[It's a laughably simple question, except it's not. Fenris stalls for all of two seconds, his expression freezing as half a dozen responses flit through his mind. Everything from are you certain (because it will be a scandal, it isn't a question; it would be a scandal if he was well-bred and female and still an elf, never mind an ex-slave bodyguard) to no (not in front of all these people, this is not something he wishes to share) to yes please (because when will he ever get this chance again?). His mouth opens, and he intends fully to offer up an argument, but instead:]
. . . finish your drink first. I did not endure all that so you could only sip a little at it.
[Are his ears red? They are, just a little at the tips. Don't look at that. He buries himself in his own drink, staring out at the crowds.]
You will have to lead. I am not familiar with how to dance like this.
[Like, he's seen it, he can shuffle in place, he can probably follow fine, but. It's not like he's ever had to learn how to waltz or what have you.]
[He's looking, and grinning into his drink as he raises the cup to his lips, amused if nothing else by Fenris' half-assed complaint. Yes, yes, he'll drink, don't fuss.]
You'll pick it up in no time.
[It's, hmm, definitely something they shouldn't just do, dance in front of all these people, but the rebellious youngest son in him wants to revel in enjoying himself however he pleases again, like a lifetime ago. A larger part of him wants to be close to Fenris as much as a formal waltz will allow, just to feel the press of his hands in a decidedly different context than usual, and—
Well. He shouldn't start thinking about Fenris' hands in the middle of this party, probably. He finishes the rest of his drink at once- another shouldn't, but oops- and stands, leaving the glass on the broad arm of the chair and holding a hand out to Fenris.
It's now or never, bud, let's go. He's not grinning quite so smugly as moments ago, but it's there; softer, now.]
[Hypocrite that he is, he doesn't bother to drink another mouthful before setting his glass down. Such is the lure of an absolutely perfect solution to all his hesitations, and Fenris doesn't wait another moment to take his hand.
Sebastian's taller. This is not a shocking new conclusion, but rather a quiet affirmation: oh, Fenris thinks pleasantly, quietly pleased by the fact he has to tip his head up just a bit in order to meet his gaze.
He's taller and warm and blessedly solid, his body firm as Fenris presses up against him. He can feel the warmth of his body as he sets a hand to his chest and slides it upwards, fingers slipping beneath his cape to curl around his shoulder. And there's no starting signal, not really: Sebastian pulls and Fenris willingly moves, stepping forward and then back, struggling against the instinctive urge to try and take control. He doesn't quite know where to look, for meeting Sebastian's piercing gaze is suddenly difficult for reasons he can't quite place. He settles for glancing out at the crowds instead, but that might just be a mistake, because suddenly now he's very aware of them.
They're going to be fodder for gossip for the next month at minimum. It is what it is, but perhaps it's better to glance back up at Sebastian instead. If nothing else, so he won't catch Lady Wilhelmina's indignant glare.]
You're going to have to become my bodyguard after all. I daresay there's more people plotting for my death instead of yours for once.
[Better, Sebastian thinks, and it's as much a thought for the party itself as it is for the past eight months; better, to have Fenris so easily, so confidently come into his arms and plod through the basics of this waltz. It's all charming, making Sebastian's smile soften that much further as he tightens his arm around Fenris' waist.
The dance steps aren't important, just rote back and forth and the occasional turn, simple enough that he can lead without thinking about it or losing Fenris in the- literal- shuffle, which is lucky, because he can hardly think of anything else but the bright green of Fenris' eyes and the press of that hand at the back of his neck.
(Well, he does make time to shoot Lady Wilhelmina a glare of his own, but that's something for Future Sebastian to worry about.)]
Everyone in the Free Marches knows the kinds of things I do when the people close to me are threatened, [he says with a chuckle, like his bad temper and tendency to gather armies for vengeance is very funny. It's not without its sharper edge, for the benefit of the nearest nobles he knows are straining to hear their every word; he didn't even like his family, so just imagine what he'd start if even a hair on Fenris' head was harmed?
Just some more fun things to gossip about. Sebastian presses his hand into the small of Fenris' back, drawing him closer as he ducks to speak low into his ear:]
Let them come. I am ever at your side, your Highness-for-the-night.
[He'd bow to really sell it, but, you know. Just imagine it.]
[Ah, Fenris thinks distantly. Ah, well, thank the Maker he's decent at controlling his expression. It means he very deliberately doesn't shiver as hot breath hits his ear, that accent curling deceptively sweetly around those words. There's no heat there, no snarl in his words, but Fenris knows Sebastian far too well to be fooled. Let them come, his fingers splayed on his back and his grip so firm, and Fenris shouldn't be half so attracted to the breathed-out promise of bloody vengeance.]
For the entire night?
[It goes from genesis to mouth without any real intervention in his brain, an utterly honest response as they sway. Not leering, he isn't deliberately trying to fish for a certain response, but rather a startled, amused little sentence. He tips his head down, smirking faintly, determined not to let anyone else see.]
But you think too much like a prince, still. If you are to be mine, you have to think more intimately.
[Stupid, he chides himself. Stupid, he shouldn't say such things, flirting quietly for nothing more than his own sake. But they're both tipsy, and if Sebastian asks, he can always pretend it was the product of alcohol and nothing more.
Because Sebastian doesn't love him like that. Because these are the fervent promises of a friend, nothing more.]
A bodyguard does not start a war when his charge is threatened.
[They turn. Fenris's thumb strokes idly against Sebastian, a slow pattern that he isn't quite aware of.]
He simply takes steps to ensure that any who even dream of touching his charge are too terrified to try. Your enemies know I would not simply tear their hearts out, Sebastian.
[For if they're teasingly switching places, he deserves to hear his name, not his title.]
So. Learn to be a terror on a very personal level, hm?
[Oh, and the flirting— Sebastian is not a man unfamiliar with flirtation, and though he may be a handful of years out of practice, it's something else entirely that makes his heart skip a beat when Fenris says things like that. The entire night, intimately... he can feel the heat creeping into his cheeks and responds with only a soft noise, not quite another chuckle, but almost.
Yes, well. That's. Something to think about later, isn't it. He hums, fingers curling lightly in the back of Fenris' shirt quite involuntarily at the sound of his own name. Another later, perhaps.]
Perhaps I would make a terrible bodyguard, after all, [he says, then,] But rest assured I will protect you come hell or high water, Fenris.
[Completely serious and leaning into the bit at once; it's like this: Fenris doesn't need his protection. Not at all, but Sebastian knows better than most the simple need to be told, Hello, I will protect you, I will keep you safe and ask for nothing in return, and so he says it anyway. It's the same as asking Fenris to come with him to Starkhaven— It's yet another grand gesture that makes him an atrocious choice for a bodyguard, honestly, but if he's destined to always do too much, he might as well direct it in a good direction.
