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they'll rip you apart, i swear that they will.
[ by the time the shadows have lengthened across the ground outside the double doors, hanging open on their hinges from the last grateful family to leave, the clinic has all but been emptied out. it's a strange sight, only tempered by the image of people huddled in ragged clothes not far outside the dooryard. if darktown ever stopped harboring masses of refugees, or smelling of mildew and effluent, he'd have to — well, pick up and move shop elsewhere. it would be quieter, but no-one needs a clinic where there are no people.
anders doesn't nudge the doors shut when he walks back from leaning out of them. the lanterns are enough to write by, but the cast of the sunlight across the bare floors could almost make him believe that there isn't miles of rock situated threateningly above his head. maybe if he squints.
he can't forget where he is, or what it is he's doing. it's a stake stuck in the soft earth inside of him, in the heart of him. the heart is just another part of the body. physically, he knows what he is, who this flesh and blood and bone belong to. the rest, he's not so certain. but they share a common goal, one they might — must — achieve. a basin of lukewarm water is resting on the floor beside anders' desk. he kneels to heat it with his fingertips just breaking the surface, and scrubs his hands clean after with a stiff cloth. he leaves the cloth to dry over the rim and wipes his face with his damp, pink hands, rough stubble scraping his palms, before he pats them dry against his trousers. a message, an idea, can't be destroyed as easily as a body. nor can a spirit. but they've reconciled their differences.
tucked in the back is a clean cot, and he eyes it after he draws himself up from the floor, but somehow the chair tucked under the desk with its hard wooden back ends up presenting itself as the more inviting choice. so he sits, bent forward, and doesn't write, thumbing the pages of an unfinished manifesto, plucking at the feathered end of a worn, ink-stained quill. ]
anders doesn't nudge the doors shut when he walks back from leaning out of them. the lanterns are enough to write by, but the cast of the sunlight across the bare floors could almost make him believe that there isn't miles of rock situated threateningly above his head. maybe if he squints.
he can't forget where he is, or what it is he's doing. it's a stake stuck in the soft earth inside of him, in the heart of him. the heart is just another part of the body. physically, he knows what he is, who this flesh and blood and bone belong to. the rest, he's not so certain. but they share a common goal, one they might — must — achieve. a basin of lukewarm water is resting on the floor beside anders' desk. he kneels to heat it with his fingertips just breaking the surface, and scrubs his hands clean after with a stiff cloth. he leaves the cloth to dry over the rim and wipes his face with his damp, pink hands, rough stubble scraping his palms, before he pats them dry against his trousers. a message, an idea, can't be destroyed as easily as a body. nor can a spirit. but they've reconciled their differences.
tucked in the back is a clean cot, and he eyes it after he draws himself up from the floor, but somehow the chair tucked under the desk with its hard wooden back ends up presenting itself as the more inviting choice. so he sits, bent forward, and doesn't write, thumbing the pages of an unfinished manifesto, plucking at the feathered end of a worn, ink-stained quill. ]
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if this was his bed... they could just curl up together and go to sleep. but it isn't his bed. and as much as he's enjoying being in anders's space, the cot isn't exactly a place for comfortable reclining. it's barely a place for sleeping. he's shocked they managed to make it into a place for sex. ]
Don't want to.
[ it occurs to him that the words he's saying don't follow from what anders first mentioned. technically, he means the opposite. he doesn't want to move. he does want to fall asleep like this. he wouldn't mind it one bit. hawke lets out another faint grumble, rubbing his face in against the side of anders's neck. ]
I can't move.
[ there, that's clearer. isn't it? he can't keep from grinning where anders can feel it against his skin. the truth is, he can still feel the tension in anders's body where they're pressed together, notable because of the slack dead weight of hawke's own body tipped against his own. it makes him feel like he's done something wrong, but hawke isn't so self-centered as to assume it's all him. he reaches up to run his hands over anders's hair, pushing it back from his face in soothing, repetitive motions. ]
I think I need a healer.
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it doesn't stop him from smiling. he can feel hawke grinning.
that's good, isn't it? how could it be anything but?
anders' eyelashes flutter when hawke begins to touch his face, his hair, pushing his hair back where it's fallen loose from his ponytail. his smile goes slack like his body isn't, but the expression he wears while he's watching hawke isn't so indecipherable. there's something he wants to say dancing on the tip of his tongue, heavier than hawke is with his body loosened on top of him. a little laugh bubbles up from his chest when hawke speaks again. ]
I don't think you pulled anything...
