FictionBoBayla

           They had only just stopped the warrior from bleeding out.

           Soft cotton bandages secured tightly around Garrett’s torso hid the vertical twin scars where the Arishok’s massive, dual-wield swords had sunk in up to the hilts, coming clean out the warrior’s back on either side of his spine. His chest rose and fell against the bandages as he fought for air, his face twisted in pain even in magically aided sleep. They had washed off as much of the blood as they could, but it was still matted in Garrett’s dark hair and beard. Anders could see dried flakes standing out against his gray face, even in the dim candlelight.

           It had taken Isabela and Aveline’s knowledge of physical medicine and dozens of layers of stitches, as well has huge bouts of healing magic from Anders and Merrill just to sew the warrior’s insides back together. Anders’s nerves were beyond frayed, teased apart from terror, adrenaline, and too many lyrium potions, causing the tips of his fingers to tingle with pins and needles. His hands and knees shook slightly with exhaustion, but he refused to sleep or leave Hawke alone even for a moment. He was grimy with sweat, and the mixed smell of healing potions, poultices, and herbs permeating the air were starting to make his head spin. Yet another sign he didn’t spend enough time in his clinic; usually the thick scents didn’t bother him.

           His eyelids ached, practically begging him to close them for just a moment. He didn’t hear the creak of the door opening or the heavy footfalls of thick leather boots until Varric’s hand landed on his shoulder, causing the poor healer to jump out of his skin. Varric flinched, pulling away quickly.

           “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you… How’re you holding up?” He spoke just above a whisper, his eyes flicking to Garrett’s still figure. His eyebrows were pulled together, the corners of his mouth turned down in a worried scowl.

           “I… I’ll be fine.” Maker, why did he have to sound as tired as he felt?

           “You should sleep,” Varric said softly, as if Anders was the one who had just gotten skewered by the Arishok. “Hawke will be fine for a few hours. You took good care of him.”

           Anders stood, his back and knees hissing in protest after hours of sitting still on the uncomfortable little stool by the bed. The creases in Varric’s forehead deepened more as he frowned up at the mage.

           “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

           “I’ll be fine,” Anders repeated absently, picking up a rag and dipping it in the basin of cold water on the nightstand. He worked without thinking, carefully wiping the dried blood flakes off Garrett’s forehead. The warrior’s skin was hot to the touch, radiating a dry heat that Anders knew all too well.

           “He has a fever.”

           “… Shit.”

           Anders folded up the rag, resting it across Garrett’s forehead. A headache started to pulse around his own temples as he rifled through the dozens of potions on the nightstand, trying to find anything that could soothe the fever or give the healer just enough mana to break it. His limbs were heavy, fingers clumsy as he handled the little glass bottles, trying not to replay the fight in his mind’s eye for the hundredth time…

            …Garrett, exhausted after nearly a full hour of dodging those huge swords, blood trickling from a small gash on his temple and the hundreds of other little cuts and bruises, mixing with the sweat beading and running down his face. Garrett throwing caution to the wind and charging right at the equally exhausted Arishok, misjudging how fast the hulking Qunari could really move, those swords darting forward and then the shriek of tearing armor before the horrible, dull squelch of metal on guts. Garrett, suspended in midair, the Arishok’s swords running clean through him and lifting him right off his feet, blood pouring down the Qunari’s straining arms. Garrett barely managing to drive his own two-handed sword through the top of the Arishok’s skull, right between his horns, thick red blood already starting to gush past the warrior’s lips. Both men collapsing into a pool of gore as Anders’s anguished wail finally escaped his tight lungs and split the still air of the Viscount’s keep-

           “Anders, can you hear me?” Varric’s voice cut into his thoughts, causing his head to throb again.

           “Hmm?”

           “I asked if you wanted me to get you something to eat or…”

           “Do we have any more lyrium potions?”

           Varric heaved a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “You know you can’t have any more, your heart’s gonna give out!”

           “I need to get his fever down!” Anders’s voice cracked as his knees buckled slightly, and he grabbed at the edge of the nightstand to try and steady himself. He locked his knees to keep his legs from shaking any more. “I’m totally drained, Varric, I can’t-”

           “Here.” Varric unclasped a pouch on his belt, grabbing a vial. He pressed the little bottle into Anders’s hand, the glass warm to the touch and roiling with a thick, dark brown liquid. “Give him a few drops of this, and get some sleep. You’re no use to anyone if you wear yourself down like this.”

