The weeks passed in a paranoid haze. Fenris changed up his walk home from the Hanged Man, sometimes taking the bus or the metro. He drove more regularly to Ballet Magisterium, and there he tried to deal with Argento Balendin, Danarius's casual acquaintance, as little as possible. Danarius had eyes all over Hightown, and now, it seemed Hadriana prowled Lowtown. Nowhere was safe.

The one consolation he had was Hawke. She called—or sometimes he did—almost every other evening. Sometimes the conversations lasted less than fifteen minutes.

"Hey, it's me! Your favorite dancer!"

"There aren't too many dancers whose presence I tolerate, let alone favor."

"That's a lie. You like my friends, and I assume you get along with your company. How was rehearsal?"

"It was uneventful. I have to be careful on my pliés, of all things—I think I may have overexerted my inner thighs."

"Yikes."

"Good thing I have off tomorrow. Did you have a lesson today?"

"Yeah. Kids' contemporary. They missed you."

"I'm sure."

Sometimes he didn't get home until later than Hawke called, due to his new routes. She usually left messages on his voicemail.

"Hey, Fenris. It's me, Hawke. It's about eight. Hope you had a good day! Saw a dance quote today that made me think of you: 'I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.' Something to inspire you in the weeks to come. Talk to you later."

He didn't erase those messages until his voicemail box became full. Some conversations were longer, more important.

"I have a question, if that's all right," she said one night. The year was drawing to a close, and the pressure was on for the springtime debut. Fenris had readily admitted to her that he'd absorbed some of his director's tension. He'd already apologized for snapping at Merrill last Saturday, but the group walked eggshells around him now.

"Anything," he said, cradling the phone against his shoulder while he chopped a tomato for his salad.

"You told me before you…you dance because you're indebted to someone. Someone you ran away from."

His knife stilled. Tomato juice and tomato seeds squished as he let the knife slip from his fingers onto the cutting board. Fenris made a noise of assent into the receiver.

"Is there anything I—anything any of us can do to help? Help you?"

Fenris moved away from the kitchen and sat down on his futon. He ran a hand through his short white ponytail, fingers catching on a snarl in the strands of hair. "I don't know. I appreciate the offer, Hawke, but—"

"How did this happen?" she whispered, crackling over the phone.

He paused, extracting his fingers from the knot while he thought over how best to respond. "My mother wanted to keep us—my sister and me—off the streets," he said slowly. "She enrolled us in a—an after-school kids' club. We took dance classes there, free classes. She was afraid of being without me in the dance class—she was only seven. So I joined her."

"Your sister?"

"Varania." The name stuck in his throat, tasted like cobwebs and must in his mouth. "I know why she was afraid—there were a lot of kids there, almost all there for the same reason we were. They looked big to her." Fenris and his sister had watched kids phase out of the program, either because they stopped caring, or needed to work, or simply grew too old. Soon, they were the only repeat attendees of the dance sessions. "I was, I don't know, fourteen—" of course he knew, "—and I needed to protect her."

"I know what you mean."

"Yeah." He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, pressing the phone against his ear with his other hand. "One of the benefactors of the program came to watch the children—watch us—one afternoon, and he took me aside in the middle of the class."

Fenris could still remember peering over his shoulder, seeing Varania staring back with the eyes they both got from their dead father, both pairs afraid as Danarius asked him his name and age.

"Leto Lernovitch. I'm fourteen."

Danaris had observed him through hooded eyes in such a way that he could remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

"You move like a wolf. With purpose, like you're searching for something."

He had bristled at that, flexing his thin arms. "I'm just here for my mother and sister," he had said. "I don't care about dancing."

"I can make you care," Danarius had said. "I guarantee it."

Fenris huffed out a sigh, and Hawke piped up over the phone.

"This benefactor saw your talent, I assume."

