#tw triggered

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 Had Hawke not known Fenris quite as well as he did, perhaps he might have missed it – the way he froze in his arms. The subtle stiffening of his shoulders. Fenris felt the big mage still behind him, his nose still buried in the hair at the nape of Fenris’s neck as he tried to decide what he had done – and what he would do.

It wasn’t Hawke’s fault. Fenris closed his eyes, and tried to keep his breath steady, but closing his eyes was a mistake. His heartbeat had leapt up into his throat, hard and rapid as a rabbit fleeing the fox.

The warmth of a body at his back. Breath hot and close against his neck.

Hawke was very careful not to move too quickly as he released him and eased, very slowly, away. Too-aware of him, it was as if, even with his back to him, Fenris could see the cautious look in his eyes, the way he stood, with his hands out – empty, surrendering, not touching.

“Fenris?” Hawke said, and his voice was careful, and concerned, and there wasn’t anything of mockery in it, or amusement, or arrogance, but still he had to close his eyes again. Fenris shook his head. He had to swallow twice before he could speak.

“Are – you wearing cologne?”

“It was a gift from the Countess’s new wife,” Hawke said. Fenris could hear the caution in his voice. That helped, a little, cementing him more firmly in the here and now, the present, his reality as it currently was, not as it had once been. “Since we’re meeting them for dinner after the opera, I thought…”

Ambergris and sandalwood filled his throat. He could taste the bergamot, the saffron and fig. It coated his tongue like thick grease, or something worse – and with that thought it was choking him, stealing his air. He felt sick. Panicked. He squeezed his eyes shut so hard that it hurt, and he kept his voice calm.

“It smells expensive,” he said. He knew just how expensive, down to the copper. He knew the color of it, the shape of the bottle, the weight of it in his hands. For a moment it seemed as if when he opened his eyes Hawke’s bedroom would be gone, replaced by another one entirely. He could feel it - the position where the bed would be, the wash basin, the curtains. He shook his head. “You would want to appear grateful,” he added, a little more strained.

“That was the thought.”

He could hear Hawke’s frown, and even knowing it was Hawke, it made his stomach roll.

“I – need some air,” Fenris said, and he fled.

He was unaware of how much time had passed, only that when he lifted his head from his knees he found that dark had grown around him, and the step had grown cold under his backside. Hawke’s front door scraped closed somewhere behind him, and footsteps scuffed his way. Fenris didn’t look at Hawke as the big man sat, slowly, down beside him.

“I need you to tie my tie again before we go,” Hawke said, almost sheepishly, after a few moments of stiff silence.

“Of course,” Fenris answered, and tried to think of how to even begin to apologize, to explain. He was too aware of him beside him. The black suit would be straining across his broad shoulders – like if he moved wrong, it would burst. Hawke’s physique exasperated his tailor, who thought all young lords should be willowy and bookish. He swallowed, and tried to sound normal. “We’re missing the first act,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Eh, we can catch the matinee,” Hawke answered. He was trying, too.

They fell into that silence again.

Fenris let the cool evening breeze wash over him, and he knew they couldn’t sit there all night. He knew, too, that he was spoiling Hawke’s plans. His lack of control, his childish overreaction, was costing the man he loved valuable time at a show he has been looking forward to. It was important for him to keep his connections with Kirkwall’s nobility strong, lest they turn on him. Even if Hawke hadn’t been interested in this particular performance, the night was not one he could afford to sit out. Fenris’s breath shook when he forced himself to take it in, deeply. It would be hours before he could excuse himself. He would have to get used to –

Fenris smelled soap.

He finally looked at Hawke.

Hawke had his suit jacket in his lap, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt were unbuttoned and rolled up to mid-forearm. His tie lay across those big shoulders, wrinkled and forgotten. His collar was open, several buttons undone, and the skin underneath was pink and raw, as if he had scrubbed very hard at it with very hot water.

The smell of Danarius’s cologne was still there – it would cling to both skin and suit for hours, Fenris knew. But it was faint, weak under the smell of Hawke’s strong soap.

Fenris felt his lips twitch. “You look terrible,” he said.

Hawke’s amber gaze was intense. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“An unanticipated moment of weakness,” Fenris said. It was easy to turn to Hawke then, even if his hands did hesitate a moment before reaching up to fix his collar. “I apologize.”

“Fenris,” Hawke said, and though the elf waited, ready, if not quite prepared, for questions, Hawke didn’t go on until he would meet his eye. What he finally said was, “We don’t have to go out tonight.”

“No,” Fenris said, “We do.”

The hands he took in his own were large and rough and gentle. Fenris turned them, examined his scarred palms, his calloused fingertips. They were nothing like the soft, greedy claws that had filled his mind not so long before. He took a deep breath, and it was Hawke he smelled, and Hawke he saw, and Hawke who he touched. He lifted his hands, and he kissed the mage’s knuckles.

On an unrelated note, how’s that side hustle going?

His jaw stiffens as he read the news article. He reread it. Again and again until he made sense of it.