Anders carefully uncorked the bottle, holding it under his nose to sample the putrid fumes. The mixture smelled something like rotten eggs and deathroot, burning into Anders’s sinuses and causing his vision to blur slightly.

           “What is it?” He choked, quickly corking it again. Varric shrugged.

           “I don’t know what it’s made of, specifically. We used to use it in the Merchant’s Guild. It can cure colds and fevers and even pimples, sometimes. Sells for at least a half dozen sovereigns on the black market.”

           “Is it… legal?”

           “Blondie, you’re not even legal.”

           Anders couldn’t argue with that. His clinic alone was enough to get him some serious jail time, not to mention the fact that he was an escaped apostate with a pretty abysmal track record.

           “… Thanks, Varric.”

           “No problem. Really.” He muttered, patting Anders on the small of his back before slipping out. Anders had never seen the dwarf so tense with worry, his shoulders hunched slightly and his face caught in a constant grimace. The healer wasn’t the only one who needed some sleep.

           Getting Garrett to swallow the sluggish, nasty liquid was easy enough. His jaw was already slack, and the beads of brown potion rolled down his throat without much resistance. Anders set the bottle aside after recorking it again, sinking back onto his little stool and leaning on the mattress, folding his arms on the plush comforter. His head slowly dropped forward, exhaustion pulling him down onto his arms. He would just rest his eyes for a few moments…

***

           “Anders?”

           Garrett’s hoarse voice woke Anders up just as the sun was starting to peak through the little gap in the red curtains, illuminating the dust swirling through the air. Anders sat bolt upright, hastily wiping the drool from his mouth and ignoring his agonizingly stiff neck and sore shoulders. How long had he been out?

           “You’re awake!”

           Garrett looked much better, too. His fever had broken, and a bit of color was starting to rise into his cheeks. His breathing had eased up considerably, and the washcloth had slipped off his head in the night, crumpled up beside his ear. He managed a weak smile, pulling a hand out from under the heavy blankets and reaching for Anders’s, catching the mage’s slim fingers in his thick, calloused ones. There was still blood caked under his fingernails, and his palm was slightly hot. Anders clung to his hand like a lifeline, gripping it in both of his own.

           “How do you feel, love?”

           “Not dead, thanks to you,” he murmured, bringing Anders’s hands to his lips and kissing his knuckles slowly. Anders let out a breath, possibly the first one since the Arishok attack.

           “Merrill, Aveline, and Isabela helped too,” Anders said quickly. Garrett hummed softly against Anders’s thumb, keeping it pressed against his lips as Anders untangled one of his hands from the warrior’s and reached for a cup of cold water on the nightstand. Someone must have brought it in while the two men slept.

           “Nice of them… but they’re not the reason I fought to stay alive.”

           Anders went still, hand wrapped around the cold cup. He stared blankly at the condensation running between his fingers, his chest strangely tight as he processed what Garrett meant. Had he just heard him correctly?

           “… Oh?” He managed, his voice weak. Garrett closed his eyes, still holding Anders’s hand.

           “… I heard you, Anders,” he said softly, his voice low and gravelly. “I heard you scream when I was stabbed, heard you begging me to stay awake, stay alive… How could I not hang on after that? How could I just… leave you like that?”

           Anders looked away, chewing his lower lip. He could still feel that icy horror that had engulfed him only a few weeks ago, just after Leandra’s death, as he lay beside a half-awake Garrett. Anders’s love was little more than a husk of himself, only sleeping or eating when prompted by Anders or Varric, wracked with self-hatred for not being quick enough or smart enough to save the last of his family. Nothing anyone had said to him had made any difference.  

         The cold moonlight flushed the colors from their bedroom, turning it into a black and silver painting. Garrett had been staring at him with those vacant eyes, his whole body limp with fatigue and sleep deprivation as he mumbled faintly about how death might not be so bad if it meant seeing his family again…

           Losing Garrett voluntarily, after Anders had spent his whole life fighting for every single day, wasn’t a thought he could bear to examine any closer.

           “You really… Came back for me?” he let go of the cup, instead grabbing a handful of the robes over his knee to stop his hand from shaking. Garrett nodded, the bristles of his beard lightly raking against Anders’s wrist.

