Chapter Text
Usually, the oldest child carried all of the pressure. It made sense; first to pop into the fucking world and say hello and all that. They were the experiment for parents who couldn't know better. The first-born carried the name, and the weight of expectation that came with it. And their parents wanted their debut jaunt into parenthood to mean something; for their child to not be a complete fuck up. Because that meant that maybe their parenting was fucked up. But… he was pretty sure his parents parenting had been… decent.
Malcolm and Leandra Hawke had done their best; they worked hard, kept their heads down. Sure, his mom had maybe pissed ol' Grandfather Aristide off by marrying the local grocery attendant. And maybe pissed him off more because they were pregnant with Garrett before they ran off to Fereldan. Like, worse mistakes had been made in life! And his dad had been a total stud. Best decision of her life, in his opinion.
Her dad was still mad when she returned to Kirkwall with three kids in tow and a sick husband. And Grand Daddy Amell forgave her eventually, always having preferred his darling Leandra over her brother Gamlen. He was the Amell family fuck up.
And now Garrett M. Hawke was the Hawke family fuck up. And the oldest. Wait. Was Gamlen the oldest? No, his mother was a year older, if he remembered correctly?
Oh no. Uncle Gammy bitched often enough that he had to be the youngest. So maybe he was allowed to be a fuck up because his birth order saved him.
It hadn't really saved Garret, though.
And Malcolm, winner of the "best-dad-of-the-years-he-was-still-breathing" award, may he be at the Maker's side or something, had not raised him to be a fuck up.
But it was cool! He wasn't the only Hawke kid, so it wasn't like he had dragged the name through the mud or any—actually, in a way he had. His mother sometimes told him to use a fake name to avoid his antics being associated with them; he remembered to do that on occasion if he was still sober. In fact, he didn't even know why she had an issue with it! People expected "Garrett Hawke" to show up to the snazzy functions, not some unknown "Daniel Heron."
But none of that really mattered. His younger siblings, twins Carver and Bethany, stole the spotlight often enough that he could get away with most things. They took away the expectation that had been unfairly placed on his shoulders just because his sperm swam the fastest.
It was them who had followed in Aristide Amell's footsteps, poised to take control of of his tech company, HawkWear. Growing up he thought it was kinda cool; when he was young and stupid and didn't know any better and only used it to brag to other kids at school. He used to lie that it was named partly after him—it was actually just an odd coincidence and Aristide had considered changing the name multiple times after his daughter got engaged.
He stayed in blissful ignorance about the company for years in adulthood, telling people whatever it was they wanted to hear about it. When he actually learned that it wasn't some fancy glasses company, with expensive specs that recorded people and shit, his interest in knowing more dropped immediately. To think that, for once, he was the only who had the better ideas.
It had been Carver who told him a year ago that it was actually advanced tactical gear and weaponry that their grandfather had invested in. There was apparently untapped potential in the technosphere for this, and military groups—particularly the Templar Corp—were always looking to buy and blah, blah, whatever. Garrett had been engaged for a solid minute, and was barely able to suffer anymore tech talk. To stop the conversation short, he lamented that embedding cameras in his designer shades would be a better use of company money.
Carver never spoke to him about company stuff ever again.
Bethany was smart enough to never talk to Garrett about company stuff in the first place.
All in all, it didn't really fucking matter. He was a Hawke, which meant that they all succeeded when one of them did. In their case, two. Leandra and Malcolm produced a powerhouse set of twins; two for the price of one. That had been enough to allow Aristide to eventually settle his grudge accept them all back in his good graces when everyone grew up, even if he still held an 'air of disdain'—as his best friend always said—for Garrett.
The man could dislike him all he wanted; he could chide him for being slothful, for hanging out with his 'lessers,' or for simply looking a little too much like his dead son-in-law—and he really was the spitting image of Malcolm. Garrett Hawke did not give a single flying fuck as long as that man continued to keep him on payroll.
It didn't hurt him one bit; at least, it didn't most of the time.
