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He shouldn’t have done it. Phasing through a man’s body to kill them was impressive, and he’d never tire of the admiring looks it earned from Hawke, but there was also a cost. Now, hours later, he could no longer avoid feeling it. His markings sometimes caused him what he considered minor discomfort—a mere shift in the weather could make the lyrium-imbued lines smart like a highly-localized sunburn. Sometimes they itched and stung for seemingly no reason at all, and he couldn’t bear to be touched, least of all by mages. He hardly acknowledged the phenomenon. He already had more comfort in Kirkwall than he’d ever known in what he could remember of his life. Complaining of a little suffering seemed awfully spoiled in a city dripping with it.
It was worse after phasing. Activating the markings with that much power seemed to revive a shadow of the pain of their acquisition, which was easy enough to ignore in the fervour of battle, but… it lingered. And when he had nothing else to occupy his mind, the burn under his skin was all-encompassing. This evening, he paced the crumbling mansion like a caged animal, higher thought crowded out by the white-hot blaze etched down every limb.
Hawke used to help with the pain. He’d caught Fenris kneading the skin of his arm with a grimace, once, and had been shocked by the elf’s dismissive answer. Incapable of seeing a problem and not jumping headfirst into it, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to see Hawke on his doorstep days later with a jar of salve from Anders and an earnest grin.
But since the night they’d spent together, and Fenris had fled, things had been tense. They were both making efforts to pretend things were normal, to salvage what they could of their friendship. The distance, the hurt—Hawke’s stubborn patience took it all in stride. The man couldn’t even seem to hate him for how he’d acted. Fenris had tried hating himself double to make up the difference, but Hawke’s example had made it hard to sustain. He was almost all right, some days, content in his freedom and his friendships and desperately clinging to what he did have. But on bad nights like this, the agony soured him, and he slung blame as carelessly as an injured cat swung its claws.
He was alone, could only ever be alone, and that meant he had to bear this alone too.
A knock at the door startled him from his misery. He wasn’t fit for company, the sear of his skin leaving his good humour in tatters and his temper likely to flare. He could pretend he wasn’t home. A second knock, more jaunty than the first, urged him to his feet. Hawke. Could it be? If it was an invitation to a late-night prowl around Darktown, he wasn’t really in the mood. But for Hawke, and a distraction from the livewire torment that coiled through his body, he might tough it out. He owed the man so much, had hurt him so deeply, yet still thrived off his company to a degree some might consider pathetic. Anyone who knew Garrett Hawke understood the feeling; the man was positively magnetic.
He opened the door a crack. “Hawke,” he greeted, more gruffly than he’d intended. Fasta vass, he wasn’t trying to be hurtful. He was just hurting. A mess, despite the stoic façade.
“Fenris,” Hawke replied more warmly, “You didn’t think I forgot, did you?” He held up a jar.
Fenris could have wept, if he remembered how. He figured that had been burned out of him like all the rest. Every bit of softness, excised and replaced with ruthlessness and resignation. He didn’t deserve this gift, this consideration. Not after how he’d handled Hawke’s heart.
He felt a sick twist in his chest at the thought that Hawke had been to Anders’ clinic to get the salve. Anders, who openly adored Hawke. Who wouldn’t run away and say he couldn’t do this.
“Thank you,” Fenris grunted, snatching the jar and moving to close the door in Hawke’s face. He couldn’t do this. He felt like an open wound inside and out. At least one ache was treatable.
“Wait,” Hawke said, “You don’t need help reaching your back?” A beat passed, and with no answer a twinkle of mischief alighted in his eye. “Hang on, do you have Isabela in there to help you? She is always talking about wanting to give you a rub-down.”
He could’ve lied about that, to make Hawke go away, except for the startled snort that revealed Isabela couldn’t be farther from his mind. She was lovely, and fun, and wouldn’t treat him like a tragedy if he asked her for help. But he trusted Hawke, and Hawke was offering. Were things too different between them now, too broken? Was it breaking things further, to acknowledge that things had changed?
“I—no, er, there’s no one here. Are you… sure that’s a good idea?” he answered haltingly. For all the strength that let him swing a greatsword taller than himself with ease, he couldn’t bring himself to push Hawke away.
Hawke flashed a bright smile that was a little bit sad. “If you’re comfortable. I’ll behave myself, I swear. I don’t want you to be in pain, Fenris.”
The elf tore himself away from the door, reeling. If only it was an option to not be in pain. He could accept this help, accept Hawke’s touch and refresh the agony of knowing that he was too broken to be with the man. Would it be any better? Would it be any worse?
Hawke stepped cautiously into the entranceway and closed the door behind him. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s just like before. You’re my friend, and I want to help.”
Fenris nodded mutely. He couldn’t trust what his voice might do if he tried to speak past the lump in it. He knew it had to hurt Hawke, too, to be so close and pretend like they both didn’t wish they could be more. The pain dulled his good sense, and he tried to discard the thought.
They retreated to his room, where he sat the jar down on an end table and got to peeling off the layers above his waist. Hawke pulled out a stool for Fenris to sit on and installed himself in one of the armchairs.