[ if he had he could fix it, but all's the same he'd rather he hasn't. his arms pull up and elbows dig into the cot, shifting their weight again, and immediately it seems like they're sitting twice as precariously as before. outside the whirlwind of the moment it's obvious just how ill-suited his sleeping place is for this. hawke will have to move if he wants to get up.
but instead of insisting, he touches hawke's arms instead, holding him there while he kisses him. ]
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he's fit, but it's been awhile since hawke felt too big for the space he's inhabiting. with anders inside of him, he feels curiously small. that could have something to do with the resilient tightness in his muscles, though.
he feels downright filthy, skin clinging to anders's own where they're damp and hot. hawke's had the odd fleeting sexual encounter in his life, but never one that got him out of all his clothes, never one that had him sliding slick and naked up against another man's body the way he's dreamt of in the past. over the years, those dreams have come to center around a certain individual.
he lets out another groan in response to anders's question. at this rate, he's going to get a reputation for a limited vocabulary. somehow, something tells him anders wouldn't mind. ]
We don't know that for sure.
[ the happy, dazed look on his face probably puts paid to the idea that hawke is injured. contrary to that, his cheeks are flushed, lips parted slightly; he's experiencing a moment of utter bliss as he sits up, doing his best to at least look like he's trying to help. if he's honest with himself, he's having an illogical moment of not wanting to move because he isn't sure what will happen once he does. hawke doesn't spend a lot of time carving out moments for himself; the ones that he does get seem like they could evaporate as easily as a puddle in darktown, reduced to nothing more than one of a hundred mysterious stains.
he can't keep from reaching to stroke anders's face, feeling over his delicate jaw to the ridge of a high cheekbone. you'd never mistake him for a ferelden with that face. hawke's never known anyone like him in his whole life and it's got nothing to do with his face. ]
Better?
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[ anders speaks without thinking about what he's saying. he's better because hawke is looking at him that way.
what else could be better? nothing else has changed, just the way they see each other, or rather what they're doing about the way they've seen each other for such a long, long time. he's trying not to give any attention to the unfairness of it all, lest it comes bounding up like a dog and knocks him flat. they're both too far past the point of pretending any of this is going to be easy, whatever happens to the both of them. there's a war approaching and he doesn't know what form it will take. there's been a war going on inside of his head for years, and only recently has he been able to strike a truce with his aggressor. there are rumblings from the other side from time to time, but mostly the front is quiet. and he makes the same sounds. thinks the same things.
in all but this. he smiles weakly at hawke when he pushes himself up, the cot beneath them dipping dangerously low to the ground with all their weight centered on one spot. anders squeezes hawke's thighs under his hands, hooks his fingers right below the curve of his ass, and urges him up. there's no chance to linger when he pulls out, wet and still warm, dripping onto his once-clean cot. ]
I'll get us something to wash up with.
[ he smiles at hawke co-conspiratorially and unfolds his legs over the side from underneath hawke's body, one hand around one wooden strut to balance himself when his legs wobble underneath of him. his thighs and calves are tingling, pins-and-needles. he hadn't even realized they'd fallen asleep. he gives himself half a second to rub the life back into them before he walks to the other side of the room where he left the basin, filled with now cold water, and the rough dirty cloth he used before. he picks it up and frowns, stands again (still wobbling) and pads barefoot to where he keeps his washing things, sizable scraps of old cloth disinfected in boiling water, fraying away at the edges, draped over a makeshift table made from a few slats of wood and an old crate. he picks the two that look the least ragged and drapes them over his shoulder, returns to the water, and carries it with both hands back to where hawke's waiting for him.
hawke would be better off returning to his estate and washing up there, but he doesn't have the heart to suggest it.
anders kneels on both knees and submerges each shock of cloth to soak them through, putting some heat back into the water with his left hand pressed to the side of the container, his first two right hand fingertips submerged to test the temperature. ]
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he's too contented to really give himself a hard time about it, though. he's enjoying the view when his eyes regain focus, blinking at the harsh marks marring anders's back. they're visible even in the dim light, something raw and ugly, healed improperly. it's difficult for him to imagine anders ever bungling his own healing so badly. and hawke knows nothing like that's happened to him since they've been together.
the separate pieces of evidence come together to create an obvious conclusion. it's from before. at the circle. hawke's on his feet before it registers in the back of his mind that he's moving. despite all the phony protests he made about not wanting to move, and despite the very real protests coming from his muscles both stiff and sore, hawke wobbles into a standing position just long enough to fall to his knees next to anders, wrapping his arms around him hard from behind.
