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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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he knows he should have trusted hawke with this now that it's come out, but he's trusted hawke to be many things. hawke can't be everything. that's the problem they have, looking up to him, isn't it? that they expect too much. he's tried to limit his own asking to what he can't do on his own, or what he's believed hawke needed to see, and be a part of, but that doesn't mean he hasn't stretched it thin. hawke is a man, whatever else he is; champion, mage, brother, son.
there was a time he might've said the same about himself, but times have changed. anders, justice, vengeance — they're the same. that's what it means to take a spirit into your body. to subsume yourself. the joining of two minds isn't nearly as romantic as people make it out to be.
anders swallows. he doesn't feel like he's a good person. he feels desperate. ]
Does this mean you don't want me to leave?
[ that is what they'd been talking about beforehand, although he assumes hawke's reassessed whether or not it would be a good idea to have him stay — move in. but if he could stay the night...
well, he would like to. even if it's just once. ]
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he doesn't need hawke to be an added weight on his shoulders. he needs someone to lift him up, to provide an additional support against the myriad forces trying to drag him down. darktown isn't the farthest a man can fall. not in the least.
hawke's been looking for the right stand to take, some way to make a real difference in the city. he should have known anders would know for him. he's very smart. he's always had a sharp perspective on the politics of the city. he represents an understanding of the world that hasn't come naturally to hawke. he always lived so far out of the way. by necessity, of course.
but he's kept himself safe long enough. compared to the lives of the other mages he's seen, he feels impossibly lucky. it isn't fair of him to stay below the radar forever. even now, his position gives him opportunities no one else has. ]
I want you to stay.
[ hawke rubs his hands together, clasping them in front of him. right now is when he would have an excellent little joke stored away to make anders laugh. but he's coming up blank. ]
So... Yes.
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he isn't a machine finely tooled for one job, no matter how often lately he might wish he was. wouldn't it make things simpler? quicker? but if he's going to think like that he might as well go join the qun. there are so many things he could have done differently, but the past is untouchable territory. even magic, for all its power, and the fear it inspires, can't change such things.
anders smiles despite himself. it's wanting for something. ]
Thank you.
I don't think there's any way I could ever possibly repay you for all you've done for me. I don't know what will happen, but... Even if we only have this night...
I'm happy to have been with you.
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he doesn't know what they'll do after. the city's going to be torn apart. depending on who's blamed, they'll have to get to the gallows. he's not paranoid to the extent that anders is, but he's aware that aside from him and the city guard, the templars are a large authority in the city. they would take the attack on the chantry as an attack on them directly. he doesn't know how they'll retaliate yet.
hawke winces at anders's words. despite the understanding they might've come to, he still feels oddly like he's being rejected. maybe he needs to take himself out of the equation here. he has some ego built up in this situation that seems oddly out of place.
he's being selfish, probably. ]
Do you have to talk about it in the past tense already? I haven't messed it up yet.
[ that's a little closer to his usual sense of humor. he's rallying, slowly, but surely. ]
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[ anders is still smiling when he winces. he doesn't know if he's talking about what he's planned to do or their relationship, such as it stands. maybe he's talking about both. there's a wide margin for error, either way. and he certainly has a history of them, whether it's judgement-calls or action-in-the-moment slipping through his fingers and unraveling into something much, much worse than what he had thought that it should be. most of his good intentions have ended with someone dead or someone only miraculously living, and it's always blood on his hands. he can't even tell if this is any different. whether this is justice or vengeance. he only knows that it's the way things have to be.
life traded for life. the logic won't appeal to everyone. it makes his future feel obscure, like the deep, unseeable depths at the bottom of the seabed. weight over the ears and eyes. there was always something waiting for him, and he was always running toward it. justice only made it easier to see. and now he doesn't know what he's seeing.
but what he has to do is clear. ]
I would like if we had the chance to figure it out together.
[ anders reaches out with his hands, palms up, offering them for hawke to take, if he wants to take them. ]
Could we lie down?
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he wasn't sure anders was going to let him bridge it. he's already uncomfortable being as forceful as he has been tonight. he pushed anders for the greater good, but he wasn't sure what would be left at the end of it. he wasn't sure anders would want to be with him afterward.
he's still not entirely sure. but there's a hopefulness to his thoughts that wasn't present before. ]
Come here.
We're going to lie down, and then... Sometime, we'll figure things out.
