Anders could ask for nothing.
It had been some time since the events in Kirkwall, but a few thin months since they at last stopped running by day and hiding by night, found a secluded place to secret themselves away, at least for a while - and how wonderful and how bizarre it was, The Champion of Kirkwall and the infamous Apostate of Kirkwall who had thrown the Circles of Thedas into chaos on the run together as fugitives. It was as overwrought as a Bard's song or one of Varric's pulp novels - yet, this improbable melodrama was their lives. Andraste's honest truth.
He couldn't have dared ask for Hawke to come away with him, not after he had already spared a life that by all accounts - including Anders' - he should have taken. Nor had he needed to. Hawke had, without hesitation, pledged to go with him, to run away with him. He never deserved such a love in this life, not with how he was. The oppressive Circles falling, one by one, shattering irreparably, a safe place to lie down at night, and Hawke at his side - he was in no position to have complaints.
Yet he wanted.
Hawke, though he remained stoic as ever, was far from unscathed by their trials. While Anders' spirits were (perhaps not so secretly) lifted by the daily news of seminal chaos across Thedas, each line on slyly passed, tattered paper carved the lines in Hawke's increasingly unkempt face deeper, and drove a rift further between the two of them.
Anders could love Hawke no more than he now did, this man who had given everything and had everything taken from him and yet he stayed; Hawke looked at him still with some sort of love in his eyes, but his gaze had changed, hardened, no longer so sweet, so tender, so young. Innocence was replaced with hard-won wisdom; affection, with guardianship.
Perhaps with obligation.
Hawke said nothing much, but neither did he need to. More than the Chantry had he destroyed; more than Kirkwall had been thrown into uncertainty. There was tired doubt in his voice, questions in his movement that would never be asked. Anders would do nearly anything to fix the now, to change things that he had done, but he could not go back to the past. Time moved forward only. Even the deepest Blood Magic couldn't unwrite history.
Hawke sat now on his bedroll, taking off his boots and rubbing his face. There were two sets of bedding, side by side, with just enough space between the two blankets to echo the unspoken distance that they did not name. 'There will be a Conclave between the mages and the Templars soon.'
Anders' nose curled, and he was about to say something sardonic when he bit his tongue, far more for Hawke's sake than from any desire to moderate his views, which had, if possible, grown only harsher. Instead he pushed off his own boots and dropped his belt on the ground, wordlessly sitting on his own sheets, hunched against the wall. '... Perhaps they will find a resolution,' he offered, ambiguously, and with some insincerity. If Hawke saw through it - and there was little doubt that he did, for little had tricked him for some time - he said nothing, and shifted to lie down on his back.
This was how they lived now, how had it been for so many months passed. In Kirkwall, there had been no want for things words, and they had passed effortly between them, always something, be it serious, curious, or trite, to talk about. Now there was only the Rebellion that consumed Thedas, and the both of them with it, the Rebellion he had inspired, the Rebellion that had torn Kirkwall apart.
Anders hesitated, sitting upright in the dark and moved in closer, in aching increments, and then with one deft, bold motion, pressed his lips to Hawke's.
Hawke lay rigid at first, but a spark passed between them and he relaxed, a kindling of things lying, not dead, but dormant. Anders knew Hawke loved him still - or he would never be here. Even disgraced, Hawke could find a better life, and he did not. How many nights, before, had they lay just lie this, skin against skin, confiding some nights, bantering others, and others still quiet, but warm, gentle words unspoken, and unnecessary?
A hand found itself in Anders' hair, thumbing the ends of his frayed ponytail, pathetically mangled from a recent attempt at a trim. Rough, chapped lips lingered for a moment, Anders' hand resting, hopeful, on on Hawke's chest, but a few aching seconds more and the moment passed, and Hawke slowly turned his head, letting go of the coarse handful of hair. 'Good night, Anders,' was all he said, his voice milky.
'... good night, Hawke,' was all Anders could find in reply. He pulled away and rolled over onto his side, and stared at the wall. Both men lay awake, listening to the others' breath and their own, neither sleeping, each accompanied with their own separate and disparate guilt, and many words hung between them, unsaid.