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From the moment Anders woke up (darkspawn skittering around in the darkness, a slick growth coating every surface, the rot crawling into his throat and nose and down, down, in), he knew something was very, very wrong. He had no idea where he was.
There was a canopy on the bed above him. It was dark red and made of rich, heavy fabric. More heaviness pressed down all around him; blankets, softer than any he’d felt in a long time. Maybe forever. He cast a glance around, wincing at the twinge in his neck — the (again, heavy, high quality) curtains were pulled closed, but there was a little daylight peeking through a tiny gap. There was a fireplace, unlit but not unused — not choked with soot, but not recently cleaned, either.
There was a desk in one corner. A wardrobe along the wall, closed and barely visible, but the door was carved into with some kind of pattern. Anders still had no idea where he was; a brothel? The home of some noble or particularly rich merchant?
Worse still, he had no idea how he got here. He didn’t remember what came the night before. If he tried to remember, there was just… nothing. His only reward for the attempt was a sharp pain lancing through his eyes that screamed ‘head injury,’ and wasn’t that just fantastic.
Carefully, Anders took stock of the rest of his body. The taint running through his blood seemed normal enough, and he couldn’t sense any darkspawn — not that he’d expected to, but in Amaranthine you never knew. Was he in Amaranthine? He didn’t know that anyone quite so rich still lived there given everything that had happened, so maybe Denerim?
Maker, he was so fucked.
Beyond that, he was a little battered, with tiny aches all over. One or two half-closed wounds on his chest, another on his back, another on his left arm. None of them were bleeding, as far as he could tell; none of them were even bandaged. That meant healing magic, probably, or he’d been asleep for a long time, and what did that even mean? There weren’t any other Grey Warden mages in Ferelden, not that he knew of. If he was with a Circle healer, they would have done a better job.
So, there was an apostate involved. Assuming he hadn’t been asleep for quite a while, which was a possibility with the head wound. Which still hurt like anything; that one was bandaged clumsily, by hands unused to providing medical care. Anders could have done a better job himself, while his head was still swimming from confusion, blood loss, potentially a concussion, and fear. Maybe just a little bit of fear.
Whoever his theoretical host was, he couldn’t stick around — he needed to know where he was and how to get away. Hopefully as quickly as possible, and ideally before whoever had brought him here came back.
At least whoever it was either didn’t think he was interested in escaping (in which case, they had no idea who he was or what he could do) or had no interest in keeping him captive here — he wasn’t restrained in any way. That said, it didn’t necessarily mean he was safe; he was still injured, alone, and isolated from both information and potential allies.
He had to rectify at least one of those, and information was the easiest. So, mindful of his aching body and the stabbing pain in his head, Anders gingerly attempted to pull himself upwards. He winced as the blankets fell from his body; he wasn’t wearing very much. What had he been doing to wake up only half-dressed in an unfamiliar bed, aching all over?
Actually, maybe he didn’t want the answer to that question. Better to live in ignorance than have his worst fears about the haziness that was his recent memory confirmed.
As he swung his legs around to get out of the bed, Anders winced again; his limbs were weak. That could mean anything — that he’d been asleep for too long, that his body was diverting energy to his recovery, or that something had happened before he was unconscious. Whatever it was, it meant he wasn’t getting very far. At least not if there was anyone in the building who had orders to stop him — which they very well might.
Sure enough, the door opened nearly the moment Anders managed to pull himself into a standing position, leaning heavily on the bedpost his hand was clutched around. Anders looked past him into the hall the open door revealed; richly carpeted, and seemingly completely deserted. Someone’s private residence, then, because even a brothel wasn’t this quiet during the day.
That was good and bad. Fewer witnesses to whatever Anders might have to do, but fewer people who were aware of his presence in the first place. It could work in his favour, or it could isolate him entirely. If this man was hostile…
Anders focused on him, trying desperately to remember something, anything, but he’d never met anyone like this before. Sure, he looked normal enough—human, dark hair, dark eyes, dark beard—but he didn’t look like anyone Anders knew. He’d never met the man before.
Then again, maybe he had. Maybe this was Mr Tall, Dark, and Handsome’s bedroom. Maybe he’d invited Anders back, and then… no, that didn’t fit. Anders was injured. Even if they were having a lot of fun, he wouldn’t be injured quite like this. No, that couldn’t be it. He had to know him from somewhere else, except—
Pain lanced through his head so sharply that Anders’ vision whited out for a moment and he stumbled, gripping the bed post tighter. When he could see again, vision blurred through sudden tears, the man had lurched forwards, his gaze concerned.
