[Of course he isn't. He's absolutely unafraid of her. Why, he'll proclaim that anywhere, but especially here and now, when she's two floors away and there's a locked door between them. It's only for the sake of dignity that he refuses to answer.]
And unbruised bodies . . . did you get any sleep?
[It's not that he misses just how clingy Fenris was when he first came here, but at the same time . . . those little heels hurt. Though the lump in question (now migrated over towards the indent where Zevlor usually lies) is still now, all starfished out as best he can.]
Impressively fierce. [Comes with such an air of pride. He tugs Kanan's robe and various accoutrements loose from the bottom of the lowermost drawer, having to try and stuff the rest of what's been bundled there back inside.] I'd say he's growing more confident by the day through it, but it's only us and Astarion he seems to cling to.
[Anyway, a soldier doesn't need sleep, but he won't be foolish enough to let that remark slip. Click goes the drawer as it closes, clothing laid down along the corner of the bed before he sits beside his drooling, dozing son, one hand petting at dark hair that's all akimbo— and then hefting the little fledgling upright, levering his back and shoulders in an attempt to try and rouse him. Come on, then, little one.]
It's nice to see him much more settled than he was. Bruising included.
[Fenris sways gently, his eyes opened by only the barest of degrees: two dark slits squinting resentfully into the mid-morning sunlight. A vague grunt is all that exists of good morning, and it's questionable if he's even awake enough to register who's holding him upright. But oh, oh: those hands are warm, and maybe the person to whom they belong will be warm too . . . Fenris sways, his little body inclined towards maybe leaning up against Zevlor? Yes? To sleep for five more minutes? This is fine.]
Is it, isn't it . . .
[Thoughtfully murmured as he gently shakes the little dumpling now migrated fully atop him. Astarion, at least, is normally a little easier to rouse.]
It's still only been a year. And he'll deign to talk to the others, have you noticed? Still only when Astarion is there, but it's a start.
[And given the days of Fenris refusing to speak at all aren't so far, Kanan will take what he can get. Though he smiles in the next moment, sweetly endeared by that pride.]
[Has he—? Zevlor's attention snaps upright, holding wilted little Fenris to his side as a midway point between wakefulness and sleep. Sheepishness shows only in his tone when he looks down.]
I've....been busy.
[Paperwork, supplies, remodeling— two new mouths to feed, never mind the supplies Talindra asked for for the boys. Trying to break even with this sort of overhead is taxing even for an established businessman. Zevlor is a soldier.
Was a soldier.
Astarion's eyes flicker open with all the gormlessness of a newborn kitten, grimacing at everything around him as he grunts, sits up, and then crawls further into Kanan's lap. Not knowing what's going on means he's just going to revert to wanting to be coddled like a baby, thank you very much.]
And because of it I've missed you. [Training, yes, but:] All of you. Though I'd have never guessed that training courtesans isn't that unlike running a regiment— ah. Fenris. Up you go. I know it's early, don't fall back asleep. [Leaning is fine, dozing is not. Nor is drooling for that matter, swiping a thumb across one very tiny chin.]
I don't regret having two children in the slightest, but I worry I don't get to spend enough time with them as it is, and at least Fenris enjoys sparring.
Astarion, on the other hand....
[He looks over at his son, who is currently staring back at him. If any of those words are registering, he'd be surprised.]
[Obedience comes naturally to Fenris, even a year out: don't fall back asleep is as good as an order from one of the gods insofar as he's concerned. One tiny fist scrubs furiously at his left eye as he struggles to stay awake. That brisk thumb helps, as does a growing awareness of what's happening. Not so odd for the entire family to be in the bedroom when he rouses, but odd to have Zevlor taking such care to rouse him . . . ah, but the mystery is too elusive for his sleep-addled state.]
Then all the better we're going to the beach today.
[He's trapped beneath Astarion's form (how one child can be so heavy when he wants to be is a question for the ages), but that doesn't stop him from sitting up enough to catch his husband's eye.]
I've missed you too, and so have they— but such excursions are how we make up for the time. Astarion will want to pose in his trunks and rest in the shade, I have no doubt— so why not spend an hour with him doing just that? I'll play with Fenris, at least for a time. And if it suits us, we'll do it more— or teach Fenris how to love the fashion districts, or Astarion how to thrill in the fighting pits.
[Absently he hefts Astarion up (wake up, now, a low murmur as he shakes him a bit more firmly), his attention now entirely focused on his husband.]
How long have you been worried about being so absent?
['I don't want to,' is a wilted whine from Astarion, taken to scrubbing his face against Kanan's shoulder: up and awake and here, he's here, but hold him please. Hold him a lot, he doesn't like being awake right now. Also he heard fighting pit in there and that sounds awful. Thats what he's taking away from all this.]
It will be fine. [Fun, is what he meant to say, but between stroking poor Fenris' hair and hearing Astarion's protest, he loses that train of thought.]
A year ago. [Earns the thin edge of a smile, apologetically angled Kanan's way.] I feel as though I've left too much on your shoulders.
[Or maybe, sometimes, in ways that aren't quite real, he misses having more time for themselves between set lists. Misses sleeping with his husband. Misses how it feels to hold his hand without a little sticky one clawing its way in between—
But then he knows that's not true, either, no.
He just wants more time. Hard to have a good thing and not struggle to let go, even if only for a moment.]
You'd tell me, wouldn't you?
[Up. Up, here we go, Fenris. Swim trunks are easy enough to put on if you start with one leg first and then the other.]
