early december
Fenris + Dorian Pavus
Some talk of slavery | Complete
Fenris took a great deal of pride in his self-awareness. He knew, for instance, that he was quick to judge and slow to forgive, and that neither reaction was necessarily warranted. It was an ongoing process to let go of something so ingrained, but he was trying to make an effort. Try being the key word. However, there was also the matter of Fenris' tendency of growing too attached to people, and he was already beginning to sense this happening with three of Prompto's crewmembers: Madeira, Riza, and Prompto himself. He hated that his heart yearned for friendship and community when both were often fraught with complications. Everything he saw made him miss Hawke, and even the rest of the Kirkwall group despite the years that passed since their days together. It was illogical, and frustrating, and sad. His heart ached and he hated it.

So he wandered out of the hotel late one night feeling restless, and followed a loud group of locals to a nearby bar. It was small, but appeared upscale as most things did in this area of the city, and Fenris braced himself for a look of judgment from the host before he realized it wasn't actually coming. His appearance had earned him a significant amount of attention back home, most of it negative, and his status as an elf hardly helped matters. But here, Fenris could actually blend in. It was still surprising to him, quite frankly, and he had to force himself past the threshold and toward the bar before his hesitation seemed suspicious.

Except he froze a second time when he spotted a familiar silhouette. He's a Magister now, if you can believe it, Varric had written in one of his many letters. Fenris did, in fact, believe it. And probably one of the only ones in that shithole who wants to do some good. Poor bastard. I hope he lives. He remembered those words, carefully written in looping ink, as surely as he could see Dorian now. But that didn't change the fact that this was also a man who had seen Fenris at his lowest, had known him as property, and if he remembered him at all (which still wasn't entirely clear), he would remember that. And Fenris felt queasy at the thought. So, obviously, that meant he was leaving before he could be noticed. Except he ... didn't.

Years from now, he would look back on this moment and wonder what changed his mind. If it was the brightness in Dorian's eyes, or the disarming smile he flashed the bartender, or the lilting, joyful tone of his voice, but something pushed past his walls and drew him in. He'd always been curious. Too curious. So he found himself closing the distance, forced to stand closer than he might have otherwise given the crowded room. If his heart gave a funny little flip, Fenris ignored it. "This one," he said, pointing to a name on the wine menu in Dorian's hands. "It tastes like Sun Blonde if you drink enough of it. Add cloves." Somewhere, somehow, Hawke was definitely making shooing motions at him. He sighed, and added, "Fenris," in some attempt at a greeting.

Perched on one of the stools by the bar, one leg crossed over the other and entirely appearing like an art fixture rather than a breathing person (as was the intention), Dorian found himself languidly reading through the current stock of the bar and growing only more disenchanted the further down the list he got. The fact that the establishment didn’t usually produce such a list, however, was a delightful stroke of his ego despite the rather abysmal choices that were detailed on it with the careless descriptions of a person who likely could not sell a drop of water to a man in a desert. And so, for the better part of a half an hour, Dorian lamented the selection to the ongoing annoyance of the bartender. To the man’s credit, he had the patience of a Chantry priest — a genuine one — and tolerated his criticism which surprised him, honestly.

Not that Dorian was complaining purely to hear the sound of his own voice. Though that was a bonus, honestly. No, Dorian was awfully particular when it came to liquor and didn’t like anything that tasted cheap solely because it reminded him of a time in his life that he would much rather forget. Lackluster spirits brought to mind living in cramped and dingy rooms or of lingering and stumbling through dark alleys to try to escape the reality of the mess his life had become. Dorian was in a much better place now, but that history still nipped at his heels, not that far in the past as he wished it was.

As he continued his discourse with the bartender, a charming smile on his face and a look of mischief and amusement in his eyes, Dorian hadn’t noticed the man approaching them. Certainly, if he hadn’t been so absorbed in this little game of his, he would have noticed him, if not for the shock of ashen hair, or the markings that seemed to sing to him, than for the distinctive and elegant curve of his ears or the intensity in his eyes. All of those traits added up to a familiar name, though Dorian had never met the man in person before, merely heard his name whispered amongst those with a need to whisper it; had they spoken louder, perhaps that spectre they feared would descend upon them.

Living on the streets of Tevinter, in the parts of it that showed just how dirty and despicable his homeland could be without the elegance that covered it up in places like Minrathous, the name of this elf was almost too taboo to be spoken out loud. It had always made him curious, and he had, on more than one occasion, inquired about Fenris to Varric, though the dwarf’s responses never quite seemed to be the whole truth. Expecting an unembellished truth from Varric had been wishful thinking on Dorian’s part, he knew.

“Ah,” Dorian started, turning his bright green-grey eyes towards Fenris. “But the question is do they have enough of it for that declaration to be tested for its authenticity? And I was rather hoping for something more like Rowan's Rose.” Smiling wider at the introduction, Dorian shifted on the barstool. “Dorian,” he offered in return.

Fenris hadn't realized how tense he'd become before Dorian responded, as if bracing himself for shock or disgust in response to his appearance. But when neither came—not even a flicker of recognition in those stormy seafoam eyes—he actually began to relax, gratitude and relief lining his face for a brief moment. It was a kindness that Dorian didn't mention their semi-shared history, a kindness Fenris didn't take lightly. So he inclined his head in a show of respect when Dorian offered his name. And while he didn't smile in return (he rarely smiled as it was), Fenris did shift to face the man fully, offering his complete attention now that his company seemed to be welcomed. That was ... flattering. He wasn't exactly used to approaching anyone in a setting like this. Or at all, really. And Dorian was very pretty.

Not that such a thing was relevant. He just had no intention of complaining about a nice view and intelligent conversation. That was it.

