[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 . . .
Mm? [Distracted by the sight of his newest son, whose wax wings have gone to dampened ashes it seems, Zevlor's focus needs a moment to catch up. But when it does:] Oh.
[More affirmation than answer, he twists their claws together idly in the shade, and ponders the scene before him. Astarion chattering before pointing around the dunes, gesturing to other long-abandoned castles and fortresses made of heaped-up sand.]
Yes, I think so. [And he means it.] I remember the last time Astarion couldn't go with Fenris and Talindra when our deliveries ran short, and he wailed all day and night till they came home. Haunted the theater like a lost pup, whining at anyone who would look at him even for a moment.
He loves that boy, even when his temper rages. Just a dramatic little thing at heart, and Fenris seems to handle it just fine.
[He hums softly, one part acknowledgement and one part rueful memory of that awful day. Astarion had been so miserable, lamenting the loss of his brother and his nanny all at once as he clung to everyone's legs, utterly convinced he'd been abandoned forever. It was a pitiful sight, for all that he'd spent most of the day assuring Astarion that they would, in fact, come back. And a sweeter sight still when they had, and Astarion had all but tackled Fenris to the ground in his eagerness at their reunion.
But it's a good question, and Kanan exhales slowly before offering up his response.]
More that . . . I fear that I don't know enough about children to know the difference.
[He glances over at his husband.]
For all that I have my disagreements with Talindra, I'll never deny that she has been a lifeline when it comes to them. When you first brought home Astarion . . . gods, I was terrified. Convinced we'd ruin his life even more, and the only thing that stopped me from demanding you take him to an orphanage was the way he clung to you. But I have never . . . children were never a part of my life here.
[No siblings, no cousins, and passing familiarity with some of the others' children did not experience make. Kanan had been so overwhelmed those first few weeks, desperately trying to comfort and soothe a heartbroken toddler while learning all the while just how to care for him.]
And now that they're older . . . we didn't even know they needed sunlight. It's no sin, but . . . sometimes I fear I miss signs that elves emit. Something to show that, that something is wrong, or that I should have seen years ago . . . I don't know. It isn't logical, [he admits with a little scrunch of his nose.
For it isn't, he knows. And normally he isn't so worried about the boys, for they truly are as thick as thieves most times. But fear isn't rational, and what parent doesn't worry that something is going wrong?]
But they've both been through so much. And I want to be sure their fights are what siblings ought to be fighting about, and not something else . . . if that makes any kind of sense.
[Oh his dear, gentle-hearted husband....fierce as a tiger when the world is looking at him, yet the kindness in bright eyes that drew Zevlor in from the start shows its hand in moments such as these. The priorities that claim him, what has his thoughts by the throat despite a warm day full of happy children (minor acclimatory incidents aside) adventuring their tiny hearts out, it shows what kind of person that he is.
And the reflection isn't anything but blinding.
Zevlor's own grip tightens, twisting their knuckles over until he's able to draw that delicate hand in for a single, solitary kiss. As crafted by adoration as it is awe.]
Kanan, no one in this world could raise them better.
Look at them.
[Already moving in concert farther from the shoreline, carrying a bucket and their finds, each footstep excitedly in sync as they map out their new kingdom. Alive and hale and whole and happy despite all their struggles, and at the heart of that small triumph, isn't that what everyone strives to be? Resilient enough to smile when you're tired and confused as to where you are, blasted with sunlight with no say in the matter, and yet safe enough to trust in the wonder of a new experience. To take to everything as if you've always known it, even when that couldn't be further from the truth.] They're happy, darling. Temperamental as children always are, but that won't get in the way of their contentment or their health.
And while it does make sense to worry that you'll miss something important— something I've caught myself dreading more often than you'd guess— I very much doubt an entire theater full of people would. If not Talindra, then the others, and neither would reflect poorly on you. Not after how much care you pour into them.
And—
[Should he say this? Hm. Maybe he shouldn't.]
