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“So, what do you do in that gigantic house all day?”
“Dance, of course.”
“Really?”
“I run from room to room, choreographing routines.”
It would be strange if he told anyone now, but the one thing Fenris had enjoyed about Tevinter was the dancers. Dressed in glittering gold bracelets and flowing silk, it was almost distracting enough to draw his eyes away from the sickly green bruises that would occasionally peek out from under their outfits and remind him that these dancers - however beautiful and carefree they may seem - were no more free than himself.
Fenris remembers being young (age has never been something he’s kept track of, or really been able to keep track of, since receiving the tattoos) and sneaking glances at the dancing elven slaves whenever he could, whenever some Tevinter noble wasn’t demanding more wine or when Danarius wasn’t sending him on ridiculous errands or publicly humiliating him. The dancers, of course, were scantily clad (though the marks on their bodies that spoke of their abusive masters were carefully covered) and Fenris remembers Danarius remarking crudely on his open staring, accusing him of being a “lecherous knife-ear”.
It wasn’t the dancers he had been focused on so much as the dances they were performing, however. The way they twisted and twirled was astoundingly elegant and Fenris could only wish that he could move his body half as fluidly as they moved theirs. Whenever he was doing chores he would practice (he tripped over his feet more often back then, frequently scraping his knees on the hard stone floor of Danarius’ estate). Danarius caught him once and, of course, shamed him for it, mocking him and telling him that he was wasting his time on practicing something so foolish and useless. Fenris wasn’t allowed to attend any parties again after that.
Fenris wasn’t entirely joking when he’d told the dwarf of his extravagant dance routines in the abandoned mansion Danarius left behind. Perhaps he had over-exaggerated, but he does dance. Usually when he’s tipsy on wine and feeling loose-limbed enough to do it, admittedly. But still. Fenris dances. He dances and struggles to remember the steps of the dancers in Tevinter, tries to match their delicate poses and smooth movements.
On one particularly tipsy night when Hawke is over (Fenris is too drunk to remember why she came over, though he rarely does even when sober) and they're both flushed and giggly from alcohol, Fenris says, "I really do dance."
Hawke laughs, deep and full, looking at him in complete disbelief. "You're joking," the human insists, taking another swig from the bottle of dwarven ale that Varric had so generously given Fenris. ("Broody, you have to drink something other than the wine in that dusty old mansion.")
When Fenris doesn't laugh alongside her, her bright eyes widen even further. "No way. You've got to be shitting me!" Hawke is a woman with a colorful and ridiculous vocabulary, he has come to learn.
"I do not jest," Fenris tells her with a smirk, encouragement from the warm alcohol in him making him rise from the couch to his feet. He's glad he's able to do so without losing his dinner all over the floor; his tolerance has improved greatly since coming to Kirkwall. It's almost a little frightening.
Hawke sets the ale on the table as she offers her hand up to him with that grin of hers - that grin, breathless and wild, has always been the prelude to varying degrees of trouble - and says, "Teach me."
Fenris stares at her hand, at a loss for words. "I, erhm. I've never had a partner."
"Well, now you do. C'mon, I'm teaching you how to read, aren't I? You can teach me to dance. Maker knows I'll need to know how with all these noble pricks at my doorstep."
"I am not a professional dancer, Hawke. I'm hardly qualified." He takes her hand and pulls her up as he says this, however.
Hawke is a horrible dancer, it turns out. She trips several times (and drags Fenris down with her at least twice). He is reminded vaguely of his days as a child when he was much more clumsy and rushed in his steps, reminded of the days full of scraped knees and sore limbs. Fenris chuckles when she stubs her toe and patiently waits for her to finish apologizing when she steps on his foot (even though it’s the third time she has done so).
Eventually, Hawke insists on switching places (it’s hard for her to keep up when he’s leading, and she’s a good head taller than him anyways). Fenris lets her, and his mind is fuzzy enough that he rests his head in the crook of her neck. She’s always smelled like summer to him; untamed and free and nostalgic. The mansion blurs together as Hawke spins him, her light giggles echoing throughout the room.
He manages to twirl from her grasp and step into his own mixed up version of the dance he saw in his childhood, adding extra steps and twists. Fenris can feel those bright eyes following him and he’s thankful he has enough alcohol in his system to mask the growing blush in his face. Fenris trips eventually (dancing while intoxicated was never a very bright idea to begin with) and Hawke catches him, pulling him to his feet and laughing.
“We should have done this while sober,” Fenris admits, slightly out of breath. He slumps back onto the couch, taking another sip of ale. Hawke chuckles and takes a seat beside him, chest heaving.
“Not the best idea I’ve had,” she agrees, a smile in her eyes.
A silence unfolds between them as they catch their breath. “You’re a beautiful dancer,” Hawke finally speaks quietly. “We should do this again - maybe without alcohol. And maybe with some music.”
Fenris is too baffled to speak - a state he too often finds himself in around this woman. Before he can put together the words to properly respond, Hawke stands, stretching and groaning about the awful hangover they’ll likely both suffer from tomorrow before bidding him farewell and leaving.
They don’t dance together again until several years later (sober and accompanied by music this time), when they attend an extravagant Orlesian ball with the Inquisition. Hawke tells him again that he is a gorgeous dancer.
And this time he believes her, pulling her closer and tightening his grip on her waist as the room spins around them.