it wouldn't do to knock over the water just because he's having some kind of episode. hawke has at least enough self awareness to manage that, burying his face in the nape of anders's neck where his hair is damp with sweat and breathing in deep.
it's not fair that this happened when hawke wasn't around to solve it for him. just as it's not fair that hawke can't do anything about it now. he's never needed any further reassurance that he's on the right side of the brewing struggle between mages and templars, but sometimes he thinks that he could do with a little less evidence.
he kisses the back of anders's neck, and then his shoulder, burying his face there while he presses his chest to anders's scarred back, as if he could protect him that way. as if there's anything left he could shield him from. ]
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there's no way for him to know what the problem is without asking, and he's afraid of what the answer will be. maybe he's said too much. maybe it's this thing with fenris. loss or regret. he'd rather it wasn't the latter. but it speaks of some hope to him that hawke's holding on. if he wanted to go, he could go. there's nothing that he could say or do to stop him.
hawke's mouth is hot against the nape of his neck, tiny hairs standing up in the places they aren't touching. his bangs are falling into his face. ]
Hawke?
What's wrong?
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[ he doesn't know why he's saying it. that it's all right now, of all times, now that hawke's here, now that he's holding him in his arms. it feels unbelievably self-centered to assume that he could solve all of anders's problems like that. but he knows that he wants to. he'd like to think that he could make that kind of difference in his life.
he squeezes his arms tighter across ander's chest, pressing another kiss to anders's shoulder before he rests his chin there instead. ]
It's nothing.
[ it's not that either, but he doesn't know how to explain himself beyond that. he owes it to anders to at least come clean about what he's seen. it's not something he's private about if he's let hawke see it, but it still feels like spying. although he's not sure if that's something that counts after you've had an intimate encounter with someone. normally they don't stick around this long. ]
I've never seen your back.
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[ there's nothing he needs to say to tell hawke he didn't expect for that to be the reason. it never would've occurred to him on his own, so hawke could have kept his secret. he's not sure it's better or not that he didn't. it's just another ugly part of him, the way that justice — or vengeance — is, except those he didn't choose to take. perhaps the templars who are responsible would say otherwise, because he broke the rules that demanded the punishment, but it makes little difference now.
they might as well be dead. he likes to at least pretend that they are. it lets him sleep easier.
which can't say many good things about him. but he was pushed down this path longer ago than he knew hawke, than he knew even justice, longer ago than he could remember anything about the world outside the circle tower aside from his mother's and father's faces and their woebegone little barn. if they were expecting something different, they were expecting wrong. if they wanted something different, they should have done differently themselves. that's what's brought them to this.
it returns to him again, then, that he has no choice, and that they have no chance.
it doesn't mean the same thing to justice, what he's doing kneeling on the floor, fingertips wrinkling in the cooling water, with hawke molding himself to his back, and what it will mean when he's not here to do any of these things. a great emptiness washes over him. his stomach to his heart seems just a hollow inside of his body. ]
I love you.
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it's not like he's depending on anders to stop him from thinking. that wouldn't be fair, and it certainly isn't logical. after fenris, he's at least trying to approach this with a modicum of thoughtfulness and maturity. he can feel anders's heartbeat where his hands are clasped together across his skinny chest.
hawke's brain stops working altogether when anders speaks up again, though. he sucks in a breath, exhaling again against his skin. ]
I love you too.
[ it comes out easily enough. probably because it's true. it's always been true. he wouldn't have fallen into bed with anders this easily if there hadn't been lingering feelings on both their parts. it's taken him far too long to be able to put a name to his, but that shouldn't mean he doesn't get to. anders in particular deserves to hear something good these days. now more than ever. ]
I'm sorry...
[ he means about the scars, of course, but that could apply to anything. the situation that he's been in and kirkwall at large. hawke hasn't been able to fix it. he owed that much to anders at least, and he hasn't delivered. ]
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it's still nice to hear hawke say it. somehow he finds it in him to smile, though it's feeble, and hawke can't see it anyway.
anders raises his hand from the basin and touches hawke's wrist where his arms are crossed over his chest, water dripping down his front in rivulets. ]
There's nothing for you to be sorry for, Hawke. I should be...
