[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
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 . . .