Hawke left through the front doors of his mother's estate, having finished up his weekly visit with her. He found that it was easier to manage their relationship if he spent one afternoon a week, sipping tea and eating biscuits and talking about gossip about what Hightown socialites were doing. He was a good little Amell during those visits, putting on airs and feeding her whatever bullshit would make her feel better.
"You're turning thirty-six soon, Garrett. Do you know what you're going to do for your birthday? Have you thought about settling down?" Whenever that topic came up, he found an excuse to leave. And it had come up, which was why he was walking out after giving her an excuse about having to go home and walk Diamond Carat.
He was still thirty-five years young. He wasn't ready to hang his spurs up and become a boring sod. Truthfully, he could pull any girl he wanted—if he wanted to, and he didn't. Pussy was just as easy to come by as dick, and he didn't need a ring for access to either. One flash of his black card at The Rose got him everything he wanted. It was easier this way; no commitment, no mess—well. There was always some mess, but not the fucking emotional kind. That shit wasn't getting wiped away with a wet towel.
Garrett didn't live that far from his old crash pad, having been given a penthouse in one of the richer apartments up the street. He guessed that they all figured he could be a little less of a fuck up if he lived separately, his escapades and decisions out of the limelight.
It wasn't so bad; their mother couldn't breathe down his neck, and Bethany—who still lived there to keep their mother company—wouldn't be able to pin him with her disapproving stare. She used to be more fun—when she would actually join him in the party scene—until she got hooked up with that Andraste's ass kissing Chantry fuck. Garrett didn't care what his name was, was pretty sure that he'd been told a dozen times, but it didn't stick to his brain because he had refused to acknowledge him. He was just that forgettable, heh! And boring.
He strolled into the apartment complex after the doorman greeted him formally, muttering some nondescript reply. After flashing a grin at the front desk and the usually unhappy security guard who sat there, he headed to the elevator. He'd labelled button twenty as the "Hawke Floor," considering he was the only resident on it. He went as far one time to actual label it with a sticker, and found it disappointingly peeled off the next day. Garrett hadn't tried again, lest the superintendents get on his ass more than they already were sometimes.
He exited the elevator, his mind stuck again on his mother's question. What was he going to do for his birthday? Would she have believed him if he said that he wanted a slip-n-slide covered in lube and enough strippers that everyone could have a lap dance? Even Carat? Who would probably have the time of her life?
He hadn't really wanted that, but sometimes it was funny to see Leandra shocked for two seconds before cluing in that it was simply one of his crude jokes. And then she'd slap his arm and scold him for being so hedonistic.
Garrett walked the short length of hallway to his door, keying in his code so that the expensive, carved alabaster wood would give way. He sighed to himself, running a hand through the textured fringe hairstyle he'd received a few days prior. He wasn't sure if he liked it yet, and he instinctively gazed into the full-length mirror on the wall. Hm—maybe it was growing on him. The little curl he got on top with the styling product helped with the persona he was going for, the true Garrett Hawke; the one that Bethany couldn't help but label as the "unapproachable fuckboy." He wasn't sure that he'd use such words about himself—and often reminded her how mean she was to say that—but if the shoe fit…
He took off his leather jacket and unzipped his boots, kicking the latter off by the shoe mat and throwing the former on a chair. At the sound of the noise, the scraping of nails on tile came rushing into the living room to greet him.
"Diamond Carat! Did you miss me, girl?" he cooed as he crouched down. The Mabari barrelled into him with almost enough force to knock him down, but Garret was well used to her behaviour. He braced himself and grabbed her around the middle for a big hug before she could lick every inch of his beard off.
He loved that dog more than anything on the Maker-damned planet. After being exposed to the Mabari breed while living in Fereldan—and his dad always keeping a few to assist with his sports hunting—Garrett had grown to love them. His mother had disapproved of keeping one as a pet, insisting often that dogs stay outside. He'd been shocked. Shocked! And she still said it now, even though he didn't live with her! How she could look at Diamond Carat's big, sweet face and tell her that she didn't deserve the best cut of meat at the butcher and a jewel encrusted collar and more pillows that she knew what to do with, and also tell her she had to stay outside? Like she was some type of mongrel? Garrett didn't understand it and he didn't agree.