           “Well, more or less… It’s not like I died, I just… had to fight to stay alive, you know? For you…”

           Anders’s brain was buzzing, the ringing in his ears almost blocking out what Garrett was saying. His throat was tight, his shoulders trembling slightly as warm waves of relief crashed over him, making him almost giddy as he stared down at his knees. Garrett had clawed his way back from the brink of death for him…?

           But there was something else too, lingering just below the surface and spoiling this otherwise perfect moment.

            Anxiety, hot and bubbling in the pit of his stomach, yanking at the nerves connecting his heart to his gut. Hadn’t he told Garrett he would have to break his heart someday, that this relationship was doomed from the start, and couldn’t possibly last…? Garrett had opened his eyes again, deep blue anxiously searching his lover’s face. He carefully swiped his thumb across Anders’s hand, working it in circles over the pale skin.

            “Anders…?”

            Anders couldn’t look at him, but he couldn’t pull his hand away either. He chewed his lower lip, caught between the logical choice- to pull away and end it now, before it got any more painful- and the ache deep in his chest, begging for more of Hawke’s… everything. That warm smile he gave Anders, like the healer was the most wonderful thing in all of Thedas; the way the world seemed to melt away when they kissed, shutting out everything but the two of them; all the absent touches that were just second nature to Garrett at this point, but still sent shivers down Anders’s spine every time… he craved Garrett the way a Templar ached for a lyrium fix, and “more painful” was already starting to look like a reality for when the end would have to come.

            Fuck it. What’s a little bit more time?

            Anders looked up, the small smile playing across his lips surprising even him. He stood, bending and gently kissing Garrett’s forehead, squeezing his hand gently and working his free fingers through the warrior’s hair. Anders had finally stopped trembling.

           “That’s good to hear, love. That’s… really good to hear.”

           “Y-yeah…?” Garrett’s voice cracked slightly, half-smiling up at Anders. The mage landed another kiss on his temple, over the half-healed gash, and then on his lips. Garrett’s eyes fluttered closed, gripping Anders’s hair in a gentle fist as they melted into the kiss, aching and warm and passionate. He drunk Garrett in, memorizing every strand of dark hair, every ridge on his skin, the softness of his lips, only pulling away once Garrett was short of breath. He ran his fingers down the warrior’s jaw, smiling down at him lovingly.

           “I never want to lose you, Garrett.” He murmured softly, nuzzling his cheek. Garrett hadn’t opened his eyes, succumbing to Anders’s cool touch against his feverish skin.

       Hawke cast a quick glance at Anders for the millionth time that night. The healer was pale, dark red blood standing out stark against his skin, and he chewed his lip as he stared right through a wall. His thumb nails were ragged around the top edge, where he had bitten them off as he trembled slightly, holding his staff in a white-knuckled grip.

         Why did he have to do this? Garrett thought, bitterness coating the back of his throat as he took in his lover’s dazed appearance. Wasn’t it Anders himself who had said he hated it when mages turned to violence only a few short years ago?

       Garrett took Anders’s arm, steering him up the stairs and into their bedroom. The door shut with a resolute click as Hawke deposited Anders on the bed, making the straw mattress crackle slightly as he sunk into it. The near-silence was unbearably loud, pressing in on all sides of Garrett’s mind like a thick fog and making the beginnings of a headache bloom behind his eyes.

       Maker, those fires are getting close.

       He strode over to the wardrobe and threw open the doors, pulling out a small canvas bag and throwing it onto the bed, nearly hitting Anders with it. The apostate seemed to snap back into reality for the first time since the Chantry, still gripping his staff tightly as he stared up at the Champion.

       “Garrett, I…”

       Garrett didn’t respond. He began pulling their clothes out of the wardrobe and tossing them on the bed, piling soft cotton shirts and trousers onto the rich comforter. Downstairs the front door opened with a soft creak and the smell of ash flooded the whole house as the rest of Hawke’s followers invaded the living room. Bethany’s voice seemed to carry above the rest, asking if Garrett and Anders were already home.

       A dull weight was settling in Garrett’s stomach, an ache all-too similar to the one he had experienced in Lothering as he watched Darkspawn trample his childhood home. He was leaving again. Leaving his sister, his friends, the life he had spent almost a decade trying to rebuild.

