the hawke/varric queen

“You have to stop that,” Orion tuts. Useless as it is. Mostly out of routine. Obligation. As if they’ll listen, as if he hasn’t been banging this drum for the entirety of their working relationship. Lane doesn’t even laugh at him anymore. He can’t ignore the lump he swallows around. He can’t remember the last time she genuinely laughed at all, actually. Before tour? Longer than that? The band laughs together. Surely she’s been laughing with them.

“Weather’s nice,” he says. Idiot. What is he doing?

Lane swipes a hand over their eyes, running it back over their sweat soaked hair. The only sign they’d just performed to a packed crowd. And crushed, at that. Orion is certainly, certainly biased but he knows in his bones they’ve won again this week. Half Hog is good and only getting better. It’s their game to win if they keep this momentum. He chews his cheek. The relentless churn is doing something to them. Lighting them up. Chiseling their sound. Inspiring them.

He’s terrified of how bright they’re burning.

“I’m good, Orion,” she answers a question he didn’t have to ask. She’s good that way. She’s dialed in on all of them—can sense the doubt, the concern, the frustration in himself and with the band. He’s never been blind to the reality that no one ever seems to have an accurate read on them. Orion is trying to get there.

“You aren’t.” He can only guess. And it’s an educated guess, really. They shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t start this. This might only make things worse but it’s been simmering for so long and he can see how exhausted they are. “You were silent at breakfast this morning. Most mornings. You’ve been going through the motions for days. Weeks, if I’m being entirely honest with you. When I ask you how you are, your answers are evasive or frightening. I know this hasn’t been a smooth ride by any measure. I know it has to be stressful-,”

“Stressful.”

“Yes, and if this is not what you want, really Lane, you only have to say that. And there isn’t a wrong time to say it. You want to pull the plug? I’ll shut it all down and tell everyone it was my idea. Just-,” he huffs. So much for composure. “You can’t keep going like this.” 

Orion can feel himself twisting into something protective and sharp and all too late he wonders if he’s ever successfully communicated while in this state. Images of plane tickets, stone-faced lawyers and a single box of papers from his old desk at Carolina shutter through his mind. A horrible flipbook of each time he simply couldn't make it right. No. Probably not ever.

“Orion, can you just-,”

“No, Lane, can you-,”

“Pause. Okay, enough. Fuck. I don’t want to fight with you. I’m tired.” Lane ashes their menthol cigarette. Orion watches their fingers.

“You’ve been tired.”

“Yeah,” they say. They take a long drag. Let it go. “Yeah.”

Lane crouches down, leaning their back against the rough concrete exterior of the building. “I’m trying to keep the road clear. I think. If that makes sense.”

Orion shoves his hands in his pockets. He listens. Her brown eyes rise to meet his. He breathes.

“I’m not good, right now. I’m trying to fucking hold on. Jazzy won’t have a conversation with me that’s longer than ten minutes which, trust me, I understand. It’s just hard and I can feel the band, like, peeling. Like, just fraying. Iris and Devyn have their whole shit,” they begin gesturing, their voice climbing and Orion eases into a mirror of their pose, meeting their level to bring them both down. Lane sighs, getting the message and begins again, quieter. 

“And they always have and it’s fine but I refuse to engage because it’s so, decidedly, not ever my business. I’m just tired of being the guy in the middle. Rowan is closing off to me and that’s fine. It’s happened. We swing back around—it happens.”

They crush their cigarette on the ground and shove the butt in their pocket to trash later. Orion grimaces. Disgusting. He’s privately humiliated by how charmed he is when they don’t even try.

“And the Gina and Victoria stuff is so fucking awful. It’s so awful, Orion. What have I even been thinking? I put this,” they cast their hand in a wide arc, “before anything else. The band. The opportunity, here. Fuck, our careers. I put the band first. I have to. Nothing else matters.”

