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.]
[His mouth crooks out into an easy smile; there's no thought involved in the simplicity of it, just a familistic desire to ease that shellshocked look in Fenris' expression. An intermingling between purpose and sincerity.
It moves his arm about lithe shoulders, pulling till they're close.]
That you were content simply to train every day and work without complaint or want for something more. [That the world, new to such a little thing as he'd once been, still held a thrill beyond compare in its mundanity— to the point that it defined the borders of curiosity. Desire. After all,] You were so stiff when Astarion brought you home. Barely said a word to anyone, but your eyes lit up like daylight when you held a sword.
I saw a great deal of myself in that.
[Too much.]
But last I checked, you weren't a battlescarred old tiefling with a great deal of his life already sorted.
Edited (dont eat my tags dw) 2026-01-29 04:56 (UTC)
[Oh— oh, and with a soft noise he's suddenly swept up the way he longed to be, a strong arm settling firmly around his shoulders and drawing him in without a moment's hesitation. All at once his anxiety and grief dissipate, the panic that he'd felt swiftly shooed out by Zevlor's steady, sturdy presence.
How long has it been since they've done this? Years, or so it feels. And yet it's purely instinctive the way he nestles in close: his sword set beside him as he draws his legs up and tucks them beneath himself, his arms folding up as his head tips to lean heavily against whatever bit of Zevlor makes itself convenient. It's a little awkward, a little uncomfortable (he's gotten so much bigger, after all), but that's no bad thing. Positioned like this, he can hear the steady rhythm of Zevlor's heart, and that's as comforting as the eternal warmth radiating off him.
And though he cannot say the time Zevlor speaks of was a happy one, still, the memory draws a small smile to his face. He remembers that: being so young and so, so afraid all the time. Clinging desperately to the only person in the world on whom he could rely, constantly terrified that he would disappear the moment Fenris took his eyes off him, until there was one day when he was alone. For the life of him he can't remember where Astarion had been spirited off to, but he remembers coming here: peering through the doorway to see a man with a blade gleaming in his hand, going through exercise after exercise as though he was born doing it.
Do you want to try it? Zevlor had asked him after a time (once he'd crept in further, silent as the grave and half-hidden behind a training dummy). He'd jerked his head into an eager nod, too excited to remember his trepidation when it came to Astarion's master. Very well, and only later would he learn to see the smile hidden behind the faux-stern expression, his father so determined not to scare his newfound stray off. Come here, then, and show me your grip.
After that . . . the fear didn't dissipate, but it did lessen. Slowly, bit by bit, until one day he'd woken up and hadn't felt it at all.]
I have a few scars from battle . . .
[It's a mumble, nonsensical and said only as placeholder while he tries to think of what he truly wants to say next. It's tempting to simply say nothing and bask in this warmth, but oh, that wouldn't settle him for long.]
I am content to work and train. I like training a great deal, [and oh, it's the child, not the teenager, who peers up at Zevlor with fretful eyes just to be sure that's understood. But once he's certain, it's back down again: staring at the worn floorboards beneath them as he tries to gather his courage.]
But . . .
[This is hard, but less difficult than before.]
. . . there are more things I like now. Things I like a great deal.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and even now, the memory of slender fingers interwoven within his and a soft voice whispering in the dead of night are enough to bolster his courage.]
I . . . Astarion is—
He's important. [He's always been important.] And the things I feel for him . . . I have not ever felt that before, not for anyone, and never so intensely. I can't stop thinking about him, I can't stand when we're apart, and—
[Mm.]
Does it bother you, seeing us together?
[Did I ruin things? Did I make a mistake with this? Do you still love me?, and they're questions his heart whimpers, even if his tongue can't bear to wrap around the shape of them.]