[ if he's being reassuring, it's only because he's parroting anders's own words back to him. all that hawke can provide is a bed and a fancy house, companionship against the oncoming storm. ]
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he can't ask to be forgiven for that, even if he's remorseful. when he says he's sorry, it isn't for him. asking for forgiveness implies a willingness to change for something being given.
and he can't. can't change.
anders only steps away from hawke to dress down for bed. his hands slip free gently from where hawke is gripping him and he sits on the end of his bed to pull his boots free, and then unfasten the buckles holding his coat closed. he stands up to take his staff from his back and set it propped up beside the doors, then shrugs off his coat and leaves it hanging on the back of the chair pulled in at hawke's writing desk. hawke's memoirs are open to a blank page, and the papers underneath that are letters, notes from varric, crude drawings from who could only be isabela. there's an old stray page from his manifesto that he doesn't remember leaving behind.
when was the last time he was in this room? he can't remember.
his chemise he leaves draped over his coat after he pulls it off over his head and knocks his ponytail loose again. the cord holding his pants closed is haphazardly fastened, knotted in a quick little bow that he unloops pulling one of the strings. for some reason, his heart is still racing. he kneels to pick up the tie for his hair, blond bangs falling into his face. ]
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maybe that isn't accurate. but the things that matter haven't been altered irreparably, and he can feel his pulse flutter when anders pulls away from him. he makes the possibilities seem endless for their future, in spite of his attitude toward the contrary. in an increasingly uncertain world, anders makes hawke feel excited about things.
hawke sits down on the edge of the bed to undress, then gets distracted watching anders do the same. his own clothes have already come off once, so it's easy to follow those same lines that anders took to undress him, tugging at the sash around his waist and pulling off his tunic. he should probably put it away. the wardrobe's nearby. hawke lets his eyes linger along anders's body as his hair slips free.
he hoists himself up with a grunt, heading to put away his clothes where they belong. dog trapped a burglar in this wardrobe once. he's a good pet. he thinks about recounting that story to anders, then decides against it. ]
I'm glad you're staying. I would've had to explain that to Dog, kicking him out for nothing.
[ like explaining himself to his mabari is the worst thing they have to do these days. but hawke's going to bed with anders tonight and they had sex in his clinic. he can't get too worked up about the rest. he'll confront it when it comes, the same way he does everything else. ]
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he'll adapt. he always seems to. if he lived in darktown for six years, he can spend the night with hawke in his home.
their eyes meet and he smiles. it's not quite laughter, but his eyes wrinkle at the corners like he wants it to be. he tucks his hair behind his ears, fiddling with the hair-tie in his hands. ]
We wouldn't want that, would we? How does one make up to a scorned Mabari?
[ his dog experience is limited.
anders shimmies out of his pants and socks and leaves them over the seat of the chair, feeling exposed even though hawke saw him naked not an hour ago. all things considered, his room has to be more private than the clinic. and yet... perhaps because this is hawke's home, and not his clinic, it feels out of place for him to be undressed here. ]
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[ hawke's undressing in front of the wardrobe, tugging off his undershirt and trousers, socks and underclothes. it surprises him when he turns around and anders is still standing across the room, naked and somehow shy. despite the forceful way he speaks about his convictions, and the confrontational approach he has in his friendships, anders has always displayed a certain reticence toward hawke.
it makes him feel different. they stand out with one another.
if anders isn't going to get into bed, then hawke will. it seems only right to set the stage, if he's the host and all. he pads barefoot across the plush rug, then slides in, wiggling over to the far side next to the window. there's no draft, but it's still undeniably warmer on the side with the fireplace. anders has never displayed any particular sensitivity toward warmth or cold, but that doesn't stop hawke from trying to look after him. ]
Come to bed.
[ hawke holds out his arms, wiggling his fingers. then he pats the empty side of the bed. it's not the one dog slept on. ]
I thought this could be your side. And we can have Bodahn clear some space for you in the wardrobe tomorrow.
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I thought you'd... Reconsidered.
... Well. You won't need to make much room. That's most of my belongings.
[ on hawke's writing chair. the only things he hasn't brought with him are his mother's pillow and his quill and paper, although his stores are dismally low anyway. he hasn't had the time, money, or inclination to write as of late. it just doesn't seem to be enough, falling on deaf ears after all this time.
his adam's apple moves smoothly in his throat, and he turns toward hawke smiling. it's tight around the edges. his eyes are shining. ]
I could grovel, if you'd like.
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anders can write at the desk if he wants. hawke will note down his memoirs for the night, maybe give some affection to dog. then they can retire to the bedroom. hawke has some idea of what to expect in there from anders now.
at least, he has a preview. he gets the sense that there's a lot in there he hasn't seen yet. ]
I've got everything I need right here.