[Oh yes you do, he murmurs into sweet-smelling curls. Up, now, my love, or you won't get to enjoy the fun. After a moment of silent debate, he gives in to an inner impulse and scrubs his cheek against the top of Astarion's head. He knows he's spoiling both boys a bit by doting on them as he does, but on the other hand, they've only a few years left before all that will cease. So let him have this, as he holds his dumpling close and watches Fenris attempt to put two legs into the same hole (once, twice, three times before he manages to get it right).]
Of course I would.
[Warmly said, though not without a faint trace of worry woven within there. He's always a little worried about Zevlor, if you want the truth.]
But given which one of us manages the books and the courtesans and the front of the house and oversees all the remodeling that we've had over the past year . . . it isn't me that has the lion's share of the work, sweetheart.
[It's true. Kanan helps out where he can, and of course Tilses is a godsend (thank the Maker for a second in command who transitions into civilian work as easily as Zevlor had), but Zevlor works so hard.]
And they love you. Both of them do. Though perhaps it's time to start letting them help out around the place . . . if you're aching to spend more quality time with them, that is.
[As for he and Zevlor, well . . . he cocks his head.]
The beach will wear them out today, I wager. Enough that we might actually get our bed back for half an evening, if not all.
[It isn't even sex he's thinking about (although that, too, would be nice— gods, it's been ages, or so it feels). But it would be nice, wouldn't it, to get to lie in bed and talk as they used to without having to couch their words or mind a sharp little heel kicking frantically . . . mm, he can hope, anyway.]
I'd be willing to try anything if it meant spending more time together. [And this time, owing to the fixed thread of his stare (anchored to Kanan above the tufted sleep-wrought tangles of Fenris' little mane), there's hardly any room to mistake the fact that he means spending time with his husband most of all. Not a one-sided desire, but a long, long held one.
Hefting Fenris into a relative standing position is a careful affair: he's no reason to rush this if it means a collapsed heap of tiny limbs clinging tightly to his arm.]
Even letting these two minuscule menaces try their hand at doing chores around the place.
[A beat, and then:]
....are you going to let him get away with that all morning?
[Astarion, he means. Affixed now like velcro, and possibly trying to slither into Kanan's robes to sleep where it's dark and warm (and smells like safety).]
[A teasing retort offered only because he can't ever help but play with Zevlor, even now. Though— oh, none of that, thank you, and he finally ends up putting his arms beneath Astarion's so he can heft him upright in his lap. No more sleeping, thank you, not even for his darling little Astarion. Who looks so bleary right now as he's hoisted up, and Kanan bites back a little grin.
Then, glancing back over at his husband:]
Are you jealous?
[But chores do sound like a good idea, he muses quietly. Astarion has been nosing around backstage for as long as he can walk; perhaps it's beyond time he learned how to help take care of the costumes. And Fenris . . . well, he'll do just about anything he's told, so it's really only a matter of choosing who needs what. But the thought of him toddling after Zevlor like a duckling as he holds papers and stares up loyally at his guardian is a sweet one.]
Mmm.... [Is a flat, distinctly fatherly noise, designed to radiate dissaproval in regards to that joke. (Mostly because he is jealous at this point, and yet won't blame anyone but himself for the fact that he's awake this early, watching his husband at a distance clutching no more than the lost memory of a quiet, calm evening to themselves in one hand and his deeply weary son with the other).]
I doubt I'd fit in there to begin with.
[A slow procession around the room (so that sleepy little steps keep up) sees him gather the rest of their required belongings— and what else they might still need can be plucked up from the markets on the way.
That, and getting their curly-haired first son fully detached from Kanan and subsequently changed.
He plants his heavy parasol in the sand as deep as it'll go. Rented, it's the same as almost every other one on the beach, broad and navy-striped— it also barely digs into the shoreline at all, listing in the first gust that comes along, severely enough that Zevlor has to catch it with both hands and brace against it. Muttering clipped curses, he tries again, this time scraping sand out of the way with his foot, then piling it back. It goes about as well as the time prior, and it also means he's staring down the dawning realization that this'll likely be his Task for the next foreseeable future. At least while Kanan wrangles the boys.
Or....boy.
It's Astarion standing beside him in the parasol's lean shade, squinting with a grimaced frown: the beach is bright as daylight itself, and owing to the wind huge blasts of knee-high sand keep pelting poor Astarion in the face each time he isn't careful.
[In sharp contrast, Fenris stands in the sun and beams as he glances around. He's never seen a beach before. He's never seen the ocean before, nor felt the sting of hot sand beneath bare feet, or watched as any number of people do nothing but relax— and he, himself, numbers among them. There's nothing to do but enjoy himself, or so he was told, and the freedom is so thrilling as to be almost overwhelming. He can't seem to decide what he wants to do first, stop-starting in all directions in his eagerness.]
Do you have it?
[Kanan calls over his shoulder, only half paying attention. It's not that he doesn't want to help, it's just that Fenris keeps staring at the ocean with a gleam in his eye (and does he know how to swim? Kanan is almost sure he can't). But oh— Fenris turns, that selfsame gleam suddenly turned on his brother. An adventure alone isn't nearly as fun as one together, after all.]
Ah— oh, Astarion . . .
[It's fine. He's probably fine, miserable (and sandy) though he is. And anyway, even if he isn't, Fenris is racing to the rescue: darting forward to grab Astarion's wrist and drag him out into the sun, urging him towards a pile of seaweed and shells. And maybe getting their feet wet. And maybe also digging into the wet sand, look, there's people making houses out of wet sand, Astarion, come on—
Gods. To have the energy of children. A little primly, Kanan sits himself down in one chair. He can't really help with the umbrella endeavor, he reasons, and it's not as if he can't keep an eye on the boys while sitting down. But he takes it upon himself to unpack their bag, because he's a helper like that.]