He snorted, but there was a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. If you squinted, anyway. "You won't find that here," Fenris said, a note of amusement in his voice. He leaned forward a little to have another look at the wine list, though, curious. After a moment: "Elyon pinot noir. It isn't the same, but it's tolerable. Even for your tastes." Fenris actually did smile a bit this time, though it was more in his eyes and the delicate raise of an eyebrow. If he looked like he was challenging Dorian a bit, well. Maybe he was. As dangerous as this whole exchange could prove to be, Varric had fully and completely approved of the man sitting next to him right now. That was more than enough for Fenris to be going on.

"You're here alone," he noted, gaze sweeping to the other side of Dorian before settling on his face again. "Not very wise." There was no judgment in his voice, only pure curiosity.

Body language had been Dorian’s favorite study, and it was one that he mastered those few years he spent on the run. Often, it was the difference between charming his way into a free drink or meal and being left with nothing, between deftly talking his way out of a fight and potentially being embroiled in a brawl that would most certainly draw unwanted attention. So he studied Fenris, the way he moved from tensing for a blow that he would soon learn wasn’t going to come to a more relaxed posture, the way he tilted his head and turned towards him.

It was also in that moment that Dorian found himself marvelling over the elf, the sharpness of his features that were at once both severe and attractive. Fenris was a reflection on a blade, haunting and dangerous, and that drew Dorian in completely.

“Alas,” he bemoaned, dramatically of course, complete with an exasperated gesture. Dorian had been here long enough to know which spirits were worth paying for, the ones that suited his palette. Or so he thought. Leaning forward just a hair to scan the list again — but more so to more surreptitiously study Fenris in his periphery — with Fenris, Dorian was surprised by the recommendation. It was one he hadn’t tried and he couldn’t help but be immensely curious. And there was something about the quirk of his eyebrow and the smile that accompanied it that captured Dorian’s attention more than the wine.

Lifting his eyes back up to the bartender, Dorian held out the hand-written list to him. “We shall take a bottle,” was all he said, showing his complete confidence in the recommendation with just those few words, and the man behind the counter looked oh-so-subtly relieved that Dorian had someone else to fixate on. Relieved and passingly sympathetic.

“Concerned for me, are you?” It was Dorian’s turn to smirk playfully, his head tipping to the side as he regarded his new drinking companion.

It was a rare thing for Fenris to allow anyone in his personal space. Even Hawke, who he was arguably closest to, had to tread carefully when it came to pushing past those walls. And yet, there was something about Dorian that eased his wariness. Fenris wondered about that, endlessly curious about the study of contradictions in this man: soft eyes, but a sharp tongue; an elegance born of privilege, but a power and skill in his movements that revealed experience in battle. Maybe it was simply the fact that Dorian was a puzzle to him. Even as he thought it, though, he knew it wasn't true. Because the man leaned closer to the menu, and Fenris' heart beat just a little faster.

He smells nice was his first thought, and his second was This is a bad idea. There were a hundred different reasons why he should walk away in that moment, only a handful in favor of remaining there. None of those ones were very sensible, and Fenris hadn't survived as long as he had on whimsy. But he sensed Dorian studying him, and it sent goosebumps prickling all the way up his arms. That hadn't happened in longer than he cared to think about, though it brought a whole host of problems along with it.

Thankfully, his attention was diverted when Dorian took his recommendation and made an order for them both. This time, Fenris couldn't hide his surprise. He eyed the mage for a moment, a little wary, but a hope tentatively taking root in his heart. Dangerous. Too dangerous. "Do you always put your faith in strangers?" He wondered aloud, genuinely curious about the answer. As much as he knew about Dorian already thanks to Varric, he found himself keenly interested in discovering all that he could for himself.

Fenris bristled a little, though, when his intentions were called out. "I'm making an observation," he replied, the scowl on his face far more flustered than annoyed. He was so rarely caught off guard by anyone, and here Dorian was, seemingly doing it without effort. When the bartender returned with the bottle and poured them both a glass, Fenris briefly toasted the mage before downing the whole thing in one fluid motion. Then he poured himself another, making a gesture with his free hand. In Tevinter, it meant I've had worse, but Fenris was so used to people not understanding his hand gestures that he did it thoughtlessly, not expecting any sort of recognition.

There was intrigue in mystery, and Dorian was very much intrigued by this man. Never the sort to make judgements on a person purely on rumors and second-hand stories (however favorable they were), Dorian was delighted at the chance to unravel the enigma that sat next to him. It was like touching lightning, a raw power that was as awe-inspiring as it was fearsome, and oh, was Dorian tempted to touch.

In all cases but in matters of the heart, Dorian believed that he was of sound mind and here he was, finding himself being subtly taken in by such matters. They always began as little impulses and whispers, a stirring in that treacherous beating organ that frequently undermined him. It was too soon for Dorian to say anything on the matter, but he could fairly say that he was interested and that was the first step on that slippery slope. Each time he caught the way a toned muscle moved underneath his skin, Dorian felt a little warmer and he had to resist the urge to pull at his collar as he started to feel stifled. Curse his love of high collars at a moment like this.

Dorian found he rather liked the genuine look of surprise on Fenris’s features, and he responded to it with a satisfied smirk, not unlike spoiled cat having successfully snuck into the pantry. “Consider it a calculated risk,” Dorian replied, tone mischievous. The genuine answer to that was no, but then again, he had trusted the Inquisitor on intuition alone and that same feeling was taking root once again inside of him. As of yet, Dorian hadn’t had reason to question his intuition and therefore, he was not going to start now.

