#hawris

Hawke considers him. He looks terribly serious in this moment and Fenris rather hopes he would smile at him instead.

"It's just…" Hawke says like the kind, gentle man he is, dark brown eyes almost solemn in the candle light. He reaches over to tangle his fingers into Fenris's own, the callused pad of his index finger tracing a line of lyrium. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You don't," says Fenris. The words are immediate and harsh on the tongue. Hawke flinches, pulling his hand away the second time, and Fenris misses the touch instantly.tly.

"Hawke," Fenris says and squeezes his eyes shut. He has to force himself to say his next words. He doesn't want Hawke to look at him with pity in his eyes – anything but that. "It hurts whether you touch me or not. The pain is constant. It is always there. It never stops."

When he opens his eyes, Hawke is looking at him. There is an upset furrowed line between his thick brows and he seems to search for the right words to say.

"I am able to endure it," Fenris murmurs. It is a reminder to himself most of all.

Hawke is still for a moment. Silently, he reaches over to grip Fenris's hand again and squeezes it. Another flare of pain travels across Fenris's body and he swallows hard at the sensation.

"Do you think it will always hurt?" Hawke murmurs, pressing an adoring kiss to the back of Fenris's hand, a large thumb rubbing over his chapped knuckles.

Yes.

"Perhaps," Fenris answers and Hawke frowns even more deeply now, looking like he is debating on saying something that Fenris wouldn't like.

But then, in the end, he just kisses Fenris's hand again. It makes the corners of Fenris's mouth twitch briefly until he sobers again.

"It does not matter," Fenris says with finality. He looks at Hawke who has never stopped looking at him in return. Sometimes it feels like Hawke does little else than watch him. He is always there.

Fenris's next words have a trace of humour and desperation in them. "I have waited three achingly long years for you to touch me again. Please, do not deprieve me of it now."

And Hawke chuckles, his soft, hairy belly dipping from the sound. The expression on his face is entirely fond.

"Well," he says with the most charming grin, "if you insist, my love."

He would even say as much, if it weren't for the fact that he didn't have any more of a claim to Hawke than Anders did, perhaps even less so since he was the one to flee that night they'd spent together. Hawke's gaze had softened when he saw the red favor wrapped around Fenris's wrist the following day, but had never said anything more about that night, giving Fenris more kindness and space than he deserved.

There were things hidden behind that softness, though. Hurt and confusion and pain— Fenris had caused that, too. He had done very little to explain, fear from his past heavy hands around his throat. It had been too much, too fast, he had said. And it was, when you added missing memories, and reminders of the worst time of your life.

So why had he thought of nothing but that night everyday for years? Every touch that had left him shivering and wanting, soft and gentle against his skin, each kiss sweeter than honey. Over and over he found his thoughts wandering back to that night, of Hawke, of his taste…

Hawke's booming laugh snaps him out of his thoughts, and Fenris stiffens as he watches Anders place his hand on Hawke's shoulder, rubbing his thumb back and forth. Caressing. Fenris grits his teeth; it's not his place, after all, to decide whom Hawke spends his time with. Who should touch him, make him laugh… he should pursue the mage if it makes him happy. All Fenris had done was break his heart, and only continued to do so.

He swallows back vitriol. One more second in the Hanged Man just might kill him.

He leaves early, sneaking away when no one was looking. Fresh air will clear his mind, he thinks, and makes his way through the shadows of Lowtown. He hopes to shake off the discontent clinging to his limbs, or at least walk until he's numb enough to forget about the whole thing.

Varric's words still ring in his head.

Sounds like you're jealous, Broody. That tends to happen when you love someone.

That's not… what this is.

Really, you're not at all jealous?

Varric had meant to reassure him, yet it sat bitterly along his tongue. He was no stranger to jealousy; he had a long history of coveting the lives of those who were free, of those who could have desires of their own. He was not used to this form of it, the kind grown from wanting someone instead of something.

Because who would love someone like him? Bound even now by the chains of the past, to a master he would see dead if he wasn't a coward. Resentful, wary, hiding behind anything he could. And Hawke was…

Hawke was kind. Had been since the moment they met, even with the initial deception. He'd shown that same kindness time and time again to others around him, the same people who would turn him into the Templars if they had to. He gave coin to the needy, food to the orphans of Darktown, and accepted nothing in return.

The more he watched Hawke, the harder he fell for him. A feeling he'd much rather avoid, instead of dealing with.

It was no surprise Fenris found himself taking the long way home, avoiding the main square and a certain mansion. He didn't mind Hightown late at night, when the nobles were long asleep and he felt no need to hide from their gaze. Not to mention it meant fewer questions about why an elf was living there.

He turns the corner and nearly jumps out of his skin. Hawke had somehow beaten him here, sitting outside the doorway to his home.

"Hawke? What are you…?"

“You left early,” Hawke stands, looking sheepish, “I suppose I… worried about you getting home.”

"I don't usually have trouble finding my way, you know."

"I know, it's just…" Hawke sighs, "You seemed upset. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Fenris says nothing, unsure of what to even say. He was upset, but only at himself. He wasn't okay but he wasn't sure he'd ever be.

He settles for pointing out the obvious, “You looked happy, with him. You deserve to be happy.”

Hawke only gives him a quizzical look, “With who… oh with Anders? He and I are just friends, Fenris.”

“Doesn’t seem like he knows that.”

“He may want more, but he’s not who I want.” Hawke hesitates only for a moment before reaching for the elf’s hand.

“Ah,” Fenris doesn’t meet his gaze, instead looking at the hand holding his. The grip is light, Fenris could easily pull away should he want to, and yet the warmth that spreads through him keeps him there, “I can’t imagine why, even now, you'd still...” Choose me.

“I meant it, when I said I would wait for you.”

A pang in his chest. He didn’t deserve this.

"You're worth everything to me, Fenris. I just want you to know that I won't give up on you. You deserve happiness. In whatever form you find that in." He goes to release the elf's hand, "Even if it's not with me."

Fenris meets Hawke's honey brown gaze and the night they shared pops into his head again, breaking him. He leans in and kisses him; once, twice, a third time before he pulls back. It felt just as good as he remembered, a soft buzzing in the back of his mind as he steps back.

“I… hope I'm worth the wait.”

Hawke chuckles, the sound more soothing to Fenris than anything else.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Hawke asks.

Fenris nods, “If you have need of me.”

Hawke squeezes his hand before he turns to leave, “Sleep well, Fenris.”

Fenris heads inside, trying his best not to think about turning around and calling for Hawke to stay, of what they would do if he did.