I wouldn't use Astarion's behavior as a metric to begin with.
What's wrong with Astarion's behavior as a metric?
[Dramatic pot, meet tiny, overexaggerated kettle, as Kanan puts one hand to his chest in only semi-teasing offense. On the one hand, he knows exactly what Zevlor means: their son has taken after Kanan in so many ways, dramatic inclinations and all, and has since he first came into their care. The number of nights they both nearly laughed themselves sick as their chubby toddler yammered on and on in blatant imitation of his father, hands waving in the air and his cadence pitch-perfect while he'd waddled around on stage . . . oh, it was so charming, and that inclination hasn't faded a bit since he's gotten older. Even now, Kanan thinks, stealing a glance out towards where Astarion is excitedly gesturing as he lays out visions of vast seawalls and staggering towers.
But on the other hand . . . rude, sir!
And yet not inaccurate. And it's a relief to focus on that for a precious few seconds while he digests what Zevlor is truly saying. Kanan squeezes his hand tightly, his skin still gently tingling from that sweet kiss. It's true, he knows. Even if they do miss something— and he suspects that they will again, for there are so many years before the boys are grown— the children have so many guardians around them. It doesn't matter how waspish some of the courtesans can get when Astarion get petulant or Fenris gets underfoot, for they all of them have such immense fondness for the boys. Humans, elves, dwarves, tieflings, halflings— they have all sorts in the Moulin Rouge, and they none of them would let their little mascots go to ruin.
It won't always quell the fear, of course. But here and now, the sound of their childrens' laughter ringing in his ears and his husband's hand in his, it quiets it down. Kanan glances over, offering him a soft smile.]
But you're right. I won't deny it. Perhaps there are things I could have done better, but . . . they are better off than they were, I won't ever deny that.
[But oh, a gentle nudge:]
What do you mean, more often than I'd guess? How often do you fret?
[Flusterment strikes through a previously calm expression there. Moreso for the attention driven towards his final comment than the latter, where if redness were the measure of his sudden discomposure, his own skintone would be part and parcel, rather than a natural state.
But then he notices, all overlaid with the softer sounds of childhood chatter in the background, that it's only teasing. Only that same characteristic playfulness that Kanan's known for, finding him in warm retaliation.
And he smiles.
Sharp teeth, soft curvature around them, slanted gently upwards. Punctuated by a chuckle.]
Often enough to be embarrassed. [Is true, though unimportant.] The only thing I've reared with any reliability is a regiment of paladins in the Hells, and those two don't look like your typical conscripts. Or performers.
[A minor nod towards those adventurous little creatures; there seems to be a political alliance forming now, no doubt involving the divvying of found treasure and percentages thereof.]
Although on second thought, Astarion does follow quite aptly in your footsteps.
[Warmly (dotingly) said as he follows Zevlor's gaze and watches their children. There are no favorites between the two (no matter how badly Astarion had fussed at first, wailing and panicking over Fenris somehow replacing him as most beloved), but gods, he can't deny he connects with Astarion more. The hours they've spent pouring over makeup and costumes, fabric and glitter . . . it's no sin to not understand a child's interests, of course. Fenris' ardent adoration for all things violent is a mystery to Kanan, but one he supports (uneasily) nonetheless. But it's wonderful, too, to have a son with whom he can share his passions.]
I want to start teaching him needlework soon. He's old enough that he can learn the basics, at least. And perhaps makeup . . .? At least the beginnings of it.
[It's not that Zevlor has ever forbidden it, not beyond a few disapproving glances. And Kanan can understand how there's a certain unease that comes from a man seeing his young son all dolled up by a group of courtesans. But it's just that Astarion adores it so much: every part of him all but vibrating in excitement as vivid, clashing colors are carefully spread across his lids and cheeks.]
[It isn't Zevlor's world, no. He never felt all that comfortable in the Moulin Rouge till it was his own (and even then, comfort is a pipe dream at times thanks to the rigors of raising two young sons), he can admit that it was Kanan who had him coming back time and time again. And so there's no expression-bound reaction to that news— his focus left out in the distance for a beat.]