[All at once, between the intensity of that hold and the quiver in Fenris' voice, he finds that hardened muscle shatters as sure as any glass. That his heart can shatter— and it has— in ways he thought it never would again. And in reflex clawed fingers tighten, gripping with pale-knuckled care the foundation of the world he's built within these walls: his son. And the breadth of those shoulders doesn't matter, nor the awkwardness of elbows and knees having to drive harder into anywhere they'll fit, he'll hold him until dawn, until the end of nightfall if it soothes whatever fractured part of Fenris wauls at a whisper's pitch as though it were a broken vase, hollow enough that even a faint breeze might leave it exhaling a silent keen.]
No. [Said quick. Said low and soothing in the way of scraped knees and bitter tears, resting his chin atop his child's head as he breathes out.
An hour ago, his answer would have been different. No white lies. No alternate possibilities.
It isn't a lie now, paradoxical as that may seem. But a diamond is no less coal than the opposite is true, and under the pressure of softspoken understanding rather than a host of abrupt interruptions without warning, what once was has changed its shape.]
[It's too much. It's too soft, too gentle, too perfect, and Fenris is helpless to do anything save melt into it. With a little whine of relief he turns his face into Zevlor's chest, burying himself there as he had so many times before (for every scraped knee and bitter tear; for every night terror that had woken him up screaming for a month straight, so swiftly soothed by the tiefling that never failed to burst in, ready to fight off the world or bogeymen with equal ferocity).]
Yes.
[It comes out miserably, a wretched little mutter into the fabric of Zevlor's shirt. He isn't crying, but there's a thickness in his voice that suggests tears might be coming soon, depending on how things go.]
I know it is strange, and I know he is—
[Oh, he can't say it. He knows it isn't true; Zevlor and Kanan have never once played favorites, no matter that Fenris came years after Astarion had. But what his head knows and his heart fears are two different things— and perhaps, abandoned boy that he is, he will never stop fearing that loss.
A deep breath, then, and he straightens up just enough that he can crane his neck and peer up at his father. He won't be a coward about this, no matter that his heart still thunders wildly in his chest.]
I know it is unusual. And— and it— I encouraged him, and I did not stop to think of what it would seem like, and—
[No urges the tenor of his voice, coaxing those recidivous little pauses to a gentle halt; no answer needed, it serves itself in that regard. That, and the fact that Fenris' angled gaze doesn't dislodge the touch brought about slim shoulders, keeping any thought of retreat nothing more than that. And as if to punctuate it all, one notched thumb sinks in for but a moment, stroking out assurance before he ever says his piece.
His gaze lowered, his body hunched so that they're settled eye to eye.]
You are my son, Fenris. [He presses through more than just the pressure of his grasp.] No more or less than Astarion has ever been. Regardless of when it was you came to us.
There is no Realm in which that changes. There is nothing you could do that will ever make me love you less, do you understand?
[A beat, and to that end:]
You were raised together. That we love you both shouldn't be a chain around your ankles, treating you as if you sprung from the same bassinet. [And based on what he knows regarding where he found Astarion, compared to how Fenris was dragged in from the gutters— their differences in eyes, in hair, in features and what happened to Astarion's (most likely) former kin compared to Fenris' own memory— no. He very much doubts that's even a remote possibility, despite them being elves. One might as well insist he and Kanan are related for the color of their skin and horns.]
The only thing I mind is the unexpected expense of your newfound affinity for one another when it tears through brand new furnishings at a heretofore unseen pace....[cites a father with a large amount of bills to pay] ....but if you care about each other that much, Fenris, then nothing about this disappoints me.
[It's everything he ought to have expected and yet nothing like what his heart was prepared to hear. From the first sentence he feels a sharp crack in his composure, a hairline fracture that only grows the more that Zevlor speaks. The fierce assurance washes over him, swallowing him, drowning him, and Fenris—
Nothing about this disappoints me. And neither do you.
How can he do anything but cry? When the growing tension and guilt and grief of weeks is so suddenly and swiftly lifted with no warning— and in its wake, soothing relief in the form of his father holding him close (and he is his father, no matter what anyone else might say; whoever gave Fenris the curve of his nose or the color of his eyes was incidental, nothing more). Comforting him. Soothing him, hushing all those fears that started long before he and Astarion were together, but only managed to come to a head today. It's all right, he hears Zevlor say soothingly over and over again, and he jerks his head in a nod, too overwhelmed to speak.