"He asked me if I wanted to make sure my family never had to worry about food and rent ever again," Fenris explained. "I was fourteen. I knew…I knew that was all I wanted. He drove us home in this shining car—I had never been in a car before—and he told my mother everything. She was signing the papers so fast, I…" He made a frustrated sound. "I packed my bags for ballet school the same day."

"This must be hard. I mean, it must have been hard."

"Well, ballet school was," he said with an unamused laugh. "Hard enough for my hair to go white. I had started late and was getting by on sheer talent. As his ward, my benefactor made it abundantly clear that I had to step up my game or get sent home. And I knew my mother wouldn't be happy about having another mouth to feed, especially when before, her rent was getting paid and her meals covered. So I had to get better. Won awards, contests. He couldn't throw me out after that. He had to keep me forever."

"Oh." Hawke sighed into the receiver, and his skin prickled. "So what happened?"

"Huh?"

"To your sister. Your mother."

"I…" He swallowed. "I don't know. It's terrifying, Hawke. I had to get out. He and Hadriana, they were…I had to get out. But I don't know even where my family is, where they live. The apartment we had after Seheron…that's where Studio Amell is."

"Oh. Fuck. I remember now."

"Exactly." Panic seeped into his bones at the mere thought. Danarius had always said his family would "only distract you" with memories of a lost name, a lost life. And eventually, "they would only distract you" morphed into "you're beyond them now." He was probably right, Danarius was always—"Hawke. I think he's going to find me. I saw Hadriana again, after bachata that night."

"Did she say something again?" He could hear the outrage in her voice, the memory of the first incident in the anger, and it pleased him through the anxiety.

"No, she didn't see me. But this isn't the first time I've seen her in Lowtown in so many days. I'm…worried. I need to do something."

"I asked you if you needed help, Fenris."

"I do. I can't…" Another frustrated sigh.

"Is it all right if we tell Varric?"

Now his ears perked up. "Varric?"

"Yeah, Varric. He used to manage that apartment complex. That's how I got into Kirkwall. Long story."

"What?" Shock rippled through him, knocking the panic senseless. For the moment.

"Yeah. Wanna talk to him tomorrow?"

"Kaffas," he cursed, flitting his eyes to the kitchen calendar even though he already knew his schedule. "We're doing a promotional photo shoot tomorrow. I'm busy all day into evening."

"You don't have rehearsal on New Year's Eve, do you?" He didn't. Of course he didn't. "I'm sure Varric will be having some sort of event for New Year's."

"That's not for three days."

"Varric visits his brother this Saturday."

"Oh. I'd forgotten."

"Come to the Hanged Man," Hawke encouraged him. "Come for New Year's. Call Varric and invite yourself over; he loves it when you follow me to these things."

He smiled at that. "I enjoy following you."

"There's a good view from that angle," she said, high-pitched and embarrassed. Fenris laughed, and he heard her smile when she said, "It would be fun to have you there regardless."

Donnic swooped around Aveline, an affronted expression on his face as he pretended almost to drop the hot plate of fish on her. She laughed and held up her hands, backing up. "I get it, I get it. I'm in the way."

Marian smiled and folded her fingers under her chin, resting her head on top. "Never, Aveline."

"You say that because you're not married to her," Donnic said to her with a wink that quickly turned to a grimace as Aveline punched his shoulder, probably a little harder than she meant. Donnic placed the dish on the table and turned, beaming at his wife. "And a wonderful thing it is, to be married to the best officer in the KPD."

"Oh, stop," Aveline complained, but she let Donnic peck her cheek and Marian saw her smile. The couple joined Marian at the table and Donnic began serving.

"Carver isn't joining us, right?" Aveline asked, smearing margarine on a roll. Marian sighed.

"I called him to ask, but he said he was still busy with work. Merrill told me they don't pay him overtime, so I don't know who he thinks he's fooling." Marian cut into her fish and shoved an angry forkful into her mouth. Aveline gave her a disapproving look, and she knew it wasn't for her poor table etiquette.

