[Fenris goes slack against him, and Anders shuts his eyes so tight that color sparks on the inside of his eyelids. He braces his hand against the floor by Fenris's stomach, lifts himself so that he's half-curled over him. It frees enough space for him to shove his other hand down the front of his own trousers, to pull himself the rest of the way. It hardly takes anything at all, a few rough jerks of his hand. He jumps at the touch of his own palm.
He shudders as he comes, well and truly silent this time, head bowed low. He stays like that, bent, for what feels like a long time. The only thing he can hear anymore is the sound of his own breathing, ragged in his chest, and he wishes it would stop, wishes it would all stop.
He feels worse in the come-down than he did before, exhaustion steeped into every inch of him, and now a cold, miserable lance of something in his chest. He rolls away finally, back flat against the floor, half on their pile of discarded robes and half off. He wipes his hands ineffectually on them, but otherwise doesn't bother cleaning himself up. Instead he slings one arm over his face, hiding his eyes behind the crook of his elbow as he breathes, quick and shaky and unsteady. His heart pounds.
[ Fenris's chest still softly heaves in the dark, but he too is otherwise silent for a while. It's another couple minutes more before he makes himself let go of the pleasant drained haze settling over his bones long enough to tug up his breeches once more, preferring more than anything else to have another layer between him and the cool sea air puffing into the room.
He can only stare at the wall, mind blessedly empty. Already the various pains and stings in his body are crawling back to his senses, but he's tired, and he's... been helped, tonight, no matter how twisted a shape it's taken.
He's been here with Anders long enough to know that the man dislikes prolonged silence and the isolation it suggests, so when an indeterminate length of time passes containing nothing but breathing, he knows. He has taken something that was not his to take, perhaps something that was not even truly Anders's to give, and the worst thing of all is that he is shamed and grateful but he does not regret it.
An apology would be meaningless. What Fenris decides to do instead is drag himself forward a short distance and then turn over, patting his hand once on the warmed patch he just occupied. ]
You'll catch your death there.
[ He sounds ruined, the ache in his belly still echoing pleasantly and not pleasantly. ]
[It's harder than he expected to get his breathing to calm. He doesn't know if that's a result of being locked in here for so long, wet ocean air seeping into his lungs, or something else. He shifts, looks at Fenris in the darkness like he'd forgotten he was even there, wide-eyed and a little wrecked. He doesn't move, at first.
But after a few long moments, he does. He slips close, then closer, letting himself settle back into the familiar huddle they'd established before— this. Tonight. Contact, closeness, warmth. He craves it more now than he did before, and he doesn't know what to do with that feeling.
If his hands hesitate before they land, it's because their old resting places suddenly feel muddled and fuzzy, far away. He can blame that for the way one of them slips into the small of Fenris's back, maybe.]
Fenris. [His name feels bizarre and foreign on his tongue, too loud in the quiet of their cell. He wants to say something. He feels the urge to apologize.] I....
[He can't find the words for it. He's not sure he knows what they are.]
[ Whatever Fenris expected, being held was not it. He sucks in a quiet breath through his nose, shifting onto his stomach and pressing his face into the rags underneath. The change of position essentially results in him lying halfway beneath Anders, like a beast resting in the shade of a tree, bad arm stretched away. They're positioned in such a way that parts of Fenris touch parts of Anders, casual, incidental. As though it's the most natural thing. As though Anders could fit the whole of his body against his and he would neither protest nor mind. It is incredible. Baffling and dreadful.
He truly has no idea how to begin addressing what just happened. Even if he did, exhaustion from the day's ordeals has slowly coiled around him again, squeezing until darkness encroaches on his vision. ]
Rest, [ he repeats, softer this time but firmer, nonjudgmental.
Fenris sleeps better that night than he has in years.
They've learned to take their lives—or what passes for lives—one day at a time. Worry not about what tomorrow has in store, simply concentrate on making it through today. Anders can supply water, if he has power to spare; in suffering his jailors' irregular silences, Fenris has become quite adept at hunting vermin, of which there are plenty. Both valuable and necessary skills, because the templars appear less and less as the days and weeks tick on. Eventually they stop taking him altogether. Fenris knows not why, but he can tell something outside is changing, right along with the dull red glow that starts to burn in their eyes.
Day by day; night by night. Gradually the daylight begins to lengthen, the wind warms, the stars shift against the sky, and Anders and Fenris touch each other in the dark. Every night is so much like that first night: quiet, vaguely somber, usually with only one tending to the other in response to some perceived need, followed by carrying on when dawn breaks like nothing ever happened. But once in a while a night comes where their hands work simultaneously, or they're both too drained by hunger to do anything but close their eyes and pretend they're not holding each other. Eventually it becomes routine—even once the temperature no longer demands they huddle for warmth. Eventually Anders slumps into Fenris's side in mid-afternoon; eventually Fenris rests with his head pillowed on Anders's thigh.
This is where they are tonight, with the sun just starting to slip onto the horizon. It's been some time since they've eaten anything, now that it's spring enough for the rats to go outside. Fenris stares dully at the stones in the ceiling, trying his best to think about anything else. ]
Do you remember, [ he begins, then forgets, then remembers again when some rabble somewhere outside jars him back into the present, ] the time Hawke brought us all the way to Orlais just to watch her dig through wyvern shit?
[ This is the longest sentence he's spoken in... a while, but with it comes a melancholy little wash of fondness. ]
[He handles hunger better than most, an unfortunate reality of being a Grey Warden away from the Grey Wardens' larders, but he hasn't felt this weak since... well, since the last time they went this long without food. He doesn't remember how long it's been, exactly. The days feel like sand, blurred and streaming together. He's not sure he really cares, either.
He wonders if they'll die. If the templars just forgot they were here, or if they moved on to wherever it is they next needed to terrorize. That would be all right, he thinks. To starve here with Fenris—it would be a better end than Anders deserved.
He's sitting with his eyes closed. The only indication he hears at all is a quick, amused exhale, the closest he comes to a laugh.]
I don't think that was the only reason. Not unless you let Varric tell the story. [It's easy to pretend things were simpler then, even if there wasn't anything about Tallis any of them could call simple. Just another gaggle of angry nobles. Another memory of Hawke he hasn't yet tarnished.] There was the— dinner party. All those Orlesian nobles with their fancy hats. Maker. Why did we do that, again?
