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

[vengeant]

[ 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. ]

Comments

[vengeant]

No.

[ 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.

[havik]

[ hawke's not sure what kind of reception he was expecting until anders shows him immediate acceptance. he's relieved beyond words. it's been a long time since he's let one of his more private thoughts out into the open like that. he's never had room for them in his family. after father, then bethany, it was on him to provide both security and solace for mother and -- well, carver's beyond hope. he did what he could for him while he was around. he's doing better outside the house than in it.

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.

[vengeant]

Yes.

[ 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?

[havik]

[ hawke huffs a soft laugh against anders's throat where his skin is wet beneath his mouth. it's hard to imagine that they were having such a fraught conversation only minutes ago. he'd give anything to be able to make anders secure in his place in the world. he knows that thedas itself hasn't done much to make anders feel like he belongs. and it's not that he's helpless. it'shis own choices as much as anything else that have led him to where he is today.

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.

[vengeant]

You won't hear that from me.

[ 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?