Chapter Text
On the morning of the thirty-second day since the party had left Kirkwall, Hawke began scratching tally marks into his satchel, one for each day they survived in the hellish heat of the desert. The scorching sun —slowly roasting them alive as it rose in the horizon— never went by unnoticed in comparison with the cold nights that numbed their arms up to their elbows. Resurfacing hot spells were a better way to track the passing of days than Hawke's dwindling grasp on time.
What had started as a party of seven as they escaped the Gallows had soon become six, and then five, slowly spiraling down to two. While Cullen had given them enough of a head-start to escape the city, they had not made it a dozen or so towns over before the Templars were hot on their trail. Hawke had expected the authorities in Kirkwall to be too busy licking their wounds for months before the chase would begin, but their time had run up in mere weeks. The Champion was forced to send his closest friends from his side in order to protect them. Hawke had no choice but to watch as the people who had shaped his life for nearly a decade went on to live out their destinies.
Except for Fenris, of course.
The other man had sworn to him more than once that his place was at Hawke's side and he had no plans to abandon him, even if it meant avoiding Templars and jumping from one town to the other for the rest of his life.
On days like this, where Hawke could taste his own sweat on his lips as it followed the sharp curve of his cheek, it seemed like that would be the case.
They walked long and spoke little for as long as the sun was high in the heavens. When the sky began to take an orange tint, they looked for shelter. Conversation was easier to hold when they were both huddled together for warmth in front of the camp fire. Hawke was not built for cold weather after being away from Ferelden for so long, and while he preferred the hot days over the cold, unforgiving nights, but he could not deny they had their perks.
Fenris was Hawke's incentive to wake up in the morning. Fenris was mile-long legs, bony fingers and other sharp edges; he was defined muscle, strong of body and stronger of character, and had eyes as green as the Fade. Fenris knew how to deal with him when he talked too much and when he did not talk at all, when he was sluggish or hyperactive— when he was ready to give up. He knew Hawke's bad habits, and his worst habits, and he did not love him any less for it. He was all Hawke had ever wanted and more. He—
"Hawke."
He was calling him.
Hawke stopped and looked over his shoulder and the elf beckoned him forward. Fenris' hands were smoothing over the rock of the cliff face they had been following for some time. He seemed oddly intrigued by the dips and cracks on the surface, and that drove Hawke to walk back to his side and watch him go about his experiment. Fenris found what he was looking for, because he pulled back with a pleased glint in his eyes. His right hand formed a fist and Hawke distanced himself from him the slightest bit as Fenris glowed blue with lyrium and punched through the rock face until there was grit coming down around his wrist.
Hawke's jaw went slack. When his lover stepped back, the cracks around the fist-shaped dent became larger and spread out evenly before it all came crumbling down at their feet. Fenris grabbed him by his bicep and dragged him out of the way of the falling debris. When the earth stopped shaking around them and the sand finally settled, Hawke could see a winding passage, like a cave opening— How had Fenris known? Hawke had not noticed a single odd thing about the cliff face until Fenris took interest in it.
He turned to Fenris with a slightly bewildered expression in his face and pointed dumbly over his shoulder as he tried to thread words together. Rather than something coherent, Hawke made a hollow sound in the back of his throat and Fenris answered it with a sly quirk of his lips.
"Elf's intuition. Do not question it." Fenris said. He walked past Hawke to retrieve the provisions he had left on the ground besides the cave and swung them over his shoulder. Fenris gestured towards the opening. "Shall we? It's getting rather late, and I doubt we'll find better shelter before nightfall."
When Hawke made it past the mouth of the cave he was still looking around in a mix of disbelief and awe. After asking him to catch up three times, Fenris was forced to grasp his hand and lead him like a child.
♛
They had exchanged a few quips about Fenris making the cliff submit to his will as they set up camp inside the cave and had since then settled into a comfortable silence. Hawke was sprawled out in a make-shift nest made out of furs, cloth, and torn trousers that had not survived their journey and were no longer good for anything else. Fenris sat on one of the conveniently smooth rocks near him, bent over his sword and examining it for signs of dullness. The cave was the most pleasant place they had been in in a long time, it was easy to relax. Sure, the sand here was no less invasive than it was outside and it clung to parts of him that sand should never touch, but he had a cot, a fire, and he was safe from the wind outside that usually felt like a million little knives slashing through his skin.
