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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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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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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... ]
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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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[ if he's being honest. and he is being honest. he usually is with hawke, which is why it sets upon him so terribly to be lying now, and about something so important to him. important to kirkwall. important to hawke.
but he steps with hawke when he takes his hands like it's easy; easy to do, easy to forget that the thing that's been grabbing at him, trying to tug him backward, is still here, still tangled bramble-like around his ankles, and it's climbing to try to take the rest of him. this is the only thing he has in the whole of his life to look forward to, hawke and his plush, warmly-lit room. hawke fits in this place like he's a part of it, but that only makes it easy to see when he doesn't feel that way. sometimes it seems like he's shying from the association, and not because he doesn't want to seem pompous or distant. it's a kind of distance itself. it's been that way since his mother died.
like in losing her, he lost some connection that he'd had to this place. anders doesn't think of kirkwall as his home any more than he thought that way of ferelden, but hawke — he doesn't know what he thinks now. there must have been a time when he felt differently, but he doesn't know anymore. he's lost a lot of things these past three years. he's separated himself from everyone.
and now he's standing in hawke's bedroom, hands in his. being offered... what? ]
A habit. You mean...
[ it feels like he's jumping to conclusions, but even if he can't hide his shock in the way he tears his eyes from the floor, he has an instinct for these things. ]
You're asking me to stay. And... Not leave.
I'm not sure that's wise.
[ very romantic. ]
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he's always imagining it'll end, this feeling. that he'll grow past it. he's bound to, isn't he? time heals all wounds. not bethany's, of course, and not his mother's. but hawke gets the sense that the person who wrote that wasn't very imaginative.
hawke's imagination isn't what does him in, but it might as well be, these days. people with no imagination don't take on an arishok in single combat and land themselves in unexpected positions of power.
but he's tired of feeling sorry for himself. that's what this was supposed to be, holding anders's hands in his very own bedroom. he's moving on. although anders's answer does leave something to be desired. hawke's face falls imperceptibly before he rallies. ]
I'm not saying you couldn't ever leave. I'd let you nip out for a breath of fresh air every now and then. Holidays, maybe.
[ maybe it's something about this room. people get into it and then realize the mistake they've made. ]
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his expression is already fallen, so it's intractable when it falls further, his heart sinking low in his chest. the reality is, there's nothing he can do. he couldn't help leandra, and carver's only option was the only option he was given to when he was still running. he thinks still like he isn't running now. running from hawke this time, it seems.
anders shakes his head almost imperceptibly, just a twitch of his chin. ]
Haven't we talked about this? I'm going to be gone before then.
[ he's not going to see another holiday in kirkwall. not that anyone in darktown has ever done much celebrating; it's something about the atmosphere of oppressive stone ceilings and bare, crumbling hovels. ]
You deserve a future. You deserve someone who can say that they'll be with you.
I can't.
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he's got this faint sense that whatever's happening with anders right now is leading its way toward something new, and he doesn't like it. he's foing to start forming associations with his bedroom if this keeps up. but he does understand logically that it's not the bedroom's fault. it's the person who occupies it. probably.
but he knows anders likes him. he might have misinterpreted how much. that doesn't seem right either. hawke squeezes his hands lightly, trying to reach him. ]
I wish you'd tell me what...
[ he runs into a little trouble when he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. he doesn't know what's going on with anders. he's been harried ever since they went to the bone pits, which is understandable. hawke should maybe have taken all his hints and left him alone, but he had to push and now they're here. he couldn't leave well enough alone. ]
Are you so sure that you won't be around?
[ hawke's proven he can't always protect the people closest to him. he can't promise that to anders. but he'd so like to. ]
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that he knows he is and still can't grasp it... it's a deficiency on his end.
anders looks from hawke's face, to his chest, to his hands. hawke's hands are bigger, fingernails blunted and wide. his hands are smaller, fine-boned. he's broken a wrist before, hitting too hard with his staff at the wrong angle. it's still hanging heavy on his back, out of place in this gentle scenery, the light all dulled and soft-edged. he rubs the pad of his thumb over hawke's knuckles. ]
I can't see any other outcome.
[ they're going to have a conflict of interests, and very soon. ]
Don't mistake me. I'm not saying I don't want this. My life has only been better for having you in it.
But what I want no longer has meaning. I've already lied to you once; I can't lie to you about this.
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he doesn't know the right questions to ask. he wants to lean in and kiss anders again, but it seems like an invasion of privacy.
anders seems to be trying to preserve some distance between them, whether because that's what he wants or not. after what happened with fenris, hawke isn't all that interested in assuming people's wants and needs. it doesn't seem right. ]
I want to be with you. And if you don't feel differently... There must be something we can do.
[ he refuses to accept that if they want each other there's nowhere for them to go. he doesn't like the implication that what anders wants doesn't matter anymore either. he knows he can't blame everything on justice; anders has said himself that they're closer to one and the same than everyone thinks, and hawke guesses he has to take his word for that. if anyone knows, it's anders.
but justice makes him grumpy in moments like this one, where he hears anders dismiss his own needs. hawke's always known he's a selfless man. he knew who he was falling for. but he's let himself believe that maybe there was something he could say to bring him around. maybe it makes him selfish to want a compromise. ]
I'm not asking you to lie. Just -- give me a chance.
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can he live vicariously through the lives of people never met, and not yet lived? it's what he's trying to change that chases him. it's the future that he's looking into, no matter that he can't see himself in it.
hawke is held at arm's length, both near and far, with his hands in anders'. there's a tension in his fingers that doesn't belie his dislike of this distance; chances are he doesn't like it because he's holding them there.
anders lets go of hawke's hands to unspring the trap. ]
A chance at what?
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