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

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

[ by the time the shadows have lengthened across the ground outside the double doors, hanging open on their hinges from the last grateful family to leave, the clinic has all but been emptied out. it's a strange sight, only tempered by the image of people huddled in ragged clothes not far outside the dooryard. if darktown ever stopped harboring masses of refugees, or smelling of mildew and effluent, he'd have to — well, pick up and move shop elsewhere. it would be quieter, but no-one needs a clinic where there are no people.

anders doesn't nudge the doors shut when he walks back from leaning out of them. the lanterns are enough to write by, but the cast of the sunlight across the bare floors could almost make him believe that there isn't miles of rock situated threateningly above his head. maybe if he squints.

he can't forget where he is, or what it is he's doing. it's a stake stuck in the soft earth inside of him, in the heart of him. the heart is just another part of the body. physically, he knows what he is, who this flesh and blood and bone belong to. the rest, he's not so certain. but they share a common goal, one they might — must — achieve. a basin of lukewarm water is resting on the floor beside anders' desk. he kneels to heat it with his fingertips just breaking the surface, and scrubs his hands clean after with a stiff cloth. he leaves the cloth to dry over the rim and wipes his face with his damp, pink hands, rough stubble scraping his palms, before he pats them dry against his trousers. a message, an idea, can't be destroyed as easily as a body. nor can a spirit. but they've reconciled their differences.

tucked in the back is a clean cot, and he eyes it after he draws himself up from the floor, but somehow the chair tucked under the desk with its hard wooden back ends up presenting itself as the more inviting choice. so he sits, bent forward, and doesn't write, thumbing the pages of an unfinished manifesto, plucking at the feathered end of a worn, ink-stained quill. ]

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[ they probably should talk about it, but he can't bring himself to reiterate the point. it's been three years, apparently, and it's none of his business anyway. not that it's stopped him from saying the things he's said up until now. hawke's problems are his problems. or is that just wishful thinking? ]

He probably isn't fit for that kind of relationship anyway.

[ it might be faint, but it still catches his eye when hawke wilts, kneeled at his feet. anders squeezes his hands like he's going to try to lift him, but they've got nowhere to go. he nudges the toe of his boot against hawke's knee, squashing the urge to let go of his hands and do something else with his own. there are so many things he could do. so many things he wants to do. and so many things he doesn't have the time for. ]

Then you should go talk to him. See what he has to say.

Unless you want me to do it.

[ anders smiles like it's a joke, something secret between the two of them. mostly it is. he would do it if hawke asked him to, but there's no chance he would ever pry an apology out of fenris, never mind whether he's capable of giving one. he's not stupid enough to think it's possible. ]

[ hawke listens with his head bowed, snorting when anders brings up his suggestion. the last thing in the world he wants is for him to think that he has to go talk to fenris on his behalf. hawke can't imagine that conversation ending well. or that both participants would leave it intact. he can't be that selfish for the sake of his love life. it troubles him just to imagine asking. ]

Maybe you're right.

[ he's suspected for awhile what anders is saying, that fenris just might not be suited for the kind of relationship that hawke wants. and if he admits it deep down, that might be why he's been avoiding him all this time. he doesn't want to ask for something fenris can't give and make them both feel worse.

he catches anders's smile and it warms him somewhat. being around anders always makes hawke feel like a more settled version of himself, although he couldn't say why. it's not just finding another mage here in the city, an apostate from circumstances completely different from hawke's own. it was lonely, his upbringing, but he can see now that it protected him from something horrible. anders is the other side of that, but he's lonely too, now.

hawke sometimes feels called here, all the way across the city, but that's the kind of thing varric would write in one of his books. not hawke's style. and not the kind of thought he'd ever commit to paper, when he knows how private his private documents remain. he smiles a little at anders in return, sharing the humor of the moment. it is a little ridiculous of him to be here, now, talking to anders about this. but... ]

Honestly, I'd rather be with you.

[ the sight of hawke on the floor has anders contemplating slipping from his chair to sit beside him instead of staying perched above him. or he could slip off of his seat and into his lap. his throat works with the thought while he traverses the soft surprise of hawke admitting that he might be right. chances are hawke doesn't mean it with the same bitterness as he does when he says it. fenris doesn't even deserve those things, as far as he cares about anything fenris does, but it isn't up to him. it's up to someone else, certainly.

it doesn't mean anything. not when hawke is speaking, smiling at him. ]

You're always welcome.