“Your first statement was an observation,” Dorian commented, holding Fenris’s gaze with a curious little smile on his face. Taking his glass, Dorian returned that simple toast before sipping at the spirit inside and he was honestly impressed by it. Of course, it did not hold a candle to his favorite vintages from home but it was palettable. Which, in Dorian terms, meant that it was of good quality.

Catching that gesture, Dorian instantly registered its meaning and couldn’t help but agree but for a moment, he was just taken aback at that little piece of home he hadn’t realized he’d missed. Taking another, longer drink from his glass, Dorian returned Fenris’s wordless statement with a gesture of his own that just said Me too, but it’s not awful.

Fenris never really had the luxury to completely dismiss stories and hearsay. He preferred judging a situation (or, in this case, a person) for himself, but he wasn't about to dismiss references when he'd been on the run, particularly from those he trusted, and there were precious few of those people. So while Varric's tales, wild as they were, certainly had something to do with the fact that he'd gone against his better judgment and approached Dorian, it had nothing to do with why he remained. That's when he decided to put to rest his assumptions and proceed from here on with as open a mind as he could. It wouldn't be easy by any means. Fenris' trust was a hard-won prize, but he was willing, and that was a huge step for him.

The high collar suited Dorian, though, speaking of. It was as far as Fenris would allow his gaze to travel, anyway, at least while the mage was aware he was looking. And they were both looking. What a strange, pleasant feeling to be admired by someone who was actually nice to be around. That was new.

He smiles a lot, Fenris thought to himself, gaze traveling over Dorian's face with a curious look. It wasn't the sort of deceptive smile that hid pain, at least not in this moment. He'd seen that on Hawke more times than he could count, and he'd seen Prompto wear it, too, though it was harder to read on him. This was genuine amusement, and he wondered about that. How someone like him could actually inspire cheer.

Fenris hummed, a noncommittal sound, turning Dorian's response over in his head. "Maybe I am concerned," he replied, surprised at his own honesty. "If that is ... presumptuous, I apologize." He assumed the mage could handle himself. What right did he have to really comment on where he went and with whom? Fenris sipped his second glass of wine (not missing the way the bartender had eyed him when he'd knocked back the first one), instantly recognizing Dorian's hand gesture with a delighted little jolt. Then its meaning registered.

When he chuckled, it was throaty, his already low voice pitched lower. "Indeed," was all he said about the matter, but he was smiling for real now. Fenris tried to hide it, tilting his head away as if to glance at something on the bar, but if Dorian was quick, he'd catch the look. "So," he segued, because he wasn't about to linger on the fact that he'd actually smiled, "what draws the attention of a mage here?" Fenris was, actually, truly interested to hear the answer. His own path had been predictable, but he found he couldn't guess what Dorian must be up to in a place like this.

Stories were nice, entertaining even, especially when told by a wordsmith like Varric, but Dorian very much liked to tell his own and to read them himself when given the chance. Fenris was a story he would much rather learn first hand, to understand him on his own merit and by his own means. That Fenris seemed even just passingly interested only piqued Dorian’s interest further, tempting him even more towards that arcing electricity that fascinated him. There was something in those fierce eyes, too, that pulled Dorian in more. Oh, he was certain it was only a matter of time before he was in over his head and it would be such a sweet fall.

Dorian was aware of the way Fenris’s eyes moved across his face to his neck. Once again, it felt as if fire was burning just under his skin, making him feel altogether too warm. With the addition of that curious glint to Fenris’s eye, Dorian felt as if he had started to melt just a little. That was a dangerous sign, proof that he was already starting to slide down that slope.

“For me?” Dorian leaned a hairsbreadth closer, angling his body just that much more towards Fenris. “I must admit, I’m flattered.” Anyone showing genuine concern over him was something Dorian was largely unfamiliar with. His connections with most people were…. superficial at best, and only after joining the Inquisition did he start to find something more fulfilling. Even here, in this world so far from their own, he had found a group he cared for and who seemed to care for him. Still, there was a novelty to knowing someone was concerned on his behalf. “There’s no need to apologise.” Dorian added to Fenris’s comment about being presumptuous.

While Dorian had feigned a more attentive focus on the wine in his hand, he did not miss the way Fenris reacted to his responding gesture, nor did that delightful little smile escape him. The genuineness of it was infectious, and Dorian’s smirk softened into a smile as a result, though it was half-hidden by the wine glass.

“Oh, for the atmosphere, clearly,” Dorian joked, glancing around with an amused flash in his pale eyes. The decor (if one could stoop to call it that) clashed very obviously with the way Dorian was dressed, and the clientele were… far from upstanding seeming. But places like this reminded Dorian of his past and while he was determined to rise above it, he knew he shouldn’t forget where he’d been. It was humbling, something Dorian needed more than he wanted to admit at times. “It reminds me why I need to keep working diligently,” he continued, though the honest admission took him very much by surprise. In a swift motion, Dorian drank the entire contents of the glass that had been left before pouring himself a second.

Holding Fenris’s gaze, Dorian found himself continuously drawn in by those eyes. “I’m going to presume you didn’t come here to make recommendations to strangers in bars, so, what called you here?”

Fenris was surprised yet again when Dorian actually leaned further into his space. He felt warmth crackling over his skin, as if he stood too close to a mage in combat, waves of excess magic spreading out like passing storm clouds. Miraculously, he didn't flinch—not like he usually did when straying too close to power like that. Fenris didn't even lean away, and that was surprising in the extreme, how he actually enjoyed the way heat was spreading through him. And then Dorian said he was flattered, and that definitely called for more wine. Fenris polished off half his glass, grateful for the fact that he could blame his rapidly reddening ears on the alcohol. Probably. "Don't be," he muttered, flustered and annoyed about it.