They turn again, and Sebastian lets go of Fenris' other hand to settle both arms around his waist, abandoning most of the pretense of an actual waltz in the process. It's fine; if now is the only time he'll be able to do this, then so be it— he may as well make the most of it.]
And besides, you have seen my bow. One flicker of a dream in the enemy's eye and they won't make it close enough to try.
[Tell him he's super good at archery, thanks babe.]
[Oh, they're not even pretending at formality, are they? And yet Fenris doesn't pause for a moment, shifting his weight and settling into it, content to be bracketed by Sebastian's hands. His now-free hand ends up settling against his chest. That assuredly isn't appropriate, but on the other hand, he likes it. He likes it and he's tipsy, and that's all the justification he needs. Sebastian's heart beats steadily beneath his fingers, assuring and soothing all at once, a rhythm that echoes in time to his own heart.
I will protect you, and Fenris's eyes go wide for a few seconds, his fingers spasming against the back of Sebastian's neck. Oh. Oh, has anyone ever . . .? No. Never, for who would ever give a damn about a slave? He has always been expendable. Even in Kirkwall, it was never like this. That was a mutual exchange, I'll watch your back if you watch mine, and it's not as if their companions wouldn't have mourned him if he'd fallen, but still. They did not offer things like this.
Sebastian murmurs it intently, a promise for Fenris alone, not because he thinks him weak but because he is so precious to him as to be worth the effort. I will keep you safe, and with nothing asked in return, save perhaps Fenris's proximity and attention. Oh, he thinks again, because affection comes in many forms, and Fenris understands no love language better than acts of service and devotion.
He's grateful they're pressed so close. His ears have gone hot again, his expression faltering in the best way as the enormity of that hits him.]
Mm, I don't know.
[It's distracted, but of course it is. A few seconds pass, and his voice strengthens, some part of his mind returning to this back-and-forth.]
You haven't picked up your bow for weeks. Perhaps you've grown rusty.
[It's a tease with no teeth, a little weak but absolutely admirable given how distracted he is. Fenris is a little stiff now, his body suddenly rigid, but not unpleasantly. He tips his head back, catching his eye. Fenris's gaze is nearly always intense, but especially now.]
It's nearly been an hour.
[And suddenly he has a pressing need to be alone with Sebastian, away from the hungry eyes of the entire court.]
[Fenris' fingers twitch against his neck and Sebastian thinks, Ah, so that's it, is it? Come back to Starkhaven with me had carried a different kind of weight, one evidently not so clear as this, if- and indeed, he dares to hope- if Fenris' sudden rigidity under his hands is an indicator of, like, getting it.
Sebastian dares to hope, and it teeters on the edge of something bolder for a moment before the realization that oh, yes, they're still in front of all these people comes crashing back down; so that's on hold for the moment, while he makes a show of rolling his eyes and scoffing, unable to conceal a grin.]
It's not yet completely dark out there; shall I give you a demonstration?
[Guess what! It's the perfect excuse! Not in the way that leaving this party to do archery tricks on the battlements is in some way legitimate or appropriate, but it's less inappropriate than holding Fenris the way he is and outright yearning, here in the middle of this party.
So. It's as good a reason as any to leave, see. Reluctantly he takes a step back, letting one hand fall away from Fenris and then the other, though not without a far-too-lingering touch.]
[Know this: he's absolutely going to sulk if they're actually going out to the battlements. He's not so stupid as to think Sebastian is truly suggesting archery practice and nothing more, but at the same time . . . like, would it be a bad idea to go through that whole farce and then escape to some private corner? It would not. It would be a very good way of ensuring gossip is kept at a minimum.
And yet the instant they're out the door it's all Fenris can do not to reach for him.
He manages, at least, to wait until they've gone down a hallway or two. They walk silently; what is there to say? He could offer up questions and explanations; he could even ask directly, just to be sure. But though there's still a sliver of doubt within him, Fenris is almost entirely sure. I'll protect you, and little things begin to fall into place. That lingering touch, and all the ones that had come before; the look in Sebastian's eyes whenever Fenris had drawled out some inside joke or teasing reference . . . it was never obvious, or at least it was never obvious to him. But reframing it in this light, oh, yes. The signs were all there.
They turn, and yes, this is good enough. He stops shortly, grabbing Sebastian's hand (and it is Sebastian now, not any titles, because this is not something between royalty and his bodyguard. There are times when they have to play at those roles; times when Fenris abruptly remembers the trappings of both respectability and their stations, but not tonight). He yanks him to the right, pulling him deep into the shadows, pushing him up against the wall, and—
He wants to kiss him. He's going to kiss him. But Fenris pauses, not hesitating so much as simply . . . taking a moment.
There's a lot of stupid one-liners he could offer, most of them centering around proving yourself and the like. But though he'll undoubtedly chase after them another night . . . mm, not this first time. Fenris' hand drops, dragging down Sebastian's arm, fingers slowing only once he reaches the inside of his wrist. It's an affectionate touch, as he meets his gaze.]
Tell me why you asked me to come with you to Starkhaven.
[Admittedly— he wasn't not serious about the archery. Putting in some time up on the battlements, leaving a few arrows in tree trunks below for nosy gossips to see in the morning, that was part of the plan. But walking down a hall in silence is somehow suddenly electric, and so when Fenris grabs for him and pushes him against the wall, Sebastian can't even be bothered to make a facetious protest.
His heart hammers against his ribs, surely the loudest thing in this hallway, while Fenris simply... looks at him. The touch against his wrist practically burns, and despite himself Sebastian thinks of his long-forgotten vows, which is, well—
Foolish, probably, when Fenris is so close and his gaze so intense. He lifts his other hand, touching just fingertips to Fenris' jaw before sliding his hand to the back of his neck.]
I would not see you spend a single day more in that house, [he says, for starters; to leave Fenris in that gaping tomb would have been nothing short of cruel, wouldn't it? Man cannot waste away with wine and corpses forever. After the Chantry fell he'd teetered on that edge himself, and—
And never mind it, because now they're both here, instead.]
You are a remarkable person, Fenris. Your strength and resilience... I've admired you for years. I asked you to come to Starkhaven with me out of that sense of admiration, and affection... and friendship.
[You know, just in case shoving him up against the wall is not going where he assumes it's going; his friendship isn't going to suddenly become conditional. His fingers brush the ends of Fenris' hair, an idle and affectionate motion to offset the weight of the rest of this.