I don't get much company, aside from the refugees. Isabela and Varric only come around when they need someone to lose at cards against them.

[ not that he doesn't enjoy getting out of darktown, but he hasn't been accepting their invitations recently. the reasons aren't always the same; sometimes it's the vapid pointlessness of sitting in a tavern trying to win a stupid game, or the sure knowledge that if he spends any more time around the people who he calls friends he might not be able to continue calling them friends.

saying goodbye is supposed to be a one time thing, anyway. ]

Well, I can't say I came with any entertainment in mind...

[ he doesn't have any cards to offer. it makes him sheepish, that he keeps coming down here without thinking about anders or any entertainment. he just shows up and expects anders to handle company at any hour of the day. it isn't very considerate of him. he just doesn't like to think about anders alone. maybe that's why he visits so often.

although if he's honest with himself he knows it's not that. not entirely anyway. ]

You shouldn't let them cheat you, anyway.

[ he knows isabela and varric don't mean anders any harm. they're probably his closest friends amidst their little group. and it's nice for him to be with people, and if it doesn't bother him to lose then it shouldn't bother hawke. but he still has stirrings of protective feelings toward anders. it's not as if he charges his patients.

he could stand to catch a break, that's all. ]

I think we can manage on our own.

And don't you worry. They've learned the hard way that if they do that they'll have more than me to contend with. I've won a few hands that way.

[ isabela called it cheating, but he can't help it if justice is better at wicked grace than he is. all he has to do is listen to his good sense.

anders winks, smiling, feeling weightless in a surreal sort of way, like this conversation is happening somewhere else. how he feels in this moment is incongruent with what he's been experiencing in every other moment over the course of the past days, weeks, months. it's bled into years. he opens his mouth to invite hawke to their games — to say, at least, that he should attend them more often — but he hasn't been going. wouldn't it be strange for him to be the one to invite hawke when he isn't there? he can't pinpoint the moment when he began to detach like a limb deprived of blood flow, starved and rotten. hawke counts out the bright spots in what's left of his life.

anders' fingers unfasten from around hawke's and he lets him go, rubbing over the backs of his hands once, pressing his palms against his knees before he draws away. freeing him from his grip. if only it were that easy.

he's not very entertaining. maybe if they had something to drink... ]

Edited 2015-02-04 03:02 (UTC)

[ hawke grins when anders lets his little strategy slip. he would like to be there for that, just to see it. not that he hasn't seen enough of justice in the recent years. he's always relieved when it's another day and anders is still himself. ]

Good man.

[ he means anders and not justice of course, but the two are one and the same these days. or they have been since he's known him, anyway.

he's not sure what to do with his hands when anders lets go of them. he pulls away, sitting on the ground with his back to the desk, finally settling. he draws one knee up to his chest and stretches his other leg out along the floor, tipping his head back until it hits the wood. he watches anders out of the corner of his eye. ]

I'm glad you can take care of yourself with those vultures.

[ hawke can't help himself, so he reaches out again, settling the palm of his had around the back of anders's calf and giving him a little tug, like he'd pull him out of the seat if he could. he's hardly that rude, and anders is hardly the kind of man you roughhouse with -- it isn't a very magey trait -- but hawke grew up with younger siblings. some things are just ingrained. ]

I worry, you know.

[ when hawke says things like that he could swear that he could be — be what he wants to be. be better. it's a running theme with them, that hawke elevates him to new heights, even if he himself is so heavy he weighs down any attempts at lightness he might try. anders isn't a defeatist, but he knows himself. he knows he was a coward and that when he stopped being coward it meant losing something else.

it's hard to believe there was a time when he didn't care what anyone thought of him. ]

It's nothing I'm not used to, trust me. You'd think nobody from Ferelden to the Free Marches knows how to play a straight hand of Wicked Grace.

[ he's held losing hands in taverns all across thedas. half of them he doesn't remember. it's the little things that made life interesting before he crossed the waking sea.

hawke's hand is warm through the leather of his boot when he reaches for him. leaned back with the chair digging into his spine, he watches hawke watch him peripherally, eyeing the line of his jaw, the delicate curve of his throat where his head's propped back against his rickety old desk, his broad chest rising and falling under his smartly-cut coat and tunic. the pressure on his ankle does nothing to keep him rooted. justice might like if it did. justice might like it if he didn't notice what a handsome figure hawke makes sitting on the floor of his clinic with one knee folded loosely to his chest, chin tipped up, the shadowed space beneath his jaw so inviting —

anders bends his knee to push back where hawke is pulling on him, hoping it's encouragement enough for him to continue. hoping it's enough encouragement to keep that warm, heavy hand on him.

when he opens his mouth it's like he's remembering a line he realized he'd forgotten. ]

You worry...?