As Dorian continued speaking, however, the elf found his gaze didn't stray from the man sitting in front of him. In fact, he'd turned completely toward him now, endlessly intrigued and loathe to miss anything of the conversation. Fenris wanted to know more, yearned to find and fit each puzzle piece into its rightful place so that he had a full picture of what made Dorian so special. It was a dangerous thing, this interest. But he couldn't help but feel captivated; there was so much hidden in those light eyes, so much to discover, that color glinting like turning a jewel in the sun. His heart gave another funny little flip, and he wondered if this was going to be a permanent ailment.

When Dorian drank the rest of his wine, Fenris' gaze dropped, watching that adam's apple bob with great interest. He didn't, however, miss the fact that the mage had apparently admitted something more truthful than he'd perhaps intended, which was interesting. Fenris tilted his head a bit, now intensely curious. "Is that where your motivation comes from?"

He was surprised when his own question was turned back on him. That didn't stop his dry response, though. "The atmosphere," Fenris said, an amused little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was the truth, actually, even if the longer explanation wasn't something he'd ever articulated before. "I enjoy it," he heard himself explain, gaze dropping to study the wine in his hand. He had a difficult time discussing emotions while making direct eye contact, but something told him that would be okay around Dorian. "The noise. The crowds. The smells. It ... reminds me of a place where I felt safe."

Why was he confessing all that? Fenris shifted a bit from one foot to the other, still standing thanks to old habits. Perhaps his guard was down because Dorian had seemingly let his own slide a little. It was risky, too risky. And yet, here they were.

“Too late for that,” Dorian purred, amused by the flustered way Fenris turned his attention back to the wine. He didn’t miss the way the tips of his ears reddened nor did he miss the fleeting way his curiosity started to work at him. That was when he had to look away from Fenris for a moment to attempt to compose himself again. It was far too early to let his mind and attention wander, to let gazes linger. Dorian knew he was in danger; he didn’t need to facilitate it so readily. Even if part of him wanted to.

Lifting his eyes back up to hold Fenris’s once he had taken a deep breath and an even deeper drain of the wine in his glass, he was once again mesmerised by the elf’s body language, how he could communicate so much without words. That he had turned squarely towards him prompted Dorian to do the same.

At the intensity and curiosity in Fenris’s eyes, Dorian felt a squeeze in his chest, a funny little feeling that he didn’t know how to put words to. “It reminds me what I am fighting to overcome,” Dorian replied, placing his glass down on the counter for the first time since picking it up. Hands free for the first time in minutes, Dorian realised his fatal flaw in that he no longer had anything to occupy them and their habit of accompanying his words. It’s a very long story, his hands added. Dorian considered silencing them by taking up the wine glass, but he resisted, at least for another moment or two.

Quietly, Dorian listened and observed, sensing that Fenris was sharing something honest that he usually wasn’t open about. Fenris’s eyelashes were surprisingly long, Dorian noticed then, and how straight the line of his nose was. Had Fenris’s gaze never rose up from his glass, Dorian was certain there were volumes worth of things he could have noticed. Perhaps another time. “There’s comfort in the familiar,” he agreed, voice warm. “I agree.”

The sound of that purr did very bad things to Fenris' willpower. If it were possible, his ears flushed even more, and he threw a glare at the mage without any real heat behind it. He was far from annoyed, but he had to at least try to stay in control here. Part of him wondered what Dorian was reading in his body language, because he could tell that's what the mage was doing. He wondered, too, what he meant by fighting to overcome something.

An eager glint flashed in his green eyes when Dorian raised his hands, as if Fenris was genuinely excited about this little piece of home. He never thought something like that would ever be possible. So few of his memories from Tevinter were pleasant, but Dorian was reminding him of the nice ones. And if his heart ached a little, he could certainly blame it on homesickness, not the disarming fact that Dorian was sharing something he only intended Fenris to understand. What the elf technically signed in return was Please share, but there was a complicated twist of his hand at the end that changed it to You would honor me by sharing. It wasn't formal so much as respectful, and he wouldn't mind if Dorian decided not to take him up on his request. That they were even communicating like this at all was exciting enough.

It was Dorian's last response that gave him pause, and for a moment, Fenris wondered if he'd been so drawn to the man simply because they were from the same world. Did that explain his intense curiosity? Why he felt inexplicably compelled to share? He'd been so eager to reconnect with his sister, too, only to miss all the warning signs there. Perhaps his heart was too soft, but then, Dorian's voice was very warm, and when he glanced at the mage again, he saw only kindness in his eyes. He took a moment to search that pale gaze just in case he was missing something, but much to his surprise, it didn't change.

Draining the rest of his glass (the bartender was really eyeing them now), Fenris refilled Dorian's before his own. "And there is fascination in the unfamiliar," he said, not quite intending his voice to come out lower, but here they were. He toasted the mage before returning to sip his wine.

Chuckling softly at that glance, Dorian noted the way the tips of Fenris’s ears darkened and also how disarming it was. This was more than piqued curiosity, this feeling in his chest and clouding his mind. It was like Dorian was looking at someone who he could actually understand on a fundamental level and that was a very strange feeling to the mage. Even amongst the people he had met while working with the Inquisition, he hadn’t quite found someone who felt like such a kindred spirit as he had right here. It was a little unsettling, because it was a feeling he didn’t really understand, one he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Dorian decided to focus on the conversation at hand, as that was something he could control better than the wild and unpredictable feelings that were starting to bombard him. He was charmed by the way Fenris’s eyes lit up though he found himself surprised by what Fenris signed in response. As much as Dorian professed to be somewhat at peace with his past, there were lingering feelings of inadequacy and shame that he couldn’t quite shake and while he didn’t want to apologize for the way he was anymore, his reluctance to talk about them held fast. And the fact that someone could be genuinely interested in his motivations, in his story, and be honoured was surprising.