It's soft, Fenris' hair. That's a fact that means nothing at all, in the grand scheme of things, but here in this dark corner it slots the last piece into place, somehow; now, then, duty and responsibility mean much less than Fenris, all soft hair and earnest requests, Tell me why you asked me to come with you—]
I'm— well, I'm in love with you. Leave you behind and break my own heart? Another fifty years in the Chantry couldn't have made me that selfless.
[But don't quote him on that last part or something something, the Maker.]
[I'm in love with you, Sebastian says. Not casually, but plainly, unashamed, offering it out there for Fenris to take or leave as he sees fit. I'm in love with you, and darling boy that he is, he stipulates that isn't the only reason he brought Fenris to Starkhaven. It wasn't some lustful whim, and Fenris's place here isn't dependent on his returning his affections.
It oughtn't be important that he needs to stipulate that. It ought to go unspoken. But it is, and it doesn't, and Sebastian does, and things like that strike at Fenris right now, in this impossibly long moment where everything in him just stalls in elated panic.
He doesn't know what to say. Scraps of statements drift through his mind, impulsive confessions and feelings he can't quite put words around . . . but they all sound stupid in his mind. None of them measure up to how he's feeling; all the longing, adoration and affection and admiration all tangling together and only growing more fervent the longer time went on. I love you, and he will say it, of course he will, but—
First, this. He tips his head, rising up just a little, pressing his mouth to Sebastian's. It's soft at first, a gentle press— but he can't keep it at that. His hand rises, his fingers cupping Sebastian's cheek before smoothing back to card through his hair, the kiss melting into something deeper.
Ah, and he pulls back for just a few seconds, murmuring against his mouth.]
I love you. I have loved you for months, now.
[And he'll tell him just when and how and why (and why he hasn't said anything), but later. For now: more kissing.]
[Ah, and there he is, the press of his lips a soft and tender thing for those first few moments that nonetheless stirs something in Sebastian, curling his fingers tighter in Fenris' hair and pulling him in more firmly. It's a good kiss the whole way through, from tender into more, and maybe it's been a great many years since Sebastian has kissed anyone, but it's with the same unabashed confidence of his words that he kisses Fenris back. In this very moment there isn't a single outside anything to worry about, simply the two of them and the quiet sound he makes when they part just for a moment—
I love you, and oh, Maker— He hooks his other arm around Fenris' waist and turns them both, to crowd Fenris against the wall instead and kiss him soundly, warm- make no mistake, of course- but hungry as well, to make up for time lost.
Eight months ago there was grief, yes, and since then the potential scandals have only continued to stack up against them, but Sebastian cares for noble propriety almost not at all. They will talk, later, because they two can have a frank conversation for their own sake at any time; that is enough.
So, kissing, and Sebastian's hand finds its way to Fenris' chest eventually in a mirror of how they'd been positioned in their dance, then inches higher to pause at the collar of his stuffy formalwear. Ah, well.
Well. He's the prince, he can kiss whomever he likes, and so on, but here in the hallway...]
Fenris, [he mumbles against his lips, tilting his head to press a kiss to his jaw anyway, here in the hallway,] It's getting late.
[His thoughts are about ninety percent the heat of Fenris' mouth and the words I love you bouncing around like a screensaver, but that last ten percent would like to go back to somebody's chambers, please. The battlements are canceled.]
[He's grinning as he says it, which is a rare enough occurrence, but he can't help it. There's something absurdly, wonderfully perfect about this moment right now. For once, he doesn't feel the haunting tension of some new problem or old terror lurking in the back of his mind. He isn't worried about assassins or politics, not when Sebastian is lavishing him with affection like this. The morning will come, and with it all the things they ought to think about, the problems this will cause and the notions they'll have to consider, but not right now. Because right now, everything seems a little perfect.
So he's grinning, yes, even as he pulls back, squirming to move out from where he's caught. He takes a few steps back, into the hall proper. No one's here, but still, it's a good idea for them to keep their hands off each other until they can go up to someone's room. So it rather keeps him safe as he drawls out:]
You had something to prove to me, wasn't that it?
[No, but really: hurry up, Sebastian's bed is bigger but Fenris's is arguably more comfortable, let's go.]
[It's so, so very easy to simply be around Fenris, and this is no exception, taunting comments and all. Sebastian makes a point of rolling his eyes and scoffing despite a grin of his own, stepping back himself to really sell the image that they were definitely not doing anything worth talking about seconds ago. No, not at all.
He turns, shaking his head--]
Maker, preserve me. We've run clean out of time for any archery tonight. Perhaps in the morning, before breakfast...
[Perfect, nothing but small talk until they get upstairs, except, well-- Sebastian means to be good, he honestly does, but as he falls into step with Fenris how can he resist pressing a hand into the small of his back to urge him to move more quickly, ducking to mutter in his ear:]
If it's proof that you want, I would be happy to oblige.
[But he slips away to an appropriate distance before waiting for a reply, and down a few more hallways until they can climb the stairs once more they go.
Upstairs they pass just one single seneschal, too enamored with his cup to do more than nod at Sebastian as they pass by, but Sebastian still makes a point of depositing Fenris at his own chamber door, walking the few yards to his door, and bidding him a polite good night.
It's that connecting door in the middle, of course; by the time he pushes it open he's shed his superfluous formalwear, cape and regalia and little shiny bits left behind recklessly in his haste to cross into Fenris' room. He stands there for a moment, just looking, while everything seems to sink in at once: Fenris loves him, Fenris has loved him, the thought enough to bring a flush of color to his cheeks still delighting in the face of simply knowing.
But yes, the man himself; Sebastian reaches for him as he crosses the room, to sweep him into a kiss without an ounce of hesitation, now that they're alone.]
[That whisper is utterly distracting. Utterly so, for Fenris is thinking about it even as he slips into his room, closing (and locking) the door behind him. His hands move swiftly, tugging at his armor and discarding it carelessly on the floor. He just manages to pry off his breastplate when the door opens, and—
It's another one of those perfect moments (and maybe tonight will just be made up of them, one after another). He stands there, arrested by the sight of Sebastian. He's never seen him look like this, he realizes distantly. Happy, yes, mirthful, pleased, even smug, but never like this. Elated, but also . . . content. Like a key finally clicking within a lock or a puzzle piece sliding into place; it's a sense of rightness. As if they had both somehow forgotten this aspect of their lives, an absent mistake now corrected. Oh, here you are, my darling, simple and sweet and easy.
Or perhaps that's just Fenris. It doesn't matter; within two seconds Sebastian is crossing the room, tipping his head up, pulling him into a kiss so enthusiastic it's all Fenris can do not to melt into it. And then he realizes they're alone, that there's nothing to prove, not to this man, who has seen him at his worst. There's no posturing needed, not tonight—
And so he does melt into it, stepping forward to press up against Sebastian, hands fumbling til he can get a good solid grip on him. One hand at his hip, the other shoving through his hair— for now it's a hungrier kiss, more demanding, as blindly he walks them backwards. To his bed, please, and yet while he reaches it within two steps, he doesn't fall back.
If Sebastian had mirrored their dance earlier tonight, so too does Fenris mirror him in return: gripping his tunic, he spins them, just so he can shove his prince down, leaving him to sprawl on the mattress. He's quick to follow, climbing atop him, renewing the kiss— hi, hello, yes, he's here, and now he's in Sebastian's lap, which is just as it ought to be. It's good the other way round, of course, and Fenris very much wants to see Sebastian doing any number of things involving perching atop Fenris, but . . . . this, too. He can surge up like this, arching his back and hovering over the other man, gently tipping his head up; like this, see, tongue and teeth teasing gently, only for Fenris to pull back just long enough to nose against his cheek or mumble some word of affection.]
[Oh, and he is just stunning, isn't he, all firm body and firmer kiss, leading Sebastian to his bed the precise way the Chantry spent years cautioning him against further temptation. Because one cannot spend years under the Chantry's watchful eye and not internalize a thing or two, and Sebastian's past has never been properly reconciled with the shame the Chantry heaped on him for it, but—
But he loves Fenris, he thinks as he is unceremoniously pushed down to the bed, he loves him body and soul and there is no room for latent shame or Chantry guilt in that. The man who chuckles airily and threads his fingers up into Fenris' hair and delights at the press of body against body is not the purposeless wild boy or the Chantry brother wracked by guilt but a newer man entirely, whose past actions have nothing to do with any of this, actually.
As personal crises go, it's mercifully brief. Sebastian knows this: the tension of the past eight months has righted itself, he loves Fenris, and he is a man of his word— he'll prove it, as thoroughly as he knows how.
So, this, hands set to wandering as Fenris is busy with his mouth, a generous exploration that slides over the curve of his back, his hips, his thighs. They're very different, he thinks, himself slower and steadier while Fenris is more intense, but that makes for a lovely contrast instead of a hasty fumble, so— so thinking about compatibility in the middle of making out is how you know it's real, or something. It's been a while.]
You're remarkable, [he murmurs the next time he actually can; he fiddles blindly with the hem of Fenris' tunic, but make no mistake, it's an excuse to put hands all over his waist and hips even more rather than, like, a grand mystery of how to get rid of this piece of clothing. It's fine.
And maybe the really serious conversation topics can wait until later and maybe the time is right to just hush and act, but hmm--]
Why did you come with me to Starkhaven?
[Fair's fair, and equally fair is Sebastian kissing down Fenris' jaw to his throat, so he's totally free to Answer Questions.]
[Fair's fair, Fenris will readily admit, but on the other hand, he hadn't asked while he was mouthing at Sebastian's neck, had he? No he had not, because it's both distracting and unfair. It makes eloquence far harder, which is really a pity, because Sebastian deserves as touching a response as Fenris had gotten.]
You ask me this now?
[No, he'll answer, just give him a second or ten. With an exhale that's only slightly shaky, he tips his head back, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. At least he's not biting (or at least not yet); Fenris can thrill at each kiss without being so utterly distracted he can't speak.]
Because there was nothing left for me in Kirkwall. I . . . the bonds that I had forged there were at an end, and I had no attachment to the city outside of them. And when you asked me to join you . . . I could see a future. Not just an existence, drifting from day to day, but a proper life. I have never known that before. I . . . Kirkwall was an existence, and not an unpleasant one, but nothing like this.
[It's not as if he was miserable there, after all. For seven years, he'd thought— ah, but that's not important right now. Fenris draws back, catching Sebastian's eye for a precious few seconds. He's a sight, all reddened lips and mussed-up hair; with a faint flicker of a smile, Fenris stroke the back of two fingers against the curve of his cheek.]
But it is different with you, here in this place. I am . . . I do not simply exist to serve you. My life does not rotate around yours, and I am not bound to your whims. I protect you, but I do not serve you.
[It's hard to pinpoint the difference. It's not as if he resents Hawke, nor indeed does not miss him. But Anders hadn't been wrong: he had run from one master to another. It was easier to live that way: allowing Hawke to make the decisions, his life defined by the periods Hawke would need his services. He was useful that way, and it gave him purpose.
In Starkhaven, though . . . no, he is not defined by Sebastian. He protects him, and yes, so much of his time is occupied by the prince, but that's by choice, not passive acceptance. He has companions here. He has a life distinct from Sebastian: friends and companions and passions and goals, all the little things that make up a life. Perhaps it's the difference between freedom and being free: a terrified, cringing existence, always leery of slavers, always terrified of capture, versus . . .
Versus this. Coming into himself, leading instead of following.
Now isn't the time. But therein lies the key as to why he's happy here. But oh, that's not quite what Sebastian asked, is it? His fingers card through his hair, sweeping it back, intent on utterly ruining that slicked-back style.]
You asked me, and I could not fathom a future in which I said no and did not endlessly regret it. I would have pined for you. I . . . it took me until we arrived to realize, but . . . whether in friendship or love, I would have longed for you.
[So. There, and he feels a bit stupid after saying that. He isn't ungainly with words, not really, but he never feels as though they properly convey all that he's feeling. I would have longed for you, for towards the end Sebastian's company had been endlessly pleasing to him.]
[Sebastian hums against Fenris' throat, and that much is a little smug-- retroactively, as he hadn't necessarily meant to challenge Fenris into stringing sentences together while he lavishes him with other attentions, but! Here they are!
And it's an explanation he can see himself in with a kind of distant regret, in a way; he'd always been a bit of a hanger-on to Hawke's group, after all. That, and the abrupt end to the life he'd had in the Chantry, and the fairly fresh murder of his entire family... well. Sebastian knows what it is to be suddenly bereft of options, of purpose and a place to belong, and maybe he'd felt that in Fenris over the years. No— he most certainly had, because after the dust settled over Kirkwall, it was only Fenris he'd gone back for. Sure, he'd nodded curtly to Hawke while waiting for Fenris to make his goodbyes, but...
It's not important. Not at the moment, anyway, mouth eager against heated skin, interrupted only momentarily by Fenris moving, or by a murmured kind of I told you so for the merits of Starkhaven— not smug this time but confirming, yes, Starkhaven is different, Starkhaven is not Kirkwall, Fenris has a place here and it's so much more than the prince's bodyguard. He's simply glad to know he'd had the right idea! Not smug.