Mmm.
[Consideration leads the sidelong glance that follows. Those gears tangibly turning, though only midly.]
Not to wear, not as a true accessory. But he always turns out like a little clown when he tries to put it on himself, and I want to teach him how.
[There almost certainly has been a moment where Astarion jumpscared himself in the mirror and wailed about seeing a clown haunting the Moulin Rouge.]
He'll want to learn it sooner or later . . .
[His gaze strays out towards the beach once more. At this distance Astarion all but disappears against the brilliant white of the sand, but Kanan can just make out two arms waving around theatrically. Hiss favit, he can almost hear, and some part of his heart twinges in nostalgia.]
But perhaps only needlework. At least this year. He's only nine.
[Ah. On second thought, it makes a great deal of sense put that way. Part of why Fenris took so well to their sparring sessions is because the boy already knew all the basics when he came slinking sheepishly to shelter under Zevlor's wing.
(....which now begs the question of whether or not he'll begin waking up with rouge on his cheeks once Kanan starts granting permission for his son to start touching compacts and kohl liners, but as with all things: one step at a time.)]
No one in the Realms knows desire like you do. Not even Sharess herself. [Turns their fingers over, trapping the sleek silver outline of a simple wedding band between his own index and thumb.] If you're convinced that's what Astarion is going to start asking for, then I'd stake the deed to the Moulin Rouge on it.
[There's a small, sudden shriek as the process of a preliminary seawall has unearthed a horseshoe crab, sending Astarion bolting away from his brother on hands and scrabbling feet.
And even then, it's more movement than sight: the poor boy's whiter than milk on marble.]
[Oh, their poor son. Their poor fussy, overwhelmed son, so easily startled and disgusted it's a wonder he's managing this trip at all. Kanan purses his lips, hiding a smile.]
He likes the attention, love. [Not so unlike his father, Kanan thinks with a pleasant shiver; he could get used to these outings for the chance to flirt alone.] And, perhaps, the chance to dress up. I suspect he'll want to be an actor— less about desire and more about being admired.
[Or maybe that's his own wishful heart, longing for an easier path for his son than his own has been. Though on the other hand . . . there's the way Astarion has drawn to a halt as Fenris scrambled after him, not to torment nor drag back, but rather to clumsily fuss over. There's a lot of awkward patting, there, there, you poor scared pitiful thing.]
He . . . will adapt to the outside sooner or later, do you think? [he adds uncertainly.] Maybe we have kept him in too much . . .
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
[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!
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
'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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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 . . .?
no subject
Another squeeze.
(You know how long it's been.)]
With all these people around?
[For free? is the nominal tease.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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 subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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 . . .
no subject
[More affirmation than answer, he twists their claws together idly in the shade, and ponders the scene before him. Astarion chattering before pointing around the dunes, gesturing to other long-abandoned castles and fortresses made of heaped-up sand.]
Yes, I think so. [And he means it.] I remember the last time Astarion couldn't go with Fenris and Talindra when our deliveries ran short, and he wailed all day and night till they came home. Haunted the theater like a lost pup, whining at anyone who would look at him even for a moment.
He loves that boy, even when his temper rages. Just a dramatic little thing at heart, and Fenris seems to handle it just fine.
[A beat:]
Do you worry that he doesn't?
no subject
But it's a good question, and Kanan exhales slowly before offering up his response.]
More that . . . I fear that I don't know enough about children to know the difference.
[He glances over at his husband.]
For all that I have my disagreements with Talindra, I'll never deny that she has been a lifeline when it comes to them. When you first brought home Astarion . . . gods, I was terrified. Convinced we'd ruin his life even more, and the only thing that stopped me from demanding you take him to an orphanage was the way he clung to you. But I have never . . . children were never a part of my life here.