[ hawke grins when anders pushes back against him, responding to the tug by pulling a little harder, rubbing the sides of anders's heel under his hand. he's small enough that even with boots on, it's easy for hawke to hold him with one hand.

it's rare for them to have a quiet moment in the clinic. it seems like it's been crowded with people in pain the last few times he's visited, anders rushing around in a blur of feathers and bandages. it's something hawke enjoys watching, just standing back and enjoying the attention anders commands when he's in his element.

he's remarkable when he wants to be. and sometimes even when he doesn't.

hawke hesitates, breathing in before he settles into the moment, committing to the fact that he's here. he might as well not waste his time. he said he worried. anders has been on his mind a lot lately, for one reason or another. ]

I wish you'd come by the house more. Just for dinner, or... But I know you're busy.

[ he doesn't want anders to feel like he has additional constraints on his time. he's busy down here, and he has the plight of the mages to concern himself with. having dinner with hawke seems very unimportant when it comes right down to it. the loneliness of one man doesn't stack up to much against the welfare of kirkwall.

but maybe he could stand to be a little selfish for once. the hero thing sure isn't working out for him. saving the day doesn't do much for his emotional fulfillment. ]

Edited 2015-02-04 04:57 (UTC)

[ the only way in which he sees himself remarkable is for the other person inside of his head. that's something to remark on, and plenty of people have. he's heard the word abomination spat in his direction more times than he cares to count. it's a different atmosphere than the one they've shuffled out in the grime and refuse down here in darktown, under the city climbing above them, beside the slow channels running through the mountain. the light that was cutting across his front doors has lost its edge now that twilight is settling in the same way they're settling into each other's company.

if he had the magic to make time go still, he'd use it now. it's the kind of metaphor someone like him would lose their life to.

hawke is probably worth that. he's worth more than him. ]

How could I refuse such an offer? I'm not so busy that I can't visit a friend.

[ a friend. it's right that he has things to see to, but he can always make time. now it doesn't seem like there's much use in extending his selflessness, his altruism, or whatever name there is for what he's doing, keeping this clinic running. the people here have a need for him, and he knows that there's no one yet to replace the niche he filled, but there are things that need him more. callings, obligations, loved ones who he's taken for granted. everything means something when you remember that one day it's going to stop.

isn't it the maker's first children who envy them? hawke's hand seems heavier when he tugs more forecefully, tightening his clutched fingers. not quite a closed loop above the blunt curves of his anklebones, but enough to remind him of the presence he commands. he stops trying to pull away. ]

Edited 2015-02-04 05:38 (UTC)

[ hawke's smile crooks to one side a little at anders's reference to their friendship. he wouldn't normally be sensitive to something like that, but considering how he messed up with fenris he's a little leery of jumping into bed with anyone else who considers him a friend. there have been times when he thought that there was a mutual interest flitting back and forth between himself and anders, but they always stopped just shy of the mark.

at first, he wasn't sure whose decision that was. but he knows anders is fragile. he has his cause. he doesn't seem to mind the distraction, but hawke's cautious of impressing his own desires on his friends. ]

I do try to make it tempting.

[ he gives anders's foot a little squeeze through his boot, lifting his eyebrows up then down. he wasn't really in a playful mood when he came here, but the alternative is bringing anders down. given what hawke's observed lately, that's the last thing he needs.

just because hawke isn't actively helping him with something doesn't mean the part of him that wants to help shuts off entirely. he's always trying to do what he can for his friends in little ways. more than anyone else, anders rises to the forefront of his concerned mind. he thinks of him most often. there has to be a reason for that.

he's still not sure if it's right to let it out. ]

Otherwise I'll just be here, getting underfoot.

[ sometimes apparently literally. ]

[ the expression hawke is wearing after he speaks doesn't go unnoticed. anders is reluctant to jump to conclusions about what that means, about the nature of their relationship and the difference between what it is and what they want it to be. or, what he wants it to be. the things he's said don't leave much room for interpretation on his part, and now he's sitting here pretending like it never happened. ]

I'm not the kind of man who could resist it.

