[There's no fooling the old (or the middle-aged, in this case). What the young explore with bullish curiosity he sees straight to the heart of, knowing full well that there's already a thorn lodged in Fenris' chest about all this. Something he may only feel the start of right now— but oh, how it'll grow when given kindling. Given time. That little grain of sand that rolls against soft flesh until it gathers more weight than either one can bear, turning a hardened callous into split skin.
Still, it's all he glimpses, though. Mistakes through the lens of confidence that Fenris' thoughts are all wound up between himself and Astarion, missing where it settles on his parents, too.
(Probably for the best. He'll have to hear about their pining regardless, if this is the history lesson he's hunting.)]
Mhm. [Is particularly dry.] But that happened many times before we were together. I never asked him to change his line of work for me— how could I? One more Hellrider with a pittance for a salary, I couldn't pay his way in fifteen years or a hundred.
[And again, the implication stands. Rattles like spent ice running cirlces in the bottom of the glass, tipped round and round until it reflects the reversed image of the belly of the Moulin Rouge. His fingers sore from overuse, his rain-cleaned boots propped against burnished brass under the bar, all but swallowing his aching heels as music drifts warmly through air that smells like cigarettes, wine and barely disguised sex.]
But I didn't care. [He cared. Enough to still feel it in the present.] I just wanted to see him as often as I could.
He was that special.
Although like anything in life, pouring even the most stalwart effort into something doesn't guarantee you'll actually get anything in return. I can count on two hands how many nights ended with an overturned shotglass and not a glimpse of your father at all: another set of weeks whittled away in Avernus before I'd get another chance to try again. And again. And again.
[(Diamonds— even those yet unrefined— are ever in demand.)
The faint puff of gaunt amusement caught against his teeth almost buckles before it leaves him.]
Eventually I started showing up at the staff exit for a change. Put my coin towards breakfast for us both instead of whiskey.
I'll never forget how nice it was to see him really smile.
[It's not the answer he wants, in the sense that it's not no, Fenris, I never once found him in the arms of another, and even if I had, it was painless and utterly inconsequential to either my heart or our relationship. For that matter, Astarion will never look at anyone the way he looks at you, and never once find a bit of enjoyment from any single one of his customers, despising them all in equal turn except you.
It's selfish to want that. Cruel, too. And even if Zevlor had said it, Fenris wouldn't have believed him, cynical heart that he is.
(He wants it anyway).
For a few moments he slots himself in that position: lurking at the backend of the cabaret, the rim of a shotglass digging into his palm and Astarion laughing (really laughing, that high-pitched giggle or snorting cackle he only gives to Fenris and few others) merrily with someone else. Some pretty prince from Starkhaven, maybe, or cambion visiting from Avernus . . . does it matter? The figure is blurry, gender and status irrelevant; all that matters is the sight of Astarion, his eyes bright and his grin wide, running one flirtatious hand up another's side. Palm cupping their cheek, thumb stroking dotingly across the arch (just as he did for Fenris last night, clucking over a faint bruise) before pushing through their hair (and will he grip the same way? Fingers tight and his expression suddenly drunk with power, show me just how good you are at moaning for me, and it's too easy to imagine—)
Something that isn't true yet, he tells himself firmly. Better to focus on the story. Better to focus on that relished statement, and soothe his heart with the memory of the way Astarion smiles at him, bright and brilliant and unlike anyone else in the world.]
How did you know he would even want to meet you? [With a semi-apologetic little shrug:] Tilses has started sending me out to shoo away some of the suitors. She says it's good training.
[It doesn't happen often, admittedly, but often enough. And it's not really all that good training, but it is the job nobody else wants to do, which means that it's Fenris' job now.]
Tilses is right. [But in relation to the rest of the story, there's little connective tissue stitched between them. Very little beyond the fondness driving a brief, vaguely kindled smile, shoulders knocked against each other.
(Tilses is right; the more routine it is to deal with the entitled troublemakers, the more impersonal it'll be when— )]
But to answer your question, I didn't.
I had to trust what he told me months before wasn't just a handsome game to lure me in— and I had more than enough proof to believe it, though someone else might've disagreed. [And while Zevlor doesn't consider himself particularly self-assured by inherent design in terms of matters of the heart, logic comes to him with ease.] When an entertainer sits at the foot of the elite each night, what use did Kanan have for a ratty soldier void of pedigree? Of status? My betters were there. The creme de la creme of rank and file, and their medals shined more brightly than my coin.
A man that wants to be a Diamond, Fenris, doesn't need to pander to men like us.
[There are times when Fenris speaks of class and wealth and sounds older than his years, wise and wearied from a childhood spent in slavery. And then again there are times when he sounds like a sulking teenager who has just read Das Kapital for the first time, and here, now, this is the latter. It's a mulish mutter, half in defense of Zevlor and half because he has a natural inclination to sneer at the hierarchies of society, no matter what those people involved might be like.
Anyway. It's a single point of contention muttered more for himself than anyone else. Those knocking shoulders and gentle smile bring him out of it easily, and he returns both after a moment.]
I suppose . . .
[No, he knows exactly what Zevlor means. A Diamond (or any courtesan) doesn't spend their free time lightly; there could be no mistaking the intent when Kanan took the time to see Zevlor— or when Astarion chases after him, begging him to skiv off work for just one more hour together.
But the trouble isn't that he thinks Astarion doesn't love him. He does, he knows, for Fenris loves him just the same. The trouble will come later, with mouths and tongues and greedy hands; the trouble will come from having to watch his beloved amatus thrill in the very thing that Fenris dreads: having all the attention on him.