[ If he is to pass out at some point, a warm lap is not the worst place he could do it. It's another couple seconds of memory before he realizes Anders has posed a legitimate question. The commotion of Antivans seems louder now, probably a brawl between drunks or merchants over a sovereign. ]
...I don't know. Treasure?
[ It had been a strange time, regardless. In spite of everything trying to kill them—that never changed—he remembers accompanying Hawke with a strange lightness in his heart, free of some overbearing darkness he hadn't even noticed until Kirkwall was behind them and only observed crawling back upon their return. Like the city's very foundations had become corrupted by centuries of suffering and blood that soaked into the stone, inviting madness, death. He remembers walking through that green country and not hating anything as much as he thought he had. Not even Anders, who for only a short time seemed to behave with a similar ease. How much had been them, and how much had been Kirkwall?
Not that it matters much anymore. It feels like a lifetime ago, just as it would seem that Hawke has forgotten them both. Fenris chooses to think this because forgetting will always be preferable to the alternative.
Sundown. Strange noises issue from a distance beyond the door, enough to catch interest, before a single yell of alarm breaks loose and the unseen halls erupt in a cacophony of unmistakable violence. ]
[The noise jerks him out of his sluggish half-haze—literally, and full-bodied. It may not have been too uncomfortable for Fenris, except for the way Anders's hand clamps down on his shoulder, a bizarre, unbidden urge to protect.
Neither of them are really in a moving condition, much less a fighting one. But Fenris was stripped worse than he was; Anders can't do anything about the door, but if someone crosses it, he could respond. In theory.]
Get up. [His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat, and it doesn't get any better.] Get up.
[He won't die to a templar sitting down. He feels an old, familiar stirring of something, like anger or vindication. That's what gets him to standing, even if it's on unsteady feet. He scrapes at the fringes of his mind for a spell, for a thread of mana, anything he could use to defend himself—to defend them both—and comes up frustratingly, painfully empty. Caution abandoned, he takes a few, shuffling steps towards the door, even as the clamor makes its way closer—and then he stops, turns back to Fenris on instinct, eyes wide and uncertain.
It's death or freedom, maybe. He feels elated and terrified, and in the moment, he isn't certain which emotion goes where.]
[ Foolish instinct sends Fenris fighting Anders for the right to die first, inserting himself bodily between his—between Anders and the certain carnage beyond the door. His lyrium may be leashed but he is still a warrior, he's still stronger under the lash or blade than any mage can hope to be. Distantly he thinks about how Anders probably deserves to die, even after all this time, probably even wants it, and yet...
Then, as quickly as it had come, a rustling silence falls over the wing. There are murmurs, rummaging, the clatter of keys and daggers sheathing, and the tang of blood hits Fenris full in the face as the bars on the door shunk free and it opens with a heavy shriek. Later he will think back and marvel at how quickly it all happened: the corridor is thick with wiry scouts and assassins, human, elven, all manner of hooded agents serving an authority he does not recognize. At the Inquisitor's personal request, says a woman called Trapper, and for a second Fenris can only stand by numbly as the Qunari-styled lead on his collar is pressed into his hands by someone else. Hunter has for them a letter which Fenris cannot completely read, but it takes only the recognition of the word "Hawke" scrawled on vellum for him to thrust it at Anders. Varric's hand, he thinks, seeing the particular slants and loops more as familiar abstractions than letters. He doesn't know. It's been so long.
When the collar clatters to the ground, the burst and roar of unrepressed magic through his blood is too dizzying to bear; he sways, arm colliding with Anders's chest in a stubborn, persistent attempt to shield him from the unknown.
Two things become clear above all others: time is short and they will be hunted again. Hawke is waiting in a place called Skyhold. A brutal trek lies ahead: from Antiva City they must go south to Wycome, from Wycome to Amaranthine by sea, from Amaranthine to the Frostbacks on interminable foot. From the time they're released onward, stealthing into deliberately darkened city streets, Fenris does not stop thinking about killing everyone and running. But he's unarmed still, delirious with hunger and exhaustion, and it does not even occur to him to abandon Anders, and at the end of the journey there will be Hawke—who, all this time, had seemingly forgotten them both. ]
[They leave. It's as simple as that. It's the third Circle he's seen from the inside, and the third he's walked away from; an impossible feat for any mage, to be certain. Though maybe not as much anymore.
He feels as exhilarated and terrified as he did when he was thirteen and sliding down from one of the Circle's tall windows for the first time, open sky and shifting horizon and the heady promise of freedom right in front of him. The instinct to bolt is strong, and comes as soon as he feels salty wind on his face. He knows the term Inquisition from old Chantry texts, knows their origins and misplaces their resurgence—he has no interest in a revival of that organization, and no trust in the people who work for it.
He has Varric's letter tucked away, the vellum already crinkled from nervous hands folding it up and spreading it back out again. It bothers him that both Varric and Hawke seem to have thrown their lots in with this new Inquisition, but more than that, he dreads having to look Hawke in the face again. She should have killed him the first time, should have left him to rot the second. He doesn't know how much of him is left to meet her anger.
Perhaps it's Fenris they came to retrieve, and Anders they came to pass judgment on. That would be all right, he thinks. Anders sticks to him like a shadow during their entire flight from the city, always circling back, never far enough away that they couldn't reach out to grab each other.
The first safehouse is on the outskirts of Antiva City, and it's late in the night before they reach it. It's a ramshackle thing, by anyone's standards—except maybe for theirs, after so long spent in the cold and filth. There's food and clothing and water—for drinking and bathing both. It's magnificent and overwhelming, for all its simplicity.
(He shaves in a clouded mirror over a bowl of water, and his hands shake so badly the first time he sets the blade against his throat that he has to set it aside before he can try again.)
In the end, he is damp and clean, dressed and fed. It's a strange, foreign sensation, after he'd accepted so long ago that he wouldn't taste freedom this way again, that his life was going to end with the templars, the way it was always supposed to. He feels disconnected from himself. He wonders if that will go away with time.