"I think you're overanalyzing again," Aveline disagreed. "This is his first job with tax benefits and a far cry from working as a bouncer at the Keep for three weeks. He's probably giving it his all, trying to make a good impression."

"His boss says she met him at a career fair," Marian complained, moody. "Obviously he impressed her—he didn't even go to Dumar University! I don't think he needs to try harder."

"And that's why you're never going to amount to much," Donnic teased her. Marian glowered, and Donnic became somber. "Hawke, your brother has always had an enormous chip on his shoulder. It must have been hard growing up the only member of your family who didn't dance."

"I know," Marian sulked, but Aveline interrupted any further whining.

"What I think Donnic is being too nice to say is that Carver doesn't do everything because of you," she pointed out. "In fact, I'd be willing to bet he's working his hardest to ensure his life responds to you as little as possible." Marian stirred small pieces of fish and carrots around on her plate, looking down. Aveline continued, kinder. "That doesn't mean he wants you out of it. He just needs a little distance so he can shine best."

"I know," Marian answered, this time with less pout. When Aveline still looked too motherly, she chirped, "Speaking of shining, what about work? Donnic told me in the kitchen that everyone's quite taken with you."

Donnic smiled beatifically when Aveline turned to him with a glare not quite fierce enough. She set to work on her fish when he continued to grin. "I don't know about that," she said briskly, "but they're assigning me more interesting tasks now."

"Aveline is on a job," Donnic told Marian in a mock-serious whisper.

"I can't talk too much about it, but I'm sure you've heard about the vandalizing and arson cases at those factories and clubs," Aveline acknowledged.

"Gamlen hogs the TV for game shows. Haven't heard too much about it."

"Well, I'll tell you nothing the news wouldn't say, but it looks to be an organized movement. There's some security footage, and it doesn't look like teenagers or isolated incidents."

"Aveline the detective."

"I'm not working with the PIs. I'm basically the muscle," Aveline said with a shrug.

"Don't listen to her," Donnic told Marian. "The captain knew Aveline had experience with this type of crowd, and furthermore, she's been doing such good work on the force that she was practically handpicked." Aveline flushed and muttered something incomprehensible.

"Oh, Aveline," Marian smiled, "we all told you this happened because of your own merits."

Aveline met her gaze with a pleased smile of her own. The smile grew when Donnic rubbed her left hand with pride, but she was quick to change the subject once they set to their dinner once more. Marian could see the remnants of that pleased look on Aveline's face the rest of the night.

Fenris reached down to touch his toes, each vertebrae popping with the movement. His muscles were sore after sitting so long in the chair hair and makeup had thrust him in, and where he'd been for hours. As he stood up again, the black of his newly styled hair startled him. It was bound to startle him for the rest of the day, he was sure.

"Serah Incaensor!" Fenris flinched at the name and twisted his neck trying to turn to face the speaker. She was a short, pale-skinned woman with red hair beaming at him and wiggling her fingers his direction. "Hi, Serah Incaensor—"

"Fenris. Please."

"And I'm Dagna," Dagna replied with cheer. "I'm from costuming. You ready to get fitted, or—?"

"Lead the way," he said, following her into the throng of half-dressed dancers.

Varric had festooned the inside of the Hanged Man with balloons, banners, and streamers. The tables and bar he had strewn with confetti, the doors were locked, and he had even dragged in a decently sized TV where they could watch a New Year's countdown from City Hall. Varric himself had even allowed Merrill to tuck a party hat around his ears and on his head, and now he was chatting with her, Anders, and Marian, for once not behind the bar, but Marian's gaze and attention kept wandering.

Isabela was late, which wasn't a surprise. Donnic was out on patrol, which left Aveline's RSVP uncertain. Carver was coming soon, according to Merrill. And Fenris was supposed to be here by now.

"Getting a flower would be plain silly," Merrill said in disagreement with something Varric had just said.