The wind keeps filling the damned thing before I have a chance to shove it i— [Interrupted by a shrill shriek out of Astarion, who was just exposed to both 1: seaweed and 2: hermit crabs for the first time in his young life, and so dislikes the experience that he's caterwauling as he shrivels in on himself, trying to get away from the heap of curiosities Fenris is avidly exploring. Still getting pelted by the wind, surf and sand of course. Still looking about as ungainly as it gets— starting to run back towards Kanan like a lost little cub. Arms outstretched, wailing all the while.
It's a good thing too, he reckons. As he now realizes there'd have been no getting around the innuendo he nearly dropped right in Kanan's lap. Instead he kneels down, setting the umbrella to one side and (hopefully) blocking the wind with his own body as he digs attempt number three.]
You know, it just occurred to me that I haven't been to the beach in decades.
[Coyly said. Amusingly said, his eyes glittering as the corner of his mouth lifts in an irresistible smirk. He's not trying to be rude in face of his husband's ongoing efforts (nor, indeed, the wailing shrieks growing from the other side of the beach, Astarion's escape hindered only by Fenris' dogged attempts to get him to stay). It's just . . . gods, it's been so long since they've done something like this. Not just a quiet evening in, nor brief moments of respite stolen at the end of the night, but a proper day off. One where no one is allowed to bother them, not even for the most urgent of matters, and how can Kanan help but be a little flirtatious in face of that?]
Though if you need help remembering just how to shove something in a hole, my love—
[Oh, but there Astarion finally is: broken free from Fenris' grip and leaping into Kanan's arms. He buries his little face in his chest, wailing about— oh, gods only know, for his complaints are more vocal than verbal. And Kanan has sympathy, he does, which is why he rubs his back once or twice soothingly . . .
. . . before gently hoisting him up.]
Go on. Go play with your brother&Mdash; no, you cannot stay here. [Rare that his voice is so stern, but Astarion has to learn how to deal with others his own age. He's been raised for so long without peers, and it's no bad thing— but it does mean that he has few tools beyond running to Kanan when he's upset.] Tell him to knock it off if he keeps bothering you with that seaweed— or find something you both want to play with.
Well if you'd like to get on your hands and knees and help me, [Zevlor gently snorts out with characteristic fondness over Astarion's increase in pitch when it comes to crying. He's glad Kanan is the one bearing the brunt of it; he remembers too well the sight and sound of a tiny elfling sobbing in the street with outstretched arms, a misery that tugged on his heartstrings hard enough that when he realized why the boy was alone, he brought hm home to sheepishly try and explain to his husband why they now had a son. Like this he can remind himself it's nothing so dire. Just two brothers up to nonsense like they should be, and no one really in need of comfor—
—ohp, Astarion has taken a swing at Fenris. He's taken two and actively is trying to smack his brother with all the clumsy coordination of a bothered toddler who's already fed up with fun.] —ah. Astarion. Astarion, that's enough, we don't strike our brother for trying to play with us. [No, Astarion is definitely attempting to strike his brother in a reddened, wet-eyed rage. Plucked up into Zevlor's arms to the barely articulated cries of 'He's being bad! He's GROSS!!']
Fenris, are you all right, son?
[Doubtful the damage little hands can do, but still.]
['Yeah,' Fenris answers placidly, entirely unbothered by both Astarion's attempts at violence and his subsequent wailing. Scrubbing a bit of sand off his cheek, he stares up at his brother, little eyebrows raised in a decidedly unimpressed expression. 'I just wanted to play,' he adds a little sullenly. Then, seeing that he isn't the one in trouble (if either of them are, but it most certainly isn't him, he's not the one who hit anyone this time), he turns, racing off to tend to his (admittedly pretty gross) pile of seaweed and crabs.
Which just leaves Astarion, teary and decidedly upset, clinging to Zevlor like he had all those years ago. His first father, thank you very much, and clearly the most superior one (or so Kanan imagines he's meant to think from the way Astarion keeps throwing glances over one shoulder).]
Tend to him, then. I'll handle this.
[Let the jokes about the former prostitute inserting rods into holes make themselves. Kanan sighs as he gets up out of his chair and settles down to work. How hard can this be, anyway? Dig a hole, shove the damn umbrella in. It's not difficult, surely.]
At least one of them is happy. Astarion, are you all right?
[I know you're all right, that's what that tone means.]
[You know what, Zevlor isn't going to even pitch a fuss about Kanan taking over. At this point, it'll be easier to hoist his troublemaking hanger-on up onto one hip and help brace the parasol's midsection with his remaining hand. There's snuffling at his neck (angry snuffling), and wet tears (or is it a runny nose?) have begun soaking through his collar, and the tightest little fingers are balled up as they cling to him with harsh ferocity, but it's good at least to know that Fenris is off having fun now that he's done being viciously swatted at— all the little things they won't remember when they're older.
'Mm,' is a grouchy, bitter grunt. It's squeezed out fiercely through incensed lungs as Astarion continues his strike against father and brother.]
Astarion, enough.
I know you're tired, but that doesn't change the fact that you know better than to hit him when you're angry. [The whining sound of muttering protests, but it's all eye-scrubbing and soft noises, and something nigh indecipherable about how Fenris wasn't playing right, and that he doesn't like this, and that it isn't fair. All hushed by a few bounces in his arms, his attention still directed towards Kanan.]
