orthland | they'll rip you apart, i swear that they will.

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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. ]

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[ hawke huffs out a soft laugh against anders's throat, feeling him shift under his own body. he follows lazily after him with the suggestion of movement, wiggling his own hips in slow, side to side motions as he starts to sit up. there's no room for him to roll over -- if he does, he'll hit the floor, but he's trying to make some space for anders to get up as best he can.

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?

Better.

[ 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. ]

[ he shouldn't let anders take care of things. it's a guilty nagging sensation in the back of his mind, something instilled long ago that keeps him feeling bad when he remains sitting while other people are working. not that what anders is doing counts as work, but the principles are the same. he's doing something and hawke is... sitting. lazily. like a lump.

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. ]

[ anders registers that hawke's stood and kneeled but nothing else about his state of mind is obvious until his arms come around him from behind, stopping him with one hand still in the water, which is not quite steaming, but still warm enough that it's pinkened his skin. whatever is the matter, suddenly, he knows that something is the matter, and that this isn't just hawke being playful and seductive (something he can't say he would have minded). it piques a thread of worry in him, a conscientiousness that first came about because of the circumstances that brought them together.

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?

It's all right.

[ 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.

Oh.

[ 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.

[ hawke has no way of knowing whether it's too much, if he wasn't supposed to say anything or if it dredges up old wounds for anders. he likes to think he's known him long enough to be able to tell when he's made a misstep, but anders has been more vulnerable of late. hawke can't always tell what he's thinking these days. he gets worried about him. he forgot about his troubles for a time, when they were fucking on the cot. but they've swamped back over him now that he's on his knees.

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. ]

[ lingering feelings does nothing to describe the breadth of what he means when he says those words, but it's beyond that now. it's not that he couldn't say it again, or that he won't, but there's nothing they can do to change their circumstances. there's only one thing that can be done, and he's the one who has to do it. so no one else has to. so hawke doesn't have to. it's the only way he has left to keep him safe. if it means he'll be hurt, then that's on him too. he'll take all the blame laid at his feet, because that's where it belongs. he'll shoulder it for himself gladly.

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. ]

[ hawke can't ignore the way anders is talking, as much as he'd like to. he might have been able to, before. but he went against his better judgement by coming here and now it feels wrong to pretend like he isn't piqued by the implication that anders is going somewhere. he's not much of an optimist these days, hawke. he can't tell himself that he doesn't know what it sounds like -- that anders could be going somewhere in the metaphysical sense.

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.

Yes, I do.

[ 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?

[ hawke breathes out in soft dissent against anders's statement, although he knows better than to argue outright. he'll get pulled into an endless debate if they start in on that. hawke knows what he means to him. maybe he's got to just keep that to himself for the time being. he doesn't mind holding onto it until anders is ready to hear what he's meant to him.

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...

[ anders swallows and forgets to speak, lost and distant for as long as it takes hawke to continue speaking. is he the one who's stalling, or is it him? sitting on the ground heating and re-heating their water to give hawke a reason to stay for longer than he needs to, to give him a reason not to leave back to his highttown estate.

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. ]

Mmm?

[ 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. ]

[ it's good — a good thing. his attention turns inward while he washes, but he has no thoughts for himself or anything else for a long minute, just the usual gentle diatribe of things he has to do. things he has yet to do. things that have to be done, under any circumstances. that's what got him here, the part where the circumstances no longer have bearing on the severity of their reaction. his reaction to them, and what he's to do to combat them. things are going badly in the gallows; by now everyone has noticed. very few people are doing anything about it.

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.

Soon is good.

[ 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?

[ sooner is better than later. who knows if he has a later? that doesn't surprise him. it does surprise him, however, when hawke invites him to the estate. chances are it shouldn't, what with hawke's earlier suggestion that he visit more often, but it does anyway. mostly because he's thinking he shouldn't take the offer. it's one thing for him to pop by a little more frequently — nothing's ever stopped him from making up excuses before, and half the time there's no one he needs to tell them to because hawke doesn't ask questions and nobody else cares — but it's another thing entirely for him to... go to bed with him. that is what he's asking. for anders to stay the night.

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?

[ hawke's distracted from cleaning himself off, rubbing at his own thighs and his lower back while anders talks. he's distracting. he's a distracting man. hawke doesn't often allow his focus to be swayed, but he's put this off for years now. he tried to ignore the natural chemistry between him and anders and that didn't work out so well. in many ways, kneeling here on the floor of anders's clinic feels inevitable to him.

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. ]

I...