[No siblings, no cousins, and passing familiarity with some of the others' children did not experience make. Kanan had been so overwhelmed those first few weeks, desperately trying to comfort and soothe a heartbroken toddler while learning all the while just how to care for him.]
And now that they're older . . . we didn't even know they needed sunlight. It's no sin, but . . . sometimes I fear I miss signs that elves emit. Something to show that, that something is wrong, or that I should have seen years ago . . . I don't know. It isn't logical, [he admits with a little scrunch of his nose.
For it isn't, he knows. And normally he isn't so worried about the boys, for they truly are as thick as thieves most times. But fear isn't rational, and what parent doesn't worry that something is going wrong?]
But they've both been through so much. And I want to be sure their fights are what siblings ought to be fighting about, and not something else . . . if that makes any kind of sense.
no subject
And the reflection isn't anything but blinding.
Zevlor's own grip tightens, twisting their knuckles over until he's able to draw that delicate hand in for a single, solitary kiss. As crafted by adoration as it is awe.]
Kanan, no one in this world could raise them better.
Look at them.
[Already moving in concert farther from the shoreline, carrying a bucket and their finds, each footstep excitedly in sync as they map out their new kingdom. Alive and hale and whole and happy despite all their struggles, and at the heart of that small triumph, isn't that what everyone strives to be? Resilient enough to smile when you're tired and confused as to where you are, blasted with sunlight with no say in the matter, and yet safe enough to trust in the wonder of a new experience. To take to everything as if you've always known it, even when that couldn't be further from the truth.] They're happy, darling. Temperamental as children always are, but that won't get in the way of their contentment or their health.
And while it does make sense to worry that you'll miss something important— something I've caught myself dreading more often than you'd guess— I very much doubt an entire theater full of people would. If not Talindra, then the others, and neither would reflect poorly on you. Not after how much care you pour into them.
And—
[Should he say this? Hm. Maybe he shouldn't.]
I wouldn't use Astarion's behavior as a metric to begin with.
no subject
[Dramatic pot, meet tiny, overexaggerated kettle, as Kanan puts one hand to his chest in only semi-teasing offense. On the one hand, he knows exactly what Zevlor means: their son has taken after Kanan in so many ways, dramatic inclinations and all, and has since he first came into their care. The number of nights they both nearly laughed themselves sick as their chubby toddler yammered on and on in blatant imitation of his father, hands waving in the air and his cadence pitch-perfect while he'd waddled around on stage . . . oh, it was so charming, and that inclination hasn't faded a bit since he's gotten older. Even now, Kanan thinks, stealing a glance out towards where Astarion is excitedly gesturing as he lays out visions of vast seawalls and staggering towers.
But on the other hand . . . rude, sir!
And yet not inaccurate. And it's a relief to focus on that for a precious few seconds while he digests what Zevlor is truly saying. Kanan squeezes his hand tightly, his skin still gently tingling from that sweet kiss. It's true, he knows. Even if they do miss something— and he suspects that they will again, for there are so many years before the boys are grown— the children have so many guardians around them. It doesn't matter how waspish some of the courtesans can get when Astarion get petulant or Fenris gets underfoot, for they all of them have such immense fondness for the boys. Humans, elves, dwarves, tieflings, halflings— they have all sorts in the Moulin Rouge, and they none of them would let their little mascots go to ruin.
It won't always quell the fear, of course. But here and now, the sound of their childrens' laughter ringing in his ears and his husband's hand in his, it quiets it down. Kanan glances over, offering him a soft smile.]
But you're right. I won't deny it. Perhaps there are things I could have done better, but . . . they are better off than they were, I won't ever deny that.
[But oh, a gentle nudge:]
What do you mean, more often than I'd guess? How often do you fret?
no subject
[Flusterment strikes through a previously calm expression there. Moreso for the attention driven towards his final comment than the latter, where if redness were the measure of his sudden discomposure, his own skintone would be part and parcel, rather than a natural state.