—The real reason is that I didn't have you here to handle all the hard labor for me. [Zevlor says, continuing their earlier conversation. And yes, that is his barely passable attempt at flirting back.]
[Never doubt he knows how to take passable flirtation and respond to it as though it was the most alluring, seductive come-on known to mortalkind— but then again, it's not as if he has to pretend at all when it comes to Zevlor. Any hint of flirtation is more than enough, evidenced by the pointed look he shoots up at him from beneath dark lashes.]
Though I think I can provide a few refresher lessons tonight. Time was you were deft enough with one hand aloFenris don't go in the water.
[Snapped out without a single change in breath, but at least obeyed by the boy in question, who sullenly trots back and plunks himself down in the sand to resume his solitary play. Kanan sighs softly, but at least the hole's a fair bit deeper now. Deep enough he can stick his forearm into it, and that surely must be enough. And even if it isn't, it's hot and he wants to sit, so to hell with it: umbrella in hole, and he's swift in how he reburies it.
And given the wind doesn't immediately topple it over, Kanan calls that a success.]
Now come sit.
[With their sulking little elfling in tow, no less.]
I'm determined you actually relax on this vacation.
[It's their sulking little elfling that, once placed down upon the ground, takes to scooting over to sit as if the command was meant for him: so glad to relax in the newly erected shade that he has to be hefted up out of the empty seat and placed beside it— on his feet.]
No, go play with your brother. [A nudge draws out dawning resentment, pressed towards the sunlight (and his very happy, digging counterpart who's very seriously measuring his work with somewhat unreliable metrics).] Go on.
This is a family outing, and that means you'll need to spend time with him too. Find a way to make it fun.
[And then, as Astarion reluctantly inches towards his fate with folded arms, he takes his husband's hand within his own:] Will that relaxation come before or after both our sons find a way to drown on land?
[His laugh is only semi-successfully disguised as a cough, but at least Astarion doesn't seem to notice. And if there's more amusement than normal lining the corner of his eyes as he grins at his husband, well, only Zevlor need know why. He squeezes his fingers firmly, content to relax (at least for the moment).]
Oh, I doubt that. Not unless they try to bury one another, and that won't happen for at least another ten minutes.
[After all: Fenris seems very determined in his digging efforts. Determined enough he doesn't look up right away— though there's a cry of happiness when he finally spots two pale feet appear at the edge. In an instant he scoots backwards, making room so that they can both dig— or, maybe, so Astarion can just sort of watch him while he digs. He isn't picky.]
Go on. Breathe a little. I'll keep an eye on them— and you've been working too hard lately. When was the last time you stopped worrying about things?
[And then, in a valiant (if not failing) effort to keep up that flirtatious line of conversation:]
Or do I have to find a way to make it fun for you . . .?
[Astarion does not want to dig, but the offer is sweet enough that his furious body language eases up as he sits down on the rim where the sand is still driest, cautiously peering in. It seems....safe enough. Safe enough that he can exhale a little as he twists to look towards Kanan himself, smiling out of the corner of his mouth.
[A supervisory position is more than welcome, so long as Astarion is willing to stick around and watch. It might even be preferable if his brother wants to comment on how deep the hole is, and how impressive Fenris is for getting this far. Just saying! He's really going at it now, both hands plunging in as he gets to the black and purple tinged layers of sand. Though oh . . . there's more than a few shells, and those he tosses towards Astarion. There, pretty things! He likes pretty things, right?]
You can set up a bucket for tips, if that would make you feel better. But if there's anyone who deserves a free show . . .
[Oh, he hopes tonight makes both boys pass out. It's been . . . gods, has it really been a year? There's been little things, desperate hands and rapid kisses, but they've both been so busy, and gods know their bed is never unoccupied nowadays. But Kanan misses it, he really does. He misses him, his fierce commander, and it seems unfair that the addition of two children should doom their sex life to nothingness.]
Don't wear yourself out too much chasing after them today. They need to expel their energy and finally use those beds we've gotten them, but I have plans for you.
[Kanan, eternal optimist.]
And if anyone dares interrupt, I'm locking the door. The theater can run itself for a single night.
[He's skeptical of that fact, Kanan. He remembers the last time the theater did run itself, and thus began a weeklong battle to figure out how much the bookkeeping went off the rails, and where the missing figures were— no theft, mind you, his staff are all good-natured for the most part, simply bad at maths.
But a little exhaustion later won't erase the worth of a good day, nor the offer of an even better night. His mouth twists, and when his head cranes back to drop against the chair he's settled in— still clutching Kanan's claws— he feels deeply at ease.
Perhaps Talindra was right about getting outdoors.]
I'll do my best to live up to your satisfaction despite the rust— either here on the beach or back at home.
But it's you that needs the rest, I fear. After all, I was something of a dedicated soldier in my youth.
[(With careful fingers, Astarion takes the shells from Fenris. Adamant that they be checked for 'bugs' first, naturally, but otherwise loving the pearlescent shine to their layers— the alabaster finwork on their tops and sides.
With enough of them collected, there might even be some cheerful praise for his hard work.)]
[No praise yet, but that's all right: he's used to having to earn a compliment. So long as the shells are acknowledged as what his fickle-minded brother wants, Fenris can deliver. Besides: they're pretty enough, sure, but they're not interesting. Not like digging a hole is. Not like hermit crabs are, and he secretly hopes that perhaps he'll dig up another. Or more seaweed. Or some other creepy-crawly thing, he really isn't picky . . .
But no. Another shell, and he dutifully deposits it in the line of shells awaiting inspection.]
