You make the darkness feel like home

"It's really not. You know how easily a rag will go up in flames if it's been soaked in brandy?" Anders shrugged. "Dead bodies do too. It was almost funny once we put him out, but now…" he swallowed. "Now I remember it differently. Now even the smell of it turns our stomach. So I suppose it's not really Justice’s doing at all, just… bad memories. "

Hawke leaned his chair back to balance it on two legs and drained his tankard. "Smell of what? Beer? Whiskey? Rum?"

"All of it," he sighed, then took a sip of tea. "It's a Warden tradition to keep a flask or bottle on hand and dump whatever we find into it. Like a forever stew, but with alcohol." He made a face. "Just as chewy sometimes too."

"Even wine?" Fenris heard himself ask.

Anders tilted his head like he was listening to something. Something no one else could hear. Fenris glanced away, regreting the impulsive question now that it was out in the open. He didn't want to know more about the abomination, much less his companion, and far less hear either of their opinions on anything. Their animosity had cooled over the years, but almost too much, leaving them with the frosty indifference forced to lived together and both ignoring the other.

"You know, I don't think I've had wine in at least fifteen years," he finally said. "Commander kept a carafe of it at the dinner table, but most all of us stuck with ale or whatever else was on hand. I used to joke that the color was too much like darkspawn blood. So I suppose… maybe not?"

Hawke plucked Fenris' bottle from his hand, grabbed a cup at random off the table, then poured a measure of wine in before handing it over to Anders. "Guess it's time to find out, yeah?"

Anders eyed the proffered drink like it might bite him, or possibly explode, but accepted it. He sniffed at it gingerly, frowned, took a cautious sip, then made a face. "That is… vile."

He wasn't wrong. The Hanged Man's 'wine' was the worst of the worst, the dreck of the dreck, and often distinguishable from vinegar only by color. That color was the only reason Fenris stubbornly ordered it every time; there was no way to piss in it and still pass it off as drinkable, unlike the wretched sour beers that smelled like flatulence and tasted of grass.

Fenris reached out to take it back. "No one is making you drink it." Then he added, defensively, "I have much better at home."

He arched a disbelieving not-quite-hostile eyebrow. "Are you offering me a tour of your wine cellar? Sample the wares?"

That hadn't been the plan at all, but Anders always made him feel off balance, and it tricked his mouth into saying things it shouldn't. He didn't want Anders in the mansion, but, now that he'd been called out so directly, it would refusal would turn him into the asshole.

But it took two to [tango], and he'd learned passive aggression from magisters. "If that is what you wish, we can go right now."

Anders blinked a few times, but, just like Fenris, was unwilling to back down. He pushed himself out of the chair and held out his hand, a picture of gallant chivalry. "Shall we, then?"

Kaffas. He grabbed Anders' wrist and ignored the strange tingle across the lyrium as he was hauled up, faster and with more ease than he thought possible. Hawke moved to join them, but Anders pushed him back down into his chair with that hidden strength. "You weren't invited, Hawke." He winked. "This is my wine tasting."

Was it better or worse to be doing this alone? More importantly, what even was 'this' at all? Fenris pulled his hand free and headed for the stairs, feeling Anders walking too damn closely behind him.

Once they were outside, they immediately parted, then turned to face each other.

"That was fun for the look on Hawke's face, but we —"

"You don't really —"

They both stopped. They both glared. They both heaved resigned sighs.

"I'm not saying you can't —"

"I mean, if you meant it, I won't —"

Fenris pinched his brow. At this point, all he wanted was a proper glass of wine, and drinking alone was never a wise choice. He should know, as he'd practiced it far too often. "Come on, mage."

"Really?"

He started climbing the stairs back up to Hightown. "I dislike repeating myself. Join me if you want."

A few seconds later, he heard the telltale rustle and jingle of Anders' coat as he jogged to catch up to him. "What kinds do you have?"

"Three bottles of Nevarran Ourzo, four casks of Orlesian white, a case of what was once a dozen bottles of Antivan Chianti, and an entire rack of Aggregio Parvali." He shrugged. "There's more, but I haven't bothered to catalog it." How could he, when he couldn't read or write?

Anders whistled. "Sounds worth a fortune."

"Perhaps," Fenris said. "But it's nothing to Danarius. He never cared for any of it, except that it was proof of his power and status. Proof he could have anything he wanted."

Mentioning his former master had the desired effect; it shut Anders up. Speaking of a single man's crimes instead of the dangers of mages as a whole seemed to take the air out every argument he'd ever prepared on the subject. It was strange, but it made sense. For all his recklessness, all his foolishness, Anders wasn't cruel. Nasty and petty upon occasion, but not cruel. He'd bite the hand that feeds every day, but he'd never kick a man laying in the gutter unless he'd put him there himself.

Fenris shook his head as he pushed the door open. Trying to understand Anders was lesson in futility, even if he wanted to. Which he didn't. The mage puzzled him, but it wasn't important, and certainly not worth the energy and time he should be putting into preparing for Danarius' return. Without further preamble, he grabbed a bottle of wine from the table just inside the entranceway, daring Anders to question what it was doing there. "This is the Chianti." He pulled the stopper out and handed it over.

Anders took a curious sniff, then glanced up at Fenris. "Smells like fruit."

What kind of observation was that? "I should hope so."

"That's normal then?" he asked, then took a long swig. Their fingers brushed as he passed the bottle back and licked his lips. "Reminds me in a way of… some really tart cheeses?"