[ 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. ]

Edited 2015-02-12 16:29 (UTC)

[ he's satisfied momentarily with the confirmation, even if it sounds like anders is holding something back. hawke can't expect to pick him apart all at once. and in the back of his mind there's the knowledge that there might not be anything to get at. anders has been increasingly paranoid of late, his mental well-being deteriorating alongside the condition of the city. sometimes hawke wonders whether he himself doesn't have a more personal attachment to saving the city, since it relates so directly to anders and his own issues.

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.

[ anders isn't watching hawke while he dresses, which is an oversight, he thinks, when he does glance up and hawke's fully clothed and handing his hair tie to him. hawke makes a handsome sight done up in his finery, but he prefers it the other way, if he's honest. and he is usually honest with himself, to the point of pain. either it's a personality flaw, or it's justice. he can't remember. he can't remember being this straightforward about himself before, but his memories are muddied.

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?

[ hawke hums in the back of his throat, not quite disagreeing but not chiming in with anders's opinion either. maybe he's right, and he's never all that buttoned up, but hawke's gotten used to seeing him and thinking of him a certain way. his hair being undone disrupts his usual image, so to speak. neither of them is particularly well-coiffed most days. anders takes care of his appearance and hawke does too, to some level but now he has nobles to compare himself to.

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. ]

[ anders squeezes hawke's hands when he's pulling him up, and again when hawke takes his hand in his own. when hawke kneeled down in front of him at his desk and took his hands he didn't know he'd be staying the night at his estate. he couldn't have envisioned it. maybe in his dreams or his fantasies, but for so long it hasn't mattered how he's felt. now they're doing something else. something new. trying to pretend the city isn't falling apart around them.

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. ]

[ hawke's keeping an eye on anders as they walk, not for any reason more than that he likes watching him. in the back of his mind, he's maintaining an awareness of their surroundings -- it's not uncommon for him to be ambushed somewhere in lowtown, and he didn't bring his staff to anders's place because he had other things on his mind.

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.

[ it's not unusual for him to stop by the estate whether hawke's in or not — they've all made a habit of it over the years. he's had a hand or two of wicked grace with varric and isabela here, and a few unfortunate occasions with the dog added into the mix that he doesn't have very pleasant memories of. it doesn't do much to instill pride.

speaking of dog, he can hear the whining coming from the bedroom. anders walks past him trotting down the stairs he's walking up with his doggy head hanging. when he steps into hawke's bedroom, after he closes the doors, he turns to give him a half smile. ]

Did you kick him out?

[ that's just what it looked like. he's not making accusations.

anders rubs his left hand over his right wrist, gaze dropping to the carpeted floor. the little strands of hair not held back by his ponytail hang in his face, damp and darkened where he caught them while he was washing up. the fireplace is warm, lighting the room and flushing his skin with heat. usually he has a firepit or two lit in his clinic at any time, but without the insulation they're not good for much besides ambiance. it's always just enough. it doesn't feel right to complain, and most days he hardly thinks on it, but he can't lie to himself and say he's never come here for comfort's sake, either.

it's not safe in the same way; he can't depend on the anonymous crowds of ferelden refugees to camouflage him, but hawke's status has kept the templars at arm's length on more than one occasion.

he's not willing to push it, though. that luck won't hold out forever. and with what he's about to do... ]

[ hawke watches anders close the door, swallowing as his pulse starts to race. no matter how many times he tries to tell himself that they've already gotten to the good part, his body doesn't seem to get the message. it's not following. being alone with anders is exciting. it always has been. hawke's wasted a lot of time waiting for everyone to clear out of his mansion just to have a chance at a moment with anders. now the house feels empty all the time and anders is distant.

he thought he missed his chance. but they're making up for that now, aren't they? ]

Don't make it sound so heartless. There's not room for all three of us in the bed.

[ he's thought this through. dog is about the size of a grown man, and hawke's sure his bed won't fit three of them in there. he made a loyal companion for the lonely nights when hawke couldn't bear the thought of his mother's room lying empty down the hall. he was never much for nightmares in his youth, but apparently he was saving them all for his adult life.

hawke reaches out for anders's hands, taking them and leading him in the direction of the bed, by way of the fireplace. he gets caught up in the warmth of it, not to mention he's feeling a little skittish about having someone up in his bedroom again. ]

We could make a habit of this you know.

[ it's not like him to beat around the bush, but anders's brittle nature has instilled him with a kind of belated caution. he wants to feel his way around the idea first before he foists it on him. ]

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