But first things first: he's exhausted. There is nothing he'd like more than to sleep, and they'll need it, with the journey they have laid out in front of them. But he hovers regardless, hip braced against the footboard of one bed while he eyes the rough-hewn sheets of the other.
There are two. Another small luxury afforded by the Inquisition.]
[ Yes, there are two. The house is rendered paradoxically inconspicuous by virtue of its size, smaller than but not dissimilar to many of Kirkwall's finer flophouses disguised as Hightown estates. In an adjoining room Fenris lingers in the bath, having eventually fallen asleep amid the warm scented lapping of the water, and wakes with a shiver and the candlelight burned dim. Earlier in the evening, after eating the fill of food his shrunken stomach will allow, he'd thought about attacking his hair with a blade borrowed from one of the scouts—but ultimately he decides against it for now, filthy and tired and out of patience (and besides which, he hasn't seen his own reflection in three years and there's a strange lack of meaning in it for him the first time his eyes meet his eyes). He towels off, dresses in thin homespun trousers of unknown provenance, ties his hair into a loose knot at the back of his neck (remembers the tight tail of his slave years), and makes for their sleeping quarters. They're the second floor up from the Inquisitor's people in this derelict once-mansion, ostensibly a show of trust. Whose, Fenris isn't sure.
They're further from the coast than before, but it's still windy outside. Cool, even pleasant under blankets. Fenris slides into the unoccupied bed and lies awake for some time, staring dully at what he believes to be the outline of Anders's shoulder.
To say it feels wrong is, well...
But it feels wrong, and nothing about it seems real. ]
[Anders tosses and turns when he eventually goes to bed, uncomfortable and restless in what is otherwise perfectly acceptable accommodations. He feels isolated and bereft, the bed too wide and too soft and too insecure. He doesn't understand the feeling—he closes his eyes and tries to think of nothing but his own exhaustion, and still nothing comes.
Eventually, he shrugs the blankets aside and swings his feet to the floor in a tired half-haze. He means to do anything else other than continue trying and failing to sleep; maybe it's the bed that's the problem, the pillows giving too easily after a year spent sleeping on cold stone. He stands, drawing the woolen top blanket of the bed with him, meaning to try the floor instead.
(That's what he tells himself, maybe.)
His feet end up carry him further than that, across the distance between their beds. The extra blanket slips out of his fingers, pooling with a rasp of cloth at his feet, and his hand slides beneath the warm edge of Fenris's instead.]
[ It's well into a moonless night, evening having fallen not long after their chaotic escape from the Circle. Bereft is an apt term for it; Fenris spends several of his own minutes listening to the thin patter of budding branches against the window whenever the wind blows, painfully cognizant of the way his back feels cold and naked without a body nearby. Clinging to the same feelings every night for a year has cultivated in him a sense memory he didn't know he had, and now, in their absence, he faces the hopeless revelation that he can't bear the thought of parting with them. Not now, at least, not so easily and immediately.
And much like every other night they've shared up to tonight, there's no point in pretending he's not awake, that Anders isn't creaking the floorboards just inches away, an overture, seeking—and finding, as Fenris retreats with a rustle of blankets toward the center of the bed and waits for Anders's weight. He'd say he'd been a fool to expect that anything would change right away just because they're free(?), but truthfully he's never even thought about it. But here they are, and he has to, and the best strategy he can muster is to simply... carry on. That's what this has always been between them, after all, isn't it? Carrying on, stubborn, perverse as necessary. Something to hold onto.
He feels the first curl of heat as his bare torso makes contact with the fabric of Anders's arms; he can't even be blamed, really, it's practically a conditioned reaction. Not so differently, it's no longer possible to blame thirst for the hoarseness of his whisper. ]
A dream, I am sure of it.
[ It's gentle, faintly self-deprecating, but the relief is palpable. One of his fingers smooths over and over again over a small fold in Anders's shirt, something in him soothed at its softness. Then his breath catches in his throat, just a subtle little failure to continue speaking, momentarily and quite suddenly feeling as though he's become overwhelmed with emotion. ]
[Fenris's bed is already warm from his body heat, and sinking into it is simple, effortless, like slotting into where he belonged all along. Stress rolls off of his shoulders in waves, each muscle unwinding inch by inch, bit by bit. He embraces the security and comfort that comes with it, curling eagerly into contact and closeness. His hand skims the warm line of Fenris's ribcage, and then slides loosely around his waist.
He'd been following an instinct, searching for something familiar, but that isn't enough to describe the difference it makes. He's reminded, distantly, of what it used to feel like, during the days when all he had was the next time he'd planned to flee the tower. That abstract feeling of rightness whenever his feet crossed a threshold into the open world.
He's never been truly free a moment of his entire life. But this: this is close to the feeling.
Fenris's throat is bare now, without the bulk of the Qunari collar to restrict him. Anders dips to press his nose into the free space, the crook between his neck and his shoulder, and breathes.]
Mmm. [A hum of affirmation, low and sleepy in his chest.] That would explain a lot, wouldn't it.
[He's feeling his own exhaustion properly now, but wants to sleep less than he did before. His fingers might curl against skin. He wants to keep it in place, all of this: the room, the sky, tree branches against the window, Fenris in this bed.]
[ The skin on skin is less foreign and less unwelcome than he ever could've guessed it would ever become. Later, after their weeks of travel, when again they find themselves existing in the world of the living with its wars and mages and Makers, things are bound to shift, complicate. They themselves are bound to complicate. Maybe even fight. Maybe even learn to hate again. Fenris cannot predict any of it from his place here, enfolded in Anders's arms, Anders, who by now has morphed into less a terrorist or a mage than just a friendly face who perhaps doesn't want to suffer anymore but has wanted Fenris to suffer infinitely less. A piece of Fenris does not want to remember the man he was so few years ago; that man simply does not know what to do with Anders's kindness.
For the very first time, Fenris considers a sliver of possibility that he has changed for the better, even in some small, sad way.
He feels a painful, terrible flutter inside his chest and gut, the pillowcase against his eyelashes, the puff of Anders's breath across his skin. He smells so... so. ]
The truth is never so convenient.
