseating combination of uncertainty and trepidation churning in the pit of his stomach. For all that the Moulin Rouge is ever-changing and never-still, the proprietor in question has always been a solid rock amongst all that. Someone whose reactions and expectations have been comfortably predictable from the moment Fenris arrived here— indeed, the bedrock from which he formed his initial trust in the establishment, and which has only deepened the more time passed. The only exceptions have ever been for serious matters (when he broke his arm; when Danarius' agents came sniffing at their door three months after they took him in; when he and Astarion had blown up a few weeks ago).
So what the hell is happening that they're sitting here side by side, swords in their laps and the awkward tension between them growing thicker by the minute. Fenris glances over at his father, his own growing agony made worse by the clear discomfort in every line of Zevlor's body.]
Er . . .
[How are things? What the hell kind of question is that to ask him?? He glances over at him in bewilderment, but there's no hint as to what Zevlor is hoping to hear.]
Fine . . .?
[No, that's clearly not the right answer. But what the fu—
2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
My strength is growing, and I'm more able to successfully wield a two-handed sword than before, but I still have trouble when it comes to hefting it gracefully, as well as transitioning from one move to the other. Footwork remains the same, and still requires improvement. Wielding something one-handed naturally remains easier in terms of strength, but I still struggle with blocking along my left side. In hand-to-hand, Marcus has been an effective instructor, and reports that my skill is growing, both in terms of strength as well as learned movements. We learned a new move this week to disarm someone, and I'm coming along well with it— I should have it down by next week. He told me to tell you that my legwork needs more attention, and that— [a very small wrinkling of his nose] — that I need to focus less on how things look and more on how they are.
[He is not immune to the giddying thrill of staring at himself in the mirror and thinking about how cool he looks (only to find himself flat on his ass in the next minute).]
And that I need more cardio.
[There, now. That's how things are: a thorough battlefield report on his own progress and room for growth. He sits far more at ease now, staring expectantly up at Zevlor; if he were a pup (or a tiefling child), his tail would be faintly wagging. Tell him he did good, please, for surely that's what was meant.
But he's still a teenager, not a battle-worn warrior. And so, a little impulsively, he adds:]
I have been doing cardio, though. Even Astarion has noticed. I can do a mile in under 12 minutes now.
[That's okay. He can do better, he knows he can— and he will, for he is so very determined to succeed at this. But tell him he did good, please, because in some ways he's just as eternally starved for praise as Astarion is.]
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
Mm. Brother no longer, he amends. Amoureux feels more appropriate.]
Under twelve minutes? Really?
[It isn't feigned, the way his browridge lifts in soft surprise; for more reasons than can be counted, Fenris' father is impressed.]
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Mmhm! 11 minutes and thirty-five seconds. But I bet I can get it down to under ten minutes by spring, if not sooner.
[Not that he's obsessed with his own abilities. Not that he's memorized the number in a fit of petulance, aggravated at his own slow progress, and never mind that he's faster than most of the Moulin Rouge. He's not fast enough, not yet, just like he isn't strong enough.]
And I was thinking . . . I'm getting better at the sword. And wouldn't it make sense to have me learn even more weapons? Hand-to-hand will still be most useful in the Moulin Rouge, but a crossbow or a pistol . . . it'd be good to learn, wouldn't it?
[Does he mean what he says? Oh, yes. Is this also because he really, really wants to try shooting a pistol and/or a flaming arrow out of a bow? Maybe. But oh, wait, he's getting ahead of himself. He's being too childish, he silently scolds, and composes his expression into something more serious.]
Why do you— is that what you wanted to know?
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Something Fenris has in spades.]
I just.... [Proves halting when he starts, blinking as the wrinkles on his forehead stay high from earlier astonishment. Redoubling it now (or, to translate: shaking his horned head at the way Fenris is reeling it all back in towards composure faster than his own thoughts could hope to stop it).] I don't know.
[He blinks again, his eyes fixed elsewhere.]
I suppose I realized we don't talk as much as we ought to. [Isn't that the jist of it? Isn't that why he'd been so startled when Kanan admitted what he knew about their sons?] And that for a long time now I should have been asking how you were instead of assuming what you wanted. How you felt.
[His exhale's steady. Relaxes his chest enough to coax an upwards tilt by degrees at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't want his son to mimic him, after all; he wants him happy.]
You grew up fast.
[He says to the child there beside him in his memories. The little boy with glittering green eyes.
And then looks towards his teenage son. More careful than walking over ice when he asks the only question left.]
2/2
Do you really want a crossbow?
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[It flies out of his mouth and bypasses his brain entirely, an impulse born entirely from want and want alone. Yes, of course he wants a crossbow, and only belatedly does the rest of that trickle in.
And Fenris doesn't quite know what to do with all of that.
The pride and love that shine so damned brightly in Zevlor's eyes as he looks over at him. The confession of wanting to talk (and only now does Fenris realize that his own impulse was misguided— or, if not that, at least not fully what was meant). The way the older tiefling makes a point of relaxing himself (and Fenris, unconscious even now to the way he mimics his father, does so too). The achingly soft way that the tiefling looks at him as he says something so devastating as you grew up fast, and just why it makes a lump rise in Fenris' throat as anxiety spikes in his veins, though by all rights it shouldn't.
For a moment he has the impulse to— oh, gods, he doesn't even know what. To reach for one of Zevlor's hands, maybe, or flit his way beneath one arm to wrap his own securely around his waist, clinging close the way he only ever did as a child on the worst nights. Something childish. Something grounding, keeping him tethered securely to his adopted father even as the man admires him for what he's become. It's confusing at best and distressing at worst, a muddle of unexpected feelings and childish impulses that he has no idea how to interpret, much less articulate.
(It won't be until hours later, when the Moulin Rouge is quiet and he lies alone in the dark, will Fenris be able to begin to understand: that for a child whose first parent was torn unexpectedly from him, any perceived distance is frightening— even the ones that aren't real distance at all. Even the ones that are the opposite of that, for what is this conversation if not an attempt at deepened intimacy?).]
You . . .
[He takes in a deep breath, his eyes darting up at Zevlor before away again. Weaponry and battles are one thing, but feelings? How he is, what he wants . . . his fingers begin picking at the edge of his practice sword, fussing with the bits of athletic tape that never lie flat. Maybe it's best not to approach this as how do you feel, but rather:]
Do you— is it—
[Gods, this is so much harder.]
What did you assume I felt? Or wanted.
[It's not what he means to ask, but it's at least a start.]
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