Anders made a snap decision; this man was dressed in dark red clothing, embroidered with some kind of crest. That, combined with the wealth of the room, meant that he probably owned this place. Perhaps he’d brought Anders here when he was injured. Maybe he’d injured him after their arrival. Or maybe he didn’t bring Anders here, and he’d just found an intruder sleeping in his bed.
Either way, he was in danger. He shied away from the man, legs unsteady but holding as he stumbled barefoot across the bedroom’s floor. The man’s eyes widened, but his arms didn’t follow Anders. Good. He didn’t know if he trusted his control when he had a head injury, and he’d hate to set this nice bedroom ablaze when defending himself.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” the man said, voice… consoling? He definitely didn’t sound angry or frustrated. “You’re hurt. Get some rest.”
The fact that he wanted Anders to stay was a warning sign. The fact that he knew how badly injured he was boded poorly too. And then there was his general form — he was strong, with thick arms that belied muscle even under the softer material of his shirt. While he was probably a noble, his accent was Fereldan—unsurprising, considering that Anders had never left Ferelden in his life—and he was obviously strong.
Resisting would only land Anders in greater trouble. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” he said, forcing himself to relax his posture a little. Carefully, he inched back towards the bed, back towards the man. His face had shifted again, back into concern.
Anders didn’t understand. Didn’t he want Anders to go back to bed? Why did he find his agreement suspicious? Was he expecting Anders to be more resistant, even when he was so obviously outmatched? Did that mean that they’d met before and Anders had acted differently, or worse — did this man have a description of him and his character that told him what to expect?
It was all too much, and Anders was in far too much pain to deal with it. If the man was content to let him rest and gather his strength, he should take the opportunity. He certainly wouldn’t get anywhere while the man was still in the room.
“Well, I’m glad you saw sense,” the man said, the moment Anders was settled back in the bed. The man moved his arms behind him, adjusting the pillow behind Anders’ head, and it took everything in his power not to shy away. “You worried me out there, Anders.”
It felt like, instead of the gentle adjustment to make him more comfortable, the man had tipped a bucket of icy water over Anders’ head. He knew his name. They must have spent time together, enough time that names were exchanged — or the man knew exactly who Anders was. And, separated from the Wardens, he was probably in immense danger.
“Anders?” The man’s brows drew close together, his face carved in a frown. He’d noticed that something was wrong. “Are you feeling alright? Bar the obvious, I mean.”
His chuckle was weak. But he was being familiar, and Anders had no idea what to believe, no idea what to do. What would happen, if he admitted his lack of memories?
What would happen if he didn’t own up to it and just dug himself a deeper hole? It was an impossible position, one he had no idea how to get out of. But… information. He needed information, and this could be the best chance to get this man to give it to him.
“Who are you?” Anders asked, taking the plunge. The man just blinked at him for a moment. “How do you know my name?”
“Maker, uhh…” The man scratched his hand through his beard. “This is awkward. Okay. Makes sense. You did hit your head pretty hard.”
And didn’t that just make Anders’ mind jump to conclusions. Awkward? And him waking up in an unfamiliar bed? Even if it hadn’t happened (and in any other circumstance, Anders would be happy for it — this unknown man was certainly attractive, though not exactly enough to allay the worries about his amnesia), he could be forgiven for making the assumption.
“Anyway, right, amnesia.” The man coughed. “Sorry. I’m Garrett Hawke, but that’s Hawke to everyone including my friends. We… know each other quite well. We were fighting together when you got injured. Ring any bells?”
“None at all,” Anders answered, feigning a cheer he absolutely did not have. “I have no idea who you are.” And he absolutely didn’t trust anything he said, beyond perhaps his name. Even then, he could be hiding something with his introduction; not that Anders would dare to say as much. If Hawke was deceiving him, then calling him out on it was exactly what he needed to have any slim chance he had at escaping this snatched away from him.
Hawke made another concerned noise. “I have no idea what to suggest,” he admitted. “You’re the healer around here.”
Around here. So Hawke had known him for a while, then? Knew he was a mage—unsurprising, seeing as Anders never made an effort to hide it—and knew him as someone who existed in his general vicinity. But he’d never seen a building that could be anything like this in Amaranthine, so something in all of this was a lie.