[ he halts, swallowing. does he need to say it? he's already said it. he's already done it. his reflection is barely visible in the rippling water colored as it is with flickering yellow light, and still he'd rather not see it at all. his voice dips. ]
Thank you. For telling me. I'm glad I got to hear it.
[ at least once. ]
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he doesn't like thinking about it. but he can't push aside the things that are unpleasant to contemplate simply because they make him uncomfortable. leaving things is how he gave up on fenris. it might not be why he lost him, but that doesn't matter. hawke's not looking to lose anders in any sense.
he's too important for that.
hawke breathes out, his body folding against anders's when he feels the wet touch against his wrist. ]
You don't have anything to be sorry for.
[ anders is managing his own desperate circumstances as best he can. hawke's not sure he would trust anyone else with the same burdens that anders carries. they wouldn't be able to bear the weight. but anders, as far as he knows, is carrying himself along admirably. hawke certainly admires him. for a long time, he thought that's all it was. he knows better now.
and anders knows it too. ]
I plan on telling you more than just the once, you know.
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[ it's a point he's not shy to argue. how could he be anything but sorry for what he's about to do? and the things he's done have been no better. he hasn't given hawke any reason to stand by him, and he's here regardless, saying these things regardless, making him feel both big and small at the same time. uplifted and humbled. there's no world he could imagine in which he deserves to be treated with so much kindness and understanding. he rubs his wet thumb over the sharp bone in hawke's wrist like it's him who needs comforting. to anders, it seems as though he does. he's gotten by without it for this long, he wouldn't ask for it to be given to him.
he wouldn't ask for anything. except for hawke, perhaps, except for this. selfish. his throat works soundlessly. the earthy smell of drying wood wafts up when he puts heat to his fingers again, trying to maintain the temperature of the water he brought over. his body's still salt-slicked, skin tacky. hawke is sticking to his back. ]
If you want to say it again...
[ well, he wouldn't mind hearing it, that's all he means. they can say it as many time as they'd like. ]
Shouldn't we be getting washed up?
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and that doesn't mean he can't tell him other things. ]
I love you.
[ he as much as asked to hear it, didn't he? hawke can provide that, even if he can't tell him he doesn't have anything to apologize for. he can't speak for the community at large, of course, but he's never presumed to. just one of many reasons hawke can't and won't accept the viscount's seat. being the champion is close enough to being answerable to the public for him. some days he's not even comfortable with that.
but it's wrong to be sitting here clinging to anders like he could avoid all his responsibilities if he just stayed down here in darktown. ]
I suppose I'm stalling again, aren't I?
[ he releases his tight hold on anders, cupping his pectorals under the palms of his hands to squeeze him there. ]
You can't blame me getting distracted...
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if hawke could stay here, he'd invite him to, but there's nothing to stay for but him, and he fears that's not enough to justify the asking.
laughter shivers through his throat when hawke grabs his chest, eyes wrinkling at the corners with his smiling. ]
Is that what it is? Maybe I should start going shirtless.
There were these robes... Some of the mages had them in Ferelden...
[ it's not much of an explanation, but he's still laughing. he's been explaining so little tonight. not even tonight. before, when he told hawke why he'd needed his help in the sewers, and out in the bonepit, and up in the chantry — he wishes he could say the reason why. he wishes he could lay it out for him. wishes, even, that they could go together in this, but there's no worth in risking his plan and hawke's well-being at the same time. he's already beyond forgiving himself. what comes after that? what kind of punishment could he devise on his own? it seems like he would deserve one.
he knows he already does. ]
I've told you what you mean to me, Hawke. Just know that it's true.
[ anders lifts one of the rags from the water and wrings it out, handing it over once he's done. then he picks up his own and washes his face with it, behind his ears and down the length of his throat, down his chest and his stomach. ]
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[ hawke rubs his nose against anders's shoulder, kissing his skin where the sweat's drying tacky. shirtless robes. hawke's trying to picture it. on anders, of course. with what he's heard of the circles he can't imagine them running around with their chests hanging out. then again, if anders is right about some of their goings-on, it seems awfully convenient. he never really got to know the robe styles mages in the circles wore, since they never applied to him. his father kept some in a trunk with the rest of their unused things, but hawke never took them out to examine them.
he reaches for anders's cloth when he holds it out, sitting back on his heels to rub over his neck and chest, cleaning his belly where he came on his own stomach and then down between his legs. they made a mess of each other. he's relishing the cleaning up almost as much as what came before.
almost.
that's the key word there. ]
I'd like to see you in those someday.