And oh, it's too much for his teenage pride: he ducks his head again, his eyes hot and his lip aching from how harshly he's biting at it; the tears drip down either way, pattering against the wooden floor below, but at least no one else outside this room will know they've happened. Again and again he scrubs at his cheeks— and yet, no matter how much he tries to compose himself, he never once leaves the circle of Zevlor's arm.
Until at last there's one long, shaky inhale and he can raise his head up once more. His eyes are still overbright, but his tears were never about grief or pain. Only relief, and perhaps the last sharp sting of his fears leaving him.]
Don't blame me for his inability to walk straight . . .
[His voice is still thick, but there's a familiar wry humor in his gaze. One last sniff, and then he focuses up at Zevlor. This is a little embarrassing, as all painfully honest things are, but it's important to say. It's important that he knows just as thoroughly and sincerely as Fenris himself now does.]
You are my father, and have been since the day you took me in. What family I once had, I barely recall anymore, for you and Kanan and Astarion— and everyone in the Moulin Rouge— have always treated me as one of your own. And I— you are—
[I love you is such an embarrassing thing for a teenaged boy to say, no matter how fiercely he feels it. So instead:]
Thank you. For always being that to me, even when you had no reason to.
[I love you, not scribbled down with pen and parchment, but etched into the pressure where their browbones meet as though they were both tieflings. And to Zevlor's mind, it's true: despite those countless variances that dictate otherwise, he has two children. Two melodramatic children, oft with more headspace than they have sense, yet his heart knows them without sight or sound; he finds them half the time in all their mischief based on a sixth sense he's never had before, lashed between them like a drawstring.
They are his world, but there's still no easy way for him to express that through any language outside of hamfisted discomfort or fierce contact, so it's the latter that he chooses— palm squared and smoothing against the back of Fenris' scalp, gently upsetting the lay of dark hair.]
You have no idea how silly I feel spending all this time worrying that I was losing you, when in reality you were just becoming your own self.
[When he releases Fenris, the distance between them feels lessened. His next breath out comfortably slack.]
[Silly to be surprised after what he'd just tearfully confessed— but on the other hand, why would Fenris ever be the one to leave? He isn't quite so wedded to the Moulin Rouge as Astarion or Kanan or Zevlor, true, but . . . still, he is one of them. He is, he insists to his fretful mind, and pushes away the flare of insecurity that wants to crop up. Zevlor never lies, and certainly not about matters like these; if his heart can't fully believe his words, the pleasing pressure of a roughened hand against the back of his head serves as evidence enough. He pushes back against it, butting their foreheads together once more before drawing back.]
Because it was easy to keep up with you when your legs were shorter. [Quirks his mouth over to one side as the hand that'd settled in Fenris' hair drops down to lay across his shoulder, man-to-man. It's been a while since he sat like this. Twenty years or more at least— back when he had a regiment beside him, and spent his nights with his fingers wrapped around a shotglass, his eyes trained on a courtesan like no other in this place. Every paycheck was a chance to see him, at the very least. Made it bearable.]
It felt as though your tastes were changing quicker than I could blink: one minute I was keeping your fingers out of hinged cabinets, and the next you're picking fights with my performers. [This isn't scolding; he'd say it differently if it were.] All our old habits, gone. Replaced with some inscrutable motivation that could very easily have been an urge to get as far away from here as possible, and I certainly wouldn't have blamed you.
[The word murmured softly as his eyes widen, for he hadn't realized until just now how it must have appeared on the outside. He cannot quite call it regret, not when it was such a minor thing, but still: he didn't realize how every distracted practice or absent-minded answer might have come across to his father. But that motivation . . . he frowns faintly.]
This is my home, and I have no desire to leave it.