Marian turned back to her friends, reaching to the coffee table to grab her drink. Varric had whipped up something he called a "Pomegranate Champagne Royal," and it was good if a little sour—and early for champagne. She made an inquisitive noise.

"You weren't listening, Hawke?"

"Sorry, Merrill," Marian huffed, and Merrill's frown crinkled into a smile as she pointed at Anders.

"I want a tattoo!"

Marian blinked at Anders. Anders sipped his drink. No tattoos were visible. "Does Anders have a tattoo?"

"I've always had tattoos, Hawke." He rolled up a sleeve. "See? That's my cat on this one—"

"Shit, I forgot about Ser Pounce-A-Lot," Marian laughed.

"Now that's just rude, to forget about—"

"I have one, too," Varric said with a grin, "but it's not polite to show you in public—"

"What, is it on your—"

Anders cut Marian off with a "We're in your own blasted bar, Varric!"

"It's on my thigh. No one but Bianca needs to see that."

Anders and Marian groaned, half-teasing, but Merrill swatted him. Anders grinned at her, and something told Marian he wasn't quite sober when he asked, "Does Carver have any tattoos?"

"No, he doesn't," Marian said confidently just as Merrill piped up with, "Yes, a dog! The opposite of you, Anders!"

"Didn't need to know that about Junior."

"Me neither," Marian grimaced, taking another sip. The pomegranate juice was going down easier now.

Anders laughed again, and Merrill hurried to correct them all. "It's on his upper arm!"

"I just got something on my upper arm," Anders said, and someone banged on the front door.

"Show me!" Merrill squeaked. Marian caught a glimpse of a slender shadow in the door and rose from the couch. Anders shrugged out of his jacket and prepared to roll up his other sleeve, but she turned away and headed on tipsy toes towards the door. She unlocked it.

Fenris leaned against the doorway, appearing well bundled in his black down coat, blue hat, and red scarf. "Hawke," he said, voice muffled through the scarf. The tips of his ears matched his scarf.

"Come on in." She stepped aside and he hurried past her, peeling off his hat and scarf. "Your hair," she said in surprise.

"Yes."

"Gone grey in your old age?" His hair was shorter, much shorter, than she'd last seen it. It almost looked prim now. But what was most shocking was how his usual stark white had muted to a deep, chalky color.

"Hey, Broody. You're late."

Fenris made an ungentlemanly noise. "I was trying to wash the dye out of my hair from the photoshoot. Again. I think it needs another day."

"They made you dye your hair? Here," and Marian helped him take off his coat. Fabric slid against fabric, and she tried to be casual in her movements. The muscles in his arm made the white tattoos apparent as he tensed.

"'Principal dancers need to stand out, but not that much, Fenris,'" Fenris imitated a voice not his own, then made a face. "Yes. My director insisted. It'll have to be for the actual performances, too."

"Well, come in and drink that thought away," Marian said, but Merrill cried out in delight just as she pulled Fenris over to them.

"I guess white tattoos must be in fashion!" she was squealing to Anders, but Anders was already rolling down his sleeve.

"What's going on?" Fenris asked, settling down on the sofa where Varric sat. "Gossiping about me?"

"Not everything's about you," Anders said with not enough bite, but he slid back into his green hoodie, and the conversation switched elsewhere before Marian could register how nervous he looked when he said it.

Fenris approached Varric only once everyone else had settled into a reasonable buzz of excitement and alcohol. Isabela helped move the attention away from him when she breezed into the bar with Zevran at her side, and even Aveline—who had apparently decided she needed a night out, husband be damned—had been charmed when he'd started to teach her the basic bachata steps. Now that the other revelers were suitably distracted, Fenris slid onto the couch where Varric presided over the bar.

"Broody," Varric greeted him with a little nod and smile.

"Varric." Fenris rubbed his palms together. They felt a little sweaty, now that he was actually about to ask. "So…" Rub, rub. "So, I notice you hardly comment on our dancing and such." Why was this so hard?

