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
[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 . . .