[ It's murmured in such proximity that he's mouthing the words against Anders's collarbone—mouthing at his collarbone, he's—Fenris's fingers clench at the small of his back and he honestly doesn't know who's to blame, just that their mouths eventually seem to float toward each other until they touch and he makes the softest sound of genuine shock when they touch. ]
[It's so small. Just a warm, dry press of lips, natural as anything. The restlessness of his hands stills, his attention suddenly wound completely into this brief, uncertain touch.
They've never done this. Never simply kissed, like it was easy, like it was comfortable. This— thing between them, it's always been about physical relief, and shifting, grasping hands in the darkness. It was about necessity. Survival. Giving each other some small measure of distraction from the reality of their lives.
This isn't the same. This is gentle, curled under warm sheets, with full bellies and futures to speak of. He doesn't know what this is at all.
His chest feels tight. He draws back just so, lips parting with a quiet sound in the stillness of the room. There's a moment of hesitation, of confusion, where silence roars in his ears when their noses brush. He breathes, shallow and unsteady.
That's all it is: a space of a breath. He doesn't even think about it before he dips close again, fitting their mouths more firmly together, slow and deep, with a small, helpless, gasping noise.]
[ He could laugh, if they just stopped long enough for him to reassemble the shards of insight afforded to him beyond the simple efforts of survival, at how absurd this is, how absurd he is. The two of them and what they've become compared to the shaded, opaque memory of what they were. But they don't stop. Warmth unfurls inside Fenris like he's never felt before, for a moment so strong and heady that he's not sure what to do with himself besides open to the pressure of the kiss, and another kiss, and then another, and he's half on his back with handfuls of Anders's hip dragging him along.
There's a difference—the relief of pain and this, which sails beyond the threadbare state of 'not suffering' into something nonetheless sharp and aching and so dangerously, sweetly unbearable. He'd been wrong all along. Now he's gone mad.
It takes a long few moments of soft wet mouths and roaming hands before Fenris properly registers how close he is to losing all sense. Maker, how he wants. He trembles with it, utters a soft Tevene epithet while his nose is still pressed to Anders's adam's apple. ]
[The sound sends a full-body shudder through him, even without being able to understand the words. He lifts his head and pants quietly at Fenris's temple, hands fisted in the thin sheets at his shoulder. There's no reason his heart should be hammering this way against his rib cage, but so it is. He feels scrambled, cut adrift, like his mind will never be able to catch up with what his hands are doing— what his mouth is doing— unless he slows down, stops, pauses, anything. But he feels cracked open and fragile, like stopping might shatter it, this. He'll think later. He'll be horrified at himself later.
For now, Fenris's skin is warm, and freedom is what you make of it.]
Tell me. [Murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. Another kiss, lingering at Fenris's jaw.] Tell me what you want.
[ An obscene throaty sound looses itself half at the question, breath puffing through Anders's hair. Such a complicated request, but to Fenris in the here and now it feels shamefully simple, starving palms groping for the mixed cloth meeting at his upper and lower body, tugging and squeezing and stealing a brief greedy cup of his ass. They've never touched each other like this before; almost, perhaps, desperate gropes of anything that feels soft and good amid the darkness, but never like this. Fenris groans aloud and gives Anders a lazy sweet-mouthed caress of his earlobe that turns into a bite. ]
Take these off.
[ The first clothes they've worn in so long that aren't soiled rough tatters, but he wants them gone. All of them, needing skin on skin on skin, which is so much softer now with how long they've gone without holding any weapons.
He's used enough to Anders and his consoling hands and the clever work they do between his thighs—so used to it happening so reliably that he feels how his body responds easily to his touch now, hungry for it by virtue of pure habit. He wants...
[The aborted, half-swallowed groan is probably a familiar sound by now. It's a directive he's only too eager to obey, and it's nearly a relief to do it.
He sets his knees on either side of Fenris's hips, and leans back just enough to draw the shirt off over his head. He drops it off the side of the bed like an afterthought, already leaning back in, pressing skin to skin, body heat to body heat. He knows that it all needs to come off, wants it just as badly, but he's easily distracted, and there's so much expanse his mouth hasn't mapped yet, in all their history.
The next kiss is hard-edged, messy, desperate for something Anders can't put a name to. He doesn't let it linger, scoots lower to drag his teeth along the pulse point in Fenris's throat, the cords of his neck, the ridge of his clavicle. His hands roam of their own accord, suddenly greedy with permission, palms following wide swaths of skin.
[ Especially without the confinement of smallclothes, the loose linen of his trousers does absolutely nothing to hide his prick rudely nudging against any part of Anders it feasibly can. Before he even knows it, Fenris is rocking up into the delicious weight of Anders's straddle, both hands planting on the highest point of his spread thighs, fingertips curling into the warmed waistband. It's dark, but elves see well at night and it's entirely possible that Anders can see the excited cat's glitter of his eyes on the pillow below.
All the while Fenris keeps expecting this to disintegrate into the desperate hysteria of the Circle dormitory. It's still desperate, in its way, but the simmer of indulgent sensuality lurking just beneath the surface of their actions bewilders and overwhelms, everything between them slower and softer and kinder than expected. Of course, Fenris knows exactly what it is to do something for no other reason than that for the first time, he can.
Is that all? It could very well be. Or maybe gratitude, Fenris wonders, with a pass of his tongue over Anders's sternum and its unfamiliar fine dusting of hair. He growls into his skin. Squeezes his arse. He knows this dance well enough by now, knows how hot and velvety Anders feels sliding through his grip, but their greatest intimacy up to this point was the time or two that, weak yet wanting, he offered Anders his thighs. ]
Kaffas.
[ Hard even for him to tell if it's a laugh or a faint sob, but it's all disbelief. ]
Here. [He leans up again to press their mouths together, languid, calming, lingering more than he means to.] Here, with me.
[It's scarcely more than a whisper, breathless, but still loud to his ears in the quiet of the room. He doesn't know why he says it, or what he means, or what he hopes to communicate. Just feels like he should say something. He doesn't know what the word means beyond what he can hear in Fenris's tone, the way it sounds like how Anders feels, confused and elated and terrified all at once.
He covers Fenris's hands with his own, a soft hum of satisfaction catching in his throat as palms spread wide over his arse, and his hips rock eagerly into each touch: back into Fenris's hands, down against Fenris's cock. He lifts, encourages them both to drag on the waistband until his trousers slip down over the curve of his arse, bunched at the knee where his legs are still spread.