"It's a lot of people in skirts. I get our friends mixed up sometimes."

That made Fenris laugh loud enough to startle Anders from where he was dancing with Hawke, and he looked over her shoulder to peer Fenris and Varric's way. Hawke, for her part, nudged his hands back into the proper position. Fenris looked away. "I highly doubt it's as simple as that. The subject comes up all the time."

Varric snorted and took a sip of his whiskey. "Tell me about it." He shook the tumbler, ice cubes clinking, and fixed Fenris with a somber expression. "I've been around these guys for a while, and I've seen them fight for about as long. Anders with his rage," he gestured the tumbler to the man, "Merrill with her excitement, the Rivaini who doesn't give a fuck, you with your artistic brooding, and Hawke…" Varric took another sip. "Hawke with her passion."

"And no opinion? One way or the other?"

"Opinions are like testicles. You kick them hard enough, doesn't matter how many you got."

Fenris crossed his legs. "That's…something."

"I was here when Carver up and left," Varric said after a moment. Fenris's hands had dried, and he was almost ready to speak when Varric continued. "I think it's all great for people to find things they really care about, things that make 'em want to keep living. But passions can get people into bad situations. Get into fights, get into trouble, break up families…" Varric grinned at him, a little self-consciously, Fenris thought. "I don't really know where I'm going with this. I guess I'm just worried about our little pack of bohemians."

"I am, too," Fenris confessed. He ran a hand through the back of his short greyish hair. Anders and Zevran passed by in deep conversation, and he paused. Zevran poured Anders a drink from the bar, but Fenris lowered his voice anyway. "I suppose you're right in that passions can…ignite easily. Burn other things."

"I don't know if I'm right. I don't know what I'm saying." He sighed and leaned back against the couch. "D'you have something more cheerful to talk to me about?"

"No," Fenris chuckled. "Hawke…She said you might know something. About my family."

"Me?"

"She said you used to own the apartment complex where Studio Amell is."

"Shit." Varric rubbed his free hand around his jaw. "Yeah, I did. Now that's a weird story. Your family used to live there, really?"

"Yes. Until the studio was built. What happened in between then?"

"Like I said, a weird story." The TV blared behind them, alerting them of fifteen minutes until countdown. "Hold on, I gotta pour champagne." Varric stood with a little difficulty from the cushy sofa, then began filling the champagne flutes on the coffee table from the already-opened bottle. Fenris cast his gaze around the room while he waited, his eyes eventually settling on Carver and Merrill, speaking in low tones against the dull roar of the party. Carver's eyes crinkled at something she said, his face so full of affection and simple pleasure that it made Fenris's heart hurt just to see.

He was free now, he reminded himself. He could choose his own life, make his own decisions. The pang in his chest thudded softly, and he began searching the room—

"All right. What were we talking about?"

Fenris snapped his attention back to Varric, settling down on the couch once more. "What happened to—"

"Right. You know the blight that plagued Ferelden, right? Hit Hawke's family pretty hard. Killed her father. You know this."

"I know that she doesn't like talking about it—or how she paid you back for getting them into the city."

"Yeah, probably because that was a Stannard & Co. deal," Varric said, watching Fenris's eyebrows shoot up. "Yep. Junior ran off to the big, bad architect firm that gave the Hawkes entry into Kirkwall."

Fenris looked past Carver and Merrill's swaying, quietly talking forms to Hawke. She and Isabela were dancing together now, gently swaying to the pop music pouring from the TV speakers. Isabela's mouth moved, and Hawke threw back her head and laughed. "Her anger at him seems…"

"Childish? It is."

"Human."

