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
(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?