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The park is massive. It feels like they've been driving forever by the time Varric's red vintage Mustang putters to a stop in a fenced-off parking area. Garrett shoulders his backpack and hops out of his truck with a grunt. "Oi, Varric! This place is awfully, er. Wilderness-y for someone like you, don't you think?"
"Please, Hawke." Varric steps away from his trunk and spreads his arms with a grin. "I said I had the perfect place. You should know better than to underestimate me."
"Who are we underestimating?" Isabela saunters over from Maker only knows where and eyes Garrett with a toothy grin.
Garrett blinks. Gone are the usual ripped shorts, biker jacket, and combat boots she wears everywhere. Her shirt is still scandalously low cut, but instead of a tank top she's donned a white sleeveless blouse with corset-style laces she's opted not to tie fully. Her messy hair is held precariously in place with a blue scarf, and she's sporting more gaudy gold jewelry than he's ever seen one person put on at once.
"You jingle when you walk," he says.
"Well, yeah." She sways experimentally and cackles in delight when her bangles jingle with every motion. "I'm a pirate!"
Garrett squints at her thigh-high boots. "Are you even wearing pants?"
Isabela only tweaks his nose. "Would you like to find out?" She plucks at his t-shirt with pursed lips. "What are you wearing? Don't tell me that's your costume."
"Are you saying you drove here dressed like that?"
"Please. I paid a very obliging Uber driver a generous amount of money to drive me here. He even played sea shanties the whole way over. Lovely gentleman. Only looked at my tits once."
Garrett wasn't even sure what to say to that.
Leaves crunch behind him a split second before Merrill chirps, "Hello, Hawke!" into his ear. She throws her arms around his neck when he turns around and gives him a tight squeeze. "Is that what you're wearing?"
"Why do people keep asking me that?" he grumbles. "Merrill, where in the world are your shoes?"
"I'm an elf!" She grins. "Everyone knows elves don't wear shoes."
Varric chuckles. "You know, Hawke, I have that suit of armor in the back seat that's just your size if you forgot to bring something."
It isn't that he forgot. He just hadn't expected everyone else to take this trip so seriously. He thinks about the Oscar Wilde shirt and Robin Hood tights rolled up in the bottom of his duffel bag and suddenly feels woefully inadequate, but he's pretty sure if he caves and gives into Varric's suggestion, someone, somewhere, loses a bet. "Who else is supposed to be coming?" he asks instead.
"Mm." Isabela ticks off her fingers. "Aveline is here already. Would you believe this isn't the first time she's done this?"
"What, dressing up in Halloween costumes and prancing about the woods in order to break Varric out of his writer's block?" Garrett snorts.
"It's called a live action roleplay, Hawke," Aveline yells from across the lot. She's already got a tent up, Garrett realizes, and is dutifully starting a fire with nothing but two sticks and a handful of leaves. Huh. Before today, he was fairly certain no one actually did that outside of the movies. "Haven't you ever heard of LARPing before?"
"Where did you get a whole suit of armor?" he asks, blinking. Is he the only one who's completely new to this entire idea?
"Didn't you hear me?" Isabela chuckles. "Apparently she does this every summer back in Ferelden. There's a whole organization, they have a Facebook group and everything. Anyway, Sebastian is up in the air, he was very evasive about what else he had going on this weekend, but he didn't really say no. Anders wasn't going to come, but Fenris managed to drag him out of that cat shelter for once. I think they got stuck in traffic, though, no idea when they'll be here—"
Almost as if on cue, a motorcycle rumbles beyond the bend in the road. Fenris skids to a stop, Anders behind him, and Maker's titless wonders, they're both fully dressed too. Fenris has on some snugly fitted metal chest piece over what Garrett is fairly certain is Spandex leggings, the tattoos that spiral across his arms and neck on full display as he stretches and hops off of his bike. Shaggy white hair cascades out of his helmet, which he fastens neatly to one of the handlebars.
"Where are your shoes?" Garrett blurts out.
"Please, Hawke, don't be daft." Fenris doesn't even bother looking up as he points to the carefully molded putty on his ears. "Elves don't wear shoes."
Garrett is beginning to wonder if there was a handbook somewhere he was supposed to read. He really should start checking his emails.
Anders yanks his helmet off with shaking fingers, looking rather green around the gills as he passes it to Fenris before staggering off of the bike and leaning awkwardly on Garrett's truck to gulp down several breaths of air.
"Ohoho!" Isabela strides over and smoothes her hands over the massive feather pauldrons Anders has draped over his shoulders. "And where did you find this?"
Anders sniffed once and sneezed violently into the crook of his elbow. "Lirene had it in her basement," he croaks. "Unfortunately she also has dogs."