Leandra hadn't wanted a dog; fucking hated them after her time spent in Lothering. If Garrett wanted one, he'd have to have one in his own place, she had said. The first thing he did when he moved to the penthouse was contact a breeder, make some arrangements, and returned home that evening with a small, white bundle in his arms.
Happy 30th Birthday to him.
"Alright, girl. Alright! I know you've been cooped up. Let's go." He left her by the front to change into something a little more comfortable, a designer brand tracksuit that had been custom tailored just for him—last year's birthday gift to himself—, and came back to put his trainers on. Garrett pulled Carat's leash from the closet, attaching it to her collar as she waited for him patiently. Last but certainly never least, as they were twin souls if that even existed for an animal and if it didn't Garrett didn't fucking care, he lifted a tray that held sunglasses from the top shelf.
He looked down at Carat, whose stubby tail wagged at the attention. "Which one are we working with today, girl? Maybe the oversized black…? Or the rainbow…? I mean, I'll match whatever you pick."
He set the tray on a nearby table and picked a few, crouching down again to offer the dog a choice. Carat ended up barking at the oversized sunglasses, which settled it. "Girl, you are so right! And like it matches my suit too! You're so smart, Carat." He slipped the shades on, making sure that they'd stay secured for the duration of their walk.
Garrett slapped his pockets, making sure that he had everything he needed. Keys—just in case he forgot his keypad code which actually happened way more often than he'd like to admit—, smokes, cellphone, headphones… Fuck! Almost forgot his wallet. A quick jog back to his bedroom and a rifle through his discarded monogram jeans produced the slim leather accessory, and once he was assured he had everything, Garrett left his apartment with Diamond Carat in tow.
Walking through Hightown got boring sometimes; it was the same views, everytime. The same big government building—why it was still called 'the Viscount's Keep' when they were far past the stone age, Garrett didn't know—where the mayor of Kirkwall took up residence. Garrett had been in there once or twice—until he got escorted out for raiding his booze cabinet during a presentation about HawkWear that Bethany had been conducting. That… that had been the second time.
She still hadn't forgiven him for embarrassing her like that, and he was thus banned from attending any events that dealt with figures of importance, outside of galas hosted by the Amells.
At least he'd enjoyed the rest of the Antivan Heritage Brandy he'd pulled from the bottom shelf. The stunt had been worth it for that alone, as he'd scrolled his phone looking to purchase on his way out.
Garrett couldn't help but giggle as they passed by the front gates, and he cheekily waved to one of the security personnel out front.
Up the steps was the Chantry, which saw more of his sister and mother than it ever had him. Both of his parents were Andrastrian, surprisingly, and, unsurprisingly, they had tried to raise their children in the faith. Bethany took to it alright, even though she wavered with her brothers during her youth. That'd been her smartest choice, until her dumb boyfriend brought her back into the fold. Andraste this, Maker that, who gave a fuck, holy shit. Hah. Were her shits holy? Did anyone ever consider that?
The announcement board for the building was the only thing he ever approached. Never to read what was going on, cause who fucking cared, but it was a great piece of wood to be Carat's pissing post, and he always encouraged her to do her business there. He'd play it off everytime they got caught—"Oh, sorry, dear Sister! My dog just had to go!"—and then they'd go on their merry way.
Diamond Carat did whine when they got to one of the big statues in the corner on the ground level, and Garrett couldn't help the smirk on his face. "Go ahead, girl. I'm certainly not watching." He pulled out a cigarette to light, already aware of the "No Smoking" sign that was posted above him. But what if he was smoking Andraste's ashes? Would that be holy or blasphemous? Would they leave him alone if he was? Would they demand their sacred relic back and wonder where on Thedas he purchased it from?
Didn't matter; as soon as Carat had finished, he peeped a familiar irate Chantry Sister stomping over in his peripheral. He took the longest drag possible up until she was close enough, before blowing the smoke in the air. As expected, it was carried down wind and right into her face.