Hawke's eyes shifted from the roof of the cave down to Fenris and he reached out to brush his knuckles up and down Fenris' leg soothingly while the other man sharpened his Blade of Mercy. The light from the fire danced on his lover’s face, emphasizing the sharp curves of his cheekbones and the soft lines around his mouth. Hawke’s heart did somersaults as Fenris looked up to find him watching and he resisted the urge to look away like a flustered school girl. Fenris offered him a small smile. The elf set his weapon aside and leaned back, stretching his legs out so Hawke could continue petting him gently.
"Something on your mind?" Fenris asked.
"Someone."
"Who would that be?"
Hawke smiled back and he shrugged one of his shoulders in mock nonchalance.
"Could be you... Could be Varric."
"Is this about my inability to grow excessive body hair? I promise I'm still trying." Fenris replied, his voice as cheeky as Hawke's.
"I say we buy some wax from the next merchant we bump into and relocate some of my leg hair."
Fenris’ laugh rang through the cave before the elf was able to control it by pressing the back of his wrist against his mouth. Chuckles got past the barrier still, and it warmed Hawke more than the fire could.
“Hey.” Hawke made grabbing gestures with his hands. “Come here.”
Fenris eyed him curiously for a moment before he set his sword aside. He slipped off the rock, moving towards Hawke on his knees. Hawke leaned forward and tugged him towards his den of clothes until Fenris’ thighs framed his hips, his hands resting gingerly on Hawke’s shoulders. Hawke’s hand found Fenris’ hip beneath his long shirt, and he stroked the sliver of skin above his leggings. Their breaths mingled together as Hawke closed the distance between them with his other hand at the nape of Fenris’ neck, until their noses brushed against one another.
Hawke would never tire of looking at his elven lover. Even with a thin film of sand covering his finger features, and a body that had not met a proper bath in weeks, Fenris was still undoubtedly beautiful, and Hawke felt undeserving and blessed in equal parts.
“Maker, look at you.” he whispered, “How did I manage to keep you?”
It was meant to be a sappy sentimentality, but Hawke’s voice cracked with the sincerity of it. It had been long since he’d stood in front of a mirror, but he knew the picture he painted. His face had begun to crack with wrinkles before his time, and that was long before things got well and truly difficult. It was worse now. The laugh lines carved stories around his eyes, beside his mouth, and they were not tales of laughter, but of too many stressful days spent without a single intermission. The flecks of white in his hair had multiplied over the years, and had spread to his beard, his eyebrows, his eyelashes— and the scariest thing of all was that Hawke’s thirty-fifth nameday was too close for comfort, and he wasn’t so sure he could write off the crease of his brow as stress alone any longer.
“Hawke.” Fenris’ voice was firm, as was the hand that cupped his cheek. “There is nowhere in the world I rather be but here, in your arms.”
“You can’t have a normal life ever again, you’re bound to me and my mistakes, you’ll never be a free man because of me—”
Hawke’s next breath felt like fire in his lungs, and the color drained from his face. His lips refused to close enough to hide the chattering of his teeth. The tightness in his chest was dizzying. Black dots danced in his vision as he nearly gave in to the panic threatening to undo him. Icy fingers seemed to wrap around his heart and send his whole body trembling, and his lungs shrunk until his breaths were cut short by wheezing sounds. Sweat dripped down the chilled skin of his face, and the droplets were quickly brushed aside by Fenris’ frantic hands. His grip on Fenris’ hip turned bruising, but the elf did not flinch, did not falter. Fenris’ fingers traced the imprints of time in Hawke’s face, marks the man so despised, like they were precious memories. Fenris kissed the furrow of Hawke’s brow and whispered soft, calming words in Tevene, knowing that keeping the tone of his voice even was the best he could do to help the human on his way back to him.
He led Hawke out of the dark place inside his head, not for the first time.
Hawke snapped out of it all at once. He made a noise like a man close to drowning and Fenris’ shooshed him quiet, massaging the lump in Hawke’s throat until the rogue’s pitiful whines quieted. Fenris laid his lover down carefully, murmuring sweet nothings against the skin of Hawke’s jawline as he settled his white head on the crook of Hawke’s neck.
“I’m sorry.” Hawke spoke softly, repeating himself under his breath. Fenris silenced him with an unyielding kiss, only pulling away when Hawke was positively breathless.
“Listen to me.” Fenris demanded, grabbing Hawke’s chin and steadying his face so the rogue would look at him. “I chose to support you, I chose to follow you. I am very much a free man, because these are all choices I was free to make.”
He claimed Hawke’s lips again, and whispered his name like a secret into the short distance between his lips as he drew back.
“Athmael, I love you.”
Athmael’s eyes glazed over and he was out like a light, the exhaustion in his bones finally taking over, and in his dreams he allowed himself to believe Fenris’ words.