Need just a little more wine first, he gestured in answer with a half smile as he reached for his glass and polished it off before pouring another and resisting the temptation to completely drain that one as well. “I have spent quite a deal of my life running from something. My family. Responsibility. Expectation.” Dorian paused and slowly took a deep breath. “Myself.” He laughed then, but it was strained just a little. “I had gotten rather good at it, too, but that did not change those things or make them go away. So, here I am trying to embrace them.”

This was altogether getting far too personal and yet Dorian felt completely at ease talking about this when he hadn’t felt that way ever before. Still, he waved his hand in a gesture of apology and took to focusing on his glass once again until Fenris’s voice pulled his gaze right back to him.

“Thank you,” Dorian said quietly as Fenris refilled his wine. If the bartender was making any sort of look at them at this point, the mage genuinely didn’t notice, his attention entirely focused on Fenris unashamedly at this point. He would argue that it had everything to do with the wine, even though that was far from the truth. “Indeed.” Returning that toast, Dorian smiled and took a sip of his own wine.

At first, Fenris wasn't entirely aware of the true depth of his feelings. Most of the strange, pleasant swooping in his stomach could be explained away by how effortlessly charming Dorian was, and how attentive his bright gaze could be when focused upon something (someone, his heart sang) that interested him. Those were easy skills to be disarmed by. He'd seen enough of the rewards Isabela's silver tongue could win her. Surely Dorian just made him feel special. But then the conversation took a turn he hadn't anticipated, and Fenris stared, shocked, as every part of him yearned to tell him he understood. It was like discovering a piece of himself he hadn't known was missing, something he'd never felt before in his life.

Before he could think better of it, Fenris reached out to grasp Dorian's hand to stop the gesture from finishing the apology. "Don't," he said, voice rough. "I asked, and you answered. Thank you." He hardly needed anyone to explain how difficult it was to unearth bones from the past. That Dorian would do this at all was deeply humbling, and he squeezed the mage's hand, briefly, before reluctantly pulling away. Fenris tried to ignore the fact that he kept his hand on the bar even in the wake of that. He told himself he needed a second for the tingling warmth to pass, but then, his gaze had softened considerably, so maybe he was just well and truly fucked here.

"You are braver and wiser than most," Fenris said at length, watching Dorian with a warm look. "To face your past is not an easy task, and to try making peace with it is an even greater one. I ... admire that." I admire you, he nearly said, but managed to sensor himself at the last second. It was still implied, though, which was perhaps worse.

Flustered again, because that was apparently his life now, Fenris hid it the way he usually did by turning his face away. It was easier to focus his attention on the wine, which was far less interesting than the mage with the clever eyes and pretty smile. However far gone he was, Fenris knew there was no way Dorian could feel anywhere near the same as he did. That was fine. He greatly enjoyed the mage's company, and friendship was hardly a small thing for him. He'd quietly put his heart somewhere useful and focus on that. It would be enough.

In contrast, Dorian knew exactly what these feelings were even if he didn’t want to acknowledge them as such just yet. It wasn’t that he didn’t like these feelings, the way they seemed to warm him through while making him feel slightly electric. No, Dorian had always sought them, wanted them so desperately, but he had turned a little jaded with time, believing feelings like love were just folly. For him at least. And yet, here he was, with all of those bubbly, fragile and consuming feelings wrapping around his heart as if to squeeze the very life from it and he was oh so willing to let them. It was only his fear of opening himself up to that only to be disappointed that held him back.

For all of another few seconds, as fate would have it.

This felt like playing with fire, and Dorian was so afraid to get burned. Already, he felt a little helpless, even if he selfishly wanted to pull away to prevent himself from getting hurt. But he’d always been a little reckless.

Dorian had always believed that he would be able to predict anything. After all, he had seen enough of the world to think that he couldn’t be surprised, or caught off guard, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. Fenris grabbing his hand made his heart skip a beat, but it was that gentle squeeze, the reluctance to let go that stopped it completely for a moment. Any hope of trying to deny these feelings stirring in his chest were completely lost.

When he spoke again, there was a clear change in his tone; it was softer, warmer than it had been even moments ago. “Brave and wise,” Dorian repeated, as if checking to make sure he’d heard Fenris right. “No, though I suppose if it were easy, it would not be as rewarding to succeed.” He was only further disarmed by the warm look on the elf’s features and before he could convince himself of all the reasons he shouldn’t, Dorian reached out and rested his hand over Fenris’s with a smile.

“I don’t suppose this is the conversation you expected to have this evening,” he joked quietly, taking another sip of his wine.

As a general rule, Fenris avoided touching people if he could. The lyrium markings made it impossible to prolong skin to skin contact anyway, and given his history, there were few people he wanted to allow close in the first place. Really, it was more trouble than it was worth—a risk he rarely pushed himself to take unless friends were involved, and even then, it had taken months for Fenris to let his guard down around Hawke. And yet, here he was, reaching out to clasp Dorian's hand as naturally as if he'd been doing it for years. It was instinct, really, and he was sure that brief look of surprise on the mage's face was reflected in his own. He was terrified, he realized, heart pounding wildly in his chest, so certain he'd crossed an unseen boundary and Dorian would pull away forever. But he didn't.