Fenris unbuckles two long cases from the side of his bike and tosses one unceremoniously to Anders. "Here," he grunts. "Don't forget your staff."
"These packages are identical," Anders says skeptically. "How do you know this one is mine?"
Fenris snorts. "Yours is much lighter."
"Well, Hawke?" Varric prompts him, his grin ever wider. "Let's see what you brought, huh?"
Garrett blinks again. At some point, Varric has unbuttoned his duster, and beneath it is an ostentatious red button-up with gold trim. Well. Calling it a button-up is a bit of a stretch, because Garrett is positive only one of those buttons is actually, well, buttoned. And around his neck is what looks like—
"Nice cock ring necklace," Fenris says dryly. "What are you supposed to be?"
Unflappable Varric makes a noise that sounds very much flapped. "It's a statement piece," he grumbles.
"Mm, well I'm certainly interested in the kind of statement you intend on making later," Isabela teases.
"Well, Hawke?" Anders says. He seems to have recovered from the ride and is leaning on an ornately carved staff with wicked metal spikes at the base. "What are you wearing for this, anyway?"
Oh, Maker, it's unfair how good Anders looks in that ridiculous costume. His russet-blonde hair is pulled up into a half-ponytail for once, the rest of it cascading down his long neck and framing the sharp cut of his cheeks. Curiosity sparkles in his eyes as he takes three long strides forward and eyes Garrett curiously. "Surely that can't be it?"
"Five sovereigns says he brought a pair of tights and an oversized granny blouse and called it a day," Isabela cackles.
"I — no!" he sputters. Fuck. He's never going to live it down now if he wears what he actually packed. "That's ridiculous."
"Then what is it?" Merrill prods curiously.
"Varric has it in his car," Garrett blurts out.
Varric's grin has never looked more pleased, or more predatory.
Garrett has never felt more ridiculous in his life. Varric's armor fits him too well. Suspiciously well. So well he begins to wonder if Varric has had his measurements taken in his sleep, but surely that is an absurd level of commitment for a bet, even for Varric. The red paint on his nose and left arm itches, but Varric had insisted it made the whole outfit 'authentic,' and really, by this point, Garrett was just too tired to argue. The chestplate juts forward at a comical angle and makes doing anything involving his hands a calculated risk.
Anders is fumbling with their tent. Well, fumbling is generous. The man's clearly never put up a tent before in his life, but Garrett certainly isn't about to help.
He does know how to pitch a tent, to be clear. It's just, well. Calculated risk.
He is very studiously not thinking about any other kind of pitched tents, either, because that would be hideously creepy of him, and sure, the thin sheen of sweat glistening down Anders' neck isn't not doing the man any favors, but that's very much none of his business.
Calculated. Risk.
Anders has let out a string of swears for the sixth time by the time another vehicle rumbles in the distance.
"You should have brought a hammock," Merrill says serenely. She's perched in a canvas sheet dangling precariously between two trees looking entirely too cozy for someone in the wilderness with no shoes and only a single waterproof blanket. "They're much less fuss, you know."
"Why would I own a hammock, Merrill?" Anders sighs.
"Why do you own a tent?"
"It's Varric's tent," he and Garrett chorus at the same time.
"Why aren't you helping, anyway?" Anders complains, and Garrett pretends the scowl shot his way has him feeling contrite and not at all hot beneath the collar. It's just this armor, that's all. "Seeing as we're both staying in this thing."
He doesn't know Anders that well. Not really. The only two people in this group who do are Fenris, who's currently renting Anders his basement, and Isabela, who Garrett is convinced knows pretty much everyone in Kirkwall by now. The only reason they're sharing a tent to begin with is because Varric's personal tent is only big enough for one occupant, ("I need my beauty sleep for the inspiration," he'd said sagely,) Isabela and Fenris claimed one together after shamelessly eyefucking one another across the clearing from the moment Fenris arrived, and Merrill had declined a tent at all. "It really is a nice hammock," she'd insisted.
Garrett is skeptical, but Merrill seems happy enough.
"Hawke?" Anders prods.
"What?" Garrett tries to scramble for an excuse when a mud-splattered Fiat pulls into the spot next to his truck.
Varric lets out a throaty chuckle as Sebastian Vael unfolds himself from the driver's seat looking more than a little ruffled. "Time to pay up, choirboy!" he crows.
"Is this mortifying ordeal not payment enough?" Sebastian protests.
"He's quite shiny, isn't he?" Merrill points out from her perch in the trees.
Sebastian grimaces, and Garrett has to suppress an entire round of giggles. He's wearing an ornate suit of armor with gilded edges, polished so bright the silver is practically white underneath his glaring headlights. The only part of the outfit that looks even remotely natural on him is the bow casually slung over his shoulder, and that's only because everyone in Kirkwall knows Sebastian Vael has held the Free Marches Archery League title cup for five years now and counting.
