It is not hesitancy that stills Hawke’s hand- like most things in his life, he reaches to Fenris with sure and steady intention, the movements of someone built around trust and strength, comfortable in the knowledge of what the world holds yet wizened enough to keep it at bay. It is the gentle nature of his hands, however, that has always, and no doubt always will, keep Fenris’s heart beating so fast- fast as footfalls trading rain for shelter, fast at the first night he met Hawke in torn clothes and bloody weapons, fast as the first moment he looked into another man’s and felt only peace.
Hawke’s hands cradle him not unlike a babe, firm to hold and yet so very, very gentle. He doesn’t pull Fenris to him so much as guides him, knowing he will lean back- no, not knowing, but trusting. Trusting Fenris to trust him, to treat this simple act of a lover’s embrace as the monumental gift it is. Fenris can recalls little of gentleness in his life, far too accustomed to the hard and gritty of the world. Yet he has seen the hands set upon him tear through demons, seen them wield dagger and fire alike, only to feel them drift across his skin as if he were made of the finest gossamer and lightest silk.
He knows what he is made of, knows too well what his own hands can do. Yet here, in this pale morning broken only by the chattering larks by their window, Fenris can feel only a sweet warmth through his bones, the flush of his chest agaisnt his back and the squeeze of Hawke’s hands overshadowed only by the heat of his lips.
And Fenris wonders, eyes falling shut against the sweet senses building inside him, if Hawke can feel how hard his heart still beats, his only true possession given over without a second thought.
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