[It is his home. It is, no matter that there are times when he feels perpetually as though he's always that overwhelmed ten year old boy, stuck on the outside looking in. The weight of Zevlor's hand against his shoulder is a pleasant one, and therein lies a second realization: that this is a conversation between adults. Still a father speaking to his son, yes, but . . . treating him as though he isn't a child, but a man capable of knowing his own heart.]
I have lived outside these walls. I know what the world is like, for I experienced more than enough of it before Astarion brought me home. And though I cannot say I do not have my vexations with this place or some of the performers . . . nor do I have any urge to leave it. Not now, and not in the future.
[Not when he has a role already waiting for him. Not when his heart lies here, not just with his family but everyone who comes and goes through these halls. It's such a strange life, irregular to the extreme— but years later, Fenris still thinks it a blissful paradise. So different than what he'd come from in the strangest and best of ways, where all the rules were different and he was encouraged to become his own person . . . no, he has no desire to leave.]
I always felt I had a place by your side. That even if the rest of the Moulin Rouge preferred the stage to swords, even if I did not understand their jokes or their obsessions, at least things made sense when you and I would spar. I have always had shelter here, but . . . I have always had a home with you.
[And the others too, of course. Kanan was never anything less than doting, and of course Astarion will always be his savior, but . . . it's Zevlor that made him feel seen while living in a world so unlike anywhere else.]
I do not want to leave it. Not now. Perhaps . . . perhaps someday in the far, far future, but . . . there is no place I'd rather be than here.
[He lets that linger in the air, and then, a little lighter:]
Besides. To whom else can I turn when it comes to the practical realities of dating a Diamond-in-training?
[He's joking, sort of, or at least he meant it as a joke, but . . . it's very much not a joke, isn't it? More of a creeping worry that's been preying on his mind the past two weeks, though he's been able to shove it aside each time it crops up. After all, Astarion is only learning the very basics right now, and there's years and years (presumably) to come . . . and yet he can't help but worry, blunt realist that he is.]
I can live with someday. [He says, mussing up the full measure of his favorite heir's mane, a hearty chuckle in his throat. Though it's reedier than it used to be, he feels young; the future very far away.
The past nearer as he draws his own thoughts towards it— and lets his own arm drop.]
Mm.... [The joke lands. It does, despite his pause for thought (a thought that sticks between his teeth, impossible to speak around without mulling first).] Hm.
Different. [Too simple.] Difficult. [Too true.] I was a soldier in those days, even after your father knew of my affections. That meant I couldn't stay longer than a week or two at a time, no matter how desperately I wanted to. [Which is to say that he did want to. Very much.]
More than that, my schedule was erratic— the odds I might not return, high— I remember the sensation of my heart leaping up into my throat each time I walked down the alleyways that led here after months or weeks apart, convinced I'd stroll through those grand lobby doors to find him gone. Moved away or moved up in the world, it happens quite often, really.
[Another strange quirk of adulthood: having to reckon with the idea that his parents are somehow people, a notion both laughably obvious and utterly baffling. Fenris had known his father was a commander; they've spoken of war often enough that he has a passing familiarity with the broad pictures (though never the details). But it's one thing to know, in piecemeal storybook images, that long in the distant past Zevlor wielded a blade and commanded a squadron; that he fell in love and hung his blade over the fire in exchange for a pair of rings and a whole cabaret to mind.
It's a far stranger thing to picture it as an ongoing thing. For the first time in his life Fenris considers what it must have truly been like, and the details unfurl themselves in his mind's eye: Zevlor not as he is now, hair streaked with grey and his demeanor fussily overburdened, but as a solider. An elite commander striding through the doors of the Moulin Rouge in armor caked with dirt and dried blood, finding a seat in the back while his soldiers eagerly flood the premises, eager to lose themselves in the arms of another. Gold is eagerly exchanged, drinks are poured, and within minutes every person save one is occupied . . .
But not him. Not when there's only one person who has ever caught his eye . . . though there the imagining ends, for even now, Fenris doesn't want to think about Kanan like that. It's one thing to have watched Satine drape herself in the lap of a visiting Duke; it's quite another to imagine his father like that.