"He looks like he stepped straight out of the Voltron reboot," Anders mutters under his breath, and Garrett's willpower runs out. He bursts into hysterical, wheezing cackles hard enough to make him choke, and soon enough Anders is pounding on his back in concern while Sebastian shoots him a deadly glare that might have been menacing if he'd been wearing literally anything else.
Sebastian eyes Garrett up and down with a scowl. "I really didn't think you would do it," he grumbles. He pulls out his phone, Varric's phone chimes from the front seat of his Mustang, and Isabela whistles as she peeks into the window.
"Fifteen hundred sovereigns on Hawke making a fool of himself?" She snickers and offers a sympathetic pat on his shoulder. "You should have known that was a setup, sweet thing."
"Hey!" Garrett protests. He feels ridiculous, but he can't look that bad. He's definitely getting the locks to his apartment changed when they all get home.
"Well?" Anders says with an expectant look on his face. "Are you going to help me put our tent up, or not?"
"Our tent, eh?" Garrett waggles his eyebrows and then immediately regrets the slew of mental images he's brought onto himself with that statement. "Fine," he mutters at Anders's scowl. At least then he can attribute the flush in his cheeks to exertion.
A drop of rain hits him on the forehead. "Maker's ballbags," Sebastian swears. Garrett didn't even think the man could swear without bursting into flames, but evidently he's learning all sorts of things this evening.
"Didn't bring a tent?" Isabela coos. "You can join me and Fenris in ours, if you like."
"No, thank you," Sebastian says stiffly. He strides up to Varric with a flat stare. "I'll bunk with this bastard."
"Beauty sleep!" Varric protests.
"Don't look at us," Anders says with a shrug. "Pretty sure Hawke is going to take up most of the room all by himself."
"Hey!" Garrett sputters.
"It's a compliment," Anders shoots back. His eyes rake a hungry gaze across Garrett's exposed bicep, and suddenly Garrett's trousers feel about three sizes too small.
"We should, uh." Garrett clears his throat. "We should get that tent up."
Isabela cackles and shoots him a salacious wink.
It's going to be a long fucking weekend.
"So." Anders fidgets with his sleeves. The tent is looking a little worse for wear, but they'd finally gotten it upright enough to fit two grown men inside. It's honestly bigger than it looks, but he and Anders are both just a bit too tall to sit up comfortably.
Which would be fine if it weren't for the giant metal cereal bowl he has protruding from his chest.
"So," Garrett echoes.
"That chestplate cannot be comfortable."
The smirk plasters itself across Garrett's face before he realizes what's happening, and the worst possible sentence slips unimpeded out of his mouth. "Shouldn't you ask me to dinner before trying to get me out of my clothes?"
"You don't want to see what would happen if I tried to cook anything over an open fire." The corner of his lip turns up. For fuck's sake, his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Garrett is definitely not going to survive this night, much less an entire weekend.
"Is, uh. That isn't a no," Garrett stammers. "Wait. you didn't ask — I didn't mean to—"
Anders stretches his lanky arms over his head and begins to unbuckle his coat. "I'll let you buy me dinner if you let me help you out of that thing."
"Are you hitting on me?" Garrett sputters.
Anders shrugs. "I'm pretty sure it's a violation of the Hippocratic Oath to let someone suffocate on their own clothing in their sleep in this heat." He grins. "Is that a yes?"
"I'm not wearing anything under this thing," Garrett says stupidly.
"I won't tell Varric if you don't."
It's two in the morning and neither of them are wearing clothes now. Anders had smuggled his phone in with a hidden pocket in his coat, and they're perched side by side on their elbows squinting at the glow of the screen with the brightness turned all the way down. The sound is so low they're practically brushing cheeks to hear it.
"Wait," Garrett says suddenly. "You're a doctor? I thought you worked at a cat shelter."
Anders shrugs. "I volunteer on my days off."
Neither of them are really paying attention to the Netflix window. This close, Garrett can count the freckles scattered across his cheeks in the dark. "I'm a bartender," he blurts out. "I don't save lives or anything, but I can make a mean Bloody Mary."
Anders laughs. It's a low chuckle that sends heat spooling into his belly. "Your job sounds much more interesting."
Garrett is about to scramble for something to say that doesn't make him look like an utter idiot, but Anders suddenly taps him on the arm excitedly. "See?" Anders whispers. He pauses the first episode of Voltron with a tap of his finger and gestures at the screen, shoulders shaking with laughter.
"Oh." Garrett blinks at the armored figure on the screen. "You know what? I absolutely see it."
They dissolve into giggles again, and Garrett begins to think perhaps this weekend won't be quite so bad after all.