[ he's not sure where he'd find them. any contacts he has in the gallows are rapidly becoming consumed with their own problems. he doesn't want to make their lives any more difficult. everyone's under a lot of pressure right now. hawke's trying not to think about that right now. his consideration belongs to anders, and him alone. whatever casual mood hawke's trying to cultivate, it falters a little at anders's next statement. he's certainly not giving hawke any reason to feel better about their standing. ]
I know.
[ he does know that much. he can be confident in how anders feels about him now, if nothing else. ]
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hawke's been trying. he loves him for that too.
but hawke was speaking to him, trying to carry on a conversation. anders picks his head up like he's only just remembered, gooseflesh rising where his skin is clean and damp and cold despite the warm water. his fingers are pink. so are his elbows and his knees against the ground. he turns toward hawke so he can face him when he picks up the thread again, sitting on his legs, stopping again when he sees him to take in the sight. it's been at least an hour since hawke got his clothes off — since he helped him out of them — and it's still shocking to see him in this state of undress. he takes a deep breath, breathes out through his nose. ]
Maybe I could arrange that.
[ there's no way he has the time, but maybe it's not impossible. he knows where to get these things, even if it's just to borrow.
at least he'd like it not to be a lie. ]
Sometime... Soon.
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[ hawke smiles, feeling settled when anders comes back to him. it was his back that set him off, but hawke's feeling rather fond about the front of anders these days. if he's facing him at least it means he's here and engaged. too many times hawke has worried about him drifting off. he blames justice, although he knows anders doesn't think of it that way. he's complicated, and hawke doesn't mind negotiating the space of his mind until they come to some kind of understanding.
he wants to understand anders. he's beginning to feel like they belong together, which is a lot for someone who doesn't much believe in destiny. maybe he should change his policy, considering how his life has turned out. ]
Sooner is better than later, in fact.
[ in case he hasn't made himself obvious enough. hawke leans in and kisses anders's cheek, then the thin bridge of his nose. it's getting chilly in the clinic now that they're damp. hawke's going to have to get back into his clothes, soon. the last thing he wants to do is make the trek all the way back to his empty manor now. it's a ridiculous house for one person. and for some reason, the servants just make him feel worse. ]
Do you want to come home with me?
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there's no way he can refuse.
not when he puts it like that.
anders wets his cloth again and runs it over the insides of his thighs, as though he's trying to make himself more presentable before answering. he licks his lips and smiles gently, eyes dark in the dim light. the number of times he's done something he shouldn't... well, it makes it seem trivial, doing another. the muscles of his throat move but he can't quite seem to swallow. it works the second time he tries. that's the last thing he needs, his body becoming unreliable when his mind's already waiting to take the long dive. ]
You would really want me there?
After... What I've told you?
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he leans forward and sets his hands on anders's knees, tilting his head to kiss him on the mouth. ]
I want you there.
[ it doesn't matter to hawke what he's done. and there's a part of him that still thinks that if he gets anders home, in a place where they both feel comfortable and safe, he might be able to get him to calm down. hawke's still chasing that sensation that something's wrong. he doesn't want to think about it, but if he's had enough of ignoring things in the vain hope that they'll get better. ]
I want to be with you.
[ he's had enough of ignoring his own needs too. there's a worry in the back of his mind that he's being too pushy in all this, but he's trying to dismiss it. it's hard for him to ask for anything. anders has always made it gentle on him, though. like he wouldn't mind whatever hawke wanted. ]
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[ his throat feels strange. too tight, like someone is choking him. he turns his head to kiss hawke anyway, placing his hands over his on his knees after he sets aside the cloth he's been washing with. it's not so easy to leave behind the idea that he should be stepping away, but it's not really as easy as making a plan and following it through. there are other things to think of, whether or not they're more important than what he's doing. right now, he's just waiting. he doesn't have to do anything.
somebody said something like that to him once. ]
I want to be with you, too.
Let's get dressed.