Varric shrugged. "Anyway, Broody, it wasn't me that tore down your family home, and I didn't really know anyone personally except the landlord. That complex was going to get torn down no matter what, and Stannard & Co. was looking for someone to buy one of the shops they were gonna build around the same time I bumped into Hawke at the docks. Hawke gave the inheritance from her dad to me, she got a studio, and the rest is history." Fenris hmmed in response, and Varric continued more kindly, "Look, you got a picture or something? A name?"

Fenris pulled a crumpled photo out of the back pocket of his jeans. "This is the last picture I received. It's my sister when she was sixteen. Last year. Varania Lernovitch."

"You kind of look like a guy who'd be named Lernovitch," Varric said, taking the photo. "Fenris Lernovitch."

"Leto Lernovitch," Fenris corrected him, then pursed his lips. "It's not really my name anymore."

"Hm. You both have the same eyes. Freaky."

"It's almost as if we're siblings." He didn't look at Varric, even as the other man pulled out reading glasses. He knew exactly what the photo looked like, her red hair long and tangled, her eyes crinkled in a smile. A school photo, but which school, he had no idea.

"She looks familiar. I'll ask around."

"Varric—" Fenris cut himself off before he could command his friend, but Varric picked up on what he didn't dare say.

"I'll pretend it's for my own interests. I've never seen you in my life."

Fenris swallowed and nodded, hoping his gratitude showed in his face. It must have, because Varric cleared his throat and looked away.

"So…you and Hawke?"

So that was Varric's idea of a more pleasant subject. Fenris's eyes darted back to her and Isabela. Hawke caught his gaze over Isabela's shoulder and disentangled herself. She began walking towards them, a shamelessly happy smile reddening her cheeks.

"What about us?"

"I want to make sure I get all the details right when I tell this story." Fenris's heart stuttered to a halt when Hawke reached them, but Varric kept talking. "So, Hawke, did Fenris sweep you off your feet? Or was it the other way around?"

"Well," Hawke said, but then paused, looking at Fenris, and in the pause Fenris rose from his uncomfortable perch on the sofa so the tip of his nose was level with hers. He heard her intake of breath before he placed one hand on her back and pushed her oh-so-gently, scooping up her legs as she tottered. He had one glorious vision of her eyes, wide and blue and delighted, before he adjusted his grip on her and kissed her, breathlessly and belatedly.

She tasted like pomegranate and champagne. His fingers curled against her back in the instant her hand reached up and touched his face. Gently. When she pulled back and demanded he let go, it was with shaking hands that he did so.

"Every little bit helps, Broody," Varric said somewhere behind him.

"Countdown in ten!" the TV screeched, and everyone hurried from their dancing, conversations, and kisses to grab a champagne flute. Fenris and Hawke found themselves surrounded by babbling friends, but when midnight struck and everyone else took cheerful ching-chings, she ignored all the glasses toasted her way and pressed her lips against his cheek.

When they left the Hanged Man together, Fenris didn't remember to ask Varric for his photo back.

Marian didn't comment on Fenris's apartment—clean and minimally decorated, though there was a print of some pastoral Orlesian scene on the wall across from the futon—but after she did hold her ground when he pulled her past the half-wall leading into the sleeping area, his fingers trailing against her wrist.

"Is this going to be like the last time?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound as demanding as she wanted to be. Her coat smothered her, made her cheeks feel warmer than they should have. "Are we—are you—"

"No."

He showed her where to hang her things. They sat on the futon together, her hand on his knee, his hand on her back. He looked at her for a long time, but she kept her lips pressed tightly shut and waited.

"I'm sorry, Hawke." She waited more. "I hurt you. I wanted things to be…real between us. I didn't want to be with you because of anger, or because I needed…release." Fenris breathed out quickly, impatient with his words, and she squeezed his knee encouragingly. He began to trace little circles on her spine as he talked, almost as if he didn't notice he was doing it. "I wanted you, but—not like that. That doesn't work for me." His fingers on her back stilled. "I still do."