“Head injuries require rest,” Anders said, “but I’m not feeling all that bad. I was just a bit weak when I woke up.” He was, in fact, still feeling pretty bad. But he didn’t want Hawke to think that he was vulnerable right now. Beyond that, Hawke knew he was a mage, and that hopefully meant he knew enough to be wary of being too rough with him.
“Sure, but I still think you should be trying to sleep again. Get some more rest,” Hawke said, which told Anders all he needed to know; he hadn’t been believed. Still, nothing added up — he hadn’t been dosed with any magebane, for one. Did that mean that Hawke hadn’t known Anders was a mage until Anders tacitly confirmed it with his words? But no, he knew Anders’ name, so he had to know something about him.
This was too confusing. Anders’ head hurt. “No, I’m fine,” Anders said. “Maybe if you tell me more about yourself, some of my memories will come back? If I really do know you well, I don’t see why that wouldn’t happen.”
It was a trap, of course. Anders needed to stall for time, and he needed information. The more he got, the more likely it was that he’d be able to determine what, exactly, Hawke was lying to him about. From there, he could work out how much danger he was in.
His mana was still recovering, if slowly, so that was a good sign. Not enough that he could safely heal himself, just yet; he had to conserve some for fighting. Just in case. Nominally, he had access to near-unlimited magic if he was really in a pinch, but—
He couldn’t believe he was even thinking something like that. He was just in the bedroom of an unfamiliar man who was almost certainly lying to him, injured and alone. He’d been in that kind of situation before and came out just fine, so the same would be true this time. Probably.
Hawke wasn’t actively trying to hurt him, which probably meant something good. So Anders wasn’t that desperate yet, and he hoped he never would be.
Sure enough, Hawke returned his suggestion for more talking with a smile. “Sure, but if you need to rest, you tell me.” There was an edge to his voice, but not a violent one. Anders knew that tone from the Wardens. Hawke was… concerned about him? Or perhaps just very good at faking it.
“I’ll tell you,” Anders confirmed. Lied, because he’d never admit his weakness to a complete stranger.
“Okay, well, we met on Warden business. You… remember being with the Wardens?”
Anders nodded. “I’m with the Grey Wardens at the Vigil, naturally.”
Hawke’s expression creased into… something. Anders’ stomach lurched. “The Vigil?”
“Vigil’s Keep,” Anders supplied. “You know. Amaranthine, Warden territory.”
“Right,” Hawke said. “I can’t say I’ve ever been. Nice place?”
So they weren’t in Amaranthine. That was something to know, at least, but the fact that Hawke claimed he didn’t even know the place was a little concerning. And suspicious. “Well, it was teeming with darkspawn a couple of months back, but it’s nice enough. Not a Circle tower.”
Hawke chuckled, and there was a nervous edge to it. For a second, Anders’ fear flared along with the sound; was he in a Circle tower? No, he couldn’t be. Then why did Hawke sound so nervous?
“Anyway, we met when I needed some help with the Deep Roads in this region,” Hawke said. “You had maps of the Free Marches Deep Roads, and I needed them, so we worked together once. And then a few more times, until it became a bit of a habit, I suppose.”
Anders tried to keep his breathing steady, but he didn’t think he was succeeding. Free Marches? Working together with someone who plainly wasn’t a Warden on multiple occasions? Something was wrong here. Was Hawke’s story really that bad, or was there something else going on? “Hawke. Where am I?”
Relief and worry flooded Hawke’s face all at once. “Kirkwall,” he admitted. And then he said something else, probably, but Anders couldn’t hear it anymore.
Kirkwall. Why was he in Kirkwall? Why would he ever be in Kirkwall? No mage would come here without significant business; definitely not a mage like Anders, liable to be clapped in irons the moment he breathed in the wrong way in the direction of a Templar. Kirkwall, where Karl was — and where Karl had warned Anders away from ever visiting, just in case.
Not to mention that, last he remembered, he was in Ferelden. He hadn’t even been considering going to the Free Marches. And wait— wasn’t Hawke Fereldan? Why did he have some kind of manor house in Kirkwall?
This stank. The whole thing reeked of lies and deception and something flared within Anders, something terrifying and unknown, and he couldn’t fathom what it was. It only made him worry more; something had been done to him. He wasn’t meant to be here.