What was he doing? Surely he couldn't be drunk already. Not on the wine, Fenris thought, a bubbly, dizzying feeling definitely going straight to his head at that change in Dorian's voice. He blinked, slowly, as if seeing the mage for the first time, his gaze far warmer than the wary look from before. "And modest, it would seem," he added dryly, trying to cut some of the tension and failing completely. Particularly because Dorian decided to hold his hand in return, and for a moment, Fenris swallowed hard, indecisive, before loosening his fist so that his palm lay flat on the bar. It didn't quite tangle their fingers, but it slid them together a little more, and he had to exhale softly just to get his heart rate under control. This felt a hundred times more intimate than if he'd leaned in and kissed Dorian, and for the first time in a very long while, the elf felt hope bloom tentatively in his chest.

"No. I didn't," Fenris agreed, a shadow of a smile tugging at his lips when he glanced down at his wine glass. It was only for a moment, though. He wanted to keep looking at Dorian even if it was difficult to resist all his instincts telling him to turn away, to shield his heart from harm. He swallowed, rallying his courage, and raised his green gaze. "But I understand what it's like to run from the past," he said. "And from yourself." Kindred spirits, Fenris gestured with his free hand, highly aware of how close those words were to something else. With less precision, a stray crook of a finger could easily change it to soulmates. He lived dangerously, though, and Dorian was worth the risk.

Despite his flirtatious nature, Dorian was not as receptive to touch as most people would have believed. In fact, he shied away from most contact unless there was a valid reason for it. The intimacy of someone breaking into his personal space was what gave Dorian pause, especially because it was too easy to read into such gestures, to try to find meaning in them. A gentle hand on a forearm said far more than any consolation, the threading of fingers together offering more comfort. There was a language in touch, and it was one that spoke to Dorian in a way words didn’t. Touch was more honest, always, because of that need to reach out. So Dorian found himself quietly agonising over the meaning of Fenris’s touch, unable to ignore the staccato beating of his heart and what it tried to whisper to him, except now it was like it was shouting.

“Me? Modest?” Dorian laughed at that, shaking his head slightly. “I am certain there would be a line of people ready to refute that statement.” In fact, he couldn’t count on both hands how many people would argue that Dorian was the furthest from humble, himself included. Himself first and foremost, actually. “Even in jest ,the word doesn’t suit me.”

For a not so brief moment, Dorian weighed the impropriety with simply putting the bottle directly to his lips with the almost uncharacteristic nervousness that tangled in his heart after he had reached out to Fenris. His hand resting on the elf’s continued that silent conversation they were having and it all came back to the intimacy and the honesty of touch. If he had read too much into Fenris’s gesture, then all Dorian had done was open himself up to be hurt, and yet…

Fenris releasing the fist he was making only had Dorian falling even further, and the way his fingers fell into place between the elf’s was enough to send a jolt of electricity through him. Curling his fingers slightly, Dorian felt the tension start to melt away.

“A pleasant kind of unexpected, I hope?” With his pale eyes still focused on Fenris, Dorian didn’t miss the way his lips turned up in a half-hidden smile. He returned it with a smile of his own, one that only grew more sure when Fenris held his gaze again. Before Dorian could respond to Fenris’s admission, his eyes were drawn to that gesture and his mouth went dry. It was as if Fenris had genuinely read his mind only moments ago, and he found himself watching the movement of his hands — and those lean fingers — intensely.

Gathering himself and his wits enough to respond, Dorian moved to answer, returning Fenris’s gesture with the slight alteration that dramatically changed the reading. He had fallen this far, why not let go completely and see where it took him?

Fenris actually smirked when Dorian protested loudly, as if he was genuinely charmed by the mage's dramatic insistence. "Forgive me," he rumbled, eyes glittering with amusement while he gazed at him. "I was mistaken. You are clearly very arrogant. It's off-putting." Of which he didn't mean a word, but they were ... flirting, weren't they? And Dorian seemed to be enjoying it, so Fenris found himself drawn in despite himself, too. And the mage had such a lovely voice, made even sweeter and more melodious when he laughed. It made a powerful yearning surge up inside him to always be close to Dorian, and he barely resisted the instinct, still so wary of fully giving in to these new and strange sensations.

This was getting very, very bad. They were both smiling stupidly at each other now—that much, he knew. But Fenris couldn't exactly stop it any more than he could continue denying it was happening. There was so much light in Dorian's eyes right then. He'd never seen anyone look at him that way before, and it was terribly disarming, like he was being gently coaxed into finally letting go. "Dangerous," he corrected, but his faint smile was still there, warmer than ever. "And pleasant, yes." More than anything, he wanted to keep inspiring that look on Dorian's face. It smoothed away the worry lines and softened the mage's gaze. He was beautiful and clever, and Fenris had a very strong feeling this would be it for him.

Except nothing could have prepared the elf for that answering hand gesture signed back at him. Fenris drew in a sharp breath, surprised and anxious and desperately hopeful, all of that vulnerability written plainly on his face. "It doesn't bother you? What I was." He asked the question despite the wild beating of his heart, fingers curling slightly as if he half-expected Dorian to pull away at the first mention of his past. Not that he was conscious of that. While Fenris had come very far in his recovery, and he was absolutely more confident in himself than he'd ever been before, it was still surprising that anyone could desire him in that way. This wasn't mere physical attraction; this was a meeting of souls, a quiet, earth-shattering realization that his heart could lay in the hands of someone else if he was brave enough to give it away. No one could possibly want that with him, least of all Dorian. He knew what Fenris had endured as a slave because he'd seen some of it with his own eyes. How could he want that?

The fact that he hadn't denied Dorian's suggestion that they might be soulmates didn't escape Fenris' notice. He'd deal with the ramifications of that later. This was far more pressing.

