#andersxhawke

       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.”