“Anders?” Hawke’s face appeared again, and Anders realised he hadn’t even been processing everything going on ahead of him. That was dangerous — he still didn’t know what Hawke would do to him, given the perfect chance. He didn’t know what Hawke had already done to him. “Are you alright? You’re getting a little…”
“I’m fine.” Anders took a deep breath. Nothing was alright, least of all him, but he could manage this. One step forwards at a time, and even if every word of this was a lie, the longer he stayed here, the longer his mana had to recover for when he made a break for it. “Why am I in Kirkwall?”
If asking only made his apprehension a little worse, then Hawke’s reaction had his heart plummeting into an abyss. “You heal people in the city here,” he said. “There are lots of blight refugees with no money or work to speak of, and plenty of others in need besides.”
But there were people in need everywhere, and Hawke knew that he wasn’t really answering the question. Anders asked why he was in Kirkwall, and Hawke didn’t want to say. There could be any number of reasons for that, and every single one of them was terrifying.
“I heal people in Kirkwall?” Anders asked. “With magic?”
Hawke nodded. “Though, speaking of,” he said, completely ignoring the question in a way that only made Anders feel more and more cornered, “I couldn’t exactly heal you myself. I know you brushed me off before, but could you tell me how you’re really doing?”
“I said I was fine.” He wasn’t fine. Hawke was very aptly making sure that Anders wasn’t fine by keeping the truth from him. Did he know how close he was to pushing Anders into a corner? Did he know what Anders could do in a corner? “I’m not concussed, if that’s what you’re asking.” That, at least, was true.
“Good.” Hawke smiled, but he still seemed decidedly ill at ease. “That means you can focus right to heal yourself, doesn’t it?”
Anders paused. Hawke didn’t sound unsure of himself, though, which meant he could well be testing for another lie. “I can,” he said. He didn’t want to say he was low on mana and wanted to prioritise potentially healing a more devastating injury. He absolutely didn’t want to say he was saving it for a fireball or two.
Hawke looked at him expectantly. Anders looked back, meeting his gaze with all the defiance he could safely muster. “You should heal yourself, then,” Hawke said. “You’ll recover faster.”
It was a blatant attempt to get Anders to throw some of his mana down the drain, but Hawke was right there. Watching. Waiting. He could force the matter, if he wanted to, and from the way he was staring he just might. Anders couldn’t push him too far if he was going to stay safe — at least, as safe as he could be in a situation like this.
He’d see if Anders didn’t heal himself. So Anders focused, keeping Hawke firmly within his range of vision, and moved his hands to the back of his head.
The pain lessened a little. That didn’t stop his hands from trembling; he told himself it was from the exhaustion of using too much mana too soon after he’d emptied his reserves, but he was an experienced healer. It wasn’t anything other than fear — he just hoped that Hawke wouldn’t pick up on it.
“It’s all sealed up,” Anders said. He moved to unwind the bandage, but his hands fumbled over it. Hawke was still looking right at him, but he didn’t make a move to help, didn’t even comment on it. He just left Anders to it, and he had no idea what that meant. A willingness to watch him struggle? Pretending to ignore just how nervous Anders was? Before he could get anywhere close to an answer, he managed to get rid of the slightly bloodstained bandage, letting it fall to the blankets below. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”
“I’m glad.” Hawke was fidgeting. Anders didn’t know what that meant. “You’re sure you don’t need more rest?”
“I’m sure.” What he needed was for Hawke to leave him alone so he could get out of here. He didn’t think he was going to get that. “What I do need is more information. You were vague on how we know each other — I may not have memories, but Grey Wardens don’t tend to wander around handing out maps to people.”
Hawke grimaced, and Anders did another mental check on his mana supplies. If the false friendliness ended soon, he’d be done for. “I was engaging in an expedition,” he said. “We had manpower, and I was working on building up the funds to pay for supplies, but we needed a route to see if we could find a thaig.”
“For looting?” Anders asked, and Hawke nodded. At least he didn’t seem to be aware that he was being interrogated. That pointed, at the very least, to someone who was working alone and was mostly unused to having a captive. Despite the knowledge of his magic, he didn’t seem to be working with any Templars — he’d be far more cautious if he were. “And I helped you?”