She reached for his face, and he grabbed her hand before it could reach his skin. Marian stared at him, his green eyes dark and serious in the light streaming in from the kitchen, and he pressed the back of her hand against his lips.

"Please," she whispered, and he glanced up, hopeful. "I do, too. Please."

"I am yours," he said, and the distance between them finally closed.

Uncertain, careful first touches—bumping noses, the warm breath of laughter against skin.

"Flames, does that really tickle? Your collarbones?"

An undignified snort as fingers light as thread brushed in sensitive places.

"I didn't know you could make such sounds."

"Yes, talk dirty to me, Hawke."

A kiss against the offended spot in question. He shivered, just barely, but enough for her to see his skin prickle. Her mouth moved up, made its slow progress from his shoulder to his neck to his earlobe. Incomprehensible moaning.

"I knew you could make that sound."

Not as shyly now—a growl, fingers in her hair turning her face towards him. His lips were soft when they met hers, his tongue hot and insistent. She pressed herself closer, pinning him to the futon, her heart pounding against his chest.

Snap, and one of his hands found its way to her breast. The other got tangled in the bra.

"Kaffas."

"Here, let me help." She struggled briefly—he wouldn't move his fingers, brushing against her, circling around—and extracted herself from the bra and his hands. She tossed it aside and prepared to half-criticize his insistence, but found herself lost for words when she saw him leaning up against his elbows, openly staring.

She reached for him when the moment stretched on too long. Brazen, unafraid—to a point—and eager, her hands on his skin, on his tattoos, her name caught in a strained gasp out of his throat. Clothing tangled on their legs, caught on her foot, fell off the futon. Her toes stretched inside the sock he'd been too preoccupied to remove.

When she clutched him close and whispered his name, a broken gasp as he slid inside her, her senses left no room for anything but him.

"So did you get any information from Varric?"

"Hmm."

"That sounds like a 'no.'"

Fenris sighed and tucked Hawke's head under his chin. She pressed a kiss against his collarbone, and not a hesitant one like earlier. He shivered, squeezed her closer, and she giggled. Another sigh, and he spoke into her hair. "He said he would ask around. I don't know what he meant by that."

"He may have been distracted, what with the party and all."

"No, he…seemed to know what he was doing," Fenris disagreed. He pushed his nose into her messed-up black hair, breathing in her scent. Sweat, champagne, skin. Hawke wrapped her arms around his back, her small breasts hot against his torso, he noted with pleasant sleepiness; the A/C in his apartment was on too high for the winter.

"Fenris?" Her voice called to him through the fog of approaching unconsciousness, and he struggled to meet her.

"Hmn?"

"Night."

"Night, Hawke."

"Thanks for calling, Hawke. I have news."

"Fun news?"

"Varric said his landlord remembered giving my mother advice on school districts."

"For your sister?"

"Yes. That's what brought that subject up."

"I'm not wearing anything at all, Fenris."

"I can hear Gamlen's gameshow in the background."

"Oh, blast. I'm trying to be sexy and my uncle—oh, he's back. My uncle is just divine and I love him very much."

"I think it would be better if you didn't 'try,' Hawke. You don't need to try."

"How was rehearsal?"

"Good, I suppose. Pavus is still grouchy."

"His son?"

"Who knows at this point? No one dares ask."

"So now that you're open about how much you adore me—"

"I do adore you."

"…Well, are you coming to class tomorrow?"

"Never miss it."

"You have to go, don't you? I can hear that tone in your voice."

"Unfortunately, yes. I can hear Wynne calling to me for class."

"Well, thanks for calling during break."

Fenris said his goodbyes and hung up the payphone. Wynne's reprimands for his tardiness were too mild; she had a twinkle in her eyes that spoke of wistfulness and grandmotherly affection.