[ his voice comes out faint, but hawke's close enough that he can hear him.
anders squeezes his hands, rubs them up over his wrists and his arms, and then takes his hands away. unfolds to search for his clothes where they fell, handing hawke his as he goes, pulling on his pants and tugging his chemise down over his head. it knocks his already loose ponytail free, the tie falling to the floor. he doesn't take the time to look for it while he's shrugging into his coat (which he doesn't bother to do up) and unfastening all the straps on his boots so he can step into them and fasten them again, his hair falling messily into his eyes.
the bandages he leaves, and his armguard too. he kicks them under the cot for safe keeping. ]
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contemplating his own selfishness is a zero sum equation anyway. he never gets anywhere and there's nothing he can do about it now.
anders wants to be with him. that's enough for now, isn't it?
hawke breathes out a sound of assent, getting up and wobbling dangerously on his feet before he's regained a proper balance. he pulls on his clothes like they're foreign to him. he's got no memory of where they landed, and for good reason. he was otherwise occupied at the time. anders takes up the breadth of his attention whenever they're together. he finds it difficult to look at anyone else the same way. he always had some difficulty paying attention to the viscount or seneschal bran when he was imagining the faces anders would be making behind him.
not anders's fault, exactly. he can't help it that hawke's a child.
he recovers his shirt and pulls it on over his head, his trousers next and his tunic over top of that, finding the sash where anders pulled it loose. he has to sit on the cot to tug his boots on, and he steals a glance toward anders as he does so. it's easy for hawke to lean forward, snatching the little tie for his hair up off the ground. he holds it in one hand while he touches anders's face with the other, sweeping his bangs back. ]
I like you all disheveled.
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his cheek is rough against hawke's hand. he takes the tie from him and pulls his bangs back, watching through lidded eyes at hawke as he watches him. some moments last longer than others.
anders draws his tongue across his bottom lip, eyeing hawke's mouth. ]
More than usual? It's not a rare look on me.
[ even when he had the inclination to spend time on his appearance he had a certain way about him, it's just that it was purposefully cultivated. vanity was one of the few things one could attend to in the circle that wasn't frowned upon by the templars, at least so long as it didn't involve any form of blood magic. eternal youth is a tempting offer for some.
he holds his hands out to help hawke up from his rickety cot. it's really a wonder it didn't collapse on them. ]
Shall we?
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he's certainly not going that far. he'd only ruin his fine clothes tramping through a sewer or another spider-infested cavern at the wounded coast. he dresses to suit his position in life, if not society. and he suspects that anders probably does the same. ]
You don't have to ask me twice.
[ he's only too happy to take anders's hands, letting him haul hawke up. there's a strength in anders that's belied by his skinny limbs. hawke doesn't let him carry his weight that often, but he knows that he can if he needs to. sometimes knowing it's enough.
hawke can't help the smile that breaks over his features when he stands next to anders, leading the way out of his clinic. if he feels guilty about pulling darktown's healer away from his duties for a spell, well, it only lasts for a moment. he watches anders out of the corner of his eye, reaching to hold his hand after a moment's pause. ]
I'm glad you're coming with me.
[ that's an understatement if ever there was one. anders doesn't need to know how hawke can't bear to return home to empty rooms and an empty bed. ]
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he's not sure how long he can keep it up.
his smile isn't shy, but there's something else holding him back. it's the same thing that had him give all those warnings. it's the same thing that had him hesitate to say how he felt. it's the same thing that drove him to lie when he asked hawke for his help. these plans of his never seem to go how they're meant to. and he knows the stray variable — it's him.
before they leave, he picks up his staff and fastens it to his back, then takes hawke's hand again, slipping their fingers against each other. just in case. it's not a short walk up from darktown, past the refugees — some of who know him on an nearly personal basis — and up the tall flight of stairs into the labyrinthine corridors of lowtown, smoke hanging pot-bellied in the sky. the noisy sounds ringing out from the tavern strike him with a strange sense of longing for another life, one he had so many years ago. now he's on the other side, walking past empty stalls and up to the gilt stone streets of hightown. normally he'd never be seen here so late at night.
the air's clearer, but it still feels stuffy with the viscount's keep rising above all. but that's not the problem these days. the problem is that it's empty. leaving only...
his fingers twitch. ]
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not that he'd planned on staying the night. but he wasn't thinking with that particular staff when he came down to darktown.
now they're making their way out again together. it makes a big difference with company. hawke doesn't feel the familiar weight settling over his shoulders when the mansions of hightown's nobility rise into view. he's not returning alone to the house his mother was taken from, to make idle talk with servants and his dog. he's got anders wth him. and they're going to bed together.
he'd be smiling if it wasn't for the obvious tension in anders's limbs.
hawke unlocks the door and leads him inside. it occurs to him that he doesn't have to tell anders where his bedroom is, judging by the manifestos he's stuffed here and there over the years. hawke greets bodahn and orana, then jogs up the stairs to get dog off the bed before anders sees. ]
Come on. We've talked about this. I have guests.
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