He schooled himself quickly, faux shock and apologetics spilling onto his face. "Oh! Fuck! S-Sorry, Sister Marianne! I—I forgot the sign was here, and my dog—"
"You've been told, Garrett Hawke! You're not welcome here unless it's to repent!" she yelled after a fit of coughs. She waved away the rest of the smoke, the flurry of movement making her robes jump about.
"Ooh? What am I repenting for, Sister Marianne? My dashingly good looks? My four-hundred Sovereign watch? My big, thick dick?" Garrett's one suppressed grin sprouted on his face as the older woman's flushed crimson immediately.
Her mouth hung open, so flabbergasted that he'd stunned her to silence. It was like her brain was calculating in real time how to respond and coming up with numbers and decimals that didn't make any sense. She squawked, and Garrett had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.
"Just what is going on out here?" a voice, that he unfortunately knew, asked from further up the Chantry steps. The click of loafers that were probably too expensive to be touching dirty, Kirkwall ground approached them, and Garrett felt the urge to run.
Auburn hair slicked back, as if he was trying to cover a bald spot—which he probably fucking was, or the Maker had graced the fucker with hair he didn't deserve—, a stupid polo shirt and perfectly creased slacks. His little cashmere sweater in a classic green was tied around his shoulders like he just came in from tennis practice or the fucking country club. It was like his sister had dressed him up like one of her dolls or something.
"B-Brother Sebastian!" Sister Marianne had managed to recover her tongue, and she whirled to the man approaching them. "Please tell Garrett Hawke and his—his mutt to go! Andraste's blessed statue is not a toilet and he can't smoke here!"
Garrett clutched at his heart with the hand that held Carat's leash. "Mutt? Diamond Carat is a pure-bred Mabari, Sister Marianne! She is the epitome of class!" And she knew that Andraste's gold statue was the perfect place to piss!
"Garrett," Sebastian began, his tone already laced with disapproval and warning. "Leave."
"I was just about to repent! To go ask forgiveness from the Maker for blessing me with a fucking third leg and not an inch worm, unlike someone," cajoled Garrett as he pressed his hands together. "Please, Maker, forgive me for I have sinned! Forgive me for thinking of Andraste every time I grab my lotion!"
His sister's boyfriend hadn't even flinched, having become well accustomed to his antics. He glowered at him like his faith in the Maker gave him laser vision, which actually would be fucking cool if it did. Maybe Garrett would believe then.
Sebastian simply pointed firmly, away from the Chantry. "Go, Garrett. Now."
Garrett figured that his fun there was finished, as his sister's boyfriend hadn't even touched the delicious bait he'd left him. He took another drag of his cigarette, tapping the ash from the end into Carat's pooled piss, and strolled off with a wave.
His walk took him further into Hightown, along the winding paths he'd always take when heading to the more upscale bars or even The Rose. The dimmed red lights had beckoned him, as they usually did. And when he was finished with Carat's walk and had her settled in for the evening… A little fancy jaunt up to his favourite spot wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.
He was just finishing the last of his cigarette when his cellphone rang. The ringtone was a recording from a porno he'd seen a few too many times, and he got a rise out of the way it made whoever was around him uncomfortable when it sounded.
Garrett briefly looked at the name of the caller and answered. "'Sup, short man?"
The sigh on the other end of the line was tired, like a pack mule that just had it's last rodeo. "Hawke, you really need to get some new material."
"How about lace? Or chiffon? What about you braid me a rope from your chest hair and I'll use that."
Varric Tethras groaned even louder. "You clearly must be in a good mood if you're joking like this. Who'd you piss off and how much is it costing ol' Aristide?"
Garrett lit another cigarette as he peaked into the window of one of the bars he frequented. Maybe he'd grab a beer or two, go score some blow from the cutie behind the counter, and then make off for The Rose afterwards. And then more blow after he'd been blown! It was a decent Tuesday night plan.
"Ah, I was having some fun with dear Sister Marianne until Bethany's boyfriend's limp dick ruined everything. I'm telling you, Varric, if that man got a good fuck—"
"Are you implying your sister isn't giving him anything?"