Half-delirious with the prospect of relief, the elf was already scooping from the jar and slapping the waxy balm onto his forearms as soon as he sat down, spreading it hastily. The more of it he did for himself, the less Hawke could do, and then the man could leave and Fenris could feel less like a trawler boat had run its hooks through his ribcage.
He twitched when Hawke made contact, hissing at the way the lyrium stood at attention at the mage’s proximity. Ready to be commanded, ready to be turned against him. He waved away Hawke’s apology, focusing instead on the faint wildflower scent of the salve as it began to melt into his feverish skin. He tried to think of all the kinds of fish he’d eaten in Seheron and how he would rank them—not of the warm patient hands that settled between his shoulder blades, rubbing circles on either side of his spine.
“Is this okay?” Hawke asked, “The instructions were to massage it in.”
“I recall,” Fenris answered stiffly. How could he forget? It was part of the reason he’d turned up on Hawke’s doorstep that one night, unable to think of anything beyond the spectre of his touch. A sigh slipped out of him as Hawke worked out a knot in his mid-back. “It’s okay.”
He rubbed distractedly at one arm and then the other, trying to activate the balm’s pain-relieving properties. It would be just like Anders to come up with a treatment that only mages could use, he thought bitterly. There was no prickle of magic from Hawke behind him though, only strong fingers working the salve into the lines tattooed over so much of his skin. Designs stark in their contrast, like a freeze brand on cattle, but so mind-rendingly worse that the memory of it was lost to him. What horrible irony, that the very thing that had given him the power to steal his freedom still confined him as a prisoner to his past. Even their shape resembled a cage.
Fenris sagged into the touch, breathing more easily as his skin began to feel less tight and angry. He tried to mirror Hawke’s technique on his chest and stomach as the mage followed the spidery lines across his back. Something about the way the man pressed his fingers into his tightly-wound muscles worked far better than his own efforts. The relief made him feel light, unburdened. An embarrassing sound nearly escaped him when Hawke’s fingers kneaded the back of his neck. He broke it off with an unconvincing cough.
Hawke didn’t jokingly scold him for being so tense this time, and Fenris was grateful for the silence, even though he felt like it only amplified the sound of his breathing—the occasional irregular inhale that rushed in deeper than the others, the shudder of an exhale when a particularly delicious sweep of thumbs along the base of his skull made his mouth fall open of its own volition. He was putty in those large hands, and the pain got further and further away.
Fenris realized he’d abandoned his own attempts at some point, lost in the attentive ministrations that released aches he hadn’t even noticed were there. He flexed his fingers stiffly in his lap, hardly hearing the movement as Hawke got up and walked around to the front of him. It was only when the musclebound mage crouched into his field of vision and held out his hand that he surfaced from the pleasant daze. Fenris hesitated, then placed a hand in Hawke’s, his gaze skittering away from the intimacy of the gesture. Hawke, for his part, at least had the good sense not to overstep and raise the hand to his lips. This was hard enough as it was.
Hawke worked the salve into the elf’s lyrium-lined fingers with the same singular focus he’d applied elsewhere. Fenris went from avoiding looking at him to watching him work, mesmerized by the dedication with which he moved over each ligament and callus. Surely it wasn’t possible to be cared for this much. And after what had happened between them… he didn’t understand it. Hawke was clearly taking his time, drawing this out, but it wouldn’t change anything. There was nothing to gain. There could be nothing between them but hopeless longing.
He was surprised when Hawke finished and looked up, their faces unexpectedly close. For a moment they lingered in place, gazes gone soft. It would be so easy to lean closer, to grab a fistful of dark hair and crash their mouths together. He couldn’t. He couldn’t play with Hawke’s feelings like that. It had been selfish the first time, to reach for a happiness he was too damaged to keep. It would be crueler the second. He didn’t breathe. With the physical pain calmed, the anguish of what he couldn’t have burned brighter.
“I’m sorry,” Fenris said quietly.
Hawke sat back on his heels and lifted his fingers to the elf’s chin. There was that stupid understanding smile again. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m happy I could help.”
Fenris made a sound of disbelief in his throat.
Hawke’s hands flew up. “Nope! I won’t hear it. You’re important to me and you deserve good things, and if the best I can do for you is take away one bad thing, I’ll do it every time,” Hawke said, “Unless you’d rather someone else do it. I won’t take it personally. Maybe the doctor makes house calls.” Hawke waggled his bushy brows with a wry grin. Anders would probably agree to help, despite himself, out of a sense of obligation—but Fenris would never ask. The awkwardness would kill them both, even if they kept their snippy remarks to themselves. The image was beyond absurd.
Fenris barked a laugh at that, and it was like something hard lodged in his chest had come loose. They were okay. They were a fucking mess, but they were okay. “You’re impossible,” he grumbled good-naturedly, looking away. He felt a slight upturn to his lips.
Hawke laughed and stood. “Good night, Fenris,” he said, in a manner that sounded a bit like something else. A bit like someone who might wait forever for him, actually.