[ anders smiles a sliver of a smile to mirror hawke's own, imagining, self-indulgently, that everything is the way that it used to be. in the first years after they met, they did this, saying things they knew would make them think about one another even when they were alone. maybe specifically at night, in bed, covered by darkness, where thoughts can't be scattered by voice or touch, and where memories can be exhumed for careful, reverent study.

since he joined hawke on his expedition he's spent more time thinking about him than he's done anything else. his smile turns tender and he looks down at his knees, at hawke's hand trapping him willingly, and lifts his arm to brush a stray feather from his coat where it's sticking black and glossy to the fabric. ]

What I said the other day...

Edited 2015-02-04 15:53 (UTC)

What about it?

[ hawke remains still when he asks, since the initial thought is to conceal his true interest in the question. but he's never been all that good at dissembling with anders. most of the time he doesn't see why he should. he's made a habit of pushing aside his personal interests for the greater good, but one of the reasons he so cherishes anders's company is that he doesn't make him feel like he has to.

he can just be himself around anders. not the champion, or a big brother, or the head of a family that's now dwindled to near-nothing. those are all roles that have defined him but he'd go on without them so it stands to reason that there's something underneath them all. ]

Truth be told, I can't get it out of my head. Not that I object to having you on my mind, of course.

[ that's sincere enough, even if it sounds like one of hawke's old lines. the thing is: those were always sincere too. he knows there's something between the two of them. there has been almost from the beginning. but lately he's started to notice anders pulling away. something he's well within his rights to do, of course, but - well, perhaps it's sufficient to say that hawke's noticed. he's still not entirely sure that they're talking about the same thing of course, but that's why he has to know for sure. that's why he's here, isn't it? a fact-finding mission. ]

[ there's a pause in his manner that isn't as ambiguous as he would like it to be. he would like to admit something more than half-finished sentences, but his freedoms are draining away like a sort of blood-letting. it's the irony of the situation. or maybe it's an exchange, his life given for freedoms taken — his inspirations haven't come from the best sources when it concerns the question of longevity. and you need longevity to offer much of anything, isn't that true?

hawke is still holding onto him like he doesn't want to let him go. anders presses his mouth into a line, watching before he speaks again, naked desperation plain in the sound. ]

I can't tell you how often I've thought of you.

After all this time, I don't know how I've held back. And now...

[ at least he knows there's still some honesty left in him, regardless of everything else he's refused to say. his hands grip at his knees, dragging over his thighs, coat wrinkled under his thin wrists, which are hidden by wrappings and the old leather bracer he still wears. it's one of those things he's never thought to replace. it never seemed important.

the things he doesn't and can't say bubble underneath the water's skin like mottled eels, slimy sea creatures from the depths, animals that were never meant to breathe the open air. that's how it stands. certain things must be done, but that doesn't mean it's right that a person has to do them. it was his own decision to call himself the one to usher it into the light. because inaction is a worse temptation than any demon, and he can't do it anymore. ]

This is our last chance. There'll be no going back.

[ as usual, hawke is humbled by anders's honest desperation. it makes him feel like a less worthy man for dodging around the idea of why he's here instead of confronting it outright. as usual, anders is the first to speak up, to do more than just allude to the feelings between them. he's brave. hawke's always known that about him.

he admires his convictions. anders said once that he was like a bright light standing out amidst the dark of kirkwall, but in hawke's view it's the other way around. he's the one who stands out. all jokes about his glowing aside, anders shines.

hawke hoists himself back up onto his knees, bracing his hands on either side of anders's legs, against the rickety chair beneath him. ]

You don't have to hold back.

[ that's why he's here, isn't it? whether it's admirable or not, that's why he's here. he wants to be with anders. he's drawn to him. and something about the way anders talks, coupled with the feeling of unrest in the city makes hawke feel like it's time to stop putting these things off. he thought he had more time with his mother, and that turned out to be wrong. he wouldn't be able to live with himself if the same thing happened with anders.

hawke takes his hands off the chair and reaches to touch anders's face, thumbing lightly over the scruff covering his jaw. ]