There's a brief moment of indulgence where he can't help but press their hips together, the hot line of his cock dragging clumsily against the tent in Fenris's trousers. He turns the harsh moan that threatens to rip out of his throat into a quick, sharp bite at his collarbone. Heat curls low in his belly, and there's no room to linger anymore.
He shifts down lower to kick his trousers off the rest of the way, forgotten off the end of the bed. Then lower still, drawing a line of wet kisses down towards Fenris's navel, past it, fingers already reaching to grasp the thin waist of his trousers.
[ What Fenris thinks loudest is that he has earned this. They have earned it. His blood roars, hips twisting against the fleeting firm nudge of that cock, that cock, but then the pleasant weight of him is gone and instead...
Fenris has spent the better part of a year trying as hard as he can not to think about Anders's mouth. Huddled together in the dark, it was always the soft humid puff of breath that did him in, quiet exhortations ticklish against his ear to let go, yes, that's it, oh, isn't that so much better—? Or maybe Fenris only imagined those things, sweet words in a sweet voice. Had they not loathed one another in years past he might've realized how suited to healing Anders was, how capable of nurturing when he wanted to be. But now he's painfully aware of it, the way the warmth of his voice crawls across his senses as thick as honey, trembling and pink and wet and Fenris arches against his lips, unable and unwilling to refrain. He throbs, he purrs in his throat. He's so hard it almost hurts.
The hair he suddenly finds between his fingers is cool and silky with residual moisture; he strokes through it with something he chooses to pretend isn't fast approaching tenderness. ]
[Something like a hum catches in his throat at the slow drag of fingers against his scalp. It calms something stuttering and panicked in his chest, and for a moment he sets his nose against the skin of Fenris's pelvis, warm and clean, and breathes. He's never been one to accept comfort from anyone; he didn't want it, or seek it, or deserve it, depending on where and who he was. But gentleness freely given is something else, and he stays like that even as he works the trousers down, off, discarded onto the floor behind him, where they're sure to join his in a scandalous pile that someone will have to worry about later, in the morning.
For now, though.
He doesn't mean to hover, but finds he can't help it, once Fenris's cock is free. He lets his eyes flutter shut, hands curling tighter at his hips, and it could almost be an accident, the way Fenris's cock drags against his cheek. His head tilts, and then it's his lips mouthing gently up the shaft, the broad side of his tongue pressing against the slit to taste, his hot and eager mouth closing over the head.]
[ Fenris truly doesn't expect the way his chest tightens when Anders hides against his hip, nor the dissonant crash of pleasure that lances through his belly when he's enveloped in heat and soft lips and wet clever tongue. A choked-down moan shakes out; his fingers spasm minutely, wanting to grip tight, pull and push and pull, but he makes the terrifyingly conscious choice to stay gentle. His knees draw up a little around Anders's ears, as if in self-defense, but it doesn't do a thing to protect either of them from his absent petting or the way his head finally falls back with a hum of wholehearted approval. He gives himself to it, to this, and is past the point of arguing that he's not. ]
I thought—
[ He doesn't remember how he planned to end that sentence.
Anders apparently picks that moment to do something very right and he bucks, one chilly foot planting itself on the small of Anders's bare back quite without his permission. ]
You are absurd.
[ Maker preserve them both, that mutter is almost affectionate. ]
[His hands spread against the sheets on either side of Fenris's stomach, just to give him leverage to meet the lift of Fenris's hips with a dip of his head, cock sliding smooth and practiced to the back of his throat. He's pleased to discover that it's a skill you never unlearn, apparently, even after years of reasons and resistance and suffering.
He lets it happen, and for once that unravels something in him rather than tangling it tighter.
A chuckle vibrates through his chest and throat, and he lifts his eyes just enough to meet Fenris's gaze as he draws slowly off with a damp, obscene sound. His lips are red, wet, and curved with amusement, even if the smile is more in his eyes than anywhere else. He cups the base with one hand, lets the tip bump his cheek.]
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-02-07 05:30 am (UTC)He shudders as he comes, well and truly silent this time, head bowed low. He stays like that, bent, for what feels like a long time. The only thing he can hear anymore is the sound of his own breathing, ragged in his chest, and he wishes it would stop, wishes it would all stop.
He feels worse in the come-down than he did before, exhaustion steeped into every inch of him, and now a cold, miserable lance of something in his chest. He rolls away finally, back flat against the floor, half on their pile of discarded robes and half off. He wipes his hands ineffectually on them, but otherwise doesn't bother cleaning himself up. Instead he slings one arm over his face, hiding his eyes behind the crook of his elbow as he breathes, quick and shaky and unsteady. His heart pounds.
He doesn't say anything at all.]
no subject
Date: 2015-02-09 08:33 pm (UTC)He can only stare at the wall, mind blessedly empty. Already the various pains and stings in his body are crawling back to his senses, but he's tired, and he's... been helped, tonight, no matter how twisted a shape it's taken.
He's been here with Anders long enough to know that the man dislikes prolonged silence and the isolation it suggests, so when an indeterminate length of time passes containing nothing but breathing, he knows. He has taken something that was not his to take, perhaps something that was not even truly Anders's to give, and the worst thing of all is that he is shamed and grateful but he does not regret it.
An apology would be meaningless. What Fenris decides to do instead is drag himself forward a short distance and then turn over, patting his hand once on the warmed patch he just occupied. ]
You'll catch your death there.
[ He sounds ruined, the ache in his belly still echoing pleasantly and not pleasantly. ]
Rest.
no subject
Date: 2015-02-10 01:31 am (UTC)But after a few long moments, he does. He slips close, then closer, letting himself settle back into the familiar huddle they'd established before— this. Tonight. Contact, closeness, warmth. He craves it more now than he did before, and he doesn't know what to do with that feeling.
If his hands hesitate before they land, it's because their old resting places suddenly feel muddled and fuzzy, far away. He can blame that for the way one of them slips into the small of Fenris's back, maybe.]
Fenris. [His name feels bizarre and foreign on his tongue, too loud in the quiet of their cell. He wants to say something. He feels the urge to apologize.] I....