The body remembers what the mind forgets. If you can still spar with Fenris despite not wielding a blade for years, Commander, I imagine you'll do just fine tonight.
[Though that teasing goad has him grinning— as does the sight of Zevlor, eyes closed and posture finally relaxed. Such a rare sight. Rarer still since they adopted both boys (Astarion first, all those sleepless nights with a toddler dealing with abandonment and anguish; then Fenris not a full year ago, distrustful and so, so terrified).]
And I promise, if you manage to outlast me, I'll reward you all the more for it. Up to and includ—
[An outraged shout interrupts him: the sea has, alas, inevitably encroached upon Fenris' project, dousing him in water and knocking half the sand he dug right back into the hole. It's not the worst thing that could happen, and nothing that they need leap up to tend, but it's still somewhat amusing.]
Poor thing.
[Poor aggravated thing, wet hair in his eyes and a little scowl on his face as he furiously digs damp sand out of his project.]
[Zevlor's already alerted, upright and ready to snap to the rescue as his mind conjures up in less than a matter of seconds, images of Fenris or Astarion wholly being dragged out to sea by the current— stung by something dangerous— or submerged within a shark's sharp jaws (never mind that there likely aren't even sharks here in the shallows of a beach like this), only to find one son having skittered back towards still-dry land as the other now sits drenched in a pool of puddled water and foam.
Then helpfully (craning over the edge so that his feet and toes don't touch wet sand), Astarion has already tottered off a few steps from where he landed and returned with an abandoned, broken pail, holding it outwards whilst cradling his treasures in his other arm. Something to scoop out the worst of the damage if it helps, and Zevlor feels a minor pang of guilt at not having bought the boys something useful to play with out here.
In his defense, the last time he was on a beach, he was in armor, so....]
....Well at least he's determined.
[Is a thought. Thin lipped and almost cautious as Zevlor settles down once more.] Should we tell him the ocean does that regularly, or....?
[There are still waves out there. And the only thing that's changed so far is how furiously poor little Fenris is working at his pit.]
[Children need experiences in order to learn, don't they? It's good parenting. Besides, Kanan is far too comfortable to get up. The sun is warm against his feet, the shade is cool, and they spend so many hours of their lives running after the boys.
The offer of a pail is, after a few moments of furious digging, dutifully accepted. It's a sweet offer, and such kindness is deeply appreciated in the midst of all this tragedy. He accepts it with a little sniff (seawater still dripping down his face), hastily scooping out water once or twice before focusing up on his brother. There's some chatter there, Fenris' face easing out of its scowl as he regards his brother, his affection growing more apparent by the minute as they talk.
But ah, here comes the sea again, and—]
Ah . . .
[Fenris finally clambers out, wet and half-drowned, and plops himself sulkily next to Astarion. His tiny arms are crossed over his chest, his glare fixed out at the sea: Achilles in his tent raging against the whims of the gods, clearly, and only the least bit comforted by the boy at his side.]
Are they getting along well, do you think? In general, I mean. Astarion seems so hot and cold sometimes . . .
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
And unbruised bodies . . . did you get any sleep?
[It's not that he misses just how clingy Fenris was when he first came here, but at the same time . . . those little heels hurt. Though the lump in question (now migrated over towards the indent where Zevlor usually lies) is still now, all starfished out as best he can.]
How is he when it comes to sparring, anyway?
no subject
[Anyway, a soldier doesn't need sleep, but he won't be foolish enough to let that remark slip. Click goes the drawer as it closes, clothing laid down along the corner of the bed before he sits beside his drooling, dozing son, one hand petting at dark hair that's all akimbo— and then hefting the little fledgling upright, levering his back and shoulders in an attempt to try and rouse him. Come on, then, little one.]
It's nice to see him much more settled than he was. Bruising included.
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Is it, isn't it . . .
[Thoughtfully murmured as he gently shakes the little dumpling now migrated fully atop him. Astarion, at least, is normally a little easier to rouse.]
It's still only been a year. And he'll deign to talk to the others, have you noticed? Still only when Astarion is there, but it's a start.
[And given the days of Fenris refusing to speak at all aren't so far, Kanan will take what he can get. Though he smiles in the next moment, sweetly endeared by that pride.]
You've missed training little ones.
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I've....been busy.
[Paperwork, supplies, remodeling— two new mouths to feed, never mind the supplies Talindra asked for for the boys. Trying to break even with this sort of overhead is taxing even for an established businessman. Zevlor is a soldier.
Was a soldier.
Astarion's eyes flicker open with all the gormlessness of a newborn kitten, grimacing at everything around him as he grunts, sits up, and then crawls further into Kanan's lap. Not knowing what's going on means he's just going to revert to wanting to be coddled like a baby, thank you very much.]
And because of it I've missed you. [Training, yes, but:] All of you. Though I'd have never guessed that training courtesans isn't that unlike running a regiment— ah. Fenris. Up you go. I know it's early, don't fall back asleep. [Leaning is fine, dozing is not. Nor is drooling for that matter, swiping a thumb across one very tiny chin.]
I don't regret having two children in the slightest, but I worry I don't get to spend enough time with them as it is, and at least Fenris enjoys sparring.
Astarion, on the other hand....
[He looks over at his son, who is currently staring back at him. If any of those words are registering, he'd be surprised.]
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Then all the better we're going to the beach today.
[He's trapped beneath Astarion's form (how one child can be so heavy when he wants to be is a question for the ages), but that doesn't stop him from sitting up enough to catch his husband's eye.]
