Hawke leaned past him to set his drink on the table and
Fenris froze. His heart felt funny. Weak.
Hawke’s scent was clean and familiar. Strong soap, fresh
air, flannel and pine. It washed over Fenris when he was near, and did strange
things to his pulse.
Everyone was laughing. Hawke had told a joke, but he’d
missed it, his blood a dull roar in his ears.
He was drunk – no, not drunk. Warm. Tipsy, perhaps, but not –
no – Hawke. Two and a half years he’d
known the mage now. Two and a half eye-opening years at the man’s side, just a
few steps behind him, ready to be called on for violence. It was a position he
was familiar with, and yet it had proven devastatingly unfamiliar.
Hawke spoke to him. Not at him. To him. Hawke asked his
opinion. Traded stories. Told awful jokes.
Hawke – made him feel things. Want things. Terrible,
They flirted. It didn’t hurt anything. It was – fun. Hawke’s
fault, again. Fenris could remember that first offhand scrap of flattery – seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome
elf. He’d laughed. Until he’d realized Hawke was serious.
Sometimes, on nights like this, Hawke would put his hand on
his leg. And it didn’t bother him. Sometimes Fenris would want to be close to
him. Closer. Sometimes he wondered
what those hands felt like – large and strong and steady.
Hawke caught his eye as he sat back in his chair, and Fenris
caught his breath. There was a way Hawke looked at him – no one had ever looked
at him like – no one had ever made him feel
like – made him want –
“Oh, for the love of - !” Isabela threw down her cards. “Just
kiss him already!”
Reality slammed into Fenris like a blow from Aveline’s
shield, but it was Hawke who nearly leapt out of his chair. Hawke who had been
staring, he realized, at his lips.
“Two years we’ve had to watch this! Can you even feel your
balls anymore, boys? Stop teasing me, and kiss him already!”
“Please don’t,” Anders protested.
“We weren’t – “ Fenris said, just as Hawke said, “I really
don’t think – “
They looked at each other, then found excuses to look away.
Awkward silence and another round of drinks were required before Isabela could
finally be enticed into a change of subject.
“You – should kiss me,” Fenris said, in front of his
mansion, when Hawke walked him home. It was late, the night around them dark
and satiny and filled with stars, and, warm and fuzzy with booze, the elf found
he couldn’t stop thinking about Hawke’s hands, and arms, and his mouth.
He’d never wanted – never needed – never thought –
Hawke grinned and leaned in toward him, over him. His hand
stroked his cheek, and his arm went around his waist, and his lips –
Fenris could smell sweet honey whiskey on his breath, and
feel the warmth of his skin. His heart – he wanted –
“Ask me again when you’re sober,” Hawke said.
Hawke’s lips brushed his forehead, his arm slid from his
And Fenris watched Hawke walk away into the Hightown night.