But the thought is like a spark to tinder, for he's never before thought about the details in his fathers' stories. Even after your father knew of my affections, Zevlor says, and for the first time Fenris wonders if Kanan reciprocated at first, or if Zevlor's feelings were treated as an amusing indulgence. Who made the first move, and who pried the confession out of whom? There's no easier joke in the Moulin Rouge than a customer who falls in love with feigned affection and overzealous lust, so how did the proprietor himself find himself in that position— and how did Kanan ever decide to return it? Or did he feel it first . . .
He wants to know. He wants to know everything (or at least a great deal of it, up to a point). But there's a more pressing question burning in the back of his mind that needs to come first.]
Mm.
[A soft hum to answer that last sentence. There's plenty of workers who have moved on (sometimes to Bah-li, sometimes not) since he came here. It's also to give himself a moment to gather up his courage, and then:]
And . . . did you ever stroll through those doors to find him with another?
[It will happen. He knows it's going to happen. Maybe not for another five years, maybe longer, but sooner or later, there will be a day when Astarion's focus must be fixated on another. And it will only get harder the longer time goes on— for a Diamond has his pick of clients, and it's true that Fenris does not want his beloved to have to endure clumsy hands or stale breath for the sake of a few pennies. But with fame and fortune come the rights to more and more exclusivity— and what will it be like, Fenris wonders bleakly, to have to endure the constant presence of a third within their relationship?]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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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It moves his arm about lithe shoulders, pulling till they're close.]
That you were content simply to train every day and work without complaint or want for something more. [That the world, new to such a little thing as he'd once been, still held a thrill beyond compare in its mundanity— to the point that it defined the borders of curiosity. Desire. After all,] You were so stiff when Astarion brought you home. Barely said a word to anyone, but your eyes lit up like daylight when you held a sword.
I saw a great deal of myself in that.
[Too much.]
But last I checked, you weren't a battlescarred old tiefling with a great deal of his life already sorted.
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How long has it been since they've done this? Years, or so it feels. And yet it's purely instinctive the way he nestles in close: his sword set beside him as he draws his legs up and tucks them beneath himself, his arms folding up as his head tips to lean heavily against whatever bit of Zevlor makes itself convenient. It's a little awkward, a little uncomfortable (he's gotten so much bigger, after all), but that's no bad thing. Positioned like this, he can hear the steady rhythm of Zevlor's heart, and that's as comforting as the eternal warmth radiating off him.
And though he cannot say the time Zevlor speaks of was a happy one, still, the memory draws a small smile to his face. He remembers that: being so young and so, so afraid all the time. Clinging desperately to the only person in the world on whom he could rely, constantly terrified that he would disappear the moment Fenris took his eyes off him, until there was one day when he was alone. For the life of him he can't remember where Astarion had been spirited off to, but he remembers coming here: peering through the doorway to see a man with a blade gleaming in his hand, going through exercise after exercise as though he was born doing it.
Do you want to try it? Zevlor had asked him after a time (once he'd crept in further, silent as the grave and half-hidden behind a training dummy). He'd jerked his head into an eager nod, too excited to remember his trepidation when it came to Astarion's master. Very well, and only later would he learn to see the smile hidden behind the faux-stern expression, his father so determined not to scare his newfound stray off. Come here, then, and show me your grip.
After that . . . the fear didn't dissipate, but it did lessen. Slowly, bit by bit, until one day he'd woken up and hadn't felt it at all.]
I have a few scars from battle . . .
[It's a mumble, nonsensical and said only as placeholder while he tries to think of what he truly wants to say next. It's tempting to simply say nothing and bask in this warmth, but oh, that wouldn't settle him for long.]
I am content to work and train. I like training a great deal, [and oh, it's the child, not the teenager, who peers up at Zevlor with fretful eyes just to be sure that's understood. But once he's certain, it's back down again: staring at the worn floorboards beneath them as he tries to gather his courage.]
But . . .
[This is hard, but less difficult than before.]