I've missed you too, and so have they— but such excursions are how we make up for the time. Astarion will want to pose in his trunks and rest in the shade, I have no doubt— so why not spend an hour with him doing just that? I'll play with Fenris, at least for a time. And if it suits us, we'll do it more— or teach Fenris how to love the fashion districts, or Astarion how to thrill in the fighting pits.
[Absently he hefts Astarion up (wake up, now, a low murmur as he shakes him a bit more firmly), his attention now entirely focused on his husband.]
How long have you been worried about being so absent?
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It will be fine. [Fun, is what he meant to say, but between stroking poor Fenris' hair and hearing Astarion's protest, he loses that train of thought.]
A year ago. [Earns the thin edge of a smile, apologetically angled Kanan's way.] I feel as though I've left too much on your shoulders.
[Or maybe, sometimes, in ways that aren't quite real, he misses having more time for themselves between set lists. Misses sleeping with his husband. Misses how it feels to hold his hand without a little sticky one clawing its way in between—
But then he knows that's not true, either, no.
He just wants more time. Hard to have a good thing and not struggle to let go, even if only for a moment.]
You'd tell me, wouldn't you?
[Up. Up, here we go, Fenris. Swim trunks are easy enough to put on if you start with one leg first and then the other.]
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Of course I would.
[Warmly said, though not without a faint trace of worry woven within there. He's always a little worried about Zevlor, if you want the truth.]
But given which one of us manages the books and the courtesans and the front of the house and oversees all the remodeling that we've had over the past year . . . it isn't me that has the lion's share of the work, sweetheart.
[It's true. Kanan helps out where he can, and of course Tilses is a godsend (thank the Maker for a second in command who transitions into civilian work as easily as Zevlor had), but Zevlor works so hard.]
And they love you. Both of them do. Though perhaps it's time to start letting them help out around the place . . . if you're aching to spend more quality time with them, that is.
[As for he and Zevlor, well . . . he cocks his head.]
The beach will wear them out today, I wager. Enough that we might actually get our bed back for half an evening, if not all.
[It isn't even sex he's thinking about (although that, too, would be nice— gods, it's been ages, or so it feels). But it would be nice, wouldn't it, to get to lie in bed and talk as they used to without having to couch their words or mind a sharp little heel kicking frantically . . . mm, he can hope, anyway.]
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Hefting Fenris into a relative standing position is a careful affair: he's no reason to rush this if it means a collapsed heap of tiny limbs clinging tightly to his arm.]
Even letting these two minuscule menaces try their hand at doing chores around the place.
[A beat, and then:]
....are you going to let him get away with that all morning?
[Astarion, he means. Affixed now like velcro, and possibly trying to slither into Kanan's robes to sleep where it's dark and warm (and smells like safety).]
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[A teasing retort offered only because he can't ever help but play with Zevlor, even now. Though— oh, none of that, thank you, and he finally ends up putting his arms beneath Astarion's so he can heft him upright in his lap. No more sleeping, thank you, not even for his darling little Astarion. Who looks so bleary right now as he's hoisted up, and Kanan bites back a little grin.
Then, glancing back over at his husband:]
Are you jealous?
[But chores do sound like a good idea, he muses quietly. Astarion has been nosing around backstage for as long as he can walk; perhaps it's beyond time he learned how to help take care of the costumes. And Fenris . . . well, he'll do just about anything he's told, so it's really only a matter of choosing who needs what. But the thought of him toddling after Zevlor like a duckling as he holds papers and stares up loyally at his guardian is a sweet one.]
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I doubt I'd fit in there to begin with.
[A slow procession around the room (so that sleepy little steps keep up) sees him gather the rest of their required belongings— and what else they might still need can be plucked up from the markets on the way.
That, and getting their curly-haired first son fully detached from Kanan and subsequently changed.
He plants his heavy parasol in the sand as deep as it'll go. Rented, it's the same as almost every other one on the beach, broad and navy-striped— it also barely digs into the shoreline at all, listing in the first gust that comes along, severely enough that Zevlor has to catch it with both hands and brace against it. Muttering clipped curses, he tries again, this time scraping sand out of the way with his foot, then piling it back. It goes about as well as the time prior, and it also means he's staring down the dawning realization that this'll likely be his Task for the next foreseeable future. At least while Kanan wrangles the boys.
Or....boy.
It's Astarion standing beside him in the parasol's lean shade, squinting with a grimaced frown: the beach is bright as daylight itself, and owing to the wind huge blasts of knee-high sand keep pelting poor Astarion in the face each time he isn't careful.
And he's sleepy. So he isn't careful.]
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Do you have it?
[Kanan calls over his shoulder, only half paying attention. It's not that he doesn't want to help, it's just that Fenris keeps staring at the ocean with a gleam in his eye (and does he know how to swim? Kanan is almost sure he can't). But oh— Fenris turns, that selfsame gleam suddenly turned on his brother. An adventure alone isn't nearly as fun as one together, after all.]
Ah— oh, Astarion . . .
[It's fine. He's probably fine, miserable (and sandy) though he is. And anyway, even if he isn't, Fenris is racing to the rescue: darting forward to grab Astarion's wrist and drag him out into the sun, urging him towards a pile of seaweed and shells. And maybe getting their feet wet. And maybe also digging into the wet sand, look, there's people making houses out of wet sand, Astarion, come on—
Gods. To have the energy of children. A little primly, Kanan sits himself down in one chair. He can't really help with the umbrella endeavor, he reasons, and it's not as if he can't keep an eye on the boys while sitting down. But he takes it upon himself to unpack their bag, because he's a helper like that.]
