#hawkeanders

Anders: Well. Under that scruffy exterior, I think you’ve got a bit of a soft heart, yourself.

Will you look at the size of that dog! Sure, Hawke’s bed is big, but anyone who has pets they allow on their bed probably knows animals take a surprisingly large amount of space. And add to that two grown-up humans. It’s not an unreasonable request?

Also, you know, privacy, sometimes when couples share a bed sex happens, and some of us don’t like our pets watching that.

And it’s not like Anders just tells Hawke to kick the dog out, no, Anders talks about it with the dog, and explains it so the mabari understands. Honestly, that’s adorable.

It’s the first of the many notable snubs to come for the newly titled Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke choosing to spend the holiday with their loved ones rather than the nobles of Hightown. It’s tradition, after all, on First Day, to spend the time with friends and neighbors, and the denizens of the Hanged Man are more that than anyone in Hightown, proximity be damned. They’ll have to learn, in the future, to balance such things, coming around to reluctant power games for the sake of the same people they toast to tonight, but for now, there is only music and the laughter of friends.

Varric is writing in the corner, on and off over his drink, speech and letters equally flowing as he chatters with the various patrons. The epic of the Qunari Invasion, he’ll tell anyone who asks, with grand words and gestures. Keep an eye out for it on the stands soon. And it’ll be four years before he publishes it, half fact and half legend and none the story he’d expected to tell, too jagged around the edges of Kirkwall, but tonight he’ll tell anyone who’ll listen of the tale, Hawke politely deferring to him whenever they’re asked of it.

Isabela is here tonight. Before the week is out, she’ll have left Kirkwall, not to return for nearly three years. Now, though, she props herself up against Merrill’s shoulders, cheering as Fenris arm wrestles Aveline - and loses. And if she winces, herself, every time the set of Hawke’s shoulders remind her of a duel for her sake and a Qunari sword through Hawke’s chest, not yet healed, well, she doesn’t let it ruin the festivities.

And if Anders has any lingering resentment, himself, he does not show it, contenting himself to fuss over Hawke, the mage at Hawke’s side, laughing and groaning in equal measures as he hands over the payment of tonight’s ill-fated bet before playing another hand. It’s the first either of them have gone out in a week, days spent in bed recovering. He’ll be going out less and less, in the years to come, driven to desperation by the Knight-Commander, but he’ll remember this night even so, keep it close to him over long fugitive nights with Hawke at his side and the templars at their heels.

“I’d like to propose a toast!” Hawke says five minutes before the bell, glass raised and Anders steadying them with a fond chuckle. “To friends, to family, to lovers!” They pull Anders closer. “To someone else cleaning up the last of the Qunari mess!” they add, and everyone laughs, the last flurry of new rounds before midnight.

And when the clock strikes 12 at last, ringing throughout the streets, they kiss, Hawke and Anders, together and happy and Hawke only a little tipsy. They have no idea, tonight, of what the future holds in store for them, but they could hardly care less. They know, in this moment, that whatever else happens, they will see it together, hand in hand.

They do.