[ it makes him feel a little selfish and rude to imply that anders could stay here without any things at all. ever since he became rich, it's been a constant threat in the back of his mind that he'll become awful and overbearing like all the other hightown nobles. aside from varric, none of his friends really have any money. it makes him feel a little awkward. he wants to be a good person.
it's still not untrue, though. all he wants is anders.
he reaches out to touch his chest, curling his hand around the side of his neck. ]
What does groveling look like on you?
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what does it mean that he has to? that he's proved his own point. he hopes that's what it means.
his breath leaves his mouth on a shudder with hawke's hands on his chest and his neck, with him feeling slight again under the weight of that muscle. his hands find hawke's wrists, touching over bone and sinew, over tendon and soft flesh with his fingers bent around him. he doesn't hold on hard. he doesn't need to. ]
Um.
[ he hasn't thought that part through, has he? ]
Anything you want it to look like, I'd imagine. Should I be showing you?
[ when he's already touching hawke it's just follow-through to run his hands up his arms, hairs sticking up under his palms, touch his chest (like he's mirroring him) and then carry it further, fingertips flat down his stomach, his other hand curved around his back for leverage while he pulls himself in closer. their hips brush, but he doesn't rub them together. it's a suggestion. or he's teasing. hawke can decide. but he deserves something after all of this — whatever it was. the truth coming out the wrong way. now they're stealing time. ]
Maybe... Like this...
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he'd blame the tendencies on the trials of his difficult life, but anders has been through far more than he has on account of being a mage. and he manages to be serious all the time.
he seems to like hawke's sense of humor though. that has to count for something. ]
Oh...
[ hawke rolls, shifting to put his weight half on anders instead of the mattress beneath them. it brings their hips together again, hawke brushing lightly over anders again, just to further the teasing. if that's what they're doing. he's not sure yet. but he has some instincts about it. ]
I like this.
[ he's not proud of how obvious he made it that he didn't want to be alone in the first place, but the proverbial cat's out of the bag now. and just as anders likes cats, hawke has to assume that it won't bother him to know how little hawke wanted to live alone. even if he's pandering to his needs just slightly -- well, he's a better man than he gives himself credit for. hawke can remember that, even if anders won't. ]
I've always wanted...
[ well, it doesn't really matter now. ]
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it seems like too much, the way he's been going on recently.
anders presses his knuckles against hawke's spine where it dips, light on the pressure. his right hand he raises to hawke's face while he mouths against his cheekbone where the skin's smooth. that's his attempt at encouragement; a soft, hot mouth, and the suggestion that he could do other things with it if hawke had a mind for him to. he bends his knee, pushing his thigh up between his legs. ]
Don't stop. Tell me.
You can't start like that and then keep it all to yourself.
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he slumps up against anders when he pushes his knee between his legs. he's weak to those tactics after their little encounter in the clinic. ]
I wanted to share my life with someone.
[ it sounds a little embarrassing now that it's out there. but he's never pretended to be anything other than what he is. he doesn't consider himself a traditionalist, but his relationships are important to him. he's deeply committed to the people around him. anders more than anyone else lately.
hawke spreads his legs over anders's knee, rubbing himself up against his skinny thigh. ]
I can't think of anything funny to say about it. Does that mean it's sad?
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[ there's no hesitation. he doesn't have anything to hesitate about; of course it isn't sad. he wants to tell hawke he should know that, but who knows? what if he doesn't? hawke's more reticent about the things that he wants than he even had thought. that's what's sad. hawke deserves everything good that he could be given. he deserves even more than that, but he's only human. mostly. mostly human. his smile weakens and he shakes his head to reiterate his point. ]
No, it isn't sad.
[ first it was his freedom taken from him, then it was his humanity. but hawke's instilled him with something justice can't even understand. and it is sad for him to think of such things now, because there was a time when he tried so hard to do that very thing. it's his fault. he took that away from him with his anger and his hatred.
his instinct when hawke presses himself against his body is to push back; he rubs his thigh between hawke's legs, more attention turned toward that heat than the heat between his own legs, thin and sinewy and spread. he bends the knee he hasn't trapped and lifts it, catches his calf around hawke's while he touches the corner of his mouth with his thumb like he's trying to feel his expression when it gets too hard to focus up-close. his voice is thick in his throat. ]
My whole life, I've longed for this.