[He can't find the words for it. He's not sure he knows what they are.]
no subject
Date: 2015-02-10 07:26 am (UTC)He truly has no idea how to begin addressing what just happened. Even if he did, exhaustion from the day's ordeals has slowly coiled around him again, squeezing until darkness encroaches on his vision. ]
Rest, [ he repeats, softer this time but firmer, nonjudgmental.
Fenris sleeps better that night than he has in years.
They've learned to take their lives—or what passes for lives—one day at a time. Worry not about what tomorrow has in store, simply concentrate on making it through today. Anders can supply water, if he has power to spare; in suffering his jailors' irregular silences, Fenris has become quite adept at hunting vermin, of which there are plenty. Both valuable and necessary skills, because the templars appear less and less as the days and weeks tick on. Eventually they stop taking him altogether. Fenris knows not why, but he can tell something outside is changing, right along with the dull red glow that starts to burn in their eyes.
Day by day; night by night. Gradually the daylight begins to lengthen, the wind warms, the stars shift against the sky, and Anders and Fenris touch each other in the dark. Every night is so much like that first night: quiet, vaguely somber, usually with only one tending to the other in response to some perceived need, followed by carrying on when dawn breaks like nothing ever happened. But once in a while a night comes where their hands work simultaneously, or they're both too drained by hunger to do anything but close their eyes and pretend they're not holding each other. Eventually it becomes routine—even once the temperature no longer demands they huddle for warmth. Eventually Anders slumps into Fenris's side in mid-afternoon; eventually Fenris rests with his head pillowed on Anders's thigh.
This is where they are tonight, with the sun just starting to slip onto the horizon. It's been some time since they've eaten anything, now that it's spring enough for the rats to go outside. Fenris stares dully at the stones in the ceiling, trying his best to think about anything else. ]
Do you remember, [ he begins, then forgets, then remembers again when some rabble somewhere outside jars him back into the present, ] the time Hawke brought us all the way to Orlais just to watch her dig through wyvern shit?
[ This is the longest sentence he's spoken in... a while, but with it comes a melancholy little wash of fondness. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-02-11 03:44 am (UTC)He wonders if they'll die. If the templars just forgot they were here, or if they moved on to wherever it is they next needed to terrorize. That would be all right, he thinks. To starve here with Fenris—it would be a better end than Anders deserved.
He's sitting with his eyes closed. The only indication he hears at all is a quick, amused exhale, the closest he comes to a laugh.]
I don't think that was the only reason. Not unless you let Varric tell the story. [It's easy to pretend things were simpler then, even if there wasn't anything about Tallis any of them could call simple. Just another gaggle of angry nobles. Another memory of Hawke he hasn't yet tarnished.] There was the— dinner party. All those Orlesian nobles with their fancy hats. Maker. Why did we do that, again?
no subject
Date: 2015-02-11 06:10 am (UTC)...I don't know. Treasure?
[ It had been a strange time, regardless. In spite of everything trying to kill them—that never changed—he remembers accompanying Hawke with a strange lightness in his heart, free of some overbearing darkness he hadn't even noticed until Kirkwall was behind them and only observed crawling back upon their return. Like the city's very foundations had become corrupted by centuries of suffering and blood that soaked into the stone, inviting madness, death. He remembers walking through that green country and not hating anything as much as he thought he had. Not even Anders, who for only a short time seemed to behave with a similar ease. How much had been them, and how much had been Kirkwall?
Not that it matters much anymore. It feels like a lifetime ago, just as it would seem that Hawke has forgotten them both. Fenris chooses to think this because forgetting will always be preferable to the alternative.
Sundown. Strange noises issue from a distance beyond the door, enough to catch interest, before a single yell of alarm breaks loose and the unseen halls erupt in a cacophony of unmistakable violence. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-02-12 04:34 am (UTC)Neither of them are really in a moving condition, much less a fighting one. But Fenris was stripped worse than he was; Anders can't do anything about the door, but if someone crosses it, he could respond. In theory.]
Get up. [His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat, and it doesn't get any better.] Get up.
[He won't die to a templar sitting down. He feels an old, familiar stirring of something, like anger or vindication. That's what gets him to standing, even if it's on unsteady feet. He scrapes at the fringes of his mind for a spell, for a thread of mana, anything he could use to defend himself—to defend them both—and comes up frustratingly, painfully empty. Caution abandoned, he takes a few, shuffling steps towards the door, even as the clamor makes its way closer—and then he stops, turns back to Fenris on instinct, eyes wide and uncertain.
It's death or freedom, maybe. He feels elated and terrified, and in the moment, he isn't certain which emotion goes where.]
BURSTS LUSTILY IN.
Date: 2015-02-24 05:38 am (UTC)Then, as quickly as it had come, a rustling silence falls over the wing. There are murmurs, rummaging, the clatter of keys and daggers sheathing, and the tang of blood hits Fenris full in the face as the bars on the door shunk free and it opens with a heavy shriek. Later he will think back and marvel at how quickly it all happened: the corridor is thick with wiry scouts and assassins, human, elven, all manner of hooded agents serving an authority he does not recognize. At the Inquisitor's personal request, says a woman called Trapper, and for a second Fenris can only stand by numbly as the Qunari-styled lead on his collar is pressed into his hands by someone else. Hunter has for them a letter which Fenris cannot completely read, but it takes only the recognition of the word "Hawke" scrawled on vellum for him to thrust it at Anders. Varric's hand, he thinks, seeing the particular slants and loops more as familiar abstractions than letters. He doesn't know. It's been so long.
When the collar clatters to the ground, the burst and roar of unrepressed magic through his blood is too dizzying to bear; he sways, arm colliding with Anders's chest in a stubborn, persistent attempt to shield him from the unknown.
Two things become clear above all others: time is short and they will be hunted again. Hawke is waiting in a place called Skyhold. A brutal trek lies ahead: from Antiva City they must go south to Wycome, from Wycome to Amaranthine by sea, from Amaranthine to the Frostbacks on interminable foot. From the time they're released onward, stealthing into deliberately darkened city streets, Fenris does not stop thinking about killing everyone and running. But he's unarmed still, delirious with hunger and exhaustion, and it does not even occur to him to abandon Anders, and at the end of the journey there will be Hawke—who, all this time, had seemingly forgotten them both. ]
swoons
Date: 2015-02-25 04:57 am (UTC)He feels as exhilarated and terrified as he did when he was thirteen and sliding down from one of the Circle's tall windows for the first time, open sky and shifting horizon and the heady promise of freedom right in front of him. The instinct to bolt is strong, and comes as soon as he feels salty wind on his face. He knows the term Inquisition from old Chantry texts, knows their origins and misplaces their resurgence—he has no interest in a revival of that organization, and no trust in the people who work for it.
