Fenhawke Week, Day 3: Colors
Fenris is dressed in black.
Dorian’s tailor deserves at least twice as much as he’s already given him, Hawke decides, because he looked at Fenris and figured out exactly how dangerous he was, and now every magister in Minrathous is going to know it, too. It’s formal attire that doesn’t even pretend not to be armor. It’s a glossy, terrible black, leather and cloth and hard, sharp angles and heavy silver buckles that glitter malevolently against the dark. Fenris’s hair has never looked so white, his eyes so green. He wears black gloves and a high collar, and there isn’t a trace of lyrium in sight. The magisters already know Fenris is a threat—there’s no need to encourage admiration of Danarius’s handiwork. Fenris doesn’t need the lyrium to look like what he is: a conqueror, an avenger, a champion.
He’s going to bring this whole blighted empire to its knees.
“Hawke,” Fenris repeats, brow furrowed. “I asked if you were ready.”
Hawke stands up in a daze. Fenris opens his mouth again; Hawke reaches out to press a finger to his lips. Fenris frowns in confusion, but stays silent. Hawke gently takes Fenris’s shoulders and turns him around, pushing him down onto the couch with infinite care and lowering himself into Fenris’s lap. Fenris stares up at him with wide startled eyes. Hawke is bigger than Fenris; this position is usually the other way around. He has to hitch up his robes to get his knees comfortably situated on either side of Fenris’s thighs. The lines of Fenris’s armor feel as solid and as comforting as the lines of his body.
“Hawke, why—” Fenris starts, but Hawke cups his face gently and kisses him, soft and unhurried. “Shh,” Hawke whispers, and kisses him again, drawing sweet, longing sounds from Fenris’s throat.
After a while, Fenris manages, “We’ll be late.”
“We won’t be late,” Hawke murmurs. Fenris is pliant and trusting beneath him, his arms wrapped tightly around Hawke’s back, anchoring him. A part of Hawke’s brain is tracking how much time they have before they leave to make their social debut as the future Liberator of Minrathous and his faithful consort. It’s the same part that’s been wary and terrified ever since Fenris brought him to this hateful country, cataloguing every misstep, every possible mistake that could get them killed. But right now, that all feels very far away.
There’s just Fenris: Fenris’s warm mouth and soft shining hair and glorious, humbling courage. Fenris, cold and deadly in black and white, except for the one flare of bright red at his wrist, which Hawke captures and kisses, tucking his fingers between red cloth and black leather. Fenris sighs in pleasure, taking what Hawke can give him: comfort, loyalty, love.
Fenris is the strongest man Hawke knows, and Hawke’s just going to have to trust him to get them through this.
When it’s time, Hawke pulls back and smiles at Fenris, who looks content and peaceful and ready. Hawke climbs out of his lap and pulls him up, straightening both their clothes and fixing Fenris’s hair.
“What was that for?” Fenris murmurs, catching Hawke’s hand and twining their fingers together.
“What do you think?” Hawke says, pressing one last tender kiss to Fenris’s jaw.
“Mmm,” Fenris says. He looks at Hawke’s pale grey robes and smiles slightly. “I see we match,” he says, playing with the red belt at Hawke’s waist.
“I’ve always thought so,” Hawke says lightly. He pulls his hand away and rearranges them so that he’s holding onto Fenris’s crooked arm.
“Ah, yes,” Fenris said drily. “You’re my eternally supportive bride, who is not at all the most powerful battlemage in Thedas.”
“We’ve been over this.” Hawke smiled winningly. “Your job is to kill blood mages, free slaves, and terrify everybody at the fancy dress parties. My job is to look pretty.”
“At least one of us is up to the task,” Fenris says, and while Hawke’s still trying to work that out, Fenris tugs him forward and leads him into the light of the Tevinter sun.