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the point it, hawke's never really had anyone to talk to about these things. there was never anyone he felt the need to burden with his thoughts and feelings until anders came along.
he always makes him feel safe. accepted. like he could tell him anything and anders would be all right with it. he always takes hawke just for who and what he is. it's incredibly reassuring. he's not sure that's the kind of sexy thing people tell each other in the bedroom, but he's feeling its effects anyway. all the tension in his body has started to bleed out, leaving him languid and pleased.
he buries his face in the crook of anders's neck, biting his throat before kissing it, sucking the red spot that raises up on his skin. he has a delicate complexion for these things. ]
You'll let me give it to you?
[ there's a throaty laugh with anders's name on it following that statement. he knows what it sounds like. he's not trying to be dirty, but in this particular context, well. it does sound rather incriminating doesn't it? ]
A life, I mean. With dinners, and mornings together and we both come home to the same place every night.
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[ by the time the word finds its way from his tongue he's gasping. hawke's mouth is good for more than just talking, but even that could undo him. the sound of his voice alone, deep and guttural, vibrating through his chest, makes him shivery, hot-and-cold, with his heart twisting underneath the beat of hawke's. he scratches his fingernails carefully over his cheek, not leaving a mark. hawke could leave more marks on him, but he doesn't think he has to suggest it.
it might still not stop him from saying something. nothing's going to stop him from saying this. ]
You could give me anything. I never imagined having a life like this.
It seemed too much to hope.
[ anders swallows, gaze sliding away uneasily, slippery as oil. hawke knows what he imagined what was going to happen, he doesn't need to admit for the — how many times has it been? — that he didn't think he'd be alive to share a future with him, that he didn't think this was possible, that he thought he was beyond hope or any brand of redemption. it's not what most people would define as redemption, he's pretty sure about that, but what hawke believes matters to him more than what anyone else thinks of him now. hawke is in a unique position, able to understand what he's gone through, but still with the power to mediate his fate.
if he survives this because of hawke, he's going to believe that he doesn't have to put his head on a block to see justice through. he'll do it for hawke, anyway.
when he looks back at hawke, he's smiling sharply. he presses his hips up. ]
Do you want to give it to me?
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hawke can't say that he would've done anything different in his place. he doesn't have the experience of most mages. it took coming to kirkwall to realize how sheltered he's really been, all those years. how much their father really did for them.
he's managed to undo all that work in a matter of years. him together with kirkwall. hawke likes to think of it as a joint effort.
but he has anders now. here with him. hawke fought for that and he's not about to let anything make him change his mind. ]
I'm not sure I make such a stellar example.
[ it bothers him, a little. that he can't be conventional, that he isn't as cut out maybe for domestic life as what anders deserves. but they're both fairly off-beat. hawke was attracted to the strangeness in anders, the ways in which he already failed to conform to normal society. they both feel most comfortable on the fringes of things. hawke's not sure he'd be able to live with anyone else. when he thinks about the people he's surrounded himself with over the years... well, it's self evident, isn't it?
he is far from a normal man.
but he jolts just like any other when anders pushes their hips together, making him squeeze anders's knee between his thick thighs. ]
I think there's less chance of the bed collapsing, this way.
no subject
[ hawke makes as fine as an example as he's ever known. granted, he hasn't known many. he's seen families torn apart, children taken from their parents, lovers left broken, brothers and sisters growing without knowing they ever had siblings until some sad story makes its way home. he could have a brother or sister he doesn't know about somewhere in thedas. it's an odd thing to confront, but it's not something he hasn't considered. he was young when he was taken, both of his parents still living. although it wouldn't be a shock if they'd given up after the disappointment of having a mage for a child.
when he was first brought to ferelden, he used to pray for repentance. he asked for forgiveness from the maker knelt before blank-faced statues in candlelit rooms, surrounded by chantry brothers and sisters. now who does he ask forgiveness from? their god is gone. they only have other people to depend upon.
hawke has told him over and over that he has his support. even if he hasn't always said it, he's shown it. he's learned how to communicate both in contact and in gesture so reverent it could be devout.
what they're doing right now is both, to anders.
anders nudges upward firmly before lifting both of his hands and sliding them down the length of hawke's back. his hands find purchase around his thighs to spread them apart so he can move again, so his cock is hot and heavy resting against the soft crease of his hip running up from his thigh. hawke's duvet is soft against his back; the contrast isn't lost on him. it's going to stick when he starts to sweat. he aims a bite at hawke's ear and misses, grazing his teeth against thin cartilage instead. ]
That just means you don't have to be gentle.
Would you fuck me?