He has Varric's letter tucked away, the vellum already crinkled from nervous hands folding it up and spreading it back out again. It bothers him that both Varric and Hawke seem to have thrown their lots in with this new Inquisition, but more than that, he dreads having to look Hawke in the face again. She should have killed him the first time, should have left him to rot the second. He doesn't know how much of him is left to meet her anger.
Perhaps it's Fenris they came to retrieve, and Anders they came to pass judgment on. That would be all right, he thinks. Anders sticks to him like a shadow during their entire flight from the city, always circling back, never far enough away that they couldn't reach out to grab each other.
The first safehouse is on the outskirts of Antiva City, and it's late in the night before they reach it. It's a ramshackle thing, by anyone's standards—except maybe for theirs, after so long spent in the cold and filth. There's food and clothing and water—for drinking and bathing both. It's magnificent and overwhelming, for all its simplicity.
(He shaves in a clouded mirror over a bowl of water, and his hands shake so badly the first time he sets the blade against his throat that he has to set it aside before he can try again.)
In the end, he is damp and clean, dressed and fed. It's a strange, foreign sensation, after he'd accepted so long ago that he wouldn't taste freedom this way again, that his life was going to end with the templars, the way it was always supposed to. He feels disconnected from himself. He wonders if that will go away with time.
But first things first: he's exhausted. There is nothing he'd like more than to sleep, and they'll need it, with the journey they have laid out in front of them. But he hovers regardless, hip braced against the footboard of one bed while he eyes the rough-hewn sheets of the other.
There are two. Another small luxury afforded by the Inquisition.]
flaps arms gracelessly!!!
Date: 2015-02-26 05:53 am (UTC)They're further from the coast than before, but it's still windy outside. Cool, even pleasant under blankets. Fenris slides into the unoccupied bed and lies awake for some time, staring dully at what he believes to be the outline of Anders's shoulder.
To say it feels wrong is, well...
But it feels wrong, and nothing about it seems real. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-02-27 10:43 pm (UTC)Eventually, he shrugs the blankets aside and swings his feet to the floor in a tired half-haze. He means to do anything else other than continue trying and failing to sleep; maybe it's the bed that's the problem, the pillows giving too easily after a year spent sleeping on cold stone. He stands, drawing the woolen top blanket of the bed with him, meaning to try the floor instead.
(That's what he tells himself, maybe.)
His feet end up carry him further than that, across the distance between their beds. The extra blanket slips out of his fingers, pooling with a rasp of cloth at his feet, and his hand slides beneath the warm edge of Fenris's instead.]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-03 08:09 am (UTC)And much like every other night they've shared up to tonight, there's no point in pretending he's not awake, that Anders isn't creaking the floorboards just inches away, an overture, seeking—and finding, as Fenris retreats with a rustle of blankets toward the center of the bed and waits for Anders's weight. He'd say he'd been a fool to expect that anything would change right away just because they're free(?), but truthfully he's never even thought about it. But here they are, and he has to, and the best strategy he can muster is to simply... carry on. That's what this has always been between them, after all, isn't it? Carrying on, stubborn, perverse as necessary. Something to hold onto.
He feels the first curl of heat as his bare torso makes contact with the fabric of Anders's arms; he can't even be blamed, really, it's practically a conditioned reaction. Not so differently, it's no longer possible to blame thirst for the hoarseness of his whisper. ]
A dream, I am sure of it.
[ It's gentle, faintly self-deprecating, but the relief is palpable. One of his fingers smooths over and over again over a small fold in Anders's shirt, something in him soothed at its softness. Then his breath catches in his throat, just a subtle little failure to continue speaking, momentarily and quite suddenly feeling as though he's become overwhelmed with emotion. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-04 04:58 am (UTC)He'd been following an instinct, searching for something familiar, but that isn't enough to describe the difference it makes. He's reminded, distantly, of what it used to feel like, during the days when all he had was the next time he'd planned to flee the tower. That abstract feeling of rightness whenever his feet crossed a threshold into the open world.
He's never been truly free a moment of his entire life. But this: this is close to the feeling.
Fenris's throat is bare now, without the bulk of the Qunari collar to restrict him. Anders dips to press his nose into the free space, the crook between his neck and his shoulder, and breathes.]
Mmm. [A hum of affirmation, low and sleepy in his chest.] That would explain a lot, wouldn't it.
[He's feeling his own exhaustion properly now, but wants to sleep less than he did before. His fingers might curl against skin. He wants to keep it in place, all of this: the room, the sky, tree branches against the window, Fenris in this bed.]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-04 05:52 am (UTC)For the very first time, Fenris considers a sliver of possibility that he has changed for the better, even in some small, sad way.
He feels a painful, terrible flutter inside his chest and gut, the pillowcase against his eyelashes, the puff of Anders's breath across his skin. He smells so... so. ]
The truth is never so convenient.
[ It's murmured in such proximity that he's mouthing the words against Anders's collarbone—mouthing at his collarbone, he's—Fenris's fingers clench at the small of his back and he honestly doesn't know who's to blame, just that their mouths eventually seem to float toward each other until they touch and he makes the softest sound of genuine shock when they touch. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-05 03:06 am (UTC)They've never done this. Never simply kissed, like it was easy, like it was comfortable. This— thing between them, it's always been about physical relief, and shifting, grasping hands in the darkness. It was about necessity. Survival. Giving each other some small measure of distraction from the reality of their lives.
This isn't the same. This is gentle, curled under warm sheets, with full bellies and futures to speak of. He doesn't know what this is at all.
His chest feels tight. He draws back just so, lips parting with a quiet sound in the stillness of the room. There's a moment of hesitation, of confusion, where silence roars in his ears when their noses brush. He breathes, shallow and unsteady.