“Much better.” Dorian answered with another small laugh. “Intolerable, even.” He was drawn to that smirk, that glint in Fenris’s eye, the sound of his voice. So much so that the rest of the bar and all the noise and commotion inside of it had long since escaped his notice. An entire brawl could have broken out and Dorian would have been none the wiser, and he certainly wouldn’t have cared, very much absorbed by the man in front of him. Enthralled, more accurately. All his apprehension was being quickly forgotten, replaced by curiosity. Dorian wanted to understand everything about Fenris, he wanted to see where this would go.

It was very clear to Dorian that he was falling, and he wasn’t sure exactly when, but he had stopped trying to halt it despite the risk. Letting himself be this vulnerable, and so quickly, was so unlike him and yet the more they talked and the more he let himself be taken in by the way a smile completely brightened Fenris’s features in an amazingly beautiful way, the more he felt that this was not so much a risk as he would have believed otherwise. There was something about him that Dorian connected with, something that extended beyond simple interest into something deeper. A feeling that he had, genuinely, found someone with whom he could make a real connection.

Dorian felt weak to that faint smile, his heart squeezing in his chest. “What is life without a little danger?” There was something beautiful about the way Fenris was looking at him, as if he was seeing through every little layer wrapped around him to a part of him that was just him, and he still liked what he saw. Even Dorian found fault after fault in himself when he cared to look deep enough, and yet it felt as if those glittering eyes saw right down to that and accepted it just the same.

If Dorian thought he was held captive by Fenris before, seeing all those emotions colouring his features, so honestly and plainly, firmly held him in place. There was no way he could walk away now, even if he had wanted to. Which he did not. Completely threading their fingers together, Dorian gave Fenris’s hand a gentle but firm squeeze.

“No. Not at all.” His voice was even and sure, but with a softness and a warmth that were undeniable. Dorian was aware, at least tangentially, of what Fenris had been forced to endure and yet when he looked at him, there was such a strength of spirit that was hard to miss even through all the scars. Your soul is beautiful, Dorian said with his hands, saying the most important things in a language only they understood. And strong. He could have gone on forever at all the things he saw and perhaps another day, he would indulge that. “That is what I’m drawn towards, completely.”

"The worst," Fenris purred, and for a moment, he was surprised at himself, but that moment passed quickly. It was replaced by a deep satisfaction, flattered in the extreme that someone as captivating as Dorian was captivated by him. If there was, in fact, a brawl breaking out somewhere nearby, Fenris wouldn't have noticed either. He was too busy leaning into the mage's space a little more, smirking at him like he'd caught something very valuable. Something he intended to keep.

The only question was: did Dorian want the same thing? It seemed so, given the lingering looks, pretty smiles, and especially the touching, none of which Fenris took lightly. He could tell this wasn't something Dorian was used to any more than he was, and there was some comfort in that: knowing they were both stumbling around in the dark here without a light to guide them. All he knew for certain was he'd found someone very rare indeed, and maybe, just maybe, Dorian wouldn't slip through his fingers like so many other things in his life. So long as Fenris could find the courage to let his guard down a little more, at least.

He chuckled lowly at Dorian's assessment. "Says the reckless idealist," Fenris countered, and yet, somehow, it came out sounding more like admiration than an accusation. (The glimmer in his eyes certainly didn't help.) Really, though, he did admire Dorian: all of him, everything he saw, and everything he would see upon further inspection. They were both very curious people, and there was something very heady in being the focus of someone's attention who spent their lives chasing after interesting things.

Fenris finished the rest of his wine, realizing that they'd already killed the bottle. He signaled to the bartender for another (who paled, but obeyed). It was a good thing, too, because he was distracted again the moment Dorian squeezed his hand. He felt his ears turn red again, but this time, Fenris didn't bother trying to hide the fact that he enjoyed this small touch. He curled his fingers tighter in return, grateful he had something tethering him to the here and now when Dorian replied. Not at all. Fenris' heart skipped a beat, and he continued watching, stunned, as the mage formed words he'd never imagined anyone would see in him.

"I—" Overwhelmed, he glanced away, trying to piece himself together again when it felt as though Dorian had tugged at a thread that unraveled him with just one pull. "Thank you," Fenris said gruffly, not for the first time that night, except there was heat in his voice now, warmed through with so many emotions. He waited until the bartender returned with another bottle, uncorking it and refilling their glasses, before continuing in the language of their hands. I see the same in you, Fenris signed, his bright eyes fixed on Dorian once more. And—he paused, slightly terrified, but with growing confidence—I'd like to see more, if you would allow it.

There. In vino veritas.

Dramatically placing his hand over his heart, Dorian feigned distress for a second, though the glint in his eyes and the tiniest of smirks betrayed it for the act that it was. “Let’s not get carried away,” he intoned, though he found he was clutching at the fabric over his heart for a moment as that purr in Fenris’s voice did something to him. He then found himself holding his breath as Fenris leaned in closer, Dorian shifting to do the same. He, too, had found something he didn’t want to lose, someone precious.

Dorian was very out of his element though, and he feared that it showed in the slight apprehension in each of his movements. That trepidation didn’t stop him from acting on these thoughts and feelings that he had, but they manifested in the smallest of ways, in the quick nervous twitch of his fingers, or the way he managed to finish glass after glass of wine without savouring it as usual. These were foreign waters, deep and treacherous, but Dorian found that he wanted to brave each wave, because what could await him at the end of this journey was well worth the thrashing and the uncertainty. When had he ever felt this way about another person?

The answer was simply…. never.

What he felt, this gentle call, was unlike anything he had ever known before. Dorian hadn’t known it was possible to connect with someone so deeply so quickly and he found himself completely adrift, so unprepared for this possibility. So many years of resigning himself to never having something like this, and so many ways he’d learned to shroud himself were all crumbling away, having no purpose here and it was like standing on quaking earth, unsure if he would be swallowed up by it. But this was exactly where Dorian wanted to be. It’s only when one falls when one might learn whether or not they could fly, after all.