[ anders bends when hawke touches his face, rough fingers caught against rough stubble, warming pink skin. it's not a thought he's following through on, just simple, easy movement, the downward motion to make their mouths meet. from there, he knows how to make everything work, how to open his lips against hawke's and lick inside, how to turn his head when their teeth graze so it doesn't sting, how to breathe in so deeply he can hear the sound in his ears, how to keep his eyes closed and how to open them when he decides he wants to see. all he can make out is the color of hawke's skin in the now approaching twilight. his arms are wrapped tight around hawke's shoulders, drawing him up at the same time as he pushes himself, with his boots dug in the ground, to the edge of the chair.

now he's the one holding on in hope that he won't go. he wants to say it: don't go. stay the night. but his mouth is still wet, molded against hawke's, and there are still noises hot under his tongue, and he can still smell the strong scent of his soap.

his his right hand rises to hawke's face and he presses his thumb through the hair thick across his jawline, deliberately outlining, seeing with touch instead of sight. his nose is pressed to his cheek. his breath is heated passing over his skin. it's a world he would like to stay in.

eventually, something is going to have to happen. something other than this.

he only sits up enough so that they can see each other, and then dips down again, both hands on hawke's cheeks. ]

[ this, then, is what hawke's been waiting for. it's both a relief and excitement at the same time. his body doesn't know whether to tense up or sink into relief. he compensates by doing both at once and wrapping his arms around anders to hold himself steady. one of his big hands fits perfectly between anders's shoulder blades, where that slight indent would be if hawke could feel it through his feathers. it's a touch that's keeping him close instead, pulling them both together, keeping anders down where hawke can have him.

he's not very good at asking for the things he wants. it's a pathology, probably. he's better at just taking first and dealing with the consequences of it later. that's probably got something to do with how he messed up with fenris. but anders is different. they're different men.

hawke certainly is different. but being with anders makes him feel more sure of himself. he's sure, for instance, that he wants to open his mouth for anders, letting him slip his tongue past his lips and groaning around the warm, wet pressure of their mouths coming together.

hawke always suspected anders might be good at this. he hinted once or twice that he knew what he was doing in this area. he didn't leave much to the imagination, but hawke imagined a whole lot anyway. what anders could do with those hands and those hips. he likes to think about it, even if he once snapped at anders and isabela for alluding to the same thing.

anders's hands are gentle on his face. hawke would do anything to keep him that way, gentle and with him. of all their friends, despite how tumultuous he can be, anders is the softest heart. it makes hawke want to do anything he can to preserve that in him. he owes him that much.

it's selfish of him too, because as much as he loves it in anders he loves having it for himself. ]

[ waiting defines him. for all the movement in his life — the escape attempts, the sex — he's spent an overwhelming amount of time standing motionless. this is the place where that changes, and he can't deny the fact that he's changed, with this voice inside his head so like his own. they stand on an united front. who's to say who's won? they weren't trying to strike each other down. hawke is just trying to hold him up; whatever he wanted, whatever he ached for, it's always been that.

hawke is holding him, a heavy hand between his shoulders urging him closer, to curl around his body, to be bent out of shape with his thighs spread and his legs folded, boots scuffing up dust when he shifts to make himself more accessible. this is what they're giving themselves, the minutes outside of the minutes, these things they shouldn't have. not because this has anything to do with deserving, but because he has so little of himself left to give. a short life, either way. the carcass of who he used to be.

it's not very appealing.

it's not much of anything.

when anders breaks away he labors for breath, chest rising and falling, pushing against hawke's, the closed collar of his coat caught against the underside of his bearded jaw. he kisses his chin, then kisses his lips for the third time, eyes creased shut, lines deep between his eyebrows, trying to retain this the way he does when he's putting a sentence to memory that he'll later write into his book. i must remember, those are the words he repeats to himself, and only half the time does anything see the page in the same form it took in his mind's eye.

it's a sigh when he breathes out between their parted mouths. ]

I wish this never had to end.

[ there's a tiny smile on hawke's face. it found its way there of its own regard, an automatic reaction to the physical response he's coaxed out of anders. when he speaks, hawke can feel the warmth of his breath on his face, mouth wet where anders was kissing him, where anders keeps returning, gentle and insistent. he doesn't know why he didn't do this ages ago, but hawke's trying not to dwell on the past any longer. that's why he's here, isn't it? he has a whole manor filled with the past to dwell on. he has fenris, in his own hightown mansion, if he wants to look behind him instead of ahead.

he wants to look ahead, for once. he wants a future, and he wants anders to know he's welcome there with hawke, if he chose to be there. it's probably wrong of him to offer himself up as incentive, but hawke's never bound himself by typical social customs.

he licks his lips, darting in to bite at anders's lower one, giving it a bit of a tug. ]

Well, I don't know about never. The population of Darktown might have something to say about that. And... I'd get hungry.