       It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

       “We can take Isabela’s ship out of Kirkwall tonight. She told me the offer to join her crew still stood. I think she was planning on sailing to Antiva.” He kept his voice as neutral as he could, determinedly not looking at Anders as he folded up their shirts as small as they would go and tucked them into the canvas bag. Anders didn’t say anything, didn’t even move.

       It was a while before Garrett realized the mage had clamped one hand over his mouth, trembling as his eyes glistened with tears. Garrett froze, gripping the shirt he had been folding as sharp stabs of sympathy attacked him, threatening to overwhelm him with the need to go to him, wipe his tears before they fell, and hold him against his chest until he was asleep. Just as he had done countless nights before.

       When Anders finally spoke, his voice quivered and the tears spilled over, crawling down his cheeks and leaving pale tracks through the grime.

       “M-maker, what have I done…?”

       “The Maker’s probably the last person who wants to hear from you right now.” Garrett said dryly, tearing his gaze away from Anders and stuffing the unfolded shirt in his pack. Anders choked out a laugh that sounded more painful than joyful, the sound clenching around Garrett’s heart like a vice. Anders glanced at his staff before tossing it down angrily, the thin wooden stick clattering loudly on the stone floor.

       “I-I’ve ruined everything…! You have to leave your home again, because of me!”

       “I’m giving the deed to Bethany, so at least we won’t lose the estate completely.” Garrett muttered. He unlocked his safe, rooting through the stacks of papers and letters to find the roll of parchment, hastily labeled “DEED” in messy, black ink. ‘Hopefully it won’t burn to the ground.”

       “Hawke!”

       Garrett bit his lip. Anders never called him by his last name anymore, only “Garrett”, or “Love”, or one of their stupid little pet names that made Anders blush every single time. The dull ache seemed to encase him, trying to choke the life out of him.

       Hawke set the deed down on the desk, noticing the slight tremor in his hands as he did. He turned to face the mage, looking down at him with what he hoped was a disappointed expression. Anders gripped the bedspread tightly, his eyes flicking over Garrett’s face, silently begging for some form of sympathy or support from the one person who seemed to be on his side. The Champion knew he wouldn’t be able to resist Anders’s broken expression for much longer.

       “Yes, you made a mistake tonight.” Garrett finally said, working hard to keep his voice steady, “you killed people. You murdered the Grand Cleric, our one real ally. You made sure innocents were lost in this battle. Husbands, wives, children; people who were just trying to find some peace and shelter from the chaos outside.”

         Anders wilted as Garrett laid down these heavy charges. He dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping as he resigned himself to whatever the Champion had planned for him, whether that meant being turned over to the Templars or just getting it over quickly with a knife in the back.

       Garrett cupped Anders’s chin and brought his face up, making him look him in the eye. He seemed to burn from the inside out as he traced his thumb lightly over the apostate’s cheekbone, wiping away the last of his distressed tears. His throat was tight, making sure the next line he delivered was nice and weak.

       “Don’t think for one second I would ever abandon you, my love.”

       Something broke behind Anders’s eyes. A wall was torn down, and he pressed his face against Garrett’s chest as he started to shake with sobs. Garrett’s own throat was tight as he wrapped his arms around Anders’s thin frame, fitting himself perfectly against the mage as they had done countless nights before. His hand involuntarily buried itself in Anders’s silky strawberry hair, gripping it tightly as he held the healer.

       This is what I want.

       They sat like that for a while, Garrett starting to slowly rock them both. Anders’s slim fingers clung to the back of the warrior’s shirt as he slowly stopped shaking, eventually lifting his face and looking up at him.

       “The templars will get into Kirkwall soon,” Garrett murmured, gently running the back of his fingers down the side of Anders’s jaw, leaving flecks of dried blood on the pale skin. Anders grabbed desperately at his hand.

       “What… what will the others do…?” Anders managed in a hoarse whisper. Garrett kissed the top of his head.

       “They’ll come with us, of course, on Isabela’s ship… they all kind of pledged their loyalty to me before the battle.”

       “Really? Even Fenris?”

       “Even Fenris.”

       “That’s just… absurd.” He shook his head, finally managing a weak smile. Some of the pressure against Garrett’s heart alleviated, and he felt himself breathe for the first time since the Chantry explosion.

       “Let’s pack up, Love. We have a world to see.”