“It was a mutual exchange of favours,” Hawke said, apparently back to being evasive. What kind of favour? Was it a favour that involved this bed? Again, not that Anders was averse to the idea, but he didn’t trust someone who’d keep that from him. “That, and an… alignment of views, I guess.”
There was an edge to his voice. Did Hawke know how suspicious he was making himself look? Maybe leaving Anders off-centre was part of his plan. But was there a point in an untrustworthy person making himself look untrustworthy?
Anders was coming to accept that his headache had nothing to do with the head injury and everything to do with Hawke. Maybe he needed to try a different approach to the helpless, injured man, content to go along with anything so long as he wasn’t being actively hurt.
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific there,” Anders said. Was it a warning? He didn’t know; he certainly couldn’t deliver on one.
“Well, I guess past-you isn’t going to have any more reservations on it than you did when I came to you about it before,” Hawke said, shrugging. “I needed the maps because I needed the money. To keep the Templars off my back.”
And that was when it all fell together in the worst possible way. Hawke, an apostate in Kirkwall. Hawke, a rich apostate, who’d just admitted to having monetary power over Templars. That meant, at the very least, that the Templars had blackmail material over him, perhaps over his family. They’d be watching Hawke’s associates, waiting for a moment to cash in the kind of debt that money couldn’t settle.
Anders knew better than most that you could only outrun Templars for so long. And with how evasive Hawke was about just how they knew each other and exactly what their relationship was, he could guess at one thing in particular: they weren’t friends. Maybe they weren’t even close at all, and Hawke was preparing to turn him over to the Templars the moment he felt it would benefit him most.
“If you have money and you’re an apostate, why in the Maker’s name are you in Kirkwall?” Anders was done being quiet about it. If Hawke was a mage, he knew why someone like Anders would never come to Kirkwall without a very good reason. He knew why someone wouldn’t stay; and he wouldn’t stay himself. Nothing here added up, and Anders was starting to feel like the more information he had, the more danger he was in. Not less.
“Well, I have family here, even if Gamlen’s kind of a dick and Carver’s a Templar and— oh, Maker, that isn’t helping, is it?” Hawke sighed. “I didn’t want to mention it, because I didn’t want to worry you when you don’t have any memory or context for it, but I’m clearly just terrible at lying.”
Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. At this point, Anders didn’t know what to believe — only that Hawke was tricking him, on some level. Maybe he wasn’t even a mage. Maybe he wasn’t in Kirkwall. He had no benchmark to set this against, only the knowledge that he had nowhere to run and no magic to do it with.
“No more lies,” Hawke said. “I’ve been evasive about how we met and what we do together because we’re, well— together. And you have things you want to do in Kirkwall, so I’m still here.”
If Hawke were telling the truth and Anders had any of the requisite context for the statement, he supposed that would be quite romantic. Instead, it only confirmed all his worst fears: Hawke had been lying, and was no less suspicious when he was claiming to tell the truth. His reasoning was weak, and all it did was feel like he was trying to lead Anders straight into something.
That, combined with the bed, with Anders’ relative state of undress, and then the way Hawke was content to watch him drain out his mana and then looked on without a word at the weakness in Anders’ body… well, all of it meant something. Something Anders didn’t want, but couldn’t refuse.
He had no idea when or where Hawke was telling the truth. But if he was an apostate living in Kirkwall, then if Anders outlived his usefulness here, there was nothing stopping Hawke from turning him in to the Templars. There was nothing to prevent his freedom from crumbling out from under him, not unless he turned to drastic measures now, but he couldn’t. Actually, being a maleficar would only—
“…ders? Anders!” Anders registered Hawke’s voice and presence anew only as he reached over in something that was probably meant to be a comforting gesture. But with all the pieces falling into an ugly picture Anders couldn’t put together entirely on his own, it was anything but.
He tried to inhale. The breath rattled in his throat, but he didn’t feel any better. He knew this feeling as well as anything; hadn’t experienced it in what felt like a long time, not since he left the Circle, and nothing he used to do to try and deal with it was working. The pain in his head returned, sharp and blinding like he hadn’t even healed himself in the first place, and his vision faded out.
The last thing he saw was Hawke’s face, painted with panic that probably didn’t even hold a candle to Anders’ own.
The next time Anders’ eyes opened, he felt like shit. He knew, distantly, that he wasn’t injured, but everything felt off, like he’d run a marathon while he was asleep. His head felt like someone had pelted him with rocks and he’d just stood there and taken it.