"She tells me that he wants to be chaste! That they gotta wait! Maker's hairy balls, I'd sooner admit I have a micropenis—which I fucking don't, Varric, don't worry—than whatever bullshit he's feeding her." Garrett slowly moved on from the window when Carat started whining, clearly eager to return home.
Varric didn't even respond to his rant. "Anyway, I'm calling to ask you if I can stop by. Maybe we'll even have a couple of beers if you can control yourself."
He blew a raspberry at the suggestion of only a few beers. "What happened to you, Varric? You don't want to practice drinking Isabela under the table anymore?" He had arrived at his apartment and quickly put out his cigarette in the ash tray before heading inside.
"I'm getting too old for that and so are you. Now are you home or what?"
Garrett told him he was home and that he'd see him within the next half hour before hanging up.
Varric Tethras was probably the only person on Thedas who could stand him—next to his mother, of course, but she didn't really count because she was obligated to love her firstborn child. Did she love him? He thought so, deep down. Secretly, he hoped so.
Varric was a professional writer by trade, having written many crime serials and a series or two of kinky romance novels. His family name had helped him out, finding their riches in big banks and jewelry crafting.
They'd met at a stupid art gala after party and were best buds by the end of the night—or morning. He hadn't remembered what time he'd arrived home. And when Varric's writing took off like a bat out of the Void half a decade later, Garrett couldn't have been happier for him. He'd gotten the big break he'd been dreaming of; finally able to chart the course that he felt was right, far away from the bank life that had been strangling him.
He'd gone to every launch, schmoozed his way through every party to be on his best behaviour and not embarrass Varric. Garrett had kept the signed copies on a bookshelf full of stuff he didn't read in the living room. It had never been his forte—and Varric's vocab outpaced his own—, but supporting his friend had been worth it.
When he reached his floor, he let out a small sigh. Varric wasn't that much older than him, around six years his senior. They'd just celebrated his forty-first birthday a couple of months back, which had been a rather fancy affair in Treviso. Garrett… surprisingly could remember most of it.
He wasn't old; he didn't consider Varric old. But if forty-one was old, what did that make him at almost thirty-six?
He tried to push away the last conversation he had with his mother. No, he was thirty-five years young. Which meant he was going to be thirty-six years young, too. "Old" was a mindset that didn't apply to him. Fuck, that Chantry git was four years younger than him and acted as ancient as the damn building.
Garrett keyed in the code to his penthouse suite and entered, tossing his shades into the trinket tray by the door. He took Carat's leash off as well as her sunglasses, putting them away.
She was looking at him expectantly, as if she could sense his thoughts. He bent down to cup her face and gently kissed her forehead. "You don't think I'm old, huh, Diamond Carat?"
The dog yipped and licked at his face. Garrett laughed and accepted it gladly before standing up.
"Yeah. You're right, Carat. Fuck what the others think. We'll be young forever." He pulled some treats from a jar on the door side table, holding out his hand so she could lick them up. Once satisfied, his beloved pet trotted further into in the apartment.
Garrett looked at himself in the mirror, eying his reflection. He took it all in, smoothing out the way his tracksuit settled around his midsection. He wasn't as flat there as he used to be—maybe too many beers?—but it wasn't too much to get back on his exercising bullshit. Maybe he'd call up his past personal trainer during the week.
He was tall, stocky; broad in the ways that his father was. Carver was too, but Garrett was eighty percent sure he was microdosing 'roids on the side to keep his physique up. It wasn't like he hadn't also done it in his twenties; he introduced the idea to his younger brother, after all. Fuck, he'd done a lot of things. Like, a lot, a lot, of things over the course of his thirty-five years of living.
Thirty-five. Soon to be thirty-six.
Maybe he was—
No.
Fuck that.
Fuck all of that shit.
Fuck high society rules—except the money, everything else about being rich could die—, and marriages, and having kids, and the whole concept of settling down. Fuck getting old, and becoming boring, and one's body giving out, and getting discounts at the restaurants—not like he ever needed them.
Being old was a mindset and he was not old.
He was Garrett Hawke. He was immortal and he was going to live forever.