His muscles ached in a familiar way, his clothes stank of sweat, and his water tasted sinfully good as he headed out of class and into darkness of the already-set sun. There was certainly something to be said for the way Ballet Magisterium did things, he mused as he swiped his metro card. Danarius's studio was no more intense, but Ballet Magisterium didn't reek of desperation the same way. The pressure was still on too high, one could still find quietly weeping dancers exiting offices, and injuries were all too frequent, but…

No, he realized, descending to the platform in a crowd of nine-to-five businessmen. The two studios were still so alike. It was his mindset that had changed. Somehow, over the course of these four months, he had found something to enjoy. He didn't love ballet. He didn't have the same fire for it that Pavus or the other members of his company did. But maybe that didn't matter so long as he didn't hate himself and did a good job. Not everyone could be Hawke.

"Fenris. Good to see you."

Fenris's hackles rose at the voice. Hadriana, of course. He didn't need to turn around to know it was her; he could hear her coughing from the bench behind him.

"Danarius threw me out, you know. You were right."

The metro arrived, and Fenris tried to get in the first car he saw, elbowing college students aside, but the businessmen pushed past him too aggressively. The cars were already packed, and the doors protested and buzzed as they tried to close around him. Someone jostled him, and he stepped out for half a second. The doors clicked shut.

Fenris fixed Hadriana with a glare as soon as the metro sped away, but she didn't look up. She sat hunched over, her down coat enveloping her small frame. She played with the strap on her leg brace with yellowish fingers. "I heard you're asking around about your sister. We both know each other too well."

"You're not going to tell him," Fenris warned, a threatening foot stepping forward, though he had no idea what he planned on doing.

Hadriana glanced up at that. Bags stood out under her eyes, and her frown came too easily, as it always did. Her lips looked chapped when she answered. "Why would I? It wouldn't matter if I did."

"You—"

"Don't you see?" Hadriana said, a hint of her old sharp disdain evident in the question. "He doesn't need me anymore."

Another metro train came screeching by. People hurried down the stairs, and Fenris turned away from her, waiting for the doors to open. His stomach was a raft on stormy waters; he hoped he could navigate home in time.

"Your sister replaced me," he thought he heard Hadriana say, but there were too many people pushing him into the open car doors now. He couldn't even see her through the windows as the train hurtled along the rail.

Marian waited with little patience at the Main Street line 8 metro platform. Transferring here to River Thaig to visit Aveline, Donnic, and Carver was always a pain at rush hour, but Aveline was cooking for once and insisted she come early. There was always some sort of racy advertisement for Antivan watches right across from where Marian usually liked to wait—close to the front of where the first car would stop, and thus close to River Thaig's exit.

A train full of people packed in like tinned fish whizzed by on the opposite side of the tracks, and Marian winced as the breeze hit her like cold knives. Once it passed, she shot a glare at the Antivan watch ad, but it wasn't there. A bucket and brush stood abandoned to the side of the ad that had replaced it.

'Ballet Magisterium Premiere of SWAN LAKE: March 11-21'

A ballerina with her leg extended above her head gazed soberly at the top of the advertisement, right where the shiny paper met the dirty ceiling of the metro platform. Holding her by the waist was a slender man with a serious, intense expression on his face.

The hair was black. The tattoos had been covered with dark makeup. The angles of his face and the shape of his shoulders had been touched up a bit with photo editing magic. But the man was without a doubt Fenris. Even if she hadn't known, underneath his feet, 'Starring: FENRIS INCAENSOR as Siegfried' had been written in calligraphy.

Why had she never considered he danced for the most prestigious company in Kirkwall? Why had she never pieced it together?

Her train chugged to a stop in front of her, and she squished her way onto the first car, finding a spot on the pole to grab. Her elbow bumped into a tall man's back. The train doors beeped shut, and she headed on her way, far away from the line 8 metro at Main Street and away from the ad's new location. But there were bound to be others. And the image of Fenris holding the beautiful ballerina seared into the backs of her eyelids every time she blinked.

AN: Quote Hawke references in the early part of the chapter is a Mikhail Baryshnikov quote.

Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading!