[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
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]