And then he remembered. It was a strange kind of memory, hazy and far away, like it wasn’t quite him who’d lived it. But it was the same room; Hawke’s room, a space he now recognised but hadn’t before. He was in almost the same position, wearing the same clothes.
He’d made a fool of himself, really. Not that he could be blamed—he liked to think that anyone in that situation would have panicked in a similar manner—but he hadn’t wanted Hawke to see him that way. Not when whatever was between them was still so fresh. He didn’t think it would change Hawke’s opinion of him, reasonable as he was, but… he still worried. A lot of history went into a reaction like that, and it wasn’t a part of his history that Hawke had seen.
Given the option, Anders would probably still choose to escape in the same way he’d wanted to last time he woke up, leaving the fallout of his amnesia for another day. Except he definitely couldn’t; this time, Hawke was already at his bedside.
There were dark shadows under his eyes; he was plainly utterly exhausted, hunched in on himself and uncomfortable. Anders didn’t need to have been conscious to know that Hawke probably hadn’t moved since he passed out.
The sight of him very nearly took Anders’ breath away. The way his eyes lit up when his gaze tilted upwards and he realised Anders was awake actually did, if only for a moment.
It wasn’t that Anders thought that Hawke didn’t care about him; he knew better than that. But Hawke was quiet about his feelings, rarely putting words to them even when Anders was right there, declaring his love. He didn’t feel unloved, not at all, but with all of this so new…
Anders was bad at love. Having feelings for another alongside his cause or even just next to all the danger both of them faced every day was a monumentally bad idea. But the way Hawke made him feel couldn’t be denied or pushed away — he’d already tried that one. So seeing, even in the simplest of ways, just how much Hawke actually cared— it had Anders feeling a way he almost couldn’t describe, like every ache in his body had just spontaneously faded away.
Unable to stop himself, Anders reached out from his spot in the bed to where Hawke sat. Hawke’s eyes went wide and hopeful, and Anders almost wished he could freeze the moment forever, just so he could see that face for the rest of his life.
“I remember,” Anders confirmed, his voice rough from sleep.
Everything in Hawke’s form relaxed instantly. “I was a little worried for a moment,” he admitted. His smile formed easily, small but relieved. “It seemed like you were getting worse rather than better.”
“I’m sorry.” Of course his behaviour had been worrying; he was terrified. He’d been convinced, somehow, that Hawke would turn him over to Kirkwall’s Templars the moment he wasn’t compliant enough. “I honestly thought you were holding me prisoner.”
Hawke blinked, mouth half open for a moment as he worked out how to respond. “I don’t know why I didn’t realise,” he said. “I knew you were concerned about something, but I thought it was just the amnesia. And the whole being in Kirkwall thing.”
“The me of four years ago was a different man,” Anders said, hoping Hawke would let him leave it at that. Of course Hawke had heard some of his Circle experiences, and he may well have heard more from his father, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about exactly the kind of fears Hawke had unintentionally set off. That was too much vulnerability for him right now.
“I saw,” Hawke said. “You were… distressed.” That was one way to put it, seeing as he’d passed out from what was probably almost entirely panic. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Anders shook his head, but the feeling he got after actually being asked surprised him. “Maybe one day.” Not right then, but… he felt like Hawke deserved to know, maybe. And even with no obligation, Anders wanted to tell him. Hawke may just have been one of the only people who truly understood that fear of being both known and helpless, at the mercy of someone with far more knowledge and power than himself.
“I’ll listen whenever you’re ready.” Hawke leaned in, head slightly tilted; going in for a kiss. And then, just a breath away from Anders’ lips, to the point at which Anders could feel the warmth of him, he paused. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”
“Just as okay as it’s always been,” Anders affirmed. “Don’t worry — I’m feeling much better now.” It was sweet of him to ask, though. It affirmed that feeling all over again, that tenderness Hawke tended to keep locked away. Hawke cared, cared for Anders, and it— well, the knowledge of it just made Anders want to kiss him even more.
Still, Hawke stayed where he was, the smallest of spaces held between them as a buffer. A choice, a tiny offering in the place of all the times Anders hadn’t been able to choose.
Anders caught Hawke’s gaze, made sure he saw his smile, and then closed the distance. Hawke’s lips were sweeter than they’d ever been before.