Maybe a bit, but can he be blamed for the surge of happiness he feels knowing Fenris is happy, here? Hmm.
He leans into the hand in his hair, eyes closing for a moment of blissful, uninterrupted enjoyment. He cups Fenris' face in his hands when he looks at him again, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone. Hello, darling.]
You never said anything. In Kirkwall.
[And, fair, he can understand that, but oh.]
Even if you'd turned me down back then, you would always be welcome here. I mean that. But I am glad you came.
[With a quick peck, for emphasis. He's proud of Fenris, he thinks, although that seems a little too dweeby to bring up now even for him.]
It's been a long time since I could claim total certainty about the path I've chosen. Even now, when Starkhaven's future is bright...
[Which isn't a great way for the prince to think, which is why he won't say it anywhere but here or to anyone but Fenris. Maybe he's the best choice for Starkhaven, but is Starkhaven still the best choice for him-- the point being:]
With you, I haven't wondered even a minute. I'd almost forgotten what clarity felt like, but you, Fenris... you make my life so much richer, and I'm grateful. [A beat, then with just a smidge of hindsight self-burn:] Imagine if I'd said that in Kirkwall, instead.
[If he'd said all that in Kirkwall . . . ah, but there's little point in chasing after that thread, is there? He hadn't, and Fenris had not realized, and yet it had all worked out. Perhaps a bit later than they might have preferred, but on the other hand, oh, he cannot imagine the rage he would have been in if the Chantry had blown up while he was fully in love with Sebastian. Maker's breath, nothing would have survived that, not until Fenris had made sure Sebastian was safe and whole. His feelings on the Chantry in general are . . . passive, let's say, although there's been a few conversations lately that have made him thoughtful. But ah, his feelings for Sebastian are—
Well. The point is: it worked out.]
You're saying it here and now.
[And honestly, that's what really matters. Fenris tips his head down, brushing their lips together in a swift kiss before he pulls back. Honestly, he's happy enough that it almost hurts, his heart aching with joy and love and adoration (and, quietly, minutely, a little bit of fear, for nothing good can last. But he's not thinking thoughts like that right now).]
And I do not think I could have heard it properly in Kirkwall.
[Not as sullen and terrified as he'd always been. Perhaps they could have begun something, but it would have been far more difficult.
And they can talk about that, sure, but . . . maybe not right this second, when he's very aware of Sebastian between his spread legs. His fingers card through his hair again, then curl, gripping gently as he tips his head back.]
I love you.
[It's important to say over and over, at least right now. But with that established, he ducks back down again. He misses that mouth on his neck, but oh, kissing brings its own joys. He has a vague thought for vows and chastity, but honestly, that's for Sebastian to offer up. He's just going to kiss him until they're both dizzy from lack of breath, memorizing the exact way his lips push and pull, the broadness of his hands and cleverness of his fingers, all of it, all of him, so much different than the idle fantasies he's had. So much better.]
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no subject
. . . finish your drink first. I did not endure all that so you could only sip a little at it.
[Are his ears red? They are, just a little at the tips. Don't look at that. He buries himself in his own drink, staring out at the crowds.]
You will have to lead. I am not familiar with how to dance like this.
[Like, he's seen it, he can shuffle in place, he can probably follow fine, but. It's not like he's ever had to learn how to waltz or what have you.]
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You'll pick it up in no time.
[It's, hmm, definitely something they shouldn't just do, dance in front of all these people, but the rebellious youngest son in him wants to revel in enjoying himself however he pleases again, like a lifetime ago. A larger part of him wants to be close to Fenris as much as a formal waltz will allow, just to feel the press of his hands in a decidedly different context than usual, and—
Well. He shouldn't start thinking about Fenris' hands in the middle of this party, probably. He finishes the rest of his drink at once- another shouldn't, but oops- and stands, leaving the glass on the broad arm of the chair and holding a hand out to Fenris.
It's now or never, bud, let's go. He's not grinning quite so smugly as moments ago, but it's there; softer, now.]
If anyone asks, I'm teaching you the steps.
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Sebastian's taller. This is not a shocking new conclusion, but rather a quiet affirmation: oh, Fenris thinks pleasantly, quietly pleased by the fact he has to tip his head up just a bit in order to meet his gaze.
He's taller and warm and blessedly solid, his body firm as Fenris presses up against him. He can feel the warmth of his body as he sets a hand to his chest and slides it upwards, fingers slipping beneath his cape to curl around his shoulder. And there's no starting signal, not really: Sebastian pulls and Fenris willingly moves, stepping forward and then back, struggling against the instinctive urge to try and take control. He doesn't quite know where to look, for meeting Sebastian's piercing gaze is suddenly difficult for reasons he can't quite place. He settles for glancing out at the crowds instead, but that might just be a mistake, because suddenly now he's very aware of them.
They're going to be fodder for gossip for the next month at minimum. It is what it is, but perhaps it's better to glance back up at Sebastian instead. If nothing else, so he won't catch Lady Wilhelmina's indignant glare.]
You're going to have to become my bodyguard after all. I daresay there's more people plotting for my death instead of yours for once.
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The dance steps aren't important, just rote back and forth and the occasional turn, simple enough that he can lead without thinking about it or losing Fenris in the- literal- shuffle, which is lucky, because he can hardly think of anything else but the bright green of Fenris' eyes and the press of that hand at the back of his neck.
(Well, he does make time to shoot Lady Wilhelmina a glare of his own, but that's something for Future Sebastian to worry about.)]
Everyone in the Free Marches knows the kinds of things I do when the people close to me are threatened, [he says with a chuckle, like his bad temper and tendency to gather armies for vengeance is very funny. It's not without its sharper edge, for the benefit of the nearest nobles he knows are straining to hear their every word; he didn't even like his family, so just imagine what he'd start if even a hair on Fenris' head was harmed?
Just some more fun things to gossip about. Sebastian presses his hand into the small of Fenris' back, drawing him closer as he ducks to speak low into his ear:]
Let them come. I am ever at your side, your Highness-for-the-night.
[He'd bow to really sell it, but, you know. Just imagine it.]
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For the entire night?
[It goes from genesis to mouth without any real intervention in his brain, an utterly honest response as they sway. Not leering, he isn't deliberately trying to fish for a certain response, but rather a startled, amused little sentence. He tips his head down, smirking faintly, determined not to let anyone else see.]
But you think too much like a prince, still. If you are to be mine, you have to think more intimately.
[Stupid, he chides himself. Stupid, he shouldn't say such things, flirting quietly for nothing more than his own sake. But they're both tipsy, and if Sebastian asks, he can always pretend it was the product of alcohol and nothing more.