“Lane-,”

“And Seven. Jesus.” It looks like Lane isn’t aware of it as they reach for another cigarette. As if it’s not even a choice. He bites his tongue. 

“The guy hates me. He just hates me. I still love him—still, which is so dumb—and he just hates me.” Lane lights the end of the Marlboro. Orion feels his stomach burning with it. “I hate people hating me. Do you know that about me?” He’d guessed as much. “I hate it. I try to, like, work and mind my own business and push through whatever the fuck I feel. All the time. And when someone hates me?” They pause for a hard drag. “It messes with me. I know I’m not perfect and I know I do stuff wrong a lot. I hurt people. I fail. I can be oblivious, I can be irrational, I can be naive and it makes me do stuff that looks careless.” And oh, Orion hates this. He feels suddenly desperate to cut her off, but she’s talking about how she really feels with him for the first time in months and he can’t stop her. He won’t. Even if it stings his eyes.

“But I care. I really care. All the time about so much and I can’t stop fucking caring. It, like, hurts to care like this. It makes me put so much anger into the music. It’s like I’m constantly feeding my worst feelings but what would I do with them when I can’t talk about it?” Fuck, are they having a panic attack? Orion gets lower. He fully rests his knees on the pavement. It’s some sort of instinct. It’s his job to support the band. Later, this is all he will think of his own actions in this moment. Slowly, his hands lift to rest on Lane’s shoulders. His thumbs land just over the collar of their stark white button down. Support, a tether or a lifeline. He would be anything for them if he could.

Okay, reel it in.

Lane takes a breath. Another. Takes another rough pull. Exhales the smoke. Rude, when he’s this close to her face, but he barely scoffs. They give a weak laugh at his dismay. He tries to ignore what comes loose in his chest.

“I just hate it. The Seven thing. The Blake thing. How I can’t be a great teammate for August right now. I’m falling apart and I have to be normal. Everything is a mess. And I have to pretend it’s fine, so when the dust settles on all of this—fucking eventually—I won’t have ruined this chance for everyone. Like, there’s a blizzard and I have to keep the roads clear so when the snow stops, we can still fucking drive.”

It’s sensible. It’s responsible. It’s high functioning. He feels sick. Orion’s hands tighten just a fraction.

Lane rubs a knuckle into their forehead. Their breath is still too shallow. He focuses his own, tries silently guiding them to fill their lungs. It takes a few moments for them to follow his lead. 

“I would still rather be doing this than anything else. I still want this.” Affirming, if it didn’t sound like some sort of grounding mantra. 

What a fucking disaster.

A shocked shout of a laugh bursts from Lane’s mouth before they can stop it. 

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Better that way,” they say, practically fond. They stand, gently shoving his hands off. He barely has a moment to mourn the contact before she’s reaching down to help him up. He doesn’t expect either of them to be merciful enough to quickly let go. They don’t.

“I’m having a hard time. It happens. I’m gonna be fine. I’ll probably even feel better in the morning.” That’d be nice. Maybe it’s the proximity—the touch—but he can feel it between them. They both want to believe that. He tries to keep that cloying want from his voice when he speaks. He tries to send some kind of strength through words, through the palm of his hand. He tries to do what she does. Say something simple and true. Even if it’s raw. Even if it makes him feel sick.

“You don’t have to convince me. If you’re not, you’re not. If you still want to do this, we do this. If it’s hard, don’t tell everyone it’s easy. You don’t have to sprint the whole race. Stop for air. Tell me that you need that. I’m- we’re here, Lane.”

She looks at him for a long time, eyes red. Orion tries not to imagine what she sees. Simultaneously, he tries to ignore what he hopes she sees. What he should absolutely not hope she feels. There’s a line, somewhere, that he will very soon be worrying about stepping over. 

Now, he only wants to fix this.

“I’m right here.”

Their nose knots up with a harsh sniffle. They swallow and shift their weight from foot to foot. There is some effort in receiving this assurance. There is some effort not to hide.