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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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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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[ hawke doesn't know what they're talking about now, but he does know that anders has let go. he rubs his hands against his thighs just to have something to do with them. maybe it isn't fair, but hawke doesn't know how to have this conversation again. his disappointment in how things worked out with fenris has left him somewhat emotionally shaken.
it's not fair to compare them, but his willingness to beg people to stay with him has gone somewhat downhill of late. it just makes him feel -- tired.
whatever he has to offer, maybe it just isn't enough. that's true of his contributions to the city itself, as well as in his personal life. it's not something he likes to think about a lot of the time, but it's hard not to when he's seemingly chased this scenario down for himself. he knew what anders was going through -- at least some of it. and still he wanted this to happen.
maybe he's being selfish all over again. ]
I'm not saying it has to be forever.
[ he squints a little at that statement, like even he doesn't believe it. but he's trying not to pressure him. trying to divine the nature of the problem by subtly asking around it. ]
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[ his throat works dryly. maybe it's the air, or maybe it's just him. he's done this to him, put them in this place between wanting and not being able to have. when reaching out isn't enough. he shouldn't have said yes in the clinic, he's understanding that now. it would have been easier with a clean break; those always bend better than shattered bone, especially when the soft, wet parts of the body get tangled up in it too; like musculature, like the heart.
anders cross his arms over his chest, squeezing his arms under his hands to feel his muscles move. his gaze drops like he can't look at hawke this way, but it isn't hawke's fault, so it doesn't seem fair to avoid him. he swallows a second time and looks up, brow wrinkled, mouth tight. like if he just let it go he could say anything, everything, to make this better.
but he couldn't mean it. it's the truth that holds him. it isn't setting him free at all, what a crock. ]
I'm trying to warn you. Don't you see?
A relationship doesn't work if there's only one person.
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[ the question comes out soft, a little desperate. they've come to that nebulous point where asking the question outright is less painful than continuing to dance around it indirectly. they're never going to get anywhere if hawke isn't willing to directly confront anders about it.
he doesn't like confrontation. and he doesn't know that anders deserves to have his convictions tugged at. more than anyone, hawke wants to stand beside anders as an ally. he's seen what he's lost personally, to say nothing of what the mages in the gallows stand to lose. this has nothing to do with the political machinations in kirkwall -- as far as he knows it's an entirely personal argument. but it makes him feel like a bit of a bastard for arguing with anders at all, when he already has so much to deal with.
he should have just taken him at his word. but it's too late for that now.
hawke glances into the fireplace, feeling warmed but not particularly comforted. ]
You can trust me.
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[ his voice breaks on the last word. it's funny — probably only to him — because up until now he's been more or less put-together. desperate, maybe, and emotional, definitely, but he's stood strong and uncrumbled. maybe hawke is finally breaking him down. what will happen if he does tell him? the problem is that he trusts hawke more than he trusts himself; but he also trusts hawke to be a good person, and to do what's best for the good of all. the greater good. he's never claimed to be fighting on that side, and he's never thought of himself as particularly good, personally. maybe for a while he was scraping close to something similar when he was traveling with the wardens, his old friends, but that's all gone now. he'll never be a hero.
that's for other people. people like garrett hawke.
if he tells hawke, and hawke doesn't try to stop what he's done, then he's involved himself, hasn't he? it'd be another secret they have to keep, except he knows that hawke doesn't care to keep secrets about the nature of the things he's done. if he stood beside him, he'd do it with his spine straight and his mouth grim, or maybe quirked into a little smile. it makes his heart clench to think of such things.
anders loosens his arms from around his ribcage, lifting his hands and touching his fingers to hawke's cheeks after he's stepped carefully through the light and the distance bisecting them, the fireplace casting contorted shadows with their bodies. ]
I do. But it doesn't change anything. I'm sorry.
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his life's always been messy. there's no falling into place to be had. but that doesn't stop him from hoping.
he doesn't know whether that makes him brave or foolhardy. he knows what carver would say. and he even thinks he knows what his mother would've said. the others -- his friends -- are a mixed bag based upon their own perceptions rather than what's reflected about hawke. which is fine, of course. everyone has their own barometer for personal behaviors. he can't expect anyone else to know him as well as his own family.
some part of him wants that from anders. maybe that's where he's getting tripped up. ]
I promise you can.
[ but that doesn't really mean much if anders has already decided for whatever reason that he can't. more than anything, hawke hates feeling helpless. if there's any one defining reason he has for getting into trouble as often as he does, it would be that anything is better than the crawling, too-hot feeling he gets under his skin when he's doing nothing. ]
Anders...
[ hawke does approach him then, holding him under his elbows where his arms are crossed, using that to pull him forward. ]
I want to be with you. There isn't anything that's going to change that.