Because Sebastian doesn't love him like that. Because these are the fervent promises of a friend, nothing more.]
A bodyguard does not start a war when his charge is threatened.
[They turn. Fenris's thumb strokes idly against Sebastian, a slow pattern that he isn't quite aware of.]
He simply takes steps to ensure that any who even dream of touching his charge are too terrified to try. Your enemies know I would not simply tear their hearts out, Sebastian.
[For if they're teasingly switching places, he deserves to hear his name, not his title.]
So. Learn to be a terror on a very personal level, hm?
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Yes, well. That's. Something to think about later, isn't it. He hums, fingers curling lightly in the back of Fenris' shirt quite involuntarily at the sound of his own name. Another later, perhaps.]
Perhaps I would make a terrible bodyguard, after all, [he says, then,] But rest assured I will protect you come hell or high water, Fenris.
[Completely serious and leaning into the bit at once; it's like this: Fenris doesn't need his protection. Not at all, but Sebastian knows better than most the simple need to be told, Hello, I will protect you, I will keep you safe and ask for nothing in return, and so he says it anyway. It's the same as asking Fenris to come with him to Starkhaven— It's yet another grand gesture that makes him an atrocious choice for a bodyguard, honestly, but if he's destined to always do too much, he might as well direct it in a good direction.
They turn again, and Sebastian lets go of Fenris' other hand to settle both arms around his waist, abandoning most of the pretense of an actual waltz in the process. It's fine; if now is the only time he'll be able to do this, then so be it— he may as well make the most of it.]
And besides, you have seen my bow. One flicker of a dream in the enemy's eye and they won't make it close enough to try.
[Tell him he's super good at archery, thanks babe.]
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I will protect you, and Fenris's eyes go wide for a few seconds, his fingers spasming against the back of Sebastian's neck. Oh. Oh, has anyone ever . . .? No. Never, for who would ever give a damn about a slave? He has always been expendable. Even in Kirkwall, it was never like this. That was a mutual exchange, I'll watch your back if you watch mine, and it's not as if their companions wouldn't have mourned him if he'd fallen, but still. They did not offer things like this.
Sebastian murmurs it intently, a promise for Fenris alone, not because he thinks him weak but because he is so precious to him as to be worth the effort. I will keep you safe, and with nothing asked in return, save perhaps Fenris's proximity and attention. Oh, he thinks again, because affection comes in many forms, and Fenris understands no love language better than acts of service and devotion.
He's grateful they're pressed so close. His ears have gone hot again, his expression faltering in the best way as the enormity of that hits him.]
Mm, I don't know.
[It's distracted, but of course it is. A few seconds pass, and his voice strengthens, some part of his mind returning to this back-and-forth.]
You haven't picked up your bow for weeks. Perhaps you've grown rusty.
[It's a tease with no teeth, a little weak but absolutely admirable given how distracted he is. Fenris is a little stiff now, his body suddenly rigid, but not unpleasantly. He tips his head back, catching his eye. Fenris's gaze is nearly always intense, but especially now.]
It's nearly been an hour.
[And suddenly he has a pressing need to be alone with Sebastian, away from the hungry eyes of the entire court.]
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Sebastian dares to hope, and it teeters on the edge of something bolder for a moment before the realization that oh, yes, they're still in front of all these people comes crashing back down; so that's on hold for the moment, while he makes a show of rolling his eyes and scoffing, unable to conceal a grin.]
It's not yet completely dark out there; shall I give you a demonstration?
[Guess what! It's the perfect excuse! Not in the way that leaving this party to do archery tricks on the battlements is in some way legitimate or appropriate, but it's less inappropriate than holding Fenris the way he is and outright yearning, here in the middle of this party.
So. It's as good a reason as any to leave, see. Reluctantly he takes a step back, letting one hand fall away from Fenris and then the other, though not without a far-too-lingering touch.]
Well? Now you've given me something to prove.
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And yet the instant they're out the door it's all Fenris can do not to reach for him.
He manages, at least, to wait until they've gone down a hallway or two. They walk silently; what is there to say? He could offer up questions and explanations; he could even ask directly, just to be sure. But though there's still a sliver of doubt within him, Fenris is almost entirely sure. I'll protect you, and little things begin to fall into place. That lingering touch, and all the ones that had come before; the look in Sebastian's eyes whenever Fenris had drawled out some inside joke or teasing reference . . . it was never obvious, or at least it was never obvious to him. But reframing it in this light, oh, yes. The signs were all there.
They turn, and yes, this is good enough. He stops shortly, grabbing Sebastian's hand (and it is Sebastian now, not any titles, because this is not something between royalty and his bodyguard. There are times when they have to play at those roles; times when Fenris abruptly remembers the trappings of both respectability and their stations, but not tonight). He yanks him to the right, pulling him deep into the shadows, pushing him up against the wall, and—
He wants to kiss him. He's going to kiss him. But Fenris pauses, not hesitating so much as simply . . . taking a moment.
There's a lot of stupid one-liners he could offer, most of them centering around proving yourself and the like. But though he'll undoubtedly chase after them another night . . . mm, not this first time. Fenris' hand drops, dragging down Sebastian's arm, fingers slowing only once he reaches the inside of his wrist. It's an affectionate touch, as he meets his gaze.]
Tell me why you asked me to come with you to Starkhaven.
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His heart hammers against his ribs, surely the loudest thing in this hallway, while Fenris simply... looks at him. The touch against his wrist practically burns, and despite himself Sebastian thinks of his long-forgotten vows, which is, well—
Foolish, probably, when Fenris is so close and his gaze so intense. He lifts his other hand, touching just fingertips to Fenris' jaw before sliding his hand to the back of his neck.]
I would not see you spend a single day more in that house, [he says, for starters; to leave Fenris in that gaping tomb would have been nothing short of cruel, wouldn't it? Man cannot waste away with wine and corpses forever. After the Chantry fell he'd teetered on that edge himself, and—
And never mind it, because now they're both here, instead.]
You are a remarkable person, Fenris. Your strength and resilience... I've admired you for years. I asked you to come to Starkhaven with me out of that sense of admiration, and affection... and friendship.
[You know, just in case shoving him up against the wall is not going where he assumes it's going; his friendship isn't going to suddenly become conditional. His fingers brush the ends of Fenris' hair, an idle and affectionate motion to offset the weight of the rest of this.
It's soft, Fenris' hair. That's a fact that means nothing at all, in the grand scheme of things, but here in this dark corner it slots the last piece into place, somehow; now, then, duty and responsibility mean much less than Fenris, all soft hair and earnest requests, Tell me why you asked me to come with you—]
I'm— well, I'm in love with you. Leave you behind and break my own heart? Another fifty years in the Chantry couldn't have made me that selfless.