[ he grins, and gives anders a squeeze from where he's kneeling in the dirt. he should probably get up if he doesn't want to be feeling that hours later, but there's the little matter of where to go. he has some ideas, but anders's clinic is just that. it's not exactly made for fooling around. hawke steadies his hand on anders's back, curling his fingers to stroke the glossy black feathers under his knuckles. ]

I'm not going anywhere.

[ anders makes a sound when hawke sinks his teeth into his lower lip that's suspended halfway between an inhale and whimper, something small and plaintive, as wanting as he is on a good day. on a bad day he's insatiable. on a bad day he's suspended in his own sounds, his own breaths, with nothing to break them. how he's beaten his self-control into shape is a mystery to him. it's a secret kept even from himself. maybe it has to do with justice, the things that he wants as opposed to his own desires. there's no way for him to dissect the two. recently it's been worse; he can't tell them apart, he can't distinguish justice from vengeance. their outlines overlap, and to erase one is to erase both.

when anders smiles, it's tempered with undeniable sadness. ]

Let them say what they want.

[ hawke squeezes him close and he continues touching his face, thumbing where his bare cheeks grow rough and his dark hair thickens and lengthens, then up over the defined rise of his smooth cheekbones, still setting it to memory like it's something to be written down. he doesn't keep memoirs the way hawke does. all of his paper goes to one cause; he doesn't have the silvers for anything personal. if he asks, the people at the shop upstairs might find him a quill that's not overly used, but it doesn't set with him well to take advantage of their kindness when they have so little of their own.

his eyes fall to hawke's mouth, glossy-slick. he blinks wearily, contemplating another kiss, but the truth wins out.

his eyes fix somewhere over hawke's shoulder before they flutter back to meet his gaze, his own mouth bent downwards. ]

You're not. I can't make such promises.

[ hawke raises his eyebrows, as if inviting anders to share further. he knows he won't if he doesn't want to, and hawke would never force him, but it's out there. he's been aware of anders's situation practically since their first meeting. he knows what varric thinks about anders's trajectory in life, too. people have noticed. he would be naive to assume that someone in anders's position won't be in any danger in kirkwall.

but the balance has been off, of late. kirkwall's descent has everything and everyone on edge, and no one so much as anders. he doesn't even want to ask about how it's been wearing on justice.

he leans in to kiss anders's cheek, lingering there light and gentle with the softness of his lips against the rough growth of anders's stubble. he lets go of his shoulders and drops his hands to anders's knees, giving them a squeeze. ]

Going on a trip without me?

[ there's a lightness to his tone that he doesn't feel. he can't lose anders too, but it feels wrong to tell him that, in the wake of everything else. if he has to lose anders then he'll deal with that in his own time too. he can't ask anyone to stick around just because he can't stand to lose more people. he can't. but he'd figure it out if he had to. ]

Personally, I recommend Nevarra. Who knows how much longer we'll have until they hunt all the dragons into extinction?

[ the tenderness hawke shows him drives the stake deeper — what he did was the right thing. what he did was the only thing he could have done. they can't continue this way. even hawke's position won't protect him forever, and outside the city? it's more than a risk. he's high-profile. and that's besides the root at the bottom of the thing, the real truth, that they shouldn't have to hide. that they should be allowed to make their own way without the bloody chantry holding a sword over their throats from the moment they're born. everything about the way they live has to do with bending under that.

anders shuts his eyes and turns his head to pass his lips over hawke's, bumping their noses together, smiling with him. it's a sad excuse for a smile. ]

Wonder what it's like in Nevarra at this time of year?

[ it's not a yes or no answer, to a question that probably called for one. it's simple, anyway. it should be simple. the answer is yes, whatever hawke believes. he thought he already said that, but he understands that it isn't easy to decipher his misdirections. usually he's so honest, but he had a lifetime of deflection before this to draw on. ]

I might be.

The situation in the city isn't going to diffuse quietly.