Something about him seemed different now. Less defensive? Less wary? Whatever it was, Fenris liked it, which further added to the strangeness of the evening. He'd invited a mage into his home and offered him a drink. It was unheard of, yet it was happening, and, most bizarre of all, he found himself wanting to keep him there. Not by force, but with treat, just as Anders did with the alley cats behind the Hanged Man. "They do go well with cheese," he suggested. "I have some in the larder."

As he lead the way to the kitchen, Fenris sipped the wine out of simple habit. It was stronger than the Hanged Man's slop, and made his skin buzz pleasantly, though only on one side. Odd. The hearth was cold and dark, but not too dark for him to see. Anders was another matter, and he banged face first into a pan hanging from the rack.

"Kaffas, sit down before you trip on anything important." Fenris tugged him to the table and handed the bottle back. "Have some more."

"I thought we were touring you wine cellar," Anders complained even as he sat.

Fenris rolled his eyes. "You're Fereldan and you're passing up cheese? I thought that was all you dog lords lived for. Besides, you hate caves and tunnels, and the cellar is both. I can bring the wine to you." He fled through the side door before either of them could consider the wider implications of such an offer. He was a fugitive from Tevinter, and waiting on a mage of his own free will? Why? Why did he care?

The larder was half a floor down and one room over, but he kept going. I should've asked him what he thought of the Chianti. Too late now, but wasn't that the point of a wine tasting? To taste a variety? A sweeter red, and one of the sparkling dry whites. He couldn't read the labels, but the bottles were distinctive in color and shape. Maybe a sweet blush too. Was that too much? Was it not enough? Warden strength and stamina was legendary, after all.

What is wrong with me? He won't possibly want to stay that long. And even if he does, I can get more.

In the end, his arms were wrapped precariously around three reds, two whites, and a blush as he climbed up to the larder, grabbed a brick of hard cheese, and backed his way through the kitchen door. "This should be pl—"

Disappointment and relief warred in his chest, but softly, like his lungs were full of goose down. Anders, the abomination, the renegade Warden, the Darktown healer, was snoring with his head pillowed on his arm and the obviously empty bottle of wine laying on its side on the table.

They kiss with force; all the sharp animosity they have exchanged over the years melting into hot iron and solidifying into a blunt weapon. Tongues sliding against each other, wet and hot. Anders moans into it, unabashed, holding Fenris’ face gently. Fenris groans, his fingers digging into Anders’ waist, under his coat. 

Fenris’ room– In a mansion that is as much as his as the ragged space in Darktown is Anders’ clinic– is dimly lit by a burning fire. It casts more shadows than it does warmth, but it does not matter when they are both already consumed by a shared fever. 

The rush of their blood matches their rush to undress, to uncover every spot that makes the other weak and needy. Anders kisses the lyrium on Fenris’ neck, lips brushing against magic and rapid pulse. More more more, he is swept by an overwhelming desire. 

“Anders,” Fenris moans. Not a title, not an insult. The name of a man and not an abomination. 

Anders shudders against him, pushing him to the bed. Maybe they were always as inevitable as the waves crashing into the sea– bound to be dragged to shore. 

They grind against each other, matching hardness and speed, until Anders’ vision flips upside down. His back meets the mattress with a thump. A choked gasp escapes him. Fenris is seated comfortably in his lap, with a victorious smirk. 

“Given your history, I should have…"

“Let me lead?” Fenris supplies. 

“Smug bastard.” Anders licks his kiss-swollen lips. 

Fenris’ eyes narrow behind long eyelashes. “Is it easy for you to be vulnerable?” he asks, voice low. His fingers trail over Anders’ chest, the texture of his hair, his scars and freckles. 

“I had practice.” To match the admission, his thighs part, inviting Fenris to the space between. “I could teach you, some day.” The words cut through tension only to sow suspense. Will there be some day for them? 

“Some day,” Fenris repeats, words slow, loose fist wrapped around Anders’ cock and moving even slower. 

“Ahh–” Anders whines, thighs trembling. His chest heaves, inhales ragged and quick. “Fuck me,” he rasps, and the friction around him stops. 

Fenris’ pointer and index fingers, that must taste like salt, arousal, and Anders, press against a smile. Fenris takes them to his mouth, pulling them out with an obscene pop. Coated in his saliva, he presses them against Anders’ entrance, circling the rim until Anders moans, before pushing in. 

Anders’ pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher under Fenris’ sensual rhythm. Deep, gradual, not relenting. Every motion that causes Anders’ back to arch is repeated, every shuddered breath is accepted as encouragement. When Fenris’ fingers finally slip out, Anders is overcome with a haze of lust. 

Fenris lifts his leg up, ankle by his shoulder, with a warrior’s ease, grip gentle but stable. Anders will not slip away without effort. Inch by inch, Anders is filled with thick heady desire. 

Fenris’ brows furrow when he seats himself fully inside Anders, lips parted to exhale a shaky breath. “This is…” 

Anders bites his lip as he clenches around him experimentally. “A better use of our time than fighting?” 

“Certainly.” The word is accentuated with a thrust, a sharp snap of Fenris’ hips. 

Anders thighs shake from the start, his muscles protesting at Fenris’ erratic pace. The sex is as intense as their fights, the pull and back, the chase for a reaction. Fenris’ nails dig crescent marks into Anders’ skin, while his cock pounds into him. 

“More,” Anders begs, the heel of his foot pressing against Fenris’ lower back, his hands holding on to the duvet. Sparks of magic illuminate the bed, slipping from Anders like water drops from an overflowing cup. Uncontrollable and scattered, matching Fenris’ unrelenting tempo. 

“Careful,” Fenris hisses in between groans, not letting up his thrusts. 

“Don’t you like it?” Anders asks, panting. “A mage coming undone under you?”