. . . there are more things I like now. Things I like a great deal.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and even now, the memory of slender fingers interwoven within his and a soft voice whispering in the dead of night are enough to bolster his courage.]
I . . . Astarion is—
He's important. [He's always been important.] And the things I feel for him . . . I have not ever felt that before, not for anyone, and never so intensely. I can't stop thinking about him, I can't stand when we're apart, and—
[Mm.]
Does it bother you, seeing us together?
[Did I ruin things? Did I make a mistake with this? Do you still love me?, and they're questions his heart whimpers, even if his tongue can't bear to wrap around the shape of them.]
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No. [Said quick. Said low and soothing in the way of scraped knees and bitter tears, resting his chin atop his child's head as he breathes out.
An hour ago, his answer would have been different. No white lies. No alternate possibilities.
It isn't a lie now, paradoxical as that may seem. But a diamond is no less coal than the opposite is true, and under the pressure of softspoken understanding rather than a host of abrupt interruptions without warning, what once was has changed its shape.]
Is that what you fear?
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Yes.
[It comes out miserably, a wretched little mutter into the fabric of Zevlor's shirt. He isn't crying, but there's a thickness in his voice that suggests tears might be coming soon, depending on how things go.]
I know it is strange, and I know he is—
[Oh, he can't say it. He knows it isn't true; Zevlor and Kanan have never once played favorites, no matter that Fenris came years after Astarion had. But what his head knows and his heart fears are two different things— and perhaps, abandoned boy that he is, he will never stop fearing that loss.
A deep breath, then, and he straightens up just enough that he can crane his neck and peer up at his father. He won't be a coward about this, no matter that his heart still thunders wildly in his chest.]
I know it is unusual. And— and it— I encouraged him, and I did not stop to think of what it would seem like, and—
[Stop, start. Stop, start.]
I do not want it to— to ruin things here.
[Oh, that's not quite it, is it?]
. . . or ruin things with you.
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[No urges the tenor of his voice, coaxing those recidivous little pauses to a gentle halt; no answer needed, it serves itself in that regard. That, and the fact that Fenris' angled gaze doesn't dislodge the touch brought about slim shoulders, keeping any thought of retreat nothing more than that. And as if to punctuate it all, one notched thumb sinks in for but a moment, stroking out assurance before he ever says his piece.
His gaze lowered, his body hunched so that they're settled eye to eye.]
You are my son, Fenris. [He presses through more than just the pressure of his grasp.] No more or less than Astarion has ever been. Regardless of when it was you came to us.
There is no Realm in which that changes. There is nothing you could do that will ever make me love you less, do you understand?
[A beat, and to that end:]
You were raised together. That we love you both shouldn't be a chain around your ankles, treating you as if you sprung from the same bassinet. [And based on what he knows regarding where he found Astarion, compared to how Fenris was dragged in from the gutters— their differences in eyes, in hair, in features and what happened to Astarion's (most likely) former kin compared to Fenris' own memory— no. He very much doubts that's even a remote possibility, despite them being elves. One might as well insist he and Kanan are related for the color of their skin and horns.]
The only thing I mind is the unexpected expense of your newfound affinity for one another when it tears through brand new furnishings at a heretofore unseen pace....[cites a father with a large amount of bills to pay] ....but if you care about each other that much, Fenris, then nothing about this disappoints me.
And neither do you.
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Nothing about this disappoints me. And neither do you.
How can he do anything but cry? When the growing tension and guilt and grief of weeks is so suddenly and swiftly lifted with no warning— and in its wake, soothing relief in the form of his father holding him close (and he is his father, no matter what anyone else might say; whoever gave Fenris the curve of his nose or the color of his eyes was incidental, nothing more). Comforting him. Soothing him, hushing all those fears that started long before he and Astarion were together, but only managed to come to a head today. It's all right, he hears Zevlor say soothingly over and over again, and he jerks his head in a nod, too overwhelmed to speak.
