The first time they make love, Hawke notices Fenris is not quite there.
It's not that Fenris is shaking, though there is that—the elf starts trembling as soon as the mage has him pressed against the wall. It's not that he closes his eyes, though there's that as well; even with Hawke's soothing whispers above the cackle of a warm fire, Fenris will not look at him. It isn't even that Fenris lets Hawke have his way in unusual, stoic silence: he bites his lip, his breathing picks up when it starts getting good, he tenses with an orgasm that tears through him quietly, like a knife in the dark.
It's what happens afterwards that plants the seeds of guilt.
"I remembered…"
In a shaky voice, with lowered eyes.
"I cannot…do this."
What? What does he remember? Was he suffering the entire time? Has Hawke just unwittingly broken this already broken elf? In the end he cannot ask these questions, either because he is ashamed that he pushed Fenris into sleeping with him too soon, too fast or because he is frightened of whatever horror the world has inflicted on someone so beautiful and so—
He catches Fenris and ties a bright red cloth around his wrist, tight and secure. Because even broken, even not all there, Fenris squeezes his heart with his existence and Hawke will never, ever let him go so long as he draws breath. Maker protect him, he prays quietly to himself.
On a balmy summer night, sex and horror rip his mother from him (he remembers her comforting, smooth face as a child, when the thunder roiled too loud in the distance) and when Fenris sits alone beside him in her room among her things Hawke cannot help but think that the elf understands, in his silence. Of course he understands. He remembered.
Rape and blood magic have touched him, too.
The second time, Hawke notices that Fenris is passionate. The elf has been with just one other person since their last encounter—a trusted friend, a former lover of Hawke's, the sea queen Isabela. Hawke trusted him with her because she is safe, and slow, and steady, like the lull of a fishing boat. Fenris has now dabbled in sex as recreation and as a twisted form of therapy, and it shows.
Fenris' every move is calculated seduction. The tilt of his head, the gentle part of his lips, the soft moans that catch in his throat, the whispers in Arcanum, the sexy little purr when Hawke calls his name, the fan of his lashes, the way he drops to his knees and does things with his mouth Hawke didn't think were possible—
And then it occurs to Hawke that Isabela could not teach Fenris this, and his blood runs so cold his erection flounders. He pulls Fenris away and fixes him with a look that could frighten abominations back to the Fade.
"Fenris," he says softly, "when the magister said you were talented, what did he mean?"
Fenris does not answer. He bends his head, kisses Hawke's neck, green eyes damp, and in a dangerously low tone whispers: "Fuck me."
The third time, Hawke notices that Fenris is afraid to say no.
It begins with a kiss, warm and wet before the fire, with the elf tasting of wine and eagerness, and then slowly, slowly, Hawke feels him go cold, and then still, and then quiet, until Fenris is biting his lip in shame because he (cannot do this). Hawke takes his hands in his and even though he is struggling to push back his own need he focuses on Fenris, because Fenris needs him more.
"It's okay to stop," Hawke says to him, kissing his knuckles. "It's always okay to stop."
It turns out not to really be a third time after all.
The fourth, fifth, sixth time—Hawke notices that Fenris is in love with him, and this is more terrifying than anything else.
Hawke is a mage. Fenris has every reason to fear him, mistrust him, shy from his touch and from his morality. But he doesn't. He smiles at him in the dark. He lets him trace the lyrium on his skin. He spells his name into his palm with his finger. When no one is listening, he murmurs: "I am yours."
Hawke stops him with the gentlest of kisses, so light Fenris will feel it as a feather against his lips. "You are your own."