He's silent for a few seconds, lost in thought. They're getting closer to what's truly bothering him, but it takes time for them both. Finally, though:]
Did you— when you saw him there, when you knew he was occupied, or ate with him after a night where he was busy, did you—
[Something small and ugly wedges itself in his throat. His mouth thins, and after a few seconds of struggling, he finally says:]
He's mine.
[Miserably admitted, and oh, what a wretched thing it is to borrow jealousy from the future, knowing what's in store.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
Still, it's all he glimpses, though. Mistakes through the lens of confidence that Fenris' thoughts are all wound up between himself and Astarion, missing where it settles on his parents, too.
(Probably for the best. He'll have to hear about their pining regardless, if this is the history lesson he's hunting.)]
Mhm. [Is particularly dry.] But that happened many times before we were together. I never asked him to change his line of work for me— how could I? One more Hellrider with a pittance for a salary, I couldn't pay his way in fifteen years or a hundred.
[And again, the implication stands. Rattles like spent ice running cirlces in the bottom of the glass, tipped round and round until it reflects the reversed image of the belly of the Moulin Rouge. His fingers sore from overuse, his rain-cleaned boots propped against burnished brass under the bar, all but swallowing his aching heels as music drifts warmly through air that smells like cigarettes, wine and barely disguised sex.]
But I didn't care. [He cared. Enough to still feel it in the present.] I just wanted to see him as often as I could.
He was that special.
Although like anything in life, pouring even the most stalwart effort into something doesn't guarantee you'll actually get anything in return. I can count on two hands how many nights ended with an overturned shotglass and not a glimpse of your father at all: another set of weeks whittled away in Avernus before I'd get another chance to try again. And again. And again.
[(Diamonds— even those yet unrefined— are ever in demand.)
The faint puff of gaunt amusement caught against his teeth almost buckles before it leaves him.]
Eventually I started showing up at the staff exit for a change. Put my coin towards breakfast for us both instead of whiskey.
I'll never forget how nice it was to see him really smile.
no subject
It's selfish to want that. Cruel, too. And even if Zevlor had said it, Fenris wouldn't have believed him, cynical heart that he is.
(He wants it anyway).
For a few moments he slots himself in that position: lurking at the backend of the cabaret, the rim of a shotglass digging into his palm and Astarion laughing (really laughing, that high-pitched giggle or snorting cackle he only gives to Fenris and few others) merrily with someone else. Some pretty prince from Starkhaven, maybe, or cambion visiting from Avernus . . . does it matter? The figure is blurry, gender and status irrelevant; all that matters is the sight of Astarion, his eyes bright and his grin wide, running one flirtatious hand up another's side. Palm cupping their cheek, thumb stroking dotingly across the arch (just as he did for Fenris last night, clucking over a faint bruise) before pushing through their hair (and will he grip the same way? Fingers tight and his expression suddenly drunk with power, show me just how good you are at moaning for me, and it's too easy to imagine—)
Something that isn't true yet, he tells himself firmly. Better to focus on the story. Better to focus on that relished statement, and soothe his heart with the memory of the way Astarion smiles at him, bright and brilliant and unlike anyone else in the world.]
How did you know he would even want to meet you? [With a semi-apologetic little shrug:] Tilses has started sending me out to shoo away some of the suitors. She says it's good training.
[It doesn't happen often, admittedly, but often enough. And it's not really all that good training, but it is the job nobody else wants to do, which means that it's Fenris' job now.]
no subject
(Tilses is right; the more routine it is to deal with the entitled troublemakers, the more impersonal it'll be when— )]
But to answer your question, I didn't.
I had to trust what he told me months before wasn't just a handsome game to lure me in— and I had more than enough proof to believe it, though someone else might've disagreed. [And while Zevlor doesn't consider himself particularly self-assured by inherent design in terms of matters of the heart, logic comes to him with ease.] When an entertainer sits at the foot of the elite each night, what use did Kanan have for a ratty soldier void of pedigree? Of status? My betters were there. The creme de la creme of rank and file, and their medals shined more brightly than my coin.
A man that wants to be a Diamond, Fenris, doesn't need to pander to men like us.
He chooses where he wants to be.
no subject
[There are times when Fenris speaks of class and wealth and sounds older than his years, wise and wearied from a childhood spent in slavery. And then again there are times when he sounds like a sulking teenager who has just read Das Kapital for the first time, and here, now, this is the latter. It's a mulish mutter, half in defense of Zevlor and half because he has a natural inclination to sneer at the hierarchies of society, no matter what those people involved might be like.
Anyway. It's a single point of contention muttered more for himself than anyone else. Those knocking shoulders and gentle smile bring him out of it easily, and he returns both after a moment.]
I suppose . . .
[No, he knows exactly what Zevlor means. A Diamond (or any courtesan) doesn't spend their free time lightly; there could be no mistaking the intent when Kanan took the time to see Zevlor— or when Astarion chases after him, begging him to skiv off work for just one more hour together.
But the trouble isn't that he thinks Astarion doesn't love him. He does, he knows, for Fenris loves him just the same. The trouble will come later, with mouths and tongues and greedy hands; the trouble will come from having to watch his beloved amatus thrill in the very thing that Fenris dreads: having all the attention on him.
He's silent for a few seconds, lost in thought. They're getting closer to what's truly bothering him, but it takes time for them both. Finally, though:]
Did you— when you saw him there, when you knew he was occupied, or ate with him after a night where he was busy, did you—
[Something small and ugly wedges itself in his throat. His mouth thins, and after a few seconds of struggling, he finally says:]
He's mine.
[Miserably admitted, and oh, what a wretched thing it is to borrow jealousy from the future, knowing what's in store.]
How do I bear watching him go to someone else?