And oh, it's too much for his teenage pride: he ducks his head again, his eyes hot and his lip aching from how harshly he's biting at it; the tears drip down either way, pattering against the wooden floor below, but at least no one else outside this room will know they've happened. Again and again he scrubs at his cheeks— and yet, no matter how much he tries to compose himself, he never once leaves the circle of Zevlor's arm.
Until at last there's one long, shaky inhale and he can raise his head up once more. His eyes are still overbright, but his tears were never about grief or pain. Only relief, and perhaps the last sharp sting of his fears leaving him.]
Don't blame me for his inability to walk straight . . .
[His voice is still thick, but there's a familiar wry humor in his gaze. One last sniff, and then he focuses up at Zevlor. This is a little embarrassing, as all painfully honest things are, but it's important to say. It's important that he knows just as thoroughly and sincerely as Fenris himself now does.]
You are my father, and have been since the day you took me in. What family I once had, I barely recall anymore, for you and Kanan and Astarion— and everyone in the Moulin Rouge— have always treated me as one of your own. And I— you are—
[I love you is such an embarrassing thing for a teenaged boy to say, no matter how fiercely he feels it. So instead:]
Thank you. For always being that to me, even when you had no reason to.
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[I love you, not scribbled down with pen and parchment, but etched into the pressure where their browbones meet as though they were both tieflings. And to Zevlor's mind, it's true: despite those countless variances that dictate otherwise, he has two children. Two melodramatic children, oft with more headspace than they have sense, yet his heart knows them without sight or sound; he finds them half the time in all their mischief based on a sixth sense he's never had before, lashed between them like a drawstring.
They are his world, but there's still no easy way for him to express that through any language outside of hamfisted discomfort or fierce contact, so it's the latter that he chooses— palm squared and smoothing against the back of Fenris' scalp, gently upsetting the lay of dark hair.]
You have no idea how silly I feel spending all this time worrying that I was losing you, when in reality you were just becoming your own self.
[When he releases Fenris, the distance between them feels lessened. His next breath out comfortably slack.]
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[Silly to be surprised after what he'd just tearfully confessed— but on the other hand, why would Fenris ever be the one to leave? He isn't quite so wedded to the Moulin Rouge as Astarion or Kanan or Zevlor, true, but . . . still, he is one of them. He is, he insists to his fretful mind, and pushes away the flare of insecurity that wants to crop up. Zevlor never lies, and certainly not about matters like these; if his heart can't fully believe his words, the pleasing pressure of a roughened hand against the back of his head serves as evidence enough. He pushes back against it, butting their foreheads together once more before drawing back.]
Why would you lose me?
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It felt as though your tastes were changing quicker than I could blink: one minute I was keeping your fingers out of hinged cabinets, and the next you're picking fights with my performers. [This isn't scolding; he'd say it differently if it were.] All our old habits, gone. Replaced with some inscrutable motivation that could very easily have been an urge to get as far away from here as possible, and I certainly wouldn't have blamed you.
1/2
[The word murmured softly as his eyes widen, for he hadn't realized until just now how it must have appeared on the outside. He cannot quite call it regret, not when it was such a minor thing, but still: he didn't realize how every distracted practice or absent-minded answer might have come across to his father. But that motivation . . . he frowns faintly.]
This is my home, and I have no desire to leave it.
[It is his home. It is, no matter that there are times when he feels perpetually as though he's always that overwhelmed ten year old boy, stuck on the outside looking in. The weight of Zevlor's hand against his shoulder is a pleasant one, and therein lies a second realization: that this is a conversation between adults. Still a father speaking to his son, yes, but . . . treating him as though he isn't a child, but a man capable of knowing his own heart.]
I have lived outside these walls. I know what the world is like, for I experienced more than enough of it before Astarion brought me home. And though I cannot say I do not have my vexations with this place or some of the performers . . . nor do I have any urge to leave it. Not now, and not in the future.
[Not when he has a role already waiting for him. Not when his heart lies here, not just with his family but everyone who comes and goes through these halls. It's such a strange life, irregular to the extreme— but years later, Fenris still thinks it a blissful paradise. So different than what he'd come from in the strangest and best of ways, where all the rules were different and he was encouraged to become his own person . . . no, he has no desire to leave.]