“That doesn’t sound like a complaint,” Dorian returned, smirking. He didn’t miss the tone of Fenris’s voice and the way his eyes shined and the mage was only more enraptured by this man. Each second that ticked by, he only found himself more wrapped up in him.

Taking the chance to once again study the lines of Fenris’s face when he looked away to signal the bartender, he followed the line of his cheekbone up along to the points of his ears gone a deeper red. His eye was drawn, too, towards the etched lines of lyrium, tracing them as they curved around his throat. For the briefest of moments, they were almost beautiful in the what they cut across his skin, but Dorian remembered what he had heard of what torture he had suffered and he looked away from them, squeezing Fenris’s hand just a little more in response. Feeling Fenris’s fingers curl more brought the warmth back to his smile where it had faded for a second at the thought of pain that must linger behind those markings.

“I only spoke the truth.” Smiling, Dorian tilted his head and kept his gaze focused on Fenris, hoping to get those eyes to turn back to him. He was rapidly becoming rather fond of them, and their clear, bright colour, to say the least. Watching as Fenris gestured in return, Dorian’s breath caught in his throat when their eyes did meet again, and once more at that small pause in his movements. I would be honoured. And Dorian’s gesture was marked by the way he chose a version of honoured that imparted a level of reverence that escaped the other forms. Truly, more than anything, he wanted to relay just how cherished the very thought was to him.

Fenris actually laughed softly at Dorian's antics, that glint in the mage's eyes reflected in his own. It was like finding his heart mirrored in another, but the more he looked, the less he felt wary of it, and the more familiar it became. "I think it's too late for that," he replied dryly, a little sheepish. His true meaning was obvious: they were both getting carried away right now. But for the first time since his approach, Fenris resisted the urge to hide the smile curling his mouth. Instead, he gazed at Dorian steadily, allowing the fondness coloring his expression to be seen. That was a big step, but he was making that choice for himself, and oh, how freeing it was—to take a risk because he wanted to, not because he felt pressured.

That wasn't to say he missed the apprehension in Dorian, though. He quietly noted the twitch of those otherwise skilled hands, and the surprise that flashed across his face. Strangely, it helped calm Fenris to see those things. It meant he wasn't alone in how unusual this all felt, but more than that, it also added to how sincere Dorian truly was. Had the mage pursued him outright without any hesitation, Fenris likely would have retreated. But they were equals in this, each hopeful and uncertain, and it cleared many of his misgivings to know that. "Maybe it isn't," he replied, a coy little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He could feel the mage's eyes on him when he turned away to make another order, and goosebumps prickled over his skin in response. Inexplicably, Fenris felt self-conscious all of a sudden, keenly aware of the fact that he hadn't cut his hair in several months. It was currently swept away from his face in a low, messy bun, and he wondered whether he should have spent more time making himself look presentable before he wandered out of his hotel room. Then there were his bangs, which were long now, too, and—Dorian squeezed his hand, chasing all those thoughts away. Fenris exhaled softly, gaze drawn to him again by the sound of his voice. As if he could fight that.

Truth was a strange, easily manipulated concept. He rarely took people at their word, preferring to wait for actions to prove what they said. "We'll see," Fenris said, though his tone wasn't unkind. He genuinely wanted to spend more time with Dorian and to discover more about him, but he couldn't fully trust him just yet. Did he want to? Of course. But it would take a while to completely let down his guard. He'd done it twice before to disastrous effects, and although he desperately hoped it wouldn't be the case a third time, he couldn't rely on hope alone. Dorian's use of the word honor helped. It certainly made his heart flutter.

Fenris raised his glass to toast with the mage, then turned the conversation to Dorian’s work, eager to hear about what had drawn him to settle on Andromeda. And if they killed another bottle in the meantime, well. They were from Tevinter.

“I do suppose you’re right.” Even if this was being carried away, Dorian was perfectly content to be swept off his feet. Every part of him seemed to sing and harmonise with Fenris, and each undisguised smile reached right into his heart. Dorian felt helpless against it and yet he didn’t feel as uneasy as he had always thought he would be. There was trepidation, because he found that he wanted this more than he could remember wanting anything else before, and Dorian was well aware of his own faults, his ability to sabotage himself.

That he even allowed himself the vulnerability only further proved to Dorian how deeply he felt this already. And to see the same reflected in Fenris only furthered that belief if him that they were truly made of similar things, pieces complementary. “That settles it then,” Dorian answered, a soft expression settling over his features.

Dorian had experimented with change once he arrived here too, letting his hair grow out though he kept it styled and he had adapted to the fashion of the city though he still incorporated elements from home in everything he wore. So while he was entirely meticulous with his appearance, he didn’t see anything unpresentable in the way Fenris looked. He was rather fond of the long hair, in fact, though he could do with a trim. Dorian wanted to reach over and brush those locks away from his face, but resisted, believing that would be too forward. Never mind that he was still holding Fenris’s hand tenderly as if that wasn’t.

“We shall,” Dorian returned with hopeful intonation and a warm smile. The truth was such a manipulable thing indeed, and the most masterful could wreak havoc without ever truly bending or breaking it, but Dorian had meant nothing more that genuineness when he spoke with Fenris, and in time he hoped to show the elf just that, invested in building that trust.

Lifting his glass to return that toast, Dorian easily drifted into conversation about his work with the senator, how impressed he was with his passion and his natural ability to lead and in the fact it was inspiration not command that bought him loyalty. Of course, while Dorian easily could talk for hours, he did push the conversation back to Fenris, inquiring after what he had done in his time here. And oh, they went through more than one bottle, because, indeed, they were from Tevinter.