But then he notices, all overlaid with the softer sounds of childhood chatter in the background, that it's only teasing. Only that same characteristic playfulness that Kanan's known for, finding him in warm retaliation.
And he smiles.
Sharp teeth, soft curvature around them, slanted gently upwards. Punctuated by a chuckle.]
Often enough to be embarrassed. [Is true, though unimportant.] The only thing I've reared with any reliability is a regiment of paladins in the Hells, and those two don't look like your typical conscripts. Or performers.
[A minor nod towards those adventurous little creatures; there seems to be a political alliance forming now, no doubt involving the divvying of found treasure and percentages thereof.]
Although on second thought, Astarion does follow quite aptly in your footsteps.
no subject
[Warmly (dotingly) said as he follows Zevlor's gaze and watches their children. There are no favorites between the two (no matter how badly Astarion had fussed at first, wailing and panicking over Fenris somehow replacing him as most beloved), but gods, he can't deny he connects with Astarion more. The hours they've spent pouring over makeup and costumes, fabric and glitter . . . it's no sin to not understand a child's interests, of course. Fenris' ardent adoration for all things violent is a mystery to Kanan, but one he supports (uneasily) nonetheless. But it's wonderful, too, to have a son with whom he can share his passions.]
I want to start teaching him needlework soon. He's old enough that he can learn the basics, at least. And perhaps makeup . . .? At least the beginnings of it.
[It's not that Zevlor has ever forbidden it, not beyond a few disapproving glances. And Kanan can understand how there's a certain unease that comes from a man seeing his young son all dolled up by a group of courtesans. But it's just that Astarion adores it so much: every part of him all but vibrating in excitement as vivid, clashing colors are carefully spread across his lids and cheeks.]
no subject
Mmm.
[Consideration leads the sidelong glance that follows. Those gears tangibly turning, though only midly.]
At his age already....?
no subject
[There almost certainly has been a moment where Astarion jumpscared himself in the mirror and wailed about seeing a clown haunting the Moulin Rouge.]
He'll want to learn it sooner or later . . .
[His gaze strays out towards the beach once more. At this distance Astarion all but disappears against the brilliant white of the sand, but Kanan can just make out two arms waving around theatrically. Hiss favit, he can almost hear, and some part of his heart twinges in nostalgia.]
But perhaps only needlework. At least this year. He's only nine.
HISS FAVIT ;;
(....which now begs the question of whether or not he'll begin waking up with rouge on his cheeks once Kanan starts granting permission for his son to start touching compacts and kohl liners, but as with all things: one step at a time.)]
No one in the Realms knows desire like you do. Not even Sharess herself. [Turns their fingers over, trapping the sleek silver outline of a simple wedding band between his own index and thumb.] If you're convinced that's what Astarion is going to start asking for, then I'd stake the deed to the Moulin Rouge on it.
[There's a small, sudden shriek as the process of a preliminary seawall has unearthed a horseshoe crab, sending Astarion bolting away from his brother on hands and scrabbling feet.
And even then, it's more movement than sight: the poor boy's whiter than milk on marble.]
HISS FAVIT!!!
[Oh, their poor son. Their poor fussy, overwhelmed son, so easily startled and disgusted it's a wonder he's managing this trip at all. Kanan purses his lips, hiding a smile.]
He likes the attention, love. [Not so unlike his father, Kanan thinks with a pleasant shiver; he could get used to these outings for the chance to flirt alone.] And, perhaps, the chance to dress up. I suspect he'll want to be an actor— less about desire and more about being admired.
[Or maybe that's his own wishful heart, longing for an easier path for his son than his own has been. Though on the other hand . . . there's the way Astarion has drawn to a halt as Fenris scrambled after him, not to torment nor drag back, but rather to clumsily fuss over. There's a lot of awkward patting, there, there, you poor scared pitiful thing.]
He . . . will adapt to the outside sooner or later, do you think? [he adds uncertainly.] Maybe we have kept him in too much . . .