That's all it is: a space of a breath. He doesn't even think about it before he dips close again, fitting their mouths more firmly together, slow and deep, with a small, helpless, gasping noise.]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 06:37 am (UTC)There's a difference—the relief of pain and this, which sails beyond the threadbare state of 'not suffering' into something nonetheless sharp and aching and so dangerously, sweetly unbearable. He'd been wrong all along. Now he's gone mad.
It takes a long few moments of soft wet mouths and roaming hands before Fenris properly registers how close he is to losing all sense. Maker, how he wants. He trembles with it, utters a soft Tevene epithet while his nose is still pressed to Anders's adam's apple. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-07 07:20 pm (UTC)For now, Fenris's skin is warm, and freedom is what you make of it.]
Tell me. [Murmured, his voice slightly hoarse. Another kiss, lingering at Fenris's jaw.] Tell me what you want.
[It is want, now. Not need.]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-09 03:19 am (UTC)Take these off.
[ The first clothes they've worn in so long that aren't soiled rough tatters, but he wants them gone. All of them, needing skin on skin on skin, which is so much softer now with how long they've gone without holding any weapons.
He's used enough to Anders and his consoling hands and the clever work they do between his thighs—so used to it happening so reliably that he feels how his body responds easily to his touch now, hungry for it by virtue of pure habit. He wants...
He wants. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-09 06:09 am (UTC)He sets his knees on either side of Fenris's hips, and leans back just enough to draw the shirt off over his head. He drops it off the side of the bed like an afterthought, already leaning back in, pressing skin to skin, body heat to body heat. He knows that it all needs to come off, wants it just as badly, but he's easily distracted, and there's so much expanse his mouth hasn't mapped yet, in all their history.
The next kiss is hard-edged, messy, desperate for something Anders can't put a name to. He doesn't let it linger, scoots lower to drag his teeth along the pulse point in Fenris's throat, the cords of his neck, the ridge of his clavicle. His hands roam of their own accord, suddenly greedy with permission, palms following wide swaths of skin.
Every inch he takes, he wants a mile more.]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-09 09:31 pm (UTC)All the while Fenris keeps expecting this to disintegrate into the desperate hysteria of the Circle dormitory. It's still desperate, in its way, but the simmer of indulgent sensuality lurking just beneath the surface of their actions bewilders and overwhelms, everything between them slower and softer and kinder than expected. Of course, Fenris knows exactly what it is to do something for no other reason than that for the first time, he can.
Is that all? It could very well be. Or maybe gratitude, Fenris wonders, with a pass of his tongue over Anders's sternum and its unfamiliar fine dusting of hair. He growls into his skin. Squeezes his arse. He knows this dance well enough by now, knows how hot and velvety Anders feels sliding through his grip, but their greatest intimacy up to this point was the time or two that, weak yet wanting, he offered Anders his thighs. ]
Kaffas.
[ Hard even for him to tell if it's a laugh or a faint sob, but it's all disbelief. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-13 05:26 pm (UTC)[It's scarcely more than a whisper, breathless, but still loud to his ears in the quiet of the room. He doesn't know why he says it, or what he means, or what he hopes to communicate. Just feels like he should say something. He doesn't know what the word means beyond what he can hear in Fenris's tone, the way it sounds like how Anders feels, confused and elated and terrified all at once.
He covers Fenris's hands with his own, a soft hum of satisfaction catching in his throat as palms spread wide over his arse, and his hips rock eagerly into each touch: back into Fenris's hands, down against Fenris's cock. He lifts, encourages them both to drag on the waistband until his trousers slip down over the curve of his arse, bunched at the knee where his legs are still spread.
There's a brief moment of indulgence where he can't help but press their hips together, the hot line of his cock dragging clumsily against the tent in Fenris's trousers. He turns the harsh moan that threatens to rip out of his throat into a quick, sharp bite at his collarbone. Heat curls low in his belly, and there's no room to linger anymore.
He shifts down lower to kick his trousers off the rest of the way, forgotten off the end of the bed. Then lower still, drawing a line of wet kisses down towards Fenris's navel, past it, fingers already reaching to grasp the thin waist of his trousers.
"Impatient" is not a good enough word.]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-24 04:55 am (UTC)Fenris has spent the better part of a year trying as hard as he can not to think about Anders's mouth. Huddled together in the dark, it was always the soft humid puff of breath that did him in, quiet exhortations ticklish against his ear to let go, yes, that's it, oh, isn't that so much better—? Or maybe Fenris only imagined those things, sweet words in a sweet voice. Had they not loathed one another in years past he might've realized how suited to healing Anders was, how capable of nurturing when he wanted to be. But now he's painfully aware of it, the way the warmth of his voice crawls across his senses as thick as honey, trembling and pink and wet and Fenris arches against his lips, unable and unwilling to refrain. He throbs, he purrs in his throat. He's so hard it almost hurts.
The hair he suddenly finds between his fingers is cool and silky with residual moisture; he strokes through it with something he chooses to pretend isn't fast approaching tenderness. ]
no subject
Date: 2015-03-25 05:12 am (UTC)For now, though.
He doesn't mean to hover, but finds he can't help it, once Fenris's cock is free. He lets his eyes flutter shut, hands curling tighter at his hips, and it could almost be an accident, the way Fenris's cock drags against his cheek. His head tilts, and then it's his lips mouthing gently up the shaft, the broad side of his tongue pressing against the slit to taste, his hot and eager mouth closing over the head.]
slides on in at last
Date: 2015-04-16 07:20 pm (UTC)I thought—
[ He doesn't remember how he planned to end that sentence.
Anders apparently picks that moment to do something very right and he bucks, one chilly foot planting itself on the small of Anders's bare back quite without his permission. ]
You are absurd.
[ Maker preserve them both, that mutter is almost affectionate. ]
welcomes you back with blowjobs
Date: 2015-04-24 02:54 am (UTC)He lets it happen, and for once that unravels something in him rather than tangling it tighter.
A chuckle vibrates through his chest and throat, and he lifts his eyes just enough to meet Fenris's gaze as he draws slowly off with a damp, obscene sound. His lips are red, wet, and curved with amusement, even if the smile is more in his eyes than anywhere else. He cups the base with one hand, lets the tip bump his cheek.]
Do you want me to stop?
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