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they're beholden to making the sacrifices other people won't. isn't that always the way of these things? a person has to decide it will happen before it does. then, eventually, someone gets there. someone climbs that high. it makes no difference if they end up in the ground after they've completed the journey.
his arms aren't crossed, but he hangs his head. ]
If something terrible were going to happen, you would have to stop it, wouldn't you? At any cost?
[ anders' eyes are dark in this light, and dull as a copper, but he's not unreadable. yet, when he says it, it means both ways.
things have gone too far, but there are too few who don't turn their heads from the gallows, who don't avert their eyes and look at the dirty ground. or at the sky, like the maker is going to save them if they pray enough. no one is going to rescue them from their tower. the proverbial tower he's still locked inside, he's always scaling, only to find himself isolated in confinement again once he reaches the forgiving ground. that's a personal failing. or it's a nightmare. if it were up to him, he'd take the kind that feature the archdemon's toothy, drooling maw.
but some things end and others never do. the archdemon's dead, and people like him are being hung in the gallows. ]
You couldn't know and do nothing.
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he's never argued with anders before. ]
Anders...
[ he's trying to reassure him, even if right now that seems impossible. he doesn't know what he wants to hear because he doesn't know the truth of what's bothering him. every time he seems to get close he can feel it flit away from him again, like a silvery fish in the river. it's not frustrating, exactly, but it makes him feel anxious. like he's running out of time. it'll slip through his fingers altogether at this rate. ]
You say that like my rate of success is all that effective.
[ plenty of terrible things happen in kirkwall every day, and hawke is powerless to stop them. he's trying to discern the source of anders's particular pique. does he know something is happening? it isn't about the mages. he's never coy about that, in particular. ]
What do you know?
[ he's not accusing him of anything, but at the same time, he's not going to get anywhere if he isn't direct. that's the sense he's getting, anyway. ]
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People look up to you. Mages look up to you, and they need you now more than they ever have. Someone to stand up for them, stand by them while Meredith continues on this mad crusade of hers.
[ anders shakes his head, but he closes his eyes and presses his cheek to hawke's knuckles instead of turning away. they're too close, and it makes it too hard for him to back off, whether that might be with his body and hands or with the things that he feels that are eating away at him from the inside like hot, burning coals. he'd do anything to keep hawke safe. he'd tear down this whole city with his own two hands. but like he's said already, it isn't about that anymore. that's only a part of what's holding him back.
of course, in this moment (hawke holding him close, tender, warm in a way the fire that's flickering and throwing light into the room could never be) it's the bigger issue. he's made himself a danger. it's not like he was ever a safe person to be around to begin with, but now...
his life is about to become forfeit. his fingers curl into uneasy fists, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. ]
I've heard talk in the Gallows, whispers that name the Rite of Annulment. It doesn't matter if she receives the Divine's approval or not. She won't stop until we're all dead or made tranquil. You know that, don't you? We're worth less than the blighted rats in this city.
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especially when they both know how each other feels. ]
I'll help you.
[ he's aware that anders hasn't asked him to do anything, but he knows he has a ready ally in hawke. over the years, he's seen just how mages are treated in kirkwall's circle. his sister and father could have been suffering in the same way, all these years. he doesn't need the personal touch to feel the suffering of the mages, though. what kind of a man would he be if he couldn't sympathize with an oppressed people?
it's horrible to think how out of control they've gotten. hawke would have taken the viscount's seat in a heartbeat if he thought his authority would've superseded the chantry's. but they're everywhere, insidious, and their roots go deep.
he always thought he was struggling for reform, but when he thinks about how even his cousin had to vacate the city after they were discovered to have magic, well... maybe it's always been like this. and maybe there's no saving kirkwall at all. ]
Whatever you're talking about. I'll take a stand.
[ he thought he'd been doing that all along, but if anders thinks the city needs a stronger message, then hawke can provide that too. he's more than willing. ]
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his hand fits over hawke's wrist, fingers stilling when they find him. maybe he was going to try to pull him away, but his intentions don't mean anything if it never happens. the best intentions build a garden for the worst evils to be planted in. and he knows that. ]
I know that you will.
[ anders rubs his hand over hawke's, slots their fingers together, holding him near instead of prying him away. like he's trying to savor one last taste of something that he isn't meant to have. they would have had him believe that was his freedom, the chantry. the scars on his back tell that story in clear enough words. and hawke's read them. ]
Everything is going to change soon.
Can you imagine what it would take to do that?
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he doesn't know what it is about him that says casual fling, but apparently that's what he's good for these days. that doesn't seem entirely fair -- he knows the evidence isn't exactly compiled in the same way, but the end result leaves him feeling the same. he's trying to tell himself that it isn't about his feelings
he wishes anders would just come out with it, already. he has to have a reason for being so certain that he won't be around much longer. ]
Are you...
[ hawke rests his forehead against anders's feeling warm where they're touching. ]
I can imagine it would have to be something big.
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