Can you dig it in any deeper?
[Helping.]
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The wind keeps filling the damned thing before I have a chance to shove it i— [Interrupted by a shrill shriek out of Astarion, who was just exposed to both 1: seaweed and 2: hermit crabs for the first time in his young life, and so dislikes the experience that he's caterwauling as he shrivels in on himself, trying to get away from the heap of curiosities Fenris is avidly exploring. Still getting pelted by the wind, surf and sand of course. Still looking about as ungainly as it gets— starting to run back towards Kanan like a lost little cub. Arms outstretched, wailing all the while.
It's a good thing too, he reckons. As he now realizes there'd have been no getting around the innuendo he nearly dropped right in Kanan's lap. Instead he kneels down, setting the umbrella to one side and (hopefully) blocking the wind with his own body as he digs attempt number three.]
You know, it just occurred to me that I haven't been to the beach in decades.
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[Coyly said. Amusingly said, his eyes glittering as the corner of his mouth lifts in an irresistible smirk. He's not trying to be rude in face of his husband's ongoing efforts (nor, indeed, the wailing shrieks growing from the other side of the beach, Astarion's escape hindered only by Fenris' dogged attempts to get him to stay). It's just . . . gods, it's been so long since they've done something like this. Not just a quiet evening in, nor brief moments of respite stolen at the end of the night, but a proper day off. One where no one is allowed to bother them, not even for the most urgent of matters, and how can Kanan help but be a little flirtatious in face of that?]
Though if you need help remembering just how to shove something in a hole, my love—
[Oh, but there Astarion finally is: broken free from Fenris' grip and leaping into Kanan's arms. He buries his little face in his chest, wailing about— oh, gods only know, for his complaints are more vocal than verbal. And Kanan has sympathy, he does, which is why he rubs his back once or twice soothingly . . .
. . . before gently hoisting him up.]
Go on. Go play with your brother&Mdash; no, you cannot stay here. [Rare that his voice is so stern, but Astarion has to learn how to deal with others his own age. He's been raised for so long without peers, and it's no bad thing— but it does mean that he has few tools beyond running to Kanan when he's upset.] Tell him to knock it off if he keeps bothering you with that seaweed— or find something you both want to play with.
Go on!
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BETRAYAL FROM FATHER?????!!!!!!
BETRAYAL FRM FATHER—]
Well if you'd like to get on your hands and knees and help me, [Zevlor gently snorts out with characteristic fondness over Astarion's increase in pitch when it comes to crying. He's glad Kanan is the one bearing the brunt of it; he remembers too well the sight and sound of a tiny elfling sobbing in the street with outstretched arms, a misery that tugged on his heartstrings hard enough that when he realized why the boy was alone, he brought hm home to sheepishly try and explain to his husband why they now had a son. Like this he can remind himself it's nothing so dire. Just two brothers up to nonsense like they should be, and no one really in need of comfor—
—ohp, Astarion has taken a swing at Fenris. He's taken two and actively is trying to smack his brother with all the clumsy coordination of a bothered toddler who's already fed up with fun.] —ah. Astarion. Astarion, that's enough, we don't strike our brother for trying to play with us. [No, Astarion is definitely attempting to strike his brother in a reddened, wet-eyed rage. Plucked up into Zevlor's arms to the barely articulated cries of 'He's being bad! He's GROSS!!']
Fenris, are you all right, son?
[Doubtful the damage little hands can do, but still.]
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Which just leaves Astarion, teary and decidedly upset, clinging to Zevlor like he had all those years ago. His first father, thank you very much, and clearly the most superior one (or so Kanan imagines he's meant to think from the way Astarion keeps throwing glances over one shoulder).]
Tend to him, then. I'll handle this.
[Let the jokes about the former prostitute inserting rods into holes make themselves. Kanan sighs as he gets up out of his chair and settles down to work. How hard can this be, anyway? Dig a hole, shove the damn umbrella in. It's not difficult, surely.]
At least one of them is happy. Astarion, are you all right?
[I know you're all right, that's what that tone means.]
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'Mm,' is a grouchy, bitter grunt. It's squeezed out fiercely through incensed lungs as Astarion continues his strike against father and brother.]
Astarion, enough.
I know you're tired, but that doesn't change the fact that you know better than to hit him when you're angry. [The whining sound of muttering protests, but it's all eye-scrubbing and soft noises, and something nigh indecipherable about how Fenris wasn't playing right, and that he doesn't like this, and that it isn't fair. All hushed by a few bounces in his arms, his attention still directed towards Kanan.]
—The real reason is that I didn't have you here to handle all the hard labor for me. [Zevlor says, continuing their earlier conversation. And yes, that is his barely passable attempt at flirting back.]
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[Never doubt he knows how to take passable flirtation and respond to it as though it was the most alluring, seductive come-on known to mortalkind— but then again, it's not as if he has to pretend at all when it comes to Zevlor. Any hint of flirtation is more than enough, evidenced by the pointed look he shoots up at him from beneath dark lashes.]
Though I think I can provide a few refresher lessons tonight. Time was you were deft enough with one hand aloFenris don't go in the water.
[Snapped out without a single change in breath, but at least obeyed by the boy in question, who sullenly trots back and plunks himself down in the sand to resume his solitary play. Kanan sighs softly, but at least the hole's a fair bit deeper now. Deep enough he can stick his forearm into it, and that surely must be enough. And even if it isn't, it's hot and he wants to sit, so to hell with it: umbrella in hole, and he's swift in how he reburies it.