[ he feels foolish advocating for a path he knows neither of them is bound to take. before, hawke had his mother and carver to look after. he couldn't consider leaving the city, no matter how bad it got. but now... he doesn't know. he thinks about it, sometimes. what it would be like to pack up and slip away in the middle of the night. by morning, the thought's usually vanished.

he can't leave his friends. and without any viscount, the people are depending on him. even if he goes down in the history books as the man who destroyed kirkwall, he wants it at least recorded that he tried. he is trying.

he kisses anders when he brushes their lips together, feeling the sharp bridge of his nose against his own. it feels like he's losing him in a way that he can't quite express, or put his finger on. the elusiveness makes him nervous, like if he just knew what it was he was standing against he could fight it properly. ]

Nothing ever has before.

[ going by past precedent, nothing in kirkwall has ever diffused quietly. and meredith is set to blow. anyone can tell, even the knight-captain in the gallows is getting antsy and he's always been a pushover. ]

I suppose it would be irresponsible to skip town. Who knows when they'll want to throw some sort of ball in my honor? Imagine the embarrassment.

[ hawke lifts his hand to cup the back of anders's neck, rubbing the soft, short hairs there that are too short for his ponytail. he came here with some kind of idea in mind. he's not getting distracted so easily. ]

I wouldn't go without you.

[ it's sort of like a fantasy, the two of them imagining they could go somewhere. they can't. they wouldn't. hawke could — he has the right — but he can tell that he won't. even talking about it now it's just a joke to him, the idea of it. something to imagine and never follow through. most of his life has been strangely opposite. he wanted to run from the tower so he did; he wanted to sleep around so he did; he wanted to give justice a choice so he did, and then he left the wardens, crossed the sea, came here. kirkwall, he's never thought of it as home, but he never thought of the circle as home either. it's an intractable concept, left somewhere behind him, somewhere in the house where his parents are living, or where they used to live, or inside the barn that he almost burnt down watching the sparks that flash-banged to life just by the touch of his fingertips.

the sweetness of hay and smoke in his nose and his mouth, he can taste it if he tries hard enough.

anders begins to fold when hawke touches the back of his neck and presses his fingers through the fall of his hair delicately curved behind his ears. it's been a while since he cut it, but he hasn't had the luxury for that sort of thing in a long time. the circle gave them little luxuries, and he gladly gave them up. he wouldn't exchange that for this. ]

I... Wouldn't want you to.

[ his fingers find their way through hawke's fringe when he raises his hand, pushing his hair from his eyes before it falls untidily back into place. ]

But where I'm going, I don't know if you can follow. I can't promise you a future.

The way things are going, I'm not even sure I can promise myself a future.

[ hawke smiles up at anders, the tenderness of his expression belying his inner nervousness. he's not sure what anders is trying to tell him. and he can't shake the suspicion that it's something. something beyond the usual corrupting rot of kirkwall eating away at them all. more than once hawke's suspected that this story of theirs might not have a happy ending, no matter what varric's instincts are.

it's not as if he has to search for reasons anders might be suffering. things are worse for the mages than they've ever been. it's clear that there's a fight coming, one way or the other. he's never wriggled out of picking a side before, but the consequences have never felt so final. it's starting to feel like one or the other.

he knows what he'll choose then too, but the templars have the backing of the chantry. the mages have no one, and he's not sure he makes for fair compensation.

hawke shifts his hands to anders's hips, soothing them up and down his thighs over his heavy coat. ]

I'm not much for promises these days.

[ for obvious reasons, since every undertaking he's ever tried for himself has turned out with dead relatives or the further destruction of kirkwall. the discovery of red lyrium, that was a good one. ]

[ it doesn't lift his expression, but he understands what hawke is saying — that perhaps it's all right that he doesn't have any guarantees to give him, if he can't say the same. the way things are going. it sets an edge in him, sharpened and poised, more grounds for his convictions. he knows who's to blame.

anders' thighs are taut underneath the fabric underneath hawke's hands, breath bubbling imperceptibly in his throat when he opens his mouth to ask, ]

Truly?

[ it takes a considerable amount of effort for him to keep from telling hawke that he deserves better. hawke's probably had enough of him telling him what he deserves; and does it matter? most people don't get what they deserve, and the world and its absent maker don't care to give it to them. maybe he should be chasing hawke out of the clinic, back up to hightown, back into fenris' stolen mansion, because he already knows how this is going to end, but there's the driest sliver of something other than hopelessness stuck in his throat that won't let him do it.

there's no possibility it's hope. longing, maybe. desire past the point of desire.

his stomach is clenched, and hawke's touch does nothing to dissolve it. his hands drop and he finds his wrists, folds them in his bent fingers. ]

Then, will you stay with me tonight?

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