[But don't quote him on that last part or something something, the Maker.]
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It oughtn't be important that he needs to stipulate that. It ought to go unspoken. But it is, and it doesn't, and Sebastian does, and things like that strike at Fenris right now, in this impossibly long moment where everything in him just stalls in elated panic.
He doesn't know what to say. Scraps of statements drift through his mind, impulsive confessions and feelings he can't quite put words around . . . but they all sound stupid in his mind. None of them measure up to how he's feeling; all the longing, adoration and affection and admiration all tangling together and only growing more fervent the longer time went on. I love you, and he will say it, of course he will, but—
First, this. He tips his head, rising up just a little, pressing his mouth to Sebastian's. It's soft at first, a gentle press— but he can't keep it at that. His hand rises, his fingers cupping Sebastian's cheek before smoothing back to card through his hair, the kiss melting into something deeper.
Ah, and he pulls back for just a few seconds, murmuring against his mouth.]
I love you. I have loved you for months, now.
[And he'll tell him just when and how and why (and why he hasn't said anything), but later. For now: more kissing.]
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I love you, and oh, Maker— He hooks his other arm around Fenris' waist and turns them both, to crowd Fenris against the wall instead and kiss him soundly, warm- make no mistake, of course- but hungry as well, to make up for time lost.
Eight months ago there was grief, yes, and since then the potential scandals have only continued to stack up against them, but Sebastian cares for noble propriety almost not at all. They will talk, later, because they two can have a frank conversation for their own sake at any time; that is enough.
So, kissing, and Sebastian's hand finds its way to Fenris' chest eventually in a mirror of how they'd been positioned in their dance, then inches higher to pause at the collar of his stuffy formalwear. Ah, well.
Well. He's the prince, he can kiss whomever he likes, and so on, but here in the hallway...]
Fenris, [he mumbles against his lips, tilting his head to press a kiss to his jaw anyway, here in the hallway,] It's getting late.
[His thoughts are about ninety percent the heat of Fenris' mouth and the words I love you bouncing around like a screensaver, but that last ten percent would like to go back to somebody's chambers, please. The battlements are canceled.]
Let's go upstairs.
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[He's grinning as he says it, which is a rare enough occurrence, but he can't help it. There's something absurdly, wonderfully perfect about this moment right now. For once, he doesn't feel the haunting tension of some new problem or old terror lurking in the back of his mind. He isn't worried about assassins or politics, not when Sebastian is lavishing him with affection like this. The morning will come, and with it all the things they ought to think about, the problems this will cause and the notions they'll have to consider, but not right now. Because right now, everything seems a little perfect.
So he's grinning, yes, even as he pulls back, squirming to move out from where he's caught. He takes a few steps back, into the hall proper. No one's here, but still, it's a good idea for them to keep their hands off each other until they can go up to someone's room. So it rather keeps him safe as he drawls out:]
You had something to prove to me, wasn't that it?
[No, but really: hurry up, Sebastian's bed is bigger but Fenris's is arguably more comfortable, let's go.]
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He turns, shaking his head--]
Maker, preserve me. We've run clean out of time for any archery tonight. Perhaps in the morning, before breakfast...
[Perfect, nothing but small talk until they get upstairs, except, well-- Sebastian means to be good, he honestly does, but as he falls into step with Fenris how can he resist pressing a hand into the small of his back to urge him to move more quickly, ducking to mutter in his ear:]
If it's proof that you want, I would be happy to oblige.
[But he slips away to an appropriate distance before waiting for a reply, and down a few more hallways until they can climb the stairs once more they go.
Upstairs they pass just one single seneschal, too enamored with his cup to do more than nod at Sebastian as they pass by, but Sebastian still makes a point of depositing Fenris at his own chamber door, walking the few yards to his door, and bidding him a polite good night.
It's that connecting door in the middle, of course; by the time he pushes it open he's shed his superfluous formalwear, cape and regalia and little shiny bits left behind recklessly in his haste to cross into Fenris' room. He stands there for a moment, just looking, while everything seems to sink in at once: Fenris loves him, Fenris has loved him, the thought enough to bring a flush of color to his cheeks still delighting in the face of simply knowing.
But yes, the man himself; Sebastian reaches for him as he crosses the room, to sweep him into a kiss without an ounce of hesitation, now that they're alone.]
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It's another one of those perfect moments (and maybe tonight will just be made up of them, one after another). He stands there, arrested by the sight of Sebastian. He's never seen him look like this, he realizes distantly. Happy, yes, mirthful, pleased, even smug, but never like this. Elated, but also . . . content. Like a key finally clicking within a lock or a puzzle piece sliding into place; it's a sense of rightness. As if they had both somehow forgotten this aspect of their lives, an absent mistake now corrected. Oh, here you are, my darling, simple and sweet and easy.
Or perhaps that's just Fenris. It doesn't matter; within two seconds Sebastian is crossing the room, tipping his head up, pulling him into a kiss so enthusiastic it's all Fenris can do not to melt into it. And then he realizes they're alone, that there's nothing to prove, not to this man, who has seen him at his worst. There's no posturing needed, not tonight—
And so he does melt into it, stepping forward to press up against Sebastian, hands fumbling til he can get a good solid grip on him. One hand at his hip, the other shoving through his hair— for now it's a hungrier kiss, more demanding, as blindly he walks them backwards. To his bed, please, and yet while he reaches it within two steps, he doesn't fall back.
If Sebastian had mirrored their dance earlier tonight, so too does Fenris mirror him in return: gripping his tunic, he spins them, just so he can shove his prince down, leaving him to sprawl on the mattress. He's quick to follow, climbing atop him, renewing the kiss— hi, hello, yes, he's here, and now he's in Sebastian's lap, which is just as it ought to be. It's good the other way round, of course, and Fenris very much wants to see Sebastian doing any number of things involving perching atop Fenris, but . . . . this, too. He can surge up like this, arching his back and hovering over the other man, gently tipping his head up; like this, see, tongue and teeth teasing gently, only for Fenris to pull back just long enough to nose against his cheek or mumble some word of affection.]
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But he loves Fenris, he thinks as he is unceremoniously pushed down to the bed, he loves him body and soul and there is no room for latent shame or Chantry guilt in that. The man who chuckles airily and threads his fingers up into Fenris' hair and delights at the press of body against body is not the purposeless wild boy or the Chantry brother wracked by guilt but a newer man entirely, whose past actions have nothing to do with any of this, actually.
As personal crises go, it's mercifully brief. Sebastian knows this: the tension of the past eight months has righted itself, he loves Fenris, and he is a man of his word— he'll prove it, as thoroughly as he knows how.