I always felt I had a place by your side. That even if the rest of the Moulin Rouge preferred the stage to swords, even if I did not understand their jokes or their obsessions, at least things made sense when you and I would spar. I have always had shelter here, but . . . I have always had a home with you.
[And the others too, of course. Kanan was never anything less than doting, and of course Astarion will always be his savior, but . . . it's Zevlor that made him feel seen while living in a world so unlike anywhere else.]
I do not want to leave it. Not now. Perhaps . . . perhaps someday in the far, far future, but . . . there is no place I'd rather be than here.
no subject
Besides. To whom else can I turn when it comes to the practical realities of dating a Diamond-in-training?
[He's joking, sort of, or at least he meant it as a joke, but . . . it's very much not a joke, isn't it? More of a creeping worry that's been preying on his mind the past two weeks, though he's been able to shove it aside each time it crops up. After all, Astarion is only learning the very basics right now, and there's years and years (presumably) to come . . . and yet he can't help but worry, blunt realist that he is.]
. . . what was it like, with you and Kanan?
1/2
The past nearer as he draws his own thoughts towards it— and lets his own arm drop.]
2/2
Different. [Too simple.] Difficult. [Too true.] I was a soldier in those days, even after your father knew of my affections. That meant I couldn't stay longer than a week or two at a time, no matter how desperately I wanted to. [Which is to say that he did want to. Very much.]
More than that, my schedule was erratic— the odds I might not return, high— I remember the sensation of my heart leaping up into my throat each time I walked down the alleyways that led here after months or weeks apart, convinced I'd stroll through those grand lobby doors to find him gone. Moved away or moved up in the world, it happens quite often, really.
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It's a far stranger thing to picture it as an ongoing thing. For the first time in his life Fenris considers what it must have truly been like, and the details unfurl themselves in his mind's eye: Zevlor not as he is now, hair streaked with grey and his demeanor fussily overburdened, but as a solider. An elite commander striding through the doors of the Moulin Rouge in armor caked with dirt and dried blood, finding a seat in the back while his soldiers eagerly flood the premises, eager to lose themselves in the arms of another. Gold is eagerly exchanged, drinks are poured, and within minutes every person save one is occupied . . .
But not him. Not when there's only one person who has ever caught his eye . . . though there the imagining ends, for even now, Fenris doesn't want to think about Kanan like that. It's one thing to have watched Satine drape herself in the lap of a visiting Duke; it's quite another to imagine his father like that.
But the thought is like a spark to tinder, for he's never before thought about the details in his fathers' stories. Even after your father knew of my affections, Zevlor says, and for the first time Fenris wonders if Kanan reciprocated at first, or if Zevlor's feelings were treated as an amusing indulgence. Who made the first move, and who pried the confession out of whom? There's no easier joke in the Moulin Rouge than a customer who falls in love with feigned affection and overzealous lust, so how did the proprietor himself find himself in that position— and how did Kanan ever decide to return it? Or did he feel it first . . .
He wants to know. He wants to know everything (or at least a great deal of it, up to a point). But there's a more pressing question burning in the back of his mind that needs to come first.]
Mm.
[A soft hum to answer that last sentence. There's plenty of workers who have moved on (sometimes to Bah-li, sometimes not) since he came here. It's also to give himself a moment to gather up his courage, and then:]
And . . . did you ever stroll through those doors to find him with another?
[It will happen. He knows it's going to happen. Maybe not for another five years, maybe longer, but sooner or later, there will be a day when Astarion's focus must be fixated on another. And it will only get harder the longer time goes on— for a Diamond has his pick of clients, and it's true that Fenris does not want his beloved to have to endure clumsy hands or stale breath for the sake of a few pennies. But with fame and fortune come the rights to more and more exclusivity— and what will it be like, Fenris wonders bleakly, to have to endure the constant presence of a third within their relationship?]
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