And given the wind doesn't immediately topple it over, Kanan calls that a success.]
Now come sit.
[With their sulking little elfling in tow, no less.]
I'm determined you actually relax on this vacation.
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No, go play with your brother. [A nudge draws out dawning resentment, pressed towards the sunlight (and his very happy, digging counterpart who's very seriously measuring his work with somewhat unreliable metrics).] Go on.
This is a family outing, and that means you'll need to spend time with him too. Find a way to make it fun.
[And then, as Astarion reluctantly inches towards his fate with folded arms, he takes his husband's hand within his own:] Will that relaxation come before or after both our sons find a way to drown on land?
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Oh, I doubt that. Not unless they try to bury one another, and that won't happen for at least another ten minutes.
[After all: Fenris seems very determined in his digging efforts. Determined enough he doesn't look up right away— though there's a cry of happiness when he finally spots two pale feet appear at the edge. In an instant he scoots backwards, making room so that they can both dig— or, maybe, so Astarion can just sort of watch him while he digs. He isn't picky.]
Go on. Breathe a little. I'll keep an eye on them— and you've been working too hard lately. When was the last time you stopped worrying about things?
[And then, in a valiant (if not failing) effort to keep up that flirtatious line of conversation:]
Or do I have to find a way to make it fun for you . . .?
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Another squeeze.
(You know how long it's been.)]
With all these people around?
[For free? is the nominal tease.]
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You can set up a bucket for tips, if that would make you feel better. But if there's anyone who deserves a free show . . .
[Oh, he hopes tonight makes both boys pass out. It's been . . . gods, has it really been a year? There's been little things, desperate hands and rapid kisses, but they've both been so busy, and gods know their bed is never unoccupied nowadays. But Kanan misses it, he really does. He misses him, his fierce commander, and it seems unfair that the addition of two children should doom their sex life to nothingness.]
Don't wear yourself out too much chasing after them today. They need to expel their energy and finally use those beds we've gotten them, but I have plans for you.
[Kanan, eternal optimist.]
And if anyone dares interrupt, I'm locking the door. The theater can run itself for a single night.
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But a little exhaustion later won't erase the worth of a good day, nor the offer of an even better night. His mouth twists, and when his head cranes back to drop against the chair he's settled in— still clutching Kanan's claws— he feels deeply at ease.
Perhaps Talindra was right about getting outdoors.]
I'll do my best to live up to your satisfaction despite the rust— either here on the beach or back at home.
But it's you that needs the rest, I fear. After all, I was something of a dedicated soldier in my youth.
[(With careful fingers, Astarion takes the shells from Fenris. Adamant that they be checked for 'bugs' first, naturally, but otherwise loving the pearlescent shine to their layers— the alabaster finwork on their tops and sides.
With enough of them collected, there might even be some cheerful praise for his hard work.)]
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But no. Another shell, and he dutifully deposits it in the line of shells awaiting inspection.]
The body remembers what the mind forgets. If you can still spar with Fenris despite not wielding a blade for years, Commander, I imagine you'll do just fine tonight.
[Though that teasing goad has him grinning— as does the sight of Zevlor, eyes closed and posture finally relaxed. Such a rare sight. Rarer still since they adopted both boys (Astarion first, all those sleepless nights with a toddler dealing with abandonment and anguish; then Fenris not a full year ago, distrustful and so, so terrified).]
And I promise, if you manage to outlast me, I'll reward you all the more for it. Up to and includ—
[An outraged shout interrupts him: the sea has, alas, inevitably encroached upon Fenris' project, dousing him in water and knocking half the sand he dug right back into the hole. It's not the worst thing that could happen, and nothing that they need leap up to tend, but it's still somewhat amusing.]
Poor thing.
[Poor aggravated thing, wet hair in his eyes and a little scowl on his face as he furiously digs damp sand out of his project.]
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Then helpfully (craning over the edge so that his feet and toes don't touch wet sand), Astarion has already tottered off a few steps from where he landed and returned with an abandoned, broken pail, holding it outwards whilst cradling his treasures in his other arm. Something to scoop out the worst of the damage if it helps, and Zevlor feels a minor pang of guilt at not having bought the boys something useful to play with out here.
In his defense, the last time he was on a beach, he was in armor, so....]
....Well at least he's determined.
[Is a thought. Thin lipped and almost cautious as Zevlor settles down once more.] Should we tell him the ocean does that regularly, or....?
[There are still waves out there. And the only thing that's changed so far is how furiously poor little Fenris is working at his pit.]
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[Children need experiences in order to learn, don't they? It's good parenting. Besides, Kanan is far too comfortable to get up. The sun is warm against his feet, the shade is cool, and they spend so many hours of their lives running after the boys.
The offer of a pail is, after a few moments of furious digging, dutifully accepted. It's a sweet offer, and such kindness is deeply appreciated in the midst of all this tragedy. He accepts it with a little sniff (seawater still dripping down his face), hastily scooping out water once or twice before focusing up on his brother. There's some chatter there, Fenris' face easing out of its scowl as he regards his brother, his affection growing more apparent by the minute as they talk.
But ah, here comes the sea again, and—]
Ah . . .
[Fenris finally clambers out, wet and half-drowned, and plops himself sulkily next to Astarion. His tiny arms are crossed over his chest, his glare fixed out at the sea: Achilles in his tent raging against the whims of the gods, clearly, and only the least bit comforted by the boy at his side.]
Are they getting along well, do you think? In general, I mean. Astarion seems so hot and cold sometimes . . .
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HISS FAVIT ;;
HISS FAVIT!!!