So, this, hands set to wandering as Fenris is busy with his mouth, a generous exploration that slides over the curve of his back, his hips, his thighs. They're very different, he thinks, himself slower and steadier while Fenris is more intense, but that makes for a lovely contrast instead of a hasty fumble, so— so thinking about compatibility in the middle of making out is how you know it's real, or something. It's been a while.]
You're remarkable, [he murmurs the next time he actually can; he fiddles blindly with the hem of Fenris' tunic, but make no mistake, it's an excuse to put hands all over his waist and hips even more rather than, like, a grand mystery of how to get rid of this piece of clothing. It's fine.
And maybe the really serious conversation topics can wait until later and maybe the time is right to just hush and act, but hmm--]
Why did you come with me to Starkhaven?
[Fair's fair, and equally fair is Sebastian kissing down Fenris' jaw to his throat, so he's totally free to Answer Questions.]
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You ask me this now?
[No, he'll answer, just give him a second or ten. With an exhale that's only slightly shaky, he tips his head back, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. At least he's not biting (or at least not yet); Fenris can thrill at each kiss without being so utterly distracted he can't speak.]
Because there was nothing left for me in Kirkwall. I . . . the bonds that I had forged there were at an end, and I had no attachment to the city outside of them. And when you asked me to join you . . . I could see a future. Not just an existence, drifting from day to day, but a proper life. I have never known that before. I . . . Kirkwall was an existence, and not an unpleasant one, but nothing like this.
[It's not as if he was miserable there, after all. For seven years, he'd thought— ah, but that's not important right now. Fenris draws back, catching Sebastian's eye for a precious few seconds. He's a sight, all reddened lips and mussed-up hair; with a faint flicker of a smile, Fenris stroke the back of two fingers against the curve of his cheek.]
But it is different with you, here in this place. I am . . . I do not simply exist to serve you. My life does not rotate around yours, and I am not bound to your whims. I protect you, but I do not serve you.
[It's hard to pinpoint the difference. It's not as if he resents Hawke, nor indeed does not miss him. But Anders hadn't been wrong: he had run from one master to another. It was easier to live that way: allowing Hawke to make the decisions, his life defined by the periods Hawke would need his services. He was useful that way, and it gave him purpose.
In Starkhaven, though . . . no, he is not defined by Sebastian. He protects him, and yes, so much of his time is occupied by the prince, but that's by choice, not passive acceptance. He has companions here. He has a life distinct from Sebastian: friends and companions and passions and goals, all the little things that make up a life. Perhaps it's the difference between freedom and being free: a terrified, cringing existence, always leery of slavers, always terrified of capture, versus . . .
Versus this. Coming into himself, leading instead of following.
Now isn't the time. But therein lies the key as to why he's happy here. But oh, that's not quite what Sebastian asked, is it? His fingers card through his hair, sweeping it back, intent on utterly ruining that slicked-back style.]
You asked me, and I could not fathom a future in which I said no and did not endlessly regret it. I would have pined for you. I . . . it took me until we arrived to realize, but . . . whether in friendship or love, I would have longed for you.
[So. There, and he feels a bit stupid after saying that. He isn't ungainly with words, not really, but he never feels as though they properly convey all that he's feeling. I would have longed for you, for towards the end Sebastian's company had been endlessly pleasing to him.]
no subject
And it's an explanation he can see himself in with a kind of distant regret, in a way; he'd always been a bit of a hanger-on to Hawke's group, after all. That, and the abrupt end to the life he'd had in the Chantry, and the fairly fresh murder of his entire family... well. Sebastian knows what it is to be suddenly bereft of options, of purpose and a place to belong, and maybe he'd felt that in Fenris over the years. No— he most certainly had, because after the dust settled over Kirkwall, it was only Fenris he'd gone back for. Sure, he'd nodded curtly to Hawke while waiting for Fenris to make his goodbyes, but...
It's not important. Not at the moment, anyway, mouth eager against heated skin, interrupted only momentarily by Fenris moving, or by a murmured kind of I told you so for the merits of Starkhaven— not smug this time but confirming, yes, Starkhaven is different, Starkhaven is not Kirkwall, Fenris has a place here and it's so much more than the prince's bodyguard. He's simply glad to know he'd had the right idea! Not smug.
Maybe a bit, but can he be blamed for the surge of happiness he feels knowing Fenris is happy, here? Hmm.
He leans into the hand in his hair, eyes closing for a moment of blissful, uninterrupted enjoyment. He cups Fenris' face in his hands when he looks at him again, smoothing a thumb over his cheekbone. Hello, darling.]
You never said anything. In Kirkwall.
[And, fair, he can understand that, but oh.]
Even if you'd turned me down back then, you would always be welcome here. I mean that. But I am glad you came.
[With a quick peck, for emphasis. He's proud of Fenris, he thinks, although that seems a little too dweeby to bring up now even for him.]
It's been a long time since I could claim total certainty about the path I've chosen. Even now, when Starkhaven's future is bright...
[Which isn't a great way for the prince to think, which is why he won't say it anywhere but here or to anyone but Fenris. Maybe he's the best choice for Starkhaven, but is Starkhaven still the best choice for him-- the point being:]
With you, I haven't wondered even a minute. I'd almost forgotten what clarity felt like, but you, Fenris... you make my life so much richer, and I'm grateful. [A beat, then with just a smidge of hindsight self-burn:] Imagine if I'd said that in Kirkwall, instead.
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Well. The point is: it worked out.]
You're saying it here and now.
[And honestly, that's what really matters. Fenris tips his head down, brushing their lips together in a swift kiss before he pulls back. Honestly, he's happy enough that it almost hurts, his heart aching with joy and love and adoration (and, quietly, minutely, a little bit of fear, for nothing good can last. But he's not thinking thoughts like that right now).]
And I do not think I could have heard it properly in Kirkwall.
[Not as sullen and terrified as he'd always been. Perhaps they could have begun something, but it would have been far more difficult.
And they can talk about that, sure, but . . . maybe not right this second, when he's very aware of Sebastian between his spread legs. His fingers card through his hair again, then curl, gripping gently as he tips his head back.]
I love you.
[It's important to say over and over, at least right now. But with that established, he ducks back down again. He misses that mouth on his neck, but oh, kissing brings its own joys. He has a vague thought for vows and chastity, but honestly, that's for Sebastian to offer up. He's just going to kiss him until they're both dizzy from lack of breath, memorizing the exact way his lips push and pull, the broadness of his hands and cleverness of his fingers, all of it, all of him, so much different than the idle fantasies he's had. So much better.]